#HE LOVES HER AND IT WAS RUINED AND HE CLEANED IT AND FIXED IT AND GAVE IT BACK TO HER

[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[leatherbookmark]

"I know why you want to return to our world, Meggie! You just miss your boyfriend! But we haven't seen everything of this beautiful world yet!" Mr Mortimer sir your wife was enslaved for working as a scribe disguised as a man. In this world women are punished for learning their fathers' craft and your thirteen years old daughter would be already married if she was born in this world. I know the books are very pretty but Mo your wife is pregnant. I don't think they have c-sections here :(

[ominouspositivity-or-else]

every time one of my coworkers opens her mouth about something nice her fiance did for her my standards for men go up

[slightly-knot-insane]

Safe and Sound

[ m!wolf hybrid x fem!rabbit hybrid ]

a/n: had to make this a separate post, thank you again @corvid-brain content: light biting, piv, knotting, creampie, pregnancy

The wolf hybrid and his pack had built a lovely community in the mountains, and their village was starting to blossom. Families grew rapidly, and they prospered in peace. But some hybrids were jealous of their happiness...

Today, the wolf hybrid and a few of his friends went to help their new neighbor fix the roof. The owl hybrid had broken his wing a few days ago, and his wife was heavily pregnant, almost ready to lay her eggs. It was a difficult job, but fun nonetheless. Even though it took them all afternoon to finish it, they were rewarded with a hearty dinner and delicious wine. The wolf hybrid and his friends stayed a little bit longer to help the owl hybrid family clean everything up, too.

Finally, the wolf hybrid started his walk home. His village was scattered on the side of a mountain, and his home was a bit farther from the rest of the houses, which provided him with peace and space for his growing family. It was perfect! Well, almost always.

An ominous scent crawled inside his nostrils as soon as he got close. Metal. Blood.

His hair stood up, he dropped to all fours and ran toward his house, barely holding in a terrified howl. Nononono! Not his family! Not them! The sun hadn't set yet and, clear as a day, he saw footsteps. Paws. From another pack. Going toward his home. Fast fast fast! The smell was growing thicker and more bitter. Tears welled in his eyes. Maybe he's not too late!

He almost screamed when he saw fresh blood on the window. Many footsteps marked the dirt around his house, different smells mixed in the air, and a splatter of blood ruined his wife's flowers. And the front door was slightly ajar. NonononoNONONONO!

He barged in, ready for the worst, but his wife shut his mouth with her tiny hand. "Shhhh, they are sleeping." Her beautiful soft face was covered in blood, and her left ear was cut.

"Wh-Wh-Wh—" He just couldn't form any words, his legs shaking and throat shut down.

"We are all fine. They ran away, the cowards! We are all safe now. The girls sensed trouble in time, and I could get ready. Thank the gods I insisted you teach me how to handle a knife."

"But..." The wolf hybrid gently touched her long rabbit ear. "But you are hurt... The blood..."

His beautiful mate touched her wound and flashed him a bright smile. "Oh! Don't worry! It's a scratch! The blood is theirs. You know how fast and tough I am!" She flexed her arm, and a small bump showed just above her elbow.

The wolf hybrid gazed at his wife, speechless. Her face was stained with the disgusting blood of their enemies, and her dress was ripped and soiled, and yet she was victoriously grinning. She was so weak, her strength but a fraction of her husband's, but she was so brave to fight alone and defend their babies. Their pups. So small. So incredible.

Wolf hybrid got lost in thought, barely listening to her describing the foul deed. He will ask her to tell him again. And again. And many more times. But now - he grabbed her around her waist and lifted her up - now he wanted nothing more than to love her and show her love.

He kissed her and muffled her voice inside his mouth. She was surprised by his sudden affections. His tongue quickly invaded her, and he pressed her firmly against his chest, hating that no hug could be big or strong enough for her right now.

She somehow pushed herself away. "My love!" she gasped. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" He stared into her eyes, hunger overtaking his features. "I've never been better, never been more prouder, never loved you more than right now."

The rabbit hybrid's eyes widened in shock. Not that her husband wasn't always a caring lover and a doting partner, but she truly wasn't expecting a hard-on against her blood-soiled clothes. But they had done stranger things before, and right now, all their pups were blissfully and safely asleep in the next room. She smiled and kissed her husband back.

Her husband growled impatiently, grabbing her clothes. "It's ruined, anyway," she said while pulling his shirt over his head. He happily used his claws to shred them to pieces, revealing her beautiful soft body. He immediately pulled her nipple with his teeth, carrying her toward their bedroom and their cozy little bed. They fell down, his large body pinning her against the mattress. He could barely contain himself from pushing his cock and entire knot immediately inside her. He had to be gentle; she had been through a lot.

"Fuck me now!" she moaned spreading her legs and pulling his hips toward herself. He looked at her soaking wet pussy and drool dripped from his fangs. "Fuck me hard. Now."

He grabbed her long rabbit ears and pulled them back to expose her neck. He bit her below the jaw, making her whimper. With his other arm he positioned his pulsating cock and immediately plunged into her cunt.

"Yes," she moans quietly, hoarsely. "Yes, harder, harder."

Their pups were asleep, but unless they were outside somewhere, far away from them, they never got fully vocal. The rabbit hybrid loved to say obscene things and scream in pleasure, so her husband immediately put his paw over her mouth. Only then he started fucking her little pussy will all he got.

Her eyes quickly rolled backwards, and her legs pulled him closer. Her body worked with his thrusts as she was chasing her release. The wolf hybrid bit her neck again and felt her cunt contract around his cock, reaching her peak already. He didn't slow down and barely contained a howl inside his throat from the rushing desire in his blood.

He lifted her hips upward, and smothered her moans with his tongue, pounding her cunt. It was so warm, so moist, so familiar. It was home. The smell of blood was overtaken by the smell of their mixed sweat and juices. It's making him feral.

"I'll... knot you..." he said. "I'm so close..."

"Yes, yes, yes..." She put her own hand into her mouth to silence herself, almost breathless.

Just as the wolf hybrid felt the pulsating climax heating up, he pushed his knot inside his wife pussy, and the sensation of her soaked walls around his entire sex made him cum almost immediately. He bit his wife again, grunting into her skin, holding in a fearsome howl as the rabbit hybrid reached another climax, pulling his knot deeper.

"My love..." he said. "You are safe." A wave of late worry and relief washed over him as he layed on top of his gorgeous wife, enjoying his knot resting inside her.

"Safe." She held him tight, blissfully enjoying his hot cum dripping down her ass, but mostly poolling inside her womb. "Another litter, perhaps?"

Her husband smiled. "Would you like that?"

"Conceiving them on this day to compensate the stress would really make us more than lucky, wouldn't it?

The wolf hybrid nuzzled his soft wife's fur. "That it would."

[angrythingstarlight]

What’s worse for Bucky- when Bee cries or when Malyshka cries?

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky x Reader, daughter nicknamed Bumblebee.

CW: Fluff, implied smut.

When little Bee cries, Bucky automatically goes into protective dad mode.

She's a happy baby who's becoming an even happier, sweet toddler. She is also the most protected child on the east coast thanks to Bucky crafting a safe environment around her.

So Bucky knows when she's upset, it's most likely because she's tired and cranky and needs a nap. He knows how to get her to settle down, Bucky has put important meetings on hold so she could lay in his arms until she fell asleep.

She might cry when her head or tummy hurts, and like any child her age, she doesn't know how to convey what's wrong except by crying. It's okay though because Bucky can tell what's wrong by the way she behaves. And he knows how to make her feel better, whether it's with his grandma's soup or medicine hidden in some juice.

She's an active, imaginative little girl who's currently battling three dragons, it's inevitable that she's going to fall down and hurt her knee or hand. She knows all she needs to do is find her Papa and he'll help her.

Bucky has so many tips and tricks up his sleeve, things he's learned from his grandparents, friends, and the baby books he studied when Bee was still baking away in her mama's belly.

So Bucky doesn't really panic when his little girl cries because he knows that between him and her mama, they'll fix whatever is wrong.

But when his wife cries, oh that's an entirely different story.

Bucky considers himself a reasonable, level-headed man. Until someone upsets his wife. His stoic nature goes right out the window and a more primal side of him takes over. No one makes Bucky's wife cry and gets away with it. All he needs is a name and he's going to make things even.

He's an eye for an eye kinda man.

If someone makes the love of his life cry then Bucky makes them regret waking up this morning. It's more than fair.

There are other times when she cries that elicit a slighty different response from him.

When she was pregnant and hormonal, he learned to adapt to her rapidly changing, unpredictable moods. Bucky never teased her when she kept crying during movies or that one ridiculously sad commercial. He soothed and comforted her every time it happened. Let her cry on his shoulder while he rubbed her back.

If she woke up in the middle of the night in tears because she had a craving but her favorite restaurant was closed, Bucky merely made a call and would you look at that? Who knew Antonio's had a midnight delivery service, of course they serve their full menu at 1am.

Bad day? Overwhelmed and so stressed out that the only thing she can do is cry? Bucky knows a few ways to make it right, to take her mind off everything. It works. Every. Single. Time.

There is one exception to the rule.

There are a few instances when Bucky doesn't mind seeing his pretty wife with tears in her eyes.

That's when she's under him. On top of him. Bent over his desk. On all fours in front of their bedroom mirror. Mascara streaming down the sides of her face, eyes rolled back and her hands digging into his back as he goes deeper and faster.

He loves turning her into a pliant, whimpering fucked out mess. Loves seeing her struggle to take it. Loves the way he stretches her limits until she breaks around him. Loves cleaning up the mess he made.

Those tears—the ones that fill her beautiful eyes right around the time he's flipping her over and taking her for the third time that night—those tears turn him on, make him want to ruin her just a little more than he already has. So he does.

Bucky believes the only time his wife should cry is when he's making her feel so good she can't help it. That's the only exception. Anything else is unacceptable.

[twi-liight]

Hi! I suffer from Baldur's Gate brainrot. I just stumbled upon your blog and love your writing! Could you do some Astarion, Gale and Karlach headcanons for taking care of Tav after they're badly injured in battle?

Reckless Attack ❣

Grieve, weep, and agonize over a corpse - but know that death is never final in Faerun. The burden of injuries will instead always be present: pain is eternal, no matter how numb. ❥ Astarion/Tav, Gale/Tav, Karlach/Tav. ❥ TW: Descriptive mentions of injuries and gore. ❥ Act 2 spoilers. ❥ They/them pronouns for Tav. ❥ Tav is the nickname for the reader/oc insert. Their real name is up to you!

An Absolutist cult has gathered deep in the bowels of the forests of Rivington. Nothing out of the ordinary... Other than the sheer numbers they possess, creating a dense population of Absolute extremists gathered in stone ruins.

Adventuring parties that dare to end their machinations perished slowly and painfully. Their corpses - what is left of them - are displayed pierced from the gnarled branches of the trees, where they bleed out on the forest ground.

Tav, Astarion, Gale, and Karlach had a plan: throw a barrel full of smoke bombs into the middle of the ruins, firebolt, and profit. Except things didn’t go according to plan (they never do). That barrel was supposed to be at their rendezvous point, but the cultists found it before they did and thought it a gift from their Goddess.

Trapped in hiding, Tav decided to do what they do best: attack.

A potent necromancy curse was successfully cast on Tav, negating any healing spells thrown their way.

Well.

Fuck.

ASTARION

"As always, you refuse to listen to me. And now look at you: a mess. What did I say about running afool to the vanguard?" Astarion does not wait for their response. “Don't do it. It is smarter to be in the shadows in this instance. And what did you do? Ran alone into a quarry of cultists with no sense of self-preservation!”

Anger, pure anger, is present in his voice, sharpening his typical melodic lilt into daggers. If he cared about the present company - Shadowheart, Halsin, and Gale crowded into a tent, surrounding Tav upon their cot - it is nonexistent in his wine-red eyes. They could get lost in those bloody depths for hours. But not now. Not when seething rage roils off of his body like a cloud of darkness.

They look away.

"Nothing to say for yourself, darling?” he mocks. Astarion’s visage twists into a sneer, sharply turning his face away from them. He finds an unused rag, wets it, wrings it of excess water, and then moves past Shadowheart. “Allow me,” he murmurs to her, gentler.

