#us fools prefer darkness

[thekinslayed]

I Come To You A Sinner

summary | Aemond's wife has been made aware of his whereabouts by Aegon.

pairing | aemond targaryen x wife!reader

tags | spoilers to s2e3 ahead! miscommunication, angst, infidelity, aemond can't open up, aegon is the worst, thoughts of fratricide

wordcount | 2.3k

note | sorry to rub salt into the already gaping wound that is ep3 aemond 💔 but that whole scene was unbelievable omfg it is over for aegond i fear

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

“Where have you been?”

She was staring into the hearth when he returned. It was evident she had already been asleep, but had awoken by a disturbance of some kind. It was unlike her to be awake so late, though Aemond could guess what brought her out of bed to fasten on her robe, to wait for him.

He could still hear his cackle, Aegon’s, as the curtain that shielded him from prying eyes was swatted away unceremoniously, revealing his whereabouts. He remembered how his little entourage stared at him, how their stunned gazes brought about prickles of humiliation in the back of Aemond’s spine. They threatened to laugh. He saw it in the twinkle of their eyes, in the subtle lift in the corners of their lips. 

“It is late, dear wife, why have you not rested?” he said. His steps towards her were small, careful. Perhaps she doesn’t know. That would be preferable. He had already been found out once tonight, and if he could save her from the knowledge of his shame, there was naught he would not do. 

“Aegon was here,” she responded, and it was then she finally turned to him. Her eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them was puffed from the tears she had evidently shed. The prickle in Aemond’s spine returned, only now it was coupled by a hammering pang in his chest. He had done this to her.

“At least he had the decency to tell me where you were, after many nights of being left in the dark by mine own husband. Though his delivery of the message was a bit cruel, I’ll admit.” 

The dark chuckle that left her lips held no sort of amusement, but a clear sputter of disbelief and betrayal. Aemond was stuck in his place, unsure of how to speak to her, unknowing of what would happen to them now that his sin was laid out in the open.

“It is not what it seemed–”

“What is it, then? When your brother catches you in a brothel with a whore, what else am I to think, Aemond?” she burst, rising to her feet to look at him. Her chest heaved as she regarded him with a look so different than what he was used to. There used to be such warmth in her gaze, reserved only for him, not the fracturing hurt she bestowed on him now. He couldn’t look at her, and so he settled his eye elsewhere. A futile attempt to escape what had already caught up to him.

“You’ve told me of what had happened to you there, what she made you do, and yet you’ve crawled back to her? After everything that’s happened?” she questioned, desperate. He could hear the break in her voice, and he could only imagine the quivering of her lips into a frown. A scoff left her lips, and Aemond could see her desperate attempt to wrap her around this, but her despair had gotten the best of her. 

“W-why… Why would you even want to go back there? What is it in her that you can’t find in me?”

Aemond couldn’t say it. His mind refused to let him say it. In truth, he couldn’t recall how his feet had led him back there, all he knew was it brought a temporary soothing to an ache that had sprouted in the days after Lucerys’ death. He wouldn’t dare speak his sin into words, to solidify his betrayal of the love for his wife. How ever could he tell her the truth of it? How ever could he admit that the only way for him to find a sense of order in his life, however misconstrued, was to return to the woman who had been a figure of his torment? 

“Do you want me to lie to you?” he asked. 

A fool’s answer. A true coward, he is. Many people would consider him otherwise, but in front of his wife, he was no warrior. Utter shame coupled with his ego prevented him from coming clean. How could he? He had gone too far. He expressed no remorse when he had come home to her, drenched, after Storm’s End, no, he even acted proud. In his heart of hearts, Aemond knew that the one person who could see him as he was was his wife, yet he refused to let it be. He had gone through his whole life a rigid soldier, a scholar, the image of the fearsome dragon of Valyria. He didn’t know how to dismantle the shackles that held him upright.

Yet he had seen his fault now in the face of his wife, his love, who visibly crumbled before him.

“Was I not good enough?” she asked, quietly, as a lone tear streaked down her cheek. He couldn’t bear to see her like this, to have him so far from his grasp as the ever-growing space between them turned the air cold. Aemond approached her, arms lifted open to take her into his grasp, but she flinched away. A shatter in his chest brought about a thick lump in his throat, one he couldn’t swallow. 

“My love,” he whispered, a solemn plea for her to see him. She hugged her arms to her chest, looking away as she blinked away the fat, traitorous tears that beaded down her cheeks. Aemond took hold of her elbow, his grip desperate as she fought to wiggle her way out of his grasp. He couldn’t let her, he cannot. This hellish war, this irreconcilable damage would all be futile if he lost her, he couldn’t let that happen. But she wouldn’t even spare a glance at him. 

“Can’t you even look at me?” he beseeched in despair. 

A sob was her only response. She had slapped a hand to muffle her cries, but it had broken through the barriers that kept him away from her. Aemond descended to his knees, hugging her legs to his chest. His good eye stung with something hot, something wet. He clung to her skirts like a beggar, a sinner praying for retribution.

“Please… please…” he grieved. Her robe was growing spotted with his tears, and her grip on his shoulder was punishing as she pushed and pushed to get him away from her. She slapped him, had pulled on his hair to get him to release his hold, but he never relented. “You have to understand,” he muttered. 

“I cannot even try to begin to do so, Aemond! How can I?” she wept. “How could you even think we could recover from this?”

“My love… my light… I beg of you.” It was pathetic to whoever would witness him like this. The Kinslayer, on his knees, pleading for forgiveness to the wife he had wronged. There was much he had done that was far worse, far more cruel, but to have hurt her was his greatest crime of all.

A shrill cry had pierced through the night air. Her head snapped to her babe. Their babe. With a firmer push on his shoulder, his wife freed himself from his grasp to where their son wailed for his mother. She took him into her arms, soothing the child with her gentle caress and shushes. Aemond could only watch. He watched the babe nestled into the crook of her neck, how she wiped his tears away while hers continued to fall. She pressed her nose into his scalp, the milky scent of his flesh a welcome comfort to her otherwise crumbling sanity. 

Aemond waited in agony, keeping his space lest he aggravated her any further. Every cry of their babe was another sword pierced through his heart, leaving him to bleed out while his family floated away from his grasp.

He had settled after a few minutes, descending back into slumber as his mother returned him to his cradle with a kiss on his forehead. The silence was deafening. The dying hearth was unable to break the cold that sent shivers under Aemond’s skin. He called out to her once more. Another full beat of silence passed through the room before she spoke.

“What did I do wrong, Aemond?” she whispered, turning to him. Her eyes were a painful red from how much she had been crying, but she wanted to know. “Tell me, you owe me that much.”

“I owe you everything, darling,” he responded, moving closer to her. Aemond closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her back into his chest. He pressed kisses onto her shoulder, reverent… repentant. “You have done nothing wrong,” he said into her skin, his voice low. “It is my fault and my fault alone. You have done nothing wrong.”

He turned her around to face him, and she allowed him to do so. Albeit, unwillingly, but his wife was tired. It was evident in the way her eyes had run out of tears to weep, yet she remained broken all the same.

“I have wronged you. Allow me to pay for my sin. Let me make things right. I promise you, I will make it all right,” he pleaded. Perhaps he could make her see, convince her to forgive him. It was a fool’s wish, but the prince could hardly consider himself a wise man now. A flicker of hope thumped excitingly in his chest when her fingertips caressed his jaw, but the furrowing of her brows dampened whatever fire he thought he had stoked.

“I can’t,” she responded, shaking her head. She pulled herself away from his grasp once more, leaving them both cold and alone. Aemond hung his head low in shame. He felt sick to his stomach. The full weight of his doing had dragged him straight into the mud, while the love he could only ever carry for his wife throbbed painfully in his chest. “I can’t stay here. I can’t live with this.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. You are my wife, you cannot leave me.”

She was starting to step away from his grip, but he couldn’t let her. Aemond tried to cage her in his arms, but she fought back with strong pushes against his chest. There was a desperation in the one-eyed prince no one had ever known, until now. His pleas echoed through their apartments, cut off by a resounding slap on his cheek. The sting on his flesh was warm, keeping him awake in this reality. He could’ve prevented this, had cut off the poison from its roots if only he had the will to do so, but he had not. The stubbornness in his dragonblood and his refusal to acknowledge the rot in him had let it happen. He had let it grow and fester, spoiling everything he had until it took away the one most precious to him.

She regarded him with coldness, detached like a stranger. His wife looked away, sniffling.

“You are no husband of mine.”

Aegon slept like a boar when he was drunk.

The fucker had gotten back before he did, slithering his way back to the Keep with what Aemond was sure was a maniacal look on his face to tattle to his wife what he had found out.

The king’s chambers almost resembled a pigsty. Cups scattered about, along with some phallic wooden figurines that Aemond’s mind refused to imagine what he even used them for. Their father’s model was gone. At least the twat did one thing right.

But the smell. It was almost like Viserys’ rotting stench remained, haunting them all forever. It was enough to have Aemond scrunch his nose in disgust, but it didn’t repel him completely. No, he had come for something.

His brother laid out like a starfish on his bed, pasty flesh bright against the shadows of his apartments. His snores echoed through the vast chamber. Aemond’s presence did not alert the king at all, his sense of danger dampened by liquor. 

The second son watched him, sneering, before turning around in search of something. It glinted like a beacon under the moonlight, beckoning him closer. The Conqueror’s catspaw dagger stood tall, its sharp tip pierced into the wood of Aegon’s side table. Aemond tested its weight in his hand, getting familiar with the feel of its handle. It was heavy, burdened with its importance to them and their legacy. An imbecile like Aegon had no right to wield it. It belonged to someone worthy of power, of glory. 

Putting his brother on the throne had cost Aemond too much, yet he had been rewarded so little. It cost him his control, his sanity. It cost him his wife. His own brother had played a major hand in his torment, and it was high time the second son was granted his retribution.

It was all too easy to kill him now. One plunge into his slumbering form, and this would all end. It would save everyone much trouble and with a better king on the throne. Save the realm from much horror and bloodshed, that was the power Aemond currently held. No, he wanted him to suffer. He wanted to gaze into the elder’s eyes as he pleaded for mercy. The younger longed to feel his brother’s flesh under his boot, just before he crushed him to pieces. There was no honor in killing a sleeping man, yet again, there was no honor in killing one’s own kin either. There was no honor in any of this, and the one-eyed prince found himself uncaring. The gods had already shunned him, right under the thunderous clouds of Storm’s End. Honor will not save him now, nor any of them. That is why they allowed him to lose his wife. 

Perhaps he was too harsh on the gods, they have to deal with this headache of a war as it is. This was no other’s fault but his after all.

But he is owed by his brother. For many, many things.

The second son set the dagger back in its place. He will be patient. He will have his chance soon enough. Aegon will pay for his sins; Aemond will make sure of it. 

[ilovethanosdick]

Choi Su-bong/Thanos (Squid Game) x fem! reader HCS

IM OBSESSED WITH THIS MAN!!!!!

also first ever post?! it’s a little short, but hope ya enjoy!!

SFW:

• he ADORES physical touch

• touching u at every chance he gets, like even simple hand holding, leaning against u

• HE LOVES IT ESPECIALLY WHEN IT COMES FROM U!!

• casually grabs u by ur ass in public, or give u a lil slap. when u confront him about it, he acts like he dont know what are u talking about, then giggle

• using ur breast like fidget toy, when he’s stressed

• squeezing it, when he feels like it

• shoving his head between ur boobs, bro can stay like that for a good 10 minutes until he calms down

• if u ask him if he would still love u as a worm, he would tell u that he’s not a zoophile

• pet names!! baby, babe, princess are his favs!

• he’s not so good with commitment and stuff like that, would prefer an open relationship (one sided tho, he's so possesive of u)

• have huge jealousy issues when it comes to u

• a male species near u??? he goes into rage mode, getting aggressively touchy to claim u! show everyone that u are his!!

• would apologise to u with rap songs

“Y/N” he screamed outside your house. throwing rocks at the window to wake u up.

“what the fuck…” u muttered to yourself, as u walked over to the window to check what this idiot come up with this time.

as soon as he saw your face, he screamed again, his hands clutching onto his chest “SEÑORITA!!! I WANT TO APOLOGISE TO U!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!! U DO REALISE THAT ITS 3 AM RIGHT NOW???” u screamed back at him, slightly leaning forward through window.

“I LOVE U!!!!!” he get on his knees.

“ARE U HIGH?????” u asked, clearly pissed at his presence.

“HI!!!!!” he said as he waved his hands to u, enthusiastically with a goofy grin.

even after this response, u can’t tell if he’s high. that’s pretty much how he’s acting regardless if he’s on drugs or not.

he turn on boombox, a cliche beat hit your ears. he stands up and cleared his throat.

“Yo, I messed up, I admit it, I’m a clown,

Flirting like a fool when you weren’t around.

But I swear, it was harmless, just a slip of the tongue,

Now I’m here confessing where I went wrong.

I told her, "Hey, nice shoes," and that’s all I meant,

But now I’m in the doghouse, paying the rent.

Baby, you’re the star, the queen of my heart,

And that other conversation? A throwaway part.

She laughed at my joke, yeah, I felt kinda cool,

But now I see, I was the class clown fool.

I’d never trade you for some silly chat,

You’re the boss, the CEO, I’m just the doormat.

I’ll buy you flowers, write your name in the sky,

Sing off-key if it’ll dry your eyes.

I’ll even quit drugs if you need me to,

Just don’t leave me hangin’, I’m a mess without you.

So baby, I’m here, on my knees with this beat,

Admitting my crimes, can’t handle defeat.

Let’s laugh this off, put it in the past,

‘Cause you and me, girl, we’re built to last.”

he end up the song showing a small heart formed with his thumb and index finger.

u sighed “all right, come inside”

“YAYY!!!” he did a happy jump and clapped his feet in midair.

• tbh he’s so silly

• steals flowers from a random garden for u

• night visits, but uses a window instead of a door to enter ur place, literally like some kind of teenager

• even if u gave him the keys to ur apartment, he will use the window no matter what

it was dark outside, about 11 pm. u were coming back from work. damn how exhausted u felt. some arguments with clients, boss yelling at u. it was not ur best day for sure.

u checked ur phone. still no text from Thanos. why he was ghosting u? probably he don’t want to deal with ur complains about how bad ur day went.

u opened the apartment door. u don't give a damn about anything. you plan to go to bed right away, you don't have the strength to change your clothes, wash yourself or eat something.

you threw everything aside and went to the bedroom. when you turn on the light in the room, you see your boyfriend lying on his side, resting his head on his hand, rose in his teeth.

“U WANT TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK???” u flinched. u can’t get used to Thanos randomly spawning in ur house.

“and i missed u too, princess” he grinned, standing up and then theatrically hand over the rose to u.

“i brought ur fav burgers and lotta beer” he said, pointing out at ur kitchen.

“thanks” u smiled softly at him. u can’t help but melt inside at his behaviour. he’a an asshole, but what a cute asshole.

“no problem, babe” he leaned to u, giving u a tight hug. burying his face in the crook of ur neck.

• avoids deep emotional conversation

• would tell that he loves u, but he don’t put much weight into that

• he’s saying it casually like it’s common sense that he loves u

• painting each others nails!!!!

NSFW:

• pansexual king, but he wouldn’t label himself

• he don’t care about gender, he fucks who he consider as cute and that’s it!!

• when u ride him, he would comment something like: WROOM WROOM!! or YEEHAW!!!

• A TOTAL FREAK….

• piss kink (y’all can’t prove me wrong)

• HE LIKES IT DIRTY!!!!

• public sex

• like fingering u in a club or on a party, sometimes anal when he's high

• claiming u like that in front of other people?? IT TURNS HIM ON SO BADD

• never a sub, it would hurt his ego

• bro don’t know what gentle sex is

• always rough and aggressive

• smokes weed/cigarettes during sex, blowing smoke in your face

• talking about himself in third person "yeah, babe. the great Thanos will make u feel so good”

“u like that slut? u like Thanos’s dick that much??”

• he’s not into after care. usually he just rolls down on bed, doesn't even bother putting on clothes, hug u tightly and fall asleep like that

[always-just-red]

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, okay? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, okay?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you okay?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, okay? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.  

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, okay?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Headcanon/Preference # 37

Gifs NOT mine.

Rating - SFW

Reading time (roughly) - 12 minutes

Year posted - 2025

So yeah I totally killed the reader off in this one... Wanted this one to be angsty. Enjoy.

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

• Obi-wan Kenobi •

• Obi-wan knew he shouldn't have let you join him on this particular mission.

• He knew something was off about this mission, he had sensed it in the Force.

• But he'd let you join regardless, and now you lay at his feet, bleeding out.

• He quickly dispatched of the enemy, and pulled you into his arms.

• "My love stay with me, you're going to be okay."

• He cradled your head in his free hand, trying desperately to assure you that everything will be okay.

• While also trying to fool himself into thinking you'll be able to pull through.

• As your breathing turned shallow, he kissed your forehead, smiling through the pain.

• He needed to be strong for you.

• And as your eyes fluttered closed, and your chest stilled, Obi-wan felt as if a part of himself had died with you.

• Only then did he allow himself to cry, and Obi-wan Kenobi was never the same.

• Becoming a shell of the man he once was, he eventually leaves the Jedi and roams the galaxy, feeling utterly lost without you by his side.

• Anikin Skywalker •

• Anikin thought he could protect you from anything.

• His one truest love, the one person he would have done anything for.

• This is the most dramatic turn of events for Anikin, the moment when he gave into the dark side.

• Cradling your lifeless body in his arms, Anikin screamed and cried.

• "You can't leave me (Y/n), you can't!"

• And with the aggressive flick of his wrist, he killed those that had taken you from him.

• He was merciless, unforgiving, and beyond angry.

• Anikin felt as if he'd died alongside you, and in many ways he did.

• Alone he laid you to rest.

• His once beautiful blue eyes turned to yellow as he watched you disappear from his life.

• Anikin felt as if your blood was on his hands, as if he failed to protect you.

• He also felt as if he failed you, because if you hadn't loved him as deeply as you did, maybe then you wouldn't have given your life for his.

• The day you died, was the very same day Darth Vader was born.

• Qui-Gon Jinn •

• Qui-Gon knew he shouldn't have grown attached to you, he knew it wouldn't end well.

• The rules about attachments, about love, were in place for this very reason.

• Quickly he took care of the man that had fatally wounded you, and held you close.

• Try as he might with the help of the force he attempted to heal your wounds, unable to do so he tried his best to be strong for you.

• He pecked your lips, and brushed back your hair.

• "You're going to be alright darling, just breath. That's it, just keep breathing."

• His hands shook as he placed his free hand over your wound, trying weakly to stop the bleeding.

• Again he tried using the Force to at least try to ease your pain, to make this easier for you.

• "Just relax my darling, we'll see eachother again."

• Qui-Gon promised you with a weak smile, his heart breaking at the sight of your own equally weak smile.

• His heart breaking further as he felt your breathing slow down considerably, the light in your eyes fading with every shallow breath.

• If there was anything Qui-Gon was grateful for, it was getting to hold you in his arms one last time.

• Darth Maul •

• Maul was foolish enough to think you were untouchable, that you were both untouchable.

• And his world crashed around him as you collapsed to the ground.

• Maul thought he knew pain, but all that he's been through, all that he's done. It was nothing compared to losing you.

• "You'll pay for this!"

• Maul growled at the man that was daring enough to hurt you.

• Ruthlessly he slashed at the man, cutting him limb from limb, and keeping him alive until he was satisfied.

• His rage blinded him, and only subsidied when he heard you wheezing in pain.

• "(Y/n) my star."

• Without another thought he dropped his saber, and rushed to your side, cradling you against his chest.

• He was unfazed by your blood seeping into his robes, firmly placing his hand against your wound, desperately trying to at least slow the bleeding.

• "I'll find you again my star, nothing can keep me from you, nothing."

• Maul promised as he rest his forehead against your own, the connection between you both through the Force, assuring him that he could keep that promise.

• He also swore to take down anyone and everyone that was involved in your demise, whoever that man worked for was as good as dead, and anyone else Maul deemed guilty.

• Maul will destroy worlds to avenge you if he must.

• He kept his eyes locked with yours as you slowly slipped away, his hearts thundering with heartache.

• "We will be together again."

• Maul promised before you gave your final breath, a rage filled scream escaping him as you died.

• And all who knew of Darth Maul, learned that after your demise, the Sith could be far crueler, far darker than he had been when you were still alive.

• Maul eventually turns to the traditions of the Zabrak, and finds a way to reunite with you through the magick of his people.

• It isn't enough, and it'll never be enough, because it is simply a ghost of you.

