#and it’s like you’re back to square one
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maruflix · 3 days ago
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CAVE CANEM #oneshot #squidgame #thefrontman
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Cave canem. Beware of dogs. In the ruthless games, there are countless hounds looking for prey. Oh Young-Il promises to be your shield, your shepherd, your guardian angel— but you soon find out that it’s often the unassuming ones who are the most dangerous.
feat. the frontman / hwang in-ho / oh young-il  ⎯⎯ wc. 2.5k
cw: female reader, yandere, unhealthy relationships, possessive & obsessive thoughts/behaviors, manipulation, squid game spoilers, i’ll use all of his names & nicknames here so don’t get confused, i do not condone yanderes irl, no beta we die like all 455 players in season 1
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I.
It’s funny how tragedy brings people together.
It has only been twenty two hours since you entered the twisted battle royale with 45.6 billion won dangled on top of you, but you’ve found companionship in fellow participants: Player 456 Seong Gi-hun, Player 388 Kang Dae-ho, Player 390 Park Jung-bae, and Player 001.
Oh, Player 001.
“How are your wounds?”
You look up to see Player 001 — or, as he introduced himself to you, Oh Young-il. His eyes gleam in worry as he takes in your appearance: hair disheveled, knee bruised, sleeves rolled up to reveal the scratches littering your hands.
You’re just glad you didn’t get killed during the Red Light, Green Light stampede.
“This is nothing,” you assured him with a genuine smile, “thank you for helping me.”
Young-il pauses. Then, as if remembering something, he reaches into his pockets and hands you a small carton of milk. “Here. You must be dehydrated.” He watches as you gratefully take it, instantly drinking the contents, “Don’t worry about the next game. We’ll get through it together.”
Tears are brimming in your eyes at the kind man’s encouragement. You let him take your hand and nod at him, smiling. “Thank you, Young-il-ssi.”
Young-il gives you one last smile before climbing back down to rejoin the rest of the group. His movements alerts Jung-bae, who mindlessly throws a glance his way.
Jung-bae instantly pauses. He knew from the start that Player 001 is not a simple man, but the expression on Young-il’s face is nothing short of terrifying, like a tiger eyeing its’ prey. He follows Young-il’s line of sight and finds you, curled on one of the beds.
A chill runs down his spine.
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II.
You don’t know how you got through the Six-Legged Pentathlon, but you did.
Chosen as the one to play ddakji — it’s not like you sucked at it, but you were scared you would be a burden to your teammates — your hands couldn’t stop trembling.
The squares of ddakji felt like rocks in your hand, your shoulders heavy by the fear of dragging everyone down. Their encouragement and cheers merely heightened your anxiety.
That was, until a hand gently clasps your own. “Don’t think too much about it. You said you won more times than the ddakji guy, didn’t you?” Young-il’s eyes twinkle, his shoulders lax, as if he’s not currently playing for his life, “Well, you won’t receive slaps if you fail, so go wild.” It’s amazing how he manages to silence all your fears.
You flipped the ddakji on your first try.
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III.
In-ho knew it from the start, but the reality of it still disgusts him. Humans are selfish creatures, blinded by greed, driven by instincts.
He sighs, looking at the results of the vote— 139 for ‘O’ and 116 for ‘X’. One hundred and thirty nine people marching to their own deaths like brainless maggots.
He sneaks a glance your way and sees that you’re shuddering. His heart drops to the pits of his stomach. Slipping away from Gi-hun, he makes his way to you. He keeps on surprising himself: joining Player 456 in the games, cheering with the others during the pentathlon, and now comforting you?
But In-ho is not one to ruminate over his actions too much. He knows what he wants, he gets what he wants, and right now all he wants is to hold you in his arms.
“Young-il,” your eyes instantly land on his and he wonders how it will feel to hear you call him by his real name, “I’m scared. I’m so scared, I don’t want to die!”
He’s beside you the next second, catching you before you can fall to the ground, strong arms wrapped securely on your waist. In-ho falters for a fraction of a second, but his hand quickly shoots up to caress your hair.
Receiving the kindest act for the first time in many years, you can’t help but to cry in his warm embrace, letting out all your frustration and fear. His touches are so tender, so serene, and being enveloped in his tall figure makes you feel protected.
In-ho calms your sobs with gentle shushes, rubbing circles on your back. He was unsure then, but his heart is determined now— he wants you, he’s got to have you, and there’s nothing under the seven heavens that will stop him.
He shudders at the thought of having you all to himself. In-ho can barely control himself right now, when you fit so good in his arms, your skin brushing against his. What would it feel like? To have you next to him every second of every day? He’d shower you with all of him— all his riches, all his affection, all his time.
First, the two of you will have to exit the game safely.
His grip on you tightens as he lifts his gaze from your trembling figure to the several pink guards stationed near the door. In the distance, they straighten their posture in alarm.
Even among the many faces of the players, they can locate their boss in a heartbeat — the Front Man is still the Front Man, even if he’s amusing himself by playing dress up. The way he carries himself is so telling, they have no idea how the players are none the wiser to the wolf hiding amongst the sheep.
... And right now, their superior’s glare speaks volumes about what he’s conveying.
A warning.
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IV.
‘One more game,’ they said, ‘it’ll be fun,’ they said.
The rotating stage under your feet is spinning at a controlled pace, yet you feel like you’re going to throw up. The light feels blinding, the gasps from the participants making your head spin even more.
Amidst all the chaos, Young-il’s hand clasping yours serves as an anchor.
“You okay?” His voice is as gentle as ever, unworried.
Even Gi-hun, the former winner of the games, is not exempt to the anxiety and apprehension that shadows the rest of them, but Young-il has never showed any signs of stress— like he has a safety net... or like he’s very sure of his own abilities.
You nod, grateful that he’s allowed you to stick by him like glue all this time. He squeezes your hand in encouragement, smiling.
“Two.” The woman’s voice announces cheerily. In an instant, the crowd erupts in disarray.
Young-il looks around. “Stick close to me,” he murmurs before pulling you with him towards one of the rooms. Not wanting to be a burden to him, you quickly fall in line, matching his steps. His back is very comforting as he cleverly navigates the chaotic hall, avoiding the other players.
Just when the two of you reached the door, a player appears, crashing into the two of you and sending you tumbling away from Young-il. Your world spins as you struggle to pick yourself up, searching for him.
Thankfully, you locate him almost immediately. A few steps away from the door, Young-il is strangling your attacker. “Get in! I’ll be right behind you!”
Fueled by adrenaline, you nod frantically, moving to enter the room. But there’s already another person inside.
True to his word, Young-il quickly scrambles to the room, slamming the door behind him. He immediately takes note of the anomaly, his expression dark.
“I-I was here first!” The stranger sputtered, shuffling away from Young-il.
There are loud bangs coming from the other side of the door and you quickly hold onto the lock, tears now falling from your eyes. “Sorry!” You yell, ”Sorry!”
“Five. Four. Three.” The countdown continues mercilessly.
You look back, “The other guy—!” but your words are caught in your throat.
Young-il has the man in a chokehold. For a moment you had no idea why he’s handling the guy so aggressively when it’s obvious that he’s more scared of the two of you than the two of you are of him.
“Two.”
“Young-il!”
“One.”
CRACK!
You scream. The man slips from Young-il’s hold, limp.
Lifeless.
Young-il’s gaze meets yours. There’s an emotion you can’t quite place on them, but it’s quickly replaced by that of horror. “I-I had to do it.” Tears start to brim on the corner of his eyes, his hands visibly shaking, “I had to-” he desperately crawls away from the dead man as he covers his face in terror, “I’m a monster, I-”
Crying, you kneel next to him, pulling him into an embrace, “No, you’re not,” assuring him in between sobs, “it’s this game, it’s the game’s doing, it’s not your fault!”
Breath haggard, In-ho rubs your head comfortingly. You didn’t even realize that he has long since stopped crying. He covers your ears, knowing by now that the sound of gunshots horrifies you, and glances at the body of the man he just killed.
You watched him kill one guy and you get this rattled? He sighs quietly.
For you, he would kill a thousand more.
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V, PART ONE.
“Hey girl,” a voice booms from behind you, catching you by surprise.
You let go of your hand that’s holding Young-il’s, turning your head to address the stranger.
“Saw you from afar and I can’t believe I didn’t talk to you sooner.” The purple haired man wastes no time getting into your space, running a hand through his hair. “D’ya know who I am? Because I wanna know who you are.”
You stiffen up. Of course you know him. Who didn’t? The number one ambassador of the ‘O’ team, aka the people who wish to continue the games, the outspoken menace, Thanos.
Thanos catches sight of something behind you and wavers before looking back at you. “A-anyway. I’ll see you around. Team’s always open, baby!” He exclaims, but it’s obvious that he’s trying to hide his nervousness.
You look back to see Young-il smiling at you. “Wonder what that’s about.”
The people here freaks you out. You sigh. “I know, right?”
In-ho hums, his finger treading along the sharp edges of the fork.
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V, PART TWO.
The bathroom is a mess— team ‘O’ and team ‘X’, warring against each other, fueled by the actions of a junkie who’s high out of his mind.
In the middle of it all, Hwang In-ho calmly makes his way to a purple haired man who is slumped on the ground, yelling at his friend.
“Get him, get that sucker! He tried to kill me, man!”
A dark shadow looms over Thanos, and he looks up in terror, recognizing In-ho immediately. “W-what are you-?”
In-ho eyes him coldly before swinging down.
The cold gleam of a fork is the last thing Thanos sees before it penetrates his neck.
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VI.
The fire of revolution burns bright behind all of you. Your hands may tremble, but your rifle is secure in your arms. All those first person shooter games are finally coming in handy as you manage to actually shoot down several guards.
“You okay?!” Young-il questions in panic, “You’re doing a good job! It’s gonna get more dangerous afterwards, but I can’t leave you behind!”
You nod, reassuring him, following him up the stairs with two other men in tow. Right now, you are brother-in-arms, comrades, fighting for your freedom.
Young-il halts, sensing the presence of a guard, before speaking into the comm, “Gi-hun-ssi, we found it.” he holds out an arm in front of you like a shield, “Start attacking and draw their attention. Then we’ll hit them from behind.”
Your knees tremble in fear and anticipation. Somehow, with Young-il on your side, you feel like this ragtag team of freedom fighters can actually succeed.
“Okay, got it!” Gi-hun’s invigorated reply came from the other side.
Young-il pockets the comm, nodding to the two men. They nod back in response and move forward. He quickly moves in front of you, signaling you to stay behind him.
Just when you thought about how reliable he is, two sharp gunshots resonates in the air.
Is it over?
You peek from behind Young-il’s back only to be met by the horrific sight of Player 015 and Player 047 sprawled on the ground, choking on their own blood.
Young-il’s rifle is still pointed at the two of them, his eyes cold.
Who is this person? You scramble to get away from him, alarm bells ringing in your head. Did he miss his shot? Did I see wrong? Is there a guard in front of him?
“Young-il-ssi, what’s going on?” came Gi-hun’s distressed voice from the comm, “Are you shooting?”
You watch in horror as Young-il calmly reloads his rifle before squatting down and glancing your way. “Gi-hun-ssi, I’m sorry.” Like a seasoned actor, the unscathed Young-il puts on a strained voice, “It’s all over. They got us too.”
Gi-hun’s voice is blurred as you fall to your knees, finally coming into terms with the betrayal of the person you’ve come to trust the most.
Young-il momentarily looks away from you to shoot the two men one more time. Cold, unfeeling, his fingers steady like he’s done this countless times before.
This is not the Young-il you know.
When it’s all over, several pink guards march up to him, a coat and a black mask in tow. Young-il (?) lifts a hand up to stop them, turning to finally address you.
Your breath gets caught in your throat, your fingers desperately trying to locate the trigger on your rifle, but the man in front of you is much quicker. He yanks the rifle from your trembling hands, unloading the bullets and kicking the weapon away as you back away to the wall, shivering in fear.
He sighs, taking the coat from one of the guards before kneeling down to your height. “I won’t hurt you. You know that, right?”
Confused, you can only gape at him. “W-who are you..?”
“Hwang In-ho. My real name.” he offers, tenderly wiping a tear from your cheek, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lie to you. I’ll explain everything, if you’ll just give me a chance..?”
In one swift motion, he wraps his coat around your shoulders. You look at his eyes, as tender and unchanging as ever— then it dawns on you: he has always been this way.
“Mr. Front Man, sir, everything is ready.”
You let In-ho pull you to your feet, his touch as comforting as ever as the two of you pass by countless guards. They make way for the two of you, the hierarchy crystal clear when not one of them dare to step out of line.
You’ve been such a fool. All the signs were there, the reason why Player 001 carries himself with such grace as if he’s untouchable. How the guards say things about ‘not tolerating actions that will disrupt the votes’ and yet kept quiet when it’s Player 001’s turn to speak his mind. The way they would shuffle away from him slightly whenever he walks—
In-ho turns to look at you, his eyes kind, “Do you trust me?”
Yet, you can’t bring yourself to say no.
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note: i know i appeared on the dash absolutely losing it over the recruiter/the salesman/ddakji guy (he’ll get his own fic after this don’t worry) but i took one look at this man with his hair down and i fell into a SPIRAL. this is totally a passion project. front man ftw 🙆‍♀️
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bombuni · 2 days ago
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a super whiny reader with seonghwa that lovessssss someone who whiny. i think he could have like voice kink? if thats makes sense
lose your breath
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summary: seonghwa knows every square inch of your body and understands the detailed map of your mind. he just thinks it’s fun to toy with you, his perfect doll. genre/pairing: bf!seonghwa x fem!sub!reader, soft smut. warnings: smut 18+ mdni, mommy!seonghwa, bratty reader, sort of humiliation kink & dacryphilia, hwa is a munch bom note: im sorry this took so long :( but i hope this exceeds your expectations! also fuck drugs u ever been addicted to mommy!hwa that shit will kill u 💔
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It’s been 2 days without a single touch.
There’s a look in Seonghwa’s eyes, a telltale twitch in the upper corner of his lips every time he moves towards your lips, leaning over you so gently but so oppressively it’s as if he’s trying to melt into you. As soon as you move an inch towards him, he backs away again, smirking and pretending as if there’s not a tent in his pants with the way your eyes well up and your breaths shake.
He loves this. Hearing how you’re broken down to your senses with just the thought of getting to kiss him. He especially loves hearing your complaints, your shaky and meek voice calling his name timidly. You quietly beg for something, anything, but it takes you another bit to realize the game he’s playing.
It’s a slow morning. Seonghwa has the day off, and you’ve both decided to use it to watch the Star Wars prequels (per his request.) The marathon is just about to start as you both prepare snacks in the kitchen, moving around each other like you’ve been programmed to move in a certain pattern.
“Hmm, do we have popcorn, Hwa?”
He unwittingly smiles at the way you say his name, “There should be a bag in the cabinet above you, pretty.”
You reach for the cabinet, but find that it’s impossible to even touch the handle, “Hwa, I need your help…”
“Ah, you do? Whatever for?” The teasing lilt in his voice tells you he knows exactly what you’re asking for, but he just wants to hear you ask. Maybe even make you beg a little.
You pout at him which only makes him smirk and cross his arms. You’re stuck in a stand off now, with both of you refusing to give in to the others wants. Seonghwa knows that eventually you’ll give in. He likes waiting until you can’t take it anymore. Until it’s bubbled up to the boiling point inside you and there’s nothing left to do but let it spill out.
“Agh, you’re so annoying, Hwa! You won’t even kiss me unless I beg and now you’re making me-“
Ah, there it is. He just enjoys torturing you. A glare of your eyes grants you a chuckle from him.
He raises a brow, smiling devilishly as he cocks his head to the side, “You’re cute when you’re being a whiny baby, ya know?”
“I’m not being whiny, you’re just mean…”
“Cute, cute, cute,” he mumbles mostly to himself. Seonghwa’s hands land on your cheeks as he moves closer to you, squishing them together until you feel like you’re gonna pop.
You grumble, but finally feeling his hands on you (in the most innocent of places) sends you into overdrive. Your knees buckle, catching yourself against Seonghwa’s strong chest. The feeling of him against you, hearts beating and pressed together, his bulge standing at attention, and his sparkling eyes watching you like you’re the only one he needs is…overwhelming.
After he’s staved you off of him for days, he’s so full of ecstasy and a certain buzz only you can give him when you finally, finally beg in the adorably pitiful way he loves so much.
There’s already tears in your eyes, “Mommy…”
Your voice sends chills down his spine, “Sweet, sweet thing, tell me what you need exactly. Use your words.”
“Need to-“ you pause to emphasize your words with a drag of your hips against his, “feel you,”
He chuckles at you to disguise the moan that threatens to slip out, “Really? Already? Couldn’t go any longer without Mommy inside you?”
You blush at his harsh words, “Hwa-“
Seonghwa gives you a certain look, one that tells you you’re in a world of trouble if you continue your bratty, combative attitude. It’s enough to remind you to be good for him.
“Sorry, mommy…”
Your meek voice and the way you shrink into him makes him swoon. A drive to destroy that sweetness and leave you a broken, moaning mess takes over him.
“Hmm. I think you’ve waited long enough. Do you want your reward?”
The prospect of getting anything from him fills you with an overwhelming need to obey his every command. He is your owner, and he’s made that very clear so far with the feelings he manages to evoke in you.
