#Originally did in a reblog of a reblog but thought it would be a pain for people to read that way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fanbasetwo · 1 month ago

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THE TO-DO LIST , ANTON !

﹙ ☘️ ﹚ ぃ ──── THIS MIGHT SOUND CRAZY BUT TRUST ME IT'S TRUE!

PAIRING : phone ! lee anton × student ! afab reader

SYNOPSIS : Anton was a good guy, no doubt about it. The only problem? He was your phone. How, exactly, did your phone transform into this strikingly handsome guy? It was baffling, frustrating, and, honestly, a bit overwhelming. Here you were, trying to navigate a world where your device had somehow become a charming, infuriatingly attractive human being. And to make matters worse, he was as stubborn and endearing as any person you'd ever met.

GENRE : fluff + crack + sad ending

WARNING(S) : I don't really think there's any aside from mentions of period and blood in the start, kissing (can be slightly suggestive) and a possible sad ending but if there's more—please lmk.

WORD COUNT : 15.9K , RIIZE MASTERLIST!!

NOTE FROM SENA , okay so this fic is turned into an anton fic but is originally from my enhypen blog—so forgive me if there's ‘riki or niki’ in some parts instead of anton, though I've thoroughly read and made sure that there are none. If you enjoyed reading this, I'd appreciate a like and reblog <3

YOU HATE THIS.

You hate everything about it: the constant ache in your lower abdomen, the bloating that makes you uncomfortable, and worst of all, the emotional chaos you're forced to go through while navigating the constant tension your family adds to your life. It's almost too much. Almost.

Stepping into the bathroom, you peel off your bloodied underwear with a groan. This feels just another battle in a war you are losing. The step forward into the shower brings down upon your body warm water flowing. It streams down along your back and legs carrying away the last drops of blood. For that one instant, it soothes all the pain, but not for long.

You press your palms flat against the cool tiles of the wall, leaning forward as the steam rises around you. “Why can't one thing be easy?” you mutter, your voice barely audible over the rush of water.

The thought of your so-called friends creeps into your mind. Friends? you scoff internally. They aren't friends. They're just people who keep you around to have someone to poke fun at, and you? Too naïve, too hopeful, let them.

Your school's anti-bullying policy flashes across your mind next. What a joke. The only time they ever step in is when someone like you stands up to the bullies. It's infuriating.

With a disgusted huff, you twist the shower handle, dialing up the heat until the water is near-scalding. For an instant, the burn feels even slightly more pleasing than the general dull ache throughout your body. But that comfort loses itself too soon as well as the water becomes unbearable (too hot) to touch. “Great,” you say sarcastically and twist the knob off entirely.

The bathroom is silent except for the sporadic drip of the faucet. You take a towel and dab at yourself slowly, deliberatively drying yourself. You wince as your clothes touch your sore skin but continue through the motions nonetheless.

You then walk into the counter, reach in for the pack of pads, and pull one out. You stare at it for a moment before letting out a deep breath. The thought of using tampons crosses your mind. You shudder. Some things are just too much of a hassle to consider: the fumbling with the applicator before inserting something. You shake your head, muttering “Not for me,” place the pad carefully in a fresh pair of underwear you slip on, and feel familiar, slightly cushioned comfort.

The next comes the outfit. Half-day at school, of course means no uniforms—but, in keeping with the school's dress code, naturally. You rifle through your closet before settling on the usual choice: oversized, baggy. So comfortable. So practical. How can some of those girls make such a racket and carry themselves about in what would have otherwise been flashy, tight clothes? How do they manage to study?

As you pull the hoodie over your head, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. For a moment, you pause, taking in the faint puffiness under your eyes and the dull expression on your face. You look tired. No, you look exhausted. You let out a sigh as you run a hand through your damp hair, tying it into a loose ponytail.

As you step out of the bathroom, still adjusting your hoodie, your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. There’s a man—a complete stranger—sitting casually on your bed like he owns the place. Your first instinct is to scream, but the sheer absurdity of his presence silences you momentarily. He looks…naive, almost harmless, as if he hasn't just committed a blatant act of breaking and entering.

But harmless or not, he’s still a stranger in your room. Your instincts kick in, and you grab the closest thing within reach—a dusty second-grade participation trophy your sister once won. You don’t care about the trophy. It’s been collecting cobwebs for years, and if it breaks while bashing in this intruder's head, so be it.

With the makeshift weapon clutched tightly in your hand, you take a step toward him. He notices, his head tilting slightly, and for a brief second, confusion flashes across his face. He raises his hands, palms out in surrender, and says in the calmest tone imaginable, “You’re not actually going to hit me, are you?”

His question catches you off guard. What? Of course you’re going to hit him! How dare he act so calm, as if he’s the victim here? You narrow your eyes, gripping the trophy even tighter.

“Well, if you’re going to intrude in my room and act like you’re some innocent little boy who doesn’t know what he’s doing, you’ve got another thing coming!” you snap, taking a step closer. “I’ll call the police!”

Your voice rises with conviction as you mentally prepare to shout for your mom, who’s probably awake by now. Surely she’d hear the commotion and come running. But the man, completely unfazed, leans back slightly on the bed. He rolls his eyes, letting out a dramatic sigh.

“Well, then. Go ahead. Call the police,” he says, his tone dripping with nonchalance, as if this is the most mundane situation in the world.

The sheer audacity leaves you momentarily stunned. Who does this guy think he is? Acting like this is his room, like he’s inviting you to call for help. Your grip loosens slightly on the trophy as your mind races. Why isn’t he scared? Why isn’t he running? Has he done this before?

You glance around, searching for your phone. Where is it? You could’ve sworn you left it on your desk, but it’s nowhere in sight. Panic creeps into your chest. He still hasn’t moved. His eyes flick around the room, scanning the details, but he doesn’t seem in a rush to do anything.

The way he observes everything so calmly only fuels your fear. Your gut tells you this guy is dangerous, no matter how unbothered he looks. Your heart pounds as your brain screams: Stranger danger. Stranger danger.

“I’m serious,” you blurt out, your voice quivering slightly despite your best efforts to stay strong. “I’ll scream. I’ll—”

“Then scream,” he interrupts, his voice sharp but not loud. His gaze finally locks with yours, and for the first time, you notice something unsettling in his expression. A flicker of something you can’t quite place. Not anger, not malice—just…calculation.

Your breath catches. He’s not leaving. He’s not running. This isn’t over.

With a frustrated sigh, you blurt out, “Where’s my darn phone?!”

Your eyes scan the room, darting over every surface in search of it. The guy—still sitting lazily on your bed—doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he tilts his head slightly and says, in the most deadpan tone imaginable, “Why are you searching when I’m right here?”

You freeze mid-step, slowly turning to look at him. What? Did he just…? Your first thought is this guy is absolutely insane. No rational person would say that, and suddenly, you’re wondering if he’s got some kind of mental illness. And, because your irritation is outweighing your common sense, you let the words slip right out of your mouth:

“I’m searching for my phone, you idiot. Just wait—just you see—I’m gonna call the police on you!”

It’s a dumb move, announcing your plan to the potential intruder. But at this point, logic has taken a backseat to sheer annoyance.

The guy blinks at you, seemingly unfazed, and mutters in that same emotionless tone, “I am your phone.”

You stare at him, disbelief written all over your face. “If you’re my phone,” you snap, crossing your arms, “then call the cops yourself.”

You return to searching, hands rummaging through the clutter on your desk. But then you hear something that makes you stop cold: a dialing sound. Not from a phone, but from him. Slowly, you turn back to see a faint, glowing screen appear above his head. The digital display shows numbers being dialed.

Your heart races as the call connects. A voice crackles through the air—an officer, calm and professional, asking, “Hello? Is everything alright there?”

Your jaw drops. What do you even say? Panic sets in. “Y-yeah,” you stammer, your voice shaking. “Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

The officer pauses, clearly unconvinced, but then ends the call with a polite goodbye.

You stare at the man—your phone?—in complete shock. He looks at you as if nothing unusual has happened, his expression blank. Slowly, you lower yourself onto the edge of the bed, pressing a trembling hand to your forehead.

“What the hell…” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. This can’t be real. Phones don’t turn into people. And yet, the evidence is sitting right in front of you—a very real, very handsome guy, casually perched on your bed like this is the most normal thing in the world.

He shifts slightly, his head tilting again. “You seem stressed,” he says, his tone flat but oddly observant.

“Stressed?” you snap, gesturing wildly. “Of course I’m stressed! My phone—my phone—just turned into you! How is this even possible?!”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “You dropped me too many times. I think I just… evolved.”

“EVOLVED?!” You bury your face in your hands, groaning. None of this makes sense. You don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or check yourself into a psych ward.

“How…” you start, your voice muffled behind your hands, “how is this even happening?”

“That’s what I’m here to figure out,” he replies simply, leaning back on his elbows.

You peek at him through your fingers, still in disbelief. “This can’t be real. There’s no way. You—no, this—” You cut yourself off, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Your phone—no, the guy—tilts his head again, studying you. “You’ll get used to it,” he says, almost like a promise.

But you’re not so sure about that.

“So… you’re my phone?” you ask, your voice tinged with disbelief, eyes narrowing as you study the boy in front of you.

“No doubt,” he answers almost immediately, like he’s personally offended you’d even question it.

You squint at him, crossing your arms. “Then prove it. What’s my name, my last semester grade, and… my favorite boy band?”

You’re sure this will trip him up. After all, your phone holds all your secrets. If he’s lying, he wouldn’t know the answers. You’ve texted casually about your life, sure, but your grade? That’s buried deep in your notes app. And your favorite K-pop group? Well, okay, maybe you’ve obsessively streamed their content, but still.

“Y/N, C-minus, and TXT,” he says without hesitation, his gaze steady as he stares you down.

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “What the hell?” you mutter, stunned. No one knew your last semester grade—not even your parents. You hid it like a crime. And how could he guess your favorite group so easily?

You scowl, determined to poke a hole in his claim. “That’s not enough. Maybe you stalked me or paid too much attention to my life,” you argue, crossing your arms smugly, waiting for him to stumble.

But instead, he smirks—an infuriatingly cocky smirk. “Those videos you watch while pretending to be asleep under your blanket—”

“Shut up!” you cut him off, your cheeks instantly flaming. Oh, my god. That was not something anyone was supposed to know. “Fine, I believe you!” you snap, desperate to stop him before he digs up more embarrassing truths.

But he’s not done. He leans closer, his voice dropping as he adds, “And how about that sob story you wrote in your digital journal? The one you cringed at so hard you almost deleted the whole app?”

Your entire face burns. “I said I believe you! Now shut the fck up!” The words come out louder than you intended, practically echoing in the room.

There’s a knock on the door, followed by it swinging open.

“You seriously aren’t ready for school yet?” your mom complains, arms crossed as she glares at you.

Your heart stops. You whip around, fully expecting her to freak out at the sight of a random guy in your room. But when you look back at your bed…

He’s gone.

In his place lies your phone—ordinary, rectangular, and definitely not a human boy.

You stare at it, dumbfounded, while your mom narrows her eyes at you. “Well?” she snaps.

“I—I’m getting ready,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. You glance back at the phone, half-expecting it to sprout arms and legs again. But it doesn’t move.

Your mom sighs, muttering something about you being late, and slams the door shut.

You flop down onto the bed, your head spinning. Did you just imagine all of that? Was it some kind of stress-induced hallucination? But… no, it felt real. Too real.

Your hand hovers over your phone. “What the hell just happened?” you whisper, the memory of his smug face flashing in your mind. You’re not sure if you’re losing it or if your phone just pulled the biggest prank of your life. Either way, it’s going to be a long day.

You couldn't focus at all during school. The weight of your phone in your pocket felt heavier than usual, as though it was a ticking time bomb waiting to spring legs and arms again. The thought of keeping it in your bag seemed like a bad idea—what if it turned into him again and someone saw? The last thing you needed was to explain that.

And yet, your mind kept wandering back to him. The guy. The phone. Whatever he was. He was… kind of handsome.

You mentally slapped yourself. Snap out of it, Y/N. It’s your phone, not a K-drama lead! Still, the thought lingered, making your stomach churn. What if you’d imagined everything? What if it was all in your head?

You tried to shake the unsettling thought, but it stuck. Maybe you were losing it. After all, you weren’t exactly what anyone would call normal. You’d always kept to yourself, avoided making friends, and generally preferred your own company. Isn’t that how they describe psychopaths in true crime documentaries?

You shivered at the thought. Maybe Eunmi would understand. She was quiet, kept her distance from people too. You glanced across the classroom and spotted her sitting by herself. Perfect. You grabbed your stuff and slid into the seat next to her.

Eunmi turned to you, her brows furrowing in confusion. Without a word, she grabbed her things and moved to another seat across the room.

“Wtf?” you muttered, glaring after her. “Some people are so ungrateful. She could’ve just said she didn’t want to talk.”

You slumped back in your seat, fuming and plotting petty revenge in your head. But before you could dwell on it too much, the classroom door creaked open. Miss Shin walked in, her expression as flat and lifeless as her lectures.

History. Great.

You suppressed a groan as she began her lesson, droning on about wars and treaties in the most monotone voice imaginable. You weren’t saying history couldn’t be interesting—it totally could. But with Miss Shin? She made even the most exciting historical events feel like watching paint dry.

Why was she even hired as a teacher? She should’ve been a librarian or something.

You stifled a yawn, covering your mouth with your hand. The effort was pointless, though. Half the class was already yawning or staring blankly at their desks.

Your hand brushed against your pocket, the outline of your phone reminding you of the chaos from this morning. You couldn’t help but peek down at it. Was it just your imagination, or did it feel warmer than usual?

Stay calm, you told yourself. Don’t freak out. But the thought lingered—what if this wasn’t over? What if he—or it—came back?

You swallowed hard and glanced around the room. No one was paying attention to you, thankfully. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something about today was far from normal.

“So this…” Miss Shin droned on, gesturing at the board where her half-hearted notes were scrawled. Whatever she was explaining had already flown over your head. You didn’t care. You weren’t in the mood to pay attention, let alone write anything down.

You flipped open your notebook—still blank, as usual—and stared at the empty page. The thought of filling it with Miss Shin’s monotony made your eyelids droop. All you wanted was to go back home, crawl into bed, and pretend this bizarre day hadn’t happened. Maybe that was the real reason you were seeing things—exhaustion messing with your brain.

A faint ding from your pocket pulled you out of your thoughts. You frowned and pulled out your phone. A notification glared up at you:

“Write it down.”

What the…? You didn’t remember setting up anything like that. Before you could process it, you sneezed unexpectedly, the sharp sound echoing across the silent classroom. Heads turned toward you, your classmates throwing judgmental looks your way.

You tried to ignore them, but then your phone started to vibrate—loudly. The desk buzzed beneath your hands, and you could feel the attention of the entire room shifting onto you.

This was a nightmare.

Your classmates whispered among themselves, some shooting you annoyed glances. You were already the so-called “bad influence” in the school, the one parents warned their kids to stay away from. But this? This was next-level humiliation.

The phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. You tried pressing random buttons, but nothing worked. It was as if your phone—or he—was demanding your cooperation.

You sighed, gripping your pen. Maybe, just maybe, the only way to shut it up was to do what it wanted. As ridiculous as it sounded, you decided to test your theory.

The moment your pen touched the page and you started copying the notes on the board, the vibrating stopped. Silence finally returned, and you let out a breath of relief.

But your heart raced. This wasn’t normal. None of it was.

Your father had gifted you this phone before he passed away. It was sentimental, irreplaceable. But now it felt like a curse. A device that had taken on a life of its own—or, more disturbingly, a human form.

You glanced at your pocket where the phone rested quietly, as if nothing had happened. You couldn’t shake the thought that whatever this was, it wasn’t over. For now, though, you had no choice but to keep writing, pretending like everything was fine.

The park is quiet, save for the distant chatter of kids playing and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. You sit on a bench, your elbows resting on your knees, and your gaze fixed on the ground. Your phone lies next to you, placed carefully on the seat, as if you’re afraid it might suddenly sprout arms and legs again.

Your schoolbag acts as a barrier between you and the phone, like it’ll somehow protect you from whatever is going on. You sigh heavily, the weight of the day pressing down on you. “I should really see a therapist,” you mutter under your breath, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration.

The unexpected sensation of an arm draping casually over your shoulder sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, your heart skipping a beat as your head snaps to the side. And there he is—again. The guy who claims to be your phone, lounging as if nothing about this is strange.

“Why did you disappear this morning when my mom came in?” you ask, your voice a mix of confusion and exasperation.

He shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back on the bench like he owns the place. His posture is relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, his expression completely void of emotion. “Nobody else can see me except you.”

His answer is so matter-of-fact that it takes you a second to process. You lean forward, resting your forearms on your knees, and glance at him sideways. “Great,” you say dryly, “so not only do I have a talking phone, but it’s also invisible to everyone else. Just my luck.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the sky like he’s analyzing the clouds. The silence stretches, and you realize something that’s been bugging you since the first time he appeared.

“Do you even have a personality?” you blurt out, sitting up straight to face him. The question isn’t kind, but at this point, you don’t care. He doesn’t seem to have feelings, anyway—why would he? He’s a phone.

He finally turns to look at you, his face as blank as always. Then, without missing a beat, he says, “Apparently, the phone takes after its owner.”

His words hit you like a slap. Your jaw drops, and you feel a rush of indignation. “Excuse me? Are you saying I don’t have a personality?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he replies, completely unfazed.

You stare at him, stunned. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to you before. Sure, you’ve had fake friends talk behind your back and parents who sometimes pointed out your flaws, but being insulted by your own phone? That’s a new low.

“You’ve got some nerve,” you snap, crossing your arms.

He tilts his head, studying you like you’re an object of mild interest. “I’m just stating the facts. You’ve been carrying me around all this time; I’m bound to reflect you.”

You scoff, turning away to glare at the horizon. The breeze ruffles your hair, and you feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You know,” you mutter, “for something that’s supposed to be mine, you’re awfully rude.”

“Rude?” he echoes, sounding genuinely curious. “I didn’t realize honesty was rude. Maybe that’s another reflection of you.”

You whip your head back toward him, your mouth opening to retort, but the look on his face—calm, blank, unbothered—leaves you speechless.

For a moment, you just sit there, glaring at him while he stares back with that same neutral expression. It’s infuriating. You slump back against the bench, throwing your head back and groaning in frustration.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” you say to no one in particular.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at you with something that might almost be amusement. “You kept me for years. This is just karma.”

“Karma for what?” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“For ignoring the warranty,” he deadpans, and for the first time, you think you see the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at him, utterly done. “I hate you.”

“You’ll still carry me everywhere,” he points out, leaning back again and crossing his arms smugly.

You groan again, pressing your palms to your face because of how annoying he truly was. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“Why would you vibrate in class? That was so embarrassing,” you say, breaking the tension and changing the subject. You’re not about to argue further, so you sling an arm around his shoulder like you’re old friends.

He immediately stiffens and shrugs your arm off with a look of mild disgust. “Because you weren’t writing the notes,” he replies flatly, brushing off your gesture like you’ve personally offended him.

You blink, stunned. The audacity.

“And why do you care so much about that? You’re supposed to be my phone,” you snap, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Because, well…” He pauses, and suddenly, that glowing screen appears above his head again. It’s flipping through your search history.

Your heart drops. “What are you doing?! Close it!” you hiss, panic bubbling in your chest as you glance around to make sure no one’s nearby.

He doesn’t even flinch at your tone, completely unbothered. “Relax. I’m just looking for something,” he says, his voice taking on an infuriatingly smug edge.

“I searched those things because they’re private,” you mutter, your frustration building. You ball your fists at your sides, resisting the urge to throttle him—not that it would make any difference. He’s a freaking machine.

“You shouldn’t have searched them if you didn’t want anyone to see,” he replies, his monotone voice now laced with an evil undertone. His smirk grows as the glowing screen halts, revealing a to-do list. Your middle school to-do list.

You feel the blood drain from your face. “No, no, no,” you mumble, already dreading what’s coming next.

“Let’s see,” he says, clearly enjoying this. He leans forward slightly, reading aloud:

001. Get A’s in at least three subjects.

002. Get a boyfriend before graduation.

003. Make at least one friend.

The list glows mockingly between the two of you.

You groan and press a hand to your forehead. “You’re not seriously going to dwell on something I wrote as a literal kid,” you mutter, voice dripping with disbelief.

“Why not? You still haven’t checked anything off,” he points out, tilting his head like he’s genuinely curious about your failure.

“Because—” you start, your voice rising in frustration, “that was middle school! None of that even matters now!”

“Well, well, well... If I’m looking at your past history and the things in your other notes...” He trails off, his glowing screen flipping again as though searching for the most humiliating detail to dig up.

Then it stops. His screen flashes: 15% character development since middle school.

Your jaw drops. The sheer amount of disrespect—oh, lord. You point an accusatory finger at him, utterly offended by your own phone.

“That is so false! If I hadn’t had character development, I wouldn’t have stood up to the bullies in middle school. Or cut off all my toxic friends!” you argue, arms crossing tightly over your chest. The nerve of this guy.

He tilts his head, unimpressed. “That’s why it said 15% development. The other 85%? Still not there. Let’s just say, you need to study harder instead of spending hours watching those—”

You slap a hand over his mouth, glaring up at him despite the fact that he’s way taller. “SHUT UP!”

He doesn’t resist, just blinks at you like this is all beneath him. Meanwhile, you grab your water bottle and take a sip, trying to calm your boiling frustration. After a deep breath, you lower the bottle and mutter, “If you’ve turned into a human, why can’t you, I don’t know, switch to being female? Maybe I’d connect with you better.”

It’s not really a question. More of a passive-aggressive command for him to get out of your life entirely.

“Well,” he starts, completely unfazed, “cheap phones apparently only transform into males. If your phone was more expensive, maybe I’d be a girl.”

The silence that follows is deafening. His expression is as emotionless as ever, so he clearly doesn’t realize the massive mistake he just made.

You stare at him, the words hitting like a punch to the gut. Slowly, you lower your gaze, your voice quieter now. “It was gifted by my dad… my late dad,” you mumble.

His screen flickers uncertainly, but he doesn’t say anything. You sigh, pressing your palms against your face, trying to hold back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

Your dad had been the best—kind, patient, your biggest supporter. And then, when you were seven, everything changed. After he passed, your mom remarried. You didn’t want to accept the man as your stepdad, not when you still held on so tightly to the memory of your father.

It wasn’t until you were older—seventeen, to be exact—that you realized how selfish you’d been. Your mom had spent years grieving, and she deserved love, even if it hurt you to see someone else in your dad’s place.

The man was nice to you, patient even when you were rude. But every time you looked at him, it reminded you that your dad was gone.

The phone sitting next to you now—this phone—was your dad’s. You’d taken it after growing up, cherishing it because it had been his. Back then, it brought you comfort.

You never could’ve imagined it would one day transform into some smug guy with no tact whatsoever.

“If I wanted my phone to transform into someone… it would be my dad,” you mutter, swiping at a tear that threatens to escape the confines of your closed eyelids.

He stays silent for a moment, his screen flickering dimly before he mumbles, “But… wouldn't it be sad? Seeing him trapped inside a device?”

The softness in his voice makes you laugh—an awkward, bittersweet laugh. What were you even doing? Seeking comfort from your phone?

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, tilting his head in confusion.

“Since you’re so smart and apparently great at giving correct statements, why don’t you figure out yourself why I’m laughing?” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

He looks thoroughly puzzled, his glowing eyes blinking as though trying to process. Of course, he wouldn’t understand. He was a machine. A device that knew nothing about the complexities of the actual world.

Before you can explain—or tell him to drop it entirely—the skies open up. The first raindrop splatters onto the ground, quickly followed by another, then another. Within seconds, it’s pouring.

Your smile fades, replaced with pure horror as realization strikes. He’s your phone. Not a regular guy. Meaning— “You’re not waterproof!” you yelp, panic kicking in.

“What?” he asks, his confusion somehow even more clueless than before.

“We need to run!” you blurt out, already yanking off your jacket.

You grab his shoulders, tugging him down since he’s ridiculously tall—and far too proud of it. Wrapping the jacket over his head as a makeshift cover, you mutter under your breath, “I swear, if you short-circuit on me, I’m going to lose it.”

He mumbles something, but you’re not listening. You grab his hand, practically dragging him through the downpour. The jacket flutters slightly as you shield him, doing your best to keep him—and by extension, your phone—dry.

If anyone saw you, they’d think this was a scene straight out of a romance movie. The two of you running through the rain, hands intertwined, your jacket protecting his head.

But no. This wasn’t a romantic moment. Not even close.

This was you desperately trying to save your phone. A phone that was probably going to haunt you later by bringing up your middle school to-do list the second it powered back on.

The next day, you hug your pillow tightly, the soft fabric providing a fleeting moment of peace as sleep lingers in your half-conscious mind. The blanket drapes over you completely, cocooning you in warmth, and for a blissful second, you forget the bizarre events of the day before.

