#and there’s a light to every shadow and all that

[cressidagrey]

It's a Love Story - Chapter 1

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.

And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

Koschei the Deathless Sorcerer was killed by the Spymaster of the Night Court. 

It was less dramatic than it sounded. At least Azriel thought so. 

And if Lucien hadn’t been a fucking idiot and put himself into a position to be kidnapped by the very same deathless sorcerer…then they wouldn’t even have been in that kind of situation. 

But he had been and so it ended with Azriel so magically exhausted that he collapsed the very same moment Truthteller stroke true once more. 

At least Koschei was slayn. 

And the only reason Azriel had gone to rescue the red-headed male in the first place was the fact that  Lucien was Elaine’s mate. Lucien was the male Elain loved. Azriel couldn’t let him die. 

Couldn’t let Elain feel the devastation of a mating bond broken by death…so his decision making had been quick. Either he would manage to get Lucien free…or he would die trying.  There wasn’t many things that he wouldn’t do for the female he loved. Even when he knew it shouldn’t be. 

Azriel had never been very good at knowing when enough was enough after all, wasn’t he?

No price was high enough to pay when it was about Elain’s happiness, as far as Azriel was concerned.  

He hadn't expected to wake up, and yet… there he was. Alive and whole.

*I hope it was worth it, Master,* the shadows sniped at him.

He blinked, taking in the dim light of the room, taking in the familiar surroundings. His room in the House of Wind.

“You are a fucking idiot, you know?” Cassian hissed at him from his place at his bedside and Azriel blinked at him.

"Lucien?" he brought out hoarsely.

"Not as much as a fucking scratch on him. Thanks to you," Cassian responded. "You on the other hand...Madja thought you were going to fucking die from pure magical exhaustion!"

Even Azriel he had...it would have been worth it. Lucien had made it out alive - and that was all that mattered in the end. Elain would be happy. That was all he cared about.

He didn't say that aloud though. 

He took a deep breath, opening his eyes again. "How long was I out?" he asked.

"Three days," Cassian growled. "Three. Days."

Azriel sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in his muscles. It felt like his entire body was one giant bruise, every inch of him pained and sore.

"Lay back down," Cassian snapped.

Azriel shot him a glare, but sank back onto the bed nonetheless. "I'm fine," he grumbled. "Just tired."

"Yeah, well, we'll let Madja be the judge of that," Cassian snapped. "And when you are feeling better, I am going to kill you for going off on your own!"

Azriel just gave him a weary look. "Better me than you," he said dryly. He closed his eyes, feeling a deep exhaustion settle over him. Cassian had Nesta to think about. Azriel didn't. Azriel just had himself.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!" Cassian demanded.

Azriel didn't have the energy to answer

He dosed off, feeling the shadows twine around him. They were muttering, words he could c quite understand, bitching under their breath but for once it was comforting.

He woke up, feeling groggy and disoriented. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and his limbs were heavy. He groggily blinked at the room, feeling like he was in a haze.

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't alone. Cassian was still there, as was Madja.

Azriel groaned, pushing himself up into a sitting position. His head was throbbing, and his vision was a little blurred. He rubbed his face, trying to clear the fog from his mind. "Hey," he said, his voice rough and gravelly.

Cassian and Madja both looked at him, their expressions relieved. "How are you feeling?" Madja asked him, moving closer to the bed and waving a hand in front of his face.

"Like I was hit by a wagon," Azriel admitted. His muscles felt tight and sore, his body heavy with fatigue. His wings felt like they were made of lead, and every movement took a huge effort.

"That's unsurprising considering you nearly magicked yourself to death," Madja said gruffly. "Your body had a tremendous amount of stress and strain put on it. You're lucky to be alive."

He gritted his teeth. "Yeah, well, I didn't have a lot of other options," he pointed out.

Madja just let out a huff and began prodding and poking at his body, running her hands over his wings and checking his pulse. Cassian watched anxiously from the side, his arms crossed over his chest.

Azriel bore her ministrations in silence, trying not to wince as she poked and prodded at him. He knew she was just trying to help, but it didn't make the ordeal any more pleasant.

After what felt like forever, she finally stepped back, nodding to herself. "You're lucky, shadowsinger," she said gruffly. "You're lucky you're so damn resilient," she said, and he couldn't tell if it was a compliment or just an observation.

He looked at her blearily. "I guess I can add that to my list of things to be proud of," he muttered sarcastically.

Cassian barked out a laugh, but Madja just rolled her eyes. The door opened at that moment. "How's he doing?" Rhys demanded.

Azriel wanted to let out a sigh at the sight of Rhys. He loved his brother, but he didn't have the energy for a lecture right now.

Madja turned to Rhys. "He's weak and he's stupid," she snapped. "But he's alive."

Rhys let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. "Thank you, Madja," he said. "Would you...give us a moment?"

Madja nodded, patting Azriel's leg as she got up to leave. "Rest," she ordered. "And no strenuous activity for at least a week."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Rhys turned to Azriel. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his eyes blazing.

"I was thinking that I was saving Lucien's life," Azriel replied evenly, meeting his brother's gaze. "I couldn't let him die, Rhys."

"Wouldn't that have made it easier for you?* Rhys demanded sharply mentally. *You are the one that fancies himself in love with Elain.*

Maybe it shouldn't hurt him as much as it did. He didn't fancy himself in love with her. He was in love with her. Had been in love with her and Rhys had been the one to order him away from her, which had given Lucien the opportunity to swoop in and Elain had...Elain had given in. Given in to that Siren Song of the Mating Bond and was very much in love with her mate now. 

It hurt to hear Rhys say it like that, like it was just some passing infatuation that he'd gotten over.

*Lucien is her mate,* he responded simply. He didn't say what he really thought. He didn't say that he would rather have Elain be happy and never talk with him again than to have her wilt like one of her flowers because her mate had died and the mating bond would be broken… He didn't say that he loved Elain enough, that her happiness was more important to him than anything else. He didn't say any of that.

*At least you are recognising that now,* Rhys said with a snort.  Azriel didn't flinch. Didn't react.

He hid away in that little corner of his brain he went to when everything became too much. Where he could just shut up all his feelings, all these pesky emotions, and just be...nothing. Nothing. That's the only thing he still had left.

He just shrugged, schooling his face into a careless expression. "I did what I had to do, Rhys," he repeated stubbornly. "Lucien is a good male. He didn't deserve to die."

"Elain wants to thank you," Rhys said suddenly.

Azriel's stomach twisted as Rhys mentioned Elain. He felt a pang of longing in his chest, a desperate ache to see her, to touch her, to hear her voice. But he knew he couldn't. He couldn't subject himself to the torture of seeing her with her mate, seeing her happy in Lucien's arms.

So his answer was definite: "There is no need for that," he said simply.

Rhys gave him a sharp look. "Don't be an idiot," he said gruffly. "She's been worried sick about you."

But Azriel just shook his head, even as his heart thudded in his chest.

*You can keep it together for 5 minutes,* Rhys snapped into his mind.

"Rhys," Cassian said carefully. "If he doesn't want to, just let it..."

"He's being ridiculous," Rhys snapped, interrupting Cassian. "Elain is family.”

Azriel grit his teeth but didn't respond. He didn't have the energy for an argument right now. He just wanted to sleep.

*See her for 5 minute snad then you can sulk like a spoiled child until you feel better about yourself,* Rhys bargained drily.

Azriel hesitated. He knew he should see her, knew that it would make things easier for everyone if he did. But the thought of seeing her, seeing her happy with Lucien when he was so miserable, was like a knife to the gut.

"Does it even matter what I want?" he asked, his voice flat.

Rhys let out a frustrated sigh, looking at him with exasperation. "Az, stop being so damned stubborn. Elain has been worried sick about you - the least you can do is let her see that you are alive."

Azriel didn't say anything. Didn't respond. He just stared at Rhys, feeling like every fiber of his being was being pulled apart. He wanted to see her. Wanted to see her more than anything. But he knew that once he saw her, he wouldn't be able to hold himself together. He would break. He would shatter into a thousand pieces.

"Just...come on, Az," Rhys said finally. "Let her see you. She needs to know you're alright."

Azriel knew he couldn't say no. Knew he couldn't hurt her like that. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Fine," he said softly. "But just for five minutes."

Five minutes. He could do five minutes. He had to. For her…

She was still as achingly beautiful as she always had been. These devasting brown eyes, the caramel curls...

Azriel's breath hitched at the sight of her, and he felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him. Love, longing, sadness, and that bittersweet pang of being so close to something he could never have.

Behave, Rhys warned him sharply.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. Trying to push back that wave of feelings that threatened to drown him. It was just five minutes, he reminded himself. Five minutes. He could do this.

The shadows swirled around him, welling up with intensity, shrouding much of his body in inky blackness and Elain flinched back from them.

She had never quite warmed up to them. Azriel was just thankful for that display, for keeping her away from him as she entered the room, Lucien on her heels.

"How...How are you feeling?" she asked him, her voice soft.

He could tell that she was worried, that she was concerned for him. It warmed something inside him, and he hated himself for it. 

"I'm fine," Azriel answered hoarsely.  "Just tired.

"I...thank you," Elain said softly, binting her lip. "If you hadn't...if you hadn't killed Koschei and freed Lucien...I...Thank you, Azriel."

Hearing her say his name again was like a punch to the gut. It was both a comfort and a torture, to be so close to her and yet so far away. He swallowed hard, biting back the words that threatened to spill out.

"You don't owe me any thanks," he said quietly. "I just did what had to be done."

"I do owe you my life," Lucien disagreed. "Thank you. Without your interference...I wouln't have survived, " he said flatly.

Azriel just shrugged, feeling a wave of bitterness wash over him. He had saved Lucien, had risked his life to save the male who was mated to the female he loved. It was a strange sort of irony.

"It's fine," he said roughly. "I'm just glad I got there in time."

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at Lucien. It hurt too much. So he stared at the floor, willing the shadows to consume him entirely.

"We are all just happy you are feeling alright," Elain said softly. "I...I was worried about you. Everyone was."

Azriel forced himself to look up at her, his heart clenching at the sincerity in her eyes. She really had been worried about him. "I'm alright," he promised her, his voice rough. "Really. I just need some rest."

Elain hesitated, taking a step forward. He could hear her heartbeat, could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. It was torture to be so close to her and yet so far away. It was torture to know that she was so close and yet so unattainable. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to hold her, but he knew he couldn't. He held onto that last shred of reason he had.

She tugged a piece of hair behind one delicately arched ear...and that was the moment he saw the gold and pearl ring that decorated her ring finger.

"Congratulations." He wasn't sure how he even brought out these words...how he managed to make them sound...appropriately happy for her.

It took a herculean effort to say those words, to offer a smile that barely reached his eyes. Every fibre of his being was screaming in protest, yelling that he should have been the one giving her that ring, that he should have been the one by her side. But he pushed back those feelings, burying them deep down inside of himself. He couldn't let her see how he truly felt. He couldn't let her know how much it was tearing him apart to stand there and look at her. Look at her with her mate, with the male she loved, the one she had chosen. 

"Congratulation," he repeated, his voice a little rougher than before.

"It wouldn't have been possible without you," Elain said, with a smile.

Azriel just nodded, feeling a lump in his throat. He couldn't find the words to respond, couldn't find the words to express the tangle of emotions swirling inside of him. He just sat there, feeling more alone and isolated than he had in a long time.

Elain took another step in his direction, seemingly ready to reach out, but Cassian intercepted her. placing a gentle hand on Elain's shoulder. "He needs his rest," he said softly. "Let's leave him be for now."

Azriel felt a pang of gratitude towards Cassian. Elain hesitated, looking torn.

"I wish you every happiness," Azriel brought out his voice hoarsely. Not even a lie.  It was the frank truth in these words and Elain gave him a smile, before Lucien's hand came to rest at her lower back, guiding her out of the room.

Thank the cauldron. They were gone. 

He slumped back into the pillow.  He was falling apart. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He just wanted to be left alone, to lick his wounds in peace.

"Az..." Cassian said carefully, but he cut him off.

“I am tired,” Azriel said, his voice hoarse. “I need to sleep.”

The shadows swirled around him tighter. 

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look, before Cassian nodded, "Alright," he said. "Get some rest."

He laid down properly, closing his eyes, calling the shadows to him wordlessly. They swamred around him immediately. Damn Near suffocating him.  It was the only thing that kept him from starting to sob.

The shadows embraced him, wrapping him in their inky blackness, shielding him from the outside world. They were his only comfort, just like they had been for centuries. 

*We are there, Master.* They promised him softly. *It will be fine, Master.*

He didn’t believe a fucking word they said. 

*We are not willing to lose you, Master. We aren’t interested in finding a new master,* they told him seriously. He choked out a laugh that turned into a sob. 

*Sleep, Master. We'll keep watch,* they promised him.

And they did. 

Bone deep exhaustion meant that at least his sleep was dreamless. At least that was given to him. It was a small mercy. 

When he woke up again, Nesta was there, sitting in an armchair reading.

Azriel blinked, feeling disoriented and groggy. He sat up slowly, wincing as his wounds protested the movement. Nesta looked up from her book, her expression neutral.

"How are you feeling?" she asked him quietly.

"Fine," he answered, his voice hoarse. He was fine. He would be fine. 

"Thank you," Nesta said suddenly.

Azriel looked up at her, surprised. He wasn't even sure what she was thanking him for.

"For what?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“You nearly got yourself killed to save my sister’s mate. I think Thank you is the least I owe you," Nesta said drily.

She mustered him with grey eyes and he knew that she knew. Knew that she knew or at the very least could guess about his feelings for Elain and probably be right. She wouldn't say anything, but she knew.

He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. It was over with. Done. 

Lucien and Elain could be happy and Azriel…Azriel would hide away somewhere. 

"You don't owe me anything," he waved Nesta off weakly, but she didn’t seem to want to take the hint, sticking out her chin. 

"Yes, I do," Nesta disagreed. "You are the reason why my little sister is happy right now," she told him fiercely. He swallowed down the unkind words at the tip of her tongue...didn't say anything. Didn't.... He didn’t want to think about this. He didn’t…

"Is there anything I can do?" Nesta asked him, her voice soft. "Anything at all, Az?" H knew that he could ask for anything and Nesta would do her level best to give it to him. She was stubborn like that. He had half a mind to ask her to use her silver flames to put him on fire and put him out of his misery. 

He didn’t. 

Even that wouldn’t fix it. 

There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing to make it any better. There was nothing that could...that could fix the ache in his chest.

"Porridge," he said, his voice hoarse.

"Porridge?" Nesta repeated incrediously.

"Porridge with honey. I am hungry," he repeated, meeting her gaze. Food. Food. More Sleep. More Work. He could fill his waking hours with useless things and everybody would be happy. 

Nesta just looked at him for a moment, then inclined her head.

"Porridge with honey. Alright," she agreed. Just a moment later a massive bowl of Porridge with honey drizzled on top, appeared on his bedside table, so hot it was steaming. Seemed like the house was in a mood to spoil him. He even got a whiff of cinnamon from it.

"Thank you," he thanked Nesta's creature aloud as the shadows fetched the bowl and held it up for him to eat a spoonful. "What are you reading?" he asked Nesta, changing the topic. 

She was polite enough not to say anything about it. 

Nesta held up her book. “The newest Sellyn Drake novel,” she replied.

"Is it any good?" he inquired, stirring his porridge gently.

“It’s brilliant," Nesta gushed, her eyes devoured the pages as soon as she looked down to continue reading.

"You seem to really like it," he pointed out, taking another bite of his porridge. "It is brilliant," Nesta agreed readily. “The plot is so intricate and twists and turns and the characters are so deep and complex and their emotions are so real and the romance is so...” she trailed off, blushing slightly.

He opened his mouth to respond...but then he heard her.

Mor. Of course.

He couldn’t deal with Mor. Not right now. But there she was, Rhys hot on her heels.

Nesta heard her too, rolling her eyes, curling back up on her chair, making it very clear that while she was going nowhere, she was letting him deal with it on her own. 

And he didn’t want to deal with Mor. 

But there she was. 

Mor came strolling into the room, her usual confident smile firmly in place. Rhys just looked at Azriel, his expression unreadable.

He didn't say it.  But Azriel knew. Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days.  Either it was about Elain and Lucien...or about Mor and Emerie. Like Azriel would ever do anything to put that in jeopardy. Like Azriel was a jealous child that wouldn't allow Mor to be happy on her own terms. Like...

Azriel ignored the sharp pang of hurt that shot through him at Rhys's look.

Still it was better than looking at Mor…he couldn’t bear to look at Mor. 

 Didn't want to look at Mor, in her usual bright red, skin baring dress, that clung to all her curves...didn't want to look at the female he had spent centuries in love with even when he had known that she was never going to return his affections...it hadn't helped him. He had still been in love with her.

And he had still hoped...hoped against all hope that maybe...maybe there would be a time where she would return his affection...that maybe there would be a time where...

But there wouldn't. He knew. He knew. And he had still been in love with her.

