#because it's so much easier to give up and you can't let yourself do that

[aq2003]

i feel like some people r missing the tragedy of timebomb somewhat bc i've seen a few ppl say that ekko was only in love with powder in the alt universe and not jinx, and it's like.. first of all they are the same person. they are the same person in different circumstances. but secondly ekko seeing that good universe, i think, instilled in him the belief that fixing the problems in his universe was still possible, that peace between piltover and zaun was still possible, that jinx wasn't doomed or irredeemable. ppl highlight his selflessness in being able to leave the good universe behind, but i think a big part of WHY he left was bc of the hope he had for his world. that's why timebomb is so tragic to me! ekko returned with the drive to make everything right, strengthened by knowing it wasn't some unattainable out-of-reach goal. and he came so so so close but was still a little too late

[eraserbread]

Pleaseeeee, I'm begging you.... I need to know how Nanami react when his wife finally tell him she's pregnant and his not crazy this whole time.

click 4 context :)

nanami swears he's never seen you eat deep-fried... anything. it wasn't that you weren't keen; it just never fell into your lap. whenever you two ate outside of home, you found yourself walking hand-in-hand through the doors of your favorite hole-in-the-wall ramen shop.

but, tonight, you begged him. nearly cried with a jutted lip for something you never had, but doom-scrolled past on social media.

now you're sitting in front of him, back straight as an arrow as you uncharacteristically shovel steaming-hot slices of gyukatsu between your glossed lips.

he watches you hardly, flicking his eyes every few moments to catch the way your lips shake, or how you do that stupid little happy dance when you get the perfect bite. he's tending to his curried rice, eating slowly—your exact opposite. he smiles to himself, letting the table remain quiet with your content hums until you bite your tongue and whine out.

"slow down, my love." he speaks after swallowing his bite, leaning back. he can see the slight flush heading across your familiar neck as you react to his buttery voice.

"i'm so sorry. how impolite of me."

"well, i don't care much. just don't want you to burn or... bite yourself further." he nodding towards the sizzling hot stone just in your reach—a dangerous pairing with your eagerness.

flushed under fluttering gold lighting, kento swears you're beaming just a bit stronger. there's a tint to your cheeks that isn't usually there, a gleam that didn't exist until a month ago. he furrows his eyebrows.

"don't stare!"

"thank you for indulging me tonight." you smile as he bends at the knee to remove your shoes at your doorway. you're leaning a hand on the frame, body and mind full of wagyu and kento. "I know you've had a long day at work."

"long day or not, when you tell me you want something..." he pauses, grunting as he stands. "I listen. always. well, most likely."

you giggle, reaching up to hold the back of his neck. the small buzz of his undercut feels fuzzy and familiar—like home. "you're a good husband."

you don't notice, but kento does. the small lisp you give him in speech—he knows it's from your bruised tongue—he hums. "does it hurt a lot? your poor tongue?"

shaking your head, you're smiling. "no... yes... a little bit."

"may I see?" he's so close to you that his words bounce off of your lips like smog—so salty and warm. you nod immediately, always letting him in. "open up."

you're giggling again. "yes, sir." then you keep them parted, dropping your jaw so he can see inside of your warm mouth. you can hear his breathing in the closeness, the drag of his voice against his vocal cords as he inspects.

it's when he presses his finger against the side of your tongue, does it hit you. a debilitating, familiar wave of dizziness. then, you're weak and dipping, knees falling.

right before kento catches you with a single-arm hold on your back, he doesn't make a sound, but the look on his face is terrified. "nanami? are you okay? can you stand?"

it takes you a moment to focus, but his words make it easier. you shake your head, gently. "must've been the exertion."

"why don't you go sit? i'll bring you something, would you like tea?"

"i would love it. thank you."

so, he trusts your balance, but he lets you go like he's nervous. it's only to walk to the couch, but it seems as if you just can't catch your footing. then, you stall and lean to the side—he rushes you, sweeping you up in a cradle.

"no. straight to bed."

"i'm sorry." you whine, burying your head in the pillow when he places you on the mattress.

"i'm calling the doctor now. i've never seen you like this." he's keeping his promise in his perfect timing, scrolling through his contact list with a shaking head. you're staring up at him in horror, heart hammering in your chest, because you don't need a doctor. you know what's wrong.

"n-no, please don't... it's so late."

"doctors take call just like i do." then, he finds it, and just before his thumb presses that shiny green 'call now' button, you're stuffing your face into the pillow, letting it muffle your breathing.

"i'm pregnant." you whine into the fluff, hands twisted tight in the material. you hope he can't hear you, but it's far too late to take it back.

"hm?" kento heard you. crystal fucking clear. but, he's doing that unsure little eyebrow cock, thumb shaking as it hovers over his phone. "what?" he repeats.

"p-pregnant... i'm pregnant." it feels like lava pouring from your soul, so white-hot and shameful, because you've been hiding it for well over two months.

he scoffs, putting his phone down and burying his forehead in his big hand. there's a smirk there—very slight. you don't see it. "ah, well... yes, I suppose that explains it... all."

"please don't be mad at me, it's your fault."

"mine? how?"

"if you just..." you're still talking into the pillow, letting it do the heavy lifting. "you're always on top of me; it's like I can't keep you away."

kento laughs again, it's the most joyless sound that sparks so much within you. he nods, then sits down right next to you, smoothing a hand over the swell of your hips. "if it were possible to choose, i'd like to die on top of you—or inside of you."

"not funny." you're on the verge of tears, feeling the hormonal angst hit you like a ton of bricks.

kento clicks his teeth, then pushes your shoulder to get your flushed face free. "I wasn't trying to be... look, I am not mad-the direct opposite, actually." he's whispering, tracing that hand over your face. you're so warm, so free, now. "I am so happy. relieved that it wasn't something else, too."

"but i'm so scared."

"that's okay. so am i... both happy and scared and relieved; in love with you, your ways, and your spirit." that hand trails back down your side, then it rests right over your lower stomach, thumb rubbing across the covered skin. "and this little one we created together." when he presses, he can feel the firmness that wasn't usually there. "I don't think we will be very good at first, but i'd like it very much if we taught each other how to be the gentlest parents possible."

now, you're crying. it's falling in waves and buckets, snotting up your pillow and eliciting embarrassing sounds from your throat. you're kicking your feet, so built up and unsure where to expel it. "whyyyy," you sob, reaching to twist your smaller fist in his shirt. "why would you say that to me? I'm gonna explode—it's so-

"what are you talking about?" he cuts you off, cradling your clenched fist to his chest. he really just wants to wipe those tears away and make love, but he's kind of... afraid. you'll probably bite him just like your tongue.

"when you talk to me like that... it's so... i can feel it."

"hm... do you think our baby can feel it? i wonder if she can hear us."

"she? i feel like it's a boy."

"no." he whispers, shaking his head, and so sweetly purrs, "definitely a girl."

[porcupine-girl]

An important message to college students: Why you shouldn't use ChatGPT or other "AI" to write papers.

Here's the thing: Unlike plagiarism, where I can always find the exact source a student used, it's difficult to impossible to prove that a student used ChatGPT to write their paper. Which means I have to grade it as though the student wrote it.

So if your professor can't prove it, why shouldn't you use it?

Well, first off, it doesn't write good papers. Grading them as if the student did write it themself, so far I've given GPT-enhanced papers two Ds and an F.

If you're unlucky enough to get a professor like me, they've designed their assignments to be hard to plagiarize, which means they'll also be hard to get "AI" to write well. To get a good paper out of ChatGPT for my class, you'd have to write a prompt that's so long, with so many specifics, that you might as well just write the paper yourself.

ChatGPT absolutely loves to make broad, vague statements about, for example, what topics a book covers. Sadly for my students, I ask for specific examples from the book, and it's not so good at that. Nor is it good at explaining exactly why that example is connected to a concept from class. To get a good paper out of it, you'd have to have already identified the concepts you want to discuss and the relevant examples, and quite honestly if you can do that it'll be easier to write your own paper than to coax ChatGPT to write a decent paper.

The second reason you shouldn't do it?

IT WILL PUT YOUR PROFESSOR IN A REALLY FUCKING BAD MOOD. WHEN I'M IN A BAD MOOD I AM NOT GOING TO BE GENEROUS WITH MY GRADING.

I can't prove it's written by ChatGPT, but I can tell. It does not write like a college freshman. It writes like a professional copywriter churning out articles for a content farm. And much like a large language model, the more papers written by it I see, the better I get at identifying it, because it turns out there are certain phrases it really, really likes using.

Once I think you're using ChatGPT I will be extremely annoyed while I grade your paper. I will grade it as if you wrote it, but I will not grade it generously. I will not give you the benefit of the doubt if I'm not sure whether you understood a concept or not. I will not squint and try to understand how you thought two things are connected that I do not think are connected.

Moreover, I will continue to not feel generous when calculating your final grade for the class. Usually, if someone has been coming to class regularly all semester, turned things in on time, etc, then I might be willing to give them a tiny bit of help - round a 79.3% up to a B-, say. If you get a 79.3%, you will get your C+ and you'd better be thankful for it, because if you try to complain or claim you weren't using AI, I'll be letting the college's academic disciplinary committee decide what grade you should get.

Eventually my school will probably write actual guidelines for me to follow when I suspect use of AI, but for now, it's the wild west and it is in your best interest to avoid a showdown with me.

[writersdrug]

Price getting reader a step stool cause she keeps asking Bartender!Ghost to reach stuff for her. Simon obviously brakes it when no ones looking. 👀🤭

LOL

"Is this your way of insulting me?" You ask, holding the colorful, children's stepstool in your hands. You're grimacing at it, a look that has Price chuckling as he folds up the bag from the store.

"I figured you could use it - now ya don't have to wait for Simon to grab anything for you." He says, patting you on the shoulder.

"I don't mind the wait..." You mumble under your breath. The stool feels as decorative as a clowns nose as you tuck it under your arm and head towards the stairs. "I'm keeping it upstairs, I don't need customers laughing at me when I pull this out. Might take it home and spray paint it."

"Suit yourself." Price calls as you bound up the stairs. He heads over to the bar, where Simon is currently polishing the glasses you convinced him to order for the Halloween drink.

"Got a problem with me helpin' 'er?" Simon says, thick fingers rubbing the glass with a rag. He doesn't mean to sound defensive... but he can't help the bite in his tone.

Price smirks, picking up on the jealousy laced into Simon's words. "Thought you might like it. Makes your life easier, and 'ers." He pops open the register and starts filtering through the bills, replacing the larger value ones with smaller ones.

"You don't think I'm capable of runnin' a bar and helping you waitress at the same time?"

"No, but I think you'd be better off if you didn't have to run so much. She's brought in so much business as it is, your workload's gotten heavier."

Simon huffs. "Ya just want to separate us, hm? Want 'er all to yourself." He jokes, grabbing another glass and buffing it.

Price shrugs. "And if I am?" He says, giving him a side glance.

Ghost slows his ministrations, turning his head to his captain. They both stare at each other for a moment, Simon with his slightly angry, slightly questioning glare, and Price with his unwavering eyes. Simon wants to tell him to back down, that you're his - but he can't say that, because you aren't his. He wants you to be. But he doesn't know how to make it happen without letting his walls down.

Price chuckles, turning back to the register to continue swapping bills. "Y'know, if you want to say somethin' you'd best say it." He comments, snapping the drawer shut. "Missed opportunities often come from miscommunication."

He leaves Simon at the bar, heading towards the stairs with his money folder. You jog down the steps and nearly crash into him - he quickly grabs your shoulders and spins you out of the way before you can collide with him. You throw a "sorry!" over your shoulder as you carry an armful of various fruits, leaving Price chuckling as he ascends the stairs to the office.

"The oranges up there aren't looking too great." You chirp, dumping the fruit onto his workspace. A few lemons and limes roll onto the floor, and you bend down to chase them. Simon watches you, a bit miffed at how unaware you were of the situation. What do you think of Price? Do you like him? Would you flirt with him as much as you do with Simon?

You return with the escaped fruit. "I can run to Sevvy's store and grab some for tonight, if you want? The ones upstairs are looking a bit pruney."

"Are you actually gonna use that thing?"

"Huh?" You look at him with confusion written on your face. "What thing?"

"The stool." He looks down at you, his expression unreadable. "'S a bit demeaning, don'tcha think?"

You paused, watching him move the fruit to the side and grab a plastic cutting board. "I mean... he bought it, and I wouldn't have to bug you so much. If I spray paint it black or something, it won't look that ridiculous."

He nods. "Hm."

"I used it to grab the fruit."

"That's interestin'." He mumbles, slicing through an orange. You were right, they have seen better days.

He turns to pop open the register and hands you some bills. "Go get a few oranges, no more than ten. Order should be comin' in tomorrow."

You smile and take the money, stuffing it in your back pocket. With a few hours remaining before the restaurant opens, you go through the kitchen, grab your jacket, and head out the back.

Simon's back to chopping fruit and dumping it into a small bin, bitterly thinking over what Price had said. It's a stool. Price got it to help you and himself. It was a thoughtful purchase. But it's not just that. However unserious this is to Price, he's trying to rile Simon up. He's treating you like the last slice of cake in the tin - Price would like to have it, but he knows Simon's groveling for it. He's forcing Simon to ask for what he wants, and the bartender doesn't like that one bit. Normally, it wouldn't be something that irks him so easily - but this is you we're talking about. Not just anything. You. He wants to grab Price by the collar and throw him into next week with how he's trying to wedge between you and Simon - but he doesn't like having a weakness. He'll keep his cool for now. He'll make a move... eventually.

For now, the only aggressive side he'll present is passive.

Price leaves late that night, somewhere between two and three in the morning. He's beat, spending most of the night between helping you run food and drinks, and fifo-ing the pantry and overflow rooms. He's planning for a day off - of course, after he goes to the bank and comes back here to pay everyone. He's jealous of Simon, who's already upstairs for the night - he wishes he only had a short trip to the third floor before he could crash into his bed. Rather, he has to trek a hefty number of blocks home through the dark streets. He's more worried about going to bed at a decent hour than walking around at night with a bag full of money - people usually steer clear of him when they see his stature.

He locks the back door behind him, puffing out a foggy breath into the frigid air. It's only getting colder - he'll have to break out his gloves and scarf soon. The beanie won't be enough. He shoves one hand into his pocket, the other holding a small bag of trash from the office. He mentally ticks off what he needs to do this week as he grabs the garbage bins, dragging them behind him and towards the street for the trucks to empty in the morning. He pushes them against the store front, taking the lid off and dropping the light trash bag inside.

The loud thunk makes him do a double take. Did he throw away something important? He lifts the bag once again, and a disappointed expression falls upon his face. The colorful kiddie stool he bought for you is there, pieces snapped apart and shoved deep into the bin. Simon didn't even try to hide it underneath the other bags. It's almost like he left it there for Price to catch.

He sighs, dropping the bag and placing the lid back. He trudged down the sidewalk towards his home - he's not too upset by it. He had a feeling Ghost was sinking his teeth into you, and frankly, it's gotten to the point where Price is afraid of what the man might do if someone else tries to take you away. But damn, if his ex-lieutenant's going to make a move, he'd better make a fucking move. For your sake, if not his own.

He pulls his phone from his pocked and shoots Simon a quick, blunt message.

You're paying me back for that.

[mushies-stories]

Naruto men eating you out 18+

Warning: oral, smut, 18+

Kakashi

He is a little lazy about it. Slow and kind of does his own thing. Having you on your back is his favorite position to have you in. just so he can lay comfortable between your soft thighs and lick at your sweet little pussy at his own leisure. 

“You taste so good. Could stay like this for hours, would you like?”

It's not like he doesn't focus on your actual pleasure though, in fact he is quite in tune with every reaction you have and what does make you feel good. He knows if he adds just a bit more pressure, licked or sucked a little more and you'd be pushed right over the edge. 

He simply just loves to listen to you, feel the way your legs twitch in his hold, everything about you. Until you finally gasp out how much you need to cum, he's perfectly content savouring every lick. Even then, he can never just stop at that. He needs your pussy to be a dripping mess and you to be nice and worn out to feel like he's done a good enough job.

Sasuke

A fucking tease. Something about watching you struggle to hold yourself up right when he's kneeling down between your legs makes his cock switch. One leg over his shoulder while he grabs your hips to keep you still. Even when he's the one who initiated the interaction, he never lets you cum right away. He teases you before even giving your pussy a single lick. Biting and sucking little bruises on your thighs. 

Pushes you to the edge over and over. Even when you beg him to let you cum, if he's in a mod he simply just pulls back and nips at your thighs. 