“Please, mommy, just need anything-“
Seonghwa thinks it’s cute how your chest rises and your breath quickens as he pushes you onto the counter. His arms squeeze you as they lift you, burning where your skin meets his, sending that trail of warmth down to your core. He throws you around like a doll and undresses you like it’s nothing to either of you. He gets so careless when he’s like this, only fueled by your pathetic nature and reaping the rewards he’s been waiting for this entire time.
Just his bratty, needy, doll ready to take what he decides to give.
He runs his cold hands down your sides, watching you shiver at his touch. His slender fingers reach under the waistband of your panties, teasingly snapping the elastic against your skin and watching as you twitch at the feeling. You whine impatiently as he teases you like this, massaging your tits while he gently kisses down your jawline as if he had all the time in the world. His soft lips reach down to your collarbone as he pulls the collar of your shirt to ensure every part of your skin feels his lips. He chuckles when he feels the vibrations of your moans against his mouth.
“Ok, enough teasing then,” you exhale as if finally relieved of a great weight on your shoulders before spotting that same perverted smirk, “…But can you beg for mommy again? Just one more time?”
He encourages you with a wet kiss on your pulse point, nuzzling your skin to fog your brain with him, “Hah-it’s- embarrassing, mommy,”
You feel his smile against your neck, “But you know I love it, right, pretty? You just sound so cute when you do,”
Seonghwa finally drags his lips down to where you want him the most. His hot breath fans against your core, taking in the hypnotizing sound of your eager and aching whines, as he finally drags your panties down to be greeted with the sight of your pretty pussy.
He can’t resist himself, pressing a kiss to your clit and chuckling as your body jolts just like he knew it would, “My pretty doll. So behaved for me, so perfect. You always listen to Mommy, don’t you?”
He punctuates his sentence by licking a long stripe along your slit, “Hah-Yes! Yes, Mommy, I’m always good for you-“
Seonghwa talks to you in between licks of your slick, enjoying the taste of you and the sound of your unashamed submission. Finally getting you like this, with you so sex-crazed and clouded by his touch that you don’t even realize how pathetic you sound, is his favorite thing in the world.
His mouth explores the parts inside you he knows overwhelm your senses. His lips swallow you whole, tongue darting all over and inside you to drag out those sounds he loves. His left hand comes up to rub your clit, following what he knows your body likes. It’s like a ritual to him. The blatant way he follows your body’s signals and your whines is just another testament of his love to you.
He feels your body tighten, your hands coming down to his hair to pull and urge him to let you off that cliff. His eyes roll at the harsh tugs you give, your raw desperation to reach that high rubbing off onto him.
Your trembling, breathless voice sounds out, “Mommy, c-can I cum?”
“Yes, baby. Come on, you wanna be good, don’t you? My pretty doll, so behaved, don’t disappoint me now…”
Seonghwa’s words reach towards your insides, pulling at the strings of your soul and releasing that knot he’s built. Your body shakes against his mouth, which still eagerly clings onto you and cleaning up the mess he caused. He caresses you through your aftershocks, adoring the little twitches your body gives as you come down to Earth.
Your watery eyes meet his fervent ones as he wipes his mouth clean, looking all too joyful to stew in your embarrassment at this sight.
Seonghwa decides that just a little more teasing won’t hurt, “You got through the The Phantom Menace. Think you can make it through Attack of the Clones?”
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adoresia · 1 day ago
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Rin would never admit it, but every time he saw you moving around the kitchen with your hair messy, wearing one his hoodies you were all he could focus on. He sat at the table, chin propped in his hand, teal eyes trailing your every movement, engrossed in whatever it was you were doing, It didn’t really matter what; his eyes were always drawn to your movements. The quiet hum of a song on your lips and the way you swayed slightly as you cut vegetables had him completely entranced. It distracted him so much so, he did not realise when you turned — catching him in the act.
“Am I really that nice to look at?” you teased, a gentle smile pulling at your lips.
His body stiffened, eyes darting to the spice rack behind you in a weak attempt to cover it up. “What are you talking about?” Your lips curled into a knowing smirk as you turned back to your work. “Im pretty sure you know what I’m talking about.” Rin huffed, crossing his arms and leaning back, feigning indifference. But his resolve was as fragile as glass, and soon enough, his gaze wandered back to you. When you turned and caught him again, he couldn’t look away in time. “Rin,” you teased, stepping closer, “you’re really bad at this.” He scoffed, shifting in his seat. “At what?”
“At pretending you don’t like looking at me.”
Your words hit him square in the chest, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. He just averted his gaze with a grumble. “You’re imagining things.” You laughed and walked away, leaving him sitting there, eyes glued to your figure once again. But, could you really blame him? You were the one person he enjoyed looking at, and if you weren’t so stubborn he could probably do it all day.
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hismercytomyjustice · 11 hours ago
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Can I just say how much I adore the domesticity Lee Majeoub brings to his role as Agent Stone?
Especially knowing how he approached the role as him and Robotnik both being orphans, which gave them a point of connection from the very beginning.
Sure, his character could look at him and just be in awe of his brilliance (even tho our boy Stone canonically has 1 IQ point higher than him) or just fall over himself to appease him. But he doesn’t.
It might look like he does. He’s constantly bending over backwards to accommodate him and take care of him, but it’s not because he’s a mindless sycophant. It’s because he knows what it’s like to be alone and he doesn’t want Robotnik to feel that way anymore.
When we first meet Robotnik, everything about him is all shiny and chrome. But as Stone becomes more involved in the series, we see all these soft little touches being added. He takes those sterile spaces and makes them an actual home with additions like the granny square blanket.
(It’s not confirmed but regardless the man has shown he’s proficient in the textile arts, dammit. And who else is that crab is gonna make a granny square blanket?! WHO???!!!)
He cooks, he cleans, he tailors, he makes coffee, he helps him with his evil plans, he supports him and his dreams, he takes care of him.
Most importantly, he’s there for him, no matter what.
Robotnik consistently laments the fact he never had a family throughout the series, but he does.
Agent Stone took the time to learn how to do all of these things and also to share them with Robotnik. Because he understands home and family are what you make, not about who you share genes with.
And like, even when Robotnik bounces to go hang out with his long lost grandpa, Stone’s only concern is that he’s not being completely honest with him and that Robotnik could get hurt and he’s right.
He doesn’t tell him to stop spending time with him or that he shouldn’t care about him. He knows how much Robotnik has always craved a familial connection and now he has one! He’s willing to step back, even though it pains him, so Robotnik can realize that dream.
And when he’s proven right, he doesn’t gloat or act betrayed (even though tbh he has every reason to). He’s still there for him. Because Robotnik is his family.
The movies are all about found family and how, even if you lose the people important to you, that doesn’t mean you’ll never find someone to love and be loved by in return. We see that with both Sonic and Shadow. And especially in Maria’s quote about how “The light shines, even though the star is gone.”
Love is a choice. How you express love is a choice. This is especially true in the third movie. Robotnik’s grandfather is ready to burn everything to the ground so everyone else knows how Maria was taken too soon and feels his pain. But he had an opportunity to build a new relationship with his other grandchild. To take the love he had for Maria and her love for him and to share it with Robotnik. He can choose to love and be loved in return.
It’s not like Robotnik doesn’t freely give him his love. Even when his grandpa is about to straight up murder him, he still has a moment where he wants to tell him he loves him. Even after all his grandpa has to say to him is “You’re no Maria.”
(TOP TEN ANIME BETRAYALS OF ALL TIME)
Stone and Maria are great parallels too. Robotnik in the first movie feels so removed from humanity. His #1 priority is himself. And I think if he’d met his grandpa in the first movie, before he’d built his relationship with Stone, he truly would’ve believed his grandfather when he said, “There’s no one down there who cares about you.”
Instead he sacrifices himself (hopefully he‘s still alive somehow, please please please) for the sake of humanity. Or, tbh for the sake of his real family. He murked his grandpa without batting an eye the second he realized Stone was in danger.
We see this paralleled with Sonic too after Tom is hurt. He lets his grief and fear get the better of him and he initially makes the same decision as Shadow and Gerald did. He chooses to act in hurt and anger. Shadow calls him out on it too, telling him he made the same choice to take revenge, regardless of what the people he loves would actually want him to do.
IDK MAN. I just love these movies so much and I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS. T^T
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zara-renata · 1 day ago
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The land of tears | ao3 | masterlist
You're at Azure Square with your perfectly nice boyfriend when you see your dead adopted brother through the crowd. Caleb's back and he's not going to let you go again. This is one of several variations of the reunion scene that I want that I know Infold won't give us. caleb x f mc, caleb x you, second person pov, some caleb pov. this story contains: references to saint-exupéry's the little prince, deeply possessive caleb, codependent relationship dynamics, not healthy at all, but caleb and mc match each other's freak, mc just doesn't know it yet. we've got some mechatronic arm/hand worship and caleb being unhinged in his pov about being back, about mc being his, and the state of mc's life without him. mc refers to caleb as her brother, caleb has differing opinions about that title.
It’s a cold January day. The sun is almost too bright, high in the noonday sky over Azure Square, reflected between the mirrored highrises thrusting from the heart of the Linkon City. The sky is a blinding, cloudless blue.
You stare into it.
There are no airplanes in view.
No contrails, streaking through the blue.
It’s the weekend. The bright weather, the weekend—people have been drawn from their hibernation, so Azure Square is packed. The mass of bodies never fails to make you uncomfortable. Too much movement, too many threats, too much stimulation. You have to breathe shallowly through the discomfort, with your lonely lungs.
It’s a rare weekend where you have both days off, no missions on your agenda. Just a stretch of free time. Free time that you still struggle to enjoy. Free time that echoes hollowly like your empty apartment, your empty fridge. Your empty heart.
You need the distractions of work, of task after task, to keep yourself moving forward, footstep after footstep. Little steps. Just keep going. You can’t quit. You’ll get through this, too, like you’ve gotten through everything else, Pipsqueak.
A gentle, warm voice in your head, echoing hollowly. One you haven’t stopped hearing for a year.
You wonder if you’ll ever stop hearing it.
You want to stop hearing it. You’re afraid of the day you stop hearing it.
You hear another voice, encroaching, overtaking the memory in your head. A vine, twisting around a cherished, deeply rooted tree. You have the feeling of an invasive species, even though that’s not fair.
You turn, look at your boyfriend. He’s smiling tentatively, a little confused.
He says your name again, and you realize he’s been trying to get your attention for a few minutes now, as you stood, entranced by the terrible, bright blue sky, the sun hurting your eyes.
Your exhausted eyes.
Even after a year, you still don’t sleep. 
You try to dismiss your irritation, your sense of wrongness about the handsome, sweet man standing before you—a trick of the light, a side effect of the insomnia. It’s not his fault, that he’s tall, but not ridiculously tall. That his eyes are a pretty blue, and not—and not any other color. That he doesn’t know you, not really, and likely never will. Because you can’t stand the thought of letting him in. You buried yourself in an empty casket, a year ago. What is there to know, now?
You try to smile. “Yeah, sorry.”
“You looked so far away,” he says, stepping closer to you. You let him, even though your first instinct is to always take a step back. But that’s not healthy. That’s not normal. This is your boyfriend, after all. Your patient, perfectly nice boyfriend. “What are you thinking about?”
You think of an empty casket. About how you’ve felt so far away, from everything, everyone, for so long. You can’t remember what being close feels like anymore, even though he’s standing right in front of you.
“Just that it’s very bright, for a winter day.”
He looks relieved. You’re glad he swallows your lies so easily. The one time you tried to talk to him about how you felt, about how you felt like you had buried yourself with your dead, he had said words like unhealthy. Like codependent. Dysfunctional. He had said these words, with a strange look on his face, a look that was all-too familiar to you, through your whole half-remembered life, any time you had been honest about how you felt about your family.
About your brother.
You've never known how to explain.
He was your other half.
What do most people know, about having half of themselves outside their own body? About not being able to breathe, without twinned lungs breathing with you, setting the pace? About not being able to sleep without his voice, more familiar to you than you own, saying it’s okay to close your eyes? That he’ll protect you from the nightmares. 
What could anyone know about what you went through? All the things you can’t remember. The things that you can’t remember, but the not remembering never stopped from leaving their brand burned on the inside of your skin, your panting, panicked lungs, your raw throat, waking up screaming yourself hoarse in the night. 
All you can remember is soft, indigo eyes. Warm, strong arms around you in the dark.
“Where are your aviators?” your boyfriend asks. “It’s not like you to forget them.”
He asks, because he doesn’t know they were your brother’s. If he knew they were your brother’s, he’d insist on buying you a new pair of sunglasses, in a different style.
You can tell that he doesn’t like it when he discovers that something you use often belongs—belonged to your dead brother.
He doesn’t say anything. That would be too confrontational. He knows it’s not a good look, to resent his partner’s dead sibling. But the look on his face: Dysfunctional. Codependent. Unhealthy.
He doesn’t know that the necklace you never take off is your brother’s. He doesn’t know that the sunglasses you wear religiously, on sunny and cloudy days, are your brother’s. Your favorite mug,  your favorite oversized hoodie, your favorite oversized gray sweatpants, your phone charm, a little apple—
Your face in the mirror, because he’d run his knuckles along your cheek, tweak your nose, gently flick your forehead. The lungs behind your ribs, because you breathed when he breathed, when you couldn’t remember how. Your hair, because he used to tug on your ponytail, your braids, your bun, he’d run his fingers along where it was buzzed, when you wore a fade for a while.
All these things belonged to him, had always belonged to him.
Teasing. Smiling. Gentle, and playful.
All the things you never were, and never had to be, because he was those things for the both of you.
You shake your head. “Forecast called for snow. I didn’t expect it to be so bright. It’s okay. We’re going to a movie, anyway, right?”
You try to smile again.
He studies you.
Buys your lie.
You don’t want to take the sunglasses out of your bag. You don’t want to protect your eyes, today.
You wear his sunglasses religiously, except for the days that are unbearable. The days where you want the pain, as you stare into the bright, hollow sky, searching for airplanes, for contrails in the blue.
You wonder how much pain your brother endured, in his last few moments.
Moments that might have felt like a lifetime in the flames.
Sometimes, you need to let the sun hurt your eyes. 
A burn without flames.
It’s the least you deserve.
You go in first. I’m not your sidekick.
No. You were never his sidekick. You were just his other half. Or rather, he was yours.
Your boyfriend nods, tightens his pretty scarf around his strong neck against the chill. A gift from you, when the weather turned colder. Not hand-knit, like the one you made for your brother. But lovely, expensive. “Yeah, it starts in half an hour. We better get a move on if you want snacks.”
You let him take your hand. You’re grateful for the gloves between your skin and his.
You know that’s not right. That it’s not normal.
But when have you ever been normal?
You walk through the crowds, the shifting mass of humanity. The reflection of the sun between the mirrored buildings. The scents of food, perfume, crisp winter air.
You look up at the sky, let the sun blind you, leave sunspots in your vision, and then look forward, over your boyfriend’s shoulder.
The sunspots dissipate, slowly. 
There is the scent of fried food. 
The sound of a woman’s laughter.
A child, shrieking about a toy.
Your gloved hand, held in your boyfriend’s, squeezed just a little too tight, as if he can sense how far away you are, how far away you have always been, from the day he met you, as he smiled shyly at you from across the bar while you were out with Tara. Who mustered the courage to introduce himself to you, asked about your job, listened attentively as you spoke, acted impressed. Who told funny, safe jokes. He asked for your number, not content with just giving you his card. He didn’t want to let you slip through his fingers, he said.
You, someone so beautiful, poised, a hero, Linkon’s finest. Someone just cold enough to present a challenge, but who smiled softly, chose a sophisticated drink, listened attentively in return.
All the things you learned from watching your brother go through life easily—smiling, charming, poised, popular, a hero. 
Your boyfriend fell in love with the mask you wear now. The mask you put on, the day your brother left for the DAA and left you behind, because he could no longer smile for you, laugh politely for you, make jokes and charm people for you. A shield, between you and the rest of a demanding, draining world.
Now, in Azure Square, there is the scent of food, the sounds of life.
There is the mirrored sun.
And between your boyfriend’s shoulder and a group of tourists lifting their selfie sticks in the air, stands your dead brother.
You don’t blink.
If you blink, he might be gone when you open your eyes again.
This has happened to you before. You look across a crowd, and are convinced you see the curve of his cheek, the long line of his nose. 
You see indigo eyes in strangers’ faces across the street.
You hear him calling your name, but when you turn, there’s no one there.
Each time, your feet move before you can even think. You’ve almost been hit by a car, multiple times, crossing streets where he’s not on the other side.
You startle strangers as you pull on their arm from behind, turn them toward you, search their eyes for a color that you’ve never seen anywhere but in his face.
It’s never him. Just a trick of the light. A mirage in the desert.
The devastation, afterwards, realizing it’s not him—it’s like waking up all over again, to your ears ringing. To the fire reflected in his necklace.
To being forced to lower an empty coffin into the ground.
Now, across Azure Square, his back is to you. 
But you’d know him anywhere.
His broad shoulders. The sheen of his brunette hair. His indigo eyes. The inner curve of his elbow. His strong calves. His long toes.
His scent, his voice, echoing in your head.
His lungs, breathing for you, when you couldn’t breathe for yourself.
When the panic would come, and collapse your chest.
Breathe with me. Breathe with me. Look at me, look only at me, and breathe with me.
You can’t blink. Your eyes hurt before, and they hurt even more now.
He turns.
