#//on the first one he looks almost lost in his thoughts.. on the second he's enjoying all of mom's attention n the gesture of intimacy

[moniquesha]

issues

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Summary: You wait for your new therapist, and you also meet Bucky.

a/n: i can't move on from bucky in tfaws, plus this is just so short and cute and very realistic. then maybe i'll continue exfil tonight if i'm up for it.

You sit in the waiting room, hands folded in your lap, trying not to think about how many therapists you’ve been through already. Four, to be exact. None of them worked. But according to your research, the one you’re waiting for now is the best.. At least by reputation. The internet spoke of her impressive roster of clients: super soldiers, unnamed heroes, people who lived through impossible things. You didn’t care about that. Well, maybe a little. If she helped them, maybe she could help you too.

You arrived early. Two hours early, to be exact. The receptionist barely looked up from her screen before instructing you to sit and wait. So you did. And you’ve been waiting ever since. An hour has passed. Boredom claws at you, but the thought of leaving your perfect spot, of somehow being skipped after the hell of booking this session, keeps you locked in place.

Then, the couch shifts.

A presence. Subtle, but heavy. You don’t look at first, too lost in your own head, but eventually, curiosity wins out. A glance to the side, and Bucky.

Yes, that Bucky.

He looks just as out of place as you feel. Maybe more. In his metal hand, he holds a small bouquet of flowers, fingers idly gripping the stems. You don’t pry. You could, but that would require speaking, and you’re not entirely sure you remember how to do that properly. Others would ask for a picture. Maybe even an autograph. You would too, if you had even a shred of confidence in your system.

But damn.

You live in a world with wizards, aliens, reality-warping stones, and tech so advanced it defies logic. And here you are, stuck in your own head, unable to even figure yourself out.

Embarrassing.

Surprisingly he's the one to speak first.

“You here for Doc too?”

It takes a second for your brain to register that, yes, Bucky Barnes just spoke to you.

“Sorry, what?”

He huffs out a small breath, like he expected that response, like he’s used to people not keeping up with him right away. His fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers for a second before he nods toward the office door.

“Doc Christina,” he repeats. “You waiting for her too?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah.” You shift in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how stiff you’ve been sitting this whole time. “Took forever to get an appointment.”

Bucky lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. She’s got a long waitlist.” He pauses, then adds, “Worth it, though.”

That means something, coming from him. You don’t know his whole story, but you know enough. Enough to understand that if anyone needs therapy, it’s him. Silence stretches between you for a beat. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s not easy either.

“Those flowers for her?”

He glances down at the flowers like he just remembered he was holding them. His fingers flex around the stems before he shrugs.

“Nah,” he says. “For someone else.”

You nod, not pushing for more. If he wanted to elaborate, he would. But something about the way his jaw tenses tells you that whoever they’re for, they mean something. Maybe too much.

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s different. Less awkward, more… understanding. Two people waiting for the same therapist, carrying baggage too heavy to unpack in casual conversation.

Bucky shifts in his seat, then glances at you. “She’s good, you know,” he says, almost like an afterthought. “Doc. She doesn’t fix you, but she helps.”

You swallow down something complicated. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah.” Then, a small smirk. “But she’s brutal.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “But.. She’ll help right? Because my healthcare can’t take another beating right now.” you laugh awkwardly, mentally cursing yourself for even speaking too much.

Bucky actually huffs out a quiet laugh. Just a breath, really, but it’s something. He tilts his head slightly, considering you for a moment before nodding.

“She’ll help,” he says, like it’s a promise. “But you might leave every session feeling like you went ten rounds with a heavyweight.”

You grimace, sinking further into your seat. “Great. Love that.”

He smirks, but there’s something softer in his expression now. Maybe he sees a little too much of himself in you. Maybe he just knows what it’s like to sit in this exact spot, dreading whatever comes next. For a moment, you forget who he is. Forget the history, the stories, the headlines. He’s just another person waiting for help. Just like you.

“What are you here for?”

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by the question.

It’s not like you don’t know the answer. You do. It’s just.. saying it out loud feels different. Feels real. You glance at him, expecting impatience or regret for even asking, but he just looks at you. Calm, waiting. Like he actually wants to know.

You exhale, shifting in your seat. “I, uh..” You hesitate, then force a small, awkward laugh. “Honestly? I don’t even know how to sum it up.”

Bucky nods, like he gets it. Maybe he does.

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “I guess I just feel.. stuck. Like my brain keeps running in circles, and no matter what I do, I can’t get out of my own way.” You glance at him, suddenly self-conscious. “That probably sounds dumb.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Hey, it doesn’t.” He leans back against the couch, staring ahead. “Sounds about right.”

You sit in silence for a moment before you finally ask, “What about you?”

His jaw tenses slightly, his grip on the flowers tightening again. For a second, you think he won’t answer.

Then, quietly, he says, “Trying to make peace with a past that won’t let me go.”

It’s simple. Honest. Heavy.

You don’t push, and he doesn’t say anything more.

But somehow, just sitting there waiting, together, feels like a small step forward.

You exhale, staring ahead. “Well, I hope for a better us. In the future. If that's possible.”

There's silence after that, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It just lingers, settling between you both like a shared thought neither of you knows how to put into words.

Bucky shifts slightly, then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “It will,” he says eventually. “Just takes time.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “Time’s kind of a pain in the ass, though.”

That earns a smirk from him. “Yeah. That, it is.”

The receptionist calls a name. Not yours, not his. The waiting continues, but at least now, you’re not doing it alone.

Bucky lets out a quiet scoff, watching as someone disappears into the therapist’s office. “Finally, the line is moving.”

You nod, stretching your legs out slightly. “Guess that means we’re one step closer to getting our brains picked apart.”

He smirks, shaking his head. “Yeah. Brace yourself.”

You chuckle, but there’s a nervous edge to it. The thought of actually stepping into that office, of unpacking everything you’ve been carrying, feels heavier now. But at the very least, you’re not the only one feeling it.

After some time, the receptionist finally calls your name.

You exhale sharply, nodding as you stand. Before heading to the office, you turn to Bucky and give him a small smile.

“Hope your girl likes those flowers. They’re beautiful.”

There’s a brief pause, and then because your brain refuses to let you leave without making it worse. You awkwardly add, “Or boy… if you’re into that. Yeah, I’m going.”

Bucky blinks, clearly caught off guard. Then, to your absolute surprise, he actually chuckles, showing his charming smile.

You nod to yourself, as if that somehow saves you from the awkwardness, and turn away. But just as you reach for the doorknob, you hear him say, “They’re for a friend.”

You glance back, and he’s still smirking, shaking his head slightly like he can’t believe you just said that. But there’s something softer in his expression, something almost appreciative.

“Good luck in there,” he adds.

You huff out a breath, gripping the doorknob. “Yeah. You too.”

And with that, you step inside, ready. Sort of.. To face whatever comes next.

a/n: see! cute!

divider from: omi-resources

[cameronsbabydoll]

ENGAGEMENT PARTY — ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU

WARNINGS — none! quite fluffy actually

The limo ride is smooth, the deep hum of the engine the only sound filling the space. You sit beside Rafe, your body slightly turned toward him, though there’s still a certain distance between you. He’s quiet, his focus on the city passing by, but the tension around him is palpable. It’s the kind of event that makes even someone like Rafe feel the weight of everything he’s inherited—the expectations, the pressure, the constant need to play the part.

His arm is stretched along the back of the seat, and his hand rests casually on his thigh. The cigar in his other hand burns lazily, its thick smoke swirling in the small space, the scent so familiar that it almost feels like a comfort now. You sit there, your fingers lightly playing with the hem of your dress, watching the way the faint glow of the streetlights hits his profile, his sharp jawline set in a firm line of thought.

You don’t speak at first, unsure of what to say, unsure of what you should say. You’ve gotten used to his silent, confident presence—used to the way he doesn’t feel the need to fill every silence with words. He always has a sort of calm around him, even in moments like this.

Then, just as the quiet becomes almost suffocating, Rafe breaks it with a soft chuckle, his eyes flicking to you. “I know you’ve got a sweet tooth, sweetheart.”

Before you can react, he pulls a small candy out of his pocket—something wrapped in a shiny foil. It’s a gesture that catches you off guard, the tenderness in it almost out of place when you consider everything that’s happening tonight.

You take the candy, your fingers brushing his just a little, and you offer him a soft smile. “Thanks,” you murmur, feeling a bit silly for being so grateful over something so small. But the way he seems to know you, even in the smallest details, makes it feel personal. Like he’s paying attention, even when the world around you is watching both of you closely.

Rafe leans back in his seat, his cigar still glowing, but his attention is now on you. “You know, I don’t like playing the part of the perfect fiancé,” he says, his voice low, casual. “But I’ll do it for this one night. We can act like the future everyone wants us to be.”

You look at him, catching the amusement in his eyes. You know this is all part of the act—the smiles, the perfection. But for a moment, you catch a glimpse of something more underneath that cocky grin. Maybe it’s not just for the night. Maybe it’s for good.

The limo pulls up to the venue, and the building looms ahead, its grand facade gleaming under the soft lights. The chauffeur opens the door for you, and you step out first, feeling the eyes of the guests already on you. You’re escorted inside, and Rafe’s arm slips around your waist, guiding you through the sea of well-dressed business people and socialites.

As the night unfolds, Rafe is in his element. His posture is confident, commanding the attention of everyone around him. He speaks with ease, his charm effortless as he greets family friends and associates, discussing everything from business ventures to the weather like it’s second nature. And you stand beside him, at first just playing the part of the beautiful fiancée, nodding politely, smiling for the camera flashes.

The moment feels distant, like you’re living in a carefully constructed world. But it’s also easy to get lost in it. Tonight, you feel like you’ve slipped into a role that you can’t quite escape. The spotlight is on you, and on Rafe, and everyone is watching.

You catch Topper and Kelce in the crowd, and they both approach with grins plastered on their faces, leaning in to congratulate you.

“Rafe, man, you really scored this time,” Topper jokes, clapping him on the back, his eyes briefly flickering toward you. “She’s a keeper. Can’t say you’re the easiest guy to settle down with.”

Rafe grins back at him, his arm firmly around your waist as if to claim you. “You know it,” he says with a smug look, his hand resting just above your hip, as though he’s marking his territory. “But I’m not one to miss a good thing.”

Kelce chimes in with a wink, his voice slightly lower, teasing. “She’ll look damn good on your arm, man. Definitely the kind of girl you show off at these things.” His eyes sweep over you, appreciation clear in his gaze.

You blush, unsure of how to react to the attention, but you just smile and nod politely. You’ve always known this side of Rafe—the charming, confident version of him who draws people in with ease. But being at the center of it, beside him, is a whole new experience.

The party continues, and the night seems to drag on. The guests come and go, offering congratulations, their compliments flowing like fine wine. You smile and nod, offering polite responses as Rafe stands by your side, keeping his hand on the small of your back.

Finally, as the night begins to wind down and the guests start to trickle out, the crowd thins. The atmosphere shifts from lively celebration to something quieter, more intimate. The lights dim, and the music softens, leaving the sound of clinking glasses and faint laughter in the background.

As the party comes to a close, Rafe looks down at you, his expression shifting slightly as he notices your exhaustion. He takes your hand, gently leading you away from the noise and the crowds. You don’t ask where he’s taking you. You just follow him, your curiosity piqued.

Rafe leads you to a balcony overlooking the city, the cool night air brushing against your skin. It’s quieter out here, away from the people, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you are the only ones in the world.

Rafe pulls something from his jacket pocket—a small box of pastries, wrapped up carefully. He hands it to you with a sly grin. “Figured you’d be craving something sweet by now,” he says softly, his tone almost fond.

You laugh softly, reaching for the box. “You know me too well.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to take care of you,” he says, his voice quieter now, but there’s a tenderness in it that catches you off guard. His usual cocky smirk softens as he watches you open the box, revealing the delicate baked goods inside.

You take a bite of the pastry, savoring the rich, buttery flavor, and glance up at him. “Thank you. For tonight.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you with that unreadable expression. But then, as if finally allowing himself to drop the facade, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re doing just fine, sweetheart. Playing the part perfectly.”

The compliment makes your heart flutter a little. There’s something about the way he says it—like he sees you, like he knows the effort you’re putting into this act. And maybe it’s all part of the game, maybe it’s all just for show. But the way he looks at you now, his hand lingering near your cheek, makes you feel like it’s real.

And in that moment, standing on the balcony with Rafe, you realize that no matter what happens, this—whatever it is between you two—is the part you’ll never be able to escape.

[lilangelbud]

Been obsessed lately with gloryholes idk why but I have and I got this filthy idea…what if one brother drags the other to it knowing that it’s their sister and then it culminates in a hot three way with some dp??

The dimly lit booth smelled of cheap bleach and something faintly musky, the kind of scent that lingered in places where secrets were exchanged more than words. This is a bad idea, he thought, but his brother’s hand was already on his shoulder, shoving him forward with a grin that was equal parts mischievous and unsettling.

“Come on, man, it’s just for fun. Live a little,” his brother said, his voice low but insistent. “You’ve been wound up tighter than a spring lately. This’ll loosen you up.”

He hesitated, staring at the small, unassuming hole in the wall. The gloryhole. Just the thought of it made his stomach twist, but not entirely in a bad way. There was something… forbidden about it, something that made his pulse quicken despite the queasiness. His brother had always been the wild one, the one who pushed boundaries without a second thought. And now, here they were, in some seedy corner of the city, about to cross a line he wasn’t sure he was ready for.

“What if someone sees us?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the club’s bassline.

His brother laughed, a low, rough sound that sent shivers down his spine. “No one’s looking, trust me. This place is a ghost town tonight. Besides, it’s not like we’re doing anything crazy. It’s just a little… curiosity. Think of it as a science experiment.”

He rolled his eyes, though his heart was racing now. Curiosity? Science experiment? His brother was full of it, as usual. But there was something in his tone, something knowing that made him uneasy. What was he hiding?

Before he could protest further, his brother nudged him closer to the wall. “Go on. It’s your turn.”

He took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly as he unbuckled his belt. The air felt thicker here, heavy with anticipation and something else he couldn’t quite place. When he stepped closer, he could see a faint shadow on the other side of the wall, the outline of someone waiting, patiently. This is insane, he thought, but his body was already reacting, betraying him.

As he leaned forward, he felt the first brush of warmth against his skin, soft and inviting. Oh God, he thought, his breath hitching as the sensation intensified. It was so different from what he’d expected—gentle, almost teasing, as if the person on the other side knew exactly how to unravel him. He closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the moment, the shame and guilt melting away under the weight of pleasure.

“See? Told you it’d be fun,” his brother muttered, his voice closer now. Too close.

He opened his eyes, glancing over his shoulder, only to see his brother watching him with a smirk that made his stomach drop. “What the hell are you doing?”

His brother shrugged, leaning against the wall casually. “Just enjoying the show. You’re not the only one who gets to have fun, you know.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, he heard a soft, familiar laugh from the other side of the wall. His blood ran cold. No. It couldn’t be.

The shadow moved, and then a face appeared, peeking through the hole with a smile that was both innocent and wicked. Their sister.

“Surprise,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Didn’t think you’d find me here, huh?”

He stumbled back, his mind reeling. What the fuck was going on? His brother was grinning like a madman, clearly in on the joke, but he couldn’t process it. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

“I told you it’d be fun,” his brother said, stepping closer to the hole now. “Didn’t think you’d be so… responsive, though.”

He glared at him, his face burning with shame and something else he couldn’t name. “You knew? You knew it was her?”

His brother shrugged, unapologetic. “Yeah. And now you know too. So what’s the problem?”

The problem? The problem was that his body was still singing from her touch, and the look in her eyes was anything but innocent. She was watching him, her gaze heavy with an intensity that made his chest tighten. She wanted this. And so did his brother.

“Come on,” his brother said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You felt it too. Don’t act like you didn’t.”

He swallowed hard, his mind racing. This was wrong. So wrong. But the way she was looking at him, the way his brother was watching him… it was like they were daring him to take the next step. To cross the line they’d already crossed.

“Relax,” his sister said, her voice soft but commanding. “We’re family. And families… take care of each other.”

He froze as she reached through the hole, her fingers brushing against his chest before moving lower, teasing him in a way that made his knees weak. Her touch was different now, more deliberate, more intense. And when she looked at him, there was no mistaking the desire in her eyes.

“Let us take care of you,” his brother murmured, stepping closer until he was right behind him, his breath hot against his neck. “You know you want it.”

He did. God help him, he did. The shame was still there, burning in the back of his mind, but it was overshadowed by the need, the hunger that was building inside him. And when his sister’s hand closed around him, he couldn’t hold back the groan that escaped his lips.

“That’s it,” his brother whispered, his hands sliding down his sides. “Just let it happen.”

