#as part of the practice of engaging with stories

[mermaidchansons]

Warm In December

Terry Richmond x Black Reader

Story Summary: You convince your husband, Terry, to slip away during your annual Christmas Eve party.

Words: 2500+

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ minors do NOT engage (you’ll be blocked), pre-established relationship, married reader, cursing, unprotected sex, P in V, fingering, squirting, slight mentions of breeding kink if you squint a little, breath play, good ole fluff

Author’s Note: Short and sweet. Dedicated to my sweet little bby @megamindsecretlair 💕. It’s still Christmas in my heart! - Ashanti

Christmas time at the Richmond house was always a big celebration. As soon as Thanksgiving dinner was cleaned up, Terry was out gathering the decorations from the garage. It always tickled you how quickly your love of the holiday season had infected him. When you first met your husband, he never had much of a yearning to celebrate. But that all changed when you first confessed your love to him at a local tree lighting ceremony. Every year since, Terry added the tree lighting ceremony onto his evergrowing itinerary of holiday related events. Driving around to look at the lights, gingerbread house competitions, and of course, tonight’s main event; the annual Christmas Eve dinner party. 

You waltzed between your guests dancing in your colorful living room. Terry’s friend Mel was DJ’ing a set of black holiday hits, coaxing folks out of an incoming case of the itis. A few people stopped you on your way to the kitchen; waxing about how delicious everything was. An invite to a Terry x Y/N dinner party was coveted amongst your community. You were practically a young Ina Garten in your own right; pulling off elaborate 3 and 4-course dinners with the likes of curried oxtail, whole fried tilapia, and king crab gumbo. Some of your friends would change their entire flight schedule to eat at the Richmond house on Christmas Eve.

“Ooo T, if these folk keep gassing me up, my heads gone get too big,” you said as you balanced a few empty glasses. 

“Let ‘em gas you. You really outdid yourself this year, baby.”

Going all out was expected of you, and Terry was determined to match your fly this year. Eight months ago, his therapist suggested he take up baking as a way to spend time with his thoughts. And now, he was ready to show your guests what he had been perfecting all this time. You leaned against the door frame and watched your gentle giant pull a pan of steaming hot cinnamon rolls out of the oven. He placed the pan down with cautious hesitation, making you bite back a giggle. 

Although you loved that Terry had cultivated a hobby that worked for him, you couldn’t help but still be tickled by it. Your 6’3, former marine, no-nonsense husband was a home baker. And he looked mighty fine doing it too. He wore his nice fitted polo that hugged every part of his muscle lined frame. He stared down intently through his gold-rimmed glasses that sat at the bridge of his nose as he whipped frosting in a bowl. Placing your tray down, you wrung out your hands; biting your lip as you watched his biceps flex with each whip of the whisk. Flashbacks of your quicky before the party popped into your mind. You’d shown him your dress for the night: a short black dress with dusty pink feathers lining the bottom. He must have liked it, the way he made quick work of hiking the dress over your thick thighs; commanding you to watch yourself in the mirrored ceiling while he greedily lapped at your pussy on the staircase. Jolting back to the present, your middle pooled with desire. Terry spread the cream cheese frosting over the freshly baked pastries and you practically moaned at the sight of it. God, I wish that was me.

“If you finna ogle me like that, you may as well give me a hand.” He playfully shook his head under your stare. It wouldn’t be the first time he feigned disapproval at your lust for him. You were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Hastily, you crossed the kitchen to press your chest against his back, hugging his waist. Your gold-adorned hands roamed his chest as you hummed along to the music floating in front of the living room. Terry chuckled and the depth of his voice was like honey in your ears. The wine from dinner made your body hum with lust. Probably should have stopped after the second glass. Red wine always made you horny. Your clit was beginning to hurt from how badly you wanted him. With dinner finished, your hostess duties had been mostly completed. Who would notice if you slipped away?

“Here, taste this,” he commanded.

Terry held up a frosting covered finger and you wasted no time in wrapping your pretty pouty lips around it. Nutmeg and cinnamon danced on your tongue as you sucked down to the base of his knuckle. You watched as his bottom lip raked between his teeth, his stormy eyes flashing with desire. 

“Baby, you’re gonna get in trouble playing around like that.” Terry’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed a groan. Releasing his finger with a pop, you looked up at him with your brown sugar eyes and pulled him in by his belt. 

“You promise, lover?” You bat your eyelashes wistfully, causing him to take a precautionary look around. Making a show of ensuring no unsuspecting guest was in eyesight. 

Terry practically melted when you smiled at him, your multi-faced grill illuminated by the warm lights. You were irresistible and you knew it. Perching on your tippy toes, you puckered your lips at him, causing him to smirk. He leaned down and gave you a small peck, much to your dismay. Greedy.

“Terryyyyyyy,” you whined, dragging out the syllables in his name. He leaned down with his lips to your neck, planting an open mouth kiss right where you liked it. His large hands gripped your thick hips, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N,” he whispered into your ear, “you know we have guests. Don’t start something you can’t finish, princess.” His cologne mixed with the smell of the pastries, making you woozy with lust. He was a cinnamon, citrus, and coconut dream. You just wanted a bite.

“I could say the same thing to you. You talking all this shit when I know you’re hard for me.” Straightening back up to look at you, his eyes met yours. You watched as a flash of deviance glazed over those blue-gray eyes. Terry spun you away, pressing his hardened groin against your plump behind. 

“This what you wanted? You wanted to feel this fat dick against that ass, huh?” You could only nod in response, feeling light as air from your husband’s touch. The bass of the music mixed with your ever-quickening heartbeat, filling the spaces in your ears. His touch only worsened it, every caress and squeeze set your skin ablaze. You couldn’t go on like this. You desperately needed friction and he knew it. 

“Mhm, I see them wheels turning in that pretty head. Go set these out and meet me upstairs.” 

“Yes, sir.”

You picked up the glass pan of treats with glee before turning to your husband with your lips puckered. He chuckled deeply and pecked your lips; spinning you around with a smack on your plump behind. Your giggles filled his ears as you walked out. Terry grabbed a jingle bell stirring stick and headed to your shared room. 

After worming your way out of conversations downstairs, you kicked off your feathered heels and hastened up the stairs. Once you entered the room, the sounds of Boyz 2 Men wafted in from below. You bit your lip in anticipation and you stopped to slide down your panties. They were soaked beyond recovery, a usual dilemma that occurred around Terry. Your husband had just wrapped up his teeth routine when you walked in. Already shirtless and ready to please. He made a spinning motion with his finger and you turned with a quickness. Unzipping your dress with one hand, he slipped a thin rod into your right hand. It jingled when you shook it and you rolled your eyes. This game became a tradition ever since your honeymoon at the Christmas markets in France. But with everything that happened this year, you’d almost forgotten about it. A strong hand wrapped around your neck, bringing your attention to the mirror. Your eyes met his and you could have come right then and there. 

“You better keep your eyes straight. You know the rules; every time you come, I need to hear that bell. Understood?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you cooed. Terry made quick work of sliding the dress over your pretty hair, working carefully to preserve all your hard work. He hoisted you onto the cool counter and sighed as he opened your legs. 

Leaning down, he took your bottom lip between yours and lightly sucked. You couldn’t help but moan against his mouth as he kissed you with vigor. His hand slid up from your plush tummy to your chest, kneading and grabbing at any and every part of you. He loved every bit of you. He always had and it drove you crazy; being desired by him was euphoric. 

Breaking the kiss, he put two fingers in your mouth. You sucked them with excitement, making him stifle a chuckle. You couldn’t help it. Your poor pussy was dripping with want; squeezing around nothing. He popped his fingers out of your mouth and slid them inside your dewy walls with no hesitation. You both let out a drawn-out fuuuuuuuuck in unison. 

“I’ve been thinking about this pussy all night, baby. So damn gorgeous in that little dress, working the room. I’m tryna work you.”

“You play too much- oh!” You giggled in between your moans as your husband slightly bent his fingers inside of you. He watched you intently as he worked you into submission. The building tension in your tummy made you clench around his two digits.  Terry smoothed his hand over your breast before squeezing and twisting your left nipple. Your back arched away from the cold mirror as much as it could without inducing a cramp. 

“Look at this pretty pussy gripping me. Let me see it, baby.” Grabbing your face with his large hand, he turned you to the side. You watched your reflection in the mirrored cabinet, with Terry’s thick arm pumping his fingers in and out of you. Your ears grew hot as you watched with your mouth agape. The sight of it made the coil in your middle tighten before snapping completely. You came with stuttered squirts, moaning out his name.

“Good girl. Go ahead and ring that bell, princess.” 

You weakly shook the stick and his mouth covered yours once again. The sound of the jingling bell mixed with the clanking of his belt. He pulled you to the edge and lined up his hardened member with your entrance. You cradled his chiseled chin in your hand, staring into his eyes as he worked himself inside of you. Your pussy stretched willingly to accommodate his size, just as it did before the party. He rolled his hips at a painfully slow pace, making you feel every inch of him. 

“Fuck, I missed you. You good, Y/N?” Terry smirked at your face contorted in pleasure. You bit down on your lip and nodded wildly, failing at holding back the oncoming orgasm. 

Just the stretch alone was enough to get you there. With just a few pumps into you, the jingle bell echoed in the bathroom. It was astonishing to see how quickly the man could make you come. An evil chuckle bubbled out of his chest as he adjusted his hold on you. Hooking his left arm under your knee, he closed in the space between you. You raked your hooded eyes over his body and sent a quick thank you to the ancestors. God, was he pretty. His pace quickened and he wrapped his free hand around your throat, lightly pressing the sides. 

“Yes, just like that Terrence,” you yelled, turned on from the lessened airflow. 

“Just like that, baby? Just like that, huh?” Your eyes rolled back into your head while you nodded. All sense had gone out of the window as he fucked you dumb. Guests be damned. Both of your moans mixed with the muffled singing of Anita Baker and the cacophony of clapping and lewd squelches. He playfully timed his strokes to the beat of Sweet Love and a mixture of giggles and groans erupted from you. 

“Ease up, Y/N,” Terry groaned stiffly, shutting his eyes tight, “if you keep squeezing me like that, I’ll come.” What a silly man. That’s everything you wanted. You craved the feeling of him filling you to the brim with his seed. The man had you fantasizing about carrying his child for Christ's sake. 

“Come for me then, daddy.”

His thick brows furrowed and you shook your head, giggling more. The tables had turned and you weren’t about to let up. Watching your 6’3 husband writhe from your touch was so much more than satisfying, it was a drug. You craved seeing him in utter ecstasy, watching it overtake him. What a sight to behold. Gripping the edge of the counter with one hand, you steadied yourself and rolled your hips against him. Terry locked eyes with yours and moaned your name, overtaken by the feeling of you wrapped around him. You got lost in his stormy pools as he quickly rutted into you, chasing his undoing. You squeezed around him once more as an orgasm ripped through you. 

“Fuuuuuuck, Terrence,” you groaned out, ringing the bell sloppily. 

He fucked you through the orgasm, overstimulating you until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. His hips stuttered to a stop as he came, white-hot strands coating your insides and filling you up. Fuck’s and I love you’s trailed into the air while you both caught your breath. You gave the bell rod one more shake, sending the both of you into a fit of laughter. Sharing a peck or two between smiles. He slipped himself out of you with a contented sigh and moved to clean you up. 

Once you made yourselves presentable, you headed down the stairs to rejoin your party hand in hand. Guests were slow dancing to the velvety voice of Samara Joy in the light of the Christmas glow. DJ Mel shot the two of you a knowing look and Terry shrugged before hugging you close to him. 

“We grown, Mel,” Terry said, eliciting a shrug from them. You could only smile and shake your head at the man’s antics.

“We throw a good party, baby. Maybe too good.” Spinning you slowly, he pulled you into him. You pouted while you watched him gently kiss the tops of your manicured hands. 

“Way too good. All the cinnamon rolls are gone and I didn’t get one,” you whimpered sadly and laid your head against his hard chest. He rubbed your back as he swayed you to the music. 

“Mhm, that’s why I made you another batch,” he hummed, the bass in his chest vibrating against your ear. You looked up at him with stars in your eyes and he kissed your forehead. You brought your hand up to caress his face and he pressed a kiss against your palm.

“You’re so real for that, Terrence. Merry Christmas, baby.” A soft smile took over his face when you squeezed his waist with all your might.

“Merry Christmas, princess.” 

Thanks For Reading!

@babybluepeaches @muse-of-mbaku @melaninmarvel @naturallyqueenie @howtoshuckatlife @goldieccentric @archivistofwakanda @alexundefined @minyara-kun @destinio1 @raysunshine78 @madamslayyy @notdsg @ghostfacekill-monger @soufcakmistress @greennightspider @bitchacho25 @jordanhelah @puremolasses @ajspencer1892 @monochrome-pineapple @psuedo4 @bubblyqueen @chaneajoyyy @blowmymbackout @tchallasbabymama @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @jvzmine19 @ashanti-notthesinger

[echoweaver]

Please do NOT tzr your posts, especially if they're part of some kind of continuity.

Dashboards aren't silent. If you're not getting posts right now, you are just reading posts from a few hours ago. I don't see the problem the OP is talking about at all.

When posts are a part of a story, tzr just mucks up the continuity. You gotta follow the blog or follow a tag to be sure that you get everything anyway. Reposts of your own content just clogs everyone's dashboard and makes it harder to find new content.

I absolutely hate this practice.

ETA: If you do engage in timezone reblogs, please be absolutely sure to tag them tzr so that people can block the reblogs.

Saw a discussion about tzr reblogs earlier today with some people claiming blogs do tzrs to pressure shame their followers into liking their stuff. 💀 Seriously, you can't make this shit up.

So this is me begging you to please tzr your posts! As someone living in Europe, my dashboard is radio silent most of the day and only becomes active when I'm about to go to bed. Due to that I miss a lot of posts from all the talented people I follow. I'm so happy when people tzr their stuff because this helps me to catch up with all the cool stuff I would've otherwise missed! 🤍

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Creatura innocentiae - Fyodor x Reader

PART I PART II

Synopsys: In a secluded village ruled by devotion, where sacrifice is a form of love and faith demands blood, you are forced to choose between Scylla and Charybdis.

Warnings: No ability au, cult themes, religion, manipulation, murder, death, graphic violence and depiction of blood, dehumanization, power imbalance in relationships, emotional and physical abuse, self-harm, gaslighting, brainwashing, philosophical musings on love, faith, and autonomy.

These themes will be present throughout all parts of this fic. Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Welcome to the second part of this little story! I've already written a rough draft of the third part, thanks to winter break, which has given me plenty of time to write until my fingers ache and my mind turns to mush. As a fun fact: before Creatura innocentiae, the title of this fic was Nitimur in vetitum, which translates to "We strive for the forbidden."

Word count: 10,000

The next week crept by like molasses, each day heavier than the last. 

Being engaged should have felt like a blessing. You had been told that often enough. But no matter how hard you tried, the feeling eluded you. Abel, on the other hand, wore the engagement like a new skin, radiant with a purpose that seemed to brighten his every step. 

Every morning, he waited for you, his patient smile unwavering as he offered to walk you to the clearing where you prayed. He had taken over bandaging your wounds after ceremonies, his hands clumsy but careful, his brow furrowing with the kind of earnestness that made your chest tighten. He also brought you gifts—wildflowers, a wooden carving of a dove, even a piece of honeycomb—they piled up like the tokens of devotion they were meant to be. 

He was everything they said a husband should be. Gentle. Devoted. Perfect. 

And yet, you almost hated him for it. Or perhaps, you hated yourself. 

The dirt path stretched ahead, quiet but for the crunch of your footsteps. The sky above hung heavy and gray, dulling the world into muted shades of itself. Abel walked beside you, his easy gait a sharp contrast to the hollow weight dragging at your steps. His hands swung loosely at his sides, as though they belonged to a man without a care. 

You didn’t want to be here—not with him. 

“Quite gloomy today, isn’t it?” Abel’s voice broke the quiet, gentle and familiar. He glanced at you, his smile as practiced as the line itself. Then, softer, he added, “Though somehow, you always seem to brighten days like this.” 

You nodded, your gaze fixed on the ground. The words you wanted to say coiled tight in your throat, sharp and unspoken. 

He was trying. That was the worst part. 

Would Abel understand me? 

The question gnawed at you, growing louder with every step. It was his voice that answered—not Abel’s, but Fyodor’s. His voice. His damning words clung to you, weaving through your thoughts: a predator circling its prey. 

“Abel...” you said softly, the sound of his name almost foreign on your lips.  

He perked up immediately, his head turning toward you with that ever-present smile. “Yes?”  

Your heart began to race, a faint tremor coursing through your hands as you struggled to voice what had been gnawing at you. “What do you... like about me?”  

The question felt absurd as soon as it left your lips, yet it hung in the air between you like a weight. You didn’t dare look at him.  

Abel stopped walking.  

You hesitated, realizing he had turned to face you, his expression softened by surprise. “What do I like about you?” he repeated, his tone gentle, as though you had asked him to describe something sacred.  

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.  

His brow furrowed slightly, his smile fading into something quieter, more thoughtful. He shifted his weight, his hands clasping in front of him as he considered your question.  

“Well...” He exhaled softly, and when he spoke again, his voice carried the same warmth he always offered. “I like how kind you are. How selfless. You carry so much for all of us, yet you never complain. You give everything, even when it hurts you.”  

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. His words landed like stones in your chest, each one heavier than the last.  

“You’re...” He hesitated, a faint blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re radiant. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You remind us of what it means to be good, to have faith.”  

His gaze flicked to yours, shy but earnest. “I admire you,” he added softly, his voice almost trembling. “You make the rest of us want to be better.”  

A bitter laugh rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down, unable to let it escape.  

“Is that it?” you asked instead, your voice trembling with something you couldn’t name.  

Abel’s brow knit in confusion. “What do you mean?”  

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the sight of his gentle confusion only sharpened the ache inside you. “You admire me because I bleed for all of you. Because I make it easy to take.”  

His eyes widened, his lips parting in shock. “That’s not—”  

“Isn’t it?” you interrupted, your voice rising, sharp and brittle. The words came unbidden, spilling out. “You like me because I don’t fight. Because I smile and give and never ask for anything in return. That’s what you admire, isn’t it? That I make it easy for you to love me?”  

The silence that followed was deafening. Abel’s hands trembled at his sides, his expression stricken.  

“I...” He faltered, his voice cracking slightly. “I never meant... I just—”  

“You don’t know me,” you said, your voice breaking. “You don’t know anything about me beyond what I give. Do you?”  

He took a step toward you, his hands reaching out as though to steady the space between you. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly, his tone laced with desperation. “I care about you. I’ve always cared about you.”  

You stepped back, shaking your head. “You care about the idea of me. The savior. The lamb. But what if I wasn’t any of that? Would you still—”  

“Stop,” he interrupted, his voice firmer now. “I care about you because you’re strong. Because you carry so much and still find a way to be kind.”  

His words hung in the air, but they felt hollow. Kindness. Strength. Radiance.  

They were the same words you had heard all your life, spoken in reverence and admiration. But they weren’t about you. They were about the role you played, the mask you wore so perfectly.  

Your breath hitched as you turned away, staring at the horizon where the clouds pressed low against the earth. “You don’t understand,” you whispered.  

Abel didn’t press further. He stood there, silent and unsure, as you began walking again, your steps hurried and uneven. He followed at a distance, the tension between you stretching.

The ache in your chest deepened with every step, the memory of Fyodor’s voice echoing louder than ever: You bleed for them. But will they bleed for you?  

For the first time, you began to think you already knew the answer.  

---  

The late afternoon sun slanted through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting long, wavering stripes of light across the floor. Dust particles swirled lazily in the warmth, their slow drift a reminder of the barn’s stillness. The soft sounds of the space were familiar, grounding.  

You had watched Abel and Fyodor disappear inside the barn a little while ago, tasked by the elders to tend to the horses. A routine chore—unremarkable.

They were not made equally, you thought. Abel was very kind, too kind. It was the kind of kindness that made your insides burn, that felt like a performance rather than a truth. The interaction a few days ago had only solidified that suspicion. Abel got complacence, while Fyodor...  

Fyodor got ambition. It was an unsettling kind of ambition, sharp-edged and systematic. You didn’t know what he intended to use it for, but the thought lingered, prickling at the edges of your mind like needles. 

Not wanting to dwell on the two of them, you turned back to your duties, trying to shake the unease.  

Inside, the barn was still and calm, save for the steady rhythm of Fyodor’s hands working, methodical as ever. He brushed down one of the horses, his motions slow, as if the action itself demanded careful precision. His brow remained unfurrowed, his focus unshifting, as though he were a part of the barn itself, fixed and immovable.  

Across the barn, Abel’s voice filled the stillness with a casual stream of conversation, his words light and unguarded—too unguarded. He spoke of the harvest festival, of traditions and preparations, his tone tinged with forced enthusiasm.   

“I think they’ll love it,” Abel said, glancing over his shoulder at Fyodor. “The festival, I mean. It’s their favorite time of year—dancing under the lights, celebrating our comunity’s hard work. I feel lucky, you know? To be the one by their side for it.” 

Fyodor didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. His silence filled the barn like smoke, creeping into all corners until Abel shifted uneasily. 

“And what makes you so sure they love it?” Fyodor asked at last, his tone quiet, almost idle, as if the question were an afterthought. 

Abel chuckled, though the sound carried a slight tremor. “Because it’s simple, I suppose,” he replied, turning his gaze to the window as though the answer might lie somewhere beyond it. “It makes them happy.”   

The rhythm of Fyodor’s brushing didn’t falter, but the air seemed to grow colder, as if his presence had drawn out the warmth. His head tilted slightly, the faintest gesture of consideration, though his gaze remained fixed on the horse.   

“Do they seem happy to you?”   

Abel stilled. His hands paused in their work, his fingers curling reflexively around the armful of hay he was gathering. He turned his head toward Fyodor, confusion shadowing his features. “What?”   

Fyodor straightened, setting the brush aside. He turned, his eyes meeting Abel’s. They were calm, but there was something unrelenting in the sharpness of his gaze. “I asked,” Fyodor said softly, “if they seem happy to you.”   

Abel faltered, his brow furrowing. “I mean... they don’t complain,” he said, his voice carrying a faint defensiveness. “They devoted to their role. That’s what happiness is, isn’t it? Accepting your place?”   

Fyodor’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something faint and unsettling, a ghost of amusement. “Devotion isn’t the same as happiness. Compliance isn’t the same as understanding.”   

Abel frowned, his confusion deepening as he turned fully to face Fyodor. “I don’t see the difference,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now.   

Fyodor took a single step forward, closing the distance between them. “Of course you don’t,” he said, his tone low, almost kind. “You don’t have to.”   

Abel blinked, his expression faltering further. The cheerfulness that had cloaked him earlier seemed to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something more vulnerable—a faint crack in the armor of certainty he had always carried.   

“They’re devoted,” Abel said again, though his voice wavered. “They’re strong. They’re... They’re everything we need them to be.”   

“Everything you need them to be,” Fyodor corrected, the faintest edge creeping into his voice. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed but his presence unyielding. “But tell me, Abel—what do they need?”   

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. His hands tightened around the bundle of hay, his gaze dropping to the ground. 

Fyodor let the silence stretch, his gaze unwavering as he stepped back toward the horse. “They carry the weight of your love,” he said quietly, his voice almost a murmur. “But love, without understanding, is just another burden, no?”   

Abel’s head snapped up at that, his eyes narrowing. “I do understand them,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to himself.   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his expression softening—not with kindness, but with something closer to pity. “Do you?”   

The question wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even accusatory. And yet, it cut deeper than anything else Fyodor had said.   

Abel turned back to his task, his movements slower, more hesitant now. The steady rhythm of his work had faltered, becoming uneven as though each action required conscious effort. He didn’t speak again. The air between them grew heavier, oppressive in its stillness—you could have heard a pin drop, but not the whisper of Fyodor’s steps as he moved across the barn. 

Reaching one of the horses, Fyodor untied its reins with quiet precision, dragging the rope across the floor as though absentmindedly. He let it fall into the straw, its coils half-buried and unassuming, before reaching for the feed bucket to distract the horse with its meal. 

His mind drifted again, to that familiar thought.   

You construct intricate rituals to appease deities you came up with to avoid being your own judge.   

He studied Abel’s back, hunched over as he worked, and the words solidified in his mind.   

God can’t hear you beg for forgiveness, and She doesn’t care about the sacrifices you make to prove your repentance. You stand in front of a mirror, begging for someone else to try you for your crimes.   

He stared at Abel, who was so eager to please, so content to remain blind to the walls around him. Abel wasn’t chosen for his understanding—no, he was chosen because he would never question the system. Because he wouldn’t ask the hard questions that would tear the gilded cage apart.   

“Abel.”   

Abel turned toward him, his brow furrowing in confusion, the ever-present warmth in his gaze replaced by something guarded. “Yes?”   

“You truly believe you’re enough for them?” Fyodor asked, taking a step forward. His tone wasn’t mocking; it wasn’t even cruel. It was simply curious, a calm inquiry.   

Abel blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I... I am enough for them!”   

Fyodor tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering as though he were studying a puzzle. “Are you?” he murmured, the question barely louder than a breath. 

Abel stiffened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Of course I am. I’ve done everything right—followed every rule, every tradition.” His voice grew firmer. “I care for them. I protect them. Isn’t that enough?” 

Fyodor’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Enough for you, perhaps. But is it enough for them?” 

The barn seemed to close in on them, the air thickening with the weight of unspoken truths. Abel took a step forward, his expression darkening. “They’re happy,” he insisted, though his voice wavered at the edges. 

“You don’t see it, do you? The way they looks at you—not with love, but with duty. The same way one might look at a burden they cannot put down.” 

