justanotherartist29

Latest Posts by justanotherartist29

c. 1909 silk evening gown embroidered and appliquéd with lilacs and gold cloth bows

Details in Purple

The New Bracelet, 19th century, by Frans Verhas.

Countess Alexander Nikolaevitch Lamsdorff, 1859, by Franz Xaver Winterhalter.

Summer Idleness: Day Dreams, 1909, by John William Godward.

Lady in Violet, 1874, by Pál Szinyei Merse.

Portrait of a Lady, c. 1570, by Alessandro Allori.

A Lady in a Lilac Dress, 19th century, by Władysław Czachórski.

That Was a Piedmontese, 1862, by Arthur Hughes.

A Gust of Wind, by Gaetano Bellei.

Miss Sohee | Spring/Summer 2025 Couture

Y'all ever open a book on a new subject, read a little bit, and have to put it back so you can process the way in which your mind was just expanded?

i'll show you good, restore your faith 🎥

(bradley bradshaw x reader)

Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives. Nick and Carole live AU.

Warnings: discussions of cancer, parental death, it's very sad but also quite sweet

This fic is for the @elixirfromthestars cinema challenge! I've taken inspiration mainly from About Time (2013) - but also Elizabethtown (2005). I think they both have such beautiful depictions of grief and love persevering, so I've tried to channel that a little! Songs that offered some inspiration: Hold My Hand by Lady Gaga, Orpheus by Sara Bareilles, Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves + 🍟 for realising they're in love!

Come by the fire // Lay down your head // My love I see you're growing tired // So set the bad day by the bed // And rest a while

You consider yourself an expert on looks. First looks, last looks, and all the ones in between. They made up a relationship. Stolen glances full of longing when the other isn’t looking, anger burning during a fight when you don’t recognise the person across from you.

Whoever said the eyes were a window into the soul had it right.

First looks were easy. Almost all of them were entirely inconsequential, not meant to be remembered. The very act of remembering the first moment you lock eyes with someone was special. A sign, that for better or worse, they were going to become an important part of your life.

Your first look with Bradley had been outside a church, when your friend Hannah had married Bob Floyd. You'd been fixing your heel, having twisted the strap as you got out of the car, and looked up to find his eyes locked on you. His lips had been parted ever so slightly, shoulders broad as he stands in a perfectly tailored suit. You'd known Bob was in the Navy - you just hadn't realised his friends would look like that.

Polite smiles and introductions are exchanged before you find yourself walking down the aisle, arm laced through his.

He was a retired pilot, you learned at the party afterwards. He'd retired and moved to Los Angeles with the intention of settling down and having kids, before his girlfriend had left him for her boss. He was an instructor now, teaching the next generation to fly.

“God, I'm so sorry, you definitely don't want to be hearing about this right now-”

“No, no don't worry, it's totally okay - my last boyfriend left me for his highschool sweetheart. So I guess neither of us are really good at this.”

You don't know why you're telling him that. It was something you were normally embarrassed about, instead opting to just shrug and go ‘it wasn't meant to be’. But something about Bradley made you think he'd understand.

"He's an idiot," Bradley replies.

"Maybe I'm a complete and utter nightmare. Maybe it was totally deserved."

"I find that hard to believe." He's leaning in, and the scent of his cologne fills your atmosphere.

You smile, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. "You don't even know me."

"I'm hoping that's going to change."

You'd danced and laughed, trading stories and swapping anecdotes as the night went on, totally oblivious to the knowing looks passed between Hannah and Bob. It was no mistake that the two of you had been paired up to walk together. Everything was working out exactly as they expected it to.

The night had ended out on the patio, his jacket draped over your shoulders and his lips on yours.

Most of the sex you'd had in your life wasn't as personal as that single kiss.

Last looks were trickier. Harder to predict and pin down. There were last looks you were grateful to get - ex-friends and boyfriends who’d long overstayed their welcome in your life. Others were more painful, and left you longing for a ‘what-if’ that was never meant to be. Some, much like firsts, went by totally unnoticed, with neither of you realising that this was the end.

It was a strange understanding, the knowledge shared between two people that they would never see the other again.

You hoped your last look with Bradley wouldn't come for decades.

It’s midnight when he gets the call. You’re curled into him, arm draped over his stomach, his nose nestled in your hair. Only in his late thirties has Bradley been able to admit that often he much prefers quiet nights in with wine and a book to bustling bars and crowds.

You're more than happy to oblige, finding yourself spending more nights than not in his arms. It felt right, and natural, even though you'd only been together for a few months. A couple of your friends were less convinced.

“You’re moving too fast-”

“You’ll be sick of him before the year’s out-”

But things were good. You didn't believe in following a set schedule just because other people thought they knew how your relationship should work. You were happy, and you assumed Bradley felt the same. He’d never given any indication otherwise, even being the one to initiate a lot of the evolution of the relationship.

You’re in that sweet spot of being near enough sleep to be totally and utterly relaxed, while also still being able to enjoy the feeling of Bradley pressed up against you.

The staying over had been a new development, within the last week, when he’d make the excellent point that if you stayed over instead of driving home, you’d be doing your part to save the planet. You'd lower your carbon emissions, his place was closer to your work, and he'd already cleared out some closet space for you. The logic was unflappable.

“Mav? What’s wrong?” His voice is raspy, and he sits up, duvet pooling at his waist. “No, you didn’t wake me, it’s okay.”

The voice on the other end of the line speaks for a couple of seconds, and Bradley’s shoulders tense. It’s bad news. The kind that often precedes last looks. Your heart sinks slightly.

“How is she now?” Bradley replies, glancing over at you.

“Yeah, I can come. No, it's okay, I'll come now - should be there in a couple of hours.” A second. “I will. See you soon.”

“What's wrong?” You sit up, hand resting on his forearm.

“My mom. The cancer's spread. She was in the hospital today, just got home. Dad didn't want to worry me… but Mav thinks I should go home. Be there. He thinks it'll be a few weeks now. If we're lucky.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, but does not break.

“Oh Bradley,” You whisper. “I'm so sorry.” You'd known his mom had cancer, but you hadn't realised how severe it was. How little time she had.

“I-I need to go to San Diego,” He says, getting to his feet unsteadily. His hands are shaking, and he’s three shades paler than usual. “I’ll leave a key for you. Stay as long as you want.”

“Baby, it’s a three hour drive. You can’t do that in this state,” You murmur softly, moving to your knees as you watch him start to throw clothes into a duffel bag. “Let me take you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that-” He begins, but you cut him off.

“You aren’t. I’m offering. Just focus on packing, I'll grab some food and get the car ready.”

You can tell he wants to protest, tell you to go back to bed, but the worry wins out, and he just nods. Wordlessly, you get dressed, and head out to the car. When Bradley emerges ten minutes later, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything to say, so you just reach out, hand cupping his cheek gently. He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leans into your touch.

He’d known this would come eventually. He just hadn’t thought it would be so sudden. At her last check-up the doctors had said she was doing as well as could be expected. They thought she might have a couple of years left, if she continued on like the way she was going.

A couple of years was good. Bradley could make that work. Maybe settle down, give her a grandchild, and show her that he was happy. That it was okay for her to go. That he’d be alright without her.

He couldn’t do any of that in a few weeks.

The drive is made in near silence. Bradley stares out the window, wringing his hands together nervously as he occasionally offers commentary on the places you pass. The roads are desolate, and you’re turning onto Bradley’s parent’s road just before three.

You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Pulling up to your boyfriend’s childhood home in the middle of the night to see his dying mom wasn’t exactly how you imagined the first meeting going. The last thing they need right now is to meet a new girlfriend, a total stranger. Bradley potentially hasn’t even told them about you yet.

“I-I should probably get going-”

“You’re not staying?” His head snaps to yours, deep brown eyes furrowed as he frowns. “It's 3am, you can't drive back on no sleep.”

“I don’t want to impose,” You reply, twisting a ring round your finger. The last thing you want to do is make this about you. “Or add any stress, or anything. Your parents probably only want family around.”

“Honey, if my mom knew I let you drive me all the way here, and then let you turn around and head straight back in the middle of the night, she’d murder me before I even got my coat off.” Despite your nerves, despite everything, you let out a small laugh. “I’d really like you to stay. Please.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Whatever’s waiting for him inside, he’d rather face it with you.

“I didn't bring anything.”

“We can make do. I’ll buy whatever you need. Are you okay for work?”

You wave him off. “I have time off I can use. Don't worry.”

He nods, and grabs his bag from the back as you get out. He laces his fingers through yours, and takes a look up at the house that had been his home for eighteen years. There’s a light on downstairs, someone’s still awake.

Squeezing your hand, he begins the walk up the path, knocking lightly. It takes a second before it swings open, before revealing who you assume is Bradley’s dad.

They look so alike it’s almost uncanny. The man standing before you is like looking at Bradley in twenty-five years. Hair slightly thinner, a few more wrinkles, they could almost be brothers.

“Bradley,” Nick murmurs, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You should’ve waited until the morning.”

“Wanted to be with you guys,” Bradley mumbles, before pulling back slightly. “How is she?”

“Alright, all things considered. It’s spread to her lymph nodes. There’s nothing more they can do, therapy-wise. She’s sleeping now. You can go up in the morning.” He finally registers your presence behind Bradley, and straightens up. “You must be the girlfriend.” His eyes are soft, and he reaches out to pull you in for your own hug.

You tell him your name, as Bradley ushers you both inside, shutting the door behind you. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr Bradshaw.”

“Please, call me Nick,” He insists. He leads you both inside to the living room, where another man sits.

“Mav,” Bradley greets, as he stands. He introduces you to his godfather, and the two of you take a seat.

“How was the drive?” Maverick asks you.

“It was fine - roads were quiet.” You fight off a yawn, turning your head to look out the window.

“You’re tired,” Bradley says, voice quiet. “We can go to bed.”

You shake your head. “I’m okay,” You insist. Seeing the unconvinced expression on his face, you smile. “Promise.”

Bradley returns to his conversation with Nick and Maverick, and you try your best to stay awake, offering comments occasionally. You learn that Maverick and his wife live next door, and that Carole’s family all live nearby. Bradley has two cousins, Grace and John, who he grew up with. Grace has a toddler named Sophia, while John is getting married next year. Soon, you find your head leaning against Bradley’s shoulder, and he just feels so warm, and your eyes are so heavy-

“Your girl’s exhausted, Bradley,” Nick says softly. “Get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” You mumble, but you know you’re not fooling anyone. It’s almost four now. You considered two a late night.

“It might be a little tight, but you can stay in your old room,” Nick says, and Bradley nods as he guides you to your feet. Maverick says his goodbyes, before heading next door.

“You’ll wake me when she’s up?”

Nick nods. “Yeah, of course. Now, go before she passes out.” You send him a tired smile, and follow Bradley down the hall.

Bradley’s childhood bedroom is exactly what you would’ve expected from him. Covered head to toe in plane posters, with sporting trophies lining every surface.

Football, baseball, basketball, track, he was apparently good at everything.

“My god, you were a try-hard,” You murmur, gesturing at the pile of medals hanging from the back of the door.

“I liked to win,” He shrugs, dropping his bag by the wardrobe. “You want a shirt to sleep in?”

You nod, and he tosses you an old Top Gun one. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and you both crawl into bed.

He insists the bed’s a double, but with the way you’re lying chest to chest just to stay on, you’re not convinced. It doesn’t really matter. You could be sleeping on the world’s largest bed, and would still find a way to be as close to Bradley as possible.

Don't stop // Trying to find me here amidst the chaos // Though I know it's blinding // There's a way out // Say out loud // We will not give up on love now

The next morning you meet Maverick's wife Penny, and his stepdaughter Amelia. Bradley and Nick are up in the master bedroom catching up - it had been a while since Bradley had been home.

They’re up for about an hour, while you get to know the Mitchells, before Bradley appears in the living room. “She wants to meet you.”

“Are you- are you sure?”

“Very sure. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” As if he can sense the nerves, he holds out a hand for you to take. He knows this must be weird for you. Going from meeting no one to his entire family in the span of twenty-four hours. But he’s glad you’re here. He has a feeling he’s going to be with you for a long time, and if now is the only time that he gets to be with you and his mom, he’ll take what he can get.

If you hadn’t known Carole Bradshaw was sick, you’re not sure you would’ve guessed. Yes, she looks tired, and yes, the bags under her eyes are probably bigger than usual, but her smile is wide and her eyes bright.

“You’re even prettier than he said you were.”

You’re positive this isn’t true. You’re wearing the jeans you had on yesterday, with one of Bradley’s shirts, and you must’ve gotten a maximum of five hours sleep last night. Pretty is not the word you’d use. Heat rises to your cheeks, as Bradley guides you to the chair beside her bed.

“It’s really lovely to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw-”

“Carole! Call me Carole, please.”

“Carole,” You repeat. You’re desperate for her to like you. The idea that you could be with Bradley for the rest of your life, and the only impression his mother has of you is when you’re running on little sleep with greasy hair is not appealing. “I really like your son.”

She laughs. “I really like him too. And he likes you. Wouldn’t shut up about you the last time he called.”

You glance at Bradley, who’s begun to look very embarrassed. “That’s an exaggeration-”

“It is not! He’s very enamoured with you, sweetheart.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, what do you do? He got so carried away on the phone, he didn’t tell me the basics. Just how pretty you were, and how he can't believe you'd go out with him-”

"Okay, mom, that's enough," Bradley interjects, as Carole grins.

"Just letting the girl know what she's in for!"

“I work in publishing.”

“You’re a reader?”

“As much as I can.”

“You’ll need to give me some recommendations then. I’ve been getting more reading done recently than the rest of my life combined.”

“I think I can do that.”

***

That afternoon, the extended family come round. You take it all in your stride, diligently answering questions and re-filling drinks. Sophia, his cousin’s daughter, takes a particular liking to you, opting to sit on your knee while the grownups chat.

“What do you think?” Bradley asks Nick, eyes trained on you as you crouch down to chat to little Sophia, smiling widely as she shows off her teddy bear.

“I like her more than you already,” Nick quips, throwing him a grin. Seeing Bradley’s obvious relief, he claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “She’s great. Really. Way out of your league.”

Bradley snorts. “Believe me, I know.”

“Your mom likes her too. Spent more time talking about her to Mary this afternoon than anything else.”

“Yeah?”

Nick drops his voice to a near-whisper. “I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you bringing her here has really made your mother so happy. All she’s ever wanted was for you to find someone - and she won’t get to meet her grandkids, but I think meeting their mother will let her go with a bit of clarity.”

Bradley almost chokes on his drink. Sure, these might have been three of the best months of his life. But it was still far too early to even consider marriage and kids. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off. Not when things had been going so well. “It’s only been three months-”

“So? Who cares if you met her yesterday, or ten years ago? She wouldn't have driven you a hundred and fifty miles in the middle of the night if she wasn't committed to this thing. Your mother and I were engaged by six months, married by eight.”

He looks back at you. In such a short space of time, you'd become his whole life. On the occasions you had to sleep at your own place, due to early meetings or that time you were dog-sitting, he felt your absence like a gaping hole in his chest. You were the last thing he thought about every night, and his first thought in the morning. “I really like her,” He admits finally.

Nick Bradshaw just smiles. “We can tell.”

Don't you turn like Orpheus // Just stay here // Hold me in the dark and when the day appears // We'll say // We did not give up on love today

You manage a couple of hours of downtime before trying to make yourself useful again. You weren’t the world’s best cook - you certainly weren’t better than Bradley, but you could make a mean lasagna. And you figure the last thing the Bradshaws needed to be thinking about right now was food. So, you enlist Penny, and send Maverick out to get the extra ingredients you need.

“We can just order in, it’s no big deal,” Bradley insists, watching as you and Penny bustle about the kitchen.

“That’ll cost an absolute fortune. We’ve got it covered, right Penny?”

Penny nods, and ushers Bradley towards the door. “We’ll be done in an hour. Set the table for us, will you?”

Spirits are cheerful, despite the overhang of dread. Cousins are playing, Bradley’s serving drinks, Carole and Penny are gossiping, and you’ve found yourself beside Nick. He’s easy to talk to, and is like Bradley in so many ways it’s almost scary. He’s already broken into the baby pictures, showing you various embarrassing Bradley phases over the years.

His cowboy phase at three. His emo phase at eleven. His surfer dude phase at sixteen.

“Later on, I may tell you about Bradley's many failings as a man and as a table tennis player. But, firstly I'd like to say the one big thing - that I've only loved three men in my life. My dad was a frosty prick so that only leaves dear Maverick, Elvis Presley- obviously - and that man there.”

Across the room, Bradley’s giving Sophia a piggy-back, while simultaneously juggling four empty glasses that need cleaned up.

“He’s a good guy,” You agree, eyes soft as you watch him. “I’m really lucky.”

“I’m glad you two found each other. He struggles to let people in sometimes.”

You’d never experienced that with Bradley. From the very first meeting, it felt like you both just understood each other, in a way you’d never felt before. You told him things at Bob’s wedding that it would take you months to work up to with other people. Upon seeing your confusion, Nick laughs softly.

“Good to see he isn’t like that with you.”

Eventually, Carole begins to get tired, and everyone starts to filter out, leaving just Nick, Bradley, and you. You try to start cleaning up, but Nick and Bradley manage to distract you with a game of Monopoly at Carole’s bedside. She dominates, getting hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair that bankrup the rest of you, before you and Bradley give her some peace to get some sleep.

When Bradley emerges from his shower, you aren’t in his room. Frowning, he combs the upstairs. Nothing. Then he hears humming from the kitchen. Inside, you’re tackling the mountain of plates from lunch earlier, having barely made a dent.

“Honey, you don’t have to do that,” Bradley says, and you jump at the disturbance.

“You scared me,” You breathe, before turning back to the dishes. “And it’s fine - I just want to help.”

“I can do it in the morning,” He insists, moving behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist. “You already made dinner. It’s too much.”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about dishes, or washing, or cooking right now. Let me take care of you.”

“At least let me help.”

You think for a second, before conceding. “Fine. You can dry.”

It takes another hour, but the by the end, you’re giggling like children as you flick suds of soap at him, before trying to duck out of his arms as he tickles you mercilessly.

Upstairs, Carole and Nick smile to themselves when they hear the “Bradley don’t!” mere seconds before another fit of laughter erupts.

"He's going to be okay," Carole murmurs, resting her head on her husband's shoulder, eyes misty.

By the time you’re ready to go to bed, Bradley’s in need of another shower, hair sticking to his forehead as his shorts drip water onto the floor.

***

“I’ll be back tonight,” You promise, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “But I really need my laptop to work from home.”

Bradley understood. He did. You were already doing far too much, arranging your work so that you could stay in San Diego with him for the time being. And yet, the idea of you being gone for even a day created a pit at the very bottom of his stomach. “Drive safe, okay? And call me when you get home. And then call me again before you leave.”

“I will.” In normal circumstances you’d laugh at his over-protectiveness, but you know he’s just worried. It’s been a hard two weeks.

Carole has had a string of bad days - bad days that are slowly beginning to outnumber the good. It won’t be too long now. Carole knows this, you know it, Nick knows it. You’re not sure Bradley’s come to terms with it yet.

You’re sitting with her that night, while the guys make dinner. You’d been covering it, but Carole had insisted they stop letting you do all the work around the house. So you’re cross-legged on a chair beside her bed, looking at some more pictures from Bradley’s childhood.

“You know, he’s never brought a girl home before,” Carole tells you, as soon as the door clicks shut behind Bradley. He’d popped up with drinks. “Not even Taylor. They were together four years, and we met her once at a wedding.”

“It’s just because I drove him here,” You reason, but Carole shakes her head.

“It’s different with you.” She goes to speak again, before breaking off in a coughing fit. You grab the glass on her bedside, passing it over. “Thanks, sweetheart. And thank you for being here.”

“It’s no problem, really. I’d do anything for him.”

“I know. And I’m glad it’s you. I was so worried about leaving him. He’s always been sensitive. I think you’ll make it a little easier on him.”

You don't know what to say, voice catching in your throat. Instead, you reach out and take her hand.

***

“Please Nick, I'm not dead yet. Penny can come. It’ll be fine.” Carole rolls her eyes, and you know Nick isn't winning this one.

It was the latest argument. Nick and Carole had decided to renew their vows at the Hard Deck, just for closest friends and family. The guys had their suits, but you, Carole and Penny didn't have a dress. Carole wanted to go shopping, Nick thought it was a bad idea. The final compromise was going to one shop, and making Carole stay off her feet as much as possible.

You knew despite Carole's insistence that she was happy with whatever, that you didn’t want to make her walk far. So you set up shop in a local store, Carole and Penny each picking their own dress first.

You try a couple on, eventually landing on a pale yellow maxi dress, patterned with flowers. Just as you’re about to get changed back into your clothes, Carole appears in the dressing room.

“If this is weird and inappropriate, please tell me,” Carole insists, as she steps towards you with a dress bag. “But uh- I never got to have a daughter. Nick and I, we tried for a while to give Bradley a sibling, but it never worked out.” She clears her throat, voice thick as she continues. “And I always hoped that I’d be able to go dress-shopping with whoever Bradley chose to marry. I know that the two of you haven’t been together long, but-but…”

She trails off, and you nod, eyes shining. “I would really love to have you as a mother-in-law,” You whisper.

You step out of the dressing room, breath bated as you look in the mirror. The dress is gorgeous, hugging your curves in all the right places, the cut making you look taller than you are. You’ve never worn a wedding dress before. You're not sure if it's bad luck to wear one without being engaged, but this feels right. It's a moment you'll never get to share with Carole, even if you do marry Bradley one day.

She’s wiping her eyes before she even sees you. “Oh honey, you look stunning,” She breathes. "You'll make a beautiful bride someday."

The tears are streaming freely now, and you hug her tightly. "I wish I'd met him earlier."

"Me too," She whispers. "But it's okay. When it happens, it'll be wonderful. Because you both love each other, and that's all that matters."

I'll show you good // Restore your faith // I'll try and somehow make a meaning of the poison in this place // Convince you love, don't breathe it in // You were written in the stars that we are swimming in

The ceremony's beautiful. If you and Bradley can have half the relationship his parents share, you'll be doing a whole lot better than most people.

Maverick officiates, and Bradley is designated ring-bearer, despite his protests.

"Why can't Amelia do it? Or Sophia? The literal child?"

"It's funnier making you do it-"

“Time for pictures!” Penny announces, grabbing her camera from the counter. “Bradshaw family up first!”

You smile as Bradley fakes a dramatic sigh, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he passes. Nick and Bradley stand on either side of Carole, arms wrapped round her waist as they lean in. You zone out slightly, snapping back to reality when you hear Carole calling your name. “Wait! That’s not everyone!”

If you weren’t already close to tears, this'll do it. “Oh, no-” You begin, but she’s already cutting you off.

“You’ll be family soon enough, sweetheart,” She calls, gesturing forwards. You glance at Bradley, nod wanting to overstep, and get to your feet when he nods. You know the rule for partners - unless it’s serious, they don’t get in the family photos.

Bradley reaches out, looping his arm round you to pull you in tightly.