That is, until a cold splash of water shocks you into reality.

“WHAT THE HELL?” you hiss, bolting upright, water dripping from your hair and stinging your eyes. You frantically swipe at your face, blinking to focus on the perpetrator.

Standing there with a glass in hand and an infuriatingly calm expression is him.

“Just waking you up,” he says with a shrug, as if drenching someone in cold water is the most reasonable way to start a morning.

Your patience snaps. Without thinking, you grip his shoulders and push him down onto the now-soaked bed, your movements fueled by a mix of irritation and disbelief. You hover over him, faces mere inches apart, as you glare.

“If you ever pull that stunt again,” you growl, your voice low and dangerous, “I swear I’ll punch you. Hard.”

For a moment, he stares up at you, unflinching. His expression remains annoyingly blank, devoid of any real emotion. “You won’t,” he says flatly, his voice laced with the same maddening nonchalance.

The tension in the air is palpable, and just as you’re about to argue—or maybe prove him wrong—the sound of your door creaking open freezes you in place.

Your mother stands in the doorway, her expression teetering between confusion and concern as she takes in the scene: you, soaking wet and hovering over what appears to be… nothing.

You glance down, heart sinking.

The boy is gone.

In his place, lying on the bed, is your phone—completely ordinary, as if nothing ever happened.

You gape at it, then back at your mom, trying to string together some sort of explanation. But what could you even say? That your phone turned into a person yesterday, drenched you in water, and then vanished the second she walked in?

The bed is still soaked with the cold water your phone—now suspiciously ordinary—had poured on you moments ago. Your mother’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a whip, her tone sharp and unforgiving.

“Did you wet your bed?” she demands, though it’s not really a question. Her eyes are blazing with indignation, and you can tell she already believes the answer.

Your stomach twists in frustration. Of all things, this has to happen on a weekend—a day meant for rest, now utterly ruined by this bizarre, unbelievable mess. And all because of that darn phone.

“No, Mom… I don’t know how the water got there,” you mutter, keeping your voice as steady as possible. The truth is out of the question. Telling her your phone had somehow turned into a boy and splashed you awake would sound absurd even to you.

“So the water just appeared there by itself?” she snaps, crossing her arms as if she’s daring you to double down on your story. Her disbelief burns in the air between you, and you feel a spark of anger flicker beneath your skin.

Your mother has always been quick to anger, her patience worn thin ever since your dad passed away. You love her—of course, you do—but moments like this stretch your tolerance to its limit.

She huffs loudly, a sound filled with both exasperation and finality. “I expect this mess cleaned up before you go anywhere,” she says curtly, her words laced with a warning. Then, without waiting for a response, she turns on her heel and shuts the door behind her with a thud.

You’re left alone in the room, staring at the wet mattress and the phone in your hand. The absurdity of the situation hits you all over again, and a bitter laugh bubbles in your throat.

“Thanks for that,” you mutter under your breath to the device, as if it could still hear you.

But it remains silent—an ordinary, lifeless phone. And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere within its circuits, it’s smirking.

You sit on the soaked bed, hugging your knees to your chest. The chill from the cold water clings to your skin, but in the biting cold of December, it doesn’t really matter anymore. The wet bed is just another indignity added to the list of things you’re enduring today—courtesy of your phone.

Your eyes trail to the closed door, and a heaviness settles in your chest. Your mom hardly speaks to you unless it’s about your studies. Anything else—your health, your feelings—just turns into a sharp yell, as though shouting could substitute for care.

With a sigh, you get up, water dripping from your clothes as you grab a cloth to clean the floor. Kneeling down, you watch the fabric soak up the water, leaving dark patches on the cloth as it gets heavier.

“Such a sad life I have,” you mutter irritably, throwing a glance toward your phone sitting innocently on the desk. Its stillness is almost mocking, like it’s pretending to have no part in this disaster.

Your lips curl into a taunting smirk as you direct your words at it. “Must be nice, huh? Creating a mess and then leaving me to deal with it. Why not become a human and help me clean this up?”

You roll your eyes, half-hoping—no, fully expecting—it to transform and lend a hand. But no. The lazy little piece of tech remains where it is, as lifeless as any other phone. The longer you stare at it, the more ridiculous you feel.

“Figures,” you huff under your breath, dragging the damp cloth across the floor. The absurdity of it all makes you question yourself. Did it ever really turn into a human? Or are you just losing your mind?

Either way, it’s not helping. And now, the floor’s dry, but your patience is wrung out completely.

“When we reach there, you don’t get to disturb me, Anton” you say firmly to the guy walking beside you. He’s the embodiment of your phone—a fact you’re still trying to wrap your head around.

“Anton” he repeats, tilting his head in confusion, his expression as blank as an untouched canvas. “Who’s Anton here?”

“You,” you reply with an exasperated sigh. “I’m naming you Anton. Or Zynton, whatever. It’s too weird to keep thinking of you as my phone.”

“That’s a weird name,” he comments, his tone matter-of-fact.

Your eyes narrow at him. “Be happy I’m not holding a grudge for what you did this morning,” you snap, barely holding back your frustration.

“What did I do so wrong?” he asks, genuinely perplexed. His human brows knit together in confusion, and it almost makes you doubt his intentions. Almost. “You set an alarm, and I woke you up,” he adds, as if the logic is foolproof.

“You created a mess!” you counter, gesturing emphatically with your hands. “Yes, I set an alarm—but a virtual alarm. Not an invitation for someone to literally pour cold water on me in the middle of freezing winter!”

He stares at you, his innocent expression unshaken, and you groan in defeat.

Scolding him feels pointless. At the end of the day, he’s still a phone—albeit a bizarrely human one. And while his actions drive you up the wall, you remind yourself that yelling at him won’t change anything. Technology doesn’t have feelings.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

And now, here you are, on your way to a study session with two classmates. Not because you’re overly eager or dedicated, but because you’re failing your classes. Hard. And your phone—master of your life apparently—had made it a point to remind you of the ancient to-do list you’d scribbled in middle school.

The list wasn’t exactly groundbreaking:

i. Get a boyfriend. ii. Get a friend. iii. Score at least three A’s in school.

Simple, right? Wrong.

Studying alone never worked for you. If you tried, you’d inevitably end up daydreaming, scrolling through social media, or finding creative ways to procrastinate. So, you’d resorted to digging through the school’s study groups and joining the only active one left. You didn’t know who the other two members were, but that was a minor detail.

You grab your phone—yes, the normal phone, since Anton decided to turn back into his original form. You still cringe at how uninspired his name is, but for now, it works.

The plan is simple: fit into the study group, make a friend (or something that vaguely resembles friendship), and start checking boxes off the list. Not that your phone would ever know, you think with a sly smirk.

Shoving the device into your pocket, you make your way to the designated spot, but as soon as you see the two group members, you freeze.

It’s Eunmi and Jungwon.

Eunmi—the same girl who once shot you a disgusted look and turned her back on you like you were nothing more than yesterday’s trash. Oh, how you’d love to knock that smug grin off her face.

And then there’s Jungwon. Handsome, quiet Jungwon. You’ve never spoken to him, but he has an air about him that practically screams “perfect study partner.”

Suddenly, you realize how this could work in your favor.

Step one: Get a boyfriend. Jungwon’s good looks and his apparent lack of social drama make him the ideal choice. You’re not looking for love; you’re looking to cross a line off your list.

Step two: Make a friend. Eunmi? Ugh. As much as it pains you, she qualifies—even if you have to grit your teeth and fake it. If not her, then someone else will eventually fit the bill. Surely, you’re not that unfriendable… right?

Step three: Score three A’s. With Jungwon’s brains and a bit of effort on your part, that goal might actually be achievable.

It’s a win-win-win, you tell yourself, a cunning glint in your eye. You take a deep breath and plaster on your most convincing smile. It’s time to work some magic—your reputation be damned.

You slide into the seat opposite Jungwon, deliberately ignoring Eunmi. The phone in your pocket is entirely forgotten for now as you focus on your new plan.

“So, I guess I’ll be studying with you guys?” you ask, letting a soft, harmless smile linger on your lips while keeping your gaze locked on Jungwon. You casually unzip your bag, pulling out a battered zoology book and setting it on the table as if you’re here for serious business.

Jungwon, polite as ever, gives you a small nod. “Well, kind of. You can say that,” he replies. He doesn’t seem unfriendly, though you can tell by his tone that he and Eunmi have been in this study group for a while. Of course, that makes you the outsider. Not that it bothers you—this is just a stepping stone to your ultimate goals.

And then Eunmi speaks.

“What made you want to study all of a sudden, Miss Bad Grades?”

You clench your jaw but force your face to remain neutral, even though your fingers itch to grab a fistful of her perfectly styled hair and yank. How dare this girl try to ruin your impression in front of Jungwon? Sure, your reputation in school isn’t stellar, but she didn’t have to say it out loud.

“I wanted to do better,” you reply smoothly, keeping your voice calm and unbothered. Your smile doesn’t waver, though inside, you’re plotting about five different ways to get back at her if she keeps this up.

The study session has barely begun, and already, you’re wondering how you’re going to survive without snapping. You glance at Jungwon, hoping he’ll say something to shift the conversation, but he’s already flipping through his notebook, oblivious to the silent tension brewing between you and Eunmi.

The session drags on, and while your eyes occasionally skim the words in your textbook, your brain is busy analyzing the way Jungwon’s lips press together when he’s concentrating. You imagine how soft they must feel, how it would be to kiss him. But no, not yet. You can’t. Not until you’ve executed your plan.

Time slips away unnoticed until your phone starts buzzing in your pocket, jolting you from your daydreams. Internally, you curse. What does Anton want this time? That mischievous, human-turned-phone was always up to something.

Eunmi, of course, notices. She shakes her head in that condescending way that practically screams, See? I told you she’s not serious about studying. You don’t need to hear her words to know she’s silently plotting to turn Jungwon against you. The smug look on her face makes your fingers twitch.

“Such a bitch,” you mutter under your breath before quickly masking your irritation.

“I’ll—be right back,” you say with a sheepish smile, standing up from the table. The chair scrapes against the floor, earning you a scoff from Eunmi. She doesn’t even try to hide her disdain.

Jungwon gives a distracted hum, barely lifting his head from his book. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Could this guy act like he cares for once? I’m right here, desperate for your attention, and you’re more invested in spermatogenesis?

Your phone is still vibrating as you weave through the tables, making your way to the restroom. Once inside, you slip into a stall and lock the door behind you. Pulling out your phone, you press the power button like you’re interrogating a criminal.

“Hey, Anton? Why are you buzzing?” you hiss, glaring at the glowing phone in your hand. Frustration bubbles in your chest as you slump onto the toilet seat, trying to avoid drawing more attention.

Before you can even blink, the phone morphs, and there he is—Anton. Towering over you, his presence taking up the cramped stall like he owns it. You freeze, your eyes widening as you realize just how compromising this position looks. His knees brush yours, and his hands press against the walls, effectively trapping you in place.

“H-Hey! Get off me!” you stammer, squirming as much as the limited space allows. But even when he shifts slightly, it doesn’t make much of a difference. He’s still leaning in way too close for comfort.

“You’ve got some nerve,” he says, his voice low but cutting. “Why were you staring at Jungwon instead of finishing the chapter?”

The question knocks the breath out of you. You gape at him, your brain scrambling to come up with an excuse. How does he even know? He’s just a phone!

“That’s—none of your business!” you sputter, crossing your arms defensively.

“Oh, it is my business,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t I the one keeping track of your precious little checklist?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “One of the tasks is getting a boyfriend, isn’t it? So yeah, I was looking at him. Got a problem with that?”

Anton’s expression shifts, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something almost human in his sharp gaze. Disbelief? Annoyance? Whatever it is, it’s enough to make him scoff audibly.

“You’re thinking him? That guy? Seriously?” he asks, his voice dripping with judgment. “Your taste in men is worse than I thought.”

“Excuse me?” You glare, feeling your blood boil. “He’s charming and—”

“You wouldn’t know charming if it hit you in the face,” Anton cuts you off, rolling his eyes with an exasperated sigh. For someone who used to be a piece of metal and glass, he’s got an awful lot of opinions.

Before you can retort, he turns back into your phone in the blink of an eye, falling toward the floor. You scramble to catch him, nearly fumbling in the process, and clutch him tightly in your hand.

“You are the worst,” you mutter, shoving him back into your pocket.

But as you stand up and unlock the stall, brushing yourself off, the thought lingers: Why did he get so worked up? You shake your head, pushing the question away. Who cares? It’s not like his opinion matters, right?

Right.

A week passes, and you’re still not fully adjusted to the bizarre reality that your phone occasionally transforms into a sarcastic, human-sized headache named Anton. It’s unsettling but oddly entertaining—though you’d never admit that to him.

The study group, on the other hand, is a battlefield you didn’t sign up for. Not because of the studying—oh no, that’s manageable. It’s Eunmi, who seems to have declared you her mortal enemy the moment you walked in.

Her latest tactics are as subtle as a neon sign. First, there was the juice incident. She accidentally spilled her drink all over your notes, forcing you to grit your teeth and smile like a beauty pageant contestant while internally screaming. You knew it wasn’t an accident—her little smirk gave her away—but yelling at her in front of Jungwon? No way. That would only play into her hands.

Then came the note-snatching debacle. Eunmi sweetly asked to borrow your notes, even though hers were perfectly fine. Next thing you know, there’s a loud rip as she flips a page too aggressively. Your precious, perfectly organised notes—ruined. You’re convinced she’s trying to provoke you into losing your temper, hoping Jungwon will see you as the unhinged maniac she wants you to be.

But you’re smarter than that. You refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Jungwon, oblivious as ever, doesn’t seem to notice the cold war brewing at the table. Over the past week, you’ve come to realise just how clueless he is—not just about Eunmi’s schemes but also about your less-than-stellar reputation.

How is it possible that he doesn’t know? You were practically infamous for your fiery temper in school. Yet here he is, helping you with notes, explaining concepts patiently, even sharing his own work with you—all without a hint of hesitation.

Sometimes, he surprises you even more. Like when he casually suggests the two of you study alone. Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest each time he does, but you force yourself to decline.

Not because you don’t want to.

You do—desperately.

But according to your well-studied guide on “How to Win a Guy Over,” playing hard to get is essential. If you said yes too quickly, wouldn’t he stop finding you interesting?

So, with every ounce of willpower, you smile, place a hand over your racing heart, and politely refuse.

“Maybe next time,” you say, pretending to be unfazed, when really, you’re screaming internally.

You tell yourself it’s working. Jungwon seems more intrigued every day—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to justify the agony of sitting through another study session with her.

Lately, Anton, or whatever you had whimsically decided to call him—had taken it upon himself to discipline you. Whenever study time rolled around, he would shut your bedroom door with the finality of a prison warden, ensuring zero distractions.

At first, it was kind of helpful. You begrudgingly admitted that. But as the days went on, it started to get unbearable.

Without your phone—because your phone was, unfortunately, a human being now—there was no scrolling through your feed, no binge-watching your favorite group’s reels, and no celebrity TikToks. Worse, you hadn’t even heard TXT’s latest song or watched their new music video because someone refused to let you.

You tapped your pen against your desk, fidgeting with boredom. “Please,” you whined, turning in your chair to face him. “I studied for like, three hours, didn’t I? Now be a good boy and let mama see some reels or TikToks!” You added the last part with a teasing lilt, hoping to fluster him.

But you forgot—this was Anton. Your sentient, emotionally unavailable phone. Feelings? Not his thing.

“No,” he replied flatly, arms crossed like he was the boss of you.

“Please, Zynton!” you tried again, throwing in some puppy-dog eyes for good measure.

He raised a brow, unimpressed. “Zynton? Didn’t you already name me Anton?” His tone was laced with exasperation, like he couldn’t fathom how you’d forgotten the name you gave him.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you huffed, brushing off his sarcasm. “I swear, it’s just one music video. That’s it. I’ve earned it!”

He didn’t respond immediately, his face a mix of suspicion and resignation. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But just one video.”

Your face lit up as a glowing screen materialized above his head, displaying the thumbnail of TXT’s latest music video. As it began to play, you clapped in delight and sang along, fully immersing yourself in the moment.

But just as you were getting into it—pausing to admire Soobin’s part—Anton froze the video mid-frame.

“Enough,” he said, his tone as dry as the Sahara.

You glared at him, fists clenched as if contemplating whether punching him was worth the effort. Instead, you let out an exaggerated groan, slumping in your chair.

Anton ignored your dramatics, a timer popping up in the digital display above his head. It ticked down with cruel efficiency, mocking you.

“Can you believe this?” you muttered under your breath. “My phone is moody.”

“I wish I was with Jungwon,” you muttered, shooting a glare at the sulking figure in front of you. You didn’t even try to hide the exasperation in your voice.

Anton’s eyes snapped to yours, his expression hardening as if you’d just insulted his entire existence. “Why the blonde-haired guy?” he asked, his lips twisting into a bitter frown.

It was the first time you’d seen him show this much emotion, and it was shockingly clear—he despised Jungwon.

“He has a name,” you said defensively, crossing your arms.

Anton wasn’t having it. “So, you’re now his personal lawyer?” he shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “This is why you don’t get good grades. Stop running after that guy.”

You blinked, caught between indignation and disbelief. “Excuse me?” His logic—or lack thereof—was baffling. He’d been the one insisting you get a boyfriend before high school ended. But now? Now he was acting like you’d committed some unspeakable crime.

Before you could form a retort, he sighed dramatically and transformed back into a phone, flopping onto your bed with a heavy thud.

You groaned, snatching him up. “What is your problem?” You pressed the power button, trying to unlock the screen, but the phone didn’t respond. No matter how many times you swiped or tapped, it stubbornly refused to work.

“Are you kidding me?” you hissed, your annoyance bubbling over.

From your bed, the phone-turned-human smirked, lounging like he owned the place before flickering back into a phone. The audacity.

“Aghhh, fine! I’ll study!” you snapped, stomping back to your desk. Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you plopped down, glaring daggers at the sulking phone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him flickering in and out of human form, like some glitching video game character. One moment he was there, leaning against your pillows with his arms crossed and an unimpressed look; the next, he was just a lifeless phone.

It was almost…cute? No, no, you shook your head. There was nothing cute about your phone-human hybrid being this petty.

Still, you found your eyes wandering back to him more often than you’d like to admit. And each time, you caught the faintest hint of a smug expression on his face, as if he knew he was winning this ridiculous battle of wills.

“Yes, Mom, I’ll go! Just two minutes!” you shout, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a passable top in a rush. All this, just to take out the trash. A noble cause? Hardly. But it was enough to earn your mom’s approval.

Anton—or your phone, rather—lay silent on your desk. He wasn’t in human form right now, but if he were, you could already picture him sulking. He’d been unusually quiet since you decided to help your mom instead of following his meticulous study schedule. Not that you minded the silence; it felt like a small victory.

With a sigh, you grab the trash bag, sliding your phone into your pocket. “Be good,” you mutter under your breath, half expecting some smart-aleck comment from him, but the screen remains dark.

Slipping into your worn-out slippers, you trudge down the apartment stairs, the trash bag swinging lightly in your grip. The cool evening air brushes against your face as you step outside, breathing in the faint scent of street food from the stalls down the block.

“Phew,” you murmur to yourself, relieved to have made it out without any drama. That is until your heart nearly stops.

There, by the communal trash bins, is Jungwon. Casual and effortlessly perfect, dressed in a plain hoodie and jeans, his hair falling into his eyes in a way that shouldn’t look this good.

Your gaze drops to your outfit—a mismatched catastrophe of sweatpants, an old shirt, and slippers. You might as well be cosplaying a beggar (according to your mom).

Mentally cursing your life choices, you toss the trash bag into the bin, dusting your hands and praying for a clean escape. But before you can make your getaway, a hand touches your shoulder.

“You live around here?” Jungwon’s voice is light and curious, but it feels like a spotlight on your very soul.

“Uh, yeah… kind of,” you stammer, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous you must look.

“And that is…?” His voice trails off as he points behind you, his brows knitting together.

You turn slowly, dread pooling in your stomach. Standing a few feet away is Anton, in his fully human form, arms crossed, looking like he’s been summoned from the depths of your worst nightmares.

Your hand shoots into your pocket, fumbling for your phone. Except—your pocket is empty.

Your brain short-circuits. He can see Anton!

“Boyfriend. Her boyfriend,” Anton announces sharply, his voice cutting through the moment like a knife. His eyes narrow at Jungwon, his disdain palpable. If looks could kill, Jungwon would have been incinerated on the spot.

Your mouth drops open, no words forming. Anton, your phone-human hybrid, is showing emotion. And not just any emotion—jealousy.

Jungwon’s lips part, clearly taken aback, but he quickly recovers, a polite smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh… I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do,” Anton snaps, stepping closer and crossing his arms protectively.

All you can do is stand there, torn between laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the situation and wanting the earth to swallow you whole. This is your life now—your phone pretending to be your boyfriend in front of your crush. Fantastic.

“Is it true?” Jungwon asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is soft, uncertain, like he’s piecing together a puzzle that suddenly doesn’t make sense. He had never known you had a boyfriend. The poor guy had even started thinking maybe—just maybe—you might be interested in him. But now? He thinks otherwise.

“Yeah… I think so,” you mutter, your voice barely audible as you glance at Anton. Confusion swirls in your head like a storm. Why on earth is this bastard acting like a full-fledged human, let alone ruining the sliver of progress you'd made with Jungwon?

“It’s 100% true,” Anton cuts in, his voice low and menacing as he steps between you and Jungwon. “So, I suggest you stay away from my girlfriend.”

Jungwon blinks, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. “Oh… okay,” he says after a moment, his voice a mix of confusion and reluctant acceptance. Relief flashes briefly across his face—better to find out now than after he’d fallen for you completely, he reasons.

He tosses his trash into the bin, bows politely—because, of course, Jungwon’s still a gentleman—and turns on his heel, walking back toward his apartment.

As soon as he’s out of sight, you whirl on Anton, fury bubbling just beneath the surface. “You ruined it, Zynton!” you hiss through gritted teeth, your voice a harsh whisper to avoid attracting any curious neighbors.

He just shrugs, utterly unbothered. A screen materializes above his head, glowing faintly in the dim light. It displays a graph, bold and undeniable: Jungwon negatively affects your study efficiency by 60%.

“See?” he says, pointing at the glowing data like it’s irrefutable proof. “I’m doing you a favor. Jungwon’s presence is literally detrimental to your academic success.”

You stare at the screen, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. You’re at a loss. How are you supposed to argue with statistics? It’s infuriatingly logical, and yet, entirely absurd.

Your foot taps impatiently on the pavement as you cross your arms. “Why do you hate Jungwon so much?” you ask, your voice sharp with exasperation. Deep down, you’re fighting the urge to smack him—though you quickly remind yourself that assaulting your phone probably isn’t the best idea.

“Like I said,” Anton replies, folding his arms with a dramatic sigh. “That boy ruins your studies. You could look for a boyfriend somewhere else.”

You groan, running a hand down your face. The memory of Jungwon’s hurt, betrayed expression as he walked away is burned into your mind. But there’s something even more pressing you need to know. You fix Anton with a narrowed gaze, your brow arching suspiciously. “Why did you say you were my boyfriend?”

For the first time, Anton hesitates. His usually confident demeanor falters, and a sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your glare like a guilty child caught red-handed.

“I mean… it’s the most effective method to turn a guy away,” he says finally, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you deadpan, but Anton presses on, completely unfazed.

“It’s just basic strategy,” he explains, nodding as though he’s a seasoned love expert. “I’ve read enough online to know that guys back off when they think someone’s already taken. Works like a charm.”

You stare at him, incredulous. The audacity of this device—no, this thing—is beyond anything you’ve ever encountered. “You’re basing my love life on… internet articles?”

“Trust me,” he says with a wink, flashing a smug grin. “I’ve got access to all the data.”

You groan again, louder this time, wondering if tossing him into the trash bin would solve all your problems. If only.

Anton trails behind you as you climb the stairs to your apartment, his steps eerily silent despite his human-like form. At your door, you stop abruptly and turn to him, panic creeping into your voice. “Turn back into a phone, Zynton. Now.”

He folds his arms and tilts his head, looking every bit like a rebellious teenager. “You literally named me Anton. Can you settle on one name for once?” His tone carries a tinge of irritation, and you blink in disbelief at the audacity of your phone to talk back to you.

“Okay, fine. My dear Anton, please turn back into a phone—”

Before you can finish, your mother’s voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Y/N! Are you back yet?”

Your heart lurches, a surge of panic shooting through you. Your eyes dart to Anton, your expression pleading. “Turn back into a phone. Now,” you hiss under your breath, motioning wildly for him to do something—anything—before disaster strikes.

To your immense relief, Anton flashes you an exaggerated wink and morphs seamlessly back into your phone, the glowing screen dimming as he settles into your palm. You clutch him tightly, hiding him in your fist just as the door swings open.