Would have given damn near anything for her attention, for that broad smile on her face to be directed in his direction...would have given anything for her to bound over to his bedside and envelope him in her arms...to feel her soft skin against his as she hugged him fiercely, cinnamon and citrus enveloping him.

Now...now it felt like somebody was pouring salt into a gaping wound. Now it felt as painful as the fire and oil on his hands had. She was flaying him alive and she wasn’t even aware that she was hurting him. 

"How are you feeling, Az?" Mor's voice was gentle, concerned. He knew it was genuine, knew that Mor really cared about him. But he couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not when his heart was bleeding out just from the sound of her voice.

"Fine," he answered, his voice flat. "Nothing that sleep won't fix," he promised her, even as her hands fluttered around him as she sat down on his bedside...

She was so close. He could reach out and touch her, could feel the soft fabric of her dress against his fingertips. He clenched his fists, willing himself to keep his hands to himself.

But he couldn't help it. He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He could see the concern there, the worry. He felt a pang of guilt for putting that look on her face. He didn't want to cause her any distress. 

"I'm just glad you are feeling better," Mor sighed, gently patting his arm. "You had us all worried for a moment there," she admitted softly.

Even just the touch of her hand felt like she was branding him. He wanted to flinch away and forced himself no to.

It was like a bittersweet poison, the way she touched him. It was so familiar, so comforting. But it was also so painful, a reminder of what he could never have.

He looked away, staring down at his hands. They were shaking, just a little. He clasped them together, the monstrous scars that covered them, standing out starkly.

The shadows trembled around him, pulling nearer, growing darker and Mor watched them with a raised eyebrow. "Worried, are they?" she teased him slightly.

*You are fine, Master,* the shadows promised him. *No more fire,* they promised him fiercely. But it didn’t help. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice cracking.

Mor seemed to sense his discomfort and stood up, her hand slipping from his arm. "Just rest and get better soon, alright?" she said softly, taking a step back.

"Thank you," he thanked her, his voice hoarse.

He risked a glance up at her, just a quick look. Her face was soft, her eyes filled with warmth. He felt his heart squeeze in his chest and he had to look away again. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

"We should let him rest, Mor," Rhys said, giving Azriel another look.

"Right, right," Mor agreed, already turning towards the door. "Rest up, Az," she said again, giving him one last smile as she disappeared out the door.

Azriel felt a sense of relief wash over him as she left the room. 

Gone. Thank the cauldron. He couldn't take much more of her presence, not right now. 

He didn't even want to know why Rhys had accompanied her. Probably because he was worried that Azriel wasn't going to behave.

What was he supposed to do instead? Tell Mor about how much she had hurt him over the centuries? How she had given him jut enough scraps of her affection to make him yearn for more but never telling him that she didn’t love him like that? 

He wasn’t going to do that. 

He didn't want to look at Rhys right now, didn't want to face the scrutiny of his high lord's gaze. He just wanted to be left alone.

He knew that Rhys was watching him, that the male wanted to say something. But Azriel didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear the lecture, the warning. He just wanted to be left alone.

The room fell silent, except for the sound of his own breathing. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the mattress. Maybe if he just pretended to sleep, Rhys would leave him alone.

"He's tired. You should let him sleep," Nesta said flatly.

Leave it to Nesta to tell Rhys to stuff it, he reflected weakly. He heard Rhys sigh, but he kept his eyes closed. And after a moment, he heard the sound of footsteps leaving the room.

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. 

Alone. Safe. Mostly at least. 

Life went on. It always did.

The exhaustion went away after a few days... he caught up on Paperwork in the meantime. He sent the shadows off to find him one information or other and they didn't even bitch to him that badly, which told him that even they felt bad for him.

Behave. That’s all Rhys was telling him these days.

So he did. He behaved.

He did his job. He did everything Rhys could possibly want from his spymaster. 

He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight. He did his job and he trained and he did everyhting that was expected off him. 

And then he hadn’t tortured himself enough… and he went to visit Rosehall.

Where his mother lived.

Under the Mountains had it’s own kind consequences. This was one of them: His mother didn’t even want to talk to him anymore. 

50 years without him...and his mother had made herself a new family. A family that he wasn’t welcome in. A family that she wanted him nowhere near. He couldn’t fault her for it. Not at all.

She had been half a child when she had had him and it hadn’t been by choice.

So who could blame her for making a new family with people that weren’t as fucked up in the head as he was? Not Azriel.

Azriel didn’t blame her at all. Azriel left her in peace. He didn't reach out. He made sure that she was fine, that she had enough money to never worry about it and otherwise dissappeared from her life. 

His shadows kept an eye on her…He shored up the wards around Rosehall and caught a glimpse of her. And then he left it at that. She looked happy. That’s all he cared about.

Happy and safe and…she didn’t need him. She didn’t want him around her either, and he could understand that too.

And still, it hurt. It hurt so fucking much. 

But 

*You know the rules,* he told the shadows quietly. *You don’t need to report to me about her anymore. Keep an eye on her and only tell me if she is in danger or hurt.*

*Yes, Master,* they agreed readily. 

So he went back to the House of Wind. Back to Velaris…Back to work. 

He went back to his routine, back to his duties, back to his mask of indifference. He hid the pain behind his usual stoic facade, only letting his shadows know how much it hurt. He threw himself into his work, using it as a way to distract himself from his own loneliness.

And when he wasn't working, he would spend hours and hours in the training ring in the House of Wind, working himself to exhaustion. Anything to try and drown out the ache in his heart.

For gods sake, he even attended Elain and Lucien’s mating ceremony. And gifted them an appropriate gift. He behaved just like Rhys wanted him too.

He even summoned up a smile for them on their special day, hiding his own pain behind a mask of false happiness. He congratulated them both, feeling a pang in his chest at the sight of Elain's beaming face. But he didn’t let it show. He behaved. Like Rhys wanted him too.

He stayed for the whole thing. Stayed for the dancing, stayed for the feast. Stayed until he could physically take it no more. And then he had retreated to that training ring again, beating his pain and loneliness out on whatever dummy he could find.

He was so tired. Tired of hiding, tired of pretending. Tired of pretending like nothing was wrong. He wanted nothing more than to just scream and rage and shout and cry. But he didn’t. He held it all in. Bottled it up like he was so good at doing.

He was in the bathtub, sluicing off the sweat he was drenched in…shaking off his wings just because he could move them however he wanted to

*You should go out, Master,* the shadows suggested seriously. *Go out and find a female.*

He just snorted. *Not interested,* he sniped back harshly. *I am not getting my heart broken again.*

Everybody could just fuck off and leave him alone. Even when he was aching…aching for somebody in his life that loved him. For whom he could be everything. Somebody he could dote on. Somebody that wanted his attention, that wanted his love…that would like his ruined hands on their body and wasn’t paid to simply acccept it. 

*You could let us pick her!* the shadows suggested brightly.

His eyes snapped back open and he glared at the shadows swirling around the room. *Absolutely not,* he said firmly. *I mean it, you stay out of it.*

*We can’t do a worse job than you do,* they sniped at him. *Neither The Seer nor The Morrigan would have suited you at all.*

*Excuse me?!* 

*You heard us, Master,* the shadows said, sounding far too smug for their own good. *And you know it.*

Azriel just glared at them, feeling his temper start to rise. *I know I wasn’t good enough for them,* he snapped. *You don’t need to tell me that.*

*You think you weren’t good enough for them?!* The shadows asked him incredulously.

*They deserve better. So much better than me,* he said quietly. "I'm not good enough for either of them. Never was.*

What was he, after all? An Illyrian bastard? A monster? Either? Both? 

He had never said it out loud before, not even to himself. But in that moment, lying in the water, his heart so raw and exposed, he couldn't help but speak the truth that he had always known but never admitted to himself. "I'm not good enough for either of them," he repeated softly, the weight of his words settling heavily on his chest.

He knew it was true. Mor was a golden ray of light, the embodiment of beauty and grace. Elain was sweet and gentle and kind, a pure soul in a sea of darkness. 

And what was he? Damaged. Broken. Scarred. Inside and out.

He had done unspeakable things, things that would haunt his nightmares for centuries to come. He was nothing compared to them. He was darkness, they were light. And they deserved better than him, far better than him.

Even if he had loved Mor with every fiber of his being, even if he had yearned for her with every beat of his heart, even if he had dreamed of her every night, it didn't matter. It had never mattered. Because he wasn't good enough for her. And he never would be.

He wasn’t good enough for Elain. The mother hadn’t thought it to be prudent to make them mates. Both of his brother had been gifted with a mating bond, but not him. That should tell him everything he needed to know abotu the state of his own soul. 

So why…why should he even try anymore. 

Why shouldn’t he just stew in his own misery, alone and heartbroken and a monster and expect everybody to just leave him alone? There was no point of putting himself out there again. There was nothing out there for him. Nothing but more pain.​​

So he closed his eyes again, sinking lower into the water, letting the warmth soothe his aching muscles. He let out a long sigh, his mind already racing with thoughts of his next missions, his next assignments. Because that was all that really mattered now. His job. His duties. His responsibilities. That was all he had left.

Behave. That’s all he was good for. 

*Alright, that’s fucking enough,* the shadows snapped. *You are not letting The High Lord talk to you like that any longer, Master.*

Azriel was so surprised by their fucking vehemence that he could just stare at them. 

*The Morrigan used you for centuries to make herself feel better about herself,* the shadows snapped. *She used the feelings you had for her and that she was very much aware of to strangle you and keep you in line.*

Azriel swallowed. He knew they were right. He knew that Mor had used his feelings for her for a long time. She had led him on, given him false hope, only to yank it away time and time again. It had been a painful cycle, one that had left him feeling used and broken and worthless.

*She could have stopped at any time but she never did,* the shadows hissed. *But instead she hurt you on purpose. Instead of turning you down, she slept with other males to show you that you would never have her!*

Azriel felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Mor had flaunted her other lovers in front of him, making it clear that he would never be enough for her. She had used his devotion to her as a weapon against him, wielding it whenever it suited her needs. And he had let her. He had been foolish, desperate enough to cling onto any scrap of affection she might throw his way.

*And The Seer?! Granted she has never done that, but her feelings for you weren’t particular deep when she replaced you on her affections with The Fox as soon as you weren’t available anymore! If she had cared, truly cared, she would have thought about what happened during Winter Solstice,* the shadows snapped.

*And The High Lord? Don’t even let us get started on him,* the shadows snapped. *You haven’t even done anything since that Winter Solstice, and he keeps behaving like some kind of despotic Overlord, worried that his orders won’t be followed. If you wanted to punch him in the face, you probably had every right to it,* they mumbled.

Azriel couldn’t help but snort. 

*You deserve better, Master,* The shadows told him fiercely. *You deserve somebody that loves you.* 

. He wanted to believe the shadows. He wanted to believe that he was good enough, that he deserved more. But the scars on his body and the memories in his mind told him otherwise. He had done terrible things, things that he could never undo. How could someone like that be good enough for anyone?

*Alright,* he finally agreed weakly. *Find me a house,* he told the shadows, as he closed his eyes.

*A house? What kind of house?* the shadows gave back, sounding surprised.

*A house,* he repeated. *A home. Somewhere in Velaris. Find me a home.* Something that could just be his.

A home. The idea sent a flutter through his stomach. He had never…never truly had a home. Had something that could just be his and nobody else’s. Just…a place that was his, where he could be whoever he wanted, where he was accepted and loved...it was appealing. Maybe even more than just appealing.

He closed his eyes, picturing it in his mind. A cozy little house, just large enough for himself. Warm and cozy and filled with light.

*That’s what a male needs to take a wife after all, right?* He asked, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. Was that what he should want? What he was supposed to want? He had never really thought about getting married before. But now, at the mention of it, he couldn't help but feel a pang of longing. A wife...a family...love and companionship. It all sounded so…so nice.

*You want to get married, Master?* the shadows asked curioulsy. *To whom?*

*You pick,* he told the shadows. They swarmed out in pure excitment. Azriel couldn’t even remmeebr the last time they had been so excited. 

He couldn't help but chuckle at their reaction. Maybe they would do a better job than him. At least they could probably sieve out females that were in a romantic relationship or preferred females themselves. 

*Find me somebody that I could make happy. Somebody that….Somebody that could want me.* Some long-suffering female for whom Azriel could maybe try to be enough. Somebody that would love him.

*What should she look like?* they asked seriously.

*I don’t care. Find me somebody that loves me and she’ll be the most beautiful female to me anyway.*

[cloudychoso]

dreams, gojo satoru ➢ gojo satoru x f!reader ➢ breeding kink, creampie, references somno

It's like a dream. You feel like you’re watching the world through a thick layer of vaseline as you float atop your silken sheets. It’s a haze of white and blue around you; the shadows that hide in every crevice of your room melt away under that bright blue. It rings familiar, and your brain tickles to recall from where, but the softness around you wisps you from that answer. 

The touch is feather-light on your skin. Bare. Did you fall asleep bare? Your eyes flutter as butterflies kiss down your stomach, and mixtures of eyelashes and hair graze every curve. There’s something delicious in the underwater den you look at the world through. Every wall curls inward, and the curtains sway. You reach out to feel it against your skin, only to be caught by a firm grip. 

Hands. Veiny and decorated with a golden ring and scars along the knuckles. It’s like an anchor halting your dream state as you deliriously stare at the hand that holds your wrist. So confident in its grip, yet the touch is softer than your pillows. Like you may break, like you’ll disappear. Maybe you will. The magical glaze that coats your mind slowly shrinks away as someone kisses just above your belly button with a muffled whimper. 

How long has it been since you accidentally fell into the dream state? You groan. Shouldn’t your control be better than this by now? You’re far from the ten-year-old still trying to learn why they disappear into someone’s mind every night. Whoever is on top of you repeats your groan back as if it were one of pleasure, and you let your held hand fall limp to the touch. The weight on top of you, complete with soft, fluffy white hairs that ring that same bell of familiarity in your mind, shifts as the lips trail lower. 

What could possibly be the intent of this dream? Do you play along or pretend to still be coated in a thick layer of sleep? Your stomach flutters as eyelashes graze down, and a hand squeezes under your thigh as it’s lifted to curl over your hips. The hand still held in the air drops away to stroke at your waist, and you slowly lower your palm until it finds the soft locks. They easily part for your fingers as you comb through, and your nails scratch the scalp as lightly as you can manage, but the person above you whines in bliss. You can feel their erection press to your bare body, thankfully shielded by what feels like their pants. 

Blue eyes look up at you with a grin like that of a fox, and your body stills. Gojo Satoru has pulled you into his dream — his dream about you if your bedroom setting makes any sense. You glance away from him so he can’t catch the jolt your body made, only to notice a picture frame on the bedside table. Your heart thumps as you see the wedding robes you each wear. “Finally awake?” he moves up and leans into your neck, soft hair kissing your face as his lips gently press to the lobe of your ear. The cold of his ring at your waist is all you can think about despite how he slowly presses himself against your slick cunt. “Didn’t ya wanna wait for me to get home?”

How to play it… you have no clue what little fantasy Gojo must have of you, but it must be domestic. Your own wedding band weighs heavy on your finger, and you can’t help but glance at it as you place your hands on the back of his neck, playing with the growing undercut. “Tried to stay up,” it’s dark outside, but there's no clock in the room that could help you with whatever answer his subconscious seeks. He smiles into your neck; you can feel his blindfold tickle your chest as his glowing eyes illuminate the room around you. There are more photos — baby photos. You want to scream at the information he is inadvertently giving you, “‘s not my fault you got home so late.”

Gojo laughs, and it reverberates into your skin, and the hand on your thigh slides down toward your pussy. How are you going to face him in the morning? Maybe you should become a hermit and live in the woods? You can’t help the flutter of your eyes as his finger runs up your slit, dragging slick eagerness to your clit. “I know, baby,” he seems to whine into your neck, just feeling how wet you are, his hips rutting into your thigh for friction. Your hand slides down his curved spine, eliciting a shiver through him that makes you smile, and his face lifts from the crook of your neck. His thumb circles around your clit without properly touching, eyes gazing so lovingly at you that your heart stammers in the repeated beats. “At least you had my favourite girl all wet and ready for me.”

You cringe at how he refers to your cunt, but it only makes him laugh before leaning in to capture you in a kiss of raw warmth and devotion. You kiss back as best you can, heart still thumping at the revelations of his desires, and ignore how unabashedly nervous you feel. It reminds you of the first time you awoke in someone’s dream, barely nine, and just trying to survive the nightmare of being hunted by a clown. There’s no promise of death in this dream, and you’re far better at your control now that you’ve learnt how to use the power, but you can’t help that familiar twinge of danger from creeping up your spine. Gojo won’t be able to know you were here, but can you sit with him at breakfast and listen to him talk about whatever bullshit mission he has to go on without remembering this?

Morals aside and over a decade of friendship ignored, you lose yourself in the taste of his mouth. Twinges of strawberry mochi and caramel-flavoured coffee linger on his tongue, yet it feels so right — so purely Gojo Satoru. You pull yourself closer, arms tangling around his neck and your thighs hooking on his hips. The finger that circled your clit falls away in favour of holding you flush against him, squeezing when his lips muffle your moan. You’ve never tasted something so sweet, so intoxicating, as the kiss of your best friend. 

