#this is too long but the BOOK is too long

[drchucktingle]

sometimes buds ask’ what is it like to be a neurodivergent artist?’ and this is great summary: the charts can look like this, and at same time people will be endlessly posting on how you are ‘not real’ or ‘a bit’. you can hold bestsellers in slot 1 to 4 and still not be 'serious'

i am ultimately ok with this. i love my trot and would not have it any other way, but i think it is worth investigation. when irony poisoning has seeped into everything, how many times does a neurodivergent person have to say ‘actually this is NOT so bad its good. its just good’

when you are autistic, or queer, or both, how much proof do you need to be considered good art? or good business? what do the charts have to look like for me to be a ‘real’ author? or allowed my face mask at a library association conference? or one person not a group of writers?

im coming up on a decade of writing tinglers soon, and people are still talkin about my ‘serious’ works vs my ‘joke books’ and at every turn, as kindly as i can, i shout from the rooftops: THEY ARE ALL SERIOUS BOOKS. THIS IS NOT A BIT.

but its hard when buds have had ‘the correct way to be a writer. the correct way to be an artist. the COOL way to react to a book that is TOO weird’ pounded into their heads by internet culture. 'kill it with fire' they say. 'i need eye bleach' they say without thinking. a line.

heres the thing, the tide IS turning. theres buckaroos jumping in and saying, ‘I want to be a part of this’ and for that they are being rewarded. the publisher who took me seriously is lookin pretty dang good right now with these charts and these sales. i am honored and moved

over time there will be more buds who shed that irony mask. the tide of sincerity is powerful, and the tide of love is inevitable. it is difficult to stand strong in our uniqueness but it also pays off, and I hope to be a shining example. eventually THE TIMELINE BENDS TO YOU

so this is not a thread to complain. i have been trotting long enough that these things do not really bother me. being made fun of and disparaged as ‘not legit art’ while also being objectively successful at the things im made fun of about is kind of the ocean that i swim in.

no. my point of this is to say THANK YOU to those of you who have been trotting by my side over these years. THANK YOU for proving love to me. im so honored by your support, and you should know that YOU have seen beyond the irony poisoned veil that stops many others. YOU get it.

and to those with their own unique perspective on creation: look what you can do. yes there will likely be a lot of resistance to something different, but there is also a LOT of reward. YOU can trot a new path. YOU can prove love is real, not in MY way, but IN YOUR OWN WAY

anyway thank you for reading buckaroos. thank you for your support. LUCKY DAY comes out next summer and it is probably as FAR OUT and existential as the tingleverse has ever gone. you can preorder it here

[ot3]

like this entire post is so crazy to me why are we taking writing advice from people who admittedly will not read a long paragraph. this person is, according to their bio, a webcomic artist and animator. two formats notoriously different in their pacing and writing from longform prose. why is their opinion about a paragraph being too long something tens of thousands of people are taking seriously. their proposed advice for the 'correct' way to break up a paragraph, if followed, would mean every book in the world had exactly the same rhythm to it. what are you tallllking about. i know i can say whatever i want about them here because im leaving it all in one paragraph that's definitely too long for them to give a shit about. making your paragraphs 'easier to read' is only a universal positive if you think the goal of prose is to be as unobtrusive to the story youre telling as possible. so much writing advice online feels like it comes from people who seem to consider reading something they have to suffer through to get a series of events conveyed to them and not like, the actual medium by which the art is made??

[be4chywritez]

sweet like honey | max verstappen

max verstappen x fem!reader

"you're to sweet for me."

Max doesn't like how nice you are towards him.

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Max isn't sure why he doesn’t like you. You’ve never wronged him, never talked bad about him, or been rude in any way. But for some odd reason, Max hates you.

Maybe it’s the Verstappen genes kicking in, that innate tendency to be an asshole. Or maybe it’s bred into him to keep sweet things like you at a distance. So, you can imagine his shock and horror when he sees you perched on the couch, flipping through a book in his friend’s Italian villa.

Your eyes meet his, and a smile graces your lips. You place the book in your lap, and he watches as your eyes brighten at the sight of him, the same way they might light up at the sight of a pretty flower.

Your small yellow sundress barely covers your upper thighs, and Max can’t help but stare before quickly looking down at his phone, not wanting to be too obvious about his boyish gawking.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice warm and rich like honey, drawing his attention whether he wants it or not.

He hears you, of course, but pretends to focus on his phone. His thumb moves slowly over the screen, though nothing he sees holds his interest. It’s the way you say his name that sticks in his mind, making it impossible to ignore.

“It’s nice to see you,” you continue, your tone sincere as if you mean it more than you should. You settle back into the cushions, your dress slipping a little higher on your thighs, and he catches himself glancing before looking away again.

Max lets out a quiet huff, his eyes still fixed on his phone, but his attention is all on you now. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, almost guarded.

You shift, crossing your legs under you, the air feeling warmer, closer. “A surprise, I guess,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the kind that lingers, soft and effortless.

Max clenches his jaw, forcing himself to look back at his phone. Still, he’s hyper-aware of your presence, of the subtle scent of your perfume lingering in the room. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, even as his chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s afraid to say anything else, and you let the moment settle, content with the quiet between you.

Just then, his best friend Jamie stumbles in, holding a glass of chardonnay. “Maxie,” he coos, squishing Max’s cheeks together, making his lips pucker. Close behind comes your best friend, Mila—Jamie’s girlfriend.

A few others join the group, a mix of Jamie and Mila’s friends, and Max’s brow furrows as he realizes that they’re all couples. He internally groans, watching your eyes flit around like a lost puppy.

“Alright, everyone,” Mila announces with a clap of her hands, “time to head up. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

One by one, the group starts dispersing, grabbing their things and heading upstairs. Max lingers, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but he’s acutely aware of you standing up from the couch, smoothing down the hem of your dress.

You move with an easy grace, slipping past him with a soft, “Goodnight, Max.” There’s no sarcasm, no bite—just genuine kindness that he doesn’t understand. You flash him a small smile before heading toward the stairs.

Max’s jaw tightens as he watches you go. You’re far too calm, far too kind for his liking. It makes him uncomfortable, like you’re holding a mirror up to the way he behaves, forcing him to see the stark contrast between you.

He takes a deep breath, tucking his phone into his pocket, and follows behind the group. The villa is beautiful, the soft glow of the lights casting long shadows across the walls as everyone makes their way to their respective rooms. His room is at the far end of the hall, and as he reaches it, he notices you standing just outside the door next to his.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” you say lightly, your voice warm and soft. You hold your toothbrush and a towel, your yellow sundress replaced by pale pink silky pajamas, and there’s something almost disarming about how comfortable you seem.

Max nods, his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

You don’t push the conversation, only smile again as you step into your room. “Sleep well, Max,” you say over your shoulder, as if you mean it.

He huffs quietly, more out of habit than frustration, and slips into his own room. The door closes with a soft click, and he leans back against it, rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, he stands there, in the silence of the room, staring at nothing in particular. He doesn’t know why your kindness unsettles him so much. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but that’s exactly the problem. You’re too nice. Too understanding. And for some reason, it gets under his skin.

Max changes into a T-shirt and shorts, moving about the room on autopilot. He keeps hearing your voice, soft and sweet, lingering in his thoughts.

Finally, he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, trying to shut everything out. But it’s quiet now—too quiet. And even though you’re just on the other side of the wall, he can’t stop thinking about you.

In the middle of the night, he’s still awake, tossing and turning, when there’s a soft knock on his door. Max sits up, frowning slightly, wondering who it could be at this hour.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads across the room, opening the door just a crack. It’s you, standing there, a little sheepish, your arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… my room's really hot. I think the AC is broken.”

Max blinks, unsure of what to say at first. Part of him wants to tell you to deal with it yourself, but another part of him can’t ignore it.

His eyes linger on you more than he’d admit—your hair sticking to your neck from sweat, your cheeks flushed, and you nibble your lip nervously. Your tank top has ridden up, a sliver of your hip exposed, and Max does everything in his power to push those thoughts away.

“Uh… you could just crack open a window,” he suggests, his voice a bit rough from sleep. He knows the words sound hollow even to him. He doesn’t want you in his space, yet part of him doesn’t want you sweating alone either.

You fidget slightly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I tried, but it didn’t help. I just thought… maybe I could crash in here?” The words hang in the air, hopeful yet tentative.

Max’s heart races at the idea. The prospect of sharing the bed makes his palms sweat. It’s one thing to be in the same room, but sharing a bed? He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he weighs his options.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of something deeper in his tone. The image of you curled up beside him—too close for comfort—sends a shiver down his spine.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” you offer a nervous smile, clearly not wanting to invade his space, so you back away, ducking into your room. He watches you until the door is shut behind you.

Max stands in the doorway, his heart racing as he processes the moment. He’s not sure why he feels such a strong urge to call you back, to insist that it’s okay, but the words remain stuck in his throat. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of irritation and something else—something he’s not ready to name.

As he paces back to his bed, he tries to shake off the lingering image of you standing there, your flushed cheeks and nervous smile. He lies down again, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you’re just a wall away.

A few moments pass before he hears a soft, muffled noise from your room—a sniffle, maybe? It makes his chest tighten at the thought of you crying because you're uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, tossing an arm over his eyes. He’s not going to sleep if he keeps thinking about you like this.

After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, he finally sits up, his decision made. He stands up, his heart pounding in his chest, and makes his way to your door. He raises his hand to knock but hesitates, uncertainty flooding in.

“Why the hell am I doing this?” he mutters, his self-doubt creeping back in. But the thought of you feeling uncomfortable alone is enough to push him through. He knocks softly, the sound barely more than a tap.

“Hey,” you call from inside, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, his voice worse than he intended. “I… just thought maybe you could come back. It’s probably not that hot here.”

There’s a brief silence, and he can imagine the look on your face—surprised and perhaps a little hopeful. “Really?” you ask, and he can’t help the slight smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The door swings open, revealing you still in your silk-clad pajamas. He rips his gaze away, feeling a tightness in his throat. He doesn't utter a word, just turns around, walking to his room. He can hear your feet padding behind him, and you close the door behind the both of you.

Max keeps his back to you as you quietly follow him into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The air feels heavier now, thick with unspoken tension as you stand there in the dim light, waiting for him to say something. But Max doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight for the bed, pulling back the covers on one side, his movements stiff and a little too deliberate.

“You can take the right side,” he mutters, not looking at you, as he slides under the covers on the left. His heart is pounding, though he tries to act like everything is fine.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to thank him or just keep quiet. Deciding not to push it, you simply nod, even though he isn’t looking at you. You cross the room and slip into the bed beside him, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he can feel the same tension thrumming between you that you do. The bed feels impossibly small now, the space between you a thin sliver of air that crackles with awkwardness.

You lie still, facing away from him, but you can feel his presence—so close and yet so distant. The sound of his steady breathing fills the room, and you wonder if he’s doing the same as you, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep.

Minutes stretch on, and the silence between you is deafening. Every creak of the bed, every shift in the sheets seems louder in the stillness of the night. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice so soft it barely breaks the silence. You don’t expect a reply, and for a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your own breathing.

Then, finally, Max shifts slightly beside you. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough, but there’s something different in it now. Something that isn’t as cold as before.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Maybe he isn’t as indifferent as he wants you to think. You curl up a little more, trying to make yourself comfortable, even as the tension lingers in the air between you.

As the night drags on, you begin to drift in and out of sleep. The heat from the earlier part of the night is gone now, replaced by a cooler breeze that drifts in through the open window. The sheets are soft, and for the first time since you entered Max’s room, you start to relax.

Just as you’re on the edge of sleep, you feel something shift again. Max turns slightly, the mattress dipping as he moves closer—just barely, but enough for you to notice. His arm brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin sends a small jolt through you.

You stay perfectly still, wondering if he did it on purpose or if he’s just restless. Either way, you don’t move, afraid to disturb the delicate balance between you.

Your mind races—what if you roll over onto him in your sleep? What if you start snoring?—and the nerves bubble up, spilling out before you can stop yourself.

“So… I haven’t slept in a guy’s bed in ages,” you blurt out, staring at the ceiling. Max barely reacts, his only acknowledgment a low, noncommittal “Mhm,” but it doesn’t stop you from talking.

“Yeah, it’s been, like… a long time. I’m more of a 'sleep with a thousand pillows' kind of person, you know? Gotta have the right setup.” You laugh a little, mostly to yourself, feeling the need to fill the quiet. Max doesn’t respond, but you keep going, too nervous to stop. “Oh, and I’m really bad with directions, like, I get lost in grocery stores. Once, I ended up in the freezer aisle for thirty minutes just trying to find the cereal.”

“Mhm.”

His replies are half-hearted at best, but you don’t mind. If anything, the sound of his quiet indifference weirdly helps soothe your nerves.

“Oh! And I can’t swim,” you say with a laugh, thinking it’s just another random fact to throw out there. But this time, Max’s head snaps toward you.

“You came to the amalfi coast, and you can’t swim?” he asks, his voice sharper than before, with a hint of amusement. His eyes narrow slightly, and you can’t help but grin.

“Yeah,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Figured I’d just, you know… stay on the shore.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” you say, laughing softly, your nerves easing a bit. “But I’m good at other things. Like… did you know I can recite the entire script of Finding Nemo? Well, mostly.”

Max rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Great skill.”

You keep talking, the words flowing easier now. Your voice fills the room, soft and rhythmic, and even though Max doesn’t say much, you can feel the tension in the air start to shift. His body relaxes slightly, the space between you feeling a little less awkward.

“And another thing, I’m a terrible cook. Burnt spaghetti once. Didn’t even think that was possible. It’s water and noodles, right?” You laugh again, and this time Max lets out a quiet huff—almost like a chuckle, though he’d never admit it.

Your voice is like a steady hum, lulling the room into a gentle calm. You talk about everything and nothing, the words spilling out in a quiet stream. Max listens, his responses becoming softer, almost inaudible, but it doesn’t matter. His breathing slows, his eyes fluttering shut as your voice washes over him.

You don’t notice when he finally drifts off, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. But somehow, you feel it—the way the energy in the room has shifted, his earlier sharpness melted away into something softer, more relaxed.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You stir first, the warmth of the bed enveloping you, your body reluctant to wake. For a moment, you forget where you are, and then it hits you—Max’s bed, Max’s room. You blink your eyes open slowly, turning your head slightly to see him still there, asleep.

He’s lying on his back now, the sheets tangled around his waist, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. His face is serene, the harsh lines you’ve come to associate with him softened by sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, something so different from the hard-edged man who usually glares at you.

You feel a strange flutter in your chest as you look at him, this version of Max—unguarded, vulnerable. It’s a side of him you never thought you’d see, and it’s almost too intimate, too close. You shift a little, trying not to make any noise, but the bed creaks softly under your weight.

Max stirs, his brows furrowing slightly as he slowly wakes up. His eyes open halfway, still hazy with sleep, and for a brief moment, he looks at you without the usual edge in his gaze. It’s like he’s forgotten for a second who you are, where he is.

Then, reality seems to settle back in, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly, though there’s no real malice there. Just a kind of gruff annoyance.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, his voice rough and low, thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply softly, offering a tentative smile.

He shifts, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sheet falling further down his waist, revealing more of his toned torso. You can’t help but glance, quickly averting your eyes when you realize you’re staring.

Max runs a hand through his messy hair, yawning as he glances at you. “You talk a lot in your sleep too, or is that just when you’re awake?” he asks, a hint of that familiar sarcasm creeping back into his tone, though there’s no real bite behind it.

You chuckle lightly, relaxing a little. “Only when I’m awake, I promise.”

He grunts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence between you less awkward than you would’ve expected. It’s almost… comfortable.

Max stretches, his muscles flexing slightly as he does, and you try not to let your eyes linger too long. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, and you’re grateful when he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “how’d you sleep?”

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, almost begrudgingly, “Didn’t mind all the talking.”

Your heart skips a beat at that, the small admission catching you off guard. You smile, warmth spreading through you. “Glad to know I didn’t annoy you too much.”

Max doesn’t respond, just grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks the time. But you catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he turns away.

He stands, pulling on a shirt and running a hand through his hair again before heading toward the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast soon,” he mutters. “Don’t take too long.”

He steps out before poking his head back in his face serious, “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says gesturing a finger around towards you and him, right asshole Max is alive and well.

“Right.” you deflate, but none the less walk to your room. You notice the AC now works. 

The warmth of the Italian sun is already starting to filter in through your window as you slip into your pale yellow babydoll dress. The soft fabric feels light against your skin, perfect for the warm weather and the laid-back vibes of the villa.

When you finally make your way downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries fills the air, and you can hear the familiar hum of laughter and chatter. The villa’s terrace is bathed in sunlight, with everyone seated around the large outdoor table, enjoying breakfast. 

Max is already seated, of course, his usual stoic expression in place. He’s leaning back in his chair, sunglasses on, making it impossible to tell if he’s even noticed you. 

An array of colorful fruits and pastries litters the table, couples chatting and laughing as you offer everyone a warm smile while taking a seat next to Mila, who returns the gesture. “How was the room, darling?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. You can feel a pair of laser beams on your face, as if Max is staring into your soul.

“Oh, it was truly nice,” you reply, feeling the tips of your ears heat up with nerves. Mila seems to buy it and turns to address the entire group.

“So, guys, today we’re going to take the yacht around,” she announces, eliciting a few excited hoots from your friends. Your stomach tightens at the thought of being stuck on a yacht, but you brush the anxiety aside.

As the chatter around the breakfast table grows, the knot in your stomach tightens at the mention of the yacht. You toy with the edge of your napkin, trying to suppress the wave of nerves that accompanies the idea of being out on the water, especially since you can’t swim.

Max, still leaning back in his chair, tilts his head slightly in your direction, as if he senses the unease radiating off you. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you swear you can feel his gaze tracing over you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you can almost hear his voice echoing in your mind: “You came to the Amalfi Coast, and you can’t swim?”

You swallow hard, forcing a smile as you join in on the group's excitement, even though the thought of being surrounded by water sends a shiver down your spine. Mila stands, gathering everyone’s attention, and starts guiding the group toward the dock.

The villa’s outdoor space spills into a sprawling garden, leading to a private path that takes you to where the yacht is docked. The sunlight glints off the water, almost blinding in its brightness, as you walk with the others toward the sleek, luxurious yacht. Everyone seems thrilled—laughing and talking about the views they’ll see—while you stay quieter than usual, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves.

You tug at the sleeves of your oversized polo, the fabric bunching slightly in your grip as you focus on steadying your breath. The path to the dock feels longer than it actually is, the sounds of the group’s lively chatter fading into the background. You glance at the shimmering blue water ahead and bite the inside of your cheek.

Max lingers just a few steps behind, and you can feel the weight of his presence even without looking. His footsteps are slow and deliberate, as if he’s watching you closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. You try not to dwell on it, though the image of him smirking at your fear lingers in the back of your mind.

As the group finally boards the yacht, you become hyper-aware of the water surrounding you. The boat rocks gently as everyone gets settled, and you grip the railing tightly, trying to hide your discomfort. Max watches you for a moment before walking past you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“Relax,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you, but there’s something almost reassuring in his tone. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to take a seat with the others, letting the warmth of the sun and the sound of conversation distract you from the vast ocean around you.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you try to focus on the scenery. The Amalfi Coast is breathtaking—cliffs draped in greenery, colorful villas dotting the shoreline, and the ocean sparkling beneath the golden sunlight. Everyone around you laughs and soaks up the beauty of the day, but your hands remain clenched in your lap, your mind preoccupied with the endless expanse of water.

Despite your nervousness, you find yourself stealing glances at Max. He’s sitting at the back of the yacht, one arm draped casually over the side, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he stares out at the water. He looks so at ease, completely unaffected by the swaying of the boat or the openness of the sea.

The breeze picks up, ruffling your hair, and as you turn your attention back to the group, you feel the yacht slow down. Mila claps her hands, announcing that they’ve anchored near a beautiful cove, perfect for swimming.

Your stomach drops.

Everyone begins shedding layers, excitement buzzing through the group as they prepare to jump into the water. You stay seated, gripping the edge of your chair as they leap overboard, laughter echoing around you.

Max stands, pulling off his shirt and revealing the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Your eyes linger for a moment longer than you intend. He catches your gaze just before he moves toward the edge of the yacht, that same smirk playing on his lips.

“You coming in?” he asks, his voice low, almost challenging.

You shake your head quickly, offering a small laugh. “No, I think I’ll just… stay here and enjoy the sun.”

Max arches an eyebrow, clearly not buying your excuse, but he doesn’t push it. He gives you one last look, his smirk still in place, before diving effortlessly into the water.

You watch as your friends giggle and enjoy themselves. Mila waves up at you, and you give her a fake salute. She giggles and goes back to swimming. A few minutes later, several members of the group come up to take a break, Max among them. You hate to admit it, but you watch the water droplets roll off him, his cheeks flushed from the sun, and a tight feeling blooms in your core as you force yourself to look away.

The group is lively, and at one point, Jamie, always the instigator, starts playfully shoving friends toward the edge of the boat, teasing and laughing. You stand at the back, watching, hoping to stay out of the chaos.

But in a moment of playful exuberance, Jamie swings his arm and accidentally nudges you forward. Time seems to slow as you lose your balance, and before you can even process what’s happening, you tumble over the side of the yacht. The water crashes around you, and as you hit the surface, the cold rush envelops you, sending panic gripping your chest. Instinctively, you kick your legs, but the water pulls you under, and you flail in confusion. The world above disappears, and the muffled sounds of laughter and splashing fade into silence.

Just as you start to lose hope, a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back to the surface. You gasp for air, blinking the water from your eyes, and find yourself face-to-face with Max. His expression is intense, irritation etched on his features.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, though his grip is steady and reassuring as he keeps you afloat.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, trying to shake off the fear. “I didn’t want to go in!” you manage to sputter, still clinging to him for dear life.

Max rolls his eyes, the frown returning, though it’s softer this time. “You need to stop thrashing around,” he says, his voice lower now.

As he helps you back onto the yacht, the warmth of the sun hits your damp skin once more. Laughter and cheers erupt from the group as they realize you’re okay, but Max’s presence is the only thing that matters to you in this moment. He doesn’t say anything; his expression remains unreadable as he sets you down.

You catch your breath, water dripping from your hair and running down your arms. “Thanks, Max,” you say, trying to brush off the embarrassment. His usual smirk is absent, and for a split second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he cares.

But as soon as you’re on the boat, he steps back, leaving you with the others. “Try not to drown next time,” he says, his tone flat as he pulls his shirt back on, the fabric clinging to his damp skin. It feels more like a reflex than a genuine jab, but you let it slide, laughing it off. “I’ll try my best.”

He turns away, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. You shake your head, trying to focus on the laughter around you as Jamie and Mila check to make sure you’re okay. “Really, I’m fine,” you assure them, even as your heart races from the close call.

Just like that, everyone goes back to normal. Lunch is served, and as the yacht heads back to the dock under the fading light, you’re the first one off, eager to touch solid ground once more. You don’t bid anyone goodnight; you’re all too tired for that. You head upstairs to your room, closing the door behind you and shrugging off your damp polo and swimsuit. You hop in the shower, rinsing the salt water off your skin.

After your shower, the soft sound of knocking pulls you from your thoughts. You wrap yourself in a towel and open the door to find Mila standing there, concern etched across her features.

“Hey, just wanted to check on you,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes scan your face, searching for any signs of distress. “That fall looked pretty rough.”

You chuckle softly, waving it off. “I’m fine, really. Just a little embarrassed.”

Mila raises an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “You sure it’s not because of Max? I saw the way he pulled you out of the water. It looked pretty… intimate.”

The mention of Max sends a warmth flooding through you, one that you quickly dismiss. “Oh, please. He was just being a jerk, as usual.”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “Or maybe he just likes the attention.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, but a small part of you can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it. “He’s just… Max. You know how he is.”

Mila studies you for a moment, trying to read between the lines. “Well, just think about it. He’s not always the way he acts, you know?”

With that, she leaves, and you find yourself lost in thought, her words echoing in your mind. What if Max really did care?

Later that night, curiosity gets the better of you. You stand in front of Max’s door, your heart racing as you knock softly.

“Come in,” he calls, and you push the door open cautiously. He’s lounging on his bed, scrolling through his phone, and for a moment, you’re struck by how at home he looks.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft. “I just wanted to thank you… for earlier.”