The sun pours liquid gold over his profile.
It’s him.
It’s him.
It can’t be him.
This is a mirage. You are a pilot, stranded in the desert, downed plane smoking behind you.
You are lost in the desert, and you are hallucinating water.
He’s dead. 
You’ve been in the desert for a year now.
Even before—even before he walked into the house first, and everything changed, you had tried to live without the other half of yourself.
With each broken promise to come home, to meet. With each rain check, Sorry, Pipsqueak something came up at work, a new mission, not this time, I promise, next time.
With each day, the distance grew, straining the tether between you.
You couldn’t bear waiting until it snapped entirely, couldn’t bear waiting until the day he finally severed it first. 
You couldn’t bear waiting for the day he announced that he had found someone else. When his profile picture inevitably changed to two smiling faces, instead of a silly carved apple.
Because of words like unhealthy, codependent, dysfunctional.
Because of the time stretching, longer and longer, between each answered text, each missed call.
Because of distance, between you, stranded on the earth, and him, flying high in the sky.
So you decided to carve him from you, an expert butcher, after he took your lungs, along with the necklace you gave him, and flew to Skyhaven, into the blue, blue sky.
You haven't breathed right since he left for the DAA, and you left for the Academy.
You decided to carve him from you. You were adept with blades, after all.
No one really needs two kidneys.
Two hands.
Two eyes. 
People can survive with half a liver.
And you feel like he always had your entire, mangled heart, such as it is. You’ve lived without it, for as long as you can remember.
You are a skilled butcher on the battlefield, as well as in the privacy of your mind. Carving out pieces of yourself, forcing yourself to live without the other half of you, the person carrying the most important parts of you, long before he walked into the house first, drew his last breath, left you alone on the sidewalk to watch your childhood home containing the best parts of you, brightly burning.
So many people live without parts of themselves, every day.
If you couldn’t sleep without his voice, telling you it’s okay, I’ll protect you, from the world, from the nightmares?
Well. You just wouldn’t sleep.
You couldn’t afford to panic, anymore, without him there to show you how to breathe again. 
You just never breathed deeply again.
You took your terror, a constant thrum under your skin ever since Gran brought you home from a place you can't remember, and swallowed it. Keep it in your stomach. 
You can’t eat much, because there’s so very little room left, where food is supposed to go.
But one does what one must, living without so many parts of oneself. And the only food that you could ever stomach was food made by your brother's hands, anyway.
After your expert carving, you can laugh, run, fight, do your job, return a lover’s touch—because what does it matter, that the hands touching you are wrong, with most of yourself in the blue, blue sky, out amongst the stars, wherever his pilot’s wings took him?
You’ve been so far away from yourself, for so much longer than the moment he walked into the house first.
Now, your body wants your eyes to blink. 
Seeing him through all the shifting bodies, the cold January wind pulling tears from your wide, disbelieving eyes.
But you can’t. If you blink, when you open your eyes again, he’ll vanish.
He’s dead.
You tried to kill him, kill the parts of him remaining in you, long before he actually died.
It must be a mirage.
He used to read to you, huddled together in Gran’s bay window in the attic, about a pilot who fell from the sky, crash landed in the desert. A little prince. A fox. A rose.
A little prince who tames and loves a rose, but leaves her behind to explore the stars.
Your brother always referred to you as his rose, when it was just the two of you. But how could you be something so delicate, beautiful, entitled?
You were actually the pilot, struggling under the hot sun. Downed, while the little prince flew back amongst the stars.
I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him... The land of tears is so mysterious.
You had learned to live without him.
So what, if you still tried to blind yourself in the sun, looking for his path through the sky?
A small price to pay, when he walked into the house first.
Now, across Azure Square, he looks so beautiful, right there, soaked in gold, in the blue blue sky.
What if it’s not a mirage?
You stop.
Your boyfriend turns. Looks at you curiously.
You can’t tear your eyes from your dead.
Is it the sun? A trick of the light? Is it really only a mirage, in the desert, the desert of your days dragging out behind you, contrails of grief from the moment the words left your lips?
I’m not your sidekick.
Your brother continues to turn. Now, he’s facing you. Through all these moving bodies, through the sunlight cascading down his shining hair, the soft downward turn of his indigo eyes, flashing in the mirrored light.
You hear your boyfriend say your name again, as if from a great distance. The distance that has always been there, because you have been so far away, for so long.
You’ve spent so long, searching the sky, for traces of him. His contrails white against the brilliant blue. Long before he died.
You’ve survived it all. His leaving the first time. Through the long years, where you pretended to live just fine without him, to not need him, his breath in your lungs, his voice in your head.
His death, his final smile, the last horrible, petty thing you said to him.
If he’s just a trick of the light, you’ll survive it.
Again.
It will hurt, but you’re used to the pain. You’ve been buried, suffocating in the dark, for so long already.
You just. You have to be sure.
You pull your hand from your boyfriend’s, begin to run.
You still haven’t blinked.
Your eyes burn. 
People must sense your desperation, because they part for you, easily. You’re moving through them like a jet in flight. There is only you, and your destination.
Your mouth is moving, and it’s the first time in a year that you’re saying anything that matters.
“Caleb.”
Your voice is loud, even in the bustle of all the people filling the Square. He pauses, indigo eyes searching the crowd.
You’re running, running, through the sun-drenched square, the awful, blinding bright blue sky, and when his eyes finally meet yours, you feel like you can fly.
You don’t hesitate.
You launch yourself at him.
He catches you, just as you knew he would.
You wrap your legs around his solid waist, your arms around his neck. 
You’re not thinking.
You tear your gloves from your hands with your teeth, drop them to the ground. Your hands are in his hair, fingers digging into the bur of where it’s shaved against his neck.
His eyes, his soft indigo eyes, are the only thing you can see.
His sweet breath, warm against your face, puffs white in the cold afternoon air.
“Caleb,” you say, lungs full for the first time in a year. Longer. “Caleb.”
“Hey, Pipsqueak,” he says softly, and it’s not his voice in your head, but in your ears. You watch his full lips form the words. 
It feels like a dream.
A dream you’ve had so many times, only to be jerked back from the dark, to open your eyes to a world where he’s dead.
“Caleb,” you say.
He holds you, indulging you, as always, one big arm wrapped around your waist, the other tucked under your ass, supporting you even as you’re probably squeezing him with your legs to the point of pain.
He smiles at you. His blinding, lovely, soft smile. “Did you miss me?”
You devour his face with your eyes. His pretty purple eyes, turned down at the corners. His long, straight nose. His generous mouth, his warm smile.
Did you miss him?
What a stupid question.
What a stupid fucking question.
You bury your face in his warm neck. Breathe him in. Clean skin. Sun-soaked linen, hanging in the spring breeze. Caleb.
“Is this real?” you ask, helpless, desperate.
He holds you more tightly. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s real.”
You want to tell him to promise you.
But he’s promised you things before.
That you would be seeing him every day, soon.
That he’d be home soon.
You can’t help yourself.
“Promise?”
You stare into his eyes. Something moves across his face, here and gone, before you can catch it.
“Promise,” he says. Easily. Like he really means it.
You don’t want to move. You just want to stay here, in his arms, forever.
You don’t want to ask anything else. You don’t want to destroy the ecstatic relief of this moment.
You can’t stand to keep moving through the desert, only to discover that this is a mirage.
A trick of the light.
He must feel the same, because he continues to hold you, effortlessly, stroking his hand down your hair with one big gloved hand.
“Caleb,” you say.
“Yeah,” he answers you. A reassurance. A confirmation.
“Caleb.” A sigh. A question.
“Yeah Pipsqueak. It’s me.”
You hug him, and he hugs you back, as you stand in a sea of people moving around you, as the bright winter sun spills over you, drenching you in a dream that you refuse to wake up from.
The moment could have lasted for a lifetime, or just a few heartbeats.
It shatters, when your boyfriend’s voice breaks through the haze of Caleb’s soft hair under your hands, the scent of his neck in your nose.
“Who’s this, babe?”
You feel Caleb’s body tense under yours. You keep your face buried in his warm neck.
Your boyfriend wouldn’t know.
You put away Caleb’s pictures, early on, after. Seeing them had torn at all the phantom parts of you that shouldn’t have hurt anymore, because Caleb took them with him when he left. You suffered, every time you had to tear your eyes away from is photos again, knowing that the pictures were the only way of seeing him, for the rest of your fucking life.
You had stared in the mirror, more times than you could count, wishing your eyes were a pretty purple, turned down at the corners. Wishing for his soft, silken hair in his exact shade. Trying to find him in your features, an anchor, a pale reflection of what you lost.
But his blood didn’t flow through your veins, despite you spending all the life you could remember feeling like it did.
Caleb makes a fist of your hair. Tugs a little, gently. “Gonna introduce us, Pipsqueak?”
You're so happy to be in this dream, to have him in your arms, that you forget to resist. To rebel. To refuse him, his gentle, firm requests, as you had done once he left for the DAA. You let him gently guide your face away from his neck. Let him slowly lower you to your feet, your body dragging against his. You only half turn, as he keeps his arm around your waist, your body tucked into his. You can’t let him go yet. You’re not ready to let any space come between you yet. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist.
You look at your boyfriend, and it’s like looking at a stranger. You shake your head, try to clear the sense of wrong that has always been there, no matter who you tried to date, no matter who you tried to care for. “This is my—,” you begin, but Caleb cuts you off.
“I’m Caleb.”
Your boyfriend’s eyes widen.
“Caleb? Your brother, Caleb?” he asks, eyes darting between Caleb’s face and yours.
“I’m her Caleb, yeah,” Caleb’s voice sounds funny. As if he’s angry about something. “And you are?”
You shake your head. “Sorry. Sorry, Caleb, this is my boyfriend. And yeah, this is Caleb.”
“So you’re… Not dead,” your boyfriend says, strangely. 
��Very much not dead.” You can hear the smile in Caleb’s voice, but when you look at him, he looks colder than you can ever remember seeing him. Something about his eyes is different, different from the little boy you knew, as he read you stories of pilots, of little princes and tamed foxes, of roses, as he stares down your boyfriend like he presents some type of threat.
It occurs to you that you should let him go. That you should step away. That needing to cling to him like this is— unhealthy. Dysfunctional. 
Can you be excused, just this once, if you’ve believed that he has been dead for a year?
You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the fear that this is a dream again.
Your lungs hurt.
You turn your head. “Caleb,” you say, desperate.
He looks away from your boyfriend, gazes down into your face.
You lift your arm from his waist, up, up, clutch the back of his neck, soothing yourself with the soft buzzed hair there, as it fades into his longer, soft strands. “Caleb, is this real? This isn’t a dream?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s real. Keep looking at me.” 
He leans down, and he has to come so far to come down to your level, rounding his shoulders. He rests his forehead against yours. Looks into your eyes.
All you see is indigo.
“Breathe,” he says, and he takes a big inhale. 
You do as he says. Breathe in. You feel his breath against your lips, sense his chest expanding with the breath in his healthy, living lungs. 
He exhales, clouds forming on his lips, drifting into the bright blue sky.
You exhale, and he inhales again, as if trying to breathe in your breath.
The ache in your lungs eases, as he does this for you, the way he used to. Before you went to the Hunter Academy. Before he went to the DAA.
You finally allow yourself to close your eyes, forehead resting against his. “Caleb,” you say.
“Yeah. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He pulls away from you, just a little, but takes one big gloved hand and tucks your face into his chest. You hear him address your boyfriend.
“Hey man, it was nice meeting you. It’s been a long time, and we have a lot to talk about. I’m gonna take her back to her place so we can catch up. She’ll call you later.”
Your boyfriend says something, but it’s lost to you, as you soak in Caleb’s warmth, as you enjoy the feeling of being able to breathe again, after so, so long.
Of feeling, not far away, but close, for the first time in a year. Longer than a year.
Of feeling like your body has been returned to you, after being buried in the earth, for a year.
Then you’re being turned, guided through the crowd.
Everything is a blur. You can’t ask any questions. 
Despite his reassurance, you still don’t believe him. 
He’s made so many promises before, after all.
You don’t want to wake up from this dream.
He’s holding your hand, helping you into a passenger seat. Some kind of Jeep, some muddy, functional military vehicle that stands out amidst the sleek, gleaming cars meant for urban travel.
The inside smells like him.
You stare at his profile, still limned in bright, bright sunlight, as he takes your hand, holds it in his, sheltering yours, resting your clasped hands on his big thigh as he drives one-handed, relaxed, through the weekend traffic back to your apartment.
You stare at his face in the mirrors of your elevator. He stares back, smiling softly.
Neither of you say anything.
What needs to be said, in a dream?
It’s enough, that he feels so real, his warm, big hand holding yours. He feels so alive.
His scent, the scent of home, of clean laundry, of clean skin.
His beautiful, kind eyes.
Inside your apartment, he squats, unlaces your big boots. The sound of his long fingers sliding through the laces is loud in the silence of your empty place.
You suddenly hate not having his eyes on you.
You bend down, place your hands on his cheeks, lift his face.
He pauses, looks up at you. Indulges you, as he always does.
“Caleb.”
It’s all you can say.
All you can think.
“Yeah, baby.”
You shiver.
He only ever called you that, when it was the two of you.
You always wondered what he meant. 
He never looked at you like a lover. Never touched you like a lover. But why would he have to, when he is the other half of you?
He has always been so much more to you.
And yet, you know, that you have always been so much less to him.
Why else would he refuse to kiss you, touch you, take what you’ve been clearly offering, for years, before he left for the DAA?
But whatever he used to give you was enough, even if you always wanted him to touch you differently, just as he named you differently, when it was just the two of you.
Before he left for the DAA.
Before you learned not to breathe.
It will have to continue being enough now.
If this isn’t a dream.
You lost him once.
If this isn’t a dream, you’re never, ever losing him again.
“Caleb,” you say, and he smiles.
“Yeah.” He rises to his feet. He’s so much bigger than when you were children, now. He’s so much bigger even, than the last time you saw him. You admire the controlled strength of his body, its graceful movement as he shrugs out of his winter coat, hanging it on a peg on the wall. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You step out of your boots. 
He moves his hands to his own combat boots, broken in but still buffed to a shine. He removes them efficiently. Lines them up neatly in your shoe rack, adds your own boots next to his.
You’re about to unzip your jacket when his big hands replace yours on the zipper, gently guiding yours out of the way. He watches your face as he unzips your coat. He’s still smiling softly, the curve of his lips more familiar to you than your own in the mirror.
“Caleb,” you say. You can’t stop yourself, each time.
“Yeah.” He answers you patiently. “I’m here.”
He slowly slides your coat from your shoulders, your arms. He hangs it on a peg next to his, then takes your hand again, leads you further into your place.
The bright sun is spilling in through the drawn up blinds.
He looks around, then turns, looks down into your face in question. “Pretty grim, Pipsqueak.”
You look away. You don’t want to talk about this now. You don’t want to wake up from the dream.
He’s here. Right here, so warm and big next to you.
Breathing.
Alive.
“Hey. Look at me.”
When you disobey him, he lifts a hand, strokes it over your hair. Makes a fist in it, gently guides you to look at him again. For the first time, you notice that he hasn’t removed his gloves. Before you can ask why, he continues. “Why the bare walls?”
You sink into his hands, let him tilt your head up, look up into his beautiful, precious, familiar face.
There’s something different about his eyes.
You can’t tell what it is.
“You know why.”
His smile fades.
“You’ve been dead for a year,” you say.
He looks away, for the first time. Then looks back at you, tilts your head back further, curving your throat, naked under his eyes.
“It's felt like that, yeah,” he says.
“Yeah.” 
What else is there to say? This is a dream, right? Despite his promise that he’s here, that he’s alive. That this is real.
He lets you go, and you feel like falling to your knees.
But you haven’t fallen to your knees as a result of his absence for years now.
You manage to stay standing.
“Thirsty?” you ask, when he just stands there, looking at your face, your neck, your chest, eyes drifting down to your feet and up again. As if he’s as thirsty for your image as you are for his.
You’ve only ever been able to slake the thirst of his throat. It has always had to do, knowing that he wasn't thirsty for you.
“Very,” he says, strangely emphatic. But then he seems to return to himself. “I’ll make us something. I know what you like the best, after all.”
He turns, and you watch his broad back as he moves into your kitchen.
You realize that he’s about to see more evidence of the desolation his death has wrought in your life.
You suddenly can’t stand it.
You move forward, grab his arm.
It’s hard.
Like, really hard.
Not hard like firm muscle.
Hard like the barrel of a gun.
He turns, grabs your hand with his, gently, firmly, removes it from his bicep.
“What do you need, baby?”
His voice is gentle, but his eyes.
There’s something different about his eyes.
You’re starting to wonder if this isn’t a dream.
“Caleb?” 
He sighs. “Let me get you something to drink. Then we can talk.”
But you don’t want to talk. You want to know.
You have to know.
“No, I want to see.” 
His voice is harder, now. “No, you don’t. You have no idea—”
You cut him off, anger sudden, bright, painful.
One of the few things you have left to you, after he took everything else with him into the ground.
“No. No, you don’t understand. You don’t understand, what it’s been like—,” you choke, the loss, the weight of the past year suddenly overwhelming.
How dare he hide part of himself from you? How dare he disappear for a year, say nothing, let you believe he was dead? Let you suffer, suffocate, be buried in the ground in an empty coffin? You need to see him, to touch him, to feel him. It’s the least of what he owes you. After everything.