Your mother appears, her usual stern expression replaced with something unnervingly mild. “Why are you standing there? Come inside and study.”

Her voice is calm—too calm. It sends a shiver down your spine. If you didn’t know better, you’d almost believe this gentleness was her true nature. But you do know better, and you don’t trust it for a second.

“Coming,” you mumble, stepping inside. Your stepdad is lounging on the couch, the rustle of his newspaper the only sound he makes. You deliberately avoid his gaze, moving as quietly as possible. Your footsteps are measured and light as you head straight for your room, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Once inside, you let out a long, weary sigh, your body sinking onto the bed. The room is dim, curtains drawn tightly shut to block out the evening light. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out Anton and place him beside you on the bed.

“Hey,” you whisper, exhaustion evident in your voice. “You can turn into a human now.”

Barely a second passes before a familiar presence materializes next to you. Anton sits there, leaning back casually against the headboard like he owns the place. His eyes sparkle with that same smug mischief, and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

The two of you are lying side by side, close enough for your shoulders to brush. The thought hits you suddenly: if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were a couple. The intimacy of the moment feels strangely... natural.

But you shake the thought away, annoyed at yourself for even entertaining it. You’re not interested in Anton like that. You’re not. Except...

You steal a glance at him. His human form is alarmingly realistic, right down to the faint curve of his lips and the way his hair falls perfectly out of place.

Maybe you’re not interested in Jungwon anymore. Maybe—just maybe—you like Anton instead.

But there’s no way you’d ever admit that. Not to him. The moment those words leave your mouth, he’ll launch into some long-winded lecture about how technology can’t reciprocate feelings. You’d never hear the end of it.

Anton catches you staring and raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What?”

“Nothing,” you snap, turning away quickly, cheeks heating up.

“Sure,” he drawls, his tone dripping with playful suspicion. “Keep telling yourself that, Y/N.”

You groan, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it. He laughs, the sound annoyingly human, as he ducks out of the way.

This is your life now, you think, burying your face in your hands. And somehow, against all odds, you don’t entirely hate it.

An idea sparks in your mind as you turn onto your side, your gaze landing on Anton. He’s sitting upright, leaning back against the headboard, his expression unreadable. You hesitate for a moment before speaking, voice soft yet teasing. “Hey… since you’re a phone—”

Anton tilts his head slightly, intrigued, the faintest arch of his brow urging you to continue. He lets out a curious hum, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he waits for whatever nonsense you’re about to spout.

For all his smugness, you remind yourself, Anton is still a phone. And phones are supposed to be smart, right? Smarter than this, at least.

You clear your throat, sitting up just enough to meet his gaze. “So, I’m in search of a boyfriend,” you begin, the words tumbling out too quickly. You falter for a second as Anton’s side-eye nearly makes you choke on your own sentence. His expression is the perfect mix of judgmental and unimpressed—eerily similar to your mom’s whenever she catches you slacking off on your studies.

“Of course, while studying too,” you add hastily, holding your hands up defensively. You know better than to ignore the unspoken priorities Anton seems to share with your mother.

He doesn’t say anything, waiting for you to continue. You take a deep breath, your next words tumbling out in one rushed, embarrassed blur. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you… you know, taught me how to kiss?”

Anton’s reaction is immediate and comical. His eyes widen, and his lips part as if he’s about to say something, only for his voice to falter into a confused sputter. “What??”

His expression is so innocent, so utterly clueless, that you almost feel guilty. But not enough to take it back. A tiny part of you is curious—what would it feel like, even if he isn’t technically human?

“Is that how single you really are?” his voice drips with mockery, his lips twitching into an amused smirk. “Seriously?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you throw the nearest pillow at him in a half-hearted attempt to regain your dignity. “Don’t act like you’re better than me,” you snap, though your voice lacks bite. “I’m just—curious, okay? And you’re the first guy I’ve been close to, so it’s only natural!”

Anton doesn’t look convinced. If anything, he looks even more amused. “Natural? That’s bold coming from someone asking her phone for kissing lessons.”

You roll your eyes, frustrated but undeterred. “You’re not just a phone! You’re—well, you’re you. And besides,” you mutter, lowering your gaze, “it’s not like you’ll judge me for being bad at it. You’re not even real.”

“Ouch.” Anton places a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “Not real? I’m literally the only reason you’re not failing your exams right now.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Forget I said anything.”

But Anton isn’t letting this go. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that,” he says, leaning back with a smug grin. “Is it because you think I don’t understand emotions the way a human does?”

You hesitate, guilt pricking at the edges of your conscience. “No! That’s not—”

He cuts you off with a knowing look, his smirk softening just slightly. “Relax. You’re single. It’s pathetic, but I get it.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you grab the blanket and throw it over the both of you.

You roll closer to him, your face buried in his chest as you sigh dramatically. “See?” you mumble, your voice muffled. “I’ve been single my whole life. No boyfriend, no first kiss, nothing. You’re the only guy who’s stuck around, and even then, you’re technically stuck with me.”

Anton rolls his eyes, a mix of pity and exasperation crossing his face. “Wow. Way to guilt-trip your phone.”

You peek up at him, hopeful. “So… will you?”

He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Is that a yes?”

Anton sighs, muttering something under his breath about how pathetic humans are. But he doesn’t move away, which you decide to take as a yes.

After all, he’s just a machine, right? He doesn’t understand what this means. Not really. And that’s exactly why you’re doing this—or at least, that’s what you tell yourself as your heart pounds in your chest.

Your eyes light up the moment Anton nods, the glowing screen above his head dimming to black. Without a second thought, you grab a pillow and plop it over his face as you climb onto him, pinning him down. Or at least, you try to pin him down—because no matter how much determination you pour into your stance, it’s painfully obvious you’re more like an ant attempting to subdue an elephant.

Still, you try to exude confidence, looking down at him with a smirk. “Only for research purposes… of course,” you announce dramatically, hands planted on his chest like you’re staking your claim.

Anton, unimpressed as always, rolls his eyes. “Yeah… research purposes,” he repeats with dripping sarcasm.

He shifts under you, and for a brief moment, you forget he’s a phone. Forget that his abilities extend far beyond your average human knowledge. Within seconds, he’s analyzing articles, tutorials, and even kissing technique videos from the depths of the internet. His hands move to cup your cheeks, startling you with the sheer firmness of his touch.

“Hey, gentle!” you mumble, your words muffled by the pressure on your cheeks. You raise a hand to tap against his shoulder, a mix of surprise and irritation bubbling up. “You’re squishing my face!”

Anton’s hands retreat instantly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. For all his snark and superiority, you realize he doesn’t quite know his own strength—or, perhaps, he doesn’t understand the delicacy required for moments like this. After all, he’s a phone. Why would he know?

He clears his throat, his tone shifting into something more clinical, more detached. “According to the articles—”

You don’t let him finish. Before he can launch into a lecture, you lean forward and press your lips to his, cutting him off entirely.

It’s messy, clumsy even, your inexperience showing in the way your lips move against his. But the taste of him—soft, cool, and faintly electric—takes you by surprise. Not that you’ve kissed anyone else before, but something about this feels… better. Different.

“Just feel,” you whisper against his lips, your breath mingling with his in the quiet room. For once, Anton doesn’t argue, doesn’t mock. His hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that betrays his otherwise flustered expression.

He’s stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. For a first kiss, you’re better than he would have expected, not that he’d ever admit it. He wonders, fleetingly, if this is what those articles meant by connection.

And then, just as he’s starting to process the whirlwind of sensations, you stop. You rest your head against his chest, your body growing heavier as exhaustion takes over.

“Wait—are you falling asleep?” he asks, incredulous.

Your response is a barely coherent mumble, your lips still lightly pressed against his. “Mhm. Tired.”

Anton sighs, frustration laced with disbelief. He feels the faint trickle of drool escaping from your mouth onto his, his lips parting in distaste. “Hey, you’re drooling—”

“Charge you in the morning,” you murmur sleepily, cutting him off again.

He stares at you, torn between exasperation and something he can’t quite place. He adjusts you carefully, shifting your weight so you’re resting more comfortably against his chest. He makes sure your head doesn’t slide too close to his charging port—because as awkward as this moment is, he’s not about to risk short-circuiting because of you.

Still, as he looks down at your peaceful expression, a strange sensation tugs at him. It’s foreign, unquantifiable, something no article or video could explain. He brushes a hand over your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, and lets out a soft sigh.

“Is this… what they meant?” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

The answer doesn’t come, but for once, Anton doesn’t feel the need to know.

You wake up with a soft murmur, the warmth of sleep still clinging to your skin. You realize, half-dazed, that your arms are wrapped around what feels like a body—Anton’s body. His form is strangely solid and comforting, and in your sleepy haze, you have no intention of moving. His warmth against you is too cozy, and the soft rise and fall of his “chest”—though artificial—makes you feel safer than you have in a while.

“Anton...” you murmur again, still unsure of what time it is, your words heavy with drowsiness. But then, you feel the slight shift of his body, and you hear his voice—distorted and rough, as though it's being dragged from the depths of a drained battery.

“My battery's low,” he whispers, a groan underlying his words. “Please charge me real quick...” His voice cracks, but you can't help but chuckle at how human it sounds, despite him being technically not a person.

You bury your face deeper into his chest, too comfortable to get up, and in a daze, you mumble, “Just five more minutes... I'm too cozy...”

But Anton doesn’t let you get away with it. There’s a slight, almost exaggerated sigh from him before he says, “No... It's literally six a.m.... Please get ready... for school.”

You groan in response, the panic setting in as you finally start to register his words. “Mom should've woken me up...” You shoot out of bed, suddenly scrambling to get ready. The weight of the morning hits you all at once—your mind still fuzzy but your body on overdrive as you throw yourself into a frenzy of motion.

Your fingers tremble as you tug off your pajama top, realizing with horror that you haven't even showered. You curse under your breath, glancing at Anton, who’s still next to you.

Your heart skips a beat. Wait.

“Anton,” you mutter, an unsettling thought popping into your head. You pause, standing mid-action, your clothes half-changed. “Did you always see me change?” Your voice cracks as you ask, and your cheeks start to heat up, a flush spreading across your face as the realization creeps in.

You’ve always placed your phone on the bed or on the drawer while changing. Could he have been watching all this time, even before his human-phone transformation?

You glance over at Anton, and to your surprise, you see his screen flicker with a rapid flush of red, like he's embarrassed. His voice, strained and hurried, shoots back at you, “NO!” It's a sharp refusal, almost defensive, and it makes you pause in your tracks.

“Did you...?” you ask again, narrowing your eyes suspiciously.

“I said NO!” His voice is forceful now, though still faint from the low battery, and you can see the unmistakable redness flickering across his screen. It’s such a far cry from the dispassionate, cold phone he once was, and it throws you off. Was this the same Anton who had no emotions at all when he first turned into a human? The same one who would have no qualms about anything?

The thought makes you chuckle nervously, trying to dismiss the awkwardness that crawls up your neck. “Okay, okay, I get it. Stop yelling.”

You roll your eyes and go back to getting dressed, though the entire room suddenly feels way smaller than it should. You can’t help but throw a glance at Anton again—who, despite being a phone, seems to be desperately looking away from you, his screen flickering like a bashful person avoiding eye contact.

As you change, you remind yourself over and over that Anton is just a phone—a very advanced phone, yes, but still just a phone. It’s only logical that he can’t be embarrassed. You try to shrug it off, but the blush still lingers on your cheeks.

Once you’re dressed, the urgency hits you again. You’re running late, and the panic sets in like a wave. You grab your bag and rush around the room, tossing items into it without thinking—until you remember.

“Oh shoot! Anton!” You scramble for your phone, your fingers fumbling as you finally find him on the bed. You look at his screen, blinking. Wait. Is he still charging?

But before you can get the chance to plug him in, Anton’s voice cracks again, a little louder this time, and it’s so faint you barely catch it. “You’re really going to leave me like this...?” he asks, almost accusing.

You freeze, your guilt swelling as you gaze at him, knowing that if you didn’t charge him now, he’d be completely dead by the time you get back. With a deep breath, you plug him in quickly, hoping the connection will last until you return.

But the weird thing is, for the first time, you realize that in a twisted way—this phone might actually be the one who understands you better than anyone else.

You’re practically panting by the time you get to school, the weight of your backpack pressing down on you with every step. Your stomach growls in protest, reminding you that in your mad rush, you forgot your tiffin at home. Great. Just great.

But the real problem is the five marks. The professor’s new rule is burning a hole in your mind: Whoever comes late will have five marks deducted. It's just five marks, but it might as well be the difference between life and death. Okay, maybe not life or death, but definitely failure.

You’re barely scraping by in math, and losing even those five marks would push you into the dreaded abyss of failure. You can already feel the weight of your mother’s disapproval on your shoulders, and you really don’t want that. Not today. Not ever.

Your school isn’t far—just a fifteen-minute walk—but with the panic setting in, your legs are moving faster than your brain. Walking = fine. Running = late. You’d prefer to walk but today, you’re in run mode, your heart hammering against your chest, your breath coming in quick, sharp gasps.

“Who even made schools?” you mutter under your breath, sweat trickling down your neck. You can already feel your body protesting against the injustice of it all. As if it weren't bad enough, your backpack feels like a weight you’re carrying to the moon.

You round the corner, spotting a few other late students sneaking in, looking as panicked as you feel. The guard is too busy talking to someone else to notice, and you take full advantage of it, slipping through the gate like a ninja trained by your mother herself. You’ve gotten really good at this.

When you reach the classroom, relief floods over you. The professor isn’t there yet. Thank goodness. You rush to the nearest available seat—right next to Jungwon. It's the only one left, and you’re not about to argue. You plop down with a loud sigh, feeling the adrenaline start to wear off, leaving you a little breathless.

But then Jungwon turns to you, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Does your boyfriend not come to our school?”

You blink. Boyfriend? Who—what?

“I have a boyfriend?” You ask, clearly puzzled, still catching your breath.

“Uh… the one I met last night when you were throwing trash…” he adds, trailing off awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself now. “Is he not your boyfriend?”

Your stomach flips. Oh, God. This is it. Your brain starts spinning, and suddenly your mouth feels dry. You can’t go back on yesterday's statement. You definitely can’t let Jungwon go back to your mom and casually mention you have a boyfriend. That would end with your mother’s legendary interrogation skills being put into full force, and you’re not sure you’d survive it.

You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

OPTION (A) : You could admit Anton isn’t your boyfriend, but that would open a whole new can of worms, and you can already hear Jungwon’s voice in your head: “Wait, so who was that guy?” Not a conversation you want to have.

OPTION (B) : You could tell him that Anton is just a friend, but that might lead to even more awkward questions, and you have no idea how you’d explain that whole situation without sounding like you’re caught in a web of lies.

But before you can choose, the door creaks open, and the professor walks in, immediately starting the lesson. You have no choice but to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Yes, he’s my boyfriend.” The words come out, and you instantly regret them. You can practically hear the sound of your own gulp echoing in your ears. Jungwon, looking slightly taken aback, awkwardly nods, unsure of how to respond. He’s clearly not going to ask more questions—at least not here—and his attention turns back to the professor.

You breathe a sigh of relief, but the panic is still bubbling inside you. You’ve just added another layer of complication to your already messy life. Now, you’re officially that girl—the one with a mysterious, possibly nonexistent boyfriend who has a habit of turning into a human phone. What could go wrong?

You sneak a glance down at your phone, trying to be as discreet as possible. Back in the day, you would’ve been nervously fidgeting in your seat next to Jungwon, trying not to spill your awkwardness all over the place. But right now? You couldn’t care less about Jungwon. All you could think about was that handsome guy who had somehow turned into your phone.

Why are you so cute, Anton?

You tap your phone screen, waiting for it to light up, but nothing happens. You try again, your frustration building. Come on... please respond. This is getting ridiculous.

“Hey, Anton? Respond, please!” you whisper under your breath, glancing around quickly to make sure no one else is noticing your little outburst. Jungwon, who’s sitting right next to you, doesn’t seem to catch on. He’s too busy, probably thinking about his own thoughts. You, on the other hand, are glued to your phone, silently begging for Anton to do anything.

But no, nothing happens. It's like he's just… ignoring you. And that drives you crazy. Why isn't he responding? Was it because you're sitting next to Jungwon? Did he suddenly become jealous?

The thought of Anton acting all possessive, even from within your phone, actually makes you giggle. But your giggles quickly turn into frustration again as your screen stays blank.

So, you do what anyone would do in this situation: you bury yourself in your notes, hoping that focusing on your studies will distract you from the fact that Anton, your human-turned-phone boyfriend, is giving you the silent treatment. You're still a bit puzzled by the whole situation.

Finally when classes end, and your backpack feels impossibly heavy as you hurriedly shove your books inside. You’re already planning your escape when Jungwon calls out to you.

“Hey Y/n, would you be up for a study session? You can bring your boyfriend too…” His words trail off, clearly surprised by how quickly you’re moving to leave.

Your reaction is instantaneous: you bolt out of there like you’ve just been given an Olympic sprinting challenge, the door swinging behind you with a dramatic swoosh. You don’t even wait for a reply, practically disappearing from his sight.

Jungwon, stunned, blinks a couple of times before finally muttering, “What… just happened?”

“Must be her boyfriend,” Eunmi remarks, her voice strangely neutral instead of the usual sharp tone she reserves for anything remotely related to you. She looks over at Jungwon, her gaze lingering for a moment, before turning her attention elsewhere. Jungwon, though, is far less enthusiastic about packing his bag now, his thoughts clearly on something else.

Meanwhile, you can’t help but laugh a little as you make your way out of the building. There’s no way you were going to let Anton’s weird silence ruin your day. Besides, you’d figured it out—he's just being a dramatic phone, and you’re not about to let that control you. At least, not for now.

As you leave, you can’t stop thinking about how ridiculously possessive he’s been lately. Maybe he does feel something. You can’t help but smile, a little too fond of your human-turned-phone

As soon as you get home, you plug Anton in, sighing in relief as the charging icon pops up on your screen. You can hear your mom in the background, rambling about your day at school, but honestly? You don’t have the energy to care. You flop onto your bed, completely drained, and let out a deep breath as you watch Anton slowly transform back into a human.

“Thank goodness,” you mutter, finally feeling a little more at ease.

“You should've just charged me in the morning,” he grumbles, still holding the charging wire in his mouth. It's almost comical how he’s still acting like a phone despite being human now.

“Sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, a small smile creeping onto your face despite how tired you are. But then, as the moment settles, a thought hits you, and you can't help but ask, “Do you ever think you'll go back to being a normal phone? Or am I stuck with you like this forever?”

Anton hums in response, the charging wire still hanging from his mouth. “Not sure.”

“Of course you're not sure,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. But a tiny knot of worry tightens in your stomach. The idea of him eventually disappearing back into your phone, of him going back to being just an object, stings more than you'd like to admit. He might be your phone, but the human version? He's been becoming something else to you lately. And you don’t know if you're ready to lose that just yet.

Two months had passed, and it was starting to feel like Anton was slowly slipping away. At first, it was subtle—just a few hours of the day where he stayed in phone form. But today? Nothing. No human version of Anton, just your regular, lifeless phone.

You poke at your lunch with a fork, but how could you even eat when your mind keeps wandering back to your phone? It’s just sitting there on the table, performing like a regular device, no magic, no human form.

“Is something wrong?” Jungwon asks, glancing up from his own lunch. Eunmi’s sitting across from you, not even trying to be friendly, as usual.

“You should watch your phone less,” Eunmi comments, and you roll your eyes, trying to ignore her. If only she knew how much your phone meant to you right now.

You swipe left and right, desperately trying to find something—anything—that could explain why Anton’s still not turning human. You’re not sure what you’re expecting, but this feels like some sort of betrayal from a phone.

“Hmmph,” you mutter under your breath, but it doesn't help. The weight of Eunmi’s voice still lingers in your mind, but you’re too focused on the empty feeling of staring at a screen that’s supposed to be connected to something more.

“Why is he not becoming a human?” you mumble, too frustrated to care that you’re speaking aloud. The problem? Only you know about Anton’s transformation, so you can’t even vent about it to anyone.

“What?” Eunmi asks, her eyebrow arching as she shares a confused look with Jungwon.

You wave it off, brushing away the awkwardness, and go back to stabbing at your lunch. But it’s no use—the food tastes bland, almost like cardboard. Honestly, at this point, the only thing that could make it better is if Anton turned back into the human version of himself and saved you from this mess of a lunch. But nope, your phone’s just sitting there, mocking you.

You somehow manage to finish the rest of the school day, the classes dragging by like a blur, but the one thing that kept bothering you was that Anton was still not turning human.

“Ugh, this isn’t working,” you mutter to yourself as you stand in front of the repair shop owner, trying not to look too ridiculous. You can already feel the weight of the situation—the shopkeeper can’t possibly know about your phone turning into a human, can he? That would be absurd.

“What exactly is the problem?” he asks, tilting his head as he takes your phone to inspect it.

You freeze. What exactly do you say? You can’t tell him that your phone is a person who’s been hanging out as a human every now and then, right? It sounds insane.

“Uh…,” you stammer, struggling for an explanation, but it’s useless. You’re not sure what to say that wouldn’t get you committed to some strange techy cult or a mental hospital.

“It’s all good, ma’am,” he says with a sigh, handing your phone back to you, like everything is totally normal. But if everything is “all good,” why isn’t Anton turning back into a human?

You leave the store, confusion taking over. The lighthearted, slightly strange feeling you once had about Anton being a human version of a phone has now been replaced with a gnawing emptiness. You can’t shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s gone for good.

Your bag feels heavier than usual, weighed down by the thoughts swirling in your mind. You drag yourself home, the steps feeling longer than normal, as if the world is slowly sinking into a gray, monotonous fog.

“How was school?” your stepdad asks, the usual cheerful tone in his voice, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. You barely acknowledge his question, as you’re still lost in your own thoughts. You hear your mom sigh, disappointed, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You head straight to your room, exhaustion taking over. You plug Anton in to charge, desperate to see that familiar human version of him again. The seconds tick by as you watch the charging light glow. But nothing changes. The charging is full. Anton is still… just a phone.

You sigh heavily, sinking down on your bed. What if he’s really gone for good? You can't help but feel like you're losing a part of your world, and suddenly, the idea of just using a regular phone feels... boring.

Tears well up in your eyes as you stubbornly mutter, “I won’t talk to you ever if you don't turn in now!” The words feel hollow the second they leave your lips, but it’s a lie you tell yourself. You would never stop talking to Anton, not for anything. But a small part of you is desperate for him to just... come back. You need to see him as a human again, even if you know that it might not happen.

“Please!” you whisper desperately, pressing your lips against the cold screen of your phone, leaving a red imprint there. It’s a pathetic gesture, but it’s all you can think of. A little kiss for him, as if that might somehow wake him up from whatever spell he’s trapped in.

“Fine. Don’t come,” you mutter, frustration taking over as you place the phone back on the study desk. The weight of the situation settles in as you slump down onto the bed, still in your school clothes. You don’t even care to change—you're too tired, too emotionally drained from everything.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there, staring at the ceiling, but it doesn’t matter. Sleep overtakes you, and you drift off in the quiet of your room, lost in the silence.

Suddenly, you feel it—the presence of someone standing above you. A familiar weight in the air, but not the same as before. You rub your eyes, blinking away the grogginess, and then you see him.

Anton.

He’s standing there, in front of you, and your breath catches. But then, your eyes widen in shock. His body is covered in marks. Red, faint imprints that make your face burn as you realize—those are from your kisses. The ones you left on the screen, desperate for him to turn back. It’s embarrassing, but there's no time for that now. You throw yourself at him, arms wide as you practically tackle him with a hug.

His shirt wrinkles beneath your fingers as you clutch it tight, a mixture of relief and frustration in your chest. You pull away, looking up at him, almost desperate. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you turn back?” Your voice cracks, the raw emotion flooding through you, but the words tumble out in a mess of desperation.

But then, he pushes you away. You stumble back slightly, the sudden distance between you too much to handle.

“I couldn’t turn,” he says, his voice low, almost pained. “And I think it’s better if you don’t get too attached. I’m just a device, remember?” He speaks the words softly, but there’s a coolness to them that hurts.

You blink, the words settling into your chest like a stone. “Why can’t you stay like this forever?” The question slips out before you can stop it, eyes burning with the need to understand. You feel his thumb brush away a tear that’s escaped down your cheek, but it only makes you feel more fragile. “I don’t understand… How can a phone... with no feelings... like me... feel something?”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze softening for just a moment. And then, for the first time since this entire weird and wonderful thing began, he steps closer. Your heart races as he closes the distance, and before you can even think, your hands are on his shirt, clutching it like it’s the only thing that’s keeping you grounded.

You pull him into a messy kiss, lips moving against his in a rush of desperation, a wild need to feel him close. You kiss him over and over again, each one more frantic than the last, but just as quickly as he was there...Your lips meet nothing.