Max looks up, a flicker of something in his gaze before he masks it with indifference. “You mean for saving your ass?” he quips, his smirk returning. “Don’t mention it.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “You know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

His expression shifts, annoyance flickering across his features. “What do you want me to do? Throw you a parade for not drowning?”

“Maybe just a little acknowledgment would be nice,” you counter, crossing your arms defensively.

He stands, taking a step closer, and the air between you crackles with tension. “I don’t like how sweet you are,” he says, his tone sharp. “It’s annoying.”

“Annoying?” you challenge, feeling a rush of defiance. “Is that really all you’ve got? Because it sounds like you’re just scared of someone actually caring.”

Max’s eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might snap back. But instead, he steps even closer, invading your personal space. “You think you’re so great, don’t you? All sunshine and rainbows, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Before you can respond, he closes the distance, and suddenly, his lips are on yours—fervent and demanding. His warmth envelops you, slightly chapped against your own, igniting a spark that sends a thrill coursing through your entire body. You’re caught off guard at first, but your instincts take over, and you melt into the kiss, feeling his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer.

As the kiss deepens, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He presses you against the door, his body firm and solid against yours, radiating heat that makes your pulse quicken. The kiss is intoxicating; every second stretches into eternity—his lips moving against yours in a dance that feels both wild and tender.

When you finally pull away, breathless, your heart races as you search his eyes. “Wait… Max—”

He leans in again, his breath mingling with yours, heavy with longing. “You taste sweet,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, a smirk tugging at his lips.

A rush of warmth floods your cheeks at his words. “Is that all you have to say?” you tease, a smile breaking through your fluster.

Max steps back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he watches you intently. “What do you want me to say? That I’m an asshole who can’t help but want you?”

The air between you buzzes with unspoken tension—a mix of frustration and attraction. You feel exhilarated yet confused, unable to ignore the thrill of being this close to him, the chemistry crackling like electricity.

“Maybe you could start by admitting you actually care,” you challenge softly, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Maybe,” he replies, a hint of seriousness in his tone before leaning in again, capturing your lips with his. This time, it’s even more intense; his hands grip your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he can’t get enough of you.

But as the moment stretches on, you pull back slightly, breathless. “Max—”

He leans in again, and you find yourself needing to physically stop him, your hands resting on his chest. “Wait, we can’t just—”

“Why not?” he presses, his voice low and needy, his eyes dark with desire. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

You’re both panting, caught in an electric moment. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” you say, a smile creeping onto your lips despite the chaos swirling around you.

Max smirks, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, but you like it.” He crashes his lips against yours once more, and as he pulls away, he runs his tongue along his lower lip, a boyish smirk breaking through. “Sweet like honey,” he teases, prompting you to laugh and tilt your head back. Without thinking, you pull him down by his shirt collar, kissing him again, lost in the moment.

[ariestrxsh]

🖤 content warning: 🖤 smut, heavy step sibling kink, brutal face fucking, breath play, dacryphilia, degradation, humiliation, light praise, roughdom!stepbro!chris, bratty!stepsis!reader

🖤 author's note: 🖤 this is not incest!!! the characters are step siblings. i'm aware that it's still morally grey for some people. totally get it. if you don't like the concept, don't read it bc it will literally be impossible for you to forget they're step siblings. 😭 i just need rough dom stepbro chris more than i need air in my lungs. (this joke will be even funnier to you after you read this fic if you do.) and last thing: sorry x100 for writing this lmao. and a super big sorry to anyone who's on my taglist who didn't wanna read this.

🖤 summary: 🖤 after arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes, you and your step-brother chris decide to have a breath-holding contest, but there's only one way chris can be sure that you're playing fair.

holdyourbreath

"So, are you going to do the dishes before my dad and your mom get home?" Your eyes darted up at Chris, your disgusting new step brother, from across the room while you were curled up on the living room floor next to the dim lamp with a warm blanket and a good book.

"Are you fuckin' with me, kid? I thought it was your turn to do the dishes," Chris replied smugly, glaring at you from his gaming chair as he sat in front of the TV, mindlessly playing some dumb Modern Warfare whatever number they're on now.

"I did them last night," you responded defensively, your voice becoming shrill. "Yeah, and I did them two nights in a row before that. What's the big deal?" Chris snapped back, rolling his eyes at how whiny you were.

You resented how hard-headed he was, especially because you were hard-headed, and there was only room for one stubborn person in this house.

His mom had met your dad about six months prior and three months into knowing each other, they eloped, and now you were stuck living under someone else's roof with an obnoxious, gross, smug step brother who never carried his weight around the place and made everything everyone else's problem.

You weren't the type of person to use the word hate lightly, but you hated Chris.

"Chris, can you please just do the dishes? I'm busy. I'm right about to reach the climax in this book," you responded in an agitated and slightly desperate tone. "Well, I'm busy, too. I'm about to go climax after this game," Chris chuckled at your word choice.

"Ugh, you're disgusting!" You slammed your book shut, shooting him a look of contempt. "Sorry, princess. Did I ruin your climax?" Chris smirked, motioning towards your book and biting his lip.

You almost got up and just did the dishes yourself, because you knew they needed to be done, and despite how much you didn't want it to be true, Chris was perhaps, even more hard-headed than you, but you had an idea.

"Let's settle this like adults. Breath holding contest. Whoever holds their breath the longest doesn't have to do the dishes tonight," you suggested, and Chris gave you a look like you'd given him an offer he couldn't refuse.

You and Chris were both competitive, and contests were often the only effective way to settle arguments between the two of you. Sometimes it would be rock, paper, scissors. Or a staring contest. Or a one-on-one game of basketball. Anything you guys could turn into a competition really.

"Deal," Chris confidently responded, pausing his game and spinning around in his chair until he was facing you. "Okay, on the count of three," you said, setting a stopwatch on your phone, and the two of you both took in a deep inhale before holding your breath as long as you could.

You and Chris stared directly at each other, giving each other dirty looks and sizing each other up, both trying to gain dominance over the other. You didn't really care to stay true to the game and play fair. When you started running out of air, you slowly exhaled through your nose, cycling your breath and hoping Chris wouldn't catch on.

You couldn't let that smug bastard win. After all, it was his turn to do the dishes, and your book was way more important than his stupid video games.

After the stopwatch hit a minute and a forty-five seconds, Chris' face was turning a bit red. He pinched his eyebrows together and scrunched his nose at you in a look of displeasure, and after about fifteen more seconds of this, Chris let out a long, angry exhale. "Fuck you, you're cheating!" He accused you.

"I am not!" You snarked back, but the way your voice naturally raised an octave or two had even you unconvinced of your own lie. "Bitch, you didn't even breathe out before you said that. And you don't look or sound out of breath at all," Chris replied, narrowing his eyes at you and clenching his jaw.

"I wasn't cheating," you said, avoiding eye contact. "You were, and I can prove it," Chris licked his lips maliciously and grinned at you. "You can prove it?" You said in a skeptical tone, testing him. Chris stood up, slowly sauntered over to you while you were still sitting on the ground.

He peered down at you with a darkness in his eyes as he started unfastening his belt and unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. "What the fuck are you doing?" You asked, glaring up at him, but your eyes fell and widened when he pulled out his big, juicy dick. It was already hard and the tip was swollen and shiny with a layer of precum.

Conveniently for Chris, your jaw dropped as you studied the way his veins webbed out across the backside of his shaft, and he took this opportunity to grab onto the back of your head and shove his throbbing cock into your gaping mouth. He let out a satisfied exhale and his eyes gently rolled back as he relished in the wet warmth you provided for him.

He held your head in place and forced every inch down your throat until you could feel the hem of his shirt tickling your nose. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone, and he opened the stopwatch function on it. He then placed it into your trembling hand.

"You're gonna hold this for me, you fucking cunt. You're gonna hold it up so I can see it, and we're gonna count together how long you can hold your breath, yeah?" Chris said through gritted teeth before hitting the start button.

Chris' left hand was still tangled in your hair, and with his right hand, he pinched your nose closed between his thumb and pointer finger. "Be a good girl and hold your breath for me," he whispered to you, admiring the way your soft, pretty lips looked keeping his cock warm for him.

"Come on, princess. It's only been fifteen seconds. I know you can keep going since you're so good at holding your breath, right?" He taunted you as he peered down at the tears forming in your eyes.

"Like having your step brother's dick in your mouth? I bet you do. Didn't even put up a fight or nothin', you just let me stick it in," Chris spoke to you in a low, dominant voice that immediately had your pussy drooling for him. "Thirty seconds," Chris relayed, his eyes bouncing back and forth between your pretty little mouth and the stopwatch.

"Fuck, it's so nice to have some peace and quiet around here for once. No bitchin', no complainin', no whinin'. Just the sweet sound of you gagging on me," Chris moaned, gently rocking his hips back and forth and relishing in the soft choking noises that came from you, his belt buckle softly clanking against itself.

"See? Now that's what it looks like when you're actually holding your breath. Forty-five seconds," Chris smirked down at you, noting how red your face was getting from lack of air.

He started to fuck your face a little rougher, still cutting off your oxygen flow, the sound of the metal on his belt getting louder. You could feel his tip grazing that spot at the back of your throat, tickling your gag reflex. You could feel his pretty veins with your tongue as it rested on the backside of his length.

"You like having your mouth used by your step brother? I bet you like when I remind you what I am to you, huh? Does it make you wet? How wrong it is?" Chris teased you, thrusting back and forth, his eyes rolling back into his head as several animalistic moans left his mouth.

You didn't want to admit it, but Chris was right. There was something about it that was so taboo that you couldn't help but soak your panties while Chris used you however he wanted. "One minute. You already look like you need air, princess," Chris taunted you, his jaw slacking as he looked down at the tears rolling down your cheeks. "So pretty when you cry for me," he let out a breathy moan while he threw his head back.

Your heart started pounding in you ears, your palms were sweating, and your eyes felt like they were going to bulge out of your head. You did secretly love choking on your step brother's gorgeous cock, but you really couldn't breathe, and you didn't have the lung capacity for this.

You took your free hand, made a fist with it and started pounding on Chris' thigh to let him know you'd had enough. "Admit you lied and that you like this, and I'll let you breathe," Chris cooed, peering down at you and how desperately you gazed up at him.

You were too prideful. Surely, he'd have to let go of your nose regardless of whether you admitted to it or not, right? You pounded on his thigh again.

"All you have to do, princess, is nod your head when I ask you these next few questions, and I'll let go," Chris said to you slowly as if you were dumb. "Did you cheat during our contest and then lie about it?" He inquired, staring down at your makeup streaking down your cheeks. You couldn't take it any longer. You nodded.

"Good answer. Now does it make you wet? How wrong it is to have your step brother's dick in your pretty little mouth?" He asked in a soft, sweet tone, which didn't match the vile words pouring from his pouty lips. Humiliation welled in you, and you looked up at your step brother in shame as you hesitantly nodded your head.

"That's what I thought," Chris whispered, finally letting go of your nose and pulling his meat out of your throat, eliciting several loud gasping and coughing sounds from you before you started violently panting, desperately trying to catch your breath.

"Fuck, I can't believe you liked that. You're so fucked up," Chris whispered, winking down at you and smiling, knowing he liked it just as much. "You know, while I have you here, I may as well have you finish the job, hmm?" He suggested, searching your face for a reaction.

Desperation filled your eyes while you gazed up at him and slowly nodded. You hated the way he had you submitting to him, and so easily, too, but you couldn't help the way it turned you on to think about your step brother busting all over your tongue.

He grabbed the back of your head again and made his cock vanish behind your lips once more. He gripped onto your hair tightly, controlling your movements and causing your mouth to jounce on his meat. His hips began involuntarily thrusting back and forth while he enjoyed the way you graciously took every inch like you were starving for it.

Your tongue danced around on the underside of his shaft, supplementing the sensations he was already giving into. The way you stared up at him with your lips embracing all his sensitive nerve endings made him melt in your mouth, and his eyes started to glaze over. You could tell he was getting close.

"Fuck, you're such a good step sister. Takin' me so fuckin' well," he whispered in a sultry voice, contemptuously smiling at you. You couldn't believe how much you were looking forward to making Chris finish on your tastebuds, and you felt repulsed with yourself for getting so wet at his words. No matter how much you tried to remind yourself what a disgusting, selfish jerk he was, your pussy was drooling for him.

"What would your daddy think if he knew his little princess were choking on my dick right now while he finishes up at work?" Chris seductictively teased you, feeding your humiliation kink.

You didn't need to use your words to tell Chris how much you liked everything he was saying to you. He could tell by the desperate glint in your eye that lingered as he degraded you.

"Want your step brother to cum on your pretty little tongue?" Chris cooed, his movements becoming more jagged and messy as he fucked your mouth. "You gotta beg for it, princess, or else I won't give it to ya," he snarked back, his lips curling into a devilish grin.

You peered up at him in silence. Of course you wanted to taste his seed as it poured from his tip, but you wanted him to beg you to let him cum, not the other way around.

He roughly pulled you off his cock and leaned down so that his face was only a few inches from yours. "I said beg," he rasped. Fuck, you thought when you realized you'd already lost the power struggle the second you cheated during the breath-holding contest.

Chris wasn't the type to let things go, and he didn't care about cumming if you weren't going to beg him. He'd leave himself unfinished just to spite you. "Please, Chris.." you softly whined while you were on your knees peering up at him, longingly. "Please what?" He inquired, needing to hear you say it.

"Please. I want you to fill up my mouth," you quietly admitted. "Good girl. Say it again. Beg harder," he lustfully stared down at you, hanging onto your every last word, but you thought you'd try one more time to flip the dynamic on him.

"Be a good boy and cum for me," your lips curled into a smug smile, but Chris wasn't the least bit amused. "That's not how this works. You are not domming me right now, fucking bitch," Chris said, taking your hair into his tight grasp again and shaking you around like a doll. "I fucking said beg. And if you misbehave one more time, I'll never let you suck my cock again," he threatened. You hated how effective this was.

"No, no, no. Please. I'm sorry. Please finish on my tongue. Please. I'm dying for it. I need your cum flooding my mouth until it's overflowing. I'd do anything for it," you whined, giving Chris exactly what he wanted.

"Fuck. So easy. Such a good girl for me. How could I not reward such pretty words?" Chris cooed, making his wand disappear behind your pretty lips again like some kind of deranged magic trick.

He rocked his hips back and forth, triggering your gag reflex some more and relishing in the lovely sound of you choking on him. His moans became deeper and more urgent as you took him so well. "Good girl. Get ready for me, princess. I'm so close," Chris breathlessly called out, violently fucking your face while he manipulated the movement of your head, still holding your hair in his tight grip.

His guttural moans echoed throughout the house as his dick throbbed against your lips, emitting a hot, thick, sticky substance onto your eager tongue while he pumped back and forth, savoring every last bit of pleasure. "Good girl. Swallow," he commanded you, smiling down at the way you obediently listened.

"Fuck," he whispered when he was done using your pretty little back-talking mouth. As he tucked his satisfied cock back into his pants, he wiped away a tear that was running down you cheek and softly said, "Now those dishes aren't going to wash themselves, princess."

taglist: @weirdratperson @bsturnzmtt @sturniolo-girl @munchingmini @butterbean-01 @coolasice01 @theyluvme-2315 @zariyam @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @mattsfavbigtitties @new2024cats4life @witchofthehour @slutforsturniolosss @sturniolosweetheart33 @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @luvhsien @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @karttpet @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @slxtformatt @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00 @sweetlikesug4rvenom @m11rx @sturniolocharms @mickelodeon-2003 @sigmarizzler1 @chrislova

[stagefoureddiediaz]

The Helena diaz of it all has me fascinated. I’ve said for a long while that Eddie’s real issues are his mommy issues and this episode just cemented for me that we’re gonna explore that and deal with it.

Because it’s Helena who forced Eddie to grow up to fast - because her husband wasn’t around much - so she pushed Eddie into de facto parent and husband role ls - selfishly filling her needs and ignoring the damage it was doing to her son (it is a form of abuse in my book).

Eddie then had the audacity to fall in love with and marry Shannon and get her pregnant. It’s why Helena was always so off with Shannon - she was punishing her. She is also punishing Eddie for all of this and his refusal to return to El Paso only cemented further her bitterness and resentment.

Now she does have Ramon back she doesn’t need Eddie any longer to fill that role so she is still punishing him and part of that is tied into her glee over now getting to parent Christopher - something she has always been intent on doing the doppelgänger just gave her the opportunity- as well as allowing her to further punish her son and his love of Shannon.

Her barbed comments about building a pool were all about showing what she can provide Christopher - how she is parenting him better than Eddie - it’s part of her mind games - making Eddie feel like more of a failure as a parent to his son.

The reality of course is that the reverse is true - Helena’s parenting is all superficial, flash and showy - it isn’t the hard day to day parenting when things get tough and you have to be the bad guy. While Eddie has made mistakes, there is nothing superficial, flash, or showy about his parenting. It’s why bucks comments about Eddie being a great dad are so important.

Eddie feel like a failure right now and that he is entirely to blame for everything. But in reality, while he does bear a bit of the responsibility, the truth of the matter is that he needs to learn and deal with the fact that all of it actually stems from Helena and her abuse of her young son - Shannon never stood a chance just like Eddie never has.

[blamemma]

jameskirkham: I know you probably hate all of these posts @.danielricciardo, but it’s too bad. It’s time to celebrate ya! You’ve worn the crown for a long time now and have led the way and given opportunity to so many of us, and we know it ain’t been easy. Looking back through my camera roll with a smile almost as big as yours. From life changing weeks in Vegas, to riding bikes in Amsterdam then you predicting to me in the lobby of your hotel that you were going to win Monza, then doing it! It’s been a freakin ride man. Thank you. Thank you for being you, for giving so much, for being so resilient under pressure and facing challenges with such Grace (and Joe ;-)), for all the last second paddock passes, for being a great sport in all the weird scenarios we’ve asked you to do over the years, entertaining all my positivity bullshit after tough races and most of all for making the whole damned world drink from their shoes and smile more. We all need to take a page out of the DR book. Congratulations on a phenomenal F1 career, and now an ENTIRE UNIVERSE of possibility. You now literally get to do ANYTHING in the world you want, including go back racing should you so desire 😀. You sure you don’t want to do some endurance racing?? lol

[fandomxo00]

Ok but imagine:

Having a family with worst!Logan

You held your newborn in your arms as you glanced around the room with a full feeling in your heart. You never thought that was going to be your reality, you thought that your long-standing crush on the wolverine died with him. Back then you were just too young for him, still much younger than your now husband. The two of you are closer in age, though it didn’t really matter. You would’ve loved Logan in every universe. This Logan was rougher around the edges, he claimed he was no hero, but in your book he was. He swooped in loving you unconditionally, without even trying or thinking he changed for you. But he never felt more like himself in your arms, with your two-year-old toddler in his lap while he sat at the dinner table with his found family.

As much as Wade got on Logan's nerves, he had given him a whole lot. You'd found Wade after years of being alone, having a run in with X-Men, where you had to flee. Deadpool was working with them at the time and wound up quitting that time because he wanted to besties with you. You found him ridiculously annoying, but he found you annoying too, the perfect pair of friends who annoyed the shit out of each other. You'd gotten on Logan's nerves as well but you grew on him in a different way than Wade had. He couldn't help but fall in love with you, giving in to you even though you were much younger than him. Logan knew about your past with this universes' Logan but he didn't care. After all the time you've had together, he knew your feeling for him were genuine.

Logan never thought he would have one kid, let alone three, four if you counted Wade. Though Laura was an adult now, she stayed at the flat once in a while to help out with your son, James. She was staying with you again when you gave birth to Anna. She was an amazing big sister, bonding with her father and you. Getting the family she had always wanted, even if it had taken awhile. Laura knew it wasn't because no one wanted to love her, they just didn't know where she was. Logan tried his best with her, having difficulty trying to be a good guy for her. Both you and Laura held him to a high standard, something you'd assume James would do to. Because even with Logan's faults, you could tell he was a good man from the second you met him.

Laura could tell the same thing, even when she was a little girl. Even though his grumpy, dickhead facade he cared deeply about others. It was funny, it was like more you frustrated or drove him crazy, the more he cared about you. Laura was wildly impulsive, something that Logan has had to bail her out of several times. He'd always show up with a stone-walled face, angry as shit, deadly silent before getting back to the house. Logan would ask her to explain, hearing her out before saying his peace.

With you it was different, the two of you bickered so much when you first met. But it was only because you wanted to get close with him, and he wanted to push you far far away. Logan already knew the risk of you having feelings for him if you had feelings for a different version of him. Your feelings for the worst Logan couldn't match the crush you had on the previous. Sure you were in love with him back then, but you couldn't have him. He didn't want you. This Logan did, he let you know how he felt even when he didn't want to. Logan only acted like he didn't want you even though he was yearning. Dreaming about you and thinking about you all the time. To a point that he could no longer resist you, giving in and loving you with all of him.

You gave him everything back, the two of you getting married and getting pregnant. Logan settling down and getting a job at the local lumber factory. Sometimes Logan didn't feel like the life he was living was real. But then you would touch him, seeing his ring on your finger, or when his son would speak to him, now the newest reminder in the form of his youngest daughter. He remembered his Rogue, a girl he'd protect over anything, naming his daughter after her. You were the one naming their son, James.

Logan held your toddler in his arms (instead of dogpool 😭), the boy playing his little action figures of the x-men. You gazed at your son, with the hair brown hair that stuck up, his hair almost mocking his fathers. Your daughter was nestled up to your chest, a binky in your mouth a small little furrow in her brow that reminded you of Logan's. You had a baby blanket made by Wade that she was wrapped in, her fresh baby smell filled your senses, comforting you. You've let others hold her for a little bit but your attached to her, having a c-section this time around. She was in the nicu for a short time, and you were feeling some postpartum depression after you got home. Being in an extreme amount of pain along with having a newborn and a toddler.

Your marriage had definitely been tested, Logan getting frustrated but coming through for you. Holding you through the pain and the fights the two of you had. It's been about a couple months, Anna seemed to grow every single day. You loved seeing your husband holding her, she was so tiny in his big arms. But she already looked so much like him, it warmed your heart. Logan was such a good father, his super hearing would aide him in taking care of the kids at night. His insomnia perfect for fatherhood and for you, taking care of you and then going to work in the morning. He worked so hard for your father, pushing himself and worrying himself silly.

Eventually forcing him to go to couple's therapy with you. The two of you growing closer as you opened up about things you usually wouldn't. Logan telling you more about his past world and everything that he'd been through. Why he felt unworthy of your love and having a family together. It wasn't that he didn't love you completely, because he was deathly in love with you. But you didn't want it to fade because he doesn't work on his mental health. Something you always struggle with but has progressively gotten better as you've aged. He was reluctant at first, because he thought therapy meant it was too late. But you said it doesn't have to get bad to work on it, there's no reason for your relationship to not get stronger. He usually didn't win arguments with you, because a lot of the time you were right.

And it was the reason why you were feeling so good after the last couple hard months. Coming out on the other side with a warm heart, feeling safe in your husbands' arms, feeling fulfilled with your little baby girl in your arms. Your family around you, enjoying each other's company. That night when everyone left, eventually you got the kiddos in the bath, and getting ready for bed. Tucking James into his room and finally putting Anna in her nursey at four months old. You and Logan still had to get up at night, but it was slowly getting better, as she grew bigger.

You finally stumbled into Logan's awaiting arms, tucking your head into his neck. His hands rubbing up and down your back, as you inhaled his familiar scent, making you melt into your husband's arms. Logan held you close, cradling your head with his other hand, before leaning in to kiss your cheek. Your hands came to his face, coming to either side of his face to connect your lips in a soft, messy kiss. Logan hummed into your lips, pulling you in closer by your hips, as his lips slowly moved with yours.

"Why don't you go take a shower?" Logan suggested, as you sighed, kissing him once again.

"Don't wanna let you go."

"I'll show ya a good time after how about that?" Logan teased, his hand coming to pat at your butt.