The anger ebbs, just as quickly as it came. You need this. You need him.
“Caleb.” You step forward again. Lift your hand, slowly. “Please.”
You’re not above begging. You’ve never been above begging, wheedling, pleading.
An annoying little sister.
Until he left. 
Until the time between returned texts, missed calls, set you on your butcher’s path. Your limping half-life, muscling forward, agonized at every step, every milestone, alone, untethered, with most of yourself flying so far away, high in the sky.
You had never been above begging, until the day you decided never to ask him for anything, ever again.
Something strange passes over his handsome face, then. Again, it’s so quick, you can’t catch its meaning, the feeling behind it.
He sighs again.
You know this is his consent.
You move forward, place your hand back on his arm. Feel its hard planes, the inhuman hardness under your palm.
Then your hands are at the hem of his hoodie, his undershirt. Scrambling, shaking. You lift, lift, the soft fabric, the scent of clean laundry filling your nose, the smell of home wafting from his now-exposed skin, his waist, abdomen—the soft trail of dark hair leading down into his pants, the slight, soft layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath.
Caleb has always been big, hard and soft, strong. Not hydration starved, stone cut. The strength of a man who excelled at sport, at lifting weights, at eating heartily to fuel his big body. That hasn’t changed. You resist the urge to lean down, press your face into the soft hair of his belly.
You lift his shirts further, and he lets you, lifting his arms.
You pull the hoodie, the undershirt over his head, and your eyes widen as his right arm is revealed in its silver, breathtaking beauty. Your breath catches. You drop his shirts on the floor.
He must misread something in your gaze, in your hitched breath. His voice is bitter. “The price of resurrection,” he says.
You take him in. His big feet, steady on your kitchen floor. His long legs, thick thighs encased in cargo pants. The soft line of his hair on his stomach, tapered waist, the flare of his back, his huge pectorals, the dark soft hair there. His broad shoulders, heavy with muscle. His big arms, one the lovely, softly furred skin you remember against you in the middle of a panic attack, in the middle of the night when the nightmares would come. The other, gleaming under the bright sunlight streaming through your windows.
Sinuous silver metal, grooved in intricate patterns for movement, utility. Ending in a hand, still encased in a glove.
“Beautiful,” you breathe.
Until this moment, you haven’t given yourself a chance to wonder how he was here, whole, after the explosion, the fire.
You didn’t dare let yourself believe that this wasn’t a dream.
But here he is. The rise and fall of his big chest as he breathes, as he watches you, watching him.
His arm, the evidence of what he has endured.
You reach out, pause as he flinches. But he doesn’t pull away. You take his gloved, prosthetic hand in yours, lift it to your mouth.
You open, exposing your teeth. You gently bite the soft leather, clench. Pull. 
The glove slides off his hand, this new hand of his, as Caleb’s chest rises and falls, faster.
As a soft pink rises up his chest, his neck, into his cheeks.
You think because of the embarrassment. Maybe misplaced shame.
As if he should ever be ashamed of having survived. Of having come home to you, finally.
You think you can forgive anything, in this moment.
You know it won’t last. You know that too much has happened. 
You’ve always held terrible grudges.
But for now, you forgive him, as you take his metal hand in both of yours. As you lift it to your cheek. As you close your eyes, nuzzle into his cool, silver palm, so grateful that he’s here, whole. 
You’ve never been whole. He’s always had half of you. More than half. But it doesn’t suit Caleb, not to be whole—your wholesome, better half.
You’re so grateful that even the parts he lost have been restored in such a beautiful, strength-suffused way. A living sculpture.
You don’t see him clenching his teeth.
You don’t see the tears, gathering at the edges of his soft, indigo eyes.
The heave of his chest.
Just for a moment, as he breaks a little, as he helplessly watches you, because he can’t feel you very well with this hand, as you press your face into the most inhuman part of himself.
He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. He pulls you in with his strong, gleaming arm. Wraps his other arm around you. Tucks your head into his chest. He resists the urge to take his silver hand, squeeze your throat, his long fingers reaching the back of your strong, delicate neck.
Just enough pressure, to leave a collar of bruises, to remind you when he has to leave you again that this is real, that he's real, when you start to doubt again, to worry again.
For your boyfriend to see.
You feel the soft hair under your cheek, his warm skin, contrasting with his cold metal hand, the steady heartbeat under your ear.
This is real.
He’s alive.
Caleb is alive.
“Caleb.”
It’s all you can say.
“Yeah.”
He holds you like this, standing in your kitchen. He holds you like this for an eternity. But it will never feel as long as the year without him.
You don’t think it will ever be enough, after what you endured, during your year buried in the dark.
Finally, you realize you have to go to the bathroom. You pull away. “My kitchen is empty. You don’t understand what it has been like, since you've been gone. So don’t judge.”
He looks down into your face, smiles at you. There’s no trace of the tears in his eyes. “Oh, I’m gonna judge you, Pipsqueak,” he teases, and the familiarity of it helps you breathe. Gives you the strength to scowl at him, force yourself to pull further away. 
“Be more useful than you have been for the past year and order something to eat while I’m in the bathroom,” you order him.
He snorts a laugh. Gives you a lazy salute.
You don’t see his smile fade, as he watches you move away from him, shut the door to the bathroom behind you.
You don’t see his shaky breath, the cold which leeches from his arm back into his eyes. He looks around your apartment, the empty walls, the lack of pillows, blankets on the spare furniture. As if you don’t allow yourself comforts, anymore. All of the color, the life bled out of a place that should be your safe space, your sanctuary. All the color, the life that he knows lives inside you, even if you don’t believe it yourself.
He turns, opens a cupboard.
Bare.
Opens the fridge.
A half-drunk bottle of wine. The rest, bare.
He scowls.
He’s been gone for too long. You’ve lost too much weight.
But he’s back now.
Things are going to change for you, now. Because he’s going to change them.
Your phone vibrates from your coat in the hall.
You don’t see him stride to the hall, fish it out of your pocket, unlock it. He knows your passcode, still. It’s his birthday, after all.
It’s a text from your boyfriend.
He stares down at it. All okay? Raincheck for the movie? Maybe tonight after you’ve had a chance to catch up with your brother this afternoon?
His contact picture in your phone is a picture of the two of you, him smiling brightly, you smiling slightly. A reserved, faraway smile. Caleb knows this smile.
It’s your mask.
The mask you put on, after he left for the DAA.
This smile is the only thing that will save your boyfriend from an unfortunate incident that costs him his life.
This smile tells Caleb that removing this man from your life will be a cakewalk, so no extreme measures are necessary.
If you were really happy with this guy, you would feel safe enough to not smile at all. To reveal all the hollow, empty places inside you, that only Caleb can fill.
If you had shown your true face in the photo, Caleb might have to worry.
Caleb types, briefly.
You: Not today. Still busy with Caleb. I’ll call you.
He then deletes both texts.
He turns the phone to silent. Slips it back into your coat pocket.
He slips his own phone out of one of his pockets, orders some food and drinks as you so adorably demanded.
He doesn’t bother putting his hoodie or undershirt back on.
He pours two glasses of water, since you don't even have any fucking tea in your cupboards. He takes them over and sets them on one of your sidetables next to your couch.
You emerge from the bathroom, come to him on the couch. You just stand, staring down at him. A complicated look of sorrow, of relief—anger, hesitation, yearning—on your gorgeous, cherished face, all of your emotions, plain as day, so easy for him to read. Even when you tried to hide them. Even when you tried to push him away, keep him at arm’s length.
He knows you better than you know yourself, after all.
“Why so far away?” he finally asks.
A helpless look crosses your lovely face now. He reaches out with his human hand, and you take it, let him pull you down next to him on the couch. You rest your head against his shoulder.
Neither of you speak. He just holds you, your body melting into his. His fingers, the ones he can feel the best, drift up and down your arm.
There will be time now, to speak, later. 
All the time in the world.
Caleb’s back, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s going to fix what he broke.
It’s time to start making up for lost time.
He thinks about the book he used to read to you as a child. About a little prince, who loved a rose. A demanding, capricious, prickly rose. Whose upkeep took all of the little prince's time, energy. Eventually, the little prince tires of the work, and leaves his rose behind.
I was too young to know how to love her.
Unlike the little prince, Caleb never tired of his thorny, difficult, needy rose. The rose that he began taming from the moment Gran brought her, hollow-eyed and traumatized, from a terrible, terrible place.
You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.
But Caleb did have to leave his rose behind, for much longer than he intended.
"I'm sorry, I'm so tired," you interrupt his thoughts, yawning, wide, freely.
You haven't been this pliant, this needy, with him in years. He marvels at the sensation, of you being so close to him again. Of you revealing yourself to him again, after so long, with your clinginess, your need to be close to his body, to him, your naked reliance on what he can give you with his big body, his soothing words.
Apparently his death actually had an upside.
He turns his head, looks down at you. "Then sleep, Pipsqueak."
Your beautiful face twists into an expression of dread. It breaks his heart, as it always has. "I'm afraid to fall asleep."
How often has he heard this from you, through the course of his life by your side? Your nightmares, ever present, walking on one side of you, as Caleb walked on the other, helpless, unable to reach into your mind and crush them with his telekinesis. He has always tried to be everything to you. To give you everything. But the only thing he could offer you for the dreams haunting you was treatment for the symptoms, instead of destroying the cause. His arms around you in the dark. Brushing the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. Whispering silly stories to you, until your heart stopped racing. Resisting the urge to kiss you, to roll on top of you, fill you until you forgot everything but him.
He asks a question he thinks he already knows the answer to. He knows you better than you know yourself, after all. "Nightmares still bothering you?" He lets his human fingertips drift up to your face, thumbing across your cheek. Your skin is so soft. He wants to run his tongue where his thumb is. He has always wanted to run his tongue where his thumb is, where his fingers are. Along the delicate skin of your throat, the insides of your thighs, behind your knees, between your legs.
He hated himself for the want.
The little prince was too young when he left his rose to know how to love her properly.
In many ways, so was Caleb.
But he died. He died, and he crawled back from the grave, just to be with you again.
He's not the same boy you knew. And he's not the same boy who was too young to properly love his rose.
"Yes. But they changed, after you died." Your breath is shaky as you exhale. "But I don't want to talk about that right now. I don't want to fall asleep right now, because I'm afraid that when I wake up, this will all have been a dream."
He wants to know about how your nightmares changed. He hates the idea that there are things about you now that he doesn't know. He needs to know everything.
But now he has time. All the time in the world, to re-learn every part of you. To learn what he never allowed himself to learn, before. Your taste. You softest, most tender places.
"Sleep. I'll prove to you that this is real. I'll be here when you wake up," he promises.
And he means it. He cleared the entire weekend, as he hacked your phone, figured out where you'd be. As he made his way to intercept you in public, to gauge your reaction to seeing him for the first time, to make you feel safe by giving you the choice to come to him, instead of him suddenly confronting you with a ghost at your door.
To see how you'd react to seeing him, when you were with another man.
He knows you better than you know yourself. You reacted just as he had expected, had hoped.
He probably smiled a little too wide, as you hid your face in his neck, as you clung to him, as he told your interim boyfriend that you were otherwise occupied for the rest of the day.
Now, you look up at him, completely unaware of the intensity of his feelings for you. That'll begin to change, from now on. You nod. Whisper, "Okay."
"Good girl," he murmurs, and leans back on the couch, pulls you down with him. You rest your head on his bare chest, and he feels whole for the first time in years.
You fall asleep like the sun slipping below the desert's horizon, melting into him.
He watches you sleep, idly running his good hand along your back, tracing your spine. He's hard as fuck, but he does nothing, as he has done for years. His dick can wait.
He knows you better than you know yourself. And whatever has changed in the last year, he'll learn.
He has time. All the time in the world, now.
Suddenly, you whimper in your sleep, frowning. You're dreaming, and it's not good.
He lifts his human hand, gently presses into your lower lip with his thumb. You whimper again, open your lips. He slips his thumb in, relishing the feel of your warm, wet tongue on his skin. You wrap your lips, your tongue around his thumb as you sleep, and you settle, your body melting into his again. He's hard as fuck, but still feels so satisfied, watching as he soothes you with a part of himself.
He has time. All the time in the world, now. And this time, he's not going to resist the urge to kiss you, to stuff you with himself until all of your empty, hollow spaces are filled. Dying puts things like guilt, sin, societal expectations into perspective.
Nothing is going to stop him from getting everything he wants, this time. And in the process, he's going to give you everything he knows you want in return.
No, he's not the same kind-hearted boy from your childhood.
And he was never your fucking brother.
155 notes · View notes
sshadow-heartz · 1 day ago
Text
Playing Favourites
Squid Game C.AI Bots here!
💕Square Guard x Circle Guard!Reader
💕Written with fem reader in mind
💕Word Count: 1k
💕Tags: Smut, Praise Kink, Fingering, Size Difference
‼️If you are underage or sensitive to these topics, please keep scrolling‼️
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You had been requested by the square guard mentoring you to clean the locker area. He sat on a bench in the middle of the room, watching as you wiped down lockers and dusted. It wasn’t the first time your superior had requested your service while he simply sat and watched, often rewarding you at the end. You were always so good for him, and that’s why he liked you.
His eyes followed your body as you moved across the room, focused on your work. He chuckled softly as you leaned down, bent over, causing you to look over your shoulder and glare through your mask.
“Don’t give me that look baby,” the square guard murmurs, picturing your frown underneath your mask. “You know what it does to me.”
You went back to your work, grabbing a duster. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you do your best to reach the top of the lockers. Unable to reach the very top, you let out a frustrated sigh. As you continue to reach up you feel a pair of strong arms wrap around you, lifting you up. A blush crept over your face, thankfully being covered by your mask. As you finish up, he sets you down, firmly pressed against his chest.
“Look at how clean this place is,” he praises. “You deserve a reward for all of your hard work, don’t you?”
His hands run up and down your curves, coming to rest on your chest. “My pretty girl,” he mutters, zipping down your uniform. Your heartbeat races, his affection giving you butterflies. As your uniform is tugged down, he glances over you approvingly. Though his face is covered, you can sense his pleased expression. His hands reach down, settling on your hips and pulling you back against him.
You can feel a hard bulge pressing against you, your face heating up as you realise what it is. “See what you do to me?” He murmurs, leaning down to whisper in your ear. He pushes his mask up slightly, his lips pressing hot kisses against your neck, leaving behind marks and bites every so often. The sensation causes you to shiver, leaning back into his touch.
“Good girl,” he praises, hands reaching up to cup your breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze. “So fucking beautiful.” His hands continue to run up and down your chest, fingers gently pinching your nipples. “That’s my girl.”
He pulls your mask back, leaning down to hold your jaw, pressing a passionate kiss to your lips. Pulling you in by your waist, he continues to kiss you deeply, barely giving you a chance to breathe. Pulling back, his hands slip down to your ass, giving it a squeeze. “Gonna be good for me?” He asks. “Let me hear you say it, baby.”
“Gonna be good,” you repeat, practically putty in his hands. You feel him slide your panties down, slow enough to tease you. His fingers reach down to tease your clit, rubbing it softly. “Already so wet for me,” he chuckles, smirking. Rocking your hips, you try to get more friction, looking up at him lustfully. His fingers work your clit, teasing the sensitive spot just enough to get you to the edge. He pulls his fingers away, glancing into your eyes. “Can’t have you finishing so soon, can we?”
After giving you a second to breathe, his fingers slide down to your hole, pushing one in. “Taking that so well,” he praises, pumping his finger slowly. Adding a second, he curls his fingers, eliciting a moan from you. His free hand reaches down, fingers teasing your clit as he continues to curl his fingers. The added feeling makes you moan louder, looking at him through half lidded eyes. “Ready for me, babygirl?” He asks, pulling his fingers away.
Zipping down his uniform and stepping out of it, he slides off his underwear. Stroking his cock, you can see how large it is. It’s not your first time in such a position, you’re always his favourite guard to toy with. He spreads your thighs, pumping two fingers inside of you as his strokes his cock. “Gonna be so good for me, aren’t you?”
Pulling his fingers away, he lines up the head of his cock with your entrance, pushing it in slowly. The feel of him filling you up makes you moan, knees weak. His arms hold you up, shifting your thighs around his waist as he sinks deeper into your hole. “You feel so good around me, princess,” he murmurs, beginning to thrust slowly. You moan pathetically, barely able to hold yourself up without his help.
Continuing to thrust into you deeply, he leans down to press hickeys across your chest, covering you in his marks. Speeding up, he moans into your ear, voice deep and lustful. “You’re taking me so well,” he praises.
Your hands scratch at his back, clenching around him. “Gonna cum,” you moan, breathless. “Use your manners,” he tells you, continuing his pace. “Please… please!” You beg, trying to wait for his permission.
“Not yet,” he grins, continuing to thrust into you. You try to hold it, waiting for his permission as you moan beneath him. “Please!”
He chuckles as you beg him, amused at how desperate you are. “Listen to you begging for me so prettily, you’re so good for me, aren’t you? Cum for me, baby.”
You gasp and moan, sent over the edge. He continues to thrust through your orgasm, getting himself closer. He grunts, pulling his cock out and finishing on your chest, painting your breasts white. He lays you down on the bench, giving you time to rest. Scooping his cum from your chest, he holds his fingers in front of your mouth. “Go on, you know what to do.”
You take his fingers into your mouth, licking them clean and swallowing his load. He kisses down your neck one last time, kissing over the hickeys he had given you. “You know you’re my favourite, right?”