• But until his demise it is all he can manage, and he will accept that while he cannot hold you anymore, he can at least still see you and speak with you.

• Feral Opress •

• Feral is heartbroken beyond belief.

• You were the only truly good thing in his life, you were his and he was yours.

• Savage had witnessed the whole thing unfold, and for the sake of his brother, he struck down the man that dared to harm you.

• Feral wasn't sure what to do, so he acted on instinct, and laid beside you, pulling you into his arms.

• You had once said laying in his embrace was your favorite thing, the thing that brought you the most comfort.

• And he knew that's all he could do for you, comfort you as you slowly succumbed to your wounds.

• "Sh sh my sweet, just relax, I'm here, I've got you."

• He brushed your hair back in a soothing way, ignoring how much it hurt him to feel your blood painting his skin.

• He peppered kisses across your paling face, his hearts breaking with every kiss.

• You giggled in a pitiful way, coughing a moment later, blood oozed from your mouth.

• And Feral, delicately, lovingly wiped it away.

• "It's okay my sweet, look at me."

• His lip quivered a little as your glossy eyes peered into his own.

• "I love you, don't you ever forget that."

• He pecked your lips, tears escaping him when your final breath wheezed out from your lungs.

• Savage Opress •

• Savage instantly saw red, his hearts filled with rage, and regret.

• He ripped the man who hurt you limb from limb with his bare hands. The man's blood only cooling his temper a little.

• Dropping the carcass carelessly to the ground, he rushed back to your side, and as gently as he could he picked you up and cradled you against his chest.

• With you in his arms, Savage walked carefully across the tundra of the desolate planet you were on, unable, unwilling to just leave you on this wasteland of a planet.

• "Oh little one, my sweet stupid girl. You should have just let me handle him."

• He meant well, he really did. But he was hurt that you would do something so reckless, so selfless.

• You had once promised him forever.

• You giggled weakly, reaching up to caress his handsome face. And Savage melted into your touch.

• His hearts broke, knowing he couldn't save you, not this time.

• His blazing eyes locked onto your pale face, he wanted to commit your face to memory, despite the fact that he already has every part of you committed to memory.

• "I'll see you again little one, through the magick, the Force, I will see you again."

• He promised as he cradled you close, the chill of your skin finally breaking his resolve.

• Savage cried as he held you close, falling to his knees as you struggled to breathe.

• He grew darker that day, much darker. Swearing to fight to the bitter end, until he could be reunited with you once more.

• Kylo Ren •

• The moment you collapsed before his eyes, Kylo felt as if he would die alongside you.

• With a rage filled cry, Kylo cut down the man that hurt you, and threw the rest over a nearby cliff with the Force.

• He fell to his knees beside you, watching helplessly as your blood stained the snow around you.

• "Starlight what have you done?"

• He breathed out as he pulled you into his arms, tears of heartache and rage streaming down his face, his helmet long since abandoned.

• "I couldn't- couldn't let you get hurt."

• You had wheezed out, desperately clutching the deep gash at your side. Kylo's hand rest over yours, desperately hoping to stop the bleeding.

• "I can't live without you."

• Kylo whispered in a broken voice, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

• He squeezed you tighter, as you grew colder and colder in his arms.

• "Don't leave me, please, I can't go on without you."

• Kylo shook in his sorrow and rage, as your breathing became shallow.

• Despite the fact that you were literally dying, you still tried to comfort him, brushing his hair back weakly, your blood staining his pale skin.

• This only served to break his heart further, how can he possibly go on without you?

• Kylo is the most likely to rage an all out war, in hopes of getting himself killed so he could be reunited with you.

• But that's not to say he won't fight to the bitter end.

• Armitage Hux •

• It took everything in Armitage to stay standing, to not collapse and cradle you in his arms.

• If he had done so, he knew your sacrifice would have been in vain.

• But the moment the man is killed by his troopers, he's falling to his knees and pulling you into his arms.

• "GET A MEDICAL DROID NOW!"

• He barks at his men, who rush to follow out his order.

• But it's too late, your once bright eyes are dull and lifeless, having died on impact.

• That doesn't stop Armitage from deluding himself into thinking you'll be okay.

• He's crying, and begging you to wake up, but you don't respond to any of his attempts to stir you.

• "Please angel, wake up, come on."

• He's shaking you, kissing you, and eventually in his desperation he's beating on your chest in an attempt to get your heart pumping again.

• By the time a medical droid comes, he refuses to let you go. His troopers eventually have to tear him away from your body.

• He's kicking and screaming, red in the face as he fights them. But it's no good, they are to strong.

• Armitage has to control himself during your funeral, every instinct in him screaming to not let you go, to fight to bring you back.

• He is much harsher after this, starting arguments more and more with Kylo, and taking every ounce of pain when Kylo throws him across the room with the Force, as if he deserves to be punished.

• He's even trying to goad Kylo into killing him, but the man has a little more restraint than the General had thought.

• Armitage is the most likely to give into his dark depressive thoughts, and take his own life.

• His final thoughts are of you and you alone.

• General Grievous •

• You were his most prized "possession" so to speak, nothing in all of the galaxy meant as much to Grievous as you did.

• "My treasure, no you can't do this, you can't leave me I forbid it!"

• He's killed the man before you even hit the ground, where you lay for mere moments before he's cradling you in his arms.

• He's gentle with you, as he quite literally sprints you to the nearest medical bay.

• "Get out all of you!"

• He barks at the droids, not trusting them to fix what cannot be undone. Certain that he'll be able to save you.

• He's frantic in his attempts to patch you up, almost unaware of the way you gently touch his arm.

• Grievous froze in an instant when you weakly called out his name, his attention now solely on your face, cupping your hand in two of his.

• "What do you need treasure?"

• He asked in a soft voice, ignoring how his voice shook with emotion.

• You simply smiled at him, as if taking in the sight of him was all you cared about in that moment.

• "I-I lo-ve-"

• You tried croaking out, only for your breath to be stolen as you slipped away, dying before his very eyes, trying to declare your love one last time.

• The very ground shook with his scream of despair and heart retching agony.

• From that moment on he took out every ounce of pain and anger at losing you on anyone he deemed a threat.

• Sometimes even on innocent people, who would unknowingly remind him of you.

• He fought dirty and ruthlessly, uncaring if he would get himself killed, or if he would even succeed.

• Grievous also travelled far and wide across the galaxy in an attempt to find some way to bring you back to life.

• He cared not for whatever it might cost, or what he might have to do, who he would have to kill.

• If there is a way he can bring you back, he'll find a way, not matter how long it takes.

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

[f4ggydog]

lottie x reader: but baby i’m a fool for you🔞

warnings: nsfw so minors don’t interact and read, lottie’s got a cock, penis in vagina sex, breeding, cum, reader has a pussy

the way things have been going for lottie in this show have made me SO SAD FOR HER THIS SEASON so I felt like writing something less tragic/dark

Lottie hoped that all of the Yellowjackets viewed her as their friend. They were one of her only pieces of escapism when thins at home got tense. It seemed like Lottie was destined to have a rocky relationship with her father. No matter how many times she tried to manage her illness, nothing was good enough for him. He thought of his daughter as nothing more than just some ‘sicko.’

Lottie’s mother was slightly more helpful, but subservient to her husband. So if they got into an argument over Lottie’s illness, Lottie’s mom would always back down first. She’d never get the last word. Always a wife, but never anything more to that man. And a good wife never questioned her husband’s claims, even when she wanted him to concede.

Out of all her teammates, Lottie was most happy to have met you. You wear her absolute favorite on the team, though she was originally shy about admitting it. Before you two became a couple, Lottie made sure to keep her fascination with you under wraps at all times. But someday, Lottie knew that you were going to tear the wrapping off and open that present she’s been concealing.

Lottie’s stares lingered too long inside of the locker room. Between eyeing your hips or glancing at your…behind, her eyes always seemed to be locked on you. Frankly, she was amazed that you hadn’t caught her by then. But all it took was one visit to her table during lunchtime to rock her world.

And today, Lottie sits on the bed inside of her room. She’s still shaken up over Nat and Taissa going back and forth. Yeah, she’s not a fan of Allie’s soccer skills. That doesn’t mean they have to fucking injure her to get their point across. Whatever happened to the concept of humanity?

You notice Lottie’s frown. At first, you’re hesitant to sit by her. She gave you permission to visit your penthouse, but you were wondering if it would be better to reschedule a date for another day. Plus, you can’t tell if Lottie would prefer to be alone or if she yearns for some company.

Lottie locks eyes with you and her eyes soften. Her frown slowly transforms into a smile. She doesn’t beckon you over with her hands, but her face looks enough like an invitation. After some consideration, you hurry over to her from the doorway and hope you guessed her facial expressions to a T.

“Are they getting to you, Lot?” You question, rubbing her shoulder. You absolutely loathed seeing Lottie in any distress. If she was upset about something, it was guaranteed to put your mood in the dumps as well. You mind as well start crying right about now.

“It’s not just them.” Lottie tosses her cigarette pack onto the dresser. “It’s my parents too, my dad. Everything just feels like it’s gone to shit. And yet here I am, expected to lend a shoulder to Allie so she can cry about her homecoming dance.”

“It’s not fair baby,” you coo, leaning on her side. “I know it isn’t fair. But, you know I’m here for you, right? We barely talked at all today. I missed you. And you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

Lottie reaches for her pack of cigarettes, but you lightly pull her hand away.

“Don’t do it Lot,” you whine. “What have I told you about smoking? That’s not good for you.”

“I know,” Lottie groans. “But I’m stressed. I don’t know what else to do. I’m used to resorting to those. Fuck, everything is just…bad right now. Everything sucks.”

“Well, let me cheer you up then.” You stand up from where you were sitting and reposition yourself. That way, you’re on Lottie’s lap and can get extra intimate with her.

“Woah,” Lottie chuckles. “Bit of a change of pace?”

“Maybe a kiss would help. It’s not therapy, but…”

“Let’s get something straight,” Lottie replies. “Your kisses are effective therapy. Without a doubt.”

“You’re so sweet,” you giggle into Lottie’s neck like a schoolgirl with a massive, pathetic crush. It’s like you two were still in elementary school, exchanging secret admirer notes until one of you could properly confess your love. You hoped the honeymoon phase of this relationship would never end.

You plant a couple of kisses on Lottie’s neck. They are a lovely start, but Lottie craves more. She holds you firmly in place by your waist, smushing her lips against yours. You moan at the sudden collision, adjusting yourself so that you’re more comfortable as your lips crash against each other like waves surrounding the ocean.

Lottie’s hands travel across your body. They release themselves from your waist and find your stomach. She gently pulls your shirt up, taking extra precautions to not rip or destroy the fragile fabric. She caresses your tummy, groaning in delight just at the feeling of your skin against hers.

You feel yourself getting hotter. You lightly grind your body in Lottie’s lap, deepening the kiss and pushing your tongue further into her mouth. Soon, as you two are a bundle of passion, you feel something poking against you from the bottom. The best part is…you know exactly what it is.

“You turn me on so fucking much,” Lottie groans in your ear. “Fuck.”

“Getting hard for me, baby?” You coo, giggling as Lottie’s bulge nudges against you. “Want me to pull your skirt down?”

“Fuck yes,” Lottie gives you permission. “You know this is the best stress relief I could possibly get. Treat me right, babe.”

You’re eager to please, just like a good little partner. You hop off of Lottie’s lap and drop to your knees. First, her pink skirt comes down with a quick pull. You salivate over the hard on that’s visible through Lottie’s panties. You couldn’t wait to get your mouth wrapped around her. If anything could make her forget about her troubles, it had to be this.

Lottie’s polka dot panties are peeled off next. They fall to her feet and Lottie’s cock tenderly slaps against your face. She’s already twitching and her tip’s already red. Lottie always felt massive in the palm of your hand, but that didn’t stop you from taking her.

You run your hands up and down Lottie’s veins. She was circumcised and at least 8 inches in length. Additionally, she had the thickness of a brick. It was a mammoth to grasp in your hands. However, that didn’t want to make you back down any less.

“Just like that baby,” Lottie urges, your hands softly pumping her cock, like you were trying to squeeze the pleasure out of her. “Fuck, your hands feel so good. Babyyyy.”

“I’ve only started Lot,” you giggle. “You can’t be that turned on already.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Lottie whines.

You lean your head forward to press a kiss to the head of Lottie’s dick. She twitches with the wet sensation and pushes her cock closer to your mouth. Without another word, Lottie guides your head over so you can swallow the first couple of inches of flesh.

Lottie was never easy to take in your mouth. It’s not the first time she’s received a blowjob from you, but there was always choking and gagging in between. She always had to control herself and not go too rough with the face fucking or else you might lose consciousness.

Lottie holds your head in place and slowly starts to pump more inches down your throat. Her head tilts back and she bites her lip, teasing her balls at the same time. The eye contact you keep throughout your deepthroating only entices Lottie further and she finds her eyes fluttering at your every movement.

“You’re so good,” Lottie praises. “Fuck, take my dick baby. You look so good with my cock in your mouth. Fuckkkk.”

You slowly pull your head back, briefly allowing air to enter your body. Then, you go right back to pleasing Lottie, your throat stretching to accommodate more of her heavy cock.

“Fuck baby,” Lottie pants, working her cock deeper into your mouth. “Fuck, so good. You always make me feel so good. Fuck, you’re such a good little cock whore.”

Your chuckle gets muffled. You pull your head back again and look up at Lottie with starry eyes. “Very descriptive words, Lot.”

“Sorry,” Lottie says sheepishly. “D-Did that make you uncomfortable? I don’t have to use that word again.”

“No.” You shake your head. “N-No, I like it. I don’t mind one bit.”

“Okay good.” Lottie nods. “Fuck, you look so gorgeous. Even better than usually do.”

“Maybe it’s cause I’m on my knees.”

Lottie grabs you and pulls you up so you're standing up. She slaps her cock against her palm, signaling for you to claim your seat again.

“Wait.” You blink. “H-Hold on, sorry. I haven’t...”

Lottie listens.

“I mean, I know I’ve sucked you off, Lot. But, I can’t remember the last time we fucked. What I do remember is that we were both really drunk-“

“And I’m sorry,” Lottie interrupts. “I’m sorry. I regret that we lost it in such a stupid way. I wish I could’ve given you better. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry-“

“Lottie, it’s okay. It was our moment. It was our time. And it was worth it. It just means that…it might take me a while to get used to you inside of me again. Might feel different.”

“Well, there’s no rush. At least not on my end. So you’re free to take your time. I just…fuck, I need to be inside of you.”

You wiggle your ass teasingly.

“How bad, Lot?”

“So bad, baby. Fuck, I need to feel that warmth. I need my dick inside of you. Fuck, come sit down baby.”

“So much for no rushing,” you cackle, backing up so you’re in closer proximity to Lottie.

“S-Sorry, baby. Don’t mean to rush. I just know you’re gonna feel so good. Fuck.”

“Try not to cum the second I’m inside you.”

You slowly lower yourself onto Lottie’s cock. She rubs the head of her penis against your slit. Then, you sink down until most of Lottie is buried in your hot cunt.

Lottie lets out a loud moan, nearly orgasming just at the sensation of your warm insides. She whimpers, securing you tightly in her lap and thrusting upwards. The outline of her cock is visible on your stomach and you wonder if Lottie’s tip will end up kissing your cervix.

“Go slow Lot,” you moan into her neck. “Fuck, you’re so big baby. Jesus Christ.”

“Does it hurt?” Lottie asks, still rutting into you like a puppy in an insane amount of heat.

“N-No it doesn’t,” you reassure her. “But fuck, you’re going so fast. You’re gonna make yourself cum too quick.”

“Can’t stop fucking you,” Lottie murmurs, her hips bouncing as her cock plunges deep into your tightening pussy. “You feel so fucking good. Fuck, I need this so bad. I needed your pussy so, so bad.”

“Lot!” You can barely time yourself with her thrusts, her cock ramming into you. It’s impossible for you to keep up and you find yourself stopping in some moments and just letting Lottie do all the work. Not that Lottie minds working her ass off. She’s the one with her brain switched off right now. All she can think about is breeding you until your pussy can’t handle any more cum.

“Don’t stop Lot,” you chant. “Fuck, please don’t stop. Fuck, baby!”

“You’re squeezing me so tight,” Lottie purrs, quickly pulling you in for a smooch. “Maybe you’re the one who’ll cum first, huh? Maybe you’re the one getting drunk with lust right now.”

To further support her point, you can’t get a single word out that isn’t a moan or groan of some sort. Lottie grins with satisfaction.

“Yeah, that’s right. No cock could ever feel as good as mine, right? Nobody could ever fill you like I could?”

“Nobody,” you repeat. “Nobody, Lottie. Fuck, you feel so fucking good. Holy shit. I-I’m so…”

Lottie pumps into you faster.

“Tell me you adore my cock. Tell me how good it feels when my big cock hits that perfect spot. Tell me. Tell me now, baby.”

“It feels amazing, Lot!” You cry out. “Fuck, nobody feels as good as you! No one’s as big as you, shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your bodies are slicked together with sweat. Lottie’s heart races and your thighs quiver. You’re both in an unimaginable state of bliss. Neither of you would be disappointed if you were unable to ever exit this moment.

“So close Lottie,” you sob into her ear. “So close. So fucking close.”

“Me too,” Lottie pants. “Should I pull-“

“No, no!” You almost scream out with urgency. “Cum inside. Please cum inside. I need you inside of me.”

“You’re on birth-“

“Yes, just fuck a baby into me, Lottie! Please, fuck your cum into me. I need it so bad. Fuck.”

Your encouragement sends Lottie over the edge. A long hiss leaves her mouth as cum spurts into your greedy hole. Rope after rope of hot fluid pumps into your pussy, filling it with nothing but white. Lottie’s orgasm triggers your own and your fluids mix with hers as you cum right on her cock.

The two of you are a sticky, gooey mess. Your pussy’s spent but Lottie can’t stop fucking you. She doesn’t want to guarantee a single drop goes missing. Lottie would rather see the gates of hell than waste any of her precious cum.

Once she’s convinced she’s throughly bred you, Lottie flips you and tosses you onto the bed, negligent of the cum that might leak out. Your pussy clenches around nothing, already missing the feeling of Lottie’s cock.

“Don’t you worry.” Lottie smirks, pinning you down. “That was only round one.”

[evilminji]

Oh shit :D ?

I just remembered! (Thank you, historical fantasy section!) But like? Serving and protecting The King, especially a HIGH KING, is quite literally not just an incredible honor... but it can sometimes be a person's Life Ambition?

Specificly a WORTHY king.

Perhaps they were denied in life. Perhaps they FAILED. And in their dying moments struggle with all they were to LIVE. To PROTECT. Perhaps the PREVIOUS king was a great and worthy ruler... but their heir is...

Unworthy.

Maybe they are born to an age without Rulers. Power shifting between hands in hidden halls. Unclear and murky. All they want is for their loyalty to MEAN something. For things to be SIMPLE.

The universe is large. The Infinite Realms? Unimaginably larger.

And Pariah Dark was a BASTARD.

Who would willingly swear to him? Fools! That's who! Every warrior soul worth ANYTHING gets as far AWAY from his Realm forsaken resting place as they can. Hides. Lest they be dragged in to his infernal, gods forsaken, cess pit of a so called "army"! *disgusted spitting noises*

But what does this mean? It means every trained FIGHTER... got the hell out of dodge. Oh, sure, a FEW refused. Like Pandora and her people. But most? The farthest side of NOWHERE, several layers down! Some still GOING! Better to be decried as cowards then have ANYTHING to do with THAT(said with loathing)!

It also means they weren't where Pariah could get to them when he woke. Couldn't help. Couldn't fight. Couldn't be commanded to kneel. Nothing. They removed themselves completely. Planned on CONTINUING to remove themselves. Preferably to the farthest reaches of forever, far beyond the bastard's gaze.

But! The whole REALM INFINITE felt it? When that... that hissing, acidic, malicious undertone? SLAMS back and away, like somebody's knocked a parasite from their backs. Replaced by coolness and starlight. Delicate balance and blood on your teeth. The pounding in your chest of HOPE.

It flutters so small across their backs, inside their chests. Washing away the old.

The King... feels tiny. Young.

.......what are they doing? Running like this. Hiding away like that will change anything. How long... when did...

There are so many of them now. A veritable army of souls, of all Ages and People's. Every armor and crest imaginable. They'd been so.. so REPULSED by Pariah... nothing else had mattered but to get AWAY. Where even ARE they? What YEAR is it? Does any of that matter?

The King.

Their Obsessions whisper. Loyalty. Service. Protection. Honor. You have left you post! Abandoned your DUTY! What are you DOING!?