Abel’s breath hitched, his face tightening as the words hit their mark. His grip on the hay trembled, as though he were fighting the urge to throw it down. “Shut up,” he said quietly, his tone laced with warning. 

Fyodor didn’t flinch, his expression calm, almost pitying. “Do you even know them, Abel? Beyond what they give you? Beyond the mask they wear for all of you?” 

“I said shut up!” Abel’s voice cracked, his hands trembling as he took another step forward. The warmth in his gaze was gone now, replaced by something desperate and raw. 

Fyodor held his ground, his composure unshaken. “If they took off the mask,” he said, each word deliberate, “would you even recognize them?” 

The question hung in the air like a guillotine, and Abel snapped. His fist shot out, catching Fyodor in the chest and driving him back against the stall. The horses stirred, their nervous movements filling the barn with sharp, chaotic sounds. 

“You don’t know anything about them!” Abel shouted, his voice reverberating off the wooden walls. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you don’t belong here—you’ll never belong here!” 

Fyodor staggered but recovered quickly, brushing the dust from his robe with infuriating calm. He straightened, his violet eyes meeting Abel’s with a steady, unsettling intensity. “Neither do they,” he said quietly. 

And when those words came down like a blade on his neck, Abel’s fury boiled over, spilling into every clumsy, uncoordinated movement. His hands found the pitchfork leaning against the stall, gripping it as though it might anchor him against the storm inside. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts, the sound filling the barn.

The horses, restless from the noise and the charged atmosphere, shuffled in their stalls, their hooves striking against the wooden planks with growing urgency. One whinnied sharply, the sound slicing through the oppressive quiet. 

Abel lifted the pitchfork, his knuckles whitening around the handle as if he intended to use it, but the weight of his rage made his movements slow and unsteady. His chest heaved, his eyes wild and unfocused as he turned toward Fyodor, the object of his unraveling anger. 

The untied horse jerked sideways, its powerful body slamming into the stall with a hollow, reverberating thud. The motion sent a cascade of hay spilling onto the floor, and Abel flinched at the impact. His grip on the pitchfork wavered, the handle slipping in his sweaty palms. 

“Stay back!” Abel shouted at the animal, though the command sounded more like a plea. His voice cracked, raw and uneven, as though it might splinter under the weight of his panic. 

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, their rhythm halting just outside the barn’s threshold. Someone had heard the commotion—they paused at the doorway, their shadow stretching across the barn floor, trembling as it mingled with the fractured light. Their eyes darted between Abel’s hunched form and Fyodor’s measured stillness. The air felt too heavy to move through, suffocating in its intensity. 

Fyodor’s violet gaze flicked toward the figure, so quick it was almost imperceptible, before snapping back to Abel. He didn’t acknowledge the witness further, his expression settling into something carefully controlled, slightly startled but otherwise unreadable. 

“Is that how you’ll prove your worth?” Fyodor asked, his voice calm, but now carrying the faintest thread of something softer—fear, or perhaps pity. He took a half-step back, his hands raised slightly, palms outward, as though placating a dangerous animal. “By threatening me?” 

Abel’s grip on the pitchfork tightened, his knuckles trembling. “You don’t understand! You don’t belong here!” he bellowed, his tone cracking under the strain of his rage. 

The horses, restless and panicked, stamped and snorted in their stalls. Abel lifted the pitchfork slightly, as if to strike, but the motion only fed the chaos around him. One of the horses reared, its hooves crashing against the stall. 

But Fyodor didn’t move. He stood as still as the barn walls themselves, his gaze steady, unyielding. The horses, by contrast, were all motion—rearing, kicking, their wild eyes flashing in the fractured light. The largest of them stomped violently, its movements frantic and unpredictable. 

Abel staggered, his foot catching on a length of rope half-buried in the straw. He teetered for a moment, his arms flailing as he fought for balance. The pitchfork clattered to the ground with a dull, jarring sound. 

The horse’s agitation grew, its hooves striking out as it reared again. Abel’s flailing carried him backward, the momentum of his stumble drawing him directly into the horse’s path. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow. The animal thrashed above him, its front hooves coming down hard, directly onto Abel's head with a sickening crack. Then, silence—the kind that could make a man go insane the way it seeped into your bones, raw and unrelenting. The horse pawed at the straw with uneasy, jittery movements, its breath loud and uneven. Each scuffle of its hooves felt like an echo of the chaos that took place, a ghost of the violence that now lay lifeless on the barn floor. 

The oppressive tension lingered, heavy and unshakable, as Fyodor’s gaze shifted to the lifeless form. Abel was now crumpled on the ground, his body folding like a discarded marionette. The pitchfork lay a few feet away, untouched and irrelevant now. 

A scream tore through the barn as the witness finally found their voice. It was raw, piercing, and shattered the suffocating silence like glass. 

Fyodor flinched, a reaction born of necessity. There was no pleasure, no satisfaction in the moment—only an emptiness, as if he had simply carried out a necessary task. The rope had been placed just so, half-buried in the straw, waiting for the inevitable misstep. The horse, its reins had been untethered just enough for it to start galloping around. Abel’s demise hadn’t been a matter of chance—chance was too chaotic. No, it was only a matter of time before Fyodor took advantage of Abel’s rage.  

The scream was a spark, igniting a flurry of footsteps and hurried voices as others rushed toward the barn. The commotion fed on itself, a breeding ground for curious eyes and frantic questions. 

Some pushed inside, drawn by the noise, while others hovered at the edges, hesitant and afraid. A few rushed to Fyodor, their voices trembling as they asked if he was hurt. He played the role of the bewildered innocent, his hands clean, his expression clouded with confusion. 

“I…” he began, his voice soft, trembling just enough to appear genuine. “I don’t know how it came to this.” 

The barn felt smaller with so many bodies crowding its space, their overlapping whispers and gasps weaving into the lingering tension. 

Fyodor’s mind remained clear, though something twisted deep in his chest, an unfamiliar discomfort he couldn’t easily shake. 

The scene was immaculate. The horse’s agitation blended seamlessly with the chaos he had crafted—a tragic accident, nothing more. Fyodor lingered for a moment, staring at the wreckage he had orchestrated. He felt no satisfaction. No triumph. Only the steady weight of grim resolve. 

When the questions grew too insistent, a few of them gently urged him away from the barn, their hands hovering as if to steady him. He let them guide him, his steps measured, his gaze distant, his expression carrying just enough of a dazed quality to appear convincing. Yet, even as he moved, his thoughts were already elsewhere. 

They turned to you—the way your voice had trembled when you spoke of your role, the soft, resigned look in your eyes whenever Abel’s name came up. He almost felt pity for Abel. Almost. 

Abel was part of the cycle—a lamb to be led to slaughter, a cog in a system that would never change. But you—you were different. You didn’t belong to this hollow cycle of devotion and duty. 

And that was why Fyodor wouldn’t let you rot alongside them. 

---  

The news left you reeling. Abel, dead? The words didn’t seem real. You hadn’t loved him—not the way a fiancé should love their betrothed. But your heart, too soft and too big, carried the weight of his loss as though it were your fault. Guilt tangled with disbelief, twisting in your chest. If only you had loved him more, would he have been more careful? The image of the horse flashed in your mind, its startled movements, its strength. Why hadn’t Abel been more cautious? The questions circled endlessly as you stepped into the church, the air pressing down on you like a silent rebuke. 

The apse feels colder without the soft façade your mother usually wears in public. Her practiced kindness is gone, leaving behind the sharp, calculating presence of the High Priestess. You’re not supposed to be here. You hesitate by the doorway, drawn by the tension in the air.  

Fyodor stands before her, calm as ever, his posture betraying no unease. He looks at her with an air of quiet reverence, his composure a sharp contrast to the tension that fills the room like a rising tide.

“Abel is dead,” she says, her voice cutting through the silence, deliberate and sharp, like the crack of a whip.

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression shifting into something akin to concern, though it never quite reaches his eyes. “A tragedy,” he murmurs, his tone measured and solemn. “I was there, High Priestess. Tending to the horses with him, as requested. It all happened so quickly.”

“Quickly,” she repeats, her words laden with disbelief. Her gaze hardens, narrowing in a way that feels like she’s trying to pierce through him. “And yet, here you stand. Unscathed. Untouched.”

His lips part as if in a sigh, but his voice remains steady. “I wish it were not so,” he says softly, his hands folding behind his back, the imagine of obedience. “There were others who saw what happened. Abel was not himself. His anger… it was consuming him.”

Her eyes flash, the subtle narrowing of her brows the only betrayal of her rising fury. “And what of your role in this?” she asks, leaning forward slightly, her presence pressing into him like a blade against his skin. “What did you do to quell this supposed rage?”

“I stepped back,” Fyodor says, his voice a quiet confession, tinged with what sounds like regret. “To keep myself safe. The horses were startled. Abel was… consumed by his emotions. I feared escalation, and yet…” He lets the sentence trail off, as though the memory itself pains him.

Her hands tighten on the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as she leans further forward. “Convenient,” she says, the word dripping with venom. “How fortunate for you that his anger left little room for blame to fall elsewhere.”

He tilts his head slightly, meeting her gaze without hesitation, his expression serene. “I did only what I could, High Priestess. The others will confirm as much.”

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence growing sharper, heavier. “Do not mistake my silence for ignorance,” she says at last, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “I know what you’ve done.”

For a moment, the faintest flicker of amusement dances in his eyes. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully composed neutrality. “And I await proof, High Priestess,” he says, his voice unwavering but carrying an edge now, subtle but unmissable. “The truth, after all, always has a way of revealing itself.”

The room feels suffocating all of a sudden. You realize too late that you’ve stepped too far into the doorway, drawn in despite yourself. Her gaze snaps to you with the precision of a hawk catching its prey. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you stammer.

Her expression softens slightly, but only enough to mask her irritation. “You have duties to attend to,” she says, her voice firm. “Go.”  

You hesitate, your eyes flicking to Fyodor. He meets your gaze briefly, his violet eyes calm and unbothered, as if none of this concerns him. Something unspoken lingers in his gaze, something you don’t fully understand but can’t look away from.  

“I said go,” your mother repeats, and her voice leaves no room for argument. Reluctantly, you turn and leave, the door closing behind you.  

Her next words are muffled by the thick wooden door, but you can hear the warning in her tone, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “And stay away from my child,” she says. There’s a pause, heavy and menacing. “You may have charmed the others, but insolence has its limits.”  

Fyodor’s reply is quiet, but there’s an edge of amusement in his tone. “As you wish, High Priestess.”  

You stood just beyond the door, your heart pounding as you strain to hear what comes next. There’s a long silence, followed by your mother’s voice. “Be careful, Fyodor. You walk a fine line.”  

The door creaks open behind you, and you jump back as Fyodor steps out. He closes it softly, his expression calm but unreadable as his eyes meet yours. 

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” he says, his voice quiet, carrying a faint trace of humor. 

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you, “I wasn’t—” The words stumble out, unconvincing even to yourself. “I mean... I didn’t mean to.” 

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharpening, though his faint smile lingers. “No?” he murmurs, the word soft, almost indulgent. “Then why are you still standing here?” 

“I...” Your voice falters, the weight of his presence bearing down on you. The shame burns in your chest, but it’s tangled with something else—an aching need to know. “I was worried,” you admit quietly. “About what she was saying. About you.” 

His expression shifts subtly, something unspoken flickering behind his composed façade. “And why would you worry about me?” 

The question throws you off balance, and for a moment, you can’t find the words. “She... she doesn’t usually speak like that about anyone,” you manage. “And—” You hesitate, then push forward, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Did you have anything to do with Abel’s death?” 

For a moment, there’s silence. Not the calm, expectant silence he so often wields, but something heavier. His violet eyes remain locked on yours, unblinking, as though he’s weighing every possible answer against the consequences it might bring. 

“Do you think I did?” he asks finally, his voice low and steady, yet there’s an edge to it—a challenge hidden beneath the softness. 

Your chest tightens under the weight of his question. “I don’t know,” you admit, the words trembling on your lips. “You always seem to know things—things no one else does. And she sounded so certain, like she has proof.” 

“Proof,” he repeats, almost absently, as if the word itself is a curious puzzle. He looks away, his gaze lingering on the shadows flickering along the church walls. When he speaks again, his tone is quieter, more thoughtful. “Certainty and proof are not the same. Certainty is... convenient. It can mask fear. Or doubt.” 

You search his face, desperate to read the truth in his expression, but his features remain infuriatingly calm. “So it wasn’t you?” 

This time, his hesitation is so slight you almost miss it. But it’s there—an imperceptible pause, a flicker of something in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with Abel’s death,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “He was... a kind man. His loss is a tragedy.” 

His words soothe something in you, yet they also stir a nagging unease. You want to believe him. You need to. But the shadow of doubt refuses to leave you entirely. 

“I shouldn’t have asked,” you whisper, your hands twisting the fabric of your robe. “It’s not my place.” 

“Questions are not a crime,” he says, his tone softening. “But sometimes, they lead us to answers we aren’t ready for.” 

He steps closer, and you can feel the weight of his presence, the quiet intensity that seems to draw everything toward him. “Your mother is a formidable woman,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She cares for you deeply. But her care can be... suffocating.” 

You look up at him, startled by the edge of empathy in his tone. “She’s trying to protect me,” you say, though the words feel hollow. 

His faint smile returns, tinged with something almost bitter. “She sees danger everywhere,” he says. “Even where there is none. Her warnings... they’re for your sake, not mine.” 

“What danger?” you press, your voice trembling. “Why would she think you’re a threat?” 

He pauses, his gaze slipping past you as if searching for an answer in the dim light of the church. When he looks back, there’s a shadow in his expression—an emotion you can’t name. “Perhaps because I don’t fit neatly into her world,” he says finally. “People fear what they can’t control.” 

The words settle heavily between you, and you can’t help but wonder if they apply to more than just your mother. “But you’re not a danger,” you say, the statement more a question than you intended. 

His smile deepens, though it’s far from reassuring. “Would it matter if I were?” 

The question takes your breath away, and for a moment, you can’t respond. He steps back, the moment slipping away as quickly as it arrived. 

“I should go,” he says softly. “Your mother would not be happy if she saw us talking.” He steps past you, his presence lingering even as he walks away. You turn to watch him go, your mind can't seem to let go of the subject. 

“Wait,” you say, your voice unsteady. “What does she fear? Is it really you?” 

He hesitates at the door, his hand resting on the worn wood. “She fears many things,” he says, his tone almost gentle. “But most of all, she fears losing you.” 

He glances back at you one last time, his gaze lingering in a way that leaves you frozen in place. “Be careful,” he says, his tone softer now. “Sometimes, it’s better to leave things alone. For your own sake.” 

With that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the quiet of the church.  

---  

The preparations for the interment felt like a hollow ritual, a series of motions drained of meaning. You were no stranger to death—it was a quiet constant in your duties. Tending to elders who had lived full lives or stillborn children who never had the chance to begin felt like an extension of God’s will, a cycle you could accept.  

But Abel? Abel’s life was brimming with potential, his laughter still echoing faintly in your mind. To see him reduced to this—motionless, silent, stripped of the warmth that had once defined him—felt profoundly wrong, almost cruel. Yet beneath the grief and guilt, another emotion lingered faintly—a weight you could not name lifting from your chest, leaving behind an ache you didn’t dare yet examine. 

The river is calm tonight, its surface reflecting the firelight as if the water itself mourns. Abel’s body lies on a small wooden boat, his head covered by a white veil, his hands crossed over his chest. Flowers are tucked around him—delicate wildflowers from the fields, their petals already wilting under the heat of the torchlight. Gifts surround his body: a carving knife, a jar of honey, and a lock of your hair tied with a red ribbon. 

You stand at the edge of the gathered mourners. The High Priestess holds the ceremonial torch, her expression somber as she recites the prayer of passage. 

“May this fire guide you Abel,” she says, her voice steady, resonant. “May the waters carry you to the eternal embrace of the divine.” 

She hands you the torch, her fingers brushing against yours. You step forward, your legs trembling as you kneel at the riverbank. The crowd watches in reverent silence as you lower the torch, lighting the pyre. The flames catch quickly, crackling and consuming the dried wood and herbs. The fire comes to life, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface. 

Then the boat drifts slowly into the river, carried by the gentle current. You can feel the weight of their gazes on you as the flames climb higher, engulfing everything. The chanting grows louder, filling the night with its haunting melody. You bow your head, but your thoughts are elsewhere. 

Somewhere in the crowd, Fyodor stands apart. His face is unreadable in the flickering light, but you can feel his gaze on you. It’s like a promise, something you can’t sever no matter how hard you try. When you lift your head, your eyes meet his across the riverbank. He doesn’t look away, but you don't either.

The embers of the funeral boat glow faintly on the surface of the dark water, their light flickering like dying stars. You linger by the riverbank, unable to leave, even as the others return to the village. The weight of Abel’s death presses on you like a shroud. You tell yourself it’s the grief of the community—of your mother—but a deeper, more private part of you knows the truth. 

You feel relieved. 

The realization sits heavy in your chest, twisting into a knot of guilt. He’s gone. Abel is gone, and you will never have to kneel at his side, never have to smile through vows that made you feel small, never have to endure his kind, earnest gaze, so full of devotion it almost made you cry.

And yet, the relief doesn’t quiet the sadness. Abel hadn’t deserved this. He’d been kind, gentle, and undeserving of the violence that stole his life. You shiver, clutching your arms as though to hold yourself together. 

The sound of footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, soft against the earth but unmistakable. You don’t need to turn to know it’s him. Fyodor’s presence is unmistakable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he says softly. His voice carries no judgment, only a quiet understanding that feels too sharp against the tumult of your thoughts. 

You don’t respond. You keep your gaze fixed on the water, the last embers of the funeral pyre drifting away on the gentle current. 

For a moment, he says nothing more. He steps closer, his movements unhurried, as though he knows you won’t send him away. He stands beside you, his presence warm despite the chill in the air. “You shouldn’t linger,” he says eventually, his tone as soft as the breeze. “The night is cold.” 

“I know,” you whisper, though you make no move to leave. 

Silence settles between you, broken only by the faint ripple of the water. Fyodor doesn’t press you for words, doesn’t fill the quiet with questions or platitudes. He simply waits, as if he knows you need space to untangle the knot inside you. 

“It’s wrong,” you murmur finally, your voice trembling. “To feel this way.” 

His gaze shifts to you, steady and patient. “What way?” he asks gently. 

You shake your head, unable to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t feel relieved. I shouldn’t feel...” You falter, the words catching in your throat. “Happy.” 

“Happy?” he repeats, his tone light, as though coaxing the truth from you without force. 

You swallow hard, your chest tightening with shame. “That I’m not marrying him anymore,” you admit quietly. “That I don’t have to...” Your voice trails off, and you squeeze your arms tighter around yourself. “He didn’t deserve this. And I feel guilty for being glad.” 

The words hang in the air, fragile and raw. For a long moment, Fyodor says nothing, and you fear his silence more than anything he could say. But when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost tender. 

“Grief and relief can exist together,” he says. “Feeling one doesn’t erase the other.” 

You glance at him, startled by the gentleness in his tone. His expression is calm, but there’s something in his eyes that you can’t quite name—a depth, a quiet understanding that makes your chest ache. 

“It doesn’t make you cruel,” he continues. “Or unkind. It makes you human.” 

You lower your gaze, tears stinging your eyes. You want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. Instead, you find yourself leaning into his presence, drawn to the strange, steady calm he exudes. 

“I didn’t want this,” you say softly. “I didn’t want him to die.” 

The silence stretches for a moment, soft and heavy, before you find yourself asking the question you’ve been holding back since the funeral.

“How was he?” you whisper, your voice trembling as you force the words out. “When you saw him last... what was he like?” You search Fyodor’s expression, desperate for something to soothe the ache that’s been gnawing at your chest.

Fyodor doesn’t flinch. His answer comes after a brief pause, as though he’s carefully turning over the words in his mind. When he speaks, his voice is calm, steady, yet imbued with a softness that feels almost kind. “He was troubled,” he says, his tone measured, “but he was trying to find peace in his own way.”

Your chest tightens, a bittersweet mix of guilt and relief clawing its way to the surface. “Troubled?” you echo, your voice cracking. “I... I wish I had known. I should have seen it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Fyodor says, the words quiet but firm. His gaze holds yours, steady and unyielding. “Sometimes, people carry burdens they cannot share. His anger wasn’t about you—it was about the expectations placed on him. Expectations he could no longer bear.”

The weight of his words settles over you, heavy but grounding. Your throat tightens, and the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, unchecked. “I just… I wanted him to be happy,” you whisper. “He deserved that much.”

Fyodor watches you for a moment, before he speaks again. “Happiness isn’t always something we can give to others,” he says softly. “But he knew you cared. In the end, that mattered to him.”

You let out a shaky breath, clutching at the fragile comfort his words offer. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with emotion. “For being there. For trying to help him.”

Fyodor inclines his head slightly, his expression gentle but inscrutable. “It was the least I could do,” he says, his voice carrying a quiet gravity.

His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken meaning. Somewhere beneath the surface, you feel a current of something darker, something you can’t quite name. But you push the thought aside, holding onto the solace he’s given you instead.

And that night, you finally let yourself cry—small, quiet tears that fall into the stillness. Fyodor doesn’t move closer, doesn’t try to touch you. But his presence remains, solid and grounding, as though he knows exactly what you need. 

And as the last embers on the water fade to black, so too does the knot in your chest. It doesn’t disappear completely, but for now, it feels lighter. 

--- 

As swiftly as Abel’s passing came, so did the murmurs of his replacement. The inevitability of it clawed at your chest. Who would they choose? The question lingered, heavy and suffocating. You didn’t love anyone in that way—you weren’t sure you even knew how. But it didn’t matter. It never had. Love was a luxury reserved for others, not for you. Your duty to serve and protect stood above such things, an immovable force that demanded everything, leaving nothing for yourself. 

The sacred chamber bared the weight expectation. The candles lining the room burned low, their wax pooling like spilled offerings onto the scarred surface of the circular table at the room’s center. Icons glowed faintly in the flickering light, their intricate patterns seeming to pulse as though alive. 

You sat at your mother’s right hand, your presence as ceremonial as the candles. They had positioned you carefully—not as a participant, but as a reminder. A living symbol of the decision they had gathered to make. 

The council of elders surrounded the table, their robes pooling around them. Their faces were worn and lined with years of devotion, their gazes sharp with the weight of tradition. Their voices, low and murmured, weaved a thread of tension through the room, a quiet hum that settled in your chest. 

At the head of the table, your mother sat straight-backed and composed. Her silver hair caught the light like threads of spun steel, and her white robes were pristine as ever. Though she hadn’t yet spoken, her presence was enough to keep the room in balance, every elder’s words carefully measured, every movement deliberate. 

You remained silent, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your gaze fixed on the candlelight as though it might offer you some form of escape. 

The conversation began predictably, each elder taking their turn to speak with the slow gravity of a ritual. 

“We must consider their future,” one said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “The vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

Another nodded, her fingers steepled before her. “It is not just tradition—it is their purpose. Without a partner, their role is incomplete. Unity is required, both for them and for the community.” 

Their words surrounded you like a net, each thread tightening with every passing moment. They spoke of you, about you, but never to you. You were not a person here. You were an offering. 

The discussion turned to Abel’s death. 

“It was a tragedy,” one elder murmured, shaking his head. “He was a promising match. His devotion was unwavering.” 

“But it leaves us with an opportunity,” another interjected. “We can find a match that will strengthen their position further—someone who embodies not just faith, but leadership.” 

The High Priestess remained silent, her sharp gaze sweeping over the elders. Though her expression was serene, you could see the faint tension in her jaw, the slight tightening of her fingers around the edge of the table. 

And then, a new name entered the conversation. 

“What of Fyodor?” 

The murmurs grew louder, the elders turning toward the speaker with surprise and curiosity. 

“He is young, yes,” the elder continued. “In his short time here, he has proven himself. Devout, polite, eager to serve. He carries himself with dignity.” 

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. 

“He performs every task with care,” another said. “Always thoughtful, always measured.” 

“And the people respect him,” someone added. “The children adore him, and the elders speak of his humility. He has shown the kind of character we need.” 

Your mother’s frown was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. Her fingers tightened on the table’s edge, her composure flickering like a candle in a gust of wind. 

“He is still an outsider,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “A man we barely know. Devotion takes time to prove.” 

“But his actions speak for him,” one elder countered gently. “Even you must admit he has adjusted seamlessly to our ways.” 

“It is his seamless adjustment that concerns me,” your mother replied, her tone sharp. “No one adapts so quickly without intent. Devotion should be earned, not performed.” 

Her words hung heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs for a moment. 

You sat frozen, your gaze dropping to your lap as their words swirled around you. They spoke of Fyodor with admiration, of Abel with reverence, of you as though you were an extension of the altar itself—a sacred object to be placed, given, assigned. 

You felt your throat tighten as one elder leaned forward, their voice soft but deliberate. “Mother Maria, with all respect, we cannot deny the strength of his character. He has brought stability, even in the face of tragedy. Perhaps he is exactly what they needs—a man who can uphold appearances while serving the divine.” 

Your mother’s gaze darkened, her frown deepening. “Appearances are not enough,” she said sharply. “The vessel must be bound to someone who embodies faith and tradition. Fyodor is neither. He is an outsider, a stranger who has only begun to understand our ways.” 

Another elder shifted in their seat. “And who, then, would you propose?” they asked carefully. “Abel’s passing has left us with few options. The sacred vessel cannot remain unbound.” 

The room grew heavy with silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. 

Finally, your mother spoke again, her voice steady but cold. “There are others. Men whose families have served this community for generations. Men whose loyalty is proven, not assumed.” 