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jellofish-plant · 2 days ago
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Caught in the Crossfire
Pairing: Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader
Summary: Being best friends with Nightwing means you're no stranger to chaos, but falling for Jason Todd, the Red Hood, takes danger to a new level. When a mission involving a dangerous gang puts you squarely in harm's way, the tension between your loyalties and your feelings boils over. Will your bond with Nightwing survive, and will Jason let you in despite his walls?
Warnings: Mentions of violence, injury, light angst, fluff, mild language
[Masterlist]
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The sharp snap of a grappling hook echoed through Gotham's empty alleyways as you swung toward the rendezvous point. Another long night assisting Nightwing your best friend on patrol, and you’d already broken a sweat fending off a gang of thugs who apparently had more muscle than brain cells.
“You okay?” Nightwing’s voice crackled in your comms, concern lacing his tone.
“Fine. Just some bruises,” you replied, landing on the rooftop where he waited, leaning casually against a vent.
“That’s my partner,” he said with a grin, ruffling your hair playfully. You swatted his hand away, rolling your eyes.
“Your partner? More like your babysitter.”
Before he could retort, a familiar voice interrupted from the shadows.
“Am I interrupting this heartwarming moment, or should I come back later?”
You turned to see Jason Todd Red Hood approach, his helmet tucked under his arm. His leather jacket gleamed under the moonlight, and his signature smirk was enough to make your heart skip a beat.
“Jason,” you said, trying to sound neutral.
“Y/N,” he replied, his voice lower, smoother, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Why are you here?” Nightwing asked, crossing his arms and stepping slightly in front of you, the protective older brother act kicking in.
“Intel,” Jason said, holding up a USB drive. “Thought you might want to know the gang you just took down has ties to a bigger fish—one that’s gunning for Y/N.”
You froze. “Me? Why?”
Jason’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a rare seriousness. “You’ve been on their radar since you broke up their weapons shipment last month. They don’t like loose ends.”
Nightwing immediately turned to you, his face dark with worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you admitted, guilt creeping in. “I can handle myself.”
“Clearly not,” Jason muttered, earning a glare from Nightwing.
“Enough,” you snapped, stepping between them. “If they’re coming for me, we deal with it together. No macho posturing.”
Jason’s lips twitched as though he wanted to argue but thought better of it. “Fine. But you’re sticking with me tonight.”
“Excuse me?” Nightwing said, stepping forward.
“Relax, Goldilocks,” Jason said with a smirk. “I’m better at keeping people alive when they’re in the crossfire. You can’t argue with that.”
The tension between the two of them was palpable, and you sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “I’ll go with Jason. We don’t have time for this.”
Nightwing looked like he wanted to protest but relented with a nod. “Fine. But you call me the second anything goes wrong.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “She’ll be fine, Dick. Trust me.”
Hours later, you and Jason were staking out a warehouse where the gang’s leader was supposed to be hiding. The silence between you was tense, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.
“Why do you always do that?” you asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.
“Do what?” Jason replied, not looking at you.
“Push people away.”
He stiffened, his jaw tightening. “I don’t push people away.”
You scoffed. “Right. Because you’re such a social butterfly.”
Jason finally turned to face you, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. “I push people away because it’s easier than watching them get hurt because of me.”
The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. You softened, stepping closer. “Jason… You don’t have to do everything alone. You don’t have to protect everyone by shutting them out.”
His gaze flickered to your hand, which had unconsciously reached for his. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he took your hand in his, his grip firm but hesitant.
“Maybe,” he said quietly, “you’re the exception.”
Your heart fluttered, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps interrupted the moment. Jason immediately pulled away, his gun in hand as he scanned the shadows.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his tone all business now.
You nodded, pulling out your own weapon as the two of you moved into the warehouse.
By the end of the night, the gang was neutralized, and you’d escaped with only a few minor scrapes. Jason had been relentless in keeping you safe, his protective side both frustrating and endearing.
As he walked you back to your apartment, you found yourself smiling despite the chaos.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, glancing at you.
“Nothing,” you said, shaking your head. “Just thinking about how Nightwing’s going to give me an earful for trusting you.”
Jason smirked, his confidence returning. “Let him. You’re safe, and that’s all that matters.”
You stopped at your door, turning to face him. “Thanks, Jason. For everything.”
He hesitated, then leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Anytime, Y/N.”
And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving you with a heart that felt impossibly full.
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gracie-eilish · 2 days ago
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can’t get over you…
an: oh the things i would do for a billie eilish hug tonight.
summary: it’s your ex best friends birthday… but billie is there to make everything better.
The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of the heater and the rain pattering against the windows. You sat curled up on the couch, your phone in your hands, scrolling through Instagram stories with a knot in your chest. Every smiling face, every heartfelt caption, every “Happy Birthday” post felt like a fresh wound.
It was her birthday. Your ex-best friend.
The sting of betrayal, the anger at how she’d hurt you, and the sadness of missing her all swirled together in your chest, threatening to break you apart.
You didn’t hear Billie enter the room until the couch dipped beside you. The faint scent of her perfume—vanilla and sandalwood—wrapped around you before her voice did.
“Hey,” she said softly, her blue eyes locking on yours. “What’s going on baby?”
You hesitated, wiping at your eyes quickly, though it was no use. Tears were already streaming down your cheeks. Billie leaned closer, her hand finding your knee. “Talk to me,” she coaxed gently.
“It’s her birthday,” you finally choked out, your voice thick with emotion. “And everyone’s posting about her—like she didn’t completely destroy me.”
Billie’s face softened instantly. She shifted closer, her hand sliding from your knee to your hand, lacing your fingers together. “Oh, love,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing.
You sniffled, squeezing her hand as your voice cracked. “I feel so stupid for still being this upset. She’s not even in my life anymore, and I shouldn’t care, but I do. And seeing everyone love her like this… it just—it hurts so much.”
“You’re not stupid,” Billie said firmly, squeezing your hand back. “Not even a little bit. She hurt you, and it’s okay that it still hurts. It’s okay to feel angry, and sad, and everything in between. You don’t have to be over it just because time’s passed.”
“I hate it,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I hate that she’s not here anymore, but I also hate how much it still affects me. I thought I was past this.”
“Baby,” Billie said softly, her other hand cupping your cheek and tilting your face toward hers. “Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line. Some days, you’re fine, and then days like this come along, and it feels like you’re back to square one. That’s normal. It doesn’t mean you’re weak or failing—it just means you’re human.”
Her thumb brushed gently across your cheek, catching a tear as it fell. “Let yourself feel it, okay? You don’t have to fight it. I’m here. Cry if you need to.”
Her words broke something loose inside you, and the tears came freely now, spilling down your face as sobs wracked your body. Billie didn’t pull away or try to hush you. She just slid closer, wrapping her arms around you and holding you tight.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered into your hair, her voice steady and calm. “Let it out, love. I’m not going anywhere.”
You buried your face in her chest, gripping the soft fabric of her hoodie like a lifeline. “I just miss her so much,” you admitted through your tears. “I miss the person she was before everything went wrong. I miss what we had.”
“I know,” Billie said, her hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “Of course you do. Losing someone like that… it’s like losing a part of yourself. It’s okay to miss her, even if she hurt you. That doesn’t make you weak—it makes you someone who loves deeply.”
Her words sank in slowly, the weight of her love wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You cried until the storm inside you began to quiet, your sobs softening into hiccups as you rested against her.
After a while, Billie leaned back slightly, her fingers brushing through your hair. “Feeling a little lighter?” she asked gently, her voice full of care.
You nodded weakly, your cheek still pressed against her chest. “Yeah… a little.”
Billie smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Good. Because I need you to know something, okay?”
“What?” you murmured, tilting your head to meet her gaze.
Her eyes were soft but unwavering, her expression full of love. “You are so loved,” she said firmly. “By me, by everyone who truly knows you. And that love? It’s real. It’s steady. It’s not going anywhere.”
Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. “Billie…”
She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours. “I’m serious, baby. You’re everything to me. So if a piece of your heart feels chipped tonight, it’s okay—I’ll be here to help glue it back together, just like I always have.”
Her words broke through the lingering heaviness, and a soft laugh escaped you. “You’re way too good to me, you know that?”
“Nah,” Billie teased, grinning as she kissed your nose. “I just love you too much to let you feel like this alone. You deserve to be reminded how incredible you are.”
You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of her love settling deep in your chest. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Well, lucky for you,” she said, her arms tightening around you, “you’ll never have to find out.”
Her lips found yours in a soft, lingering kiss, her touch reassuring and full of love. When she pulled back, she smirked. “Now, let’s do something to distract you. Wanna watch a movie? Or bake cookies? Or I could serenade you—though I’m not promising it’ll be good.”
You laughed softly, the sound light and genuine for the first time that night. “Anything, as long as I get to stay like this. In your arms.”
Billie’s grin softened, her fingers brushing against your cheek. “Then we’ll stay right here. I’ve got all night, baby. Whatever you need, I’m yours.”
And as the rain continued to fall outside, you rested in Billie’s embrace, the ache in your chest fading bit by bit. You weren’t fully healed—some wounds took time. But with Billie’s love and patience, you knew you’d get there.
Because you were loved. Deeply, endlessly, and without question. And that love was enough to keep you going, one day at a time.
🩵🌙☁️🫧✨
can’t get over you,
no matter what i do.
i know i should but i could never hate you.
103 notes · View notes
eowynstwin · 7 hours ago
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professor price
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professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.
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The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.
Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.
You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.
It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.
You’re a good girl.
The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.
Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.
You meet his eyes—
And Price knows how it goes.
Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.
It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?
Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?
In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:
Fuck a student.
And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.
You’re begging to be fucked.
Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.
Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.
He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.
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You’re too young for him.
Not that it matters.
Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.
The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.
It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—
But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.
So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.
He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.
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He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.
Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.
Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.
As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.
The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.
So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.
“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.
And Price sees red.
“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.
“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”
“Erm…”
“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.
You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.
“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”
“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”
You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.
“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”
For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.
Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.
“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”
He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.
“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”
“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”
You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”
He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”
Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.
“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.
Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.
He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.
But he knows how it actually comes across.
Back off. She’s mine.
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Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.
“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.
“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”
“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”
Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.
“So you’re sayin’—”
“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”
“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.
Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.
He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.
Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.
I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.
The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.
Mitigation.
Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.
Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—
That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.
“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.
“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”
“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”
“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.
Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.
“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”
Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.
Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.
He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.
“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”
“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”
“Alejandro—”
“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”
And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.
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You’re seeing one of the twats.
Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.
Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.
You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.
His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.
Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.
The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.
The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.
Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.
It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.
You’re his. His.
And what has he done about it?
The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.
The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.
The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.
Imagines, but never pursues.
Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?
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The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.
He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.
He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.
It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.
He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.
“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.
Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.
His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.
And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.
It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.
Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.
Decades she never even got to see.
Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.
“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”
He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.
His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.
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He makes the mistake all men eventually do—
He calls his ex.
“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.
“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.
“John, hi! How you doin’?”
“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”
He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.
“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”
“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.
“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”
“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”
“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”
“I know.”
A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.
She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.
Nothing like she did when she lived with him.
“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”
“That obvious, am I?”
He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”
“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”
He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.
“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”
“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.
“Being with me.”
“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”
“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.
“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”
She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.
“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”
Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.
“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”
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He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.
So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.
You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.
The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.
Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—
Price shakes his head.
You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)
He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.
His.
His.
The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.
You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.
He inclines his head. Go on, then.
And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—
He nods.
You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.
What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?
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By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.
In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.
And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.
You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.
His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.
You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.
But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.
You’re too young for him—
Not that it matters.
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a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.
Thank you for reading!
104 notes · View notes
carnalcrows · 3 hours ago
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NO HARD FEELINGS - SQUARE GUARD
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genre: smut
pairing: square guard x circle guard m!reader
content warnings: bottom reader, top guard, blowjobs, y/n is not used, facefucking, choking, hair pulling, reader is used as a stress buster, mentions of guns.
word count: 0.8k
A/N: based of this fic (changed triangle to square for increased power dynamics
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The silence in the square guard’s quarters was thick enough to cut with a knife. You stood stiffly near the door, unsure of what to expect, your hands clasped behind your back. It wasn’t every day you were summoned by the square guard himself—your superior, the one who barked orders and ensured every task was carried out with precision.
“Relax,” his voice came, smooth but authoritative, as he leaned back in his chair. His mask, angular and imposing, tilted ever so slightly in your direction. “I didn’t call you here for a disciplinary matter.”
You nodded, unsure of what to say. Beneath your own circular mask, your pulse raced. What could he possibly want from you?
“I’ve noticed you,” he continued, rising from his chair. He moved with an unnerving calm, his black-gloved hands clasped behind his back. “You’re efficient. Quiet. Not like some of the others who bumble around like they’ve forgotten the rules the moment they step into this place.”
“Thank you, sir,” you replied quickly, your voice steady despite the warmth creeping up your neck.
He stopped just a few feet away, towering over you, his presence as commanding as ever. “It’s not a compliment,” he said, though there was an edge of something—admiration, perhaps?—in his tone. “It’s an observation.”
You swallowed hard. “Understood.”
For a moment, the room was silent again, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. Then, he reached up, his fingers brushing the edge of his mask. With a deliberate motion, he removed it, revealing sharp features and an intense gaze that seemed to pierce right through you.
You froze. Protocol dictated that guards never reveal their faces, let alone their superiors. But here he was, unmasked, watching you closely, waiting for a reaction.
“You’re wondering why I called you here,” he said, his lips curving into a faint smirk.
“I… yes, sir.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping just enough to make the air between you feel charged. “I’ve had a long day, and I thought I could use some… company.”
Your breath hitched as his words sank in. The subtle shift in his tone, the way his eyes lingered on yours—it was clear what he meant.
“I—uh—”
“Relax,” he said again, this time softer, his hand brushing lightly against your arm. “No one’s going to know. And if they do, they won’t dare say a word.”
Before you could process what was happening, he removed your mask, and he closed the gap between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was firm, commanding, yet somehow inviting. His gloved hands cupped your face, holding you in place as his lips moved against yours with an intensity that left you breathless.
Your mask clattered to the floor as you reached up, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. His lips were warm, his stubble rough against your skin, and the sheer dominance in the way he kissed you sent a thrill down your spine.
The kiss deepened, growing messy and desperate as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You couldn’t help the small noise that escaped your throat, which only seemed to spur him on.
“You’ve been driving me crazy,” he murmured against your lips, his breath warm and ragged.
“Me?” you managed to gasp out between kisses.
“Don’t play coy,” he said, his smirk evident even as he pressed another searing kiss to your lips. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
The heat between you was electric, your heart pounding in your chest as his hands roamed, firm but controlled. He kissed you like he owned you, and for the moment, you didn’t mind at all.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your lips swollen and your faces flushed. He ran a gloved thumb over your bottom lip, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He roughly  pushed you down to your knees, and unbuckled his belt. Before you could say anything, his erection sprang out, hitting your cheek lightly.
“You know what to do,” he stated, so you kissed the angry red tip before swallowing his length.
He hissed and threw his head back, which you assumed was a green flag to continue. You bobbed your head up and down his length, while using your hands to massage his balls heavy with his load.
He gripped your hair harshly, forcing you to take him all the way until your nose pressed against his pubes.
You mumbled incoherently around his length, to which he groaned before snapping his hips back and forth into your mouth at a rapid pace.
He sensed that he was about to climax, and his grip on your hair tightened. Knowing not to pull away, you scrunched your eyes closed and waited.
No sooner than a few seconds, he pushed your head all the way to his hilt, the musky scent of his balls hitting you. Your hands gripped on his thighs while he forced you to swallow his entire load, before slowly pulling out.
As you lay there panting and your knees feeling quite numb, you hear the sound of a gun clicking in place.
“I assume you know the rules, any guard caught without their mask is to be…terminated. No hard feelings.”
A shot is fired.
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© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.
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runoutofsteam · 4 hours ago
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Just thinking about Marlene, James & Sirius working out some sort of system for reserving the astronomy tower for dates. Every Saturday they are like doing rock paper scissors during morning quidditch practice and arguing over who needs it more that particular evening.
They usually work it out pretty well until one Saturday Remus decides he’s going to surprise Sirius with a picnic. He sets it up while Sirius is at practice and really goes all out. Even finding a way to sneak into the kitchen and grab them dessert to eat while they watch the stars. He spends an hour setting up blankets and pillows and enchanting the room to have some music playing softly in the background. Once it’s perfect he heads back to Gryffindor tower to pick up Sirius and Prong’s invisibility cloak.
On his way back he doesn’t think anything of bumping into Dorcas and Marlene. They are in the stands by the quidditch pitch together even though it’s close to curfew.
“She’s got me running around the whole bloody castle because of some muggle romance book she found,” Marlene yells down to him with a fond eye roll. “Apparently it’s called a scavenger hunt.”
Dorcas just giggles softly at her and then cuts a look over to Remus. “Heaven forbid I try to do anything romantic once in a while.”
Remus throws her a sympathetic look, “Cheers Meadows! I am in the midst of a grand gesture of my own”
They wish him luck as he makes his way back to his dorm. Once he convinces Sirius to sneak out with him (he really takes very little convincing) he knows that his plan is going to work out perfectly.
That is until he walks up the stairs to the tower and finds Regulus Black licking chocolate frosting off James’ fingers tips.
Remus drops his hands from where he’s covering Sirius’ eyes and looks at James in disbelief.
