#birthday november shirt

[twwcs]

[the-skin-inthe-bath-is-mine]

Hand embroidery practice.

[crescentmp3]

these "what to get for someone you care about for their birthday" websites are utterly useless and i want my time back.

[eggs-love-loki]

Had a busy crafting night yesterday

[studioeisa]

that’s so true ❤️‍🩹 mingyu x reader.

he’s thinking: she’s so cool. he’s also thinking: you were, too. scratch that. present tense. you’re cool, too.

❤️‍🩹 pairing. exes!mingyu x reader. ❤️‍🩹 word count. 4.4k. ❤️‍🩹 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: uni. romance, humor, pinch of angst. ❤️‍🩹 includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. second chance romance, reader is a singer/cover artist. mingyu is very dramatic, svt ensemble supports his delusion, psych terms i’m not 100% sure of, gracie abrams’ that’s so true as a plot device. ❤️‍🩹 notes. @gyubakeries is the first mutual i made on this account. more than that, tiya has been such a consistent fixture in my carat journey that i can’t imagine being on tumblr without her. i’m not sure if you remember, but you actually asked this of me waaay back in november—i give it to you now as a present!!! happy birthday, my sweetest girl. your metaphorical big sister from oceans away will always wait on your updates. <𝟑

The living room smells like kettle corn and stale beer, the kind that’s been spilled and wiped and spilled again over the warped parquet floor. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker is playing a remix of something ironic—Britney, probably—but no one’s really listening. The bass is more of a heartbeat now, thumping through the walls, the couches, the soles of everyone's shoes.

Mingyu’s on the armrest of a sunken couch, red Solo cup in hand, legs spread like he’s too large for this party, this furniture, maybe this whole city. You know the look on his face. Eyebrows slightly raised, mouth doing that thing where it’s half-interested, half-inviting. 

She’s across from him, laughing at something someone said, maybe him. She’s not beautiful in the way you are, but she’s curated. Hair in that loose, glossy blowout style, the one that says, I woke up like this but cost seventy bucks at a salon in Itaewon. Her shirt is sheer. Her lip gloss is strawberry. She knows the angles.

Mingyu is thinking: she’s hot. He’s also thinking: she probably doesn’t cry in parking lots.

She won’t ask him about attachment theory. She won’t remember that his left wrist aches when it rains because of that skateboarding injury in middle school. She won’t know what he looks like when he’s not trying.

She won’t, but you would. You did.

They’re kissing before they’re really talking. Her hand slides up his arm and he smiles against her mouth. She tastes like cranberry vodka and something synthetic. Her perfume is expensive but too floral. It’s cloying. It fills his nose, his throat, his lungs.

In the bedroom, she pulls her hair down and says, “Oh my God,” like she’s in a teen drama. She laughs when he fumbles with her zipper. He laughs too. It’s easy, he thinks. Easier than it ever was with you.

But when she pulls his shirt over his head, he flinches. For half a second, the cotton brushes his collarbone, and he thinks of your fingers there. You used to trace that spot like it meant something. Like it was sacred.

He kisses her harder, trying to wipe the thought clean.

Later, when the room is dark and she’s asleep beside him, limbs flung over the covers like a thrown coat, he stares blankly up at the ceiling. Wondering if you ever ended up on someone else’s couch, laughing at someone else’s jokes. Wondering if they made you laugh the way he used to.

He’s thinking: she’s so cool.

He’s also thinking: you were, too. Scratch that. Present tense. You’re cool, too. Maybe even more. 

The next morning, Mingyu’s shoes are sticky with someone else’s spilled life. Beer, soda, something sentimental he can no longer imagine. He kicks his shoes off at the door of the apartment he shares with Wonwoo, who is curled up on the couch with a psychology journal and a judgmental brow raised just high enough to qualify as a greeting.

Wonwoo doesn’t look up. “So,” he says dryly, “did you learn anything at your extracurricular activities?”

Mingyu groans, dragging himself to the fridge. “Yeah. That Bacardi should come with a warning label.”

Wonwoo flips a page. “You’re spiraling.”

“Am not.”

“You slept with someone who pronounces ‘Freud’ like ‘fruit.’”

Mingyu opens a yogurt and points the spoon at him. “She was cool.”

“She was unironically quoting astrology memes.”

He shrugs. “You should’ve seen the way she took her hair down. It was cinematic.”

Wonwoo finally looks up. His eyes are soft but sharp. “You know what else was cinematic? You and—” He pauses. Doesn’t say your name. Just gestures vaguely, like it’s a word too big for the room.

Mingyu exhales through his nose and leans against the counter, eyes on the floor. “That was… different.”

He doesn’t say your name either, but he thinks it. Quietly. Like an incantation.

It started in PSYC 231: Theories of Personality, where he made fun of Freud and you corrected him, deadpan, mid-laugh, with a full citation. You were brilliant and unbothered and slightly intimidating. He liked that.

You liked that he made you laugh.

You studied together in a café with sticky tabletops and slow jazz. You fought over which theorist was most overrated. He said Jung. You said Skinner. He said Skinner wasn’t even a theorist, he was a behaviorist. You said exactly, and he fought the urge to kiss you in that damn library that was too cold for anybody to be studying in.

Somewhere between arguing and annotating, he started noticing little things—like how you hummed when reading, or tapped your pen when you disagreed with something. How your eyes didn’t just read but searched. That, in particular, always made him feel like he was being flayed open for you to study. For you to make sense of whatever theory you thought would best fit. 

By the time you were dating, he already knew how you took your coffee, which hand you used to tuck hair behind your ear, and what your childhood smelled like.

The relationship ended quietly. Not with a scream but with a sigh. 

Final exams were brutal. You’d both been tired, stretched thin. One day, in the middle of a café you used to call yours, you said, “I don’t think we’re good for each other anymore.”

He wanted to argue. But he knew. You were both too gentle, too smart to force what had already unraveled. And now here he is, eating yogurt at 11AM, with his hoodie on backward and a girl’s perfume still clinging to his shirt that’s probably inside out.

“She was cool,” Mingyu repeats, but his voice lacks conviction.

Wonwoo returns to his article. “So was New Coke.”

Mingyu flips himself off and stalks into his bedroom. He plops down on to his bed, pulls out his phone, and decides he deserves to doom scroll. Kill time. Avoid the mountain of notes on his desk and the group chat buzzing about someone’s birthday dinner. But his fingers are traitorous. They know muscle memory too well.

Your username appears in his search bar before he even finishes typing it. The profile loads like a held breath.

Still no new posts. No stories. Just the familiar grid of moments you once chose to share with the world. Sepia-toned coffees, a blurry picture of your dog mid-jump, and, in the third row, dead center, the one video he always returns to.

Your cover of One Direction’s If I Could Fly.

It’s from months ago. Posted three days after your first date. He remembers that timing like it’s stitched into his skin.

He taps the video. The screen brightens. The opening notes begin—soft piano, distant as a memory—and your voice floats into the room.

If I could fly, I’d be coming right back home to you.

The camera angle is simple, framed by fairy lights and your curtain swaying gently in the background. You’re seated cross-legged on your bedroom floor, hair tucked behind one ear, guitar resting against your knee. There’s a candle flickering off-screen. He remembers you saying it helped with nerves. He bought you a dozen and you accused him of love bombing. 

Your voice is clear. Honest. Not trying too hard. The kind that doesn’t need to prove anything.

He closes his eyes, lets it wash over him.

The first date had been spontaneous. You’d both stayed late after a 3PM lecture, loitering in the Psych building’s stairwell with iced americanos and a half-formed debate about the ethics of the Stanford prison experiment.

He asked if you wanted to grab dinner. You grinned and said, “Only if you're paying.”

You ended up at a street-side kimbap place, elbows bumping over shared plates. Your shared laughter rang louder than the traffic. He remembers watching you talk about your music—how you’d grown up humming along to your mom’s CD collection, how you hated performing live but loved the quiet of recording.

You compared it to bottling emotion and labeling it. Days later, you would post the video with no caption, no tag, but Mingyu knew. He’d bet his entire degree on the possibility of the song being full of emotion for him. He had played it over and over, heart stuttering every time you hit the line: For your eyes only, I show you my heart… 

Now, he listens to it again. Months later. Same voice, same room, but everything’s shifted. For when you’re lonely and forget who you are…

Mingyu presses the phone to his chest. Just for a second.

He doesn’t cry. But the silence that follows is loud.

He replays the video. 

Again, and again, and again.

Jeon Wonwoo 🐈‍⬛   @everyone_wonwoo If I have to hear ‘If I Could Fly’ one more fucking time... 🙂

Mingyu doesn’t bring it up directly. He just says he’s bored.

“Bored?” Seokmin echoes, squinting at him over a protein shake. “You’re never bored. You’re either studying, cooking, or stalking that Facebook page about people’s worst dates.”

“Okay,” Mingyu sulks, eyes pointedly avoiding the phone on the counter. “Then maybe I’m tired. Of everything.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence that stretches long enough to be suspicious. Seokmin leans forward slightly, his expression softening. “You still checking her profile?”

Mingyu doesn’t respond. Doesn’t have to.

Seokmin eyes him for a beat longer, then slaps a hand on the table like it’s been decided. “We’re going jogging.”

“Jogging?”

“Fresh air. Blood circulation. Endorphins. It’s either that or I drag you to a Zumba class with my aunt.”

Mingyu regrets agreeing almost immediately.

The sun is too bright, his hoodie is too warm, and Seokmin runs like someone being chased by a scholarship. His legs move with the speed of divine punishment. But Mingyu keeps pace, mostly because it’s better than curling up in his bed like a dumpling of misery, and because Seokmin insists on making a dad joke every time they pass a new kilometer marker.

“How do joggers stay in touch?” Seokmin pants. “They go the extra mile!”

Mingyu nearly trips on a loose pebble just to end it all.

They’re rounding the curve near the Han River, where the breeze carries the faint sting of river water and distant hotteok from a food stall parked by the trees. The air smells like silt, spring grass, and something damp and persistent, like memories that refuse to fade.

Mingyu is just about to complain when Seokmin stops so abruptly he almost crashes into him. “What?” Mingyu wheezes, catching his breath.

Seokmin’s eyes widen. “Bush,” he says, low and urgent.

“What?”

“Bush. Now.”

Before Mingyu can even formulate a protest, Seokmin is manhandling him into the nearest patch of overgrowth like a poorly disguised cartoon criminal. Leaves slap Mingyu in the face. A twig pokes him directly in the ribs. Dirt makes its way into his shoe.

“What the f—”

“Shh!” Seokmin hisses. “Look.”

Through the gaps in the foliage, Mingyu sees why.

You.

You’re walking toward them, earbuds in, tote bag swaying by your side like it’s following its own rhythm. Hair a little messy in the wind, your expression somewhere between focused and free. 

You look good. Still you, but lighter. Like a burden he hadn’t realized was shared is now just yours to carry alone. Or maybe you already set it down.

Seokmin is now fully visible on the path, standing like he’s waiting for judgment. You spot him easily.

“Oh. Hey!”

Your voice is like a dropped pebble in a still pond—too familiar, too immediate. Mingyu forgets to breathe.

Seokmin waves with the nervous energy of a man who knows he’s one sentence away from disaster. “Hey! Uh, great to see you here.”

“I run this route sometimes,” you say, slowing your pace. Your eyes scan the area casually, briefly grazing the suspiciously shivering bush nearby.

Seokmin laughs too loudly. “Yeah, uh, me too. With Mingyu. I mean, not that we’re, like, training for a marathon or anything. Just... casual cardiovascular bonding.”

There’s a beat. Your eyebrow lifts. “Is that code for hiding in bushes now?”

Seokmin freezes like a deer caught mid-excuse. Mingyu’s heart drops to his ass. He’s crouched among the leaves, silently reciting every mistake that led him here.

You don’t press. Just smile—cordial, unreadable. Like you know exactly who’s buried in the shrubbery but decide to gift him the mercy of not dragging it into the daylight.

“Tell him I said hi,” you say. And then you’re jogging again, disappearing into the path ahead with the same effortless grace you always carried. 

Mingyu exhales so slowly it feels like releasing a trapped lifetime.

Seokmin crouches to peek into the bush. “You good?”

“No,” Mingyu says, brushing twigs off his sleeves. “That was the most cardio I’ve done all semester.”

It’s not necessarily what Seokmin is asking about, but he’s at least somewhat willing to leti t pass. “You owe me,” Seokmin mutters, offering a hand.

Mingyu takes Seokmin’s hand. In a way, Mingyu is starting to think that moving on isn’t a sprint, isn’t dramatic or cinematic or even particularly graceful.

Maybe it’s just the slow, undignified crawl out of the shrubs—twigs in your hair, knees scraped, heart still stupidly hoping for a glimpse of someone who’s already halfway down the road.

Seokmin claps him on the back. “Tomorrow, we jog at dawn.”

“I’m blocking your fucking number, man.”

SEOK ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜   @dk_is_dokyeom JOGGING IS THE SOLUTION TO ALL HEARTBREAK !!! ᕙ(  •̀ ᗜ •́  )ᕗ 5KM MARATHON NEXT WHOOOP

The thing about studying with Minghao is that it’s almost productive. Almost. 

He’s efficient, focused, the type to highlight with color-coded precision and take Cornell notes with monk-like discipline. But he also plays ambient jazz remixes of anime openings and occasionally pauses to psychoanalyze fictional characters in the middle of their Cognitive Psychology notes.

Mingyu doesn’t mind. The rhythm of it is comforting, like sharing a library table with someone who’s silently agreeing to not let either of you fail.

They’re halfway through Chapter 9—something about memory recall and flashbulb events—when Minghao stretches, pops his neck like an old man, and says, “Ten-minute break. Don’t fight me.”

Mingyu doesn't. He leans back in his chair, eyes slipping toward the light of his phone. It’s muscle memory at this point. Tap, scroll, sigh.

And then he sees it.

A new post. From you.

It’s been months since you last uploaded. Radio silence since the breakup. But there it is, timestamp fresh: a new cover. You, singing again.

He taps it before he can stop himself.

The video opens on your bedroom wall, fairy lights glowing soft gold. Your guitar is nestled in your lap. You’re already playing when it starts, your voice soft but steady, clear as breath in cold air. I could go and read your mind, think about your dumb face all the time.

He doesn’t even blink until the bridge hits.

Made it out alive, but I think I lost it. Said that I was fine, said it from the coffin. 

The words come like a slap—no, a symphony of emotional gut-punches conducted with the smug finesse of someone who knows exactly who might still be watching.

Remember how I died when you started walking? That’s my life, that’s my life. 

Mingyu’s jaw slackens. His stomach turns to wet newspaper.

I’ll put up a fight, taking out my earrings. 

He gasps. Actually gasps. The kind of sharp inhale usually reserved for plot twists in dramas or sudden stab wounds. Minghao looks up from his notes, alarmed. “Did you just find out you’re adopted?”

Mingyu stares at his screen like it’s physically wounded him. “No. Worse.”

“There’s worse than that?”

He turns the screen toward Minghao, who watches blankly as you croon you should spend the night, catch me on your ceiling with the conviction of a woman who’s been through three divorces. “Oof. That’s brutal,” Minghao deadpans. “She posted that publicly?”

Mingyu nods slowly, as if he’s been sentenced to emotional exile. “With hashtag song cover and everything.” 

You’re still strumming and singing on screen, humming along to the pop song in a way that might be innocuous. Except Mingyu’s hobby is making everything about him, and he has made the executive decision that this one is most definitely about him. 

He slumps forward like someone has cut his puppet strings. “I think she wrote that just to kill me,” Mingyu laments. 

“Gracie Abrams wrote that.”

“Exactly. Which means she used an outside contractor.”

Minghao shuts his textbook with a flourish. “Alright. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere you can scream into the void without getting noise complaints.”

Mingyu doesn’t argue.

Because some pain demands movement. Or, at the very least, screaming into a gorge like a man who knows he lost something important. Something musical. Something with perfect pitch and the ability to destroy him in 2 minutes and 46 seconds flat.

Mingyu is mid-tragic sigh when it happens. He’s still staring at your video, thumb hovering over the screen, when betrayal strikes.

A double-tap, when he meant to swipe. 

The accidental like.

The screen flashes with a bright red heart. Liked by @min9yu_k and 26 others. For a post that’s only been up for five minutes. 

Mingyu freezes.

Minghao, who was zipping up his hoodie, senses it instantly. “What? What happened?”

Mingyu’s voice is a whisper. A horror film crescendo. "I liked it."

Minghao frowns. “Liked what?” 

“The post. Her post. I liked the video.”

There’s a silence. A long, stretching silence. Then Minghao inhales slowly. “Okay. Okay. That’s not the end of the world. Just unlike it.”

“I’m trying!”

He taps the heart again. It unlikes. In the cursed chaos of his frantic thumb, he hits the comment button, clicks on the red heart emoji that comes up as the suggested, and slams on the button that’s meant to send it out. 

Mingyu stares in blank, glitching horror. “NO.”

Minghao leans over, sees the screen, and reels back like it’s radioactive. “Oh my God. You commented. A heart. A full heart,” the younger boy huffs judgmentally. “Not even a broken one. That’s—that’s commitment.”

“I didn’t mean to!” wails Mingyu. 

“The algorithm thinks you did.”

Mingyu is full-on spiraling now. He opens the comment section. His name. His profile picture. His heart. Right there. Bold as day. Public. “Delete, delete, delete—”

His fingers are moving like he’s hacking into NASA. He finally deletes it.

“Did she see it?”

Minghao makes a face. “It was up for ten seconds. So… maybe. Maybe not.”

“What if she has post notifications on?”

“Who has post notifications on for their ex?”

Mingyu stares at him.

Minghao sighs. “Okay, fair point.”

Mingyu buries his face in his hands. “I have to fake my death.”

“You can’t fake your death over a heart emoji.”

“Tell that to the death certificate I’m about to file right fucking now.” 

Minghao pats him on the back, not unsympathetically. “Look. If she saw it, maybe she thinks you're just… appreciating her art.”

Mingyu lifts his head, eyes bloodshot with melodrama. “I can’t be art-appreciation guy. That’s worse than being ex-boyfriend guy.”

“Well,” Minghao says, pulling him to his feet, “at least you’re not boring.”

Mingyu glares. “Take me to the park. I need to scream again.”

“You already screamed at the river yesterday.”

“Then today I’ll scream at the sky.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They leave for the park like two men walking into battle—one brokenhearted, the other holding the emotional equivalent of a mop and bucket.

Somewhere, your phone buzzes twice.

hao   @xuminghao_o currently witnessing levels of crash out yet unknown to man

“So,” you say, appearing like an accusation in human form. “You liked my post. And then took it back. And then commented a heart. Which you also took back.”

Mingyu does not choke on his coffee, but only because he hasn’t sipped it yet.

He thought he would get away from you. Or that you hadn’t seen. It’s been a couple of days, after all, since the That’s So True-gate that had Mingyu screaming his head off while Minghao quizzed him on behavioral psychology. 

When you didn’t immediately message, Mingyu assumed he was in the clear. Enough to start studying back in the café that saw the beginning and end of your relationship. 

Big, fat mistake. Still, Mingyu tries to play it off. “I think that was an AI-generated coincidence.”

You raise your eyebrows as you slide into the seat across from him. Uninvited but not unwelcome—that seemed to be your whole gig. “An AI-generated coincidence?”

“Yeah. Like those deep fake videos. Except emotional.”

“You deepfaked a heart emoji on my video?”

Mingyu puts his mug down. “Look, I was just appreciating the vocals. You were serving serious tone and resonance. Any casual listener would have been compelled to engage.”

“Right. With a bright red heart. For the song about dying when your ex walks away.”

“That is... purely coincidental.”

You hum. Not quite convinced. Then, in that same effortless way you always had—like peeling back the foil lid on someone’s yogurt without asking permission—you add, “Because it would be weird, otherwise. Especially since Wonwoo kinda revealed you being in your little Directioner phase.”

The jab nearly misses its mark. When it hits, though—bullseye. The implication doesn’t elude Mingyu. “You’re keeping tabs on Wonwoo’s tweets?” he asks. 

You pause. Not long. Just enough to suggest you may have miscalculated. “They came up,” you say vaguely. 

“They came up,” he repeats, savoring the words like a hard candy made of gotcha.

You, ever quick, counter: “Yeah, well, at least I’m not the one with crash outs unknown to man.”

Strike two. Verbatim. Word for word to Minghao’s tweet. Mingyu starts to laugh, even as you level him that deathly, I-will-murder-you glare. “You’re keeping tabs,” Mingyu wheezes, and you look mortified for only a fraction of a second. 

You smile ruefully. That same maddening look you used to give him in the middle of debates you’d already won. “You know, you could’ve just said hi,” you say once Mingyu has calmed down, and he has a feeling you’re referring to more than just the incident in the bushes or the post liking incident. 

He exhales. “Yeah, but where’s the emotional turmoil in that?”

“Tragic. Really,” you say dryly. “You missed your calling as a K-drama second lead.”

Mingyu lifts his coffee. Takes a long sip. Lets the silence stretch just long enough to taste what’s underneath. You’re sitting across from him after what feels like forever, wearing that smile like a borrowed shirt. Ill-fitting. Too hopeful for somebody who has no business to care this much over how your ex is faring. 

After a moment too long, you reach for your bag like you didn’t just throw a rhetorical grenade and watch it bloom between you. “Anyway, I should go.”

“Right,” Mingyu says, nodding slowly, “back to curating cryptic playlists and pretending not to spiral.”

You shoot him a look. Deadpan. Disarmed. Slightly impressed. “I don’t spiral.”

“You’ve started titling things in lowercase.”

“That’s aesthetic.”

“You quoted Phoebe Bridgers in your Instagram story and didn’t provide context.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “If he wanted to, he would.”

“He did,” Mingyu says, meaning himself, but he doesn’t clarify.

You smile then. Small. Real. The kind that makes his chest feel like it forgot how to carry breath.

He watches as you stand, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve like they always do when you want to say more but don’t trust the air to hold it right. The fluorescent light above you flickers. You blink up, then laugh softly, like the moment decided to flirt back.

Your perfume is faint. The smell of a summer afternoon you never quite got to finish. It follows you, subtle as breath, lingering in the booth and the hollow of his throat. You pause at the door. Not long enough to be dramatic, but enough to be remembered.

And then you’re walking away.

Mingyu doesn’t stop you.

Not because he doesn’t want to. But because it’s always been like that with you. The tension not in the holding, but in the letting go. He thinks of all the times you looked back, and all the times you didn’t. Each one a verse in a song he doesn’t know how to stop humming.

The door swings. The bell above it jingles like an afterthought. Something unresolved in a symphony.

And just like that, the moment ends.

He sits for a while. Lets the mug cool. Lets the ache spread out soft and even.

Memory doesn’t arrive with warning. It bleeds.

Your knees tucked into his side on the couch, face half-covered by a blanket, both of you too tired to talk but too in love to turn away. How you reached for his hand without looking. How he kissed the inside of your wrist like it held your name. How your laugh cracked something open in him that had been sealed since childhood.

He remembers how you said things without saying them. How silence between you didn’t feel empty, just honest. Like breath between words. Like a secret passed through eye contact and lazy fingertips tracing collarbones.

That one night you got caught in the rain after a concert and neither of you had an umbrella. You laughed, drenched and shivering, mascara a little smudged, mouth full of lightning. You kissed him under a streetlamp and whispered something he didn’t catch. He said “what?” but you shook your head and kissed him again. Water streamed down your cheeks like tears that didn’t hurt.

He never asked what you said. He didn’t need to.

Mingyu runs a thumb along the rim of his mug. It’s chipped.

So is he, maybe. But not broken. Not yet.

You’re both so young. Still are. Young enough to believe in maybe. In could be. In if not now, then later. In second chances that don’t come with prerequisites.

He thinks about running after you. Thinks about not thinking. About blurting it all out like a prayer or a punchline.

Instead, he finishes his coffee, stands, and lets the door swing shut behind him.

The space you left behind���still warm. Still scented. Still shaped like you.