They are AGHAST. They turn around at once. The King! How could they have ABANDONED the King!? Who is guarding him if they are all HERE?!

Himself!?

(Yes. Danny is fine. He is eating the "Thank You for keeping us all from dying to whatever the FUCK that was!" tamales Paulina's mom pushed into his arms on his way back home. He didn't even try arguing. He made eye contact and knew he would lose.)

(Why does he feel like something really, really bothersome is headed his way?)

It's UNACCEPTABLE. Unthinkable! The King? Unguarded? Where assassination attempts and nefarious PLOTS could occur?! What if someone tried to steal his eggs!? Or attacked him while his exoskeleton was molting!? They aren't entirely sure which species he is yet, but there are SO MANY NEFARIOUS PLOTS OUT THERE!!

*panicked honor guards*

Just? Imagine becoming king. And thinking "well, aside from the skeleton army I have to figure out, at least I don't have to manage anybody!" Only to *WABAM!* your ENTIRE GHOST COURT shows up like a week later. Turns out they were hiding from your predecessor.

You have a whole ass honor gaurd. Who REFUSE TO LEAVE YOUR SIDE. You have Chefs. Who WILL cry if you send them away. The Literal Best In The Multiverse are all following you around... YOU, a RANDOM TEENAGE, with Excited Shoujo Sparkles in their eyes... because you punched a jackass really, REALLY hard.

There is no way to make this stop. Your friends are laughing at you. The interior decorator wants you to look at swatches. What are swatches and why are you being harrased by them at 1am, you wonder? If you are Mean(tm) they throw themselves upon the floor and blame themselves for their Wicked, Evil, King-Upseting Ways and you can't even TELL if your being played here.

It's like being bullied by house elves. Or Miette.

Your parents are too excited by all the New Research (at least the reveal went well?) To SAVE THEIR SON, and your sister is HELPING THE ENEMY (Traitor!), so now you're being bullied into eating vegetables and studying more.

Then? THEN!! WHO SHOWS UP?! Like... five WEEKS late?! The Justice League. Gee! GREAT RESPONSE TIME, GUYS! Reeeal snappy! But ya, JUST missed the guy!

.......YES HES BEING SARCASTIC!!!

@hdgnj @stealingyourbones

[honestcompassion]

may you do a shadow milk cookie version of the yandere headcanons?

𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐎��𝐒. having strong feelings of romantic love

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 yandere shadow milk cookie headcanons

warnings: obsessive and possessive behavior, physical abuse, psychological abuse, stalking, manipulation, brainwashing, implied forced relationship, potentially ooc

A/N: Of course I can! When Shadow Milk Cookie first debuted, I fell in love instantly. There’s just something about theatrical villains, especially the eccentric jester types, that captivates me. One order of yandere Shadow Milk Cookie headcanons, coming right up!

Shadow Milk Cookie as a yandere would be like a dark chocolate truffle—rich, alluring, and just a little bitter beneath the sweetness. His charm wraps around you like velvet, a perfect blend of theatrical flair and quiet intensity that feels as intoxicating as it is unsettling. His love is a shadowed waltz, beautiful and haunting, leaving you unsure whether to be captivated or cautious. It’s the kind of affection that feels like a dream you can’t wake up from—both a sweet escape and a lingering trap. You’ll find yourself drawn into his world of dramatic devotion, but beneath the warmth of his smiles lies a possessive hunger he can’t quite hide.

He thrives on grand, theatrical gestures to express his devotion, leaving you gifts with cryptic yet poetic notes signed with an elegant flourish. These gestures range from elaborate displays of affection—like lighting up a dark field with glowing lanterns in your honor—to eerily personal offerings, such as items he’s "acquired" from your daily life. Every act is calculated to make you feel like you’re at the center of his universe, even as it slowly closes in around you.

He views your relationship as a masterpiece, with himself as the playwright and you as the star. Shadow Milk Cookie meticulously plans each moment to keep you enchanted, ensuring you never have a reason to stray from him. If you ever seem distant, he’ll orchestrate events that pull you back into his embrace, from accidental encounters to dramatic rescues that only he could have staged.

Shadow Milk Cookie takes his role as the playwright of your love story to sinister extremes, orchestrating every detail of your life to align with his vision. His stalking is meticulous; he knows your schedule, preferences, and even your deepest fears. He uses this information not just to keep you under his watchful eye, but also to manipulate your circumstances, ensuring that you rely on him entirely. Whether it’s sabotaging relationships, creating accidents, or isolating you from friends and family, everything he does is designed to sever your ties to the outside world.

Anything proving to be a psychological feat are one of his most insidious tools. Shadow Milk Cookie weaves a narrative that convinces you the world outside is full of dangers and betrayals, leaving him as the only one you can trust. He’ll gaslight you into questioning your own memories and perceptions, using his silver tongue to twist reality into something that serves his control. "Surely, you don't actually believe their words? Ignorance is a sin only a fool can commit, dearest!"

His manipulation extends to planting seeds of doubt and fear in your mind. He’ll isolate you with subtle cruelty, belittling your connections to others or hinting that they harbor ill intentions toward you. At the same time, he showers you with affection, creating a jarring cycle of emotional highs and lows that leaves you dependent on his approval and affection.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s possessiveness becomes physical when his control is threatened. If you attempt to defy or leave him, his charm will shatter, replaced by a terrifying intensity. He won’t hesitate to use force to keep you by his side, gripping your wrist hard enough to leave bruises or blocking your path with an unsettling grin. "This was not part of the script, silly. You should know better than to anger me."

The brainwashing is relentless, as Shadow Milk Cookie works tirelessly to mold your thoughts and feelings to fit his narrative. He’ll whisper sweet lies in your ear, repeating them until they feel like truth. Over time, you’ll find yourself questioning your own desires and autonomy, your sense of self eroding under his constant pressure.

Any attempts to resist the relationship are met with overwhelming force, both emotional and physical. He’ll guilt you into compliance, framing your resistance as a betrayal of his devotion. "I've given you everything, and yet you still pull away. Why would you hurt me like this?" If guilt doesn’t work, his darker side emerges, and he’ll ensure you understand the consequences of disobedience.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s forced relationship is a gilded cage, beautiful on the surface but suffocating beneath. He’ll use every tool at his disposal to keep you trapped, from fabricated crises that require his intervention to veiled threats disguised as declarations of love.

Even as his behavior grows more extreme, Shadow Milk Cookie maintains the facade of a devoted lover, his gestures of affection as grand and theatrical as ever. He genuinely believes his actions are justified, that his obsessive, controlling love is the only way to keep you safe and happy. To him, your relationship is a story of fate and devotion, and he won’t let you rewrite the ending.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a sickly pale light across the room as Shadow Milk Cookie paced back and forth, his hands tightly gripping the edge of his staff. His usually 'composed' demeanor was shattered, his face twisted with a mixture of rage and disbelief. His eyes, once full of affection, now burned with something darker—a madness that had been building for far too long.

"You insolent fool," he muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. "How dare you? How could you…"

His steps quickened, his once graceful movements that he kept up in front of you for so long becoming erratic as the fury inside him bubbled to the surface. His calloused fingers twitched as he thought about the escape. Your escape. The idea that you, his beloved, could leave him—leave him—was something he couldn’t fathom.

The room around him seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as his mind spiraled. Every crack in the floorboards, every rustle of the curtains, every shift in the shadows—it all felt like a reminder of your betrayal.

"You think you can escape, silly?" he snarled, his voice rising with each word. His normally playful tone had vanished, replaced by a harshness that echoed through the empty room. "You think you can get away from me? From me?"

His hands shook as he slammed his staff against the ground, the sharp crack splitting the silence like thunder. The smile that usually lingered on his lips was gone, replaced by a grimace of pure, unfiltered anger. His heart raced as the image of you slipping away haunted his every thought.

"You silly little pest," he hissed, his words a venomous whisper. "Running from me? After all I’ve done? I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me? You think anyone else could ever love you the way I do?"

He turned toward the window, the glass reflecting his distorted expression—twisted, obsessed, consumed. His breath came in ragged gasps as he gripped the edge of the windowsill, staring out into the night as if willing you to appear in front of him. The world beyond the walls was a blur, a fading memory he couldn’t bear to face.

"You can’t run from me. I won’t let you," he whispered, his voice soft but laced with a chilling promise. He slowly turned back toward the center of the room, the room where he had kept you, the room where you belonged. "You’re mine, and you will stay mine, no matter how many foolish attempts you make."

A low, manic laugh bubbled from his throat, sharp and cold. "Stupid puppet, always trying to run away," he muttered. "I'll break you down if I have to. I’ll remake you. You’ll beg me to stop." He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild, pupils dilated. His breathing became erratic as he stood, still trembling, his body humming with an anxious energy.

The thought of you—of you being free—drove him to the edge. Every second that passed without you in his arms felt like a lifetime. He couldn't fathom it. You, slipping away, making your own choices. You, defying him. His chest tightened with panic and rage.

"You’ll never escape me. Never," he snarled. "And when I find you, when I pull you back into my arms, you’ll understand. You’ll thank me for making you stay."

His eyes glazed over as he imagined it—the moment when you finally realized that the only way to feel safe, to feel loved, was in his arms. His arms, where you belonged. He could already feel the rush of relief coursing through him, the sweet, intoxicating satisfaction of having you back under his control.

He turned away, his fingers twitching, a smile finally creeping back onto his lips. It was small, but it was there—twisted, deluded, and soaked in madness.

"I'll have you back. You’ll come to me, silly little thing," he whispered, his voice slipping into a dangerous calm. "And I will make sure you never forget how much I love you."

You're going to wish you never met him after he's done with you.

[eccentricallygothic]

Crosshairs

Description: Trying to get Robb's attention is one thing, but when you have successfully landed yourself in his crosshairs is another.

Pairing: Brat Tamer Prodigal Son!Robb Stark | Spoilt Brat!You.

Warning(s): Brat taming, jealousy, spanking, punishment, unprotected p-in-v, doggy style (it's me), claiming, manhandling (it's Robb), power imbalance, degradation, light misogyny, Robb's BDE because I live for that shit, corporal punishment ig, boob play. MDNI.

Type: Request, here. 

. . .

“You do realize you will land us both in trouble if you keep this up, yes?” Jon does not look up at his older brother's betrothed half out of respect and half out of the playful annoyance he feels for the spoiled girl batting her eyelashes down at him with faux coyness.

“What trouble?” The male rolls his eyes as he works away at his sword. “I haven't the slightest inkling of whatever you mean, Jon” he resists the urge to scoff at your obvious innocence. 

The uncharacteristic nature of your actions makes you stick out like a sore thumb. The forced lady-like smile that holds your features in an uncomfortable shift due to lack of experience, the way you hover above his head in a flirtatious side hang even though you never behave in this manner around the opposite sex save one, the overdone grace with which you tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and the little tilt of your head that is accompanied by a confused and senseless giggle fitting to women, the pains with which you put this effort forward is painfully obvious. 

“Right” the object of his discomfort -something you have in common with said object, at times- appears on the horizon of his vision and Jon sighs. 

Well, there goes his hope of not becoming the collateral today.

“No, tell me what you meant” though you aren't used to or too comfortable with leaning into men, you do so because you have also caught the quiet figure in your own peripherals and unlike Jon, you welcome the circumstance like the fool you are. “I want to know, Jon~” the dark haired male uncomfortably shifts away from you who puts an extra swing in your sway towards him. He lets out a suppressed scoff and glares at you. The two of you have been friends long enough for him to know exactly what it is that you are doing. 

“Stop” you know each other too well to be affected by any proximity with each other but Jon's older brother who is an advocate of propriety has taught his younger brother that this distance with a lady one is not related to seldom fares well and thus his teachings show in his behavior. “You—” though he decides not to beat around the bush for any longer, it is too little too late.

Alas.

“Father calls for you, Snow” the male in question releases a breath he was not aware he was holding and jumps to his feet abruptly with a gladness he is still cautious of since his brother likes to get unfair at times despite being well acquainted with your personality. 

Jon departs, or rather flees the scene without another word.

A smirk makes its way onto your face so you turn your ‘unsuspecting’ back to the hairy giant, bending to pick up your upper coat that you had shrugged off in a bout of confidence. Though you aren't the sharpest and certainly don't possess the perception of your betrothed, you hear him approach you in his manly and wise silence as you clear the haystacks of your coat in one swift movement and resume an upright position.

“Oh!” You exclaim with a surprise so artificial that the impurity nearly cuts Robb because of how he always dons the gold of honesty and valor. “My heart!” You use your endearment for him for Robb neither likes to hear you refer to him by name in public nor does he prefer you call him by his titles. “When did you get here? You were not a moment ago!” 

The coolest, most small smile spreads over his rosy lips and Robb tips his head back an inch to grant himself a better look at your audacity. The milky skin under his eye slightly twitches in response to him narrowing his eyes at you. Though he says nothing, you can still hear his rhetorical inquiry in that sarcastic way of his that you are well familiar with due to how long you have known him. 

“Whatever’s the matter, my love?” Robb has to resist the urge to scoff at the extra pitch in your voice because of the pretentiousness you are putting into your performance. 

He just stares at you for a good while, studying you, perhaps giving you a chance. So much so that there comes a point where you feel yourself gulping down a bile from your rising nervousness. But unlike many other times, you refuse to give in today. Like husband, like wife. After all, you rebelled against your nature today to end up here, in this ‘predicament’. Giving up now would be to waste all your effort and turn your bold attempt futile.

“Come” he says after you know not how many minutes pass but before you can say anything, Robb’s hairy claw has already seized your smaller hand within it. It is unlike his nature too, for usually he is the effortless victor in a battle of wits between the two of you.

“Oh!” But you are used to being treated like the most delicate and valuable thing to ever exist. You have been raised in a manner which has accustomed you to everyone giving in to your demands and wishes. The firm manner in which Robb balances all things with a just foresight is most undesirable to you, fancy for him or not. Things should always go your way in the design of your desire, and not in a way that is mindful of safeguarding the welfare of other people too, unlike your dearest. If it does as a byproduct, jolly. If it does not, well, then that is simply not your pain to bear. And whilst you underwent this stunt to provoke Robb and his attention, the way your smaller body is being dragged somewhere through the dark hallways of the estate with a rigidity typical to your betrothed, it is hardly the conclusion you planned.

Not like this.

“Oh, my!” Your brutish man's ironhold is beast-like as you try to free yourself of it. But what good is a mere pip against a wolf out for blood? “Stop, stop!” You huff and puff half out of your liking to test him to the best of your ability and half because your scheme was not to be so quickly overthrown with such ease!

No, he was supposed to get jealous and sulk in the envy your behavior was aimed to stir in him due to your treatment of his brother. Then he was supposed to fight for your attention and give in to all demands bestowed upon him by you and fulfill any and every need you may have. Robb was to kneel down to you like everyone else in your life did and strike conversation to get you to shower the blessings of your company upon him. He was to say the first word and you were to act like he usually did; with a teasing indifference to make him haste harder for your notice. Except, your little mind failed to realize that you yourself had broken the very first rule of your own game not too long ago when you had spoken.

And now as you are pushed into a little room for the stored animal feed and other domestic necessities before your smaller body is pushed like a delinquent babe's to bend over hay forming a stack half your size, you whimper and pout as your pampered elbows itch from the dried grass. This outcome is far from what you had expected of your contrivance. This is not supposed to be it. 

“We are not wed yet, my Lord!” Your mouth runs its senseless attempts in vain. “Oh no!” You try to worm your body free from his elbow that he settles between your shoulder blades to nail you in place as the rest of his arm lays down along the length of your back, the tips of his fingers pressing against the twin dents in your tailbone. “This—”

“All that fuss to have my attention, dove” when he does speak, the guttural quality of his throat shushes you into silence. “Only to raise mayhem and put up such fight when it has been granted to you” you feel the fingers of his free hand dance along the plump, clothed cushions of your buttocks and your eyes widen as though the position he had put you in was not telling enough. 

No, no, no!

He is supposed to get on his knees and worship you! 

Not discipline you like a guardian does a misbehaving child! 

“Perhaps they are correct in what they say about a woman's eternal uncertainty in what she wants herself” not entirely true. You do know what you want. But if you confess it to him this will get even worse for you! He must not know! You shall conceal it like your life depends on it!

Or so you scheme in your naivete, for you have behaved in similar ways more times than one.

But trying to flirt with another man? That is new. 

And Robb is very determined to find out the source of that course of action.

“Ugh,” you shake your shoulders in a futile attempt once more. “Do not be a cruel brute!” You order the future King of the North like you are in any position to bark at a man of his stature. “I am not one of your savagely bannermen! I— ah!” A furious hiss shoots through your lips when his free hand comes down upon the midpoint of your cheeks that jiggle feverishly from the impact. You whine at the sting that goes all the way down to your pucker and though Robb is wordless, he curses under his breath when he realizes that you are not wearing adequate underclothing despite his constant advice and request that you do.

How typical of you.

The young man brings another strong hand down upon your rear at the thought and you let out such an exaggerated sound -in his opinion, as he is scarcely aware of the extent of his own strength- that it mimics a cackle. Only, it is one of woe. Your hips desperately try to find solace in swerving the endangered half of your body out of his line of devastation but your wolf-man is far too strong. 

“Aaaa!” You furiously wail like a delinquent puppy being set straight, digging your elbows into the hay and your head in your arms to withstand the thunderous rain of your betrothed's hand on your buttocks. “I demand you stop this immediately, Robb!” Your whines are muffled and pathetic in their contrast to your words. 

“It will not be until you tell me whose plot your little performance was” you gulp and bark out a wheeze to respond and it is like he senses the lie that goes to bud on your tongue and he swats it away with a foreseeable slap to the underside of your rear. “And you best think twice before giving me a false answer,” you shake your whole body and your head in protest and pain when he spanks you again. “Or so help me gods.” 

But you remain faithful to your nature and preserve your brain's unutilized state by choosing to, after all, lie. “I- I have not the slightest idea what you mean!” Robb releases a cool, mirthless scoff and shakes his head at you, his palm now taking turns on each of your cheeks as it comes out in strong, powerful hits that he lands with well paced delays so you can fully feel the ache of one strike before the next lands. “O- Ow! T- There was no- ah— p- plot! Nevermind a- any performance!” He sighs as if to lament what is about to happen to you next. 

“Fine” your eyes widen and you squawk in shock like you aren't accustomed to this or you were not hoping to arouse a more ideal variant of this outcome anyway. “Have it your way then, my dove” oh… that never fares well for you. 

And Robb proves your suspicion true when he lifts your skirts out of the way and tucks them under the hand that sits on your lower back like a menacing serpent with unkind intentions. “Tsk,’’ a strong strike is given to your barely secure intimates before he tugs your poor excuse for undergarments down. 

What?

They are uncomfortable!

It is not your problem if the man of your future household is too pedant and fastidious!

He always laughs at it and just ruffles your hair but you are unyielding in your belief that he is the way he is because your betrothed is adamant on reaching bachanalness three times faster than other people his age. 

“Ouch, my heart, please!” You cannot help but whine out an endearment though you absolutely do not want to because you are just as cross with him as he is with you! Ugh! He never falls in your traps! Why is he so clever?! Is this what your mother meant when she told you that you were finally going to have someone who would handle you like you ought to be the day Robb asked your father for your hand in marriage? “It hurts!” 

You gasp in realization.

The pieces fall into place.

It does make sense.

Gods, the world conspires against you!

This is not fair at all!

Robb's cruel palm is unrelenting even when it begins to tingle upon coming into contact with your bare and blushing skin over and over. “Tell me the name, my angel, and I will cease this immediately” he spreads your legs with one strong jerk of his hand and your whole body undergoes a turbulence. “You know I hate this just as much as you do” before you can feel any warmth for your cruel lover for he always tells you that he does not like to punish you, his lowered hand comes upwards in a vertical hit and collides against your drenched petals. The impact reverberates through your whole being and your mouth falls open at the way your folds shake. “Make haste, sweet one.”

Your eyebrows come together in a tight, angry knot and your cheeks puff at his condescending tone. “N- No name!” You bark out of spite and clutch at the hay angrily. “There was no one!” The compressed dried grass comes loose in your hold and you add. “You have gone completely mad, you hoary troll!” The way Robb audibly chuckles at that causes the arm that he has on your back to buzz into your spine.

You gulp because he is a man of a few words and even lesser noise. So this cannot mean anything good. Although you are quite determined in your resolve, you still have to bite your lip to suppress the whimper that you let out when his offending hand now begins to softly caress the blemished skin of your buttocks and sit spots. For you know his touch and it is not this when he means to be genuinely affectionate.

Just what kind of a predicament have you landed yourself into?

