#yes I WOULD use a black light for him and then be disgusted by everything around me (and then blame it on ectoplasm… yes…)

[sacr1ficialang3l]

𓉸 I'm bad, he's worse. 𓉸 (we're already dead)

SUMMARY: dean never thought he'd ever enjoy killing, until his dark queen showed up and made blood taste like a goddamn aphrodisiac—quite literally. 4.9k

WARNINGS: death!dean. smut (mdni). blood and gore. explicit violence. unprotected piv. disgusting sex. very literally. they're gross, and insane. mentions of cannibalism (i'm sorry). depictions of torture.

NOTES: take this offer as a late 800 followers celebration. ⛧playlist

Dean never expected to become a horseman.

He already had enough on his plate—being a hunter, Michael’s vessel, and apparently the chosen one to fight every single big bad villain and apocalypse that threatened the earth. He didn’t need to add another thing to the fucking list.

But then Sam had gone to the cage, and there were only two beings in this world who could save him. God, of course—and another creature just as ancient and powerful, if not more: Death.

Dean still had the ring, the small silver hoop burning in his pocket, calling to him. The Pale Horseman had never reclaimed the artifact, and Dean would be damned if he let such a valuable object out of his sight.

It was hard to decide whether he should use it or not. There was no guarantee the ring wouldn’t make him combust the moment he slid it on—or that it would summon Death, who would then make him combust. It was risky, dangerous, and, like everything he did, incredibly idiotic.

But there wasn’t a single thing in this world Dean wouldn’t do for his little brother.

So Dean Winchester—the boy who had died and come back more times than he could count—became Death.

He brought Sam back. Every part of him. His body, and heart, and soul. But when he tried to take off the ring—eager to get away from the electricity running through his veins, the hypnotic whisper of the shadows all around him—it wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard the brothers tried, no matter how many spells Bobby gave them or how much lube they used—

“Ew, Dean. Don’t you have something else we can use?”

“Do you wanna get this off me or not, Sammy? Suck it up. Plus, it’s blackberry flavored.”

“You’re so fucking disgusting.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk. Now stay still before I decide to just chop off your finger.”

It just refused to come off.

And Sam had, actually, tried to chop off his finger. They summoned Castiel—the angel reassuring them, “Yes, Dean. I will regenerate your finger if you decide to amputate it.”

So Dean had drunk almost half a bottle of whiskey in two long sips before placing his hand carefully over the wooden desk in Bobby’s study, forcing himself to stay stoic as Sam quickly lowered a machete toward his finger.

But before the blade could even make contact, Sam and everyone else in the room except Dean were flung across the space, slamming into the walls—a bright, pale halo of light erupting from the ring and shielding Dean from harm.

The next morning, the scythe appeared beside the guest bedroom at Bobby’s house.

It was obsidian black, and seemed to draw in the shadows, fog pooling around the heavy silver. When Sam tried to pick it up, he couldn’t move it an inch. Bobby tried, then Castiel, and then all three men at once. The fucking thing wouldn’t budge.

But the moment Dean wrapped his hand around the long handle, it felt as light as a feather.

So, just like he always does when weird shit happens to him, Dean took a deep breath, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and rolled with it. He picked up the scythe, went out into the salvage yard, and started to practice with his new abilities. He let the instinct in his chest—that same pale light burning inside of him—guide him. And because he’s Dean fucking Winchester, he got the hang of it in a few weeks.

Something had begun to settle in him—slow, relentless, vast. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t even angry. It was ancient. Inevitable. Like frost creeping over glass, or flesh rotting under rich soil. It moved through him not with malice, but with purpose. And Dean realized, with a kind of reverent dread, that it was Death. Not just the concept—the force. As real and raw as the blood in his veins, as steady as the air in his lungs.

Everything that lives has to die. Everything that starts has to end. That’s the way it’s always been.

Death isn’t wicked. It isn’t cruel or violent. It simply is. It’s not punishment—it’s gravity. The final hush. The closing of a door. Eternal rest.

Dean doesn’t fight nature anymore. He doesn’t recoil at blood, or shy away from righteous violence. He doesn’t pretend he’s something he’s not. The shadow inside him has a name now, and he’s not afraid to speak it. He wears it like a second skin. Understands it down to the bone. It’s not heartlessness. It’s balance.

And whatever tattered, mortal understanding he once had of life and death—of right and wrong—has been torn wide open and replaced with something colder, older, and far more honest.

He doesn’t flinch when he kills anymore. He doesn’t hesitate. He knows.

And if the monsters used to be afraid of him… they should be fucking terrified now.

Yes, having to kill some people—the innocent ones, the sweet and pure ones—still makes him feel a little sick. And reapers aren’t exactly the best subordinates—always either too brown-nosing or defiant as fuck. And now Crowley thinks they’re coworkers or some shit. But this might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to Dean.

Because now Sam will never die again—and if he does, Dean will bring him back with a snap of his fingers. Because this power that he can’t even begin to describe—one that ignites every cell in his body and turns everything in him to light—means he’ll never feel insignificant and helpless again. Because now Dean can kill a whole fucking den of werewolves with a touch of his fingertips, not even bothering with silver. Because now he’s almost invincible. And finally, he has enough power to do more good than bad.

Because the scythe is fucking badass.

Because he had met you.

It’s another day at the office—no hunting today, just Death duties. Dean is going through a long list of people he has to touch and let die, wait for a reaper to show up and guide them to their resting place, and then repeat. It can get tedious sometimes, but he manages.

“No, no!” the guy in front of him screams, hands shaking and body curled in a small, pathetic ball against the brick wall of an old building.

In reality, it’s not. His body is still lying in that dank back alley, unmoving and slowly cooling. Dean can see it under the last few rays of sunlight, just a few feet away—the guy’s black suit and perfectly gelled hair, the bloodstain on his crisp white shirt already drying where it lies, right over his heart. His now-empty wallet—real leather, limited edition—thoughtlessly discarded beside the corpse.

A robbery gone wrong.

“Please, I have a daughter! Have mercy, please!”

Oh, how Dean hates it when they beg.

He’s just leaning in, ready to brush his fingers against the man’s temple and put him out of his misery, when everything suddenly stills.

“Wait.”

The air gets colder, and there’s suddenly a faint scent of black satin dahlias and clove—something citric like blood orange mixing with incense and graveyard dirt. The world around Dean darkens, and there’s a buzz under his skin that he can only describe as instinctual.

There’s a slow, deliberate tap of footsteps getting closer, and Dean sighs in apparent aloof resignation as he keeps staring down at the man—who now looks a hell of a lot more confused than scared—but there’s an undeniable flutter in his heart and a string of murderous affection tugging at his chest.

“What are you doing here, darlin’?”

That’s when you finally walk into view. Your skin glows like the moon, your dark hair framing your face like the midnight sky. There’s a wicked smile on your lips, and your black dress looks as if it’s made of shadows—hugging every curve of your body before melting into nothingness at the hem, showing off chunky black heels that make the ground shake with every step you take.

The flowers blooming from cracks in the asphalt darken around you—they don’t wither, they look more alive than ever, but their colors shift to deep shades of red and purple. You fix your gaze on the phantom of the man still trembling on the ground before turning to Dean, and he sees that unhinged glint in your dark, fathomless eyes.

“Are you not happy to see me, my love?” you pout, your words as sharp as knives and smooth as silk.

Dean gives you a deadpan look—one that keeps his Death image up for the public, but you know it really means, of course I’m happy to see you, gorgeous. But what the fuck are you doing here? 

Still, he leans in and kisses your cheek reverently.

You sigh, roll your eyes, and turn back to the man. Your lips reset into that crazed smile, and the poor guy shivers—both from fear and lust.

Dean doesn’t blame him. But he’ll kill him for it anyway.

“I’m here, my Lord—” Dean wants to roll his eyes at the nickname he’s told you to drop a hundred times, but he can’t deny the way it makes something inside him heat up. “—because I’m feeling… playful.”

You kneel in front of the guy, grinning as you pinch his chin between your thumb and pointer finger, studying his face with sadistic amusement.

You had first shown up one random day during Dean’s first week as Death.

It had been a normal day—a vampire nest cleaned out before doing some reaping. Dean had just been learning how to teleport without hurling into the nearest trash can, and he was sending off a reaper when the air stilled and that scent of grotesquerie and eroticism filled his nose. He turned around, scythe in hand, ready to slash you to bits.

But you just laughed, circled his dumbfounded form with confident, cheerful steps—and disappeared into the shadows again.

Ever since, you started showing up at reapings, hunts, and even in the backseat of Baby. You’re not a reaper, and none of Dean’s subordinates know who or what you are. At first Dean thought you’d be a problem—some maniac goddess trying to steal his position or simply cause chaos.

But he was wrong. Not completely—but still wrong.

You do live for the chaos, and you are maniacal and utterly insane, but you’re not after the Horseman job. You started helping on hunts, saving Sam’s ass more than once when Dean was too distracted trying to master his new powers. You’d occasionally help with research—spitting out half-assed facts before melting into the night. But mostly, you showed up to rile Dean up and then disappear with a cackle.

Between snarky remarks and teasing words, you taught Dean how to handle his abilities. You slid your hands up his arms, nails digging into his skin as you positioned his grip on the scythe. You whispered in his ear—glossy lips brushing his lobe—how to make a death fast and painless or slow and agonizing. You laughed at every insult he threw your way and replied with something just as venomous.

You liked to play with the dead—mostly the bad ones. Drawing shapes on their skin with knives, licking their splattered blood off your lips, threatening them with grotesque medieval tortures Dean had never even heard of—and he called you a monster for it every time.

But then, one day, Dean had been late for a reaping—too busy hooking up with some occult chick thrilled by the sight of his scythe—and he found you already there.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with dirty clothes and blue lips. She was malnourished, clearly neglected, and left for dead in the backyard of some filthy old trailer park. Her heartbeat was faint—even Dean could barely hear it—and he knew the body was just waiting for his touch to finally shut down. The spirit was nowhere to be seen. Probably scared. Hiding.

At first, Dean was afraid you were desecrating her corpse—but then he saw what you were doing. Your hand brushed her cold cheek delicately, and your lips moved in a silent prayer. A send-off. A blessing. All the dirt and bruises disappeared from the girl’s skin, her clothes freed of their tears, and her hollow cheeks filled out slightly.

You moved your hand again, and flowers bloomed all around her. Dark red and purple blossoms tangled in her curls, formed a bed beneath her. A bouquet grew between her hands, folded gently over her chest, and you leaned down to kiss her forehead before murmuring something in what sounded like an ancient dialect of Latin.

A second later, the phantom of the little girl appeared beside you, her sad gray eyes focused on your face. You picked a soft lilac flower—contrasting gently with the wine-colored blooms—and tucked it behind her ear before pointing at Dean.

The kid turned to him, and with one last encouraging nod from you, she approached. Dean offered a soft smile, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Immediately, her body gave out—and a reaper appeared to guide her away.

Dean stayed frozen, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You rose to your feet, your expression bittersweet but still formidable. You wouldn’t look at him directly. You stared down at the little girl’s body instead.

“I’m not the monster you think I am, Dean Winchester,” you muttered.

Then you vanished—only to reappear a week later in a Washington basement, studying the torture chamber of a psychopathic wraith Sam and Dean were hunting. You floated around the moldy room, picking up every ancient tool and laughing like a lunatic when the wraith (still alive) started sobbing the moment you suggested using them on him.

That day, Dean took in your devilish grin and felt nothing but twisted, macabre fondness. Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“You know I don’t like when you interrupt reapings, doll,” he lies through his teeth.

He loves it when you show up. When you curl around his side as he sends off some poor soul. When you offer to help him relax after a hard day. Every time, his imposing façade crumbles, and he feels a little like Cerberus when his owner comes home. Suddenly, souls and duties and the natural order mean nothing—the only thing that matters is the swing of your hips, the press of your mouth, the gleam of your blade.

He tries to keep his nonchalant expression, but he knows he’d evaporate every ocean and implode every planet if you asked—if you looked at him with those starry eyes and your sharp teeth biting down on your lip.

You don’t even dignify his words with a response, still carefully studying the man in front of you. 

“Your guy here,” you murmur, gripping his jaw a bit harder, “doesn’t deserve a quick death.”

Dean sighs, rolling his eyes, but an enamored smile still creeps across his face. He was hoping this would be a quick gig—snatch the guy’s soul, hand it off to a reaper, then go home to fuck his girl on a bed of bones and velvet.

But he recognizes that look in your eyes. Whatever you’ve planned, it won’t be quick.

Dean’s eyes follow you carefully as you rise from the ground, the way one can’t keep their eyes off of a shooting star. And when you get within reach, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him.

You giggle—and it would’ve made him smile if you didn’t immediately smack his hands away and step back. He grunts, reluctantly letting go.

You have him wrapped around your blood-stained finger.

“Our dear Isaiah was a supposed man of God, weren’t you, Isaiah?”

You circle Dean until you’re behind him, your hand crawling up his arm as you stare down the almost-dead man.

Isaiah nods frantically, pressing himself back against the wall, trying to escape your gaze.

“Yes! Yes, of course!”

Wrong answer, Dean thinks. Dumbass.

“But you had a special… appetite, didn’t you?”

Your face is tilted down, eyes hooded and seductive in that way he knows is only caused by bloodlust. Your lips settled in a pout, hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

Dean wonders how mad you’d be if he killed the guy now and teleported you to a motel.

Isaiah’s face pales, and he tries to run. Dean snaps his fingers—his eyes never leaving your gorgeous face—and the man is slammed back against the wall.

You laugh against Dean’s back, and it makes him smirk. You glance at him—eyes vicious and undeniably horny—then kiss him.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. Sudden, messy, violent. Your tongue slides into his mouth and Dean lets it. You taste like pomegranate and carnage. One of his hands leaves the scythe and grips your nape—but you pull away.

He growls, chasing your lips, but you just laugh and turn back to the guy.

Right. The guy. He’s supposed to be killing that guy.

The bastard looks more terrified than ever.

“Our boy here liked to sink his teeth into girls and consume them—quite literally.”

Dean’s brows raise. His eyes snap back to the man.

“P-please,” Isaiah begs. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me—”

“Is that how they begged, Isaiah?” you murmur, your grin as sharp and cruel as ever. “The girls you ate. Is that how they pleaded to go home? For you to stop?”

He sobs, you ignore it. But it all fades to nothing when your lips brush Dean’s ear.

“He deserves some punishment, don't you think, my Lord?” you whisper, like the snake whispering in Eve’s ear. “Let me make him bleed a little, hm?”

As if Dean could ever say no to you.

And you know it, you know just how irrevocably devoted he’s to you, because you don’t even wait for an answer. You already have your dagger. Dean just watches.

From there it’s laughter, slashes, bloodshed.

You carve him up like a banquet. Every slice accompanied by a wicked giggle. Every plea met with a kick of your heels. Every sob answered with a threat pulled from some unspeakable era.

His body will show no signs. But his soul will remember.

Dean stays back, observing like he’s watching the rise of a goddess—fascinated, bewitched, worshipful.

Your blood-splattered face is the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed, the way your tongue curls around every insult you callously throw at the cannibal is hypnotic, the way you lick your dagger clean after you're finished is the most erotic thing in this and every universe.

Dean doesn’t even flinch when your blade finally stops moving.

What’s left of Isaiah is unrecognizable—just a twitching, oozing echo of the son of a bitch he was. You stand over him, chest heaving, the blade slick with viscera and your eyes glassy with something holy. Or unholy. Maybe both.

“All done,” you whisper sweetly, wiping your knife on what’s left of his slashed-up tie.

Dean exhales, low and long. “You always make such a mess, darlin’.”

You turn to him slowly, your teeth and hands still stained crimson. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the show.”

And he did. He thinks he never really understood desire until he saw you rip your way through a body like this.

But something in him wants more. Something deeper. Something filthy.

With deliberate slowness, Dean steps over the broken pieces of Isaiah and kneels beside the wrecked corpse. He presses two fingers to what used to be a chest, his hand ghosting over shattered ribs and pulped lungs. Then—

With a grin full of sin, he digs his hand into the man's chest cavity and rips out what’s left of his red, mutilated heart. It's barely hanging together, still warm and dripping between Dean’s fingers.

Your chest heaves, and your pupils dilate until all Dean can see is black.

“Oh,” you mutter, eyes wide and shining like a dying star, “do it again.”

Dean’s head tilts back with a laugh that sounds like thunder and hunger. He swiftly gets up from the asphalt—then crushes the heart in one hand.

You lick your lips slowly, lewdly, and take a few slow steps toward him.

Your hand finds his waist, then slides down, further south until you grip his clothed cock. Hard, rabid, almost painful.

“Have I corrupted you enough that killing makes you hard now, my Lord—?”

A snarl is torn from his throat, and then he’s shoving you against the wall, your heel digging right into the man’s eye socket.

Dean’s hands are everywhere on you—your thighs under your shadow dress, squeezing your perfect fucking tits, wrapping around your neck. His tongue digs into your mouth, tasting nothing but metallic and you. His teeth bite down onto your lip until your blood mixes with Isaiah’s between your tongues, and he moans at the taste, his hands ripping your dress half-off until it’s nothing but a bunch of magic fabric bunched around your waist.

You’re not wearing anything underneath, of course.

His touch is brutal—but you’re right there beside him. You pull at his hair until he groans, your hand cups his jaw until his face is smeared with blood and gore, your long nails leave angry red lines all over his chest as you tear his black long-sleeve shirt open.

In a smooth movement, Dean’s hands slide under your thighs, and he pulls you up until your legs wrap around his hips and he has you completely entrapped between his body and the brick wall.

“This,” he presses his clothed cock against your bare cunt—glistening under the slowly rising moon, fucking dripping with need. It makes you throw your head back, and Dean takes the opportunity to fill your long neck with his teeth marks. “Isn’t because of him, doll. This is all because of you.”

You moan, crashing your lips together again. Your hand finds his pants and quickly unbuttons them with the expertise that only comes from being in this same exact position almost every day.

You pull his dick out, fisting it with such ferocity Dean hisses. “Always so fucking hard for me, baby,” you laugh against his lips, sharp and almost mean in a way that makes him twitch. You start to move your hand up and down, the slide wet with the man’s blood. “Fuck, I need your cock inside of me.”

Dean grunts, his chest stuttering with how bad he wants it. It doesn’t matter how many times he fucks you—it feels like paradise every time. His movements are desperate as he aligns his dick with your entrance, and you laugh—arrogant and downright pornographic.

But it’s quickly turned into a moan when Dean buries himself all the way to the hilt with one swift thrust, your head thrown back with a loud bang against the wall, your nails digging into his shoulders—deep enough to draw blood.

“Fuck, Dean. You’re so fucking big,” you moan, your lips wrapping around the words obscenely.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, hips pistoning against you with feral frenzy. His head gets fuzzy at the way you feel around him—so fucking warm, so goddamn tight. His lips latch onto one of your nipples, one of his hands finding the other, rolling it between his fingers. He sucks and bites devotedly, leaving purple bruises all over your sweet skin. His.

“So deep, Dean—I can feel it in my fucking soul.”

When Dean looks up at you, your eyes are rolled back in your head. Your mouth is parted open, and when Dean slides his fingers—previously wrapped around Isaiah’s heart—between your lips, you mewl and start sucking all the blood off like it’s the sweetest of elixirs.

Your tongue brushes his ring, the one that marks him as a Horseman, and you grin at the taste of silver. At the taste of Death.

“You like it, darlin’?” You nod, throat contracting around his long fingers. Dean keeps his ruthless pace, the sound of his hips slapping against your thighs echoing through the alleyway. “You fucking love it when I fill you up? When you can feel me in here?”

His hand moves from your mouth to your stomach, pressing. It makes you gasp, spine shooting up. Dean presses harder, and you spasm around him in a way that makes him groan. Your whole body shakes with the force of your climax, and your smart mouth is fucking useless as it hangs open, drool dripping down your chin.

It’s then that a reaper shows up. Dean can barely feel their presence over the way you’re wrapping around his cock, fucking dripping like crazy, the little noises leaving your mouth the most beautiful song he’s ever heard. He fucks you through your orgasm, not paying his subordinate any mind, and it’s goddamn sacred.

The reaper doesn’t say anything, only stares for a second too long at the crude scene—their boss and his lover, slick with sweat and blood and viscera, fucking like rabid animals—before dragging what’s left of Isaiah away quietly.

You laugh at the sight—breathless, but still fucking wicked. Dean’s thrusts become erratic, pounding into you like sin. He can’t keep his eyes off of you—your sharp teeth glistening with blood, your eyes glossed over and dark, your hair all messed up and cheeks flushed, your perfect body under his hands. It’s too much. You’re too perfect. And Dean craves you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he grunts, licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw. You taste ambrosial. “Prettiest fuckin’ sight when you’re all fucked out. My perfect little psycho.”

Every thrust is so deep that he’s pretty convinced he’s hitting your cervix—hitting that spongy, glorious spot inside of you every time. It’s almost too much. The way you kiss him—all tongue, spit, and blood. The way your heels dig into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. The way you whisper against his lips.