Her gaze swept across the room, her authority pressing down like a weight. “We will not make this decision lightly. And we will not make it tonight.” 

Her words were final, the tone leaving no room for argument. The murmurs faded into uneasy quiet as the elders began to rise, their robes rustling softly as they filed out of the chamber. 

You remained seated, your hands clenched tightly in your lap. The flickering candlelight cast wavering shadows on the walls, but the weight in your chest remained still, solid. 

When the chamber was nearly empty, your mother turned to you, her expression hard but laced with something else—something close to fear. 

“I will not allow this,” she said, her voice low. “You may think him charming, but I see what the others cannot. There is something... unnatural about him.” 

Her hand rested on your cheek, soft almost possessive. “You will be promised,” she continued. “But not to him. Never to him.” 

She rose, her robes sweeping the floor as she left the chamber. The sound of her footsteps faded, leaving you alone in the suffocating quiet. 

You stared at the candlelight, its faint glow reflecting in your eyes. You wondered if she was right to be afraid. 

--- 

Days passed, but the elders’ conversation lingered—a quiet echo in the moments you least expected. Would Fyodor be a good match? The question felt like a cruel jest. It didn’t matter, not really—not when your mother had made her feelings about him painfully clear. Her disdain, her insistence that his presence near you was sacrilege, kept him at an arm’s length even now. 

And yet, for all her hatred, Fyodor stood apart from anyone else. Abel was predictable, the others distant, and even you could only see yourself in fragments. But Fyodor? Fyodor saw you whole. 

And what he saw terrified you. 

It wasn’t just that he seemed to know you better than anyone else. Sometimes, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself. 

But more frightening than that—the thing you couldn’t admit, not even in the quiet of your mind—was how you reached for him in return. Like forbidden fruit, dangerous and tempting, he pulled you in with a force you couldn’t resist.

The embers of the ceremonial pyre glow faintly against the night sky, casting restless shadows over the clearing. The others have gone, their murmured prayers and reverent footsteps swallowed by the forest. You should have left with them. You should be anywhere but here, but the ceremony lingers in you like a weight you can’t shake off. The sacred blood on your arms feels heavier than it should, its warmth long gone.

You stare into the dying fire, hoping its last flickers will burn away the unease twisting inside you. But it doesn’t. It never does. 

“Still here?” Fyodor’s voice drifts toward you, as though he’s been waiting for the moment you’d be alone. 

His voice slips through the stillness, soft and smooth. You don’t turn. You don’t need to. Fyodor’s presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t crash or demand attention. It seeps into the space like smoke, slow and inevitable. 

“You seem to always find me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“I wasn’t looking,” he replies, his tone smooth and unhurried. “It’s just that you’re always where I expect you to be.” 

You glance over your shoulder and find him leaning against one of the great trees that ring the clearing. The white of his robe catches the firelight, making him look ghostly against the shadows. His posture is as it always is—calm, controlled—but his eyes hold something sharper, something that makes your pulse quicken. 

“I needed a moment,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the fire. 

“To think?” he asks, stepping closer. 

“To breathe.” 

“That is because you give so much,” he says softly, and his words cut through you with an unsettling precision. “But what does it give you in return?” 

You flinch, the truth of his question striking a nerve you didn’t know was exposed. “It’s not about what I get,” you reply, though your voice trembles. “I told you before...It’s my purpose.” 

“And who gave you that purpose?” he presses, his steps slow as he closes the space between you. “Did you choose it? Or was it chosen for you?” 

His words dig into you like thorns, and you pull your arms closer to your chest, as though shielding yourself from the weight of his gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” you say sharply. “It’s what I’m meant to do.” 

“But does it feel that way?” he murmurs, his tone softening in a way that feels more dangerous than his earlier sharpness. 

You look away, your breath hitching as his presence presses against you—not physically, but in a way that feels just as real. You want to step back, to break the pull he seems to have on you, but instead, you find yourself leaning toward him.

“The divinity that was pushed onto you,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, almost reverent. “It will stain your fingers and mouth like a pomegranate. It will swallow you whole and spit you out, wine-dark and wanting. And still, you’ll reach for it, again and again.” 

You take a shaky breath, your chest tightening. “Why are you saying this?” 

“Because you deserve to ask the question,” he says simply. “Because no one else will let you.” 

You want to argue, to push him away with words that make sense, but all you can feel is the ache in your chest, the way his presence seems to burrow under your skin. His words are too sharp, too close to truths you’ve tried to ignore, and yet you can’t bring yourself to step back. 

You glance at him, searching for something in his expression—mockery, cruelty, anything that might give you an excuse to dismiss him. But his gaze is steady, unflinching, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. It unsettles you, the way he looks at you. Not with reverence, not with the awe you’re used to, but with something deeper. Something you can’t name. 

“I should go,” you say finally, though the words feel hollow, turning away from him and started walking.

“Should you?” he says, his soft but relentless, stopping you in your tracks, “You are trying to flee from the truth.” 

The weight of his words pulls at something deep inside you, something you’ve tried to bury beneath years of ritual and obedience. Your chest tightens, your heart pounding against your ribs as you search for an answer, but none comes. 

“You let it take everything,” he continues, stepping even closer, “and you ask for nothing in return. Not even its mercy.” 

“Stop,” you whisper, though there’s no force behind the word. 

“Why?” His gaze burns into you, the intensity of it making your skin prickle. “Because you’re afraid of the answer? Or because you already know it?” 

The air feels too thick, too heavy, but you can’t seem to move. You lower your gaze, the words tangling in your throat as your chest tightens. “I don’t... I don’t want to—” 

“To think about it?” he finishes your sentence for you, his voice softer now. “I know.” 

His words hold no malice, no triumph. Instead, there’s something almost tender in the way he says it, as though he sees the storm inside you and knows exactly how to navigate it. It’s too much, and yet you don’t push him away. You tilt your head, giving him the space to press closer. Letting his words sink into your soft skin.  

Fyodor stands close now, his presence steady but overwhelming, like a shadow that refuses to vanish. His words linger in the air between you, carving truths you don’t want to face. 

“So, this is where you are.” 

You stiffen, the sound like a blade slicing through the fragile stillness. Your mother, the High Priestess, steps into the clearing, her purposeful gait as deliberate as the firelight still flickering behind her. Her face is carved from stone, her fury tightly leashed. 

“Mother,” you say softly, turning to face her. 

Her gaze doesn’t land on you. Instead, it pierces Fyodor, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, terrifying intensity. “Fyodor,” she says, her tone dangerously calm. “You have a habit of overstepping your place.” 

He inclines his head, his posture unshaken. “High Priestess,” he greets her, his voice a smooth undercurrent. “I deeply apologize, I wasn’t aware I had stepped beyond the boundaries.” 

She steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her authority filling the clearing. “You are speaking to my child,” she says sharply, motioning toward you with a flick of her hand. “That, in itself, is overstepping.” 

Your mother’s gaze flicks to you then, her expression unreadable but heavy with disappointment. “And you,” she says, her voice quieter now but no less cutting. “Lingering here with him when I warned against it. Have I not taught you better than this?” 

You open your mouth to respond, to explain, but the words die in your throat. “I—” 

“Silence,” she snaps, the single word ringing out like a whip. “You shame me.” 

Her hand moves suddenly, and you flinch, expecting a blow, but instead, her fingers close around your wrist. Her grip is ironclad as she drags you forward, pulling you closer to where Fyodor stands. He watches silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes follow every movement with unsettling calm. 

“This ends now,” she says, her voice a low growl. “If you cannot respect the boundaries I’ve set, I will remind you of them.” 

Her other hand rises, striking you across the cheek before you have time to process her words. The force of it makes your head snap to the side, your skin stinging as tears spring to your eyes. You bite your lip, refusing to cry out. 

Fyodor shifts, a flicker of something—anger, perhaps—crossing his face, but your mother’s gaze cuts to him before he can speak. “Do you think you’re exempt from consequence?” she says, her tone sharper now, laced with menace. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies, his voice smooth but edged with defiance. 

Her eyes narrow, and she steps closer to him. Though she is smaller in stature, her presence feels overwhelming, like the weight of the heavens pressing down. “Kneel,” she commands, her voice heavy with authority. 

For a moment, you think he won’t obey. The air in the clearing is thick with tension, the space between them crackling like a live wire. But then, slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees, his posture still calm, still composed, as though he’s granting her a favor rather than submitting to her will. 

Your mother circles him like a predator, her steps slow and deliberate. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her voice venomous. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing, creeping into my flock, whispering your poison.” 

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed ahead, but you can feel the weight of his composure, the way it unsettles her. 

She stops in front of him, her hands folding neatly in front of her. “I warned you to stay away from them,” she says. “You chose not to listen.” 

She raises her hand, striking him across the face with the same force she used on you. The sound is sharp in the quiet night, echoing through the clearing. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink, as though the blow hadn’t even registered. 

“Your defiance will end,” she says, her voice cold. “Do not mistake my mercy for weakness.” 

Fyodor tilts his head slightly, and though he doesn’t smile, there’s something in his eyes that feels like a challenge. “Of course, High Priestess,” he says softly. “I am yours to punish as you see fit.” 

His words are obedient, but the tone beneath them feels like something else entirely—something darker, something that tightens the knot in your chest. 

Your mother turns to you then, her expression cold. “Look at him,” she commands. “This is what happens to those who forget their place.” 

You lift your gaze reluctantly, your eyes meeting Fyodor’s. There’s no trace of the humiliation your mother intended to inflict, instead, his gaze holds yours steadily, the weight of it grounding you in a way you don’t understand. 

“Do you understand?” your mother demands, her voice breaking the moment. 

“Yes, mother,” you say softly, though your chest feels hollow as you speak. 

She straightens, her authority radiating outward as she looks between the two of you. “This is the last time I will address this,” she says. “Please do not make me do something I will regret.” 

With that, she turns and strides out of the clearing, her long robes sweeping the ground behind her. The silence she leaves behind is deafening. 

You stand frozen, your cheek still stinging from her blow, your chest tight with shame and something else you can’t name. Fyodor rises slowly, brushing the dirt from his knees.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” you whisper, your voice trembling. 

He glances at you, his violet eyes sharp in the faint light. “Didn’t I?” 

His words twist in your chest, but you don’t have the strength to respond. Instead, you look away, the weight of his gaze almost too much to bear. 

“She sees you as her lamb,” he murmurs, his voice quiet but firm. “But even lambs grow restless.” 

You shiver, his words digging deeper than you want them to. Before you can reply, he steps closer, his presence steady but overwhelming. 

“Go,” he says softly, his tone gentler now. “She’ll be watching.” 

For a moment, you hesitate, your body refusing to move. But then you nod and turn, your steps unsteady as you leave the clearing. Behind you, the air feels heavy, as though it will never truly clear. 

That night, you were restless. Sleep didn’t come easily, your mind replaying the scene in the clearing over and over again—the sting of her hand, the weight of her gaze, and the calm defiance in Fyodor’s eyes. You felt raw, stripped bare in a way that made your skin prickle even in the stillness of your room. 

You avoided your father as much as you could. His presence, always so quiet, so small in the shadow of your mother’s, felt unbearable now. When he glanced at you during supper, his eyes gentle and searching, you looked away, unable to meet his gaze. 

He didn’t ask what happened. He never asked. But you knew he could see it in the way you held yourself, in the silence that stretched between you like an unspoken confession. 

And still, he didn’t press. He never did. 

The house was silent, but your thoughts were loud, the echoes of your mother’s fury and Fyodor’s calm threading through your mind until they tangled together, like wire impossible to separate. 

Even as exhaustion weighed on you, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of everything you couldn’t say. 

[thiriann]

Days of hedonistic debauchery- Ch. 2

You can also find me on AO3

Rating: Explicit

Words: 3.3k

Pairing: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character

Warnings: Named Tav , Multiple Orgasms, Blood Drinking, Vampire Bites, Vampire Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing, Falling In Love

Prompt:

"In public"

Note:

A collection of short stories depicting Thiriann and Astarion as they engage in the most hedonistic, tender, loving and consensual debauchery of their lives. A part of the 12 Days of Kinkmas 2024 BG3 Smut challenge created by ShandoraTheExplorer .

Summary:

Summary: “You've been on edge all day haven't you? Poor dear. I can give you what you need, but you have to ask for it. Do you want it?”

“I…”

She bit her lip, glancing around the camp, acutely aware of their exposed position. They were in the middle of camp, in plain sight while their companions slept around them, hushed snores coming from their tents accompanied the occasional flicker of firelight—it would be obvious to anyone who looked what they were getting up to.

Yet with him pressed so close to her, his hand buried between her legs rubbing lazy circles against her clit , she could barely think straight, feeling like she'd burst into flames from desire on the spot.

"I want you," she admitted unabashedly. "Gods, I want you."

As another eventful day drew to a close, Thiriann settled beside the roaring campfire, engrossed in a freshly plundered tome. To the casual observer, she might have seemed the picture of tranquility, but Astarion knew better. In the short weeks they'd spent together, he'd become adept at reading the subtle signs her body betrayed.

She'd been on edge all day, practically buzzing with excitement since he'd fed on her during the previous night. The memory of his last feeding lingered, the way she'd trembled beneath him, her breath catching in her throat with each deep, satisfying draught. 

Even now, her gaze was drawn to him, fixed on his form with quiet intensity. It was a familiar dance, a game he'd played countless times. Almost too easy; it always was. Yet, something about Thiriann was different. 

He should have been able to dismiss the persistent images of her in his mind, the unexpected spark of joy that came as he drank her blood for the first time and had lodged itself in his heart, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. Nor could he ignore the connection he felt when he talked to her about his past, the genuine attentiveness and care in her eyes. 

His plan was working perfectly; he should have been happy about that. 

With him tightly glued to Thiriann's side, the others had already mostly left him alone about the whole vampire thing. Mostly. There were some occasional comments about their budding relationship but it seemed they weren’t enough to dissuade her from continuing to share his company… and his bed. Naturally, of course. He was very skilled in the art of pleasure, and he wasn’t holding back on the myriad of tricks he knew.

Some twisted part of him didn't mind it. Wanted to show her just how good he was, wanted her to know he's worth it.He tried telling himself it was because she was useful but even he couldn't believe that lie.

And another part could say he even found a certain enjoyment in it. It had felt different with her, in a strange way he couldn't exactly point out. 

He delighted in her reactions: the way she’d forget what she wanted to say when he dropped a flirtatious remark or how he could see her cheeks flush with blood at a simple wink. He had to admit it had been the most… fun than he'd had in a long time and it was getting to him.

He caught her gaze again; she looked puzzled. With some level of trepidation, he realized he'd been the one caught staring this time.

“What’s wrong? Are you hungry?” she asked, still watching him with uncertainty.

Astarion did his best to shift his expression into a predatory look, a slow smile curving his lips. “Ravenous,” he purred, his voice low and seductive.

As if on cue, her cheeks flushed, and he felt his own throat tighten. The air between them crackled with tension, a sudden stillness charged with electric anticipation.

“Alright,” she said, her voice a little shaky as she closed her book. “You can feed from me, if you want.”

"I was so hoping you’d say that, darling." he replied, moving swiftly to position himself behind her. 

There was always a certain eagerness he couldn't hide no matter how hard he tried. As if she'd rescind her offer if he took too long. 

She began to shift onto her back, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Now, now, there’s no need to disturb your rest. I’m more than content to drink you in like this.”

She gasped as his cold breath ghosted over her ear, raising gooseflesh all over her skin.

"Are you sure it's comfortable?" she asked calmly, though he could feel the tremor in her voice.

“Of course. Just… perfect.” He deliberately spoke the words against her flesh, his lips brushing her skin with each syllable.

She fought the urge to squirm as his touch on her nape sent sparks of arousal down her body all the way to her core.

A visible shiver ran over her form, and he heard the quickening pulse of her blood as it flowed with every heartbeat. Anticipation surged through him, the melodic sound more inviting than a harpy's song.

His lips traced the delicate curve of her neck, a gentle caress that masked the primal hunger within. The hunger that made him feel both so powerful and so vulnerable.

He bit quickly, he always did. Always eager.

The pain was sharp, piercing but there was no force behind it, no pressure on her skin to tear or on her muscles to give in. Within a moment it faded as if it never happened and the only thing that remained was him. His lips still pressed against her neck, she felt them clearly now, felt the subtle movements of his tongue, the satisfied rumble in his chest as he drank, as well as the way his grip tightened on her hips, holding her close. She hadn’t even realized when his hand had moved there.

The moment was intimate. Deeply so.

The connection between them as she offered him a part of herself, a part of her life was something she never expected or could have prepared for. This profound closeness, this shared vulnerability, always made her stomach flutter and breath quicken.

And as much as he tried to cover it with flirtatious remarks she could see the truth in his eyes, how much it meant to him. It wasn't just sustenance nor was it just about satiating a need. 

Desire pooled in her belly, hot and molten, making her head spin. Or maybe it was the blood loss that was responsible. Either way, she lay stock still, lust coursing through her, making her tremble.

She wanted more of him, inside her, around her, surrounding her until nothing else existed. In that moment, only he mattered; everything else faded away. The loneliness she carried everywhere she went, the horrors that they faced each day, the responsibility she felt towards everyone around her—she wanted to forget it all and simply feel him, just this, just them.

When he finally drew back, his lips stained crimson, the world rushed back, sobering her slightly.

Suddenly, he pulled her closer, bringing their bodies flush against each other.

She gasped at the hardness against her backside, twitching in the confines of his trousers.

“Astarion…” she whimpered. 

He traced her earlobe with a slow, deliberate lick, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. The sensation made her arch against him, seeking more friction against the one spot she wanted it most. 

"Do you want to go somewhere more private, darling? Somewhere we can indulge?” he murmured, rolling his hips sinfully against her. “ Or should I take you right here? In the middle of camp where anyone can see?" A faint whimper escaped her.

“I guess I have my answer,” he chuckled. His hand slid down her front, expertly unlacing her leather pants and pushing them past the delicious curves of her hips. His fingers slipped beneath her underwear and he reveled in the way she trembled in anticipation. Poor thing really was desperate for it.

At the first brush of his fingers against her clit, she hissed, biting her lip against the onslaught of stimulation. A sadistic impulse urged him to continue the teasing, to rub the sensitive nub again and again, wringing more pathetic whines out of her until she begged him to take her. 

He’d never felt this desire with a lover before. It was always going through the motions, waiting for it to be over, the constant threat hanging over him. But here, in the middle of camp, he felt a strange freedom to indulge in this game, just a little.

“Astarion, please,” she whispered.

Mercifully he relented, lowering his hand to part her folds. There was barely enough space between her legs, trapped as they were by her pants but his fingers were dexterous enough to easily find their way inside her. She was eager, slick dripping and coating her thighs. 

Her breath hitched as he started slowly pumping in and out of her.

“You're so wet, darling. I don't even need to lift a finger,” he murmured, hearing the quickening of her pulse in her neck,it's enticing call making his mouth water. “You've been on edge all day haven't you? Poor dear. I can give you what you need, but you have to ask for it. Do you want it?”

“I…”

She bit her lip, glancing around the camp, acutely aware of their exposed position. They were in the middle of camp, in plain sight while their companions slept around them, hushed snores coming from their tents accompanied the occasional flicker of firelight—it would be obvious to anyone who looked what they were getting up to. 

 Yet with him pressed so close to her, his hand buried between her legs rubbing lazy circles against her clit , she could barely think straight, feeling like she'd burst into flames from desire on the spot.

"I want you," she admitted unabashedly. "Gods, I want you."

He chuckled behind her, satisfaction rolling over him in waves as he began to circle his finger, applying just enough pressure to send waves of pleasure rippling through her. Thiriann arched her back, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Then you shall have me, darling,” he whispered, his tongue tracing her earlobe.

He withdrew his hand, and she heard the rustle of his trousers as he unfastened them. Then, she felt the head of his cock slide slowly, agonizingly slowly, against her. 

She keened at the sudden sensation before biting her lip trying to stifle her sounds. With her legs held tightly together by her leather trousers he felt so much bigger inside of her, stretching her walls and filling her completely.

He entered her fully, the force of their joining causing a rush of heat through her.

In this position his length could push right against the spot inside her that could drive her crazy. Unable to stop herself she moaned loudly as he finally bottomed out.

"Shh, darling. We wouldn't want to wake poor Karlach, would we?" he teased, but with some pride, she noticed he too sounded breathless.

Gods, Karlach was sleeping barely a few feet away from them. If she were to open her eyes, she'd see everything, there'd be no mistaking what activity they were indulging in.

A wave of arousal flushed over her traitorous body and she squeezed him, her walls gripping around him almost painfully.

Her hungry sex seemed to pull his cock deeper inside, and before he knew it, he had sheathed himself completely inside of her.

He let out a surprised whimper that flooded her body with heat. 

She chuckled softly. “Yes, we really should try to be quiet.”

He growled at her teasing and bit her ear in retaliation. Her reaction was instantaneous as she arched her back and pressed her ass even more firmly onto him.

“Please, Astarion,” she whispered.

“Please what, darling?”

“Please… move.”

“I don’t think so, darling. I think I’ll make you come just like this, without moving a muscle.”

“Astarion…” she whined in disappointment but he only chuckled at her misery.

“You can do it, darling. Go on, touch yourself,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. The suggestion was deliciously vulgar.

She could, with the way he was pressing inside her stretching her so fully it would take her no time at all even.

Burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal, she lowered her trembling hand between her legs. Her fingers brushed her swollen clit, and she mewed at the contact. Slowly, she began to circle it, applying gentle pressure. She’d never touched herself in front of anyone before, and a flicker of shame mixed with the rising pleasure. 

Her body on the other hand was loving every second of it, ecstasy flooding her with every stroke as she felt herself squeezing around him tighter and tighter. Instinctively, her hips began to push back, impaling herself further on his cock, craving the friction. The closer she got to orgasm, the more desperate she became for him to move within her.

He grasped her hip, stilling her movement. “Ah-ah, no cheating, love.”

She whined again, the feel of his strong fingers gripping her skin causing a wave of anticipation to wash over her.

His cold breath against her neck sent shivers down her spine, heightening her sensitivity. She was so close, already fluttering around him. Every muscle tightened as she neared her peak. With a final sweep of her fingers, she moaned and toppled over the edge, squeezing him rhythmically as wave after wave of pleasure wracked her body.

He gasped against her neck, fighting the instinctive urge to thrust as her muscles clenched around him like a vise. But this little power play of his was way more delicious than he anticipated.

There was something rather fun about teasing her, pushing her buttons to see her squirm under his control. 

Finally, she relaxed against him, quiet gasps of exertion escaping her lips.

“Good girl” he purred in her ear and she blushed at the praise. Before she could reply, he withdrew almost completely, then thrust back in, filling her to the hilt. She gasped loudly, and he quickly covered her mouth with his hand.

“Come now, darling,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. “You didn’t think we were finished, did you? You deserve a proper reward.”

Her inner muscles tightened around him, welcoming him deep. With a few slow, deliberate thrusts, he felt himself nearing his own release. 

He pulled back again, dragging his cock out until only the very tip of him inside, slick with the juices of her climax. He inhaled sharply, then pushed back in, his body flush against hers. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, gripping her sumptuous ass to adjust her position, reveling in the warm heat of her contracting walls.

A sudden rustle of fabric tore through the night, startling them both. They froze, watching as Gale emerged from his tent and headed toward the woods.

Lazily Astarion began to move his hips once again, establishing a steady pace.

“Astarion!” she whispered, a mix of protest and arousal in her voice.

“What? He left.”

“He is going to come back!”

“Do you want to stop, darling?” he asked, still fucking her leisurely. 

“No,” she breathed.

“Say it.”

“Please don’t stop, Astarion.”

“Good girl.”

In truth he didn't relish the idea of being caught like this. Intimacy in private was always preferred when he could. 

But the little deviant in his arms seemed to love the idea. Tightening up around him at every rustle or creak in the night. 

The danger of the moment seemed to heighten her sensitivity, amplifying every touch and sending ripples of sensation through her.

The wet sounds of their coupling echoed obscenely in the night. As Gale's footsteps got louder and louder Thiriann felt the rush of panic and arousal rise in her chest. Her heartbeat sped up enticing him with it's melody just as she started fluttering around him again. 

She tried to stifle her gasps, but they escaped her lips as she neared her peak once more. 

Her hand shot up desperately trying to muffle herself as she was sent careening to the edge.

With a final, exquisite touch, she cried out softly, her body shuddering.

The world narrowed to Astarion. His touch felt electric, every point of contact magnified.

She quaked through the aftershocks, each one less intense as she remembered how to breathe again.

“Thiriann?” Gale’s voice called out, breaking through her pleasured haze. “Hey, Gale…It’s me and… Astarion. He was… hungry,” she managed, fighting impossibly hard to keep her voice steady.

She could only pray his eyes make out what was happening between them in the dark.

“I see,” Gale replied. “Carry on, if you must. But I implore you to exercise a modicum of discretion in the future. Perhaps a more private location would be better suited for such activities.”

She had no idea how he could still be half asleep and carry out a lecture like that.

“Right. Sorry, Gale.”

Relief washed over her as Gale retreated into his tent, closing it firmly for good measure. She relaxed against Astarion’s chest, a blissful smile on her face and he felt his own lips tug upwards.

Brushing a sweaty stand of hair from her forehead he caressed her cheek and turned her face towards him.

“Did you enjoy that darling?”

“It was incredible.” she whispered, her smile widening. Something tightened in his chest at her happy expression and he leaned down taking her lips in his. She responded by gently pressing hers back, barely a kiss but it send a shiver through him. His ignored member twitched inside of her and she gasped into his mouth.

“You still haven’t…?” she murmured.

“Don't fret darling. It was plenty satisfying bringing you to ecstasy. It's all the fulfillment I need.”