Shadowheart’s inquisitive green eyes understand the depth of the situation immediately. She sighs, clearly annoyed he has taken over her job, but is dissuaded by Astarion’s next string of words: “I’ll clean them up. Magic and healing and all that wonderful nonsense are not necessarily my area of expertise. A firebolt here and there, surely, but I wouldn’t know where to begin with a curse that... Negates healing magic.”

“Sure,” Shadowheart replies, eyes flicking to Tav. Worry is evident over her features. Worry hangs heavy around everyone. Emerging out of battles victorious and grievously injured is commonplace; nothing a mass healing word couldn't fix along with a good night’s rest. Open wounds would be closed scars, ailments would be cured, and broken bones would be unbroken. Rinse and repeat.

This time, it is different.

They, and they alone, were cursed with a necromancy spell that makes all healing magic useless to their wounds.

Their wounds are appalling: Broken ribs evident with the pain swelling in their chest and labored breathing, purple and black blotchy bruises from the hammer blows they took to the shoulder, an open laceration across their chest, their ankle snapped in two, burns on their left leg crawling up their thigh. Blood all over their face from their own and from the enemies they felled.

“Hey, it’s fine,” they wheeze out. "Nothing I can't handle. The cultists are down and dead and buried - everything else can come after."

Hesitantly, Gale opens his mouth to reply, but is abruptly cut off by Astarion snapping out: "No."

"No," they echo. Their brows furrow.

"What a saint you are," Astarion snarls. His lips are down-turned, fangs bared as he speaks, but his ministrations upon their face are soothing. Gently, he rubs off the blood with a cool washcloth, eyes focusing on the task at hand as he cannot bear to look at them.

"Throwing yourself into the heat of battle like that, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Tell me, my dear, do you enjoy watching rational fly past you when you make your impulsive decisions?"

They flush with humiliation and hurt. Broken and battered, they dig their elbow into the cot to prop themselves up and face Astarion head-on, but Halsin presses a hand into their shoulder and pushes them down.

Fuck. Their head spins in circles.

"You're one to talk. Impulsivity is your middle name; you said yourself that planning is not your forte." Even raising their voice hurts but they do it anyway. Their eyes, threatening to slip into oblivion, flood with frustrated tears. "What the fuck is your problem, Astarion?"

"Must I really spell it out for you, sweetheart? You go around, telling everyone exactly what they need to hear. You tell them they aren't alone. That you will help them, that you will ensure they see the future that they want." The words are venom: petty and spiteful and yearning to be understood. "You," Astarion hisses out, "are so blind."

Tempers rising to fever pitch, Halsin tenses from his spot at the foot of the cot. From the corner of Tav's eye, they see Gale murmur something to him, something like, Let this play out. Astarion would never hurt them.

"I am the only one who will take the first step!" Tav cries. The words explode out of their broken chest faster than they realize, flying like an arrow straight toward Astarion's unbeating heart. "I risk my life - every day - for all of YOU! For all the people that need me! For all that I am because-"

"Because what?" He taunts. "Because it is the right thing to do? Look at yourself, Tav! You are on death's door if not for everyone in this room!"

"Because no one else will do it! Not anyone in this damn camp cares enough to- to help the people we could-" They cough violently, but they slam their elbows into the cot to prop themselves up. No one stops them this time as they meet Astarion's burning eyes. "No one cares but ME-"

"WE care about you!" Louder. Vicious. Astarion's voice splits in the air in two in one fell swoop, striking them down like lightning into silence.

He's breathing heavily, panting, as if exhausted. The adrenaline pumping in his veins is begging him to swoop Tav up and run away with them. Away from all of this bullshit and into hiding within the shadows. Maybe the Underdark. Maybe the Shadowcursed Lands. They can descend into madness together.

At least there, they will be safe.

"I care about you," Astarion chokes out before he can stop himself. "More than anything. Do you know that? I hope you know that."

Their mouth forms the words to reply, Of course I do, but it doesn't leave their throat. Instead, it stays stuck there like a fluttering butterfly, forced into silence. It hurts to speak. It hurts to talk. It hurts to see him like this.

He calls out their name so quietly it could have been a trick of the wind.

"Astarion," they plead.

He shakes his head, stubborn and unconvinced. "You don't owe these people anything. You certainly do not owe them your life for their burdens. I," he breathes out, voice as shaky as a leaf in the wind. He screws his eyes shut and clenches his fist around the rag, where their blood stains his palm.

"I almost lost the sun of my life today."

When Astarion opens his eyes, they are steeled with resilience and fury as they gaze into theirs. It is hypnotic. It is lonely. They yearn to comfort him.

"It will not happen again."

GALE

"Easy," Gale murmurs, a strong arm laying them down in his tent. Soft blankets and pillows meet their back, and the cushy grass beneath makes for a cool and comforting sleep. Their breath stutters, but Gale gazes at them so fondly as he pushes their hair from their face that the pain eases.

He does not miss their labored breathing. "Shhh shh shh. I've got you. Just focus on me."

His thumb lingers on the swell of their cheek. His eyes flutter close. A gentle glow of purple surrounds him, and eventually, that gentleness extends to Tav. The agonizing, piercing sensation in their chest numbs into a cool, muted nothingness. They gasp - then exhale in relief, slower than their panicky, short breaths from before.

"That's it," he encourages. "Well done, my love. How are you feeling?"

"So-so," they reply. Their voice aches and croaks, but for some reason, it makes Gale smile.

Oh no. He knows that look.

They study his handsome, tired face, looking for any signs of alarm. Is he hungry? Does he need to feed on another artefact? Was there an envoy telling them they missed another Absolutist hideout? Did they miss something? Did they do something wrong?

No. Nope. "Enough of that." He takes their hand, kisses their knuckles, then sighs. "You're the last person who should be worrying about someone. Such a pest, hm? Always buzzing around me like I'm seconds away from disappearing in front of your eyes..."

"You are," they say. Their brows furrow, and they pant out, "The-- your burden to carry, the--"

"The orb, I know. I know." His heart twists. It aches. He failed Mystra before and that was painful. But this is another subject entirely; it couldn't come close. Watching sheer heartbreak in their expression because of him? Oh, Goddess forgive him, he has failed them.

Gale can scarcely celebrate his victory, too. He undid the damned curse that affected Tav's ability to receive magic. The necromancy spell was so potent that Tav rejected any healing spells thrown at them. Late into the hours of experimentation, he, Halsin, and Shadowheart considered allowing the effects to wither and die rather than exterminating it outright. It was Jaheira who told them it would be inefficient, because how long would they have to wait in camp while Tav rode out the effects of the curse? Ideally? Hours. But days? Weeks? Months?

He spent the long night following and feeling out the curse with the Weave. It was a complicated hex - a tangled knot of magic that had to be unwoven carefully, thread by thread. Every connotation, every intent was traced back to the heart of the curse, and he followed it with abandon.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble, then," they whisper.

"You should be," he jests. "Nearly made my heart collapse, seeing you like that."

The image is still burned into his mind. He can't stop thinking about it. His mortality has always been a dreadful afterthought pushed into the further recesses of his tadpole-addled brain, but was he so taken with Tav that he never realized how mortal they were, too?

No. No. Gale tightens his grip on their hand, giving them a comforting squeeze as they breathe in and out, in and out. It's not that he never realized how susceptible they are to death and danger. He just never wanted to confront it.

"You are changing the very premise of my life," he says softly. An exasperated chuckle leaves him as he shakes his head, adding, "as always. I don't know what I would have done if I actually lost you, back there." What wouldn't I do? "No scrolls of revivifies, no Withers to bring you back. I wouldn't be able to accept it."

He understands Ketheric Thorm all too well, now.

"Come here," they whisper. Gale lets their hands press into the back of his head. He thinks, absently, that he would let them do much of anything. In their care, he is no grand wizard with a plethora of achievements under his belt. No. He is as humble as the Weave itself, and their hands compose music and art for him to simply bear witness to.

They rest his head upon their chest, where his ear can listen to the comforting sound of their beating heart.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud thud.

"Good night, my love," Gale says, when their breathing evens and they have finally fallen into peaceful slumber. He does not sleep at all.

KARLACH

"Oh gods. Oh gods!" Karlach clasps Tav's left hand between hers, holding tightly and vowing to never let go. Their blood stains her hand and chest and clothes. It's everywhere. Sickly sweet and sticky, drawing all of her attention from the room to the sensation of it dripping down her skin.

They've lost so much blood. It's nauseating, like an unsettling reality has just settled in her stomach.

"Tav!" She exclaims, helpless and pathetic. "Why did you do that, you big idiot? You seriously could have gotten killed out there, why-- why aren't you..."

Responding? Where are their quips, their sass, their brightness she fell so fast and hard for? Tav lays there upon the cot, broken and battered. Karlach has seen the remains of her enemies after she has slaughtered them and has barely flinched. She can barely stomach the sight of them bloodied, bones twisted in the wrong way, bruises so purple they're as black as a chasm.

All they can do is breathe. Their eyes focus distantly above them to the roof of the tent, but nothing else.

Panic seizes her faster than she can control it. "Are they breathing?! Are they going to survive this?! Fuck," she growls, running a frustrated hand through her dark hair, matted with blood. "I should have made those sons of bitches suffer."

"Karlach," Shadowheart says, firm but gentle, her hands bloody too as she applied pressure down on Tav's wounds, "it was important that you returned them to camp as fast as you did. Sometimes, we do not have the luxuries to let our enemies die in pain."

Right. Right. Karlach watched an Absolutist barbarian slam his warhammer into Tav's back. Once to knock them down. Twice to keep them plastered on the ground. Once more to keep them unconscious. She saw red, then: the rage she slipped into boiled her veins so hot, the howl she let out sent her surroundings enemies into a frightened frenzy. She hacked her great axe into the barbarian over and over and over until he was nothing but a bloodied pulp of a man, more gore than flesh.

She scooped Tav up from the ground. Karlach never let anyone else touch them. She snarled and snapped at the others who tried to come too close and dead sprinted as fast as she could back to camp.

She heard their choked sobs of pain in her arms. They choked out her name, and Karlach couldn't offer them much of anything other than an, "We're going home, bubs, just hang on. 'Kay? You just focus on me."

"Can I stay here?" She begs Shadowheart. "I won't get in the way. Just let me hold their hand, please."

Shadowheart exchanges a conflicted glance at Halsin. He nods, and she sighs. "Fine," she says. "But - I need you to stand to the side for now. You can hold their hand after we're done figuring out how to undo this curse."

"A fine specimen of a curse, really," Gale adds, his hand curled under his chin. "I'm almost impressed."

"I would be too," huffs Shadowheart, "if our reckless leader wasn't caught up in this mess. Really, what were you thinking?"

"Right?" Karlach shoves off into the corner of the tent, doing her best to keep herself as small and as out-of-the-way as possible. Tears flood her eyes, and she chokes out, "Of all the things to do, why did it have to be that? I thought you said you trusted me! To have your back! I have your back, don't I? Don't I?"

"Of course you do," Halsin croons. He hooks his finger into a bottle of salve, and spreads it on Tav's burns. Tav visibly winces and tenses, whimpering in pain.

"Stop whatever you're doing right now!" Karlach wails. "You're hurting them! I'll kill you, Halsin, I swear it!"

Gale exchanges a look with Shadowheart. He ponders deeply for a moment as Karlach sobs devastatingly behind them. He opens his mouth, then shuts it promptly.

"Just say it," Shadowheart urges impatiently.

"We should play a game," he suggests. "The quiet game."

"No way," Karlach hiccups. "I'm dogshit at that game. Anyway, focus on Tav or I'll gut you, seriously."

❥ Additional links: kofi | ao3

[francixoxoxo]

MDNI; nsfw smut headcanons!!

Billy doesn’t have all the time in the world, but whatever he does have, he wants to spend it with his girl. So whenever you and him get more than a minute alone, best believe that man is jumping on you!! Billy knows how to make it last, but with the hectic life he leads, he’s got real good at quickies. Give him five minutes and he’s gotten an orgasm or two out of you, pumping his fingers into your cunt or laving his tongue over your clit. Give him ten, and he’s bending you over the nearest surface, his chest to your back so he can whisper sweet words while he fucks you into tomorrow. Sometimes he’s laying down his jacket on the ground for you to lay on, or even lifting you against the wall, his hands holding you up under your ass. Stark comparison to the man who gently buttons your shirt back up, fixes your hair, sends you off with the sweetest of kisses to your forehead and promises for later. Billy knows every bit of your body like the back of his hand, and he doesn’t want to wait for the “right time and place” to get you off. Well, that doesn’t mean he isn’t keeping you up all night the moment he gets the chance to really take it slow.