You pull back in confusion, eyes wide as you try to make sense of it. Where did he go? You open your eyes fully, but there's nothing in front of you. Just empty space.

Your phone falls to the ground, the sharp sound of it hitting the floor snapping you back to reality. You kneel down quickly, heart pounding, and check it, relieved to see that it's still in one piece. No cracks, no breaks. Just a phone.

And then, it hits you. You can’t keep holding on to something—or someone—that isn’t real. You swallow hard, tears welling up in your eyes again as you stare at the device in your hands, the phone that was once a person to you. The bittersweet smile on your lips isn’t one of happiness, but of acceptance and yet... sadness.

“Fine,” you whisper to no one in particular. “I’ll check off the three tasks on my to-do list. You’ll be proud of me.”

But as you stare at the phone, your thumb grazing over its screen, you know deep down that it’s not the tasks that need to be checked off.

It’s your heart.

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navybrat817 · 1 year ago

Text

The Dad Diaries: Welcome Home

Pairing: Dad!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky reflects on the first night with his son home and puts his thoughts to paper.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Fluff, reflecting, first time dad, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and a dad, okay?).

A/N: Welcome to The Dad Diaries! This AU will focus on Bucky and his relationship with his son (and you!) ❤️ Thanks to the beautiful @whisperlullaby for giving this intro a look and assuring me it wasn't garbage, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky stared intently at the open blank journal that sat in the middle of his office desk. He had picked up the pen a few minutes ago, but hadn’t written a single word. Why did he feel stuck? Better yet, what was he thinking by doing this? Reading often came easy to him, but writing? That was something else entirely.

It was also something he wanted to do.

He ran a hand over his face with a sigh and wondered if he should call it a night, crawl into bed with you, and try tomorrow. No, he didn’t want to push it off before he even began. Glancing at the monitor, he heard your voice in his head, a memory of something you told him in the early stages of dating:

The best writing comes from the heart. Write what you and your heart love because no one knows that story better than you.

Bucky had plenty of stories to tell. How he became a hero and a good man after years of pain and darkness. Or how he fell in love with you and became your husband.

And his newest adventure of becoming a father.

He wasn’t sure how to be a dad yet, but he knew he loved his son. That was more than enough to start. And with a smile tugging at his lips, he put the pen to paper.

Hey, Nugget,

My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call me Bucky. Your mom calls me her husband and I’m the luckiest man in the world for that, especially since she gave me the greatest gift I could ever ask for: you.

Your name is James, too. Your mom doesn't know if we’ll call you Jamie or JJ, but I have a feeling you'll hear a bit of both. And one day, I’ll get to hear you call me Dad. Or Dada or Daddy or Papa.

Whatever makes you happy.

He paused in his writing when he thought he heard something on the monitor. His eyes flickered to the screen again and he breathed a little easier when he saw that his baby was still sleeping soundly in the middle of the crib. It wouldn’t stop him from checking on him later, just to be on the safe side.

I’m so glad you’re home. In fact, tonight is your first night in the nursery. I hope you like it here. To quote Ralph Waldo Emerson: “A house is made with walls and beams: a home is built with love and dreams.”

Yeah, your old man likes to read. Maybe you will, too. I even have an original copy of The Hobbit and would love to give it to you when you're older.

Books lined the far wall of Bucky’s office, many of them worn from the amount of times he read them. He made sure Jamie’s room had a reading nook, too. It was one of the only things he asked for when the two of you designed the nursery.

I hope you get enough sleep tonight. Your mom, too. You both did great at the hospital and deserve all the rest you can get.

Would you believe me if I said I was a nervous wreck when I brought your mom in, but tried not to let it show? People call me strong, but I don’t think I ever witnessed true strength until I saw how steady of a rock she was. She blew me away, which didn't surprise me. She amazes me every day.

Hearing your first cry stopped my heart and brought tears of joy to my eyes. After nine months of waiting and talking to your mom’s stomach, you were finally here. And seeing her hold you made me fall in love all over again.

Sorry if that sounds sappy, but it’s true. She looked right at me with happy tears in her eyes and said, “Bucky, look! Look at what we made! It's our little Nugget!” and my heart swelled. She insisted on calling you that and it rubbed off on me. Believe me when I say that you are the luckiest baby in the world to have the mother that you do.

He stopped writing again to glance at his wedding band, smiling all over again. He thought your love filled his heart before, but it overflowed now. It warmed him like nothing else ever could.

You’re probably wondering why I’m writing this since a lot of time will pass by the time you read this. Sometimes I may write to remember things I’m afraid I’ll forget. Other days I’ll write to reflect and get the words out when my mind is too loud. But my hope is that this will be a gift to you.

A bond for the two of us.

As you grow, I’ll fill the pages with the memories of you and our family. I’ll tell you about my past and how it shaped me into the man I am today. How your mom and I met and how I somehow convinced her to fall in love with me. And I’ll be sure to tell you about the day she told me we were going to have you and how that news changed my life for the better.

He swallowed the lump in his throat before he continued.

I also plan to fill this with your milestones. Like your first smile. Is it selfish if I hope to see it first? If not me, your mom. She’d love that. Your first step. Being selfish again, but I hope it’s me you walk toward so I can pick you up and tell you how proud I am. And your first word. I hope it’s Mama.

Though I won’t object if you say Dada.

Bucky chuckled as he imagined the look of betrayal on your beautiful face if your son said “Dada” first instead of “Mama”.

I’m sure some days I’ll have more to say than others. If I’m lucky, I can pass on life lessons and words of wisdom. Some days though I may not say the right thing and I know I’ll stumble along the way as I figure out how to be the best dad to you. I say “best” and not “perfect” because perfection doesn’t exist. Except for you and your mom.

The beauty of it is that I don’t have to go it alone. I’ll have your mom by my side to help guide and protect you and to watch you flourish. And my hope is that you know as you look through the pages how much we love you.

Even on days I may not get it right, I’m your dad, you’re my son, and you’ll always have a home with me and a place in my heart.

I’ll write more when I can, Nugget. Until then, I love you.

Always,

Dad

Bucky set the pen down as he exhaled. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't have to be. It was a start. As long as he put his heart into his words, it would shine from the pages.

And he couldn't wait for all the adventures he’d have with his little Nugget.

I hope you lovelies are excited to take this journey with Bucky. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

900 notes · View notes

torawro · 4 months ago

Text

WHEN BLADES CLASH, SO DO HEARTS. ( r. z. )

roronoa zoro & bounty hunter!reader.

cw ━━ ! minors, ageless and blank blogs DO NOT INTERACT. reader is portrayed as a black woman who is on the thicker / curvier side but you do not have to imagine it that way ! you are free to imagine the reader how you wish. canon divergent au (lowkey implied post-timeskip -> zoro is still a bounty hunter and never became a pirate). bc it's canon divergent, zoro will have both eyes (i know, i know). mentions and descriptions of alcohol consumption. canon-typical violence (i.e., mentions of weapons). light(ish) descriptions of blood & injuries. so much [sexual] tension between reader and zoro that it's palpable. contains sexually explicit content including smut (descriptions of it from an omniscient pov). gets kinda poetic at the end but y’all already knew that was coming. somewhat proofread.

word count ━━ ! 4.8k

notes ━━ ! my first published one piece fic on my blog . . . you'd think the first one would be about law since my current theme revolves around him but alas, this swordsman was prominent in my mind…i did lose motivation at some point but i still pushed through. this fic was originally something i drafted up to serve as the prologue for a much longer fic i'm writing (no hints, sorry < 3). and i thought writing this purely for contextual purposes would help with that longer story, but in the process it just turned into something else all on its own skskkskks so this is a modified version of that blurb. obvs this is also my first time officially writing for zoro so i’m a little nervous and to be honest, i’m not sure if i even like how this turned out…..regardless, i hope i portrayed him well enough (pls be gentle with me) >< also wanna dedicate this fic to naj, a mutual of mine who became a friend, but unfortunately deactivated her blog some time ago. she's been helping me with this drabble and the longer story i plan to write and i really appreciate her. reblogs + commentary are GREATLY appreciated ♡!!!

SHAKING OFF THE GRAVELLY SAND that haphazardly clung to the fabric of your pants, with little effort and practiced precision, you swiftly returned a large metal rod back into a black carrying bag before swinging the straps over your right shoulder. Rolling your arms to relieve some of the tension that resided in them proved to be a little painful, leading you to conclude that you most likely pulled a muscle somewhere when fighting the unknown men who had just attacked you.

Said men were now lying unconscious on the ground, hardly breathing and within an inch of their lives.

You didn’t kill them ━no, of course not ━ that would be a fruitless endeavor. Besides, you were well aware that your energy would be well-spent elsewhere, like searching for the next poor soul that had a bounty looming over their head. You were like a hunting dog, the scent of your next target set in front of you by the wanted posters littered around in each city or island you traveled to. Much like how the grim reaper awaited in the shadow of someone who stood inches away from the gates of death, you too would bide your time until the right moment to strike.

You took pride in the fact that the glint of your weapon would be the last thing that reflected in the eyes of your target.

The end result of your fight, if you could even call it that, was as chilling as the evening breeze that was brought forth by the wading waves of the ocean. You have made your mark on the flesh of these men, reopening some old wounds and creating new ones that would certainly scar forever. On levels of the skin and of the spirit.

With a heavy sigh, you adjusted your bag again as you walked towards the cluster of little lights nestled beyond the trees, within them existed this main island’s largest town. Your facial muscles didn’t so much as twitch as the pointed heel of your boots dug into the skin of your unconscious assailants— thinking nothing of their drowsy, muffled grunts of pain or the stark contrast between stepping over doughy bodies versus stepping on the hard earth.

The waxing crescent moon only slightly illuminated the dirt road as you made your way to the populated village, occasionally swatting away a fly or two. Soon enough, the mouth of the semi-dense woods opened up to reveal a wide gravel road. Across the opening was a bridge that stood over a flowing stream, and beyond that was the town. It was a cluster of buildings of varying heights lined up neatly street by street.

Lamps hung on every corner, street pole and ledge that would allow it, bathing all that rested under them in a pale yellow glow. It was quite pretty at night if you were being honest; and judging by its looks and atmosphere, you were sure that they’d have a nice inn around somewhere.

But first, a drink. And some food, you added as an afterthought, but mostly a drink. Your body could use a bit of external help to unwind after spending the last few days at sea.

It didn’t take you all that long to find out where the town’s bar was located, and you wasted no time ascending the steps that led to the double swinging doors. The clacking of your boots against the wooden floors upon entering the establishment were more or less drowned out by the chatter of the rugged-looking individuals who more or less made themselves at home.

And yet, despite the dozens of conversations that bounced off the walls of the tavern, the stares of everyone whose line of vision you crossed seemed to be louder. Much louder than any fit of raucous laughter or profane shout that surrounded you.

Your ears were even able to pluck out a few conversations. Hushed inquiries of familiarity, musings of what could possibly be in that bag dangling on your back, how the pants you wore emphasized the fat of your ass just right━ all things you let roll off your back and pretended not to hear.

If it weren’t for your more reserved nature, you would have slashed that the throat of the man who made that salacious comment the moment it left his dried lips.

You took a random seat at the bar, not really paying attention to who sat on either side of you. Placing the cowboy-style hat you wore next to you and your belongings at your feet, you patiently awaited for the bartender to make her way down to where you sat.

As you waited, you crossed your legs, one fleshy thigh over the other, absentmindedly twirling one of the bulky silver rings that encased your middle finger as you wondered what drink you were in the mood for today.

It wasn’t until several moments later, when your body and mind stilled enough, that you’d take notice.

Something felt . . . weird. ‘Off’ was probably a better word for the strange weight that suspended itself over your muscles. Whatever it was, whatever feeling or presence you sensed, it had your fingers twitching towards your bag laying idly against the table. And it only continued to linger in the air as the minutes dragged by.

The sound of the barkeep’s voice pulled you back into the plane of reality and away from the realm of your overactive mind. “What’ll ya be having tonight, honey?” She was an older woman, probably around the age of fifty but looked much younger, had deeply tanned skin, and peppered black and white hair that was pulled into a bun and rested at the base of her neck.

“Hmmm . . . whatever your best cocktail is, I’ll just have that.”

With a nod and an amused smile at you allowing her to have free reign, the barkeep turned around, set a shaker aside, and got to work preparing a drink of her choice to serve to you.

Then, something flashed in your peripheral vision.

It was so fleeting that you could have easily dismissed it as nothing had you not been on somewhat high alert already. It flickered in the reflection of the metal canisters that sat along the back wall of the bar. And whatever it was managed to startle you enough to jump start the pulse in your chest into a panicked overdrive so fierce that you heard it in your ears.

The frantic beating of your heart never showed on your face, however━ your expression remained neutral. It needed to be for a woman in your line of work. Perhaps especially because you were a woman in your line of work.

Without any warning or indication, the cold sensation of polished steel licked and nipped at the warmth residing in your neck. The sharpened end of a blade rested on the jugular of your throat, pressed firmly enough that if you moved forward even a little bit, a stain from your blood would surely blossom on the katana.

“You…” a deep male voice spoke, sounding rough and rugged all around its edges. The rest of the pub seemed to fall silent at the man’s utterance of that one word, rather than his blatant display of threatening you with a sword. “Why are you here?”

Your eyes were the only thing that moved. Slowly, with a frosty gleam underlining your gaze, your eyes landed on the sword’s master, his name immediately flashing in your mind. His reputation as a bounty hunter sent a chill down the spines of both marines and pirates alike. Residents all over the four seas feared his name, and his name alone could cause people to question if the threads of their lives would be severed by the piercing edge of his sword.

“Roronoa Zoro….” Your tone was leveled and held an air of disinterest as you talked. You spoke as if you were tasting the very syllables of his name, taking the time to roll each combination of letters against your tongue. They tumbled from your lips with a smoothness you weren’t entirely opposed to━ it was almost pleasant, if you were being honest with yourself.

A practice you didn't normally engage in.

Upon identifying the swordsman aloud, a short wave of hushed gasps from the customers surrounding you filled the air. With speeds that almost seemed abnormal, the long metal pole resting in your black bag suddenly ended up in your grasp, one end of it hovering several inches away from Roronoa's neck; such speeds even caught the mint-haired swordsman off guard. “Getting a drink, of course. Isn’t it obvious?”

Before he could even part his lips to reply, the piercing shing! of steely iron being brandished cut through the thick tension that settled in between you. A long and heavily curved blade abruptly emerged from the blackened rod in your right hand, and oh so conveniently arced around Roronoa's neck, momentarily silencing him.

The weapon you carried was a scythe, one with a retractable blade meant to disarm your opponent’s perception and therefore hinder their judgment. A scythe that was reminiscent of the tool Death used to carry out his grisly duties of executing souls and dragging them to hell.

In this position with the scythe’s blade practically wrapped around his throat, if need be you could swiftly behead him, or at least mutilate him; judging by how quickly he unsheathed his katana, his reflexes were pretty sharp. Still, the potential ease of killing Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro— in addition to the mild bewilderment reflecting in his eyes and the patrons’ silent gasps once they pieced together who you were— caused your lips to tick upwards, but your countenance remained otherwise stoic.

“And I’m assuming you’re here for the same reason. That, or you just couldn’t get enough of me during our last battle, and you tracked me down for more.”

Your previously dry tone had somehow morphed into one with an airy lilt, followed by a quiet chuckle that bubbled in your chest when you saw Roronoa's brows twitch and deepen with ire at your subtly teasing words.

You were referring to the last time you saw the swordsman on some obscure island that took root in the Grand Line; an island whose name currently escaped your memory. With you being a bounty hunter as well, your job was the only reason why your paths have crossed so often, and why you have come to know Roronoa on a more personal level such as this. Each time your gazes clashed, it would always result in an inevitable battle, which indirectly fanned the flames of an unspoken competition between the two of you.

If his current expression was anything to go by, this bar may very well be your next battlefield. “You lost that fight, remember?” He emphasized his point by digging the sharp edge of his blade a little further into your neck, the increased pressure causing your eyebrow to all but twitch, “Or did I hit you too hard last time we fought, and now you’re suffering from long-term memory loss?”

The edges of an insufferable smirk curled at Roronoa's lips— one that conveyed his confidence in his abilities and matched the glint in his eyes that began to grow hungry for a brawl. And now, the corners of your own lips broke into a small, amused smile— or perhaps it would be more accurately referred to as a sneer— and you responded by mirroring his earlier movements.

Pressing the sharp end of your scythe into the back of his neck, the blade was met with the resistance of the corded muscle residing there, and your gaze eagerly drank in the brief glimmer of pain that was but a ripple across his arrogant expression.

“I didn’t lose that fight. It was a draw, at best. Seems like you must not remember the excessive blood loss on your end. But anyhow, tell me something pirate hunter…” You uncrossed your legs to stand up and took one step closer towards Roronoa, careful not to let his sword further nick your skin even though it was already dangerously close to you, “How many bounties have you collected since we last saw each other? Three? Two? One?”

Your voice descended further into a teasing whisper, and Roronoa's indignation only grew with each number you hurled at him.

The samurai didn’t take your tone lightly, and perceived your step forward as something of a challenge, one that his nerves and heart and bones pleasantly vibrated to the sound of. So he too took a step forward, away from the piercing curve of your scythe that hung behind him like a shadow.

Roronoa was a little taller than you were, so meeting his gaze meant angling your neck upwards whilst he simultaneously moved his face an inch closer to yours. “You think you’re hot shit, huh? Try five, sweetheart.”

Your nostrils flared involuntarily at his bold claim, and something . . . something warm prickled underneath your skin at his referral to you as sweetheart. For some reason, that word━ especially coming from his lips━ was a bit harder to ignore compared to other comments about you from this bar's patrons. And what they said was far more conflicting than a simple term of endearment; even if the 'endearment' in question was so obviously meant to be condescending.

“Is that right? You think you're such a badass, don't you?"

"That's 'cause I am."

Roronoa's mocking sneer was punctuated with a step forward into your space this time; any closer and the front of your clothes might graze each other. The swordsman pushed the boundaries once more by adding a little more force onto the grip of his katana, enough to finally break the bonds of your umber tinted skin.

A barely decipherable noise of amusement and veneration rumbled in his chest when your blood dripped on the length of his sword, but your reaction was nothing more than an involuntary clench in your facial muscles.

"Yeah?" You questioned him with a glare and a tilt of your head in the direction of his blade that uncomfortably sat at the opening of your skin. The tightness in your voice was meant to goad him, but it also contained the sparks of a challenge━ and of something else you didn't want to identify━ that ignited in the pit of your stomach with an increasing amount of fervor.

"Yeah." His voice descended a little lower into a place that killed the next sentence on the tip of your tongue.

Your eyes then narrowed as you held Roronoa's taupe gaze, his overconfident words floated in the silent air between you like a speck of smoldering ash, ready to burst into something more intense and fierce the moment it touched the ground.

Then you shifted your cold gaze elsewhere, opting to let it lazily roam around the room. Everyone was staring at the both of you with uneasy expressions and anxious stares. You could tell that even at the slightest movement from either you or the swordsman would cause the panic bubbling beneath their skin to flood forth in waves.

If there was one thing about you, you preferred to be to discreet. It made your job a whole lot easier, and more enjoyable in the long run.

A hummed vibrated behind your plump lips and your glare returned to his. "Let's take this outside, swordsman. I'd hate to ruin this nice lady's establishment with scuff marks and your blood."

Roronoa huffed a scoff, the amused smirk from before uncurled into something more animalistic. "That's funny. But sure, I'm down. When I defeat you and spill your blood on the ground, it'll make perfect fertilizer for those little plants I saw outside."

You huffed at his cocky attitude and accompanied it with a roll of your eyes. Your stare pierced him for a moment longer before you rescinding it, along with your scythe that was still outstretched towards him. The mint haired swordsman followed suit after another beat or so.

"That's about as likely as a fish growing legs and walking on land." Your voice was thick with sarcasm as you fished out a cotton pouch from your bag; it was small in size, but heavy with Berry. As you slipped out a couple of bills to pay for the drink that sat idly forgotten at your seat, another hand forcefully placed several bills down on the counter.

That hand belonged to Roronoa. You had to force yourself from letting your irises linger too long, or else you'd start thinking about how rugged, calloused, and veiny it looked.

With a newfound general annoyance at both him and yourself, you proceeded to present the bills to the bartender, who looked as if she was one muscle twitch away from ducking under the table behind the counter. You offered something similar to a sympathetic smile to assuage whatever she was feeling.

"Don't bother." Roronoa called out.

When you turned around to greet his voice, he was sheathing the sword that he previously drawn and made his way to the entrance of the pub.

"What are you talking about?" As you inquired, the swordsman still allowed his back to face you, hardly pausing to properly address you.

"I said, don't bother." he repeated in a stern tone, as if that was going to elucidate exactly what he meant, "Now come on. I'm itching to cut you down so I can go lay down."

And without adding anything further, Roronoa eventually exited the bar and disappeared behind the doors.

You were starting to lose count of how many times you narrowed your eyes at the green-haired man, but your stare━ both equal parts vexed and confused━ rested on the doors he had just walked through as if glaring at them long or hard enough would summon him again.

With a sigh, you turned back to the thin stack of Berry he left on the table, eyeing it suspiciously. You weren't sure what he ordered or how much of it, but it look like quite a bit of money he'd just randomly tossed next to you.

Was he insinuating . . . . that he paid for both of your drinks? Could this be what he meant when he told you not to bother, because he already covered it? Such a gratuitous act of kindness, something seemingly so simple caused that weird fluttering to bounce against the walls of your stomach again.

Picking up your bag, you continued to poke and dissect his actions in an attempt find meaning in them as you tipped the barkeep, once more ignoring the stares of nearly every person in that building as you left.

The moment your heeled boots dug themselves into the ground, your peripheral vision was bombarded with something being swung in your direction at high speeds. Before you could even process what it was, you instinctively leapt out of the way, your neck jerking backwards to further avoid the object.

A grunt filled your ears, already knowing the origin of the sound. "Nice reflexes."

You exhaled an exasperated breath of air, turning your gaze to meet that of the mint-haired swordsman who had begun to unsheathe a second sword out of the three scabbards hanging from his hip.

"Can I at least breathe first? Set my stuff down perhaps?" You asked wryly, almost unimpressed, but you didn't waste any time removing the straps of your bag to set it down on a nearby barrel, still cursing the pirate hunter under your breath all the same.

"Didn't know you were that eager to eat dirt." The familiar hiss of your scythe's blade erecting from the rod sent a pleasurable chill up your arms. You held your weapon tightly at your side, your grasp around its length tightening ever still when Roronoa began to square his stance. Even when you were several feet away from him, you could still clearly see the crease in his brows becoming more prominent; he began to resemble some kind of beast.

But that glimmer in his eyes held no real fire in them━ at least not the one that would lead to anger; one could even say it was one of wild excitement. The swordsman already knew his thirst for a worthwhile fight would be sufficiently quenched once more.

"Shut up." With a grunt, Roronoa pushed off the balls of his feet to launch himself into a powerful sprint towards you. It was clear he wanted to close as much distance between the two of you as quickly as possible. His movements were reminiscent of his brief display of swordplay earlier in the bar, where he was one swipe away from slitting your throat.

He was fast, but the gritty and often dangerous nature of your job honed your reflexes to be faster.

Your spine bended as you briskly leaned backwards to dodge the double swipe of Roronoa's katanas. The sound of the sharp blades cutting through the very air around you. With it only inches away from your nose, it was enough to replace the blood pumping through your veins with pure adrenaline.

Using the momentum from your quick dodge, you allowed your back to curve into a bridge and kicked upwards into a backflip to move out of the way━ the corners of your lips twitched into a satisfied grin when you felt your foot collide with his jaw and chin.

Once you were upright again, you wasted no time lunging forward in a sprint, you body much lower to the ground than Roronoa's was. Your plan was to slash his legs to throw him off balance, but that plan quickly evaporated like smoke due to his quick recovery and immediate realization of what you were doing.

"Tch." Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in annoyance when the swordsman was able to leap in the air in time to avoid your attack. He was high enough that you had to crane your neck to see. With that much height, the next blow was sure to be one with quite a bit of force behind it.

"Two-Swords Style, Nigiri...." The swordsman's orotund voice descended far from where he was suspended in midair, and you braced yourself for his next attack, "....Tower Climb Return!"

The following clash of piercing steel against metallic iron was deafening, swallowing up any other noise that reverberated around you. The sheer impact of Roronoa's attack created a thin ring of dust that encircled both your figures and violently buzzed against the pole of your scythe.

You gritted your teeth to remain footed into the ground, but the force was too much, and that shit-eating grin nearly unfurling at his lips was too annoying. It shook the steadiness in your legs and caused you to tumble back by several yards. By steeling your thighs and calves you willed yourself not to fall, huffing with effort and frustration.