“You can… continue, if you want. Until you finish,” she suggested shyly.

He hesitated before schooling his face into a more practiced, nonchalant expression. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable should this end up taking too long.”

“I don’t mind if it does,” she said softly. “Take your time. I want you to feel good.”

Those words struck him with unexpected force, cracking his carefully constructed facade. Two centuries, countless lovers, and not one had bothered saying those words to him before. A genuine desire for his pleasure, freely offered. It was disarming.

He nodded stiffly, looking away before resuming his movements. Focusing on her and her pleasure was the only thing he was used to, and he felt strangely adrift, unsure of how to proceed when the focus was meant to be on himself.

He wrapped both arms around her middle, pulling her tightly to his body, burying his face in the back of her neck.

She responded by gently holding his hands in hers as she began to move against him, her hips grinding against his, trying to help him along.

He chased his pleasure, the sounds of their lovemaking growing louder in the night. She was incredibly sensitive; each thrust sent a wave of pleasure through her, so intense it bordered on pain, yet the feeling of him growing thicker inside her, his moans vibrating against her neck, was pure unadulterated bliss.

Her quiet moans filled the air as his pace quickened. He was so close, so very close but that precipice was so hard to reach sometimes. 

He rutted into her with a raw, almost wild abandon, his desperation becaming evident.

With an aborted, surprised gasp, he went hurtling over the ledge he’d been tiptoeing on since they began. He grunted and surged forward, burying himself fully within her as his seed spilled into her, finally releasing the tension that had been building within him.

White spots danced in his vision as he began to descend from the peak. Distantly he noticed her fingers were tracing idle circles on his arms as he slowly came down.

“Fangs?” Karlach’s voice, thick with sleep, cut through the night, making them separate instantly. “Bring me one of them boars you catch, okay? I’m starving…” she mumbled before rolling to her side and letting out a sleepy snore.

Astarion looked at her in disbelief and a touch of affront before he heard Thiriann snickering.

“I guess you’re on food duty tonight.”

He tucked himself back into his pants, shaking his head slightly at the absurdity of it all. 

Gods, they’d fucked in the middle of camp like a pair of green youths. Even he had to admit he’d gotten a little carried away in his desire to tease her.

 “Thank you, Astarion. I needed that,” she said, kissing his cheek.

It was a peck, barely a kiss really, a simple thank you. Yet it was sweet, almost as sweet as her blood. He had no idea what to do with it so he resorted to his practiced charm.

“You know where to find me if you find yourself in need of assistance in the future again, darling,” he said with a practiced, flirtatious smirk. “My tent is always open.”

And with that, he hurriedly walked into the woods.

[paranormaljones]

Okay media consumers, I'm gonna ask you to follow some lines of logic with me.

For good stories to exist, there needs to be conflict.

For conflict to happen, one or more characters will almost always need to make bad choices.

Just because a character makes one or a few bad choices does not automatically earn them the label of "toxic".

Just because said character does not experience immediate consequences due to their bad choices does not mean that they never will (especially if their story is not yet finished), nor does it mean that their creator is romanticizing or portraying their bad choices in a good light.

I mean, come on. You guys love a good slow burn romance. The least you can do is get used to the idea of slow burn conflict.

Edit:

DO NOT INTERPRET THIS POST AS ME SAYING THAT YOU SHOULDN'T DISAGREE WITH ANY CHARACTER'S ACTIONS EVER. DO NOT DO THAT.

I can tell some of you are already thinking about doing that.

Don't.

Please.

I don't have the energy for that.

[trans-yllz]

as much as I love wei wuxian and slander against him is banned from this house I Do sometimes think that people forget he's like. supposed to be a morally complex person who did things that were bad. like the whole point of him and his story is that he was a good man who was pushed to do terrible things, and when we fail to examine those terrible things/completely ignore them, we're sort of doing wei wuxian and the points being made by his arc a disservice

[skyborneveggie]

mad at my own writing skills rn

[cyber-newtype]

watching the same youtubers who called genshin dead at the end of 4.8 going insane for 5.0 is very like you really fell for the content drought/hype cycle. again.

[reiyaus]

fem reader intended

fiancé gojo who shocked the jujutsu higher ups when he revealed his engagement to you, a grade 1 sorceress with no relation to any big 3 clans. imagine their surprise when he decides to get married out of love and not just to create a heir.

fiancé gojo who teaches with you at jujutsu high and is the reason why you can barely arrive to classes on time. with his pouty face and insanely toned biceps trapping you in his hold, who are you to say no?

fiancé gojo who whines when you actually leave him to teach your students, feigning offence when megumi shoots him a disgusted glare.

fiancé gojo who often joins in on your lessons when he starts feeling lonely, acting as if he were your actual student. your annoyingly smart A+ student who does nothing but brag about his intelligence.

fiancé gojo who likes to text you and send silly voice messages no matter the situation. picture satoru replaying his minute-long burp vm in front of the jujutsu higher ups so that he makes sure you can laugh at it (spoiler: all you feel is disappointment).

fiancé gojo who thinks it’s absolutely hilarious to flaunt his engagement and watch the irritation on their faces turn into pure horror. because for gojo, flaunting means interrupting you mid-sentence to practically make out for a minute straight.

fiancé gojo who asks everyday, “should we have our wedding now?” and sighs dramatically when you tell him to be patient. not that he’s actually mad, though. he likes the giddyness he feels while counting down to your wedding date.

fiancé gojo who drowns you in affection and praise after every mission, crying his heart out (jokingly) about how he felt like an abandoned princess waiting for her prince to come back from war.

fiancé gojo who, deep down, thanks the skies above that you get to come home safely everytime. and while he’s a jokester, all the ‘missing you’ parts in his sob stories were true. because while he knew you were strong, the lingering worry of you running into something way stronger bit his ass everytime.

fiancé gojo who indulges himself in your warmth, ignoring every single notification his phone pings out.

fiancé gojo who has a hold on you so secure, even during sleep, that you have to wake him up before he presses on your bladder any further. now you have to deal with his complaints of “do you not love me anymore? Is that why you let go? you’re so mean!”

fiancé gojo who shuts up when you offer to wash his greasy hair, immediately situating himself in front of you and leaning into every single touch you place on his head.

fiancé gojo who ends up getting you wet and makes a stupid excuse so that you can bathe together. no matter how difficult, the feeling of your skin against his was enough to get him through the day.

fiancé gojo who settles your back on his chest, lifting your arm to trace “satoru 🤍 [name] 4eva”. what a cutie.

fiancé gojo who genuinely can’t wait until he sees you walk down the aisle, exchange the vows he’s been working on since you first met, shamelessly give you the most passionate kiss ever (in front everyone you know and love), and officially get the privilege of calling you his wifey.

[irisinluv]

Isekaied as the Yandere Villain!? Pt 2

Part one

It was almost 2 minutes before I realized I was still dragging the crown prince behind me. I quickly dropped his hand and looked at him, not able to hide the embarrassment on my face. Listen- I’m committed to the bit. I WILL be the crazy jealous fiancé. But… I’m still human ok. I just dragged a full grown man down several halls and a flight of stairs while I spaced out thinking about how I’m gonna buy my cat premium wet food once I get back home to her.

It’s fine, I’m not flustered at spacing out about my cat, my characters just flustered because she’s been holding the hand of the man she’s obsessed with, that’s all!

“Well…. Did you still want to dine and take that walk?”

I expected him to scold me for my mistreatment of Cressida, grow irritated from me dragging him along like this. Instead, he chuckles and threads his arm in mine, and begins escorting me down the hall.

“Absolutely, have you dined outside by the roses yet? There’s this lovely pavilion that I am eager to hear your thoughts on.”

And that’s how I found myself under an impressive array of roses, all trained up and around a cozy dining area, creating a canopy of green and pink over an intimate tea table. The food was equally impressive, I had to keep reminding myself that the other me is used to this lavish lifestyle, to not gawk at the fancy tiny sandwiches and deserts.

“Well? Is everything to your liking? ”

I’m going off script here, how am I supposed to know how the villainess would react to a romantic scene like this?? If my “evil crazy” side isn’t supposed to be directed at him, and she’s usually kinda distant and unsure around him…. That means I should probably respond pretty curtly, polite, yet not really engaging. But…. I’ve already messed that up…. I guess I can be more genuine when it’s the two of us like this. He can think that this version of me is the facade, that I’m pretending to be pleasant, and then will start to see what a jerk “I” truly am when Cressida’s around. Besides…. I almost feel bad for the villainess. She really just seems like she was shy. Who knows- maybe, if given the opportunity, she really would have opened up more. It’s clear she loved the prince, and just didn’t know how to show it. So, with that thought, I made up my mind.

“It’s breathtaking! Roses are my favorite flower, and I’ve never seen so many kinds in bloom at once…. Plus the food and company leave little to be desired.”

There you go- slip in some subtle flirting! I’m not quite sure what time period this is supposed to be, but I get the impression flirting as bit more high class here, and I think I can have some fun with that.

“I’m glad, to be honest I was a bit flustered asking you to dine with me… you caught me quite off guard today, but in a good way.” He reaches his hand across the table and places it on my own, “I’d like to do this more often, you and I. I feel like the confines of our current arrangement have left us practically strangers, despite being engaged for several months already. I’m enjoying just being companionable with you, even if it’s just existing comfortably in the same room.”

Ohhhh, I know I’m the villain in this story but I can’t help but root for him- what a sweetheart! It’s so obvious he’s been lonely, I can’t wait for him and Cressida to fall in love and have a couple of kids that they’ll spoil rotten. And in the meantime…. Maybe I do have a bit of evil in me, because I’m going to selfishly enjoy this handsome man treating me to lunches under roses and reading in cozy libraries while I can.

“I know exactly how you feel your highness. Now, you mentioned a walk?”

We spent the afternoon laughing and chatting, and it felt nice to chat without worrying too much about my role. He asked me about that book I picked out earlier, and listened attentively as I caught him up with where I’m at in the plot. In turn, I asked about what papers he’s been signing, documents he’s been drafting, etc.

The only thing I had to do was send glares to any young ladies we passed, settling my hand on his arm possessively, and I saw their eyes widen and faces disappear behind fans as they whisper to one another. I can picture this illustrated in a manhwa- the nasty princess sinking her claws into the gullible prince… hopefully all these ladies will start gossiping and we can really cement this evil persona of mine now that Cressida’s here.

When we returned to our separate apartments, I explored my rooms a bit until servants came to get me ready for dinner, and I slipped back into the frigid bitch persona. The servant girls dressed me in a slightly stuffy gown, but I had to admit, I looked gorgeous. I sat stiff and straight as they did my hair, forcing myself to be the very picture of cold indifference. I then dismissively thanked them for their help, then sat there awkwardly as they stared at me like I was crazy.

Ohhhh shit…. The original story hadn’t prepared me for this. My character was a villain, yes, but a side character for the most part! How was she supposed to act towards her servants? I went over what I knew- the novel showed the villainess alone quite often, usually obsessing over Eric and plotting/stalking. It showed her with Eric, and how distant and awkward their relationship was when together. And then of course the numerous scenes with Cressida where the Villainess did all sorts of heinous things to the sweet girl. But… it never depicted her with servants, or even any friends or other nobles. Just… Eric and Cressida. Was other me not actually a bitch all the time? Am I being unnecessarily rude right now? Oh god I’m such an idiot.

The story is told through Cressida’s point of view- of course there’s more depth to my own character than I initially thought! The Villianess must be a misunderstood introvert! Unsure of how to act around her crush, she’s fiercely insecure and jealous of this new girl who doesn’t struggle the same way she does. When she notices the prince slipping from her grasp, she acts out against Cressida because she can’t bear to lose Eric!

As someone’s who’s worked minimum wage jobs and struggled with social anxiety most of my life, I try to be nice to the people just working to survive, but here I am acting like these poor women are the dirt beneath my shoe…. Ok. Um. Well they’re still standing there in shock, I can fix this….

“You really did a lovely job… my hair has never looked so gorgeous, you’re truly talented! And I think the prince will be very pleased with this choice of ribbon!”

There- I was nicer, and I brought it back to Eric, so I’m still the lovesick fiancé whose entire world is waiting for her in the dining room. I frowned as the servants scuttled out of the room with hurried excuses, all of them looking like they were about to faint. Damn it… I can’t believe I misread the relationship between us. I probably just ruined their night by being uncharacteristically rude. I’ve gotta learn their names next time…. Maybe ask them to help me eat some fancy pastries as an apology…?

I didn’t know it, but while I was lamenting how wrong I was about the Villainess’ character, the servants were all gossiping to the others about what had just transpired.

“You’re telling me she said THANK YOU!?”

“Yes!!! And then you should have seen how nervous she got! She just rambled, blurting out such a sweet compliment, and she even tied it back to the prince!”

“I had no idea how precious she was… I can’t believe I never realized she’s just shy! In a new place, all alone aside from her new fiancé…. Who I gather she’s got a bit of a crush on! Poor dear.”

“Ohh our sweet girl, I’m sure it must be hard bonding with the prince, when all you do is sit yards apart and hardly speak …”

“Well I may have some news about that… and it’s no wonder she was a bit flustered today, because I saw the two of them in the gardens today! They were both nothing but smiles- absolutely smitten with one another!”

“Such a lovely girl, and we never knew it all this time!”

Apparently, I had it backwards. The real villainess truly was a 2D, basic character. She was insecure and possessive over the prince, bullying Cressida half to remind her who Eric belonged to, half for the fun of it. But she didn’t let on to anyone about the true depth of her love for him. She didn’t gossip to her handmaid, didn’t ask the servants which dress he would like better. Simply acted as if they did not exist, hardly saying a word to them.

While I thought my blunt “thank you” was colder than they were used to, and then tried to smooth things over…. It was more words than they’d heard from me in the whole time I’d lived in the palace. They lapped it up and declared me their own shy little dove after that.

When I arrived to dinner, I realized why daily dinners weren’t exactly a bonding activity for the villainess and Eric. The table was massive, and only held two chairs, one at either end. It felt so…. Cold?

Eric had beat me there, and quickly stood up from his seat, waiting until I sat and a servant pushed in my chair to retake his own seat. He smiled at me and said,

“Good evening, princess.”

He had to project his voice slightly. It wasn’t like he was shouting or being loud, it was just the manner of speaking you use when talking to an elderly relative, clearer, and enunciating better so they could hear you.

I replied back, projecting my voice similarly, and found the conversation was, in fact, more awkward than it had been earlier. We ate our food mostly in silence, occasionally one of us would say something and the other would stop moving their utensils on their plate, listening closer as they ask,

“What’s that?”

By the time dinner was over and we each went to bed, I felt drained. I could have just been louder I suppose- but it’s so hard to keep up a conversation like that. I know we get along- we had chatted all afternoon after all. But some part of me realized it’s probably good to keep a bit of distance between us, even if I’ve rewritten things to be a bit chummier between the two of us. Cressida needs to swoop in and steal him from me… and my job is still to leave that room for her to do so.

It’s hard trying to be someone else, yet also making sure you lead the plot in the right direction- it’s exhausting! I feel like both director and actress!

It’s with this in mind that I launch myself into the softest bed I’d ever felt, and passed out. My first day as princess consort, the Yandere fiancé, complete.

While I was getting acquainted with my feather bed, Eric was speaking with the head waitstaff.

“Yes, tomorrow, would you mind adjusting the seating situation? I’d like for the princess consort and I to be closer together from now on. Yes, and ask my assistant to arrange my schedules like so, I’ve detailed it here. Thank you.”

At the same time, Cressida was recounting her run in with the prince and I to her handmaiden as she finishing unpacking and settling into her family’s guest apartments. Which, unbeknownst to me… was right across the hall.

Aaaa! You survived your first day! And look at you- doing suuuuch a good job staying true to character. Nothing could go wrong… right?

Tag list for the series;

@bitternsweet @tonightwrites @confused-they @lanxianschoenheit @poptrim @siriuslyobsessedwithfiction @one-really-annoying-tree-rat @anonymousdisco @forbidden-sunlight

Tag list closed! Stay tuned for part 3!

[skzdarlings]

the rescue ; skz; aotm!hyunjin x reader

original ask: requested by @tattywood: ❛ i'm simply enjoying the view. it's not every day i get to fuck someone so pretty. ❜ would 100000% fit Hyunjin 🩶 + requested by anonymous: ❛ you're mine, and i take care of what belongs to me. ❜ with hyunjin? thank you

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: artist of the month!hyunjin was inspo here. gangster stuff, reader has been kidnapped and is in a see through nightdress, most violence off page though, bad guy hyunjin who is actually a good guy, arranged marriage, multiple smut scenes, not great communication but gets better lol. smut includes fingering, blow jobs, pussy eating, piv, spanking, light choking, husband/wife kink. word count: 6300 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

-

“I’ve already explained,” you say, equal parts frustrated and exhausted.  “My husband isn’t coming for me.” 

The gangster cronies still don’t seem to understand.  You are tied to a chair in their basement (because they are preposterously corny goons, tying you up like a comically silly damsel in a ridiculous film) while they berate you for your husband’s tardiness.    

You have tried explaining, over and over, that Hyunjin is not coming, but they won’t accept that answer.  The fools try in vain to reach him again, but his line leads straight to a dial tone. 

He went radio silent after the initial video contact, when your captors demanded a price for your healthy return. 

Hyunjin was quiet on the call.  Your husband is a quiet man in general, though he knows how to use his charms and work a room, and he has certainly perfected the art of severe intimidation.  When your marriage was arranged, one mob family to the other, you mistakenly assumed you were marrying a monster. 

Hyunjin is very reserved when not conducting business.  He doesn’t engage in any of the more debauched sides of the business, unlike the men in your family.  Evenings at home are silent and still, the penthouse view of the glittering cityscape the only real bustle. 

Maybe that shouldn’t have surprised you.  When he took over his family’s business, Hyunjin altered a lot of their practices, cutting the crueler sectors, opting for illicit crimes of more practical varieties. 

The country is in a political chokehold, government affairs conducted none too differently from the criminal underworld.  The cops are all dirty, the politicians corrupt, the wealthy depraved.  Hyunjin has taken it upon himself to alleviate the pressure suffered by the regular people, the civilians who truly pay the price of a broken system.

In a world with no good guys, sometimes only villains can be heroes.    

You think of his face now, how he certainly looked the part of a villain on the video call.  Hyunjin has a very austere demeanour, exacerbated by his severe appearance: sharp marble features and dark, vicious eyes often further darkened with heavy lining, sleek black hair, scattered scars and tattoos, and the sort of regard that judges at a glance.  He is young, but he has the air of a man who has already traversed the universe and found it wanting.       

You think of his face now, the silent perusal he gave your bound body on that video call.  You are dressed in your favourite nightgown, your underthings partially visible through the light material, but it was not willingly donned.   At the time of your kidnapping, you were attired appropriately for the wealthy wife of a famous gangster.  You were returning from a family visit when your captors intercepted you in transit from the airport. 

Either to intimidate or threaten or just because they could, they made you remove all your jewelry and fine clothes.  They rifled through your luggage and demanded you change into the nightgown. 

Hyunjin recognized the nightdress, realized you must have been stripped, and likely inferred the very worst. 

“Address,” was the only word Hyunjin said.   He ended the call seconds later.    

“Oh, he’ll come,” your captor says.  He points at you with a hand that feels more threatening than a knife.  It makes your terrified heart leap into your throat.  “Or else.” 

“He won’t, though!” you exclaim.  “You’re wasting your time!”

They are not listening.  They leave the basement, slamming the door behind them.

You huff and settle back in your bonds. 

It is only a matter of time before they realize you are telling the truth.  Hyunjin will not waste the money or resources to rescue you.  He has always been respectful of the marriage arrangement, but your husband is not sentimental.  There is a professional distance between you.  His decision will be based in the logic of all his strategies: nothing personal, just a matter of business. 

You sometimes see a different side of him, something buried under that quiet intensity.  He collects fine art and spends hours poring over his favourite pieces, listening to music, losing himself to artistic fantasies.  He always comes back, but you know there are other worlds in his mind. 

Every attempt to bridge the gap has been gently rebuffed, but there have been moments when your husband seems curious about you.  You often catch him staring.  He gets a wistful look that softens his face, even with that shield of make-up.  His eyes are gentle when you talk about your passions.  You never let his quietude deter your friendly penchant for chatter.   He seems more than content to listen.  He remembers everything too. 

You know he finds you attractive, if nothing else.  He has caved on that front several times over, though not right away.  He didn’t touch you on the wedding night, nor the honeymoon.  He left your beach holiday early to return to business, leaving you in a villa with security and his credit card.  It was the first time you realized the material world was no replacement for true companionship.  You missed his dark eyes.

Your family also had expectations.  There would be consequences if the marriage fell through.  You would be blamed, not him.  Worried he would renege on the nuptials, you did everything to try and seduce him. 

He politely rejected you at every turn. 

Just when you were resigned, he arrived home after a job.  It was almost three in the morning when he entered the penthouse.  You have separate bedrooms but they share a connecting bathroom.  You could hear him cursing above the running water. 

You only meant to peek.  The sliding door on your side was partially ajar so you tip-toed over. 

Hyunjin was standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, pressing a rag to his wounded shoulder.  There was a mess of blood streaked down his back, making you gasp at the terrible mosaic of pain, his body littered with violent scars. 

That gasp contained multitudes, for the horror, for his beauty.  His dark eyes were as severely lined as ever, expression intense as he breathed hard through the pain.  Smooth black hair fell across his face when he tipped his head. 

He froze at the sound of your gasp.  His turn was very slow, eyes peeking through the curtain of his short hair.  They captured yours.   

You held your breath. 

Eventually, he straightened, flicking his hair out of his face.  He looked in the mirror and sighed.    

“You can come in,” he said.   “This is your home too.” 

You slid the door open, just enough to squeeze through.  Your attention was utterly transfixed on his bleeding shoulder.  You could see the wound was a thin stripe.  It was not deep so stitches were not necessary, but it was slightly out of his reach as it sloped towards his back.

“Oh, Hyunjin,” you said, thoughtlessly taking the rag right out of his hands.    

In spite of the violence that raised you, or maybe because of it, you can’t stand to see suffering.   You and Hyunjin have had that in common from the start.  You were quick to help him clean the wound, wordlessly wiping all the blood then applying cream across the clotted cut. 

He flinched when the stinging cream made contact.  You went to apologize but your words evaporated when your eyes met through the mirror.  You were surprised to find him already looking at you, that expressive gaze as thoughtful as ever. 

“How did this happen?” you couldn’t help but ask, eyes rivetted to his reflection.   “You – you have people to protect you.”  You managed to rip your gaze away, looking at your task, feeling hot in the face. 

“I do,” he said.  “But I’d never ask someone to do something I’m not willing to do myself.” 

This did not surprise you to hear.   It is obvious that Hyunjin cares very deeply about the wellbeing of other people.  It is a fact known to few.  It aggravates you at times, but his reputation does not seem to bother him.  He would rather people think him a monster while he secretly does good rather than be praised in public while cruel in private. 

You have never known another man like him.  Looking at that scar that night, the realization truly struck you. 

Your fingers began to tremble where they brushed his bare skin, your eyes widening as you looked at the scar and many others.  If something happened to him, what would become of you?  Certainly, as his widow, you would be financially sound, but what did that matter?  This world would lose something irreplaceable if it lost Hwang Hyunjin.  This penthouse could be brimming with silver and gold and it would be empty, worthless. 

Tears in your eyes, you succumbed to desire, kissing him very gently on his hurt shoulder. 

“Hyunjin,” you said, your eyes closed, lips grazing his skin as you spoke.  “Please make sure you always come home, okay?” 

He did not answer at first.  When you lifted your eyes and looked in the mirror, those dark eyes were so enflamed that you were surprised nothing caught fire. 

“Hyunjin?” you said softly.   

“You mean that,” he said, not quite a question, more like a realization. 

“Of course,” you replied. You looked at his scarred back again, let your fingertips brush down the length of his spine.  It made him stand a little straighter.  “Have you ever known me to lie?” you asked. 

He finally turned around, looking at you with an long-engrained wariness, but also a hunger.  He was a starving man presented with a banquet, but one who did not easily trust when sitting at someone else’s table. 

“You’re a smart woman,” he said.  “I know that.  And I know that you’re – good.” 

Good was an exhale, like the word was too heavy for his tongue.  You realized that his wariness was less suspicion for you than hesitation regarding himself.  He was only starving because he though himself undeserving of the meal he wanted. 

“You’ve seen – and done – many bad things tonight, haven’t you?” you asked. 

Having the full force of his gaze was overwhelmingly heady.  You remember how it made your heart race like you were being chased, your breath catching over and over until you were almost panting. 

Arousal struck quickly, a sensation like you never experienced before.  You thought you understood attraction, but not until that moment when he released a breath, so close to your face, and you became truly aware of his proximity.   Of him, of all that he was, all that he did.  His character, his hidden depths.

Your husband. 

It made your racing heart thunder something fierce, your blood pumping hotly, throbbing places you did not know were so sensitive. 

You desperately wondered what was on his mind.  The gears in his head were spinning and whirring, delaying his response.  Was he feeling the same tension?  Were his thoughts the same realization?

 My wife.  

“Yes,” he finally said. 

“Is there something I can do to help?” you asked.

His tattooed hand cupped your head, tilting it just so.  It made your lips part with a gasp, eyelids heavy with anticipation for a kiss. 

He took his time looking at you, like he was scrubbing all those bad memories away, replacing them with the flustered look on his aroused wife’s face. 

“Yes,” he said again, and kissed you for the first time. 

You were so glad he rebuffed your previous half-hearted advances, clumsy seductions made out of obligation rather than desire.  It was so different to that kiss.  You would not have known how to even ask for a kiss like that.  You never knew what you were missing. 