Finnick has a bad history with intimacy, if you could even call it intimate. He didn’t even think he’d look forward to it with you; as healthy as it is, he just didnt feel right mingling something he associates with pain, with you. But after the first time, oh, his mind is changed. He only ever wants it with you. He’s not into anything degrading, anything harsh. His experiences with that have never, ever been good, and he can’t bring himself to want that with you. Finnick’s loving, he’s gentle, that man takes his sweet time. He takes his time roving his hands over your form, murmuring praise to you. He’s damn experienced, sadly. He knows every trick in the book to get you to come; a hand pressing on your lower belly, a pillow under your back, just the angle that’ll make you wail. No matter how aggressive or rough you ask him to go— because honestly, he wouldn’t ever suggest it first, I feel like he gets enough of that from clients that he can’t get with it, especially not with someone he loves so much— he’s telling you just how perfect you are, just how amazing you feel around his cock, and just how beautiful you look underneath him. Finnick’s also probably the best ever at aftercare; showering with you and washing your hair, or just cleaning you quickly with his own discarded shirt, grabbing you a bottle of water and snuggling up close. Of all the experiences he’s had, he still enjoys the afterglow the best.

Coriolanus likes control in almost every aspect of his life. Your sex life is no different, but frankly, once he discovers the feeling of you on top of him, he makes an exception. It has to be his favorite, watching you fuck yourself over his cock, your freshly manicured nails scratching the back of his head. The snarky, brattish side of you had always been his favorite, the side that snipped back at his comments and curled her lip when he was being stupid. When you get tired and your rhythm ticks off, he’s grabbing your hips, bullying his dick up into you while you groan into his neck. He’ll kiss the bruises and wipe the tears afterward, when you’re cleaned and wrapped up in his blankets. And and and lingerie, don’t get him started. Coriolanus insists on buying you a new pair every occasion; birthday, you get a maroon, lacy set. Anniversary, obviously you get a blood-red crotchless pair. He passes a bill, you’re out to celebrate? Coryo hums that maybe you should open the gift when you get home. He has good taste, your husband. by the time you step out of the bathroom you change in, he’s already rock hard in his slacks, reaching for you. Sure, he loves buying you lingerie and clothes, but he likes ruining them just as much.

I’ll just say it bro Sejanus is huge. Not just in stature but his ahem. His weiner. He’s stupid thick, and the first time he pushes in, he can tell you’re already gone. It takes a minute to get used to, no matter how often you have sex, but Sejanus is a patient guy. He smatters kisses along your shoulder and your chin, and once he starts to push his hips into yours with purpose, his forehead rests against your cheek. He’s gentle, this boy, attentive, listening to every cue he can pick up to make sure you like it. Just because he knows he’s a lot for you to take, he’s sweet and careful, murmuring that you’re doing good as his cock stretches your walls to the brim. I think Sej would be a bit quieter, he’s more focused on listening to you than talking himself, but that doesn’t mean he lets a handful of groans and “fuck, you’re perfect”’s slip. Honestly, fucking Sejanus is being trapped under him, his large frame locking you in place, his burly arms bracketing your face like walls. When this man’s inside you, there’s not much that can get him to stop or distract him. He’s also totally the type to crack either a very lame dad joke or an awful dirty joke during sex, your breathless giggling prompting his own laughter, even if he’s literally balls deep. Afterward, he pulls you to him, grabbing onto you like you’re his personal teddy bear, mumbling that you can both shower in a minute, but he just wants to hold you. You end up in soft, quiet conversation about everything and nothing, filling the scarce space between your faces with silly thoughts until one of you dozes off.

[cosmosis]

MOVED TO @seratopia

miguel o’hara x reader (fluff) - surprise visit modern au!

an unfamiliar secretary won’t let you into the building to visit your husband, Miguel, at his office

Visiting your husband at work may as well be the best way for you to spend your day off. He’s been working hard, his passion truly bursting at the seams when he talks to you about the latest improvement project he’s been working on for the past three weeks. 

You’re walking down the sidewalk in an outfit you knew would make Miguel go crazy, holding a nice bouquet of flowers in your arm. You decided men don’t get flowers enough, so you’re here to fill in that gap. He really deserves more than flowers anyway. 

With the badge embedded into your watch, you scan your wrist against the access monitor on the wall. The doors automatically open, and you feel a nice gust of air conditioning run into you. 

The office is very modern, clean, and sleek. All around you are advanced units of technology; a result of your husband’s successes. It smells the same it always has; clean, crisp, and slightly minty. As you walk through the doors, you’re greeted with the exact same things you always are; same lounge chairs, same grand elevator... 

Though, you don’t recognize the secretary at the desk. 

She’s blonde, red lipstick smeared onto her tight lips in an unwelcoming frown. A matching pearl set adorned over her crisp, dark blue blazer. 

Usually, you’d say hi to the secretary you knew, Lyla. You assume she got fired, which was a real shame, you love her sass. She was always so kind to you, saying hi with a smile, or offering to help guide you through the office and such. 

But instead, you walk right past the desk, digging through your memories to find how you managed to find Miguel’s main office last time. 

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?“

Her voice is just as snarky as you had imagined. 

“Visiting Miguel?“ You pause, your patience already growing extremely thin for the new secretary. You’d probably chat about this to Miguel later, maybe bat an eyelash or two to convince him about hiring someone different. 

“Nuh uh! Miguel O’Hara is busy right now, not open for any visitors at the moment.“ She replies, fixating her eyes on the large monitor in front of her. 

You pause for a moment, critically thinking things through for a moment. 

“Oh! I get it. M’am, you haven’t met me before, have you?“ You ask, trying your best to not crinkle the flowers in your hands. She raises a single eyebrow, glaring as if you insulted her mother. (Which, you might as well should do.)

“I’m Miguel’s spouse. He lets me visit him whenever, I even have my badge right here-“

She holds up a single manicured finger. 

“Nice try, but my charts right here say that Miguel is busy at the moment. Try another time, maybe send him a fan letter or something.“

Your blood starts to boil as the new secretary has a satisfied smirk on her face. 

Instead of choosing violence and risking your hair getting ruined, you opt for the better option. Glaring at the desk manager directly in the eye, you pull out your cellphone from your pocket, manually pressing the contact button for Miguel. You wait for the phone to dial, pressing the cellular to your ear whilst examining your own nails. 

And finally, he answers. 

“Hm? You need something, honey?“

“Miguel.“

Miguel on the other line, freezes to a halt. Now, he knows he’s in trouble. Carefully, he clears his throat. 

“What is it, sweetie?“

You take a deep breath. “Your... secretary isn’t letting me into the office. Will you fix that, please?”

Miguel pinches between his eyebrows, groaning. 

“Of course, hun. I’ll be down in a sec.“

“Thank you, Miguel.“

The call ends, but the secretary still stares at you like you’ve thrown up all over her salad. She almost looks like she’s going to laugh, which makes you even madder. 

Within literally a few seconds, the elevator whirs to a halt, the top light switching on with a chime. As expected, your husband walks through the sliding doors, clad in a crisp white dress shirt and office pants. He’s so undeniably gorgeous, you almost consider forgiving the secretary. 

But, you don’t. 

“Ah, Miguel, this p-“

“Shut your mouth for moment, would you?“

The woman is taken aback, red bursting onto her cheeks as her fake smile melts into a frown. Her mouth is left agape, watching as Miguel saunters over to you with a smile. 

“What happened?“ Miguel asks, his Office Face™ dissolving into a genuine smile. He slots his hands to your waist, silently peering at the flowers in your arms. 

“Well, I was going to come surprise you... but then she said that you were busy.” You reply, pouting. 

“Aww, baby, it’s okay.“ He smooches the top of your head. “The flowers are pretty. I’ll handle this.“

Miguel then swerves around, this time with his Office Face™ on. He keeps his hand glued to your side, each step of his getting louder and louder as he makes his way towards the desk. 

“Tiffany.“

Tiffany, in question, shudders, keeping her eyes glued to the floor while a shit-eating smirk finds its’ way onto your face. No remorse whatsoever. 

“From now, until tonight, please let my partner into the building whenever they like.“

“Yes, sir. Why until tonight?“ 

“Because I’m firing you from any future stand-in’s, or any sort of work in here for the matter.“

Miguel: 1 Tiffany: 0

Tiffany looks like she has so much she wants to say, so much that she could scream at this very moment... but instead, she stays silent. You can see a vein practically ready to burst at her temple, her jaw grinding her teeth in her mouth. 

“I will dismiss you at the end of the day, Tiffany. I expect you to cause no more trouble until then.“

Tiffany is left utterly speechless, her jaw left slightly agape. Miguel ushers you by your back towards the elevator, poking and prodding his finger at the flowers in your grasp. 

Automatically, the elevator doors smoothly slide open, and you both step inside. You stare at the glass view outside, watching as the two of you get higher and higher above the city.

“I even had my badge, and she didn’t let me.“ You frown, indulgently leaning into Miguel’s chest. 

“I’m sorry, hun. Lyla’s out sick for a bit, so she was the only substitute I could find for today.“

Apologetically, he rubs your back, secretly praying that you’d forget about the whole ordeal so you’d pay attention to him instead. 

“S’okay. Thank god Lyla wasn’t fired.“ You mumble, breathing a sigh of relief. 

“She’s annoying, but she does her job well.“ Miguel remarks, and you gasp, personally offended on behalf of your beloved Lyla. 

“No she’s not! She’s super nice, actually.“

“Whatever.” Miguel scoffs. “Kiss me.”

“No. You called Lyla annoying.” 

these oneshots have really skyrocketed my account! thank you guys so much for the positive feedback, i love loveee reading all the comments i get! please stay tuned for more!

- cosmosis <333

© 𝒄𝒐𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒔.

[etfrin]

❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter one | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 SFW | Coriolanus is his own warning, elitism

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 Coriolanus finds out the plint prize won't be his, at least for now but the district twelve girl belongs to him

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 here's the first chapter ;)) hope you like it?! Remember to give feedback guys! And beta read by @nowitsmissing

series masterlist | series taglist | navigation

previous : prologue

Coriolanus Snow wakes up to his grandmother singing the Panem national anthem. He quickly takes a shower, trying to ignore the squeaks of rats in his bathroom. He rubs himself clean, turning his skin red from the raw scrubbing. He stops as his fingers brush on the scar tissue he has on his wrist.

He takes a deep breath, not letting his mind wander off to you. It's the reaping day. It's the plinth prize. A prize he was going to win. You were of no importance today, or ever for that matter.

But still, he can't help but imagine that the date was etched on his skin. The numbers were written with ink darker than the night, now all that remained was an ugly scar that gave him a nastier remainder.

He shakes himself out of it. His hands grab a towel to dry himself. He fixes his curls, trying to make them as stylish as possible. He has a reputation to keep up after all. Thankfully, today wasn't one of the days in which his eye bags were obvious, the hollow of his cheeks too obvious due to lack of food.

He looked surprisingly healthy like any privileged Capitol citizen would look like.

He gets out of the bathroom to go to his grandma’ams. He gives her a note on her singing of the national anthem before asking her where Tigris is. Just on cue, Tigris bursts in.

Her voice was excited, her face all smiles. She hands him a shirt, his dad's old dress shirt renewed with tesserae buttons. He wore it, letting his cousin rant about the process of it all. Even though he had no interest in listening, it was a thank you in his way.

He pins the rose given to him on his shirt. Teasing his family members about new dresses and chocolates. He was going to win the Plinth Prize, nobody could take this away from him. It was his right.

In the academy, he chats with his inner circle. Making snide comments about Sejanus and his Ma. That's when you come in, a drink in your hand. Your eyebrows are raised as you look at Arachne with barely hidden disgust.

Fuck, you looked stunning in your dress. He has to dig his nails into his palm to remind himself not to stare. Why are you torturing him by being so pretty? You're just a district girl, you had no business having such beauty.

“Tell us who won,” Arachne said with her haughty voice, “Your boy toy surely would have spoiled it by now.” You laugh in response.

