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humaling · 2 months ago

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Hope Is A Dangerous Thing To Have.

pairings: finnick odair x reader

summary: finnick came back a different man. after weeks of silence and indifference, you find a locket in his cot—a reminder that maybe not everything is lost.

warnings: very angsty!! mentions of torture, the usual hunger games

word count: 9.4k

author's note: very angsty. hopeful ending tho. i feel absolutely depressed since i was broken up with and needed a way to cope so i wrote this

How do you grieve someone who still breathes? Who still walks beside you, whose laughter drifts through the corridors like the tide, whose scent lingers in the air like salt on the breeze? How do you mourn a soul that hasn’t left—only drifted too far from shore to reach?

You search for him in the waves of memory, in the warmth that once lived in sea-green eyes now as distant as the horizon. Those eyes used to anchor you, a harbor of safety in the storm. Now they are nothing but glass—cold, unreadable, unfeeling.

You tell yourself to wait. Tides change. Currents shift. He will come back to you. But as the days melt into weeks, the shoreline erodes beneath your feet.

And in the quiet hours, when the ocean is still and your thoughts are too loud, the truth creeps in like a rising tide.

What if the man you love has already drowned?

You sit in the farthest corner of District 13’s massive cafeteria, a space large enough to hold a thousand soldiers. The wall behind you is cold and unyielding, pressing against your back like a ghost of something long gone. You feel just as hollow.

Around you, people gather in clusters, voices weaving together in conversation, laughter spilling from their lips as if there isn’t a war raging beyond these walls. As if their world hasn’t already been splintered apart.

To your right, Primrose Everdeen speaks softly, her voice carrying the weight of quiet sorrow. She tells you something about the medical bay—about Peeta—but the words barely reach you. They drift past like foam on the surface of the water, light and inconsequential, while you are caught in the undertow, dragged somewhere deeper. Somewhere darker.

Your mind is tethered to someone across the room.

Bronze hair, sea-green eyes—the color of the ocean at dawn, just before the sun touches it. The color of home.

You know what that skin feels like beneath your fingertips, warm and smooth, shifting over muscle that tenses like a pulled fishing net. You know the ridges of his scars, carved into him like the grooves of driftwood battered by relentless waves. The roughness of his palms, the gentleness of his hands—hands that once traced circles over your skin as if mapping out a place to return to.

You know he sleeps best when sprawled out, like a starfish on wet sand, limbs stretched wide to keep the nightmares at bay. That he hoards the blankets like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to driftwood. That he needs exactly five pillows when he sleeps alone, building a fragile fortress against the dark. That his fingers move with effortless precision when tying a knot, quick and deft, like a fisherman who has done it a thousand times before.

And you remember his laughter—the deep, rich timbre of it, rolling over you like the tide. You remember the way his voice drops to a lower octave when he wants something, as steady and unshakable as the ocean in a storm.

You remember everything.

And yet, right now, he feels like a stranger.

Maybe he is a stranger. Maybe that’s all he’s ever been. A ghost of someone who drowned long ago. A boy lost at sea, swept too far by currents neither of you could fight. A stranger with sea-green eyes that once cradled the sunlight and now hold nothing but the vast, endless cold of the deep.

Your heart sinks. Not breaks—it’s already done that. It shattered three weeks ago in the medical bay, splintering like a ship dashed against jagged rocks. His gaze—once warm, once yours—turned to ice. His voice—once a melody—lashed at you like saltwater in an open wound, venom laced between every syllable.

And now, whatever is left of your heart sinks further, past your ribs, past your stomach, past anything human, until it is nothing but flotsam on a restless tide.

You never thought it was possible to mourn the living. To grieve someone whose heart still beats, whose hands still move, whose voice still carries. But here you are, swallowing salt, lungs filling with something heavier than water. Wearing a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit quite right. Picking at food that tastes like sand. Sitting in a dim, lifeless room, playing babysitter.

Loss upon loss, and yet—somehow—there’s still more to lose.

“They’re here.”

Katniss’ voice ricochets off the walls, sharp and breathless. You snap your head up instantly, fingers freezing around the knot you were tying. She stands in the doorway, chest heaving, breath ragged like she’s been running—or like the weight of those two words is too much to bear alone.

You stare, pupils blown wide, the meaning slipping through your fingers like grains of sand before she speaks again, firmer this time.

“They’re back.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and suddenly, you’re moving.

Your body surges forward before your mind can catch up, feet pounding against the cold floors, the world narrowing to a single thought. Finnick. He’s back. He’s here. He’s alive.

Finnick is alive.

You don’t look back to see if Katniss follows. You don’t hear anything but the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart like a war drum. The world around you is a blur of gray walls and fluorescent light, too bright, too sterile, too detached from the wild chaos inside you.

You shove past people in the hall, muttering apologies you don’t really mean, breath coming in short, uneven gasps. The scent of medicine and metal seeps into your lungs, and somewhere ahead, voices carry through the air—familiar, distant, pulling you forward like a rip current.

Your heart slams against your ribs, pounding like waves against jagged rocks, relentless and unforgiving. The roar of blood in your ears muffles everything else, reducing the world to a single, all-consuming thought—Finnick. Finnick, who is here. Finnick, who is alive. Finnick, who will be in your arms again, where he belongs, where he has always belonged.

You think about the words you will say when you finally reach him, when your hands find his skin, when the unbearable distance between you ceases to exist. You will tell him that you love him, that you will never leave him again, not for anything, not for anyone. You will tell him that you are sorry, that you tried, that you fought, that you did everything in your power to bring him back before they could break him. You will tell him that District 13 is no better than the Capitol, that their president is nothing but another tyrant wrapped in the illusion of revolution, that this place is suffocating, a prison disguised as salvation.

But then you see him, and everything inside you goes still.