The echo of your last smile lingers like a line in a song he can’t stop repeating.

Again, and again, and again. 

KMG   @min9yu_kbtw if you see this i still love you 

[novthirty]

🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter three]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn

a/n — can i finish this fic by sylus’s birthday? i genuinely don’t know… 😭 but i’m finally on break so i’ll try my best in the next few days! anywho, we’ve finally caught up to where the one shot ended so get ready for the angst 😋

ao3 | masterlist | requests are open! series masterlist | part two | part four [coming soon]

chapter three: countdown— the night softens people in ways that can only be done in the haze of darkness, revealing a vulnerability too fragile for the harsh rays of the sun. you know this could be more, you know this could be everything. but the clock ticks down to what you know is inevitable. wc: 7.9k

A constant chill sweeps through the streets of the N109 Zone, creeping into the compound as you exchange flowy shirts and iced tea for thick sweaters and hot cocoa. It’s on one of these nights just past the first snowfall, towards the end of November, when he finds you in the kitchen minutes after midnight. Sitting alone, lighting a candle atop a puny cupcake. 

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” His voice rumbles through the kitchen, startling you and breaking your focus. The lighter slips from your grasp, falling and smudging the frosting. Well, shit. You didn’t exactly prepare a backup. 

“Uhm,” You stare guiltily at him like a deer caught in the headlights. There was no way you were getting out of this one, were you? Not when he’s standing with his arms crossed, disappointed, like a parent who’s caught their child red-handed. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose in quiet frustration, “Please. Please. Do not tell me that today is what I think it is.”

“Surprise?”

“Surprise? Is that all you have to say for yourself?” His eye twitches. Even on your own birthday, you don’t fail to surprise him at every turn. Here you are, having thrown such lovely and thought-out celebrations for everyone’s birthdays, settling for a cupcake and a lonely celebration on yours. “Why on earth would you decide to keep this information from me?” 

“Well, it’s just a birthday. I didn't feel the need to have a lot of celebration this year." The answer is nowhere enough to appease him, judging by his stern gaze. 

You knew this world had a lot to offer; you had barely explored the criminal underbelly that was the N109 Zone, barely stepped into the shining beacon that was Linkon city. You were sure there was more than enough to fill in the gaps of your bucket list. But nothing could match the reckless but youthful adventure of getting lost with life-long friends. Nothing could live up to the warmth and solace of being surrounded by family, as you blow the candles on another year.

You try to keep it all buried under the surface– but with a sigh, you decide to cut open old wounds and bare a little more of your heart to him, “There was more to be sad about than to be happy, I guess. I had so many plans, so many people that I—“ You cut yourself off. Those heart strings were too fragile to be tugged at. “Well, now it’s all kind of gone to shit, huh?” You laugh bitterly. 

Without missing a beat, Sylus asks, “And what were those plans?” 

You reminisce on your old life, splitting the deformed cupcake with him as you recount plans that will never be. It hurts less than you expected it to, to breathe these lost wishes into existence for someone else to hear. 

He listens intently, chiming in with similar experiences or places that he’s seen in this world– frankly, it reminds you of when your elders used to go on about their wisdom and their golden years. “Your age is showing, grandpa,” You tease him, and he lightly glares at you. You take the opportunity to ruffle his hair, “Your hair’s already silver, too.” 

Eventually, your lunch break comes to an end, and you bid him goodbye as he returns to his office. You sigh as you clean up and throw away the candle you never even got to light. Oh well. There’s always next year. 

Later that day you wake up in the afternoon, ready to start your shift— only to be greeted by streamers and balloons lining your path downstairs. “Happy birthday!” The whole house cheers as you enter the living room, decked out in all sorts of party favors. Even Sylus— the most notoriously unfestive man you’ve ever met— is wearing a cone shaped party hat striped with your favorite colors.

What follows is an impromptu day-off for everyone in the compound. (You feel an oncoming migraine thinking of how you’re going to readjust Sylus’s schedule, but that’s a job for future you.) They bring you to Linkon City, driving past the welcome sign as the sunset casts a pink glow over the horizon. It’s your first time visiting for leisure, your previous excursions into the city being solely for Onychinus business. 

Sitting beside you at the wheel, Sylus participates in the idle chatter, but inwardly he feels ashamed. He's upset that you kept the date to yourself for so long; but more than that, he’s angry at himself for never having bothered to ask. So, in the final hours of your birthday, he does his best to make up for it. 

The four of you drive around the city with Mephisto following from the skies, visiting various spots that were eerily similar to the ones you had described mere hours ago to Sylus. The itinerary matches your original plans to a T, as he drags you to every activity you had desired to partake in, lavishing you with all sorts of presents on the way. 

Your last stop is a shopping center, to which you groan, already knowing the fate that awaits you. Sylus is the type to spend more than he needs to as a statement. He insists that you wait for him in the plaza, no doubt going off to the most luxurious store in the mall looking for a hefty price tag. You sit by the fountain, deserted due to the late hour, dangling your feet as you wait for him to return.

You gasp as a cold pair of hands suddenly covers your eyes. “Keep still, sweetheart,” He whispers in your ear, shocking you out of your bored reverie. You keep your eyes forward as he pulls your hair aside, breath hitching as he clasps a necklace around your neck, the cold metal brushing against your skin. It's a thin chain, with a gem of your favorite color set in an intricate frame. You don’t know much about jewelry or gems, but you can’t comprehend how much this must have cost. The way it sparkles and glints under the light makes it clear that it must have cost a fortune. 

“Sylus, I can't accept this…” You turn around to face him. Just as when he took you shopping before the auction, it’s far too much. You’re not used to being spoiled, not used to treating yourself without deserving it first, and you tell him as much. 

He tips your chin upwards with a feather-light touch, his gaze unreadable as he asks, “And who says my lovely secretary doesn’t deserve the world at her feet?” 

The atmosphere shifts, the effortless ease at which you interact with him dissipating into stutters and heated stares. This tension follows you as you reunite with Luke and Kieran, the two having gone their separate ways to buy you their own present— a new set of knitting needles, and a mug with the words “World’s Best Secretary” that they’ve decorated to hell and back with rhinestones in your favorite colors.

The four of you spend the rest of the evening dining in a fancy restaurant, bypassing the queue with Sylus’s name alone. It’s a strictly no-work evening, as you bicker with the twins and coo at Mephisto (You have since learned he cannot digest food. It’s a shame, and you’ve been pestering Sylus to add it as his next upgrade.) You turn to him, casually silent throughout it all. All throughout the night you’ve been hyper aware of his heat pressed against your side, his thigh brushing against yours, even as he seems unaffected himself. He raises an eyebrow upon catching your gaze, “Are you enjoying yourself?” 

You nod; a true, content smile on your face. It's not exactly the birthday you envisioned for yourself this year; the absence of your friends and loved ones still acts as a wide, gaping hole in your heart. But nonetheless, you now have a newfound family to spend your special day with— and that’s more than you could have ever expected. 

When the cake is brought out— a fancy, two-tiered thing in your favorite color— you make a wish. It’s not about your wistful longing to go home. It’s not about your hopeless desire to wake up from this strange dream. It’s a wish for all your moments to be like this— heart full, and with family by your side. 

After dinner, Luke and Kieran have to leave for a mission they couldn’t get out of. “Happy birthday,” They each greet you again with a hug and a disappointed goodbye, “Sorry we can’t continue the celebration back home.” You wave off their worries— there’s always more fun to be had once they come back. 

“Boys, take the car,” Sylus tosses over the keys, “I'll be taking Treasure out for a spin. She’s been getting a little dusty, lately.”

The twins glance at each other with a knowing look, subtly looking towards you with a hint of mischief, “Oh, gotcha boss.” They lightly snicker as you two walk them to the parking lot. 

“What's so funny?” You narrow your eyes, knowing very well by now that that look means nothing but trouble. 

“Nothing to worry about, Ms. Secretary… Nothing to worry about. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Luke grins before rolling up the driver’s window. 

About half an hour later, you deeply regret not listening to your instincts as you scream your head off, clung to Sylus's back like a koala as he goes faster than you thought was technologically possible. ”What the fuck— Sylus, slow down!” Your shout fades into a shriek, your screams of terror echoing throughout the empty road as he leans the motor til’ your knees are brushing against the pavement, a shit-eating grin on his face behind the visor of his helmet. 

“Her name’s Treasure,” He said, pulling out the beast of a motorcycle from his Linkon safe house, introducing it to you as one of his most prized possessions. You don’t know what you were expecting when he tossed over a helmet and told you to hold tight, but you certainly didn’t expect to have a near-death experience on the day of your birth. He continues to rev up the engine, a hellish speed that shortens a fifteen minute trip out of Linkon to a mere three minutes. 

You cling on for dear life, your whole body wound tightly in fear, and eventually he settles into a safer speed, adrenaline fading and allowing you to enjoy the night breeze. “Let’s take a little detour, hm?” You barely hear him over the rumble of the engine, making a turn just past the Linkon City welcome sign and to the opposite direction of the N109 Zone. He drives through the wilderness and the winding roads, bringing you to a rocky cliff side. 

You gasp at the sight before you, taking off your helmet to admire it in all its glory. You could see the entirety of Linkon from here, a circuit board of lights and neon colors, casting a dim glow over the city skyline. It's rare to find a clear sky in the winter, giving way to the full moon and the sea of stars. 

“Can we take a picture?” You ask hesitantly, fully expecting him to say no. 

He nods, “You should have memories of your birthday.” Your jaw drops. There are only a handful of photos of him on record– he rarely ever lets anyone take a picture of him, out of caution on his identity being leaked. 

As the one with the longer arms, you gesture for him to take the picture, posing for a selfie with the skyline in the background. But as he hands you the phone, genuinely satisfied with the photo after taking a look– you think, is he messing with you? The photo is blurry, the both of you a little bit out of frame, and his finger blocks the corner of the image. 

You laugh in confusion; you genuinely cannot tell whether this is a prank or not. “Let’s take another one, I'll do it this time.”

You don’t know how long you two stay there, with your head laid against his shoulder, a quiet peace settling over you two as you talk about anything and everything. On the ride home, you find yourself flushing despite the winter chill. It’s a comfortable silence, yet your heart is thumping loudly against your chest. Does he hear how he makes you feel? You wonder as your eyes meet in the side mirrors, turning and burrowing your cheek into his warm shoulders. The journey home feels like an adventure coming to a close, street lights blinking against the night sky and quiet rumble of the few cars on the highway at this hour. 

Before he retires to his bedroom, you place a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for today.” You whisper before shutting the door behind you. 

From then on, the air between you two shifts, becoming significantly more… tense. What were once casual interactions turn meaningful with every brush of your fingers, with every meeting of your eyes across the room. He's always lavished you with the sweetest of pet names; dear, darling, sweet girl. You assume it’s just how he is, given what you had seen of him from the game. But why does it make your heart race every time he refers to you with such terms of endearment? Why does it fuel your delusions of having something more?

—————————————————————

But of course, no matter how much the dynamic shifts and bends between the two of you, it doesn’t change the fact that with winter chill comes holiday tunes and festivities. You were absolutely appalled at their lack of holiday spirit in the previous years, “How can you run an organization like this?!” So, on the week before Christmas, you once again strong-arm Sylus into having your festive way at the Onychinus base. 

It begins with you dragging your boss out to the nearest Christmas tree farm. “You’re rich enough to afford a real one,” You decide definitively. He rolls his eyes but drives you there anyway. 

You two spend an hour walking through the farm with mugs of hot cocoa, eventually settling on a tree that you have to lug all the way back to base. You huff as you carry the other end of the cart, your breath coming out in clouds of condensed air ever since you two brought it out of the truck. You wheeze in exhaustion, “Are you even lifting?” You helplessly ask Sylus, who looks too nonchalant considering the literal tree you two were carrying. 

“Oh? My bad,” Is all he says before swooping in with his evol, red tendrils wrapping around the trunk to carry it the rest of the way. You hold in the urge to scream and cuss at him. This man just loves to test your patience. 

Each night on the week before Christmas goes similarly. The moment your work is done for the day, you drag the whole house into some sort of festive activity. Decorating the compound, baking a gingerbread house, making eggnog. Holiday tunes fill the Onychinus base 24/7 and for once, Sylus finds that he doesn’t mind. Not when he sees the way you dance to yourself when you think no one’s looking, the way you know the words by heart and hum them under your breath. But he doesn’t participate much, mostly checking in and making sardonic yet supportive comments before returning to his work.

One evening, he decides to bring his work to the living room while you’re setting up the tree. It was a great source of entertainment to see you struggle on your toes placing the ornaments, hoisting yourself up on whatever nearby surface was available to you. But even he found it a bit too pitiful to watch you struggle to place the star, too vertically challenged to place the finishing touch. Couldn’t you just get a ladder? “Let me help you,” His breath tickles your ear as he grabs your waist, lifting you up with one arm. 

You squeal, gripping to him tightly and kicking at the air beneath you, “Sylus, what the fuck! Put me down!”

“Place the star, darling. While I'm still being nice." In the end, you call it a team effort, despite his only contribution being his role as a human ladder. 

—————————————————————

Your mood has been nothing but jovial the whole week of Christmas, caught up in nothing but festivities in anticipation of the holiday. And so, it disturbs him when the eve of the 25th arrives and you’re downtrodden. A shell of your typical self. He's never seen you like this before— absentminded and listless, it takes you a whole minute to realize he’s calling your name for the grand Christmas dinner you had insisted upon. “I'm fine, just a bit sleepy,” you explain as he voices his worries. He doesn’t believe you, not one bit, judging by the way his eyes continue to follow you through the rest of the night.

You open presents with everyone at midnight, gathered around the fireplace with the whole Onychinus family. This time, you knitted Sylus a scarf; he wraps it around himself immediately, already knowing it’ll be a staple in his closet for the winter months to come. He looks to his right and sees Mephisto with a matching, tiny version around his neck. 

Meanwhile, you were overwhelmed upon unwrapping the large present addressed to you and finding a high-grade coffee machine, one of the fancy ones with a latte art feature. How did he know? You narrow your eyes at him across the room, a satisfied smirk twisting his face. You’ve never said anything about it, only looked at the ads and the site out of boredom and curiosity. (Simple answer: He had Mephisto spy on you when you were scrolling your phone.)

You smile and thank everyone at the right cues, but he can tell your heart’s not in it. Physically, you celebrate and have your childish fun with the twins, dancing to merry tunes and having all-out warfare with the crumpled wrapping paper littering the floor. But mentally, you were far away— your eyes speaking of a grief none of them could begin to comprehend. Once the cookies are nothing but crumbs and the wrapping paper is all cleaned up, he decides to take you to the rooftop to ask what’s wrong. 

“Come on, let’s get some fresh air,” He invites you, donning his coat and boots. 

You throw him a skeptical look, “In this frigid temperature? Are you insane? I'm already shivering here inside,” You fake-shiver dramatically just to prove your point. 

“Well then, isn’t it fortunate you just received a plethora of winter clothes for the holiday?” He gestures to the pile of fancy, designer items you had folded on top of the coffee machine’s box. You’ve long since learned to pick your battles with this man– and it is simply not worth it anymore to argue with how he spends his money.

“Well-played,” You begrudgingly acquiesce, following him up to the rooftop where you sniffle from the cold air biting at your nose. 

You’ve spent countless nights here in the warmer months, the only place where you could pretend the N109 Zone wasn’t the bloody death trap it truly was, shining under the glow of the moonlight and the stars littering the sky. Only from the top– from an untouchable position of power– could this wretched, dangerous city look so beautiful. 

“What's on your mind?“ Sylus asks, breaking the peaceful quiet. “You haven’t been yourself all evening.” It faintly reminds you of those nights in spring, wind brushing against your cheeks as you slowly began to let down the barriers of your heart, the terror of slumber softened by the comfort of company. A lot has changed since then, you think. But at the same time, there’s a lot that hasn’t. 

“I—“ You hesitate, planning on brushing it off like you always do. But then you realize: you trust Sylus, more than anyone else in this world. 

And so, you decide to bare your heart to the only person who holds enough of it to break it. 

It's a bittersweet Christmas for you, the first you’ve ever spent away from home. For the first time since you were whisked away to this surreal world, you speak of your original life. Your family. Your friends. Your dreams. A fragile boundary that you haven’t touched with anyone here, for it hurts too much to speak of what you left behind. (No, not left behind. Taken away from you.) 

You try to string sentences together, try to give justice to the people who brought meaning to your life, to the reckless and stressful and beautiful joy of your old world— but how do you capture all that you’ve lost in mere words? It's too much. You feel your chest cave under the weight of these emotions, far too heavy for one heart to handle. “I miss them so much,” Your voice cracks, small tears streaming down your cheeks— but he offers you a quiet grace and says nothing of it. It’s such a painfully simple sentence to express the torrent that devastates you— and yet, he understands.

The night softens people in ways that can only be done in the haze of darkness, revealing a vulnerability too fragile for the harsh rays of the sun. And thus, it is here beneath snowfall and starry skies, where he sheds his claws and his barriers, telling you of his search for the other half of his soul. He speaks of a similar homesickness, finding kinship with you through loss, as he’s waited what seems like a millennia for the person he calls his home. You already know, of course, that sooner or later he will meet her again. It was inevitable, written into the cards as it was written into code. This world was once your favorite game, and you had shed tears at their loss, at their cursed fate. You stay silent, listening to the tragic tale from the man himself.

His eyes speak of so many more untold truths— of love hidden deep in the crevices of his heart, taking root in his chest for the past millennia and shaping the man he’s become. “I had never known love until I found her.” He speaks of her with such fondness sparkling in his eyes, an adoration reserved for his one and only— his sorceress, his soulmate. It makes you hurt for this man, for the trials he’s endured in the name of true love. But it is also a bitter reminder that you have no place by his side. 

Although you stay by his side and offer him words of comfort, deep inside you also want to claw at him. Force his eyes on you so you can feel even a smidgen of that pure adoration for yourself. But you can only feel bitter guilt taking root inside you. After all, who are you to meddle in their tale? Who are you to rival fate itself? 

It is winter solstice now, a period marked by a perpetual chill and the longest nights of the year. Your relationship with Sylus is one that has prospered in darkness; taking root in the midnight hours, your most tender and vulnerable moments allowed only under the cover of the night sky. But inevitably it will be overshadowed by the return of summer and with it, his soulmate— the woman who brought sunshine to his darkest days.

—————————————————————

On New Year’s Eve, he doesn’t even give you the chance to feel homesick. The moment the sun rises, he takes you on a joyride to Linkon City. It’s rare for you to see Sylus in the daylight; shrouded in sunshine rather than moonlight, surrounded by crowds rather than deserted streets. “I go here every year,” He boasts as he leads you to the temple fair, determined to make your first New Year’s Eve here memorable. 

“Oh?” You’re rather surprised, given that he doesn’t exactly have a penchant for celebrating the holidays. But you smile, walking forward to match his stride, “Well then, I'll trust you to lead the way!”

He takes you around the fair— buying from the various food stalls he says are the best, watching the street performances he’s probably seen countless times before, doing all the festive gimmicks he knows you’ll love, even if it isn’t his cup of tea. He keeps you occupied, making sure you don’t even have a moment to feel sad.

At the front of the temple, you ask him to take a picture of you in front of the pretty backdrop. You pose for a few pictures, guided by his direction until he hands you the phone, “Tell me if you want me to take another.”

What greets you is the blurriest, most unflattering photo of you to exist in both your old and current world. You scroll through the rest of the pictures only to find they all hold the same level of (or rather, lack of) quality. You stare blankly at the screen and sigh, “This is good enough for me.” Everyone has their weaknesses, you suppose. 

Although Sylus mentioned that he’s a regular here, you’re still quite surprised to see his words ring true when all of the vendors greet him warmly, recognizing him from years past. “Let the lady choose one! It’s on the house,” A vendor selling fortune bracelets tells him, overjoyed that he finally brought someone along. You scan the numerous pieces on display, your eyes landing on a small beaded bracelet— the tag marking its fortune for “a safe return home.”

Sylus gracefully does not comment on this as the vendor packs the bracelet, bidding you two a jovial goodbye.

The two of you sightsee for a while before finding yourself sitting across from each other at a caricature portrait booth, directed by the artist to, “Look into each other’s eyes! I’ll make sure to capture the lovely couple you are.” Neither of you step in to correct him. But the artist’s light mood quickly fades as he soon realizes the type of client he’s dealing with. “Miss, please stop moving,” He says for the millionth time, absolutely fed up with your silly behavior.

You cannot stop your smile from trembling, your eyes locked on Sylus’s as the two of you went head-to-head in a staring contest– which you promptly lost five seconds in by bursting into giggles. You’re about to keel over, cheeks puffed up from poorly restrained laughter. Meanwhile, Sylus is comically straight-faced, amusedly raising an eyebrow at your antics, “What's so funny? Is there something on my face?”

Afterwards, he stakes his claim on the portrait, “It’s only right, considering what a hard time you gave the artist,” He reasons, snatching the paper from your hands. 

You slump and walk past him, grumbling, “I'd like to see him try to stay serious with your ridiculous face.”

But behind you, you don’t see how his eyes are locked on the sight of you captured in charcoal and ink, genuine glee transforming your face. You’ve never looked so beautiful, he thinks. Falling into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, shoulders momentarily free of the burden of all you’ve lost. He carefully stows the paper away, making a mental note to tip the artist extra. 

When night falls over the city, he brings you to the tallest building in Linkon for the best view of the fireworks show. Despite the chilly air, his hand is warm in yours, clutching it in a tight grip as he wades through the crowd of people who had the same idea. Fortunately, you find a secluded corner where the two of you sit and sip your milk tea, talking about your new year’s resolutions.

“I don't do resolutions,” He waved a hand, unimpressed. “If I want to change an aspect of my life, I won't wait until the start of a new year to do so.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You stick your tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes, but he’s internally pleased with how well he’s distracted you thus far. “My resolutions are always the same. Exercise more, eat healthy, and save money!”

“Dear, there is a private gym back home that you haven’t touched even once,” Your heart flutters at the word home. A word that brings you melancholy on most days, but now fills your heart with domestic bliss.

“Well then, it’s perfect! I'll have no excuse not to start tomorrow.” 

He shakes his head in fond exasperation. Your eyes are glued to the magnificent colors soaring through the sky, legs bouncing in time with the countdown. But unbeknownst to you, his gaze is entirely on you. 

The world he lives in is a cruel and violent one, where people’s eyes sparkle with greed, envy, and lust. A part of him doesn’t understand how something as superficial as fireworks can bring people such joy, how holidays inspire a brief kindness in their hearts, as if it’ll make up for their sins the rest of the year. But maybe he can understand it, just a little bit now, he thinks. Because if it means seeing this look in your eyes again, so childlike and enchanted by the sight before you (the first time he’s seen happiness override the grief shadowing your eyes), then he would light the sky every night, just for you. 

When the clock strikes midnight, you jump to give him a big bear hug. “Happy new year, Sylus!”

He cradles you in his arms, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, “Happy new year.”

—————————————————————

Even the high-paced criminal world of the N109 Zone slows down on New Year’s Day, people burrowing in their homes to ward off the early January chill sweeping through the city. Work inside the Onychinus compound pauses as the world comes to a frosted standstill, and you spend a lazy morning with Sylus under fuzzy blankets and the warmth of the fireplace. 

You don’t know how you ended up in this position. You’d gone straight to bed after returning from Linkon– a mere hour of slumber until you woke up breathless, heart racing from the shadows conjured by your own mind. You crept downstairs, hoping to find solace in the company of others. Of course, Sylus is still awake. “Can’t sleep?” He turns down the volume of the boxing match on the television, so you can settle in peacefully at his side. You stare listlessly at the violent match on the screen, listening to his peaceful humming, until you fall back asleep.

But come morning, you’ve woken up with your legs tangled in his. Wrapped in each other’s arms, his chest rises and falls against yours, your head tucked under his chin as his breath lands right against your ear. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen Sylus in a deep slumber. You’ve fallen asleep countless times in his company, often waking up in your bedroom, carried back by him at some point while you were unconscious. Your heart flutters at the trust he’s shown you, but it also aches. It confuses you more as to where you stand. You know his heart still belongs to the hunter— there’s no doubt about it, with the grief that filled his eyes at the mention of her name, as he told you of the tragedy that befell them. 