“What the fuck Padfoot? I did the flying drills the fastest today. We agreed I was taking the tower tonight!” James says, glaring daggers at Sirius and Remus.
“Flying drills? What?” Remus is about to lose it. “You didn’t see the fully set up picnic and think that maybe you should find somewhere else to snog?”
“You didn’t even set this up?” Regulus looks half way between complete exasperation and genuine confusion.
James flushes immediately. “Well no… not exactly. I mostly brought you here to snog, the cake was just a nice surprise.” James and Regulus look at each other like they’re both lost in the memory of the frosting from a few moments ago.
“Yes, yes a wonderful surprise. Except it was my surprise for Sirius!” Remus hears his own voice raising like he’s about to start yelling. “Now Prongs, take your boyfriend and get the hell out of my date!”
“No Moony, I won this place today fair and square this morning, ask Pads.” They both look over to where Sirius is standing by one of the windows, eyes blown wide and laughing at whatever he’s watching approach the tower.
“We’ve got more incoming.” Sirius says. Before they can even ask what he means, Marlene and Dorcas come tumbling around the corner.
“Is this just a scavenger hunt of all the places we’ve shagged? Baby, you’re insane if—“ Marlene cuts herself off when she sees everyone else in the room.
She makes eye contact with James and immediately says, “Oh shit Potts I totally forgot you had the place reserved tonight.”
Now Dorcas, Remus, and Regulus have a weekly game of wizard’s chess to determine who gets the astronomy tower on Saturday nights.
everyone keeps having these moments at the top of the astronomy tower how are none of them bumping into each other
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maruflix · 22 hours ago
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MEA CULPA #oneshot #squidgame #therecruiter #thesalesman
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The Salesman knows that love is truly the most dangerous game of all, and there is penance in yearning for someone who can never be yours. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.
feat. the salesman / the recruiter  ⎯⎯ wc. 2.4k
cw: female reader, recruiter!reader, cheater!reader, language, the salesman is probably ooc, unreciprocated crush, one sided love, friends with benefits, cheating, kissing, choking, face-fucking, hair pulling, unprotected sex, slight frontman x reader, no beta we die like gi-hun’s mom
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I.
Busan is so hot this time around.
You plop down with a sigh. Thankfully, having met your daily quota, you can go home early tonight. There are lots of desperate people nowadays, so finding ten people to join a game with a prize of 45.6 billion won isn’t really that difficult.
The clacking of shoes snaps you from your trance.
Without having to look up, you immediately figure out who it is. The scent of expensive cologne comes first, followed by the rustling. You grumble and slam your briefcase down, using it as a wall to separate the two of you. “Hey, not-so-friendly reminder: you’re on my turf.”
The Salesman blinks at you, feigning surprise. “Oh? I was under the impression that this was a team effort.”
His innocent tone makes you want to hurl, so you choose to ignore him completely. Instead, you stare at him in annoyance and wonder how he’s able to look so perfect in that cashmere suit of his. Not a single hair out of place, his tie straight and his shoes laced.
“You’re done for the day, aren’t you?” Your colleague tilts his head to look at you, a smile adorning his features, “Let’s play a game.”
You scoff.
He ignores your obvious displeasure and inches his whole body to face you, one arm shooting forward to grip the side of your bench. “Say, should we play ddakji? I’m in a good mood today.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of smacking paper squares?” It’s hard to keep a straight face when his handsome face keeps getting closer to you, “Get your ugly face away from me.”
The Salesman doesn’t budge. “Not until you say yes.”
He has a certain charm to him, you had to admit— he is so assertive, with just the right amount of pushy but not to the point of being obtrusive.
“Fine,” you exhale, “what do I get?”
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II.
When you agreed to play a game with your fellow Recruiter (specifically, the totally unhinged one you’ve grown to dub as ‘The Salesman’), you didn’t expect this to happen.
Your colleague’s body pressed on top of yours, both your suit jackets thrown away somewhere in his fancy condo—he doesn’t even bother to wait for you to finish unbuttoning your shirt before he captures your hands and pins them on top of your head.
“Fuck,” you rasp out when he pushes himself into you agonizingly slow, savoring the way you tighten around him, “s-slow down—”
He chuckles breathily. “Darling, I’m barely moving. Besides,” eyes clouded with lust, he revels in how defenseless you look under him, “you lost our game, so you’re in no position to tell me what to do.”
With that, he sloowly drags himself out before slamming his full length into you, causing you to moan loudly. Greedily, he drinks in the sight of you, sprawled on his bed, legs open, taking all of him like a good, good girl.
“Who knew you were hiding all this underneath that suit of yours?” He teases, running a hand over your breasts, “I should’ve done this sooner.”
“I can, ngh,” Pushing yourself up on one elbow, you use your other hand to grip his chin, yanking him closer to you, “say the same about you.”
His smirk widens. “Always has to get the last word.”
He grips your throat, pushing you back down to the bed as he picks up his pace, thrusting in and out of you mercilessly while you mewl in pleasure.
“F-fuck-” you struggle, clawing on the hand that lodges itself around your throat like a serpent, “ngh,”
Your panic excites him like no other. “What’s wrong, darling? Having trouble breathing?” straightening his back, he keeps his hand securely wrapped around your neck, eyeing you down as he continues drilling into you, “Do you realize how wet you are?”
You wanted to look away, but his strong hand firmly keeps you in place. It’s not like you can hide yourself away, not when the sounds of plap! plap! plap! keeps echoing around the room—a testament of how much your cunt is drooling, soaking the bedsheets. His constant pace feels so good, and the way he gazes at you makes you feel lightheaded.
“You’re- haah, so tight,” he feels how you’re spasming around him and groans, “enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” he’s all out of breath now—you feel so good when you clamp down on him like that, so right, like the two of you are made for each other.
“Fuck! Yes!” You whine, your nails digging into his back, delicious jolts of electricity running along your spine when his girthy cock hits your sweet spot over and over, “Don’t stop, I’m, ugh, close-”
He doesn’t miss the way your legs wrap around his waist, preventing him from pulling away. Raising an eyebrow, he loosens his grip on your neck to bend down to your eye level, “What’s this? You want me to fill you up?”
His thrusts never decelerates and you’re too fucked out to even muster a reply, your moans nearly drowned out by the sloppy sounds of skin slapping against skin.
“You want that, huh?” Although his voice drips with arrogance, he’s also reaching his limit—the sight of you with your cheeks flushed and mouth hanging open drives him to the edge of insanity. He throws his head back, groaning, shooting his load deep into your womb.
You’re still shaking when he lets go of your neck, falling on top of you. Before you can think about the consequences of your actions, the fatigue catches up with you. Your body feels heavy, like it’s being pulled to the center of the earth—and your world goes dark.
Sensing that you’re not moving, The Salesman takes a glance at you and finds out that he’s quite literally fucked you unconscious. “Hey.” he shakes your shoulders a bit, but you’re unresponsive, your chest heaving up and down.
He huffs and rolls down to your side, studying your sleeping figure with a smirk. You look so beautiful in your afterglow, your hair framing your face like a halo. Like a man possessed, he moves to your ear, mumbling—
“I like you.”
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III.
You groan loudly when the scent of your colleague’s cologne invades your nostrils again, ignoring the weird looks you got from strangers boarding the oncoming train.
The Salesman bats his eyelashes at you innocently.
“No, I don’t want to play with you again.”
“Aw,” he straightens his tie, “even though you told me that you had such a good time?”
At a loss for words, you can only stare at him.
The motherfucker has the audacity to cross his arms over his chest, gasping, “Stop ogling me!”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Come on,” He scoots closer to rub the back of your hand sensually, “I know you want me.”
It’s always a game with him. You just don’t know what kind of game it is right now, and why he’s so hell-bent on having you as player two.
“Nah, I’m good. I have two bags of groceries to carry home, so good bye.”
The Salesman keeps a trained smile on his face, but his heart clenches—he doesn’t know when he started to view you differently. It was fun to pick on you at first, but he’s slowly started to feel weird around you.
Like watching an oncoming crash, he can’t bring himself to stop.
“Wait! Let me help!”
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IV.
Looking back, you probably should’ve stood your ground. But it’s hard to say no to his stupidly handsome face.
Your groceries are forgotten, your apartment still dark. You probably should start cooking dinner, but instead you’re on your knees, your back pressed against the wall.
“Open up,” his eyes are as cold as ever, his lips pulled up to form a victorious smirk as he guides his leaking cock to rest on your mouth.
You find yourself obeying, allowing him to fill your mouth full of his cock. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust to his size, already thrusting his hips, making you gag almost immediately.
“Just like that, baby,” he takes hold of the hands that’s trying to push him away and pins them against the wall, quickening, smirking down at you as you struggle to wrap your mouth around him, “You feel so good.”
Meanwhile, you’ve finally adjusted to his throbbing length. In an act of protest, you hollow your cheeks, deciding that it was your turn to dominate this man. You move your head to his pace and even quicker, your eyelashes wet with tears when you look up to glare at him.
He feels like he’s going to explode—your adorable defiance is so cute and your crying face—oh, don’t get him started on your crying face.
“Mmngh?!”
He jerks his hips sharply, moaning at how good it feels when the muscles of your cheeks tightens at the wide stretch of his cock. Oh, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you—
“Mmfh—?!”
Your muffled exclaim makes him halt and he looks down at your shocked face. Only now does the realization dawns on him that he’s accidentally said his thoughts out loud.
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IV.
You no longer look up when you sense a presence sitting down next to you.
“This was a mistake.”
He’s silent, so you turn to look at him. The Salesman has a poker face on, but you can tell that he’s thinking. Contemplating.
“Honestly, stop it. I... I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
You sigh in frustration. “Look, I..” squirming in your seat, you finally confess, “I’m already in a relationship.”
“So?”
The genuine confusion in his tone makes you look at him in incredulousness. He doesn’t back down, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not asking you to love me, I’m asking you to let me love you. I don’t care if you’re married—hell, I don’t care if you have kids.”
“Wha-” You flinch away from his touch, shocked, “W-well, I care!”
“Do you?” He shoots back, his gaze sardonic, you felt like you might crumble underneath it. “Is that why you begged me to cum inside you?”
“I-”
“I know you want me.” His smile is confident, “so stop acting. You suck at it.”
You tremble, but lets him guide you away.
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V.
You’re whimpering, your hands shakily unbuttoning his dress shirt. In front of you, he chuckles, bringing his hands up to grip your waist and pushing them up and down.
“Wait, fuck,”
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he murmurs, rocking you back and forth, “a purely physical relationship?”
The Salesman keeps his grudges, and right now he’s punishing you by rutting into you, sending you gasping and moaning, but he’s unrelenting—one of his arm circles your waist as he pulls you closer, his thumb starting to circle the nub of your clit.
“Fuck, please, please-”
“You want to cum?” He stops touching you and you whine in despair, leaning on his broad chest.
“Yes, yes, touch me-” you grab his hand and aligns it to your sopping wet hole, but he easily yanks his hand away.
“Say it.”
You’re close to crying now—your nerves are ablaze, but he refuses to let you reach your climax. “W-what?”
“Say you love me.” his hand hovers above your clit, “Say it.”
You know what you’re doing is wrong—but right now, all you wanted was release.
“I love you, fuck-” your body quivers when he instantly rewards you by a sharp thrust followed by his finger deliciously circling your sensitive nub, “I love you, I love you-”
He’s moaning with you now, shutting you up by kissing you sloppily on the lips, his free hand reaching to grab your hair, pulling it. You gasp and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside, tasting you fervently.
“‘m gonna-” Before you can finish, your orgasm shakes your whole body. You can feel your walls clenching and unclenching around his length, trying to milk him dry. He groans in response and buries his face on your neck, pushing his hips up and down to chase his own high. He fucks you through your orgasm, making you scream, pounding into you raw until he shoots his load. It trickles down your pussy onto his own shaft, coating it with a thin layer of cum.
He kisses the top of your head and lays you down on the bed, your body shuddering in his arms. “Now, was that so hard?”
You look away as he wraps an arm over your naked body, pulling you close to him.
The first ray of sunlight peeks through the curtains and you realize that you only have about four hours to sleep.
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VI.
It’s unusual, but you were a special case: recruiters work on the outside world so there’s really no need for them to visit the game venue, but you’ve received a special invitation.
Your heels clicked against the hardwood floors as you pass by the guards. The Salesman follows you closely, ignoring the stares that he got.
“Ah, you’re finally here.”
The Salesman stops in his tracks when he sees a man in a black mask standing several steps away. The masked man puts away his mask to reveal his face and his heart drops.
“Oh, you’re here too. Have you come to watch 456 play?”
The Salesman stays silent when you smile and walk away from him to the direction of his boss, thinking— ‘so you weren’t lying after all.’
The Front Man instinctively wraps his arms around your waist, his lips claiming yours. “Long time no see,” your lover smiles as you rest your head on his chest. “I’ve been busy, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you mumble. You miss having him by your side—so much so that you let another man hold you in his absence.
“Come on, the games are going to start.” None the wiser to your actions, he guides you away, taking one last look at his other subordinate, “Don’t stick around too long, the VIP’s are going to arrive soon.”
The Salesman smiles and nods, watching as you disappear behind the double doors with your lover in tow. His heart feels like it’s being stabbed and ripped to shreds—deep inside, he has held out hope that you’re lying; making up excuses to ignore the obvious chemistry between the two of you.
Now, when he closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of you kissing another man—but can he blame you? You told him the truth, he was the one who chose to keep loving you like a fool; dancing to the beat of your rhythm, losing himself in the process—
You are not to blame, he is. He’s the one at fault; he’s the one to blame.
As he turns away and walks to the direction of the exit, all he can think about is this: Your lover may have you now, but when the games are over—oh, his turn will come.
Patience. Patience. Your turn will come. He repeats it like a mantra.
Patience.
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note: ok this is probably the most self indulgent fic i’ve written. first time writing smut i hope i did okay 😭 anyway english is not my first language so please be gentle with me 😭
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featherandferns · 16 hours ago
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colour in the lines teaser
new fic coming soon! | jj maybank x fem!reader
“You’re late,” you say, annoyed at his urgency. “Ten minutes late. Actually-” A quick glance at the clock. “-eleven minutes late.”
JJ shrugs. “I was hungry. Had to stop by in-n-out.”
“You went to in-n-out?” 
His brows raise. “Did you want something from there? Didn’t peg you much as the, uh…fast food type.”
You’re not sure what he means by that but you imagine something unfriendly. Rolling your eyes, you level him with a glare. “You were eleven minutes late to our lesson because you stopped at an in-n-out?”
“Yep. So, what we starting with?” Before you can even formulate your next sentence, JJ’s interrupting you. “Actually, can I just– D’you mind if we wrap this up early today? Maybe do a half-session or something?”
“A half session?”
“Mhn,” he nods. JJ grins as he says, “the swells today at the beach are insane. It’s perfect surf weather. I gotta get a piece.”
Anger bubbles in your throat. Exhaling sharply through your nose, you grit your teeth. “Well, since you were eleven minutes late to the start of the lesson, we gotta make up for lost time. ‘Sides, Mr Sunn said that you had to attend the whole hour.”
“Yeah, but, like…He ain’t here, is he? So…” JJ leans forward on the table, closing down the space between the two of you. His biceps push against the sleeves of his short sleeve top when he rocks his weight forward and you’re quick to avert your eyes back to his face. There’s a boyish charm shining through his smirk. His eyes are half hooded as he scans your face and figure. You shift and square your shoulders, sitting back in your seat, trying to reclaim the gap. “What’d you say you do me a solid and tell a little white lie ‘bout it, huh? No harm in that, right?”
Oh. You see what’s happening. JJ thinks you’re just another one of the girls bewitched by his beauty. That all he has to do is bat his pretty eyes and flash you that gorgeous smile and you’ll fall at his feet and do as he asks. 
You try to bite back your smirk as best as possible when you lean forward. You leave the smallest gap between you, forearms almost touching, and you get a thrill at the flash of surprise in his eyes. 
“Listen, blue eyes. I get paid for the hour and, unlucky for you, I don’t enjoy lying to people. So here’s what gonna happen. We’re going to sit here and do the full one-hour session, making sure we don’t lose those lovely eleven minutes. Sound good?”
JJ’s smile falls quickly. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw. You sweeten the deal with an overly sugary smile before returning to how you were sat before. 
“We’re starting with biology.”
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prettylilyanime · 1 day ago
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Blooming Hearts ♡ Chapter 02
˚✿˖ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x fem reader
˚✿˖ Synopsis: All your life, you’ve had it all—wealth, beauty, and a quirk good enough to secure your spot at UA. But after three years, you still feel more like an outsider than a future hero. Social life? Barely existent. Friends? Who needs them? You’re ready to coast through your final year solo… until fate lands you squarely in the lap of a certain hot-headed blonde—literally.
˚✿˖ tags/warnings: 18+, smut in the later chapters, reader is spoiled, shy reader, they're all third years at UA, Fluff, strangers? to lovers trope, not really strangers, miscommunication, drama, y/n just wants to make friends, reader is canonically pretty, reader is a hero in training, whipped bakugou, she falls first but he falls harder
˚✿˖ Masterlist ♡ Previous ♡ Next
⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖°⋆˚✿˖
“Alright, Y/n, you have a five-minute head start. You ready?” Aizawa asks, his tone as monotone as ever.