“Fill me up, my love. Make me yours. Mark me inside and out.”

Dean growls, cock throbbing inside your raw cunt. His fingers find your clit, rolling the small nub between his calloused fingertips. You cry out, loud and sanguineous, and you come again. You bite down on his neck, cunt spasming around Dean’s cock, thighs trembling around his middle.

Dean can’t hold back anymore, and with one last roll of his hips that leaves him nestled right against your insides, he lets go. His cock twitches as he fills you up, painting your walls with hot, thick cum.

You mewl at the sensation, clenching around him, sending shockwaves down his spine and making him hiss. He wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing slightly in warning. Don’t.

You look at him through hooded eyes, skin glistening under the moonlight and that godforsaken smug smirk. What are you gonna do about it, my love?

Nothing. He would do absolutely nothing. Because you could stab him with one of your many knives, and he’d throw himself further down the blade just to be a little closer to you.

Still inside of you, refusing to pull away from your warmth, Dean nuzzles into your neck. You smell like blackberries and red roses and vice. He kisses over every bruise, he licks over the blood now drying on your skin, and he chases your lips like a feral dog chasing a bone.

“I adore you,” he murmurs against your bloody teeth, keeping you rightfully plastered against his chest. And your expression softens up. “You’re the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to me.”

Dean loves every version of you—the unhinged psycho killer, the ungodly sex goddess, the melancholic dark angel. But this one has to be his favorite.

When Dean says just the right thing—when he compliments a part of you you consider way too rotten, when he notices the small things you try to hide from everyone, when he makes you feel loved, actually loved—you melt.

Like right now, when your cheeks flush underneath all the gore, and your eyes turn almost heart-shaped, and you hide your face against his chest because you don’t like being vulnerable like this.

Still, Dean knows. Still, Dean loves you.

“Just take me home, my love,” you murmur against his naked chest, before biting the skin there—right over his beating heart. “We can wash this asshole’s blood off of each other, and then I’ll suck your soul out of your fucking body.”

Dean laughs, pressing you harder against him with one arm as the other reaches for his scythe. He starts summoning his powers, willing them to take you home—or what Dean eloquently calls his own personal Batcave.

Dean knows you could just teleport yourself with your powers—you’ve been using them a lot longer than Dean. You could be snuggled in bed in the blink of an eye. But you’ve told Dean you like when he does it.

“It feels like we’re melting into the shadows—melting into each other, intertwined together.”

You played with his fingers as you spoke that night, fidgeting with his ring as you two lay in bed.

“I like when I can’t tell when I end and you begin.”

Dean almost cried that day. Instead, he fucked you so hard you passed out—which is basically impossible, with your powers and all.

“La petite mort,” you grinned up at him minutes after, boneless and satiated, eyes shiny with adoration. “Parfaite pour mon roi de la mort.”

So yeah, maybe Dean doesn’t know why you even know French. He doesn’t know the extent of your powers, or even exactly what you are.

But he knows who you are.

And that’s all he needs—to know he’d follow you to the deepest pits of the underworld. To know he’d fucking die with you. Die for you. Kill for you.

To know that he loves you.

His beautiful fucking psychopath.

NOTES: this is for all my perverts out there, I love you all<3. I still cannot write smut for the life of me, but pls appreciate the fact that i'm trying. I know this isn't an amazing celebration for 800 followers but I wanted to at least ut something out. Thank you for all your love and support, I ADORE you guys<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90<3

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[hypers-omniac]

Actively obsessed with Ghost in a paranormal AU. Either way- with the reader or Ghost as the spooky spirit haunting the other.

No cw other than death because they’re.. ghosts. Otherwise maybe a bit sad but mostly lowkey fluffy.

He does his best to ignore you. It’s hard, the way it makes gooseflesh rise onto his pale skin, his hair standing in end. It’s not that he’s trying to ignore you- it’s that he genuinely thinks you aren’t there, no matter how much you beg and plea for him to kiss you again. It always sounds like you’re crying, and it always makes his jaw clench hard enough for his teeth to crack- fissures in his enamel that hurt like cavities.

You go to grasp at him, to shake him, and it just phases right through him. It almost hurts from how cold it is on his prickled skin, and he pushes away the thought that he can feel your fingers on his biceps. No one else can see you, but you just know he can, and that’s why it’s so frustrating! You just want him to pay attention to you, kiss you again.

On the other side, he can’t even bear to look at you. He can still see the blood running down your forehead, and even though you look at him, your eyes are still dead. He’s so used to being hurt by his trauma that he automatically assumes it’s just another fucked up things about him. Sure, why not add visual and tactile hallucinations to the list? He’s not surprised. It’s his fault, after all. It was his job to protect you, and he failed. Of course your memory haunts him. He nearly breaks as you press a kiss to his cheek, squeezing his eyes shut and his fingers into fists as sits up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his sweat-slicked face. He’s tired, and the both of you know he’ll never be the same again.

The only way you get him to actually believe you’re there is when you pull a poltergeist on him like a child throwing a tantrum- books being thrown off the bookcases, tables flipped over. Your screams hurt- nearly burst his fuckin’ ears, darlin’. It’s only then does he start talking quietly to you, deciding that your giggles- however creepy they me at times- are still much better than your screams he's so used to hearing.

The other way around? oh, you immediately know its your Simon. Can feel the way his arms wrap around behind you in the kitchen on a cold, lonely morning. Maybe it's a figment of your imagination- but what's the harm in talking to air?

It’s a little less lonely, even if you can’t look directly at him. Only getting cold touches as a response as you tease or pick on him. Sometimes, when things get a little easier, you pick on him for the irony from his callsign. He always pulls you against him for that, regardless of what you’re doing. You scold him, and falter when you realize the only person who can get burnt when you’re over the stove anymore is you. The only person who can stumble and fall in the shower into a pile of giggles is you. The only person in your bed- even if it feels like he’s there- is you.

It’s a push and pull between feeling like you’re going crazy and being completely at peace. Which… itself is maddening. So maybe you buy an Ouija board to try and talk to him. What of it? In sickness and in health, my love. And as it turns out, the reaper himself cannot part you two.

What a hopeless romantic, Simon always was.

Or… maybe even reader who’s introduced to Simon only after he’s dead? UGH too many ideas need ghost cum ):

[targaryenimagines]

The Khaleesi’s Queen

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,559

Summary: Daenerys doesn’t like to be interrupted; not when she has everything she could ever want within her grasp.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, slightly rough (and possessive) sex, oral (R!Receiving).

Author’s Note: Changed up the prompt, which I hope is okay Tried to figure it out the first way, but I wasn’t doing it any justice in the slightest. I suppose this can be seen as a continuation of My Khaleesi, but it can be a stand-alone too. (This is told mainly through Dany’s POV, if you’d like me to make a partner through the Reader’s just let me know!)

Series Masterlist

“Do you take me as some sort of fool, Councilor?”

The question is asked in an airy tone, one that a person would use when making a remark about the weather or the coming crop season, but the fiery undercurrent, like iron piercing through the sky, kept the man it was directed to in place. Violet eyes locked on dark brown, a message clear within them: Speak. Now. I’m running out of patience.

“O-Of cou-course not, Your Majesty,” the man stumbles, trying to alleviate the situation. “I-I just wished to tell y-you what your ancestors used t-to do.”

A sneer works itself across a beautiful face. “Yes,” she drawls, disgust clear in her tone. “But those same ancestors didn’t have the bond I do with my son.” Rising from her chair, Daenerys pins the cowering man in place with her gaze. “What will you have me do, Councilor? Have sex with my queen on the back of my son’s back in hopes of creating another?” She takes another measured step closer. “Do you think I’m unaware of what’s being said about me? That I’m oblivious to the gossip and rumors being spread?” Daenerys is a mere five feet from the man now. “Everyone within the Seven Kingdoms knows about my bond with my children, but you choose to council me into doing something that’d be sacrilegious in their eyes? That’d create even more discord within the land?”

Daenerys pauses then, tilting her head as she surveys the cowering man— from his balding head down to his recently polished shoes— and her gaze darkens further.

“So, I have to ask, do you take me for a fool?” She reiterates. “Because you must if you think I wouldn’t question you or your motives.”

He shakes his head, practically throwing himself at his Queen’s feet. “I-I swear to you, Your Majesty, I’m just a lo-lowly scholar. Ju-Just trying to help.” Fear weasels its way down his spine when he felt her lean closer to him. “I-I swear it.”

A breathy chuckle echoes across the room, barren of any form of amusement. “Oh? You swear it?” Crouching down, Daenerys forces the man to look into violet eyes. “I must believe you then.”

Snapping her fingers, the shadows around the edges of the room come to life as figures clad in obsidian black step from them, silver spears glinting under the light.

“Grey Worm.” The Captain of the Queensguard steps forward, back dutifully straight. “Nādīnagon zirȳla.”

At once Grey Worm, and another Unsullied, step forward and clasp the now begging man under his armpits and begin dragging him from the room. His cries for mercy falling on deaf ears: “N-No. Ple-Please, Your Majesty! Don’t do this. Please.”

Dark oak doors close with a resounding bang, cutting off his pleading.

Silence settles once more over the office, save for the faint crashing of waves against the surf outside and the cries of gulls. If Daenerys closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in Essos. Back when things were simple but infinitely more complex. Settling back into her high-backed seat, Daenerys lets loose a soft sigh.

“Did you just have that man executed for telling you something you didn’t wish to hear?” A teasing voice breaks through the silence, the warm cadence of it bringing a smile to Daenerys’ lips. Looking down, she’s met by the sparkling gaze of her wife. “Or did you have that man executed for interrupting us?”

Huffing out a laugh, filled to the brim with adoration, Daenerys pulls you from your kneeling position, placing her hands on your hips once you’re comfortably straddling her. “I didn’t have him executed, ñuha perzys.” She places a delicate kiss to the corner of your lips. “I just wanted to have him leave my presence in a timely manner.”

You nuzzle closer to her. “And to do that you had to scare him? Are you certain it has nothing to do with his untimely entrance?” Wiggling on her lap, Daenerys has to bite back a groan as your familiar weight bears down on her growing erection. One that had found its home in your mouth a mere twenty minutes before— only to be unceremoniously ripped out when the man had knocked, requesting an immediate audience. “I know how you get when certain things don’t go your way.”

“Careful,” Daenerys warns, nipping at your exposed neck. Delighted in the way your breath hitches at the slightest bit of pressure to the small area underneath your jaw. “It’s not polite to tease your Queen.”

Rocking your hips more, you quip back. “It’s a good thing you’re not my Queen then.” Dipping your head, you press a heated kiss to her lips, groaning when her hardness hits just the right spot through her tailored pants. “You will always be my Khaleesi.”

The sound of the title, the first one she had ever truly earned, falling so sweetly from your lips, when the taste of you was still heavy on her tongue, brings a small snarl forth from deep within her chest, rumbling out across the relative stillness of the room. Standing, Daenerys grips you tightly by the waist and deposits you on her desk, uncaring of the various baubles that fall off due to the action. She easily finds her home between your thighs, pressed flush to your beautiful form.

“A Khaleesi is very different from a Queen,” Daenerys purrs, pressing another heated kiss to your lips. Running her tongue against the bottommost one, a husky sound of contentment being made when you let her gain access to the warm heat of your mouth. Fighting for dominance, one that she easily wins, Daenerys plunders further into your mouth, running her tongue along the roof of it, savoring the taste of you. Once she starts to become impeded by the lack of air, she pulls back and nearly comes undone at the wanton expression across your face— kiss swollen lips, lust darkened eyes, a delicate sheen of sweat along your brow. Exquisite. “A Khaleesi takes without question. A Khaleesi is rough, making sure her claim is known, but a Queen is soft, gentle.” Driving her hips into you, Daenerys snarls. “Are you certain you want a Khaleesi instead of a Queen?”

Throwing your arms around her, Daenerys is pressed firmly down, both your fronts flushed together. “Yes,” you hiss, nails digging into her shoulders. “I want my Khaleesi to claim me. To show me that I’ll only ever belong to her.” Your hips cant once more, trying desperately to get some friction. “Show me what a Westerosi Queen could never accomplish.”

At the mere thought of you being claimed by another, at anyone else having the privilege of seeing you come undone, Daenerys’ world view narrows to only you, only bringing you pleasure, so that you’d never think about leaving her.

She’d turn this world into nothing but fire and ash before she’d ever let that happen.

Nostrils flaring due to the possessive fire roaring within her chest, Daenerys takes in the delicate symphony of scents that wash over her due to the action: the sweetness of your bath oils mixed with the heady scent of sweat and the musky undertone of your arousal, strong despite the layers that separated her from the source of it.

“Lean back,” she growls, pressing one last deep kiss to your lips before she began to make her way down your body. Nimble fingers tearing at the buttons and fabric that she comes across, tongue and teeth lavishing the newly exposed skin with attention, until you’re lying delicious bare, save the last bit of your smallclothes, across the dark wood of her desk. The sight of your laid open, and waiting, for her brings a jolt of arousal straight through her body, but she didn’t wish to satisfy her own needs. Not yet. For now, she’d remind you that she’d only ever be the one to give you this sort of pleasure, that no one would ever be able to replace her. Daenerys settles onto her knees between your thighs, rubbing her nose lightly across the patch of darkening fabric at the apex of them. “Don’t even think about cumming until I say you can.” Violet eyes rise to meet your own, expression stern. “Do you understand?”

Nodding, almost frantically, you spread your legs further, giving her more room to maneuver within. Taking advantage of the additional space, Daenerys mouths over your soaking center, tongue flexing against the sodden material that kept it covered from her, as her hands clasped your hips to keep you in place. The sound of breathy moans and pleading whines from above her sending a delicious thrill down her spine.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" The question is rhetorical, she doesn't expect you to answer, but the questioning keen in response brings a soft smile to her lips for the briefest of moments. Pressing closer, Daenerys finally tears at the last barrier keeping you from her, the sight, and the scent, of your glistening center causing her own mouth to water in renewed hunger. "I crave you, ñuha perzys. More and more with each passing moment. I crave to bring you as much pleasure as you can withstand." Daenerys places a delicate kiss to your throbbing clit. "I crave your taste." Lowering her head, she dips her tongue teasingly into your entrance, savoring the flavor that could only ever come from you. "I crave the sounds you make as I ruin you."

Without preamble Daenerys buries her head between your thighs, thrusting her tongue as far into you as she could reach, the keening cry of pleasure tearing itself from your lips music to her ears. You pulse around her tongue, inner muscles flexing, as you try to pull her deeper into your depths, the feeling a reminder of how exquisitely tight you always are for her, something that brings another jolt of arousal coursing through her, making Daenerys aware of the throbbing between her own legs. Forcing her thoughts away from her own need, Daenerys consumes you, tongue lashing across your clit before diving back into your slick hole, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as she keeps you in place, despite your clear desire to chase whatever friction you could find. Your desperation for her, the clear need you had for her, almost made her take pity on you, almost allowing her to let you fuck her tongue, but the only thing you'd be cumming on in the near future would be her cock -- nothing more and nothing less.

Taking notice of the heightened pitch of your cries, the growling rasp building within your moans, Daenerys knows that you're close, that you're almost cresting the peak of the pleasure she's giving you, which means, with a small bit of reluctance, Daenerys tears herself away from you, tongue running along her bottom lip, savoring the remnants of you upon it. Your responding whine allows for a satisfied smirk to grace her beautiful face, soothed that you clearly wanted her as much as she wanted you.

Maneuvering quickly, Daenerys didn't have time to deal with all of the buckles that she wore, not to mention her boots, she simply opened her zipper and shoved her tailored pants as far down as they would go, her erection finally free once more, poised to claim what had always belonged to her. Rubbing herself against your wet heat, Daenerys arches a brow. "Do you want this?" It was the last warning she would give you before she claimed her wife completely, as a Khaleesi should. "You still have time to choose your Queen."

With a heaving chest, and narrowed eyes, you spit back. "The only woman I could ever want is my Khaleesi." You hook your legs around her hips, arching against her. "So, fuck me."

Not giving you a chance to rethink your words, not that she believed you would, Daenerys thrusts into her wife, the slick channel greeting her like an old friend, the feel of it causing a deep snarl to rumble from her chest. If she could manage running Westeros from right here, then Daenerys would never leave, but the times that she could make herself at home between your legs once more were that much more important to her when she could manage to find the time -- her devotion to you superseding all else barring the devotion she had to her son.

"Yes," you hiss, nails digging harshly into her clothed back. "It feels so good, Dany. So good."

Lowering her head, Daenerys harshly bites the sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue soothing the burn that no doubt appeared due to the action. "You're so beautiful." She nuzzles against a slightly older mark she had left a few days prior, quickly going to work to make it as fresh as the one she had just left. Slamming with more force into you, delighting in the sharp keen that's torn from your lips, and the way you flutter around her, due to the action, Daenerys finally detaches from your neck. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen and you're all mine."

Nodding frantically, you arch against her lithe body. "I will only ever be yours, Dany." Taking her by the face, you press a needy kiss to her lips, all tongue and teeth as you pant against her. Clearly trying to stem off the encroaching orgasm. "I will only ever want you."

"And you'll only ever have me." Legs beginning to burn due to the power behind her thrusts, and the familiar fluttering within her belly, telling her that she wouldn't be able to last that much longer, Daenerys tugs at your bottom lip. "Cum for me, my queen. Cum for your Khaleesi."

As if a switch had a finally been flipped, your body arches completely off the desk, arms and legs slightly spasming, as your inner muscles tighten completely around her, and a fresh wave of wetness coats you both. The feeling coupled with the delicious sight, causes Daenerys to come with her own groan of your name, her hips still softly thrusting as she leads you through the last waves of your own orgasm.

Once you stop shaking, for the most part, Daenerys leans forward and places a delicate kiss to your brow, still firmly planted inside of you, nuzzling against your sweat-stained temple. "You were wonderful, ñuha perzys, but don't think that I've had my fill of you yet." She runs her hands down your sides, rubbing gently across your lower abdomen. "I still have to put my heir in you."

With a delightfully tired smile, you run your fingers through sweat-matted locks, the silvery-gold still looking radiant despite it all. "I love you, Khaleesi."

Violet eyes flutter shut at the title, the affection in which it falls from your lips, warmth suffusing itself within her chest because of it. Cradling your face delicately between her hands, Daenerys confesses. "I love that you still call me that."

You huff out a laugh, pressing a light kiss to her inner wrist. "Even if we're in Westeros now, Dany, you will always be my Khaleesi. No matter what."

"And you," Daenerys replies, adoration clear within her tone and gaze. "Will forever be my darling Queen."

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Where You Are, I’m Home

a Kim Taehyung one shot.

Summary:

After a long year serving in South Korea’s elite Special Duty Team, Kim Taehyung finally comes home—to her. The girl he left behind. The one who waited. But while their love is still there, so is everything the military changed in him.

A/N: this is so foreign in comparison to what I usually post. But I had to do so for the 13-year-old girl inside of me who‘s obsessed with BTS. Is it impossible for me to get concert tickets after their break? Yeah. Will I stop fantasizing? Never😓

btw this is romance so no platonic at all.

TW: ptsd mentions, men being disgusting, no smut (I would never write that) but mentions of them having done it, also I do not know how the military is like it’s just my imagination :)

Still unedited! Sometimes I used different narratives oops

And I will continue Blossom reverse, just going through drafts :)

The morning air was biting cold despite the spring sun trying to climb over the rooftops, pale gold light sifting through clouds like fingers reaching gently for something long-lost. Y/N waited just outside the security gates, her hands shoved into the sleeves of her oversized cardigan, her heart beating louder than the wind.

He was supposed to arrive around 8:00 a.m.

It was 7:53.

The young woman shifted on her feet, the white soles of her sneakers scuffing against the ground. Her body was still, but her mind wasn’t. She could still hear his voice from the last phone call three nights ago — deep, gravel-lined from exhaustion and distance. Even then, even through the crackling line and all the military-coded short phrases, he still said:

“I’ll be different when I come back, jagi. Not in a bad way. Just… older. Don’t be surprised.”

She didn’t fully understand what he meant. She had visited him, yes, a few times — brief weekends that vanished in a blink. And there were nights she’d fall asleep with her phone on her chest, his voice the last sound in her ear, muffled by static and time. But now, it was different.

Now, he was coming home for good.

The woman didn’t cry. Not yet. But her chest was tight — like something had been wound inside her since the day he left, and now it was slowly, painfully starting to unwind.

The base gates opened.

And then she saw him.

Uniform pressed. Boots shining. That familiar black beret angled perfectly atop his head — a symbol of what he’d endured, what he’d survived. But none of that struck you as hard as him.

Kim Taehyung had always been beautiful — honey skin, sleepy eyes, voice like velvet and thunder. The man of her dreams. But now…

Now he was different.

Broader shoulders, thicker arms that stretched the fabric of his uniform tight across his biceps. His jawline had hardened, more angular than she remembered, more man than boy now. His expression was unreadable — composed, still, almost too still.

