#its these ugly thoughts that keep me up at night
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Kiss Me Silly
content Arthur Morgan x reader, established relationship, fluffiest fluff that this rusty old hopeless romantic could write. First fic I’ve written in years, please be nice! Reader welcomes Arthur back home after he’s been away on a mission, suggestive ending.
Word Count: 1270 | AO3
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The past few days had been a painful waiting game. Many of the men, including your dearest Arthur, had been away with no word on when they’d be back. The days hadn’t been any different than usual; the same monotonous chores driven by Miss Grimshaw’s ever-present nagging, the same mystery stew, the same gossip with the girls. It was the nights that wore down on your soul like a drip, slowly but surely eroding away its own path on a boulder. The quiet of the half-empty camp and the missing heartbeat from your bed were the drip, and the path they wore on you was the fear and the doubt. Only at night was it quiet enough for those ugly thoughts to simmer in your mind; thoughts of Arthur shot down and lying dead somewhere. Thoughts of your big, strong man, who always protected everyone else, being unable to protect himself anymore.
The creeping fingers of night were just beginning to take hold of the land, raking away the last remnants of sunset from the sky. You sat next to Abigail, talking just to keep busy, mending one of Arthur’s shirts as you spoke. You could tell John’s lingering absence was wearing on her. She had confided in you the fears that it brought back to her, the way it reminded her of when he had left. The pair of you tried to chat as usual, but in the tense atmosphere any attempt at small talk came out stilted and awkward. Eventually, Abigail left to put Jack to sleep, leaving you with just your thoughts. Your thoughts, and the shirt that you kept scrunching and unscrunching between your fists. It was Arthur’s, and it needed badly to be stitched up. It was an easy enough patch job, it could have taken just 20 minutes to fix, but you had been avoiding changing anything from the way he had left it. So you dawdled, lazily pulling the thread along the torn edges, wasting time to stop and inhale the scent of smoke and sweat, wasting even more time scrunching it as you absentmindedly did now. It wasn’t until the needle pricked into the palm of your hand that you were reminded of the task that you were so close to finishing in the dying light.
A short while later, after just a bit more forlorn procrastination, the shirt was finally good as new. The sun had dipped low beyond the horizon and the sky had blackened, illuminated only by the campfire. The night’s symphony was in full swing; frogs croaking, crickets chirping, a soft breeze that rustled the leaves in a way it could only do under the cover of darkness. Breaking through the predictable night sounds came a deep and irregular drumming, the beating of hooves on the path. Your heartbeat began to quicken as the drumming grew nearer, with both fear of the unknown and anticipation for the expected. Each second drew on like hours, but quickly the horses reached camp and at once the heartbeat of camp returned. You raced toward Arthur, who barely had time to dismount his horse before your arms were thrown around him. Had it been any other man, the enthusiastic impact may have caused him to sway; but Arthur’s burly frame stood strong against the earth, arms returning your embrace.
“Whoah there, batterin’ ram.” he chuckled low under his breath, fatigue creeping in against the edges of his amusement.
You backed away to study his face, his features tired but smiling down at you. “Sorry, just missed ya is all.” you exhaled softly, wasting no time in embracing the man once again. This time, however, your hands clasping behind his shoulders were met with a sharp sting permeating your palm. Recoiling in surprise, you looked at the palm to see the sewing needle from the shirt you were still holding lodged deep into the palm of your hand. “Shit” you cursed under your breath.
Arthur gently took your hand. “C’mere,” he spoke as he looked at the needle. With one smooth motion he removed the metal from the skin. He lifted the palm of your hand to his lips. “All better.” he murmured against your skin, somewhere between a whisper and a kiss.
He still held your hand firmly in his, but you raised the mended shirt that you still held in your other hand. “Fixed your shirt.” you said as you raised it, its existence somehow proof of its new quality. Arthur only hummed in acknowledgement as he moved to kiss your wrist.
The edge of camp where you had run to him was empty now, the other men having left to reunite with the campfire. You took a step towards Arthur, becoming aware of the isolation that the darkness offered. Arms draped over his shoulders and around his neck, you leaned upwards to plant a soft kiss to his jawline. After days on the road, his face scratched your lips in a way it hadn’t before. “I missed you.” you whispered against his shoulder , tracing a finger over the spot on his chin where the hair never grew.
He pulled you tighter into his embrace. “I hate to’ leave ya’.” It was his way of returning your sentiment.
Your lips followed where your hand had traced, leaving a tender kiss against a long-healed scar. “I know…” you exhaled, cupping his square jaw in his hands. You trailed your soft and pouty lips across his face, weathered and scratchy from his stubble. Peppering kisses across his face; from his temples to his chin, the wrinkled outer corners of his eyes to the bent bridge of his nose. The corners of his mouth, but deliberately avoiding his lips. Every scar, proof of pain, was overpowered by merciful love.
He held you, a tender embrace between terrible people, as he guided your chin with his index finger and his thumb. He met your lips with the kind of comfortable familiarity one rarely finds, even in one's own self. Your lips interlocked together, as if they were puzzle pieces made to fit the other pair. How had life passed by before you had known each other? The lingering taste of tobacco and wild mint clung to him, his lips tasted like home. His rough fingers brushed across your cheek as he moved to hold you by the face, savouring his turn to take in the beauty that he had missed while away. Gazing into your heavily-lidded eyes, obscured in the darkness by thick lashes, he brushed a calloused thumb against your plush lower lip as he leaned in to kiss you once more.
You were a strange pair; two outlaws surrounded by a world of death and hurt and somehow it was the comfort of life that sprang forth whenever your spirits met. Though the grim reaper seemed to be your stalker, and Arthur’s closest business partner, darkness and death turned a blind eye to this love. Like a sense of yin and yang, there was some purity left in the blackened hearts of this world. The pair of you weren’t so different, just two souls forced to do wrong in this world. Together, it finally felt like you were doing something right.
Arthur leaned his head away from your lips to speak. “Been away for so long,” he started, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes. “I wanna do more than jus’ kiss ya’.” he smirked.
You grabbed him by the hand, “Well then, Mr. Morgan, I think you are in for a lucky night.” you teased back, guiding him to his tent.
#rdr2 fanfic#Arthur Morgan x reader#Arthur Morgan fluff#arthur morgan fanfiction#Arthur Morgan fanfic#arthur morgan#red dead redemption 2#red dead fandom#red dead redemption community
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I don't see anyone talking about what happens if messi goes to Saudi. I'm afraid I'll sob uncontrollably because then it'll be living proof that everyone has a price
#its these ugly thoughts that keep me up at night#either go to barca or a club in argentina#i dont want saudi to be a reality#it'll be more of a nightmare actually#idk why im thinking about this#im just scared#remember the modric scare a few months ago 😃😃💀💀#yeah ill kms#lionel messi#messi#argentina
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Little "Love" Notes
Angel should really tell someone if they think somebody’s breaking in but instead they do… this? For some reason.
very good idea
14 Days With You is an 18+ Yandere Visual Novel. MINORS DNI
💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤
Quiet and quick as could be, [REDACTED] slowly opened your window by the fire escape. He climbed in carefully, a little astonished that you still weren’t bothering to lock it after all these months. Their boots hardly made a sound as he took practiced steps over the hardwood floor of your apartment and headed straight to the kitchen. He didn’t need to see to know which floorboards would creak or groan underfoot.
Just as they expected, the usual sight that had him even more excited to go on his now almost nightly break-ins was there to greet him. A handful of hastily scrawled, bright pink sticky notes were slapped across various surfaces.
At some point or another you'd gotten sick of things going missing. Sure, most of them turned up after a while—and always right where you thought you'd left them—but even still it annoyed you. So you started leaving silly messages for your supposed burglar. He chose to read them as love notes.
“Don't take anything in here you BITCH I'll be so mad!!” screamed one from its place on a kitchen cabinet. Your writing there was a little illegible from how fast you surely wrote it, but he found it endearing.
Another, on the side of some faded plastic-ware read, “I made these cookies for a friend but a lot of them came out wrong. You may have the burnt ones.”
“Give that ugly red shirt back it doesn't belong to me.” That was the last one he could find in the room for now, left on top of the counter next to the notepad and pen you always used.
As much as he wished to, the hacker usually didn’t respond for fear of confirming your needless worries. They'd never want to harm you like a real burglar. But he always followed the instructions when he could. And he could do some of those tonight.
Since you'd so nicely asked, he left the bottom cabinet alone. They already knew what you kept in there anyway. He wouldn’t tell a soul.
He took a few burnt cookies out of the container left on the counter—not enough that you'd notice. Some to eat once he left, and one to keep. It was another thing you offered up to him, after all.
But the sorry excuse of a shirt that your (worst) childhood friend had left behind was long gone. [REDACTED] had already given it a much needed vacation to the bottom of Lake Bluemoss, along with some other items that Leon had dared to leave among your belongings.
With the notes in the kitchen mostly taken care of, he set off towards your laundry closet. Only to find the small sliding door in the hallway closed shut with a note of its own smack dab in the middle.
“Please don't take my comfy clothes anymore :c I know you always give them back but it'll be getting cold soon!! You don’t want me freezing in the middle of the night, do you? Won't you forgive me? Pretty please? ♥ ♥”
Mind going a mile a minute, [REDACTED] had to read your beautiful handwriting again and again as if decoding a different language. Those tiny, black inked hearts at the end of the note were all he could understand in the moment. Your sweetly written, pleading love letter finally sunk in once he managed to shake away the haze you’d unknowingly swept him into.
This one was a risk that he was willing to take. Of course they wanted you to be comfortable. He gently peeled the note off so it wouldn’t tear, and folded it away to tuck into his jeans.
Then, the dark haired man began to tug his favorite hoodie up and over his shoulders.
💜🖤💜🖤💜🖤
You lazily pulled the folding door open in search of a blanket. It was just a little bit colder for some reason when you woke up this morning, so you needed something to keep you cozy while you waited for Violet to come over later that afternoon. You reached up to the middle shelf where you normally kept extra blankets, but something just below it caught your eye.
A huge, black hoodie sat folded on top of the pile of clean towels you forgot to take care of days ago.
You didn't recognize it, but it had to belong to one of your friends, right? They all formed a habit of leaving stuff with you once you moved back to town. Jae still hadn’t picked up the roller skates he got for Maple—they were only used the one time.
Ignoring the blanket you meant to grab, you picked up the hoodie and slipped it on. The giant thing practically swallowed you, sleeves enveloping your hands and the hem falling well past your hips. The garish horror design that decorated its front didn't seem to be anything your friends were into, either.
But it was warmer than you thought possible. Plus, it smelled nice, like cherries and a little familiar comfort of something you couldn't place. Whoever it belonged to surely wouldn't mind if you kept it for a while.
You didn't bother to spare it another thought and hurried off to check the kitchen. Hopefully the cookies you'd painstakingly baked yesterday were still there.
#14 days with you#14dwy#14dwy redacted#14dwy ren#momo writing#yesterday was april fool's...#but redacted is a year round fool /silly#they are my fool i love them#also weird little freak angel love them too#anyways i said this for a haha funny joke but i thought about it a LOT#that is how all my redacted ideas start... why am i like this
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Self Love Is Hard.
Lucifer Morningstar x Fem Reader
CW: Angst, Negative Body Image, Fluff, Self-Harm Mention.
Synopsis: You would think that when the King of Hell himself chose you as his love, that any doubts you had about yourself would vanish... but one night the thoughts rear its ugly head once more.
Word Count: 3,481
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The night was unusually quiet in the hotel. Most mornings were left with redemption exercises that Charlie had planned with the staff and guests, while the night most people stuck together having fun. Usually, you would be with Lucifer in his workshop, reading in your chair while he worked on his little duck creations. Music would be playing on the radio that Alastor had given you that you begged Lucifer to let you keep. You usually looked forward to most nights knowing it would just be you and Lucifer together, though quiet, enjoying each other's company.
Tonight, though it was different, Lucifer was still in the Greed ring dealing with Mammon's temper tantrum over the loss of Fizzarolli, and Lucifer had to deal with the consequences of it. You knew Mammon's temper was one that Lucifer didn't want to deal with, but you had convinced him to go after Ozzie texted you about the ordeal.
Staring at your phone, you scrolled through the messages to Lucifer with a frown.
12:51pm: How is it going with Mammon?
No response
5:22pm: Alastor found a cat today, Charlie decided to keep it as a hotel pet!
No response
8:07pm: Any idea when you're going to be back tonight?
Seen
Lucifer hadn't been responding all day, and though you knew it was because he was dealing with his duties, you couldn't help but feel a bit saddened by it. Usually, he would respond with a witty comeback about how Mammon was an asshole or make a snide remark about Alastor. Instead, though you were met with the word 'Seen' at the end of your last message that was sent hours ago. It was now rounding to eleven thirty at night, and you had thought he would be back by now.
Most of his meetings didn't last this long, you know from past meetings, what if this time something had gone wrong? What if he got hurt in the Greed ring? Could he get hurt? That thought never crossed your mind as you never seen this man injured before. He was the most powerful being in all of Hell, could he truly be hurt? If he was... especially in Greed what would happen? You knew there was a place called Ransom, would they try to take him there? Sell him off to Charlie for a huge fee?!
All those thoughts ended quickly as your phone dinged to life indicating you got a message. Quickly, you sat up opening the message app seeing it was a message from Lucifer.
Luci-Love: Sorry duckling, Ozzie asked me to join him in Lust for a few drinks and to catch up. I'll be home later tonight.
You read the message, your frown deepening as you typed out a message and deleted it a few times. Your mind was beginning to race as to what he would be doing in Lust. You knew of the Succubuses that had tried to get with him last time you and him went to Lust together. It was for an anniversary dinner a few months back.
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"That woman over there won't stop ogling you." You huffed as you took a sip of your red wine glaring daggers to the woman staring at Lucifer. Ever since you two entered Lust, you could feel their stares at your boyfriend, feel the way their jealousy grew as Lucifer had pulled you closer to him. You weren't usually one to be jealous, but you couldn't help but feel that envy tug in your chest. The demons of Lust were quite beautiful, sexy even if you were honest, so the fact that they were making heart eyes to the man you were with annoyed you.
"And that man won't stop staring at me either, but you don't seem to mind that." Lucifer smirked puffing his chest out as he knew he was being stared at by so many. Why wouldn't they want to stare at the King of Hell, he was a sight to behold! Especially tonight with the way he was dressed. Instead of his usual royal garb of his white suit, he was in a deep red tuxedo with black trims. His usual white top hat, left at home for the evening, leaving his blond locks styled perfectly back.
You cocked an eyebrow to him as he looked at you with a slight smirk on his lips before you felt him take your hands from across the table you sat at. He gave them a gentle squeeze looking into your eyes. "But darling, my eyes are on only you." He hummed, pulling your hand up to his mouth giving your knuckles a gentle kiss.
The simple gesture helped to calm your jealous rage down for the moment, not wanting to ruin your anniversary with him. Though the nagging feeling in your chest didn't waver as the waitress flirted with Lucifer, and he seemed to flirt back. He later explained he was simply being nice and didn't hesitate to show you just who he devoted himself to that night.
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That nagging feeling was back in your chest as you remembered the Lust ring. A thought tickling the back of your head wondering how many demons were trying their hand at being with Lucifer since you weren't there. How many imps were throwing themselves at him? You knew that Lucifer was loyal, but you couldn't help the doubt that creeped in through the silence.
With a groan, you set your phone down rubbing your face with your hands. You could feel your mind slowly slipping as you imagined what the women who were fawning over Lucifer probably looked like. Gorgeous tall women no doubt with thin waists and bigger assets that would tempt the weak. You knew your body was nothing compared to theirs. You were barely even average in your eyes.
'What does Lucifer even see in me?' Your mind wandered as you moved off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor of your shared bedroom. You slipped your feet into Lucifer's duck slippers as you grabbed the robe off the headboard and wrapped it around yourself.
You slowly walked towards the bathroom wanting to splash some water on your face. Lose the thoughts that were beginning to eat away at you. Before meeting Lucifer, you struggled to love yourself. You couldn't see what he did, how he seemed to worship your body and love every inch of you. How he was always enamored by your apparent beauty that you struggled to see yourself.
Though through the past almost two years of being with him, he has made you feel beautiful. He reminded you daily how much he adored you and loved you. How you were the only woman he ever wanted to see.
'If that's true, then why wouldn't he just come home? Why go to Lust?' The thought filled your head as you walked into the bathroom flipping the light on. Your eyes went to the mirror and stared over yourself. Your hand tracing your cheeks that seemed too puffy, your fingers tracing your jaw that seemed to jut out too much. Your eyes watched your movements, seeming so dull as they looked lower. Even with the robe on, your eyes were able to pick out the stomach rolls.
Instinctively, you looked down at your stomach, and sucked it in the best you could. It wasn't enough. You could still see your stomach jutting out, mocking you. Your hands grabbed at the extra flesh that was there, squeezing at it as your vision blurred with tears. The women in Lust didn't have this pudge, they didn't have this extra weight around their waists. They didn't have to worry about how their bodies looked in clothes. They didn't have to worry about making sure their skin was fully covered to hide away the stretch marks like you did.
You wished you could just cut the extra flesh off, just grab the scissors that laid in the bathroom drawer and chop away the fat that you were so easily able to grab.
Your hands were shaking now as you looked back to the mirror in front of you, watching your tears roll off your round cheeks. Even your tears were hideous. How did other people cry and not look as awful as you did right now. The longer you stared at yourself in the mirror, the more the tears seemed to blur your vision.
'Hideous beast, he pities you.' That same nagging voice mocked you in the back of your mind. That had to be it, Lucifer only felt pity for you... was only keeping you around till someone better came along or came back. Your mind drifting to Lilith now, the woman who left Lucifer all those years ago.
You had seen images of her, she was breathtaking. Tall, thin and gorgeous with long blonde hair. She radiated beauty. Lucifer and her had been married for eons before you two met, did he still miss her? Did he still find her more beautiful than you?
The phone buzzed from the other room indicating you had a new message which snapped you out of your thoughts, even for a moment. With a deep inhale, you left the bathroom, forgetting why you even went in there in the first place as you walked to the bed grabbing your phone. You were expecting it to be Lucifer, saying he would be home soon. Instead, though, it was just Charlie texting the hotel group chat with a new idea for tomorrow's lesson.
With a quick grunt, you threw your phone across the room watching it slam against the wall by a photo of you and Lucifer. It was a photo of the two of you sitting in a garden together, you are laying across his lap happily giggling at whatever he had been saying at the time. The look in both of your gazes was filled with nothing but love and admiration. The longer you stared at the photo though, the more you were nitpicking each imperfection you saw.
Your hair was too frizzy, your face was too round, the way you were squinting gave you what seemed to be crow lines.
As you stared, your eyes moved to the photo on the dresser. It was a smaller framed photo of Lucifer with Charlie and Lilith. He had offered to get rid of it, but you thought it was a sweet memento for him to have. At the time you at least thought so, but now as you walked up to it and lifted the photo you stared at the other woman in the frame. How did Lucifer go from someone like her, to someone like you? It didn't make sense to you.
As time passed, your mind continued down the dark path of self-hatred and you found yourself sitting on the bedroom floor, your robe long lost leaving you in just your pajama shorts and tank top. In front of you was a broken mirror, shattered after you punched your own reflection. It was obvious that you should clean your bleeding fist, but you couldn't bring yourself to. Maybe you should at least clean the broken mirror before Lucifer comes home. The idea of even moving, though it seemed too much to do, all that seemed to help was sitting on the plush carpet, hugging your legs as you stared at the broken reflection now.
The sound of whirring seemed to snap you out of your thoughts as your eyes looked up seeing the gold and red portal appearing in the room. Through the portal, you saw the purple blue sky of the Lust ring and heard people laughing and having fun. Then, coming into view was Lucifer wearing his usual white and red clothes, except his jacket hung around his arm, and his sleeves were rolled up. The buttons of his white and red pinstripe vest were undone as well, revealing the white undershirt he wore.
After a moment the portal closed, and the room returned to the darkness it had been for the past hour or so as you sulked in the corner.
"Darling, are you awake?" Lucifer asked as he set his coat down on the chair. He didn't notice you weren't in bed yet. He didn't see the broken mirror that you cursed yourself for not cleaning up. Nor did he see you in all your broken glory, eyes red and puffy from crying. Your eyes watched his movements as he moved to the bed only to notice you weren't there. "Darling?" His voice called out till his eyes finally found you.
In an instant, the lights to the bedroom snapped on as he looked at you, his vermilion eyes filling with fright. He took in the scene of the broken mirror in front of you, staring at the broken shards on the floor. His eyes then moved to your body that was trembling, hugging yourself with a bloodied fist. Then his eyes met yours, and the fright filled with a deep sadness as he finally noticed how miserable you looked.
"Oh darling..." He whispered as he walked over to you kneeling taking your hands into his. He examined the wound on your hand, noting the tiny shards of glass that glistened in the blood. He looked upset seeing the injury you had caused yourself, his mind wondering what made you do this.
For the first time in hours, you finally spoke, your voice cracking as you did from disuse "I-I'm sorry." You were sorry now, regretting how you felt, regretting all the thoughts you had knowing this was upsetting Lucifer now. You acted reckless, in your emotions, and now after a long day, Lucifer had to see you wallowing in your pity.
His eyes moved from your hands to your eyes as you spoke. One of his hands tenderly reaching out to cup your cheek to comfort you while the other still held your injured hand, cradling it in his own. "Let's get you cleaned up yeah?" He spoke so gently, as though if he was too loud, you'd break once more. He was obviously concerned about the injury, wanting to make sure it was dealt with before he found out what happened.
You didn't fight him as he helped you to your feet, all the energy you had at this point was focused on not crying once again at how soft he was being with you. You didn't fight as he took you into the bathroom, nor as he guided you to sit on the edge of the bathtub. The cold porcelain of the tub seems to help ground you from the spiraling thoughts in your mind.
Lucifer gently let your hand go as he began searching the cabinet for the first aid kit, muttering under his breath about how it seemed to have grown legs and moved. "Other... Cabinet" you told him, pointing with your good hand at the other cabinet door that he hadn't checked. He glanced over at you with a thankful smile before he grabbed the first aid kit from the other cupboard and sat beside you on the bathtub.
He was gentle as he picked the glass out with tweezers, and careful as he applied the antiseptic onto the wound cleaning it out. The silence of the whole procedure was eating away at you, worried about what he was thinking. He probably thought you were a mess; he probably was annoyed that he had to deal with your mistakes. The fear of him leaving you poking at your mind as tears began to prick at your eyes.
Once your hand was properly cleaned and wrapped, Lucifer brought your hand to his lips, and gave it a gentle kiss. His deep red eyes staring into your own, and those thoughts faded immediately. He didn't look angry or annoyed like you were thinking, instead, his eyes were filled with love and care. Just like in the bedroom, he brought his other hand to your face, wiping away the tear that had escaped your eyes with his thumb gliding across your cheek.
"What's wrong Dove?" He spoke so softly still, calling you by your favorite nickname he had given you. "What happened to the mirror in the bedroom?"
Your gaze finally broke from his as you looked away, looking anywhere else than his eyes. How do you explain to someone who loves you so much, that you doubted that love? How do you explain to someone who reminds you of your beauty daily, that you hated your body? The words seemed to be stuck in your throat, but Lucifer waited, he didn't push as the silence festered between both of you.
The man before you simply kept his hand on your cheek providing a subtle comfort as his thumb continued to caress at your tears wiping them away with each swipe. You couldn't speak still, instead moving your hand to your cheek, holding his. His smile was sad, worried about what was eating away at your mind.
"Speak to me Dove... What is hurting you so badly?" He finally pressed the issue after you didn't answer his first questions. All he wanted to know was what was causing you so much grief, so much pain to have you shatter the floor length mirror in your shared bedroom.
When he left this morning, you were happy. You both had shared a tender moment wrapped in each other's arms before he left to go deal with Mammon. Now though, you were like a hallow shell of yourself, and from the damage from the mirror, Lucifer had an inkling of an idea as to why.
This wasn't the first time you spiraled in your relationship together. He has comforted you just as much as you had comforted him in the time you two were together. He knew firsthand just how bad your mind could be to yourself. The nights where he hugged your crying form for hours proved that. Though he has never seen you this bad before. Just how long had you been alone with your thoughts?
The silence seemed to just grow more between you two, before finally, the tension in your throat keeping you from talking seemed to loosen. With a shaky inhale of breath, you looked at his eyes which stared at yours still waiting for an answer.
"Why me?" You began, your hand leaving his that was still against your cheek and instead fidgeted in your lap as your eyes left his. "There are so many other women out there who are far better suited for you..." That tight knot was back gripping your throat once more making it hard to speak, but you pushed through. "S-so many more women wh-who are more beautiful. M-more appealing, More-"
Your voice was cut off as Lucifer's lips pressed against yours gently silencing you immediately. After a moment he pulled back, his other hand now coming to hold your other cheek.
"My love, there is no one in either Heaven nor in Hell whose beauty can outweigh your own. Even if there was, you are the only woman I desire." He spoke slowly and quietly, staring deep into your own eyes. One of his hands moved and took yours, pressing it against his chest. "My heart beats for you, and for you alone." His other hand moved and took your injured hand tenderly, bringing it to his mouth kissing it once more.