“Oh no, no cumming until I tell you too.” 

Once he finally lets you cum, he keeps going until you can't help but cum again and again. He doesnt let you stop until your legs cant hold you up anymore. Until you're falling into his lap with shaky legs.

Kiba

Will devour your pussy. His favorite thing is spending hours with his face in your cunt, making a mess of you. However… because it's in my head, I can't stop thinking about how if you both were training or on a mission with some down time, he would have you bent over a log with your pants and panties around your thighs or ankles and just going for it. Getting maybe a little feral about it. 

Licking you from behind and shoving his tongue deep in your pussy. Wrapping his hands around the front of your thighs and yanking you back if you try to pull away. Growling into your dripping pussy and making sure you cum hard so he can slurp up your mess. 

“See, no one's watching, just let me taste you a little more.”

Doesnt stop until you tell him, or you know someone was approaching. Probably happened once and now the man jumps at every opportunity to do it again. 

Shikamaru

Also lazy, but even more than kakashi. Likes to lay on his back and be able to pull you down onto his face. It's not the only way he will, but it's the usual way he will. Does not hold back on trying however, he puts all of his efforts into his tongue game. 

Knows your body like the back of your hand and has your legs shaking around him in no time. Knows what to say to make your pussy dripping for him, touches you in all the right stops and sucks your clit just right. Teases you with his tongue until you're whining about needing to cum. 

“So wet, about to cum? Go on, let go for me.”

Pull you back by the hips and take everything you have to give him when you finally cum, making a mess of his face. His hold on you never lets go. Hell give your thighs a few kisses before diving back in. it's the least he can do, since he's so comfy.

Neji

Very focused on your pleasure. Like you on your back so he can look up and see you easier. Eye contact feels like a thing with him. While he's between your thighs and licks up your pussy and flicks your clit. Like to kind of experiment in a way of trying new moves or something he thinks you might like and seeing your reaction, reading your body. If you do, adds it to the list of things to make your pleasure even better. 

Likes when your fingers play with his hair and urges him closer, he happily obliges your needs. 

“Need me to make you feel good here? Don’t worry, I'll take care of you.”

When you cum he makes sure to help you ride through the high. He rubs your thighs and kisses your pussy softly as you come down. Loves how sensitive your body is after and can't wait too long before he's sliding his tongue back through your silky folds.

i hope y"all liked it!

[ellewritesx]

incidental charges

(part four of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: He takes what he wants. You give what's left.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (m!receiving), unprotected sex, degradation, slutshaming, mild discomfort/pain, Harry's really mean, this is an angsty one i'm sorry

A/N: i'm lowkey very proud of this one but oh boy you guys are going to hateee me. i listened to ''i wanna be yours'' by arctic monkeys on repeat while writing this part so i'd 100% recommend listening to that while reading this if you'd enjoy that. let me know your thoughts when you're finished. enjoy (and good luck) x

Word Count: 3,585

...

You know something's wrong the second your phone buzzes. Come over. Now.

Not because the message itself says it, but because of everything it doesn't say. No teasing command. No filthy promise. Not even the ghost of a smiley face, like he sometimes uses when he's feeling particularly cruel. Just three words. Brutal. Unforgiving. Final.

You haven't heard from him in days, and this is how he chooses to reach out?

You shouldn't be this easy. Shouldn't feel your pulse quicken at the first sharp order he throws your way. But you're already tugging on the tightest, prettiest dress you own, already slipping into the shoes you know he likes for some reason, already rushing out the door like he's got a leash around your throat and a hand fisted in it.

You're already thinking about what you can give him, what you can do for him, to make whatever anger is coiled tight in his chest a little easier to bear.

When he opens the door, he barely looks at you.

No greeting. No dragging gaze over your body the way he usually does, savoring the little effort you make just for him. He just steps aside without a word, or even a simple acknowledgement, letting you pass like your presence is something he merely tolerates.

Your stomach drops, but you bite it down. You can handle this. You want to handle this.

Inside, the air feels electric, charged with something hot and volatile. His jacket is already off, thrown carelessly over a chair, like he hadn't even had the patience to put it away properly.

You frown. If there's anything you've learned about Harry since your arrangement started (which isn't much, honestly), it's that he's a very neat person. Never once have you seen his shirts wrinkled, or his tie crooked, or yesterday's clothes still on the floor. Never once have you seen dirty dishes in the sink, or crumbs on the kitchen counter, or even so much as a crinkle in his satin bedsheets.

His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, veins bulging along the strong lines of his tattooed forearms. His jaw ticks once, twice, when he shuts the door behind you with a sharp, echoing click.

You turn to him instinctively, waiting for instruction, heart hammering against your ribs. But he doesn't say anything. He just stalks toward you with a hunger that's almost violent, yanks the strap of your dress down your shoulder, watches it slip halfway off your chest without even a flicker of appreciation.

It's not about how you look tonight. It's not about playing games. It's about need. About taking. About burning something off before it destroys him from the inside out.

You shiver under his hands but don't resist when he manhandles you backwards, walking you clumsily through the apartment toward the bedroom. You nearly trip over yourself, but he doesn't let you fall, just catches your hips in a bruising grip and drags you after him like he can't bear to waste a second more.

Still, you're so good. So desperate to soothe whatever anger he won't name. You don't even speak, just let yourself be pushed down onto the bed, legs falling open when he shoves at your thighs.

You want him to use you. You want to give him something real to anchor himself to.

Even if tonight, he's not reaching for you like a man reaching for salvation. Tonight, he's reaching like he wants to destroy something. And the worst part is, you want to let him.

You don't get a chance to breathe before he's crowding you on the mattress, pulling your dress up to your hips, baring your soaked underwear to his furious gaze.

''Course you're fucking wet,'' he mutters darkly, more to himself than to you, voice a low snarl. ''Knew you'd like being treated like this.''

Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him, let him strip you without so much as a whimper, watch your panties join the discarded pile of clothing on the floor. You spread your thighs wider when he forces your knees apart, giving him whatever he wants to take.

He doesn't even bother teasing you.

Two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and unforgiving, a guttural noise ripping from his throat when he feels how tight you clench down around him. You jolt with a soft cry, hips trying to squirm back from the abrupt stretch, but he's already got a bruising grip on your thigh, holding you down, open, forcing you to take it.

"Stay fucking still," he growls, curling his fingers viciously, seeking out that devastating spot inside you without an ounce of tenderness.

It hurts. It burns. But you take it, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, the sheer need to give him what he needs. Your hands clutch at the sheets, but you don't make a sound except the broken little gasps that slip from your throat when he pumps his hand faster, meaner, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit like he's trying to knock something loose inside you.

"You like that?" he sneers, watching your pretty face contort in helpless pleasure. "Like when I use you like a fuckin' toy?"

"Yes." You take a shaky breath, blinking up at him like he's the only thing that matters.

Something flashes behind his eyes, something sharp and vulnerable, but it's gone before you can catch it.

He pulls his fingers out roughly, shoving them into your mouth without warning, smearing your own slick over your tongue.

"You taste that?" he snaps. "That's what you're good for. The only thing you're good for."

The words land like a punch to the gut. You flinch, just barely, but he sees it. Sees the way your lashes flutter, the way hurt flashes in your eyes before you try to tamp it down.

He knows you don't like being talked to like that. He remembers. Knows exactly how much the insult must burn, sharp and humiliating on your tongue alongside the taste of yourself.

He wants it to hurt. Wants you to push him away, to finally shove him off and tell him to go fuck himself. Wants you to be angry with him, to look at him like he's the piece of shit he feels like tonight. It would be easier if you hated him. It would be safer.

But you don't.

You just suck his fingers obediently into your mouth, wide-eyed and willing, even as your throat tightens against the sting of his words. You take it, not because you don't feel it, but because you choose to stay anyway.

And that... that ruins him in a way he isn't prepared for.

Something almost like shame sparks behind his ribs, fast and unwelcome, but he smothers it down with the same furious instinct that made him lash out in the first place.

You don't fight him. You don't pull away, even when he fists your hair and drags you down to your knees on the floor at the edge of the bed.

"Open up," he orders, shrugging his pants and briefs off and tapping the thick head of his cock against your lips.

You do, without hesitation.

He groans brokenly under his breath as he drives himself into your mouth, too deep, too fast. Your throat strains around him, gagging, tears spilling hot and immediate down your cheeks, but you don't fight him. You dig your nails into his thighs and take it, blinking up at him through the wet haze clouding your vision, hollowing your cheeks even when you're fighting not to choke.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grits out, hips snapping hard enough to make you whimper around him. "Good little slut, lettin' me ruin you however I want. Aren't you, hm?"

The word slut cracks across your mind like a whip. You feel it hit, low and sharp, like scraping across an old bruise he promised he wouldn't touch. You'd told him. That night at the bar, when you first met, so many lifetimes ago, you'd told him that you don't like to be called names. That you take offense to it.

It makes something in your chest lurch, a bitter twist of hurt, betrayal, humiliation, and for one savage second you genuinely consider violently sinking your teeth into him.

You don't.

You dig your nails into your own palms instead, grounding yourself in the sting. You keep your jaw slack, let him fuck your throat, let him call you names you hate, because some wounded, stubborn part of you knows that's what he's trying to make you do. Trying to make you angry enough to leave. Trying to push you away.

He's picking a fight you refuse to give him.

And the longer you stay, the softer you look at him, tears slipping from your lashes, tongue still willing under the ugly words, the harder he fucks into you, like he can beat the tenderness out of you.

It hurts. It's messy and unrelenting and mean, but still, you look up at him with glassy, adoring eyes. You want him to know that you're here. That he can show you this side of himself. That you can be whatever outlet he needs you to be tonight.

You reach up, fingers mindlessly rubbing slow circles on the skin of his thighs, something to ground yourself, and him, while he uses your mouth like it's nothing but a hole to fuck.

And he feels it, the softness, the care threading through every touch. He jerks away suddenly, pulling out of your mouth with a wet, brutal pop, staring down at you like he doesn't understand you at all.

Then he's hauling you back onto the bed, shoving you down on your back so hard the air punches from your lungs. You barely catch your breath before he's wedging himself between your thighs, lining himself up, no teasing now, no patience.

"You want it?" he rasps, voice low and raw.

"Yes," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck instinctively, letting your legs fall open wider to invite him in.

He snarls under his breath like he hates how sweet you are to him. Then he drives into you with one savage thrust.

You cry out, back arching off the bed, hands clinging to him for dear life. He's huge, stretching you painfully wide, filling every inch like he wants to break you in half. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just sets a brutal pace immediately, hips snapping into you again and again, every thrust shoving you further up the mattress.

You cling to him anyway, one hand splaying against the sweaty plane of his back, feeling the muscles there bunch and flex with every furious movement.

You whisper to him between gasps, between whimpers. "It's okay, Harry. You can let go. I've got you. I'm here."

He groans low and vicious in your ear, fucking you harder to shut you up, but you swear you feel the tiniest shudder run through him.

You cradle his head to your shoulder, scratching your nails lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck, murmuring soft praises between each wrecked moan.

"So good to me," you pant, kissing the shell of his ear, tightening your thighs around his hips. "You're perfect. Always so perfect."

His rhythm stutters.

Just for a second. Just a beat of hesitation. But you feel it. He buries his face in your neck like he can hide from it, from you, like if he just fucks you harder, he can fuck the weakness out of himself.

But it's too late.

You feel the anger melt into something messier, something achingly close to desperation, to want. You don't comment on it.

He slams into you harder, rougher, chasing his own release now, trying to outrun the gnawing ache swelling in his chest.

You don't stop touching him.

You don't stop whispering sweet nothings in his ear.

You just hold him, even when it hurts, even when your body is shaking from the force of his thrusts, even when you're barely holding yourself together at the seams.

And maybe that's what finally breaks him.

Because when he comes, buried deep inside you with a feral, broken sound, he doesn't even look at you.

And it stings.

It stings more than the bruising grip he's left on your hips, more than the ache between your legs where he's used you so carelessly.

Because Harry is always big on eye contact, he demands it. "Look at me, baby. Need to see you." "Eyes on me when you come." ''Show me those pretty eyes. There you are.''

He always wants you look at him. Needs you to, like the tether between you would snap otherwise.

But now, when you're lying underneath him trembling and cracked open, when you've given him every piece of yourself, he twists his head away, toward the wall, eyes screwed tight like he can't even stand the sight of you.

It guts you. Leaves you hollow and shaking, your orgasm wilting quietly inside you.

And somewhere, deep down, though he won't let himself feel it, it guts him too. Because he knows if he looks, if he really looks at the way you're still holding him, still whispering broken little praises under your breath despite your own pleasure fading, still caressing his skin like something sacred despite your own body tensing up.

So he looks away.

And it feels like the cruelest thing he's ever done to you.

He pulls out while you're still gasping for breath, yanks his pants up without a word, and disappears into the bathroom with the door slamming shut behind him.

The emptiness he leaves behind feels colder than any punishment he's ever given you. You blink up at the ceiling, heart splintering slowly in your chest, the mess between your thighs a humiliating, aching reminder that whatever has cracked open between you, he wants no part of it.

...

When he comes back, he doesn't say a word.

The bathroom light is still on behind him, casting a clinical glow across the floorboards, and his hair is a mess, cheeks blotchy from scrubbing. He won't meet your eyes.

He walks back into the bedroom like it doesn't belong to either of you, like it's a hotel room he's just checked into and you're the unfortunate occupant they forgot to remove first.

The air goes stiff.

You sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around your waist, heart thudding unevenly. You're not sure what you were expecting. Maybe a quiet, reluctant, apology, maybe an awkward attempt at a joke, maybe just for him to lie back down and act like it never happened, but none of it comes.

Instead, he leans down to grab his phone off the nightstand. His screen lights up his face in a wash of cold blue, making him look even more unreadable, if that's possible. You watch the way his jaw tightens. His shoulders twitch like he's chewing back something awful. He doesn't look at you once.

''Are you coming back to bed?'' you ask, voice hesitant and small, and you immediately hate yourself for how it sounds. Like you're begging.

The silence that follows is thick and sour. It curls between your ribs and settles there, anchoring itself to your shame. He doesn't even glance at you. Doesn't ask if he hurt you, physically or otherwise, doesn't acknowledge the way your hands tremble slightly as you pull the blanket up to your chest, covering yourself like you can shield yourself from whatever's happening between you right now.

''Did I do something wrong?'' you whisper nervously. You wish you didn't care. You wish you could swing your legs out of bed and leave first, say fuck you and mean it. But instead you just sit there, quiet and insecure and hurting.

He finally looks at you, just a flicker, a glance, eyes dark and unreadable.

''No,'' he says after a beat, and it's somehow worse than if he'd said yes.

Because if you'd done something wrong, at least there'd be a reason. A fix. A way back.

''No,'' he repeats, turning away, ''You were perfect.''

It should be comforting, but it sounds like an accusation.

You watch him tug on a hoodie from the floor, and you notice his fingers are shaking slightly, though he hides it well. Everything about him is tight, movements too stiff, face too blank, like he's holding himself together by force.

''Harry…''

''I think you should go,'' he says, and it's sharp. Clipped. Dismissive. And it hurts. So much.

You blink. ''What?''

He doesn't repeat it. Just tosses your clothes at you, like throwing you out after fucking you raw is part of the routine. Like your heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of your chest and disappear under the floorboards.

''You said I should stay,'' you remind him, because that's all you can cling to now, his own words, said so easily just days ago when his hands were still gentle and his voice was still kind. ''You said I should always stay after a night together. That it's the respectable thing to do. That you don't want to worry about me out alone at night.''

''I changed my mind.''

He still won't look at you. Like looking at you would make this real. Like your presence is something he has to ignore completely to make this easier on himself. Like he's already rehearsed this moment and now he's just waiting for it to be over.

You try again, your voice cracking, soft. ''Harry, please—''

''I'm not in the mood,'' he cuts in, leaving no room for discussion. ''Just go. I got you an Uber. Don't make this harder than it has to be.''

Panic flares under your skin. Instinct more than reason, you move without thinking, pulling your dress up your body in hurried motions, struggling to zip yourself up. It's something Harry usually does for you, always making a show of it, always making sure to kiss your shoulder before stepping away.

You give up on the zipper halfway. You just want to fix this, want to make it better, the way you always do.

Before he can tell you to leave again, you step forward, reaching for him, sliding your arms gently around his waist from behind. You press your cheek to the broad curve of his back, kiss the spot between his shoulder blades the way you always do when he's upset, when he's stressed, when he's somewhere you can't reach with words alone.