“I see.” You hear the zip of harnesses coming undone and the thump of coats hitting the floor. “Then nevermind the actions of a mad man precisely how we will the name of your fellow conspirator, my dear” you are confused by his words but the feeling of his tip aligning against you when he gets behind you and takes your sore thighs -for Robb never punishes your buttocks alone but all the spots in their vicinity- in his strong fingers that are decorated in scars which bear testament to his experience in conquest, causes a tumult in your determination-taut brain from the burst of sensation and the upper half of your body relaxes as result of all tension shifting to your nether regions. 

You mewl as you feel the delicious burn of your entrance that your beloved had deflowered some time ago stretch around the thick tip of his cock that makes love making feel like the first time whenever your balmy cavern is made to accommodate his manhood. “Oh! I can't take it!” You throw your head back and moan, forgetting everything else and getting lost in the flutters of pleasure you have been taught to find in the strain his cock causes on your flesh band. “You're too big, love!” Robb curses under his breath when the leaking apex of his cock is met with resistance against your folds that he feels quivering against him. “P- Please help me take it!” He just has to give a sharp strike to the underside of one of your buttocks to accompany with his scoff.

You are such a fox.

Saying all the agreeable things in that obedient tone of yours that he knows better than to trust. 

He shakes his head at the surprised squeal you whimper out as though the events of the last quarter did not happen. 

“Whoever said anything about you taking it, my sweet dove?” Horror creeps down your spine in the form of an ice cold shiver. 

No. 

“B- But— aaaah!” You are stinging, aroused, open but not filled and inching closer and closer to mindless, undignified desperation. “But!”

“Hm?” Robb seems to be enjoying himself, ever the master of restraint and self control, as he penetrates you only to the wide hilt of his tip before he sloshes it right out of your entrance only to repeat the tortuous action where your walls clench and bathe with slick in anticipation of his cock only for their buzzing excitement to be denied satisfaction. 

“W- What…” You rarely ever misbehave once he has you like this. But your wanton frustration makes you kick one foot as you huff. “Why would you— oh!” You bite your lip because of the shoddy pleasure that sparks but fails to ignite, leaving your body on a trembling edge that brings you to heaven's door each time he fishes his way past your swollen folds and plops into you never to let you sheathe him thus denying you the paradise beyond. “W- Why are you doing that?!” You finally break from your pretentious rhetoric as you try to push yourself down on his shaft but strength has never been grounds for competition between the two of you. 

Robb's nearly inhuman hold keeps you detained exactly where he wants you. “Doing what?” It's his time to display faux behavior and you huff although you know deep down in your mind that it would not do much to move him and would rather only land you in more trouble. 

“That!” You cry when you feel his cock release more precum right at the threshold of your cavern because of how he fucks your entrance with a warm, torturous gentleness that scorches both of your insides alike. “Why w- won't you put it in, cruel ogre!” 

A satisfied smirk suppresses Robb's breaths that grow heavier with the passing moments. “Why, I am a mad and cruel ogre-troll, my dove” he enters you again and this time both his hands come down on your cheeks in the form of slaps at once and you howl. “And creatures of my like have queer ways beyond the comprehensive abilities of pretty little things like yourself” you whine and your toes curl at how the frustration morphs into a dull ache in the mound between your legs. 

The painful twitching of your sex makes you croak and you try to move your hips once more. “No! No!” You gurgle on your own spit as you vehemently shake your head.

“No?” Robb's inquiry is nice, somewhat kind even… unlike his heartless actions. 

“No!” You affirm as you feel your knees ache and sore thighs quiver. You are a sensitive little thing. Rough handling is not a domain you are much acquainted with beside the brief encounters you have with it sometimes during spells of passion with your dearest betrothed. “No, the light of my life, you're not! You—” your back arches and you cry and pout like an entitled juvenile not getting their way, your frivolous unrest and feverish jittering making his great form that looms behind you like the silhouette of doom itself to shake in silent mirth. “You're perfect! Please, you're the most perfect Stark heir! You are the best Lord Winterfell can ever hope to have!” Your praises make him curse under his breath and he gropes your thigh harder to withstand his impulsive urge to thrust all the way in.

No.

He is the man and the responsible one.

No can do until you learn and acknowledge his authority.

That is the way.

Of men, and Lords.

“The name, my love” though he masks his words with nonchalance quite well, there is a disguised urgency in them. You light him up just as unbearably as he does you. “Tell me the name and I will give you all you need and desire.” He gives you one rough jerk just past the band of your entrance and the momentary friction you feel in the drenched velvet just above your entrance snaps the thread of your determination. “Just like that, it is that easy. But you choose the fruitless path of torment and frustration.” There is a hypnotic lull in his words and that is enough for you to gush out a part of your impending confession. 

“It was—!” You finally confess the name of your lady friend and Robb decides that it will do for now, rest you will tell him yourself with your own free will in your sensitive and emotional post orgasm state when you will be securely tucked in his arms and against his chest. 

“There” your eyes and mouth widen at the same time and a guttural grunt crawls out of your throat when he doesn't pull his tip out this time around and instead slots himself inside you until he is hilt deep. “There is my bonnie lass” the upper half of your body goes lax and appears as though your bones have dissolved into your blood. You go to collapse face first into the hay to lay down and get fucked into oblivion but Robb's territorial paw finds a hold on the underside of your jaw and he rams you onto his cock and continues to curve your form until the crown of your head is touching his shoulder. “Tsk, such havoc just because I could not attend to you right away and requested you show some patience.” His fingers find one of your nipples and you shiver.

“S- Sorry, hubby!” You finally use for him the odd yet heartwarming endearment he loves most and that is how he knows he has you netted in.  

“Who loves you?” You shiver as you feel his girth stretch out your insides even though you were more than prepared for him. 

“Y- You—” he pulls at your nipple before giving both your breasts punishing swats. Your waist further curls outwards at the feeling. 

“Say it properly” you clench around him because of the way his baritone voice grinds against your eardrums and Robb cannot help but twitch right under your cervix. 

You do not need to be told twice. “Robb Stark!” 

He hums in satisfaction. “Who knows better?” 

Your bubbling loins tighten. “Robb Stark!” 

“Who takes care of you?” His hands roughly fumble to throw your skirts out of his way. 

“Robb Stark—!” Your answer turns into a shivering moan when his fingers find the trembling gem under the hood of your sex. 

“Who do you trust with everything?” The minute crevices on the tips of his fingers rub against the sensitive nub and your vision falters. 

“R- Robb Stark!” His hold on your jaw is the only thing that keeps it in usable shape. 

“Who will you obey when he tells you that you will no longer be friends with—” you whine when he takes the name of your dear friend but it is not a complete surprise. 

Robb greatly dislikes and condemns for you any influence he deems indecent or bad.

“R- Robb Stark!” You whimper as you move your hips along to his cock that now fucks you so fast and rough that you lose your footing with each thrust, the fingers he has on the nub of your womanhood only adding to the flutters of pleasure that narrow the knot around your hips with each snap of his hips. 

“Who do you belong to?” This time, his mouth comes to press against your ear and his coarse beard irritates your sensitive skin. His words carry a wolfish ferocity and you hear him gnash his teeth in as much clarity as your thumping ears will allow. 

“R- Robb—” your teeth begin to chatter from the intensity of your orgasm and your body flexes against his much bigger one to withstand the explosion in your abdomen. “S- S- Stark…” Your words melt into hissing whispers and you shudder and hiss when he continues to rub, fuck and fondle you even when the ecstatic feeling has subsided and your mound demands solitude. 

“That is correct” he pounces onto the stacks that you face with your smaller body underneath him like a depraved wolf having trapped in its hold a helpless little lamb. The action causes for his tip to collide against your cervix and your body thrashes defensively but it is in vain. “Do not forget that.” Robb whispers in your ear before he regains his footing and his hairy claws tuck under your thighs from the front. Your betrothed easily lifts your legs off the floor and begins his annihilation of any remaining misconduct perchance still shrouded in some unwise crevice of your little mind.

MASTERLIST 

. . .

I… can swear I thought this was like 1K at best… 

[wearepaladin]

It’s been a year since I last asked this. Always curious to see where people’s thoughts are. For the uninitiated, a brief description of the outlined paths under the jump.

Oath of Devotion:

The Oath of Devotion binds a paladin to the loftiest ideals of justice, virtue, and order. Sometimes called cavaliers, white knights, or holy warriors, these paladins meet the ideal of the knight in shining armor, acting with honor in pursuit of justice and the greater good. They hold themselves to the highest standards of conduct, and some, for better or worse, hold the rest of the world to the same standards. Many who swear this oath are devoted to gods of law and good and use their gods' tenets as the measure of their devotion. They hold angels – the perfect servants of good – as their ideals, and incorporate images of angelic wings into their helmets or coats of arms

Oath of the Ancients:

The Oath of the Ancients is as old as the race of elves and the rituals of the druids. Sometimes called fey knights, green knights, or horned knights, paladins who swear this oath cast their lot with the side of the light in the cosmic struggle against darkness because they love the beautiful and life-giving things of the world, not necessarily because they believe in principles of honor, courage, and justice. They adorn their armor and clothing with images of growing things-leaves, antlers, or flowers-to reflect their commitment to preserving life and light in the world

Oath of Vengeance

The Oath of Vengeance is a solemn commitment to punish those who have committed a grievous sin. When evil forces slaughter helpless villagers, when an entire people turns against the will of the gods, when a thieves' guild grows too violent and powerful, when a dragon rampages through the countryside – at times like these, paladins arise and swear an Oath of Vengeance to set right that which has gone wrong. To these paladins – sometimes called avengers or dark knights – their own purity is not as important as delivering justice.

Oath of Redemption

The Oath of Redemption sets a paladin on a difficult path, one that requires a holy warrior to use violence only as a last resort. Paladins who dedicate themselves to this oath believe that any person can be redeemed and that the path of benevolence and justice is one that anyone can walk. These paladins face evil creatures in the hope of turning them to the light, and the paladins slay them only when such a deed will clearly save other lives. Paladins who follow this path are known as redeemers.

While redeemers are idealists, they are no fools. Redeemers know that undead, demons, devils, and other supernatural threats can be inherently evil. Against such foes, the paladins bring the full wrath of their weapons and spells to bear. Yet the redeemers still pray that, one day, even creatures of wickedness will invite their own redemption.

Oath of the Crown

The Oath of the Crown is sworn to the ideals of civilization, be it the spirit of a nation, fealty to a sovereign, or service to a deity of law and rulership. The paladins who swear this oath dedicate themselves to serving society and, in particular, the just laws that hold society together. These paladins are the watchful guardians on the walls, standing against the chaotic tides of barbarism that threaten to tear down all that civilization has built, and are commonly known as guardians, exemplars, or sentinels. Often, paladins who swear this oath are members of an order of knighthood in service to a nation or a sovereign, and undergo their oath as part of their admission to the order's ranks

Oath of the Watchers

The Oath of the Watchers binds paladins to protect mortal realms from the predations of extraplanar creatures, many of which can lay waste to mortal soldiers. Thus, the Watchers hone their minds, spirits, and bodies to be the ultimate weapons against such threats.

Paladins who follow the Watchers' oath are ever vigilant in spotting the influence of extraplanar forces, often establishing a network of spies and informants to gather information on suspected cults. To a Watcher, keeping a healthy suspicion and awareness about one's surroundings is as natural as wearing armor in battle.

Oath of Conquest

The Oath of Conquest calls to paladins who seek glory in battle and the subjugation of their enemies. It isn’t enough for these paladins to establish order. They must crush the forces of chaos. Sometimes called knight tyrants or iron mongers, those who swear this oath gather into grim orders that serve gods or philosophies of war and well-ordered might.

Some of these paladins go so far as to consort with the powers of the Nine Hells, valuing the rule of law over the balm of mercy. The archdevil Bel, warlord of Avernus, counts many of these paladins – called hell knights – as his most ardent supporters. Hell knights cover their armor with trophies taken from fallen enemies, a grim warning to any who dare oppose them and the decrees of their lords. These knights are often most fiercely resisted by other paladins of this oath, who believe that the hell knights have wandered too far into darkness.

Oath of Glory

Paladins who take the Oath of Glory believe they and their companions are destined to achieve glory through deeds of heroism. They train diligently and encourage their companions so they're all ready when destiny calls, and prove more than equal to the challenge

Oathbreaker

An oathbreaker is a paladin who breaks their sacred oaths to pursue some dark ambition or serve an evil power. Whatever light burned in the paladin's heart been extinguished. Only darkness remains.

[fangirlingalittletoohard]

Mine

Your husband has been cheating on you for your whole marriage. The life he provides for you isn't quite enough to keep you happy, so Haymitch takes matters into his own hands to show you what you're missing. (Inspired by this request!)

3,121 words

Haymitch Abernathy x reader

No use of y/n, but second person perspective.

Warnings: Infidelity, possessive Haymitch, occasional swearing, alcohol, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, overstimulation, kind of soft-dom Haymitch (let me know if I've missed any...)

Masterlist

................................................................................................

You felt like a fool. For the fifth time since you had been married less than a year ago, you had come home to find your husband fucking another girl. Four times, you had found him like this. Four times he had begged for your forgiveness. Four times you had given in, hoping that he would change. 

Part of you knew that he would never change, that this was your life now. You had married a Town boy. He had made you feel special; a girl from the Seam with dark hair and grey eyes. Really, you didn’t look much different from the other girls in the Seam, but he had made you believe that you were beautiful. It was barely six months before the two of you were married. He had provided you with a beautiful home, more food than you needed, and the freedom to not have to work yourself to the bone every day. 

The first time you caught him was two months after your wedding. You had been out shopping in the square, picking out the little hard-boiled sweets he favoured, a fresh loaf of his preferred bread, and a chicken that you were to prepare for dinner. You could hear them as soon as you opened the front door - she was moaning ridiculously loudly. You hadn’t quite known what to do with yourself. You vaguely remembered leaving the front door open, and your basket of produce which you had dropped on the doorstep had been stolen within minutes. 

The other times weren’t much different. He always managed to convince you that he only did it because you weren’t there in the moment when he needed you, so he had to get his fix elsewhere. It was beginning to hurt less and less each time, you only wished he wouldn’t bring them to your home. You didn’t like to sleep in your bed when you knew another woman had been there earlier that day. 

This time was different. You had been out for a walk with your friends, and your husband had been brought up. Someone had seen him with a Seam girl down by the Meadow. You had begun to make excuses for him, when one of your friends had informed you that everybody knew about your husband’s serial cheating. She had tried to give you tips on how to keep him satisfied. Face burning, you made your excuses and returned home to find him fucking a girl you went to school with over the kitchen counter. 

You slammed the door behind you. “Hi, honey.” You greeted, sickeningly sweetly.  “Fuck.” He muttered, hurrying to redress himself and throwing his latest plaything’s clothes in her direction. “I thought you’d be out longer.” He explained.  You turned to the girl. She had barely changed since school. She was the year below you, and you remembered her for her pretty name; Willow, like the tree you could see from the fence which separated your parent’s garden from the wilderness outside of District 12. As a Seam girl, she looked remarkably similar to yourself - dark hair, grey eyes, and a skinniness that only those accustomed to starvation wore with a sense of defiance. You suddenly felt self-conscious, aware of the now soft flesh around your stomach, arms and thighs which had appeared since living comfortably. “Get out of my house.” You stated quietly. 

Willow complied, hurrying out of the front door, leaving you alone with your husband. “Don’t be like that, honey.” He soothed, taking both of your hands in his. “You were out, and I didn’t think you’d be back until late. You girls usually lose track of time once you get talking.” He brought one of your hands up to his lips and kissed it. He looked up at you with his big blue eyes, and your defences crumbled. Every time that you thought that you had finally become angry enough to stand up for yourself, he flashed you those eyes and you just couldn’t resist. Your husband noticed you soften, and pulled you into a hug, kissing the top of your head. “You’re home now, honey. She wasn’t as good as you are.” He cooed, hands slipping down your waist and began to grope at your ass. “Make me feel good, honey.”  You sighed, knowing that you were being manipulated but not having the energy to argue.  “Make your husband feel good.” He murmured, mouthing at the soft skin of your neck. Despite yourself, you gave in, allowing himself to bunch your dress up around your waist and back you against the kitchen counter. He yanked your underwear to the side and pulled himself out of his trousers, pumping himself a few times with his fist before sinking into you. You allowed him to thrust into you, your tailbone bumping painfully against the edge of the counter, until he came inside you. He kissed you quickly on the lips, pulling out of you and re-buttoning his trousers. “I’ll be out late, honey.” He asserted, before leaving the house. 

You stood motionless, still leaning against the kitchen counter. You couldn’t live like this much longer. Your husband didn’t love you - you doubted whether he had ever loved you at all. You didn’t love him. You had, in the beginning, but what you felt for him certainly wasn’t love any more. You liked your life though. You never had to worry about where your next meal was coming from, you had a warm home, a comfortable bed, and luxuries you wouldn’t even let yourself dream of as a child in the Seam. Something in you felt like it wasn’t quite enough, though. If you were honest with yourself, the life your husband provided for you hadn’t been enough for quite some time now. 

You needed a drink. The Hob was only a ten minute walk away, and it wouldn’t be dark for a while. Usually, you would drink alone at home for fear of people seeing you and talking, but you didn’t want to be alone with your thoughts. If you thought about it for too long, you might convince yourself to try and leave your husband, and that was not a very wise decision. 

So, you went to the Hob. Usually, you favoured the more expensive amber liquor, but tonight you were drinking to numb yourself, not for pleasure, so you opted for a bottle of the stronger clear stuff. You were only one glass in when Haymitch Abernathy stumbled in. You had met him a few times before when you had been brave enough to sit and drink in the Hob. He was sweet. He had a quick wit but knew when to hold his tongue. He was a Seam boy through and through, even though he now lived in a fancy house.  “Bad day?” He asked, pulling up a stool beside you.  “Something like that.” You replied, grabbing an empty glass, filling it from your bottle of liquor and handing it to him. He gulped it down quickly, and you refilled it for him.  “Care to share your woes?” He asked clinking the rim of his glass with yours and making you laugh a little.  You sighed. Haymitch wasn’t like your other friends. He didn’t judge you like they did, even though you knew they didn’t mean to. “My husband had been cheating on me since a few months after our wedding, probably earlier if I’m being honest, and apparently everyone seems to know.”  Haymitch was silent for a few very long moments. “What?” He asked lowly.  “I caught him for the fifth time today.” You stated simply. You didn’t feel angry, or hurt, or anything, really. Clearly, the liquor was working.  “You’re kidding?” He asked, more serious than you had seen him in a while.  You shook your head. “You didn’t know?”  “You really think I would’ve gone all this time without saying something if I’d known?” You shrugged your shoulders and Haymitch thumped his glass against the table. “Why are you still with him?” He asked, failing to conceal his anger.  “Haymitch, when was the last time you heard of a married couple splitting up in 12?” You asked, a little perplexed by his anger.  Haymitch shook his head. “But you’re not happy with him?” He asked, leaning closer to you.  You took a moment to think. “I like my life, but….” You trailed off, unsure of how you actually felt. “But?” Haymitch prompted.  “I don’t know.” You replied frustratedly.  “Are you satisfied in your marriage?” He asked. You were confused. Your furrowed brow only seemed to make him angrier. “If he’s off fucking other girls, tell me he at least takes care of you enough to make you want to stay with him.”  “I mean,” you began, your cheeks burning with embarrassment as Haymitch questioned you about your sex life. “We are… intimate… sometimes, but I guess it isn’t like it was when we first got together.” You replied, feeling exposed as his stormy grey eyes bore into you.  Haymitch leant even closer to you, and you could feel his warm breath against your lips. “If you were my wife,” he growled, “I’d spend so long making you feel good that you wouldn’t even want to leave the house.” You could taste the liquor on his breath, and a jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core. You hadn’t felt that for almost a year. You inhaled shakily. Haymitch smirked, noticing your reaction. “If you were my wife, I’d take you out with hickeys all over your pretty little neck, so everyone knew you were mine.”  “Haymitch,” you whispered, silently begging him to stop. For most of your marriage, you hadn’t felt like this. You hadn’t felt desired, you hadn’t felt pretty, you hadn’t felt worthy of pleasure. You were afraid that you would do something that you would regret.  “If you were my wife,” He continued, ignoring you, “I’d fucking worship you, and you’d have no doubt that you’re the prettiest fucking woman in the whole of Panem.” 