The wall between them felt like a barrier that needed to be torn down, and as his sister’s touch grew more insistent, he knew they weren’t going to stop there. The door to the booth opened, and she stepped inside, her eyes locking with his as she closed the distance between them.

“No more walls,” she said, her voice low and sultry as she pressed against him. “No more hiding.”

He couldn’t argue. Not when she was standing there, her body flush against his, and his brother was right behind him, his hands roaming freely. The tension in the room was palpable, a thick, heavy thing that made it hard to breathe. But he didn’t want to breathe. He just wanted this. All of this.

“We’re going to make you feel so good,” his sister murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. “But you have to let us.”

He nodded, his mind hazy with desire. Let them. That was all he had to do. And as they moved together, their bodies intertwining in a way that felt both familiar and forbidden.

The room felt like it was spinning, or maybe it was just his head, as he stood there, caught between his sister’s heated gaze and his brother’s commanding presence. His sister’s hands slid up his chest, her fingers teasingly brushing over his nipples before she leaned in, her lips brushing against his. Her kiss was slow, deliberate, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured against his lips, her breath warm and intoxicating. “Relax. Let us take care of you.”

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was impossible. His brother’s hands were on his hips now, pulling him closer, and he could feel the heat radiating off both of them. It was overwhelming, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when his sister’s tongue was sliding against his own, not when his brother’s lips were tracing the curve of his neck.

“She’s right,” his brother growled, his voice low and rough. “You’re overthinking this. Just let go.”

His sister pulled back slightly, her eyes locking with his. There was something in her gaze, something wicked and knowing, that made his stomach twist in the best possible way. She stepped back, her hands trailing down his body until they reached the waistband of his pants. With a slow, deliberate motion, she undid the button and slid them down, her eyes never leaving his.

His brother’s hands were on him too, stripping him of his shirt, and he stood there, exposed, as they both looked at him with a hunger that made his knees weak.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” his sister whispered, her voice dripping with desire. She knelt in front of him, her hands sliding up his thighs, and he gasped as her lips brushed against his hard length.

His brother’s hands were on his shoulders now, steadying him as his sister took him into her mouth. The sensation was almost too much, and he let out a low moan, his head falling back against his brother’s chest. His sister’s tongue was working wonders, and he could feel his body trembling under the onslaught of pleasure.

“You like that?” his brother murmured in his ear, his voice thick with desire. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

He could only nod, his breath coming in short gasps as his sister’s mouth moved up and down his length. His brother’s hands were everywhere, tracing the lines of his body, teasing his nipples, and he felt like he was on fire.

But then she stopped, pulling back and looking up at him with that same wicked smile. “Your turn,” she said, standing up and turning to face his brother.

He watched, his heart pounding in his chest, as she undid his brother’s pants, her hands sliding inside to grasp his hard length. His brother let out a low groan, his head falling back as she stroked him, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Do you like watching?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Do you like seeing your brother like this?”

He couldn’t answer. He was too caught up in the sight of her hand moving up and down his brother’s length, in the way his brother’s body trembled under her touch.

“Come here,” she said, her voice soft but commanding.

He hesitated for a moment, but then he was moving, his body obeying her before his mind could catch up. She reached out, taking his hand and pulling him closer, until he was standing right in front of her.

“You’re both so beautiful,” she murmured, her eyes flickering between them. “I want you both. Together.”

His brother’s hands were on him again, pulling him closer, and their bodies pressed together in a way that felt both familiar and forbidden. His sister’s hands were on them too, guiding them, and he could feel his brother’s hard length pressing against his own.

“You’re going to fuck me,” she said, her voice low and sultry. “Both of you. At the same time.”

His breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his brother’s hands tightening on his hips. His sister stepped back, her hands sliding down her body as she slowly undressed, and he couldn’t look away. She was breathtaking, her body a perfect blend of curves and softness, and he felt a surge of desire so strong it nearly knocked him off his feet.

She lay down, her legs spreading, and he could see the slickness between her thighs. His brother’s hands were on him again, guiding him towards their sister, and he followed, his body moving on autopilot.

“Take me,” she whispered, her eyes dark with desire. “Both of you.”

His brother’s hands were on his hips, positioning him, and he could feel his sister’s hands guiding him as he pressed against her entrance. He hesitated for a moment, but then he was pushing into her, her warmth enveloping him, and he let out a low groan.

His brother was behind him now, his hands on his hips, and he could feel the pressure as he pressed against his own entrance. He tensed for a moment, but then his brother was pushing in, and the sensation was overwhelming. He was filled, stretched, and he could feel every inch of his brother inside him.

His sister’s hands were on his hips, pulling him closer, and he could feel her body trembling beneath him. He started to move, slowly at first, unsure of himself, but then she was moaning, her body arching up to meet his. His brother’s movements matched his own, and he could feel the rhythm building between them.

The room was filled with their moans, the sound of skin against skin, and he felt like he was losing himself in the pleasure. His sister’s hands were everywhere, teasing, touching, and he could feel his body responding to her every move.

“Faster,” she gasped, her nails digging into his hips. “Please, faster.”

He obeyed, his body moving with a rhythm that felt almost primal. His brother’s hands were on his hips, guiding him, and he could feel the pressure building inside him. His sister’s body was trembling beneath him, her moans growing louder, and he knew she was close.

“Come for me,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire. “Please, come for me.”

He couldn’t hold back. The pressure inside him was too much, and he let out a low groan as he came, his body trembling with the force of it. His brother’s hands tightened on his hips, and he could feel him coming too, the sensation pushing him over the edge.

His sister’s body arched beneath him, her moans filling the room, and he could feel her coming too, her warmth tightening around him.

He was still trembling, his body spent, as they collapsed, their bodies tangled together. His sister’s hands were on him, tracing the lines of his body, and he could feel his brother’s breath on the back of his neck.

“That was amazing,” she whispered, her voice soft and sultry. “But we’re not done yet.”

He could feel his brother’s hands on him again, and he let out a low moan. Not done yet. The words sent a shiver down his spine, and he couldn’t wait to see what they had in store for him next.

“What do you want next?” his sister asked, her voice low and teasing. “Do you want more?” She bit her lower lip, her eyes flicking between them with a playful hunger. “Or do you want to watch us?”

He hesitated, his heart pounding. “I want… both.”

His sister grinned, her wicked smile returning as she leaned back against the pillows, her legs spreading again. “Then take me… again.”

His brother’s hands were already on him, guiding him, and he could feel the heat of their bodies pressing together. Not done yet. The thought sent another thrill through him as he moved closer, ready to give in to whatever they wanted.

[minh907]

Lost Spirit.

Sung Jinwoo x Ghost Reader

« Chapter 3

You shiver at the feeling. The feeling of being surrounded by darkness, creatures in the dark with bright eyes staring at you. You feel like they might jump out and tear you apart at any moment.

It's been a long time since you felt like this.

Ever since you died, no one has seen you, no one can hurt you. But now it's different.

You realize that the thing lurking in Jinwoo's shadow is not a living creature.

Your withered heart seems to be pounding with fear.

Jinwoo has changed.

Maybe it's because you're a spirit, you're more sensitive to power, to the energy of all things.

Before you saw Jinwoo surrounded by a bright blue color, his aura was strong but not unpleasant to you. But now, Jinwoo is covered by a black mist, overwhelmingly powerful.

You don't know what's happening. You don't know what Jinwoo has been through.

You doubt whether it's really Jinwoo or just an impersonator. But the soul residing in Jinwoo's heart that you felt proved that he was real.

You believe that he won't hurt you. Because he's Jinwoo, your Jinwoo. But you can't help but be wary.

Jinwoo noticed your strange gaze towards him, making him wonder, "What's wrong?"

You didn't answer him, sitting still on the tree branch. You looked at him silently for a while before asking softly, "What happened...?"

"Huh?"

"What happened to you!? You look different.."

Jinwoo frowned, wondering, "I still look the same. I haven't grown taller or changed my appearance?"

"It's not about your appearance." You shook your head, "It's about the power... Since when... in your shadow.." You hesitated.

Jinwoo immediately understood what you were referring to. At first, he was a little surprised when you sensed that he had changed his job. But then he connected the dots, and it made sense to him. You are a dead spirit, and his soldiers are also summoned from the dead, which seems to make you feel his shadow soldiers.

He sat down on the bench next to the tree, motioned for you to sit with him, and told you everything.

About how he almost died, then got a second chance. He was connected to a leveling system, which was what made him stronger. And the days he was absent, were the days he received his job change mission.

You didn't understand much, but you could roughly summarize it. It made you feel uneasy. What if...

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid that this is just some kind of conspiracy. I don't think that system has good intentions... What if one day the system betrays you, what if it's just using you."

Jinwoo was silent for a moment.

It's not like he hadn't thought about this before. Right now, his main goal is to level up, to become stronger, to be able to pay for his living expenses, to be able to pay for the hospital bills for his poor mother who is in the hospital, to pay for his little sister's school fees.

If the system wants to take advantage of him, then he will take advantage of the system.

To your concern, Jinwoo just smiled and raised his hand to stroke your head.

Surprisingly, this time his hand did not touch air, but the soft feeling of your hair.

Both of them suddenly froze.

Jinwoo's hand stiffened for a moment, then gently stroked your hair. He felt his heart flutter at being able to touch you, feel the smoothness and softness of each strand. Jinwoo smiled.

"I'll be fine. Don't worry."

Your face flushed at the feeling of his hand on your head. It was so comfortable that you couldn't help but lean into his hand.

The two of you guessed that this was thanks to the system.

Even though you were still on guard, you were secretly grateful that it allowed you to touch Jinwoo, to touch the person you loved in your final days, at least you got to touch your beloved before you completely disappeared.

You used to think you didn't need contact anymore because you were dead. Now, under Jinwoo's warm hands, you realized you needed warmth, needed intimacy more than ever.

But you only wanted it when it came from Jinwoo.

Jinwoo still gently stroked your hair. His gaze that you had thought was dangerous before, suddenly became gentle and kind like water.

"Jinwoo..." You spoke, your clear eyes reflecting his figure "If one day the system really betrays you...what will you do?"

"Then I will destroy it." Jinwoo stopped, looking at you for a long time, his eyes shining with confidence and determination. "So don't worry too much."

He touched your cheek, feeling your presence a little more "I will be fine. And I'll find a way to help you."

His eyes locked with yours, like an implicit promise he sent to you. You fell silent and closed your eyes, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"Okay, I believe you."

___________________________

"Y/N, I wonder something."

"Huh?"

You were hanging upside down from the tree, swinging back and forth. Jinwoo was sitting on the bench at the base of the tree in the park where you were trapped, as usual.

"You're a soul. Is there any chance that my power can help you get out?"

Jinwoo's words startled you.

Your eyes widened, you had never really thought about this before. You had tried so hard, found every way to leave here but all failed. You had already accepted that you might be stuck here forever.

But hearing Jinwoo say that, a glimmer of hope suddenly appeared in you.

You sat up straight.

"You mean... in some way, you can pull me out of here?" you asked, your voice filled with doubt.

Jinwoo nodded, "I'm just speculating. My power allows me to summon the souls of the dead as shadow soldiers. If I can summon you... maybe you won't be trapped anymore."

You stared at him, your emotions in turmoil. Part of you longed to leave this place, to be free. But the other part was worried - would there be consequences? If he successfully turned you into a shadow soldier, would you still retain your nature, or would you lose yourself and become his mindless shadow soldier.

"But... if I do that, will I still be me?" You hesitated.

Jinwoo was silent, "I won't do anything if you don't want me to, but if there's a way to get you out of here, I think I should try."

You stared at Jinwoo for a long time, then sighed. Well, whatever will come will come, you'll take this gamble. "Okay, let's try."

Jinwoo stood up, reaching out his hand towards you. The darkness beneath his feet gradually expanded, black auras like silk gently rolled up. A strange energy surrounded you, making you feel like an invisible hand was pulling you out of this invisible cage.

Would it really work?

Would he succeed in extracting the shadow?

________________________

To be continue.

________________________

Chapter 5 »

___________________

tag: @weaponxgames @sky2lar @snowy-violet

[szariahwroteit]

Girls Need Love: A Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 19

Giselle wasn't sure if it was convenient or a punishment of nature's own doing, but within twenty-four hours of Kylian leaving to fulfill his duties as captain for France, her period came, bringing along with it an overwhelming wave of cravings and emotions.

She felt every flutter of her body, heightened and pulsing with desire as if her very essence was aching for Kylian’s warmth. Each day stretched out before her like an eternity, and she found herself lost in thoughts of him—the way he smiled, the softness of his voice, and the way his hands had felt exploring her curves.

She had spent his first game on Melissa’s living room sofa as she watched Kylian and his teammates take on Croatia’s national team in their home stadium, nursing cramps and almost unbearable nausea.

The match saw Kylian and his teammates walk away goalless while Croatia scored two goals, almost securing their place in the cup semi-final.

By the time the second leg rolled around, Giselle's period had come to an end. However, anxiety swirled in her stomach as she prepared to meet Kylian's parents and younger brother.

“Cam, what if his mom takes one look at me and decides she doesn't want me around her son?” Giselle asked cautiously, running through every possible negative outcome.

“Gi, Kylian is twenty-six, not sixteen. I'm sure what his mother thinks doesn't hold half as much weight as you think it does, so why would she not want you around him?” Camille asked.

“His parents might be really conservative and not want their son with a model or someone on television.” Giselle attempted to rationalize.

“Giselle, you're a model, not a pornstar,” Camille replied with an eye roll over FaceTime, trying to ease her friend's worries.

“You're right—,” Giselle agreed, her heart skipping a beat as the sound of Kylian's doorbell chimed through his house, signifying the arrival of his sister-in-law Melissa and his niece and nephew, with whom she was set to drive to his football match.

Pulling her coat on over the comfortable yet alluring outfit she’d decided on, Giselle took a deep breath, steadying herself as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The soft fabric of her top hugged her curves just right, accentuating her waist, while her leggings, which fit like a glove, accentuated the curve of her ass. She felt excitement and nerves bubbling, amplifying her desire to be near Kylian.

When she finally stepped outside, the crisp air hit her, forcing her to tug her coat tighter around her shoulders. She spotted Melissa waving enthusiastically as she approached the car, her two kids bouncing with energy in the back seat. Giselle gave them a warm smile, her nerves momentarily forgotten in the joy of family.

“Ready for the big day?” Melissa asked, her smile infectious as she helped Giselle into the car.

“Yeah, I think so. Just hope I don’t embarrass myself,” Giselle replied, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“You’ll be fine! Kylian’s family is great. They’ll love you,” Melissa reassured her as she slid into the driver's seat.

Giselle’s thoughts drifted back to Kylian as they drove toward the stadium. The ache inside her was not merely from anticipation; it had somehow morphed into something more intense. A longing that had only seemed to heighten in the absence of his touch made her feel alive in a way she couldn’t fully grasp.

When they arrived at the stadium, the excited buzz of fans filled the air, a chaotic symphony of cheers and shouts.

Giselle felt her palms become clammy and her stomach twist in knots as she trailed behind Melissa and her children into a private lounge at Stade De France. The space offered a view of the pitch set aside for Kylian's family and friends.

Sensing her nerves, Melissa turned to Giselle, offering her a warm smile. She held out her hand for her to take. “Wilfred and Faiza are both amazing people,” she explained reassuringly to Giselle, who was only seconds away from meeting the parents of a man who was essentially a fuck buddy to her.

Giselle took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of Melissa's hand enveloping hers, grounding her in the moment. The plush interior of the lounge was luxurious, but the reality of the situation was that she was stepping into the world of Kylian’s family.

“Just be yourself; Kylian adores you,” Melissa murmured, sensing her tension as they moved further into the room. Giselle nodded, though her mind raced with thoughts of her relationship with Kylian.

They had long since established that they had real and true feelings for one another, but the fact remained that their connection had started in a whirlwind of passion, filled with late-night rendezvous and stolen moments away from prying eyes. Now, standing here in the presence of his family, Giselle felt the weight of that intensity shift into something more profound and daunting.

As they approached Wilfred and Faiza, she took another deep breath, mentally preparing herself for their scrutiny.

Giselle watched as Melissa’s children embraced the man and woman Kylian had shown her countless pictures of, giggling and hugging the older man and woman before bouncing over to the door that led to a private row of outdoor seating so they could watch as the other team warmed up.

“Who do we have here?” Faiza smiled knowingly, her French accent thick, as she and her ex-husband turned their attention to Giselle, who stood awkwardly beside Melissa.

Giselle felt a rush of warmth at Faiza's welcoming smile, her heart pounding as if it were trying to break free from her chest. She could sense the kindness radiating from Kylian's mother, which eased the tightness in her gut, if only slightly.

With a soft and shaky voice, Giselle replied, “I’m Giselle. It’s nice to meet you both.” She stepped forward, extending her hand first to Wilfred, who smiled wide, a twinkle of approval in his eyes. He grasped her hand firmly, the warmth of his grip reassuring and grounding.