It hadn't even been that long since you've last fought Roronoa, could he really have made noticeable improvements in a short amount of time?

Regardless of the answer, you weren't about to allow him the chance to prove himself.

The both of you then darted at each other again, your motions a bit more cutthroat this time, and a newborn determination to strike down the pirate hunter further fed the burning adrenaline that coursed through your body.

Reaching your arm backwards, you performed a horizontal slash that Roronoa parried almost instantly. With effortless control and graceful dexterity, you reached both arms behind your back and twirled your scythe between your fingers, shifting the weapon from one hand to the other, and attempted to cut him again.

He blocked that attack as well, the tip of the blade just inches away from his left eye. You saw something moving fast in your peripheral vision, and immediately jumped backwards to avoid the katana that was about to release your intestines from the confines of your stomach.

It was always a pain fighting Roronoa because he wielded multiple swords at once, which means battles with him were more drawn out than they needed to be.

You lunged at him once more, and began to administer a barrage of horizontal, vertical and diagonal slashes in rapid succession. Your constant switching from one hand to the other, in addition to its length and the impressive control you exerted over your limbs, you were able to create a variety of fluid, long and short-range attack patterns, barely allowing Roronoa enough time to parry.

The moss-haired swordsman was keeping up with the relentless flurry of your attacks quite well━ for a short while at least. Roronoa lost himself in his own inner monologue of searching for an opening wide enough to immobilize you, and before long, a red cut blossomed on his semi-exposed chest, the injury lazily drooling blood.

The amount of cuts both deep and shallow began to increase, tearing his skin asunder under the weight of your blows. Your scythe repeatedly made contact with the elongated ha of his katana as well as his tanned flesh, but it wasn't enough to deter him completely.

It should have been though, but the many encounters you've had with Roronoa reminded you that he was no ordinary man.

Within that bombardment of the numerous slices and projectile slashes of your scythe Roronoa had found a millisecond of respite, and used that brief pause to leap backwards and put some distance in between you two.

You weren't able to hear the aching cry from the muscles in your arms until after you halted your attack, but the adrenaline flickering in your gaze still raced around your irises unceasingly. Roronoa's own gaze was hard and unyielding, glistening with something you couldn't discern from where you stood. But even so, your body somehow knew to feel like malleable putty under his stare; it's as if it was instinctual.

And again your blades clashed against one another, a steady rhythm rose from the cacophony of noises that were generated from your battle with the swordsman. Your laborious breaths became synchronized with each other, heavy and full of effort. The thin splatters of blood became homogeneous with each other as the both of you took turns cracking each other's skin open. Your limbs moved about and against his in a deft fashion and every nerve in your body reacted to his.

So much so, you didn't even realize when it happened.

Your duel with Roronoa had been in the forefront of your mind entirely that you hadn't actively processed the moment when your ragged breaths turned to breathy pants. Nor did you realize the moment it was no longer a scythe and katanas clashing, but wet lips and warm extremities instead. That same glint that shimmered in your eyes all evening never faded even then; it still twinkled through the murky mist of lust that clouded yours and Roronoa's vision.

Whenever your eyes collided with that of Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro, an inescapable battle would always ensue━ it was tried and true, and it felt more like a promise. It was also true, although not externally expressed, that your fight with the mint-haired man was one that neither of you even wanted to evade.

With each brawl you learned something new about Roronoa, and you were repeatedly met with the reality and veracity of his skills, his reputation full-force. And when your brawl eventually led to the languid but hungry removal of each other's clothes, you learned more about Zoro, and the emotions hiding underneath his taut and rugged body. This learning curve was both all-consuming and tenderhearted, and you couldn't help but shiver at the fact you were the only one who could witness it.

And what good is a fight if he didn't learn from and about his opponent as well? Each new thing he unearthed about you was an incentive to further indulge your soft and fleshy curves, and observe how they seamlessly molded with firm, corded muscle. Completely unexpected, Zoro had become utterly fascinated with the warmth that resided under your icy, expressionless glare.

And when Zoro peeled back a new layer, when his lips hovered over an uncharted area of your skin━ hot, breathy, filled with groans of expletives intertwined with your name━ when the grip of his calloused fingers and his heavy cock simultaneously dug deeper into you, one leg dangling haphazardly off his shoulder, when your bodies meshed just like that, you moaned━ you knew you didn't want to stop fighting with him.

Again and again and again with each thrust, each roll of his hips, each sightless grope of your body, you knew you would gladly continue participating in this unspoken competition. You'd proudly don cuts and bruises if it meant you and you alone could have Roronoa Zoro like this. You'd keep at it with enthusiasm if it meant that your hearts would always collide so wholly with each other, not being able to tell where his ended and yours began.

( # ) @icy-spicy @godjo @tetzoro @triangularz @pookiesatoru

#໒꒱ newborn stand ─ sosa’s filez #one piece #op fanfic #roronoa zoro #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #one piece x reader #one piece zoro #one piece smut #black fem reader #zoro x black reader #zoro x female reader #roronoa zoro smut #op smut #one piece x black!reader #zoro x black fem reader #wow it feels so weird posting after a long while that i almost forgot how to do this LMAO

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alieinthemorning · 6 months ago

Text

Low Temperatures [Sylus]

Content: Fluff, Established Relationship, Sick Character, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert

Pronouns: None

Reblogs: Let me know that you enjoy my work and want to see more, so don’t forget to like and reblog (and comment in the tags. I love seeing people’s rambles in the tags)!

This work’s concepts, plot and original characters are my own which means I do not allow any sort of creative theft nor do I allow my work to be entered into any sort of A.I. bots. Thank you for respecting my space and boundaries.

“Why is it so cold in here?” The moment your bare feet grazed the marble floor of Sylus’ room, a sharp chill ran up and down your body.

“Did you know that you should sleep with the room temperature at between sixty and seventy-two degrees?”

“So fucking freezing and freezing?” You padded your way over to the thermostat, turning it up to 75. “Don’t touch it.”

“It’s my thermostat.” You rolled your eyes at Sylus’ pout, heading over to the bed.

“Well now it’s our thermostat since I’m sleeping in here tonight.” Throwing the covers back, you flopped down.

You should have known simple words wouldn’t have stopped Sylus. You should have walked out the moment he brought up that cold ass “correct” temperature bullshit. All you wanted was sleep, a quick rest, a simple rest of the eyes. But now here you were, cold, cranky, and cuddled up against the culprit.

“Why is it so fucking cold?” Your voice was rough, you sure were sick.

“It feels quite comfortable to me.” Despite being burrowed deep in the covers, you could hear the smug smile. “You were holding onto me so tightly…am I to assume it was because you were cold and nothing else?”

“Shut up—” Your words became a wet, garbbed mess of coughs.

You felt Sylus shift closer. “Are you seriously sick?”

“Did you seriously touch my shit when I told you not to?” Another string of harsh coughs.

Silence blanketed the room, for once he had nothing to say. You untangled yourself from the blankets, making your way to the thermostat. You could feel Sylus’ gaze on your back, but you ignored it.

It was at 62 degrees.

You headed for the door.

He didn’t try to stop you.

You hated being sick. You hated being away from home, and sick. You especially hated being away from home, sick and living under the same roof as the person who made you sick as a fucking gotcha (or whatever).

“Man, you’re weak.”

“Yeah, sixty-two degrees isn’t even all that cold.”

“Get out.”

You were not in the mood for Luke and Kieran shenanigans because if they were gonna shenan once, they would shenan again.

“No can do.”

“The boss gave us explicit orders to watch over you.”

You groaned (mistake, turned in another bad cough), and rolled your eyes. “Then watch me quietly. I want to sleep.”

“But you’ve been doing nothing but sleeping this entire time.” Kieran pointed.

“And that’s boring.” Luke agreed with a nod.

“Yeah, we should—”

A ping cleared the air, cutting Kieran off. Luke slipped his phone from his pocket, glancing at the message.

“It’s boss. He wants to see us.”

“Really? I thought we had the day off.”

“Good, hurry up and don’t come back.” You would have physically pushed them out, but your body was aching, so you hoped a fierce glare was enough to get them moving.

It wasn’t. They took their sweet ass time leaving your room, but at least they were nice (see: being a nuisance) enough to turn the lights off as they left.

Finally, peace and quiet. Well, peace, quiet and pain. But with a commentary video on in the background, you were able to lull yourself to sleep.

The next few days went by slowly, and uneventful. The twins never came back after Sylus had called for them. You were both grateful and a bit annoyed (you would have liked to have a bit of entertainment as you were getting better). Then you were fully recovered, and the twins still hadn’t reared their masked heads. You rolled your eyes, turning on your heel and headed for the reason why.

Entering the room, you immediately beelined it for the thermostat.

It was set to 75 degrees.

You headed for the bed.

He didn’t try to stop you nor move from his spot.

You snuggle into the bed, happy with the comfort that surrounded you. You were content with the silence, not really expecting him to speak to you, and you weren’t willing to extend the olive branch. But then he spoke,

“I’m sorry.” He sighed, as his book clapped shut. “For disregarding your words, and getting you sick.”

You let the apology settle in the air for a moment before responding. “I don’t like that you did that—I’ve got a weak constitution.” You paused, toying with your bottom lip. “...but I should have told you that before just changing something and expecting you not to change it back. So I’m sorry too.”

“Now that we’ve both gotten the apologies out of the way,” You felt him lean over you, “Will you return to the bedroom?”

“Oh? Was someone lonely without me?”

His lips grazed your ear. “Of course I was.”

“Oh.” You shuddered. “What should we do about our loneliness then?”

“I can think of a few things.”

For the first time ever

NSFW Continuation

Everyone thank my friend and Sylus for this.

Ko-Fi | Commission | Masterlist

#alie ficlets #alie ficlets: love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #sylus x reader #lads x reader #lads sylus x reader

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lilmissbacon · 2 months ago

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Rotg world building — Thoughts and theories

This was originally just going to be a reblog to THIS post but then I ended up going down a rabbit hole of my thoughts and opinions, so it became too annoyingly long for peoples/my preference.

Most of the post really expresses how I've always viewed the world of spirits in Rotg. The only thoughts I'm not really a fan of is the idea of some spirits not having physical forms and just being like big storms. Because what's the point of humanoid spirits being invisible to humans if they have no physical forms to other spirits as well?

I never saw Jack talking to the wind as the wind being an active spirit, I saw it as him just being so lonely he'd pretend the wind was alive to not feel so alone. After all, he only addressed the wind 1 time, if it were an actual being I feel like it'd be addressed more than once. Especially when Jack needed to get out of Antarctica: why would he need to fix his staff to fly out if the wind could've just picked him up unless he was the one making the wind? And like the post linked above said, the comics are unofficial. They're cool and I love them but they're not canon.

I do love the idea of their being 2 generations of spirits. Pre-MiM and post-MiM where the legends of Gods and myths are tales of the original spirits mistaken for higher deities and distorted over time. After all MiM wasn't always there (at least in the books) so how were their seasons/seasonal spirits on earth before him unless they were just natural to earth?

Plus it's made apparent through Sandy's death in Rotg that spirits are not 100% immortal, just non-aging. I think there is an open window for spirits to come back like Sandy did, if an influx of enough people believe, Tinkerbell style. But after maybe a year or so, that window is closed, that spirit is full on dead and that spirit needs to be replaced to keep the world in balance. So there could've been hundreds of spirits that have been lost but then replaced by MiM. I also think only magic can kill spirits, since Jack managed to fall from like 300+ feet in the final battle and walk it off without so much as a limp. Like, it still hurt, he clearly felt the pain, but he could still run, jump, throw hands and everything. He only groaned like he tripped down a small set of stairs.

Guardians are the only ones who could die without belief due to the vow they take. I feel like that vow tying their lives to belief could've actively been like an insurance policy to insure that the Guardians stay true and keep doing their jobs to fulfill childhood. It may be controlling and borderline manipulative for MiM to make them do that but I'm sure we're all in agreement that he is pretty gray as a character in the movie when you really think about it. And I could even see where he's coming from with this idea. After all, who knows how many spirits he may have made thinking they were good people, only for them to go dark and become evil. I'm sure MiM would hold a lot of guilt whenever those bad spirits hurt others or even feel at fault for making these decent people, eventual villains. Besides the Guardians know they could die if they lose belief when they make the vow, so it's not like MiM tricked them, that's consented. The Guardians just forgot to tell Jack that.

Now, I always saw "Spirit Society" as all spirits know of each other and word always gets around when new ones are made. I don't think there's a hidden city or village (other than maybe Santoff Clausen if it's even still around. And only for some of them, it wouldn't be big enough for all spirits in my mind) but rather they make homes for themselves and just cross paths with each other all the time. Kinda like the countryside; everyone's homes are far apart, but you still see each other in stores or at work.

I'm not quite sure how the news and knowledge would spread between spirits so often unless they were either all huge gossips or had yearly meets or something. But you know what, I'd be willing to bet that there are a few "messenger" spirits similar to Hermes in Greek myth, that just fly everywhere, spreading word for other spirits to make sure everyone is in the loop.

In my mind, Bunny's aggression early in the movie was meant to kinda show how most spirits saw Jack. After all, he's the only one who didn't feel like he'd be super recluse due to his job as he's the only one who doesn't work all year-round.

Unless he's a complete hermit, what is he doing for the rest of the year other than going out and hanging with other spirits?

I think most spirits hate Jack for being a troublemaking spirit that honed the deadliest season. That could just be my angst fanfic brain making things up but why else would Jack be so desperate to look towards humans to connect with unless he has tried with other spirits who could see him and was only met with backlash?

'Cause I have seen a few people complain that the ending of the movie contradicted Jack's arc of wanting to be seen only to leave the few believers he'd finally made. But that was never the point. He has what I like to call a fake-out arc; where it's said he wants one thing but his actual goal is different. He asks why he can't be seen, he tries his best to get people to believe in him, but he's doing it in an effort to find a family.

He mentions how no one can see him but he's more devastated over why he was left alone. That's his main question in this scene. He doesn't outwardly ask why he's alone specifically, but asking MiM "why" just after he was looking so longingly at Jamie's family is clearly meant to insinuate that that is what he really wants. He may even be telling himself it's just to be seen because he's been alone for so long that he just wants the bare fucking minimum. That's why the end of Rotg is still satisfying despite leaving his new believers, because being seen was never truly the end goal, it was finding a family and he finally found that in the other Guardians.

He clearly believed that he couldn't be accepted by other spirits, so he looked to humans to find that connection and getting to be seen by them was just a first step towards that goal.

It's the same thing in Tangled (because I have encountered someone who thought Rapunzel was one-dimensional for just wanting to see lights 😮‍💨) Rapunzel sang and always told Gothel + Eugene that she just wanted to see the floating lights, but the moment she steps out of her tower she starts singing in exhilaration about how she can finally go running, dancing, jumping and splashing. She never even mentions the lights. It had nothing to really do with the lights, she just wanted to leave her tower and explore the world. Seeing the lanterns was just her externalized and internalized excuse because she wanted to feel less awful for going against her 'mother'. Her wanting to explore the world was then more blatantly explored in Tangled the Series.

Edit: Pitch even straight up mentions about longing for a family when trying to sympathize with Jack and it's that very line that makes Jack lower is guard. Not the line about not being believed in, longing for a family. Jack even looks super sympathetic for him.

After Pitch killed Sandy, after witnessing first hand the belief fading from all the kids around the world and being framed for Easter's failure, possibly ruining Jack's relationship with the Guardians, Jack still feels bad for Pitch in this moment. That's why Jack lets Pitch say his piece in this scene despite knowing that he was never going to join him (you can tell he was never buying into Pitch's words and Jack didn't hesitate to refuse). He was even willing to try and just walk away after refusing his offer rather than keep fighting. Because he understands that desperation of wanting to be loved by just being seen and/or heard.

That's part of what makes him such a good layered character: the fact that he always used mischief in an effort to try and be seen, similar to when kids act out to get their parents attention. It leads the other spirits to think that he's nothing more than a troublemaker (and even audience as well, the amount of mis-characterization I've seen people make of Jack, istg) when in reality he's actually a very respectful, emotional, sweet and even responsible person that does know when to stop being silly. Jack never played around when actual danger came around, the only time he did was a one quip to Sandy because he was nervous and in the final battle when he realized being funny takes away Pitch's control.

And even then it was brief, after the kids started turning the sand gold again, Jack went right back into serious battle mode.

Kinda shows how not really mischievous Jack truly is when it takes him so long to realize that being fun can weaken Pitch. Because he's not really a trickster, he doesn't even really pull many pranks, he's just playful. But he had been cranking that up to 11 for the past 300 years in an effort to be seen, he inadvertently kept deterring other spirits away, who may had already not liked him just for being an ice based spirit. After all, whenever Bunny wanted to take a stab at Jack it was either at his invisibility or for his ice. Granted that could just be because Bunny himself just doesn't like the cold or even strictly because Jack made that blizzard on Easter but then again, we never got to see that for ourselves. We don't know if Jack even did that on purpose or not.

Last note; I don't think any other spirits died to become spirits like Jack did. It's my personal headcanon that the reason Jack couldn't remember his past is because he's the only one who had actively died before MiM got the chance to turn him. Though for all we know there could be a few others who also forgot their pasts. If there are, Jack clearly never got the chance to ask.

The way this kinda diverged into a mini Jack Frost character analysis though 😅

#rotg #jack frost #rise of the guardians #spirit world #thoughts #supposed to be a reblog

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sundrop-writes · 1 year ago

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Picture Perfect

(Perv)Sub!Mike Schmidt x Dom!Fem!Reader

Summary:

You and Mike have been dating for a few months now, and you have a great thing going. You're both very horny people who are more than happy to indulge in your desires with each other. So why is it that you find him hiding a dirty picture from you when you catch him masturbating one morning?

(Perv)Sub!Mike Schmidt x Dom!Fem!Reader. Established Relationship. Smut. Takes place outside the movie's canon.

Word Count: 5,100

Horror Characters Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: This is primarily a smut fic; this can be read with or without considering the events of the film, and has no spoilers for the plot of the movie. There are dom/sub dynamics here - Mike is more submissive and the reader is more dominant; because this is a pre-established relationship, the characters have been settled into these dynamics for a while and even though it's not discussed during the fic, we can assume they have established safewords and fully talked about each other's boundaries so everyone is safe and well cared for; she reader has female anatomy, and uses she/her pronouns (but with all my fics, most of the pronouns used are you/yours); this fic does use Y/N.

For the main smutty parts: some dubious consent - Mike took a picture of the reader’s underwear/up the reader’s skirt before they were dating (when she was sleeping and could not consent) she was physically attracted to him at the time and would have consented to the photo being taken if he could have asked and finds the idea of this happening to be hot but he never asked permission and hid this from her well into their relationship; the reader finds this photo and ‘punishes’ Mike for it even though she likes the photo and enjoys his perverted thoughts about her; descriptions of masturbation - Mike jacks-off when the reader is not looking/not in the room and she walks in on him; mentions of Mike being gagged; mentions of Mike being tied up and overstimulated (multiple orgasms); mentions of Mike eating the reader’s pussy; Mike is called ‘good boy’, ‘Mikey’, ‘baby’; mentions of the reader riding Mike, mentions of creampie kink; mentions of orgasm restriction (toward Mike); marking kink - mentions of the reader biting/marking Mike during a previous sexual encounter; Perv!Mike; mentions of sexual photos being taken with consent (of the reader and of Mike); hair-pulling (towards Mike); thigh riding - Mike rides the reader's thigh as his punishment; mentions of a cock cage (not actually used in the fic); mild pain kink; some descriptions of subspace (even though it’s not called that in the fic); degradation kink (the reader verbally degrades Mike); mentions of spanking; undertones of humiliation kink; mentions of underwear stealing (Mike stole a pair of the reader’s panties in the past); (mild) Mommy kink - Mike calls the reader Mommy (once or twice, it’s not all that prevalent in the fic); finger sucking.

A/N: Here, I did go far beyond what was in the original request, but I saw the mention of Polaroid pictures in the request and my mind immediately went to perv!Mike?? I’m not even sure why. But I had fun with this lmao. And I keep thinking of writing a kind of ‘prequel’ fic of the situation where he originally took the photo, but idk. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it! If you want to see more Mike Schmidt fics from me, definitely let me know by reblogging this or commenting on it.

...

When you got out of the shower, the last thing you were expecting to hear was the distinct sound of moans coming from the bedroom.

Not that you were at all disappointed by the needy, choked off sounds that your boyfriend Mike made. You were just… surprised.

After the night the two of you had before, the fact that Mike had the desire to masturbate was surprising to say the least.

You thought that you would have tired him out and left his cock sore and worn out for at least a good day to follow. It had been a rare night when the two of you had the house all to yourselves - Abby was sleeping over at a friend’s place (Mike often credited you with Abby being more open and sociable and feeling up to doing things like this where she wouldn’t have before) - and so, you had certainly taken advantage of that. You enjoyed a night where you could get him in bed without having to gag him or shove his face into a pillow in order to assure his silence.

You had indulged in his sounds, in fact.

You had spent the night with him tied to the bed, curious about how many times you could make him cum before his body outright gave up. The answer to that burning question was four, which was a record for him. After the forth orgasm spurted up over his belly, covering him in even more mess, you continued to milk him through it and his softening dick gave you nothing but pathetic clear drips of non-cum - he wept and begged you to stop, threatening that he might pass out from the efforts.

With the satisfaction of the answer under your belt, and taking in the sight of him so debauched one last time, you finally untied him. And then he spent some time between your thighs, enjoying a reward for being such a good boy, shoving his tongue deep inside of you while the morning sun warmed the curtains, signifying that the two of you had truly been at it all night.

The two of you eventually slept for a few hours in the morning. After waking up from the haze, you had peeled yourself out from under his heavy grip on your waist when you read the numbers on the digital clock sitting on his nightstand, seeing that it was almost noon - Abby would need to be picked up from her friend’s house soon, and you wanted a shower while Mike was still asleep.

The last thing you were expecting was to emerge from the shower to the sounds of him getting off yet again. One thing you knew for certain since you had started fucking him - he was insatiable. He was seemingly always horny the moment that he got you behind closed doors. (And often, he couldn’t even wait to get you behind closed doors - something you loved, even if it was inconvenient.) But you thought that a night like last night would tire out the libido of someone even as horny as him.

But you liked a challenge.

If he wanted his cock to be truly sore, if he wanted his balls so thoroughly drained - then you would pin him to the bed and ride him with harshness and haste before you had to go pick Abby up. It would be a waste of a shower, but you usually found the feeling of his cum sticking to the inside of your underwear to be a fond one.

“Mikey,” You called out the playful nickname as you walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

You had a towel wrapped around your chest - mostly to keep the chill of the air off you and to keep your wet body from dripping all over the carpet. Modesty wasn’t really a thing between you and Mike, not when you were so intensely familiar with each other’s naked bodies now.

At the sound of your voice, Mike let out a choked sound, and you saw his movements pause - which was entirely strange. It’s not like you hadn’t seen his naked cock before. It’s not like you hadn’t seen him masturbate before - several times, you had him do so just for your viewing pleasure.

If he wasn’t allowed to touch himself as a punishment, you always told him so very clearly. But last night, you made no such rule. You simply expected that he wouldn’t want to after the thorough fucking you had given him. So you had to wonder why he was trying to hide from you.

You walked to stand on his side of the bed, and he stared at you with wide, startled eyes, covering his hard cock with both hands. The sheet was draped around his thighs, revealing his nakedness, as well as showing off the many purpling bite marks that you had left on his chest, stomach, hips and thighs the night before. He was an absolutely perfect picture of sweet debauchery that you would hold fondly in your mind forever.

“Baby, what are you doing?” You inquired gently, entirely curious as to why he had stopped. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

“I - I thought you would be in the shower… longer.” He breathed out, pure guilt on his voice. It was almost adorable, seeing how he could go from fucked-out and begging to completely shy about his own desires.

“I would have invited you to join me in the shower if I knew you wanted more,” You chuckled, stepping forward and running your fingers through his hair, petting him like the sweet puppy that he was. “Needy little thing, aren’t you?”

Mike leaned into the touch, closing his eyes - the surge of soft pleasure that your simple touch pushed through him caused his arms to go loose, dropping away from shielding his crotch. This made him inadvertently drop something onto the sheets that he had been hiding from you in his closed fist.

You noticed the ruffle of what sounded like paper and saw the object fall out of the corner of your eye. So you abandoned gently stroking your fingers across his scalp in favor of investigating what it was.

Mike’s eyes widened in horror and he froze up, completely stiff as you picked up the polaroid picture, and raised it up to get a better look at it.

Immediately, you knew it was a picture of yourself.

You knew that Mike had a collection of dirty shots of you. It had only been a few weeks into your sex life when he had pulled out the camera and shyly asked to take pictures of you. You had bargained that he could take as many as he wanted, if you could take some photos of him in return. He kept his pictures of you in a shoebox under his bed and you kept yours in a special jewelry box on your vanity.