For a second, you think he might let you. But then his body stiffens under your touch, breath hitching, shallow in his chest.

And he flinches.

He jerks away from you like you've burned him, shoulder twisting sharply out of your grasp, shrugging you off like you're something repulsive he can't stand to have near him. You stumble back a step, arms falling uselessly to your sides, blinking at him in shock.

''Don't,'' he says, voice low and vicious. ''Just... don't touch me.''

The words taste like blood in his mouth. Everything inside him screams at him to take them back, to reach for you, to apologize, to fall into your arms the way he always, always, wants to when it's you. But his walls are up now, higher than ever, and he doesn't know how to tear them down without destroying himself in the process.

So he stands there, rigid and silent, forcing himself to feel nothing as he watches the hurt bloom raw across your face.

It's not just the words. It's the way he spits them out, like your touch is something filthy. Like you're some desperate, clingy thing he can't shake fast enough.

Your chest caves in on itself. You nod, even though it feels like your heart is physically tearing apart. You don't try again. You don't say anything at all.

He doesn't either.

There's something feral in his eyes. Not anger exactly, more like desperate frustration. Like he's trying to get you to hate him. Like he needs to burn this bridge before you get any closer to the parts of him he can't control.

He sees the heartbreak behind your eyes. You know he does. You see the flicker of guilt, tiny, barely there, before he crushes it down and tosses another dagger instead.

''You should be used to this by now,'' he mutters. ''Not like this is anything serious.''

It's the worst thing he could've said. And you know he knows it. You know because he still doesn't look at you. Because he throws the words like knives and doesn't wait to see where they land.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, nod slowly, eyes burning. Your body still aches, slick between your thighs, bruises blooming from where he held you down, and now he's pretending you're no one. Like none of it mattered. Like you didn't try to hold him together while he was falling apart inside of you.

You grab your phone without another word.

Your look for your bag, but you don't ask for help, don't let him see you search for it. You keep your head up. Refuse to cry in front of him. Not now. Not after this.

And when you walk out, heart in your throat, clutching your bag, you don't look back.

He doesn't either.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[hollowdeath]

some boyfriend!harry james potter headcanons that make me giggle n kick my feet to think about <3

loves to buy you flowers. like, he knows the florist personally at this point because he's constantly working on new bouquets for you. he knows all about trimming the stems, cutting the leaves, fertilizing the water, he's really passionate about you having beautiful, fresh flowers around you all the time. "pretty girls deserve pretty flowers" <333

you guys heard about the orange peel theory right? well harry doesn't just peel your orange for you, he also pulls it apart, plates it, makes it look beautiful, and gets you a drink to go with it. he does not fuck around when it comes to doing favors for you, he will do whatever it takes to make even the smallest parts of life easier for you

on that note, he knows your preferences for everything. your favorite drinks and how you like them, your favorite meals from your favorite places, your favorite brands or stores, even down to how you like your clothes organized. anytime he learns how you like something a particular way he takes note, not because he has to, but because he loves learning about all your little details that make you so special to him

doesn't hesitate to buy something if it makes him think of you. if he knows you really like one animal, he'll buy random things with that animal on it just because they remind him of you. if something comes in your favorite color it's his first choice. he buys sweatshirts/sweaters in the hopes you like them enough to wear them yourself. he just loves having these little parts of you in his life to remind him how lucky he is to have you around :'(

gets a little jealous and flustered if you have a celebrity crush or start gushing over a character from the book you're currently reading. he knows it's not serious and doesn't let it get to him too much, but he can't help that he's protective over you, even if it's against a completely fictional character. still, he finds it incredibly cute when you blush talking about/seeing them <3

always feels so relaxed when he's with you that he actually gets sleepy. anytime you're cuddling or even just snuggled up on the couch together he starts drifting in and out of sleep, his body melting into yours. he can't help it, you just make him feel so safe and comfortable...most of the time you tease him for it, but sometimes he looks too cute sleeping on your shoulder for you to wake him...zzz...

absolutely loves to do all the cheesy boyfriend stuff for you: hold your bags, open doors for you, give you his jacket, pay for every date, he's just so proud to be with you and he wants you to know it. he's so excited anytime he gets to introduce you as his girlfriend, and takes any chance he can to bring you up in conversation. he just loves you so much he can't keep it to himself !!!

[ddlydevotion]

THE MAN NEXT DOOR

Being the object of Remmick’s desires…

currently listening to: Man Next Door by Massive Attack

a/n: I deleted the last fic I wrote for him since I wasn’t too happy with it but I decided to give it another shot. Also, I’m not a Sinners blog so I won’t write for Remmick all of the time 💌. Also, these are headcanons!!

When it came time for Remmick to finally turn you, make you his for eternity, he cradled you as if you were a fragile lamb. He didn't hide the fact that the process would hurt, but he wanted to diminish the pain as much as he could. He swayed you back & forth in his arms, cooing at you and whispering words of reassurance, rubbing your back with a large hand. y'a did good, sweetheart. real good. It's over now his buttery voice whispered to your aching form.

It didn't take all that long for you to find out what Remmick truly was. He was your neighbor, he lived further down the dirt road but close enough that you'd still be considered neighbors of some kind. It was the coldest night of September when he first knocked on your door under the guise of just wanted to introduce myself! It'd be rude for me to live so close and for us to be strangers. It was a sweet sentiment, yet you couldn't help but notice the fact that your all-too-nice neighbor only ever came around when the moon decided to take over for the night.

now, why do you only ever come around when it's night out? Does work have you out all day? your smoky voice questioned him. Let's just say you got your answer by the end of the night.

Remmick put in the work to get to know you before he revealed his true intentions, I mean, you knew he was interested in you because of how obvious he made it, but you surely didn't know that his skin burned when he walked underneath the sunlight. He listened to every little thing that you told him and hung onto it, storing it for future reference. Anytime that you opened up to him about past trauma, familial issues, work stress, or life in general, he'd react as if he was the one being negatively affected.

Y'know those videos where people are poking fun at attentive listeners for their facial expressions? They're talking about Remmick.

At times you'd feel as if he was the only person who truly understood you. Who you were, who you wanted to be, what you wanted, why you wanted certain things. Something deep inside of his rotten soul wanted it to be that way. He not only wanted to convince you that he was the only one who understood you, but he wanted you to believe it.

The amount of eye contact this man makes is insane. He'll give you the most heartfelt compliment and keep direct eye contact with you the entire time. He wants to make sure that you heard him and are registering his words.

Well, aren't you pretty? You are, why are ya lookin' at me like ya don't believe me? Oh, c'mon, look at me. You can't get all shy now, it's too late for that.

you're a whole lotta woman, ain't ya, darlin'?

(nsfw) Remmick drools like a damn hound when he finally gets his hands on you. His crimson red eyes focus on the sight of your flushed pussy making a creamy mess on his fingers, the noises of your sensitive center sucking his fingers back in makes him groan and let out a guttural fuck look at you, baby. His strong, unforgiving hands grip your thighs, wrapping your quivering legs around his waist. The feeling of his bulbous tip teasing your aching clit makes you keen, a strong hand grabs your cheek, look at me, sweetheart, he orders. yeah, just like that, want'chu to look at me when you cum.

we already know this man was stalking you like it was his damn job before he stepped foot on your porch. Thanks to his invasive habit, he knew incredibly intimate details about you before he even uttered a word to you. He knew what you wore to bed, how you touched yourself to fall asleep easier (just me? okay so y'all hate me.), he's become familiar with the friends you have come around, the music you put on before cooking dinner/cleaning, he picks up on which dresses of yours are your favorite.

He knows far more about you than the so called "friends" he sees you bring around & hears you speak to over the phone.

When the two of you were just getting to know each other, he decided to do his usual nightly visit to your house. Unbeknownst to him, you'd just started your period that exact night. You were left curious and a bit upset when he scrambled out of the front door while hurriedly saying oh I just gotta go, sweetheart. I forgot to do somethin' back home. It didn't take long before you finally found out why he left in such a hurry that night.

[randofics]

Dante x reader headcannons

18+ MDNI

Sorry ya'll, I'm still working on Pain and Warmth pt.2. I figured yall could use some headcannons in the meantime. Some wholesome and spicy.

Link to Pt.1

-------

Sweet

He can't ever say no to your puppy dog eyes when you ask him to buy you something just as long as he can afford it. But if you aren't wanting for much and you mention something you thought about getting off-hand, he'll definitely get it for you even if he has to save up for it.

---

You definitely have competitions to see who can say the most one-liners before the other can't think of any more. You compliment each other for especially good ones.

---

Dante, ever the romantic, has definitely picked you a bouquet of wildflowers at least once. Maybe you're allergic or maybe not, but either way, you think it's sweet of him.

---

If he wants to do something for you (aside from cooking cause that didn't go well), you had better let him do it! He won't take no for an answer unless you give him good reason not to.

---

If you're ever under the weather, he'll wait on you, hand and foot. He's never really been sick, so just seeing you out of commission with a cold or stomach bug, and he wants to make certain you'll survive it. He's basically immortal, so he doesn't want you going into any afterlife before your time.

---

He loves your food. And even though he still eats a lot of pizza, if you plan on cooking, he won't even think of ordering any pizza. He also makes sure to ask you whether you plan on cooking or not.

---

While most people see Dante as an ignorant playboy or jock you know just how nerdy he can be. He's pretty well read, and while he mostly flips through magazines, you've seen him with a few novels in hand around his place. He's even gone to the library with you on occasion. The first time you saw him with an actual book, he smiled. "People really shouldn't let someone's looks fool them."

---

Spice

Dante definitely has a thing for short girls. He's 6'3". That's a whole inch taller than Ghost from COD. If you're any shorter than his chin, he'll definitely tease you about it. But it also means you get to use him as a ladder to reach stuff. He doesn't really complain, especially when your thighs are squeezing his head as you dust the top of the shelves.

---

He loves making you squirm and writhe for him in bed. To him, it's all about you. He sometimes actually forgets that he can have pleasure as well, but you're good about reminding him.😏

---

He's definitely one to mark you on purpose. Hickeys or bites on your neck, chest, and thighs are his preferred spots, but he has left some on your back and abdomen in the past.

---

He prefers the missionary position because he can see your reactions easier, and he loves it when you wrap yourself around him. Nails digging into his back and teeth in his shoulder as you move your hips with his.

---

One time, you stole his coat while he was taking a nap at his desk and put it on over a brand new pair of lingerie. You found red with black lace that matched his coat and immediately bought it. After letting him sleep a while longer, you woke him wrapping your arms around his neck from behind his chair. He almost immediately looked to the coat rack behind him and realized it wasn't there. "Is my coat in the wash?"

"No..." he spots the red sleeves on your arms as you run your hands over his chest. "Hey! Wha'cha wearing my coat for?" You stand, and he spins the chair to face you. It's wrapped around you, so he can't see what's underneath. Moving between his spread legs, you let it fall open. His jaw practically hit the floor at the sight of you. "Holy...Wow! You look gorgeous in my colors, baby!"

It's safe to say he enjoyed getting you out of that lingerie just as much.😏

[snowballseal]

aww i love how u write sylus! you write him so soft and domestic but still so *sylus* if that makes sense hahahsbakdnfb (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

if ur requests are open can i req one with sylus and a reader who start to slowly crave headpats from him? i feel like he would give the best headpats ngl,, ty in advanced if you do~

Head Pats

Sylus X Reader

Summary: You want head pats from Sylus, but you can't bring yourself to ask him out loud. Safe to say though, Sylus likes granting the desires of your heart.

Word Count: 2050

Note: This was NOT meant to be this long, but the more I wrote, the more I become obsessed with this idea. So yah, I hope you enjoy! Thank you for the adorable request!

Also, consensual aether core usage (by Sylus) (don't know how else to put that lol)

---

There are quite a few things you like about Sylus.

Of course he’s handsome. You would have to be blind to not see that. Admitting it is another thing though, because the man’s ego is already insufferable at times (and you definitely will never admit how attractive that is in and of itself). But every so often, you catch yourself staring at his face, the sharpness of his jaw, the perfect curve of his lips when he smirks, the mesmerizingly morbid color of his eyes. He’s literally gorgeous.

You also love how he takes action. Even if that action is something you disagree with. You’ve come to terms with the different ways you function. You’ll always be tied to the law, the regulations drilled into you while at the Hunter Academy. Yet, whenever Sylus drags you into his schemes, you can’t deny the way your heart races in exhilaration. 

Not to mention, it also means he never stops pursuing you. Being in a relationship with him is like a dance, and all you have to do is follow. Sometimes it’s like you’re spinning so fast you can’t focus on a single thing around you, but you know he’ll never let you fall. And sometimes it’s slow, just the two of you pressed together, sharing the same breath, the same time. 

Though he’s never opposed to you taking the lead for a little while.

You like his mind. His quick wit and sharp tongue. You like riding with him on his motorcycle in the dead of night, far outside the N109 Zone, where it’s easier to see the stars. You even like his god-awful singing voice.

But one of the things you secretly like the most, are his hands. Not in a sexual way, even. You just like how big they are, how, when you compare hands, he can curl the tips of his fingers over yours. The confidence they have when curled around a gun. His callouses from hours training in the gym and work. Their capability to take life when he needs to.

Yet, they make you feel undeniably safe. Comforted when they rub your back whenever you “force” him to cuddle with you. Cherished when he cups your jaw, his touch impossibly gentle despite their ability to cause so much violence.

There’s only one thing he hasn’t done, and the more you think about it, the more you desperately want him to.

Head pats.

It started when you were watching a movie, and the male love interest patted his partner’s head, all the while calling her cute and teasing her. It was like a curse. Your mind immediately conjured an image of the two of you in their place, and you wondered what it would be like to have Sylus gently pat your head while teasing you, and that’s all it took to send you reeling.

At the time, Sylus had asked why you were suddenly so red, but you’d played it off as getting a little warm. Which worked, though he definitely gave you that look, the one that says he doesn’t completely believe you. But you weren’t going to out yourself like that!

It’s ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous! You almost feel like it would be less embarrassing if it were something inappropriate. This feels somehow weirder. Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. Maybe you’re just overthinking it all…No, maybe the weird thing is just how fixated your mind is on it. And how it pops up every time you’re near him.

Like today.

You and Sylus are in his kitchen. You’re sitting at the table, watching him as he idles around the counter, preparing dinner. The chef had a family emergency, leaving the two of you to prepare your own meal. Which you were helping with, until Sylus teased you about your knife skills and banned you from the kitchen.

Cutting vegetables is not as easy as cutting up a wanderer. Realistically, you were closer to cutting off the tips of your fingers instead.

So now you’re just watching. Sylus works, efficient and graceful, his brow furrowed ever so slightly in concentration. You cross your arms over the back of the chair, propping your chin on them as your eyes follow his deft movements. He really is good at everything. His hands move as if it’s second nature, handling the knife confidently, without an ounce of hesitation.

They’re always so sure. Unshakable. Just like him. If only-

“If you keep staring at me like that, sweetie, I might have to consider changing occupations.”

You blink, realizing Sylus had caught you, his movements paused in favor of pinning you with an amused look. Heat creeps across your cheeks, turning you a brilliant shade of pink. The corner of his lips curl up.

It, of course, hadn’t escaped him exactly where you were staring. Nor was it the first time he had noticed you staring intently at his hands this week. At first, Sylus thought it was just coincidence. You have the tendency to space out, especially when you’re tired. But then you’d blush adorably and snap your attention somewhere else with that pout on your lips, as if you were thinking about something specific. Something embarrassing.

And Sylus is curious. What could his little hunter be thinking about that could fluster her so badly? It wasn’t like you to get embarrassed, especially with him. So he set his trap. And you’ve wandered right into it.

“It’s almost as if you were thinking of something else,” he hums, waiting for just the right moment.

“I um, no, I just, I like looking at you,” you stumble over your words, sitting up straighter, though your face already feels warmer than the sun. You’ve definitely been caught. “You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you supposed to like it when I look at you?”

His eyes narrow, simmering with an intensity that makes you squirm. You try to hold it, try to keep your gaze steady, but it’s like staring into a fire. The heat is too much for you to take. So you give in, looking at your lap and twisting your fingers in an obvious sign of hesitation.

“Hmm, your lies need work.” The knife makes a soft ‘clink’ as he sets it against the counter. His footsteps are quiet as he walks around the island. You can’t help the way your breath catches when his fingers curl tenderly under your chin, forcing you to look back up at him. Sylus raises a brow, amusement glinting in the depths of his eyes, “You’ll have to be more convincing if you want me to believe you, kitten.”

