#they don't blink with their eyes but the whites of their eyes blink. they blink on their wings too. but otherwise they always stare

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eleven

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Boarding School Era is over after this chapter. Are we going to miss it? *Everyone drops to their knees and starts wailing*

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

It starts like this.

Harper Grace Whiatt is half an hour into her English Literature exam when the cramps start.

She frowns, drinks some water, and glances around anxiously at her classmates. Heads down, full focus. Pens flying. The low, scratchy murmur of papers turning.

She looks down at her stomach, round and heavy on her thighs, and thinks, No. There's no way.

It's probably Braxton Hicks again. It has to be. She's been getting them on and off for weeks. The nurse and her midwife said it was normal. Said it was her body preparing and practicing.

But twenty minutes later, when she's halfway through the third question—something about dramatic irony in Macbeth, which she's managed to write exactly two and a half paragraphs on—it happens.

It's not like in the movies. No gasping, no screaming, no dramatic splash of water across the floor. Just... a slow, horrible trickle. Warm and humiliating and sudden. It puddles under her, darkening the plastic seat beneath her uniform skirt.

She freezes. Blinks.

And then the next cramp hits.

This one is different. Sharp, low, deep. Her whole body folds with it, involuntary. Her hands fist around the metal sides of her desk, her pen clatters to the floor, and—

Yep. She's crying.

The invigilator is already standing. Someone's chair scrapes back. Everyone is staring.

And then Oscar is there.

Up from his seat across the exam hall, papers forgotten, stepping over bags and chairs like none of it matters. He's kneeling beside her desk before the invigilator even manages to speak.

"Hey. Harp." His voice is tight. Controlled. He's trying not to panic, and failing. "You okay?"

She can't answer. She just shakes her head, because the pain's ramping up now, another contraction building low in her spine. She clutches the underside of her belly with one hand and his forearm with the other.

Oscar looks up. His eyes are wide and he's breathing fast. But he sounds steady when he says, "She needs an ambulance. Now."

"Out of the exam, both of you—" the invigilator starts, flustered.

"I don't give a shit about the exam!" He snaps, louder than anyone's ever heard him. "She's having a baby."

Someone swears.

Sam stands up from the back row, nearly knocking over his chair. "What? Now?"

"She's thirty-five weeks," Oscar says through his teeth, arm already around her shoulder, helping her stand even as she leans into him. "It's early but it's happening."

"Matt, get the nurse!" Someone yells.

Jane's already halfway down the row, pushing past a stunned Alfie and hauling Harper's bag up off the floor.

The whole room blurs.

But Oscar holds steady. He keeps one hand flat on Harper's lower back, the other gripping hers like a lifeline, and he says quietly, just to her:

"I've got you. You're okay. We're okay."

And somehow, through the tears and pain and mortification, Harper believes him.

—

The ambulance lights blur red and white against the stone front of Haileybury as the doors slam shut behind them.

Harper is strapped onto the stretcher, still in her school blouse, damp and wrinkled and stuck to her back. Her skirt's bunched under the curve of her bump, and there's dried tears on her cheeks. Oscar sits beside her, gripping the side rail with white knuckles. His tie is askew and one of his shoes is half-on, like he didn't have time to fix it when he sprinted from the exam hall.

He hadn't.

The paramedics are talking in a calm, professional blur—"thirty-five weeks... irregular contractions... possible rupture..."—but it all sounds like background noise.

Oscar fumbles for his phone. His hands are shaking. His voice cracks on the first ring.

"Dad—"

Chris' voice comes through immediately, sharp with concern. "What is it? What's happened?"

"It's Harper. She's in labour. Her water broke—during the exam, we're—we're in the ambulance. I don't—" He cuts himself off. His throat is too tight.

"Okay, okay—fucking hell. Listen to me, son. We're in Barcelona—Oscar, breathe, alright? We're getting the next flight over. Me and your mum, we'll be there as soon as we can. Just stay with her. Don't you dare leave her side, Oscar Jack Piastri. You hear me?"

Oscar just nods even though his dad can't see him. "Okay."

He looks at Harper. She's gripping his fingers in both hands now, her face pale and pinched, her breaths going tight again as another wave of pain hits.

"Hurts," she whispers. "I want it to stop."

"I know." He presses a kiss to her knuckles, helpless. "You're doing so good, Harp. Just hang on. We're nearly there."

—

The hospital is all bright lights and sharp corners and words they don't understand.

She's whisked into a room. Oscar stays beside her, even when a nurse tells him to wait. "No. I'm staying. I'm her—" he stumbles on the word. What was he? Boyfriend? Partner? Father of her child? He'd only turned sixteen last week. "I'm staying," he repeats, and no one stops him.

There are too many people. Too many hands. Too many questions.

"How far along did you say she is?"

"Thirty-five weeks, four days."

There's a hundred people surrounding them suddenly. Harper's skirt is cut off, her tights too, and then there's another flurry of movement.

"She's breech."

"Baby's presenting bottom-first. That's not ideal, given mum's small stature."

"She's how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Christ."

Harper is shaking. One of the nurses places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We're going to take care of you, sweetheart. But we need to move quickly. Your baby girl isn't in the right position, and your contractions aren't doing their job right now."

"I don't—" she gasps. "I don't know what they're supposed to do."

One of the doctors crouches down to their level. "Okay, here's the deal. We need to deliver your little girl and we need to do it soon. Right now, given your size and age, the safest way is a caesarean section. It's surgery, but you'll be awake the entire time, and we'll be right here with you. Do you understand?"

Harper looks at Oscar, then back at the doctor. "But I didn't even pack anything," she says weakly. "I didn't bring anything with me."

Oscar wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "We'll get it after. It doesn't matter. I promise it doesn't matter."

"Okay. Harper, darling, you're going to be fine. You're both going to be fine," the doctor says gently. "We just need to get a move on."

"Can he come?" Harper asks, voice small.

The nurse nods. "He's dad?"

Oscar nods. So does Harper.

"Then of course can come. Dad, let's scrub you up."

They wheel her out. Oscar walks beside the gurney like he's not entirely sure where his feet are taking him. He's barely heard the words "breach" or "c-section" before today. He still had an hour left on his exam. Somehow, he's only wearing one shoe.

None of that matters.

The fluorescent lights blur overhead, and he holds her hand the whole way.

—

Oscar's never known this kind of silence before. Not even on the grid, not even at the start of a race when every nerve is coiled and waiting.

This is different. The air is sharp with antiseptic and adrenaline, and the lights above the operating table buzz faintly, almost drowned out by the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the low hum of voices murmuring things like "scalpel" and "next layer."

He's sitting on a stool next to Harper's head, hidden behind the curtain that separates them from the surgery. She's pale and half-dazed, the drugs making her eyes heavy, her fingers curling weakly in his hand.

"You're doing good," he whispers, even though he's not sure she can really hear him. "You're so brave, Harp. I swear, I've never seen anyone braver."

And then one of the nurses says something quietly—"we're ready"—and the stillness breaks.

There's a sudden shift in the room, a new focus. Oscar hears the surgeon say something about "gentle traction" and "legs first." And then:

"Here she comes."

Oscar stands, just enough to peek over the curtain. And there—

There she is.

Tiny. Pink. Furious.

There's blood, and there's motion, and she's slippery and folded up like she was curled into a puzzle piece—but she's alive. She's squirming, kicking, red-faced and loud.

Oscar's mouth drops open. His whole body goes still.

Then she cries.

A shrieking, furious wail that pierces right through him.

And he's crying before he even realises it.

"Oh my god," he whispers, voice cracking hard. "Oh my god, she's—"

The midwife glances at him, softening. "She's got lungs, this one."

Another nurse is already wrapping the baby in a towel, suctioning her nose gently, checking her fingers, her toes, everything so careful and practised.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" One asks.

He doesn't answer��just nods, stumbling forward on shaking legs. They guide his hand to the scissors, show him where to snip.

His hands are trembling so hard he misses the first time.

"Easy," the nurse says gently. "There you go."

He cuts.

And just like that—she's theirs.

Someone brings her over, naked and still squalling, and lays her down on Harper's chest.

Harper is crying now too, dazed and exhausted and blinking like she can't quite make sense of it all. Her hand comes up, instinctive, resting on the baby's back.

"She's so small," she whispers, her voice cracking like wet paper. "She's so small, Oscar."

"I know," he says.

He's still crying.

He crouches beside the bed, resting his forehead against Harper's arm, one hand on his daughter's tiny spine, the other still clutching Harper's fingers.

No one tells them what to do. No one says anything at all for a while.

And for a second they can pretend that it's just the three of them.

—

The recovery room was quiet. Too quiet, almost. The kind that made Oscar's ears ring with the silence.

Harper was asleep, her head turned slightly to the side, pale against the white hospital pillow. She hadn't said much since they'd moved her out of surgery — just held their daughter to her chest until she'd drifted off, finally, like her body couldn't handle being awake a second longer.

Their baby — their actual baby — was in the little heated bassinet beside the bed. Still tiny. Still pink. Still real.

Oscar sat in the chair pulled up close, one hand resting on the plastic side of the crib like he couldn't quite stop touching something that proved all of this wasn't a dream.

He hadn't slept. Didn't even know what time it was.

But then the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head in.

"Are you Oscar?" She asked gently. "There's... well. There's kind of a group of teenagers, your age, I suppose, downstairs. Insisting they're all somehow your next of kin."

Oscar blinked. "Wait—what?"

"They're being very persistent. One of them's threatening to call Ofsted — although I'm not sure what they think that would do."

Oscar let out a tired, stunned breath. "Yeah. That sounds about right."

⸻

The moment he stepped into the corridor outside reception, he heard them before he saw them.

Sam. "You think I won't scale that fucking desk?"

Jane, sharply. "Obviously we're family. Can't you tell? We're quadruplets!"

Matt. "Sam, don't—okay, Sam's climbing the desk—"

Alfie. "Christ. You're all going to get us kicked out."

"Oi!" Oscar called across the room, humiliated and warm all at once.

The four of them turned in unison.

Oscar barely got a word out before Jane had practically launched herself at him.

He caught her, stumbling back a little, and then the rest of them joined in — Alfie clapping his back too hard, Matt wrapping an arm around his neck, Sam hovering awkwardly until Oscar yanked him into the circle too.

For a second, just a second, Oscar let himself lean into it.

Just stood there in the middle of a huddle of teenage arms and deodorant and half-tied ties, and let himself feel.

When he pulled back, his cheeks were wet and he hadn't even realised he was crying again.

"She's okay," he said thickly. "They're both okay. The baby... she's really small, but she's okay. They said her lungs are strong. She—she cried. She was loud. Harper's asleep now. She's okay too."

"Jesus," Matt muttered. "Did it all go alright?"

Oscar gave a weak, crooked smile. "They cut her open. Like—she didn't have to push or anything. A C-section. They didn't even let us wait. She's—Harper's so small, and she was in so much pain, and I didn't—I couldn't do anything."

Sam looked at him for a second. Then just pulled him into another hug, wordlessly.

Jane leaned her head on Oscar's shoulder. "You did exactly what you were supposed to, Osc. You got her here. You stayed with her. You held it together."

He didn't say anything. Just nodded, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes.

Matt cleared his throat. "So... can we meet her?"

Oscar shook his head. "Not yet. She's... she came early, and they don't want too many people near her while her immune system's still new. But—soon. You will. She's got this frowny face, like Harper. It's mad."

Alfie grinned. "Glad she didn't inherit your ugly mug."

"I bet she's gorgeous," Jane added.

Oscar looked at them all, his ridiculous, chaotic, loyal little found family. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled.

"Don't be stupid," Jane said. "Where else would we be?"

They stayed until the nurse kicked them out.

—

Harper woke slowly.

Not all at once, the way she did from nightmares or Oscar's too-early alarm. This was foggy and sore and strange — her body aching in places she didn't even have names for.

The lights were low in the hospital room. The air smelled of antiseptic and warm baby skin.

And her daughter, her daughter, was curled against her chest in a bundle of soft blankets and quiet huffing breaths.

Oscar sat beside her on the bed, one knee pulled up, his fingers gently stroking the baby's back. He looked up when he saw her stir.

"Hey," he whispered, voice thick with softness.

Harper blinked slowly. "Hey."

"Sorry. I just— put her on you. She was crying and she's already been fed, so I think she just wanted to be with you," he stumbled, and the relief in his face almost too much to look at.

She shifted slightly, wincing. Her stomach felt heavy and wrong and tight, like it had been sewn back together with fishing line.

"I can't remember it," she murmured.

"What?"

"The birth," she said. "The—surgery. Everything's blurry. I remember pain, and crying, and being so scared. And then... nothing. Just waking up here."

Oscar nodded. "You were... out of it. They gave you something once they decided to go for the C-section."

Her hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the baby. Oscar reached out, steadying her.

"You were amazing," he said. "I know you don't remember it. But you were so brave."

She shook her head. "I was terrified."

"I know." He swallowed. "So was I."

He hesitated, then told her everything — how the nurses had run with her down the corridor, how he'd had to stop at the surgery doors and wait in scrubs, alone, cold with fear. How he'd been shaking when they finally let him in, when they raised the curtain and let him sit beside her head and hold her hand.

"You kept asking if she was okay," he said. "You don't remember that?"

Harper blinked hard. "No."

"You were half-asleep, but every few minutes you'd whisper, 'Is she okay? Is she okay?'"

He paused.

"And then... they pulled her out. And she cried. Loud. Screamed, actually."

Harper gave a broken little laugh, her free hand brushing at her cheeks. "That's my girl."

"They put her on your chest, and you smiled," he said. "You were still sort of out of it, but you smiled. I cut the cord. My hands were shaking so bad."

"I wish I remembered," Harper whispered.

"I remember enough for both of us," Oscar said softly.

There was a pause. Harper looked down at the baby, at her tiny scrunched-up face and her head of soft downy hair.

And then—loud footsteps. A voice.

"Oscar!"

It was his mum.

Nicole burst into the room first, Chris a step behind her, both of them breathless from the corridor. Oscar barely had time to turn before his mum was pulling him into her arms, hugging him tight, stroking his hair like he was five years old again.

"Oh my god, sweetheart," she said. "Oh my god."

He let himself go limp in her arms, the tension pouring out of him all at once. A full-body exhale.

"Is she okay?" Nicole said, already moving toward the bed, eyes wide and glassy. "Is Harper—"

"I'm fine," Harper said weakly. "A bit... sliced open. But fine."

Nicole was already at her side, brushing Harper's hair off her forehead, looking down at the baby with wide, reverent eyes. "She's beautiful. Oh, sweetheart. You did it."

And Chris — always more reserved — stood at the end of the bed and gave a slow, stunned shake of his head. "Jesus, Oscar," he murmured. "You're a dad."

Oscar gave a dazed, lopsided grin. "Yeah."

Chris clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

He nodded. Then swallowed. "Now that you're here."

Harper blinked up at them. At Nicole. Her bottom lip trembled. "Thank you for coming."

Nicole squeezed her hand. Leaned down and kissed her forehead. "You're our babies. I'm just sorry we couldn't be here sooner."

—

The hospital room was dark, save for the low yellow glow of the lamp near the cot. Outside, the corridors were quiet, the world hushed and sleeping.

Inside, Harper sat upright in the narrow hospital bed, her legs stretched out stiffly under the thin blanket, her daughter nestled in the crook of one arm and a bottle in the other. Oscar sat behind her, his chest pressed to her back, arms wrapped gently around her — like if he let go, she might come apart.

The baby suckled softly at the bottle, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling near her face. The only sounds were her quiet drinking and Harper's occasional, sniffling breaths.

"I'm sorry," Harper whispered.

Oscar shook his head against the back of hers. "Don't be."

"I just— I couldn't do it. I tried. I really tried. The nurse kept saying I was doing it wrong, and then she latched wrong and it hurt, and then she just— screamed and screamed and— I just want her to eat. I don't care if it's not my body feeding her, I just— she was hungry and I couldn't— I didn't—" Her voice cracked, her whole body trembling against his.

Oscar tightened his arms around her, leaning in closer. "She's eating now," he said quietly. "She's fine. Look at her. She's okay."

"She deserves better," Harper whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Oscar sat there silently for a moment, his hands splayed protectively over her ribs, one of them gently stroking up and down her arm.

"You're seventeen hours out of major surgery," he murmured. "You're holding her. You're feeding her."

"I just wanted to do it right."

"She's eating. That's all that matters."

Harper wiped at her cheek with the sleeve of her hospital gown, sniffling again. "Do you think she'll hate me?"

Oscar let out the smallest, broken sound. He pressed his lips to her shoulder. "No. No, Harp. Never."

The bottle clicked as the baby finished the last of the formula. Harper tipped it gently away, cradling her daughter tighter, staring down at her flushed, soft face.

"I think she looks like you," she whispered.

Oscar smiled faintly. "She's got your hands."

They sat like that for a while — in borrowed pyjamas and rumpled clothes, huddled together in a too-small hospital bed, holding this impossibly small person who had turned their whole world inside out.

"She's so little," Harper whispered, voice cracking again.

"So are we."

She let out a soft laugh that was really more of a sob, and Oscar buried his face in her neck.

Neither of them said it — how scared they were, how much it hurt to feel like they weren't enough, how wildly, madly they loved this baby they barely knew. But it was all there, in the way Oscar kept holding her even after their daughter had been gentle burped and promptly fallen asleep. In the way Harper didn't flinch when he took the bottle from her hands and leaned forward to kiss the top of their daughter's head.

It was 5:47 a.m., and they were still just kids.

But their baby girl was warm and full and safe.

And that was enough.

—

Clementine Grace Piastri was born on the day the rest of England's Year 11 students sat their English Literature GCSE.

Oscar and Harper both failed the exam, having missed most of the questions — for fairly obvious reasons.

Their friends sat the paper in the aftermath and passed with flying colours; even Matt. 

Jane and Sam were given the honour of being Clementine's "godparents", a title they took far too seriously far too quickly.

And when Harper received a text from her mother asking for a photo of her granddaughter, she didn't hesitate.

She blocked the number.

[enwoso]

fifty and flyin’ | alessia russo x child!reader

i’m not even lying when i say this has been sat waiting since the fifth of april.. since last camp. but finally it’s here - worth the wait🙃

grumpy masterlist

the buzz in the spanish stadium was electric as always no matter where the lionesses played—flags waving, drums pounding, chants echoing through the crisp night air. the scent of fresh grass and stadium food lingered in the air, as the floodlights beamed down on the pitch like stars.

but as you sat with a bundle of nerves and glitter in your lap, clutching a hand-painted banner bigger than you were.

"do you think she'll see it, nonna?" you asked, peeking over the edge of the barrier. your big curious blue eyes scanning the field anxiously, despite the game not having started yet.

"she'll see it, darling," your grandfather reassured with a warm wink. "you spent all day on that. if she misses it, we'll wave it even harder."

the banner was an explosion of colour and love: "GO MUMMY! 50 CAPS! WE LOVE YOU!"— written in bold, glittery letters, with red and white hearts, stick figures of you and alessia holding hands, as well as many tiny doodles of both of your favourite things for good measure.

"she's going to cry when she sees it," luca said, grinning as he helped you hold it steady. "you've made sure of that."

down on the pitch, alessia was focused— hair slicked back perfectly in a ponytail, armband on her sleeve, the number 9 proudly stretched across her back. england v portugal.

her 50th cap. something she could only dream about when she was your age, now was time to make that dream a reality.

but even in her focus, her eyes flicked to the stands every few minutes. always to the same spot. always searching for her girl, for you.

—

the first half was tight. the kind of game that had everyone on edge. but through it all, you sat perfectly upright, hands gripping your sign, barely blinking.

"mummy's playing really good, right nonna?" you asked quietly, like you didn't want to jinx anything.

"the best," your grandmother said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "your mummy was made for moments like this."

and when it happened—when ella slipped that perfect through ball, and alessia took it in stride, cutting between defenders like she was dancing— you froze. and then—

"MUMMY!!!"

you screamed so loud it startled the row in front. glitter flying from your jumper like a confetti cannon as you jumped up and down, feet bouncing on the seat. your cheeks flushed pink with sheer excitement.

"she did it! she did it, nonna! did you see? did you see?!"

luca laughed, lifting you up into his arms so you could wave the banner even higher. "we all saw, darling. the whole stadium saw."

down on the pitch, alessia's arms flew out in their usual way, for her celebration. air russo back in business. she beamed—radiant and wild with joy—and as her teammates swarmed her, she pulled away just slightly, facing the family section.

she kissed her wrist, like always, then tapped the number on her back. and finally, pointed straight toward the stands—toward you. pressing her palm over her heart and mouthed the words 'that was for you.'

you gasped loud as you hand went around your mouth. "mummy pointed at me. she did it for me."