“Pleasure is ours, Giselle,” he replied in a deep, inviting voice. “Are you a friend of Kylian’s?”

Giselle felt the air grow thicker around her as she searched for the right words. The term "friend" felt so innocuous, stripping away the passionate connection they shared. But she forced herself to focus, trying to keep her answers simple and genuine.

“Yes, I am,” she managed, her cheeks flushing slightly. “We’ve been… spending time together.”

At that, Faiza’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “Spending time together? Kylian doesn’t often let just anyone into his life. You must mean a lot to him.” Her words wrapped around Giselle like a warm shawl, both comforting and intimidating at once.

Giselle swallowed hard, feeling a mixture of pride and vulnerability at Faiza’s recognition. “He means a lot to me, too,” she admitted, her cheeks warming even more under Faiza's gaze. She felt the momentum shift as both parents exchanged glances, a silent communication that was both affirming and slightly nerve-wracking for her.

As far as meeting parents went, Kylian’s were incredibly warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the expectations that had loomed heavily over her mind. The tension in the room began to melt away, replaced by the gentle hum of familial warmth.

Kylian's younger brother Ethan was just as welcoming as his parents had been. Like his older brother, he had a disarming charm that immediately put Giselle at ease. He bounced over to introduce himself, his energy infectious and heartfelt.

The next person to join them was Brice, Kylian's best friend. She had met in Switzerland only days after meeting Kylian, and the familiar face further put Giselle at ease.

“You met the parents?” Brice smirked teasingly. The last time he’d seen Giselle, both she and Kylian were unsure whether they would still see one another once the trip to Switzerland came to an end.

Giselle laughed lightly, a small bubble of relief escaping as she felt the camaraderie with Brice. “Yes, I’ve just been introduced. They seem wonderful.”

“They are,” Brice confirmed, his smile genuine. “Kylian is lucky to have such supportive parents. And I think they’re pretty fond of you already.” He glanced at Wilfred and Faiza, who were now animatedly discussing the upcoming match with Melissa, clearly at ease in her company.

“Part of me half-expected them to interrogate me about my intentions,” Giselle confessed, a hint of playful self-mockery in her tone.

Brice chuckled softly. “Nah, they’ll warm up to you. As long as Kylian is happy, they are happy. He is a great judge of character, and they know that.”

Giselle felt a swell of gratitude toward Kylian’s family as Brice spoke. The fears and uncertainties that had initially twisted her stomach began to dissipate, replaced by the glow of acceptance and warmth that enveloped her.

“Kylian and I are friends; this should be easy,” Giselle muttered to herself, but even as she spoke those words, doubts crept back in. She could feel the weight of unspoken expectations lingering in the air. Brice must have sensed the flicker of anxiety behind her brave facade.

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Brice smirked, tilting his head slightly, an amused glint in his eye. “Kylian could have sat you anywhere in the stadium, and he has you with his parents,” he pointed out.

He knew his friend well enough to understand that Kylian's choice to bring Giselle here was significant. The subtle undercurrents of their relationship were becoming clearer, and it sent a timid rush through her.

“I guess there's truth in that,” she admitted, her voice softening as she felt a spark of something deeper. For a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine how Kylian saw her—not just as a companion for fleeting moments but as someone who brought joy and warmth into his life.

Just then, the stadium lights dimmed as the pre-match ceremony began, and a wave of excitement pulsed through the lounge. Giselle felt her heart race, the atmosphere charged with anticipation. Kylian's family focused their attention on the pitch, and Giselle followed suit, allowing herself to get lost in the excitement unfolding before them.

Moments later, Kylian and his teammates stepped on to the pitch alongside their opponents , and the roar of the crowd seemed to sweep through the lounge like an electric wave. Giselle's eyes were drawn to Kylian, effortlessly commanding attention, his aura magnetic even from a distance. She felt a surge of pride swelling within her chest, knowing that she had a place in his life, one that held meaning beyond lust.

The game was tense from the first moment of kickoff; whilst Kylian and his teammates had a score to settle following losing in their previous matchup, their opponents were tasked with keeping the somewhat refreshed team at bay.

After 120 minutes and two goals scored by France, the game went to penalties. As the captain Kylian stepped up to take his penalty first and Giselle felt her stomach flip as he prepared to shoot, the weight of the moment hung heavily in the air. Her heart raced with every heartbeat, each pulse intertwining with the chant of the crowd that reverberated through her entire being. She could feel the intensity building not just on the pitch but in the private lounge, where Kylian's family watched with rapt attention.

The world around her faded, her focus narrowing solely to Kylian as he took a deep breath, his eyes locked on the goalpost. She could see the determination etched on his face, the fierce desire to triumph for his team, but also for everyone who had supported him, including her. A blend of pride and anxiety coursed through Giselle, the dichotomy of their relationship so starkly felt in this critical moment.

As Kylian launched himself into the kick, Giselle found herself holding her breath, time slowing as the ball soared toward the net. She could feel the collective energy of the room shift, the anticipation hanging like electricity in the air. The crowd erupted as the ball hit the back of the net; Kylian had done it. He’d scored.

In that split second, the tension dissipated, replaced by an eruption of cheers and applause from the audience. Giselle's heart soared in unison with those around her. She wanted to shout to celebrate his amazing skill and presence, but the moment felt sacred, distinct, and shared only between her and Kylian's family.

Wilfred and Faiza exchanged proud glances, their eyes sparkling with affection for their son. Melissa squeezed Giselle's hand, her warmth radiating as Kylian's younger brother Ethan bounced in excitement, cheering loudly. Brice caught Giselle's eye and gave her a knowing grin, as if he were silently acknowledging the bond that was quickly developing between her and Kylian, one that transcended the physical into something deeper.

As the penalties continued, Giselle found her focus lingering on Kylian. She thought about how much she valued their connection, the mutual respect and admiration they had for one another, and their insatiable, feverish passion.

As the match came to an end and the crowd began to disperse, Giselle followed the lead of Kylian's family as they made their way down to the stadium’s underbelly to meet up with him. Taking a step back to allow those closest to the French captain the time and space to catch up.

Giselle didn't have to voice her nerves for Kylian to know they were present as she stood observing at the back of the room.

Excusing himself from the conversation he stood amid, Kylian couldn't help but smirk as he approached her. His confident stride drew the attention of those around him, but all he saw was Giselle, her eyes wide with admiration and apprehension.

“Hi,” he said, his voice low and inviting as he stepped into her personal space, tilting his head slightly to gauge her reaction.

“Hi,” Giselle smiled softly, her cheeks warming as Kylian hooked a finger beneath her chin. She tilted her face upward to meet his gaze.

“Why are you standing back here?” he asked, his tone playful yet probing. He could feel her energy shift, her initial hesitance slowly melting away under the intensity of his gaze.

“I—just observing,” she replied, her voice a whisper.

“Did my parents bite?” Kylian asked teasingly, his hands finding her hips beneath the trench coat she wore, pulling her body closer to his. The warmth radiating from her figure sent a pulse of electricity through him, and he reveled in the closeness as he continued, “I know it should have been me making the introduction, but I trust Melissa.”

“It was fine. Your parents are welcoming and warm. But I introduced myself as your friend, and friends don't do this.” Giselle smirked, looking down at their closeness before her eyes met Kylian’s again.

“Friends don’t do this,” he echoed, his voice a low rumble that reverberated through the space between them. He tightened his grip on her hips just enough to signal he was only teasing, a playful challenge sparking in his eyes. “But what if I want to be more than just being your friend?”

Giselle swallowed, feeling the tension between them shift from playful banter to something that crackled with unspoken desire. She didn’t need to respond verbally; the way her breath hitched, and her body instinctively leaned closer spoke volumes. Kylian’s gaze flicked down to her parted lips, the soft swell calling to him.

“Are you afraid of what that might mean?” he asked, his thumb gently caressing her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin. He was acutely aware of the way their bodies were pressed together, the heat radiating off of her igniting a fire within him that he struggled to contain.

Giselle’s heartbeat quickened in response, a soft blush flooding her cheeks. “Not anymore,” she admitted, the corners of her mouth twitching into a smile despite the apprehension that wrapped around her like a shroud.

“Can I kiss you?” Kylian murmured his breath, a warm caress against her lips, hanging in the air like an intoxicating promise.

“In the same room as your parents?” Giselle whispered, her eyes darting to the gathering in the other part of the room. The chatter was a soft backdrop to the electric tension that thrummed between them.

Kylian chuckled softly, a low, rich sound that sent shivers down her spine. “They’ve seen worse,” he teased, his gaze unwavering, filled with mischief and desire.

Giselle’s heart raced at his confidence, her thoughts racing as she weighed the options. The allure of his closeness, the magnetic pull she felt toward him, was almost impossible to resist.

“Just one,” Kylian said, his tone earnest now, his fingers gently brushing the strands of hair behind her ear as he leaned in, closing the distance between them inch by tantalizing inch.

She inhaled sharply as his lips hovered mere inches away from hers, warmth enveloping them in a cocoon of anticipation. The world around them ceased to exist—there was nothing but the space they occupied, charged with an urgency that begged to be released.

“Just one,” she echoed, her voice barely above a breath, her heart pounding in sync with his sinking confidence.

And then, with that unspoken understanding, their lips met—a tentative brush that ignited a blazing fire within them both. It was soft at first, a gentle exploration, yet the undercurrent of heat surged, electrifying the air around them. Kylian deepened the kiss, tilting his head to cradle her face with both hands, pulling her body closer as if wanting to fuse them into one.

Across the room, Kylian’s mother watched on in amusement as she caught sight of her son and Giselle, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

At the time of their introduction hours prior, Faiza had an inclination that Giselle was more than just a friend to her son, and seeing them in this intimate moment only solidified her suspicions.

“So beautiful,” Kylian murmured as he pulled away from Giselle's lips, running the pad of his thumb across her plump lips as if savoring their taste as he took in her outfit beneath her trench coat.

Dressed in a camisole with a thick cashmere cardigan unbuttoned beneath, teasingly showing off the curves of her breasts, she wore black leggings on her legs that looked like they had been painted on, tucked into a pair of Chanel rain boots.

Kylian felt his breath hitch at the sight, his heart racing as his eyes traveled appreciatively down her figure—each curve perfectly accentuated, every detail intentional. The combination of elegance and allure left him utterly mesmerized.

“Giselle…” he breathed, his voice thick with a mixture of admiration and desire. “You look incredible.”

She blinked, caught off guard by his steady gaze, which seemed to undress her without touching her. Her cheeks flushed even more, the praise stirring feelings she had kept at bay. "Thank you," she replied, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

He took a moment to absorb the intimacy of their surroundings—her warmth pressed against him, the contrast between the lively gathering in the room and the quiet world they had created between just the two of them. In that moment, it felt as though they were the only two people in existence.

“Come with me,” Kylian said as he took her hand, bringing her over to where everyone else stood conversing enthusiastically, following France’s win over their opponents.

After fulfilling the last of his media duties as the captain of his country's football team, Kylian was ready to escape the chaos and be alone with those closest to him, away from the demands of the outside world.

Due to the late hour after the match, which went into overtime, penalties, and the demands of their own lives, Kylian’s family didn't stay at his place long. His mother left him and Giselle with hugs, well wishes, and the promise they'd see each other again soon.

Save for the random noises of the house and the ticking of the wall clock, Kylian's house was silent as Giselle stood alone in the kitchen, taking a moment to catch her breath. The atmosphere starkly contrasted with the vivacious energy of the football match. She leaned against the cool countertop, trying to process the whirlwind of emotions she had experienced throughout the day.

From the anxiety of meeting Kylian’s parents to sitting on the edge of her seat watching as he and his teammates went to penalty shootouts against their opponents, she was so lost in her thoughts she didn't hear him enter the room.

Coming to stand behind Giselle as she stood at his kitchen counter, Kylian wrapped his arms around her, his face seeking out the soft curve of her neck. He inhaled the light floral scent of her shampoo, a mix of vanilla and something sweet that made his heart race. Giselle leaned back into him, her body fitting perfectly against his, and he felt a shiver run down her spine.

“I missed you,” he murmured, his voice low and alluring as he brushed his lips against her shoulder.

“I missed you, too,” she replied softly, whispering between them like delicate silk. The warmth of Kylian's body enveloped her, and she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing through their shared intimacy.

He tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her closer. The heat radiating off them both magnified the tension in the room. As his fingers teased the hem of her shirt, the fabric fluttered against her skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. She tilted her head slightly, inviting him in further. Her breath hitched as he pressed more kisses against her neck, his lips brushing against her pulse.

“What are you doing to me?” she breathed the question, a mixture of wonder and desire.

“Nothing yet.” Kylian drawled, his lips curving into a smirk against her warm flesh. “I missed your perfect little body,” he continued, his voice dripping with playful seduction as his hands slipped to her ass.

Giselle felt her breath catch in her throat at his words, the heat from his touch seeping through the layers of her clothing and igniting a warmth deep within her core. Kylian's hands were skilled, and it was as if he knew how to elicit every possible reaction from her body.

“How are we going to make this work, considering we live on two different continents,” she smiled lazily, turning her head so she could catch a glimpse of his eyes, sparkling with mischief as he looked down at her.

Kylian chuckled softly, leaning back enough to lock eyes with her. "We’ll figure it out," he said, his tone turning more serious for a fleeting moment. He watched as a flicker of warmth danced in her gaze, and it fueled the fire of desire that simmered between them.

"What does figuring it out mean?" she replied, half-teasing, though the edges of her voice betrayed her. The idea of nurturing something more made her pulse race.

Kylian turned her in his arms, bringing her face closer until their lips were just inches apart again. A warm smile touched his lips as he replied, "It means that whether you are back in Los Angeles or Spain with me, you are mine, and we are building something together.”

Giselle's breath caught in her throat, a mix of exhilaration and nervous anticipation flooding her veins. The intensity in Kylian’s gaze made her heart race faster, igniting a fire that she hadn't anticipated when she arrived at the gathering. This was no longer just a flirtation; there was a promise lingering in the air, a hint of something deep and profound.

“Yours?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, almost as if saying it too loudly might shatter the beautiful tension that enveloped them.

“Completely,” he replied, his voice steady and filled with conviction. Kylian's fingers danced lightly along her arms, igniting soft sparks wherever his skin met hers. The teasing touches spoke volumes, an unspoken language of intimacy that made her heart flutter wildly.

She bit her lip, pondering the gravity of his words. The thought of being his—of fully surrendering to this connection—made her pulse quicken, but a nagging uncertainty crept in. “What if it doesn’t work? What if the distance becomes too hard?”

Kylian stepped back slightly, allowing her to absorb what he was saying, though he kept his hands firmly around her waist, grounding both of them. “Then we’ll make it work,” he promised, sincerity lacing his tone. “We’re not the kind of people who give up easily. You know that.”

Giselle felt the reality of his words sink in, and for the first time, the fear that had gripped her heart began to loosen its hold. There was something about Kylian—his unwavering confidence, the way he made her feel like the only person in the world—that made her want to take that leap with him.

“Okay,” she said, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “If we’re going to do this, we have to be all in.”

Kylian's smile returned, bright and radiant, and she felt her own heart lift at the sight. “All in, then. Just us against the world,” he declared, leaning in to claim her lips once more. This kiss was deeper and more passionate, seamlessly melding their desires into a singular, throbbing want.

Giselle melted against him, losing herself in the warmth of his kiss—the way his lips molded against hers, the heat emanating from his body as they moved in perfect synchronicity. Her fingers found their way to his hair, the tapered waves low beneath her fingers.

Every kiss ignited a new level of desire, and when Kylian deepened their connection, pulling her body against his, Giselle felt the world around them fade away. The kitchen, with its innocent trappings and post-match chaos, transformed into a sacred space where only they existed.

“You should be tired,” Giselle whispered against his lips, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, her breath mingling with his in the charged air between them.

“Come to bed me with me,” he drawled, catching her bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze playful yet full of intent.

“Something tells me you don't want to sleep,” Giselle teased, leisurely wrapping her arms around his waist.

Kylian chuckled softly, a deep rumble that sent delightful shivers down her spine. “I don’t. But I understand if you need rest; it's been a long day,” he replied, his thumb brushing against the curve of her waist, teasing her with the thought of what lay ahead.

“Says the man who just played a two-hour-long football match and then entertained half of Paris after,” she countered, a spark of mischief lighting up her eyes.

Kylian leaned in, brushing his lips against her forehead, sending a warm tingle coursing through her. “Come upstairs so I can undress you,” he whispered, his voice a sultry murmur against her skin.

“Only if you go to sleep,” Giselle bargained.

“Fine,” Kylian huffed, tugging her into his embrace so they could head up to his bedroom for the evening.