You snapped. A whole year of ignoring that something was missing. This was what was missing. The heat between your thighs, the hammering of your heart against your ribcage, the desire pooling in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t resist. You gripped Haymitch’s shirt with both hands and pulled him into you, your lips crashing together messily as you kissed him. You felt Haymitch smirk into the kiss. After a few moments, Haymitch pulled away. “Let me take care of you like your husband can’t.” He requested. You nodded feverishly, pulling him back into you. His tongue slipped past your lips and into your mouth. You didn’t care who saw. Everyone knew that your husband was cheating on you. Let them see that you were finding satisfaction elsewhere. 

Haymitch broke the kiss again and stood up, motioning for you to join him. He planted his arm firmly around your waist, leading you out of the Hob and in the direction of Victor’s Village. It was less than a five minute walk back to his house, but it took closer to twenty as you stopped every few paces to kiss as much of each other’s exposed flesh as possible. You were sure that hickeys were already forming on your neck before you’d even made it to the gates of Victor’s Village. 

When you reached his house, Haymitch lifted you off the ground, one hand beneath you and the other snaked around your back, and began sloppily kissing you again. He kicked the door open and then closed behind you, stumbling up the stairs without detaching his lips from yours. He deposited you on a soft bed and had removed his shirt before you had time to collect yourself. Noticing him undressing, you followed suit, yanking your dress down as quickly as you could and hearing the fabric of the sleeve tear in your haste. 

Wearing just his boxers, Haymitch took a small step back to admire you. “You really are the prettiest fucking woman in the whole of Panem.” He stated. You were naked except for your underwear, and his statement made you blush. “Want me to make you feel good, pretty girl?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow. You nodded, and Haymitch tutted. “Use your words, doll.” He demanded.  “Haymitch… please.” You managed to request breathily.  With your consent, Haymitch dropped to his knees before you. He was a sight to behold. He gripped your hips and pulled you to the edge of the bed, beginning to kiss you again. His hands roamed over every inch of skin he could reach, paying extra attention to your breasts. His kisses moved from your lips, to your neck, to your chest, to your stomach, and finally, to your thighs. He lifted your hips and slipped your underwear off in one swift movement, then sat back on his heels and eyed your naked form. He placed both hands on your knees and parted your thighs, licking his lips. “Does your husband make you this wet?” He asked, his eyes lingering on your core. “No.” You admitted, beginning to close your legs, but Haymitch stopped you. He laughed. “You poor little thing,” he began, a little condescendingly, “all this time without anyone to make you feel good. Must be torture.” He continued, massaging your thighs with calloused fingers. You whimpered a little pathetically, feeling yourself clench around nothing as your body became desperate for him. Haymitch smirked. “I’ll make you feel so good you won’t even remember his name.” He promised. 

Without giving you time to digest his words, he closed the gap between his face and your core as his tongue began lapping at your arousal. You couldn’t stop the ungodly moan which escaped your lips as your hands flew to his hair, tangling in his dark curls as your thighs clamped shut around his head. Haymitch groaned as your hips bucked involuntarily against his face. Your husband had never pleasured you with his mouth before, and it was bliss. His tongue delved into your hole, and you were a moaning mess, one arm propping you up as you began to grind your hips against his face, his nose bumping against your clit and stubbled chin grazing deliciously against your sensitive core. Before long, your thighs were squeezing Haymitch’s head so hard you were surprised you hadn’t crushed his skull as a wave of pleasure washed over you and your arousal gushed out onto his tongue. You had never experienced a sensation like that before. You felt a little sensitive and pushed gently at Haymitch’s head. He detached his mouth from your core, and the sight of him sent a fresh wave of arousal to the pit of your stomach. His pupils were blown wide, giving him the look of a starved man, and the lower half of his face was damp with your arousal. “That feel good, pretty girl?” He asked, placing a feather-light kiss to your clit and making your hips jolt upwards. You nodded. “You gonna give me another orgasm?” He asked, condescendingly.  “Too much,” you managed to mutter, still not fully recovered from your high.  “We’ve got a year’s worth of pleasure to make up for, doll. One orgasm’s not nearly enough.” He insisted. His breath against your core made your hips buck upwards again, and he chuckled. “Such a needy little thing.” He muttered, before attaching his lips to your clit and sucking. Again, you surprised yourself with how loudly you moaned. You couldn’t help it, Haymitch was just making you feel so good. It took a little longer for your orgasm to build this time, but once Haymitch inserted a warm digit into your core, curling it just so, as his lips continued to suck at your clit, you felt your walls spasm around his finger and a similar wave of pleasure sent a shiver down your spine. 

Your head was spinning as Haymitch removed his finger and lips from your core and came up to kiss you. You had never felt this good. You were just beginning to feel grounded again, when Haymitch stood up and removed his boxers, his hard cock springing up against his stomach. He was big, bigger than your husband. You were still so sensitive, but you neededhim inside you. “Haymitch.” You whined.  “Mmh?” He asked, innocently.  “Need you.” You managed to request.  Haymitch chuckled. “Need me how, doll?” He asked. He was driving you crazy.  “Inside me, please.” You begged.  “You’re such a mess for me, aren’t you?” He asked, kissing you gently on the lips.  “Haymitch,” you whimpered again, feeling pathetic but not caring. Haymitch decided that you had made yourself clear enough, and lifted you up, laying you back down with your head comfortably against the pillows at the head of his bed. He didn’t make you wait, slowly pressing into you almost as soon as he had laid you down. He stretched you out so perfectly and you knew in that moment that your husband would never be enough for you.  “Fuck,” Haymitch murmured, “if you were my wife,” he growled into your ear, “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from fucking you like this every day, you feel too fucking good.” He concluded, his thrusts picking up pace. His words made you whimper and clench around him. He manoeuvred you so that your legs were bent over his shoulders, and the new angle allowed his cock to hit a spot inside you that had you seeing stars.  “Haymitch!” You cried out, clawing at his back for support.  “That good, huh?” He asked. You nodded feverishly. Haymitch picked up his pace, hitting that spot with every thrust. You couldn’t think straight. Everything was Haymitch. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he tasted. Again, your orgasm was building rapidly.  “You might be married to that idiot,” Haymitch began, “but you’re fucking mine.” He concluded. His words tipped you completely over the edge, and white-hot pleasure coursed through your veins as you came for a third time that evening. Your spasming walls forced Haymitch into his own high, and he stilled his hips, coming deep inside you. 

Haymitch kissed you sweetly, thumbs brushing over your cheeks soothingly. He carefully pulled out of you and helped you to lower your legs, before lying next to you and pulling you into his chest, placing a kiss to your forehead. He had given you everything you had been missing in your marriage. You didn’t need to voice it. You knew that he understood. You simply lay, curled up together, in comfortable silence, until you drifted off to sleep.

[cherriive]

﹒⌗﹒scream ⸝⸝

synopsis :: with people dying every here and there, you never expected that you were the next victim, or that your (almost) murderer was so cute

info :: wlw, f reader, use of yn but it's written in second pov (you), mentions of murderers and threats (like cutting or killing someone) not proofread, if there's anything else please tell me!

Minjeong was the usual nerdy, shy girl that barely anyone knew something about her. Only her group friend that had other three girls talked to her.

Though, she had always caught your attention for some reason.

Being popular and maintaining a persona wasn't the easiest task in the world, especially when you didn't want people to hate you for being the usual mean girl. Which meant you often got remembered as the nice girl who didn't had beef with anyone.

Oh if only they knew how much you hated those people, and that stupid school, and the teachers-

You know what I mean.

But who cares. As long as you kept with the nice girl facade, no one would even bat an eye on how you actually felt.

Everyone was dumb enough to believe in your act anyway. Everyone but Minjeong.

The girl that had something in her that made you wanna know more about her was the only one who wasn't fooled by you and your antics.

Not that you knew that of course. And it didn't help how whenever you tried to say a 'Good morning, Minjeong!' she would just roll her eyes or straight up ignore you. Seriously, what's her problem? And why do you feel the need to get closer to her?

Today, you heard one of your "friends" talk about the new victim. A lot of people have been dying lately, but no one knew why or who was doing this. All they knew, was that they used that ugly mask.

But you didn't wanna think about it. It was way too dark and depressing to talk about those murders, so you opted in pretending you were absolutely clueless about it!

“Have you seen? They made a new victim!”

“Don't say this near yn, she's sensitive..”

“Oh yeah, my bad.”

And that's how your days went, smiling and faking innocence, just wanting to get through high school already.

But Minjeong had other plans.

-

“Hm? Oh, yeah, hahaha. I'll try to not forget about it next time, sorry.”

“You're so careless yn! But it's alright, until next week.”

Finally. You felt so tired.

You were supposed to go out with your friends tonight, but you had no interest in doing so, preferring to just be in the comfort of your home.

But of course they needed a good excuse for you to not go, otherwise they might've showed up in your door forcing you to go with them. Thankfully that's not a problem.

Grabbing the popcorn from the microwave, you opened the window to breath some fresh air, before quickly making your way to the living room.

You sat down on the couch, getting ready to watch a random horror movie. The perfect way to spend a night alone!

Before you could even focus back on the movie playing, someone called you again. Huh? Was your excuse not good enough?

Whatever, just answer it and say you're sick or something.

“Hey, sorry I couldn't go, really-”

“Hello, yn.”

...

What.

Who was this?

How did they know your name?

And what kind of weird voice does this person has?

“Who are you?!” – you tried to not sound too scared while also keeping that mask on. Maybe it was just a prank, it didn't hurt to be safe.

You swear you heard a very quick laugh from the phone, but tried not to think too much about it.

“I just wanna talk to you.”

“Why? Who are you?”

“it's not important. Do you want to play a game with me?”

Okay now that was just weird. You didn't know who this person was, and now they're asking for you to play a game with them.

But something told you, maybe, just maybe it's one of your friends, pranking you. Who knows?

So, you decided to go with the worst option you had.

“What game?”

You tried to do your best sweet voice so maybe the person on the other side of the line would have some kind of mercy on your person.

“A game of questions. I'll just ask you a few things and you answer me honestly, hm? How about that?”

You should just hang up. This is stupid. Probably one of those weirdos from school that hate you for no reason trying to spook you.

... But for some reason you didn't.

“Okay.” – another laugh came from the phone, making you slightly shiver.

“Good choice.”

You anxiously waited on the couch, looking around the living room to find some comfort in the familiarity of your own home.

“Do you like horror movies?”

What an odd question.

“Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Hmm.. What's your favorite horror movie, then?”

“I don't know, I guess slashers? Any kind of slasher as long as it's alright enough it's good for me.”

There was silence for a moment, as if the person on the phone with you was thinking about your answer.

A satisfied hum came from them, and soon spoke up.

“Do you like people dying?”

What. How did we go from movies to this.

“Wh.. What? Of course not. What kind of question is that?”

“Answer the question yn.”

This was the breaking point for you. This was starting to get out of hand, and you were not going to talk with this weird person anymore.

Without thinking twice you hang up, trying to understand what the fuck had just happened.

But before you could get back to your senses and pay attention to the long forgotten movie again, your phone started to ring.

Your hands were trembling, but you hesitantly picked up the call.

“You know it's very rude to hang up in the middle of a conversation?”

There it was, that stupid voice that was making you more nervous than you wanted.

“What do you want?!”

You tried your best to avoid showing how nervous you felt right now, but everything was thrown out of the window when you heard those damn words.

“I want you to just stay right where you are in your living room. Is that 'Stab'?"

What. The. Fuck.

How did they know that? Wait, were they watching you? Oh no. Oh no no no. This wasn't happening.

You quickly closed the curtains in the room, making sure to lock the front door while still holding your phone, and that's when you heard them laughing.

Not chuckling, not giggling, full on laughing.

“You think that's going to help you? You should stop worrying about being friendly to everyone and start worrying about your windows.”

Oh fuck. The kitchen.

Without giving a damn about staying the in living room, you ran to the kitchen and – oh there it was. The open window.

But there was nothing wrong with your kitchen. At least you couldn't see anything.

You slowly went back to the living room, phone in your hand, looking around nervously. You didn't know what to think or to expect right now.

What wasn't on your list was to hear the same voice from your phone right behind you, in your ear.

“You gotta learn to be more careful, ynnie.”

Your surcival instincts kicked in, and you almost turned around. Almost. If it wasn't for the feeling of a knife right against the back of your neck.

“Ah, ah, ah. Don't move..”

There wasn't a single word that could describe the mix of emotions currently inside you.

But the main would definitely be fear.

Is this where your life ends? You never did anything wrong to deserve this! Maybe you did lie every here and there, but come on, who's really 100% honest?

Suddenly you got snapped out of your thoughts by the person – that you could now see the ghostface costume they're wearing – pushing you against a wall, turning you around to face them.

“I like this expression on you better than that fucking stupid persona you have.”

If it was under any other circumstances, you'd have defended yourself. But the knife was still there.

“Everyone else might be dumb enough to believe in those lies you tell everyone, but I'm not. And I don't like liars.”

As they spoke, they slowly got closer. And closer. Until your nose was almost touching the mask on their face.

It was terrifying. But oddly thrilling.

Before you could say something, the masked person suddenly took off the scary mask and –

Wait, what.

“Minjeong?!”

“Oh, you know my name?”

The voice that once sounded so weird from how many effects it had, now was just a normal feminine voice. She tried to hold back a smirk, but seeing the shocked expression you were doing was just too good.

“What-.. Why are you..”

She just held the knife closer to your neck, making you instantly shut up and swallow down any words you had in your tongue.

“Shut up. You're so infuriating. Always having that dumb face on while pretending all the time. It's so annoying.”

Minjeong looked at you, her eyes travelling through your whole figure with annoyance, mixed with something you couldn't exactly put a finger at yet.

“And still.. You still managed to catch my attention. I wish I could just rip this pretty face of yours..”

You almost flinched when she said that. Who wouldn't? Especially with how the knife was almost cutting your neck. And then Minjeong retracted the knife back with a sigh.

“But I can't bring myself to.”

There were zero and a million thoughts in your head at the same time. Minjeong is absolutely crazy, that's for sure. But the angry face she had was so, so cute.

And that thought alone was enough to make you even crazier than her.

“.. You want to kill me because you have a crush on me?”

“Shut up, that's not what I said.”

You really wanted to believe that when Minjeong put that knife on your neck again she wanted to kill you. You really did.

Yet it was so hard to when her cheeks were clearly red despite the lack of light in the room – except for the tv that was still on.

“Why don't you shut me up?”

“I'm going to cut your voice chords off.”

That was so stupid that you only managed to laugh softly, looking at her differently from how you always had. Now you knew why she caught your attention too.

Minjeong took a few deep breaths, calming herself down and then looked at you with a more neutral, yet soft expression on her face.

She got closer to your face, her warm breath against your cheeks giving you a feeling you never thought you'd feel because of her.

“If you tell anyone about me I promise to kill you and everyone in that school.”

“Will I get more late night visits if I keep my mouth shut?”

“Fuck you.”

She almost spat when saying this, but from how quickly Minjeong turned around to hide her face you guessed she was blushing again.

And she definitely was.

Minjeong took a step back and finally took the knife away – which was still scarying you a bit – and gave you a.. A flower? When did she got that? Was it under her costume?

“Here. For you.”

“... You know there are more conventional ways to give someone a flower without threatening to kill them, right?”

She rolled her eyes, holding back the urge to tell you to fuck yourself again. Especially since you were treating this like something completely normal after seeing it was her. Was she not scary enough?

“I'm going.” – you heard Minjeong say, turning around and walking away. But before she stepped away you put a hand on her shoulder, grabbing her attention.

“Wait! Are you going to come back?”

“... Maybe.”

It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no. And that was enough. You just wanted to see Minjeong again without her being the quiet kid from your school, and without pretending.

“Alright. Thank you for the flower Minjeong.”

“Just call me Winter.”

“Huh? Why?”

“It's what my close friends call me.”

You smiled, nodding your head. It was cute she gave you a nickname only her friends knew about.

And with that last interaction, she put on her mask again. You only looked away for two seconds after a loud sound from the tv, and when you looked for Minjeong again, she had disappeared.

Wow. What a night. A good, night.

a/n :: so erm I didn't do my school work but I finished this, so yay?? i hope it's good enough😭

[pomefioredove]

There was only one bed troupe w/ Rollo and/or Neige? Maybe we got forced into a road trip again and crowley, the genius he is, didn't order the rooms correctly, and now we have a couple room. Good bc big room, but . 1 bed. Shenanigans/pining or something ensue ❤️

actually scrumptious idea I'll take ten more of these /lh throwing in che'nya as a special treat

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ only one bed

type of post: blurbs characters: rollo, neige, che'nya additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

Night Raven College is hosting its own cultural event, and everything has been going... strangely well. Seriously! No overblots, no evil schemes, just a day of food, festivities, and fun.

Then then sun sets. And then, of course, everything goes wrong.

"Prefect!" Crowley says, throwing your door open. "Something terrible has happened! A complete fool has miscounted the number of beds needed to accommodate our guests!"

You don't like where this is going. "...And?"

"Since the other rooms in Ramshackle are currently under renovation, I told our guest they could stay with you!"

"A complete fool?" a cold voice asks. "If I recall correctly, Monsieur Crowley, you said you were the one who arranged the rooms."

Crowley laughs nervously and steps aside, letting Rollo Flamme in.

"Yes, well... ah, um... good evening!" the headmaster says, dismissing himself.

Rollo waits until he's gone out the front door before turning to you.

"Hello... again," he says. "I apologize for this... reunion. I'm aware these arrangements are completely improper."

You look around awkwardly. "No, it's... okay. You can come in,"

"You're a poor liar. But thank you,"

When it comes time for sleep, Rollo puts an unnecessary amount of distance between the two of you, nearly hanging off the edge of the bed with his back turned towards you. He's stiff.

It looks uncomfortable. "Are you sure you-"

"I'm well, thank you," his tone is sharp, but there's no malice in it.

You fall asleep before him, but he does eventually relax.

You know this, of course, because when you wake up, he's moved across the bed. His face is buried in your side, his arms tight around your waist, as if he's afraid you'll leave.

It's almost cute, in a way. And you let him be.

He looks like he could use the rest.

You can almost see the rays of sunshine before Neige comes in, a cute little suitcase under his arm.

Crowley wishes you a good night and books it before you can ask any questions, leaving you with the boy.

"...My, this is a very dirty place," he says, studying a cobweb in the corner.

"I've been working on that,"

Neige turns back to you with the brightest smile. "Oh, I can tell! You've made a wonderful home here."

It's weird, a compliment without the bite. You don't even know what to say.

After Neige fusses and coos over Grim for a while, he gets in bed at 9:30, an unsurprisingly early time. You follow, exhausted from the day, anyway.

He doesn't ask to cuddle, but he keeps looking at you. Those big, doe-like eyes are even shinier in the dark.

Eventually, you give in. "...Alright,"

Neige smiles, absolutely delighted, and you have to remind yourself that he's not just getting closer to pick your pockets. He just likes it. Your arm rests around his shoulders as he clings to your side, warm and comfortable in his handmade pajamas.

When you wake up the next morning, he's made you (and Grim) breakfast in bed with what little he could find in your collapsing pantry.

And, inexplicably, the entire house is clean.

"Hello again, you~" but the voice is coming from inside your room.

You flinch in surprise, and Che'nya giggles.

"Wha- Che'nya?" you ask, and turn back to the headmaster. "Wouldn't it make more sense for him to stay at Heartslabyul?"

"Nothing "makes sense" about that boy," Crowley sighs. "Well... good luck with that!"

And then he leaves. You stand there in defeat as Che'nya starts looking through your personal belongings.

He also seems to prefer looking at you, rather than sleeping.

"This house is rather drafty,"

"It's winter," you sigh. He's been staring at you for the past hour.

He hums. "I wonder if the snow loves the tree and fields, that it kisses them gently?"

More nonsense, you think.

Finally, you give up. "If you're cold, you can lay on me,"

You can tell that Che'nya likes that, not only because he immediately curls up, purring with his head on your stomach and his limbs taking up half the bed, but because he stops talking.

At least you can sleep in peace.

[urblondiebaby]

𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐆𝐔𝐘

Benjicot Blackwood x reader

Ben was known for his brutality, receiving the name Bloody Ben from his opponents, but in your hands, he turns to putty. 💌 Based on a tiktok I saw where Ben was shy in the books

Looking that good while swinging a sword is cruel.

It’s borderline criminal how his biceps flex when he lurches forward. The way his eyes glint when he sees the first drop of blood and the absolute beast he becomes when he strikes down on his opponent sends a shiver down your spine.

Lowly grunts fly from Benjicot’s mouth countering his rival’s loud groans. The sound of metal clashing vibrates through the open air, atmosphere. Despite the fighting happening at the moment, it is clear to see that Ben is the better fighter— his harsh blows and agility unmatched. One last exchange has Ben’s foot flying to the center of his competitors armored chest, sending him flopping backwards straight onto his ass.

