#I had to sit and ruminate on this for a minute

[iguessitsjustme]

I can’t stop thinking about that scene in the library where Day drops the CDs and Mhok just watches him because it perfectly encapsulates why Day chooses Mhok out of everyone else to be his caretaker.

It’s not about the fact that Mhok treats him normally because everyone’s normal is different. For me, if I see someone drop something and struggle to pick it up, I jump in and help regardless of the reason it was dropped. Because that’s the kind of person I am. That’s normal for me, but it’s not normal for Mhok.

The reason Mhok is chosen is because he treats Day as capable. He knows Day can walk to him to get his library card. He knows Day can pick up the CDs. He doesn’t ignore Day’s disability but he doesn’t treat him like he’s limited by it (at least at first I’m sure this will change as he takes care of Day).

When Mhok crashed showed up for the initial interview, Day made a snarky comment about the reason they were hiring someone was because he can’t even manage to eat on his own without injuring himself. Day is tired and he’s angry and he used to be an athlete and now he can’t even feed himself without his mother worrying.

Day is angry about his situation but behind that and buried very deep is fear that this is his life forever. That he will never see again and he will need to rely on people for the rest of his life. Then Mhok comes along and he’s also angry. Mhok’s pain and grief isn’t something that can ever be cured but it can be healed. And their anger speaks to each other. Mhok sees the anger and fear and pain in Day and understands and sees his own anger and pain reflected back.

Also no one treats Mhok like he’s capable despite his skill set because of his past. He was in jail? Oh well I guess suddenly he doesn’t know how to be a mechanic anymore. Mhok and Day need each other because they treat each other as more than what society sees them as and they treat each other like they’re capable of more than the shit hands they’ve been dealt.

[blackbird-brewster]

I just realised I'm at the point in life where I've spent more years past high school graduation than the age I graduated at.

The passage of time is a mindfuck. Damn.

[luveline]

coworker James being protective of reader like she’s just a sweet and kind thing and he’s FINALLY accepting his feelings and reader gets like happy that he cares?

“No, no, it’s okay. Yeah, don’t worry about me, I’m just gonna watch movies all weekend. I might make popcorn. Yeah! Don’t worry about it, just have fun, okay?” 

You’re talking quietly but not without pep, hushed to avoid disturbing him. By the sounds of it, your plans for the weekend have bombed. You’re taking it remarkably well. 

“Okie dokie. Well, I���ll see you soon, yeah? Love you. Bye.” You don’t lift your head where you’re laying against the desk, but you put your phone gently by your keyboard. 

“That blows,” James says. 

“Maybe.” You turn your face to see him, before you lift yourself up and return to the pack of biscuits you’ve opened. “Do you want some?” you ask, bringing a malted milk to your mouth. 

“Please.” 

You gesture for him to take one. In relative quiet, you and James sit there chewing, the sunlight from the open window on your hands. 

“You’re not upset about your plans?” he asks. 

“A bit, but… I don’t want her to feel bad for me. She should have a good time, she got last minute tickets to see a band and she loves them. We can just hang out next weekend.” You push the biscuits toward him. “I need to stop eating these all the time.” 

You stand up and do a big stretch, arm arched over your head before you laugh and point at him. He’s never had someone look at him like this. “Pretend you didn’t see that,” you say, raising your eyebrows just a touch. 

You’re being playful. James’ stomach flips. “I didn’t see a thing,” he says. 

You drop your pointing. “Really?” 

He covers his eyes. 

Your following laughter is even richer. 

“This office makes me tired. I’m going to make some coffee before lunch is over,” you say. 

You walk away like nothing happened. James is left to ruminate. 

He pushes a hand into the crop of his hair and ruffles it, stressed, though the scratch of his nails against his scalp relieves some tension. James is used to being annoyed at you, you were always so irked with him, but lately he struggles to find anger for you. He still loves to tease you and watch your eyes change; there’s no better moments than on the mornings he’s here first and he’s found a new hiding place for your mug, and you’re forced to ask him where it is he put it. Asked is kind, really. More aptly, you demand to know where it is, and promise professional retribution. 

You could always drink from a different mug, but James has a feeling you like asking. This morning, you found it by yourself, and you put it smugly on your desk with steam rising from the surface. “You’re getting worse,”

you’d said, and that smugness suddenly felt friendly. Your smile was ten different shades of sweet. 

You are… quite sweet. You’re kind. You don’t let much upset you that isn’t James, even when it should. And the James stuff is all superficial. When was the last time you guys argued over something that mattered?

Which isn’t to say he doesn’t love arguing with you. But he’s coming to appreciate another side of you, the side that comes back to your desk with a fresh coffee and little happy breath of air when you see he’s made his two figurines cuddle each other. 

“They’re in love,” you say dreamily. 

“You can be so lovely,” James says. It’s like something takes over his body. 

You put your coffee down. “What?” you ask, smiling as though it’s a joke you don’t get. 

He’s not sure he should say it again. “I don’t know. When you smile, you’re really pretty. Like, even more than usual.” 

“Ha-ha.” 

“No, I’m serious.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

James takes one of your biscuits. “Then don’t, it doesn’t bother me.” He wishes he hadn’t said it, what a weird thing to say, but he can’t pretend he was kidding, it would be crueller than saying nothing. So he wedges a biscuit in his mouth and laughs when you call him gross, your facade one he doesn’t believe. You wrinkle your nose, but you’re happy underneath it. 

Lovely, even. 

[comicaurora]

Tahraim is my fav absolutely adore him! I love that you’ve made the smith deal in introspection and cryptic bs, a lot of times smiths are very straightforward characters in stories. What made you decide to shake it up?

Can gods be tied to concepts as well as cities? As Tahraim seems to be a god of blacksmithing (or at least has some serious motifs) does he have a city thats just forges?

He also seems a lot more mobile than the other gods, or is he just “tied” to Danix?

Tahraim is a conceptual god, a class of deity considered grander and more untethered than city or nature gods. Also in his weight class are Emnis and Erebas (dreams and nightmares), Shanyasi (music), Sennaia (knowledge), Jiya (war), and a whole bunch of others. They're gods of ideas, and their domains are in the collective consciousness of mortals. They can manifest anywhere they hold sway, and several of them have constructed domains of their own in pocket dimensions; Sennaia has a transfinite library hidden away somewhere, and Tahraim has a forge.

Tahraim's personality comes from my own experience with artists and craftspeople. Many artists are acutely aware that in order for their work to be better, they need to be better. The process of creation and introspection becomes inextricably linked. Forging a tool changes the forger, little by little.

There's also an element I've observed from teachers. I was always a firm proponent of "don't be cryptic or cute, just tell me the thing and I'll get it," and while that's true a lot of the time, there are concepts that cannot be Just Told in any meaningful way. They don't hit or stick if the person doesn't put them together themselves and construct a way that works for them. Teaching isn't always the impartation of information; a lot of the time it's guidance so the student crafts the tools that work for them. Even if the teacher can perfectly communicate what method works for them, everyone is different, and a student that does the exact same thing exactly right might gain no benefits or be actively harmed by the process. Instead, the student has to parse the lesson and create their own tools to execute the same goal.

Personal example under a readmore because it got a little long:

I've sporadically dealt with intrusive thoughts my whole life, though I didn't understand what they were at the time and they've mostly gone away on their own. When I was little, upsetting thoughts would get stuck in my head and stay there; things would give me nightmares that lasted for weeks, or I'd be stuck awake in the wee hours ruminating on every time in my life I'd done something shameful or harmful or wrong. My dad recognized I was upset, and tried to teach me a method of "counting thoughts" that worked for him, where I could sit for a few minutes and just passively observe the thoughts floating by, counting them and observing them and thus becoming aware that they were small, fleeting things with no power on their own. The problem is, this method didn't work for me at all, because "count the thought" didn't communicate to me "and that makes the thought not a problem anymore." The thought still hurt just as bad, all I was doing was reminding myself how many bad thoughts were happening. I would get overwhelmed and end up more distressed, and the fact that this thing that should have worked didn't work just convinced me that I was trapped and nobody could ever help me.

It took actual years before I found a method that clicked in my brain, and it was just one step further down the path of counting thoughts:

"Having that thought is harmless."

Every thought that got stuck in my head was about times or ways I might've harmed people. The things that distressed me most were things I'd done wrong that I had zero power to change, so the wrongness would just haunt me forever, making me miserable forever. But the root of the distress was that I had messed up and hurt people.

The thing that clicked was that having the thought does nothing to anyone but me. The thought is harmless, even if the event the thought is about wasn't or wouldn't be. Having the thought hurts no-one else. And since 90% of my distress was distress at the thought of hurting other people, it hit me that in reality, even in the depths of my angst, I was just sitting there, hurting no-one.

And suddenly I found that the last few intrusive thoughts rattling around in my brain withering, because the last thing that had been feeding them was gone. I was given the technique for Counting Thoughts, but it wasn't made for my hands. I had to make my own version out of it. And just because it worked for me and my own personal brain doesn't mean this method would work for someone else, just the same way the method that worked for my dad didn't click for me. If I wanted to teach someone a way to bypass intrusive thoughts, all I would have to work on would be what worked for me, but I could try to guide them through a path similar to the one I followed to find my method so they could maybe find their specific hangups and what specifically would work for them. Every mind is different.

This is also why it's so frustrating to hear someone say stuff like "Oh I used to worry about that too, but it's actually fine, you can just stop worrying about it!" And it's like, "oh, fuckin brilliant, just stop worrying about it? Absolute genius, I just hadn't thought of that-" like yea it sounds flippant and yea it's not helpful, but they are using the only frame of reference they have and describing what they did. They stressed about something, realized it was not actually a problem, and knowing that was enough to make it leave their mind alone. But saying that they "just stopped worrying" doesn't make you understand or internalize how they did it. And because they can't seem to help you, it makes you mad. But then sometimes, with time and perspective, you look back and think "wow, yea, at some point I really did just stop worrying about that." It doesn't mean their advice worked, it just means somewhere along the line something clicked in your mind and started working.

Tahraim is a smith who sees no difference between shaping a tool and shaping a person, but there are some ways that people can't be shaped from the outside, and instead have to shape themselves. He likes to be subtle and cryptic, but he also has good reason to be. The only way to make something click in someone's head is to guide them towards it and nudge them when necessary. It's not all hitting stuff with hammers.

[temis-de-leon]

10 signs a cow is happy

Characters: Belphie x gn!MC

Main Masterlist

CW: developing and established relationship. A tiny bit suggestive at one point and there's a mention of rumination (regurgitation) in another one. Otherwise, nothing

A/N: a little different from what I'm used to, but I figured trying something new could help with the writer's block. Hope you enjoy it!

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Inspired by this video and this one <3

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He reacts to his name.

Except it isn’t just his name; at least when the one looking for him is MC.

Most of the time it’s Belphie, although Belphegor comes out occasionally, like those mornings when they’re both running late for class and he won’t wake up. There are also the late nights when MC is too tired to speak and only hums the melody of his name, but the demon still opens an arm and offers the spot beside him.

He frowns when Lucifer yells and continues sleeping when Beel carries him without a care in the world, but, conscious or not, he always smiles when MC is the one calling for him.

He spends time socialising and grooming others.

It’s more noticeable once he’s freed from the attic and he feels the need to spend as much time with them as his brothers had had while he was trapped, although his hate towards humans dissipating might’ve also had something to do with it.

One moment MC finds themselves relaxing in their room and the next, after answering an ominous text message, they are lying down next to him in the planetarium, first admiring the stars and then letting him play with their hair as he unknots it with his fingers.

His touch only grows more intimate as their friendship deepens and eventually evolves into something much less platonic, but the love and care within remain the same.

He likes to play with toys, like balls.

Which is something no one expects; a welcomed surprise.

They’re all sitting in a couple of booths inside a cheap diner in the middle of nowhere, one more time victims of their own misadventures. The smell of meaty grease surrounds them and sticks to their clothes, leaving both Asmo and Beel in tears for completely different reasons, and the mean-looking waitress has enough kindness in her heart to give them an old kid’s toy to entertain themselves.

It goes first to MC, the favourite in the family, and then to Belphie, who never gets to give it to anyone else. He throws it, catches it and bounces it against any surface available until Lucifer gives him a warning look and threatens to confiscate it, to which he pouts.

A couple of minutes later, he throws it in MC’s direction, so they throw it back to him with a smile.

Five minutes later, the ball is neatly kept in Lucifer’s pocket.

He has zoomies.

Another surprise, although not as sweet as the last one.

There’s a primal fear in the depths of their mind, the one that yearns for survival, that begs MC to run and hide the very few times Belphie looks at them with those dilated pupils. They suppose it makes sense, even if they’re not afraid of him anymore.

He doesn’t look dangerous or aggressive, just unsettlingly alert and active for a demon who’s supposed to be always tired; shockingly fast and agile each time the sudden bursts of energy make him run through the house jumping in unfiltered glee, going past MC close enough to almost tackle them to the ground.

Satan suspects it’s a consequence of his long periods of rest and, while MC finds it fascinating, they can’t wait for Belphie to go back to normal.

He’s enthusiastic about treats.

A feature he shares with his brother, no doubt, is their twin telepathy proving its existence yet again; and even though they’re strikingly different, they still share some mannerisms as well, like the way they smile or look up at MC whenever they enter their room.

And that brightness in their face only increases if there are goodies involved.

MC sometimes jokes about Beel being more like a goat, trying to eat anything and everything whether or not is edible. Fortunately, Belphie’s stomach is not that demanding, so a simple sushi platter is enough to leave him happy.

However, MC can’t help but wonder if being the one who brings the treats is part of the reason for his enthusiasm because if so, every market near them will have a sushi shortage very soon.

He chews cud.

Which serves to remind MC of his non-human, half-ruminant nature.

With the middle of March approaching, the twins’ birthday is celebrated as much as possible. The amount of food at the table is tremendous and it even reaches Diavolo’s height; a perfect example of the word variety. There are dishes, appetizers, snacks and desserts for everyone’s taste, fruits and meats and vegetables and whatnot. Fortunately, Beel eats half of it in the blink of an eye before it can get overwhelming.

But for some reason, there’s also a medium-sized bowl full of what looks like grass. It’s hidden amongst other things, probably because of the oddity of its presence, but Belphie finds it quickly enough.

The sight that follows is morbidly captivating and equally disgusting, especially when the chewed food comes back to his mouth for more chewing.

At the end of the day, the important thing is that he’s happy.

…right?

He initiates hugs.

Usually when he wants cuddles and, bratty as he is, his requests often sound more like demands.

He opens his arms, brings MC to his chest and breathes in. There’s a hand wrapped around their waist and another cradling their head, softly scratching their scalp, and their body is already relaxing against his before they can even think about what they’re doing.

Sometimes, when he looks too grumpy to be taken seriously, they like to tease him, laughing at the shocked and offended expression he wears when they playfully ignore his attempted embrace.

They suppose it’s sweet, the idea of always being close as a given fact.

He exposes his tummy for belly rubs.

While lying in that position might be seen as vulnerable for some, it doesn’t seem to be a problem for Belphie; although being a powerful demon probably gave him a good sense of security.

MC would never complain about it, anyway. Seeing him so at peace around them and not only letting, but asking to be pet? A perfect evening if they’ve ever seen one. They let themselves enjoy the feeling of his stomach trembling under the tip of their nails and the small puffs of air that come out when their fingers threaten to travel lower.

It’s a type of intimacy that he wouldn’t mind bragging about in front of his brothers, but he still stays quiet to keep it private and uninterrupted.

He licks his lips when you hit the right scratch spot.

The boredom is hefty enough to kill the whole classroom. Some are painting their skin, others are painting their seatmate’s skin and MC is wondering how soft Belphie’s hair is. He is sitting in front of them during the last period of the day and the temptation is too strong to avoid.

For once, he isn’t carelessly dropped on the table, but rather leaning back and letting his head rest on the back of the chair; he is conscious enough to pay attention to their professor in his sleep but not to his surroundings, so MC takes their shot.

At first they think it’s a coincidence and pay no mind to the subtle movement of his tongue wetting his lips when they scratch his nape, but then it happens again and again and they find themselves unable to stop and forget their little discovery.

Thankfully, when the bell rings and Belphie wakes up to go home with them, MC has the perfect excuse.

He drools! Such things happen!

He purrs.

It takes MC some time to figure out what is the deep rumbling that follows them for months, mainly because it sounds like a creaking door and, while the House of Lamentation is old, the structure and the furniture are kept mostly intact.

Just like white noise, once they turn it down, it’s impossible not to miss it and the realisation is enough to turn the sadness of returning to the human realm into a full crying meltdown.

It was there the whole time: when they woke up Belphie and they were the first person he saw; or when they laid together and played and simply enjoyed each other’s presence and existence.

It’s there again when MC can’t deal with the loneliness anymore and calls him.

The rumbling, a purr, peeking under his low voice.

If that isn’t enough reason to keep loving him, then what is?

.

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Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[alnilaem]

HELLO HELLO HI!!! just read your butcher!simon and i’m. in LOVE??? maybe you could continue about reader like. keeps running into him at the Worst Times (running late going somewhere looking like shit, barely awake or crying in the elevator idk LOL) and he’s just like 🤨🤨??? OR reader tries to make small talk with him since they usually get off work at the same time but simon being simon he’s just like. hm. or grunts HE’S TRYING! BUT HE’S JUST a bit socially inept… oRRR reader bakes and had some leftovers and decides to give extras to simon and he’s like. Okay . and pretends that he’s not amused but secretly loves it SO CUTE AAGHH can’t think of anything else but penny for your thoughts? teehee LOVE YOUR WORKKK

ARGHHHH socially inept butcher!simon is so cute. i wanna build a shrinking machine and zap him with it and fossilise him in amber <3

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Dusk has eclipsed Manchester, draping a greyscale blanket over the city by the time you enter the laundry room with a hamper tucked under your arm.

That was fifteen minutes ago. And since then, you’ve been trying to get the damn washing machine to work.

It’s an old hunk of junk. Repurposed scrap metal with duct tape lining its corners and a dog-eared note hanging above it, reading, Do Not Overload! in crude writing.

You bend your thumb into the start button for the umpteenth time, but it’s fruitless. The feeble machine rumbles to life, sputtering, then has its embers killed as it fails to continue running.