When he tries to pull back with echoes of laughter, you greedily pull him back and steal another candy kiss from him. Your tongue passes over his as you pull on his hair with urgency, and the pair of you groan into the other’s kiss. “You-“ kiss, far shorter than the last but just as needy, “really,” his laughter makes you pull him back for another peck. His taste, his touch, his unabashed love, is a craving you doubt ever getting over. You’re certain that it would only taste sweeter in reality, “really,” one last kiss, “missed me!”

The slightest hint of embarrassment washes you in guilt while Gojo laughs, whispering about how cute you’re being. If only he knows that you’re just newly addicted to him, to the secret he has kept from you for however long. If only you could ask questions, but you know that he would get suspicious of this dream state if you did. “Of course I did! You know I hate when you do missions alone.”

His fox-like smile returns, almost out of place with his pink cheeks. Your Gojo, the real one outside of the dream world, has always been a fiend for any type of praise and care; you shouldn’t be surprised that this dream version of him is the same. “Baby, I’m the strongest! Ya know I can handle it! And it only took me a couple days!”

Shit. You refuse to break even a sweat as you keep your same expression of mock disdain. “Not fast enough. How am I meant to live without my darling husband with me?”

Gojo laughs again, his eyes sparkling as they take over your naked form once again, stopping at your lips for just a brief moment longer. “This is why Shoko says you’re turning into me,” you glance back over to the baby pictures near the dresser. A son with eyes like his and hair like yours, dressed in his father’s blindfold that’s far too big on his head. You take the knowledge and grumble aloud about being outnumbered in this house, hoping to diffuse any confusion Gojo may have. You can’t fail now; if you don’t fulfil his dream, then his week is practically ruined by the short dream-induced coma it’ll cause. “If you feel outnumbered, we can always make a mini-you this time.”

One second passes — you take that time to freak out over the insinuation that Gojo barely hides in his smirk. You’ve been aware that you’re naked the entire time, and yet it never felt quite as real until now. His erection twitches in his pants, and you can’t help but shiver. The subsequent second passes, and you return to the character you fulfil, running a finger up and down his neck as you lean up to his lips. “Let’s see if you can, Gojo.”

With the shiver that runs through him, he can’t help but whine about the use of the family name. You don’t retort beyond a few giggles, too busy staring at how he strips himself of his pants and shirt with clumsy haste. He manages to only stumble over his feet once as he rips the pants from his insanely long legs, yet you still stare at him like a hungry wolf hunting prey. Is it wrong how bad you want this? No, you rationalise that this is his dream, so he is the one who wants to have sex with you! Not the other way around!

(though if the offer presents itself in reality, you’re not going to be turning it down by any means)

“C’mere,” when he climbs back on top of you, you force him to come closer with a tantalising curl of your finger. One hand finds its rightful place at your hip again, thumb rolling over a bullet wound scar you got a few years ago. The other knots itself in your open hand, fingers lacing together in a gesture more romantic than you thought Gojo could do, “finish what you started.”

He leans his body, and you feel the naked cock slap against your cunt. You shouldn’t be so wet, even if you joined the dream late and he already spent time playing with you. You just shouldn’t be so slick with need that you squelch just when his tip rubs against you. You squeeze his hand with a gasp, already imagining how he would feel snug inside your walls and pounding over and over until you get that little you he promised. “Fuck — really did miss me, didn’t ya? I barely even used two fingers before and look at this!” He shines as if you were some new discovery he made, and yet you hold no temperament outside of desire and craving for the man on top of you. ”Might hafta take longer trips so you get more desperate,” you roll your hips into him, causing his head to press against your clit. 

The jolt of pleasure makes you moan, and your back arches as though little occurred. It feels like you’ve been on the edge of this promised fate for eternity now, the taste on his tongue still haunting your lips as your eyes close to the world around you. “Shuddup,” you mumble, though the words feel empty of animosity or threat as soon as they leave your lips. You squeeze your hand in his, the cold of his wedding ring an exhilarating sensation that only makes you wonder how it must have felt when he was fingering you before you were pulled in. “I’ll go on the missions, so you get desperate. You’ll last maybe ten minutes?”

The sentence is broken by your heavy breathing as his cock lines up with you. Just the slightest touch of it already has you stretching in anticipation, a thigh coiling over his hips to help with placement. The anticipation already has you keeling in pleasure, eagerly awaiting the pleasurable sting of being stretched out. How far will he get? From how long he felt against you… your body shivers at the thought of him entirely inside you. “Why do you get to go on missions?” he pouts without any sadness or pity, and the glimmer of excitement in his eyes sells out his dramatics with ease. 

You take the initiative and start pushing your hips down his shaft. Like when you first awoke in the dream, everything feels light and is hidden with a haze of delight. If you didn’t already know this is a dream, you’d be convinced it turned into one with how good he feels slowly filling you up. Each vein throbs against your walls, and he hisses with clouded eyes. “Cause,” you remind yourself to breathe as he gets deeper, the lull of your tongue feels too big and you try to focus on not mindlessly babbling beneath him, “‘m a Gojo, now. Re-Remember?”

It likely turned into some form of gibberish by the final few words, but nonetheless, above you, Gojo pauses. You feel how he twitches inside of you, hear how your pussy pulls him in with a shlick, but nothing tops the way his lips form a pretty ‘o’ shape as he moans into the room. Everyone and their mothers know that Gojo is a moaner in bed, but it feels so different actually seeing it and hearing how fucking delicious it sounds. You reach up and pull his lips to you for another heated kiss, already swiping your tongue at his lips. 

He wastes no time and bottoms out, and you gasp into the kiss at how full you feel. Gojo throbs with every noise you utter, and just the tiniest movement of your hips has him moaning even louder. You relish how he reacts to your body, how he sings a cacophony of whimpers and grunts just for you to hear, and the soft way he squeezes your hand with reassurance. Just having his fingers between yours has your heart fluttering even when it feels like you’ve been stuffed so full your organs squish. 

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” his kiss turns sloppy as he mutters the word repeatedly as if he is convincing himself that your words are real. Your toes curl when he starts to thrust, pounding himself nice and deep inside of you as he continues his babbling monologue of reassurance. You mewl below him, clawing at the muscles in his back that flex beneath your fingertips. “All mine. My pretty, pretty wife,” his lips slot at your jaw with a gentle bite, and your eyes roll back when it’s combined with another thrust against you. 

Tears build in the corner of your eyes as the headboard slams against the wall like a drumming melody. He has to be in your stomach by now; you’re certain he somehow found a way to fill your throat, too. The haze in his eyes only grows foggier when he notices the tears as they fall. “Satoru,” you whimper quietly while pushing yourself to meet every movement of his hips, even when his hand tries to move you faster. 

His name becomes your chant as he fucks you into the mattress, responding only with reminders of the marriage he dreamed up. You lose yourself in the way his hips bruise you and the way he treats your hand like it’s glass on the verge of shattering. Every instinct in your mind goes haywire as your tongue babbles nonsensical words of pleasure. He returns to your neck, biting and kissing areas you didn’t even know were so sensitive. There would be no evidence come morning, when you both wake up from the dream, but you let yourself think that little marks will bless you in the mirror when you have a shower. 

When he shifts your thigh higher, you don’t expect him to hang it over his shoulder, but you don’t question his choice — instead revelling in the new angle he takes. Your nails dig into his knuckles as you cry out for more. Tears fall to the pillows beneath your head, slick drools over his cock and under your ass. “My wife,” he mutters into your ear again, placing your other thigh over his shoulder to match. Only when he leans in and arches you do you realise that he puts you into a mating press. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but you’re already clawing at his back and screaming yes, “gotta fill you again. Looked so pretty when you were pregnant. Gonna have so many more. Let me fill ya up, please!”

He’s bordering pathetic with how he begs, and yet you only grow needier. His hair sticks to him from sweat, and his lips are puffy from kisses; those big, beautiful eyes fill with watery tears as he pleads for you. “Fuck, yes! Please, Satoru!” Your thighs tremble under his touch. Your hand desperately grips his as you babble your answer over and over again. You need him like never before, crave to be filled with all of him, and still lick at the sweetness left on your lips. “Wan’ it!”

His thumb goes under your thigh to play with your clit again. Like before, he doesn’t directly touch it, only circling closer and closer until he reverses each action. It leaves you a perfect victim to the strings of your body — apparently, only Gojo can play it like this. He whispers about all the love he has for you, even with the slurred speech of lust, your heart melts at every proclamation he gives to you. “So glad you chose me. Never gonna have you regrettin’ it.”

Gojo thimbles about how he can’t wait to have another child, a daughter, this time so that he can be the perfect girl dad he was made for. You clench around his cock and moan as the throbbing refuses to cease, each vein detailed as they press into your snug walls. Whether the dream has finally reached your own subconscious or it just unlocks the path to old feelings you refuse to acknowledge, you aren’t sure, but you’re utterly putty in your hands when he tells you to cum and remind him why he missed you so much. And you aren’t one to deny Gojo Satoru what he wants; that’s how you managed so many years of friendship together in the first place. 

Your body shudders in his tight hold, eyes shut, and nose hidden in the hair you need to touch one last time. It’s like a flood of emotions wash over you as you release all over him, slick sliding to pool on the bed. He only moves faster as you meek with sensitivity, chasing that feeling for himself until he finally fulfils his promise and cums. It fills you and leaves a thick ring of white around his cock, though instead of pulling out, he keeps his cock warm inside of you, fingers collecting anything that spills to push back in. 

When you wake up, Gojo isn’t on top of you with his cock in your overfilled pussy. There aren’t marks on your neck or bruises on your hips. Your finger is empty of a wedding band, and your lips aren’t puffy from being kissed raw. Like nothing happened. You sigh and splash more water on your face, ignoring how the bathroom door peeks open. “What’s up, Gojo?”

“You didn’t… do anything last night, right?” He looks back and forth while refusing to gaze at you properly; his sunglasses don’t work to hide those movements as well as his blindfold. You raise an eyebrow at him and start patting your skin dry, and you keep eye contact with him purely to avoid staring at his chest and how good it felt up against you. “Had a good dream, is all. Won a lifetime supply of mochi.”

The lie makes you smile, not even bothering to tease him over the blush on his cheeks. “Sounds like a really good dream.”

© cloudychoso 2024 — do not steal, repost or translate

i don’t like this i don’t think 🍆🤓

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Sex Scenes

It takes skill to write an immersive & emotional sex scene. Consider the following tips.

Is the sex scene even necessary?

Ask yourself this question.

GENRE

Sex scenes may depend on genre. Example:

If you're writing a romance novel, sex scenes are almost always mandatory. But if you're writing in another genre, like mystery or speculative fiction, you may not need to add sex at all.

Sex sells in Hollywood, but literature is more nuanced than film.

You don't need to include sex in your novel just to grab your reader's attention.

NATURAL FLOW

Characterization, pacing, and plotting should do the heavy lifting.

In fact, adding gratuitous sex to your novel may actually slow the pace, cheapen the story, destroy your characterization, and insult the reader.

Before adding sex to a story, always figure out if the move is something that your characters would actually make, or if it’s something that you’re forcing.

MOVING FORWARD

A follow-up question to ask is if this sex scene moves the story forward.

Sometimes, you can simply imply that sex happened without retelling the entire scene: It’s not always necessary to share every intimate detail with your readers, especially if it drags the pacing to a halt.

Don't get stuck in modesty mode

When you write sex scenes, it’s gonna get raw.

There are arms, legs, emotions, sweat, and nipples.

If that made you squirm, you’re not ready.

Come back after you’ve eaten some nachos, downed a beer, and thrown modesty out of the way.

This is the one time when you can’t think about who’s going to read your book.

Usually, editors recommend that you always visualize your reader when telling your story. However, no one wants to think about their mom (i.e. your average reader) when they’re documenting lurid sex.

Instead of thinking about your reader, think about the characters and what you’re seeing. Your job is to write down what you see the characters do.

If it’s clear to you, it will be clear to your reader.

Remember that you’re on this step because you believe this sex scene is integral to your story’s plot. So, if it makes sense for the characters, don’t allow your sense of embarrassment to weaken the story.

Use a lot of detail

Here is your daily dose of “show, don’t tell.”

Instead of saying that the characters had sex, describe exactly what’s going on. Look at each moment as a still photograph and describe what you see.

And don’t forget about the emotional exchange between your characters:

Record every bead of sweat.

Make mention of every moan.

How one may adjust their position for the other.

Describe the feeling behind every glance.

The pressure of each kiss.

The movement of light and shadow on their skin.

Employ restraint

After writing the sex scene, you may realize that there’s no need to include every single detail. This goes back to pacing.

If you spend a few pages, or even a chapter, detailing the entire sexual escapade, your storytelling can suffer.

The hot and heavy sex scene can become a grind to read.

Plus, slowing your pace may make it difficult to speed back up again.

Another reason to truncate your sex scene could be your audience.

If you’re writing for young adults (ages 12-18) or new adults (ages 18-30), the topic of sex scenes can get a little awkward.

Yes, some teenagers have sex, but does your average teenager need to read a full-on sex scene for it to have the intended impact? No.

Sometimes, restraint is necessary and even preferred in order to tell the best story to your reader.

See from your characters' eyes

Do not to visualize your mom while writing. Here’s a tip: Jump into one of the character’s heads and see it from their perspective.

Even if you’re writing your story from third-person omniscient, it’s essential that you stick with one perspective in the sex scene.

This cuts down on confusion (for your reader), helps with characterization, and provides for a more captivating reading experience.

The reader needs to be a part of the scene, not some awkward observer in the corner of the room (that’s your job).

Here’s how you do it: Assign an imaginary camera to one character so that the reader can see exactly what this character sees.

Writing a sex scene requires that you move in very closely to your characters. You’ve got to be all up in their space to tell it with breathless emotion.

If you switch characters, you’ll lose intimacy, so stick to one.

Make it tense

Tension is an important part of sex, and so it is with writing sex scenes.

In an effort to make them integral to your plot, your sex scenes should be tight with tension, but how do you do that?

Figure out what’s at stake for your characters. The reader needs to know what’s at risk for the characters before, during, and after sex (broken heart, broken promises, etc.).

Show the conflict within the character’s mind (perhaps one character is torn between wanting to have sex and wanting to leave).

Create conflict with another character (perhaps one of the characters is engaged to someone else).

Figure out what happens after the moment of glory

They had sex. Now what?

Don't end your chapter with a sex scene unless the next chapter starts with the repercussions of sex.

Otherwise, if you don’t tie the sex scene into the rest of the story, you’ll miss an important character development opportunity.

The reader needs to know what happens in the story immediately after the characters have sex as a result of them having sex:

Do they fall asleep together in love?

Do they wake up in the morning together in disgust?

Does one character leave?

How does the other, now-abandoned character feel?

Sex is a huge deal.

It should prompt the characters to make new choices that they may not have otherwise made.

If sex doesn’t change your characters, it doesn’t belong in your story.

Write it all at once

When writing a sex scene, don’t break your narrative to get a taco—Wait, why are you eating?

Sex demands your full attention (at least, good sex does).

And, just like with sex, you don’t want to break in the middle to do something else. After all, you wouldn’t stop in the middle of the act to eat a taco, would you? Don’t do it when writing a sex scene.

The ebb and flow, push and pull, rise and fall of sex are best written as one, flowing narrative. If you stop, it’s hard to capture that same moment.

After writing the scene, take a break. Then re-read.

Does it make you feel tingly? Then you’re doing something right.

When it’s time to edit/rewrite, only do so when you have the time to relive the scene from beginning to end.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Word List: For Sex Scenes

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Death Wish 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

You sense movement, you hear scuffing, and feel the air shift. Yet all you can focus on is each breath. Your chest throbs with the effort it takes to just keep going. To just keep living. 

The smell of gunpowder clogs your nose and the taste of bile stains your tongue. The adrenaline seeps from you, leaving you weak and wilting. Your arms tremble as you barely keep yourself from crumpling into a heap. 

Your legs are bent to one side and your head hangs under an invisible veil. He’s dead. Your father is dead. You killed him. But why aren’t you sad? 

You’re afraid. Anxious. Addled. But you’re not sad. You have no remorse for the life lost. That is what hurts. Your own callousness stabs you in the heart. 

You shudder and heave again. Barnes’ shadow looms over you and slowly, he bends his knees to come to level with you. He has his gun in his hand. He holds it without intent. 

“You got what you asked for. My end is done,” he says. 

You raise your head slowly and look at him. You blink. His end... what about yours? 

“It’s late. You’re tired,” he reaches to slide the gun into his holster. “You’re gonna go home and you’re going to sleep. And in the morning, when my man comes to hand you that black envelope, you’re going to cry and act shocked.” 

You push your lip out and shake your head. You search his expression. He is stoic and unbothered. 

“That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it, doll?” He prompts. 

You swallow, “what do you want--” 

“I just told you what I want you to do,” he interjects. “Don’t you worry, I always collect my debts.” 