"you've always been her lucky charm, kiddo" luca whispered, kissing the top of your head.

—

the final whistle blew. england 2–1 spain.

alessia's legs ached, her cheeks hurt from smiling, and adrenaline pulsed through her veins. but her eyes weren't on the cameras, or the fans, or even her teammates.

they were on that one spot in the stands. and there it was. the banner. still held up high by tiny, determined arms.

"look at her," alessia breathed, eyes soft. "she's still holding it."

ella jogged over, nudging her side. "you've gone, mate. you've gone full mum-mode."

"i have to go to her," alessia said, already veering off.

leah called after her, "don't go jumping fences!"

"lovie's with my mum, relax!" alessia tossed over her shoulder, laughing. as she approached the barrier, you were already bouncing in place, nearly falling into nonna's lap.

"mummy! mummy, you scored! did you see my banner? i held it up the whole time, even when my arms got tired and we had to fix it 'cause the wind tried to steal it!"

alessia beamed, reaching over and wrapping her arms tight around you as if it had been years since she saw you when in reality it had been less than four hours, pulling you in close like the rest of the world didn't exist.

"oh, i saw it," she whispered into your curls. "lovie, it was the most beautiful thing i've ever seen. it sparkled even more than hannah’s gloves."

you giggled. "you really saw it?"

"i saw it right after i scored. i looked straight up and there you were. it made my whole night."

"really? you mean it?" you asked, wide-eyed, not sure whether to believe your mummy or not.

"i scored for you, lovie. that goal was yours. that whole game—you were with me the whole time."

you lit up like a christmas tree. "i knew it. i told uncle luca you'd score. i felt it in my tummy."

alessia laughed, eyes brimming with happy tears. nothing would ever top this moment. "well, you've got good instincts, lovie."

normally, alessia would leave you with your grandparents during post-match duties, you having more fun with them then the boring behind the scene action. but not tonight. not on her 50th cap. not after that banner.

alessia lifted you over the barrier, ignoring the slight protest from the steward, and settled you securely on her hip.

"let's go wave at the fans, my little superstar."

you squealed, arms tight around her neck as you waved bye to your grandparents and your uncle before turning back to your mummy. "i love you, mummy."

"i love you more, my baby." as you both walked the pitch together, the team lit up.

"whey! look who's here!" lucy called out, waving her arms around in excitement. "future number 9 on the pitch!"

lauren crouched down to your level. "that banner was fire. can you make one for me next time?"

"hmm, i only make them for my mummy," you said matter-of-factly, before pausing. "but maybe... if you score a really really good goal."

chloe kneeling beside you with mock seriousness. "on a scale of one to sparkly, how much glitter did you use?"

"all of it," you replied proudly. "mama says i'm a glitter menace."

beth laughed. "and you're a menace on the pitch, less."

leah joined them with a soft smile, carrying the banner like it was great treasure. she handed it back to you. "don't worry, angel. i've protected it."

you grinned wide. "thank you, mama."

alessia glanced between the two of them, heart practically bursting. "look at my girls," she whispered.

and in that moment—on a foreign pitch, surrounded by teammates and fans, under a glitter-filled night—everything felt whole. fifty caps. one goal. one unforgettable banner.

and a family that made everything mean more.

—

after the celebration had died down and everyone was now winding down for the night, before a long day of travelling.

the hotel room was bathed in soft golden light, the atmosphere warm and peaceful after the rush of alessia's big night.

from the window, the city below buzzed with life, but inside, the only sounds were the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft creak of the hallway door.

alessia sat on the edge of the bed, now comfortably settled in her favourite hoodie and joggers, her hair flowing free and freshly washed.

but still she wore the proud smile from her victory, though now it was softer, quieter—more at peace. her 50th cap. the goal. the banner. all of it felt like a dream she never wanted to end.

on the floor beside her, the glitter-covered banner lay carefully flat, the colourful words still shimmering under the dim light. it was all for her. for them. and for you.

you were already curled up in the middle of the bed, wearing your little lionesses top, cheeks rosy from the evening's excitement.

your curly hair was a messy halo around her face, and streaks of glitter clung to her skin—some still sparkling, some smeared from your enthusiastic post-match ice cream adventure with leah. the sugary sweetness of it all seemed to linger in the air as your small voice broke the silence.

"she out like a light," alessia whispered, glancing toward the bathroom where leah had just emerged, her hair twisted up into a messy bun and sleeves rolled up, carrying the comforting scent of lavender shampoo.

"no i not," came the sleepy protest from the bed, and both alessia and leah couldn't help but smile.

leah grinned playfully, crossing the room toward the bed. "i knew you were faking it," she teased, sitting down beside you and smoothing a hand over your wild curls. "big night for you, huh?"

you stretched like a cat, squinting up at leah. "i not faking! i- was just... resting my face," you said, eyes already half-closed again.

"oh sorry, my mistake," leah teased, raising an eyebrow a wide smile on her lips as she watched your eyes flutter close once again "that is totally different, huh?"

you crawled into your mummy's lap without hesitation, making yourself comfortable like second nature "i am tired, mummy," you murmured, your small head nestling on your mummy's chest. "but i don't want to sleep until i tell you both something."

alessia's heart swelling, as leah scooted closer to them, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees. "what's that, little one?"

you blinked slowly, your eyes heavy but still bright with excitement. "i think... today was the best day ever."

alessia chuckled softly, kissing your forehead. "yeah? not because of the ice cream, though, right?"

"no," you giggled, her little body shaking with the sound. "cause mummy scored, and we won, and everyone saw my banner, and mama was waving at me even when working. and... and when mummy pointed to her heart and looked up, i knew it was for me."

alessia felt a lump in her throat, her chest tightening with a flood of love she couldn't quite put into words.

"it's always for you, lovie," alessia whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "that goal? it was all for you."

you smiled sleepily, your tiny fingers playing with the hem of  your mummy's hoodie. "i gonna make a new banner for when you get a hundred caps," you said, your words slurring with sleep.

"oh dear," leah laughed softly, her hands gently brushing against your curls. "we're going to need a whole stadium just for your craft supplies at this point."

alessia joined in the laughter, her heart full. "she's already planning the glitter budget for it. who needs a bank account when you've got a five-year-old with a glitter obsession?"

you just yawned, your eyelids fluttering as your little body finally gave in to sleep. you snuggled deeper into your mummy's arms, and with a soft sigh, your breathing slowed.

leah smiled as she watched the two of you, her eyes soft with affection. "look at you two," she whispered, voice low, so as not to disturb the peaceful moment. "she's perfect."

alessia kissed the top of your head, her eyes never leaving leah. "she really is," she murmured, her voice full of quiet pride. "and she's all ours."

leah moved slightly offering to move you to somewhere more comfy, and with the care of someone who'd done it a thousand times.

leah shifted you onto a pillow in your own little bed, tucking the blankets around you with practiced hands. the whole scene was so familiar, so comforting—alessia couldn't help but watch with a soft smile.

once you were properly settled, leah slid under the covers, her body making the bed dip beside alessia. alessia crawled in next, her body instinctively moving closer to leah's. she rested her head against leah's shoulder, the warmth of her body grounding her in a way nothing else could.

"fifty caps," leah whispered softly, pressing a tender kiss into alessia's hair. "you're a joke."

alessia laughed quietly, shaking her head. "i wasn't going to cry tonight. then she held up that damn banner. i swear she's trying to turn me into a puddle."

leah smirked, running her fingers through alessia's hair, the touch gentle and soothing. "she's a menace. a very cute and glittery menace."

alessia huffed out a soft laugh. "she was so excited. she didn't even blink when i scored. just started shouting like it was the world cup final. but... i saw her. even with all the noise and the people around me—i still saw her."

leah pressed her lips to alessia's temple, her breath warm against her skin. "you always do. you see everything that matters."

the room fell into a peaceful silence then—just the soft sound of your breathing, even and calm, the only sign that you were still with them.

alessia's heart was full in a way she never quite thought it could be. the warmth of leah beside her, the love for you growing more deeper with each passing day if that was even humanly possible—it was everything she had ever wanted and more.

you stirred in your sleep slightly, mumbling something about "glitter bananas" and "dancing footballs," making leah snicker quietly.

"she's already dreaming of her next masterpiece," alessia whispered, smiling into the quiet. "we are never escaping the glitter now, we are going to be finding it every where at home.

leah chuckled softly, pulling alessia closer to her side. "she's a glitter-wielding menace, but she's our glitter-wielding menace."

"yep," alessia agreed, blinking back tears she hadn't realized were there. "she really is. and i wouldn't change a thing."

they lay there in the stillness, wrapped in the soft glow of the night, the day's excitement gradually melting into a quiet, peaceful calm. the only sounds now were the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, and the comforting rhythm of alessia's  and leah's hearts beating in sync.

"i love you," alessia whispered after a long pause, her voice a soft murmur in the dim room.

leah's arm tightened around her waist, pulling her even closer. "i love you too," she whispered back, kissing the top of her head. "more than anything."

and in that quiet moment—under the soft glow of the hotel room lamp, wrapped in blankets and love—they stayed. wrapped in glitter, in goals, in each other.

together.

[sweetcalebb]

zayne is jealouss !

you're at a study session with zayne and a few other classmates. you think everything is fine, but zayne is completely losing it <3

college au!

⋆˙⟡

Zayne was never one for jealousy. Never. He had nothing to be jealous of.

So for a moment, he couldn't tell what it was he felt when he watched you, giggling at something your classmate said. Couldn't name the disgusting churning in his gut, or the even worse tightening in his chest.

Just knew it wasn't... right. Unfamiliar.

Zayne swallowed hard, adjusting the collar of his shirt as if that might beat back the heat crawling up his neck and turning back to his laptop.

He should’ve stayed home. Said he was busy. Anything to get out of this. He worked better when he was alone, anyway.

Well..

He worked better alone. With you.

His eyes darted up to you. Quick. Fast. The kind of look anyone would miss if they didn't know Zayne well enough. He looked away, jaw ticking.

Get a grip.

Zayne had no right to feel this... whatever it was. You weren't his.

But you kept laughing.

Kept getting distracted from your work.

Kept distracting Zayne from his work.

He sat there, eyes skimming over the pages like he was actually reading, but he wasn't. He couldn't. Everything was just a jumble of letters and broken syllables.

Then he said something again—another joke probably. And you laughed. Again. Zayne's grip on his pen tightened, knuckles turning white.

What could possibly be so funny, anyway?

Quiet conversations buzzed around him. Classmates helping each other, talking about the latest lectures, but he was focused on you.

You with the upward curl of your lips and crinkle of your eyes.

Zayne wasn't looking at you. He couldn't.

But he could picture it. Because he knew that look. Seen it a thousand times and burned it into his mind and now some other guy was—

Zayne sighed, bringing his fingers up to his temple and rubbing small circles. He couldn't think right. And it was all because of you. Because you were sitting across from him, sounding sickeningly comfortable with someone else.

"Zaaayne."

Zayne blinked, turning to the girl beside him.

"Where did you get that answer?"

He blinked, his gaze drifting toward you. You were already looking at him, that sweet smile pulling at your lips. The devastating kind.

Zayne swallowed hard, turning back toward the girl. "Page 45."

The girl grinned. "Thank you!"

"Mm."

Zayne looked at you again. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't help himself. And there it was again, that smile that made his breath catch and his chest squeeze.

You shouldn't have such an effect on him. Because while he was losing his mind thinking about you and the little things he tried so hard to forget but just couldn't, you were completely oblivious. Unbothered.

He wanted to be unbothered too.

Zayne's throat worked around nothing as he stood up. He couldn't do this anymore.

Your eyes followed him. "Are you heading back now?"

Zayne didn't look at you. Just nodded a quiet, "Yeah," as he shoved his laptop into his bag a little too hard. He didn't mean to.

And of course, you decided to leave with him.

The walk back to your dorm was quiet. Zayne was quieter. He was still reeling, still feeling the sting of your laughter deep in his gut.

"Did I do something?"

Zayne blinked down at you, his lips parting on a silent breath. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know.." You shrugged. "You're just.. quieter than usual."

Zayne sighed, his brows pinching together slightly. "No. You didn't do anything."

"Okay, then what's wrong?"

Zayne hesitated. Because what was he supposed to say? 'I didn't like the way you laughed for another guy.' That was obsessive. Borderline toxic, if he really squinted.

"Nothing."

He could feel your stare boring into the side of his head, but he didn't look. If he did, he'd crack.

"Zayne."

His pulse jumped. His name sounded different this time. Stern. A warning disguised as softness.

Zayne let out a soft exhale. "It..." He paused, heart pounding in his chest. "It just got loud."

Your steps slowed. "Loud..?"

There was a beat of silence, the cold air nipping at his skin as he waited for something else, for you to call out his bullshit again, even if he wasn't completely lying.

"You mean.. me? Was I being too loud?"

Silence.

"Zayne."

"You just.." His sentence trailed off when he looked at you again. You looked upset—brows furrowed together, lips pursed with a frown, eyes a little softer. He bit the inside of his cheek before tearing his gaze away. "It’s not important."

He shoved his hands in his coat, letting them fist into tight balls, as if that might help keep everything down. "You did nothing."

Then silence again. But it was uncomfortable now. Heavy, like both of you were just waiting to snap.

"I'm not your boyfriend."

The world seemed to still. Because what the hell possessed him to blurt that out? To say something so brazen and so mortifyingly embarrassing?

"..What?"

That was all you could say.

Zayne's head spun. He couldn't stop now. For all the restraint he'd worked so hard for, he was still weak.

"I don't have any right to feel.. the way I feel when you.." The words died on his tongue. "I know I shouldn't.."

"Feel what, Zayne? You're not.." You paused—and then your lips curled into a slow, dawning smile. And Zayne saw it from the corner of his eye, the way you finally seemed to get it.

A blush crept up his cheeks. Red. Warm.

"Wait. Are you.. jealous?"

Zayne stared at you. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was blanking. He was blanking so hard. Before he could make himself look any dumber, he turned away. "Don't look at me like that."

You couldn't help the squeal that bubbled out of your chest. Zayne should've been annoyed, should've reminded you that you guys were on campus, but he didn't.

"You're jealous!"

"It's not a big deal," Zayne muttered, his cheeks growing hotter as he stepped into the dorm building with you.

"Not a big deal?" you scoffed. "Zayne has a little crush on me and I'm supposed to act normal?"

A subtle smile tugged at his lips. You were cute. Infuriatingly cute.

"Don't get ahead of yourself." His smile faltered when he realized you guys were at your dorm already. He inhaled, a pang of disappointment settling in his chest.

You stopped outside, smiling. Zayne was cute when he was flustered. "Zayne."

"Yes?"

"You have every right to be jealous." Zayne froze, his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn't read your tone. Couldn't tell whether you were joking or if this was a confession.

"Because I've been jealous too. For months. And I didn't know if I was allowed to be."

You were going to ruin him. Zayne knew it then when you told him that, all soft and pleading. And honestly? He knew he'd let you. Would willingly fall right into it.

And as if he wasn't already reeling, you continued, "I wanted to be."

A small silence settled over you. Zayne was still trying to process everything, and you were trying to fight back the furious blush spreading across your cheeks. Then, slowly, you leaned up, cupped his face, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Goodnight, Zayne."

Zayne blinked, lips parting. "Hm—Uh—Goodnight.."

He stood there for a second after you closed the door, blinking.

Your face flashed in his mind. The sweet little smile that curled your lips. The pretty pink tint of your lips. Then the way you squealed when he admitted he was jealous.

You liked him. You actually liked him back.

Zayne let out a huff, his chest swelling.

You liked him.

[mournaeve]

❝ almost, always ❞

paring : yeon si-eun (weak hero) × gn!reader

genre : fluff, mild angst/hurt-comfort, emotional miscommunication, slow burn

warnings : mentions of emotional exhaustion/burn out, emotional whiplash but make it quiet and poetic, excessive eye contact with a emotionally constipated boy, 9/10 confession (where's the last 1, no one knows)

synopsis : Two people, both quiet in different ways, six missed chances, one almost-confession—and a love that grows in the silence between what’s said and what’s meant.

joy speaks : hi, and welcome to my first fic <3 genuinely hope you like it. don't be a silent reader!

1. The first time you met Si-eun, you were stealing Baku's snack and threatening to bite Gotak. Not seriously, of course, but with the kind of conviction that only came from a lack of shame and too little sleep.

Your mouth still tasted like instant noodles and regret. Your hair was a chaos theory. Your hoodie?—stolen from Baku, smelled faintly of laundry detergent and sweat, like a boy who lived his life in motion and never washed anything properly and also had a giant yellow pikachu on the front.

You didn't notice him at first.

No, at first you were too busy lying on the classroom floor, narrating your slow descent into madness because Gotak had, in your words, 'emotionally betrayed you' by siding with Baku over what was clearly your bag of chips. Baku, naturally, just sat on your back and told you to accept death with dignity.

Then you saw a pair of shoes. Clean, white, very still. Not fidgety like Gotak's or scuffed like Humin's.

You tilted your head up, squinting from the floor like a raccoon caught under fluorescent light, and there he was.

Expression unreadable. Face sharp in that quiet way—like something drawn in pencil and not yet colored in. Si-eun. Yeon Si-eun. You knew his name only because Gotak had once whispered it like he was talking about a ghost who might hear him.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked down at the mess on the floor, you, mostly, and blinked.

You, still on your stomach, gave a small wave.

"Hey. I swear I'm not usually like this."

He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of the mouth. But you swore later, swore, that his eyes lingered for half a second too long. Like he was trying to decide whether to ignore you or classify you as some new species.

Maybe both.

That was the first time. You didn’t know yet that it would become a pattern—him appearing silently, you saying something ridiculous, the two of you orbiting each other like mismatched planets with slightly wrong gravity.

But in that moment, on the floor of a classroom you barely stayed awake in, with Baku sitting on your back and Gotak looking vaguely concerned for everyone’s sanity—

—you thought, 'huh'

He’s kind of cute when he looks confused.

◎⫘◎

2. You didn't expect to see him again. Not so soon, not without the buffer of Baku's laughter or Gotak's nervous commentary or the chaos of you being your usual, spiraling self. But there he was, outside the convenience store, earphones in, staring at the gum rack like it had personally offended him.

You stopped short. He didn't look up.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain even under emotional duress, you didn't keep walking. You hovered.

Like an idiot.

"Didn't peg you for a mint guy," you said finally, voice casual, like you hadn’t just debated crossing the street to avoid standing next to him and his inexplicably intense aura.

He looked up, slow. Blank expression unreadable. Those same pencil drawn beautiful eyes.

Then, flatly, "I'm not."

You blinked. Looked at the gum in his hand. "You've been holding that for like three minutes."

"I was spacing out."

"Oh."

Beat.

You nodded, like that explained the universe, and turned to grab a bottle of water. Behind you, you could feel his silence — not heavy, just… neutral. Like air that hadn’t decided if it was humid or cold.

"I wasn't following you, by the way," you added without being prompted, twisting the bottle cap as you rejoined him at the register. "In case your survival instincts kicked in."

Another pause. He looked at you.

"I didn't think you were."

You laughed — too loud, too fast — and instantly regretted it. "Right. Cool. Great. Just clearing that up, y'know, for the record."

"I don’t think about you that much."

And there it was.

You froze mid-step, plastic bottle crinkling in your hand. A second too slow, your brain tried to patch the damage: he didn't mean it like that. Probably. Hopefully?

"Oh," you said, smile cracking just slightly. "No offense taken. I also don't, like, catalogue your whereabouts or anything. That would be psychotic."

He gave you a look, like he was either very confused or wondering if you were having a stroke.

You both stood there, the cashier watching, deeply done with both your energies.

Si-eun finally paid for his gum. That he definitely didn’t want.

And you stood holding a bottle of water and the first bruise of misunderstanding, shaped like a boy who said things without malice but still managed to dig a little too deep.

Later that night, Baku asked why you were chewing mint gum with a dramatic sigh.

You told him it was an aesthetic choice. You didn't mention Si-eun. Not yet.

◎⫘◎

3. It happened because Gotak's mom called.

Loudly. On speaker. In the middle of the table, right as he was halfway through explaining some physics concept that sounded like witchcraft. He panicked, unplugged his charger wrong, and blew the socket.

And just like that, the lights went out in Baku's room.

Chaos. Swearing. Baku tripping over a dumbbell. You, laughing until your ribs hurt. Gotak apologizing to the socket like it had feelings. Juntae being all flustered while trying to keep the others in check.