These are words you have heard him say before, words uttered during past spirals. Words he would remind you of every chance he could, no matter how much you couldn't believe them yourself. You knew he was being genuine each time, his eyes holding no falsehoods, his voice never faltering as he spoke. It was the truth, and you never understood just why.
"You are the one I want to spend eternity with no matter the cost. The one who holds my heart in such tangles. I thought when I fell from Heaven, that would be the last time I ever fell. Then you stumbled into my life, and I fell even harder, and I do every single day. It's because you mean so much to me my little dove." He went on, taking the hand against his chest, and brought it up to his lips as well, kissing both of your hands.
The tears in your eyes now weren't from the pain you felt anymore, but from his words. Your partner was perfect in your eyes, always knowing the right things to say, the right movements to do. He knew the words that you needed to hear, and didn't hesitate to let you know every thought.
Without another word you leapt at him, wrapping your arms around his chest, knocking the two of you into the bathtub. The dam broke as he in turn wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to him. You wept in his arms, burying your face in his shoulder. Lucifer’s hand brushed through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp to comfort you silently, letting you release the emotions you were dealing with.
How foolish you had been to let your thoughts get the better of you. How foolish you were to doubt the love this man had for you. You knew deep down you didn’t deserve him, yet he would beg to differ and would deny those thoughts of yours. He would even counter that he didn’t deserve you. When he fell from Heaven, he didn’t think he would be deserving of such love as yours’s, yet you love him day in and day out by choice, and he didn't think he deserved it either.
After some time had passed, you had finally calmed down in his arms. Lucifer's hand not leaving your head as he continued to caress your hair, placing a soft kiss on your temple. Your tears finally had dried up, or well dried more so on Lucifer's red and white vest. Lucifer took the time to sit you both up in the bathtub, having you sit on his lap with one more kiss to your forehead.
"Let's not go punching mirrors anymore, okay? If you need an outlet for that rage, we can ask Satan for some pointers." He joked as he stood up lifting you with him in his arms, carrying you as though you were weightless. You couldn't help but choke out a laugh nodding as you laid your head against his shoulder.
"I learned my lesson... Mirrors fucking hurt." You responded as he carried you into the bedroom.
You both would be okay, even if some days are harder than the other, you both had each other to help soften the blow of those hatred filled thoughts. Even if self love was sometimes hard, you knew that even if you couldn't love yourself, Lucifer had enough love to give you in replace of it.
#lucifer x reader#lucifer morningstar x reader#Hazbin hotel x reader#hazbin hotel imagine#hazbin hotel oneshots#hazbin hotel oneshot#lucifer morningstar oneshot#lucifer angst#lucifer fluff#TW blood#TW Body image
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consort vi | minho
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 17.1k
genre: historical au, arranged marriage au, enemies-to-lovers
warnings: period-typical sexism, a boatload of family issues, a rapidly increasing amount of sexual tension, like reader is starting to go the tiniest bit feral about it
series masterlist | one | two | three | four | five
summary:
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
An uneasy sleep must have reclaimed you in the night, because you awakened to soft morning light streaming through the windows – and chambers entirely devoid of Minho.
You sat up, unsteady, the beginnings of a headache already forming. Your thoughts were scattered, muffled as if wrapped in cotton, barely intelligible under the dull throbbing.
An empty bedchamber. Did that disappoint you? The sheets beside you seemed undisturbed, indicating that he hadn’t joined you at any point in the night, hadn’t risen from the couch he’d been sleeping on last night when –
Embarrassment – hot, ugly flashes of it – flared within you, so violent that you physically shuddered in an effort to suppress it. You wouldn’t be so careless again, risking something so mortifying and so vulnerable as being caught in a position like that.
A tiny voice in your mind uttered thanks for Minho’s order to keep servants out of his chambers without specific request. You didn’t want to imagine having to untangle these awful thoughts in front of an audience waiting to dress you for the morning.
The more you dwelled on the situation, the more you could feel something in your chest twist. Shame, perhaps. You couldn’t help but picture last night again and again, your awful thoughts painting over your memories, imagining Minho’s eyes open instead of closed, imagining the curl of his lip as he watched you in disdain, maybe even in disgust–
No.
You felt your expression harden, breath expelling from you in one sharp burst. You hadn’t realised how much anger you could summon at merely an imagined Minho. Already, even at just the thought of him, you found yourself itching to rebuke him, to challenge the contempt you had imagined yourself.
There was a danger that you could spend the whole day in this bed, imagining all the ways in which you could argue with Minho.
So, instead, you forced yourself out of bed, determined to focus on the rest of your day and leave last night firmly in the past.
It was strange to realise just how quiet these chambers were. They were so far removed from the bustling of the palace’s lower floors that even now, as scores of nobles and servants alike rose from their beds and began their days, you could almost mistake the palace for being empty.
The spring morning air was no longer a shock of cold, but pleasantly mild. Perhaps you should make use of the weather today, you thought. It would be good to get some fresh air.
And then, you came to a sudden halt – as a flash of orange caught your attention out of the corner of your eye.
You turned your head, startled, to find a tabby cat perched on the low table of Minho’s chambers, staring you down.
This was not the pampered sort of housecat you had seen in the houses of your mother’s friends during your youth. While this cat seemed well-fed, there were tell-tale signs of the fights it must have gotten into. There was a pea-sized chunk missing from its left ear, and a faint scar on its little orange snout.
Perhaps this was a kitchen mouser? But how had it wandered so far into the palace, all the way into Minho’s chambers? How had it gotten past those heavy wooden doors, not to mention the guards stationed nearby?
You dared to take a step towards it – to no response. The cat continued to stare. Its tail twitched from one side to the other, slowly, almost lazily.
It didn’t move as you approached, instead continuing to eye you with an expression so distinctly unimpressed for such a tiny face.
Of course, the second you lifted your hand towards it, it jumped away from you in the blink of an eye. There was no panic to its retreat, just a vague sense of disdain as it withdrew from your reach.
For one brief second, you were bizarrely reminded of Minho.
To your own surprise, laughter bubbled up in your chest, slipping out between your lips. It lifted a weight off of your chest, leaving you feeling just a little lighter as you observed the way the cat shot you what could only be described as the feline equivalent of a scowl before it padded over to the bed and disappeared beneath it.
Deciding against following the cat and disturbing its hiding place, you chose to head for the door and request breakfast be served outside.
It seemed only right that the lingering worries of the previous night’s events would disappear in the light of a warm spring day.
There was something so calming about the palace grounds in the morning. At your request, a table and chair had been set up at the base of a hill, just by the long winding steps back up to the palace itself, in perfect position for you to gaze out at the huge expanses of land in front of you.
Morning dew budded on the still blades of grass. Clouds slowly drifted across the sky above, the sun hiding behind them, only reappearing at just the moment the air grew too chilly. In the distance, a light layer of fog lingered amongst the trees of the royal forest, retreating further and further with each moment.
There was nothing but peace and quiet.
You breathed deeply, savouring the morning air, as you reached for the last slice of bread. Beside it, in a tiny porcelain dish, sat a little pat of creamy butter. You scraped the last of it up with your knife to carefully spread onto the bread.
Your plans for the day were the same as always. Studying, mostly. You were eager to crack open the most recent council records you could find, already making plans to note down the stances of each member, the factions that might have formed, anything that might be useful.
How soon would Minho talk to his father? How much time did you have to prepare? You should have pressed for more details.
You could ask him at dinner this evening, you realised. It was still such a strange idea, to think that you and Minho could talk to each other so…often, now.
Because you shared a bedchamber, a voice in your mind – one that sounded suspiciously like your mother – reminded you. You should be doing so much more than just talking.
A mouthful of bread lodged itself in your throat mid-swallow, making you cough and splutter as you reached for your tea.
Not that you were particularly eager for that, of course. Last night had been a brief moment of insanity, a sudden break from rational thought, brought on by returning to the bed that held so many strong memories. It had infected your dreams, and even seeped into your sleep-addled actions in the dead of night, but now you had recovered.
Now, once again, you were just as uninterested as he was. Moving to his chambers was good enough to mend your image as a successful, stable pairing. It didn’t matter what happened behind closed doors, because you had gotten what you wanted.
But before you could make an effort to divert your thoughts back towards the day ahead, the peace of the morning was broken.
You watched as a group of palace guards marched into sight, descending the palace steps – and you stilled when you saw the person they were accompanying.
Her Majesty, the Queen.
You sat up a little straighter, as your eyes met across the wide-open space of the palace lawns. She always seemed so perfectly put together, her long dark hair twisted and braided neatly into a bun, the soft and sweeping fabrics of her dress somehow spotless even when brushing against the ground.
In her fine features, there was so much of Felix. You almost wanted to look away.
Instead, you followed protocol to the letter, rising to your feet and bowing your head at her arrival. “Your Majesty.”
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she replied, and there was a genuine soft note of surprise to her voice that reinforced her words. “If you’re finished with your meal, would you like to accompany me across the grounds?”
You blinked, lifting your head in shock. You’d barely spoken to this woman in weeks. You’d half-expected her to ignore you. You’d half-given up on the affection the two of you had grown for each other during your childhood.
“Y-yes,” you replied, and cleared your throat. “Yes, I’d love to.”
She gave you a smile – one so deeply familiar that it made your heart ache for just a second – and inclined her head, silently offering you the place by her side.
You moved quickly, almost without thinking, barely retaining the grace expected for a lady of your position, as you tried to join her before she could change her mind.
Before the two of you could start walking, however, she first turned to glance at the guards behind her. With a firm, clear voice of a queen, she told them. “I trust I’m accompanied by guards possessing the respect of allowing two ladies some privacy while they talk. Am I not?”
The nearest guard’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he hurried to nod at her. “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”
“Delightful to hear. The usual twelve paces behind will suffice,” she said, her voice so casual that the comment could almost be described as offhand, before she finally set off. You had to quicken your steps slightly to catch up with her.
And, sure enough, the guards waited until you were twelve paces ahead before they followed – at the perfect distance to remain out of earshot.
This was the woman you remembered from your childhood. Always polite, always charming, and just a little cleverer than she seemed.
You fell into step beside her, searching for something to say to start the conversation. “I heard a delegation from the Lakelands are on their way.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with a warm smile. “Most of the delegates only came to their position after I left, but I know a handful. Among them is a prince I last saw as a young boy. I look forward to seeing the man he’s now grown to be.”
“That will be nice,” you remarked, looking for something else to say. Something clever, or funny, or charming. It used to be so much easier to talk to her. “Do you miss the Lakelands?”
“Occasionally. Especially in the winter. I’ve never developed a taste for the cold that sets in here,” she said, but there was no trace of sadness in her voice. Nothing wistful. “But what about you? Are you keeping well?”
“Yes,” you replied – but it felt like a half-truth at best. “As well as can be.”
“I’m sure you’ve had so many pleasantries asked about your marriage,” she said. “That’s usually all people can think to talk about, with women like us.”
Her words struck something in you, hooking something strange and raw and tugging it out into the open.
“That’s usually the topic of conversation, yes.”
Her lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile. “Then we’ll speak about something else. Are you still keeping to your studies?”
“Yes!” you exclaimed, unable to keep your excitement from rushing out. “Practically every day. Mostly, I’ve been focusing on my histories and geography, but I like to brush up on my languages every so often.”
“You did always love studying your histories,” the Queen nodded, and for the first time in your conversation, you picked up on the slightest hint of sadness in her tone.
It sparked a vaguely familiar feeling. An old desire to cheer her, the feeling so ingrained that it felt like slipping on an old favourite coat.
“My new tutor has helped quite splendidly,” you said, with a smile just a touch forced. “I hadn’t realised how much more I could learn with someone following me in my interests, instead of just telling me what I should be interested in.”
The Queen smiled back at you, and hers seemed entirely genuine. “There seems so much to catch up on. I’ve been meaning to talk to you sooner.”
Her words, as light and carefree as she had offered them, managed to hit something deep within you. Your expression faltered, as you felt the words dig into you, like claws gripping your flesh, piercing you.
You blurted out your only thought. “Why didn’t you?”
The question came out in a rush, an outpouring of emotion that you had tried so hard to keep dammed. You watched the way she paused, caught off-guard by your sudden harsh words.
You swallowed, trying frantically to recover some sense of manners. “I mean, I…it’s just I’ve been…I’ve been so alone since…”
“…I know.”
Her gaze grew so soft, as she watched you sadly. There were moments, occasionally, when her eyes were so expressive, just as Felix’s were.
For a moment, you pictured what it must have been like for her, all those years ago. Newly married to a stranger, not just alone but alone in an entirely different kingdom. A kingdom that her father and her father’s father and his father before that had been at war with. A kingdom with a people who mistrusted her, who still mourned for her husband’s first wife, the beloved wife, the wife she must constantly be compared to in public and in private.
You wondered how long it took her to learn to hide those expressive eyes. You wondered if it saddened her to look upon her son, and see those same bright eyes shining back.
“I missed you,” you confessed. “I miss how it used to be.”
“So do I, sweetling,” she murmured. There were only two people in this world the Queen called ‘sweetling’. One was standing in front of her. The other was half a kingdom away, quiet and aching by the coast. “But that’s precisely why I’ve stayed away.”
“What?” You asked, sharp in your confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“There are whispers at court,” she began, before pausing. You detected the faintest of eye-rolls as she continued. “There always are. Right now, they are centred on you.”
“Me?” You repeated. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Oh, the subjects never do,” she said, her tone sharpening just a touch. You knew she’d had her fair share of experience with court rumours. “It’s no fun for them if the rumour gets dragged into daylight and exposed for the nonsense that it is. Better to whisper in secret, and give their empty brains something to spin from nothing.”
“What are they saying?” You asked. You’d half-expected something like this to happen, but you’d always thought your first reaction would be worry, or fear – and yet, right now, the news filled you with nothing but anger.
“They’re harmless, for now. Idle gossip. But if any fuel is added to them, they could prove dangerous–”
“What are they saying?” You repeated, cutting her off. You needed to hear it. You already had an inkling, but you needed it in words.
She sighed. “…You and Felix. I’m afraid my son will always be a subject for scandal in your future.”
Felix.
You turned away, eyes searching for the horizon, for something to fix on in the distance.
You hated that this didn’t surprise you. You hated that your paranoia, your constant insecurity about how you were perceived, about how your issues with Minho were perceived, that constant nagging feeling of your marriage being forced under a magnifying glass, was partially justified.
“Anything in particular?” You finally managed to ask when your voice returned to you.
“The stories change every week. Nothing has truly taken hold, which is a good thing,” the queen reassured you. “But until you and Minho…well, when your marriage seemed on shakier ground, I thought it was wise to keep my distance. I thought it would make things easier for you.”
Easier.
Right.
A lump was forming in your throat. You did your best to swallow it down.
“I thought you were angry at me,” you admitted. “For marrying Minho, instead of your son.”
“You did marry my son.”
There was such strong feeling in her voice that it forced your gaze back to her. The queen’s jaw was set, her mouth curved downwards slightly. Years and years of learned authority, of power however scant it might be, radiated through her as she stood firm.
“Minho is my son. In every way that counts.”
You stared, silent, as the faintest hint of guilt began to warm your cheeks.
The queen continued to walk, her gaze softening as she fell back into old memories. “He was so tiny when I entered the palace. I helped him take his first steps. I helped him learn his letters, I selected his tutors and I watched him grow.”
She slowed her steps, as you reached the edge of the forest that surrounded the palace. The two of you would have to turn back soon, but you took a moment to observe the quiet of the trees, the way that sunlight filtered through the newly-grown leaves.
“I might not be called his mother, but he is my son,” she finished, quietly. “And I’m very proud of him.”
She blinked rapidly a few times, clearing her throat, and turned to flash you the briefest of knowing smiles. “As mule-headed as he can be sometimes.”
You couldn’t help but laugh – albeit quietly, softly, as the emotion of the conversation still kept its grip on you.
There was a pull in you – that familiar one, the one that urged you to please others, the one that pushed you to say exactly the perfect thing – to praise Minho to the Queen. To call him a good man. You knew she would want to hear it, she would want to hear how happy you had turned out in spite of it all, that by pure serendipity, your marriage to Minho was just as splendid and happy as the marriage with Felix you had been awaiting your whole life.
But the words stuck in your throat. You practically choked on them. Not just because they were untrue.
Because for a second – for such a brief, unthinking second – you had wanted them to be true, just as badly as she did.
Something cold began to take hold of you. It started in your gut, unfurling his long icy fingers, grabbing and twisting and squeezing as it slowly dragged the rest of you into its grip.
Betrayal. In that moment, you felt – you knew – you had betrayed Felix.
Did it show on your face? The queen was watching you now, and you couldn’t imagine the expression you must have had.
You swallowed, trying with all you had to shove that awful pain away.
You needed to say something. Anything.
“Minho…he’s always…he never seems to care when people believe the worst in him,” you said, the words stumbling out of you, as if your mind was two steps behind your mouth. “It’s almost like he prefers it. I don’t understand it.”
The queen took in your words. After one long pause, in which her eyes studied you so intensely that it felt they were about to burn through you, she turned to look up at the palace on the hill. Even from this distance, it seemed to loom over you, waiting so impatiently for you to return.
“This place…” she trailed off. Her jaw tightened - and in that one instant, as her eyes flashed, you saw the teenage girl that had first stepped foot into this court, so far from home and facing such a nest of vipers. “It pulls something out of the people here. A way to protect themselves. My husband already had his ingrained when I came here. I felt it take hold within myself. I watched it form in Minho, that desire to push people away. And you…” she turned to you, briefly, and you blinked at the twist of amusement in her lips. “What opposites you and he are. How perfectly you mirror.”
You stared. Her words were vague, cryptic…and yet, you couldn’t help feel as if you had been insulted. You opened your mouth to protest, but the queen had already turned away back towards the palace.
“You can’t live in a place like this without growing a few thorns,” the queen sighed. “Like the roses in my gardens, I suppose. The ones without thorns are the first to be eaten.”
There was something layered in her words, something sad, something resigned.
You realised then that of all the members of the royal family she had just mentioned, there was one obvious name left unsaid.
“Let us return,” she said, finally. “Before those guards grow too curious and drift too close.”
Not only did Minho keep his promise of returning for dinner again that evening, he arrived even earlier than you.
You almost stopped at the door, thrown by the sight of him at the table, as perfectly poised as he always was, flicking through a sheaf of papers by the side of his plate. He looked up at your arrival, eyes meeting yours, and something caught in your chest.
You hadn’t realised how strange it would be to see him in person after last night, how…affecting.
Clearing your throat, you gave him a tight smile and made your way to your seat across from him – unfortunately for you, as it gave you a clear unobstructed view of Minho at a time when you very much wished for anything but that.
You reached for the decanter in front of you, eager to pour yourself a drink to deal with this building lump in your throat. To your surprise, you found it to be filled with water, not wine.
“How was your day?” you asked, finally speaking, hoping to sound calm and collected.
Minho eyed you carefully, as if you’d offered some sort of complex riddle, and not a feeble attempt at small-talk. “…Slow. Until the Lakelander delegation arrives, there’s nothing urgent to take care of. I’ve been looking over budget proposals for the harvest season.”
The harvest season was months away. In fact, you were almost certain that the fields had only just been sown at all. That truly did seem like a slow day. “I see.”
You knew you should try to continue the conversation, to ask him more about his work. Instead, you let your eyes drop to the plate of food in front of you, words dying on your tongue as you tried and failed to push down the memories of last night.
It felt so…deeply indecent, to sit across from Minho, and pretend you hadn’t touched yourself just a few feet away from him. And it was only made more indecent by the fact that he didn’t know.
It was all you could think about when you looked at him. You knew a secret, and he didn’t.
For dinner, the kitchens had prepared some sort of fish beautifully. Perfectly cooked, tender and soft and practically melting in your mouth.
You barely tasted it. You just kept eating, preoccupied, eyes trained on your plate. You were certain that if you looked up at Minho for too long, you would give yourself away.
In fact, the longer you sat there, the more uncertain you became.
Were you acting unnaturally? Were you too quiet, too reluctant to make conversation?
But, then again, what exactly did acting ‘naturally’ in Minho’s presence entail? You might have finally found yourselves on better terms, but…
“Something on your mind?”
Your eyes jerked up to meet his, caught off-guard.
How long had Minho been observing you? It looked like he hadn’t even touched his food yet, one hand resting on top of his papers, his other arm propped up on the table, hand curled under his chin as he looked at you.
You made an effort to swallow down the food in your mouth, despite how dry your throat had become, and reached for your water with all the nonchalance you could muster. “Not particularly. I was just…”
Think of something, think of anything.
“Wondering about those budget proposals. The harvest season must be months away. Was there really nothing else more pressing?”
Minho was quiet for a second, just long enough to spark the tiniest flicker of nerves in the pit of your gut, before he let out a sigh. “My father likes to drip-feed me responsibilities, one at a time. If there is anything else more urgent, I won’t know until my next meeting with him. And that won’t be for several days.”
There was an edge of frustration in his voice, something long-suffering, as if this were the topic of multiple arguments in the past, arguments that never seemed to resolve themselves in his favour.
He reached for his water, taking a sip, before his gaze returned to you. “That will also be when I talk to him about you joining the council.”
For a brief moment, all thoughts about the previous night and your embarrassing secret disappeared from your mind entirely. You leaned forward, intrigued. “What do you think his response will be?”
Minho tilted his head slightly in thought – and it filled you with surprise at the fact that you recognised this subtle shift in Minho’s body language, that at some point you had come to learn how to read him, even slightly – and replied. “…I won’t mince words–”
“Do you ever?” You retorted, almost without thinking.
Minho’s lips twitched, fighting a smile, but continued without acknowledging your mildest of jabs. “It will be a hard sell. My father is not a revolutionary. A large part of his popularity has come from his upholding of tradition. But he’s been dragging his feet on filling this council seat for months now, and for good reason. It’s a political minefield, and you are the best compromise. I hope he’ll see that.”
Minho was right. Your appointment to the council, however perfect a resolution to the infighting between your father and the blue-blooded nobility, would not be an easy sell at all. “I hope so too.”
The rest of your dinner passed in relative quiet, but the little calm you managed to gain in that time soon evaporated when you exited the dining room – and found yourself confronted yet again with the question of sleeping arrangements.
Minho’s bed was now the site of two of your most scandalous transgressions. Both of which involved Minho, both of which rendered you almost completely unable to look him in the eye whenever you thought of them.
In contrast to your internal strife, however, Minho seemed perfectly at ease.
He transported his sheaf of papers from the dining table to the couch, seating himself comfortably and setting them down on the low table in front of him.
Actually, perhaps ‘stack’ of papers might be more accurate a description than ‘sheaf’. Just how much work went into preparing these budget proposals? Had he done so little in his office all day to bring so much work to do in his chambers? Or was this a far more demanding responsibility than you had assumed?
All evidence seemed to point to the latter, as Minho worked silently throughout the evening, brow furrowed just a hint in concentration. He didn’t look up once, not when you rose to start preparing for bed, not when you returned in your nightclothes, not even when you wished him good night. He returned the words with a quiet murmur, clearly too enwrapped with whatever he was working on.
He was so engrossed, he didn’t see the way you hesitated by the bed.
Should you invite him over? He might have had work to do, but this would be yet another night that you went to bed without him. You were sharing a bedchamber now, surely the two of you should…
At least once, you should…
You tried to decide on the words of the invitation, of how to phrase it. A suggestion that he should bring his papers to bed, if he had so much work still to do? That was a reasonable question, wasn’t it? If he refused, you could press him on it, demand to know why it was beginning to seem as if he were still avoiding you…
“Yes?”
You blinked, emerging from your thoughts, to find Minho had glanced over to you. You likely made a strange sight, hovering by the bed, still yet to get under its covers.
The words were on the tip of your tongue, carefully crafted, ready to ask.
And then, traitorously, you thought of last night again.
Minho had been on the other side of the room, able to sleep through it, but if he’d been next to you…
You pictured it. You pictured jostling him awake in your sleep, the embarrassing sounds you might make. What you might do.
An awful, awful wave of embarrassment crashed through you because what if you tried to grab at him in your sleep?
You swallowed, turning away without even attempting to reply to Minho, and slipped under the bedcovers without another word.
In the morning, you woke to find that Minho had already risen long before you. The bedchamber was empty, and again the sheets by your side were untouched.
When the third night elapsed in just the same way, and the fourth, it became clear that this couldn’t be mere coincidence. Minho didn’t just happen to be so enthralled in his work that he fell asleep on the couch four nights in a row.
He was refusing to sleep beside you. You might have forced his hand in letting you share his chambers, but apparently he would not let that extend to his actual bed.
You were half-convinced he still held that early contempt for you, that he was still stubbornly maintaining that unconquerable distance between the two of you out of disdain.
And yet, he still sat with you at every dinner. He talked with you about his day, about your studies, telling stories about a particular odious noble that had done something to irk him, or listening to you talk passionately about a particular historical figure or event that had come up in your research. He’d even teased you once, when you confessed that you didn’t have the patience to read through the handful of art history books that Seungmin had added to your list.