He sits on the edge of the medical bed, his back turned to you, his shoulders hunched in a way that feels entirely wrong. The sharp curve of his spine is more pronounced, his posture heavy with something you cannot name. A nurse stands beside him, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his arm, but he does not move, does not acknowledge her, does not seem fully present in his own body. There is something unnatural in the way he holds himself, something that unsettles you, that makes your stomach twist in a sick, sinking way.

You try to tell yourself that this is normal, that exhaustion clings to him like seaweed tangled around an anchor, that of course he is different after everything he has endured. You tell yourself that the unease slithering through you is nothing more than hunger, that six hours without food is enough to make your body feel strange, that the nausea building inside you has nothing to do with the way his head remains bowed.

You force yourself to push the feeling down, to breathe past the doubt and the fear clawing at the back of your mind.

“Finnick.” His name leaves your lips on an exhale, soft and desperate, like the rush of air from a drowning man finally breaking the surface.

He turns at the sound of your voice, and the relief that crashes over you is instant, a tide that swallows every doubt, every hesitation, every ache you have carried since the moment he was taken. You barely register the stiffness in his movements before your body is closing the distance, arms wrapping around him, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as though he might slip through your grasp if you let go. The scent of antiseptic clings to him instead of salt, the sterile air of the medical bay stripping him of the warmth you have always known, but it does not matter. He is here. He is real.

“You’re really here,” you whisper against the curve of his neck, voice breaking under the weight of emotion pressing against your ribs. “I thought—” But the words catch in your throat, lost to the sheer relief of having him in your arms again.

His body remains rigid beneath your touch, his muscles locked so tightly that you can feel the tension humming through him like a wire stretched too thin. The longer you hold him, the more you become aware of the way he does not lean into you, the way he does not return your embrace.

A frown tugs at your brows as you slowly pull back, hands settling gently on his shoulders, careful not to press too hard. Your eyes search his face, scanning every feature, trying to find something familiar, something safe, something that tells you he is still him. His jaw is set in a sharp line, his lips pressed together in a firm, unsmiling press. His brows are drawn, a deep crease forming between them, but it is not exhaustion that shapes his expression. It is not relief. It is something colder, something harder, something unrecognizable.

His eyes, the ones that once held warmth, the ones that once softened when they met yours, the ones that always carried the unspoken promise of home, are different now. The sea-green depths that used to hold so much tenderness have darkened, the waves receding, leaving nothing behind but cold, empty waters.

“Finnick?” Your voice is barely above a whisper as your thumb moves to brush against his cheek, aching to ground yourself in something, anything, that feels familiar.

The second your skin grazes his, he flinches.

The reaction is small, a brief, involuntary jerk, but it is enough to send ice flooding through your veins, enough to make the air in your lungs turn sharp and unforgiving. Your mouth parts, the words forming somewhere deep in your throat, but they never make it past your lips. What could you even say? What could you possibly say when the worst thing you have ever feared is unfolding right in front of you?

Before you can find an answer, before you can even begin to process the chasm opening between you, his hands press against your shoulders, and he pushes you away.

The force of it knocks you off balance, sending you stumbling back, feet tripping over nothing, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch yourself. The impact never comes. Someone catches you before you hit the ground, steady hands gripping your arms, but your mind barely registers the touch.

Finnick is already on his feet, his body moving with frantic, clumsy urgency as he rips the IV from his arm, the tubing snapping loose, blood welling in the space where the needle once sat. He does not seem to notice, does not seem to care.

Then he turns to you, and whatever remains of your world shatters into pieces so small, you know you will never be able to put them back together again.

There is no recognition in his gaze, no softness, no warmth, no love. There is only anger, sharp and seething, festering beneath the surface like a wound left to rot. There is only hatred, raw and consuming, filling the space where something else—something beautiful, something yours—used to be. There is only indifference, cold and unyielding, cutting through you like the tide swallowing the last breath of a drowning man.

“Finnick?” You call out again, your voice cracking as you struggle to regain your footing, your limbs trembling beneath the weight of everything crashing down on you at once. The distance between you feels vast, an ocean you cannot cross, a current too strong to fight against.

Your hands move frantically at your sides, grasping at nothing, unsure of what to do, what to say, how to make sense of what is unfolding in front of you. What do you do when the man you love—the man who once held you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable—now looks at you as if you are nothing?

Finnick’s lips part, and the scoff that escapes is sharp, cruel, void of anything familiar. “Don’t act like you’re so glad to see me.”

His voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and unforgiving, but it is the way his words land that truly destroys you. They slice through your heart without hesitation, leaving gashes so deep you do not know if they will ever heal. The coldness in his tone, the sheer venom laced between each syllable, is enough to send your stomach twisting violently, enough to make your breath hitch and your pulse stutter.

You shake your head, your throat tightening as you struggle to make sense of it, to piece together something—anything—that could explain why he is looking at you like you are nothing more than a stranger, an enemy, something to be loathed. “Finnick… I don’t—” The words falter on your tongue, because how do you ask why? How do you demand answers when you are too terrified to hear them?

His expression twists into something cruel, something mocking, something that makes the ground beneath you feel unsteady. “You don’t what?” he sneers, taking a step forward, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with prey. “You don’t understand? You don’t get why I wouldn’t be happy to see you?” He lets out a humorless chuckle, the sound dripping with something bitter, something tainted. “That’s funny. You, of all people, pretending to be clueless.”

The words don’t make sense. Nothing about this makes sense. He is here. He is alive. He is back. So why does it feel like you are losing him all over again?

“Finnick, please,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I did.”

His expression darkens, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before his lips curl into a smirk, but there is nothing warm about it. It is hollow, cruel, a mockery of the smiles you once knew. “You don’t know?” He scoffs again, shaking his head. “That’s rich. That’s really rich.”