"You better." You rose your eyebrows, with a little smile on your face as you pointed at his chest before hooking your finger into his shirt and pulling him to your lips in puckered kiss, making you giggle.

tags: @ohtobemare @jessjessmarvelandhp @chronicallybubbly @delicateholland @bubblegumholland @mega-kittyglitter-1

note: these haven't edited tonight, i'm a writing roll so i'm just trying to write write write lmao

[vampiric-tempt]

≡;- ꒰ °When they get jealous ꒱

➤ tw: slight suggestive themes

a/n: I've been really rusty with writing recently. Like really rusty, but I hope this is okay !! >:3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Roronoa Zoro

Zoro’s brow twitched in annoyance as he heard your laughs across the deck. And not to him, but to the damn cook who swooned over your presence. 

Sanji continued to pepper your arms with kisses, giving you drinks and snacks whenever you wanted it. It was like he was crazier over you than anybody else on the ship. His partner. 

Zoro was too caught up in his thoughts, as he absent mindedly lifted his weights. 

“Zo?” You called. “Hey! Zo!” Your hands waved across his face causing him to jolt a little. 

“Y/n, hey.” Was all he said as he continued to lift his weights. 

You frowned. “Are you okay? You seem…off.”

“I’m fine.” He grunted, dropping his weights. He brushed past you and positioned himself for pushups.

You immediately knelt beside him with your lips pursed. You had a vague idea why he was acting this way and it was always for the same reason. “Y’know Sanji is just being nice.”

“Yeah.” Zoro deadpans. “Is kissing your arms nice?”

“N-no not necessarily…”

Zoro directed his eyes to the ground and started his routine. “We’re done here.” 

Not wanting to end the conversation, you persisted. “It’s just his nature Zo, y’know that. There’s no need to be jealous-”

“Jealous? Is that what you think this is?” He huffed. 

You bit the inside of your lips. “This is exactly what this is. I’m not blind.” 

Zoro halted his movements and moved to position himself in front of you. “Do you ever think to ask why I feel that way?”

“Can I ask now?” You leaned to meet his gaze. 

Zoro grumbled to himself. His hand rubbed against his neck. He didn’t know what he felt at that moment. Jealousy over Sanji, or the fluttery feeling in his stomach as you gave him that stupid look with your stupid cute eyes. “S’just I can’t provide the romance Sanji does. Sometimes I think you want that…and I can’t give it.”

A small smile reached your lips at Zoro’s vulnerability. “No, I think you’re perfect.”

The tips of Zoro’s ears reddened. “Yeah right.”

“No I’m being serious,” You scooted closer to him, hands tilting his head. “You’re my handsome boy.”

Zoro’s face flushed as he looked away, your gaze too strong. “Alright that’s enough!” He gently shoves you causing you to laugh. 

“What, I thought you liked that nickname?”

Zoro huffed. “I never said that.”

You hummed. “Are youuuu feeling any better?”

Zoro scratched the back of his head in thought and turned to you, a smirk across his face. “I will once you meet me in the bird’s nest tonight.”

Shaking your head you threw out a pinky “That’s a promise then, you dog.” 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Crocodile

Miss All Sunday was a beautiful woman. Crocodile knew that, but he didn’t like the way she had you all over her. You were soooo curious about the books she has read, why didn’t you ask him about books. He read too. 

About five more minutes, Crocodile had enough. He made his way over and hooked you toward him. “Miss All Sunday, I think you’ve had something of mine a little too long. I require my partner’s presence now.” 

Robin smiled, she knew her actions had irked the man. “My apologies, I wasn’t aware you could get so jealous of us bonding over books?” 

Crocodile tsked and left without a second to spare, dragging you along with his hook. 

“You were jealous?” You asked, a hint of amusement to your voice. 

“Hardly, I merely wanted you is all.”

“Yeahh.” You dropped the subject and allowed your lover to drag you through the long corridor till you both stopped at a pair of dark oak doors. 

His hook ushered you in and you gasped at the sight. It was a large old looking library. “Since when was this here?” You awed. 

“Since forever. I just never bothered with it. But you, my love, seem to have an interest in books.”

You smirked. “So you were jealous. It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

Crocodile rolled his eyes. “My love, if it’s books you want, I have way more than what that woman can give.” 

“And I appreciate the show of love.” Your hands dragged across the dusty books. “This actually means a lot, thank you.” 

You felt Crocodile’s hook hug your body as he dragged you toward him once again, his other hand making itself comfortable on your waist. “I can provide you way more than just books.” His tone lowered causing you to suck in your breath. 

“I know that.”

“Then why don’t I show you how much more I can provide you…perhaps in the master bedroom, my love?”

You placed a hand on his chest, the scent of his cigar blinding your senses. “I would love that actually.” 

“Then allow me.” He lifted you into his arms, making his way down the hall. You laughed excitedly and as you passed another hallway, your eyes met with Robin’s and all she gave was a wink before she left you two to your fun. 

You had to thank her later. 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Trafalgar Law

He felt absolutely nothing whenever it was his crew hanging around you, but when his crew met up with the Strawhats and Kid pirates. He didn’t know what to feel when you got involved in a conversation between Zoro and the massacre soldier. Two relatively attractive men. 

Did he feel a little insecure, yes. But he wouldn’t admit that. Never in his life would he. 

It wasn’t till you two were alone in the tang, getting ready for bed did Law decide to speak up. 

“So, you seem very fond of the other crews.” 

“Oh,” You perked up at your boyfriend’s voice. “Yeah, they seem really cool.”

Law nodded at your statement. “I could see how some could be cool. Is there any that peak your interest?”

You pondered for a bit. “Um yeah, why the sudden questions Law?” 

Law shrugged. “Just curious s’all.” 

Shrugging you purse your lips in thought. “Well, I find the swordsman and massacre soldier really cool. Especially since they fought recently.”

“Yeah I saw you three talking.” Law says. 

“Yep, I was asking them about fighting tips, y’know useful things for further battles.” 

Law hummed. “I see.”

You tilted your head, eyes analyzing your lover. “Were you by any chance…jealous?” 

“Never.” Law was quick as he sat himself on his side of the bed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

You laughed. 

“Why are you laughing, there’s nothing funny.” Law said defensively.

“Oh I knowww it’s just, you can be so cute sometimes.”

Law gave a look of embarrassment, eyes flickering between you and the wall. “C-cute??” I’m not cute.”

“Okay okay,” You scooted beside him. “You’re handsome.” 

Law smiled, leaning into your touch. “As you are, Y/n-ya.” He moved in for a kiss, a kiss you happily accepted. Your hands entangled in his as he moved over your body, arms on either side of your head. 

Law pulled away from the kiss with a smirk. “You do a lot of things to me Y/n-ya.”

“Like what?”

“Make me realize I’m the luckiest man alive. I never thought I’d be able to find love till I found you.”

You pulled Law in for a chaste kiss. “If making you jealous makes you this romantic, I would’ve done it sooner.”

“Don’t dream of it.” Law pinches your cheek and settles beside you. “If I were actually jealous I’d do a lot more than just be romantic, you know that.” 

“Ohhh I know.”

[buboplague]

I've been on a small reading binge the last month, anyone have book recommendations? Any genre is fine, but preferably something a bit lighthearted, or easy/fun reads!

edit: oooo thank you guys!! I'll be checking out the ones I have library access to!

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Please Let Me Live - Vil Schoenheit x reader

You get isekai'd into the worst novel you've had the misfortune of reading because apparently your life is a cosmic joke. Now all you have to do is not act like the character you've possessed and it'll be fine, you think? Your fiancé being Vil Schoenheit makes it a little harder to behave like a human being with functional braincells, but hey, atleast he likes you, you think?

w.c: 10k

You'd avoided it for so long. For months, your best friend had been pestering you to read the shoujo isekai novel of the year. According to them, it was the epitome of romantic drama, the kind that would "turn your heart into a mess of feelings" and "change your life." So, finally, after a particularly grueling week, your willpower hit rock bottom. You caved. You bought it, poured yourself a drink, and figured, "How bad can it be?"

Turns out, really bad.

You’d barely made it past the first few chapters before your brain began to leak out of your ears. Every overused villainess plot point imaginable was crammed into the story like a contest of "how much nonsense can we fit in here before the reader gives up?" The evil fiancée everyone inexplicably hated? Check. The perfect cinnamon roll male lead everyone adored even though he had the personality of wet cardboard? Double check. The heroine who was so pure that even her sneeze would be enough to unite warring nations who also happens to be the saintess? You had to put the book down and take a moment when she gave a speech about friendship that was so saccharine, your teeth hurt.

Grumbling and filled with regret, you got up to refill your drink… only to slip on bubble wrap you swore yesterday that you were going to pick up later, fall face-first into the kitchen counter, and began to bleed out.

It was a comically stupid way to die. You knew that as you lay there, watching the light fade from your vision, your last thoughts being, This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.

And then, darkness.

You woke up with a groan, your head pounding. As your vision cleared, you noticed you were lying in a very, very fancy bed. Silk sheets, gold trimming on the canopy, the works. And you were dressed in something frilly, layered, and far too complicated for someone who just woke up from a near-death experience.

"What the…"

You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to freeze as the realization hit you. This was not your bed. This was not your apartment. This was… Oh god, no.

You whipped your head around the lavish room, recognizing it from the novel you’d been hate-reading just last night. The massive mirror above the dresser, the tapestry with an overly detailed family crest, the obnoxiously large bouquet of roses that smelled way too sweet.

You’re in the book.

Panicking, you scrambled out of bed and rushed to the full-length mirror by the wall. The reflection staring back at you was not your own. Instead, you saw an unfamiliar face—her face. The one mentioned once, maybe twice, in the whole novel before being discarded like an old shoe: the betrothed of the villain.

The fiancée who dumps him for the male lead. The fiancée who gets themselves killed in the process.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, slapping your forehead. “I’m the villain’s betrothed? I’m that idiot who leaves Vil Schoenheit because I fall for the human incarnation of a sugar cube?”

But there was no escaping it. You were now stuck in the body of a side character so irrelevant that even her death was treated as an afterthought. The one who leaves her handsome, ambitious, gorgeous fiancé for… Neige.

No. No, no, no. You were not about to die over a soggy cinnamon roll.

Determined to change your fate, you gathered your wits and opened the door to leave the room. But of course, you ran headlong into a tall figure, knocking you both back.

“Oof! Careful there!” a smooth, yet stern voice said. You looked up—and froze. Standing before you, looking like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, was Vil Schoenheit. The man whose heart you were supposed to break, the villain who would later descend into madness after you ditch him.

And wow. In person, he was even more stunning than the novel had described. His golden-blond hair shimmered in the sunlight pouring through the window, his purple eyes were as sharp as they were beautiful, and his posture screamed confidence.

You blinked up at him, utterly dumbfounded. You’re supposed to leave him? For Neige? You nearly gagged at the thought.

Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your wide-eyed staring. “Is something the matter?”

You gulped. Right. You were supposed to be cold and dismissive toward him, weren’t you? But how? This man looked like he could make the heavens weep with his beauty. How had your character ever even considered leaving him?

“No, nothing’s the matter!” you blurted out, a little too enthusiastically. “Actually, everything’s great! You look fantastic! I mean, not that you don’t always look fantastic—because you do—but, you know, extra fantastic today!”

Vil’s eyes narrowed. “You’re acting strange.”

Abort. Abort!

You quickly cleared your throat. “Uh, I’ve just been… thinking. About us.”

His gaze became sharper. “About us?”

You nodded, plastering on your most sincere smile. “Yes! I’ve realized… I haven’t been very, uh, appreciative of you lately. And I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. So from now on, I’ll be the most appreciative fiancée ever!”

Vil looked at you as though you’d just told him the sun was cold. He clearly didn’t trust this sudden change in attitude. “What exactly brought this on?” he asked slowly, suspiciously.

Time for Plan B. “Oh, you know, just… reflection! Self-improvement! I thought, ‘Why would I ever look anywhere else when I’ve got someone like *you* right in front of me?’ You’re… amazing, really.” You cringed internally at how corny that sounded, but Vil didn’t seem entirely put off.

“Hm,” was all he said, but his piercing gaze stayed locked on you, watching for any sign of deceit.

You were sweating bullets, but at least he wasn’t storming off. Yet.

You knew from the moment you read the back cover that this novel was going to be a dumpster fire of clichés, but you were not prepared for the sheer chaos of it all.

So, first off, we have the heroine—the Saintess—who has somehow never faced a single hardship in her life, despite the fact that she’s supposed to be the kingdom’s beacon of virtue and a symbol of overcoming hardship. She’s engaged to the crown prince, who conveniently disappears on a diplomatic mission and dies offscreen, probably to make room for her new love interest, Neige LeBlanche. Neige. That sparkly ray of sunshine who is so perfect and pure that you feel like you need sunglasses whenever his name is mentioned. Because apparently, what’s more romantic than falling for a guy immediately after your fiancé kicks the bucket?

Then there’s the second male lead, the brooding Duke of the North, who checks all the boxes: tall, brooding, handsome, tragic backstory—yawn. Of course, he’s madly in love with the Saintess, and like any self-respecting second male lead in a trashy romance, he sacrifices himself for her later. Because nothing says “I’m irrelevant” quite like noble self-sacrifice.

And don't even get started on the heroine's best friend. She’s basically there to fawn over the Saintess and then inexplicably fall for Vil, the Grand Duke, after she pressures him into apologizing for insulting the heroine's dress. Like, why? Was his dress critique that alluring?

Now, Vil Schoenheit. The Grand Duke. The guy you’re currently stuck with as your fiancé. He’s actually a decent character—powerful, intelligent, not falling over himself to worship the Saintess like everyone else. But in the novel, he’s wasted. Why? Because he’s engaged to the character you’re now possessing—Miss Mean and Cold—who treats him like dirt because she’s too busy fantasizing about Neige. You know, the guy she has no shot with because he’s destined to fall for the Saintess. Then, when your character eventually dumps Vil for Neige, she dies in a freak accident. Vil, who actually loved her (for reasons no one understands), is so heartbroken that he turns into the main villain.

Yes, that’s right—this whole mess of a plot ends with Vil going full villain mode because the love of his life ditched him for the living embodiment of a children’s snowman and then died in a way that no one can explain. Cue the Saintess and Neige teaming up to defeat him and live happily ever after.

And that’s the story. A tangled web of nonsensical relationships, conveniently dead characters, and more emotional whiplash than you can handle. And the cherry on top? You're stuck in it, watching everything unfold firsthand. It's honestly a wonder the book didn’t end up as kindling.

A few days passed, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to keep up the act. Every morning you would wake up, still half-expecting to snap out of this bizarre isekai nightmare, but instead, you were met with Vil’s meticulous morning routine and the low hum of his voice offering helpful reminders about skincare.

And the more time you spent with him, the more baffled you became.

How the hell could the original character have messed this up?!

Sure, Vil was particular—okay, maybe borderline obsessive—about appearances. His lectures about proper sunscreen application could rival the length of the Odyssey. And yes, the daily inspections of your outfit choices felt a little like going through customs at a royal border.

But… he was kind? Like, actually caring?

Every meal was an event because he made sure you were eating properly and not just shoving random food into your mouth like the gremlin you clearly were before. He listened when you rambled about your day, offering advice with this gentle patience that honestly made you want to weep. How could anyone leave this?

You found yourself in front of a mirror one afternoon, pacing and gesturing wildly at your reflection, as if you could summon the spirit of the character you’d possessed. "What the actual hell was wrong with you?!" you hissed at the glass. “What kind of brain rot would make someone ditch a man like Vil?! Are you missing brain cells, or was your skull just a rental with nothing in it?!”

You paused, glaring at your reflection as if it could offer answers, but nope. It just stared back, helpless.

“Like, hello?!” you continued, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “You had a golden opportunity here! He’s literally gorgeous! He’s got hair that looks like it was hand-spun by some ancient beauty god, his fashion sense could kill a lesser mortal, and he—*gasp*—cares about your well-being?!”

You slapped your forehead dramatically. “How did you mess this up? Were you allergic to good things? Did you wake up every day and choose to be a feral raccoon instead of, I don’t know, appreciating this actual masterpiece of a human being? What, did you look at his perfect face and go, ‘Nah, I’d rather yeet myself into self-destruction?’ Because clearly, that’s what happened!”

Your reflection remained silent, offering no help, which only fueled your rant further.

“You absolute donut! You ridiculous bottle of poorly mixed potion! You—” You stopped mid-sentence, running out of sufficiently creative insults to throw at the former owner of this body. Because seriously, what kind of fool would’ve thrown Vil away?

You gripped the sides of the vanity table, leaning forward, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. "If I find out that you gave up on this because he once asked you to wear a face mask or told you to drink more water… I swear, I'm going to find a way to repossess you just to kill you again for making me deal with this."

A soft knock at the door startled you out of your self-directed tirade. You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around to see Vil standing in the doorway, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Talking to yourself again?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a teasing edge. “You know, that’s usually a sign of stress. Perhaps we should revisit that meditation routine I mentioned.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, wondering how much he’d overheard. But then you caught sight of that soft smile he reserved just for you, and your brain short-circuited all over again.

Right. The original character was definitely an idiot.

The first major hurdle hit you when you least expected it.

It all started with what should have been a calm afternoon—a brief moment of peace where you and Vil could actually spend time together, no schemes, no weird confrontations, just enjoying tea. You were finally getting comfortable with each other, slowly building the trust that had been so fragile at the start. Finally, you thought, things were moving smoothly.

Then the overused villainess trope decided to rear its ugly head.

Vil was talking about an upcoming event he’d be hosting, his voice calm, his usual stern features softened just slightly by the moment of peace. You were finally letting your guard down.

That was until the door creaked open and in waltzed the heroine’s best friend, a girl with wide, doe-like eyes and a penchant for stirring up unnecessary drama. Behind her, looming in the doorway, was the second male lead—your eternal source of frustration from the novel. He was tall, brooding, and always, always popping up at the most inconvenient moments. A defeated looking Epel walked in behind them, with a look that screamed 'trust me I tried to stop them.'

“Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, recognizing this scene before it could even play out. You knew what was coming, and you braced yourself for the utter absurdity of it.

Vil’s sharp gaze flicked from the two intruders back to you, his brows furrowing in mild irritation. “What is it now?” he muttered, already sensing the impending nonsense.

The heroine’s friend, ever the bringer of chaos, marched right up to your table with a dramatic flair that could only come from someone who believed they were the only purveyor of justice. “I can’t stay quiet any longer!” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger in Vil’s direction. “Vil, how could you treat the heroine this way?! You’ve been so cold, so distant—and it’s clear that you don’t truly care for anyone but yourself!”

You blinked. Excuse me?

Vil’s lips pursed, the irritation growing on his face. “And what, pray tell, did I do?”

“You know what you did!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms like she’d just delivered the most damning statement in history. “You’ve been ignoring her, brushing her off, and acting like she doesn’t even exist. She’s heartbroken because of you!”

You groaned internally. Oh no, this was that scene. The one where, because Vil once made an offhand comment about the heroine’s poor choice in dresses at a ball, suddenly he was painted as some cruel villain who was emotionally tormenting the delicate heroine. It was such an incredibly stupid misunderstanding that you distinctly remembered wanting to throw the book across the room when you’d first read it.

To make matters worse, the second male lead, standing silently but brooding in the doorway, was glowering at Vil like he was ready to challenge him to a duel at any moment. Because of a comment about a dress.

“Are you serious?” you blurted out, the frustration bubbling up before you could stop yourself.

The heroine’s friend gasped, her eyes wide. “Excuse me?!”

“Let me get this straight,” you said, rising from your seat with a groan, “you’re upset because Vil, what, didn’t shower her with praise at the last event? And now you’ve decided to come in here, storming into our tea time, to complain about it?”

The second male lead’s brooding scowl deepened, his jaw tightening. “Vil has been cruel—”

“About a dress.” You cut him off, waving your hand dismissively. “Vil made one comment about her dress. That’s it. And now we’re doing this whole song and dance like he’s some kind of evil tyrant?”

The room was already tense, the heroine’s best friend visibly fuming, but you couldn’t help it. The words just came out before you could stop them.

“And while we’re at it,” you said, your voice dripping with mock innocence, “let’s talk about that dress. You know, the one you’re all so upset about. I mean, I’m no fashion expert, but who in their right mind thought wearing that shade of mustard-yellow was a good idea?”

The friend’s mouth fell open, but you weren’t finished. “I mean, she walked into the ballroom looking like a sad banana trying to go to a high society function. I get it—saintess and all that—but there’s no reason to dress like the interior of an overripe cantaloupe.”

Vil made a choking sound next to you, and you dared to glance at him. His eyes were wide with shock, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement. Oh, he wasn’t pleased with the crudeness, but he definitely wasn’t going to stop you either.

“And you,” you said, turning to the second male lead, who had been standing there like a silent, brooding statue, just staring at the two of you menacingly. “What’s your excuse? You came in here with all this brooding energy, acting like you’re about to duel someone over the fate of the heroine. But seriously, what’s with your whole tragic hero act? Is your personality just permanent raincloud or do you practice that in the mirror?”

Vil covered his mouth with his hand, and you could see his shoulders shaking slightly. He was losing the battle to keep his composure, but he was trying—for dignity’s sake, of course.

Epel, on the other hand, had completely given up. The moment you’d said “sad banana,” he had fallen off his chair, doubled over in laughter, his face red as he clutched his sides. You weren’t sure if it was your insults or the second male lead’s thunderstruck expression, but either way, Epel was in hysterics.

“I—” the heroine’s friend sputtered, but you interrupted her again.

“Oh, and you.” You looked her up and down with a condescending smirk. “You really want to talk about fashion? Because I don’t know who told you that wearing ruffles with plaid was a look, but they were wrong. You’re out here looking like you got lost in a fabric store and fell into the clearance bin.”

This time, Vil snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was so out of place that it almost derailed your tirade, but you powered through, buoyed by his reaction.

The second male lead looked like he was ready to explode, his aura now bordering on murderous. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, can’t I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Because it seems like all of you came in here with the intent to stir up drama over something as trivial as a constructive remark. If you’re going to go to war over fashion, at least wear something that doesn’t look like you picked it out with your eyes closed. Scratch that, I couldn’t imagine picking that up even with my eyes closed.”

By now, Epel was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “C-couldn’t pick it out… with your eyes closed!” he wheezed, slapping his knee.

Vil, despite himself, let out a low giggle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, his voice steady but filled with mirth, “I suppose subtlety was never your strong suit.”

The heroine’s friend, now red-faced and flustered beyond belief, grabbed the second male lead by the arm and yanked him toward the door. “This isn’t over,” she spat, glaring at you. “We’ll see who’s laughing when the heroine—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved dismissively, “when the heroine what? Realizes she’s been pining for someone who can't tell mustard from elegance? Trust me, I’m not worried.”

With that, they both stormed out, slamming the door behind them in a huff of embarrassment and frustration. The second they were gone, you let out a breath and sank back into your chair, grinning at Vil, who was now openly smiling.

“You really didn’t hold back, did you?” Vil said, his amusement evident despite his usual calm demeanor. “I don’t approve of such… crude insults, but I must admit—” his lips twitched— “it was rather effective.”

Epel, still recovering from his laughing fit, managed to haul himself back into his seat, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was… that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said between gasps for air. “I can’t believe ya said that right to their faces!”

“Glad to be of service,” you said with a grin, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d actually said all of that out loud. But judging by Vil’s pleased expression and Epel’s ongoing laughter, it had been worth it.

Maybe surviving this trash novel wouldn’t be so bad after all.

You’d barely had time to process how bizarrely normal your life as the villain’s fiancée had become when the next absurd isekai plot point decided to rear its ugly, trope-filled head again.

It all started at yet another lavish tea party. Honestly, you’d begun to lose track of how many of these events you were forced to attend. They all blurred together into a haze of polite smiles, floral patterns, and far too much sugar.

This time, you were seated next to Vil, who, as always, looked like he had just stepped out of a renaissance painting. You, on the other hand, were trying not to spill tea on the new dress he’d insisted you wear. The dress itself was lovely, of course—Vil had impeccable taste—but the whole setting made you feel like you were constantly walking on eggshells. Especially since she was here. The heroine.

Today, though, you were determined to get through it without any drama. Just smile, nod, and let the heroine do her thing. Easy, right?

Wrong.

Everything had been going smoothly, too. The heroine, in all her sunshiney glory, was seated at the table, surrounded by her usual group of admirers. You had been doing a great job of fading into the background until someone—the hostess, perhaps?—brought up your previous adventures.