Your quiet husband and his multitudes.  All that simmering intensity, hot just below the surface of his icy demeanour, burned right through his skin.  His kiss was ravishing, entirely possessive, like he wished to take your whole essence into him and hold it forever. 

He walked you backwards.  With a snap of his wrist, he slid the door open the rest of the way, so sharp that it tried to bounce back.  He continued onward, kissing you until you were dizzy with it.   

He picked you up just to put you on the bed himself.  Your kiss separated only then as you landed with a bounce and a breath. 

He loomed over the edge of the bed, this man who was both stranger and husband, hero and villain.   He looked at you like he already loved you.  He looked at you and saw the reciprocation.  You had fallen for him without realizing you had ever even stumbled. 

He ran his hands through his hair, the sleek black locks fluttering back into place.  His eyes were still rivetted to your face, to your body.  You were wearing the nightdress you are wearing now.  It is why it became your favourite. 

He looked down at you, the material translucent enough to see the details of your body.   It broke through that last layer of ice.  He surrendered with a choked breath. 

He unclasped a holster on his thigh, dropped a knife that was hidden in a pocket.   Once unarmed, his hands went to his belt.  You watched those nimble, efficient fingers, swallowing hard.   You were aching to an embarrassing degree, undoubtedly obvious in your desires.  No one ever warned you it would feel like this, just being looked at, never mind touched.

Then his belt was on the floor and he touchedyou for real.   His calloused hands moved up your thighs, pushing the nightdress up and out of his way.  He climbed on top of you, swift as a feline, mouth descending onto yours with that same desperate hunger as before. 

Recollection makes you crave another kiss.   You think you will always be starving for more. 

“Hyunjin,” you whispered, hands on his face, his shoulders, down to his chest. 

He took your hands and laced your fingers with his, pinning those hands to the bed.   He kissed you again, long and slow.  It was all more sensual than desperate.

His voice, however, was desperate when he begged, “Let me make you feel good, please.”  He kissed down your face, your jaw, your throat.  “Please, my wife.”  He kissed further down still, through your nightdress, tracing the curve of your breast with his tongue, wetting the material and awakening every nerve beneath it.   “My wife,” he repeated. 

“My husband.”  The words left your lips in a dizzy, delirious whisper.   

It was all the confirmation he needed.  Those deft and skilled hands, so quick to assemble weapons and pull triggers, applied themselves with a startling gentleness.  He took you apart and put you together with the same efficient ease.   

He hooked his fingers in the only material between him and his desire, tugged it out of his way.  His fingers went to you, slipping through all that wetness.  Those intense eyes rolled back even though it was just his fingers inside you, then he closed his eyes like it was too much, and it seemed he had to temper himself, murmuring nonsense as he let his fingers sink into you. 

He kissed you again, drinking down every sigh and gasp and moan while he fucked you with his long fingers.  It was like he could taste your pleasure, like he was trying to get drunk on it, every noise you made filling his mouth.  He gave them back and brought you over a peak, first with his hands, then with his mouth.  He laid between your legs and put your thighs around his head, losing himself entirely in you. 

He did not remove a single article of your clothing nor his pants, not that first time.  He simply held the material to the side as he unzipped and finally got inside you.  It made your whole body keen, coming to life like it never had before.  You forgot all your sensibilities and let every wanton sound and action loose.

He responded in kind.  His kiss tasted like your pleasure, his heart pounding as fast as yours where your chests pressed together.  You were careful near his injured shoulder, fingertips dodging scars.  Your soft touch made him whimper, this powerful man entirely undone by a few caresses. 

His skin was hot and he worked up a sweat, but his stamina seemed endless.  He always wanted more. 

You fell asleep tucked in his arms, content to believe the walls had crumbled.   However, they revealed themselves in the morning light, as concrete as ever.  He slipped away and left a note to excuse his absence as he was called away to business.   You thought about phoning or messaging him, but those lines were not always secure, not for such intimate conversations. 

When he returned a few days later, he hid behind those concrete walls, but too much had changed.  There was now an awareness of your proximity and your distance.  The lack of intimacy was not called into question before, the absence of something being a nothing.  But now that nothing was something, or had been something for a moment, and it made you both very aware of how it was now missing – and anticipating always when it might again appear.

He tried very hard to keep away, to stay cordial at best, his habitual quietude even heavier than before.  But while his silence was significant, so was his glance.  Every time you turned around, he was already looking at you, a longing in his eyes and a thought on his lips that he never dared to speak aloud. 

You granted him some distance for a time.  When it became abundantly obvious he was holding himself in check, you realized that your own vulnerability was required to bridge the gap. 

One night you crossed through the bathroom, slid open the door on his side.  You found him at his desk, dressed down in a white dress shirt and pants.  His blazer was discarded on the floor, his face still made up. 

He stood quickly when you entered, though he didn’t say anything. 

It was strange to imagine this man would need any reassurance, but you felt that was the case.   His fingers fidgeted at his sides, his roving eyes studious.

You said nothing.  You approached him, laid your hands on his chest, and gently guided him back into his chair.  He sat slowly, his eyes on your face the entire time, even when he had to tip his head back to peer up at you. 

You ran your fingers through his hair.  When you entered the room, his face was tightly screwed in an expression of aggravation, but all those harsh lines softened as you traced a thumb down the sharp slope of his cheek. 

There were some wipes on his desk.  You took one and began to carefully remove that shield of dark make-up.  His hand lifted but not to stop you, simply to rest his palm on your waist.  He began to really touch you, feeling the shape of your body through your robe as you helped him come back to himself. 

“Hello,” you finally said, looking at his bare face.  Still impossibly beautiful.

“Hello,” he replied. 

His fingertips dipped towards the hem of the robe.  Before he could distract you with your own pleasure, you sunk to your knees in front of him.  This startled him, his hand frozen in the air as you fit yourself between his open knees. 

He caught your hand, his reflexes fast, before it could reach his fly.   You could see he was already affected, a heavy bulge in the black material making your mouth water and core tighten. 

He squeezed your hand and you looked up at his face.   He tipped his head, blinked rapidly, an expression of mild confusion.

You took your hand back and unknotted your robe.  The silk fell from your shoulders and down, sliding like water right off your body.  You were completedly naked underneath. 

It clarified everything, his confusion gone, replaced with surprise.

“You—” he began.  It was interrupted when you put your head in his lap, resting on his thigh.  You led his hand to the back of your neck and kissed him through his pants.  It made his fingers clasp tighter around you.  

“Please,” you said. 

He would never deny you anything.  Not the smallest gift nor grandest gesture.  When you started a new charity to further your combined philanthropic efforts, he spared no expense in aiding the endeavour.  You shared passions, and now you shared this.

He was stiff at the start, but gradually let himself go lax in his seat.  His hand kept a steady grip on the back of your neck, not guiding but holding, like he thought you might disappear otherwise.  He murmured your name, letting his head fall back as you worked him in your mouth. 

You intended to make him finish like that, seeking nothing for yourself at that precise moment.  He had other ideas, needing more of your shared pleasure to take him over that brink. 

He lifted your face, adjusted his pants, and was on his feet in a matter of seconds.  That hand on your neck dragged you up, up, up until your naked body was pressed against his clothed one.  He clung to you needily, claiming your mouth in a wanting kiss. 

His hands moved over you, every new inch of skin making him moan as he walked you towards the bed.  The kiss only broke when you both sat down, his lips against yours as he breathed, almost smiling, “My pretty wife.”

“Hyunjin,” you said, shaking your head, feeling suddenly shy just because of a simple compliment. 

He did not allow you to curl into yourself with any shame.  When you tried, he seized you, pulling you onto his lap so you straddled it.   His eyes moved up and down your body, hands following, from your thighs to hips to waist and up. 

 “What are you doing?” you said, laughing helplessly when he kissed somewhere ticklish on your throat.  The sound made him smile, even softer than before, though it turned a little wicked as his mouth went lower. 

“I’m simply enjoying the view,” he said, then wrapped his lips around the stiff peak of your breast, ran his tongue up and over.  He licked and kissed back up to your mouth.   “It’s not everyday I get to fuck someone so pretty.” 

As he said this, he opened his pants again, eyes on yours as he grabbed your thighs and moved you so he could thrust up into you.  His hips moved with a slow roll, letting you adjust to him.  It had been a little while, and this angle was different.

And Hyunjin is not small.  Your husband is built in perfect proportion, his body a long, hard, slender build – everything inside you at that moment was no exception.   This angle made you whimper, clinging to him like  he was a life preserver in a storm.  The roll of his hips kept coming like waves and you were sure you would drown otherwise. 

Your arms were around his neck, his graceful but strong hands digging into the meat of your thighs as he fucked you.  He felt impossibly deep, every upward stroke feeling like it was bursting past something, pushing everything inside your body up to your throat. 

You swallowed again and again, the taste of him still on your lips, the feel of him inside every inch of you.  You clenched and tightened involuntarily, just pure animal reaction, and it made him moan and find all those sweet spots to make it happen again.    

“Help,” was your somewhat nonsensical request, blurted in the midst of some moaning babbling.

Fortunately, he was and is a smart man.  He understood.  He clasped you tight to his body and fell back on the bed, thrusting up into you with sharper, more focussed determination, faster until you were weeping on his chest, delirious with pleasure.  His shirt was unbuttoned and you accidentally ripped a few buttons right off, trying to press your face to bare skin. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you said as you tumbled over a height you never reached before.  You never knew you could come just from that, stimulated somewhere so deep inside you, but it made you come undone in his arms. 

He watched you unravel and it made him follow, clinging to you as he just barely pulled out before coming between your dripping thighs.  It was all so messy and wet, your legs trembling, but it felt so good that it hardly mattered. 

He caught his breath, then looked at your face just lose that breath again.  He moaned and dragged you in for another kiss.

Then you were on your back, the night far from over. 

That second night is the one that truly opened the door to more.  Though your husband can be reticent in other regards, he is not quiet when he is inside you.  You have come together again and again, a conversation with your bodies as you look for pleasure in a dangerous world.   You always find it, tucked in the protective circle of his arms, wrapped around every inch of him. 

You have been out of his arms for too long.  Your visit to your family grew tedious before long.  Your home is with Hyunjin now and you were eager to return. 

Now it seems you may never see it again.  You may never see him again. 

No.

Just like the night when you took control for yourself, you must take control now.  You realize if anything is to happen, then you must take the reins of your own rescue.  You would not want Hyunjin to compromise himself or his important business.  You know if something bad happened to you, it would weigh on his conscious, even if it was the better business decision.  You must eliminate the need for choice. 

It turns out, comical rope bindings are truly best suited for silly movies.  When the men come to check on you again, you have slipped free of your bindings.  There was an array of weapons in the room, so carelessly disposed because the assailants never assumed you would get free – or, if you did get free, that you would not know how to use them. 

It is true, you do not like violence. 

That does not mean you do not understand it. 

You leave the two men unconscious in their basement.  Unfortunately, you cannot find your suitcase and you do not want to hang around, so you venture outside in your nightgown.  You are debating your next move when a car pulls into the driveway. 

You back away quickly, raising the gun you stole as more men get out of the vehicle.  You only stay your hand because you recognize one of them, though it takes a second to place him as one of Hyunjin’s lieutenants. 

Then Hyunjin emerges.   You have seen your husband before and after a confrontation, but never during it.  If you thought he was an intimidating figure in the aftermath, he is all danger and darkness as he storms up the driveway now.   There is such an energy radiating from him, it makes you stumble and forget yourself entirely. 

Then he stumbles, recognizing you.  You are both startled, staring at each other with the gun raised between you. 

He looks nowhere but your eyes. 

“Hyunjin?” you finally say. 

“I—”  He looks at you, the gun, the nightdress.  He shakes his head.  Some of that bravado returns when he says, “I’m here to save you.”

“Ah,” you say.  You slowly lower the gun, at a loss how to reply.  You were so resigned to the idea this was all still business.  The reality of your husband risking himself to rescue you from unknown hostiles is making your heart pound.  

In the end, all you can think to say is, “Sorry.  You’re late.” 

That wicked smile crosses his face, his tongue pushing at the corner of his mouth.  He is suddenly nothing but amused, looking at you, then at the house.

“I can see that,” he says. 

He whistles sharply and gestures to the house with a gloved hand.  His lieutenants run past you and charge the door, no doubt heading inside to finish the job you started.        

You turn to watch them go.  In your distraction, Hyunjin grabs your arm.  He is fast, effectively disarming you.  He catches the gun with a twirl before tossing it aside.

It is not the gun he wants; it’s you.

Still holding your wrist, he tugs you into him.  You throw your arms around him.  The hug is surprisingly chaste, his face in your neck as he squeezes you like it is the only thing keeping him alive and standing.

“Are you hurt?” he asks. 

When in his arms, it seems impossible to consider you could ever feel any pain. 

You shake your head, daring to kiss his cheek.  He turns his face to yours, your lips close enough to brush in a swipe. 

“I’m all right now,” you say.  “Sorry I beat you to the punch.  I – I wasn’t sure if—”

His brow crinkles.  That gloved hand goes from your wrist to your chin, seizing it between thumb and forefinger.  He tips your head so he can look at your face.  He always regards you like he does one of his masterpieces, like he can never get his fill, like there is always something new to find.  He is enchanted every time. 

“You’re mine,” he says.  “And I take care of what belongs to me.” 

You gasp when those fingers go from your chin to your throat, just enough to pull you in that last breath of a space.  He kisses you there in the sunlight, utterly shameless. 

“Do not ever doubt that,” he says.  His eyes are soft with his affection, but his voice is hard, skirting the edge of a threat he would issue an adversary.  It makes you tingle from head to toe.  “Do I need to remind you?” 

You never actually answer.  You are not sure if your answer would have made a difference, as Hyunjin is determined to show you the very second you are home. 

You reach the penthouse. There is no time to shower or decompress once you cross the threshhold.  He sweeps you off your feet, your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist.  You are wearing his blazer over your nightdress to preserve your modesty – not that it will last long.

He carries you to the bedroom where so many slow and subtle exchanges took place.  Now, he is not slow or subtle.  He is a force of nature.   He tells you that he held no greater fear than losing you and he tried to keep his distance, but he regretted it the moment he saw you on that video call. 

“You’re my wife,” he says, peeling his blazer off your body.  “I’m your husband.  There is nothing I should be holding back.” 

“Yes,” you say, running your fingers through that smooth black hair.  You shiver as he bunches the fabric of your nightdress, the material spilling over his fingers.   “Don’t hold back,” you say, mouth open against his, stealing his every breath.   “Do whatever you want.” 

He tells you exactly what he wants, using his words for a change, finally letting those walls come down.  He whispers every filthy thought into your ear, between kisses, between bites.   You shiver at every suggestion. 

And so, moments later, he is sitting on your bed.  He arranges you to lay across his lap, facedown in the pillows while he runs his hands down your spine and over the curve of your ass. 

“You’re my wife,” he says.  The first tap of his open palm is through the thin material of your nightdress.  It is truly just a warning tap, just enough to make you bounce.  “Don’t ever doubt me again,” he says, swinging that strong hand a little harder.  

This time a yelp escapes your lips.  You wriggle until he pins you down, a hand on the back of your neck and the other lifting your dress.   He already stripped your underthings, his open palm smoothing down all that bare skin.  

You tingle with anticipation, braced yet still unprepared for the sharp smack he next delivers.  You feel it tingle all the way up to your head, as well as the next one, and the next.   You squirm under his firm grip, groaning his name as your thighs get tense and press together. 

“Don’t say my name,” he says, and smacks you again.  “Who am I?”

“M-my husband,” you say, practically mewling like a kitten when he next brings his hand down.  “My husband,” you say again. 

“And you are—”

“Your wife,” you say, though it comes out almost like a sob, a desperate gasp as he slips his fingers between your thighs and finds a new way to torture you.   With your backside hot and stinging, the pleasure of his hand in that sensitive place feels amplified by a tenfold. 

“Husband,” you say, hips bucking.  His free hand goes from the back of your neck to your lower spine, holding you in his lap as he slowly finger-fucks you.

“Yes?” he says.

You do not even remember what you were going to say, or beg, or plead.  You are overcome with sensation, tingling all over, intensifying the press of his fingers as he curls his fingers into that soft, soft place.  Then you are really squirming, helplessly, instinctively, whining into the pillows. 

“I make you feel good,” he says.  “I take care of you.  You, who are so good, and so smart, but so—”

You cry out when he angles his hand just a little differently.  Your vision swims with stars as he speeds up. 

“So soft,” he says, his own voice going soft, just a whisper as he makes you come all over his hand in a throbbing, aching, desperate wet mess.  “Just for me,” he says in that whisper.  “Just for your husband.” 

“Mmmf,” is all the response you have left in you. 

Your thighs are trembling and your pussy throbbing with aftershocks when he picks you up.  He stands and turns, laying you on your side in the bed.  You are grateful, as your backside still stings, though you suspect he is not done yet.

He strips out of his clothes, tearing through his shirt, leaving the pants in a heap.  He forgets to remove his necklace.  All that silver is cold against your hot skin as he lays down behind you.   You do not have time to linger on it, as he gathers up the hem of your dress and adjusts himself behind you. 

He has taken you many times, in many ways, many positions.   When you are on your hands and knees, he is overtaken by a primal urge, your hips as leverage in his hands as he pounds into you like it is a chase.   When you are on your back, he sinks into you slowly and deeply, rocking his hips into yours like he intends to fuck you forever.  When you are in his lap, he rolls his hips in steady, needy waves, captivated by the sight of you in his arms. 

He lays behind you now and wraps his arms around you, coaxes your thighs apart.  Your nightdress is bunched every which way, leaving nothing to the imagination, and you feel especially exposed and vulnerable in this position somehow.  Perhaps it is the fact he is the one holding you open, keeping you in position so he can take you.

You let yourself fall into it, fall into him.  You let him tell you, with words and actions, exactly how he feels. 

Before it ends, you change position.  He lays back and you straddle his hips while stripping off your dress entirely.  He keeps rolling up into you, only stopping when you plant your hands on his chest to slow him down.  Then he practically sinks in the mattress, murmuring your name.  His make-up is smudged, his calloused hands rough on your body.  Whatever pains you experienced have been overtaken by his hands, by the smarting on your backside, still tender as you bring your body down onto his again and again.  He has completely claimed you for himself and you take the same in turn. 

“Hyunjin,” you say.  “My husband, oh—”

He kisses your hand, long and hard, like he needs his mouth on some part of you desperately.  Your fingers are curled into his pretty mouth when he comes, his hands on your hips and his cock buried inside you. 

“Oh,” is your final sound before you slump on top of him, skin to skin. 

He rolls you onto your side, though he keeps you wrapped around him, his arms around you in turn.  His hair is already a sweaty mess and you rub your thumb through some of his shadowy make-up, but those familiar dark eyes are gazing at you with so much warmth.   There is no more ice, no more cold concrete. 

“I should let you rescue me more often,” you say with a laugh. 

He doesn’t laugh back, but he does smile softly.  It should be incongruous with his severe appearance, but it somehow comes together, layers of him exposed all at once as he strokes your cheek.

He looks at you like his favourite work of art. 

“You were the one who rescued you,” he says.   “Just like you rescued me.” 

You cannot find the words to reply, so you kiss him.  It speaks volumes, and he replies, kissing back. 

You lose yourself to the sweetness, to the heat, to the passion, to all those things more, knowing there are many more to come with this man as your husband. 

[gowns]

Why Kids Aren't Falling in Love With Reading - It's Not Just Screens

A shrinking number of kids are reading widely and voraciously for fun.

The ubiquity and allure of screens surely play a large part in this—most American children have smartphones by the age of 11—as does learning loss during the pandemic. But this isn’t the whole story. A survey just before the pandemic by the National Assessment of Educational Progress showed that the percentages of 9- and 13-year-olds who said they read daily for fun had dropped by double digits since 1984. I recently spoke with educators and librarians about this trend, and they gave many explanations, but one of the most compelling—and depressing—is rooted in how our education system teaches kids to relate to books.

What I remember most about reading in childhood was falling in love with characters and stories; I adored Judy Blume’s Margaret and Beverly Cleary’s Ralph S. Mouse. In New York, where I was in public elementary school in the early ’80s, we did have state assessments that tested reading level and comprehension, but the focus was on reading as many books as possible and engaging emotionally with them as a way to develop the requisite skills. Now the focus on reading analytically seems to be squashing that organic enjoyment. Critical reading is an important skill, especially for a generation bombarded with information, much of it unreliable or deceptive. But this hyperfocus on analysis comes at a steep price: The love of books and storytelling is being lost.

This disregard for story starts as early as elementary school. Take this requirement from the third-grade English-language-arts Common Core standard, used widely across the U.S.: ��Determine the meaning of words and phrases as they are used in a text, distinguishing literal from nonliteral language.” There is a fun, easy way to introduce this concept: reading Peggy Parish’s classic, Amelia Bedelia, in which the eponymous maid follows commands such as “Draw the drapes when the sun comes in” by drawing a picture of the curtains. But here’s how one educator experienced in writing Common Core–aligned curricula proposes this be taught: First, teachers introduce the concepts of nonliteral and figurative language. Then, kids read a single paragraph from Amelia Bedelia and answer written questions.

For anyone who knows children, this is the opposite of engaging: The best way to present an abstract idea to kids is by hooking them on a story. “Nonliteral language” becomes a whole lot more interesting and comprehensible, especially to an 8-year-old, when they’ve gotten to laugh at Amelia’s antics first. The process of meeting a character and following them through a series of conflicts is the fun part of reading. Jumping into a paragraph in the middle of a book is about as appealing for most kids as cleaning their room.

But as several educators explained to me, the advent of accountability laws and policies, starting with No Child Left Behind in 2001, and accompanying high-stakes assessments based on standards, be they Common Core or similar state alternatives, has put enormous pressure on instructors to teach to these tests at the expense of best practices. Jennifer LaGarde, who has more than 20 years of experience as a public-school teacher and librarian, described how one such practice—the class read-aloud—invariably resulted in kids asking her for comparable titles. But read-alouds are now imperiled by the need to make sure that kids have mastered all the standards that await them in evaluation, an even more daunting task since the start of the pandemic. “There’s a whole generation of kids who associate reading with assessment now,” LaGarde said.

By middle school, not only is there even less time for activities such as class read-alouds, but instruction also continues to center heavily on passage analysis, said LaGarde, who taught that age group. A friend recently told me that her child’s middle-school teacher had introduced To Kill a Mockingbird to the class, explaining that they would read it over a number of months—and might not have time to finish it. “How can they not get to the end of To Kill a Mockingbird?” she wondered. I’m right there with her. You can’t teach kids to love reading if you don’t even prioritize making it to a book’s end. The reward comes from the emotional payoff of the story’s climax; kids miss out on this essential feeling if they don’t reach Atticus Finch’s powerful defense of Tom Robinson in the courtroom or never get to solve the mystery of Boo Radley.

... Young people should experience the intrinsic pleasure of taking a narrative journey, making an emotional connection with a character (including ones different from themselves), and wondering what will happen next—then finding out. This is the spell that reading casts. And, like with any magician’s trick, picking a story apart and learning how it’s done before you have experienced its wonder risks destroying the magic.

-- article by katherine marsh, the atlantic (12 foot link, no paywall)

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Why Writers Don't Finish Writing Their Stories, and How to Fix It

Hello fellow writers and storytellers,

The journey of writing a story is an exhilarating adventure, but it's not without its share of obstacles. Many of us have embarked on a creative endeavor, only to find ourselves mired in the struggle to finish what we started. In this blog post, I'll unravel the common reasons why writers don't finish their stories and explore practical strategies to overcome these hurdles and reignite the flame of creativity.

The Perils of Unfinished Stories

As writers, we often find ourselves in the throes of unfinished tales, grappling with the intricate web of characters, plots, and themes. There are several reasons why the ink dries up and the story remains untold. Let's shine a light on the familiar adversaries that stand between us and the triumphant completion of our narratives:

1. Lack of Planning:

Some of us brazenly dive into our stories without a clear roadmap, resulting in uncertainty about the direction of the plot and the fate of our characters. The lack of a solid plan can lead us astray, leaving our stories wandering in the wilderness of aimlessness.

2. Self-Doubt and Perfectionism:

Ah, the relentless whispers of self-doubt and the siren call of perfectionism! These twin adversaries can cast a shadow over our creative vision, compelling us to endlessly revise and perfect the early chapters, trapping us in a whirlpool of perpetual edits.

3. Time Management:

Balancing the demands of daily life with the ardor of writing can be akin to walking a tightrope. The struggle to find consistent time for our craft often leaves our stories languishing in prolonged periods of inactivity, longing for the touch of our pen.

4. Writer's Block:

The mighty barrier that even the most intrepid writers encounter. Writer's block can be an insurmountable mountain, leaving us stranded in the valleys of creative drought, unable to breathe life into new ideas and narratives.

5. Lack of Motivation:

The flame that once burned brightly can flicker and wane over time, leaving us adrift in the murky waters of disillusionment. The initial excitement for our stories diminishes, making it arduous to stay committed to the crafting process.

6. Fear of Failure or Success:

The twin specters that haunt many writers' dreams. The apprehension of rejection and the unsettling prospect of life-altering success can tether us to the shores of hesitation, preventing us from reaching the shores of completion.

7. Criticism and Feedback Anxiety:

The looming dread of judgment casts a long shadow over our creative endeavors. The mere thought of receiving criticism or feedback, whether from peers or potential readers, can cast a cloud over our storytelling pursuits.

8. Plotting Challenges:

Crafting a cohesive and engaging plot is akin to navigating a labyrinth without a map. Faced with hurdles in connecting story elements, we may find ourselves lost in a maze of plot holes and unresolved threads.

