#and the one day I did have time I hated how it turned out

[kierahn]

FUELED BY HATE. [ academic rival x m ! reader ]

summary : you were the best in your entire batch while he stays in second place. nick initially thought that the rivalry between you and him would end after graduating, but it seemed like fate had other plans. you recently joined his workplace and stole his spotlight once more. after years of being overshadowed, nick has had enough and decided to finally put you in your place; below him, right where you belonged.

content warning : blackmail ✧; character despises reader ✧; non/dubcon nsfw ✧; cigarette burns ✧; degradation

masterlist !

✩ i’m so sorry for disappearing for almost a year ! i recently started my first year of college, and things have been hectic for me so far. i'll try writing more often now that I've adjusted better :] ✩ this is a draft i left before i disappeared. i decided to refine it before working on newer stuff. ✩ i've also decided to clear out all the requests on my inbox since i want a fresh start. with that, my inbox is open for requests ! (still selective of what i'll write) ──★ ˙ ̟🪿 !!

➷ nick cromwell was a man who excelled in his studies. from the first day he entered the military academy, nick already knew that he was gifted. this easily earned him respect and admiration from the people around him.

but despite his decent reputation and academic performance, nick's name lingered solely in second place throughout the years, never surpassing the name above his.

➷ dark eyes glued themselves on the name tag that was sewn on the right side of your newly tailored uniform; y/n l/n, it read. seeing your name never failed to sour his mood.

you had joined his department just a couple of months ago, yet you rose to the top with ease and easily surpassed him once more. barely a month in, and you already managed to solve a missing person case that had long gone cold. it was a huge feat that set you on a path towards a promising promotion. one that nick highly sought after years of working his ass off.

➷ nick averted his gaze away from your form, a pang of irritation hitting him. he hated you— your voice, your presence, everything. he hated how you were better than him in every aspect.

you were always surrounded by your co-workers who depended on you for help despite being new. everyone seemed to look at you with stars in their eyes, filled with admiration. everyone except nick.

➷ the first day you joined his department, nick slipped out of the bustling room with a box of cigarettes in his hand. he placed one stick in between his lips while his other hand searched for his lighter only to find that it was missing. he brushed his dark locks back with an annoyed sigh. great.

just as nick turned to head back inside, a lighter greeted him out of nowhere, sparking to life and lighting his unlit cigarette. the sudden gesture made his heart skip a beat out of shock, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. nick took a deep drag of the now lit cigarette, directing his gaze to thank the owner of the lighter.

his expression hardened. y/n.

"cromwell," nick watched as you placed your lighter back inside your pocket. he stared, not bothering to hide his displeased expression.

did you remember him from military academy ? that's impossible, you were in different classes and had never crossed paths before. he doubted you knew about his existence.

after a long pause, nick exhaled a puff of smoke, deciding to snap out of his trance. holding the cigarette between his fingers, he returned the greeting. "l/n."

that was his first interaction with you after all those years. a face to finally match the name that had long stirred his competitive spirit.

➷ your feats only kept getting more and more impressive as time went on, and the sight of your constant success ignited something within nick. he knew he had to humble you, to remind you of your place. nick worked his ass off trying to get where he was, it wasn’t fair of you to take that away from him.

he had to be better than you this time even if he had to go the extra mile to ruin you.

he considered a couple of extreme measures: framing you for murder, planting drugs in your desk, or any other nefarious scheme that could tie you to wrongdoing. but, it wasn't enough for him to see you behind bars. that wasn't what he aimed for. he needed to completely ruin you— humiliate you so you wouldn’t dare to step out of line ever again.

it only took him a few drinks between 'friends' to have you all putty in his hands. he didn't expect you to be such a lightweight, but it was convenient for him to set his plan in motion. it wasn't an easy task dragging you around in your drunken state, but nick was satisfied with his work.

you were fully stripped of your uniform, both hands cuffed behind your back, black leather wrapped around your eyes, and a cloth between your lips to muffle whatever sound you were bound to make.

a tripod sat at the edge of the bed, a camera set up to capture your vulnerable state. all he had to do was take a picture and finish up, but that idea didn’t seem to satisfy him. it wouldn't be enough to make up for the years that you have overshadowed him.

nick monitored your unconscious form from across the dimly lit room. the cigarette that sat between his lips illuminated the lower half of his face, dark eyes reflecting the light of the burning cigarette. rising from the wooden chair he had nested himself in, nick stalked towards the bed where you laid unconscious. he placed his cigarette on an ash tray sitting on top of his bedside table. the camera's light illuminated a crimson red color, indicating that it was recording everything.

nick's gloved hand slowly traced a line down your exposed stomach, feeling you shudder slightly at his touch. your still breathing turned frantic the lower his hand slid down your torso. an unsuspected ghost of a smile crept up on nick’s lips as he watched you react to his touch. there was something about seeing you in such a humiliating position, all vulnerable and helpless.

perhaps this was where you rightfully belonged, below him.

his thumb glossed over your cheek as he stared down to study your sleeping face. now that he had a closer look at you, nick realized how good you actually looked. no wonder people liked you a lot, aside from being reliable, you were also a piece of candy for one’s eye.

his hand unconsciously found itself wrapped around the base of your cock, still soft and limp from the lack of stimulation. even this part of you looked good. he had every right to be jealous.

having initially planned to simply take photos and leave it at that, nick knew he had to improvise. he bent down and coated the tip of your cock with his spit. it helped his gloved hand glide smoothly up and down along your shaft.

your breath hitch in response, and that was when nick knew you were awake and could feel everything.

knowing this, nick quickened his pace, twisting and rubbing with the goal of making you finish in his hand. the gag around your mouth muffled your groans. with the way your cock hardened and twitched in his hand, nick could tell that your body liked his touch.

“who knew you were such a slut,” nick taunted. he noticed how you bit against the gag to suppress your moans, staining the cloth around your mouth with your saliva. “i wonder what our superiors would think if they saw you in this position ?” his other hand ripped the gag from your mouth. he wanted to hear what other noises you could make.

you open your mouth to question who he was, but nick took it as an opportunity to capture your lips in his. he tilted his head to the side to muffle your

this was all to humiliate you, nothing more. he inwardly told himself. but the strained feeling in his pants told a completely different story.

nick groaned as he felt you come undone, staining his hand white with your cum. he pulled away from the kiss, replacing his lips with his fingers as he let you have a taste of yourself. he pinched and pulled at your tongue, stretching the inside of your mouth with his fingers. he coated his fingers with your saliva, dark eyes watching you gag on his fingers.

nick pulled his fingers out of your mouth with a pop and let them hover your rim in a teasing manner. he pushed a finger past the ring of muscles despite your protest, holding you down by straddling your hips as you thrashed around. “shh, you’ll tire yourself out before i can even start.”

the sound of clothes shuffling reached your ears as nick pulled his trousers down with his other hand to free his hardened cock. he could see your chest rise and fall quickly, but you stayed surprisingly compliant. “you’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you ?” nick’s fingers continued to prod at your entrance, teasing you as he rubbed circles with his thumb on your gaping hole. “we can’t have that. you’ll have to beg for it first.”

you gritted your teeth at the thought of begging. there was no way you were going to— nick pushed his thumb inside, making you jolt as your walls clenched around the digit. a sharp groan escaped your lips that were slightly agape as you breathe heavily.

your cock painfully twitched at the lack of sensation. nick wiggled his thumb around inside you, but it still wasn’t enough to stimulate anything. “is that your dick ? pretty small for all that big talk.”

you decided to bite back and insult him. you weren’t going to beg for anything any time soon, instead, you would taunt him into doing what you wanted. hearing the male simply chuckle at your insult, nick pulled his thumb out of your hole and replaced it with his cock, its tip kissing your entrance. “you’re really asking for it. i knew you were a filthy whore underneath that professional bullshit you keep pulling on everyone.”

without warning, nick slammed himself inside. he groaned at the sudden tightness, hands holding you in place, a bruising grip on your hips. “shit, can’t you loosen up a bit ? you’re going to chop my dick off,” he growled, a slight rasp in his voice.

your hole swallowed him whole, dragging him deeper inside as he thrusted in and out of your abused hole. it took him a while to set an actual pace because of how your hole clenched tightly around his dick, but you did loosen up after a while. he made a mental note to prepare you properly next time

next time ?

nick pushed those thoughts away. this was a one time thing, he.. fuck.

nick tightened his grip on your hips out of frustration. he almost forgot why he was doing this in the first place, this was all to simply ruin you, nothing more. he reached out to grab his cigarette off the ash tray, placing it between his lips as he dragged one out to calm his nerves. ‘i shouldn’t be enjoying this,’ he inwardly scolded himself.

he exhaled, keeping the cigarette in between his fingers as he placed his palm against your bare stomach. ‘but, holy shit, how can i not enjoy this. his ass is swallowing my dick like it’s his last meal.’ nick grunted.

out of frustration, he dragged the butt of his cigarette against your bare stomach. you hissed at the burning sensation, your muscles tensing as you bit back a scream of pain. nick’s dark eyes examined the burn marks he had left in your skin, no longer feeling remorse. instead, his cock twitched at the sight of your pained expression.

he continued thrusting into you, your moans acting as a positive reinforcement for him to keep going. nick took the cigarette back to his lips, inhaled, and leaned down to slam his lips against yours. it tasted like ash as nick’s tongue intertwined with yours into a sloppy kiss. his pace eventually slowed down as he felt himself near his climax.

you were also close, whining against the kiss as he slammed into you one last time before he unloaded inside of you. he finished first, pulling away from the kiss and giving a few sloppy thrusts in order to help you finish. seeing your cock twitch and spur, nick pressed the cigarette butt against your tip. the pain from the scalding heat helped you finish, your cum putting out the cigarette’s light.

nick threw the cigarette onto the ashtray and pulled out of you, letting his finished work trickle down your thighs. he detached himself from you, removing his dirtied gloves as he approached the camera that continued to capture everything. “this should be enough to keep you in line.” he muttered under his breath as he ended the recording.

nick took the camera with him as he stalked back towards the bed where his finished work laid in display. the sound of a camera shutter reached your ears and a brief flash of light penetrated the blindfold around your eyes. “you look way better under me anyway.”

[devilish-cherry]

choso relationship headcanons ♡

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso nation, we rise. this was supposed to be a short list, but then i blacked out and wrote 20+ of these like my brain was fully infected with choso thoughts lmao i had way too much fun writing these and if even one person giggles, kicks their feet, or whispers ‘he’s so babygirl’ under their breath, then my mission is complete. mwah mwah enjoy the choso brainrot 🖤

₊⊹. choso is very affectionate, but he does not know how to initiate it. he wants to cuddle, but instead of asking, he just sits near you… closer… closer… until you finally sigh and pull him into your arms. mission accomplished.

₊⊹. choso lets you paint his nails. he does not react at all while you do it, but later, when he catches his reflection, he stares at them with pure admiration.

₊⊹. choso picks up on your habits without realizing it. if you always hum while making food, he will also start humming while making food. he is an imprint duck.

₊⊹. choso sees you shiver once and immediately wraps you in his scarf without hesitation, completely deadpan. you try to protest, but he just goes, "you are cold. i do not require it." end of discussion.

₊⊹. choso reacts to you putting your head in his lap for the first time by going completely still like a statue, unsure of what to do with his hands. eventually, after much contemplation, he awkwardly places one (1) hand on your head.

₊⊹. choso finds out about couples wearing matching clothes and gets very serious about it. suddenly, you have matching scarves, jackets, socks—he doesn’t even ask, he just starts handing you things to wear.

₊⊹. choso learns how to cook just so he can make your favorite meal for you. he is not good at it at first, but he is so determined.

₊⊹. choso and you watch a horror movie together, and despite his usually stoic demeanor, he jumps when there’s a sudden jumpscare. then immediately pretends that did not just happen.

₊⊹. choso wants to impress you, but he doesn't know how. one time, he tried to carry all your groceries in one trip to prove his strength, but he didn't realize how heavy they were and nearly fell down the stairs.

₊⊹. choso sees an old couple holding hands and just stares at them very seriously before turning to you and goes, "we will do that too."

₊⊹. choso sees a stuffed animal that looks like you (or reminds him of you in some way) and just. buys it. no hesitation. now it sits on his bed.

₊⊹. you fall asleep on choso’s shoulder, and he does not move for hours. his arm? numb. his back? sore. but does he care? absolutely not.

₊⊹. choso sees a mistletoe for the first time and gets very serious about standing under it with you. “it is tradition.”

₊⊹. choso and you share a blanket, and when you move even slightly, he adjusts it for you like some kind of doting grandma.

₊⊹. if you jokingly call choso “pretty boy” he will just stare into the distance, processing that for the next 3-5 business days.

₊⊹. choso doesn’t fully understand dating anniversaries, but if you tell him a date is important, he remembers. every year. without fail.

₊⊹. choso treats your interests like divine knowledge. if you mention liking a specific food, he will remember forever and bring it to you at random times.

₊⊹. choso doesn’t understand sarcasm or teasing just yet, so if you jokingly say “ugh, i hate you” after he does something cute, he will immediately go quiet like 🧍‍♂️ “...i will improve.”

₊⊹. choso learns about pet names and thinks they are deeply serious. one time, you call him “baby,” and he thinks about it for days. finally, he asks, all serious, “you called me baby. does that mean i am small and fragile to you? do i need to be handled with care?”

₊⊹. choso does not understand selfies, so when you try to take one with him, he just stares at the camera deadpan while you smile and pose next to him.

₊⊹. choso is a horrible liar. if he plans a surprise for you, you will know immediately because he looks guilty for no reason. you ask him what’s wrong, and he’s like “nothing. i definitely did not hide something for you in the kitchen.”

₊⊹. choso learns about social media. he does not understand it. one day, you find out he made an instagram solely to follow you. he has one post, and it’s just a blurry picture of you.

₊⊹. choso is overprotective in the strangest ways. he will not stop you from fighting your own battles, but if he sees you about to trip on the sidewalk, he will catch you like it’s an action movie.

₊⊹. choso is clueless about love, but when he loves, he loves completely and with his whole heart. if you need something, he is already on it. if you’re sad, he doesn’t always know what to say, but he will hold you like you are the most precious thing in the world.

[artstennisracket]

request: please I’m begging you write more parts to the Patrick Zweig Coach fucking his much younger client I’m dying that was too good

tennis coach!Patrick x fem reader, part 1

cw: nsfw (18+), d/s overtones tbh, dom!patrick, dirty talk, minimal use of daddy kink (reader says it once), not proofread

You were sore for that next week of practice. Getting fucked by a tennis racket handle wasn’t on your bucket list but you’re not particularly mad at it either.

You thought the dynamic would change between you and your coach but it’s like he went right back to ignoring you.

It wasn’t until Wednesday’s practice when you were preparing for a tournament you had this weekend.

You were genuinely out of it. You were going to be versing Anna Mueller and she’s currently ranked number 4 for women’s juniors. Sometimes you got in your head about things even if you knew how good you were.

During your serve drills Patrick could tell you were off. By the time you got to scrimmaging you weren’t giving it your all to beat him like you usually would.

On your next rally Patrick catches the ball instead of returning your serve. He walks to middle meeting you at the net, “You’re not fucking with me right? What’s going on?”

You sigh, wiping the sweat off your forehead with the cardigan tied around your shoulders, “No I’m not I just- I keep thinking about the tournament this weekend.”

He gives you a tight lipped smile, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head, “There’s nothing for you to worry about. Anna Mueller is all show, no real skill. And she’s a racist bitch, you’ll beat her into the ground without even trying.”

You let out a chuckle at that statement, “I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me feel better or light a fire under my ass,” I mean who doesn’t want to beat their opponents, especially the racist ones.

He smirks, “Why can’t it be both?,” He takes a step closer, the net still in between you two. You instinctively take a step closer just to be in his personal space. He bites his lip quickly, you can tell he’s thinking. He leans over to whisper in your ear, “And I said if you were good this weekend, I’d give you what you want.”

The smell of cigarettes fills your senses. A smell you usually hate but for some reason it just works for him. You let your eyes slip close momentarily to imagine what your first time with Patrick would be like because jesus fuck—

“We don’t have all day L/N, let’s go,” He calls out from his place on the other side of the court. Shit, how long were you standing there with your eyes closed?

You half jog back to your side of the court and take your cardigan off. When did it get so hot?

You turn quickly to look at him again, only to see him quickly push his sunglasses back down and clear his throat. Oh he was totally staring.

Now it’s your turn to smirk, “Ready Zweig?” You call out right before you serve an ace.

…

The tournament had just finished and you absolutely crushed Anna Mueller. You tanked in the first set but came back and won the last two by a good margin. You were so zoned in you didn’t even notice when Patrick had moved his tennis bag to his lap to cover up his problem.

You were so hyped at the end, you felt like it was the best tennis you’ve ever played. Not to mention the points you’d win from this to boost your own rank.

You looked around the stands for Patrick but he was nowhere to be found. You scrunch your eyebrows together in confusion but you’re sure you’ll see him later. Your parents had covered two hotel rooms for you both for the weekend.

You made your way back to the hotel so you could take a shower and change. Once you finished there was a knock on your door.

You opened it to find Patrick leaning against the door frame with a CVS bag in his hand. You took a second to take him in. Curls damp, like he just took a shower. You were able to actually look in his eyes for longer than a millisecond (since he’s always wearing sunglasses) and they were beautiful. A mashup of light hazel and green. He was wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that stretched over his long legs. And he was only wearing socks? No shoes.

“You gonna let me in or you wanna keep checking me out?” He smirks. You move to the side so he can walk inside.

You close the door as he takes a seat on the bed after placing the CVS bag on the night stand.

“Where’d you go? After my match.” You ask sitting next to him so your thighs are touching.

He shifts so he can face you, “Had to get some stuff, take a shower,” He gestures to the bag on the nightstand.

“You didn’t even see if I won or not, and what did you just have to get from CVS?” You ask. To be honest you’re not even really paying attention, just enjoying being this close in his personal space. Maintaining eye contact so you can fully drink in this dreamlike experience.

“Just condoms,” He’s says so causally like it’s toothpaste or something.

You scrunch your eyebrows together, “Don’t they sell that at the little hotel store downstairs?”

He smirks again, “And how would you know that?”

Blood rushes to your cheeks, “I just wanted to check I guess. And you never answered my questions.”

He shrugs, “I already knew you were gonna win and downstairs they didn’t have magnum.” He says so casually AGAIN. Fuck.

He sees the “oh fuck” realization on your face so he has to ask, “You’re not a virgin right?”

You shake your head no. Quite the opposite actually but he just made you nervous for some reason.

He moves his hand to rest on the back of your neck, his thumb resting just above your ear, “What happened to the confident little brat who made me fuck her with a racket huh?”

Fuck. You move forward to crash your lips together, you’ve been waiting for this for too long to get nervous now.

He kisses you back and it’s almost bruising. Tongue, lips, and exchanging spit. It’s filthy. He pulls you back before he says, “On your knees.”

You followed that command quicker than the speed of your serves. He chuckles softly and you look up at him, hoping this time you’d get what you want and not a tennis racket.

He stands up so your face to face with his clothed bulge. You can feel your mouth start to water subconsciously. He unzips his jeans, pulling them down until they fall at his ankles. Now he was just stood in front of you in his boxer briefs and a much more prominent bulge.

You felt some need to prove to yourself so you start to mouth at his bulge through his underwear.

“Fuck, woah slow down. Did I say you could do that?” He groans while grabbing your hair and pulling you off.

“No but I just—“

“I thought you said you were gonna be good? You were good this whole week, don't mess it up now.”

“Okay I’m sorr—“

“First rule is you only speak if I say so okay? Or if I ask you a question. Got it?”

You nod before you realize he just asked you a question. You rush out, “Yes yep got it.”

He smiles, “You’ve always been a pretty quick learner.” He moves his hand from your hair back to his own underwear. He pulls them down slowly, letting his hard length spring free and fuck. You knew he was big but this was a lot.

He continues, “Now, I’m gonna let you suck my cock but don’t try to be too ambitious. If I want you to take more, you’ll know. And if you need me to stop for any reason just pinch me.”

You nod staying in your place on your knees. He grips the base of his cock, rubbing his tip along your lips. You want so badly to open your mouth, lick the tip with your tongue. But you can’t, not yet.

“You can open.”

Before he even finishes that statement your mouth is open and you’re sucking on the tip. Little kitten licks in between. You refrain from trying to swallow him down because you haven’t been instructed to yet.

He moves his hand back to your hair, pushing you further down. You choke a little, but try to keep calm so your gag reflex doesn’t act up.

He lets out a low groan as he keeps pushing in, “Fuck,” and then he pulls out almost all the way before he presses back in.

This time you try to suck to the best of ur ability. Making a mess, spit building up in your mouth, covering his cock, drooling out of the sides of your mouth. You still haven’t taken it all but you bob your head up and down, covering the expanse of his cock that he’s allowed you to take.

The wet sounds of you choking, gasping, and breathing hard around his dick filling the room. Soon he pulls all the way out letting out an exasperated, “Fuck babe, gotta prep you now. Get up.”

You stand up, knees feeling sore from the roughness of the hotel carpet.

“Take off your clothes and lay down on your back.” He says, stroking his cock aimlessly, waiting for you to lay down.

This is the fastest you’ve ever taken your clothes off, record speed. You get into position, laying down on your back. A few pillows behind you so your back is elevated. He lays down on his stomach between your legs, his long legs hanging off the side of the bed.

He lets his finger run down the middle of your folds, gently grazing your clit, before he pushes into your hole.

“You’re so wet already, maybe I didn’t have to prep you,” He says before adding a second finger, pumping in and out of your slick hole.

He picks up the pace and you are a moaning mess. Moaning, whining, and whimpering just from his fingers as he keeps pressing against the right spot.

“Does that feel good baby?” He asks before he inserts a third, curling his fingers inside you now.

You nod before you remember that you have to answer verbally, “Yes please more, feels so good.”

He speeds up his pace, assaulting the soft spongy spot inside of you until you feel something build up in your stomach. He keeps eye contact with you, biting his lip as he watches the pleasure take over your face.

“Ah, ah, ah—Patrick wait I- fuck” You say in a high pitched whine as a rush of liquid gushes out of you, squirting all over his fingers.

Patrick pulls his fingers out, “Knew you had it in you,” he smirks moving up on the bed to capture your lips in another kiss.

This kiss is slow, like he’s taking his time to explore your mouth with his tongue. He bites your lip as he pulls away from the kiss, “Good?”

You nod definitely a little out of it. “Yeah,” you reply, your volume barely above a whisper.

“Still wanna keep going?” He asks, pushing your hair back behind your ear.

You nod, biting your lip as you smile, “Duh. Didn’t get what I want yet.”

He scoffs playfully, “I could argue that you did.” He grabs the CVS bag and opens the box of condoms, taking one out. “Would you like to do the honors?”

You nod again, sitting up on your knees and opening the wrapper. He strokes himself a few times to get himself back to full hardness before you roll on the condom.

He moves you to lay down on the other (dry) side of the bed and lines up with your entrance. He drags his tip along the center of your folds, teasing your hole, “Sure this is what you really want?”

You let out a huff, “Yes Patrick, how many times do I have to tell—shit“ Your cut off as he pushes inside of you.

He looks up at you as he bottoms out, “You still good?” He grunts out.

“Stop treating me like a baby, I can take it,” You gasp out. It really is a lot. You feel ridiculously full. Almost comparable to the tennis racket. “You literally fucked me with tennis racket.”

“Ungrateful as always,” He shakes his head before he pulls out. You whine at the loss before he flips you over so your face down ass up.

“You were good all week, now you wanna be an ungrateful slut,” he tsks before slamming into you without warning.

“Oh fuck,” You basically scream out at the abrupt intrusion. He grabs both your wrists, holding them behind your back, before he really starts fucking into you.

He grunts out, “I was trying to be nice but you keep testing me, fuck you feel so good.”

He continues holding both your wrists in one of his massive hands while the other hand grabs your hair. Pulling you up so he can whisper in your ear, “So you’re gonna take whatever I decide to fucking give you, got it?”

You let out a whimper from how overwhelmed with pleasure you feel, “Yes fuck I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He smirks, “Too late for that.” He lets go of your hair letting you fall back into position. He grips your hips and starts pounding into you. Each thrust more bruising than the last. Hard and fast. It feels like you’re gonna break.

You go from leaning into the thrusts pushing yourself back against him, to almost trying to pull away. Not because you weren’t enjoying it but because your g-spot was starting to get overstimulated, it was starting to feel too good.

“Fuck baby, can’t run away now. This is what you asked for right? What you’ve been drooling over for the past two years huh? Bet you used to touch yourself thinking about this right?”

You can’t even think straight enough to realize he’s asking a question. It’s not until he comes to a halt to say, “I asked you a fucking question.”

Now that he’s still inside you, your brain finally processes what he said. “Yes fuck, Patrick I— yes, I did, I did. Please don’t stop please,” You whine.

He picks up his pace again as tears start to fall down your face. He can hear your sniffling mixed in with your moans, “Aw baby, are you crying? Does it feel too good?”

You nod. Your face smushed against the pillow that’s catching your fallen tears. You let out a weak, “Yes daddy,” and you don’t even realize what you just said, too fucked out to register.

“Shit why would you— fuck,” His hips stutter, “Christ you’re so fucking—fuck baby you’re gonna be the end of me.”

“Please please, so close,” You whimper. You can feel yourself on the edge until-

“Cum for me baby, want you to finish all over my cock, this what you’ve wanted for two years right? Show me how much you needed it.”

And that’s all it takes. You feel that sudden rush again before you squirt all over Patrick’s dick. He curses under his breath pulling all the way out in between thrusts to fully see it. That image is enough to have him spilling inside the condom, his thrusts stilling.

He pulls out slowly, taking the condom off and throwing it away. He grabs a small hand towel from the bathroom and comes back to you on the bed half asleep.

“I figured you’d be too tired to shower but are you sure you wanna sleep here? My room’s right next to yours and my bed isn’t…yeah.”

You nod sleepily, “‘Mkay, there’s a connecting door I think?” You lazily gesture to the door in the middle of the wall.

“Oh that’s…convenient.” He pulls on his jeans haphazardly, taking out his key card. He leaves your room, leaving the deadbolt on to hold the door cracked open, and you hear some shuffling outside. You assume he’s unlocked the connecting door on his side.

He comes back to your room, unlocking the door on your side, revealing direct access to Patrick’s room. He picks you up with ease, probably from all those years of tennis, and sets you down in the middle of his bed.

It’s chillier in his room. Probably has the AC blasting, so you curl in on yourself trying to get comfortable enough to sleep again.

He makes his way over to the thermostat to turn up the temperature a little. Then he takes a beat before he decides to cover you with the comforter, tucking you in.

“Better?” He asks as he lays next to you, on top of the comforter because he’s still hot.

“Better,” You mumble back before you fall asleep

[rhyrhy]

HELLO LUV BUG

I HAVE A REQUEST IF YOU DONT MIND

I’ll stop yelling now

Anyway

Virgin Abby x experienced reader.