But this picture wasn’t one that you recognized.

It was your ass - a shot of your dress pulled up from behind, revealing you wearing a simple pair of cotton panties (not something you would have worn for the other ‘photoshoots’, not some impressive lingerie). In the photo, your legs were lazily parted, revealing the way the underwear was slightly caught between the lips of your cunt, even showing your pubes sticking out slightly from the fabric. If you weren’t mistaken, based on the color, that was Mike’s couch you were laying on.

But when had the photo been taken?

“Look, Y/N, please, I’m so sorry-” Mike swallowed harshly, desperate to get some air into his lungs as he begged for your forgiveness. “You were just so pretty - and - and - I couldn’t help myself. I know it was awful, just - please, please, don’t be mad.”

That was when it clicked in your mind.

You recognized the pattern on the fabric of your dress. You had worn it on the first night you had babysat Abby for Mike - back when the two of you weren’t even dating yet. That night, you had fallen asleep on the couch after you put Abby to bed. And later in the night, you thought nothing of it when you saw Mike’s polaroid camera sitting on a random side table when it hadn’t been there before. It hadn’t even crossed your mind as suspicious after he had woken you up, thanked you for helping out, and let you out the front door for the night.

That dirty little pervert.

You resisted the urge to grin at this realization, putting on a stony face and faking anger. You couldn’t have him thinking that this action would pass without punishment. Even if you heavily enjoyed the idea of being a perverted little admirer of you before the two of you even got together.

You reached over and put your hand on the back of his head, this time digging sharp nails into his hair in a fierce, unforgiving grip instead of petting him so gently. He winced as this, and you noticed a distinct bit of precum weeping out of his still hard cock at the action. You yanked on his head harshly, forcing him to look up at you while you turned the photo around and shoved it in his face.

Instinctively, knowing that it would likely only make his punishment worse to oggle over his mistakes, he looked you dead in the eyes, resisting the temptation to stare at your ass in the photo.

“When did you take this?” You asked, already knowing the answer, but wanting him to say it. To emphasize your words, you yanked on his hair again and jabbed the picture closer to his face.

He breathed out harshly, but didn’t fight against your grip, keeping his large, glossy, guilty eyes staring up at you.

“Look, I know I did a bad boy thing, I know it was bad, but please, please, I’ll make it up to you.” He begged so beautifully. “I’ll be a good boy, I’ll be a good boy for you, I promise.”

His words were pitched soft with need, and it was a unique tone that made your stomach clench. As tempting as the offer was, you couldn’t go soft on him now.

“Answer the question!” You pressed, tugging his neck back even harsher with your grip on his hair.

“It - it was a long time ago!” He rushed to answer. “I - I shouldn’t have done it, I know that! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

“Why did you do it if you knew it was bad?” You asked.

This was the most interesting question to you. The thing you were most curious about.

You wondered why Mike felt the need to invade your privacy with something like this when you simply would have given in to his advances if he had asked.

You had been attracted to Mike since you met him. The entire reason you had taken on the job of babysitting his sister was because you found him to be so intensely attractive, and you wanted to get to know him better. At the time, he was someone who seemed shy and generally anti-social, you yearned to be closer to him. That night, if you had woken up and caught him staring at your panties, you probably would have taken them off and given them to him as a gift just to see his reaction.

You were too curious to know why he felt that he had to sneak such a dirty photo of you and to this day, even after all that the two of you had done together - still kept that photo a secret.

“I - I -”

Mike’s whining stutters were cut off by the sound of the phone ringing.

You heaved out a sigh and let go of him. On your way along to answer it, you shoved the photo into your purse, which was sitting open on his dresser. He was curious as to why you chose to keep it from him rather than destroying it. He heard your voice brightly from down the hall as you answered the phone and spoke to whoever it was on the other end, and he tattered with nerves as he heard you walking back down the hall.

“Get dressed.” You barked at him when you reentered the bedroom. “We have to go pick Abby up. We’ll finish talking about this later.”

Later. That certainly left a lovely slice of doom hanging over his head.

You had your back turned to him, picking clothes out of the drawer he had cleared for you in his dresser (one step closer to you moving in, he had thought wistfully while moving your stuff into that drawer) - but this left one thing on his mind.

“Okay.” Mike croaked quietly. “How should I-?”

He trailed off, and you turned back around with a tee shirt and panties in your hand to see him loosely gripping his still hard cock, slowly beginning to touch himself again.

You realized that he was asking you how he should finish off, and this caused a wave of spite to roll through you. He thought he still deserved to cum.

“I didn’t say anything about your dick.” You said, tone harsh and biting. “You don’t get to cum right now. I said get dressed, so get dressed.”

You dropped your towel casually, moving to get dressed for yourself. This caused a whine from him as your nakedness was once again revealed - something he had seen so many times now that still caused his cock to throb and weep precum, his eyes utterly fixated on the tantalizing sway of your breasts as you leaned down to hook your feet into the fresh panties you had picked out.

Mike let out a breathy whine, but took his hand off his cock. He looked at you with utterly pleading eyes, clearly wanting you to reconsider - but you wouldn’t budge from the subject. When he didn’t make a move to get up from the bed, you said something that you knew would put some urgency in him.

“Don’t make me get the cage.” You threatened quietly.

Mike was up in a moment, moving toward the bathroom to freshen up, eager to follow your instructions. His dick ached at the thought of the cock cage that you had gotten just for him - it was one of the most torturous punishments you had thought up yet. Sometimes he spent whole days with his dick trapped in the metal, unable to get hard, absolutely dizzying - making him silently resent the key worn around your neck that everyone else perceived as an innocent piece of jewelry.

The two of you got ready for the day and the conflict was soon forgotten when you had Abby in the car. You took her for lunch at some cute little diner that one of your friends had recommended - Sparky’s - and while you ate, you listened to Abby chatter on excitedly about everything she and her friend had done the night before, including ordering pizza, watching a PG13 rated movie (which Mike pretended to disapprove of), painting their nails, and staying up all night telling ‘scary stories’. You were proud of how far she had come, sharing her imagination and joy with others and having some true friends of her own age now.

After lunch, you and Mike had taken Abby to get some new shoes because she complained that hers were getting too small, and then after some browsing around the mall, it was time to go home and make dinner (if it wasn’t for you, those two would rarely eat anything that wasn’t pre-packaged). After dinner, you helped Abby work on a solar system project for school while Mike napped on the couch (and you couldn’t blame the guy, he had a tiring time the night before).

You had since put Abby to bed, and busied yourself with cleaning up, glad that Mike was still asleep while you did the dishes. It always pleased you when he slept well - one of the reasons you liked to wear him out with sex was because it was a more natural sleep aid than his medication, and caused him to have a deeper, dreamless sleep without the stupid nightmares. You were more focused on the tasks in front of you than thinking about any possible punishment you might give him over it.

The fact that Mike had taken a pervy photo of you was all but forgotten in your mind even as you were cleaning up the kitchen later that night.

The photo and the controversy, the burning questions you had about it only came back to mind as you were attempting to scrub a combination of dried glitter glue and pasta sauce off the table and you noticed Mike not-so-subtly creeping around behind you - attempting to reach into your purse.

He was trying to take the photo back.

You quickly tossed down the cloth you had been using to clean up and moved toward Mike instead. You were on him before he could blink, taking his wrist in a bruising grip before his hand could successfully come out of your purse with the photo.

“What are you doing?” You asked, even though you already knew exactly what he was up to.

With your thumb pushing harshly into the pulse point of his wrist, and your eyes glaring daggers into his - he was quickly becoming light-headed and soft, the way he always did whenever you were on top of him or when you called him baby boy in that fond, sweet way that you often did. He couldn’t conjure up any real explanation, not when he was feeling this way.

All he could manage was:

“But - it’s mine.” He breathed out softly, almost a whiny protest - as if you had taken one of his most precious toys and stashed it away because he had misbehaved.

In a sense, that was exactly what you had done.

You could only imagine how many times he had masturbated to the photo before you had caught him. How many times had he cum, looking at that picture of your barely covered ass and pussy before the two of you even got together? Before he even saw you naked for the first time? How many times did he make himself cum when that was his only source of sexual material for his fantasies around you?

It was these burning questions and the thumping ache between your thighs that spurred your next move.

You used your hold on his wrist to handle him how you pleased, knowing that a little bit of pain made him so easily pliant to your wills. You shoved him into the small kitchen and shoved him up against one of the counters, beside where your purse was sitting, and he huffed out a quiet whine as you trapped him there. You easily caged him in with one of your hands on either side of his waist, slotting your legs around his so that your thigh was right up against his denim clad crotch.

You pressed forward slightly with your knee, applying a slight bit of pressure that might be painful on his tender cock and balls (especially after last night). But the roughness of the hard seam of his jeans pressing against his tender flesh, even through his underwear, only lit sparks through him and added to that soft, mushy headspace that he was in.

He refused to look at you now, shifting his gaze off to the side as you pressed further into his personal space, pressing your nose against the side of his unshaven face.

“It’s yours?” You posed in response to what he had said, your tone utterly mocking. “It’s yours, is it?”

You reached off to the side and flawlessly grabbed the photo inside your bag without looking (the texture of a polaroid very unique to feel for) - and you held it up in his view, forcing him to look at it while you spoke again.

“Then surely, you can explain to me how a good boy like you came to own something like this,” You said, your voice dripping with satire toward the ‘good boy’ title he had given himself earlier that day.

“I’m sorry,” He whimpered, clearly apologetic about the subject. But-

“That doesn’t explain how you got this, baby.” You told him, clicking your tongue in a scolding manner. “Come on, tell me about it.”

You used a hand to grab him by both cheeks between your fingers, forcing him to look at you while he explained it.

“I - I took it.” He admitted quietly. “I took a picture of you. When you weren’t looking. When you were… sleeping.”

Again, something you already knew. But it was more satisfying to hear him say it, especially with the sharp bob of his throat as he gulped around his fear.

“You just looked so pretty, I - I couldn’t help myself.” He whispered, clearly timid to admit his lack of self control.

Though him lacking self control around you was an intense turn-on for you.

“After everything I’ve given you, you just had to go and take. You had to be a greedy, filthy, bad boy,” You scolded him sharply.

“It was different then.” He said quietly. “Then… I - I thought I couldn’t have you. I thought you wouldn’t give me anything at all. I - I didn’t think you’d ever want to fuck me.”

“Oh?” You huffed quietly, your breath puffing out across his cheek, surprised by this revelation. “So you took this picture because you wanted a filthy little piece of me? You didn’t think I’d ever touch your pathetic needy cock so you had to perv on me in secret, huh?”

He let out a sharp whine at this. It was rare that you degraded him so harshly, rather than praising him sweetly. Surely enough, even if it was unconsciously fueled by lust, his hips bucked toward you, dragging his cock along your thigh, still trapped inside of his jeans and rapidly hardening from the state of the conversation.

“Look, I’m sorry-”

“If you say ‘sorry’, one more time, I’m gonna spank you so fucking hard that you won’t be able to sit down for a week.” You threatened, your voice low and dark.

He let out a whimper at this, and you weren’t entirely sure if the idea appealed to him or sounded like a true threat. He didn’t tempt you by speaking up again, so you continued.

“Enough with the sorries.” You told him sharply. “How many times did you jack off to this picture without telling me? How often did you look at it, touching your hard, needy dick and thinking about what my cunt might feel like? Huh? Tell me, baby.”

Mike jutted his hips again, grinding his hard cock against your thigh.

“Please-” He croaked out.

Clearly, he was begging for you to release him from the conversation, and to attend to his aching dick. But you didn’t have plans to do either.

“If you want me to touch you again anytime soon, you’re going to get off against my thigh.” You demanded harshly. “Or you’re not going to get off at all.”

Mike let out a pathetic, warbling whine in protest, sounding a lot like a kicked puppy. But still, he began to move more consistently against your leg - you stiffened your muscles on purpose and raised your thigh tighter against him, pushing your leg further into his crotch. This movement forced a puff of air from his lungs as you put more pressure on his hard cock.

“And you’re going to answer my questions.” You added on, reaching behind him and grabbing his hair like you had earlier that day, knowing that a tight tug on his roots would certainly make him more pliant.

“Ah! O-okay!” He shouted in return, and you hushed him gently.

“When were you gonna tell me that you’re a dirty little pervert?” You asked, a mocking laughter dancing in your voice.

Mike started up a rhythm as he fucked himself on your thigh. He whined in the back of his throat, his brow creasing - partially from the heat stirring in his gut and partially from the embarrassment of your interrogation - before he managed an answer.

“I - I wasn’t.” He answered honestly.

“How many other secret pervy pictures do you have of me?” You asked.

“N-none!” He was quick to respond, eager to clear himself of this guilt.

He definitely wasn’t going to tell you about the pair of your panties that he had stolen the first time he was over at your place. He also wasn’t going to mention the fact that he had snooped in your bathroom to see what brand of shampoo you used and bought the same one just so he could have your scent on tap. He didn’t need you thinking that he was totally pathetic.

“Don’t lie to me!” You demanded, giving a sharp tug on his hair.

“‘m not! I’m not! That’s the only one!” He slurred out, becoming more hazy and pleasure drunk as he ground himself harder into your thigh and his cock leaked into his underwear. His brain was absolutely fuzzy from the streaks of pain coming off his scalp when you pulled on his hair like that.

“How many times have you jerked off to the picture?” You asked.

More than once a week since he had taken it. It was his favorite guilty pleasure.

Earlier that day, he hadn’t even meant to take out the photo and jerk off to it. He had been more than satisfied with everything that happened the night before. But when he had opened his nightstand looking for his watch to put it on for the day, and the photo fell from its place stuck underneath the drawer (a perfect hiding place, in his mind). And just like when he had taken the photo, as soon as he saw you so perfectly posed there, he just couldn’t help himself. The sight of your panties sticking out from under your dress just got to him.

His cock was hard in seconds and next thing he knew, he was sitting there pumping his cock in one hand and holding the picture in the other, listening for the sound of the shower running and hoping he would finish before you did.

Something about you was so absolutely intoxicating to him, sent his brain back to caveman levels of hormonal and caused him to make the stupidest dick-driven decisions ever.

“Mommy,” He begged quietly. “Mommy, please.”

Your stomach clenched - it was a name he used in an attempt to soften you up, trying to make you pliant to his big eyes and whimpering breaths.

He grabbed both of your hips and tried shoving his face into your neck to hide himself as his hips stuttered against your leg, humping hopelessly like a needy puppy. You yanked him back by the hair before he could fully hide himself and he exhaled in a needy, simpering tone, deflating like a balloon as his shoulders sagged. For a moment, he stopped the movement of his hips altogether - as if expecting you to take over in some way and make him cum.

“Mommy is only sweet to good boys.” You whispered in his ear. “Mommy punishes dirty little bad boys who can’t take their head out of their dick long enough to behave.”

He squeezed out a hot breath, seemingly deflating more. You used your free hand to grab his hip, and began guiding him to hump along your thigh once again.

“Come on, baby.” You encouraged him. “If you don’t cum like this, you don’t get to come for a week.” You gave a gentle warning. “Are you gonna be a good boy? Or are you a stupid little perv? Hmm?”

The harsh degradation behind your words, the motivation for him to be seen as a good boy in your eyes - that truly got him going again.

“I’m a good boy.” He said quietly, fucking himself against you, moaning quietly as the friction caused sharp tingles against his cock. “I’m - I’m a good boy.”

“Show me.” You told him firmly. “Show me what a good boy does.”

“Please,” He breathed out. “Fuck, Mommy. Please!”

You knew that he needed more, and you did pity him to an extent - so you gave another tug on his hair and slipped your other hand under the back of his shirt, raking your nails across his back, making claw marks that you knew he loved. The stinging feeling of your nails biting into his skin causing pure sparks that sent heat straight between his thighs. When you leaned in and sharply bit his neck, that truly sent him over the edge, causing him to lose all sense of rhythm and having him bucking wildly, mindlessly against your thigh as he flooded the inside of his underwear with cum.

“Fuck! Y/N!” He shouted.

“Shut up!” You bit back.

You stood back up to your full height, shoving your fingers between his lips to gag him. You knew that you had to be mindful of his volume when she was so deep in it, so absolutely lost in the pleasurable haze that he didn’t care how loud he was being.

He rode out his orgasm gagging slightly with your fingers pressed against his tongue, his eyes tightly screwed shut, a light sweat gathered on his brow as he continued to hump against your leg, carrying himself through it.

After a few moments, Mike’s rattling moans turned into harsh, open-mouthed pants around your fingers as he caught his breath, and you eased your fingers out of his mouth, enjoying the thread of spit that came off his lips far too much.

When he collapsed his head onto your shoulder this time, you let him.

“You’re - you’re not really mad about the picture, are you?” He asked, gently huffing the words into your shirt as he struggled to catch his breath. “Because if-”

“I’m not mad about it.” You clarified, moving your hand from under his shirt to pet through his hair calmly, wanting to reassure him of this. “In fact, I think it’s pretty hot.”

“Really?” He asked, his gaze shooting up to inspect your expression, almost not believing your words. Even though you were always very honest and transparent when communicating your feelings to him.

“Yes.” You answered honestly. “I think it’s hot that you found me so attractive from the moment we met.”

“‘Attractive’ is a bit of an understatement.” He mumbled quietly in response.

Interesting.

#sundrop writes #mike schmidt x y/n #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #fnaf movie fanfiction #fnaf movie #five nights at freddy's #five nights at freddy's movie

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Clean Cut 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live with your tyrannical aunt and meet a man who can relate to your familial dejection.

Characters: Thor

This is a spinoff of Dirty Work

Note: I feel as if someone is crushing my uterus between two stones so needless to say today is gonna be the wooooorst. But hope y’all are well.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Thor loves thunder. Take care. 💖

The door of the bakery swings open before you can reach it. You stand back, given pause in the same moment by the ding of your phone. You keep the ringer on, knowing better than to miss a single message. You know who it is before you even look at the screen. There is only one person it could be.

‘How long?’ Aunt Bonnie’s message is terse and to the point. You can hear her usual rigid tone through the text.

You step back, out of the way of other pedestrians, and key in your reply. ‘At the bakery now.’

You don’t expect a response. She’d be disappointed if you were pulling into the driveway. The message alone tells you that you’re already late, even if you’re well ahead of schedule.

You tuck your phone into your pocket and reach for the long bar across the bakery door. Before you can grip it, another hand wraps around the tarnished metal. You once more shy away as the tall man pulls open the door and stands back.

“After you,” his deep timbre insists.

You nod, chin straight, and thank him politely as you enter. You join the queue, your delay having you further back than you could’ve been. The bakery is even warmer than outside and adds to the sweat speckling along your nape. You tug at your high collar, not the best choice at the height of spring. Summer will be there soon and you don’t expect the stiff fabric will be any more forgiving.

The man lines up behind you. Your mind reels with doubt. Should you offer him your spot? He did hold the door and technically would have been ahead of you. You sway in indecision; caught between what is proper and appeasing your aunt as quickly as you can. What’s a few more minutes?

You turn and look up at the man as he rubs his eye socket and winces. You gasp at the sight of him, surprised by the purplish splotch that darkens nearly half his face. And the way he stands; as tall as he is, he hunches in one shoulder, his hand falling to cradle his ribs.

“Oh my, what happened?” You ask before you can censor your curiosity. You pucker your lips guilty then flatten them to an apologetic smile, “sorry, I...”

He clears his throat and shakes his head, “no matter, I am quite a mess.” He looks down at himself and shrugs, flinching as it no doubt pains his battered body. “I suppose you might chalk it up to a sibling rivalry.”

You bat your lashes and nod, not sure of his meaning. You peer side to side, then back to him, recalling your original intent. You lift your chin to look up at him. He’s very big and blond and burly.

“Um, I thought maybe... you were ahead of me,” you explain, “I’ve taken your spot, sir.”

He considers you, eyes narrowing as his head tilts. He keeps his hand against his ribs and coughs, “nah, it is no issue. It’s only right to let a lady go first. My mother always said so.”

“Oh, lady?” You echo in surprise, “I...” you look down at yourself. You’ve never been called a lady before, “thank you.”

He hums and you turn back to move along with the queue. He shuffles behind you, looming. People don’t often notice you. It could be your clothing; plain, straight cut, muted, nothing special, just like you. As with anything in your life, you have only what Aunt Bonnie allows you to have.

“The strawberry tarts are good,” the man suggests and you glance up over your shoulder at him, “pardon again, lady, I cannot read the specials board.”

His left eye is swollen amid the blackened bruising. Another pang of sympathy tweaks in your chest. You look back to the count and read the small chalkboard by the till; “Earl Grey cookie, two for three, or apple blossoms, half off with a full pie or dozen muffins.”

“Ah, think I’ll stick with the usual,” he mutters. “Do you have a favourite?”

You’re surprised, and most unprepared, for his continued conversation. You dab your forehead with the back of your hand then drop it to tug at your stiff cuff. You push your shoulders up and rock back and forth, still facing the counter, “only here to grab an order for my aunt.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Very helpful of you. She must appreciate that,” he remarks.

“Mm, yeah, I... try to help,” you answer and pick at your sleeve.

“It is good to keep family close,” he exhales sonorously, “you never know...” he trails off and hisses. You peek back again as he daintily touches his cheek. “My mother loves this bakery but suppose she would throw anything I got her in my face these days.”

You don’t know what to say. He looks worse for wear and sounds just as bad. Whatever happened can’t have been very nice.

“I’m sorry,” you say, uncertain what other comfort you can offer the stranger.

“Ah, but you know what they say,” he smiles bitterly, his cheek twitching, though you cannot tell if it is borne of pain or spite, “Walpurgisnacht is a new beginning. With it comes great change, eh?”

“Walpurgisnacht?” You repeat, “yes, I... I suppose so...”

“Did you not celebrate?” He wonders.

You shake your head. You were not invited. That isn’t very unusual. You spent the night cleaning and when all was spotless, you hid in your room with a book.

“Ah, I had it that everyone attended,” he says, “my mother did make sure to invite all within the county.”

His mother? Your Aunt Bonnie mentioned that Frigga Odinson was sure to send an invitation to every household within a radius. She could not help but rant about the event, more envious than excited. You never went to any of the Odinson affairs, you were never included, though you never paid much mind to the fact.

“Your mother is Frigga?” You ask as the customer ahead of you walks away with their order.

“So she is, if she would still call herself as much,” he sniffs.

“Pardon, sorry,” you apologise and scurry up to the counter, not wanting to make the clerk wait, “hi, er, I have an order number.”

You unlock your phone, your notes app is already open with your list of to-dos. You read out the code and the man goes to retrieve the cake. You wait anxiously, bouncing on your heels. When he returns, you pay with the exact amount in cash as your aunt counted out and thank him.

You take the box and turn, nearly colliding with the tall blond man. You move aside, penned in by those waiting for their order and the queue of new arrivals. He pays and sidles along close to you.

“Party?” He asks as he looks at the box in your hands.

“My cousin’s birthday,” you explain and look up at the clock on the wall, “I should go...”

“Yes, you should. As I said, family is very important,” he insists glumly and looks around, “Oi, the lady needs through,” he says to the man crowding you from your other side, “move aside then.”

The man looks over sharply but his glare dissolves quickly as he sees who bosses him around. He backs up enough for you to get through. The stranger, an Odinson as he claims, follows.

“Before you go, lady,” he says, “might I have your name?”

You turn back to him. You remember your aunt talking about Walpurgisnacht with your cousins. She said there was some trouble but you didn’t hear much more than that. She always caught you listening in so you do your best not to.

You give your name as you connect the pieces, “and you’re Thor Odinson?”

“You know me,” he smiles.

“My cousins spoke of you. They were at Walpurgisnacht.”

“Mm, a pity you were not,” he drawls as his lips curve slightly.

“It was nice meeting you but I should go now,” you look over your shoulder, “my aunt is waiting on me.”

“Better hurry then,” he says, “perhaps we might run into one another again.”

“Er, maybe,” you agree thinly. It isn’t likely. You don’t go very many places, not without permission. “I hope things get better for you. Oh and I read that witch hazel works for bruises but I never tried it.”

“Witch hazel?” He repeats and touches his split brow, “I shall try it. Thank you.”

You turn to go and feel his gaze clinging to you. Thor Odinson. You’ve heard of him, as you’ve heard of the rest of his family. His mother has appeared at your aunt’s brunches on occasion and his father’s name is spoken often by your uncle. What you know is that they’re rich and that your aunt resents everything about them. You guess it’s why she tries so hard to be like them.

All that doesn’t matter then. What matters is that you get home with the cake and everything else or you’ll spoil the whole party. Regardless, Aunt Bonnie will surely find some mistake to needle away at.

🫧

You place the box on the counter as Aunt Bonnie orders around the chef. You don’t know why she didn’t have them also do the cake but you don’t dare ask. Before you can flee, she turns and catches you mid-step. She snaps her fingers and you stay.