The two of you were very slowly developing some odd sense of…well, perhaps friendship was still too strong a choice of word, but at least an understanding around each other that definitely hadn’t been present in the first few weeks of your marriage.
Nowhere else had this become so apparent than on your fifth evening in Minho’s bedchambers.
For a change of scenery, you had decided to spend the afternoon catching up on your research in these chambers, taking lunch there with your books, enjoying the little pocket of quiet in which Minho’s bedchambers were nestled within the palace.
To your surprise, and delight, the cat was back.
Initially, it was just as sullen as you remembered. It eyed you from across the room, perched on the low table yet again, sat as tall and imposing as it could make itself.
That was, until you called for a plate of kippers to be brought to you.
Despite its surly appearance, the cat barely needed convincing before it wandered over to you and the plate of fish, taking each offered kipper from your hand without hesitation. After three fish, it allowed you the softest of pets between its ears. After six, it drew closer, jumping from the table to the seat next to you, a little more relaxed as it took yet another fish from your hand.
To your delight, once the plate was empty, the cat did not abandon you immediately. In fact, it curled up near you – not quite close enough to be within easy reach, but enough that you could lean over and give it slow and gentle strokes as you continued to read. It even began to purr, just a little, whenever you scratched just beneath the base of its ears.
The more attention you gave the cat, the more you realised just how cared for it seemed to be. How comfortable it was with being touched, how well-fed it was, how soft its fur was. Even in a palace, this was not at all typical for a kitchen mouser.
“Someone spoils you, don’t they?” You murmured, giving the cat more strokes. “I can see why, you’re lovely. So cute.”
The cat, while not acknowledging your words, leaned its head up into your hand a little, chasing after those little scratches.
You were close to abandoning your studies entirely for the day, ready to devote your full attention to this adorable little creature, when the bedchamber doors swung open.
The cat jolted a little, jumping from its place on the couch – but to your relief, did not run out of the room. Instead, it lingered by the low table, ready to disappear under it, and stared down the sudden arrival.
Minho, mouth still parted slightly in whatever greeting he’d been about to give you, was silent as his gaze flickered between you and the orange cat eyeing him from the floor.
“We have a visitor,” you told Minho, solemnly, gesturing to the cat.
Minho nodded, briefly, still looking between you and the cat. “Yes. Yes, she seems to like it in here.”
“‘She’?” You repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Minho’s expression immediately smoothed into the perfect neutral, refusing to give even the slightest bit of emotion away. “…I assume.”
“Mm. Well, she seems to be a sweetheart.”
“Does she?” Minho repeated, glancing at the cat again, who seemed to have now relaxed. She began to approach Minho’s feet, sniffing familiarly at his boots.
“I may have had to bribe her with a plate of kippers,” you admitted, increasingly amused by the way the cat began to weave her way between Minho’s legs, but managed not to let it show too obviously in your face. “She seems very well-fed, for a kitchen mouser.”
Minho made a non-committal sound in response, not meeting your eyes. “…Yes, well, I imagine people must toss her dinner scraps here and there.”
“I suppose so. But who would be so soft-hearted in this palace, to feed a kitchen cat from their own plate?” You wondered aloud.
Minho’s face was a mask at this point, unmoving, perfectly calculated. He made his way to one of his armchairs, attempting to ignore the way the cat followed him happily, jumping up and perching herself on the arm of his chair.
You continued. “In fact, I wonder what a mouser would be doing here, so far away from the kitchens. That’s quite a distance for a cat to wander unprompted.”
“I suppose so,” Minho stated, perfectly neutral, even as the cat moved from the arm of the chair to seat herself in his lap.
You continued to stare at him, wordless, eyebrow raised – and finally, he relented.
“I might have given her some scraps, once or twice,” he admitted, even as the cat nuzzled into his hand from where she rested nearby. “I suppose she can’t help it if she isn’t good at mousing, and goes hungry.”
“True,” you allowed, thoroughly unconvinced by his façade. “And do you know if this failed mouser has a name?”
“…I think I’ve heard someone call her Soonie,” Minho said, and finally let his hand drift over to Soonie and begin to give her gentle scratching behind her ears. She purred loudly enough that you could hear her from where you sat, utterly content to receive affection from someone she was clearly very familiar with. “Somewhere. At some point.”
“How odd. Not many kitchen mousers have names.”
“Mm,” Minho hummed, noncommittal, but when his eyes dropped down to glance at Soonie, he couldn’t hide the slightest of smiles.
You took in the sight, this cold and prickly prince melting as he pet the scruffy little tabby cat. Minho was still in his usual daily prince attire, all high-necked and formal. His legs were clad in those familiar riding leathers that you never let yourself look at for too long, so you moved your attention instead to his jacket. Instead of a royal scarlet, this one was a dark blue, the fabric glinting in the candlelight from the clusters of beading embroidered within it. It suited him, you forced yourself to admit, far more than red did.
In fact, you tried to remember the last time Minho had worn the colour red, but nothing recent sprang to mind. Perhaps…
“I’m meeting with my father tomorrow,” Minho told you, and immediately your attention was captured.
Tomorrow.
The word sparked something in your gut – not quite dread, or alarm, but something akin to that. Urgency.
You swallowed back your excitement, remaining as calm and neutral as you could. “And you’ll talk to him about the council?”
“That’s the plan,” Minho replied, enigmatic.
You paused, and a quiet fell over the room. It wasn’t as if Minho was expecting you to reply – in fact, as Soonie settled completely in his lap, chin dropping to rest on his knee, he was looking down and away from you.
But something still just…tugged at you. Just a little bit.
Your eyes darted down to the book in your hands, and as nonchalantly as you could, you spoke. “…Thank you.”
You saw Minho move out of the corner of your eye, head raising to look at you.
“…I’m just doing what I’m supposed to,” Minho said, his voice detached and light. “One of my duties is to recommend the most capable candidate I can find. Don’t think of it as a favour.”
His words rendered you speechless, heart beginning to pound in your ears.
Most capable.
You were the daughter of a rich, powerful man. You had been given many compliments throughout your lifetime.
None of them had ever caused the same kind of lump to form in your throat as you felt now. None had caused this kind of strange heat to bloom behind your eyes, this way your heart swelled.
Most capable.
And just like that, you were spurred into action. If you had only one night left to prepare yourself and construct the perfect defence to prove why you deserved to be on the council, you would take full advantage of it.
You began combing through the papers you had with you, reading voraciously, consuming every piece of information available to you. You did this throughout dinner, chewing absently as you turned pages and scrawled notes. You were so devoted to your studies, you made your way through two full cups of tea before realising, upon looking up, that it was Minho who poured it for you each time.
Your eyes met, just as he held the teapot over your cup to pour a third time, and your gaze held long enough to note the flicker of amusement in his before he looked away.
When dinner was over, you retreated back to the couch with more reading to finish. Minho did the same, taking up the same spot he did every evening, that familiar pile of paperwork set in front of him. There was a strangely companionable silence as the two of you worked into the night.
You almost forgot he was there, despite the sounds of his writing and the crisp sounds of paper-shuffling, slipping into a quiet rhythm of reading and re-reading until words began to blur together.
As the candles burned low, and the hours grew later and later, you felt your concentration start to slip. Your eyes would close, just for a few moments, and the will to open them again slowly began to elude you. Exhaustion crept up on you, an old friend, and you found yourself repeating paragraphs, reading over the same sentence again and again and unable to take in its meaning.
Your eyes closed again, and you vaguely remembered telling yourself it would be just for a moment.
Sleep found you instead.
Blissful, calm. Warmth from the fire. Papers slipping from your hand, but never landing on the floor. You felt safe, wrapped in the quiet.
Something brushed your arm. Soft. Fur. Soonie?
Your eyes opened, bleary, only to find grey instead of orange. The wrongness of it jolted you, your hand darting out to grab at something pale and moving.
Skin.
A hand. Soft.
Except for a callus on the edge of a knuckle on the middle finger. You recognised it, for you had your own on the very same finger. It was where the pen sat whenever you wrote.
Your gaze wandered, still sleep-fogged, and there was no surprise when you saw the hand attached to a Minho.
Your grip on him relaxed, fingers slipping from his, and you barely mumbled a half-formed thought. “Your hand matches mine.”
Your eyes closed again, just as Minho stilled, and you drifted back to sleep.
You woke up, neck aching, still upright on the couch. Your books and papers lay scattered around you, from where you’d been too tired to put them away properly. Morning light streamed in from the windows, and despite the ashes in the fireplace indicating that it had long since burned out, you found yourself unusually warm.
Ah. You had fallen asleep in the previous day’s clothes – and with very familiar furs draped over you.
There was a brief flash of a memory, of Minho’s hand pulling the furs over you. You dimly recalled saying something, perhaps, but the details escaped you. You pushed the furs off of you, your movements unusually gentle as you handled the blanket, as if it commandeered an unthinking respect from you. Sentiment, maybe.
As always, Minho had risen before you and left your chambers, but today this observation filled you with equal parts excitement and nerves.
Were they discussing it right at this moment? Did their meetings take place in the mornings? Or in the afternoons? Would other items be brought up first?
It was maddening, to have so many questions and no way to pursue the answers.
With a night’s worth of sweat sticking to your skin, you made up a bath for yourself, even heating the water entirely on your own. The only oils in Minho’s bathroom were lavender, suited for relaxation in the evenings rather than energising in the mornings, but you made do.
The water was a touch cooler than how you usually liked it, but you didn’t have the patience to heat more water. Instead, you stripped and climbed into the bath with as much grace as you could muster and set about cleaning yourself.
This wasn’t the first time you had bathed entirely without servants – in fact, since you had moved into Minho’s chambers, the only times a servant had been permitted to enter was to bring them dinner each evening.
You found yourself becoming…amenable to that arrangement. It gave Minho’s chambers a sense of quiet, a private solace, that could not be found anywhere else in the palace.
Perhaps that was why it was so jarring, almost invading, when you heard knocking from afar, the sound of a door swinging open, and a woman’s voice ringing out hesitantly. “Your Highness?”
You startled, upsetting the water, letting some of it slosh over the side of the bath and onto the floor. “Yes? Is something wrong?”
Footsteps approached – timid, rushed – and the voice drew closer. “You’ve been summoned, Your Highness. By the king.”
Your stomach dropped, your breath cut short.
“He…said it was urgent, Your Highness, but I can let them know you’re still bathing–”
“No,” you blurted out, quickly, sharply. You got out of the bath hastily, dripping water all over the floor. “Help me change into something quickly, and I’ll go now.”
There was only one reason you would be summoned by the king on this particular day, and from the sounds of it, it wasn’t to congratulate you on your new position on the council.
You needed to stand your ground, to explain your reasoning in the face of his refusal. And if there was any chance of persuading him to grant you the position, to ignore the concerns of your gender…
Well, telling the king that he needed to wait to discuss urgent business until the princess finished drying her hair was not the kind of image you wanted to present to him.
And so, you were laced into a dress with impressive dexterity by your maid, the luscious fabric increasingly dampened from your dripping hair. Was it an uncomfortable sensation? Absolutely, but it was difficult to dwell on it when all you could think of was why you were be summoned, what could have happened between the king and Minho to warrant such an urgent demand for your presence.
Discussions must not have gone as smoothly as Minho intended – but not so disastrously as to be dismissed out of hand.
As you slipped on a pair of shoes, your maid gave one last attempt to persuade you to wait. “Your Highness, are you sure…”
You turned, smiling politely at her. “Yes. I’m sure it will dry soon enough. Thank you for all your help.”
She returned your smile, somewhat nervously, eyes darting to the dishevelled aspects of your appearance, but seemed a little more assured. Marginally. Barely.
Before she could protest again, you marched straight for the door.
Of course, as was so often the case with grand gestures, there were certain factors you didn’t think through entirely.
The palace halls were unforgivingly cold, especially as your hair continued to slowly drip water down your neck, soaking into the back of your gown. It made every step uncomfortable, as every little drop of water that landed on the nape of your neck was another reprimanding shock of chill.
You made sure to stand tall, proud.
If your head was bowed, if your shoulders were slouched and your steps more resembling a scurry than a stride, you would have made a pitiable sight. It would look as if you were caught off-guard, as if you were panicked, incapable, scared.
But with your chin held high, with your shoulders back and a confidence steeling you, this was intentional. This was a statement. An image fit for songs, for stories, a princess devoted to her role and to the orders of her king.
As you drew closer to the king’s chambers, navigating through the ever-narrowing hallways, you felt your chest begin to tighten. You realised you might genuinely hate it here, this deep within the very depths of the palace, its cold little stone heart. A king might be well-defended here, the walls witness to nearly a thousand years of history, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were descending into a tomb.
And then, you heard the voices.
The last time you had been summoned by the king, you remembered catching a snippet of conversation at the very doorstep of his chambers. That was how close you had to get before Minho’s and the king’s voices could be heard through the thick wooden door.
But now? You heard them in the corridor - because they were loud.
Not quite a screaming match between father and son, but–
“–talk of duty, but what’s your solution, Father? Burying your head in the sand, that tried and tested trick?”
You almost stumbled, shock rendering you clumsy, because did Minho just say that to the king?
“Caution, boy, is not ignorance. How do you mistake the two? You’re well-versed in the latter.”
The two guards in front of you exchanged a glance. You noted that they did not share your horror. In fact, you could almost mistake it as…resigned.
“Was it age that turned your belly yellow? Is that my fate too? Cowardice?”
“I will not be lectured by a son still wet-around-the-ears on age.”
Not just resigned.
Long-suffering.
They’d heard this all before. Frequently, by the looks of things.
And then, as if that knowledge had unlocked something, had lifted the veil over your eyes, you could hear it. The hint of familiarity, the ease with which the two hurled insults at each other.
This was not the first time Minho and his father had quarrelled. In fact, you’d wager this wasn’t the first time this week.
The argument paused when the guards knocked at the door, announcing your arrival. As the doors swung open, you caught sight of Minho and his father – not a hair out of place, not even a flush of anger to their cheeks – glaring at each other with familial exasperation.
Minho looked away first, turning to look at you – and paused.
His Majesty followed his gaze, and you watched those regal eyes blink in surprise at your appearance.
You must have made a sight, your gown on its way to being ruined, your hair still slick and dishevelled, trying hard not to shiver in the cold of these chambers.
“Your Majesty,” you greeted, not even the slightest bit affected, and bowed low. You straightened up before offering Minho’s greeting. “Husband.”
“My dear,” the king spoke, just the slightest bit alarmed. “If my summons caught you at an inopportune time, I assure you it’s perfectly reasonable to delay answering until you’re presentable. Don’t concern yourself so thoroughly.”
You smiled brightly. The picture of obedience, of devotion. “I hated the thought of keeping you both waiting. I imagine I know what this conversation is about.”
The king’s gaze flickered between you and Minho at this, a frown soon beginning to form. Still, there was a subtle note of surprise in his voice when he spoke again. “I see. The two of you are conspirators in this…”
“Proposal?” you supplied, gently.
“Attack?” Minho offered, bitterly.
“…Folly,” the king said, finally, turning back to you.
You dipped your head, keeping your voice soft and sweet. “I’m sorry to hear that you see it that way. I believe it to be a fair compromise, to ease the tensions at court.”
“Yes, Minho said the same thing,” the king sighed, dismissive. “Both of you are blind to the same issue. Any conflicts that your position on the council might resolve are outnumbered by the discord it would certainly cause.”
Minho sighed, eyes darting up to the ceiling. You wondered how many times he had heard that argument this morning. “And yet, a good king prioritises the future of his kingdom above all else, is that not so?”
The king shot Minho a look. It didn’t take much to realise that those were likely the king’s own words that had come out of Minho’s mouth, not his own.
“Son–”
“Talk to her,” Minho interrupted, gesturing to you in pure exasperation. “Listen to her. Ask her anything. She’s more than qualified to be on the council.”
After a moment’s hesitation, in which it looked as if the king was debating whether to indulge his oldest son or nip this matter in the bud entirely, he turned to you.
“…Very well,” he said, giving in. You watched as he made his way to the splendid-looking chair behind a monstrosity of a writing desk, sinking into it. For a brief moment, you thought you caught something of a grimace in his expression.
Exhaustion? Perhaps. It must have been tiring work, running a kingdom. Let alone arguing with Minho too. You had first-hand knowledge of how that could drain your energy.
The king’s eyes became fixed on you, almost pinning you to the floor, as he spoke. “Suppose you were on the council, and a message was received, warning of a great army about to invade. What would you advise?”
Your brow furrowed as you considered the question. You needed to remain calm, measured, and use every scrap of information you had studied.
“Which border is the army advancing toward?” you asked, thoughtful.
The king’s face remained unchanged. “The one we share with the Lakelands.”
Interesting. No cardinal direction given – you assumed that must have been on purpose – but still plenty of information to form an answer. The Lakelands were in the north, and under treaty with your kingdom.
“I would advise you to send missives to Lords Kim and Geum in the north with instructions to muster their forces and man our security garrisons along the border. I would also–”
“Which garrisons?” the king interrupted, gently but firmly.
“Yalrock and Banna. Yalrock is the largest garrison on the northern border, Banna is strategically advantageous because of its position on the river plains. You’d be forcing the army to march along the mountain passes instead.”
The king’s expression remained cold, neutral – and you realised, in that moment, exactly where Minho might have learned the same habit. “Continue.”
“I would also advise you to send word to our allies in the hills and across the Sunrise Sea, informing them that the Lakelands have broken our treaty pact.”
“Broken the pact?” the king repeated. “I never said the Lakelanders were the ones invading.”
“The treaty pact also forbids the harbouring of any forces with aggressive intent towards treaty members. In this scenario, the Lakelanders would be doing just this – unless they themselves were invaded by this army too, which I doubt if we received no summons for aid or word from our ambassador there,” you said. Was this too much detail? Were you rambling? You did your best to keep your words steady, unrushed. “Therefore, the treaty would be broken.”
From out of the corner of your eye, you caught Minho watching you, a hint of a smile on his face.
The king, while perhaps a touch surprised at your answer, pressed on anyway with another question, changing the subject entirely.
“…Suppose Lord Sun’s lands are failing to produce the amount of grain demanded of them. How would you advise me?”
“I would be confused,” you admitted, “because Lord Sun’s lands produce fish, not grain.”
“And why is that?”
“Because his lands are in the east, along the coast. The land there isn’t arable.”
“Why?”
“The weather is too hot in the summer, too dry. There isn’t enough freshwater for crop-growing.”
The quickness of your answer was rewarded with the smallest – almost unthinking – of nods from the king. He paused once more, and spoke again. “Suppose I wanted to–”
“Another question?” Minho interjected, sighing, as he wandered across the room and took a seat by the window. He rested his head against his hand, elbow planted into the plush armrest of his chair.
The king shot him a look, either for the interruption, or for the flippant tone Minho had used, or perhaps even for the way he was lounging in the presence of his king, but he made no move to reprimand him. Instead, he turned back to you. “Suppose I wanted to offer a gift to the Lakelander delegation when they arrive next month to renew the treaty. A personal one, not a grand spectacle of an offering. What would you suggest?”
You paused. This wasn’t a question that could be answered with any of your recent studies of war or economics or geography. This was a question of hospitality, knowledge you needed as a queen, not as a councillor.
It took a moment, longer than it took with the first two questions, but soon there was an answer in your mind. “When the last Lakelander delegation came to this country to sign the treaty, one of the gifts they gave Your Majesty were wild rose seeds. Wild roses that were native to the Lakelands, difficult to grow in this climate, meant to symbolise a new peace and the care needed to maintain it. Her Majesty, the queen, still grows these roses in her private gardens, does she not?”
The answer to your question did not come from the king, but from Minho. “She does.”
“Then, I would suggest a bouquet of these roses. It would be symbolic of the care this kingdom has taken to nurture this new relationship with the Lakelands, a sign that we do not take their gifts for granted.”
The king eyed you carefully for a moment, silent. “…You weren’t present at the first signing of the treaty, were you? You’re too young for that.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t present, Your Majesty,” you replied. “But the queen graciously allowed me to play in her gardens when I was a child, and taught me the origins of those roses.”
Not quite. The queen allowed you and Felix to play in those gardens. She told you the origins of the roses when Felix tried to pick some for you, and accidentally cut open his palm on the sharp thorns of their stems. You remembered him, tears in his eyes, sniffling as Her Majesty held the both of you close and warned him gently that these roses were wild, were Lakelanders just like her and a little like him, and because of that, they were fiercely protective.
You remembered sitting and watching the two of them exchange smiles, and silently wishing that you were a Lakelander too. You wanted to be protective. You wanted to be like the roses, like them.
“Any more questions, Father?” Minho asked, jolting you from your memories. “Or has she proven our point? Impressively?”
And again, just as they had last night, Minho’s words stirred something within you. A kind of warmth, filling your chest.
The king regarded the both of you, silently, before sighing. “Your education is…indeed, as Minho says, impressive.”
Your heart soared, mind so entirely filled with elation that you almost missed his next words.
“But I’m afraid that still does not change the obvious. I did not secure decades of unprecedented peace under my reign by breaking with tradition. A woman sitting on the council is not tradition.”
You swallowed, heart sinking just as sharply as it had risen just moments ago.
“…There is precedent,” you pointed out, softly. “I found records of Princess Jiyoon on the royal council, less than two centuries ago.”
“That is true,” the king conceded, before tilting his head slightly. After a moment of consideration, he pushed himself out of his chair with the same half-grimace glimpsed earlier, and crossed the room towards a bookcase stuffed with leather-bound volumes. His hands hovered over them, fingertips brushing their spines, until he found the one he was searching for and pulled it from its stack with ease.
He made his way back to the two of you, opening the volume and thumbing through the pages as he walked, before offering the volume to you.
You took it, uncertainly, and looked down at what exactly he had handed to you.
Council records – but unlike the ones you had studied with Seungmin, you were shocked at just how much more detail this version contained. You supposed that made sense. The records in the library were likely censored, or edited for public consumption. These were private, a king’s own personal records, passed down from ruler to heir most likely.
Jiyoon’s name was there, listed amongst the other councillors, but these records included a strange symbol next to her name.
You frowned, and the king spoke again.
“I imagine you found no records of any contributions she made, correct? No votes cast, no motions brought to attention?”
“…No,” you admitted, reluctantly, looking up at him as dread began to curl in the pit of your stomach.
“There is a reason for that. Jiyoon filled a particular role. If you scour through the legal treatise of the time – dry reading, all of it, but it is there – you’ll find it. Jiyoon was not granted the role of an adviser, but of an observer. A silent one, there only to watch the council proceedings so that she could better educate her heirs in service of her husband. That is the precedent that Jiyoon set.”
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
Of course.
Of course. You should have known. That was what it always came down to. Centuries of royal women, millennia of royal women, and it was always the same.
Silent. Heirs. Husband.
You should have known. You should have known not to get your hopes up.
“What are you saying?” you heard Minho ask, dimly, as these thoughts repeated endlessly in your mind.
“The observer is required to be silent. She cannot vote, she cannot dissent, she cannot speak even when called upon to do so in session. She observes.”
Minho made a sound of disdain, maybe even disgust. “Then, what’s the point? Why have that great of a mind on your council if she can’t even use it? What a waste.”
“Perhaps, but that is the precedent you argue for. If you seek a compromise, that would be it.”
“A compromise? What–”
“I would accept it,” you interrupted, quietly. Your eyes were trained on the floor, voice barely above a murmur. Your brain still thundered with those three words, again and again. Silent. Heirs. Husband. “If Your Majesty were so gracious as to offer this role, I would accept it.”
You didn’t have to look at Minho to know the way his mouth was parted in surprise, astonished and outraged in equal measure. You could sense it in his tone when he spoke. “You can’t be serious.”
You raised your eyes to look at the king, purposefully avoiding Minho’s stare.
“I hope His Majesty knows that I don’t ask for this council seat out of personal ambition,” you said, softly, lying through your teeth to your king. “You said Jiyoon took the role as a duty to her husband and her children. If anyone objected to my position on the council, I would ask you say the same of me.”
“…You would take the council seat in service of Minho,” the king said, and even he sounded sceptical. You weren’t sure what that said about your marriage, but it wasn’t exactly promising.
“And our future children. We both take that duty very seriously.”
“Do you?” the king questioned, sharply, pointedly, but surprisingly it wasn’t you he was addressing – it was Minho.
You might have tensed at such an insinuation, but Minho practically bristled.
“Don’t,” Minho warned his father, straightening up in his seat. No, more than warned, he practically spat out the word. “I thought we agreed.”
Agreed? Agreed what?
You glanced between Minho and his father, sensing a tension that remained unspoken as the two eyed each other, jaws both set.
You were clearly missing something vital to this exchange, some secret piece of information – and, as always, the idea chafed at you.
And then, with a quiet and cold anger that you hadn’t heard in weeks, Minho told his father. “You owe me this.”
The king’s expression twisted. It was guilt, you realised. “Minho–”
“You owe me something.”
Another pause.
And then, finally, the king broke this staring contest with his son to look at you. “…The role requires complete silence. If I decided to grant you the seat on these conditions, and you flout them immediately, I will not look kindly on it. Do you understand?”