Penny takes pictures of every possible configuration of people. You and Bradley, Nick and Maverick, Carole and Sophia, before getting one of the bartenders to get a group shot.

Nick captures one single photo the whole night. You and Carole in the corner of one of the booths, eyes crinkled as you laugh together. He saves it for later. Figures it could make a good wedding present down the line.

***

“Listen, if what my mom said was too much, I totally get that,” Bradley murmurs into your ear as you sway gently in time to Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire wafting from the jukebox. “She gets ahead of herself at the best of times, nevermind… nevermind now.”

Carole Bradshaw will never get to meet her grandchildren. If you and Bradley get married, she won’t be at the wedding. If, god forbid, you aren’t it for him, she’ll never know his wife. She won’t get to see him turn forty, or celebrate her fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s an awful finality that he can’t allow himself to think about too much.

“It wasn’t too much,” You reply, voice soft. “I love your family.”

“I love you.”

It slips out before he can even register what he's saying. Truthfully, he's known he loved you since you dropped everything to be with him here. But thinking and saying are very different things.

Your reply is instantaneous. “I love you too.” You don't need to think about it. Because you do. You love Bradley Bradshaw in a big and scary way.

You love how he spends his Saturdays giving free lessons to people who can't afford it, simply because he thinks everyone should have a chance to learn.

You love that when the anniversary of your grandma's death had come round last month, he'd turned up on your doorstep with flowers and chocolates before his shift, even though his work was at the opposite end of the city from your house.

You love the fact that he talks in his sleep - mostly about aircrafts and flying, a language you don't understand at all. Mumbling about F-18s and Mach numbers as his arms tighten around you.

You love that underneath the tough exterior, he’s the softest man you've ever met. That even though the idea terrifies him, you know he'll be a wonderful father one day.

You love him. You think that maybe you've loved him since the moment you saw him.

“You don't have to say it just because my mom's dying.”

“I'm not. I'd say it even if your dad was hideous and your mom hated me, and they were all massive Republicans. I love you.”

***

“They look like you guys,” Maverick muses, as you and Bradley move round the dance floor, totally engrossed in each other.

“I hope you mean that as a compliment,” Nick replies, raising an eyebrow as he takes his wife's hand.

“Of course it's a compliment,” Maverick scoffs. “You guys found your person younger than most, and still managed to make it work. Took me fifty years to get my act together.”

“Bradley’s nearly forty, he wasn’t far behind you,” Nick snorts, and Carole swats at him.

“That wasn’t his fault! He was ready to settle down, and Taylor pulled the rug out from under him.”

“It worked out for the best. He looks happier now than he ever did with Taylor.”

"You both better get absolutely hammered at their wedding for me."

"I think we can handle that," Maverick assures her, grinning. "The boys can do Great Balls of Fire in your honour."

"She'll be heading straight for a divorce if you do that," Carole laughs.

That was the last good day. It was like she'd said her goodbyes, made her peace with leaving. She knew that everyone would be okay, eventually. She's admitted to the hospital on Monday with chest pain, and dies on Thursday.

She goes holding Bradley's hand, while Nick sits on her other side. For all intents and purposes, it is a peaceful death.

It has no name // No guarantee // It's just the promise of a day // I know that some may never see // But that's enough // If the bottom drops out // I hope my love was someone else's solid ground

Nick Bradshaw stands alone at the entrance to the church, greeting every single guest by name. Even when they get well into the hundreds, he treats their grief with a delicacy you'd never expect from a new widower.

You don’t think you’d be able to harness that amount of grace if you were in his position. You stand with Bradley, hand clutched tightly in his. His eyes are fixed firmly on the coffin, only pulling them away to acknowledge the mourners who approach him.

It feels like the entire city of San Diego has come out to mourn Carole Bradshaw. The church is filled to the brim, with people spilling onto the street outside. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen such an outpouring of love for one person.

You manage to hold it together until the opening chords of Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down ring out. Bradley’s arm snakes round your waist, and a choked sob escapes as he buries his face in your hair.

“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” You cry, pulling him in tighter.

Nick knew his wife better than anybody in the world - she wouldn't have wanted everyone to be miserable. She wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life, not death.

So his eulogy is full of their best moments - from embarrassing to heartfelt. When she went into labour with Bradley while Nick was in the air, and Maverick had to be sent to get him down. Nick arrived at the hospital as Bradley was crowning. It had taken him a while to make it up to her for that one.

When she almost got them all arrested in Italy by driving on the wrong side of the road.

Their first wedding - when she'd been an hour late to her own reception because she overslept.

Her love for really awful karaoke. Her love for her family, friends, husband, son.

Carole Bradshaw lived a good life. And that was nothing to be sad about.

“How are you handling this so well?” Bradley asks his dad, as the three of you walk towards the car to head to the reception.

“I'm not - not really. I’m fucking furious, and so uninterested in a life without your mother. But I also know she'd punch me for even thinking that.”

For the first time in a long time, Bradley laughs. “She’d tell you to grow up and get on with it.”

“And so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna mope for a couple of weeks, and then I’m getting a dog. And I’m gonna call it Goose.”

“You’re naming the dog after yourself?”

“Hey, your mother was the brains of the relationship, not me.”

***

“Can we- can we go for a drive?” Bradley asks the next day, and you nod.

“Of course.”

The drive doesn’t take long. A couple of miles up the coast, before he’s pulling into a lookout spot. It’s incredible, the view over the ocean. “My mom used to bring me here, to watch my dad fly,” Bradley murmurs, as he leads you over to the railing. He gestures out towards the island in the distance. “He was based there for a while. So was I, when I served.”

There aren’t any planes out today, but the sky is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen, not a cloud in sight. Bradley has to think that somehow, his mom is here, watching over you both.

“I think I've been asleep most of my life,” He admits.

“Me too.”

“I don't want that anymore. Being scared, of not taking any risks. I don't want to have any regrets."

"We've got time," You murmur. "We're still in our thirties. Basically teenagers. Your twenties are just a practice run, anyway. I've heard that being in your forties is where it's at."

"Yeah," He replies softly. "We've got time."

His mom's ring nearly burns a hole in his pocket.

“Not for today, not for tomorrow, but soon, okay?” She'd whispered, slipping it into his hand, smiling softly as her breathing grew laboured.

“Yeah, mom. Soon.”

a/n - thank you so much for reading!! I really love this one-shot, and I've never written Carole and Nick before. Thank you to Mel for hosting the challenge, I had a lot of fun taking inspiration from the movies!

We know that Facebook is brainscorching your parents and tiktok is brainscorching your cousins, but some of you refuse to admit that you got your brain scorched here. However unlike those sites there isn't an algorithm here you just make bad choices.

❤︎‬ first comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage... ❤︎‬ jericho ichabod x fem reader ‪ ❤︎‬ wc: 5k ❤︎‬ content warning(s): nsfw, breeding/lots of explicit mentions of pregnancy ❤︎‬ jericho ichabod is from the kid at the back being developed by fantasia-kitt ❤︎‬ mdni banner by cafekitsune

“what do you see yourself doing in the future?”

you blink, the distant twinkling light of the stars wavering as your vision refocuses. you crane your neck to the side, and you find your best friend, jericho “crowe” ichabod, peering back at you. he looks so beautiful, with his long hair loose and gazing at you as if you had hung the stars in the night sky. you almost feel a little shy from the eye contact. no matter how long you’ve been by his side, you can’t seem to properly adjust to just how sweet and effortlessly charismatic he could be. 

“the future…,” you mumble over the words as if chewing them over, “well, i’d like to save my family farm, for starters. but you knew that already.”

a devious idea pops into your head, and a grin sneaks onto your face as you turn to look back into crowe’s deep blue eyes. “and once i’ve done that, i’d like to marry my best friend someday. except he’s just so awfully shy that it’ll probably take us a while to get there.”

his eyes widen before he lets out a sheepish laugh, turning away from you to poorly hide his warming cheeks. he waves his hand as if trying to create some space, but he doesn’t make any real effort to move away from you or anything. “i’m being serious here!”

“who said i wasn’t being serious?” you quickly quip. you puff your cheeks out in a display of mock frustration. “quit beating around the bush and make me an ichabod already, crowe! once we’ve done that, i think it’d be nice to have a family too. would i be being too greedy if i said i wanted three kids?”

you can tell it’s taking everything in your usually well-composed friend to keep his calm facade. he can’t quite meet your expectant gaze, and you can see the hint of a barely repressed smile threatening to overtake his countenance. his normally collected voice trembles a little when he responds to you. “you’re not being greedy so long as you’re ready to bear the responsibility of being a parent. what kind of kids are you hoping for, my starlight?”

you pause to think about it slightly. in all honesty, you’d be happy with any family you could have with crowe, kids or not. just the thought of being able to have crowe by your side like this for the rest of your life has your face feeling tingly and your heart doing cartwheels. still, it’s not like you haven’t daydreamed about this before. if you close your eyes, you can basically imagine the scene in front of you. 

boughs of golden wheat bounce back and forth in the gentle breeze. the dimming sun slowly crawls across the horizon towards its resting place for the night. the persistent song of cicadas and grasshoppers fill your ears, signalling the classic symphony of summer nights you’ve always grown up with. crowe looks a little bit older in your daydream—there’s an air of refined maturity around him, but his eyes hold the same fondness towards you they’ve always had. you can hear the excited squeals of young children as they play a few feet away from you, mud smeared over their tiny hands as they try to catch the tiny bugs that flit around in the air. 

“i want a cute baby. one that looks just like you,” you answer after a few moments worth of deliberation, grinning to yourself at your idyllic daydream. “what about you? if i said that i wanted kids with you, would you want them too?”

“i want anything that you want,” he smoothly entertains your idea. your happiness is contagious, another mischievous grin creeps up the corners of his mouth until he can barely hide the giggles threatening to overtake him “except i think i’d like our children to look more like you.”

he stops to let out a dreamy sigh, as if the vision of your future happiness that you painted aligns perfectly with his. it does. “my hope for my future is just about the same as yours. as long as we can stay together… i’d be happy no matter what we do.”

…

…

…

you should know by now not to joke around with crowe. 

as patient and as understanding as the young man is, he’s the type of man to take your teasing and return it tenfold. he’s repaying your tantalizing words with spades, but you’re too fucked out to make heads or tails of it all.

all you care about right now is how good his body feels. you’re sitting perfectly on his lap, his thick cock in between your shaking thighs and stuffed into your drooling cunt. his pretty hands are all over your chest, and you let out a pathetic whimper as he slowly gropes at your tits, big palms massaging the soft flesh. you feel so weak against his bigger form, molded perfectly to where he wants you to be. you’re in the palm of his hand, moving exactly to how he wants you to.

“hush, starlight,”  he whispers. you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “i’m here to take care of you. you were the one that wanted this so badly. you were the one that brought this up first.”

truth is truly stranger than fiction. one moment crowe was offering to walk you home after keeping you at the park so late, and next thing you know, your mouth is on his and the two of you are stumbling into your dingy apartment. your clothes are scattered all over the floor, and your cheap mattress creaks from your combined weight with his. every time you or crowe moves slightly, it lets out a whine in protest, but you’re too preoccupied with the fact that you have his dick inside of you. 

you let out another desperate cry when crowe shifts his hips slightly, rolling his length into you and grinding up into your velvety walls once he bottoms out into you. fuck—he isn’t doing anything that extreme to you, and your mind is going blank. his thrusts are so slow and sensual, not even enough to set a steady pace and more akin to cockwarming than anything else, but it feels so stupidly good to have his cock stuffed into your needy hole and stretching your pussy out. has his dick always felt this good? or are you so drunk off of your emotions that your body is betraying you this quickly?

“you were talking such a big game earlier,” his voice echoes around your ears again. “telling me that you wanted me to marry you and give you children. don’t you have me right where you want me? oh, my love… don’t tell me that you can’t take it.”

“you’re being unfair-,” you manage out weakly. “you- you feel too good inside me…! every time you rub against me, i can’t think!”

he only chuckles under his breath. “you make it so easy for me to love you… if you’re losing your mind with me only doing this much, you’re going to make me waver too… i really wanted to take my time breaking you down, but if you’re begging for it, then you really leave me no choice.”

your breath audibly hitches when his fingers roll over your hardened nipples, and you whine like a bitch in heat when he pinches at your nipples carefully, tugging ever so slightly at your tits. heat flutters up your chest and your stomach, and pleasure flashes somewhere deep in your brain. your cunt coils around his twitching length, squeezing him even more than you already were. 

“don’t play with my boobs like that, i’ll go crazy!” you sob. it’s too good. you’re so in love with him that everything he does to you goes straight to your cunt. everything he does to your body feels so good that you feel like you can’t breathe. 

his fingers hesitate, just hovering above your sensitive nipples. you choke down a frantic gasp, momentarily thinking that he was finally being nice enough to listen to you. but when you feel his fingertips trace down the silhouette of your body before resting in between your thighs. you grit your teeth when he starts to toy with your clit. his thrusts slow down before he keeps you grounded all the way to the hilt, stuffed straight into your cunt. 

“you’re right. apologies for being so careless, my dear,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. jolts of red-hot, electric pleasure grip at your stomach. he rubs slow, sticky circles against your sensitive nub, moving just the way you like it. “how could i forget? if i really want my cum to take… i ought to make you cum a few times first. make sure you open your womb up to me…”

you can’t think. you feel like you have to physically remind yourself to breathe. inhale, exhale, while crowe pinches and presses his fingertips against your clit. it feels so good to speared open on his swollen cock, but when he’s not moving and only playing with your clit, the arousal is almost too much for you to handle. you want him to fuck you, to be true to his word and make you cum your brains out and fill you up with his babies. 

“d-don’t just play with my clit…!” you eke out, desperate to feel anything. no matter how much you try to grind down on his cock and try to get some movement, crowe stays steadfast in making sure you don’t feel any excess pleasure. 

you feel like you’re melting against his body. you swear you can feel his weeping tip prodding against the entrance of your womb, and you’re overwhelmed with just how much you want his cum inside you. but once crowe has his mind set on something, he isn’t the kind of person to give up. 

and he thinks you’re so adorable, shuddering and falling apart the more he plays with your poor clit. the heat in your core keeps mounting relentlessly, thrashing and swirling deep in your belly as if it's a caged beast demanding to be released.

god, you’re falling apart so quickly. you’re letting out desperate, incoherent cries, stumbling over your words as you moan nonstop. “ah- feels good- you’re being so mean to me- playing with just my clit when i want- when i want you to fuck me with your cock instead…!”

crowe knows how to rip apart your seams. he’s the only man in the world that could make you cum this fast. you can feel him whispering sweet nothings to you with his characteristic amused lilt in his voice, but all of it goes straight to your pulsing cunt. you’re drooling all around him, wet walls making a mess out of his twitching cock. you’re milking him, fluttering around him so sweetly, and he wants nothing more than to give in and fuck your brains out while breeding you.

but crowe is nothing if not a gentleman. and a gentleman must be patient. you’re already at your limit, so it’s really just a matter of time before you crumble completely and crowe can move in for the sweetest kill. 

“think ‘m gonna cum-,” your voice wavers so beautifully as you throw your head back. your hips lurch unconsciously, not sure whether or not to chase the overwhelming pleasure of his ministrations. “fuck- gonna cum…! gonna cum from having my clit played with-!! you’re the worst-!”

“now, my starlight, surely you don’t mean that?” he chuckles. he pinches your clit in retaliation, and he’s rewarded with such a lovely anguished cry from you. “i told you already. i’m merely preparing you for what’s to come.”

you’re clenching and unclenching all around his cock, your gummy walls clinging onto every inch of his thick length. your hands grab at whatever you can hold onto. your toes curl, and the edges of your vision are going blurry. crowe can feel his hand muscles aching, but he doesn’t want to stop, not when you’re this close to cumming.

you clench your eyes shut, jerking up against crowe’s body. “cumming- fuck- ah…! it’s too much- can’t take it- please…! i’m cumming, i’m cumming, fuck, fuck-!”

your orgasm grips you from the inside out. something deep in your tummy explodes, and heat consumes you whole. you let out a strangled cry, your voice wavering and breaking as pleasure overrides every one of your senses. your walls clamp down on his cock, and your poor cunt spasms all around him. it’s so dumb and it’s so good, just the thought of being spread open and fucked out and going dumb just from being penetrated by crowe’s cock. 

ever the sweetheart, crowe keeps playing with your clit through your orgasm, jolts of electricity pooling in your stomach. even though you’re still wading senselessly through the most gripping high of your climax, crowe needs to see more from you. he’s not satisfied with plunging you into these depths once. 

you push weakly at crowe’s hands when you can muster the strength to do so, your clit numb and tingling from how much crowe’s abused it. “i-i just came…! don’t keep playing with it- too much-”

somewhere deep in your mind, you can feel the dull thrums of arousal starting to awaken again. just cumming from having your clit played isn’t enough—you need more. your body’s still reeling from the electric shockwaves of your first orgasm, but at the same time, you want him to make you cum on his cock. you want him to hold your legs open and fuck load after load of his cum into you, only stopping when you both know that he’s fucked a sweet little baby into you.

just the thought has your stomach doing flips. you keep squeezing around him, subconsciously clenching and drooling all over his length. it drives him crazy to know that you’re still raring to go. you two really can’t resist each other.

“forgive me, love.” you know he’s not actually asking for forgiveness, not when you can tell that he’s far too pleased with himself. “it just feels so good when you cum around my cock…”

you whine. “you’re awful, crowe!”

his movements falter. you tense up when you feel his dick twitch inside of you. something in the air visibly shifts, and you let out a gasp when crowe’s deft fingers glide upwards across your stomach. you gasp when his sticky fingers grab at your face, and his fingertips press into your cheeks. he cranes your face slightly, exposing the side of your neck to him completely.

“crowe?” he repeats the nickname you called out. “oh, you’re breaking my heart. and here i thought that you’d at least have the decency to moan my real name…”

he presses his lips to the side of your neck, showering your sensitive skin with a flurry of sickly sweet kisses. you can feel your heart flutter as his light touches spread over your neck, the affection making you melt in his embrace.

“i want everyone to know that i’m the one who got my hands all over you,” he murmurs against your skin. “that i’m the one that made you feel this good. that i’m the one who got you pregnant. you know my name, dear. or do i have to give you a more thorough reminder?”

a chill runs down your back when you feel crowe shift his hips, and a moan lodges itself in the back of your throat as he slowly slides his cock out of you. you almost instinctively brace yourself when you can only feel his tip buried into your warmth, pussy practically leaking from how much you want to get fucked.

he thrusts. hard. one full motion to wedge his entire length back into your walls.

“jericho.” his hold on you is firm. “that’s my name. moan my name, starlight.”

he thrusts again, and you whimper when you can feel every inch of him spreading your walls out. he wiggles his hips slightly before fucking into you over and over, and you stumble over your breathing as heat claws at the inside of your tummy.

“oh- ah- jericho!” you cry out. your pussy flutters around him as you moan his name. some sick part of you is thoroughly enjoying being claimed and fucked into mindless oblivion. you’re his. all his.

pleasure shoots straight into your core like a bullet. fuck—fuck, this was all you wanted. you don’t even get a proper chance to collect your thoughts before crowe is fucking into you with a vigor you’ve never seen before, pumping his whole cock in and out of you as if he’s determined to break your cunt. your mind immediately goes blank as pleasure and heat shoot throughout your veins like a kind of poison, and his hand slides down to grip at your neck possessively. 

he isn’t actively choking you, but he’s very clearly staking his claim over your body. your pleasure—and now, even your breathing—are all dependent on how merciful he’s feeling. you can feel your stomach tie itself into knots at the thought. he’s so kind and yet so demanding at times, and just thinking about being tied down to him forever has your cunt tightening up with need.

he laughs softly. you can feel some of his long hair brush up against you when he leans forward to press another kiss to your throat. “there we go. much better, isn’t it? say my name again.”

even though he isn’t moving particularly fast, he’s moving deep and hard. each full-bodied stroke has you seeing stars. you’re gasping for air whenever his tip presses up deep inside of you, just ghosting over that one spot jericho knows you love so much.

“jericho! jericho- fuck!” your mind’s getting all scrambled up. “wh-what more do you want from me?”

“you said it yourself earlier. you want a baby with me.” his hold on your neck shifts slightly, and his teeth ghost over your neck. your walls contort around him. a chilling plunge of pleasure creeps down your spine at the thought of him biting you. your mind spins as you envision yourself, all fucked out and babbling, as jericho sinks his fangs into your skin and marks you both inside and out. 

you brace yourself when you hear him suck in an inhale. with a well-timed thrust, he bites down on your neck. pain momentarily shoots through your body, but you let out a loud moan as it dissolves into a kind of mind numbing pleasure. you can feel him applying just enough pressure to leave a mark, wanting everyone to see who it was that laid their hands all over you. it makes your insides stir.

“jericho, you- you’re so…!” you can’t bring yourself to finish your statement. you’re bouncing shamelessly on his lap, unable to get enough of the addictive rush shooting through your body. his tongue lovingly laps over the bite marks on your neck, and another shiver runs down your spine.

“i know, my dear, i know…i want to make you mine. through and through,” he whispers against his handiwork. his hands are moving all over you now: caressing your sides, pressing against your stomach, tracing the outline of your thighs. “you understand, don’t you? i can feel you tightening up around me… you like this as much as i do, don’t you?”

you don’t have anything to say to him. you let out another round of incoherent cries as he fucks you over and over on his cock, your hips lewdly moving up and down in a feverish need to take as much of him as you can. jericho knows how to read you to filth, and even now, as he fucks you open on his cock, all you can think of is how he’s the only one that could ever make you feel this good. he’s stuffing you full, and the promise of having your womb filled with his sticky cum makes your mind spin. 

you’re going insane. your cunt offers no resistance, your juices only making it that much easier for him to slide his entire length in and out, in and out of you. the pressure in your stomach only grows and grows. the heat in your body twists and slinks around under your skin, and the overstimulation makes your mind go blank. you need it, you want it, but god, it makes it feel like your body’s being set on fire. 

“ah! if you- if you fuck me with your whole cock after you’ve made me cum, i’ll actually lose my mind!” you protest weakly. that stupid jericho! he knows your body too well, and he’s using every scrap of knowledge against you. he’s making you feel so good that you think you’ll go crazy, and he looks as unfazed as ever.

his voice is laced with a kind of lovesickness as he bounces you on his lap, wet sounds of skin on skin echoing all the room. “so tight- so tight and wet… perfect for my cock, perfect to be bred… you’re taking me so well. it makes me so happy to know that you wanted this as much as i did.”

his hands go to cup your chest, and he’s back to unapologetically groping your tits while bouncing you on his cock. you grit your teeth as he deftly teases your nipples, tugging on them just the slightest bit. your senses are fried to hell and back, overwhelmed with everything he’s doing to you. your previous orgasm only accentuates the pleasure, your clit tingling as his heavy balls slap up against it with each calculated stroke.