“I’m not- I’m not lying,” you try again meekly, though you already know you’ve lost the war.

Sylus looks at you for a hard minute and this time, you can’t escape his intense gaze. It’s like he’s trying to unravel you, to strip you down until you’re bare in front of him, so he can read every part of you. And he can. It doesn’t take long for a flicker of recognition to cross his face, and you can feel your heart racing against your ribcage.

A devilish smirk curls his lips.

“You desire something,” he murmurs, voice lilting with curiosity.

You hate how good he is at that. A pout captures your lips, and you wish you could just cover your face. Maybe then this whole conversation would disappear. But you can’t, not with how intently he’s watching you. So you just keep pouting, staying quiet.

Sylus hums, leaning down a little, so his warm breath brushes your lips, “There’s no need to act so embarrassed, kitten. I quite enjoy fulfilling your desires, especially when I’m at the center of them.”

Oh, you wish you could smack and kiss him at the same time right now. How can one man be so insufferable and so absolutely perfect all at once? You wish you could just come out and say it, you know he wouldn’t think anything of it, and then your morbid curiosity would be sated.

But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your heart is racing, the way you can’t. stop. thinking. about his stupid hands, that makes the words lock themselves behind your teeth.

“I just can’t…say it,” you waver.

The air goes quiet for another moment. And then-

“I won’t force you.” Of course. Sylus’ expression softens a fraction, the teasing glint replaced by a serious line between his brows. Because while he enjoys pushing you, seeing how flustered you turn, he’s never one to take it too far. Not with you. “I suppose I can allow you to keep a few secrets, as you’ve so generously allowed me to keep mine.”

You both know it’s a farce of an excuse. Sylus still has his secrets because he’s much better at keeping them. He’s a mystery you don’t think you’ll ever be able to unravel. This is his way of giving you an easy out. 

He won’t push this if you really don’t want him to.

And that’s why you want to tell him.

When he slowly starts to pull away, taking your continued silence as confirmation, you reach out, fingers curling around his wrist. Sylus stills. He looks down at your small hand before quirking a brow at you.

You take a deep breath, seizing back some courage, “I just don't want to say it out loud. But if, if you want to find out using other methods, that’d be fine.”

Now both brows shoot up. Intrigue. You shift nervously, but keep your chin high, looking at him expectantly. Sylus’ lips flicker back into a smirk.

“Well, since you’ve given me permission…”

You nod. Sylus’ gaze focuses back on you, not that it ever left, his expression settling back into something serious. His right eye starts to glow softly, and it’s all you can look at. This time it’s not so scary, not so unnerving, when you feel the haze creep across your mind. Maybe it’s gentler because you’re willing, or maybe because your relationship has changed so much, but you almost feel a warmth filling your senses, drawing the answers gently from the depth of your soul and telling him exactly what you’ve been thinking about this past few weeks.

Surprise flickers across Sylus’ face. He stifles a genuine smile, the glow of his eye slowly dimming until they match again.

“All of this, over wanting me to pat your head?”

His voice doesn’t hold any judgment, not that you were truly expecting it to. Still, if you could blush darker, you probably would, despite the relief you feel at finally having it out there.

“I know, it’s silly,” you admit, biting the inside of your cheek, “I don’t know why I couldn’t just say it.”

Sylus shakes his head, “I’ll admit, it wasn’t what I was…expecting, but none of your desires are ‘silly’. Except perhaps your need for enough stuffies to cover our bed.”

“They need a home,” you shoot back immediately, feeling more yourself again.

“Right, right.” Sylus hums. His fingers stroke absentmindedly along your cheek. “How could I forget? It’s out of the goodness in your heart that you spend all my money to bring them home.”

“That’s right,” you huff, “Who better to give them a home than us?”

“Of course. I take it back.” You blink when his hand leaves your face, only to settle gently on your head. You glance up at him, eyes wide. A fuzzy warmth fills your chest when he tenderly fusses your hair, those vermillion eyes glowing with fondness. “I suppose every desire of yours is adorable. So next time-” He leans down, nose touching yours sweetly. “-don’t be so embarrassed to share, sweetie.”

His hand smoothes over your hair one last time before he draws away to go finish dinner. You bite down on your lip, spinning around to collapse against the table, unable to stop the small sound of happiness that escapes you.

Sylus’ laughter fills the room, along with the sound of more cutting.

It seems he has another tool to use to his advantage for showing you his love. He’ll have to make good use of it, if the way you kick your feet through the entirety of dinner tells him anything.

---

This request hit waaaaaaay to close to home for me. Love me some head pats. And I COMPLETELY agree that Sylus would give the best head pats.

Thanks for reading!

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

Private lessons

Masterlist Word count: 5.6k Prof!Rafayel x Student!Reader

Summary: Rafayel is your fine arts teacher. You were absent from some classes because you caught the flu and now you're standing in front of his office door, hand raised to knock at the door, but something is stopping you. Maybe it's the way he's been looking at you lately, but either way you need to catch up.

Author's note: I've been stalling to finish this. It ends a bit abruptly because I just ran out of inspiration and otherwise I would've thrown this in the drafts never to be seen again. I hope ya'll like it! Special thanks to @butlereyepatchbunny for proofreading!

Smut, Rafayel trying to be dominant, reader ending up being dominant, weird power dynamic, nude painting, jealousy, emotional manipulation, begging, short talk about vasectomies and STI's, raw sex (wrap it up guys).

Mature content under the cut

"Come in," Professor Rafayel bellows through the door. He sounds annoyed and frustrated. In truth, that doesn't really irk you. An artistic person like him would probably despise office hours. You've heard rumors of him trying to convince the art department director to let him have his office hours in his studio, but he was met with a resounding no.

It makes sense, but people love working in professor Rafayel's studio when they can and professor Rafayel loves bouncing ideas off his students. Seems a perfect solution to keep a stubborn professor happy, but the director doesn't think so.

For a second you almost forget that you have to open the door. That you now have to face your professor. The professor that you've been trying to avoid for days now. It might've been easier if he hadn't greeted you like he did when you finally felt good enough to attend classes again last week.

Professor Rafayel's art lectures are never early in the day, which is a godsend on a day like today. Sure, your head is still pounding from the pressure of the cold you are recovering from, but that's nothing some ibuprofen and paracetamol can't fix.

With Rafayel's lecture only starting at 1:30 pm, you've got enough time to medicate yourself and eat something before heading over there. However, now that you're sitting here trying to focus on the lecture, you feel your mind slipping away. Maybe you should've taken another day off to make sure you were fine.

As professor Rafayel always does, he gives a short assignment to do in class and roams around the room to give pointers. Usually it is something like "We've just discussed this type of art, find some or draw some to show that you understand what makes that type of art that type of art." It's often near the end of class time and some people skip out on it because professor Rafayel really couldn't care less as long as the grades are good.

And, you usually, you stay like the good little student you are and do the assignment. You even often stay after class to discuss it with professor Rafayel if he has time. Now, however, you feel like shit and you're packing up.

That is, until two hands appear on either sides of your desk, caging you in. A soft, sultry voice whispers next to your ear, forcing shivers down your spine: "First you don't show up for days and now you're leaving early? Did I do something?"

There's emotion behind his words, so much of it. You figured he might've noticed your absence, but this seems a bit extreme. "I had the flu," you mutter, cheeks burning, "I'm still not doing great."

"Why didn't you email me? I could've sent you the class notes," he whispers, but there's something more in there. Something possessive. You feel your body shudder ever so slightly as he leans a little closer and you feel his body brushing against you.

Then he suddenly switches up, his hands pulling away from your desk. He repositions himself to sit on the desk next to yours, arms crossed, with an aloof expression on his face. "Well, since you clearly don't feel well yet, you should stay home tomorrow as well. It's nearly the weekend anyway. How about you come by at my office hours on Monday? We'll discuss how to get you back up to speed."

'Oh, it's you,' professor Rafayel hums as he watches you slip into his office, 'how are you doing now?'

You can't say you're not surprised by his casual question and the very normal atmosphere in his office after what he did last Thursday. For a second, you consider you might've been lucid dreaming with the fever you had. However, that wouldn't be probable. You're pretty sure you felt his body press against yours. The memory of it almost makes you blush. 'I'm alright. Much better than last week.'

'Good,' he answers, not even paying attention to you, 'so besides missing lectures, I noticed you have not submitted anything of your physical work for review. Have you not been able to make anything during your sick leave?'

'I tried to, but I had so many coughing fits that I couldn't focus and my head was pounding.' You're not sure why you're over-explaining. Does he make you more nervous now that he's not being overly interested in you? Is that it? This is strange. Before last week, the two of you had a very equal relationship when it came to discussing art. 'I just wasn't able to.'

He nods, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly, he seems much more interested. He crosses his arms and you notice the slightest twitch of a smirk pull on the corners of his lips. His eyes are dark and intriguing. 'My, my, what should we do about that? We wouldn't want you to fall behind,' he taunts you, playing into your fear of failure.

He knows exactly what he's doing as you feel tears start to burn in your eyes. You know he knows. How many times have you discussed your works and the meaning and feelings behind them? How many times have you overshared and told him about your family? Yes, Rafayel knows exactly what he's doing. He's trying to push you off balance, trying to get on top, be the dominant one.

'I might have an offer you'd be interested in,' he mentions with a sly look. You saw how he was watching you get closer and closer to tears. He's been planning this. He's playing with his food. It makes something grow inside you. Something red. Something burning. 'Two of my classes merged and now I've got a few free hours after 4 pm until the end of the semester. I'd be open to some one-on-one sessions.'

The way he makes it sound like he's doing you a favor, like he doesn't want to spend time with you but he'll do it, makes you flush with a strange kind of rage. Here you are, sitting in his office at his request. He has the gall to assume you won't be able to catch up and implies so to play with your feelings. All of that, after countless times of calling you talented, just to get some time alone with you? Unless it's all just a game to him.

Insane.

You might be horny for this man, just like every other student in your class, but you won't be degraded like this. 'No thank you, I think I'll be fine,' you answer as you get up. He looks physically surprised by your words, his whole suave façade drops.

Just as he wants to get up, you put your hands on his desk and lean towards him a little. The way he looks up at you does something for you. His eyes wide, surprised, but very much still paying attention. Almost enjoying the power imbalance you introduce, but you can't be sure. It could just be surprise. 'I am going to be very blunt here, professor, and forgive me if I misunderstood. But if you wanted to spend more time with me, you could've just asked instead of playing with my feelings.'

"Inspiration is a fickle mistress and she does not like her hand forced." You learned that from professor Rafayel and no words ring truer than those right now.

Ever since you left his office last Monday, your mind has been all over the place trying to piece together why your professor behaved that way. Because that's what he is, your professor. He's not a random boy on campus who is trying to get in your pants, he is your teacher. Someone who should behave more dignified than Rafayel has.

It's not like you would mind if he were just a random boy, but that's the whole problem. This whole thing, if it is what you think it is, opens the door to so many potential problems... But it is intriguing and it has been building for a while.

Slowly, but surely, certain occurrences came back to you. However, there are no words in the English language that could rationalize those moments, no matter how hard you try. You can try all you want, but your loins are on fire.

That's when you realized, it started on day one. The first fucking time you saw him. You were so daft, so stupid to not see it. He has been chasing you for almost three years now.

It was subtle. Very. As he should be in his position. He was playing a long con and you're not quite sure if he is aware of it or if he's just letting his emotions run free. He has gone off on rants about free love and similar topics more than once when someone implied something sexist. Rafayel is not shy about sex and sexuality, and you kind of liked that about him as your art is often sexually charged. You like sex and sexuality and the vulnerability that it often comes with.

But now you can't even put your brush against the canvas without your paintings starting to look like him. You've tried to force it, only to abandon those works within minutes because it just didn't feel good. If it did start to feel good, the painting would start to look like him again.

A deep sigh slips from your lips as you drop your arms, defeated. You stare at the portrait you painted. It's not nearly done, but it's his eyes staring back at you, boring into your soul. You've got to do something about this. Either confront him or fuck him, those seem the only feasible options.

You tilt your head to look at the clock in your apartment. 4:30 pm... Would he still be in his studio?

The sliding door to the studio seems much heavier today, but the sight it reveals is truly an artwork on its own.

Rafayel's studio has large windows and tons of greenery outside. Now, around golden hour, strings of yellow and orange light illuminate the space, only interrupted by dust particles floating around. The light perfectly surrounds Rafayel as he sits in the middle of his studio with a canvas on a small, portable easel as he works. Sunlight kisses his skin, almost making it look like there's an outline of gold around him.

'Took you long enough,' he huffs, not looking up at you but provoking you to step inside. And you do, closing the sliding door behind you. 'Lock it.'

'What?'

'Lock it.'

'Why?'

'Lock it or leave, those are your options,' his tone is commanding, nothing like you've ever heard from him before. You feel that same red-hot rage you felt on Monday, it's something defiant inside you, but you know you need to talk to him. If you don't, you might be doomed to paint him until you die.

'Tell me why or I'm switching to professor Thomas' art history class.' Rafayel's jaw clenches. You don't know why the man has such a hatred for Thomas. As far as you know, they get along fine but whenever you drop his name they are suddenly enemies. Could it be that Rafayel is jealous? Or maybe just possessive?

'You know why,' he hints, his eyes flickering up at you. Something sinister is in them, something dark, something sexual. Yes, you know what is happening here today if you let it but you want him to say it. You turn around and put your hand on the door again. You hear something clatter to the floor and suddenly you see Rafayel's hand holding the door closed, his body pressing against you as his other hand gently takes its place on your hip. 'Don't make me say it.'

You turn around to face him: 'Professor Rafayel, you and I both know this is highly inappropriate.' He searches your eyes for any inkling that you do not want this, that you want him to stop, that he got it all wrong. The despair in his face, the strange power dynamic, it turns you on so fucking much.

A cruel plan forms in your mind. Rafayel wants you and you've got five sessions with him until the end of the semester, including today. Five sessions to make him bend, five sessions to drive him to madness, five sessions to make him beg. 'I'm here for extra lessons. What are you here for,' you question innocently as you press your hand against his chest, ever so gently pushing him off. His hand grips your hip tighter, pulling himself closer with a defiant look in his eyes.

'What are you doing,' he grumbles, his annoyance easy to read in his eyes. He seems ready to devour you whole if you would just say yes to him. If you would just agree to this.

'I'm being a good student,' you claim as your hand slides down to his stomach slowly and his eyes widen, 'my professor told me he'd help me catch up.'

Finally, he catches on. He lets go of you and walks back over to his easel. The thing is knocked over and probably what you heard when you tried to head out again. For just a second you get a glimpse of his painting. It is unmistakably you. Not all of you. It's your face leaning on the palm of your hand, but it doesn't go higher than your lips.

'Alright, let's get started,' he grumbles, annoyed. You sit down on the floor across from him and take out your sketchpad. 'You missed a model painting class and a portrait class.'

'So, shall I just ask my roommate to sit for me,' you ask him, recalling he despises your roommate as much as he does Thomas. Why? You live off campus and so your roommate is an old friend. A male friend. Let the games begin! His face instantly turns into a scowl, but his answer takes a second and when he does answer, he looks at you strangely.

'No, I'll sit for you.'

Painting Rafayel's portrait is easy. His face is already burned into your memories, but it's nice to study the small details of his face. Being that up-close and personal with him has been... an experience the say the very least. Unsurprisingly, by session 3 you've got a picture perfect copy of his face in oil paint.

Throughout the sessions, his praise didn't go unnoticed by you. Meanwhile, he was also painting you, claiming it to be good practice for him because you've got a unique bone structure. However, whenever you snuck a glance at his painting, it was never just your face.

Session 1, he continued that painting of your lips while the two of you sat across from each other, cross-legged, knees nearly touching.

Session 2, you had put on a short skirt to tease him and sat down across from him cross-legged again. The skirt barely touched the floor in the back. He had walked around you quite a few times to "comment on your work" but when you glanced at his painting, he had painted you from the side. That included how your skirt barely covered your butt. It was surprisingly suggestive. Sure, that was the intent but he somehow made it so much more lewd. Like you were looking at yourself through his eyes.

Session 3, it was the first truly scorching day of the year. You put on a long, flowy skirt, and the tiniest top/sports bra that you could get away with wearing on the campus. He managed to perfectly remember how you looked when you walked in and lifted your skirt a bit to check if the buckle on your sandals had gotten loose. It looked strangely angelic, even if you tried to portray something more sexual. Sure, he hiked up your skirt a little more in the painting to the part where your leg meets your hip. Yet it still looked very innocent. Almost as if you were a voyeur, as if you weren't meant to see this.