“I do,” you replied, solemnly.
“…Very well,” the king said, eventually. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
You did it.
It was a hollow victory, yes, but a victory nonetheless.
You couldn’t quite muster happiness about it, or even gratitude, but there was a sense of achievement.
You nodded, quietly, and curtsied low before the king. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
When you lifted your head again, you found the king glancing between your face and Minho’s before he spoke again.
“You do have quite the mind,” the king said, gaze still shifting between the two of you. “You might not be able to speak in the council room but…well, you share bedchambers now. Whatever you might discuss in there is your own private business. Is it not?”
Within days, news of your appointment to the council spread across the palace like wildfire.
You expected this, to some extent. Precedent or not, observer or not, this was still an undeniably shocking development. You knew there would be whispers about it, gossip passed around, growing and contorting with each telling and retelling.
All of this, and still you did not expect the conversation you happened upon one evening as you took a shortcut through one of the palace courtyards on your way back from a tutoring session with Seungmin.
The sun had just descended below the horizon, casting the square into shadow wherever the dim glow of torchlight did not quite reach. You caught snatches of voices as you walked, whenever you passed doors to parlours, to sitting rooms, to the dozens upon dozens of meeting places for the elite that resided within the court. Some of these doors were cracked open to enjoy the fresh air brought by the open-air courtyard on their doorstep, unaware of any passers-by.
And then, one particular comment caught your attention.
“Perhaps the poor girl is simply bored,” a haughty voice said, with a hint of laughter. “That council room might be a dreary place, but I’d wager it’s a damn sight better than her bedchambers.”
You froze, half within shadow, half without.
There was only one person that comment could possibly be referring to.
Immediately, you slipped behind one of the stone pillars lining the courtyard, heart pounding.
Finally, after all this talk of rumours, of whisperings at court behind your back, you finally had the chance to listen for yourself.
“Careful, Park,” another voice cautioned, although sounding more amused than concerned.
“A prince too scared to share a bed with his wife for weeks after the wedding,” the first voice – Park – scoffed. “What, did he hope no one would notice?”
A third voice chimed in, low and gleeful. “You want to hear something good? My wife heard a maid talking the other day. They change the sheets of that marriage bed every day. And they’re always pristine.”
Your face heated, something approaching bile threatening to burn the back of your throat. There was something about hearing your privacy be so…violated, and said so casually. Your bedsheets? They all talked about your bedsheets?
“You know my theory,” the third voice spoke again.
“Your wife’s theory,” Park corrected, sounding dismissive.
“It makes sense. She’s saving herself for the other brother. Traded one for the other before, maybe she’s waiting to trade back when he comes home.”
Felix.
Traded one for the other. Is that how they saw it? Is that how they all saw it?
“He’s not coming back,” Park scoffed. “Not for a long time. Not unless His Highness fancies looking down and wondering why all his children have the Lakelander look to them.”
Your heart stopped. You felt the blood in your veins freeze, matching the ice-cold anger settling into your bones.
“Gods be good, close the door before you say horseshit like that. Moron.”
This was more than fury.
This was wrath.
You stepped out of the shadows, just at the right moment to lock eyes with Lord Park as he stood by the doors, his too-late hand stilled on the handle.
“Good evening, Lord Park,” you said, voice so syrupy-sweet and cloying, and watched the blood drain from his face as he stared back at you in horror. You craned your neck to peek over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the two other men with him. “Oh, I see Lords Song and Ryu have joined you. How nice.”
“Y-Your Highness,” Park stammered, and there was genuine fear in his eyes.
He knew what you had heard. He knew the words that had come out of his mouth, and how close those words danced along the line of treason. It would take you only one conversation with Minho, or with the king, and his career would be done. His family. His fortunes. Possibly even his life.
You smiled brightly at him. “I look forward to seeing you next week at the council. I’ve heard you’re quite the contrarian. You’ve voted to reject the last, what is it, seven bills put forward by my husband?”
Park didn’t answer. Perhaps it was more accurate to say Park couldn’t answer. You wondered what could possibly be going through his head at that moment. You wondered if he had ever felt this afraid in his entire pampered little life.
You tilted your head slightly, eyeing him. “Perhaps from next week, you might find yourself second-guessing a decision like that. Don’t you think so?”
Park’s face, still pale, twisted into something approaching realisation. He seemed to grasp exactly what you were hinting at – the threat that remained unspoken.
“…Y-yes, Your Highness,” Park agreed, nodding erratically.
“And your companions? Perhaps they’ll have similar changes of heart?”
From behind Park, his friends stammered their assent, just as rattled.
You beamed.
“Perfect. Have a nice night.”
You attended your first council meeting the very next week, finally taking that last empty council seat that had remained vacant for so long.
Sixty-two members attended the session in total.
You felt sixty-one pairs of eyes on you throughout.
You recognised quite a few of the faces in this meeting. Lord Young, as delightful as ever, sat just a few seats removed from the royal family – a position of great honour, especially for a man with neither blood nor marriage ties to the crown.
Lord Park had also made an appearance, and blanched the moment your eyes met his.
Good.
You paid the stares little notice, attention completely and utterly captivated by the debates that took place. Every idea proposed, every motion considered and accepted and denied, every opinion volleyed back and forth, you noted down.
You might have been silent, but you wrote feverishly. Pages and pages of scrawls, near indecipherable as you worked to keep pace with the spoken word of the other council members.
Minho was seated next to you. Of course he was – he served as a visible explanation for your presence there at all. To be useful to him, to educate his heirs and better his legacy. In the eyes of everyone else, your seat on the council was essentially just an extension of Minho’s.
You weren’t sure what to expect of him during these council meetings. You knew just how seriously he took his position as heir, and his duty to the kingdom – but you also remembered that carriage journey home from Lord Young’s orchards, the disdain he had for politicking, his derision in his voice when he talked of strings attached.
It turned out that in council meetings, Minho kept up the same perfect princely mask he always did in public. Never once raising his voice, never slipping into anger or mockery. Exemplary behaviour from the first second of the meeting to the last.
Except for one moment, when an old lord from the Tan family had loudly proclaimed an argument so poorly constructed, with parts so moronic that you made sure to underline his exact wording for its stupidity, that you heard the quietest of noises from Minho. When you glanced up at him, he was watching the debate with apparent rapt attention. If you weren’t sat so close to him, you would have missed the slightest way his jaw clenched, as if to fight a look of disdain as he watched Lord Tan blather on.
Minho proposed only one new bill – investment in a new mill, to be built in one of the kingdom’s slowly-dwindling rural villages, in the hopes of creating employment opportunities. You paused your notetaking to watch each council member cast their votes for or against the bill.
Most supported it. Some rejected it. Your eyes sought out Lord Park again, and you watched as he reluctantly raised his hand in favour of the bill, gaze nervously flickering towards you as he did so.
What an astonishing change of heart from the man. Who could have predicted?
Still, despite it all, the council meeting ended without incident. The issues tabled for the next meeting were fairly standard: a new maritime trade deal with a kingdom across the Sunrise Sea, preparations for next year’s census, the ongoing reports from the Lakelander delegation slowly making its way to the palace. You made note of it all, jotting down your own thoughts on each matter when you were able to, and kept the notes closely guarded on your person.
You made sure to take them straight to your bedchambers as soon as the meeting finished, intending to lock them away in your desk until dinner that evening, when you could discuss them with Minho.
To your surprise, instead of making his way back to his office to spend the rest of the working day, Minho followed you back to your shared chambers. You tried and failed not to focus on his footsteps, how they matched your pace precisely, echoing along the empty corridors.
The slightest sense of frustration sparked within you. If you had to be watched by gossiping onlookers, why couldn’t they at least see this? Minho ignoring his usual duties to accompany you back to your bedchambers? Let them whisper about that, sordid or not, that could at least be useful.
You pushed away the thought with one last scoff at your own poor luck, reaching your chambers without so much as a single pair of prying eyes to witness you.
“So,” Minho said, as the doors swung shut behind the two of you. “How did you find it?”
Frustrating. Exhausting. Borderline insulting.
“Informative,” you replied, collapsing into a seat. Your hands ached from how feverishly you had written throughout the meeting, and you began to clench and unclench your fists in the hopes of relieving the pain. “I made a few notes.”
“I noticed,” Minho commented, eyebrow raising as he appraised the pile of papers at your side. “They look…detailed.”
“They are,” you confirmed, picking the papers up and beginning to flick through them. “If I can’t speak my mind in that room, writing will just have to do.”
For now, you added internally. You refused to accept that this silent role would last forever.
“Can I…read them?” Minho asked, and his question came out hesitantly, almost cautiously.
You looked up, surprised. You weren’t sure how much use these notes would be – you were both just at the very same meeting after all – but there was something about the request that was almost…endearing.
Minho. Endearing.
Hell had truly frozen over.
“Of course,” you replied, holding the notes up.
Minho paused for a moment before, slowly making his way towards you. When he sat next to you, he was close enough that his jacket sleeve brushed your bare arm.
You cleared your throat, focusing your attention on anything but how close he was. “These pages are about the logging site proposals, this one was on the Lakelanders’ progress, this…oh, this page is actually about Lord Tan.”
“Lord Tan?” Minho repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes. He’s…” you trailed off, trying to think of a polite way to phrase it. “…He’s a blithering idiot, honestly.”
Minho, to your surprise, laughed. Openly, loudly, with a note of genuine delight. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have thought him capable of producing such a sound.
“Do you know how many hours of my life I have wasted listening to that old man ramble incoherently?” he asked. “There were moments I was driven half to madness. But he was my father’s first real supporter when he became crown prince, so he’s adamant on keeping the man around.”
You watched as Minho turned the page over, half-smiling to himself.
“He’s a sentimental old fool like that, sometimes,” Minho said, too lightly to really be considered critical – or treasonous.
“Who was your first supporter?” You asked, curiously.
Minho paused, the lingering traces of cheer disappearing before your eyes. The shift in his mood was almost tangible, and it felt as if you had made some sort of misstep in a dance, thrown yourself and your partner out of rhythm.
His gaze flickered upwards, so very briefly, to look at you, before moving downwards. Down to your notes, down to where the space between your bodies was at its narrowest, barely a few fingers’ width between your skirts and his thigh. He took a breath.
“…Felix,” Minho said, softly, discreetly shifting away as he held your notes out to return them. “He was the only one to never doubt me. Not even for a second.”
Yes. Yes, that sounded like Felix.
You took back your notes, and tried not to notice how Minho avoided your touch as your notes exchanged hands.
A new silence fell between you.
Stifling.
Deafening.
You tried to take a deep breath, and stood up, making your way over to your desk to lock away your writings from prying eyes.
From behind you, Minho’s voice brought you to a halt.
“We haven’t talked about Felix,” he noted. “…And we probably should. At some point.”
He said it so plainly, so devoid of nuance or emotion. As if it were a mere observation, a comment about the weather and nothing more. As if his words didn’t strike something deep and vulnerable within you, like fingers clumsily probing a freshly-formed bruise.
You hated his apparent nonchalance. You despised it, and you envied it because you might never be able to do the same. To speak Felix’s name as if it meant nothing to you.
To speak his name as if…
To speak…
You…
Realisation – cold, violent realisation – hit you at once.
You had not. Not once. In months.
It had been months. And you had not spoken Felix’s name.
Not since your wedding day.
Others had. Countless others had. They murmured it gently and sweetly like Her Majesty, or they crowed it before you mockingly like those noblemen, or they threw it at you, cold and cryptic and horrifically empty like Minho.
They dragged him out of your memories where you kept him locked away.
Away, where he was safest to you. Safest from you. Safest for you.
“…No. We haven’t,” you said, and the words were quiet. Pained. Final.
The two of you did not speak again that day.
Soon enough, your father found you.
Your mother, all those weeks ago when she summoned you for that painfully awkward afternoon tea, had at least shown you the decorum your new status demanded and sent you a formal request.
Your father, a proud man, a pragmatic man, had no patience for such etiquette.
You were in the library, sat with Seungmin and poring over budgetary records with tired and bleary eyes, when he came marching in. He was flanked by two panicked guards, too fearful of your father’s status to lay their hands on him, too mindful of their duty to let him wander freely.
They fixed you with beseeching looks. “Your Highness, we – no one told us…y-your father…”
“Desires to speak with his daughter,” your father finished, in a tone you’d never heard from him before. “Urgently.”
Usually, your father was calm, collected, never one to show even a hint of vulnerability.
Now, here, he was impatient. Almost rattled.
You rose to your feet, so thrown off-kilter by the situation that you were a touch unsteady. After a moment, you nodded to your guards. “Very well. Please leave us.”
They did just that – and so did a third guard who had been sat just a few paces away from you and Seungmin.
Your father’s eyes darted to your tutor. “Him too.”
Seungmin, however, stayed seated. Slowly, he laced his fingers together and rested his hands on the table in front of him, returning your father’s glare with an unimpressed stare.
“It takes a bold man to order around a princess,” Seungmin remarked. Gently, as always, but firmly.
Your father’s expression hardened. He opened his mouth to speak back, but you cut him off at the pass.
“He’s right, Father,” you said. You couldn’t quite shake the nerves from your voice. You supposed that was only natural, after a lifetime of loyally following his orders and keeping your mouth shut in the process. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mother?”
Your father stared at you for a moment, almost…bewildered. He recovered quickly enough. “Your mother is fine, which is more than I can say for the state of your…of…” he gritted his teeth, swallowing back whatever he desperately wished to say, and instead cut straight to the point. “You took a seat on the council?”
His question, and the venom behind it, almost took you aback.
Still, you lifted your head, trying to stand firm. “Yes, I did.”
“How could you be so…foolish?” your father demanded to know, anger giving way to frustration. “I could have protectedyou there.”
It took you mere moments to read between his words.
You didn’t take a seat on the council.
You took his seat.
“Could you?” you said, swallowing. “Or would you have protected your own interests?”
Your father’s eyes blazed at the accusation. You knew the look. Your own temper was a family trait – and it certainly didn’t come from your mother.
He thundered his response. “You are my daughter! My interests are your interests!”
“Are they?” You shot back, your voice rising to match his.
“We are family, we are blood–”
“And what have I done, except increase our family’s legacy?” you interrupted him. “I did that, I secured our first council seat.”
“And what seat is that?” he replied, incensed. “A mute councillor, never to vote, never to speak?”
Your face burned, as you tried to think of a rebuttal to his questions. Something began to twist in the pit of your stomach.
Your father sighed, fixing you with a stern look. “Let me be frank, girl, if you’re so eager to play politics. Your position is not secure.”
You swallowed. “I know–”
“No, you do not,” he snapped, briefly raising his voice, before dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. “You inspired the love of the people, but what else? I know half a dozen lords are plotting your annulment, and another dozen with their own girls waiting in the wings. What will you do with that council seat, when a proposal comes to terminate your marriage? Watch silently when they vote to cast you aside?”
You stared at him, as that twisting sensation in your gut finally earned a name: dread. You tried to respond. “Royal marriages are a king’s prerogative, they can’t–”
“Yes, they can,” your father said, simply. “Any silver-tongued politician could convince the king that your marriage is a matter of the state. Perhaps if you were married to the younger prince, you’d be safe, but you’re married to the heir–”
At those words, coming out of your father’s mouth of all people’s, your vision turned red. Your response, when it came, hung heavy in the air.
“And whose fault is that?”
Your father’s eyes widened, and he hissed. “Mind your tongue.”
“I did,” you said, your voice cracking. Before you could top yourself, words began tumbling out of your mouth, every secret silent thought that had festered in the darkest, most vulnerable corners of your mind, spilling to the surface. “I was happy and content and loved, and I still bit my tongue and let you scheme to take it away. I married the right brother for you, are you still not satisfied?”
In an instant, your father stormed his way towards you, eyes blazing as he loomed over you. “Be careful, girl.”
For a moment, you thought he was threatening you. Your own father.
And then you watched his body crumple slightly, panic and concern finally bleeding through all that pomp and anger. “Especially about…that. Him.”
You watched him take a deep breath, rendered speechless. You had never – not once, in all your life – seen your father like this.
He seemed almost…scared.
“If there are plots to annul your marriage, there are plots for something far darker. Annulment would be catastrophic, but bearable. But any whispers of adultery, of treason? To see you executed…”
Gently, he lifted his hand to cup your cheek. And for a moment, you were four years old again, showing your father your very first letters, beaming as he called you his little princess, long before the rest of the kingdom was obliged to.
“You are my child. My only child. Doubt my intentions, if you must, but do not doubt my love.”
You were stunned into silence. His words should have been touching, and you supposed on some level that they still were. But you felt almost numb as you absorbed them. Was it shock, hearing your father speak of his emotions so plainly? Perhaps.
There was a small part of you that whispered if this was all just too little, too late.
Your father dropped his hand and stepped away from you, silence filling the air between the two of you.
Then, he paused, and turned his attention to something behind you.
For a moment, you felt confusion, turning to follow his glare – before embarrassment consumed you.
Seungmin, of course, had been sitting there the whole time.
“And you,” your father interjected, his voice cold and bordering on menacing, pointing at your tutor. “If you breathe a word of this–”
Seungmin, despite showing the very clear signs of awkwardness one would expect from someone who had just witnessed such an intense and private family dispute, managed to keep calm as he replied with unfailing honesty.
“I am no fool. This position keeps my family fed, and will see my sisters marry well. I am only here at Her Highness’s request, and if the princess goes, this job goes with her,” Seungmin said, fiercely. “…And if nothing else, I know about your reputation, sir. I would rather like my tongue to remain inside my head.”
Your eyes widened.
That was a bold insinuation on Seungmin’s part. Tongue mutilation had been outlawed years ago, deemed too brutal a punishment when death was a surer way to guarantee silence.
You half-expected your father to deny this with bluster and offence. And yet, all he did was eye Seungmin silently, before nodding once and turning to the door.
As he approached it, your father spoke one final time to you.
“Keep your wits about you. You’ve made a dangerously bold move, and your enemies will use it against you,” he warned, before finally leaving, letting the heavy door slam shut behind him.
The echo of it reverberated across the library, as you stared after him with far more questions than answers.
It was Seungmin who first broke the silence, clearing his throat with just a touch of unease. “…Well, I imagine you’re no longer in quite the right mindset for last year’s harvest calculations. Would you like to finish our sessions early today, Your Highness?”
You didn’t speak. You barely looked at him, in fact, as you silently sank back into your chair.
Seungmin waited a moment or so longer, beginning to tap nervously on the smooth wooden surface of the table in front of him. “…Your Highness?”
“I…” you trailed off, as you realised the incriminating words that had fallen from your own lips just moments ago, and your head jerked towards Seungmin in panic. “Don’t… I don’t know how much you report to Minho about our lessons. But…please don’t tell him what I said about being…you know, about…”
“Biting your tongue?” Seungmin supplied for you, but his tone was heavy, knowing. He knew that wasn’t the offending part of your outburst.
“Yes,” you replied in the same tone, and when your eyes met, you knew you had an understanding. “He’s a smart man, I’m sure it’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but…it just seems cruel. I think. To hear it directly.”
Seungmin observed you for a moment, brow furrowing just a touch. He opened his mouth as if to say something, hesitated, before speaking anyway. “Actually, you should know that I don’t ‘report’ anything to Minho. Sometimes, he asks questions about what we study, and I answer them. Nothing more.”
You blinked, and before you could stop yourself, your curiosity won out. “What kind of questions?”
Seungmin eyed you again, and for a split-second, you could have sworn something akin to amusement quirked the corner of his mouth. Whatever it was, it disappeared in an instant, as he replied. “He asks about what interests you. Once, he asked about a book he’d seen you reading, and took a copy for his own use.”
“Oh.”
Whatever you were expected, it wasn’t that. A strange, unbidden feeling began to spread in your chest, warm for just a moment before common sense returned and drove it away.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Minho sometimes takes an interest in my education. Perhaps he wants to test me on it, make it a competition or something.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Seungmin said, perfectly politely. “Or something, indeed.”
Soon after that, the first move was made against you.
Details were leaked about the maritime trade deal discussed in the council meeting. Confidential details that were now freely gossiped about, within the palace and without. No one could say for sure who was the source of those leaks, but the evidence was damning.
Before you joined the council, there hadn’t been a single leak in years. And now, after you attended your first meeting, sensitive information was being bandied about within days.
There was only one simple conclusion to be drawn about the identity of the leaker.
You.
Your father was right. Whoever your enemies were, they’d been scheming, and they did use your position on the council against you.
Perhaps the library would have been a better place to take a breath, dwell on the knowledge a little longer, turn it over in your mind alone to work out the whos and whys and how to press forward.
But your feet drew you to your chambers, through the doors, and even once inside they refused to let you sit idle. You paced, backwards and forwards, going over the situation, the accusations about to be levelled at you, the defences you might need, the evidence you had and did not have to prove your innocence.
You paced and paced, and thought and thought, until your head spun and your feet threatened to leave its imprints in the stone beneath you, until it became clear to you exactly what you were doing.
You hadn’t chosen these chambers for silent contemplation.
You were waiting here.
Because when you imagined defending yourself, you didn’t picture a faceless mob before which to protest your innocence. You didn’t picture the king, and his councillors, and the lords scheming behind your back.
You pictured Minho. His expression flickering between accusing, betrayed, angry, cold, pitying, wounded. It was him you wanted to convince before any others, as illogical as it was.
It was hurt, perhaps, maybe, at the idea that Minho thought you would betray his trust. You knew how he’d pushed hard for your position on the council. You would never throw it back in his face like this, and you needed to make sure he knew that.
You questioned just when Minho’s good opinion of you had become so…important.
Eventually, the chamber doors opened, and your words came spilling out at the mere sight of Minho in the doorway.
“I didn’t do it,” you declared. You wished you could be calmer. You feared that the panic in your voice would mislabel you guilty.
Minho, blinking in surprise for a moment at your sudden outburst, regarded you calmly. “Ominous words to hear when entering a room.”
“I’m not the leak,” you clarified, with little patience for his cleverness. “And don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. I know the information being spread, and I know fingers are pointing in my direction. With some reason, I suppose, but it was not me.”
“You seem agitated,” Minho remarked, maddeningly, all but ignoring your words as his hands moved to begin undoing the fastenings of his jacket. It was some sort of rigid construction, high-necked and broad-shouldered, and perhaps once the imposing princely sight of him in it might have intimidated you. Now, there was a familiarity to the sight – and a bizarre comfort that came along with it, perhaps. “Usually I’m the one to spark it. It’s actually quite bemusing when something else is the source.”
You stared at him for a second. Off-guard, waiting for any kind of actual response to what you were saying. When none came, irritation sparked in your chest. “Minho–”
“You’re innocent,” Minho said simply, halting you in your tracks. “I know. I told my father as much.”
It took you a moment to register exactly what he said, your head too full of practised arguments to leave much room for the recognition that Minho didn’t need to hear them.
He believed you without them.
It felt as if you had been barrelling towards something at high speed, a runaway horse, only to come to a sudden jarring stop. Air left your lungs in one unconscious breath, like a weight that had crushed your chest had been lifted.
“…Good,” you said, haltingly, and then relief struck you with such a violence that your eyes began to sting with tears.
At the sight of them, Minho’s expression shifted instantly from flippancy to something bordering on horror.
Frustrated, and more than a little mortified, you wiped them away impatiently. “Don’t. I’m fine.”
Minho opened his mouth, about to speak–
“No,” you interrupted, pointing at him, embarrassment warm in your cheeks. “This is just a serious allegation to be faced with, and I’m…relieved that I don’t have to waste my time defending myself.”
You managed to regain your composure, with no more tears threatening to make an appearance and humiliate you further. Taking a deep breath, you refused to look at Minho, refused to know if he believed your words or if that damned expression still lingered on his face.
“People are talking,” you said, finally.
“…People always talk. We’ve discussed this before.”
“It’s different now. I thought it was just idle gossip before, but…” you trailed off. “My father came to me a few days ago. He believes some of the nobles are scheming to dissolve our marriage. Free you up to marry a daughter of their own, and have me removed.”
Or worse.
You hadn’t fully comprehended what your father had hinted to you that day, not until now. You could see it all now. The image of your execution, a hundred smirking noblemen awaiting it, ready to thrust their own girls into your role. Perhaps to perish after you. Their scheming would not end with your death. They would simply turn on each other, try again and again, a dozen dead brides falsely accused and outmanoeuvred and doomed from the start.
And then, you snapped out of your dark thoughts when you realised that Minho had closed the distance between you, standing almost toe-to-toe.
His eyes sought your gaze, and held it.
“They can’t do that,” Minho said, firmly, gently. Certain. “We are married, and nothing can change that now.”
“It could. It would be easy, really,” you argued. “There’s no real proof of our consummation. You could say it never happened, and our marriage could be annulled by day’s end.”
“I would not,” Minho said, firmly. “Believe what you will about me, but I would never break off our marriage with a lie like that. Those are a craven’s actions, not mine. I swear it.”
Perhaps to your surprise, you found that you believed him. Minho could be called a great many things – indeed, you have called Minho a great many things – but ‘craven’ was not one of them.
Minho’s lips set into a grim, serious line. “Is that what concerns you? That I would set you aside?”