She goes to the deep box and lifts the lid. Her sigh fills you with dread. Her lashes flutter in exasperation and you frown. What is it now?

“Are you serious right now? I asked for blush, not rose. Harriet will hate it.” She snarls and balls her fists as she tilts her face to the ceiling. “I told you to check. Have I not been working myself ragged to make today the absolute perfect day for my little girl? Hm, do you hate your cousin so much?”

“No, Aunt Bonnie, I’m sorry. I did check. In the car. I thought--”

“You have a poor eye. Or perhaps you are just like your mother. She always was jealous, she did all she could to sabotage me. She even pawned you off on me,” she sneers.

You lower your eyes, “I can go back.”

“And what do you think they would redo it for free? You left the store. I’ve dealt with those bakers before and they are a stingy lot. That Frigga swears by them and yet every time I go, I am disappointed.” She scoffs and wipes her hands. “Never to worry, I shall make sure at least that my part is adequate. Mm,” she pauses, “perhaps I am should not be disappointed in them. They’ve an excuse for their mistakes.”

The look she gives you scalds. You stare at the shining tile floor. “Can I help--”

“Yes, go set the table? Are you daft?”

You acquiesce promptly. You take a tray to gather up the appropriate cutlery, you’ll be sure to fetch some of the monogrammed napkins as well to compliment the arrangement. The fine porcelain would be in order.

“Make certain you polish it first,” Bonnie snips as you pass her by.

“Yes, Aunt Bonnie,” you recite.

“Yes, Aunt Bonnie,” she mocks derisively and waves you off as she turns to the chef. “Is that how you’re doing the lobster rolls? Those are going to fall apart.”

That you are not the only one she reprimands hardly makes you feel better. You only feel bad for the chef. That’s the sixth chef she’s hired this year. The others have quit, along with several maids and even the gardener. You don’t have that choice. She’s family and you owe her.

You rest the tray on a chair and go to grab a cloth to give a cursory wipe to the table. Then, you spread an ivory table cloth over the dark wood and smooth it out. With your canvas laid, you fetch the polish and a new cloth and polish each piece of silver before arranging it.

As you make your way around the table, the smell of the polish making your head pound and your nose sting, your Aunt Bonnie stomps through the door. She has a vase of tall flowers in hand. She tuts and stops short, her nostrils rounding.

“You’ve got to be kidding me? I said the blush cloth. To match the icing, thought it will not now. And--”

She marches over and hugs the crystal vase to her side with one arm. She picks up a spoon, “there is a speck on this one. Are you so disrespectful? Are you doing this on purpose? Do you know who is coming to dinner?”

“I’m sorry, Aunt--”

“Your apologies mean nothing. Do better. I will not have you ending up like your mother. I wonder how we are even related,” she sniffs down her nose at you. “I want Frigga to see her reflection in each piece.” She throws the spoon at you and it hits your chin before you catch it.

“Frigga? Odinson?” You sputter before you can censor yourself.

“Huh? And what does it matter to you?” She plunks the vase down heavily so the water sloshes onto the cloth. “You won’t be meeting her. I can’t risk that humiliation.”

She turns her chin up and struts away. You turn to look at the sodden fabric around the base of the crystal and frown. You should be happy to avoid the whole event. The few times you were included, it was only to pour the wine.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #series #au #marvel #mcu #avengers #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #clean cut #sequel #spinoff

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beartitled · 3 months ago

Note

Did you play the pristine cut of STP? What do you think of Dragon, Cage and HappilyEverAfter if so?

Spoilers for STP pristine cut under read more (+ a lot of text warning)

Hehe I see STP ppl are excited and want more silly comics

Well there’s a lot of things to say tbh 👀

Overall really enjoyed new content so far

It kinda feels like a fanservice for the people who already played the game

Which is not a bad thing, don’t get me wrong ☝️

I just view the original game as a perfect instalment, which doesn’t really need a continuation

New scenarios is just a pleasant bonus

(I’m one shot/short story fan okay 👉👈)

I already saw Dragon and Happily After routes

Yet to see all the variations the Cage route has to offer (heard ppl said it’s the most diverse one)

The Princess and The Dragon

HEY REMEMBER HOW I SAID I DON’T LIKE THE IDEA OF CHANGING THE GENDERS OF THE CHARACTERS BC THAT WAY THE DYNAMIC WOULD BE UNSETTLING?

YEA SO THIS ROUTE EXPLORED THAT DYNAMIC GUYS

I enjoyed this route, bc again

It’s scary, uncomfortable, makes you feel unsafe and uneasy 👁️👁️

Awesome depiction of how scary this type of situation would be

And of course bonus points, we got to see the bird bois 🎉

(Opportunist go brush yo teeth, u spooky lookin ass)

Happily ever after

Noooow we’re talking

I love that route, it’s my favourite so far

The pain, the suffering, the absolutely devastated British crowman

Brilliant, chills

This one actually feels like a missing part of the og game to me

I wanted to go into details about my opinions on that route in the future post

But now I want to talk 😈

👏Smitten👏my boy👏how are you in your edgy villain era already omg

Can we just admit for a second how badass Smitten is for escaping protagonist’s body?

Like-💥

This was the first route I saw and was like “Ooooh that’s probably the new gimmick, every voice is doing to escape and shenanigans happen” AND NO Smitten is just that guy™️ absolute chad

Minus points for “we will give her something she doesn’t know she wants yet”

*hits Smitten with newspaper*

Bad voice 💥🗞️bad 💥🗞️ we listen to what 💥🗞️our queen 💥🗞️wants 🗞️💥🗞️💥💥

But it works okay

The atmosphere is immaculate, I was legit concerned for a moment

Ok now give me a moment to be a nerd ☝️🤓

I love how this route gives Smitten flaws

I think finally we saw that every voice has them, because voices are an isolated part of a person, a pure feeling if you will

And Smitten represents that naïve love idealisation/love obsession

The guy loves the princess, she is pure perfection to him

This feeling is blinding and honestly pretty toxic irl

During the whole og game Smitten was never conflicting?

He pretty much the comedic relief of the whole game (and least it felt like that to me)

I think he was kinda a missed potential

Yes, love is sweet

Crushes are can be funny, silly and overall just positive

But it can be so destructive, so painful and so so exhausting when it gets to the point of obsession

And that route gives you a direct illustration of it

Which is amazing

I honestly think we don’t have enough media just showcasing this feeling of obsessive love and how dangerous it is

(yandere trope doesn’t count 👿 this trope just kinda glorified the issue)

And the tragedy is SMITTEN IS TOO DELUSIONAL TO EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT HE’S DOING WRONG

My poor poor birb boy

He’s too focused on doing everything perfectly, to make princess satisfied, to make us satisfied, why isn’t it working? He does everything he can, why doesn’t it work? How doesn’t it work?

HE’S TOO LOVESTRUCK TO TAKE A STEP BACK AND REFLECT

AAAAAAAAA

God I’m insane about Happily ever after

As a person who struggles with this exact feeling of idolising and obsessing over ppl, I just really feel that route

Goth Smitten incoming *coughs*

Thanks for your question ❤️ hope you enjoyed reading my mess of thoughts💥

Share your thoughts in comments/reblogs if you want ppl

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imsandra · 4 months ago

Text

Kiss of war

Pairing: Cassian x Female Reader

Summary: Battles are fought with a sword in hand, and wars of the heart are waged with a kiss.

Warning: Angst, tension. Let me know if anything else needs to be added.

Word Count: 3842

Notes: Here’s something about Cassian, our general. I hope you like it. As always, feel free to leave your comments, suggestions; everything is welcome as long as it's with the intention of teaching and with respect.

English is not my native language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar issues.

Original story, written by me. Please do not copy or plagiarize my work.

I appreciate any comments, reblogs, and likes I receive.

Happy reading!

Master list

The twilight painted the horizon with purple and red flashes, its reflections dancing on the calm lake that bordered the base of the Illyrians. The cool air caressed her skin, laden with promises of a solitary and cold night, as the shadows of the mountains stretched, embracing the land in a dark cloak. She just wanted some time alone before the shared training with the rest of the Illyrians at dawn.

When Rhysand had informed her that the general would return to Ilyria from a mission that could have cost him his life, she asked him to ensure that everything was well with him and set off on her journey north to the Court. Y/N had been avoiding her mission partner since the last time they were together; she had successfully ignored him for quite some time. The wind blew from the mountains, trying to convince herself that she was only there out of obligation, to fulfill a promise, not because she missed him… or because she wanted to see him.

The sound of Cassian's wings resonated over the mountains, interrupting her moment, his powerful figure descending slowly with a grace that did not fit his imposing physique. He was supposed to return tomorrow at noon, but it seemed he had arrived early.

Y/N stood with her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to land on the training platform.

"I thought you would never return," Y/N murmured, her tone neutral, but the slight sparkle in her eyes betrayed the worry she was trying to hide. She tightened her arms across her chest, as if the simple act of maintaining distance would protect her from what she truly felt.

Cassian landed with imposing grace, his wings folding behind him. He approached her slowly, the arrogant smile curving his lips failing to conceal the exhaustion flickering in his eyes—a fatigue that echoed the weight he carried from his last mission. Yet even worn out, he couldn’t stop looking at her, his gaze intense and filled with unspoken questions.

"You know it’s not easy to kill me," he replied.

It was the first time they had exchanged words since that day, and the friction between them had grown. It wasn’t just the tension of a battlefield, but something deeper. The air around them felt thick. Y/N averted her gaze, pretending to observe the mountains, but she only needed a second to steady her breath. She knew the internal battle she was fighting was written in her eyes, and Cassian noticed.

He always did.

"Yes, well, even legends fall eventually," she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the now-dark sky.

"Were you worried about me, Y/N?" Cassian asked as he took a step closer, his hazel eyes focusing on her.

Cassian's face showed hope, that spark that she might finally acknowledge what she had been trying so hard to hide. He could feel the anxiety coursing through her body every second, what he would give to have pulled her close as soon as he spotted her on the platform, waiting.

Waiting for him.

"No more than I would for any other soldier," she whispered while discreetly observing him.

"Sure. Because I'm just another soldier to you," he said with a laugh, a low, deep chuckle that vibrated in the air. It hurt him that she wouldn’t look at him, that she couldn’t see how much her words pained him, that she couldn’t see the power she had to destroy him if she wanted to.

Cassian always knew what to do to make Y/N lose her composure; he knew how to push her buttons. This time, when she heard his response, she could identify something more in his tone. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

It all started a year ago, on a crucial mission to stop a rebel group planning to attack Velaris. They were both assigned to the mission, and although they had always worked well together, this time was different. In the midst of the battle, as they tried to defend a nearby village, Y/N was gravely injured.

The world seemed to stop the moment he saw her fall, her figure collapsing like a leaf carried by the wind. A roar of fury erupted from deep within him at the sight of blood staining the ground around her. It wasn’t the first time he had seen someone injured in combat, but with Y/N, it was entirely different. Without a second thought, he lunged toward her, ignoring the danger, taking her to the safest place he could find, shielding her with his own body as arrows flew around them. He was willing to put his life on the line for hers.

"You can’t stay here!" Y/N had shouted, barely conscious, trying to stand despite the wound in her side. "You have to fight!"

"Shut up," Cassian had replied, pressing his hand against her wound to stop the bleeding. "I’m not going to let you die here."

Despite the urgency of the battle, something in that moment changed the dynamic between them. Y/N couldn’t stop looking at him while he held her, protecting her with everything he had. The fury in Cassian’s eyes wasn’t just for the fight. It was for her. The way he looked at her, as if she were the most important thing in the world, left her bewildered.

She had spent weeks recovering from her injuries, and Cassian had not left her side, caring for her with a dedication she hadn’t expected. It was during those days that something began to grow between them.

After her recovery, things had become tenser between them. During missions, the lingering glances, the accidental brushes, everything became a constant struggle to maintain control. They were both too proud, too reluctant to admit what was happening between them.

But what had really triggered the conflict was one particular night. After a long, exhausting expedition, when they were both worn out, Cassian had gotten too close. They had shared an intimate conversation, their barriers finally beginning to crumble. They had been drinking together, their bodies too close, and before they could stop, their lips met in a heated kiss, charged with everything they had been repressing.

But Y/N had stopped him. Just when things were getting more intense, she pushed him away, her breath ragged, and stepped back.

"We can’t do this, Cassian," she whispered, gasping.

"Why not?" he replied, looking at her, surprised and hurt.

"Because we can’t mix this with our work. I can’t afford to feel anything more for you. Not now." Her words had been harsh, but the truth was that she was scared. Cassian was too important, and the idea of losing him if something went wrong was unbearable.

She sighed, trying to relax and keep calm in the presence of the Illyrian.

"Why are you here, Cassian?" she finally asked, her voice softer than she had expected.

"I thought you might need to train after such a long time," he replied. "Though I should have asked, why are you here, Y/N?"

Training was just an excuse; the truth was that he had seen her from above as she tried to head to the cabin for the night. He could never confuse the silhouette of the woman who made his heart beat with more life. The moment they had shared weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had wondered if it was truly worth it, his mind replaying the sensation of their lips intertwined, how her fingers had tangled in his hair, how he had caressed her waist and the shiver she had given him.

Until she pushed him away.

Since that night, things had never been the same.

"You’re not in shape for that right now," he replied, evading her question, fiddling with one of the ribbons adorning his shirt.

"Why not? I’ve fought in worse conditions, darling," he reminded her.

She couldn’t help the shiver that coursed through her body at the endearing word, a nervousness that settled deep in her heart, warm and delightful. Only Cassian could have that effect on her. And it didn’t help that she now crossed her arms, mimicking his stance.

"You just got back, and you have a cut on your side," she acknowledged through clenched teeth, still not meeting his gaze, finding the tips of his shoes far more interesting.

Y/N had scanned Cassian’s body moments earlier, quickly assessing every scratch and bruise. It didn’t take long for her to realize that one of the wounds needed immediate attention.

“So, you were worried about me,” Cassian stated, his heart racing, knowing that even from a distance she could hear it.

“Only because Rhysand asked me to make sure you got here safely.”

Cassian stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He uncrossed his arms, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, restraining the urge to reach out and touch her fingers. She was so close, yet so far. And it was killing him, an agony he could barely endure.

“Are you sure?” he questioned, his gaze burning into her. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t care,” he demanded, his voice rough, not sure how much longer he could contain the flood of emotions waiting to burst free. Deep down, he hoped this would be the moment.

The wind picked up, causing Y/N to close her eyes for a moment. She took a deep breath, allowing the cool air to clear her mind, though she knew she couldn’t escape for long. She knew his voice, his gaze, would betray her, revealing what she had been hiding so carefully—the reason she rarely let her guard down around him.

So, she turned toward the path leading to the cabin where they would spend the night, and he followed behind her.

“Y/N…” he stopped as she spoke.

“Don’t, Cassian. Don’t make things more complicated,” she growled.

“Complicated?” he repeated, quickening his pace to block her path. “Since when is feeling something complicated?” he asked, frustration lacing his words.

Her heart raced at his words.

"Always," she replied.

The Illyrian finally closed the distance between them, and she stopped abruptly, colliding with his chest in the process. He held her to keep her from falling.

The gentle touch of Cassian’s large hands on her hips sent an involuntary tremor through her body, a burning heat spreading from where he touched her, reaching deep within. The firmness and security of his grip made her realize that he was willing to do anything for her.

Y/N fixed her gaze on the steady look of the warrior. She knew she could no longer hide the truth. His hazel eyes were so beautiful, hypnotic; losing herself in them would always be an option for her.

He had admired Y/N from a distance, appreciating each of her features. He had been in love with her for some time now—her eyes, the shape of her lips, her laughter—all from afar. He would give anything for her to be his.

It had always been a push-and-pull, a game they both played far too well. If it went right, she would let her guard down for a moment, and Cassian would give her everything. Or they would start all over again.

"I can’t keep pretending I don’t care about what happens to you. And I know you can’t either," Cassian growled, fed up with the situation.

Y/N could feel the heat of his body, the scent of leather and metal that enveloped him. The weight of his words settled like a poisoned dagger piercing her heart. If this argument were a war, she was sure she would never win.

"It’s not that simple, Cassian," her voice barely a whisper.

"It is," he countered, leaning in to meet her eyes. "What’s not simple is pretending I don’t feel what I feel. I know you feel it too. Just say it, Y/N, and I’ll be yours," he pleaded.

She lowered her gaze, but he gently lifted her chin with a finger. He moved the hand that had rested on her hip, trailing it along her cheek, taking a loose strand of her hair that had escaped her braid. With all the tenderness in the world, with a gentleness that stripped her bare, he tucked the strand behind her pointed ear.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes, fighting against the torrent of emotions threatening to overflow—a battle to resist that soft caress despite the warrior's calloused fingers.

He was right. She had lost. She had fought to keep the walls up. But with Cassian… those walls were useless.

“It’s dangerous,” she finally murmured.

“When have I ever cared about danger, Y/N?” he said, smiling—a soft smile.

When she opened her eyes, she really looked at him. Cassian's gaze had softened. She would give anything for him to always look at her with that intensity, with the affection he was showing at that moment. She knew that, no matter how much she wanted to pull away, no matter how much she wanted to protect herself, there was no turning back.

“Don’t,” she warned, but it was already too late.

Cassian tilted his head, his lips brushing hers—just a light touch, almost a question, giving her one last chance to stop him. But she didn’t. Their lips met in a kiss full of repressed emotions, everything they had denied, everything they had left unsaid.

He held her, his wings spreading behind him like a shield, protecting her from everything else. In that moment, there was no war, no missions, no duty to fulfill. Just the two of them, surrounded by the night breeze, the stars shining brighter than ever, and the warmth of two bodies fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

When they pulled apart, both were breathing heavily. The air around them seemed lighter, but the pounding of their hearts still echoed in their ears.

Y/N moved slightly away, resting her forehead against Cassian's. The silence that followed was as important as the words. There was no need to speak. For the first time in a long while, she allowed the silence to be her refuge.

"Now everything will be more complicated," she murmured against Cassian's lips, unable to suppress a slight smile.

"I like complicated," he said with a broad grin, his eyes shining with a warmth that made her heart race even faster.

She slowly unraveled her arms from around Cassian’s neck and held his hand. It was night, and in a couple of hours, they had to train the Illyrians.

"Where are we going?" he asked, curious, as she resumed the path toward the cabin.

"You need to shower, you smell bad andand that wound needs some attention," she said with a playful smile.

Cassian chuckled softly, and though the air between them was still charged, the sound of his laughter made Y/N's shoulders relax, just a little.

"Now you'll be my personal healer," he murmured.

"Maybe, if you're good."

He let go of her hand just to pull her against his chest, holding her gently by the waist as they walked together, their bodies brushing against each other, with him right behind her.

"I like that," he whispered in her ear. A shiver ran down Y/N's spine, settling warmly in her belly.

They arrived at the cabin, and it felt like death itself to part from each other. She headed to the small bathroom, where she grabbed a first aid kit filled with all the essentials.

The warlord had seated himself in one of the dining chairs, and when he heard her footsteps approaching, he gifted her a smile. She returned it.

Y/N placed the kit on the table, opened it, and took out the disinfectant to clean his wound. Cassian stripped off his upper leather gear, and she lost her breath at the sight of his broad shoulders, his chest adorned with dark tattoos that extended over his muscular arms and down to his defined abdomen. She did her best to keep her hands from trembling.

Cassian watched as she leaned in just enough to reach the cut on his left side, secretly enjoying the nervousness she tried to hide. Y/N carefully cleaned the area to ensure no dirt would come into contact with the injured skin when he showered, then applied a balm to help with the pain and speed up healing, finally covering it with a bandage. Luckily, the wound wasn't deep enough to require stitches—it would hold through the night until a healer in Velaris could check it again.

He didn't complain about the pain; he was used to it from countless battles since his youth. But the gentleness of Y/N as she tended to him was killing him. It was the first time anyone had treated him with such tenderness. Cassian felt her touch on his skin, watched the concentration on her face, each of her movements, wishing she could keep touching him forever.

"You’ll survive," she announced, meeting his gaze. "You should go shower; I’ll heat up some food."

Cassian didn’t argue and showered as quickly as he could to get back to her, careful not to disturb the bandage. On the table, there was some soup, stew, cheese, and bread. The warmth that filled his heart was priceless, but it had a name.

Seated at the table, they enjoyed the meal and each other's company in silence. She savored the peace of the moment, wishing it could last forever.

"Thank you," Cassian whispered, his voice filled with affection, "for... taking care of me, for the food."

"We should rest," she simply responded.

Y/N could still feel the tension in the air, even after the peaceful dinner. But Cassian wasn't going to let more time pass, not after that kiss. When she stood up from the chair, he gently grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his lap. She didn’t resist. Sitting with her thighs on either side of his hips, her chest pressed against his, their faces were just a breath away from kissing.

He couldn't help but imagine having her like this every day, every hour, every minute, for the rest of his life. To unite his soul with hers, becoming one.

"Forgive me, Cassian. I'm sorry for avoiding you all this time. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to tell you how much you mean to me, and that there isn't a day that goes by when I don't think about how much it hurts to even consider losing you every time you leave. I'm scared that if I close my eyes one day, you won’t be there anymore," Y/N's broken voice interrupted his thoughts.

He wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek without her realizing. Cassian, with reverent care, making sure not to touch her bandage, caressed her as if his entire existence depended on that touch. He placed a hand on her neck, his fingers gently tracing her skin with infinite tenderness before pulling her into a slow kiss. A kiss that promised more than words, a kiss that would last an eternity, as if there was nothing else in the world he wanted more than to be with her forever.

He was the first to pull away, watching her tear-filled eyes, her cheeks flushed from silent crying.

"I would drag myself home," he murmured while kissing her right cheek, "even if I were on the verge of death, because it means that my home is with you." He kissed her left cheek. "I would come back to life if I had to, just so I wouldn’t make you cry," and he finished with his lips brushing hers. A promise of life, even if his body lay cold and alone on the ground, he would crawl back to her.

"I love you, Cassian," she confessed softly in his ear. "I would do anything; I would be willing to trade my life for yours."

Those words echoed through his body like adrenaline rushing through him before a battle. He had longed for Y/N’s heart to sing along to a symphony composed by both of them. He pulled her closer to him.

"I love you, my sweet Y/N," Cassian murmured, his voice rough and filled with an unbreakable truth as his fingers tangled in her hair. "Even if you would sacrifice your life for mine, my existence would mean nothing without you. You are the reason my heart beats and my soul remains alive."

She felt regret for having wasted time in doubt, but at the same time, it had led her to the arms of the man she loved.

Cassian kissed her neck, caressing her back up and down her spine, feeling the warmth radiating from her. He wanted the moment to last, to feel her on his body, to feel her heart beating in sync with his.

"We should rest, my love," he whispered gently.

"Yes, you must be tired," Y/N apologized as she pulled away from him.

He wiped away the remaining tears from her cheeks and kissed her nose, regardless of her state.

"I'm just saying I would love to sleep with you right now; the chair isn’t comfortable for resting," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"You're right," she laughed, a watery laugh.

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the small room, gently placing her on the floor to allow her to prepare for a nap. There were only a few hours left until dawn. Cassian grabbed some extra blankets to ward off the cold that permeated the room, though he always felt wrapped in a warmth that no blanket could provide when he was with her.

He waited patiently lying on the bed. When she finished, he spread the blanket so she could lie down beside him, pulling her into his chest as she rested her head there. Together, wrapped in blankets, Y/N closed her eyes, feeling the steady heartbeat of Cassian beneath her head. The future remained uncertain—missions, war... but in that moment, with their bodies close.

Two souls destined to be together, a kiss sealed with the promise of a tomorrow was enough.

*divider by @cafekitsune , thank you <33.

Tags: @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden

A/N: I rewrote this at least 4 times or maybe more, I felt like it wasn't perfect but now I'm satisfied with the result. I hope you like it, let me know what you think. Love you guys.

#cassian x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian x you #cassian acotar #cassian #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar fandom #sarah j maas #fanfiction #fanfic #angst

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kisses4kaia · 1 year ago

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dark but just a game - ethan landry

summary; you and your boyfriend are what professionals would describe as sadists, and also probably psychopaths. but he didn’t see you that way, nor did you him. sure, what you guys did was dark, but to you two, it was just a game.

warnings; dark!!! very dark!! murder, sadism, smut, dom!gf!ethan + sub!gf!reader. fem reader, oral sex (m receiving), and penetrative sex (p in v), fingering. overall very mature themes. please do not read under the cut if you are under the age of 18.

a/n; you ask and you shall receiveee. i originally got this idea for charlie while listening to dbjag by lana, but y’all wanted ethan so here u go!! (please reblog with tags if you enjoy🖤)

“you can run,” ethan said, voice distorted on one end of the line, speaking to a stupid girl who left her windows open whilst she was home alone.