Despite his apprehension about going to sleep, the following day, Kylian slept in; his body sprawled across the bed as Giselle made sure they both had everything they needed for the time in Nantes.

What started as a trip for Kylian, Giselle, Elise, and Jules had transpired into a larger group traveling up to spend a few days tucked away in the stunning coastal town.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” Giselle smiled softly as she watched Kylian stir from his sleep and sit on the edge of the bed.

A low, tired smile crept onto Kylian’s face as he reached for Giselle, pulling her into the fold of the sheets where he could feel the warmth radiating off her body.

“Is it time to get up?” he mumbled, a hint of sleep still clinging to his voice. He buried his face into her neck, inhaling deeply as if he could absorb her essence while he tried to shake off the remnants of slumber.

“Yes, the car will be here soon to take us to Nantes,” she murmured, her fingertips softly tracing shapes on the back of his neck as he held onto her.

Their morning was slow yet intentional, followed by hours on the road that they both used to catch up on sleep before arriving at Elise’s grandparent's house, which was more of a sprawling estate than anything else.

Elise was the eldest daughter of a prominent white French businessman, known for his savvy in the corporate world and a striking Sudanese model who had made France her home. Once gracing magazine covers, her mother transitioned into a devoted housewife, nurturing their family gracefully and warmly. As the oldest of two daughters, Elise held a special place in the family dynamic, guiding her younger sister. Behind her, she also had an older brother, Maurice, who happened to be part of the group spending a few days in Nantes.

Since their introduction years ago, Maurice has playfully revealed that he has a soft spot for Giselle an open secret that had been laughed off by her on multiple occasions.

However, as Kylian watched them embrace he didn't share the same comfort as he previously would have. A mix of possessiveness and realization welled within him, but he swallowed those feelings back, choosing to let Giselle enjoy her reconnection with Elise and Maurice.

As they stepped into the expansive foyer of Elise's family estate, the grandeur of the house took Giselle's breath away. Tall ceilings adorned with intricate moldings and beautiful chandeliers spilled light over ornate furnishings. The space spoke to a level of opulence that Giselle had only seen in movies, and it left her feeling both awe-inspired and slightly out of place.

"Kylian, Giselle! Welcome!" Elise's voice cut through her thoughts as she rushed toward them, her energy infectious. She enveloped Giselle in a warm embrace before pulling back to survey her with an expressive grin. "You look fabulous, as always!"

"Thank you!" Giselle replied, the awkwardness of earlier melting away under Elise's friendly demeanor.

"And you! Congratulations on the win,” Elise gushed as she turned to Kylian opening her arms to give him a hug.

Once the rest of the guests arrived and everyone settled into the sprawling house, everyone went in their own directions seeking a slice of the peace and solitude the estate provided.

Later that evening when it came to sit for dinner, Marcus came and found Giselle and Kylian as they lounged in the conservatory that overlooked acres and acres of field, flirting with his sisters friends as he let them know it was time for dinner.

“She is a handful, no?” Maurice smiled as he reached for Giselle, pulling her body into his so he could wrap his arm around her shoulder, a poor attempt at claiming her in the presence of Kylian.

“Maybe for you,” Kylian responded, a hint of annoyance in his tone as his eyes met with Giselle’s.

Giselle felt a flutter of tension in the air as Kylian’s gaze locked onto hers. A mix of protectiveness and possessiveness danced in his dark eyes. She shifted slightly under Maurice's embrace, aware of the growing discomfort that the playful banter was sparking in Kylian.

Maurice wasn't sure what it was; he'd seen Giselle in a relationship before and even somewhat befriended her ex. But there was something about seeing her with Kylian that conjured a mild streak of jealousy in him.

As one of his younger sisters' closest friends, Giselle had been a presence in his life for a while. But seeing her bond with Kylian ignited something he hadn't anticipated: a profound awareness that maybe he didn't know her as well as he thought.

The was a hold that Kylian had on Giselle that didn't need to be visible or tangible for you to know it was there. A hold that she welcomed and he relished in.

As Giselle glanced up at Kylian, her heart raced in response to the way he studied her, his expression a mix of admiration and longing. It almost felt electrifying, this invisible tether that seemed to pulse between them. She could feel it wrapping around her, encasing her in a warmth that was intoxicating and both terrifying and thrilling.

“Giselle,” Kylian said, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the playful banter. “Are you a handful?” he asked as he held out his hands for her to take, smoothly pulling her from Maurice’s embrace.

Kylian welcomed the challenge of whatever this unspoken dick-swinging contest brought, but he couldn't take a moment longer of watching Marcus with his hands on her.

Giselle blinked, startled by Kylian’s possessive move. The way he wrapped his fingers around hers sent a jolt of electricity racing up her arm, igniting a shiver of anticipation that coursed through her. She glanced back at Maurice, who wore a mix of confusion and annoyance, caught off guard by the sudden shift in dynamics.

“A handful?” she quipped, her voice light yet laced with a playful challenge as she stepped closer to Kylian, their bodies nearly brushing. “Depends on who’s holding me.”

The subtle smirk on Kylian's lips matched the heat in his eyes. “I think I can handle you,” he replied, his tone a delicious mix of confidence and solemnity. The world around them faded into a backdrop as Kylian’s focus solely rested on her, and she felt the air thick with unspoken promise.

Maurice cleared his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “After dinner I was thinking, we could open the bar and have a little fun, maybe get everyone more comfortable,” he suggested, his voice intentionally casual, though the tension was palpable.

“Sounds fun,” Giselle smiled in an attempt to ease the tension she stood amidst.

“But I warn you, I might be a little too much to handle after a drink or two,” she added, raising an eyebrow playfully at Kylian, her heart racing at the thought of what that might entail.

Kylian’s expression shifted, a spark of mischief igniting in his dark eyes. “I’m counting on it,” he said, his voice dipping low, filled with promise. The air between them thrummed, charged with an energy that seemed to draw them closer, like magnets.

Maurice shook his head, feigning a laugh. “Alright, alright! We’ll see who ends up having more fun later.” But there was a competitiveness in his tone, a desire not to be eclipsed completely by Kylian’s intensity.

As dinner progressed, Giselle found herself glancing between the two men, each vying for her attention in their own unique ways. Maurice was charming and playful, trying to engage her with jokes and lighthearted conversation, while Kylian remained a steady force, his hand on her thigh and his voice low in her ear.

Giselle could feel the tension in his touch, his fingers drawing soft patterns against her, igniting sparks of heat that made her pulse quicken.

“So, Giselle,” Maurice said, interrupting her thoughts as he leaned forward, trying once again to grab her attention. “The weather is getting warmer and the horses are ready to run. I was thinking I could take you for a ride tomorrow morning if you’re up for it.“

“I’m coming,” Elise chimed in, blissfully unaware of the attention, throwing of her brothers attempt to show his hand to Kylian and rescuing Giselle in the process.

Giselle turned to Elise, grateful for the interruption. A breath of relief washed over her, as the dynamic shifted slightly with the arrival of her friend. “A ride sounds perfect!” she exclaimed, her excitement bubbling over. “I haven't been on a horse in forever.”

Kylian smirked slightly, his fingers still resting on Giselle’s thigh, confident in his position.

In truth there was no competition, Giselle wasn't a prize to be won and Kylian knew that. She was a woman with thoughts and feelings who desired to have all her wishes granted and her desires fulfilled.

After dinner Maurice somewhat subdued and sipped on his drink, trying to shake off the sting of loss and being humbled in the process. He watched as Giselle curled into Kylian's side, his lips curving into a smirk against her ear as he whispered into to it.

After Giselle gently urged him to sleep the previous night without any intimacy, and after spending the day being playfully teased by Marcus, Kylian found himself eager to finally let loose his pent-up desires.

He wasn't mad at Giselle, but the most primitive part of him needed to show her that it was him she belonged to, that it was him who could take her to those heights of pleasure she had only begun to explore.

Kylian’s eyes met with Maurice’s as he led Giselle out of the lounge, a tell smirk on his lips as he guided her out the room and to their bedroom, located on the far side of the house.

Kylian was rough in his ministrations as he undressed Giselle before laying her down on the bed and feasting on her until she could no longer even form a sentence, his lips and chin covered in her arousal as he raised his head to savor the moment. He watched her gasp for breath, her body glistening with desire, and felt a surge of power in knowing he could elicit such profound reactions from her.

“I could spend all day in your pussy,” Kylian murmured, his voice thick with lust as he kissed a path from her thighs back up to her stomach. “But you're going to get on top and ride me instead,” he growled, his eyes dark with desire.

She looked down at him, breathless and captivated by the raw confidence that radiated from his every move.

Pulling her into his arms, Kylian flipped them in one swift motion, positioning her above him so she straddled his lap as his cock rested heavily against his stomach.

Giselle felt a rush of exhilaration as she settled onto Kylian, the warmth of his body beneath her igniting a fiery desire. The power of being on top stirred something deep within her, an instinctive confidence that urged her to take control of the moment.

Kylian looked up at her, his expression a mix of hunger and encouragement. "Just like that, beautiful," he whispered, his voice low and husky, coaxing her to move. "Show me what you’ve got."

With a playful smirk, Giselle shifted her weight, feeling Kylian’s hardness press against her intimately. A wave of electricity coursed through her as she raised herself slightly, only to lower herself back down slowly, relishing the delightful friction. She caught his gaze, and the heat in his dark eyes nearly made her shiver with anticipation.

“Tell me how it feels,” she murmured, her voice teasingly laced with breathlessness as she began to rock her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Perfect,” he growled, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her movements while allowing her the freedom to explore. “You feel incredible.”

Giselle's heart raced at his praise, the thrill of being centered in his attention swirling through her body as she took her pleasure deeper into uncharted territory. The way Kylian watched her, eyes glazed with lust, only fueled her actions further. She leaned forward slightly, the warmth of his breath brushing against her collarbone, igniting a spark of desire that spread through her.

“More,” he urged, his grip tightening ever-so-slightly on her hips, a hint of gentle insistence that pushed her to surrender to the rhythm. “Ride me like you mean it.”

The command sent a rush of heat to her cheeks, but she relished the challenge. With renewed confidence, she picked up the pace, her movements becoming bolder, more assertive. Each thrust sent jolts of pleasure coursing through her; with every brush of his cock against her core, she could feel herself drawing closer to the edge.

“Just like that,” Kylian breathed, his voice laced with desperate need. “You’re so beautiful when you’re lost in it.”

Giselle met his heated gaze, feeling that intoxicating mix of power and desire blend into an overwhelming wave of pleasure.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Kylian instructed, a growl ripping from his throat as Giselle obeyed his command, clasping her hands together behind her back as she rode him.

Her breasts bounced softly with each thrust, the rhythm between them growing more frenzied with every passing moment. Giselle could feel the heat pooling low in her belly, igniting her senses as Kylian's gaze burned into her own.

"That's it," he urged, his voice husky with desire, "feel every inch of me."

She relished the way he spoke, the authority in his tone sending delightful shivers down her spine. With her hands bound behind her, she surrendered completely to the pleasure, her body moving instinctively, arching as she sought more of him, deeper, harder.

Kylian shifted his weight, driving up into her with a fierce passion that made her gasp. Each thrust sent waves of ecstasy pulsing through her, and she could feel the intensity rising between them. The world around them faded, leaving only the two of them locked in a dance of pure desire.

“Good girl,” he praised, his breath hot against her ear as he leaned forward, capturing the delicate skin of her neck with his lips. His kisses ignited her further, a symphony of warmth and hunger, pulling her deeper into their fervent connection.

As he filled her, a primal need swelled within her, coaxing her closer to the edge. Kylian's hands gripped her waist, guiding her movements with a firm yet tender touch, coaxing her to ride him harder, faster. The sound of their bodies clashing echoed in the dim light,a captivating reminder of their shared passion.

“Don’t hold back,” he urged, his command sending a tremor of excitement through her. “Let me get deeper.”

A single tear of overwhelming pleasure slipped down Giselle's cheek as she surrendered fully to the moment, the intensity of their connection washing over her. Every thrust ignited a fire within, her body responding eagerly to his demands. Kylian's grip tightened around her waist, anchoring her as he thrust deeper, pushing her closer to the precipice of bliss.

“I can feel you in my stomach,” Giselle murmured breathlessly, the words tumbling from her lips as the sensation of him filled her completely. Each thrust reverberated through her, a visceral reminder of their union, igniting a blaze of passion that consumed her every thought.

Kylian groaned at her admission, the sound reverberating through the air like the rumble of thunder, and he responded with a deep, primal thrust that sent her reeling further into ecstasy. “Good,” he panted, his voice thick with desire. “Feel every inch of me, ma belle.”

Unable to keep her hands behind her back, Giselle instinctively reached back, seeking to touch him, to feel the muscles of his body beneath her fingertips. Kylian, sensing her urgency, seized her wrists and guided them back behind her, his grip firm but gentle.

“If it's too much, tell me, and I'll stop,” Kylian whispered, his breath warm against her skin, a mix of power and tenderness that sent a thrill through her.

Giselle shook her head, her determination ignited. “Please, don't stop,” she cried, her eyes locking with his as they glistened with tears. “I want to touch you.”

Kylian's gaze deepened, a blend of amusement and desire flickering in his eyes. "You don't need to touch me to feel me," he rasped, thrusting with renewed vigor, making her gasp as pleasure coursed through her with each movement. It was as if he was determined to make her feel every single aspect of their connection, every intimate sensation pulling her closer to her limit.

“Just ride me, Giselle,” he commanded, his tone a mixture of urgency and control that fueled her.

In an act of defiance Giselle reached up, cupping her breasts as if to emphasize her desire, the weight of them filling her palms.

“Move your fucking hands,” Kylian growled, his voice a low rumble filled with raw need. “I want to see you completely lost in what I’m doing to you.”

Giselle's heart raced at his words, the command igniting a fire in her core. She slowly lowered her hands, but not without a teasing hint of rebellion, letting them brush down her torso before placing them back behind her. Kylian's eyes darkened with lust, his expression a mix of admiration and possessiveness.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his breath hitching slightly as he felt the change in her movements. “Keep them there. Just feel me.”

With her submission evident, she surrendered fully, moving desperately against him, her body craving every thrust as they began to synchronize in a whirlwind of passion. Each powerful motion from Kylian sent electrifying shocks of pleasure coursing through her body, pushing her closer to a blissful edge.

“Can you feel that?” Kylian rasped, leaning close again to share his heated breaths with her. “Can you feel how deep I am?”

Giselle could hardly respond, lost in a blur of sensations. All she could do was nod, her breathless gasps punctuating the air as Kylian's relentless rhythm drove her further into ecstasy. Every thrust was a wave crashing over her, pulling her under, and she reveled in the sheer intensity of the moment.

“You can touch me, baby, I'm yours,” Kylian grumbled as he reached behind her, gripping her wrists bringing her hands to his chest.

Collapsing against him, Giselle’s face pressed into the hard planes of his chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps, a mix of pleasure and a dull ache. The heat radiating from him enveloped her, grounding her in this moment of unyielding desire. She could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek, a rhythm that synchronized perfectly with the desperate movement of their bodies.

“Look into my eyes,” Kylian commanded, his voice low as his movements slowed and he hooked a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head up to meet his intense gaze. The world around them faded even further, leaving only the connection forged in that moment—their breaths mingling, hearts pounding in tandem.

Giselle felt a swell of vulnerability and exhilaration as his deep, dark eyes bore into hers, each flicker of his gaze igniting something primal and powerful within her. “I want you to see how much you mean to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“I see you,” she replied, her voice breathy yet firm with conviction. “I feel you.”

With that, Kylian captured her lips in a searing kiss, one that spoke volumes of their shared hunger and undeniable chemistry. As their mouths moved together, the heat between them ignited into an inferno, a storm of sensations washing over them, intensifying the cadence of their bodies.

“Hold onto me,” he instructed, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he began to thrust with renewed vigor, each thrust deliberate, drawing them both closer to the dizzying precipice they craved.

The sheets beneath them became a battleground of passion, and Giselle felt every ripple of Kylian's muscles as he moved with fierce intent. Each delightful stroke sent electric shocks through her system, igniting the fire that blazed within her.

Flipping the dynamic, Kylian repositioned them, laying Giselle on her back while maintaining their powerful connection. He hovered over her, his presence engulfing her completely, casting a spell that made her heart race even faster.

“Now it’s my turn,” he breathed, his voice a tantalizing whisper that sent shivers down her spine. His gaze darkened with desire as he pushed deeper, taking charge of their rhythm once again. She could feel his weight pressing into her, the heat radiating off his body, fueling her need.

“Please,” Giselle gasped, her hands seeking purchase on his taut muscles, fingers curling and digging into his skin as he thrust with precision. The intensity of his movements sent waves of pleasure cascading through her, every slide of him igniting fire where they connected.