Would he?
Even after so many years around Minho, after weeks of being married, you still could not guess his true intentions.
“…I don’t know,” you confessed.
Something small flashed in Minho’s eyes. It looked like hurt.
“You have done a lot for me these past few weeks. More than I ever expected. More than I could ever ask for, truthfully. I think…I hope that we are friends, or at least something approaching it,” you told him, because it was true, and the lastthing you wanted was to destroy this budding trust you had developed between the two of you. Still, he deserved total honesty. “But I know you didn’t want this marriage, Minho.”
Minho was silent for a moment. You knew he couldn’t refute it, and he didn’t try to.
Instead, to your surprise, his hands lifted to rest gently on your shoulders. You could feel their weight on you, and how warm it was. Solid. Grounding.
He held you there and when he finally spoke, his tone was serious – grave, almost.
“…The night before Felix left for the coast, he came to me,” Minho admitted. “He made me swear – on my life, on his, on my mother, on my crown, on everything I have ever valued – that I would protect you from harm.”
Your lips parted in shock.
Felix.
“I love my brother, more than anything. He was once my only friend, in all the world. The very best of me,” Minho said, words beginning to pour out of him, as if finally freeing thoughts he had kept buried deep inside for months, perhaps even years. “I didn’t tell him how much he meant to me, not really. And now…”
Minho swallowed, eyes closing for a brief second, before meeting your stare again with a quiet intensity.
“He will never forgive me for marrying you. Never. The least I can do is honour the last thing – the only thing – he has ever asked of me.”
You didn’t know what to say.
A sudden realisation hit you. A small piece of an inscrutable puzzle, revealed.
“Is that what you meant, when you told your father he owed you something? For making you marry me?”
Minho swallowed, pausing for a second, and answered.
“Yes, in short. My father and I have had our squabbles but this marriage…it was the first true fight we had. The first time he’s ever had to order me to do something as a king, not asked me as a father. We haven’t seen many things eye-to-eye since. He doesn’t…understand,” he said, and then, almost to himself, “but he doesn’t need to. I know I’m doing what is right.”
There was a terrible sadness in his eyes, a shocking vulnerability. It was almost alien to see such an expression on Minho’s face, to glimpse beyond the walls he so skilfully kept up.
Unthinkingly, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He stilled in your hold, tense with surprise. You ignored it, squeezing him tightly, pressing your face into his chest. It was an awkward embrace, perhaps. The hard edges of the embroidery on his jacket dug into your cheek, stitching rough against your soft skin, and Minho’s movements were stiff and unpractised as he returned the hug.
But it didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to prove the one thing you intended to show him.
Trust.
That night, when dinner was cleared, Minho retreated to his couch and paperwork. You left to change into your sleepclothes in private, as usual, and returned to slip quietly into bed.
There, however, you fidgeted and fumbled with exactly what to say before finally, bravely, breaking the silence. “…You can sleep in the bed. Next to me. If you were…unsure about it.”
Minho’s stare in response was indecipherable. But he nodded once, and when he finished whatever report he had picked up from the pile of papers, he disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared dressed for bed.
White linens. Thin, soft. You remembered them from your wedding night.
It was enough to make your breath hitch – and, embarrassed, you rolled to your side to avoid looking at Minho, lest you stared too openly at him.
You heard him pull back the covers on his side, and felt the weight of him sink into the mattress. He seemed to keep his distance, as not a single part of you touched, and yet you were painfully aware of his presence there.
Silence fell over the two of you, interrupted only by quiet breaths in tandem.
Something squeezed gently in the pit of your stomach. You recognised it as something like anticipation, which was bizarre, as you knew nothing was going to happen.
Nothing would happen.
…And yet, you supposed it would be easy for Minho to shift closer towards you. You could imagine him reaching over, and setting his warm hand on the curve of your hip.
Would he turn you, so you were facing him? Perhaps, but you could also see him keeping your back to him. Letting you hide your face, a small mercy, because he would probably know how embarrassed you would be.
Your eyes drifted shut.
It would be easy for him to press his face into the back of your neck, his mouth into the crook where your neck and shoulder met.
And perhaps he would whisper, soothingly, as his hand travelled lower, seeking the hem of your nightgown, sliding it up your thighs and…
No.
Your eyes snapped open as you scolded yourself, a mixture of excitement and shame heating your face. You banished every remotely inappropriate thought from your mind, turning to lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling.
You wondered, briefly, if Minho was looking up at the same thing too. You refused to glance over at him to check. The thought of seeing his face after all…that that had been swirling in your thoughts? Absolutely not.
It took far longer than usual to fall asleep in the deafening silence, but eventually you managed to.
The next morning, you awoke and realised, for the very first time, you had woken up before Minho. He was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the two of you must have turned to face each other in the night, bodies still a careful distance apart.
With one exception – Minho’s left arm lay outstretched, the knuckles of his hand just barely kissing the delicate skin of your wrist.
You stared at where your hands touched, skin-on-skin.
And you did not move your hand away.
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Izana, Kisaki + Mikey finding their girlfriend sleeping in one of their shirts, like willingly? 🧡
TW: YANDERE BEHAVIOR, ABUSIVE BEHAVIOR, NEGLECT, MENTION OF KIDNAPPING
Yandere!Izana Kurokawa
It started off with him kind of... not letting you leave his place. You came over for a late night booty call, and instead of demanding you get out of his face he wouldn't let you go that night.
Come the next morning and you wake up before him and you decide to dip before he can wake up and tell you to fuck off. Izana has never been overtly affectionate with you and you don't want to push him too far afterall.
But then you get a call later that day and he sounds...off.
"Hello-," "Just where the fuck are you, Y/N?" "O-oh? I woke up and left?" You tell him and you're so caught off guard by the slight annoyance in his voice what could you have done wrong?
"Why?"
And that throws you completely off. "Wasn't I supposed to?"
He doesn't answer. Just hangs up and you're left wondering what the hell happened, but you just shrug it off as maybe him not liking that one of his possessions left without permission...
The next time you two hookup, its the same thing. He's not trying to let you leave, and so you sleep over naked and just plan on wearing the same clothes you came in tomorrow. Except...
"I want you here when I get back, Y/N." He tells you before he leaves the next morning. And for whatever reason that look in his eyes means not to test him so you just sit around and wait for him all day.
But your clothes are kind of uncomfortable and its getting so laaaate. Izana wouldn't mind you borrowing one of his shirts right?
He really doesn't come back until 1am, and he's very happy you listened like a good girl, and even happier to see you dressed in one of his shirts while you sleep.
Izana thinks that he probably won't have to get your clothes from your old place. You could just use his. Ya. That'll be fine. Its his gift to you, for finally moving in with him where you belong.
Yandere!Kisaki Tetta
You're a true fucking brat. No really, you've somehow become the single biggest pain in the ass he's ever had to deal with. You throw out everything he buys you, you scream and demand your freedom at every turn, you're constantly trying to escape him...
But he loves you, really and truly adores you, and you're not going anywhere now that he's got you locked in his penthouse. He won't make the same mistake, he's going to keep this one alive. You'll just have to learn to love him.
Oh but your latest tantrum has him rethinking it all. You set fire to the apartment, burning all the clothes he bought you in the bathtub and almost getting the cops called.
But he was smart, smoothed over the situation and had you sedated before you could throw an even bigger fit. Honestly, some small part of him doesn't think you're worth the trouble but he comes home the next day and those thoughts are all dashed.
You're laying in one of his silk shirts, bundled into the sheets so sweetly he thinks he can feel his heart actually ache at the sight of you.
You're so precious, and perfect to him. "That was expensive," he'll try to say dismissively, he doesn't want you to think he's forgiven you for your little fit just yet, "I burned all the other ugly stuff you got me. At least your clothes are comfortable." "..."
He won't say anything after that, but he does make a mental note that perhaps the Gucci and the Balenciaga are probably not to your tastes. He should just get you things in the same style as him. Couples matching outfits could be nice.
Yandere!Manjiro Sano
Douchebag does not let you wear clothes he does not approve of. You belong to him and every aspect of your life belongs to him too, even what you wear.
And sometimes it's fine. Sometimes he's not around and you don't have to wear the skimpy dresses and designer shoes that hurt, sometimes you get to be comfortable and just chill out in your pajamas.
But you got too comfortable. He'd been gone for weeks again, because Micky comes and goes as he pleases, so you thought your usual fits would be fine.
Then he returns and for some reason he's pissed. It could be because the cops are on his ass, something didn't go his way or maybe his underlings were pissing him off, but for whatever reason for his rage he's decided he's going to take it out on you.
"What, Y/N? All the money I spend on nice clothes not good enough? You don't like the pretty thing I buy you?" "M-Mikey please-," "Too fuckin' good for the shit I give you?"
You're stripped bare and naked. For days. If you won't wear what he so graciously and lovingly gives you then you don't get to wear anything. And you're just shivering cold for a week straight trying to curl in yourself for any kind of warmth and comfort.
But after seven days of this hell you can't take it anymore. He doesn't even let you have sheets or blankets in your room anymore how the hell are you supposed to survive.
Thankfully, you find one of his discarded sweaters near the bed you two share and through it on without a second thought. You're nauseated because it still smells like him, but you can't bring yourself to take it off and be cold again.
You just snuggle into the fabric and finally find enough warmth and comfort to sleep that night. When Mikey comes home and sees you he realizes he's no longer angry. In fact, he's more than pleased.
"You just wanted to wear my clothes this whole time? That's fine. We'll share a wardrobe."
#yandere tokyo revengers#yandere manjiro sano#yandere mikey sano#yandere izana kurokawa#yandere izana#yandere tetta kisaki
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can u write about mark + mirror sex please please pleaseee
WHATS HATNIN’ ?:: mark lee
warning:: mirror sex, hair pulling, taking pictures, oral (m!receiving), hickeys, p in v sex, porn with no real plot, scratching, reverse cowgirl, doggy style, unprotected sex, headlock, posesive! Mark, sitautionship.
summary:: even if you two aren’t dating you know better. or at least that’s what mark thought, yet his eyes seemed to be amazed when he sees you posting a picture of you and a guy in your bedroom. a mirror picture.
inspo:: what’s hatnin’ by just Bieber, I literally cannot get out of my light skinned Justin era😭
the ugly feeling in Mark’s chest had become so transparent the moment he stepped out of his apartment keys in hand and phone in the other as he watched your story seeing a guy laying in his girls bed taking a picture of them laying next to each other in the mirror. To say mark was pissed would be the understatement of the century. Mark was utterly fuming, ready to show up at your place and rock that guys world.
Mark had never moved so fast to get to your place, loving the feeling of moving slow enough to keep you on your toes even though he is just as eager as anyone to see you. But Mark knows better than anyone when it comes down to you, he doesn’t share. He doesn’t care if you two are just hooking, officially dating, or friends with benefits. He can share a drink, a pizza, a bag of candy, but never you. That’s where Mark draws the line. And if anyone unknowingly or not even let the idea slip of getting with you; Mark would be right there to knock that shit right back to its root of thought.
His hair is damp from his shower, he was even more hot in the face at the thought that he couldn’t even relax without you going and stringing some poor guy along into your fuckery that would ultimately lead to you being in the same exact bed you were just in with him and being fucked stupid. Not that Mark minded putting you in your place where you belong; with him.
The moment he stands in front of your apartment he doesn’t have patience to be quiet and gentle, he balls up his fist banging on the hard wooden door waiting to for your face to pop up between the crack and chain lock before opening it. “What are you doing here? Did you text me?” You ask completely oblivious to his anger which riles Mark up even more he pushes the door open and his sheer force or lack of yours for that matter choking you up.
The feeling of his fist balling up your hair pulling your head back to fully look him in his eyes makes your eyes go wide and your voice die in your throat. “You like being around other guys right? You like entertaining little boys?” He asks making your hand press against his chest gripping desperately at his shirt.
“No- i don’t” you say but Mark doesn’t want to hear some bullshit excuse you’ll throw at him. “No? Then why’re you posting other dudes on your story? In your bed? Huh?” He says but he knows the answer and he doesn’t have time for theatrics. “He’s a guy i went college with Mark.” You say pulling at his shirt.
‘Right, college” he says but doesn’t care enough to hear or even know anymore. He was in your space, the sacred space Mark had made seem like was his second place residing there almost every night with some of his own belongings sitting around to remind you of him. Mark grips your hair tighter making you wince.
Dragging you along with every heart pounding step he took towards your bedroom, heart ready to fall out your ass at how rough he was being with you though it truly makes no difference to you as you knew awaited you on the other side of your bedroom door. “Dressin’ up and shit, what you wanna impress him? Getting all cute.” He says slamming the door to your room open and slamming it shut behind I’m as he pulls you towards the end of your bed.
“you like pissin’ me off don’t you? Shit gets you all excited huh?” He says now use deliberately picking at you because he knows you better than anyone that you’ll cave to his attitude, and you’d do anything to make it better. “No I swear, we were just catchin’ up” you say defensively. “In your bed? No.” Mark doesn’t want to hear it anymore.
His hand pulls you down to your knees in front of your mirror as he stands in front of you. “You like your mirror so much right? Like takin’ pictures with little boys. Take a picture now” he says his tone is teasing but it wasn’t an ounce of amusement behind his eyes. Making you pull your phone from your back pocket you reach up to give him the phone with no words said but he scoffs.
“Nah, you do it. You took pictures of him in your mirror why can’t you now?” Mark won’t let the mean persona crack one bit. Pulling your head back to lean down and press a kiss to your lips knowing now your irritation was leaking in, but a kiss would shut you up before you even got started.
You soften up looking at him as he pulls away slowly looking you in your eyes perking up his brows before kissing you once more harder then standing at his full height. You open your camera snapping pictures while you both hold eye contact. The shrill feeling of embarrassment creeps up on you making you pull your eyes away and press your life head to his thighs the second his grip loosened but immediately tightens the second your head lands on his thighs.
“Nah, don’t look away now. Look at yourself.” He demands and it makes you pull away as your face heats up more embarrassed than any moment before Mark had confronted you at the front door. Hesitantly you look at the mirror seeing his hands bulging with veins from his tight grip making your thighs press together.
“You don’t like this shit but remember what got you here” he says the ugly feeling he got seeing you and whoever the guy was. “Mark, he was literally just a friend- I didn’t plan on talking to him again” you say but it falls on deaf ears as Mark tugs your hair. “Get back to it. You’re not done” he says using his free hand to point to your phone.
You sigh and snap pictures not ripping your face away from looking up at Mark. Snapping a few too many in your opinion, yet you snapped until Mark said stop. And when you dropped your phone and slid it away mark finally lets go of his grip on your hair, crouching to your level. “You see how that shit feels?” He says looking you in your eyes making your eyes slightly widen.
“What?” You ask not catching the meaning behind his words but it doesn’t take long for Mark to answer. “Seeing my girl posting another dude? It’s fucking embarrassing, that shit pissed me off” he says his index and thumb gripping at your chin gently. “I don’t like seeing you with other people. It doesn’t sit right” Mark says, though he’s made it a point to always get the message across that he hates sharing you with anyone you’d never heard him outright say he was jealous.
“Arguing’s not gonna fix the problem” Mark says softly before littering your lips and face in kisses making you sigh knowing that whatever mark chooses to do to resolve his feelings at the moment you’d be content. “Ok” you shortly answer against his lips with a small sigh as he stands up and sits at the end of your bed still visible in the mirror. You knew Mark was waiting on you to make him feel better. You take the initiate sliding your knees against the floor feeling the ache in your bones as you settle between his legs.
Hands pressing against his legs sweatpants bringing warmth to the back of your palms until your hands reach the subtle bulge poking through the thick grey fabric. Mark releasing a sigh from above you at the pressure on his dick. "You gonna make me feel good?" he asks as he watches you tug at the waistband of his boxers and pants, lifting his hips to help you. you nod puffing out a small hum in confirmation. Looking into his dark eyes you feel the dull ache between your thighs that makes you clench your them shut to relieve the feeling.
Your hand gripping at his base in a grip that makes Mark groan at the feeling, pumping him in your fist, teasing his tip with your tongue pressing your thumb against it as a thin string of spit connects the two of you together. “Fuck, even when you’re being bratty you’re still a tease” Mark says wincing as your grip tightens and your movements speed up. The sight of his thighs shaking makes you smile, though you know the sheer slick sound of precut and spit wasn’t the only sound you could make hit the air.
Wrapping your lips around his cock pressing your head down farther ignoring the burn in your throat as you lets the tip of his cock press against the back of your throat letting the sound of a long awaited moan you had been wanting to hear making your throat tighten around him which makes his bunch your hair back up once more guiding your head up and down on his dick sucking as the soft gags and sound of suckleing breach the heavy air.
Mark letting his other hand run through his black hair and fall back down on his forehead. “F-fuck” he huffs as his hips buck into the warmth from the back of your throat. Biting his lip as he feels the tingling sensation in his lower stomach while his thighs tense. His heartbeat is thrumming in his ears as he feels like his body is being reduced to nothing.
“That’s it baby” he moans airily as his hand presses down on the back of your head guiding you down his cock faster, his hips respond, Mark loves the way you look with tears in your eyes and mascara spilled with spit dripping down your chin and onto your chest in strings as your hair is absolutely fucked up by his hand.
“Look so pretty like that baby” he moans as his vision gets splotched, he’s closer and he can feel the burning white heat in his stomach clenching up and roaring to be released. His eyes widening at the feeling of your soft palm pressed flat against his tip rubbing quickly making him whine as his hips fuck into your fist at his base.
“Gonna cum” he groans as he looks you in your eyes watching as your wet eyelashes fluttered and your eyes look up at him, jaw slacking Mark feels himself letting go earning a deep groan from his throat that makes you gasp at how much he’s giving you. “Fuck” you whisper looking down at his dick covered in cum, red and throbbing; while mark lays back on the bed his face pale as if he’s seeing the pearly gates.
“C’mere” he says throaty and drained you move to sit in his lap making sure not brush against his sensitive cock. Mark sits up on his hands pressing his palms deep into the mattress as they sink in, you hesitantly find a comforting way to sit without touching him harshly while he’s coming down.
The pad of his thumb why’s away the saliva around your lips before he presses his lips to your forehead then to your lips heatedly, you moan almost instantly craving the feeling of his plump lips pressed against yours as he tastes himself on your tongue. His hands gripping the fat of your ass squeezing as he pulls you closer your hands settle to the back of his neck letting your fingers run through his hair.
Pulling away Mark nips and suckles on the skin of your throat making you lean your head back give him all the space he needs to litter small marks across your skin waiting to bloom into purple and blue bruises. His hands finding the bottom of your shirt pulling it over your head slowly as he kisses the skin above your navel up to the bottom of your bra he doesn’t hesitate to unclip and throw to the ground with your shirt.
Mark pulls his shirt over his own head letting you take the time to pull your pants and panties off. Mark settles you in his lap once more facing the mirror almost embarrassed at how disheveled you looked. “Look at you, my girl looks so pretty. Waiting to get fucked stupid” Mark whispers in your ear as your eyes watches the way his cock his hard and pressed against your navel, you clench around nothing.
“You wanna make it up to me? Make me feel better? Ride this fucking dick” he mumbles and that makes your head drop back as a moan ripples off the walls through the air. “s’not fair mark” you mumble as you crumble at the feeling of your clit pressed against him your mind utterly cloud with nothing but mark, mark, mark. You can’t get enough of it, adjusting your hips to press his tip against your sticky entrance teasing him in return as you sink down on just the tip making him sink his nails into your hip earning a wince.
“I don’t got the patience baby” he mumbles against your shoulder as he looks at you over the shoulder slowly pressing his hips up into you slowly making you sink onto his cock taking every inch he can give you until your ass is pressed against his thighs. “That’s it” he hisses as you grind down on him the feeling of him taking up all your space, filled to the brim makes your stomach feel warm and your chest tight at the stretch.
Your feet folding under your thighs as your hands reach back to hold onto his hands, anything, you you just need to feel him but mark does you better by wrapping his arms around your waist letting his warm palms rub against your tummy. The slick sound of you grinding against him makes you whine. Slowly lifting your hips and dropping them making Mark’s breathing shutter like a stack of paper in the wind.
Bouncing on his lap, his thrusts deep enough to make your thighs tremble as you whine, your thighs starting to burn as you push through the feeling letting your finger nails dig crescent shapes into his skin. “You like that? s’It feel good?” He asks as his hips rock against you his eyes watching the way your ass bounces letting a hand fall behind you letting a deafening smack reverberate off the walls.
“Yeah” you nod your head his eyes can’t stay in one place bouncing from you to the mirror in love with everything in sight. The trembling in your thighs slows you down making you switch between bouncing and grinding your hips making Mark grip your thighs “don’t slow down” he chuckles as his hands lift the weight of your thighs as impact was less of a worry.
The slick sounds in the air make your head dizzy as you barely catch the dirty words mark are whispering into your skin as his lips trail up your spine making your bones utterly shiver. “Keep going, don’t stop” he says his voice low and gruff like gravel sending goosebumps all over your skin that makes your hips bounce faster.
“That’s it” he mumbled his fingers rubbing small circles on your clit that makes your head fall back immediately making Mark scoff. “Didn’t I say look in the mirror? Look in the fucking mirror” he says sternly his rough palm colliding with the skin of your ass that makes you whine as you straighten up looking at yourself.
Hair a mess, makeup smudged as your mascara runs. You couldn’t be embarrassed with the way you were absolutely fucking yourself dumb on his cock, it felt too good to care, the shrill feeling in your lower stomach making your breath get caught in your throat as you clench down tighter on him.
“Get up” he said and it immediately made you want to burst into tears. You were so close, just a hair away from feeling that rush of energy and pleasure wash over you in white warm waves. You move anyways, slowly as it makes you feel empty. Mark guides you to rest on your stomach arching your back he leans close between your thighs letting a glob of spit trickle down your pussy making you gasp.
Spreading your legs farther apart seeing the way you glisten under your bedrooms dim lamp propped in the corner. “Look at you, all tired, you tired baby?” He asks as he pumps himself watching your expression in the mirror with a smirk seeing you nod your head. “Just wanna see you cum” you mumble as your temple presses against the mattress.
Mark hums in response as he presses his tip to your soaked entrance as the strings of spit and slick string against his tip as he slaps his tip against you making your hips jerk in response before pushing against him, the stretch is welcomed and you moan at the feeling of being full again. “You like that?” He asks as he sinks in slower making your jaw slack before your teeth cage over your bottom lip nodding.
His hand pressing against your ass as the other against your hip as his pelvis touches your skin making you grind against him. “Feels so fucking good” you whisper as you stack your arms in front of you and rest your chin on your forearm watching mark through the mirror who looks at just how deep he is inside you.
Pulling out just enough for his tip to still be inside before pressing harshly back into you making you moan as he repeats more harshly before utterly pounding into you, his hands touching your body in ways he knows only he can. “You know where to look” he says groaning as he pats your ass making your eyes flicker from him to yourself.
You know mark looks good, his dark hair sticking to his forehead and neck sticky with sweat, his feint abs covered in sweat that makes him look absolutely delicious. “Fuck yourself on my dick, come on” he says gently and it makes your head spin “come on pretty” he whispers as you lift yourself on your hands using it as leverage to bounce yourself in his lap picking up the pace.
“please cum” you whimper as you let your head fall back to look mark in his eyes absolutely filled with lust. “Wan’ you to cum so fucking bad, please” you moan and it makes Mark feel like he’s gonna lose it. His hand presses to your upper back making you fall back into the mattress, Mark leans over you completely like a tower wrapping his arm around your neck putting you in a headlock as he lets his hips buck into you sloppily.
Your moans die out as the constricting feel in your throat makes your jaw drop in pleasure as your eyes roll back. “Look at that fucking mirror hm?” He says into your ear, his breathing heavy as he can feel himself getting close almost like a sneeze the tingling sensation bundles up in your lower stomach as you force yourself to look in the mirror.
“Don’t want anybody else no more right?” He asks as his hips continue to piston into you “no, just you” you slur your words can barely make it out of your mouth with how good he fucks you. “Your little friend can’t do better can he?” He asks even though he knows the answer he still asks just to hear it from your mouth. “Never could make me cum” you whine as your thighs twitch.
“Cum with me, that’s all I need you to do for me baby” he moans as he absolutely tears up your insides making you grip his arm and sink your nails into his skin as you smoosh your face against his temple releasing all tension in your stomach the same time you hear the deepest moan to be released past marks throat that makes keep your eyes shut tightly as your body falls limp against him in pleasure as he fills you with the warm feeling of his cum.
Letting a few more rough thrusts make you completely shutter against him as he stops pulling away from you making you feeling the coldest you have been since he’s stepped inside your apartment, pulling out Mark watched how your dripped with his cum spilling on the sheets and onto your thighs he hums tiredly in satisfaction of his work almost as if your pussy was a masterpiece he painted with his cum.
Standing up Mark works with you in gentle touches as you wince at the dull ache between your thighs. “It’s okay, I got you” he mumbles as he carries your weight to the bathroom sitting you on the counter as he runs a bath. The both of you eventually situate in the bath with your back pressed to his chest as he cups the bath water letting it spill over your shoulders as he runs the rag lathered in soap over your skin.