You angrily huff. Your eye bags are as laden as your muscles, heavy and weighed down with the stress of everything piling up. Job hunting; the constant maintenance your neglected flat needs; the abrasive attitude of your new neighbours.

Fleetingly, you consider moving back home. But before the rumination snatches you, you snuff it out with a swift, irritable kick to the drywall next to you, your toes bending with the impact, the pain crawling up your marrow.

“Bit uncalled for, don’t you think?” Chimes from behind you, and you swirl around, coming face-to-mask with Simon. You hope he can’t see your dewy waterline.

“Don’t believe that wall ever did nothin’ to ya,” he tacks on.

The cellophane of the plastic bag he holds—which you presume carries his laundry—crinkles as he clenches his hand. He’s swathed in sweatpants and a compression shirt, slick with a wisp of sweat, and lets his curls sit freely, its tint somewhere on the threshold between rustic cocoa and gilded blonde.

Simon’s words belatedly catch up to you. You heed his attempt at a playful inflection, unsure if it was meant for you or for him, and flush when you see how expectantly, and bluntly, he’s eyeing you.

You listlessly gesture to the washing machine. “It isn’t working.”

His grunt is prefatory. Simon walks towards the machine, poises a fist over it, and brings his hand down on it in three, sparse punches.

The machine coughs out exhaust, then burgeons into a smooth run.

“Not broken,” Simon grumbles, his words barely lucid beneath his Manchester lilt, “just fucking old.”

“I see,” you mumble, “thanks.”

Simon steps back and begins unloading his own laundry. He stuffs wads of clothing, all imbued with blood and the scent of meat, into another machine.

A pinprick of gluttony tugs your stomach. To say something, anything, to keep the conversation warm.

“The mask…” you begin, “is the black mold in your flat that bad?”

Simon turns to you, his eyes deadpan. It sends icy humiliation up your spine, leaving you pettish.

The hum of the washing machine loosely offsets the thick embarrassment in the room. Loud and tinny.

Beneath the rumble, however, a small, barely-there chuckle crosses Simon’s tongue. “Ha,” he says. It’s charitable at worst and genuine at best.

“… I should go… while my clothes’re washing,” you mumble, your cheeks hot with embarrassment.”

You’re past the threshold, stepping into the corridor, when Simon calls after you.

Your lungs stutter and stop. You want him to ask for your number, ask you out to lunch some time, but when you turn around, you feel like you’re falling.

An ornamental pair of panties dangle from Simon’s forefinger. It’s lacy, gauzy, and should be lying on the floor of your flat.

You burn a searing molten as you snatch it from his hands, mortified, and sprint towards the lift.

You turned around before you could see it. A caper in Simon’s eye, the barest implication to something more than a maladroit interaction: an amused, titillating smirk beneath his mask.

[nocturn-warrior]

Ne t'enfuis pas

Adrian Ţepeş x reader

Summary: You are his first love reincarnated and after 300 years, you finally meet again.

Rating: fluff, hurt, comfort

Warnings: mentions of death, grief, Nocturn season 2 spoilers!!!

Nmed after Kate Bush's Ne T'enfuis Pas. This is heavily inspired in Bram Stoker's Dracula by Coppola and mayyybe Nosferatu by Eggers <3 It's been so long since i've written, i am honestly rusty. Sorry for taking so long with this one.

The water in the pond behind the chateau reflects the light of the crescent pale moonlight above your head. It is the first time in weeks since you could go outside after the sunset without worrying about getting your neck attacked by a servant of the Bloody Countess or a night creature. Small tadpoles swim around, feeding on bugs that have the misfortune of falling in the pond and you watch them idly and with a childlike curiosity. You didn’t want to ruminate at that moment, you wanted to think that everything was going to be fine. 

Still, your unquiet mind couldn’t rest. The scene of the tadpole rapidly consuming the bug reminds you of your own thoughts consuming you. The dreams you’ve had before his arrival; a dark castle with infinite stairs, forests that you’ve never explored, and flashes of scenes flooding your mind every time he is near that feel so much more real than a mere dejavú. But how could you ever put this into words?

Smooth steps are heard padding against the grass and you softly gasp when you see the tall, pale man coming to the spot you are sitting on. His amber eyes glow like the ones of a cat in a dark night as he walks in the shadow announcing his not fully human nature. 

“They are beheading the last one of the day. Won’t you like to see the show?”

Alucard asks with sarcasm, sitting on the opposite side of the pond in a pompous swish. The city's in ruins, but the people are executioning the aristocrats who stood in the side of the vampires during the attack. You don’t answer his question. In fact, the two of you stay in silence for a while, but now and then you peek through the fountain to see if he is still in there and he is perfectly immobile like a beautiful statue in the garden, except for his flouncy hair tousled by the soft breeze. In one of those moments of curiosity, your gazes meet and it feels intense as a lightning hitting your body, Alucard could see your hair standing on end.

“Although I think they should pay for what they did, I don't see the point of gathering in the town to see bloodshed. I’ve seen enough of this in the last few days.”

You answer in an awkward way and twirl your finger around the water, making the tadpoles hide behind a rock to dismiss the feeling that goes beyond embarrassment. Alucard narrows his eyes, cautiously watching your expression, wondering if approaching you now was the right choice. But how long could he keep this to himself? If there is something Alucard learned during these wandering 300 years is that human life is feeble as a crystal, that he’ll see his pals one by one perish to the fog of time. Leaving it be, ignoring the signals would spare him from the very known feeling of grief. Still, there you are. With another appearance, voice and name, yet eyes are the windows of the soul, they say, and Alucard lived enough to know that this might be true. And since yours met during the Eclipse, he knew that calling coming from overseas was not only his duty of destroying Sekhmet’s mummy. He was drawn to your presence like a boat to a lighthouse.

“May i?”

He asks before sitting on the same side as you on the pond, so pale that he seems to emanate his own light and reflect in the pond along with the moon. You nod and he graciously settles himself some palms away not wanting to be invasive, minutely investigating the possibilities and to what paths would they guide him. Your mind is racing with thoughts, so many it could burst. A feeling of urgency that takes you completely and is shared with the man by your side. Gathering forces from an ancient feeling asleep for so too long, you finally speak:

“You have found me… how?”

He hums looking into the pond before answering your question that is so easy to answer yet difficult to put into words when he measures the consequences.

“I felt you calling me.”

You shortly breathe, reminding the nights where that feeling of emptiness would set in as if there was something missing and you would pray for a light, something that could give you a clue of what was the other part of the whole. The dreams that filled your sleep in the following nights left you even more puzzled, but when Alucard arrived, everything was starting to be put in place, for more unbelievable that sounded. 

Before you died, you made Alucard promise that he would find someone else. That he wouldn't have his eternity tied to your memory, that he would find other lovers to fulfill his heart and to give him the love he deserved. Your shaking cold hand held his as you collapsed to smallpox in your deathbed and finally the eyes of your mortal body closed forever. He did as promised. Tens of women and men crossed his path across those thirty decades, but no one of them were you. The same emptiness your oblivious, reborn self would experience now, the dhampir would drag along the mists of years; for you, what was an unknown spectrum, for him it was a very palpable feeling that seemed to almost materialize itself.

Your eyes fill up with tears, a rush of emotions suddenly rises as Alucard watches you break down, still hesitant. His slender hand reaches out to touch your shoulder and you shudder; like the sun coming out from the clouds, a myriad of memories start to bloom. Alucard’s eyes are wide open in shock, harm of fear is the last thing he wants to inflict on you. But how could he have been causing it when all you could see in front of your eyes was him and your life together? Piece by piece like a broken porcelain, you see snippets of the past. 

You suddenly wrap your arms around his shoulders, a hug so unpredictable and strong that Alucard had to hold onto the bricks of the pond otherwise you would fall directly into it. Once steady, He slowly retributes the hug, face resting on the crook of your neck as you sob tears of unbelievable happiness into his white hair. A small salty droplet roams his cheek too and when he realizes the emotional boy he used to be was here again. Slowly, you pull off from the embrace, drying your tears with the sleeves of your dress and say while cupping his angelical face in your hands, strands of white hair sticking onto his skin. You smile and say before pressing a gentle kiss onto his lips:

“And you came to me… from the sky like an angel.”

[lostintransist]

Hell's Spawn | Do You Think My Boot Would Fit Up Your Ass?

Part 1 | AO3

CW: Minor burns, exhaustion

Krueger witnessing your relationship death, a marlin gasping for air on the deck of a boat, flashed through your mind at least once a day. Like the white man ripping the great beast from the depths, he witnessed your ending when nature intended it to be a quiet affair.

Ruminating didn’t help you feel better. Planning though? That helped. Krueger seemed, and let’s be honest all four of them, seemed to thrive on attention. Horangi didn’t piss you off, though he did seem to flourish under the smiles you gave him. Since it pissed off his teammates it made it all the more appealing to do. Krueger would be getting no attention whatsoever and if the cafe was empty you might invite one of them into the kitchen. Thinking it over Horangi wouldn’t irritate him badly enough but Nikto had yet to give you anything to work with other than the fact he liked to stare at your ass. That left König.

The lip curl that the thought of inviting König behind the counter brought nearly made you reconsider the plan. Each man reminded you of a war machine. It helped that you knew they were actually often in war zones since your boss’s boyfriends did the same thing for the UK government. König though? He commanded the machines and he was a pig about women.

The snide comments about being in the kitchen where women belong, or about needing a man to take care of you had you grinding your teeth to not rip into him. Each time he came in it got worse. He only ever commented in front of other customers. Maybe he wanted to rile you up and see what finally made you snap; almost as if he were twisting a wind-up doll a click too far. Taking a ceramic cup to his face, even if you could reasonably patch it back up, would life harder. Your boss knew how these men could be but you doubted her leniency would bend that far.

Already rubbing your eyes and wishing for close at ten you fought back a groan when the door opened and they arrived. The shop had been dead. A Tuesday after a bunch of recruits shipped off to different bases, the bars were also pretty quiet. You called to check, if you went two hours without a customer you could close up early. Ten-fifteen would have been two hours.

“Y’all have the worst fucking timing you know that? I was fifteen minutes away from being able to lock up early and actually get to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

König, the cocky bastard, had to comment.

“You could sleep in my bed,” his eyes drifted over the parts of you he could see over the counter.

“Anyone else have any…pleasant…offers?”

Horangi laughed while both Nikto and Krueger stared daggers at König.

“You know what? Nikto, go and lock the door. Flip the sign-off while you’re at it. If we don’t have anyone here beyond you four we aren’t getting anyone else tonight.” Waving your hand you gestured for them to go and sit. “I’ll have your drinks out soon.”

“Think about us often? Have our drinks memorized,” Krueger settled his hands in his pockets.

“Know what? König, come and help me in the kitchen. The rest of you go sit,” you turned as you finished speaking.

For being such a persistent asshole the possibility of an opportunity seemed a bit hard for him to grasp. Keeping your eyes on your task of readying four cups for black coffee you wait until the others have shuffled off to the table before addressing him again.

“Do you not fit through the opening?”

Your snarky question sets him in motion. He ducks slightly as he enters the kitchen. The headspace opened back up again for him.

“I know somewhere that would be a tight fit.” The insinuation couldn’t go unchallenged.

“Do you think my boot would fit up your ass? These babies are pretty large for a woman,” you lift your foot, showing off your resoled boots that are laced up over your ankles. The dark red leather needed to be buffed again. “You’re such a big asshole I bet it will fit with enough force.”

Before König can fire off a rebuttal Horagi appears, ducking into the kitchen.

“As interesting as that would be to see,” he scans the room and heads to the corner where a stool has been collecting dust. His interruption is enough to stop you from committing to inserting something without a flared base.

“I am going to run these out and then will come back and teach you how to make me a latte,” you fill the tray with two black coffees, creamer and sugar. The two of them are still on the counter. “If you’re going to insist on continuing to bother me at work the least you can do is learn how to make me something.”

Lifting the tray you leave the room, ignoring the snarling behind you about how König is a man and can make a damn latte. Leaving the kitchen and turning the corner you find Krueger and Nikto set up at a table halfway across the cafe. Both men tracked you as you walked closer. The clattering of metal on tile reached your ears as the tray touched the table.

Cursing you turn away from the man who had yet to speak to you and the one who needed to be ignored and head back into the kitchen.

How that man managed to create such chaos in the moments you were gone will forever astound you. The steamer blasted, milk lay splattered on the floor, a metal cup in the puddle, and König stood with a hand cradled to his chest. Without a word, you start to fix the problems he created by his inability to wait.

Leaning over the puddle you turn off the steamer, silence now the dominant sound in the space. Stepping on dry patches of the floor you use a technique your mom always used when you were small to force your body to move. Settling your thumb over the meat of König’s uninjured hand you twist, pinching the nerves in the wrist. The big man had little flexibility in his wrist; he moved where you aimed him.

Forcing him to stand next to the handwashing sink, you turn the water on. When the water runs tepid, nearly body temperature you shove his hand under it. The whole of his palm is an angry red. Bastard must have held the cup around the sides instead of the tiny handle. Once he is settled you head further back into the kitchen and ready the mop. Might as well mop the whole floor and check that off the closing duties list. Once the bucket is ready you wheel it out and grab the first aid kit on the way.

You drop the kit on the counter and begin by mopping up the milk mess and working your way over to Horangi.

“Can I have your number?” He asks from the stool he commandeered in the corner of the kitchen.

“Sure. Pass me your phone?”

Holding Horangi’s phone in your hand you glance at König. A silent alarm had been triggered in your brain. He is where you left him, handheld under the running water. Eyes like shards of glacial blue stab at you across the kitchen.

“What? Keep your hand under the water for two more minutes,” you point with your chin and turn back to your task.

Four numbers are entered before his low muttering has you turning fully around to yell at him.

“I can’t hear you. If you have something nasty to say, speak up!”

König glares at you, your ugly stare comes out to match. A three-count passes before he admits defeat and looks down at his hand. You can only imagine at the mulish look splattered across his face. Looking back to the phone you erase the number you already entered and angrily slam your thumbs on the screen.

“That’s what I thought. If you want my number you gotta fix those misogynistic attitudes. When you can look at me and see a person and not a dick hole, I’ll think about discussing it.”

Number entered you pass the phone back to Horangi, who watches you with amusement in the lift of his cheeks beneath his mask and the tilt of his brows.

“What?” You snap at him.

He lifts both hands, one still holding the phone.

“Nothing. Never seen anyone put our colonel in his place so easily.” He is grinning even as he says it.

Without turning to look at him you point back at König, intention in every line of your body.

“He wants to touch, he pisses me off for no fucking reason, I would break him like a twig if his wrist weren’t the size of my ankle. He will behave because otherwise he will get ignored like Krueger is right now.”

“What did he do?” Horangi is gleeful as comprehension lights his eyes.

“None of your fucking business.”

Horangi’s eyes slide from your face to König’s in that sly kind of conversation that happens when you learn to speak the unspoken with another person. Snapping your hand before his gaze you lean forward.

“Fucker, if you don’t include me in conversations about me I will stop being nice to you.”

He stands, looming over you. Man could kill you but you would leave psychic wounds before you quit breathing. You had learned weapons as words at the breast of a narcissist. Four, five, six seconds pass and the only sound is that of the running water cooling König’s burn.

“You done?” Lifting a brow at him you settle your hands on your hips.

König busts into a small laugh behind you and Horangi is once again your friend and not a killer who leaves only a red mist behind him.

“She would survive a battalion of grandmothers.”

Horangi snorts and rolls his eyes before addressing you.

“We weren’t discussing you, but Krueger. He has been snappish since we were here last. Gotten into more fights and training harder than is needed,” he looks you up and down. “Seems you are the reason for the change in him.”

Humming you turn and head toward König, grabbing a towel along the way. You lower the water pressure before forcing his burned hand where you want it. Scrubbing your hands clean you rinse the soap before washing his. Rinsing the suds off you kill the water.

“I told Krueger to quit smoking, he smelled like a men’s bathroom.” All your focus is on patting dry the bubble without rupturing it.

König and Horangi both muttered something under their breaths, but the conflicting sounds of Austrian German and Korean entered your ears as verbal spaghetti.

Slathering petroleum jelly along the wound you lay a sterile bandage across it and wrap it with a layer of cohesive bandage. Why the fuck was there cohesive bandage in the first aid kit? Setting that thought aside for later you rub your eyes again. Uncaring of the deep pressure that caused lights to ignite in your eyes you knew if they didn’t leave soon you would end up falling asleep on the office floor.

“Leave that on tonight and follow up with your provider tomorrow. Now get out of the kitchen I need to finish closing duties. I can’t mop the floor if you are going to walk all over it.”

“Why do you ignore Nikto?” Horangi asked. Neither of them moved.

Lifting your hands away you take several seconds to blink away the vision issues.

“I’m not ignoring him, but if he doesn’t say anything I’m not willing to start a conversation.”

Both men give a grunt of confirmation and squeak across the floors as they leave the kitchen. Thankfully most of your closing duties were done and anything you couldn’t reasonably get to you would text Quinn a heads up. He offered often to help since he knew how hard you were working to get through school. Said his sister was in her first year of med school and wished he could help her more.

That last blink must have taken a long time because when you open your eyes again all four men are watching you from beyond the display glass.

König spoke for the group.

“John will be here soon to drive you home. Nikto sanitized all your tables.”

Another slow blink.

“Kay,” pushing off the counter you didn’t realize you had leaned against, you gesture for them all to move out the door.

The lock clicking home is your queue to turn and lay your head down on a cleaned table, John would come in when he arrived. He had a key. It wouldn’t be the first time one of your boss’ guys had driven you home due to exhaustion.

Hell Masterlist | Masterlist

@demothers-empty-blog

[danikamariewrites]

Falling

Cassian x reader

Note: sorry for my absence, I’ve been busy and unmotivated the last weeks. I don’t like to talk about politics but I want you all to know that I’m very unhappy with the election and it’s upset me. I really have nothing else to say because quite frankly im speechless. Know that my blog is a safe space and you can reach out to me any time if you want to vent because I will vent right there with you.