9. Character Development Struggles:

Breathing life into multi-dimensional, relatable characters is a complex art. The intricate process of character development can become a quagmire, ensnaring us in the challenge of creating personas that drive the story forward. (Part one of Character Development Series)

10. Life Events and Distractions:

Unexpected events in our personal lives can cast ripples on our writing routines, interrupting the flow of our creativity and causing a loss of momentum.

Rallying Against the Odds: Strategies for Success

Now that we've confronted the adversaries that threaten to stall our storytelling odysseys, let's arm ourselves with strategies to conquer these barriers and reignite the flames of our creativity.

Embrace the Power of Planning:

A clear roadmap illuminates the path ahead. Arm yourself with outlines, character sketches, and plot maps to pave the way for your story's journey.

Vanquish Self-Doubt with Action:

Silence the voices of doubt with the power of progress. Embrace the imperfect beauty of your early drafts, knowing that every word brings you closer to the finish line.

Mastering the Art of Time:

Carve out sacred writing time in your schedule. Whether it’s ten minutes or two hours, every moment dedicated to your craft is a step forward.

Conquering Writer's Block:

Embrace the freedom of imperfection. Write, even if the words feel like scattered puzzle pieces. The act of writing can unravel the most stubborn knots of writer's block.

Reigniting the Flame of Motivation:

Seek inspiration in the wonders of the world. Reconnect with the heart of your story, rediscovering the passion that set your creative spirit ablaze.

Reshaping Fear into Fuel:

Embrace the uncertainty as an integral part of the creative journey. Embrace the lessons within rejection and prepare for the winds of change that success may bring.

Navigating the Realm of Criticism:

Embrace feedback as a catalyst for growth. Constructive criticism is a powerful ally, shaping your story into a work of art that resonates with readers.

Weaving the Threads of Plot:

Connect the dots with fresh eyes. Step back and survey the tapestry of your plot, seeking innovative solutions to bridge the gaps and untangle the knots.

Breathing Life into Characters:

Engage with your characters as if they were old friends. Dive into their depths, unraveling their quirks, fears, and dreams, and watch as they breathe life into your story.

Navigating Life's Tempests:

Embrace the ebb and flow of life. Every pause in your writing journey is a chance to gather new experiences and perspectives, enriching your storytelling tapestry.

The Ever-Resting Pen: Harnessing the Power Within

Fellow writers, the journey of completing a story is filled with peaks and valleys, each offering us the opportunity to sharpen our resolve and unleash our creative potential. As we stand at the crossroads, staring at the canvas of unfinished tales, let's rally against the odds, armed with the power of purpose, passion, and perseverance.

Let the ink flow once more, breathing life into tales left untold, and watch as your stories triumphantly reach their long-awaited conclusion. You possess the power to conquer the adversaries that stand in your way, and within you lies the essence of untold narratives waiting to unfurl onto the page.

Here's to the journey that lies ahead, the stories waiting to be written, and the unyielding spirit of creativity that thrives within each of us.

Warm regards and unwavering encouragement, Ren T.

[thedensworld]

Illogical Project | C.Sc

Pairing: Ceo! Seungcheol x reader

Genre: fluff, humor, stranger to crush

Summary: It was just a project to get rid of a side chick, but Seungcheol fall. Deeply.

I was having so much fun writing this! Part 2 yall ask is here

Seungcheol didn’t have to do this. But he needed to do it. Logic flew right out the window the moment he’d typed your name into the company group website. Imagine his surprise when your profile popped up, revealing you were part of the marketing team—under his own label, no less.

The woman sneaking around with his cousin’s fiancé was one of his employees?

Seungcheol let out a dry laugh. Well, this just got interesting. It shouldn’t be too hard to get rid of you.

It has been two years since Jiyeon, his cousin, and Jeonghan got engaged. Their engagement had been more of a business deal than a love story. And although Jiyeon’s engagement to Jeonghan was supposed to be purely transactional, it had been a lifesaver for Seungcheol. Thanks to her, he no longer had to endure his grandfather’s endless nagging about getting married.

But then, yesterday happened.

“Jeonghan’s been cheating on me!” Jiyeon had wailed, storming into his office like a whirlwind. Seungcheol hadn’t thought much of it—Jiyeon tended to exaggerate. He’d been about to brush it off with some nonchalant comment until she hit him with: “I think I’m going to call off the engagement.”

Hold up. What?

That wasn’t part of the plan. Jiyeon couldn’t break off the engagement! Without it, Seungcheol’s peace and freedom would go down the drain. He’d be right back to enduring those endless blind dates set up by his grandfather. Dinners with girls whose names he’d forget before dessert even arrived. Absolutely not.

Which led him to this moment, finding you—Jeonghan’s secret girlfriend. His smirk widened. If cutting you out of the picture meant keeping Jiyeon on board, then so be it. He’d convince you to take your cheating ways elsewhere.

Who would’ve thought his biggest problem was one of his own subordinates?

If anyone could see him now—Seungcheol, the company CEO, scrolling through employee profiles like a suspicious boyfriend—it would be mortifying. But hey, desperate times called for desperate measures. And there was no way he was letting his hard-earned freedom slip away because of Jeonghan’s wandering eyes and your sneaky rendezvous.

*

"Mr. Choi has been acting strange lately," your manager said as she returned from his office, a puzzled look on her face.

"He’s refused every ad plan we’ve pitched to him. And now he’s specifically asked for you to handle it."

Your brows shot up in surprise as you pointed at yourself. “Me?”

“Yes, you. He wants you in his office in ten minutes—with the best idea you can bring to the table.”

“Wait, ten minutes?!” You shot up from your chair, scrambling to find the folder you always kept at your desk. Panic set in as you grabbed your iPad—your lifeline filled with every concept, draft, and half-baked idea you’d ever had. “Why are you just telling me this now?”

Ms. Shin shrugged nonchalantly, already turning her attention back to her own tasks. “It slipped my mind. Good luck!”

You let out a frustrated sigh. Typical Ms. Shin. She was a perpetual headache wrapped up in business casual attire. Just yesterday, she’d dumped her entire presentation prep on you, claiming she was “too busy” to handle it herself. Never mind the fact that you were the one who’d developed almost every campaign concept the department had used for the past two years.

But still, you remained a shadow. Despite your efforts, you were practically invisible in the department—overworked and unnoticed.

As you rushed to the elevator, the thought crossed your mind: Why did Mr. Choi want to see you now?

Was he starting to see through Ms. Shin’s facade and realize where the real work was coming from? Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and anxiety. This could either be a breakthrough… or a complete disaster.

Jeonghan used to tell you a lot about Seungcheol, his college friend. From what you’d heard, Seungcheol was the embodiment of professionalism. He wouldn’t judge you for staying in the shadows to support your boss all these years, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. The truth was, you didn’t know him well enough to understand what went on in his mind.

To you, Mr. Choi was just your boss’s boss—the executive you occasionally spotted from a distance as he strode through the office with that air of authority and responsibility. He was the face of Heidos Food, a man who commanded respect and led by example. His dedication and work ethic were part of the reason you’d decided to join this label among the Heidos Group’s many subsidiaries.

Taking a deep breath, you managed a smile at his secretary. “Mr. Choi is expecting me,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

The secretary gave a curt nod and led you to the door. You couldn’t help but feel small as you stood before it, staring at the imposing wood panel. The secretary knocked gently and stepped aside, motioning for you to enter.

This was it—your first time stepping into the office of the man who practically ran the entire division.

Your heart pounded wildly in your chest as you took a deep breath and stepped inside.

What could he possibly want from me?

"It was disappointing, Ms. Ji."

Your heart sank as Mr. Choi’s voice sliced through the silence after you wrapped up the impromptu presentation.

“I don’t see your idea being as innovative as I expected. The format feels repetitive—similar to every program the marketing department has produced over the past few years.”

You bit your tongue, resisting the urge to argue. How could you not? Internally, you were screaming. Of course, everything looked the same—they were all your ideas! Yet, it wasn’t like you could point that out to him.

Instead, you forced yourself to respond with a calm, “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Choi tapped his pen thoughtfully against the desk, his gaze never leaving your face. “But,” he continued slowly, “it does have potential. It just needs a bit more… observation and refinement. Do you think you can handle this project, Ms. Ji? It’s rather risky.”

His question caught you off guard. Risky? Since when did Mr. Choi—who typically preferred playing it safe—assign risky projects to subordinates? Still, you couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.

“I’m confident I can handle it, sir. If you trust me, I’ll deliver.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he nodded. “Good. In that case, pack some clothes. We’re going to Singapore for a seminar tomorrow.”

What?!

You blinked at him, stunned. Singapore? Tomorrow? You hadn’t even processed what just happened before he dismissed you, turning his attention back to his paperwork as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on you.

*

Seungcheol had no idea where your confidence came from. He’d incidentally overheard your phone conversation with Jeonghan earlier, and it was all sweet and annoyingly romantic.

Alright, maybe it wasn’t exactly accidental. Maybe he intentionally eavesdropped—just a little—but who could blame him? He couldn’t believe how bold you were to have such an intimate call with Jeonghan right in front of him.

So, people are right when they say love is thrilling when you’re playing with fire, he mused, his annoyance growing.

"You should pay attention to her more," he heard you say, your voice dropping to a softer tone that made Seungcheol’s scowl deepen.

Then you added, with a laugh that sounded entirely too carefree, "You’re right, I’m the better companion."

He felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Companion, huh? The nerve of you—being all cozy with Jeonghan right under his nose. He was already irritated by this whole situation, but now he had to endure your lovey-dovey chatter too?

“Alright, I gotta go. Bye... Have a nice day!” you finished, your voice as sweet as honey.

The moment you hung up, Seungcheol snapped himself into a more composed posture, acting as if he hadn’t just been caught leaning against the wall, listening like a gossip. He made a show of dropping himself onto the couch in front of you.

To his further irritation, you looked up with an even brighter smile.

“What should I do today, sir?” you asked, voice cheerful and professional, as if you hadn’t just been caught cooing over the phone.

Seungcheol had to think. There was really nothing too strenuous on the agenda for you today, but a part of him—call it the vindictive part—wanted to see you squirm, especially after witnessing your little show of affection for Jeonghan.

“Take notes on everything,” he ordered, watching your expression closely. “Mingle with everyone. Join every discussion. Since I’ll be attending a separate meeting, make sure you don’t make a fool out of our company. Got it?”

You nodded and jotted everything down like the diligent employee you were. “Okay, noted, sir.”

Seungcheol let out a sigh, not quite satisfied with the reaction—or lack thereof. “Can I trust you with this?”

Your smile remained unwavering as you met his gaze. “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

Something about your calm composure only made him want to push you further.

How could you be this unbothered?

On the last day of the seminar, Seungcheol could hardly believe it when his company was presented with an award of appreciation—all thanks to your hard work over the past few days. He had known you were good, but he hadn’t expected you to exceed everyone’s expectations this much.

But what truly grated on his nerves was the way people kept talking about you: “That woman with brains, bravery, and beauty,” they said, almost in awe.

Is this a business seminar or some kind of beauty pageant? he grumbled internally, irritated by how many times he’d heard those words. Every time someone praised your creativity and wit, it felt like another jab. Yet, even he couldn’t deny you deserved the recognition. The achievement might have been unexpected, but it wasn’t entirely surprising.

Now, he found himself sitting at a high-end restaurant for lunch, just hours before their flight back to South Korea. You sat stiffly across from him, clearly uncomfortable. After refusing his invitation five times and trying to hitch a ride to the airport with his secretary instead, here you were—reluctantly.

“You can choose whatever you’d like, Ms. Ji. You’ve earned it,” Seungcheol said, not looking up from his menu as he spoke.

You mumbled a polite acknowledgment, your gaze glued to the menu. Seungcheol raised his hand to call the waitress over and glanced at you, waiting for your order. His eyes widened in surprise when you rattled off your request in perfect, fluent Malay.

“Wait—you can speak the language?” he asked, caught off guard.

You nodded casually. “Yes, I studied and graduated here.”

“Hmm,” Seungcheol murmured thoughtfully. He tapped his fingers against the table, considering your response. “With that kind of portfolio, you could easily settle into a bigger company. Why stay at Heidos Food?”

To his surprise, you shook your head, rejecting the notion. “No, Heidos Food is the perfect fit for me.”

Seungcheol raised a brow. He couldn’t tell if you were just being polite or genuinely meant it. “And why is that?”

You paused, looking a little hesitant before speaking. “Five years ago, I had just graduated, and I attended the company’s anniversary event with someone I knew. I saw your speech there—it was incredible. It motivated me to become a part of Heidos Foods. I applied several times, went through multiple interviews, and finally got my position three years ago.”

Seungcheol didn’t like the way your story painted him as an integral figure in your career choice. He didn’t want to think he was that important. And yet, there was no denying that something about the way you spoke made him pause. He found himself strangely flattered—and maybe a little more intrigued than he wanted to admit.

He glanced away, clearing his throat. Stop it, Seungcheol. She’s not special.

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. He kept stealing glances at you, wondering how he had overlooked these little details about you. Maybe there really was something to what everyone kept saying: brains, bravery, and beauty—all rolled into one package.

No, he told himself sternly. Focus.

Slowly, Seungcheol found himself losing sight of his initial motive for getting to know you better—the desire to uncover the truth behind your connection with Jeonghan. As he spent more time with you, your charm and intelligence began to weave a spell around him, shifting his focus from suspicion to genuine curiosity.

The more he learned about you, the more he realized how difficult it was to see you as just a subordinate or a rival in Jeonghan’s affections.

He hadn’t planned on feeling this way, and it unsettled him. What started as a calculated move to monitor your interactions had transformed into something entirely different.

Seungcheol caught himself daydreaming about your conversations, replaying moments that made him smile. He was drawn to you in ways he hadn’t expected, and that realization left him both exhilarated and confused.

As his initial purpose faded into the background, a new question took root in his mind: What if getting close to you had become the most intriguing project of all?

*

“Can you send Ms. Ji to my office after this? There’s something I need to discuss with her.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but she just left the building a few minutes ago due to personal business. She didn’t provide any details.”

Seungcheol nodded in frustration as Ms. Shin, your manager, wrapped up her paperwork. It had been two weeks since the two of you returned from the business trip, and he still found himself at a crossroads. He was working diligently to create a void that would justify getting rid of you, especially concerning your relationship with Jeonghan.

Alright, if he could be honest; he didn’t want to lose a gem like you from the company. The idea of you being Jeonghan’s “side chick” was almost infuriating, especially given your intelligence and undeniable beauty.

Yeah, Seungcheol couldn’t deny that your beauty truly shone when you were focused on your work, and he found it charming every time he handed you a new challenge.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a call from Jiyeon, his cousin. He picked it up, immediately greeted by her sobs.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, his protective instincts kicking in.

“Jeonghan…” Jiyeon cried, her voice trembling as she choked out his name.

“What did that bastard do now?”

There was no immediate response, just the sound of her muffled cries. Then, through the tears, Seungcheol finally heard her say, “He had a car accident after we fought. He’s in the hospital now.”

Within moments, Seungcheol found himself standing outside the operating room with Jiyeon by his side. To his surprise, he spotted you sitting quietly in a corner, clearly distressed. So here you were, the “personal business” Ms. Shin had mentioned.

“Let’s get you something to drink,” he said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Jiyeon’s shoulder and guiding her away from the waiting area. He handed her a can of soda as they sat down together.

“We fought on the phone,” Jiyeon explained, her voice still shaky. “I mentioned his side chick, and he denied it. He said he had no one besides me. I didn’t believe him, and then he said he would explain everything when he came to my office, but he got into a car accident.”

Seungcheol nodded, processing her words. “Y/N was there,” he said, gesturing toward you in the corner. “Y/N. She’s the one Jeonghan was supposedly seeing,” he added, his voice laced with confusion.

Jiyeon’s brow furrowed in frustration as she shook her head. “No, they are siblings. They have the same mother,” she sobbed, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions.

Seungcheol’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What? They’re siblings?”

“Yes,” Jiyeon replied, her expression a mixture of sadness and relief. “That explains everything. I thought he was cheating on me, but it turns out he was just trying to protect her.”

The weight of this shocking revelation shifted the tension in the room, leaving both of them momentarily speechless. Seungcheol leaned back against the wall, trying to digest the news.

Jiyeon wiped her tears, glancing toward you again. “I need to talk to her,” she said, determination filling her voice. “She deserves an explanation.”

Seungcheol nodded in agreement, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. Maybe this would clear the air and mend the rift between you.

*

"Has she done this a lot to you?" Seungcheol heard your voice coming from inside the room as he and Jiyeon were about to enter. Both of them paused instinctively, hovering just outside the door.

"She accused you of cheating. She put you in this situation!" Your tone was laced with a rage Seungcheol had never heard from you before. There was an intensity, a fierceness in your voice that was completely unfamiliar to him.

"I could’ve lost you…”

Jeonghan’s voice was soft, barely audible, as if trying to calm you down. “I’m fine, Y/N. I promise. It’s not her fault.”

Jiyeon, who had been poised to enter the room, suddenly froze, her eyes widening in realization. She glanced at Seungcheol, and he could see the confusion and guilt reflecting in her gaze. Before she could turn away, you stepped out of the room, your eyes red and swollen. The sight of Seungcheol and Jiyeon standing there, having clearly overheard the conversation, caught you off guard, but you quickly composed yourself.

You cleared your throat and walked past them with your head held high, your expression a perfect mask of indifference, as if you didn’t realize—or perhaps didn’t care—that they’d been listening in.

Seungcheol watched you go, his mind spinning. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the college days when he and Jeonghan had shared a dorm room. As the only Korean students on campus, they naturally gravitated toward each other. He recalled Jeonghan often mentioning his younger sister—a sibling from the same mother who was in middle school at the time. Seungcheol had never met her, but from Jeonghan’s stories, it was clear how much he treasured her.

"I get a headache every time she doesn’t pick up my call!" Jeonghan would grumble late at night, throwing his phone down in frustration. “She’s so stubborn, but she’s all I’ve got.”

And now, it all clicked into place. The sister Jeonghan had spoken of so fondly, the one he worried about constantly, was you. You, the woman who had captivated his attention with your intelligence and charm, were Jeonghan’s sister. Someone who had been right under his nose this entire time.

*

The hum of the office printer was the only sound in the room as you carefully gathered the documents you needed to submit. Steeling yourself, you walked to Seungcheol’s office and knocked gently before stepping inside.

Seungcheol glanced up from his computer when he heard the door open. The usual lighthearted banter that had developed between the two of you was noticeably absent as you approached his desk and placed the file in front of him.

“Here’s the proposal, sir. It needs your signature,” you said softly, keeping your eyes on the document and not on him.

Seungcheol picked up the pen, his gaze shifting between the file and your calm, composed demeanor. After scribbling his signature on the dotted line, he cleared his throat, an awkward tension hanging between you two.

“Is… Jeonghan doing better?” Seungcheol asked cautiously, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Yes,” you replied, your voice finally holding a hint of warmth. “He’s recovering well. The doctors said he’ll be discharged tomorrow.”

Seungcheol nodded, a small wave of relief washing over him. “That’s good to hear. I’m glad he’s getting better. If you need more time off, just let me know. I know you’ve been the one taking care of him.”

You shook your head gently. “No, thank you. There’s already an assigned nurse for him. I’ll be back to work as usual.”

The air between you two was thick with unspoken words and awkwardness. Seungcheol felt the weight of everything he had said and done, of the suspicion that had once tainted every interaction he’d had with you. He knew it was his fault the dynamic between you had shifted so drastically, and now, he was fumbling, unsure of how to bridge the gap he had created.

“I—” Seungcheol hesitated, his usual poise and confidence faltering. “I know I messed up… and I don’t blame you if things don’t go back to the way they were. I just… I miss the way we used to work together, the way we used to talk.”

You blinked, taken aback by his admission. But even then, you didn’t respond with the same enthusiasm you used to. Instead, you offered him a small, understanding smile.

“Thank you for understanding, sir,” was all you said before you excused yourself and walked out of his office.

Seungcheol watched you go, the emptiness in his chest expanding. He had been wrong—terribly, embarrassingly wrong—and now he was paying the price for his foolish assumptions. He had shattered the easy camaraderie that once existed between you, and now, he was left with the cold, polite exchanges that felt more like a punishment than anything else.

You were here, right in front of him, but you felt more distant than ever.

*

You knew exactly what had been happening to you, but you tried to deny it until it finally affected you like it did today. Ms. Shin had already lectured you with words you never imagined she would use, all because of a rare moment of clumsiness that you didn’t even see coming. You had too much on your plate, and the project Mr. Choi had assigned to you was nearing its deadline. In the midst of it all, you accidentally forgot to send an anniversary message to one of your most loyal clients, and Ms. Shin had to do damage control.

“They were very offended, Y/N,” Ms. Shin snapped, her voice carrying throughout the office as she reprimanded you in front of everyone. You stood there, hands clasped in front of you, listening to her and internally cursing yourself for letting things slip, all because you couldn’t get Mr. Choi’s words out of your mind.

“I miss the way we used to work together.”

“I miss—”

“I’ll be reporting this to HR. I can’t handle this kind of negligence anymore.” Ms. Shin concluded sharply, her words reverberating through the office. A collective gasp came from your colleagues, who were too stunned to react.

Later that day, you found yourself sitting in the HR director’s office, replaying Ms. Shin’s words in your mind. You expected another round of the same scolding, but what came next blindsided you completely.

“We’ve received reports about you neglecting your responsibilities over the past three months, and unfortunately, we can’t tolerate this any longer. Please clear your desk before the workday ends,” the HR director said, his tone dismissive.

“What?” The shock was apparent on your face. No warning letter, no opportunity to explain—just an immediate termination.

“You’re firing me?” you whispered, still in disbelief.

“Effective immediately.” His tone was final, and there was no room for negotiation. You were jobless. Just like that.

You felt a scream building up inside you, a storm of emotions you didn’t know how to release. Anger, frustration, betrayal—every word they’d said felt unfair, and you were powerless to fight it. Who were you to contest it? Just another employee, replaceable, forgotten.

By the time you made it home, Jeonghan was the first to greet you, his face lighting up in surprise. “You’re home early?” he chirped, clearly not expecting you at this hour. Ever since he was discharged from the hospital, he had been staying at your place, recovering until he could get around without any help.

His smile quickly faded when he noticed the cardboard box in your hands. His expression crumpled with worry as you dropped the box onto the table with a heavy thud. “Are you… fired?” Jeonghan asked hesitantly, as if he couldn’t believe his own words.

You nodded, letting out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, they fired me. Fuck Heidos. I’m going to start my own advertising company!”

Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard by your outburst. “Alright, slow down. I appreciate the enthusiasm, but what happened?” he asked, concern lacing his tone.

You shrugged, collapsing onto the couch in exhaustion. The last thing you wanted was to relive today’s events by recounting them to your brother. You just wanted to forget.

“Does Seungcheol know about this?” Jeonghan pressed on, not noticing how drained you were. “He told me you were handling a project together. Was this his decision?”

“Do you need a marketing staff?” you deflected, throwing the question back at him, trying to steer the conversation away.

“No, I don’t. But if you’re interested, I can make some room for you.”

You shook your head immediately. The last thing you wanted was to work for your brother’s company out of pity or nepotism. It wasn’t like you hadn’t considered it before, but joining his business now would feel like a defeat.

“I told you, you could’ve joined my company from the start,” Jeonghan murmured softly, his tone far gentler than before. “The Heidos you were so proud of has finally turned its back on you, huh?”

You groaned and stood up abruptly, your heavy steps echoing through the small living room as you stormed off to your bedroom. You slammed the door behind you, cutting off whatever else Jeonghan had to say.

“Yeah, Heidos finally threw me out,” you muttered bitterly to yourself as you leaned against the door. The company you had dreamed of working for, the place you’d given your blood, sweat, and tears for over the years—had thrown you out without so much as a second thought.

You took a deep breath, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest. This was the company you had stayed up nights for, the one you’d gone above and beyond for every single day. You’d fought your way in, made a name for yourself, only to be discarded like you were nothing.

And all you could think about was how everything had spiraled ever since that conversation with Seungcheol. How his simple words had shaken your confidence, distracted you, and caused this downward spiral.

But the worst part?

You still cared what he thought.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at the wall as Jeonghan's words replayed in your mind, taunting you.

Heidos finally turned its back on you.

Was that it, though? Was it really the company you were angry with? Or was there something more?

Your gaze dropped to the floor as a bitter realization crept in. Were you really interested in Heidos all along? Or was it Mr. Choi?

You closed your eyes and let out a slow breath, your thoughts drifting back to the first time you saw him in person. It was during Heidos’s anniversary gala, a grand event that showcased the company's milestones.

But there he was—Choi Seungcheol, the CEO’s son, standing on the grand stage, delivering a speech with the kind of charisma that made everyone hang on to his every word. He talked about vision, about passion, about how Heidos wasn’t just a business—it was a dream they all built together.

You remembered the way his eyes scanned the room as if acknowledging everyone’s efforts personally, his voice carrying conviction and authority. He seemed approachable yet untouchable at the same time. There was a spark in him that drew you in, like a flame you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by, even if it meant risking getting burned.

When he mentioned the value of individual contributions, you couldn’t help but imagine yourself as one of those valued employees he spoke of. That night, you had felt an overwhelming sense of pride, a hope that you, too, could be part of something bigger. Part of his vision. It made you work harder, push through every obstacle, and make a name for yourself in the company.

But what if, beneath all those aspirations, it was his approval you were really after?

Had it always been about earning a place at Heidos, or had it been about being acknowledged by him? Did your heart race because of the accomplishments, or was it because of the fleeting interactions you had with him?

You tried to shake off the thoughts, but the memories kept flooding back.