“but you can’t hide,” you spoke, on the opposite side of the house and line.

and then the chase began. as far as she knew, there was only one person out for her blood. this was your favorite part, the revelation they get when they realize they’re outnumbered.

she screamed bloody murder as ethan chased her throughout the house. she tried to run out of the front door, but you were there, waiting for her.

it’s just so predictable.

she opened the door, saw you with your glisteningly clean knife and costume, turned around but slammed directly into ethan’s cloaked chest.

“we tried to tell you,” ethan spoke condescendingly to the girl as you laughed.

“you want this one?” he constricted her by her arms as she screamed and cried, pleading for her life.

you rolled your eyes at her volume but nodded at your boyfriend. “how could i resist when she’s a bitch annoying as she is?” you went for the first slash across her left bicep.

she screamed in pain, but ethan took one of his hands and pressed his flush against her jaw. “shut the fuck up, bitch,” he growled in her ear, becoming impatient.

you could sense it and quickly went for 2 matching jabs in opposite sides of her hips, being sure to twist the blade.

you continued with multiple painful penetrations to her skin, but none of which would kill her immediately.

her body was going limp after you slashed her achilles tendon and her screaming was becoming more tired, so you decided she’d had enough, and finished the job with a stab directly to her heart.

she let out one final gasp of pain before her weight became dead in ethan’s arms.

he dropped her body and pulled off his mask, speedy to pull yours off too. ethan smashed his lips against yours. “god, you’re so fucking hot,” he whispered as you desperately rutted your core against his thigh.

his hand went down to grab your ass, but halted when he heard the sirens approaching the house getting louder. he quickly grabbed your hand and ran out the back door into the hidden getaway car.

the adrenaline was still running high from the recent kill, your need for him in-between your legs becoming almost unbearable.

he drove fast, trying to make it quick to your shared dorm. you tore your cloak off in the passenger seat and opened your legs to him, revealing you weren’t wearing underwear underneath your skirt.

“fuck,” he muttered, almost instinctively bringing his hand down to your pussy, circling his thumb around your clit fastly, his middle finger fucking your hole, bringing you so close to orgasm, but you arrived at campus before you could meet sweet release.

he kissed you all the way up the elevator and down the hallway, fumbling the key in his jean pocket under his dark cloak.

the moment you two stumbled inside, you had him pushed against the door.

you dropped to your knees almost immediately, hardly even struggling with his belt and pulling his pants and boxers down.

you yearned for the feeling of the weight of his heavy cock on your tongue, the thought of it making your heart skip a beat.

after placing a simple kiss on his painfully red tip, you decided teasing wasn’t needed or even wanted by either party.

you took him in your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks and locking eyes with him. your head bobbed up and down his length, making pornographic slurping sounds.

ethan tangled his hands in your hair, tugging slightly. you moaned around his cock, and the vibrations brought him so close to the edge.

the feeling of his tip prodding the back of your throat made him teeter over, and he came with a mix of expletives, moans of your name, groans, and whimpers.

you swallowed down everything he gave you, the sweet and salty flavor only making you hornier.

you were on your feet again before you know it, kidding ethan passionately, making him taste himself on your tongue.

aaand, he’s hard again.

now he’s pushing you into your bedroom, not even disconnecting your lips.

he’s tearing your clothes off, aswell as his remaining shirt. before you even realize a moment has passed, he’s pushing into you.

the stretch is delicious, forcing a deep moan from your throat.

for your sake, ethan tried to go slow, but he couldn’t keep that up. he rammed into you, his tip hitting the most perfect place at an ungodly speed.

“shit, baby. e-eth, slow- fuck!- slow down!” you said in between moans, your head becoming cloudy and the knot in your stomach tightening.

“i- i c-can’t- nngh,” his whimpers in your ear as well as his hands burning into your hips made you roll your eyes in ecstasy, and become so close to cumming.

the straw that broke the camels back was his lips traveling down to your collarbone, wasting no time in finding that one spot that always made you scream.

your pussy clenched around him as you came. your body convulsed as incoherent whines and whimpers left your lips like nothing else could.

his second release was close behind yours, thrusts getting sloppier and moans getting more concentrated.

soon, he emptied himself into you with a loud moan of your name, repeating it like an orison.

the both of you came down from your orgasms not long after and ethan pulled out. you whined at the emptiness, but it wasn’t for long.

“cant waste any of that cum, can we?” ethan’s grin was wide as he pushed two of his fingers inside of you, ensuring not a drop left your abused hole.

you were so sensitive, tears began to pool in your eyes.

the intense pleasure became too much very fast, and you had to physically hold his wrist to stop his fingers pumping into you.

ethan pulled his fingers out of you and stuck them in your mouth, forcing your throat open to swallow all of the mixed arousal on his digits.

once he felt they were clean, he pulled them out and brought his lips to yours in a passionate, gentle, and loving, kiss.

you felt yourself falling asleep with a hazy smile on your face, but your sleepiness dissipated into thin air when you heard a loud, angry, banging, on the door.

“NYPD, open up!”

#ethan landry #jack champion #ethan landry x reader smut #ethan landry smut #ethan landry x reader #scream #scream vi #scream 6 smut #scream 6 #the endinggg😭#.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ 𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐚 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#kaia writes ethan

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luxcuriousao3 · 1 month ago

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Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Nine)

Summary: Her scent was sharp, even beneath the layers of clothes, grime, and the guts he’d already slathered her in. Floral and sweet and musky in a way that made the primal part of him let out a deep, satisfied growl. He’d wanted so badly to taste her in that moment. He’d dive between her legs and lick her to completion over and over again, make her come on his tongue until she was sobbing from pleasure. He’d eat her out like she was his last meal—he’d devour her perfect little pussy whole. Word Count: 4337 Warnings: still no smut but some suggestive thoughts/actions, descriptions past abuse, internalized victim blaming/misogyny Notes: I had to rewrite this chapter about a dozen times, so I hope y'all like it XD. All dividers were made by @/sweetmelodygraphics (original post here). The zombie divider indicates the text below is Ghost's POV, the dove divider inidcates Lelia's POV. The combined dove and zombie divider represents a time skip but not a POV change. I still have no beta for this fic so all SPAG and consistency errors are my own, feel free to point them out. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! AO3, Masterlist

It was five days since they’d left the town, and Lelia was cold.

She was cold, and hungry, and tired, and miserable. She regretted ever leaving the town. She regretted ever leaving the cabin.

She did not regret leaving the military base.

Had she not left, she would still be tiptoeing around Andrew’s volatile temper, just waiting for him to lose it and wrap his hands around her throat again in a fit of rage. Before the dead had started walking, he’d liked to suffocate her with water. He’d catalog her every mistake throughout the day, and if she couldn’t appease him by nighttime, then the second they were alone, he’d drag her into their en-suite and force her to her knees by the bath. He’d sit on the edge of the tub, a hand in her hair as she kneeled beside it, and make her watch as it filled up to the rim. Then, he’d shove her head under, holding it there for however long he deemed she deserved as punishment. Sometimes it was only a few seconds, just enough to terrify her. Other times he held her under until she passed out. It didn’t matter. Lelia hated any pool of water larger than a puddle, now. Following that stream with Simon all those weeks again had been hell—she'd been on the edge of a panic attack the entire time.

It was so bad that Lelia couldn't even stand the sound of running water anymore. She knew she was disgusting for it, but she was secretly relieved they hadn’t found a working shower yet. That she’d had to make do with rags wet with water from her slim stash of bottles. She’d only wiped her whole body down once because of rationing, but she did the sweaty areas every few days. It was gross—but it was also such a relief. She didn't think she could take a shower even if they found one. And she didn't want to deal with the inevitable questioning grunts from Simon if she refused.

After the apocalypse had started, and Andrew had realized he didn’t need to hide his violence against her anymore, he'd started choking her the old fashioned way instead. Sometimes in front of people. It had been humiliating and painful, but less scary than the near-drownings. He no longer spent time building it up and striking the fear of God into her every time he punished her. He just snapped, grabbed her by the throat and squeezed as he shook her like a rag doll. His once cunning and calculating cruelty had devolved into unstable fits of rage as his new reality wore on him. She wondered if he got worse after she left and he could no longer take her rations or trade her body for half a bottle of whiskey. She wondered if he finally gave up and killed himself. She hoped he did.

Lelia tried not to complain to Simon about things of importance. Things she knew he wished he could fix for her but couldn’t. Groaning about her horrid, mismatching outfits or not being able to pluck her eyebrows was humorous to him—but whining about the cold or their dwindling supply of food just made him feel guilty. She didn't want him to feel guilty. He was the only reason she was alive.

He was the only person to ever make her truly happy.

She hadn't quite realized it at first, how much she enjoyed being around Simon. But in retrospect, it was obvious.

Even though he couldn’t respond, he always listened to her, no matter what she was talking about. Even if she was rambling about the history of fashion and the link between trends and current events. He would make appropriate noises at all the right times, consistently sounding interested even though he probably wasn't.

He brought her that feather, too, just because he thought it would make her smile, clearly having picked up on her love for animals. No one had given her such a thoughtful present since Ulyana had gifted her her poetry book, all those years ago. It was far more than just a feather, to her.

And Simon was so gentle with her. When they hugged, or held hands—both of which they had started to do more often, since that night in the study—he held her like glass, like he was afraid she would break if he squeezed too hard. With his strength, she probably would. And after a life in which physical contact was rare, and then frequent but always painful, his soft, affectionate touch was like a drug to her. Both healing and addictive.

It didn't matter to her that his hands were cold and he still smelled vaguely like death, regardless of how many times she cleaned him. She found herself wanting to be near him constantly. Waking up in the morning, excited to see him. Seeking his approval in everything she did. Trying to make him laugh, or the skin around his sunken eyes crinkle with a smile.

It was the apocalypse, and yet Lelia was happier than she had ever been in her life. And it was all because of Simon.

Except for right then, when he was being an absolute arse and trying to cover her with zombie guts. She knew they were behind schedule—worryingly so—but she would much rather backtrack a day's walk and try a new route than cover herself in putrid, rotten flesh and try to sneak through a herd of zombies like an idiot with a death wish.

“You can growl at me all you want; it’s not going to change my mind!” She whisper-yelled, gagging when she caught a whiff of the guts Simon had managed to smear on her before she could stop him. She was now holding him at bay with a very large stick she’d snatched up from the ground. She could see the amusement in his eyes, and she knew very well that her stick was not nearly as effective as she’d like to think. But it made her feel better to have, so she hung onto it. “I like this coat, Simon! It’s Moncler!”

Simon let out a sound that was a mix of a guffawing laugh, a huff of disbelief, and a groan of frustration. He took a lumbering step closer.

Lelia whacked him with the stick.

It was just a light whap on the arm—she knew he didn't feel pain, being dead and all, but she’d still feel guilty if she actually hit him—that wasn’t even hard enough to make a sound. Simon stopped to stare at her nonetheless, and despite not actually being able to see it, she just knew he was looking at her with an expression that said “Really?”

Lelia blushed, but held her ground, notching her chin and adopting her mother's most common look: demanding with an air of perpetual condescension. Like she was already assured that whoever she was glaring at would do whatever she wanted. Lelia could mimic it perfectly, even if she didn't actually feel that way. She hardly ever used it, finding it rude, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Simon just narrowed his eyes in response, though, rather than backing down like she’d hoped he would. It seemed his annoyance had won out, the amusement no longer anywhere to be found. Lightning fast, the stick was ripped from her hands and Simon was in her space, pinning her up against a tree. One of his hands cradled the back of her head, cushioning it so she didn’t get hurt.

Lelia squeaked in shock, eyes wide as she stared into his own. Simon stared back, and then deliberately smeared more zombie guts on the front of her designer puffer jacket.

“Simon!”

Lelia squirmed, trying to wiggle out of the way and spare her poor jacket further desecration, but Simon’s fingers tangled in her hair through the knit of her hat and held on tightly, his large form pressing closer to hers. He leaned in, burying his face in her neck and inhaling deeply, before letting out a low growl and running his gore covered hand up her side.

Lelia’s breath caught in her throat, her heart racing. Her eyes went half-lidded and her limbs turned to jelly, Simon’s body the only thing holding her up. Nerves squirmed low in her belly, and she let out a sound between a whimper and a sigh. Was this a panic attack? Was she afraid? She didn’t feel afraid. But what else could it be? She was unable to move, trapped and helpless like when Andrew or the soldiers would force themselves on her. But instead of terrified or numb, she felt… good? It made no sense. But she found herself upset when Simon stepped away, despite having just been trying to fight him off. Her legs trembled and she barely managed to keep herself from falling to the ground. She blinked at Simon, dizzily watching as he returned to the corpse of the infected he’d killed earlier and began rooting around inside its chest cavity, no doubt for more guts to cover her in, before just deciding to bring the whole nasty thing over. Lelia couldn’t even care about that, though. She was too busy trying to figure out what in the world had just happened.

Simon’s amusement had given way to his frustration when his dove had made it clear she wasn’t going to budge on her stance towards his plan. He understood her reluctance—though the fact that she seemed more concerned about ruining her designer coat than the herd of zombies she’d be wandering into certainly added to his annoyance—but she didn’t seem to understand just how dangerous it would be for her if they were still traveling when the first snow of the season fell. She would freeze to death, he had no doubt about it. And he simply couldn’t let that happen.

So, unwilling to wait any longer, he’d cornered her against a tree and took matters into his own hands. He'd expected her to be annoyed, expected her to be angry, and though he hoped she wouldn’t be, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was a little afraid. He was still a zombie, after all. There had to be some part of her that wondered if he’d snap, one day.

What he hadn’t expected was arousal.

But he could smell it, clear as day, with his face pressed into the crook of her neck. Her pulse was rabbit quick, her heart beating hard in her chest. Her scent was sharp, even beneath the layers of clothes, grime, and the guts he’d already slathered her in. Floral and sweet and musky in a way that made the primal part of him let out a deep, satisfied growl. He’d wanted so badly to taste her in that moment. He’d dive between her legs and lick her to completion over and over again, make her come on his tongue until she was sobbing from pleasure. He’d eat her out like she was his last meal—he’d devour her perfect little pussy whole.

Ghost ripped himself away from his dove, his hunger only growing when he saw the dazed expression on her face. He’d barely even touched her, and she was halfway to cockdumb already. He wanted to bury himself inside her as he consumed her hot flesh, wanted to watch her fall apart on his cock as he licked her blood from her soft skin—

He quickly lumbered over to the infected’s corpse. He needed to get away from the intoxicating smell of Lelia’s arousal. It had been too long since he’d fed, and his two very different hungers for her were getting mixed up, only making each other worse.

Digging around in its insides, Ghost tried to be rational. Her reaction had to have just been a coincidence, like a random, ill timed stiffy. It couldn't have been because of him—a dead, decayed monster. No one would ever find him appealing again—certainly not a sweet, pretty little dove like her.

And yet.

He couldn’t get the thought out of his head. That she had smelled so sweet because she’d been wet for him, aching to be filled by his cock and bred full of little monsters.

That she’d wanted him, old and dead and revolting as he was.

He was sick for wishing that were true.

Dragging the dead zombie over to her and hoping it would help cover up her smell, he focused on nothing but coating her in its guts. She didn’t protest again, seemingly stuck in her head.

It took several layers of gore to properly disguise her delicious scent, but he managed. He shoved his foul thoughts away and took her small, mittened hand in one of his. Grabbing the wagon handle with the other, he cautiously led her towards the large herd of zombies.

It took them nearly half an hour to get all the way through, and Lelia was shaking by the end, so fiercely she could barely stand. Once they were free of the herd, he led her to a tree stump so she could sit down and recover. He took the chance to put some distance between them—though he could no longer smell her beneath all the gore, she was still beautiful, and he was still ravenous. In every way.

“We smell horrid,” she finally said once she’d calmed down. “I can't eat like this. I'll be sick.”

Ghost grunted. They didn't actually have anything for her to eat—the last can of veg they’d been stretching was gone as of yesterday morning—but he knew that wasn’t really what she meant. And he could hear a river not too far from here… It was out of the way, but only slightly. They could light a fire, and he’d wash her coat and hat while she sat by it to keep her warm. Maybe he would even take the chance to do a full wash again himself, since the cold wouldn't bother him the way it would her.

But first, he needed to hunt.

He’d been trying to put it off until they got to the village, not wanting to leave her alone without four walls and a roof to keep her safe. But he would be a risk to her if he didn’t feed soon, so he led her to a tall pine tree, still thick with dense foliage, and helped her climb it. She was decently obscured, and if she stayed quiet, she would very likely go unnoticed by any survivors that stumbled upon her—though he’d not heard of smelled any nearby, thankfully. The infected were less of a worry—they wouldn’t be able to reach her with how high up she was, and still covered in gore, they likely wouldn't smell her anyway.

At least that’s what he told himself as he reluctantly left her, casting glances back over his shoulder at her tree with every few steps until it was out of sight.

Lelia was on edge the entire time Simon was gone.

It was less than an hour, but every time she heard so much as a branch twitch, she nearly jumped out of her skin. It got so bad that when the sound of leaves crunching underfoot reached her, she fell from her perch with a little scream of fear, sure she was about to die.

Strong arms caught her and held her close, a familiar, concerned groan greeting her. Lelia looked up to see Simon staring down at her, eyes crinkled with worry, face covered in blood. She blushed in embarrassment, heart beating hard in her chest from the adrenaline.

“Thank you,” she said sheepishly. “I, erm, I slipped.”

Simon cradled her more firmly against his chest, letting out a low, displeased grumble that she took to mean I saw or perhaps you need to be more careful. Maybe a combination of the two. Either way, her blush darkened.

Simon set her down gently, unearthing the wagon of supplies from where he’d hidden it under a pile of dead leaves. Lelia watched him, and wondered just how strong he was. She knew she didn't weigh much, as starved as she was, but he'd held her like she was no heavier than a feather. It made her belly squirm with that odd, nervous sensation again, though she didn’t know why. She trusted Simon not to hurt her. She wasn’t afraid of him, not even a little bit. Not since she’d held him as she cried, and she'd realized just how much he trusted her.

“Can we clean ourselves now?” Lelia asked, doing her best not to whine. The smell clinging to her was so horrible that every time she caught a waft of it, she nearly vomited. She’d had to pinch her nose closed and breath through her mouth the whole time she was in the tree—holding onto the trunk with only one hand had certainly contributed to her falling.

Simon grunted in what sounded like agreement, but he didn't hand her a bottle of water from their rapidly diminishing stash—they had been stretching the bottles as much as they possibly could, but there were only two left—and instead began to walk. Lelia frowned but jogged to catch up with him, tugging on his arm.

“Simon, please, I know there's not much left but I can’t stand this,” she complained, feeling justified since he was the one who’d done this to her. She pinched her nose again, voice coming out high pitched and nasally. “I’m going to be sick.”

Simon huffed, but she saw his sunken eyes crinkle a little. Nonetheless, he just kept walking, and so Lelia continued to complain while pretending she was annoying him rather than amusing him.

It was because she was still ranting about him ruining her coat and her appetite that she didn't hear the rushing water until they were nearly upon the river.

The second she saw it—so much deeper than that awful stream she and Simon had followed all those weeks ago—she froze, paling rapidly.

Simon had continued walking, but he stopped when her arm—which she had looped through his shortly into their walk—went rigid, pulling him back. He looked down at her, and then groaned softly, dropping the wagon handle and stepping in front of her and blocking her view of the water.

That snapped her out of her mounting panic, though she was still breathing harshly as she looked up at her zombie with terrified eyes.

“I d-don't want to go in,” she whispered, on the edge of tears. “Please d-don't make me go in…”

Simon cupped her face with his big hands, clumsily rubbing his thumbs over her cheekbones, trying to soothe her. Lelia let out a shuddering sigh, leaning into his cold touch. It was strange that it always made her feel so warm.

A few seconds later, Simon let go in order to point at the river, then at her, and then shake his head so hard his jaw wobbled, teeth clacking against one another loudly. She reached up to steady it, absentmindedly wiping away his drool as she did. He wouldn't force her into the water. Of course he wouldn’t. He wasn’t Andrew.

Simon cradled her face in his hands again for another moment, checking to make sure she was alright, before releasing her. They were still a few metres from the river, and he crouched down, joints popping, and began pulling out the stones, sticks, and matches they used to light a fire. Lelia joined him, helping to set up the little pit like he’d taught her to, and then taking off her mittens so she could expertly light one of their few remaining matches. She’d grown quite practiced over the last week.

As always, Simon praised her with a low, encouraging grunt, and Lelia’s cheeks flushed with pleasure. She liked making him proud. Just like she liked making him laugh. Sometimes she wondered if she saw him as a father figure—he was certainly old enough to be her father—but that didn't feel quite right, though she didn't know why.

Nonetheless, it was times like these that made her wish someone as kind and protective as Simon had been her father. He never would have bartered her off to Andrew for campaign money…

Once the fire was lit, Simon took her overcoat and her hat, plonking his helmet on her head instead. It immediately fell down over her eyes, far too big, and she giggled, tilting her head back so she could see again. Simon was looking down at her, eyes crinkled at the corners, dirty blonde hair shining in the dull winter sun, and in that moment, she saw just how radiant he was. Not how handsome he might have been when he was alive—no. How beautiful he was now, even with his grey skin, sunken eyes, and broken jaw. His missing lips and blackened gums. The mask and the blood covering his face. None of it mattered, she realized suddenly. To her, Simon was perfect, inside and out.

Lelia blushed as she watched Simon turn and head down to the river, heart feeling full as he carefully began to wash her clothes for her. He was so good. So patient and caring. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed how attractive he was before. She had gotten used to his appearance quickly enough, no longer scared or off put by it by the time they’d reached the town. But she hadn’t found it appealing until now. Part of her wondered if there was something wrong with her for it—he was a zombie, after all—but a larger part of her found the thought ridiculous. There could never be anything wrong about appreciating Simon. He was her friend. Her protector. Her everything, truly. She had nothing else but him, in this world. Just as he had nothing else but her.

Simon returned to where sat by the fire, but only to lay her clothes near the flames to dry. He knocked on the helmet—which still sat on her head, because her ears were quite sensitive to the cold and so leaving them uncovered was simply not an option—and she squawked in protest, making him let out a raspy chuckle. Then, he began to work at the buckles of his tactical vest. His fingers had gotten much less stiff in the last few weeks, but they were still far from nimble, so he was struggling. Lelia swiftly got up, closing the distance between them and lightly swatting his wet hands away so she could take over. He let her with another huff of laughter, and a comfortable silence fell between them as she methodically removed his gear. She stopped when he was left in just his t-shirt and trousers, the quiet turning awkward as they stared at each other for a long moment. Lelia was unsure why Simon wasn’t moving, but she suddenly understood when he let out a rumbly sigh and began to pull off his shirt.

“Oh!” Lelia squeaked, shocked. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t seen him shirtless before—she’d helped him change, back at the cabin—but that was before. Before the sight of his bare, muscular chest and the tattoos adorning it made her belly swoop, the way it had whenever she saw a handsome actor on the telly. She knew she should look away, but she was frozen. There were several scars on Simon’s skin, as well as open, bloodless gashes, ones he’d clearly gotten after turning. She wondered what had caused them—other people, panicking upon seeing him, not realizing he wouldn’t hurt them? Or had it been other zombies? Simon fought them often to keep her safe. Whenever they go too close to their campsite, or when he was clearing a house for them to search… he always made her close her eyes though, so she’d never noticed if they hurt him. She immediately felt guilty.

Simon seemed a little surprised to see her still watching him once his shirt was over his head, and he hesitated at the button on his combat trousers. That snapped Lelia out of her paralyzed state, and she swiftly turned around, stuttering apologies as she did. Simon just huffed a laugh, and a moment later, she heard his heavy steps as he walked away again.

Lelia didn't dare turn around to face the river while he bathed, and she was embarrassed she was even tempted to. It was one thing to find him attractive, even to admire his bare chest—it was another entirely to want to see him naked. That was incredibly improper, absolutely whorish—

You are a whore, a voice in her head that sounded like her mother’s said. Andrew turned you into one far before he made it official by giving you to the sergeants. That’s why you still feel that constant, aching emptiness inside of you. You want to be used. To be stuffed with cock and come, fucked so hard you cry—

Lelia clamped her hands over her ears, knocking Simon’s helmet off, and screwed her eyes shut as she tried to block out the thoughts, shame filling her. She had never enjoyed her time with Andrew or the soldiers, had never wanted what they’d done to her. And yet… a part of her grew increasingly anxious and uncomfortable, every night that went by without something happening. She didn't understand it. Didn’t understand the low, persistent ache in core, an emptiness that used to make her entire body feel hollow but now only seemed to exist between her legs. She should have been relieved not to have to deal with it anymore. To never have to have sex, ever again. But her body was so used to it for so long, that now it seemed to crave it. And against her will, Lelia found herself wondering if Simon could soothe that emptiness too, like he had the one in her chest.

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