Eventually, they both left to 'buy snacks and air out their humiliation.' You were too tired to follow.

And Si-eun didn't leave.

He stayed sitting on the floor, back against Baku’s bed frame, eyes unreadable. You weren’t sure if he didn't move because he was comfortable or because inertia had claimed him.

You sat across from him, the silence sitting with you like a third presence. It wasn't uncomfortable. It just… was.

You cleared your throat. "You always this quiet?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Then: "Do you always talk this much?"

Your jaw dropped. "Are you saying I talk too much?"

"No," he said, and blinked, slowly, "I'm saying I wasn't aware human lungs could handle this level of dialogue per minute."

You gawked at him.

He didn’t look smug. Or mean. Just… factual. As if he were reading weather data.

You threw a pillow at his face.

He caught it with both hands, unimpressed.

"I'm gonna take that as a yes," you muttered, curling into a cross-legged huff.

Silence again.

You should’ve let it drop. But something in you always needed to make sense of things. Of people.

"You don't like me, do you?" you asked.

He looked up at that. Not startled. Just puzzled.

"Why would you say that?"

You mentally snorted 'I wonder why."

"I don't know. The gum comment. The lungs comment. The general 'I'm enduring your presence like a particularly inconvenient fire drill' energy."

His brows furrowed slightly.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "I don’t dislike you."

"But you don't like me."

He looked at you for a moment too long.

"I don’t not like you."

It was the kind of answer that made your brain run into a wall. You opened your mouth. Closed it.

"…Wow," you said. "Poetry."

He frowned faintly, clearly confused why you sounded so sarcastic.

You didn't push it. But when Baku and Gotak returned and flopped dramatically into the room with ice cream and shame, you laughed louder than you meant to.

And you refused to meet Si-eun’s eyes for the rest of the night.

◎⫘◎

4. You were wearing another hoodie.

Not Baku's this time — a different one. Slightly too big. Worn in the elbows. Charcoal gray with a weird bleach stain near the zipper. Not your usual look.

Si-eun noticed it immediately.

He didn't say anything, of course. He just stared.

You were too busy trying to untangle Gotak's wired earphones (how did they still exist?) while sitting on the cafeteria bench, ranting about something inconsequential — probably the school vending machine robbing you again. Baku was making jokes, as usual. Gotak laughed too loudly, as usual. Juntae was swinging his legs adorably like a child waiting for his mother to provide him with candy.

Then a boy walked past. Said your name. Smiled.

You looked up. "Oh—hey. Thanks again for the hoodie."

Si-eun's gaze didn't shift. He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

You caught it in the twitch of his fingers, the flick of his eyes, the way his entire body went very, very still.

Later, in the hallway, he stopped next to you. Not with you — next to. A detail you couldn’t unfeel.

"Is that your boyfriend?" he asked, tone flat.

You blinked. "Who?"

"The guy. With the hoodie. The one you smiled at like he invented oxygen."

You snorted. "No. He just lent me this when I spilled coffee on my shirt this morning."

He nodded. Slowly. You waited for a follow-up. It didn’t come.

Instead, he walked away with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, that silent wall rising like it always did when he didn't understand what he was feeling.

You stared after him, eyebrows pulled together.

You weren't his. He wasn't yours.

But still, you wanted to yell down the hallway,

'I would tressure your hoodie, if you ever offered it.'

◎⫘◎

5. It was raining the way it only rains in cities—sideways, rude, unforgiving. You hadn't meant to forget your umbrella. You were just late, and your brain had been full of other things. Like him. Like the hoodie thing. Like the way he hadn't spoken to you in two days. You were treading recklessly on the thin line between friends and strangers who know each other because of their mutual friends. No matter what you tried, attempted at, maybe to bring you both closer and not be strangers or just be his friend- he would always retract. Push you away with words or build walls around his heart that were too big and impossible not to notice.

You were soaked through by the time you reached the courtyard gate. Shoes squeaking, hair clinging to your face, hoodie (not his, not anyone's) weighing you down like a wet dog sweater.

Your heavy wet eyes widened at the sight before you.

Si-eun.

Standing under a small blue umbrella like the sky had personally chosen to leave him untouched.

You stopped. He didn't wave, or smile, or call out. Just lifted the umbrella a little higher.

You stared. Your heart twisted sideways.

"…Are you offering me that?" you asked, cautious.

"I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't."

You blinked. Walked over. Shoulders tense.

He didn't say anything. Just turned slightly, so the umbrella covered half of your body. His half was still mostly dry. You were dripping.

After a minute, you exhaled. "You didn’t have to wait."

"I know."

"…I thought you were mad at me."

"I'm not."

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me anymore."

"I do."

You were quiet.

Then you whispered it. Half a joke, half a plea:

"So this is... pity, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, eyes sharp and unreadable.

You couldn't hold the silence.

You stepped out from under the umbrella. "Forget it. I'm fine."

Rain hit your skin like needles. Cold. Fast. Real.

He didn't follow. You didn't look back. And by the time you got home, soaked to the bone and furious with yourself, it was too late to ask him what he really meant.

◎⫘◎

6. It was late.

Too late to be in the library. Too late for the lights to still hum this way, for the floor to be cold against your knee pits as you sat between shelves with your hoodie bunched up beneath you like a failed pillow.

You weren't crying.

But you were close. That tight-throated silence. That wet weight behind the eyes that made everything feel distant. The kind of sad that didn"t have a name. The kind that didn't explode — just leaked.

He found you anyway.

You didn't ask how.

Si-eun stood there, backpack still on, hair a little rumpled, shirt collar tugged loose like he'd either run or paced in circles before finding you.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just sat beside you. Close, but not close enough to touch.

After a long, long moment, he said, low,

"I'm not good at this."

You blinked. "At what?"

"This. Talking. Reading people. Knowing the right thing to say."

You looked at him, sharp, surprised. His voice didn't waver, but it wasn't calm. It was something else — strained. Steady, but brittle at the edges.

He went on, "I don't realize when I'm being too blunt, or too distant. I've… ruined a lot of things that way."

You didn’t speak.

He stared at his hands.

"I used to think it didn’t matter. Not anymore. That being quiet kept things simple. But you—"

He stopped. Swallowed. "You confuse the hell out of me."

Your breath hitched.

"You talk like your words are racing to escape you. You say things I don’t know how to answer. You make me feel like I’m always three steps behind and—and I hate it."

The silence rang.

Then, quieter:

"But I hate it more when you're not around."

You didn't move.

You didn't say anything.

Your brain tripped over itself. Every version of you — the loud one, the jokey one, the brave one — went silent. And in that stretch of hesitation, Si-eun stood.

He didn't look at you.

"I shouldn't have said that," he murmured. "I knew it would come out wrong."

He walked away before you could tell him it didn't.

Later, lying in your bed, face buried in a damp hoodie, you whispered it,

'But it didn’t come out wrong at all.'

◎⫘◎

6. It started with silence.

Not the usual kind — not Si-eun's quiet that felt full of thinking, full of weight. This was emptier. Distant. Clean, like someone had wiped the board.

He'd stopped showing up to group study sessions. Stopped responding to your messages. Left early from lunch. Didn't make eye contact in the hall.

You told yourself he was just busy. That midterms had fried his brain. That he'd drop a deadpan one-liner in your DMs any second now.

He didn't.

When you finally cornered Baku and asked what was going on, he just shrugged — unconvincingly.

And so, armed with indignation and mild sleep deprivation, you found Si-eun after school, outside the campus gates, hoodie up, hands in pockets, looking like a ghost of himself.

"You’re avoiding me," you said.

His eyes flicked up. Then away. "No, I'm not."

"You are." You laughed — humorless. "Jesus, Si-eun, at least lie with conviction."

He was quiet for a beat. He exhaled quietly, "I thought you might want space."

"From you?"

"You looked uncomfortable. Last time. When I said… all that."

You stared. Mouth open. Head buzzing.

"That’s why?" you whispered. “You thought I was uncomfortable?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. "You didn't say anything. So, I figured I'd made things weird."

You exhaled, slow. Almost a laugh. Almost a scream.

"You idiot," you said, soft.

He flinched — just slightly. Gazing up with his eyes, 'god damn his eyes, were they always this beautiful?'

You looked away before your voice could crack. "You didn't make it weird. I did. I didn't know what to say, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to say something."

He didn't answer.

The wind was cold. The sky was turning gray, like it couldn't make up its mind.

You looked at him again.

"You always do that," you said. "Assume how people feel and then act like it's confirmed data."

"It's easier than asking."

"Well, maybe next time, ask."

He looked at you then.

Like he heard you for the first time.

But still, he didn't move. And neither did you.

The moment passed like a train that didn't stop.

You both walked away feeling like you’d missed something important.

Because you had.

◎◎⫘◎◎

1. It didn't happen at some climactic hour, in some big cinematic way.

There was no rainstorm this time, no bruised hallway lighting, no tension humming between the inches of silence.

Just a classroom. Late. Empty. Gold evening light spilling sideways through the windows, dust drifting in slow motion. The kind of warmth that didn't burn — just sat in your bones like an old memory.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep.

You'd only meant to rest your eyes. Just for a second. But the warmth got to you — the sunlight, the still air, the safety of a quiet room without anyone needing anything from you. You drifted.

When you opened your eyes again, Si-eun was there.

Sitting on a chair beside the desk. Back against the wall. Book in his lap. Head tilted slightly toward you.

Not watching. Just being.

Your first instinct was to speak. Crack a joke. Break the softness with your usual deflection.

But for once, you didn't. You just looked at him. Let the quiet stretch.

He closed the book.

"Bad dream?" he asked, voice like a whisper folded in linen.

You blinked the sleep out of your eyes. "Not really. Just... weird."

A pause.

"Felt like I was floating."

He nodded. Like he understood.

You sat up slowly, wincing a little at the crick in your neck.

He reached into his bag and passed you a water bottle without a word.

You took it. Sipped.

He didn't fill the silence. He didn't shrink from it either. Just sat there with you, like he had nowhere else to be, no one else to become in that moment.

And then—"Thank you," you said.

He looked at you, eyebrows lifting just slightly. "For what?"

"For... not leaving."

It came out so softly you weren't sure it even reached him.

But his eyes held yours, steady.

You took in his eyes, his eyes were a study in contradiction — sharp in thought, but soft in shape, always watching like they were learning you in real time. Slightly wide, dark, and quietly luminous, like they held whole libraries of things left unsaid. They didn’t flicker much when he spoke — they lingered, honest in a way his voice never quite managed.

And when he looked at you, really looked, it felt like standing barefoot in the middle of something sacred.

Like silence could be tender. Like you could finally stop explaining yourself. Those eyes didn’t ask for words. They just understood.

Then he added, not quickly, but like it had been waiting:

"I wasn't going to."

Nothing more. No sudden hand grabs, no confessions, no dizzying declarations. Just that.

For the first time, there was nothing to correct. Nothing to fix.

You both stayed there. In the gold-lit quiet. In the stillness that didn't ask for answers. Just presence.

And this time — finally — you both understood.

◎◎⫘◎◎

2. It was dark by the time the rooftop emptied out.

The others had gone. Baku, Gotak, Juntae— loud footsteps, louder laughter, the crunch of snack wrappers left behind. The kind of after-school chaos that made everything feel alive. But now it was quiet. That dusky, hush-hour kind of quiet, where even the wind didn't bother to speak.

You stayed behind to clean up. He stayed behind for... something else.

Neither of you said it.

Si-eun was leaning against the railing, hood pulled halfway up, hair catching in the breeze. You were stacking drink cans into neat, metallic towers and pretending not to feel the weight of his gaze on your back.

"You always do that," he said.

You blinked. "Do what?"

"Stay behind. Fix things no one notices."

You smiled — crooked, tired. "Someone has to."

Silence again. Not heavy. Just full.

"I used to think I was fine alone," he said. Quiet. Almost to himself. "That being alone meant being safe. That silence meant control."

You straightened. Slowly.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept talking, eyes on the horizon where the sky bled orange into navy.

"But it’s not quiet when you're gone. It's louder. It’s—"

He cut himself off. Bit his lip. Exhaled sharp.

You waited.

"I don't know how to say it right," he admitted.

"You don’t have to."

"I want to," he said. "I—"

He turned then. Finally looked at you.

"I think about you. All the time. In the middle of things that don’t matter. Like math problems and weather reports and the noise in the hallway. You just show up. In my head."

Your throat tightened.

He stepped forward — one pace. No more.

"If you asked me what we are," he said, "I don't have the word. But I know what I want it to be."

You didn't breathe.

"-and if you don’t feel the same, that’s fine. I'll try to not think of it" His voice cracked slightly, "But I don't want to keep pretending this is nothing."

You looked at him.

"I feel it too."

He smiled.

Actually smiled.

Not the polite curl of the corners of his lips he wore in passing, but the real one, the one that came slow and reluctant, like it wasn't used to being let out. It broke across his face like sunlight through fog, fleeting and precious, the kind of thing you only caught if you were paying attention.

Now that it happened, everything softened: the edges of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the guarded quiet in his eyes. It was a smile that felt like a secret, like you’d been trusted with something he didn’t give away easily. A quiet admission that, for a moment, he let himself feel joy — and let you see it.

And in that soft rooftop dark, with cans clinking quietly in your hands and the wind threading through your sleeves, you realized something simple:

There was no misunderstanding anymore.

There was just you.

And him.

And everything you hadn’t said — finally, beautifully heard.

◎◎⫘◎◎

@mournaeve 2025, I don't allow translations or reposting of my work however reblogging is fine :)

[banquetwriter]

I don't have much in the way of good ideas but I was wondering if you'd do a bob reynolds vampire!reader fic, it could involve anything.

୨୧ To be human ୨୧

pairing: Bob Reynolds ♡︎ vampire!fem!Reader

warnings: ୭̥⋆*｡ reader is described as “pale” bob doesn’t know it yet but it’s because reader hasn’t been feeding- ‘pale’ was just the term I used to describe gaunt and tired looking NOT implying your skin is any way white or light colored, I briefly described readers life in the 1800’s I tried to write it ambiguous but i understand not everyone’s life would have been so privileged back then, mentions of body’s changing, attacking people, blood, bad times at the el royale references, NOT PROOFREAD etc…

summary: ʚ reminiscing on old times ɞ

Words: 2.3k

A/N: idk why this took me so long to write bby, but you tell I’ve watched sinners too much?

June 5th 1841- Richmond U.K.

It was late, too late for a young unmarried woman to be out. You were hooked to some device, it was not yet on but your chest heaved with heavy breathes as the time approached for your transformation.

Steve Rogers was not the first human being to be experimented on. In fact you weren't even the first, but you were the first that survived…

Your frail rigid body was currently dying of a plague. It took your body and mind. Then when there was no hope of cure, a too-good-to-be true offer was presented. So there you laid on an operating table, somewhere in the south of London as a doctor sat a glowing stone into the machine.

It began to buzz, a tingle filled your body. The doctor said no one else had survived the trial. But if it did work it might save you… it might do beyond that too. Suddenly the buzzing became too much. You screamed out in agony as you felt your body shifting.

A horrible pain began in your head, sharp and blinding. It moved from your temple to your jaw. You felt your teeth shuffling, a horrible grinding noise. The pain moved, further down your body it traveled. It sat in your stomach.

As your breath calmed you began to feel the pain change. It changed from anger to something deeper. It was almost a primal feeling.

You were hungry.

Taking a deep breath realizing your heart didn't beat any longer. The passing of air from your nose no longer mattered, only breathing to pretend.

Pretend to be what?

To be human.

Your eye drifted to the doctor who was frantically scribbling on a pad. Furiously dipping the pen into the ink. His heart was beating. It sent blood shooting through his veins with every jump. Licking your new canine teeth a thought danced across your head.

Bite him.

It said, voice booming loud. It sounded like your voice. But with a dark demented twist. The longer you looked at him the more you wanted it. Needed it. Craved it

“Doctor, I think something is wrong.” your voice was innocent, unassuming. You pressed your hand to your head. You craned your body back presenting as a helpless little animal.

He was the helpless one but you were an animal.

Your name came rushing from his lips, legs swiftly moving over to aid you. His fingers found your wrists searching for a pulse. His brows furrowed. He found no pulse.

“You-” he stuttered realizing what he had done. He had killed you. He looked up to see your face had changed. You were no longer the naive little 22-year-old girl. A monster stared back at him.

“I think somethings wrong.” you repeated, that was the last thing he had truly heard. His screams made the walls shake as you bled him dry.

November 7th 2025- Old Avengers tower

A white blanket laid over all of New York, the faint hum of early Christmas music filled the streets. You sighed blinking slowly, fingers gingerly touching the picture that stood before you.

A picture of you and your mother, her arms wrapped around you as you both stood with wide smiles. You slipped your finger down under the plastic and pulled it out. Flipping it around you read the words scribbled on the back. You and your mothers name written in cursive writing next to the date ‘1840’.

You took a deep breath through your nose, again your body no longer needed oxygen to breathe but it helped you feel much more human. You suppose when you were human it helped you feel better too.

Your ears twitch hearing a heartbeat approaching you. A small smile prickled on your lips and your fangs peeked slightly out. “What are you doing? Up so late?” your voice sounds more confident then you intend for it to happen.

Bob gives a sheepish smile pointing towards the fridge. “Cake.” he simply says. You can’t fight the smirk that covers your features. “That's reasonable.” You suggest, cocking your head to the side. “What spawned the cake craving?”

Your words always seem to strike his heart. Even when your words weren't particularly profound. “Oh I couldn't- couldn't sleep so I uh want a snack.” Bob said, closing his eyes, gesturing towards the kitchen as a whole.

He was so cute. In the 206 years you have been alive you've seen your fair share of beautiful people. None looked quite as cute as Bob Reynolds. “Nightmare?” you asked, wondering what could be causing the man to lose sleep.

You knew he had a horrible sleep schedule. Staying up into the wee hours of the morning before sleeping and waking from a nightmare. The same brutal cycle repeats over and over again every night.

You did not sleep as much, and the sun didn't feel particularly good so you spent most days inside. Unless there was a mission where you would wear a special suit that helps keep your body cool and protected when going outside.

“No not tonight just, I couldn't sleep I guess.” he said, shrugging his shoulders. You nodded in understanding. “You mentioned cake?” you said setting the picture down of you and your mother.

A smile spread across his face as he walked towards you. “Oh yeah me and Yelena tried to bake a cake earlier… The first one turned out not so good but the second one wasn't bad. I mean we didn't die when we ate it so it's probably safe.” he said looking at your reaction.

Standing apprehensively, fingers nervously bundled up by his chest. “Well sounds like a good deal to me.” you said opening the fridge to indulge in the chocolaty goodness. You shimmied the plate onto the counter trying not to knock it over.

“Can you hand me a knife to cut it please? And maybe some plates.” you ask removing the cling wrap from the dessert, licking a small piece of frosting that covers your finger.

“Can you even eat human- I mean like regular food?” Bob asks, opening a drawer to get the requested items. The Freudian slip makes you pause slightly before picking up the kitchen utensil to portion the cake.

You choose to ignore it. You weren't human, not anymore… but in this day and age does that matter? Human or not you were doing good. “Of course, I can eat human food.” the cake plops onto his plate.

“It just doesn't fuel my body. I still have like taste buds though,” you inform him, your slice of cake plopping down. He hums, nodding unsure of what to say. You looked pale… skin dull. Darker circles bled through the faded color of your skin.

Bob’s eyes are drawn to the photo album you were looking at previously. You followed his eyes to your pictures. A smile formed, you wondered if he might want to go see them.

“Did you wanna-?”

“Could I see-?”

You both stop talking. You pressed your lips into a line trying to fight the giggles that threatened to spill. Your attempt fails as your eyes stay locked with his for a second. “C’mere.” you beckon him.

He smiled and shuffled to you. Scooting next to you peering over your shoulder to see the picture. Bob's eyes widened looking at how old the photo was, he knew you were old but not that old!

“I didn't even know the camera was invented this far back.” he muttered just looking at the photo. Scared of touching it. If it wasn't your personal item he would have preferred to keep it locked in a case in a museum somewhere.

You felt a laugh leave your body without any control over it. “It was invented 20 years before this picture.” you said trying to remember. “Well I don't know, maybe it was more like 10-” you threw up your hands, giving up on trying to remember such a trivial detail.

“We didn't have a camera, my family, this was taken at a fair.” you said reminiscing on the memory. Bob just hummed looking at it. You were in a big frilly dress and hat. “That dress was my favorite. I wore it to every promenade we had all summer.”