He stands and tugs on his cuffs. He faces the chair and you slowly follow his gaze to the corpse. Your father’s face is slack and lifeless. You’re horrified at the sight of death, that it’s his, doesn’t affect you as much. 

You sit and stare and try to feel. That’s your father. That’s the man who is responsible for your very being. You share blood. He has been there every moment of your life. His is a constant.  

Not anymore and that just doesn’t matter to you. It should. Shouldn’t it? 

Well, what is there to miss about him? 

“Stand up and walk out of here. There’s a light pole by the gate. Wait there.” Barnes instructs without looking back. 

He pushes his arms back and slides off his jacket. He folds it and places it on the bare metal table by the wall. He turns back and unbuttons his sleeves. He rolls them as he nears your father’s body. 

“I’m being patient because I know you’re in shock, so I’ll tell you one my time to go,” he says, focus on the dead man. “You and your sisters are under my protection. Go and be with them.” 

You take a breath and steady yourself as best you can. You stand and hug yourself. You look at your father one last time and turn away. You walk out stiffly. Now that you’re on your feet, you don’t ever want to stop.  

You pass through the door and trod across the tarmac. You come into the yellow cone of light cast beneath the tall pole and stop. You wait. Not long before Rogers appears in his black cadillac. 

That woman is gone. You don’t wonder who she is. If she’s with him, she must be one of them. You are too. You were born into that life, but now, you really do belong. 

Neither of you say a word as he drives you home. You don’t look back as you get out of the car and go inside. Your sisters aren’t home yet. You don’t expect them to be. You can never go to The Reel without stopping at the milkshake place after and they stay open late for the movie goers. 

Those little details are so meaningless now. Nothing really makes a difference. Life is a fraying thread and it will snap. You just don’t know which tug will be the one that breaks it. 

You go upstairs and undress. You pull on a pajama set and take your clothes downstairs to the bin. You lay down on the couch and wait for your sisters. 

When they get home, you quietly listen to them jabber. They talk about the movie. Kitty loves how good it looked. It must have been remastered and Adrienne got the last bag of caramel corn. You force a smile but it doesn’t feel believable. It must be. They give you your box of chocolate-covered raisins and wish you a good night. 

You follow them upstairs. As you get to your door, Adrienne says your name. Both you and Kitty stop and look at her. 

“I wish every day could be like this,” she says. 

Kitty nods, “yeah, I hope he never comes home.” 

Your heart feels like it’s stopped. You don’t know how you’re doing it. You don’t know how you’re not shrieking and pulling your hair out. Any sane person would be a puddle. He's not coming back. Your father is dead and you killed him. 

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” You say at last. “Good night.” 

“Night,” Adrienne chimes back and Kitty echoes her. 

You all go into your rooms and shut the doors. You put the raisins on the dresser and ignore your bed. You go to the closet where you used to hide and listen to your father yell. You sit on the floor and lean into the wall. You hug your legs and stare into the static darkness. 

The night is long and sleepless. Your head dips now and again but you start as the echo of a gunshot brings you back before you can succumb to the depths. The morning light peers in from the other side of the slatted door. 

You climb out of the closet and listen to the house. You stay in your room. You hear Kitty’s door first, then Adrienne’s a few minutes later. You stand by your door and argue with yourself. Just go. Go out and act like everything is normal. Go and enjoy your new life free of that tyrant. 

It’s only the doorbell that makes you go out. You hear footsteps below and you open your door. You come to the top of the stairs as Kitty stands at the door. Adrienne appears just behind her. 

“Courtesy of the boss,” Rogers deep voice is crisp in the early hours. 

Kitty thanks him in a whisper. She shuts the door as he goes. She doesn’t move until you hear his car engine. 

“What is it?” Adrienne asks. 

Kitty turns. You sit on the top stair as she holds the black envelope. Her eyes are stuck to it. Adrienne stumbles and catches herself on the wall. You languish in the silence. All three of you. 

Kitty looks up at you and you look between her and Adrienne. Your eyes search each other, taking turns, frozen, frightened. Now that your father is gone, what happens to you? 

[aricarianis]

CW: explicit depictions of violence and sexual themes.

John Price was the love of your life. Love is a powerful force—capable of building or destroying—and what you shared kept you bound to him for years. But only having his rough hands on your skin for a few months at a time, hearing his gruff voice say sweet nothings over the phone, missing the feel of his beard grazing your neck as his words seeped into you like venom, all wore down the foundations of what a real relationship was supposed to be.

He knew it. He felt the same sick ache in his chest every time he promised to come home soon, both of you aware it was a lie. He’d promised to slow down, to leave the job, to stay by your side, but the marriage you ended up with wasn’t the one you’d signed up for. You didn’t want a husband who vanished for months on end. When he returned, he’d devour you, craving your body like a hard drug. His hands too eager to find your sweet spots, cock too hungry to make you forget that he had lied. He'd push you into constant moments of bliss, tricking, but even his passion couldn’t erase the truth: he’d lie again.

In time, your marriage went where so many do. When he was handed the divorce papers at the base, he still tried to attack the process server. You wanted out, and nothing he did would change it—not refusing to sign, not tearing the papers up, not skipping court. You weren’t his anymore.

Life carried on, with months passing and, as usual, not a word from John. You thought losing the love of your life would be agony enough, but his indifference only added to the torment. Part of you wished you’d never met him; never knowing love would’ve been worth never knowing this pain.

The night before the hearing, you invited your lawyer to your flat to go over last-minute instructions. As the meeting wound down, a low, metallic sound came from the bedroom.

“Did you hear that?” you asked. He shook his head.

The two of you sat in tense silence for a moment, dread prickling at you. Your lawyer offered to check the bedroom, but you dismissed it, assuring him it was probably nothing. The meeting continued until, just before leaving, he asked to use the restroom. You directed him to the en suite, since the guest bathroom had stopped working that morning.

Lost in thought, you noticed several minutes had passed without him returning. Concerned, you called his name. No answer. Yelled. Still no answer. Your chest tightened, dread spreading through you like poison. Gripping the hunting knife John had given you for protection, you made your way to the bedroom.

“You can put that thing down, love. ‘S just me.” The gruff voice sent a shiver down your spine—unmistakable.

You peeked into the dark room, spotting the familiar silhouette against the dim light from the window. “John? H-how did you find me?”

“Why’d I have to find you in the first place?” His tone was cold, anger simmering beneath restraint.

“I needed space,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Single people live alone.”

“You know damn well you aren't single.”

“I’ve been single ever since I married you.”

Your words cut deep. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, hurt etched on his face.

“Where’s my lawyer?” you asked, searching the shadows.

“He’s not our problem anymore.”

“John…” Your breath hitched. “What did you do?”

“Someone’s trying to take you from me, innit? Was it him?”

“Where is he?”

“Think a piece of paper’ll keep me from you?” His voice dripped with rage.

“Why do you care? You love your job more than you love me—”

“Don’t say that.”

“I understand, John, but this wasn’t the marriage I was promised. I’d rather have none of you than pieces,” you said, your voice thick. “At least then I wouldn’t have to lie to myself that I’ll ever have you whole.”

He breathed heavily, brow furrowing as if struggling to comprehend your words.

"Why can't you just admit you've fucked up and leave me alone, huh? You had months to pull this little stunt—it's too late to care now."

John’s expression went blank, unreadable. He lunged, disarming you with practiced ease, gripping you by the hair and throwing you onto the bed. Your back hit something solid, unfamiliar beneath the covers.

He flicked on the light, and before your eyes adjusted, he was above you, pressing the knife to your throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his beard scratching your skin, hunger corroding him from within.

Instinctively, you turned to the side, seeking something to help you escape. Instead, you saw your lawyer’s lifeless, bloodshot eyes staring back, ones that had met yours with empathy so many times, reassuring you that everything would be okay. His neck twisted at a grotesque angle, lips slack in a silent scream.

“I’ll hunt you down forever, love,” John whispered, his voice carrying all the rage and obsession you overlooked for years.

Tears streamed down your cheeks, your breathing erratic, heart thundering. He pulled back, holding your gaze with a look that seared into your soul, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile.

“Doesn’t matter what you think,” he murmured, voice dangerously soft. “I will always be the love of your life.”

[decagondice]

༓ Whispers of the tide and wind ༓

Soft!Sukuna x reader, SFW, exchanging seashells

The sea stretched out before you, endless and shimmering under the late afternoon sun. The horizon blurred into soft blues and golds, the sky above tinged with the colors of a fading day. A gentle breeze rolled in from the water, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed sand, ruffling through your hair and making the world feel lighter, like the air itself was full of laughter. 

The two of you were alone on the beach, the shore stretching out for miles, untouched, save for the small imprints of your footprints trailing behind. The sound of the waves lapping against the sand came in slow, rhythmic whispers, their song carrying on the wind like a quiet melody. There was a kind of serenity in it all, an easy peace that wrapped itself around you, soft and warm.

Sukuna walked beside you, his presence as steady as the ocean itself. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his steps unhurried. The sun caught in his hair, turning the strands a deep, burnished hue, casting soft shadows across his sharp features. His usual air of power and intensity seemed gentler here, softened by the breeze and the quiet of the open sea. There was something calming in the way he moved, as though, in this moment, he was part of the rhythm of the world, as much a part of the landscape as the sand and waves themselves.

You bent down, fingers skimming the surface of the cool, wet sand as you searched for seashells. They dotted the shore like tiny forgotten treasures, smoothed by the tides and glistening faintly in the sun. Every so often, you found one that caught your eye—a delicate spiral shell, pale and perfect, or a small, broken fragment with edges worn smooth—and you picked it up, brushing away the grains of sand before holding it out to him.

"Look at this one," you murmured, your voice light with the simple joy of discovery. You held out a small, rose-colored shell, the edges chipped, but still beautiful in its imperfection.

Sukuna’s gaze shifted to the shell in your palm, and for a moment, he said nothing, his eyes tracing the lines of it. Then, with a quiet grunt, he reached out, taking it from your hand. His fingers brushed against yours, warm and calloused, a brief but familiar touch. He turned the shell over in his hand, studying it for a second before sliding it into his pocket, as though the act of keeping it was just as natural as breathing.

In return, he crouched down, picking up a larger shell—worn smooth by the tides, its surface ridged and patterned. He held it out to you, his expression unreadable but calm, his eyes flicking from the shell to your face. There was something almost tender in the way he offered it, the quiet exchange of these small, forgotten things that the ocean had left behind.

You smiled, taking the shell from him, the simple weight of it feeling like a secret shared between the two of you, something the world beyond the shoreline couldn’t touch. Your fingers lingered on his for a second longer than necessary, feeling the warmth of his skin against the cool breeze.

The two of you continued to walk, the conversation flowing easily, back and forth like the waves at your feet. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a soft, golden light over everything, turning the sea into a vast stretch of liquid amber. You spoke of little things, of nothing in particular, the kind of easy, meandering conversation that filled the space between you, requiring no deeper meaning. Every now and then, Sukuna would glance at you, his gaze softened in the warm light, and though he said little, the quiet moments of eye contact felt full, as though words weren’t necessary to understand the quiet contentment you shared.

As you walked, you felt the cool, damp sand beneath your feet give way to the drier grains farther from the shore. Sukuna stopped for a moment, his gaze drifting out to the horizon, his expression unreadable yet peaceful, as though he were lost in the vastness of it all. You followed his gaze, the sun now sinking closer to the water, the colors of the sky melting into shades of pink and soft lavender.

Without a word, Sukuna slipped his hand into yours, his grip easy but firm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The breeze caught again, playful, tugging at the loose strands of your hair and his, the world around you bathed in that golden, fading light. The sea whispered on, endless and patient, as if it had been waiting for this moment to unfold.

“You’re terrible at finding good shells,” he muttered under his breath, his tone gruff but without its usual bite. There was an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, hidden beneath his usual sharpness.

You laughed softly, the sound carried away by the wind. “And yet you keep taking them.”

He gave a small huff, his gaze still on the horizon, but the slightest tug of warmth remained in the corner of his eyes. The two of you stood like that, hand in hand, feet buried in the soft sand, watching as the sun sank lower, painting the world in its final shades of light. The soft intimacy of the moment wrapped around you like the breeze, and though no more words were spoken, the connection between you both was undeniable, woven into the quiet, shared space of the beach, the seashells in your pockets, and the endless, rolling waves.

Here, with the ocean stretching out before you and the soft rhythm of the world surrounding you, everything felt lighter—like the worries of the world couldn’t touch you, like the wind and the sea and the quiet were all that existed. And as the sky faded into twilight, you knew this moment would linger, as gentle and constant as the tide.

A.N. I realised I kept writing scenarios of them at home and felt claustrophobic. Though if this is really the right season for them to go out to the beach is questionable.

[starsjulia]

for understanding // leah williamson

a/n : everyone experiences neurodivergence differently, and this isn’t an accurate representation of all neurodivergent people, this is solely based of my personal experience with autism, though neurodivergence comes in many different forms and not just autism.

leah williamson x neurodivergent!reader

part of the perfect universe

The restaurant is beautiful, with low lighting, flickering candles, and soft music drifting from speakers tucked in the corners. You know Leah wanted tonight to feel special. She’d spent the last few days excitedly planning, keeping the details a secret. And you’d felt her excitement too—until you actually stepped inside.

Now, seated across from her, you can feel your pulse quickening in a way that has nothing to do with anticipation. The hum of voices, the clinking of silverware, the constant movement all around you—it feels like the walls are slowly pressing in, making it hard to concentrate on the menu or on anything at in all honestly. You attempt to meet Leah’s gaze, forcing a smile, but your hands are trembling slightly, and you’re sure she’s noticed.

“Hey,” Leah says gently, her eyes softening as she reaches across the table for your hand. She gives it a reassuring squeeze, her thumb rubbing circles against your skin in a way that usually calms you. “You good?”

The words catch in your throat. You don’t want to disappoint her, not when she’s gone to so much effort. You know how much this evening means to her, and you don’t want to ruin it. But every part of you wants to leave, to escape the noise and the lights and be somewhere quieter.

Leah watches you closely, her expression shifting as she seems to read the discomfort on your face. Her hand tightens around yours, and her smile turns soft, understanding. “You know what,” she says, almost as if she’s talking to herself, “I really can’t stop thinking about those new pyjamas we bought, the really soft and warm ones, and sitting by the fire place? do you mind if we go back home?”

You blink, taken aback. She’s suggesting exactly what you want—without you even having to ask. Relief floods over you so quickly it’s almost overwhelming, and you nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat.

Leah smiles, her eyes warm, and she waves over the waiter to ask if they can pack everything up to go. Within minutes, you’re walking back out into the cool night air, her arm looped through yours. As you breathe in the quiet of the night, you feel the tension in your body finally beginning to ease. Leah’s hand squeezes yours gently, and she glances over at you with a reassuring smile.

Back at home, Leah quickly lights the fireplace and puts on one of your favorite playlists, turning the volume down low. She comes over with the takeout bags, setting everything up on the coffee table. The flickering glow of the fire casts warm shadows across the room, and you can already feel your muscles relax as the heat starts to fill the room. You settle down onto the couch, pulling a soft blanket over your lap, and Leah sits beside you, her arm wrapping around your shoulders.

She nudges a takeout container towards you, grinning as she unwraps her own. “See? Much better,” she murmurs, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “No crowds, no noise—just us.”

You nod, feeling the weight lift a little more with every second in her presence. “It is really really nice,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, occasionally laughing over shared bites or nudging each other to try something new. There’s no pressure, no rush—just the simple joy of being together. And as the fire crackles softly beside you, you realize you’ve never felt so at ease.

After dinner, Leah suggests making hot chocolate, and you watch as she disappears into the kitchen, humming softly. When she returns, she’s carrying two steaming mugs, the tops piled high with whipped cream and marshmallows. She hands you one, settling back onto the couch beside you, her fingers lacing through yours.

“You know,” she says, her voice soft, “I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to hide how you’re feeling. If something’s too much, you can tell me. I’m here for you, I would genuinely do anything in the world if it meant you were happy and comfortable”

You take a shaky breath, her words filling you with a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire or the hot chocolate. “Sometimes… it’s just kinda hard to say it out loud,” you admit, your gaze fixed on the marshmallows melting in your mug. “I don’t want to let you down.”

Leah tilts her head, giving you a small, understanding smile. “You could never let me down,” she whispers, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Your comfort is more important to me than any silly dinner reservation, and in my opinion everyone there seemed too posh and stuck up for my liking”

You look up, meeting her gaze, and your heart swells at the sincerity in her eyes. She means it. She’s always been patient with you, understanding in a way that makes you feel like you’re finally seen. And sitting here, wrapped up together with the night stretching peacefully ahead, you realize just how deeply you love her.

As the fire begins to die down, Leah pulls you closer, tucking you into her side, your head resting on her shoulder. You feel her hand gently rubbing your arm, a steady, soothing motion that slowly lulls you into a state of contentment. The world outside feels far away, and all that matters is this moment—this quiet, perfect moment with her.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?” she asks, her voice equally soft.

“For… knowing me. For understanding me.”