One thing that irked you though, Rafayel would not tell you what kind of model painting you missed out on. You would've asked your classmates, but after the initial model painting most of them preferred to work alone to finish the paintings. Understandable, you would've done the same if you were in their shoes.

Today is session 4 and it is still scorching hot. Not ideal weather to seduce your professor in. You opted to wear some linen pants and a loose-fitting cropped shirt. Nothing all that sexy but with temperatures like these, all you want to do is sit naked in front of the aircon.

However, you are excited. The last few sessions you have manged to get Rafayel so worked up that you left him sitting in the studio with a tent in his pants last time. That honestly made you feel great. It made you feel desired and beautiful. A temptress. As you walk through the school, you wonder how far you can push him this time.

When you turn the corner to head to the studio, stirring with anticipation, you see Rafayel waiting for you in front of the studio. Your feet hesitate for a second when he looks your way. Something's different today. There's something in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed. For a second you want to turn around and leave, but then he waves for you to come closer and you do. Your feet carry you to him.

Rafayel answers your questions before you can ask any, 'We're heading into one of the smaller studios today.' A flicker of electricity pulses through you. You look down. Rafayel took your hand in his and is pulling you along. He's excited, surprisingly so. Does he know you put a few condoms in your bag today because you feel like he grovelled enough?

Soon you're walking through parts of the fine arts wing that you don't even know. It's quieter here, more secluded, more private. There's dust on the windowsills so you don't question that this part of the wing isn't used often.

And suddenly you're standing in a very tiny studio, no bigger than a dorm room. Despite its size, the room is lit beautifully. There's a window high up on the wall. High enough that you can just look outside if you stand on your tiptoes. It creates a spotlight of natural light cascading down on the stool that stands in the middle of the room. The walls are a velvety shade of dark blue, almost as if they would feel soft to the touch.

One easel and another stool are already set up with a canvas. It's in the perfect spot for the lighting and you figure Rafayel set it up himself. Against the wall are two large storage shelving units that hold costly and rare paints and other mediums. Ones that you would have to give up food for to afford. Something tells you this is Rafayel's private stash.

'I've never been in this part of the art wing before,' you mumble as you look around the small room. Before you can turn towards Rafayel, you hear a distinct click of the lock being turned. By now, that doesn't disturb you anymore. The door has been locked for every session before this and you figure it might have something to do with Rafayel's impulsivity if you ever give him the slightest idea that something might happen.

'These used to be senior studios, but most seniors prefer to work at home these days,' Rafayel explains, 'most teachers in the art wing have claimed one. This one is mine.' You were right.

'You have two studios? Isn't that a bit excessive?' You turn towards the stool again, wondering how you can best post Rafayel to make him look as angelic as he is.

'Not for moments like these.'

You turn back to him and the whole world falls away. In front of you stands Rafayel, your art teacher, your mentor, the most beautiful man you've ever seen, without a shirt. His shoes are kicked in the corner, socks somewhere on the ground, as he works on the draw string of his creme linen pants.

His eyes meet yours, the hesitation reflected in them as vivid as the rare colours on his storage shelves. You can tell there's a little fear in his eyes at your hesitation. Fear that he read this all wrong, that he's going to fast, that you were just playing around.

'You could've told me I missed a nude painting class,' you manage to utter as you awe at his body. Whichever God he prays to has to like him very much to have granted him that body with that face. It almost seems like a crime. A man like that must have flaws, right?

'Where is the fun in that,' he teases as he pulls the drawstring. He lets go and the pants slide off his body, revealing that he's not wearing anything underneath. For a second, just a second, you want to jump him. Have your hands roaming his body as your eyes are, but your jaw is on the floor and your body is frozen in place.

Meanwhile, Rafayel smirks at you and takes his spot on the stool in the middle of the room. He looks extremely smug and proud. You guess a man like that wouldn't really be insecure about himself. He looks sculpted by the gods, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. And, God you'd never imagine you'd be thinking this, this man has a beautiful penis. Your mind is already dreaming up what he would look like hard, with that pretty pink tip of his leaking precum.

'How do you want me,' he asks, eyebrow quirking up at the unintentionally suggestive question. Or maybe it is intentional. All this time you thought you were holding all the power, but he is stripped down in front of you and somehow has more control over the situation than you do.

"Focus," you shout in your mind and mentally hit the dirty thoughts out of yourself. But professionalism be damned, you just want to stare at this beautiful man all day. "If only you'd be in a position to capture this very moment right here, now get your mind out of the gutter and paint this beautiful man!"

'Put your foot up a little, yes, beautiful, and turn your shoulders towards me a bit,' you start to direct him. He poses beautifully and you don't doubt he's done this before. He's probably done this so often it is second nature to him. Right? Curiosity gnaws at you as you pick up your charcoal to make a rough sketch. 'Have you modelled for students before?'

'Yes, once.'

'Only once?' He nods. 'Stay still,' you quickly say. He huffs a laugh.

'See,' he offers the moment as proof, 'only once. I was a starving artist and needed money to pay my rent. I saw an advert in the paper and replied. Some of the teachers here recognized me from some magazine interview and the rest is history.'

'That's how you got here? I thought you were a spoiled protege,' you murmur, more to yourself than to him as your rough charcoal outline starts to take shape on the paper.

'Most people think that.' The mood sours and as much as you want to know his whole life story, you are not in a mindset to be appropriate about this right now. You wish you could be, but he doesn't really seem to want to talk about it more either.

'You could've made a killing as a model,' you note, as you start to go in with deeper blacks for the shadows.

'I was gonna say the same about you, cutie,' he teases. You're pulled out of your focus. Cutie? No one has ever called you that before. You've never considered yourself that before.

'Cutie?' He just winks at you. A flush spreads on your cheeks as you try to get back to the work at hand. Rafayel's eyes are glued on you as you take out your eraser to put in some shadows. A long silence falls between the two of you. You wish you could give the silence a name, call it awkward or weird but that's not it. Discomfort is not what you feel, though you wish you would. Instead you just feel an increasing fire building in your chest.

And Rafayel notices.

'You know, it's awfully hot in here. I can't image you're comfortable in all those clothes.' A wicked grin plays on his lips. He tries to hide it but he can't. Not now that he's so close to getting what he wants. You can't blame the guy for trying.

With a pretend exasperated sigh, you pull your top over your head and throw it at him. He catches it with ease, 'Rude,' he huffs, but he is taking a good long look at your newly exposed skin.

And then you see something twitch between his legs. Now you've got two options and one is clearly better than the other.

Option 1, you fuck him right here right now.

Option 2, you fuck him next session. Why next session? It is quite literally the last class of the year. If things get awkward, you won't have to face him until next fall. And if things go right, you've got a whole summer to enjoy them. Plus, more teasing.

You would've picked option two any day. It seems so much more fun. If only it weren't for the fact that you are absolutely feral right now. Suddenly, your shoes are kicked off and joined with Rafayel's in a corner, and your pants are in a pool at your feet as you sit back down on your stool.

For probably the first time in his life, Rafayel is quietly watching. The way he looks at you truly surprises you. All these weeks you've been trying to make sure you look like a sexual object to make sure he understands that this is just sex. Instead, he looks at you like you're a masterpiece. Like every stretch mark, every mole, every dip, every discolouration, every scar, every mark is perfect. All your imperfections, so perfect in his eyes. It makes you feel a little shy until you see something poking up from between his legs.

'You're right. This is much better,' you agree with his previous statement, trying to sound aloof like he usually does after some devious act. He's in absolute awe, looking frozen by your beauty. Rafayel's lips move but, even in the quiet room, you can't hear a single word he's saying. 'What was that?'

'You should finish your drawing.'

'I've lost my focus,' you retort as your hands travel to the edge of your sports bra. Rafayel's eyes are trained on your fingers as you start lifting up the fabric.

'We should do something about that.'

'Like what?' You pull your bra over your head with one swift movement and throw it at him like you had your shirt. That seems enough of an invitation for him. The wicked grin he wore just a minute ago reappears as he gets up from his stool and stalks over to you.

'I have a few things in mind.'

Then, his lips are on yours. Hungry, deprived, messy. Teeth clank against each other as tongues try to discover as much as they can in as little time as possible. Mere seconds pass before you're both breathless and he pulls away to look at you. A string of saliva connects you as both of you scan each other's eyes. Looking for regret, for a reason to stop or keep going.

'Well,' you coax. He breathes out a laugh and starts trailing kisses down your neck. At your collarbones, he leaves a few love bites and moves further down until he's on his knees between your legs, big eyes looking up at you.

Just as you try to hook your fingers on your underwear to pull it down, Rafayel captures both of your wrists and holds them in one hand. His eyes bore into yours expectantly and when you give the slightest nod, he dives right in licking a thick stripe over top of your underwear. You groan and want to reach out for his hair, but your wrists are still captured.

With his free hand, he pulls your panties to the side. 'That's beautiful, make that sound for me again,' he begs before diving in again. It's not surprising that he's incredibly skilled, tethering you to the edge within seconds. But that could also be all the edging you put yourself through in preparation for this day.

'Raf, please, I-'

'You're gonna come already, pretty girl?' His voice is like a purr as he lets go of your wrists to grab your thigh, pulling you to the edge of the stool. Your hand instantly slides into his hair, grabbing a good fist full to ground yourself. 'Give me everything.' It's embarrassing how hard and fast you cum. Truly, you feel like a two-pump chump and you don't even have a dick to pump.

'Shit, Raf, oh my god,' you moan out as he removes his mouth from you. He looks up at you and when you look down at him, he presses a soft kiss to your clit, sending electricity through your body. It's absolutely lewd and dirty. 'If you don't fuck me right now, I will scream.'

Rafayel chuckles as he stands up, pressing kisses to your skin as he rises, 'I thought this was all about you being in control.' His voice makes you shiver. So he did know what you were doing and was playing along.

'I thought so too, but we'll have more than enough time to explore that some other time,' you groan as he latches his lips onto your neck, kissing and biting your sensitive skin, 'I've got condoms in my bag.'

'Don't need 'em,' Rafayel hums in your ear, his hands on your hips, kneading your skin. His thick length rubbing against your stomach, spreading beads of precum on your skin.

'Unless you had a vasectomy and are clean, we do need them,' you argue between moans whilst your hands explore his chest, dipping down every once in a while to tease his v-line.

'Yes, to both of those,' he clarifies, 'but it's your choice.'

For a second, just a second, your hands still and you seriously consider the pros and cons for as far as your fried mind lets you. Rafayel looks down at you with a smirk, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. The whole action is so sweet, so tender, that it completely shuts your brain off. 'Fuck it,' you sigh and pull him closer.

His hands slip under your thighs, picking you up from the stool like you weigh no more than a tube of oil paint. With a swift turn, he presses you up against the wall, lips attacking yours violently. Your bottom lip slips between his teeth as he bites down "gently." The hunger in his kisses makes you think he's close to dying. His hands are everywhere on your body, overwhelming your senses.

His hand moves between your bodies and guides his dick inside you. At first only the head, and then everything all at once. Your fingers dig into his back as you curse his ancestors for giving him all the good genes. 'Shit, you're taking me so well,' he groans, head dipping to your neck to leave another bruising kiss there.

He sets a gruelling pace, stealing all the air out of your lungs as you gasp and whimper. Rafayel's hand is still between your bodies, teasing your clit with his thumb whilst holding you up with one arm. Your back hurts, moving against the wall. Sadly, the velvety paint doesn't take away the sandpaper-like texture of the walls.

'Raf, ah, the wall,' you whine, 'it hurts.' Truly, you don't want him to move. The orgasm approaching you doesn't want you in any other position than the one you are in right now.

'I know baby, just a little longer,' he groans, biting down on your skin once more. He keeps pounding into you relentlessly while you try to stay still to minimize the impact, but your brain is fried and a slut for pleasure. With his hands on your clit and his cock rubbing inside your gummy walls, you can feel yourself lose control.

'Raf, I'm-' He shushes you gently. 'I know, I know, let go baby. Come on,' he beckons, keeping his fingers and hips moving at a steady pace. Your walls flutter at his words. 'There you go, give it to me.'

'Shit, Raf, cu-cumming,' you stutter as his teeth sink into your skin again. His hips falter as he snaps them up inside you and keeps them there. You feel his hot cum coat you from the inside as your walls start to spasm, your nails digging into his back roughly, legs pulling him impossibly close.

His hips snap against you a few more times. Sloppy, uncoordinated, passionate. Your brain is a mess and so are you. In truth, you could go again. But as your breathing steadies and the fog in your brain clears up, you suddenly realised you just fucked your professor in the school.

'This is so wrong,' you mumble with a laugh. Rafayel's teeth let go of your skin and he looks down at you as he puts lets you down. You feel like Bambi, the way your legs are shaking.

'What is?'

You gesture around you vaguely, 'All of this.'

LADS general taglist

@brekkers-whore

@mcdepressed290

@fvcknwww

@pozuki

@butlereyepatchbunny

[luvvannie]

PERIOD CRAMPS ᡣ𐭩 -> lads when u're on your period

syn. you're on your cycle. how do they take care of you?

gen. fluff.

cmts + rbgs are super duper appreciated !! :D

❀ SYLUS spoils you so badly on your period, that sometimes you don't tell him. but, he'd found a wraparound to that. he just linked your period tracker app onto his phone, and now he's prepared in advance every month. he'll send you the same message on the first day of your menstrual cycle every month.

💬 sylus: -> has our guest arrived yet, sweetheart?

💬 y/n: -> yea... 😞️

and as soon as he receives your confirmation, you have to mentally and physically prepare.

he'll send his men to your apartment with a package in the morning, containing some assorted goodies, your favourite brand of pads (the cushy expensive ones), your favourite snacks and chocolates and a little present. sometimes it's a purse, or a plushie or a some pretty shoes, but it's different every month.

when he's finished his work for the day, he'll come to you with dinner, whether he cooks it or buys it, and you won't lift a finger for the rest of the night. after you've eaten, he'll turn off all of the lights for some relaxing ambiance, let you lay on the couch with some blankets and pillows and make you choose something to watch on the tv while he gives you the best full-body massage of your life.

❀ ZAYNE always knows exactly what to do. obviously, being a doctor would help with that.

he doesn't let you binge on snacks, because he knows it'll only leave you feeling worse (but will buy you a few to have in moderation because you're in hell and could use some dopamine). he meal preps healthy, balanced meals for the entire week of your period, making sure it's food he knows you like, which makes it much easier on you to eat well when he's at the hospital and can't take care of you. he'll keep his phone on the whole time he's at work and message you every chance he gets between surgeries and paperwork, reminding you to drink water and making sure you've eaten and done some light exercise and stretching.

when zayne's home in the late evening, he'll baby you all you want. he'll reheat the hot water bottle you had against your tummy for you and spoon-feed your dinner to you. then, he'll put you to bed early with a warm mug of tea and let you lay your head on his chest as he strokes your hair and gently rubs your back and tummy. it's safe to say, you sleep through the night like a baby, despite the pain.

❀ XAVIER he hadn't really realised the scope of your period until early into your relationship, when you had bled through the sheets one morning and cried out of embarrassment. of course he had given you a hug and reassured you, then helped you clean yourself up and washed the sheets without question, and once you had gotten out of the shower, he asked you what it's like and what helps you, making a mental note of everything you told him.

he is an absolute sweetheart whenever you're on your period. he knows you get it pretty bad every month, so he doesn't leave your side as soon as he realises you're on it. he has a little routine which consists of all of those things you had told him about that helped you on that one morning. it had become a pattern since then, every month without fail. he is a little shy about it but he won't hesitate to help you ever. if you ask him for anything he will immediately fly up from his spot and go and do what you asked him immediately.

❀ CALEB is grateful for your period, in a way. to him, it's his time to show you how thankful and in love with you he is. he's appreciative of the opportunity to take care of you every month.

he'll cook you whatever you're craving, which is usually one of his special recipes, and make you a herbal tea while you rest on the couch or in bed. he's completely at your beck and call, and will be by your side within the second you ask for him.

he'll run you a warm bubble bath every night to help you with the pain and just lets you lay there, close your eyes and soak as he washes your body and hair and gives you a backrub until your skin is wrinkly and you're ready to come out. caleb knows you're demotivated to do what's important with how weak and exhausted you are, so he helps you however he can. he'll sit with you and help you do all of your work on your laptop while he holds a heat pack against your tummy, and makes sure you're eating, drinking and moving throughout the day.