On a slightly better note, this has motivated me to keep being creative. Writing and being in a creative space has truly kept me going over the last few years and I refuse to stop. Mainly because if I stop I think I’ll just give up. And I’m not fucking giving up because this has been the best distraction. Sorry for the long note but I just wanted to get that out there and know you’re not alone in your frustration. ❤️

Warnings: some angst

Cassian was exhausted. He knew he was when he looked into your bright eyes as you excitedly waited for him to pick you up to fly home and couldn’t bring himself to lift you.

His mind wasn’t in the right place to enjoy the closeness of you in his arms. You always deserved him at a hundred percent, especially when your life was in his hands. Not while he was still actively thinking about Devlon getting in his face about their disagreement.

Even now, only minutes away from home, Cassian was still clenching his jaw, ruminating about the words Devlon spat at him.

Cassian was pissed that Devlon ruined his day. He had big plans for you that included a dinner reservation and him finally telling you how he feels about you. Only took him two years to gain the courage to decide he would tell you how in love with you he is. And now he’s too in his head to even fathom saying “I’m in love with you y/n.”

Azriel flying next to him with you in his arms wasn’t helping his mood either. Every time he heard you and Az talk or laugh his jealousy grew. It was his own fault though.

Flying over the Sidra the House of Wind finally comes into view. The monstrous house on the cliff had relief flowing through Cassian. Almost home, Cassian tells himself over and over.

Looking over at you and Azriel he sees a smile bloom on your face as you look down at the glittering water, you point out the fish jumping from the surface, making ripples that you can see from way up in the sky. The sight of your joy eases Cassian’s anger.

A gust of wind hits them hard enough to knock Az and Cass off balance. Without your added weight Cassian has no problem balancing himself out, controlling his wings on instinct.

Your scream has him pivoting against the gust, whipping his head in time to see Az lose balance as you tumble from his arms.

Azriel tries to dive but the wind fights against his wings. Cassian wastes no time to dive for you. Tucking his wings in as tight as he possibly can, he free falls with his hands reaching out for you.

You don’t stop screaming until Cassian grabs on to you, pulling you flush to his chest. You cling to Cassian, wrapping your arms tight around his neck.

“I got you,” he murmurs in your ear. “I got you, baby, it’s okay.”

Without looking back at Azriel he flys hard for the House. Cassian should check on his brother, he feels guilty not doing so. But the love of his life just tumbled from his brother's arms and he couldn’t care less if Az was in the Sidra right now or behind him.

Landing on the balcony closest to the bedrooms Cassian readjusts you in his hold. He can feel you trembling as he rushes to get you in a comfortable place.

Cassian kicks your door hard, rushing over to your bed. Gently placing you down he pulls away to see you staring off, a blank look on your face and teeth digging into your bottom lip.

He backs away to get you a change of clothes until you grip his arms tighter, letting out a small whimper. “Don’t,” you plead. Cassian wraps you in his arms, rubbing soothing circles on your back.

The two of you sit like that for a long, long time. Once your trembling stops you slightly lean away from Cassian, shaking out your arms and rolling your neck.

His heart breaks at the sight of fear still lingering in your eyes. Cassian slowly brings his hands up to gently cup your face, resting his forehead against yours. “You’re ok, you’re safe. That’s all that matters.” You nod, molding yourself into Cassian’s body.

“Thank you for catching me.” You whisper. Cassian squeezes you tighter to his chest. “I’ll always catch you, y/n. Always.” The fierceness in his tone sends a chill down your spine.

You won’t let Cassian leave you, even long after the sun sets. The only time Cass left was to get you dinner and to change into his pajamas. Once you’re asleep Cassian can’t find it in himself to leave you.

Tomorrow, he decided. Cassian will tell you everything tomorrow.

[pathologicalreid]

hiii love! I’d love to request a fic where Spencer takes care of the reader in anyway. Fluff, angst, h/c idk my depressed ass would just love something like that 🥰

dazed days | S.R.

your job at the FBI is hard, but life with spencer is easy

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader category: fluffy with a smidge hurt/comfort content warnings: mild disassociation, crying, nondescript case related crimes, nonsexual nudity word count: 1.17k a/n: hi sweetie baby angel! thank you so much for your request, i hope you like it! additionally, thank you all for 1k followers that's absolutely insane and i love each and every one of you <333

You hated court days.

It didn’t happen that often, usually, local police or FBI field offices were more than capable of taking care of cases after the BAU left, but sometimes team members were called in as expert witnesses.

This time, you were called in as an expert witness. It was a rough case, all of the victims were around your age, and the one surviving victim was in the courtroom too.

You never spoke about it, but sometimes it was easier for you to have faith that the survivors would get the help they needed. It was easier for you to move to the next case so that you wouldn’t have to ruminate over someone else’s pain. Today you needed to put yourself back into that case, back to two months ago when you were sat in front of families and telling them their children were gone.

And you’d need to go back tomorrow, the court didn’t come to a decision today.

Stumbling over your own feet, you dropped your bag on the ground haphazardly before you moved to the couch. You stepped out of your shoes as you did so, promising yourself you’d pick them up once the world stopped crumbling.

There were still hours before Spencer would come home from Quantico. Slowly, you pulled your blazer off and laid it over the arm of the couch before resting your head on the pillows, curling your body in on itself.

It felt like minutes later that the door opened, “Love, did you leave the door unlocked?” Spencer called out, obviously not having seen you on the couch. How long had you been lying there? When you didn’t answer, Spencer wandered around the living room before spotting you on the couch. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and comforting. “Are you alright?”

There’s that sort of unnamable feeling where you’re perfectly fine, but the moment someone asks you if you’re fine the floodgates open. That was how you were feeling, and you looked past Spencer as your eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, honey,” he breathed, moving so that he was sitting on the couch next to you, maneuvering your body so that you were leaning on him, depending on him to keep you steady. “Have you been sleeping since you got home?”

You hummed, adjusting so that you were leaning straight back on the couch. “Not sleeping,” you mumbled.

Spencer dropped a soft kiss on your shoulder, “Just thinking?” His voice was still reverent, “Do you want to think out loud?”

Closing your eyes, you shook your head despondently. Honestly, you weren’t even sure you had been thinking at all – you were simply waiting for time to pass.

“What if you go take a shower and put on some comfortable clothes? We can get takeout and watch a movie if you want,” he offered.

You had nearly forgotten that you were still wearing slacks and a blouse, but as soon as Spencer mentioned it, you felt drawn to the idea of washing this entire day off. Silently, you stood up and walked to the bathroom.

Spencer opened the door as soon as you turned off the water, meeting you with a towel that he had just pulled out of the dryer. “Do you feel any better?” He asked, wrapping the towel around you before he tenderly kissed your forehead.

Nodding, you used part of the towel to wipe your face. He left to let you dry yourself off before you walked into your bedroom to get dressed, just to find that he had laid out comfy clothes for you, pajama shorts paired with an old CalTech sweatshirt – your favorite one to steal.

Briefly, you sat on the edge of the bed before the smell of food kindly coaxed you out into the kitchen. “You got pad Thai?”

He nodded while pulling two forks out of the silverware drawer, “It’s your favorite comfort food.” He handed you a fork before setting his down on the kitchen counter, he held a takeout container out toward you, “Pad Thai for your thoughts?”

You smiled softly as you took the container into your hands, “It’s just hard to go back sometimes, you know?”

“Back to old cases?” He asked for clarification, popping the lid off of his container and gesturing for you to lead the way to the couch.

As you walked, you noticed that everything that you had scattered when you got home had been picked up. Your shoes were on the rack by the door, and your bag had been hung on the hooks on the wall. You bashfully mumbled a thank you before sitting down on the couch. “Sometimes I have a hard time believing that we’re helping people. When I see the parents and the husbands, it’s difficult for me to recognize that finding the people who did that to their loved ones is in any way aiding them.”

Spencer nodded understandingly, “Some people find comfort in knowing that what happened to their loved one can never happen to anyone else.”

“But what about the other people? What about the people who are hurting? How do we make sure they’re taken care of?” You rebutted. That was a lot of therapy that a lot of people needed.

Setting his container on the coffee table, he took yours out of your hand and did the same before he dragged you into his lap. He placed his hands on your waist, “Do you want someone else to take your place tomorrow?”

You knew he was offering to go in your stead, but you couldn’t ask that of him. This was part of the job, and if you were lucky you wouldn’t have to go back to court until next calendar year. “No, I’ll be okay,” you reassured him, placing a hand on either one of his shoulders.

Gently, he swept a strand of hair off of your forehead, “You have such a big heart.”

Sighing, you leaned forward so your bodies were flush, resting your chin on his shoulder and wrapping your arms around him.

Momentarily, the two of you remained silent. Spencer gently slid a hand under your sweatshirt, softly skimming his fingers up and down your back.

“I know we do good stuff, but sometimes it doesn’t feel good,” you whispered, wishing there was a way you could speak more eloquently. “If you keep doing that, I’ll fall asleep,” you informed him, your eyes were already beginning to droop as a result of his ministrations.

He just hummed in response, “What do you want to do?”

You pulled away from him reluctantly, “Dinner and a movie.” Climbing off of his lap, you reached for your food again. Watching as he reached for the remote, “Wait, you got to pick last time!”

“Yes, but you’re going to pick The Parent Trap,” he responded. “So, I’ll put it on.”

You slumped back onto the couch, “Just make sure it’s the-“

He had already hit play, “1998 version, I know.”

[glitteringdust]

[after the quest: A Murder of Crows]

There were too many emotions swirling in his chest.

He could have killed Illario for all that he had done, perhaps should have killed him, but when his cousin begged for death he could not find it in his heart to do it. He was still family, even if he didn't deserve to be.

Rook was usually a believer in second chances, but the only thing she had to say to Illario was a threat— should he try to get at Lucanis again he'd have to go through her, and he'd live to regret it.

He should be grateful for Rook, for her help and loyalty. For her kind hand. For her. He should be happy to be First Talon, too, as it was the highest of honors and what every one of the Crows was now celebrating. For Caterina to pick him meant it should all pay off— the pain, the suffering, the betrayal…

Instead everything tasted of ash.

The villa was too loud, with too many people around and the grip he had on Spite thinned with each passing minute. He wasn't aware his heart was racing until Rook’s hand brushed against his, gaze neutral if not for the small wrinkle of concern between her brow.

“Do you… want to stay? Or should we head back?”

He lets out a breath, “We can go. I have other plans for this evening.”

He did not expect those plans to include him locked in thought while he sat with his coffee in the corner of the dining room. He's aware of those coming and going, most of them offering quick congratulations before heading back where they came. Rook was there, and then she wasn't. They'd discussed the night, but she must certainly expect something more from this evening and he had little to give now. Another disappointment.

It mattered little in his rumination.

Illario had said he'd never trust Lucanis as long as he was an abomination, and would never see him the same way again. What was he supposed to do with that? Spite was here to stay, and it all started with Illario. How long had his cousin hated him? He knew he had a jealous streak, but enough to want to remove his own family from the picture to take the glory himself?

Spite lingered along his temples, enhancing the headache already simmering there. The demon was satisfied with their choice, smug that Illario had wanted death and they gave him the opposite. But it only continued to swirl the discontent in Lucanis' chest. Spite did not understand Lucanis' continued unhappiness at his cousin.

Why unhappy? Got. What he. Deserved.

If only he knew how to put into words something a demon could understand.

“Lucanis?”

How long had he been lost in thought? He refocuses his gaze to see Rook, sitting on the arm of his chair. The smell of onion and garlic in the air reminds him of his hunger. He notices the table is set, including lit candles and the fancy wine Rook had been saving.

“Rook, did you…?”

She shrugs, “You take care of everyone, including me, before yourself. And after today, you could use some comfort,” She looks down at her hands, almost shyly, “So, will you have dinner with me?”

He chuckles, setting his mug down before standing and taking one of her hands in his, “It would be my pleasure.”

So they eat, drink, and Rook tells story after story he’s never heard, and some he has. Her voice softens the knot in his chest, unraveling the unrest and when the plates are cleared and table cleaned he finds he doesn’t want this to end.

He doesn’t want to be alone, now.

Rook stay. Here.

For once, he agrees with Spite. After the long, exhausting day he just had all he wanted to do was rest. He could fall asleep next to her in the loveseat, if he tried.

So he does.

“Rook? Do you want to… stay? Just for a little while longer?”

Her gaze could make him melt, “Of course. Are you worried about Spite?”

“No, its not that. I just… would you hold me?”

He feels torn open and raw, overexposed from such a question but she only smiles, “You know I'll do just about anything for you, right?”

He moves, climbing into her lap and resting his head upon her shoulder in an almost effortless fit. Her free hand entwines with his and the other finds itself running its fingers through his hair at the base of his neck. He almost shivers at the featherlight touch.

In her arms, he was at home.

[sgtgarricks]

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ i want your hands on me for all my life

simon riley x afab!reader cw: nsfw, angst, happy ending, mentions of simon's abusive past, talks about death, mentions of soap's death, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected piv sex, creampie!!, simon lets himself be happy yay

reblogs are immensely appreciated! <3

PREVIOUS PART: your gentle hands are enough

notes: this is the 2nd part for the people that want a happy ending :) this turned out sooo long LMFAO if you want to be sad just pretend this doesn't exist and read the other one! your feedback & comments help <3

Simon had always excelled at compartmentalizing his emotions ever since he was a child.

Growing up with an abusive father and an older brother who has hell-bent on scaring him had forced him to develop self-preservation tactics in order to survive their torment. Dissociating was a daily occurrence in his childhood years — it helped Simon escape the pain and torment that was being inflicted on his body.

Being in the military has not been that different.

He was still dissociating, but he was no longer on the receiving end of thrown punches and insults. He was now the perpetrator inflicting agony on his enemies for the good of the world. To rid the world of filth.

Simon Riley had become the ultimate soldier — lethal, swift, quiet, and was immune to the horrors of war, which was no surprise considering he had spent most of his childhood learning to lock away all the negative emotions. The ability had become innate, bleeding into his daily life and in turn, his relationships.

When Simon walked out the door, he had left all the hurt and sadness in the apartment with you. He trusted you'd keep a part of him safe until he came back and even if he didn't.

Simon had whole-heartedly accepted the risk that comes with the job, fully prepared to lay his life down if it meant a better world than yesterday. In fact, Simon knew death more intimately more than anyone. He'd knocked on death's door multiple times but always seemed to come out alive.

It was easy for him to not think of you. The anxious voice inside his head becomes static as he engrossed himself in the mission. The hard part comes when the dust has settled — when all that remain are cold corpses and bullet casings.

Sitting in the helicopter all bloodied accompanied by the sound of whirring blades wasn't usually bad. It would give him time to sit down and process his emotions. It let him feel the slight guilt that never goes away when taking a life — no matter how rotten.

But with each mission he went on after his abrupt departure, he finds himself constantly ruminating his entire reason for not wanting to get into a relationship with you.

Simon had wanted you to move on from him when he died, eventually. Forget the bruised and battered soldier and find someone whole, someone who could be there for you and love you without causing you anxiety every time their phone rang.

He thought himself selfless for trying to spare you, but his entire reason collapses with every mission he comes back alive.

What was his excuse now? What was he protecting you from?

The voices slink back into his mind the moment he gains a moment of peace. Whispers planting seeds of doubt in his mind, feeding on his insecurity and his fears. They're ruthless and persistent.

You don't deserve them. They're too good for you. You're going to leave them one day anyway, why bother?

He feels a tightness in his chest, as if a phantom hand was squeezing his heart that sends pulses of pain through him. His hand shakes slightly, fingers moving absent-mindedly trying to remember the feel of your skin.

"You alright, Lieutenant?" His captain's voice breaks him out of his trance. Simon is slightly startled but doesn't let it show. He merely grunts.

"'M alright."

Silence engulfs them once more. It goes one for one, two, maybe three minutes. It's suffocating. Simon can read people well enough by now that he knows there are questions lingering in the back of John Price's mind.

A part of Simon wishes he'd just spit it out, but the thought of having to explain seemed worse. Instead, Simon settles with a silent huff as the helicopter continues on its designated course.

The second the helicopter landed, Price simply nods at him, trusting him to get his shit together and walks off to his office. Simon does his usual routine, though instead of rushing through the motions, he's intentionally prolonging each action.

Whereas normally he couldn't get out of this place faster, now he almost dreaded the moment he would have to leave. Staying at the base meant monotonous, dull, predictable tasks. Leaving means he has to choose where to go — he has to actively force himself to not drive straight to your apartment despite the fact that every fiber in his being longs to be close to you.

He feels sick, a kind of illness spreading inside of him that only ever felt better when you were around him. A dull ache inside his body that only lights up when you touch him.

He runs a hand to his now damp hair, content with sitting on a sofa in the rec room. Normally, the place would be bustling with recruits goofing around with each other. But one glance at the broodier-than-normal look on the lieutenant's face had created a force field that pushed away everyone as to not get caught in its storm.

Simon doesn't know how long he sits there, half of him trying to convince himself to not come to you. That you don't deserve the broken man with a penchant for violence.

Chuckling lowly to himself, he shakes his head. What kind of demented higher power decided someone as kind as you be plucked and dropped into his sights?

Fifteen minutes went by as he pities himself in the rec room before a shadow in his peripheral vision causes him to look up.

"L.T.," Kyle nods towards him, leaning on the doorframe.

"Garrick." Simon grunts dismissively, not saying anything more. He hops the sergeant will take the hint on his own and leave the miserable bastard to his own devices.

Kyle worries for Simon. The brooding giant seems more miserable than usual — not more than after the incident, but still. Typically, he wouldn't even be able to catch a glimpse of his lieutenant after coming back from deployment. He'd usually opt to disappear from the base in record time.

The fact that he's here now, instead of wherever he usually hangs around, is slightly concerning.

"You alright, L.T.?"

Simon turns to him, slightly annoyed. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Yes, I'm alright." He huffs. Kyle merely shrugs, unbothered by the icy gaze directed at him.

"Well, seeing as you haven't fucked off from the base yet and it's been," Kyle checks his phone for the time, "Around an hour? I'd wager something is wrong."

Sometimes Simon hated how observant Gaz was. Kyle's always been attentive, even more so now without Johnny's presence. It wasn't a secret that Johnny had been the lieutenant's shadow — always lingering near him, cracking jokes and pulling his leg.