Your voice had a bittersweet tone. Bob couldn't imagine you weren't sad over thinking about all of this. “It's a pretty dress- I would wear it too.” Bob said without thinking too hard about his words.

He turned and was met by your wild smile. “If you wanna wear a dress no one would mind Bob,” you said, raising your eyebrows. He gave a defeated sigh realizing what he said.

“That's not what I meant- I mean it is a pretty dress, just I wouldn't wear it you know as a guy.” he pauses, his eyes widened slightly before he continues more frantically. “Not that there's anything wrong with a guy wearing dresses- that's cool if guys do that I'm just saying-” you let out another giggle.

The warm air felt like a safe inviting hug. The late-night delirium causing the field of giggling the two of you shared. You flipped through the album going forward a hundred years or so through your memories.

A picture of you with flared bottoms, twiggy eye makeup and your hair seemingly sculpted into the perfect 60’s hair imaginable caught Bob’s eye. You were sitting next to a young man in an old uniform. ‘Miles’ it read.

The man looked sheepishly at the camera. The next picture was of you and the same boy but this time you were planting a giant smooch on the side of his face. The boy's face was bright red this time but the smile was all the same.

Bob felt a weird feeling bubble in his chest. It was weird to see you kiss someone. What was weirder was realizing he hadn't considered that yeah, if you're alive for that long you probably had been with a person or two.

"Who is that?” Bob asked before shoveling his mouth full of cake. You looked at the photo of you and Miles. Your non beating heart ached remembering his death like it was yesterday. “He was a… friend. Miles Millers.” you said, hauntingly. Bob looked at the picture of you planting a kiss on the boy's face before tentatively reaching for it.

This one was much less old so he felt a little less bad about holding it with his bare- chocolate cake covered- hands. He flipped it around and it had both of your initials in a heart with more text below it ‘El Royale 1969’. It felt weird to be jealous of this guy. I mean he might not even be still alive.

You watched as Bob studied the picture. “What's on your mind?” your sultry voice carried him out of his state. “Oh just- I mean this guy would be like 80 right now If you wanted to see him he might be still…” his voice trailed off but he gestured. Alive. He might still be alive.

Bob was not going to let his silly little crush on you ruin you from seeing someone you loved. It was probably better if Bob didn't let his feelings get in the way of anything else again. He watched as you smiled sadly, the tiredness was settling into your eye sockets now.

“That's really sweet but later that night after this picture he- he passed away.” you spoke the last part slowly. Like it felt weird to say it. I mean he had been dead for decades but it felt like it yesterday you held his crying body on the stairs of that fucking hotel.

Bob gulped rather loudly, how could he be so stupid? Not only was he jealous over someone that wasn't even his, the guy he was angry at was dead… He suddenly didn't feel like eating the cake. He sat it down slowly, not looking at you. You were taking big deep breaths like that was going to calm you down. Bob didn't look at you, and that insecurity started to creep in.

The one that you were just too much. Too much for a guy even with superpowers. You took the picture of you and Miles back. Slipping it into the plastic cover. You open your mouth, to apologize for ever even being in his life. But before you can let the word vomit begin he cuts you off.

“I'm really really sorry.” he pauses, still not looking at you but searching for the right words. “Losing people is hard enough…” he trails off still not finding the right words.

He snaps back to you as your hand finds his shoulder. “Thank you-” your voice barely above a whisper. “Your right,” your hand remains on him, “it is hard. I've outlived my family. I still keep an eye on any family members alive but it's not the same.”

Your words carried softly but the impact was that of waves. “I miss my mothers laugh, I can still remember the last time I heard it. The last time I felt the sun on my skin.” I continued, my hand moving off his shoulder.

I began to nervously scratch at my other hand. “There is a lot of bad that comes with knowing me, Bob.” he inhales, he's told people that before too. “I'm not my true self anymore I think I've lost her but…” I turn to face him. “Bug I'd like to try.” tears welled in my eyes. Without thinking clearly Bob leaned in, pulling his lips against yours.

Your youthful hands wrapping around him, tugging him closer. His tongue collided with the sharp fangs that sat in your mouth. ?

[warydoom]

@cryingoverdeadgaywizzards - here you go! The promised crackfic! Barty: "Honestly, Reg, Evan, you two are always clinging to me. The threesome needs some space sometimes!" Regulus winced, feeling the familiar prickle of eyes. Another potential suitor, a Ravenclaw with kind eyes, turned away. He had been battling the "threesome" rumors ever since Barty first uttered the cursed phrase. So far, nothing seemed to work. *** James watched them across the Great Hall. Regulus, Rosier, and Crouch. They were always touching. A hand on a shoulder here, an arm slung around a waist there, bodies pressed close together during study hall, sharing secrets. It was exactly like a relationship, just... with three people. And he’d definitely seen Evan and Barty snogging once, which solidified his belief that they were absolutely a thing. A threesome thing, clearly, with Regulus as the third part. If they were already in a polyamorous relationship, then surely there was room for him. With Regulus. His One True Love. This was his chance! ***

Later, pacing in their Gryffindor dorm, James's mind raced. James: "It's genius, Moony! They're just so... tactile. It's obvious they're in love, all three of them. I saw Rosier Jr. and Crouch Jr. snog, so it's confirmed!" Peter: "Oh, are we talking about the Slytherin group? Yeah, they're always together! It's like they're glued!" Remus: "James, Evan and Barty are a couple. They're very... affectionate. Regulus is their friend. It's not a 'threesome' in the way you're thinking." Sirius: "Yeah, Prongs, they're always at it! Doesn't mean Reggie's involved, though. He's far too repressed for that kind of fun." James: "No, no, you don't understand their dynamic. It's deep! And if they're already a threesome, it just makes perfect sense for me to propose a foursome. I'll do it!" ***

Approaching them in the library, James held three small, neatly wrapped packages. He radiated earnest, slightly unhinged confidence as he addressed them. James: "Gentlemen, if I may have a moment of your valuable time. I come before you today with a proposition, having observed the unique and... clearly deeply intertwined nature of your existing bond. Allow me to present you these gifts." "For you, Regulus, a tool befitting your singular intellect." "Evan, a token for your innovative spirit." "And Barty, for your... vibrant contributions."

James cleared his throat, a hint of nervousness showing. "Given the evident depth of your connection, I was wondering... could you, mayhaps, be persuaded to expanded this 'threesome' of yours to a foursome?" Regulus dropped his quill with a clatter, his face paling to an alarming shade of white. He stared at James, horrified. Barty just grinned, entirely missing the point, tearing open his gift and setting the miniature cauldron humming. Barty:"Oh, brilliant! Thanks, Potter! Always up for a good time! More the merrier for our group activities, eh, Reg? You can join us for Quidditch practice after dinner!" Evan just blinked.

Barty referred to him, Regulus, and Evan as “the threesome” which led to some interesting rumors

[nullicaput]

skinner and the rat. III

Pairing: Han Su-gang x Reader

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Teacher-Student Relationship, Power Imbalance, Reverse Power Imbalance, Age Difference, Dark, Su-gang being deranged as hell

Summary: Familiar faces and familiar violence—you thought after almost ten years, the kid you left would never remember you, but you were wrong.

Word count: 1414

previous chapter.

"You're allergic to cats?"

You squeezed the last bit of your ultramarine green paint and mixed it with yellow ochre, using your old paint brush as your mixer as you adjusted the ratio. With the canvas resting on top of the easel you made with better-quality wood from your mama's furnace fuel stash. 

"Nope."

You applied the blue pigment at the top part of the canvas and spread it slowly. You gazed at the clear, cloudless skies and observed the hues. You opened the jar of white acrylic, which was far larger than any of your other paints, and used your designated plastic spoon to scoop out some of it. You blended it with some of the mixture of blue and yellow before you proceeded with your craft. Bit by bit, the color on the canvas mimicked the sky above you, and with that, you smiled approvingly.

"Then why don't you take the runt I gave you?"

"I have severe allergic rhinitis," you replied. "There are a lot of things that can trigger it, and one of those was cat fur."

He looked at the makeshift palette filled with paint, the stench of the chemical fumes floating in the air.

Should not that trigger your rhinitis, too? If so, then why do you keep painting?

It was like you were looking for excuses not to accept his gifts. 

"Then what'd I do with that thing?" he huffed.

A bead of sweat dripped from your forehead and settled in your left eyebrow. Absentmindedly, you wiped it with your hand and transferred the paint that was on your palm. 

"Return it."

"Return it?" he parroted. "I'll be right back." 

"Be careful," you said without tearing your eyes from your painting.

An hour or so has passes, and you have finished the piece at last. The moment you were done with washing the brushes off of any paint residue and rinsing your hands, the alarm for your afternoon session rang, signaling that it as time for the both of you to begin.

"Su-gang?"

You groaned, thinking that the boy was messing with you again.

"Now's not the time for hide and seek." 

The Han Family's garden was huge, and its size was triple of your own house back in the city.

"I can paint this rose," you quietly mused. "Oh, and this chrysanthemum as well." 

You searched for a familiar black-haired boy, fear unexplainably pooling in your gut. 

"Su-gang?" You walked around the maze-like orientation of the bushes. "Su-gang? We're starting." 

You heard a cat hiss, followed by a mewl. It cried querulously, as if calling for help.

"No," you gasped. "No, no, no, no." 

You followed the source of the sound, each step rapid and filled with terror.

"Su-gang!"

"Here," he trailed off.

He appeared in front of you with his face bloody, and he was—

He was holding a headless cat.

Its limbs were limp and crushed.

Its stomach was cut open.

Its guts spilled. 

Its—

"I—" 

You choked in your own spit. Goosebumps rippled from your back to every inch of your skin. Your throat went dry. You visibly froze. Oxygen lost its way and left your lungs empty of it.

"What's wrong?"

Your brain has stopped working for a good amount of time, and even when it finally worked again, you could not find the right words to say. Your mouth opened, only for it to close again. 

"Su-gang Han, what have you done?"

He wiped his face with the back of his free hand, his tongue licking his bottom lip and savoring the taste of the feline's blood.

"Didn't you tell me you didn't like it?"

The second you blinked, the surroundings changed. 

"This is your pay." Missus Han handed you an embossed envelope with rose patterns. "I added bonus."

With both of your hands, you bowed and accepted it. 

"What for?" 

"My son likes you."

You flinched.

"He likes me?"

The mistress gleefully nodded. 

"He's improving."

Si-gung Han was just like a lot of second-generation wealthy person. Unlike one or both of their parents who are at the top of their career, leading others to follow them like hungry dogs being fed to submission, he was talentless and lazy. He had no other interest other than violence, apparently, and you have known this truth ever since you have started working for this cursed household. 

"Thank you, Missus Han."

"Are you sure you can't squeeze in another hour in your schedule?" she coaxed. "I really think that you'd do well as his Science tutor, too." 

"Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to tutor him with that. In fact, I wouldn't be tutoring him any longer."

The metallic smell of blood from all of their victims—the maids, the cooks, the feline—

You could not take it anymore.

"Why not?" she asked disappointedly. "You're very good." 

"I'm focusing on my own studies. I'm close to being a high-schooler, and I want to enroll to a prestigious school through scholarship."

"I can do something about it if you want," she offered. "Entering a single student, especially your caliber, is easy, dear." 

"I want to work on my own success, madame, but thank you for being so considerate to me."

You opened the door of Missus Han's office, realizing that it was not fully closed.

To your horror, the boy was standing close,his eyes telling you that he knew of your decision. 

"You're not returning?"

"Su-gang," you acknowledged, the usual warmth in your tone absent.

You walked ahead of him, and he tailed behind you. 

"I heard you talk to the old hag." 

"You shouldn't refer to her that way." 

"I didn't ask for your stupid life lesson," he remarked, his voice becoming significantly louder and ticked off. 

"What did I say about saying bad words in front of me?"

His teeth were grinding against each other, and his fists were clenched painfully tight.

"Why are you not tutoring me anymore?" he asked. "Don't you lie to me. I know you can multi-task tutoring me and studying. Why?" 

"I told you, didn't I? I don't like mean kids."

You gasped awake, eyes wide and body curled into a ball. You were trembling in fear—your body still remembered and is still afraid of what would follow after that last statement of yours. Your brain so desperately tried to calm your heart down, and thankfully, the quaking has diminished.

You rose from the bed, glancing at the digital clock. It seemed that you woke up before the alarm. Your eyes moved to the picture beside it, and your initial fear was replaced with sorrow.

"Good morning, mama."

Today marked the second day of your work, and you could not think of anything but the possibility of Su-gang still recalling who you were.

"Miss." 

A name that he has always used during your tutoring sessions with him because he never cared about knowing your name.

"Su-gang," you whispered, subconsciously touching the scar you had at the back of your left hand. "Forget about me."

You rubbed your face with your hands in frustration.

"Please."

The teachers' lounge was silent and dark. The only one inside was you, so you did not switch the lights on. Instead, you used your small, clip-on desk lamp while reading your university notes you have yet to get rid of. 

"Skinner's Operant Conditioning is the process of learning through the influence of consequences," you softly read. "It makes use of rewards to encourage and retain a good behavior from the specimen and punishment in order to decrease a bad or less preferred ones."

You flipped through your notes and picked your pencil up to modify some of the information.

"There are three concepts in this theory, namely: Positive Reinforcement, Negative Reinforcement, and Punishment—"

The room brightened. You jolted. 

"Early again, I see," the English teacher commented. "Why didn't you turn the lights on?" 

You stood up and bowed.

"Good morning, teacher."

She smiled and said something about you being adorably hardworking in English. You just nodded, finding it awkward to tell her that you were fluent in the language as well. 

"I heard from the students that you were good," the Mathematics teacher teased. "Candies. How didn't I think of that?"

He placed his things on his table, which was beside yours. He was about to strike up a conversation when someone called you. 

"[Name]?"

Your eyes perked up, and you saw Jae-Kyeong by the doorway. 

"Teacher Jae-Kyeong."

"Come with me for a moment."

next chapter.

[merakiui]

I saw the yandere prompts and my first thought was 2 for Leona, but since you wrote it for Azul, maybe 47 instead..? 👀 I specifically pictured nightmare suit Leona and ougghhh hes so hot <3 he can become my shadow and haunt me forever anytime. Preferably a metaphorical shadow and not literally so he can get handsy- I mean!! 🙈🙈

-🐈‍⬛ anon

NIGHTMARE SUIT LEONA!!!!!!!!!

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, gender neutral reader, leona's a demon you have a pact with, so in that sense he's a shadow, victorian era, arranged marriage, leona's basically the (literal) demon on your shoulder, he has nothing but bad (read: questionable) advice on how to deal with your husband lol, subtle jealousy)

(monstrously yandere prompts)

"Well, aren't you dressed for death? Guess white's gone out of style for weddings. Mourning black is finally in fashion."

You don't have to turn around to confirm the owner of that sardonic drawl. He's been with you ever since you called out to the darkness in your desperation all those months ago. In exchange for keeping you safe and playing the part of watchdog, the demon known as Leona would have your soul. You've since realized business with demons is foolish and dangerous, but the pact has been sealed and its proof is stamped right above your heart.

You are stuck with him until the end of your days.

And while you suppose you're grateful for his help, even if he is the laziest demon you've ever met, he is not the most pressing problem. Rather, it's your wedding.

This day has been penned in the calendars ever since you became of age, and even then you were dreading it. You're not sure what your husband thinks. He's a man led by advantage. Your social status and your family's wealth is far more important than the role you're meant to take up by his side.

Leona has given you countless options to save yourself in the years leading up to this day, most of which were rather unsavory, but today you're truly contemplating them.

"I'm not going to tell you what you should or shouldn't do. It's your life," he says, leaning casually against the wall. A single green eye tracks your movements. He watches you run your fingers along the sheer fabric of your veil. "If you'd prefer to skip all the pleasantries, I can do it in your place."

"You'd do that?" you ask around a disbelieving scoff. All he really does is work in the shadows, offering his sarcastic commentary when he's bored and wants to find entertainment in you.

"Why not? Better a demon than a human with a clean record, right?" he muses. You blink and then he's at your side, peering into the mirror alongside you. Gingerly, he takes the veil from your hands and places it atop your head. "You're already dressed for a funeral. It'd be a waste otherwise."

"You just want to sharpen your claws on the poor soul, don't you?"

A sly smirk quirks up on his lips, and he feigns surrender. "You caught me."

Perhaps I ought to run away, you think, but only for a second. There's still your pact with Leona. You're tethered, and eloping with a demon doesn't sound particularly appealing. His company would only serve as a reminder for your bad choices.

"No need to pout, little human," he adds, melting away into the dark corners of your bedroom. "The solution is staring you right in the face. If it were me, I'd take it. An opportunity for an immediate checkmate... And it's so simply acquired. Don't tell me you're tied up in a moral dilemma!" He barks out a sharp laugh. You've long since abandoned your morals, for they were swallowed up the moment you shook hands with a demon.

Worst of all, he's right. This is the best move you could possibly make. A mysterious death on the day of his wedding... Why, no one would be any wiser and you'd play the part of a grieving spouse well enough. They'd say it was the will of a higher power and then his beastly business practices would be exposed. The odds are in your favor. Leona will ensure that and you know it.

You grit your teeth, and suddenly there's a dagger lying where your brush once was. Your fingers curl around the ornate handle.

"Would I ever steer you in the wrong direction?" he asks, emerging from the dark with the face of your soon-to-be husband. "Well, human? All that stands between you and your precious freedom is one pitiful human. Are you really going to let him dictate your life?"

It's a trick question. Your soul already belongs to him, but right now...

You lunge at him and he scoops you up, pulling you into a strange, stilted waltz. The dagger is plunged in his chest.

Leona challenges you with a sharp grin. "More force next time. How else are you going to puncture his heart?"

"You are an abominable influence," you snap, scowling.

"And I am your shadow, little human." He drags you closer to him, his hand delicately caressing your cheek. "No matter where you go, you'll never escape me. So why not make a friend out of your enemy while you still can? I'll give you everything you could ever want and need, and all it costs is the heart of your husband."

You've never known Leona to willingly offer you an advantage in this never-ending game of chess he seems to delight in.

But perhaps his benevolence stems from a place of envy.

A silly thought. As sinful as envy is, you can't possibly imagine your demon harboring it.

"One condition," you tell him, taking hold of his gloved hand. This time, rather than your husband's face, you peer at him. Into that singular green eye.

He raises a brow. You imagine your demanding nature is quite impressive to him. For a human to demand things from a demon without any regard for the consequences... Fascinating.

"Do him in ruthlessly and you shall have my appreciation."

Malice sharpens his smile into something starved. "I intend to."

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

FAIRYTALE- WINTER SOLDIER

day six of the june bug masterlist

pairing: hades! winter soldier x persephone! fem! reader

word count: 2k

summary: an inspired retelling of hades and persephone, where bucky takes you for himself, sheltering you from the cruel world. it may be cruel- but hes even crueler.

warnings: darkish? kidnapping, arranged marriage, bucky is a bit controlling, petnames, swearing

(this fic is more artistic freedom than anything:) so its more detailed in scene then any kind of smut or romance)

 “ im in love with a fairytale/ even though it hurts/ cause i don't care if i lose my mind/ i'm already cursed" - fairytale, alexander rybak

He was unable to have her.

And that made him want her more.

It was twisted, really. He was twisted.

He was dark and cold, callus and cruel. He was everything she was not.

The Winter Soldier was many things. Kind was not one of them. Which is why he had taken you.

You were not his to take. But he never claimed to be a selfless person. 

He had his eye on you for a long, long time. He knew who you were.

Your desires.

Your dreams.

Your wants, your needs.

What brought you comfort in the darkest of storms, and what caused your outer shell to crack into millions of pieces.

You were not a mere test subject to him, for him to observe.

No, you were a person- a goddess, who had her whole life ahead of you.

One he had stolen.

You had captured his interest, the first time that had happened to a man like him. It was foreign, and immediately he knew he had to do something about the warmth that spread through his chilled body near your presence.

He was disgusted with himself, with the way you plagued his thoughts.

Haunted them.

You would not leave his mind, as if you had been shackled there, to each ridge and neuron in his brain.

Your laugh.

Your smile.

The way your eyes twinkled with excitement and sheer joy when a flower bloomed under your touch, its petals opening wide to bask in your light.

Your smell, sickly sweet- of citrus and warm cherry blossoms in the sun. It clung to him like a second skin, one he could never fully wash off.

His compulsive, obsessive thoughts churned in him, a storm brewing until lightning had cracked and shattered his restraint.