Like things are getting hot and heavy and Abby admits she’s a virgin and experienced reader gets off on being Abby’s first ever while being really sweet and gentle.

Have a good one eat, stretch, drink something

-saturn

And they were roommates .ᐟ

Virgin! Abby ݁˖°✧

꒰࣪ Warnings:꒱ bits of plot, mostly A! Receiving, body hair ˖ . ݁˖°✧ mentioned, jealousy, talks of virginity (duh), hair pulling, loser Abby, oral, Mdni!

-oh my god, they were roommates?

Roommate, roomie, the woman you share your space with. That’s Abby—friend of three years, roommate of a few months.

Perfect roommate would be an understatement. So, of course, when your old landlord raised rent too high for your liking, she was the first person you asked to help look for a new place. Only to catch the way her eyes sparkled when you found one—quiet neighborhood, not too far from work. The extra bedroom was originally going to be an office of some sort, but plans changed.

She cooks, cleans, respects your space, always knocks before she enters your room.

—Well, usually she did. Except for last night.

Those usual soft knocks or “Can I come in?” fell on deaf ears. After moving in, things had unknowingly shifted between you two. An unspoken understanding to not make things awkward. However, one fateful night of her not knocking led to a sleepy, on-the-couch discussion days later, after a long work shift.

The scene was something straight out of a wet dream, (un)fortunately engraved in her mind.

The image of her wholesome roommate—the one who always compliments her cooking, offers to redo her hair when she’s too tired, and has her reach the top shelf. The classic excuse of “Putting those muscles to good use,” you’d say in the sweetest tone. All of that, down the drain the moment her eyes locked onto the woman beneath you. Writhing in pleasure. One leg tossed over your shoulder, the other splayed somewhat behind you. Pornographic whines and pleas smacking Abby in the face the second the door creaked open.

She’d completely forgotten what she even came in there for. A shirt? Where the dustpan was?

Fuck, she had no idea.

The door slammed shut harder than she intended, guilt pouring over her as she realized she’d walked in on such an intimate moment. Hookups for you weren’t uncommon. Always the same pretty faces. One stood out, though. Tall, more on the butch side. Clearly a gym rat. Her arms weren’t nearly as impressive as Abby’s, but she hated herself for even making the comparison.

She’d even bumped into her one morning in the kitchen during breakfast, eyes narrowing at the sight of her mug in the woman’s hands.

“You don’t mind, do you?”

It felt like a taunt. Abby told herself she was being delusional, trying to shake off the bubbling irritation.

The week passed, you two still hadn’t talked about it, along with a few other things—the time she ended up zipping your shirt for you and her hand lingered on your hip even after she was finished. Even that small glimpse of your bare skin reminded her of that night. Or how you always found yourself brushing your teeth next to her in the morning, feigning that you were “just saving water.”

It all whirled in her mind, even as she exhaustedly turned her key, prying open the front door.

Fallen boots and a thrown jacket into the hall closet later, she found herself slumped onto the plush couch. Already hearing your nagging about how her neck would pay for not taking the few extra steps to her bedroom in the morning. The warm yellow light reflected on the flooring, indicating you were home, tucked away in your room.

On Friday nights, you two usually watched a few episodes of one of the many TV series you started together and vowed not to watch without the other. She hadn’t seen much of you since the walk-in, although between your opposite work schedules, that wasn’t alarming.

Her teeth caught her bottom lip, eyes flickering between your door and the TV. She wanted to come get you, act natural. She really, really did, but her thoughts snapped back to that night. How her thighs shifted uncomfortably together, the heat that pooled in her gut when her mind replayed your sounds. How the recurring face you slept with oddly resembled hers.

“Hey, Abs.” She was too deep in her own thoughts to realize you’d emerged before she could call out to you.

“Oh! Heya,” she said, followed by a small head nod.

Even now, as you pushed off the wall, you seemed at ease, completely unaffected by the thoughts that threatened to consume her own mind.

She’d managed to act semi-normal over the past painfully slow thirty minutes. The uneasy feeling caused her to blurt it out before she could stop herself.

“Sorry about the other night. Random, I know— I just, uh, had to get that out.”

“No, no, my door should’ve been locked. Got caught up in the moment and—well, I’m sure you get it.” You waved off with a laugh.

“Yeah, of course,” she answered, a little rushed.

A lie. A big lie. She had no idea. In fact, the closest thing she’d ever allowed from someone else was a few hickeys and semi-decent make-out sessions—always pulling away right before things got too handsy.

Fear wasn’t holding her back, nor was insecurity. For her, it was comfort. She was dating the past, yeah, but the companionship  was craved more than the lost clothes and complaints from neighbors during a heated moment. Although, she knew this only stayed true up until you guys grew closer. With her presence becoming like a second skin to yours, of course, loose t-shirts without a bra and underwear as pants happened. Seemingly unaware of how it sent heat to her cheeks.

But you did know. Of course, you knew. Gracefully adding to the list of teasing. Seeing if she’d crack. And tonight, she did.

It started with a joke, in Abby’s mind—the nuisance that clung to you through the weeks. A joke about if someone could do it better, then maybe you’d stop calling her. It turned into more ‘jokes,’ turned touches, turned into a sudden cup of her cheek and a crashing kiss.

This was one of those moments where you’d get lost and discuss it later. Or, at least, it was—because as quick as it came, she pulled away.

“Sorry—was that too much? I just thought—are you good?” You pulled your hands back from traveling lower than they already were.

“What—?” She blinked, snapping back. “No, I just—yes, I’m good.”

The murmur of the TV did little to ease the tension. The heat never left the room. The whispered words you’d said in her left ear bounced inside her mind. Her slipped comment about how badly she wanted you, unsure if she should’ve said it.

“Soo… you haven’t then?” You knew the answer, but confirmation in this moment was beyond needed.

“If I answer, will you laugh?” She sighed.

“Laugh? Of course not.” Your expression softened.

“I… haven’t.” The words felt heavier out loud. “It’s just, I wanted it to be special.” She turned her head back to you. “Is that silly?”

“No, dude, what? I wish I would’ve waited.” You shook your head.

She scoffed. “You’re just saying that—”

“I’m serious.” You shifted closer. “Your body is a temple and all that jazz. You should be glad you’re waiting.” You finger quoted.

You continued as Her eyes flicked over you, thoughtful. “Whoever gets to tap this”— you gestured vaguely toward her frame—“is lucky. As hell. And.. if you were serious about earlier, Abs… it’s still on the table, okay? Don’t rush anything you don’t want. It’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.”

You smirked. “Literally. I live here.” You said dramatically gesturing around the living space

She laughed shaking her head. “You’re such an idiot.”

You grinned. “Oh, fuck you. I was trying to be sentimental.”

“I know… and I appreciate it.” Abby exhaled, running a hand through her hair before reaching for you, fingers grazing your arm. “But, uh—can we circle back to the part where you were taking your shirt off?”

Your breath caught. “You sure?”

“more than sure.” She took a deep breath. “Just gentle, yeah?”

˖ . ݁˖°✧

As nice as kissing her was, your lips were slightly swollen at this rate, and you weren’t sure how much longer she planned to drag this part out. She seemed comfortable, but her hands stayed rooted at her sides—stiff as a board.

“You say you’re relaxed, but your shoulders are telling a different story,” you teased, pressing your hands to them, feeling how tense she was. “See?”

Abby huffed, exhaling sharply through her nose. “Yeah, okay. Maybe a little.”

But before she could dish out another apology. You spoke back up “Don’t apologize. You’re not doing anything wrong. But if you’re not ready, we don’t—”

“—No, I am.”

“Okay, so let’s start small.”

“Smaller than you kissing me?” she muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Shut up. Just do me a favor—take a deep breath. In and out.”

Your eyes followed the rise and fall of her chest, so close that her breath fanned against your skin. “You feeling okay enough to keep going, or are you planning to suck my lips off my face first?”

Abby huffed a quiet laugh. “Not my fault you taste good.”

“Oh? That right?” you teased. “Then tell me what you want.” She hesitated, shifting slightly under your gaze. “Don’t get shy on me now, c’mon—it’s just us.”

A beat passed, pools of blue locked onto yours. “I want you to touch me.” a little rushed, like she’d forced the words out before she could second-guess them. Then, quieter—“Please.”

“Good, that’s a start.” You nodded. “Now tell me where.”

She swallowed, jaw tightening for a second. “I-Shouldn’t I be…?” She trailed off, tilting her head to expose her neck without finishing the thought.

“Uht uht, don’t worry about me right now.” You pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse point at her neck, and her breath hitched—followed by a sharp exhale through her nose. “Oh, you liked that, huh?”

Her hands finally lifted, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she needed something to hold onto. “Yeah… do that again”

She shivered at the touch, her eyes slipping closed. Each kiss was slow, teasing, drawing out that shiver, that soft gasp of your name. Her fingers pressed into your back, nails leaving faint red lines against your skin through the thin material.

“Yeah.” She breathed out. “Just like that.”

You smiled against her skin as you traveled south, kissing along the rim of her shoulder, gently pulling her head to the side to give yourself more room. “You’re so vocal, Abs.”

She sighed, her head lolling to the side, offering herself up more. The grip on your shirt loosened as her breathing quickened just the slightest. With her head tilted, a soft mewl escaped her parted lips—a reaction to the tender kisses that made their way across her skin.

“It’s your fault,” she murmured. You giggled at her retort, hands finding the hem of her tank top, fingers tracing the fabric. You kissed over her shoulder a few more times before pulling back to look at her.

“You ready for me to take this off, or do you need more time?”

Abby chewed her bottom lip, her gaze flicking down to her tank top and then back up to your face. The flush that dusted her cheeks extended down to her neck, faint red marks from your ministrations littering her skin. She swallowed, eyes lingering on the way your fingers toyed with the fabric, before huffing out a:

“I—uh… yeah, I’m ready.”

“You sure? I’m going at your pace, no rushing needed.”

You asked for confirmation, thumbs stroking the skin of her abdomen under the fabric gently.

She inhaled sharply at the gentle touch, her mind clouded by the way your thumbs swiped across her skin. It was hard to form coherent thoughts while your touch burned with the promise of something more.

“I’m sure,” she murmured, her voice just loud enough for you to hear. “Wanna feel your hands on me.”

“Okay, lift your arms for me.”You scooted closer to her, gently lifting the hem of her tank top.

She obliged with a small nod, raising her arms in the air. The motion caused the fabric to ride up, revealing a sliver of her toned stomach. Her breath hitched as the tank top cleared her head, leaving her exposed—chest and torso bare, save for a few freckles and moles that dotted her skin like constellations.

You trailed a finger down her shoulder to her arm, keeping your gaze on her face.

“You’re so pretty, look at you.” You smiled, scanning over her torso momentarily.

“Shut up.” Even though there was no real bite behind it, she shifted slightly, trying to hide the way her chest rose and fell with her shallow breaths. Pinkish nipples pebbling as the cool air passed them.

You laughed.“Don’t be embarrassed—look, I’ll take mine off too. That better?”

She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure with little success. Seeing you strip too? Yeah, that sounded better. Her gaze raked over you, taking in every inch of exposed skin as you removed your shirt.

“Yeah,” she breathed out. “That’s better.”

Her gaze wandered shamelessly over your body, taking in the sight of your exposed shoulders, the way your bralette hugged your chest. Her gaze lingered there a moment before drifting up to your face—eyes, nose, lips. She nodded, words failing her at first as she tried to regain her composure.

You hummed in reply, trailing your hands to her collarbone, gently moving down to her breast, cupping the warm skin. “How does that feel?”

She let out a soft moan as your hands needed, the warmth of your touch. Her back arched involuntarily against your hands, trying to press herself closer.

“God. That feels…” She huffed out, struggling to find the words. “So, so good.”

˖ . ݁˖°✧

Thankfully once she was more relaxed, her thighs instinctively parting a bit as your hands continued their way up her legs. The gentle touch had her squirming gently, trying to get closer. Trimmed blonde happy trail leading to her oozing folds. arousal dripping down to her anus.

“H-hah—” abby’s eyes fluttering shut at the contact of your lips on her lower abdomen, her back sinking deeper into the couch. Her soaked through boxers somewhere lost on the floorboards. Glistening skin, slowly coming into view as you grew closer.

“Still okay?” You asked, between kisses.

Half-lidded eyes met yours, watching as you trailed lower, teasingly slow. She could only manage a nod, anticipation buzzing through her body.

“Use your words.” looking up at her through your lashes.

Her breath hitched. “Mhm… still okay.”

“Gonna start now”

A sharp exhale, fingers curling into the cushion beneath her. “God, please—” The words broke into a sucked-in breath the second your lips made contact where she needed you most. The feeling was new, almost overwhelming. Her fingers threaded themselves into your hair, tightening with each flick of your tongue.

Her muscles flexed with every breath as they grew heavier. She was wound so tight, every nerve alight, and god, if you could just stay right there—

She gasped, one hand gripping the side of the sofa. It wasn’t hard to find her clit, but she was still only partly spread out, hips shifting like she was chasing something just out of reach.

You’d glance up occasionally, feeling your own wave of heat pass through you at the sight. Her face was contorted in pleasure, her full-blown whines ringing out. Eating your roommate out after a semi-awkward encounter wasn’t on the agenda for the night, but the movie was now long forgotten.

“Please, d-don’t stop.” Her plea wasn’t louder than a whisper, eyes squeezing shut as you continued your ministrations on her sodden core.

If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.

Air wasn’t an option when her hips kept jerking up involuntarily, seeking you—your tongue, her orgasm, everything. She let herself revel in the selfish need teetering on the edge, chasing it, desperate.

Soft breaths came in ragged gasps. “Don’t stop. God, don’t stop—” The white-hot pleasure you were giving her consumed every thought. Abby—composed, polite Abby? She couldn’t think. Nope. Couldn’t form a single coherent thought except please.

She chanted it over and over until she couldn’t hold back anymore. The pressure in her gut snapped, sending a rush of euphoria crashing over her like a tidal wave. Her back arched, fingers tightening in your hair—a full-blown tug—as her climax tore through her.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, voice breaking as she rode it out.

You soothed her, voice gentle. “I got you.”

The death grip on the couch and your hair finally loosened, her body still trembling under you, breathless in the aftermath. A sheen of sweat beaded down her caved-in abdomen as she tried to catch her breath.

“Jesus Christ,” she gasped finally, dazed. Her eyes stuck on the ceiling.

And all you could think as you rubbed her thigh gently was—

If reducing a woman who could bench press you without breaking a sweat to a whimpering mess was a kink? You definitely just discovered it.

˖ . ݁˖°✧

Line dividers- strangergraphics

[moon-ttokki-x]

stylist!reader x seungmin or jeongin??? any scenario!!

hi hi~ i needed more seungmin and jeongin requests . . . been wanting to write for them so bad but i couldn't think of anything lol . anyway, here you goo~~~

₊✩‧₊˚ stylist!reader x kim seungmin ˚₊✩‧₊

pairing: stylist!reader x kim seungmin

summary: being seungmin's stylist has its perks (mostly)

genre: idol!au, stylist!au, cheeky boy, soft and fluffy, mentions of jyp (yes that needs a warning), please bring back doberman seungmin he was my fav :(

a/n: sorry idk who made this divider . . . if it was you lmk so i can tag and credit u <3

skz masterlist

you have to drag him everywhere

like by his literal collar

or whatever it is that he's wearing

bc this man does not want to walk

like

anywhere

drag him to the mirror, drag him behind a curtain to fix his outfit

it never ends

and he moves around a lot too while you're doing his makeup

more than once you've gotten chan to hold his jaw shut so you can powder it or fix up his contour

and he always stares at you while you do it

with his little meanie face

you know the one he makes where he's trying to be scary but it doesn't work on anyone so he's just like >:|

yeah that one

complains a lot about his appearance to piss you off

'i don't like the eye makeup' 'i hate this shirt'

it never ends but you're used to it so he kind of gives up after a while

when you got assigned to him, he would stare into your eyes while you were doing his makeup to try and make you fumble

bc let's be honest no one could focus if kim seungmin was staring into their soul

but you got used to that too and now you just ignore it

you always get him to tell you how he's feeling on a certain day so you can sort of match his outfit and makeup to his vibe

if he's in a good mood, lots of scarlet reds and brighter colours

if he's just neutral, then dewy pinks and purples

and if he's having a bad day, lots of metallic silver and black

of course his appearance still has to match the other members' vibes

but you always try to make it a little more special

seungmin would never admit it but he appreciates that so much

most of your job is just looking for him to be honest

like man literally disappears and gets distracted by the tiniest things

there's a bird outside? gone

hyunjin has his back turned and is therefore vulnerable to attack? gone

there's no reason for him to go anywhere?

gone

you've debated putting a tracker in his outfit like a literal dog but you decided against it because it's like playing hide and seek

which is kinda fun

usually he's busy doing something random or looking out the window

or pissing his members off

if worst comes to worst and you can't find him, you just threaten to call chan and he materialises out of thin air

which is kinda funny

and when he won't stay still to let you fix his outfit, you threaten to dress him like jyp

that always works lmao

he just goes absolutely rigid and his eyes go all wide

'please don't'

and you'll just fix his collar or his boots or whatever and off he goes again

multiple times you've told him to put accessories on before he goes on stage

but he always forgets

you've had to drag him backstage countless times before the group went on to perform bc he's forgotten to do what you said

you'll have super steady and nimble hands after a while bc trying to clip a chain necklace on a hyped-up puppy boy is one of the hardest things

like ever

he's just raring to go lol

always runs up to you after performing all sweaty and excited

'did you see me? when i did that move'

or something along those lines

he truly is so soft and sweet but he'll never admit it

and you'll nod and he's have the biggest shiniest prettiest boy smile on his face

stop i'm sad

most of the time he sweats all of his makeup off

and then sheepishly bows to you and apologises for ruining all your hard work

but you shake your head and tell him with a smile that it's fine

and it is, really

he looks hotter when he's all sweaty

huh? what

i didn't say anything

yes i did

after he's warmed up to you

and it takes a while, i'm gonna be completely honest

he refuses to let anyone else do his hair, makeup, or outfit

he just wants you

because you always make sure he can dance properly in his outfit, and that his hair isn't in his eyes, or that he likes his makeup

you would never make him wear anything that makes him uncomfortable either

you're always asking for his input on certain outfit ideas and he tells you honestly what he thinks

and you just take his feedback and make outfits for him that he'll be comfortable in

which makes him swoon for you

again, he would never say anything to you about how he's starting to feel

maybe one day, he thinks he might be able to

until then, he'll settle for looking at your pretty face while you do your thing <3

a/n: yomg i wanna be a skz stylist so baddd (seungmin if ur reading this one chance pls)

ttokki's taglist: @emilywhyyy @galaxy4489 @hyuneskkami @justsomekpopstuff @wavetohannie @strayingawayy @its-stayville-forever @batty-barty-crouchjr @wickedbutlovely @headfirstfortoro @lov3yv4mps @possum-playground @bear8585

send a dm, comment under the taglist post, or send an ask to be added !

[justagirlswrld]

AITA FOR GOING THROUGH MY BOYFRIENDS PHONE?

a/n- i’m a mark grayson groupie 😥☝🏽. first attempt at smut, hope yall enjoy.

warnings: sorry for errors it’s 1 am. unprotected p in v. things that happen in sex happen in this. feed back welcome :).

You felt insane as you laid under your thick comforter and pretended to be asleep. It was going on 1 am and you initially had been tired from beating up criminals all day, now your mind raced too much to even think about sleep.

You focused on keeping your breathing shallow and your body relaxed when the bathroom door swung open and you assumed Rex walked in. Your suspicions were confirmed when he began singing a low tune, trying not to wake you, you guessed.

When the bed finally dips from Rex’s weight you focus on keeping your voice from hitching. He slings an arm around your waist above the covers then falls asleep on his stomach. You stay in your original position with your arms folded beneath your head for what feels like forever.

You gingerly begin to sit up when you hear Rex’s light snores. You turn towards him as gently as possible. Your eyes search his bedside, only guided by the moonlight as you look for what’s keeping you up at night: Rex’s phone.

You and Rex had been dating since meeting one faithful day a year ago. The Guardians of the globe were getting their ass handed to them before you stepped in. You hadn’t thought much of him the first time you saw him in his orange suit but things changed majorly when he got undressed.

You became fast friends with Eve even though she dated Rex before. “Our experiences may be different but the Rex I knew was a cheating asshole. Rex doesn’t know how to have just one.”, Eve says to you one calm day over lunch. You waited for her to start smiling or laughing or for a last minute just kidding but neither came. Her words were keeping you up at night so you had to know.

You felt a little twinge of guilt because you weren’t usually this invasive. You knew you’d hate it if someone did this to you but…you couldn’t shake the little devil on your shoulder telling you to look through it.

You finally spot Rex’s cracked phone in the darkness, poking out from under your white pillow. You slyly reach over his still frame and very slowly pull the phone from under the pillow.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you hold the phone in your hand, It feels like that one time you had to fly a ticking bomb into space.

You type in the password you discovered by looking over his shoulder and watching him pin in earlier in the day. Rex will be so distracted by his phone you could stab him in the back and he wouldn’t notice, so it wasn’t surprising you were able to peak over his shoulder and get the information you needed.

When the phone unlocks you swear the devil on your shoulder is jumping around in happiness. It’s like you can whispers of gooo throoouuggghhh hisss textsss.

So, you do. Making sure to keep an eye on Rex’s slumbering body.

You let out a shaky sigh as you finish going through his messages , nothing incriminating there.

You begin switching to his photos, thinking that maybe you were overreacting. Until your eyes are looking at a picture of a girls fat ass. Your eyes bulge, you swear they almost pop out the socket as you swipe through the photo library.

It seems like the photos of the girls are endless. Ass, boobs, even girls spreading open their- you throw the phone on the bed as tears well in your eyes. You throw the covers back and stomp over to your closet not caring how much noise you make. “Babe, can you keep it down.”, Rex’s raspy voice says as you pull on your sweats, “you’re sniffling sorta loud.”

The covers rustle as you slip on your uggs and you hear Rex let out a tiny “oh,shit”. He’s scrambling to get out of the bed as your walking to your bed room door, “Babe, it’s not even like that-it doesn’t even count as cheating because it’s just pictures and…a little bit of texting.”

You turn to look at Rex down your nose as he keeps digging his hole, “Y/N, if you wouldn’t have looked in my phone it wouldn’t of mattered- it’s like initiation to be my girlfri-“. You groan cutting him off, “Be gone when I get back.”

You give Rex a look that could kill before walking out the door and slamming it behind you. As soon as you’re out the lobby of the apartment complex you take to the skies, going the only place you can think of in your time of crisis.

You knock on Mark’s bay window hoping he’s not sleeping. You float in the night air for a moment until Mark’s head is poking through the window with that goofy smile on his handsome face. “You know you can use the front door?”, He pushes the window open and you easily glide through it, dropping on his couch.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting.” You’re only saying it to be polite, you notice the knocked over cups of Ramen and the half drunk gallons of Mountain Dew on the coffee table. Mark seems to notice too as a blush begins to bloom on his fair cheeks. He zooms over and grabs the trash from the table and throws it in the bin, he’s back over to you in a second.

“No-I was just-“, Mark’s words are cut off by the gunfire coming from the video game on the TV. You watch as it replays Mark’s solitary character being shot then tea bagged over and over until he exits out the game with the controller.

“Did I get you killed? i’m sorry.”, Mark sits beside you on the upscale couch, you wonder if his mom picked out his furniture for his apartment. “It’s cool. I sucked anyway…”, he trails off, slender fingers tracing patterns on the couch before looking up at you with big, brown eyes. “What are you doing here at two in the morning, anyway?”

You slap your hand against your head, “I completely forgot about the time-,” You contemplate telling Mark about happened with Rex but you decide against it. “I couldn’t sleep and figured you’d be up.” You look at him through thick lashes, “I hope that’s okay.”

“Ye-yeah, it’s fine. You wanna watch a movie or somethin’ ?”

The movie ends up being nothing but background noise as Mark lays between your thighs, feet almost hanging off the couch. He’s wearing nothing but loose, green basketball shorts so you can feel his hard dick through your thin sweats.

You mewl when his warm, mouth begins sucking on your neck. He switches from licking to sucking around your throat as you rub your fingers through his thick, black hair. His large hands begin to sneak up your shirt before twisting in the material instead, your hands doing the same to the hem of his shorts. Mark stops his ministrations and lays his face in the crook of your neck as he breathes heavily.

“Everything okay?”, You ask breathlessly, fingers scratching along his scalp. “What about Rex?”, his breath on your neck sends shivers down your spine. “We broke up.”, Mark looks up at you, his smile returning. “That’s why you came to see me.”

You bite your lip coyly, wrapping your arms around Marks waist so his hips are flush against yours. You begin to grind slowly against his still hard cock. It doesn’t do much but the feeling is enough to bring a warmth to your skin. “Is that a problem?”

He’s hovering over you now, using both hands as support. You watch the muscles in his biceps ripple as he begins to grind back into your clothed center. “I don’t have a condom…but Viltrumite’s can’t contact human diseases.” He moves down to his forearms, his breath warm on your face.

“I’m good too and me and Rex haven’t had sex for months.” Mark takes this as permission to stop his hips and you almost whine at the loss. He kisses you hard instead, this lasts for a moment as his hands roam your stomach, your waist and over your breasts.

Mark sneaks his nimble fingers into your bra. He rolls one hardened bud between his pointer finger and thumb, eliciting light moans from your pretty lips. He cups your other breast in his large hand, massaging the fat in a relaxing way.

In record time you’re sitting upright with Mark kneeling in between your legs. He pulls you to the edge of the couch and pulls your underwear and sweats down in one motion. He groans when he gets a glimpse of the moisture between your thighs, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he parts your legs.

“This okay?”, You stutter out a yes and without taking his eyes off you Mark licks a tentative stripe up your folds. You whine as he soaks his fingers with the wetness collecting between your lips. Once his fingers are to his liking he pushes both long digits into your flaming center. Mark is looking for, then slowly swirling your clit once he finds it. He twists his fingers in and out of you, the sound of your wetness joins the voices on the TV.

You grip the arm of the sofa as his rhythm turns fast and rough, eyes snapping closed in bliss. Your hips buck when he replaces the finger on your clit with his tongue, you toss your head back and pull his hair with your weak hands. You bite your lip as he watches you watch him from between your thighs.

Mark removes his mouth from your throbbing cunt for a moment, “Let me hear you baby…you’re making me so hard.” You can’t help but to moan at his words. Mark’s mouth returns and continues, fingers brutal.

His fingers are knuckles deep in your spasming cunt and that band in your stomach is ready to snap when Mark pulls his fingers from you and stuffs them in his mouth. Moaning around his own fingers like they were dipped in honey.

“Maark”, You whine and he shushes you while rising to his knees. Mark pulls you farther down the couch so you’re slumping. He pulls his shorts down his hips and his dick springs free. The sight makes your toes curl.

He’s a perfect specimen.

You lick your lips to stop your mouth from watering at his long, thick cock.