You reach for him, a desperate attempt to find something familiar, something that will bring you back to the Finnick you know, the Finnick who once traced the lines of your palms like they held the universe, the Finnick who pressed sleepy kisses to your shoulder in the early hours of the morning, the Finnick who whispered that he loved you like it was the only thing that ever mattered. But the moment your fingers so much as brush his arm, he jerks away as if your touch burns him.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, thick and suffocating. “Why are you doing this?” The words are barely more than a breath, shaky and broken, but they are all you can manage.

Finnick’s jaw tightens, his hands clenched into fists at his sides before his eyes meet yours again, his gaze colder than you have ever seen it. The weight of it crashes over you like a tidal wave, dragging you under, deeper and deeper, until all you can feel is the crushing force of the words he says next.

“Because I hate you.”

Your breath catches. Your body goes still. The world around you seems to blur at the edges, fading into nothing but the space between you and him.

No.

No, he doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that.

But there is no hesitation in his expression, no flicker of doubt, no trace of the Finnick you know beneath the loathing that twists his features.

“You left me,” he says, voice steady, but laced with something bitter, something sharp enough to cut. “You left me there to die.”

Your head shakes before you even realize it, rejection spilling from your lips as if saying the words would make them true. “No. No, I—” Your voice wavers, breaking apart at the seams, but you swallow down the panic rising in your throat. “Finnick, that’s not true. I would never—”

His laughter is quiet, mirthless, like the hollow echo of waves against a broken shore. “Liar.” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair as if the very sight of you is exhausting. “I know what we were. What you were.” His eyes darken, and the next words come like a final nail in the coffin. “You were using me.”

Your breath shudders out of you, unsteady and uneven, but the ache in your chest only worsens as he continues, unrelenting. “I was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn’t I?” His voice is eerily calm, his gaze cold and unreadable. “All of it—the whispers, the stolen moments, the way you looked at me like I was something worth saving—it was never real. You had a motive, and I was too much of a fool to see it.”

Your entire body feels like it’s trembling, but you force yourself to move, to step closer, to reach for him as if you can pull him back from whatever abyss they’ve shoved him into. “I don’t understand,” you whisper, voice barely holding together, barely containing the desperation clawing at your throat. “That’s not true, and you know that.”

He flinches away from your touch. Not violently, not aggressively, but in a way that hurts even more. As if your hands on him are unbearable. As if you are unbearable.

Your heart clenches so tightly it feels like it might collapse in on itself. “Finnick,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “You’re breaking my heart.”

For the briefest of moments, something flickers across his expression. Something fleeting, something fragile. But it’s gone before you can grasp onto it, swallowed by the tide of whatever poison they’ve fed him.

His lips part, but no words come, only the silence stretching between you, cold and merciless.

Tears slip down your cheeks, hot against the numbness settling into your bones. You shake your head, refusing to let this be real, refusing to accept that the boy who once held you like you were his whole world now looks at you like you are nothing more than a ghost of something he wishes he could forget.

“I would never leave you there to die.” Your voice is hoarse, raw, carved from something deeper than heartbreak.

But Finnick only looks at you like he doesn’t believe you.

Finnick exhales, slow and sharp, like he’s trying to hold something in—something dangerous, something volatile. His hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if itching to lash out, to grab onto something, to make this feeling stop.

“They told me everything,” he murmurs, and there’s something distant about the way he says it, like he’s reciting a fact, like he’s just now realizing the full weight of it. “How you left me in that arena. How you saved yourself and let me suffer.” His sea-green eyes bore into you, darkened with something cruel, something unbearable. “I should’ve died there. I would’ve died there if I was lucky.”

Your throat tightens. His words are salt in an open wound, stinging, burning, seeping into the rawest parts of you. You shake your head, stepping closer, reaching out despite the way he flinches. “Finnick, please. That’s not true. You know that’s not true.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He won’t hear you. His voice rises, every syllable heavier than the last, suffocating in its weight. “You let them take me.” The accusation slices through the air, through you, straight to the marrow of your bones. “You let them drag me away, and now you think you can stand here and pretend like you care? Like you ever cared at all?”

“I do care,” you whisper, but it’s drowned out by the storm unraveling in front of you.

Finnick’s breathing grows unsteady, his body taut like a wire stretched too thin, fraying at the edges. His fists clench and unclench, his jaw tightening as if he’s fighting something unseen, something warring inside of him. His shoulders tremble, his entire frame locked in battle with itself, with the ghosts clawing at his mind.

“Get away from me.” His voice is lower now, raw and laced with something just shy of a snarl. “I can’t—” He swallows thickly, his breath coming out harsh and uneven. “I can’t be around you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your limbs feel heavy, your skin ice-cold, but you force yourself to stand your ground. “Finnick, I’m not leaving you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and desperate. “Not now. Not ever.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something you want to believe is hesitation, but before you can reach for him again, a firm hand clasps around your upper arm.

“Come on,” a voice urges—one of the soldiers, firm but not unkind.

You try to shake them off, to dig your heels into the floor, but Finnick’s gaze stops you in your tracks. The way his expression twists, the way his body shakes as his breathing grows erratic—it’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Get her out of here,” another voice commands.

“No, wait,” you plead, struggling as the grip on your arm tightens, as another set of hands joins the first, dragging you back, forcing distance between you and him.

Finnick stumbles back, his chest heaving, his hands threading into his hair like he’s trying to rip something out of himself. His entire body quivers, like a wave cresting too high, about to break.

Your own body thrashes against the hold keeping you away from him. “Finnick, please, listen to me! It wasn’t like that! You have to believe me!”

But he isn’t looking at you anymore. He turns away, his breathing sharp, his entire frame locked in place as if afraid to move, afraid to break.

And then you’re gone—hauled through the doorway, dragged down the hall, your screams swallowed by the sterile walls of District 13.

The last thing you see before the doors shut is Finnick, hunched over, hands gripping his head, like he’s drowning in a tide he cannot escape.