But at the same time, you’ve toed the fragile boundaries of your relationship far too much for you to be called just friends. In moments like these, a part of you foolishly believes that maybe you could occupy his heart, take things further without restraint. But neither of you take a step towards confronting it, just living in this in-between of not just friends, not just coworkers, but not lovers in any sense.

You breathe in his scent and painstakingly pull yourself away, trying your best not to disturb him. You can no longer deny how much you want this, how much you want him. You yearn to wake up everyday pressed against his warmth, arms wrapped around each other with distance being non-existent. But a larger part of you, the one with a sense of self-preservation, also knows this won’t lead to anywhere good. And so, you slip away in the early hours of the morning and decide never to speak of it again. Instead, you ponder over your place in his life— and how long it’ll be yours.

—————————————————————

Almost a year has passed since your arrival, and you’ve grown more accustomed to the harsh edges of your new job. It’s not exactly what you had envisioned for yourself. You had once hoped to start somewhere more in line with your aspiring career, somewhere you could make use of your degree. But as you’ve learned, plans don’t always work out. What you do is unorthodox, but it’s fulfilling and allows you to live in this dangerous world from a safe vantage point, almost like dipping your toes into a ten feet pool. 

That doesn’t mean you’re completely sheltered from all the dangers of the job, however. Given the type of clientele you handle, more often than not, you’re faced with threats of being maimed over the phone when you can’t give somebody what they want. Each time, Sylus promptly takes over and matches their energy twicefold with a more heinous, yet very real threat.

The worst days are post-missions, when you have to witness your newfound family return bloody and bruised in the name of defending Onychinus. Anxiety fills your mind on the days of their missions, and you become conditioned to waiting with a first aid kit and a change of clothes for Luke and Kieran, patching up their wounds as soon as they step through the front door. But Sylus— you’d think he was invincible, with how he returns from even the most high-risk operations without a scratch. 

That is, until one night when he walks through the front door, leaving a bloody trail in his wake. His evol is working overtime to knit his skin back together, but the blood still pools beneath him on the marble tile. 

It's early January, almost a year since your arrival into this world. But you vividly remember the injuries that plagued you those first months, and the struggle to take care of yourself— washing your hair with a broken shoulder, eating your food with a fractured wrist. Most of all, you remember the loneliness of your hospital room. How you secretly sought his company; because despite your fear, his visits were better than the loud silence that filled your days. 

Sylus has been in this business for decades, has probably been injured like this far too many times to count. You think to yourself— how often has he had to go to sleep caked in blood, far too tired to care for himself? How many times has he faced the aching loneliness after a mission gone wrong?

So, you resolve to stick by him despite his insistence that he can handle it. You know his injuries will only linger for another day at most, but still, you survey him with a keen eye, spotting the flinch of his shoulders when he tries to reach for the painkillers on his shelf. You clock the injury even if he hasn’t mentioned the pain– and it leads to you sitting by the edge of the tub, washing his hair for him.

“I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” He shrugs you off, his words less biting than he intended under the influence of his medication, “This is nothing new to me.”

“I know very well how capable you are, but it doesn’t mean you have to take care of yourself alone.” You pester him some more, and he begrudgingly hands you his shampoo. You squeeze out a dollop and gently run the foam through his hair, thoroughly covering every spot. You hold back a giggle; he looks like a tamed lion, eyes shut in bliss as you massage the sides of his head.

When he comes out of the bathroom, robed and bandaged, he’s just about ready to knock out. You stay by his side through the night as he recovers, listening to hitched breaths and deluded murmurs about a time long past. The whisper of an ever-so-familiar name. The analog clock ticks every second, and it only solidifies the knowledge that your time by his side is limited. Things have been going far too well; but soon enough, your world will be upended again. 

You grip his hand in yours throughout the night. But it’s not your hand to hold. 

—————————————————————

The prophecy fulfills itself on the tenth day of January, marking a year since you first entered this world. The whole base knows exactly what day it is, and you feel them handling you with more care, treating you like a bomb about to detonate. It bothers you. It’s not as if you’re made out of glass (even if you feel you’re about to shatter at any moment). On your break, you decide to leave for the rooftop for a brief reprieve. 

When you return, the phone rings, and it’s as if god has chosen to send a punchline your way.

You wish you didn’t answer the phone. You wish you didn’t speak to the business associate who held the information Sylus was apparently desperate for. You wish you didn’t have to inform him of the cryptic news. You wish you weren’t there in the office when an underling comes to deploy the intel. Because it only confirmed what you knew all along was coming: a hunter with a protocore in her heart.

Her picture is projected in a hologram, and somehow, you automatically know it’s her. It’s uncanny, how alike the two of you look. From the corner of your eye, you even see Sylus do a double-take as the image fully renders. Maybe if the situation was different, you would’ve wondered at the physics of it all. Maybe you would have been more hungry to understand the science behind how you ended up here, to understand the connection between you and the hunter. But your curiosity has been overshadowed by heartbreak.

You know what’s coming. You know the end of your time here is nearing. The past year has lulled you into a false sense of security, one you desperately tried to believe in— but you can’t. You’re no longer the glass half-full kind of person you once were. Life chewed you up and spat you out to fend for yourself in this new world, and you know your hopes will only get crushed. Because seeing the longing and disbelief in his eyes, as he comes to terms with his lover being within reach; it only cements the fact that you have no chance. Never had a chance. 

(Already, you can feel a love that was never yours slipping from your grasp.)

You feel the change in the air the next few days, and you’re suffocated by it. You find yourself growing lonelier; this compound never seemed so large and empty before. Luke and Kieran become busier than ever, collecting information on the hunter while going about their usual responsibilities. Even Mephisto is out on the field, with the new task of following (or rather, stalking) his new target.

Sylus has sent the headquarters into a frenzy for this woman— but you? He has you go about as usual. No extra responsibilities, like he wants you to remain untouched by the business of his past love. (It’s far too late for that.) Rather, it seems he’s actively seeking you out. On days where he isn’t spent with the task of balancing his search with his regular Onychinus duties, he seems to gravitate towards you, looking for any excuse to be in your company.

But you? You try desperately to avoid him. You sneak around him like a mouse in a cat’s territory, stepping around glass and limiting your interactions to work, treating him with an amicable professionalism. It's like a cold glass of water has been poured over him. Even when you two were no better than strangers, you had never treated him so clinically. You can tell he’s hurt and confused by your behavior, but you shove down the guilt— because this is what you need to do to protect your heart. 

At some point, he eventually manages to catch you, pulling you aside with the ominous words no one wants to hear, “Dear, I think we should talk.” 

Your eyes well up in tears but you try your best to blink it away. It’s one thing to know, another to be confronted by it. The knowledge that what you have can’t continue is already ruining you, and you think you might break if he voices into existence. “What's there to talk about? What you’ve always wanted is almost in your hands.”

Sylus flinches at the total defeat in your voice. He can feel that you’re putting up boundaries with him— ones that he should’ve held in place, with how his heart is already taken by another. But little by little you crept into his life, into his heart, carving your place in it. And now, he doesn’t know what to do with the pain of you closing yourself off from him. 

But like always, you smile and try to soften the blow, “It’s okay, Sylus. I'm happy for you. I mean it,” You lie through your teeth. Despite how much pain this forced happiness inflicts on you, you will never have it in you to purposefully hurt him.

—————————————————————

Over the span of a year, you had become one of Sylus's closest confidants. He treats you with all the gentleness and care in the world, revealing to you softer sides of him— ones that you knew existed in the game, and ones that you discovered for yourself. You feel honored that he trusts you with these facets of himself, but you also feel a tremendous guilt. 

Because what Sylus doesn’t know is that he was your favorite. Facing burnout in your final year of university, you began to cope with a game suggested to you, becoming engrossed with one of its newest characters. He'd drawn you to him with his soft treatment of the main character, juxtaposed with his violent nature and line of work. Your heart had fluttered at every tender moment, each call and text message, each appearance in the main story. You had passingly indulged in the delusions of romance with a fictional man, a small part of your day to cope with the struggles of your reality. 

When you landed in this world, there was a cognitive dissonance as you came to terms with the difference between the 2D character that lived on your phone screen and the living, breathing person in front of you. For a long time, you were too focused on your new situation to even think of the implications of your fictional crush being in close, real proximity. He hadn’t trusted you, either. You could feel his suspicion in each interaction, as he contemplated what to make of you. 

At the time, you thought that by now, surely you would have woken up from this coma-induced hallucination already. Surely you would have woken back up in your reality. But as you grew to accept that the situation you’re in is as real as the blood that runs through your veins, came to terms with the likelihood that you may be stuck there for the foreseeable future— before you knew it, he had crept into your heart. 

You don’t know when it started. All you know is that his presence in your life is more than the surface-level distraction it once was in your reality. No, Sylus— the living person who offered you a place in this world, who indulged you in your lowest moments, who makes your heart race like no other— has you wrapped around his finger. He could ask anything of you, and your heart could do nothing but surrender to his whims. 

But in the back of your head, always lurking, is the distant reminder of the main character. The vivacious hunter whose life is tied to his. The other half of his soul. She looms in the background of every moment, a constant reminder of what you cannot have. There’s no chance you could ever come between something destined by the universe itself, so you yield in the face of their cosmic love. You shove away your feelings and resign yourself to finding a way back home, desperately, before this world forces you to lose a love you never even had. 

—————————————————————

What you don’t know is that he’s desperately blocking off every potential lead back to your world, not wanting to face a reality where you are not in his life. 

He finds himself conflicted, because his soul is tied to her. His sorcerer now reborn as the hunter, his soulmate, the one he has yearned for for what feels like a millenia. But here you are, his lovely secretary, the woman who forces him into mundane festivities and stays by his side for all his highs and all his lows. His love for his soulmate was forged in fire and blood; but this? This new love is bathed under golden light, born out of mutual care and an unexpected connection.

He has tried to keep his thoughts loyal and true to the love he has been seeking for centuries— but he can no longer deny the pull he feels towards you. The two images war in his head; the dragon roaring at how distracted he’s become from searching for his mate, and the man, falling fast and hard for a woman from another world, brought to him by pure fate.

His search for his long-lost love continues, but alongside it are his attempts to tie you down to his world, to keep you in his grasp. Because he cannot, will not, live without you.

He will watch the world burn before he lets it take another love away from him again.

—————————————————————

It all comes to a head when you hear a familiar voice raging through the corridors, wrecking a storm through the compound as she is brought here unwillingly. Sylus and the twins coming back with the hunter— bloody and bruised from her disastrous entry into the N109 Zone. Here it is. Your time is up.

For two people who are often so shamelessly true to themselves, both you and Sylus are the type whose true feelings are never encapsulated by mere words, whose eyes speak more of their soul than sentences ever could. Knowing this, you avoid his eyes. You shield your hurt in forced happiness, as he hides his internal conflict behind a cold veneer. 

The two of you continue in this cycle of push and pull, of moving closer but not close enough. You live in a limbo, desperately searching for ways to get home before the main storyline catches up to you. Haunted by the narrative, you two move in and out of each other’s orbit, just out of reach. Just out of bounds.

—————————————————————

for any reveluvs here, i listened to night drive the whole time i was writing the motorcycle scene<33 (for non-reveluvs u should go check it out its an absolute banger) also, SYLUS’S BDAY MEMORY 🥹 his bday scene in the previous chapter is no longer canon-compliant considering the event story… (like UGH ofc this man never told anyone 😩) but i do find it funny how in this story the reader is the one who hides it from him; taste of his own medicine LOL. i headcanon that she remembered his bday from the game and shocked him to his bones when he saw the exact date plotted on their calendar

feel free to dm/comment on the series masterlist if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist 💕

taglist — @mangooes @mentaltrouble2201 @animegamerfox @crazy-ink-artist @phisen @jeondyy @t4naiis @wifunozomi @munimunni @blessdunrest @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @paintedperidot @mansonofmadness @pillarofsnow @sylususeyourevolonmepls @angelichiaro @mephisto-with-a-knife @crimsonmarabou @hikaru-sama @flamedancer13 @tati-the-fangirl @ameili @poptrim @caramelizedpopcirn @cupid-gene @vvonunie @lunia-likes-pomegranet @iamawkwardandshy @tinyweebsstuff @astolary @vyntheria @theloveofnagiseishiroslife @velourmobius @beaconsxd @hon3yydew @kira-loves0905 @codedove @that-lost-one @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @kaiii07 @bohoooitsme @everythingistaken00 @rmjace @red-raf-sy @goddexxluv @seris-the-amious @stellisangelicus-world @alhaith4ms @young-adult-summer @junrui

comment and reblog if you enjoyed!

[lovemomhatepolice]

slice of paradise - lando norris

navigation taglist requests

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, p in v, blowjob, handjob, unprotected sex! (protect yourself), slight!public sex, English is my second language!

type: smut with the plot, fluff also

word count: 3,5k

belonging: NO NUT NOVEMBER

summary: moments in paradise on Lando's 25th birthday turn out to be even hotter than the weather in Bora Bora

more content: formula 1 masterlist, lando norris masterlist, latest lando's one-shot

The gentle golden rays of the morning sun streamed in through the open balcony door, casting a soft glow across the room. The sound of waves rhythmically crashing on the shore filled the air, mingling with the smell of the salty ocean breeze. Lando slowly woke up, blinking and looking at his surroundings. They had arrived in Bora Bora last night, and aside from eating the dinner the girl had ordered especially for a pre-birthday surprise, they had no energy for more activity and simply went to sleep. The flight from England had exhausted them both enough.

Lando blinked a few more times, letting his eyes get used to the light coming into their room, through the fact that they had not closed the curtains yesterday. He could hear the soft rustling of palm trees outside and the faint chirping of distant birds greeting the new day. For a while he just lay there, savoring the sound of the ocean and the softness of the bed beneath him. His gaze fell to his side, where his girlfriend lay snuggled into him, breathing quietly and rhythmically. The boy smiled to himself and placed a kiss on her head. He didn't want to wake her up, but, as usual, that didn't work out, and just a moment later he could see her eyes gazing lazily but happily into his blue irises.

"Morning" he said, smiling from ear to ear.

She blinked sleepily before her gaze settled on Lando, a sleepy smile spreading across her lips. “Good morning,” she whispered, her voice still husky with sleep. “Happy birthday, baby.”

“Thanks, love,” he replied, leaning in to brush a soft kiss on her forehead. “I couldn’t have asked for a better start to my day.”

“All the best for you,” muttered the girl, lightly moving towards him and kissing him on the lips.

Smiling, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to him so that she was now sitting on his lap. Lando held her firmly but gently around the waist so she wouldn't fall, and rubbed his palms against her sides. “Thank you for this.”

“You don't have anything to thank me for yet, Lan” the girl said stroking his bare chest. “The day has just begun”

The couple spent an even longer moment in bed, laughing and talking to each other about the silliest little things. Lando couldn't stop admiring her; even with tumbled hair and sleepy eyes, she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. And while Bora Bora had delighted him like no other landscape before, she took his breath away every time.

The girl leaned in to kiss him, gently stroking his jaw, which was covered with a small stubble. Lando felt that he could stay in bed all day because of this, and it would still be the best birthday of his life. However, his girlfriend had other plans and got out of bed, leaving her boyfriend groaning, not wanting her to leave him. Or at least not so soon.

“Wait,” she said, standing at the door in just her underwear shirt. “We'll start the surprises.”

Lando merely nodded and lay back on the pillows, listening to the sounds that came from the kitchen. It wasn't long until the girl came back into the room again. In her hand was a large tray with a bowl of fruit, freshly baked croissants and orange juices. Lando only smiled under his breath at this. Never before had anyone brought him breakfast in bed.

“Will you close your eyes?” the girl asked, putting the tray down on the bedside table.

“What for?” asked the boy dumbfoundedly, looking at his girlfriend.

But who would he be if he didn't do what she asked? He certainly wouldn't be himself. Therefore, just a moment later, he closed his eyes, smiling under his breath to himself.

[Y.N] didn't wait a moment and grabbed a small cake with “25” candles in her hand and walked back into their shared bedroom, singing “Happy Birthday.” Lando immediately opened his eyes and laughed out loud.

“You're spoiling me,” he teased as she climbed back into bed next to him. “But I'm not complaining.”

“Make a wish, birthday boy.”

Lando pretended to ponder the wish for a long moment, but it was not true at all. He had everything he wanted. A beautiful woman by his side who loved him beyond life. A second place in the drivers' championship, which was still a mystery as to how it would end. And he also had temporary peace of mind, which he regained after a long battle with his own psyche. So he just closed his eyes, blowing out the candles, and a smile crept onto his lips.

“What was your wish?” the girl asked, carefully removing the candles from the cake.

“I can't say, because it won't come true,” Lando laughed and scooped some cream onto his finger, tasting it. “Mm, did you bake it yourself?”

“No, not this time,” she replied, pounting slightly. “It wouldn't have survived the trip.”

“It's ok, it's good too,” he said, pulling her closer to him. He grabbed a fork in his hand, which was lying next to cake on a plate, and scooped up some on it. “Would you like to try?”

“Yup, we'll see if it tastes as good as it looks.”

Lando merely nodded and put the fork in her mouth. As the girl savored the chocolate taste of the cake, Lando dipped the fork into the cake again, but this time it landed on the girl's nose. Accidentally, of course.

“Oops?”

“Lando!” she laughed, but before she could wipe the cream off her nose, the boy did it for her.

“Oh, I think you're still dirty here,” he muttered, touching her lips with his thumb.

“Oh, really?” she asked teasingly. “And what are we going to do about it?”

“I think I have an idea,” Lando said, putting the cake back on the nightstand.

[Y.N] looked adoringly at her boyfriend. Lando looked even better than usual in this light. The golden rays of the sun that streamed into their room perfectly illuminated his year-tanned figure. There was a glow reflected in his eyes, and the girl could have sworn that for the first time in a long time she saw such peace in them. He was in just his boxers, because that was the most comfortable way for him to sleep, and his curls in a freshly cut mullet lay in every direction. But that was the most beautiful thing about that moment, that's what she wanted to give him from the beginning when she thought about what she could organize for his birthday. Tranquility and privacy, the things he missed most.

“Are you enjoying what you're looking at?” Lando laughed, correcting himself slightly in his position.

“You don't even know how much.”

The couple smiled at each other, and just a moment later Lando landed in the girl's embrace. [Y.N] hold him by the neck, hugging him tightly to herself. And Lando hovered over her, holding her around the waist, then by her hips. The laughs and kisses were endless. In the end, it could only be them…

~~ After breakfast, they wasted no time. They quickly changed into bathing suits and took the most necessary things with them to the beach, which was right next to their cottage. And most importantly, it was private and no human being could see them from a distance of a several dozen kilometers.

Lando stood up to his knees in the turquoise water, with the waves crashing against his legs. He sighed contentedly and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of the sun on his skin and the soothing sound of the ocean. He could have sworn that he could have sat in the water all day and wouldn't have been bored at all.

“Do you like it?” asked [Y.N], suddenly joining him in the water.

“Yes, it's perfect,” he muttered, turning to face her. “Come on, let's cool off a bit.”

Lando began to swim further away from the shore, followed by [Y.N]. The water was perfect. Not only was it just the right temperature after a long sunbath, it was also a beautiful color through which you could see the bottom. As they waded deeper, the gentle waves lapped at their bodies.

“It's so beautiful here,” the girl muttered, swimming up to Lando.

[Y.N] put her hands on his shoulders, and without hesitation he pulled her to him by the waist. Lando couldn't take his eyes off her; she looked like a goddess, her smile brighter than the sun. With a grin, he suddenly scooped her up into his arms, wrapping her legs around his hips.

“And what do you plan to do now that you’ve got me?”

Lando’s grip tightened around her, his fingers pressing into the curve of her back. “I think I’ll keep you here for a bit,” he murmured, his voice a mix of playful and husky as he dipped his head to kiss her shoulder, trailing soft kisses up her neck. [Y.N]'s breath hitched, her fingers tangling in his hair as he continued his slow kisses, each one leaving a trail of heat on her skin.

They stayed like that for a moment, lost in each other, until [Y.N] pulled back with a playful glint in her eyes. “Catch me if you can!” she declared before wriggling out of his grasp and splashing away.

Lando laughed, momentarily stunned, but the challenge in her voice spurred him on. “You won't get away that easily! - he called out, sprinting after her as she rushed down the beach. The sand was hot under his feet, but he barely noticed, focusing entirely on the girl in front of him.

The girl was fast, but she couldn't beat her boyfriend, not in speed. Within seconds Lando caught up with her and they both collapsed on the soft sand. Out of breath and laughing, they rolled in the sand for a while, like children.

“You catch me,” she said between sighs, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with joy.

“I always have and I always will.” - He replied, leaning in to kiss her.

This time the kiss was slower, deeper, as if time had no meaning there. The girl's hands slid into his damp hair, gently tugging at the ends as she arched her back, pressing their bodies closer together.

Lando's hands roamed her body, feeling the warmth of her sun-moistened skin under his fingertips. He slipped one of his hands under her bathing suit and clamped his palm over her breast, teasing an already hard nipple. The girl purred into his mouth, apparently asking for more.

“You're so beautiful,” whispered Lando, his voice muffled by her greedy mouth.

She didn't want to pull away from him, finally having him all to herself. Without the nitty-gritty world of the media and the fight for the Championship. Here he was simply Lando, not Lando Norris the Mclaren driver. And while she loved every version of him, the domestic one was her favorite.

The girl let out a quiet moan as his lips descended on her neck. He kissed and nibbled at the places he knew were most sensitive to her. Her fingers tightened again on his hair as she tilted her head back, giving him better access.

“Lando…” she breathed, her voice barely exceeding a whisper. “I want you…”

“Here? - He teased her. “Someone could see it.”

“It's a good thing we're alone then.” - She replied with a smile. “I booked this place for a reason.”

“Clever beast,” he laughed under his breath.

“Mhm,” she whispered, bringing their lips together again. “It's your birthday, so you'll be spoiled.”

Before Lando had time to respond the girl turned them around so that now it was the boy who was lying with his back on the sand. He laughed under his breath and propped his head up with his hands, leaning on them.

With the utmost fierceness, she touched his dick through his swim trunks, at which the boy sighed and drew her close, bringing their lips together in a clumsy kiss. [Y.N] palmed him through his shorts, sliding her hand under them. Lando was already hard, he didn't need much when she was next to him. “Already hard, all for me,” she muttered into his lips and moved away from him. She placed kisses all over his warm chest, which at that moment was terribly heated from the sun. And Lando did not take his eyes off her. Until her lips kissed his length through his shorts. Then involuntarily his head flew back, and he let out an impatient moan. [Y.N] didn't keep him in suspense for long and practically immediately took off the unnecessary clothes and momentarily moved her hand over his cock, while kissing him gently there. “I'm begging you,” he muttered, pushing his hips out slightly to meet her. "No teasing" “Wait, birthday boy, I want to give you as much pleasure as possible,” she muttered at his tip, which was already dripping with pre cum. Lando didn't have to ask for long. Her lips were immediately on his, showering him with kisses. As she teased him with her hand, she placed tender kisses on his inner thighs. But today she didn't want to tease him, not on his birthday.

She immediately returned to his length, taking him all the way into her mouth. Her lip gloss left shiny traces on him, but no one seemed to mind. Lando was a groaning mess beneath her and thanked the gods that no one can hear or saw them.

“Fuck, [Y.N]” he groaned, combing her hair gently. The girl continued sucking on his hard member, her tongue moving nimbly, testing his cum. She bobbed her head up and down, varying the speed so as to give him as much pleasure as possible. Her hands quickly found a place - one on his testicles and the other holding his hand.