There was the time he complimented your work during a company meeting, the way he’d asked for your opinion during a discussion, and, of course, the project where you saw a different side of him—where he was more than just the stern, high-and-mighty executive everyone knew him as.

"I miss the way we used to work together."

His words echoed in your mind, laced with regret and something you couldn’t quite place. Had you let those words affect you more than they should have? Had you crossed a line somewhere between professionalism and personal admiration?

You huffed out a breath and rubbed your face with your hands. It was hard to admit, but maybe you were chasing after more than just a career.

Maybe it was a person.

“Are you really that naive?” you muttered to yourself, almost laughing at how pathetic it sounded. “You got yourself fired because you couldn’t get over a few words from Choi Seungcheol. Great job, Y/N.”

What had you been thinking? That you meant something more to him? That the way he looked at you was anything other than superficial interest? Maybe you’d been reading into things too much, letting your emotions cloud your judgment.

After all, the way he’d treated you—suspicious, distrustful, wary—it all pointed to how little he thought of you. You were a pawn in his game of protecting Jiyeon. The only reason he ever looked your way was because he thought you were a threat.

And yet… you wanted to believe there had been something more. Something genuine. But now, everything felt tainted.

Because if Heidos was no longer an option, then you’d just have to prove to yourself that you could rise even without the company’s name backing you up.

But first, you’d have to figure out a way to keep your heart in check—especially when it came to him.

“Forget it, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself, staring at your reflection in the bedroom mirror. “Forget about Choi Seungcheol. He was never part of your plan, anyway.”

*

It was his first day back in the office after a week-long business trip, and Seungcheol finally had a chance to sit down and get back into his routine. His secretary entered the room with his usual coffee, already prepared with a list of updates and meetings for the day. He rattled them off efficiently, detailing every appointment and task Seungcheol needed to be aware of.

“I want to know the update on the project Ms. Ji is handling,” Seungcheol said, glancing at the folder in front of him, half-expecting to see her familiar name.

There was a brief pause, and when his secretary responded, the answer was something Seungcheol never anticipated.

“She’s no longer part of our staff, sir.”

Seungcheol frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “What do you mean?” he asked, the question carrying a sharp edge.

“She was terminated a week ago due to negligence in fulfilling her responsibilities,” the secretary explained carefully. “The report came from Ms. Shin, and HR approved it immediately.”

Seungcheol’s scowl deepened, the irritation evident in the tightening of his jaw. He leaned back in his chair, processing the information. “Ms. Ji was managing a critical project with me,” he said, his voice lowering. “Her status required my approval. How is it possible I wasn’t informed about this?”

His secretary’s shoulders tensed, and he hesitated before replying, “I’m terribly sorry, sir. You were occupied with meetings and engagements throughout the week, and I only received the details two days ago myself.”

“Busy or not, I should have been notified immediately.” Seungcheol’s voice was dangerously calm. He glanced at the stack of files on his desk, his mind already racing to piece together what could’ve gone wrong. “I want Ms. Shin and Mr. Kim from HR in my office—now.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied quickly, bowing slightly before leaving the room to carry out Seungcheol’s orders.

Seungcheol’s gaze shifted to the half-empty coffee cup, his thoughts a blur of anger and disbelief. Fired? For negligence? That didn’t add up. He knew you weren't perfect, but you were dedicated and thorough. You had handled complex projects before, and while you had your flaws, negligence was never one of them.

Something wasn’t right.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and Ms. Shin walked in, followed closely by Mr. Kim. Both looked apprehensive, likely sensing the storm brewing from the tension in the air.

“Explain,” Seungcheol said without preamble, his eyes fixed on Ms. Shin. “Why was Ms. Ji terminated, and why was I not informed?”

Ms. Shin cleared her throat, meeting his gaze with a strained smile. “Sir, there were multiple instances where Ms. Ji failed to meet her deadlines and deliverables, which impacted the team’s performance. I reported this to HR, and after reviewing her recent performance records, they decided to let her go.”

“And whose idea was it to keep this from me?” Seungcheol’s voice was low and dangerous.

“We didn’t intend to keep it from you, sir,” Mr. Kim interjected cautiously.

“The decision was made quickly due to the urgency of the situation. Given that you were away and Ms. Shin was the acting supervisor for that period, we thought it best to handle it internally until we could brief you properly.”

Seungcheol’s gaze shifted between the two of them, his displeasure evident. “I don’t appreciate decisions being made without my knowledge, especially when it concerns a project directly under my supervision. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they both answered in unison, looking visibly uncomfortable.

“Ms. Ji was fired without a formal warning or disciplinary review?” Seungcheol continued, his voice hardening. “Was she given no chance to explain herself or defend her performance?”

Ms. Shin shifted uneasily, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. “Sir, she had been making several mistakes, and her focus seemed to be elsewhere. It was affecting her work quality. We couldn’t afford to let it slide any longer.”

“Was this decision truly about her work, or something else?” Seungcheol pressed, his gaze narrowing. “Because from what I’ve seen, she was one of the most consistent performers on the team. I want a full report on the matter by the end of today.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kim replied quickly, while Ms. Shin’s jaw tightened, her frustration barely masked.

“Dismissed,” Seungcheol said curtly, waving them out of his office.

*

You practically jumped out of your bed when you saw an incoming call from Mr. Choi flash across your phone screen. Heart racing, you scrambled to sit up straight before answering.

“I’m outside your place.”

What?

You blinked, staring at yourself in the mirror in disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been in a post-drama-marathon daze, slouched in bed after indulging in a series binge you could never afford the time for before. And now, the very man who occupied your thoughts far more than he should—the Choi Seungcheol—was calling to announce that he was outside your apartment?

“Uh—can you give me ten minutes? I’m not exactly looking presentable at the moment,” you stammered, glancing down at your wrinkled pajamas and messy hair. Your reflection screamed “I-just-woke-up” and “don’t-look-at-me”.

“I—what I mean is!” You quickly corrected yourself, flustered. “I just woke up, so I might look a little… disgusting.”

The last word fell out awkwardly, and you cringed inwardly. Of all the words you could’ve chosen…

“Take your time, Ms. Ji.” His voice was calm, almost amused. You heard the call click off, leaving you in stunned silence.

Oh God, what was he doing here?

You dashed into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and washing your face in record time. The face staring back at you looked different now—the long hair you used to style meticulously was gone, impulsively cut to shoulder length last week in a fit of frustration and exhaustion. You sighed and brushed it diligently, making it look as presentable as possible. Changing out of your pajamas into something more decent—a casual blouse and jeans—you took a deep breath before heading outside.

Stepping out of your building, you spotted his sleek car parked along the road, and there he was—slipping out of the driver’s seat, looking effortlessly handsome despite the casualness of his attire. His usual sharp suit was gone, replaced by a simple white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Even without the formal suit jacket, his presence seemed to dominate the entire street. You couldn’t help but stare for a moment, struggling to reconcile this man’s unexpected appearance outside your home with the same person you admired from afar at work.

Focus, Y/N.

“How are you?” Seungcheol asked, his gaze soft as it met yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer verbally, so you just nodded stiffly, offering a tight smile. The truth was, you weren’t okay—not even close. And a part of you wanted him to understand that without you having to spell it out. But another part of you was wary, unsure how much he even knew or cared about what happened.

“I just found out about your termination this morning,” he began, and you blinked in surprise. You hadn’t expected this to be the topic of conversation. “I’m so sorry.”

You stood there, rooted in place as you stared at him. What was going on?

“I shouldn’t have let Ms. Shin handle things like that,” he continued, voice low, the frustration evident in his tone. “I knew she’s been trying to drag you down all this time. I knew you were the one carrying the department, handling all the toughest projects… That’s why I’m sorry.”

The Choi Seungcheol, the man who exuded confidence and charisma at every turn, now looked uncharacteristically small and uncertain standing before you. The apology caught you off guard. You had prepared yourself for cold professionalism, or maybe even indifference. But not this.

“I won’t force you to come back to the company,” he said gently. “That’s entirely your choice.”

He paused, looking as if he was weighing his next words carefully, then took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to lose the chance to tell you…”

Your heart thumped loudly in your chest as his eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in his gaze making it hard to breathe.

“I might like you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. “Romantically.”

What?!

The world seemed to freeze around you as you stared at him, your mind racing to process his words. Seungcheol��� liked you? The very same Choi Seungcheol who spent years being distant and impossible to read? He liked you, romantically? This couldn’t be real.

“I—I don’t know when it happened,” he continued, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. “But somewhere along the way, I realized I was looking forward to seeing you every day. You were more than just a competent employee; you were someone I admired. And then… I started to miss you.”

The sincerity in his words left you speechless. You glanced down, unable to meet his gaze as you tried to figure out what to say. Was it possible that you hadn’t just admired him from afar but had harbored deeper feelings too?

“I understand if this is too much for you right now,” he said softly, stepping back as if to give you space. “I just needed you to know… I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when I should’ve been. And I’m sorry that you had to go through all of this because of me.”

His voice was gentle, and for a moment, the street around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you standing there, suspended in this unexpected moment.

What could you possibly say? Words failed you, so you did the only thing you could—you nodded, acknowledging his apology and his confession, still unsure if you were dreaming or awake.

“Thank you… for telling me,” you managed to say quietly.

Things could never go back to the way they used to be.

[pucksandpower]

A Permanent Claim

Day 24 → Piercing 💋 Toto Wolff

Warnings: 18+ content, body modification, genital piercing

Kinktober Masterlist

The paddock is buzzing, as it always is before a race. The hum of anticipation clings to the air, and for the first time in his career, Toto feels … distracted.

You stand next to him, your hands clasped in front of you, eyes wide, taking everything in. It’s your first race. The team is used to Toto’s steely focus, his towering figure commanding the space around him, but today something’s different. There’s an energy swirling around the two of you that no one can quite place. Whispers trail in your wake like shadows, and not one of the mechanics dares ask.

Toto rests a hand on your lower back, a possessive yet gentle gesture, guiding you through the crowd. His touch is firm, confident. He doesn’t look at you, but you know he’s watching, aware of every move you make, every breath you take.

“How are you holding up?” He asks, his voice low, cutting through the noise around you.

You glance up at him, a small, nervous smile tugging at your lips. “It’s a lot. I’m trying to take it all in.”

He nods, his gaze softening for just a fraction of a second. “You’ll get used to it.”

You will, you think. You have to. Because standing here, next to him, you realize how much of his world you’ve yet to understand. The power. The pressure. The eyes constantly watching. It’s intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

Toto’s phone buzzes, and his focus shifts. You can tell it’s important — everything he does is important — but he hasn’t left your side since you arrived, and part of you wonders if he’s more concerned about you than the race.

"You don’t have to stay with me,” you say, trying to sound light. “I know you have work to do.”

He turns his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a touch. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

There’s a finality to his words that leaves no room for argument. You bite your lip, nodding, trying to suppress the heat rising in your cheeks. Toto doesn’t often make grand declarations, but when he speaks like that, when his tone shifts into something so sure, you feel anchored.

Across the paddock, you catch sight of a familiar face — Lewis Hamilton. He’s leaning against one of the barriers, casual, yet you can tell he’s been watching the two of you. You don’t know him well, but you’ve heard the stories, seen the headlines. A part of you wants to wave, to acknowledge him, but something holds you back.

Toto doesn’t miss the way Lewis’ eyes drift toward you. He never misses anything.

Lewis pushes off the barrier, walking over with that easy confidence of his. “Hey, Toto,” he greets, his voice smooth, eyes flicking to you for just a second before locking back on your husband.

Toto’s grip on your waist tightens imperceptibly, but his expression remains neutral. “Lewis.”

Lewis’ smile widens, clearly picking up on the tension, but choosing to play into it. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says, turning his full attention to you now. “I’m Lewis.”

You blink, taken aback by his forwardness, but manage a polite smile. “I know who you are.”

“And you are?”

You open your mouth, but Toto cuts in before you can respond. “My wife.”

The words land heavily, like a brick shattering the easy rhythm of the conversation. There’s a pause — a beat of silence — as Lewis’ eyes flicker to Toto, surprise briefly flashing across his face.

“Wife?” Lewis repeats, clearly not expecting that.

Toto’s hand remains steady on your back, but his fingers press a little harder into your skin. You can practically feel the intensity radiating from him, even though his face remains composed, unreadable.

“Yes,” you say, softly but firmly. You tilt your hand slightly, the massive engagement ring and wedding band catching the sunlight, gleaming like a warning. "We’ve been married for a while."

Lewis glances at your hand, and something unreadable passes over his expression. “Huh,” he mutters, leaning back slightly. "Didn’t know that."

The silence stretches, and you shift uncomfortably, feeling the weight of both their gazes. You wish the ground would swallow you up, wish that the paddock wasn’t so exposed, that every curious eye wasn’t trained on the three of you like vultures circling a fresh kill.

Lewis, sensing the tension, chuckles lightly, trying to diffuse the situation. “Well, congratulations. You’re a lucky man, Toto.”

Toto’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “I’m aware.”

It’s a simple statement, but the underlying message is clear: back off.

Lewis doesn’t seem fazed, though. He flashes you a smile, one that’s a little too charming, a little too familiar. “You ever need a tour guide around here, I’m your guy. Could show you all the good spots — where the real action is.”

You laugh awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. “I think I’ll be busy with-”

“Her schedule’s full,” Toto interjects smoothly, cutting you off. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now, a subtle shift in tone that you recognize all too well. The kind of tone that means he’s done with pleasantries.

Lewis raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the push-and-pull. “Right. Well, if you ever change your mind-”

“She won’t,” Toto says, this time more forcefully.

Lewis holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Just being friendly.”

“Friendliness isn’t necessary,” Toto replies, his voice low, sharp. “You have a race to focus on.”

There’s a pause as Lewis considers his options, then he lets out a low chuckle. “Fair enough. I’ll see you both around.” He winks at you, the gesture making your stomach churn uncomfortably. With one last glance at Toto, he turns and walks away, his strut a little too exaggerated.

You exhale, not realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

Toto’s gaze softens as he turns to you, his thumb brushing lightly against your side. “Like what?”

“Being … this visible.” You shrug, gesturing vaguely toward the paddock. “I didn’t realize how intense it would be.”

He studies you for a moment, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes — concern, maybe, or guilt. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. “We don’t have to come here again.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s fine. I just need to get used to it, that’s all.”

He doesn’t argue, but the way he’s looking at you tells you he’s not convinced. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back again, grounding you, claiming you.

As you both turn back to the team garage, you can still feel the eyes on you, the whispers trailing in the air like smoke. You try not to think about Lewis, about the way his words felt like needles pricking your skin, or how the weight of your rings didn’t seem enough to stop him.

But Toto knows. He always knows.

Back inside the garage, the chaos of the upcoming race surrounds you. Mechanics are moving fast, engineers checking data, voices crackling over the radio. But you can feel Toto’s focus on you, his mind elsewhere even as he addresses the team. His hand tightens around his headset, the tension in his body mounting, until-

Snap.

The plastic cracks under the force of his grip, and the entire room goes silent. Heads turn, but no one dares say a word. Toto stares down at the broken headset in his hand, his jaw clenched tight.

You reach out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t respond right away, his eyes fixed on the shattered pieces in his hand. Then, slowly, he exhales, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“I’ll get a new one,” he mutters, his voice tight, controlled.

But you know it’s not about the headset. It never is.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “next time, we’ll come without the drama.”

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time today, the tension breaks. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his hand resting firmly on your back.

“Next time,” he says softly, “I’ll make sure they know who you belong to.”

***

The drive is unusually quiet.

Toto’s hands grip the wheel with the same intensity you’ve come to recognize over the years, but his face gives nothing away. It’s the middle of the week, and you’re expecting something mundane — lunch, a meeting maybe — but the route he’s taking is unfamiliar. You glance out the window, trying to figure out where exactly he’s headed, but the streets become less and less familiar.

“Where are we going?” You finally ask, your voice light but curious.

Toto doesn’t respond right away. His jaw is set, eyes locked on the road ahead. Finally, after a long pause, he says, “Somewhere we should’ve gone a long time ago.”

That doesn’t clear up anything. You furrow your brow, glancing at him for some kind of clarification, but his expression remains unreadable. His focus is too sharp, too deliberate.

“Toto, seriously,” you say, sitting up straighter in your seat. “Where are we going?”

He exhales through his nose, a deep, controlled breath. “You’ll see in a few minutes.”

You open your mouth to ask again, but something in his tone tells you to wait. So you sit back, your fingers absentmindedly playing with your wedding ring, spinning it around your finger the way you do when you’re nervous.

After a few more turns, Toto pulls into a small parking lot. You look around, scanning the nondescript building in front of you. A sign hangs above the entrance:

Gilded Needle.

Your heart skips a beat. You turn to Toto, eyes wide. “What — why are we here?”

Toto unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you. His expression is calm, but there’s a glint in his eyes that you’ve seen only in moments when he’s dead serious. “Because,” he says, his voice low, steady, “the rings aren’t enough.”

You blink, your mind racing to catch up. “What do you mean, the rings aren’t enough?”

He reaches out, taking your hand in his, his thumb brushing over the engagement ring, then the wedding band. “These,” he says, his voice tight with restrained frustration, “aren’t enough to keep people like Lewis from flirting with you.”

A hot flush creeps up your neck. You hadn’t realized how much Lewis’s flirtation had gotten under Toto’s skin. “Toto, it’s not like-”

“Not like what?” He interrupts, his grip tightening just slightly around your hand. “Not like you noticed? Not like it bothered you?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “It’s not about what you did or didn’t do. It’s about making sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to.”

Your heart stumbles over itself at the word belong. You’re not sure if you should be offended or flattered. Maybe a little of both.

You look at the building again, then back at him. “So … a piercing?”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “Something more permanent.”

A shiver runs down your spine. Permanent. The weight of the word settles in your chest, both thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

“But … where?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Your mind races, thinking of earlobes or maybe a discreet stud somewhere, but when Toto speaks again, your world tilts.

“VCH,” he says, as casually as if he were discussing dinner plans.

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Toto’s eyes darken, and the intensity in his gaze sends a rush of heat straight through you. “The vertical clitoral hood. It’s more permanent than any ring. And no one else will ever see it. But you’ll know. And I’ll know.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Toto, that’s … that’s extreme.”

He reaches for you, cupping your face in his large, calloused hand, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I don’t do things halfway, and neither do you. This is just another way to show what’s already true.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and charged. You feel a mixture of disbelief, anxiety, and … something else. Something deep, primal, that you can’t quite name. Your pulse quickens.

“Toto, I … I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “Just trust me.”

And somehow, despite everything, you do. You always have.

He opens the car door, stepping out, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he’s at your side, opening your door. His hand is extended toward you, palm up, waiting. You hesitate for only a second before placing your hand in his, letting him pull you to your feet.

The piercing parlor looks unassuming from the outside, but the moment you step in, the sterile scent of disinfectant and steel greets you. A woman with bright purple hair stands behind the counter, her heavily tattooed arms crossed over her chest.

“Toto,” she greets with a knowing smile, her eyes flicking to you briefly before returning to him. “You called ahead.”

He nods. “Is everything ready?”

She gestures toward a door in the back. “All set up. Just head back, and I’ll be in shortly.”

Toto keeps his hand on your lower back as he guides you through the door. The room is small but clean, with a leather chair in the center, a tray of gleaming metal instruments set off to the side. Your stomach flips, anxiety mixing with the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

You sit down, your mind buzzing with a thousand thoughts. “Are we really doing this?” You ask, your voice barely steady.

Toto kneels in front of you, his large hands resting on your knees. His gaze meets yours, and there’s a tenderness there that cuts through the tension. “Yes. But only if you’re sure.”

You swallow hard. “It’s … a lot.”

He nods, his thumb tracing circles on your leg. “It is. But I want you to feel … secure. Safe. This is a symbol. For both of us.”

You take a deep breath, the weight of his words settling over you. A symbol. It’s more than just the act — it’s the message behind it. The permanence. The trust.

The door opens, and the woman from the front steps in, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Alright, let’s get started,” she says, her tone professional but warm. She pulls a stool over, sitting in front of you. “So, you’re getting a vertical clitoral hood piercing today. I’m going to explain each step of the process so you know exactly what’s happening, okay?”

You nod, your heart hammering in your chest.

“First, I’m going to clean the area,” she says, grabbing a disinfectant wipe from the tray. “It’s important to make sure everything’s sterile to avoid infection.”

You flinch slightly as the cold wipe touches your skin, but the sensation is brief. Your hands grip the sides of the chair, trying to stay calm. Toto’s presence next to you is grounding, his hand resting reassuringly on your shoulder.

“Next, I’ll mark the spot where the piercing will go,” the piercer continues, grabbing a small marker. “I’ll have you check the placement before we move forward.”

She leans in, making a precise mark on your skin. You feel her focus, her hands steady and sure. You can’t help but feel exposed, vulnerable, but Toto’s steady grip on your shoulder is an anchor.

“Take a look,” the piercer says, handing you a small mirror.

You glance down, your heart racing as you inspect the mark. It seems so small, so insignificant, but the weight of what it represents is enormous.

“Is the placement okay?” she asks, her voice calm and patient.

You swallow, nodding. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Great,” she says, setting the mirror aside. “Now, I’m going to use a receiving tube to protect the tissue and guide the needle. It’ll be a quick, sharp pinch, and then it’s over.”

Your grip tightens on the sides of the chair as you brace yourself. Toto leans closer, his lips brushing the top of your head. “You’re doing great,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing.

The piercer positions the receiving tube, her movements practiced and efficient. “Alright, I’m going to count down from three. Take a deep breath.”

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, feeling the cool air fill your lungs.

“Three … two … one.”

The sharp sting of the needle pierces through your skin, and for a moment, the pain is all-consuming, bright and searing. You gasp, your body tensing, but then — just as quickly — it’s over.

The piercer works quickly, threading the jewelry through the fresh hole. “And now the jewelry is in place,” she says, her voice almost casual, as if she’s done this a thousand times. “Just going to clean it up now.”

Your body relaxes slowly, the pain fading into a dull throb. Toto’s hand moves from your shoulder to your cheek, tilting your face up so you’re looking at him.

“You did it,” he says, his voice filled with quiet pride.

You manage a shaky smile, still feeling a little lightheaded. “That was … intense.”

The piercer finishes cleaning the area and steps back, giving you some space. “You’ll need to follow the aftercare instructions closely,” she says, handing you a small pamphlet. “Keep it clean, avoid tight clothing, and no … strenuous activities for a while.”

Toto chuckles softly beside you, clearly picking up on the implication. You shoot him a look, but the amusement in his eyes is impossible to ignore.

“Thank you,” you murmur to the piercer, your voice still a little shaky.

She nods, standing and removing her gloves. “You’re all set. Take your time, and come back if you have any questions or concerns.”

As the door clicks shut behind her, the room falls into a heavy silence. You lean back in the chair, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. The reality of what just happened is starting to sink in, and you’re not sure how to process it all.

Toto stands, offering you his hand again. “Ready to go?”

You take it, letting him pull you to your feet. Your legs feel wobbly, but Toto’s steady presence keeps you grounded. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walk toward the door.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his voice soft.

You think for a moment, trying to find the right words. “Different. But … good.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And as you step out into the cool air of the parking lot, you realize that this — like everything else with Toto — was never just about the piercing. It was about trust. About belonging. About knowing, in ways words could never fully capture, that you’re his, and he’s yours.

***

The night is quiet, a blanket of stillness settling over the room as you and Toto lie intertwined under the covers. His warmth surrounds you, his chest a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. The faint light from the bedside lamp casts a soft glow across the room, giving everything an intimate, golden hue.

You’re nestled against him, your legs tangled with his, the weight of his arm draped across your waist. His hand moves slowly, lazily tracing the curve of your hip as you drift in and out of a blissful, relaxed haze. It’s been a few weeks since your piercing, and while the intensity of the moment had faded, the memory of it still lingers. A quiet reminder of just how deeply tethered you both are.

Toto’s fingers are gentle as they begin to travel lower, dipping just under the waistband of your underwear. You shift slightly, your breath hitching in anticipation, but you don’t say anything. The sensation of his touch is grounding, like he’s always known exactly how to unravel you, piece by piece.

His voice is low when he finally speaks. “It’s healed well, hasn’t it?”

You nod, biting your lip, feeling a flutter of nerves and excitement. “Yeah. It’s been good.”

His fingers brush against the piercing, and you inhale sharply. Even after all this time, the touch there is still new, still electric. He moves with a kind of reverence, testing the waters, gauging your reaction as he gently taps the small barbell. The sensation shoots through you, sharp and exhilarating, and you let out a soft gasp.

“I’ve been waiting,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, “for the right moment to give you something.”

You blink, turning your head slightly to look at him. “Something?”

He doesn’t respond right away, just keeps his fingers playing delicately with the jewelry, the pressure of his touch making you squirm. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest as he watches you react, his eyes dark and full of something intense.

“Yes,” he says, finally shifting his weight to reach over to the nightstand. His arm moves smoothly, the drawer sliding open with a quiet click. Your curiosity piques, but you’re too caught up in the feeling of his fingers still teasing you to fully focus on what he’s doing.

When he pulls his hand back, there’s a small, sleek jewelry box in his grasp. He holds it in front of you, his expression soft but deliberate. “I had this made for you.”

Your pulse quickens. The box is elegant, understated, but you can tell immediately that whatever’s inside isn’t ordinary. Toto’s taste has always been impeccable, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now that tells you this is special.

“Open it,” he whispers, his voice thick with anticipation.

You sit up slightly, propping yourself on one elbow as you take the box from his hand. The weight of it feels significant, and your fingers tremble just a little as you lift the lid. Inside, nestled against a bed of black velvet, is a hoop — white gold, gleaming in the soft light, adorned with tiny garnets and diamonds that catch the light in the most delicate way.