It grew dark that day, so unfamiliar to you. The sunlight you basked in was kept prisoner by rolling grey clouds, thunder rumbling in the distance.

The rain began to pour, the icy cold droplets like pin pricks of a needle on your skin. For whatever reason, you couldn't move. You were frozen in your garden, looking up to the sky.

To Mother Earth.

Was she angry with you? You felt this punishment was needed. Deserved.

So you embraced the pricks of ice on your skin, letting it soak through your white dress that once flowed out around you. Now it clung to you like a marble statue, chilling you to the bone.

A crackle of lightning shot through the sky, illuminating the darkness with crackles of white, blues and deep purples. It was hauntingly beautiful. It was then the sky lit up again- and you felt darkness itself wrap its chains around you, pulling you under.

When you awoke, it was cold.

That was the only thing you could feel. Coldness.

It was a heaviness on you, trying to hold you down as you blinked your eyes open, the room blurring in and out of focus. Dark spots flashed across your vision, a lingering fear it was the darkness around you that was consuming your very soul.

You shuffled upwards, crouched in the corner as you observed the room around you.

It appeared as a showroom. An illusion, an attempt to bring false light and hope between the four walls.

A mirage.

Your hands were unbound, despite your abduction. You were free to move as you pleased, and yet you felt etched to the floor beneath you.

Darting your eyes around, you noted things in the room- presumably your room, that caught your eye.

The bed was large, seemingly soft as it had an old granny quilt, covered in florals. Blankets and piles of pillows adorned its surface, an old oil lamp flickering dimly on the bedside table. A bookshelf was filled with bound classics, different novels you had picked up over the years and read tirelessly under an old willow tree.

A kettle lay on a little counter, shelves above filled with different herbal tea blends and fresh leaves.

He had been watching you. And he had been for the last ten minutes, silent in the shadows as he observed you.

You jumped as he emerged into the light, scurrying back into your corner like a feral cat being cornered. A gasp was stuck in your throat, and you wanted more than anything to scream for help, to scream for anyone to save you from the large man who towered over you, slowly walking over to you- his footsteps silent.

He was darkness reincarnated, a living vision of cold, lonely nights and wilted flowers. Long dark hair curled around his neck, meeting the curled inky swirls that poked out underneath the collar of his shirt. Deep blue eyes watched you intensely, yet a gentle softness lingered in them as he looked into your own.

As if he were seeing someone familiar. Someone who brought him comfort. His arm reached out to touch you, and you flinched, scooting back into your corner until you were trapped by two wooden walls.

“Please-“ you cried out, silenced by the feeling of his fingers stroking your cheek tenderly, and the fresh tears that dripped down them.

“Please don’t hurt me, my family-“

“I’m not going to hurt you, my love. I am going to care for you.”

His words sent a chill down your spine.

“W-what?”

He smiled softly, removing his hand from your skin. Though he missed it. Your skin was so soft, so warm. He did not tell you of how you got here, where you were. He did not tell you of how the vines and the leaves seemed to bend and curl around him, trying to prevent your body from leaving. He did not tell you that you were not going back.

Instead, he stood, so large and tall he seemed to block all the light from view as you curled in on yourself, hugging your knees tightly.

“You are to be my wife.”

Your eyes widened. Voice became stuck in your throat at his words.

“You’re not a prisoner here, my love. Come and go as you please. Explore. And if you need anything, tell me and I’ll go to the ends of the earth to find it for you.”

He turned, striding over to the door. It was unlocked. You slowly pulled yourself up to shaky legs, looking like a newborn fawn as you took a step forward.

Then another.

“I need to go home.” you said, voice as shaky as your legs as you stumbled towards the bed, the feeling of darkness overcoming you again.

He frowned sympathetically, tilting his head as he started to shut the door behind him.

“You’ll learn to trust me soon, my цветок. I promise. Now rest.”

And with that, the door was shut. He was gone, leaving you alone with your broken heart and broken thoughts.

But the click of the lock never came. Despite this, all you could do was obey.

Sleep overcame you, and you let it.

════ ✣✤✣ ═════ ═══ ✣✤✣ ════

He repeated those words every single day.

Mentions of trust. Mentions of promise.

And yet, you refused to believe him.

The first two days you refused to leave your room. Looking out the window, you watched the rain run down the glass pane. It was always dark, always cloudy. The trees were barren of leaves, the air foggy and suffocating.

There was no point in leaving. You couldn’t. You were in the Underworld. No one could reach you here.

You had cried and cried until you could cry no more. Your eyes were puffy and heavy, sleep washing over you like a wave throughout the day.

And yet, he did not try and comfort you. He left you be. He knew that trying too much, too soon would leave you feeling more anxious. So he lingered. But didn’t hover over you.

You would come to him when you were ready. It would take time, but he was patient. He had all the time in the world to be patient. But he couldn’t help but worry, just a little.

You were still as bright and radiant as ever, the flowers still blooming in your woven hair. When you emerged from your room to slip to the bathroom, he noted you had put on some of the nightgowns he had left in your dresser.

And though he knew you were sleeping well, and had even done so much as to make some chamomile tea, you refused to eat. It worried him. He knew the change would be hard, and you’d need to adjust, but you needed something in your body.

Your stomach had been grumbling for the last two days, and you grew weak. Your thoughts were cloudy, and consumed with the idea of fresh fruits and berries from your garden back home. You longed for the sweet taste of nectar and honey on your tongue more than anything.

It was late when you snuck out of your room- though sneaking wasn’t the right word, since you were technically free to go where you wished. But you were trying to avoid the man who was now sitting at the kitchen table.

Watching you.

You froze, fingers clutching the door handle to slip back in your room. But sometrhing held you captive, like a deer in headlights.

“You need to eat at some point petal. You grow weak. And we can’t have that, now can we?” he hummed, pushing the chair across from him with his long leg.

You swallowed, slowly making your way over to sit. “I’m not hungry.”

“I can hear your stomach grumbling from inside your room.”

You stared at him blankly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. But you were caving.

“I did not want to bother you while you’re adjusting. It makes you anxious, I'm sure. I can feel it rolling off you in waves.”

“You make me anxious.”

He smiled to himself, as if you had told a funny joke he was remembering for later.

“I get that a lot.”

“I’m sure.”

He pushed forward a bowl, and when you peered inside your mouth watered.

Pomegranates.

Oh you had missed the sweet taste of pomegranate seeds. But you couldn’t trust him, or his food.

“How can I trust you? That this isn’t poisoned?”

He shrugged. “You can’t. But you’re a smart girl. You look and tell me if it has any traces of nightbane in it.”

You examined it throughly, finding no traces of the white powder that could be dusted around the seeds. Nothing but deep red juices stained your fingers as you poked around. It looked like blood.

“I want to go home.”

“You can visit home if you eat. I’m trying to take care of you, and you’re making it very difficult.”

Your eyes widened. “I can go home?”

“You can visit.”

You frowned.

“Visit?”

“I’ll make a deal with your father I’m sure.”

You didn’t know of the conditions he had left your homeland in. Whether it was because of his presence, or the loss of you- it had turned dark. The crops would not grow, the clouds would not part.

Mother Nature cried so hard the plants drowned and wilted. There was no sun. The sun was with him, sitting across from him at the breakfast nook.

Your parents were desperate. Not only for your presence again, but for the sun to shine again. Nature did not call to them the way it called to you. The deer had scurried off, skittish, away in the brush, the vines had turned brown and thin.

He watched as you practically scarfed down the fruit, juices seeping from the corners of your lips and down your chin to stain your dress. He smiled, watching as you began to eat another, before he gave you a basket of fresh fruits from your garden.

Licking your lips, your eyes closed as you felt energy seep into your pores. It felt like being bathed in spring water, refreshing and cool.

“Thank you.”

He nodded and watched as you retreated to your room, lips still stained. Unbeknownst to you, you had thanked him for sealing your fate in the Underworld.

You’d see what he needed soon enough. 

To care for you. To keep you safe. To make you his queen. 

[threegoldfish]

Whether a doctor would be better if he were to push Marc to take medication, to make him see that Steven isn't real - isn't his own living being - might be open to one's personal opinion; If someone were to tell Marc about this, the fact that a doctor would be considered better if he were to push him in those ways, he'd be very much against it, certainly.

Because he feels seen right now, acknowledged, his feelings taken instead of being dismissed. Of course he knows, somewhere inside himself, that Steven is part of himself - he doesn't believe in the whole thing of being possessed or whatever, definitely not, and he has seen some movies were people have split personalities, all of that. But it just doesn't feel this way to him, not at all; Steven does not feel like he is part of him, he feels like he has somehow found his way into this body and lives alongside Marc, just sharing the same parents, the same upbringing, the same... everything.

Some might call that whole thing a brother-situation then, for obvious reasons, but.. no, Steven's not a brother to Marc, not at all. Randall was his brother, not Steven; He's just another person. It even goes as far as Marc being able to recognize that Steven's existing within the same body whenever he has it, but at the same time he doesn't see himself when he's watching, when he looks at the other living his boring happy life.

---A deep inhale of air, a slow, measured exhale right after. It's so hard to talk about it, all of this, but feels so relieving to know that Harrow isn't openly seeing him as insane in return (whatever he thinks about Marc internally? No idea.). In fact, the doctor is surprisingly open - even acknowledges the closeness that Marc feels for Steven, how much he cares, how badly he wants him to be okay and alright; God, he hopes that Harrow isn't just playing a game here, trying to lure Marc in just to... try and strip it all away from him.

Gaze back on the other man, jaw working a bit, Marc... nods. Once. Twice. Then swallows, takes another inhale, sits more upright. He takes the last sip of iced tea from that squished bottle, then puts it back onto the desk in front of himself, palms now flat on top of his thighs as his gaze trails - thoughtful, again, moved and deeply affected by everything.

"...I think you're right." A small mumble, but loud enough to be heard with how damn silent it is inside this white, sterile office. "He... he should know, at some point. It's... not fair, right? To... leave him in the dark about things for such a long time. He did already wake up in here, and it freaked him out; He thinks he did something wrong, that his sleep-walking is making things bad, but... it's been me, the whole time it's been me who fucked things up - and he's here because of me. Because of what I did..."

A pause, a swallow, dark eyes back on Harrow; A sudden realization causing him to blink, a hint of dread washing over his features---

Steven had managed to slip into the body without him knowing, which didn't happen before. Okay, alright. But... but Marc doesn't remember killing that one guy, right? Doesn't remember having hurt the others as well. Just as he doesn't remember Steven waking and talking to Harrow...

No. No, it wasn't--- it couldn't have been---

"...I don't remember what I did. I don't remember Steven waking up in here." Panicked, suddenly, Marc swallows again and inhales, then exhales in what is a purposeful take of breath to keep himself calm. Don't freak out, don't freak out, it's fine, this wasn't Steven!

"Do you... do you think that Steven... --No, no, it wasn't Steven. Steven wouldn't hurt a fly. Steven hates violence. Steven never defends himself and prefers to give in instead. He catches spiders and makes sure to not accidentally step on bugs whenever he's got enough attention left to do so. He would never--- no, he doesn't have it in him to... to---" Fuck. "...Right? No, he doesn't have it in him. He would never do that. Steven would never hurt someone like this and he would never kill anyone!"

A series of blinks in rapid succession, with Marc bringing a hand up to rub his fingers along his lips, thinking, brows knitting, eyes wide as he realizes that, maybe---

"...No, it must've been me. I'm sure it was me. I just... m-maybe I've got... some other stuff going on that prevents me from remembering. People can suffer from amnesia, right, after doing things sometimes? Y-yeah, yeah, I'm--- I know it wasn't him, it must've been me. There's no other way, no. No, there isn't---"

It wasn't his first blackout. But... but the ones before must've been coincidences...!

"...Yeah, it must've been me. I... killed a guy. I'm just not remembering. Amnesia, that kind of stuff? Yeah."

It feels a lot easier to just accept it than to allow a different possibility to rise up, one that makes him feel as if the room is freezing suddenly. So he pushes that away, out of his mind, doesn't even allow the thought to form.

Arthur found himself struggling to find words, for only a second. It was a surprising amount of intimacy for an internal relationship; Marc crying as if Steven were a real person, worrying over upsetting Steven. Factually, there was nothing to worry about - Steven was created by Marc, and to some extent, Marc had control over that. They were the same being, the same soul, only divided. 

But it wouldn’t be right to say that; because Marc chosen to believe that Steven was real. And even if facts spoke opposite, Arthur had always been more lenient when it came to the spiritual side of things; Marc believed Steven was real. Steven believed that he was real. What more was needed, for a person to qualify as existing? 

It would be wrong to dismiss anything that Marc was saying. Every word was spoken with an aching amount of care, and that was more than enough. 

“You didn’t take anything from him,” Arthur answered, gently, meeting Marc’s gaze. “You gave him a life. I can… understand why you think that everything he owns is fake, but I don’t think that’s fair to say. His memory is as real as yours, isn’t it? Memory, language, emotions - all of these things are real, regardless of their lack of physical presence. If he remembers waking up, drinking tea, reading a book, laughing - then all of that happened.” 

He narrowed his eyes only a bit, for a fraction of a moment, as if trying to read something on Marc. “It was real because he lived it. That’s what memory is, that’s what life is. And you made sure he got that. You gave him a life that would make him happy - that’s not deception. It’s devotion. It’s care.” 

He stayed there for a moment, before leaning back, sitting a bit more properly in his seat. “He’s going to learn the truth eventually. That’s something you can’t keep hidden forever - no matter how badly you want to. The change will frighten him, sure. He might get emotional - he might get upset with you. He might be hurt, for a little while. But when he looks back on his memories - even if they’re ones you created - he’ll always have that knowledge with him. That you created them. That you wanted him to be happy, that you loved him enough to want him to have that.” 

He paused, keeping Marc’s gaze, nodding gently. “And yes, I think he’ll forgive you. Not because he has to, but because that’s who he is. I think he cares, too - even if he doesn’t fully understand everything, yet.” 

Talking so much made his jaw buzz, in a way he didn’t like; it was rare for him to speak too much, but something about the moment had him feeling moved. There was an emotional care here, one he knew he needed to cut before it got anywhere unsafe - but for the moment, he could be here for this. Could allow Steven to exist, despite the fact that he ultimately did more harm than good; a better doctor would be pushing for Marc to be taking medication.  A better doctor would make it clear that Steven couldn't exist.

He could be a better doctor tomorrow, when he wasn’t still weighed down by the emotional burden of everything. 

[xoln04f1xo]

Pairing: CL16 x Reader

Warnings: Accidental consumption of aphrodisiac chocolates, Strong sexual tension

WC: 1.4k

Divider: @kodaswrld

The suite at their private villa in Lake Como was a dream - marble floors, floor to ceiling windows, a canopy bed with white linens that billowed in the breeze. Everything smelled like roses and linen and luxury.

Charles tossed his jacket onto the lounge chair while you padded barefoot into the room, veil long since discarded, hair falling down your back. Both of you were glowing from the day - the ceremony, the dancing, the quiet stared stolen between clinks of champagne glasses.

You spotted the welcome basket on the coffee table. A note card tied in gold ribbon read:

A little sweetness for your first night. With love, Villa La Fiora

Inside were hand-crafted truffles in a velvet box, nestled beside a bottle of sparkling rosé and bath oils. You popped one chocolate into your mouth before even reading the flavour label.

"Mmm," you hummed. "God, that's good."

Charles came over and took one too, eyes fixed on your mouth as he bit down. "This might be the best thing I’ve tasted since the wedding cake."

You flopped onto the bed dramatically, chocolate box between you. "I feel like we just got married and checked into heaven."

He lay beside you, propped on one elbow. "If heaven tastes like hazelnut ganache and you in this robe, I'm never leaving."

You giggled, eyes fluttering closed.

Then blinked.

"...Do you feel weird?" you asked slowly.

Charles frowned. "Weird how?"

You shifted, you skin prickling with heat - but not in a bad way. You pressed your thighs together, you robe suddenly too soft, too light. Your breath cam quicker.

"Like... tingling?" you whispered.

He was staring at you. Lips slightly parted. He pupils already blown wide.

"Oh no."

"What?" you asked.

He grabbed the chocolate box and flipped it over. On the back, in tiny god script:

Contains maca, ginseng, and trace amounts of herbal aphrodisiac blend. Consume responsibly. Not recommended for excessive intake in one sitting.

You stared at him.

"Charles."

"Yes."

We ate like... four."

"I'm aware."

And just like that, the temperature in the room rose ten degrees. Your robe slipped off one shoulder. His hands was still on the box, knuckles white.

Your gaze fell to his lips, that his jaw, then the spot on his neck where his shirt had been undone since the reception.

He licked his bottom lip slowly, breathing hard. "I don't think I can think straight."

You burst into laughter, voice breathless. "This is so dumb. Who puts that in a fucking welcome basket."

"Italians!" he hissed, crawling closer. "Because they are passionate and deeply irresponsible!"

You were already tangled together, your hands in his hair, his breath against your skin. Every touch was electric. Every kiss more urgent than the last. His laugh was low, shaky, when you straddled him.

"You're not even gonna resist, are you?"

He looked at you like you you were made of molten gold. "I have never wanted to behave less."

You kissed him so hard you forgot where the floor was. "Every part of you ached in the best way possible. You made it to the pillows - somehow - and then to the floor - you think - and definitely into the shower at some point, where the steam was no match for the fire between you.

Eventually, hours later, you collapsed in a tangle of limbs and damp hair and thoroughly ruined sheets.

Charles groaned. "I think we broke physics."

You rolled onto your side, breathless and still giggling. "If we file a complaint, can it come with more chocolate?"

He reached blindly for the box on the nightstand. "I'm burning this tomorrow."

"No, your not."

"...I'm hiding it and rationing it for anniversaries."

You snorted. "You hopeless romantic."

He tucked you against his chest, your legs still tangled. "I just married the love of my life, got dosed by a truffle, and had the most intense night of my existence. If that's not romantic, I don't know what is."

You closed your eyes, heart thudding lazily against his ribs.

"Best welcome gift ever," you murmured.

He kissed your forehead.

"Best mistake I'll ever make."

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[tynlvr]

chocolate stained kisses

haechan x gn!reader, friends to lovers

wc: 499

in which donghyuck thinks your chocolate chip cookies are sweet, but the taste of you is sweeter.

a/n: happy birthday haechan!!

you stretch from your position on the floor, looking across at donghyuck, who’s still engrossed in his work. the sun is shining brightly through your window and you think that this beautiful day is wasted, absolutely wasted, doing 4 hours of homework.

'hyuck,' you say sternly, causing him to look up.

'yes?' he inquires, tilting his head questioningly. you're struck once again by his absolutely stunning looks and that someone like him would want to spend time with you. his eyes, always happy, always scrunched into a smile, are twinkling prettily like they always do and his hair is flopping into his eyes and you have the strange urge to brush it back.

'helloooooo-'

'ah, yeah. wanna bake together?'

donghyuck blinks. 'you wanna bake with me? i will literally destroy your kitchen.'

you snicker. you don't doubt that but you could go for your favourite snack with someone who's rapidly becoming your favourite person. honestly, it scares you. you've only known donghyuck for a few months but he and his smile have snuck into your heart and made themselves a home there.

'yeah, but you won't, because i'll kill you.'

'can't kill me if i'm dead!'

'watch me,' you say, a serious expression on your face. you both burst into giggles as you move to hyuck's side, slapping his arm playfully and burying your face in his shoulder.

'okay okay okay, let's bake.'

——————

donghyuck is covered in flour. so are you. and you're both doubled over in laughter, free to cackle now that the cookies are in the oven. he looks adorable, snowy white dusting his flushed cheeks and curly hair, and his pillowy lips stained with melted chocolate. he's close. too close. flustered, you look away at the counter. it's a mess, the faux marble surface covered in bowls and utensils and more spilled flour. turning to hyuck, you begin to pick up some of the bowls and scrape the leftover dough into one of them.

'hyuck, we should probably clean this up.'

you finish scraping the dough and start licking the spoon, picking up some of the whisks and the other wooden spoon as you do, only to notice hyuck hasn't moved at all. he's staring at you, his gaze intense, and focused on your mouth, which is still busy removing leftover dough from the spoon.

'say that again,' he whispers, still eyes still burning.

'what?' you ask, just as quietly.

'my name. hyuck,' he responds. 'i love the way you say my name.'

'hyuck, what-'

he's moved closer, removing the equipment from your hands, and his arms creep around your waist. he leans in, almost like he's asking a question.

you're not sure who starts it, but you're kissing. he tastes like the chocolate chips, more of which found their way into his mouth than into the cookies. and when you pull away, needing air, he smiles that beautiful smile of his.