She knew he was close. She could feel it when his dick began to pulsate pleasantly in her mouth as she sucked harder on it. Lando didn't give much thought to it either as he just stroked her hair, and only her name fell out of his mouth like a mantra. He wasn't ashamed of it, he knew who made him feel as good as he never had in his life, and he wanted her to know too. “Cum for me pretty boy,” she whispered, sucking him. She looked at him from under her long lashes and their gazes met. And here Lando was lost. In the blink of an eye, the girl felt his cum in her throat and mouth, which filled it completely. The girl swallowed it all and suck him for a while longer to help him come down from his orgasm. “Fuck, that was so good,” Lando muttered and pulled his girl to him, unhesitatingly connecting their lips. The kiss was hot, full of passion. Their hands roamed the other's body. Lando didn’t wait any longer and began to remove her bikini, which was then even more unnecessary than usual. He changed their position so that now he was on top of her, supporting himself with his hands on the sand next to her body. “I guess it's my turn now, huh?” he murmured into her mouth and was already about to descend, but [Y.N] stopped him. “I don't need it, it's enough for me when you're inside me,” she kissed him, nipping on his lip.

"You sure?" he asked, looking at her.

The girl only nodded, smiling encouragingly at him. They were both already out of breath and damn near overheated, but they didn't want to leave this beach for anything.

As if on cue, Lando moved his member closer to her, teasing her pussy with his tip. Their liquids mingled together, to which the boy moaned, being offered this sight. Oh, she was the whole world to him. And when they were together, the rest of the world might not have existed at all. Lando positioned himself with his dick at the entrance [Y.N] and slowly but smoothly entered her, feeling the familiar warmth around his member. They both moaned, getting used to the feeling. They hadn't made love to each other in quite a while due to lack of time, so this was even more sensual and desired. “You're perfect,” he muttered, moving his hips more and more smoothly. His movements were precise, he knew exactly what was most pleasurable for them. He knew her body like no one else. And he could swear he knew it better than his own, or at least he wanted to know it more. “Lando,” she moaned, extending her hands to him. The boy immediately fell into her embrace, changing the angle at which they were now having sex. And it was even better for them, because every time Lando hit that right spot. His hand tangled in her hair, while the other touched her clit to give her even more pleasure. [Y.N] hugged his neck with one hand, and with the other she played with her nipples, which at that moment were all hard. Their lips met in a searing kiss, every now and then separated by their moans and smiles. Lando felt that they were close, so he sped up even more, and the girl pushed her hips toward him. At that moment, they loved each other harder than ever. They were both hot from the sun, breathless, and their hair looked like the biggest tussle. Their bodies were merging together at a dizzying pace, making a bloody mess all around. But they didn't give a damn. They didn't give a damn what was going on behind their backs. In their apartment. Among the fans or other drivers. It was their time, and they would give anything to keep it that way forever. Without the slightest change.

"You're taking me so well, like always" he murmured against her lips, smiling cheeky.

Lando's words and their gazes meeting again accelerated the orgasm from which they were only seconds away. The pressure inside them grew with every second, and they just snuggled into each other, smiling like fools. Lando pressed her clit harder and with his thumb rubbed it properly as she needed. “You are so good to me,” the girl muttered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I love you so much,” Lando said, smacking her a few times on the lips. And with that, they both came. Their bodies were pierced by the jolt of orgasm, and Lando continued to move inside her, letting all the cum stay inside. And then he sank down on top of her, trying to do it as gently as possible. He kissed her sensitive breasts, which had not received enough attention from him during intercourse. And [Y.N] stroked his back, drawing slight marks. “You know I couldn't have imagined a better birthday?” Lando whispered, pulling slightly away from her chest to look into her eyes. Their gazes met again in that gaze that only they knew. And which was reserved for just the two of them. All that could be heard in the background were seagulls and waves crashing on the shore. The air was filled with the sea breeze and the smell of colorful flowers that grew somewhere nearby. “Well, maybe they would be even better if there were three of us here,” he muttered again, looking deeper into her eyes. They both knew he spoke sincerely. That's what they both wanted, too - to start a family, to relax a bit in a homey corner of their Monaco's apartment. No chasing, just them and the fruit of their love.

And what was their surprise when a month later [Y.N] discovered two lines on her pregnancy test before New Year's Eve...

Well, the wish seems to have come true?

[TO BE CONTINUED]

A/N: I guess it didn't turn out so bad, right? happy birthday to our pretty boy landhinio!

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[cressidagrey]

It's a Love Story - Chapter 7

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

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

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

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues, Fat Shaming, People being utterly horrible. Also Retconning from Nesta's Spring Birthday to like late November, just because otherwise my plot doesn't work.

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

Sky had kinda waited for the two of them to have screeching arguments…as soon as the happy bubble of a new mating bond fell away. 

But…nothing of that sort had happened.

“Let’s just keep it just for us for a little while,” he had whispered and she had agreed, curled up in his arms. Just them.

Just for a little while. Nobody else’s opinion did really matter after all. And she knew that there would be numerous opinion be had about the fact that hse had met her mate and then moved in with him in the span of less than a day…and that the two of them were utterly and deliriously happy since then. 

Just the two of them - at least for a little while longer. Sky knew that they would have to tell their friends and family eventually, that they couldn't stay in their little bubble forever, but she was in no rush. The world could wait. For now, she was perfectly content to just be with Azriel.

And they didn’t fight. About anything. 

It was...weird. 

She was waiting for arguments. She was waiting for screaming and to be told that she wasn’t enough…for him to finally realie that he had made a grave mistake…but nothing happened. 

He didn’t care that she stuffed all his bookcases with her books…or rather that his shadows did, painstakingly replicating the order she had had in her little apartment. 

Azriel even made nice with Hector and bought him tuna, jut for her sake…

She had caught Azriel and Hector curled up on the couch together last week - Azriel reading a book and Hector sprawled on his lap. She'd stared at them for a long moment. He had let Hector drool all over his shirt. Azriel had looked up at her with a sheepish grin when he noticed her staring. "He's very cuddly," he'd said, as if that was all the explanation that was needed.

Sky had just laughed, shaking her head as she made her way over to them, sitting down next to Azriel. She had rested her head on his shoulder, reaching out to pet the cat. Hector purred loudly in approval, nudging his head against Sky's hand, and she couldn't help but smile.

Azriel kept odd hours for his work, sometimes disappearing in the middle of the night or coming home then too…but Sky did too, so it didn’t bother her.

He always made time for her - making them breakfast or bringing her coffee or leaving little notes for her. 

And she horded it all away like a dragon did with it’s hoard, wanting to enjoy that just a little while longer. 

Sky made sure to do the same for him. She knew he never slept much, so she always left a cup of tea by his bed if he was late in returning, and always left some food for him… She found him a new salve for the scars on his hand, massaging it in with all the patience in the world when he admitted to her that the muscles and joints hurt as it got colder… She bought him sweets from the same little shop in the Rainbow she got her own stash of caramel candies from… She wanted to take care of him, even if she knew Azriel would never ask for it.

She loved the way he held her, as if he would never let her go. She loved the way he whispered her name as he kissed down her body, and the way he held her once they were finished, his wings wrapping around them and cocooning her in warmth. Sky had never imagined that she could be loved like this, but Azriel made her feel like she was the most precious thing in the world.

And if Azriel wasn’t there…the shadows were.

They had become her constant companions - sliding beneath doors and around walls and windows, following her through the house. At first, the shadows had been startling, but she had quickly grown used to them - they seemed to relish draping themselves over her, wrapping around her wrists, her ankles, her shoulders. The shadows would stroke at her face and whisper her name, and Sky had taken to speaking to them as well, asking them about Azriel or if they could bring her things or fetch Hector.

It was...nice not being alone anymore. Sky had never realized how lonely she had been in her little apartment, but now that she had the shadows - and Azriel - she didn’t want to go back. She loved the way the shadows seemed to watch over her, always present even if Azriel was not. And in their own way, the shadows cared for her too, always there to provide a steadying or comforting presence - or to bring her a cup of tea, or fetch her a book she needed for research...

And besides, the shadows were much better at moving furniture than Sky was. She had quickly learned that if she needed something rearranged or moved and Azriel was not around to do it, the shadows were more than happy to help.

But most of all, the shadows had come to represent Azriel to her - they were always with her, always watching over her, and she knew that even if Azriel could not be there, the shadows would always look out for her. They would keep her safe. 

It was a strange and unexpected sense of comfort, but Sky had come to cherish it. She never felt truly alone anymore, not with the shadows constantly at her back, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

And if Azriel was there…well.

The sex was better than anything she had ever imagined.

Sometimes she woke up to him between her thighs, right in the middle of throes of her pleasure, her whole body still heavy with sleep and drenched with wetness. 

He made her feel wanted, desired in a way that she had never experienced before. He never tired of her, always wanting to be close her, and she never tired of him. Every touch felt like a new discovery, and Sky was learning Azriel’s body like she had never learned anything else in her life, learning what made him moan and tremble and beg for more. She loved the way he touched her, the way he kissed her, and the way he whispered her name as he moved inside her.

But it wasn't just about the physical pleasure.

After sex…when it was just the two of them curled up in their bed, his wings wrapped around her, his head bedded on body more often than not…they talked. A truth for a truth.

She learned more about him. About his horrible sweet tooth. About the scars that covered his hands…she had traced them one evening and he had looked at her…looked at her in wonder.

He opened up to her about so many things, telling her stories from his childhood, about the horrors of the war, and about his family. Sky listened to all of it, her heart breaking for all the pain and suffering he had endured, and vowing to spend the rest of her life making him happy. And in turn, she shared her own stories with him, telling him things she had never told anyone else. It felt...good to let go of all the secrets and burdens she had carried for so long, and to know that Azriel was there to listen and to understand.

He never once cared about her stuttering. Never once rushed her.

Though she could feel… she felt so safe with him…that the stutter eased. Still there but sometimes she could go whole sentences without stuttering once..

Azriel was always patient with her, letting her take her time when she needed it, and never making her feel rushed. And to her surprise, her stutter had eased, bit by bit.

It was a strange feeling, not having to struggle through every word, to speak without fear of being judged or laughed at. And Azriel never drew attention to it, never made her feel as if she was something to be pitied or fixed. He just accepted her for who she was - stutter and all.

Sky was…so very grateful for that. She could trust Azriel with her deepest fears and insecurities, and he would always be there for her, supporting her and encouraging her. And in turn, she would do the same for him.

Being with him was so easy.

So easy, and so natural. It felt like they had been together for years, not just weeks. She couldn't imagine her life without Azriel, and she never wanted to. He made her laugh, and he made her feel loved and he wanted her.

That was probably the most startling thing.  

Sky was working on her desk, that overlooked the lake, while Azriel preferred to work upstairs in his office, and a cup of tea was gently put down next to her, a kiss pressed against the crown of her head. She couldn’t help but lean back into him with a happy sigh, tipping up her head, turning towards Azriel and letting him kiss her properly.

“Sky?” He asked softly as she leaned into the touch of the hand on her shoulder.

She hummed in answer.

“Isn’t one of your books coming out soon?” Azriel asked her softly.

“In three weeks, just in time for winter solstice shopping,” Sky answered absentmindedly. “Why?”

Azriel was quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on her shoulder. "How high are the chances that I could…have an early copy?" Azriel asked, sounding nearly hesitant.

Sky turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. "You want an early copy of my book?" she asked, curious. Azriel's nod was immediate. A slow smile spread across Sky's face. "You want to read it?” she asked him hesitantly. He wanted to read her book? 

“I do want to read it. And I also have a friend who adores your books and her birthday is coming up…” Azriel said softly. “She’s important to me. Like a little sister. Her name is Nesta. And I think she may be your biggest fan.”

Sky blinked in surprise, touched by Azriel's words. She knew how much Azriel cared about his family, and to hear him describe Nesta as a little sister was...well, it was sweet. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride knowing that her books had made such an impression on someone so important to him.

She opened the drawer of her desk and pulled out one of the dozen or so she had stashed in there. At his surprised look she just shrugged. “I always get a few from the first print run,” she said drily.

Azriel took the book from her hands, his gaze softening as he looked down at the cover. "Thank you," he said quietly, his fingers tracing over the embossed title of the book. "I know she'll love it."

“Just tell her to please not let the newspaper get their hands on it,” Sky said drily, making him laugh. 

“She’ll protect this book fiercely,” he told her sagely. “Would you…sign it?” Azriel asked her. 

Sky hesitated. She had never once signed any of her books. Had never written the name Sellyn Drake as an autograph. 

But for Azriel...she could do it. For Nesta. 

So she took the book back, dipped her quill in her ink, flicking it off twice, and then wrote a short message to Nesta - wishing her a happy birthday and hoping that she enjoyed the book. 

Sky signed Sellyn Drake at the bottom, the movement feeling surprisingly natural… and felt strangely vulnerable as she handed the book back to Azriel.

Azriel looked down at the inscription, reading it over carefully before looking back at Sky. "Thank you," he said again, his voice soft and tender. "This means a lot to me, and to her."

Sky felt a warm glow settle over her, and she knew in that moment that she would do anything for Azriel. Anything to make him happy.

“You are very welcome,” she said simply.

He leaned down and kissed her, and Sky melted into the kiss, wrapping her arms around Azriel's neck and pulling him closer. For a moment, the world outside their little bubble of happiness seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them.

***

“It seems like we need to come to some sort of agreement,” Azriel said tightly.

Hector the cat was staring at him with one eye and doing his best to intimidate him into life-long obedience, from where he was sitting in front of Azriel, who was sitting on the couch. 

"I am not going to stop sleeping in Sky's bed," he told the cat, crossing his arms. "I am not going to stop cuddling with her." Hector hissed at him in response, clearly not a fan of the fact that Azriel was going to stick around. 

It was a potential problem. Azriel glared at the ugly cat.

If it even was a cat. Sometimes he wasn't quite sure. Maybe it was a stunted Mountain Lion. It was quite big for a normal cat. And uglier than that.

"You know, I am not above pretending to be allergic to you," he told the cat drily. Especially if Hector kept scratching him.

Hector shot him a disdainful look, clearly not worried. And then swiped out a paw to smack at Azriel's naked feet, claws carefully withdrawn. 

Azriel scowled down at the cat. "You're lucky Sky loves you so much," he muttered, glaring at Hector.

"We can agree to get along. I'll buy you that ridiculous expensive Tuna you like and you can come join us when we cuddle on the couch. Or we can draw a line in the sand and see who comes out on top." Azriel raised an eyebrow.

Drily he reflected that this was how far he had come. Trying to bargain with the ugliest cat he had ever seen.

Hector stared back at him for a moment, before finally letting out a "Meow" as if to say, "Fine, fine, you can stay - for now." 

Azriel let out a sigh of relief, glad that the cat had finally agreed to some sort of truce. And he knew that Sky would be happy too - she loved that mangly cat more than anything. So he would put up with Hector - for Sky's sake.

Hector smacked him on the arm and crawled into his lap.

Azriel hesitantly petted his head. “You do realize you weigh a ton, right?” he told the cat drily.

Sky had told him that he had been all skin and bones when she had found him. Yeah, that was definitely no longer true.

Hector rolled over on his back, demanding belly rubs.

Azriel sighed, shaking his head as he reluctantly obliged, rubbing Hector's belly, where the cat’s fur was patchy. 

 Azriel couldn't deny that the cat was oddly endearing, even if he would never admit it out loud. And as Hector purred contentedly in his lap, Azriel couldn't help but smile.

Maybe he could put up with this cat after all. For Sky's sake, of course.

Just for Sky. 

Just for Sky's sake, he bought the cat ridiculous expensive treats, a scratching post and toys.

And he found that, as the weeks went on, he didn't mind as much when Hector would jump into bed with them in the middle of the night, curling up next to Sky. Or when he would bat at Azriel's toes while he read.

Nobody ever needed to know when he asked Gwyn to help him find some books about cats and their proper nourishment and exercise.

"Thank you," he thanked the red headed priestess when she handed him a whole stack of them at the end of their next private dagger lesson.

"No, thank you.  Finally I can pay you back for all the dagger lessons," Gwyn said with a bright grin. "Are you...Are you thinking about adopting a cat?" she asked him curiously.

"No. A friend did," he answered truthfully.

"Making nice with it then?" Gwyn asked him and he sighed.

"I am pretty sure the cat plots my murder on a daily basis," he answered only half joking.

Gwyn laughed, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Have you tried giving it treats?" Gwyn suggested helpfully.

Azriel opened his mouth to respond but at that moment, Rhys landed just a few feet away. Probably training with Cassian early in the morning, before they did their usual training with the priestesses and Valkyries.

"I even bought him ridiculously overpriced, fresh tuna," he admitted drily, making her laugh.

"Good luck with your bribes," Gwyn said with another laugh. "See you later, shadowsinger," she said with a wave over her shoulder. Azriel looked after her for a moment and then passed over to one of the weapon racks, starting his usual inspection.

"Dagger Lessons?" Rhys asked him, as he crossed over to him. 

"Yes," Azriel agreed. He could hear the inflection in Rhys' voice, a lilting question. He didn't even want to know what Rhys was thinking.

"Just With Gwyn?" Rhys asked, tone still carefully neutral.

Azriel sighed, turning to face his friend. "Yes, just with Gwyn," he confirmed. Azriel kept his tone neutral, almost indifferent.

Azriel went back to his dagger inspection, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand.

He could feel Rhys's eyes on him, but he didn't waver. He knew his brother well enough to know that Rhys was trying to get a reaction out of him. And je wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Azriel didn't need to wait long. He could feel the talons of Rhys' daemati powers scratch against his mental shields just moments later. He let him in with a sigh. Was he officially going to get warned off Gwyn as well? 

Apparently Azriel was.

*If you want more from her, don't you dare pressuring her,* Rhys snapped into his mind.

Azriel nearly started to bristle. He wondered if Rhys even thought about how much of an insult it was. Ever thought of what it meant that he thought that Azriel would pressure Gwyn in anything she didn’t want. 

But he just answered flatly. *Then it will calm you to know that I couldn't possibly be less interested in Gwyn romantically.*

Maybe in another life. But not in this one.

*So what, you'll keep yearning after Elain?* Rhys asked him sharply.

Azriel looked up from the daggers, fixing Rhys with a glare.

*I behave. That's what you want. What I do or don't feel outside of that is none of your business,* Azriel gave back.

He was sick of this. Sick of Rhys treating him like he was some kind of reckless child who couldn't be trusted to make his own decisions. 

*I'll behave. As I always do.* He repeated that with more force, his glare hardening.

And as a side note, I am perfectly capable of handling my own feelings, Rhys. I don't need your interference.

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and pointed.

Azriel held Rhys's gaze for a beat longer, then turned back to the daggers. But he could feel the tension between them, the unspoken words that still hovered in the air.

He was so fucking done with Rhys’ meddling. Or with his brother not trusting him to handle his own feelings like an adult. 

*Oh really?* Rhys crossed his arms, wings spreading wide at his back. *How long have you been pining after Elain, knowing damn well that it would only bring you misery?*

It was a punch beneath what was appropriate. Both knew it.

But AZriel couldn't even fucking care at that moment.

He slammed down the mental walls, forcing Rhys out of his mind immediately.

Quite frankly, he hadn't thought about Elain once after Sky and him had accepted the mating bond. He hadn't fucking cared anymore.

 Elain could do whatever she wanted. So could Mor.  Azriel was kinda busy with doting on his mate.

Sky mattered. 

Sky actually wanted him around. Sky liked him enough to let him share her bed and curl around her and had not once flinched away from his shadows. 

Rhys could say and do whatever he wanted but he was not getting near Sky. 

"Good Morning!" At least Cassian was in a good mood.

Azriel barely acknowledged Cassian's cheerful greeting, his mind still reeling from his confrontation with Rhys. He wasn't in the mood to banter or make small talk. But Cassian, being Cassian, didn't seem to pick up on the tension in the air.

He plopped down on the ground beside Azriel, stretching out his wings lazily.

"What's got you brooding?" Cassian asked, eyeing Azriel curiously.

"Still figuring out Nesta's birthday gift," he said drily. It wasn't even a lie.

Cassian sighed.  "Good luck with that, brother. Nes can be quite the challenge to please," he said with a groan. "I still have no idea what to get her and I am her mate. I thought I would get her a new book but the only one she is interested in at the moment is the next Sellyn Drake book and that's not out for 3 weeks," Cassian complained.

Huh.

It seemed like Cassian may have just solved Azriel’s own gift debacle.

How high were the chances that he could talk Sky into giving him an early peek at her newest book?

Apparently it was as simple as asking. She gave it to him without hesitation, with a smile and he loved her just a little bit more just for that.

And he did love her. So fucking much.

It was so easy to be with her. So easy.

Azriel had never felt like this with anyone before. It was effortless to be with her, to be himself around her. She never expected anything from him, never pushed him to be someone he wasn't. She saw him for who he was, and accepted him completely.

She even accepted the shadows.

Azriel knew that the shadows were a part of him, and he had always been conscious of the way they might make people uncomfortable. But with Sky, it was different. She didn't shy away from them or make him feel like he needed to hide them from her. She even seemed to find a certain beauty in them.

She never flinched away, even when the shadows whispered against her skin...even when they touched her.

It was as if, for the first time, the shadows were not something to be feared or loathed. They were simply just a part of him, and she accepted them as such. She never asked him to change or try to control them, and it was a freedom he had never experienced before.

And quite frankly...he would rather stay with her, in their house and let himself be bullied by her cat that to sit through another family dinner.

But he did it. Just for Nesta. It was her birthday after all.

It wasn't going to be that bad. Probably.

He would just remind himself of who was waiting for him at home. That made it easy. 

And it wasn't even that bad. It could be worse.

Rhys even left him alone, mostly because Azriel did his best to stay away from Mor and Elain and Gwyn and Rhys himself for good measure, which left him with the conversation partners of Amren and Varian...and then he just needed to stay silent and let his mind wander to the feeling of Sky's hands when she scratched his scalp...the way she snuggled up to him in her sleep...to the freckles that covered her face...Azriel let his mind drift to thoughts of Sky as he sat at dinner, choosing to ignore the others' conversation. 

He knew that Rhys was probably watching him with a smug look on his face, probably thinking that Azriel was thinking of Elain instead. But Azriel didn't care. He was content in his thoughts of Sky.

Finally, they were handing gifts to Nesta, which meant that the evening was coming to an end.

Thank the cauldron for that. 

Azriel watched as Nesta unwrapped gifts from the others: jewelry from Amren, a painting of Velaris from Feyre…

“Happy Birthday,” Azriel told her softly as he handed her his gift.

“Thank you,” Nesta told him graciously, smiling at him. “Oh, chocolate!” He couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm at the bag of chocolate candies that was tied to her gift with ribbon. 

Azriel smiled, watching as Nesta excitedly tore open the bag of chocolate candies that he had bought her…Sky and him had taken an ambling walk through Velaris one afternoon, ending near the rainbow in a tiny candy shop where his mate procured her caramel candies from and he had picked them up for Nesta. 

Well, that and a few different ones to try for him and Sky.

He was just glad that Nesta seemed to like it. And then Nesta unwrapped the book.

“Cassian said you were very excited to finally read it,” he told her drily. Nesta flipped it over, eyes devouring the title.

“HOW?!” She demanded, her voice half a screech. A far cry from how composed and quiet she usually was. “How did you get it?!?” And then she was already moving to hug him fiercely, pressing a kiss against his cheek. Azriel chuckled, giving her a quick hug back. He was glad that she seemed to like his gift so much.

"Cassian let it slip that you were interested in the new Sellyn Drake book, so I thought I'd pull some strings and get you an early copy," he explained. "Happy Birthday, Nesta."

“What kind of fucking strings did you pull?!” Cassian complained pouting. “I went to every bookstore in Velaris and none could get it to me earlier than in three weeks.” 

Azriel couldn’t help but smirk at Cassian's complaint. "You know me, Cassian. I have my ways," he drawled. "Maybe you just need to expand your network."

“You had the shadows steal it, didn’t you?” Cassian asked him with a glare. Azriel couldn’t help but snort.

“No, I asked Sellyn Drake to give it to me and she did,” he said drily. “Though I'm sure Nesta couldn't care less how I got the book, as long as she gets to read it."