Mark runs his pink tip back and forth at your weeping entrance, “Fuuuck, you’re so wet.” He slowly pushes into you. Mark’s hands are against the back of your thighs for support, your legs folded. There’s a heavenly stretch as he bottoms out.

You two stay that way for a moment, Mark getting used to the feel of your gummy walls squeezing around him. You’re biting your bottom lip to keep from moaning and Mark kisses you rough and wet, “I told you I want to hear you.” He pulls out partly before sliding back deep inside you. He creates a pace that has your eyes rolling back and your mouth hanging open.

Mark curses and moans as he watches himself disappear between your leaking folds. The movie ended long ago, the sound of you and Mark’s heavy breathing and the squelching of where your sexes met echoed in his apartment.

He closes your legs now, angling his hips where he can push up into your cunt. His index finding your clit again.

After a few deep strokes the band in your stomach snaps and your toes curl. You whimper Marks name as he fucks you through your orgasm. He babbles on about you being ‘so pretty’ and how ‘your pussys so tight’. His hands move from your trembling thighs and ghost over your breasts and neck to hold your chin as he kisses you.

You squeeze around Mark and to his surprise that has his him coming deep inside you while he moans into your mouth. You think you might come again from the husky sound alone

His hips stutter and you rub his back with sweaty hands as he pulls out of you.

Mark lays with his head in your neck for a moment as you two try to catch your breath. Mark unexpectedly nips your ear causing you to laugh and push him off you before sitting up, “I should come here more often.”, You say with a smirk.

[thepitlanepress]

THE HEART WANTS WHAT THE HEAD HATES –

↳ lando norris + ex!gf!reader

⌗ :: masterlist

⌗ :: a/n: i've had this one sentence running around in my head and decided to write an entire fic off of it so enjoy! (also the last part of the smau will be out soon!!)

the tension between you and your alarm clock right now is something the poets could write about.

it was set to go off at six am and you accordingly had woken up at five-fifty-eight.

so the last thirty seconds of your life has been filled with unimaginable tension. who will cave first, you or the alarm clock? the alarm clock obviously, you were happily content to sleep through it - which wasn't going to go down well, seeing as you'd be late for work.

but maybe that would be good too, so you wouldn't have to see him.

you wouldn't have to look at his stupid face or his hair or his smile as he walked through the halls of the mclaren hq, blissfully unaware of you and your inner turmoil.

you hadn't seen lando norris in person in two years, which is surprising seeing as you both worked for mclaren.

you hadn't seen him ever since you walked out of his apartment and left your life and heart in tatters as you did so. since the night he watched you leave, when he didn't stop you, when he let you walk out of his life, leaving him in pieces.

you had thrown yourself into work, making your way around the globe for races but putting yourself in every situation where lando wasn't, ignoring your stupid heart, and living with your head. if you had listened to your heart, you would still be fighting that day.

wishing he called.

wishing he stopped you.

wishing you hadn't walked out.

wishing you understood what you had done.

but you're not, because you've moved on.

you had moved on.

lando had run away from the situation as much as you had, not showing up to hq unless absolutely necessary and if he did always taking the long route, same in the garages. at that point in your lives he had memorised your schedule as much as his own and used that knowledge to avoid you at all costs.

you couldn't blame him though, it was your fault.

he wanted to tell the world you were together and you didn't, your solution? don't be together. in retrospect it was the worst decision you'd ever made but you like to pretend it wasn't and focus on moving on.

clearly you did well... adjacent. you didn't want to burst into tears whenever you saw him anymore but you also couldn't shove down the burn that wraps around your heart every time you think of him.

today's terrible moment, as you liked to call any interaction you couldn't avoid with lando, was when you stepped into the boardroom and crashed into a wall.

okay it wasn't a wall. it was oscar, who also stumbled and tripped over the leg of a nearby chair causing an array of limbs to hit faces and a shit tonne of paper work strewn across the room.

of course it ended with you on the floor next to oscar groaning and wincing as you sit up.

"i am so sorry," you say turning to the driver still on the floor.

"don't worry about it, it was only an accident," he reassures and accepts zak's outstretched hand getting up. that only brings your attention to the hand in front of your face-

lando's.

you look up at him for a moment noticing the concerned look on his face that is quickly wiped with humour. "you alright?"

quickly bracing yourself for his touch, you take his hand and get off the floor, offering him a quick "thank you," before turning around and collecting the paper everywhere.

you try not to think of the tingle in your hand and how that was the first time in two years you had talked or touched, instead worrying about how much paper you need to pick up.

the paper thats what you think of.

not the hurtful - but true - words lando said that night.

not the awful - and wrong - things you said.

not how you hurt him.

the paper.

not how you wished you could take it back.

the paper.

"y/n."

"shut up lando."

the paper.

"don't go please, we can work this out."

"how? how can we?"

the paper

'i'll wait, i'll wait, i'll-"

"i won't. you can go back to your fuckboy life without me."

the paper.

"please, y/n."

"no."

the paper.

"you're just scared. you're acting like a pathetic child because you're scared."

"i'm brave enough to walk away right now."

"you dont have to though, you're taking the easy way out. you're acting like a child. grow up."

the paper.

tears burn in your eyes, threatening to overflow and yet you keep a stoic face clearing your throat and pasting a bright smile on your face, turning around and cracking a joke about how you can never seem to stay on your feet.

you don't talk to lando again in the meeting, eyes skimming over him and focusing mostly on oscar and zak and the discussions going around the boardroom.

you feel his eyes on you though. you feel his stare and you hate it. you hate it because you want it on you more.

after the meeting you leave the room like your ass is on fire getting out of the building and heading home before any one decides to look at your face and see that you're about to cry.

"wait, y/n."

you stop still on the edge of the road refusing to turn around and acknowledge the voice. you've already stopped so thats pointless, he knows you've heard him.

"wait," you can hear him approach, his footsteps thudding on the ground. "hey.," he says slightly out of breath, "are you okay?"

sighing you turn around to face him. "i'm fine," you smile, the tears threaten to start falling again. "really, i fall down all the time, you remember-" you cut off and look up sighing again.

"i wasn't asking about that," lando says his eyes trying to search for yours. "you looked like you're about to cry in there. i was asking if you were okay."

and you're stupid heart is done.

"i'm fine lando."

"are you sure?"

"i'm fine."

the same fine you were when less than a week after you walked out, lando was pictured with a girl hanging off his arm. the same fine you were when he was rumoured to be dating a supermodel a week after that.

the same fine you've been for the last two years.

the supermodel rumours were false, they were disproved when she came out and hard launched her boyfriend. lando on the other hand has been in his - as the fans call it - "bachelor era" since then, girls after girls, the rumours never ended.

"you're not fine, y/n."

"i've been fine for the last two years without you lando, i dont need your help now."

with that you turn and walk away, walk away just like you did two years ago, getting in your car and sitting in the silence, basking in your own personal torment. its your own pain, your own hurt and its your own fault. you can't blame anyone other than yourself.

so you're stuck.

you're heart breaks every time you walk away from lando but your head clears, the inner turmoil eases for a moment.

your head and your heart.

you're over it.

you're over it.

you're over him.

right?

[lulunothulu]

“Valentine’s Day”

Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Description: Hangman hates Valentine’s Day almost as much as you both hate one another… or do you?

“I hate Valentine’s Day,” Hangman says, taking a swig of his beer and looking around The Hard Deck.

“Of course you do,” you respond. “You’re a fuckboy who’s never been in love.”

Coyote snorts a laugh and Phoenix high fives you with a grin. Next to Phoenix, Rooster looks between you and Hangman—eyebrows raised.

It’d been no secret that the two of you hated one another. Hangman is the perfect example of a cockiness. You could’ve sworn he liked pissing you off as much as he does in a daily. Getting under his skin was almost a sport to you. The only time you ever acted remotely sweet toward him, was when you were: 1. Drunk or 2. Ovulating.

You just so happened to be on your way to getting drunk tonight.

“Have you been in love, Bullseye?” Hangman asks, leaning forward and into your space. “Or are you saving a spot for me in that black heart of yours?”

You smile up at him, clenching your jaw so tightly, it hurts. “I’m not drunk enough to answer that.”

You push him back, palm firmly on his chest, and begin walking away—toward the bar. Only, Hangman follows behind.

“Mind if I pay for it?” He asks from your side.

“Why?” You’re suspicious and rightfully so. Hangman is not the type just offer to buy anyone a drink, least of all you.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he states. “Let me be a gentleman.”

“Okay? You’re not my valentine.” You’ve both just reached the bar but you only have eyes on him. He froze his brows and tightens his lips before opening it to say something but Penny interrupts him—pulling your gaze from him.

“Another beer?” She asks you.

“Yes,” you tell her. Then, facing him again, add, “Hangman here said he’d put it on his tab.”

You glance at him but he’s still watching you and he looks…jealous? His suntanned skin looks like it’s steaming under the lights of the bar. His green eyes are the darkest shade you’d ever seen them. And his jaw? Clenched beyond comprehension.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “It’s on me.”

Penny nods and flashes you a look before turning to retrieve the beers.

“You are okay?” You ask Hangman when she’s gone.

“Who’s your valentine?” He asks.

“Who said I had one?”

“You implied that you did.” You almost choke out a laugh, but stop when you see how deadly serious he is.

“What are we in elementary school? Are you being for real right now?” You ask. “You don’t even like me.”

He steps closer to you, the faint warmth of his hand on the bar next to your hip the only indication of how close he is. He smells clean, with a hint of cologne—not too strong or overpowering. You have to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact with him, and almost gasp at how remarkably handsome he is up close.

You’d known he’d been handsome, hell everyone knows. But standing in front of him now, under these moody lights, you can see why women fall for him.

“Do you have a valentine?” he asks.

“And if I do?” You ask. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

You have no idea where that flirtiness came from, but it makes him smile. He takes another step closer to you, your hips conjoined at different heights.

“Then,” he starts. He’s so close to you, he doesn’t have to shout over the loud music and chatter. “I’d say to tell him that you have a new valentine.”

“And what? That would be you?”

He takes a breath, almost realizing what he’s about to say. His eyes glanced to the right before falling back onto yours. There’s something so sincere and commanding about the way that he looks down at you, that you can’t help, but believe what he says next. 

“Yes.”

“But you hate me,” you tell him.

“No, I don’t.”

“—And I hate you.”

He smirks down at you, leaning his head to your ear before whispering, “No, you don’t.”

His breath on the shell of your ear, makes you shiver and gasp softly. The hand closest to the bar, fully encapsules your hip, the other matching its movement. You can hear him inhale to say something else, but Penny interrupts the moment.

“Your beers,” she says. You turn away from Hangman, feeling a blush creep onto your cheeks and take the beer.

“Thank you,” you reply.

You begin to walk away when you feel Hangman’s hand wrap around your wrist. You turn to face him and his eyes are glossy. Not in a drunk way, but something different. You know something shifted after that small moment you had with him.

And you definitely know deep down you liked it.

You rip your arm out of his hand and begin to walk toward your friends, trying to forget the way his eyes lingered on you and how much you wanted to kiss him.

This is insane. I can’t be feeling this way, not after years of hating him.

But now come to think of it, why did you hate him? Is it because he’s the only person who knows you inside and out? Is it because he’s the only other person who can ever push you and your buttons? Or maybe it’s the way that his cocky grin almost always falls on you after you correct something he’s done.

There was no fucking way that you secretly liked him…right?

Back with your friends, Phoenix nudges you softly and pulls you to another pool table.

“What was that all about?” She asks, pointing her chin at Hangman.

“I honestly don’t know,” you reply. “He wanted to know if I had a valentine. Like if we’re in elementary school or something.”

Phoenix’s eyes widen, her mouth dropping open. “No fucking way. He actually asked you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d been talking to Bradshaw, and asking him how likely his chances would be if he asked you to be his valentine,” she explains. “Bradley and I were confused because we thought you two hated each other. But the look on Bagman’s face told us otherwise.”

“Okay?”

“Y/N,” she starts, “I think he was serious. He wants you to be his valentine, possibly more.”

You stare at her with wide eyes before cracking a smile and beginning to laugh. You laughed so hard you double over holding your stomach, tears streaming down the corners of your eyes and onto your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, wiping your tears away. “Seresin does not like me.”

“I don’t know,” she starts. “Think about it. Does he bother anyone else as much as he does you?”

“Well,” you start.

Now that you thought about it, you’re the only other person he seems to annoy the most, and on purpose for that matter. Sure, he and Rooster got into little arguments every once in a while. But he’s never gone out of his way to annoy or tease anyone else like he has with you. Never mind the subtle flirting.

“Oh my god,” you finally say. “He likes me.”

“He likes you.”

“What do I do?” You ask.

“Well, do you like him back?” Phoenix lifts a brow, a small smirk beginning to form on her lips.

“I don’t know.” And it’s true, you didn’t know. “Does it feel nice to know that someone might like me? Sure. And it’s not like he’s ever done anything remotely bad to me. I just thought that he was being cocky and a show boat because that’s how he is.”

“Shit, what if he was acting like that around you because he thought that was a way to approach you?”

You turn your body fully to face her and lean on the pool table. “You think he was doing that ‘if a boy is mean to you, he likes you’ thing they told us in elementary school?”

“I think he was trying to do what always works for him.”

“What do I do?” You ask.

“Go talk to him,” she tells you. “See what’s going on in that big ass head of his.”

You chuckle at that and turn your head toward where the guys are. Hangman is already looking at you, his lips corked up to the side in a cheeky smile.

You nod your head to the right, silently telling him to follow you to the back of the bar. When he nods in confirmation, you turn to Phoenix and smile.

“I’ll be right back.”

You make your way to the doors, pushing them open and stepping out into the warm beach air. You cross the porch and lean onto the wooden railing, waiting for Hangman to appear.

At the sound of the door opening and closing behind you, you look over your shoulder. Hangman stands there, hands in his pockets and a shy smile on his face.

You’ve never seen him look shy before.

His dimples are out, his smile tentative, and he’s blushing. Blushing.

“Hi,” you greet.

“Hi,” he responds.

You both stand in awkward silence before you sigh, placing you hands on your hips. The motion makes his eyes gleam in anticipation, and you realize he might like this a lot more than you thought.

“I’m just gonna go out and say it,” you huff. “Do you like me?”

Hangman’s caught off guard. His green eyes widen, cheeks reddening, and smile faltering before regaining its composure.

“Answer truthfully,” you add when he opens his mouth. “I don’t want a cocky remark.”

“Yes.”

You’re both stunned. Speechlessness was something Hangman has never seemed to experience, and you could tell by the shocked look on his face.

“Is that why you’re always teasing me?” You ask.

“I try not to,” he starts. “I just don’t know how to approach you.”

The candor in his words and tone makes you step closer to him. Your arms drop to your sides before you take the three steps it takes to come face-to-face with him.

Well, toe-to-toe since you’re a good head shorter than he is.

“You wanna know what would’ve gotten my attention,” you snap your fingers, “that quickly?”

“What?” He swallows, his throat bobbing. He licks his lips, a small smile beginning to form on his lips.

“Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Asks me to be your valentine,” you shrug. He opens his mouth but you raise your hand to stop him. “And do it nicely.”

Hangman smiles slowly, biting his bottom lips before shaking his head in astonishment.

“Bullseye,” he starts. “Will you be my valentine?”

“See, was that so hard?” You tease. “And yes, I’ll be your valentine.”

“That’s all it takes?” He asks, tentatively placing is hands on your hips again, just like he did at the bar.

“That’s all it takes.”

“What should I do if it’s not Valentine’s Day?” He asks.

“Be upfront and ask me out,” you shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I’ll keep that in mind for tomorrow,” he smiles. “Now, how would I ask to kiss you tonight?”

“Don’t ask,” you respond.

So he doesn’t.

Imma leave y’all hanging bc I have a Rooster fic coming later today 🤪 (also yes, this was supposed to be posted on Valentine’s Day. I just could not bring myself to do it for some reason.)

[darkmatilda]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢'𝐦 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it's time to return the second favor. and for that reason, spencer finds himself invited by you...on a date?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist!female reader, fake date at the bar, reader's ex makes an appearance, kinda inspired by blank space taylor swift

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.5 k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

[unknown number] wake up pretty boy

[unknown number] time to pay your debt

Spencer, sitting on his bed with a book resting on his lap, stared at the message for a moment, his brows slightly furrowed. Evening, the warm glow of his lamp making it easy to read. He had the next day off, no real plans, just a quiet night ahead. The sudden chime of his phone had caught him off guard.

For a split second, he was surprised—but he didn’t have to think too hard to guess who the sender was.

He typed out how did you get my number, then deleted it before hitting send. Something else was far more interesting. And a little concerning. That second message. Pay your debt. She remembered about that now, at this hour?

Before he could ask, another text came in.

[unknown number] taking you on a date

[unknown number] dress nice

For a moment, deeply confused, he just stared at his phone, already sensing somewhere deep inside that this was going to be a really weird night.

[spencer] What do you mean by ‘date’?

A minute or two passed. He didn’t put his phone down. Didn’t even look away from the screen.

[unknown number] the one who asks questions loses his way

His fingers moved automatically.

[spencer] That’s not how the saying goes

✓ Seen 10:12 pm

Reid sighed. He had absolutely no plans to go out that evening, and he wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he hadn’t been given any details about this so-called date. Unless she was joking? There was something off about this—some kind of trick, a twist he hadn’t figured out yet.

The only thing stopping him from ignoring her messages—something he very much wanted to do—was the simple fact that he did owe her. Technically, twice. Though he had managed to repay one of those debts in an easy way, requiring almost no effort on his part.

He had a feeling this second one wouldn’t be nearly as simple.

And now he found himself wondering what exactly she meant by dress nicely.

*

"Wait, one more time. We’re going there as her… what?"

"Mental support," she said, moving forward with that usual quick stride of hers, the sharp tapping of her heels almost aggressive. Whether unconsciously or fully aware but not caring, she got a few steps ahead of him, speaking without turning back. Her voice hung in the night, street air.

Spencer hated when she did that. It made him feel like a dog on a leash. He sped up to match her pace.

"Well, I heard you," he scoffed. "Doesn’t mean I get what you mean. And maybe you should clue me in if I’m supposed to be part of…whatever this is” 

She stopped with a sigh so heavy it was as if giving him any details about something he was supposed to be part of was beyond her patience and strength. Hands tucked into the pockets of his blazer, he gave her a questioning look as she finally turned to face him.

His gaze dropped—quick, casual. Or at least, that’s how he thought it looked. Even at night, under the less-than-ideal glow of the streetlights, he could register how her outfit hugged her figure, emphasizing every curve.

At work, she dressed more formally. With her looks, that face, and the unshakable confidence she carried, she could probably make a burlap sack look like a designer gown. But Spencer had noticed something about the way she dressed for nights like this. Or rather, the way she became something else entirely. Like she belonged to the night, completely in her element.

Quick, casual glance—yeah, right.

To make the situation even more embarrassing, she snapped her fingers in front of his face, demanding his attention.

"Alright, listen up," she started, shifting her weight onto one hip. "I’m explaining this one last time. My friend, Liv—you might know her from my team…"

"Olivia, you mean," He said her full name in confirmation, recognizing the woman he had indeed seen before.

"Do you really have to correct me on how I call my own friends? Anyway, fine. Olivia has a date tonight with some guy she met online. The thing is, Olivia is a hopeless romantic who’s waiting for the love of her life to magically show up at her door, but she’s also buried in work and can’t even remember the last time she went on a date. Plus, she’s a little worried about ending up with some psycho. You know what I mean."

"All too well," he nodded, recalling all the missing persons cases that had started exactly like this—an online match gone wrong.

“Exactly. So Olivia asked me to come along. You know, for physical backup if anything goes sideways. And mental backup. Just to make her feel safer."

Well, he didn’t want to praise her out loud, but it was…nice of her. Okay, nice wasn’t the perfect word—honestly, the fact that she even had to do something like this was a little bitter at its core—but it didn’t change the fact that she was being a good friend.

He watched her for a moment, not even realizing he had gone quiet. He realized he’d never actually seen her interact with her people, her team, but he had somehow assumed their dynamic was more… detached. Not that she genuinely considered them her friends and actually cared.

"Finally caught up, genius?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Spencer snapped out of it. Okay, so maybe she cared about her friends—but she was still seriously unbearable.

"I get it. Except for one thing," he replied, matching her slightly rude tone, one that made him sound almost offended. She raised a brow, nodded as if giving him permission to continue, and started walking again—this time at a slower pace.

Actually, they were moving at almost the same rhythm now, nearly side by side.

"Why do you need me for this?"

Their eyes met, but this time, she didn’t look like she was about to mock him. In fact, the corners of her lips lifted slightly, as if she thought that was a very good question.

"Because tonight, pretty boy, I plan to stay completely on the sidelines," she explained. "Not interfering with my friend or her date in any way. Being completely invisible."

"Invisible?" he repeated, raising his eyebrows.

It wasn’t even just about what she was wearing. Drawing attention was simply an unavoidable part of her presence. She nodded in confirmation.

"Exactly. But I figured that to keep away all the desperate guys trying to get my number, all I need to do is bring one with me," she looked like she was trying not to laugh. "You’re gonna be my scarecrow."

Spencer's mouth fell slightly open, completely at a loss for words.

"You…you are just… just…"

"Amazing, smart, beautiful, wonderful…"

"Shameless. That’s the word"

For a moment, she didn’t respond, her expression filled with a strange kind of complacency.

"Love when you compliment me," she said in an overly sweet tone.

"That wasn’t—" he started, but then cut himself off, realizing there was probably no point in arguing with her. He sighed.

"You’re welcome."

*

Despite the late hour, the bar wasn’t overcrowded. Sure, there were plenty of people inside, but most were engaged in quiet conversations over their drinks. Spencer noticed quite a few couples. As if they were one of them, they found a secluded spot in the corner, right next to a small pool table made of dark wood with a striking green surface.

"That’s them," the woman discreetly motioned with her head toward the pair at the bar— a cascade of blonde curls and the man accompanying her. She fixed them with an assessing gaze, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Hm. He looks like his pictures. I’ll take that as the first good sign."

"She shows you pictures of her dates?"

"Every single time. We rate them on a scale from one to ten."

Spencer wasn’t surprised in the slightest. His gaze briefly shifted in their direction, though he made sure not to stare, not wanting to make them look weird. The pair seemed to be talking a little shyly—it was obvious this was their first meeting.

“So,” he started. “Is this what we’re going to do all night? Just stand here?”

“Basically, yeah. I mean, we don’t have to just stand around like a couple of creeps, staring at them. We can enjoy our date. Just because it’s fake doesn’t mean it can’t be fun,” she said, slowly circling the pool table until they were on opposite sides.

She slipped off her outer layer, and Spencer couldn’t help but notice that her outfit underneath did anything but help her stay invisible. Reaching for a pool cue, she nodded at him.

“What are you waiting for?”

“You want to play?”

“No, I want to duel you with the cues,” she scoffed. “I’m a professional, you know.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow slightly as he grabbed a cue of his own.

"Professional?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mhm. World championships and all that. But that was a while ago. Then came the injury, and I had to say goodbye to my career. After that, I had no idea what to do with myself, so I became a chemist," she said, with a casual shrug.

He chuckled at the made-up story, setting the pool balls up into a perfect triangle at the center of the table. Once they were ready, he gestured for her to go ahead.

She refused with an exaggerated, almost overly generous smile. "Oh, no. Amateurs go first."

He held back a roll of his eyes, leaning over the table. The balls scattered across the surface, and from that point on, he'd play with the cue ball. It was her turn now, and Spencer watched her movements closely.

"I didn't know your story before the FBI job was so fascinating," he remarked, trying to throw her off a little.

They hadn't made any bet, but there was a subtle competitiveness in him now.

She shrugged.

"I don't think it's fascinating. More tragic. Lost dreams."

"Right, sorry for my disregard. What kind of injury was it?"

She paused for a moment, focusing on her next shot. One of the balls sank smoothly into a pocket, and a small smile played on her lips.

"Shoulder," she replied casually. "Sometimes it still acts up. I have to go for regular massages."

"Poor thing," he said, his tone teasing.

Her gaze briefly scanned the entire bar, landing once again on her friend. Nothing seemed to bother her, so she returned to the game.

"We're playing just for fun? Don't you think that's a bit boring?"

"Sorry, I don’t want to bet with you again. Paying off debts with you is never easy."

"Come on. You’re having fun with me” 

"You think so?"

“No. I know it."

She potted another ball, gaining the upper hand. Spencer puffed his lips, deciding to focus more on the game. They both did, though it didn't stop them from continuously exchanging similar comments, remarks, and jabs. And despite the countless huffs and eye rolls, he had to admit, he was really having fun. With her.

And even more fun when he realized he was close to winning.

With a certain satisfaction, he noticed she was watching his moves with more attention, her eyes slightly narrowed with cool competition. As he leaned over the table again, she moved toward him lightly, almost as if tiptoeing. She passed by almost unnoticed. In fact, he only realized how close she was when her breath softly grazed the inside of his ear as she spoke in the voice of a social commentator.

"Ladies and gentlemen, to the surprise of the entire audience, amateur Spencer Reid has managed to take the lead," her whisper was laced with feigned suspense. Of course, he refrained from moving, making sure not to make a mistake from distraction. "Will he manage to win today's tournament?"

He straightened up with a sigh, which made her step back slightly. He gave her a look full of mock pity, and she responded by slowly blinking her eyes, imitating the gaze of an innocent angel.

"I'm pretty sure this counts as sabotage," he remarked.

She raised both hands in the air, as if defending herself against the accusation.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything," she denied, a subtle spark in her eye. She gave a quick nod toward the table. "Come on, finish it."

Spencer, uncertain and sensing she was up to something, tried to refocus. When he found the perfect angle and was about to hit the white ball, something nudged his elbow, causing it to roll in the completely wrong direction.

He directed a look at her, mouth open in indignation.

"This is... this is cheating, pure cheating..."

"No idea what you're talking about!" she shot back. She pretended to be serious, though in an incredibly clumsy way. Her lips kept trembling, trying to form a smile, and she struggled to suppress it. "I didn't do anything. Your hand must have slipped..."

At the sight of the expression on his face, she couldn't hold back anymore and burst into laughter. It mixed with the sound of his incessantly muttered, mildly irritated comments under his breath, which absolutely didn't reach her conscience. In fact, it seemed to only make her feel more smug. Spencer finally gave in, letting out a sigh.

"I demand a fair rematch."

With her arms crossed over her chest, she raised an eyebrow.

"Go ahead, then," she said, grabbing the cue stick again.

Her friend and her date were still deep in conversation, sitting much closer than before, with small smiles on their faces. They didn't seem like they were in any hurry to end the evening. A few new people had arrived at the bar, making it louder, but Spencer didn't even notice. He was completely focused on this small, occupied space between them where they were slowly giving in to the growing rivalry, even though nothing had been wagered. It was probably just about pride.