“You’re mean when you’re jealous” you say, your throat dry and hoarse yet you don’t mind using whatever little bit of your voice you have to tease Mark. “Well maybe when you do shit to make me jealous I just show the ugly feelings” he mumbles as he presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re never gonna talk to him an again are you?” He asks with a hint of teasing in his voice “after this? Absolutely not” you laugh as you reach your hand up to his hand letting your nails rake through the wet tangles that makes Mark relax into you as his chin rests on your shoulder pressing a kiss to the skin. “Good” he mumbles.
©neopercs
#𖦹—( neo percs )#mark smut#nct smut#nct dream smut#nct 127 smut#mark lee smut#mark hard hours#mark x reader
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Hello,
How about a LA luffy where he's dating Reader and he keeps talking about her but no one believes him until she comes and rescue them or something
I know not much details but please take this to your account
English isn't my first language so excuse me
OMG THIS IS PERFECT! Thank you for the request! I apologize for taking so long to write it I've been so busy and full of writers block its insane! I added a little twist with his and made th reader a gunslinger sooo yeah(for the plot) Anywa here we go! Enjoy
Warnings: None
The strawhat crew was becoming increasingly irritated with how much Luffy would speak of this mystery woman who he claimed to be his 'girlfriend'. In all honestly, neither of them thought he had the romantic capacity to even GET a girlfriend to begin with. But the way he spoke of her...it couldn't all be lies could it?
He mentioned how you'd saved him with your remarkable skills as a gunslinger and you were an amazing shot. He gushed about how it took only one bullet to kill three men who had threatened him and when it was all over you 'pepper his face with kisses'. How you were always there to save him more times than not and that you were just absolutely beautiful. The 'prettiest girl' he'd ever seen as he told it.
"If you guys are so in love why didn't she join you on this little pirate adventure." Nami quips, eyes rolling at the most recent story Luffy had explained. He only tilted his head and smiled as if the answer was just so obvious (it wasn't.)
"It wasn't her dream." He smiles, rocking back and for a bit as Zoro finished off his drink before speaking.
"This wasn't exactly our first choice either but here we are." the swordsman smirks, his arms crossed over his chest.
The smirk was soon replaced with irritation when the waiter went to speak.
"That's different. Besides, I'm sure Luffy wouldn't leave a woman like that all on her lonesome. Right?" Sanji questions, more so trying to convince himself Luffy had more sense than that. But the brunette only shakes his head.
"Nope, she said we would cross paths again one day and I let her be. It was a deal! And now I get to wait until one day I see her beautiful face again." And before anyone could protest or pry any further, Luffy stuffed his face with food.
A sigh rang out from Nami as she leaned against the seating of the booth they're in, only to quickly shoot back up with wide eyes. Since Luffy's bounty had got a hell of a whole lot bigger, there was always the occasional run-in with someone who claimed they'd be getting their money sooner rather than later.
On this particular night though, a gang of about 6 or 7 had strutted up to their booth and slammed his bounty on the cracked wood of the table, making it shake. Zoro paused, debating if these idiots were worth the fight and Luffy continued to eat without a care in the world.
"I'm getting that bounty tonight." Then, what they all assumed was the leader spoke, his hand drawing his sword. This could have gotten ugly rather quickly but the fight seemed to be over with the sound of fired shots ringing through the eatery.
It was so quick you'd almost miss it…each shot followed by another, and one by one each of the men dropped like flies, screams and gasps of frightened patrons filling up the space momentarily. From the darkened corner of the bar stood a woman in a rather large coat that almost touched the floor.
The revolver in her hand rattled before she tucked it away into one of the many pockets that adorned her body. She was a decent height, and her hair was pushed out of her face most likely to keep her line of sight from being obscured. Finally, the once look of disgust that was painted over her features was filled with joy as she stepped over the bodies of the men she'd just laid to waste.
"Luffy!" She squeals, practically vibrating as the Stawhat leaped form his seat and embraced the mystery woman.
This wasn't the usual hug though, Luffy had simply lifted the lady and twirled her, his face buried in the crook of her neck and she giggled and tangled her fingers in his hair.
"I'm sorry did we miss something?" Nami quips, looking to the rest of the crew to confirm they were just as lost.
"This is her! Remember the girl I've been talking about!?" He practically shouts, his hand secure at your waist as that iconic smile plays over his lips.
Oh okay it was finally starting to make sense. Two cinimon rolls but one can and will kill you if they so desire...well-
Nami is the first to laugh, disbelief filling her but the closer she looks the more her laughter and smirk dies down. Luffy's hand was firm at your waist, yours on his chest as you flash a content smile.
"Y/n, meet my crew!" Luffy introduces as you jut your hand out happily, meeting that of whom you soon learn is Usopp and Sanji. Nami was next and Zoro simple noddded in your direction.
"You really know how to pick em! Congratulations on this bounty by the way love." You hum, pressing kisses over Luffy's freckled cheeks.
Damn how much love and affection could you give? It was like every two seconds your lips were pressed somewhere against their Captain’s face! And he didn’t seems to mind at all! Well, not that Luffy was bothered by it but still! With one last kiss to your boyfriend’s face, you usher the crew out of the eatery, sliding the bartender some extra berrie to apologize for the ruckus.
The two of you looked so inseparable like that, hands interlinked and swinging back and forth simultaneously.
“You know what this means don’t you. Usopp teases, sticking his hand out awaiting Nami to fulfil her end of the bargain.
She swears in defeat roller her eyes before paying.
Who wouldn’t make a bet on something as outlandish as their captain having a girlfriend!?
#x reader#one piece#reader is black#one piece live action#i don't care he's hot#headcannons#one piece x reader#opla#luffy opla#opla luffy#monkey d. luffy x reader#luffy x reader#opla luffy x reader
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wyll whos nice and kind down to his bones but develops a nasty jealousy streak….tugs you back behind some secluded corner of camp to kiss you something fierce when he catches how others at camp look upon you…starts smoking a cigarette
steadily yours | w. ravengard
✮ tags ; jealousy, established relationship, gn!reader, kissing / hickies, alcohol, silly and lovesick wyll
✮ wc ; 2k
✮ a/n ; ive thought about this ask for a week straight. its getting dire.
some minor spoilers for wylls romance like extremely minor and vauge!!! i am only just entering act three so pls dont spoil me but this take place vaugely post game lololol
The Blade of Frontiers is a good man.
This isn't a title he's given himself, but one bestowed upon him. Through tales and songs all across the city and uttered from the very lips of his lover - Wyll Ravengard has always strived to be a good man.
He can't assert this by any measure, but he knows best his own effort. For the sake of the city, for the sake of his people, for the sake of love. He wants very little to himself, and he fights with every ounce of him. His heart is in the city, but his soul is with you. Between these two places, there's no amount of sacrifice or burden he isn't willing to bear.
Part of being a good man is being the master of your own desires. What other men do is none of Wyll's concern, but he's always been adamant about keeping firmly on the straight path. Wyll wants love properly, much like how he wishes the world around him would follow.
Properly, with order and justice and care. That's how Wyll has lived his whole life.
And he's believed of himself that loving that way came easier upon him than it did others, though that was nothing he felt like bragging about. It never felt difficult to abstain from the ugliness of anger or jealousy.
That was before you. And this is after, this is post having your meeting. Wyll has had a relationship or two. Puppy crushes that fizzled off as soon as Wyll's responsibility began to overwhelming. Like, less than love, really. This time it is love, and love is incomparable to any sensation in the world. Not the cut of a blade against his skin, nor the warmth of a sunset. No mortal feeling could really measure to love.
In the aftermath of loving you, Wyll supposes, there is an ugliness within himself that he never really knew about. But maybe it's only normal. What else could there be after he's encountered the most beautiful thing the world has to offer, beyond even gods?
There are three things on Wyll's mind, lately. One, that he loves you more than he thought possible. Two, that he's relieved about the state of affairs. And three, he's very tired of feeling this way.
Not that he's tired of loving you. Things just aren't so busy anymore, and that means there's always people around. The people of the gate love you, and you're more hospitable than you let on. The camp is busy, rife with life every single evening and everyone is always so keen on meeting you.
You're busy, rightly - laughing and drinking. Though you're not much for talking, you do your duties as a host and tell stories when prompted. You seem to enjoy yourself in the well-earned reprieve and you've really do deserve very bit of that love and attention that's come your way.
So, Wyll knows feeling this way is ugly. The jealousy is ugly, and Wyll's not entirely lacking self-awareness about it. Though before he could chalk it up to other things, lately it's impossible. He knows that the Outlanders who come seeking your company have no idea you're engaged - and that they're simply men who desire you for the name you've earned.
A warrior, a hero, a myth - Wyll does not blame them for their curiosity.
But he feels pitiful to be so stirred up about it anyways.
He drinks tonight, though the carafe of wine is mostly full. The others speak amongst themselves. Astarion drifts by him, stands and sways in motion in the cool night air with a smug look on his face that Wyll is too dazed to catch.
Astarion speaks first. The sound is muffled first, impossible to make out in his own mind before a pale hand waves in front of his face.
"You know I'll have to thank your darling later for allowing me to see such a rare sight," Astarion drawls. He's sober, though there's wine in his hand all the same "The Blade of Frontiers, seething with jealousy. A marvel."
"I wouldn't call it seething," Wyll replies, still only half paying attention. His eyes are glued to you. He can't bring himself to look away.
Astarion laughs, a little pity in his voice , though Wyll can't really make out if it's sincere or not.
"But you'll admit you're jealous? My, Ravengard, you've changed." Astarion says. Wyll doesn't bother asking what he means, since it's true in any case "Forgive those poor Outlanders. It's hard enough watching them pine for one half the lovesick couple as is."
Wyll sighs.
"It's fine," Wyll says, though even he can hear how much he doesn't really mean it "It's not like they would know. I suppose many people wear decorative rings these days."
"Gods, this is funny. Just listen to you, I mean really. What a delight. I have half a mind to call the rest over just to witness it in person. Unfortunately I'm not so charitable," Astarion says back to him holding in a laugh "Whatever will you do, Ravengard? Maybe you could kick up a fuss, or pick a fight. People brawl at these things don't they? Oh what a sight that'd be indeed."
Wyll ignores him, but he does heed the advice. He would like to do something about it, though there won't be any brawl. He steels himself, passes an empty cup off to Astarion who makes a shrill laugh as Wyll starts walking himself over the fire.
When he arrives there, the conversation has come to more of a relaxed lull. You notice him even engrossed in conversation, flashing him a smile so beautiful he feels a little blinded.
He gives you one in return, disarmed. The outlander who's been trying to win your attention all night goes to address you again and Wyll is quick to interject.
"Ah, sorry - would you all mind if I borrowed them for a minute?"
You give Wyll a look of surprise, your eyes crystal clear. He feels guilty almost instantly, but continues anyway.
"Is something the matter?" You ask, your voice softened. You've been drinking, from the way your words melt together.
"Nothing serious, just something I wanted to talk to you about in private. That alright? Promise I'll return them before the night is over."
"As long as you promise," Says the very same one Wyll's been trying to tear you away from all evening. You laugh heartily before standing to your feet. You're beaming at him, brilliant - and Wyll goes back to his usual pleasant self as he gives his goodbyes.
He says something about promising before he whisks you off, faithfully ignoring the knowing looks of party.
And he takes you to a quiet corner of the camp, a short trail bridging between the main plot of land. There's some sturdy scenery, and rocks large enough to shield you from the outside and give you privacy.
He's cornering you a bit, admittedly - but you seem happy to see him. As soon as you're alone, you have your arms around his neck. There's a delightful air of excitement around you and Wyll finds himself filling with all the fondness in the world.
The faint sour-sweet of wine lingers off of your lips. Wyll looks at you closely, studies your expression.
"Sorry, sorry," You apologize, suddenly more comfortable. A side of yourself that you only show to him. How funny it makes him feel "I was happy to see you, is all."
"I can see that," Wyll replies, smug - just barely. You bat your lashes, dazed. It's unlike you. Wyll likes it. "I'm happy to see you too. Always."
"Is it something serious?"
Ah. He's caught isn't he? In a way, he's tremendously lucky you're not too sober. He's sure you'll tease him about it later.
"No, I suppose not. It's nothing at all, I just," He stumbles uncertainly at what he should say "Well, I wanted to speak with you."
"You could've joined us!"
Wyll gives you a sideways glance.
"Could I?" He says, before he catches himself. He adds the next words apologetically almost "That outlander you've been conversing all night seemed rather rapt with you. I doubt I could've interjected anywhere without fumbling."
You look like you're processing his words, but it's not as if Wyll is going to let you.
Wyll often says to you that you make him forget himself, and there are moments like these he find that to be more true than ever. It is unlike Wyll - strong and chivalrous, poise and charming - to bear so heavy a feeling in his heart that he has to express it physically.
Only you could make his silver tongue submit to such urgent, base instinct. Wyll kisses you in the most unromantic way he knows. It's not very gentlemanly. A kiss to claim, to sink, to swallow.
He kisses hard, and your lips are faint with the taste of wine. You make a noise of surprise before you melt into his arms. The warmth of his body makes him feel like he's burning to ash. His tongue touches yours, warm and hot nipping at your mouth.
When you pull away, Wyll decides it still isn't enough to curb the jealousy. He lets his teeth drift down to your neck. Sharpened canines that scrape against thin skin. Wyll sucks hard, enough to make all the capilliaries break.
And you sigh - a pretty, welcoming noise. Wyll is marking you. He leaves one after the other, in admittedly visible places. But he's not thinking about, not really.
Not until your voice breaks, the sweetest edge of desire to your words. He's not so debased to do anything to you while you're more than tipsy. He pulls away from you, blinks at you candidly - before the realization dawns on him in full.
By the gods, what's wrong with him? Embarrassment hits him afterwards, abject dread filling him as he peers at the dark marks along your neckline.
Did he really...? Really?
"Wyll," You say, strikingly sober and delighted all of a sudden "Are you...perhaps...jealous?"
He rubs his face on his hand, suddenly flush, turning his expression to one side. He can't deny it at this point can he.
"I wonder if my life will be easier once our wedding is announced in print," He offers sheepishly. You laugh loudly, absolutely elated as you press your forehead to his. He does the same, of course "The ring seems to be no more than decorative to everyone."
"Wyll Ravengard, I would've never guessed in a thousand years you'd drag me here because you were jealous."
"Please forget my uncouth actions at your earliest convenience my love," He says, groaning "I might die of embarrassment otherwise."
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I get jealous over silly things all the time. I tell you as much."
"When you do it it's endearing. I'm meant to be a gentleman, yet in front of you - I lose my wits like I'm a boy no older than seventeen. It's maddening."
"You forget yourself?" You tease, characteristically. He laughs.
"A bit more each day, it seems."
"A little jealousy is healthy, Ravengard. Though, I'm not sure how we're going to return to camp in this state." You say, giving him a suggestive look "Perhaps we have a bit more to talk about here instead, hm?"
"We should be doing such things in a bed. Or a tent." Wyll insists. You chuckle like you know he'll give into you.
"Wouldn't it be more effective if that Outlander you're so jealous of saw me with a post sex glow, along with the hickies."
Wyll feels his skin prick with heat.
"You drive a hard bargain." He comments, voice soft as a whisper. You laugh.
"Maybe you're just an easy sell."
Wyll laughs heartily at that.
"Any one would jump at the chance for something so priceless, Hero of the Gate."
You give Wyll another smile, lovely and genuine - there's nothing smug about it. You kiss him tender, sighing happily into his arms. He finds himself helpless to his own joy.
"Then lets kill time here and head back,"
"Yes," He says, jealousy tucked away for now "Let's do that,"
#return to sender#wyll x reader#bg3 x reader#wyll fluff#wyll ravengard x reader#bg3 fluff#writing tag#WYLL I WONT YHU
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The Ugly Green Emotion
Part Two [SMUT!]
TW: soft top stina, cunnilingus, praise kink
[yahoo enjoy this por favor] [drop some comments, lmk yalls thoughts!!]
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you emerged from the airport and hailed a taxi to take you to Stina's apartment. As the taxi made its way through the familiar streets of London, you couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia wash over you.
When the taxi pulled up outside Stina's building, you practically leaped out, eager to see her again. With a quick thank you to the driver, you hurried up the steps and rang the doorbell, your heart racing with anticipation.
Moments later, the door swung open, and there stood Stina, her eyes lighting up with joy as she saw you standing there. Without a word, she pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you close as if she never wanted to let you go.
“I've missed you so much,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion as she pressed a gentle kiss to your lips.
“I've missed you too,” you replied, your own voice thick with emotion. “I couldn't wait to get back to you.”
Stina pulled back slightly, her eyes searching yours with a mix of surprise and delight. “I didn't expect to see you tonight,” she admitted, her voice tinged with excitement. “What made you come back early?”
You smiled, feeling a rush of affection for Stina as you reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. “I missed you too much,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted to surprise you, and… since I have a few days off, I wanted to spend them with you.”
"You know," she said softly, "I've been thinking about all the ways I want to welcome you home."
A shiver ran down your spine at the suggestion, anticipation coursing through your veins. "Tell me," you whispered, your voice barely a breath as you leaned in closer to her.
With a playful glint in her eyes, Stina leaned in close, her lips brushing against yours in a tantalising kiss. "Oh, I plan to show you, min kärlek," she murmured, her voice sending a jolt of desire straight to your core.
“Show me then, lovely,” You wrapped your arms around her neck, letting Stina’s hands circle your waist before picking you up into her arms. With a soft laugh, you wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her closer as your lips met in a passionate kiss.
Stina's touch was electric against your skin, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body as she carried you towards the bedroom. With each step, the anticipation grew, until finally, she laid you down on the bed, her eyes dark with desire as she hovered over you.
“I've missed you so much,” Stina whispered, her voice husky with desire as she trailed kisses along your jawline. “I've been thinking about this since I saw you in that dress.”
A low moan escaped your lips as Stina's hands roamed your body, her touch sending waves of pleasure radiating through you. “I've missed you too,” you gasped, your voice filled with longing as you arched into her touch. “Fuck, Stin, please…”
With a soft chuckle, Stina's lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Please what, pretty girl?” she whispered, her voice dripping with desire as she nibbled gently on your skin. “Tell me what you want.”
“Touch me, please,” You bit your lip, trying to keep it down and keep some sense of composure. You knew it would be physically impossible, there was a reason why you had racked up a lot of ‘late to training’ warnings. Most of these came after the nights you’d spend at each other’s houses.
Stina's lips curved into a wicked smile as she looked up at you, her eyes dark with desire. “Oh, I plan to touch you,” she murmured, her voice husky with need as she trailed her fingertips lightly over your skin. “But first, I want to hear you beg for it.”
Your breath hitched at her words, desire pooling low in your stomach as you felt yourself growing wetter and wetter. “Please, Stin,” you whimpered, unable to hide the desperation in your voice. “I need you to touch me, to make me yours.”
“I’m sorry, älskling, but I didn’t quite hear you,” Stina murmured in response. God, it felt like she was everywhere. Her hands gently traced patterns on your hips, drifting lower and lower whilst she placed kisses and gentle nips where her fingertips had been. “God, I love knowing that I'm the only one who can make you feel this way.” She glanced up at you, and you swore to whatever otherworldly figure that was listening that you could have died a completely fulfilled woman right then and there when she made eye contact.
“Please,” you gasped, your voice filled with longing as you pressed yourself closer to her. “I need you, Stin.”
With a soft laugh, Stina's hands roamed your body, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing second. “You're so beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire as she trailed kisses along your jawline. “I could spend forever worshipping you.”
Stina's fingers deftly tugged at the straps of your bra, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes as she revealed the soft curves of your breasts. “God, you're so breathtaking,” she murmured, her voice husky with desire as she leaned in to capture one of your nipples between her lips.
You gasped at the sudden contact, your fingers tangling in Stina's hair as waves of pleasure washed over you. “Stin,” you moaned, your voice a breathless whisper as she continued to lavish attention on your sensitive flesh.
With a soft laugh, Stina's lips trailed a path of fire down your chest, her hands teasingly brushing over your skin as she explored every inch of your body. “You taste so sweet,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire as she nipped gently at your skin. “I could spend eternity right here.”
Your breath hitched at Stina's words, desire coursing through your veins as she teased you mercilessly. “Please,” you whimpered, your voice barely a whisper as you arched into her touch. “I need more, Stin.” Then you properly registered what she said, an adorably confused expression on your face. “That wouldn’t be healthy… I mean, us athletes need protein, nutrients… and water…”
With a playful glint in her eyes, Stina's lips trailed lower again, leaving a trail of hot kisses along your stomach once more, chuckling at you thinking out loud. “Tell me what you want, baby,” she murmured, her voice husky with desire as she toyed with the waistband of your underwear. “You know you have to ask for it.”
You let out a soft moan, your body trembling with anticipation as Stina's hands roamed your body, “I want you,” you gasped, your voice thick with desire as you reached out for her. Stina could be mean sometimes; on some occasions, she’d tie you up and wouldn’t let you touch an inch of her, and the only time you could touch her, she’d blindfold you and ride your tongue for her own pleasure. On other occasions, she could be incredibly generous, like now, as she let you tug her closer by the necklace you had gifted her for her birthday last year.
Stina's lips curled into a wicked smile as she allowed you to pull her closer, relishing in the desire and urgency that radiated from you. “You're so eager, my love,” she murmured, her voice husky with desire as she trailed kisses along your jawline. “I want you too.” She pulled back slightly, eyes scanning your face. “I want to taste every inch of you, to make you scream my name.”
With a soft groan, you melted into her touch, your body arching against hers as she positioned herself between your legs. “Please,” you gasped, your voice thick with need as you parted your thighs.
With a soft chuckle, Stina's lips descended upon your most sensitive spot, her tongue sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “I'm right here, darling,” she whispered, her voice filled with promise as she began to explore you with an intoxicating urgency. “Let me show you how much I adore you.”
“Oh, fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking as she immediately had you spiraling into ecstasy with each delicious stroke of her tongue. “Don't stop, Stin. Please, don't stop.”
“Fuck, you taste like a dream,” she whispered, her voice filled with desire as she devoured you with abandon.
Stina's hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as she continued to pleasure you with a relentless determination. “You're mine, all mine,” she panted, her voice thick with desire. She knew she should pace herself, you had all night after all, but you drove her insane. “No one else can make you feel like this, can they, darling?”
You could only nod in response, barely trusting yourself to string together some words, let alone a complete sentence. “Only you,” you managed to gasp out, “Only you, Stin.”
A satisfied smile played upon Stina's lips as she continued to worship you with an intensity that left you breathless. “That's right,” she whispered against your soaked cunt. “You're mine, and I'm going to make sure you never forget it.” She quickened her pace, and your eyes rolled back into your head, fluttering open to gaze down at your girlfriend.
“Please, Stin,” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need. “Please let me come.”
A mischievous glint danced in Stina's eyes as she pretended to consider your request, her pace slowing, making you groan and arch up into her. “Hmm, I don't know,” she teased, her voice dripping with desire. “Are you sure you've been a good girl for me?”
Your body writhed beneath Stina's touch, every fibre of your being yearning for the need to come. “Yes, yes, I've been good,” you pleaded, your voice filled with desperation as you begged for her permission to come. “Please, Stin, let me come. I need it so bad. Please let me.”
With a soft chuckle, Stina relented, her gaze softening as she leaned in to place a gentle kiss on your trembling thighs. “That's my good girl,” she murmured, her voice thick with desire as she quickened her pace once more, driving you to the brink before finally getting you there. “Come for me, min ängel. Come.”
As the waves of pleasure crashed over you, you cried out Stina's name, your voice filled with ecstasy as she brought you to the peak of bliss. “Stina,” you gasped, your body trembling as you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. “Oh god, Stina, I love you.”
Stina held you close, her arms wrapped protectively around you as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm. “You're so beautiful,” she whispered, her voice filled with adoration as she pressed gentle kisses against your skin. “I love you too, so much.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you looked up at her, a smile on your face. "You quite literally brought me to heaven and back," you whispered, your heart overflowing with love for the woman who knew just how to bring you to the height of pleasure and back again. You reached up, gently bringing her face down to yours, kissing her softly. “Thank you for always taking care of me.”
Stina smiled down at you, her eyes shining with love as she brushed a strand of hair from your face, “You know you don’t have to thank me.” She littered kisses all over your face. “I’m really proud of you. Top five in the Ballon D’or? Insanity.”
“What’s insane is that you weren’t nominated, min kärlek,” you said, a serious expression on your face that made Stina chuckle before hiding her face in your neck, your hand instinctively coming up to give your girlfriend some hair scratches as you continued on your rant as to why Stina should’ve been at least nominated.
And when you withdrew your hand, again subconsciously as you tended to do hand gestures whenever you got like this, Stina lifted her head, “I agree, babe, I agree, but could you keep this… “ She grabbed your hand, and placed it on her hair. “... here?” When you deadpanned at her, she offered a sweet smile. “Please? I love you? And your amazing hair scratches?”
You sighed with a smile, pulling her closer to you, the two of you content with just existing together.