You sat with Haymitch outside of Katniss’ room, the dim, sterile hall stretching endlessly in front of you. The air was thick with something suffocating, something you couldn’t name—grief, maybe. Or something worse.

Apparently, Peeta was in the same condition as Finnick. Hijacked. Twisted. Warped. Their minds were tampered with, their memories poisoned, their love rewritten into something unrecognizable. Snow had not only taken them—he had turned them into weapons, sharpened and honed for one singular purpose.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that Finnick despised you now, or the gnawing, gut-wrenching fear that the Finnick you once knew might never come back.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your knees to your chest. Your fingers curled and uncurled, your wrists rolling to shake off the numbness, to rid yourself of the ghost of his touch—the rigidness of his body beneath your hands, the way he flinched at your presence like you were something vile, something rotten. It made your skin crawl. Not because of him. Never because of him.

Because of what they did to him.

Because of the way you made him feel.

“It’s not your fault.” Haymitch’s voice cut through the silence, rough and low, but not unkind.

You turned your head to look at him, at the wreck of a man beside you. Haymitch looked like hell—more so than usual. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but beneath it, there was something else. A deep, quiet horror. Like he had seen this before. Lived it. Survived it, but barely.

You had heard the stories. What the Capitol did to him. What he endured in his games, and after.

Your throat tightened, a bitter laugh slipping out before you could stop it. “Should’ve been me.” Your voice was hoarse, raw from screaming, from pleading with someone who no longer wanted to hear it.

Haymitch scoffed, pulling a flask from God-knows-where, twisting it in his hands before taking a swig. “No, it shouldn’t have.” He didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared ahead, gaze locked on something distant, something only he could see. “You wouldn’t have lasted long enough in there.”

Your jaw clenched, a protest forming on your tongue, but he cut you off before you could speak.

“You don’t have the mind for it. The will for it. You’d break faster than Peeta. Hell, maybe worse.” He finally turned his head, meeting your gaze, his gray eyes softer than you had ever seen them. It unsettled you more than his usual cynicism.

You sucked in a breath, tilting your head back against the cold, lifeless wall. Your eyes burned as you bit down on your lip, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape. Your heart ached, a deep, gnawing pain that felt like drowning, like being dragged under a current too strong to fight.

It was unbearable. Unyielding. You didn’t know how to deal with it. You weren’t sure you ever would.

Haymitch sighed, running a tired hand down his face before taking another sip. “It’s a process, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice rougher now. “But you need to hang on. For both of you.”

Your fingers curled into your sleeves, gripping the fabric so tightly it might tear. He was right. You hated that he was right.

And you hated that, despite everything, despite the venom in Finnick’s voice and the ice in his eyes, you would wait for him as long as it took.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, shoulders squared, as if bracing for a fight that will never come. As if standing like this, standing strong, will keep you from falling apart.

Your gaze is fixed on Finnick’s chest, on the slow, steady rise and fall that proves he is still here, still breathing. He looks peaceful like this. Almost untouched by everything that has happened, everything that has been done to him.

But you know better.

His fingers twitch from time to time, grasping at something unseen, someone unseen. A phantom touch. A memory slipping through his grasp.

You stay where you are, unmoving, barely breathing, watching him from a distance. Is this what it will be now? Is this all you’ll have left? Watching him from afar, knowing the only time he’ll ever look peaceful is when he’s unconscious? Knowing that the moment he stirs, it’s because of the nightmares?

Something acidic rises in your throat, burning, bitter, unbearable. The taste of grief, maybe. The taste of something you cannot name, something that twists your insides and leaves you hollow. You swallow it down, but it lingers, coating your tongue, settling deep inside you.

You hate this. You hate all of it.

All you want is to be in his arms, to lay your head against his chest and pretend that the world isn’t burning above you. Pretend that nothing has changed. Pretend that he still loves you.

But you stay in the doorway, feet rooted to the cold, unforgiving ground. Watching from a distance. Because that is all you have now. This is all you have now.

Footsteps echo softly against the cold floor, breaking the silence that has settled around you like a heavy fog. The sudden sound startles you, your body tensing as you instinctively turn on your heel, your fists clenching at your sides, ready to strike if necessary. But the moment your eyes catch the familiar cascade of long auburn hair, your shoulders ease, the fight within you slipping away just as quickly as it had risen.

Annie stands a few feet away, hesitant but unwavering, a quiet understanding reflected in the softness of her expression. There’s no pity in her gaze—only recognition, as if she knows exactly what kind of storm is brewing inside you without you having to say a word. A small, tentative smile tugs at her lips, a gesture so simple yet filled with warmth.

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it?" she says, her voice gentle, lacking the weight of expectation. She isn’t here to force words from you or demand answers you don’t have the strength to give. She is simply here.

You study her for a moment, unsure how to respond, as if the simple acknowledgment of time passing feels like an admission of how much has changed. Eventually, you nod, the motion slow, measured. "Yeah, it has," you murmur, your voice carrying the exhaustion of too many sleepless nights, too many unanswered questions.

Annie doesn’t waver, doesn’t take the hint to leave you to your silence. Instead, she steps forward, closing the space between you in a way that isn’t intrusive, only familiar. She settles beside you, mirroring your posture as she leans lightly against the wall, her presence steady and unshaken.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye, your gaze cautious, guarded. But she doesn’t push, doesn’t probe. She only offers a quiet reassurance that you hadn’t realized you needed.

"Relax," she murmurs, as if sensing the lingering tension coiled in your muscles. "It’s just me."

Her words should be meaningless, just a simple reassurance, but somehow, they carry weight. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tightness in your chest easing—if only just a little.

Annie doesn’t expect you to talk. She just stays, letting the silence stretch between you in a way that feels less suffocating, less lonely.