Leah presses a kiss to the top of your head, her fingers still tracing gentle circles against your arm. “I’m just lucky I get to love you,” she says, her words a quiet promise. “And I’ll always be here for you, okay? No matter what.”

You close your eyes, letting her words wrap around you like a blanket. In her arms, with the soft glow of the fire casting warmth over the room, you feel a peace you’ve never known before. And as you drift off in her embrace, you know, without a doubt, that this is exactly where you belong.

[lunaritex]

𓏲࣪ ִֶָ ︎ִֶָ GUARDED HEARTS 𖤐. — yang jungwon.

↺ CONTENT: non-idol au, jungwon is reader's bodyguard, reader is female, reader is a CEO, office romance, jealous jungwon, cursing, confession and kissing.

↺ FROM HYE: finally writing something for my man holy shit!!!! ok but something about jealous jungwon just hits different… might expand on this and turn this into a full chaptered fic but we’ll see. @riekiss

The soft hum of the city outside your office window seemed distant compared to the rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the keyboard. The warm glow of the desk lamp cast a gentle light over the stack of contracts and reports strewn across your desk, its glow highlighting the faint furrow in your brow as you worked through the latest company updates.

The pristine office, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and modern decor, was a testament to your meticulous attention to detail. You were engrossed in your current task, eyes glued to your computer screen that you were oblivious to a presence that had entered your office. 

“Miss, you need a break,” came a familiar, low voice from the corner of the room. You did not need to glance up to know it was him—Jungwon, your ever-present shadow and trusted bodyguard. 

A soft chuckle escaped you. “And who’s going to finish these reports if I do?” You did not pause, eyes still scanning the lines of financial data, but you could feel the weight of his gaze on you—steady, unwavering. 

He stepped closer, the subtle rustle of his movements sending a shiver down your spine. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught his reflection in the window: sharp suit and dark eyes with an unreadable depth. 

“If it means you get some rest, I’ll finish them myself,” he said, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. You couldn’t help but look up at that, meeting his eyes fully for the first time that night.

“Careful, Jungwon,” you teased, leaning back in your chair. “That almost sounded like concern. One would think you’ve fallen head over heels for me.” 

Your bodyguard merely smiled, remaining silent. He moved closer, now standing on your left as he reached over to rest his hand above yours. The physical touch made your fingers freeze in midair, hovering over the keyboard. You glanced up, eyes widening when you realized just how close he was. The soft scent of his cologne enveloped you, a blend of something dark and alluring that made your pulse quicken. 

He braced one hand on the back of your chair, his body leaning forward ever so slightly. The closeness made the air feel charged, a delicate tension crackling between you that held you frozen in place. 

“You’re only doing yourself more harm if you continue pushing yourself like this,” he said. 

Your heart stopped for a moment, caught in the intensity of his gaze. The proximity left you breathless, aware of every minute detail: the way his hair fell just slightly over his forehead, the shadow of his lashes, and the faint line of tension in his expression. 

“Jungwon,” you whispered, the sound barely breaking the silence. 

You caught the way his eyes flickered to your parted lips, followed by his eyes darkening before he reeled himself back. Jungwon straightened himself, instantly moving away and you ignored how your heart shattered at the sudden distance between you. He walked round the table and moved to the door, hand hovering over the doorknob before he turned his head to you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“We should get going, Miss. I’ll wait for you outside.” 

That was all he said before he left without waiting for your response, leaving you sitting on your chair, drowning in your own emotions. 

~

The low hum of conversations and clinking glasses filled the grand ballroom, the air heavy with expensive cologne and the shimmer of chandeliers casting a warm glow over the guests. You stood at the centre of it all, an image of poised confidence in your custom-made dress that perfectly complemented your presence as CEO. But behind the sharp, practised smile you offered to investors and curious onlookers, you felt the weight of a different set of eyes. 

Jungwon stood a discreet distance away, his dark suit tailored impeccably to his lean frame. His eyes, deep and sharp, followed your every move with a mix of duty and something unspoken. As your bodyguard, he was vigilant, always on guard, but tonight there was something different. Tonight, the attention directed your way was not just an annoyance; it was just a provocation. 

A man in a slick, navy-blue suit, whose confidence bordered on arrogance, had been trying to monopolise your attention for the past thirty minutes. His flattery was persistent, punctuated by sly smiles and light touches to your arm that made your patience waver. You kept your responses polite but distant, eyes flickering occasionally to the corner where Jungwon stood. 

It was only when the man reached out to tuck an imaginary strand of hair behind your ear that a quiet, lethal voice interrupted, cutting through the air like a blade. 

“That’s enough. You’re making her uncomfortable and I'd greatly appreciate it if you could leave her alone,” Jungwon said, stepping forward, his expression calm but his eyes betrayed the storm within. The man hesitated, glancing between you and the bodyguard with a nervous laugh before making a pathetic excuse and slipped away. 

You turned to Jungwon, raising an eyebrow, but before you could speak, he had grabbed your wrist and tugged you along, forcing you to follow him. You had no idea where he was taking you but you trust him with your entire life. Both of you turned a blind eye to the numerous curious stares thrown your way from the other guests. Eventually, you arrived at a balcony and Jungwon dropped your wrist, walking forward until he reached the railings and rested his elbows on the cool surface. 

You awkwardly lingered behind, eyes trained on his broad shoulders, hesitant to break the silence. “Jungwon, I-” 

“Do you have any idea how crazy you make me feel?” He interrupted, his voice was low, almost strained as he fully turned to face you. You gulped at the intensity in his eyes—dark, stormy, and barely contained. 

You blinked, momentarily caught off-guard by the raw emotion in his voice. “Jungwon, what—”

“You’re out there, smiling at everyone like that, letting them think they have a chance,” he continued, stepping closer, his usually composed expression now a mixture of frustration. His fingers flexed at his sides as if fighting the urge to touch you. To kiss you. “And I have to stand there, pretending it doesn’t tear me apart.” 

The weight of his confession hung in the air between you, heavy and electric. You had always noticed the small things—the way his eyes lingered a moment too long, the subtle tension in his jaw when someone flirted with you—but hearing him say it out loud was different. It made your pulse quicken. 

“Jungwon…” You started, but your words died on your lips as he stepped closer. 

“No,” he interrupted, his tone softening but losing none of its intensity. “I can’t keep pretending that protecting you is just a job, not when every time someone gets too close, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.”

Your breath caught in your throat, heart hammering as his eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation. But there was none—only the unspoken truth you both had avoided for too long. Before you could respond, he closed the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both urgent and tender. You felt light-headed with how heavenly his lips felt against yours, like he was the final puzzle piece you needed to complete a puzzle. You returned the kiss, melting into his touch while his hands found your waist, fingers pressing lightly into your sides. 

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft with an emotion that spoke volumes. 

“Tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way,” Jungwon whispered, his voice barely audible with faint hope. 

“You’re not,” you replied, a smile tugging at your lips before you pulled him down for another kiss. 

[ramoth13]

A Message of Hope: Aurë entuluva

For absolutely no particular reason, I felt compelled today,- November 6th of 2024, to write about hope.

There are days when Hope feels foolish; when you have just watched in horror as things that once seemed sturdy and unbreakable, crumble and burn. Whether it is an elvish city or a chosen path, when that happens, Hope feels naive. It feels like that's what lead you here to begin with. It feels like, if you had been more realistic and pessimistic, you wouldn't be so hurt.

For all of the things that Tolkien wrote about, his message of hope was perhaps the most resilient, poignant, and enduring. Few can forget Sam's hopeful message to Frodo:

Yet, today, for many people it may not feel that this is true. I know I often struggle with hope, but today does feel exceptionally difficult (for no particular reason, of course).

Tolkien's most hopeful message, for me, comes from his bleakest story. Húrin's story is one of defeat. Courage sprang alive when high King Fingon and the elves and men fought together against the blackness of Morgoth's reign. The Nirnaeth Arnoediad, or Unnumbered Tears, was a day when victory was close and Turgon, brother of the king, arrived with a mighty host,

"Then When Fingon heard afar the great trumpet of Turgon, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: 'Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalië ar Atanatarni, utúlie'n aurë! The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!' And all those who heard his great voice echo in the hills answered crying: 'Auta i lómë! The night is passing!' "

They believed that their courage and steadfastness had saved them, that daybreak was soon at hand. Tolkien understood, perhaps better than most, that there was a difference between courage and hope. For courage is what spurs action, brings change, and inspires duty. Courage is what makes the difference when the time has come, just as they continued to fight on against orcish hordes. It was courage that led them into the heart of Angband where the Dark Lord himself sat shaking on his throne. Courage carried them past the gates, but betrayal can cut through courage like a hot-knife through butter. The hill men betrayed the men and elves and the dawning light turned into a simmering dusk.

Darkness had returned.

So, where was the hope?

With the elves slain or fleeing, Húrin, leader of his people fought valiantly to let his people and what was left of his elvish allies escape. Courage did survive the betrayal of the wild men, but only just. And with each swing of his axe he cried out, "Aurë entuluva!" And with each felled enemy, he cried out again, "Aurë entuluva!" Even as his enemies surrounded him, overtook him, and even when taken by the enemy into the dark halls, he cried out for any allies that might hear him, "Aurë entuluva!" It was a promise of hope.

~ "Day will come again!"

Hope is not what makes us act, it is not what leads us to change: hope is what sustains us, what keeps us going when courage has faded and the dark night envelopes us. Húrin held fast to hope when courage and Valor had failed, when the efforts of good people fell short. I do not know what the future holds, bleak as it may seem, but I keep those words near me with every passing hour and in those moments where I feel as though I have been dragged into a dark lord's dungeon, I say those words:

Aurë entuluva!

Day will come again!

-

Courage will be needed when the day arrives, but until then, I will cling to hope.

I wish everyone peace and hope. It is the dearest thing I can wish. And remember, Aurë entuluva!

Namárië,

~ Ramoth13

[loveaffairxc]

Frank arrived home later than usual, the smell of damp earth rising from the rain that had softened to a mist. The driveway was slick underfoot, and the evening air clung to him as he approached the door, noting something tucked into its frame. The paper was slightly crinkled and damp along its edges from the earlier downpour.

He pulled it free and scanned the page, frown deepening as he read.

"Bramwell Mill Shutting Down in Two Weeks."

His breath caught. Rosie, his sister, had been there nearly half her life. It was the kind of news that would seep into every corner of the town, affecting each resident in its quiet but lasting way. The weight of it settled in him, but even more so was the realization that his own sister hadn’t reached out to tell him. Surely, she’d known before him, yet there’d been no call, no warning. He wondered if this distance was just how things were now. Ever since he'd come back, it felt like he’d recovered all his puzzle pieces, yet somehow, they refused to fit. Like a piece of himself had stayed behind, a part still dead, or fractured, as if the life he knew needed to be painstakingly rebuilt, one strained connection at a time.

Standing there on the porch, Frank glanced up, a sudden prickling feeling of being watched creeping over him. He turned and looked behind him and Ethel stood in her window, watching. The streetlamp cast a faint light, just enough to catch her gaze, which seemed colder than the rain. What was it about this woman that felt like a weight he couldn’t shake? She hovered at the edges of his life, an ever-present shadow he sensed more than saw, as if she’d made him and Esther her project simply to stave off her own boredom. He knew it wasn't passion that drove her but some unbelievable emptiness, a need to latch on, to fill her days by slipping into theirs. She didn’t wave or make any move, just watched him quietly. He ignored it—had to.

Frank slid the key into the lock, the quiet click of the mechanism grounding him for a moment. But just as he leaned forward to turn it, something else caught his eye—a sliver of white peeking out from beneath the front door rug. It was a small, folded paper, just barely visible against the damp, dark mat.

He paused, the key held halfway in the lock, feeling the faint pull of curiosity and a heavier pull of dread. It wasn't like Rosie to leave messages, or any of the neighbors, for that matter. He crouched, hesitating a second before reaching to pull the paper from under the rug. It was damp and simple, hastily folded with edges softening from the rain and dark blue ink bled slightly through the creases. Frank let out a small sigh, standing there in the faint drizzle before he pushed the door open, stepping into the warm quiet of the house. He closed the door softly behind him, feeling the warmth wrap around him as he leaned back against the door for a moment.

As he unfolded the paper, his thoughts flickered unsteadily to James.

Ring me when you get this, please. You know the number.

J-

And his instinct was right. He briefly considered tossing it into the fireplace, the flames in the living room flickering like a siren’s call. If only he could burn away all of Esther's memories with James too. But for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, he held onto the note, feeling an urge to keep it close, as if it held a meaning he wasn’t ready to let go of.

After hanging up his coat, he walked softly past the bedroom, but then pausing at the doorway. There, bathed in the room's soft, amber light, was Esther, kneeling by the bed with her eyes shut in prayer. He leaned against the doorframe, entranced; she could have been a figure from a Renaissance painting. Her beauty struck him like reverence, but it was the quiet murmur of her words, the gentle rise and fall of her voice, that truly held him. It was as if an angel were whispering secrets to the night.

Esther’s gaze lingered on his face, and before she knew it, her hand drifted upward, settling against his cheek, as if drawing his attention back to her and away from that damned dog. Her thumb traced the faint line of his cheekbone. An absent caress, a tender gesture long forgotten, and for a moment, it almost felt like they’d never been apart.

But just as quickly, she let her hand fall, clearing her throat as if to shake off his spell. "That's all well and good, Frank." She gave him a look. A familiar, narrowed gaze edged with both humour and warning. "But you mark my words. If that dog so much as thinks about approaching Thomas, you'll be the one to answer for it. I don't want to find a single tuft of fur on the parlour rug."

[hearts4werka]

NNN day 6 | Birthday Tears

summary: today was your birthday, the day you’ve never got to actually celebrate because of some family issues. Youve now always avoided your birthday and didn’t want to celebrate it, when you were coming home from the grocery store you were met with a sweet surprise when entering the house…

warnings: FLUFF, brief mentions of family issues but aside from that nothing else!

authors note: day 6 is now complete ! Big thanks to my honey @/strnilolover for the idea and the other ideas, luv u sm💋. And tysm for all of the support throughout this whole thing, I rlly appreciate very single one of you sm. Hope y’all enjoy this one

no nut november | masterlist | guestlist

The crisp autumn air hung in the space around me as I clutched the grocery bags and carried them home, each step filled with a heavy amount of memories I wish to forget everyday. Today was my birthday-the day I’ve avoided for many years now, it’s always been a battlefield in my family and it just serves as a reminder of fractured connections and unmet expectations. Each year I have tried to wish it away, for it to vanish and forever be forgotten by everyone on earth, pretending like the specific date held no significance to my well being.

I arrive at my shared apartment with my roommate Madi and set the bags down in the kitchen counter, the delicious scent of fresh basil and ripe tomatoes filling the air as a reminder to the pasta I was planning on making for tonight’s dinner for me and Madi if she wouldn’t be staying at her boyfriends house again. Just praying I won’t burn it, like it happened the previous times. I dismiss the slight sorrow hollowing a hole in my heart at the thought of others celebrating their birthday and looking forward to it, while I was avoiding it at every cost and turn I made.

My hands moved over to the grocery bags, taking each product outside and placing them one by one in the fridge at their designated spots. Just as I turn around, my attention was immediately brought to flickering lights coming from under the door leading to the living room. Did I forget to turn off the lamp before I left? Curiosity piqued as I took a step closer, my ears picking up the soft hum of perhaps my favorite sounds. Laughter but genuine, joyful laughter. Was the TV left turned on too alongside the lamp?

I paused for a moment, my heart slightly racing as trepidation coursed through me. Maybe it was best to retreat my steps back into the comfort of my lonely routine and worry about it later but something, perhaps a whisper of longing and something I lost a long time ago, pulled me towards the room without my consent. Cautiously I creaked open the door, expecting to see the same mess of a variety of items I was going to clean up when I got back home but instead I was met with colorful confetti scattered across the floor of the room along with a chorus of “Surprise!” Which caught me completely off guard.

The confetti danced in the air as I stood at the doorframe, completely surprised but then I scanned the living room. Alongside the festive chaos was standing my boyfriend, Christopher and surprisingly my roommate Madi without the presence of her boyfriend along with some of my other friends who managed to somehow scrunch into the small space of my modest living room. My heart swelled, shocked by their presence as it was unprepared for the flood of overwhelming emotions all coming down at once.

Chris moved to stand next to me, wrapping a loving arm around my waist and pulling me closer to his side as I admire the whole surprise still. “Happy birthday, ma” He celebrated, glancing down and chuckling at how well the surprise worked on me. The warmth of his small embrace scattered across my whole body and enveloped me in a safe space I never knew I needed to feel, urging away every of the shadows that clung to my heart on this day.

“What is all this?” I stammered, continuing to try and process the sight placed in front of me. On the small coffee table landed a homemade birthday cake topped off with several candles, decorations created from paper and a pile of gifts wrapped in pretty shiny wrapping paper. “We figured you finally needed to stop avoiding your birthday, everyone deserves to celebrate their birthday after all.” Madi beamed as she stepped closer to where me and Chris were standing while Chris adds, “We couldn’t let another year go by without making it special, y’know?”