'the way you say my name isn't the only thing i love about you.'

i hope you loved this short drabble! i've been having severe haechan fever recently and this unfortunately is the only cure.

please like, reblog, share and comment! i love reading any feedback as well, so if you have some, put it in my comments :)

my taglist is always open, reply here or drop an ask!

[forgetmenotnympho]

𐔌 . ⋮ hi ty .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

hiii this is inspired hy a dream i had about a boy in my english class..

notes?: teen!bruce wayne, bruce x reader, mentions of smoking, drinking, gender neutral x bruce, characters are 18!, fluff

perspective?: second

-

you stepped into the room, your eyes flick over the couple of faces present, overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of such a situation. despite the growing desire, you don't drink or smoke. but still, the substances fill your lungs and fuel your body. it's past curfew, and the only one still in their uniform is him. for once, it wasn't styled. Some strands framed his face nicely despite it being a mess. as he lifted his bud to his lips, he caught your eyes. you twisted the rings on your fingers with your thumb and bit at the corner of your lip as Bruce tilted his head slightly. the gesture was so subtle that anyone who blinked had to have missed it. It was an invitation for you, no one else.

Spring nights in Gotham were cold. It didn't help that the window was cracked open either, but unless you wanted the library to smell in the morning, everyone had to be okay with it. Bruce took in a small breath of smoke as you joined him on the floor. You pulled the sleeves of your white sweater over your hands as you got comfortable against the wooden floors and stone walls. The school's embroidered emblem folding in on itself every time you moved like it was cursed. you watched as Bruce's lips parted for the smokey toxins in wrapping paper, and your chest fluttered softly as you averted your gaze down.

“scared?” he asks softly, cold blue eyes trailing over your face, reading your expression.

“yeah,” You almost squeak out, trying to whisper. you felt like a fox trying to converse with a wolf. Bruce exhales a cloud of smoke from his nose and nods. “wanna try?” he holds the bud out to you, embers flying off that seem to echo your name. begging you to try.

“you don't have to.” a reassuring voice cut into your thoughts abruptly. “seriosuly,” as you took the bud between your fingers “You sure?” as you brought the drug to your lips. he nodded and pressed his own together into a thin line, slightly concerned.

“okay, take a slow, deep breath in,”

he kept a comforting hand on your back, just in case.

“good, just like that,” his gaze was intense as you breathed in. you felt your lungs tighten as smoke filled them and swirled around your insides like the toxin you knew they were. your body buzzed, chest tingling funny. “right,” your eyes flicked to him for guidance. He took the bud from your grip. “and out… good job.” He grinned softly, and you couldn't help the triumphant smile that tugged your lips upward. the warmth that flooded your lower abdomen as his hand rubbed careful circles on your back.

“see? nothing to be scared of,” he took another huff, and you watched intently as if you could learn a thing or two just by never taking your eyes off the guy. maybe it was already kicking in, but you swore you could feel lites butterflies fluttering around your stomach.

𐔌 . ⋮ bye ty .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

[shanatypewriter]

"He's Gone..."

cw!: angst, depressive thoughts, wounds, blood, mentions of loss and death, mourning, self-guilt, general talk of death ‘n stuff like that.

Characters: Keegan P. Russ, Hesh Walker, Logan Walker, Thomas A. Merrick; brief mentions of Alex V. "Ajax" Johnson. Fandom: Call of Duty: GHOSTS Type: Fanfiction

A/N: I don't know man, I'm a shame to cod ghosts community I might re-write??

“It was Rorke. He's targeting... look... the wall....” “C'mon! Hang in there, Ajax.” “He's gone..”

“Being a member of the Ghosts wasn’t normal. It’s a far from that or a luxury, and everyone knows it. Their life would forever be haunted by the deaths they caused and witnessed. And if you don’t want to do one thing, it’s fuck with the Ghosts. Rorke did that.

But you're not focused on that, no one is. It’s if you were a little sooner, he’d be alive still… he’s dead. He’s fucking dead because you were slow and-

Calm down…”

«<June 7, 2027. Fort Santa Monica, Los Angeles, California, USA. 8:20 p.m.>

The ride back was silent. Not out of discipline—out of grief.

Keegan hadn’t said a word since they pulled Ajax’s body out from under that blood-stained floor. No one had the heart to press him. Not Merrick. Not even Hesh, whose temper usually burned hot enough to light the dark.

The safehouse door shut behind them with a dull clang, and the team dispersed like smoke. Logan dropped into a corner, helmet in hands. Hesh paced like a caged animal.

Keegan didn’t move.

Still in his gear, dried blood on his gloves, his eyes locked on nothing. His shoulders were set, jaw tense—but his eyes… they were hollow.

Merrick finally spoke. “We did what we could.”

Keegan blinked, slowly. “Did we?” His voice cracked, low and hoarse like it hadn’t been used in days.

Hesh stopped pacing. “Rorke did this,” he growled. “We’re gonna bury that son of a—”

Keegan snapped up. “And that’s gonna bring him back?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. Sharper than any knife.

Hesh flinched, caught off-guard. Logan looked between them silently.

Keegan stood now, not quite steady. He pulled something from his vest pocket—Ajax’s dog tags, bloodied and bent.

“I was supposed to have his back,” he whispered, more to himself. “We’ve been through three hellholes together. This wasn’t supposed to be his end.”

Merrick stepped forward, calm but firm. “This isn’t on you.”

Keegan shook his head; eyes fixed on the metal in his hand.

Silence fell.

Riley padded into the room, sat at Keegan’s feet, and whined—soft, almost like a mourning cry.

Keegan crouched beside the dog, hand resting on the fur between Riley’s ears. “You knew, didn’t you, bud…”

He finally pulled off his gloves and set them on the table. The tags went on top, laid carefully like something sacred. Keegan didn’t cry. He couldn’t. But his silence screamed louder than anything else in that room.

Hesh looked like he wanted to break something. Maybe everything, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white beneath the grime and cuts.

“No fucking ceremony,” he muttered under his breath.

Logan looked up. “What?”

“I said no fucking ceremony. No medals. No folded flag sent home to a family that doesn’t even know what we are. They’ll just call it ‘classified’ and move on.”

Merrick didn't argue. He just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. He was always composed, always in control—but even he couldn’t hide the tired sag in his shoulders this time.

“We’ll do it ourselves,” he said. “Tonight.”

[AJAX'S BURIAL - REMOTE RIDGE, NIGHTFALL]

The safehouse backed into an overgrown ridge, far from any Federation eyes. Merrick had the team move out under darkness—no lights, no chatter, just shovels and quiet boots crunching over frost-dirt.

They buried him beneath an old tree, half-dead and twisted by years of wind and war. It felt fitting. Ajax had always liked places with character.

No priest. No flag. No salutes.

Just the Ghosts. And the wind.

Keegan stood over the shallow grave with his arms crossed, head down. Merrick stepped forward and knelt, setting Ajax’s tags atop the dirt.

“He died on mission. He died hard. And he died a Ghost.”

That was it.

No speeches. No drawn-out honors.

Just truth.

[BACK AT THE SAFEHOUSE - LATER THAT NIGHT]

The team sat scattered around the dimly lit room, silent.

Keegan was cleaning his rifle, but slower than usual. Every now and then, his hand would pause on the bolt, grip just a little tighter than it needed to be.

Logan was hunched over his own gear, but his eyes weren’t focused. Just going through the motions.

Hesh finally broke the quiet. “You think Rorke watched it?”

No one answered.

He kicked the edge of a crate. “He wanted us to find him. Wanted us to see what he did.”

Keegan didn’t look up. “He got what he wanted.”

Hesh’s voice cracked. “Then let’s give him what he doesn’t want.”

Merrick leaned forward from the shadows. “We will.”

He pulled a small, weathered journal from his pack. Flipped to a page. A single name, etched in pen so hard the page was slightly torn: Gabriel Rorke.

He handed the book to Keegan.

“You get first shot.”

Keegan stared at the page for a moment. Then nodded.

[JUST BEFORE THE DAWN]

Keegan stood alone near the burial site, staring out at the empty ridge. The first light of dawn hadn’t yet touched the horizon. He lit a cigarette, something he hadn’t done in years.

“You dumb bastard,” he whispered, a rough laugh breaking through his grief. “You always said I’d be the first one to go. Guess I owe you a beer when I see you again.”

He took one long drag, then crushed the cigarette out in the dirt.

This war wasn’t over. Not even close.

But for the first time in a long time, they weren’t just fighting to survive.

Now—they were fighting for Ajax.

[A longer memory/aftermath sequence] Featuring: Keegan P. Russ & Alex “Ajax” V. Johnson

[FLASHBACK – OPERATION: SAND VIPER]

Location: U.S. military makeshift camps in Tel Aviv, Israel Time: 2006, 1934 hrs

Keegan pressed his back against the half-collapsed stone wall, M4 hot in his grip. His forearms were slick with sweat beneath the sleeves of his desert cammies, dust clinging to every crevice of skin and gear.

“Contact, three o’clock. You see it?” he asked into the comms.

“No eyes—give me a sec.”

Thwack! A bullet slammed into the wall just inches from Keegan’s face, sending a spray of stone chips across his cheek.

“Yep,” Ajax’s voice crackled back, followed by the clatter of return fire. “Got him. That guy had an awful haircut anyway.”

Keegan rolled his eyes. “This mission was supposed to be recon, not a damn shooting gallery.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to the jackasses lighting us up like it's the Fourth of July.”

The two Marines regrouped behind a battered Humvee, wind kicking sand across the bullet-pocked surface. Ajax was bleeding slightly at the eyebrow, nothing serious—but enough to sting. He wiped it and grinned.

“This op's cursed, man.”

“Beginning to think we’re cursed,” Keegan muttered.

“Not cursed,” Ajax said, popping a fresh mag into his rifle. “Just too stubborn to die.”

They pushed forward again, side by side, like they always had. Clearing alleyways. Sweeping low homes. It was brutal urban warfare, hot and close, nothing like the clean fantasy training simulations back at Pendleton.

[LATER THAT NIGHT – TEMPORARY FORWARD CAMP]

The air had cooled, but barely. Their squad was digging in for the night, and Keegan sat outside his makeshift tent, cleaning his weapon.

Ajax approached with two MREs. He tossed one at Keegan.

“Got us the good stuff.”

“Chili Mac?”

“Hell yeah.” Ajax flopped down beside him. “Told the new guy I’d trade him my gun cleaning kit for it. He actually believed me.”

Keegan cracked a small smirk. “You’re an ass.”

“I’m your ass.”

They ate in silence for a moment. Then Ajax looked up at the dark sky, stars barely visible through the orange haze of distant fires.

“You think any of this’ll matter in ten years?”

Keegan looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this—boots in the sand, blood on our hands. You think history’ll even remember Sand Viper? Or us?”

Keegan was quiet for a moment. “I’ll remember. That’s enough.”

Ajax chuckled. “You gonna write my memoirs?”

“Only the embarrassing chapters.”

[PRESENT – SAFEHOUSE, FORT SANTA MONICA, HOURS AFTER “STRUCK DOWN”]

The lights hum. Night has fallen. Silence drapes the room like a burial flag.

Keegan sat at a table in the corner. His gloves were off. His gear lay stripped piece by piece, as if he could surgically remove the grief.

In his hand, a weathered photograph: at base in the sunset. The one Ajax always carried. His thumb ran over the crumpled edge.

He hadn’t spoken since they’d brought Ajax’s body back. He’d washed the blood off his friend himself—his best friend—meticulously, as if trying to undo what had been done. But no medic’s hands, no Ghost’s skill, could bring him back.

“You were right,” Keegan finally whispered to the photo. “You were too stubborn to die.”

He swallowed hard.

“So why’d you go and prove me wrong?”

There was no answer. Just the hum of the lights and the muted footsteps of the others in the next room.

Keegan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Memories flickered behind his eyes—chili mac, dry jokes, firefights in foreign sand.

“I’ll remember,” he said again, this time to no one.

[POST AJAX'S DEATH AFTERMATH]

The steel door to the briefing room creaked open as Keegan stepped in. He was already geared up—vest fastened tight, sidearm holstered, rifle slung. His helmet rested under one arm. The others weren’t even fully dressed yet.

Merrick, standing at the holographic table, raised an eyebrow. “You’re early.”

“Need a favor,” Keegan said without ceremony. His voice was level, clipped, colder than usual.

Logan glanced up from his seat, eyes narrowing slightly. Hesh, sipping black coffee, paused mid-sip.

“I want point on the next op.”

Merrick’s gaze narrowed. “That’s not how we do things.”

Keegan stepped forward, the hollow of his boots echoing on concrete. “I wasn’t asking.”

A tense silence stretched between them.

Hesh leaned back, arms crossed. “You thinking with your head right now, or your heart?”

Keegan turned to him, expression unreadable behind his balaclava. “I’m thinking with what's left.”

Merrick exhaled through his nose, nodding slowly. “You want front. Fine. But you stick to protocol. You go solo, you die solo.”

“Understood.”

The tone in his voice said otherwise.

[LATER – ARMORY, 0632 Hours]

Keegan moved with precision. Each weapon he checked, each mag he loaded, was part of a ritual. Controlled. Methodical. He wasn’t just prepping for war—he was purging everything that made him hesitate.

He picked up Ajax’s old breaching shotgun, still scratched from Sand Viper. The armorer gave him a look.

“You sure?”

Keegan’s answer was simple. “He’d want it used.”

He strapped it to his back.

[SCENE TRANSITION – NIGHT, MISSION ZONE: COASTAL FEDERATION OUTPOST]

Rain pelted the ruins as the Ghosts breached a Federation blacksite. Keegan took point, silent as a shadow, efficient as death.

He moved fast. Too fast.

“Keeg—slow down,” Hesh hissed through the comms. “You’re blowing spacing.”

“Then keep up,” came the icy reply.

Merrick’s voice cut in. “Focus, all of you.”

They advanced room by room, but Keegan’s intensity was unnerving. He wanted an encounter. He was hunting, not patrolling.

And when they cornered a Federation officer—one with intel on Rorke—Keegan had his knife at the man’s throat before anyone could stop him.

“Where is he?” Keegan growled.

The officer stammered something in Spanish.

Keegan didn’t wait. Crack!—the butt of his rifle broke the man’s nose. Blood sprayed the wall.

“Keegan!” Merrick barked. “Stand down!”

But Keegan didn’t move. His eyes were locked, his voice like steel. “You tell me where Rorke is, or I swear to God, you’ll wish Ajax killed you.”

The room froze. Even the soldiers stopped breathing.

End Scene Cliffhanger Possibility:

The intel officer gives a name. A city. A date. Keegan steps back, drops the knife. His hands shake—but not from fear. From restraint.

Merrick walks up beside him. “You want him that bad?” Keegan doesn’t look up. “I don’t want him. I need him.”

[laxmiree]

[CN] MLQC’s Lucien - Molding Cuteness Date- English Translation [1/2]

⚠️ SPOILER ALERT!! ⚠️

This post contains a detailed spoiler for a date that has not been released in EN yet! Feel free to notify me if there are any mistakes in the translation~

Lovepro X Nobi Rabbit Event | Molding Cuteness Date Part 1 (You're here!) | Date Part 2 | Prologue + Day 1 | Day 2-4 | Day 5 -7

⚠️This date is from a collaboration, which means it is highly unlikely to be brought to the English server. Therefore, I've placed the translation of this date and event on the highest priority list. Sorry for everyone that has been waiting for merman AU, I'll continue to work on it after this u.u.

Watching his face draw closer and closer, my heartbeat begins to race beyond my control.

He takes my hand, guiding it from his warm cheek, through his soft hair, to the fluffy crown of his head.

The tactile sensations are magnified infinitely under his guidance, just like his innocent eyes that now occupy my whole vision.

"…Am I cute?"

Translation under the cut!

T/N: From now on, I’ll refer to him as Lucien Xu rather than just Lucien, haha. So instead of ‘Professor Lucien’, ‘Teacher Lucien’, ‘Mr. Lucien’, and so on, I’ll start using ‘Professor Xu’, ‘Teacher Xu’, ‘Mr. Xu’, etc. ^^ Don’t worry, I’m not switching completely to ‘Xu Mo’, I just feel that keeping the surname makes it a bit better option to capture how others politely address him (and also MC playfully addressing him with such~).

—[Video-Turn On CC!]—

Every time he speaks in that tender, coquettish tone, I melt from sheer cuteness and adoration for this man ;-; really recommended to watch the video for the full experience with his voice acting complete with unserious nobi rabbit sprite and him wearing nobi pajamas! Don't worry about missing anything on Tumblr because I also put the phone record + moments in the vid and video comment too~

—[Part 1]—

Pitter-patter…

Outside, the drizzling sound of rain weaves the most perfect white noise, turning the rustling of book pages and the clicking of a mouse indoors into something no longer dull and monotonous.

Such a lazy moment is just right for leisurely passing time at home, soaking in the aroma of coffee together with Lucien.

MC: Pfft…

Lucien: Did you see something funny? What’s got you laughing so much?

Hearing my voice, Lucien lifts his head curiously from the other side of the sofa.

I beckon with a smile, tugging his sleeve as I bring him over to my computer.

MC: Take a look at my new desktop pet companion~

On the computer desktop, a little bunny hops around in response to my mouse clicks.

MC: Look, her name is Nobi. Once the system's set up, she chats with me whenever I poke her.

As I speak, I poke her twice. The little bunny blinks, and with a pop, a dialogue box jumps out above her head.

Nobi: "Want to ask the world’s cutest Nobi Rabbit something?"

Nobi: "Feeling wronged? Listen to me, it’s better to trouble others than to wrong yourself!"

MC: Haha, isn’t it funny?

Lucien: Mm, she’s certainly a little bunny even livelier than MC.

Lucien’s gaze falls on the Nobi pin on my collar.

Lucien: Speaking of which, you really have bought a lot of Nobi Rabbit merchandise lately… Do you like her a lot?

MC: Of course I do! But this is only one of the reasons; the more important reason is this!

With a cheerful lilt in my voice, I click open a video.

MC: Behold—"The Bunny Arrives!"

In the video, an excited couple waves at the camera, and perched on their shoulders is none other than... Nobi Rabbit!

With his index finger hooked under his chin, Lucien watches the interaction between Nobi and the couple in the video thoughtfully and slightly raises an eyebrow.

Lucien: [chuckles] ...Is it real?

MC: Hum hum, of course it's real.

MC: Lately, for some unknown reason, the real Nobi Rabbit has been appearing in Loveland City!

MC: Now there’s already a wave of 'Nobi craze'. Everyone’s trying all kinds of ways to get her to appear by their side and play with her.

Lucien: So, all the new merchandise added at home over the past few days, including that 'magical' cuddle claw machine, is meant to make Nobi show up faster?

MC: Sort of. Gotta make an effort to raise the chance of being the lucky one, right...

Before I can finish my sentence, Lucien gently pinches my cheek.

Lucien: I think my little one is already very lucky.

Lucien: And you always share your luck with me so generously.

Lucien: Whether it’s the RV trip, the island holiday… even a strand of blessing bracelets, or a fortune cookie.

Lucien: [in that coquettish, acting spoiled tone™️] You haven’t forgotten all of that, have you? Because then I would be heartbroken.

Lucien’s voice is low and soft, as if coquettishly coaxing me, yet the tail end of his tone carries a firmness that leaves no room for doubt.

Accompanied by his words, memories of those sweet and happy moments from the past surface in my mind.

All those big and small moments of luck that had Lucien in them.

A smile rises on my face without me realizing it, and I lean against his shoulder.

MC: Gee~ When you put it like that, I feel embarrassed.

MC: It makes me seem like someone who’s already so lucky, yet still greedily wants more.

Lucien: But your expression doesn't look 'embarrassed' at all.

MC: Hm? Then what kind of expression do I have?

Just as I lift my face, a soft kiss lands at the corner of my lips.

Lucien: It’s a righteously bold, greedy expression, one that says you want to become the luckiest person in the world.

I burst out laughing and reach out to hook my arm around Lucien’s neck.

MC: Then, is it okay if I want to be a little greedier?

Lucien: [with a tender, indulgent tone, as if ready to grant her every wish] Sure. What do you want?

MC: Of course, it is…

I gently press down on his neck with my wrist, letting his breath blend once again with mine.

MC: Lucien also has to become the luckiest person in the world together with me.

✂———————–

—[Part 2]—

Lucien: All right... how soon can you get here?

Lucien: Please hurry as fast as possible, over here....

Through the slightly ajar door, Lucien’s voice sounds fuzzy and distant, as if mingled with the drip-drop of water.