Your classmates stand around, watching with interest, some already whispering amongst themselves. It’s not just anticipation for their own upcoming matches—it’s curiosity about yours. After all, you and Bakugou couldn’t be more different, and it’s the first time you’ve ever been directly paired up like this. Naturally, that means everyone has something to say.
"Careful not to feel her up too much, you'll get her costume glitter all over you!" Mineta cackles from the sidelines, that little purple shit clearly thinking he’s hilarious.
Before you or anybody else can even react, you catch the satisfying sight of Momo stomping the little creep into the ground, hard enough to make Mineta scream out in pain. Mina and Ochako join with a mean glare, saying something to the little perv that you can't really hear, but has Mineta begging with tears in his eyes.
The sheer relief that washes over you is almost comical. God, maybe today won’t be so bad after all.
Still, you quickly snap back to attention. Aizawa is watching you, and you don’t want to look any more anxious than you already feel. So, you nod quietly, keeping your mouth shut. You don’t trust yourself to speak—not when your voice would probably betray you by cracking like glass.
It’s ridiculous, really. You shouldn’t be this nervous. You’ve faced real villains before. Life-threatening, terrifying opponents who didn’t care whether you lived or died. You’ve fought them and survived. All of you have. And yet, the thought of Bakugou—Bakugou Katsuki—chasing you down in this exercise like a predator hunting prey is somehow infinitely more nerve-wracking.
Because this isn’t just about surviving—it’s about surviving while being watched. While he watches. And something about that makes your heart race in ways it definitely shouldn’t.
Well...your grade surviving, really.
Aizawa watches you for a moment, then blows a small whistle—where did he even get that?
“Begin.”
You waste no time. The second the sound pierces the air, you bolt, sprinting as fast as you can into the maze-like cityscape before you.
UA’s training grounds are nothing short of insane, complete with entire faux cities built just for exercises like this. Lucky you—it’s a cityscape today. Mina had to face Tokoyami in a dense forest in the previous round, which looked like a total nightmare!
Your legs are already starting to burn by the time you decide to veer off and head up the stairs of a mid-sized building.
The plan is simple: climb high enough to stay out of immediate sight and buy some time to think. You hope—no, pray—that out of the hundreds of buildings making up this simulated city, Bakugou won’t be able to pinpoint the exact one you’ve chosen.
But who are you kidding? He’s Bakugou Katsuki. Not to inflate his already massive ego, but the guy’s a total force of nature. And a miracle of nature, ugh what an incredible face!
You reach a decent height and finally stop to catch your breath, chest heaving as you glance around the dimly lit room. It’s mostly empty, save for a few scattered crates and broken-down props designed to mimic an old, abandoned office.
Perfect! It’s not much, but it might just be enough to give you a fighting chance to regroup and strategize.
Crouching low behind one of the larger crates, you steady your breath, though the pounding in your chest doesn’t seem to let up. You strain your ears, listening carefully for any signs of movement below. The silence feels deafening, broken only by the distant hum of the cityscape simulation around you.
This is fine. You’ve got this. All you need to do is stay hidden and outlast him for the time limit. Easy… right?
You try to convince yourself, gaslighting your mind into thinking everything’s going smoothly, but then—
BOOM!
A distant explosion rattles the floor beneath you, reverberating through the walls like a low thunderclap. The sheer force of it sends chills racing up your spine, and for a split second, you freeze. You know that sound all too well—Bakugou’s quirk, crackling with relentless, destructive energy.
Oh god. You swallow hard, palms starting to sweat as your nerves ramp up. His quirk is terrifying, and he’s absolutely relentless when it comes to winning. You’ve seen it before—during training, during actual fights—and every time, you found yourself in awe of how powerful and unstoppable it made him. You even rooted for him on occasion, impressed by his sheer force.
But knowing he’s coming for you? Yeah… that changes everything!
Another explosion echoes through the building, this one louder, sharper. You swear you can feel the heat even from several floors up. He’s getting closer. Too close. The tension winds tighter in your chest, adrenaline flooding your veins as your mind races to make a decision. Stay hidden or run?
Neither option feels particularly great right now. Both seem like they end in you getting caught.
Before you can decide, a loud crack echoes from the hallway outside, and then—he’s in the room.
You shriek in surprise, instinctively scrambling back. Bakugou freezes, clearly more caught off guard by your reaction than by the fact that he’s actually found you. His crimson eyes widen slightly, and for a split second, you both just… stare.
It feels like one of those moments where a rabbit locks eyes with a wolf, frozen in place by fear and instinct. You know how this story ends if you don’t act fast. And oh, do your instincts kick in.
Without a second thought, you bolt—pushing off the floor and dashing out of the room. Your boots click loudly against the tile with every frantic step as you run for your life, heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. You hear Bakugou let out a low, frustrated “shit” under his breath, and a second later, the unmistakable sound of his heavy boots stomping after you.
But you’re smaller. You’re lighter. And somehow—just somehow—you manage to stay ahead of him, at least for now. Every breath burns in your lungs as you push yourself harder, rounding a sharp corner and sprinting down an empty hallway.
Don’t look back. Just keep running.
You don’t have time to think, only react—until you realize with growing dread that the hallway leads to a dead end. A large glass windowpane stretches across the wall in front of you, sunlight filtering through it, mocking you with its promise of freedom.
Your brain short-circuits under the pressure of Bakugou’s boots thundering closer behind you. Without a second thought—and maybe entirely out of panic—you do something completely mental.
Sharp, glowing pink petals swirl from your hands and shoot forward, shattering the glass into a cascade of shimmering shards. You barely have time to smile at your quick thinking, forcing your legs to make one final push toward escape—but then—
“EEK!” you shriek as something grabs your ankle, yanking you backward with enough force to slam you into the ground. The wind rushes out of your lungs, and for a moment, all you can do is gasp, eyes wide as your heart races in your chest.
Before you can even process what just happened, Bakugou is on top of you, pinning you down with one large hand still wrapped tightly around your ankle. He’s breathing heavily too, damn you pushed him into some heavy cardio, but his grin? It’s pure victory.
Not amused, not playful—just smug satisfaction from having won.
You lay there, completely frozen, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if you might actually suffer from heart failure.
Not because you lost the exercise—that’s a given, and you’ll deal with the embarrassment later—but because this man—this giant (and unfairly gorgeous) behemoth of a man, who dwarfs you in both size and sheer presence—is sitting right on top of you.
He’s not pressing down hard enough to actually constrict your chest, so why, oh why can’t you breathe right now?
“Not even gonna fight back?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his voice low and rough. And to your utter disbelief, you realize—this is probably the first time he’s spoken directly to you.
You quickly avert your gaze, unable to keep staring up at him in this position. “I... I don’t see the point, really,” you mutter, though your voice comes out more like a pout. You’re too embarrassed to look at him again, especially when you hear him snort in response.
“Don’t act like a baby. You’re a quick little thing.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a strange kind of respect laced into it.
Oh no. Oh no no no. This is where you die—right here, pinned beneath Bakugou Katsuki, heart racing uncontrollably while he casually throws out words that make your brain short-circuit.
“You ever notice that you bring up flowers wherever you go?” he says suddenly, loosening his grip just slightly as he nods toward the shattered windowpane.
“What?” you blurt out, blinking in confusion. You follow his line of sight and freeze.
Outside, in what should have been a lifeless, gray landscape, is a single, glaringly obvious path of vibrant pink blossoms, trailing directly toward the building. Everything else looks dead—withered and dry—but the path you took is marked by glowing sakura petals, mocking you in all their vivid glory.
You gape, horrified. Your quirk betrayed you. Of course, it did.
And to make things worse… you know exactly why.
None of your classmates—not even Aizawa—know that your quirk reacts whenever you lose control of your emotions. Fear, happiness, sadness, excitement… whenever any strong feeling overwhelms you, the pink sakura blossoms bloom uncontrollably around you.
Oh god. Were those flowers sprouting because you were scared? Or… excited? Please don’t be from excitement. Please don’t be from excitement.
Before you can spiral any further into your thoughts, you feel a tug at your waist. Startled, you glance down, only to see Bakugou holding up the yellow flag he’s snatched from your costume.
A shrill whistle echoes across the training grounds, signaling the end of the exercise—and Bakugou’s win.
You sigh heavily, slumping against the ground in defeat. Of course, he got the flag. Of course.
Bakugou stands, towering over you as he holds the flag lazily between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “Gotta be faster next time princess.”
As if you hadn’t already felt your heart medically stop—this time, you freeze. Did he just call you… princess?
Your brain short-circuits. There’s no way you heard that right. No way.
Mina is raccoon eyes, and she's stunning. Ochako is cheeks, Momo is ponytail girl and you really can't get more gorgeous than her,
And you're princess?!
A heart attack doesn't begin to explain the medically concerning things happening to your body right now.
You blink up at him, mouth opening slightly as if to say something, but no words come out. What could you even say? Your heart is pounding so loudly in your ears it drowns out any coherent thought.
Meanwhile, Bakugou doesn’t seem phased at all. He twirls the flag once more, looking way too relaxed for someone who just rendered you a mess. “You gonna sit there all day or what?” he asks, his voice rough. “C’mon, get up.”
You’re still frozen in place, cheeks burning as you try to gather yourself. 
Why did he have to say it like that?
 You’ve always known Bakugou was intense—loud, brash, a force of nature—but you didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect him to pin you down in a sparring match, call you princess, and leave you feeling like your heart might actually explode.
“Oi.” His voice snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts, and you glance up at him again, only to find him staring down at you with an arched brow. “Did you hit your head that hard? Do we need to call recovery girl over here?"
It's enough to wake you up, the tips of your ears burning as you push yourself up and off the ground, body tense with lingering nerves. "I'm okay...I think" You mumble, again, that natural pouty look that has the blonde raising a brow.
The rest of the walk back to Aizawa is silent, and you can't help but mentally relive the moment in your head a million times. Princess?!
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playboysaleen · 2 days ago
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Through Ash and Iron (14)
Jinx x Reader x Caitlyn
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Summary: Through Ash and Iron plunges you into the heart of Piltover’s gritty streets, where you’ve always felt the weight of your family’s failures. Rejected from the Junior Enforcer Program, your anger burns brighter than ever—until one fateful punch changes everything. The eyes of Piltover’s elite may look down on you, but it’s the wild eyes of Jinx that truly see you. She’s chaos personified, and you’re drawn to the destruction she promises. But that’s not all. Caitlyn Kiramman, a poised enforcer with a soft spot for rebels like you, offers you a chance to rewrite your future—if you can control the rage you can’t seem to escape.Torn between the order Caitlyn represents and the dangerous freedom Jinx offers, you stand at the crossroads of two worlds. As your power grows, so does the tension between these two women. One promises a chance at belonging, while the other ignites a fire you didn’t know you had. But the choices you make will change everything—not just for you, but for both cities teetering on the edge of war. Who will you choose? And how much of yourself will you lose along the way?
Warnings: Violence duh, gay panic(lol), cursing, all that jazz (whatever you seen in Arcane is what you gon see here)This is also a slight AU.(She/her)
Word Count: 3.5k
Im back, but will dive right back into hibernation lol. It was supposed to snow these last 2 days and sadly it didnt hit my side (Texas baby) and i am so upset- i got to see snowfall again after YEARS and me loving nature i cried lol. But enjoy!
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A few days later, your injuries behind you, you found yourself padding through the polished corridors of Piltover’s grand tower. This was Caitlyn’s section, her domain. The enforcers posted at regular intervals straightened at your approach, their eyes flicking toward the scars still faintly visible beneath your shirt, and you offered them polite nods in return. Their expressions held a new measure of respect, perhaps even awe; so much had transpired in so little time.
When you reached the doors to Caitlyn’s office, you gently rapped your knuckles against the polished wood, then slipped inside. She was already mid-conversation with a man you’d never seen before—pressed suit, serious features, and a briefcase clutched in one hand. Tension radiated in the space. Caitlyn looked livid, her jaw set tight as she spoke in clipped tones.
“…I need legal grounds to act,” she was saying. “I won’t jeopardize what we’ve built, but I will not let Mel roam free any longer.”
The man exhaled slowly, turning as you entered. You saw Caitlyn’s eyes soften slightly the moment she noticed you. You approached her, circling an arm around her waist in a gentle but public display of unity, and glanced questioningly at the briefcase man.
He introduced himself formally, explaining, “I’m assisting Commander Kiramman in bringing Mel to justice. But, ah, I’m afraid nothing can be done until… the wedding happens.” His voice wavered at the last part, anticipating your reaction. “Once the vows are official and there are witnesses, your status changes legally and strengthens our case. Until then, our hands are tied.”
You felt a swell of annoyance, rolling your eyes at the formality. “I see,” you muttered.
Caitlyn’s composure snapped back into place. She squared her shoulders, and that familiar Commander presence filled the room. “You have your orders, then,” she said curtly, her voice a razor’s edge. “Make the arrangements. I want every legal thread in place. I won’t tolerate any slip-ups.”
The man gave a clipped nod, gathering his papers and briefcase. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, before stepping out.
Caitlyn watched him go, then let out a ragged breath. Instantly, you pulled her closer, one arm still around her waist as you tilted your head to press a kiss against her temple. She melted, tension easing from her shoulders.
She caught your gaze, worry etched across her features. “I’m sorry about all this,” she whispered, voice so unlike her usual commanding tone. “I know it’s a mess. But after everything… I want you safe. Really safe. And I won’t let Mel walk free to threaten you, Jinx, or anyone ever again.”
You shook your head, letting your forehead briefly rest against hers. “Don’t apologize. I’m just glad I’m alive—glad we’re here. Mel can stay away forever, for all I care.”
Caitlyn’s eyes darkened. “No. That’s not enough for me. She abducted you, tortured you… threatened our future. I refuse to let her slip away without consequence. I’ve never felt this way—this protective—about anyone. And now there’s you, Jinx, Isha… This is my life. I’d risk everything—my rank, my position, everything we built—to keep all of you safe.”
Her voice cracked at the end, trembling with emotion. You cupped her cheek, your thumb brushing over her skin. “And we’ll deal with it,” you assured her. “I trust you.”
She exhaled, leaning into your touch. You felt her trembling slightly. In that raw openness, you wrapped your arms around her, holding her close, fingers tangling in her hair that had come undone from its usual ponytail. Her breath hitched, and you hummed a soft, comforting sound, feeling the frantic beat of her heart begin to steady.
After a moment, she pulled away gently, giving you a tender look. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, her voice still thick with emotion. “I wanted to show you some flowers in the tower’s garden—see if there’s anything you’d like for the… wedding.” Her cheeks colored at the word, but she bravely held your gaze.
You flashed a wry smile. “Are we sure Jinx wants flowers? She might prefer bombs and glitter.”
A hint of laughter crinkled her eyes. “We’ll compromise,” she said, stepping back and straightening her uniform. “Come on.”
The two of you left her office, walking side by side through the tower until you reached the skybridge leading to the gardens. The air here was fresher, a gentle breeze brushing past. But halfway across, you tensed: Mel was there, flanked by a small unit of her personal guards. They caught sight of you and Caitlyn at the same moment you saw them.
Mel’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she drank in the sight of you. You felt Caitlyn stiffen, fury emanating from her. Mel took a small step back, her eyes never leaving your form, the desire in her gaze as potent and unnerving as ever.
Caitlyn lunged forward, her face contorting with rage, but you quickly wrapped your arms around her waist from behind, restraining her. “Caitlyn, don’t—” you hissed urgently.
Mel’s expression was calm, almost amused, though the tension among her soldiers was palpable. They shifted, weapons half-drawn. Caitlyn’s enforcers rushed forward, forming ranks at the foot of the skybridge, ready to defend her.
“You,” Caitlyn spat, voice cutting through the air. “Abducted them. Tortured them. Tried to ruin everything we’ve built. You’re lucky I’m using the law first, or Jinx and I would make you pay in blood.”
Mel arched an eyebrow, smirk slipping into place. “So I’ve heard,” she purred. “A wedding, is it? How… quaint. I wonder how Piltover itself will react once they realize their stoic Commander has tied herself to a—” She paused, letting her gaze drift meaningfully to you, then back to Caitlyn. “Never mind. Congratulations, my dear.”
You could feel the tremor in Caitlyn’s body, her desire to rip free and attack. Her strength rose, nearly prying your arms off her. It startled you; you had to muster that advanced shimmer-fueled power in your veins to hold her back. “Easy,” you murmured, eyes still locked on Mel.
Mel’s eyes flicked to you, locking onto your arm around Caitlyn’s waist. “I see you’re healing,” she remarked with a sinister calm. “No matter what I did to you, you come back stronger. I admire that. Perhaps one day you’ll realize we belong on the same side.”
The statement chilled you, stirring that old rage. But you forced your voice to remain level. “Don’t try anything until everything’s in place—legally.” You caught her gaze, letting her see the quiet fury in your eyes. “You know exactly what I’m capable of now that I’m free. And trust me, if you make one wrong move, you won’t get to enjoy the chaos you crave.”
Mel smirked, but her stance betrayed a flicker of caution. “I’m not here to fight,” she insisted in a measured tone, raising her hands slightly to calm her soldiers. “A war would tear Piltover apart, after all… something I hear you’d hate to see.”
Caitlyn’s breath hissed between her teeth, and she snapped, “You’d start a war if it meant controlling them. You can’t accept that they’re beyond your reach now.”
Mel took a single step closer, eyes dancing with dark amusement. “We’ll see.”