His opponent was doing everything in her power to make his game harder. He'd abandoned all pretenses of fairness and stood right beside her whenever she leaned over the pool table. He didn't even intend to nudge her—but when he was close, she assumed he would and became incredibly cautious, often elbowing him in the ribs to make space for herself to focus. Despite all of this, they were laughing. He even forgot for a moment that he had planned to spend the evening entirely differently.

They played a few more rounds, each of them winning the same number of games. He announced the next one, but before starting, he briefly disappeared into the bathroom. Simply because, well, he needed to use it.

As he washed his hands, he could hear the hum of conversations, laughter, and music, all muffled by the door. It felt a bit warm, despite the fact that he'd taken off his jacket a while ago. For some reason, he suddenly became self-conscious about how he looked, though he hadn't thought about it at all before. After all, it wasn’t like he was on a date with some woman he was trying to impress. Still, driven by some inner impulse, he fixed his hair and smoothed the fabric of his shirt with his hands, rolling up the sleeves so they wouldn’t get wet while washing. He hesitated for a moment before lowering them again, surprised to sense someone's gaze on him.

The tall man with black hair, a rather sturdy build, and narrow glasses on his nose didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring at him. Spencer wasn’t sure if he should just walk away, but something made him raise an eyebrow skeptically. He had no idea what was going on.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, genuinely considering the possibility.

He couldn’t recall this man from anywhere, which, given his memory, pretty much ruled out the idea.

“No,” the man replied briefly but confidently, still not breaking eye contact. After a moment, he added, “But I know your friend. I know her well.”

Reid stood still for a moment, embarrassingly slow to realize which friend the man was referring to. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that it struck him—this guy had likely been watching their game for a while and was talking about her. Before Spencer could say anything, the man continued.

“Actually, I used to date her. And listen, I’ve got some advice for you. Just give up on her.”

Spencer blinked, trying to process if he’d misheard.

“Beg your pardon...”

“I’m serious, man. Not because I’m jealous or anything like that,” he quickly clarified, raising both hands as if to declare his sincerity. “It’s just simple, you know, guy solidarity. Don’t waste your time.”

He was struck by a strange feeling that his conversation partner had some mistaken idea about their relationship. Besides, even though the man had clarified that he wasn’t jealous, he sure sounded like a jealous ex. Spencer knew he should just laugh it off and walk away. After all, he wasn’t dating her, didn’t intend to, and whatever the guy had to say about her shouldn’t matter. Yet, his legs refused to simply walk away.

Some curiosity, one he couldn’t shake off, took hold of him.

“What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

A slight smirk appeared on the man’s face as he noticed he had Spencer’s attention.

“I get that you might see something in her. She’s pretty, you have to give her that. At first, even...kind of charming in her arrogance. But once you get to know her...it’s a strong word, but you need to know, she’s fucking insane.”

The language seemed to twist strangely in his mouth.

“That doesn’t tell me much,” he replied dryly. “I mean, anyone could mean something different by saying fucking insane.”

The man scoffed with a bit of contempt. Spencer was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable with the whole conversation.

“Okay, you’re probably going to deny it and defend her because you like her, I’ve been there, I get it.”

Because I like her? He almost denied it but stopped himself, letting the man continue.

“She’s just insufferable in the long run. She acts like she knows everything, gives orders, always has to have the last damn word. And you know, at first, you think she’s just playing that part. And then she’ll start acting, well, you know…”

Spencer felt the urge to laugh.

“Submissive?” he suggested, the missing word that seemed to want to spill from the man’s mouth.

“Normally. Just normally.”

Something started to smell between them. A distinctive scent. Wounded male ego.

That alone was enough for Spencer to know not to take this conversation seriously. That alone was enough for him to know he could end this conversation whenever he wanted. But before he could take a single step away, he thought about the entire evening he'd spent with her. Everything, from the first message he’d received while still at his apartment.

He counted how many times during their meeting he’d just laughed, having more fun than he’d had in a while. In some unclear way, he felt he owed her that.

“Let me sum this up,” Spencer began, gesturing with his hand and never breaking eye contact with the man. “Because this, in its way, is strange to me. Funny, even, when you think about it.”

The man furrowed his brow, listening. Spencer remained unfazed as he continued.

“First, you met a commanding, confident, and, okay, a little cheeky woman. That didn’t scare you off, though, and you decided you wanted to start a relationship with her. And when it happened, you were surprised she was commanding and cheeky? You know, she doesn’t pretend she’s not like that. You knew what you were getting into.”

"Fine, you know what, this doesn’t make sense," the man sighed. "Do whatever you want. Just remember, I warned you. One day, you’ll be grateful for this."

"Maybe you're right," Spencer admitted, nodding slowly. "It doesn’t make sense."

The man gave him one last look before scoffing and walking away. Reid was left in the bathroom alone, actually reflecting for a moment on the entire conversation. He didn’t think he should have been a part of it at all. The guy must’ve assumed he was interested, or that they were dating. He didn’t have any insight into what their relationship really looked like. In any case, Spencer imagined what it would be like if another guy were in his place. Her actual date. I wonder if a conversation like that would make him turn away, push him away entirely.

After a moment, he concluded that no, it probably wouldn't have. Assuming, of course, that the other guy wasn’t a complete idiot, blindly believing the words of a hurt, maybe even a little jealous ex.

Though, maybe he couldn’t really judge from his position. The position of someone who wasn’t planning on dating her, and who wasn’t interested in her in that way.

He thought for a moment about whether he should tell her about the conversation. He decided against it, not wanting to spoil or ruin the good mood of their evening. Instead, he straightened his hair and, completely unfazed by what he'd just heard, returned to the pool table where she was leaning, clearly growing impatient with his prolonged absence.

"Finally," she hissed at the sight of him. She almost shoved the cue stick into his hand, a small smirk tugging at her lips. "I thought you were trying to escape me. The thought of another loss scared you, huh?"

He paused for a moment, staring at her face—the slightly parted lips, the warm bar light reflecting in her eyes, and the familiar, confident gleam. For a brief moment, a fleeting thought crossed his mind—what did she even see in that guy?

But almost immediately, he dismissed it, considering it none of his business, and took the cue stick from her, ready to start the next game.

[22ayla21]

hii can i request Anaxa x fem reader first kisss? like before they kinda didnt like eachother reader would always call him anaxa instead of anaxagoras like other people and interrupt him whenever they would have debates(?) then one day they were having an argument about something related to alchemy but after the argument both of them realized they had feelings for each other and they just had that awkward period and anaxa breaks the awkward period and the first kiss happens aiebeihaianesh

First Kiss

After many arguments and disagreements, Anaxa decides to take the first step towards reconciliation

Arguments between them were common. Every time Anaxa started talking about something serious, she found a way to interrupt him or throw in a caustic remark. It especially irritated her that everyone around him called him by his full name - Anaxagoras, but to her he was just Anaxa.

- You're arguing with me again, even though you know I'm right, - he said tiredly, crossing his arms over his chest.

- Because you're not always right, - she shrugged, smirking.

This argument, like many others, began because of alchemy. She claimed that combining certain elements would lead to an unstable reaction, and he, of course, was sure of the opposite. Their argument sounded like a bolt from the blue, and the people around had already gotten used to their eternal debates.

But this time it was different. When the argument ended, without leading to anyone's victory, they fell silent. They both felt something strange. As if the air between them had changed, become thicker, more tense.

She suddenly noticed how his eyes never left her, how he moved a little closer. Anaxa was usually cold and reserved, but now... She, too, felt a strange excitement in her chest.

Days passed, and this awkwardness did not go away. They stopped arguing with the same passion, their conversations became shorter, their glances - longer.

She did not know how to cope with this. But he did.

One day, when she again interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, he suddenly fell silent, frowned and stepped closer.

- You always interrupt me, - he said quietly, but this time there was no irritation in his voice.

She was about to respond, but he didn’t give her a chance. His lips covered hers, interrupting her words in the most unexpected and only right way.

Everything else lost its meaning.

She froze, her eyes wide with surprise. Never before had he touched her like this – with confidence, with demand, as if he could no longer hold back. Her mind immediately began to give out a thousand thoughts, but her body betrayed her, responding to his kiss before she could even realize what she was doing.

However, when he pulled away, she took an abrupt step back, pressing her fingers to her lips.

- W-what… - she began, but stopped short when she saw his smirk. Anaxa looked at her as if he had just won the most important argument of their lives.

- I guess you couldn’t interrupt me this time, - he said with lazy smugness. Her cheeks flushed. She clenched her fists, trying to think of a sharp remark, but her voice failed her, caught somewhere in her throat.

- You… You…

- Me? - He raised an eyebrow, watching her confusion with obvious pleasure. She was ready to blurt out something, maybe even hit him, but instead she simply snorted and turned away, crossing her arms over her chest.

- I hate you.

He chuckled, taking a step closer.

- Of course.

She could feel his warmth behind her. And even though her words sounded confident, her heart was pounding wildly, betraying her true feelings.

[thorne-kreizler-fanfiction]

WOHOOO HERE WO GO AGAIN, and I know this will punch me in the heart

-"Thorin doesn’t answer, nodding only with his head, ignoring the mischievous glint in Dwalins eyes. He is not in the mood at all to answer his jokes" I'm dead

-"“How is everything? How did Fili manage as the temporary regent?” he asks seriously, looking at Dwalin." OMG FÍLIIIII

-"With a gesture of his hand, Thorin stops the soldier who is coming closer to help him take his things. He hates being helped with such trivial acts." Alright, 2 things. 1- the hand thing turned me on, especially considering he looks angry now. 2- this is so thorin core and I love it. I totally see him thinking like this

-"That strange feeling in Thorin’s still constricted throat moves now to his chest, causing a piercing pain that makes it difficult for him to undo his cloak" Oooh I'm loving thissss give me more ANGST

-"That is who she is, just a clever dwarven lady, who played him as if he were a foolish boy." NOOOO STOP ITTTTT😭

-"Dain has also surely told him about the bird that sang in his rooms every night." LMAO love this

-"So if Dwalin knows of all of them, why is Thorin unable to tell him about Ragna?" I WILL CRY

-"He was not subtle at all" LOL Not at all. Goddamn Dwalin. Love him

-"Ragna was gone, all was gone and she had to stay in the past" I have tears in my eyes, sTOP IT

-"looking at the tense back of the King, made only wider by his almost palpable fury and his huge fur-lined coat." it is NOT the time to turn me on!!

-Oh poor Dwalin. THORIN, APOLOGIZE IMMEDIATELY.

-"Silence, that friendly silence that calms him instantly and there is nothing he wants more than to have silence in his head and his heart." Same Thorin. Also, this is so damn sad

-"He is home." NO. HOME IS WHERE YOUR LOVED ONES ARE. GET YOUR ASS BACK TO THE IRON HILLS AND FIX THIS. CURSE YOU.

-AAAAH I LOVE ROAC AND THORIN

-“You have a white feather,” “You have some white hairs.” 😂Love them

-“I need to show you something, Thorin,” OH NO, WHAT NOW?

-Lol now everybody but Thorin has a wife. Who's next? Bombur?

-Thorin in his mind is surely like: Now even the damn birds get a wife before me

-"Surely he had chosen a mate with a very strong character, a character that was very familiar to him. Too familiar." I WILL CRY

-"Roac had had to remember it all and kept seeing it before his eyes." Oh... 🥺

-"Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe Thorin has to start thinking about that sentence." UGH MY HEART

-"Females" lol yes and get used to it

-"These are not only leaves and sticks, this is a nest." I SWEAR I *SCREAMED* OMG

-"Thorin smiles with the side of his mouth as he feels his heart full of sudden joy, a joy that it was weird to explain." OH MY HEARTTTTT

-"Soon the snow will fall, it’s surprising it’s not already here, but I can give you something to keep you, Arca and the eggs warm. A fur would work well, and a pillow,” ME. I WANT THAT FUR

-"A silent gratitude that took him back to several days earlier and to a sweet smile that had been given to him only a few days before. And that voice.'Would you like to stay for dinner?'” AAAAH NOOO STOP

-"It is true, it is hard, very hard. When he did the census last year, there were only six children born in Erebor that year and none of them was a girl. Not that he would blame anyone, he remembers that it had been similar when he was a child." I absolutely ADORE this descriptions of Erebor and its situation, the state that the dwarves are in, etc. Yes, give me more, take me to the world of dwarves. And yes it is sad but that's part of their reality, and I love to learn and think of it.

-“That piece will still be hers,” I SWEAR TO MAHAL, I SCREAMED! Why must you make me emotional like this??😭 THIS WAS SO GOOD

-MY HEART CAN'T TAKE THIS. POOR THORIN.

-"Then why is he, Thorin, the king of the greatest dwarven kingdom, feeling this way, as a beggar, as if someone has just taken every single organ from his body and cast them into the fire, forcing him to watch them burn." AAAAAAAAAHHHH💔

-"He is feeling empty and that silence that he used to cherish, now seems like a slow and terrible torture. The solitude he had searched for so long and created for himself now seems like a nightmare" I know the feeling and now I want to cry

-"trying to regain even a shred of peace , the peace he had not felt for weeks. There were so many emotions he felt in those days, but never the calm, the serenity, not since he had left the Iron Hills, not since he had left Ragna." SERIOUSLY, if we go on like this I might as well quote this ENTIRE chapter. It's so GOOD and SAD for Durin's sake😭

-"Was what she said back in his face the truth? He had offered her wealth, a life without worries, a life he had never had himself and yet she rejected it." I AM SCREAMING INTERNALLY

-He felt normal, he had felt normal for the first time he could remember, and he lived a normal life for the first time in a hundred years." I declare myself oficially dead (Bilbo core)

-THORIN'S DREAM ABOUT RAGNA AND THEIR CHILD. STOP ITTTTTTT MY HEART CAN'T TAKE IT

-"A wedding bead." I'M GONNA BREAK SOMETHING

-"He has black hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, but he doesn’t look like him, not at all. Those cheekbones, that nose, that sunny expression. He looks just like Ragna." I'm crying

-"Can you make it?" This is literally so cute and I can't believe I didn't think of this before. My hobbie would be to draw things and make Thorin craft them

-FRERIN II OMFG I'm crying

-"He hs to forget about her. For his own sake, and hers." This is taking years of life from me

-"Thorin lowers his gaze again at that, finding the veining of the marble table incredibly unique, incredibly interesting, much more interesting than the discussion around him." lol I feel you Thorin

-"Ragna, again, the woman that has just brought noise into his halls, and a deep silence into his chest." I WANT TO BREAK SOMETHING! What's the reason to play with my emotions like this, huh? WHAT WAS THE REASON?

-"It was like staring back into a mirror at times" AAAAAH JUST MARRY ALREADYYYY

-oh mahal, the paragraph naming Thorin's observations on Ragna. MY LITTLE HEART!! It was so cute, so romantic, so loving. Ugh, I want to melt onto the floor.

-"She has the same sparkle in her eyes, she loves things like these, he hates them." They complement each other!!! JUST MARRY ALREADY

-"She is in trade mode, and he knows he has to say anything she wants to know." they are so cute together. STOP

-"She studies it, holding herself closer to him, and he is looking to anything but not to the piece of parchment. All the words he can see are her exposed neck, the laces of his shirt she is wearing falling in between her breasts, and her upper thighs pressed against his waist. That woman is driving him mad. That clever and beautiful woman. In the name of Durin, he is feeling like a young boy again." I seriously need to stop quoting the entire chapter but FOR DURIN'S SAKE, THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL😭

-"Every single one of them stays silent, not believing what their king has just said. Thorin has never left the council room before, never said that one thing was more important than another and he never, ever walked away from his problems. Never." I AM SCREAMING

-I love how Thorin is just so done with everything and, it's not that he doesn't care, but he want's it all to be over so he just runs away.

-“Stop being a baby, you survived a stab in your stomach and much worse, you will survive me brushing your hair!" “I could always run away from my foes or fight against them, from this I cannot!” Lol I love them. Did I say that they are so cute together and should just marry already?

-“The same patience you showed with the seamstress today as she was taking the measures for your wedding dress?” I SCREAMED

-THEIR CONVERSATIONS ARE SO CUTE. I WANT THEM MARRIED NOW.

-"Thorin cannot move a muscle, watching her as if she were a vision, because she has to be, it has to be. Ragna is not there and could not be there." MAHAL KILL ME

-"Not being king of the seven kingdoms isn’t enough, he wants to be her king, because she makes him feel like a king without a crown again. And he wants her to feel a queen too, his queen, only his. Not queen of Erebor, his queen." I AM CRYING. This dream is making me rabbid.

-"if it is a dream, then he wants to enjoy every second of it, casting everything else away, into oblivion, even if it would mean that the whole world would burn to the ground." THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I SAID ABOUT THORIN RUNNING AWAY. I'M DEAD.

-"Oh, in Durin’s name, how he missed her, how he missed hearing his tiny songbird sing." I'M SCREAMING. This is so cute yet so sad😭

-THE PARALLELISMS WITH DRAGON SICKNES. I'M GOING INSANE!! lol I love how rabbid this story is making me

-Thorin is in such a fever dream at this point lmao poor dear

-He sees them. Just as he has seen him before. Kili’s face contorted in a grimace, white as the first snow that fell on that day, five years ago. Fili’s unseeing eyes staring into oblivion." WHY MUST YOU DO THIS TO MEEEE?

-"His eyes are closed, he doesn’t breathe, his clothes are covered in his own blood. It didn’t happen like this! Or did it?" No, it didn't. They all survived and lived happily ever after😁

-AND NOW WE HAVE SMAUG TOO?? I'M GOING INSANE.

-I honestly need to catch my breath. This part was too much.

-"'“No,' he whispers to himself as he feels hot tears slowly trickle down his cheeks" NOOOO STOP ITTTT

-"The previous four days before them he couldn’t even lay in his own bed without thinking of her." RAGNA AND THORIN ARE TWO IDIOTS. Both of them can't sleep in their beds and need to overwork themselves to forget each other WHEN THEY COULD BE TOGETHERRRRR AAAAAHH

-"the lust that seizes him when he feels her so close to him, the same lust that had driven him mad in that treasure chamber" Äule and Yavanna, I can't. This is making me want to punch my desk. Did I already mention that I love these parallelisms? Mahal...

-Thorin having nightmares all his life except when sleeping with Ragna. NOW I UNDERSTAND. When he said that he sleeps better with her. HE MEANT THIS. OMG. THIS NEW PERSPECTIVE MAKES ME WANT TO CRY.

-"A drop of wine falls on his beard, trickling down to the middle of his chest and he hurries to wipe it off with one hand, putting it to his lips." I just got turned on in the middle of a serious scene and through my tears. Great

-"He fiercely crumples the drawing, no longer wanting to know, no longer wanting to give heed to those memories in his head. He had thought about it all the way home and now he can do something to forget her, to throw her figure into the flames and take her out of his body, and now he has the answer and the means to do it. But as soon as he approaches the fireplace to burn that piece of parchment in the flames, he is not able to." I LOVE THISSSS

-"and in his heart he knows he will never succeed" I'll cry. JUST MARRY ALREADY😭

-“You have beautiful handwriting and that’s not a compliment I often pay,”  IKR???

-"That place to which he wanted nothing more than to take her" OH DON'T DO THIS TO ME😭 PLEASE @lathalea THEY MUST GO THERE

-"'No, not at all. I was just sorting out some paperwork… nothing more,' he murmurs more to himself than to her, hiding the map on his desk slightly under his forearms."😭

-"'What’s the matter?' he asks, but Dìs doesn’t approach the chair or change her facial expression." I'M SCARED OMG THIS FIC WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME

-"It doesn’t take him long to understand. Forcing himself up with his hands on the table, he gets up from the chair, making it fall to the floor behind him, and glares at her." AAAAH I'M SO EXCITED TO SEE WHERE THIS LEADS

-"Then can you tell me her name?”  I SCREAMED, FOR MAHAL'S SAKE

-"But he realises too late that he has betrayed himself with his own words, he has admitted it." I CAN'T STOP SHOUTING

-"They don’t know the truth, none of them knows a damn thing other than sounds and moans and growls." So there's more than that, then. There's love and caresses and soft kisses and happiness besides just sex and pleasure 😭😭😭😭

-"It is a feeling he knows too well, the desire, wanting something until he can’t think of anything else," OOOOH I'm loving that reference

-"'You left her…' Dìs whispers, making him grit his teeth." I WILL KILL HER

-"clearly referring to the confusion that reigned in his rooms, but not only to it." Not only to it, but also to the love he felt for her 😭😭

-“I will treat you like a boy if you continue to act like one, whining because someone dared to tell him no!” I'M SCREAMING

-“Because she is not a battle, she is not a trade agreement! If she were, I would have traded half the wealth I possess now just to have her here!” I'm going to cry, seriously. THIS IS SO AAAAAH

-“How peaceful I felt when I was with her and how she took all the blood away from my hands and the ghosts and fire in my head that haunt me every night, she took it all away just by stroking my cheek…” I literally love this trope. I have tears in my eyes.

-Oh. Dís and Thorin. I love them 🥺

-"as when they were children." Awwww❤️‍🩹

-"Naked though clothed" AWWWWWWWW❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹

-I literally forgot Dís' husband died and this brings me a whole new perspective. Damn, it must be hard to hear Thorin rambling about losing the love of his life when he at least still has the possibility to fight for her love. At least Thorin's lover is not dead, unlike Dis' husband.

-"There it is, the question, the real question, why hadn’t he done anything yet, why was he still standing there like that?" I DON'T KNOW. YOU ARE AN IDIOT, THORIN.

-OOOOH I am so emotionally drained, especially with that ending

-There were so many more things I wanted to highlight but oh well I can't make this an infinite post! Thanks again for such an AMAZING chapter. I'm loving this story, and every part that narrates the story of Thorin and Ragna makes me scream

-I WANT THEM TO JUST MARRY ALREADY

All Is Fair in Love and Trade –  Part 7/9

Relationships: Thorin x Reader Rating: E Warnings: angst, smut, angst, long chapter

You can read the other parts here: The Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

This huge chapter was written by the talented @gwen-ever and is based both on her and my ideas. I had lots of thoughts about what Thorin's POV would look like, all of them living rent-free in my head, but without Gwen, this piece of "All Is Fair..." would not come into existence because originally I planned to write the whole work only from Ragna's POV.

Thank you so much, Gwen, for everything 💙

And now, prepare yourselves for angst, drama, and heartwrenching angst. And have I mentioned angst? ;)

Khuzdul phrases: A-mad - Mummy A-dad - Daddy Maralmizu - I love you Melhekhel - King of (all) kings

* * *

All Is Fair in Love and Trade, part 7/10

The huge golden gate opens slowly, croaking against the green marble of the entrance to Erebor. Dozens of dwarves pause in their duties and look out from the suspended corridors carved into the rock as they watch the King Under the Mountain return home.

As soon as he crosses the threshold with his trusty handful of men, a metallic roar of pikes and shields cuts through the air, accentuating the reverence all the soldiers felt at that moment. Only one, however, does not even bend down but continues to grin with his arms crossed over his chest just at the beginning of the imposing entrance corridor, by the feet of two gigantic statues of warriors. His green and black armour clinks as he steps forward towards Thorin, his grin widening beneath his long black moustache.

“Ya finally came back, I was gettin’ worried! Two more days and I would have sent a group of soldiers to get ya ass from those hills!” Dwalin chuckles, taking the reins of Thorin's pony and waiting for his king to dismount.

Thorin doesn't answer, nodding only with his head, ignoring the mischievous glint in Dwalins eyes. He is not in the mood at all to answer his jokes, nor that he ever has actually been. Silently he gets off his pony, unable to hold back a grunt when after those long days of constant rising he touches the ground with his feet.

Balin behind him laughs lightly, patting gently his grey pony’s cheek. “Those were the hardest negotiations I have ever had to attend to, brother,” he admits, amused, shifting his gaze to Dwalin. “Our king here did not make them easy, especially during the last two days, but now we have a worthy arrangement and we are ready for the negotiations with Mirkwood.”

A shiver runs down Thorin’s spine. He tightens the straps he has been unbuckling to take his saddlebags.

“Ya will have to see if the pointy-eared wankers want to make it easy for us,” Dwalin retorts ironically.

“I am pretty sure they will behave, everything is perfectly clear, the star gems and silver for some of their produce and wine for both Erebor and the Iron Hills.”

At these words, another shiver runs down Thorin’s spine and then the feeling somehow reaches his throat, constricting his vocal chords, urging him to put an end to this pointless conversation.

"How is everything? How did Fili manage as the temporary regent?" he asks seriously, looking at Dwalin.

With a gesture of his hand, Thorin stops the soldier who is coming closer to help him take his things. He hates being helped with such trivial acts.

“The lad seems born for this, well, he really is. Everything is alright, nothing burned, no problems in the mines since your last order to talk with the miners directly, and no orcs invasions,“ Dwalin winks nudging him playfully with his shoulder “I heard about the battle. It seems like you attract them as if you were a flower and the Orc were bees.”

“I-It was very fast, less than a day,” Ori replies instead of Thorin. The scribe holds a large book of accounts in his arms, the book he kept with him every single day during their stay in the Iron Hills. “But my reports confirmed w-what Lady Ragna said when she had been visiting Erebor. The Iron Hills really needed that n-new w-weapons deal.”

That strange feeling in Thorin’s still constricted throat moves now to his chest, causing a piercing pain that makes it difficult for him to undo his cloak and hand it to a guard who has just approached him.

“Aye, I am pretty sure, brother, that she was the main reason why the negotiations took so long. She is a very tough negotiator, but she has her reasons to be so. First and foremost, she has to protect her home and controlling Dain is hard enough,” adds Balin, getting down from his pony.

A ball of ice begins to descend into Thorin’s stomach, triggering little images that chaotically appear in his head, one after another, and making all the sensations he hoped had left behind in the Iron Hills resurface with double force.

Damn it!

“Oh, so that Iron Hills ambassador from a few months ago is a strong lassie!” Ya did not tell me, I bet she is an interesting lady to meet if she can control two Durins!” he laughs, not noticing the shadow growing over Thorin's face while he stops taking the packs off his pony.

“Mostly one Durin, our cousin. I think that at one point he was more interested in the mugs of ale in front of him than in the negotiations!” Thorin says gruffly.

“Oh, so she had the nerve to shut your big mouth? How?” Dwalin glances at Thorin, crossing both of his arms on his chest as a guard comes and takes away the ponies. “This is interesting, very interesting…”

“She is intelligent, nothing more,” Thorin cuts the conversation short, answering coldly, not letting emotions nor words betray him. That is who she is, just a clever dwarven lady, who played him as if he were a foolish boy.

That is what he has been for two weeks, a fool, a dumb and terrible fool just by gigivng her the chance to grow close to him and letting himself grow close to her. Too close. Stupid, fucking, dumb fool. Shame on you Thorin, only on you.

Thorin looks down, his jaw set, and he throws the two light saddlebags over his shoulder, holding Orcrist's hilt to his side with the other hand.

“Dwalin, I’m going to my chambers to make myself presentable, get me all the documents that Fili signed and approved when I was away, I need to take a look at them,” he orders, looking at Dwalin. That is only partly what he wants to do, and partly he just wants to get away from what would soon become a ruthless interrogation. If Dwalin knows about the orcs, Dain has also surely told him about the bird that sang in his rooms every night.