His absence had naturally left a gaping void in Simon, oozing all the pain and hurt that comes with losing a comrade. Simon isn't naive, he knows death comes as a package with being in the battlefield. He's seen his fellow soldiers die, held them as they bled out. It was why he tended to keep to himself. After all, the less people you know, the less funerals you have to go to.

This worked most of the time, anyone who got close to Simon would get his arctic stare and cower off — most of the time anyway. Johnny was a different case. Johnny was a little bit of a nutcase to be honest. A talented, bright, pyromaniac, the youngest ever to pass SAS selection, with an arsenal of jokes in his pockets. The blue-eyed Scotsman got along quickly with Kyle, bantering with each other easily as if they had been long-lost friends.

While Johnny still had reservations about dicking around with the captain, he didn't seem to have the same problem with Simon. Seemingly happy to chatter off in his ear about anything, whether it was about shitty food, a lady he picked up from a bar, or jabs directed at Simon.

Johnny's bright disposition put Simon on edge. He wasn't used to seeing someone not be terrified of him. No matter how many glares he sent him, the bugger wouldn't leave him alone. Johnny would continue to go out of his way to talk to Simon, to sit next to him during lunch, and sometimes, Johnny would even manage to get Simon to open up just a little.

"What's on yer mind, L.T.?" Johnny nudged Simon with his elbow. The two men were both sat at the bar, the TV playing an old recording of a football match. It had taken Johnny ten minutes to convince Simon to go out for drinks and he planned on taking full advantage of it.

Johnny had been talking non-stop for around five minutes about his sister who had just gotten married, waiting for a reaction from Simon who seemed distracted. His eyes had strayed to the other side of the bar a few times, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but Johnny was anything but.

"Nothin'." Simon had grunted, tearing his gaze away. A giant smirk plastered itself onto Johnny's face.

"Ah, been starin' at the sad one across the bar, aye?" Seeing Simon's eye widen a little had made Johnny even more gleeful. "Go on then. Ye have my full permission to ditch me tonight." He teased, winking at his lieutenant.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Johnny." Simon had denied instantly, taking a sip of his drink. A normal person would have left it at that, but Johnny wasn't your average person. He loved starting fires and Simon was a flame he wanted to see lit.

"Ach, come on L.T. what's the harm, eh? A little bit of flirting never hurt anyone." Simon didn't know this but Johnny wasn't going to let this go. It was the first time Johnny had ever seen Simon show interest in someone and he'd do anything to get Simon to at the very least, talk to them.

"They're a civvy, Johnny. Not gonna take any chances." Simon shook his head adamantly.

"That's bollocks! All we do is take risks anyway, at least on this one the worst that could happen is getting a drink thrown in yer face." Johnny chuckles, peering at the person across the bar who was clearly nursing a broken heart. Simon still made no move to get up from his chair.

Praying to whatever God was listening, Johnny hoped Simon wouldn't kill him after what he was going to do. Calling over the bartender, Johnny slid the man a fifty.

"Mate, give 'em a refill yeah? Tell 'em it's from the big bloke over here." Johnny signaled the bartender. Simon, who had finally processed what Johnny was doing, couldn't even get a word in. The bartender hastily took the money and went back to his station, ignoring Simon's call.

Simon could only watch in despair as the bartender presented the drink and pointed towards Simon. He received a shy smile, a mouthed 'thank you', and an expectant look.

"Now you've got to go there, mate. Otherwise you'll look like an arsehole!" Johnny threw his arms up, grinning triumphantly. The sergeant crossed his arms and wiggled his eyebrows.

Simon could've easily ignored Johnny and went back to his drink. But a part of him couldn't deny that he wanted to go over there and maybe talk to someone else that wasn't Scottish for a change. Against his usual logic, Simon decided to stand up from his chair.

"You're an arsehole." A glare was sent Johnny's way, although it had no weight behind them. As Simon began to walk away, he could hear Johnny laughing loudly.

"Yer welcome!"

Simon had never told Johnny you were the person who had been texting him during deployment, but he knew deep down that Johnny already knew. He'd asked multiple times, even tried sneaking a look.

He simply didn't want to admit that Johnny forcing him to talk to you that day had shifted Simon's world. He wished he told Johnny.

"We all miss him, L.T." Kyle's soft voice spoke again. He's closer now, dragging a chair from a table and sitting in front of Simon. Kyle knew he could never fill the giant void that Johnny left, but he felt a sense of responsibility to at least try. Price had become more closed off after his death whereas Simon had slowly been unraveling, little stitches coming loose a day at a time.

"All we can do is make sure it's not in vain." Simon sighs, hearing Kyle's words, knows he's right. That he can't go back to expecting the worst all the time, constantly on edge.

Johnny had breathed life into his ghostly presence, bringing Simon back into the realm of the living. The more Johnny got out of the lieutenant, the more people were able to see that Simon wasn't merely a visage, a ghost roaming the hallway. That he was a real person.

He was throwing away his chance at a second life. Perhaps it was also a twisted way of Simon punishing himself. If he couldn't save Johnny, couldn't save the man who managed to get him to talk to you, then he didn't deserve you. It was a round-about way of him trying to mend off the guilt eating away at him that had inadvertently claimed another victim.

"Thank you, sergeant." Simon stood up. Clapping his hand on Kyle's shoulder.

I see you.

"Don't mention it, sir."

The drive to your house takes around twenty minutes, which means that's all the time Simon has to try and figure out a way to atone for his sins.

They're too gracious to even hold a grudge against you. A small part of Simon tells him. While he hopes that's true, he still wants to apologize and acknowledge how unfair he's been to you. If not to make you feel better, at the very least it will ease his conscience.

He drums his finger on the steering wheel, the radio turned on but on low volume. For once, Simon wishes he had Johnny's ability to get out of problems with his alluring words and his kicked-puppy look.

Lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't even realized he's been sitting in his parked car for a few minutes. He clasps his hands when he realizes they're shaking. God, he was so terrified. Not of you, no. He was scared of having to see what he's done to you. Is terrified of really seeing the carnage Simon Riley had tore in you.

He lets out a bated breath and opens the car door. He knows you're home by now, probably cooking away while listening to some indie band. Resting his head on your door, he braces himself once more, and knocks.

He waits, the seconds feeling like hours. The door swings open and he sees your surprised face.

"Simon." You compose yourself immediately, not wanting to show any sort of weakness in front of him. Something twitches on the corners of his mouth hidden by the balaclava. As if realizing he's still wearing it, he takes it off.

"Can I come in?" He asks timidly, as if approaching a wounded animal. He had no idea how you'd react after him being gone for so long. Even during his three month deployments, he'd sometimes text you once every fortnight. But after the way he left things, he couldn't bring himself to message you at all. Couldn't even stomach the thought of you still pining over him after what he had done. It was easier for him to simply block your number. Photos of sunsets and coffee cups gathering dust in his photo album, unsent.

You didn't even think about it, your body unconsciously moving sideways to let him in. A part of you screams at yourself.

Idiot, show some dignity.

It had been so easy for you to let the man who had left you for six months without a word back into your apartment, into your life.

You felt like an addict. Constantly begging for your next fix and taking whatever scraps are thrown your way. It's pitiful, but you're too far gone, anyway. His dirty boots make contact with your hardwood floor, leaving small specks of mud on them. Simon notices the frown marring your face and begins to unlace his boots.

"Sorry." He apologizes, neatly tucking away his muddy boots at the side of your door. You close the door behind him, making your way towards your kitchen. The plate clatters loudly in the sink as you haphazardly put them away, clearly rattled.

Simon coughs slightly, words stuck in his throat. He'd prepared a small speech earlier yet all the words seem to escape him. All the courage he had mustered for his little speech all had but disappeared into thin air. He feels out of his depths, not used to being vulnerable.

"What are you doing here, Simon?" Your voice sounds so tired. He supposes he was to blame for that.

"Can we talk?" He sends you a pleading look, hoping you still felt a sliver of the love you used to harbor for him — the only thing stopping you from kicking him out.

"Oh, so after blocking me and radio silence for six months you've decided you want to talk?" The bitterness seeps into your words like venom. He can't even make himself physically recoil from the sharp edge of your tone. Simon can feel the thin rope right beneath his feet, one wrong step and he'd be falling off the edge.

He takes a deep breath. "I deserve that."

"Oh, you deserve more than that Simon Riley. I should kick you out right now." You were huffing now, going slightly red in the face. Had he not been so anxious he might've thought you look cute. But right now? He was downright terrified.

"Just-" Simon pinches his nose bridge, calming himself down. "Let me speak for a moment, yeah? After that if you want me to leave, I'll leave." He holds both his hands up.

You were livid, rightfully so. The man you love had essentially decided he didn't want to communicate with you anymore, breaking your heart. The first week you thought maybe something had happened to his phone, broken it maybe?

As the weeks turned into months, the realization dawned on you that he had purposefully blocked you, cut off all contact. At first there was only sadness. You spent your days crying into your blanket, some days barely functioning. The hurt and betrayal had emotionally drained you. Did all those years mean nothing to him?

You knew he had a hard time expressing his emotions, but never in your wildest dreams did you think he would throw you away just like that. Like you were nothing more to him than a good fuck. Despite your head telling you otherwise, the emotional baggage he had left you with didn't leave much option.

It was easier to hate him than to accept maybe he didn't love you at all.

You spent the first few months cursing into the wind hoping it'd somehow hurt him a fraction of how much he hurt you. Afterwards, the pain became a lingering , dull ache, but not debilitating anymore. It became a constant that you carry everyday.

Kicking him out the door was tempting, but you knew it wouldn't do you any good. If anything, the words left unsaid would become a leech — slowly draining away your curiosity until you eventually leave another voicemail.

You give him a pointed stare before sitting down on the couch. Simon slowly approached you, wanting nothing more than to sit next to you but choosing to sink into the other side of the couch. He sees you cross your arms, feeling more uncomfortable by the second.

"I jus' wanna say that I'm sorry." He stares into your eyes, slouched with elbows on his thighs. Seeing your mouth thin into a line, Simon knows he's going to have to do a lot better.

"When Johnny died..." Your eyes widen, arms slacking slightly. He'd talk about Johnny sometimes but sometime ago had entirely stopped mentioning his name altogether. You had suspected something terrible had happened but you didn't want to believe it.

"I was so angry. It's not fair. He was so young, had his whole future ahead of him. Told me he was gonna see his sister's newborn on his next leave." He breathes out, clenching his fists.

"All of that, gone. We haven't even caught the bastard yet." Simon runs an exasperated hand through his face. Your arms were no longer crossed, choosing to fiddle with the edge of your shirt. You wanted to comfort him so badly, wanted to take him into your arms and tell him everything's going to be okay. But he was still pouring his heart out and you wanted to greedily snatch every piece he was willing to give.

"I had constant nightmares for months. Sometimes, I still do. You're just a heavy sleeper, I suppose." He chuckles and catches the way the edge of your mouth turn up.

"It's never easy, losing someone. It changes you. I used to hear his nonsense almost everyday and now it's just not there. I'm terrified one day it'll be like he was never there at all." Simon looks away, blinking tears away.

"But he was there. I know that. I felt him. He was like the fucking sun, but instead of being 150 million kilometers away, he's next to my ear with his Scottish nonsense." Simon chuckles bitterly, reminiscing the times when Johnny had to translate his gibberish.

You stay quiet, letting him speak freely. You had a feeling where this was going and how Johnny's death had indirectly impacted your relationship.

"If I died tomorrow, would you be okay?" His question catches you off guard. It was a question you've pondered a thousand times before, and every time you only ever came up with one answer.

"No." You answer honestly, because you'd break either way. Whether it was tomorrow or a year from now. You can feel a part of Simon in your bloodstream that if he died, some part of you would die with him.

"I only ever wanted you to be okay." He straightens, testing the waters by moving closer to you. You let him.

"Would you prefer if I never loved you at all?" Your heart was thumping loudly in your chest you worried he could hear it.

"No." His answer was immediate, as if he'd never been as sure before. "Not selfless enough for that."

"Then are you selfless enough to accept that I would want it to hurt?" You put your hand on top of his, gently grasping them within yours. Simon feels the broken pieces of him mending together.

He's quiet, not sure how to respond. He didn't use to understand why people would put themselves on the line, but he's starting to.

"If you died, I'd want it to hurt. I'd want it to take my breath away. I'd want it to keep me awake at night. I'd want every single bone in my body to ache when you're gone, because that would mean I have loved you with all of me."

You don't realize you'd started crying. There was no distance anymore between you and Simon. His thigh pressed against yours as you clutch his hand to your chest.

"I want it to hurt so badly, because I want to love you deeply." Tears were streaming freely down your face you couldn't even stop them even if you wanted to.

"Simon, will you let me hurt for you?"

And he lets you.

"Okay." His hand go to engulf your frame, but you had thrown yourself at him before he managed to. Simon can feel his shirt getting wet, he'd never thought he'd be slightly happy over the fact that you were crying.

Everything's going to be okay.

Your head was now on his collarbone, his palm gently holding you there. You feel a kiss on the top of your head as he strokes it.

Neither of you know how long you simply cried on him, much less when you ended up on his lap. When he heard you stop — tired from the energy you exerted, he slowly rearranges his body so that you are able to lie fully on top of him. His sore back is the last thing on his mind as he sees your peacefully sleeping away.

A pounding headache eventually woke you. You weren't sure if last night really happened or if your mind had conjured a scenario where Simon came back for you. However, the sweltering heat you feel on your midsection proves otherwise.

He really was here.

His eyes were closed, seeming to be asleep. You test the waters, placing your palm on the left side of his face. A hand immediately darts towards your hand and keeps it there.

"Put some pills on your nightstand for the headache." He murmurs, eyes still closed. His face turns slightly, placing a kiss on your palm. Even after half a year away, he still knows you like the back of his hand.

Leaning in, you give him a peck on the cheek. As much as you want to drink in the sight of him, there were more pressing matters at hand. You need the reassurance. You need him to tell you he wasn't going to abandon you again.

"Simon, did you mean it?" You can't get the entire words out, can only hope it was enough to convey your tumultuous emotions. His heart aches that you don't believe him, but he understands.

"I love you, sweetheart." Soft lips descend upon your own, barely brushing.

"'M here to stay as long as you want me here." He sneaks a hand under you, pulling you closer to him. There isn't any part of you that's not connected to him in some way.

He was so warm, scorching you inside out. You wanted his flame to burn every inch of your skin. When he left, everything felt cold to the bone, your life turning into muted blues and grays.

Simon brought warmth into your life, with his little acts of service. With the little trinkets he brings back after deployment because it reminded him of you. With his gentle hands, gentle kisses — his gentle self.

"I love you, Si." You whisper, grabbing him by the neck and lowering your lips onto his. Brushing softly, you were going to pull away when Simon lets out a moan. Heat builds inside of you as you slip your tongue inside his open mouth. He grunts in surprise, holding you still for a second. But you're impatient.

"Need you." You whine, "Want you so much, Si."

"Yeah?" He mumbles against your lips, running his hands through your hair gently.

"Thought I'd be in the dog house much longer than that, love." He teases you. Simon yelps slightly when you retaliate by biting on his lower lip. He grips both your cheeks with his fingers, pushing you away from him.

"That wasn't very nice of you, hmm?" He gently shakes your head, grinning handsomely. "Think you need a little lesson in being nice, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I'm an excellent teacher." He leans in and kisses your puckered lips, working his way downwards.

His hands wander everywhere, working themselves underneath your shirt. You feel goosebumps rise where his fingertips lay, shivering under his hold.

"Missed you so much, Si. Please." Your moans echo throughout the room. He's holding your thighs together as he trails down your body as you writhe.

"Missed you too, love. Fuck, missed you so fucking much." He manages to say. He cups your ass as he mouths at your panty-covered mound. Your juices seep through the fabric, making Simon groan.

"Mmm.. Someone missed me too." He runs his tongue up and down your slit as you cross both your legs behind his neck. He felt you clench your thighs and he feels blood rushing downwards. Turning his head slightly to the right, he nips lightly at your inner thigh.

He'd barely touched you but here you are already begging for it. Simon Riley has you wrapped around his finger and it scares you a little how much of a hold he has on you. You had bared your neck so openly for him and he had bit down the first chance he got.

"Will you let me take care of you, love? Make you feel good." He hums, fingers trailing along your inner thigh waiting for permission. You nod fervently before realizing he can't see you.

"Yes, yes, yes. Need you to take care of me, Si." Your heart was beating fast out of anticipation.

"Yeah? I'll make you feel good, baby." He coos at you as his fingers slowly pull down your panties. Strings of your juices were sticking to the insides. He threw them aimlessly, eyes zeroed in on your wet pussy.

His finger runs through your folds, making squelching noises. "All this for me, hmm?" He tilts his head up, pinching when you don't reply immediately. The sudden sensation makes you whimper.

"All for you, Si. Just for you." You were panting heavily as Simon sucks your clit into his mouth and licks in a circular motion. You thread your fingers in his hair, not tugging harshly.

Simon laps at your pussy like a starved man, burying his entire face in your warmth. He moans between every few licks, the taste of you dazing him. Your eyes glaze over as you see the man you love pleasuring you with earnest. He continues for a while, alternating his focus between your bud and your folds.

When you tug at his shirt impatiently, Simon grunts. He gets up and throws his shirt over his head. Not one second after it's off, you begin to paw at him, desperate to feel every inch of him.

Simon thinks he's never seen such a beautiful sight. Your hair was messy from your movements, eyes hazy as he can feel goosebumps on his body where you stare. He grabs your face and kisses you desperately, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. His clothed bulge was grinding messily against your wet pussy as his boxers begin to darken from the wetness.

Simon's whimper fill the room when he feels you grinding upwards to rub yourself on his cock. He pulls from your lips with a string of saliva. Not waiting for him, you scramble to take off your shirt, baring your tits to him.

His eyes drink in the state of you greedily, one hand groping your tits as the other travels down to your pussy. You were beyond wet enough for his cock, but he's determined to make you cum on his fingers first.

Two fingers slip into you gently. The stretch catches you off guard, it's been a while since you've had his thick fingers probing inside you. His fingers were thrusting shallowly as you grind on his palm.