Your breath catches in your throat. The garnets, Toto’s birthstone, are a deep, rich red, their contrast against the diamonds creating something timeless, yet intimate. The design is intricate but subtle, something that only you and he will ever truly see.

“It’s beautiful,” you whisper, unable to take your eyes off it.

Toto’s hand is on your back now, a comforting weight that steadies you. “I wanted something that felt more … permanent,” he says, echoing the words from weeks ago. “Something that’s not just for show. It’s for you. And for me.”

You nod, your heart swelling with emotion as you gaze at the jewelry. It’s more than just an accessory — it’s a symbol, another layer of the bond that ties you both together.

He shifts again, gently taking the box from your hands and setting it aside. “Let me put it in for you.”

You bite your lip, feeling a rush of nerves again. The piercing has healed, but the thought of him changing it — of him being so hands-on in such an intimate way — sends a thrill through you. You nod, laying back down, your head resting on his chest as he moves over you.

His hands are steady, and there’s something soothing about the way he handles the small barbell currently in place. He unscrews it with careful precision, his fingers working deftly even though the act itself feels deeply intimate. You hold your breath as he removes the simple piercing, your body humming with anticipation.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin as he positions the new hoop. “This might feel a little strange,” he murmurs, his voice low and calm, “but I’ll be gentle.”

You nod, barely able to form words, and then you feel it — the cool metal sliding through the piercing, the slight pinch as it passes through your skin. It’s quick, and before you can fully process it, the new jewelry is in place. Toto fastens it carefully, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as if he’s savoring the closeness, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“How does that feel?” He asks, his voice a soft rumble.

You exhale, your body relaxing into his touch. “It’s … perfect.”

He smiles, clearly satisfied, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s not done yet. His hand trails lower, brushing against the new hoop, and your body jolts in response, hyper-aware of the sensitivity there. You squirm, but he holds you in place, his touch light but firm.

“I’m not quite finished,” he says, and you can hear the teasing edge in his voice.

Before you can ask what he means, he’s reaching into the nightstand again. This time, when he pulls something out, it’s not a box, but a delicate chain — white gold, matching the hoop. It gleams in the soft light, the intricate links catching the glow from the bedside lamp.

Your eyes widen as you realize what it’s for. “Toto …”

He smirks, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he attaches one end of the chain to the hoop. The sensation of the cold metal brushing against your skin sends a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively shift under his touch.

“I had this made, too,” he says, his voice smooth and calm as he works. “It’s detachable. Only for when I want it.”

You swallow hard, your heart racing as he finishes securing the chain. The weight of it is light but noticeable, and the idea of him having this kind of control over you, of being able to tug on it whenever he wants, makes your breath come faster.

Toto leans back, his hand still resting on your thigh as he looks down at his work, clearly pleased. ��There,” he murmurs, his voice deep with satisfaction. “Now it’s perfect.”

You can feel the chain moving with every breath you take, a constant reminder of his presence, his claim. Your body is already hypersensitive, the tension building in your core as his fingers brush lightly over the chain, testing its weight.

Then, without warning, he gives a gentle tug.

The sensation is immediate, a sharp jolt of pleasure that courses through you, leaving you breathless. Your hands grip the sheets, your body arching slightly as you try to process the intensity of it.

“Toto,” you gasp, but he’s not done.

He tugs again, harder this time, and the sensation is so intense that your body trembles beneath him. Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps, your mind spinning as he continues to play with the chain, each pull sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you.

“Toto, please …” you gasp, your body tense, every nerve ending on fire.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “Please what?”

You can barely think, let alone form coherent words. All you know is the heat, the pressure, the overwhelming sensation that’s building inside you, threatening to consume you.

“Please … don’t stop,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling.

He growls softly, his hand moving to your hip, holding you steady as he tugs the chain again, this time with more force. The overstimulation is almost too much, your body trembling as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of control.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. “So perfect. All mine.”

You can’t respond, your breath coming in shallow pants as the sensations build, one after the other, until they’re too much to bear. Your body arches off the bed, your hands gripping the sheets so tightly your knuckles turn white.

“Toto, I-”

He tugs again, harder, and the wave of pleasure that crashes through you is too intense, too overwhelming. You cry out, your body going limp, boneless beneath him as the overstimulation sends you spiraling into a haze of sensation.

Toto watches you, his expression a mix of satisfaction and adoration as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your trembling body. “There’s my good girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft now, soothing. “You did so well.”

You can’t even respond, your body too spent, too overwhelmed to do anything but lie there, completely at his mercy. But as you slowly come back to yourself, the weight of the chain still resting against your skin, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of belonging. Of being his, in every possible way.

Toto shifts beside you, his hand stroking your hair as he pulls you close. His voice is a low, soothing rumble as he whispers, “You’re mine.”

***

Toto’s hand rests possessively on the small of your back as you both step into the dimly lit penthouse suite. The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind him with a quiet finality, the sound echoing in the silence of the room. His grip tightens ever so slightly, a silent reminder of the tension that’s been simmering beneath the surface all evening.

The dinner had been a formality, an obligation for one of the team’s sponsors. You sat beside Toto, the perfect wife, engaging in polite conversation, flashing smiles at the right moments. But the man at the other end of the table — the one with the wandering eyes and smooth comments — had tested Toto’s patience in ways no one else ever dared.

Toto’s jaw had been clenched the entire night, his polite exterior betrayed only by the tightening grip of his hand around his water glass, the flicker of something darker in his eyes whenever the man’s gaze lingered too long on you. You felt it, too — the weight of Toto’s stare, the quiet tension in his posture, the way his fingers would brush your thigh under the table in a subtle, grounding gesture.

Now, back in the privacy of your suite, the air between you is charged, thick with the unspoken. You can feel the intensity radiating off of him, the silent fury he’s held in check for hours.

Toto doesn’t say a word as he leads you further into the room, his hand firm but deliberate on your back. He stops in the center, the large bed looming just behind you. His eyes lock onto yours, dark and unreadable, and you can see the storm brewing in them. The weight of his gaze alone is enough to make your knees feel weak.

“You know why we’re here,” Toto finally says, his voice low, steady, but carrying an unmistakable edge. It’s not a question. It’s a statement, a reminder of the man he is — and the man you belong to.

You swallow, your heart beating faster in your chest. You nod, your voice caught in your throat as you hold his gaze. The tension is palpable, and there’s a part of you that already knows where this is going, already craves it.

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, but your voice is soft, almost tentative. You’re not pleading, not really. You know that this is about something deeper, something that goes beyond the surface of what happened at the dinner.

Toto’s eyes narrow slightly, and he tilts his head, studying you for a moment. “No, you didn’t,” he agrees, but there’s a pause, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you. “But you let him think he had a chance.”

Your breath catches in your throat at the accusation, but you know better than to argue. There’s a gleam in his eyes now, something dark and possessive that makes your pulse race. It’s not anger — not really — but something more primal. A need to assert his claim, to remind you, in no uncertain terms, who you belong to.

Without another word, Toto moves to the nightstand, his movements controlled, deliberate. You watch him, your heart pounding in your chest, as he opens the drawer and pulls out the familiar length of the chain. The sight of it — white gold, gleaming in the soft light — sends a shiver down your spine.

He holds it up for a moment, letting it dangle between his fingers, the weight of the chain swaying gently in the air. His eyes flick back to you, dark and intent.

“On the bed,” he says simply, his voice firm, leaving no room for hesitation.

You move without question, the familiar pull of his command guiding you. Your body reacts instinctively, your legs carrying you to the edge of the bed. You lower yourself onto it, the cool fabric of the sheets brushing against your skin as you lie back, your heart hammering in your chest.

Toto’s gaze never leaves you as he steps closer, the chain still clutched in his hand. He moves with the quiet authority that always sends a thrill through you, his presence filling the room as he towers over you. His eyes rake over your body, lingering on the curve of your waist, the way your chest rises and falls with each breath.

“You’re mine,” he says softly, but there’s no mistaking the intensity in his voice. “And I need you to remember that.”

You nod, your breath catching in your throat as his words sink in, reverberating through you. You already know it — know it in the deepest parts of you — but there’s something about the way he says it now, the way the chain gleams in his hand, that makes you feel it all over again.

Toto kneels beside the bed, his hand sliding over your thigh as he reaches for the delicate hoop piercing. His touch is gentle, but you can feel the heat in it, the barely restrained control as he attaches the chain. The sensation of the cool metal against your skin sends a jolt of awareness through you, your body already responding to him, to the unspoken promise in his touch.

Once the chain is secure, Toto stands again, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He gives the chain a light tug, testing it, and the sensation sends a thrill through you — a reminder of the control he has, of the power dynamic that exists between you.

“Crawl to me,” he commands, his voice low, steady.

The words hang in the air for a moment, and then you move, the weight of the chain pulling against you as you shift to your hands and knees. The sensation of crawling, of being pulled by the delicate chain, sends a rush of heat through you, every nerve in your body attuned to him.

You move slowly, deliberately, each motion guided by the subtle pull of the chain as you make your way toward him. The distance between you feels both too far and too close, the tension between you growing with each inch you close. Toto’s eyes never leave you, watching your every movement with a dark intensity that makes your heart race.

When you finally reach him, you stop, kneeling at his feet, the chain taut between you. Your breathing is shallow, your body thrumming with anticipation as you wait for his next move.

Toto’s eyes darken, and for a moment, he says nothing, simply looking down at you with a kind of possessive hunger that makes your skin tingle. Then, slowly, he reaches down and unzips his pants, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Your breath hitches, your eyes widening as the reality of the moment sinks in. The tension, the anticipation, the slow, deliberate way he’s orchestrating this — it’s overwhelming, intoxicating.

Toto steps closer, the chain still taut between you as he looks down at you with that same dark, commanding intensity. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. The weight of his gaze, the subtle pull of the chain, the way his body towers over you — it all speaks volumes.

Your eyes flick up to his, and in that moment, you know exactly what he wants, exactly what he’s asking of you without saying a word. And you give in, the same way you always do — willingly, eagerly, knowing that this, this moment, is a reminder of everything that you are to him, and everything he is to you.

Your hands move slowly, trembling slightly, as you reach for him, your fingers brushing against the waistband of his pants. You hesitate for a brief second, but you know this is what he wants. No, it’s more than that — it’s what he needs. The reminder of control, of dominance, of the fact that you are his in every possible way.

His hand tightens around the chain, a light but unmistakable tug, guiding you closer, urging you forward. Your heart pounds in your chest, your body already humming with the anticipation of what’s to come. You undo his belt with slow, deliberate movements, your breath shallow as you pull the pants down, freeing him from the confines of the tailored fabric. The silence between you crackles with tension, the only sound the subtle clink of metal and your own uneven breathing.

Toto doesn’t say anything, but his hand remains firm on the chain, pulling gently, reminding you of the invisible line tethering you to him. His presence is overwhelming, his control absolute, and you find yourself moving without question, guided entirely by the silent commands in his eyes.

You lean forward, your lips brushing against the soft skin at the base of him, and the low groan that escapes his throat is enough to send a shiver through you. You know that sound well — it’s the sound of his approval, the sound of him letting go of the tightly held control that always simmers beneath the surface. You take him into your mouth slowly, carefully, your tongue swirling as you adjust to the weight of him, the taste of him.

Toto’s breath hitches, his hand gripping the chain a little tighter, and you know you’re doing exactly what he wants. He’s still watching you, his dark eyes never leaving your face as you take him deeper, your hands resting lightly on his thighs for balance. The connection between you — the chain, the tension in the air, the way he’s completely focused on you — is intoxicating, overwhelming in the best possible way.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper, but it sends a thrill through you nonetheless. His fingers tug on the chain lightly, almost as if testing you, reminding you of the power dynamic, the control he holds so effortlessly.

You hum in response, the vibrations traveling through him, and his low groan tells you all you need to know. You work him slowly, methodically, your movements deliberate as you take him deeper, inch by inch. Every sound he makes, every slight tug on the chain, spurs you on, and you can feel the heat building between you, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

But Toto isn’t just letting you take control. His grip on the chain tightens again, and this time, when he tugs, it’s firmer, more insistent. The movement sends a jolt through your body, forcing you to take him deeper than before, pushing you to your limit.

You gasp around him, your throat constricting slightly as he presses further, the sensation intense, but not unbearable. He’s guiding you, controlling you, and you can feel the way he’s holding back, teetering on the edge of his own restraint.

“You know exactly what I need,” Toto murmurs, his voice thick with desire, and the words send a fresh wave of heat through you. “Show me.”

You obey without hesitation, your hands tightening on his thighs as you take him deeper again, your body trembling with the effort to keep up with his rhythm. His hand never leaves the chain, the slight tension a constant reminder of his control, his dominance, the fact that you belong to him entirely in this moment.

As you work him with slow, practiced movements, you can feel him beginning to lose control, his breath coming faster, his hips shifting ever so slightly. He’s close, and you know it. You can feel it in the way his grip on the chain tightens, in the low growls that escape his throat, in the way his body tenses beneath your touch.

And then, he gives the chain one more, hard tug.

The force of it sends a shockwave through you, your body jolting forward as he pushes you to take him completely. The sudden movement, the intensity of the moment, takes you by surprise, and you struggle for a second, your throat constricting around him as you try to keep up. You choke slightly, your body rebelling against the overwhelming sensation, but Toto is there, always in control, always aware of you.

His hand moves to your throat, massaging gently, his touch both grounding and soothing as he helps you adjust. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle at the same time. “Just breathe.”

You do as he says, forcing yourself to relax, to trust him, to let go. The tension in your throat eases under his touch, and you manage to swallow, the sensation intense but bearable now that he’s guiding you through it. He watches you closely, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his hand still massaging your throat as you swallow again, taking him in fully.

“That’s it,” Toto whispers, his voice thick with approval. “Good girl. You can take it.”

You nod slightly, your body trembling as you continue to work him, the weight of his hand on your throat a grounding presence as you find your rhythm again. His breathing is ragged now, his body tense as he hovers on the edge, and you know it won’t be long before he lets go completely.

He tugs on the chain again, his grip firm but measured, and the sensation sends another jolt of heat through you, your body reacting instinctively to his control. You’re close to your own edge now, the intensity of the moment pushing you closer and closer, and you know that he’s orchestrating this perfectly, guiding you both to the brink.

“Look at me,” Toto commands, his voice rough with desire.

You force your eyes up to meet his, the intensity of his gaze sending a fresh wave of heat through you. His eyes are dark, focused, filled with the kind of possessive hunger that makes your breath catch. And then, with a final tug on the chain, he tips you both over the edge.

The sensation hits you like a tidal wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You choke slightly, your throat constricting around him again, but his hand is still there, massaging, guiding, helping you through it. You swallow as best as you can, your body trembling with the effort, but Toto’s control, his steady hand on your throat, keeps you grounded.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he watches you struggle, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

You do. You let go completely, trusting him to guide you through it, to help you navigate the overwhelming sensations. You manage to swallow again, the intensity of it making your head spin, but Toto’s touch keeps you grounded, keeps you tethered to reality as the moment finally begins to pass.

When it’s over, you collapse against him, your body completely spent, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Toto is still holding the chain, still in control, but his touch is gentler now, soothing as he strokes your hair, his fingers brushing lightly over your skin.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of approval as he pulls you close, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. “You did so well.”

You nod weakly, your body still trembling from the intensity of the moment, but there’s a deep sense of satisfaction settling over you now. You did what he needed, what you both needed, and the weight of that accomplishment fills you with a quiet, powerful sense of contentment.

Toto presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips soft against your skin as he holds you close. The chain still dangles between you, a silent reminder of the bond that ties you together, the connection that goes deeper than words. But for now, it’s just the two of you, tangled together in the aftermath, completely in tune with each other.

And in this moment, there’s no doubt in your mind that you are his. Entirely, completely, undoubtedly his.

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 1

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Requested: Yes, thank you @remmysthings for his request, I loved it so much!!! Summary: Single mom Y/N takes her son to meet Lando and Oscar and might be going home with more than just memories :) Words: 2158 Click here for Part 2

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

Y/N glanced at her watch, her heart racing almost as fast as the cars she was about to see. The Formula 1 paddock was alive with activity as the teams prepped for the big race. Her 4-year-old son, Noah, was practically vibrating with excitement since he’d learned about this special Meet & Greet. The thought of introducing Noah to his racing heroes had kept Y/N going through some tough days and she hoped it would be worth every effort.

Noah had been a fan of racing from a very young age. His room was decorated with posters of race cars and he could name every driver from the top of his head. When Y/N had managed to secure a Meet & Greet with Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri she felt like she’d won the lottery. She knew this would be a day Noah would remember forever and she was determined to make it as special as possible.

As they approached the designated area, Y/N spotted the two drivers standing together. Lando was chatting animatedly with Oscar, both men looking relaxed in their team gear. Noah’s eyes widened and he tugged on Y/N’s hand, pulling her forward impatiently.

“Mommy, look! It’s Lando! And Oscar!” Noah squealed, his face lit up with sheer joy.

Lando’s gaze fell on them first. His eyes softened and a bright, genuine smile spread across his face. “Hey there, little guy” he called out, waving energetically.

Noah’s shyness melted away as he saw his idol waving at him. He tugged Y/N’s hand again, urging her to hurry. Y/N, feeling a bit nervous, walked over to them with a smile and extended her hand. “Hello, I’m Y/N, and this is Noah. It’s so nice to meet you both.”

“It’s great to meet you, Y/N and you too, Noah. Are you excited to see the cars up close?” Oscar greeted them with a friendly smile and Noah’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Yes! I love the loud vroom-vroom noises!”

Lando crouched down to Noah’s level, his eyes twinkling amused. “I think you’re going to love it even more when you see them up close. How about you come see the garage with us?”

“Yes, please” Noah shouted loudly while jumping up and down.

Lando took the boy's hand and led him towards the garage, Oscar and Y/N following them closely. “So, Y/N, what’s your story? How did you end up as Noah’s biggest racing supporter?” Oscar asked the young woman next to him.

“Well, it’s been just Noah and me for a while now. He’s always had a fascination with cars and I guess I just got caught up in his enthusiasm. This is a big deal for us, and it means a lot to be here today.”

Oscar nodded. “I can imagine. It’s wonderful to see such a strong bond and it’s great that Noah has something he’s so passionate about.”

As they walked through the paddock, Y/N noticed how Lando effortlessly engaged with Noah. His energy and enthusiasm were infectious. Noah was asking questions about the car’s features and Lando was answering with technical details and playful banter.

“Noah’s a natural. He might be a future racer,” Lando glanced back at Y/N with a smile. “He’s pretty great, just like his mom, I bet. You must be pretty good at handling all this excitement.”

Y/N laughed, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. “I try my best.”

Oscar, catching the look Lando was giving Y/N, raised an eyebrow but kept his mouth shut. “And what about you, Y/N? What’s your favorite part about racing?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, not wanting to admit that she’s not an expert in Formula 1, but eventually decided to be honest. “I’m not as into the technical details as Noah is, but I love seeing him so happy and excited. It makes everything worth it.”

“I can see that, it’s clear how much you care about him,” Lando smiled, his eyes softening with understanding.

The young boy’s excitement was visible when the group approached the race engineer area. Noah got more and more hyper, still holding onto Lando’s hand as he followed his idol to a series of high-tech computers and screens. “This is where we monitor everything during the race,” the British driver explained to the boy, “it’s like the car’s brain, keeping track of all the data.”

Y/N was astonished at the amount of screens displaying real-time performance data. “It’s incredible how much technology goes into this. I’ve never seen anything like it up close.”

Lando smiled, clearly enjoying her fascination with it as well. “It can be a bit overwhelming at first, but it’s all about making sure everything runs perfectly. It’s quite a thrill, actually. Do you want to see the car up close now?” He eventually asked the little boy who was still holding onto him.

Lando and Noah quickly were engrossed in a lively discussion about the car, the boy standing next to the vehicle and the driver kneeling beside him, showing the 4-year-old the various parts of the car and answering his questions.

When Lando noticed Y/N watching from a few feet away, he waved at her with a grin. He couldn’t help but notice how the light seemed to highlight her features, giving her a beautiful glow. Her smile, warm and genuine, made Lando’s heart skip a beat and he admired how her eyes lit up with curiosity at the things she was seeing and love for her little boy.

After a few more minutes of inspecting the car Lando lifted the 4-year-old up to sit in the driver’s seat, and Noah’s eyes widened in awe. “Wow! It’s so cool!”

Lando grinned, clearly enjoying Noah’s reaction. “You look like you belong there.”

Noah beamed up at him, then glanced over at Y/N with a look of pure delight. “Mommy, look” he shouted in excitement, ”I’m in the car!”

“So? What do you think about our garage?” Lando asked Y/N while Noah was pretending to drive and making noises. Oscar sensed how Lando seemed to want a moment with Y/N, so he moved himself next to Noah and explained the different buttons on the steering wheel. 

“It’s fascinating. I never realized how much goes into managing a car during a race.”

“What’s been the most surprising part for you so far?” Lando’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, but Y/N didn’t seem to notice. She thought about his question for a moment. “I think it’s how much detail and precision is involved. I mean, I knew racing was complex, but seeing it all laid out like this is eye-opening.”

Lando nodded, clearly pleased with her insight. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Every little detail matters. That’s why we work so hard to get everything just right.”

The young woman nodded, smiling up to him. He was struck again by how pretty she looked. There was something genuinely captivating about her and he found himself drawn to her.

“Noah’s been asking some really good questions. He’s got a real passion for this, doesn’t he?” Lando commented, trying to keep the conversation going while his mind wandered to how lovely Y/N was.

Y/N’s face softened when she heard his words, happy and proud that somebody other than just his own mother noticed the passion her son had. “He definitely does. He’s been fascinated with racing since he could talk, so today his dream came true.”

Lando’s smile grew warmer as he looked back at Y/N. “It’s wonderful to see that kind of enthusiasm. And I have to say, you’re pretty amazing yourself, Y/N, not just for bringing Noah here, but for supporting his dreams and how you’re handling all of this. It must be hard taking care of him by yourself.”

As Y/N smiled, touched by his words “Thank you, Lando. That’s really sweet of you to say,” her cheeks flushing, “some days are hard but he’s a great kid.”

The driver admired her but also felt something deeper. He genuinely enjoyed her company and it was clear that her kindness and beauty, inside and out, had made a lasting impression on him. While she was watching her son still chatting with Oscar Lando once again was fascinated by the young woman next to him. He usually wasn’t the type to be nervous to flirt with girls but with Y/N it was different. 

He felt himself get nervous but decided to say what he wanted to say anyway. “I’ve really enjoyed today, Y/N. How about I give you my number? Maybe I can show you around the track properly sometime or you can text me anytime you want to know more about racing or just chat.”

Y/N smiled, easing Lando’s nervousness. “I’d like that,” she nodded, fished her phone out of her pocket and handed it to the driver who had an equally big smile on his face while he put his number into her contacts.

After a few more moments of admiring the car and asking the two drivers a dozen questions, it was time for Noah and Y/N to say goodbye.

“Hey, let’s take some pictures to remember today,” Lando suggested. Everyone eagerly agreed, and they started positioning themselves for a series of fun shots. Oscar and Y/N posed together first while Noah playfully peeped out from behind them.

After a few group photos, Lando had a special request. “Oscar, can you take a picture of me with Y/N and Noah? I want to have a shot with just us.”

Lando quickly lifted Noah up onto his hip. The boy snuggled against him, eyes wide with awe and a beaming grin on his little face. Lando then slung an arm around Y/N, drawing her close and after a few seconds of hesitation Y/N leaned into Lando’s side.

Oscar, who had been watching with a smile, realized that this scene looked like a perfect family photo. The way Lando had Noah securely on his hip and the way his arm was wrapped around Y/N gave the impression of a cute little family enjoying a special day together. 

The Australian raised his phone and captured the moment and after reviewing the photo and agreeing that it perfectly captured their time together, the group exchanged hugs and well-wishes but Lando had one more surprise for Noah. He handed him a signed McLaren bear with a personal note, and Noah clutched it tightly, his eyes shining with happiness.

“Thank you so much, this was the best day ever!” Noah exclaimed.

“You’re welcome, buddy, it was great meeting you. Maybe we’ll see you at another race again soon,” he crouched down once more to give the little boy a hug. “Noah, keep being awesome. I’ll be waving at you from the track.”

As Y/N and Noah left the paddock, Lando and Oscar remained behind. The Brit couldn’t help but smile at how this normal day had turned into something unexpectedly amazing. The two drivers walked toward the team's hospitality area and Oscar smirked at his teammate. “You seemed to have quite a connection with Y/N today. Not just the way you were with Noah, but with her too.”

Lando chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, she’s great, isn’t she? It was really nice talking to her. She’s got this warmth about her and Noah’s excitement was just infectious.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “So, you’re saying you might have a bit of a soft spot for her?”

“Maybe I do,” Lando shrugged and felt a blush creep onto his face, “she’s kind, genuine and really down-to-earth. It’s not everyday you meet someone who can handle all this racing stuff and meet someone famous and still make you feel like you’re talking to a friend.”

Oscar’s grin widened. “Sounds like you’re pretty taken with her. You know, it’s not just about the job. It’s nice to have those connections outside of racing, especially when you meet someone who makes the whole experience more memorable.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Lando nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s been a while since I felt this way with someone and seeing how happy Noah was today, it just added to everything.”

Oscar patted Lando on the back. “Well, if you’re interested in getting to know her better, you should definitely make an effort.”

“I think I will. I hope she texts me, I gave her my number and I really want to see if we can catch up one day.” Lando couldn’t help but smile, already looking forward to the possibility of hearing from Y/N. The thought of continuing their connection and seeing where it might lead was exciting and he hoped that today’s encounter would turn into something more...

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Click here for Part 2