“Oh, I do care.” Nesta assured him immediately. “You asked Sellyn Drake? Nobody knows who she is! You know her? How? When? Why?”

Azriel chuckled, amused by Nesta's rapid-fire questions. "Yes, I know Sellyn Drake. I asked her for a favor, and she obliged. Simple as that. As for the why, well, I knew how badly you wanted to read her new novel, so I thought it would be a nice surprise for your birthday,” he told her easily, smiling softly at Azriel. 

Cassian still looked suspicious, eyeing Azriel with a critical eye. "You asked the author herself to give you an early copy of her book? Just like that?" he asked skeptically.

“Just like that,” Azriel said calmly.

“So she actually exists?” Gwynn asked him curiously, everybody turned to stare at her. “What?! You know I had my theory!”

“Gwyn’s theory is that Sellyn Drake isn’t one single person, but instead a whole group of incredible talented authors,” Nesta said with a grin.

"Oh, she definitely exists. I can vouch for that. She’s very sweet,” Azriel told Nesta simply, who opened her book, hungrily opening the front pages…

“…this is signed,” Nesta breathed. “Sellyn Drake knows my name.” 

He was pretty sure that he had heard religious people sound less worshipping than Nesta did at that moment. 

For just a moment he wanted to think about how it would be for Nesta and Sky to meet, but he forced himself not to. Not where Rhys could snap that up. 

“What?! No way!” Emerie exclaimed, clambering to take a look at the book. “Cauldron boil me.” She breathed.

“There isn’t a single signed Sellyn Drake book!” Gwyn exclaimed. 

Azriel couldn't help but chuckle at the others’ reactions. "Well, I guess that makes this a pretty special gift then," he said simply, sipping his wine with a satisfied smile.

“Very special,” Nesta told him softly, looking at him wideyed. “This is…This is incredible, Az.” 

Azriel merely inclined his head, accepting the comment. “I’m glad "It's not often that I can surprise someone who's as hard to impress as you are."

Nesta gave him a playful swat on the arm. "You know I'm not that hard to please," she told him. "You just have to know me well enough to know what I want. And apparently you do. Thank you.”

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I knew it was love, when I rode home crying⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: angst. canon-typical violence. mentions of injuries and bleeding. references to physical abuse. john winchester's A+ parenting. blink-and-you-miss-it mention of cunnilingus. fluff (I promise). dean winchester is bad at feelings but he is trying his best, okay? 4.9k

You usually love rainy days.

Yes, they can be hellish in the summer because of the humidity. But it’s early November, and the rain is cold and the sky is gloomy—and you’ve never felt more understood by nature.

With your heart as heavy as the charged clouds and your brain as foggy as the woods, you walk into the usual corner store to buy supplies for the night. It rained all night, and even if you’ve been granted a break for now, a storm is expected that evening, and there’s talk of a blizzard. You have enough to survive for a few days, but better safe than sorry.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you last saw Dean. You know you ended up skipping graduation, and the summer went by. Your birthday passed, and the leaves have started to change color. But has it been weeks? No, it has to be months. Still, you’re pretty sure it’s been less than a year, right?

When you spend every day locked in your room or the bookstore, time warps. Even at your job, sorting and shelving books in the library, you still feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare that just won’t end.

You try your best, you really do—getting out of bed in the mornings, forcing yourself to swallow food, attempting conversation with the librarian or Bobby when you run into him—but an imminent sense of doom clings to your bones like a child clings to their mother’s arms.

At least, you assume. You’d never felt your mother’s touch unless it was to drag her away before she drowned in a pool of her own vomit.

You look down at your basket—three packs of cigarettes, a single tangerine, two packs of instant hot chocolate, and a lonely box of mac 'n' cheese.

What a sad fucking sight.

You decide to at least add a carton of eggs and some milk, just so the cashier won’t stare at you like you’re headed for the stake. So you turn around, the same old headphones placed firmly on your head—and then you stumble into someone’s chest.

You startle, blinking slowly at the purple shirt staring back at you. You tilt your head up and catch sight of a dog stamp on the shirt. You tilt your head further and still only meet the guy’s Adam’s apple.

Finally, you tilt your head almost all the way up, headphones falling down to your neck, and find a familiar pair of hazel puppy eyes blinking down at you with the exact same stupor.

Dean hadn’t lied about the freaky growth spurt, then.

Sam Winchester—the boy on whose head you could once rest your elbow—now towers over you. He’s grown out of his childhood round cheeks and lanky arms, but then he smiles—dimples showing and bangs still falling over his eyes—and he turns back into that kid you once bought marshmallow nachos for.

He murmurs your name so sweetly you could cry. “It’s been so long!”

Yeah, it has.

“Sam,” you whisper, voice rough with nostalgia. For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile parts your lips. You can’t help the way you immediately take a step forward, your body acting without your permission. You wrap your arms around Sam’s middle, hugging him close.

For all his hugeness, he seems to shrink in your hold. He stays still for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do, but then he clumsily wraps his arms around your shoulders and seems to deflate.

That same instinct that flared inside you that first night at the drive-in—that same softness that breaks through your rotten flesh and spills out at the sight of this way-too-gentle, way-too-like-you boy—runs you over like a truck. “It’s so nice to see you, Sam.”

It isn’t until after you pay for your things—eggs and milk forgotten as Sam talks about school and how he has been thinking of college—that you realize that if Sam is here, his brother must not be too far away. Still, Sam is very careful not to mention him, which only makes the sudden uneasiness spreading through you worse.

You had thought about seeing Dean again. Daydreamed about him calling, offering an explanation. You dreamed of him coming back, of him having a good enough excuse. You also knew it was unrealistic, and that if Dean ever showed back up, it would be just like last time. No apology, no reason, just him expecting you to take him back.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to say no.

But now, faced with the imminent probability of crossing paths with him one more time, you can’t feel anything. You feel numb, cold, like you’re under freezing water.

Sam and you walk out of the store, and you look up at him just in time to catch the slight hint of panic that crosses his face as he looks behind you.

“Uhm—” His voice is high-pitched, strange even for a teenage boy. “You want me to walk you home?” He nervously points behind himself, away from whatever he is trying to hide from you.

Dread washes all over you, thick and heavy, but you still turn around.

Dean looks just like he did the last time you saw him, including the teasing smirk on his lips. He is leaning back on the Impala, cigarette between his teeth, eyes sparkling with mischief. But this time, he is not looking at you.

There’s a girl in front of him, you think you recognize her from the cheer team—she graduated a year before you, just like Dean. She is giggling, hand on his arm, blonde hair in the same ponytail she wore back then, only missing the bow in the school’s colors. They look like they know each other, and she is probably asking about his sudden disappearance from school all those moons ago.

Sam says something, but it’s as if you're suddenly being pulled out of the icy lake you had been submerged in. Static in your ears, desperate attempts to breathe through the water in your lungs, panic cursing through you.

Not panic, you realize. It is pure fucking rage.

Dean looks away from the girl, but before his eyes meet yours, you’re turning around and walking away.

Always flight, never fight.

Sam says something else, but you ignore him. You can’t do this, not right now.

The cold air hits your face, and the rain puddles splash with the heavy stomps of your boots. Somewhere in the sky, a storm brews. Thunder roars, but you barely hear it over the roaring of your blood burning.

A hand wraps around your arm, familiar and warm, but this time you smack it away.

Dean looks like a kicked puppy when you turn around to face him, but you don’t let the sight soften you up. He makes another attempt at stepping closer, and you recoil so hard that he flinches like he has just been shot.

He whispers your name, and your breath hitches. You don’t know if it’s anger or desire or longing or hatred, but you ignore it as you clench your jaw and stay silent. Clear drops slide down his face, and for a moment you think he’s crying. But then you look up and find that it has started raining again.

“Look—I know, okay? I know.” His voice is broken, lacking the confidence it always carries. He looks pathetic, almost. Hair stuck to his forehead from the water that slowly drenches the two of you, his shoulder hunched, his smirk gone. “I—I can explain.”

But he doesn’t sound very convinced, and his eyes hold a darkness you hadn’t seen in him yet.

Your hands tremble, and you know that your copy of The Metamorphosis must be getting soaked where it rests in the back pocket of your jeans, but you stay.

“Then do, Dean.” You fight to keep the begging out of your tone because you won’t beg for an explanation. Still, you will welcome it if it comes. “And you better do it right.”

Dean’s lips part, and he looks like he could drop to his knees and thank every god out there. Slowly, you start to soften up. Because it’s Dean, and you had never considered yourself tough, not for him.

But then his phone rings, and as soon as his eyes meet the contact name, all emotion drains from his face. Once again, you witness Dean Winchester go from the boy you grew up admiring to the well-trained soldier you had only seen a few times.

He picks up the call, and bitterness flows through your veins like venom.

“Dad.” He doesn’t look at you, eyes focused on his own biker boots. “Right now? But—yes, sir. Okay, I will. B—” His father hangs up before Dean can even say goodbye.

You wait for a few seconds, bangs sticking to the sides of your face and mascara about to start running from the increasing rain. Dean doesn’t meet your eyes, and you still wait for that explanation, even if deep inside of you, you know it won’t come.

“I gotta go.”

Your laugh cuts through the air like the thunder in the sky. Even Dean looks surprised by it, the sound poisonous and griefful.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” It’s a kind of anger you have never exteriorized, the kind that you always swallow down and suppress, the kind that you carefully keep out of your words and actions, the one that only comes out when you are alone in your room.

You turn around, ready to leave again. Because you’re tired, and hurt, and furious. Because you can’t look at Dean for one more second without breaking down. Because right now, you can’t find it in yourself to be empathetic, to be understanding, to mutter a small “I get it” and keep waiting.

Right now, all you know is that this boy stole your soul and body, buried himself so deep inside of you that you won’t ever be able to erase his mark, and you still are not worth prioritizing.

The story of your life.

So you start walking home, trying to hold yourself together for just a little longer. Dean yells your name, but you don’t stop. There are quick steps behind you, and his hand wraps around your arm once again.

Your fist hits his face with a dull thud, his teeth scraping the skin. You’re pretty sure it hurts you more than it does him—your knuckles throbbing and bloody, while Dean barely twists his face.

It is the first time you throw a punch.

Another first taken by him.

You don’t stop to watch Dean’s reaction, you don’t give him a second glance, you simply run home and crawl into your bed.

Once again, you are left bleeding, crying, and heartbroken.

You are cleaning Marigold of any new cobwebs when you hear knocking at your door.

It is late at night, and you’re listening to music on your mom’s old radio. Your Walkman—already old and barely functional before today—had been completely ruined by the pouring rain. You cry over it, but you know it’s not about the cassette player at all.

You had always been aware of the fact that Dean had been with other girls, but you had never witnessed it. Now, the image of him giving that blonde the same smile he gave you that night is engraved in your brain.

Knock knock.

You pause, trying to figure out if you heard right. And there it is, once again.

You quickly move to grab your pistol from your bedside table, thinking about grabbing the silver dagger too.

“It’s just in case you need to defend yourself.”

Out of pure spite, you leave it under your bed where you pretend it’s discarded instead of carefully placed. You keep your steps light and quiet as you make your way to the front door, just like you do when you forage through the woods.

The click of the safety being switched off echoes through the hallway, and you carefully lean in to look through the peephole as you place your finger over the trigger of the pistol. Outside, a shadow stands tall and too dark to make out. You’re about to retreat and hide in your room when a voice filters through the wooden door.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re mad—but please open the door.”

It’s only the edge of pain in his voice that makes you follow his request.

You had seen Dean bleeding before—that day he came back to Bobby’s hurt, and occasionally when he got in a fight in school—but never like this.

His eyebrow is dripping with an unstoppable crimson river, forcing him to close his right eye. His leather jacket is gone, even though it’s still raining outside and the temperature is dropping steadily, and there’s a slowly expanding stain of blood spreading across his shirt. There’s a long gash running down his arm, his lip is busted, and he holds his side like something’s broken.

“Look, I know you don’t wanna see me right now—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because you drop the pistol to the floor and grab his uninjured arm, pulling him inside the house. His teeth are chattering, and you’re sure he’s one minute away from pneumonia.

Without saying a word, you drag him to the living room and make him sit on one of the couches, careful not to let him touch the one your mother died in. You wrap a blanket around his shoulders firmly, not caring if it gets stained with blood.

“What happened?” you ask urgently as Dean sets down a duffel bag you hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Dean, what the fuck happened?”

Your voice resonates around the silent house, and it’s the first time in your life you demand something. The first order you’ve ever given, the first time your voice doesn’t hesitate. Because Dean is hurt, and your anger would never surpass how much you—care about him.

“A hunt went wrong.” It’s the only explanation you get, mumbled and low. But his shirt is slowly soaking through with blood, and you don’t have time for this.

“A hunt? You went hunting?” In all the time you’ve known Dean, he had never spoken about hunting. Maybe he knew better than to admit he enjoyed killing deer and bunnies in front of you, since you always made a point about the difference between foraging for the bones of already deceased animals and killing them.

Dean’s teeth stop chattering, so you pull the blanket away and yank his shirt off, trying to assess the damage. He winces when you move his slashed arm, but you’re too busy staring at the hole on his shoulder to notice.

“I got shot.” Dean’s voice feels distant, almost like it’s coming from another realm. You pull yourself back to reality when you see more blood gushing from the wound.

“You got—” Your eyes scan his body frantically: the scratch on his arm, the wounds on his face, the purple bruise blooming over his ribs. He didn’t just get shot. “What the fuck.”

You’ve patched up torn knuckles and scraped knees before, a few accidental cuts from your knife while practicing—some not so accidental—but never scratches the size of your forearm or bullet wounds.

More blood dribbles down, and you spring into action. You run to the bathroom where you always keep a first aid kit, recalling everything you know about bullet wounds from books and movies.

Back by Dean’s side in seconds, you kneel on the rug next to the couch and set the kit beside you. His face is growing paler. A sharp, sudden pain grips you—like a heart attack. But it’s just fear, you realize.

Don’t leave me.

“I—It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, though your hands tremble. Blood doesn’t scare you, you’re all too familiar with it. It’s the thought of Dean bleeding out that makes you nauseous. “I—I’m gonna clean the wound. You’ll be okay.”

You grab the sterile saline solution from the kit, tearing the cap off with your teeth. Straightening up, you take a deep breath and study the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, and you force your hands to steady—one wrapping around his bicep, the other holding the neck of the bottle close to torn skin.

“This’ll sting,” you warn.

Dean laughs.

It throws you off, and for a moment, the panic inside you twists into confusion.

“I’ve been through worse, sweetheart.” You look up at him, dumbfounded. “I’ve been here before. You don’t have to be gentle. Just get it over with.”

Yeah, salesman’s kid, your ass.

But it’s not time to argue, so your eyes return to his shoulder and you tilt the bottle forward. Dean hisses as the cold liquid floods the open wound, and a sick part of you feels a little satisfaction. Yeah, he deserves a little pain after everything.

You repeat the process on the exit wound, carefully washing away any debris. When Dean notices you’re hesitating, he instructs you to clean around the wound with some wipes, his voice strained but steady. You follow his orders carefully.

You’re gentle as you apply antiseptic to the edges of the skin, slowly growing more confident. Dean stays conscious, the bleeding stops, and you start to accept that he’s not going to die.

Your voice trembles when you reluctantly ask if he needs you to suture the wound, but he just laughs again and shakes his head, almost calling you adorable before biting back the words. Something else inside you aches then, but it’s different—burning, almost—like your whole body is on fire.

You follow his instructions for bandaging the wound, and it’s only when your palms press firmly against his chest that you actually realize he’s shirtless. You’ve seen Dean shirtless before, but always in the dim light and tight space of a car. Now, under the bright glow of the ceiling lamp, you can actually see.

Scars cover him—on his sides, along his collarbone, in the small of his back, over his heart. Big ones, tiny ones. Some pale and faded, others thick and angry-red. One definitely looks like a bite, another like—wolf claws?

What the fuck, actually.

It isn’t until you’re done bandaging the scratch on his arm and moving to his face that you speak again. It’s been complete silence until now—Dean’s eyes glued to the fireplace, yours fixed on his ragged skin.

“Dean, what—” You look down at him as you clean the cut on his eyebrow, and at least this is familiar territory. Your other hand cups his jaw, your brain so scrambled you can’t even figure out what to ask first.

“I’ll explain,” he interrupts, finally looking up at you. He looks bare, raw, vulnerable. You swallow the urge to reassure him, to comfort him, because your heart is still too broken. “But you have to listen to me, okay? You have to trust me.”

The words stab at your heart because you had trusted him. You trusted Dean with everything you had—you’d served your heart and body on a silver platter for him, given him every bit of you that mattered, trusted him to take care of it.

“I trusted you more than I trust anyone in this world, Dean,” you whisper, looking down as you finish cleaning the wounds on his face. “Even if you’ve proven I shouldn’t have.” You clench your jaw, trying to keep your voice steady. “You haven’t even fucking apologized, so how can you ask me to trust you?”

Now it’s him who looks stabbed. His fists clench, his eyes flick back to the flames as you retreat to grab some bandages. There’s a long silence, the kind only found at funerals, and you’re scared this might become one.

“Maybe you’re right.”

You force yourself not to cry as you dig through the first aid kit. Maybe you’re right, yeah. Maybe it is time to bury this along with all your other “could’ve been’s.”

“I’m out of butterfly bandages.” Your voice shakes, and you can almost hear Marigold scolding you.

“Why are you still patching him up?! Throw him out the door, girl.”

“I have some in my bag.” You nod and quietly kneel next to Dean’s duffel. You unzip it, and the first thing you see is blue.

The forget-me-nots fill the air with a sweet scent, contrasting with the smell of tragedy and decay that usually occupies it. It’s a bouquet, way bigger than the one you left on the Impala, and definitely store-bought. The flowers are a little wilted and bruised, a few petals falling to the floor, but they still make you melt.

Beneath the blossoms, there’s something else. A white box, also a little battered, with big, thick letters on top: Discman.

“Oh.” Comes from behind you, but your eyes stay fixed on the objects in your hands. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, but I meant to give you those earlier.”

You’re frozen in place, barely hearing the defeated words over the arguing voices in your head. Part of you—the beast in your chest, the one awakened by that first gunshot when you were ten, the one insatiably hungry ever since—feels boneless because of the gifts, and wants to crawl back to Dean and offer itself as a sacrifice to the gods of his pain.

The other part—the one that had to accept that your mother didn’t love you, the one that fought every day to stay alive, the one that had to glue you back together twice because of Dean—wants to throw the flowers in the fire and throw him out into the freezing rain.

“I know your Walkman’s been slowly dying forever, and I thought you’d like to modernize a little. They were supposed to—” His pain-soaked laughter rumbles through the room. “They were supposed to be apology gifts, I guess.”

The flowers and cardboard box hit the rug with a quiet thump, and you’re up and walking before you can even think about what you’re doing. Dean looks ready to take another punch, and his gasp is loud and desperate when, instead, your lips smash against his.

Like a lamb naively approaching a butcher, you climb onto his lap.

You cup his jaw, licking over his lips and tasting the blood still on them. Dean hisses at the contact, but you relish the metallic taste. It awakens something in you—a hunger so primal and instinctual it goes beyond the physical.

It’s spiritual, carnal, all at once. Religious.

You lean back, and Dean chases your lips. You tug harshly on his hair, and he whines.

“You will explain everything.” Your voice is just as low as always—spectral, ethereal—but now there’s a power behind it that hadn’t been there before. It has Dean looking up at you with hazy eyes, nodding dumbly. “No more lying. I want the truth.”

You lean in again, trapping his chapped lips in a slow kiss, biting the soft flesh almost hard enough to break.

“And then,” you whisper, “I’m gonna eat you.”

“I’m scared you mean that literally,” he says, but his voice is breathless, and his hands have already found their place at your waist.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

“My dad’s a monster hunter.”

Out of everything you had expected—drug dealer, exotic animal trafficker, maybe even some kind of paramilitary nut—that is the last thing you could’ve imagined.

Dean goes on to explain the gist of it: living on the road, working cases, the research, the fighting, the aftermath.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

There’s a long stretch of stillness after he finishes, only the crackling of the fire and the ticking clock breaking the silence. Dean looks ready to bolt, like he’s expecting you to call him insane and throw him out.

Instead, your gaze drifts to the living room window, where snow has started piling on the outer sill. You sit with it—let your thoughts spiral and try to piece it all together.

The brothers’ training. The sudden disappearances. The markings in Dean’s bed. The silver dagger. Bobby’s obsession with the mythology section at the library. Dean refusing to touch a Ouija board that one time you begged him to. The night you heard something strange when you were alone at Bobby’s, and Dean reached for the salt, not a knife.

“So… ghosts?” you ask, looking up at him—and catch the way his face lights up when he’s met not with anger or disbelief, but curiosity.

“Spirits. Werewolves. Demons. Shapeshifters. Witches.” He shrugs. “Most things you can imagine? There’s probably a hunter that’s killed one.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then again.

And again, there’s that battle in your head. Believe or not believe. You’ve never been one to fear the supernatural—fear the living, not the dead kind of thing—but Dean wouldn’t lie about something like this.

Sure, maybe he’s broken your heart more than once.

But he’s also the boy who saw you when no one else did. The boy who listened to you ramble about your favorite books, even when it bored him out of his mind. The boy who broke a guy’s nose for grabbing you in the hallway. The boy who listened, really listened, when you talked about your deepest fears—And offered small, aching pieces of himself in return.

“What happened today?”

Dean sighs, shoulders hunching where he sits in the same spot on the couch—now in dry, clean clothes from his bag, sipping the hot chocolate you bought earlier that day. You curl up next to him, trying to process everything without getting distracted by the firelight making his eyes shine like gemstones.

“Skinwalker.” 

Right, of course. Skinwalker.

“Dad was handling it alone, but the pack was bigger than expected, so he called,” he continues, oblivious to the slow crashing of your brain. “One of the mutts scratched me, I got thrown around a bit.” The casual tone in his voice might be more confusing than the words themselves.

“There was one left. I should’ve seen it.” His voice is bitter, angry. “But I didn’t, and the son of a bitch jumped me—almost bit me. Dad shot it, but he accidentally got me too.”

Your eyes widen. That last part is somehow worse than the idea of monsters roaming the world. For a second, you think maybe Dean’s finally had enough, that he’s angry at his dad. But then you see the way his nails dig into his palm, how he won’t meet your gaze.

He’s angry at himself.

“I should’ve seen it,” he repeats, and your throat tightens like it’s swallowing broken glass. “Dad was mad, of course. He…” Dean pauses, debating what to say. “Dropped me off at Bobby’s and left, but he wasn’t home.”

But the way his hand unconsciously travels to his lip, fingers just grazing the busted skin, tells you what he didn’t say. That injury didn’t come from the skinwalker—and suddenly, you start to wonder how many of Dean’s bruises came from monsters, and how many came from his dad.

“So you came here.”

It’s the first thing you’ve said since Dean started explaining the whole mess, and he finally turns to face you.

“I fucked up, I know I fucked up,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “But—” he whispers your name like a prayer, “—you have to know that leaving you that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Dad had gone off on a solo hunt, Sam was alone in some cabin, and he was freaking out because Dad wasn’t answering his phone and I’m not supposed to tell people about hunting and—”

You stop his rambling with a kiss. It’s gentle, tender, soft in ways you didn’t know you were capable of. And Dean melts. He leans into your warmth like he’s been freezing for years—like a soldier finally returning to a home he thought he’d never see again.

God. The Winchester boys might be even more deprived of gentleness than you.

Slowly, the two of you rise from the couch.

Dean glances out the window, at the moonlight glinting blue across the snow, then back to you—standing beneath the orange glow of the fireplace, bouquet of delicate forget-me-nots in hand—and he makes a decision.

The two of you crawl into your bed, hand in hand, bodies intertwining like two pieces of the same thing that had finally found each other. You tell him about your mother’s death; he tells you about his. He talks about taking care of Sam while their dad was off on hunts, about stealing food from corner stores, about the first time he fired a gun. You tell him about scrubbing vomit out of the carpet, about climbing onto the roof to escape the reek of stale vodka, about how you used to shoplift books.