"Fuck, Simon. Feels so good." You babble, barely able to keep your eyes open, the pleasure overwhelming your senses.

"Yeah? Gonna make you feel even better." With that, his fingers thrust deeper into you, massaging your spot. Your back arches as Simon plants his face on your chest, sucking on your nipples.

He crooks his fingers slightly as he continues thrusting, his palm touching your clit with each time. You couldn't stay still anymore, moving your hips back to meet his thrusts.

The room was filled with wet, squelching noises and your combined moans. Your hands were gripping his bicep, feeling the large muscle flex under your fingertips.

His thick fingers continue his ministration as you begin to climb higher and higher. Your walls begin to pulse and constrict his fingers. Sweat drips down his forehead as he continues to drive into your pussy with his deft fingers.

"You gonna cum on my fingers, love?" He teases, placing kisses all over your damp face.

"Yes, oh fuck. Please, please let me cum."

Simon grins against your neck, placing sloppy kisses all over. His fingers begin to speed up even faster, hitting your sweet spot with every effort. You feel the familiar tingling sensation begin to build in your core.

Your legs begin to tremble as you struggle to get air inside of your lungs. Panting harshly, you close your eyes as your orgasm starts to reach its peak.

His hand leaves your tits as they begin to rub circles on your clit. The combined assault on your clit and your pussy brings you over the edge.

"Look at me when you cum." Your eyes open immediately as you find him staring directly into yours. Your legs tremble deliciously, hands gripping Simon even tighter as you feel your orgasm wash over you. Mouth agape, your back continues to arch as Simon doesn't stop, overstimulating you with a few shallow thrusts.

Simon's hand was covered in your juices as he slowly withdraws them. Your pussy clenches, feeling empty. He brings his fingers to your mouth and taps your lips. Obediently, you open your lips and let him slide his fingers inside your mouth.

Circling your tongue all finger, your eyes begin to close again. When you blink them open, you see Simon's bare body hovering above yours. His cock was standing proudly, shiny with precum. You feel the urge to take his cock into your mouth. When your hand tries to reach for him, it's stopped by his firm grip.

"Next time, yeah? Need to fuck your pretty pussy, baby." He slowly pulls his fingers out of your mouth, wiping them on his hip. He repositions his cock at your pussy, sliding the head up and down your folds.

Tilting your head down, you see Simon's hand grip his cock firmly as it slowly rubs his precum all over your pussy. He groans seeing your juices mix together. Moving your hips upwards, you try to push his head in and he hisses.

He grabs your hips and gently lowers them on the bed. "You just lay there and take it, yeah? Let me do all the work." You preen, more than happy to lay there and see him move above you.

"Put it in, Si. Missed your cock so much." You whimper, pressing delicate kisses on his neck. He nudges your nose with his, capturing your lips into a kiss. Your moan gets interrupted by your own grunt of surprise as the head of his cock slips in.

His cock was thicker than his two fingers, with veins running all over the shaft rubbing your walls deliciously. You link your legs behind his waist, helping him push deeper.

When he's inside you, it's like two pieces of puzzle fitting together. His cock fit so perfectly inside you, as if you were made for him and him for you. You knew Simon was it for you a long time ago, falling head over heels so easily for the grumpy soldier. You weren't happy at how long it took him to come to his senses, but you're glad either way.

He thrusts slowly, going deeper with each shift of his hips. His tongue tangles with yours as wet noises fill the room. You know when he's pushed in to the hilt when you feel him bump against your cervix slightly. Your pussy clenches at the tiny pain, causing Simon to moan out.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so well, sweetheart." He stays there for a moment, grinding his cock inside. You only stop kissing when you pull away to beg him to start moving. Both his hands are placed firmly on your hips when he begins thrusting.

He moves back and forth slowly, the walls of your pussy feeling every drag of his big cock. You hiss against his mouth, the sensation lights up every nerve in your body. You beg him to go faster but he ignores you, continuing to sink slowly.

When you're about to wail at the pace again, he thrusts sharply — his cock sinking deep into your pussy. You gasp, clawing his back when he continues to move slowly but going deep with each thrust. You can hear the sound of his balls smacking against your ass.

Your combined juices were dripping out of your pussy, causing wet noises whenever he moves inside you. You don't know how long he continues his brutal motion, your eyes dazed and breath unsteady.

You've never felt this way before. It feels as if he's everywhere inside you, there isn't a part of you that doesn't feel touched by him. He thrusts as if he's trying to imprint himself in you, trying to permanently leave a mark.

"Such a pretty pussy. Doing so well f' me, sweetheart. You gonna let me cum in you? Gonna let me fill you up nicely?" He grunts, his composure starting to unravel. His cock begins to piston in you messily as he loses himself in your pussy.

"Yes, yes, yes. Fuck, love you so much, Si. Need your cum in me." You cry out desperately, tightening your legs and pulling him deeper inside you.

"So good to me, love. Letting me cum in your pretty pussy." His form begins to shake slightly from exertion. You know his hands were going to bruise your hips from how hard he was gripping them but you couldn't care less.

Your body moves up and down from the force of his thrust. His cock touching your cervix with each delicious thrust. Your pussy begins to pulse wildly on his cock as you feel another orgasm build inside you. When his cock begins to pulse, your eyes roll to the back of your head as it sends you over the edge. You moan out his name loudly, pulling him by the neck to your chest as his arms hug you to him.

You feel his desperation and love when he holds you. He hugs you so tight to him your ribs ache. You never want this feeling to go away.

"I love you so much, fuck." Your orgasm triggers his own, his cock pulsing as his creamy load fills up your pussy. He's so snug inside your pussy the excess cum begins to drip out. When he stops unloading inside you, he moves slowly, thrusting a few times shallowly. A part of him wants to look at the way his seed drips from your pussy but he didn't want to move away from you.

You both pant with eyes closed as your breathing begins to even out. Simon slowly pulls out and you hiss at the feel of his cock leaving you empty. You look down and see his cock covered in his cum and yours.

Your head falls back down to the pillow, eyes closing shut. Simon stares at the ceiling and huff, righting himself. You feel him plant a kiss to your forehead as the bed dips.

"'M gonna go clean us up, yeah? You stay there." You hear him step into the bathroom, going to wash himself and grab a clean towel to clean up your mess. By the time he came back, you had already passed out, judging by the sound of your low snores.

He begins to wipe your thighs and try to dry the surrounding areas as best he can. He'll change the sheets later when you're well-rested. Simon climbs into bed, hugging you to him. He runs his fingers through your hair, slowly unknotting them one by one.

He stares at your sleeping from and grins. Lowering his lips to yours, he keeps them there for a few seconds.

"I love you."

You can only mumble in response, too tired to properly articulate the words.

"I love you too, Simon."

[islandofsages]

Hi, can I ask the dorm leaders with a student (male) who is extremely good in all academic subjects, ranking among the top 5 in the test rankings, but is extremely stupid in all other factors, for example if someone tries to bully with him, he had politely asked the person to apologize.

characters: the housewardens x male reader

tags: platonic, fluff + crack, imagines format; azul mention in riddle's, riddle mention in azul's, jamil mention in kalim's, vargas mention in vil's, ortho mention in idia's

warnings: alarming stupidity nothing

author's notes: this is such a fun prompt omg i love dumbasses

Riddle Rosehearts

He finds your grades quite impressive - though you can’t cut through his and Azul’s rankings, you manage to land the third place at least

He admires and respects your diligence in studying; if you’re a Heartslabyul student, he’ll consider you a great candidate for the seat of housewarden (or at least vice position)

But then he stumbles upon you one day doing… something? What are you doing?

You’re… crouching in front of a bug. Okay well, maybe you’re studying it

Upon closer inspection though, it looks like you’re… crying? Are you mourning??

The bug’s not even dead. It’s just lying down. You’re seriously mourning a bug that’s actually alive.

He doesn’t want to think it nor does he actually believe you’re like this. But he feels you’re being really stupid at the moment

Then he thinks that again. When you’re doing another stupid thing. Yet you continue to dominate the class rankings

He’s confused. Really confused. 

He stops doubting the duality of man because of you.

Leona Kingscholar

He thinks you’re not half-bad for a herbivore (or well, if you’re a beastman, good for you too)

If you’re a member of Savanaclaw, he’s grateful to have one more guy who can contribute to the decreasing of the dropout rates

That is, until he sees you being cornered by what seems to be a group of bullies

He sighs tiredly at the thought of having to break up a fight again and walks over to you guys, fully expecting you to be in some kind of trouble

But… you’re scolding the bullies instead? And they actually seem apologetic

Did you really ask a group of bullies to apologize for trying to bully you?

He’s unsure if you’re the oblivious one here or the bullies; you’re supposed to feel victimized. Or maybe the bullies are so bad at bullying they don’t affect you in the least??

He doesn’t know what to make of this. But he supposes as long as you don’t make any trouble for him, he doesn’t give a damn

Then he sees more bullies try to get you to give up your wallet to them

Okay, maybe he’ll give at least two damns.

Azul Ashengrotto

A worthy contender to his and Riddle’s rankings? People like you don’t just come by every day

Definitely considers you a valuable asset of some sort… or at least a valuable friend!

So of course, he’d like to interview you on how you got to this level, definitely no other ulterior motives at all

You two sit down in the Mostro Lounge one day, everything is pleasant and comfortable, and you’re just chilling. He starts with a simple question: how do you study to get such good grades?

You ruminate the question for a minute, thinking hard, when you eventually come to the conclusion

“I mean. I just study like the normal person does. Five minutes before the exam itself, I’ll run through whatever notes I have.”

…What?

He’s not sure if you’re actually really stupid to study five minutes before an exam or really smart that you can ace exams with just five minute study sessions

He continues to interview you and he discovers more about how much of a dumbass you actually are but he endures it just for the sake of knowing your actual secrets

You better watch your back.

Kalim Al-Asim

He looks up to you so much, he practically begs you to tutor him so he doesn’t bother Jamil as much 

So you do, just for the hell of it and maybe because of the money too

And it works! He’d come running to you, excitedly showing you his grades from the last exam and you’re genuinely proud of his improvement

He likes running up to you either way - and one day when he does, he runs into you… reading a book upside down?

“Oh, hey Kalim. You know, I found this book one day and I thought I’d give it a read but I can’t understand a single thing…”

He wants to say something. Specifically about you reading said book the wrong way (literally)

…But what if you’re right? Maybe it is meant to be read upside down and you’re just not understanding it because it’s in some ancient language?

You two go to Jamil for once since he seems to be as proficient, if not more, in ancient magic than the both of you

You were excited at the idea that there’s still new stuff out there you have yet to discover

Needless to say though, your excitement dies the moment Jamil finishes listening to your explanation and you two become the victim of his two-hour lecture.

Vil Schoenheit

You’ve gained his respect. A rare honor from the Fairest Queen himself, you think

He would consider you an equal… if it weren’t for the fact of, well, you’re pretty oblivious in literally everything else

He’ll never forget the day where your natural stupidity outshone your class ranking… because it involved Vil himself

You were in a joint PE class together (or if you’re classmates then just a regular class) and it gave both of you the opportunity to talk to each other a bit

It’s a nice little conversation until you say-

“Also… what’s Vargas’ last name anyway?”

Vil blinked once. Then twice. What did you just ask him?

Vargas. Is the last name. His full name is Ashton Vargas. It’s pretty common knowledge considering how much the guy himself says it. He relays that information to you

You let out a dragged out “Oh” and nodded understandingly. Oh, you were being genuine.

Now he doesn’t want to assume from just one interaction but every other interaction with you just proves his point - and the thing is he actually finds it kind of amusing.

Idia Shroud

Wow, someone who’s almost as prodigious as he is, how impressive (he’s being half-sarcastic, half-genuine here)

It is somewhat difficult to find some intelligent life in NRC sometimes. But then you end up being one of them anyway (yet also not really?)

Like you’re always in the top 5 when it comes to exams but then he sees you doing stuff like what you did yesterday…

He was outside for once, taking a walk since Ortho insisted, and he bumps into you on the main street

He didn’t think twice about what you were doing; you were merely staring up at the King of Beast’s statue, finger under your chin, eyes squinted. It’s obvious you were deep in thought

Until he walked by you, hearing you talk to yourself

“...What kind of animal is he anyway? A cat? A tiger?? A panther???”

??? Is it not obvious???

He debated on actually telling you what kind of animal the King of Beasts was but… somehow it’s funnier to leave you in the dark like that

He’ll never get over how you keep calling the King of Beasts a panther, mainly because it riles the Savanaclaw students up.

Malleus Draconia

You’re a curious little thing to him - he wonders how you’ve come to know so many things

Or at least, seem so… you may ace your exams but he comes to notice that it’s not consistent across all boards

He just got back from touring Ramshackle’s exterior for the umpteenth time when he sees you chilling in the Diasomnia lounge

You are talking to another student, which is normal and all, but your response makes him do a double take

“I just think they shouldn’t put mushrooms in mushroom soup! And not make it taste like mushrooms! It just has to look and feel like thick soup!”

But… those are what make mushroom soup… mushroom soup.

He doesn’t even feel that strongly towards mushroom soup! Why is he trying to defend mushroom soup??

It’s not outright stupid but… it certainly is a bold take that could be a pipeline to be dumb

Malleus tries not to judge; you have your qualities and flaws that make you special

But when you bring your complaint to the cafeteria staff, that’s where he draws the line and stops you for the sake of everyone’s sanity.

[kangaracha]

QUEENMAKER | CHAPTER 24

---

pairing chan x reader

genre ninth member au, angst, fluff, coming of age, social media, cancel culture, anxiety, depression, forbidden love,

summary To JYPE, the solution is simple; take the sole trainee that will not debut with your brand new girl group, and use her to replace the missing vocalist in your male group that insisted on starting as nine.

Unfortunately, to the fans and the members themselves, it isn't that simple.

status ongoing

taglist OPEN

a/n hi. it's me. i'm back. i don't have any excuses to make.

please also check out daybreak, posting weekly from now on (yes i did write an entire smau instead of queenmaker and sit on it for almost six months)

previous | masterlist | next

---

Comeback approaches like a hurricane; it's there, developing in the corner of your eye just off the coast of your island, and then all at once it is here, and it is so all-encompassing that you're not even sure where here is anymore.

Comeback. Debut. The most important day of your life. One of those.

 Time starts to fly by; schedules and practice and filming and every so often the chance to sleep or to grab something to eat with the others. It drags at your coattails, sticks itself to your feet and settles like a weight upon your shoulders, but you can't stop. There are performances to film, and then there is a concert that you are missing so much of the choreography for, and even when all of that is over, you are headfirst into award season and special performances and group activities for the company and-

First, debut. Second, everything else.

The camera sits on the table in front of you, staring with one dark, unblinking eye as a brush darts across your face, erasing all your imperfections. It fills your stomach with a funny kind of fear, small but poisonous, stinging when you think about turning it on - you've managed to put it off so far, waiting until your face was made up to at least avoid having to see your own naked skin reflected back at you in the viewfinder. No one else wanted to see that either, you're sure, after the things you've read and...well, the experiences you've had in the past. It's good to know your limits, after all.

That excuse is fast running out now though, and the time to go up towards the stage is drawing closer with alarming speed, and if you don't capture any footage before that happens, you're in some real trouble, no matter how loudly Seungmin and Felix are churning out hours worth of content on the other side of the room.

It takes real, deliberate effort to lean forward and turn that camera on once the makeup artist proclaims you ready, your hands delaying still as they fiddle with the angle and the focus, following the motions the manager that had handed it to you had shown you before he left. It gives you a little red light to say it is filming, and you swallow down the stone in your throat and sit up straight, looking around at the room to avoid the stare of its lense.

The first minute of your vlog is very boring. It's probably only the thought of some stranger sitting in a room later and watching you sit there awkwardly for a ridiculous amount of time that spurs you into saying anything at all. 

"Hello Stay," you begin, because it seems the only way to begin. The words feel awkward in your mouth, your tongue stiff and undeserving of saying them, and your throat scratches and dries; you think, as you speak, that you do not sound like a singer at all. "It's nice to meet you...for the second time." 

A noise rises up from behind you, giving you pause just as you run out of things to say - Han, running his voice up and down the scales as he begins to warm up. You've gotten used to that by now, the volume of the boys around you, but you're grateful for the excuse to pause in your self-rumination anyway, the precious seconds it gives you to figure out what it is you're saying.

Act normal, you tell yourself firmly as you turn back to the camera.

"I guess I should introduce myself, shouldn't I?" you say, your fingers twisting in your lap. "I'm L/N Y/N from Stray Kids, and today we're at [] for our first performance of Back Door, and I have just finished with the makeup..."

In the corner of the viewfinder, you notice a face hovering over your shoulder; Jeongin, waving a peace sign just out of your field of vision. You turn to look at him, shuffling over so that he is in full view for the camera. "What are you doing?" you ask and he leans in closer, automatically fixing the angle for the camera.

"I just wanted to see what you were doing," he says, refreshingly peaceful compared to the chaos that is building in the rest of the room. "Is this a vlog?"

"Mhm," you answer, and he smiles and waves again to the camera. "Are you dressed already?"

"Nearly," he says, glancing down at his white shirt and the black necklace that dangles around his neck. "You have time still."

You glance down at yourself; hoodie and cargo pants, neat but not show-ready by any means. "Mine is cold," you say by way of explanation, thinking of the skirt and thin shirt that wait on a rack in the next room, a far cry from the long pants the eight of them are wearing; and you really do like the look you've been given, but the thought of sitting around cold before you had to was less than enticing. "I was going to go and change in a minute."

"Maybe you should swap with someone," I.N suggests slyly. "I bet Changbin would look good in a skirt."

"Changbin's pants wouldn't fit me," you throw back, and he has to turn away from the camera to hide the ugly laugh that snorts from his nose. "He's too-"

Short, you don't say, your eyes tracking the boy in question as he passes by. He pauses in the back of your video when he notices your eyes on him, looks between you suspiciously, and then dances his way out of frame, having decided, you guess, that you aren't up to anything worthy of comment.

The look you share with I.N almost makes you laugh again. "I'm going," you say, scooping up your camera as you stand, "before he realises we're talking about him."