Realization washes over me, the overwhelming kindness in their gesture felt like a balm to all of the years I’ve neglected my own birthday. I didn’t expect anyone to remember, let alone plan a whole celebration surprise party in my honor. “I- thank you guys. I honestly don’t know what to say.” I finally managed to speak, my voice faltering. I suddenly felt vulnerable, emotions catching right in my throat as the memories of family disappointment flooding back. Yet, while standing among my friends, a new warmth takes me into an embrace. This was love but uncomplicated and genuine which makes a soft tear roll down my cheek.

“Well let’s get this party started now, shall we?” Chris grinned, grabbing my hand and leading me to the couch, where they had already set up laughter-filled games and a playlist of my favorite songs. The atmosphere radiated with joy, and those initial bad memories and emotions I felt faded away, replaced with surprise and joy.

As we celebrated, each laugh, each honest word, chipped away at the walls I had put up to protect myself. The clinking of glasses, the sugary taste of cake, and the joy in my friends' eyes began to stitch together the lost fragments of my broken heart. I realized I wasn’t celebrating the absence of what had been, but rather embracing the promise of what could finally be.

When the time comes to blow out the candles, I wish for something different this year. Not for the day to disappear and be forgotten, but for the future where birthdays would mean love and connection. Laughter and joy echoes through the walls of my soul, when I open my eyes I was met with smiling faces, and I knew, despite all that had been, today had changed my perspective on birthdays.

This birthday was the beginning of a newfound respect for the day I had so long tried to erase—a day I could finally acknowledge as my own, filled with sweetness, acceptance, and the warmth of friendship. Today, I felt more than just celebrated; I felt alive.

Guestlist!

| - @sturnsxplr-25 - @strnzzvsp - @luvvs4chriss - @sturniolosweetheart33 - @pussypie456 - @choclatestarfishwithahat - @venusxsturnio - @bagsbyclair0 - @sturnstvs - @dykes4chris - @hoe4matt - @cayleeuhithinknot - @strnilolover - @marrykisskilled - @phone4pills - @emely9274 - @cupiidk1lls - @lily-strnlo - @nicksgirlfriend - |

[emmylksblog]

ONE STEP AT A TIME // Héctor Fort

summary: after a big fight, you’re feeling like a total fraud but still show up to Hector’s game. Emotions run high, but a sweet moment brings you back together. based on this request.

genre: slight angst, fluff

warnings: none

a/n: hey girlies! 💅 it's been a while since i last posted, where did the time go? life got hectic with uni and all that grown-up stuff that i just went survival mode for a while 😰 but i’m back tryna be consistent 🫶🏻

The final whistle echoes through the stadium, and as the crowd begins to disperse, you make your way to the players’ exit, weaving through clusters of fans. Your heart pounds, a mix of worry and anticipation tightening your chest.

You finally catch sight of Hector, walking off the field with a noticeable limp. He’s putting on a brave face, smiling politely at fans, but you notice the tension around his eyes, the way he tries to mask his discomfort.

“Hector!” you call out, your voice getting lost in the hum of the crowd. He turns at the sound of your voice, eyes searching for a moment until they land on you. His expression shifts—first surprise, then something softer, almost relieved. He takes a few hesitant steps toward you, and you close the gap.

“Hey, I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, his voice warm but guarded. He tries to meet your gaze, but his eyes flicker with hesitation, as if he’s unsure of what to say after days of silence between you.

“Of course I came,” you reply, keeping your tone steady, though your heart feels heavy with everything left unsaid. You glance down at his leg, noticing how he shifts his weight to avoid putting too much pressure on it. “Are you okay? That looked pretty rough.”

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, just a bit bruised. The medics insisted I sit out the rest of the game, but it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Your eyes linger on his leg, catching every wince and grimace he tries to hide. “Come on, let me take you home,” you offer, voice gentle but firm. He hesitates, looking like he’s about to refuse, but something in your expression makes him nod.

The car ride is quiet, the city lights casting soft shadows across his face as he stares out the window, lost in thought. You steal a few glances his way, trying to read him, feeling the weight of unspoken words between you. Your heart aches to explain everything, to ease his worry, but the words feel stuck, too fragile to break the silence yet.

When you finally arrive at his apartment, he takes a step out of the car, flinching slightly as he shifts his weight. You reach out instinctively, offering your arm for support. He gives you a small, grateful smile, and you both walk inside, each step slow and careful.

Inside, you help him ease onto the couch, and he lets out a deep, relieved sigh as he stretches his leg out. Without a word, you head to the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack and a towel. Kneeling beside him, you press the cold pack gently to his injury, your hands moving carefully, focused on not causing him any more pain.

He watches you quietly, his gaze lingering on your face. “Thank you,” he says softly, his voice carrying a hint of something vulnerable. “You didn’t have to do this.”

You pause, glancing up at him, your fingers still on the ice pack. “I wanted to be here,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. You drop your gaze, suddenly feeling exposed. “I know I haven’t been around much. And I’m sorry.”

His brows knit together, and he studies you with a mixture of concern and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asks gently. “You’ve been so distant, I thought… I don’t know, that you needed space or maybe… I was making things harder for you.”

You feel a pang in your chest, his words hitting closer to home than you’d like to admit. You try to find the right words, the ones that will explain everything without unraveling you completely. “It’s… it’s not you,” you say finally, glancing down at his hand resting on his knee.

Your fingers brush against his in a brief, hesitant movement before you pull back. “I just… I feel like a fraud sometimes. Like I’m constantly putting on a face for everyone, and I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore. And I didn’t want to bring you into that.”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze steady and unwavering. Then, he reaches out, his hand covering yours in a gentle but firm grip. “You’re not a fraud,” he says, his tone soft yet resolute. “And even if you don’t believe that right now, I do. I see you—all of you. And I’m here because I want to be, not because of some version you think I expect.”

Your breath catches, the weight of his words sinking in. You look away, blinking back the emotions threatening to spill over. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing, grounding motion.

For a long moment, you sit in silence, letting his words sink in, feeling the warmth of his hand against yours. Slowly, you look up, meeting his gaze, feeling a flicker of relief settle in your chest.

“I just… I don’t want to let you down,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he leans back, still holding your hand. “You could never let me down,” he says, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “We’re in this together, okay? Whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

His words hit you like a wave, and you feel the last of your walls begin to crumble. Without thinking, you lean forward, resting your head on his shoulder, feeling his arm come around you in a steady, comforting embrace. He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push for more. He simply holds you, his presence a quiet reassurance that, no matter how messy things get, he’s here.

You stay there for a while, the tension between you slowly dissolving, replaced by the familiar warmth of his closeness. After what feels like an eternity, Hector pulls back slightly, tilting your chin up gently with his fingers so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I care about you,” he says softly, sincerity etched on his face. “You’re not alone in this.”

In that moment, you feel everything you’ve been holding onto begin to lift, replaced by the quiet, steady assurance of his love. You’re about to say something, to thank him, when he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of the gesture sends warmth flooding through you, solidifying the connection that had felt frayed just moments before.

“Let’s take it one step at a time,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. And as you lean into him again, you know that together, you’ll find your way through the chaos, one step at a time.

[nastybuckybarnes]

Home

Pairing: Ghost X Reader

Summary: Ghost needs to get back to work.

Warnings: Minor Angst, Fluff, language?

Word Count: 1.5K

A/n: I have no idea what to call this one it's also just a little thing to get us ready for a big thing and then a bigger thing i hope you enjoy! sorry i haven't been super active - i had no wifi at my new place until today and im also still kinda in the process of moving in LOL

~*~

The energy is different when Ghost returns to his quarters at the end of the day. He has a new tension in his shoulders that not even the hot water of the shower can wash away.

It isn't until he joins you in bed that you find out why.

"M'gonna be gone tomorrow."

Those four words have you sitting upright in bed, a frown on your lips.

"Where?"

One of his hands comes up to caress your collarbone, then slides up to cup the side of your neck.

"To the city. We're gettin' closer."

You're not sure what he's getting closer to, but that's the least of your concerns right now.

"I will be alone?"

He shakes his head, "Johnny will be here. He'll take you to lunch 'n whatnot. But this is... how it's gonna be for a bit movin' forward. I won't be able to be around as much."

Your frown deepens.

You don't want to be away from him. Not for any longer than you have to. Especially now that you're on base.

You're not oblivious to the looks you've been getting from the other men here. More than once have you caught the unwanted wandering eye of someone. But every time without fail, your Ghost is able to scare them off. One sharp look toward them and a dark promise in his eye, and the offenders are looking away.

What are you going to do when he's gone?

Your mind flutters to the Corporals who tried to have their way with you, back when you first met Ghost. You've seen each of them around base, but never together and never quite like you did that night.

You'd like to keep it that way.

You can't help but pick at your fingers as you start to think of every bad thing that could possibly happen with him leaving.

"Hey, none of that. Look at me."

You obey, lifting your eyes to his in the dim light.

"Everything'll be okay. Johnny's not gonna let anything happen to you. I trust him with my life, you can too. 'N'm sure the men here know by now not to even think about you the wrong way. If not, m'happy to make an example outta them if I need to."

His free arm wraps around your waist and he tugs you to lie back down on the bed with him, snuggling you close to his body.

"A few more weeks, Mouse. Then I'll bring you home with me. You can forget everything and we'll start a new life together. How's that sound?"

How does that sound?

That sounds like everything you never thought you'd get. Everything you never thought you'd be allowed in life.

"Good." Is all you end up saying.

~*~

'Good' is also the one word you wouldn't use to describe how things are the days Ghost is gone.

The first day is the worst.

Obeying your Ghost's wishes, you accompany Soap to get lunch, sitting in silence as the piercing eyes of the other soldiers drag along your back.

And on the walk back, whispers erupt and more eyes are following you.

Soap -Johnny- isn't as effective at getting them back in their place. Sure, they keep a wide berth, but their eyes don't skitter to the ground the way they do when Simon's mean glare lands on them.

Maybe, you find yourself thinking, it's because Soap isn't all that different from the men around you.

Maybe he's thinking the very same things they are.

Ghost's words ring out in your ears that night as you lie awake.

'Johnny's not gonna let anything happen to you. I trust him with my life, you can too.'

Settling a bit, you decide that maybe you can trust Soap.

The other men, though? They don't get that luxury.

From that moment on, you vow not to leave his quarters again unless directly accompanied by Ghost.

The entire time he's gone, he can't help the odd feeling in his chest.

He's not looking in windows for your drawings or in shadows for your eyes. No, instead he's looking for more hostiles, more targets, more things standing between him and his Mouse. The future between the two of you.

The more people he kills, the faster they advance, the more ground they cover, the closer they are to success.

Success means taking you home. To his home, making it your home, too.

And his teammates aren't oblivious to the new fire beneath him.

He's always been good. A key asset to the team and arguably one of the best at what he does.

But this? This is like nothing they've ever seen before.

More than once, however, have they caught him looking at a piece of paper.

During the lulls, the safer moments when no one is shooting at them, a small piece of paper is in his hands and his eyes are tracing and re-tracing the drawings on it.

And when he gets back to base the following day, he feels excited.

His palms tingle and his stomach twists, and he feels a sense of relief when Soap greets him with a smile.

"How's she been?" He wastes no time on pleasantries, immediately making a b-line to his quarters.

"Haven't seen her much. She's been sayin' she's 'not hungry' since yesterday. She hasn't left since."

Simon's brows pull together as they come to a slow outside of his door.

He gives Soap a nod, watching as the man turns and leaves, then slowly pushes the door open.

"Mouse? You feelin' ok-"

He's cut off by you throwing yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his frame and tugging him forward with such strength that he actually loses his footing for a moment.

His arm instinctively wraps around you as he stumbles, pulling you closer to his body.

He steadies himself then brings his other arm around your waist, hugging you tightly.

Your fingers slide up beneath the back of his balaclava to card through his sweaty hair as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

He tugs the balaclava off then pulls your head back, dropping his lips to meet yours after far too long.

You sigh softly, melting into the kiss.

"You okay, Mouse?" He asks after a moment, pulling back to look at you closely.

Your eyes flutter open and you look up at him with dreamy eyes, nodding.

"Johnny tells me you haven' left the room. Why?"

His hands slide up until he's cupping your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks.

You close your eyes and hum softly, sliding your hands under the front of his sweater as you seek out his skin.

"The men... they... they do not trust. They stare... they... they say things... I do not like it. Not without you. They do not look when you are here."

He feels a tinge of anger bubble in his stomach, but he can't really blame them.

Does he understand where they're coming from? Yes. Absolutely. He wouldn't feel comfortable having them on the field with him if they blindly trusted you.

That being said, him trusting you should be enough.

The unspoken claim he has over you should be enough for them to not ask questions. It should be more than enough for them to keep their mouths shut when they see you.

"You just gotta... be around them more. They'll grow to trust you the more they see you."

You huff out a sigh and lean forward to kiss his lips softly once more.

"Don't want to without you."

He smiles against your mouth and slowly walks you back toward the bed, turning at the last minute and falling backward onto it, pulling you with him.

You land on top of him with a soft gasp, giggling wildly when he rolls over and peppers kisses over your face.

"M'gonna go shower, 'n then we're gonna go get dinner, 'n then... m'gonna bring you back here and you can have me all to yourself. How's that sound?"

You nod eagerly, smiling breathlessly when he rises to his feet and heads toward the bathroom.

The rest of the night is easy now that your Ghost is back.

Your meal is a lot more peaceful than the one you shared with Soap, with fewer eyes burning into your back.

And the time after is far better than when you're alone as well.

Soon enough, he's got you in bed, body exhausted and thrumming with the gentle aftershocks of your orgasms.

"I'll be leavin' again tomorrow. Want you to go with Johnny, just be around the men. It'll do ya good. N'then, soon enough, ya won't be doin' anythin' without me. I'll take you home 'n make you my pretty little housewife. Can have a garden or draw or cook, whatever makes you happy."

The words are whispered against the back of your neck.

While his lips brush your skin, his hand flexes against your stomach, pressing firmly against your lower abdomen where the carnal idea of a future with you is making his cock stir.

Your fingers trace over the back of his hand as your lids grow heavy.

"Where is home?" You ask quietly.

His warm chest is pressed against your back, the steady thrum of his heart better than any lullaby.

"Home is wherever you want it to be. S'long as m'with you, we'll make it home."

[solxamber]

Brighter Than The Sun || Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim shines like the sun, radiant and unwavering—yet each day, he burns a little closer to the edge, waiting for the moment he no longer has to be the light for everyone else.

Kalim Al-Asim is the sun.

Golden and bright, the very picture of abundance. He is the warmth that spills into every crevice, the laughter that brightens any shadowed corner. To anyone who looks upon him, Kalim is all light—glowing, inexhaustible.

He smiles, beaming as though he has never known a reason to frown. He is the friend who helps without question, the noble who offers wealth as casually as he breathes. Everything about him seems limitless, as if there’s a wellspring of joy tucked beneath his ribs.

To the world, he is everything one could want. Money? He has enough that he could give it away a thousand times and never feel the weight of the loss. Status? He holds it effortlessly, carrying the Al-Asim legacy like a crown he was born to wear. Power? He stands at the top of his dorm, a place reserved for the most capable, a place so few could even dream to reach.

Yet when he is alone, under the quiet of his own thoughts, he wonders if this light truly belongs to him.

For he is the sun, yes, but only in appearance. And sometimes, when the crowd's noise fades, and he is left in the quiet of his own mind, he feels more like the moon.

A surface that reflects the light given to it, glowing not because it burns but because it must imitate what it cannot create. He looks at his life, and the brightness seems less a gift and more a performance—a practiced gleam, like polished gold.

His wealth is not his own; it flows from a family name that stretches far beyond his own reach, his life inextricably intertwined with that legacy. He is a prince, a beloved heir, but also just a vessel for what the Al-Asim family has always been.

His title as housewarden—an honor, a symbol of his supposed strength—feels hollow, as if it is an illusion created by the weight of his family’s donation, a stage set up for him to walk across without effort.

He knows his own weaknesses too well. The duties of his position are carried not by his hands, but by Jamil’s steady, unseen grasp, the support he feels but cannot acknowledge aloud. He walks through his life like a dream, all things handed to him so effortlessly that he can barely tell where his accomplishments end and Jamil’s sacrifices begin.

He smiles for the people who look to him with bright eyes, never revealing the doubt that tugs at his heart. Because if he reveals even a hint of insecurity, what might they see?

To the world, he is a radiant, boundless sun. But to himself, he is a vessel, filled with the reflected light of others.

He should not complain. How could he, when he has everything anyone could want? It is a life of luxury, endless opportunity, and privilege. To speak of weariness, of doubt, of feeling like a stranger in his own skin—that would be a betrayal of all the riches he has been given.

So he keeps his smile intact, lets it grow even brighter to cover the places where he feels hollow. He becomes the perfect image of the Al-Asim heir—unfailing, generous, golden.

But with each person who takes a part of him, each smile he offers in place of the words he cannot say, he feels himself dim. It is a slow fading, like a candle burning down to its last flicker.

They come to him for his wealth, for his status, for the power that drapes him like a robe. They praise him, flatter him, but he wonders if any of it would remain if he was just Kalim.