He gives him a slight nod, remembering they are in public and gestures with his head to the handful of guards behind him to go and unload the rest of the luggage.

“No problem. I will accompany you for a bit then, so you won’t need an escort,” Dwalin says to him, moving to the side to let Thorin walk before him.

Damn.

Gritting his teeth, Thorin nods looking up towards the golden stairs that descend steeply into the heart of the mountain, thinking that now at least it is all over. Now he is in Erebor. He begins to walk steadily and the road to the royal quarters is very quiet. Dwalin does not say a word, but Thorin can hear his breathing behind him and he knows that the more his best friend is silent, the more he has to say but nothing comes out from Dwalin’s mouth until they pass the double door to the main royal halls.

Dwalin moves closer, starting to walk up the stairs next to Thorin. "Lady Siggy asked me about you the other day, she wanted to know when you were coming back,” he starts winning Thorin's attention. “I have heard she got engaged, you know, to Master Rollo. That poor bastard was following her for months, serenading her, showering her with gifts and doing all those silly things dwarves in love do. Finally he will stop talking about her every time we meet after the training or at the tavern!" he chuckles leaving him with no words.

Thorin’s eyes widen as this news starts to find its way into his brain and slowly become a reality. His steps slow down and the bags on his shoulder start to get heavier. Siggy, daughter of Kjetill, was about to get married and the news is hurting him more than it should. Siggy was his latest lover, the last he had before Ragna. Their affair started months ago. She was the daughter of his personal tailor and they would meet mostly during the day, before Thorin had to go to the forges. She was younger, a lot younger than him, and he felt the age difference in some way even when they were in bed, but she was ethereally beautiful and one of the sweetest dwarven maids he has ever the chance to meet. He has not seen her for over a month before he left and he has heard some rumours (spread mostly by Kili at lunch) about a guard gifting Kjetill’s daughter two emeralds as green as her eyes and Thorin slowly understood that their meetings were about to end. It hasn’t been the first time when he was to part ways with a lover, but this time he feels as if his whole world is crashing down on him.

"Is it official?" he mumbles, glancing at Dwalin.

His best friend nods, crossing his arms on his chest. "It pretty much looks that way. Her father is angry, he wanted her to pick a richer dwarf. A normal soldier brings honour but not jewels, and she moved in with him a few days ago,” Dwalin adds, giving Thorin a look that makes him feel even more miserable.

Dwalin knows about all the women Thorin had been with, as he knows about his friend’s private life. He knows because Dwalin can't shut his mouth about his conquests, and Dwalin knows because he is the one to organize the guards’ shifts. So if Dwalin knows of all of them, why is Thorin unable to tell him about Ragna? Because she wouldn't be coming to his chambers, and he won't need the guard to leave as soon as she arrives or just to take care of her, because she won't ever step into his halls. Ever.

As Thorin's silence becomes deeper, Dwalin clears his throat, getting closer to him.

"Do you want me to tell her to come to your chambers so you can tell her farewe-"

"I will tell her I am happy for her decision later at the feast tonight as I will tell Rollo,” he interrupts Dwalin’s whisper. “She deserves a happy marriage, he is an honorable dwarf, he truly is. She is a kind lady, and there is nothing I have to say to her in private," he says, barely controlling his tone of voice.

"She did not tell you before leaving, did she?" Dwalin asks, arching his eyebrow.

"We did not talk much and we did not see each other often in the last months,” Thorin explains, cutting away some information. “So no, she did not tell me, she did not have to tell me. She is free to do what she wants," he states seriously.

His seriousness is not, however, condoned by Dwalin who laughs as he runs a hand over his beard. “Well, the mountains are full of diamonds, aren't they?” he shrugs, making clear what he meant with diamonds but then he stops to chuckle and makes a long pause “Dwarven ladies who like us prefer work over marriage and prefer a different companion every night or for more than one night, maybe for even two weeks…”

He was not subtle at all, and Thorin feels those words ring into his head as he slowly feels the pain in his chest growing.

His worries were founded, Dwalin knows.

"No boundaries, no problems, no yells or fights, no nagging, no cold feet against your legs as you try to sleep, the double amount of dishes to clean…" he continues, staring at him.

Thorin stops to walk, clenching his jaw and looking straight into his friend’s face.

"What did Dain write to you?" he nearly roars, clenching his fists.

Dwalin climbs up two more steps before stopping on the terrace at the end of the ramp of stairs. “Two weeks…” he chuckles, putting his hands behind his back, glancing down at him. He definitely knows. “Most of the dwarven maids, mostly also by their choice, never lasted more than a night a week for a month! You had the same woman every night for two weeks, that's a record!” Dwalin nearly yells, not even caring that someone could hear them. And Thorin does not care either, he simply does not want to talk about anything about that matter, Ragna was gone, all was gone and she had to stay in the past, Dwalin does not even have to know her name, it would have been useless.

He remains silent, glaring at Dwalin, hoping he would just close his damned mouth, but his friend keeps talking, making him shake from anger. Thorin has to get away from there.

“Either she is Yavanna herself or you want boundaries, want yells and fights, want nagging, cold feet against your le-"

That was enough!

"Go to the council chamber!” he orders him nearly yelling, making Dwalin even jump slightly. “Tell Fili he needs to come to my rooms as fast as he can, we don't have time to lose on idle talk!" he roars starting to walk again and climbing the few stairs, not even looking at Dwalin who opens and closes his mouth with an unusual sad expression on his face.

The bald dwarf feels that something is not right, something is really not right and that Thorin has changed in some way, and that this woman was different this time. So for the first time in years he just nods, straightening his back, watching Thorin walking to the royal chambers.

“So do I still have to bring the documents?” he asks seriously looking at the tense back of the King, made only wider by his almost palpable fury and his huge fur-lined coat.

“All of them!” Thorin roars coldy, not even turning, still walking up the stairs, leaving Dwalin with a question that never leaves his mouth and a surprising sensation, a sensation that he will not be able to drown even in fifty pints of strongest ale.

Thorin lets his back rest against the closed door as soon as he gets inside his room, letting all his bags fall loudly on the floor, the only sound, beside his breath, into his empty bedroom. Silence, that friendly silence that calms him instantly and there is nothing he wants more than to have silence in his head and his heart. After days of hearing both of them screaming at him, raging at him, they are… silent. As silent as everything around him.

He passes a quick glance all over the room, from the glass window panes behind the dining table, to the embroidered tapestries hanging on the stone walls, to the dozens of furs and carpets laying on the floor, to the two armchairs in front of the already lit fireplace, to the empty table in the middle of the room, full of books and maps; from the the four bookshelves behind it, to the closed drawers on his right and to his empty, cold, canopy bed carved in rock on the far right of the room. He is home.

With a sigh, Thorin picks up the bags from the floor and walks to the table in the middle of the room, lays them on top of it, and opens them slightly. He takes off his cloak and his arm guard lay them down on the back of one of the chairs next to him. With an automatic movement his hands go to his belt and untie the Orcrist’s sheath, it has been easier to carry it hanging from his waist than on his back, and put it down on the wood table carefully. He is about to take off his shirt when a noise catches his attention, stopping his hands from pulling it up higher than his stomach.

The noise comes from the outside of the balcony that runs along his chambers and the ones next to him. It is a frantic pawing, as if something very little was jumping up and down on the floor. Understanding exactly what it was and who made these sounds, he does not put himself on guard nor even thinks of touching the sword in front of him. He just walks to the windowed wall with a small smile on his lips, noticing that the glass door is slightly open.

Thorin stands silently, observing the area outside and confirming his suspicions. He opens the door and leans against the doorframe, intrigued by what his old friend is doing with so much noise and he has to admit to himself that it is something he had never seen him do, not in a hundred and ninety years.

Roac is perched on the handrail, pawing at it, as he tries to balance a bunch of small dry twigs in his beak, but they slip out of his grasp every time. It takes Roac a few seconds to notice Thorin’s presence, not that attention is the best of his raven friend's virtue.

In fact, when Roac raises his beak towards him, he makes a jolt that causes all the small branches he had carefully managed to stack to fall to the floor.

"T-thorin," he stammers, casting a brief glance at the destroyed work beneath his feet before looking back at him. "Thorin, you are back!" he croaks in amazement.

Thorin nods, stepping out onto the balcony and, as he does every time, extends his arm forward, inviting Roac to sit on his forearm.

“Sadly for you, my friend," he jokes, chuckling softly.

The black-feathered raven soars.

"Oh, I am never sad of it" he replies, tilting his head to the side, with what could be interpreted as a slight smile tugging at the corner of his beak.

Smiling, Thorin stretches out his hand, making the gesture that after years had become something so natural that even Roac is already prepared for it, raising his head with his beak upwards.

Thorin runs the fingers of his hand gently down the side of the raven’s neck, caressing his glossy black feathers gently, noticing Roac's eyes close slightly in pleasure at that small gesture.

"Any news from the Forest, Dale or Laketown?" he asks, stroking the base of Roac’s wing, inquiring as he would have done under any other circumstances.

Roac moves his head sideways, opening his beak slightly. "Nothing, nothing changed, all is still moving the same and flying the same." he jokes, lifting up his wing so that Thorin can scratch it with his thumb.

Chuckling, Thorin strokes it gently and looks carefully at the feathers that have become more and more crumpled over the years, noticing one in particular, just under his friend’s beak that made him move his index finger towards it. "You have a white feather," he points out, gently touching it.

The raven lowers his beak not at all surprised by Thorin’s statement and then reaches out with his body towards his dwarf friend, moving one wing towards the side of his head.

"You have some white hairs." Roac jokes.

"You are younger than me," Thorin retorts, smiling.

"Only for your race," the raven remarks. "In raven years, I am as old as you, maybe even two years older... craaa!" he teases him, squawking as he used to do when he was just a nestling.

Thorin can't hold back a laugh, but the sticks on the ground catch his attention again and bring back the curiosity that was eating at him only a few minutes before.

"What were you doing? I'm sorry, I interrupted you," he points with his chin at the messily scattered pile of twigs on the ground.

Roac stiffens suddenly, and as soon as he notices what Thorin is speaking of, clamping his claws around Thorin’s arm. The raven starts acting strangely. He moves up and down Thorin’s arm, turns his beak away from the branches towards the dwarf, as if he didn't know what he is supposed to say.

The feathers on his back rise as his beak drops.

"I was..." he mumbles, still looking at him, and then croaks worriedly. "Thorin... I... " he tries again and then sighs deeply, letting his wings droop while he looks back at his friend. He waits a few moments but then he opens up his beak to speak and slowly releases the usual grip of his claws on Thorin’s arm. "I need to show you something, Thorin," he confesses, looking his friend straight in the eyes.

Thorin tilts his head to the side. He has rarely seen Roac so serious or seen such concern in his black eyes. He nods without a word and the raven soars up in the blink of an eye and lands on the ground, grabbing a couple of sticks with his beak. Then, with a movement of his beak, the raven invites him to follow him along the balcony. Thorin is not reluctant, but rather intrigued, all of this seems strange to him, and to an extent it worries him, since his trusty raven, the King of Crows, seemed calm until just a short moment before.

Cautiously he follows Roac who is fluttering ahead to the other end of the balcony, the part that used to belong to the now empty prince's or queen's chambers. There Roac lands, right at the far end of the balcony. Thorin looks around, even more confused than before, not noticing nothing in particular, but then, in a corner, he notices something attached to the low wall, something that makes his eyes widen. Sitting on a small pile of dry twigs and leaves carefully intertwined together, is a raven, a female. She is slightly bigger than Roac and her beak has a grey tip.

She is asleep now, with her wings tucked around her, the light of the setting sun highlighting the blue reflections on her glossy feathers. Her beak and neck rest on a pile of black feathers that are not her own. Thorin casts a glance at Roac's side and realises only then that several feathers are missing from that spot, all the way to his tail. Roac lands, slowly folding his wings, and puts the twigs he held in his beak down beside the sleeping raven. He gives Thorin a look of encouragement, inviting him to come closer and Thorin feels a strange sensation again, the same one he had felt only a few minutes before coming forward,and yet he still does not understand, or rather does not want to understand, because he is not a fool. He steps a few paces forward, remaining silent as Roac approaches the female, giving her a couple of gentle pats under the neck with his beak, and rubbing the side of his head against hers.

"My love..." Thorin hears the raven whisper and something grips his heart, along with the realisation of who the female is.

The female raven makes a few sounds moving her head slowly and nuzzling into Roac neck before opening her eyes carefully.

“W-what, Roac? What is it?” she mumbles looking straight at Roac and nuzzles her beak against his, as if they were kissing, and then she suddenly realises that they are not alone.

She looks up stiffly at once and quickly pulls away from Roac's side.

"Oh, by the Great Raven..."sShe whispers, staring at Thorin with her eyes wide “Oh, by the father of all birds…” she whispers again and before he can say anything, she looks to Roac, changing her expression completely, ruffling the feathers on her neck.

“Roac, you were supposed to wake me up before!" she nearly yells, lifting up her neck.

The male raven looks at her and jumps back a little, and then moves his wing towards Thorin, visibly scared of the female yelling.

"I did it just now!" he explains with an exasperated sigh.

"Now it's too late!" she retorts furiously in a high-pitched voice.

“But we… he arrived just now!”

"You should have warned me before!" she scolds him again, quickly shifting her gaze to her neck and back, pecking at some of the loose feathers with her beak. "Look at me!" she whines.

Thorin can't help smiling at that familiar scene and at Roac's apologetic expression as he is faced with the female's angry screams. Surely he had chosen a mate with a very strong character, a character that was very familiar to him.

Too familiar.

Roac lets out a sigh as the female continues to mumble. The raven turns to face Thorin and points at her with the tip of his wing.

"This is Arca, you never met... officially," he explains to Thorin and the king can almost see the his friend blush under his feathers.

Thorin knows who she is, yes. Roac spoke to him about her, once or twice, when Thorin was busy with checking some maps. The raven perched on his chair and told Thorin about this female raven. Arca. She lived in Erebor before Smaug, he said. Roac was close to her at the time, but then she vanished, along with her family, abandoning Ravenill. He met her again many years later.

A dark cloud mists Thorin’s heart. He believed he had lost much by leaving Erebor, his home, his kingdom, friends, his mother, his title, Roac, but the raven had also lost almost everything, and the worst part was that his winged friend had had to stay there, at Ravenhill, remembering him every single day. The moments, the words, the happy days spent together, the smiles, the touches. Roac had had to remember it all and kept seeing it before his eyes.

Out of sight, out of mind. Maybe Thorin has to start thinking about that sentence.

"Your majesty,” Arca bows her head at him, snuggling down into the pile of sticks. “I am incredibly sorry for my state. Roac was supposed to wake me up on time, I apologize,” she speaks again but then a few feathers of hers lift up again, making her glance again at Roac with anger. “Look at my feathers! Look at them..." she whispers, croaking sadly and fix again her black feather carefully.

Females.

Thorin smiles, shaking his head and carefully kneels down on the floor to find himself at the same height as them.

"They are perfect, Arca, you have nothing to worry about," he tries to comfort her, gesturing with his hand, "And it's an honour to meet you, Roac told me about you."

The raven female looks away in embarrassment, hiding a part of her head under one of her crumpled wings.

Arca looks at Thorin and then at Roac, tilting her head to the side and smiling shyly to Roac.

"You are too kind, King Under the Mountain,” she says in a serious tone, looking back at him once again. “But after… after... well, after this,” she emphasizes the word this, “I never look presentable after waking up," she explains.

At first, Thorin doesn't understand, lifting his eyebrow, but thenArca carefully lifts her wing and Thorin freezes, noticing what she was referring to.

These are not only leaves and sticks, this is a nest. Under the black feathers on Arcas belly, there were some little green and grey eggs, all well covered and covered by their mother body that gave them warmth. Thorins opens and closes in mouth in total shock, he expected everything, but not this. He turns to Roac with his eyes wide open and his friend just looks down, croaking quietly.

A father. Roac was about to become a father.

NoticingRoac’s expression, Arca looks at Thorin, quickly covering the eggs with her wings.

"H-he…” she whispers softly and Roac shakes his head, looking down. Her expression changes rapidly and becomes a mask of terror and she slowly starts to shake and pant. ”ROAC!" she yells at him, wiggling her tail.

"I was about to tell him!" replies the king of ravens, looking straight at her.

"Our eggs are on the King’s private balcony! He was supposed to know about it already!” Arca retorts in a high-pitched voice and then shifts her gaze towards the ruler of Erebor, worried. "Oh, king Thorin I am deeply sorry... I, I was... we..." she starts to stutter as her voice cracks. "I am sorry, I am sorry, I really am..."

"All of this is unacceptable. I know,” Roac says solemnly, looking up at Thorin a moment after he flies, up landing on the dwarf’s knee, protectively putting himself between Thorin and Arca. “She was supposed to stay at Ravenhill with the eggs, but there is always so much work and she cannot stay alone for too long to look after the nest. I had to stay in Erebor and I couldn't look after her…” he stops, glancing at Arca for a second and then back at Thorin. “She is still weak…” he whispers sadly. “Thorin, I just… We will leave as soon as we can, I pr--"

"Do you need something more?" Thorin says.

Shocked, Roac raises his beak again, "Thorin?"

Thorin smiles with the side of his mouth as he feels his heart full of sudden joy, a joy that it was weird to explain.

"Do you both have everything you need?” he asks again softly. “I can leave you food here so you don't have to look for it. Soon the snow will fall, it's surprising it's not already here, but I can give you something to keep you, Arca and the eggs warm. A fur would work well, and a pillow," he explains, thinking about all the things that can be helpful. “I would never tell you to leave…”

The raven looks at him even more shocked "We... Thorin, you don't need to-"

A small sob catches Thorins's attention, and he casts a glance towards Arca still huddled over the eggs. Tiny tears form at the corners of her eyes and there is a smile on the sides of her beak.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” Arca interrupts Roac, touched by Thorin's words as she snuggles more against the eggs.

The King of Erebor lets a smile escape his lips and moves closer to her carefully. “There is nothing to thank me for, Arca,” he answers, bowing his head in gratitude.

Roac winces slightly in amazement as Arca extends her wing towards him in a silent invitation under Roac's cheerful gaze. Thorin reaches out his hand, brushing his fingertips against her wing, returning the gesture.

The female raven has an expression of pure joy; she is looking at Thorin with such gratitude that he had rarely been granted. Thorin had not done much, but she was able to make him feel something that made his throat constrict. A silent gratitude that took him back to several days earlier and to a sweet smile that had been given to him only a few days before. And that voice.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?”

"Come, let’s see if I have what you need," Thorin speaks to Roac as he carefully gets up from the ground, trying not to get too near to the nest.

The raven nods with his head and rests on his shoulder, snuggling into it as Thorin begins to walk back into his room, being careful to leave the door open.

With long strides, he moves towards the back of his chamber, kneeling down in front of the huge chest by his bed. He opens it an starts rummaging through his clothes, most of them from the Blue Mountains, digging deeper and deeper, searching for a specific garment.

“I don't know how to thank you, Thorin, I really don't...” Roac murmurs to him, resting his beak against his beard.

Thorin makes a quick gesture with his hand, asking the raven to help him and smiles at him encouragingly. “Keep them safe, it's enough,” he answers, finding what he has been looking for at the bottom of the chest. “A birth is still a birth, and must be celebrated as such, always.”

The words start to fail him, as an old sadness, a dark history of his people comes back to haunt him. “It's hard to celebrate it here… in this mountain,” he adds, pulling his old coat out.

It is true, it is hard, very hard. When he did the census last year, there were only six children born in Erebor that year and none of them was a girl. Not that he would blame anyone, he remembers that it had been similar when he was a child. Dwalin and Roac were the closest things to friends he'd ever had, if he excluded his brother and sister.

Roac cuddles more into his shoulder, nodding. “I will, I promise I will, and you are making it easier,” ha starts but then he suddenly stops, looking down. “When heard I would become a father, it was… strange,” he whispers, “It felt like I… I made something, but it was really something, as if I gave away a piece of myself, and gave it to Arca, but I know I will have it back as soon as all the five eggs hatch.”

Thorin stops in his steps for a second and without even thinking he looks at Roac, shakes his head.

“That piece will still be hers,” he speaks, unable to control himself and not knowing why he said so, but he knew it was real what he said.

Roac nods.

“I know and I want her to have it, Thorin,” the raven admits, giving a glance at the window before turning his attention back to him.

I know Roac, I know.

Smiling with the side of his mouth, he gets closer to the raven and lays his forehead gently against his, stroking his neck.

“I am very happy for you, my friend,” he whispers softly.

Roac nods, brushing his forehead against Thorin’s and wiggling his tail. They stay like that for a few moments before returning to the balcony.

Letting Roac leave his arms, Thorin wraps the coat around Arca and the nest, carefully placing the fur lining as close to her as possible.

Arca makes a little bow with her head thanking Thorin again, and touches his hand with her beak as a sign of gratitude before Roac comes closer to her.

She lifts gently her wing and Roac lowers his head, checking the eggs under her wing. He slowly strokes them gently with his beak. Arca looks at him and a glint of something Thorin doesn’t recognize passes through her black eyes. After a few moments, Roac jumps into the nest and pulls her close to his body by covering Arca with his wing protectively and letting her nuzzle his neck. Thorin moves silently back to his rooms, wanting to leave them a little space, feeling out of place.

But as he is walking away, he hears Arca’s last words, and he holds back a little chuckle in his mouth.

“You still didn't wake me up on time, Roac, son of Carc,'' she murmurs and Thorin hears Roac sighing loudly.

Smiling, he walks to his side of the balcony, as before, and walks through the door that leads to his chambers.

His room is silent, still, terribly silent, and empty.

He had just done something right, he had just learned that his oldest friend is going to become a father. Roac will have his heirs, his own children. Then why is he, Thorin, the king of the greatest dwarven kingdom, feeling this way, as a beggar, as if someone has just taken every single organ from his body and cast them into the fire, forcing him to watch them burn.

He is feeling empty and that silence that he used to cherish, now seems like a slow and terrible torture. The solitude he had searched for so long and created for himself now seems like a nightmare, one of the nightmares that keep tormenting him almost every night.

He runs his hand over his face wearily walking towards one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, sitting down with his legs stretched out and trying to regain even a shred of peace , the peace he had not felt for weeks. There were so many emotions he felt in those days, but never the calm, the serenity, not since he had left the Iron Hills, not since he had left Ragna.

No, he had not left her, she had left him. She had made it very clear to him what she wanted. There have been those wonderful nights, wonderful moments, but it had been just that, and then he stupidly ruined it, wanting to take her with him and make her his... his…

He places his hands over his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees.

Ragna. His... what? What exactly did he want from her on his last night in the Iron Hills? His concubine? Did he really want to keep her in a room away from the rest of the world and only see her at night? Was what she said back in his face the truth? He had offered her wealth, a life without worries, a life he had never had himself and yet she rejected it.

What does he really want her to be, what does he want Ragna to be to him? He felt normal, he had felt normal for the first time he could remember, and he lived a normal life for the first time in a hundred years. Everything around him is moving forward and yet he remains still, as if frozen in time. He feels like an ancient tree in the middle of a forest, watching the flowers die and wither and new trees sprouting up from the ground.

Ragna’s words echo in his head, the possibilities she had listed that night not far from reality, yet for him they had always seemed unreal.

“What would happen if you were to find yourself a queen?”

A wife? No, he had never thought of that and never opened himself to the possibility before.

“What if I were to give you a child?”

A child, a child of his own? A child with her.

Now that is a tangible possibility, one he would have to consider if he wanted to keep her by his side.

He looks at the old armchair from the Ered Luin in front of him, its emptiness lit up by the faint light of the fireplace and the final light of the sunset, and a path unfolds before his eyes, a possibility.

He sees Ragna sitting next to him, curled up in the armchair in his room. Her hair is loose and she is wearing that dressing gown she was so embarrassed about, the one, with the squirrels and the wolves wearing pink hats. In her arms, she holds a small bundle wrapped in a couple of blankets. She smiles at it, murmuring an ancient melody of their people while a light laughter of a baby comes from the bundle.

She leans forward, touching the inside of the bundle with her nose as she continues to sing. A pair of tiny hands rise from it, playfully grabbing the locks of her hair, and she lets out a laughter as light as the wind.

"I know I don't sing as well as your father, but there is no need to pull my hair like this!" she jokes, freeing her hair slowly from the baby’s grip.

She turns to Thorin and takes his hand, her fingers gently intertwining with his.

"And don't you look at me that way, Thorin, it's true!" she scolds him, blushing slightly probably seeing the grin on his face. His eyes pass over her face. She is older now, there are first silver hairs among her heavy locks, and he notices tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. In her hair, which he thought was loose before, there is a braid and a bead, or rather two beads, one on top of the other, one bears his rune, the other is covered in gems and there are their two runes intertwined on top of each other.

A wedding bead.

A third laughter echoes through the room, catching his attention. He turns slightly behind him and sees a boy, a bit older than a toddler. He is on his short and chubby legs, clutching a piece of parchment to his chest. He has black hair and eyes as blue as the summer sky, but he doesn't look like him, not at all. Those cheekbones, that nose, that sunny expression. He looks just like Ragna.

"A-dad! A-dad l-look!" he calls after him, passing by Ragna and practically throwing himself on his lap. "L-look at this! I just d-drew a sword, do you like it a-dad? Can you make it?" he asks him, raising the drawing to Thorin’s eyes.

It was a sword, or at least it looked like it, just two crossed lines, yet it was the most beautiful sword he had ever seen.

"In a few years, you are going to be able to make it yourself," Ragna tells the small boy, holding Thorin’s hand tighter.

"But I am this big a-mad!" the little boy whines, showing four of his fingers to her. "I can do it now!"

Ragna opens her mouth to retort, but the little bundle laughs again as soon as the boy raises his voice a little, fidgeting and showing two tiny legs coming out of the blanket. With an intrigued face, the boy moves closer to Ragna, carefully, on the tip of his feet, visibly nervous. Ragna opens her mouth, smiling gently at him and inviting him with a nod to come closer.

She says, "Want to see her, Frerin?"

Frerin.

Thorin’s heart makes a painful flip and the floor almost gives way beneath his feet.

Little Frerin nods and approaches Ragna. He stands on his tiptoes and carefully peels away a piece of the blanket showing a small figure hidden within its folds.

Her eyes are wide open and her fleshy mouth is distorted into a smile that shows him toothless gums.

Forcefully she grabs his brother's finger hovering just beside her face, and she starts waving it from side to side cheerfully.

"L-look a-dad she took my finger! Look! A-mad!" he giggles, looking at Thorin as Ragna’s hold on his hand becomes tighter and tighter as she smiles at him tenderly and her eyes slowly become glossy.

Thorin shakes his head, trying to erase that stupid vision, that impossible future, from his mind. What is wrong with him? Did he really think about that possibility, about the chance of having a family, a family with someone who barely tolerated his existence?!