---

"Why do you look nervous?" Chan asks, a shadow that suddenly stands beside you as someone clips a mic pack onto his belt. You eye him in disbelief to avoid turning to look at the hallway that leads to the stage again, trying to figure out if he's joking or not.

"I can be nervous if I want to," you answer after a few seconds, in a way that definitely doesn't hide how anxious you feel at all. 

"But you shouldn't be," he insists, "because there's nothing to be nervous about."

"You know that won't stop me," you scoff.

He cracks a smile despite himself. He almost laughs, except that he's busy turning to nod in acknowledgement of whatever the assistant behind him says on her way past. "It's going to be a good performance," he says, like the simple act of saying it is enough to manifest it into existance, like he would never believe otherwise.

"It's going to be good," you agree readily. "The concerts next week are going to be good too."

That smile flashes across his face again, his eyes lighting up. "You're excited?" he asks - and you almost feel guilty, that he would think that you wouldn't be excited, that you've worked so hard and put on such a stoic face that any of them might start to think this is a chore for you, rather than a dream coming true in front of your eyes.

"Of course I'm excited," you tell him emphatically, before he can get any ideas. "I can't wait to-"

"Y/N noona!" Changbin says as he strides across the room, stopping the thought halfway through. You turn to face him and the phone he waggles in his hand questioningly. "Take a photo with me."

"Right now?" you ask, looping your in-ears over your shoulders as if to demonstrate just how poor his timing is.

Changbin doesn't notice at all. "Why not now?" he questions. "I'm supposed to take a photo for instagram. Come and take one with me."

Beside you, Chan looks like he still has something to say, but when you glance at him, he only shrugs, turning away to fiddle with his own equipment. "Alright," you agree easily and follow Changbin, over to a bland enough piece of wall with decent lighting. You have a feeling someone has already scouted the room earlier for the best places to take photos, judging by how easy it is to find and how well it photographs.

It's a good distraction from the nerves for a few minutes, but it doesn't last much longer than that; especially not when Changbin barks and fusses over the angle and the faces, and then Hyunjin comes wandering over to take the camera out of his hand, and you realise that he's occupying you as much as doing what Skijigi have asked him to do. After that, you laugh and poke fun back at him with just the same vivacity, but it does nothing to assauge the anxiety that's planted deep in your gut, roots curling out to envelop you.

Somehow, when you're done, it is time to go up to the stage - and suddenly, you are engulfed within the group and walking that hallway you had been staring at what feels like moments ago, trying to swallow with a dry mouth and a stone in your throat and wondering if you'll actually be able to get any of the notes out at all.

Chan's hand touches your shoulder as you walk, appearing by your side in just the same way as he had earlier. You wonder if he can smell fear or something; or if you really are just that pale and drawn in the face, if your hands are shaking or something. Whatever it is, you're clearly not doing a very good job of hiding it. 

"You still look nervous," he tells you cheerily, and if he's aware that he's reading your thoughts, he doesn't give any indication of it, not even as he pulls you aside as you reach side-stage and glances up at the huddle of boys that continue to the bottom of the stairs, eyeing them as if there's something he doesn't want them to hear.

"I got you something," he says, when he's sure there are no eavesdroppers, and lets his lips curve in a secretive, delighted smile.

Your eyebrow raises in surprise, almost certain that he did not forget, but rather has been looking for the right time to bring it up - but he doesn't notice the look of disbelief, fishing a small, velvet bag out of his pocket. He offers it to you on an outstretched palm, a bridge to form the gap between you.

With timid, shaking fingers you take it, noting the pink that stains his cheeks and the way he cringes away from meeting your eye as you pull the drawstrings loose. "I saw you playing with the ones at K-Con," he hurries to explain before you can even see what's inside. "And you - fidget a lot. I thought it might help."

A ring tumbles out of the bag and into your palm, the full stop to the end of his sentence. It's only a plain silver band, softly curved at the edges and gleaming where the light hits it - nothing ostentatious or gaudy. Just a simple band for you to twist around your finger, the letters SKZ engraved on its inner circle.

"Thankyou," you manage to say as you slip it onto your finger - and then fiddle with it, twisting it and forth to distract yourself from the nervous hum that seems to hang in the air between you.

"Oh, no." He waves you away before you can even get the words out, that pink flushing his face. "Look, it works already." 

You glance down at your fingers and the twist of the ring, and feel the grin that bites at your face. "I like it," you admit, and try to breathe the nervous jitters out of your chest with the words. 

He looks...relieved? You're not sure, when the music blasts on stage and then cuts off and the crowd roars in response, cutting him off before he can say whatever it is that now lines the back of his teeth. It looks like relief on his face though; as if he'd been worried you wouldn't take the gift or something. Wouldn't see the sentiment behind it even if you didn't like it. What does he think of you, if that's how he thinks you might react?

The thought sends another thrill of fear down your spine, one that the scrape of that ring on your finger can't quiet. So does the scream of that crowd - adrenaline rises from your chest, wrapping its hands around your throat; that wild, senseless energy tensing in your body like you're about to run from a fight-

A hand claps your shoulder. "Are you breathing?" Seungmin asks, balancing on one foot as he leans around you to frown at your face.

You have to inhale to retort, and he smirks. "That's what I was wondering," Chan says behind that grin - but the brush of his hand over the back of yours is much softer; questioning, rather than the jolt of contact from Seungmin.

"I don't need to breathe," you throw at them weakly. "I'm a robot."

"How do I turn you off, then?" Chan asks, and then laughs when you stare at him, surprised. Betrayed, maybe, when you would have expected such a thing to come out of Seungmin's mouth rather than his.

You're distracted by the call of a staff member, waiting to usher you onto the stage - and there, again, are your nerves, returned in two-fold. Debut, you remember again for the thousandth time today. Your dream. Your reward. Your life's work, the only work you've ever learnt how to do.

The group huddle together, say some quick words of encouragement that float past you with registering at all. Your hand is warm in the centre of all of theirs, crushed by the weight of someone's palm as eight hands go down and whoever is on the bottom goes up, ruining the whole thing. You know that you laugh, between the groans and cries of retribution, but it doesn't reach right into your chest. All your attention is laser-focused on the steps before you and the buzz of the crowd waiting beyond.

You are not alone in your daze, at least. Many hands pat your shoulders, smooth your hair. Felix throws an arm around you until you reach the stairs, a one-armed hug while he talks about something in your ear. He lets you go while you climb, and follows on your heels out onto the stage.

The crowd is smaller than K-Con, to your mercy, even if they scream and cheer just as loud as that massive crowd had. It seems like a stupid thing to find comfort in a moment later, when the thought hits you again; of course the crowd is smaller. This is only a broadcast recording, not the concerts that leer at your from the near future.

Some of the boys are already at the centre of the stage, waving and talking to fans. You join them long enough for the official greeting - and then melt away into the background when Changbin immediately commands attention. You find Han there with you, arms swinging by his sides in one last warmup, but you can't think of anything to say other than the tight grin that offers itself to him, no doubt writing all you nerves right onto your face. The smile he gives you in return is sympathetic, and devoid of pretty words to go with it; just a flash of teeth, a puff of air that blows into his cheeks before exhaling. It's a little comfort, at least.

The call to begin shatters any calm it pulls over you just as quickly as it arrives though, the stage a hive of activity as everyone finds their places. For a long moment, no one moves and nothing plays, the tense, still seconds ticking by at an excruciating pace-

And then the music starts.

And then you dance.

And then you sing, loud and clear and bright - and steady, even with the complex movement of your body and the increasing cry of your chest for air. 

The finale rises and culminates with Felix's voice, standing at the end of the line behind you. You feel his weight bump against you as he shifts on his feet, hear the moment of silence and then the renewed cheer of the crowd when his ending fairy comes up on the screens. You can't see when it ends, so you count to five before you turn, ducking out of the line as requested and immediately finding the red light of the camera that was told to be waiting for you. Finger hearts, Felix had suggested backstage and Hyunjin had agreed, and so that is what you give them, angled just so by your cheek and the giddy smile that had been pulling on your lips before the music was even finished.

The stage goes silent, the few scattered beginnings of applause quickly throttled by the hands that remain in their laps. The seconds tick by at a glacial pace, the smile threatening to slip from your face. You glue it there with all the fire that remains in your veins.

You could swear the camera lingers, just to drink in your pain. Logically, you know it is the same time as Felix had. Somehow, the thought isn't comforting.

Finally, that lense clicks off and the boys move around you, giving the crowd something else to hawk and squeal at. Something they really want to see, you allow yourself to think acerbically, and carefully avoid looking any of them in the eye as you do your forced, casual wander off the stage. It is hard enough to achieve in your own bubble, to resist that urge to run, let alone if you catch anything like sympathy on their faces.

The first one below, you take one look at the playback monitor and excuse yourself to the staff, fleeing towards the bathrooms. You're dimly aware of footsteps behind you and the sound of your name, but they do not process and your feet won't stop - not until the heavy door slams shut behind you and the propel of your walk carries you in sight of the mirror over the sinks-

Beautiful, you'd dared to think earlier, staring vindictively at just the same image that looks back at you now. The careful fit of the navy shirt, the short skirt flattering the length and lines of your legs, the layered bangles and the diamonds that glitter around your neck...perfectly crafted to slip right in amongst the silk and patterns of the boys - and not unlike Midnight's dark queen concept either, the concept you hadn't had the right look for. You'd even liked your face, and the unearthly glow they'd painted into your cheeks, the perfect frame of your dark hair-

But something had displeased that crowd. Whether the look, or the dancing, or stupid, stubborn pettiness over girlish crushes - or all of it put together. It took a lot to silence an entire crowd. You knew that - you'd seen one refuse to be silenced before, but never nominally refuse to cheer. Never pass the sentiment around and come to an absolute mutual agreement.

It's a talent, to be able to do that by yourself, you think as you stare into your own eyes in the mirror; and you don't have it in you to deny the rush of feelings that wells in your chest this time, or the hot prick of tears in your eyes. Your thoughts are swept off in the storm, the questions clamouring, crying, begging for one answer; why, why, why, why. Why do they hate you, why are they so mean about it, why didn't you just go home? Why did you ever come to this country in the first place? Why id you think you were good enough to be worth their love?

A soft knock on the door precedes the tentative entry of an assistant; one of the girls from JYP that always travels with you on schedules. You know her name, but you should know her better; instead, you've just been keeping to yourself. Another point of failure, probably.

"Y/N?" she says, daring to put one foot through the door as you blink and nod in acknowledgement. "Sorry - we need to start heading back now. You can have another moment - if you need-"

"I'm coming," you hurry to say; and it is shame that colours your cheeks and gives you the strength again to swallow it down like a hard stone. The tears burn as you blink them away, as you stare at the mirror and decide that no more will fall except for the traitorous three that have already escaped. You'll have to go back on that stage - you won't go red-eyed and puffy, won't give them that satisfaction.

You'll have to do that ending again too, though. Weather that storm a second time. Well, you'll just have to make sure this take is perfect, and then no one will ask for a third. You'll be able to go home and hide.

Your moment is up. You know that, and so you turn yourself away from the mirror, to the girl that waits. She willingly averts her eyes as she steps out, holding the door for you until you grip the edge of it with your own hand and follow her.

Chan is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall and staring at nothing as he waits. There's a dark anger in his eyes when he turns, but it isn't for you - no, the tissue box in his hand is for you, offered like a bridge that spans the gap between you. 

Warily, you draw one and turn aside to dab at your eyes and try to cool the burn in your cheeks. You want to cringe away from yourself and hide in the bathroom again, to put off facing him until he goes away - but if you do that, he'll know you're hiding, and the hovering assistant will bear the blame of not bringing you back, and those fans will think they know why it's taking so long-

Stupid. They already know that they've won. Chan can see you crying. There's no one left to make a fool of except yourself.

"Are you alright?" Chan asks - and just like you thought, there is none of that anger in the gentle voice that asks.

"It's fine," you answer, biting at your tongue agains the tears that threaten to stir anew. "Sorry. I just needed - a moment. I'm ready to go again."

"Take another moment," he tells you.

"I'd rather go," you say, and it comes out harsher than you mean it to - but it is only the tears that you are fighting, that horrible, gut-wrenching wave of emotion that wants to wash over you. "I'm fine. Really."

The tissue crushes in your palm. You wonder if the sceptical look he gives you is because of the makeup you've surely smudged, or if he just doesn't believe you. "Are you sure?" he asks, and you steel yourself as you breathe in.

"I will be if we don't talk about it," you tell him tightly, and then you take the lead before he can disagree. He falls into step willingly anyway, thoughtful or maybe brooding as you weave your way back to the stage.

"We're not doing the endings again," he tells you as you approach, right as the flock of makeup artists engulf you. Like they knew you'd be crying, you think acerbically, and then banish the thought before it can unbalance you again.

"Were there any notes for me?" you ask as a brush dusts your cheek. The dancing; that's the only thing you need to focus on. The performance. Do it perfectly, and you can escape. Subconsciously, you fingers find the ring, twisting it around and around.

"Not for you," Chan says. "Just try to enjoy it again, yeah?"

Several choice comments come to mind as you gaze at him, each one as dry and hurt as the last, but a look at the occupants of the room stills your tongue. Assistants and stylists and employees of the show - people that you shouldn't be caught speaking ill of fans or members in front of. You've read your contracts and the company ethics, seen the bill for your training attached to your name. You know how far fans and a good public image takes even the most insidious people.

"I'll try," you promise instead, firmly holding your tongue to your principals. No point complaining about hardships anyway. This isn't an industry that takes pity on those who are too weak to survive it.

Even so, the answer seems vapid and contrived the moment it spills out of your mouth. Chan doesn't have time to contest it; the others are already returning to the stage to entertain that undeserving crowd, and so you must follow too, side by side in silence. His microphone passes restlessly from hand to hand, even when you step on stage and his brow smoothes out. You wonder how long that rage will simmer beneath his skin.

Until he can do something about it, a little voice whispers to you with a thrill, watching his receding back.

The stage sweeps you away after that, Chan disappearing into the midst of the others with just one last glance over his shoulder to make sure that you're following. Seungmin replaces him, appearing unobtrusively in your shadow as Felix slings an arm back around your shoulders and bats his hand away from messing with your hair. They flank you until you drift into your position, and then the stage goes quiet so that the music can start again. 

The dance flies by; chorus, verse, bridge, dance break. The fans cheer and chant along as dutifully as they had the first time, but the sound resonates hollow in your chest this time, the faces that you give the camera manufactured rather than brought on by the music. It's hard to forget, now that you know the truth, that those cheers aren't for you; only the boys that surround you, their bodies moving in unison with yours. Part of them, and yet set apart. 

You'd come six years ago expecting to be the jewel in that kind of crown, you think. This crowd has made you the flaw, ugly and unmistakably out of place.

It's a relief when the song ends and you can let go, your shoulders slumping and your chin dropping to your chest as you stare at the floor and try to breathe. A hundred emotions sweep by you, there and then swallowed again by the storm that churns in your stomach; you flinch away from the crowd's laughter at something Han does, and then laugh when Changbin's face appears upside-down in your field of vision, his body contorted strangely in an effort to meet your eyes. There's still something hiding in Chan's eyes and Felix is openly angry, but Minho gives nothing away in the nod he gives you as he passes by. Changbin talks about what to get for dinner on the way back down the stairs, but the words just wash over you; you're not hungry anyway, after all of this, just hollow and restless and tired.

Your third filming trudges by much the same, correcting a small mistake by Han in the pursuit of perfection. The boy looks apologetic as he passes you by, but it's not him or the dancing that you resent. It's just a thing you have to do, until all nine of you are pleased, until you can finally leave that stage and draw the hoodie you'd worn here on a very different kind of morning back over your head and climb into a car to go home.

You don't win any awards. The boys hide their disappointment, but you know it is there. You know, too, where the fan vote went and why that trophy was stolen away from them. 

You're not really sure what anyone expects you to do about it.

---

TAGLIST

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[oureden]

CANTO V

pairing james sunderland x reader

wordcount 7.1k (sorry.)

summary james sunderland is a good man. a good, good man.

warnings fem afab reader, college au, age gap (20's-40's), teacher-student relationship, infidelity, dubcon bc of coercion, manipulation, oral (reader receiving), very light feet action, creampie, james' madonna-whore complex sorta, at least 2 billion mentions of mary, james' unreliable narration and rumination deserve a mention, both reader and james are shitty people

a/n tfw you've had writers' block for four entire years and some pathetic sopping wet loser is what brings you out of it. crazy. anyway my thought w this au was kinda along the lines of 'what if silent hill was a person instead of a place' but like. in the context of smut 😭 VERY SPECIFIC I KNOW but it was something i wanted to experiment with. anyway, hope you enjoy! and it goes without saying but minors please don't interact

read it on ao3 !!

The knock at his door breaks James out of the self-inflicted loop of checking emails and grading papers he's created for himself. One quick look at the screen to his left confirms that yes, office hours are still in effect for the next five minutes so he, albeit a bit begrudgingly because he really needs to get these grades in, offers a polite, "come in," and takes a sip of the now too-cold tea he had forgotten about somewhere within the hour.

"Hiya, Doc," you greet with a smile and eagerness in your gait that frankly he doesn't understand where you get the energy for given the hour. But then, you've always had too much spring in your step than perhaps is warranted. So lively, blazing like the sun and impossible for him to look away from.

Which is a detriment to him considering you're somehow in almost every single one of his lectures this semester. And if that wasn't bad enough, you inexplicably decide to attend said lectures wearing outfits that James can only describe as some kind of test of his will. This one is no exception—form fitting jeans that hug your hips and plush thighs with a cropped t-shirt that rides up just enough for him to catch the briefest flashes of invitingly supple flesh.

"Um, hey. Take a—have a seat," he gestures to the chair facing his, hoping you don't notice his sudden lack of a grasp on the English language. He at least has enough sense remaining to remind you that office hours are about to come to a close.

You wave your hand as you sit, an array of silver chains and charms chiming as you do. "Don't worry, I'll be super quick. Pinky promise." There's a disarmingly sweet smile on your face as you reach a pinky out in jest, one that widens when he finds himself reaching out to link with his own without even thinking. "Awww! That was so cute!"