“Please what?” Kylian teased, the corner of his lips twitching into a smirk as he leaned down to nibble gently on her earlobe. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to—” but she couldn’t finish, a moan escaped her lips instead as he shifted angles, hitting that sweet spot deep inside her, leaving her breathless with need.

“Want me to what, Giselle?” His voice was a seductive growl, urging her as he continued his relentless pace. She could feel the coil tightening within her, growing tighter with each thrust.

“I want you!” she finally managed to plead, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush, a desperate want mixing with the sweet frustration that hung in the air.

“Good girl,” he praised, the hunger in his voice guiding her deeper into a realm of intoxicating surrender. Kylian lowered himself further, capturing her mouth with a passionate kiss, his tongue intertwining with hers, igniting every nerve ending in her body. Their breaths mingled, a testament to the urgency and need that propelled them forward.

With each thrust, the world around them blurred, and Giselle lost all sense of time and place. The only reality that existed was between them—the undeniable chemistry, the pulsing pleasure, the overwhelming heat. Kylian’s movements were precise and powerful, each thrust sending shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through her.

“Feel that?” he whispered against her lips, his breaths coming in hot bursts as he pressed deeper. “Feel how much I want you?”

“Yes,” she gasped, tilting her hips in rhythm with his, surrendering fully to the intensity of their connection. A flood of pleasure surged within her, intertwining with every deep stroke, and she felt herself unraveling, spiraling towards a blissful edge.

“Look at me, Giselle,” Kylian urged, his command both a plea and a directive. She locked eyes with him, drowning in the dark, smoldering depths that reflected his desire. Those intense, passionate pools of emotion urged her on, igniting her deepest fantasies and making her feel utterly desired.

“Cum all over my cock,” he drawled, his voice deep and commanding, as he landed a stinging slap against her thigh, the sting mixed with pleasure sending her spiraling closer to the edge.

“Please, Kylian,” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper.

He responded by quickening his pace, thrusting harder and deeper, driving them both closer to that euphoric peak. The intensity was nearly overwhelming; each stroke brought her closer, each movement and every sound melding into a symphony of unrelenting passion. Her body was an instrument, finely tuned to the rhythm they were creating together.

Giselle wrapped her arms around Kylian's shoulders, drawing him even closer as he continued to expertly dominate her senses. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements as they danced on the brink of ecstasy together. The sound of their bodies meeting echoed in the dimly lit room, a rhythmic testament to their fervent connection.

Giselle bit down on the column of Kylian's throat as she came, stifling her moans against his skin. The wave of pleasure crashed over her with a force that left her breathless, and she felt herself surrender completely to the onslaught of unadulterated bliss. Her body quaked against him, every muscle tightening as the sensation surged through her, sending sparkles of elation cascading from her core.

“That's it, baby,” Kylian growled, clearly reveling in her release. He thrust into her with renewed intensity, the intoxicating rhythm matching the frantic beating of her heart. “Feel me filling you… feel how much I need you.”

As she descended from the intoxicating heights of her orgasm, Giselle's body continued to respond to him, her senses on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation. Kylian’s powerful movements coaxed her back toward that precipice, driving her into a realm of unrelenting pleasure once more.

“Yes,” she breathed, surrendering to the rhythm, her body arching instinctively on top of him as he filled her deeper, harder, harder still. Each thrust was a reminder of what they had built together—an enticing dance that ignited every facet of her being.

“Sit up,” Kylian demanded, his voice thick with need.

Giselle obeyed, rising up on her knees as Kylian guided her body, anchoring his hands on her hips to maintain control. The warmth of his skin against hers heightened the electricity sparking between them.

“Who do you belong to?” he asked, his dark gaze intense as he watched her, reaching up to cup her breasts.

“I belong to you,” she moaned, the words spilling from her lips as she felt his hands exploring her softness, his fingers teasing her taut nipples. The admission sent a shiver through her, deepening the adding depth to the fiery intimacy they shared.

Kylian grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes as he pressed deeper into her, the rhythm between them increasing once more. “Good girl,” he said, his voice a low growl that vibrated through her.

“I am your good girl,” Giselle moaned, wrapping her dainty hand around his wrist as he held onto her.

“I want to hear you say it again,” Kylian demanded, his voice thick with lust as he continued to guide her movements, driving her further into ecstasy with every powerful thrust.

With each deep penetration, Giselle felt herself teetering on the edge, the primal connection binding them like wildfire. “I’m your good girl,” she gasped, feeling the delicious heat pooling low in her belly once more. “I belong to you.”

Kylian responded with a raw growl, as if her words were the fuel to his own fiery desire. He slid his hands from her waist down to her thighs, gripping tightly, ensuring she couldn’t escape the intensity of their union. “Oui, tu l’es,” he panted, eyes dark with hunger.

Giselle couldn't make out Kylian’s French drawl as her body responded instinctively, rocking against him, seeking out the rhythm that had them locked in a fierce embrace.

“Slow down and look into my eyes,” he growled as his hand splayed low on her stomach, their gazes locked as he thrust deeper, his presence overwhelming her. Every beat of their hearts seemed to synchronize with the intensity of their connection, creating a magnetic pull that drew them closer together.

“Focus on me, Giselle,” Kylian murmured, his voice a rapturous whisper that resonated deep within her. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the urgency in his tone igniting every inch of her being. Each thrust sent pleasurable ripples through her core, awakening desires she never knew existed.

“You're in my stomach,” she moaned, her breath hitching as the weight of his gaze captivated her. The world around them dissipated, leaving only their shared pleasure.

Kylian's smirk deepened at her admission, a mix of dominance and possessiveness sparking in his eyes. “I want you to feel every inch of me,” he rasped, punctuating each word with thrusts that drove deeper, harder, until she was gasping for breath, utterly lost in the moment.

“Yes,” Giselle whimpered, surrendering fully to him, allowing the tides of pleasure to wash over her. The sensation of him filled her completely—a perfect blend of need and fulfillment—and no other thought existed in her mind except Kylian and the ecstasy he was pulling from her.

“Perfect girl,” he praised, his voice dripping with lust as he leaned in, kissing the flush of color that spread across her cheeks. “Tell me I can cum in your perfect little pussy.”

Kylian's hands gripped her hips tightly, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her down onto him, filling her completely with each powerful thrust. His eyes locked onto hers, intense and commanding, demanding her full attention.

"Say it, Giselle," he growled, his voice low and husky with desire. "Tell me you want my cum inside you."

He punctuated his words with a particularly deep thrust, grinding against her as he hit that sweet spot within her that made her see stars. His gaze bore into hers, unwavering and dominant, leaving no room for hesitation.

"You're mine, Giselle," he murmured, leaning in close so his lips brushed against her ear. "Your body belongs to me. Say it."

Giselle's breath hitched, her heart racing as Kylian's commanding presence enveloped her. The heat of his body pressed against hers, his strong hands gripping her hips with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. She could feel every inch of him inside her, stretching her, filling her completely. His words, spoken with such authority, ignited a fire within her, a desperate need to submit to his desires.

"Yes," she gasped, her voice trembling with a mix of pleasure and surrender. "I'm yours, Kylian. My body belongs to you."

His eyes flashed with triumph, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Good girl," he praised, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now tell me what you want."

“Cum in me,” Giselle pleaded helplessly, her arousal leaking from her at the mere thought of their connection deepening even further.

A growl ripped Kylian's throat as he held Giselle still on top of him, his fingers digging into her flesh as he came, warming her from the inside out.

“You’re mine,” he breathed, the final word spilling from his lips like a vow, a promise that trembled in the air between them.

No one else mattered in that moment. Just the two of them, lost in their own world of passion and vulnerability, surrendering to the wave of ecstasy that crashed over them. It was a union built on trust and longing, one that solidified the connection they had forged amid the chaos of life.

As the tremors of Kylian’s release enveloped her, Giselle felt a sense of completeness wash over her. It was raw and exhilarating, the intimate bond they had created transcending the physical realm and pulling them deeper into each other's hearts.

Giselle leaned down, capturing his lips with her own, her heart pounding wildly in the aftermath of their shared bliss. Kylian responded with fervor, his hands gently cupping her face as they tumbled deeper into the moment.

“Are you mine?” Giselle murmured between kisses, opening her eyes to look into his.

Kylian paused, his expression shifting from the afterglow of their passion to one of deep sincerity. “I am completely yours,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion.

[musubi05]

╰┈➤ I'm Sorry Part 2

Sam Winchester x sister!reader

Dean Winchester x sister!reader

Summary: A hunt went wrong because you made a mistake and someone accidentally got hurt. You're 14-15.

Warnings: Yelling, mentions of blood, angsty

Authors note: Hopefully it's as good as the first one 😭 I was spacing out so much trying to write it so my brain was not braining.

The minutes stretched endlessly after Dean left, each second pressing down on your chest like a weight you couldn’t shake. The motel room was too quiet, yet your mind was screaming. You could still hear the gunshot, still see Sam’s body jerking from the impact, still feel the warmth of his blood against your hands.

Dean was right. You had almost lost Sam. And it was your fault.

Your hands were still trembling slightly as you sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the cracked wallpaper. The cheap floral print blurred as your eyes stung with unshed tears. Your fingers were stiff with dried blood—Sam’s blood—sticking in the creases of your knuckles, clinging to your skin like it was never going to come off.

You felt numb, but somehow still sick to your stomach. You forced yourself up to get into the shower, hoping it would help make you feel clean but it didn't. You had tried scrubbing the blood off, but no matter how raw you made your hands, the stain wouldn’t fade. Even though you saw a tint of red water go down the drain.

The faint sound of the clock ticking on the wall was maddening when you laid back down on the bed. Each second that passed felt heavier, heavier, and heavier. You wished Dean would just come back, even if it was to yell at you more. At least then you wouldn’t be stuck with your own thoughts.

The thoughts that were reminding you it was your fault. The thoughts that were telling you Sam was dead.

"The doctors couldn't save Sam," Dean would say. "It should be you not him." Which would lead you to listen to him and go sell your soul for Sam to be brought back.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms, desperate for something—anything—to ground you. But nothing could distract you from the image of Sam collapsing. The dull look in his eyes. The blood pooling around him.

Your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, a broken sob slipped out. You clapped a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, shoulders shaking as you struggled to contain it. You didn’t deserve to cry. Not when Sam was the one who got hurt. Not when Dean could barely look at you.

The door creaked open softly. You stiffened, expecting to see Dean storming in again, still angry, still ready to rip you apart with his words. You turned over to your other side to face him.

But it was Sam.

He was pale and unsteady on his feet, leaning against the doorframe for support. His face was still gaunt from the blood loss, and his bandaged torso was hidden beneath a loose flannel that was slightly too big for him. You realized with a twist in your chest that he must’ve signed himself out of the hospital early. Typical Winchester.

“Sam?” You shot up from the bed, rushing toward him, but he held up a weak hand to stop you.

“Hey,” he rasped softly, offering a tired smile. “I’m okay.”

You stared at him, stunned by stupid statement. He was shot. He was barely standing. He was not okay.

Without another word, you rushed to his side and slipped under his arm, helping him to the bed despite his half-hearted protests. You sat beside him, bracing his weight until he was lying back against the headboard with a heavy sigh.

“Did you seriously check yourself out?” you muttered, shaking your head.

Sam chuckled lightly, wincing as he shifted. “You know me.”

You swallowed, guilt twisting sharply in your gut again. He was trying to make light of it, to put you at ease. Of course he was. That was Sam. Always more worried about everyone else than himself.

For a long moment, you just stared at your hands, fingers still smeared faintly with his blood. The room was quiet, except for the sound of Sam’s slightly labored breathing.

“You should hate me,” you finally whispered.

Sam blinked, frowning slightly. “What?”

You glanced at him, barely able to meet his eyes. “You should hate me for what I did. For being so reckless. For getting you hurt,” your voice wavered, and you looked away quickly. “Dean does.”

Sam’s expression softened immediately. “Hey.” He reached over, grasping your hand weakly, his palm warm despite his shaky grip. “Dean doesn’t hate you. He’s just—”

“Mad. I know,” you cut in. “And he should be. You almost died because of me, Sam.” Your voice cracked, and you pulled your hand from his, not able to bear the gentleness in his touch.

Sam exhaled softly, watching you carefully. “I’m not dead,” he said quietly. “And I’m not gonna hate you, Y/N.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You should.”

“Stop,” Sam insisted, his voice firmer this time. He reached for your hand again, his grip a little stronger now. “I’ve made mistakes, too. We all have. Hell, Dean’s made plenty of reckless calls that could’ve gotten me killed. And you know what I did?” He arched a tired eyebrow. “I forgave him. Just like I forgive you. That’s how this family works.”

You swallowed hard, unable to speak. Your eyes burned, and you quickly wiped at them with the sleeve of your hoodie. You didn’t deserve his forgiveness. Not this easily. Not after nearly losing him.

Sam squeezed your hand once before leaning back against the headboard, his eyes starting to droop with exhaustion. “You’re not a screw-up,” he muttered softly, voice thick with fatigue. “You saved our asses back there. Even if it wasn’t pretty.”

You stared at him, speechless, as he let out a slow, heavy breath and drifted into a light sleep. His chest rose and fell steadily, but the soft winces that flashed across his face with every breath made your stomach clench.

And then, as if on cue, the door creaked open again.

Dean walked in, still tense, his eyes immediately flickering toward Sam. His gaze softened slightly when he saw his brother sleeping peacefully, but when he turned his attention to you, the hardness in his eyes returned.

You met his gaze for only a second before quickly looking down at your hands again. You waited for him to say something—anything—but he just stood there, lingering near the door. The silence was suffocating.

Finally, after what felt like forever, Dean let out a long breath and slowly made his way over. His boots were heavy against the creaky floorboards. You felt him sit down beside you on the edge of the bed, but you still couldn’t look at him.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The tension hung in the air, thick and heavy.

Then, finally, his voice came—low and hoarse. “You scared the hell outta me.”

Your throat tightened. “I know,” you whispered.

Dean let out a shaky breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “I told you to stay in the car for a reason, Y/N.”

“I was trying to help—”

“I don’t care!” His voice cracked slightly, louder than he intended, and Sam stirred slightly.

"I don't care what you wanted!" Your dads voice echoed through your mind.

Dean immediately fell silent, waiting until Sam settled before speaking again. His voice was lower this time but still strained. “You could’ve died.”

You clenched your fists in your lap, your fingernails going back into your palms. “So could you.”

Dean’s eyes snapped to you. You turned to face him, blinking back the tears threatening to fall.

“I’m not gonna just sit back and watch you and Sam die,” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly. “I can’t.”

Dean’s eyes softened slightly, but his expression was still pained. He swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair, and for the first time that night, you saw the fear behind his anger—the sheer terror that had been boiling beneath the surface.

“If something had happened to you…” He shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Your throat closed up, and without thinking, you reached out and grabbed his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and rough and calloused, but familiar. Safe.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. You just sat there in the heavy silence, hands clasped together.

Finally, Dean’s voice came out quieter. Hoarse. “Just… don’t do that again, okay?”

You nodded slowly, gripping his hand a little tighter.

“I mean it,” he added, giving you a pointed look.

“I know.”

He let out a slow, shaky breath, then finally—finally—he squeezed your hand back. It wasn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.

⛧

The room was dark and quiet, save for the sound of Sam’s slow, steady breathing. His chest rose and fell softly, the strain of pain still subtly etched in his face even in sleep.

After the talk with Dean, you both agreed to head to get some rest. Only problem is that you couldn't go to bed that easily. Dean was passed out on his bed while you were staring at the ceiling on the motel couch. Just... thinking.

You looked over at Sam and should’ve felt some relief that he was okay. That the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital. That he was still here, breathing, healing. But the weight in your chest hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier.

You looked back up at the ceiling but before you knew it, your eyes drifted out of focus, the edges of the room blurring into the shadows of the past.

~6 Years Ago~

The dingy motel room smelled like old cigarette smoke and mildew. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners, and the single flickering lamp barely cast enough light to chase away the shadows stretching across the walls.

You sat curled up on the bed, clutching your knees to your chest, your tiny fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. Your heart pounded in your chest as you listened to the argument unfolding between John and Dean.

“I told you to watch her, Dean!” John’s voice was sharp, edged with frustration and exhaustion.

“I was watching her!” Dean stood his ground, jaw tight, shoulders squared even though his voice wavered slightly. “She was fine! I just went to grab the salt from the car, and—”

“She could’ve gotten killed,” John cut him off, voice like gravel. His eyes flicked toward you, pinning you to the bed like a spotlight. “And you—what were you thinking, running after that damn spirit?”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I-I thought I could help,” you stammered, voice barely above a whisper.