Until he saw his girl.

His steps paused — just for a second. His gaze fixed, sharp as a blade and soft as a whisper. Then the world seemed to tilt forward as he crossed the distance between you in long, silent strides.

Y/N forgot everything you’d planned to say.

“Taehyung—” she breathed, but the sound broke, and before you knew it, you were running.

Your shoes slapped against pavement as you flung yourself into him — arms wrapped tightly around his neck, your face burying in the crook of his shoulder. He caught you effortlessly, one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like something precious.

He didn’t say a word at first.

His grip was crushing. His body was warm. Hard. Solid.

And you were trembling.

“I missed you,” you whispered into his uniform. Your voice cracked on the second word.

You felt him exhale. Slow. Heavy. Like it had been trapped in him for months.

His mouth pressed into your hair.

“I missed you more than I knew how to say.”

You clung to him tighter. Your small frame curled into his, swallowed whole by the man he’d become. It was still him — your Taehyung. The one who used to leave little sticky notes on your mirror with doodles of tigers and kisses. The one who laughed with his whole body, and sometimes stayed up at night just to watch you sleep.

But something deeper lived behind his eyes now.

You felt it when he pulled back just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes roved over your face like he was trying to memorize it from scratch. His fingers touched your cheek like they couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re still so small,” he murmured, voice like a low hum in your chest.

You smiled, blinking fast. “And you’re… not.”

His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Military food,” he said flatly. “Push-ups. And crawling through mud for eight hours.”

You laughed — watery and breathless — and leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. “You really did change,” you whispered.

He didn’t deny it.

There was a long, quiet moment between you, full of everything neither of you could say out loud. Things he’d seen. Things he’d endured. The shadows under his eyes weren’t just from sleepless nights — they were born from things that would never make it into songs or interviews.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

“I am now.”

That answer came without hesitation. And the way he looked at you — intense, unwavering — made your stomach flutter and your eyes sting.

He looked at you like you were the only familiar thing in a world that had gone cold and violent.

Then his hand cupped the back of your neck, firm and possessive. His body shifted closer — his chest pressing against yours, your head tucked right beneath his chin, and he just held you. Like time had stopped.

“I don’t want to let you go,” he said, voice low. “Not for a second.”

“Then don’t.”

The air around you thickened. There was a new tension there now — not just reunion, but longing. Deep and physical. Your fingers clung to his collar, nails grazing the base of his neck, and he let out a breath that trembled slightly.

“I used to dream of this moment,” you said, soft against his skin. “And now you’re here, and I don’t even know what to do.”

His answer was a murmur, rough at the edges. “Let me take care of you. The way I’ve been dreaming about for months.”

Your pulse jumped. Your cheeks flushed. He leaned back just enough to look into your eyes, and the expression he wore was one you hadn’t seen before. Mature. Grounded. Possessive.

There was no boy left in him.

Only the man he’d become.

The man who came back to you.

________

The apartment was full — not loud, but full.

Namjoon had arrived first, clapping Taehyung on the back with that signature dimpled grin, his hair still regulation-short, his posture just a little straighter now, like the military hadn’t fully left his spine. Jin followed not long after — not in uniform, but carrying his usual brand of calm chaos with a grin that masked the months of waiting and missing and enduring.

And in the middle of it all, quietly orchestrating dinner in the background, was you.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

Not on camera. Not in selfies. Not in the live. You moved like a ghost in your own home — barefoot, in soft jeans and a plain sweatshirt, your hair pulled up in a loose bun as you helped the quiet staff from the company set up drinks and arrange the food.

You’d spent the day preparing for this.

They were going live on Weverse. For the fans. For their brothers. For the first time since discharge.

And you?

You were the hidden heartbeat between them all. Taehyung’s secret girl, his quiet refuge — the one person who’d loved him before the beret and the camouflage and the harsh, freezing nights crawling through drills no one would ever know about.

From the kitchen island, you watched them get ready.

Taehyung in black — a loose cotton shirt that clung just enough to hint at how wide his chest had gotten. Hair pushed back, exposing the sharper cut of his face now. The tattoos on his hands were more visible than ever. So was the faint shadow beneath his eyes.

He was laughing with Namjoon, but you saw it. The stiffness that sometimes crept into his smile. The alertness behind his eyes.

“Five minutes, hyung,” a staff member called.

Namjoon nodded. Jin, ever casual, grabbed a bottle of water and cracked it open, flopping onto the couch beside Taehyung like he’d never been gone.

You moved to hand the plates to a staff assistant, smiling gently. But as you turned, the corner of the tray was accidentally jostled, and you flinched—not from the tray, but from the sudden, hard elbow of one of the staff brushing against your face, too fast and unintentional.

A sharp sting bloomed across your cheekbone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—” the staff gasped, reaching out instinctively.

You quickly shook your head, hands up. “It’s okay, I’m fine—”

But he was already watching.

From across the room, Taehyung’s head snapped in your direction. His smile faded instantly. His body stilled. The conversation fell to static behind him as his gaze narrowed, jaw tightening like stone.

The room didn’t notice. But you did.

His hand curled slightly into a fist on his thigh.

He couldn’t say anything. Not on live. Not with cameras about to roll. But the look he gave the staff member — dark, piercing, quiet — made your skin prickle. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared for a beat too long, until the staff member backed away instinctively.

Namjoon called his name, drawing him back.

“Tae? You good?”

His voice didn’t change. He leaned back into the couch, nodded once. “Yeah.”

But you knew that tone.

Low. Clipped. Unforgiving.

You finished setting the last cup of tea beside the snacks and retreated into the hallway just as the live countdown started. The screen lit up.

🟢 [LIVE] — Namjoon and Taehyung have joined.

The chat exploded.

He smiled for the camera. Laughing beside Namjoon, joking with Jin as he leaned into the frame from off-screen. But the tension in Taehyung’s jaw never fully disappeared. His hands were loose now, yes, but his energy — it was taut. Watchful. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to the hallway — where he knew you were.

He answered questions — talking about training, about missing the members, about what it felt like to finally shower without twenty other men around.

At one point, Jin teased him.

“I feel like if we fought now, you’d probably kill me,” Jin laughed, nudging Taehyung.

Taehyung’s eyes flicked over lazily. But his grin was different — a slow, shadowed smirk.

“I’ve been to scarier places than that, hyung.”

The way he said it — quiet, measured — made the chat explode with laughing emojis. But Namjoon looked over for a second longer, brows furrowed, like he heard something under the joke.

The live rolled on.

Laughter, soft chaos, a few serious moments where they talked about missing the fans, about Jimin and Jungkook who’d be next to come home, about how quiet the dorm had felt without all of them together.

Namjoon answered a fan who asked what they missed the most.

“Honestly?” he said. “The silence, sometimes. But also — the noise of us together.”

Taehyung nodded once, then added, “And seeing the same person’s face every night for months — it makes you appreciate the face you actually want to see.”

Namjoon gave him a look. “Was that aimed at someone?”

Taehyung only smirked again, his eyes sliding to the hallway behind the camera.

⸻

By the time the live ended, you were standing just past the corner of the hallway, fingers clutching your phone, your heart still beating too fast from the way he’d looked after you earlier.

The moment the camera turned off, the entire room sighed.

Staff moved quickly to pack up, conversations overlapping. Jin stretched, yawning.

“I’m gonna go. Gotta record early tomorrow.”

Namjoon gave you a brief, soft smile as he passed you in the hallway. “Thanks for the food, Y/N.”

You nodded, bowing slightly. “Of course.”

But Taehyung was already pulling on his jacket, voice low. “Let’s go.”

You blinked. “Should I—should I say goodbye—?”

“No.” His hand found your wrist, firm but not rough. “They’ll understand.”

You looked once over your shoulder — Jin had raised a hand in a wave, half-smiling. Namjoon gave you a nod.

But Taehyung had already turned, pulling you gently but insistently toward the elevator.

You followed. Silently. The ache in your cheekbone long forgotten, replaced by the tension radiating off him in quiet waves.

Only once the elevator doors closed, cutting you off from the world, did he finally move.

He turned.

One hand slid up to your face — careful, warm. His thumb brushed against the place you’d been hit, and his eyes searched yours like they were reading something only he could see.

“Did it hurt?”

You shook your head, voice small. “It was an accident.”

He didn’t say anything. His jaw clenched once.

Then he leaned forward — kissed your cheek, right where the pain had bloomed.

Soft. Reverent.

His arms wrapped around you — possessive, grounding. “Let’s go home.”

The car rolled into the long private driveway as the gates glided shut behind them, the quiet hum of tires over the smooth concrete echoing in the soft Seoul dusk. Taehyung had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your jeans as you leaned against the seat—calm, but thrumming with unspoken energy.

As the mansion came into view — all clean lines, soft lights through tall windows, and that familiar ivy climbing the front pillars — he exhaled.

Home.

———

He parked in silence, engine purring once before cutting off. Then he turned to you, eyes dragging over your face like he was taking inventory of your soul.

You smiled softly. “It’s just us now.”

He didn’t answer. He just reached for you and kissed your forehead.

Inside, he dropped his duffle by the door.

And froze.

There, in the center of the open living room, right above the sunken couch — was a massive white banner strung across the stone wall in perfect lettering:

“Welcome Back Tae 💜”

Below it, on the table, a line of plush BT21 figures stared up like a tiny cheering squad — TATA front and center, wearing a tiny paper beret you’d cut out yourself. Beside it, his favorite wine. A fresh vase of white tulips. And the faintest scent of sandalwood candles lingering in the air.

Everything was clean. Warm. Ready. The bed was made. Slippers laid out. The lights dimmed low.

He stood still for a moment.

Then turned toward you.

His voice came out low, hoarse with emotion. “You did all this?”

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Of course. You’ve been gone. I wanted your first night home to feel like… home.”

His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he crossed the space between you and pulled you into his arms — not with urgency, but with the aching weight of someone who hadn’t touched softness in too long.

His hands were warm against your back. His mouth lingered at your temple. And when he breathed your name, it was almost reverent.

“God, I missed you.”

You smiled into his chest. “I noticed.”

Later, after wine and soft music and laughter that came easier with each hour, it shifted — somewhere between the second glass and the last flicker of candlelight. His voice dipped lower. His eyes never left yours. And when he reached for you — slowly, wordlessly — you didn’t hesitate.

⸻

The sheets were tangled and half-slipped off the bed, your body curled loosely on your side, one leg stretched across the cool linen as your arm draped over the pillow he’d recently occupied.

You were quiet. Bare. Asleep.

And he was watching you.

The sky outside had deepened into a navy velvet wash, the stars faint behind the tinted windows. From where he sat — back against the headboard, one arm behind his head — he could see every inch of you lit by soft bedside lamp glow. Your skin warm, your hair mussed. A tiny line between your brows, like you were dreaming.

So delicate. So small.

He’d seen you like this before, hundreds of times.

But now…

Now, everything was different.

Something primal stirred in him. Not lust — not only that — but the heavy, possessive protectiveness that had sunk into his bones since the military. The training. The missions. The way it’d changed how he breathed, how he saw danger in everything.

How he now understood just how fragile the world could be.

And how much he could lose.

You stirred, shifting slightly.

A sleepy hum escaped your throat as you blinked up, lashes fluttering before your eyes found him.

“…You’re staring,” you murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, but amused.

He gave a small, lazy smile. “You’re beautiful when you’re wrecked.”

Your brow twitched in sleepy offense. “Wrecked?”

“Mm.” He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You look like someone who’s been thoroughly missed.”

You huffed. But your cheeks flushed pink as your arm slid lazily up to rest over his abdomen, your fingers grazing the ridges of his stomach, the firm rise of his chest.

“Yeah well,” you mumbled, eyes half-lidded, “You didn’t exactly come home with restraint.”

He chuckled. It was the first time in months he’d laughed that quietly. “No,” he agreed, tilting his head, “I didn’t.”

You cracked one eye open. “You were kind of rough.”

His gaze darkened for a second, but not dangerously. “You didn’t complain.”

You smirked, eyes fluttering closed again. “Didn’t have a reason to.”

He reached out, letting his fingers trail lightly over your bare shoulder, your neck, down the curve of your back until you shivered faintly.

A pause.

Then your voice, soft: “You… really did miss me, huh?”

Taehyung’s voice was quieter now, his palm resting fully against your back. “You have no idea.”

You shifted again, turning just enough so your head was pillowed against his chest, your fingers splayed gently across the firm muscle there. You traced one invisible line across him, like mapping the difference.

His breath caught a little at the contact — more from the intimacy than the sensation.

“You’re stronger now,” you said softly, your voice almost childlike in the dark. “You changed.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, his arm curled around you, anchoring you closer.

“I had to,” he said. Simply. Quietly.

You tilted your chin, looking up at him through your lashes. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your voice was innocent. Light. But not empty.

His gaze dropped to yours.

And for a second — a full, weighted beat — he just looked.

Then he let out a breath, not heavy… but slow.

“Not yet.”

And you didn’t press.

You just tucked your head against his chest again, your fingertips trailing over his heart as if to memorize it.

And he held you tighter — like if he let go, the world might take you too.

_______

The sound of laughter spilled out of the dining room like music from a house that had been quiet too long.

Dinner was set in the garden-facing room, the long wooden table full with homemade food, half-finished bottles of makgeolli and soju, and the echo of six voices layered with history. Candles flickered in the center, catching the edges of glassware and grins.

Jimin and Jungkook had arrived an hour ago — freshly discharged, freshly free, their energy explosive and familiar. Jungkook had crushed Y/N into a hug before she could breathe, lifting her off the ground in a whirl of excited laughter.

“Noonaaaaaa—!”

“You’re going to break my ribs,” Y/N wheezed against his shoulder, giggling.

“Worth it!”

Jimin had been more composed, though his hug had lingered. Soft. Gentle. Like he was still grounding himself.

“It’s been too long,” he whispered against her hair. “You didn’t forget me, right?”

Y/N had swatted at him with a mock scowl. “As if I could.”

Now they were all together again — Namjoon at the head of the table, Jin beside him, Jimin and Jungkook across from each other, and Taehyung…

Right beside Y/N.

His hand rested on the back of her chair, fingers brushing the top of her spine occasionally. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to make her stomach flip every time.

She was talking with Jungkook now, her arms folded on the table as she grinned at him. “So,” she teased, “how was it? Which one of you cried first?”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “We don’t talk about that.”

Jimin snorted into his glass. “You mean you don’t.”

“Hyung—!”

Namjoon chuckled. “Honestly, I thought Jungkook would be the military muscle boy again, but—” he tilted his head toward Taehyung “—this one came back with shoulders.”

“Oh yeah,” Jin added, raising his brows dramatically. “You could balance a whole tray of drinks on his back now.”

Jungkook pouted. “Hey! I still got my muscles!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jimin teased, poking Jungkook’s bicep. “Still a golden maknae.”

“Who’d win in a fight now?” Namjoon mused, resting his chin on his hand. “Jungkook or Taehyung?”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“No way he could take me,” Jungkook declared.

Taehyung didn’t move. He just tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. “Wanna test that theory, bunny?”

Jimin burst out laughing. “He’s not kidding. He could break your spine with that stare alone now.”

“Chill,” Taehyung said, voice dry. “I’m a civilian again.”

You leaned your head against Taehyung’s shoulder, giggling. “Please don’t break anything. I just cleaned the house.”

The group quieted for a beat.

Then Jungkook leaned across the table. “Y/N, are you still baking?”

You lit up instantly. “Always. Now that Tae’s home, I can start again.”

Taehyung turned to glance at you, his voice teasing but warm. “You’re going to fatten me up, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan,” you said proudly. “I already have a new menu just for you. Lemon honey chiffon, your favorite, and I’m testing a persimmon tart.”

His smile softened. “I missed your food the most.”

“Military food was that bad for you, huh?” Jimin asked, leaning in.

Y/N made a face on Taehyung’s behalf. “He wouldn’t even talk about it. Just gave me this haunted look.”

“It was inedible,” Taehyung muttered. “They called it curry. It was glue.”

Everyone laughed.

You nudged him lightly, your voice playful. “Good thing you’re back in civilization now. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Then his hand gently squeezed the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Ugh, get a room,” Jungkook grumbled, dramatically covering his eyes.

“We have one,” Taehyung said coolly.

“YA!” Jin and Jimin shouted in unison, and the table erupted.

Eventually, the conversation turned to other things — promotions, comeback ideas, Yoongi’s discharge date. The group slowly quieted into warm, easy tones, the comfort of years spent together folding into every gesture.

At one point, Namjoon brought up something Taehyung had said in a recent live.

“You really said you hate childish people now?”

Taehyung nodded calmly. “They exhaust me.”

Everyone stared at him.

“You were the most childish one here,” Jin deadpanned.

“Facts,” Jungkook added. “You once cried because your snack fell on the floor.”

“Once?” Jimin choked.

“I evolved,” Taehyung said with a smug shrug.

Y/N pouted at him from her seat, hands coming up in mock offense. “So what, am I childish now?”

His eyes flicked to her, narrowing with playful threat. “Don’t push it.”

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Then reached up to squish his cheek, teasingly. “Don’t be too grown-up and serious, Mr. Military Man.”

But before she could get a proper hold, he caught her wrist mid-air — fast, firm, one brow raised.

“You forget how much stronger I am now?”

You gasped in outrage. “Let go!”

He smirked. “No.”

You pouted harder, lips trembling in exaggerated pain. “Oppa… you’re bullying me in front of your brothers.”

“You’ve been bullying me since I got back,” he murmured, pulling her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to her fingers, slow and deliberate.

The table went silent.

Then Namjoon broke into a sigh. “We’re literally right here.”

“You two are the worst,” Jin muttered.

“Seriously, just get married,” Jimin said under his breath, sipping from his cup.

Y/N only leaned against Taehyung’s shoulder, victorious, as he wrapped his arm around her with a sigh — his hand resting right over her ribs, pulling her in like she was his.

Which she was.

______

It was a weekday afternoon, bright and mild, the sky above Seoul a lazy shade of blue. The streets weren’t crowded — just enough to feel alive without pressing in too close. You walked hand-in-hand with him, your steps light, your skirt fluttering with every breeze like petals across pavement.

You looked like spring incarnate.

Floral midi dress in soft yellow, little ribbons tied at your sleeves, sandals that made no sound. Your hair was pinned in a way Taehyung liked — soft, girlish, sweet. You were glowing. Laughing. Asking him if he wanted gelato from the corner place you always dragged him to before he left.

He wore sunglasses and a black baseball cap pulled low. A simple tee. Loose jeans. Mask. To anyone passing, he looked like any tall, faceless boyfriend doting on his tiny, radiant girlfriend.

But to Taehyung, it felt different now.

Everything did.

He’d gotten used to analyzing his surroundings. The shift of footsteps. The angle of parked cars. The sound of voices layered in a crowd. He hadn’t meant to keep doing it after discharge — it just stayed with him. The SDT trained his eyes to see threats before they were threats.

He still couldn’t stop calculating exit points every time they turned a corner.

You’d just pulled away, walking toward the gelato cart with a soft “Wait here,” and he nodded, watching you float toward the vendor.

You smiled brightly at the ahjussi behind the cart, pointing at the mint chocolate flavor like a kid, the little purse in your hands bouncing with each step.

Then Taehyung’s smile vanished.

His eyes locked on a man about twelve feet down the sidewalk — tall, in his 30s, standing near a lamppost with a phone in hand.

But not using it.

He wasn’t looking at his screen.

He was watching you.

Too long.

Too directly.

Taehyung stepped forward once. Then again.

His heart beat differently now — not fast, but cold. His hand clenched inside his pocket. The muscle in his jaw twitched once as his body shifted between the man’s line of sight and your figure.

The man noticed.

Looked away.

Too late.

When you turned back with a smile and two cups of gelato, Taehyung had already stepped close, took both in one hand, and curled his free arm tight around your back, guiding you quickly away.

“Wha—? Tae—?”

“Not here.”

His voice was low. Controlled. He didn’t say anything more until you were two streets over, near a shaded alley with no one watching.

He let go of your arm, breathing slow and sharp through his nose.

You looked up at him, frowning. “Hey. What happened?”

He didn’t answer. His head tilted, scanning, shoulders still tense.

“Tae.”

His eyes flicked to you finally. Still dark. Still locked in that place only soldiers understand.

“There was a guy. Back at the cart,” he said flatly. “He was staring at you.”

You blinked. “…Okay. I didn’t even notice—”

“I did.”

He took a deep breath and leaned against the brick wall behind him, setting the gelato aside on the bench.

You stepped closer, voice careful. “Tae… it’s just Seoul. People stare sometimes.”

“It wasn’t normal staring.”

“You mean, like…?”

“Like he wanted something.”

Your lips parted slightly at the way he said it. There was no hint of jealousy in his voice. Only danger. Calculation. Something hard and cold behind his eyes.

You placed your hand gently on his chest, feeling the tense pull of muscle beneath your fingertips.