It’s easier than you expected, to open up to Dean. You think it’s because you are the same in so many ways. Because the pain in him recognizes the pain in you. Because he’s just as rotten as you are. Because the rough touch of his calloused skin feels like heaven when it presses down on your tender flesh.

Because now, when he opens you up slowly, it doesn’t hurt. Because when he buries his face between your thighs and eats like a man starving, you scream for him and wish he’d crawl inside you and stay there. Because when you finally collapse—limp, slick, wrecked—he wraps himself around you and holds you through the snowy night.

Because when you wake up the next morning, Dean is still there.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: i'm backkkk, this time with the second-to-last part of this lovely series. i know not everyone believes that john ever physically hurt the boys, but i was watching spn the other day, and when a sheriff mentioned that a missing kid was known to be beaten by his father, dean flinched so hard that i felt sick—so i had to include it.

I seriously cannot stop marveling at all the love you have given me and my art. it fills my soul with so much warmth. It breaks my heart to think that the next part is the last one, but i'm also so excited for my angels to be happy! (or will they?) anyways,I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung @mimiimmii @thanosisadilf @iamaslytherin0 @youroldfashioned @luvrgirls @faeriexxmoon @iluvchr1s @beelzebzb @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @rxouxcesss @yup-its-dez @n0t-vzin1s @tendertulip @halleybagel @melancholysanatomy @dollyfetti @5oftkitty @cupidzbunny @arcanehastakenovermysoul @kermits-bitch @zenoxl @hollywoodxrose @bitchykittenconnoisseur @sherlockstrangewolf @urfav-tz @risefallrise @darling-loki-01 @dina-winchester @zyra-7<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[winterscaptain]

taste.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: if you take issues with haley's stance on bjs just let me know bc i am open to criticism if you get a different vibe. lmao anyways have a good time with this one.

beta'd by @ssaic-jareau who basically should be credited as a co-writer at this point.

words: 950 content advisories: language, discussion of sex acts (nothing super explicit), mild emotional vulnerability

summary: "the more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.” — jennifer donnelly, revolution. november 15th, 2011

masterlist | ajf masterlist under construction | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

The bathroom’s still warm with steam. You’re in one of his undershirts, patting moisturizer into your cheekbones, watching him in the mirror as he buttons his navy blue shirt—a favorite of yours. Hair still damp. Collar open. He looks good—annoyingly good—and he’s doing that thing where he pretends not to notice you staring.

“You were weird last night,” you say casually.

Every man's favorite thing to hear the morning after insanely good sex…

Aaron glances at you, halfway through the third button. “Weird how?”

“You hesitated.”

He frowns, then blinks. “Hesitated?”

He can’t recall hesitating at all last night. 

You raise your eyebrows. “Yeah. Like you didn’t want me to suck your dick.”

He actually snorts—chokes on it, really—and shakes his head with a laugh, pressing his hand to his forehead. “Jesus.”

You shrug, unaffected. “You did. You got all weird. Just for a second. I noticed.”

He takes a slow breath, then leans back against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just been… a long time.”

You tilt your head, waiting.

“Like, more than fifteen years,” he adds. “Since—anything more than a couple birthday passes.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Haley didn’t like it. She tried it once, it grossed her out and she always said she didn’t like the taste.”

“Well,” you say, stepping closer, “not to speak ill of the dead—”

Aaron exhales like he already knows what’s coming.

“—but Haley was an idiot,” you finish, standing in front of him now. Your fingers reach for his collar, popping it. “She missed out. Big time.”

You start at the third button, abandoned, and work your way up, deliberate and practiced.

“Do you even know how nice your dick is?”

His eyes widen. His breath catches. He laughs again, stunned and delighted. “What?”

“I’m serious,” you say, straight-faced. “You’ve got great symmetry. Great weight. Very accommodating curve. Just—top tier.” You pause, thoughtful. “I’ve had worse from men who bragged. You have the nerve to imply nothing. I mean, I’ve always known, but that’s just an energy thing.” You wink at him, looking up for the barest of seconds. “Call it profiling.”

He’s grinning now, flushed and a little dazed. “You’re insane.”

“You love it.” You grab his tie off the counter—also navy, with grey paisley—and loop it over his head, sliding it under his collar.

His hands fall to your hips, completely still.

You don’t notice—too focused, too matter-of-fact—but he watches you. Watches your fingers as they work the fabric with practiced ease.

Months ago, you’d stood in his office, nervous and uncertain, palms warm in his, laughing softly as you tried to remember the order. “I’ll forget by tomorrow,” you’d said, and he hadn’t dared look at you when he answered, “Then I’ll show you again.”

And he had. Once. Briefly. In silence, just before starting a consult. He thought you were just humoring him.

But here, now—there’s no hesitation.

You fold and flip and tighten, your fingers deft against the fabric, and Aaron just breathes through it, chest rising once, then again.

And then, casual as anything, he says, “It wasn’t just Haley.”

Your hands pause. Just for a second. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he amends, “Haley didn’t like it, no. But she wasn’t the only one.”

You squint up at him. “Excuse me?”

He clears his throat. “We were on a break. It was brief.”

“You dated someone during a break? What are you, an animal?”

He shifts under your hands. “It was undergrad. Haley and I were long-distance. Things were… tense.”

Your eyes narrow, your expression suspicious. “How brief?”

“Three months.”

“Three months?”

“I was 21! And stupid, clearly!”

You raise an eyebrow and gesture vaguely. He tips his head, conceding. “I’m still stupid.” A beat. “She dumped me when I said I still loved Haley.”

You stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Aaron. What the fuck.”

“You asked.” He tries very hard not to smile.

“Yeah, I didn’t ask for plot twists.”

You shake your head and finish the knot, tightening it just enough to make him grunt. “So let me get this straight,” you say. “You got exactly two real blowjobs in twenty years, and neither of them made a good impression?”

“That’s correct.” As he often does, he redirects. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Which?” You just want to hear him say it.

“The, uh…” He clears his throat. “Deepthroat—thing.”

There it is.

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Had a roommate in college who was kind of known for it.”

Aaron blinks. “Known for it?”

“She had a bit of a reputation that yielded useful knowledge,” you say sweetly, returning to your task. “Taught me a few things. Used her comically large dildo like a CPR dummy for demos.” You adjust the length, tightening it against his throat and checking that it lands correctly. “Whole workshop. Stuck it to the wall and everything.”

He actually leans back against the sink, looking mildly traumatized. “That is the most horrifyingly hot thing I’ve ever heard.”

You smile, soft and wicked, smoothing his collar one last time. “You’re welcome for that image. And the work.”

You press a quick, chaste kiss to his still-stunned mouth and leave to finish getting dressed, your hand falling off his chest as you go.

He checks.

His tie is perfect.

And somewhere deep in his chest, he’s already thinking about the first time. The fumble. The laugh. The way you’d told him you’d forget by tomorrow.

You hadn’t.

And he’s never been more in love.

+++

tagging: @sochalant @chronicallybubbly @derekluvbot @jhiddles03 @soupyamanda @percysley @viennasolace @youngcowisland @lostinthefandoms11 @beyscape @reidfile @duchesschameleon @littlemisskavities @lily43blog @kiwriteswords @acidicbloody

[sillyandstupididk]

quinn hughes style evolution

On my midnight scroll through Getty Images, I found myself so impressed by Quinn Hughes’ walk in pics, I thought I would do some style evolution! Because he has evolved! Stylistically! And he has great ties.

October 15th, 2019: first one!! So presh. He loves this blue tie, but those shoes don’t remain for much longer. This was the day after his 20th birthday and the start of his rookie year.

November 12th, 2019: New tie alert! I’m in awe of this guys ties back then. They were so fun! The shoes are a better match definitely, and notice how they’re actual dress shoes (“for now,” she said ominously.)

December 19th, 2019: Hilarious gait, for unknown reasons. Also I just want to say I miss this wall, I don’t think it exists anymore, but it was great vibes. So is his tie. Reminds me of the one Luke wore to the awards show. The Canada Goose toque is a little silly but they were VERY big that year. I bet he got it at Holtz-Renfrew- the Vancouverites ate up all the Canada Goose

July 29th, 2020: Their first playoffs! Very exciting. And so casual due to the bubble nature of it all. Backwards cap, chino shorts, high top Nikes, Petey has the dogs out, I bet they loved this.

December 10th, 2021: his TIE. Bring back fun ties he never has fun ties anymore. Also this current season people were saying how Quinn bought a new coat- WRONG! His double-breasted coat has lived on for seasons! It looks great, he looks great, the pants are a bit ill-fitting, but he’s wearing a pink tie I refuse to complain.

March 4th, 2021: This tie made tons of appearances. I hate it, but I like that he likes it and it actually goes really well with this suit. He looks amazing, would love to have him in my zoom class.

February 19th, 2022: This is very good! Very red carpet-esque, and crispppp

April 3rd, 2022: Not quite sure what’s going on with the suit tucking. But a lovely baby blue tie with matching socks?! Yes yes yes

November 18th, 2022: GREAT tie. The socks do not match unfortunately. The shirt cuffs poking out is a really nice look tho.

December 17th, 2022: The parking garage!! Welcome friend, you do wonders for the lighting and aura. The double-breasted coat looks SO good buttoned up. And I’m very thankful he ripped that toque off for the photo <3

December 19th, 2022: Jeff he does not look like this what is wrong with you.

October 11th, 2023: This is the first time he has not worn dress shoes for walk ins. He will not wear dress shoes for a very long time. The tie will disappear shortly after. There has been a shift in the force.

November 20th, 2023: a grey suit! unfortunately this makes the phone in his pocket extremely visible and a little off-putting. why are his hands clenched

December 9th, 2023: The tie!!! Nothing is really matching here. It’s very funny. But the plaid suit has potential.

January 9th, 2024: WHY are you looking at me like that?? Is it because you were forced into dress shoes again?? You’re not wearing a tie isn’t that enough?

April 23rd, 2024: Playoff form has returned! The shoes: dirty. The tie: in his dresser at home. The shirt: a nice light blue. The finger: suspiciously long. The eyes: haunted!

May 20th, 2024: Game 7, Edmonton, you know the vibes. He wore this outfit every single game for that series and I looked forward to it every single day. Those airforces were the star of the season. But I miss my fun ties. But he has best accessory in the form of his Porsche keys!

November 19th, 2024: The all black yesss!! He has this on his Insta and for good reason. The toque even looks good, but it would simply be top tier unforgivably hot if he had it off for this look. But he looks so good, I hope we see this more.

March 18th, 2025: Bringing us to now. Holy moly. I mean you can just tell the difference from this to the past. His suits fit really amazingly, the colour coordinates so well, he has a matching tie and matched dress shoes (!!!). New haircut, waist on thinna, vibes unmatched, Captain Quinn has never looked better (and to do this when we’re in the trenches?? Thank you sir)

[bloatedandalone04]

Pretty, Red & Lace

Summary: You and Rafe have spent the last three Valentine’s Days together, and this year is no different. Except for the fact that this time, you’re spending it together as husband and wife, and you both plan to make it the best one yet.

Word Count: 2.7k | THANK YOU FOR 5.7K FOLLOWERS !

Warnings: smut ofc, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, spanking cause it’s rafe, dirty talk, swearing, fingering, multiple orgasms.

The last four years have been the best of your life by far, and you knew that the longer you were with Rafe, they would only continue to get better and better. 

You met Rafe during your second year of University, and while he wasn’t a student like you were, you somehow managed to run into each other while you were out getting coffee and he was out trying to find something for his youngest sister’s birthday. 

Although you were already running late for your class, you let him buy you your coffee, then let him convince you to spend the day with him instead of attending your boring four hour long lecture.

It was safe to say that you didn’t need much convincing at all. He was young, attractive, and he bought you your coffee and a bagel. How could you say no? 

After you got into his truck and spent a good two hours helping him pick out something for his sister, you gave him your number and told him to call you sometime, and he ended up calling you the next morning. 

One breakfast date later, you were head over heels for him, and the rest is history. 

Now, four years later, you had long since graduated, moved in with Rafe, and began starting your life together. In August of last year, he proposed to you in the cutest way imaginable, and around November of the same year, you were married. 

For your first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife, Rafe went all out. Well, more than he usually did. He booked the most expensive and nicest resort he could find, and put in a reservation for a whole week. He planned to spoil the ever living fuck out of you, once again, more than he usually does. 

After a fancy and rather expensive dinner at one of the many restaurants the resort has, Rafe took you back to the massive suite, where he loosened a few buttons on his shirt and kissed you for a good ten minutes. You stayed behind while he went off to go get more champagne, and you decided now was a great time to strip out of your dress and put on one of the many lingerie sets you brought with you. 

The one you chose was a pretty shade of red, Rafe’s favorite color, and you felt giddy as you slipped into it, knowing he would lose his fucking mind over you and probably forget all about opening whatever bubbly drink he brings back with him. 

When you heard the door open again a few minutes later and saw him walk in with a bottle of pink champagne, you grinned to yourself as you moved towards the big bed he’d already fucked you in more than once since you checked in yesterday morning. 

The bottle nearly slipped from his hand when he saw you, his eyes instantly darkening as he took in your barely covered form. The lacy bra did practically nothing to cover your breasts, let alone your nipples since they could be seen through the thin fabric. The matching thong also did nothing to cover your ass, which was perfect since Rafe’s had a thing for that part of you ever since you got together. In fact, it was the first thing he noticed about you while he was standing behind you in the line at the coffee shop you met at, and he shamelessly told you that on your first date. 

Your stunning features and sweet yet sarcastic personality were what had drawn him in though.

As the door closed behind him, you leaned against one of the four posts of the bed, crossing one leg over the other as you lifted your hand and waved your fingers at him. “Hi, baby,” 

Rafe’s eyes roamed over your nearly naked body, taking in every inch of skin showing through the red lace. He was already hard as he gazed down at the length of your thighs, and the small piece of fabric that barely hid your core from him. “Hi, gorgeous,” he said back, setting the bottle down on the table near the door to be forgotten about until he had his fill of you. “Fuck, baby, you look stunning. My stunning, sexy, perfect wife.” he mumbled, and when he reached you, he gently grabbed your chin in between his fingers and guided your mouth to his in a deep kiss. 

You moaned against his lips, kissing him back as his hands wrapped around your waist. “Just wanted to wear something nice for you,” you whispered when you pulled back, and both yours and his lips were glistening with each other’s saliva. “I know how much you love red, and when I saw this the other day, I couldn’t help myself.”  

Rafe groaned as you pressed your body right up against him, and he looked down at your cleavage that was flush against his chest. His hands slide down to your hips as he pulls you impossibly closer, his thumbs teasing the lining of your thong. “You look fucking hot,” he said, leaning down to press his lips to your shoulder. 

You weren’t surprised when his hands slid further down to your ass and squeezed firmly, but you were a little caught off guard when Rafe spun you around and pushed you down gently onto your stomach on the bed. 

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he mumbled, taking in the sight of you bent over the end of the king sized bed, your barely covered ass on full display to his greedy eyes as he moved towards you. His fingers traced the thin line of the thong that emerged from your soft skin, and then he wrapped it around his index and middle fingers and pulled on it so it was pressed right up against your core. 

You whined and writhed on your stomach, your eyes wide in excitement and anticipation as his other hand slid up the length of your spine. He leaned over you and placed open-mouthed kisses along the nape of your neck as you whimpered, and your clit throbbed against the flimsy lace that was quickly beginning to dampen. 

Rafe finally loosened his grip on the material before he stepped back, his fingers hooking into the sides of the thong as he slowly pulled it down your legs. “Mmm, you’re even pretty back here,” he whispered, guiding the useless piece of fabric around your ankles before he tossed it aside. “Such a pretty pussy.”

You whimpered softly as the cool air of the room hit your exposed core, and you were already so wet for him. “Rafe,” you whined, knowing he was probably going to take his time and really try to drag it out tonight, and while that thought only added to your excitement, you also weren’t sure how much longer you could go without his mouth on you. “I need you. Please…”

Rafe smirked down at you before his hand lightly slapped your ass, making your body jolt forward as you gasped. He grinned, trailing his fingers along your inner thighs as he knelt down on the floor behind you. “Shh, baby, I’ve got you,” he murmured, leaning in to press soft kisses all over your reddening skin, “You know I always take care of you.”

His fingers part your slick folds, and he hums at the wetness that instantly coated his digits. He circles your clit with his thumb, applying barely any pressure at all and teasing you further, making you whine some more.

“Please,” you begged again, desperate for something, anything at this point. “I need you, baby, please? I’m so wet for you, Rae. I need you so badly. Taste me, give me your fingers, fuck me, anything. Please.”

He lets out a deep laugh before finally giving in, and he slips two of his fingers inside you. “Like that, baby?” he rasps, pumping his index and middle fingers in and out of you at a steady pace. Rafe’s thumb went back to circling your clit as he worked you open with his fingers, and his eyes stayed fixated on the way your arousal dripped down his hand. “Fuck, you are wet, huh?” he teased, stretching out your tight walls as best as he could before he pulled his fingers out. 

You lift your head and look over your shoulder, watching with parted lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth and sucked his fingers clean of you. Then he leaned in and licked a stripe up your folds, parting them with his tongue. 

“Oh…fuck yes,” you gasped, your head falling forward once again as he ate you out from behind. You buried your face in the sheets as you subtly wiggled back against him, silently encouraging him to full on devour you. “God, yes, Rae, your mouth is so good. You’re so good to me.” 

Rafe hummed against you, sending delicious vibrations through your core. His mouth moved to your clit, where he sucked and flicked at it with his tongue while he pushed his two fingers back inside you. “Mm, you taste so fucking good,” he praised, gently tugging on your puffy clit with his teeth as he fucked his fingers in and out of you faster. 

Your cry of pleasure was music to his ears, and his cock throbbed almost painfully in his boxers. You were so hot, so drunk off the feeling of his mouth and fingers, Rafe would never get tired of hearing the sweet, sexy sounds you only made for him. 

“I can feel you getting tighter,” he murmured, putting a little more effort into the thrusts of his hand as he felt you clench tightly around his fingers. “Let me taste you, baby. Cum all over my face.”

Your legs started to shake as you fisted the sheets in your hands, your moans growing louder as you got closer and closer. “Rafe, fuck, don’t stop. Don’t stop, baby, fuck,” you begged, and the knot that had been building up inside you tightened with every passing second until you let out a soft scream into the sheets as you came. 

Rafe worked you through your high, his fingers continuing to pump in and out of you as he licked and lapped at your dripping pussy. “That’s my good girl,” he cooed, pulling away from you once your trembles became less intense. His lips and chin were glistening from your release, and he waited until you were a quivering mess draped over the end of the bed before he pulled his fingers out of you and licked them clean again. “You okay, sweet girl?” 

You nodded slowly, your legs still shaking as you stayed on your stomach. “I’m good,” you answered, lifting your hand in a thumbs up that earned you another deep laugh. “You’re way too good at that, Rafe. Like, stupidly good at it, you know that?”

“Well, when you have a pussy that’s as perfect as yours, it’s hard to hold back,” he replied, rubbing his palm over the red handprint he’d left on your skin before he gripped your hips and rolled you onto your back. Your hair was messy now, your makeup was a little smudged, and one of your bra straps was off your shoulder, but you were still the prettiest thing Rafe had ever seen. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby.”

You were still a little breathless as you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, kicked off his slacks, and pushed his boxers down his legs. His cock was rock hard and already leaking for you as it brushed against his abs, and you bit down on your lip as he crawled on top of you. 

His big hands wrapped around your biceps and moved you a bit further up the bed until your head was just below the pillows, and then he reached around you for the clasp of your bra. He slid the straps down your arms and let it join the rest of the clothing that was scattered around the floor, and his hands were instantly on your newly exposed skin. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he muttered, his thumbs and index fingers gently rolling your nipples until they pebbled under his touch. “Want me to fuck you now, baby? Are you ready for me?”

You nodded quickly, spreading your thighs for him to settle in between them, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. “Yes,” you answered, draping your arms around his shoulders as he guided the tip of his cock towards your entrance. 

When he thrusts forward and sinks into you, a moan of relief leaves both yours and his mouth as he bottoms out inside you. “Oh fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his hands tightly gripping your hips as he slowly pulled back, only to push deep inside you once again. “So tight and wet for me.”

Rafe leaned in and kissed you, his tongue brushing against yours as he fucked you a little harder, making you moan against his mouth. You wrapped your arms tighter around his shoulders and hiked your thighs up higher around his waist as he rocked into you, the increasing intensity of his thrusts making you feel light headed. 

Your hand runs over his prickly hair, his decision to buzz all his hair off before this trip turning out to be a fucking great one, because he looked hot as hell. “Oh, my God, you feel so fucking good,” you whined against his lips as he held you in place for his thrusts.

He broke the kiss and looked down at you, watching the way your tits bounced gently with every thrust. “Yeah, you like it when I fuck you like this, don’t you? Love it when I fuck you hard, huh?” 

You nodded at his words, your eyes barely open as you looked up at him. “Mmhmm, I love it,” you agreed, making the corners of his lips turn upwards before he leaned back down and kissed you again. 

One big hand stayed planted on your hip while he braced his other one beside your head, using the leverage to be able to fuck you a little harder and deeper. His hips hit yours over and over again, the slick sound of your bodies coming together echoing around the room and mixing with your needy whines and his deep grunts. 

“Fuck, your pussy’s so good,” he moaned against your mouth, becoming equally as drunk off you as you were with him. A breathless laugh escaped your lips when his hands slid under you to grip your ass again, and he lifted you slightly to meet his thrusts. “I’m gonna cum soon…fuck, you feel too good.”

He pressed his forehead against yours as you moaned loudly, your own orgasm not far away either as he fucked you so good. Your hands moved to his face, your fingers brushing along his jaw as you felt your body begin to tense up again. “I love you,” you whispered, your eyes squeezing shut as your back arched, and a few seconds later, you came for the second time.

Rafe groaned, burying his face against your neck as he felt your warmth flood around him, and he quickened his pace. “I love you,” he said back, pressing firm kisses to your shoulder before he let out a deep, guttural moan as he came inside you. He continued to thrust shallowly, ensuring not a drop escaped you, before he finally stilled. “Fuck. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe.”

You laughed when he rolled onto his side, making his softening cock slip out of you, and when he lifted his arm, you crawled towards him. He laced his fingers with yours and brought your hand up to his mouth, where he pressed multiple kisses to your engagement ring and wedding band. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” you said back, snuggling against his chest as you both tried to regain control over your breathing. 

And, like you predicted, once Rafe had his fill of you, he wandered back over to where he left the bottle of the now warm champagne, and you spent the rest of the night sipping on it in between hated make out sessions.