John let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Help? You thought running in there, getting in the way, was helping?” He shook his head, pacing in front of you like he couldn’t even look at you. “You wanna be useful? Then learn your damn place.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You don’t fight, you don’t hunt, you don’t go running into danger,” John continued, his voice firm, unwavering. “You do what you’re told. You keep your head down. You help us—but you never get in the way.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the blanket beneath you with trembling fingers. “I just wanted to—”

“I don’t care what you wanted,” John snapped. “You listen. You wait. You help the way you’re supposed to.” He crouched down slightly, lowering his voice, but somehow that made it worse. “You wanna be part of this family? Then act like it.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you nodded quickly, desperate to make him stop looking at you like that.

John exhaled sharply and stood up, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn’t say anything else—just grabbed his duffel, muttered something to Dean about locking the doors, and walked out.

For a moment, the room was silent. The weight of his words still hung heavy in the air, pressing down on your chest.

Then, Dean sat down beside you on the bed.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging your shoulder. His voice was tired, but not angry. Not like John’s. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly, blinking back the tears.

Dean was quiet for a long moment before he sighed, running a hand through his short hair. “Look… Dad’s just—he’s just stressed, alright? He doesn’t mean half the crap he says.”

But you both knew that wasn’t true.

Still, Dean shot you a small, lopsided smile. “You wanna help? You can help. Just… next time, maybe don’t go charging after a ghost with a damn broomstick, alright?”

Despite yourself, you let out a tiny, shaky laugh.

“Tell you what,” Dean continued, nudging you again. “Next hunt? You can be on water duty. Sam’s always forgetting to drink, anyway.”

You nodded, a small bit of warmth replacing the cold pit in your stomach. It wasn’t much—but it was something. A purpose. A way to help without getting in the way.

And that’s what you did. Every hunt. Every time. You made sure you were useful. You made sure you helped.

Because if you weren’t helping, what were you even doing here?

“Sweetheart?”

Dean’s voice pulled you out of the memory, bringing you crashing back to the dim motel room. Sam was still sleeping soundly. Dean was staring at you, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face like he could see the ghosts haunting you. When did he get up?

You blinked quickly, clearing your throat. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

Dean studied you for a second longer before exhaling. With no warning he scooped your body into his arms, lifting you up from your previous spot.

"Dean, what are you doing?" You asked immediately gripping his shirt do he didn't drop you—not like he ever would.

"Helping you sleep," he said, his voice was coated with exhaustion. Maybe helping you sleep will help him sleep better.

You didn't want to argue with him and say you're fine so you let him bring you over to his bed. He put you on the bed first before laying next to you.

Dean sighed, he put his arm around you to keep you close to his side. Your head was resting on his chest with your arm draped around his torso. “I'm sorry I keep yelling at you—” He stopped, jaw tightening, like he wasn’t sure how to say what he wanted to say. “I don’t want you to think that helping means running headfirst into danger, alright? You don’t have to prove anything to me. Or to Sam.”

Your breath hitched slightly. “I know.”

“Do you?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Do you really?

You hesitated, but after a long moment, you finally nodded. “I’m working on it.”

Dean didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just sighed again and nudged your arm lightly. “Good.”

For a long while, you both just laid there, the weight of the night still thick in the air—but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was crushing you.

Dean wasn’t angry anymore. Sam was safe. And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to prove your worth by risking your life.

Maybe just being here was enough.

Tag list:

@marvelfanfn2187a113 @samlou

[otterandterrierwrites]

For the mystery asks, how about 6 and 24?

wordless ways to say "i love you": 6. tucking your head into their neck during a hug.

a/n: two prompts? that's greedy :P you can have one for now. inspired by this post, a different take on Leia?

::::::::::

Her body used to be softer, Leia thinks. Rounder, warmer, pliable, solid. Not like now, when she feels like she’s been filed off into cold sharp angles, when she feels like she could become unmoored and float up and away. She was a river stone, softly shaped by a tenderness that grounded her. Now, she’s a spike.

Affection is second nature to her, and her body remembers that. She was raised to the comfort of touch; she knows to offer it with ease. She thinks nothing of touching a stranger’s arm, of hugging a colleague in triumph, of wrapping an arm around a grieving soldier’s shoulders.

She’s starving; she hungers for touch. It’s not the need that scares her, that hungry void; it’s the fact that she can’t seem to take to touch like she used to. Her body viscerally rebels against it. When she gets injured and they tend to her wounds, she shivers and feels nauseous. Chewbacca gently ruffles her hair, and Luke pats her back, and Han drapes himself over her shoulders, and she stiffens even as she smiles, her skin turning to durasteel. She gets into her cot and piles up the grand total of two blankets she’s been given and all of her clothes on top of her, and the weight isn’t enough, but she closes her eyes anyway and pretends she’s being cuddled.

A year goes by, then two, and her body slowly smoothes down the memories of brutal hands on her shoulders, on her arms, the uncaring needles puncturing her spine, the cold muzzle of blasters at her back. Little by little it’s been nourished back to a healthy diet of companionable, of caring, of careful touch, which she welcomes, and reciprocates.

Except—

Her body does not extend the same courtesy to Han; it still stiffens, and vibrates, and frizzles at his touch, and she doesn’t know why. She’s long past feeling uncomfortable around him; she’s never felt unsafe. She likes his company, even, most of the time. Likes the way they work together. The way he talks to her like few people have dared talk to her before. The way he challenges her without disrespecting her, without making her feel like she couldn’t rise up to it. She likes the way she catches him looking at her sometimes.

It should not be a big deal every time he puts a hand on her lower back their fingers brush as she hands him a datapad he brushes a strand of hair out of her face she touches his arm to get his attention in a meeting their knees bump under the dejarik table, she’s a grown-up woman who doesn’t swoon at the sight of a bare ankle, it’s not that, it’s that it’s not enough, and the want, the impossibility of it, makes her recoil.

So what if he tells her things about him she’s sure he hasn’t told a lot of people? What if he brings her caf from the Falcon every morning? What if he brings back little things from his missions just for her?

What if she wants him to leave because she fears she’s in too deep and the thought of losing one more person she cares about terrifies her, and what if she wants him to stay for the exact same reason?

What if all of those words stick in her throat and she can’t tell him, not now, not ever, not until she’s done her duty to all the ghosts she owes her life to.

***********

They lost contact with the Falcon four days ago, received a confusing, static-filled transmission from Chewbacca twelve hours ago, and the freighter is late by two days. On the third day, Chewie says they’re on their way. On the fourth day, they arrive, and she’s got medics standing by, but she’s the first one to walk towards the ramp. He’s limping as he almost hangs from the Wookiee’s neck, something bulky under his shirt, his face pale and haggard. But he sees her and one corner of his mouth lifts, and when she steps up to him and hugs him, so very careful of whatever injuries almost kept him back from her for good, and he melts around her, and her face presses against his warm, beating neck that ripples with something unsaid, she thinks, finally, that she’s not starving anymore.

[themareverine]

— Toy Soldiers, part II

worst!wolverine x namelessfem!OC

tags: Indian in the Cupboard themes (iykyk), fluff, AU, not entirely sure what else at this point, with blue eyes could be interpreted as reader, mentions of a best friend named Rose, literally based on this silly little toy I rescued and now have crafted extensive lore for, kinda a Deadpool & Wolverine AU, time travel elements, TVA & Loki mentions, celeb!Hugh Jackman elements eventually.

synopsis: He was just a one of those fast-food kid’s meal toys from 1993—key word, was. now he’s Hugh Jackman incarnate, standing in the master bedroom of her midwestern apartment, lost in time and infinity. she’s gotta get him back to his world, where he’s the worst Wolverine, where he belongs—or, maybe not?

a/n: It's been way too long, fam! I'm sorry! I'm happy to return to these two, because they make me a little feral. I've been hesitant to pursue the next chapter because I was a little stuck on how I wanted to proceed from the first part, but, I like where this is going!

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | SERIES MASTERLIST

This isn’t the first time she’s thrown up in the kitchen sink in front of someone. But hopefully it’s the last. 

She’d been almost 18 getting her wisdom teeth removed, and one traumatic surgery – in which she’d blown her IV three times, and had far more impacted teeth than previously thought – later, she’d been parked at her cousin’s house for her mother and aunt to go shopping.

Twenty five mouth stitches and a strong dose of Vicodin later, she’d non-stop vomited up her guts for most of the night. Unsurprisingly, throwing up in front of her cousin’s boyfriend while watching Tom Cruise re-runs ranked in the running list of the most humiliating moments in her life. 

Maybe this is all a dream  – yeah. Gross. Why am I puking in a dream? What am I dreaming about? Oh my god I’m going to die – 

Trembling arms hold her up over the sink, a thin veil of sweat sticking her hair to the back of her neck. Groaning, she swallows roughly, the sting of bile sour and putrid in the back of her throat. 

Muscles aching, head splitting, she slaps at the tap controls and slowly blinks her eyes, sunlight from the window brutally stabbing at her eyeballs. Discarding glasses to somewhere on the counter, she scrubs her face with water. Head and heart reeling, she looks down at her hands — shaking, She’s still shaking.

What’s felt like an eternity has been seconds, maybe. Vibrations from the floor shoot up her legs and she spins around quickly, heart flying forward against her ribs as her stomach plummets to her kneecaps. 

“Feel better?” It’s goading, antagonistic even. “You gonna tell me where the fuck I am now?” He looks innocent enough in the aftermath of gouging the hell out of her sheetrock, despite his hot, growling tone. 

Hands at his sides, sweat mottling her brow. He’s huge, standing six-something in her kitchen, all broad and Hollywood looking. She can’t even swallow properly. It comes together in her brain slowly, as if she’s completely checked out of the last eight minutes of her life. Blacked out. 

Her recall reaches far, until blurry fragments piece back together. Adrenaline and fear. Survival and flight. That's right. He’d stumbled upon her looking for that damn Wolverine toy lost in the abyss of her room, him and his actually really convincing cosplay get-up. 

Eyes skating past him to the door, her stomach drops again. Eyes widen in even more realized fear, and she feels the blood fall out of her pallor again. Cold fear snakes up the length of her spine, pushing hard against every vertebrae — right. She remembers. It’s impossible. 

How does not matter, not really. God stopped time for Joshua, split open seas for Moses. How is the least of her worries — but why. Why is the question. Not how or when, but why. It beats rhythmically through her brain like a helicopter blade, why why why. 

This had Marvel written all over it. And somehow it was happening in her Minneapolis apartment. Unable even to entertain any question beyond why her, she can’t stop looking at his hands. How his knuckles are still stained with the coppery blood he’s tried to wipe away from his knuckles, which has vanished amid the muck and grime of his uniform. 

“You’re,” White knuckling the edge of her farmhouse sink, her jaw clamps to the point she worries her bones will grind into batter. “— um. You’re Logan,” there’s a faraway wonder in her voice as she sinks farther back against the sink, like it's a holy revelation that will get her killed. “I mean, I think you’re Logan?” Releasing hands from the sink, she slowly creates distance between them. “I don’t really understand —” 

He’s breathing harder now. His brow drops into a deeply confused line. “Do I fucking know you?” She’s unsure if it’s meant to be an admission of identity or a genuine question, but his eyes skate over her body like he’s trying to recall her. 

He takes a daring step forward that seems to rattle the very walls. It scares her, and she jumps, lunging for the corner of the counter — without thinking, instinct snatches one of the cooking knives from her magnetic knife strip on the wall. Reeling back around, she swallows the terror that’s splashed more bile up the back of her throat.

Irritated, he huffs out a scoffing breath and dares to roll his eyes at her. “You really think that’s gonna help you?” Nodding to the knife, a flick of his wrist produces the three iconic blades from between his hands with a bloody, squelching snikt! that nobody in Hollywood would even think about. “Drop it, honey. I don’t wanna tussle with a girl.” Lifting his hand, he considers the claws before lifting a brow at her. “I will, but you’re not gonna like how it goes.” 

It’s so Logan that it makes her head hurt. Every organ in her body seems cut off from blood supply, throbbing painfully against her bones. She can feel the heat on her skin, the sweat pearling along her spine. So much tension pulls at the muscle in her jaw that she can’t hear past the burn in her muscle, and her tongue chases her bottom lip as she weighs his words. There’s not a drop of moisture in her mouth, so the sensation almost stings — and she can’t look away from his claws. 

His claws. 

Biting on her lower lip to the point she worried about blood, it’s suddenly hell to breathe the air. 

“You’re, oh my god —”  Black spots kick up in front of her eyes. 

For a second her legs forget how to function. Tossing the knife to the counter, she stumbles like a foal and catches herself on the counter, her breathing irregularly. Not a stitch of strength can be found in her entire body, and with wide-eyes she looks at him, unbelieving. He takes two hard, long strides to her and she thinks to scream, but doesn’t. 

Thick hands wrap around her arm and jerk to her a stable that’s solid. He’s so close now that she can smell his sweat, the musk she’d always imagined the Wolverine to carry in every comic book, all his appearances on screen.

Heavy eyes seem to weld in her place, and they are suddenly more and not at all Hugh Jackman, not in a way that she’d ever believe. They are Logan, only Logan, tortured and lost and worn. Their tiredness matches the lines in his face, the slight gray in the iconic tufts of hair and muttons. 

His grip on her is real, certainly. But she does the only thing she can think — she reels back and smacks him hard, a rough sound that cracks the air like she’d only ever heard performed. It turns his head, and he hisses at the contact, but isn’t moved.

The sting in her hand confirms it – he’s as real as the sun pounding into the apartment from the window over the sink. 

“You done?” He chides, his voice thick with a deep throatiness that alarms her even more. “If I wanted to hurt you, sweetheart, I would’ve.” Eyes skating over her frame so close to him, his expression changes into one that’s genuinely confused. “All the places the fuckin’ TVA could’ve spit me out, can’t say this is the worst one.” 

“You’re real,” it’s a squeak, her chest heaving with every painful breath, “what are you — what are you doing here?” Attempting to wrench her arm out of his hand, she looks to his hold on her and then back to his face, “Let go of me,” 

“I asked you if you were done,” it’s challenging. His brow pops, waiting. “I can do this all day, princess.” 

She doesn’t even think. “Because you’ve got so much to worry about, right? Yeah.” Pulling back again, he releases her and she takes a few hard steps back, until her hip brushes against the counter. Evening her breathing comes slowly, and it hurts to speak, but she does again. “You’re Logan. Logan Howlett. The Wolverine.” Gesturing to him, she swallows the disbelief in her voice. “How the heck did you get in here? Where did you come from?” Not to mention how the hell are you even real in my world, but, baby steps I guess. 

Muttering a low fuck under his breath, his hand cards through his hair. 

His chuckle is exaggerated, forced. “So much for that,” his scoff comes off a snort, “fuckin’ TVA. Don’t know how to use their own damn tech. Fucking geniuses.” 

“The TVA?” Her tone still isn’t even, “You mean the TVA, as in, like, Loki’s TVA?”  There’s a warble to it she can’t shake as she tries not to eyeball him too much. Instead she searches the counter for her glasses, retrieves them, and gives him a wide berth to retrieve the chair she’d knocked out of the way in her hurry to throw up. 

Putting the chair between them, her fingers dig into the back of it as her eyes skate over him. It’s impressive, his suit — sorely needed, for a Hugh Jackman Wolverine. And it’s terrifying just exactly how much he resembles Hugh, standing in her kitchen – all the marks the same. The nose, how his eyes glitter. The tip of his lips, the posture of his shoulders. All the body language cues are there, and for a brief moment, she wonders if he’d be able to sing and dance like Jackman, as well. 

She pushes the thought from her head and lifts on her toes to exhale, uneasily. “I –I don’t know how you got here,” biting her lower lip, she pushes the chair his direction with a foot, “and I’m sorry for uh, well—attacking, I guess. You scared me, I thought you were a rapist or something.” Stepping back from the chair, she gestures to it with a hand. “Um. If you have to go, I get it, but — you’re welcome to stay. I’ll listen to you, maybe I can help. I don’t think you realize where exactly you are.” 

His eyes flick from the chair to her wrapping her robe around herself tightly, chin tucking to her chest as she weighs just exactly how to explain what universe he’s bounced himself into. 

A world where X-Men and Wolverine are just characters in books, on television. How there’s not a Magneto or an X-gene, there’s no Charles or Jean Gray to whom he can run. 

How time travel, previously, is something only God manages – where the TVA is something recent to the MCU and exists to complicate the hell out of everything. 

A world where his life is played out by an Australian actor she’s been parasocially in love with since teenagedom. 

His posture changes. Loosening his shoulders, he clears his throat and approaches her kitchen chair slowly. It scrapes the floor as he pulls it to himselfs, lowers into it backwards. It creaks, accepting his 400+ pounds. Resting his chin on his arms draped across the back of the chair, he exhales slowly. Logan stares off into the space of her apartment for a few heartbeats as his eyes move back to hold hers, pointedly. 