A small giggle escapes your lips. You don't take offense by having Sejanus being called your boy toy. Coriolanus wants to furrow his eyebrows from your reaction. Were you and Sejanus dating? No way in hell. Even if you're district, you're better than Sejanus in every way. He wants to scowl at the implications.

(You're his, his, his)

“I wouldn't dare ruin his big day, Arachne,” Sejanus's voice rings out instead, him standing behind you. His arm around your shoulder. “People may not like my father but they do love his money. Surely you can relate?” Sejanus grins.

“Funny,” Arachne replied with a sneer.

You rolled your eyes, “Don't be mean, Sej.” You sip your drink and Coriolanus’ eyes can't help but follow the movement of your tongue poking out to lick your lips clean of the drink. His eyes also glare at Sejanus's hand on your shoulder, a part of him wishing he could break his arm.

You turn to Coriolanus. “Nice shirt,” you comment with a smile, and Snow can tell it's more genuine than anything you flashed at the rest of your classmates. He feels himself flush at the compliment. Not even stopping you even though he should because why should your dirty hands touch him? But he doesn't stop you when your fingers reach out to delicately touch the red rose pinned to his shirt.

“Such a beautiful flower,” you mutter in fascination, “and fresh too.” You tear away a rose petal, crushing the poor thing between your fingers, the tip of your fingers turning red.

He watched, no thoughts in his mind but he knew he should be offended. It has been ten years of your behavior he had endured, yet not once could he open his mouth to insult you.

How weak had you turned him since day one. If anyone knew, he would be ruined.

“Did you have to do that?” Clementia frowns, “Flowers are significant to the Snows.'' You only smirk in reply to Clementia. “I see,” you comment, before taking Sejanus's hand in yours.

You begin to walk away but Snow sees you turn around for a split second. Your eyes meet his and your lips form a word. Sorry. He mouths back, ‘ It's fine. ’

You smile at him and turn back, walking towards the chair where the top 24 seniors are supposed to sit, waiting for the announcement. You had let go of Sejanus’ hand by then, letting relief fall over Coriolanus.

Coryo's fingers rub the scar tissue over the fabric of his shirt. It was going to be fine. Over the years, both of you have grown up a lot. Despite having district blood, you consider yourself Capitol more than Sejanus did. You had adjusted first, and even if your peers didn't accept you, their families were certainly charmed by you during the galas.

You were smarter than Sejanus. You were better than Sejanus. Certainly, you couldn't be compared to the Capitol citizens, but you were worthy in Coriolanus' eyes. That doesn't mean he accepts you as his soulmate. That's something that won't ever change, however, the pride he felt towards you is something he couldn't control.

Coriolanus sits between you and Sejanus. He liked the fact that he was in between like a border neither of you should cross. Sejanus whispered to him, his voice grating but Coriolanus heard what he said.

“I know you had high hopes for this,” he whispered, “But there won't be no Plinth Prize. Not today.”

Coriolanus freezes as he hears what Sejanus means. What does he mean by no Plinth Prize? Never in history is that possible. Sejanus must have been mistaken. That's it because otherwise, everything in Coriolanus Snows’ life would go to hell.

However, Sejanus wasn't a liar nor did he make a mistake. Dean Highbottom soon revealed that the 10th annual Hunger Games and the mentor who won will win the prestigious prize Coriolanus needs. Livia Cardew, the girl he loathed, got someone from district one. Sejanus, the lucky bastard, had gotten someone in district two.

You had gotten the boy from district twelve. Someone named Jessup. The boy was healthy, fit, someone who could win under your guidance. Anger blooms in Coriolanus' chest, he tries hard to control the urge to not throw a chair at Dean Highbottom.

Even God wouldn't be so petty as the dean is. For reasons unknown why. The district twelve girl was his. Lucy Gray Braid.

Her makeup is jarring, she was wearing a dress that reminded him of clowns if they used more colors than red and white. The only thing good about her was how she captured attention despite the fact she had already insulted Snow by creating a facade in the reaping.

You can't take my sass

You can't take my talkin'

You can kiss my ass!

He looked at you when he heard the last part. A part of him craved your reaction, surely out of everyone, you wouldn't mock his tribute. You were district yourself after all. You wouldn't mock your people.

What Coriolanus Snow forgot was that you were his soulmate. And in no way the fates would allow his lover to be a saint, an angel as he had hoped for. You were anything but.

You had cruel amusement gleaming in your eyes. A smile of triumph on your lips as if you're sure that you will win the Hunger Games and not him. You turn to him, your eyes hiding the cruelty. You lean forward and Coriolanus counts to ten in his head so his eyes don't fall on your lipstick-stained lips.

“May the best man win,” you whispered, a smirk on your face, filled with the mockery all too familiar like the rest of his peers.

He was going to fucking show you.

“And hereby I declare the beginning of the 10th annual Hunger Games. May the odds be in your favor,” Dr. Gaul's voice calls out to the students.

Odds will be in his favor, whether it be willing by the Lord or his brute force.

Next Chapter

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[erwinsvow]

They call you the clueless pogue. The pretty one. 

You don’t care much either way—that comes from years of being Kiara’s best friend, she’s taught you well on how to ignore what other people think and say about you. Maybe you would care more, you think one day, watching JJ and Pope drive each other crazy while trying to fix something that’s inexplicably gone wrong with the Twinkie. John B is swinging in the hammock, eyes closed, empty beer in his hand that is soon replaced with a fresh one by Kie. She drops the old can into a bin that has the recycling symbol drawn on with a sharpie, her own creation. She walks towards you with a can of fruity seltzer since it’s well known with your new friends that you refuse to drink beer—and it all feels very domestic.

You might care about what other people say if you didn’t love your friends so much.

You are a little clueless though—at least the boys think so. They wouldn’t dare to say anything when your protective best friend was around, but when it’s just you and one of them, or all of them, it comes out a little more. 

You wear the kind of clothes that they wouldn’t let a sister of theirs be caught dead in. They never used to care about stuff like that, not until you started hanging around more often. It was the result of absent parents that were only on the island a few months out of the year. The rest of the time you had free reign, and an unlimited credit card that often funded their adventures—gas for the Twinkie, beer for the night, a new outfit to wear to the party. 

JJ gets into a fist-fight with a guy who keeps offering you a drink from the keg, not listening no matter how many times you refuse and grabbing the short hem of your yellow dress to yank you back. JJ doesn’t mean to knock him out—it’s just like instinct, he explains later that night to John B and Pope while you’re sound asleep on the pull-out with Kiara—the way he feels protective over you.

“Are you okay?” Kie asks, and you smooth out your dress from where that guy had grabbed it.

“Only because JJ saved me,” you say, looking at him with big doe eyes and fluttering eyelashes. He swallows uncomfortably.

“No biggie, princess, I mean you know me, I’m a big damsel-in-stress kinda guy-” Kiara rolls her eyes and brings you inside, and he’s left standing there with pink-tinged ears.

He doesn’t tell them about how you were looking around for someone, anyone to help, how scared you look when he touched you, how your face visibly eased when you locked eyes with JJ, how you held a bag of frozen peas to his black eye and kissed his cheek before going back to find everyone earlier. He decides to keep that for himself.

You don’t keep an eye out for your surroundings when you tag along on their adventures either. That’s pretty much John B’s responsibility now, walking towards the back with you. You often start looking around, head in the clouds, staring at the trees and sky and walking right into a pile of mud or a puddle.

“Wow, the air is so clean out here,” you comment while taking a deep breath. It’s said quiet enough that only he can hear you.

“Yeah, pretty girl, that’s because of all the trees.” You laugh and shove his arm, because duh, but you can’t respond because the others are yelling for you two to catch up.

He doesn’t let you lead—you’ve cried over too many ruined shoes for him to risk it anymore—instead he holds onto your hand firmly, gripping tight when he needs you to slow down and pulling gently when it’s okay to proceed. It’s his job to make sure all the bugs are out of the way, that you’re not walking into a spiderweb or running after a butterfly or pretty bird. The others tease you two and laugh, but you still thank him with a tight hug, the thin material of your sports bra not really hiding much, murmuring something about no signs of mud on your new sneakers.

“Yeah, anytime,” he breathes after you’ve already walked away. You turn back to smile at him, adjusting your ridden-up tennis skirt you’d sported today. “Wouldn’t wanna dirty those shoes.”

You make Pope feel like the smartest guy in the world sometimes, without even trying. It’s not like you’re stupid, because he knows you’re not, but when you bite your cheek and tap his shoulder to ask him another question about whatever you were working on, your words start going to his head. 

“So if I wanna save this and put them all together, I just use this program? And I just use the mouse?” you say thoughtfully, repeating his instructions back to him.

“Yes, sweetheart,” and he tries his best to make sure he sounds patient—he’s learned from experience you don’t react well if you even suspect he’s getting frustrated.

Pope watches you play with the thin straps of your shirt before the string idly falls off your shoulder, exposing a swath of soft, sweet-smelling skin to him. Staring at your bare shoulder, he thinks he could never get frustrated at you even if he tried his hardest.  When you finish making your little vision-board on photoshop, you turn to show him proudly, and he is proud, with how well you followed his instructions and weren’t too shy to keep asking for his help. Later that night at the Chateau, you lean against his shoulder with his arm swung around you on the couch and explain what each of the images mean until you fall asleep. 

They’re all playing a game of chicken—wondering which one will be the first to cross that line and suggest something more than just friendship to you. Through empty cases of beer and boys-only fishing trips they’ve briefly discussed to each other that they’re interested, but of respect—to each other, not really to you—they haven’t made the first move just yet. No matter how difficult you make it.

At the beach you help the boys wax their surfboards, taking turns with each one, floating around a little tipsy already from your fruity drink. They’re all talking, but you don’t really pay attention, eyes staring at something in the distance.

JJ covers his mouth, imitating a walkie noise. 

“Hello, uh, earth to princess, over.” 

You turn back to him and his board, dropping the chunk of wax and leaning in. He blanks for a second—your pretty face getting closer, an eyeful of your tits in the tiny bikini you’re wearing today making his head spin. And you’re infront of everyone, which is definitely not how he’d thought he would win this little competition. 

“Do you see that pretty girl over there? Three o’clock?” 

“I see a pretty girl right in front of me,” he says, and you laugh, pushing his shoulder. He doesn’t realize that you think he’s just joking. 

“Jayj, seriously. See her?” He nods, but still doesn’t turn to look. “She’s been staring at you for, like, ten minutes. You should go over there!” 

You’re smiling big, like the idea of another girl talking to him sounds fun. He pulls back from you, confused.

“I need another beer.” He stalks off, walking to the boys while you turn to Kiara.

“What did I do wrong? I’m trying to get him laid-” Kiara rolls her eyes. You turn and see the boys in deep conversation, occasionally glancing back at you and Kie.

“She just told me to go flirt with some girl, like, right in front of her. I mean is this some kind of test?” He takes a long chug of the beer, sounding about as stressed as Pope and John B have ever seen. “Do I fail if I hook up with some rando? Or do I fail if I don’t hook up? It’s Schindler’s cat, man-”

“That’s not-” Pope starts, before being cut off.

“Sorry, sorry. Schrodinger’s kids.”

“No, JJ-”

“What the hell does she mean? So she wants us to hook up with other people?” John B cuts in, looking back at you, but something else on the beach seems to have caught your attention.

“Woah, I’m not doing that, but you two are more than welcome-” 

“Yeah, nice try, Pope. We get with some girl so you can tell her you stayed loyal and win her over? I don’t think so, genius-”

“Well, you’re the one she’s trying to set up so I think I’m pretty safe right now-”

“It’s not a reality show Pope, you can’t eliminate me.”

“Guys,” John B speaks up.

“If this was a show, I’d clearly be the fan favorite and the winner-”

“Uh, says who? I would so win, let’s do a poll right now and survey this beach-”

“Guys.” Louder this time, they listen to John. He doesn’t say anything, just stares into the distance and soon they join him, to see what he’s looking at.

“Y’gotta be fucking kidding me,” JJ says, watching you run into Rafe’s arms, swinging around before giving him a kiss. Rafe pulls away and looks straight at the three of them, while giving them a wave.

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, mentions of death, hospitals, poor writing, possible ooc,

Pt 1: New year new me, wait what?

Waking up wasn't in your cards, staring at the ceiling of a hospital room with nothing but the rhythmic beeping of machinery to welcome you to the realm of the living wasn't what you expected at all. Did you fail your mission? Did Barton and Natalia bring you back and somehow save you? Your joints ache badly, but it's nothing like what it should be, even your advanced healing can't fix a shattered skeleton.