“Oh, didn’t you once accompany the Grand Duke to deal with that bandit problem on the eastern border?” the hostess asked, fanning herself with interest. “What a thrilling ordeal!”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the weight of too many eyes on you. “Well, I wouldn’t say thrilling exactly…” you began, trying to downplay it, but your nerves had other ideas. “I mean, the heroine here was probably off rescuing some poor lost puppy while I was just, you know, holding down the real danger.”

The air went cold.

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. The table fell silent, save for the quiet clinking of teacups being set down. Every eye was on you. The heroine’s wide, eyes blinked at you, full of hurt and confusion. And across from you, the second male lead—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding—looked like he was ready to leap across the table and strangle you on the spot.

Oh no. Oh no no no. Why did you leave your filter at home?

You opened your mouth to apologize, but before you could, the second male lead slammed his cup down on the table, the porcelain rattling ominously. “You dare insult her honor?!” he roared, rising from his seat like some kind of vengeful storm cloud. “I will not stand for this!”

*Why did I say that?* You cringed internally, face turning a bright shade of crimson. "I-it was a joke—"

“No,” he declared dramatically, pointing a finger at you. “I demand satisfaction! A duel for her honor!”

You were still too stunned to respond, your brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. A duel? Over this? All you’d implied was that the heroine wasn’t exactly… battle-hardened. Surely that wasn’t duel-worthy? This man was acting like you’d called his mother a turnip or something worse.

The heroine, ever the epitome of grace, tried to intervene. “There’s no need for—”

But Mr. Broody wasn’t having it. “No! Her honor has been besmirched, and I shall defend it with my life!”

Vil, who had been watching this spectacle unfold with an expression of mild disgust, finally rose from his chair. His cool gaze swept over the table, landing on the second male lead with all the intensity of a snake about to strike.

“If anyone’s honor has been besmirched,” Vil said icily, “it’s mine. And I will not allow my betrothed to be disrespected by the likes of you.”

You blinked up at Vil, stunned. “Wait, you’re going to duel him? Yourself?”

Vil turned his piercing gaze to you, and though his face remained calm, there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “I would never entrust such a matter to anyone else. Besides…” His lips curled into a smirk. “It’s been a while since I’ve put an upstart in his place.”

You gulped, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed. Was it getting hot in here?

The second male lead, apparently unaware of just how screwed he was, smirked triumphantly. “Very well! Let’s settle this once and for all.”

The duel was set for the next day in your estate gardens. You spent the time leading up to it pacing back and forth in your chambers, wringing your hands in nervous anticipation. Somewhere along the way, you’d decided that you needed to do something—anything—to support Vil. So you had spent hours learning how to embroider a handkerchief, your fingers aching from the effort. By the time you finished, you were practically shaking, but you were proud of the result.

You didn’t expect Vil to be touched, let alone notice that you’d worked so hard. But when you handed him the handkerchief just before the duel, his eyes widened in surprise.

“You made this?” he asked, holding it delicately between his fingers, as if it were some priceless artifact.

You nodded sheepishly. “I figured, you know, for luck. Or to rub it in his face after you beat him. Whichever.”

Vil chuckled, his usually sharp expression softening. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. He then noticed the small needle marks on your hands and frowned. “You hurt yourself.”

You quickly hid your hands behind your back. “It’s nothing! I mean, I’m fine. Just a few pricks here and there.”

Vil’s expression softened even further, and for a moment, he looked almost… touched. He carefully tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll be sure to put this to good use.”

You didn’t swoon. Well, maybe just a little.

The duel was, in a word, ridiculous.

The second male lead strutted around like a peacock, his sword gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as he swung it dramatically for the small crowd that had gathered. “Prepare yourself, Schoenheit!” he bellowed, pointing his sword at Vil.

Vil, on the other hand, looked utterly unimpressed. He barely glanced at the man before calmly removing his coat and handing it to you. “Hold this, will you?”

You took the coat with a nod, trying not to pass out from how effortlessly graceful he looked even in the midst of preparing for a fight.

The second male lead lunged forward with all the finesse of a drunken ox, his sword clashing loudly against Vil’s. For a moment, it looked like a real duel—until Vil, with a single fluid motion, disarmed the man in one clean strike. The second male lead’s sword went flying, landing in the bushes several feet away with a pathetic thud.

The crowd gasped, and you had to stifle a laugh. It had barely been five seconds, and the duel was already over.

The second male lead stood there, stunned, his hand frozen mid-air where his sword had been. He blinked once, twice, then turned bright red with embarrassment. “W-what?!”

Vil, ever composed, didn’t even break a sweat. He sheathed his sword and gave the man a cold, dismissive look. “This duel is over. Consider your demand for satisfaction... fulfilled. Now, kindly leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle as the second male lead sputtered and tried to come up with an excuse, but it was clear to everyone that he had been utterly humiliated. Even the heroine, standing off to the side, looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face.

As the second male lead stumbled off, defeated, Vil turned to you and offered his hand. “Shall we go?”

You took his hand, still trying to process how easily he had won. “You were amazing,” you blurted out, your heart fluttering as you gazed up at him. “Seriously, that was… wow.”

Vil smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Of course I was.” He then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I expect a proper reward later for defending your honor.”

Your face went beet red, and you were pretty sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Yep, you thought as he led you away, his hand still in yours, surviving this trash novel might not be so bad after all.

It happened at one of those overly extravagant banquets the royal court liked to throw. You spotted Neige from across the room, all bright eyes and an innocent smile. He was the epitome of purity, as if his very presence could summon woodland creatures to frolic at his feet.

And you hated him on sight.

You watched in disbelief as everyone around him melted into puddles of admiration. He was practically glowing, and his overly cheerful, squeaky voice was grating on your ears.

The overly saccharine male lead stood there, looking like a cross between a baby bunny and a sentient cupcake. Everything about him screamed "pure-hearted." You nearly gagged on your drink, hoping no one noticed your grimace.

Vil noticed your sour expression and leaned in. “Is something the matter?”

“That’s him, isn’t it?” you said through clenched teeth. “The one I used to follow around?”

Vil followed your gaze, and for a moment, his lips twitched in the faintest show of amusement. “Yes. That’s Neige.”

You snorted. "I can't believe anyone in their right mind would prefer him over you."

Vil's lips curled into a smirk, and he tilted his head slightly. “Oh? Is that so?” His voice was silky, dangerously low, but you could see the flash of satisfaction behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” you muttered, still glaring in Neige's direction. “I mean, look at him. He’s so… good. And not in a ‘wow, what a decent person’ way. It’s like he’s one bad haircut away from sprouting fairy wings and breaking into song.”

Vil let out a low chuckle, right next to you ear, (Lord, have mercy) the sound sending shivers down your spine. “I never thought I’d hear you speak this way about him. You’ve been fawning over Neige for as long as I can remember.”

You rolled your eyes, throwing your hands up. “That was the old me. The dumb me. I mean, have you seen you?” You gestured dramatically toward him. “How could anyone even look at Neige when you exist?”

Vil was quiet for a moment, watching you intently. His violet eyes glinted with something unreadable, but you could tell he was pleased. Oh, he was very pleased.

“You certainly have changed,” he murmured, the smirk never leaving his lips. “And I must admit, I find it rather… delightful.”

Before you could respond, a very familiar voice rang out from behind you. “Ah! What a beautiful reunion this is! A moment filled with l’amour, sparkling like the stars in the sky!”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Rook Hunt appeared seemingly out of thin air, his hands dramatically clasped together as he beamed at you both. “I have seen many couples in my lifetime, but none quite so radiant as you two.”

You blinked, trying to recover from his sudden appearance. “Rook… were you just… hiding in the curtains again?”

Rook, ever the dramatist, placed a hand on his heart and smiled wistfully. “Ah, but how could I stay away when the beauty of your love draws me in like a moth to a flame?”

Vil raised an eyebrow. “Rook, you’re not helping.”

“Non, non, mon ami,” Rook insisted, twirling in place with a flourish. “I am merely basking in the glow of what is surely a love for the ages! The way your eyes meet, the subtle tension in the air—it is magnifique!”

You sighed, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but chuckle at Rook’s antics. Meanwhile, from the other side of the ballroom, Epel was watching the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. He caught your eye and shot you a grin, raising his glass as if to say, Good luck with this.

But the fun wasn’t over. Oh no. Neige, the human embodiment of a children’s choir, started making his way toward you. As he approached, his bright eyes locked on yours, his smile so innocent and wide that you almost felt bad for what you were about to do.

Almost.

“Good evening!” Neige greeted you, his voice as sweet as sugar. “I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to properly meet.”

You stared at him for a moment, unimpressed. “Yeah, uh-huh.”

Neige blinked, clearly taken aback by your lack of enthusiasm. He probably wasn’t used to people not immediately falling at his feet. “It’s truly wonderful to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”

You squinted at him. “Mm-hmm.”

Vil, standing beside you, looked positively elated. You could practically feel the smug energy radiating off of him. He wasn’t even hiding his smile anymore.

Neige continued, oblivious to your complete disinterest. “I’m so glad we’ll have the chance to spend time together in the coming months! I hope we can—”

“Yeah, no, I’m good,” you interrupted, turning away and pointedly ignoring his very existence.

Neige blinked again, looking like a lost puppy. You almost felt a little bad. Almost.

Vil, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early. His arm slipped around your waist, his touch gentle. “I must say,” he murmured into your ear, his voice laced with amusement, “I’ve never enjoyed one of these balls quite so much.”

Yup, maybe this novel isn't that trashy after all?

Everytime you think this novel might not be that bad, it manages to prove you wrong.

The day had finally arrived: the Founding Day Ball. The event to end all events, where the kingdom’s most distinguished were honored in a grand ceremony. And, of course, at the top of the list of honorees was Vil, who might as well have been carved into the actual history of the kingdom itself with how perfect he was.

As his partner for the evening, you were dressed to the nines, dripping in elegance you didn’t even know you were capable of. When you caught your reflection in one of the massive ballroom mirrors, you had to do a double-take.

"Who is that?" you whispered, eyes wide. "Oh. It’s me."

Honestly, if there was a chance of impressing anyone here, you were impressed with yourself.

The ceremony went as expected. Vil was awarded the highest honors, his name met with thunderous applause as he gave a speech that left the crowd swooning. You found yourself half-clapping, half-gawking, wondering how this man kept getting more perfect. Like, was he actually human?

But as the evening progressed, the dreaded scene you despised the most crept into the evening, like a bad smell at a gourmet dinner.

After the ceremony, it was time for the opening dance. Naturally, Vil, being the epitome of grace and nobility, was the prime candidate to lead it. You were fully expecting him to ask you, but before he could even turn in your direction, the heroine — yes, that heroine — appeared out of nowhere, like she was materializing straight from the pages of the worst romance novel ever written.

“Vil,” she said in a voice that sounded like honey and broken promises, “I trust you’ll grant me the honor of the first dance.”

You blinked. *Excuse me?*

She said it so confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion, like she was used to the world revolving around her whims. It was the equivalent of someone just cutting the line in front of you at the store and expecting applause for their audacity.

Vil, for his part, didn’t even flinch. His expression was as cool and elegant as ever, but you could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice smooth and polite, “I already have a partner for the first dance.”

The heroine’s face froze in a way that almost made you choke on your own breath. “W-What?” She blinked rapidly, as if her brain couldn’t process the fact that someone had just told her no.

You, too, were a little stunned, for a seperate. Was she actually planning on throwing a tantrum right now? In public? At a literal state function?

“B-But you always dance with me,” she stammered, voice rising in disbelief, her face turning an alarming shade of pink. “I’m supposed to be your first dance!”

You physically had to stop yourself from snorting. Always? He has never even looked at her for longer than five seconds! You couldn't recall a single time Vil had given her anything beyond basic pleasantries. The only reason she’d be in his line of sight was because she was constantly putting herself there.

Vil’s lips twitched slightly, though whether it was out of irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. “I don’t recall ever dancing with you,” he said calmly, as though she were discussing someone else entirely.

The heroine blinked, clearly taken aback. “W-What?”

Vil’s voice dropped to an even icier tone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “In fact, I dislike the very idea of it.”

The heroine made a strangled sound behind you, like a baby bird trying to scream.

You looked around the room, half-expecting hidden cameras to pop out, because this had to be a prank. Who acts like this?!

And as you floated onto the dance floor with Vil, you couldn’t help but marvel at the absolute insufferable nature of the scene you’d just witnessed. This was, without a doubt, the moment that solidified your hatred for the trash-tier novel world you’d been trapped in. People like her actually existed here?

Behind you, the heroine stomped her foot like a petulant child, completely ignored by the crowd. It would’ve been almost sad if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

And as you twirled under the chandeliers, feeling Vil’s warmth beside you and the heroine’s tantrum echoing faintly in the background, one thing became crystal clear:

This novel may have been trash, but at least you were the one dancing with the prince of perfection.

It hit you like a ton of bricks one day—completely out of nowhere. You had been sitting in Vil’s study, watching him work. He was meticulously going over some documents, his brow furrowed in concentration, his golden hair falling perfectly in place despite him having been there for hours. You were supposed to be reading through some kingdom protocol book, but instead, your gaze kept drifting over to him.

He’s so… beautiful.

You blinked, the thought suddenly snapping you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

Wait…

Your eyes widened. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

You slammed the book shut, startling Vil from his work as you stood up abruptly. “I-I need some air.”

Vil raised an elegant eyebrow, clearly amused by your sudden panic. “Something the matter?”

“No! Nothing’s the matter!” you said, far too quickly, your voice an octave higher than usual. You stumbled over your chair in your haste to get out of the room, nearly tripping on your own feet. “I just—need to—um—fresh air, yes, exactly!”

Before Vil could say anything else, you bolted from the study and down the hall, your heart racing as though you’d just run a marathon. You darted into the nearest empty room and pressed your back against the door, your mind swirling with confusion.

Am I falling for him?

You slapped a hand over your mouth, horrified by the realization. “No… no, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m in love with a character from this awful, brain-numbing novel?”

You slumped against the door, groaning as the full weight of the situation sank in. How could this happen? How could my first true love— you gagged at the phrase —be from this trash novel?

There was no escaping it now. The butterflies in your stomach every time Vil looked your way, the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled, the fact that you wanted nothing more than to be close to him… it was all painfully obvious.

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment in this ridiculous world.”

And the worst part? It wasn’t even one of the good isekai novels. You’d somehow gotten stuck in what could be considered objectively the worst one, and yet here you were, head over heels for a character who—against all odds—turned out to be the most amazing person you’d ever met.

“Oh god,” you muttered to yourself, sliding down to the floor, your head falling back against the door with a thud. “I'm in love with Vil. I’m doomed. Completely doomed.”

“Mon Dieu! What a revelation!” a voice suddenly rang out from the shadows.

You yelped, whipping around to see none other than Rook Hunt—perched in the corner of the room like some kind of overly dramatic bird of prey, his hat casting a mysterious shadow over his eyes. His entire being radiated excitement, and you swore you saw actual sparkles in the air around him.

“Rook?! How long have you been there?!”

“Long enough, my dear,” he said, voice hushed with reverence, as though you had just confessed your deepest, most tragic secret. “Ah, love! The torment, the longing! The exquisite despair you must be feeling!” He took a step forward, eyes gleaming with unbridled enthusiasm. “But fear not, mon ami, for I, Rook Hunt, shall be your faithful cupid! Together, we shall make Vil see the truth of your affections!”

You blinked, stunned. “Uh… I’m not sure that’s—"

“Ah, but you must!" Rook declared, swooping down to kneel dramatically before you. “Love, once realized, must be pursued with all one’s passion and determination! Do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers like sand in the wind! I shall assist you!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sheer intensity of his expression made you falter. Rook was looking at you like this was the most important mission of his life.

Honestly, what did you have to lose at this point?

With a deep, exhausted sigh, you muttered, “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it. Help me, Rook.”

Rook’s grin stretched so wide it was borderline terrifying. “Excellent! This will be an adventure for the ages!” Before you could even process what you’d agreed to, Rook leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “But we will need more help. A certain someone with a youthful spirit and just enough mischievousness to add that je ne sais quoi to our plans.”

Oh no.

Cue Epel.

“What the hell are you ropin’ me into?” Epel grumbled as Rook dragged him into your predicament not five minutes later.

“I have volunteered you for a most noble cause, mon petit pomme,” Rook said, not even breaking stride as he swept Epel into the room. “Our dear friend here is head over heels for our Vil, and we are going to help them win his heart”

Epel paused, blinking at you in disbelief. “Wait, Vil? That Vil?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Vil’s office was.

“Yes, that Vil,” you said flatly, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this point.

Epel gave you a dubious look. “And you agreed to let Rook help you?”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Don’t remind me.”

“Alright, fine. I’m in.” Epel shrugged, a wicked grin creeping onto his face. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it big.”

Thus began the most absurd, over-the-top, and borderline catastrophic schemes in an attempt to prove your love to Vil Schoenheit.

It started innocently enough. You wanted to make Vil his favorite tea. Simple, right? But Rook insisted that it couldn’t just be any tea. No, it had to be presented with an air of mystery and allure.

“Bring it to him while reciting a sonnet of devotion!” Rook suggested. “Declare your admiration with each step, so that he understands the depth of your feelings!”

“I’m not reciting a sonnet, Rook.”

Epel, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic. “Or you could just… write him a note and leave it with the tea?”

That seemed normal. Rational. You’d take Epel’s advice. So, you snuck into Vil’s room, left the tea and a note on his desk, and slipped out before anyone noticed.

The next morning, Vil eyed you suspiciously over breakfast. “Did you leave tea in my study last night?”

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but you swore you saw the corner of his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I see. How thoughtful.”

Then came Operation: Compliment Vil at Every Opportunity.

Rook, of course, insisted you be poetic. “Tell him his beauty rivals the very stars in the sky!”

“I’m not saying that.”

Epel chimed in with a much more straightforward approach: “Just tell him his hair looks nice. It’s always nice.”

But Rook’s enthusiasm was contagious, and before you knew it, you found yourself blurting out, “Your radiance is blinding today, Vil! Truly, I must shield my eyes from such ethereal beauty!”

Vil, who had been in the middle of inspecting his reflection, froze. His eyes darted to you, and he gave you a strange look.

“Are you… feeling alright? Did you perhaps get bitten by a stray Rook?”

You shook your head vigorously, your face heating up from how ridiculous you sounded. “Totally fine! Just… appreciating your beauty! Yep. Normal stuff.”

Vil didn’t say anything, but you could see a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked amused—and maybe a little pleased—but more than anything, he seemed confused.

At least he didn’t think you’d lost your mind. Yet.

You were convinced this novel had it out for you from the beginning, but this? This was a new low. The memory loss trope, the final attempt to make your life as ridiculous as possible, had arrived—right on schedule.

You knew how it was supposed to go. You’d hit your head (a complete accident, obviously), wake up with no memory of Vil, and immediately make the worst decisions possible, like falling for that knockoff prince, Neige. Cue dramatic heartbreak, public humiliation, and eventual abandonment. Classic trashy novel shenanigans.

But apparently, the universe—or whatever cosmic force was in charge of your suffering—had decided to take a vacation after all the work it had been putting in. Because when you opened your eyes and saw Vil leaning over you, worry etched into his perfect face, instead of forgetting him, you were… immediately smitten?

What?

And it didn’t stop there. When he took your hand in his, gently kissing your knuckles in that heartbreakingly tender way, it was like a light switch flipped. Your memories came rushing back, completely bypassing the whole convoluted plot about amnesia and bad decisions.

Because of course in this disaster of a novel, the solution to everything was true love's kiss. The most overdone, eye-rolling cliché in the history of romance, and yet here you were, living through it.

You almost laughed out loud. Of all the tropes this novel had thrown at you—evil fiancées, jealous heroines, duels for honor—this had to be the funniest. It was as if the universe had taken one look at your situation and said, “You know what? Let’s skip the suffering and go straight to the ridiculous happy ending.”

True love’s kiss. Really. This novel is mocking me at this point, you thought, fighting the urge to scream. But hey, at least you didn’t have to deal with more drama. And as Vil’s concerned gaze softened into a relieved smile, you couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this was one trope you didn’t mind after all.

You'd almost given up on confessing. Maybe you'll just live like this forever, your fate was sealed. The novel clearly doesn't want you to tell him how you feel.

But there was another ball (because apparently that's the only place that nobility had be at in this novel. What was this? the 108th ball of the year?) You'd decided that you'll ask him for a stroll under the moonlight and just tell him.

Of course, the novel is not on your side. What's new?

The ball was going well—well, for you and Vil, anyway. You’d just finished dancing, and he looked absolutely stunning, as usual. You were basking in the afterglow of all the whispered praise and envious stares. That is, until you overheard someone bad-mouthing Vil.

Of course, it had to be the heroine’s best friend, who was apparently using this grand occasion to air her grievances.

“I just don’t understand why Vil is always so cold to her,” she whined, loud enough for everyone within a three-mile radius to hear. “She’s the saintess! She deserves kindness and adoration, not disdain.”

Cue the dramatic gasps from the crowd. Ah, here we go.

You shot Vil a look, but he merely shrugged, rolling his eyes. He clearly didn’t want to start any trouble. But you? Oh, you were about to flip the table on these idiots.

“Excuse me,” you began, stepping forward, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as you made your way over. “I couldn’t help but overhear your incredibly loud complaints about my fiancé.”

The heroine’s best friend froze, clearly not expecting you to get involved. You smiled sweetly, but your eyes were throwing daggers.

“Let me set the record straight. Vil isn’t cold to her because she’s the ‘saintess,’” you air-quoted the title, “He’s cold to her because she’s an insufferable brat who’s so used to getting her way that she throws a tantrum every time someone says ‘no.’”

More gasps from the crowd. You could see Neige stiffening across the ballroom, already sensing where this was going. But there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me started on you,” you pointed at the best friend, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re out here defending her honor like you’re some knight in shining armor when, let’s be real, you’re just as bad. You fawn over her like a lost puppy, expecting her to shower you with praise when all you do is enable her delusions.”

Vil, somewhere behind you, was probably trying not to laugh. But you weren't done.

“And as for your precious Neige over there?” you tilted your head toward the prince-wannabe, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. “He’s not some perfect angel either. He’s just a guy with an unsettling talent for showing up at the most convenient times, with that same doe-eyed, clueless expression, making everyone feel sorry for him.”

You didn’t stop at Neige.

"And as for you," you said, spinning toward the brooding Duke of the North, the infamous second male lead, who had been leaning against a pillar, looking every bit the tall, tormented, handsome cliché. “You’re not fooling anyone either. You’re the king of melodramatic entrances. Always lurking in the shadows, trying to look mysterious, but really, you’re just sulking because no one’s paying attention to you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you brooding? Again? Let me guess, you’re thinking about some dark secret that you’ll drop at the most inconvenient moment to make things worse for everyone, right?” You mimicked his deep, serious voice. “‘It’s the burden I must bear… alone.’” You threw your head back in mock agony, hands dramatically placed on your chest.

He straightened up, clearly offended, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“And stop pretending like you’re some tragic hero,” you added, lowering your voice with a sharp edge. “You’re just a guy with commitment issues who sacrifices himself because you can’t handle the fact that the heroine doesn’t want you. Let it go.”

There was dead silence. You half-expected a chandelier to drop just for the dramatic effect. Even Vil had to look away for a moment, probably to hide the fact that he in tears, about to burst out laughing.

The heroine was slack-jawed, her best friend looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, and Neige… well, Neige just looked confused. As always.

Satisfied, you dusted off your hands and turned back to Vil, who was looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe, as if he’d just witnessed some divine intervention.

You let out a satisfied huff and turned to leave. "Come on, Vil, I can't stand to be in the same room as these second-rate characters any longer, let's bounce"

Once outside, you saw Vil was still recovering, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I think you may have traumatized half the ballroom.”

“Good,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “They deserved it. Especially that brooding Duke. ‘I sacrifice myself for the greater good.’ Ugh, give me a break.”

Vil chuckled, sliding his arm around your waist. "Still, you didn’t have to go to such lengths for me."

You stopped in your tracks, spun around, and looked him dead in the eye. “Of course I did! I love you, Vil. I couldn’t just sit there and let them trash you like that.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. Oh. Well. There it was.

Vil’s eyes widened, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in your words. Then, without a word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, soft but sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as you had.