So he smiles, and he smiles, because that is what the sun must do.

He smiles because that is what the Al-Asim heir has always done. And if he must dim a little, if he must give until there is nothing left, then so be it. Because he is the sun. Or at least, that is what the world needs him to be.

The announcement for the competition rings through the hallways like a spark, and within moments, it feels like Kalim is being surrounded. A food sale—a lighthearted, fun event meant to bring everyone together.

But the minute it’s announced, people begin to approach him, voices eager, faces alight with plans that all seem to look the same: “You can bring in the best chefs, right?” “With your budget, we’ll be unstoppable!” “If we work with you, victory’s in the bag!”

They don’t want to team up with him because it’ll be fun. They want to team up because he’s a shortcut to winning. The money, the prestige, the pull he doesn’t even remember asking for—those are the things they’re looking at, not him.

It’s as if he’s transparent, just a vessel for everything he can provide, and suddenly the bright prospect of a competition meant for laughter and shared stories feels like a thin disguise for something much more hollow.

He puts on his best grin, the one that usually gets him through anything, and thinks of Jamil. But he knows before he even starts the trek that Jamil won’t accept his help—not really.

He would take one step into Jamil’s space, and the same pattern would unfold: Jamil’s skill, his knowledge and sharp-eyed focus, would all have to fold back and take second place for Kalim. And Kalim’s heart would break a little more, watching Jamil slip back into that practiced shadow.

So he chooses someone at random. He watches his friend fade into the distance, unapproachable in the quiet corner he’d always known to seek, and feels himself both moving closer and losing him. Because if Jamil joins with someone else, maybe this time, he’ll finally get the recognition he’s always deserved.

Then, suddenly, there’s a voice—a calm, grounded voice, an anchor that cuts through the whirlwind around him. “Do you want to team up?”

Kalim blinks, looking up. It’s you, the one person he might have expected least, but it makes sense the more he thinks about it. You’re the prefect, the magicless wonder who bent over backwards time and again for people you barely knew.

He’s seen you take on challenges most people would run from; he’s seen you forge your own way in a world that wasn’t made to be kind. You’re… well, you’re what he imagines the sun to be—shining for everyone, regardless of how dark things might seem.

The memory slips back into his mind, hazy at first, like a half-forgotten dream—but then it sharpens, each detail painfully vivid. After Jamil's overblot, Kalim remembers standing on the edge of chaos, his mind spinning, his heart bruised. The realization of Jamil’s resentment had wrapped around his throat, each word, each look, echoing. And yet, he had smiled, grinned even, as he always did—because he had to.

It was then that you appeared beside him, quiet but determined, your gaze steady and warm as you asked, “Are you okay, Kalim?”

He’d almost laughed it off. "I’m fine! You should check on Jamil instead.” Jamil was the one who had suffered, after all, who had been weighed down by his own heavy feelings, dark enough to blot out everything else. But you shook your head, gently dismissing his words. “Jamil’s in good hands. Right now, I’m here to check on you.”

Your voice cut through the polished, automatic responses that came so easily to him, cracking them open to reveal the raw vulnerability underneath. He stood there, lost, the smile frozen on his face, as your words sank in. You weren’t here because he was the housewarden or the Al-Asim heir—you were here for him.

Before he could respond, you were called by Ace and Deuce, voices edged with worry and urgency. With a quick but genuine smile, you pressed your number into his hand, like a promise. “If you need anything, just call me, okay?”

Then, before he could gather a single thought, you pulled him into a swift hug. It was brief, barely more than a whisper of warmth, but it was real. And as you turned and rushed back to the others, Kalim was left standing alone, clutching the scrap of paper like a lifeline.

It was the first time he felt truly seen.

And now here you are, looking right at him with that unmistakable twinkle in your eye, and asking him if he wants to team up with you.

For a moment, his heart jumps, then settles. How could he say no?

When you both sit down, Kalim immediately jumps into the plan he assumes you want to hear—how he’ll bring in a chef, or two, maybe even three to make sure everything’s just right.

But the second he starts, you shut him down with a gentle shake of your head, laughing softly. “This isn’t about winning. This is about having fun with friends, remember? I didn’t ask to team up so you’d hire people. I wanted to cook with you.”

Kalim’s heart skips. You’re here… just for him?

It’s a strange feeling, this warmth that wells up from deep within. His grin starts small, uncertain, then blooms into something true and wide, unfiltered and bright.

The kitchen becomes a small world for just the two of you, a place of flour clouds and flung sugar, and with each mistake, with each burnt attempt at a dish, you both dissolve into helpless laughter.

What starts as a noble, if catastrophic, attempt to cook quickly devolves into pure chaos, until there’s more flour on your faces than in the mixing bowl and neither of you can remember what you were even trying to make.

For once, he doesn’t feel the need to give, or to prove. Here with you, he’s simply Kalim—the boy with flour smudged across his cheek and laughter that keeps bubbling up before he can stop it.

When the competition ends, you both stand proudly beside a dish that looks nothing short of monstrous. The judges hesitate, then take a tentative bite and promptly grimace. Kalim hears you giggling beside him, your shoulders shaking as you take in the judge’s expression, and he can’t help but join you. It’s a sound that fills the space between you, something unpracticed and utterly genuine.

For a moment, he looks at you, your face still bright with laughter, your eyes shining like starlight, and a thought settles into him, quiet but strong.

Maybe… maybe he’d be happy being your moon.

Because you’re the sun in all the ways that he could never be. You light the way without needing anything from him. And for once, he feels no need to push it down and smile, because it feels natural.

It happens often enough that Kalim doesn’t flinch anymore. He’s used to it, really. Requests come at him like a tidal wave, sweeping through with unrelenting regularity. It’s as if everyone expects him to be their endless source, their personal sun—warm, bright, unyielding in generosity, always giving without pause. A smile that never fades, a light that never dims.

Today, it’s a classmate from another dorm, sidling up with that gleam in their eye, that small, calculated smile. “Kalim,” they say, smooth and honeyed, “I could use a little help.” And it’s money they want; of course it’s money. They don’t ask how he’s doing, or if he might need something in return. The sun does not need favors; it simply shines.

Without hesitation, Kalim’s lips curve into that familiar, reflexive smile. “Of course! How much do you—”

But before he can finish, there’s a shift—a hand on his arm, warm and grounding, and then there’s you, stepping in. You stand firm, gaze unwavering as you look at the person with something fierce, a protective spark in your eyes he’s not accustomed to seeing directed at him.

“No,” you say, voice strong, clear. “He won’t be giving you any money today.”

Kalim stares, momentarily stunned, as the person falters, their confidence waning under your unyielding gaze. They stammer, offering excuses, their polished smile slipping away, and Kalim realizes, slowly, that you’ve dismissed them entirely. Just like that, they slink off, and it feels as though you’ve thrown up a wall between him and the world, shielding him from the hands that are always outstretched, from the shadows eager to siphon his light.

For a heartbeat, Kalim almost laughs it off. It’s what he always does, isn’t it? His warmth is endless; he’s the sun, and if they want to take a little here and there, that’s fine. But as he opens his mouth to brush it away, your gaze catches his—a fierceness still burning there, softer now but just as fierce.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice faltering, a practiced line that feels hollow now. “I don’t mind. I have enough.”

But you’re shaking your head, brows furrowed. “It’s not about having enough, Kalim. It’s about people thinking they can take advantage of you, people who see your kindness and assume it’s endless. I’m not going to let that happen—not while I’m here.”

Your words are firm, soft but unbreakable, and they slip past his practiced defenses, breaking through the polished brightness he’s wrapped around himself for so long. He’s heard people defend him before—duty, necessity, loyalty.

But this… this is different. You’re not protecting him out of obligation or his family name; you’re protecting him because you see him—the cracks beneath the shine, the exhaustion hidden behind the smile he’s worn for so long.

It’s strange, this feeling. It’s warmth, but not the warmth he gives. It’s something softer, gentler, a warmth that reaches out to cradle rather than to demand. And Kalim realizes that you aren’t here to take; you’re here to give.

It feels as if something’s settling in his chest, filling spaces he’s ignored. A sun isn’t supposed to dim, isn’t supposed to falter, but right now, he feels the smallest, most fragile sense of relief, of finally allowing himself to be seen.

For a moment, he stands there, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be, letting the feeling settle into the empty corners of his heart.

He’s always been the one giving, radiating, shining for others, but right now, with you, he feels… cared for. Cherished, even. And for the first time, he wonders if it’s possible to let himself be dim, even for just a moment, to let himself be a little less bright.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, shaky. “Thank you,” he says, and the words feel like a fragile confession, a quiet plea that maybe he doesn’t have to be everyone’s light alone.

And you smile at him, not as someone who needs, but as someone who gives, and Kalim realizes maybe he doesn’t have to carry on being the sun on his own.

The room feels too large, the air too thick. The housewardens’ meeting has reached a stalemate, and all eyes are on him—the sun who can’t afford to waver, the one they all seem to look to now, expectant.

It’s suffocating, the way their gazes settle, heavy as if they could burn through his skin. He knows they’re waiting for a decision, the final word to tip the scales. But Kalim doesn’t know what to say.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, the words tangling in his throat. The others are smart, strategic, relentless in their arguments, and he… he just wants to make the choice that won’t ruin everything.

The room is a whirl of voices and opinions, and he feels small under the weight of it. He doesn’t know what the right answer is, but Jamil would. Jamil always knows.

So he tries to voice it, a faint smile surfacing like a reflex. “Maybe I could just… ask Jamil,” he says, a bit too quickly, fingers reaching for his phone. “He’s smarter than me, you know? He’ll know what to do.”

But before he can call, a hand finds his, warm and grounding, and it’s you, giving him a look that’s gentle yet firm, one that stops him in his tracks. “Kalim,” you say, softly but with a certainty that doesn’t let him look away, “what do you think?”

The words settle into the room, silencing the murmur of voices, and suddenly, it’s just you and him, and that question hanging between you. It’s simple, yet it strikes at something deep, something unsteady inside him. No one has asked him like that before—not with such unwavering faith, not like they actually want his opinion.

He stumbles over his thoughts, searching for an answer in the corners of his mind. A nervous chuckle bubbles up as he tries to brush it off. “Ah, I mean, I don’t know if I… I mean, Jamil’s really good at this stuff, he always knows the right—”

But you don’t let him retreat. Your gaze is steady, unwavering. “You’re the housewarden, Kalim,” you remind him. “This decision is yours. And beyond that, I trust your judgment. Whatever choice you make, I believe in it. I believe in you.”

And just like that, something cracks open in him, a warmth he’s not used to directed at him, not in this way. He’s the sun, but the world has always taken that light from him, never cared for the doubts and cracks beneath it.

He’s always been everyone’s brightness, a mirror reflecting what they needed to see, but no one has ever looked past the shine to find what lies underneath—until now.

There’s a rawness to it, a gentleness that makes his heart stutter. To think that you… you believe in him, without question, without needing him to hide behind Jamil or his family’s influence.

It’s as if, for the first time, he’s seen for more than just his blinding, relentless cheer. And he realizes he doesn’t have to dim himself here; he doesn’t have to be anyone but himself.

His heart swells, and he finds himself grinning, wide and genuine, a real smile that breaks free from the polished restraint he’s so often worn. He makes his choice then, and he’s almost surprised by the ease of it, the clarity in his own voice as he casts his vote.

The meeting wraps up, and as the others disperse, he turns to you, his eyes bright with a newfound light. “You really mean it, don’t you?” he asks, almost breathless with disbelief. “You really think I can… handle this?”

You nod, and the quiet sincerity in your gaze tells him everything he’s ever wanted to hear.

He’s buzzing with excitement now, a warmth in his chest that radiates outward, too bright to contain. “We should celebrate!” he exclaims, a bit too loud, the joy spilling over, “Oh! We could throw a party! I’ll get the best decorations—oh, maybe fireworks! Or music, live music, yeah!”

He goes on, the plans growing more extravagant with every breath, each word a piece of his true self spilling over, no longer held back. But then you reach out, grounding him again, slipping your hand into his. It’s a small gesture, but it holds the weight of something steady, something real.

He looks down, meeting your gaze, and he feels himself settle, his grin softening as he squeezes your hand in return. It’s a connection that doesn’t need words, a promise that he doesn’t have to be the sun alone, that he doesn’t have to bear its weight for everyone else. With you here, he feels whole, bright in a way that isn’t lonely or draining.

And for the first time, Kalim lets himself bask in his own light, just as he is.

The night presses down, dense and endless, smothering like velvet too heavy to breathe through. Kalim’s room is dark, his bed sprawling, sheets cool and smooth and empty.

He lies there, eyes wide open, and the silence around him is too thick, his mind too loud. Thoughts spiral, each more bitter than the last. The emptiness gnaws at him, whispers that scratch at his heart, telling him that he’s alone—that he’ll always be alone.

They all come to him because he’s the Al-Asim heir, the boy with endless coin and golden connections. No one really wants to know you, his thoughts hiss, cruel in the stillness. They just want what you can give. Even his friends, the laughter and cheers that surround him during the day, feel hollow when night falls and he’s alone with himself.

And then there’s you… you, who’ve looked at him like he’s more than just a title, more than just a shimmering surface. But his heart trembles, fear threading through his veins. What if, someday, even you see past his brightness and turn away? What if you realize he’s not what you want, not who you deserve?

The thought digs deep, enough to make his chest tighten. And before he knows it, his fingers are reaching for his phone, trembling as he finds your contact, the screen casting a soft glow in the darkness. His finger hovers over the call button, his mind screaming not to, to let you sleep, but his heart—panicked, needy—wins out.

He taps the screen, the line ringing just once, then twice. But dread fills him, heavy and sudden, and before you can pick up, he hangs up, tossing the phone aside like it’s burned him.

The room is darker now, the silence sharper, and his heart beats loud, a hollow echo. What was I thinking? He tries to laugh it off, as though his thoughts aren’t tightening around him. But then his phone vibrates, the screen flashing with your name.

He swallows, unable to answer, shame and fear tangled up, so he lets it go to voicemail. Then the screen lights up again, and again, until finally, after his third silence, the calls stop.

The quiet returns, heavier than before, and he’s about to close his eyes, to pretend he never did anything so foolish, when there’s a knock. It’s soft at first, hesitant, then insistent, each knock pounding through the empty space in his chest.

He doesn’t dare breathe as he drags himself out of bed, opening the door only to find you there, looking up at him with wild, frantic eyes, like you’ve just run miles to reach him.

“Kalim,” you gasp, barely catching your breath, and he’s so stunned he almost doesn’t notice the tear tracks glistening on your cheeks. You reach for him, hands shaking, and in an instant, your arms are around him, pulling him close, clinging to him like he might disappear if you let go. “You scared me! You really… I thought—” Your voice breaks, thick with worry, and your grip tightens, trembling as though you’re afraid he’ll slip from your hold.

He’s frozen, the weight of your embrace pressing into him, disbelief rippling through him. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, trying to laugh it off, to brush away the panic in his chest. “It was… it was just an accident! I didn’t mean to wake you—”

But you pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, your gaze sharp with the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. “Don’t you dare do that to me again,” you say, your voice firm, fierce in a way he’s never heard before. “If you need me, call me. Really call me. Don’t just… don’t leave me hanging, don’t make me wonder. I was terrified, Kalim.”

And before he can even answer, you wrap your arms around him again, burying your face in his shoulder as you hold him close. It’s grounding, the warmth of you pressed against him, anchoring him in a way that silences the dark thoughts spiraling through his mind.

He can feel your heart racing, hear the quiet sniffles as you clutch him tighter, and it’s like all the loneliness, all the fear, all the doubts fade into the background. Because you’re here, and you came all this way just for him.

“Come on,” you say after a long moment, pulling away just enough to flash him a faint, determined smile. “Scooch over. We’re having a sleepover. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He blinks, watching in wonder as you make your way to his bed, throwing back the covers and settling in as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He can only stand there for a moment, stunned, before he finds himself crawling into bed beside you.

He’s never had someone sit with him like this, just to be there, and a strange warmth fills his chest, unlike anything he’s felt before.

You don’t ask him why he called or why he hung up, and he doesn’t need to explain. You’re here, stretching out beside him, your presence a steady warmth that keeps the shadows at bay.

When you reach over to take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, it’s like a promise, an unspoken vow that no matter how dark the night feels, you’ll be here to pull him back into the light.

And as he lies there, hand in yours, he realizes he doesn’t need to fear losing you. For the first time, he feels truly seen, like you understand every part of him—the bright, blinding sun he tries to be, and the quieter, flickering light beneath. He squeezes your hand back, his heart lighter, his smile real.

Kalim has known for a while now, though he tried to convince himself otherwise. But no amount of blinding sunlight, no amount of laughter can hide the truth beating loud and insistent in his chest. He’s fallen for you, deeply, hopelessly, and it’s nothing like he’d imagined.

Not grand or regal or even serene. No, it’s messy, overflowing, spilling out like the cups of tea he clumsily pours, like the stories he rambles through whenever you’re nearby. You make him feel like he doesn’t need to wear that bright, polished sun mask that everyone expects from him.