No, it wasn't possible, none of that was possible. He is just tired, he just wants to rest, it has been a long day and tomorrow he will forget all about it.

Tomorrow will be another day and he will even forget about her. He hs to forget about her. For his own sake, and hers.

______________________________________________________

"We need more gold to finance this year’s Durin’s Day and the Reclamation Day! It’s going to cost more than it did last year, that's sure enough!” Gloin yells, slamming his hand on the stone table.

His red beard seems to curl on its own as the murmurs among the dwarves sitting around the table in the council chamber begin to increase, a wave of murmurs that started lulling the King Under the Mountain to sleep as he watches the marble veins before his eyes.

"Why is that?" Fili’s voice beside him rings out louder than the others, drawing Thorin's attention.

"Have ya paid attention, lad, to how much that elven wine cost now? It's unbelievable, and I don’t even want to think how much we will have to spend to get all the food from Esgaroth!” Gloin retorts, pointing to the scrolls under his arms. “Look at these numbers, look how much they are asking for just a bit of salted ham!” he emphasises angrily, pointing to the paper. “Master Dvallar had to take all of this into account!”

The ancient dwarf seated at the head of the table opposite Thorin raises his head when he hears his own name and puts away his quill next to some parchments in front of him.

“I did, master Gloin…” he answers calmly, bowing his head. “Here I have the letters from King Thranduil...” he mumbles, searching among the hundreds of papers in front of him, correcting his very small golden glasses on top of his nose.

He pulls a long, white as snow, iridescent sheet of paper out of the pile, bringing it so close to his face that his nose seemed to touch the surface.

“It says that he will send us thirty barrels of wine. Here, Bard of Esgaroth says…” Master Dvallar adds, pulling closer a brown parchment on the table, his hands covered with age spots. “He says he will send us twenty more. Fifty barrels of wine, do you really plan to drink more than this, Master Gloin?”

“Those won't be enough!” the red-bearded dwarf replies, glancing down at old Dvallar. ”Fifty thousands of dwarves live in this mountain, and two thousand more will come here in ten days, and I’m not even counting the ones who will be staying in the guests’ chambers!

"W-we still have some of the barrels from last year, don't we?” intervenes Ori shyly, raising his hand. “I-I have written it all down, there were two hundred of them left."

"It's all gone," a male voice with a strong Blue Mountains’ accent answers him bluntly.

Dori looks across the table in annoyance, his eyes wide with astonishment. "What are you talking about, Bofur?! How?!"

Bofur puffs out a little smoke, takes the pipe out of his mouth, and nods slightly. “That wine has been gone for months, since the Summer Festival.”

Thorin moves his gaze to the right as soon as Balin comes closer to him.

“That's a problem,” he whispers, worried.

“The negotiations with the Iron Hills and Mirkwood won't start until two weeks after the Durin’s Day, won't they?” Dìs, who sits on his other side,, places both hands adorned with golden rings on the table and notices the exchange of glances between him and Balin.

Thorin lowers his gaze again at that, finding the veining of the marble table incredibly unique, incredibly interesting, much more interesting than the discussion around him.

Balin, sitting next to Thorin, nods. “And we cannot ask Mirkwook to bring forward the date of the meeting, the same goes for Dain “We at least need Dain’s advisors if we want to get what we want from Thranduil.”

Thorin grits his teeth as his chest becomes incredibly heavy. As far as he is concerned, Dain's advisors could stay in the Iron Hills, every single one of them. No exceptions.“Like lady Ragna for example!” Dvallar raises his voice enthusiastically, making the veins in the marble surface in front of Thorin's eyes dull and repetitive again. He is forced to hear the old dwarf speak now and to hear that name again, that damned name. Thorin can feel Balin’s eyes on him, making him sick in his stomach, his old friend probably begging him with his gaze to not interrupt the old dwarf lord.

“I have heard she was able to get a profitable agreement with the king of Mirkwood! When she was only ninety nine she closed an agreement with Fengel of Rohan and you know what it was?” the old dwarf asks ironically, nearly yelling, as if youth had returned to his veins. “She made Rohan breed ponies for the Iron Hills for forty years and in return the Horse Masters would receive a payment of five necklaces, only five ruby necklaces, and that was it! And Fengel accepted!” he chuckles, taking away the glasses from his nose.

A series of "Oh's" and "Ah's" and even a few "What a woman!" leaves the mouth of some of the councillors around the table, while Gloin continues to mutter grumpily about how ridiculous it all is and how they really need more gold to pay for everything.

Ragna, again, the woman that has just brought noise into his halls, and a deep silence into his chest.

Ragna.

From the first time he saw her in that same room when she first came to Erebor, he was fascinated by her, he felt as if an enchantment fell upon the whole chamber, leaving him speechless. She was stunning, a beauty that was not perfect at all, but she had that confidence in her stare, in her words that could have wiped away every flaw her body of face could have, and after those weeks of taking off her clothes and running his hands along every inch of her body he realized that were barely none. She was one of the most intelligent dwarves he had ever met, he had to admit now to himself that she put him in a difficult position more than once and she was one of the very few who would dare to tell him he was wrong. Dwalin was right, he would have liked her, they could have even gotten along.

He had lovers, several of them. Not as many as Dwalin would speak of teasingly; six or seven since he retook Erebor. Sometimes he would get bored by his lover, sometimes they would. There were no strings attached and he liked that. But after he spent those passionate hours with Ragna in the Map Room, he didn’t feel bored, he didn’t want to find himself yet another lover, he wanted her again, and again, and again, every night or every other moment he would have the chance to. And he quickly discovered that he wanted more from her, more than just carnal pleasure, he wanted to talk with her, to spend the whole night with her even if only sleeping. It felt... weird. Weird in a way that none has ever made him feel, he needed her, he grew fond of Ragna, the dwarven lady whom he was discovering day by day in every little thing she did. She was strong, she was clever, she was determined, but she was also kind, funny, shy, and incredibly vulnerable when she thought no one watched. It was like staring back into a mirror at times, a dwarven lady that as him couldn't show to others some parts of hers. It all began with him noticinging her staring at him drawing with a sparkle in her eyes and since then he started to notice more things. Just before going into the council room she used to check meticulously if everything was alright, if her dress was worn correctly, if her rings were all there and she would fix her braids with trembling hands. He noticed she used to play with her fingers under the negotiation table as soon as the conversation started to light up slightly and he could see sometimes how hard it was for her to tell everyone to calm down. She walked always close to the handrail holding onto it as she was about to fall. She used to tremble every time he kissed her as soon as she arrived into his room and blush, even after all those nights she blushed every single time. As soon as they quenched their thirst for each other and she was always about to leave, she could have felt as an unwanted presence, but she didn’t. He had to keep there a few times proposing a bath. He would observe her fingertips as she would play with every single bubble that formed on the surface of the water. She used to sleep cuddled up to him, with every fur or sheet covering her up to her nose, and she would talk in her sleep. Sometimes there were words that made no sense, other times she spoke about lists of the things she had to do in the morning. But there was one night when he realized that it wasn’t only just lust, not any more, and that he wanted her to stay with him, for as long as Durin would allow him.

Thorin looks up slightly, watching Ragna fill a plate with the dinner that was brought to his room by the servants only minutes before she came in with a pile of papers in her hand. Those papers quickly ended up scattered on the floor. A night like any other, a night like the ones he has been living through for the past six days. It's hard to concentrate again on the piece of parchment in his hands, especially when a sleeve of his shirt, the shirt with which Ragna has covered her naked body, falls from her shoulder, showing him the purple bite marks he had branded on her skin only a few minutes before.

But he must focus now, or that letter will haunt him until he returns to Erebor.

He reads every line again, searching through them for a solution to his problem. He pulls himself up slightly to sit up, resting his back against the headboard, pulling down even further the sheet that only covered him from his hips to the middle of his thighs not caring about the cold and not even noticing that Ragna is returning to bed with a raised eyebrow.

"I think that today you worked enough, you know?" she calls back to him, pointing her finger at the paper in his hand. "If you forgot about some of the points we spoke about today I can repeat them to you." she tells him, smiling with the side of her mouth.

Thorin sighs, watching her as she crawls onto the mattress with the plate full of food in her hand, setting herself by his side.

"It's not about the trade agreement," he explains, shaking his head at her. "It's a matter I need to figure out before going back to Erebor."

"An important matter of state then," she clarifies more to herself than to me, bringing a pastry to her mouth.

Shaking off a lock of her hair that was about to fall onto her plate, Thorin nods. "Something like it, aye," he sighs before forcing himself to look down at the letter in his hands.

Several minutes of silence pass in which he feels Ragna's gaze on him as she studies his reactions. That dwarf-woman is an excellent politician, surely she can read his mind, or perhaps she is already doing so. If she is doing that now, she knows that instead of a brain in his head he now has a burning furnace fueled by desire.

He keeps on reading and re-reading, but he still can’t find a simple answer and he certainly hasn't expected to have to solve such a problem miles away from Erebor and with a sweet distraction who, as she eats her food, occasionally licks her fingertips or sucks them clean.

In the name of Durin...

"You seem concerned,Thorin," she tells him, licking her lips.

"I am actually, it's a type of business I don't want to get into, and I have to intervene this time, and as soon as possible," he explains, looking her straight in the eyes.

Ragna steps closer, casting a glance at the paper now in plain sight and then at him.

“What is it about? Maybe I can help you, unless this is some very secret matter that I’m forbidden to know,” she adds dramatically and he can't help but chuckle.

He looks on the paper and then back to her, and then back to the paper and then he takes his decision.

He points to his side with a glance and Ragna understands immediately.

She puts the plate on the mattress next to her pillow and comes closer to him and before he is able to speak, she sits on his lap as a child would when listening to a story. She has the same sparkle in her eyes, she loves things like these, he hates them.

Thorin wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, and strokes her lower back with his fingertips showing her the letter with the other hand. “I have received words that the miners in Erebor are unhappy” he explains.

Ragna tilts her head to the side confused “Why is that so? It's pretty weird,”

“Smaug attack caused a lot of damage, some galleries are unavailable and to arrive at some of them miners have to dig new passages, but sometimes the rock caves in and some of them remain trapped for days. It happens several times a month.”

The confusion on her face, however, does not disappear; on the contrary, she presses her lips into a thin line and tilts her head on the side even more.

”Can’t you just tell them to stop, find another way, move to some other galleries?”

He thought about that, that would have been a great solution, but it would have been too easy.

“Those three galleries are the principal ones,” he continues stroking the side of her tight “from them the smallers ones branch off, if I can't find a solution I will have to ask them to dig deeper to find the gold and gems we need and so I will ask them to risk their life even more,” he ends by lowering his gaze to the letter again, feeling his chest heavy.

“Which are the causes of the falls?” Ragna asks him, more serious, lifting up her back.

She is in trade mode, and he knows he has to say anything she wants to know.

“Their zone chief told me that the mines are safe, but some of them don't take enough precautions and what happens it's only their fault.”

“So you are speaking to their zone chief, not directly with them?” she asks him concerned , crossing her arms over her chest.

“Is It that weird for you?” he asks, noticing her disappointment.

“Well if someone has a problem that needs to be fixed, I would speak directly to them,” she explains with a shrug and then glances again at the letter.

Before he can realize it she lays down onto him placing her hands on his chest and arching her neck to the side to read the letter.

She studies it, holding herself closer to him, and he is looking to anything but not to the piece of parchment. All the words he can see are her exposed neck, the laces of his shirt she is wearing falling in between her breasts, and her upper thighs pressed against his waist. That woman is driving him mad. That clever and beautiful woman. In the name of Durin, he is feeling like a young boy again.

“Do the mine masters in Erebor go personally to work in those galleries?” she asks looking up to him after reading the letter.

He simply shakes his head, refocusing on his problem.

“Then why are you listening to them!?” she blurts out, getting up and sitting on his lap again.

“This idea of theirs it's absurd and you are as big of a fool as they are if you think that something like this would work!” she scolds him, resting her hands on her sides.

At first, he looks at her in amazement, remaining silent. Has she just called him a fool? Has he heard right? He should be offended, normally he would have done that, but Ragna doesn't even give him time to do that and raises both eyebrows in annoyance.

“I am talking with you, your majesty! Are you a fool?” she asks again.

He doesn't know how to answer, he doesn't really know what to do, he just knows that he feels his world is upside down. A fool, he? A fool? She has a temper but he would never have expected such courage, such decisiveness, maybe asking her advice really was the right choice, maybe she was the only one in all Seven Kingdoms who would tell him the truth and give him honest advice.

“So what you are saying is…” he asks her as he gets up more, holding her to him.

“Speak with them, listen to them, go to the mines yourself, you are a miner too by the seven fathers, are you not?!” she nearly yelled pointing a finger to his chest. “Ask for their opinions directly and decide with them what is the best for them. Why do others have to decide for them, you are their king, they respect and love you, not them, you, they love YOU!” she repeats again pointign again and again to his chest as it was the most obvious thing in the whole Arda.

Without hesitation he let the paper fall from his hand back to the mattress and even without thinking, he grasps her chin with his fingers and kisses her.

He can feel her shiver and stiffen, she is clearly surprised by his gesture, but he holds her still while she wraps her arm around his neck, letting their tongues meet.

It is slow, and intense, different from all the other times. He just wants to feel her against his body, nothing more, and she lets him pull her closer, making their bodies lean against each other.

As he lifts his shirt she is wearing, stroking her buttcheek, she giggles against his lips, pulling back from the kiss.

“What? Did you give up?” she asks with a smile, rubbing her nose against his.

“You gave me my solution, why should I keep looking at that letter?”

Ragna looks at him surprised, pulling back a bit to look at his face.

“So... you agree with me?”

He nods, pecking her lips gently again, making her eyes open wider.

“Yes, I do, I know it doesn't always happen but I agree. You are right,” he reassures her, making her cheeks darken with a blush for a few seconds.

“Well, this is unexpected…” she giggles. “What is it? Your post-sex sweetness?

“More my post-sex hunger,” he answers and glances to the plate next to them, the food barely touched.

Thorins starts to shake, and clenches his fists. He needs to leave and he needs to leave now.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs and stands up from his chair. “Continue without me,” he orders looking directly to the table as everyone around it stands up too as soon as he does so.

His sister, still sitting, looks at him in shock.

“Thorin…” she whispers, blinking.

“I have some orders to write,” he stops her before she can say anything more and glances down to her “For two weeks I have been arranging trades and agreements, I need to work on serious matters now,” he says, seriously glancing at everyone at the table.

Every single one of them stays silent, not believing what their king has just said. Thorin has never left the council room before, never said that one thing was more important than another and he never, ever walked away from his problems. Never.

But now,he is doing it, leaving two of his problems behind.

He walks to the door, not turning back, with his hands crossed behind his back.

“Thorin, we need you just for another hour, you need to listen to some of the-”

“Send everything to my room, Balin!” he orders him, glancing behind his back as soon as he reaches the threshold. “I will read it all, you know I will. The only thing I am asking you to do is to finish this madness!” he growls this time, moving his gaze directly to Gloin. “Spend as much money as you need, Gloin, take them from the treasure chamber if you need!”

And without even listening a word from anyone, he leaves the room, not wanting to turn back again, not wanting to see anyone and not wanting to listen to them speak again, not wanting to hear about the Iron Hills nor that stupid agreement ever again!

“Thorin!”

He hears Dìs’ voice and her chair scraping against the floor, but he needs to sleep, he needs to sleep, and find silence, and get his damn terrible silence back.

______________________________________________________

The flames of the fireplace in front of him dance rapidly, twisting and untwisting as his locks of hair are being untanglef with such force that Thorin has to close his eyes and hold back a few moans of pain.This is the worst torture he had ever been forced to undergo and the dwarven maid behind him is only increasing the force of her yanks. He clutches the edges of the carpet on which they are both sitting, holding back another moan when she pulls his hair back with even more vigour.

“You can stop pulling if the damn brush does not loosen the knot,” he grunts between his teeth but Ragna is not of the same opinion.

He hears her sigh and then he sees in the corner of his eye, her legs spreading and her knees coming alongside with his thighs, as she is finding a better position to kneel down behind him.

“I wouldn't have to pull if you took more care of your own hair, King Under the Mountain!” she groans, hitting him playfully with her free hand on his uncovered back.

He can't hold back a light chuckle, feeling that her grip on his hair loosens. Ragna moves the comb again from the root of his hair to the ends, but it is still getting stuck in the same place.

This time he can't hold back a louder groan as the pain becomes more intense. By Durin! “Stop being a baby, you survived a stab in your stomach and much worse, you will survive me brushing your hair!” Ragna nearly yells at him and then tries again to move the brush from top to bottom of his hair once more.

“I could always run away from my foes or fight against them, from this I cannot!” he retorts between his lips.

“Then suffer in silence and let me finish here. I swear on the seven fathers that if you don't take off that crown slowly the next time, I will…” Ragna cannot even finish the sentence before a groan of frustration escapes her lips. “Alright, alright… one, two...” she whispers and then Thorin feels the brush. It pulls at his hair, but from a different angle, forcing him to arch his neck forward to not risk falling backwards. A groan of pain escapes between his lips but eventually Ragna’s grip weakens and the brush passes smoothly to the end of his still wet locks.

“Done!” she says triumphantly, “Was it that bad?”

His neck begins to hurt and he slowly stretches it backwards, massaging the back of his neck.

“In the name of Durin..” he whispers and then shakes his head “No, no it wasn't, it wasn't bad at all,” he groans, closing his eyes.

“I told you, you just have to have patience, a thing that's not in the line of Durin’s blood, I think,” Ragna jokes, stroking his back with her fingers.

“The same patience you showed with the seamstress today as she was taking the measures for your wedding dress?” he asks her mischievously, turning his head back towards her.

Ragna stiffens, stopping sto stroke his back and suddenly falls silent with her eyes wide open from the surprise. “How do you know?”

“I have my informants, I am the king after all, I need to know anything that happens under this mountain,”

“Roac?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.

“Bigger.”

“Dìs?”

“Smaller.”

A shadow crosses her face as the truth strikes her full force. She sighs deeply, laying her chin on his shoulder.

“Kili… it was when he brought those papers to me, didn't he?” she murmurs.

Thorin pretends not to know, smiling at her with the corner of his mouth.

“I won't confirm or deny your suspicions,” he replies

Oh, he wouldn't, especially when his nephew begged him to not tell his “soon-to-be-aunt” that he was the traitor! Kili was sent only to bring her some more papers before the wedding, but he came back to the throne room with some interesting information. He spoke about a story of a future queen, who stomps her feet like a child when asked to remain still for the third hour in a row, or who whimpers when the twentieth pin pierces her skin and throws a tantrum when the measurements of the dress she had taken a few days ago no longer match the ones she had now.

Ragna puffs out her cheeks, poking his side with her index finger with an expression somewhere between fury and loveliness.

“Thank every ancestor of yours that Kili is your nephew and I like him or I would have sent him into the mines for a week!”

“I would approve if these are your intentions!” Thorin chuckles as Ragna hides her face into his back, in the hollow between his shoulder blades wrapping her arms around him.

“A long day with me in the forges as when he was a child will be enough, I thin-”

He never manages to finish the sentence because at that moment her breasts press against his back and he feels her lips kissing his naked shoulder and then his neck and then his back again, holding him closer and closer.

Thorin feels dozens of shivers running down his back and his stomach take flight in the high skies.

Confused, he grabs her hands intertwined on his belly and turns his face towards her.

“What was this for?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” she answers, looking up again at him and resting her chin again on his shoulder. “Well, there is a reason, to be honest…” she says, correcting herself fast. He narrows his eyebrows confused and before he can ask what she means, she pecks his lips and moves her mouth closer to his earlobe.

he whispers something to him, but his eyes are already closed.

All becomes dark and everything around him, inside him, disappears before he can breath again and a sea of furr presses against his back. He is laying down somewhere, and it's cold, much colder than before.

A sweet scent reaches his nostrils, so delicate, so familiar, so relaxing that his eyes struggle to open. He knows it is not an enemy and he knows it is not someone who can harm him. He wants to stay asleep, nestled between the furs he feels lying against his bare chest.

Suddenly the furs are quickly replaced by something much softer. Thorin slowly opens his eyes and feels the heart in his chest skip a beat. Lying above him, tucked under the covers of his bed in Erebor, is Ragna. The sun illuminates part of her face making her eyes glow; her lips are swollen and she smiles a smile that immediately relaxes the muscles in his arms, while those in his chest are brought to calm by her small hands, as well as her breasts,pressed to his chest.

"Goodmorning, melhekhel" she whispers softly, stroking the beard on his jaw with her fingertips.

Thorin cannot move a muscle, watching her as if she were a vision, because she has to be, it has to be. Ragna is not there and could not be there.

He is at a loss of words her small reddish lips distort into a short laugh.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost, I know I'm not beautiful in the morning, but if you keep staring at me with your eyes wide open like that, I might get offended."

"You're not real," he mutters, barely looking her straight in the eye.

Ragna bites her lip, moving her index finger from his jaw to his neck and then to his chest. "Yes I am, I am for as long as you want," she whispers, bringing her face closer to his, "Isn't that what you want, to have me for as long as you want, Thorin?"

Before he could even allow her lips to brush against his, he pulls back, grabbing her wrists that had begun to descend towards his abs....

All that had to stop, all of that had to stop.

He grips her wrists firmly and with a quick movement he reverses their positions, pinning her beneath him.

"No, you're not here, we're not here, you... you're far away from Erebor, you're just inside my head," he roars, like an order, an order that she has to answer, that his head has to answer.

"The fact that I am far from you does not mean that I am any less real than I was weeks ago. Has all that ever been real, Thorin, have I ever been real?" she asks him, smirking mischievously.

A shiver runs down his spine.

"You were real, now you are not. Get out of my head, Ragna, and get out now!"

"You said you slept better with me, what is it now? Are you going back on your words, King Under the Mountain? I'm yours, is it not what you wanted? Only yours, even if only in your dreams?" she murmurs and slowly moves her lips to kiss him but still he pulls back, clutching her wrists.

"That's not what I told you, I don't want you like this! You don't understand, you didn't understand what I told you!" he retorts, gritting his teeth as a furious anger mounts in his chest.

He didn't want her like this, he didn't want that, he just wanted her... no he didn't want her, he wanted her, but he didn't... he didn't know what he wanted.

He lowers his gaze slowly, unable to keep looking into those eyes that keep staring at him, that keep digging into his chest. Slowly, he lets go of her wrists and sits up, making the distance between them bigger. He is feeling helpless, just as he had felt when she hadn't come to him that night, when he had forced himself to pack his trunks and leave when he had to leave but didn't want to.

Ragna slowly wraps her arms around his neck, slowly sitting up on the mattress.

No it has to be a dream, but if it's a dream, can he say those words, can he even think those words? He wants her, he wants her since the first moment he has laid his eyes on her, but it is more, it is so damn much more and now still is much more. He wants her, every night, everyday, every second of his day. He wants her. And he wants her to... he wants her to want him to. That is the problem. He only wants her, all he has, everything he has gained all of a sudden feels empty and worthless and if he would just have her, it would have been enough. Not being king of the seven kingdoms isn't enough, he wants to be her king, because she makes him feel like a king without a crown again. And he wants her to feel a queen too, his queen, only his. Not queen of Erebor, his queen.

"I want you, Ragna... I choose you, Ragna," he admits, having the absolute certainty that he would never be able to say those words in reality.

She smiles at him with a corner of her mouth, slowly resting her forehead against his.

"Then hold me, please, hold me tight, don't let me go again," she pleads. "Don't let me go, please... stay with me," she whispers, still pressing her lips against the corner of his mouth, "Stay here, stay with me," she whispers, kissing his upper lip "And if you can’t, take me with you... please, please..." she pleads, now kissing his lower lip, "Keep me with you and don't let me go again, not again," she begs him again and kisses him slowly, holding her hand at the nape of his neck.

He can't respond to ner kiss, everything is so confusing, so different, so strange, he feels his chest split in two by an emotion he can't identify, but he holds her close to him, as close as he dares. He squeezes his eyes shut when her lips descend from his mouth to his jaw, and then to his neck, torturing his skin with kisses that barely touch him as now she is slowly straddling him.

"Ragna..." he grunts when her two hands descend down to his stomach and then feels one of them playing with the edge of his trousers.

He tilts his neck grabbing her buttocks and feeling the pressure of the fabric of his trousers against his skin, the familiar heat growing within him making him hard in a second.

He groans when he feels the touch of a small hand when it undoes the laces of her breeches but then a vibrant sparkle catches his gaze, making him open his eyes wide in disbelief. Between Ragna's enticing breasts, under her skin, the Arkenstone shines with its own light, casting its glow of hundreds of colours against her smooth skin.

He doesn't even wonder why the King’s Jewel is not placed above the throne but inside Ragan’s chest. His head suddenly feels heavy as Ragna's delicate hand wraps around his member.

"Don't you want it?" she whispers moaning into his ear, her sweet voice punctuating every word, every letter, entering his ears and reverberating in his head like an echo. She slowly moves her hand up and down pulling slightly her shoulders backwards, exposing the gem encased inside her body.

"Don't you want me, Thorin?" she murmurs again, biting his earlobe.

A wave of desire makes its way into his chest, a desire that is burning him alive.

She seems to notice it, because she eagerly places her lips on his again, kissing him with such intensity that he closes his eyes.

In that moment Thorin forgets everything, every pain, every affliction, every burden he has been carrying on his shoulders, every responsibility: if it is a dream, then he wants to enjoy every second of it, casting everything else away, into oblivion, even if it would mean that the whole world would burn to the ground.

Desperately he parts his lips, letting their breaths meet and melt into each other.

The kiss becomes deeper, more intense. His hands travel up her body, towards her breasts, down to her bare hips and then firmly grasping her thighs and spreading them apart.

While his grip becomes more and more firm, a soft moan escapes her mouth as her hands sink into his hair, pulling him even more towards her naked body... towards the cold stone glittering in her chest.

Soft murmurs began to rise in his head, hissing in the meanders of his mind, whispers of mad desire increasing within him with every kiss, every touch touch, every moan.

"Tell me I'm yours." Ragna murmurs against his lips. "Please..."

A growl makes its way up his chest and with a quick movement he pulls her close, pressing his now free erection against her stomach.

"You're mine, you've been mine since I saw you, you're mine and you're only mine, Ragna," he grunts, biting her lip and lifting her body slightly. "You are mine, you belong to me, not to the Iron Hills, not to any other dwarf, Ragna! You belong to me!"

And with that he slides with a single thrust inside her, making her eyes suddenly go wide and she moans into his mouth. Oh, in Durin's name, how he missed her, how he missed hearing his tiny songbird sing.

I will not part with a single coin, not one piece of it!

I will not part with her.

Thorin no longer understands anything, but he doesn’t want to, her scent and her slight tremors making him lose control. He begins to thrust into her, enjoying the feeling of Ragna’s nails scratching his shoulders, her shining eyes filled with passion, unable to focus on him, as he enjoys the feeling of having control over her. He kisses her again, violently, fisting his hand in her hair. A deep, terrible need begins to form inside him, a yearning that cannot be filled. She moans, asking for more, begging for his kisses and his caresses. The most enchanting song he has ever heard, the only song he wants to hear: her moaning for him and only him.