Applauds were immediate from the small crowd that had formed around the sparring match.

Underneath the attention, Ben flushes, waving at those around him embarrassedly.

You grin, heart full as Ben stares at his feet, approaching the steps where you reside. Leaning against the railing, looking down at him, you can’t help the taunt that slides off your tongue, like poison disguised honey. “Good job, Benny.”

His doe eyes look up at from the steps, the sweetness of your voice easing the tremble in his bones from his post-fight high. Boys have had their jaws broken for using that nickname, but he would never do that to you. Not you. Never you.

When you say it, it makes his blood run hot underneath his skin. Just being in your presence is a thrill, ten times over when compared to fighting. Trying to respond, he clears his throat, hand clenching the handle of his sword as he tries to untangle his tongue and respond to you without making a proper fool of himself. “I— thank you, uh, my lady.”

Ben clamps his eyes shut in shame.

Hunming melodically, you take a peak at the swarms of people behind you, chatting idle. As most know, hesitation was not in your nature. Without a second thought, you snag an empty pail of water. Taking a step down to become eye level, you tilt your head innocently, shaking the bucket on your wrist. “Would you mind escorting me to the well? I’m supposed to fetch some water and I’d much prefer not to do it alone.”

“Oh,” he says, almost disappointed by your offer. At least he gets to hang out with you! he thinks. When you raise a calculated brow, your words dawn on him. “Ohh, of course, my lady,” he blushes, offering an arm.

Your hand grips the meat of his bicep as you saunter past his beaten opponents and warriors unto the path to the woods. The walk isn’t far, daylight guiding your way to the tree line rather than a lantern on your wrist.

Sneaking around with Benji was becoming commoner and commoner. His presence shifting from a want to a need.

As you grow older, the risk of you two being betrothed to another becomes slimmer, seeing as your parents had solidified their place in his court so any rumors that may circulate your virtue no longer mind you.

The silence is comfortable as the pair of you are overtaken by a forest of dark green. Branches snap underneath your feet. Ahead you see two noble women talking together, and walking your way. When they walk past you, they giggle.

One look at Ben and you can see his anticipation rising— his cheeks flushed red, finger rhythmically tapping against his steel chest, and the swift glimpses he takes at the side of your face.

“We’re not alone,” you snide. Benji’s eyebrows furrow and he shoots a look behind him. He opens his mouth to refute, but the words are swallowed by your tongue when you grip his chin and pull him closer.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t restrain the whimper that shrivels up his throat. His hands fumble against your soft skin as your hands push his chest, his back slapping against the bark of a tree.

While your tongue fights for dominance, Benji’s fights to get the taste of you out of your own mouth.

There’s something so addictive about you that Ben doesn’t quite understand. He had felt this way his entire life yet he had only just began to have the grace of kissing you this year.

A stupid part of his thought it would dim this overwhelming feeling to be near you, sedate the heart which you had already stolen, but instead, it heightened it.

Courage, similar to the one he gets from alcohol— when he first was brave enough to kiss you — powers him to grip the curve of your waist and slam your body into his. Your moan encourages him to flip you, your back pressing into the tree.

His hand finds a way under your skirt and the pads of his fingers dig into your exposed thigh, pulling it to meet with his hip bone. He doesn’t want any space between you. He wants you two to be one. Forever intertwined. He really needed to propose your betrothal.

He smells like moon water, blood, and sweat. It only makes you tug his hair harder.

Not far from you, a throat clears.

As your heart momentarily stops, Benji’s lips are separated from yours in an instant.

A boy not much younger than you, awkwardly stands, his cheeks pink with embarrassment for coming across your endeavor.

Before you can blink and before the boy can even speak, Ben has the tip of his sword to his throat, the edge of the silver pressed onto his Adam’s apple. “Get the fuck out of here,” Benjicott sneers, “Or do I have to make you?”

Shaking with fear, the boy shakes his head, eyes wide like a deer and dashing like one when the sword is off his throat and seethed back into Ben’s holster.

Then, he turns to you, a cocky smile on his lips as his hands move to grip your hips. “Now, where were we?”

Giggling, your hand pushes his cheek away from your face, making him stumble in his footing. He pouts, watching as you step off the tree and pull a leaf from your skirt. You tilt your head at the leaf before giddily biting your lip and pulling Ben back in by the collar. His eyes light up, expecting another kiss, but when he closes his eyes, all he feels is your fingers filtering through his hair.

His eyes flutter open when you smack a wet kiss on his cheek. Ben watches you walk away, skirt swaying. Leaves crunch underneath you as you continue down the dirt path to the well, basket throttling in your arm as you disappear and reappear between trees. Dumbly, he touches the spot where you kissed him.

The tip of his finger catches a crunch by his ear. Swiftly, he grabs the object. The leaf looks small and withered in his palm. He can only imagine how much of an idiot he looked like with a brown leaf tucked in his hair— the same space where you usually bury his gifted flowers in your own hair.

“Come on, Benny!” you call out, your sultry eyes finding him from just a glance over your shoulder.

Ben is quick to follow because who is he to oppose you?

ima be honest, i don’t what the fuck this is. this shit is so bad

not edited or proofread ❌ lowkey i refuse to believe in Davos Blackwood so…

Had this in my drafts. Leave me alone if this makes you want to throw up.

[mangonom]

‎ . ݁⋆ 𐙚 sammy bryant + shy new girl next door 𐙚 ݁˖ . ݁

(chap. 3: or, baking solo and then, unexpectedly, baking not-solo. wc: 6.2k)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n: hi my loves ;> this chapter involves quite a bit of baking and some cute domestic kitchen action! pls enjoy. chapters one and two can be found under #cervine on my page!

baking wasn’t supposed to suck— quite the contrary, really. it was supposed to be one of life’s greatest pleasures. precise ratios and reactions, rigid instructions. predictability, dotted in chocolate chips and flaky sea salt. boxed up neatly and wrapped in a ribbon. 

but, somehow, the scruffy bastard in 310 had made it the most miserable pastime ever, and you hadn't even reached the real meat and potatoes. no, all you'd done was scroll online for recipes, belly-down on your sofa. psychoanalyzing a man you'd met three times proved to be quite the challenge, especially when during those three meetings, the only things you'd focussed on were the girth of his forearms and the wolfish gleam in his eyes. that information wasn’t particularly useful in determining his baked good preferences, and, as you tried to decide on a thank-you offering for the man, the image of his chest muscles hadn't done you much good.

you swore up and down that your friends would do the same (read: roll around bed, hugging a pillow and kicking their feet) if the universe oh-so-coincidentally stuck them five steps from the doorway of a divorced thirty-eight-year-old with pectorals large enough to use as pillows.

another thumbnail for quick, easy, no-chill cookies flashed across your laptop. sugar cookies felt dismissive. maybe for the rest of your neighbors they'd be fine, but after mr. bryant had acted like your night in shining armor (or, rather, moving man in dirt-stained officer garb) twice, and ER technician once, they'd come across too impersonal. he wouldn't be impressed. 

... because, apparently, you were baking to impress the guy. 

you glanced at the fruit stand on your kitchen counter. banana bread was much-loved, and in the six days since your arrival you'd managed to let a little bunch of the fruit go spotty. but banana bread felt a little too domestic. something soft, unassuming, to be savored at a kitchen island with steaming cups of coffee on a saturday morning. for matching pajama pants and temple-pressed kisses, and hair disheveled from a night of sleeping in a shared bed.  not for the cop you’d seen fewer times than fingers you had on one hand and managed to make a fool of in front of each time.

you scrolled further. god, when did pinteresting become a chore?

red velvet cupcakes were a little too desperate, the far end of the pendulum-swing away from banana bread, you decided, as yet another horrendously long blog recipe popped up. delicious, but the equivalent of a pushup-bra-clad selfie sent to a hot date. sure, there was a deep, carnal desire stirring somewhere between your ovaries and stomach whenever you saw mr. bryant, but you needed a treat less blatantly "i'm fertile", and a little more "thanks for five minutes of box-carrying assistance and the bandaid". 

you needed a treat that was polite, but not low-effort. inoffensive, but a clear step up from the chocolate chip cookies the rest of your hallway would receive.

macarons felt right. raspberry, maybe. 

but mr. bryant was about as far from polite and inoffensive as it got. he was dark, and he was hotheaded. mr. bryant was not a macaron. he oozed sinful decadence, a man who wanted something bitter to balance out his sweet. 

so, raspberry macarons and tiramisu brownies it was.

the two days since mr. bryant had saved you from bleeding out on your living room floor (or, at the very least, fumbling around like an idiot and blood-staining your new persian rug) had been a blur. a productive one, thank goodness, because somehow, you'd built and unpacked nearly everything else.

mr. bryant had offered to help with any other ikea needs of yours, but taking him up on that so soon after nearly concussing yourself in front of him fell just beyond your social scope. you hadn't dared to even wander the hallways of your apartment building in those two days. the chance of running into any neighbors, especially a certain someone from 310, with a bruised splotch and partially healed gash on your hairline was embarrassing as could be. a reminder, a public announcement, even, that a fucking idiot had taken residence in the probably-once-peaceful hallway. 

so, in your little weekend of reclusiveness, your apartment had gone from looking like a storage facility of boxes and duffles to almost, nearly put together.

there were still a few boxes of things you hadn't gotten around to organizing neatly tucked in one corner, but your caffeine-fueled unpacking had yielded a flat you could almost call cute. the kitchen, especially, had become the cozy nook of your dreams. white countertops (that the apartment came with), pale pink backsplash (that it definitely did not), little potted plants and fairy lights and matching copper cookware.

and, so, the baking spree finally began. mise en place came as naturally as breathing. two baking sheets: bowls of almond meal and confectioners sugar and egg whites, among other things, on one, and the leftover egg yolks and mascarpone and freshly-brewed espresso and fancy imported cocoa and such on the other. 

the quiet, domestic patter of your slippered feet on tile and the scent of coffee mixed with seventy-percent valrhona filled the late night. you sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar, then folded in the meringue. batter flowed from your spatula in lavalike ribbons, and you hummed in satisfaction. as you piped little pink piles of batter, your mind wandered to a land somewhere between the episode of new girl playing on the television and the way mr. bryant's biceps had strained against his shirt sleeves when you last saw him.

when the brownies came out of the oven, the macarons had had their hour to develop a skin, so they went right in. you set to work making the mascarpone cream and the ladyfinger soak, tidying as you went and with the fantasy of sammy licking tiramisu cream from your mouth’s corner on your mind— because he was, entirely, the type to do that, you thought dreamily.

macarons came from the oven, and brownies cooled a bit before being layered with espresso-soaked cookies, mascarpone cream, and a dusting of cocoa powder. you made a quick buttercream and raspberry curd for the macarons, so caught up in mr. bryant dreamland that you almost let the curd's eggs scramble on the stove. 

and this man was not hot enough to set you back an extra carton of eggs and block of kerrygold. 

god. pasture raised, golden-yolked eggs and fucking kerrygold, for a divorced cop you'd met three times.

you were absolutely pathetic. deranged, even, to imagine mr. bryant could be any mystical level of perfection that warranted more than generic-brand ingredients. you'd pulled out the imported chocolate, the nice espresso powder, the best eggs and butter you could buy without missing next month's rent. 

oh, well. 

the neighborhood was a little scary at night. and mr. bryant was a police officer. and he'd undoubtedly end up a useful (buff, fast-running, gun-wielding) contact to have. there couldn't be any pitfalls to getting on his good side, even if he was proving an absolute nightmare for your checking account. 

an (albeit, expensive) safety net, you told yourself as you pulled out a little notecard and wrote with your tidiest penmanship.

"hi mr. bryant,

thanks for the help with my bags. and for fixing my head. tiramisu brownies + raspberry macarons (those have almonds so i packed them separate). i hope they’re okay. 

— 307"

just in case things got hairy. it was a relieving thought, to know that mr. bryant was across the hall.

so, to repay him for his kindness, you bundled the treats in two little boxes. pink tissue paper down, macarons nestled in the first box and brownies in the second, both tied up with pieces of white ribbon. the desserts peeked up through the windows of their packages as you placed them in the fridge to rest. taunting you, in all of their frilly, saccharine glory.

a promise that, the next morning, they'd be just like your heart: caught in the hands of a big older brute who had no business grasping onto something so soft. and, just like your heart, he'd sink his teeth in anyways.

sleep came and went that night, plagued with distant visions of calloused hands clinging to your own manicured ones, and hazy, backlit evocations of a man you hadn't then dozed in the arms of.

then, saturday morning arrived.

your waking left a want in your chest that teetered, arms held out for balance, on the fence between cloying, naive want and unfettered, "prayed to on your knees" worship.

it bordered on religious, really. gentle hymns, whispers of the devotion that brewed between your ribs. and, though not yet shared with mr. bryant, reverence gleamed on the horizon all the same. small offerings, ribbon-wrapped and tooth-rotting where they sat in your kitchen. silver-lined with sin if you knew where to look. 

anybody who had dreamt such pure, glowing-at-the-edges visions of a man would feel the same. godlike might have been a generous descriptor, sure. but anyone could attest to the longing that came with one of those once-a-decennium reveries— a dream that filled your heart so much that to wake felt like having it severed from the rest of your body.

in typical earth-shattering dream fashion, the few minutes after you woke might as well have been a needle, pricking a hole in your mind. vivid images faded to nothing but clouded memories of warmth and tenderness. somehow, it felt that years of fantasized recollections slipped from your grasp like sand.

and then, you were left, duvet wrapped and little pajama set clad, teeming with want from a night you could barely even remember.

which, as you hauled yourself from bed, you realized absolutely blew. if you were going to wake up vaguely horny, the wet dreams of domesticity you'd had could at least have had the decency to stay for breakfast.

a sleep-clumsy hand came up to rub across your face. you wiped at an eye booger. blinked one, two times, slow and heavy. stared down at your duvet, empty room somehow brimming with phantom embarrassment for how horrendously deep in puppylove you were.

honestly. the dresser you'd assembled two nights prior would've been laughing at you if it had a larynx. you swore the stuffed animals propped on the other side of your too-big and too-empty bed grew a tinge of judgement in their embroidered eyes.

what was this man doing to you?

still wrapped in your blanket, you padded to the kitchen. there was no use in being theatrical with your delivery of the baked goods, you decided as you tugged the refrigerator open. it's not like he'd see it— no, you'd be in and out, spending all of three seconds in that hallway. 

plus, you had more important things to get to. the other cookies you'd be delivering to the rest of the hallway, mainly, and a bit more daydreaming about mr. bryant's apparent need for eye contact whenever the two of you crossed paths.

so, that's how it went. 

you darted into the hallway, gently placing the two boxes on his doormat, leaving without so much as a knock. the walls of your building weren't the thickest, and, embarrassingly, you knew that he was out and about quite often. picking up thai food, going for a jog, stepping out to handle a quick off-the-clock issue at work. whatever it was, his heavy footsteps fell often enough in the halls that you figured he'd see the treats soon enough. no need to put yourself in his line of fire, initiate an interaction that would have the butterflies in your stomach tweaking like they were on methamphetamines. 

and then, the beautiful, simplistic, near-holy act of saturday morning baking began. within minutes, butter was browning on the stove and you were chopping more valrhona. because, they may not have been mr. bryant, but you were going to assert yourself as a good neighbor to the rest of the hall's residents regardless. 

(and, most importantly, browning the butter and using the artisanal french chocolate made an effort to close the humiliatingly large gap between mr. bryant and the rest of your neighbors. gave you some piece of mind, helped you convince yourself that you hadn't gone entirely off the deep end.)

butter browning and chocolate chopped, you were in the midst of measuring out the dry ingredients with your scale when a heavy set of steps walked down the hallway outside, and paused very identifiably at the spot you'd dropped the brownies and macarons. then, a door slam.

oh, fuck.

baking resumed promptly after the mini heart attack, and you tried to ignore how much of a fool you'd probably just made of yourself (because.... dainty pink macarons for a cop?). 

the second door slam across the hall and gentle knocking on your own door that came a minute or two later made that very, very hard.

double fuck.

okay. um, you thought (or, rather, didn't think. obsessing over a man that made you go so stupid couldn't be healthy).

your hands dropped to your apron, dusting off the flour, and that's when you got a good look at yourself. off-white apron, frilled at the edges, small enough to just cover the little pajama set you had on underneath. scrunched white socks. slipper booties.

yeah. whatever. good enough. like you hadn't already been in the midst of a humiliation ritual.

leaving mr. bryant in the hallway would've been rude, you decided after momentary panic. so you pattered over to the door, flipping at the deadbolt and tugging it open.

sammy's week had been an intense oscillation between the highest highs and lowest lows.

go to work, fist-fight someone on a patrol trip to the south side. come home, see his adorable deer of a neighbor failing miserably at moving in and take the wide-open opportunity to give her a neighborly helping hand.

the next day: spend his lunch break scrubbing blood from his favorite jacket. then after his shift, do the heavy lifting and drop some not-so-subtle hints at the poor girl.

the day after that? the awful memories from his shift of fucking up a major investigation lead meant absolutely nothing to him once he got to play doctor for a teary-eyed, bleeding fawn.

he must've saved a elementary school bus from being hijacked and GTA'd off of a bridge in a past life. or something else, equally as cool and of the same magnitude. the universe had never thrown him home run after home run like this. a sign, surely. it had to be.

two days later, saturday morning, he woke like he'd been put under anesthesia the night before. belgian ales and cold leftovers and ESPN were a lethal combination, and he rose after nine hours of awkward-sofa-sleep with zero clue what millennia it was. his usual weekend morning weights session and jog at the gym helped his mood marginally, and after that, the transgressions of his past week weighed down on his shoulders a bit less and he climbed up the three flights of stairs.

....and there were boxes on sammy's doorstep.

he clocked them as he landed on the top stair, hooded eyes narrowing with the same caution he carried constantly as a police officer, then un-narrowing as he saw the ribbons they were tied with.

not a bomb. awesome.

the wolfish, nasty feeling deep in his heart thrummed faster as he got to his front door. he crouched, picked up the packages.

cookies of some type and brownies of another, in two separate boxes. little treats peeking up through the cellophane windows of the boxes you'd tucked them into, nestled in pinked and wrapped in white.

and the note on top oh-so-sweetly told him that you'd been mindful while packaging in case sammy had a nut allergy.

it'd been less than a week and you'd already ruined this man, through and through. he was gone.

it didn't matter if you didn't want to be his, or you didn't quite know what you wanted just yet, he vowed silently. he'd get you there eventually. 

untying the boxes after he'd taken them into his kitchen, door slamming a bit more than he meant it to in his rush, made him feel as gross as you’d done the entire week. the white ribbons, delicate and soft, came undone so easily under his roughed-up fingertips. yet, despite the daintiness of it all, the only thing he could think about (besides the heavy, chocolatey scent of whatever kind of magic was in that box) was tying you up in delicate, soft ribbons, and having you come undone under his fingertips, too.

the brownie had hardly passed his lips, espresso-rich and layered with cream, when he dropped the treat right back into its box and let his head sink into his hands, elbows resting on the kitchen counter. absolutely absurd rate at which blood was rushing to his crotch aside, there was no way you were this perfect. he dragged a hand through his short auburn curls, straightening up. bittersweetness lingered in his mouth, and, before he did a whole lot of thinking, he shoved the boxes into his fridge and strode back into the hallway. two more paces and he was at your doorstep, knuckles coming up to tap on the wood with all of the care he could possibly offer.

after a pause so long he could feel your panic oozing out by his shoes, you tugged the door open.

and sammy, then and there, knew he was going to take a cold shower the moment he got back to his flat. probably tug one out, one forearm braced on the tile wall, face set in a grunt. the water would drown out whatever noises he'd make, anyways.

you were in a soft babydoll pajama set and had a smudge of flour on your cheekbone, with a tiny apron tied tightly at your waist and fluffy booties on your feet. 

he hoped whatever hard-on he was forming wouldn't show through his workout clothes— that day, basketball shorts, tennis shoes, and a gray hoodie. 

the mental image of you standing there, looking awfully flustered at sammy's sudden appearance, went straight back to his jerk-vault. not the idea of you solving the growing issue you'd just caused in his (now, he realized, horrendously too thin) shorts, or bending over his bathroom counter. just you, standing there, looking like the housewife he'd never had the chance to pamper.

and you just stared. 

then, eyebrows furrowed:  

“…my butter is going to burn, i... should, maybe, um... do you... need something?"

yes. he did, thank you very much. he needed to give you head like you'd never had before. which, judging by the way you’d shivered each time he’d touched your arm since meeting him for the first time, wouldn’t be much of a hurdle to cross.

sammy let his head fall a little to the side, hand slowly reaching out to your head— still wildly bruised, scabbed-over cut peeking out from your hairline.

you flinched back a few millimeters at first but didn't move beyond that.

his fawn, he thought to himself, pride surging in his chest. the kind of creature that flinched when reached towards, but didn't run. the kind that made him want to sit still for hours, hand outstretched, coaxing it closer just for the satisfaction of getting it to nuzzle into him.

his hand grazed the healing wound, rough pad of his thumb barely touching your own skin. with his eyes trained towards the top of your head, you got a chance to look down at his legs.