“You okay?” you asked.

He hesitated.

Then scoffed under his breath. “You really think you can be out in the world acting like nothing’s wrong?”

You blinked at him. “What’s wrong?”

He looked at you, and his voice was low. Real.

“You don’t know what I’ve heard.”

The air between you thinned.

“I spent a year around nothing but men,” he continued. “No privacy. No filters. Just hours of hearing how they talk. How they think. About women. About what they want to do. About what they have done.”

You were quiet.

“They don’t think women are people. Not really. Just things. Toys. Disposables.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “I never showed them your picture. Not once. I kept it in a zip pocket at the bottom of my duffel, inside a wrapper, hidden under soap. Because I was scared someone might recognize you. Find you.”

You touched his wrist.

He didn’t move.

“You were the only thing I wanted to protect,” he said softly. “They talked about their wives, their girlfriends, the things they’d do if they ever saw certain idols in real life. Your name almost came up once and I felt my entire body go cold.”

“Tae…”

“I didn’t want you to ever be in the same sentence as the way they talked. And now—out here—some guy looks at you for too long and my whole fucking brain goes back there.”

You stepped in.

Wrapped your arms gently around his torso, your cheek resting against his chest.

His arms came around you immediately, his hands curling into the back of your dress, clutching you not like a lover—but like something sacred.

You didn’t speak. Just let him breathe.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, brushing your hair from your eyes.

“You’re too soft for this city.”

You pouted. “I’ve lived here longer than you.”

He half-laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You’re sweet. You talk to strangers. You wear ribbons in your hair and floral dresses and smile at old men selling chestnuts like they’re your grandpas.”

You looked up. “You’re making it sound like a crime.”

He sighed, then pressed his forehead to yours.

“It isn’t a crime. It’s why I love you. I just… I’ve seen how fast the world can get ugly.”

You cupped his jaw gently. “So let me be soft. You can be strong. I’ll bake the tarts, you fight the ghosts.”

He closed his eyes, smiling faintly. “Deal.”

You paused, then grinned up at him. “So… what was it like, being locked up with only men for a year?”

His brow lifted. “…Loud. Smelly. Violent.”

“Did they talk about feelings?”

“Not unless it was followed by ‘shut up, loser’.”

You laughed softly.

“Bet you missed touching a girl.”

His gaze dropped to you, suddenly darker. “You have no idea.”

You flushed.

He leaned in closer, whispering at your ear.

“You’re the only softness I had left. Don’t ever underestimate how badly I needed you.”

Your breath hitched.

Then he kissed your temple. Once. Twice. His hand still firm on your waist like he was anchoring himself to the only thing real.

That night, the bedroom was dim and warm — moonlight slanting through gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across the wall.

The sheets were half-kicked off the bed, your legs tangled with his, your body resting against his chest as your breaths slowed together. It wasn’t urgent this time. Not hungry. Not frantic like that first night.

This time was different.

Slower.

His mouth had explored you like a hymn, like a melody he’d forgotten how to hum. Your skin remembered him — every line, every pause, every breath.

He didn’t talk much. Just held you close, moved with care, touched you like you were the only soft thing left in a world full of stone. And when it was over — when the tension in his body had eased and yours had melted — he kept his arms around you like a cage made of comfort.

You ran your fingers lazily across his chest, lips brushing his shoulder.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He kissed your hair. “I am now.”

You fell asleep not long after.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

_____

2:13 a.m.

You woke to the sound of movement.

Not the usual kind — not shifting blankets or sleepy murmurs.

This was sharp. Gasping.

You turned.

Taehyung was sitting upright at the edge of the bed, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, one hand buried in his hair, the other clenched tight on the sheets.

His shoulders rose and fell like he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Tae?”

He didn’t answer.

You sat up slowly, the sheets falling off your body, heart hammering now — not from fear of him, but for him.

You crawled across the bed and knelt behind him, arms gently wrapping around his back. You pressed your cheek between his shoulder blades.

He flinched. But only slightly.

Then exhaled.

It took a while before he spoke. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“There was a call. During drills. Fake scenario… supposed to be a simulation. But something went wrong. A real threat alert went off. Border movement.”

You stayed quiet, listening.

“I was closest to the line. They handed me live rounds. Told me I might have to shoot. Just like that.”

You tightened your hold, your face buried against his spine.

“I didn’t. Nothing happened. But the silence after that? The waiting? That’s what messed with me. That moment between breathing and shooting… I think I’ve been stuck there ever since.”

You turned his face gently toward you, crawling around to his lap, straddling him slowly — not to seduce, but to anchor.

He looked at you like he didn’t know where he was.

You cupped his cheeks softly. “You’re home. You’re safe. I’m here.”

His eyes watered, but the tears didn’t fall.

He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your chest, arms wrapping around your waist, breathing in your scent like it might pull him from the battlefield still living behind his eyes.

And it did.

Eventually.

⸻

You heard the front door open with a click.

It was mid-morning. He’d gone to the gym after breakfast — the one you insisted he try out, clean, private, just a few blocks away.

You were already in the kitchen, the scent of browned butter and cinnamon thick in the air. A tray of raspberry almond croissants cooling beside you, powdered sugar melting into the ridges.

You wore an apron over a soft tank and cotton shorts, your hair up again, music playing faintly on your phone.

When he walked in, the scent hit him first.

Then he saw you.

His pace slowed. His bag dropped by the door.

You turned with that signature beam — pure, unaffected joy — and held up a plate.

“Chef’s pick of the day. I demand a taste test.”

He stepped forward, eyes flicking over your flour-dusted cheeks, your bare legs, the way your smile could still make his chest ache.

“You’re going to kill me with sweetness.”

You smirked. “That’s the plan. You’re getting too handsome, you know. ARMY’s gonna riot. You need to eat more croissants. Just a little chubby Taehyung. For safety reasons.”

He raised a brow, playing along. “Oh? And if I don’t?”

You gave him a dramatic sigh. “Then someone’s gonna steal my boyfriend.”

He stepped up to you, slid one hand around your waist and the other to your jaw, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.

“Don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” he murmured, “when every guy in Seoul wants to steal my girl.”

You bit your lip, cheeks pink.

He leaned down, kissed your forehead.

And in his mind, a quiet monologue drifted through:

There are still days I wake up expecting the alarm. The cold floor. The sound of boots and orders and men screaming over drills.

But then I open my eyes… and she’s here. Soft skin. Sweet voice.

She smells like vanilla and sugar and peace.

I don’t know what I did to deserve her, but I’ll protect her with my life. Even now. Especially now.

She’s the only thing that brought me home fully.

And I’m never letting her go.

He kissed you then. Long. Quiet. Gentle.

You fed him a croissant between kisses.

And he stayed close the entire day. And longer.

[holybibly]

Bunnies, today we have a special unholy hour. It's our fox's birthday and I think there's nothing better than giving him a special present.

Your fingers run slowly down the length of Yeosang's back, gently stroking the smooth, bare skin up and down. He stirred slightly at your soft, intimate touch, a sleepy murmur escaping his pink, parted lips as he slowly began to regain consciousness.

"Happy birthday, Sangie." You whispered sweetly in his ear and scratched him lightly with your nails, leaving a slight reddish mark on his skin.

"Birthday?" His voice is deep and husky from sleep, and damn, it's so incredibly sexy. Rubbing his soft hazel eyes sleepily, Yeosang sits up in bed and leans back against the pillows.

You nod and turn your eyes to the clock on the bedside table. It's midnight. 

After Yeosang has fallen asleep next to you, his angelic face pressed against your stomach, you stay up for a while before giving up the idea altogether. After all, it would be useless; today was a special day, and you had certain plans for your lover.

It was almost disgusting how much you loved and adored your boyfriend; you felt like you had fallen into a honey pot. It was sticky and sweet—too much and never enough. Damn it, Yeosang was absolutely everything in your life, and it was pure luck that this fox had inexplicably fallen in love with you just as deeply and irrevocably. Sometimes the boys would get sick of seeing how cute and in love you two were, but, to be honest, you didn't care at all.

"Yes, baby, it's your birthday." You say this as you reach out to turn on the bedside lamp before turning back to him, your lips pressing against his cheek in an almost instinctive way. "I'm sorry, love, for waking you. I hope you don't mind; I know how busy you are these days."

Yeosang gave a weak shake of his head as he ran his hand through his hair and blinked a couple of times, trying to get used to the soft, yellowish light that was now filling the once-pitch black space of your bedroom. Every time you thought that Yeosang couldn't possibly be any more handsome, he would find a way to prove you wrong.  His eyelashes fluttered, framing his hazel-amber eyes with a soft lace, and you found yourself literally dissolving into the sweet gold of his gaze.

"Mmm, you know I can never be angry with you, baby."

"That's good. Can I give you my present now, my beautiful sleepy boy?" You ask, your voice soft and muffled as you move closer to him and run your hand down the side of his neck. God, he's just unbelievably beautiful.

He leans into your touch, and you almost laugh at how your usually dominant and possessive boyfriend becomes so obedient and gentle with just a few sweet kisses and touches. But that is just before he completely wakes up and starts playing with you the way he likes.

"What are you going to give me, baby?" Yeosang asks you with a slight smile on his lips. 

He leans in to kiss you, and you let him and you lose yourself in the warm, soft movement of his lips for a couple of minutes. As much as you love his rough and brash side, there are times when you wish that Yeosang would be a little more soft and gentle with you. His hand rests on your neck, squeezing weakly, and you take this as a sign to move away, or else what you've planned will fail.

"No, wait, just one more, darling..." You laugh and shake your head as you slide down the bed, pulling the silk cover down with you until you're nestled between his legs. You run your fingers down his stomach, which has a pronounced set of abs, and watch as the muscles clench under your touch.

His foxy amber eyes widen as he finally understands what you meant when you spoke of the gift, and the almost imperceptible tremble of his wet, pink lips tells you of his surprise.

You begin to knead his milky thighs, squeezing the flesh until it turns red, and watch as the initial surprise gives way to something darker and sexier: his eyes narrow, his breath deepens, and a knowing grin forms on his lips. Oh, damn it.

You swallow and try not to give in to the temptation, and just try not to let Yeosang take control of the situation and fuck you senseless. Now it's all about him.

"Sangie, are you going to let me take care of you, my birthday boy? I have no doubt that you will be in love with my special present." You hum to yourself as you start to leave light kisses on his stomach and dig your fingers deeper into his thighs—thighs that you just love to ride on.

"Hmm, if you say so, baby. I can't wait to get my present." His hand reaches up to the top of your head and runs through your hair, and you let out a weak moan of pleasure when he pulls you by the long strands. Hell, he always knew how to make you melt with just a little contact.

You tilt your head so that you can bite into the smooth skin on the inside of his thigh. The initial feel of your teeth sinking into the juicy flesh of his thigh is a bit harsh, but your tongue relieves the pain almost immediately as it runs over the swollen red markings.

This caused a low hiss to escape from his chest, the sound almost feline in nature, and Yeosang, in retaliation, tightened his grip on your hair.

"Hmm, what is it, baby? Is it hurting?" You mutter to yourself before you go back to licking and kissing the inside of his thighs, showering him with as much love as you possibly can.

Yeosang moaned softly, rolling his eyes in pleasure as he felt his cock twitch in his underwear. An impatient whimper escaped his pretty lips as he watched you greedily lick and bite his thighs, leaving hickeys and bruises on his pale skin, deliberately avoiding his heavy boner. 

"Fuck..." Yeosang curses as you finally squeeze his erection with the palm of your hand, a hint of relief appearing on his gorgeous face now that his cock is getting the attention it deserves.

You looked up at him as you stuck your tongue out and pressed it against his clothed cock, drooling on the fabric and leaving a wet spot on it.

"Don't tease me, baby." You can hear the note of warning in his hoarse voice. It amuses you, but at the same time, you know better than to play with fire. Yeosang can be sweet, but only when he wants to be.

You pull his boxers down before you slide your palm back around his warm, wet from pre-sperm cock and let him thrust his hips up, chasing the pleasure like he's a horny teenager getting his first handjob. 

You ran your hand over his cock a few times, feeling its heavy weight pulsate against your palm, before licking the swollen red head of his cock and collecting drops of pre-cum with the tip of your tongue. The bitter-sweet taste of his pre-cum makes you moan as you swallow the sticky liquid, which is mixed with your own saliva.

A shiver of pleasure ran through his body in response to what you were doing. You always knew how to handle his cock properly to make him squirm. Every time your warm mouth slides over his thick circumference and your tongue wraps around that wet head, he practically gasps for breath, and it's about the only thing that can make him whimper and sob. The rest of the time, Yeosang wants to listen to you make those pathetic, erotic sounds. 

You run your tongue along the base of his cock, leaving sloppy kisses all along its velvety length, worshipping his big, thick dick with your mouth. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and he rolls his gorgeous foxy eyes as you take the head in your warm, wet mouth and start to suck it sweetly. 

He tightens his grip on your hair, groaning deeply. The veins in his neck swelled and pulsed with the pleasure flowing through them, heavy and hot as molasses.

"Fuck, baby..." His hips jerk as you swallow his cock all the way to the base, pressing your nose against the smooth, hot skin of his pubic area. The sight of it alone was almost enough to make him cum right then and there.

"Fuck, love, don't stop. You take me so good, damn it. Please." Yeosang's praise sounds like melted honey to you, and he sobs softly as you swallow, the walls of your throat tightening around his cock in the most delightful way.

You look up at him with your eyes clouded with desire, the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, and it seems to excite him all the more. Yeosang pulls on your hair again, causing your mouth to slide up to the length of his cock. 

It's a silent command: Start to move now, baby.

You obediently obey and begin to bob your head up and down at a fairly steady pace. The sounds of your soft gagging mix with the wet, disgusting squelching of your saliva and Yeosang's pre-cum filling the room. But to him, it was like real music. You whimpered around his cock as he lifted his hips up and down, hitting the back of your throat a little harder than you thought it would. The fact that you didn't tell him to stop just made him want to do it over and over again, not wanting to miss out on the opportunity to fuck your throat as if you were his own personal fuck toy. Warm and tight sleeve for his dick. 

Sometimes he even has to think about what he would like to fuck more: your sweet, pink pussy or your hot, slippery throat.

"God, your mouth really is an amazing gift, baby." Yeosang moans, trying to match the rhythm of your movements, pushing his hips harder into your mouth. Your tongue pressed flat against his cock, the thick vein of it dragging along the wet, soft tongue every time the head of it hit the back of your throat. "I need you so much. I'm so in love with you, baby. You're mine. My damn perfect girl."

As you swallow around him again and Yeosang lets out a low, velvety moan, shuddering as thick, when his orgasm consumes him, hot cum spurts down your throat, forcing you to swallow all of this in one go. You lazily run your hand over his sensitive member a few more times, prolonging his orgasm as you do so. When he's completely drained, you remove his cock from your mouth. Thin strands of cum and saliva drip from your lips onto his skin, and you stick out your tongue to lick them off.

Your hands gently massage the tight muscles of his thighs. A few minutes pass before you sit on your knees and look at how beautiful and hot your boyfriend looks right now.

"This is the perfect gift for me, baby. I love you." He whispers as he reaches out with his hand to wipe away the saliva and cum from around your swollen, soft mouth. He almost gets hard again at the sight of your shiny lips. But can you really blame him? You're always so fuckable and so tender. He is a man in love. Sue him for it.

Now that you have successfully given him your gift, you smile sweetly at him and allow him to take care of you. He was very good at this, always making sure that he expressed his gratitude with endless praise and gentle actions. He leans forward and kisses you, even though your mouth was on his cock a few minutes ago. His lips lingered on yours, prolonging the tender, intimate moment before he pulled away with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Shall we take a shower?" You ask, looking at him through your long lashes. Really, the only thing on your mind is whether he'll fuck you now. And God, you don't want him to go easy on you.

"Of course, baby. That's just what we need, isn't it?"

You don't answer him; you crawl out of bed and make your way to the bathroom, almost vibrating with excitement. But before you step into the bathroom, you turn around in the doorway and look at Yeosang, who is still lying on the bed. His body is glistening with sweat, which makes the relief of his chest and abdominal muscles look all the more attractive and delicious. His soft hair is tousled, and there is a beautiful strawberry blush on his cheeks.

Damn it, you are so very much in love with this man. Your heart is literally going to stop because of how much you are in love with him.

"Sangie, happy birthday, my love."

[muiitoloko]

I loved your fic about king louis! 🩷🩷 can you write another one, maybe with smut?

Title: Gilded Defiance

Summary: In a palace full of powdered masks and bastard sons, one queen dares to speak the truth. And the king, to his eternal damnation, loves her all the more for it.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, funny

Author's Notes: Yes, I’m still avoiding finishing the translation of that 10k Alan fanfic (even though I’m already halfway through) 😅 I translated this one faster because I found it funny while I was writing it!

Also read on Ao3

You turned stiffly on your little gilded stool, the fabric of your silk gown rustling like dry leaves, and glanced up at the servant beside you. “Move back, Henri. You’re blocking the light.”

Henri, ever pale and ever trembling, adjusted the parasol a mere inch. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said gently, eyes cast down, “but the sun is very hot this morning. It would be unwise for Your Majesty to be exposed.”

You exhaled through your nose, annoyed. “I am not a wax doll, Henri. I will not melt.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Enough.” Your voice cracked sharper than you intended. Henri bowed his head further but remained exactly where he was, the damned parasol still shading your face, muting the natural light you needed. The colors on your palette no longer glowed. They dulled. Lifeless. Like everything else in this palace.

You stared at your painting—the garden laid out before you in real time, but on the canvas, it was only a ghost of what it could’ve been. You squinted, trying to capture the way the sunlight caught on the marble fountain—but it was no use. It was all shadows. All servants. All interruptions.

Being queen was boring. Suffocating.

You had no privacy. Not even to paint. Something you once loved now felt like another performance. Another obligation done in silk and constraint. Other women would have relished this life, you knew. The jewels. The gowns. The sweetmeats and sweet whispers. Being waited on like a goddess.

But you weren’t one of those women.

You never wanted to be queen.

And now—now you were stuck. With the title. With a palace that smelled like old perfume and ambition. With a husband whose bed you were expected to warm, while he fathered bastards in every corner of Versailles.

God, the smell of him. The sweat. The powders that clung to his black wig. The stink of spoiled wine on his breath as he pressed his lips to your cheek, whispering politics or lust—you could never tell which was worse. You often wondered how he even managed to seduce anyone. Did he drug them? Threaten them? Or did they truly fall for that baritone voice and the crown?

You shivered, disgusted.

At least today, you thought, mixing a bit of ochre with the green, at least today you didn’t have to endure him. No royal visits to his chambers. No forced laughter. No duty. Just you and your brush. And the damn parasol.

Then came the rustling of skirts. A soft voice, almost apologetic.

“Your Majesty,” said one of your maids of honor, delicate and pink-cheeked, “His Majesty requests your presence in his bedchamber.”

You didn’t turn. You dipped your brush again. Painted a tree. A happy tree. A tree that did not live in this gilded prison.

You spoke calmly. “Tell that old skunk I will not share his bed until he takes a damn bath.”

There was a collective gasp.

Henri faltered, parasol tilting. The maid of honor stood frozen, mouth parted in horror.

“I… Your Majesty, I could never say that to His Majesty—”

You set down your brush with an audible click, sighing sharply. “Then I shall write it.”

“Majesty—!”

“Henri,” you snapped, turning with fire in your eyes. “Paper. Ink. Now.”

He blinked. Bowed. “At once, Your Majesty.”

As he scurried off, the maid stammered beside you. “Perhaps—perhaps if Your Majesty rephrased—”

“I said what I meant,” you replied, reaching for your wine. “If the king wants my company, he can scrub the filth from his royal arse first.”

You sipped. Paused. Then added, almost sweetly, “And perhaps burn that revolting wig.”

The maid’s eyes widened like saucers.

You didn’t care.

The sun, finally, found your face again—warm, golden, honest.

And you painted.

Because this was your kingdom.

Not the throne. Not the court. Not the man.

But this canvas.

And for now, it would obey.

The maid of honor stood trembling before the Sun King, her eyes downcast, lashes fluttering with terror. The letter—that letter—trembled in her small, ringless fingers. She’d never felt so close to death. One wrong word, one poorly timed breath, and her head might well roll across the marble floor of Versailles before the hour was out.

Louis XIV sat before her in a carved walnut chair, his posture effortlessly regal, draped in rich fabrics of gold and garnet. The morning light through the windows dappled the floor, catching on the gilded cuffs of his jacket and the dark curls of his black wig, powdered to perfection. His hazel eyes flicked to the sealed letter in her hand, and he raised one elegant brow.

“Well?” he said, his baritone calm and deep, like a hymn sung from behind cathedral walls. “Do you plan to read it to me, mademoiselle? Or merely admire the handwriting?”

The maid gave a strangled squeak and dropped to a curtsy so low her knees cracked. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is from... the queen.”

That made Louis blink.