“so pretty… doing so good for me…” even his praise feels like teasing, especially when his tip is bullying your cervix. his thrusts are faster, deeper now, focused entirely on maximizing how good you feel so that he can fill you up. his palms squeeze at your tits greedily. “i can’t wait to see how pretty you’ll be with my baby inside of you. swollen and glowing, all because of me… can’t wait for your pretty chest to be filled with milk too… leaking with milk to feed our babies…”

your cunt clenches around him. his words are going straight to your pussy. his hips shift, and you think you’re going to cum. you can’t take it anymore, everything has been boiling up inside of you. just thinking about how much you’ve longed for him, longed for a future with him, makes your heart swell up. you really must be nothing more than a lovestruck pervert, getting off this much to the thought of your first love marrying you and fucking a baby into you.

“‘m gonna cum!” you whine. “if you talk like that- fuck me like that- i’ll cum!”

“that’s what i’m here for,” he grunts. his balls twitch against your entrance when he hears you whimpering about cumming, and you know he’s getting close to his limit too. his once sharp thrusts are getting more and more sloppy, and his breathing is also growing more shallow and ragged. “it’s alright… cum as much as you want. are you close?”

“yes-,” you choke out. your vision is growing hazy, blurring around the edges. you’re not sure how to comprehend all of the stimuli racking up on your body, but you want more of it. you love being stretched out jericho’s cock, love being fucked stupid, love it when he uses your body the way he wants to. “so close- wanna cum so badly…!”

“tell me you love me,” he pants out. something in your stomach lurches. your cunt keeps milking his cock, desperate to be painted white with his cum, and it’s driving him just as crazy. “it takes two people in love to make a baby… tell me you love me, and then- and then, i’ll let you cum as much as you want.”

your heart stirs inside of your chest. that’s so like jericho to believe in something like that. you don’t doubt your emotions towards the princely young man. your attraction, your trust, and your connection to him all has to stem from that simple four letter word that has you acting simultaneously like a maniac and a fiend for another taste of his attention. there’s no other word that can be used to describe why your body reacts this much to his touches, why you keen and crumble under every one of his kisses, why it always feels like heaven when you give into his disarming advances.

“i love you! i love you, jericho!” you moan out. you feel so full, so giddy, so drunk off of everything he makes you feel. his cock stutters inside of you as jericho takes a second to soak up your confession, the slightly possessive edge he tries so hard not to show flickering somewhere underneath his demeanor. 

“i love you too, my starlight. i love you. i love you.” he fucks harder into you, and if it weren’t for his tight grip on you, you might have collapsed entirely against his chest by now. “let’s be together forever.”

his hips stutter against yours, and he grabs at your hips, yanking you down as far as you can take him. you let out a strangled cry, your voice tinged with need, as you feel him push into you until he bottoms out inside of your cunt. you instinctively brace yourself. you just need a little more. just a little push, and all the pressure building up in your core could come loose.

“ah-!” 

you feel his cock twitch and throb dangerously inside you, and something deep inside your stomach explodes. ropes of sticky cum flood your womb, and you can’t take it anymore. jericho shifts his hips against yours, grinding up against your pussy, and you’re cumming your brains out with a cry of his name. the knot in your stomach snaps, and you’re gushing around him, your juices mixing together with his. you can feel his semen seep deeper and deeper into you, settling somewhere so deep inside you that you think you can feel it take almost immediately.

your head feels heavy, overrun with the ecstasy of something bordering between love and submission. you came from being creampied, from having a baby fucked into your cunt. you can feel jericho’s soft pants fan out against the back of your neck as he buries his face where your shoulder meets your throat, lips glossing over your sweaty skin. he lets you ride out your high, and you swallow thickly, much needed air filling your strained lungs. he keeps you firmly planted on his lap, using his cock to keep all of his cum plugged up inside of your cunt. 

“i came-,” you breathe. your voice sounds so weak and soft. “i came from getting creampied…!”

“you did well. that’s my darling.” jericho presses another flurry of sweet kisses to your body, and you can’t help but feel a little shy when his hand ghosts over your lower stomach again, right where his cum is settling inside of you. his fingertips trace the shape of a small heart. “you’re going to look so, so beautiful with my children. you’ll be glowing. i’m sure of it. i’ll take such good care of you. i promise i will.”

heat rushes to your face at the thought of being fawned over even further than jericho already does over you. you can feel his half-soft-half-hard cock stir inside of you at the thought of you pregnant, and you bite back a small laugh. for someone so gentle and so thoughtful about his every action and word, he really just couldn’t control himself around you. his palm presses up against your stomach carefully, and you sigh when you can feel his cum sloshing around inside of your belly. your head still feels a little fuzzy from the electric aftershocks of your back-to-back orgasms, but with jericho’s cock buried snugly inside you and keeping you plugged up and full with his semen, you can’t help but want another taste of the divine bliss. 

“someone looks like they could go for another round.” you crane your neck and raise your hand to comb your fingers through jericho’s silky hair. “already getting hard again?”

“we can take a break if you want.” his lips stretch out into an angelic grin, and he moves into your calming touch. “but… i want to make sure it takes properly. wouldn’t hurt to keep going just a little more… i’ll make sure you feel good the entire time, my starlight. that’s my job, after all.”

it’s your turn to smile at him. you’d be lying if the thought of getting fucked senseless in all sorts of positions all night until you have no choice but to get knocked up didn’t turn you on. you know that you’re the reason jericho’s this insatiable, and having given him the okay only made it that much easier for him to drag you into the depths of his infatuation.

“tell me you love me first,” you mimic his words from not too long ago. “then i’ll let you go at it.”

surprise flickers across his pretty face, but it quickly melts away into a fondness in his eyes that he reserves solely for you. your heart swells with affection as he moves in to kiss your face, his lips fluttering all over your jaw and cheeks before landing on the corners of your lips. 

“i love you. i promise to love you forever. let’s spend the rest of your lives together, okay?” he asks tenderly before capturing you into a deep kiss. you reciprocate, letting him kiss you over and over again until you can feel your skin tingle dangerously again. 

“of course. i love you too, jericho.”

élisabeth vigée le brun: marie antoinette and her children

Hades is the god and the place

this website’s easy watch. *dangles a bunch of greek gods like keys*

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This is our daily meals in Ramadan. As you can see we lost everything here in Gaza and now we are having our Eftar between the destruction 💔💔💔

War has stopped but everyday we have a war inside ourselves.  Nothing has changed and everything is very expensive here. We need your support in our holy month.  Your support means everything to my family because they are waiting your kidness.  Remember that you are my only hope here because of your help 🚨🚨🚨‼️❤️

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Chuffed

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Captain America Fic Recs

Some of my favorites (since I should be writing chapter 2 of my fic, but excel at stalling):

This, You Protect by owlet - The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect. 

Hands down, my favorite Bucky fic and one of my favorite fics from any fandom. A delicate balance of humor and drama and angst and the absurd. I’ve reread it so many times.

Heart of the Storm (series) by thegraytigress - Their love shouldn’t be. He was a soldier, and she was a spy. He was everything good, pure, and strong, and she was lies, murder, and seduction. He was Captain America, and she was Black Widow. But somehow, in the dangerous chaos of their lives, their love is the only thing that matters, and it carries them through the storm. 

If you love hurt/comfort, especially involving Steve, then you have to read this series. Her writing can be very brutal at times, VERY brutal, but it’s very well written and in character. This is her most current series, but all of her Avengers fics are worth checking out.

Memory by Emilyenrose - He remembered nothing. After the first few weeks, he asked to be called James. Steve knew even that was a concession.

Bucky comes forward in time and takes The Winter Soldier’s place and it’s heartbreaking.

Silent thunder, as of a thousand wings by kaasknot - He was sent to Earth in a cage of mortal flesh to watch over Steve, and Bucky can do no less than love him with all his heart. 

An angel AU that was recommended to me. Rich in detail, it’s amazing how well it works. 

Broken Pieces by Aulizia - The Winter Soldier knows he’s broken. But he might have found a mechanic who can fix him. Trouble is… he’s not the only one in pieces. Bucky/OC.  

There aren’t a lot of Bucky/Original Female Character romances out there, even fewer that actually work, but I think this one does.

Lots more under the cut …

Keep reading

I ??? woke up at 3am with this scene fully written in my mind palace and quickly jotted it down in the Notes app

*

Clark’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s doing it, and feels a twinge of embarrassment at his own bad manners when Bruce stops mid-word to look at him, brows raised.

“No?” he says.

“No,” Clark says, again without thinking, and again with the reflexive urge to apologize. Somewhere his mother is tutting without knowing why. But he doesn’t apologize, because he’s already saying, “No, it can’t—it can’t be that.”

“Okay,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you elaborate?”

He is, honestly, having trouble taking his eyes off the screen. The mockup design of his new suit is there, dark and sleek, ridged like tactical gear. The blue is like the last shade of evening before you can’t call it evening anymore, the color of nine PM in Kansas in July, so exact there’s a strong chance Bruce color-picked it from a photo. The yellow accents are the cool fluorescent yellow-green of lightning bugs. The red is dark as arterial blood. Every aspect of the suit has been updated—the colors deeper, the angles sharper, the S extending to the corners of its frame—but Bruce has done it without changing the fundamentals. It’s immediately recognizable as the Superman suit, just… well, a little cooler, maybe. A little more of the times. Even the tailoring is modernized. The neckline. The shape of the boots. Where the belt hits at the waist. Clark can tell just by looking that Bruce has not only spent a lot of time on this in general, he’s spent a lot of time designing it specifically with Clark in mind, Clark’s needs and preferences and the small discomforts of his current suit, things he might have mentioned offhand after a mission but never with the assumption that Bruce was listening or filing it away. No doubt the next slides of this presentation will detail all the hidden features of the new suit, and they’ll all be incredibly thoughtful if not slightly overkill, and Bruce will pretend his sole motive here was practicality and risk reduction and respond to any thanks with a curt nod.

And Clark wants to thank him. He will. It’s just.

“It can’t be… cool,” he says, inane. Bruce is watching him with that steady look that used to feel clinical, piercing, and now mostly reads as attentive. “It can’t be—like yours. Tactical, military-grade.”

“Lightyears beyond, actually.”

“It has to—Ma said once, a kid should be able to draw it with crayons. You know? I can’t look like a weapon. I have to—I want to look like a friend.”

He can feel himself flushing. It’s rare that he speaks like this, and rarer still that he does so while being stared at intently. Bruce may think of himself as the darkness, but his gaze is a spotlight: unwavering and revealing and more a little sweat-inducing, for one reason or another.

“Sometimes, when I show up, people laugh,” Clark says. “If it’s somewhere out of the way, where they haven’t seen me before. I show up and I look like a festival performer. It’ll be the worst day of their lives, and they’ve got no reason to trust my face, but when they see what I’m wearing—it goes from ‘Who are you?’ to ‘Who is this guy?’ And that’s a good thing.”

“Hard to be afraid of a man dressed in primary colors,” Bruce says, almost to himself.

“Exactly.”

“I see. Thank you,” he says, “for explaining.”

Clark tries not to show how surprised he is to hear that. Judging by the crook of Bruce’s mouth, his success is negligible. “Of course. Sorry I didn’t—I mean, thank you, obviously, for going to such trouble. I didn’t mean to come in here and—I really do appreciate it, I can tell you put a lot of work in—”

Bruce’s eyes cut away. “No. No need. I didn’t ask, before I…. It was only a first draft. If you’re amenable, I’ll incorporate your feedback into the second one.”

“Oh! Yeah. Yes, of course, but you really don’t have to—”

“If you have any further notes, I would like to hear them.”

There’s something determined in the lines of his face. Clark has the sense that this moment is important, that it’s a turning point, even if he’s not sure why. It feels like striking out into a sea of ice, a blank white expanse under which something precious and vital is hidden, has been hidden all along, just waiting for him to find it. To want to.

“Sure,” he says. He looks back at the suit and swallows, and knows Bruce will see the flicker of his throat and take some meaning from it, and wishes he knew what the meaning was. Or maybe Bruce won’t notice or read into it at all. Maybe Clark needs to calm down, in fact. “Um. I don’t want to assume, but does it… do things?”

“It does things,” Bruce confirms, after the barest pause. “Let me show you the next slide.”

genshin sugar daddies

premise: you have seven sugar daddies: one for every day of the week. a bit overwhelming, right? however, you somehow find ways to make time for each and every one of them, no matter how emotionally and physically demanding they are. it's just that, now they don't seem too keen on sharing, and you don't know what to do. (modern au)

tw: nsfw, dark content - minors dni

mondays are always harder in more ways than one. mondays are diluc's days, and that means that you're spending a good portion of your nights at angel's share.

on mondays, it's happy hour. which means that you're sitting at a booth in the corner looking pretty while diluc is tending to his customers. you're more than happy to sit back and relax while you wait for him to finish with work. when the drinks are on the house, you're willing to wait as long as it'll take.

periodically, when he's not busy, however, he'll walk over to you and engage in conversation. you act as a taste-tester for new drinks so he's always asking you if you like them. you two will talk about your day, any interesting events, and so on until diluc is pulled back into work again.

then you're back to fiddling your fingers and watching him work. over time, you've learned that he preferred that you not do anything while you were supposed to be with him. that instead, you fixated your gaze on him while he moved about. sometimes you'll catch him looking at you to see if your eyes are still on him.

even while he's dealing with a certain tone-deaf bard, there's something about the way he looks at you so intently that reminds you of a predator.

when angel's share closes, you're there to keep him company while he cleans up. when he's done, he'll sweep you away back to his manor.

you'll fall onto the sheets as he grinds against you. his shallow breaths brush against your throat. the look he gives you is nothing short of intense.

"everyone at the tavern was looking at you, you know," he mutters, running his fingers down your chest, sinking into your pants. he pulls them down effortlessly along with your panties. "didn't you feel it, darling? their filthy eyes on you. they want to ruin you. everyone wants to ruin you."

he throws your legs over his shoulders, his fingers crawling up your thighs. you jump when he suddenly inserts two fingers into your cunt, scissoring you. his free arm wraps around your leg to keep you locked against him. his eyes are glued onto you as he presses a kiss against your calf.

"but your eyes were on me all night, weren't they. couldn't take your eyes off me, could you. you're mine, dear. do you hear me? you're mine."

you don't overlook how tight his grip is. tight enough to make you wonder if he'll ever let you go. in the morning, he does, but you're scared for the day he wakes up and decides that it's for the last time.

tuesdays aren't as bad. when you’re sore from the night before, childe is there to take you out to meals, shopping, and sightseeing. he's not always available to spend time with you on tuesdays, because of his equally-demanding job and whatnot, but when he is free, he never wastes a second.

or a dollar.

childe smirks smugly from his sea. his posture is lax, one hand lazily tracing circles on the chair's arm while the other comes up to rest under his chin.

"how about you twirl for me, girlie? you look so beautiful."

you giggle, observing yourself in the mirror. "why thank you."

you bask in the way the soft satin kisses your skin. the way your newly-own earrings sparkle under the dressing room's light. just a couple years ago, you could've only dreamed of being dressed so prettily.

"do your side-bitches ever treat you as well as me?"

"childe!" you chide.

he laughs, getting up from his seat. but you both know better than to believe his little chuckle is genuine.

he approaches you, sliding his hands around your waist. tucking your head under his chin, he stares at you through the mirror's reflection.

you don't say anything, and childe doesn't either. it appears he's more than happy to enjoy just standing there. his gaze is glossed over, far away.

the two of you sway side to side for what seems like forever until he decides to say something.

"do they buy you pretty things like i do?"

of course they do, you think. although you spend one-on-one time with each and every one of them, they are all aware of each other. it's only right that they did. it was the first thing you said when you brought the idea up to them, that it wasn't going to be exclusive.

but when you see the way he looks at you, you can't really tell him the truth. not when his focus is redirected from his thoughts to you.

"the things you buy me are a special kind of pretty," you reply.

it seems like that answer is enough for him, because he doesn't say anything else. instead he hums quietly, letting the vibration ripple in the back of your head. he slides his hands down your hips and before you can say anything else, he whips his head around.

"i'll buy these sets." he motions over to the closest clothes rack to an attendant you hadn't noticed. "and that one. and the dress she's wearing. how many colors does this come in, by the way?"

the attendant doesn't hesitate. "five colors, sir. they come in bla—"

"great." he shuffles through his pocket to pull out a black card. "pack them up, we won't be here any longer," he retorts.

the attendant looks ecstatic, quickly shuffling out of the dressing rooms towards the cash register with newfound glee.

"childe," you whine. "i don't think these will fit in my closet."

his hands crawl lower, his finger hovering over your clit. "then they'll fit in mine. come over any time of the week when you want to wear one of my special pretty things."

your breath hitches as he rubs slow circles on your clit. he pushes the two of you back into the dressing room and closes the curtains.

"what are you doing, she'll be back any second—"

he kisses the corner of your jaw, pressing his lips close to your ear. "no worries. if there's one thing i'm sure about, it's that no one undresses you faster than i do."

wednesday is when usually everything calms down. kazuha will typically invite you to a new park, scenic route, or gallery. together, you'll write haikus, sonnets, and limericks together. some hours you'll just sit in silence, putting pen to paper. and when the sun goes down you'll exchange poetry.

out of the seven men, kazuha probably scares you the most. he was the first person you decided to do this whole ordeal with, after all. and since he's known you the longest, he also knows about your circumstances more than others. maybe that's why he's so focused on treating you as if you were a fragile cherry blossom petal. his touches feel like ghosts, running down your forearm as he presses a kiss to the apple of your cheek.

in exchange for his protection, his money, and his care, you give him honeyed words. you act as his muse for when he's hit a creative block. you're there to listen to him read out verses when the wind can't bear the strength to carry them. you listen to his grief about his best friend, his loneliness when he was forced to leave his home country. as someone many of the locals looked to for wisdom, he too carried the emotional burdens of being someone's rock. emotional burdens that he let onto you (whether purposefully or not, you're unsure). but you listen anyway, hearing him talk about days of poverty, where sometimes he had to worry about things to eat, or how to get proper healthcare.

you can't lie and say you're always stable enough to hear some of the things he has to say, but you try.

even if you sometimes feel like you can't take it, you just smile and squeeze his hand tighter like you're supposed to. sometimes your mind will go on autopilot, and sometimes you'll stand up on the grounds of needing to go to the bathroom. but at the end of the day, this is what you signed up for. this. making men happy so that you yourself won't have to worry about your endless debt.

you peer over your notebook to see kazuha immersed in his own writing. but instead of his usual peaceful expression, he looks somber. his hands won't leave the paper, his eyes glued onto the words that he's drawn onto the pages.

"what's got you so worked up?" you ask curiously. "is it something new?"

it's like your voice snaps him out of his trance. he blinks, looking up at you. there's a smile you know all too well on his lips. "yeah, i suppose you could call it that."

"could i look at it? i want to see what's got you so focused like that."

his lips press into a straight line. "hmmm, maybe later."

his words catch you off-guard. usually he's the one who's eager to share his work, regardless of the quality. "oh? is it something you want to keep secret?"

he doesn't many any hint of an answer. instead, he puts down his pen and stares at the ground in contemplation. he's picking and choosing what words to say.

"i could protect you," he says, shuffling his papers to the side. you turn to him, curious. his expression slowly hardens. "by myself, i mean. i could take care of you."

"kazu—"

"i have the means to make a living for the both of us. i could sell more of my poetry, i know they'll sell well—"

"where is this coming from?" you move closer to him, brushing his hair aside. "kazu, are you worried about something?"

there's something that's stopping him from saying anything. his fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb caressing the back of your hand.

he purses his lips, before turning away and sighing. "no, not really."

after that, he doesn't say anything else. the two of you bask in silence once again. even though you're used to the quiet, there's something deep down in you that feels nervous. like something in the atmosphere changed. there's a sudden resolved glint in his eye as he get backs to writing so diligently on a piece of paper he won't let you read.

after all these days spent talking about himself, somehow you're scared for the day he suddenly decides to stop.

on thursdays you're usually at tighnari's greenhouse, watching him take notes of other plants while you twiddle your thumbs. once in a while, he'll begin rambling about the plants—what kind of species they are, how rare, their medicinal properties, and the like.

you're more of a companion, than anything. someone who can make his days a little less lonelier. and you appreciate it. it's much more tranquil with him. you can enjoy his sharp quips, especially when cyno comes to visit.

his sex-drive is relatively normal, if not a little below average. just like wednesday, you also expect thursday to be a typical rest day.

except when spring comes.

when spring comes, your routine get a little wonky. for one week, at least. because that's when tighnari's heat hits him like a fucking monsoon.

you can already tell when it's coming when he begins to hover closer to you. whenever you take your hand out to do anything, even the slightest gesture, he's already taking it and dragging it towards his sensitive ears.

the moment you've made your plans set to 'take the week off' and help him out, he's already on you, face pressed into your neck as if it's his oasis.

as you can tell, he takes this week very seriously.

"i bet—shit—those other fucks don't get to hold you as long as i do," he lets out as he fucks into you like there's no tomorrow. his hands hold onto your waist like he owns it, pressing sloppy kisses down your spine. "looking so pretty for me. i wonder what they'd say if you got pregnant with my babies. you'd be so much more beautiful plump with my kids. is that what you want huh? to make them angry with my cum stuffed in your gorgeous pussy?"

some days you almost can't believe how uncharacteristically aggressive he is. he dicks you down like he's trying to imprint his shape into the core of your body so that none of the others can fit inside.

and when he cums, he'll take whatever unfortunate portions slip out and smear it all over your chest. especially where your heart is.

then the process starts all over again.

when it's over, he'll spoon you. as if he didn't almost fuck you to death. his touch is tender, like a ghost's hovering over your skin.

"why won't you leave them all for me?"

you shift a little to look at him and kiss him softy, sweetly, on the line of his jaw. "oh, nari, you know i can't."

his ears droop at your words. "you can't, or you won't."

his words make you freeze a bit.

you think back to last week, and the week before, and the one before that. you think about why you started selling your services in the first place, the endless debt you used to be in, and the progression of the relationship between all seven of your...contacts. even if you wanted to, you don't think you could back out if you tried. you've dug a hole for yourself. one deep enough to cause some sort of disruption if you ever decided to stop digging.

so you just hum. "you know how much i love routine."

as some sort of apology, you give him and open-mouthed kiss, one he's almost desperate to return. he moans, hands cupping your face to bring you closer to him.

you're well unaware how much your words have an impact him.

at the end of the week, all al-haitham wants to do is unwind. it's the only logical thing to do. no late-night drinks with the colleagues, no stressful trips to some tourist trap. on fridays, al-haitham comes home to a meal made with love.

when al-haitham's at work during the day, you're usually running your actual errands. it's when you have time to make those one-in-a-blue-moon visits to your actual home, although it's getting harder to call it that.

when it gets to the late-afternoon, you'll usually head to al-haitham's place to start cooking. if you didn't know how to cook before, you do now. every ingredient is handled with care, measured meticulously just as you knew he preferred.

and when he gets home, tired and stressed out, you're there to welcome him with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

during dinner, sometimes he'll talk to you about work or the latest research he'd gotten himself immersed with. in return, you tell him about some of your childhood memories. your likes, your dislikes, what used to be your hobbies. you do your best to keep your personal matters out of the conversation, no matter how many times he tries to pry into your private life.

sometimes dinners feel like a full on investigation, the way he keeps greeding for more information about you. he watches you eat with calculating eyes. you pretend to pay no mind to it.

in the beginning, kaveh used to join you for dinners. you always liked the guy, the way he bickered with al-haitham and riled him up. but now you've begun to see less of him, as if he never comes home on fridays at all.

after dinner, there are two different outcomes depending on his mood:

outcome one is that you'll spend the rest of the night curling up on his couch, the both of you immersed in your own books. al-haitham leans on your shoulder as he flips through the pages as if they're nothing. you can't help but feel ticklish whenever his hair brushes against your jaw.

somewhere in the middle, he'll move one hand to start fidgeting with the end of your shirt, sometimes crawling underneath to caress your sides.

outcome two is less quiet. the moment he gets home with that solemn face, you know it's coming. his voice is huskier, his responses shorter. it's usually a result of an impending deadline, colleagues being more peskier than usual.

the moment you two are done with dishes, he gingerly takes your hand and leads you up to the bedroom.

his kisses tastes like green tea and dinner. his hands run up and down your torso, trying to imprint the feel of your skin into every inch of your brain. you whimper when his thumbs press softly into your nipples, rolling them around as they harden.

your hands find purchase on his collar, tugging him impossibly close. he groans at the contact.

you let out a yelp when your back suddenly falls onto the bed. your hands are pressed onto the sheets, al-haitham's fingers encircling your wrists. his knee nudges your legs further apart, rubbing at your clit.