Annie stands beside you, silent at first, her fingers idly twisting at the fabric of her sleeve. The air between you is heavy, thick with unspoken words, yet neither of you rushes to break it. The weight of everything—of what’s happened, of what’s still happening—lingers between breaths, settling deep in the space where grief and exhaustion intertwine.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet but steady, as if she has rehearsed the words in her mind too many times before. “They kept me locked in a room without windows.” She doesn’t look at you, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present, lost in a memory she can’t escape. “At first, it was just isolation. No light, no sound. Just me and the walls. I don’t know how long they left me there before they started asking questions.”

You don’t say anything. You barely breathe.

“They didn’t care about me,” she continues, voice devoid of emotion, like she’s reciting something detached from herself. “They wanted Finnick. Wanted to know how much he knew, how much he’d be willing to trade for me.” Her fingers curl around the hem of her sleeve, twisting it tighter. “I told them he didn’t know anything, but they didn’t believe me. They kept saying he would talk if he knew what was happening to me. If he thought they’d kill me.”

A sick feeling crawls up your throat. You grip your arms, trying to steady yourself.

Annie exhales slowly, as if forcing the weight of those memories from her chest. “But they weren’t just trying to break him. They were breaking all of us.” Her voice tightens slightly, but she pushes on. “Johanna—she fought them at first. Wouldn’t give them what they wanted. They stripped her of everything, piece by piece, until she wasn’t sure who she was anymore.”

You close your eyes for a brief moment, trying to steel yourself against the wave of emotions threatening to pull you under.

“And Peeta…” Annie hesitates. “I never saw him, but I heard him. Sometimes, in the halls. The way he screamed… I knew they were doing something different to him. Something worse.” She finally looks at you, her green eyes filled with something raw, something fragile yet unbreakable. “They weren’t just hurting him. They were remaking him.”

A sharp, searing pain twists in your chest.

You shake your head, trying to will away the image of Peeta trapped in the Capitol, his mind being twisted into something unrecognizable. “And Finnick?” The question leaves your lips before you can stop it, your voice barely above a whisper.

Annie hesitates, and that hesitation alone is enough to make your stomach drop.

“When they realized they couldn’t break him, they made him believe something worse,” she says finally, her voice so soft it’s almost lost beneath the hum of the fluorescent lights. “They made him believe you left him there. That you abandoned him.”

The words hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“They told him you were never really on his side. That you used him. That he was nothing more than a tool to you.” Annie shakes her head, jaw tightening.

A sharp, visceral pain shoots through your chest, so intense that for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Annie notices. “I don’t believe it,” she says quickly. “And I don’t think—deep down—he does either. But they got inside his head. They took everything he was feeling and twisted it.”

Your vision blurs as a lump lodges itself in your throat. You’ve always imagined the worst, always wondered what they must have done to him, but hearing it like this makes it real. Makes it undeniable.

Your nails dig into your arms as you force the words out, your voice barely holding together. “I would never leave him.”

Annie’s expression softens, but there’s something pained in the way she looks at you. “I know that. You know that. But Finnick… Finnick isn’t himself right now.” She hesitates before adding, “That doesn’t mean he’s lost forever.”

But what if he is? What if the Finnick you love, the Finnick who loves you, is gone?

“I should have—” Your voice breaks, and you shake your head, unable to even finish the thought.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Annie says, her voice firm despite its softness. “Nothing any of us could have done.”

But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like you failed him. Like you lost him.

You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to keep the tears at bay. “I just want him back.” The words come out fragile, almost childlike. “The real him.”

Annie’s expression softens. “So do I,” she murmurs. “And I think, when all of this is over, he’ll find his way back.”

Neither of you speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say.

Instead, you both stand there, side by side, drowning in the weight of everything that’s been taken from you.

It has been a month since Finnick and the others were rescued. A month of waiting, of hoping, of slowly unraveling under the weight of what has been lost. Finnick and Annie were cleared after two weeks. Johanna still has one more week under observation. And Peeta—Peeta is making no progress at all.

You visit Annie and Johanna most often. It feels easier, in a way. Johanna makes jokes sharp enough to slice through your grief, her bitterness grounding you when you start to spiral. Annie doesn’t say much, but when she looks at you, there is an understanding in her gaze that makes it easier to breathe. Even in silence, she sees you. She sees the way you are trying to move forward, to convince yourself that there is still something ahead of you and not just the gaping void Finnick’s indifference has left behind.

But every conversation ends the same way. No matter how much you pretend, no matter how much you try to stitch yourself back together, you always end up right where you started—wallowing in the emptiness, drowning in the cold distance Finnick has placed between you. Every moment without him feels stretched thin, an unbearable ache that never eases. The man you love is right there, close enough to touch, but it might as well be miles. He does not look at you. He does not speak to you. And if he does, it is with an apathy that cuts deeper than any blade.

Sometimes, when the weight of it becomes too much, you visit Peeta. Maybe because you think if you can bring him back, there’s hope for Finnick too. Maybe because you need to see what the Capitol did to him—to both of them—to remind yourself that this isn’t your fault. But Peeta isn’t Peeta. He flinches when Katniss’ name is mentioned, his voice is sharp, and his words are laced with venom. And yet, all you can see is Finnick.

You see it in the way Peeta looks at Katniss like she is the enemy, the same way Finnick now looks at you. You see it in the way his hands curl into fists when she enters the room, the same way Finnick tenses whenever you are near. You see it in the way his voice is edged with something hollow, something broken, something that does not belong to him. And you remember. You remember the cold detachment in Finnick’s eyes, the way his hands no longer cradle your face but push you away, the way his words are no longer laced with warmth but with quiet, unshakable hatred.

It makes your skin crawl. Makes you want to run. Makes you want to claw at your own chest and rip out whatever it is inside you that still dares to hope. You wish this was just a nightmare, something fleeting, something you could wake up from. But there is no waking up from this. There is only time. And with every passing day, Finnick becomes less of the man you loved and more of a stranger wearing his face.