Is it still raining? I frown, opening my eyes from the lingering daze of sleep, only to see a bright, cloudless sky outside the window.

MC: Then the water sound just now was....

Just as I’m puzzling over it, Lucien happens to push open the door. His eyes pause for a beat.

Lucien: Did I wake you?

MC: No… were you on the phone just now?

Lucien: Yes, there’s a bit of an issue with the drainage pipe on the balcony at home. I just contacted property management.

MC: Huh?!

✂———————–

Drip, drip...

Gazing at the dripping mess strewn across the balcony, I feel as if my mood has also been soaked through by the muddy water.

MC: How could this happen...

MC: Just yesterday I said we have to become the luckiest people, and we already ran into something this unlucky today, sigh.

Hearing my sigh, Lucien gently rubs my head.

Lucien: Look on the bright side, at least it was discovered early. Otherwise, our living room floor would've been ruined too.

MC: That's true. Luckily, it’s not like what happened to me last time…

I trail off mid-sentence and turn to look at Lucien. A knowing smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

Lucien: Yeah. Now we've both experienced ‘The flooded Jinshan’.

[T/N: They were talking about what happened during the 2020 Valentine’s Day date (the one with cherry cg), when MC’s apartment got flooded and she ended up spending the night at Lucien’s place."The Flooded Jinshan" (水漫金山) alludes to a legendary scene from The Legend of the White Snake in which the White Snake floods Jinshan Temple to rescue her husband, Xu Xian. This phrase is often used to refer unfortunate occurrence of flooding]

His gentle, joking tone melts away my gloom. I let out a sigh of relief and simply take his hand.

MC: Then, in the spirit of 'courtesy demands reciprocity', how about coming over to my place as a guest while we wait for the property maintenance, Professor Xu?

A bright gleam flashes in Lucien’s eyes. He gently squeezes my palm, his eyes curving into a smile.

Lucien: Alright, I’ll trouble Miss Producer to take me in.

As I begin excitedly planning how to properly host Lucien, I open my door—

Suddenly, I feel something bump against my calf, and a crisp, chirpy voice chimes out from near my feet.

??: Wow, your place is pretty big!

I glance down. To my surprise, a Nobi rabbit has already bounced ahead of me into my home!

MC: [surprised] ?!

My eyes widen as I stare in disbelief. Hearing my gasp, Nobi comes to a stop and lifts her chin at me.

Nobi: Don’t you chat with me on your computer every day? How come you don't recognize me?

MC: [sweats] Of course I recognize you! Y-you're really Nobi?

Nobi: Hmph! Who else in the whole world could possibly be this adorable besides me?

Nobi: You two shouldn't just stand at the doorway. Come on in.

After finishing her sentence, Nobi plops down onto my couch without a care in the world.

Lucien watches the little bunny rolling around before him, letting a rare flicker of subtle expression surface on his face

Yet before I can confirm it, he has already returned to his usual composed demeanor, giving me a helpless smile.

Lucien: Looks like there’s a new guest besides me today.

With that, he takes my hand and leads me over to Nobi.

Lucien: Hello, Nobi Rabbit.

Lucien: Can you tell me where you came from?

Nobi: Um? I came from the cutest planet in the entire universe. 

Lucien: Then, by what means did you arrive here? Was it through spatial teleportation or energy conversion?

Lucien’s gaze is filled with genuine curiosity and thirst for knowledge. Nobi puffs up her cheeks, seemingly a bit overwhelmed.

Nobi: W-why do you humans like to ask strange questions?

She firmly plants her hands on her hips and shakes her ears.

Nobi: Anyway, the reason I appeared here is 'love'!

Nobi: As long as there’s love, anything can be explained. That’s just how this world is!

Because of Nobi’s righteously confident statement, the air goes quiet for a moment, then Lucien and I can’t help but chuckle at her answer.

Lucien: Alright, that question just now really was a bit much for a little bunny.

Lucien: After all, the world truly does become simpler because of love.

Our eyes meet, and in silent unison, tender, indulgent smiles bloom on our faces. I scoot closer to Nobi’s side and give her a light poke.

MC: Oh~ so does that mean it was the power of love between Lucien and me that drew you to appear here?

Nobi: Yes, yes, exactly!

Nobi: Professor Xu, you should learn from your girlfriend. She's much smarter and cuter than you!

Lucien: ….

Nobi and I tease in tandem, making him lift his brow slightly. He then bows down just a bit, as if earnestly seeking guidance.

Lucien: Then, may I ask my two teachers what I can do to become as smart and as cute as my girlfriend?

As if reclaiming her dignity, Nobi adjusts her glasses and nods with satisfaction.

Nobi: That’s the very reason I came to you two~

As she speaks, Nobi suddenly hops onto Lucien’s shoulder, leans in close to his ear, and whispers something softly.

Lucien: [gasps softly] ...Really?

Nobi: Just try it and you'll see.

Lucien nods thoughtfully, then leans down toward me.

Watching his face draw closer and closer, my heartbeat begins to race beyond my control.

Yet Lucien merely extends his hand, guiding mine to his face, then slowly moving it upward.

My fingertips glide from the warmth of his cheek, tangle through the fine strands of his hair, and finally come to rest on the fluffy crown of his head.

The tactile sensations are magnified infinitely under his guidance, just like his innocent eyes that now occupy my whole vision.

Lucien: [soft, coquettish tone] …Am I cute?

I blurt out almost reflexively:

MC: —So cute!!

Next Part=> [Click Here]

[aemnd]

──𝑎.𝑡. ┆ 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑠 &. 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑒𝑠. ♡ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒. hi .. ♡ ik i promised my baby daddy fic this week, buttt it's nowhere near finished so i'm giving y'all this lil gift instead ⸝⸝ pls enjoy some steamy sexist!aemond 𝑥 florist!reader ໒꒱ིྀ༝ .. tbh, they're sm fun to write about .. ૮ . . ྀིა⁩ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ MDNI, 18+ wc: 7.5k.

⟢ ─ 𝑖.

you first notice him on a rainy thursday afternoon. he steps into the flower shop like he owns it, the heavy door creaking open against the wind, dark coat dripping with raindrops, and sharp eyes scanning the colorful floral arrangements like they've personally offended him. he's tall—too tall—and his presence is like the sound of a thunderclap.

you nearly drop the rose stem in your hands when your gaze meets his. that eye of his, sharp as glass, pale and piercing. the other... a silvery-blue sapphire piece. cold. unblinking. focused entirely on you. you can't help but feel like you're being hunted.

but then he clears his throat. "i need flowers," he says flatly. you blink, stunned for a quiet moment. "o-oh, um... what kind?" his gaze lingers on you too long before he answers. "something respectable. not gaudy. for my mother."

you fumble with the white ribbon in your hands, feeling your cheeks heat up. "roses? white lilies? um, carnations maybe—those mean admiration." his mouth twitches like he's holding back a smile. slowly, he nods in agreement. "fine."

as you begin to prepare the bouquet, you can feel his eyes on you. it's not leering, not exactly—but it's intense. assessing. like he's studying you. you keep your head down and wrap the stems tightly, your fingers shaking a little.

you don't get men like this in the shop. you get cheerful grandpas and boyfriends begging forgiveness. not... men in bespoke suits with slicked-back silver hair and war in their eyes.

when you hand him the finished bouquet, your fingers brush his. you gasp softly. he doesn't flinch. "what's your name?" he asks, low and serious.

shyly, you stammer out your name in a small, meek voice.

"aemond," he says, like a promise. he comes back the next day. and the next. and the next.

at first you think he's just buying flowers for someone—maybe he's seeing someone. maybe he's married. but every time, he just asks you to pick something. you choose, sweetling. his voice is velvet-wrapped steel, and when he says your name, it makes your knees feel like jelly.

you start to notice things, little particular things. he doesn't like when you talk to the delivery guys. he doesn't like when you wear anything even slightly revealing—even the floral sundress you wore last friday made him frown like you'd disappointed him.

and when you mentioned that you live alone above the shop, his whole demeanor changed. "that's not safe," he said, jaw clenched. "you shouldn't live alone. it's dangerous."

you'd laughed nervously. "i-i have pepper spray?" he didn't laugh, only hummed quietly as though he was contemplating something.

you start to feel him everywhere. whenever you're out with your friends, he'll always insist that he walks you back home. you never asked him to, but you've learned early on that he can be fiercely stubborn.

"women shouldn't walk alone at night," he says, like it's the law. "you're too soft for this world." you want to protest—you're not helpless—but when he says it, it doesn't feel cruel. it feels... possessive. protective. like he's already claimed you in his mind as his own.

you've never met anyone quite like him. he talks like he was born in another century. he frowns when you say you don't want children yet. he hates that you work, especially around other men. he gets this dark look when you mention dating apps, as if you've committed a mortal sin.

"you shouldn't be selling your innocence to strangers online," he says one night, voice low as he stands beside you in the flower shop, long after closing. "it's beneath you."

you look away, embarrassed. "i… i-i wasn't. i was just looking..." he tilts your chin up with two long fingers, and your breath catches. "you deserve better, sweet girl."

you think he might kiss you. but he doesn't.

the truth is… you like the way he looks at you. you like feeling small next to him, protected. safe. you like how he opens doors and glares at men who look too long. you like that he always smells like smoke and cedar, like something expensive and ancient. you like how he calls you sweet girl in that gruff voice, like he's barely restraining himself.

you shouldn't. he's older. he's controlling. he's so—but he makes you feel wanted. not in the gross, catcall-on-the-street way. no. it's deeper than that. it's hungry. and when you're with him, when it's just you and him in the little flower shop you work at, you don't feel shy. you feel cherished.

one rainy evening, he corners you in the shop again. everyone's gone. the flowers are sleeping, petals drooping in the dim light. you're closing up, fingers dusted in pollen and soft soil. and suddenly he's there, like always, looming behind you.

"you shouldn't be here alone," he says. "i-i'm fine..." you protested, your voice small and weak. "no. you're not. you're not safe here, sweetheart."

you swallow, feeling your heart flutter. "you keep saying that..." he steps closer. "because it's true. you're too good for this place. for this world." his hand reaches out, brushes a loose curl behind your ear, making your skin erupt with goosebumps. "you need someone to look after you."

you blink up at him, pouting. "and you think that someone's you?" he leans in, his nose brushing yours. "i know it's me, baby." his kiss is slow, like a claiming. not soft, but careful. deliberate. like he's waited weeks for this. maybe his whole life.

your hands tremble as you clutch his coat, letting him press you back against the counter. you've never been kissed like this—like someone's devouring you, but also revering you. like you're precious. breakable. his.

when he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. "i don't care if this is too fast," he murmurs. "i want you." you're panting softly. "i-i don't know what i'm doing, aemond…" he chuckles, a soft smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "good. let me teach you, baby."

you know he's not ever going to let you go. and suddenly, you're starting to think that you don't want him to.

days blur. he starts picking you up from the shop in his sleek black car. you stop going out with friends. you delete the dating apps. you quit the little flower shop two weeks later, after he insists that "his woman shouldn't be on her feet all day catering to other men's whims."

you cry a little when you leave. but he kisses your tears away, strokes your cheek, and murmurs, "you don't need to work, sweet girl. let me take care of you."

you don't know where this ends. but when aemond wraps his arm around your waist like you're his prized possession... when he kisses the top of your head and calls you his little flower...

you think you'll let yourself bloom under him. even if it means forgetting the sun.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖.

you don't remember packing. you don't remember when the decision was made—only that one morning you woke up in aemond's bed, sunlight warming your skin through silk curtains, and your little apartment above the flower shop felt like a dream. a tiny, dusty dream you'd outgrown.

everything smells like him now. dark wood and smoke. leather and cloves. his sheets are the softest thing you've ever touched, but you can't bring yourself to sleep without one of his shirts balled up under your cheek.

you don't recognize this version of yourself—lounging around in pink and pearly white satin, hair pinned back with expensive combs, fresh fruit brought to your bedside each morning—but you don't feel lost. you feel... kept.

it starts simply. he brings you home, tells you to rest, to breathe, to let him provide. you're hesitant at first, shy about the marble kitchen countertops, the velvet armchairs, the antique books stacked beside crystal vases. but he presses a kiss to your temple and murmurs, "this is where you belong. my house. my girl."

you don't argue. not when he holds you like that. not when he carries you upstairs like something fragile and holy.

you learn quickly that aemond targaryen does not believe in compromise. "this isn't a shared space," he tells you over breakfast one morning, reading the morning paper while you nibble on toast. "it's mine. you live here now. but this home... it's a man's responsibility. and i take that seriously."

you peek at him over your pink princess mug. "so i'm just... staying?" "no," he says firmly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "you're mine. that's different." your cheeks heat. you try to look away, but he closes the paper and sets it aside. "do you want to leave, sweetheart?"

"no!" you're too quick, too loud. you bite your lip, suddenly sheepish. "i-i just don't want to be a burden to you..."

his expression darkens. "you could never be a burden, baby." he rises from the table, crosses the room in long, silent strides, and cups your jaw in his hand. "i want to care for you. i don't want you working. i don't want you lifting a finger for anyone else. you're here to be soft. safe. loved."

you whisper, "that sounds like a fairytale." "it is," he says, smirking softly. "mine."

you're not allowed to leave the house without him. at first, you think it's just his protective side—his usual overbearing, old-fashioned instincts. you remind yourself that this is how he shows love. he's not cruel. he never raises his voice. but when you try to go to the corner bakery alone, just to stretch your legs, he calls your phone six times before you even get a block away.

"come home," he growls. "now." he's waiting at the door when you return, arms crossed, jaw clenched. "i told you not to go out alone."

"i was just−" sharply, he says your name, cutting you off and making you feel like a little girl who upset her father by disobeying him. you flinch. he steps forward instantly, hands smoothing down your arms. "sweet girl. i'm not angry with you, i'm worried. the world isn't kind to sweet women like you. you're too... fragile."

you swallow, feeling small. "next time," he murmurs, kissing your forehead, "you wait for me. understand?"

you nod, too shy to argue. you can't stand the thought of disappointing him. and, truthfully... you like when he's possessive. it makes your belly flutter. makes you feel wanted.

he starts dressing you. it begins with a silk dress he leaves draped across the bed, pale pink with a lace collar and tiny pearls down the front. "you'll wear this when my mother visits," he says simply. "you'll look like a proper lady."

you blush. "i-i don't know how to wear something like that..."

"don't worry, baby. i'll help you." and he does. he buttons every pearl with careful fingers, smooths the fabric down your sides, brushes your hair back like you're his very own porcelain doll.

you melt under his touch. you don't even realize how tightly the dress fits until you're seated beside him on the velvet couch, ankles crossed like he showed you, hands folded politely in your lap.

his mother approves of you, but barely. "she's very quiet," alicent says over tea. "you like them docile, don't you, aemond?"

"she's sweet," he replies. "and mine." he squeezes your hand under the table, and you try to smile. you don't speak again the rest of the evening.

nights are slow. tender. reverent. he takes his time with you. always asking permission, always murmuring soft things as he undresses you like he's unwrapping a gift. my good girl. so innocent, so pure. mine to teach, mine to love.

you never knew your body could feel like this—like it was built for one person only. like your breath, your softness, your trembling thighs... all belonged to him. you sleep in his arms every night, his hand curled around your hip like a lock.

eventually, he starts talking about marriage. "you're already mine," he says one morning, tracing circles on your bare back. "but i want the world to see it. i want them to know you belong to me."

your breath catches. "you... really mean that?" his eye is heavy with emotion when he looks at you. "of course i mean it. you're not meant to be someone's girlfriend, sweetheart. you were born to be a wife."

you whisper, "yours?" "only mine," he purrs.

you nod, and that's all he needs. he doesn't ask. there's no engagement ring, not yet. just a promise wrapped around your ribs like a ribbon, tightening every time he looks at you like you hung the moon.

he starts planning everything. you don't have a say in the venue. or the dress. or the guest list. but you don't want to. not really. it's too overwhelming. and aemond—well, he was born for control. he doesn't raise his voice, but he makes it clear: this wedding will reflect his taste, his name, his legacy.

and you? you're just the precious little bride.

"don't worry that pretty little head, sweet girl," he murmurs, kissing your neck as you curl up beside him on the couch. "i'll handle it all. you just show up and look beautiful for me."

you nod into his chest. you always nod.

one day, you wander into his study. you don't mean to. you're not allowed in there. but the door is ajar, and he's not home, and you're feeling brave.

it smells like him—cologne and wood polish. heavy tomes line the shelves, and a decanter of brandy gleams in the dim light. you run your fingers across the desk, half-expecting it to bite. everything in here is dark and sharp and expensive. masculine. dangerous.

a photo frame catches your eye. it's you. sleeping. your breath catches. there are more—tucked into a small drawer. you, bent over flower buckets. you, sipping tea in the shop. you, walking home with your keys clutched tight in your fist. you, asleep again.

you back away from the desk, heart pounding. you never knew he was watching you before you met. you never knew how long he's wanted you.

the front door opens. heavy steps. "sweetheart?" you shut the study door and run.

that night, you can't sleep. you lay curled in his arms, his breath warm against your neck, and you want to ask: why were you watching me before we met? why did you take those photos?

but you already know the answer. he chose you before you ever knew he existed. and maybe... maybe that's what love is to a man like aemond targaryen. not affection, not courtship. ownership.

the next morning, you find a velvet box on your pillow. inside is a ring—silver and sapphire, sharp and gleaming, impossibly heavy. no note, just a single rose. you understand. this is it. there's no more pretending this is something you can walk away from.

you're his. entirely. and the terrifying part? you want to be.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

you wake up before the sun. not because of nerves—though your stomach is fluttering like a jar full of swarming butterflies—but because aemond's side of the bed is empty. still warm. you sit up slowly, pulling the silk sheets to your chest, and glance toward the balcony.

the door is open. he's standing there in the pale blue dawn, shirtless, cigarette in hand, his long silver hair brushing the middle of his back in soft waves. he looks like a statue. or a fallen angel. or both.

he doesn't turn around, but you feel him when he senses you. "go back to sleep, baby," he says quietly. "you need rest."

"it's our wedding day," you whisper, voice shy and airy. at that, he finally looks at you. the corner of his mouth lifts. he stubs out the cigarette and returns to the bedroom in a few long strides, kneeling beside the bed and cupping your cheek like you're made of glass.

"my wife," he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip. "you don't know how long i've waited to call you that." you feel the tears prick before you can stop them. happy ones. he kisses them away.

by the time the personal stylists arrive, you're already tucked into the dressing suite, wrapped in a robe the color of fluffy white clouds. everything smells like roses and warm linen, making you feel dizzy.

you sit obediently while they curl your hair, pin baby's breath flowers behind your ear, dust your cheeks with a soft pink shimmer. helaena comes in halfway through—barefoot, giggling, twirling in a chiffon dress—and beams at you like she's keeping a secret.

"he's going to cry," she whispers, hugging you tight. "you should've seen his face when he got the suit back from the tailor. like he was going to war. or heaven."

you giggle nervously. "he hasn't seen me yet." helaena grins. "he won't survive it."

the dress is ivory with vanilla undertones. not white—aemond had insisted. "you're not just a girl anymore," he'd said, touching your waist meaningfully. "you're mine. a woman now. you wear ivory. it's softer."

it fits like a dream. high neckline, long sleeves, lace over satin, pearls stitched into the bodice like stars. you twirl once in the mirror and feel like you've stepped into a fairytale, and you're the main character, the princess.

you hear the guests arrive from the upstairs suite. classical music swells. you smell roses, gardenias, eucalyptus. your flowers. he insisted they use the flower shop you used to work at—your hands, even if they were no longer working hands.