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asks are open! drop me some requests (can be any player, not just stina!)
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he just sounds like that
Kaz Brekker x Fem!reader (established relationship)
synopsis: Arrogance has no place on a job, but you let it lower your guard. You pay the price, but Kaz helps bring you back.
I kind of like merging Book/Show Kaz and trying to keep accurate to his mannerisms and humour etc so hopefully this is good. I came about this idea after thinking about this scene from TLOU and how Kaz most definitely had an asshole voice. Also, I will probably make a few parts/drabbles about Kaz x Inferni Reader, because I love Kaz no apologies.
Warnings: Mentions of Slavery, reader reliving her time as a slave (briefly), Mentions of scars of wrists from slavery chains etc, A fumbley understanding of the technology of the time and inferni powers (it's been so long since I read the books)
Getting split from the other crows was distressing, but there was nothing you could do about that now. You and Kaz just had to keep going, trying to work your way back to the rendezvous point.
"Tell me again why you thought this would work," You hissed to Kaz, who had been leading you in a circle for what felt like forever.
Kaz gave you an irritated glare, "It did work."
You scoffed, "Yeah, that's why we're lost in this saints forsaken mansion."
Kaz let out an exasperated sigh, "Are you done?"
You and Kaz had known each other for years, the entire time you'd known each other you bantered like this. Kaz would act all irritated and stern, but you knew he silently liked the way you could relieve tension and make even him crack a smile. As the only two Crows born and raised in the farmlands of Kerch, you shared a different connection. You had found each other before The Barrel knew Kaz as the force he was now. Kaz had saved you from Slavers and convinced you to join the Dregs, helping you find a life without fear.
Since then, you followed him through everything, which at this current moment, meant even through the merchant's maze of a mansion. Nina, Matthias and Wylan were somewhere outside, waiting for you, Kaz, Inej and Jesper to get what you were after and meet them. You wondered if they would be growing impatient yet, you were late, which almost never happened on a job with Kaz.
The job had started off as most others, breaking in was always the easy part. You had been privy to Kaz's plans, watching him study a map of the mansion for weeks before he committed to the job. He knew the place like the back of his hand, but he didn't know the extent of the new security measures the merch had introduced.
You and Jesper dawdled behind Inej and Kaz as they led the group through the halls. Occasionally Jesper would pause at a painting or display piece and make comments about its ugliness or stupidity.
The last painting he'd criticized was of an older man, dressed in a bright blue kefta with red embroidery. Jesper had caught your sleeve and pointed it out to you, "Looks like the merch has inferni ancestor."
You had screwed your nose up at the portrait, "I thought he was Kaelish?"
"He is," Kaz said, already at the end of the hall with Inej. He was waiting for the two of you to catch up, like a boy calling his dogs home.
Walking through the mansion felt surreal, mostly because you hadn't been to many places with such decadent displays of wealth. The four of you could move through the hallways unnoticed because the Merch and his family were out at the theatre - or whatever it was rich people did in Ketterdam on Sunday Nights. He had brought most of his guards and men with him, leaving the halls silent and unpatrolled. Kaz had called him an arrogant fool, to declare his mansion impenetrable and then take all his men out to prove it. There was no place able to keep out Dirtyhands, especially not when he had his crows by his side.
Thinking back on it you realized how you all had been too arrogant, thinking this job was in and out, easy. You'd let your guard down - something Kaz warned you to never do in this city - and now you were paying the price.
Everything went wrong when you and Kaz finally found what you were looking for - the merch's family jewel, a sapphire embedded in rich Kealish gold. You had easily broken through the fabrikator-made lock, it might have been made by a Grisha but it couldn't hold up against a Grisha. Especially not one who could melt metal with the same ease as cutting pastry. Kaz had reached for the jewels, as soon as he lifted it off the display the room filled with an ominous hum. Like the sound of a machine slowly whirring to life.
Kaz had pocketed the jewels, grabbing your forearm and tugging you along behind him as he went for the door Jesper and Inej were guarding. Before you could make it metal bars slid down over the doorway. You had tried to use your small science to melt the metal, even Jesper tried to budge it, but nothing worked. Kaz ordered Inej and Jesper to find their own way out as alarms chimed, directing you back through the room to another exit.
You had followed behind him willingly, knowing he knew the way around the mansion. You'd been irritated to learn how wrong you were, Kaz knew the layout of the mansion but the Merch had updated the floorplan. Clearly, another Fabrikator addition to hinder thieves.
"Wait," Kaz held up his hand and you barrelled straight into his back at the sudden halt, "Do you hear that?"
Footsteps.
"Back," Kaz whispered, ushering you back the way you had come.
You got to the end of the hall before you heard more bodies approaching, you were surrounded. Immediately you went to the window, trying to pull at the latch and open it. It didn't work, but you could see light dancing on the tree line.
"Kaz," You called, "Look."
You both squinted into the dark, trying to distinguish who it was in the woods. You saw the glint of steel, like someone was spinning a revolver.
"It's Jesper."
The footsteps were getting louder, there was no way you and Kaz could get out of this on your own.
"Step back," You struck your flint, the sparks allowing you to create a ball of flame. You concentrated it as small as it would allow, pressing your palms against the window until cracks started forming. After a few more seconds the pane shattered, sending the shards falling to the ground below. You were on the second floor, even if you wanted to jump there was no way you and Kaz would be able to land safely. You settled for sending up a burst of flames, Jesper and the others would be on the lookout for it, your SOS symbol.
"Stop!" Someone shouted and all hell broke loose.
You and Kaz fought well side by side, you both knew each other's moves, working in tandem to take down opponents. It looked like you might win for a little while, then a woman rounded the corner with her hands pressed together. Heartrender, you realized it too late.
You were woken suddenly, like your heart was all of a sudden coming back to life. You gasped and spluttered, lungs burning. Your hands were bound above your head, separated by a thick metal rod so that you couldn't summon. Already you could feel the ache in your shoulders, hanging from your arms was something you had been used to when you were a slave. Now, you had to fight back the panic that tried to grip your heart.
You struggled to find your footing for a moment, but eventually managed to stand up enough to take the strain off of your wrists.
Kaz.
Where was Kaz?
"Look, Brekker. Your girls fine."
You squinted to find where the voice was coming from, finding the source across the room. Kaz was standing opposite a burly man nearly a foot taller than him. Kaz's face was bloody and bruised, but he had murder in his eyes. You could see it, feel it, all the way across the room. You realized it wasn't just Kaz and the merchant; the other crows were there too. Inej held a blade against the heartrenders throat from earlier, who had both her hands held far apart to show her cooperation. Jesper was not too far away, his pistols in hand as he stared down a man who stood in between you and him.
What did I miss?
"No harm was done," The merchant continued, his voice thick with a Kaelish accent, "What do you say we part ways, unharmed."
Kaz's face didn't change, "Sure."
The Merchant frowned, a glimpse of fear breaking through his resolve, "I don't like your tone, boy."
"He always sounds like that," Jesper joked, glancing at you.
"He has an asshole voice," You agreed. Not two nights ago you and Jesper had been saying the same thing to Matthias at the Slat. You and Jesper enjoyed teasing the Fjerdan, especially regarding Kaz and his 'demjin' ways.
Kaz looked amused, he had the Merchant in the palm of his hand. "Go. Before I change my mind."
The Merchant almost tripped as he ran away, not even stopping for his Heartrender and right-hand man who followed behind him just as quick.
With the immediate threat gone, you felt your resolve begin to crumble. You had to get out of these chains. They would rub your wrists every time you moved, bringing you straight back to your past.
"Stop moving," An older woman had warned you, "It hurts less."
She was probably right, but you were too terrified to listen. Hours ago you were playing on your family's farm, but now you were chained to the roof in a dark, damp cellar. The chains were rusted and coarse, they rubbed the skin around your wrists raw, leaving cuts and grazes everywhere they pressed.
You were only eight, by far the youngest of all the slaves in the cellar. The chains they used to bind you didn't have cuffs, the slavers had just looped the links around your wrists and locked them tight. All you felt was the pain and the fear. All of this because you were Grisha? You only just learned of your power as an Inferni, how could you be worth anything?
The older woman tried to console you, doing her best to quell your tears and sobs, but even she knew the horrors that awaited you. The horrors you would spend years fighting to escape.
"Y/N," Kaz's voice was soft, he stood in front of you, supporting your weight as Jesper worked on freeing your hands from the chains. "Stay here."
You knew he was trying, you could see his own emotions clawing at him. It was one of the things that bound you and Kaz together, the demons of your past. You understood what it was like to fear touch and he understood what it was like to be betrayed. You helped each other, through the flashbacks and nightmares. You two didn't have anyone else, so you fought to have each other.
When Jesper finally broke through the chains, you lurched forward unexpectedly. Kaz held you tighter, trying to keep you upright even with his bad leg. You stood up, holding your hands out to balance yourself.
'I'm okay," You lied, trying to avoid Jesper and Inej's worried glances, "We should get out of here."
Back at the Slat, you sat staring at your cup of cocoa. Nina had made it for you as her way of trying to help, she could hear that your heartbeat hadn't stopped racing since leaving the job.
Jesper and Wylan had offered you gentle conversation, but you couldn't hold it for long. You had claimed you were tired, bidding your friends goodnight and climbing the stairs to your room. You didn't stop at your floor. Your feet carried you further up the steep stairs, stopping when you reached the attic which Kaz had converted into his own room. You didn't have to knock, you just opened the door and announced yourself.
Behind closed doors, Kaz was less concerned about keeping up his Dirtyhands persona. He smiled ever so slightly as you sat on his bed. A few months ago you had forced him to rearrange his room so that you could see him working while you lounged on his bed. You often ended up like this, watching him work after long days and taking comfort in each other's presence.
This time, Kaz wasn't concerned with his papers, he just looked at you, waiting for you to talk. You had talked Kaz through his own episodes many times, you never pushed him or asked him to move quicker than he was ready. For the first time, Kaz wanted to offer you the same comfort, but he wasn't sure if he could.
You were rubbing your wrists, stuck in your own memories of your time chained.
Kaz slowly joined you, giving you time to pull away. You glanced over at him, watching him as he slowly removed his gloves.
"Kaz-"
Kaz shook his head to silence you, continuing what he was doing. He placed his gloves neatly on the bedside table, turning to you. He reached out slowly and you let him. He gently pried your fingers away from your wrist, taking your hands in his own. He turned your palms up, his fingers slowly ghosting over the scars on your skin.
Kaz could feel the warmth of your skin through his fingertips. It helped him fight off the flashbacks, the warmth reminding him you were safe, healthy, alive.
Kaz's fingers traced over a scar on your right thumb. You couldn't help the small sigh that escaped your lips.
Kaz's head snapped up to look at you, fear filling his eyes.
"I'm okay," You meant it this time. The flashbacks were gone, locked in the vault in the back of your mind.
Kaz could tell that you meant it, see the anxiety leave your face. He drew his hands back, reaching for his gloves again. You smiled at him as he slipped his hands back into them, the leather bringing him the comfort he needed.
Kaz offered you a quiet apology.
"Kaz," You couldn't help the adoring smile on your face, "It's okay."
You knew Kaz could handle contact more when his gloves were on, so you gently took his hand. Kaz watched as you copied his movements from earlier, gently opening up his fingers. You slowly raised his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.
"I love you," You said, "Gloves and all."
Kaz smiled, a genuine smile that you only saw in the safety of these four walls.
He let out a quiet reply, "I love you too."
#six of crows#kaz brekker#six of crows x reader#the crows#kaz brekker x reader#shadow and bone#shadow and bone x reader#kaz brekker x you#kaz and jesper#jesper fahey#six of crows jesper#wylan hendriks#jesper x wylan#wesper#wylan van eck#nina zenik#matthias helvar#helnik#crows#grishaverse#shadow and bone s2#shadow and bone s2 spoilers#pekka rollins#kaz dirtyhands brekker#bastard of the barrel#sab s2 spoilers#sab s2#sab
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I should be asleep lol
Immediately post-S2
———
Donnie grew up in the sewers, so maybe he has no room to judge, but Draxum’s apartment is pretty terrible.
The first night - after they defeated Shredder, with their home so destroyed they couldn’t return, Draxum had (only a little begrudgingly) offered them a place to stay - Donnie had been so tired he hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d collapsed in the nest of blankets and sleeping bags they’d made and slept blissfully through the night. He learned the next morning that Raph had not gotten much sleep at all, too keyed up and full of adrenaline, but the rest of them had conked out immediately.
The second night, Raph had joined them in sawing logs. And they’d all slept soundly through the third night, too. But now it’s night four, and Donnie’s finally well-rested enough to realize that everything is very wrong.
The sheets are a different texture. The thermostat is set too low. The ambient sounds of the apartment building are not the ambient sounds of the sewer.
His dad’s snores from the couch and Raph’s deep rumble are familiar, at least. Both of them are out, Splinter the first to fall asleep that evening in front of Draxum’s crummy TV. Even Leo is asleep again, his insomnia yet to rear its ugly head, and Donnie can’t help but be a little jealous.
And of course, Mikey can sleep anywhere and anytime, so Donnie knows without even looking that he’s asleep. It’s just Donnie awake, then, staring at the ceiling and trying to will away the persistent itch of incorrectness.
At least, that’s what Donnie was thinking, until he hears a distinct sniffling noise from the pile of sheets that is his little brother.
Donnie goes as still and quiet as he can, listening closely. Maybe he just misheard? No, but that was definitely another sniffle… and the mound of sheets is quivering, now.
Mikey is crying. Donnie’s little brother is crying, and he may not be the one who usually handles these things, but Donnie is still a big brother, and more importantly he is the big brother who is awake.
He sits up, blanket draped around his shoulders, and carefully scoots himself around Leo’s tangle of limbs. Then he flops down next to Mikey’s mound, reaching out to lay a hand on top.
“Mikey?” he whispers.
There’s some shuffling, and then Mikey’s face peeks out from under his sheets. His eyes are wet, visible even in the dim light of the room, and he keeps snorting. Donnie makes a gallant effort not to flinch at the sound.
“Dee?” Another sniffle. “Did I wake you up?”
“No, I was already awake.” He rubs at the mound, for all the good it will do. “Are you okay?”
Mikey snorts hard, then blinks furiously to banish his tears. It doesn’t work. “I’m fine,” he insists, but it comes out hoarse and stuffy.
Donnie holds up a finger, then pushes himself to his feet. He pads across the apartment to the coffee table they’d shoved aside to make room and retrieves a box of tissues that he brings back, setting it pointedly in front of Mikey.
Finally, Mikey sits up, letting the sheets pool around him. He pulls out two tissues and blows his nose as quietly as he can - it’s still pretty loud, but Splinter’s snoring covers it up.
“Thanks,” he whispers once he’s done, tossing the balled up tissues to the side. Donnie pointedly ignores them (no matter how gross) and focuses on the matter at hand.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, not giving Mikey an out this time.
Mikey chews his lip. “It’s just… hitting me finally, I guess.”
Donnie tilts his head. “What is?”
“That… that the lair’s really gone. That we’re not going back.” New tears spring to his eyes, and Mikey grabs another tissue. “It’s just… I mean, we saw it yesterday, but… I don’t know. It’s l-like I didn’t really g-get it until right now.”
His voice is wobbling hard by the end. He chokes off a sob, rubbing his nose furiously with the tissue. Donnie knows that there’s definitely snot on Mikey’s fingers and probably his arms, too, but he can’t watch this anymore. He offers Mikey a hug, his arms barely open a second before Mikey is throwing himself into it.
As Mikey holds onto him and cries, Donnie thinks about the day before (well, really the day before the day before - it’s after three AM, now). They’d gone to the lair, to see what they could salvage. Everyone had been subdued; even Leo wasn’t managing to joke like he normally would. Only Mikey was still upbeat, able to see the silver lining in every cloud, cheering over every item they found that was still intact enough to bring with them, encouraging them to come back later and look for more.
Maybe they’d been a little too complacent that Mikey was going to be okay, after all that. But of course he isn’t; he loves their home as much as the rest. Sewers and all.
“We’re homeless, aren’t we?” asks Mikey after a minute or two. Donnie hasn’t really thought of it like that, but now that Mikey has said it, he knows he can’t refute it.
“In the technical sense, yes,” he says, and regrets it when Mikey bursts into a fresh round of tears. For the first time in his life, he abhors technical correctness.
But while it may be correct in the technical sense, what about other senses?
Donnie pulls Mikey down onto the sleeping bag, then works the sheets and his blanket over the both of them. Finally, he snakes a hand around to grab another fistful of tissues for Mikey, passing them over without dislodging Mikey from his hug.
“Do you know what I think Dr. Feelings would say, if he were here?” Donnie asks, once they’re both settled.
Mikey blows his nose again, then peers up at Donnie. “What?”
“I think he would say that home is where the heart is. As long as you’re with me, and Leo and Raph and Dad, you can’t be homeless.”
He delivers this with a great amount of conviction, so he can’t help but be a smidge irritated when Mikey laughs.
“Hey! I’m trying to help!”
“I know!” Mikey giggles, burying his face against Donnie’s plastron and lightly head butting into his chin. “That was a really great Dr. Feelings, Dee. Thank you.”
“…Hm, well, I was just passing along his recommendation.”
Mikey hums. There’s still a bit of a wheeze from breathing through a stuffy nose, but he sounds like he’s stopped crying.
“Hey, Donnie?”
“Yeah?”
“Love ya.”
“I love you, too.”
Sleep doesn’t find Donnie that night. But it finds Mikey, and he considers that a win.
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This is like suuuppeerrrr silly but i just thought about it >.<
Scara with reader thats on her period
her randomly approaching scara and cupping his cheeks, then proceeded to sob about how pretty he is!!
Just wanna know how he would react and how he would calm her down 🥰
Could be modern or canon au‼️‼️
꒰ఎ ♡ ໒꒱ MY LOVE, MINE ALL MINE.
note: ty for the req !! i hope its ok that i did afab reader, pls enjoy !! :3
[modern au!scara x afab!reader] super fluffy and cute, scara teases a lot, period is mentioned !!
It's a peaceful Saturday night in Scara's shared dorm with his friend, Heizou. You practically live in their dorm at this point because your clingy boyfriend makes you stay so he can see you all the time.
Heizou and Scara are casually playing video games together in their beds when he picks up a sound coming from the bathroom. Scara puts his phone down and sits up from where he was previously laying down.
He remembers you mentioning you were going to go pee but it's been, what, seven minutes now?
Heizou, not looking up from his phone as Scara starts walking to the washroom, mutters, "Need to take a piss again?" Scara rolls his eyes in response. He runs a hand through his soft but messy, dark indigo hair as his other hand lifts up to knock on the bathroom door.
"Open up, it's been a year already," Scara grumbles.
He leans against the door, pressing his ear to the wood as he waits for a response. Scara hears you approaching the door and he steps away. You open it and his brows raise in surprise at the sight of your teary face and the pout on your lips.
"Scara..."
You cry out and throw yourself against him, tightly clinging onto your bewildered boyfriend as you whine, "Why are you so pretty!? It's so unfair!" You sob out, "You have perfect, soft and clear skin and the most gorgeous eyes ever!" You continue sniffling, your tears staining Scara's sweatshirt.
Scara pauses before chuckling a bit, still visibly confused. "What's up with you, idiot," he mumbles, looking to the side as an embarrassed gesture before looking back at you, where you're now hiding your face in his sweatshirt as you cry.
"You're so perfect... whyyy!?"
You cup Scara's face, bringing him up/down (height neutral) to meet your gaze as you frown, "Promise me you won't ever get plastic surgery or... or, or a buzzcut," you sternly say, furrowing your brows together to show Scara you were dead serious.
Scara scoffs, deadpanning at you as he says, "You know I'll never get a buzzcu-" You pinch his cheeks and grumble, "Just promise me!"
Scara winces in pain and sighs, "Okay, okay... I promise I won't get plastic surgery or a buzzcut. Are you happy now?" You pause, squinting your eyes as you look him up and down before nodding. "Mhm..." You wrap your arms around him, hugging him tightly.
"You can let go now..." The faintest of pink dusts his fair complexion as he glances elsewhere. Scara hovers his hand over your head before patting your hair as an awkward attempt of comforting you.
"You're on your period, aren't you?"
You just nod against his sweatshirt, sniveling softly. Scara rolls his eyes, before he smirks slightly. "What would you do without me? C'mon," He gently wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, mumbling, "You're ugly when you cry."
You huff, "Shut up." Scara chuckles, "Just for the time being. Let's go to my car, I'll bring you with me to buy you some things from the grocery store." At that, you smile in content and cling to Scara like a puppy to its owner as he leads you to the front door of the dorm.
Heizou sits up in his bed, complaining, "Hey, you better get me buldak noodles!" Scara snarls, "This is not an invitation for free things; Only my (s/o) gets that luxury." And he shuts the front door, bringing you along and leaving Heizou in a ticked off mood.
As Scara drives, he keeps one of his hands on the steering wheel and the other one on your lap as you look out the window. He lent you his favourite Artic Monkeys sweatshirt that he was wearing earlier to warm up your stomach and ease down the cramps. He subtly glances at you every so often.
Scara parks into the lot of the grocery store and unbuckles his seatbelt. Before you know it, he's already at your side, opening the car door for you. Shortly after, Scara's pushing the shopping cart, grabbing random snacks he knows you like and puts them in.
"You like this flavor, right?" Scara mumbles, holding a ice cream tub in his hands and inspecting it. You nod, smiling. As Scara places it in the cart and starts pushing it again, you giggle, "My boyfriend's so cute, I might as well cry again."
Scara hisses, "Not in public. I won't hesitate to act like I don't know you." You know he's joking, but you pout and give him pleading puppy eyes as he brings the cart towards the self checkout area. Scara grimaces before sighing as he starts scanning the items, "Whatever..."
You hum in satisfaction and enjoy the sweet warmth of his sweatshirt as he pays for the things and carries the bag, holding your hand with his free one as the both of you leave the store.
You both stay in the car instead of going back to the dorm, snacking on the food Scara bought for the two of you (mainly you) to enjoy together.
"Feeling any better?"
Mitski's new album plays on the car's speakers as you and him eat Pocky sticks. You nod with a smile, "Mhm. I can't thank you enough, cutie." You give him a quick, but meaningful, kiss on the cheek before continuing to chew on your Pocky stick.
Scara lets his Pocky stick rest in between his teeth as he looks at you for a few moments before asking, "Wanna do the Pocky challenge?" You perk up in surprise from his sudden proposal, but you'd never turn down a bold game like that.
You laugh, "Is this just an excuse to kiss me?"
Scara rolls his eyes, "Even if it was, would it matter?" He places his hand on your cheek and starts biting on his end of the stick. You bite the other end, and this process repeats until finally...
His soft lips gently press against yours, his hands on the back of your neck to close the distance completely.
Mitski's My Love Mine All Mine gets to the chorus at the most perfect timing possible.
You felt like the most loved and treasured person on Earth during this very moment as your (somewhat) sweet boyfriend kissed you in his car without a care in the world. Scara loves you so dearly, even if you cry over the littlest things during your period...
🐾🍫🍮 : © haerin1
(do not translate, steal or take too much inspo from my works)
#✮+ cyvie's web library !#afab reader#scaramouche#scaramouche x reader#scaramouche x you#scaramouche x y/n#scaramouche modern au#genshin modern au#scaramouche fanfic#scaramouche headcanons#scaramouche fanfics#scaramouche fanfiction#scaramouche fluff#scaramouche drabble#genshin impact#genshin x reader#genshin x you#scaramouche imagines#kunikuzushi#wanderer
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more clone^2 thoughts
you know who i just remembered ALSO has long hair? Vlad. Vlad Masters. Danny's worst enemy and biggest pain in the ass ever since he sent those vulture ghosts after his fucking dAD. Danny having long hair would make Vlad so inSUFFERABLE. Like look!! Proof that you are much better off as MY son. We have matching hair lengths! Come be my son! I will make you a halfa like me and we will become powerful allies together!
Danny almost chops it off out of spite. He ends up not doing it because he likes his hair long, actually, very much so and he's not growing it out again just because you're crazy! He's attempted to take a pair of scissors to Vlad's hair though -- THAT was a fight that got ugly. Danny's go-to threat whenever he sees him after that is that he's going to chop off vlad's hair when he's not looking - just you watch, Masters. He'll do it. HE'LL DO IT.
And if Danny wasn't keeping it a tight secret, he'd turn around and taunt Vlad about being a) a clone and b) a clone of BRUCE WAYNE. he'd say stuff like:
"How's it feel knowing my parents cloned a man richer than you"
"you're just mad that bruce wayne is more my dad than you'll ever be!"
"it could've been you that my parents accidentally cloned instead of Wayne, but instead you fucked off for twenty years instead!"
but also its a constant question Danny asks himself how he and no one else ever figured it out sooner that he was a clone. He doesn't understand how Vlad of all people didn't realize it when he went to college with the man with his parents and was also stinking rich, before remembering that he doubts Vlad remembers anyone who wasn't his parents in college, and has been a rich, recluse loser this entire time.
its a good thing though, danny's pretty sure vlad would attempt a hit on the man if he found out out of pure jealousy and indignant rage. And then he'd get his ass beat by Batman and his army of children.