"don't look at the ceiling, dear, look at me," he breathes out, his hands leaving your nipples to gently guide your face towards. "that's it. good girl. just me. just look at me. only me."

he smiles.

"now, let me do god's work on your divine body."

saturdays with ayato can sometimes get hectic. some saturdays you're out getting bubble tea together and enjoying the city, and other saturdays you're hurrying to some publicitiy event hosted by the kamisato clan.

on those type of days, you can expect to wear gowns layered with shiny nylon tulle fabric. it's not as revealing as what you'd try on in dressing rooms with childe. in fact, it's a bit more modest.

today you're wearing a light-blue gown to match with ayato. you turn around to get a good look at the cute bow attached at your waist, your diamond encrusted earrings swaying along with you.

it's as if you've put on another costume. another front to wear for the night.

ayato enters the room just shortly after. in his hands is a diamond necklace to match with your stunning earrings. small smile falls upon his lips when he clasps it on.

"you're beautiful," he mumbles. you giggle when he kisses you square on the lips, licking away the tinted color.

"ayato," you press in-between kisses. you place a hand on his chest to gently push him away. "you're going to ruin my lipstick."

he pulls away with a cheeky smile, taking your wrists to wrap around his neck. "you can always put on some more later."

you pout but kiss him regardless. he tightens his hold on you in reaction, moaning into your mouth.

at these kinds of events, you're there as his plus-one. just so that other officials could stop introducing girls to him when he clearly wasn't interested in them. it'd be arguable to say that you might even be there to make the events a little less intolerable.

somewhere along the lines, you'd sleep with him in addition to being his arm candy at parties. sometimes even before: you two rushing to put on your formal attires and fix your hair minutes before the event started.

but beyond that, you started to get to know him better. he'd whisper into your ear about funny stories relating to the guests as you meet them. sometimes you'd run away in the middle of the party to binge out on the food and talk about your other interests. surprisingly, he doesn't talk about the politics behind his duties as the head of the kamisato family. not as much as you expected, at least.

instead he talks about his dreams for a family. how many kids, what their names would be, how he'd raise them. and as he talked, he'd give you this heavy gaze that you're not sure what to do with. as if he was expecting something from you.

you're beginning to believe that ayato has somehow confused contractual girlfriend with actual girlfriend.

when you had met ayaka months ago, ayato introduced you as his girlfriend. you didn't attempt to correct him—that's ayato's business. not your's. but when you're expecting ayato to come clean to his dearest sister, you're sorely mistaken.

instead, while he kisses your lips so hungrily, he subtly slips a diamond ring onto your finger.

sundays are usually kaeya's days off. although the cavalry captain's duties are seemingly never endless, he takes the day off to take a breather.

in other words, he sees you.

at first, it was just candlelit dinners. he'd walk in with a bouquet of roses, complimenting your dress and staring at you as if he was undressing you with his eyes. he'd take you to somewhere fancy, pull out the chair for you and sweet-talk you all through the night.

conversations were fun with him. you didn't have to think much at all, not about how to pay the bills, the six men in your life who seemingly began to want yours to only revolve around theirs, or being someone your not.

kaeya was probably the only one who you felt you could be comfortable with. he made you laugh, he'd tell all sorts of interesting stories, and he never made the silence feel awkward.

at least, that's how you used to be.

you see, usually after these candlelit dinners you'd both go back to his place, with him ripping off your clothes the moment the door closed. but as of recently, he's been asking to come over to your place instead more often. almost too often.

and that's not the only thing that's changed.

the sex used to be rough. heated. almost as if he was consumed by all of his pent-up sexual frustration and was only focused on getting off. he'd slurp your cunt like a man starved but he'd still rail you as if that's the only thing he cared about.

but as time passed, he's been getting more and more...sensual. the sex is much more slower. personal, almost.

vulnerable.

after dinner, he slowly slips off your clothing. one article after another, until your left in your underwear. he first kisses you on the mouth, then your neck, then your chest, then your stomach. slowly, he makes a trail of them down your body, as if no skin deserved to be left untouched.

although you made a rule that no one could leave your marks on you, it doesn't mean he doesn't try. as he kisses your lower lips, sometimes he'll attempt to leave marks close to your clit. if you're not careful, diluc will find it tomorrow.

his thrusts were always deep, but now that he's much more purposeful about it. it's rhythmic, as if he's trying to reach a new spot inside you. somewhere no one's touched.

the pillow-talks are much more longer as well. he holds you tighter now, wrapping his arms around your hips as he tangles his legs with yours.

instead of ranting on about the silly incidents he witnessed on the job earlier in the week, he talks about his feelings. towards you. towards diluc. towards himself. some nights you can handle it, some nights are too much.

but you can't say anything. not when he's holding onto you like you’re his lifeline. not when he helps you pay off your debt. and so you let his raspy voice whisper in your ear as he combs his fingers through your hair. you listen to him mumble sweet-nothings.

you're not sure if you like the adoring look he gives you as you drift off to sleep.

what have we done?

dads!wolfstar + daughter!reader who is a player [878 words]

p1 | p2

CW: reader’s birthday is in the summer, has many admirers, fluff

Remus had to admit that he’d had an inkling. There were certain perks that came with being a well-liked professor, one such being that students didn’t often lower their voices when gossiping in the halls. 

It was, however, very different to have the evidence of his previous hunch sitting so glaringly obvious in the front parlour of their home, worst of all standing beside his semi-distraught husband who he hadn’t yet shared this inkling with. 

“What….the fuck?” Sirius whispered into his hands, staring at the various packages and letters and parcels and gift baskets - some of which still had (growingly agitated) owls attached to them waiting for their payment for a job well done. 

“Seems like her classmates remembered her birthday…” Remus offered noncommittally. “Even with it being summer holiday and all.” 

Sirius let out a disbelieving scoff at that as his hands finally fell, though they only made it to his hips where they rested as he continued scanning the pile of presents all in your name. 

“Did anyone in the sodding school happen to forget?” He asked incredulously. “Or am I really gonna find one from Mrs. Norris in here?”

“Our daughter is well-liked.” Remus said; a half truth. You were well-liked…

“Who in the sodding hell is Dennis Creevey?” Sirius spat as he glared at a card before shoving it back into its appropriate parcel. 

Remus snorted at that, nearly choking on his tea in the process. “That’s, erm, a first year, I believe.” 

Sirius spun to level Remus with a look that told his husband he had been caught. 

“Are these from admirers, Moony?!” 

Remus narrowed his eyes in thought, cautious in responding with “Define admirers?”

“Oh my Godric!” Sirius shrilled as you came down the stairs. 

“What’s all the shouting fo- oh! Wow, people really went all out this year, hm?” You commented, plucking a card from a basket and furrowing your brows at it. 

“Who in the sodding hell is Dennis Creevey?” You muttered before offering the owl a few scritches which it (thankfully) accepted as payment and vacated the parlour through an open window. 

“Are you just about ready to go, my love?” Remus asked you instead of waiting for Sirius to figure out how to ask you if you were - what he thought he heard kids these days call - a player.

“Where are you off to, birthday girl?” Lily asked as she stepped in the front door, offering you a beaming smile and pulling you into a fierce hug as she wished you a happy birthday. 

“Thanks, auntie Lil.” You replied into her hair before she finally released you. “‘Mione and I are meeting for breakfast and then we’re meeting up with the boys at the mall.” 

“I thought you were meeting up with Pansy?” Sirius blurted, causing the two witches to look at him bemusedly. 

“We’re not meeting up until later tonight; we’re getting ready for the party together.” You explained. 

“Finally got your dads to let you throw a rager, hm?” Lily laughed.

“This was dad’s idea!” You laughed in turn, and Remus thought Sirius might actually call the whole thing off in light of his recent discovery. That is, until you turned to look at him with so much love that Remus thought he could feel the ire seeping right out of his husband’s pores. “They’re the best, aren’t they?” 

You were quick to press a kiss to each of your father’s cheeks before grabbing your wand and waving goodbye, leaving your parents and your aunt with the various presents bestowed upon you. 

“Wow…Harry wasn’t kidding.” Lily murmured mostly to herself as she took a quick inventory of the room. “She really does have a lot of admirers.” 

“Merlin’s saggy fucking balls, Moony! Our daughter is a player!”

Remus hardly had a moment to wince before Lily was cackling; a full, belly aching, bending-over-at-the-waist and slapping-your-knee chortle that bounced off of the walls. It was a sound neither wizard thought they had heard from the fiery witch since their school day. 

“What, pray tell, is so funny?” Sirius muttered petulantly as he waited for Lily to collect herself. 

“I- oh godric; Merlin and Morgana both. This...this is priceless.” She managed to get out between fits of giggles. 

Remus sighed as he flicked his wand over his shoulder, charming a kettle on in preparation of offering Lily tea and sneaking in a calming draught for his soon-to-be catatonic husband. 

“I can’t believe you, ‘our daughter is a player, Moony’. Of course she is! This is Mr. Sirius flirts-with-anything-that-has-a-pulse Black and Remus Casanova-of-Gryffindor-tower Lupin’s daughter we’re talking about here!”

Lily shook her head in exasperation and showed herself to the kitchen, giggles ricocheting off the walls along her way. 

Remus hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath during the silence that followed until Sirius broke it. 

“What have we done?”

Remus tried his best to offer his husband a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “Well…at least the party is being held here?” 

But Remus watched Sirius’ face fall when they realized that this meant they would be once again coming face-to-face, quite literally, with their daughter's popularity. 

“Oh my Godric,” Remus murmured, bringing his own hand up to his lips, “what have we done?”

"taste"

☆"you're wonderin' why half his clothes went missin', my body's where they're at"☆ Wearing Arcane characters clothes {fem reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce, Viktor, Mel

cw☞ slightly pervy jayce, a bit of fluff, Viktor calls reader a whore, a bit suggestive for all of them

an: this is the case for all my titles, but I feel I should clarify; the songs are not meant to accompany the headcanons, I just get lazy when naming things so I cherry pick song lyrics then use the title lol.

♞Vi♞

♞Vi never thought she would have to worry about her clothes going missing. They're all tattered and torn, holey from all the times she's been cut or stabbed, blood stained from all her injuries throughout the years, and absolutely falling apart at the seams. Hell, her own shirts are so ruined she usually just walks around in chest binding bandages. Granted, stealing Vi's clothes started from an accident of convenience.

You didn't think anything of it as you slipped on the old thing, the writing so faded you could no longer make out the outlines of the letters and the color so sun-bleached it just looked a dull beige. There were holes along the shoulder blade, rib cage, and chest, the hems had long since unraveled, and the neckline had been cut. It Vi wasn't so averse to throwing things out, it's home would've been the garbage can ages ago. But still, it was comfy and clean and something of hers, so you pulled it over your head and carried on into the laundry room where you sat on top of your washing unit, vibrating along with the clunky machine beneath you. You decided to read as you wait, eventually become so engrossed with your book, you miss the sounds of Vi trudging her heavy feet across the floor as she returns from her most recent bout of getting her ass kicked. She hums her way around the space, painfully shrugging her jacket over her aching shoulders, enroute to the laundry room where she finds you, ankles crossed with some old mystery book in your hands. She gawks at you for a moment, not quite knowing what to say at the sight of you in her clothing. It looked good on you. Well, everything looked good on you, but this looked right. "Did you get all dressed up for me, pretty? You jump a bit at the sudden intrusion of her slightly gravelly voice, but eventually relax into her warm, musky presence. She knows how you feel about her smearing her bloody lips across your freshly showered skin, so she bites her lip to swallow her urges. "Depends, did you get yourself all battered just so I could patch you up?" She snickers, wiping the remnants of dried blood from her top lip. "Will my honest earn me a pre-shower kiss?" Of course, you nod your head. You have a very hard time denying her, not even bothered by the feeling of her gauze bound hands grip on your thighs and your skin beneath her shirt. She whimpers, leaning heavily onto the washer, her fingers likely leaving marks from how desperately she grabs at you for stability and her own sanity. She doesn't realize until the adrenaline wears off how much tonight did a toll on her, pulling away from the kiss to rest her head on your shoulder. "You need help to the shower?" "Yeah", she murmurs, hardly louder than a whisper, holding onto your waist as you hop down and sling your arm over her shoulder. "No more pit fighting for a while?", you question lightly, to which she responds by pulling a hefty bag of coins from her pants pocket. "Not for a few months."

★Ekko★

★Ekko has a commune, he is absolutely no stranger to sharing, especially when it comes to clothes. As many times as you have snuck a few of his jackets over the years, he has taken his fair share of your tops, liking the way they constrict and show the definition of his biceps and show off his sculpted lower abdomen. You swap rings, hair ties, and all sorts of accessories, it's another way that you two are visually all over each other. I also wouldn't be surprised if he was the type to buy things knowing they would eventually end up in your closet.

★This being said, you would have better luck getting a reaction out of him showing up wearing nothing rather than in his clothes, at least clothes that aren't important to him. He's so desensitized to the idea of sharing; a regular hoodie wouldn't get him going. Wearing something of his though, his jacket, his mask, replicating how he does his face paint, that would certainly get him. It's the explicit connection to him that gets him, it's you proudly wearing an echo of Ekko.

It was cold and wet and dreary. The sky was grey, and murky puddles formed in the innumerable cracks and crevasses in the dirty floor of the Undercity that the ground began to look like a muddy sea of water. It was the perfect day to be inside, maybe make some warm soup, put on a vinyl and pretend the crackley sound bites are early lightning bolts, and bundle up beside Ekko and call it a day before the sun went down. This was not the case as Ekko was out covering the gardens so they wouldn't be flooded by impure water and preparing for any potential storm surge, leaving you home alone, wrapped in his favorite jacket. You doubted it would be a big deal, it's not like he's ever been upset about borrowing his clothes without asking before, but his reaction when he returns home scares you for a moment. His eyes are closed as he walks through the door, carelessly toeing off his shoes, lifting up his already soaked shirt to wipe the running face paint before it gets into his eyes. From your place on the couch, you look out the window for the first time in hours to see it pouring down, the droplets pelting on your windows and the wind sending the occasional pebble flying at the glass. "I'm telling Scar to do this shit next time, it's too damn w- oh." He freezes, midway through yanking off his raincoat, eye's slightly irritated as they stare at you. oh? "Is that my jacket?" You falter a bit. "Yeah...is that ok?" You had no plans of going out in it, wearing only some old cotton shorts whose elastic waistband snapped years ago and a thin tank top. You didn't even have a bra on. He collects himself though, smirking as he looks you up and down, how good the color compliments your complexion, drinking in the slivers of skin, the sight of your nipples through your top. Of course it's ok, in what fucking world would it not be? "Yea, baby, it's fine." His mumbles, his voice lower and his eyes a bit wide. "You look good in it, too. C'mere, do a spin for me."

❂Jayce❂

❂This man is 6'7 and built like a brick shithouse, his clothes absolutely swallow you and he thinks it's adorable. He gets a fit of cuteness aggression, he just wants to squeeze and hug and kiss you until you pop. It speaks to that part of him that is quite aware of his sheer size, his biceps are the size of your head, you have to look up just to make eye contact with him, his clothes practically fall right off you. He's just so...big.

He awakes slightly startled and feeling empty, immediately feeling your lack of warmth in his arms and slightly panicking. It's too early in the morning to be rational and his frequent nightmares are doing him no favors. He hates waking up alone and cold, he feels like he's waking up in that cave again. His senses calm his rapidly beating heart, the comforting smell of coffee and something syrupy sweet, the sound of something sizzling on the stove. He throws the comforter off him, cringing at the feel of the cold floor on his feet before he throws on some socks and sweatpants to wander around half-asleep in. His brain short circuits when he sees you, his large shirt practically hanging off your shoulders, flowing around your bruised and kiss-bitten thighs. You moved lithely around the kitchen, going back from chopping strawberries for the waffles, stirring the eggs, flipping the bacon, and he's man enough to admit he's blushing a bit. You made breakfast for him! That's so cute. He slides behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, bending down to plant kisses on your neck. "My shirt looks really good on you, gorgeous." You giggle, turning around to face the big man behind you who picks you up by your hips to set you on the countertop, settling in between your thighs. "You think?" He hums. "Maybe a few sizes too big, but it's endearing. You look like a little fairy, like I could carry you around in my pocket all day." And his eyes are big and out of focus, that charming gap-toothed smile on display as his hands rub over your smooth skin, pushing his shirt higher and higher. Too big is certainly a familiar sentiment, how desperately you were crying that out just last night is still looping in his brain as he says it. "Maybe I'm normal sized, and you're just a giant. Have you ever thought of it that way?" He chuckles. More times than you can imagine.

☽Viktor☾

☽Hard immediately, next question. His work outfits look completely normal on him, but the buttons pop at your chest and the vests accentuate them in a way that's pornographic. Even his ties only serve to enhance the fantasy, even though they are the exact garments he wears to his lab every day. There is nothing innately sexual about it at all, but that's the fun of it. The fact thar you chose to wear that black lacy bra that you knew would show through the top, the way you wear his reading glasses low on your nose, the red bottom heels that you wear, which in any other context could be seen as perfectly appropriate work attire. It's the performance of it that he appreciates.

He knows exactly what game you are trying to play with him, no matter how hard you try and play coy. There is no way that you accidently shrunk your blouse in the wash, hell, he knows that's not your blouse because the buttons are on the wrong side for it to be female attire. He knows that's his tie, he is one thousand percent sure that if he was to yank you by it and check the underside, he would see his initials embroidered. He knows you left it loose on purpose, you have requested for the entire relationship to pick out and tie his ties for him, he knows you can make it tighter. Everything is utterly loose, for lack of a better word. The top button is undone, the tie isn't completely tucked under the collar, the slit of your skirt is not where it should be. It's a play at looking professional that you and him both know is just a test to see how long it takes for him to crack and rush you both home. At first, he's willing to play ball because you always crack first, but today, however, you decided to be serious about your productivity. He tries to focus, he really does, but after a while the clicking of your heels becomes too hypnotic, the fake attempts at adjusting your tie begin to pile onto the sexual frustration, and you lean over one too many times, giving him a good whiff of your perfume and oh you went with a red bra to match his red tie. He waits for Jayce to leave the room, slamming the book he was 'reading' shut as he lets out a very aggravated breath. "I want my shirt back." Cut and dry, his hand flipping the tie you're wearing to confirm that is indeed his. You smirk, and he would feel the need to wipe it off your face had it not been for the fact that he swallowed his pride hours ago after his hard on became too much to ignore. "You want it back now? Right here." And you're already slipping off the other buttons and he contemplates whether it's worth it to barricade the door with the table to buy you more time or be rational and tell you to stop. "Had I known you planned on being a whore today, I wouldn't have invited you over." You pout as he pulls the knot of his tie, grabbing your hands to bind your hands. "But don't I look pretty, Vik?" He rolls his eyes. "You look magnificent, love."

☼Mel☼

☼Like Ekko, she isn't a stranger to sharing clothes with you. Even if it's not hers, she has an exact replica tailored just for you. This being said, she loves playing dress up with you with her clothes. Anytime she needs to clear out her closet or has an article of clothing she doesn't know how to feel about or just gets bored, she'll call you to wherever she is and request you be her doll for a little bit.

Though you had been in Mel's closet for what had to have been hours at this point, you couldn't really complain. Never had you felt more pampered in your life, tens of gowns, trousers, and blouses gracing your skin as you twirled on the platform in Mel's closet as she analyzed the garment from every angle. Now you stood in something white and flowy, the sleeves long, the bodice double lined for winter weather, the hemline off the shoulders and trimmed with fur, the bottom thick and heavy. "What do you think lovey? Do you think it's too on the nose, you know I've never been the biggest fan of fur." Her hand feels across your chest, dusting off where some of the fluff had fallen and rubbing the soft material in her hands. "I don't see you in fur, it's too much of your mother's thing, but I do think it's nice. The lining is really nice on the skin, sorta has a fleece feel to it." She nods, moving her hands along your waist to connect with the silver zipper. She clucks her tongue. "Would I be silly to not wear it because the zipper isn't gold. I know it's a miniscule detail, but I really don't do silver." You chuckle as you look around her closet, a room larger than the bedroom you grew up in filled with racks of clothes that had some sort of golden sheen, be it from the color of the fabric, some sort of metallic accent, or a reflection from the general vibe of the room. "My love, you have so many clothes in here I doubt you would wear it regardless." She smiles. "Are you getting tired of this." You hesitate, which is plenty answer enough for her. You had been standing for hours at this point, and your back was starting to ache from how straight your back had been. "Do you have it in you for just one more. I promise, it'll be quick." She already has it out of the box, a very small party dress that you had never seen her wear before. "I bought it months ago but have been going back and forth between whether or not it would look better on me or you." Of course, you oblige, and she giggles as she zips you out of the dress, carefully sliding it off until the fabric pools around your nearly naked body. Her tunnel vision is briefly abandoned as her movements slow, lingering over the curves of her body, her fingernail tracing tiny hearts on the skin of your chest. "I know I say this every time, but you truly do look beautiful out of everything. Undressing you may be my favorite part of this." You playfully roll your eyes. "Stop being a flirt and just zip me into the dress, I want lunch."

Video skit is by thepandaredd, I just added open captions

Lemme know if there’s anything I can fix up 👍

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭.

a case involving female students being murdered in their dormitories brings the team to stanford university. You have more of a connection to it than you originally realise.

cold!reader ❅ 8.4k ❅ cold!reader masterlist. ❅ main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, violence against women, detail of murder and injury, abuse of power, student-professor relationships, miscarriage and abortion, character death, manipulation, cynicism

“Three women, all doctorate students of Stanford University, have all been killed inside their dorm rooms in the last two weeks,” There’s a click of a button, and then three images flash up on the screen, headshots of the girls. “All three were found with their stomachs cut open and their reproductive organs removed,”

What a lovely way to start a Monday morning.