"this is the last time, sweetheart," he'd said, watching you arrange the bridal bouquet weeks ago. "after this, you never lift another finger. you retire."

you'd just smiled. "you're bossy." he'd pulled you into his lap, nuzzling your neck as he presses soft kisses against your skin. "no, sweet girl. i'm your husband."

the chapel is candlelit. not a cathedral, not a courthouse—just the private one on the targaryen estate. old stone, high arches, velvet seats and gold fixtures. traditional, like everything else he touches. every guest wears black. aemond said it was to contrast your softness. so he'd be the storm, and you'd be the light.

you can feel his presence before you see him. you step onto the aisle—your bouquet trembling in your hands—and there he is at the altar, tall and severe in a black three-piece suit, silver hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck. that pale eye locked on you like a hunter spotting a doe in the forest. he doesn't blink, he doesn't breathe.

he looks like something ancient and fierce, undone by one girl in ivory lace.

you walk to him like you're dreaming. slow. timid. floating. he takes your hands. he doesn't speak. but his fingers tighten just a little too hard around yours. and you know—he's in agony over how much he loves you.

the vows are old-fashioned. because of course they are. his were written weeks ago. yours were... helped. helaena giggled when she saw them, mumbling something about "ownership kinks," but you don't mind. you like the weight of his rules. the structure of his world.

you promise to obey. to trust. to serve him as a good wife should. he promises to protect. to provide. to love and adore you above all things.

you've never heard him say i love you until this moment. but when he says it, voice trembling, ring sliding onto your dainty little finger like a brand—"i love you, sweetheart. mine, now and always."—you nearly collapse with the sheer force of it.

the kiss is long. too long. you hear a cough from the priest.

aemond ignores it completely, cradling your jaw with both hands and kissing you like he's stamping his name onto your soul. his lips move over yours slowly, thoroughly, reverently. the world fades out. you taste mint and smoke and something possessive.

when he finally pulls away, he doesn't smile. he just stares at you. like you're his crown. his kingdom. his favorite sin.

the reception is a blur. there are candles everywhere. gold-dipped cutlery. a soft string quartet playing vivaldi while people toast and clink champagne glasses and whisper about how stunning you look, how aemond's never smiled like this, how the targaryen heir has finally been tamed.

but no one says it to your face. because aemond never lets go of your waist. not once.

he keeps his hand on you the whole night—through speeches, cake, dancing. even when you sneak away to the restroom, he's outside the door when you return. "too many people looking at you," he mutters, brushing a kiss along your temple. you whisper, "i'm yours." and his whole body relaxes.

you don't remember the drive back to his own personal estate. only his hand between your thighs the whole way home. not doing anything—just resting there. heavy. claiming. every bump in the road sends tingles through your core. he doesn't speak. he just watches you squirm.

once you arrive, he carries you up into the bedroom. not because it's tradition. because he needs to.

you're still in your wedding dress, breath shaky, when he gently sets you down at the foot of the bed. his hands slide into your hair, his mouth finds your throat. "i've waited all day for this," he whispers. "now i take what's mine."

you don't have to say a word. you just let him undress you. slowly. carefully. like he's unwrapping a sacred gift. your dress pools around your feet. he steps back, eye raking over you like he's memorizing you as his wife. you try to cover yourself, shy and bare.

"don't hide from me, baby," he murmurs. obediently, you lower your hands.

his suit jacket hits the floor. then his shirt. his slacks. he undresses like a man unraveling in devotion, not lust. you tremble when he kneels between your legs, pressing kisses up your thighs, whispering your name against your skin like a prayer.

when he enters you, it's slow. it's not your first time with him, but it feels like it is. because nothing's ever felt like this. you cling to him, breathless, broken, whole.

he holds you the entire time. kisses your tears. tells you you're perfect. tells you you're his. tells you he's going to spend the rest of his life making sure you never feel alone again.

he doesn't stop until you're shaking. until you're crying into his shoulder. until you whimper, "i love you, husband." and he replies, "my sweet wife—mine."

you fall asleep in his arms. and for the first time in your life, you don't dream. because this is it. this is the dream. and you are never waking up.

⟢ ─ 𝑖𝑣.

the private jet is silent except for the sound of tiny cubed ice clinking against crystal.

you sit beside aemond in a plush leather seat, legs tucked beneath you, a silk wrap dress tied loosely around your waist. the windows are tinted. the cabin smells like vanilla and expensive bourbon. his fingers trace idle circles on the bare skin of your thigh.

"do you know where we're going?" he asks, voice low. you shake your head. he smirks. "good."

you pout. "can't i have a hint?" "you'll see when we land, sweet girl." he leans in, brushing your earlobe with his lips. "but i'll tell you this much... you won't be wearing anything but sunburns and my hands for the next week."

your breath catches. he doesn't pull back. "you remember what i said, don't you? this week, i'm going to ruin you."

you nod. slowly. sweetly. doe yes wide and already dazed with lust. smirking softly, he presses a sweet kiss to your temple and pours you another glass of your favorite white wine.

the villa is hidden in the cliffs, perched above a sea so blue it looks unreal. floor-to-ceiling windows. white sand beach. a private infinity pool that reflects the moonlight like spilled diamonds. everything smells like salt and citrus and the sharp spice of aemond's expensive cologne.

he carries you over the threshold like you're his bride from a century ago. you squeal and giggle into his shoulder. "this is too much."

he growls, "you're mine. you get everything." you don't get a tour. he doesn't give you time to unpack. he just lays you on the cool white bedspread, slips off your sandals, and kisses your ankles like they're sacred.

"you've been so patient," he murmurs, dragging his hands up your legs. "soft. obedient. you let me court you the way i wanted. you let me wife you."

you whimper, hips squirming beneath him. "now..." his mouth finds your inner thigh. "you're going to let me claim you." he takes his time. the sun sets. the ocean roars beyond the open balcony.

and aemond targaryen strips you bare like he's been fantasizing about this every day since the moment he laid eyes on you in that little flower shop.

he kisses every inch of you—your shoulders, your belly, the crease where your thigh meets your hip. he holds your wrists down, makes you look at him while he tastes you, while he whispers filth against your flushed skin.

"such a good little wife... letting me see every part of you." "you're so wet, baby. just for me. always for me." "you were made for this. you were made for me."

he doesn't let you come until you're sobbing his name. doesn't take you until you're begging. and when he finally does—his body pressed to yours, his voice ragged in your ear, his cock dragging deep and slow and possessive inside your drooling cunt—he keeps one hand wrapped around your throat and the other gripping your hip like he's branding you.

"you'll leave here so full of me," he groans, fucking into your cunt deeper with every stroke. "every day. every night. my seed dripping down your thighs. my name in your mouth. my ring on your finger." you come so hard you cry.

the days blur together. mornings are slow, lazy, sun-drenched things. you wake up in tangled sheets with aemond's hand between your legs and his lips on your neck, murmuring sleepy praise into your skin. he fucks you before breakfast. sometimes twice. sometimes more.

"you don't eat until i've had my fill of you," he growls against your thigh before diving in and pressing his face against your cunt, eating you out with overwhelming enthusiasm.

you obey. always.

afternoons are heat and sweat and sun. he ties your bikini so tight it's practically useless—just tiny thin strings and teasing little triangles—and makes you sit in his lap while he reads in the shade. one hand always on your ass. always touching. always reminding you who you belong to.

sometimes he fucks you in the pool. sometimes on the white sandy beach. once, right there on the balcony in full view of the ocean. "nobody gets to see this body but me," he snarls. "but i want the world to hear you scream my name." and they do.

nights are candlelit and sinful. he feeds you bites of fruit and chocolate with his fingers. he makes you sit on the floor between his legs with his cock down your throat while he talks business on the phone, fingers lazily curling in your hair, tugging when you get too fidgety and start whining from the ache in your empty cunt.

you've never felt more owned. more worshipped. more ruined.

but he's soft sometimes too. after. when you're shaking and boneless and curled up in his chest. he kisses your forehead and whispers, "my wife. my perfect little wife."

you whisper back, "your good girl." and he holds you like he'll never let you go.

it's late one night when he ties your wrists with silk. not rough. not cold. just... controlled.

you're already wet from the way he looks at you-hair loose, pants slung low on his hips, jaw sharp and twitching as he drinks you in. you're sprawled out on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a thin gold anklet he bought you in town.

"you trust me?" he asks, voice like smoke. you nod immediately. "y-yes, daddy."

that always makes something dark flare in his good eye. "then you'll take everything i give you. you'll lie here like a good little wife and let me own you."

you whimper when he pushes your legs open and kneels between them. and then his mouth is on you. again. but this time, it's not slow.

it's filthy. messy. loud. he licks like he's starving, fingers digging into your thighs, pulling you apart, eating you like a man lost in devotion. you arch, you whine, you beg—but your wrists stay tied and your body stays open.

he groans against your heat. "such a sweet little thing. married and already this greedy for your husband's mouth." you can't even speak. you're crying when he finally slips two fingers inside you, crooking just right, tongue never stopping, lips slick with you.

"come for me, pretty girl." and you do. hard. your whole body jerks with it. eyes rolling. back lifting. babbling nonsense into the humid air. hands straining against the silk.

he doesn't stop until you scream. later, he unties you gently. kisses your wrists. lays you on his chest while your heart calms down. his fingertips trace lazy shapes into your back.

"was that okay, sweetheart?" he asks softly. you nod against him.

"you make me feel safe." his throat tightens at your words. you feel it beneath your cheek.

"i love you," you whisper. he swallows hard. "you're mine, baby. my wife. my whole damn world."

on the fourth day, he gets even filthier. he makes you ride him in the mirror. you'd been shy about it—whining, stammering, hands covering your face—but aemond only laughed, deep and low and full of amused, pulling you into his lap. "no hiding. you're my wife now. i want you to see what you do to me."

so you sit, bare thighs spread, his cock buried deep inside you, your bodies tangled together as he tilts your chin up and forces you to watch your reflection.

"you see that?" he growls, moving your hips for you. "that's what a good wife looks like." your eyes fill with tears again. but not from fear. not pain. just overwhelmed sweetness. need. you come four times before he lets himself finally finish inside you.

when he does, it's rough—arms locked tight around you, fucking up into you with a snarl as he floods you, as he fills you. you whimper, weak and ruined, and he bites down on your shoulder. "take all of it. let it stay. that's a good girl…"

you both watch as it drips down your thighs after. you can't stop trembling. he kisses your stomach and says, "someday soon, i'll fill you enough to keep you soft and round with my child."

that night, after a long bath and a long nap, he brings it up again. not while fucking you. just... while holding you. arms wrapped around your waist, the two of you swaying in the moonlight on the balcony of your private villa.

"you ever think about babies?" he murmurs. your breath hitches. "sometimes." he turns you in his arms, lifts you to sit on the marble railing, his body between your legs.

"i do," he says. "a girl, maybe. one who looks like you. or a boy, serious and cold like me, but sweet only for his mama."

your heart lurches. "you want a baby?" "i want you to have my baby," he says simply. "i want to come home and see you barefoot in our kitchen, round with my child. i want to know you're safe while i'm at work. i want people to see you and know i put you there."

your thighs press together, mewling. "a-aemond..." his hand slides up your belly, between your legs, fingertips teasing you through your thin nightgown. "you'd be so perfect," he breathes. "you already are."

the rest of the week, he fucks you like he's trying to make it happen. he doesn't pull out. not once.

sometimes it's slow. sometimes rough. sometimes on the beach, or in the pool, or on the kitchen counter after dinner. he praises you constantly—how soft you are, how tight, how sweet and obedient and perfect. and always, always, "my wife."

by the last night, you're sore in the best way. you're lying in bed, moonlight spilling over your skin, his seed warm between your thighs and your body limp with satisfaction.

he tucks you into his chest, wraps the soft cotton sheets around both of you, and kisses the top of your head. "i'll build you the world, baby," he whispers. "just stay soft for me. stay mine." you curl into him with a sleepy smile. "always, aemond." and you mean it.

⟢ ─ 𝑣.

it starts with nausea. sweet and simple. you think maybe it's the weather, or the new multivitamins, or the fact that aemond keeps feeding you rich breakfasts in bed and making you drink some french coffee you're not used to. you brush it off.

but when it happens again, and again, and you start waking up sweating and shaky at 5 a.m., something inside you shifts. a quiet whisper. a flutter of hope.

the same hope you remember from the villa—the way aemond pressed a kiss to your stomach every night before bed, the way he murmured grow something for me, sweet girl, like you were already blooming his child in your womb.

your hands tremble as you unwrap the test. the morning light streams through the lace curtains. your nightgown hangs loose around you, one of aemond's old shirts over it since you were always so cold in the mornings. the little stick blinks on the sink.

one line. then... two. your vision blurs. your mouth falls open, hand flying to your chest like maybe your heart's trying to leap out of it.

you're pregnant. gods, you're actually pregnant.

you wait for him in the living room. he's due home any minute, sharp and punctual like always. you sit on the velvet couch, barefoot, knees tucked to your chest, the positive test hidden in your hands. there's a single pink peony on the table—cut fresh from the flower shop this morning.

your cheeks burn. your pulse is wild. you hear the lock turn. you stand."aemond?" you call, voice soft, breathless. he steps in, sharp in a navy suit, his tie already loosened, silver hair pulled back, keys in one hand. his eye lands on you instantly.

"hey, baby." his whole body softens. "what is it? you look pale." you swallow. "i-i have something to tell you." his jaw tightens like he's bracing for impact. you move toward him slowly, silently, then press the test into his palm.

he stares at it. then stares at you. then back down. there's a beat of perfect, suspended silence. and then everything breaks.

his breath catches. his mouth parts. the test clatters to the floor as he grabs you, lifts you, spins you around like you weigh nothing.

"you're serious?" his voice is raw. "you're really−?" you nod, giggling deliriously and crying at the same time. "yes, i took three."

he buries his face in your neck. "you're having my baby." your fingers tangle in his hair. "i'm having your baby."

he doesn't let go of you for hours. you lie in bed wrapped in his arms, his hand splayed protectively over your belly like he can already feel it. "you're so small," he murmurs. "how is there already something inside you?"

you giggle. "it's still early. you just planted it." that makes his breath hitch. "my sweet flower girl," he whispers. "blooming for me."

you kiss him. "you said you'd fill me until something stayed." "i meant it." "i know."

he pulls you closer, so gently, like he's scared to press too hard. his hand strokes the soft cotton over your belly. his voice is reverent.

"i'll take care of you both." "you already do," you whisper. "no." he lifts your hand to his lips. "i mean it. from now on, you don't lift a single thing. you don't worry about anything. you don't even think about the flower shop unless it makes you happy. all you do is grow that baby and stay soft for me."

you melt. "i want to buy you a nursery set tomorrow. pink or blue?" "it's too early to tell!" "then both." you laugh, blinking back tears. "you're ridiculous." "i'm in love," he says simply. "and you're carrying my child."

the next few weeks are heaven. aemond spoils you more than ever.

he starts scheduling your doctor's appointments for you, has prenatal vitamins hand-delivered, installs soft carpet in every hallway, and buys a custom cradle hand-carved with dragon wings. he talks to your belly every morning and every night, even though you're not even showing yet.

"be good to her, little dragon," he tells the baby that's blossoming in your womb. "your mama's small and shy, but she's the best thing in the world." you cry constantly. so does he, though he'd never admit it.

he touches your belly like it's made of spun glass, kisses your temple every time you throw up, and starts sleeping with one hand spread protectively over your stomach, murmuring things you barely catch. my flower girl. my sweet wife. you're everything.

one evening, he comes home early. you're curled on the couch in a pale pink dress, a pregnancy book open in your lap, your legs tucked under you.

aemond stares, his eye wide and unblinking. "you're glowing." you giggle. "you say that every day." "because it's true."

he crosses the room in two long strides, kneels between your knees, and lifts your dress without asking. his mouth presses reverently to the barely-there curve of your stomach.

"do you feel anything yet?" he asks. "just butterflies." he smirks. "that's how you make me feel." you giggle softly, breathless and flushed from both your husband and baby hormones.

then his hands slide up your thighs. slow. possessive. warm.

"you still belong to me," he murmurs. "even with our baby inside you." "i always will." he lifts you into his lap and kisses you like it's your wedding night all over again.

the next morning, you go to the flower shop just to smell the gardenias. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you.

"mrs. targaryen? is everything okay?" you beam, hand on your belly. "everything's perfect."

⟢ ─ 𝑣𝑖, epilogue.

over the next couple of weeks, you continue to go back to the flower shop to smell all the flowers that you miss. the girl at the counter blinks when she sees you. "mrs. targaryen!" she chirps, rushing over. "oh my gosh—your skin is glowing. you look like... like you've been kissed by a thousand angels!"

you feel your cheeks heating up furiously. "just one." she giggles and winks. "he must be doing something right."

you pick a single ivory rose and press it to your chest, breathing it in. you feel the faintest flutter inside your belly. nothing strong. just a whisper. like your little one is already waking up with you, like they're reaching toward the scent too.

you surprise aemond with the rose when he gets home. he walks through the door in his dark green suit, drops his briefcase, and goes utterly still when he sees you waiting barefoot in the kitchen, glowing and soft in a pale sundress with the rose tucked behind your ear.

he crosses to you in three strides and kisses you breathless against the counter. "i missed you, sweet girl," he growls into your mouth. "missed your smell. missed your taste."

you whimper when his hands slide down your hips. "i brought you something," you whisper. he lifts his head, breathing heavy. "oh? you did?" shyly, you nod and slip the rose from your hair, placing it gently into his palm. "i smelled it and thought of you."

he holds it like it's made of gold. then he lifts it to his nose, inhales slowly, and something shifts behind his eye. "this," he says, brushing it along your cheek, "is exactly how your skin smells when you're full of me."

you shiver. his hand moves down to your slowly swelling belly, cradling it like a sacred thing. "i want more of you like this," he murmurs. "more mornings where i wake up to find you glowing and needy. more nights with your thighs wrapped around me, your body already soft and warm and ready for me."

you gasp. "aemond−" "you'll give me more," he says softly, with certainty. "won't you?" you can barely nod. "yes, daddy"

you start showing by the second trimester. not much. just a tiny bump peeking through your little sundresses, just enough for aemond to obsess over. he touches it constantly, possessively.

in the car, at the dinner table, in bed with the covers kicked down and your belly bathed in lamplight. he buys you silk nightgowns and insists you wear nothing else. he whispers to the baby like they can already hear him.

you walk through the garden in the evenings, barefoot and glowing, your ankles a little swollen, your heart fuller than it's ever been. aemond picks flowers for your hair and rubs your back with lavender oil when you get tired and looks at you like you're made of holy things.

one night, you cry because the baby kicks for the first time—and aemond falls to his knees to kiss the spot. "atta girl," he tells your belly, cooing. "you let your mama know you're in there, my brilliant girl."

he looks up at you, fierce and soft. "you're doing so good, baby." you whimper. "i love you." "i love both of you," he breathes.

the nursery is ready before you even ask. painted in warm creams and golds, with soft star lights and dragons carved into the crib.

aemond reads to your belly every night—classic literature, bedtime stories, even poetry when you fall asleep against his chest. he starts getting overprotective.

anyone who talks too loud around you? he glares. anyone who stares at your belly too long in the grocery store? he wraps a possessive arm around your waist and glares even harder. you giggle. "you're scaring people, my love." "i should be," he says calmly. "you're mine. both of you are mine."

one evening, he takes you out to dinner. you wear a pale pink maternity dress, soft curls in your hair, your belly round and full beneath the satin. aemond doesn't take his eye off you once.

after dessert, he tucks you into the backseat of the car, leans over you, and cups your belly with both hands. "you are everything, my sweet wife," he says, voice low, reverent. you kiss his jaw. "we're just getting started."

and then he does something he's never done before. he cries. softly. silently. just one tear trailing down his cheek as he presses his forehead to your bump.

"i never thought i could have this," he whispers. "a wife. a child. a life like this." gently, you stroke his hair, cooing. "you deserve it, aemond." he kisses the baby goodnight. then he kisses you.

you go into labor in the early hours of a quiet spring morning. aemond's calm—commanding but gentle, never leaves your side, holds your hand through every excruciating contraction. "you're so strong, sweetheart… the strongest woman i've ever known," he says into your hair. "you're mine. you can do this." and you do.

hours later, flushed and exhausted, you hold the tiny, wriggling, screaming bundle against your chest, sobbing with joy. aemond stands over you, his eye wide and shining.

you place the baby in his arms. and he breaks.

"my girl, my sweet girl," he whispers, a small sob escaping him as he gazes down at his newborn daughter with a loving look in his eye. "you've given me everything." you rest your head on his shoulder, baby pressed between you, and fall asleep to the sound of your husband's heartbeat and your child's soft breathing.

one week later, he brings home pink roses. he finds you in the nursery, rocking slowly with the baby in your arms, hair messy, doe eyes soft with love for the little girl in your arms.

you look up. he stops and stares. the light hits you just right. your body still hasn't gone back to what it was—but he doesn't care.

you're glowing in a different way now. soft. sleepy. motherly. his.

"you've never looked more beautiful," he whispers. you look away, shy and always so sweet. "i'm a mess." "you're perfect." he insists, his tone soft and full of awe.

he walks over, crouches beside your chair, and tucks a rose into your hair. then he kisses you—slow and sweet. you pull back and whisper, "i'd do it all again."

aemond smiles against your lips, his eye lighting up with mischief. "don't worry, baby. we will."

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.