So you tell yourself that whoever came back isn’t him. That the Finnick you love is still somewhere out there, lost in the wreckage of what the Capitol did to him. That this man—the one who won’t meet your gaze, the one who does not say your name, the one who acts as if you are nothing—is an impostor. A hollow thing trying to be him. Because that is easier than accepting the truth.

Because the truth is, if Finnick is truly gone, you do not know how to keep going without him.

Maybe that’s why everything is starting to blur, the edges of the world dulling into shades of gray. Nothing feels sharp anymore, nothing feels real. You’ve stopped trying to move forward. Instead, you let the grief sink its claws into you, dragging you under, hoping—maybe even begging—that it swallows you whole. Anything to keep from waking up another day, from dragging yourself through the motions, from existing in a world where everything you do, everything you see, everything you feel is stained with the absence of him.

You speak less. See people less. The days pass without meaning, slipping through your fingers like sand. Most of your time is spent in silence, lying on the stiff mattress of your bunker, staring at the ceiling, waiting. For what, you don’t know. Maybe for Finnick. Maybe for something else. Maybe for nothing at all.

But no matter how much you try to numb yourself, no matter how much you try to pretend it doesn’t tear you apart, the truth still sits in the hollow of your chest, pressing against your ribs like a caged scream.

You don’t last like this forever. Although you wish you had. But Coin doesn’t let opportunities slip through her fingers, especially not when she sees potential. And you? You’re efficient. You know weapons, you know how to track, how to move unnoticed. That makes you useful.

So she forces you out of your bunker, shoving you into training, into preparation, until suddenly, you’re being sent out on expeditions. To hunt, to kill, to spy. It doesn’t matter. You don’t ask questions. You just get the job done. Because what else is there to do?

Of course, the others notice. Katniss has been trying to get you to talk, to tell her what Coin is making you do. You learn, unwillingly, that she’s being forced to make propaganda films to strengthen the revolution. The idea of it makes you want to laugh. What difference does a camera make when people are already dying?

But it’s Haymitch who’s the most persistent. And that surprises you.

At first, you assume it’s just boredom. He doesn’t have alcohol to drown himself in, so maybe he’s looking for something else to pass the time. But the more he seeks you out, the more you realize it’s something deeper. He watches you too closely, the way your hands stay clenched at your sides, the way you don’t sleep, the way you barely eat. He sees through you.

And he doesn’t like what he sees.

“Come on, sweetheart, we both know what she’s doing,” Haymitch mutters one day, cornering you outside the training room. “She’s using you up until there’s nothing left.”

You scoff, shouldering past him. “You say that like I have anything left to begin with.”

He doesn’t let you go so easily. His grip snags your wrist, firm but not forceful, just enough to make you pause. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” His voice is quieter now, but sharper. “You’re letting her turn you into something you don’t even recognize.”

You rip your arm free, glaring. “What do you care?”

Haymitch exhales roughly, raking a hand through his hair. For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, he says, “Because I’ve been where you are. And it doesn’t end well.”

You freeze. Something tightens in your chest, but you shove it down, scoffing. “I’m not you.”

“No. You’re not,” Haymitch agrees. “But you’re on the same damn path.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You think if you throw yourself into this, if you bleed enough for the cause, it’ll make up for everything? That it’ll bring him back?”

Your stomach twists violently. “I don’t—”

“You do,” he cuts in, relentless. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to lose everything? To watch the people you love get taken from you, piece by piece, until you don’t even know who you are anymore?” His jaw tightens, his eyes dark with something old and painful. “I drank myself into oblivion to cope. You? You’re letting Coin use you as a weapon, like that’s any better.”

His words slam into you, knocking the air from your lungs. Because you know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while now. But admitting it—saying it out loud—that’s something else entirely.

Your throat burns. “You don’t understand.”

“The hell I don’t.” Haymitch shakes his head, exasperated. “You were Mags’ girl. She would’ve died before letting you turn into this.”

Something inside you cracks at that. You whirl on him, rage and grief twisting together. “Mags is dead.”

“And so is Finnick, if you keep this up,” Haymitch snaps back. “Because when he finally does come back to himself, do you think he’s gonna recognize you? Or are you just gonna be another ghost?”

The words hit deeper than you want to admit. A cold, ugly truth settling in your bones.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because the anger, the bitterness, the grief—it’s all rising too fast, threatening to suffocate you. Haymitch sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not saying this to piss you off,” he mutters. “I’m saying it because someone has to.”

You swallow hard, looking away. “So what? You want me to stop?”

“I want you to remember who the hell you are,” Haymitch says. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna lose yourself completely. And I know for a fact Mags didn’t raise you to be some mindless soldier.”

The silence between you is heavy, filled with too many unspoken things. But for the first time in weeks, something inside you stirs. A flicker of something—doubt, regret, maybe even hope.

Haymitch doesn’t push you any further. He just exhales and steps back, giving you space to decide for yourself. “Think about it,” he says, before walking away.

And you do.

For the first time in a long time, you really do.

The underground bunker hums with quiet activity, a constant murmur of voices and the soft scuff of boots against the cold floors. The air feels heavy, thick with the unspoken weight of too many people forced into the same confined space. You should be paying attention, listening for updates, but none of it registers. It hasn’t in a long time. Your mind remains distant, caught somewhere between exhaustion and the dull ache of something deeper, something you don’t have the strength to name.

Your feet carry you forward without thought, drawn to a space you shouldn’t be seeking out. Finnick’s cot is just another part of the bunker, another piece of fabric stretched too thin over metal, indistinguishable from the dozens of others. And yet, you always find yourself looking for it, searching for some trace of the past, as if by sheer force of will, you might bring back what has already been lost.