You push yourself upright, it's surprisingly difficult and you have to take a break before pulling yourself up all the way, nausea hits you like a train and you have to take slow deep breaths so you don't puke. What meds did they have you on? Looking over yourself you take stock of everything, you're pallid and skinny, like you've been here a while. medical coma possibly?

Your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and helium, There's multiple machines attached to you in some way, Just how bad was it if you felt yourself literally die. The room is clean, smells clean too. It's just full of medical equipment, no other beds in the room so…not the med bay? There's no windows either so you can't see what time of day it is, where did they put you? Possibly in doctor cho’s care? You see English writing on the heart rate monitor beside you so maybe not in her Korean facility…before you can start ripping tubes out of yourself the door opens, a young woman walking in with a cart behind her and her focus entirely on her phone. She shoves it in her scrubs pocket and idly glances towards you while reaching towards some cloths on the cart, she freezes like a deer staring down a semi. you try to speak but she suddenly darts out of the room while yelling for a doctor.

“stay here mx Wayne! Doctor! I need a doctor in here!” her sneakers squeak loudly on the linoleum as she leaves.

Who the hell was Wayne?

🔹🔹🔹

‘*this entire board meeting is complete and utter horseshit.’* Bruce thinks to himself as he smiles tightly at his chairmen, several investors are sitting around and complaining about their lives even though the meeting isn't even over yet, and there's still policies to discuss, yet they're acting like just because they're invited guests they run the show.

It's been chaos ever since the incident, his stocks have gone up somehow, the public's reaction to this whole mess. his shareholders love it, they're like greedy sharks smelling blood, thinking he's too frazzled to know when they're trying to make moves behind his back to line their pockets. They're even throwing dates at him, as if his spouse isn't still alive. He'd nearly broken his code when Mr Smith told him to ‘line one up for when he has needs’ like he's a goddamn animal. As it stands he's been avoiding as many in person meetings as possible so he can avoid murder and jail time,

Tim keeps giving him looks for the last twenty minutes, subtly signaling to relax, smile, play dumb. He must be losing his edge if he can't even keep his poker face straight. His temple throbs as Mr Johnson opens his mouth again, If he has to hear *one* more complaint about their healthcare policies costing the company too much he's gonna -

His phone buzzes in his pocket, this time of day it's probably work related so he ignores it and starts aggressively drinking his iced coffee, he's half tempted to ‘accidentally’ spill it on Mr Smith beside him and ruin his beige suit mid speech about what is and isn't necessary to provide your employees, he's about to ignore Tim's warning look when his phone buzzes again, this time it's Alfred's notification pattern. Tim subtly shifts so he knows he got one too, Bruce fishes his phone out under the table and briefly glances at the notification tab, reads it twice, before promptly standing up and walking out without saying a word to anyone, Tim scrambling to cut the meeting short and follow him.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: has anyone wandered how much work Bruce does at Wayne enterprises? What does he actually do there?? 😅

Taglist: @cxcilla

[burekforsatoru]

are you still watching?

sebastian (stardew valley)/f!reader | read it on ao3 sebastian suggests a movie night to unwind after a long week... slutty froggy pjs shenanigans ensue wc: 2.5k tags: fluff and smut, oral, face-fucking, overstim

fall never stops making sure i have the least amount of free time possible. it is ruthless, with storms and ruined crops, with all the days my poor animals cannot go outside.

it’s exhausting, fixing all of those messes, but i refuse to let sebastian throw himself into it with me. he’s got enough on his plate with the game he’s developing, still doing his freelance programming. he offers, of course, it wouldn’t be him if he didn’t itch to help me when he sees me all exhausted and muddy after a stressful day.

so when he suggests we have a movie night, just us two, one friday evening instead of going to the saloon–i jump on the opportunity. that morning as soon as those words left his mouth i was melting into his embrace. careful, froggy, you’ll spill coffee all over yourself , he chuckles as i quickly steady my hand, placing the mug carefully on the side and wrap my arms around his pale neck. the kiss is so warm, soft, full of understanding. i fix my beanie and finish the coffee before heading out to work, now with a bounce in my step.

the fields are a mess. weeds have taken over some of my pumpkins, making me curse the shit out of them as i carefully remove them, spending hours on my knees in the mud. once it gets dark, i run back inside, barely escaping the rain that starts chasing me. i murmur a grumpy greeting to sebastian, who was already in his pyjamas and on the couch, setting up a movie for us to watch. the blankets are carefully arranged around him, uncovering the very spot on his body where i usually slide onto his lap to cuddle while we relax before sleep.

i hurry into the bathroom, shouting i’ll only be a few minutes, i really need a hot shower. he responds with his signature chuckle, having already found a movie for us to ignore while we make out or fall asleep.

the shower relaxes my muscles, soothes my skin, washes out all the dirt from my hair and face. i walk out a new person, fresh and clean and ready to sink into our soft couch, wrapped into a cocoon of blankets. a new person – that forgot her clean underwear and pyjamas in the bedroom.

okay so maybe not completely new. still the same scatterbrained me that sebastian always promises he fell in love with so ridiculously hard and fast it’s a miracle his bones aren’t still broken.

so, with my fresh and clean body wrapped in a bath towel, i pad my way to the bedroom, passing between the tv and sebastian where he’s still sitting in the very same position on the couch, the blankets uncovering my seat. those silly frog pyjamas on, slightly pushed down as his hand is placed around his hard cock that he’s gently stroking. i walk into the bedroom and–

oh …

with a slightly embarrassed expression, i retrace my steps until i’m closer to him.

“baby…” i drawl, my eyes falling down to where his thumb slowly rubs over his cock head, so sweetly like he’s caressing a lover.

“yes, froggy?” oh there’s a layer of smugness in that voice. he knows what he’s doing to me, sees my throat bobbing while i swallow saliva gathering at an alarming rate.

“baby why… you’re not even waiting for me?” reluctantly, i lift my gaze to meet his pretty eyes, noticing the self-satisfied smirk as he watches me struggle.

my hand grips the edges of the towel tighter, holding on for dear life as i try not to immediately look down at his cock again, that pretty, girthy thing just begging to be kissed.

“i’ve been sitting like this since before you walked back in, pretty. you just didn’t notice me.” that thumb rubbing over his tip slides back down and he keeps stroking himself up and down. my heartbeat quickens, the air becomes thicker, my mouth is suddenly too empty. all i can think about right now is licking a long strip along his shaft and making him moan out loud. “c’mere,” he pats his lap, the pattern of cartoon frogs on the fabric covering his thighs almost making the situation comical, if it weren’t for his deliciously spread thighs and the outline of his balls under the bunched up material under his cock.

it takes me a couple of seconds to remember how to move my feet. walking is harder now than it was just a minute ago when i took quick, fleeting steps towards our bedroom.

i leave slightly damp footprints, my skin is still wet from the shower, but i drop the towel that was keeping me covered up as soon as i reach his legs. the fluffy blue fabric pools on the floor and i sink to my knees. his hand doesn’t slow down its movements on his pretty cock, but i boldly lean in and lick a slow stripe to his tip, feeling him twitch ever so slightly on my tongue.

the taste of his skin lingers on the tip of my tongue as he pulls his cock up a little, allowing me to grab the bunched up fabric and pull down those pyjama bottoms, freeing his balls that i quickly take into my warm mouth, one by one. his knee bounces then, at the same time as the back of his head meets the back of the couch.

sebastian lets out a pretty moan as i gently suck on one testicle while holding the other in my hand, tenderly caressing it while keeping my eyes on his bobbing throat. letting out a little hum i snap his attention back to me. back to how my tongue swirls over him. he releases his cock, letting me take over. carefully, lovingly, i hold it in the same way he did, leaning forward a little to press a gentle kiss to the head before sliding it between my lips, inside the warmth that is my mouth, a wet pretty hole for him to savor the feeling of.

“fuuuuck, you’re gonna be good for me, yeah?” i look up at him as he speaks, my eyes wide and doe-like, the way i know drives him insane.

i briefly nod, of course i’ll be good for him , and sink him deeper into my warm mouth, down to my limit. his hips buck upwards a little, having me nearly swallow him whole. obediently, i remove my hand from his shaft and place both my palms onto his thighs.

i take one more breath before his hands caress my wet hair, holding onto it firmly with those long, slender fingers.

“ready?” his voice is ragged already, the need is practically dripping from his every word. i nod in reply, letting him take the lead.

my throat relaxes just in time, for he starts moving me along his cock, using my sweet mouth as a toy while my lips close around his girth.

drool collects at the corners of my lips, and he keeps going, slipping curses and praises alike between his bitten lips, telling me just how beautiful he finds me as i’m swallowing his needy cock. sebastian looks as if he’s ascending, like he’s touching heaven through the pearly gates of my teeth.

my eyes stay peeled, watching as his eyelids flutter shut, dragging out long curses while he picks up the pace, now lifting his hips in time with moving my head. the back of my throat is already sore, but i hang on, letting him use me to his full pleasure, giving him my face to fuck whenever he wants it.

“pretty… ah pretty girl… i’m– ohhh i’m gonna cum, okay?”

a pathetic little whimper leaves my lips, pools around the base of his cock as he asks my permission, as always. it’s always a yes, or a little whining noise, always an imperative that i taste his sticky cum on my tongue and drink it like it’s the elixir of life. 

his grip tightens in my hair, the movements of his hips get more erratic as he reaches his peak, spilling his release into my mouth, making my throat constrict as i swallow around his thick cock head. sebastian’s voice is raspy, broken as he exhales, groaning lowly. he twitches while my mouth takes in everything he gives me.

sebastian gently caresses the top of my head, breathing heavily as he comes down from the intense high, lowering his eyes to meet mine as he grins.

“there we go,” his breathless voice comes out soft, loving, “so good for me, so good .”

slowly, i lift my head, letting his pink tip pop out from my pouty lips with a soft sound. it’s all slick with my saliva, shining under the lights of our living room. i press a gentle kiss to it, smirking as he twitches and gasps from such soft contact.

my towel stays on the floor as sebastian pulls me up into his lap. my legs slot beside him, straddling his bare hips as i lean down to kiss him. it’s impossible to stifle the giggle that leaves me when he smacks my ass, jiggling the flesh with his strong palm. he helps me, lifting my hips to let me sit on his pretty cock, still hard as he enters me, making me throw my head back and groan.

he joins me, cursing under his breath as i sink down onto him again, the familiar stretch never getting old. 

“fuuuck, pretty, that’s it,” he drawls, holding me by the waist as i settle, “that’s my good girl. can’t just give you one load, can it?” his head snaps back to look at me as i trail my hands up his torso and under the pyjama top.

“been feeling needy, hmm?” i tease, a smirk painted on my face as he beckons me with a quick motion of his chin.

“you’ve no idea, froggy… i nearly started without you.” with that confession he reaches my lips, capturing them in a hard kiss as his hips buck upwards into me. 

i whine, rolling my hips against sebastian’s as his hands grip me tighter, pulling me against him harder and rougher than before. needily, he wraps those arms around me, bringing me closer and fucking into me faster. he pulls moan after moan from my throat, letting me breathe only to bite delicious bruises into my collar bones.

my breasts bounce against him, grazing his skin with my nipples with each hard thrust of his sweet tip against my soft walls. it’s almost unfair how quickly he has me unraveling, shaking, and stuttering right here on his lap as he relentlessly moves.

“ ah– fuck, i’m gonna–” i attempt, gasping as he bruises me, leaning lower to take my nipple into his mouth and hum around it. 