You carefully released Caitlyn, stepping in front of her and letting your own presence bleed intimidation into the air. Her soldiers tensed at your motion, but they recognized you. Fear licked at the corners of their resolve.
“I’m no longer chained in your dungeon,” you said calmly, eyes boring into Mel’s. “And I carry a new rage I’m not afraid to unleash. If that happens, your name, your face, your entire army will be wiped from the face of the earth—Piltover and Zaun included.”
A hush fell over the skybridge. Enforcers and Mel’s soldiers alike glanced at each other nervously. Mel herself maintained her poise, but you saw it—the faint flicker of something like fear in her gaze.
Caitlyn parted her lips, a barrage of threats on the tip of her tongue, but you felt her hand tremble against yours. You squeezed it gently, a silent reminder that this needed to remain words, not bloodshed—yet.
Mel exhaled softly, turning to her soldiers. “Let’s go,” she commanded, giving Caitlyn one last mocking half-smile. “Until next time, dear Commander.”
She and her unit withdrew, the tension lifting only when they’d fully vanished into the distant corridors. The hush was heavy as you and Caitlyn remained on the skybridge, your heart hammering, your blood blazing with adrenaline.
Caitlyn leaned against you, the fury in her posture slowly dissolving. “This isn’t over,” she whispered, but her voice was calmer now, resolved.
You nodded, casting a final glance down the empty passage where Mel had disappeared. “No,” you agreed, voice gravelly with intensity. “Not by a long shot.”
With that, you turned together, guiding Caitlyn away from the confrontation. There would be more battles to come, more nights of endless strategy and tension. But for now, the city’s lights glimmered around you—a testament to all you had fought for, and all you still had to protect.
You were in the cluttered comfort of your work area, sorting through gears, ribbons, and tiny shimmering baubles you’d collected in hopes of crafting a strange, mismatched bouquet for Jinx—something that felt like her rather than the typical flowers. The hum of a single lamp illuminated the pieces, and you hummed to yourself, losing track of time as you combined metal bits and bright ribbons into a small homage of your affection.
The door swung open without a knock, drawing your focus. Jinx stood in the doorway, her lean form draped in shadows. Her eyes glittered in the low light. You smiled at her, greeting her name in a warm rush—only to feel the atmosphere drop several degrees when she stepped closer, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your little run-in with Mel?” Jinx’s voice was deceptively calm, a dangerous edge lurking underneath. Something coiled within you, the same dread you felt whenever she was on the cusp of real anger. You swallowed, fumbling for an explanation.
“I… meant to, but—”
The rest of your words were swallowed when she moved in, swift and practiced, pinning you lightly against the workbench. Your back pressed into a half-finished contraption, and you stilled, uncertain. Surprised more by how controlled she was rather than openly furious. She stared you down, her eyes making you feel small and, if you were honest, a little thrilled at her intensity. You breathed shallowly, waiting, until she spoke again.
“You don’t keep things like that from me,” she whispered, leaning in until you could feel the warmth of her breath against your face. “You and Caitlyn matter to me. I won’t have either of you getting hurt without me knowing. If you hide something—anything—I’ll handle it. My way.” Her gaze bored into yours, reading every flicker of emotion. All you could do was nod, your heart pounding.
Jinx’s fingers found your chin, nudging your face down to maintain eye contact. “You’re my lover,” she said, voice thick with promise, “before you’re anyone’s hero. Don’t forget that.” You parted your lips, the quiet desire stirring in your chest, leaning in for a kiss. But her grip tightened just enough to guide your mouth away, denying you. A smirk ghosted across her lips, and you could almost taste the tease on the tip of her tongue.
She stepped back as smoothly as she’d approached, leaving you momentarily unmoored. “That’s your punishment,” she purred, amusement dancing in her eyes. A swirl of her hips brushed away from you, an unapologetic display of confidence as she strode toward the door. She turned back, waving a plain envelope that bore both your name and Caitlyn’s in looping script.
“Cute how your last name looks next to ours,” Jinx called, a giggle threaded through her words, then slipped out the room. You stood there, mind spinning, the half-finished metal bouquet still clutched in your shaking hands, uncertain whether to laugh or catch your breath first.
You followed Jinx into the hall, your footsteps soft against the metal floor as you tried to catch up. She didn’t make it easy, glancing back every time you inched closer only to flick her wrist and slip her hand away from yours. You frowned, pouting in that faintly dramatic way you knew might soften her demeanor—but she was in no mood to oblige immediately.
Finally, you managed to close the gap, your voice low and earnest. “I’m sorry,” you repeated, sounding a touch exasperated with yourself. “Really. I… I just didn’t want things to escalate further with Mel. You know how Caitlyn can be when she’s angry. I’ve never seen her that furious in my life.”
Jinx paused, turning on her heel so suddenly you nearly bumped into her. She was smaller than you but still exuded that fierce, contained power. She leaned in, her voice a hush. “Prove it.”
Your heart stuttered at the challenge in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, you slid an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “I’m sorry,” you said, quieter this time, letting each word fall from your lips with weight and sincerity. “But you know we’re walking a thin line. One wrong move, and Mel’ll have cause to start a war none of us are ready for. And after seeing Caitlyn almost lose it…” You sighed, shaking your head at the memory. “She was at her breaking point. I couldn’t add to that.”
Jinx watched you, her gaze unreadable for a moment. Then her lips quirked into something mischievous. “You’ve gotten so soft,” she teased, though her voice held a fondness behind the jab.
You feigned a hurt expression, pressing your forehead lightly against hers. “Soft?” you echoed, sliding your free hand along her cheek and trailing light kisses from her temple down to the corner of her jaw. She gasped softly at first, but her lips curved into a shy smile. Your voice dipped lower. “I’m only saving my rage for when it’s really needed. Mel’s going to see it eventually—she won’t give us much choice. But right now, I have you, Caitlyn, and Isha to look after… I can’t leave you again.”
Jinx tilted her head back enough to meet your eyes. Her gaze flickered with that faint glow of purple you recognized in both of you when emotions ran high—an echo of the shimmer that pulsed through your veins. She drew in a slow breath, and a softness replaced her earlier tough stance. “I’m really glad I found you that day,” she murmured, referencing that moment of chaos when you first crossed paths, Garrett’s face meeting your fist. A small, fond grin tugged at her lips. “You punching that idiot was the best thing that happened to me.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “I had no idea it’d lead to all… this,” you admitted, the corners of your eyes crinkling in amusement.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, standing there under the flickering overhead light. Jinx’s eyes flicked between your pupils, reading the depths of your soul. Then, quietly, she broke the silence. “I love you,” she whispered, so softly you almost believed you misheard. But the sincerity in her gaze—her voice trembling just so—made it undeniable.
A gentle ache filled your chest, a warmth pressing behind your ribs. You let your hand drift up into her hair, pulling her close enough for your lips to meet. The kiss was slow, purposeful, a silent testament to everything you both had endured. And in that moment, the world shrank until it was only you and Jinx, hearts throbbing in sync.
When you drew back, your foreheads touched, and the sting of tears pricked at your eyes. “I love you, too,” you murmured, speaking the words plainly and clearly for her ears alone. Nothing else needed to be said—the two of you simply breathed, letting that confession take root in the hush of the corridor.
The rhythmic click and clang of metal against metal filled the warm air of your little workspace as you carefully attached the final piece to one of your metal “flowers.” The creation was equal parts eccentric and lovely—a reflection of Jinx’s influence, no doubt. You’d gone ahead and made two bouquets: one for Caitlyn, one for Jinx. Each trinket “petal” was shaped from painted gears or shaped scraps of steel, creating a bizarre but charming bouquet.
You looked up from the workbench as the door clicked open. Caitlyn stepped inside, her hand resting gently on Isha’s shoulder. The little girl’s eyes instantly fell on the glimmering trinkets, but Caitlyn’s fell on you. A warm smile curved her lips.
“I never realized just how creative you could be,” Caitlyn teased softly, crossing the room.
You shrugged, lifting your goggles off your forehead and letting them rest around your neck. “All thanks to your partner in crime,” you joked, nodding at Jinx napping on the couch, half-shadowed by the open balcony door.
Isha, though, had other plans. She darted across the room with surprising stealth, launching herself onto Jinx’s lap. A small noise of alarm escaped Jinx as she jolted awake. “Kid!” Jinx yelped, bleary-eyed, but the surprise faded quickly into a sheepish laugh. She held Isha close, pressing a playful kiss to the top of the girl’s head.
You let out a low chuckle at their interaction, only to feel a light pressure on your shoulder—Caitlyn leaning in to kiss you. Her lips met yours with a soft familiarity that made your heart lurch in that comforting, welcome way. When she pulled back, her eyes flicked over the half-finished bouquet in your hand. “You’re full of surprises, you know that?”
“I try,” you murmured, smiling. “Besides, Jinx is the real muse behind these metal monstrosities. She’s the one who taught me ‘normal flowers are too boring.’”
Jinx’s voice drifted from behind you, still groggy but amused. “You’re lucky I have good taste,” she said, smirking around another yawn.
Meanwhile, Isha slid off Jinx’s lap, scampering across the room to your workbench. Her wide eyes shone as she studied the trinket ‘flowers.’ You laughed softly and reached for a particularly bright purple one, holding it out to her. Isha’s face lit up like a lantern, and she sprinted back to Jinx, waving the flower in her face in a triumphant display.
While your focus lingered on Isha’s happiness, Caitlyn took advantage of the moment. She slipped into your lap, one arm hooking around your shoulder. You felt the warmth of her body settle against you, the soft brush of her uniform grazing your forearm.
Her voice was a near whisper, meant just for you. “I never saw myself with such a family a few years ago.”
You teased her with a gentle roll of your eyes. “You were pretty invested in your job. ‘Commander Kiramman, the unstoppable law of Piltover’—ring a bell?”
She tried to laugh it off, but it came out as a faint sigh. “I was. Still am, sometimes. But… after we all marry, I’ve been thinking…” Her voice dropped even lower. “I might resign or at least step away from the Commander role.”
Your entire body went rigid with surprise. “What? Caitlyn—no, you’ve worked so hard for that position.”
“It’s just a thought,” she muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth when she saw your alarm. “A fleeting one, maybe. But with everything that’s happened… you, Jinx, Isha. You’re my priority now.”
You shook your head, about to protest further, when Jinx’s mouth pressed a playful kiss to Caitlyn’s temple from behind, her arms circling both you and Caitlyn. She pressed flush against your back, murmuring, “Speaking of priorities, we should go see Vi and Sevika soon. They’ll want in on wedding details.”
You turned, enough to kiss Jinx’s lips in a half-twist. A quiet hum of pleasure escaped your throat. Caitlyn watched the exchange with an indulgent smile—though her cheeks pinkened slightly.
Your impromptu make-out session was cut short by a tug on your shirt from below—Isha, pointing at an unpainted gear near the base of the latest flower. You blinked, sheepishly grinning. “I knew I forgot something,” you said, picking up the paintbrush with your free hand.
Jinx clicked her tongue. “Lucky the kid’s here to keep you on track,” she teased, heat dancing behind her eyes. “Otherwise I’d punish you for that incomplete job.”
Caitlyn cleared her throat, fussing with her uniform as she tried to disguise the fact that her face had turned a few shades redder. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned Jinx lightly, though a hint of a smile tugged at her lips.
Jinx just snickered, stepping closer to Caitlyn with an almost predatory look. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like watching me kiss them…”
Caitlyn stiffened, her ears practically steaming. “I—it’s not that, I just—” She stopped, spotting the grin spreading across your face. Rolling her eyes, she glanced away, cheeks aflame.
You could barely suppress your laughter. The moment was so domestic, so absurdly sweet in its own way. This was your life now—full of warmth and teasing, with a bright-eyed child demanding your best, two fierce women protective of your heart, and the promise of a wedding that would seal your family’s unity forever.
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Hope you enjoyed! Sorry- its not proofread :(
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bunnyshavebun · 1 day ago
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Chat this is my first time ever writing this shi
This contains- head lock, degrading mating press and deepthroating enjoy
After playing red light green light you were in the barracks and you were getting rest along with everyone else, a few hours later you felt someone staring at you towering over you when you opened your eyes it was a square guard, startled you yelped, the guard clamped his hand over your mouth pulling you up with his other hand
“If you talk you die..follow me”
The guard spoke in a deep brooding voice letting you go he had his fire arm strapped around him putting one hand near it ready to use it whenever, he began walking gesturing you to follow him he led you to the bathroom another guard already there guarding the door he opened the door to the bathroom
“Inside now”
You entered the bathroom fearing for your life, there was an ominous feeling in the atmosphere, the guard followed and close the door behind him locking it he looked at you taking a step forward as you kept backing up,he backed you into a corner he brought one hand up caressing your face
“You’re very… beautiful… you know that..”
If the guard didn’t have his mask you’d see that his eyes were checking out your body he placed his hand on your hip caressing it slowly his voice had a desperate lusty tone he went closer to you invading your space you felt something hard against your leg you gasped softly
“I-… what do you want from me”
You felt it against your leg you bit your bottom lip half of you was excited and the other nervous he leaned into you he whispering into your ear
“I want you…”
He wrapped his fingers around the zipper of your jacket, yanking it down with a harsh, tearing sound. The zipper screams in protest as he dragged it all the way down, the fabric splitting at the seam. He then grabbed the hem of your jacket and pull it off her shoulders, casting it aside carelessly pulling up your under shirt aswell leaving you in your bra his hand then wondered to the waistband of your track pants, and with a rough yank, he teared them open from the crotch to the zipper. The fabric rips loudly, and he quickly shoved the pants down to your legs, leaving you in just your underwear and socks.
The guard looked at you with a smirk liking the sight of you only in your undergarments. He pressed the cool metal of the gun barrel against your clothed mound, rubbing it firmly against it creating delicious friction. He can feel the heat emanating from your core, quickly spreading a damp patch across the thin fabric of your underwear .
He maintains the steady pressure of the gun barrel against your underwear, rubbing it in circles. Your soft moans fill the air as the cold metal awakens her senses. He watches with darkened eyes as the damp spot grows larger, the outline of your arousal now clearly visible.
"You're getting fucking soaked just from a bit of teasing, aren't you?" He growls, pressing the gun harder against your clit. Your legs tremble as you whimper completely at his mercy. With one hand, he grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes you downwards on your knees unzipping his own pants his length springing out in action he grabbed his own harden length slapping it onto your lips teasingly leaving some of his precum behind “open wide…” he mocked with a chuckle
You stammered weakly never having done this before being your first time giving a blow job, "I-I've never..." but your words are cut off as his strong hands forcefully pull your face towards his already exposed cock. His other hand slides firmly to the back of her head. "Then it's fucking time you learned,"
As you opened your mouth he took that as a chance and he shoves his thick length inside without hesitation. You gag immediately tears forming in your eyes , as your throat constricting around him. But he doesn't stop. His hand pushes her head down further, forcing his entire length down your throat until your nose is buried against his stomach.
He holds your head down, thrusting his hips forcing his cock deeper inside her throat . He curses and groans “fuck just like that”, using your mouth as his personal outlet. When he feels the need to cum he finally pulls out, he releases a thick, ropy load all over your face, dripping down your cheeks and chin he smirked looking at how he left your face painted with his cum
He roughly pushed you onto your back and presses the sole of his shoe against your clothed pussy, rubbing aggressively. You gasps, both from the shocking sensation and humiliating position. After sufficiently violating her core with his footwear. “Such a slut sucking me off made you that wet…”
He kneels down behind her, his face level with her bottom. With a snarl, he tears off your panties, exposing your glistening folds. He doesn't waste time, immediately shoving two thick fingers into your tight hole. They slide in easily, thanks to her earlier arousal he curls his fingers in side hitting that delicious spot that leaves you moaning uncontrollably he stretches you out getting you ready for his cock He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you rubbing your sensitive clit with his thumb. He can feel your inner walls tightening around his fingers as you starts to climax. Your pussy spasms and convulses, soaking his fingers with your juices as you cum hard around them.
He forcefully pulls you up by your arm, your legs trembling from just cumming, he grabbed his hard cock positioning himself at your now stretched hole,Without warning, he slams into your dripping core from behind, filling you completely you let out a loud cry from the impact and the pleasure. One of his hand wraps around your waist while the other goes around your throat in a tight headlock. "Take that cock like a good girl,"
He pounds into you brutally, his thick length stretching your insides. You moans like a whimpering bitch, choked and muffled by his arm around your neck. He growls like an animal, his hips slamming into your again and again, "You like that whore!”
He suddenly pushed you down down, folding you into half and pressing your chest to the ground. He follows you down, mounting her from behind like a beast. His hips snap forward, his cock driving deeper and hitting your G-spot with every thrust. "Take it deeper, you little slut." Leaving you moaning like a cock drunk bitch drooling leaving your parted lips.
He continues his brutal pace, fucking you like a mindless animal. His balls slap against your clit with every thrust, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. He feels your inner walls start to spasm and contract, knowing you’re about to cum.
As she cums hard around his cock with a loud scream, he slams into you one last time and holds himself deep inside, releasing his hot load filling you up. Your pussy grips his cock desperately, milking him for every drop as his cum pumps into your greedy hole.
With a satisfied smirk, he zips up his pants and walks away, leaving you lying on the bathroom floor, his cum leaking out of your well-fucked pussy. He doesn't even glance back, clearly not caring about the potential consequences of his actions “Clean yourself up slut,till next time…”
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