❀ RAFAYEL will give you all the attention in the world for the entire week. he'll keep you laughing and smiling with his little teases and jokes, which surprisingly helps take your mind off of your pain and fatigue even if only temporarily. your cycle brings out a tenderness of him that initially surprised you earlier on, but now gives you something to look forward to every month. cute, cuddly rafayel who babies you and comforts you and holds you all day.

he'd cancel anything he had during the day, no matter how much you whined and complained that he shouldn't flake out on people.

"you worry too much, cutie. they can wait." he'll say dismissively, before ushering you back into your bed.

he adores you like this. in his arms, napping in the evening after you had eaten then food he brought you and watched a movie together. he smirks, taking his phone from the bedside table and taking a picture of you. that was going a new painting for sure.

[edenesth]

The Paradox of Us

Pairing: Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: non-idol au

Word Count: 8.1k

Summary: Relationships are rarely as simple as they seem. It becomes heartbreakingly complicated when two souls, bound by a love that still burns bright, come to realise that sometimes, love alone may not be enough to keep them together.

A/N: Seonghwa's 踊り子 (odoriko) cover has been on repeat since the moment it came out. I couldn't get it out of my mind and just knew I'd never forgive myself if I didn't write anything inspired by it.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"I don't love you."

Strangely, those words would have been easier to bear. But instead, you heard the ones that shattered you in ways you never thought possible: "I love you so much... but we can't go on like this anymore."

The ache was unbearable, as if your heart was tearing itself apart with every replay of his broken voice in your mind. You would have preferred if he had said his love had faded, that the spark was gone. At least then, you could grieve, accept, and move forward. But no—he still loved you. Deeply. And that cruel truth left you stuck in a purgatory of emotions, unable to let go.

Yet, you understood him. You always did. And perhaps that was the most painful part of all—knowing he was right. You had felt it too, this growing divide neither of you could bridge. But you hadn't been brave enough to say it aloud, to admit that love wasn't enough to hold together two people who simply weren't meant to be.

So, he said it for you. And now, all you had was the emptiness of what could have been, and the love that would never quite fade.

"It'll be alright, sweetie. Time heals everything," your mother murmured, her hand gently rubbing your back as you blinked away tears and refused to meet her gaze. Her tone was soft, even comforting, but you couldn't stand it—not when she sat there pretending she hadn't played a pivotal role in this heartbreak. You could almost feel her satisfaction simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind her facade of concern. After all, hadn't she always believed he would never measure up? That he was never good enough for you?

You hated it—hated her.

Hated how she had turned your relationship with him into a battlefield, her disapproval so loud, so ever-present, that it became impossible for him to feel at home in your life. How dare she sit beside you now, feigning sorrow, when her constant criticisms had planted the seed of doubt that grew into the conclusion you dreaded? How dare she, of all people, offer comfort when she had made you believe that love—your greatest love—wasn't enough?

Her words echoed in your mind, the ones she'd repeated time and time again: "Love and compatibility aren't the same. Love is powerful, yes, but relationships are more than just feelings—they require shared values, aligned goals, and practical compatibility." She had said it so often that it became a mantra, one you tried to ignore until it became impossible.

And then there was him.

You hated him too—hated him for giving in, for not fighting harder, for agreeing with everyone else. For being too selfless, too considerate, too good. He'd always told you, "Family comes first. Everything else—including me—comes second." You hated that he meant it. Hated that he let you go because he believed it was the right thing to do, the thing that would hurt the least.

But most of all, you hated yourself.

Hated yourself for knowing, deep down, that they were all right. That maybe love really wasn't enough. You hated yourself for being too afraid to defy them, too afraid to risk it all for him. While he was brave enough to let you go, and your mother was relentless in her convictions, you had been the coward. You let everyone else make the choice for you because you couldn't bear to make it yourself.

And now, you were left with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of what-ifs and the haunting ache of knowing you had lost not because you didn't love enough, but because you hadn't been brave enough to fight for that love.

"The right person will come along," she said softly. You pressed your eyes shut, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. Without another word, you pushed yourself up from the dining chair, leaving your barely touched meal behind, and headed to your room.

Before you could step through the door, her voice followed you, cutting through the air like a knife. "You'll thank me one day when you meet a man who can give you all the things that boy never could."

Your fists clenched as you slammed the door shut behind you. Sliding down to the floor with your back against the wood, you let her words fester. Maybe she was right. You weren't getting any younger. Around you, friends and cousins were all settling down with partners your mother would call 'suitable.' And you hated it—hated that, in her eyes, Seonghwa could never be that person for you.

But then, the thought struck: you were your mother's daughter. How much of this was truly her fault? At some point, hadn't you begun to believe her? Slowly, insidiously, her words had taken root in your mind. You did this. To him, to yourself.

You remembered watching others build their perfect, storybook lives with partners who ticked every box society demanded. And you wondered—quietly at first, then louder—if you and Seonghwa could ever achieve the same. Could he be that for you? Could you be that for him?

It wasn't fair. Not to him, not to you. You hated yourself for the way doubt crept in, for how your mother's voice echoed in your head, pointing out the cracks and differences you had tried so hard to ignore. You hated yourself for wishing things could be different, for swallowing those thoughts because you loved him too much to ask him to change. He was who he was—his own person.

How could you ask him to mould himself into someone your mother would approve of? Someone society deemed 'right' for you? And if he did, would he even be the man you fell in love with?

It was those questions, those doubts, that began to live rent-free in your mind. Bit by bit, they widened the gap between you. And Seonghwa wasn't blind. He saw it. He felt it.

"You deserve someone better—someone who can give you so much more," he had said that final night, his voice breaking under the weight of goodbye.

It was your fault—your doubts, your actions, your silence. They had pushed him to that conclusion. And now, as the door behind you trembled with your suppressed sobs, you wondered: How dare you blame your mother for what you had done to him? To yourself?

How dare you?

"Gaming at San's place next, you coming?" Wooyoung asked, tossing a napkin onto the table as everyone scrambled to leave. The ridiculous game they'd invented—where the last one to leave had to pay the bill—had everyone laughing and darting for the exit.

Seonghwa's smile barely touched his lips as he shook his head and reached for his wallet. "Go on with them. I'll cover it."

The younger man hesitated, glancing at him before blurting out, "Dude, you can't always give in like this. Your poor financial planning skills are exactly why she left you."

The table fell silent, the air suddenly heavy. Wooyoung's grin faltered as he realised what he'd said, too late to take it back. Seonghwa didn't flinch outwardly, but the words sliced deep because they were true. Partly, at least.

It wasn't like he made much, not compared to the rest of his friends with their steady corporate jobs. And yet, he wasn't careful with what little he had. You had always been the one saving, planning, building a future he could barely contribute to. People his age were buying cars, investing in property, making strides toward a stable life. But he wasn't like them. He had chased his passion as a figurine crafter—a dream that didn't come with a steady paycheck—and he'd known the risks. Your mother was right: you deserved someone who could offer you the stability he never could.

"Hey, man," Wooyoung said quickly, guilt colouring his tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I got the bill already, so don't worry about it. Just come with us tonight, yeah? Relax a little."

But the eldest only gave a faint shake of his head. The apology didn't soften the truth of the remark. He was the reason things fell apart. Not because he didn't love you enough—he loved you too much—but because love wasn't enough.

He'd failed you. Failed to provide the kind of life you deserved. He couldn't believe you'd even agreed to be with him in the first place, so different were your worlds. Your family background, your education, your values, your ambitions—they all set you apart. He had nothing to offer someone like you. And yet, he had been selfish enough to hold on, to want you despite knowing he could never measure up.

He should have worked harder. Should have tried to step up and be the man you needed. But he hadn't, because deep down, he knew he couldn't. Perhaps he had always known it wouldn't last. That one day, you'd wake up and realise the same.

You didn't leave right away. You stayed longer than he deserved. And when you finally began pulling away, when the signs became impossible to ignore, he had to let go. It wasn't courage that made him end it—it was inevitability.

"Come with us, hyung," Wooyoung tried again, his voice gentler this time.

But Seonghwa shook his head once more. "You guys go ahead without me. I... I have somewhere to be."

It was a lie, and they all knew it. He had nowhere to be. Nowhere that mattered, at least. Just his empty apartment, where the echoes of your absence would greet him like old, familiar ghosts.

He didn't care if they saw through the lie. What mattered was that he deserved this—the loneliness, the self-pity, the regret. He had almost broken you apart from your family because he was selfish enough to believe his love was enough. He had almost stolen your future because he couldn't face the truth.

But now, it was over. You had given him the courage to do what was right in the end. He was grateful for that. Grateful you'd started pulling away. Grateful you'd given him the signs. Grateful you'd broken his heart with the words he couldn't bear to say himself.

It's time.

Time to stop pretending.

Time to let you go.

Time to let the misery end.

Yes, let it all go. Let the misery end.

He repeated the words in his head like a chant as he drove, gripping the steering wheel tighter with each mile. The familiar streets blurred past him, their lights shimmering in his tear-filled eyes. He swiped at his face with his sleeve, but the tears kept coming, warm and unrelenting. He hated himself for it. Hated that, even now, he could almost see you sitting beside him, your laughter echoing faintly in his memory.

These night drives had been your sanctuary. Just you and him, wrapped in the quiet of the world, as if nothing else mattered. Not the expectations, not the disapproving glances, not the relentless whispers about how you two didn't belong together. It had always been just you and him against everything.

But now, it was just him.

He didn't dare glance at the passenger seat. He couldn't bear the sight of its emptiness, couldn't face the truth of your absence. His mind played cruel tricks on him, filling the silence with phantom conversations, fleeting glimpses of your smile.

Everything around him reminded him of you. The way the streetlights hit the pavement, the faint smell of your favourite perfume lingering in his car, the songs on the radio you'd sing along to when you thought he wasn't paying attention. He wanted to escape it, but he knew going home would only make it worse.

Home.

The word felt hollow now. How could it be home when you weren't there? Every corner of that apartment held traces of you—the books you'd stacked neatly on the shelf, the coffee mug you always left on the counter, the sheets that still carried the faintest scent of your shampoo. He knew he should let those remnants go, pack them away, make it easier to move on. But the thought of erasing you felt like losing you all over again.

As the weight of it all pressed down on him, he slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. His hands trembled as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, the cool leather grounding him for just a moment.

Is this hurting you too?

He wondered if you were struggling as much as he was. Part of him selfishly hoped you were, that you missed him the way he missed you. But another part—the part that loved you more than he loved himself—hoped you were finding peace. Hoped you were happier without him, that his decision to let you go had given you the chance to find the stability, the life, you deserved.

Clutching a hand to his chest, he finally let the tears fall freely. The ache in his heart felt unbearable, like a piece of him had been ripped away and might never grow back. Would he ever be okay again? Would he ever know happiness without you?

He didn't know.

He wasn't sure he wanted to. But he told himself, over and over, that this was the right thing to do. It didn't matter if he was happy. It didn't matter if he felt whole again. All that mattered was you. And as he sat there, broken and lost, he prayed you were finding the happiness he couldn't give you, even if it meant he would never find it again.

It's okay... she'll find the right person now.

The right person. Who even decided what that meant? Who had the authority to label someone as right or wrong for you?

Maybe it was the lingering ache for Park Seonghwa, the way his name still carried the weight of memories you hadn't yet learned to let go. Or maybe it was the frustration bubbling inside you, resentment toward your parents for tricking you into meeting this man—the son of your father's business partner—the one they couldn't stop praising.

Jung Yunho, the perfect man, as they called him. He was everything they'd ever wanted for you, a textbook example of stability, charm, and success. But the problem wasn't him. It was you. You weren't ready, not yet. Maybe not ever. Years had passed since the breakup, but the ghost of what you had with Seonghwa still clung to you, a shadow that even time couldn't chase away.

"Hey," Yunho's voice pulled you back from your spiralling thoughts. His gaze, warm and sincere, met yours as he leaned in slightly. "You feeling alright?"

Caught off guard, you glanced down at your untouched plate of steak and managed a small nod. "I'm fine, don't worry about me."

But he didn't look convinced. Instead, his lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile—the kind that could probably disarm anyone, just not you. "How could I not, when such a pretty lady is sulking before me?" he teased gently. Before you could reply, he reached across the table, taking your plate without hesitation. "Here, let me help you."

With careful precision, he began cutting the steak into neat, bite-sized pieces. The gesture was so thoughtful, so kind, and yet it left you feeling hollow. It wasn't the act itself—it was the way it lacked the weight of familiarity.

Seonghwa used to do the same thing, but it had always been different with him. He'd grumble playfully about how you'd never learn to do it yourself, though he never minded doing it for you. His hands were smaller, more delicate, and you'd always find yourself staring at the faint scars from his crafts. Yunho's hands, while steady and practised, didn't hold the same history.

"All done," Yunho said cheerfully, sliding the plate back to you. "Now you have no excuse not to eat."

You forced a polite smile, murmuring a quiet "thank you" as you picked up your fork. Yunho didn't seem to notice the distant look in your eyes, or perhaps he was kind enough not to point it out.

He was wonderful. Thoughtful, patient, and sincere. By all accounts, he was the right person. But as you sat there, forcing yourself to chew, you couldn't help but wonder:

What if the right person wasn't the one who checked all the boxes? What if they were the one who didn't, but still felt like home?

The rest of the night crawled by like a snail, every passing second stretching unbearably long. You shifted in your seat, wishing you were anywhere but here. Yunho was a great guy—attentive, charming, and genuinely kind. But that only made it worse. He deserved someone who could meet his enthusiasm with equal fervour, someone who didn't have her mind wandering to someone else entirely.

You sighed quietly, pushing your barely touched drink to the side. What the hell was wrong with you? This was what you'd agreed to, wasn't it? This was what you'd sacrificed so much for. Years ago, you walked away from the love of your life because it felt like the right thing to do, to pursue the kind of stability and compatibility everyone insisted was more important than love alone. And now here it was, right in front of you.

The right person.

Yet, as you glanced at Jung Yunho's radiant smile, so effortlessly warm, the thought of spending the rest of your life with him felt less like the happy ending you'd envisioned and more like a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage that offered everything a woman could ever ask for—security, stability, admiration. Everything except the one thing your heart still longed for.

All you could ever find inside yourself was the same man you'd tried so hard to let go of.

Park Seonghwa.

Your chest tightened at the thought of him, your mind betraying you with memories you'd worked so hard to bury. You wondered how he was doing, though it wasn't as if you hadn't heard. Mutual friends kept you updated more than you cared to admit, their words painting glimpses of a life that no longer included you.

You'd heard he was finally making progress with his work, his passion—the very thing you'd once defended but later doubted. He'd opened a small store, modest but filled with so much of himself. It sold various collectable art pieces: action figures, miniatures for tabletop games, and custom character figurines crafted with meticulous care. Fans of Star Wars and Animal Crossing flocked to him, drawn to the detail and love that radiated from every piece he touched.

And you were proud of him. God, you were so proud of him.

He'd stayed true to himself, despite all the judgement, all the whispers about how he'd never make it, how he'd never be good enough. He'd proved them wrong. He'd built something meaningful, something entirely his own. You were happy for him, truly, but beneath that happiness lay an ache you couldn't ignore. You regretted not being there to witness it, to cheer for him when he finally achieved what he'd always dreamed of.

But maybe that wasn't what he wanted. For all you knew, he'd moved on, found someone who stayed by his side through all the highs and lows. Someone who loved him openly and without reservation, who didn't make him feel like he'd never measure up.

Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd sworn off love entirely after the way things ended between you two.

Either way, you couldn't blame him. You wouldn't blame him. Not after the pain you'd both endured.

Yunho's voice broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. "Is... everything okay? You've been quiet tonight." His concern was genuine, his eyes soft with worry, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze.

"I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

But deep down, you knew you weren't fine. And you didn't know if you ever would be.

"How much for that one?"

The tiny voice drew Seonghwa's attention, and he glanced down at the little girl standing on tiptoes, her small finger pointing eagerly at the figurine encased behind the counter. It was the only one displayed under glass, like a prized treasure—and in a way, it was.

He hummed, his eyes softening as he turned to look at the figure in question. The Kuromi figurine sat proudly on the top shelf, right next to the LED sign that glowed softly with his store's name: Star Mars. The design was intricate, every detail was carefully crafted with love and precision.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said gently, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. "That one's not for sale. It's reserved for someone very special."

The little girl pouted, her lips forming a perfect curve of disappointment, and his heart melted a little. But no amount of adorable pouting—or even persuasive whining—could ever convince him to sell it.