But the whispers in his head finally take shape.

One of them has taken it. One of them is false.

One of them will take her away from me.

He wants it. He wants her. Ragna is his. She belongs only to him.

It is the king's jewel, am I not the king?!

She is mine, am I not the king?

He runs his hands over her bare skin, savouring every single moment: from her thighs down to her hips and waist, their hips moving together in a steady rhythm, firmly, pushing deeper and deeper inside her, making her moan and scream in ecstasy as he had never heard her moan and scream before. Even breathing becomes unnecessary, and he no longer needs it, he would rather die than stop all of this.

"Th-Thorin," she whispers between the moans.

"Say it again, moan my name again, Ragna!" he orders her and lifts her up, finding that exact spot that will help him send her over the edge.

"Thorin! Thorin, please!" she moans, moving her hips with his, taking pleasure from him, as he is taking every piece of her, closer and closer to the edge.

Every single piece. Every piece she kept away from him, every piece he didn't have the chance to take before!

You cannot see what you have become.

She cannot see what she has made me become.

At the sound of these words the body pressed against his disappears, as well as that pleasant weight on his body. He suddenly opens his eyes again and looks around: he is no longer in his bed.

His hands fall on something cold. Ragna has vanished from his arms and everything around him is grey and cold. A terrible feeling rises in his chest.

“RAGNA!” he yells with all the strength he has in his body.

“RAGNA!!!” he calls her again, trying to stand up, but something keeps him kneeling on the floor. He tries to stand up again and calls her name again, but he can only hear the echo of his voice and feel an icy cold entering his bones. He cannot see anything, all becomes darker, Thorin grabs the air around him, scratches the floor and tries to stand up again. “RAGNA!” he calls her again screaming, but still no one answers. And then, like a fog that spreads, all the grey around him begins to disappear and his legs feel lighter but his chest feels heavier.

A sharp pain in his stomach makes him blink and he lets out a scream of pain that splits the air around him in two. He brings his hand to his side, but a second twinge, this time in his forehead, makes him lean forward again and in that moment he realizes where he is.

Dozens and dozens of coins, gold and jewels are surrounding him, mountains of gold stretching across the room. He is in the treasure room, and he is dressed in his ceremonial robes. The black and gold cloak covers his back, the black leather tunic covers his chest, there are many opulent rings on his fingers, he feels the crown pressing against his temples and the warmth of the black fur on his shoulders. He looks at his hands, and the pain stops, there is no blood on them… why does he expect to see blood on his hands? And then a strange feeling makes him look up and what he sees makes him forget to breathe.

He sees them. Just as he has seen him before.

He can barely believe his eyes. It is happening again. Kili's face contorted in a grimace, white as the first snow that fell on that day, five years ago. Fili's unseeing eyes staring into oblivion. His heir's lifeless hand still clutching a bloodied sword. No, it cannot be true, it didn't happen like this! Or did it? Blood, blood everywhere. Their wounds, the bloodied coins beneath him. Their chests are unmoving. The despair he feels. And the cold. Freezing cold.

Snow starts falling on the gold and then he sees himself from above, his body laying on a slab of ice. His eyes are closed, he doesn't breathe, his clothes are covered in his own blood. It didn’t happen like this! Or did it?

From behind him, hoarse roars echo through the room, something heavy brushing against the coins, a hissing sound so familiarly awful that he refuses to look behind him.

“I'd almost be tempted to let you take it, just to see how it destroys you, how it corrupts your heart,” Smaug roars in the shadows behind him, but Thorin can’t take his eyes off the faces of Fili and Kili below him.

He is not in his head, he is there in that hall, he had always been there, in that hall, in his chest, in his heart that keeps on beating and hurting and reminding him every hour how it all has been his fault, how everything before his eyes was his fault and would always be his fault.

"And drive you mad," the voice behind him hisses again.

Suddenly two arms wrap gently around him from behind, encircling his waist, and there is that familiar sweet scent in the air. He feels a pressure against his shoulder and then a pair of lips move close to his ear.

“Maralmizu,Thorin.”

"NO!" a desperate scream escapes his chest amidst the absolute silence of his bedchamber as his eyes snap open.

"No," he repeats, holding the fur close to his chest, his eyes staring at the ceiling in darkness.

"No," he whispers to himself as he feels hot tears slowly trickle down his cheeks and down his neck, soaking the sides of the pillow.

A nightmare, another nightmare.

His heart beats faster and faster in his chest as the anguish and terror grip his chest.

He pulls himself up and sits up, his nails scratching against the carpet in his study on which he had been sleeping for the last three days. The previous four days before them he couldn't even lay in his own bed without thinking of her. So he worked, he had to work, day and night, he had to be tired enough to fall asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, but it did not work, not then, not now. He can still feel Ragna's lips on his own lips, her moans, her touches, the softness of her fingers against his back, the lust that seizes him when he feels her so close to him, the same lust that had driven him mad in that treasure chamber, driven him into oblivion and back again.

His dream had now become his worst nightmare. Yet another in the long line of nightmares that have been tormenting him for years, night after night, until a small hand rested on his forehead one night and chased them away for a while. Until he returned to Erebor, and they started again, longer, stranger, and more painful than ever before.

Thorin passes a hand over his face and wipes away a layer of sweat from his forehead, which has slowly trickled down to his neck.

He looks up at the half-opened window, at the moon shining high in the sky, barely illuminating the room. It is not even dawn.

With difficulty, Thorin braces himself with his forearms on the carpet of his study, throwing the fur he slept under aside with a sharp movement. He pulls the sweat-soaked shirt off his neck, tossing it messily onto a chair near the table.

Maralmizu, Thorin.

Drink, he must drink, and he must drink now.

With his eyes misty and his head heavy, he approaches the table in his study, searching with his hands for the silver jug he had placed there, perhaps only a few minutes before. He focuses on his surroundings, and as soon as he sees a glint, he grabs the jug and the drinking horn next to it.

Maralmizu, Thorin.

He grips both objects firmly, but not too firmly, not wanting to feel the silver under his fingers bend and the horn bone creak. He pours himself some wine, a lot of wine, and as if he were a thirsty man in a burning forest. He sips the entire contents in one gulp, savouring the bitterness on his tongue and enjoying the dizziness that follows. A drop of wine falls on his beard, trickling down to the middle of his chest and he hurries to wipe it off with one hand, putting it to his lips.

He is already ready to pour the second fill when the pile of papers on his desk attracts his attention. They are all neatly placed on top of each other, yet one of them is crumpled, and more yellow than the others.

He places both the horn and the jug on the corner of the table and approaches his desk with curiosity: not that he would have fallen asleep easily anyway. He lifts the stack of papers and pulls out what seems to him to be out of place, using only his fingertips. But it is only when he holds it with both hands that he realises he is not going to sleep a wink, perhaps until the end of his days.

________________________________________________________

Yet another rumble of a thunder resounds outside the window, followed by a flash of light that already anticipates another thunder and that makes the fireplace in the study of the King Under the Mountain useless for a few moments.

With two movements of one hand he dips the quill inside the inkwell, while with the other hand he grabs the silver jug on his desk, pouring himself yet another horn of wine that will be his companion for the rest of the evening and the only companion he would have that night, just like on the night before, and the night before that.

Not a warm body against his, no, he doesn't even have the desire for that. He just desires another cup of wine that would at least allow him to manage to sleep for four hours, which with the amount of painstaking work he was still doing, would probably result in only two.

He had been working with those papers for hours, flipping through and through them, carefully reading every line and underlining them, throwing them on the floor and filling them with his writing, and giving his authorisation for the orders for a feast that, for the first time, he wishes would not come.

Nine hundred barrels of ale, six hundred casks of wine, sixty boars, forty deers, a hundred chickens and quails, fifty pigs, two tons of tubers and grain from Esgaroth...

Numbers upon numbers that keep on assaulting him and confuse his head, so much so that he drains the entire contents of his horn in a single gulp before filling it up again.

His eyes, on the other hand, struggle against a piece of parchment that sticks out visibly from the pile of messy documents to his right. For each signature he writes, for each note he writes, he is forced to pause for a few moments, lingering over that inconspicuous piece of paper, more yellow and more crumpled than others, yet he does not have the strength to pull it out to look at its entirety.

When he found it among the documents of the agreement, he was petrified as he had been a few times in his life. Those characteristic ink marks, those meticulously drawn trees, those lines, those rivers, those names of places he had seen and visited over and over again had quickly taken the form of a face, a pair of eyes looking at him as if he were the most beautiful being ever created by the Valar, of a mouth that kissed him as if she was in dire need to quench her thirst and his mouth was the fount of a clear stream, of cheeks that, though pressed against his chest, blushed with every of his caress, and of a body pressed against his so that it seemed to enjoy a warmth that could not even exist in the forges of the great Mahal.

Her body, her face, her moans, her words.

It was just an adventure, a treat to sweeten up the negotiations.

Those words resound in his head and that face disappears, leaving only the barely sketched banks of the Anduin and the borders of Mirkwood beside it, drawn on that sheet of parchment.

A blind rage soon takes hold of his body, he feels the muscles tighten under his shirt, a black fury darkening his eyes. He fiercely crumples the drawing, no longer wanting to know, no longer wanting to give heed to those memories in his head. He had thought about it all the way home and now he can do something to forget her, to throw her figure into the flames and take her out of his body, and now he has the answer and the means to do it. But as soon as he approaches the fireplace to burn that piece of parchment in the flames, he is not able to. Something blocks his hand, a sense of guilt, a melancholy that bears her name, Ragna, the only name he would ever know and remember her by. His hand withdraws on its own, forbidding him to throw the paper into the fire, and in his heart he knows he will never succeed. He finds himself unrolling it and sitting down on his armchair in front of the fire in his room, watching it in detail. He knows what she is capable of drawing, he has seen it. What he has in his hand is nothing more than a sketch that had somehow ended up among the papers she had given him that day, that last day, that last night, when he had been able to enjoy her kisses, her body, her voice, one last time.

Sighing, Thorin runs a hand over his face and reaches out for his drinking horn to take another sip of wine, drowning his memories. He returns to his work undaunted, ignoring those silly thoughts that weighed on his shoulders like lead bars, like the heaviest armour he had ever worn.

As soon as the sweetish liquid touches his lips, he grunts with pleasure, snapping his tongue noisily and his hand continues that heavy work, turning a page and continuing to write.

But the more time passes, the more the cup is filled up and the silver jug gets emptied, the more his head becomes light and the more memories resurface.

Like the one from one of those nights.

"You have beautiful handwriting and that's not a compliment I often pay," Ragna tells him with her cheek resting on his chest and her small fingers playing with his hand.

"I should be honored then," he chuckles watching her thumb study the calluses on his palm.

"You must, after all the times I've been forced to look at it, I'm very sure of my words," she stated firmly. "But..." she interrupts, raising her face to his as she propped herself up on her elbows "The greatest honour I could give you is to tell you that it is more magnificent than mine."

"And will you ever tell me that, my lady?"

She smiles at him with the side of her mouth, their noses rubbing against each other. "I may, one night… or when you return here in the Iron Hills again, your majesty, you might be granted this… prize," she murmurs, brushing her lips against his.

"You are my prize," he replies and eagerly intertwines his fingers with hers and kisses her.

At the end of one of his signatures he presses the quill so hard on the paper that it creates a clearly visible smudge, causing him to throws the quill across the room, snarling like a beast.

And at that moment, his hand moves on its own, and he carefully pulls the sheet of parchment that keeps on drawing his mind towards itself and the marks on it slowly begin to show before his eyes. The papers that were stacked on top of the drawing fall to the ground, but he doesn't care, not at this moment.

He puts it on the wooden surface of his desk, as if it were one of those documents to be signed. Only the tips of his fingers rest on the crumpled sheet, and a fear of tearing it apart with a single movement raises its ugly head inside him. With his index finger, he traces every drawn mountain, every sketched tree, every rune. His eyes follow the Gladden Fields and the river Ninglor and finally arrive at the gates of Khazad-dûm, where his journey stops at the edge of the sheet on the banks of the lake of Kheled-zâram. That place to which he wanted nothing more than to take her, to see how her face brightens up while she stands on those banks, to show her what he had seen, to show her all that the world could give her, all that... he could give her, just in exchange for… for... one more night? Only that? Just a night of her, of her body? No...

A gentle knock on his study door interrupts his train of thought and brings him back to reality. Still disconcerted, he presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose as the spinning in his head continues to increase.

What a stupid, terrible idea.

"Come in," he mutters, trying to maintain at least a measure of self-control.

He receives no reply but the dark wooden door slowly opens, gradually showing him an avalanche of black curls, and a pair of eyes as ice-coloured as the dress she wore: Dìs.

"Thorin," she greets him looking through the gap in the door with uncertainty.

"Sister," he replies, nodding, allowing her to come in.

Better that she comes into his study at that moment than anyone else in the Mountain, someone who could have interrogated him, someone like Dwalin or worse, Balin. Not that they hadn't tried to do that to him already, but he skillfully managed to ignore them by just giving them new (and plenty) orders to follow.

He couldn't talk, not to them, not to anyone.

"Are you busy, brother? If you prefer I can come over later," his sister asks him, still outside the door

"No, not at all. I was just sorting out some paperwork... nothing more," he murmurs more to himself than to her, hiding the map on his desk slightly under his forearms.

Dìs nods as she enters the room and closes the door behind her "I see, aye, it's just that these days you are very busy."

Thorin notices how the words become softer and how his sister's eyes wander quickly around his study and he notices how the wrinkle on her forehead becomes deeper all of a sudden when her eyes stop on the papers on the floor, on the quill on the carpet in the middle of the room or on the makeshift bed he had created for himself to rest on during those weeks in front of the fireplace.

His heart freezes in his veins when he notices how she begins to look at his arms, or rather at what was hidden under his crossed arms.

"The orders for Durin's Day and the Reclamation Day?" she asks him, pointing at the parchment with her finger.

Thorin nods and carefully covers the map with another set of papers he still had to read and sign.

"Hundreds of them, more than I have expected," he replies authoritatively, narrowing his eyes.

Dis remains silent again for a few moments, just nodding her head and continuing to linger towards the surface of her desk and a strange shadow appears on her face.

"I need to speak with you Thorin, officially," she states seriously, looking him straight in the face.

The grip around his stomach loosens and he nods, unable to control a sigh of relief. "Of course," he murmurs pointing to her with his hand at the chair in front of him inviting her to sit down. "What's the matter?" he asks, but Dìs doesn't approach the chair or change her facial expression.

She remains still, motionless, observing him, with a look that makes him immediately swallow the sigh of relief he has allowed himself. Her hands, covered with rings and precious stones, are crossed over her belly and she casts another glance at his arms.

"I have just returned from the Iron Hills… I had to speak with Dain about something," she informs him coldly.

The Iron Hills.

Involuntarily his palm closes in a fist and he feels the need to swallow another sip of wine. Glancing at his drinking horn, he fills it to the brim, noticing that the third jug he had prepared for himself that evening was now almost completely empty.

"I was not informed of this, I could have given you an escort or sent you there officially. The lads told me you were busy..." he scolds her, gradually starting to connect all the dots.

Fili and Kili had justified their mother's absence during the last several days, he lost count how many of them passed, with various excuses. He remembers the looks the two brothers gave each other during meals; he could now see how they had been lying to him for days.

"What brought you there?" he counters, wetting his lips with the sweet and terribly familiar nectar. "What was so important that you had to speak to our cousin in person and not via letters?"

Dìs glances at him as soon as he tilts his horn to drink and with a couple of quick strides she approaches the desk, yanking the cup he has been holding out of his hand with a tug and glaring at him.

"I had to speak to him about you, brother!" she snarls at him. "He told me about your two weeks in the Iron Hills, about the Orc attack, the trade negotiations, and about how happy you looked there, how younger you looked!" she scolds him again, slamming the horn full of wine at the other end of the table.

It doesn't take him long to understand.

Forcing himself up with his hands on the table, he gets up from the chair, making it fall to the floor behind him, and glares at her.

"There is nothing I could have not told you myself, Dìs, you could have just asked me without disturbing our cousin,” he bares his teeth, his nostrils flaring.

But Dìs does not seem to be frightened. She places her hands on her hips and raises her chin more assertively than ever.

"Then can you tell me her name?" she asks insistently, her back straightening.

Her name.

A twinge in his chest forces him to arch his back upwards. "I don't know who you are talking about," he lowers his voice.

"You know who I am talking about!" Dìs insists, pointing her finger at the wooden desk and raising her voice, "and from what I have heard every dwarf in the Iron Hills would know about who I am talking about! I'm talking about the same dwarven lady who reduced you to drinking wine from morning till night!" she spits at him.

The wine rises to Thorin's head and all his self-control crumbles under the weight of his sister's words.

He fists both of his hands but it's not enough to control himself and his words.

"Leave her out of this!" he roars back, slamming his fist on the table.

But he realises too late that he has betrayed himself with his own words, he has admitted it.

His sister's blue eyes flutter several times and her mouth opens wide in a hushed breath.

"You are protecting her..." she whispers but to his ears it sounds like a much louder scream than the one she spat out soon after. "So they are telling the truth!" she barks again at him, slamming her finger on the desk.

They are telling the truth, who are they? They don't know the truth, none of them knows a damn thing other than sounds and moans and growls.

The wine rises to his head again and that taste of raspberries and malt fills his mouth again taking possession of his thoughts and his lips... as it had always done.

"There is no one! Not anymore and there won’t ever be! That is my last word on this matter, Dís!" he thunders back at her, pointing at the door with his chin, just wanting her to leave and finally stop talking....

Exhausted, he lowers his gaze, turning it towards the glass of wine that in that moment was calling him, louder than ever. He wants to forget, he wants to sleep, and not remember the truth of the words he had just spoken, why wouldn't Dìs let him forget?!

Ragna will never be his! She has never been his and he has been reducing himself to a pile of rubble because of it! It is a feeling he knows too well, the desire, wanting something until he can't think of anything else, but it is different this time, he wants the one thing he can't have and won’t ever have.

The one thing that neither an army, nor gold, nor prayers won’t ever allow him to touch again.

Thorin closes his eyes and stretches his arm forward, and in one slow motion he budges the horn filled with wine from in front of him, removing it from his gaze.

"You left her..." Dìs whispers, making him grit his teeth.

"I did not leave her, I gave her a choice and she made her decision!" he stops looking as his fingers are still closed in a fist and in that moment his palm that clutches at nothing is covered with a hand bearing dozens of small golden rings.

"She picked her people and her life in the Iron Hills, the thing she wanted is not here," he concludes, opening his palm upwards and lhis hand is carried away like sand on the wind, just like his thoughts.

Dìs moves even closer to the desk, placing both hands on it and forcing him to look up, finding her face at a very short distance from his.

"So you left the Iron Hills, you left her there and you did not tell her about..." she spits at him. "About… about… Damn, about all this!?" she yells at him again and with a movement she spreads her arms, pointing at his desk, and then at the room they are in, clearly referring to the confusion that reigned in his rooms, but not only to it.

Thorin understands that she is referring to more than that, but he will never have the strength to say it.

"I'll call someone to clean it up later," he murmurs coldly, but his patience is beginning to wear thin.

"You'll clean it yourself! You've never left the papers on the table in such a mess before, you barely eat, and if you do, you eat in your room alone! You spend all night in the forges, forging nothing or melting down and reforging the swords you already made just to keep yourself busy the way you keep yourself busy day in and day out by loading yourself with-"

"You don't know anything, Dís!" he interrupts her abruptly, roaring "You don't know what happened so I won't let you treat me like a boy who can barely tie his boots!"

"I will treat you like a boy if you continue to act like one, whining because someone dared to tell him no!" she retorts, pointing her finger at him.

Slowly Thorin lifts his back and puffs up his chest, showing his teeth. "Watch your tongue sister! You have no idea what you are talking about!"

His sister takes a couple of strides bringing herself to the side of the desk. "Then explain it to me! Explain to me why I barely recognize you!" she yells as her voice cracks for a moment. "How someone is so important to you, so perfect for you that you keep tormenting yourself like this? Why are you so stupid that you won't even try to stand up for yourself like you have been doing your whole damn life!" she yells back at him and those words mark the end of Thorin's lies and set him free.

With a couple of strides he moves towards his sister, clenching his fists.

"Because she is not a battle, she is not a trade agreement! If she were, I would have traded half the wealth I possess now just to have her here!" he shouts at her angrily.

His heart beats in his chest at an unspeakable speed and everything in front of him turns black, but the twinge in his chest instead of stopping him, this time makes him open his mouth and pour out all the things he wanted to keep hidden from Dìs and everyone else.

His eyes sting, his throat becomes dry and his breath quickens uncontrollably. "She's an already lost case so I'm staying down. I will not get up and fight when the flames no longer burn on the battlefield! I hear her voice, I see her face when I close my eyes, Dís, and I can't stop thinking about what I could have done better and how one stupid sentence pulled me down like I was still a young prince in love and not what I am today!" he yells at her, making her eyes go wide with amazement. "How in those moments with her, I felt like a king, more like a king than I feel now, with a kingdom, and how I was more of a king then than I am now, how I..." he freezes for a moment, the shouts becoming a low growl, a whisper that only he wants to hear, but that Dís will inevitably have to hear too.

"How peaceful I felt when I was with her and how she took all the blood away from my hands and the ghosts and fire in my head that haunt me every night, she took it all away just by stroking my cheek…” he whispers, looking her sister straight in the eyes. “She managed to do it just by sleeping next to me for two weeks, just by talking to me for two weeks, just by making l-" he freezes, no that he couldn't say that, and he couldn't admit it yet.

He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat and takes a couple of steps away from Dìs who straightens her back little by little.

"Only by being by my side for two weeks.." Thorin concludes by casting a glance to his left, looking at the map and then back at the half full goblet. "And I don't want to feel that, I want to forget, those damned two weeks, those trade negotiations and her!" he admits clenching his fists again. "Is that enough of an explanation for you?!" he hisses to himself once more, giving her an icy stare, a look he hadn't been able to control. "Now go! Get out of here! Now!" he orders her, pointing at the door with his finger.

He sits back in his chair with a low growl, letting himself go, feeling drained and empty from his own thoughts and emotions.

It had been almost impossible to think and yet he had said them out loud, he had said everything out loud. Everything he felt, and felt for her, whatever it was. Sighing, he rests his elbows on the desk, resting his head in his hands, enjoying the ringing in his ears and the silence around him.

He wants to sleep.

Suddenly he hears a few little steps and Dìs' hand rests motherly on his shoulder, supporting him lightly and drawing little circles on the muscle of his arm with her thumb. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her kneel beside him and feels her breath at his elbow and before he knows it her lips and forehead are on his bejeweled arm guard.

A silence descends upon them, a silence broken only by their heavy breaths, by the pounding inside his chest that gradually grows lighter. Thorin moves an arm from under his forehead and places his hand on Dìs' ringed hand, squeezing it gratefully, as when they were children.

Naked though clothed, the only one who had ever had the chance to see him in his worst moments and who had often shared those worst moments with him.

He feels his sister's lips move into a grimace and her fingers tighten around his arm.

"When Vili died I was barely able to get up from bed, I know you remember," she starts in a calm voice. "I didn't even want to eat or even breathe sometimes, I just wanted to see him one more time and after that I ended up just focusing on Fili and Kili, for years… I lost someone I wanted to spend my whole day, my whole week, my whole year, my whole life with, and I can't even imagine how much I want his ghost to not stop me from my desires now, from what my heart needs now. I wanted him there with me and I did not even have the chance to tell him how much I needed him, how much I loved him, one last time..."

Shocked by those words, which she had never confided in him, Thorin looks up to his right noticing how Dìs looks at him with her eyes veiled in pain, with the truth and the reply on her lips distorted into a small smile. And then he recalls.

How much she loves him.

How much he loves her.

"You do, you do have the chance to tell her, Thorin," she tells him and gently pulls away a lock of hair that was caught between the obsidian decorations of his crown. "Only because you are not as young as Fili, only because you think you are too busy, only because you think you have everything and don’t deserve more, please don't close doors behind you like this," she murmurs, laying a hand on his cheek.

"She closed it, Dìs," he answers, looking back at the map in front of him "She locked it," he repeats.

"Then re-open it again, what do you have to lose?" she asks him, moving her thumb over his beard.

There it is, the question, the real question, why hadn't he done anything yet, why was he still standing there like that?

Thorin moves his middle finger over the paper, stroking the map, studying the lines that adorn it again and again in search of an answer. Then a sting in his chest kicks in as he notices a detail he'd never noticed before and it brings the world crashing down on him. Near the edge of the paper, next to the Kheled-zâram, there was a road, the road leading to the west gate and there, just there, her hand drew an ibex.

They used not to come down from the mountains, it was such a common animal there that she needed to draw it, but then their conversation in Ragna's rooms hit him hard, making his eyes wide open.

Well... perhaps. Some day.

"Her..." he finally replies all in one breath. This is what he would have lost.

"Have you not already lost her like this, brother?" * * * The Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 ...

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[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded—slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. Now, with regret heavy in his chest and your absence suffocating, he is left grasping at wilted promises, wondering if love, once lost, can ever bloom again.

content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble.

writer’s note : I wrote this because I wanted to put some of Sylus’ perspective. I thought it’d be interesting. Enjoy :D @phisen btw hereee you goo xd

parts : one | two

quote : "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there’s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanor only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with color, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognize himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now, wasn’t it?

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realized that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

[lale-txt]

SUPERNOVAE ; Sakusa x gn!reader

He trails a bunch of kisses from your collarbone up to the side of your neck, to your jaw, lingering. There’s this gentleness that’s reserved for no one but you, a side of him only you get to see. Kiyoomi loves you. He loves you more than anything, loves you like it’s breathing. 

contains: gn!reader (no pronouns used, no bodily descriptions except reader vaguely being described shorter than Kiyoomi), childhood friends to lovers, fluff, bit of a slowburn, teeny tiny bit of teenage angst, romance starts after they graduate high school, around 3 very lightly suggestive sentences, no beta we die like my sanity the moment i laid my eyes on sakusa kiyoomi for the first time

word count: 2.6k

When he turns five, Kiyoomi is told to smile for the camera. His birthday table is opulent, myriads of wrapped up gifts and a cake almost his height. He doesn’t make a wish when he blows out the candles nor does he smile for the photos no matter how much his parents or older siblings begged him to. Their large hands tugging on his face, fixing his collar, ruffling his hair–it was all too much, suffocating in a way no child should ever feel. If only he could grow up faster so he wouldn’t have to put up with their act anymore. He learned too young that it was all fake, a facade they put up, some broken play the adults have perfected over time. Once they start arguing like they always do, he quietly slips away without any of them noticing. 

There’s a small hole in the garden fence and it’s his best kept secret. It leads him to the only person he wants to see: You. 