The rational part of his mind knows that he really should shut down these little comments of yours. You've given him more than enough chances, lingering around after his lectures are over and popping into his office with a list of questions you'd written down in endearingly rounded lettering. All he'd have to do is set that boundary, gently remind you both that he is, at the end of the day, your professor and that your playful flirtations aren't appropriate. Say that he has a wife who he's wholly dedicated to and would never want to disrespect, which is true. He loves Mary more than he could ever put into words. She's been the love of his life for 20 or so odd years and that's never going to change, he's certain.

But you're everything he's been craving wrapped up with a pretty little bow.

You're young; a third-year in a major outside of his department and it'd be a lie to say that your youth wasn't at least part of the draw of you, as much as he tries to tell himself it isn't. It wasn't just that you were young, either. You were...full of vitality. You smiled and laughed and spoke so freely and so openly, unafraid to take up space and James couldn't help but feel himself becoming increasingly more drawn to you as the days of afternoons spent together stretched into weeks. It's gotten to a point where he now sees his classes less as lectures and as time he's able to spend in your presence, coveting your warmth and imagining what it would be like to swallow your laugh into his mouth.

At least the guilt drives him insane. That must make up for it in some way. It has to be punishment enough to visit Mary at the hospital and see her withering away during his visits and feel a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he knows he must accept as a companion. He feels it deepening every time he catches himself being short with her on her bad days, hating himself for being angry with her when he knows she's only scared. But knowing that does nothing to alleviate the tension neither of them want to acknowledge. Nor does it doesn't help that there's a different tension, one of his own making, building between the two of you.

He deserves this guilt. Hell, he deserves far worse for wanting to fuck someone half his age alone, the fact that he's also married with a sick wife warrants some kind of eternal torture somewhere lower and hotter than whenever run-of-the-mill sinners end up.

(A small part of him hopes that before then, he finds out what your skin feels like under his hands.)

"So," he manages to awkwardly choke out after a moment, "what did you want to talk about? If it's the midterm on Monday, you really don't need to be worried. I'm pretty sure you're one of the only ones actually doing the homework."

"Well, you did choose some pretty solid readings," you reply easily, shoulders straightened as if preening from his light praise which James doesn't let himself think too long about, "but no, it's not about the midterm."

James' brows furrow. There's a cryptic tone to your voice, like you're inviting him to guess the purpose of your visit which, upon looking at the time again, really should be ending soon. "Well...what, uh, is this about?"

The slight cock of your head jostles your hair enough that he can smell the mixture of your perfume and shampoo even from where he sits. Apples and sandalwood mixed with something so undeniably you. His mouth waters. "C'mon, Doc. You know."

Does he? You have this look in your eyes that all at once playful and mischievous, almost feline, and it gives absolutely nothing away. All he can do is laugh a bit incredulously. "Ah, I can't say that I do? But hey, it's almost six so maybe we could pick thi—"

"Should I give you a hint, then?"

If this were any of his other students, he wouldn't have entertained this. Honestly, he wouldn't have even let them get this far into his office, just turned them away at the door and told them to come back tomorrow when he's got more time. But it's you. And he has nothing but time for you.

"Sure," he hears himself saying before he's able to think better of it.

You smile like you'd been expecting this, leaning forward on folded arms. There's a moment where he considers asking you what you're doing but he finds himself unable to think of anything at all when he feels you hook your foot under the base of his chair and tug him forward. Whatever confusion he feels is short-lived, however, as you leave him with little ambiguity the second your foot slides along the length of his leg.

Not for the first time, he thinks that he should say something, do something, to stop this before it starts but all he's able to manage is a half-hearted, "don't," that you both know doesn't hold any weight.

"You wanted a hint," you say in that same voice he's heard so many times over the semester, light and full of mirth. "I'm giving it to you."

"I'm married," he splutters out, setting the boundary he should have all those weeks ago.

The toe of your shoe presses into the side of his knee. "Well duh," you say with a conversational flippancy that makes his head spin. "But it's not like you care." It stings like a slap to hear out loud but what can he do? Disagree? Act like he hasn't been wanting to fuck you for almost as long as he's known you? Like he hasn't been hoping for this?

James looks at you desperately, pleadingly, says your name like a prayer. "You're my student, I—Look, I'm flattered but this is extremely inappropriate. We could both get into trouble for this."

"You could."

He blinks. "What?"

A manicured nail points in his direction. "You could get into trouble for this," you correct matter-of-factly. When he doesn't respond, you trace along his inner thigh, stopping just short of where he fears you touching the most. He hopes you miss the sharp exhale you get in return. "All I'd have to do is say you came onto me and that'd be that. It'd be your word against mine and I mean, honestly, what's more believable? A 20-something-year-old college student accosting her professor ooor a however-old-you-are professor trying to fuck his student?"

A wry smile works its way onto your face at the absolutely the look of absolute dread he gives you. "Oh, don't look so scared. I'd never actually tell the department. I just think you need to remember the optics here. 'Specially since you're not exactly subtle."

This all feels like a nightmare he very much would like to wake up from, one that's taken the desires he's kept so close to his heart and given it to him in the most twisted and terrible way. James studies you, searching for answers in the face he's come to be so achingly familiar with. Nothing's changed; your smile is still bright and sunny as ever, eyes still sparkling. It's not as if a mask has come off and he's been duped by this secret version of you that's been in hiding all along. You've never been hiding. You've always been this. This is you. He's just been too caught up in his own feelings, too blind to see that while he was looking at you, you'd been looking back.

And now he's on the precipice of something he's sure he's not going to be able to come back from.

"Why?" he asks, voice strained. "What do you want?"

You give him a cute pout that's laughably at odds with the energy in the room. "Isn't it obvious? I want you."

There's a number of things James could say to that but they all get lost on his tongue, leaving him to stare at you with an expression on his face that's one part repressed hunger and one part pain. He wishes he could say that he only cares about Mary, that he spends his days thinking of her face, that he eagerly anticipates their meetings and counts down the seconds until he's able to see her again but that's a lie. Thinking about Mary, what she is now, not his Mary; the one he fell in love with all those years ago, it only makes him feel defeated. She hasn't been that person in a long time and he doesn't know who he resents more for it.

Still, this isn't right. Mary is his wife and he made a commitment to her. One that he hopes is made of steady enough stuff to withstand the force of nature sitting before him. "You need to leave." His hand comes to rest at your ankle, awkward and unsure like he doesn't know if he can touch you. "We can just...put this behind us, okay?"

For a moment, he swears it seems like you look confused. Like you'd honestly expected to walk into his office, strongarm him into having an affair and that would be that. Your eyes go from him, to his hand, before going back to him as if you're trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle before you. Then you're nudging your foot free of his grasp, pressing into the forming bulge he'd been trying to avoid acknowledging.

"I don't think I made myself clear. Your voice drowns out his wince of what he tells himself is agonizing pain. "I'm not going anywhere until I get what I want. And you know what I want."

James can't think. If he thought it was hard to get himself to do something—anything—before, this was leaving him forgetting he ever had any thoughts to begin with. There's no way for him to pretend like he's not getting hard from this now, no way to feign nonchalance when the sole of your shoe is rubbing slow and dangerous against him. He could push your foot away. His hand is close enough to do it, gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that bone threatens to tear through skin—but he doesn't make a single move to stop this. You're regrettably aware of this too, cheek resting in the cup of your palm as you watch him. There's no challenge in your eyes, no dare for him to struggle. It's as if you already know that you've won.

"Puh-Please," he begs, voice no more than a punched-out gasp. "Just-just stop and I promise, I won't say anything to anyone, I won't touch your grades—" A firm press has him cutting his own sentence short with a groan he muffles into his hand.

"But you know that's not what I want, silly." You rub along his shaft, soothing, languid strokes that apply just enough pressure for a haze to settle over his mind and tightness to begin forming in his gut. "And I know it's not what you want either so why deny yourself?"

He could move his chair back. He could stand up right now and end this entire thing if he wanted to. "Why...why would I ever want this?"

"Because you've been spending the better half of the semester fantasizing about cheating on your sick wife with one of your students." You straighten your head to face him properly. "How is Mary, by the way? Doing any better?"

His heart drops. "How do you know her name?"

You smile, all sweetness and sunshine. "I know a lot of things about you, silly. Like that you always drop by the hospital to see her on your way home. Or like how bring her flowers every Thursday on your lunch break," you say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh and I know which floor she's on. Still haven't figured out her room number though—"

"I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone." He's aware of how pathetic he sounds, that the wet spot in his pants only makes it doubly so.

"No, I said I wouldn't tell the department. Which I won't," you correct, half-smiling when his hips unwillingly buck against you. "I don't want to get you fired."

"But you have no problem destroying my marriage?" he asks, breathless and flushed but incredulous all the same.

"Don't be so dramatic," you tut. "You're the one about to blow a load in your pants just from being stepped on. If anyone's destroying your marriage, it's you."

James stills. "I...I'm not—"

You give him a look. "Oh, please. If I wanted to, I bet I could finish you off right now." A soft hum, thoughtful. "But that would be no fun."

It's the disorientation, he tells himself. It's the shock of your words that leaves him paralyzed, helpless as he watches you slide out of your chair and circle around his desk. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, his ears, his bones, as you reach out to cup his face in your hands. Now that you're this close, he can see every particle of glitter at the inner corners of your eyes, smell every single note of your perfume and, oh, feel how soft your hands are. He doesn't even remember the last time he's been touched like this, like he's wanted—desired. The scratch of your nails against the stubble scattered across his jaw has his eyes falling shut, brows furrowed and head heavy with cotton.

"Just say you want this, James. That's all you have to do. You can do that for me, right?"

Distantly, he registers that this is the first time you've said his name. You make it sound sweet, sweeter than perhaps he's gotten used to hearing in these past few years. His name had been soured into something awful and bitter like bile that he forgets that there was once honey in its syllables. That, before his life became what it is now, there was a time where all he knew was nectar and fresh morning dew. What you're offering isn't that, he's not delusional enough to believe otherwise. But you offer something. A salve, a bandaid, a temporary fix, whatever it is; it is real and tangible and he can feel it beneath his fingers.

(When did his hands end up at your thighs? When did his head fall to rest against your stomach? Why do your nails running along his scalp make it so hard to think?)

James is holding you like he's unsure of whether to push you away or pull you in closer, hands shaking with a cocktail of repulsion and want. There's no going back if he lets himself have this. No way that he could ever convince himself that, in spite of it all, he's still the man he promised Mary he'd be. If he gives in, what does that make him? He could tell himself that any other man—any other human—in his position would face the same conundrum, that this was simply a losing battle he was forced into playing. Though, he knows this is all his doing. That this hellish game is of his own making, the rules and limits set by him. You've simply bent them to your advantage. Worst part is, he can't even be mad at you. There would be nothing for you to leverage against him with had he been the husband he tells himself he is, one who doesn't let the first pretty thing that comes his way get under his skin.

He deserves this, he finally concludes. This must be the punishment he deserves: well and truly condemning himself past the point of no return, leaving there no room to pretend anymore.

His breath comes out in a shaky sigh, blood rushing in his ears he turns his face to press his lips against your sternum, just under your breasts. He's already dizzy, drunk despite only having a paltry sip, but he needs more. So he repeats the motion, a touch lower this time, urged on by your hands in his hair and your soft sounds of encouragement. Again, this time landing in the in-between of your shirt and your jeans—on bare skin, he realizes belatedly. On the bare skin that's been teasing him, occupying far too much space in his head. He has to stop himself from moaning from how soft you are, how your flesh gives so eagerly under his touch. There's going to be a wet spot in his pants, if there isn't one already, but he can't seem to find it in himself to care when he's face-to-face with the top button of your jeans.

Wordlessly, he looks up at you through hazy eyes and you get the message immediately, smiling to yourself as you undo the button and zipper. The reality of what exactly he's doing threatens to set in but James finds that he can easily distract himself by pushing forward, closer to you, until you have no choice but to back up into his desk. He thinks he hears the clinking of your bracelets again, this time intermingling with the rustling of his long forgotten papers, but it's all static to him now that he can see the beginnings of deep pink lace. The groan that comes out of him is a pained thing, wrought with everything he's been holding back for all this time.

Your responding laugh is bright, cheery. "I figured you'd like 'em."

You'll be the death of him, he's certain.

His mouth waters when your hands guide his to your hips, cock twitching in its confines when you hook his thumbs into your waistband and tug and—

"Oh."

The lace is sheer, enough that there may as well not be any fabric there to begin with. Making matters worse, you've clearly waxed yourself clean and left him little room for ambiguity. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth when he notices the wetness glinting in the low light of the room, inviting.

Slow, as if he's wading through water, he slides out of his chair and onto the ground on his knees. You make a noise, something like hungered approval, and let him pull your jeans off the rest of the way down your legs. Neither of you see where it ends up after you kick it along with your shoes into some corner of his office but it matters very little when he's shouldering your legs apart, pressing his face into your cunt and breathing you in like he needs it.

God, you're so fucking warm. Warmer than Mary is, maybe warmer than she ever was. He hates himself for thinking it, hates himself more for lapping at you through the thin barrier of lace and moaning at your taste on his tongue. You taste like stolen bites of apple pie and you leave his lips just as sticky, just as sweet with residue as any syrupy filling could. It makes it hard to think, to regret. The feeling still lingers somewhere in his chest but it's a dull thing that is easy to suffocate with the louder, more urgent voice in his head wondering how long he'll be left smelling like you, if your scent would last throughout the evening. Does he want it to? To take the evidence of the death of his marriage home and let you linger there? His cock twitches in response, so hard now that it hurts. Doesn't really want to think about the implications.

Right now, all he can think of is how soaked your panties are with his saliva, the fabric slick and wet and almost scratchy to an uncomfortable degree. But you look so beautiful above him. An angel, a goddess; eyelids heavy, hair falling over your face, the sounds of hymns on your lips when his tongue swipes along the parting of your centre, coaxing more of your ambrosia out for him to swallow down greedily. How benevolent you are, to take pity on this sinner's heart.

"Need m-more," you decide, brows pinched and voice reedy. "Gimme more?"

It's a miracle that he isn't immediately undone by you right then and there. "Yeah," he rasps, voice ragged, "yeah, c'mere."

From where he's knelt on the floor, he urges you up onto his desk somewhere between his pens and papers and a framed picture of Mary that your elbow knocks into when you situate yourself properly. She's smiling in it. It's genuine too, unguarded. Like she knew she could be her most vulnerable self with him. Like...like she trusted him with her most fragile parts.

You pull him in closer with your heel at his back and he chooses to forget.

This new position opens you up more than before, as unbelievable as that may be for him to comprehend. Your legs are stretched out as far as his desk permits, one of which you've decided to hook over his shoulder to guide him as you please. Not that he needs much of it as all it takes for him to venture back between the absolution-damnation of your thighs is the sight of your hardened clit through your panties.

"I've never—mmph—I've never been with a guy who liked eating pussy as much as you do," you muse. "Your wife's a real lucky lady."

"Don't talk about her." It comes out more as a whimpering plea than anything else but thankfully, having your clit sucked on gets you lax and jelly-boned enough that you drop the topic anyway.

You're so accessible like this—thick folds parted to give way to the inviting twitch of your hole, the perfect pearl of your clit. It's addicting to watch, even more to taste. He can tell by how sensitive you are that you need more, that you need him to tug the lace aside and touch you properly, but a part of him enjoys seeing you writhe like this; chasing after his tongue and squirming when you get it. Maybe it's his own way of getting back at you. Maybe he just thinks it's endearing to see your face screwed up into a little pout, all spoilt princess throwing a tantrum.

He teases you a bit more, flicking the tip of his tongue across your clit just to see you jolt and fastening his mouth over you in your entirety and humming deep and low, wringing a sound out of you that he can only describe as primal. There's a deep satisfaction he finds in that. Both in the righteous sense and in that of his own primality, though at this point he figures there's no point in separating the two with you. It excites him, it scares him. He doesn't know how far you'll go or what lines you'd be willing to cross to get what you want but honestly, he's not sure if he'd put up much of a fight anymore. Not when giving in, letting you have your way, means he gets to feel you arch up off the desk and wail.

"Wait, wait, wait—" you're pushing him back, sole on his shoulder, out of breath, "—I don't—I didn't—" a beat, an inhale to collect yourself, "I wanna cum with you inside me."

"Jesus Christ." He has to take a second; breathes in, then out. "You...you have a condom?"

The curl of your lip is all mischief. "No."

James starts to say your name before you cut him off. "I don't, like, have anything. 'M clean."

He has no idea why he's even considering this. Has even less of an idea of why his body is screaming at him to just fuck you already. "Are you on birth control at least?" Another smile, this time accompanied with a tilt of your head, that he knows to take as a no.

"It'll be fine," you reassure him. "You can just pull out."

"I don't kno—"

"Oh, c'mooon. I'll let you cum on my face if you want to. Just don't get it in my hair, obviously."

He has no idea how you're able to be so casual about all this, like you aren't an accessory in his infidelity asking him to risk knocking you up—knocking one of his students up. He could lose his job—hell, he could never get a job again if he isn't careful. And that's not even considering what it'll do to Mary. They've been in a bad place for a while now but still, this goes beyond retribution for cold shoulders and words you don't mean. This is a betrayal. A backstabbing, unwarranted betrayal to the highest level.

And yet.

"Fine. Fine, okay, just..." He shuts his eyes, swallows. "We need to be careful, okay?"

You smile, pushing yourself up off your elbows to wiggle your pinky in his face. "Pinky promise."

For the second time today, he finds himself unable to resist giving into this little habit of yours.

"Still so cute," you say, fond and warm. "Now get up here."

He has no idea how long he'd been kneeling but judging by the ache in his joints when he stands, it had been far too long. You don't give him long to dwell on that though, winding your arms around his neck with a pleased little sound. Those hands don't stay for long, sliding down his chest, down his stomach, down further still until you reach his slacks. You don't need to wait for his assent to start unbuttoning them, taking the painfully hard outline of his cock and the accompanying wet spot as enough of a reason to make haste in pulling him out of his pants.

"'S all for me?" you ask softly. James doesn't know what to do about the genuine awe in your voice, mind too focused on not cumming from your hand—soft, smaller than his own—around him.

Foreheads touch, an incidental thing he doesn't rectify. "Yeah." His voice is far away, not his own. "All for you."