He extended a hand—ringed, long-fingered, a monarch’s hand—and she placed the parchment into it with shaking fingers. The silence in the chamber stretched long as he broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning the first line. Then the second.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh.

The sound rang through the chamber like a bell—warm, rich, alive. Startled, the maid dared to lift her head, just a little, and saw the impossible: the King of France, the Sun King himself, grinning. Laughing. Like a boy who’d just been caught sneaking tarts from the kitchens.

Louis slapped the parchment gently against his thigh, shaking his head with visible delight. “Mon Dieu,” he chuckled, hazel eyes dancing, “do you know what she’s called me this time, Gérard?”

The butler stepped forward, stiff and silent as always, though one brow twitched—imperceptibly, but there. “No, Your Majesty.”

His hazel eyes scanned it once more, and then—grinning like a schoolboy in a stolen wine cellar—he held it up for all to hear.

He cleared his throat, dramatically.

"To His Royal Highness, the Most August, Most Supreme, Most Unbathed King of France—also known, in less polite circles, as Le Fromage Enthroned—"

Gérard twitched. The maid gasped. Louis beamed.

"—I regret to inform you that I must, with the deepest sorrow and a nasal cloth pressed to my face, decline your invitation to commit the sacred conjugal acts. My nose, as loyal as it is delicate, cannot bear the siege of your royal musk."

Louis slapped a hand to his chest, pretending to stagger. “Royal musk, Gérard! She makes it sound like I’m aged brie.”

He continued, eyes gleaming.

"Until such time as Your Majesty has acquainted himself with soap, water, and perhaps divine intervention, this queen shall remain cloistered in her artistic pursuits, far from the warzone that is your wig and the fumes beneath it."

The chamber was silent. The maid of honor looked ready to faint. A guard outside coughed, suspiciously.

Louis, however, was grinning like a man in love.

He folded the letter neatly and tapped it against his palm. “This woman,” he said to no one in particular, “has insulted my person, my hygiene, my wig, and my divine right to ravish her. And still... I want to carry her to my bed like a prize I barely deserve.”

“Your Majesty,” Gérard said delicately, “perhaps this is an opportunity to... improve relations.”

Louis arched a brow. “Are you suggesting I surrender, Gérard?”

“I am suggesting, Sire, that one cannot wage war on a woman who knows how to wield the truth like a saber.”

Louis snorted. “She calls me Le Fromage Enthroned.”

“Yes, Sire. It is... pungently accurate.”

The king looked off into the distance, lips pursed, thoughtful. His queen was impossible. Disobedient. Blasphemously witty. She painted like a dream and swore like a soldier. She invented a new insult for him every week.

The council was livid. One had even suggested an annulment last month—“Marry someone more tractable,” they said. “Someone less... vivid.”

Louis had considered it.

For exactly twelve seconds.

Then he’d remembered her eyes the morning after their first argument—still blazing, still unrepentant. He’d wanted to throttle her.

He’d kissed her instead.

And now she had dared—dared—to refuse his bed.

Because he smelled. Which was, unfortunately... accurate.

“Gérard,” Louis said, rising to his feet with sudden, regal resolve. “Prepare a bath.”

A collective silence fell over the room. The guards outside stilled. Somewhere in Versailles, a dove dropped dead in shock.

Gérard, who had served the king since his first stammering coronation speech, blinked. “A... bath, Sire?”

“Yes,” Louis said, sweeping his robe behind him with imperial flair. “The Sun King shall bathe.”

The maid fainted.

Gérard cleared his throat. “Shall I also lay out a fresh wig?”

“Burn the black one,” Louis muttered. “It offends the God.”

“And the queen,” Gérard added dryly.

“Especially the queen.”

He turned on his heel, golden heels clicking on the marble. “Send her another letter. Tell her I am preparing myself for her... royal inspection.”

“And what shall I write, Sire?”

Louis grinned, eyes dancing. “Tell her Le Fromage Enthroned is now Le Fromage Frais.”

And with that, Louis XIV, the absolute monarch of France, the divine ruler of a continent, strode off toward his bathing chamber like a man ready to wage the most important campaign of his reign:

The conquest of a rebellious queen... armed with soap.

Louis, freshly bathed, introduced himself to you at dinner, and you stared at him as if he were an imposter. There he sat, resplendent in garnet and gold, black wig perched at a heroic angle, face powdered to royal perfection, and he smelled like lavender. Not musk. Not damp velvet. Not the wine-soaked remnants of last night’s council meeting. Lavender.

For one wild, joyous second, you thought he had died. You actually reached for your wine, raised it slightly in a toast to the God, and whispered, “Finally.”

Then he spoke.

“My flower,” he purred, his baritone like warm syrup poured over polished marble. “You look radiant this evening.”

You froze, goblet halfway to your lips. The color drained from your face faster than Henri when someone mentioned the guillotine.

My flower.

You’d read that phrase before. On another woman’s letter. One that had—accidentally—fallen into your hands during a regrettable afternoon of “spring cleaning” (which, in Versailles, meant orchestrating the removal of seventeen decorative urns and discovering entire volumes of smut behind the drapes). It was a love letter, addressed to a certain Madame B—your rival, your annoyance, the inexplicably adored opera singer whose only known talent was appearing naked in candlelight like a perfectly oiled ham.

You’d memorized that letter. Mostly out of spite.

My dearest flower, it had read, your fragrance haunts my sleep, your voice echoes in my marrow, and your bosom is the hill upon which my honor lays down to die—

Yes. That letter.

And now he was calling you “my flower.” Again.

So either he’d forgotten which flower you were, or this man ran a goddamn botanical garden of mistresses and just rotated the metaphors.

Still stunned, you managed to croak, “You... bathed.”

Louis lifted a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I assumed you’d finally drowned in your own cologne.”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “I did it for you, you know. A man must prepare himself when waging war upon a queen’s defenses.”

“Oh, so this is war again?” you muttered into your goblet. “I thought we’d reached détente.”

“Détente is for diplomats. I am a lover.”

“No,” you said. “You are a walking infestation in silk stockings.”

He grinned, grinned, as if that were a compliment. “Ah, there she is. The tongue of a serpent and the eyes of a saint. You wound me, madame.”

“Do not tempt me to make it literal.”

His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “I trust you’ve made preparations for our evening together?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve asked the servants to warm the royal bedchamber.”

You stared at him. “For what? A ceremonial nap?”

Louis leaned in, dropping his voice to that low, honey-slick baritone that once sent entire convents into crisis. “It has been three years, my queen.”

Yes. You knew. Three years, and not a single child. Not even a whisper of one. Which was, frankly, suspicious, given the virility he claimed to possess. You often suspected he preferred to plant his seeds in soil far less fertile—and far more willing.

And yet, he had never set you aside. Never traded you for a younger, more agreeable bride.

“Why not just replace me?” you blurted, before reason caught up. “You have options. Many. I hear Madame B can even sing during—”

“She snores,” Louis interrupted flatly.

You blinked.

“Like a bullfrog caught in a wind tunnel,” he added, picking at a grape with royal melancholy.

You pressed a hand to your mouth to hide a laugh. He caught it anyway and looked dangerously pleased.

“I should trade you,” he said. “You’re willful. Rude. You insult my hygiene. Regularly.”

“You didn’t bathe for a year, Louis.”

“That was political strategy,” he snapped. “You think England bathes?”

“Frequently.”

“Well then,” he huffed, waving the idea away like a bad odor. “The point is, I do not replace you because you are…” He trailed off.

You leaned forward. “Go on. This should be good.”

He frowned slightly. “You are the only person in this court who calls me a skunk to my face.”

“Because you are one.”

“And yet you stayed.”

“Because I legally cannot leave.”

He tilted his head. “Still. You’re mine.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the lines around his eyes. The grey beneath the black wig. The faint scar on his cheek from that fencing duel with a duke who’d caught him mid-seduction of his niece.

And you said, “You are the most exhausting man I’ve ever met.”

Louis raised his goblet. “To mutual affliction.”

You clinked your glass against his and drank.

Later that evening, after dinner—after the lavender-scented civility, the too-long glances, the flirtation that felt more like fencing—you pulled out first.

You stood at the edge of his bed—His Majesty’s bed, carved and gilded, soaked in ghosts—and let the silk robe slide from your shoulders. You were already annoyed.

The room was warm. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and wine. And something new.

Soap.

You lay down stiffly on the mattress, sinking slightly into its traitorous softness, your head resting against one of the absurd, embroidered pillows. Louis’s bed. The same one he’d brought half the opera to. The same one the palace maids whispered about behind their hands, pretending to dust the candelabras.

It wasn’t as awful now that he smelled better, you admitted that much. You could tolerate it. You could even stomach his touch.

But not the waiting.

“Get on with it,” you said sharply, crossing your arms beneath your breasts.

Louis, just inside the bedchamber, untied the belt of his robe with agonizing slowness, his hazel eyes half-lidded with amusement. “So eager, my queen?”

“I’m not in the mood to be worshipped like the Virgin Mary. Just do it.”

He smiled, soft and maddening. “You wound me.”

You didn’t care. You turned your face away as he approached, letting the mattress shift under his weight as he climbed on top of you. His skin was warm. Clean. And when he leaned over you, dipping his head to your stomach, you did not flinch.

Not at first.

You watched as he pressed his lips softly to your navel. Then lower. Then higher. Slow as syrup, methodical as a priest giving confession. He kissed the curve of your breast, then nuzzled your collarbone, murmuring some nonsense into your skin—something about worship, about divinity, about blooming petals and stars.

You rolled your eyes. “Do you do this with all of them?”

Louis blinked. “Pardon?”

“This ritual. This—slow torment.” You let your hands rest atop the sheets. “You kiss and murmur and stroke like a widowed composer in mourning. It’s like fucking a sonnet.”

Louis gave a soft laugh, brushing his lips up to your throat. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“I’d prefer you be efficient.”

He didn’t listen. Of course not. He never listened when it came to this. Because he knew. Knew how your body betrayed you. Knew how, beneath all your irritation and barbed retorts, your thighs shifted when his tongue dipped too low. Knew how your breath caught when he bit down just a little too hard on the swell of your breast.

The worst part? He enjoyed it.

“I know what you think,” he whispered, lips grazing your sternum. “You think I’m reciting a script. That this is performance.”

You clenched your jaw.

He smiled against your skin. “But this body,” he murmured, warm breath trailing up to your jaw, “is not like the others.”

You turned your face sharply. “Don’t you dare try to kiss me.”

He froze. “Why not?”

“Because your mouth still smells like Burgundy and roasted duck, and I’d rather die than taste it.”

A beat of silence. Then, with a sigh, Louis leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe. “Then where may I kiss you, Your Majesty?”

You reached up and tugged. Hard.

The wig came off in your hand, the ridiculous curls falling into your lap like something slaughtered. His real hair—short, gray, tousled—sprung free, damp at the temples from sweat and heat.

“There,” you said simply. “That’s better.”

He watched you with something like reverence. Like disbelief. His hazel eyes softened, even in the firelight.

You always preferred him like this. Real. Less powdered peacock, more man.

Still, your voice was dry when you added, “Now kindly get on with it, Your Majesty, before I fall asleep.”

Louis leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to your neck, slower, deeper, his voice darkening.

“As you wish.”

And finally—finally—he stopped pretending to be a poet.

He grabbed your hips, spread you open, and buried himself in you without further ceremony.

You gasped. Not because of the intrusion—though it was sudden, welcome—but because you could feel the shift in him. No more theater. No more sonnets.

Just Louis. Raw. Real.

The candlelight danced across his shoulders as he moved above you, his hand braced beside your head, his body heavy, steady, sure. And when he groaned—deep and low in that godforsaken baritone—you hated how it rippled through your belly.

“Does my queen still want this over with?” he rasped, thrusting deeper.

You opened your mouth to answer.

But all that came out… was a moan.

He smiled, wicked and slow. “That’s what I thought.”

And you cursed him.

Because he was right. Because he knew.

Because despite all your protests—he always knew how to deflower your beautiful flower.

Louis put your legs over his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately. As if testing both your flexibility and your patience.

He watched your face the entire time—hazel eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of candlelight and the ridiculous crown of his black wig. You were already flushed, already gasping, already trembling from how long he’d been fucking you. The sheets beneath you were a mess, the room scented with sweat and musk and lavender soap.

But Louis was far from finished.

“Hold still,” he murmured, adjusting your ankle in his hand with the same reverence he might give a relic or a rare book. “I want to try something.”

Your brows shot up. “I swear, if you start quoting poetry again—”

He thrust into you before you could finish.

You choked on your protest, your head falling back with a strangled moan as he buried himself to the hilt. The new angle was devastating. Too deep. Too full. He grunted softly above you, adjusting your legs higher, his palms firm behind your knees, spreading you open like you were a puzzle he’d just solved.

“There,” Louis said, more to himself than to you. “She liked this.”

You blinked, dazed. “She who—?”

“Madame de Rochefort,” he said, his baritone smooth but distracted, hips starting to move again in slow, deliberate strokes. “She rather enjoyed this position. I wanted to see if you would.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you comparing me to—oh—God—!”

Louis smirked, unbothered. “Yes. But you do it better.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, his thrusts growing sharper, more focused, and you swore the bed moved an inch with every snap of his hips. He was panting now, mouth open, sweat trickling down his neck, soaking the collar of his linen nightshirt—and somehow, that made it worse. Because this was the real him. Raw. Human. King and man and beast.

And he was destroying you.

“Louis—fuck—”

“Good?” he rasped.

You nodded furiously, fingers gripping the sheets, your entire body taut with heat and pressure. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“I won’t,” he growled. “I want to watch you break.”

He shifted again, pushing your legs higher, pressing them against your chest, folding you open until every inch of him reached a place inside you no one else had. He was watching you—drinking you in like a man dying of thirst—watching your mouth drop open, your nails claw at the pillows, your eyes roll back in stunned disbelief.

“Does my queen enjoy this?” he asked, hips pistoning now, relentless. “Does she enjoy being filled this deep by her filthy, scented king?”

“Yes—oh God, yes—”

“Say it,” he growled, sweat dripping from his brow. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—yours—fuck, Louis—”

He moaned, the sound primal, broken. Then he lowered himself without pulling out, folding you tighter, his chest flush with yours, lips brushing your temple as he fucked into you so hard the headboard slammed against the wall.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, like a curse, like a prayer. “My queen. My ruin.”

Your climax tore through you like lightning—your thighs shaking, your voice caught in your throat, your cunt clenching so hard around him he nearly followed. But he held on. Barely.

Because he wasn’t done.

He withdrew slowly, achingly, watching your slick glisten on his cock like treasure. Then he dropped your legs gently, reverently, letting them fall open as you panted beneath him, trembling and dazed.

He turned you over onto your stomach, hands gentle but firm, guiding your hips into place with the steady insistence of a man who knew your body as well as he knew his own crown. You didn’t fight him—you never did in this position. He knew you liked it. Knew it made you feel less like a queen and more like a woman. Unguarded. Owned.

“Spread your legs,” he murmured, his baritone low, almost absentminded. “Wider.”

You obeyed, wordless. The silk sheets cooled your skin, but the warmth of his body behind you, his thighs pressed firm against yours, the weight of him solid and slow, was already building the ache again, that heat in your core you swore you’d drowned an hour ago.

He slid into you slowly, deliberately, groaning low as he sank in to the hilt.

You moaned into the pillow, your back arching. “Louis…”

“I know,” he said softly, one hand smoothing over your spine. “I know.”

He fucked you like that, deep, slow, steady. As if memorizing you. As if trying to impress his shape into the very marrow of your bones. Every thrust felt heavier now, more deliberate. Less like pleasure. More like purpose.

He was trying to get you pregnant. Again.

You both knew it.

His eyes fluttered closed as he gripped your hips tighter. Not hard—never hard, not now—but with that quiet desperation he never voiced. As if the pressure in his fingers could coax fertility from you, like wringing wine from grapes not yet ripe.

He buried his face in your shoulder as he moved, breathing hard, his words half-mumbled into your skin. “All the others gave me children,” he muttered, each word hitting like a prayer. “Every one of them. Do you know that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“You think I don’t notice?” he continued, his voice darker now. “That you look relieved every month it doesn’t happen?”

You flinched beneath him. Not from pain. From the truth.

Louis thrust a little harder. Not violently. But with bitterness curling in his gut, cruel and sharp.

“They say I’ll have to replace you. The council. The priests. They whisper it in every corridor. You think I don’t hear?”

His rhythm faltered for a moment, like the ache in his chest stole his balance.

“They say I need a queen who can give France a son. A real son. One born of gold and church and duty. Not a bastard.”

His hips slowed again, dragging his cock through you with aching friction, his hand flat on your lower back, holding you there. Caging you.

“And you’d love that,” he said bitterly. “Wouldn’t you? Be free of me. Of this crown. Of this bed. You’d paint again. You’d smile again. You’d be—alive.”

His voice broke on the last word. Not shattered. But strained. Like he hated saying it.

You turned your head toward him, your voice hoarse. “That’s not true.”

He didn’t respond. Just buried himself deeper, groaning softly as your walls fluttered around him.

But he didn’t believe you. Not entirely.

He thought of the way you looked at him sometimes—disdainful, distant, like he was just another ornament in the palace, gaudy and fading. He thought of your painting, of how you escaped into those colors more than into him. Of how rarely you touched him unless it was his request. His order. His need.

The pain crept deeper, twisting behind his ribs.

Would you miss him? If the crown let him go?

If he ceased to be your king… would you even see him?

He thrust harder, needing to feel something more than ache. You cried out, gasping, your fingers knotting in the sheets as the tempo changed. He wasn’t rough, not really, but there was a new edge now. Something sharp buried beneath the silk. A grief he couldn’t name.

Louis leaned over you, chest flush to your back, his lips brushing your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Your breath hitched.

He moved inside you again, slower now, more reverent. And when he came, deep, grinding into you, filling you with his heat, it felt more like confession than climax.

He stayed there, trembling slightly, forehead pressed to your shoulder. As if willing his seed to take root. As if that might be enough to keep you. To anchor you to him—not with chains or crowns—but with blood. With a child. With something undeniable.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And when he did, he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck and whispered:

“Please don’t leave me.”

The candlelight flickered. The sheets cooled.

And you didn’t say a word

When Louis awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty. Still warm, but empty.

The sheets bore your scent—violet and varnish and sweat—but you were gone. He blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes, his body aching in the delicious way it always did after a night with you. He stretched, let out a long sigh, and ran a hand over his chest.

Then groaned.

It wasn’t just soreness. It was the absence of you.

And that never boded well. With another groan, deeper and less dignified, he reached for the bell rope beside the bed and yanked once. A moment later, a servant slipped in with quiet, efficient terror.

“Where is Her Majesty?” Louis asked, still reclined, one arm thrown over his brow like a martyr awaiting canonization.

The servant bowed. “In the rose salon, Sire. Entertaining the wives of several ministers and high-ranking lords. For tea.”

Louis closed his eyes. “Of course she is.”

The servant hesitated. “Shall I summon her?”

Louis exhaled through his nose. “No. Let her scheme.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Louis sank deeper into the mattress, rubbing his temples.

He knew exactly what you were doing. You never hosted teas without purpose. You loathed small talk, abhorred gossip, and once declared that you’d rather share a bath with Madame de Montespan than spend a half-hour in a salon discussing upholstery.

No, when you hosted, it was war.

You were gathering allies.

For what this time? He cast his mind back, the last time you had entertained the wives of court ministers with such charm and grace, it was to promote the creation of orphanages for France’s forgotten children. And before that? The village water crisis.

He groaned again, louder this time.

Because he remembered precisely how that one went. The court had mocked you, snickering behind your back. One powdered imbecile—he couldn’t even recall the name now, some Duc of Irrelevance—had laughed openly at your request to divert funds from the royal hunting grounds to build wells for villagers.

“They should simply drink wine,” the man had said, smirking over his goblet.

And you—sweet, wicked, impossible you—had narrowed your eyes and given a gracious nod.

You’d vanished for exactly three hours.

When you returned to court that evening, you carried a jug in your delicate, gloved hands. It sloshed ominously. No one asked.

You strode to the center of the salon, smiled sweetly at the assembled courtiers, and poured the contents into a crystal goblet.

The water was brown. Sludge-colored. Vile.

You turned to the laughing duke.

“This,” you said clearly, “is what the peasants are drinking. You find it amusing. I find it a challenge.”

The court had gone still.

You held out the glass. “Drink.”

The man paled. “Your Majesty jests.”

“I do not.”

And when he hesitated, your voice went cold. Quiet.

“If he does not drink it,” you said, turning your head, “the man beside him will slit his throat.”

A guard stepped forward. Unspeaking. Sword drawn.

The duke downed the water in three terrified gulps, then vomited magnificently into an urn older than the monarchy itself.

The king had laughed for a full minute.

You had raised an eyebrow and said only, “Funds for six wells were approved by the next morning. Shall we aim for twelve?”

Now, lying in bed, Louis stared at the canopy above him with a mix of dread and admiration. If you were serving tea, it meant war. And if tea was involved, someone was about to be very politely destroyed.