You with your scraped knees and mismatched socks. You with the mischievous glimmer in your eyes. You with the bouquet of daisies in your tiny fist, calling out his name the moment you spot him.

Kiyoomi doesn’t smile for the camera, but he does for you. That’s something that will never change over the years. 

At the age of ten Kiyoomi and you have a matching tooth gap from when you lost your baby teeth. You told him about the tooth fairy and he informed you that’s bullshit the adults made up, which he regretted immediately because it made you cry and more than anything he hates seeing you cry. To make up for it, he put both of your teeth under his pillow because “his parents are actually richer than the tooth fairy” and bought you a cake from the pastry shop you walk by every day on your way home from school.

“But it’s your birthday, not mine,” you’d protest, half-heartedly, with one finger collecting the buttercream from the cake box already, and Kiyoomi would grab the strawberry from his slice and put it on yours because he knows they’re your favorite and maybe he wants to be your favorite, too. 

It's puppy love, so sweet and tender. He keeps feeding you strawberry shortcake while you weave daisy chains for him, and occasionally he’d grumble something under his breath but doesn’t pull his hand away when you slip a ring made from daisies on his fingers.

“Look, we match,” you’d say with a beaming smile, your tooth gap on full display. Kiyoomi still has the daisy ring from that day, pressed between pages of his textbook. 

Kiyoomi is fifteen and the cherry blossoms are blooming early this year. He picks a petal from the crown of your head and keeps holding it between his fingertips as he pushes his bike next to you on your way home from school. When did he get so much taller than you? Have you always smelled this sweet? Is it normal to notice how long your lashes are when you glance up at him? He can easily tuck you under his chin now and it stirs up something unfamiliar in his chest. 

There’s a certain kind of protectiveness he feels about you now. Are the guys at high school bothering you (probably not since you’re always glued to his side) and have you eaten enough (you did since he buys your lunch every day) and who will come pick you up and escort you home when you come down with a fever during homeroom (he will, without question)? Sometimes it gets so very loud in his head, and then you slip your hand into his when no one is watching and calmness washes over him like a warm summer rain.

When you’re fifteen, sometimes the world seems to end on a casual Wednesday, but Kiyoomi thinks he’ll be alright as long as he’s with you.

You’re graduating together on his eighteenth birthday and you just can’t stop crying. There’s something so bittersweet about this day, an inevitable ending bleeding into a new beginning. All of your school years spent with each other desk by desk, with your little doodles on the side of his notes and crumbled notes passed back and forth between you, your feet nudging another under the tables during group work. You grew up together and the passing of time was both ruthless and beautiful. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” he grumbles but keeps one arm tightly wrapped around you while your face is hidden against his chest. Your body shakes slightly with every hiccup. Years later and he still feels helpless against your tears, wanting nothing but to kiss them away but he doesn’t know if you’d let him. Usually his bluntness keeps him away from the guessing game, but it’s different with you. 

Everything is different with you. 

“Seriously, stop it,” he murmurs, now cupping your face with both hands. He sees it all; the uncertainty in your eyes, the small wobble of your bottom lip, the way your lashes stick together from your tears, and yet you never looked more beautiful in his eyes. He’s the one you come to for comfort, as if it’s a rare treasure you can only find in his arms. It’s an honor, he thinks. Holding you, being needed by you, falling in lo–no, that’s a really big word still. Or is it? 

“We have an entire summer of our own ahead of us and we’ll go to the same college starting in fall,” he says, tilting your face up slightly as he leans in closer, his breath ghosting over your skin. “We’re gonna be roommates. Haven’t you been building our apartment in the Sims since we were twelve? We can even have the library slash in-house pâtisserie you’ve been dreaming about. I’ll make sure of it. So stop crying, okay? You have me. You’ll always have me.”

You can’t help but laugh through your tears now, a sound like windchimes, and Kiyoomi’s features soften. He’s holding his sun and his future between his palms right now. 

At twenty-one Kiyoomi is very busy kissing you. A lot. 

Between volleyball training and your college schedules there’s only so little time you get to spend at the apartment together, but Kiyoomi is eager to make every minute count, and by that he means having your lips melt against his at any given moment. Whether it was in the bathroom while you brush your teeth together, in the doorframe when you’re already running late for class, in the elevator when there wasn’t anyone else around or open-mouth kisses pressed against the kitchen counter–he could never get enough of you, not once ever since he got a taste of you. 

“You’re clingy, my sweet birthday boy,” you murmur but there’s no heat behind your words, just soft amusement. There’s not a lot of room for argument when you’re currently trapped on the couch from Kiyoomi’s entire weight on top of you. Your fingers dance up and down his bare back while his face is nuzzled in the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent, his curls still damp from the shower. 

He trails a bunch of kisses from your collarbone up to the side of your neck, to your jaw, lingering. There’s this gentleness that’s reserved for no one but you, a side of him only you get to see. Kiyoomi loves you. He loves you more than anything, loves you like it’s breathing. 

His lips ghost over yours, a silent dare, an unspoken promise. 

“You were saying?”, he mutters, eyes darting to your lips before they catch your gaze again. There’s a hint of a smile playing upon his lips that widens the moment you pull him down with your mouth agape, your hand now tangled in his hair and pulling on it slightly, his tongue slowly sliding against yours. Sometimes he thinks it must be some kind of magic, the way your kisses taste sweeter than syrup, having him addicted to you, love-drunk even.

You celebrate his twenty-fourth birthday between moving boxes and takeout containers. In all this chaos you still find time to grab a cake on your way home, lighting a single candle for him while he’s busy in the kitchen wrapping up plates and your favorite mugs. Seeing you standing there, beaming while telling him to make a wish, his heart tumbles in his chest, against his ribcage, dizzy from all the love he holds for you. 

If he is being honest with himself, Kiyoomi feels guilty and selfish. You spent your whole life in Tokyo, had your social circles, work and stability here, and yet he didn’t even have to ask if you’d be willing to move to Osaka with him after he signed to play for the MSBY Black Jackals. It’s as if it was out of question for you, the possibility that you two could be apart, even if only temporarily. You just shrugged it off, told him you could work anywhere, that you want to see him succeed in what he loves. 

He wants to protest–it is you who he loves–but you shush him with a kiss, your hands coming up to cradle his face.

“We have a lifetime together, don’t we? We can be whoever we want to be, live wherever we want to. All I’m asking is for us living this life together. I love you. Hey, look at me. I love you. You can be a little selfish with me, okay?”

For the first time ever, Kiyoomi makes a wish when blowing out his birthday candle; to protect your happiness and your heart, to grow old with you, to bask in your love till his last breath. He’ll do anything in his might to make it all come true.

It’s his twenty-seventh birthday and once again you’re crying.

The end of the current Japan's V.League season is just around the corner and MSBY is playing an away match you were supposed to attend too. Kiyoomi got you flight tickets and a nice hotel in advance, planning to spoil you while you were there to cheer for him, but unfortunately you came down with the flu a few days before the trip was supposed to happen. 

Your voice is hoarse and you sniffle on the other end of the line, upset to be missing out on seeing him play. What’s even worse is that it’s the first birthday you’re spending apart in all the time you’ve known each other since childhood. Hearing you sob is straight up breaking his heart. 

“I’ll rent out a car and drive back home to you after the game,” he says calmly, trying to soothe you in your misery. “It’s only a few hours drive, I’ll manage. You let yourself get knocked out by your cold medicine and I’ll be there when you wake up in the morning, okay? We can pretend it’s still my birthday. It’s not a real birthday anyway without a kiss from my favorite person in the whole world.”

He knows you want to protest and tell him to celebrate the end of the season with his team, but he shushes all of your husky attempts of talking back at him. When it comes to you, there’s no distance big enough to keep you apart, drawn to another like the moon and the tides, two exoplanets in an orbit of their own. Kiyoomi would swim across any ocean and cross all the stars if it meant getting a glimpse of you one more time; maybe steal a kiss or two. Whatever it takes, even if it’s lifetimes–as long as it leads him to you, he’ll find the strength to endure it. 

There’s no one else he loves more than you.

“I swear, there's one gray hair. It’s right here,” you mumble with your fingers tangling in his curls. Kiyoomi huffs but he doesn’t bother to open his eyes, his head currently resting in your lap. He’s content spending the night before his twenty-ninth birthday like this, just the two of you in the quiet of your apartment, but he can tell you’re restless. Your nimble fingers trace along his face, like a sculptor admiring their work; dancing along his jaw and his cheekbones, up to his birthmarks above his eye and the cupid’s bow of his lip. Eventually he catches your wrist, pressing your palm against his cheek before looking at you. 

“Conbini walk?”, he suggests, knowing he can always get you with that one. You lean down to kiss him and Kiyoomi groans quietly, torn between not wanting to leave his perfect spot and wanting to do whatever makes you the happiest. 

His fingers weave together with yours before he slips them into the big pockets of his jacket. The nights of late March were still cold and even though the walk wasn’t that long, Kiyoomi hates the thought of you being cold. He follows you around the market, watching you as you fill the basket with any snack your heart desires, occasionally stealing a glance over your shoulder to get his approval. It’s a playful routine you’ve established by now, from the way he insists on carrying the things once the basket gets too heavy to the click of his tongue when you attempt to pay with your card and not his.

There’s powdered sugar on the tip of your nose from the cream puff you hold in your free hand as you walk back home through the empty streets together and Kiyoomi smiles, leaning down to kiss it away. You giggle softly and playfully shove his face away, getting even more sugar on both of you in the process. 

“You’re impossible,” Kiyoomi mutters but the smile on his lips betrays his words. He collects a bit of cream from the corner of your mouth with his thumb and licks it off, now his turn to laugh when you feign indignation. It’s only you who can bring out this side of him.

When you tap the screen of your phone, the clock shows 00:01; another round around the sun, another waltz with you in his arms. 

“Make a wish, love,” you declare softly, looking at him like he’s adoration personified. 

Kiyoomi gives your hand another small squeeze before bringing it up to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over your ring finger, his thoughts briefly wandering to the small velvet box sitting in the drawer of his nightstand for your anniversary next month. 

What do you wish for when you already have everything you could’ve ever dreamed of and more? 

He presses another kiss to the back of your hand, then to your wrist, before pulling you closer, his strong arms encircling you. He leans down and buries his face in the crook of your neck, his favorite place in the world, craving every bit of skin on skin contact he can get while you’re wrapped up in warm clothes like this. 

“All my wishes came true the day I met you,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “But if there’s one selfish thing I can wish for–it’s to love you for as long as the sun and the moon rise and set. Let me love you till the end of time, if that’s alright with you.”

a/n: i love him too much. hbd to my sweet boy.

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@kentocalls @wyrcan @nekozaki @kittygirl11829 @bakingcuriosity

@bakery-anon @jodercriis @chaotic-neutral-ig @kitsune-kita @kameyyy

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[esmedelacroix]

01 - Details

synopsis ! he’s an American football player by day and a passionate mathematician by night. She’s a well-rounded historian and writer who couldn’t evaluate a derivative to save her life. They lived in two different worlds but shared the same study room.

previous chapter | series masterlist

cw ! no use of y/n, y/n is _____, fluff, slow burn, college au, ooc sukuna, f!reader, child abuse/neglect, alcohol abuse, suggestive

fic radio ! Crybaby by SZA

Ohio State University, Autumn of Senior Year

To say that you didn't change would be an understatement. You felt too much guilt when you got to school. So at college, you were the same straight-A, (seemingly)perfect girl. You were the complete opposite of the people in your friend group. Then again, Shoko and Satoru were business majors; what were they doing in class anyway?

Suguru was the only one who shared your struggles to an extent as a philosophy major. Even so, he didn't care about his grades as much as you did yours. During your entire college experience, you didn't go to a single party. It was always extra studying for you. But you weren't a complete troglodyte. You went out to eat with your friends—occasionally.

They also had a habit of breaking into your dorm and closing your books and laptop, forcing the hangouts. You couldn't risk that happening because you were preparing to wow your professors with your knowledge as an Ancient History and Classics major. Being your extra self, you also double majored in English and already wanted to get a head start on your writing assignments.

You went where you knew they couldn't find you. The library at the least popular end of campus was where all the try-hards, like yourself, studied. The library was busy, of course, and there was one more study room left, so you signed your name in the time slot and snagged the last room. You had documents strewn on the table with your laptop open, playing the classical piece you needed to analyze on repeat.

After about 30 minutes of complete peace and productivity. You turned your head towards the clear glass of the study room to see a scary man standing at the door. Just staring. At you.

That man was Ryomen Sukuna. The charismatic campus heartthrob and stereotypical quarterback of the football. He was also the school's resident airhead along with his partner in crime, Toji Fushiguro. You had heard rumors about the numerous women seen leaving his room and the alleged Eiffel Towers he partook in with Toji. It didn't help that he was in the same frat as Satoru. The sole reason why you never visited him and Suguru. But what the hell was he doing here?

You look around warily before getting up and opening the door. “Um . . . Can I help you?” you questioned.

“Let’s share this room.”

“I have it signed out for this time though. I wrote my name on the sign-up sheet,” you reasoned.

“Doesn’t matter. The librarians like me so they won’t mind and I see you’re not using your whiteboard. ‘S all I need,” he sighed rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

“Okay,” you hesitatantly agreed, stepping aside for him to walk in.

You stayed silent as you felt him tower over you. He barely squeezed past the small space you left him to enter. The smell he left was a combination of musk, oud, cedar, and amber. He smelled like a warm home with a cozy fire crackling. As much as you hated to admit it, just like every other girl on earth, you were weak for Ryomen Sukuna. The way his pecs and muscular back poked out of his shirt like mountains emerging from the fog had you aching for him in a way that made you feel ashamed.

His light pink tufts of hair looked so soft and his jaw oh so sharp. You could see a plethora of tattoos adorning his arms. Your eyes followed them as they led into his shirt. Part of you wondered just how much of his body was tatted.

If you squinted you could see his abs peek through the fabric of his white t-shirt. He was so much taller and bigger than you. You felt dominated and you hadn’t even exchanged many words.

You watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he uncapped the pink marker you had on the table and jotted down problems.

You then realized that you hadn't moved from where you were before because you were staring. Pulling yourself from his trance, you closed that door and took your seat. You'd occasionally look up from the fifteen-page essay you were writing and see that Sukuna had written the most complicated math problem you had ever seen in small-print, neat handwriting. The way he handled and solved the problem was so organized you almost felt like you understood it.

You looked down at your hand written notes and annotation riddled documents. Your fatal flaw was your illegible handwriting. It was practically hieroglyphics to everyone but you.

After twenty minutes, Sukuna finished his problem that practically covered the whole board and took a brain break sitting across from you. "What's with the music?" he asked.

"I'm analyzing it for a class. Not a fan?" you replied, eyes still glued to your laptop as you typed.

"No, I like Hymn to Vena. It's one of Gustav Holst's best pieces," he admitted.

"You know classical music?" you questioned in shock finally looking up at him. You met his piercing wine-colored eyes.

"Well I'm not completely braindead yet," he shrugged.

"I didn't know you were so historically seasoned and . . . mathematically inclined," you admitted, gesturing towards the solved complex equation on the board.

"Ah, that's nothing. I'm actually in your Intro to Classical Music class so I’m doing the same paper.”

"Wait. Really?"

"Yeah, I just sit in the back and you sit in the front," he smirked.

"First of all, there is nothing wrong with sitting in the front. Secondly, I had no idea you were in my class. I'm the worst," you smiled apologetically.

"You're good. I can't write for shit so I haven't even started the paper," Sukuna admitted leaning back in his chair and resting his large hands behind his head.

"It's due next week, Sukuna!" you exclaimed in disbelief. He noted the way your nose wrinkled when you cringed. And the way you looked away when you tried not to laugh at his jokes.

"It's no biggie. I'll just pay a writing tutor to do it for me," he said, getting up and grabbing a teal EXPO marker from your pencil pouch. This guy is too comfortable.

"I'm a writing tutor," you revealed with an unimpressed look.

"Well, then you just made my life a whole lot easier. Can you write my essay about Pas de Deux for me?" he questioned.

"No, Sukuna! I'm not writing your essay for you. You didn't even say please. I could tutor you but that's about it," you offered.

"C'mon let's work something out here," he bargained.

"What could you possibly offer me?" you quite condescendingly challenged.

"Well, I know that the only class you're not the top in is our Advanced Multi-variable Calculus class," he smugly stated.

"And how would you know that smarty-pants?” you retorted. Our? He's in that class too?

"'Cause I am, you ding-dong," he chuckled. Ryomen Sukuna is at the top of our math class? I thought people were lying when they said he was a math major!

"Okay so you want us to tutor each other?" you questioned.

"I was thinking more of a 'do each other's work' arrangement," Sukuna reasoned, he had a stupid smirk plastered on his stupid perfect lips. He quirked one of his beautiful perfect brows. It had a scar across it that you found very attractive for whatever reason. He's totally putting the moves on me, you thought.

"No."

"Okay, how about I teach you the math, you write my essay?"

"No."

"Okay . . . You just write my essay and I do your math work and get you into the Pi Kappa Alpha[fraternity name] parties? Final offer," he proposed.

"I think you're mistaken, Sukuna. I do not go to parties. I do not break the academic integrity rules put in place by the university, and I would much rather get 70s on my math tests than ever get my work done by someone else," you snapped. He didn't want to admit it, but he was impressed by your ability to talk back to him. He had never been told off like that.

"Oh, fine. We can tutor each other," he sighed rolling his eyes.

"Good," you smiled. He shook his head in disbelief and wrote down an even more complex problem on the board and began solving it occasionally grumbling under his breath when the two of you met eyes. He wasn't actually annoyed. In fact, he was intrigued. He had waited this long to interact with you and now he didn't want to stop.

"You're a real piece of work _____," he teased, as the time slot for the room finally ran out.

"Am I Sukuna? Or am I just the first woman to say no to you?" you quipped.

He smiled and shrugged, "Somethin' like that." You hated to admit it but, he had a really cute smile. His resting face made him look like he could kill everything in sight. His smile softened his facial features. It wasn't that fake cocky smile he put on to seem hot or be a tease. It was a real genuine smile. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. Ugh, why do I need to be like all the other girls that pine for him?

The two of you left the room after packing all your stuff. You gave Sukuna your number and email on a sticky note. "Text me when you want to study again. Sorry about my handwriting by the way," you apologized sheepishly.

"What do you mean? I can read it just fine," he questioned.

Wow, he might be the only one on the planet, you thought as the two of you left the library side by side.

"You don't need to lie, Sukuna," you joked.

"Just Ryo is fine," he corrected.

"Okay Ryomen," you smiled.

He rolled his eyes playfully at you saying his full name instead. Internally he knew: he liked the way you disobeyed him. He found the way you smiled to yourself trying not to laugh after making a joke cute.

It was all in the details. The way you sat in the front of the class every day with a notebook out. The way you impressively scribbled notes while still looking at the board.

He memorized the way you chewed on your pen and bounced your leg whenever you did an exam. The way you always participated. Staying after to help the professor clean up. Going to office hours. You were friendly and bantering with all your teachers. But somehow in an effortless charismatic way and not a ‘pick me’ way.

You didn't know, but he stared holes into your back in every single class. He was amused just staring at your back. Though he knew you wouldn't be there he looked for you in the large sea of people in the stadium. He watched you succeed and rise to the challenge. Listening in on your musical analysis in class he was mesmerized. He just wanted to wander through your mind. Maybe then he could be just as great as you.

In his short interaction with you, he made a realization. You weren't the preppy, bubbly, sweet girl he made you up to be in his mind. You were kind of a bitch. In the hottest way possible. That made you all the better. He needed more and more of you.

. . .

-> next part

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[deadrobinthoughts]

† just in case : tim.

⋆˙⟡ "There's a chance I won't see you tomorrow, So I will spend today saying hello, And all the hopes and dreams I may have borrowed, Just know, my friend, I leave them all to you"

⋆˙⟡ request: not technically a request --- but i apparently cater to damian and tim fans. ↦ kalico note: this is based solely on the lyrics "Hello Heaven, Hello"

tim drake never thought he'd be doing this.

not again.

he had been in tight spots before but there was something different about this one. maybe it was the way the weight of the situation felt heavier, pressing down on his chest with every breath. maybe it was the realization that this time, the stakes weren’t just about the mission; it was about something deeper.

something he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for a long time.

he was supposed to be unfazed, detached. the guy who could handle anything, who could analyze situations with cold precision and always come out unscathed. as he stood there, the sound of the clock ticking in the back of his mind, he understood just how much he’d come to rely on something he couldn’t afford to lose.

you.

he had no way of knowing how long this mission would take, how long he’d be gone, or if he’d even make it back. the risks were high, the odds were low, and as much as he hated to admit it, the possibility of not seeing you again was messing with his head.

there was a moment, right before he left, when everything seemed to slow down. the rush of adrenaline, the calculated plans; it all seemed so small in comparison to the thought of not getting to say what needed to be said.

he wasn’t even sure why but something inside him told him to speak up, to not leave with things unsaid. to not leave with regrets.

you were there already, standing by the door, waiting to see him off as you always did. tim opened his mouth, and for a split second, he wasn't sure he could go through with it.

he wasn’t afraid of death, not in the way people are, but he was afraid of leaving things unresolved. afraid of leaving you behind with all the things he hadn’t said.

you had always been there for him, understood him in a way no one else did, and despite everything, he’d kept his distance; out of fear, out of habit. now though, in this fleeting moment, as he stood there, ready to walk out the door, he knew he couldn't simply leave. not without telling you, in his own way, that he cared ( a lot more than he'd planned it ).

more than he’d ever admitted, even to himself.

"i need to say something before i go," tim said suddenly, his voice thick with something he was struggling to find the words for. you tilted your head slightly, your gaze still steady as if you already knew what he was about to say.

he took a step toward you, his heart pounding in his chest as he fought the urge to say the practical things; the things he’d said to others before he left for dangerous missions. the plan. the contingency. the "i’ll be fine" speech that could turn out to be a complete lie.

none of that mattered now. none of those stereotypical things would come close to his thoughts.

instead, he let it out, the words tumbling from his mouth, honest in a way he normally wouldn't be.

"look.. i.. i have no way of knowing how these are going to go once i get out there," tim continued, his eyes softening as he looked at you. "but there’s a chance i won’t be coming back. and if i don’t… i just want you to know, everything i have, everything i’ve built, i leave it to you. the hopes, the dreams.... hell, even the doubts. they’re yours now."

your eyes met his, and in that instant, he could see the understanding there. it wasn’t pity, it never was - he wasn't actually sure you could feel pity. you just looked at him with the same quiet acceptance as the day you met.

tim swallowed hard, stepping closer, the weight of his emotions threatening to break the calm facade he had so carefully built. "i don’t want you to be alone. i don't-- he said the words before he could stop himself, the vulnerability in his voice so unlike the usual calm and controlled tone he often spoke with.

you didn’t speak immediately. instead, you closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around his neck. it was nothing grand but it was what tim needed in the moment.

"tim," you began softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, “we all have to go at some point, ya know? it doesn’t mean i’m leaving your side. not really."

a silence stretched between you two, peaceful and oddly comforting, and for the first time in a long time, tim felt like he could let go of the weight he had been carrying for so long.

"you know i’m coming back, right?" he asked, holding back the faint smile that threatened to show. "i can’t just leave you with all my bad habits."

you smiled back, something that finally lifted the weight of it all.

"i know."

just like that, tim felt the world slow down for a moment. the mission could wait. the danger could wait. there was no final goodbye, no weighty farewell; only the knowledge that no matter what, no matter how many missions he faced, you would always be there to welcome him home.

as he walked away, stepping out into the unknown, he carried with him a quiet certainty that even if this was their last moment together, it would never be goodbye forever.

as he left, the thought echoed in his mind: everything he had, he had already left to you.

[forrest-onfire]

Mkay, I’ve got another:

I need a fic where Raf and MC are chaotic besties. Obviously Raf is in love but MC also has a crush except she’s CONVINCED he’s gay. Bc come on. Look at him. Do you hear his voice? That’s a pretty little gay boy right there. I’m 100% down for bisexual Raf (I’ve been seeing lots of Sylus x Rafael lately and I’m EATING IT UP). But I digress: MC loves Raf but has always friendzoned him unintentionally because she’s convinced he couldn’t possibly like her back, he’s just a flirty person in general, not that she’s every seen him flirt with anyone else, but that assumption suits him well anyway.

Raf HATES that she seemingly doesn’t see him as a threat at all. Basically the whole “clearly you don’t see me as a man” cliche except she totally does, but she’s lost all hope in pursuing him and now just treats him as her gay best friend, playful flirting, innocent touches, etc…

Things go a little too far when she starts to feel comfortable enough to change in front of him, and he just kinda snaps, getting all defensive to hide how flustered he’s getting and then she finally lets it slip.

“I don’t know why it bothers you so much. This isn’t your first time seeing a naked woman, is it? You may not be attracted to the female body, but I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish. Didn’t you study anatomy as an artist? Though, I guess you don’t have to since you hardly ever do portraits…”

She’s rambling as she changes, but Rafael is still caught on her casual confession that she apparently had NO CLUE how hot and bothered he gets every time she walks into the room. NO CLUE that every time she passed by him, the scent of her shampoo alone give him a pathetic hard on that makes his pants feel so tight, he wonders if the seams will pop open and reveal his disgusting, dirty train of thought. NO CLUE that he fisted himself under the sheets at night after trying and failing so many times to draw her just right because no frozen picture on a canvas could fully capture her beauty, not to mention how was he supposed to draw something he’d never gotten the privilege to see.

Until now, as she stands naked and unassuming in front of him, going on about how he’s…

Gay?

I mean, sure he liked dick probably as much as the next guy (assuming the next guy was queer as shit, of course). But Rafael was nothing if not adventurous and maybe a little depraved at times.

Like now, feeling that dark desire pool in his stomach and his cock struggle against the fabric of his briefs.

Her back is turned towards him, stretching leisurely before she bends to pick up her clothes and gives him the perfect view of e v e r y t h i n g, plump ass wriggling absentmindedly back and forth, thick thighs pressed together, and between the two like a delicately framed jewel is her sweet cunt that he’s been trying to envision for months now, right in front of him for the taking.

It almost made him angry how she did so with such innocent intentions, no idea how crazy it was driving him. But you know what? If this wasn’t an opportunity to prove to her just how much of a man he was, then what else was? After all, never once did he say a word about not liking woman - he hadn’t even mentioned liking men at all, how could he think about someone else when she stood right there, perfect in every way except apparently common sense because where the HELL had she gotten the idea that he was gay?

So really, it’s her fault. A lesson needs to be learned, and if Raf was lucky, she wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon…

K, so I accidentally almost wrote it myself. But I don’t wanna, so here! Take it. Make it better please I need to see this as a fully fleshed out one-shot. If you write it and tag me, I’ll be your forever mutual and a devout follower for the rest of our days.

Also, I’m aware I could make these requests directly to a fic writer, but as you can see, I prefer to simply scream out into the void and wait patiently for a response that will probably never come.

Happy pining 🤧❤️