She realizes this is the point of a movie that could make or break her part in it. She becomes A or B story from this moment alone, and it empties her soul of any and all courage. “You want some coffee?” 

“Coffee,” he chuckles, a hint of a resigned smile tugging at his mouth as his hand scrubs his face, slowly. “Sure. If coffee’s all you got, that’s fine.”

It’s so stereotypically Logan, and the look on his face deeply shows every one of his nearly-200 years. 

Biting the inside of her cheek, she nods slowly. Takes a few hesitant steps into the kitchen, towards the void of space over her Frigidaire. Managing a leg up onto the counter, she can feel him watching her as she retrieves the bottle from the cobwebs. Her fingers brush over the label, and she blushes at the dust. 

“Whiskey it is, then.” 

[shaiyasstuff]

Hello Shaiya!! I have a request! Can you PLEASE make a Xavier x Reader/MC actor AU? I don't mind if you make it a one shot or headcanon. In this AU Xavier and MC are like the main leads in a romcom!! If you decide to write it then thank youu!!

Hi loveee! Of course I can. Ask and I shall deliver :)) hope this satisfies your request and needs. Xavier being an actor was wew, I almost didn’t know how to write this. But I did :D so here is actor Xavier.

“You’re still holding your coffee like a cryptid,” you say, watching him with a smirk as he grips the paper cup with both hands, fingers curled stiffly around it like it might bite him.

Xavier glances down, his silver brows drawing together in mild confusion. “Is this… not normal?”

“Not unless you’re trying to emotionally connect with it.”

He considers that for a moment, lips twitching. “Maybe I am. It hasn’t disappointed me yet.”

You laugh, leaning back against the bench.

He’s still in costume—a soft white sweater under a tan overcoat, hair tousled like the wardrobe team gave up halfway.

His blue eyes flick toward you, quietly attentive.

“You did the nose scrunch again,” you say softly.

He tilts his head. “I did?”

“Yeah. Every time the character says something flirty, you do this little—” You mimic the expression. It’s completely ridiculous.

“Like you’re offended by your own charm.”

Xavier blinks once. “It’s involuntary.”

“Adorable.”

He blushes.

Not dramatically—just a faint dusting of pink at the tips of his ears. He sips his coffee like it’ll help hide it.

There’s a comfortable silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the crew resetting lights and adjusting boom mics.

You glance at him again, catching the way he’s watching the extras go by, lost in thought.

“Do you ever think about what we’d be like if this wasn’t a film?” you ask, casually. Too casually.

Xavier blinks. “As in… if this was real?”

“Yeah. You and me. Running into each other in a bookstore. Bickering over the last copy of Pride and Prejudice. Accidentally falling in love.”

He looks at you, gaze softening. “I think you’d win the book.”

You laugh. “That’s all you got from that scenario?”

He hums. “Well, I wouldn’t stand a chance, would I? Not with you looking at me like that.”

Your smile falters just slightly. “Like what?”

Xavier doesn’t break eye contact. “Like you already know the ending.”

Silence falls again—heavier, warmer this time.

Neither of you move.

Somewhere, someone yells “Five minutes to reset!” but it feels distant.

Then he breaks it with a soft, unsure laugh. “That wasn’t in the script.”

You grin, heart thudding. “No. But maybe it should’ve been.”

Xavier looks down at the now-cold coffee in his hands, then back at you. “We should improvise more.”

And just like that, the director calls you both to set. The final kiss scene is next.

Neither of you quite remember your marks when the camera starts rolling.

The fake city park is bathed in the warm haze of studio sunset—artificial, but convincing.

The lights dim just enough to cast a golden glow on the bench where you and Xavier now stand, inches apart.

You’re both in character. Supposedly.

Your character has just confessed, eyes bright with tears, voice trembling with hope. His character is supposed to close the distance and kiss her like it’s the first day of forever.

The director calls, “Action!”

Xavier steps closer. Not the confident stride you rehearsed—this one is slower, more tentative, like he’s not quite sure he should.

His brows furrow, but not from the script.

His eyes—always too clear, too honest—search your face like he’s reading between the lines of something unsaid.

Your line catches in your throat. You deliver it anyway.

“Say something. Please.”

A beat. A breath.

“I think I fell for you the second you looked at me like I mattered,” he says.

Not the line.

You blink.

That’s not the line.

The script said something about fate and serendipity and a coffee shop.

But this—

This is different. More quiet. More real.

Your chest tightens, but you don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because Xavier’s hand is now at your waist, fingers brushing tentative warmth over the thin fabric of your costume.

And his other hand rises slowly to your cheek.

His thumb barely grazes your skin, like he’s afraid to touch you fully.

And then—he kisses you.

It’s supposed to be a three-second kiss.

Soft. Clean. Fade to black.

But the moment your lips meet, something shifts.

It’s not choreographed.

It’s not clean.

It’s slow, and aching, and far too gentle for something pretend. His breath shudders against your mouth. His hand tightens at your waist.

You don’t know who leans in first for more—you or him—but the kiss deepens like it’s pulling from something hidden, something that’s been waiting in silence all along.

You feel his exhale. Feel the tremble in your fingers as they find the fabric of his coat.

He kisses you like he’s learning you.

Like he’s been trying not to.

Like he forgot the cameras existed.

And for a moment—you forget too.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. Eyes closed. Breathing unsteady.

The silence is deafening.

Then—

“Cut!”

The director’s voice is distant.

Someone claps. Someone else mutters something about the lighting being perfect.

But neither of you move.

Xavier doesn’t let go. Not immediately.

When he finally does, it’s slow—his hand dragging reluctantly away from your waist, as though the parting hurts.

You glance up at him, heart pounding, lips still tingling. He opens his eyes. Blue, wide, unreadable.

“That—” you begin, but the words don’t come.

He beats you to it. Voice low. Rough. “That wasn’t acting.”

You swallow. “I know.”

And maybe the camera’s still rolling. Maybe the crew is watching. Maybe the whole world will see it someday.

But in that moment, none of it matters.

Because he’s looking at you like he just wrote a love story and finally realized it was real.

—•

“That was…” you trailed off as you walked deeper into your dressing room, the door shutting with a soft click behind you.

Xavier followed close behind.

“Xav—”

You stopped. Or maybe he stopped you.

He was suddenly just there—standing so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His presence wrapped around you like gravity. Heavy. Inevitable.

Your breath hitched.

His eyes—blue, half-lidded, unreadable—searched your face. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The air between you buzzed with the unspoken.

You swallowed hard. You knew what that kiss had meant.

You wanted it too.

But—

“Xavier…” you started again, your voice a whisper that trembled under the weight of logic. “We have to think about—what people will say. Your fans. They—”

You flinched at the memory of the last actress tangled in rumors about him. How they tore her apart in interviews, on forums, in comments filled with venom.

You weren’t afraid of love.

You were afraid of what it would cost.

But your thoughts shattered the second his fingers brushed against yours.

Barely a touch. Delicate. Testing.

But it was enough to silence the noise in your head.

You didn’t pull away.

He didn’t either.

You looked up at him, lips parted, breath uneven.

“This… Xavier…” You said his name like it meant everything and nothing at once.

His gaze dropped to your joined hands, then slowly returned to yours, steady and sure. “I know.”

The quietness of his voice made it feel more intimate than any shout.

Then, he tilted his head—just slightly—and gave you that look.

That knowing look.

Calm on the surface, but laced with something smug beneath it.

He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly what you wanted.

“Tell me this isn’t what you want,” he said, softly. Challenge humming just beneath his words.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

He was giving you an out.

You didn’t take it.

Instead, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

And whispered, “I can’t.”

That was all it took.

Xavier stepped closer—close enough that your back brushed against the vanity table. His hand slipped into yours, lacing his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t kiss you again.

Not yet.

He just looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t known he’d been asking until now.

And for once—you didn’t feel like running from it.

—•

The next morning, something shifted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was there.

Xavier still held his coffee like a cryptid. You still teased him for it. He still did the nose scrunch whenever his character said something flirty.

But now, when the director called “Cut,” his hand lingered on yours just a second longer.

When the cameras stopped rolling, he’d lean in just close enough that your heart stuttered—like a secret only the two of you knew.

There were small things.

Like the way he started showing up at your trailer with your favorite snacks.

Or how he offered his coat between takes, even when you weren’t cold.

Or the way he looked at you, like the lines were blurring—on-screen and off—and maybe, he didn’t mind at all.

On the second-to-last day of shooting, the whole cast went out for drinks. Someone brought karaoke into the mix.

You weren’t sure who. Xavier didn’t sing, but he sat beside you with a soft smile as you belted out a chaotic duet with the lead supporting actor.

When you collapsed beside him, laughing, cheeks flushed and breathless, he didn’t say anything.

He just brushed your hair from your face and whispered, “You’re kind of magic, you know that?”

And you had to pretend your heart wasn’t doing somersaults.

On the last day of filming, the crew gifted everyone little wrap-up tokens.

Your gift was a photo. A still from that scene. The kiss. Golden hour melting across your faces, his forehead resting gently against yours.

You stared at it longer than you should have, fingers brushing over the glossy paper.

Xavier walked up beside you, holding his own wrapped gift. But he wasn’t looking at it.

He was looking at you.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Just… feels like something’s ending.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Not everything has to.”

You looked up. He looked nervous—Xavier, of all people.

The same man who could face fan mobs and chaotic press tours with a calm smile was now shifting from foot to foot like the floor might vanish under him.

“Do you want this to end?” he asked.

And you didn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

He let out a quiet breath of relief.

You smiled up at him. “But we’ll have to be careful.”

“I know,” he said. “We’ll take it slow. Quiet, if you want. I don’t care how long it takes. I just… I want to try. With you.”

You stepped forward, closing the small gap between you.

“And if your fans riot?” you teased, fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve.

“I’ll protect you,” he said easily. “With my coffee cup if I have to.”

You laughed, and he smiled like the sound made the whole world better.

The set was being dismantled behind you. Lights dimming, props packed away. People saying goodbyes.

But here, tucked just behind one of the now-empty sound stages, with your wrap gifts in hand and his fingers laced through yours—

It didn’t feel like an ending.

It felt like a beginning.

He kissed your temple, soft and unhurried.

And you, for the first time, didn’t worry about tomorrow.

Because Xavier was warm beside you, your hands fit just right, and maybe—just maybe—this was your real-life romcom after all.

[daydreamers-corner]

bungo stray dogs (stormbringer) crack drabble about piano man and his jokes + the flags' reaction

     author's note and warnings; my fellow flags enjoyers (there's actually so many of you out there, hiii!) I come bearing gifts. I need more of their friendship in my life. terrible jokes ahead - but other than that, no warnings apply. credit. inspo.

     laughter is the best medicine; The Old World is, predictably, loud and busy on a Friday evening. Amongst the crowd is a group whom the staff are well familiar with. They're regulars, but even if they weren't, the sheer eccentricity of the group would ensure they were recognized anywhere.

They occupy a pool table in the back of the bar which has since been deemed 'their' table. No one dares to approach them - the bar staff are 99% sure they're mafioso - though there is the occasional brave fangirl that tries to shoot their shot with the group's resident dreamy actor.

Despite their intimidating looks, though, the bar staff have come to understand that they're just a regular group of guys hanging out and being guys.

After all, it's hard to take someone seriously when they don't even take themselves seriously.

"So how are those supernotes coming along, Piano Man?" Doc teased, knowing damn well that the leader of their group had missed yet another deadline.

“You can’t rush perfection,” the man huffed. “They’ll get done when I feel like they’re done and not a moment sooner.”

“I’m sure the boss loves that,” Chuuya commented with a raised brow.

“He can wait,” Piano Man said haughtily. He leaned forward, eyes focused on the 8 ball. “I have other plans that take precedence.”

At that, everyone perked up.

“Oh? And what plans are those?” Lippmann asked curiously. He leaned against the table, sipping from his wine glass. It didn’t matter if he got a little drunk now; the game was already over.

The leader of their little group aimed his cue stick and reeled his arm back to punt it forward. The cue ball strikes its target square on, ricocheting it straight into the back corner pocket. Satisfied, Piano Man straightened up. “I had some war plans drafted that I was going to share with you all…”

Before anyone can open their mouth and ask him what war he was talking about—

“But I thought it would bomb.”

The line was delivered so deadpan and with the smuggest smile one could make.

A lot of things happened at once.

Albatross gaped at him for a second (like he couldn’t believe Piano Man had made such a terrible joke), then started laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Doc sent the blonde a concerned (and appalled) look. “Albatross, you’re the only one that found that funny…”

If any of them had been paying attention, they would’ve heard a small huff of laughter coming from Iceman. It’s quickly and smoothly covered up by a puff of his cigarette.

Chuuya held his cue stick in one hand while the other pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “I’m crashing out.”

Finally, Lippmann could only give their leader a wry, exasperated smile. “Piano Man… you’re so embarrassing…”

Although his joke totally bombed (no pun intended) with its audience, Piano Man looked pleased, almost proud at the varying degrees of incredulity he managed to get out of his friends. So, against everyone’s wishes, he continued.

”I lost the fight to battle those urges...” he said dramatically as everyone looked at him with wide eyes, unable to stop this train wreck of an evening. “But at least I took a shot at it.”

“STOP,” Chuuya was the first one to act after several seconds of silence. To anyone else, it would’ve been uncomfortable, but Piano Man relished in it. “JUST STOP. I can’t take any more of this!”

Albatross had already been precariously teetering on his seat from laughter. The second (worthless) joke only renewed it, causing him to laugh so hard he falls out of his chair and onto the floor (this does not stop him from continuing to laugh).

Doc sighs in fond disbelief as he gets up to help the younger man off the floor. He shakes his head, “This is getting out of hand,” in regard to Piano Man’s antics, but the mischievous glint in his eye would prove he wasn’t actually against it.

Iceman almost chokes on his cigarette at the sheer stupidity of it all. This time, he’s unable to cover up the spluttered cough, but fortunately, no one pays it any heed. Still, he has to look away from them (he knows he’ll start laughing otherwise and that wouldn’t be a good look for his stoic reputation).

Meanwhile, Lippmann has danced away and is pretending to ignore the group by initiating conversation with a random stranger. “Who, him? No, I don’t know him.” All the while looking absolutely clueless.

“But you all walked in together??”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” (Gaslighter.)

All in all, a very normal Friday evening.

[cynicalpurple]

Love at First Sight | Choi Seung Cheol

Pairing: Seungcheol x fem!Reader (reader is a pediatric doctor)

Genre: fluff

Warning: hospital environment and small mention of alcohol (let me know if there's anything else)

Finally! This is the last part of this story!! I made it longer in compensation for yesterday's post that was quite short (my apologies)

Here are the links of the previous parts~💜

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Seungcheol was sitting in the hospital hallways again—this time he was alone with only a small cake box by his side. He wasn’t sure why he had bought it—it was an impulse…but he couldn’t show up empty-handed, right? His leg bounced restlessly as his eyes flicked to every passerby, searching—waiting. Every second stretched unbearably long. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed her—she was there, only a few steps away.

He stood up quickly and shortened the distance with long strides, too impatient to be closer to her “Doctor!” When she turned and their eyes met, he felt that he was doing the right thing. “Oh…too bad that Taejin’s already asleep. He’s been asking for you” she said, smiling at him. Seungcheol’s nervousness subsided now that he was in front of her “I can come back to visit him some other day…” and with a bigger smile she told him that it was really kind of him and then she asked if he came for a check-up. “No…I actually came to see you” startled by Seungcheol’s directness, Y/N smile faltered, quickly replaced by a confused expression. “I know it’s sudden but…I wanted to ask if you’d like to go out with me on a date” and after a small pause he added “I brought cake”. Y/N chuckled softly and jokingly she asked if the cake was a cherry one to which he nodded eagerly “Well—I can’t say no to a cherry cake, but…will we eat something before it?”. Seungcheol’s expression brightened at her answer and asked what she wanted to eat and without thinking much she said “I’m craving some ramyeon…but the convenience store kind. Oh, but that’s not very fancy for a first date, is it?” to which he dismissed her worries saying that whatever she wanted to do was fine for him. With the date decided she told him that she still needed to stay for one more hour at the hospital “Don’t worry about that. I’ll wait here”.

Y/N left to end her shift and Seungcheol sat on the chair to wait for her. The hour at which her shift ended arrived but she didn’t show—he didn’t budge, determined to wait for her. The clock continued ticking, the hospital bustled around him but Seungcheol was glued to that chair. Patiently waiting for her—she was worth the wait. He wasn’t looking at the clock anymore, she gave him her word and knowing how kind she is…she wouldn’t go back on it, right? Something must have happened…maybe she was having surgery like the other day. Then—rushed footsteps echoed down the hallway and rounding the corner…there she was, coming to a halt the moment she saw him. Seungcheol smiled instinctively and the relief on her face made his heart swell “I told you I’d wait for you…I always will”. And in that moment, when she gave him the prettiest smile he had ever seen, he knew—he wanted to spend forever by her side.