“So much for the best University in California,” Morgan nudges your arm with his elbow, and your roll your eyes.

“What was the medical knowledge of the unsub?”

“You tell me,” JJ clicks another button on her remote, and the smiling photos of the victims are replaced with their crime scene photos.

Hands and feet tied to their beds, a large incision at the pelvic bone that had been stretched open to leave the internal organs bare, and the uterus cut out of the body. The surface knowledge was there, but the execution was not. Messy lines and uneven incisions that left the gap left in the victims more blood and tissue than actual hole.

“So we’re not looking for a professional then,” Morgan points out the obvious with a cross of his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“They clearly know something about it though,” Spencer leans forward as Morgan leans back, squinting his eyes like it’s going to make the images clearer. “There’s several different ways to perform a hysterectomy, but for a complete hysterectomy like our unsub is doing, the most common method is to start with an incision just above the pelvic bone,”

We’ll discuss the details of hysterectomies whilst we’re on the plane,” Hotch taps both of his hands on the table as he stands. “Gather your things, wheels up in thirty,”

There’s a chorus of “Yes Sir,”s as you all follow him out of the conference room to return to your respective desks and gather your belongings for the flight, an air of fatigue still surrounding the group even through the graphic imagery you were presented with.

“Going back to your alma mater, how do you feel?” Morgan clasps his right hand into a fist and holds it out to you like an invisible microphone.

You push it away without much thought as you pack your laptop into your bag, rolling your eyes at him for what feels like the tenth time since you’d walked through the door an hour ago. “It’s been almost— no, it has been ten years since I graduated, what’s there to ‘feel’?”

“Okay robot face, damn, no lingering love for the College that gave you your career?” Morgan’s taunt is laced with that familiar air of light-heartedness that’s there to remind you that he really is just poking fun, but you’ve never been very receptive to his humour.

“No.”

He lets out a sharp laugh in a mix of amusement and surprise, opening his mouth to make another comment, but the expression on your face tells him you’re definitely done talking about the topic.

He does have some self restraint.

—

Stepping out of the San Jose International Airport almost felt like going into a time machine, spitting you right back out where you’d left that decade ago just 18 miles from your old campus.

It felt even more surreal actually reaching Stanford’s main site, walking around the place you’d dedicated four years of your life to. Not much had changed since you’d left, not that you really expected it to, but it felt almost foreign to you to walk around the campus as you were now, a properly matured adult compared to the almost naive teenager you started as.

You began where you always did, at the most recent crime scene, a college dorm room on the south-east side of the campus.

It was pretty standard, a bedroom big enough for a double bed and a desk, a built in wardrobe, and a private bathroom; Decorated how you would expect from a girl in her early twenties, covered in memories and interests that gave it a personality outside of the off-white paint on the walls.

Of course, it was mildly ruined by the fact the previously pink bedsheets were stained in a pool of oxidised blood that dripped down onto the rug adorned floor and ledger small spatters on the skirting boards, but what can you really expect when the girl had been cut open whilst she was still alive and most definitely struggling against it.

“There’s no signs of forced entry,” All Morgan could do was shrug as he examined the fire door that acted as the room’s only entrance. “The inside lock was unfastened and there’s no marks indicating it was forced open, or that it even could be without heavy grade tools,”

“So our unsub had his own key then?”

“Or,” Emily’s suggestion was side-stepped by Spencer, “He was let in,”

There’s a small hum from Hotch as he stands beside you, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. “Alright,” He turns his eyes onto you with a small nod, “Take Prentiss to the Mortuary and check the autopsy. Morgan, Reid, get Garcia to find a list of professors the victims shared and go and speak with them, they might’ve noticed a change in the girls’ behaviours before their deaths.”

“Will do,”

“Got it,”

There’s a series of shared nods between you as you spilt up, leaving Hotch, Rossi and JJ at the crime scene in search of any more information they could utilise.

—

Trying to catch a Professor when they’re not busy is harder than most people would think. So hard in fact that Spencer and Morgan had been left with standing inside one of the lecture rooms to endure the last twenty minutes of a forensic psychology lesson so they could get the professor between classes.

“Professor Callahan?”

“For any personal feedback on your essay please send me an email,” The professor doesn’t so much as look up from the papers he collects and organises on his desk, seemingly already in a rush even after barely two minutes of the lecture ending.

Morgan and Spencer share a glance.

“My name’s Dr Spencer Reid, and this is Agent Morgan, we’re from the FBI,”

Callahan looks up this time, rectangle glasses reflecting the two back to each other through the overhead lighting.

“We were hoping we could ask you a few questions, Sir,”

Spencer watches the Professor’s eyebrows knit in confusion before his eyes spark with a hint of realisation, and then understanding.

“Yes, of course,” He nods, collecting the pile of papers in his right arm. “Please, follow me into my office,”

His office is filled with bookshelves stacked with psychology texts and framed accolades lining the walls. Small busts of philosophers in the mpty spaces. His desk is littered with small rememberences of his former students, and lining the opposite wall is another, a small plaque reading Dr. Wittchen at it’s forefront.

“Did you notice any changes in the girls’ behaviour, or anything unusual leading up to their deaths?” Spencer’s question is cautious, if not a little bit emotionally insensitive.

Callahan’s expression shifts to one of concern. “Honestly, I hadn’t noticed anything alarming. They were all such high achievers, incredibly driven. The stress of their programs sometimes affected them, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

Spencer nods, then glances toward the accompanying desk. “What about Professor Wittchen? Does he interact with the students much?”

Callahan hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “Robert is highly respected, very dedicated to his work. He can be a little tough on their grades, but more often than not he’s sat in here doing one-on-one tutoring in his spare time,”

Spencer hums softly at Callahan’s assessment. “Do you know if he turoed any of the girls? He might have a better insight into any changes in their mannerisms,”

“I’m not sure I’m afraid,” Callahan shakes his head, “I leave him to his teachings most of the ime, but I can let him know you’ve asked,”

As they speak, Morgan’s gaze drifts to a nearby display shelf adorned with photographs of past students on the far wall, each one framed and labeled with a name and a date.

Etched into the wood of the shelf itself an engraving reading, “Shelf of Stars.” stood front and centre, and as Morgan’s eyes wandered the pictures, a certain label caught his attention.

Front and centre, there you sat, “2006 PhD” followed by your name, a picture of you and your Professors in what’s presuambly your first year.

“No way,” Morgan breathes out a laugh. “Reid come look at this,”

“What? What’s wrong?” Spencer and Callahan’s expressions mirror each other as they glance over at Morgan in concern, only for him to quash any need for worry as he holds up the frame in their direction.

“Look how different she looks! What happened, did she get hit by a truck when she turned 20 or what?”

There’s a flicker of recognition in Spencer’s eyes, one that almost turns to fondness as he takes in the bright smile printed behind the glass. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you smile like that since you’ve been with the team.

“You know her?” Callahan raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, yeah, she’s on our team,” Morgan nods with a chuckle as he places the picture back where he found it, pulling out his phone to snap a photo, probably to make fun of you later.

“Really?” Professor Callahan looks more than a little surprised at the revelation. “I knew she was destined for great things, but the FBI, wow,” He breathes out a short sigh, nodding. “Robert’ll have a field day when he finds out she chose forensics over clinical,”

Spencer gives what’s almost a laugh, clearing his throat. “Well, Professor, thank you for speaking with us, we’ll contact you if we find any more information,”

“No problem at all, my door is always open,” Callahan follows Spencer and Morgan over to the office door, holding it open for them as they leave.

“Oh, Agents?” He stops them before they get too far. “If you have any time in or after your investigation, ask her to pay us a visit? It’d be nice to catch up,”

“We’ll let her know,”

—

“From what I can tell, the removal of the uterus was done antemortem, and the victims cause of death was the blood loss that resulted from it,” The Coroner lifts the muscle torn by the initial incision to give you and Emily a proper look at the damage.

“The nature of the incisions tells that they were most likely done with proper surgical instruments, a scalpel most likely, but their nature is unpracticed, see here for example,”

She points towards the left side of the victims pelvis, where the muscle had been separated from the uteral lining. “In a professional hysterectomy, this tissue here would also be removed, but in this case it’s been left attached to the surrounding tissues, and the same can be said for the others,”

“So our unsub knows the basics, is that something that would require medical training?” Emily furrows her eyebrows at the sight, and you’re much the same.

The sight is almost enough to make you feel nauseous, but you don’t need sickly thoughts clouding your judgement right now.

“Possibly, although with how the internet is, it’s possible they read an article or watched a documentary on how the procedure is done,” The coroner sways her head side to side, “I’d say that whoever did this has had some training, but not necessarily in the field,”

Emily hums, turning her gaze from the victim towards you. “Medical student maybe?”

You hum absently, eyes trained on the gaping hole left in the girl’s stomach. “Maybe, probably won’t still be a student though,”

It affects you more than it should, you think, a malingering nagging in the back of your head that won’t leave you alone but also won’t tell you why it’s there in the first place.

You sigh, “We should look at biologists too, clinical fields,”

Emily gives you an agreeing nod. “I’ll call Garcia,” She pats your shoulder deftly as she leaves the room.

“Was there anything else strange about the body?” You tear your eyes away from the girl to look up at the coroner, who only gives you a small shake of her head.

“Not that I can see,” Her gaze, though objective, flickers with small amounts of uncertainty. “It’s so upsetting, things like this, what spurs someone to do something so… primally horrific?”

“A rejection probably, a denial of a sexual relationship or children that’s projected onto other women because he can’t get to the person he really wants to hurt,” You shrug out an exhale. “More common than you’d think,”

She frowns. “it’s awful,”

“Yeah,” You purse your lips together. “But it is what it is,”

—

“Did the three girls have any clear connections?”

Garcia taps away on her keyboard, and the jingling of her earrings over the reciever suggests that she’s shaking her head. “Apart from being Stanford students, not really. Julie was doing an MsC in Pediatric Therapy, Ophelia doing an MA in History of Medicine, and Marie doing a PhD in Psychology.” She sighs. “None of them had any classes together, no mutual friends, I don’t even think they knew the others existed,”

“There has to be some overlap,” Morgan groans exasperatedly, glancing over at the mostly bare profile board that him and Spencer were trying to put together. They’d spoken to most of the girls’ professors by now, and apart from offhanded comments about stress and pressure, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

It was frustrating, really frustrating, and for all they knew, the team was on a time limit before another girl suffered the same fate. They needed a break in the case, sooner rather than later.

“What about the students Emily asked you to look into? Spencer bends almost awkardly towards Morgan’s phone, trying to raise his voice into the speaker whilst still writing against the whiteboard.

“Nada, I’m afraid, no one who had connections to all three girls, past or present, I’ve hit a wall,”

“No kidding,” Morgan exhales heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his phone. “Thanks anyway, sweetness,”

“Of course my love, I’ll hit you back if I find anything, Penny G out,” —

“So we’ve got three dead girls, no connections, and no signature to help us track down this guy, lovely,” Emily sips on her coffee, leaning back into her chair with a sigh.

“Isn’t this like every other case we’ve ever had?” You raise an eyebrow is disinterest, stretching you arms above your head and almost hitting Morgan in the face as he and Spencer reenter the room from their lunch break.

The Psychology department had been kind enough to loan you one of their staff rooms during your investigation, and comments had already been made about Hotch’s demeanour as he walked around you like he was keeping an eye on a group of toddlers.

“There’s something we’re missing here,” Rossi pours over the whiteboard with a disgruntled sigh, his palm dragging down the side of his face. “There’s always something,”

Reid nods, tapping his pen against his notebook as he takes a seat. “Even perfectionists leave traces. It’s just a matter of understanding their logic—how they justify their actions.”

“Change of subject quickly,” Morgan holds up a hand as he walks around the table, his other hand landing on your shoulder. “Talking of leaving traces, who was going to tell us that you actually knew how to smile?”

You shrug his hand off of you with a furrow of your eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m talking little nineteen year old you beaming like you were trying to compete with the sun,” He digs his phone from his pocket, holding the screen out to face the group. “I mean look at this, look at you, its weird,”

You snatch the phone from him as soon as you recognise the picture. “Why do you have that picture?”

“We took a trip to see one of your old Professors,” Morgan wrestles the device back out of your hands before you have a chance to what he assumes will be deleting the evidence of your past sunniness. “He asked to see you at some point by the way, wants to ‘catch up’,”

“Delete that photo, Morgan.” You cross one leg over the other with a huff.

“No way, Ice Queen, I’m gonna make fun of you with this forever,”

“I hate you,”

”I love you too,” He blows an air kiss in your direction.

The shrill ring of the door opening cuts through the room, snapping everyone to attention. A mildly out of breath PD officer leaning against the doorframe.

“There’s been another one,” she says, her voice tight.

The room erupts into motion.

—

When you arrive, the scene is eerily similar to the others. The victim, a young woman in her early twenties, lies in the middle of her dorm room, fully clothed and carefully positioned. Her face is serene, as though she’s simply sleeping. The blood pooling out of her lower abdomen tells you that she’s not.

“Victim’s name is Natalie Yu. Twenty-one, Psychology major. She fits the profile—academic, driven, top of her class.” JJ fills you in easily.

You step closer, your heart sinking as you take in the meticulous staging. The unsub’s reverence for his victims is apparent in every detail. No signs of a struggle. No personal belongings out of place.

Reid crouches near the body, his eyes narrowing. “Same as the others. No physical trauma that would suggest a cause of death other than bloodloss. Removal of reproductive organs.”

Morgan stands by the door, his jaw clenched. “This guy’s escalating. Three murders in three weeks, and now this. He’s not slowing down.”

Something catches Prentiss’s eye. She kneels beside the victim and carefully lifts the edge of her blouse. Tucked neatly into the waistband of her jeans is a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” she murmurs, pulling on gloves before unfolding the note. The room goes still as she reads aloud:

“It was meant to be you.”

You lean over Emily’s shoulder to get a glance at the writing yourself. And then you immediately regret doing so. The handwriting is unmistakable—sharp, angular strokes that you’d recognise anywhere.

But you can’t say that. Not yet.

“‘It was meant to be you’?” Rossi repeats, stepping closer. “What the hell does that mean?”

Reid frowns. “It’s personal. Direct. He’s targeting someone specific now.”

“It could be a taunt,” JJ offers. “A way to throw us off or instill fear in the team.”

Morgan shakes his head, his expression grim. “No. This is different. This isn’t just about control anymore—this is about sending a message,”

“It’s personal,” Reid says again, his gaze sweeping the room. For a brief moment, his eyes land on you, and you feel like he can see right through you.

“Excuse me,” you manage, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your chest.

You step outside, the crisp air hitting you like a jolt. Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, staring at the screen without really seeing it. The note wasn’t just a taunt—it was a reminder. He knew you were here. He’d known the moment you stepped onto campus.

It was meant to be you.

The words echo in your mind, a sinister promise that leaves no room for doubt.

—

“This is different from the previous victims,” Spencer says, “The note changes everything. If we assume the unsub has been fixated on someone specific all along, the other victims could have been surrogates—stand-ins for the real target.”

Prentiss looks at him sharply. “You think the unsub is escalating because the real target is now within reach?”

He nods. “Exactly. The murders were practice, perfecting the method. But now that the target is accessible, he’s shifting focus.”

“Great,” Morgan mutters. “Wonderful.”

JJ gestures to the note. “We need to figure out who he’s targeting—and fast.”

You stand by the door, your stomach twisting. You can’t let them figure it out, not like this.

“I’ll follow up on the note,” you say, forcing a calm you don’t feel. “Maybe there’s something about the phrasing or handwriting we can use to narrow down suspects.”

Morgan eyes you, his brow furrowed. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been quiet since we got here.”

You nod quickly, brushing off his concern. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go.

—

You barricade yourself in the staff room, spreading out the case files across the table. You stare at the note, the handwriting glaring up at you like a brand.

“It was meant to be you.”

You were just a kid, desperate to prove yourself. He saw that. He used it.

You grip the edge of the table, your knuckles white. You can’t let him win. Not again.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s Spencer, holding a cup of coffee.

“Thought you could use this,” he says, setting it down in front of you.

“Thank you.” You manage a display of gratitude, but his gaze lingers, sharp and questioning.

“You’ve been off since we got here,” he says softly. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Your heart skips a beat. Reid is too perceptive for his own good, and you know he won’t let this go.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods, stepping back. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

As he leaves, you let out a shaky breath. The walls are closing in, and you don’t know how much longer you can keep this to yourself. Not if you don’t want anyone else to die because of it.

—

Spencer stands near the board, absentmindedly tapping his pen against his palm. Morgan is leaning against a table, arms crossed, while Prentiss and JJ exchange quiet remarks by the coffee pot. Rossi, as always, is seated with his chair tipped back, his eyes fixed on the board.

But it’s Hotch who breaks the silence. “This unsub’s timeline is escalating, and the note makes it clear they’re getting bolder. If we don’t figure out their connection to Stanford soon, someone else is going to die.”

Morgan sighs. “We’ve gone through the victim profiles a dozen times. There’s no overlap other than the school. No shared clubs, professors, dorms, nothing. It’s like this guy’s picking them at random.”

“Not random,” Spencer interjects, his voice sharp. “The victims are stand-ins for someone else. I’m sure of it. The note confirmed it—‘It was meant to be you.’ The unsub isn’t just killing; they’re trying to send a message to someone.”

Rossi tilts his head. “None of them bear any significant physical relation to each other,”

Reid nods. “It doesn’t have to be physical. It’s an ideal, there’s something specific that ties all of the victims together, something linked to whoever the unsub is actually after,”

JJ frowns. “But who is it? If it’s not one of the victims, how do we figure out who the unsub is fixated on?”

You tense in your chair, your hands curling into fists under the table. You can feel their eyes shifting to you, their collective attention like a spotlight burning against your skin.

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You did go here. Maybe there’s something you’d recognise—something we’ve missed.”

You meet their gazes with forced calm, willing your voice to remain steady. “Just because I went to Stanford doesn’t mean this case has anything to do with me.”

Prentiss leans forward slightly, her tone gentle but insistent. “No one’s saying it does, but if there’s even a chance—”

“There’s not.” you cut her off, sharper than you intended. The words hang in the air, and you immediately regret your tone. It doesn’t change anything though. “We’re here because of the victims, not because I graduated from here a decade ago.”

The room falls quiet, and the tension thickens. Hotch watches you carefully, his unreadable gaze a weight you can’t escape.

“I need some air,” you say abruptly, standing before anyone can argue. “I’ll be back in a few.”

You leave the room before anyone can stop you, the sound of your boots echoing down the sterile hall.

—

Stanford’s campus feels both foreign and familiar as you wander its paths. The sprawling quads and ivy-covered buildings haven’t changed much in the years since you left, but the memories they stir feel sharp and raw.

You stop at a bench near the Psychology department, the cool breeze doing little to calm the storm inside you. Your arms wrap around yourself as if trying to hold yourself together.

“You’re not fine.”

The voice startles you, but you don’t turn around. You’d recognise that soft, observant tone anywhere. Spencer.

He sits beside you, leaving a respectful distance between you, his lanky frame folding awkwardly on the bench. “You’ve been different since we got here,” he says after a moment. “Quiet. Hesitant. That’s not like you,”

You don’t respond, staring out at the students passing by, their laughter and chatter a stark contrast to the weight in your chest.

“I know it’s not just the case,” he continues, his voice gentle but unyielding. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling us.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do,”

His certainty grates on your already frayed nerves, and you finally turn to him, your eyes flashing. “What are you trying to say, Reid? Spit it out.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowing as he chooses his words carefully. “I think you know who the unsub is. Or at least… you suspect,”

You laugh, the sound bitter and sharp. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says quickly. “I’m worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself, and the way you reacted to that note…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was different. You looked like you’d seen a ghost,”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you snap, the defensive edge in your voice sharper than you intend.

He doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It’s more than that. I can see it. You’re scared,”

The word hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. He’s right, of course. You are scared. Terrified, even. But admitting that feels like surrendering, like letting him win.

“Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies you. “I think I do. I think this unsub has a connection to you. And I think that’s why you’ve been avoiding us—because you don’t want us to figure it out.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, and you glare at him, your composure threatening to crack. “You don’t know what he did to me.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and the moment they do, you see the understanding dawn in his eyes. “Who?” Spencer presses gently. “Who are we talking about?”

Your chest heaves as you fight back the tears threatening to spill. “One of my Professors.”

“Did he…” Spencer hesitates in pressing the subject, a mix of his usual timidness when it comes to you and the fear that he’s broaching on a very concerning topic.

“It was consensual.”

Spencer watches you closely, his eyes searching your face for a sign, some clue, as if trying to understand the puzzle that is your inner workings.

He doesn’t push, but the silence between you both is suffocating. His voice is almost a whisper when he speaks again, but it still cuts through the heavy air between you.

"You were just a kid," Spencer murmurs, his words soft but no less sharp. "He took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, when you were still figuring things out. That’s manipulation."

You flinch at the truth of it, at the way he so easily sees the pieces of your life you've tried so hard to bury. You didn’t want to think about him anymore, didn’t want to remember how he twisted every gesture, every word, until it was all about him, all about what he wanted.

You can still feel the weight of his hands, the way he made you feel like you didn’t have a choice, that this was all part of the price you had to pay to succeed, to be seen as worthy of your place in academia.

Spencer shifts slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “He used his power over you. You were just a kid, and he was a professor. Someone you trusted.” His words are steady, but they cut deep. "You were in a position where you thought you had to do what he wanted. But it wasn’t your fault,”

“It was consensual.” you say again, more firmly this time, though it feels like you’re trying to convince yourself rather than him, the words raw and drenched in a cold calmness you didn’t really feel.

“Was it?” Spencer asks gently, his voice low. “If you were 19 and you thought you had to do it to get ahead, was it really? Was it truly your choice?”

You feel the air leave your lungs, and you want to scream at him, to deny everything, to make him stop asking these questions, because the answers are too painful, too complicated.

But he’s right. You were a child—so young, so desperate to succeed, to make a name for yourself in a field dominated by people like him. You thought you were lucky when he took you under his wing, when he offered you guidance, extra attention, time. But you weren’t.

“I had an abortion,” you finally confess, the words coming out in a broken whisper.

Spencer’s eyes widen, and for a moment, he’s silent, processing your admission. His lips part as though he wants to say something, but nothing comes. He doesn’t push, though, just watches you, his expression a mix of sympathy and concern, but there's no judgment in it. Not like you expected.

“In my shitty college dorm room,” Your voice catches, and you blink rapidly, trying to stop the sting in your eyes. “I thought I was dying. The amount of blood—” You let out a shaky breath, your hands trembling in your lap. “I didn't know how to make it stop.Sometimes I wish it didn’t.”

“Don’t say that.”

Spencer leans in a little, his gaze intense, but gentle. “You were just a kid,” he says softly, his words like a balm, soothing yet cutting through the guilt. “He took advantage of you. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve that.”