(the man could obviously run. god, you didn't even mind that his hoodie covered up his arms that day. you felt like a victorian-era damsel. when did calf muscles make you this hot and bothered?)

"holdin' up okay? head doesn't hurt too bad, does it?" he hummed, eyes trained intently on the bruise. his bottom lip pouted out just a little bit in maybe-faux sympathy. poor thing.

your brow furrowed harder, little huff blowing past your lips as you glanced downwards.

sammy let it slide this time. he'd made you squirm later, anyways.

"no, it's... it isn't bad, i.... that's why i baked. thanks. for, um... helping. with that," you say, squirming back ever so slightly this time. one of your hands was clinging into the fabric of your apron.

his eyebrows shot up, and he could see your hand tighten in the fabric at your waist as he let his coyote-smile come out to play. little fawn, tensing to run. frozen in the road and trying to gauge if the headlights staring her down were about to be her reckoning.

they weren't, you decided, as sammy continued to fuss over your browbone. a man with a touch so benevolent could surely mean no harm. he let his hand drop to his side once more, gaze lowering back to your own. 

the hoodie-shorts combo was really doing things to your heart rate. he smelled like he'd just worked out, and he was a little gross, and it was a lot gross how much that made you want him.

"those... brownies, whatever was in them, they're good. you bake a lot, chickadee?" he said, leaning his shoulder up against the doorway. one eyebrow was set higher than the other, head tilted back a bit so he stared cockily down the bridge of his nose. his crooked teeth just barley showed, words restrained like he was trying to not scare you too bad.

you nodded, curt and sharp.

"yeah, um... there's...  my butter's gonna burn, can i.... help, with something?" you fumbled, looking over your shoulder towards the kitchen, then back to sammy. then, back to the kitchen and back to sammy again.

his head tilted to the right another few degrees.

"baking? more, right now?"

a quick nod, and another worried glance back at the kitchen.

"you need any help?"

and suddenly, the butter didn't matter much at all. your eyes flicked up to his own, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"...you don't ba--... well, you don't seem.... particularly, um, like...."

you paused, wrinkles becoming a bit more prominent, only then, with frustration at your own verbal clumsiness. sammy saw the exasperated little sighs and the halfway-to-uncomfortable fidgeting and wanted to devour you whole.

a long pause, a self-irritated deep breath.

"can you bake?"

sammy let himself pretend to ponder for a minute. no, he couldn't bake. not in the slightest.

"i'm not not good at it," he decided on after a moment. "and i'm a cop, i'm... good with instructions. just tell me what to do."

you didn't look particularly convinced.

"i'm good at washin' dishes," he tacked on weakly at the end, tossing excuses to let himself into your flat at the wall like they were spaghetti, waiting for one to stick.

"...yeah, okay, um..." you started, throwing one last glance before looking back at him with a sigh. "dishes would.... that'd be nice. sure"

and suddenly, you'd stepped back, tugging the door the rest of the way for him to follow you in with a soft mutter about shoes going by the door. no injuries, no major furniture accidents, no falling up the stairs. no extenuating circumstances, just you, apron and pajama clad, inviting him in under normal conditions.

sammy toed his shoes off with a little smile, gently commenting on how much better your place looked already. 

"any more furniture try to kill 'ya?" he asked, sticking his shoes next to your own on the door-side rack. he had to swat away the mental images of matching mugs, two-piece kitchenware sets, and a second toothbrush tucked behind your sink like they were a misbehaving dogs being whacked with a rolled newspaper.

you'd already stepped from the entryway further into the kitchen again, muttering a little "no, sir," as you used a spatula to stir the toasting milk solids. a delicious, nutty scent emanated up from the stove, and he followed you over after a moment.

your flat had come together warmer, nicer than he'd expected it to during your ikea fiasco two days prior. the kind of cozy that always smelled of cinnamon and sugar, more organized than he could ever dream of his own place being. countertop pantry-ingredient jars, matching copper pots hung from the wall, accent towels to match the pink backsplash, and warm under-shelf lighting that made the kitchen glow. 

it was dreamy, and it felt like home, and suddenly sammy couldn't help but imagine himself feeling you up as you baked cinnamon rolls there on a sunday morning. 

you tended to the butter on the stove, quietly, not even seeming to care how he'd pushed into your den. after, relievedly, making sure it hadn't burnt, you glanced at sammy over your shoulder.

"you can... um, sorry that i don't... have any kitchen seats. i haven't put my barstools together," you say awkwardly, eyes dating to a couple of boxes tidily stacked in your entryway.

sammy brightened like a bulb, snapping out of the quiet spell you’d drawn him under so easily. he pushed off of the countertop,  

"i'll do it. you got a toolkit?"

you did a double take back at him, eyes widening a little.

"um, it's... broomcloset, right there. top shelf."

if someone had told sammy he’d someday be cooped up in a college girl’s apartment on a rainy saturday morning, screwing together furniture on her entryway floor while she played bakery like he wasn’t even there, he’d tell them they were full of shit. then he'd go beat his meat to the idea of domesticity like that, so saccharine it’d rot his teeth out.

but there he was.

hoodie sleeves shoved up, sitting among a pile of screws, fixing the bar stool's seat to its legs for the second time. he'd kept messing up which screws went where, too focussed on the concentrated pout on your face as you measured ingredients into your stand mixer.

you didn't make any effort to kill the quiet that'd settled over the two of you as you worked on your separate tasks in tandem.

so, sammy decided, he'd bribe you out of your little skittish silence the way you lured a nervous stray into your palm: slow and casual, treading so lightly it didn't even notice the movement.

"who're the cookies for?" he asked, not even looking up at you. eye contact or conversation could happen, but not simultaneously, he'd concluded. "smells good."

"... oh, just... rest of, um, of the hallway. didn't wanna seem rude 'n not say hi, after moving in," you say. "you can.... obviously have some, if you.... 'f my baking's not too bad," you tacked on after a moment, scraping more valrhona — some fèves chopped, some left whole — into the dough.

"so i'm not special?" sammy asked, feigning horror, looking up at you from the floor with an overdramatized look. you did a double-take down at him, eyes widening a little. partially at the way his arms strained holding mostly-assembled furniture together, and partially at the though of offending him.

"no! no, of... yes, you're..." you backtracked hurriedly, voice trailing off as he chuckled, glancing back down at his work with a "just messin' with 'ya." 

god. you'd almost said "of course you're special" out loud. to his face. while he kneeled on your entryway laminate.

a less-comfortable silence swept back over both of you as he finished up, before he stood. he brushed his hands off dramatically, in typical man-over-thirty-five fashion, before gathering the two barstools — one for him, one for you, he thought proudly — and placing them neatly by the peninsula.

your eyes flashed back down to the cookie dough, worried about being caught staring at the veins that bulged on his forearms, what with his hoodie pushed up above his elbows, or the happy trail that flashed for half a moment above his basketball shorts. 

tummy-hair and the scent of chocolate and browned butter clouding your mind, you didn't notice sammy's movement towards you at first. 

a cop like him was supposed to be loud, clunky, out of place, amidst softness like your home. it was disarming how well he fit in with the gentleness, the domesticity. a grounding presence, adding to the warmth of the room and radiating safety. there was something about him not getting to experience that kind of calm, not usually the one offering tenderness since becoming both a cop and whatever always-on-edge brute his ex-wife had molded him into, that made just existing in your space nearly religious to him.

and suddenly, he was at your side, rough hand rising softly to your shoulder, sending an immediate shiver down your spine. his warm palm (a sharp contrast to the usual frigidity of your own, you thought amorously) radiated sparks, or so it felt, into your arm, over the pajama top and apron strap.

he tugged you a little so your body oriented towards his chest, hardly an arms length between the two of you. his eyes weren't, oddly enough, on your own, but instead glared tenderly at a spot on your cheek.

"you've got...." he started, free hand coming up to his face. in a quick dart of pink he'd wet the pad of his thumb. he ducked down a bit, situating himself more at eye-level with your cheek, before extending his hand out to the aforementioned offending spot below your malar.

the warmth of his dampened thumb pressing firmly-but-not-roughly against your face came and went. the somersaults in your stomach came and stayed.

the spot chilled as his hand pulled back, leaving a small patch of wetness on your face that tingled as the air made contact, and another shudder coursed through the rest of your body. 

"...just... a bit of flour. s'gone," he hummed, eyes moving to your own from where they'd been trained on your cheek. his gaze was patient, a kind of quiet fondness that felt undeserved, like he’d already decided you were soft and good and worth taking care of. like you were his.

it should've been gross. everything grossed you out. love, intimacy, socializing, eye contact. but, this time, all you could do was try to not pass out. your cheeks heated an embarrassing amount, and you mumbled a quick thanks before ducking past him towards the cabinet you kept clingfilm in.

when you'd gotten the plastic wrap and turned back around, you were horrified to see him hovering next to the cookie dough, man-hands reaching down towards the bowl.

mr. bryant may have been gorgeous, and broad, and warm, and everything that gave your solo-life apartment the second presence it needed, but he was still a guy. and a cop, at that. there was no telling when he'd cleaned his hands off last, and, as juvenile as your crush on him may have been, cleanliness still mattered when the treats were for the rest of your neighbors.

you were next to him in a few quick steps, making a quiet noise of displeasure as you reached to bat his arm away.

mr. bryant was faster. wolves tended to have than advantage over fawns.

his calloused hand reached out, locking around your wrist and pushing back. it tightened, just enough to keep you from interrupting his taste-test. he didn't bother to look up at you, eyes trained on the cookie dough like he was judging which bit had the most chocolate chunks.

his grip was a show that he had the upper hand when it came to you. not to harm, just to assert his control over something so soft and so fleeting. a steady kind of dominance.

and you stood there, mouth gaping ever so slightly, heart nearly pounding through your apron. walking the tightrope, balancing uncertainly, between shy discomfort and overflowing infatuation. 

"relax, kid, 'm just takin' my payment," he hummed, tugging free a chunk of dough and bringing it into his mouth. he chewed, once, twice, then swallowed, adam's apple shifting. his tongue darted out, licking off a bit of the buttery, sugary goodness that'd clung to his thumb. 

and he groaned.

not loud, not obscene. quiet, like a confession only meant for the two of you to hear. your breath hitched, caught in your chest, nearly suffocating in how quickly this man had gone from a stranger to the first temptation of sin life had brought to you.

"god, fuck, girlie," he purred, licking his thumb once more and finally casting his gaze to the side, at you. it was slow, and he was deliberate in the way he dragged his eyes across your face. drinking you in. he almost looked angry, and you were incredibly attracted to the notion that mr. bryant was the type who looked pissed whenever he ate good food.

and sammy, for one, was glad your slightly-startled eyes lingered on his own, because if you'd looked lower (say, to his crotch), your alarm would've grown tenfold.

it wasn't his fault. you were in an apron and pajamas, for fucks sake. it was his god given duty to picture how'd you'd look bent you over the countertop mid-baking session. hands desperately clawing at smooth marble as he worked that endearing, ever-present anxiety from your body.

he swore to whatever religious figure watching down on the both of you in that moment that he'd be nice, and gentle. and, so, to please, please let you wander fully into grasp, just enough for you to realize how good surrendering to something stronger than yourself felt.

and then he shook his head, barely noticeably, trying to clear the thoughts that were creeping into his mind like a slow-moving fire. 

you'd probably had a scary day, thanks to him. deciding to give you some relief from his persistent gaze, he glanced back down into the bowl of dough— seemingly insignificant, somehow a force strong enough to make his brain absolutely reel with visions of domesticity.

"you gotta bring me a few've these when they're out tomorrow, yeah?" he insisted, letting his eyes wander to the mostly-contained mess of mise en place that remained on the counters. "for buildin' your furniture."

you nodded, mumbling out an awestruck "yessir" at the quiet demand, staring intently at the bowl of cookie dough as you tugged it towards yourself. with a gentle press, you covered in cling film and then hurried it towards the fridge.

sammy watched you move—still skittish, but slowly easing into his presence. his little stray. tempted by his promises of the safety, the comfort, that lingered just past the initial trepidation of letting him into your space. you hadn’t fully settled, not yet, but you were letting him in, inch by inch.

and, as you pattered around him (anywhere but face-to-face, you thought desperately), you didn't catch the way his gaze followed you. he read you like scripture, taking in the quick steps and the lowered eyeline and the fidgeting hands. oh-so-patiently, he let you orbit him like he was the sun, your movements circling him as if he had a gravitational pull on you. like you were tethered to him.

he pushed up off of the counter he'd been leaned against, head cocking as you, more or less, refused to look at him.

he'd work on that next time, but it was cute, for now.

"don't forget my cookies tomorrow," he said, shoving a hand in his back pocket as he sauntered to the door. you glanced over your shoulder cautiously. "i'll've finished the brownies, and the... those little pink ones by then, probably."

his hand hovered over the doorknob as he pulled you into his gaze one last time.

"...but i should go, before i take that dough out'a the fridge. see you 'round, yeah?"

his eyebrows quirked as he waited on an answer, and, knowing he'd put you through quite the day, let your little nod of affirmation satiate his roaring appetite for seeing you squirm.

and then, with a barely-there smile, he was gone 

you didn't move at first. silence filled your ears like they were stuffed with cotton, and it was almost uncomfortable. no more teasing conversation, no more quiet thuds and clangs of furniture being built, no second heartbeat. an unpleasant feeling crept up in your chest as a minute passed, and you realized, like being hit with a freight train, that your apartment had been missing something. 

him.

the space felt weird, nearly half-empty, after he left. your arms wrapped around your middle, loosely, like your body was trying to process the abhorrent lack of mr. bryant in the room, or trap in the remnants of his warmth.

and there, in three-oh-seven, bereft of the man you were coming to venerate as your protector in this new and uncertain life of yours, you ached. with want, with desire, with desperation for the weight of his hand on your shoulder once more.

the first five minutes without him passed with all of the slowness molasses as you washed dishes, and there was no denying how deeply, truly in trouble you were. the kind of trouble that had risen slow and steady like dough until it suddenly burst from its all-too-small vessel. 

you weren't entirely sure what mess you'd wandered into, in all of its broad-shouldered, calloused, jackal-voiced glory. but you knew, god save your soul, that you were going to let it consume you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n contd.: guys this is bootycheeks i think. when i said slow burn i meant slow as a snail. im sorry to anyone who is frustrated by the fact that the chapter literally built up to a picosecond-long face touch (@ user erwinsvow) and it is with deep regret that i'm informing y'all they aren't boning for quite a while. be prepared to hate me even more!!! if you don't hate me and, by some miracle, want to be on a taglist for this, just lmk (dm, comment, drop it in a reblog, wtv!)

if you're confused about the dynamic going on and if fawngirl is aware of sammy's attraction, or even fully of her own.... yeah. me fucking too. i said i'd write, not that it'd make any sense. im also trying to let this settle somewhere between reader-insert and oc but im not sure where on that scale it's wandering off to, so i'm sorry if you read this and are super annoyed by the "reader"-ish-ness but then super specific characterizations for said reader. again. i said i'd write, not that it'd be any good!!

last apology!! in case its not obvious i apologize for everything!! sorry for all of the annoying baking prose and terminology i really didn't mean to let it eat up that much space. there are literally more brownie and macaron rambles than there are sammy rambles. if you can't tell the one thing i love more in this world than sammy is baking.

if you've made it this far: we're officially married. i love you.

mango signing off! next chapter should hopefully not have the same nine-extra-day delay this one did

[hadesrise]

## can’t help falling in love !!

summary──── no matter what tragedy strikes, you and jason can’t help falling in love with each other. based on “can’t help falling in love” by elvis presley.

pairings──── jason peter todd x addams!male reader

warnings──── fluff, angst, very suggestive in the beginning, foul language, death and resurrection, mentions of violence, brainwash, hurt/comfort, destined soulmates, possessiveness if you squint, blood

author’s note──── okay, i take back what i said. i probably won’t stop writing addams!reader anytime soon. by the way, i don’t have specific jason in mind so any universe can be imagined for all my jason fics.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you

The chilly air makes goosebumps appear on Jason’s skin as he hugs himself to shield away from the cold. Dark shine of the moon bringing peace to the silence completely surrounding him, Jason admires the statues littered across the graveyard behind the Addams manor in honour of your fallen ancestors. Despite darkness lurking behind every shadow and spirits wandering around tirelessly, this place held utter peace and comfort, warming Jason’s heart by embracing it tightly in their arms.

Each ancestors had extraordinary headstone that fits them best with their statue standing tall and proud, it truly shows how Addams honour their family members the right way. None of their headstones were simple or boring, each having unique traits that Jason was certain they used to have when they were alive. Each Addams have unique traits that differed from one another, but all of them were undeniably extraordinary. They aren’t like any other, much like how his lover’s not like any other.

Jason feels a coat being wrapped around him before two arms sneaks around his waist, shoulder weighing slightly from where you rest your chin on it. He fights back a smile.

“You could’ve called for me, beau. My siblings wouldn’t have minded one less duelling partner.” You softly say, pressing a kiss on his shoulder.

Jason instinctually leans back, snuggling to your neck. “Yeah, but you should spend more time with ‘em. Always with me, they’re gonna start thinking you’re forgetting your own siblings.”

“I assure you, they would not.” You start slowly swaying your bodies together to a non-existent music as Jason follows through with you. “They’re going to start thinking you’re forgetting them. Wednesday and Pugsley prefer you more than me, sweetheart, especially Wednesday.”

“Oh, really?” Jason smirks.

“Yes, really.” You nod with a sigh, though he could tell you weren’t annoyed at all. “She pushed me down the stairs last night after we’ve gotten back from our date.”

Jason throws his head back with a laugh, “Sorry, babe. She might or might not have invited me to throw an axe at Pugsley and I turned it down.”

“No wonder she was beyond irritated with me,” Amusement fills your tone as the corner of your lips twitch up to form a subtle smile. Jason looks at you over his shoulder and you immediately lean in for a lingering kiss, butterflies erupting in his stomach as his heart skip a beat. You then kiss his cheek and forehead before resting your chin back on his shoulder with eyes closed.

Jason sighs in content, admiring your captivating features that somehow reminds him of death. But your presence wasn’t as cold as death, it’s warm and engulfing despite your touch rivaling that coldness of an ice. He leans closer for a moment, only to lift your arms that were around him so he could face you while still being embraced by you, burying his face on the crook of your neck.

“I really love you.” He sighs, arms secure around your back.

“I would do everything for you,” Your reply was instant, resting your head against his. He felt your arms squeeze him as if to emphasise, and he chuckled.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” The silly question slips from his lips, half-joking and half-serious, pulling his head back to look into your nearly lifeless eyes. He’s reminded of how it’s only alive because of him.

Your eyebrows raised slightly in mere question and amusement, but you take his hand and press a tender kiss on his palm.

“I adore you in every universe. I love you just as much as Icarus has loved the sun — even more than he’s loved the sun. I would shatter the ground and raise hell just to find you wherever you go. I would paint the sky with shooting stars to fulfill your wish. I would tear the world apart and watch the universe collapse if you are ever taken from me, for a life without you is a life full of unquenchable thirst and eternal hunger unworthy of surviving. I would worship every ground you stand and walk on to an extent which I wish not to touch the ground you haven’t touched yet, for it hasn’t been blessed with your divine greatness. I would offer you my eyes if your vision fails, my voice if yours can no longer function, my heart if yours cease to beat, my hands if you can no longer hold the world in yours, my legs if yours fail to take you to places you’ve dreamed of. Only death shall keep me away from you, and even so, it would merely be enough to prevent me from either clawing the dirt apart and rising alive to hold you in my arms, or dragging you down with me to rest for all eternity together.”

By the end of your speech, Jason was already crying ocean of tears as his eyes twinkles in overwhelming happiness, extremely touched.

Both of you always make long and romantic declaration of your love for each other in most random times, and while his speech makes you smile from ear to ear and giddy like a high schooler, yours often never failed to reduce him into nothing but a sobbing and crying mess. He hates it, but could never bring himself to hate you for making him cry.