When he pulled back, his smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You love me,” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, a bit breathless from both the confession and the kiss. “Yes, Vil. I love you. Even with all your ridiculously high standards and obsession with skincare.”

Vil laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Vil pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your waist, and asked with a quiet, almost teasing tone, "Well then, since you love me so much... should we get married?"

You blinked, your brain taking a second to catch up. "Wait—what? Married? Like, right now?" You stared at him, heart racing, before suddenly, an idea lit up your face like a firework. “Oh my god, yes! Let’s do it. Let’s get married ASAP. Like, today. Right now. Do we even need a ceremony? We can find an officiant and—boom—done. Just tell me where to sign!”

Vil’s eyes widened, taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm. “Are you… serious?”

You grabbed his hand, absolutely buzzing with energy. “Of course, I’m serious! Why wait? This dumbass universe keeps throwing garbage tropes at us, and honestly? Getting married right now is the perfect way to flip the script! Take that, fate!"

Before Vil could respond, an overly excited voice erupted from behind a nearby pillar. “Oh là là! Mon cœur can hardly handle this romance!” Rook leaped out from the shadows, practically sparkling with joy, as if he had been waiting for this very moment all his life. "The passion! The declaration of love! And now, a spontaneous wedding? Magnifique!”

“Rook!?” Vil’s voice was a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Have you been spying on us?”

“Spying?” Rook gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Non, non, Vil! I was merely ensuring your well-being as any devoted friend would!” He gave a wink, clearly pleased with his role as an unintended audience.

“Me too!” Epel poked his head out from behind another pillar, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, who’d wanna miss out on somethin’ like this? Y’all are gettin’ married!”

Vil let out a long, tired sigh, but you could see the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s happening,” you said, grabbing his arm again and dragging him forward. “We’re doing this, and it’s going to be the best wedding in this entire stupid book, Rook, Epel, you’re both invited. Wait, scratch that, you’re both in the wedding party now!”

“C’est incroyable!” Rook twirled dramatically, hands clasped together, already imagining his outfit for the occasion. “I shall be the most loyal and stylish groomsman! Oh, l’amour!”

“And I get to wear somethin’ fancy, right?” Epel asked, already envisioning something much cooler than his usual attire.

Vil was now fully grinning, his initial surprise turning into genuine amusement as he looked at you with sparkling eyes. “You really are something else.”

“Yeah, and now I’m gonna be your something else forever.” You beamed up at him, still holding onto his hand like you might drag him to the altar yourself right now.

“Well then,” Vil sighed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Let’s get married.”

Before you could even start plotting where to drag Vil to find someone to officiate, Rook suddenly gasped, clasping his hands together dramatically. "Mon dieu! How could I forget? I am more than prepared for this moment!"

You and Vil exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you talking about, Rook?" Vil asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Rook grinned, remviong his hat and and dramatically pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "Behold!" he announced, waving the paper with a flourish. "A certified license to officiate weddings. I took the liberty of acquiring it long ago, knowing that one day I’d be the one to unite you and your beloved. C’est le destin!"

“You’re… licensed?” Vil blinked, looking at Rook like he had officially lost it. "And you're walking around with the license in your hat?"

Rook nodded with a dazzling smile. “Why yes, I’ve been preparing for this glorious day! Every flower petal, every gust of wind, every glance of love I’ve witnessed between you both has been leading to this fated moment!” He struck a pose, the parchment still dramatically held aloft.

You stared at him, then back at Vil. "Okay, I know this is ridiculous, but honestly? This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I kind of love it. Let's just let him do it."

Vil put a hand to his forehead, trying to suppress a chuckle. "Are we really doing this?"

“Yes!” you declared, squeezing Vil's hand. “If we’re going full chaos, we’re going all the way. Rook, officiate the hell out of this wedding!”

Epel, watching the entire spectacle, burst into laughter. “Only in this house, I swear…”

Rook practically sparkled with joy, bouncing on his feet. “Oh là là, it will be my greatest honor! I’ve been rehearsing my officiating speech in front of the mirror for months”

“Months?” Vil repeated, a mix of disbelief and exasperation in his tone.

“Mais oui! Every day, I’d wake up and say, ‘Today could be the day!’” Rook sighed dramatically, already tearing up. “And here we are. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Now, shall we begin? I have the vows prepared, unless you have your own?”

You leaned into Vil, barely holding back laughter. “I have zero regrets about this. Absolutely zero.”

Vil sighed again but couldn’t stop smiling. “Only you could make something this absurd seem perfect.”

Masterlist

Okay, this became way longer than I expected it to be but to be fair, i was on an extreme caffeine high and i'd just finished an assignment that had been beating my ass

[wandaslittlebird]

Alright, another professor Wanda drabble because I’m utterly whipped for her.

“I think spoken Russian is going to send me to an early grave,” You complained. “I’m good on the written and comprehension sections but the oral pronunciations…” You groaned dramatically, tossing your ‘Russian 101’ book out in front of you and dropping your arms so you were laying prone on bed.

Wanda picked up the book, reading through the dog-eared page you had been studying. “Is this the one you’re struggling with?” She pointed to one of the longer words at the top of the page. It had been twisting your tongue for hours.

You nodded. Wanda placed the book back in your hands and sat down next to you. “You know all the syllables. Just say it slowly, don’t try to cram the sounds together, just say them one at a time.”

You propped yourself back up on your elbows, squinting and bending forward to study the page. You sounded out the word slowly. Each syllable felt like an entire word of its own. It was by no means an elegant attempt, but it was technically correct.

Wanda slide down on the bed so she could press a kiss onto your lower back. “See?” She said, nuzzling the downward curve of her spine. “You’re getting it. Keep going. Try this one here.” She reached around you to point out a sentence at the top of the next page.

You spoke the words awkwardly and slowly, mentally trying to translate the foreign lettering into sounds. Wanda started tracing her way back up your spine, placing gentle kisses along each ridge.

“You’re a lot better at this than you think you are,” Wanda assured. “I could’ve never guessed this was your first semester taking Russian if I wasn’t the one teaching it to you.”

“Thank you, professor,” you teased. “I believe you’re to blame for my accelerated studies.” You could feel Wanda’s smile curl against your back.

“I suppose that is my job,” She teased, “making sure you excel.”

“Well then you’ll be devastated to know I have someone who’s serving as a terrible distraction to my studies.” You smirked, arching your back against her mouth.

“Mmm,” Wanda hummed. “I’m sure whoever it is knows that you work too hard. And I’d bet she knows that you’re brilliant and you could’ve passed with flying colors without even opening the book.”

“As if she herself isn’t known for working herself to the bone,” you retorted.

“All the more reason to provide her with a wonderful distraction.” Wanda bit gently at the spot your neck met your shoulder. You rolled your head back, mouth falling open in a silent groan. “We can continue your studies, if you wish. Repeat after me: YA ves' tvoy.” (I am yours.)

You reached one hand back behind you, burying it in Wanda’s thick brown hair. You drew her ruby red lips back to your neck, encouraging more kisses and nips from the older woman. “YA ves' tvoy,” you repeated with easy confidence. These words came far easier to you than the long and complicated ones you were pulling from your books.

“You speak beautifully, sweet girl.” Wanda sucked at the skin behind your ear.

Your eyes fluttered at sensation.“devochka milaya,” you said. “Sweet girl.”

“Mhm.” Wanda did not pull her mouth away from the soft skin of your neck. Your words weren’t entirely accurate, as the adjective came after the noun in Russian, but she was in no mood to be pedantic at the moment.

She adjusted her position on the bed, moving to straddle your hips rather than lying beside you. You whined when she pulled away, already missing the warm breath against your neck. The whines turned into moans when Wanda ground against her hips your ass. “I want to hear you say it again. Tell me you are mine,” she demanded.

You obeyed. “YA ves' tvoy,” you said again. The words came even more natural the second time around. “I am yours. I am all yours, my love.”

“YA ves' tvoy, moya lyubov,” She translated, adding in the ‘my love’.

You giggled. “Do you plan to fuck me until I can recite the entirety of the Russian language?”

Wanda chuckled mischievously, bending so her mouth was mere inches from your ear. “My love, by the time I’m done with you, you won’t even remember English.”

[rs-hawk]

Beauty and the Beast library smut please? 🙏

Since I'm doing a double upload today, "Day Three" will be a second part to Day Two. If you'd like me to continue this story or anything else for Beauty and the Beast week, my asks are open!

CW: obviously this fic contains smut and graphic depictions. It is intended for an 18+ audience. Slight dubcon/noncon?, breeding, knotting, cum, excessive sizes, pain, overstimulation, biting, blood, etc

It didn't take long for Beast to finish, his cum covering his hand and splattering on some of the books in front of him thanks to his hiding spot of the bookshelf. However, for poor Belle, she was just bringing herself to the edge repeatedly, but unable to push herself over. She was unable to keep up the pace she had set for herself with all of those fingers pushing into herself, as well as play with her clit, but when she stopped either, tears of frustration welled up in her eyes.

Beast continued to watch her as she moaned and cried, trying to set a more brutal pace to stretch herself on her fingers when she stopped circling and playing with her clit. She groaned in frustration and annoyance, it just wasn't as good without the additional stimulation, but she couldn't keep up both. Stuffing her fingers inside of her cunt, she whimpered, rocking her hips down on her fingers.

The scent of her arousal and desperation was so thick in the air that it was already making Beast's brain fuzzy, but when she once again cried out his name, he couldn't control himself. He made his way around the side of the bookshelf, immediately pushing her hand to the side and replacing her fingers with his tongue. She gasped, arching her back as his large tongue found its way deep inside of her sweet cunt, tasting how wet and aroused she was. Beast growled, grabbing her hips and pinning her down when she tried to move.

In seconds, Belle was cumming on his tongue. When she did, her body sagged back slightly, her hole pulsing pathetically around his tongue as if trying to milk him. Beast grinned as he pulled back, his large teeth teasing her inner thighs as he ran his tongue and teeth along the sensitive skin there. His fur was soaked with her juices, which embarrassed her, but he couldn't seem to care any less.

"You didn't have to do that," she said shyly, trying to close her legs to prevent him from seeing just how desperate she was for more.

"I wanted to," he muttered, roughly pushing her legs apart.

She began to squirm slightly in his chair. While she was attracted to him, she still had problems trusting him, and wasn't sure if she wanted him to continue touching her. When she opened her mouth to voice these thoughts, though, he took the opportunity to kiss her, shoving his tongue in her mouth. She groaned against it, tasting herself all over him. His large claws quickly shredded her clothing, leaving soft pink lines that sprung up in places where he had clawed at her clothing too hard.

With the pad of his finger, so as not to hurt her with his claws, he began to circle and play with her clit. She whimpered quietly, squirming again to get away from his touch. It was too much after such an intense orgasm. With his other hand, he yanked her back to him, pinning her down so it was easier to play with her clit. He pulled her tongue out of her mouth, letting her gasp and the sound of her whining be louder, filling the room they were in.

"Beast please," she whined, struggling against his strong grip. "I can't. It's too much."

"Isn't this what you were just begging for? For me to play with you? To use you for my own pleasure?" he growled lowly, his tongue darting out to lick one of her nipples, making her whine again. "Or do you want me to skip to the cumming inside of your pretty pink pussy?"

Belle blushed, her own words being repeated back to her making her feel embarrassed, almost ashamed. She couldn't believe how raunchy she had made herself sound. Granted, she hadn't expected Beast to hear her, but surely she had to have known that there was a chance, right?

While Belle was rethinking her actions, Beast took the way that she was still soaking wet and how her clit was reacting to him as an invitation. Lining up his huge cock with her tiny hole, he slowly began to push himself inside of her. This snapped her out of her thoughts, making her cry out. Even stretching herself with her fingers was no preparation for this. She was being stretched so so slowly, but only because he was moving inside of her slowly. One harsh snap of his hips and she would be wrecked, impaled on his giant length.

She tried moving off of him again, but he pinned her down, his claws digging into her skin. Now her movements annoyed him, making him bare his fangs at her, his tail flicking in irritation as he still made his way slowly inside of her.

"Isn't this what you wanted? To be pinned down and used by a monster?" he growled, having to be more rough with forcing himself inside of her when about half of his cock had been pushed inside of her. "You were just begging me to knot and use you. You went into my library, read my book, sat in my chair, and touched your wet little hole while crying my name, begging for my cock. What, now you don't want it?"

She couldn't respond, crying as she came around his cock again. She was already so close from how he had been teasing her clit again, that between his words and how his cock filled her completely, she couldn't help herself. She felt even more embarrassed, but the gush of it allowed Beast to finally bottom out inside of her.

He roared, biting on her shoulder. Part of him felt bad as the taste of her blood rushed into his mouth, but the way that she was hugging his cock drowned out any voice of guilt. She was pushing down on his cock, grinding against his knot. The things she was saying only came out as incoherent babbles, but clearly she was eager for more. For whatever he could give her, and he planned on just that.

Like this story? Support me on Ko-fi ☕❤️

[deansbite]

　　　𝒥𝒞　　｡　　fuzzy dreams

pairings　𓎟𓎡 ₊ ˖　afab!reader x dean winchester

warnings　𓎟𓎡 ₊ ˖　18+ mdni !!　fingering　masturbation　semi-public　sexy hot dean (im sorry i had to)　praise　caught masturbating.. (kinda)　reader has an extremely vivid imagination

summary　𓎟𓎡 ₊ ˖　despite the familiarity of the situation, the thought of sleeping in the same bed as dean riles you up a little more than you wanted it to. it wasn't your fault, he looked too good. with it being your only option, you had to take matters into your own hands—and imagination.

READERS POV

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

You and Dean were in a motel room bed together, sound asleep. Well, you were asleep. Notice how it was in the past form? Yeah, well reason for that was because you stirred awake due to some bullshit dream — which was explicit. Perfect fucking timing because you and your childhood-fucking-bestfriend-Dean-Winchester booked a motel room with a single queen bed. It was the only room left.

See, you had no problem sleeping in the same bed as him. That was no problem because you'd done it since you both were tiny. Because both your dads were connected to the hip — literally whenever they see eachother on a hunt they'd let you two stand there, gun in hand and stare at eachother till they finished. But that was irrelevant when you were currently in bed.. your body heating up more and more by the minute.

Dean was fast asleep, shuffling and moving so that the mattress dipped under his weight — including his legs being tangled up in the covers so he tugged it over to his side — because you two were full grown adults. Boundaries were set and he was on his side, you were on yours.

On any other occasion, you'd freak out and snatch the covers back. But you were relieved — some cool air ran over your incredibly hot skin. You felt like you were set on fire.. inside and out. You let out a sigh of relief — fluttering your eyes shut. You felt in need of some.. blissful relief. Because your core was dripping wet. Which made you pissed because you never had explicit dreams on any other hunt where you didn't share a bed.. but the moment you actually share a bed with Dean, it magically happens?

You fluttered your eyes open. The motel room you were in — was surprisingly quiet. Well, that is if you don't factor in the continous dripping water from the kitchen faucet.. since the kitchen wasn't all too far away. And you also started to hear every tiny obnoxious noise. Which.. being truthful, was better to think about than your current situation. God damnit you just thought of it again.

Could this get any worse? You exhaled, your eyes having long adjusted to the darkness of the room, which helped you be able to get around. And that was exactly what you were going to do. Dean unexpectedly shuffled around in bed. Which made you tense up — realizing you had to be as quiet as you could possibly be if you wanted to go to the bathroom.

In a swift movement, you sat up. The mattress dipping even further now that you were sat on your ass and all the weight wasn't spread out, but more so pressed down in one single place. And that made you panic — snapping your head to look behind you at Dean. Who was very much still asleep, facing you. In his black tee, black boxers and messy hair.. with covers spread out on and.. around him? Because some of the covers were shoved between his legs — some of it on the ground and some just.. covering parts of him.

You furrowed a brow — about to forget what you were even planning on doing and just giggling at him. But.. you noticed his plump lips pressed together, he was laying on his chest, which shouldn't have upset you as much as it did. But it did. Because his shirt was rolled up just a little — which would've been able to give you a glimpse of his abdomen — and abs. God what the fuck?! He's your bestfriend. You didn't hit puberty or someshit like a twelve year old boy.

Pull it together, and just finger fuck yourself so your absurd thoughts won't be able to drive a wedge between your friendship just because you were horny for one day. Okay, breathe in. You rose to your feet, the floorboards groaning under your weight. That noise — whilst for Dean nonexistent.. for you that was like a rocket taking off. Fear shot up your spine and you froze every muscle in your body. Unable to move any further. Your eyes focused on Dean, watching him closely.

You weren't even sure why you tried so incredibly hard to be quiet.. if you woke him up, you'd just be going to the bathroom. No biggie.. except you were going to literally finger yourself. And you probably don't look the best.. and like you just had to pee. Your skin felt like it was on fire, your hair was probably messy and your pajamas were probably disheveled. After finally feeling like you were good to go, you head for the bathroom.

You needed to get this done and over with, even if Dean woke up. You'll find some excuse to tell him if he hears you shuffle in the bathroom. But you still hoped he slept through everything. Fucking finally you reached the bathroom door. Everything else in the motel room wasn't important, except the bed and bathroom. You looked over your shoulder to see Dean fast asleep.

You were put at ease with that fact, your head turned forward and you focused back on what you were planning on doing. Your hand reached out and your fingers wrapped around the cool.. rusty and metal doorknob, which was a contrast to your warm hands. You twisted it and pushed the door open. The door creaked for a moment, but you were quick to grab it to halt the noise just in time.

Eventually, after literally dealing with this whole situation as if it were a parkour and dodging the most unnecessary things, such as Dean waking up or finding another solution, such as sleeping it off.. but you were stubborn. And, you finally got to shut the bathroom door, gently to make sure it wouldn't slam, just a simple click. Before you got to suck in a deep breath.

Your fingers travelled up to the lightswitch, your index finger flipped up and the lights flickered to life, lighting up the entire room. You glared at yourself in the mirror.. jesus, you seriously looked like you just got into a fight with a Chimera. Your lips were parted and you looked flustered as fuck. You just bent over slightly, turning on the tap, cupping your hands under the cold running water before your hands were filled to the brim with cold water.

You splashed the water on your face, before running your wet hand through your hair and shut your eyes, your left hand gripping on the edge of the sink to balance yourself, the water was still running as background noise, which wasn't on purpose, you simply forgot. Now your heavy breathing and pants won't be the only thing bouncing off the walls.

Your hand travelled down your body, some remaining water droplets dribbling down your skin. To help you get off without feeling like you were a total freak, you started imagining Dean. Imagining his raspy and crackly — his sleepy voice as he praised you. "Doin' so good f'me, sweetheart, just a bit longer. Gotta get you ready for me." Dean's emerald green eyes focused on yours. He was ontop of you, his hand along with his body travelling down your body. His right hand ran all the way down your abdomen, stopping right at the waistband of your pants.

His fingers teased you by fiddling with it. Your eyes were locked on his. He had that dumb cocky grin on his face. "Should I eat this pussy or fuck it w'my fingers?" He whispered, as if he was asking himself. But he was loud enough for you to hear. His words meshed in with one another due to him having just woken up. Your hands went down and grasped onto his messy, dirty blonde locks.. you let out a pathetic whine.

"I hear ya, baby. Just be patient." He reassured, lips pressed together and his right hand, which was initally teasing you, now hovering a little above your pants, before it slipped beneath the fabric. His emerald green eyes travelling down your body, which paused at your bundle of nerves. Despite two pieces of material covering it, he observed the outline of his fingers, a smirk displayed on his lips.

"Oh?" He exclaimed, an eyebrow raising and his smirk a tad bit more visible now. His fingers were now directly pressing against your entrance — with your underwear between his fingers and your core. You clenched around nothing. He felt how dripping wet you were, which caused him to chuckle. "So needy." He commented, eyes darting from your mound to your face. "Look so pretty." He praised, humming and getting back to work, his fingers going to the side of your panties, before tugging them to the side to have better access to your aching core.

"Gonna show you what you've been missin' out on." He whispered. His ring finger was finding your clit, before he pressed on it in the lightest way, moving his ring finger in tiny circles, causing you to moan his name. He chuckled, "Has nobody given you a good handjob, baby? Already so greedy f'more 'n I haven't even started." He prompted. You shook your head in response. He clicked his tongue. "Well, m'glad t'be able t'change that."

Without much of a warning, Dean plunged his index finger into your pussy. A gasp escaped your lips. Dean didn't react, just slowly pushing his index deeper and deeper, you let out a whimper. "Shh, calm down, sweetheart." He mumbled, his left hand, which was just resting on your lower thigh eventually came to use. His thumb caressed your skin. You lightly tugged on his messy locks, causing him to groan. "Come on, baby, ease up."

You were tense, your walls squeezing around his fingers, he sighed and his ring finger sped up the pace for a bit, adding into the mix of pleasure. Now he slowly retreated his index, just so his index was still in your pussy and then he immediately slammed it back in, grunting. "Gotta stretch you out if I wanna fuck this pretty little cunt." He explained, but you were a writhing mess.

He kept fucking you harsh and fast with his index, the squelching and whining coming from you was so explicit your cheeks heated up. "So wet, easier t'fuck ya." He mumbled, his left cheek eventually resting on the inner thigh of your right leg. Eyes still so damn focused on your mound. His plump lips parted. You wondered how they'd feel around your clit and how he'd be eating you out. You let out a much louder moan when Dean started up the scissoring motion, which you already had the pleasuring of your clit with his ring finger and the fingering.

You were close, Dean could tell by the way your breathing became irregular, you began fumbling with your words when you tried to tell Dean that you were about to fall over the edge. But he knew. Your walls were clenching and unclenching around his fingers and he began thrusting his fingers in and out of you faster. And stimulating your clit more. "What was that?" He asked, raising a brow.

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you clenched around his fingers and saw literal stars. Your juices covering his hand —

"Hey, sweetheart." A hoarse and concerned voice called out from behind the door. "You okay in there?" It was Dean.. your fucking childhood bestfriend. The guy who you imagined finger-fucking you. Oh fucking christ. This wasn't normal if you saw him as nothing more than a friend. Friends don't exactly fuck themselves with their fingers whilst imagining their friend doing it.

"You kept moaning my name." He added, "Did y'slip 'n fall?" A moment passed with no answer. Jesus christ you were completely fucked.

Your face was so completely obvious that you didn't fall. You removed your hand from underneath your pants and quickly washed it off under the tap. He cleared his throat. "I swear m'comin' in.. if y'don't answer in the next few seconds." His voice was filled with worry. "No, no! I'm fine! I'm just.." What the fuck do you say now?

͝ ⏝𝅄︶ ͝ ⏝ ⊹ ⏝ ͝ ︶𝅄⏝ ͝

cliffhanger cause this is testing the waters 😞 + this was a bit proofread by @pearlzier so... mistakes / grammar errors may be found plus english isnt my first language gang..

tags: @luvr4miya @upsidedean @angelblqde @fallbhind @beausling @pearlzier @fourkilljoys

amab vers: coming soon (im tired and wanna watch gilmore girls ill do it soon)

[the-dendrophile-bookdragon]

Mister Targaryen's Curious Bookshop

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining, slow burn, Aemond being obsessed with the reader, a little bit of self-loathing and low self-esteem (Aemond), flower shop/bookshop AU

Summary: Aemond thought he would be alone with his bookshop for the rest of his life. Until the flower shop next door came back to life.

A/N: This fic had been sitting in my WIPs for ages. @hotd-bigbang gave me the motivational push to finally write it. And @targaryenrealnessdarling visualised my words so wonderfully, helping me imagine and feel this fic more.

Masterlist Taglist

Aemond had been working at "The Curious Book Shop" since college. It had become his refuge from the chaos of his family life and a break from his studies. He would hide in the deepest corners, surrounded by rows upon rows of books, studying for exams or reading for pleasure.

It was during one of his early morning runs that he stumbled upon his fate. Just around the corner from his apartment complex, he noticed a small bookshop. Something about it pulled him in as if it were calling out to him. The smell of old books gently wafted into his nostrils, and he felt as though he had entered heaven.

Aemond wandered the shop slowly, lazily browsing the shelves. His fingers grazed the spines of both old and new books. He spotted classics like *Frankenstein* and beautifully bound editions of Jane Austen novels, but there was also an entire section dedicated to fresh voices, new writers waiting to be discovered. 