You want to believe him. You want so badly to hear those words and let them erase the shame that has clung to you for so long. But the voices of doubt are louder in your head. The fear that somehow, deep down, it was your fault. That maybe you could’ve said no, maybe you could’ve gotten away before it went too far.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” you say, your voice low, almost ashamed of the vulnerability. “I couldn’t tell my parents or my friends… or anyone. It was like everything I worked for, everything I had, was tied to him. If I said something, everything would’ve been ruined.”

Spencer’s brows furrow, and he lets out a soft exhale. “No one should ever have to carry that weight alone, especially not at your age.” His voice is steady, but there’s something deeply empathetic in his tone. “It’s not a burden you should’ve had to bear by yourself.”

“I lied to him too,” you whisper, the confession hanging heavily in the air. “I told him I miscarried. He was devastated. He wasn’t even angry—just sad. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything.”

“You…” Spencer starts, hesitating to make sure he words his response correctly. “Being in a state of shock is normal after a traumatic event,”

You shake your head. “I know what shock feels like. I was just numb. I murdered my own child and I didn’t even feel guilty about it.”

Spencer’s jaw tightens slightly, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes, but it’s not directed at you. It’s directed at him, at the man who should’ve protected you, not preyed on you. His voice is tight, but he keeps it calm.

“You did what you had to do. That’s not your fault.”

“It was alive. Seventeen weeks. I flushed it down the fucking toilet,” You drag your palm down your face, leaning forward until your elbows are resting on your knees.

“I didn’t even want to graduate after that,” you admit, your voice raw. “I couldn’t face him. I just wanted to disappear, but I was not going to put myself through hell without getting something out of it.”

Spencer is quiet for a long moment, taking in everything you’ve said. His gaze never wavers from yours, like he’s trying to understand every piece of you, trying to reach that place where you’re still hiding, still locked away from the rest of the world.

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation for what happened. You did what you needed to survive. And you are surviving. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

You close your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. The storm inside you hasn’t calmed, but for the first time in a long while, it feels like it’s not threatening to swallow you whole. The walls you’ve built around yourself feel just a little more porous, itching to crumble.

“I’m scared,” you say, the vulnerability you’ve been holding back creeping into your voice. “He’s murdering people because of me.”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. He sits up straighter, his expression serious. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll help you, and we’ll make sure that he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

“You can’t tell anyone what I just told you.”

He lets out a sigh of your name.

“Promise me, Spencer.”

“Okay,” He nods solemnly. “I promise.”

—

The moment you walk through the doors of the empty lecture hall, you feel it—that same nauseating mix of dread and anticipation curling in your stomach. The air is stale, thick with the weight of memories you spent years trying to forget.

He’s already there, standing at the podium like he belongs there, like nothing has changed. Like he hasn’t left a trail of bodies behind him.

“Ah,” Professor Wittchen exhales as if relieved. “There you are,”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. “I should’ve known you’d pick this place.”

His lips curve into a small smile, a smile that used to make you feel seen. Now, it makes your skin crawl. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? This is where it all began,”

He watches you with the same unwavering gaze he always had, the one that used to make you feel special—chosen. Now, it just feels predatory.

“I missed you,” he says simply, stepping closer.

You don’t move.

“You should’ve visited,” he continues, his voice warm, inviting, like this is a casual conversation and not a confrontation between a killer and his last loose end. “You were my brightest student,”

“I was your victim.” you correct, voice sharp.

His expression doesn’t falter. If anything, he looks pleased. “Victim?” he echoes, like he’s rolling the word around in his mouth, testing its weight. “That’s not how I remember it.”

You swallow hard, jaw clenched. You knew this was how he would react. Knew he would twist things, make them blurry, like he always had.

He tilts his head, studying you. “I heard you became a profiler. That’s impressive. Though I always thought you were more inclined to be a Psychiatrist.”

“You shouldn't be surprised,” you say flatly. “I learned from the best manipulators.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “Now, that’s not fair,”

Your nails dig into your palms. “I know it’s you,” you say, cutting through the act. “You murdered four innocent women because you couldn’t move on.”

He exhales, almost disappointed. “That’s not quite right.”

You don’t let him continue. “Why are you doing this? Why now?”

His gaze darkens, and for the first time since you stepped into this room, the warmth fades from his expression. “It’s been ten years since you left me,” he says simply. “You never even had the decency to say goodbye. I tried to find a substitute, but they weren’t like you. No body is. You’re special.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you force yourself to hold his stare. “I didn’t owe you anything.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’ve disappointed him. “That’s not true. I shaped you. I made you.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “You ruined my life.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, and then—slowly—he steps down from the podium, closing the distance between you. “You don’t believe that.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

He stops inches from you, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I see it in your eyes. You still need me.”

You know what he’s doing. You know how his mind works, how he bends reality to his will, how he rewrites history to suit his narrative.

And for the first time, you don’t fall for it.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper. “You think killing people will make me what? Love you? Miss you?” You shake your head. “You mean nothing to me.”

Something in his expression shifts. It’s subtle, but you catch it. The crack in his mask. The first glimpse of the monster beneath.

His fingers twitch at his sides.

There it is. The control slipping.

Good.

You see the flash of something dark behind his eyes—anger, frustration, maybe even desperation. He knows he’s losing control, and for a man like him, that’s unbearable.

You take a step forward. Not away, but closer.

“I hate you.” you say, your voice sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of the room.

Wittchen’s lips barely twitch, but you see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he thinks you’re still playing a game with him. Like this is another debate, another test of wills.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs. “Not really.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He sighs, tilting his head like you’re disappointing him. “I did anything you didn’t ask for,” he says, like it’s a fact. “You wanted me.”

Rage burns through you, hot and all-consuming. “I was nineteen,” you spit. You knew exactly what you were doing. You took advantage of me.”

Wittchen exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that,”

“It was exactly like that,” you snap, stepping closer. “And do you want to know the worst part? I spent years telling myself it wasn’t. That maybe I did love you, that maybe I wanted to be with you. But I didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t regret leaving you,” you continue, voice trembling with fury. “I don’t regret moving on, or never looking back. But do you know what I do regret?”

He doesn’t answer, just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting for the killing blow.

“I regret ever letting you touch me. I regret every second I spent thinking you were something special, that you cared about me. You didn’t. You only cared about what I could give you.”

Something shifts in his expression—subtle, but enough. His fingers twitch again.

You steel yourself and drive the dagger deeper.

“You think I miscarried?” you ask, voice dropping to a whisper. “That’s what I told you, right? That I lost the baby?”

His face remains eerily blank.

“I lied,” you whisper. “I had an abortion.”

His entire body stiffens.

“Because the thought of being tied to you for the rest of my life made me sick. And I would’ve rather died from sepsis than deal with you.”

The silence that follows is suffocating.

For a moment, Wittchen doesn’t react. Doesn’t breathe.

Then, without warning, he moves.

His hand goes for his waistband, and in a split second, you see the glint of a gun.

But you’re faster.

Your own weapon is already in your hands before he can fully draw his, aimed directly at his chest.

“Don’t.” you warn, your voice steel.

Wittchen hesitates, his gun halfway raised, his eyes locked onto yours.

For the first time, there’s something close to uncertainty in his expression.

—

The team is listening.

They hear every word.

Spencer’s grip on his gun is tight, knuckles white, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The rest of the team stands tense beside him, ears trained on the conversation happening just beyond the door.

They could go in. They should go in.

But they don’t.

Not yet.

Because this isn’t their battle.

Still, when they hear the shift in the conversation, the moment Wittchen reaches for his gun, every muscle in Spencer’s body tenses, ready to move.

And then—

Silence.

A long, stretching silence.

Then a single gunshot.

—

“You’re lying,” Wittchen snaps, his voice rising as his fingers curl tighter around the revolver’s grip. He pulls back the hammer with a metallic click, the sound loud in the charged silence of the lecture hall.

His arm is steady, the barrel aimed at your chest, but you don't flinch. “You miscarried. You were sick. That’s the truth. I took care of you. I was there when you needed me.”

Your lips curl into a bitter smile.

“The baby was fine,” you say, voice cold and firm. “I just didn’t want it.”

The words hang between you, heavy and raw.

For a split second, something akin to disbelief flickers in his eyes. But he recovers quickly, his jaw tightening as his grip on the gun tightens. The cold, calculating look is back.

The man who used his power over you is right here, still trying to control the situation. But he’s unraveling, and you can see it now—the cracks in his façade.

“You think you can just walk away from all this?” Wittchen growls, his voice a low threat. His eyes dart between you and the gun in your hand, calculating the distance, the time it would take to react.

“You’re going to watch me.” you reply, your voice steady despite the chaos swirling inside you. You take a step forward, gun lowered in favour of a pair of handcuffs.

He lets out a sharp breath, taking a step backwards, his arm still outstretched, but his expression is one of rage and something else—desperation.

“I gave you everything,” Wittchen sneers. “I could’ve given you more. You were a star, you were going places. But you threw it all away.”

“I didn’t throw away anything.” you say, voice sharp, anger curling in your gut. “I made my life what I wanted it to be.”

You take another step toward him. Your hand grips your gun tighter, its cold weight a reminder of how far you’ve come, how much you’ve survived.

“I was a kid,” you say, quieter now, more dangerous. “A kid who wanted to make something of herself. But you? You made sure I’d always be tied to you, that I’d never escape your reach. You took that from me. And now?”

Now, you’re not just angry. Now, you’re done.

“I don’t need you anymore,” you continue, voice quiet but lethal. “And I don’t need to live in fear of you. Not anymore. Just give up.”

Wittchen’s face hardens. His finger moves closer to the trigger, and for a moment, it feels like time stands still. His eyes are cold, calculating—he’s trying to force you to back down, to make you fear him again. But you don’t. Not anymore.

And he knows it.

The silence stretches out, suffocating. And then, without another word, he turns the gun away from you and towards himself.

For a moment, the world is frozen.

The sharp scent of gunpowder lingers in the air.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t move.

Wittchen stares at you, almost smiling.

A slow, dark red stain spreads across his chest. His gun falls from his hand, clattering uselessly to the floor.

Then, his knees buckle.

He collapses.

The impact is dull, almost anticlimactic.

His breath comes in shallow gasps, and for the first time since you walked into this room, he looks small.

Weak.

The man who once held so much power over you is nothing more than a dying, pathetic heap on the floor.

And somehow, there’s no satisfaction in it.

You watch as the light fades from his eyes, as the last breath leaves his lips.

And then—

It’s over.

—

The gunshot sends the team into action.

Spencer is the first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning the room for threats.

But all he finds is you—standing still, gun loose in one hand, handcuffs in the other, staring blankly ahead.

Wittchen is on the floor, unmoving. Blood pools around him.

For a second, no one speaks.

Then you move.

Without looking at any of them, you turn away from the corpse.

And then, numbly, silently, you walk past them.

You don’t stop when Spencer calls your name.

You don’t stop when JJ reaches for you.

You just keep walking.

Because it’s finally over.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t feel like a victory at all.

—

The air outside the lecture hall is thick with tension.

Your gun feels heavy in your hands, and at some point, you register someone gently taking it from you. You don’t resist.

The hallways of Stanford feel different now. The ghosts you tried so hard to forget have been exorcised, but their shadows still linger.

You reach the nearest exit and step outside, inhaling sharply as the crisp night air hits you. You brace your hands on your knees, grounding yourself.

Then you hear footsteps behind you.

You know it’s them.

You straighten, forcing yourself to meet their gazes.

Hotch stands with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his presence steady. JJ and Emily exchange a look, worry etched into their features. Rossi, as always, watches with quiet understanding.

Then there’s Morgan.

He looks… shaken.

Guilt lingers in his eyes, and when he steps forward, his voice is lower, softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You blink, caught off guard.

“For what?” Your voice is hoarse, raw.

Morgan exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw with his eyes full of regret. “I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. You don’t want to talk about it. But there’s something in his voice, in the way his usually confident demeanor falters, that makes you nod stiffly.

“I know.”

It’s the closest thing to forgiveness you can offer right now.

Morgan nods, accepting it.

Spencer is the last to approach.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just stands there, his hands shoved into his pockets. His eyes, though, say everything.

You hold his gaze for a moment before sighing. “What?”

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits. His voice is careful, but there’s an edge of something else—frustration, sadness, maybe even anger. Not at you. Never at you. But at what happened. At what Wittchen took from you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur.

—

The hum of the jet is steady and low, a constant presence that fills the silence between breaths.

You sit by the window, staring out at the clouds, your reflection barely visible against the dark glass.

You should be exhausted.

You are exhausted.

But sleep won’t come.

Your mind won’t let it.

The seat next to you shifts slightly, and you glance over to see Spencer settling beside you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, because he already knows you’re not.

Doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty reassurances.

He just sits.

And somehow, that’s reassurance enough.

Sleep comes a little easier after that.

Over the Garden Wall - Masterlist

Benedict Bridgerton x Princess!Reader

18+

Summary: The youngest daughter of Queen Charlotte and King George, plagued by the same illness as her father, grows tired of her lonely and isolated existence. When escaping the prison-like castle she has been sequestered in for her entire life, she meets a young man who shares her love for painting and whom she can not stop thinking about. Secrets, betrayal, and love all fight against one another. Which one will win?

Series Warnings: Love at first sight; POV third person; eventual smut; isolation; dramatic/inaccurate depictions of mental illness; thoughts of death; there will be fluff, okay? I swear; potential historical inaccuracies; complex mother/daughter relationship; historical medical practices; SIMP Benedict; idgaf about historical canon; complicated sibling relationships; execution by hanging

Tags specified before each chapter

(Tags will be updated as the story continues)

Last Updated: 03/28/24 (Complete)

*indicates smut

Chapter One - Loathing Boredom

Chapter Two - Ruinous Secrets

Chapter Three - Never is a Promise

Chapter Four - As the Poets Say

Chapter Five - Vagrant Body

Chapter Six - Codes and Clues

Chapter Seven - Dig My Fingers in

Chapter Eight - No Light of My Own

Chapter Nine - This Sweet Plague *

Chapter Ten - Tricked By the Past

Chapter Eleven - No Label, No Name

Chapter Twelve - Keeping Time

Chapter Thirteen - Only You Can Mend

Chapter Fourteen - Not Above Violence

Interlude - Lady Whistledown

Chapter Fifteen - Matching Wounds

Chapter Sixteen - Go Along to Be With You

Chapter Seventeen - Balanced on Desire

Interlude - Marietta

Chapter Eighteen - Oh, My One

Chapter Nineteen - Like Fuel to Fire *

Chapter Twenty - If I Send for You

Interlude - Honeymoon *

Chapter Twenty One - An Atom and a Star

Chapter Twenty Two - The Bed I Was Born In *

Chapter Twenty Three - Don't Wait to Understand

Chapter Twenty Four - Fingers Laced a Crown

Chapter Twenty Five - Here to Kingdom Come *

Epilogue - A Moment, A Love

Drabble - Pall Mall Drabble - Picnic Drabble - Like Mother, Like Son Drabble - Jealousy Drabble - More Than a Maid Drabble - Coronation Day Drabble - Second Son Drabble - Number Four Drabble - Reasonably Unreasonable Drabble - Tag, You're It Drabble - Sisters Drabble - Spoiled Drabble - Opal of the Season Drabble - Fit for Family Drabble - Garden in Bloom * (smut adjacent) Drabble - What if? AU

one of my favorite things to do in limited perspective is write sentences about the things someone doesn't do. he doesn't open his eyes. he doesn't reach out. i LOVE sentences like that. if it's describing the narrator, it's a reflection of their desires, something they're holding themselves back from. there's a tension between urge and action. it makes you ask why they wanted or felt compelled to do that, and also why they ultimately didn't. and if it's describing someone else, it tells you about the narrator's expectations. how they perceive that other person or their relationship. what they thought the other person was going to do, or thought the other person should have done, but failed to. negative action sentences are everything.

starburst 🌟

He was as tall as he was tall, and his eyes were the color they were. To describe his hair one would say that he had some. His face had all the features you'd expect, and none of the ones you wouldn't. "There he is," people would often say of him, but only when he was there. And they were right.

i will only accept bruce and batmom as the most in love couple to have ever existed. gomez and morticia addams core.

i need them to be the type of rich couple that has two sets of doors leading up to their bedroom, one of which has a bolted lock because that’s how hot and loud they are for each other in private.

an interviewer asks a young jason todd to describe his new parents in one word and without a skipping a beat his young voice goes ‘amorous’. 

some random person retweets their pictures saying “i want what they have” only for tim drake’s official account to quote tweet going “not if you want your children to like you. they’re disgusting <3”

there is not a single interview of bruce wayne next to his wife where he is not staring like an angel has just appeared next to him.

there’s youtube compilations called “bruce wayne being whipped for 2 minutes and 46 seconds” filled with clips of him licking his lips when she walks by him.

in public bruce’s hand stays on the small of her back or bringing her hands to his lips.

someone asks bruce what the smartest career decision he’s ever made is and he says marrying her without the slightest hint of irony.

podcast host: can we talk about your husband for a few minutes?

batmom: we can talk about him for hours…

every core member of the justice league (except clark who’s known bruce longest) learns that batman is bruce wayne and find it impossible to fathom that their stoic, grumpy, ever-composed second-in-command is also that one billionaire on tv who did an entire interview with his wife sat on his lap that one time.

they sing cheek to cheek by ella fitzgerald and louis armstrong around the piano together at parties, they’re so in love.

there’s moodboards on the internet of bruce wayne covered in her lipstick marks.

stephanie rounds some of the others up to watch their wedding video as a joke and then almost ends up fucking crying at how pleased and happy bruce looks as he mouths “you’re so beautiful. i’m so lucky.” when alfred walks her down the aisle.

it is not an uncommon occurrence for some newbie reporter at the wayne gala to get lost going through the myriad of hallways and stumble upon mr. and mrs. wayne making out in a dark corner.

@reveluving @cruelmissdior @diorsbrando sorry i’ve prob tagged you in way too many things today but just hear me out!!!

Superior Mates: Nolan Grayson X Male Reader

Summertime Prompt: Day 4, Omegaverse AU Pronouns: None Mentioned, Reader referred to as ‘father’ Primary Sex: AMAB Secondary Sex: Omega Rating: E/Sex, violence, mentioned character death Warnings: Omegaverse, a/o, Viltrumite culture, imperialism, blood, smut, anal sex, breeding, bonding as mates, reader is a Viltrumite, Nolan being an asshole, Debbie mentioned, Mark is dead Summary: Nolan wasted seventeen years playing human, now he wants something from home.

The rush of air hits you before you see him. You had been standing in your kitchen, simply staring at your fridge to decide on a snack but clearly Nolan has a lot more going on. When you shut the door and look up at him you find him covered in blood and panting. His shoulders move up and down with every breath and his bloodshot eyes are full of that familiar Viltrumite rage that reminds you of home.

“What happened?” You ask, unfazed as you wet a towel in the sink.

“Mark.” He says simply, almost growling.

You approach him slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder and feeling his muscles relax under the touch. No doubt he’s calmed by the natural Omega scent. You run the towel over his blood covered face and he closes his eyes to let you.

“Is that who you’re covered in?”

“He refused.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

He sighs. “Waste of my time.”

“Seventeen years is nothing, Nolan.”

He leans into your hand as you run the towel over his cheek. “I want a Viltrumite.”

“Then raise the next one on Viltrum.”

His hand grabs your wrist and squeezes with a force that would’ve broken a human’s bones. “I want a Viltrumite.”

“Your obsession with fatherhood is concerning.”

His grip loosens and he runs his other hand through your hair. “You’ll think the same during your heat.”

You scoff. “I’m not mating with you, Nolan. We have a planet to conquer.”

“And it’d be easier with a few kids to help.” He says softly, rubbing your head. “I’d fuck you over and over until we had our own planet’s worth.”

“You’re assuming I want kids because I’m an Omega?”

He grips your hair. “Because you’re a Viltrumite.”

“Yeah, and I’ll do my duty and have the necessary number.” You sigh. “At some point.”

He shakes his head. “Now.”

You shove him away, turning back to the kitchen. “Go back to your little human toy, Nolan.”

He glares. “She can’t handle what I want to do.”

“Then go home and pick up some Omega bitch there.”

“They wouldn’t be you.” He seethes. “I want the father of my children to be you.”

“And I want to snap your neck, but we don’t always get what we want.”

“They sent us here.” Nolan growls, moving to stand in front of you. “They expect us to mate.”

“If they did, we’d have orders.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder and you look at him. “I need to fuck something that can take what I give it for once.”

You stare at him, watching his eyes turn from a glare to something more honest. “Fine.” You sigh. “Once.”

“All night.” He squeezes your shoulder. “Let me fuck you until the sun rises and we obliterate this rat infested planet.”

“I’m not having your kids.”

“I know.” He moves his hand to cup your cheek. “Not tonight, but eventually.”

You roll your eyes and he wraps an arm around your waist.

“Is there anyone else you’d want to do that to you?” He whispers. “Anyone better suited?”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Depends. Can I at least pretend I’m fucking Mark’s replacement into you?”

“If you make me cum twice as much as you get to.”

He smiles. “Deal, Omega.”

His lips connect with yours in a hungry kiss, teeth and tongue with so little care but so much desperation. In a flash you’re in your bed and he’s palming you through your pants and his other hand squeezes your ass. His dick presses against your leg, taking over the length of your thigh as he grinds against it.

“I’ve wanted you since we got sent here.” He mutters. “I wanted to fuck you in front of this whole planet of inferiors and show them how perfect a Viltrumite Omega takes it.”

“Then why aren’t you fucking me yet?”

He chuckles. “I was trying to be a gentleman. Human sentiments, they must’ve worn off on me.”

“I didn’t sit through your sob story to not be knotted tonight, Nolan.”

He groans, leaning up to rip his clothes off. “Fuck, I missed Vilturmie Omegas.” He rips your pants off and grips your hips to pull you closer. “You know you’re superior, not whiney like bitched humans.”

“Happy to be of service to the Empire.”

He groans, lining himself up. “Is that what that slick’s for? The Empire?”

You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to press closer. “No. That’s all for my Alpha.”

He stills, timidly running a hand over your taint, hardened dick, and up your stomach to rest on your chest. “Let me mark you.”

You meet his eyes, his scent hitting your nose. “I wanna feel you inside me first.”

He doesn’t hesitate, plunging inside of you and pulling your hips flush against him. His dick fills you completely, the tip pressing so far in that it bulges out your stomach even through your layers of muscle and fat. He holds himself there, leaning over you as he licks at your scent mark.

“Good enough?” He mumbles, kissing the sensitive spot.

Your legs are frozen around him, your body split open and head foggy from the Alpha arousal scent. “Y-Yeah…”

He leans his head up, a hand brushing through your hair. “Who’s your Alpha?”

“You… Alpha.” You shutter as his dick twitches inside of you. “Nolan.”

One Piece Masterlist

Rules

Navigation

Kaido x Reader

Shut Up: a short story on Y/n and Kaido breaking up

Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader

Taking Advantage: a headcannon on Y/n taking advantage of Sanji.

Monkey D. Luffy x Reader

My Wife Part I: a short story on Luffy treating reader as wife even though it was pretend luffy is adement it was legit.

The Very Real Wedding Part II: a short story prequel to my wife. This is the story of when Sabo and Ace arranged a wedding ceremony for their younger brother.