Sitting at a plastic table outside the convenience store wasn’t how Seungcheol had pictured their first date. But as he watched Y/N slurp her ramyeon with a satisfied sigh, he realized—he wouldn’t change a thing. Even if he knew it was risky to be so openly outside sitting with a woman, he didn’t care. In fact, he wasn’t worried for him but rather for her. He knew first hand how harsh social media scrutiny could be. But…if someone took a picture of him right now, he would feel proud. He wanted the world to see that he was sitting with the prettiest lady, who was also undeniably smart and cool for dedicating her life to save lives. “This is exactly what I needed” Y/N said, setting down her chopsticks with a pleased smile. Seungcheol chuckled and rested his chin on his palm as he looked at her “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone enjoy a bowl of noodles this much…” and she gasped dramatically “How should I feel about that? I mean…aren’t you in a group with twelve other men?” He laughed and teasingly told her that she wins over all of them.

The conversation flowed effortlessly, laughter spilling between bites of food and sips of beer. She asked about his music and job with genuine interest, and Seungcheol found himself opening up more than he expected—maybe it was the way she made him feel as if he was in the safest place. Then, there was the cake. He placed the small box on the table and opened it with a boyish grin “You really weren’t kidding with the cake…”. He handed her a fork and sheepishly admitted “I figured that it wouldn’t be right to show up empty-handed and I wasn’t sure if you like flowers so…I ended up buying the cake on an impulse”. Y/N complimented him for his sweetness and while she was calling him a “gentleman” Seungcheol could feel how his ears were turning red.

The night stretched on—but neither of them seemed in a hurry to leave. Eventually, Seungcheol walked her home, their steps were slow as if neither wanted the night to end. When they reached her doorstep, Y/N turned to him with a soft smile “Tonight was fun” and he couldn’t help but smile. In a sudden rush of confidence he said “Does that mean I get to plan a second date?” and she tilted her head, pretending to think for a second before grinning “Only if it involves cake”. Seungcheol laughed, his heart feeling impossibly full “Deal” and with the promise of a second date she gave him a small wave before disappearing behind her door, leaving Seungcheol standing there, grinning to himself like a fool. If this was how their story was starting, he couldn’t wait for what was next.

Hope everyone enjoyed this!! It made me really happy to write it~💜

[chericheribaby]

dirty death eater (?)

“Oh Merlin.”

Regulus looks away. “I’ll understand if you want to end this—“

“End this? Baby, what are you on about? I’ll not leave you for this.”

James pulls Regulus to his chest, holding him tight as he shields his face from people that aren’t there. Because they aren’t in a hallway. Because they’re in the Room of Requirement. 

“Listen to me, we will get through this, nothing to be ashamed of, I promise.”

“I thought you would be disgusted by this,” Regulus mumbles, his voice muffled by James’ shirt. 

James shakes his head, patting Regulus’ hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner. 

“I’ll never be disgusted by you, Reg, especially not by this.” 

They stay like that just holding each other. And then, almost imperceptibly, James talks again. 

“I’ve considered it once, you know.”

Regulus reels back instantly, shocked out of his mind. He looks like he wants to say something but he’s too stunned to speak. 

“What? Don’t look at me like that, it’s not as strange as it sounds.”

“James, I don’t understand, I—“

“Many people do it, why can’t I?”

“What? James how can you say that?”

“Why, Regulus, don’t be such a hypocrite now,” James frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve even seen your brother do it too. By accident, mind you, but it counts, I think.”

Regulus’ eyes bulge. “My brother? There’s no way in hell he would— Wait, what do you mean by accident?”

James scratches the back of his neck, grimacing. “He’s going to kill me if he finds out I told you this but, there’s this thing that’s called ‘worms in dirt’, a muggle dish —Remus introduced it to us, the heathen— that’s basically chocolate mousse with crumbled chocolate biscuits on top and candy worms, can you believe it?” James chuckles in disbelief and Regulus looks more and more lost by the second. “Anyway, Sirius loves it whenever Remus makes it so the other day we played a prank on Sirius and instead of chocolate biscuits we put dirt, actual dirt. Oh Reg, you should’ve seen his face and— Wait, baby what’s wrong?”

“James,” Regulus looks aghast. “I said I’m a Death Eater, not a dirt eater. I’m not eating dirt, I’m serving the Dark Lord.” 

The silence is defeating. They just stand there, looking at each other. James is the one who breaks it first.

“Oh." he says. "So you mean…” 

“Yes.”

“Oh.” James blinks, once. “Well, that makes more sense, yeah.”

for @rae-lune who inspired this whole thing

[crossbackpoke-check]

Why I Am Not Coming In To Work Today [abridged], Jess Zimmerman

part one | part two

[todayisafridaynight]

One of my fave jackets is this green jacket with a fur hood im wearin rn because 1.) its green 2.) my dad gave it to me 3.) it reminds me of saejima. Who also reminds me of my dad

[honey-tongued-devil]

▶[Arcane preference] reacting to you wearing their clothes [Jayce, Viktor, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Mel, Sevika, ]

If you know me, hello little deers, I'm back! If you don’t know me, welcome! Just a heads-up that I don’t use "Y/N," but rather the impersonal "you," and even though I talk about clothes, no sizes or weight are involved. Enjoy the read!

Jayce:

  - It’s not that rare when you’re together; he’s a real gentleman through and through. If it’s cold, he’ll give you his jacket, his scarf, anything to keep you warm  

  - But when you’re the one taking his clothes, it’s different  

  - When he sees you walking around the room in his shirt, just after waking up, something in his brain malfunctions  

  - It’s how it fits you, no matter how big or long it is, it seems like it was made just for you, to give you that look  

  - And to him, it feels like some kind of subliminal ad, as if the universe is making you so attractive in the simplicity of that gesture just to tell him he needs to hurry up and put a ring on your finger so he can enjoy that sight every day  

  - It’s hard for you to get anything done in the morning when he wakes up with those thoughts  

  - Those are the days when you stay in bed, cuddling under the covers, with him looking at you, hand on his cheek, getting more lost in you by the second  

Viktor:

  - For Viktor, the idea of a “little thief stealing his clothes” is an interesting one  

  - He’s never been a fan of tight-fitting clothes, plus, with his physique, it’s rare for anything to fit snugly anyway  

  - That’s why, except for his Academy uniform, the rest of his clothes are comfortable and at least two sizes too big for him, without mentioning Jayce's oversize ones in his closet  

  - What Viktor didn’t expect was that, once you started liking them, you’d just take them straight out of his drawer  

  - The first time he knocked on your door to ask if you’d seen his shirt —the very one you were wearing— he first stopped, confused, wondering how it had ended up on you  

  - And then, though he didn’t show it, he paused to notice with satisfaction how well it wrapped around your body  

  - Sometimes he pretends to forget his clothes at your place, just to see them on you, and to get them back with your scent on them  

  - For the nights when he feels lonelier  

Ekko: 

  - Communism  

  - There’s not really a strong sense of what belongs to whom at the Tree, although some clothes (jackets in particular) eventually get so personalized that no one dares to take them anymore  

  - The first time you grabbed Ekko’s jacket, it was simply because you were freezing, it was really cold, and he was resting, so he didn’t need it  

  - But when he saw you wearing it, his pupils dilated so much you could notice it despite his very dark eyes  

  - Ever since then, it’s him who gives it to you and insists that you wear it, because he likes it: there’s something extremely intimate and deeply personal about walking around with you in his jacket  

  - It’s like marking you as his, but really, also reminding himself of it  

  - And Ekko may be proud, but one thing you quickly and painfully learn in the alleys is to say ‘I love you’ before it’s too late, and that small possessive gesture makes him feel fulfilled because it’s like he’s telling everyone that he couldn’t live without you 

 

Vander:

  - Vander’s clothes have this super-secret ability to change depending on who’s wearing them. For example, what are shirts on him turn into dresses on you  

  - When you put them on, even just for the sake of convenience, you find yourself laughing in front of every mirror you pass by  

  - And if he notices, he can’t help but hug you from behind, leaning down to rub his nose against your neck, smiling against your skin  

  - “You know,” he says every single time, “it looks better on you than it does on me,” and no matter how false it might be, in his eyes, it’s truer than almost anything else  

  - After seeing you a few times in his grown-up man's clothes, he decided to dig through an old box to find the clothes from when he was younger and mend them before leaving them folded on your side of the bed, like a little gift  

Silco:

  - Silco’s strangest habit was the connection he had with his clothes: they looked like Piltover garments, except for the boots and the shirt under the velvet vest, yet they were torn, poorly mended, and worn out in several places  

  - Despite being the richest man in the undercity, he never changed them  

  - The only newer piece in his wardrobe that he used to wear was his coat, which was in perfect condition, scented with cologne, and lined with soft velvet that followed the direction of your fingers when you touched it  

  - Sure, there were ceremonial outfits, pajamas, and something comfortable yet always elegant, but he had worn them so little that they almost didn’t seem like his  

  - That’s why one day you simply decided you were bored, and while he was in a meeting, you could take the opportunity to try on the ones that fit you  

  - But that little fashion show from his wardrobe to the mirror probably took longer than expected, and definitely you were too focused, because you didn’t notice the tall figure watching you, leaning against the doorframe  

  - “Don’t take that off, I’ve got an idea or two,” his voice broke the silence, making you jump  

Jinx:

  - Her clothes are more like a flea market than a wardrobe: there are men’s clothes, women’s clothes, from Piltover and Zaun, intact, held together by metal staples, clean, splattered with paint, torn from explosions, some so small you wonder who they could even fit, and some so large that you and at least four of her father’s henchmen could comfortably fit in them with room to spare  

  - She’s the one who tells you to grab something from the pile the first time you ask to help her with her calculations and experiments, and in the end, you choose something comfortable rather than something intact or clean  

  - It took her a good half hour to notice, and then another hour to stop talking about it  

  - It was something she hadn’t done since she had a family, sharing clothes with someone else, and suddenly she realized just how much she missed it  

  - Every now and then, she’d give you oversized shirts on purpose, just to disappear under the fabric and snuggle up to you, where she felt sheltered enough to feel less vulnerable  

Vi:

  - Vi’s mentality was interesting because, by accident, if she noticed you were eyeing someone’s clothes with interest, somehow the next day those clothes would end up on your bed  

  - Vi would do anything for you; if it were up to her, you’d be dressed in pearls and gold, but neither the place nor her situation allowed it  

  - That’s why she never offered you her clothes: the older ones were tattered, barely definable as rags, which she stubbornly patched up every month  

  - The new ones were stolen, spoils from street fights, but they always came in looking battered and worn, or worse, stained with blood or strange substances, so they weren’t good for you  

  - When she saw you wearing a sweater from her wardrobe, stained and burned in spots, the first thing she felt was guilt  

  - She hated not being able to treat you the way she wanted to  

  - But from that day on, she made sure to at least wash her clothes before putting them away, and slowly she learned to love the clothes you stole a little more than the others  

  - That sweater, for example, she would defend it with her life  

Caitlyn:

  - Whenever you stayed over at her place, she always made sure to provide everything for you: slippers, socks, pajamas, anything you might need  

  - And it was always the highest quality you had ever seen  

  - So seeing you in her clothes wasn’t new, although she sometimes liked to have you try on things she didn’t wear anymore, partly because she couldn’t due to her important name, and partly because she spent half her time in uniform  

  - Those little fashion shows almost always ended with her on top of you, while you are very busy figuring out how to stay quiet so none of the servants, or worse, her parents, would catch you  

  - It didn’t matter if the clothes didn’t suit you, being able to see you in so many different lights made her fall even more in love with everything about you  

  - The final blow? One day she decided to look through the enforcers’ uniforms to find one that would fit you, and for the first time, she saw you in clothes that matched hers  

  - There was something about it that made her hope that uniform would change the chemistry of your brain too and make you join the force, just so she could spend more time with you, just so she could see you like that more often  

Mel:

  - For Mel, it wasn’t an event: she was used to everything, mastering her emotions, and seeing you wearing something of hers had only left her confused for a second, from which she quickly recovered, smiling at you  

  - “It looks really good on you, you know?” she had asked  

  - It didn’t bother her. Objectively, you seemed stupid borrowing those elegant clothes tailored exactly to her body  

  - It almost felt like heresy to wear the clothes of a goddess-like figure. But the goddess had sensed something, and she began buying and commissioning outfits for both you and her, matching, so you wouldn’t feel like you were missing something  

  - But there was one moment, a specific one, where seeing you in one of her dresses had left her speechless  

  - When you told her that the sweater was so beautiful it was almost a shame knowing she couldn’t wear it on the day you’d marry her  

  - And Mel Medarda came from a land of war, where it was hard to get attached to people, let alone objects  

  - Yet from that day, that piece of clothing became a constant for her, even if it meant layering or pulling it down to keep her shoulders bare  

  - Because it no longer just warmed her skin; it began to warm something deeper, something she hadn’t even realized she had  

Sevika:

  - Her clothes reflected her line of work: dirty, unpleasant, dangerous  

  - But despite that, she would drape them over you herself, no matter how worn they were: if she thought you might be cold, without a word, you’d find a sweater or hoodie on your shoulders  

  - And even though she’d glance at you from the corner of her eye, she wouldn’t stop watching you for a single moment when you wore something of hers  

  - It was a matter of homeland—there was no ownership in Zaun, not even last names, as even the family you belonged to was irrelevant compared to what you could do  

  - And the gangs, thugs, and troublemakers wouldn’t hesitate to steal what was yours  

  - But you were hers, and you couldn’t be stolen. And that shirt was hers, but she didn’t feel mutilated, like she normally would, when you wore it  

  - In fact, she loved it, opening her arms to invite you to snuggle up, holding you carefully so the prosthetic wouldn’t bother you, adjusting the clothing on you ten, a hundred times, almost unconsciously  

  - And when you wore her clothes, it felt like for a little while, you could wear her skin too, to understand her better, and she suddenly seemed more vulnerable  

[meownotgood]

pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

read on ao3

════════════════════

"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?" 

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes. 

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat. 

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions. 

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest. 

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face. 

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers. 

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register. 

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug. 

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks. 

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone. 

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-" 

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy. 

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus. 

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this." 

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?" 

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins. 

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop." 

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?" 

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath. 

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice. 

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh. 

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic. 

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this. 

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose. 

"That's when you find it." 

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right. 

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside. 

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze. 

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles. 

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest. 

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days." 

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration." 

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again." 

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you. 

"And what is it I'm doing?" 

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to." 

"I am not-" 

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down. 

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count." 

Your mouth forms a hard line. 

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-" 

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that." 

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach. 

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-" 

"It is a necessary risk." 

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.  

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…" 

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going. 

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his. 

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him. 

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was. 

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn. 

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together. 

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background. 

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear." 

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal. 

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron. 

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula. 

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away." 

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on." 

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity. 

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again. 

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy. 

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles. 

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning. 

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams. 

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love. 

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-" 

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet — 

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back. 

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving." 

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately. 

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale. 

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-" 

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me." 

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones. 

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion? 

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench. 

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please." 

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?" 

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears. 

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die." 

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears. 

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness. 

It's a reminder that you're right. 

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time. 

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions. 

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him. 

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands. 

He knows this body is… wilting. 

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him. 

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last? 

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted. 

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped. 

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology. 

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do. 

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus. 

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying. 

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to. 

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once. 

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful. 

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change. 

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline. 

It's something Viktor picks up on. 

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him. 

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you. 

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can. 

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral. 

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice. 

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned. 

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring. 

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him. 

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop. 

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt. 

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it. 

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before. 

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth. 

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it. 

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull. 

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve. 

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead. 

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back. 

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special? 

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck. 

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone. 

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks. 

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand. 

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you. 

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens. 

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his. 

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration. 

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead. 

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like. 

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone. 

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together. 

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat. 

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair. 

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold. 

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight. 

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation. 

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun. 

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his. 

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things." 

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids. 

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway. 

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different. 

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough. 

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to." 

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?" 

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired. 

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…" 

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting? 

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw. 

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?" 

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap. 

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession." 

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his. 

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression. 

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate." 

"Oh? Enlighten me." 

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears. 

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late." 

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?" 

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance." 

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate. 

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious." 

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day. 

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly. 

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you. 

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe." 

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress. 

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you. 

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd. 

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'" 

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums. 

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time. 

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional. 

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene." 

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you. 

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget. 

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm — 

"Vik-" 

"I need to have your trust." 

Your eyes widen. 

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-" 

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you." 

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open. 

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking — 

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please." 

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it. 

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you." 

Viktor softens. 

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you. 

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark." 

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close.