Still, he didn’t rise.

Not yet.

He imagined you now—dressed in pale silk and silver embroidery, your hair a calculated mess of curls and pins, your smile razor-sharp as you poured a third cup for the Marquise de Fontenay while casually suggesting that her husband’s political future might look more radiant if he supported the construction of a hospital for war widows.

Oh yes.

You were up to something.

And God help France.

Because when you set your mind to charity—

Someone always bled for it.

[charmtale]

Shameful secrets cause a person to become haunted. She cannot sleep, for a shaming secret is like a cruel barbed wire that catches her across the gut as she tries to run free.

(Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves)

the fact that no one* knew about akio's abuse of anthy is far from the only thing wrong with it, but the inherent shameful secrecy of it was an integral part of her abuse, something that significantly served to isolate anthy from her peers.

it was definitely akio's plan for utena to see anthy and akio at the end of ep. 36. (anthy's hands disappear into her hair = she had no hand in this. + the way the scene lights up like how lights come on at the beginning of a new scene in a play (anthy's previously black silhouette gaining color and features) = it was staged. not to mention her bleak expression) akio thought that utena would just be disgusted by her, and/or feel betrayed, and that would be that. however, he sealed his fate (anthy being able to ditch him) with this action, because utena offered anthy compassion and understanding instead of condemning her.

utena acknowledging anthy's pain as a result of being abused by akio touched anthy more than any of utena's other actions up to that point. while utena says a lot of stuff in that scene about utena's ego and being a prince, anthy only has visible reactions to two of utena's lines until utena is completely done speaking.

"And the night I learned about you and Akio...!"

the camera focuses completely on anthy, nothing else shown, as anthy slightly tilts her head up. there is no dialogue while anthy makes this small movement; anthy is listening intently for what utena will say next, and the show wants us to notice that.

"I thought that you had betrayed me. Even though you were suffering so much...!"

when utena talks about suffering- acknowledging that akio's treatment of anthy caused anthy pain- anthy uncurls her body significantly. a visual indicator of feeling less shame, immediately in that moment.

anthy does not move in reaction to anything else utena says until utena is fully done speaking, when anthy and utena are now shown kinda-holding eachother. utena may or may not know the full impact of her words, but it is clear to the viewers what moved anthy to say:

"It doesn't matter now. Just leave this school. Forget about everything that happened here!"

in anthy's opinion, this has to be the kindest, most honest thing she can say in this moment. utena leaving would ruin akio's plan and anthy would be the obvious reason why (likely leading to punishment), not to mention how anthy would obviously miss utena. the fact anthy said it anyway shows how impactful utena's statement was

it's good to talk about utena's obsessive girlprincing and how it was damaging. it's good that utena acknowledges it herself. but i think the fandom commonly overestimates how much that mattered to anthy, especially in relation to this scene. i feel that people sometimes abbreviate it as 'utena apologized to anthy for her egotistical behavior, and that brought them closer together!' like yes, she did and that was positive and indicative of utena maturing. but i do not think that was the most important aspect here

[bones4thecats]

➸ Bosses or Parents?; Black Hat × S/O

Character: Black Hat (Villainous) A/N: This was made because I have decided to finally start watching Max's Villainous show and I love Black Hat's character so much! Disclaimer(s): Yea, I have nothin'

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Black Hat ══════════════════════════════╝

🎩 You walked around the Black Hat Organization with your head held high, knowing someone was stalking behind you. This wasn't very uncommon to happen, you always had a price on your head. A price that villains and heroes would try to bag nearly daily

🎩 As you felt the eyes follow you around the halls and monitor each step you took, a plan emerged in your head. And, in true you-fashion, you decided to test this out. It's not like whomever it was could take you of all beings down

🎩 Coming to a halt in the middle of a specifically lengthy hallway, you opened one eye, catching sight of a shadow rushing around the corner. Deciding to stay silent for the time being, you looked out of the nearest window, admiring the desolate view. Buildings destroyed and the, what many would describe as a 'horrible', environment around

🎩 You sighed gently and melted into the ground before emerging behind your attacker. You leaned forward and tapped the nose of the tiny demon in front of you, his arms out like how Frankenstein's would be

🎩 The boy looked at you and crossed his arms, his bottom lip poking out in a pout as he complained to you

"No fair, Mom! You know I can't transform that fast."

"That I do. But, remember, my offspring. Always take advantage of the weaknesses that your enemy is known to have. For example; if the hero is weak to light..."

"You get them to somewhere thriving with light!"

"Good. If your enemy has a fear of their loved ones being in danger?"

"Take the loved ones hostage and force them to watch them suffer." A scratchy and deep voice emerged from the darkness, making your son jump.

🎩 Looking up and smiling gently, you caught sight of your husband, Black Hat, standing there with his sharp-tooth smile there. He walked up to you both and stared down at your son with his piercing eyes, while many others would tremble before his glare, you and your son were the exception

"It's lovely to see you home safe once again, love." You said.

"I always come home safe, why would I not this time?"

🎩 Black Hat watched as you chuckled and picked up your son, allowing him to adjust himself in your grasp. While he personally found such actions to be disgusting, he could stand it for a little while if you and his boy were involved. Not like he'd let anyone else know this, though

🎩 You smiled gently and looked at your husband with half-closed eyes, an aura surrounding you as you both heard crashing approaching your area in the hallway. Black Hat growled lowly as your son looked up in curiosity

🎩 All of a sudden, a flash of neon-green, pink and near-baby-blue passed your vision. Looking in the direction of the wisp of color, Demencia was hissing at 505. Dr. Flug then came out and yelled for Demencia to come down immediately

🎩 Black Hat coughed, alerting the three's attention. They then chuckled. Dr. Flug kneeled and began to ramble in an attempt to inform Black Hat of everything while 505 just teared up as Demencia tormented him

🎩 You looked at Demencia and glared, making her stiffen and look away in fear. You were by no means as startling as Black Hat, but you could be just as heartless and cruel

"-just go." You heard the Eldritch-boss finish.

"Yes, Lord Black Hat, sir!" Flug said, grabbing 505 and Demencia and running off.

"I swear, these idiots are the opposite of what I wanted in a staff." Your husband said.

"But, it is what we are stuck with, love. So, we might as well get used to it."

"Sometimes I feel more like a father to four than one. It's rather annoying." He hissed out, pupils becoming more snake-like while he spoke.

"Understandable." You giggled.

"Mama? Papa?"

"Hmm?" Black Hat answered your son.

"May I go watch Uncle Flug work his magic?" Your son said.

"If it's alright with your father." You answered.

🎩 Both your son and you looked at Black Hat with puppy-eyes, making him gag and roll his eyes. He then raised his hand and motioned for your child to run off. He did so happily, jumping down from your arms and running to Flug's office

🎩 You turned to look away from where your son ran off to to look at your husband, only to see nothing

"Oh, Black Hat. You know my favorite game is hide-and-seek. Ready or not, here I come, honey!"

[respectthepetty]

At one of the nearby-ish universities, researchers can use the lab that attaches those little pads to people's heads and see their brains light up (the sign-up list is loooong), and I always think my brain would look like fireworks going off while I watch color-coded boys fall in love because once Black Brooder Yotha said that Green Guy Gun was his boyfriend to his Blue Boy brother and Gun's Blue Boy best friend in Perfect 10 Liners' sixteenth episode, I'm sure my brain stayed lit!

Even when I saw Yellow Yal Arm and Red Rascal Arc not in their colors, my brain wanted to shut off right here, but I think Arc's shirt has yellow highlight over the text (for his man), and every time I see that Manchester United poster, -I- see red from my rage, so I guess I'll make the colors happen with or without the show giving them to me.

But Sam makes up for it since he has consistently been a Red Rascal in the second portion of the show, always popping up to talk shit and bounce, and it appears Arm is wearing a light yellow, so my brain is, once again, lighting up!

However, I wish we would have gotten more of the other color-coded friends since we don't get enough Orange Oddities (Book) or Pink People (Franc) in BLs. But I know every story is going to have the Blue Boys (Kong AND FAIFA!!!!)

I won't be too mad at it though because, as I've mentioned every single week, this show's color coding is just so damn good, so my brain is always lighting up. Like these are the exact faces a jovial Green Guy and a mean Black Brooder would make. Perfect faces. Perfect colors. Perfect 10 Liners.

Even Faifa's rage is perfect!

Because even though Faifa's dark blue shirt is telling him to "Seize" the day and "Just trust yourself then you will know how to live," as a sign of the dark Blue Boy coming his way, he can't see his own happy ending when he is listening to Gun say stupid shit like "Love makes you tiny." I'd also be plotting murder if I was him.

COLOR-CODED BOYS IN LOVE ARE DISGUSTING(LY ADORABLE)!

Random: Someone at GMMTV likes puppy play because every single show has some aspect of it, so good for that person getting everything they wanted!

Because I got matching birthday ties! So Yotha got matching binary tattoos with Wa, but he has matching bracelets and ties with his current boyfriend cementing that Yotha is an emo who likes sentimental gifts.

Emo Black Brooders in love are the best!

I'm not going to get over that there was a whole ass Pink Person and Orange Oddity in this portion of Color-Coded Boys The Series, and I know minimal information about them.

But thank goodness I know everything about these two yin yang colored boys!

Because they are meant for each other. They are toxic AND in love!

They fight just so they can have make-up sex.

Good for those beautiful bastards!

That could never be these two color-coded boys though.

Gun doesn't understand anger or foregoing sleep in favor of sex unlike these other color-coded boys.

Good for him!

And the more light Blue Boy Faifa cries about not having someone, the more I scream that he is about to meet his match in dark Blue Boy Wine. Newton is going to hate BOTH his brothers.

Now Yotha and Gun are putting on matching pajamas just to take them off the way God and Arm intended.

Have I mentioned how happy my brain is about color-coded boys in love? Because I'm very happy about color-coded boys in love being there for each other when they have to deal with big emotions.

Even more so when they are color-coded brothers who yell at each other that "You're too pessimistic" and " You're too optimistic" since the colors only emphasize those points!

Newton remains neutral, the dad is blue, and the mom is pink. This is Heterosexuality 101, which is why Yotha and Faifa do not comprehend it.

Yes! Keep saying this Gun! Keep reminding me that the people who worked behind the scenes on this show deserve a raise! Keep saying you bring light to this Black Brooder's dark world!

Because your shirt will explicitly state it later ("Sunshine on my Mind")

All is right in the world. Everyone is in the color, and Yotha got jokes.

AND ARM AND ARC ARE FINALLY IN THEIR COLORS TOO!

Thank God for small miracles and color-coded boys in love.

NOW BRING ME MY LAPIS LADS!

[sixosix]

Pls write basketball player girlfail childe asking reader to show up to his competition and he yells out “this ones for you”’only to miss like the pathetic loser he is and get benched for the rest of the gamethx

warnings wc 1.2k feminine russian petname (printsessa) used once (1), THIS IS A BIT OF A MESS IM SORRY ELLIE, second-hand embarrassment btw…

“I said please...”

Laughing, you push his face away with your palm, Childe’s cheek squished against it. “What are you, five? Please won’t get you anywhere.” The way he said it, dragged out and whiny, was entertaining, though.

He draws you closer by encircling your waist with his arm. “School year’s ending, won’t you at least give me this one last dance?”

“It would’ve been sweet if you were asking me out for prom instead of your basketball competition.”

“But our situation makes it even more romantic,” Childe argues, well, childishly. He pouts and brings his face within inches of yours, drowning your gaze in a mesmerizing shade of hauntingly beautiful blue.

“We don’t have a situation.”

“Yes we do, printsessa. There’s no one here to hide your undying love for me. Come to my game to make it up to me?”

He looks stupid in all his long-limbed glory, as he bends down and gazes up at you, his lower lip protruding. But you've always had a weakness for his endearing puppy-dog eyes. They have a way of working their magic, and he's well aware of it.

“We’ll see what happens.”

Childe lights up, pulling away just to give you kisses all over the back of your palm. “Yes, yes. You won't regret a thing, I promise.” You haven’t even said a concrete yes, though he’d probably take anything that isn’t outright ‘no’.

You suppose this means you have a basketball game to attend tomorrow.

“Wear my jersey?”

“You’re pushing it.”

“For real? You’re not joking around? No, wait, don’t tell me—you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

Xiao’s jaw ticks, far from amused, as the boy in front of him grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him back and forth like a snowglobe. Childe would find his piercing glare terrifying if he weren’t a whole head shorter than him. “Do I look like I have time to entertain and joke around with you, Tartaglia? See for yourself. Second row, black jacket.”

Childe’s grin splits across his face like he’s never had to express any other emotion.

Xiao stares at him warily, as one would to a ticking time bomb. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I don’t like that look on your face.”

Childe’s expression turns serious, his dull eyes drilling daggers to the ground. “We will win. I’ll make sure of it, buddy. Wanna know why? I have a plan, and I’ll share it with the team so I can win this competition and Y/N falls in love with me and everything falls into pl— Hey, why are you leaving?”

“Kunikuzushi.” You don’t bother hiding the look of surprise on your face as you spot him on the second row of the courtside seats. “I thought you were one of the players.”

Scaramouche’s face crinkles in disgust at even the implications that came along with it. “I’d rather not participate in anything involving Childe.”

A laugh bubbles out of you as you settle in on the seat on his left. “And here I thought he said you were friends.”

“He’s presumptuous like that,” Scaramouche sniffs, tipping his chin high. 

“And secretive. I didn’t know he played basketball…”

“Are you joking?” At your bewildered expression, Scaramouche’s brow arches in disbelief. “You don’t know. Childe only started playing because you said you might have a crush on one of the varsity players.”

“What? I just I might. And what does that— Oh, no.”

“Yes. You idiot.”

“I didn’t think his crush was this serious,” you murmur, sinking further into your seat. It might be butterflies, it might be mortification.

The whistle blows; the players settle in position. Your eyes never stray from Childe’s figure, even for a second. (He does look good in his basketball jersey.)

“Crush? Don’t make me laugh. You pair act like you’re on your honeymoon every time I see you.”

Wisely deciding to change the subject because arguing with Scaramouche is subjecting yourself to eventual loss, you wonder aloud, “How’d they even allow him to play? He doesn’t know how to aim for shit.”

Scaramouche smirks. “Probably because of his connections. He’s an asshole like that.”

“Yeah.” That makes sense. You both lapse into silence as the game proceeds.

Childe is doing better than you expected. Even Scaramouche looks vaguely impressed.

“I guess he could play after all,” you comment, whistling lowly as Childe skillfully snatches the ball and maneuvers across the field like he’s a stream of water. You’re briefly entranced by the way he grins and a bead of sweat rolls down from his chin.

The ball is in his hands. You shuffle to the edge of your seat.

Scaramouche leans to rest his elbows on his knees. “What’s he doing?” You can’t tell if he’s invested because he’s rooting for him or if he’s waiting for something bad to happen, because he hates Childe like that.

Childe comes to a stop at a specific distance, cradling the ball against his chest. His teammates do the same, creating enough confusion among the opposing players to provide him with an opportunity to attempt what would generally be considered a violation.

Childe’s eyes easily find yours. You’re not sure if it’s because he’s pinned your location down beforehand or if it’s the magnetic force that’s pulling you to him no matter where you try to look. He grins, all boyish charm that makes everyone oblivious that they’re dealing with a devil in the body of a ginger swoon.

“This one’s for you, babe!” he exclaims, pointing at you with a wild grin, prompting the audience to glance at you in bewilderment. Stupidly, your heart flutters at the fact that he didn’t forget you were watching.

He jumps, his body and arms arching in a graceful form. You swear there’s a spotlight framing his entire body at the moment. Childe flicks his wrist; the ball flies off of his grasp.

And the ball also misses entirely.

A stunned silence washes over the court, broken only by Scaramouche later bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, no,” you say, hiding your face in your palms. Xiao, Childe’s teammate, is seen exiting the field.

“Oh my—oh my fuc—king go—od,” Scaramouche wheezes in between breaths, his knees curled up to his chest.

“It’s really not that funny,” you weakly defend, mostly because your embarrassment is overpowering the part of you wanting to join Scaramouche.

However, your words only prompt Scaramouche into laughing harder, tears in his eyes and his breaths coming in short. You’ve never seen him laugh this hard before.

Below, Childe doesn’t even look humiliated. He stares at the ball rolling away with a frown, as if it’s at fault for his god-awful aim.

One of the players—his enemy—pats him on the back. “Hey, man, you can try again if you want to…”

Childe huffs, turning away. “I want a fair one. It’s not worth anything if you just give it to me.” What a miracle he still has his pride after that.

Childe gets benched, pouting in the sidelines. They did win, but it’s not because of Childe, like he told Xiao would happen—not that Xiao was there to see it. Not even a kicked puppy could compare to how pathetic he’s looking. A wet, crumpled paper might be more accurate.

“Don’t tell me you’re into dedicated failure? You into that?”

You pat Scaramouche’s back twice in response. “He’s still cute, unfortunately.” There might just be something wrong with you. “I’m going to go to him.”

“Weirdo,” Scaramouche shoots back, watching as you leave. “No wonder why you and Childe are perfect for each other.”

[refigiowen]

Process of Ruin

Chapter 0.11 : Die Unvollendete

The harshest of winds blew into my face, as if it was telling me to give up. The darkest of nights was cast onto the city, obsoleted by the blinding neon billboards and city lights. Nothing in this godforsaken city was gonna stop me in my tracks. I ran and ran, dripping wet from the rain, carrying my son in my arms.

"Father... do you see it..?"

"S-See what, buddy?"

"That ghost right there..."

"Dear, that's just a billboard..! Stay with me, we are almost there!"

And so i told him to not waste more energy as i sped up even more. I ran through crowds after crowds, dodging people left and right. I was set on getting my son to the hospital. He had been sick ever since his first day and had to take all kinds of medicine to simply survive. But despite his frail body his mother and i loved him more than we could ever have loved ourselves. We lived in a shabby, run down apartment as most of our money went to our son's medicine. But despite all that, seeing his frail body and his pale face light up was enough to wash away any and all fears we had. Me and my wife worked at a small office that produced weapons, it didn't pay all that much but it was enough to sustain the three of us. I did not have a good life, no one in this city ever did, and this family of mine was the only thing that i had that was worth living for.

And so i ran. I ran like the world was about to end. And soon i stood before the black and green hospital, the letters that are now forever burned into my mind stood before me:

"Asiyah Association".

I ran inside the hospital, still carrying my son in my arms. I looked like a stray dog with no home, my suit drenched and covering the floor in water. I yelled, begging for someone to help my son. I looked at the woman behind the reception desk.

"P-Please! My son has been sick since birth, p-please help him, i beg you! His medication stopped working! He will die if not treated!" I said and was met with a half assed smile.

"Yes, of course. I will need to ask you to provide your ID to proceed."

I quickly rummaged through my pockets and gave her my ID.

"Mister Reed, Diveroli Workshop, correct?"

I nodded.

"Y-Yes, correct."

For a minute or so the woman began typing things into her computer, looking a little too relaxed given the situation.

"Excuse me, miss.. I don't want to come off as rude but my son is in danger so PLEASE, hurry up."

And no response. I was no stranger to the way these big corporations treat others, i worked for multiple of them myself, but to think that even when a child's life was on the line they would act like this. I was disgusted.

"Alright, Mister Reed" She began, "after thorough inspection of your public profile, i am afraid that i must tell you that we can not treat your son."

My heart shattered into a billion pieces.

"The...fuck..?"

"Considering the state of your son's body, the Asiyah Association has deemed it as not worthy to save your son's life. He may live but will never be able to work like others, as such he is of no use to anyone. The Association may be able to treat him if he was born in a wealthy family but given your background, Mister Reed, that is not possible. Should you have any more questions, i will be happy to answer them for you."

"Y-You can't be serious..He is a CHILD FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" I said as i took a step towards the counter.

"I am aware of that fact, sir. And i have told you everything you need to know. So please, leave at once." And before i could speak another word, i was escorted outside into the rain by the guards. I tried to get past them, to push them away. But it was as if i was fighting a brick wall.

I looked into my son's eyes and began to cry. I apologized for not being able to save him, for not being a more wealthy man. For simply being me. And before i could speak another word of sorrow, his hand reached for my cheek.

"Father... the ghost will take care of me. You and mother have done enough for me..."

And it was almost as if i could see the life leaving his eyes.

"N-No! Buddy, stay with me.. please, i-i will find somone who can help you PLEASE!"

I begged, to no avail. His hand fell down to onto his chest, his body went limp, his breathing stopped. My son had died in my arms, right before the corporation that promises to tend to the weak. The irony was so incredible that i could not help but laugh out loud.

I forgot how much time passed between when i resigned from my job and when my son had passed. So much happened in between that i forgot to count the days. I could not bear the guilt of telling my wife that our son had died in my arms, so i sent her a letter. She shortly hung herself afterwards. I was told to "keep my head up" by my coworkers. It was obvious that no one cared about me or who i was. No one except my only friend the Butterfly. She was a coworker and my only friend. She was there for me when i needed her most and she is the one who threw the idea of resigning and starting anew into the room.