-

Happy Valentine’s Day ❤️ @broosterradley @rafesbabycakes @kartoonzking @rafesdreamgal @bxresford

[jamminvroomvroom]

777.

ln x fem!reader

in which lando has a wild week in vegas

on a bit of a roll whoops! had to write something slutty for vegas week/lando’s birthday so here it is! enjoy my loves and please please pleeeeease tell me what you think! 🎲💘 have literally been thinking about this since vegas was announced and i couldn’t stop listening to silk sonic lol

posting this with the @lavenderlando seal of approval 🫡🤍

inspired loosely by 777 by silk sonic

warnings: 18+ minors dni i am so serious!! listen it’s smut. it’s a lot lot lot of smut. alcohol, swearing, fuckboy!lando, one night stand vibes, choking, unprotected sex, general sex acts, some kinky shit, fluff, minor angst bc lando is a moody little shit

5k words

lando had gotten used to the taste of champagne.

the golden bubbles had grown on him over the course of the season, they tasted like success. so, he didn’t protest when several magnums showed up at the round table, some ridiculous happy birthday remix being blasted over the casino speakers.

it was the night of his 24th birthday, and the drinks hadn’t stopped flowing. he was surrounded by his friends, max and ash joining him, as well as the drivers that had arrived in vegas. the crisp white sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows by now, midnight fast approaching, the material half unbuttoned.

they’d started the night in a bar, drowning in a river of alcohol, and now they were in a casino, one of many on the strip. it was all a bit predictable, kitschy decor everywhere he looked since he’d arrived in las vegas, but that’s what made it iconic. the tackiness seemed to mesh well with the old money vibe, and lando knew this would be a birthday to remember. 


everything was mahogany, gold or red. nothing didn’t twinkle in the lights. his suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, curls messy already from the light breeze of november in the desert. his cheeks were champagne rosy, the alcohol going straight to his head and he felt so fucking good.

everyone toasted to the birthday boy, slot machines rattling in the background. lando didn’t usually enjoy this sort of environment, but he was too drunk to care, deciding to embrace the insanity of his life and live on the edge for one night.

he found himself hunched over a gaming table, fingers drumming against the green felt. his eyes scanned the embroidery, taking in the game that was being played. blackjack, he assumed. this really wasn’t his type of place.

by then, as if by some sort of divine intervention, it was.

a flash of red. a swish of hair. manicured nails on a martini glass.

suddenly blackjack seemed like the best fucking game in the world.

lando couldn’t look away from you.

you were stood right opposite him, drink in hand, red satin draping over every curve of your frame. the dress seemed to cover everything, and nothing at all, perfect for the environment you were in. it was daring, enticing, and lando sure liked being enticed.

from the very second he laid eyes on you, he was picturing what you’d look like against a clean, white bedspread, how his name would sound rolling off your tongue in the form of a desperate whimper. it was a crude thought, but he’d become a crude man.

things had changed a lot since his last breakup. he was messy, leaving a trail of clothes and kisses across every country he stepped foot in. he didn’t get off on the number of people he’d slept with, he got off on the rush of someone new, and he knew before he’d even touched down in vegas, a week earlier than he needed to, that this would probably be the messiest week of his life.

but then he saw you, and it felt weird. he didn’t just want to learn your name and bend you over the nearest surface, gone from your bed before the sun was even in the sky. he was addicted at first sight; he had to take you home, at the very least.

his fixation on you was broken by the dealers voice; it seemed like you were up to play next and you needed at least another player. lando’s eyes flitted back to you, wondering if he even knew how to play blackjack before he offered himself up to you on a glaring shiny platter. you took the decision away from him, because this time, you were staring right back at him.

internally, he was choking on air. externally, he was mentally undressing you with a filthy smirk on his face.

“wanna play, birthday boy?” you smiled coyly, an eyebrow quirked seductively. he could have fallen right to his knees at just the sound of your voice. sweet and spicy.

lando realised that you’d seen the embarrassing display the boys had put on for him. maybe you even knew who he was. he definitely wanted to know who you were, and that’s why he decided to give in to your electric stare.

“you’re on.”

he lost.

every. single. game.

numbers were never lando’s thing.

it was hard to care, though, when he had you sprawled out on the desk of his hotel room, his lips all over your neck.

the walk from the casino up to his room had been short, a bottle of champagne in his left hand and the curve of your ass in his right. there’d been very little small talk, very little convincing needed to seduce you, not with the way you’d been eye-fucking from opposite sides of the table, cards laid bare before you both.

he’d kissed you in the elevator, sloppy and desperate, pressed you against the door to his suite, and quickly pinned you to the other side of it once you were finally inside. you tasted like fruit liquor and cigarettes, your dress slowly bunching at your hips as his hands roamed the silky material. lando was restless, craving everything you had to offer, so he picked you up effortlessly, spreading his palms across the back of your thighs.

it had been a short walk to the desk from the door, and he placed you down carefully. lando slid the dress up your thighs, his finger grazing your calf as he did. you were arching into him, pushing his jacket off his frame and frantically tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt until it was hanging undone off his shoulders.

the look in your eyes sent his blood rushing, frenzied and desperate for him as much as he was for you. taking your jaw in his hand, he tilted your chin towards him until you were looking up at him through your lashes. lando tucked your hair behind your ear, continuing to graze down your neck until he reached the flimsy strap of your dress.

“are you gonna let me have you?” his grip on your jaw tightened and he studied your face.

he gulped when your lips twisted into a smile, conniving, dangerous, red lipstick smudged deliciously. you hadn’t caved into his touch, fallen into submission, and suddenly lando was swimming way out of his depth.

it seemed he’d finally met his match.

you pushed him away, giggling as he stumbled backwards towards the bed, and stood from your place on the desk. slowly, you made your way towards him, until you’d backed him up all the way to the foot of the bed, at which point he collapsed. he scrambled up onto his elbows, smirking up at you.

your eyes raked over his frame, swollen lip caught between your teeth. he looked disheveled in the best way, shirt framing lean sun kissed skin.

slowly, you unzipped your dress, letting it fall off your frame. the material pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it carefully, kicking it away. lando had moved up the bed so that he was sitting against the headboard, watching you hungrily. you were left bare, aside from a lacy thong and red stilettos. lando could have cried tears of joy.

happy fucking birthday.

lando’s eyes lit up like 777 had spun onto a slot machine. he may have lost at blackjack but he’d definitely hit the jackpot.

you crawled onto the bed towards him, not stopping until you were sat on his lap. his hands scaled your thighs, stroking up and down the soft skin. you rolled your hips, experimenting, toying with him, and he groaned, low and loud.

“does this answer your your question?” you whispered, leaning into him so that you could loop your arms around his neck.

lando kissed you, slow and sloppy, sitting up even further just to feel you closer. he could feel your nipples brushing against his bare chest, low whines breaking through the kiss your shared every time you felt too sensitive. your bodies were rolling together in unison, friction building nicely between your legs.

he was growing impatient, itching to get rid of the remaining barriers between you. lando held you still, tight, flipping you both over so that he was hovering over you. his lips worked your neck, hickeys littered down your neck and over your collarbone, while his hands moved down your body. he toyed with the band of your thong, snapping the material against your waist.

lando left you there, keening for his touch, while he peeled his shirt off. his trousers went next, along with his boxers, and then he was right back where he’d left off. your panties disappeared in a flash, his kisses punctuated by a splotchy purple mark sucked below your left breast.

and then he was buried between your legs, licking stripes into you like he was starving. he moaned into your pussy when he felt the first pull on his hair, spurring him on. he applied more pressure, taking it slow, revelling in the way you tugged harder and harder with every swipe. lando slid two fingers through your folds, coating them in your slick.

when he slid the digits inside of you, his mouth latched onto your clit, flicking against it relentlessly. he found the perfect rhythm, balance, everything he was doing made you see stars behind your eyelids. you were thrashing, helpless, and he was getting off on it.

you jaw went slack when you raised yourself onto your elbows just to find him grinding against the mattress, groaning into your cunt at the sensation, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. you couldn’t even hold yourself up then, dropping into the mattress as you fell apart beneath him.

lando resurfaced a few moments later, a glint in his eyes, his mouth glistening in the dim light. your vision was hazy, body shattered, but you ached for more of him. the feeling only intensified, your legs tightening around his waist, when he raised his coated fingers to his lips, lapping up every last drop of you. his tongue swirled around his digits lewdly, and you shuddered.

lando didn’t mind at all when you pushed him onto his back, clambering on top of him. you looked wild, animalistic even, as you guided the tip of his cock through your folds, and he folded his arms behind his head to enjoy the view. once you’d slicked him up, not that he really needed it, you sunk down on him.

fingerprints stained your hips; his grip on you increased tenfold as you adjusted around him, your walls throbbing around his swollen cock. lando sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, holding you down on him. your movements were stuttering, trying to hold yourself together and ignore the way he fit inside you so damn perfectly. you tested the waters, rolling your hips a few times, and his eyes rolled back in his skull.

you felt heavenly, like velvet and butterflies.

he lost all sense of control, every fibre keeping him from wrecking you. his grip didn’t loosen when he fucked up into you, bending his knees for any extra leverage he could get. your nails scraped down his chest, his abs, dripping at the way he tensed under your touch. you tried your best to keep up with him, to meet his thrusts, holding your own for longer than you thought you would.

and then you were folding, melting into his chest, one of his hands pulling both of your behind your back, holding you down as he fucked you into your orgasm. your whines were panted right into his ear, sending him hurtling towards his own high.

lando couldn’t help himself, spilling into you, your body pressed helplessly into his. you were exhausted, wrecked, grinning lazily against the thrumming of his heartbeat.

with your hands held behind your back, you couldn’t stop him from planting you on your back, snaking down your body, burying his tongue deep inside you. the room was filled with the sound of sex, his tongue dragging over you like you were the last meal on earth and he was ravenous. he cleaned up the mess he’d made quickly, sounds that would make the population of sin city blush bouncing off the walls.

your vision was white, maybe your were screaming, it was hard to know what was going on when he had you about ready to ascend. when you fell over the edge, you were boneless, at one with the bed. you watched as he licked his lips, flopping onto the bed beside you.

he stroked your hair and you hummed, content and satiated.

lando didn’t dare look away from you while you came down.

apparently, it was rare to wake up after a wild night in vegas and remember the events of the night before.

lando remembered everything.

the exact shade of your eyes, the feel of red satin and black lace, the way you tasted.

your lips on his skin, hips in his hands, the way you moulded pliantly to his touch.

the way you gave as good as you got.

he was smiling before he’d even opened his eyes, reaching blinding across the bed, ready to propose round… four? five? lando had lost count.

warm hands met cold sheets and suddenly he was wide awake.

lando sat up dead straight, searching for a sign of life in the room. there was none. no shoes on the floor, no dress to match, no thong hanging from the door handle. a pit formed in his stomach.

is this how he made people feel?

waking up alone after the best sex of his life and no trace of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on was quite miserable.

he thudded back into the mattress, hands shielding his eyes from the burn of daylight. he felt like shit, that was undeniable. when he’d fallen asleep, naked and with you nestled into his side, he couldn’t wait to wake up, perhaps arrogantly thinking that you’d be waking up with him. what was that saying, again?

hope breeds eternal misery.

his brain was wracked with the image of you and him, champagne flowing right before he’d taken you again, bent over the desk. and then again in the shower, a harmless attempt to clean yourselves up ending up with you on your knees before your cheek was pressed against the shower screen.

lando tried to fathom why you’d leave after the night you’d shared. there was something about it, something more intimate in the desperation you’d shared, that left him senseless as to why you were gone before the sun was in the sky.

just like he usually was.

it dawned on him, quite quickly, that the habits he’d made of quick fucks and fast getaways was not good form. it was reckless and casually cruel, and he felt guilt for the first time since his string of one night stands had begun. perspective was a crazy thing.

when he sluggishly made his way out of bed, he felt even worse.

-

“where’d you get to last night? we lost you after that terrible game of blackjack.” max teased, sipping his coffee.

lando found himself at the breakfast table, head rested on his hand and hoodie pulled tight. he wasn’t in the mood to talk, but max was like a dog with a bone; there was no avoiding this conversation.

“met a girl.” lando mumbled, aimlessly stirring the tea he knew he wasn’t going to drink.

“ah, understood.” max said, grinning knowingly. but then, as if lando’s bad mood finally clicked, he continued. “wait, why are you in a mood then?”

“tired.” lando replied, monotonously. he wasn’t quite sure how to unpack this one.

“bullshit.”

“woke up alone.”

“oh.”

“she was- i don’t know. just thought it would be different, that’s all.” lando couldn’t disguise the deflated tone of his voice.

“don’t tell me you caught feelings from a shag.” max rolled his eyes, chomping away at his toast. lando could barely stomach the sight of food.

“shut up, i’m not saying i fell in love. just liked something about her.”

“well, anything can happen in vegas. you never know, mate. she might find her way back to you.”

lando was getting ready for the netflix cup before he knew it. he’d managed to shake off max, escaping to the darkness of his room, the curtains drawn and the lights off.

he pretended it was the hangover that had him laying face down on his bed.

the last thing he wanted was to go and play corporate circus on the golfing green, but he figured some fresh air wouldn’t hurt. and so, he was in the backseat of a car well on his way to the tournament.

carlos couldn’t distract him, neither could alex or pierre. rickie fowler was much less interesting that he hoped, or maybe he wasn’t and lando just wasn’t interested enough. not even zak’s mclaren printed trousers could cheer him up.

lando was leaning into his golf club, starting mindlessly into the crowd, waiting for this garish event to begin when he caught a glimpse of someone he recognised. in a sea of influencers and obnoxious businessmen, there you were.

there you fucking were, in your knee high boots and a mini skirt, sunglasses perched on your nose, skintight top under an oversized blazer and hair shining under the warm sunlight. he lost his balance, the golf club slipping from underneath him, and the only thing that kept him upright was the burning urge to keep his eyes on you.

just who were you?

lando didn’t need to clarify whether or not you were looking at him, too. no, you made it abundantly clear by the way you winked at him, before pushing your sunglasses back up the bridge of your nose.

you fucking winked.

he took a step in your direction, shaky legs ready to carry him all the way over to you. he only had your first name and he craved your second, your phone number, anything really. he’d just take the small talk, to be completely honest.

but then the klaxon screeched, knocking him out of his trance and he whipped round to discover that they were ready to tee off. lando cursed under his breath, rapidly turning to search for your face but you were nowhere to be seen.

had he imagined you? had he imagined all of it?

every golf ball hit was hit with frustrated vengeance.

the week disappeared in a bittersweet blur.

lando had achieved multiple hangovers and about zero dollars in winnings, but he’d successfully managed to take his mind off of you.

okay, so that was a bare faced lie, but if lando didn’t lie to himself, he wouldn’t be able to lie to anyone else.

he wouldn’t be able to lie to max that he was no longer moping. he wouldn’t be able to lie to the media when they asked him if he was oh so excited about the race. he wouldn’t be able to lie to his team when they asked him if he was still suffering the consequences of his week long hangover.

lando had been rushing around all day, after a solid p4 in qualifying the night before. the entire day had been horrendous, sequins and bright lights being shone in his eyes. all he wanted to do was hide, get in the car and then go to bed.

fate had other plans.

lando was rushing to the front of the grid for the national anthem, certain that whatever display that was about to occur would make him nauseous. he was derailed on his journey, caught by rachel brookes in the pitlane, and then accosted by martin brundle once he’d made his was onto the grid.

“good qualifying yesterday and good luck today!” martin called to lando, turning to wrestle another insufferable celebrity.

as lando was making his getaway, ready to jog through the masses of people to his place at the front, he went barrelling into another body, putting his hands out to steady himself and the poor person that had become his collateral damage. as he regained his balance, he must have looked like a cartoon character, eyes bulging out of his head.

“are you stalking me?” was all he could choke out when his eyes met yours.

what the actual fuck were you doing here?

lando had given up on the possibility of ever seeing you again, and yet, here you were, stood under the bright floodlights on the grid, his office. this was the last place he’d expected you to show up, paddock pass swinging from your neck. again, what the actual fuck were you doing here?

“might as well be, at this point.” you teased. “hopefully you’ll do better today than you did at golf on tuesday.” you smiled coyly up at him, tucking your hair behind your ear.

lando was on quite the time crunch, glancing at the time on the clock at the front of the grid. he had a minute to spare, if he was lucky, but he had to talk to you, before you inevitably disappeared again.

“thought i’d get at least your phone number before you left.”

“from what i hear, you don’t usually stick around long enough for those.” you smirked.

well, his reputation certainly proceeded him. he couldn’t really argue with that.

“maybe i’m trying to change that.” lando attempted to flirt but really, he sounded desperate. you didn’t seem to mind.

“i’ll make you a deal,” you proposed, leaning in just a little bit closer. lando’s breath hitched in his throat. “get on that podium, and i’ll be waiting in your hotel lobby.”

“and if i don’t?” lando’s mouth was dry.

“maybe i’ll see you next year.”

lando watched you walk away, your hips swaying tantalisingly, wondering if the hefty fine he would be bollocked with would be worth it if he didn’t move his ass for the national anthem.

this would be the drive of his fucking life.

lando couldn’t recall a time he’d left a track faster in his life.

media duties were rushed, so was the shower he had before he fled. it was lucky he was already on the strip, so the walk to his hotel was blissfully short.

he entered the lobby with a shit eating grin and a comically large bottle of champagne in hand.

a string of second places had gotten rather frustrating, but this one felt particularly good. a podium was a podium, fair and square, and assuming you’d kept to your end of the bargain, he was in for the best celebration of his life.

sitting pretty at the bar that stretched through the lobby, you were waiting for him, heels swinging from the stool you rested on. denim clung to your hips, a dark corset style top moulding to your curves. he wondered if love at first sight was real; lust at first sight certainly was.

lando’s eyes beckoned to towards him, and you slipped inconspicuously into the elevator together, not wanting to draw too much attention to your rendezvous. it was a futile attempt, frankly, because he had you backed into the mirror before the doors had even fully shut.

kisses on your neck had your eyes fluttering closed, one of his knees slotting comfortably between your thighs. one of his hands was clasped tight around the neck of the neck of the bottle, giving lando the fantastic idea to find your neck with his free one. he held you firmly, forcing you to look at him.

“i’m gonna make you wish you never left.”

-

hours on the mattress pulling countless orgasms from one another left you both weak, exhausted, a little bit clingy.

lando felt electric. no other person had ever left him so feral, so euphoric.

he’d had you first against the door, pulling your jeans off and pinning you against it, your thighs in his firm grasp as he fucked you into the wooden panel. then, he’d taken you to bed, your knuckles turning white from your brutal grip on the headboard when he’d planted you down on his mouth. two orgasms later, you were face down in the sheets, ass in the air for him while he slammed into you like his life depended on it, pulling you into his chest by your hair when you reached your climaxes.

all that hard work called for a bath, where you both found yourselves now. it had started off quite innocently, sat at opposite ends of the extravagantly large bathtub amongst the bubbles. but then you’d given him those eyes, and then your back was pressed against his chest, your body draped over his. his head was nestled into the crook of your neck, one arm slung over your waist. his other hand brought the bottle of champagne to his lips, the liquid going down smoothly. lando pressed the bottle to your pursed lips too, trading backwards and forwards while your bodies relaxed into the hot water.

lando’s hand on your waist was getting restless, fingers drumming over your abdomen, up, up, up, until he found your breast. he circled your nipple with his finger, not quite touching the bud yet, but he could feel it hardening from his scarce touch. your hips rolled backwards into his, feeling him hardening once again against your lower back. lando cupped your breast, massaging it in his hands before he switched, flitting between your tits.

you slumped somehow even further into him, not a millimetre of space between your bodies. he was winding you up beautifully, heat burning between your legs once more. you didn’t know how you did it, how you could be so ready for each other after the eventful evening you’d already shared.

lando was flicking your nipples between his finger, switching back and fourth until you were moaning quietly. you took charge, the sensitivity building too quickly, and so you rolled over in his arms, clambering into his lap.

the bath water splashed around you, moving in small waves across the tub as you situated yourself on top of him, grinding down on him until he was buried deep within your walls. he found that spot, rolling your hips against his, and then you were rocking up and down on him, nice and slow. he touched parts of you that never had been before, the pace and the angle intensifying every little sensation. your head was thrown back, hands clawing at his shoulders for something to hold onto, just for the feel of him.

lando reached over the edge of the bathtub, blindly searching for the bottle he’d discarded while you’d been switching positions. he felt the green glass grazing his fingertips and brought it back to his lips, eyes trailing over your body in sheer awe.

he couldn’t help himself, taking a sip before tilting it towards you, pouring the golden bubbles over your clavicle, jaw tightening - just like your cunt did at the sensation - as he watched the sticky alcohol drip down over the curve of your bouncing breasts.

you quivered when you felt his tongue lap over your nipple, then the other, dragging over your sodden flesh until he reached the junction between your neck and your shoulder. he bit down, hard, eyes rolling back at the taste in his mouth and the way you clamped down around him, whimpering out between breathless pants.

lando felt you let go, stuttering on his cock and sinking down on top of him, the water - now lukewarm - soothing your tired limbs. he held you close, basking in the intimacy of the moment, his hearing honing in on the dull hum of ecstasy you expelled.

the bath grew colder and colder as you sat there, comfortable silence filling the air along with the quiet rush of water that came with any movements made. when the time came, lando held you up as you got off of him and stepped onto the plush rug, quickly following suit. you were eyeing the shower when he turned to hand you a towel.

“i think i need a shower, as much as i enjoyed the bath.” you spoke, opening the screen and stepping in to adjust the knobs.

lando weighed up his options, agonising over joining you or doing his back in. he couldn’t exactly tell his trainer that his back gave out from too much sex.

“am i invited?” lando asked, stepping in behind you, hands on your waist.

“seems like you’ve already invited yourself.” you teased, looking at him over your shoulder.

“no funny business, you.” lando rested his head on your shoulder.

“from me? you’re just as bad.” you quipped, letting the hot warm stream all over your flushed bodies.

lando stayed as he was for a second, but then you turned your head again, looking at him from the corner of your eye and he needed to kiss you. he couldn’t help but, and so he twisted you round to face him and leaned in. you were more than receptive, fingers raking through his wet curls.

the hot water rained down on you while you stood there, holding each other close. lando couldn’t put his finger on it, why he didn’t want to let you go. he couldn’t even begin to process the idea of having anyone else in his arms like this. it was absurd, really, but he was too caught up in the moment to care.

when you were both clean and dry, you laid down in bed, gazing mindlessly at one another. his eyes followed the lines of your face, the curve of your lips. he learned a lot about you, a formula 1 fan with who ran her own business and took herself on holiday to vegas. the conversation flowed like the champagne had and you were laughing at all his stupid jokes. in turn he grinned like a fool at your quick wit, the sound of your laughter.

“so what are you doing next? back to work?” lando asked, an idea forming in his mind like a tornado.

“nope,” you popped the p. “giving myself some well deserved time off.”

“have you ever been to abu dhabi?” lando asked, lips quirking mischievously.

-

inbox me your thoughts bc aaaaaaaa 😨😨

-

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[aangelinakii]

STRATEGY.

— hey boy, imma get ya.

summary : you've been plotting on dick grayson ever since your friend jason introduced the two of you when he was round jason's at the same time as you. you're gonna get that boy, one way or another.

note : don't ask about my obsession with new years eve parties ??? i've never been to any so don't question it too much, it's just a very very perfect setting

and also another note : also looked up roy harper's birthfay AFTER i wrote rhis and it's in november apparently whixh i didn't realise when dick was wearing a t-shirt soooo sorry about continuity stuffs

the first time you met dick grayson he almost slammed a door in your face.

much to his dismay, jason had given up his apartment to celebrate roy's birthday — something about a gas leak or other at his own place, and not wanting to harm his daughter, let alone his friends — and you'd offered some help setting up.

although it appeared someone else had done so, too.

someone you didn't know, didn't recognise — but took the same turns along each street from the moment you noticed him.

part of you wondered whether he was reverse-following you, trying to cut you off at some point by turning around and slitting your throat...

sounds quite normal for gotham, actually.

but when he turned up into jason's dingy apartment complex, and led you up the stairs to jason's floor, you realised it wasn't just a coincidence; you really were going to the same place.

the dark-haired man stopped outside jason's door and rapped his knuckle against it before pushing it open. "the help is here!" he bellowed inside, which was followed by a tumble of footsteps.

this could have been your moment to squeeze in through the crack in the door behind him, but something awkward tugged at your stomach and you couldn't seem to announce yourself the normal way.

jason's expression, however, glowed with recognition at the moment his friend was about to shut the door behind him.