“ mmm come on, pretty, i’ve got you.” he murmurs, vibrating my sensitive nub and sending me over the line. my warm walls contract, i shake and i whimper as he moans, switching to the other breast, biting the plump flesh and continuing his quick thrusts. “good girl, there we go,” he releases my breast from his mouth, kissing where he bit earlier, “you can give me another, yeah? one more… just one more.” sebastian doesn’t wait for me to come down from my high, he pulls me down against him more desperately, so wanting as my weeping cunt swallows him over and over as he grunts into my chest. 

relentlessly, he pulls me by the hips faster, overstimulating me to high heavens as his cock prods at my sweet spots with every move. yoba, i always forget how good it feels, no matter how many times we do this. especially when he gets like this, insanely horny like we haven't fucked in a month.

i don't know whether to curse or praise his high sex drive when he flips me over onto my back, immediately climbing over me to push my knees almost up to my chest. 

the cushion seams of the couch dig into my back, but i can't pay attention to them, to anything that isn't sebastian. like in a daze, he leans over me and kisses me tenderly while pushing his thick cock into me again. different angle, getting so much deeper as he kneels on the couch. i moan directly into his mouth and the sound almost invigorates him.

he thrusts into me with the energy of a hundred shots of espresso, desperate to feel my warm, soft walls close up around him, tightening like a vice to keep him inside and drain him of all his pent up energy. 

the lewd sound gets louder with each passing second, skin against skin, his balls against the plump flesh of my ass. it’s so loud, so hypnotizing, rhythmic beat paired with heavy breaths from sebastian’s lips and whiny curses falling from my mouth.

already getting overstimulated, having been pushed into the next high from the first one, i’m whimpering under his touch. he presses his fingertips into my skin, leaving little indents as he holds on for dear life, anchoring himself in me as if he’s not actively punishing my sweet spot with his relentless cock head. 

eyes rolling back, head dipping into the pillow, i shake. gripping his arms pressed into the cushions beside my head, i squirm, my whines get higher in pitch as he curses, leaning in to drag his sweet lips against mine.

“fuck… fuck , pretty i’m gonna– you gonna cum with me?” his syrupy voice drips onto my tongue as i moan, grabbing at his back to pull him closer, pressing him against the backs of my thighs as his hips falter.

a few more rough thrusts against my soaked pussy and he’s done, groaning when my cunt pulls him in, keeps him inside where he’s warm and welcome. holding him tightly to ensure every drop of his release is contained inside me, where it should be. 

our breaths soften, heartbeats slow down, our foreheads connect. his lips start looking for mine, desperate for tender kisses while i lower my shaking legs, feet finally finding purchase around his waist. i hold him close, gently, carefully. sebastian melts on top of me, finally spent as his energy fizzles out.

“longest… week… ever…” he mumbles, lazily kissing me as my legs keep him still, keep him inside me warm and snug.

“never going a week without sex again…” i agree, weakly returning kiss after kiss, gliding my foot over his hips, down to his mid-thighs where his sloppily pulled down froggy pyjama bottoms sit. 

the screen changes and i catch it from the corner of my eye. we’ve completely ignored the film sebastian put on earlier and now the screen is darkened with a passive aggressive message in the center, are you still watching?

sebastian snorts, turning his head away from the screen and resting against me.

“i ain’t watching shit unless it’s my wife’s tits bouncing, thanks, nutflix.” he murmurs, a smug half-smile stretching his lips as he checks for my reaction.

“you need sleep,” i giggle weakly, feeling his weight on my chest, “you’re talking nonsense again.”

“shhhh,” his finger finds its way to my lips, resting on them as his breathing slows, “love you too, froggy.”

i chuckle, resting my eyes as we settle down. “love you baby.”

[roseyodditea]

Just Fix It - Wriothesley x gn! Reader

Summary -> 1.2k words. Your repair work is interrupted and then ruined by The Duke himself.

Warnings -> Swearing, Minor injuries.

A/N -> I love the idea of being a mechanic in Meropide. lmk if it's actually interesting to anyone that isn't me and I can write more. I'm just testing the waters with this one lmao

**********

For the first time in a long time, the halls of the Fortress of Meropide were quiet. The consistent and loud clanging of heavy machinery was absent, much to the pleasure of a lot of the prisoners. However, prisoners that were close to the elevator could hear the shouting of the scariest man under the water and the most stubborn person to probably ever exist. The shouts of The Duke and you, the head mechanic of the Fortress. 

“Get down from there!” Wriothesley shouted at the top of one of the large presses in the production zone where you stood, 10 feet in the air. His tone was half amused and half frustrated.

“You aren’t my boss! I don’t take orders from you!” You chuckled, standing in triumph on top of the machinery, holding nothing but an angle grinder. “I am literally your boss!” You let out a scoff. “I am an employee of the Fontaine Research Institute of Kinetic Energy Engineering. I am on loan to you, bitch.” A few of the newer prisoners looked away in fear as you insulted The Duke, not understanding the dynamic between the two of you.

“How much longer do you have on the repairs?” He rolls his eyes, trying not to laugh in front of others.

You scoff and return to cutting off some of the warped metal of the old press. “Not too much longer. I’m just cleaning up some metal that’s causing some of that god-awful screeching. I could fix it faster if you stopped distracting me.”

“Just hurry up and fix it. You’re wasting my precious time.” “What, you planning on dying soon, old man?” You snort to yourself and duck as a wrench is thrown dangerously close to your head, the guards and prisoners in the production zone moving to quickly leave now that metal was being thrown around. You put down the angle grinder and stand up, looking down at Wriothesley. “Say that again.” He looks at you with that cocky smirk you’ve grown to love and picks up a hammer from the toolbox you left on the ground.

“Careful there. That’s heavy, you might throw out your back trying to toss that all the way up here.” You taunt and hold your arms out wide, making yourself a bigger target. 

Wriothesley was throwing the hammer when the high-pitched sound of someone clearing their throat caused your blood to run cold. “Need I remind you both of the strict safety procedures we have in place?” Sigewinne’s voice immediately caused you to panic, looking away from Wriothesley, not realizing the hammer had already left his hand. You were about to say something when the hammer flew towards you. Panic ran through your body as instinct took over, dodging backwards, but losing your footing and falling off of the top of the machinery. Before you fully realized you were falling a ramp of ice emerged and broke your fall, but causing you to catch your wrist as the transition from ice to metal flooring caused you to roll. You didn’t even try to get up, a throbbing sensation in your wrist overpowering you. Two sets of footsteps approached you quickly. Sigewinne grabbed the wrist you landed on and furrowed her eyebrows, your body relaxing now that you knew you were in good hands.

“It’s just a sprain. It should heal just fine in a month” Sigewinne went to grab one of the first aid kits always kept in the production zone. She took out some wraps to help stabilize your wrist when Wriothesley grabbed it from her. 

“I’ll take care of it. It’s my fault they got injured in the first place.” He nodded at Sigewinne and she took that as an order to leave the both of you alone. He took your wrist in his hand and began to gently wrap it. “I’m sorry. That was stupid of me.” 

You tried to ignore the pain in your wrist and chuckled. “Yeah, it kinda was.” You watch his hands move around yours shockingly delicately, his brows furrowed in concentration as he looks down at your hand. “It’s really not a big deal. This isn’t the worst sprain I’ve gotten from climbing on equipment like that. I should have expected it.” Wriothesley shakes his head. “Stop that. This is serious. I hurt you and now you can’t work.” “Oh come on. You have plenty of other mechanics at your beck and call that will come to fix this and do it safer than I would.” You were met with silence, Wriothesley still focused on your wrist, refusing to look up into your eyes. “Unless you have a personal attachment to this one?”

“How bad does it hurt?” He tried to push down the lump he found stuck in his throat, but it still made his voice crackle in a way you hadn’t heard before. “Oh my god, you do have an emotional attachment.” You move your wrist closer to your body. Wriothesley doesn’t seem to notice and moves closer. “Just tell me how bad it hurts. I can get you some medicine from the infirmary, or I can-” “Oh shut up.” You pull him even closer, but this time he notices. Neither of you make any move to back away from each other. “I’m not worried about my wrist anymore. Something more interesting came up.” Wriothesley finishes wrapping your wrist, the support lessening your pain. He wraps his fingers around your wrist and you feel a chill creeping up your arm, his cryo vision glowing subtly as he tries to soothe the inevitable swelling. “I find your company enjoyable. You bring a sense of fun and light I never could afford to have in my life until recently. And the fact that you’re willing to consistently make the trip down here to this damp metal prison means a lot.” He sighs and shakes his head. “And for some stupid reason, I got wrapped up in the moment and threw a hammer at you when you were already in a precarious situation without any sort of safety harness on.” He fully sat down instead of just awkwardly crouching over you.

“And who’s fault is it I wasn’t wearing a safety harness?” “Mine. I’m your boss and I’ve been letting you get away with not wearing one for far too long.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. “You’re not technically my boss. You don’t even sign my paychecks.” “Can’t you let me have anything?” He lets a playful smirk grace his face, the chill making you forget all about your pain. “You’re one of the few people I trust with half the old equipment in this prison. What am I going to do for the next month while you’re healing?”

You moved to rest your head on his shoulder. “You know I’d make a good supervisor.” You wiggle your wrist out of his grip and slide your arm to hold his hand, not minding they were still ice cold.

“For me or other mechanics?” He asked with a hopeful tone in his voice, leaning in slightly.

“I think you know that answer.” You lean in the rest of the way, placing a quick and gentle kiss on his lips. 

“Hmm. I‘ve never heard of that supervision strategy.” “You’re a fucking idiot”

**********

[ilyrafe]

𝒔𝒎𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 ✧ 𝒅. 𝒔.

pairing: drew starkey x f!reader

warnings: the smallest bit of angst, i promise!

word count: 0.8k (she smol!)

“no!”

drew gets startled by your scream and the loud thud of something breaking on the floor.

“babe?” he calls out for you, as he runs around, looking for you.

he finds you in the living room, on your knees, picking up the remains of the mugs you made. the blood on the floor alarms him instantly.

“ugh, i’m such an idiot!” you whine, on the verge of tears.

“baby, wait! let me help you.”

carefully, drew picks you up and takes you to the washroom, where he carefully cleans your injured hand.

“i broke the mugs!” you cry. “i spent an entire week making them and i broke them! and now i don’t know what to get your mom!”

“it’s okay, it was an accident, gravity just did its job.” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

“drew, i can’t show up at your mom’s house empty handed.”

it’s endearing how much you care. instead of buying something, you decided to make jodi a gift. drew once said his mom is obsessed with mugs and you wanted to give her something she would like. you were so excited and happy with your work, but now everything is ruined and your hand is injured.

he opens the cabinets looking for the first aid kit and he quickly patches you up.

“okay, all done!”

he places a soft kiss over the band-aid and then kisses your lips.

“what am i gonna do now? i don’t have the time to make another mug!”

“she’ll understand, i promise. don’t stress over this, okay?”

you sigh, defeated. you want to make a great first impression on his family, and showing up at their house without a gift is unacceptable.

“oh! you did say she liked candles, right?! i know just the place to get her the best candles! and i can even ask them to put her name on it!”

the way your face lights up when the idea crosses your mind is beyond adorable. he doesn’t like when you spend money on him or his family, but you can’t help it — you love giving gifts to people, and you do put so much thought into them.

you get out of the washroom nearly running, and drew just laughs at your antics. there’s nothing he can do to make you stop wanting to please others, really.

he hears your quick steps running around the apartment, getting your things before you leave to go to the said store.

“i’ll be back in an hour!” you announce, almost out the door.

“wait!” drew calls after you, grabbing his keys from the counter. “i’m coming with you.”

you pause, one hand on the doorknob, giving him a confused look.

“you don’t have to.”

“i know, but i want to. besides,” he smirks, stepping closer, “you might need someone to help carry the bags when you inevitably buy more than just a candle.”

you roll your eyes, but can’t help the small laugh that escapes.

“fine, but we’re sticking to the plan: just the candle.”

“sure, babe. whatever you say.”

the two of you head out together, walking down the city streets as the sun dips low in the sky. drew can’t stop sneaking glances at you, your determination to fix the situation despite your earlier frustration has him smiling to himself.

when you arrive at the candle shop, it’s like you’ve stepped into a cozy wonderland. the shelves line the walls, filled with beautifully crafted candles in every scent imaginable.

“okay, let’s find something perfect for your mom,” you say, diving into the task with laser focus.

drew follows close behind, occasionally picking up random candles to sniff, only to scrunch his nose at the overly floral or overly sweet ones.

eventually, you find it: a beautiful, hand-poured soy candle with a woodsy scent that reminds you of drew’s stories about his mom’s love for nature. better yet, the store offers custom engraving!

you request jodi’s name along with a little heart etched onto the glass jar, and the store clerk promises to have it ready in twenty minutes.

as you wait, drew pulls you aside and wraps an arm around your waist.

“see? no need to worry about it, problem solved. mom will love you, with or without a mug.”

“i still feel bad about breaking them,” you admit, leaning against him.