But how can he possibly tell you? In his mind, the moment plays out with magic carpets soaring through the stars, firelight flickering against golden sands, his heart laid bare in the most dazzling of confessions.

Yet here he is, standing with you in the middle of a bustling market, your hand gripping his as you pull him from stall to stall, eyes bright with excitement as you chatter on about matching trinkets, laughter bubbling up as you try on silly hats and drape fabrics over each other’s shoulders.

He’s surrounded by the scents of spices, the hum of people, the rough cobblestones beneath his feet—and suddenly, the words slip out, too big to be contained. “I love you.”

It’s out before he can stop himself, hanging there in the air between you, fragile and exposed. There are no magic carpets, no glittering jewels or ancient spells—just the clamor of the marketplace and your stunned expression.

For a split second, he panics, his heart dropping as he watches you go still, your laughter fading into silence. What did I just do? he wonders, dread pooling in his stomach.

Before he can backtrack, you grab his hand and tug him away, weaving through the bustling crowd with a determined pace. He follows without a word, his heart thudding painfully, a thousand worries flashing through his mind. Are you mad? Are you disappointed? The walk back feels endless, every step dragging out his dread as he watches your profile, desperately wishing he could read your mind.

When you reach your room, you shut the door and turn to face him, eyes steady and piercing. “Say that again,” you demand, soft but firm, voice almost a whisper.

He swallows, nerves tangling in his throat, but he can’t hide now, not when you’re looking at him like that. “I love you,” he says, voice trembling but true. And before he can get another word out, your hands are cupping his face, and you’re pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s fierce and sweet, leaving him breathless.

When you pull back, he stares at you, wide-eyed, his mind still reeling. “But—” he stammers, “It wasn’t grand, it wasn’t…” He trails off, words slipping through his fingers, his heart heavy with the thought that he’s somehow let you down.

You silence him with another kiss, your hands gentle on his cheeks. When you pull away, you hold him there, your gaze warm and unyielding. “I don’t need grand, Kalim. I don’t want fireworks, or magic carpets, or anything the Al-Asim heir thinks he’s supposed to offer. I love you. Not housewarden Kalim, not the heir… Just Kalim. The one who follows me through crowded markets, the one who hums while he braids my hair, the one who laughs so brightly it could heal the world.”

Your fingers trace along his jaw, and the sincerity in your eyes takes his breath away. “You don’t need to be the sun for me. You don’t need to burn yourself out for people who don’t care. You’re enough as you are. You’re my Kalim, and I’m yours.”

And as you smile at him, soft and true, he feels his heart swell, the insecurities falling away. Your words wrap around him, gentle as a cloak, quieting every fear and doubt he’s held onto. It’s more than he ever thought he could have, more than he ever thought he’d deserve.

The smile that blooms on his face, radiant and unrestrained, is real.

Because in this moment, with you by his side, he shines brighter than the sun.

Masterlist

[honeybelleee]

mine to keep | p.sh

'Sex with drunk jealous sunghoon'

pairings - jake x fem!reader

genre - established relationship, dom!sunghoon x sub!reader, smut (MDNI)

warnings - lower case intended, spanking, oral (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), my girl y/n is lowkey a pillow princess here, jelly jelly sunghoon, begging, ripping panties, orgasm denial, begging, degrading, sweet nicknames

1,531 wc !

request from anonnie <3 ( requests r still open ! ) - creds to my bae @cherubunie for beta reading this masterlist

the party was in full swing, the pulsating beats of the music filling the air as bodies moved and swayed on the crowded dance floor. sunghoon and y/n, both in a drunken haze, found themselves lost in the rhythm, their bodies moving as one. the alcohol had loosened their inhibitions, allowing them to let go of their usual shyness and embrace the wild energy of the night.

y/n felt a buzz of excitement as sunghoon’s tall and muscular chest pressed against her back, his strong hands resting on her hips. they danced closely, their bodies grinding in perfect harmony, the heat between them intensifying with each passing moment.

as the song reached its climax, sunghoon felt a wave of thirst wash over him. he leaned close to y/n's ear, his breath warm against her skin. "i'm gonna grab a drink. be right back," his voice slightly slurred. y/n lost in the moment, barely registered his words. she nodded, her eyes half-closed, and continued to move sensually, unaware of the brewing storm that was about to disrupt their night.

sunghoon made his way through the sea of dancing bodies, his focus solely on quenching his thirst. he reached the makeshift bar, grabbed a red solo cup, and filled it with a strong, amber-colored liquor.

as he raised the cup to his lips, he couldn't help but glance back at the dance floor, searching for y/n's familiar figure.

that's when he saw it. his heart sank as he witnessed y/n, his y/n, grinding provocatively against a stranger. the unknown man's hands were roaming freely over her body, and she seemed to be enjoying every moment of it. sunghoon's blood boiled with jealousy and anger. he squeezed the cup in his hand, the plastic cracking under the pressure, and threw it across the room, not caring where it landed.

without a moment's hesitation, he pushed his way back to the dance floor, his eyes fixed on y/n. he grabbed her by the wrists, his grip firm and demanding. "come with me," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. y/n, startled by his sudden aggression, snapped out of her drunken trance.

"sunghoon? what's wrong?" she asked, her words slightly slurred, her eyes wide with confusion.

"you know what you did," he snarled, his jaw clenched. "let's go upstairs."

y/n's heart raced as sunghoon dragged her away from the dance floor, his strong hand never leaving her wrist. she felt a mixture of excitement and fear as they climbed the stairs, the music and laughter from the party fading into the background.

sunghoon pushed open the door to an empty bedroom, the dim light from the hallway casting shadows across the room.

with a rough tug, sunghoon pulled y/n towards him, his lips crushing against hers in a hungry kiss. she tasted the liquor on his tongue, the sharp flavor mixing with her own desire. his hands tangled in her hair, holding her in place as he deepened the kiss, demanding a response from her.

breaking away, sunghoon glared down at her, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

"you little slut," he whispered, his voice laced with anger and desire. "grinding on some random guy's crotch. did you enjoy it?"

y/n's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and arousal. "i-i thought it was you," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. "i'm sorry, I was just..."

"shut up," sunghoon interrupted, his hand moving to the small of her back, pushing her down onto the bed. "get on all fours, right now."

y/n's heart was pounding as she obeyed, her mind racing with confusion and excitement. she positioned herself on the soft mattress, her knees sinking into the plush fabric, her hands resting on the bedspread. sunghoon stood behind her, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, making her feel small and vulnerable.

"you're going to apologize," he said, his voice low and commanding. "you're going to beg for my forgiveness for being such a dirty girl."

y/n's breath caught in her throat as she felt his large hand land on her bare thigh, his touch searing through the thin fabric of her dress. "i-i'm sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "please forgive me."

"not good enough," he growled, and with that, he delivered a sharp smack to her exposed bottom. y/n gasped, her body jerking forward at the unexpected sting.

"don't move," he ordered, his voice hoarse with desire. "just stay still and take your punishment."

y/n bit her lip, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to control her body's natural instinct to squirm. sunghoon's hand landed on her other cheek, the sound of his palm meeting flesh filling the room. "apologize again," he demanded, his voice rough.

"i’m sorry hoon," she pleaded, her voice barely audible. "please I didn't mean to..."

"shh," he hushed her, his free hand reaching forward to grip her hip, holding her firmly in place. "just feel it, every stroke of my hand on your beautiful ass."

sunghoon's fingers dug into her soft flesh, his touch firm and possessive. he spanked her again, slower this time, savoring the way her skin reddened under his hand. y/n's breath came in short gasps, her body trembling as she fought to remain still, her arousal building with each smack.

"that's it baby," he whispered, his voice now laced with a mixture of anger and tenderness. "you like this don't you? being treated like the whore you are."

y/n couldn't deny the pleasure coursing through her veins, the combination of pain and pleasure pushing her closer to the edge. "yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "please hoon..."

"please what?" he asked, his hand pausing in mid-air, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

"please..." y/n's voice trailed off, her cheeks burning as she struggled to articulate her desires.

sunghoon's large hands moved to her shoulders, pushing her down further into the bed, his body hovering over hers. "tell me what you want y/n," he demanded, his breath hot on her neck. "i want to hear you say it."

y/n's mind raced, her body trembling beneath his. she knew what she wanted, what she had always craved, but saying it out loud was a different matter. sunghoon's hand traveled up her back, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin beneath her dress, making her shiver.

"i want..." she began, her voice shaking. "i want you to touch me. please touch me everywhere."

sunghoon's response was immediate. his hands moved to the hem of her dress, slowly pulling it up, revealing her smooth, creamy thighs. "like this?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"yes," y/n breathed, her eyes closing as she felt his fingers trail along the inside of her thighs, inching closer to the heat between her legs.

with a swift motion, sunghoon tore her panties off, leaving her completely exposed to his gaze. he admired her for a moment, taking in the sight of her glistening pussy, her lips already swollen with desire. "you're so wet, princess," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "i can smell how much you want me."

y/n let out a soft moan as sunghoon's fingers finally made contact with her sensitive clit, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through her body in ripples. he teased her gently, circling her throbbing bud, making her squirm beneath him.

"i-i need more, please more-" she begged, her hips arching off the bed in desperate search of more friction he pleases her gentle body with.

sunghoon chuckled, the sound filled with satisfaction. "be patient slut," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of dominance and affection. "you’ll be grateful for whatever I give you."

with that, he lowered his head, his tongue tracing a path along her inner thigh, making her shiver with anticipation. y/n's breath caught in her throat as his warm breath caressed her sensitive skin, his tongue leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

he reached her wet center, his tongue parting her folds, and he lapped at her juices, savoring her taste. y/n's hands clenched the bedsheets as his tongue swirled around her clit, his mouth sucking gently, driving her wild with pleasure.

"ahh sunghoon," she cried out, her body bucking against his mouth, her orgasm building with each flick of his tongue. "i'm going to cum!"

sunghoon's response was to increase the pressure, his tongue working her clit relentlessly, his fingers plunging into her wetness, seeking her deepest spots. y/n's body convulsed, her cries filling the room as sunghoon lifted his head to deny her orgasm, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

he wiped her wetness from his lips, his gaze fixed on her flushed face. sunghoon showed her the soaked panties, holding them up for her to see. "i'm keeping these as a reminder," he said, his voice filled with possessiveness. "a reminder of what happens when you tease me."

with a wink, he tucked the panties back into his pocket and leaned down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. "now, let's get back to the party.”

sunghoon’s pretty girls like/comment/reblog!

perm taglist - @ancnymcnzjy @june19190 @wiccangirl29 @shjsnjkj @who-tf-soddhi

[red5tars]

minors + ageless blogs dni or you will be blocked.

“could i... perhaps.... indulge you on bear hybrid price... and breeding kink. but not like, just stuffing you full, i'm talking round of his seed just overflowing... 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️” - ask from anon

oh boy..

bunny!reader who stumbles across a beautiful patch in the forest. it’s a nice set up, lush greenery, some flowers to nibble and admire, and a stream that provides plenty of water.

and most importantly, the land is empty. no predators, or prey. just your cute little cottontail and no one else.

it quickly becomes your home, spending your days laying down in the shrubbery, skipping by the stream, and eating your fill in plants. a perfect routine you plan on sticking to until you die.

at least, that’s what you thought it would be like, until you found out why this patch was so empty.

it happens on a rainy day, and while the feeling of water running down your fur and skin is enjoyable, the downpour is harsh today. in need of shelter, you quickly seek out the nearest cave, finding one hidden in plain sight. it’s covered by vines and moss, blending into the greenery. thankfully, you’re able to pick out such things, it’s how you found this place after all.

stepping inside, you realize how dark and cold it is, a shiver making your ears stand up. at the very least, you wouldn’t have to be here for more than a few hours. what’s the worse that could happen?

it seems the answer chuffs behind you, a growl making your body stiffen.

as you turn your head over your shoulder, your met with the grizzly sight of a large bear hybrid. your ears drop, fear running through you as the beast stares you down.

“anyone ever told you about trespassing, bun?” he asks, his deep voice rattling your bones.

somehow, you manage to shake your head, stammering, “i-i didn’t know this was.. i thought.. i-“

“thought wha’, hm?” he asks, his tone bordering on condescending, “thought this little patch was yours for the taking,” there’s a hint of smile in his tone, and you see it as he emerges from the shadows.

with every step he takes forward, you take one back, hoping to reach the entrance of the cave.

“n-no,” it comes out naturally, a defensive response. the bear just chuckles, shaking his head.

“oh bunny.. poor stupid bunny,” the dim light from outside glints against his fangs, canines that are waiting to be sunk into your flesh.

“everything in this little section of the forest is mine, from the trees,“ he gestured above your head, but you don’t dare turn around. it would be unwise to give him an opening.

“the grass, and even the little stream like you to hop in,” a chill runs down your spine. it never occurred to you he was watching, eying his next meal.

with one more step, you find yourself close to the entrance. but it seems he redirected your path, feeling the hard wall of the cave hit you instead of the rain’s humidity.

his whole body cages you, keeping trapped.

“and now.. you do too.”

——

you knew he was going to devour you, just not like this.

the bear, price, has you pinned down with an arm on your lower back, stomach glued to the cold floor as his tongue glides up and down your slick cunt.

even with his weight on you, your instincts scream at you to move. to run away and never look back.

“quit yer squirming, bun,” price commands, growls. the low timbre of his voice adds vibrations to your pussy, causing you to do the opposite of what he said. a quiet squeal leaves your lips, ears stretched far back behind you in embarrassment.

even though you defied a direct order, he doesn’t punish you. instead, he goes back to eating it, eating you, your sopping wet cunt.

you can’t even recall how you got into this position, all you remember is the bear claiming you as his, telling you his name, and then wrestling you down into the floor.

..so maybe you can recall how you got here.

after another agony of his long licks, price pulls away from your cunt. it’s completely drenched in his spit, and you bet it smells more like his mouth than you.

“think you’re ready now,” he grunts, and despite the haze his tongue has placed you in, alarm bells ring in your head again. swiftly, you manage to turn, eyes wide, “r-ready for wha-“

your question is cut off as something big is shoved inside of you, your meek voice shifting into something closer to a scream.

just like everything about him, it’s big. it feels like he’s burrowing himself inside you, which is ironic considering his species. it’s just all too much far too quickly.

“p-price pull out pl-please,” you beg, and not even the earlier pleasure can outdo the pain. but he doesn’t pull out. in fact, it seems your pleading spurs him on, trying to shove even more (was there more?!) of himself inside of you.

“can’t do that bun,” he huffs, squishing your cottontail as he practically rests his full weight on you, “gotta claim you.”

and with that, he moves.

it’s brutal, the way he slams home into your tight pussy. it’s almost like being stabbed, except the blade is thicker and more meaty and not a blade at all but probably the fattest cock you’ve ever felt-

it seems price can pick up on your pain, tasting it on his tongue (amongst other things). with one hand, he manages to cant your hips, snaking a paw in between them.

“being too mean, aren’t i?” he says almost effortlessly, not a hint of strain in his voice despite the robust movement of his hips, “soft thing like you isn’t used to this type of breeding..”

as a sign of mercy, his fingers play with your clit, pinching and rubbing the bud.

and oh, does that help.

instead of focusing on the harsh piston of his hips, he offers pleasure, toying with your little button, rolling it between his fingers, putting enough pressure to have you squeaking.

it pulls sounds out of you that you never knew you could make and sentences that consist of pleasepleaseplease and moremoremore.

it seems price revels in your enjoyment too, grunting harder as your insides clench on his length with a vice-like grip.

“yeah? you like that, bun? you always turn into a slut when someone flicks that little button of yours? hm?”

despite his patronizing tone, you’re unable to deny his claims. instead, you meet his questions with moans, turning into what he describes as a cock-focused cottontail slut.

before long, the warmth in your stomach erupts like a dormant volcano, making you clench his cock in a vice-like grip. your orgasm shakes you, body rigid as you come undone under this predator.

it seems he wasn’t far along either, as price buries his face into the back of your neck, pressing himself to the hilt as a massive load of his cum spills inside you.

it’s hot and thick, making sure not to just coat your insides but also fill it. you half expect him to pull out, but price just stays sheathed inside you.

it isn’t until you feel your womb is going to burst that you finally speak up, “um.. i.. i think you should.. p-pull out..” you whimper, having to actively search for words instead of fall deeper into this haze of lust.

but it’s rare for predators to spare mercy, even rarer for them to do it twice.

“no can do bun, see” and he completely drops his weight onto you, a quiet oof exhaling from you at this, “i was pretty lonely before you showed up, and it’s been near ages since i had a mate..”

as he explains himself, you can feel his cock coming back to life, practically keep all his cum plugged deep inside of you.

“and when you wandered into my territory, i knew i had to have you,” his hips move shallowly, barely separating from you. “had to make you mine,” at this, a moan leaves your lips while a deep chuckle escapes his.

“attagirl. now,” he curls an arm under your waist, palming at your soft belly, “jus’ lie there while i make you fat with my cubs, okay bunny?”