You shiver, pumping him slowly. "It's so thick," you sigh airily. Your head tilts up a fraction, nose brushing against his. Any closer and you'd be sharing breath. "Put it in me?"

He grits his teeth with the effort it takes to stave off his orgasm.

He takes himself in a single hand, half-dazed as he watches you roll your panties off your hips and down to the floor where it lays in a pile at his feet. Then, it somehow becomes very different. Real. The lace wasn't doing much for your decency in the first place but still, it was a barrier. A safety precaution. It gave him enough that he could feign enough denial at what he was allowing himself to do. Now, he must confront it; slick (because of him), twitching (for him) and radiating heat like a furnace (inviting him).

(All for him.)

It's almost too much, almost enough to scare him in the ways that matter. This is the moment where he realizes this is the point where a good man could just…stop. That, if he were ever the man he had been convincing himself he was, he could end this now and still have enough lines left uncrossed that he'd be able to be at peace with himself. But you're there, hand on his wrist in what is both a demand and a request, and he can't find it in himself to do much else than comply.

Mary flashes in his head again; cold, alone, angry, waiting for him to visit—

The head of his cock is guided to your entrance, testing. You bite your lower lip between your teeth, brows furrowed as it pushes in only a fraction.

"D-does it hurt?"

You shake your head, grip his wrist tighter; begging.

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, one he hopes is assuring. Then he's pushing in further, lips parted when he's enveloped by the sheer heat of you. All he can think of is wetness and softness and heat like he's never known heat before and—the tightness. You're got a grip on him like you never want to let go, like you want him inside you forever and oh, isn't that a thought? And he's not even all the way in, he realizes with a pang to the gut.

Singleminded in his goals now, he places his free hand on your hip to steady you as he pushes in more, more, more until—

"Oh, fuck—"

Your voice is breathy and pitched, chest heaving with laboured breaths when he bottoms out. He's not faring much better; collapsed against you, face pressed into the side of your neck, one hand pressed to your back to keep you steady and the other braced on the desk near your thigh. It's all he can do to keep himself upright, groaning at just how you fit around his cock. Like you were made for this, made to be exactly what he needs. The thought alone has him twitching inside you, exhaling hotly against your skin.

There are hands against his back, under his shirt. "James," you say, all but into his ear at this angle He shudders when he feels the bite of nails. "James, kiss me, please."

The last time he's kissed a woman was back before Mary got sick. Back before she'd turn her head away from him where she used to dive back in for more, frowns where there were once smiles. He debates it for a moment, considers telling you that this would be too intimate, a step too far.

"I shouldn't..."

He turns his face, inadvertently nosing against your jaw.

"A little late to play shy now, doncha think?" A whisper; your face turns, too. Close. Too close? Not close enough? Your lips brush against his when you speak. "You're already breaking Mary's heart, might as well enjoy yourself."

James kisses you like a man starved. Ravenous, wrought with latent energy that threatens to tear you both apart. There is no room for you to make your quips, tongue preoccupied in his mouth after he coaxes it in with his own. It's sloppy, unpracticed; he's certain your teeth have knocked together more times than is probably appropriate and it's glaringly obvious he hasn't done this in a while. But you're more than happy to take the lead. You hold his face in your hands, slow the pace to something more manageable and smile when he moans into your mouth. He lets you run your nails across his back in slow whirling motions that go straight to his cock and remind him he's yet to actually start moving.

Between kisses, he manages, "c-can I—did you want me to-?"

"Please."

He groans, panting when you press your nails into his back. "How? Tell me how you want it."

"Hard, please, need it hard, James. Need you to fuck me ha—fuck, yes, yes, yes, like that, just like that, fuck—"

He pulls out almost completely half of the way and slams back in, spurn on by your begging. Sex with Mary was never like this, always gentle and tender and slow. It really was making love, he thinks. Intimately vulnerable in a way you can't replicate with just anyone. Something reserved for the most devout of lovers.

What he's doing to you now, what he's been wanting to do to you since you walked into his office—since you walked into his life—is anything but. He pulls out almost half of the way before slamming back in and jostling you so hard that your godforsaken bracelets clink together in time with the smack of skin-on-skin. This carnality, this basal need to hear your whimpers and feel your body twitch and shake, insides squeezing around him just as tightly as your arms do around his neck, it's all new to him. It's something he'd long desired, of course. A vice he never would have thought to bring up with Mary. Even back when they first got married and things were new and fresh, the thought of doing this to her, of fucking her like she's something to be fucked rather than someone to hold and pleasure—he could never do it.

But you bring out the worst in him, ask the worst of him which he gives to you freely. The force of his thrusts send you falling back against the desk with him on top of you, face buried into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he pounds into you at this new angle. It's a good one, he figures, if your gasps and choked-out noises are of any indication. You hold him to you like you need him to keep fucking you, like you need this craving sated just as much as he does. It spurns him on, makes him fuck into you harder, makes him want to embed himself into you. He loves Mary, he does, he loves her more than anything in the world but God, you make him feel like he's alive.

He pulls back, he has to pull back, has to look at you and he's glad he does. Your lipstick is smeared across your face with barely any leftover on your pretty lips, mascara smudged from sweat and what he can only assume are tears beaded at your waterline but what gets him, what makes his stomach twist with vicious desire, is the look you give him. Half-crazed, half-desperate, you look at him like you know. Like you can read his mind, like you can read him like the back of your hand and know which buttons to press, what his deepest wants and are and how to use them to get what you want.

He'd give you the world, he wants to see you cry, he wants to tear you to bits, he never wants you to stop saying his name, he wants you to get out of his fucking class, he wants, he wants, he wants—

"I'm close," you gasp.

Though he doesn't say it, he's not too far behind you, thrusts growing more and more erratic.

You moan openly now, hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit with equally erratic swipes of your fingers. God, he can't take his eyes off of you. You're all desperation wound tight and waiting to burst, so close you can almost taste it but motions too frantic to reach that peak. It's something to behold, something James can't tear his eyes away from.

He's still entranced when your eyes go wide, brows pinched together and—there it is.

"Cumming, cumming, 'm cumming—kiss, need to k-kiss, please—"

James swallows down all of your noises, every last stuttered out gasp and moan and whine of his name before you're kissing back with fervour, licking along the seam of his lips and urging him to follow suit with sweet words spoken into his mouth.

"Let go, James. 'S okay, just give in. Don't think too hard about it, yeah? Yeah, oh, fuck yeah, yeah, baby. That's it, cum for me. Give it to me."

The telltale tingle starts at the top of his spine and zips down throughout his fingers, his toes. When he can tell he's right on the edge, he shifts to move away but finds that you've locked your arms and legs around him.

"Want it, want it inside," you say through heavy breaths.

That's what does it, as ashamed as it makes him to admit.

He stares at you in dumbfounded horror as he feels himself flood hot, thick liquid into your insides, a sound somewhere between euphoric and afraid wrenched out of him when you clench around him to drain out every last drop.

"Oopsie," you say into the silence, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

You still cling to him, even as the stickiness of your bodies and the heat become too much. Neither of you move. He's still staring at you. "What?" you finally ask.

"You promised we'd be careful," he says slowly, like he's talking to a child.

And like a child, you roll your eyes. "Look, if it bothers you that much then I'll pop a Plan B in the morning, okay?"

"That's not the—"

"—not the point, yeah I know. It's the principle or whatever." You finally detach yourself, scoffing as you recline back onto your elbows. "You're so sensitive, Doc. Most guys would be over the moon about a creampie."

You both hiss when his cock slips free, trail of cum following along behind it. James has to look away, tucking himself back into his pants quickly. "Most guys aren't married," he counters bitterly, watching as you trot around in search of your jeans and your shoes. "Most guys aren't your goddamn professor. You just...you can't just..." he trails off, unsure of what it is he's trying to get across but still frustrated that you aren't understanding it.

He watches you slip your jeans on with nothing underneath, panties stuffed into the back pocket. The mental image of you holding his cum in as you make your commute home makes his fingers twitch. "Oh, I'm sorry—I guess I missed this week's reading on how to properly have extramarital affairs."

Princess throwing a tantrum.

He sighs, deep and long and patient. Doesn't bother replying, just focuses on redressing instead of letting you goad him into whatever back and forth he doesn't want to engage in.

But then you surprise him. "You're...mad at me."

He feels an inexplicable need to comfort you, like you're the one who's been violated. "I'm not mad," he says, voice softer than perhaps you deserve, "just...a little...I don't know."

"But you still like me, right?"

That catches him off-guard. "Um," he starts, brows furrowed. The longer he takes to finish his sentence, the more pained your expression becomes. "Well, yeah. I guess so."

You pin him in place with a bright smile. "Okay. Good." Then you're turning around to tie your laces.

James opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out, doesn't really know what he could say. He's always at a disadvantage with you. Where you're able to get under his skin and take up root there, he's still barely scratched your surface. Nothing you do makes sense to him, has no rhyme or reason that he's aware of. You seem to do whatever takes your fancy at that given moment and that...that makes him very afraid of you. He's not sure what you'll want next, what more you'll ask of him, who you'll involve next. What's worse is he's not sure if he'd be able to deny you. If he'd want to deny you.

You bound over to him once you're finished straightening your clothes, head tilted in question. "Kiss for the road?"

His heart warms against his will, stomach churning with unease as he lets you tug him down to your lips.

"Mm...still tastes like me," you say, pleased.

It takes him a touch longer than he'd like to realize you're talking about him. "Oh." He licks his lips and sure enough—"Guess you're, ah, right."

You trace a finger along the curve of his lower lip. "Mm...should probably grab a breath mint before heading over to the hospital, huh?"

The hospital?

A beat.

Realization dawns; it's Thursday.

It's Thursday. Mary's expecting him. Mary's expecting him and he reeks of sex and tastes of your cunt.

"Kinda inconvenient, huh?" Your arms twine around his neck, faux sympathy clear as day in your voice. "Guess you're gonna have to reschedule."

A second realization, creeping up the back of his neck like a phantom hand.

"You..." he swallows, feels like he's going to be sick, "you knew. You did this on purpose."

You shrug. "Maybe."

He should push you away. He wants to push you away. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—

But he doesn't. Instead, he just watches as you leave. Lets you go without so much as a protest or complaint. Lets you blow him a kiss before shutting the door behind you.

Then he's left alone, nothing but ungraded papers and cold tea to keep him company. Back where he'd started, back where he fears he will never leave.

thank you so much for reading! plssss send your feedback n thoughts here bc i have!! so many feelings and opinions abt this au i need let them out!!

[khristie16]

The Fast and Forbidden

Charles is a famous F1 driver with everything one could want: fame, fortune, and fans. But he is missing one thing. Being his new personal assistant changes everything for both of them.

— chapter 3 An unspoken connection builds up and seeing you half naked gives a top to it, right after your date with another guy

warnings: sexual tension, invading privacy (not the intention), charles is chuckling the charles out of him

.........................................................................

I haven't seen Charles for two days. We haven't even spoken. Right after our shared time behind the piano, his brothers came to his apartment to pick him up for the squash that was apparently delayed. I snapped from my sitting position and awkwardly disappeared, resulting in forgetting about the clothes I wanted to laundry. I felt weird. Torn apart. What the hell happened there? I was still overthinking the whole scenery, me and him playing together. Me and my feelings and him and his words. What the hell was he talking about that I am his boat in whatever ocean it was. My frustration grew extremely and I was mad about everything and I did not know where it came from.

After ruminating on the sofa I had bought two days ago at this new and absolutely with nothing in apartment, I had to buy at least few decent things to it. It is not like I care about it much, I'm not gonna stay here for most of the time and I definitely don't call it home. One thing came to my conclusion. I will go on a date. I don't know how or when yet, but I need to go on a date instead of thinking about the weirdfest that is happening between the two of us. What I didn't know though was the fact that Charles ignored me on purpose. He was cursing himself for saying what he said and he didn't know why he said it. It was like that day, that moment he was someone else. He doesn't do these sweet nothings. He isn't like that. And so he ignored YN as much as he could.

On the way to Japan, the ride was quiet. Charles had his AirPods all the time and all I could do was draw some stuff in my notebook. This is actually the only time where my mind doesn't lead. I don't think and that is when I like it the most. That is when I remembered I wanted to go on a date. I decided I will install these trendy apps that are viral nowadays.

''There you have my keys, we are still in separated rooms, but still.''

He nodded in agreement of hoping that I have some common sense and I know what he implies. As I am grabbing the keys from his hands on the corridor in this fancy hotel in Japan, I don't bother to say anything to him. As I turned around to walk to my apartment he said ''I don't need you for today, you have a free time''

I took a deep breath and encouraged myself to go even faster.

Give me your name and I will give you my last name

These guys hereeee. Ugh. Now I remember why I stopped finding my 'match' on these apps. These guys are cringe asf and the only thing they care about is the color of your panties, not your name. I chuckle as I scroll some more on the sofa in the luxurious living room that I roll my eyes at. Anything that reminds me of Charles is annoying. Luxurious cars, clothes and even hotels are annoying because of him. I fumed and threw the phone next to my lying side. My vision goes blur and black as put my hands over my eyes and try to just breathe. Just when I get into the moment, I receive a notification.

It is some guy called Patrick. I looked at his profile and I have to say I was slightly amused. A nice handsome guy, who is appearing normal. I accepted his offer and in one minute I receive his message.

When I saw your face I could not look away:)

I'm not gonna lie, it did flatter me.

Good for you you didn't:)

I'm Patrick. Not from here, as i see you are not from here either I'm YN. I'm just visiting for few days. Better to make it rememberable

I don't know what this guy was but he intrigued me and I accepted to go on a date with him. I put myself together very nicely and went on a date with him. He picked me up in a luxurious car (Charles) and greeted me with a beautiful smile. I had to give him credits for how handsome he is IRL. ''Hello you''

I have to chuckle as I make my finish line to him. ''Well nice to see you too''

I smirk at him and look him in the eyes. Brown eyes. Simple. Nothing complex. Not like Charles's eyes. *(internal grunt)*

''What's wrong?''

He asks me genuinely with frown on his face. I shrug it off with a mild smile that it is nothing, just that I am cold. He raises his eyebrows but don't comment it. Instead he opens the doors for me and I sit down, ready for the adventure of what this date will bring.

The date itself was very nice, a simple dinner with a beautiful view on the city underneath us. Patrick is very casual and calm guy, well mannered and well spoken. There was nothing wrong with him, yet, I felt shallow. I did not feel alive. I thought to it it is because of my shitty mood from earlier. More of someone specific. I checked my phone to see if I am not needed but nothing came.

''I see there is something bothering you''

I lift my gaze and look at Patrick. I give him apologetic smile and take my phone away.

''Just work''

He gives me a knowing smile but he doesn't know it is not the job itself but the person behind it. And I hate myself for letting that happen. I don't want to feel like that, especially with a decent man in front of me. We go back to our conversation and as the time goes by, I finally managed to forget about Charles.

Patrick talked to me about his life, how he started and how it lead him to be where he is now. I genuinely liked to listen to him and it was certain that his guy know what he is doing in life. He has a goal and it appears no struggle take him from it. Unlike me.

When he asks me about my life, I keep it very simple. I don't want to tell him how I lost everything I could, everything I had for the last twenty years known to my life. And there are few things that I am passionate about. one of them are chocolate desserts and so I call for one, to keep the attention from me and my 'old' life.

On our way back to a hotel I stay silent and let my mind wander wherever it wants. Patrick from time to time asked me about something but it looked like he respects my quiet time I need for myself. It is hard to talk when my body is met with so much food to process!

''I know I enjoyed it, I hope you did as well YN''

I smile at him and I cannot lie that it wasn't enjoyable. I give him a light nod with a smile.

He helps me out of the car and then we stand facing each other.

''Can I see you again?''

I look up to his warm brown eyes and melt for a second. They remind me of all those people in my life that I love so much. They are so welcoming. It makes me so vulnerable that I say yes.

I slightly chuckle and keep smiling more to myself than to him. He takes a strand of hair from my face and put it behind my ears.

I see someone familiar on the left and my eyes wander there to see Joris with some other men. My body immediately goes tense and I search for him. But he is not there. Weird.

''You know them?''

I forgot about Patrick at all and my eyes widen at his sudden presence. ''Oh, uhm, yes, they are from work.''

I go back to look at Joris who is watching me closely as well.

''Oh, I see.''

I put my focus back to Patrick and give him a smile. ''Thank you for the date, I enjoyed it.''

He just nodded and kissed my hand with a promising look of a second date.

Right after I left the place in front of the hotel building, I lost track of time and focus on outer world that I just blankly stared on the wall in front of me. As the wall split in a half and opened for me, I blinked from the intrusion and get out from the elevator. I blindly walked to my apartment and opened the doors.

Darkness. Weird, I swear I left the lamp on. As I shrug it off, on my way to the bedroom I semi half get off the dress that were suffocating me the whole time after I ate the delicious chocolate dessert. That is why I get from having a sweet tooth. As I groan with the zipper in my lower back a light hits my senses. I blink many times in order to adjust to the surrounding and when the blurry lines make a form I see Charles staring at me expressionless. I stood there like a thief caught red handed and what gets me moving is his eyes lingering on my exposed chest and stomach.

I immediately cover myself and run to my right, even though I don't know what is there.

''Oh my god, i'm sor-'' ''-I'm sorry, I'm sorry!''

As I lay my back on the wall behind me I struggle to breath as my breathing became shallow. ''I-I thought this is my appartment. I'm so sorry''

All I hear is a chuckle and I frown at the reason for him to chuckle at all! I swear this guy just pisses me off.

''It's okay. What about I give you some space and wait in the corridor?''

I hum back in approval and get back in the dress so I don't walk half naked! With a grunt and victim mindset I get out the bathroom and straight to the door where is Charles waiting. There is a hint of amusement in his eyes and small smirk forming on his lips.

''It's not funny''

He chuckles even more and make few steps to me.

''I have to admit that I am glad I gave you my keys''

I stay watching him closely, with a smirk on his face, with my mouth parted a little at his sudden words and my eyebrows lift up. When I become aware there is silence between us I shut my mouth back again and roll my shoulders back.

''It's not gonna happen again''

I said it more with a threatening undertone and reached for the knob to leave this place. His place.

All I hear on my way out is ''What a shame''