That Kuromi figurine wasn't just a piece of art; it was a promise, a memory frozen in time. It was one of the first figurines he'd perfected, the culmination of years of practice and the relentless pursuit of his passion. He'd made it as a gift for you—his favourite girl.

It still is yours, if only you wanted it.

The child's father stepped forward, lifting her into his arms as he gave Seonghwa an apologetic bow. "Don't worry about her, Mr Park. I'll convince her to go with the Isabelle one instead."

Seonghwa chuckled softly, standing upright as he waved off the father's concern. "No problem at all. Isabelle's a great choice," he said, though his eyes lingered briefly on the Kuromi figurine.

As the father and daughter moved on to browse the other displays, Seonghwa found himself lost in thought. He didn't display that piece out of pride or for show—it was there because it reminded him of you. Of the nights you'd spend sitting cross-legged on the floor of his studio, playfully teasing him about his obsession with getting every detail just right.

"She looks like you," he'd said when he showed it to you for the first time. You'd laughed, brushing it off, but the glint of affection in your eyes told him you secretly loved the comparison.

He'd planned to give it to you on your birthday, but the timing never felt right. And then, before he knew it, you were gone.

The bell above the door jingled, the familiar sound slicing through the haze of his thoughts and yanking him back to the present. He straightened up, plastering on the polite smile he reserved for customers, though the weight in his chest never eased.

"Good evening! Welcome to…" His voice faltered mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat as his entire world screeched to a halt.

There you were.

It had been years, but time seemed to melt away the moment his eyes landed on you. You stood there in the soft glow of his store lights, more beautiful than he remembered—if that were even possible. Your silk dress shimmered gently with each subtle movement, an elegant coat draped effortlessly over your shoulders. The once long hair he used to run his fingers through was now cropped to your shoulders, framing your face in a way that made you look older, wiser—but still you.

Even after all this time, his heart betrayed him. It thundered in his chest, each beat screaming your name. He clenched his fist tightly at his side, willing himself to stay rooted where he stood. Every fibre of his being ached to run to you, to close the distance, but he couldn't. He shouldn't.

Slowly, shakily, he mustered a smile, though it felt like his heart might burst from the sheer force of its racing. Then, to his astonishment—and heartbreak—you returned it. A soft, familiar curve of your lips that nearly undid him.

But then, it fell apart.

The moment shattered as a tall, striking man stepped in behind you. He moved with easy confidence, his presence commanding attention as if the universe itself had tilted slightly to make room for him. Without hesitation, his hand found its way to your shoulder, resting there with an ease that spoke of familiarity.

"See anything you like?" the man asked, his deep voice carrying the warmth of intimacy as he looked down at you.

You blinked, startled, as if shaken from a dream. "Oh… I was just…" Your voice trailed off as your gaze flicked back to your ex-boyfriend, lingering for a moment longer than it should have.

Seonghwa's smile faltered, but he quickly schooled his expression, burying the ache that clawed at his chest. He nodded politely, forcing himself to focus on the customer standing in front of him—the both of you.

The Kuromi figurine sat silently on its shelf, bathed in soft light, waiting for a moment that might never come. The air inside the store suddenly felt stifling. Seonghwa stood behind the counter, his hands gripping its edge like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Welcome to Star Mars," he said, his voice steady but his smile trembling under the weight of emotions. He forced it wider, hoping it would mask the whirlwind within. "It's been a while. How have you been?" His heart clenched as the words left his mouth. He wanted to sound casual, as though you were just another customer, but he couldn't. You weren't just anyone. You never had been.

You gave him a hesitant smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "I've been good. How about you?"

Before he could answer, the man beside you—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding warmth—stepped forward, his curiosity evident. "Oh, you two know each other? What a small world!" His voice was friendly, his smile sincere, and Seonghwa's chest tightened further.

He should feel relief. This man, presumably your boyfriend—or worse, your fiancé—seemed perfect for you. He was everything Seonghwa had wanted for you when he stepped away, believing he could never give you the life you deserved. And yet, it felt like the ground was crumbling beneath him.

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, this is Seonghwa. He's... an old friend of mine."

Old friend. The words landed like a punch to his stomach, but he kept his composure.

The man extended a hand toward him, his smile unwavering. "I'm Yunho. It's nice to meet you! Next time my nieces and nephews need new toys, I'll know who to come to."

Seonghwa took his hand, shaking it firmly while managing a polite smile. "Nice to meet you too." His gaze flickered back to you, catching the way you avoided meeting his eyes.

As if on cue, Yunho's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he excused himself, stepping outside to take the call. For the first time since you'd entered, the air felt heavy with unspoken words.

You turned back to your ex, your eyes meeting his briefly before dropping to the counter. "Congratulations... Seonghwa," you whispered, his name falling from your lips like a fragile memory. "It's good to see how far you've come."

He nodded slowly, his smile softer now, though the ache in his eyes remained. "Thank you. And... congratulations to you as well," he said, glancing toward the window where Yunho stood. "He seems amazing."

The kindness in his tone made it hurt even more.

"No," you blurted, shaking your head. "He's not... we're just... friends. I don't..." Your words faltered, your voice trembling. "I'm not with anyone."

His brows lifted in surprise, but he stayed silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. You wished he'd say something, anything, but the way his eyes softened, brimming with a mix of emotions—relief, hesitation, and something deeper—was answer enough.

Your breath hitched when your gaze landed on the figurine behind him. Kuromi. Encased in glass, displayed on the highest shelf. You remembered the countless hours he'd spent perfecting it, the way he'd proudly shown you the finished piece.

He still kept it.

Before you could find the courage to ask why, Yunho reappeared, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade. "Hey, sorry to cut your little catch-up session short, but something urgent came up at work, and I—"

Seonghwa straightened, his polite smile snapping back into place. "Of course, don't let me keep you."

Your heart sank as he turned to you, bowing slightly. "It was nice seeing you again."

You forced a smile, though your chest ached with everything left unsaid. "It was nice seeing you too."

As you followed Yunho out, you couldn't resist glancing back one last time. Your eyes met Seonghwa's, and in that fleeting moment, it felt as though a thousand words passed between you.

Regret. Longing. Love.

The bell above the door jingled again as you stepped out, your heart heavy with the weight of the encounter. Yunho was quiet as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel. The silence between you felt thick, almost suffocating, but you didn't know what to say. How could you explain the whirlwind of emotions raging inside you without sounding selfish or ungrateful?

"It's him, isn't it?" Yunho's voice broke through your thoughts, soft but resolute.

Your head snapped toward him, your heart pounding in panic. "What… what do you mean?" you stammered, the guilt already clawing its way to the surface.

He sighed, pulling the car to a gentle stop in front of your home. Turning to face you, he gave you a small, knowing smile. "The man from the store. Park Seonghwa, right? He's the one you've been thinking about all night. Tell me if I'm wrong."

Your breath caught, your hands fumbling with the seatbelt as you tried to come up with a response. But the look in his eyes told you that lying wasn't an option. "I…" You paused, finally managing to unfasten the seatbelt, but your words seemed caught in your throat. "I'm sorry, Yunho. I didn't mean for this to happen."

He leaned back with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You don't have to apologise. If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. I knew from the beginning that you weren't exactly thrilled about this arrangement, but I still went along with it, hoping… I don't know, that maybe something would change."

You felt tears sting your eyes, and you turned away, unable to meet his gaze. "You deserve better than this," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Hey." He reached out, his hand covering yours with a comforting warmth. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you turned back to him, your vision blurred with unshed tears.

"You don't owe me anything," he said gently. "This… whatever this was supposed to be, it wouldn't have worked if both of us weren't fully in it. And that's okay. You know why?"

You shook your head, your voice barely audible. "Why?"

"Because this decision—choosing who you want to be with—it's for you, not for your parents, not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. It should never be about what people think or what they want. It's your life. Live it for yourself."

His words struck you like a bolt of lightning, unravelling years of self-doubt and regret. He was right. How had you allowed yourself to be swept up in everyone else's expectations, losing sight of what truly mattered to you?

You sat back in your seat, letting his words sink in, feeling a strange mix of guilt and liberation. After a long moment, you nodded, your voice steadier now. "Thank you, Yunho. For everything."

He smiled, his eyes kind and understanding. "Go on," he said, tilting his head toward your house. "And don't let fear hold you back this time."

As you stepped out of the car, his words echoed in your mind, igniting a spark of courage you hadn't felt in years.

You turned back, watching as Yunho drove away, his figure disappearing into the night. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sliver of clarity.

It wasn't too late. You still had a choice to make. And this time, you'd make it for yourself.

The shop was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of paper as Seonghwa meticulously wrapped the Isabelle and Grogu figurines the pair of father and daughter finally agreed on getting. His movements were precise, his focus seemingly sharp, but his mind was elsewhere—stuck on the brief yet piercing encounter that had just walked out of his life again.

"That Kuromi one… it's for the pretty lady earlier, isn't it?"

The father's voice broke through Seonghwa's haze, and his hands froze briefly before resuming their task. He didn't look up, focusing instead on folding the edges of the wrapping paper with unnecessary care. "You might be right," he said after a pause, his voice quieter than intended. "But it doesn't matter if it is."

The man tilted his head, a subtle frown forming as he cradled his daughter closer. "And why's that? It clearly still means a lot to you both."

Seonghwa finally glanced up, forcing a polite smile, though it faltered almost immediately. "You saw it yourself... she's with someone else. Someone better." The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, laced with a resignation he didn't quite believe in.

The man sighed, shifting the little girl in his arms so she could hold her new Grogu figurine. He regarded your ex with a look that felt far too knowing. "I also saw how she looked at you," he said softly. "And she didn't look like someone who's better off."

Seonghwa blinked, caught off guard, but the customer wasn't finished. His gaze drifted toward the cute purple figurine that was not for sale, and for a moment, his expression softened into something fragile—something etched with pain.

"You know," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "my wife used to love Sanrio too. She had this little Cinnamoroll keychain she carried everywhere." He chuckled faintly, the sound bittersweet. "I always thought I'd have more time to make her smile, to give her the little things that made her happy. But time doesn't wait for anyone. One day, it was just… gone."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and Seonghwa felt something tighten in his chest.

The man glanced at him then, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity that seemed to pierce through Seonghwa's carefully built walls. "I don't know what's between you and her, Mr Park. But I do know this: regret is a heavy thing to carry. Don't let it weigh you down, not if you can still do something about it."

He gave Seonghwa a small, sad smile, the kind of smile that spoke of lessons learned too late, before taking the bag of purchased items. "Sometimes, all it takes is one step in the right direction. Don't let the chance slip away."

And then he was gone, the bell above the door jingling faintly as father and daughter disappeared into the night.

Seonghwa stood motionless behind the counter, his gaze drifting back to the Kuromi figurine in its glass case. The light reflected off it, casting faint shadows on the shelf behind it. It was meant for you. It had always been for you.

The father's words replayed in his mind, unrelenting in their simplicity and truth. He leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the figurine made just for you, but his thoughts were elsewhere—back to you, back to all the moments that had led to this one.

Back then, he'd convinced himself he was doing the right thing, letting you go so you could find the happiness he didn't think he could give you. He thought he was being selfless, noble even, sacrificing his own heart so you could find someone better—someone who deserved you. But now, the cracks in that logic were glaringly obvious. What had any of this accomplished? Neither of you had found happiness in the way he'd hoped.

The truth was harsh: he hadn't even tried. He hadn't fought to be better for you, to grow into someone worthy of your love. Instead, he'd accepted the version of himself the world seemed to see—a man with dreams too small and ambitions too impractical. He'd let himself believe that you deserved someone like Yunho, someone who fit the mould of what your parents and society thought was 'right.'

But things were different now. He wasn't that man anymore. He'd worked hard, not for anyone else but for himself. Every step he'd taken to build his store, every figurine he'd crafted with his own hands, every small milestone he'd achieved—it was proof that he could create something meaningful. And if he could do that, maybe he could create a life with you.

His heart clenched at the thought of you with Yunho, not because he doubted the man's worth, but because he knew Yunho could never hold your heart the way he still did. Yunho was everything society said you should want—stable, charming, perfect on paper. But love wasn't about paper. Love was about the way you used to light up whenever he showed you his newest creation, about the quiet nights you'd spent talking about everything and nothing, about the way your hand had always felt right in his.

Suddenly, the idea of the 'right person' seemed so absurd. There was no such thing. The right person wasn't someone who ticked all the boxes. The right person was the one you chose to love, again and again, flaws and all.

And you had chosen him once.

The real question now was whether you still would.

He straightened, his resolve hardening like molten metal cooling into steel. What kind of love was it if he could stand by and watch you settle for less than what you deserved? Not less in status or wealth, but less in the kind of happiness that made life worth living. What kind of love let you spend the rest of your days with someone who could never truly make your heart race?

Seonghwa wouldn't let that happen—not if he could help it.

His gaze lingered on the Kuromi figurine one last time before he moved toward the back room. He needed to think, to plan, to figure out how to tell you everything he should have said years ago.

If there was even the slightest chance that you still felt the same way, he would take it. Because this time, he wasn't letting fear or pride or anyone else's expectations get in the way.

This time, he was going to fight for you.

"Well...? Aren't you going to ask me how it went?" you asked, your voice sharp, as you stepped into the house. Your mother flinched, bowing her head slightly, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. She hesitated for a moment before coming up to you slowly, her eyes brimming with guilt.

"Yunho called," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said he wishes not to force you."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, devoid of any humour. "Of course, it took an outsider's words for you to finally see how exhausting this has been for me," you said, your tone cutting. "All this talk about marriage, about finding the right man... who is it really for? Who am I doing this for, hm? Is it for my own happiness? Or... oh, right." You smiled grimly. "It never was about my happiness, was it? It was about keeping up appearances, about pleasing everyone but me."

Your mother's face crumpled as her gaze fell to the floor. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken truths.

Your father, who had been sitting silently at the dining table, let out a long, weary sigh. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together as though trying to steady himself. "We thought we were doing what was best for you," he said, his voice low, burdened with regret. "We thought... if we guided you toward someone like Yunho, we were ensuring a future where you'd be safe, secure."

"Safe?" you repeated, your voice breaking. "From what? From being myself? From choosing the person who actually makes me happy? You never trusted me to make my own decisions. You never thought I was capable of knowing what I want, what I need."

Your mother reached for your hand, her touch tentative. "It wasn't like that," she said, though her voice wavered. "We were scared. Scared that you'd make a mistake, scared that you'd regret it later, scared that—"

"You mean you were scared," you interrupted, pulling your hand back. "Scared of what people would say. Scared of what the neighbours, the relatives, society would think. But you never stopped to ask me what I thought. What I felt."

Tears glistened in her eyes now, spilling over as she shook her head. "You're right," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You're absolutely right. We were selfish. We thought we knew better, but we didn't. We never meant to hurt you, but we see now that we did. We hurt you by not listening, by not trusting you."

Your father stood, his movements deliberate, his face sombre. "If he's the one you want, if he's the one who makes you happy, then we'll support you. No more pushing, no more trying to control your life. It's your choice. It always should've been your choice."

For a moment, the room fell silent. The tension that had loomed for so long finally began to dissipate, leaving behind a tentative sense of relief.

You inhaled shakily, the weight in your chest lifting just a little. It wasn't a perfect resolution—there was still so much to work through—but this was a start. A start you'd been longing for. "Thank you," you said softly, the words fragile but sincere. "Thank you for finally understanding."

And as your mother pulled you into a trembling embrace, you allowed yourself to hope that things could finally change. She smiled softly, brushing a hand against your cheek as if to assure you it was okay now. Your father stood behind her, his expression a mixture of pride and something deeper—perhaps the weight of finally letting go.

They exchanged a glance before your father nodded toward the door. "Go," he said quietly, his voice firm but warm. "Go where your heart tells you to. We'll always be here."

You blinked, stunned by their words, and for a moment, you couldn't move. But then, the weight in your chest lifted, replaced by an urgency that made your pulse race. Without another word, you turned and rushed out, barely remembering to grab your keys on the way.

Your car roared to life as you sped through the streets, your destination clear as day in your mind. Star Mars. The silly name you'd suggested in passing all those years ago, never imagining he'd actually use it. Your heart pounded harder with every turn, a mix of hope and fear swirling in your chest. Would he still want you after all this time? Did it matter? Even if he didn't, you needed him to know. You needed to tell him how you felt—how you still felt.

Parking haphazardly in front of his store, you didn't waste a second before bolting toward it. But as you reached the doors, your heart sank. The store was dark, the lights off, the doors locked. "Closed" hung starkly on the door, though the shops around it buzzed with life.