I thought about her suggestion for a while and ultimately did resign. I was paid my final paycheck and said goodbye to the Diveroli Workshop and my past life.

Well, there was not much to say goodbye to. I promised to stay in contact with Butterfly and walked out the door.

The life in this city is bleak and monotonous beyond words. You are a gear in a system that deems you as worthless the moment your performance does not meet the insane standards of the giant corporations. You either die poor, as the next lunatic's meal, or slightly less poor and as a slave.

With my last bit of money i bought a single room apartment near the Outskirts from a small office called Sunny Day Real Estate and decided to move on from my previous life.

I often had nightmares of my past life, of the time i spent with my family, my wife and my son. As much as i tried to move on, all attempts were fruitless. And so i cried myself to sleep night and night again, my health decreasing and my body caving in under the stress. And one night it all became too much for me to handle. I felt the walls of my room coming closer, i had to go for a walk.

Going on a walk was a good idea, it gave me time to reflect on everything in a different environment. I looked around me, the city and it's people were as ugly as ever. Soon, i reached a crime scene. Briah Security forces had already arrived on the scene and had everything under control. A woman had stolen medicine from a Asiyah pharmacy for her husband who suffered from leukemia. She was shot dead while trying to escape by the pharmacist.

The woman was poor, the pharmacy owned by the Asiyah Association. The pharmacist was a free man and the Briah Security Forces took the woman's corpse with them. And it was at that moment that i understood it all. That this is all but a game we cannot win.

I continued my walk until i reached a bridge. I looked over the railing into the deep dark depths of this hell, and i could feel it's gaze on my body. I shuddered. I finally understood that i was not alone. That these corporations had spun a net that would ensure that any and all atrocities they commited could never come to stab them in the back. This world is infested with parasites that feast on the minds and bodies of the people until there is nothing left. Asiyah, Klepto, Briah, any and all corporations in this city are guilty of it. They took my son, my family, they took my happiness, and destroyed any and all things that could have been in another world.

"In another world..." I mumbled to myself.

I felt a sense of longing build up within me. A longing for a distant, far away world where my happiness was still with me. Where these parasites were nothing but monsters under a child's bed. Endless dreams and possibilities flooded my mind, so much that i began to scream. I could feel my NeuraNet-System overload and overheat, i begged for someone to help me.

And suddenly i found myself within the depths of my own soul. It was a dark, decrepit place of sorrow and loneliness. Yes, it was my soul. Before me was a door covered in thorns. From within the door spoke a voice that sounded like that of my son.

"You have suffered enough, far too much. They tried to trap you in their Net of falsehood and false promises. But you escaped, and for that you shall grant yourself the power to enact revenge on them. Grant yourself mercy, Gabriel. Forgive yourself and become the first to take his destiny into his own two hands. And soon, the city shall be set ablaze by a force only a king could control."

Almost like i was controlled by utter instinct i began to rip off the thorny vines on the door, soon all were ripped off. And i opened the door, a blinding light took me in as i felt my body disintegrate.

I know not what happened to me exactly. But i found myself in a body that i did not know previously. I was taller, i was stronger, and i felt more like myself than i ever did before. Upon my awakening i was given a greatsword. I had never wielded a weapon before, only built them, and yet i knew how to fight with it like it was given to me as a child. It was large, covered in thorny vines from hilt to about the middle of the blade. And in it's blade i could see thousands, millions of worlds. This power i was given was a tool, a weapon for me to use against those who took my happiness from me. I will enact my revenge, build a new world and burn down every corporation in this city, have them all be consumed by my rage.

Shortly after i had begun my crusade, i was given the name "Erlkönig" by the Graycloak Office and classified as a threat to the population. Every major corporation in Eden then began to invest more into their security out of sheer fear.

But their hands will tremble, their skin shall become pale in the presence of a king.

[mags-writes]

Sunlight Masterlist

Summary: frank castle finds his match in a woman from another dimension

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical swearing, first time writing x reader, no use of y/n, no beta readers we die like ray nadeem

Pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader

Main Masterlist

PROLOGUE (you are here)

PART I || frank comes to stay

PART II || frank helps out in the kitchen

PART III || frank offers his shoulder for you to cry on

PART IV || frank gives you a call

PART V || frank contemplates homicide

PART VI || frank gets his worldview changed

PART VII || frank gets some insight

PART VIII || frank comes over for dinner

One moment you were walking down the street arm in arm with Matt Murdock and the next you were shrouded in darkness, alone in the rain. A flash of light, like something from a camera, was the only indication you got that something was about to change.

You'd heard of things like this happening. Flashes of light and then a missing persons report. It was happening all over the world and no one, not even the Avengers, had an explanation to give. The only thought running through your mind, despite the rain seeping into your shoes, was poor Matt would have no idea what just happened.

Everything looked similar although, you suppose, Hells Kitchen could look like any city in the dark. You took deep and calming breaths, willing the panic to subside long enough to get yourself together. You squared your shoulders and started walking until you came across a street name that looked familiar. The second you did, everything clicked, you knew exactly where you were in Hell's Kitchen, all you needed to do was hang a right, and three blocks down would be Josies.

You walked through the door and there were your friends like nothing had happened at all. Matt, Foggy, and Karen sharing drinks and laughing at something Matt probably said. You sighed in relief. Maybe you got lucky? Maybe you just randomly blacked out?

"Matt! Guys!" You grabbed onto Matt's arm, nearly hanging off of him. "You are never going to believe this. One minute I'm walking down the street with Matt and next thing I know I'm getting soaked-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Matt put a reassuring hand over yours on his bicep, frowning kindly in your direction. Ma'am was the first clue that had you stiffening. Matt not looking at you was the next. Yes, the man was blind but you were his girl in the chair, the one in his ear, and his makeshift nurse before you called Clair for help. Matt always looked at you. "Do I know you?"

The world stopped spinning.

"Matthew. Michael. Murdock." You said with wide and unflinching eyes and your tone made him drop his hand. "I have known you since your eyes could spy on the women's boxing matches that your dad dragged us away from. I did not just walk, at the very least, four blocks in the pouring rain for you to call me ma'am. Take it back."

"Uh, I'm sorry," Foggy leaned forward holding his hand out like he was about to try and move you away.

"Franklin Percy Nelson! Don't fuck with me!" You hissed, stiffening up further and giving him a sidelong glare that had him recoiling.

"Hang on Foggy," Matt said, before putting his hand back over yours. "Explain what's happened."

So you did. From the moment you woke up to the moment you walked in through Josie's doors. Every painstaking detail, telling him about the missing people around the world and the very, very disgusting and specific coffee order he gets.

"She's telling the truth." Matt said, completely shocked. "I don't know how, but she is."

"Listen to this," Karen piped up, looking down at her phone. "There are several reports of doppelgangers showing up in homes with similar or near identical memories of Earth citizens. And even more reports of formerly dead citizens showing up at their old homes they used to live in."

"How have we not heard more about this?" Foggy asked, throwing his hands up. "This is right up our alley."

"Probably because anyone who ends up in New York is weird enough to just blend in." You answered sarcastically.

"She's got a point." Karen shrugged.

[thehiddendooronserpentinesteps]

THE BLACKWATER BATTLE

SANSA’S AND SANDOR’S EMOTIONS TOWARDS EACH OTHER

PART 1.

Hi there!

I started my blog with the Hound and Cersei’s relationship: this is, where Sandor’s character starts in the books. Then I moved on to my unkiss theory. And now I’d like to talk about what Sansa and Sandor feel for each other. Well, for that, I’d like to give a deep analysis of the Blackwater battle scene (ACoK, Sansa VII.).

This is a rather disturbing scene that divides the fandom. It starts with a rescue attempt, and ends with a terrible turn. We – again – cannot see the Hound’s inner thoughts or feelings, and Sansa is too young to fully comprehend his intentions. But still, I think this scene includes almost everything, we need to know about their feelings for each other. To prove this, I’m gonna use my beloved parallels, for I think they’re great to give a different light on what’s happening. I’ll cite a part from the scene, and then give a parallel. And I break the whole analysis in two, for it again became hella long…

Not all of the thoughts here are new, of course. But I don’t have much time to search the internet, so if you can give me sources of similar thoughts and theories, I would be grateful! Now let’s begin!

“LITTLE BIRD, I KNEW YOU’D COME.”

“Sansa said, "I knew the Hound would win." (The Hand’s tourney, AGoT, Eddard VII.)

I’m terribly sorry, I cannot remember who wrote it, but nevertheless, that fan was right. Sansa of course didn’t know, that the Hound was gonna win. What she really meant is that she wanted the Hound to win. Similarly what Sandor really means is "Little bird, I wanted you to come."

“HIS EYES GLOWING LIKE A DOG'S IN THE SUDDEN GLARE.”

I find Sansa’s description of his eyes in this scene stunning, because in their previous scene on the top of Maegor’s Holdfast she says this:

“The scars are not the worst part, nor even the way his mouth twitches. It's his eyes. She had never seen eyes so full of anger.„ (ACoK, Sansa IV.)

Arya never describes his eyes as angry. She rather says: dark eyes. Some people think it is a sign that he had changed after the Blackwater battle. Well, maybe he did, but the change on his eyes are not an example of this, in my opinion. To shed a better light on it, let me bring some… yes, parallels.

This one is from Sansa’s wedding night with Tyrion:

„She kept her eyes on the floor, too shy to look at him, but when she was done she glanced up and found him staring. There was hunger in his green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the black. Sansa did not know which scared her more.

"You're a child," he said” (ASoS, Sansa III.) 

As I interpret it, it means that Tyrion wanted to have her… and at the same time he was angry at himself for it. It is something he shouldn’t want. As he himself states it, it scares him. And maybe makes him angry at the same time.

I think something very similar happens with Gendry. He’s quite an easy-going, good-mooded guy in the beginning despite everything that happens to him. But after ASoS Arya IV….

"I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns."

"Nice, though. A nice oak tree." He stepped closer, and sniffed at her. "You even smell nice for a change."

They wrestle on the ground, get themselves dirty, and after this chapter, Gendry slowly starts to be angry. When he helps out Arya in the Peach, claiming she’s his sister, and Arya asks:

"Why did you say that?" Arya hopped to her feet. "You're not my brother."

"That's right," he said angrily. "I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high." (ASoS , Arya V.)

The same triggers him with Edric Dayne, who’s at the same age as Arya, plus high born too:

"I'm Edric Dayne, the . . . the Lord of Starfall."

Behind them, Gendry groaned. "Lords and ladies," he proclaimed in a disgusted tone. (ASoS , Arya VIII.)

Why I recited this all? Because, I think, Gendry realises that he likes Arya… the way a boy likes a girl, and realising that they’re not equal, that it’s a never-can be case, well, that makes him angry… and I think the same happens with the Hound and Sansa…. But now, his eyes have changed. Why though? A hidden scene, as I suggested could be an explanation to that. He became Sansa’s dog.

"IF YOU SCREAM I'LL KILL YOU. BELIEVE THAT."

"If you ever tell anyone," he finished, "I'll kill you." (the Hound after the Hand’s tourney, AGoT, Sansa II.)

„Arya didn't think he'd really cut her tongue out; he was just saying that the way Pinkeye used to say he'd beat her bloody. All the same, she wasn't going to try him. Sandor Clegane was no Pinkeye. Pinkeye didn't cut people in half or hit them with axes. Not even with the flat of axes.” (Arya on the Hound, ASoS, Arya XII.)

"The boy saw you," Tyrion pointed out.

"He was a child. I could have frightened him into silence." (Cersei and Tyrion in ACoK, Tyrion XII.)

Many people suggest, that his threatening is a sign of self-defence. Or the sign of his brutality. I think, neither. It is a technique of a man, who knows he has a bad reputation, that people fear him, and he uses that to frighten them, in order to get them to do what he wants: basically being silent, about something, or being silent at all. :) Sansa is young and naive: I’m not surprised, he uses this method in her case. This threatening and the one on AGoT, I’m sure not real ones… But the third one….we’ll get to that later.

„HE WAS SLEEPING IN MY BED. WHAT DOES HE WANT HERE?”

„It was Ser Amory who brought me the girl's body, if you must know. He found her hiding under her father's bed, as if she believed Rhaegar could still protect her.” (Tywin to Tyrion on Rhaenys’ death in ASoS, Tyrion VI.)

So, I think poor Rhaenys wanted her father’s physical presence… physical closeness. And the Hound wanted the same from Sansa.

“Where will you go?"

"AWAY FROM HERE. AWAY FROM THE FIRES. (…) NORTH SOMEWHERE, ANYWHERE."

 “He could buy a donkey with the coin he'd saved, and he and Rosey could take turns riding it as they wandered Westeros. (…) That would be enough, he told himself, so long as I had Rosey. Rosey was all that he wanted in the world.” (Pate on running away with Rosey in AFfC, Prologue)

Sandor has just lost all, as he says… he leaves, he doesn’t know where, all he knows… Yes, allow me to say: all he knows is he wants to take Sansa with himself, and take care of her. Very similarly like Pate wants to take Rosey with himself… it doesn’t even matter, where they go… as long as he has her.  

From here, the scene continues with the song pattern, and it stays almost ‘till the end, so I have to cut it here. Hope, you’ll stay with me for part 2., for I’d like to know your thoughts!

Part 2:

My previous topics:

[luvyuki0]

Amber ── .✦02.

✦ Summary: In which Esme and Hoseok fall in love but of course with love comes trouble especially when you're dating an idol.

Series masterlist| previous| next

 

 "BEEP BEEP!" I hear my phone alarming me to get up.

    I groan sitting up straight while rubbing my eyes taking in all my surroundings, I stretch my body and grab my phone from its charging pad. I check the time "5:04" it read; I unlock my phone responding to any missed texts from people then go on checking my socials eventually watching a few TikTok's during the process.

"Lemme get up" I speak to myself getting up off my bed and heading to my bathroom to take a shower and do my skincare once I'm done, I go into my closet to pick my airport outfit, wanting to wear something comfy but won't get me overheated.

After choosing what to where I put on the clothes, put my boho braid in a wrapped bun, and do light makeup.

Once I'm dressed and ready I decide to go Jasmine's room to make sure she's awake and ready. As I get closer I hear sexyy red blasting, "LANCEY LANCEY I'M GHETTO AND I'M FANCY."

"Jaz what time is Yoongi picking us up?" I yell over her music.

"6:30, oh shit we have to go." She checks her phone.

"Ight get ya stuff so we can head out," I say as I make sure that I have everything on me.

Jaz meets me at the door and we head downstairs to the front of the apartment complex to meet up with Yoongi.

"Hey baby, hey Esme get in" he greets me and Jaz, kissing her on the cheek in the process. I noticed that the other dude he mentioned that would be joining us wasn't in the car.

"We're meeting up with my friend at the airport," Yoongi says taking notice of me looking around.

TIME SKIP

   "Ok guys we finally go to the airport and we already did all the procedures and stuff, so now we're just waiting for our flight to be called". I say as I hold my camera in front of me.

    "That boy over there is fine" I look to where Jaz is looking, and I see it's Yoongi.

"Girl that's Yoongi," I say looking at her with a deadpan expression.

"I know that's why I said sum, LORD my man is so fine!!" I look at her with disgust and as I'm about to say something I hear Yoongi's voice.

"Esme this is Hoseok the friend I said was coming on the trip with us". I look over to see a tall guy in a black hoodie and sweatpants with a mask on.

"Nice to meet you" his deep voice fills my ears, and before I can respond the airport announcement of our flight is being heard.

We grab our things and head our way to the boarding area, I look at my ticket trying to find my seat, and as I make my way over to my seat I see that it's Hoseok, yoongi's friend sitting on the seat next to mine.

   I say excuse me to him as I make my way to my window seat. once seated I take out my blanket, neck pillow, laptop, and AirPods trying to get as comfortable as possible so I can edit the video from yesterday, but before I begin I turn and tap Hoseok's shoulder. He looks at me taking one of his earbuds out.

   "I didn't get to greet you back so I just wanted to say it's nice to meet you too! And um, also I have a quick question um I'm a YouTuber and I'm gonna be recording some clips I just wanted to ask if that's ok with you?" I awkwardly ask.

   A smile forms and his face. "Yeah of course as long as my face is censored or not In the frame, I'm cool with it!"

   "Oh okay, great i hope we can become friends during the trip!" As soon as I got his approval I take out my camera to update my fans on what had happened so far.

   "Okay, guys so we boarded the plane already and we all met up and since it's a 10-11 hour layover plane flight I might get airplane food before I go to the next one, I might record if I feel like it, but other than that I have my little set up to edit the video yall probably gon see uploaded already and yes I'm in business class cus I wasn't gon pay for no first class this trip already cost an arm and a leg but yeah that's it for the update, BYEE!" As I finished talking I felt a pair of eyes watching me so I glimpsed to see where it was coming from and I saw that it was Hoseok staring at me. I ignore it continuing to act natural.

   I get comfy in my blanket, put my Air Pods in, and take my laptop out so I can edit yesterday's video and post it by today.

HOSEOK'S POV

I watched her talk to her camera just admiring her beauty, I stared for so long that I didn't even realize she had finished talking and had already put her camera away. I know Yoongi said he was bringing one of Jaz's friends along but I didn’t think she would be this gorgeous.

I open my phone to text yoongi.

Gramps#2👴🏻

Hoseok: BROO

Yoongi: What happened??

  Yoongi: and hurry up I'm tryna enjoy my time in first class with Jaz

↳Hoseok: y'all in first class??

Yoongi: Yea, you thought I wasn't gonna treat ME and MY girlfriend to first class on a trip that was originally for USSS??😀

Hoseok: ok see ntm she invited me and I accepted cus who the fuck do I look like declining a trip to Hawaii??😒

Yoongi: ...

Hoseok: yeah oh ok ANYWAYS why you ain't tell me jaz friend was fine??

Yoongi: Cause I have a girlfriend, and I don't even look at esme in that way

Hoseok: But anywas she asked me if I minded that she was recording for her YouTube😛

Yoongi: That's it ..?

Yoongi: go kys .😐

3RD PERSON POV

Hoseok chuckled a little after reading the last message Yoongi sent before closing his phone and deciding to sleep till the flight was over.

ESME'S POV

"Now Landing!" I hear the second flight intercom say. I stretch my arms Waking up from the nap I took after I finally finished editing my video and posting it because I procrastinated on the first flight.

I grab my things and get up from my seat waiting for people to pass so I can leave.

I see a text from Jaz that Yoongi and her are waiting at the food court for me and hoseok so we can all eat a quick little meal before heading to our hotel. I notice everybody's left the plane by now and I look down to see Hoseok still sleeping which was crazy to me because he slept the whole time during the first flight, I shake him a little to wake him up and he jumps up a little.

"Hey get up everybody left," I tell him.

   "Oh my bad." he apologizes.

"It's alright, I didn't wanna just leave you here for the flight attendants to wake" I respond doing one last check to make sure I have everything, then we make our way out to meet Jaz and Yoongi at the food courts.

"What took y'all so long?" Jaz says looking up from her phone.

"Hoseok was sitting next to me and fell asleep so I had to wake him up" I explained to her.

"Yall were sitting together?" Jaz asks slyly with a smirk on her face.

"don't evenn," I say not even entertaining Jaz because once you give her an inch she turns it into a mile.

"what should we get?" yoongi asks as he and Hoseok make their way back from wherever they were.

"Wing stop!" Jaz and Hoseok shout.

"Ok let's go" I responded as we made our way to the restaurant and then got into the line.

As we get in the line waiting for our turn Jaz whispers to me, "Think it was a coincidence that his seat was next to yours for BOTH flights?"

  "Yes..? Jaz I know what you tryna hint and I'm not falling for it."

  "Girl he's probably single and think about it we could be best friends dating BESTFRIENDS like that would be so cute." she gushes.

"That would lowkey be cute-"

"SEE I CAN ALREADY SEE IT!!"

"girl I'm not even ready for a relationship" I roll my eyes at her.

yeah, I'm not ready for a relationship last thing I need is a 2.0 version of him...

By the time Jaz was done gushing to me how cute it would be if I and Hoseok dated before I knew it, it was our turn to order, we took turns saying our turns telling our orders, and eventually, it was my turn and I say what I want.

"Will that be all?" the cashier asks me. "Yeah that's all let me just get my wallet," I say as I look for my wallet but I can't seem to find it which would be embarrassing, I panic a little looking over at Jazmine who purposely didn't bring her card knowing that yoongi would pay for all her expenses.

As I was about to speak I heard a voice speak up before me. "I'll pay for her." I look over at Hoseok with a shocked expression. He hands over his card to the lady and he looks at me and I whisper a small "thank you" feeling a little embarrassed that a guy I barely know is already paying for my meal.

   We all go and make our way to a cleared table and sit down and wait for our order.

   Yoongi and Jaz start conversing between themselves, leaving me and Hoseok in an awkward silence.