Time slipped away from him until the bookshop keeper, a kind elderly man with snow-white hair, a stout build, and round glasses that made his eyes look larger—like a slightly overfed hamster—tapped him gently on the shoulder. With a warm smile, the man told him it was closing time.

Aemond felt a pang of disappointment. He had only explored half of the shop and longed to uncover every hidden corner. 

From that day on, he became a regular. His visits were so frequent that the old man eventually offered him a job. Aemond accepted without hesitation; it was a dream come true to work in a place filled with books.

Though Aemond had completed his business degree at Queen’s College in King’s Landing, he didn’t pursue the corporate path his mother and grandfather had carefully laid out for him. Instead, he chose to put his skills to use at the bookshop. His mentor appreciated his knack for numbers and calculations, and Aemond soon took over managing the shop’s finances and budgets.

For a long time, Aemond was simply an employee. His mentor guided him through all the shop’s nooks and crannies, revealing the secrets hidden deep within the endless rows of books. But when the old man passed away, Aemond was shocked to discover that, in his will, he had left the bookshop to him.

"Old Valyrian magic," his mentor had said one day as they placed new arrivals on the shelves near the cashier, "is rooted deep in every corner of this bookshop—in every rug fibre, dust grain, and wooden splinter. It is like the skeleton of this wonderful shop."

Aemond could feel it too—the raw power lingering behind closed doors, in the creaks of the wooden floor, and the way the air seemed to hum with ancient energy. Or, at least, he thought he did. The truth was, sometimes the shop seemed to have a mind of its own. Doors would appear where there had been none before, opening to reveal strange, hidden rooms. Other times, doors would remain locked no matter how hard he tried, as if the bookshop decided he wasn’t ready to enter.

One day, after stocking the historical crime books, Aemond’s curiosity was piqued when a door swung open just as he turned away from the shelves. This door, unlike the others, seemed to beckon him. It led him not to another room but to an entirely different dimension—a space outside the normal laws of reality.

There were no books written about the bookshop itself, at least none he could find, and so he started documenting his explorations in a leather-bound notebook. In it, he scribbled down every detail, theory, and oddity he encountered. He spent hours after closing wandering the ever-shifting landscape of the shop, venturing through realms that seemed to exist only within its walls. The bookshop was playful—mischievous, even. It would open random doors, then lock them again, guiding him through magical adventures far beyond the world outside.

One room in particular had become his favourite: The Hidden Library. It was a vast, seemingly endless space filled with row after row of books, stretching far into the sky. There were books of every kind—small, hand-sized paperbacks, large encyclopedic tomes, volumes bound in leather with golden lettering, some in languages long dead. History, botany, astrology, science, philosophy—the scope of knowledge was overwhelming.

The towering shelves formed a maze, a labyrinth of wisdom and mystery. At the heart of this labyrinth sat a large oak desk, polished to such perfection that it gleamed like glass. Above it hung an ornate chandelier, casting a warm, amber glow over the desk, perfect for reading or studying in the comforting silence of the library.

But the labyrinth had its whims. The shelves shifted at will, reshuffling the paths and the books. It was both awe-inspiring and, at times, deeply frustrating. There were days when the maze seemed to toy with him, taking him in circles or preventing him from finding the desk. Yet, Aemond knew it was the bookshop's way of showing off—revealing itself bit by bit, granting him access to its secrets.

Aemond often imagined that the Library of Alexandria must have been like this—filled with treasures of knowledge, books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the world, guarded by time and mystery. Here, in his bookshop, he was one of the lucky few to uncover these treasures.

But The Hidden Library wasn’t the only room that fascinated him. There were other hidden chambers—each with its own magic, its own allure. He spent so much time exploring these secret places that he realized the bookshop had become more than just his workplace. It was his refuge, his second home, and perhaps, more than anything, a living entity he had come to understand like a dear, old friend.

Next to the magical bookshop stood an old, battered flower shop. The windows were dusty, and the paint on the rusty frames—once a bright blue—was flaking off. The sunblinds were torn and faded, their colour washed out from years of rain and weather damage.

Aemond’s mentor had once mentioned that the old owner couldn’t keep the shop open because her hands were no longer as nimble as they used to be. “The arrangements she made were as magical as this bookshop,” he would always say. “A shame she had to close it. She had no one to take over.”

The old bookshop owner had seemed melancholic whenever he spoke of the previous florist, smiling wistfully as if he had secretly admired her, perhaps even loved her in silence. Little did he know that he would share the same fate, leaving behind his beloved shop.

But one day, the flower shop next door sprang back to life. The scent of spring flowers began to fill the street, drifting into Aemond’s bookshop. The windows were freshly cleaned, and a new, bright yellow sunblind had been installed, replacing the worn one.

A week after the shop reopened, he saw her. She had messy, short hair in a half-up, half-down style, and a soft smile on her rosy, full lips. Her eyes sparkled as she quietly mumbled to herself, carefully arranging cut flowers in a vase outside the shop.

Aemond didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed watching her. Lost in her own little world, she crafted magnificent art with flowers, leaves, and other natural materials. He marvelled at her creations every time he passed by, often stopping to buy a bouquet—sometimes just to strike up a conversation, sometimes just to be near her.

It was nearly closing time when she appeared in front of him, a bright smile spreading across her lips. Her hair was messy again, with leaves and colourful petals woven into it—likely by accident, as some softly drifted to the ground whenever she turned her head. 

"Hi, I'm your shop neighbour. Sorry for not introducing myself sooner; I had to unpack everything," she said, holding out her hand with a bright grin. "Lovely," Aemond thought as he shook her hand.

“I’ve been to your shop a few times. I should’ve introduced myself, too,” he mumbled sheepishly, a soft blush dusting his pale cheeks. His ears felt like they were on fire.

Her hand was so small compared to his, soft but marked with fresh scars—probably from working with thorny roses or other prickly flowers. She was always creating art, in any form or shape, and it showed.

Her voice was full of joy, and unlike so many others, she looked at him without a trace of disgust or discomfort. She didn’t flinch at his scar or the eyepatch. She didn’t even avoid his gaze, which most people did. She looked him straight in the eyes, seeing him as a whole person. A warm feeling washed over him at that realization—it had been so long since he’d felt this way.

“Oh! Yes, I remember you now. You always buy two bouquets at a time!” she exclaimed, gesturing excitedly with her hands. Her energy was infectious, Aemond noted, and despite the late hour, he felt more awake just watching her. “You must really like your life partner!”

His blush deepened, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that,” he mumbled, feeling the heat rise in his face.

Clearing his throat, he squared his shoulders, trying to regain his composure as he towered over her. But she only smiled more, undeterred by his flustered state.

“No problem,” he whispered gruffly, shifting nervously from foot to foot. He averted his eye, staring down at the cashier counter. Why was he so flustered?

“Can I look around? I know you’re closing soon, but this is the only time I can visit because of my shop hours,” she asked.

He nodded solemnly, and her grin widened as she skipped off into the depths of the bookshop. Aemond couldn’t help but stare after her, his heart still pounding wildly in his chest. His usual calm demeanour was slipping, and his hands were growing sweatier with every passing second.

He watched her roam through the aisles, her fingers gently brushing the spines of books. A soft smile played on her lips, and her eyes sparkled with the joy that seemed to radiate from her. Her skin looked smooth, her hands had been as soft as silk.

Her hair was up in a messy bun, with loose strands framing her face perfectly. He tried not to stare too much, but he couldn’t help himself. She was beautiful—radiant, even. The flower girl from next door.

It was no longer unusual for her to visit him after her shop’s closing hours. Since their first meeting, it had become routine, and Aemond didn’t mind keeping the shop open a little longer for her. He enjoyed the peace, but even more, he enjoyed her presence. She brought a sense of chaos and life into his dusty, meticulously ordered existence—something he had always carefully avoided, but now realized he needed.

This time, she told him in advance where she intended to wander, mindful not to repeat the incident from her first visit. That day, she had innocently ventured into one of the magical rooms, and Aemond hadn't heard from her for hours. Panic had set in when she failed to respond to his calls. By the time he found her, it was nearly midnight, and both of them had early mornings ahead. She explained that a door had appeared before her, opening on its own, and she hadn’t been able to resist stepping through.

Luckily, it was The Hidden Library she had found, a room Aemond knew like the back of his hand. The labyrinth of bookshelves had shifted, subtly aiding him in locating her more quickly than it usually would allow. Other rooms might not have been so kind, and Aemond had been relieved when he spotted her amidst the endless rows of books.

When he found her, she hadn’t been panicked or distressed. In fact, she had a stack of books balanced in her arms, her face lit with pure delight. "This is magnificent!" she had said, her voice filled with awe as she wandered between the ever-changing shelves.

His heart had pounded in his chest when he saw her, but not out of fear anymore. Something else stirred in him—his heart skipped, or maybe it leapt with joy, something akin to a yearning he hadn’t felt in a long time. Aemond was no stranger to intense emotions, but this was different. It wasn’t the fiery anger or the cold, bitter loneliness he was used to; this was warm, fluttering, almost sweet in its intensity.

Crushes were for middle schoolers, weren’t they? He tried to tell himself that, but there was no denying it anymore. Watching her flit through his magical bookshop with that infectious enthusiasm, her joy at discovering something new—it made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t in years. 

He stood there, watching her as she made her way through the aisles, completely at ease in the strange, shifting shop. She never seemed bothered by the oddities or the magic; if anything, it only seemed to fuel her curiosity and joy. And as much as he tried to keep his distance, Aemond couldn’t help but be drawn to her.

Maybe crushes weren't just for middle schoolers after all.

Aemond had never imagined he'd find himself standing in a magical greenhouse with the quirky flower shop owner next door, watching her flit between plants and books with the kind of excitement that only she seemed to possess. The realisation that he had a crush on her had grown stronger with every bouquet she brought him, each one slowly wilting or drying out under his care despite his best efforts.

When she playfully teased him about his inability to keep her gifts alive—remarking that she’d thought a magical shop would do the job for him—Aemond could only smile sheepishly. He had no explanation, other than perhaps his unfamiliarity with the deeper, older magics of the place. Maybe, he mused, if he had studied Valyrian magic more closely, he’d have been able to keep her flowers flourishing. 

Then one day, they found it—The Glass House. It appeared out of nowhere. He had restocked some sections of the shop while she was aimlessly wandering around again. His eyes sometimes drifted over to her. Watching her read passages out of books quietly. Making a note of which book she held longer so he could give it to her when he bought another bouquet from her.

They both turned into the same aisle when the door appeared right in front of them. Just right at the end of the rows of bookshelves where usually a wall was.

She stared at him with big eyes. “Is this normal?” She looked up at him with a bewildered expression. He nodded nonchalantly, he was used to it. “The bookshop likes to play.” She giggled gently at his deadpan words.

“Tell me more.” Her bright smile made his lips quirk up slightly. “Well, I don’t know how the magic works. The old owner couldn’t tell me either. But I found out the doors mirror the moods, likes and needs of the person standing in front of it.”

“Like the Room of Requirement?” Aemond snorted at her question. “More or less. The door stays and only disappears when it isn’t needed anymore. To make room for another door. A few doors had disappeared when my mentor died. It felt like the shop had mourned him.” 

He let his eyes wander over her face. To check if she understood what he was saying. She nodded lowly. She seemed to be deep in thought. Mulling over his words carefully. “There are multiple doors in the bookshop. Not one like in Harry Potter. Maybe even hidden ones. But most of the time they are prominent.”

She nodded softly. Looking at the door that had appeared in front of them. Vines seemed to wind around the wooden front like they were alive. Forming a large tree taking up nearly the whole door. To her, it seemed like the tree in the Nordic myth, Yggdrasil.  "So if I would go through one of those doors, it is like I would go through a portal. Like the wardrobe in Narnia?” Aemond snorted as he put another book onto a shelf, holding “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe ” in his hands. Coincidence? In this shop, less likely.

“I see the shop more like the Tardis.” He mumbled. He was reaching up to restock the “Lord of the Rings” bundle packs back on the fantasy shelf. A classic he seems to run out of every week.

“Because the store seems small at first glance but it gets bigger with every new door opening?” She stood beside him, holding the stacks of Agatha Christi novels for him. “Yeah, like that.” He smiled at her, a rare occurrence that had happened more often since they spent time together. She hummed thoughtfully. “I like my Narnia reference more.” Aemond chuckled. “I am hurt.” He pouted playfully at her, making her giggle.

Suddenly the door opened next to her. She shrieked, which made him look up at her. His body was alarmed. Ready to fight whoever dared to scare her. He blushed slightly when he realised what he was thinking. And that he would fight a door for her.

Her fright was not long living. She was too curious to be scared for long. “I can make it up to you. Go on! Go inside and I follow you, Doctor.” He laughed gently. Putting away the last of crime mystery books before turning to the green door. “Well… Geronimo!” He mumbled playfully into her ear. Making her blush.

He turned the golden knop. With a gnarling sound, it slowly opened. A breeze of warm wind blew into their faces gently. 

Aemond held the door open for her to go inside. She shyly thanked him. Her eyes grew big at the sight of what lay behind the inconspicuous door. Aemond had to keep up with her as she rushed inside the door.

She stopped in the middle of the room. Her breathing hitched in her throat as she took in the room overgrown with lush green plants. Her smile reached up to her ears. Her small body vibrates from excitement. “Look! A greenhouse library!” He smiled as he watched her flitter around the room.

Strangely, it wasn’t as humid as a typical greenhouse. It was pleasantly warm or cool, depending on what they needed at the time. On either side of the house stood hip-high plant tables made of stone, filled with plants both known and unknown, their blooms and colourful leaves on display for visitors.

In one corner stood two cosy-looking emerald armchairs with a table between them. They looked so inviting as if they had been waiting for him and his companion. Friend? he wondered about what he should call his shop neighbour. His little flower girl? His heart pounded against his ribcage. What was he thinking? His little flower girl? She was barely his friend—acquaintances, maybe? Slowly he started to confuse himself, distracting him from marvelling and listening to her.

But his heart knew what his mind refused to admit: he wanted her. He wanted to explore his magical bookshop with her.

They moved on. Going into the garden section. She already held three books in her hand. Opening them at random pages to read them at the same time. It was an endearing sight he didn’t like to avert his eyes.

She talked animatedly about the various plants, suggesting that he put her half-dead flowers from the front of the shop in the Glass House so he wouldn’t be so sad when they died. She stopped short when she realized she was alone in another corner of the greenhouse, having abandoned the orchids to return to the centre of the room—back to the two emerald armchairs. Back to him.

The sight of her wide-eyed excitement as they entered The Glass House was enough to make Aemond's heart leap. Plants of all kinds surrounded them, lush greenery spilling over the stone plant tables. Despite the greenhouse setting, the air was a perfect balance of warmth and coolness, catering to their comfort. In the centre of the room were two emerald armchairs, an inviting sanctuary in the midst of the botanical splendour.

He watched her eagerly explore the space, picking up books on gardening and flipping through their pages with a joyful energy that he found utterly endearing. She chattered on about the plants, suggesting with a grin that maybe he could bring her dying bouquets here, where the magic could keep them alive.

Aemond was about to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mind wandered to the sensation of her small, scarred hand in his earlier—a hand that had felt soft, delicate, and utterly natural in his. He couldn't stop the warmth that spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t entirely sure how to deal with. What was she to him, really? His heart wanted to call her something more than just a shop neighbour or even a friend. Something like "his flower girl" seemed to fit, but it made his chest tighten with a strange kind of longing. 

As he stood there, lost in thought, he barely noticed her wandering off to the other side of The Glass House. He only snapped back to attention when he realized she had returned, her presence suddenly close again. She held out her hand, a playful glint in her eyes. "I saw another door opening," she said softly, her voice filled with excitement. "Your bookshop is telling me something. Want to come with me?"

He looked down at her outstretched hand, feeling a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Hesitation flashed briefly before he took her hand, its warmth seeping into his. “Let’s explore the rooms together, then,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with resolve.

She led him through the new door, and they entered a room unlike any other he had ever seen. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, filled with swirling stars, planets, and constellations that shimmered and moved like they were alive. The smell of ancient books filled the air, wrapping around them like a comforting, familiar blanket. It was peaceful, serene—a perfect contrast to the excitement they’d felt in The Glass House.

They both stood in silence for a moment, awestruck by the beauty of the room. Later, they would come to call it "The Sorcerer’s Room," convinced it had once belonged to a powerful wizard—a figure out of legend, someone like Merlin.

But for now, Aemond was content. Content to explore the wonders of his magical bookshop, not alone this time, but with her by his side. And more than the magic of the shop, it was her wide-eyed wonder and infectious joy that captivated him the most. As they wandered deeper into the room, he felt her hand tighten around his, and for the first time in a long while, he realized how much he enjoyed sharing this world with someone who made it feel even more magical.

Since the discovery of The Glass House and The Sorcerer’s Room, she had spent most of her time in both rooms—studying the plants or curling up in the emerald armchair to read. She looked like a cat when she did it.  

In The Sorcerer’s Room, she would lie on the floor and point out different constellations. He would lie next to her, hanging on to every word that left her lips.

“Black tea, steeped for nearly ten minutes with a dash of milk.” He set the large yellow cup with white daisies in front of her on the small coffee table. She smiled softly up at him.  

“Thank you,” she said. She had lost track of time as she read in the emerald chair in The Glass House, a blanket she had crocheted herself thrown over her lap. At his sweet gesture, her heart thudded harder against her rib cage.

His heart leapt again at her soft smile.  

“Am I here often enough now that you’ve already memorized my tea-drinking habits?” she chuckled softly.  

He grinned involuntarily. “It’s an odd way to drink tea,” he teased, “but I like odd things,” he wanted to add.

She giggled softly, making his heart flutter again, before taking a sip. She closed her eyes and let out a content hum.  

“Perfect,” she whispered, her bright eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the light in The Glass House, like stars sparkling in the night sky.

His body warmed at her smile. A rare smile crept across his own, thinner lips. He leaned slightly closer, inhaling the floral scent of her perfume—so fresh and light. He wanted to fall asleep with his face nestled in her neck, to wake up to her warmth every morning.

The realization hit him hard. His body grew tense, every muscle and fibre rigid as he looked down at her. His knees nearly buckled as he stared.  

Her perfect little smile haunted his dreams and every waking moment. Her eyes hypnotized him whenever they caught his gaze. She was an enchantress, though she didn’t know it.

He cleared his throat and sat down in the other emerald green armchair next to her, trying to focus on his book. But every five seconds, he lost his place, and after a few paragraphs, he had no idea what he had been reading.

The reason was clear: she, his shop neighbour. The sweet florist next door. A woman so kind and warm that he wanted to envelop her in his arms, keep her close, and never let her go.

He was growing possessive. He caught himself growling at male customers from time to time, surprising even himself. He had never acted like this before. Not with his ex, Alys, or with Floris, the girl he dated for one semester at university.

This was different—a deep, primal urge. To be close to her. To take care of her. To provide for her. To be hers, just as he wanted her to be his.

The more he thought about her, the more horrified he became at how deeply in love he had fallen. His heart raced, his hands grew sweaty, and they trembled lightly, clammy with nervous energy.

The most fatal mistake he made at that moment was looking over at her. His lone, piercing pale violet eye drank in her worried features.  

Strands of hair had fallen into her face, and he watched as her nose wrinkled slightly, one strand tickling it. Her bright eyes examined him carefully, her worry growing the longer he sat like a statue in the emerald armchair beside her.

“Everything alright, Aemond?” she asked, her voice soft. The sound of his name on her lips was enough to make him swoon. So sweet, so innocent.  

“Yes,” he rasped, clearing his throat. “All is well. Never been better.” He rambled, trying to regain his composure.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. He felt trapped, like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a predator. What was she doing to him?

He couldn’t keep feeling like this—trapped in his own body. It was a sensation he had tried to avoid since childhood, an unhealthy way to cope with anxiety. He knew that well enough.  

Aemond abruptly stood from the armchair and rushed out of the room into the main selling area of the bookshop, trying to hide between the shelves. But he could hear her soft footsteps following him. She had thrown the blanket aside and followed him as fast as her shorter legs could carry her. 

He tried to outrun her, taking sharp turns every few steps but suddenly stopped at a dead end. Cursing himself for not paying attention to his own shop’s layout, he glared at the wall. A part of him wished for a new door to appear so he could disappear, but nothing happened. The wall remained still, unmoving.  

She chased after him the best she could. Her legs were much shorter than his, and while he could take one step, she needed four to keep up. She tried anyway, her eyes fixed on him as he turned corners.

But one of his turns was too fast. He managed to shake her off, leaving her out of breath and disoriented. Her mind raced, trying to figure out where he had gone. Her gut told her to go left, but her head insisted on right.  

Finally, she found him, standing rigid at the dead end. His back stiffened as she approached. "Why are you running from me?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with confusion. He didn’t turn, as if trying to ignore her.

She stepped closer. "Did I do something wrong?"  

"No!" he immediately shot back. She jumped, startled by the suddenness of his response, a gasp escaping her lips.

Hearing the sound, he turned toward her. He had scared her—a thing he vowed he would never do. "I’m sorry," he murmured, reaching out, and she let him touch her arm. Her baby blue jumper felt soft under his hand. "I’m so sorry," he repeated, his voice quieter this time.

"It’s alright," she said, stepping closer. "I’m just a jumpy person."  

She looked up at him, her eyes shining even in the dim light, like stars in the night sky.  

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered under his breath, but she heard it, smiling bashfully.  

"Thank you," she replied, her cheeks heating up.

They moved closer—toe to toe, chest to chest. Aemond looked down at her while she looked up.  

"You have beautiful eyes," she mumbled.  

"No, I don’t," he responded, his tone harsher than he intended.

She frowned at his self-deprecation. "They’re both unique in their own way, and I think they’re beautiful." Her protest was met with a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  

"Don’t tell me what to think," she said, glaring at him playfully.

He chuckled. "If you say so."  

She huffed in disbelief, frustrated by how low his self-esteem was. Words weren’t enough, so she let her actions speak for her. She leaned up and kissed him gently.

His breath caught in his throat as their lips met, and a tingling sensation swept over his body. Slowly, he pulled her closer by the waist, careful not to make her stumble. Her arms wrapped around his slim frame, her fingers digging into the wool of his jumper.

The kiss lingered, electric sensations running through both of them. Eyes closed, they held each other tightly. But eventually, they had to come up for air.  

Their chests heaved, eyes wide and pupils blown, but big grins spread across their swollen lips. They didn’t need words—silence spoke volumes, carrying more meaning than a thousand words ever could.

[hellodropbear]

17520 hours.

mapi leon x ingrid engen x daughter (ish)

angst. part of the 'it's time.' series

mapi struggles on the two year anniversary of her best friend's death. Ingrid is right there to help her but she doesn't know how to let her in.

this is a lot more angst than i'm used to posting but i hope you like it.

it was hard to write and partially based on personal experiences so i apologise if it's not very good.

also decided to put it all in one part because i couldn't find a good place to split it!

i hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~

Two years is a long time. 

Two years is 104 weeks, two years is 730 days. Two birthdays, two christmases, two easters. Two summers and two winters, two new years and two anniversaries. 

Two years is a long time to miss someone. It should be enough time to have moved on. 

But when their daughter is in your care, that seems almost impossible. 

It was everyday that Mapi thought about her best friend, sometimes looking at her daughter and only seeing his eyes staring right back at her. 

The day was one that the Spaniard dreaded, the days becoming quicker and quicker in the lead up, the night before slowing right down as she crawled into bed, tossing and turning as she tried to sleep. 

Isabel was almost two. Still too young to understand that there was anything out of the ordinary in her life, anything that raised any questions. Even if Mapi tried explaining, she was sure that her daughter wouldn’t have the first idea what anything meant. 

She wouldn’t understand that Mapi wasn’t supposed to have her even though she gave birth. She wouldn’t understand that her parents had died because her Mami was right there in front of her. 

It was just a part of parenthood that Mapi had no idea how to conquer. She knew everything else, having spent hours and hours with her head buried in countless baby books, countless books that discussed grief and sadness in children. 

But Isabel wasn’t sad, she wasn’t grieving because she never knew Luis or Isabel. 