“accidents happen,” he reassures you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your hip. “you care so much, and that’s what matters.”

you look up at him, your heart swelling at his words.

“you think so? i really hope she does.”

“i know so.”

why do you need people’s approval that bad, you don’t know, but you do.

by the time the candle is ready, you’re feeling much more confident. you thank the clerk profusely, admiring the elegant engraving before slipping the candle into a gift bag.

as the two of you leave the store, drew laces his fingers with yours.

“since we’re out, can i treat you to dinner?”

“i should be the one treating you to dinner.” you remark.

“as if i’m gonna let you pay for anything.” he scoffs as he grabs your hand, leading you to a nice little italian restaurant nearby.

just like that, the evening turns into an unexpected but perfect little date, reminding you why drew is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.

[holylulusworld]

Indifferent (7)

Summary: Your father wanted a bond between you and the Barnes Empire. No matter what.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Characters: Captain Syverson

Warnings: arranged marriage, angst, arguments, mafia au, strong reader, jealousy, language, mentions of domestic violence/slight violence against Bucky  

Catch up here: Indifferent (6)

Indifferent Masterlist

Bucky is seething.

His office lies in ruins.

Every single piece of furniture was destroyed, and even the wallpaper hung loose from the walls. He ripped the divorce papers into shreds before drinking himself to sleep.

He fucked up. Big time.

“Buck, you go to get up and fix this shit,” Steve sighs. He runs his hand down his face. Bucky’s second-in-command is tired of his friend’s shit. “If only you didn’t conspire with her father. Of course, this was the last thing she wanted to hear. The two men in her life betraying her in the worst way possible.”

“What do you know about women?” Bucky slurs. “You never had yours under control. She’s waltzing around town, telling everyone you got weak.”

“Buck, I love you like a brother, but if you say another word about my wife, you’ll miss a few teeth,” Steve towers over his friend, holding out his hand. “Choose. Do you want me to help you find Y/N or sit on the floor and drink your mind away?”

“I know where she went,” Bucky scoffs. “I bet she’s sitting at my mom’s table, sipping tea while ratting me out. That fucking brat!”

“Hmm…” Steve nods thoughtfully while glancing at Bucky, who sits on the floor in nothing but his boxer briefs. “I wonder why you’re making me blush with the problem in your pants and still refuse to admit that you’re head-over-heels for your wife.”

“I’m not!” Bucky throws the half-empty bottle of Scotch at his friend. Steve easily dodges the attack and snickers. “How dare you say shit like that! She’s the last pussy I want to pound. I only want to get my hands on her to spank her ass raw!”

Steve throws his head back laughing. “Buck, stop being an idiot. You two are butting heads because you are so into each other it’s painful to watch. Just fuck it out of your system.”

“I bet she’s got teeth down there too,” Bucky lies on the floor and curls into a ball. He’s just done. “If I try to push my little Bucky in there, she’ll bite it off and feed it to her lover, Thor. A tall and bulky blonde with waving hair. That asshole looks like one of the guys in my mom’s romance novels.”

“Buck,” Steve crouches down to pat Bucky’s back, “talk to me, punk. Did you fall in love with the masseur?”

“What?” Bucky growls and sits up a little too fast. He cradles his head, groaning. “I’ll cut your head off if you say that again. I should’ve ripped that masseur apart.”

“I’m telling you one last time to stop being a stupid bastard and get your wife back. Your mother was right. Y/N, and you are a great match. You’re just too blind and stubborn to admit it.”

“Stop talking shit,” Bucky growls at his friend. “I don’t even like her! She’s a brat, and annoying and loud and a fucking thorn in my side.”

“That’s a fucking lot of ‘ands,” Steve laughs again. He shakes his head before holding out his hand. “Let’s get you sober and clean. After you come back to your senses, we can think about a way to get your wife back.”

“What are your plans?” Sy watches you pace back and forth in the motel room you’re hiding at. After you called your father to ask him if Bucky told you the truth, you’re restless. “Sugar, stop walking holes into the floor.”

He grabs your upper arms to stop you from freaking out. “He told me it’s true. My father, the man I trusted with my life, sided with Barnes. Can you believe he did this to me?”

Sy looks away, ashamed.

“Sy, what are you hiding from me?” You question and grab his face to force him to look you in the eyes. “I deserve the truth, don’t you think?”

“Before your wedding, I heard Barnes and your father talk. Your father was always a greedy and power-hungry man. His greed for power only got worse the older he got.”

“I know my father is a greedy man,” you sniff, forcing a weak smile on your face. “What do I not know?”

“George Barnes got weak. Everyone knows it. Your father wanted to form a bond between your families to easily take the Barnes’ empire over.” Sy reveals a truth you didn’t want to know about.

“This makes me a pawn in their game,” you muse. “Wow. I believed I was a sacrificial lamb to strengthen our empires, not to fulfill my daddy’s wet dream to take over another empire.”

“Sugar, I’m sorry for hiding things from you. Their deal was one of the reasons I quit my job and work as a freelancer now. I never wanted to lie to you while looking you in the eyes.” Sy covers your hands with his, squeezing them. “Still, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you so before you married Barnes.”

“You’re here now.” The betrayal is still fresh in your memory; you sniffle. “Nothing else is important. You fulfilled your duty. I know how important loyalty is to you.”

“Loyalty is everything in my line of work,” he replies before clearing his throat. Your hands are still on his face, and he’s feeling something else than responsibility at that moment. “We should lie low for now. Maybe reconsider your plan.”

“Reconsider my plan?” You question.

“You said it yourself; Bucky will be out for blood. Maybe it’s not the worst idea to ask Winnifred Barnes for help. I heard she’s very fond of you.”

“I don’t want to drag her into this shit show,” you hastily reply and shake your head. “Winnifred was nothing but good to me. She doesn’t deserve to end up hurt or worse because of my father’s plans. We should keep her out of this.”

“It’s your decision,” Sy sighs when you drop your hands from his face to pace the room again. “I’m with you the whole way. Just tell me what to do.”

“We’ll need a better plan than filing for divorce, I guess,” you sigh and sit down on the bed. Of course, there was only one free room with only one bed. “I think for now all we can do is get some sleep. I could fall asleep standing.”

“You can sleep,” Sy says as he checks on the locks again. You fall onto the mattress and roll to your side to watch him shove a commode in front of the door. “I’ll make sure no one dares to enter the room.”

Sy clicks his tongue, signaling his dog to guard the bed. Aika jumps onto the bed to lie next to you. “What?”

“Aika will protect you at all costs, Y/N,” he says. His features soften when you look his way. “I don’t expect them to find us here. I paid cash, and no one knows us here. Rest now. You’ll need all the sleep you can get.”

On the other end of town, Bucky is aimlessly driving around. He slams his hands onto the steering wheel, cursing himself for even looking for you.

“I’ll find and tame you, brat…”

Part 8

[azmageddon]

Silence (Part Three)

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian’s twin!healer! reader

Summary: After Amarantha wounds you in the worst way for an Illyrian, the silence of your mate on the other side of the bond stirs memories of how your relationship began.

Warnings: Brief mentions of blood and wounds. Azriel being an ass in this one. One swear word (I think?) . Also painfully inaccurate to the original storyline.

A/n: Personal life took over, honestly. But I am so insanely excited for this one. I wanted something that would create somewhat of a background story for reader and Azriel's relationship and to kickstart the beginning of UTM. Let me know what you think! Always open to requests on how this series should go, so if you have any suggestions let me know! I'd love to hear them!

***

There was a pull. A gentle one at first, but still, a slight tug at the center of your chest. It seemed to beckon you toward the house.

The feeling was fleeting as the sharp sting of a wooden sword struck the side of your leg. 

“Come on, Y/N! You stink at this!” came the voice of your twin brother through the momentary fog. You shook your head to clear it and turned back to him as quickly as your ten year old body would let you. 

“Ow, Cassian!” you whined. “That’s not fair!”

You lifted your own toy sword to strike back, but the pull in your chest came again; so sharply this time that you actually stumbled forward. Embarrassingly for you, Cassian had seen it and let out a laugh at your clumsiness. 

“What’s wrong with you, Y/N? You’re being weird today. I don’t want to play with you if you’re not going to play right.”

With a mighty leap, you pushed your wings out, catching a few inches of air and effectively pummeling your brother. The two of you rolled around in the dirt and leaves, throwing fake punches at one another and ruining your clean clothes. After a few minutes of play fighting, the two of you sprang apart. 

“Ow! You made me cut my hand!” Cassian moaned, turning his palm to face you as a fresh trickle of red blood dripped to the ground. “Fix it!”

You rolled your eyes at your brother and stuck your tongue out at him. “Make me!” With that, you tore into the forest, Cassian fast on your heels. 

Quickly approaching the edge of the trees, you risked a peek over your shoulder to see that Cassian was quick and gaining on you. Before you had the chance to turn back around and sprint even quicker, you ran directly into the path of something hard. 

You practically bounced off the hard object, hitting the ground with a pile of dust coating you. When you looked up to see what you had run into, you could only stare in horror at the Lord of Windhaven. 

“L-Lord Devlon,” you stuttered, shaking where you cowered at his feet. “I’m sorry…I…Cassian was chasing me and I…I didn’t mean to…”

With a large hand, Devlon gripped you by the hair and pulled you to your feet. You let out a soft wince at the pain, knowing better than to cry out. It wasn’t long until Cassian was at your side again. 

“Lord Devlon, I’m so sorry, my sister is so clumsy she didn’t-“

But the Lord of Windhaven lifted a hand to Cassian to silence him. With an audible gulp, your twin took a small step back. 

“I didn’t see you at training this morning,” Devlon sneered at your brother, his unnatural calm causing goosebumps to prickle along your arms. It was either from that, or the firm grip he kept on the roots of your hair. You didn’t dare squirm, knowing there would be hell to pay if you did. 

Redness crept up Cassian’s face at the confrontation. He was so excited to show you everything he’d learned over the last few weeks that you’d both lost track of time and caused him to miss his training schedule. 

“Children!” came the soft voice of Rhysand’s mother. She emerged from the shadow of the trees and immediately at the sound of her approaching, Devlon resealed his grip on you. The Lord of Windhaven never took an order from anyone, let alone a female. But even Devlon wasn’t stupid enough to argue with the mate of the High Lord. 

“Come meet our new friend,” she continued, gently grasping your hand and pulling you away from the male. Having provided you with shelter when Cassian and you were homeless, she had become something of your own mother. With a quick glared warning at the male, she pulled you and your twin away.

“I’ll see you at training tomorrow, boy,” Devlon called after the three of you, and you felt Cassian shiver in fear at the promise of a torturous session the following day.

When you were finally out of earshot, Rhysand’s mother rounded on the two of you. “Children! You know better than to provoke Lord Devlon. And Cassian, to miss training? I’m very disappointed in you.”

Cassian’s ears reddened in embarrassment, but you were barely listening. The tug in your chest was growing stronger with each step closer to home. You took your free hand, the one that wasn't gripped in the hand of Rhysand’s mother, and rubbed at the center of your chest. The tugging sensation didn’t subside. 

Finally, as the trees cleared and your adopted home came into view, you could see Rhysand bouncing excitedly alongside another child relatively the same age. 

“Children, this is our new friend.” Rhysand’s mother released you and took a few steps toward the boy whose back was turned to you. “Azriel, dear, won’t you come say hello?”

Azriel turned slowly, hazel eyes downcast and hands clamped tightly behind his back. You noticed small tendrils of smoke floating around his tightly drawn wings. 

“I'll leave you four to get acquainted.” Rhysand’s mother took a few steps up toward the house, patting her biological son on the top of his head before turning to you. “Dinner prep in ten minutes, Y/N.”

You nodded, understanding your role as an Illyrian female was to cater to the males, no matter their age. 

“Hello,” you whispered to the new boy named Azriel. At the sound of your voice, his eyes snapped to yours. The moment they met, the tug in your chest exploded. You imagined a thread, golden and long, reaching out from the center of your chest toward him. 

Before you had the chance to say anything, Rhys began chattering away. “Azriel says he’s never flown before. Can you believe it? An illyrian that’s never flown! I can't wait to show you!” As his childish prattle continued and Azriel’s gaze returned to the ground, you leaned into your twin.

“Cassian,” you whispered, only for him to hear. “I think Azriel will be my mate one day.”