All in all, Dany is a pure menace towards Vlad whenever he gets the chance, as is normal, and then Vlad's suffering gets doubled after he makes Ellie - of which she is even worse than Danny because she's the halfa that Danny Is NOt and thus has the powers to break into his house easy peasy and wreck shit. She steals his obsidian black card and goes on a shopping spree. This is a regular occurrence.
(and for anyone who isn't aware - Ellie is the same age as Danny in clone^2 bc i thought it'd be fun)
And then it gets tripled once Damian joins the family and gets caught up to speed on all of Vlad's tomfoolery and whoops, Damian's got better stealth skills than Danny and looks like Ellie has a partner in crime whenever they need to sneak into vlad's house to cause him grief.
Vlad's walls are the first canvas for Damian to test out his new spray paints on once he gets them :)
next up
Wes weston! i love this guy, he's so funny and he definitely knows danny is the Phantom in the clone^2 au. it's not as easy to figure out as it is in canon since its not just a simple colorswap, but perhaps he sees Danny taking off his mask after a daytime fight. and after that he becomes determined to reveal that quiet, strange fenton is the vigilante phantom.
he's putting some real,,, detectiveness? stalkerish? skills to use because catching photos of phantom is not as easy as it is if he were a halfa. He can't just snap a few dozen photos of fenton and phantom and then color compare the two of them either - Phantom wears a mask, and works primarily at night or in evenings, and typically avoids the living during the day. And he doesn't speak to the living either. Wes has to put in some extra work into his investigations and evidence.
He also makes the dumb mistake of cornering Danny in the bathroom one day early on and telling him he knows he's the Phantom -- now that Danny knows that Wes knows, he's going to be even more careful not to get caught. He puts in a little extra work in both Fenton and Phantom - another layer, perhaps a jacket, as Phantom, and baggier pants and boots he never wears as Fenton. His hood stays up in the daytime.
He was already putting in some extra effort to appear creepy and unsettling as Phantom - things like crouching low, tense movements, fluid movements. If he's perched on something he does a kinda-crawl like movement - think a mix between a bear and a gorilla crawl. It's weird, creepy. And he stares. Danny's mastered the art of not needing to blink for long periods of time, so if he sees you and sticks around he stares. It doesn't help that you can't see his eyes that well through his mask - its just two piercing green.
It helps endear him to ghosts and his enemies though - the annoying little human boy is engaging in ghost culture! That's eliciting some form of begrudging respect from his enemies.
And then compare that creepy, almost cryptid-like behavior to Fenton who, while considered a freak, really isn't anything more than just some dorky weirdo with occasional heart problems. He's kinda unsettling - he has those 'stares into soul' eyes - but its leveled by the fact that he's kinda just... dorky. It reads as normal, awkward kid behavior, and then gets disregarded completely as he gets older and it bleeds into 'very chill teenager'. Fenton being Phantom doesn't compute that much.
Paulina: you think Phantom is Fenton?
Wes: I don't think, I know he is! I have proof--
Star: Just because they both have black hair doesn't mean they're the same, Wes. That's like saying Paulina and Manson are sisters because they also have black hair.
Wes's attempts to out him as Phantom means that Danny is a little more wary of him than he is in canon, since his vigilante identity isn't an entirely different ghost form its just him, so he has to be careful about where or when he takes off his mask in case Wes is around. Especially during daytime fights.
But other than that he has a lot of time messing with him. Wes is trying to convince his table group at lunch that Fenton = Phantom (again) and Danny just so happens to be within earshot of him and starts making fun of the idea.
"You think I'm Phantom?" and he's got the most disbelieving grin on his face that's only partially convincing. "That's totally bogus, man. The Phantom famously doesn't get along with my parents, why would I be a ghost hunter and not work with them?"
He has this most shit-eating, delighted look in his eyes that Wes knows is pure manic glee at being able to mess with him and get away with it. Wes is going to strangle him.
"Besides, dude, did you forget I have a heart condition? I can't be chasing around ghosts - my heart would give out from all that running and jumping."
Although Danny can get really serious at the flip of a coin if need be - especially with Wes when he gets too pushy about him being Phantom. A notable instance is when Wes cornered him in an empty bathroom to again talk about him being Phantom.
Except Danny, who had been working on a really difficult cold case about the death of a child, and hadn't gotten much sleep in the last 72 hours, plus a plethora of other stuff (like recently acquiring Damian, fighting ghosts, etc), wasn't in the mood to entertain him. It ended with Weston getting pinned to the wall and lowkey threatened by Danny. He apologizes for it afterwards but it's not forgotten.
Additional note: Wes Weston having a crush on Danny Fenton is a hilarious trope to me so Wes absolutely has a crush on Danny and the only one in denial about it is him. Everyone else - except Danny because he's more focused on the fact that Wes knows his identity, and has other things to worry about - knows about it, and everyone chalks up his obsession with Danny as being part of said crush.
Wes' friend: you know usually when you have a crush on someone you normally confess, maybe ask them out, pine from afar....
Wes: i dont--
Wes's friend: not accuse him of being the local ghost-fighting vigilante. Seriously, wes! His parents are ghost hunters!
Wes: i do not have a crush
Wes's friend: and ghosts aren't real! everyone knows that's a lie!
next up
Dan! Or Dante, but i'll call him Dan for the time being. Even if I dislike the name with a passion. Much like Wrath from my Childhood Friends au, Dan here is pretty different from his canon counterpart. Mostly because I wanted to experiment with Dan and different interpretations of him, and I thought; hey, where no better than an au where Danny has no powers?
so, dan? Dan is not a combination of Danny and Vlad's ghost halves -- now, don't get me wrong, danny still ends up under vlad's custody care after the death of his family, but he just doesn't fuse with Vlad's ghost.
So, what happened? What happened is that Vlad convinces a grieving Danny that he should let him make him a halfa (despite the fact that he has no idea how) because the he could go find his family in the ghost zone. Danny is in no mental state for any kind of experiments, but his hope and want to see his family and friends again gets him to agree.
It backfires. Vlad doesn't make Danny a halfa, he just ends up killing him completely. Danny comes back instantly as a ghost however, and enraged over being lied to, betrayed, and murdered, ends up killing Vlad in furious cold blood. He doesn't fuse with his ghost half, there's no ghost half to fuse with.
So a grieving ghost, Danny flees into the ghost zone. And, in this iteration, doesn't end up destroying the world. So how does TUE end up happening? Well, ten years later - with Danny remaining a forever 14 year old ghost - Dan ends up finding out about time travel. He finds out a way to travel back into the past, and he does.
So he can take over his past self's life. Danny just thinks he's fighting a weird doppleganger ghost, but ends up getting overshadowed. It's like being in a weird limbo, and Danny's not really sure what's happening - but his friends figure something out. After all, its been ten years since dan saw his friends, something has to give.
And that episode happens. Danny ends up meeting clockworth, beats Dan. But, well, it's not really happily ever after - somewhat. Ehh.. sorta. Danny's been traumatized by Dan's overshadowing - making him realize that despite everything, there are things ghosts can do that danny simply cannot and he needs to prepare for it. Onset paranoia, anyone?
Dan tells them his whole tragic backstory - there's a chance for redemption here, for him. For forgiveness. Not immediately, not yet, but its there. And he doesn't want to go back to the future - he's alone there. He's tired of being alone.
But he ends up being convinced - he needs to learn to look forward, not cling back. He can build himself up again, find new family. He doesn't have to be alone. So Dan goes back to the future.
"But come tell me if Vlad's giving you trouble --" and he smiles something wicked, "I'd be happy to handle him again"
and finally
not so much as any concrete thoughts as it is just me being emotional over Danny and Damian's brotherhood in this au and also Danny's hands. Again.
lIKE.. I put it in the tags of my reblog of my "danny's scarred hands' ficlet but im putting it here and its just?? Danny grabbing the blade of Damian's sword. Him grabbing the sword multiple times despite the fact that he knows it will hurt, that he will hurt himself. That he will keep hurting himself until Damian himself stops.
its just like??? whats it mean to spill your own blood just so that this little boy you've just met won’t have to ever again. he doesn't know any english and he is hurting you and yet you take him home and get him new clothes. he runs away and you go looking for him, every single time. you teach yourself arabic first so that you can converse with him.
this boy is a clone and so are you. you're a clone of his father he's a clone of your son - by nature of your existence this is your child. except its not your child, you don't have one, its just a little boy who happens to share the same dna as you. and you take him home and he becomes your little brother.
what's it mean when its you whose been hurt rather than him? whats it mean when you’d hurt yourself again just so that he can start to heal, so that he knows that he’s worth it? you cut your hands on his blade, catch its swing, just so this boy can know, can learn, that there’s someone who will bleed for him. that there's someone who will scar their hands just to make sure that you wont scar yours.
you’re a bleeding heart and its spilling out onto your palms. you take bloody fingers and wrap it around your little brother’s and say "its okay. it’s okay. you’re safe. no one will hurt you here. i promise. i wont let them. no one will hurt you so long as i'm around."
"put the sword down. i can show you how. let me show you how."
and damian in this au just reminds me of the song "eight" by sleeping at last. like?? the lYRICS. he is sO "eight" coded
'show me how to lay my sword down for long enough to let you through.'
'here i am. pry me open. what do you want to know?'
'im just a kid who grew up scared enough to hold the door shut and bury my innocence'
'but here's a map. here's a shovel. here's my achilles' heel. im all in palms out. im at your mercy now and im ready to begin. i am strong enough to let you in.'
"by nature of our existence we are father and son, but by choice we are brothers. we are brothers we are brothers we are brothers. and i love you"
#dpxdc#dp x dc#dp x dc crossover#dpxdc crossover#dpdc#clone^2#danny fenton is not the ghost king#dp dc#dp dc crossover#dpxdc au#dpdc au#ITS JUST. THEM. IM SORRY BUT ITS THEM AND I LOVE THEM.#damian's guilt of hurting danny and the consistent conversations they have from that. danny always tells damian he forgives him.#'i hurt you' 'i know' 'im sorry' 'i know'#'one day i hope you forgive yourself just as much as i have forgiven you.' 'repeat after me: its not your fault'#'youre my brother and i hurt you and im sorry. i love you.'#i should get around to making a post about the batfam meeting them but i just!!! I love damian and danny i love their dynamic#and i know that i was the one who decided that its years before they meet the batfam after meeting each other but its still just a choice#that im stil so happy about because they become brothers! they meet the batfam and they're expecting baby damian to be like how damian was#when he arrived in the manor but he's not. he's not. he wears funny graphic tees and his older brother is bruce's clone and its so clear#that they love each other. bby dames steals his brother's flannels and gets chased around by him. and they roughhouse like brothers do#and his older brother is bruce's clone and he throws damian over his shoulders and calls him 'dames' and 'dami' and 'my boy' and its so#so obvious that this clone of bruce utterly adores damian.#and i had the idea before writing this that damian's first english word is 'star' and he turns to danny and calls him star when he wants#his attention for something. he points at him and says 'star' and he doesn't do that much anymore now that he knows english#but its one of the first signs of him trusting danny when he first arrived.
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how you hurt him ☆ ot7
☆ non-idol! ot7 enhypen x fem! reader
☆ summary: all the ways that you hurt him (ft. song lyrics)
☆ genre: angst
☆ warning(s): toxic relationship, toxic! reader, mentions of cheating, this is practice for an english project so please bear with me, most of this is very figurative/abstract
☆ word count: 2.9k total
☆ aka enhypen boys as sad love songs, it’s like 1am i will edit later 😭
reblogs and feedback are appreciated!
heeseung ☆
"why would you ever kiss me? i'm not even half as pretty" — heather, conan gray
was there something wrong with heeseung? what if he wasn't good enough for you? did you think he was ugly? disgusting? annoying? needy?
at the beginning of your relationship, you made it clear to heeseung that you weren't good with words.
"don't worry about it," heeseung had told you. "i'm not good either."
he thought you meant that you found it hard to say "i love you."
what you meant was that you were indeed good with words, just bad at saying nice things to him.
at first he thought he was being ridiculous, a prisoner of his own mind.
he knew you loved him— how could you possibly not?
but if you loved him, why did you say such nasty things to him?
"god, heeseung, you're so stupid."
"i can't believe i'm dating someone like you."
"i'm disgusted with you."
he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth.
what had he done to make you repulsed by him? was he being sensitive?
he hated himself for all of it.
he hated the creeping feelings of jealousy that would suffocate him like a noose to a prisoner whenever he saw you talk to another man. did you like him more than heeseung? what if you wanted to leave him?
he hated how he craved what little kind words you could give him. it was so rare for you to compliment and speak to him gently, so when you did, heeseung was drunk on it.
he hated how insecure he got.
he hated how his mind was a gallow of its own.
he hated how afraid he was.
"you're so pretty," you whispered into his ear.
heeseung's stomach did flips. did you really mean it? was he as pretty as all the other men you entertained yourself with? was that why you kissed him and not them?
did this mean that you really loved him?
heeseung felt something tighten around his neck. not in that suffocating way that made him claw at his skin until he bled as he stared in the mirror asking himself what could be changed, but in the way that made him feel warm all over.
he’d wait at the gallows like a convicted prisoner, he’d stand there proud, ready to say his last words. he’d keep his hands behind his back, he’d admire the brass noose that would be his eternal necklace.
because for heeseung, to be with you, and to love you, was to be helpless.
to love you was to wait like a dog in the cold.
to love you was to eat your every word like it was his last meal.
to love you was to be your prisoner waiting for you to execute him.
jay ☆
"pretend that we are more than friends, then of course I'll let you break my heart again" — let you break my heart again, laufey
it's not your fault, jay tells himself. it's not your fault that you can't love him.
but at what point does it become your fault?
you knew that he loved you. he'd told you multiple times, shown you a billion other times. anyone with eyes could tell that he was head over heels in love with you. everyone knew.
especially you— you who rejected him time and time again, laughing that he was just a friend to you.
but here you were, pressing yourself up against him, looking at him with lidded eyes and licking your lips like you wanted to eat him. you held his hand against your chest, whispering a soft "good night." jay knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, not with you so close to him, not with the ache in his chest.
it's not your fault that he loves you, jay thought. but it is your fault that you lead him on, that you pretend to kiss him, that you snuggle up next to him knowing that he'd lay down his life for you.
did you enjoy torturing him like this?
what pleasure did you take in constantly making him think that he had a chance with you?
was this how it was going to be forever?
were you always going to keep him waiting like this, just because you knew that he'd stay no matter what?
jay swallowed the lump in his throat.
he couldn't continue living like this, having you play with his feeling like this.
"jay..." you mumbled, reaching out for him. jay was pulled out of his thoughts, his eyes flickering to you. you looked so innocent and peaceful despite himself. how could he ever stop? how could he stop when it was you at hand?
"i'm here," he hummed, throwing an arm around you. i'm always here.
you were warm, and soft, and everything that jay could ever want in a person. your soft breathing brushed up against his cheek.
jay stared at your sleeping face.
would it hurt to pretend that you were more than friends?
he let his eyelids fall slowly.
he could imagine you and him dancing in the kitchen, laughing together as the scent of jay's cooking filled the apartment. jazz music would be playing, and you'd pretend to be an old flapper couple from the '20's, swirling around the cold kitchen tiles.
your words from earlier echoed in his head.
"i love you so much, jay!"
"you're the best."
"how could i ever be so lucky to meet you?"
it made his heart pound in his chest, unable to hide the lovesick grin spreading on his face.
he knew your words meant nothing, that you truly only saw him as a friend.
he needed to stop this delusion now, else he'd be even more hurt than he already was. you broke his heart over and over again, as if it meant nothing to you.
but as you and him twirled around his head, basking in each other's presence, jay couldn't bring himself to let you go.
he'd let you, jay thought. he'd let you break his heart.
as many times as you wanted.
jake ☆
"the other man will always cry himself to sleep, the other man will never have her love to keep" — the other woman, lana del rey
of course jake knew that he wasn't the only man in your life.
how many times did he lay in bed at night, wishing that it was him that could hold you? how many times did he dream of being the man that could call you his? how many fantasies did he have of marrying you, of giving you the world?
and how many times did he have to remind himself that he couldn't have you— that you already had someone to love?
it made jake feel sick, seeing all the pictures that you posted with you and your husband, hearing all the chatter about your 2-year wedding anniversary, and forcing himself to smile as a tight-lipped "congratulations" fell from his mouth.
but what made him even more sick was how happy he felt whenever you showed up at his doorstep in the depths of the night.
jake couldn't help it.
he couldn't help how his stomach did flips when your hands slithered up his chest, wrapping around his neck as you pressed kisses against his jaw.
he couldn't help how his body moved on its own as he took in the scent of your perfume, his head filling with nothing but you, you, you.
he couldn't help how he craved you, how he was unable to pull away from you, even though he knew you had a husband waiting for you back home.
he couldn't help how for a moment, he could pretend that you were his; for a moment, he could live in the illusion that he was the one that you came home to every night, that he was the one that you woke up with in the morning, that he was the one that you sat at the kitchen table with to discuss your weekly grocery list, that he was the one that you laughed with in the depths of night, that he was the only man that you loved.
but as quickly as it started, you were already out the door, waving goodbye with a sweet smile as if you hadn't committed a crime against your husband.
jake knew the sight of your retreating back better than anyone, and as he closed the door, he'd suck in a sharp breath.
he would deny it over and over, until his words lost meaning.
but he knew the truth.
he was a fool for thinking that he could have you, for after all this time, he was the other man.
sunghoon ☆
"i bet on losing dogs, i know they're losing and i'll pay for my place" — i bet on losing dogs, mitski
you and sunghoon were never meant to work out, and he knew this.
everyone said that you'd hurt him. he'd seen it with his own eyes, how you bore your bloody teeth and ripped into people like they were your prey, how you barked venomous words at people.
you were a losing dog to begin with, a losing dog that would never truly love him the same way you loved yourself.
and before he knew it, sunghoon realized that everyone was right.
you sunk your teeth into him, feasting on what love he could give you like a ravenous hyena.
but how could he resist you? how could he resist your touch, your warmth, your limited moments of compassion?
wounded, bleeding, scarred, sunghoon staggered away from the killing floor. yet, he was unable to stop himself from turning over his shoulder to see your face.
there was something disgusting he felt, something that made sunghoon nauseous. his stomach churned. and then he realized, he couldn't bring himself to leave you.
because you were a starving dog, thristy for a victim.
because you were a wailing dog, weeping over your kill as if it would atone you.
because you were a losing dog, a dog that sunghoon placed his bets on.
and it was time for him to pay the price of his actions.
sunoo ☆
"i know who you pretend i am" —washing machine heart, mitski
sunoo wasn't stupid.
he knew it better than anyone, that your heart didn't belong to him. it never did, and it never will.
sunoo saw the way that you yearned, he saw the way that your eyes lit up, he saw the way that you gazed with love in your eyes— all for someone that wasn't him.
so why did you kiss him like he meant anything to you? why did you hold him like he could have you?
he knew why.
"i missed you so much," you breathed against his ear, pressing him against the wall. "so, so, so much."
the taste of your lips was addicting.
you liked to kiss roughly. you liked to run your fingers through his hair and pull it harshly, making him groan lowly against your lips. you liked to slip your fingers up his shirt, making him shudder.
sunoo liked to kiss gently. he liked it when your lips would melt against his. he liked it when you played with the clasp of the silver chain around his neck. he liked it when you pulled away and giggled softly at the lipstick smudge at the corner of his lip.
he didn't like it rough like you did.
but he took it all.
he took it all, because he loved you.
he took it all, even though he knew that you were kissing him pretending that he someone else.
it wasn't hard to tell.
you wore the gold necklace that he gave you, never any of the ones that sunoo got you.
you didn't even blink when sunoo's name was said, but the mere mention of his interests or career had you reeling.
and of course, he liked when you kissed roughly so you were a rough kisser, even though sunoo liked it gentle.
you don't even look at sunoo the way you look at him.
when you said "i miss you," sunoo could tell that you didn't mean it.
you didn't miss sunoo, you missed him. you just missed the attention that sunoo gave you.
he knew who you pretended he was.
but all he could do was look into your eyes, and be reminded of a tragedy: that while you couldn't love him back, he loved you.
"i missed you, too," he whispered back, swallowing the lump in his throat, swallowing his dignity.
jungwon ☆
"if you need to be mean, be mean to me" — i don't smoke, mitski
to be vulnerable, to be at someone's mercy, to be someone's lamb for the slaughter, was jungwon's biggest fear. he'd die before he'd let someone take advantage of his weakness.
yet as you slipped out of his grip, your once loving eyes turning cold as hands that once held him in your arms became the hands that striked him, all he could do was sit back and take it.
words like daggers into his back, slashing him over and over like he was a sacrificial lamb for a god that could not save him. hot tears would line as eyes as you raised your knife at him, sending shivers down his spine that made him cower into his skin, chanting apologies like they were prayers.
jungwon should run. after all, that was all he spent his life doing.
but how could he escape you when you kissed his tear-stained face? how could he leave you, for when your anger simmered down you cradled his cheek, whispering that you loved him?
it hurt, it hurt so bad.
but if you must destroy him, if you must slaughter him until your killing floor was covered in blood, if you must cut him up into little pieces for your own pleasure, so be it.
he'd follow you into the slaughterhouse, knowing full well that the darkness was the last thing he'd ever see, and jungwon would close his eyes and thank the person that crafted your blade anyway.
you can kiss him, you can hold him close, or you can strike him, you can treat him like an animal. he wouldn't care. it would be the same either way; he'd be glad that it was you.
for he was your lamb, and you were his butcher; for if you needed to be mean, be mean to him.
riki ☆
"even though she isn’t even really gone, but things are just different ever since she cut her blue hair off" — blue hair, tv girl
of course riki noticed. how could he not?
all those bored looks when he was talking, aimless nods when he asked you a question, and loveless kisses that you pressed against his skin. it took you hours to respond to his texts and calls, and when you did, you responded curtly. you stopped coming home, always having plans on weekends with no time for him.
riki didn't know what happened.
he thought that you and him had such a great relationship, filled with love and laughter.
but somewhere along the way, you seemed to lose interest in him.
he asked all your friends, but they said nothing changed about your behavior.
did riki do something wrong? did he make you angry? all questions that he'd never find the answer to.
the silence was piercing, ringing in his ears. he'd just asked you how your day was, and all he got back was a simple, vacant stare, before you turned back to your phone, scrolling mindlessly. his heart sunk so his stomach, brows crashing together.
had riki lost you? all he wanted was for you to look at him, for you to acknowledge him. was he being dramatic?
please, riki begged. please look at me, please see me, please love me.
#enhypen#enhypen fluff#enhypen x reader#enhypen imagines#enhypen fic#enhypen angst#heeseung#heeseung angst#heeseung imagines#jay enhypen fluff#enhypen jay#park jongseong#jake sim angst#jake sim fluff#jake sim imagine#jake enhypen#enhypen jake#sunghoon#park sunghoon#sunghoon angst#sunghoon fic#sunoo#sunoo angst#sunoo fluff#sunoo imagines#jungwon#jungwon angst#jungwon fluff#jungwon imagines#riki angst
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Cold Prompts
"Are you jealous of a warm water bottle?" "Considering how tightly you hold that thing… Yes."
It’s too cold to hold hands, but A still wants to be as close to B as possible while they walk through the streets.
"You better have a good reason for making me abandon my blanket/warm bed/etc."
"You said you’re cold." "Yes. But I thought you’d hug me, not make me do exercises!"
"It’s not that cold." "I can see your breath."
A wakes up in the middle of the night, freezing, as B stole the blanket.
"How many layers are you wearing?"
A nestles their cold feet between B’s warm thighs.
"Don’t—", A exclaims just before B tears back the blanket and exposes them to the cold air.
"I’m cold. Cuddle me."
A opens their coat and, while enveloping B, slings the material around them as well.
"You’d think you’d be used to the cold. What with you being an ice queen/your heart being colder than the Antartica and all."
A watches, amused, as B makes a run for the next rug/bed/etc. as they try to not touch the cold floor (too much).
"Just think about how warm it’ll be once we’re there." "And how’s that supposed to help me now?"
A puts their clothes on the radiator so that, when they slip into them minutes later, they are wonderfully warm.
"But it’s cold (outside). And, and… And my blanket would miss me. Do you want to break its heart by tearing us apart?"
A offers B their coat/scarf/gloves/etc.
A likes making B blush, but in the colder months, it also has the added benefit of them being able to warm their hands on B’s heated cheeks.
"Are you cold?" "No. I just love to shiver/dance on the spot and looking like an idiot."
"I’m nothing but a personal heater to you, huh?"
"Any longer on that radiator and your butt will start to melt."
"Are those gosebumps?" "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m simply cold."
A insists their (ugly) self-knitted socks are the only thing that keeps their feet warm. B is skeptical/disagrees.
A attempts to walk like a penguin to determine if said movement would keep them warm.
"Your lips look a little cold. Want me to warm them up for you?"
#writing prompts#writing inspiration#cold weather prompts#winter prompts#seasonal prompts#dialogue prompts#couple prompts#writing ideas#prompt list
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