There were no books about how to tell a kid about her dead parents. It was a taboo topic, of sorts, one that many stand-in parents were reluctant to discuss with their child, hoping that they would just believe that they were their real parents. It was a bridge most people decided to cross when they had to, not at any point earlier than completely necessary. 

Mapi didn’t want that, she wanted her daughter to know who Luis was, who Isabel was. 

She just didn’t know when or how she should introduce the idea of them. 

But the second anniversary of their death left Mapi in a numb state, entirely torn up on the inside as she tried to decide whether she would take her daughter with her on her annual graveyard visit. It was Mapi’s time to chat to Luis alone, no interruptions, no distractions. 

Because while Isabel lost her parents, Mapi lost her lifelong best friend. 

She lost Luis, who meant everything and more to her. Luis who had moved to Barcelona a few months after her, Luis who watched every single one of her games, the first person to text her after a hard loss or an impressive win. 

She still hadn’t got out of the habit of checking her phone after a match, pain settling deep in her chest as her screen remained bare, his notification forever absent. 

It wasn’t a question of where she would be on the second anniversary. She knew exactly where she would be sat and exactly how she would feel as she stared at that obnoxiously large gravestone, big bold carvings of his name, his date of birth and date of death. 

‘Loving husband, son and friend.’ it read. Not father. ‘A man who lit up the lives of everyone he met.’ It was an understatement, Mapi had thought.

She had spent hours there when Isabel was a newborn, cradling her tiny body in her arms as she sat and silently stared at those few words. Loneliness ate her up, wishing for nothing other than her best friend. 

But her daughter had lit up her world as everything else was crumbling down, single handedly keeping the two of them afloat as Mapi grew tired, the sheer weight of her emotions almost drowning them. 

Isabel was an infant, too young to know anything was different. She was completely enraptured by her mother, smiling and laughing everyday they spent together in their small and stuffy apartment, completely unaware of the anguish that her mother was going through. 

It seemed fitting on the second anniversary of their death, only a couple months before her second birthday that Isabel would finally visit their gravestones. 

Even the thought of the graveyard made her feel uncomfortable, Mapi’s skin crawling at the thought of her best friend beneath her, cold and still. Someone she loved, such a warm and constant presence in her life, lying right there in the ground. 

It made her feel sick. Sick with anger because he was gone too soon. With grief because she never got to say goodbye. With guilt because she got to have the one thing he had always wanted. But mostly sick with the heartbreaking realisation that he was down there, in the flesh. 

Luis was dead. 

~~~~~~

It wasn’t a cold day, but she shivered as she stepped out of the car, the cool breeze prickling her skin as she unclipped a groggy Isabel from the back seat. 

“Where are we, Mami?” 

She looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings in confusion, probably expecting to have woken up in her bed. 

Mapi just hugged her, not trusting her voice to not break if she tried to respond. 

Despite only visiting twice before, the graveyard was familiar, she knew exactly how to get to Luis’ plot. She walked with purpose, not looking at the grave as she laid down the rug, only facing her best friend’s name once she was sat down. 

“This is your Papi, Is.”

Saying it out loud, her daughter in her arms. His daughter in her arms. It felt unusual, it felt uncomfortable. She could feel Isabel looking up at her, the confusion that radiated from the toddler’s body. 

She loosened her arms as Isabel wriggled herself free, waddling towards the stone and placing her hand on it. 

“Papi?”

She looked back at Mapi, a question in her eyes. She was met with tears slipping down her Mami’s face. 

“Mami.”

In an instant, she was back in Mapi’s arms, reaching up and wiping away the tears. 

“No sad, Mami. Brave like lion.”

Mapi nodded, a watery chuckle falling from her mouth. 

“I’m going to talk to your Papi, Is. Is that ok?”

Isabel nodded, settling herself on the rug with her lion toy as Mapi stood up, walking closer to the stone and placing her hand on his name, crouching down so it was at eye level. 

“Meet your daughter, Lu. She has your eyes, you know. She’s funny and smart and entirely the light of my life. I love her so much. More than I ever loved you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone, really. I promise. I promise I’ve tried my best and I hope you’re proud of her. I hope you’re proud of me.”

She bit her lip, unsuccessfully biting back her own tears. 

“It’s been two years, Lu. I don’t know how I have made it through two whole years without you, really. It’s been so… hard. I still expect to see you, to hear from you. Sometimes I think I do, only to realise that it’s not possible. Because you’re dead. You weren’t supposed to die, not so soon. You were supposed to watch your daughter grow, I was supposed to be her really cool aunt that she would go to when you argued, to give her that tattoo when you said no. ”

She let out a strangled chuckle, trying to alleviate some of the pain she felt. They had discussed Mapi’s relationship with the child at length, knowing that the centre back would love the child as her own because she was always with Luis, she would always be around the couple as they raised their child. That wouldn’t have changed if she wasn’t biologically Mapi’s. 

Back then, Mapi had thought she would have been fine with the situation. She knew the baby wasn’t really hers, she knew that she would still be able to watch the baby grow up, that she would still be able to love her. 

It wasn’t a problem that had actually materialised, but they hadn’t expected both Isabel and Luis to die right before she was born. 

“Now I have to discipline her, Luis, which is the one thing I didn’t want to have to do. But she’s such a good girl, she is so intelligent. Like you, really. She knows how I feel all the time, she definitely inherited your emotional intelligence. She loves everyone too, just like you. I was never supposed to be a mother, was I? You were always the paternal one out of the two of us, you were the one who deserved a child. But I am the one that got her.”

She swallows roughly, biting her lip. 

“Oh Luis, you would have loved her so much.”

Very quickly, she is overcome by her tears, collapsing down into herself in sobs. 

It’s all too much, it’s all too hard. 

It’s unfair that her best friend left her, that she was left alone to grow up. Growing up was something they had discussed at length when they were younger. Obviously they were never going to be married, they’d never live together. 

They had dreamt of adjoining houses, doors that connected their backyards. They were going to grow up together, the two of them. Luis would have his wife and a gaggle of kids, Mapi would have her wife and a pack of cats. They’d have their own families but their lives would be so closely connected because they loved each other in the purest way possible. 

A childhood connection, one that grew and grew into adulthood. 

One that was supposed to last a lifetime. 

It did last a lifetime, it lasted Luis’ lifetime. Just not Mapi’s. 

She calmed herself down after a couple minutes, Isabel unsurprisingly noticing her mother’s sadness and crawling into her arms as a source of comfort. 

They sat there for hours, an easy silence settling upon the pair. Mapi was deep in thought, Isabel knew it wasn’t the time for play, it wasn’t the time for her mindless babbling. 

It had been a couple hours when she heard the footsteps, people approaching silently. 

She hadn’t expected to see anyone there, but upon reflection she realised she had been naive - it was the anniversary after all. 

“Maria?”

She hadn’t heard Ane’s voice in two years. The last conversation they had was full of empty promises, of visits to Zaragoza that Mapi knew she would not go on. Promises that they would get to know the child that was growing in Mapi’s stomach, promises that they wouldn’t lose touch. 

They had lost touch, Mapi unable to visit Luis’ home whenever she returned to her parents. Ane and Mikel were in too much pain to see the child, not sure how they could face it. 

“Ane.” She stood up, facing the older woman and allowing herself to be enveloped in her arms. 

“It’s so good to see you, Maria.”

Mapi could only nod, her eyes still watery and her face still red. It had been a long morning. 

She turned to face Mikel, who was staring straight forward, his eyes only softening as Mapi grabbed his hand and kissed it. 

“I have missed you both.” She smiled softly. It was a sad smile, but a real one. 

They were Luis’ parents, of course, but they were her pseudo parents whenever she needed them. They were so close, especially when Mapi and Luis were in their teenage years. 

“Is this… is that her?”

Ane looked down at the curly headed girl, her eyes softening as she watched her play with her toys. 

“Isabel Luisa.” Mapi nodded. “I thought today would be a good day for her to come visit.”

The older woman looked down at the child adoringly, smiling as she looked up at the unfamiliar adults. 

It was a bit awkward for a few moments, as Mapi, Mikel and Ane sat in an uncomfortable silence. 

Mapi excused herself, moving away to the bathrooms but leaving her belongings by the grave. She knew she wanted to talk to them, that they wanted to talk to her. 

She also knew they needed some time alone before they would be able to. 

But she did return, sitting down on her rug right beside the older couple. 

And Ane spoke, her voice soft, her voice sad. 

She told Mapi how grateful she is, how glad she is that she took Isabel in, that she didn’t even question it. How grateful she is that Mapi did everything to make her son happy all throughout his life, from buying him an extra chocolate bar when they were children to carrying his baby for him when he and his wife were unable to do it. 

Ane told her that she had given him his one dream, fatherhood. It was just unlucky that he wasn’t alive to live it. 

There were tears in her eyes as she told her how grateful Luis would be. How much he loved her. How happy he would be that his daughter ended up with the Spaniard, the person he probably trusted the most in the world. 

Mapi nodded her appreciation, sitting with the two adults for a while longer before Isabel grew tired, the sun falling down, the afternoon turning into evening. 

She said a tearful goodbye, collecting her things and standing, Mikel standing up as well and walking her to her car. 

“She looks just like him.” His words were soft, softer than Mapi had ever heard him. “I have thought about you every day, Maria. You and her. I am so relieved to see you here because I worried so much about you. I worried that you wouldn’t be ok, that you’d not be able to raise her. Not because I doubted you, but because I know how hard it is to lose people.”

Mapi nodded softly, looking up at the man. 

“I don’t doubt that you have had a hard time, but I also don’t doubt that you’re a good Mami. A great Mami to this little girl.”

“Thanks, Mikel.”

He nodded, that was all he needed to say. 

It was all he needed to say for Mapi to tear up again, picking Isabel up and holding her in his space. He looked at the Spaniard, who nodded, before placing a soft kiss on her head. 

“Come visit, Maria. When you come home. Bring the little one too.”

Mapi nodded, a smile on her face. 

This time, it wasn’t an empty promise. 

~~~~~~

She got home to an empty apartment. Quiet, dark. She could have texted Ingrid, the Norwegian likely would have come over in an instant, her warm arms right there for endless comfort. 

But she couldn’t bring herself to open her phone, couldn’t bring herself to stand up and walk over to the kitchen table where it was sitting. Instead, she stayed seated, relaxed back on the sofa with tears tracking down her face as she stared blankly at the wall. 

It wasn’t often that she was left alone with her thoughts. Not when she had a chatty toddler to look after, a loving girlfriend who spent every day trying to make Mapi happy. It worked, because Ingrid did make her happy, happier than she’d ever been. 

And Isabel also made her happy, she was the best thing in the Spaniard’s life. 

So why did she feel so sad? Why was Luis’ death still so hard for her to process?

Two years felt like too long to still be so upset about it all. She wondered when it would go away. If it would ever go away. 

His death was something that Mapi didn’t think she would ever be able to comprehend. She was able to live her life as normal again, plastering a smile to cover up the mess that she was on the inside. But it had taken such a long time to even get to that point, despite her daughter’s positive presence.  

Everyone knew how long it had taken. Mapi didn’t think anyone really knew how broken up she still felt about it. A part of her was embarrassed, embarrassed that she still hadn’t gotten over it. Was still yet to move on. 

Even as she thought it over, progress seemed so impossible. The thought of moving on like so many people had told her to do made her feel sick, because how was she supposed to move on when he was everything to her?

She didn’t sleep that night, barely able to smile as she fed Isabel and put her to bed. The toddler knew something was wrong, of course, a frown on her face as Mapi put her down for the evening. 

Isabel had seen Mapi sad before. Lots of times, really, but her mother usually tried her best to hide it from her. She would push the emotions down and far away as she interacted with her kid but Isabel was so perceptive, so in tune with Mapi’s emotions. 

She knew whenever Mapi was sad. It made her feel sad too. 

But Isabel never would have known that her mother was sitting in the same spot on the sofa all night, her mind a rollercoaster of thoughts and emotions, resisting any rest that tried to fall upon her. 

She wasn’t sure if she regretted telling Ingrid that she wanted to be alone for the day, that her girlfriend shouldn’t come over like she usually did. The Spaniard just didn’t know if it would make it better or worse. She didn’t know how to alleviate herself from some of the pain she felt. 

She realised she didn’t know much at all. 

Mapi watched as the sun rose outside, the night becoming morning. The new day arriving along with the sounds of birds chirping, the city happily waking up as the clouds had gone away and the sun had finally come out. 

Two years and one day. 

Her daughter’s whining was audible from her spot in the main room as she woke up. Her daughter’s whining was probably the only thing that would have successfully moved her from her seat. 

“Mami!” Isabel frowned at the sight of her mother as her door opened, dark bags beneath her red and puffy eyes. 

“Good morning, my girl.”

She smiled weakly, kneeling beside her toddler and raking her hand through her hair as Isabel became more aware of her surroundings. 

It was a slow morning; a slow rise from bed and a slow breakfast. The toddler was still in her pyjamas by 10, her hair and teeth remained unbrushed. 

It was no surprise that Ingrid was on the other side of the door at 11, Isabel opening the door when she heard the knocks. The Norwegian had a bright smile on her face as she scooped Isabel up into her arms and planted a soft kiss on her cheek. 

“Mami, Ingrid.” She pointed over at where Mapi was standing, and it was one glance at the Spaniard that told Ingrid that despite her promise that she’d be alright, her girlfriend was definitely not ok. Her smile faded and she frowned slightly, concern etched deep into her features, 

Her steps towards Mapi were tentative, unsure how to approach the situation. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t know Mapi, of course she knew her. She just didn’t know about Mapi’s grief. She had heard from teammates that she hadn’t dealt with the death well, that she had locked herself up in her house for months, over a year. But it was one topic that the Spaniard avoided at all costs, a master of changing the subject whenever it would come up. 

Ingrid never felt like it was her place to pry. 

But now, seeing her girlfriend so… broken, so depleted, it made her regret not being more insistent in those times. Because maybe if they spoke about it then, she would know how to help. 

But in that moment, she had no idea what to do. 

“Maria…” Her voice was quiet. “I’ve missed you.”

Mapi didn’t reply, but she could feel Ingrid’s free arm wrapping around her and she immediately clung onto her girlfriend. She was desperate and Ingrid was a lifeline. 

“Alright. Isabel, do you want to go play with Bagheera for a minute?”

The child nodded as she was placed back on the floor, walking out of the kitchen and into the lounge where the cat was likely waking up from her nap. 

Mapi, still clinging onto the Norwegian’s arm, frowned slightly, still not willing herself to make eye contact with Ingrid. 

“You’re not ok, Mapi, are you?”

She didn’t nod, she didn’t shake her head. Her mouth remained completely sealed. 

But Ingrid knew her well enough to recognise the tears that filled up her eyes, the way her hand trembled against the Norwegian’s skin. 

The brunette softened, her worries confirmed; leaving Mapi alone for the entire previous day was probably one of the worst promises she had ever made. She shouldn’t have agreed to it, not when she knew that Mapi would need her. 

“Ok. It’s ok. You’ll be ok, Maria. I just want you to sit down for me.”

She led her around to the other side of the kitchen bench, sitting down in a seat right beside her and wrapping her arm around the Spaniard’s shoulders. 

The Norwegian could feel herself becoming more and more anxious at Mapi’s almost catatonic state, entirely unequipped and unsure how to deal with it. 

It took half an hour of speaking to Mapi with no response for Ingrid to realise that she couldn’t do anything. A heartbreaking realisation of sorts, but one that she needed to have in order to help her.  

She knew she should be able to do this herself, she wished that it didn’t have to be so hard. But Alexia had been there before Ingrid, Alexia had been there for Mapi during Isabel’s infancy, right after she lost Luis. 

So she sent the Spanish midfielder a quick text, alerting her of the centre back’s state.

She felt guilty as the relief surged through her, Alexia assuring her that she would be there soon. 

However, neither the Spaniard nor the Norwegian could see the toddler’s tears, her quiet whimpers of anxiety and upset. 

Isabel didn’t like seeing Mapi upset, not at all. She was a happy person, usually, a permanent smile on her face, energetic as she played with the toddler. 

But she sat and stroked Bagheera, silent tears streaming down her little face with one thought on her mind. Why was Mami so sad all of a sudden? And why did it make her feel so miserable too?

Alexia arrived in a flurry, her heart dropping at the sight of her friend as she rushed towards her, immediately pulling her into a suffocating hug. 

“Maria, Maria. Come on, please. Say something.” Her voice sounded urgent and Ingrid could only watch, worry and confusion clear on her face. 

With no response, Alexia leaned back, staring straight into Mapi’s eyes. She could read the centre back like a book and her eyes told her everything she needed to know. 

“Ale.”

She frowned, tilting her head at the blonde in front of her. 

“Mapi, breathe. Take a deep breath in.”

Ingrid slipped out of the room as Mapi followed Alexia, breathing in and out slowly until she collapsed into Alexia’s arms, the tears spilling from her eyes easily as she reconnected with reality. 

It was her reaction to sadness, Mapi had realised a few months ago. Disconnecting from the world around her, unable to move, speak. She could barely hear anything, see anything until it was right in front of her face. 

She couldn’t feel anything either, but that was a more common response, something that she couldn’t be pulled out of so easily. 

She hated it, more than anything. Because when she was pulled from her state of disconnect, she felt nothing but terror, an overwhelming sadness that came rushing back as soon as that trap door opened. 

It was like her body was trying to protect her from feeling, the emotions just too much. It would just shut down until she was numb, not really registering that at some point she just had to feel it because there was no way of getting away from those emotions. 

Alexia had seen it all before and she was usually the one to grab Mapi, to shake her out of her headspace and bring her back to reality. 

It was terrifying for her too, especially the first time she witnessed it. 

“Ale.”

Mapi’s sobs had been reduced to quiet whimpers into Alexia’s shoulder after a while, her mind throwing itself through all her thoughts, all her emotions. Luis was gone, Luis had been gone for two years. She has his daughter, her Isabel who she loves so much. Ingrid was here but now she is not, where has Ingrid gone? Alexia, right in front of her, fear visible in the midfielder’s eyes no matter how hard she tried to hide it. 

Luis was gone, Isabel was hers. Ingrid was gone, Alexia was here.

Luis, Isabel, Ingrid, Alexia.

Her four people. 

She felt her breath hitch, Alexia’s arms tightening around her. 

She felt the tears dripping down from her eyes, saturating the fabric of Alexia’s shirt, the wet fabric now uncomfortable to rest her face on. 

She could hear Alexia’s breathing, the sound of her heart racing. 

Feel Alexia’s arms around her, the floor beneath her feet and the chair that she was sitting on. 

Taste the salty tears. Tears of grief, fear, confusion. 

Luis, Isabel, Ingrid, Alexia. 

“Ale, where is Isabel?”

~~~~~~

Ingrid slipped out of the room easily, not needed as Alexia dealt with Mapi’s overwhelming emotions. 

Mapi’s cries were audible from the main room she found herself in, wincing as she walked towards Isabel who was still stroking Bagheera, her movements fluid and repetitive, a consistent cycle that easily could have rubbed a groove into the cat’s black fur. 

The Norwegian couldn’t see the tears that had stained the little girl's face, still spilling from her eyes no matter how hard she tried to blink them away. 

But her shoulders shook unnaturally, a shuddering inhale that had Ingrid picking up her pace and sitting down right beside Isabel and pulling her into her arms as soon as she noticed how upset she was. 

Silently, she placed a thoughtful kiss on the crown of her head, her heart breaking at the silent tears, at Isabel's defeated demeanour. 

No toddler should know how to cry silently. 

"What's wrong, Is?"

At her words, Isabel promptly spun around in Ingrid's arms, collapsing into her and crying audibly, her entire body weight relying on the Norwegian to be held.

"Mami sad, Ingrid. I'm sad too!"

Her voice was broken and Ingrid’s heart dropped at the sound of it. 

It wasn’t hard to leave, understanding that Isabel needed to get out of the apartment, that she needed to be away from the inconsolable Mapi who could still be heard crying in the kitchen. 

So she left, slipping out the front door and carrying Isabel down to the street, holding her tight as she cried, walking over to the park. 

By the time they reached their familiar bench, her cries had weakened, only releasing quiet puffs of air every few moments as she relished in the comfort of Ingrid’s arms. 

The Norwegian sat down, loosening her grip on the toddler and manoeuvring her so that they were looking right at each other. Ingrid’s frown was light and her hands were soft as she reached out and wiped the tears away from Isabel’s wet cheeks, cupping her face when she was done. 

Words failed the defender as she looked at the toddler, her uncanny resemblance to Mapi heightened in her upset state. 

She matched her mother perfectly, Ingrid thought, trying to avoid that voice in the back of her head that she would never be enough. Their smiles were identical and their laughs sounded the same. They both carried the same exasperated sigh, the confused frown and those doe eyes that were impossible to say no to. But they carried the same tears, the same cries. 

Mapi’s emotions were often reflected in her daughter, whether it was happiness, excitement, fear, sadness. Isabel was smart - emotionally intelligent. It was like she always knew exactly how her Mami was feeling, even if she wasn’t old enough to understand why, to understand what those feelings were. 

This was one of those times when she had no idea what this sadness meant. She could clearly feel the sadness, feel her mother was sad. But she wasn’t even two yet, how could she possibly be expected to process those emotions like someone years older?

Ingrid wasn’t bad with kids either. There were heaps of children in her family; cousins, nieces, nephews. She’d been there throughout all of their childhoods, able to comfort them and soothe them enough until their parents came back. 

But Isabel’s sadness was completely new territory, there was no waiting for Mapi to arrive because Ingrid knew she wouldn’t. It was up to her to calm down the child but for the first time, she was completely stumped. 

She didn’t know what she could say to calm her down. She didn’t know how Isabel felt, she was too young to be able to express her emotions, to talk through what she was feeling. 

But this wasn’t a tantrum or a small cry over a minor convenience. This was a meltdown, caused by her overwhelming emotions that she couldn’t quite comprehend. 

“Ingrid…” 

She spoke quietly, leaning into the comfort of the Norwegian’s hands on her face. 

Ingrid nodded, encouraging the child to continue. 

“Why my Papi a rock?” 

The Norwegian’s face softened, her heart sinking as she tried to subtly release an exhale that she had been holding in. 

Unsure what she was going to say, she opened her mouth. But Isabel was too quick, raising her voice another time. 

“Why Mami sad at rock?”

“Is…” 

The child looked up at her, eyes shining with unshed tears, pure innocence reflected in her eyes, her features. 

“Isabel. Your Papi, he’s not a rock. Your Papi was a person, a very good person.”

The child frowned, confusion etched deep into her features. Ingrid thought she seemed entirely too concerned for a not quite two year old. 

“He died before you were born though, Is. Mami is sad today because she misses him. She misses your Papi.”

She doubted Isabel would even understand what she was trying to say. She didn’t know when children were supposed to understand the concept of death, the concept of life. 

Definitely not before the age of two. 

So Ingrid decided to try to move away from the topic, her new goal just to bring a smile back onto Isabel’s face. It was the least she could do, really. 

“But it’s ok, Is, because you have Mami and you have me and you have Alexia and you have Leila and Patri and Pina! You love all of those people don’t you?”

Isabel nodded easily, a smile creeping onto her face. 

“I love them so much. Especially Mami. And you, Ingrid!” 

Ingrid chuckled, her laughs a superficial cover of the anxieties and concern she felt. Because Isabel was right here calming down in her arms, but she had no idea of the state of Mapi, she had no idea how long this happiness would last. 

“And everyone I just mentioned loves you too. And your Papi, he loves you as well but he loves you from somewhere else. You have people everywhere loving you!” 

Ingrid beamed, trying to make the conversation feel more lighthearted. It was a successful attempt, apparently, because Isabel replicated her smile and turned herself around, sitting back down in Ingrid’s lap and leaning into her chest. 

“I love you Ingrid.”

The Norwegian could only smile sadly, planting a thoughtful kiss on Isabel’s head. 

~~~~~~

Mapi’s head was a mess, Alexia had realised. Her emotions all over the place, her priorities set in a weird and confusing line. 

The tears had eventually ran out and she was clearly exhausted, her head in Alexia’s lap as the blonde spoke softly. The familiar Spanish was a comfort to Mapi’s ears, the words meaningful, flooded with emotion.

“You need to worry about what is important right now,” Alexia had murmured, her hands combing through Mapi’s hair. It was reminiscent of how the centre back calmed her own daughter, soft hands and quiet words. 