You smile gently at him and press very soft kisses on both of his eyelids before continuing, “Therefore, the answer is yes, my love. I would still love you if you were a worm.”

Jason chokes out a chuckle, sniffing. “Fuck you for always catching me off guard and making me cry.”

Your hands cup his red face as you coo, “Do not be ashamed for shedding your tears, Jason. Quite frankly, I find them very captivating.”

“Yeah?” He smirked. “You like seeing me cry?”

“Ah, yes...” A flirtatious smirk appears on your lips, one arm pulling him close and the other hand sneaking up to gently clasp your fingers around his throat. “Indeed, I do. Especially in bed.”

Jason resists his urge to moan when you squeezed slightly, tilting his head back a little to give you more access. “Why in bed when you can make me cry right here and now?” He whispered, rather lusciously as you stare into his lustful eyes.

You lick your lips before smashing your lips on his hungrily and Jason quickly reciprocates, no longer feeling the chilliness of the graveyard air.

Shall I stay?

Would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

Jason loves you more than words can express. He loves you oh so dearly that he would turn back to the God that his heart stopped believing after he came back to life just so he could recite prayers for an eternity with you. Jason never thought it was possible to love someone so much so that he’d be willing to both give up everything for you and give you everything you want.

But sometimes, love makes him afraid.

Afraid of losing you. Afraid of seeing you hurt. Afraid of knowing anyone and anything can take you away any moment. He hadn’t thought about what you feel everytime you see him injured, but when you walked into the living room all bloody, bruised and slashed, his heart stopped and the mug he was holding just slipped from his hand to shatter on the floor.

You laid down on the large expensive sofa with a slight wince as Jason ran off to find some medical kits available in the Addams manor, being helped by Thing to locate its whereabout, before running back in with the necessities. He almost got a heart attack when he saw you had your eyes closed, seemingly not breathing, looking paler than usual. Dropping the medical kits on the carpeted floor below the sofa, he quickly checks on your pulse and sighs in relief when he feels it, just then remembering that an Addams is very unlikely to show any physical signs of breathing unless letting out a sigh.

You open your eyes and admire his face twisted in worry and fear, moving up a hand to pat his head twice. “It’s not necessary to be overly concerned, my dear. Nothing to fear of, these are mere injuries that can easily be treated.” You wave it off with the same hand, somehow very calm and nonchalant despite how intense your injuries looked.

Sadness now replacing the look on his face, Jason wordlessly shakes his head and begins to treat the bruises and cuts on your face with careful and soothing hands. You stop him gently to remove your vigilante suit before letting him continue, comforting silence filling the almost grim atmosphere. Jason doesn’t realise you’re watching every bit of his expression, seeing the way his perfect eyebrows furrow and his lips frown slightly every time he moves from one injury to another. It feels like the injury’s getting worse the more he moved to the next, and it made his heart heavy.

Your gaze softens, knowing he was having second thoughts about speaking the things that bothered him.

It seems Jason has quickly gathered the strength to speak because before you can throw encouraging words, his quiet voice interrupts the comfortable silence. “I know you’re not afraid of dying or anything with your culture and all, but it makes me worry a lot.” You nod to let him know you’re listening. “I sound like a real hypocrite ‘cause I go out on mission then come back here looking like a fucking zombie more than I want to admit, so I don’t have the right to say anything like this, but you almost gave me a heart attack.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, silently encouraging him to speak his thoughts more as he cleans your wounds. You don’t miss the way Jason’s hand trembled.

“You’re not...” He trailed off, hesitant to continue as he bit his lip as if to contemplate whether or not to say it out loud. He followed through it, anyway. “You’re not gonna leave me, right?” Jason tries, looking up and meeting your eyes. His emerald irises were wavering in worry and hint of fear.

Your hand gently caress his face, Jason leaning on it immediately. “As I’ve said before, mon amour... Death is merely enough to prevent me from crawling back to you.” Ignoring your freshly bandaged wounds, you pulled Jason on your lap and tugged at the back of his neck to kiss his lips passionately and comfortingly. “Leaving you only means leaving my heart and soul behind, darling. We wouldn’t want me to feel incomplete, would we?”

Jason sighs in content against your lips, before carefully shifting on the big sofa so he could squish beside you and pull you to his chest, initiatively big-spooning you.

“m’just really scared to lose you,” He whispered, burying his face on your hair and hugging you close, but not tight enough to hurt. It’s not like you’re capable of feeling pain, but you appreciated his kindness nonetheless.

You press a tender kiss on his chest, looking up at him and frowning softly. “I sincerely apologize for frightening you, my love. I’ll make an oath to be careful next time.”

Jason nods, basking in your warmth, your scent, your presence.

Gods, he loves you too much to let you go. He could never, would never. You belong to him just as much as he belongs to you and even death has no right to take that away. You were his, and only his — in life and in death.

You feel Jason’s arms tighten around you, and resisted the smile spreading across your face. Death can never intimidate you as your culture revolves around it, but the thought of losing Jason was always triggering for you. It made you dive into insanity and quickly get rid of the problem at hand, as if you’ll suffocate if you’re not quick enough to eliminate the threat. Handling Joker physically, handling Bruce mentally, handling those irrelevant crime lords who nearly hurt Red Hood off the streets violently, all things of sort.

Fall down with me further, mon chéri.

Your mind shall be filled with me and only me, even if it’s the utter fear of losing me.

A dreamy look flashed across your eyes before disappearing fast, burying your face in his chest and embracing him tighter. If you’re both too afraid for the other to die and lose them, then maybe dying together would not sound so bad at all.

You had read once on a book that falling in love is a curse, for you’ll drown in it before you even realise and fail to resurface once you fall too deep, unable to ever get out again.

However, if that is the case, you disagreed. Because it was never a curse, it’s only ever been a blessing.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

“Where the fuck is he!?” Jason yelled in rage, red clouding his vision as he threw the mug on a wall. Panic, anger, and worry filled his chest that made his frustration grow even more.

Bruce sighed, worry also plastering his face as he attempted to grasp your location with the computer. “He’s only been gone for an hour, Jason. Be patient.”

“Anything can fucking happen in an hour!” He growled back, glaring harshly before the worry and panic began to overthrow his anger, one hand slipping through his hair and tugging at it. “I— fuck, what am I gonna do? I shouldn’t have let him go alone, I should’ve went with him—”

Dick quickly approached his little brother when his breathing started to grow uneven. “Jay, hey... Breathe, calm yourself first. He’s going to be okay, he’s an untouchable badass.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Jason shakes his head, rubbing his face. “I wouldn’t know what to do without him— I can’t live without him, Dicky. I can’t.” His voice broke as he trembled, silence filling the air with everyone frowning in sadness and worry.

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

Jason felt his heart thumping loudly against his chest when he saw you fighting enemies with only sustaining little injuries, relief flooding throughout his body. It’s like the world brightened up again, ironically.

You made eye contact in the middle of the fight, smirking at him. “Can’t get rid of me easily, love.”

A light-hearted chuckle erupts from Jason as he joins you along with the Batfam in fighting the League of Assassins, you and Jason moving in sync as if dancing through the violence. Both of you moved swiftly together, fitting each other perfectly like the pieces of a puzzle, using each other occassionally as a leverage against them.

“This is like dancing in our graveyard,” Jason grinned under his Red Hood helmet, adrenaline rushing in his veins.

“Indeed, it does feel like it.” You responded with subtle enthusiasm, only noticeable by your lover. He laughs at your answer, enjoying the moment even when it was violent.

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

He doesn’t know why he got distracted. He doesn’t know why he didn’t pay attention more to his surroundings. But before Jason knew it, Raj’s Al Ghul’s sword was nearly piercing into him.

Until your firm and cold hand pushed him away, everything feeling like a slow motion in Jason’s eyes as the sword pierced into your chest and through your back, directly striking the heart. Jason’s eyes widened, anguished call of your name slipping from his lips. Blood dripping from your mouth, you tightly held onto the sword before driving one of your sais on Raj’s Al Ghul’s throat, where a vital point is.

The League of Assassins member fell on the ground first, clutching his throat and choking on his own blood.

Amusement flickers in your eyes, even at the graveness of the situation. You looked back at Jason and smiled, grabbing the sword’s handle and pulling it off your chest despite Batman’s loud protests. Loud metallic clank echoes within the warehouse as you dropped the sword on the concrete, stepping forward once towards your lover, but your legs giving away made you almost tumble down.

Jason immediately catches you in his arms and lays you on his lap, tears stinging his eyes as his breath quickens, removing his helmet to throw it beside him. Heartbeat rapid and restless, heart dropped to his stomach, nausea forming in the pit due to the sight of blood flowing outwards to your vigilante suit from the hole on your chest. He could feel a panic attack nearing, but couldn’t be bothered to care when the blood kept pouring out even when he applied pressure.

“No— no, no, no, no.” He chokes up, swallowing the lump that formed in his throat, trembling hands continuously putting pressure on your chest. “Stay with me, please. Stay with me. I can’t—” He sobbed. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breathing was shallow yet no fear plastered your face. There’s your usual calmness, the nonchalance that Bruce used to be so unsettled when he first met you, your almost dead eyes still sparkling in love and adoration for Jason. You don’t seem to care about your injury nor the outstretched arms of the Grim Reaper.

Your bloodied lips stretches to form a weak smile, captivated by Jason’s beauty under the moonlight. “You’re still magnificent, cherí… A sight to behold… under the moonlight…”

“Baby, now’s not the time.” Jason whined pathetically, tears flowing endlessly from his eyes. Dread, fear, devastation settling in his chest. “Please, baby. Please. I don’t know- fuck, I can’t live without you.” He cried, uncaring that you two were surrounded by his family. “I don’t… I can’t, baby. I— I can’t lose you, please.”

Adrenaline rushing through your veins and motivated by your sheer love for him, you reached up to wipe his tears and grab his other hand to intertwine it with yours. Jason’s heart drops further down the abyss when you then used it to pull out his dagger — the one you gifted him — out of his holster. “You would not lose me, by other’s hands, my sweetheart… I made an oath, to only offer you my life and soul, with no one else to have the privilege of ending me.”

“No— please, baby, no…” Jason weakly shakes his head, sobbing.

You gripped his hand that held the dagger. “You ought to, cherí… It is an honour for me to die by your hands. Please, allow me… to love you, one last time.”

Jason whimpered your name, crying heavily as he leans down to rest his head on yours. You were so cruel, wanting to die by his hands, wanting him to live forever with his hands stained in your blood— but Jason knew that’s how extent your love was for him. He could never deny you, not when it was your greatest wish.

Croaks and sobs escaping him, Jason finally drives the dagger through your chest, right where the sword pierced you. It is only then you slumped against him, hands slowly dropping to your sides with mouth slightly turned up in a smile of peace and satisfaction.

The greatest proof that you love him. Carving yourself deep into his heart, so he could never be alone even when you’re physically gone.

Jason wailed in anguish and sorrow, hugging your now lifeless body close as he brokenly recites the speech you gave him in the graveyard.

You hurt him badly, loved him too cruelly, but it was still better than losing you forever. He would’ve driven the dagger into his own beating heart if only you allowed him.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Jason lost the brightness he had in him. Emerald eyes lifeless that seemed as if you took his soul with you, still functioning yet lacking in human emotions as if he was a robotic being.

Sometimes, he breaks so suddenly. Utters your name like a curse, sobbing and weeping in his room, scar so deep in his heart he scratches at his chest in attempt to get it out to stop the ache. His emotions were too unstable that left him unqualified to continue the vigilantism, which he agreed emotionlessly when pointed out by Bruce.

Sometimes, he’s shattered too much and far too gone in grief that he sleeps on your grave. Covers himself in blanket and nuzzles on your headstone, as if it would give him the warmth you always radiated despite being as cold as death. He could only sleep that way; the sleeping pills don’t help, but being close to your body does.

He holds his dagger close to him all the time. Stained in your dried blood that he never got the nerve to wash off, afraid that his mind would someday choose to forget your existence to block out the trauma.

He wears everything you used to wear. Uses your weapons, things, accessories. His favourite is your sunglasses. Having your possessions close always made him feel like you were embracing him.

No one ever attempted to get them away from him in fear of shattering his soul furthermore. His entire being seemingly dependent on everything that reminded of you, they didn’t want to trigger something inside of him any more than the scar in his heart did.

“Love truly is the greatest twisted curse in the world, Mr. Wayne.” Morticia mutters in sorrow as she looks out the window of the Addams’ manor, watching Jason curl up against your headstone with tears silently streaming down his face.

Bruce looks down in dejection, nodding his head.

His boy was beyond repair, and no one could do anything about it because you were gone.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

Jason’s eyes were wide in shock and horror. Emotions swirled within his chest; anger, disgust, sadness, grief, disbelief, and joy battling one another that overwhelmed him all at once. His family stood with him in front of the monitor, their expressions just as horrified as him, the familiar situation causing dread to settle in the pit of Bruce’s stomach.

The monitor showed you, alive and well with the exception of your eyes seemingly more dead and lifeless than before. Everything was the same from your emotionless face to your vigilante suit that you died in, but Jason could see right through you. This wasn’t you. This you wasn’t his.

Not when you were standing in the same room as the Joker who you’d immediately kill if you were put together.

Jason was even more certain you weren’t his when he sees you up close, your personality different from that sophisticated, nonchalant yet wonderful one you had before. You’re just… blank. A dead person living without humanity and following orders. You don’t follow orders, you hated being controlled.

The familiarity makes his chest clench and hurt. He’s been through this exact thing, he never thought you would experience it too.

“I don’t want to fight you, baby.” Jason whispered, voice cracking. His helmet hiding the heartbroken look on his face that you were standing in front of him with your sais pointed dangerously in his direction.

You scowled. He’s somehow familiar, your chest erupting in unknown emotions that Talia never taught you about. The urge to hold him close was tugging at the strings of your heart, but you stay glued to your spot. “I do not know you, fool.” You emotionlessly remark.

Hurt flashed across his face. There’s nothing he wanted more than to be held by you and hold you close, but how could he when you don’t recognise him? Did they brainwash you? Your memories lack, but they could come back, right?

“Red Hood,” Batman warningly calls his name when you lowered your stance.

Jason still didn’t pull out his guns.

“Baby, it’s me.” He whispered weakly. “Please, you said you’ll hold me again. You’ll crawl out of dirt to hold me or pull me under with you, remember?” Jason tried again, tears shimmering his eyes. His throat burned.

Your eyes narrowed, brows furrowing. You feel like you’ve told him that, but couldn’t remember. Something was banging on your head from the depths of your mind that made it throb. Gripping your sais, you desperately ignored the pain to focus on your task.

“Ignore it,” Talia’s voice entered your ears. “Kill him.”

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

“Fuck!” Jason yelps when you managed to slash him on his leg, dodging your next attack quickly. “Wait— please, listen to me!”

“Red Hood, watch out!” Red Robin shouts just as Jason narrowly avoids your sai flying towards his head.

He couldn’t find any other way to get you to listen. The way you attempted to tune him out makes him believe you were feeling something, but there’s nothing he could do when you keep coming at his throat. Desperation runs through his veins, heart still bleeding out for you even as you try to kill him. The coldness in your eyes was foreign that carved another scar in his heart, but he can’t hate you no matter what.

Jason’s heart jackhammered against his ribcage when you finally caught him by the throat and slammed him harshly on the floor, your murderous look that he always loved plastered over your face. He stops struggling after realising he could never hurt you again, and slowly hovers his hand over your wrist. Your grip on his throat was tight, but Jason couldn’t be bothered to panic.

He finally had you again at last. Why should he panic when the source of his life was so near to him?

“Have you gotten exhausted of fighting back?” You calmly tilted your head, curiosity in your eyes. Jason doesn’t miss the split seconds of conflicted look.

“I can’t,” He replies quietly. “I love you, baby. Never stopped.” His other hand raised to remove his helmet, ignoring Bruce’s protest, and your grip on his throat faltered as soon as you make eye contact with the emerald eyes that you adore too much.

“I don’t want to fight you. So kill me,” Jason mumbled with a soft voice. “Allow me to love you one last time and stab my heart with your sai. For a life without you is a life full of unquenchable thirst and eternal hunger unworthy of surviving.” He recited your own quote back to you with a tearful smile.

Closing his eyes, peace overtakes Jason for the first time in a long while since losing you as he waits for the abrupt pain of being pierced through the heart. However, all that came was softness attaching itself to his lips.

Take my hand

Take my whole life, too

Jason snaps his eyes wide open in shock at your lips pressing against his, the death grip on his throat loosening just to hover affectionately over it. His body naturally reacts, moving on its own to reciprocate your kiss and relish in it, arms flying up to wrap around your neck.

You pulled away when he yearns for oxygen, a sob nearly escaping him again when he sees the love and warmth in your eyes. You smile gently at him, brightness returning to your previously dead eyes. “I’m deeply sorry, my love. I’m back.”

Jason tearfully chuckled and crushed you in a hug, heart rapidly beating against his chest. Relief wasn’t enough of a word to describe the happiness he felt. The feeling of being embraced tightly by you causing tears to stream down his face for the nth time, his longing and yearning finally being fulfilled. He missed this, he missed you, he missed his only home.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

Neither you nor Jason had left the bedroom since returning, having locked yourselves up in his room that you shared to obtain privacy for yourselves. None of the Waynes were bothered too much as they understood how much Jason yearned for your presence, the only comfort he’s ever had in his life.

Jason’s been holding onto you for dear life with the fear of you vanishing out of nowhere, his face buried on the crook of your neck and hand resting on your chest directly above your heart to feel it beating through his palm. Your arms securely wrapped around him in reassurance makes him feel more safe and at peace than he ever did. He pulls away slightly to look up, seeing you already staring at him with fondness and comfort.

“Don’t leave me again, please.” He croaks like a lost child, voice cracking.

You kissed his forehead. “I’d return to you in a heartbeat, my Jason.”

Jason stares into your gentle eyes, snuggling closer to you and intwining his legs with yours to feel every part of you. “Can’t live without you, baby.” He whispered.

You smiled. Perhaps, it was time to tell him.

Even death can’t severe the emotional bond and love you have for each other, which leaves one option; together. Falling out of love was never in either of your vocabulary, anyway.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

© all rights reserved to hadesrise ──── stealing, plagiarising, or using my works for monetary gain is strictly prohibited. ask permission before reposting or translating.

[holybibly]

❣ 𝔖𝔥𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔫 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 ❣ Size Training with the shy librarian.Yunho has a big and thick dick, and when we say big, we mean huge. And there is absolutely no way you can get his whole massive length inside you at once. ❣ 𝔅𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔢𝔯 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 ℑ ❣ The sweet facade of a charming bookseller hides his dominant dark side and how damn obsessed he is with you.

❣ 𝔅𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔯 𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔩𝔨𝔢𝔯 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 ℑℑ ❣ Most of all in his life Yunho loves your pretty used panties, no matter how much he embarrassedly admits it. 

❣ 𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔱 𝔅𝔬𝔶𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 ❣ Yunho could fool anyone with his cute looks and gentle demeanour, but only you knew that underneath that cute facade was a real freak in the sheets. Or you thought Yunho was a typical vanilla guy, but it turned out he had too much spice for you to swallow. ❣ 𝔓𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔅𝔬𝔶𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 ❣ Your perfect boyfriend Yunho takes you on a picnic date, only to fuck you senselessly in the middle of a park, because he can't keep his hands off you, even though he spent the whole morning between your thighs, greedily licking his princess's little cunt. ❣ 𝔉𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 ℑ𝔡𝔬𝔩 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔣𝔱. 𝔖𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔥𝔴𝔞 ❣ Dinners with Ateez always have a very unexpected ending.

❣ 𝔖𝔦𝔷𝔢 𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 ℑ𝔡𝔬𝔩 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔣𝔱. 𝔐𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔦 ❣ Both Mingi and Yunho have huge dicks, and of course, cute little things like you can't take them right away, even after they've fucked you hundreds of times. So the boys are constantly training you, but your pussy is so small and tight that stretching is sometimes painful, but they both know how to make the process much more enjoyable. ❣ 𝔖𝔲𝔤𝔞𝔯 𝔇𝔞𝔡𝔡𝔶 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔣𝔱. 𝔖𝔞𝔫 ❣ You can always feel the difference between them. San is quiet and calm; he slowly drives you crazy with his touches, preferring to prolong the pleasure for hours. Yunho, on the other hand, is passionate, hot, and impatient; he likes to take you rough and fast. He was like an icy flame, while San was like scorching ice.

❣ 𝔇𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔫𝔱 ℌ𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔜𝔲𝔫𝔥𝔬 𝔣𝔱. 𝔐𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔦 ❣ Who the hell would have thought that a couple of nerds from your university would be the most sought-after dominat duo in the whole of Seoul?