The dim lighting catches on something small resting against the rumpled sheets. A glint of gold, barely noticeable but impossible to ignore. The sight of it sends a jolt through you, stopping you in your tracks before you even realize what it is.

Your fingers close around it almost on instinct, the cool metal familiar against your skin. You don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The weight of it alone is enough to tell you that this is the same locket, the one you once traced with your fingers on nights when the world felt too vast, too cruel. The one that held a piece of you and a piece of him.

The clasp resists when you try to open it, as if the locket itself is reluctant to reveal its secret, but after a moment, it gives way. Your breath catches the moment you see what’s inside.

Your own face, captured in a moment frozen in time.

The sight of it steals the air from your lungs, a sharp ache blooming in your chest. You knew this locket, knew what it contained, but seeing it here, now, in his possession—it doesn’t make sense. If he believed what they told him, if the Capitol had truly twisted his mind against you, why would he still have this? Why would he keep something that tethered him to you?

Your fingers tighten around the locket, the edges pressing into your palm as if grounding you in reality. For the first time in weeks, doubt begins to take root, curling into something almost dangerous.

A voice breaks through the silence, low and familiar, stopping your thoughts in their tracks.

"Did anyone tell you that touching someone else’s stuff is rude?"

The words send a shock through you, and your breath stutters in your throat. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Finnick.

His tone isn’t harsh, isn’t cold or cutting like you feared it might be. It simply exists, filling the space between you in a way that makes your pulse hammer against your ribs. After everything—after weeks of silence, of avoidance, of pretending you don’t exist—he’s speaking to you. Acknowledging you.

Slowly, you force yourself to turn, meeting his gaze for the first time since the medical bay. The sight of him knocks the air from your lungs. He looks like himself, and yet not at all. The sharpness of his features remains, the familiar curve of his mouth, the green of his eyes—but there’s something different. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his expression guarded in a way that sends a painful twist through your chest.

For a moment, neither of you move. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant noise of the bunker around you. Then, hesitantly, you lift the locket, the gold catching in the dim light as you hold it between you. His gaze flickers to it, something unreadable passing across his face.

He doesn’t snatch it away, doesn’t shove it into his pocket as if ashamed to have been caught with it. Instead, his fingers brush against the metal, slow and deliberate, before he takes it from your grasp. His thumb traces over the worn surface, lingering over the picture inside, his jaw tightening slightly as he studies it.

You watch him, heart lodged in your throat, afraid to speak and shatter whatever fragile moment has formed between you. For the first time in weeks, something shifts in the space between you—not enough to undo the damage, not enough to bring back what was lost, but enough to spark the faintest flicker of something you thought had been extinguished forever.

"Why do you have it?"

Your voice is quieter than you intended, barely above a whisper, but it doesn’t matter. The question lingers between you, pressing against the silence, desperate for an answer. You need him to say something—anything—that tells you he’s still in there, that beneath all the hatred, all the distance, there’s still a part of him that hasn’t let you go.

Finnick’s brows knit together, his gaze still locked on the locket in his palm as if the answer might be hidden in its worn edges. His fingers tighten around it, thumb tracing the familiar grooves, but he doesn’t speak.

The silence stretches, wrapping around you like a slow-moving tide. The world around you dulls, fading into nothing but the space between you and him. It’s been so long since you’ve had this—just him, just you. Even now, when everything feels different, wrong, broken, you can’t help but reach for what you lost.

Seconds drag into eternity, but you won’t back down. You’ve spent too many weeks pretending you could survive this distance when all you really wanted was to collapse into his arms, to hear him say something that could put you back together again.

Finally, he exhales, the sound barely audible, as if he’s been holding it in for too long. "I don’t know."

His voice is rough, strained, like the words cost him something. For the briefest moment, his eyes soften, something vulnerable flashing through them before it’s gone. He closes them, his lashes brushing against his cheek, his throat moving as he swallows hard.

You watch him carefully, memorizing him all over again. As if you haven’t traced every inch of his face before. As if you don’t already know every scar, every freckle, every shift of emotion that he tries to hide.

He looks exposed beneath your gaze, like the weight of your stare is too much, like he wants to run from it.

“I’ll tell you what,” you say, voice softer than you meant it to be. His eyes open at that, locking onto yours, and for a second, your breath falters. You could drown in that gaze. You always could.

Swallowing, you force yourself to keep steady, to say what you need to say. "Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

"Maybe it’s because, deep down, you know the truth."

Finnick doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just holds your gaze like he’s caught between disbelief and something else, something heavier. His fingers curl around the locket, his grip tightening for a second before loosening again.

"What truth?" His voice is quiet, but there’s a sharp edge to it, like he’s daring you to say something he won’t be able to ignore.

You take a breath, steadying yourself even as your chest tightens. "That the Capitol didn’t take everything from you."

His jaw clenches, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. "You think you know what they did to me?" His laugh is humorless, bitter, the kind that scrapes against old wounds. "You think you understand what’s in my head?"

"I don’t have to understand it to know that this—" you gesture to the locket in his hand, "—means something. That you kept it for a reason."

Finnick exhales sharply, his fingers flexing, his shoulders rising with tension. "Or maybe I just forgot to throw it away."

The words sting, sharp and cruel, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you. His breath hitches for just a moment, and you see it—the flicker of something in his eyes, the way his body tenses, like he’s fighting something within himself.

"Then do it." Your voice is steady, a challenge. "If it doesn’t mean anything, if I don’t mean anything, then throw it away."

Finnick says nothing. His grip tightens around the locket again, but his hand doesn’t move.

Your throat feels tight, but you press on. "I know you, Finnick. I spent nights tracing your scars on your skin, and so did you. And I know that no matter what they did to you, no matter what they forced into your head, some part of you still remembers."

His breath is uneven now, his gaze flickering away, like he can’t bear to look at you.

"Tell me I don’t matter," you say, voice softer now, almost pleading. "Tell me that locket doesn’t mean anything. And I’ll leave you alone."