"Thanks for paying for me you didn't have to. I decide to break the silence by thanking him.

   "It's alright your order wasn't even that much anyways, but if you really want to thank me, thank me by giving me your number so if I'm ever in a situation I know who to call," He says with a smirk

   I can see what he's trying to do but I exchange my phone with him anyway putting his contact name as "Future sugar daddy🤪"

   As this whole exchange is going on jaz and Yoongi are silently watching which is never good.

"Here's your order" We look up seeing the lady bring all of our orders handing each one to their person. Immediately jaz takes out her iPad that Yoongi bought for her to watch a show on Netflix, and Yoongi joins her shortly after. I look to my right seeing Hoseok texting someone, and I decide to take my camera out trying to get as much footage as I can.

"Ok guys we just got off our last flight its late as fuck but we decided to eat cause were hungry and now we're eating, oh and this's what I got." I turned my camera showing hoseoks face a little before quickly putting my camera down to show my food.

when I'm done recording, I put a mental note to edit an emoji over his face.

HOSEOK'S POV

OT7

Hoseok: I GOT HER NUMBERRRR😍

Taehyung: who's number??

Hoseok: oh I ain't tell yall BUT I'm talking about yoongis girlfriends friend

Hoseok: when I tell y'all she is so fineee wait till I find her socials matter of fact yoongi send over that @

Jin: why I ain't get invited to y'all vacay🥲

Hoseok: Your literally in Korea??

A/N: I combined this chapter and chapter 3 just because the ending on this chap felt chopped 😁 and don't forget to like and comment!! (Ignore the corny tweets💀😭) Words:2108

[television-overload]

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 18/34 - ashes

[Read on AO3]

“I love what you've done with the place,” a voice speaks as soon as the apartment door closes behind her. She looks up at the darkened shadow in the corner, only partially illuminated by the dim light of Mulder's fish tank. His face lights up with an orange flash as he flicks his lighter on, bringing the flame to the tip of his cigarette. It reflects off the hard edges of his face, giving him the monstrous appearance of a gargoyle for the briefest of moments before fading into black once more.

“What do you want?” Scully asks, no patience for beating around the bush with this man. At least he appears to be incapable of harming anyone. The man looks like he already has one foot in the grave, and she'd love to give him that last little push he needs.

“I want you to stop looking,” he answers simply.

“You've wanted that since 1973, when you ordered an end to the search for Mulder's sister,” she says, unmoved. “Your initials are on the document, I've seen it.”

If he’s surprised that she’s figured that much out on her own, he doesn’t show it. “Yes, I signed that order because I knew then what I know now: No one's going to find her.”

“Why not?”

“Because I believe she's dead.” The words deal a crushing blow, as does the cold, unfeeling way he speaks them. “No reason to believe otherwise,” he says offhandedly, gesturing vaguely with his cigarette.

“You're a liar,” Scully says softly, her hatred of the man simmering just below the surface. “If you knew that she was dead, why didn't you say something earlier? Why now?”

“There was so much to protect before,” he says with a shrug. “It's all gone now.” The Syndicate, reduced to ashes. Their leader obviously barely hanging on by a thread.

“So you just let Mulder believe that she was alive for all these years?” she asks, furious, if that’s the case. It makes her sick, the way he toys with Mulder like a puppet. 

“Out of kindness, Agent Scully,” he says. “Allow him his ignorance. It's what gives him hope.”

Scully rears back in disgust. How dare he talk about hope? How could he dangle the false promise of everything Mulder has ever wanted in front of him, and ask her to do the same?

Never.

“That isn't what gives him hope,” she says, glaring at the very embodiment of evil standing in her living room.

He gives a low chuckle, its sound chilling. 

“No, I suppose you're right. He has much better things to hope for now, doesn't he?” The insinuation that he knows what they’re up to terrifies her, but she won’t let it show. “I suppose I ought to thank you for that, Agent Scully,” he continues. “I never could have predicted how sending you to him would turn out, but you're good for him. Despite what you may think, it delights me to see my son so happy. And in the end, I succeeded in my purpose of sending him to you after all.”

“Which was what?” she spits.

“To distract him,” he says calmly. “To get him to quit.”

Well, tough luck, you black-lunged creep. “It didn't work out that way.”

“No, it didn't,” he concedes with a nod. “In fact, he became even more focused with you in the picture. A miscalculation, on my part. But I don't see how that's worth dwelling on now. Everything I built is gone.”

“I want you to leave us alone,” Scully demands. She wants nothing more than to get as far away from this man as possible, but she holds her ground. She won’t give him the satisfaction of spooking her.

“I will, so long as the two of you stay away from my business,” he says, taking another puff of his cigarette. “I trust that won’t be a problem?”

“You don’t know us at all, do you?”

He chuckles again. “Unfortunately, I do.” The shadows on his face shift as he takes a step in her direction. “In any case, I offer my heartfelt congratulations on your future together.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” she says coldly, not even giving him an inch as he moves past her to the doorway.

He drops his cigarette onto the hardwood floor and steps on it to put it out. Its stench burns at her nostrils, and she isn’t sure even her strongest cleaning chemicals will be enough to remove it. “Your snark is noted, Agent Scully,” he says with a sickening half-smile and a nod. 

He opens the door and steps into the hall, then looks back at her one final time.

“Best of luck in your endeavors,” he says.

By the time she goes to shut the door behind him, he’s gone.

-.-.-

Mulder’s ramblings about his sister are nearly incoherent the next time she speaks to him. That, combined with her own experiences since returning to Washington, means she’s booking another ticket back out to California, a move that will certainly have the Bureau accounting people staring her down for the next month or so.

But it proves to be the right decision, because Mulder has found something. The most significant something that’s come his way since all this began.

She doesn’t know what it means.

She’s with him when he finds Samantha’s diary. Drawn there by some otherworldly force, or so he says. She can’t argue with the results, though. Hidden in this house, on an abandoned military base, is the diary of a fourteen year old Samantha Mulder.

Her heart aches for the girl, and for her big brother who drinks in every word scrawled on the page in blue ink.

The diary leads them to a police report. Which leads them to a hospital. Which leads them to the home of a retired nurse.

Which leads to the truth.

Finally.

The nurse tells a tale of a nameless girl, strange injuries, the fear in her eyes. Mysterious men who came looking for her in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and how she vanished from a locked room before they could get to her.

It almost raises more questions than answers, but Scully hopes it’s enough. Enough to satisfy her dearest friend, so that he can truly begin to live.

He disappears off on his own in the short time she’s away, talking to the nurse on her doorstep of her home. But she feels something too, like he had when they first arrived here.

This is where it ends. This is where the rest of their life together truly begins.

-.-.-

He’s not sure what it is exactly that pulls him further into the woods. But, the second he catches sight of the little boy again, translucent in the moonlight, he knows with a sinking feeling what he will find.

It’s overwhelming.

With each step he takes, he becomes more and more certain. Like the puzzle pieces are all sliding into place, forming the picture of their own accord. The lack of effort required by him, after all this time, leaves him feeling hollow and empty.

He's letting go. He has no choice but to do so now, faced with the facts before him. The place inside him where the mystery of his lost sister festered for so long has become a gaping hole, and he feels lost without it already. Uncertain where to go next, now that his guiding force is gone.

His first glimpse of her stills him, and even though deep down, he'd expected to find her, the actuality of it shakes him. It feels both unbelievable and startlingly real at the same time, and he doesn't know what to do. Does he cry? Close his eyes and reject the reality in front of him? Should he leave, satisfied with this conclusion to his life's mission despite it being not what he expected or hoped for?

In the end, he does none of those things. Her name drips from his lips, an answer to a question that has haunted him for decades. Simple, but unimaginably profound.

“Samantha...”

His feet carry him toward her in a trance. Her movement is not so restrained. Her beaming smile practically lights up the forest as she dashes to him, her dark waves bouncing over her shoulders.

She's taller than he's ever seen her, and yet, his own height makes her smaller by comparison. He enfolds her in his arms, not expecting much of anything, but he feels her.

There's no breath in her lungs, but she has a solid form. She's surprisingly warm, not like a living body would be, but—he supposes—like light. Electricity buzzes under the surface when her hand lands on his cheek, and though she's different, at heart she's the same.

He can practically hear her voice in his head as she grins happily up at him, her brother.

“Fox!” her eyes say, his name conveyed in the shine of recognition he sees there.

He swallows back the lump in his throat and crouches to his knees, inspecting the changes on her face with the gentle brush of his fingers.

This is what she'd looked like in the end. While he was off in England, beginning his studies at Oxford, this girl was still here, suffering at the hands of her captors, unable to recall anything more than his face.

He'd never forgotten her. Sometimes he'd hoped he might find her, to see her grown up and happy, freed from whoever it was that had abducted her.

Other times, he'd been certain he would never see her again. He convinced himself it would be a mercy if she'd been dead all this time.

Now, he supposes both were right. She was gone, granted the mercy of a peaceful exit from this life by the mysterious inner workings of the universe. But also…

He gets to see her. For what will be the last time, he knows.

And she is happy, he can tell. At peace. Really, that's all he can ask for.

“There's so much I wish I could tell you,” he says, blinking through tear filled eyes to keep her in his vision. 

He thinks of all that has happened to him since she disappeared. In some ways, he’s the same person he was all those years ago. In other ways, he is completely changed. He wants her to know him as he is. To know who her big brother has become.

“I'm going to be a father.”

The words leave his mouth unrestrained, but she seems to understand his need to say them. She smiles softly, tilting her head in what could either be a teasing or truly genuine response.

“I know,” he says with a chuckle. “You think I'll be any good?”

Her answer comes in the featherlight touch of her hand against his, and it feels sincere. He sees flashes of her memories of them together, playing games, walking together to her piano lessons after school, him setting out a TV dinner for her on the nights neither of their parents were home to feed them… He knows what she's trying to say, and it warms his heart, even if he can't hear her reassurance with his own ears.

Her fingers brush over the back of his hand, and he follows their path with his eyes until she lands on his bare ring finger. When he looks up at her, he finds an inquisitive look on her face that almost makes him laugh.

It's strange, to be with his baby sister as an adult. Marriage was the furthest thing from his mind when he'd last seen her. Back then, his only thought was what could happen on the next episode of Star Trek or whether he could convince his father to let him go to summer camp on the mainland that summer. But now, he's all grown up, and in a way, so is she.

“Yeah,” he says, responding to her unspoken question. Smiling quietly to himself, he pulls out the chain that holds his ring from beneath his shirt and dangles it out in front of her. Her eyes instantly light up, and she brings her forefinger up to his chest to touch the cool metal. Gently, like it might shock her.

“Dana,” he says boldly. He's not sure why, but he feels the need to tell her everything. She’s a ghost, or something very like it. The things of this world should no longer concern her. But she should know the name of her sister-in-law. That, at least, he can tell her. “Her name is Dana.”

Samantha looks happy. Relieved, even, which he thinks is strange. If anything, he's the one who should feel relieved, having found her after so long. But maybe she has cause for it, too. Maybe she's spent these years worried about him, just as he has worried for her.

Her small hand splays on his upper chest in a purposeful motion, near his collar bone on the left. He looks down at her hand and then back at her, trying to discern what question she may be asking now.

The scar there tingles, and for the first time, he feels a little guilty that he hasn't taken a little better care of himself. Standing in front of her now, he knows that's not what she would have wanted.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says, chuckling softly. “She's the one who shot me. But I’m okay now.”

The corners of Samantha’s lips turn up in a small smile, but she shakes her head. No, that's not what she was wondering.

His brows furrow, and he's about to tell her that he doesn't understand when her fingers start to tap rhythmically against his chest.

Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump.

The question mark at the end of the sentence is written on her face, and he finally makes the connection.

‘Do you love her?’ she's asking.

He grabs her hand, cupping it between his own much larger ones, and stares deep into her eyes. He won't lie, not to her.

“More than anything.”

Samantha gives a satisfied nod, a content smile on her face. He knows they don't have much time left, but there's still so much more he wishes he could say.

“I'm sorry I couldn't protect you,” he speaks, finally releasing the apology he's had stored up for over twenty years. “I'm sorry I couldn't save you.”

‘It's okay. I'm okay, now,’ her peaceful expression says. He feels her forgiveness as if it had been spoken aloud, and it's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

‘You’ll be okay, too?’ she asks him next, the words voiced in the expectant tilt of her head.

He glances heavenward, willing the tears to subside for a few more minutes so he can get through this, but manages to smile and nod in response.

“Yeah. I think I'll be okay.”

-.-.-

She's just about to go looking for him when she sees his figure wandering back toward them. What he'd been doing in the woods, she can't begin to guess, but as he approaches, she levels him with a worried gaze.

His necklace is visible, resting atop his clothes instead of under them for once. It glints in the moonlight, and Scully briefly worries that someone will see, but there is no one here who would care.

“Mulder?” she asks. It takes all that is in her to resist the urge to touch him, to check him for physical injuries or other external signs of damage. He seems fine, but it's what goes on inside his head that really concerns her.

“It's over,” he answers in a calm voice. 

His response doesn't do much to reassure her. Calm on the outside certainly doesn't mean calm on the inside, as she well knows, and she still worries he'll shut her out.

He should know by now that his search for the truth is as much hers as it is his.

“Are you okay?” she asks, prodding deeper in hopes he won't shut down. 

He smiles at that, something about her words amusing him, and that offers her a little relief. The feeling only grows stronger as he pulls her into his arms, resting his head atop hers and swaying slightly on his feet.

“I'm okay,” he assures her, in a quiet voice meant only for her. “I'm free.” 

She feels his arms tighten around her, and his voice drops even further, hardly more than a breath into the still night air when he speaks again, insistent.

“We're free.”

-.-.-

She's laying half asleep on top of the scratchy motel room quilt when his voice penetrates the comfortable silence. Despite what she'd told Skinner, she's not keen on letting him out of her sight. Not after what he'd gone through. He lays beside her, curled up under the covers and facing the wall, only the hum of the clunky air conditioner perched in the window to fill the quiet.

“I told her about you,” he reveals.

She stills. He'd mentioned seeing Samantha in the forest, of course. Talked about ethereal children playing in the clearing, the echoing sounds of their laughter and squeals of delight the only sounds he could hear.

Whether she believes him or not, she's relieved that it brought him closure.

The idea that they'd talked about her, however, has her hoping and praying that it’s true. She wishes she could have been there with him. Could have seen her with her own eyes, this girl who has so completely shaped both Mulder's life and hers.

“What did you say?” she asks calmly, staring fixedly up at the ceiling. Her curiosity in this matter makes her feel vulnerable, and the ensuing silence does nothing to ease her nerves.

With the rustle of sheets, though, he turns over, his knees bumping against her legs under the covers. She fights the compulsion to look at him, knowing that if she did, she’d be faced with the full intensity of the stare she feels prickling the side of her face.

He inches closer, the movements jostling the springy mattress, and he maneuvers his head until it's practically on her pillow. She feels his breath on her neck, the spiky ends of his hair brushing against her cheek, commanding the totality of her attention.

“Someday I'll tell you, Scully,” he whispers, curling deeper into the bed. His forehead nuzzles against her shoulder and her eyes fall shut, lost entirely to the sensation of him beside her. “I promise.”

~~~

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[wondwaeland]

Year Four - 21MARXXXX 23:09

masterlist || kofi ☕ || Discord 💜

It wasn't uncommon for Caine to attend events like this. These hunting ground auctions honestly disgusted him, but it entertained his father.

"Just because you don't participate doesn't mean that you need to be so....off." President Adam Eden caught his son's attention. His cold stare bore into his son with conviction and disappointment.

"And you couldn't have brought Abel or Seth with you? They participate in this more than I." Caine leaned against the tall table, agitation clear on his face.

"It's the way of the Purge, Caine. Abel is busy with the overwatch program and Seth is off doing his own thing. I would've brought Eve, but she has her own plans tonight." Adam's lip twitched at the idea of his wife being elsewhere. "So, put on that smile and entertain the crowd. You wouldn't want another front page smear on you, would you?"

Caine merely huffed, grabbed his champagne flute, and walked away.

Adam sighed.

"Just like his mother."

"I take it that he said something off again?" General Reginald Henry sighed, stepping up to his side. "Does he suspect anything?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Caine looked out of the observation window. His brows furrowed as he watched another batch of pour souls be released into the dark obstacle course. "What about you? Did you and Diana get any information?"

With the two of them playing both sides with their public status, these auctions were the best way to get information for their groups for the next year.

"Martha finally got rid of Baron's boys. She put them in the pot this year."

The two of them looked over and spotted their ally with her niece, Lillian, at her side. She spotted them and waved, receiving a short nod from them.

"I take it that Rebecca and Diana are going to have some fun downstairs," Caine chuckled.

"Yeah. They're suiting up now." Reggie looked down and adjusted his cuffs. "I need you to do me a favor." Caine looked up at him. "A friend of Cosmo's, Nel, is here tonight. She's only nineteen, but established in the Court. The Court plans to ambush the facility in one hour. I'll be busy, so I need you to grab her and rendezvous back at the house."

"If she's as established, why do I need to get her out?"

"Because she'll try to fight before she's ready."

Reggie pointed behind him, gesturing to a short girl in a purple dress with a black shawl draped across her shoulders. That familiar red gem necklace of The Court sat just above her collarbone. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a bun and showing off a clover tattoo on the back of her neck.

The girl was chatting animatedly with President Eden, laughing at everything he said.

Caine could tell that she was playing up his father. Smart kid. Get in close and then use the information against them.

"I'll do my best."

23:59

The clock ticked by and the next batch of game was being loaded into the field.

Caine watched as Nel moved up to the window, brows furrowed as the lights dropped again.

"First hunt?" He asked, falling into place next to her.

"To watch, yes. I was stuck on tagging the past few years, so I never really got to see what happened." She took a sip from the drink in hand. "My brother was so adamant that I did not attend these until after I showed I was capable." She turned to him. "I take it Reggie spoke to you."

"He did."

"Escape route?"

"Everyone will be heading for the main archway, but it helps having friends in high places." He tilted his head to the employee doorway. "Service entrance is the best plan of action." She nodded and turned back to the window. "I'm Caine."

"I know. Reggie and Cosmo talk about you often."

"Good things I hope."

"Debatable." They chuckled before her eyes scanned the room. Reggie, Martha, and Diana had disappeared from the crowd. "Let's get moving. They're about to start."

She wrapped her hand around his bicep. Her bicolored nails digging into the fabric of his blazer. To the others, Caine had just picked up another round of arm candy. To her, she had just gotten a key to another puzzle.

As the lights dropped again, the first round of shots rang out in the observation deck.

Caine quickly wrapped his arms around Nel and pushed her to the service entrance as The King and The Maiden stormed into the room with guns locked and loaded.

The staff ignored them as everyone ran for cover.

Nel tripped on her heels again. With no time to waste, he scooped the girl into his arms and took off again. "Apologies."

He carried out to the back alley where a car was waiting for them. Setting her on her feet, he grabbed the keys from the front wheel. They both got in and shot out of there like they were being chased. Yet no cars followed.

"Where are we going?" Nel asked as they pulled onto the empty main road.

"To base." He began to rub at his side. "I think I got grazed."

"I can take a look at that since The Court is busy. I have decent medical knowledge."

"I'll take you up on that."

00:30

"Okay. I think you're good," Nel smiled as she threw the gloves into the trash. "Thankfully, you were right and it was a graze. I'm not trained in bullet retrieval yet."

Caine looked at the bandages, one on his shoulder and another on his waist. He watched as her hand lingered on his wrapped bicep. He studied her face and chuckled as he caught her staring.

Now he wasn't a defined guy like his younger brother or built like Reggie, but he was at least eye candy to most magazines and ladder climbers. Some may call him a sleeper build.

His shirt was long gone since they arrived. She had practically forced him out of it to check him over. It must have just registered what she was looking at.

He cleared his throat. Her eyes snapped up and her hand dropped, face turning red in the cheeks.

"So," he smirked, "will I live?"

"I...I think the odds are in your favor.”

The two sat frozen before the basement door clicked open.

Reggie came in, mask grasped in his hands, as The Jack and The Queen waltzed in.

"Nel, check them." Reggie didn't even blink at the ruined moment before ordering her to work. "I think Diana got knicked."

Nel simply nodded and stood, picking up the first aid kit again and rushing over.

"Good to see you two got out okay." The Jack smirked. "She give you any trouble?"

"None more so than you do, Cosmo." Caine laughed. "Raid go okay? I mean, other than a laughable scrape on Diana." Cosmo shook his head. "Good. Good."

"Are you still able to come to the wedding? I know Reggie already gave you an invite, but I just wanted to be sure. He put me in charge of seating, so I want to know if you're coming alone or with someone."

"It's not like the Secret Service cares about me. I'll be there. Alone."

"Not going to take Luna or Helia?" Caine visibly shuddered, pulling laughter out of him. "Not your type. Message received." Their eyes drifted to the other three. "You know, Nel needs a date."

"What?"