Sorry I’m Married Part III: a short story an overly zealous marine by the name of Shimoi Zappa is enraptured by your beauty and just will not take no for an answer. Your final rejection comes in the form of a blow to his face which earns you a bounty and DoA wanted poster.

My Little Brothers Wife Part IV: a requested short story on Koala delivering the news of Y/n’s bounty to Sabo.

That’s my Wife you Jerk! Part V: Luffy rescues his wife from the Big Mom pirates

Don’t be Embarrassed!You’re my wife damnit! Part VI: You arrive on the thousand Sunny and your relationship dynamic has confused the crew to say the least.

No way! Luffy has a Wife?! Part VII: More people find out about your relationship with the new issue of the wanted poster.

If you have the means to, tips are always appreciated.

Sometimes the name doesn't matter

synopsis: sometimes it matters that you are his wife. PART 3

pairings: Childe, Neuvillette, Pantalone, Wriothesley x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship (married/engaged/mated), secret relationship, immortal reader in Neuvi's part

word count: 6.1k+ words

a/n: part 1 and part 2 can be read here!

Childe

Spurred by the whistles and a whip of a coachman three fine white horses are trotting along the snow-covered road, dragging a big sleigh. Made of the sturdiest wood and painted in red and gold, the construction is effortlessly sliding on ice crust, almost lulling you under all those warm blankets and furs Ajax has thrown over your half-sitting half-lying bodies. You are glad to have this instead of jolting in a carriage (not like it’ll even be able to ride through all this snow), sure to have an aching arse even under the thick sheepskin coat, and instead of whatever machinery your lover could’ve gotten his hands onto due to his position - otherwise it wouldn’t have been so romantic.

Resting your head onto his shoulder you sigh blissfully, puffing out a small cloud of warm air. The fluffy-looking firs, tall pines and naked larches are flashing past in a magical gleam of snow-covered branches; you think you see two grayish squirrels chasing one another on a tree on your left.

“Oh, little minxes. A couple of seconds later and that snow could’ve ended up on our heads.”

You giggle at the young man’s comment, taking your gloved hand out of the sable muff and reaching to adjust the hat with earflaps (which he once again refused to tie under his chin) on his head. Before you can retrieve, a bigger hand clad in mitten wraps around yours and brings it to the chapped pale lips. As if spellbound you watch him press a tender kiss just where your ring finger joins the palm - right where the engagement ring is hidden under the thick material.

Now it’s hard to tell if your cheeks are rosy from cold or the swirling emotions.

“A little bit more and we will be in Morepesok,” he says softly, deep pools of his blue eyes staring back at you adoringly. “I can’t wait to share the news with ma, pa, sisters and brothers…”

You know he’s written them a letter right after you said ‘yes” to him, too excited to wait. So excited in fact, that he couldn’t sit still in expectation for the response, so he solicited an impromptu week-long vacation with the help of Pulcinella, and here you are, on your merry way to his home village.

“I can’t wait for that too,” you smile, leaning up to peck his nose, eliciting the same smile from him. “But I worry a little - will they be happy for us? I mean, that it’s me who you are going to marry?”

“Absolutely!” He nods enthusiastically and you have to readjust his hat again. “They all love you very much, I promise you. And if I am being completely honest, mom and Tonia did keep asking me when I intended to make you my wife during the last couple of times we visited.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was already planning a proposal at the time - didn’t want to spoil it by accidentally letting my tongue loose.”

It’s hard to believe that this man is one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers. Childe is surprisingly good at separating his work and off work behavior, turning into a completely normal, maybe just a tiny bit unhinged, young man as soon as his family is involved. You know he’s built this facade to keep them and you away from harm, but you also know it comes from the heart as well.

“Then I can only hope we can bring the female members of your family to the capital soon - I want them to participate in the wedding dress shopping.”

You are immediately gathered into a tight embrace and your laughter is smothered by the fur on his collar. Yes, he is the Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, Tsaritas’s soldier, Childe… But in moments like this he is just Ajax. Your Ajax.

His parents’ house meets you both with the quiet creak of the gates, the barking of two big fluffy malamutes outside, the clink of the horseshoe against the wood on top of the front door, the warmth of a well-heated inside and a bit taller than the last time you saw him Teucer, who runs full speed at his big brother, practically tackling him.

“Big brother is home, big brother is home!”

Ajax joyously laughs, somehow managing to take off his coat and dropping it to the colorful carpet at the front door before hoisting the exclaiming boy into his arms. Kicking off your felt boots to step from the anteroom, you watch with a smile as he squeals when your lover presses his cold cheek to the warm smaller one, squirming in the strong arms. 

Not a minute later more of his siblings appear, closely followed by their mom - freckled, with her ginger with gray hair tied in a thick braid and an apron thrown over her green dress, the woman smiles brightly and, letting her children surround their brother, walks to you with arms spread, ready to embrace you.

“Mother, my clothes might be cold,” you try to warn her, but she doesn’t listen, hugging you anyway.

“As if it can affect me! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, my dear. How was your trip? Are you tired, hungry? I’m almost done with lunch, and in the meantime I can ask my husband to throw in the firewood and heat the bathhouse for you two.

“It’s very kind of you,” you smile, wrapping your arms to give her a hug in return. “But I think we’ll wash up in the evening - I really doubt Ajax’s sibling will let him go in the following couple of hours.”

Before she can say anything, a tall, wide man appears from the other room. His beard and hair are gingerly brown with gray too, thick brows naturally furrowed. By the rosy cheeks, the remnants of snowflakes melting on his hair and the choice of clothing you guess he’s just returned to the house through the back door - probably after chopping wood.

Upon lowering his gaze to you, his facial features smooth out.

“If it isn’t my son and a dear soon-to-be daughter-in-law!” His gruff voice booms across the house, immediately redirecting everyone’s attention to you and making you blush. “I knew Ajax was too impatient and would rather come to visit and bring his fiance along than wait for a response letter.”

As he moves to greet you properly and help with discarding the outer clothes, you notice your gingerhead whispering something to his siblings, to which they giggle and throw glances at you. Catching the gaze of your lover, you lift an eyebrow, as if asking ‘should I be concerned?’. But he only shakes his head with a smile and ushers everyone to the dining room.

However, the curiosity is getting better of you, as throughout the evening you keep catching the glances, watch Tonia whispering something to her mom, and the woman giving Ajax a ‘really?’ kind of look, but with a fond smile, and then his dad slapping his back with a boisterous laugh, saying something along the lines ‘I was the same way with your mom too’.

So you confront him once you are left alone in the room.

“Hey, foxy, what’s going on?”

“Hm?” He lowers the blanket that he’s just tucked inside the duvet cover and reaches for the sheets. “What do you mean, bunny?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing,” you put one of the pillows down and reach out for the other as well as the pillowcase. 

“And what’s that ‘whatever’ I’ve been doing?” You don’t miss the sly smile finding its way onto his face. You huff.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The man hums, tucking the edges of the sheet between the mattress and the bed.

“Nothing you should worry about. I just asked them all to practice a little.”

“Practice?” Cocking your head, you throw both pillows onto the bed. “Wait, did you start planning something for the wedding?”

“Not quite. Rather for after it.”

Confused, but intrigued, you step closer when your lover sits down and beckons you, being dragged into his lap a second later. Blue eyes look at you in an unspoken fascination, as he leans forward to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth, prompting you to loosely wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Since we are getting married, I deduced that it would be only right for my family to call you my wife. Thus I asked them to get acquaintanced with the term, so they could start doing it as soon as we are pronounced husband and wife.”

You blink at him once, twice. After the third time you exhale, shaking your head, but the lift of your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by your fiance.

“I should’ve known you’d pull something like this, I am not even surprised, let alone mad. But they could just keep addressing me by my name. Plus your siblings already call me ‘big sister’ and your parents made me an honor of acknowledging me as the ‘daughter’. It won’t change much.”

“But it will!” He pouts and you can’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek. “You will be my wife and I want everyone to help me show it! Does it bother you though?”

Looking into those uncharacteristically begging eyes, you really can’t deny him his little antics. Not like you were going to in the first place.

“No, no, I don’t mind, love. Honestly, it's very sweet how excited you are. Makes me look forward to it.”

“Yeah?” Look at him, smiling like a satisfied cat, who's had too much sour cream for its own good. His embrace tightens on you a little.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes as Ajax enjoys the many kisses you pepper to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, grinning, boyishly eager for more.

“Do you think I should ask the whole village to do the same?”

“Ajax, no.”

Nuevillette

“Mother, do you mind helping me a little? I can’t reach over there…

“I’d be delighted, my dear.”

Neuvillette watches with a fond look as you put the tea cup down and stand up to walk closer to Verenata and assist her with whatever the potion maker needs. Your figure is ethereal, clad in the finest fabrics, flowing with every step and gently dropping as you crouch gracefully to hoist the melusine in your arms. From above the rim of his silver goblet the Hydro Dragon can't tear his eyes from the way one of your many “daughters” wraps an arm around your neck and reaches up, while the corner of your lips, which he can see from his position at the table, is turned upwards.

“Mother is so kind and patient,” Laume says just a step away from Neuvillette’s chair. When the man turns his head to look at her, there is Flo standing too.

“Yes, and she is so beautiful,” the other melusine sighs, clasping her hands together. “And she always brings us such nice and comfortable clothes…”

“Monsieur Neuvillette married a wonderful woman,” a couple more melusines nearby agree and there is a warm and fuzzy feeling takes place in the Judex’s chest.

Marriage… Such a beautiful concept humans came up with to validate the union of two. It begins with the wedding - a day full of happy tears and blissful smiles, shared vows to be together in sickness and in health, sweet claims of love and promises of joyful life ahead. Then this very life begins and for beings like you and your husband it’s a long, but welcome trip.

You’ve been claimed by each other for quite some time before the more ‘mortal appropriate’ ritual, and the melusines - the wonderful creatures Neuvillette once took under his wing - were aware and happy for your relationship. And it was actually their idea to hold a wedding too, once Sigewinne naturally asked how the two of you planned to introduce your bond in civil words to humans.

And it was their initiative to start calling you “mother”. With your actions you quickly became one for them anyway, and the girls actively sought your company when it was possible. Thus, such tea parties at the Merusea Village as today are a common occurrence (besides, you always welcome them because it's a great opportunity to dig your husband out of the pile of responsibilities he tends to bury himself under).

However, lately Neuvillette started noticing that when he heard the word leave the girls’ mouths, a strange feeling began rising in his chest. Even though not quite familiar with the concept of jealousy, the Judex was sure it was not the case - he loved when the melusines called you that. So, he could not really put his finger on why the action caused such an indescribable reaction.

He decided to observe. On his walks throughout the city, the man seeked the sights of parents with children to attentively listen and watch while leisurely passing by or stopping at the shopping booths to linger on the scene. He was quick to note that the interactions were hardly different from the ones between you and the girls - kids would call for their mothers in all the same tones: when happy, when asking for help, when seeking comfort and many other typical occurrences he’d seen a handful of times before.

What really caught Neuvillette’s eye was the way the parents behaved. And soon his focus shifted to the married couples instead. As reserved as the nobles seemed to appear, the ones in love still managed to slip a murmured ‘my dear’, or ‘beloved’ or ‘my sweet [Name]’ in their speech. All the things the Hydro Dragon was all too used to call you too, relishing in the image of your loving smile and joyfully crinkling eyes as you responded in kind.

But it is like a waterfall pours on him when a week later, after that tea party where he once again sunk deep in thought, a keen pointy ear makes out a simple word in the crowd.

"Wife"

Male’s heart flutters. The understanding quickly dawns on him, even more so when his eyes find the couple on the other side of the road, - it was no simple term to introduce the partner to the third party. No, the tenderly spoken word was used by that man to address his lover, to softly draw her attention to him, to remind her he is happy she is holding such a position in his life…

At least that’s what kind of puzzle pieces together in Neuvillette’s head. The couple is long gone, yet he is still standing there, hand resting on the handle of his cane and eyes staring into space.

He starts to remember all the sweet names he called you, each and every one stored in his memory with the heart-warming images of your reactions. There are all kinds of those: my love, my pearl, lizzy (affectionate from ‘lizard’; you used to tell him that dragons are just big lizards and it kinda stuck), kisses-stealer, fairy-tail nymph… The man is surprisingly creative with his words when it comes to you.

Sure, he calls you his mate, quite often too, but to his chagrin it has never occurred to him that he could call you ‘his wife’ too! It’s so simple, so absurdly logical, yet it took him weeks to figure out.

Humans are truly fascinating.

When Neuvillette returns to his office in the Palais Mermonia you are already there, lazing on a sofa with a bunch of papers, in which your husband guesses the script of probably another upcoming play of Furina. And judging by the more than a half pages turned you’ve been waiting for him for a while.

When the door closes and the cane disappears in the myriad of sparkling bubbles, you lift your gaze, and a smile immediately lights up your lovely features.

”Neuvi,” You speak softly, getting on your feet and leaving the script behind, “I hoped we’d depart on the afternoon stroll together. So imagine my disappointment when Sedene told me you had left just ten minutes ago! Oh, I knew I’d be late if Lady Furina had kept me for another minute, yet I still hoped I’d be on time…”

As you are approaching him, the Judex remembers the melusine’s words upon arrival: “Mother waits inside”. This makes all his previous thoughts resurface, and when he meets you half-way and reaches for both your hands to place a kiss to the back of each, Neuvillette has half a mind to try out his new discovery.

“Our Archon enjoys your company a lot, and, knowing you, you are not really mad,” you roll your eyes playfully, tiptoeing to peck the tip of his nose, murmuring a quiet ‘hush, let me be a tiny bit indignant’. “And I’d be honored to keep you company for the evening stroll,” and then, after a little pause of hesitation, he adds, “wife.”

He watches as the previously present smile on your face grows even bigger, but after a couple of seconds starts to fade slowly, eyes squinting a little bit to stare at him in hardly-concealed curiosity.

“What was that?”

“What was what, dear wife?”

“This!” As if to emphasize your words you point your finger to his mouth, and it’s Neuvillette’s lips’ turn to curl in a small smile.

“It’s something I hoped to discuss with you,” his gloved fingertips soothingly brush over your knuckles and soon your hand is clasped into his, as the man leads you both back to the sofa. “You see,” he starts when you sit down, “I am fascinated with the notion hidden behind the word ‘mother’ the melusines like to call you. That’s who you are for them both in reality and in terms. I’ve made some observations, and figured that sometimes humans in marriage also use the…familial terms to address one another. It seemed lovely to me and I wanted to try it out with you. What do you think?”

You hum in thought, replaying in your head the way Neuvillette spoke to you twice. It is hard to explain, but you somehow immediately see the appeal and understand why your lover got hooked on it. Seems lovely indeed. You wonder, what if you…

“Will you tell me more about those observations on our evening stroll, husband? Ooh, it does sound wonderful!”

Mark him stunned, but for a moment Judex grows speechless. The violet depths of his eyes swirl with adoration as you clap your hands gleefully, and he knows, that from now on your everyday routine will never be the same

“With pleasure, wife.”

Pantalone

Dancing snowflakes are slowly descending in their tender waltz and are gleaming like the tiniest of gems in the streetlights’, enveloping the already magical winter capital of the Cryo region in a solemn atmosphere. The white cover of the ground is crunching with every step of a passerby and every wheel rotation of the fancy-looking carriages, while the street is a jumble of fur coats and heavy military overcoats, finally breathing life into the afternoon-quiet city.

It’s a wonderful evening, too marvelous to spend it at home, too enchanting to miss the new ballet at the Bolshoy Theater, the true accumulation of the Tsaritsa’ nation’s nobility and intelligentsia. The wonder of Snezhnayan architecture is both the place to rest and enjoy the purest form of art and home to many gossip circulating in society. Some fresh and just hours old, some ancient and undying, like the topic of the Ninth Harbinger’s lovers.

Lord Pantalone is well-known and often-praised for his contribution to the Snezhnaya’s economy, along with extending the Fatui influence all across the Teyvat. But also he is quite famous for the women he appears in public with. It’s always someone new, it’s never the same one as before. Different shapes, different hair, different style - it is impossible to guess the raven-haired man’s tastes. However everybody knew - the Harbinger never entertained the company of the ladies who made attempts to catch his attention. Those ladies themselves say as much.

The Regrator’s companions never open their mouths, never utter a word - at least not when there are people around. There has never been a single name, never a remembered face - all women wear the mask covering the upper half of it, concealing the identity of yet another lucky choice of the rich man. 

Never the same woman - always the same mask.

This evening does not disappoint the gathered crowd - lifting their gazes, directing attention to the Harbinger’s personal box, they once again see the notorious mask. The long fringe of wine-red hair is coquettishly framing the ever-lasting piece of leather, similarly flaming lips are tugged in a haughty smile - as if the young lady doesn’t realize that once the night is over, she’s going to be discarded like many others before her. The dress according to the latest fashion trends and the beautiful garnet necklace do not surprise the audience anymore - even known for his love for replacements, Lord Pantalone dresses his partners royally.

The man himself has chosen yet another black costume, with a dark burgundy shirt hidden underneath and bird-shaped garnet brooch on the left side of his chest. Multiple beautiful rings catch the light when he lifts his gloved hand to adjust diamond-shaped glasses, before turning his head and addressing something to his tonight’s escort. She boisterously laughs, saying something in response, but even if attendants tried to strain their ears, they wouldn’t hear anything so far away. Even harder it gets when the third ring of the bell echoes across the theater chamber and both the Harbinger and the woman are forgotten, until the performance is over.

So no one sees when the ring-decorated hand reaches for a smaller female one, fingers sliding under the chintz-covered palm, thumb immediately reaching to tug on the hem of the glove, so the thin cool lips could press against the small patch of bared skin. A glimpse of a smile is what Pantalone gets when you glance at him with amusement playing on your lips.

Always the same mask, never the same woman, huh? 

Pride has long slithered into your heart, yet it still lifts its snake-like head every time your act of decisiveness succeeds, happily hissing. Every time it’s a test of your skills, a gamble with the eyes of ones around you, and every time you hit the jackpot, leaving the people guessing, staying the only one in possession of the banker despite the speculations.

As long as Her Majesty Tsaritsa is aware of your existence and the place you occupy next to Pantalone, you are free to do anything you want with his reputation relationship-wise. And he allows it, because should you desire the whole world - he’ll throw it to your feet like the cheapest trinket. One would say it’s because he is prideful too - he knows it’s because he loves his wife.

Loves to the point of entertaining the masquerades she stages whenever the two of you need to appear in public. It plays wonderfully into his possessive nature and desire to keep his precious beautiful wife to himself and helps with the enemies - “changing the ladies” minimizes the chances of putting at risk his one and only. Not like many know of you in the first place.

It’s a win-win arrangement for you as well - there is still an opportunity to cling to his arm, to use his expensive cologne, to play with the rings on his fingers and sneakily make out in a dark corner where no one can see. To be tugged into his lap in the carriage on the way back to his mansion, to have his long fingers undo the strings of the mask, and once the piece of leather falls onto the floor, have the palms slide down the sides of your neck, swiftly fiddling with the heavy necklace, only to let it be, the caress the shoulders, pushing the sleeves down… 

…to leave them at the elbows and grab your arms to push your back into his chest as the warm lips press to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder.

And what if you’ve lost your name in the process of this disguising? Having been an actress a long time ago made you used to it. But isn’t it fun to come up with the new ideas for your next performance? Your husband gifts you way too many dresses and jewelry sets - you must find use to all of them! He now has to simply spend a bit more on the wigs and makeup to fit each combination of fabric and gems.

“Did my wife have a pleasant evening?” The velvet voice of the man behind you caresses the ear and you meet his gaze in the full-size mirror in front of you. Amethyst eyes sparkle in the bedroom light and you smile coquettishly, red lips stretching seductively.

“Did she? How could I know?” You tease, reaching to your back to undo the corset, just to be stopped by his hands, fingers digging into the dozens of strings. “And don’t you know, Mr Harbinger, that it’s very offending for the woman, when the man speaks about another lady in her presence?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he muses, tugging a bit harsher on the ties and making you gasp, “that my dear wife can be jealous of herself.”

“When you know her poorly. Tsk-tsk, what a bad husband you are.”

Pantalone laughs behind you, shaking his head at your untrue words, and you reach to your head to remove the fiery wig. By the time Pantalone is done with your corset, you are done letting your naturally beautiful locks down, sighing in relief from both the released ribcage and hair roots.

The dress, having lost its vital support on your body, falls to the ground next to the wig and quickly becomes forgotten as you two step away from the mirror.

Your husband is still mostly clothed, having only eased out of his coat and unbuttoned the jacket, so you busy your hands with tugging the black article off and then reaching for the gleaming tiny buttons on the shirt. Your figures bask in the warm light of the room as you continue undressing the man - your eyes concentrated on the expensive fabrics, his - on the lovely expression of your face.

“But if you must know,” Pantalone raises his brow, when you look up at him, a much sincere and tender smile lighting up your visage, “your wife loved the evening very much.”

And that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Fingers tangle in your hair, you harshly inhale, and his lips are on yours. Lipstick is smudging, your fingers accidentally catch the silver chain, and his glasses get slightly askew, but it doesn’t matter. His wife loved another thing he’s done for her. The banker’s day has ended in a great profit.

Wriothesley

Fortress of Meropide is a huge metal labyrinth of floors and corridors, where noise is never-ending even in the late hours of the night. The metal box which is the Duke’s office however, is constructed to mute the annoying sounds or else the one inside would have a very hard time concentrating.

Usually, even the ruckus happening outside and the clanking of the heavy machines underneath can’t sway Wriothesley’s attention if he has his mind set on doing the paperwork, even something as boring as bills. Today, however, the man has caught himself multiple times glancing at the clock he’s hung up a couple of years ago - there is no way to tell the time all the way down underwater, true, but it serves him a greater purpose. It helps him count hours and minutes before you arrive.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days when you take a half of the day off to come down to the Fortress to meet up with your husband. You both quickly realized that traveling back and forth together in either of the directions (fortress or home in the city) would be way too inconvenient. So, you improvise by visiting him throughout the week a couple of times and then he comes home to properly spend the weekend, having learnt to delegate his responsibilities to the most trustworthy guards. So far you’ve been extremely pleased with the arrangement, and the Fortress’s crew have learnt your face by heart to not cause you any obstacles in reaching your beloved’s office.

Today, nevertheless, something must’ve gone wrong. Pale blue eyes are practically drilling the minute hand of the previously mentioned clock, watching it moving further and further from the tiny 10-minute bar, which should’ve marked your appearance at the top of his stairs. And he gets it, everything could’ve happened, something as trivial as the queue at the pastry shop that might’ve gotten longer today, but when the delay surpasses the half-hour mark, the warden puts his fountain pen down and follows it by the creak of the chair legs on the metal floor.

As he descends down the stairs - each clunking under the heavy soles of his boots - a fleeting thought of you stopping by at the medical bay first is immediately brushed aside - his office is right on the path of entering the Fortress’s main body, and you love your husband too much to let him sulk in his longing. 