You froze, staring through the glass, confusion and dread pooling in your stomach. It's not even closing time yet... Had seeing you earlier bothered him that much? Had you pushed him away again, without even realising it?

Slumping against the door, you bit back tears, the overwhelming sense of missed chances clawing at your chest. Sure, you could come back another day. But you'd already lost so much time, wasted so many years pretending you didn't want this, pretending you didn't love him. You didn't want to waste another second.

Your gaze drifted inside the store, scanning the shelves. Your breath caught when you noticed something was missing. The Kuromi figurine—the one you'd lingered on earlier—was gone. You frowned, stepping closer to the glass. It had been there before. Where had it gone?

"Looking for this?"

The familiar voice made you spin around so fast you nearly stumbled. There he was, standing just a few feet away, the Kuromi figurine clutched in his hand, still encased in its protective plastic.

Your breath hitched as tears filled your eyes. "You took her off the shelf?" you asked, your voice trembling with emotion as you took a tentative step toward him. "Where were you planning to take her?"

He smiled softly, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears of his own. "I was going to take her to her rightful owner," he murmured, his voice steady but tender.

Your heart stopped at his words, and you whispered shakily, "Was? So you're not taking her anymore?"

He shook his head slowly. "No."

"Why not?"

He hesitated, the weight of years of longing and regret pressing against his chest. But then, the words of the customer from earlier echoed in his mind. Don't wait until it's too late. He looked at you—really looked at you—and knew, without a doubt, that this moment was the answer he'd been waiting for.

Taking a careful step forward, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing softly against yours. His breath hitched when your fingers instinctively curled around his, holding on as though letting go would shatter everything.

"Because you're already here," he murmured, his voice trembling with unspoken emotion.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, your heart felt whole again. The ache of countless nights spent longing for him, convinced you'd never feel his love again, melted away. Here he was—right in front of you—just like all those years ago. Yet, it felt different now. It felt... right. Because this time, neither of you would let fear or doubt stand in the way. This time, you were both ready to fight for it, to grow, to compromise, and to hold on.

"Hwa, I... I need to tell you something," you began, your voice shaking, each word heavy with the weight of years spent in silence. Your eyes searched his, desperate to convey everything your heart had been screaming in his absence. But before you could say more, he smiled—a small, trembling curve of his lips that held every ounce of love and pain he'd been holding back.

His eyes glistened as he leaned in, his forehead gently meeting yours, grounding you, binding you in a way that no words ever could. The moment felt infinite, a pause in time where your souls met in unspoken understanding.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion, raw and honest. Before you could process the words, his lips found yours, soft and warm, carrying all the unspoken promises, all the years of longing, all the love you thought you'd lost.

The world blurred and softened around you—the hum of the street and the glow of the city lights dissolving into nothingness. All that remained was him, the familiar scent of his cologne, the steady warmth of his hands cradling your face, the way his heart seemed to beat in perfect rhythm with yours.

In that kiss, you felt everything: the heartbreak, the yearning, the hope, and, most of all, the love that had endured time, separation, and pain. It was as if every broken piece of your heart was mending, every crack filled with the warmth of his love.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads remained pressed together, your breaths mingling in the quiet night. His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen, his touch tender and sure.

"This time," he murmured, his voice steady but full of emotion, "I'm not letting you go."

And you knew—you both knew—that this time, nothing would keep you apart.

Istg, this wasn't meant to be so long. I wasn't even sure I wanted to give it a happy ending at first, but then I just kept getting carried away and voila. I swear I am working on Yunho's chapter of By Order of the Black Pirates bit by bit hehe just had to get this out of my system first.

As always, thank you for reading and hope y'all liked this one! Do let me know your thoughts! <3

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[all-purpose-dish-soap]

your shark mer 141 and mer remora fic is one of the only things keeping me sane during finals week so please please please dump all of your thoughts on us because your writing style is so good and i can’t get enough!!!!!!!

thank you!! i sincerely hope finals are going/did go well for you! you should treat yourself with a little something if/when you're finished :)

and the shark mer 141 are always happy to be of service <3

37 / 1k / part 2 of shark mer Ghost tolerating remora mer reader

...

"But I'm fine!"

“You’re not. Look at you. You’re half-asleep.”

You’re not tired, you’re hungry. You shift against him, listless and unable to voice your needs. It's not that you're unwilling to do so--it's that you can't. It doesn't occur to you. Your kind doesn't survive by acting needy around a host.

Ghost notices your silent resistance. You’re weak--too tired, too hungry, too used to taking care of yourself--and still stubborn enough to keep your mouth shut anyway. He bites back a growl of irritation. It would be easier to fight. At least then he could shout it out of you. But no--instead you’re a tired lump in his hand, and your silence doesn’t give him anywhere to push back.

He's got one arm looped around you and both of your hands grasped in one of his. He only carries you like this, holding you by the wrists, when you accompanying him isn't up for debate. When you're being particularly fussy about it, he drags you by the wrists as if your arms were leads.

You don't relish that thought right now. You finally just bow your head, tucking it against his chest in submission.

He feels the change in your body language when you surrender to his control. He notices the way you go almost limp against him. Good. That almost puts the hungry, prowling animal in him to rest. Almost.

It’s a hard thing to explain--the gnawing dissatisfaction he felt watching you comb through the sand, small and alone on the ocean floor. The protective, possessive feeling that took root in his stomach.

It made him want to bite you all over. Not just to punish you, but to warn any other lurking thing who might confuse your loneliness for attainability. Not that he'd ever express the impulse to do so.

"Are you coming back to hunt again?" you ask him.

“Why? Do you miss me that much?”

You huff. "You didn't eat enough."

His fingers tighten around your wrists. You either have an inappropriate sense of humor or no self-awareness whatsoever.

“You're in a mouthy mood, huh?” he remarks tersely. “Must be even more tired than you look.”

He’s not stupid. He knows why you invited yourself along on his hunting trip. But he’s not going to coddle you while you shy away from the issue.

He glances up towards the coral reef, considering. If he brings you straight home, you'll just go back to ignoring your obvious needs. But he won’t let you wander the sea floor like some starving bottom-feeder. And he knows better than to hunt for you—you always refuse fresh kills.

The ones Ghost offers, at least. You seem willing enough to take fresh kills from Gaz.

Pisses him off.

You open your eyes when Ghost changes course and heads for a small cove carpeted in sandbanks. He dumps you unceremoniously into the soft sand. You look around, then at him.

"Stay right here." His tone brooks no argument. He swims off with an irritated lash of his tail before you can ask him why. You're left alone, moonlight curling across the surface of the water far above you and across the sand at your fins. Watching it makes your eyelids grow heavy.

You wake with a start when he returns. He holds in one clawed hand a fish. A live one.

He comes to rest on the edge of the sandbank. He doesn't speak, merely watching with a critical eye as you shake the sand from your scales and rouse yourself back into full consciousness. Then he holds out the live fish to you.

"Eat."

You frown but reach for it. Right as you lay your hands on it, it darts away. You jump in surprise, but one look at Ghost's face tells you he expected exactly that to happen. He can’t stop a small, satisfied smirk from curving his lips. That was exactly the reaction he wanted, and now you’re staring at him with six different accusations on the tip of your tongue.

His eyes fix on you with that smug, condescending look in his gaze. "Didn't Price teach you how to hunt for yourself?"

"Yes," you snap. You push yourself off the sand and dart after the fish, catching nothing but water again.

“Clearly not well.”

You strike out again. And come up empty. Again.

He huffs a laugh. You turn on him. "What's the point of this? You're the one who was going hunting."

He leans back, propping his weight on his elbows as he eyes you. Every failed lunge and dart bring him more satisfaction. "The point is that you should be able to feed yourself," he retorts. "You're too dependent, sweetheart. You’d starve in a koi pond."

You’d love nothing more than to tell him where exactly he can shove his stupid fish, but it’s far too mentally taxing for you to refuse outright. Instead, you cross your arms in a way that just as clearly says I'm not doing that.

Ghost’s eyes glimmer. He isn’t having it.

He pushes himself off the sand and swims toward you, pushing you back against the bank when he crowds himself over your smaller frame.

"You know” —his expression is downright patronizing— “refusing an order is a bad move. Bad things happen to disobedient pets."

"It didn't sound like an order," you mutter, avoiding his eyes.

He grabs your jaw and forces eye contact. "Sure as hell wasn't a suggestion, sweetheart. If you're not gonna ask for food when you need it, you're gonna learn to hunt." His eyes are hard, and that smug, self-satisfied demeanor is buried far underneath. "You learn or I make you learn. What do you say?"

You swallow. "Thank you for catching me such a nice practice fish?"

"Good pet." He releases your jaw.

He moves back onto the sand, propping himself on his elbows once more as he leans back. His black eyes linger on you, and you feel a chill.

"Now go."

...

part 1 / [part 2]

more mer au / more Ghost / masterlist tag

[stevieschrodinger]

"No." Chrissy crosses her arms over her chest.

Eddie flops onto the bed dramatically, fucks it up, and slides onto the floor.

"But what about-"

"No."

"Chrissy-"

"No. This is it. This is your last chance. No fucking about, no forgiveness, no come back, you get that, right?"

"Yeah but they said that every other-"

"The label is ready to drop you."

"What?" Eddie screeches and climbs up off the floor. He's shirtless and sweaty, his hair half sicking up half sticking to his sweat. "They can't do that."

"They can. They will. The lawyers are already involved, Gareth's ready to walk away."

Eddie feels like he's just been slapped. Punched. Like he fell maybe, like that moment when you're nearly asleep but your body jolts you awake, a half remembered dream that you just tripped and went head first off the stage. "You're lying-" Chrissy doesn't lie, "Gareth. The guys, none of them would-" but he sees it now, sees it through unfortunately sober eyes. See's it in the look on Chrissy's face. Can look back at the half remembered drugged up haze of all the shit Eddie's gotten up to over the last two years. All the times he didn't show. All the times he pulled bullshit. All the times he staggered into practice, late and drunk. All the times he turned up high. All the times his therapist has made him talk through his mistakes, to own them, to be truthful with himself about his problems.

Eddie can't have a drink. He can't smoke anything or inject anything or shove anything up his nose. He has to deal with it. He has to see it. There's a mirror next to Chrissy, big and ornate, and overdone, just like everything else in the room. Drug addict Eddie decorated this room, black and red and gilt. Arrogant vampire chic. Eddie thought it was cool. Four months of rehab and therapy and he's come back to a bedroom he fucking hates. The godamn carpet is black; who even buys black carpet? The top of the dresser is a mirror; easier for the coke.

Eddie should have torn it all out already.

He stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even remember getting some of the tattoos he has. He's too thin, bony, sick looking. His skin is flush pink with rut and there's a wet patch where the head of his cock hangs heavy. Chrissy does not give a shit.

"Eddie, honey. They all would. They all will. This is what I've been telling you. They are done. One more slip, and that's it. Rehab said absolutely no emotional entanglements while you're vulnerable-"

"I am not fucking vulnerable-"

"Nothing at all that could undermine your progress. No Omega's Eddie, I mean it. No drugs. No rut suppressors, no hormones, no nothing. Eddie I have been through this place with a fine tooth comb, I swear to god there's not so much as a Tylenol in this whole building."

"But what if I get a headache?" Eddie asks, suddenly feeling pathetic and weak as a kitten.

"Steve will get you an ice pack."

Eddie blinks, "who the fuck is Steve?"

"He's here to help you through your rut-"

"You said no Omega-"

"He isn't. He's a Beta, and he's the best there is at this. He will feed you, he will nest with you, anything you need, he will get it for you, he will look after you, he will let you scent him until your rut is done-"

"But-"

"Beta scent is calming!" Chrissy talks over Eddie, "this is not a sex thing, you need to rub one out do not do it in front of Steve. Do not piss him off, do not push his boundaries, am I clear? The center highly recommended him for this, okay?"

Eddie rankles with irritation, with displeasure.

Chrissy's nose crinkles at the scent, "look, I chose Steve to reduce the risk okay, male Beta is about the safest person you can be with right now. You have been clean for nearly five months Eddie, please. I am begging you, not for me, for you, you will hate yourself for the rest of your life if you fuck this up again. And actually also for me because watching them rush you into intensive care I-" She stops, looks at the floor, "for me Eddie- I cannot watch you go through something like that again, okay? I am asking you as your friend, please."

The OD was stupid; but Eddie had it in his head he was immortal at the time. "Okay Chris. Okay."

"Good. Thank you. I...won't hug you right now though."

Eddie looks down at the tent he's pitching in his sweats, "that's fair."

Chrissy opens the bedroom door and leaves, there's a man standing there. Eddie's preference isn't men, and Chrissy knows that. Hell, Eddie would take an Alpha over a Beta, and Chrissy knows that too.

Eddie takes a deep breath. The voice of his therapist mutters something about judging people by their desirability. They've talked a lot about Eddie judging people; can this person provide drink, drugs, or a fuck? No? Then what's the point of them.

It's a hard thing to change, when that's been your worldview for years. Even so, Eddie cannot see the point of this man; so he shuts the door in his face.

Part Two

[rotagnus]

good things coming, angel baby ---<3

what good things are coming your way? signs?

p1.

a lot of you have finished a cycle. i think a lot of things have happened in your life recently; it may have felt like the universe was bombarding you with signs LOL. for some of you you're on your period or it's happened recently, which may have added to your stresses. the things that are coming is a union, that's for sure. now don't immediately think i'm talking about a romantic one--this can be in whichever way that is significant to you. some of you may have had a person who's being a drama queen and leeching off of attention, and may be not a very good person to be around...this union will distract you from them. let them set their temper tantrums. you're better off not carrying the weight of someone who can carry their own share. a lot of you will be becoming more private, and this will make you feel like you just took a breath of fresh air. your view of the universe is shifting, and some negative ways you viewed your life will fall away and you'll see that it was anxiety speaking, the devil on your shoulder speaking. a lot of you will cut ties with things that are bad for you; maybe even people. these subjects may try to return to your life but it's in your best interest to beat them away with a stick. a lot of you will experience very sensitive and tender events, soon. the ones that soften you up but also give you more strength. i think that you can take a deep breath. this world won't give you anything you can't handle, my darling dove.

p2.

a lot of you have had a hard period this winter, and i can tell you very confidently that this spring will seep light into your weary bones. a lot of you felt watched and observed by unpleasant energies; you're a very sensitive soul, and you can feel when people are meddling with you and have bad intentions. you're protected and this won't last long. you didn't do anything wrong, is something i'm hearing, so i guess that might be significant. a lot of you are stepping into your energy; wearing your own skin proudly. some of your insecurities will fall apart. you're entering a very abundant energy and triumphing in life, particularly in the physical world; accomplishments are coming your way, and you can pat yourself on the back because your hard work has earned all of these things. your life is becoming balanced, and a lot of you will be able to relax and put the things you're obsessively pouring yourself into to rest along with yourself, because a lot of the time you invest yourself too much into things. rest, and value this thing; without being obsessive over it. while you're going to be very successful in the material world, you'll learn not to value it too deeply. you're going to resist some bad choices, so this is kind of the universe telling you that you MUST listen to your gut. it's right, always right, and honey, you've always been good at listening to your intuition, but this serves as a reminder to you. this is your time to reign and be yourself, and a good thing that's coming is you'll feel like it's easier to be yourself. this will reap you countless rewards, my love.

p3.

this pile has had a hard time being vulnerable and open for the past period of time, maybe months or weeks. you may be away from family or friends at this moment, and you've felt very depleted. i can tell you that it'll be easier to return to your people, your homes. your heart will bloom and for a lot of you you'll feel this weight becoming less physically, so i think a lot of you may have been feeling physical symptoms of your heartache. a lot of you are the kind of person who's like 'i wish i had my own person' who would like you and treasure you as much as you do them. i think you'll get this but not necessarily in the way you expect. some of you may get a person, yeah; the other half is going to get something else BEFORE they get the person. key word, before; you'll still get this, but only after you learn that you can find this peace and fulfillment in things other than another human. you guys have sooo much potential to be great and full of this powerful love, this humanity that carves itself so carefully into your warm nature, but you think that you'll find this in another person. WRONG!!! it lies within yourself, you idiot (lovingly). this is not the time to be humble; this is the time to recognize your achievements and love yourself for it so you don't attract people who convince you that your beautiful, gorgeous, smart, AMAZING ass deserves little. so yeah. a lot of you will benefit from doing hip-opening yoga to practice vulnerability. also journaling and taking walks. try to spend time in nature, you're very attuned in those kind of places and it'll give you the moments of sweetness you're seeking :). remember you're loved, sweetheart!