***

You groaned as pain shot down your back. For a brief moment, you opened your eyes. You were laying on your stomach in a bed that wasn’t your own in a room that you didn't recognize. You had just been dreaming, something about the first time you had met Azriel. But before you could reach out toward his side of the bed, you fell back into unconsciousness.

***

“I will come back to you, I promise.” Azriel tightened his arms around you as your silent tears stained his leathers. You shook your head against his chest, refusing to loosen your grip on him.

“You could be killed, Az,” you choked through your tears. “Isn’t there any other way?” You knew that this was a fate you couldn’t change, the Blood Rite being a tradition for centuries, maybe even millennia. There was no changing tradition. 

Azriel pried you from himself, pulling your fingers off of his leathers and holding you at arms length. He had to crouch down to be on your level, him being nearly an entire head taller than you. Lacing his fingers through your hair and using his other hand to tilt your chin up, he forced you to make eye contact. 

“Listen to me, Y/N,” he began, his hazel eyes practically begging for you to listen. “I will not die out there. Rhys, Cassian, and I will come home. I will come home to you.”

You hiccuped a sob and nodded your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself closer. Dropping your foreheads together, you closed your eyes and took a shaking breath. For years you had kept your secret from Azriel. You’re not sure why you wouldn’t tell him that you knew he was your mate. Maybe it was fear of rejection or just bad timing, but you swore to yourself that if he returned from the Blood Rite you would finally share your secret with him.

“I want to…” he whispered, but cut himself off. 

You opened your eyes and saw his hazel ones were on you, darting back and forth between your lips and your own eyes. 

“I’ve never…” you started but stopped as well, embarrassed to admit you’ve never slept with another person before. To you, there was only Azriel, only your mate, and it was never something you ever gave a second thought to. 

But Azriel smirked, dropping his gaze and looking slightly sheepish. “Neither have I,” he whispered back. 

Before long, the two of you were tangled in each other’s arms, sheets thrown aside and gasped moans as you frantically fumbled for each other. 

When you awoke the next morning, Azriel was gone, as well as every other male Illyrian warrior set to partake in the Blood Rite that week. 

***

“Azriel,” you groaned, attempting to shift from your facedown position on the unfamiliar bed beneath you. 

“Take it easy, Y/N, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” The voice was familiar, deep, and you cracked an eye open when you felt the cool feeling of a damp cloth slide across your brow. 

Except it wasn’t Azriel that wiped at your head. Rhysand kneeled eyelevel at the side of the bed. You could see the multitude of emotions swimming behind his eyes: regret, pain, anxiety, and sadness. 

You tried to shift again, but agonizing pain shot down your back. You stifled a scream by practically shoving your face into the pillow. You felt the cool hands of your High Lord tracing shapes across the burning muscles of your back, and the pain slowly ebbed away.

“What happened?” 

Rhysand didn’t respond at first. You could tell he was avoiding your gaze and kept his eyes downcast. Cautiously, you craned your head over your shoulder to see what could be causing the burning pain that you felt.

Nausea rolled through your stomach and you felt your vision darkening along the edges at the sight. What was there, or worse, what wasn't there, had you swallowing your bile and jumpstarting your breathing. 

“Oh gods,” you croaked, and felt your vision and consciousness failing you again. Right where your once strong and beautiful wings stood were mere gaping holes of blood and raw skin. All traces of what made you Illyrian were gone. 

***

You pushed through the crowd, searching frantically for the one male you longed to see. A week away from him was entirely too long; not knowing if he was dead or alive had made the time away even more difficult. 

Pushing through unwashed Illyrian bodies, you eyed every one you passed. Having just returned from the Blood Rite, the throng of people was thicker than ever. Some warriors were triumphant, slapping each other on the back and loudly sharing their stories of revenge and kills. Some were injured, quickly being carried away to the healing tent - a place where you knew you were supposed to be at this very moment to await their return. You couldn’t help yourself, though. All week you had imagined this moment: telling Azriel your secret and reuniting in a world of bliss, happiness, and happily ever after.

After a few minutes, you spotted three familiar faces. You signed a breath of relief. A quick scan of the three showed minor scrapes and bruising, but no life-threatening injuries. 

“Azriel! Cassian! Rhys!” you called from across the sea of people. Knowing their fae hearing would pick up your call, three pairs of eyes shot in your direction. But there was only one pair of hazel that you immediately locked on to. Setting into a run, you flung your arms around your mate, the sheer force of your body forcing him to stumble a step back.

“What, no hugs for your own flesh and blood?” Cassian grumbled from behind you.

You ignored him, nuzzling your face into Azriel’s chest, reveling in the familiar scent that washed over you. Albeit, a bit stale and dirty, but still familiar all the same. 

“Az, I was so worried about you,” you breathed into his skin. 

Instead of responding, Azriel just cleared his throat and peeled you off of him, this time settling you a few feet away and taking a step back.

“Right,” he responded, avoiding your gaze.

The joy you had felt at seeing him return safely fizzled in your chest and went out, replaced now by anxiety and confusion. A quick glance at Rhys and Cassian showed the two males were equally confused. However, Azriel offered no further explanation.

A crushing squeeze from your twin and a soft hug from Rhysand later, you ushered the two home to bathe, rest, and eat for the remainder of the day. 

“I’ve left plenty of food in the kitchen,” you called to them as they turned to leave. “Just leave some for your brother, too!” The two waved over their shoulders as they set off toward home, indicating they had heard you but giving no promises that there would be anything left for the third male in their trio.

You turned back to Azriel, who stood in the same spot, still avoiding eye contact at all cost.

“Az,” you began, taking a step toward him and reaching out your hand to grasp his. He flinched at the movement and looked around wildly, almost as if he was hoping no one had seen your attempt to touch him. He quickly pulled away and folded his hands behind his back and out of your reach. You dropped your arm and felt the pang of rejection shoot through you. “Are you okay?” you asked. 

“We need to talk,” he muttered but said no more.

“Yes,” you agreed, your voice now quiet and small. “We do need to talk.”

You waited a few moments where the two of you stood there in silence, neither one willing to begin the conversation. You wondered if he knew, if Cassian had told him that you were his mate. Cassian was, afterall, the only one who knew your secret, and you couldn’t imagine what a week of surviving in the wilderness brought out of people.

As you opened your mouth to confess your secret, Azriel opened his, too. For a heartbeat you both stood there, mouths open, poised to speak your truths. 

You quickly closed yours and motioned a hand to him. “You go first,” you said, secretly grateful you had a few more moments to regroup your thoughts.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Azriel admitted, finally locking his gaze with yours. When you didn’t respond, he seemed to gain his confidence and continued his explanation. “I know what you want from me, and I can’t give it to you. I spent the entire week out there thinking about you and begging the Mother to bring me back to you. But the Blood Rite changes people, Y/N. Cassian, Rhys, and I -  we made it to the top. We reached the summit and touched the monolith first.” He paused, brushing a hand through his hair before running it down his face and letting out a huff of frustration as he attempted to explain how he felt. 

“I have a role to play in this camp. In this army. I can prove myself here, and I can’t focus on that if you’re…” he hesitated, seemingly trying to find the words that expressed exactly what he was trying to say. 

But you didn’t need him to finish. You understood loud and clear what he was trying to say. He didn’t know the truth of the mating bond. Cassian had stayed true to his promise to keep it a secret until you were ready to reveal it to your mate. What Azriel was admitting to you was worse. Much worse than you ever could have expected.

“You’re breaking up with me?” you asked, holding back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“Am I, though?” he said, one eyebrow shooting up in question. “I mean, we’ve always been friends and you were a good fuck, but I’d hardly say we were together.”

His words sliced through you worse than any blade could ever have done. You took an involuntary step back. You pushed the tears down completely, resolving not to cry in front of him and humiliate yourself even further. 

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but this is how I feel. I have the opportunity to make something of myself for the first time in my life. I can’t risk losing that.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. It was your turn to avoid eye contact and you looked anywhere but at the face of your oblivious, beautiful, cruel mate.

He sighed and reached a hand out to you. The mountains and valleys of his skin intertwined with your own fingers. He gave your hand a tight squeeze in an attempt to relay his apology.

“What were you going to tell me?” he asked. You could tell he was finished with the conversation, wanting nothing more than to escape your presence.

You shoved the mating bond aside, vowing to yourself never to open it again. You didn’t know if you could stand another second of Azirel’s emotions rushing into your soul unbeknownst to him. Pulling your hand out of his, you took a step back, hardening your heart to the man you had come to love more than you ever thought possible.

“I’ve had a job offer as a personal healer to Rhysand’s father,” you said. “He offered me a place in his court. I’ve accepted the offer.” It was a lie. You did have a job offer from the High Lord, but you had planned to reject it in lieu of the mating bond. But as that future seemed to be a distant hope now, you knew that staying in Windhaven was no longer an option. You intended to write to the High Lord tonight and travel to Velaris in the morning for your new post. 

Azriel smiled, a tight incline of his lips that never reached his eyes. “That’s great, Y/N. I’m so happy for you.”

“Right,” you said, repeating his words back to him. 

***

Rhysand was cleaning your wounds as best he could with the limited supplies he had, which was virtually nothing. A few buckets of clean water and strips of his undershirt he had torn apart to dress your back.

“How did you heal me?” you asked. Rhys had magnificent healing powers, ones that practically rivaled your own. But you knew, from the moment that Amarantha’s wine touched your lips, you had both been rendered magic-less.

“I made a deal with her,” he responded, pressing the clean rags into your back and mopping up the blood that had freshly oozed from them. He took a moment to roll up his sleeve and show you the fresh swirling tattoo that encircled the entirety of his left wrist. “In return, she gave me a fraction of my powers. Just enough to ensure you wouldn’t die.”

You reached your arm out to touch your fingertips to his new tattoo when you hesitated. Glancing at your own extended wrist, you saw that you bore twin markings. 

“What was the bargain?” you asked, dread flooding your body now that you had discovered that somehow, you were involved. 

But he shook his head, tucking your arm back in the blankets and pushing his sleeve back down. “Not now. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

Finishing his work on your back, you felt the mattress dip as he sat beside you. “Are you going to tell me about Azriel?” 

Grief flooded you. You reached out across the bond and tugged as hard as you could, harder than you ever had before. But once again, that golden thread led into nothing but darkness and silence.

And so, you told Rhysand everything.

Words and tears came pouring out of you. You told Rhys about the day you met Azriel, how you had felt the mating bond snap at ten years old. You told him about losing your virginity and the heartbreak that led to your employment in Velaris. You told him the story of how Azriel had found out about the mating bond, when it had snapped for him, and the betrayal he felt of being left in the dark. You talked about your private mating ceremony, the frenzy, and the years the two of you snuck around, vowing to each other never to reveal your secret. 

When you finished, Rhysand contemplated your story. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

You sighed, knowing this part of the conversation was unavoidable. “Cassian knew,” you offered, knowing it would add nothing to your explanation.

“Why not tell me? Or Mor? To keep it a secret even from us; that seems extreme and honestly, a little hurtful. Two of my best friends have been sneaking around behind my back and the third had known all along. It’s hard to be the last one finding out.”

“I’m sorry, Rhys.” you shifted in the bed, uncomfortable from laying on your belly for so long. You reached a hand out to his, lacing your fingers together and staring at the twin tattoos that bound you together. “Azriel has a lot of enemies. Being a Spymaster comes with a lot of risk. We both knew that if the world had found out about us, my life would have been in danger. We thought we were doing what was best by keeping it a secret. Azriel said he would never be able to sleep at night, or go away on assignments, knowing I was at risk.”

Rhysand nodded, squeezing his fingers tightly around yours. “I understand now. I’m sorry you felt like you had to keep it a secret. I’m the one that puts Azriel on dangerous missions. I’m the one that asks him to… take care of the prisoners. I never thought these things would be such a hindrance in his life.”

“No, Rhys,” you assured him. “Az would do anything for you. He loves you. If anything, our secret was proof of his undying loyalty to you and your court.”

The two of you sat in silence together, grateful that if you had to be stuck as a prisoner to Amarantha and her sick, twisted, fate, you were at least stuck together. 

“I promise,” Rhys began, “I will return you to Velaris. I will return you to your mate, no matter what it takes.”

***

Taglist:

@a-new-romantic @tiredsleepyhead @olive-main @saltedcoffeescotch @lunajay33 @st4r-girl-official @lilah-asteria