When he pushes the colossal doors open, eyes instantly start searching the area ahead of him. However, nothing unusual is spotted - two guards are standing at the front of his abode, not even flinching at the unpleasant scraping noise the metal makes; a couple of inmates are walking past them, bowing their heads right as they see the appearing the figure of their warden - Wriothesley simply nods and sends them off with a flicker of his hand; then there is Monglane’s desk with its irreplaceable owner. And no trace of his beloved wife.

Closing the doors behind him, Wriothesley comes up to the guards, inquiring if they’ve happened to see you. Getting a negative response, he hums and starts walking forward, to the corridor leading to the elevator, not bothering with asking the very same questions to Monglane.

With every passing minute, especially while waiting for the elevator, the man starts realizing how impatient he is growing, if the tapping of his foot and crossed arms are not an indicator enough. Even with just one day apart, he’s missed you so awfully much, your adoring smile, your soft voice and cute little giggles, that he feels rightfully robbed since you are not yet in his embrace, showering his face with kisses and then whining pretentiously because he’s forgotten to shave once again. Sometimes you swear he is not a big bad wolf, but a mean huge hedgehog.

He almost stomps inside the cabin the second its doors slide open and pushes the button to the reddening of his fingertip. It is a long trip up to the next level, and he admits he’s tugged on his leather straps wrapped around his arms a couple of times, but Archons, how little it all matters, when, exiting the elevator, he finally hears such a familiar voice. Your voice.

Your husband’s legs carry him like they obtained a mind of their own, following the full of amusement lilt he knows can belong only to you, just to come to a halt next to the wooden boxes piled up on the side of the path. 

He can see you, quite clearly, adorned in a cute pair of pants and a shirt, shoulders covered in a crocheted shawl - always ready for the cool air of the Fortress, yet looking so comfy, that Wriothesley can't help but desire to tackle you to the sofa in his office and cuddle this instant. And he would've done just that, if the conversation you've been having didn't catch his attention.

“No, it's wrong again. It's not Britney, it's Brytnneigh.

“But you are saying the same thing!"

"No, it is not B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It's B-r-y-t-n-n-e-i-g-h."

"Slower, please."

In the second voice the warden easily guesses a new guard that has just been employed a couple of days ago. He remembers signing the papers his weekend substitute brought him on Monday. Wriothesley also remembers how the man swore that he’d passed on to the newbie all the information and training he needed to know. But, it appears, he forgot to mention the most important thing…

“Did you make sure to write my name with two N’s?” Your voice is laced with hardly concealed mirth, and, though he can’t see the face of the guard talking to you, your husband is sure the poor young man looks quite miserable.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I did.”

“Wonderful, but it’s ‘madame’, I am a married woman after all. But no worries, I am flattered you think I look so young,” Wriothesley shakes his head with a silent chuckle. He adores you so much, but maybe it really is time to stop your little play of a new inmate, or else he’ll surely have to call for Sigewinne to check on the poor guard.

“And your last name, madame?”

“I am Brytnneigh Deirdrophnea de Troistêtesloup. Do you want me to spell it for you, dear?”

Yes, he really should stop you.

Before you can open your mouth again, you see in your peripheral vision a figure moving. Upon turning your head slightly, you are graced with the sight of your beloved husband, walking towards you with a quirked thick brow, and crossed arms. All you can do is sheepishly smile, waving at him.

“O-oh! Duke Wriothesley, Sir!” The guard behind the registration desk immediately jumps to his feet, squaring his shoulders and saluting at the arrival of his superior.

“At ease, young man,” Wriothesley nods, stepping even closer, practically invading your personal space, icy blue eyes looking at you unblinkingly. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much, Mr Warden,” your eyes crinkle in the corners, a sight so infectious, that the man’s lips turn into a small smile. “Just a cute old me, ending up in the Fortress for Archon knows what time.”

“M-madame!” The guard exclaims rather loudly, that even your husband turns to look at him. “Even if it's not your first stay here, you shouldn’t be taking liberties with the Duke!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Wriothesley raises his hand. “She is no longer your headache-”

“Hey!” You elbow his side to the bewilderment of the guard. In his shock he doesn’t even reach for his weapon.

“-I will personally escort this troublemaker inside. And cross out that abominable name out, would you? It’s not her name.”

“It’s not..?” Now Wriothesley really sympathizes with the guy, he looks utterly lost.

“It’s not. But,” a big scarred hand gently cups you under the chin and turns your head more properly towards the guard, “be sure to remember this adorable face very well for the next time. You’ll need that to let her in and out.”

“...out?”

“Yes, indeed. This woman is my wife.”

As the elevator doors slide close and the cabin starts moving down, you turn to Wriothesley and throw your arms around his wide frame, face burying into his chest.

“Are you proud of me for coming up with such a long and difficult name in a single thought?”

“Oh, for sure,” strong arms circle your waist and chapped lips press to the top of your head, “I bet you would be hard-to-catch if you were a criminal. But why did you decide to play such a prank on a poor man?”

“Well… I just wanted to see his face when he found out that I am the wife of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. Another reason is that there was no guard who knew my face and I doubt he would’ve believed my word. I just got creative with the way of making him summon someone else. You simply got here before anything could happen. Plus, it’s good to keep them on their toes with a job like that. Besides, I did apologize and praise him for his patience.”

At that Wriothesley just sighs and then chuckles, raising one of his hands and threading his fingers through your hair, pressing your head even closer to his chest. He is not even feeling iffy about the lost half an hour of your time together anymore. Because you gave him an opportunity to introduce you as his wife once again.

I HAVE WAITED ALL YEAR TO POST THIS

bro i LOVE indigenous fusion music i love it when indigenous people take traditional practices and language and apply them in new cool ways i love the slow decay and decolonisation of the modern music industry

Kinktober 2023 List!

Hello, Hello! This is my first time doing Kinktober, but I thought it would be fun and wanted to try it! (Please be nice; I'm fragile) Anyway, here is the list that I decided to go with! I hope it looks okay. (Idk why I'm so nervous to post this)

Side Note: All of these will of course come with warnings for the content written!

______________________________________________________________

Sebastian (Stardew Valley) X reader -Praise Kink 

Yuma Mukami (Diabolik Lovers) X reader -Vampire 

Tetsurō Kuroo (Haikyuu) X reader -Punishment 

Dio Brando (JJBA) X Virgin reader -stygiophilia

Belphegor (Obey Me) X reader -Somnophilia 

Sekido (Demon Slayer) X reader -electrostimulation 

Choso (JJK) X reader -Blood kink

Monkey D. Luffy (One Piece) X reader -Food play 

Dad Mammon (Obey Me) X mom reader -Lactation 

Original Ryomen Sukuna (JJK) X Witch reader 

Megumi Fushiguro (JJK) X reader -Wax play 

Demon Kyōjurō Rengoku  (Demon Slayer) X reader -Breeding 

Leonidas (Record of Ragnarok) X reader -Size kink 

Raihan X reader x Leon (Pokemon) -Cuckolding 

Satoru Gojo (JJK) X reader -Phone sex 

Switch Goku (Dragon Ball) X switch reader - Marking 

Vegeta (Dragon Ball) X reader - Dacryphelia 

Ryota Kise (KNB) X reader - katoptronophilia

Smoker (One Piece) X pirate reader -Nebulophilia 

Taiju Shiba (Tokyo Revengers) X reader -corruption kink

Dragon Natsu Dragneel X reader x Dragon Gajeel Redfox (Fairy Tail) 

Camboy Suguru Geto (JJK) X Camgirl reader - Edging 

Poseidon (Record of Ragnarok) X reader -Humiliation 

Kento Nanami (JJK) X reader -Pet play

Hotaru Haganezuka (Demon Slayer) X reader -Aphrodisiac 

Shunsui Kyōraku (Bleach) X reader -Blackmail 

Toji Fushiguro (JJK) X reader -Fingering 

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez (Bleach) X bunny espada reader -Primal play 

Loki (Record of Ragnarok) X human reader -Degradation 

Karaku (Demon Slayer) X human reader -Overstimulation 

Ichigo Kurosaki (Bleach) X reader -Pegging 

Diplomatic Relations

Record of Ragnarök - Shiva x Male Reader. Mentions of Indra x Male Reader

Warnings - 18+Only. Adult situations.

Still suffering from the curse of Writer's Block, but thirsting with @icy-spicy over Record of Ragnarök (particularly guess who) got some creative ideas flowing. So blame her and thank her for this blasphemy :P

-

Shiva could not believe the Gods Council had been prolonged for this.

Indra stood at the centre of the chamber, his posture straight but somehow relaxed, presenting himself with his usual cool, confident demeanour. But even at a distance, he could spot the occasional, unconscious flex of his fingers, loosely gripping a pale sheet hanging low around his hips. It was only the slightest twitch of nerves, but Shiva wondered with some amusement when Indra had his last cigarette.

The God of Destruction let his gaze slip over his fellow deity's bare shoulder, where he could see You somewhat peeking out from behind Indra's back, your expression a good deal more sheepish. You similarly had a long sheet draped over your shoulders and spilling down at your sides, but it was plain to see you were both naked, wet and completely at the centre of attention.

Somewhere above Shiva, in the Chairman's Seat, Zeus was howling with laughter.

"...ahem."

Hermes cleared his throat politely, but loudly, only barely being heard over his father's wheezing cackle. "Thank you all for your attendance. This meeting of the Gods Council has been called to address the conduct of Indra, God of Lightning of the Hindu Pantheon, and...." Hermes blinked a few times, peering thoughtfully down at You. "...my apologies, which of Aphrodite's sons are you again?"

You huffed, looking indignant. From her seat across the hall from Shiva, Aphrodite made an eerily similar sound, snapping her fan shut with a loud click. "Really, Hermes. Get to the point, will you? This hardly seems like something to call all of us for."

Hermes smiled serenely at the Greek Goddess of Love, as Zeus's laughter began to settle into choked chortles. "Very well." Hermes lifted a large piece of parchment, clearing his throat once more. "The two deities before us today stand charged with the unlawful destruction of a Temple of Aphrodite in the human world."

There was an immediate rumble amongst the gathered gods, several voices rising up at once.

"Wait, a temple dedicated to his mother?" Kali asked from beside Shiva, sounding confused. "Why?"

"This is an outrage!" Somewhere near Aphrodite, Ares shot out of his seat, his face red as he pointed down at you and Indra. "How dare you?!"

"Well, this just got interesting." Buddha chimed in, chewing loudly on some sweet treat or another, looking awake for the first time the entire meeting.

You gave Ares an irritated glare, while Indra remained stoic, although Shiva could tell he was really craving a cigarette. Curiously, despite Ares yelling beside her, Aphrodite looked rather unconcerned about the destruction of her own temple. From what Shiva knew of the Goddess, this was a rather unexpected reaction.

"The Temple was empty!" You burst out, shaking your head furiously, sending drops of water flicking everywhere. "And the humans had abandoned the town for some festival, so its not like anyone was hurt--"

"You destroyed a town as well?!" You slapped your hand over your face as someone else cried out in shock.

You tried to keep talking. "I invited Lord Indra because I was...interested in learning more about his pantheon and--"

Indra snorted, loudly, and Shiva caught the smirk twitching onto his face before he quickly smothered it. You jabbed his side, hissing something that sounded distinctly like "You aren't helping!"

Shiva let his gaze trail over you, lingering on the exposed muscle of your thighs briefly before glancing back at Indra. "Nobody has mentioned the nakedness yet." He commented dryly to Parvati, who tilted her head in response.

"I was wondering..." She hummed thoughtfully, fingers gently stroking one of his arms. "I thought maybe it was some new fashion amongst the Greek Pantheon--"

You turned suddenly, and for a moment Shiva wondered if you had somehow heard them talking. You peered up, your head tilted, before a small smile bloomed on your lips. The sheet parted slightly, exposing your shoulders and upper arms, your stance shifting to show off more of your legs and thighs, barely concealed by silk. You lips moved softly, and Shiva could just make out the words--

"Like what you see?"

Shiva snorted at your audacity, feeling the edge of his mouth curve upwards in a smirk as he let his eyes slowly roam over you. "Yes." He mouthed back, and you grinned, slightly turning your body to the other side, your eyes sparking with mischief.

Parvati squeezed his arm. "Stop flirting, you." She covered her mouth in an attempt to smother a giggle. "You'll get us in trouble as well."

Hermes spoke again, his voice ringing over the rising noise of his fellow deities. "The Temple was destroyed by a powerful storm, which resulted in the town below becoming flooded." He raised the scroll higher, covering his face, but Shiva caught the slight, amused curve to his lips as he spoke his next words. "The storm was summoned via divine will during sex."

Shiva felt his eyebrows shoot upwards, sitting up with a jolt of genuine surprise. The entire chamber was silent for only a brief moment, everyone staring down at You and Indra in shock.

Aphrodite flicked her fan open again, a tinkling laugh falling from her lips. "That's my boy."

Everyone began talking at once.

"Wait, they didn't notice the storm because they were too busy fucking--?"

"Sounds like a good time."

"Apollo!"

"Indra lost control?" Durga sounded incredulous. "Our Indra?"

"Oh my." Parvati said softly, eyes drifting to wear you were standing, looking flustered. "It must have been very good, then."

"Parvati!"

"Only saying, Durga!"

Shiva laughed, loudly, reaching down to squeeze his wife's hand. She grinned at him, her own laughter bubbling in her throat, and Shiva could hear several others in the crowd join in on finding amusement in the situation.

Zeus finally seemed to have composed himself somewhat, wiping tears away from his eyes. "Oh, to be young again!" He chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "Call this meeting to a close, Hermes. The damage was minimal--"

"The region where the Temple was located is now quite uninhabitable for humans, father--"

"Oh, two gods made love and inadvertently terrified some humans. Happens to the best of us." Zeus waved a hand dismissively, and Hermes sighed long-sufferingly.

"Regardless, Father, some discipline should be--"

"I agree with Hermes." A deep voice spoke suddenly, and Shiva lifted his gaze to where Odin sat, staring down at You and Indra with a cold, unimpressed look in his eye. "Accident or not, this can not go unaddressed. Or are the self-professed leaders of the Greek and Hindu Pantheons unable to control their own members?"

Shiva felt a stab of irritation - who was Odin to talk? Like his lot were so well behaved? - but he reached down to catch Durga's hand as it coiled around her weapon. Best not to start a brawl in the Gods Council Chamber (he could still remember the last one, and shuddered slightly at the memory. Nobody left that one unmarked.)

Zeus laughed, but Shiva could hear the sharp edge that had formed in his voice, the spark in the air moments before a lightning strike. He did not like to be questioned, either. "Perhaps you, Odin, would care too--"

Shiva seized the moment to rise from his seat, and spoke loudly and clearly. "He may return with us for a time." He gestured down to you and Indra. "To spend time among my pantheon." He smiled at you, allowing a faintly wolfish edge to enter his tone. "To learn from us. That is what you wanted in the first place, yes?"

You stared up at him in surprise. Beside you, Indra shook his head, but Shiva caught the pleased smirk flashing across his face. You shook yourself, grinning brightly as you bowed slightly towards Shiva.

"It would be a great pleasure, Lord Shiva." You said, tilting your head upwards, softly mouthing something only Shiva could hear. "For us both, I assure you."

Oh, he was going to enjoy you.

Odin sounded thoroughly unimpressed. "I hardly see what kind of punishment--"

"Oh, I'll put him through the ringer." Shiva said cheerfully, crossing his upper arms behind his head, grinning as Parvati struggled to contain her laughter beside him. "Both he and Indra. A good, stern talking to. Ensure it won't happen again, and all that." He nodded towards Aphrodite. "Does this please the offended party?"

Aphrodite smiled, looking delightfully amused. "Have your lovely wives share some of their finery, and I will consider it even, as the humans say."

"Ooooh!" Parvati waved from beside him. "I have some fabric you would love--"

"Excellent!" Zeus clapped his hands together, the sound of thunder signalling the end of the meeting. "Council adjourned."

Odin looked as though he wanted to smite everyone in the chamber, his birds squawking indignantly at his shoulders, but Shiva ignored him to focus on you whispering to Indra, who chuckled lowly and tugged at your hip as you both headed towards the exit. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, shooting Shiva as playful smirk as you slipped around the corner.

You were going to be an interesting guest, Shiva thought to himself, smirking softly. He couldn't wait to hear a thoroughly clear account of you and Indra's encounter.

Perhaps a demonstration would be in order.

a dying fire - tim drake

tim drake x reader, 1.4k words, mentions of weed, vigilante!reader

synopsis: smoking and making out with your best friend is totally normal, mom!

note: early post because i got excited! this is quite literally just a thousand words of me yapping about tim semi-coherently. contains mentions of smoking, it isn't fluffy at all, but i tried really hard and this is the best i could do, i'm so sorry sweet anon </3. i love the characterisation of tim done by @glamourscat so much and i've (attempted) to base my tim off theirs because it's??? so??? good???

Tim Drake was a man of several talents. He was the smartest person alive (according to you, and you were never wrong), he could skateboard with a hand tied behind his back, hell, Ra’s Al Ghul had complimented him (covertly, of course, Mr. I-am-a-supreme-leader would never compliment anyone to their faces), and of course, he was the best partner to have on the field. 

Of course, you weren’t biased at all, how could you be when you were one of the only people who could testify that claim (aside from Brucey, Steph and Dick—maybe—but you were the coolest. Steph was a close second, of course). The fact that he was your best friend, your ride-or-die (bi or die, if you would), both in and out of costume all added to the fact that you were the best person to decide this. Period. 

One of these several talents included rolling the finest blunt seen to mankind, second only to the man who rolled it in terms of sexiness, and lifting your mood up with little kisses along your shoulders whenever you were tense after a bad mission. Think of it like a ritual of sorts: missions go bad, you get yelled at, smoke a blunt from Tim’s hand. A holy trinity if you will and your favourite, especially when it ended up with Tim kissing from your shoulder all the way up to right under your ear before nibbling on that spot till you gasped. Last week, That turned into making out till you both eventually passed out, limbs tangled and his head resting on your chest. 

You two never spoke about it after it happened, but that didn’t stop the both of you from repeating it.  Why would it? There was no downside to this aside from ‘elevating’ the both of you and your moods (because as much as Tim claimed to do it just for you, you knew that wasn’t the whole truth, not with the way his shoulders relaxed or with the way his face lit up when you came to his apartment. He carried the burden of bad missions just as much as you did, if not more, he just never showed it out loud). And so, this became a ritual even if there wasn’t a bad mission or a bad patrol, just something you did with your best friend forever: smoke, makeout, and then fall asleep tangled in each other’s embrace. Slowly, (for the sake of both your healths), smoking was replaced with video games and this became a weekly ritual, where Tim would fight god if he had to for making take for this. Luckily he never had to because Alfred took the joy of Tim taking regular (weekly) breaks where he slept through the night, and never let Tim opt out of it.

Perfect for you, honestly.

And still, there are days when the old ritual came back, and it was back to: missions go bad, you get yelled at, smoke a blunt from Tim’s hand. An optimist would hope those days were rare and preferably not existent during the #holidayszn, however, a Gothamite would know that Gotham gets worse around Christmas, because just like Mariah Carey, Mr. Freeze wakes up. Unlike Mariah Carey, Mr. Freeze does not bring karaoke and laughter with Tim, he brings curses and god-awful puns while terrorizing you, specifically you. 

Now, the thing about being partners with Tim was that missions with him rarely went wrong, because everything was planned to a T with multiple explosions and Batman not being able to say much about him because what, would he ground you? (Timothy ‘I’m an adult’ Drake and you, never his child in the first place) and they always technically follow his rules. Patrol, however, is a different story, especially with you and Tim’s patrol routes being forcefully torn apart during the holidays by Batman (he who is allergic to songs and had Mariah Carey blasted in his ear after he had just fallen asleep as a consequence of his actions) after you two were karaoking christmas songs to Calendar Man. 

And unfortunately, as much as you were good in your own right, Mr. Freeze hates you a little too much. Enough to ambush your patrol route with his very own version of your Christmas Gift, which led to a one-sided bicker contest, while you taunted him and Mr. Freeze kept hitting you time and time again. He had decided to do this at the end of what you called the longest patrol of your life, with you already somewhat injured and exhausted, because of course he had! You were his favourite one in Gotham. Unable to land any hits on him—listen, it was his new fancy ice device, okay? That thing did not let you get near him at all, plus you didn’t want to take him solo while already sporting a few injuries—you just continued to play a game of taunt and dodge while requesting Oracle for back up.

And just as you slipped on the ice, Mr. Freeze screamed in a pitch that made you wonder if Mariah Carey was just him facetuned. Looking up from your position, you saw Tim as Red Robin, absolutely kicking his ass. The look on his face was feral, and in all seriousness, kind of scared you because just for a moment there, Tim looked like he was out for blood. Things progressed in a blur after that, and you remained unable to get that look of his out of your head. Even as Bruce reprimanded you for being reckless earlier, even as Alfred checks you for a concussion, Tim’s face just stays there. The man himself can tell something is wrong, of course he can, he’s Tim Drake and he’s been standing next to you since you got back. You reckon he also knows you won’t tell him what’s genuinely wrong since it’s you and you never do, so he does the best he can and silently motions for you to follow him back home for your original ritual. It’s the best he can do because the only thing he wants to do right now is get that frown off your face, and anything works, as long as you’re smiling and okay. 

The hesitation that precedes your agreement isn’t lost on him, but Tim decides that he can delve on it when you two aren’t together and all he has in front of him is the memory of your arms around his body. 

There’s something largely different about that night, you realise, as you snuggle into his blanket at his apartment. The fireplace is lit up for the first time in years, your stocking is up right besides Tim’s and he’s not gone to roll a blunt, but you collect the hot chocolate you two ordered. Your hair is wet from the shower earlier and the open window definitely doesn’t scream no sickness, but the fire is keeping you warm as you desperately try to push that image out of your brain. You’re not sure why you’re so fixated on it: you’ve known Tim is a little scoundrel all your life, you’ve known he’s dangerous and smart, but that fight was different. It marked the first time you felt afraid of him. Maybe that’s how Tim looks when he’s mad, maybe that’s the look on his face Ra’s saw when the league had kidnapped you. Maybe he’s always been like that, but you were too lovesick to notice.

Despite that, however, you remind yourself that he’s the same as the Tim that fell down when he tried teaching you how to skate because you tripped on him, the same one that wordlessly ordered hot chocolate for you while lighting up the fireplace for the first time since he bought the apartment. Tim’s as full of love as he is of contempt and gods, you feel stupid for not noticing it sooner. 

You are swiftly pulled out of your overthinking with Tim pulling you into his arms and nuzzling into your neck. There’s two cups of hot chocolate in front of you and Mariah Carey’s music videos que-ed to start as the clock strikes midnight: Christmas Day. With a soft smile, you relax into his arms before flicking his forehead, Tim laughs before kissing along your neck before he gets to your face, littering it with kisses. 

Tomorrow, you will deal with whatever you felt back then. Tomorrow, Tim will analyze the situation head to toe, but tonight? You have hot chocolate and Mariah Carey to fall asleep to whilst he holds you (fully knowing that somewhere in the night, you two will end up switching with his head on your chest). 

Late at night, as the fire finally dies out, you no longer feel cold.