"woah, woah!" he gasped, struggling past his friend to catch the door mid-slam. "don't be a bad guest, dick."

for the first time, he turns around.

wavy black hair, getting lengthy enough to frame his forehead but still short; strikingly peaceful blue eyes, like pools of mediterranean, which stared apologetically into yours as jason peeled the door back open to allow you in; his bicep bulged from beneath its white short-sleeve as he held a hand out to shake yours. and did jason call him... dick?

unclear whether he was being derogratory or merely speaking to him, your fingers skimmed against his palm to take his hand.

well... what a name. what a face.

for about an hour after that, you and dick — who you soon found out was technically jason's brother, though you didn't ask how you can technically be brothers — helped jason hang up streamers and blow up balloons to celebrate roy's birthday.

the party went smoothly, with a few drinks and at least one person keeping an eye on lian at all times, but, even after, you knew dick grayson would be yours.

not sure how, not sure when — but he would be.

that brings us here, to new year's eve a good entire year later, a drink in your hand, although just a couple before this in your system. your apartment's the victim this time, and roy had to leave early to spend the rest of his new year's with lian.

you're lingering in the kitchen area, eyeing the sticky residue of beer that had been spilt on your counter at some point in the night, though you're trying to not care too much.

breathing out a controlled sigh, you take another sip of your mixer, feeling a little dizzier as you pull the cup away from your lips.

but, this time, someone's standing on the other side of the counter, grinning lopsidedly despite himself. dick's mostly showing off the whole apartment his muscles, aside from the glittery waistcoat that covers his pecs, he's got a rainbow flower garland strewn messiky around his neck and some shiny cardboard crown that matches the angle his smile's at.

"having fun?" you just about manage to hold in both a laugh and the liquid you just drank.

his smile widens and he reaches out onto the cluster of unopened cans and bottles for a new one. "like you have no idea — look at me!"

although he's picked up an already-opened can of canada dry, dick doesn't seem to notice as he gestures to his interesting outfit, which you're quite sure he didn't walk in here wearing.

where his original shirt went, you have absolutely no idea, but it will be found eventually.

mirroring his smile, you pluck the can from his hold and replace it with a can of ginger ale, the metal tab still intact, weighted with the slosh of liquid inside. "if we had a competition, you'd win best dressed!" you assure him as he picks at the tab.

he glances back to the rest of the apartment; sure enough, there are some clothes strewn along the floor, but everyone seems to be wearing at least something and chatting, drinking or dancing.

taking a sip of his ginger ale, dick moved around to your side of the counter with a shiver — you recognise the reaction to the carbonated, tangy flavour.

when he reaches you, he's closer than he usually stands, and you try to remember if you ever saw him with a can of something alcoholic. if so, any other situation with him like this would've been a win, but you take a step back, bottom hitting the edge of the oven. in turn, dick turns to lean against the drink-strewn island counter.

"i feel like i haven't seen you all night, have you just been camping out here by the drinks?" he asks with another sip of his canada dry. despite the loud music, which may have been switched from the playlist you first put on now that you think about it, you can hear him perfectly.

as you try to reply, mimicking his coolness, your voice falls too quiet, and you have to raise it slightly. it makes you feel a bit self-conscious in front of him, but if dick's noticed or shares a similar sentiment, he doesn't let on.

"no, i've just been... around." you gesture vaguely around the flat with your drink hand. "you know what it's like to host."

dick's nod is accompanied by a bright smile that doesn't seem to be wavering. "yeah, you never really get to relax."

your eyebrows twitch, gaze wandering back to the tipped beer bottle. "you have no idea." it's more of a throw-away comment, more to yourself than anything, but dick's attentive.

now that you know him, he always seems to be — apart from when someone is trying to enter the same apartment building as him, and has been for the past twenty minutes.

he follows your eyes, and rakes his own along the destruction that's come to your kitchen counter, but glances back, expression unwavering. "i'll stay a bit later, help you clean up?"

later?

it's barely time to count down to twelve, and after that people probably won't leave until three. sure, he's buzzed now, but is he going to be able to survive until that ungodly hour?

still, you send him a smile and thank him, just in time to be whisked away to dance by megan and kory, though you don't keep his offer in mind.

later comes in the form of a spiked blur, the slurred attempt to sing along to the club classic that's come on, a few spilled drinks on your floor and an entirely new year.

by now the music's turned down, but just loud enough to catch the whispered words sung by a hushed britney spears. although the lights are still down, the absolute dregs of dawn is illuminating your front room, a sort of murky turquoise. wally's passed out on the couch with one shoe hanging off his toes, and you're pretty sure someone's in your bed, but you haven't checked.

eyes dry and pinched in exhaust, you rub incessantly at a patch on the floor of your living room with a damp flannel, glaring a hole into your wall.

distant, footsteps approach, but you don't register them until a pair of legs are standing in your eye line.

"(name)?"

with an achey blink, you peer up at the one other person awake.

dick's still shimmering in the half-light, his vest more than anything, but his garland's tucked into his back pocket, spilling down the back of his thigh. even from down here you can tell he's got rings beneath his eyes.

he crouches down to your height, that smile still lingering upon his lips, though his drinks should have worn off ages ago. he offers a cup out to you— no, a mug. warm, still steaming, and your eyes water as he holds it beneath your chin.

"i've just finished up with the counter," he hums, voice soft and slightly hoarse. "my bet's on wally for the spill."

from behind, there's a snort from the couch, and you both send abashed glances back, only to find wally burying his face into one of your cushions.

note to self: throw that one out.

when you turn back to dick, your hand leaves the cloth on the floor, fingers finding the loop of the handle like they've been longing to sit like that all night.

"what have you made?" you ask, blowing cool air along the surface of the amber drink, voice croaking.

"found some chamomile in your drawers when i was looking for your cleaning spray." dick stands to his full height and holds a hand out for you, palm up. for a moment you just stare at it, still blowing on your drink, but his fingers spread as if to state their presence again, and your free hand takes it. "figured we could both use some."

his hand in yours brings you back to your first handshake, except that time he wasn't pulling you up from your knees on the hard ground of your flat, free bicep rippling beneath its tan flesh.

for a year now, you've been telling yourself your little slow-burn plan was working — with every little flirtatious comment, every little lingering smile, he was surely falling for you — but here, him so casually taking your hand and not letting go until reaching the island counter, something stirs and you realise it's been backwards this entire time.

not your flirtatious comments; his.

not your lingering smiles; his.

grateful for a proper seat, you slide onto one of the stools, and dick takes his place standing on the other side of the counter, where his own steaming mug sits.

his finger runs along the rim of his cup and he runs his eyes over the apartment space, ignoring the addition of one dozing wally west. "i'd say we make quite the team, you and me," and he takes the curve of the handle in his grip.

you wish.

"to clean apartments?" you half-snort, realising your throat seered as you did so, and gingerly lifting your chamomile up to your lips. "thought you were more of a street-sweeping type."

opposite you, dick stands straight, his own mug raised, but his lips are stretched in a smile instead of kissing the heat of the herbal tea.

after a moment, he hums and finally sips his drink, though his eyes avert as if in thought.

own fingers drifting along the design on the side, you watch dick in intrigue; the cogs in his mind can practically be seen working, turning with each beat of a second, until, finally, he glances at you — but it's a moment lost too soon, as his gaze settles into the depths of his mug.

"so," he begins, reaching carefully, uncertainly for his mug again. "start your year off right?"

a laugh comes out without warning. "how? i'm not sure some random people sleeping in my house is how i'd usually start off my year, but to each their own."

dick's mouth upturns, but it doesn't quite reach the curve of his eyes. "no, like, when the countdown went." sheepish glance up. "did you meet anyone?"

"meet anyone?" you repeat, an eyebrow twitching.

"sure." dick gives a half-shrug, lifting his mug back up to his lips.

beats pass as you scrutinise every inch of his expression — he's suspicious, but you can't place anything to comment on. "no," you respond dismissvely. "i didn't meet anyone."

still determined to stare elsewhere, dick nods, jutting out his bottom lip in understanding as he places down his tea once again.

"why?" you hum. "did you meet anyone?"

"did i meet anyone?" he repeats, like you had, but he continues before you have a moment to comment on it either. "no, just mostly stuck around jason and wally. it's not like i'm gonna kiss them."

at this, you let out a snicker and dick's smile seems to reach his eyes.

your soft laugh dies out. something by pitbull is buzzing now from the tv's speakers. you take another small sip but you can feel dick's sweet gaze on you still, and you dare to meet his eyes, your smile growing, but you attempt to bite it back.

"what's up?"

dick doesn't respond, but his lips wobble slightly as he reaches up for the crown still perched atop his black waves. gold between his fingers, he reaches out for you, and the cardboard slips down over your eyes as he places it upon your own head. his knuckles brush along your brow bone as he adjusts it.

although he doesn't speak, there's almost no need for him to.

something in his lake como eyes has changed, all whilst looking at you.

oh, yeah. you've got him.

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | December 9th-15th 2024

I cannot wait for the Christmas holidays!! Only one week of work left!!

Complete

All The Lights Are Coming On by Sharpbutsoft (BuckysButt)/ @sharpbutsoft (Post-S8A, Christmas | 1K | General): What good is having a key to your best friend’s house if you can’t use it to spread a little holiday magic?

from here on out by Wildehack (tyleet)/ @wildehacked (Eddie comes back from Texas | 1,5K | General): Eddie’s been back from Texas for three days, and Buck’s not done being giddy about it.

the sweetest possible lie by Wildehack (tyleet)/ @wildehacked (Future Fic, Pre-Buddie | 2K | General): Chris’s fifteenth birthday falls on a Tuesday, and it couldn’t be more different from last year.

i’ll be home for christmas (if only in my dreams) by wafflesofdoom/ @capseycartwright (Christmas, Eddie goes to Texas | 2K | General): It was a silly thing, Buck had started, right when Eddie first got to El Paso – we’re looking at the same sky, he’d quipped, on one of their nightly Facetime calls. Even when they were far apart from each other, they were still able to look up at the same stars, and if they just remembered that, maybe the distance between El Paso, and Los Angeles, wouldn’t feel so cavernous. That’s what Buck had promised him.

You don’t have to outrun the bear (I’ll fall over for you) by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 3K | Teen): “What the hell was that?” Eddie demands, standing up from where Buck just pushed him onto his ass. “It was gonna hit your head!” “So, what? You thought you’d just volunteer yours instead?” Eddie scoffs. “Yeah,” Buck shrugs. “I have a hard head.” Or, 5 + 1 times Buck stood between Eddie and danger, much to Eddie’s befuddlement.

& such by colonoscopys/ @colonoscopys (85K | Teen): prompts and spec fics and codas and all the works jumbled mumbled into one place.

Chapter 21. eddie on plane (Post-S8A, 3K)

Mr. Movember by 42hrb/ @exhuastedpigeon (Hockey AU, Established Buddie | 4K | Explicit): “Why are you staring at me,” Eddie asked with a laugh as they got ready for their game on November 5th. His mustache was already looking thick and sexy, unlike Buck’s which was still a little patchy and definitely too blond to look good right now. “I like the mustache,” Buck said with a shrug, trying (and failing) to sound casual about it. “Oh, you do?” Eddie stopped buttoning his shirt so he could turn around and look at Buck directly instead of in the mirror. “Y-yeah,” Buck couldn’t take his eyes off of it and here in the safety of their bedroom he was allowed to look, so why should he stop. “If you manage to keep out of the box tonight, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me and my mustache.”

slide it in, right to the top by oklahoma/ @queerdiazs (PWP, S8A | 4K | Explicit): “What’s it like?” he asks softly. Buck tips his head to the side and meets Eddie’s eyes, lazy and buzzed and pretty. “What’s what like?” Eddie swallows, face prickling red with heat, and says, “Fucking a man.” The worse taste weird on his tongue, foreign but good. Welcome, like it’s time or something. “What’s it feel like?” - After Buck shows up at Eddie's door with a six pack, Eddie's mind begins to wonder. A bottle of tequila gives him the courage to ask for something he wasn't aware he's been wanting.

‘Cause I Need Touchin’ So Primal by fruitsdoesnotknow/ @tayf-ghost (Post-S8E6: Confessions | 9K | Explicit): “Hey,” Buck says warmly into the phone, tucking it between his shoulder and ear with a smile at his lips. “Fuck,” Eddie muttered harshly into the phone, his voice rough through the receiver. “Eddie?” Buck called out, frowning. He lowered his phone from his ear to check the call, and yeah, still connected, full reception. He raises it back to his ear and catches the tail end of a noise, a choked-out groan. “Are you okay?” “Buck,” Eddie panted, his breath coming out in heavy exhales. “Buck –” Grabbing his keys, Buck makes it to the loft door, jacket half on when he stops dead in his tracks, phone still pressed to the side of his head as he hears Eddie in his ear. “Yes, Buck, yes, yes, please, yes –” *** Or, Eddie accidentally, sort of, maybe has phone sex with Buck for roughly five seconds, and Buck spirals about it until Eddie finally ends up in his lap.

now i don't hate california after all by jaekyu (PWP, Getting Together, Eddie comes back from Texas | 10K | Explicit): Eddie’s been waiting for months. He can wait a little bit longer.

🔥 Somethings Said (to turn you inside out) by taegyungie (Post-S8A, PWP | 12K | Explicit): Eddie tilts his head. “Why are you being so weird, Buck?” It’s funny to Buck that Eddie has to ask; one finds out his ridiculously hot best friend is now also sleeping with men, one begins thinking about sleeping with said ridiculously hot best friend. It just makes sense, right? So it almost offends him, a little bit, that Eddie is the picture of cool right now. Has seeing Buck in such a deliberately sexual context not altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, too? Does Buck need to update his Grindr profile? or, Buck catches Eddie on Grindr and now he can't stop thinking about it.

🔥 bad luck to talk by jaekyu (FWB, Misunderstandings | 14K | Explicit): Just before Eddie tells Buck he loves him, he’s pretty sure they’ve been building up to this for months. Just after Eddie tells Buck he loves him, he realises he’s deeply misunderstood this entire situation. And Buck? Well, Buck didn’t even think they were dating. (Aftermath, and then: the road less travelled, with the benefit of hindsight.)

at this fork in the road (I want the path that leads me to you) by kabnd/ @polkadotk804 (Post-S8A, Eddie goes to Texas | 24K | Teen): It is at that moment that Eddie realizes that he has a choice. There are two roads ahead of him. Two paths. Two potential futures. One with Buck at his back, and one with Buck eight hundred miles away. Eddie knows which one he wants, but he just needs to be brave enough to ask for it. OR: In one series of events, Eddie asks Buck to come with him to Texas, in another he doesn’t…but whatever steps they take, Buck and Eddie always find their way to each other and bring Christopher home.

WIP

Finding Mr Christmas by JJK/@trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Canon Divergent, Reality TV, Christmas | 4/? | 24K | Teen): "Welcome to Finding Mr Christmas! You’re all here chasing the same dream, to star in a Hallmark Christmas movie, and over the next few weeks we’re going to be putting you through your paces to see which of you has the most star quality and that ‘it’ factor that makes you shine above the rest." 🎄🎄🎄 An AU where Buck and Eddie meet as contestants on Hallmark's Finding Mr Christmas competition (and fall for each other).

can’t fight the moonlight by coldbam/ @coldbam (Werewolf Buck, Canon Divergent | 1/2 | 10K | Explicit): “Apparently I stole his very special mug,” Eddie says, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. “I know you guys keep saying he’s all bark, Buck’s a real sweetheart, but I'm starting to worry you all just have terrible judge of character,” Eddie half-jokes. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “What the hell is his problem?” “Full moon tonight,” Chimney says with a smirk, chewing his gum like he’s proud of himself for that joke. * Or, everyone works at a wolf sanctuary and Buck is a werewolf.

Snickerdoodles of Longing by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (Post-S8A, Demi Eddie | 1/2 | 14K | Mature): Eddie piles up all his baking supplies and tells him, “All yours. Whatever you want to make. I’ll get more of anything if you need it. We should have plenty of flour though. I got you five bags.” Buck’s head snaps toward him. “Five bags? You got me five bags of flour? The little two pound ones, right? Or the five pounders?” “No, the tens. Like that one.” “You bought me fifty pounds of flour?” “You’re the one who decided his coping mechanism for loneliness was snickerdoodles and sourdough. I’m just being supportive. Since you’re my wingman and I’m yours or whatever you said when you stole my tablet and my realtor call.” Buck smirks. “More like saved your call.” More like saved Eddie’s everything but who’s counting? ~ Eddie decides he needs to move to Texas and slowly unravels as he comes to terms with how he really feels and what he's losing.

there is no road by littleghost/ @ghostlandtoo (Post-S8A, Eddie moves to Texas | 2/6 | 24K | Explicit): Years ago, almost a full decade, Shannon had asked him to move and Eddie refused because he was trying to build a life for himself again. Eddie knows if he asks Buck, he’ll get that same refusal. Worse, Buck could say yes and Eddie would be uprooting Buck from the very life he built for himself. He doesn’t ask, and Buck doesn’t offer, and they pack up Eddie Diaz’s life in Los Angeles into cardboard boxes. Or: Eddie moves to Texas. Buck buys his house. There’s a love story somewhere in here.

Gentle On My Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Shannon Lives, Buck/Eddie/Shannon | 9/? | 55K | Explicit): In which Shannon lives, tells a lie, and sends hers, Eddie's, and Buck's lives down a very different path.

[jiniretracha]

ꕤ 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 '𝟐𝟒 - 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟏𝟔 ꕤ

Jung Wooyoung x fem!reader: brat taming

summary: Something was going on with you today. You hadn't kissed him all day. Wooyoung won't tolerate that.

warnings: smut, choking (slightly), fingering, ass slapping, you being a little bit of a bitch (but he loves u either way bby)

word count: 1.4k

kinktober masterlist // masterlist // ko-fi

It was unusual of you to behave like that. 

You were usually very well behaved, smiling all the time, and most importantly, always kissing him before leaving your shared home.

Today, you hadn’t done any of that. 

You woke up without sparing him a good morning, Woo, which you always did without a fail. You didn’t send him a smile his way throughout the entire day, and it got him on his nerves. He thrived in the smiles you gave him, it made his day ten times brighter. 

And the worst part of all.

You didn’t kiss him goodbye. Scratch that. You didn’t kiss him at all today. 

You always cut extra fruit for him to have and then left him a kiss on the lips before leaving. You didn’t do any of those. And the fruit could go fuck itself, he was just mad as hell because he didn’t get a taste of your lips before he lost you for 6 hours. 

Wooyoung heard the door shut that morning and he immediately got out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. 

“Babe?” he asked, and no one answered. Did you really leave without kissing him nor saying goodbye?

It sent him into thinking he had done something wrong, his brain replaying every single moment from last night to that instant. But he couldn’t remember doing anything wrong. 

He whipped out his phone and sent you a text. 

Wooyoung: hey, babe. 

Wooyoung: good morning

Wooyoung: did u already leave??

He left the phone on the bed and quickly changed into a pair of sweatpants and a shirt so he could get ready for practice. 

When he was ready to go, he grabbed the phone after hearing it vibrating.

You: yeah, i already left

Oh… okay.

Wooyoung just reacted to your message with a red heart and grabbed his stuff, leaving the house.

He couldn’t really seem to concentrate throughout the whole choreography, earning some complaints from Yeosang, whom he might’ve accidentally bumped into at least three times. 

“What’s going on, Woo?” he asked him.

Wooyoung let out a huff and sat down on the couch, with Yeosang sitting next to him. “I don’t know, Yeo. I really don’t” he huffed out. “Y/N has been acting weird today”

“Oh, what happened?” he asked him with a frown, “Wanna talk?”

“Yeah, I mean, maybe I am overreacting, you know? She just left the house without talking to me this morning. No kiss, no good morning, no interaction, nothing” Wooyoung let out in a single breath.

Yeosang snorted. “Really?”

“What?”

“Woo, I thought you’d say she cheated on you or something” Yeosang chuckled. 

“But I’m telling you it is not normal for her to do that! Did I do something wrong? Did I forget a date? Her birthday’s in november, we had our month anniversary last week, I mean…” he started rambling.

Yeosang just blinked at him. “You know what can help you?”

Wooyoung turned to look at him. “What?”

“Talking to her”

Duh, Yeosang thought to himself.

Wooyoung huffed out and nodded. “You’re right, I will”

Yeosang smiled and patted his back before standing up and leaving him to his thoughts. 

☆☆☆

He got to his house and let the keys by the table with a sigh. He found you drying the dishes you had just washed and he felt his heart slamming inside his ribcage. 

Wooyoung didn’t know why he was so nervous. Maybe because he had never had any sort of problem with you, you were the most perfect partner he had ever had and you hadn’t once had an argument with him. 

He got closer to you and he noticed that you hadn’t looked at him yet. 

“Hey, babe” he sighed, coming to stand next to you, placing his hand behind your back.

“Hey…”

His eyebrows furrowed and his hand fell back. “What’s up with you?” he asked you.

“Nothing, Wooyoung. Just leave it” you snarled. 

Wooyoung scoffed. “You’ve been acting like this all day, can’t you at least tell me what the fuck did I do?” he asked you, getting angry himself. 

“Could you stop nagging me, Wooyoung?” you asked him, looking at him this time. 

“No, just tell me what’s wrong?” he kept insisting. 

You threw the dishcloth on the counter in anger and turned your whole body towards him. “Could you stop being so fucking annoying for once?” you yelled at him.

He didn’t know what took over him but without a second thought, his hand went to your throat and grabbed it, applying slight pressure to your pulse point. You gasped out and, without realizing, clenched your thighs at the sudden action.

“Why are you acting like a fucking brat? Huh?” he spat, getting closer to your face. “You’ve been acting out all day, and now I have to teach you a lesson and put you in your place”

You just stared at him, giving him a doe eyed stare. 

“Kneel. Now”

You just stood there, not giving in, wanting to test his limits. 

Wooyoung’s eyes widened a little and then smirked. “Oh… so it is like that, hm?” 

He then grabbed your hips, throwing you over his shoulder and walked towards the couch with you in his arms, despite your protests and your legs kicking all over the place. 

Wooyoung deposited you on his legs, your face facing the floor. 

He flipped your pencil skirt up, the one you used for work, and caressed your ass cheeks. 

“I have to teach you a lesson, you know that right?” he mumbled out. 

You yelp when he slapped your ass, making your back arch. 

“You didn’t say good morning-” slap. “-you didn’t leave me fruit like you always do-” slap. “And you didn’t give me a-” slap. “-good-” slap. “-morning-” slap. “-kiss.” slap.

Your ass was beet red by the end of his little speech and you laid there on his lap, moaning at the soreness on your skin.

Wooyoung grabbed your panties and pulled them down your legs. His fingers found you wet and ready and he immediately thrusted them inside your quivering walls. 

You mewled and dug your nails into his leg, feeling the pleasure run through your body when Wooyoung caressed your walls with the pads of his fingers. 

His thumb rubbed your clit in cricels while his fingers moved in and out of you.

“You like that, babe?” he asked you, his other hand grabbing your hair. 

“Y-yeah…”

“Good…” he said and took his fingers out, making you gasp. “Now apologise” 

“Huh?” you asked, confused.

“I said-” slap. “-apologise”

You cried out a scream and felt your eyes sting with tears. “I’m sorry!”

He put his fingers inside of you again but they didn’t move an inch. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for not saying good morning…”

“And what else?” he asked, moving his fingers just slightly.

“For- for not kissing you goodbye…”

“Yeah, and what else?” he asked you, his thumb ghosting over your clit. 

You let out a cry and clenched your eyelids. “For being a brat”

“Good job” he smirked and then thrusted his fingers vigorously in and out of you, scissoring them, making you scream out in pleasure. 

“Yeah, just like that” you let out a whiny moan. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” you yelled out as you clenched around his fingers. He rubbed circles on your clit and you came around his fingers, coating them with your orgasm.

He slowly pulled them away and placed them inside his mouth, tasting your come on his tongue and licking his fingers clean. 

He gently grabbed your shoulders and placed your bum on his lap, his hand coming to caress your back lovingly. “You okay?” he asked, his eyes searching your face and you looked at him with a smile.

“Yeah, I am… and I’m sorry I treated you like shit today” you apologised. “I just had a very important meeting today and I was nervous… and as I expected it went like shit”

“Oh… I’m sorry babe” Wooyoung said. “I didn’t know”

“It’s okay. I didn’t have to be a bitch about it” you smiled at him. “But thank you for the orgasm, I needed it” you said and Wooyoung chuckled. 

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“Cuddles?”

Wooyoung had never smiled bigger.

── .✦

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