It was reminiscent of how Mapi’s own mother used to soothe her, nostalgic and comforting. 

“Luis is important, of course he is. But he’s gone, Maria. If you’re going to worry about anything it has to be yourself, it has to be Isabel. You have to think about Ingrid, how to prioritise your relationship on top of everything else.”

Alexia shook her head at that, sighing almost silently. 

“Ingrid will try not to let you focus on her, but you have to try. You have to show her how much you love her like I know you do. That she’s your person.”

Mapi looked up at Alexia, her forehead wrinkling as she frowned. 

“She… she doesn’t know that?”

“She does know that, of course she does. But sometimes you need to put her first. Sometimes she needs you the most. Sometimes, she needs you more than Isabel does. She wants to know all of you, Mapi, even this part. She wants to understand your grief, to know what to do when you are having a hard time. She wants me to look after Isabel while she comforts you because she loves you. You are her person, just like she is yours.”

Mapi frowned again, swallowing back the tears that threatened to fill up her eyes. Because Ingrid was everything to her, of course she was. She was the person that Mapi loved more than anyone, the first person she had ever really and truly fallen in love with. But Alexia was right. More often than not, her attention was pulled away from Ingrid, Isabel making an appearance. Maybe she was hungry, thirsty, tired. She could have been bored or overexcited or maybe she just couldn’t sleep. 

Because Isabel was her baby girl, her last connection to Luis; her last connection to her person before Ingrid. 

It was somewhat painful for Mapi to consider how these small things would have hurt the Norwegian, how they would have all built up over time, building Ingrid’s thick skin, the impenetrable strength and sometimes superficial happiness that the Spaniard wished to break down.

“What do I do, Ale?”

Her voice broke and Alexia pulled her upwards, straight into a hug. 

“You talk to her.”

Mapi nodded, falling back down to her lying position on the sofa, the exhaustion of the day overcoming her despite it only being 12pm. 

Alexia could tell the exact moment she fell asleep, her breathing evening out and her body finally relaxing. 

The midfielder had expected something like this to happen today. She knew that Luis’ death was a date engraved in her friend’s mind, one that could never pass without any upset, any thought. 

It was only the second anniversary so of course it would bring up all of the emotions that were left and ignored two years ago, Mapi’s grief pushed away by the little baby Isabel. The same thing had happened a year ago and the midfielder knew it would happen again in another year. 

Only she hoped she wouldn’t be needed in a years time, similar to how she had hoped that she wasn’t required this year. 

She had been somewhat surprised and just a little bit disappointed when she received Ingrid’s text, having hoped that Mapi finally would have spoken to her girlfriend about it, that Ingrid would have expected it and known exactly what she needed to do. It was abundantly clear, however, that it was not the case. 

Ingrid’s terrified and bewildered facial expression was one piece of evidence, but so was Mapi’s silence, her heavy breathing and her complete refusal to speak while the Norwegian was in the room. 

She was disappointed, really. She felt guilt overcome her as she watched Ingrid slip out of the room, a look of pure defeat written all over her face as she accepted that there was nothing she could do to help Mapi. 

Mapi who was an emotional wreck, who needed support and who just needed to let everything out for once. 

Mapi, who needed her girlfriend’s comfort but didn’t know how to ask for it, couldn’t bring herself to ask for it. 

Alexia knew that the Norwegian would have given it to her without a second thought. 

It was all she could think about as Ingrid walked back through the door, Isabel’s hand tight in hers as her eyes scanned the room and landed on the sleeping Mapi in Alexia’s lap. 

Isabel inspected her quietly, satisfied with her sleeping body on the sofa. She was with Alexia and Alexia made people happy. She was sure Mapi would be happy now, so she scampered out of the lounge and into the laundry where she knew Bagheera would be waiting. 

Ingrid was less convinced, sitting beside Alexia with concern written all over her face. 

“She’ll be alright.” Alexia whispered her words softly, an attempt to make the Norwegian feel better. She didn’t expect Ingrid’s eyes to fill up with tears, her head falling into her hands. 

“Why doesn’t she talk to me about any of this?”

Her voice sounded defeated, frustrated. Her watery eyes looked back up towards Alexia and the midfielder could easily see the anguish in her eyes. 

“She’s bad at talking about it, embarrassed by it. She doesn’t like to feel all these emotions so she just pushes them away. But they come back every now and again and she has no idea how to deal with it. I try telling her that it’s normal, she shouldn’t feel embarrassed but she doesn’t listen. It makes her feel weak, she said. You saw her earlier too, she just shuts down. I think it’s because she just doesn’t know what else she can do so she turns into a robot of sorts, on autopilot to get things done. And then someone will come and see straight through her and it’s like she breaks.”

Alexia’s eyes were watering, her hand coming to rest on Mapi’s head. 

“But she loves you so much, Ingrid. More than I’ve ever seen her love anyone before. I know she wants to talk to you about all this, she wishes she could just let it all out. We’ve discussed it before, what she could say, how she could say it. She’ll call me the next day and say she chickened out, she couldn’t bring herself to go through it all. It’s mentally exhausting, I think.  She used to be so confident in herself, she didn’t care about anything but her happiness and the happiness of the people around her. She was the person who would cheer everyone else up, make us smile and laugh. She’s still that person, that’s the one that we see everyday. But she never learnt how to grieve or how to let other people cheer her up and this is what happened because of it.”

Ingrid was quiet for a few moments, her eyes focussed on Mapi’s sleeping figure. She looked so peaceful, her golden brown hair falling over her face, completely covering her tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes. 

“Why didn’t you help her?”

She knew it wasn’t Alexia’s fault; she knew that the midfielder beside her would have done whatever she thought was right. But part of the Norwegian thought that if she had learned what to do with her emotions two years ago when Luis died, everything would be easier now. Everything would be easier for everyone. 

“She just wouldn’t let us. I regret it every day, Ingrid. ”

~~~~~~

It wasn’t long before Alexia left, leaving Ingrid with a sleeping Mapi and taking the almost two year old back to her house with her. 

They didn’t want Isabel to be able to understand what was going on, they didn’t want her to feel those sad emotions when she was entirely incapable of understanding why she suddenly felt so sad. 

So it was Ingrid’s face that Mapi woke up to, the familiar green piercing straight through her, a sad expression all over her face. 

“Ingrid.”

Her voice was hoarse, her words scratchy and her eyes swollen. It had been a difficult few hours and she felt entirely incapable of having the conversation that she knew Ingrid wanted to have. 

“I don’t know how… how do I even start?”

But it seemed she was wrong as Ingrid shook her head, her arms wrapping the Spaniard up in a tight hug as she sat up from her horizontal position. 

“No, you don’t need to. Not right now. You’re exhausted, physically and emotionally and I don’t want to talk now. I want you to be ok, I want to make you feel ok.”

Mapi didn’t know it, but the Norwegian’s words were exactly what she needed. Ingrid was exactly what she needed. 

Her emotional perception, the unique ability she had to be so aware of how everyone felt at any given time. It was one of her qualities that Mapi loved the most, one of the things that was so intriguing, so alluring about the defender. 

“What can I do to make you feel ok?”

Mapi smiled weakly, trying to bite back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. It wasn’t just sadness this time, but gratitude, love. Because Ingrid was perfect even when the centre back knew she had been the opposite of that. And despite all of Mapi’s own personal flaws, Ingrid still loved her. 

And if everything else fell apart, Mapi knew that her love would be more than enough. 

“You being here makes me feel ok.”

Ingrid smiled into the embrace, only releasing the hug when Mapi’s grip on her loosened. 

“Isabel is at Alexia’s and she will be there all night. She shouldn’t be in this environment when you are so upset, not when she’s so young. So it’s just you and me, whatever you want to do.”

Mapi nodded easily, somewhat relieved that her daughter was away from all this. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.”

The evening was a slow one, relaxed and quiet in the calm apartment. They weaved around each other in the kitchen as they cooked with a practised ease, dinner cooked and plated up seamlessly. 

Conversation as they ate was minimal, the Spaniard clearly distracted and the Norwegian happy to focus on her own food. 

“I… I need to talk to you, Ingrid. Not right now, but soon. Maybe tomorrow. I just don’t know how to say what I want to say in a way that makes sense. It’s… hard for me, hard to talk about… it.”

The Norwegian’s attention was captured at the sound of Mapi’s voice, instantly nodding with a comforting smile on her face. 

“I know it’s hard. I don’t want you to feel any pressure to tell me anything.”

But the Spaniard disagreed, shaking her head quickly. 

“It’s not pressure, I want you to know everything.”

Ingrid’s forehead creased, her eyebrows drawing together as she frowned. 

“But why? Why do you want to go through it all again with yet another person if you don’t have to?”

It was Mapi’s turn to frown, her head shaking as she let out a quiet exhale. 

“I haven’t ever gone through everything with anyone. Alexia knows a lot, sure. I know she’s told you what she knows. I want you to know everything. Because I love you more than anything and for you to love me like that you have to know everything, you have to see all my faults, everything that I’m ashamed of.”

Ingrid stopped the tears from forming before they had a chance to materialise in her eyes, but Mapi could tell she was stopping herself from crying by the way her eyes blinked away the invisible tears. 

“What’s wrong?”

Her voice was incredibly soft, her Spanish lilt calming, comforting.

“I don’t think there’s anything you could say that would change the way I love you. I couldn’t love you any more than I do and there’s nothing that will ever make me love you any less. I wish you would understand that sadness and grief isn’t a weakness or a fault, it’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s natural yet it takes a completely different path in every single person. You’re not different, Maria. You’re not weak. The opposite of weak, really. I love you for who you are, because you are funny, you’re kind, you’re caring. You look after people and you’re an incredible mother. I love you because you are strong, one of the strongest people I have ever met. The love I have for you is not… despite anything, there’s nothing that I would change because you’re perfect. So sure, tell me everything because I will listen but it will not change a single thing. Don’t tell me that I can’t love you before I know because I do, so much.”

“Thank you.” Mapi sniffled, her voice thready as she nodded at Ingrid, her eyes dropping back down to her plate in front of her. 

It was exactly what she needed to hear. 

~~~~~~

“Mami!” 

Despite Ingrid’s protests in the kitchen, Isabel bounded into their bedroom, bouncing up onto the bed right beside a sleeping Mapi. 

“Isabel! I said not to wake her up!” 

Ingrid frowned from her spot at the bedroom door, her forehead creasing further at Isabel’s defiant expression. The toddler turned back towards Mapi, shaking her shoulder rapidly. 

“Mami! Mami!” 

Ingrid rolled her eyes, releasing a loud sigh and shaking her head as the Spaniard rolled over, groaning as she opened her eyes. 

The past few days had been rough and Ingrid was sure Mapi hadn’t gotten more than three hours of sleep each day. The Norwegian was awoken constantly by the sound of her cries or her restless movements in the bed, but had stopped asking if she was ok after seeing the guilt on Mapi’s face at waking her up. 

It was an obvious question anyway, Mapi clearly was not ok.

She had been distant, often unfocused. The Norwegian had to take over the parenting ropes and she hadn’t left the Spaniard’s apartment, helping with cooking and cleaning and the other mundane housework that Mapi just didn’t have the energy to do. 

She would say a few words over meals, and quiet murmurs of gratitude throughout the day. Ingrid didn’t know how rapidly her notes app was filling up, full of dot points about how and what she would say to Ingrid. When she could bring up that conversation that she was so desperate yet so hesitant to have. 

“Morning Is.” The Spaniard rolled over, opening her arms up for the toddler as she fell into them, snuggling easily into her mother. 

“Mornin’ Mami!” 

Mapi smiled, looking over at Ingrid in the doorway and motioning for her to come and join them on the bed. Naturally, the Norwegian moved towards them, sitting up beside Mapi and resting her head on the centre back’s shoulder. 

“We were awake very early this morning, weren’t we Is?’

She rolled her eyes as the child nodded and Mapi bit back a laugh, squeezing Isabel softly. 

“You should have woken me.” Mapi smiled, planting a kiss on the side of Ingrid’s head, ignoring her scoff. 

“Ingrid said don’t wake you up, Mami!” Isabel interjected again, looking up at her mother. “But I missed you!” 

Mapi could only chuckle, planting a kiss on her child’s head. “I missed you too, my Is!”

It was a slow day, but one full of quiet laughter and happiness. The small family of three spent the late morning hours in bed, before getting up and heading down to the park and tiring the toddler out. She was exhausted by the time they got back, passing out on the sofa as Ingrid took off her shoes and Mapi scrubbed the mud out of her jacket. 

The girl had been put to bed by the time Mapi had returned from the laundry, Ingrid sat on the sofa with the remote in her hand. 

“What do you want to watch?”

She had heard Mapi walking towards the lounge room, apparently. The Spaniard didn’t enter immediately, instead steadying herself on the doorframe and taking a deep breath. 

The time had come, she realised. She couldn’t justify pushing this conversation away any longer, pretending that she wasn’t thinking about it when truthfully it was at the top of her mind at all times. 

She knew it wasn’t an easy conversation to have and she knew that it was going to be hard to bring it up. But that difficulty won’t ever go away, no matter how long she leaves it. If anything it will get harder over time because time gives her fears and anxieties an opportunity to grow, an opportunity to overcome her. 

And she was completely adamant that that would not happen. She would not be overcome by those terrors ever again. 

She realised she had paused in the doorway for too long when Ingrid turned around, a small frown settling on her face. 

“Are you ok?”

Mapi nodded, forcing a stressed smile onto her face and finally taking those steps inside, sitting herself on the sofa beside Ingrid and taking the remote from her hands. 

“Yes. No, but.. Yeah.” 

“Talk to me.”

And she did. She started at the beginning, all the way back when she was a small child and meeting Luis for the first time. She told Ingrid how they had been glued to each other’s sides forever, how they grew up and nothing ever changed. How grateful she was when Luis followed her to Barcelona, moving into his own apartment just a five minute walk away. 

The Spaniard reminisced on times where they would eat dinner on the floor of his unfinished apartment, takeaway boxes empty but the room still full of happiness and laughter. She showed Ingrid her tattoo, the little girl and boy on the playground that she had gotten to match with Luis. 

It was his first and only tattoo and he had only trusted Mapi to give it to him. She knew she had to get one the same and it was something they had treasured. A secret of sorts, a little thing that almost nobody knew about. 

The centre back explained how he had always been a paternal person, all the way back when they were those little kids on the playground. He would look out for everyone, act all big and strong to protect his friends even when he felt equally as terrified. He was the person that everyone went to as they got a bit older, his emotional nature and calm demeanour always popular among their peers. 

She told Ingrid that she always felt so lucky that even though he was so popular, she was still his best friend. She was always his number one and that only ever changed when Isabel came along. 

Isabel who was just as lovely as her boyfriend, another person that Mapi learned to love. 

Another person who proved time and time again that she was a mother. 

So she lamented on the heartbreak that the young couple experienced when they realised they couldn’t have a child, that parenthood seemed almost impossible. 

She explained her entire thought process to the Norwegian, how she debated with herself whether it was worth it to miss so much football during what could have been her peak years. Whether she would ever feel comfortable around a child that was half of her DNA, a child that she carried for nine months but technically didn’t belong to her. 

But Luis’ happiness was always the most important thing and when he rang her up for the 10th night in a row in tears, her decision was made for her. 

She told Ingrid how long it took to convince the couple to let her carry their child, having to go through the same arguments that she had with herself only weeks earlier, having to come up with rebuttals to their incredibly valid points. 

But it had only taken an emotional monologue from the Spaniard to convince them, all three of them sat in tears as they finally agreed to it. 

She talked her through the IVF process, every high and every low that she experienced. How easy the pregnancy was at the beginning, the only symptom her small bump and minor cravings. 

But she had Luis and she had Isabel at that point, both of them so incredibly grateful that they practically waited on the centre back’s hand and foot. It annoyed her, really, so she had kicked them out of her apartment, told them to only come over if she called them. 

For the most part, they respected that, only visiting once a week unless Mapi called them for the company. 

She admitted how much she regretted that deal, how she wished that she made them sit with her all day every day. 

Maybe then they wouldn’t have been in the car that day, maybe they would have been safe and sound in Mapi’s apartment. 

She couldn’t have known that their trip to Madrid would be fatal, there was no way of being able to foresee that and to stop them from going. 

Tears started to slip down her cheeks as she recalled what they told her over the phone, how both Isabel and Luis had been killed on impact. A drunk driver, it was, a drunk driver who was miraculously left unscathed. 

She talked Ingrid through her thoughts that followed the phone call, after she had sobbed and screamed. Once the tears had finally ceased and an unsettling silence fell upon her apartment. 

She felt lost, she felt alone. She wanted to call Luis because he was the person that made her feel better in these times, he was her company when it felt like her entire world was falling apart. 

But of course she couldn’t call Luis. She should have called someone else, her mother, her brother. Alexia, even. But that would be replacing her best friend, something she couldn’t bring herself to do. Not so soon after he had died. Not when the wound was so fresh, not before she even got the chance to process it. 

She admitted to her girlfriend that she still hadn’t really processed it, that it was still a work in progress. His death was one she would never understand, she didn’t think she ever would fully process the idea that he was gone. 

Ingrid let tears spill from her eyes as Mapi remembered how lonely she was for the next few weeks, how she realised that now she had this child that she was just supposed to be able to raise. How she felt entirely unprepared, unfit to be a mother, unequipped to be able to raise a child to a standard that Luis would be happy with. 

How she doubted herself even before Isabel was born.

When she gave birth it got so much harder, everything seemed so impossible and she couldn’t think about anything else other than that little life in her arms. 

She had fallen in love with the baby immediately, guilt overcoming her at her selfish gratitude that Isabel was a living reminder of Luis, she was someone that Mapi would always have. A living being that literally carried her father around with her. 

She told Ingrid how she saw his eyes as soon as they opened, the tape over her shattered heart doing little to protect it when it was forcefully thrown back on the ground at the reminder of everything she had lost. 

But as she spent more and more time with Isabel, as she watched the little girl grow up she could feel her heart building itself back together, little pieces at a time supergluing themselves together, creating an indestructible structure. 

Isabel had been the reason her heart was being fixed, the reason that she felt like she could finally breathe again, finally reunited with the organ that pumped the blood around her body, the organ that made her feel alive. 

She smiled through the tears as she recalled how alive she felt when Isabel took her first steps, when her first words tumbled right out of her mouth. As the child laughed, as she played with the cat. As she grew up into a child, something for Mapi to love, to be so incredibly proud of. 

Because Luis was gone and that was something that Mapi would never be ok with. 

But he left her the greatest gift of all time, like he knew that his best friend wouldn’t be ok without him. 

And similar to everything else he had done for Mapi through their lives, this gift, his daughter, had made sure that the blood never stopped pumping, that every single fragment of her shattered heart was still there, ready and waiting for its turn to be glued back into place. 

Isabel had done a good job of orchestrating the reconstruction, even if she had no idea what she was doing. 

“But then you came along, Ingrid, and you fixed my heart too.”

~~~~~~

alright this was very long

i've proofread a couple times and kinda hate this but it's as good as it will get :)

please let me know what you think! send me anything else you would like to see as well.

and i apologise for this taking so long, i have been very busy with uni (as usual) but on top of that i had surgery on my knee almost a week ago so am very tired and in a fair amount of pain at the minute

have a good day

[rayroseu]

Rambles about Book 7 lol

AAAAAAAÀAAA 😭😭😭 THIS IS SO AUGHHH THE MEANING BEHIND THIS INFO !!!!!! knowing that the first thought of Lilia in encountering Silver was that he should kill him to avenge Meleanor and Levan and that his purpose of adopting him is that he wants to believe he can love a human as well AND LILIA TEACHING THIS HUMAN BABY HOW TO LIVE DESPITE THE MANY CHANCES HE GOT TO GET RID OF HIM AUGJAURIWUTJW AND MAY I SAY LILIA WENT FROM DISTANTLY BEING ATTACHED TO THIS BABY AND THEN TRANSITIONING UNTO WANTING FOR HIM TO LIVE AND WITNESS HIM GROW UP AAAAAAA😭😭✨✨✨

IF I CRYYYY MELEANOR HAUNTS THE NARRATIVE 😭💞💕💞✨

LMAO not the faes snitching this info to malleus ofmg 😭✨

lowkey this is me as well i think babies are kinda ugly too KDHJAEJ especially when they cry 💀🔥🔥

YOU CALL THIS ADORABLE HELPPPP 🤣🤣🤣okay but in all seriousness, we rarely get this easy sarcastic Malleus, he's always too formal around NRC and often his humor lands amiss to other charas which doesnt prompt him to present this trait, but its so sweet that he seemed to be "truly himself" in the cottage scenes where its just him Lilia and Silver🥺✨ his voice doesnt feel "authoritative" too like a dorm leader, its just malleus and his difficulty in getting along with the random baby lilia caught lol

I remember this line was translated as a flower nectar?? but they kinda saying the same and i like this paraphrase that Lilia thinks of Milk as nectar for baby humans, like how Malleus often relates tech to some magical ritual lol

crying at this line, knowing that Malleus says this because he has broken several many things bcs he couldnt control his strength and perhaps there were things that Lilia owns that he accidentally destroyed as well so he tries to mend this uncontrollable strength of his in order to not be an inconvenience😭✨

NURSEMAID???? YEAH NURSEMAID CALLED LILIA VANROUGE 😭😭💔💔💔 and AAAAA not once did Malleus search for this tune??? not even sing it to Maleficia and Lilia so as to inquire about it 😭✨💔💔 this is when you know this lullaby IS truly MELEANOR'S LULLABY because everyone of the characters only heard it from her !!!😭😭😭💔💔

I love this response from Malleus lol, also i feel like some situation will challenge Lilia's love for humans again, like can you still love humans if they commit the same crime again to Malleus as they did with Meleanor?? Twisting their personality and actions so as to validate their fear?? Can you still say that faes should make an effort to make peace with them when repeatedly it was the humans who wasnt willing to udnerstand faes to begin with ? 😭✨ its a realistic worry fitting for a king that'll rule for centuries, maybe bcs he has this instinct that humans are epehemeral and so are their promises.

Thinking about it a bit more, its true that what Levan does is futile effort because the issue between humans and faes, Briarland and Silver Owls is too much that it cant be resolved by just understanding each other.

Levan wants the war to stop but obviously that can't happen because the bigger factions of each natioj are resolute at their stance that Briarland is owned by faes or humans, no in between. He can't immediately fix the mentality of higher faes and Meleanor with their hatred of humans and vice versa with the human officials like Henric,

but what he can do to decrease the casualties of this conflict is to pave way for the COMMON folk to understand each other, if he can make way for the common fae and the common human to talk to each other, then it might decrease the misunderstanding between the common fae and common human (assuming that both parties arw willing to be understanding)

its really a long shot and a gamble to aspire for considering his country's situation, and its effects would take a while to impact and honestly it took so much important people and years just to have his dream of peace, i wish we could get an input about what he feels about this

considering his kindness he might be happy, but im kinda sad its really tragic the implication of how the faes had to earn their peace and atone for a conflict that they didnt even start with,

based on Lilia, it took 400 YEARS just for the humans to sign a peace treaty, maybe in the eyes of the faes, thats just a piece of paper, so they waited and grieved the lost of their Princess Meleanor and many of their fae soldiers and Prince Levan and ALMOST the entirety of their continent, just for these humans to sign an 400 year long overdued peace treaty?? so the faes that died couldve been saved if these humans could spare some compassion and ink to sign a treaty-- It kinda feels like they're insulting their grief (in the faes point of view atleast), whats the purpose of having this paper peace treaty when they have lost so much already?? I WISHHH the story could delve more into the grief of faes,

kinda lowkey mad they just swept Lilia's grief by the humans just cuz he encountered a few good ones, i wouldve love to see him being vengeful then learning how to convert that grief to love again just like Maleficent in the live action, bcs it would be very meaningful on this way, Lilia can truly say he has learned how to love because he experienced real deep hatred---but AAA its whatever this storyline is good as well, just kinda feels general lilia's belief converted to present!lilia a bit too fast to my liking lol

its really intriguing how before book 7 the faes dislike of humans seems so dramatic but now after book 7 it all makes too much sense 😭✨

(can you guys tell i play too much reverse 1999 bcs i ramble too much about morals and politics between different races now JHDJWHRJW)