Finnick stares at the locket in his palm, shoulders drawn tight like he’s caught in a battle you can’t see. His fingers hover over the clasp, as if debating whether to close it, tuck it away, or crush it in his grip. But he does none of those things. Instead, he just stands there, the weight of your words pressing down on him like an anchor.

You wait, heart hammering against your ribs, but he doesn’t speak.

"Finnick." You take another step, your voice softer now, hesitant. "Please."

His jaw clenches. "You think this changes anything?"

"It changes everything," you counter. "You’ve been pretending I don’t exist, but you kept this. Why?"

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes, something that makes your stomach twist painfully. "I don’t know," he admits, and for the first time since he came back, he sounds… lost.

It guts you more than the indifference ever did.

You don’t realize you’ve reached for his hand until your fingers brush against his. His skin is warm, familiar, but he flinches like you’ve burned him. He doesn’t pull away, though. Doesn’t shove you aside like you half expect him to.

"You do know," you whisper.

His breath shudders as he finally lifts his gaze to yours. The exhaustion clings to his face, but beneath it, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, of a battle waging inside him.

"You said if I told you that locket doesn’t mean anything, you’d leave me alone." His voice is quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nod, forcing yourself to hold steady, even as your chest tightens. "I meant it."

Finnick swallows, gaze dropping to the locket again. His thumb brushes over the worn gold, over the tiny latch that guards your picture inside. Another long silence stretches between you, the tension pulling tight, suffocating.

Then, finally—so quiet you almost miss it—he exhales, "I can’t."

Your breath catches. "Can’t what?"

His fingers tighten around the locket, his shoulders rising with a shuddering breath. "I can’t say it doesn’t mean anything."

The air between you shifts, something fragile and dangerous crackling in the space. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative and unsteady, but real.

"Then stop pretending like I don’t exist," you whisper.

Finnick’s throat bobs as he swallows. He looks at you like he’s standing on the edge of something, teetering between fear and familiarity. His lips part, but before he can say anything, a voice calls from across the bunker.

"Odair, let’s go!"

Finnick tenses, something closing off in his expression again. His fingers curl around the locket, hiding it from view, and just like that, the moment shatters.

You watch as he steps back, his face unreadable again. But before he turns away completely, you see it—the way his hand lingers near his pocket, the locket still clutched tight in his palm.

He doesn’t throw it away.

And this time, you let yourself believe that means something.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x you #finnick odair #hunger games finnick #the hunger games

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hcneymooners · 3 months ago

Text

౨ৎ kiss me, and you will see how important i am.

ex-wives!pazzi au. men and minors dni.

synopsis: nothing brings together two people like their child's birthday party and the subsequent emotional breakdown.

cw: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending though open, mentions of infidelity (assumed, but nothing occurred), i would say p is slightly toxic but i really think it's just two adults being complex human beings and making mistakes.

notes: you all were so lovely and kind to me following my pazzi debut. i wanted to post this because i've been sitting on it for a while. i love people who still love each other despite the distance. i hope you enjoy. as always feel free to come into my inbox. i love speaking to you. love you.

“have you not told your mother that we’re separated?”

paige looks up to find her ex-wife standing above her, staring her down in all of her quiet, effortless radiance. azzi looks like the american dream: sun-bronzed and golden, long-legged, with perfect, plump, dark pink lips. she’s wrapped in a mid-thigh dress the color of a late spring bloom—pale lilac, delicate but striking. the fabric spirals down the curves of her waist and hips, cinched in places by thin rings of fringe that sway as she shifts her weight. her curls are slicked back into a bun that blooms at the crown of her head, petals of hair shaped to align with the spring showers theme of the party.

paige hums low in her throat, fingers brushing the hem of azzi’s dress. “you look good, ma.”

azzi swats her hand away without hesitation, leveling her with a look—sharp, unimpressed. paige bites back a grin.

“thought of me when you got dressed?”

azzi’s brow furrows until realization flickers across her face. the purple. paige’s color. her lips part on a scoff, irritation slipping through in a low noise before she schools her features into a tight smile.

“no, i was not. i wasn’t thinking of you at all, actually," she says, her voice light, deceptively sweet. "not until your charming mother came up to me and said she was so glad to see me. oh, but that’s not all.”

paige arches a brow, intrigued, and reaches out to pull azzi closer by the waist, nudging her forward. “no?”

“no.” azzi lets out a breath, clutching the large present perched along her hip. the wrapping paper is a particular shade of green, the birthday girl’s favorite. “then she tells me she understands my brand partnerships have been monopolizing my time, which is why she hasn’t seen me with you in quite some time.”

paige leans back against her seat, stretching her legs out lazily. “i’m not seeing the problem, az.”

azzi stiffens. “you’re not—!” she cuts herself off, inhaling sharply through her nose, shoulders rising and falling as she tries to steady herself. “do you not understand how that makes me look?”

“like a busy wife?” paige quips, knowing full well she’s fanning the flames.

azzi’s eyes flash, but her voice is measured when she speaks again. “like a neglectful mother.”

that sobers paige instantly. she sits up, studying azzi’s face, the tension lining her features. “did she say that?”

“it’s implied, paige.” azzi shifts the present under her arm, pressing her fingers into the wrapped edges. “you’re always bringing our daughter around, always having fun with her. and then i take her for holidays, and it’s like—wow, azzi makes no effort to be there in any other way.” her throat tightens, and she shakes her head. “i mean, come on. i know you’re punishing me for leaving you, but can you at least give me this?”

paige’s tongue flicks out, pale pink swiping over her lower lip, brow knitting together. punishing azzi was never something she wanted to do. but before she can find the right words, a small blur of brown crashes into azzi’s legs, nearly sending her toppling over.

“mommy!”

azzi folds like a house of cards, collapsing to her knees in the grass without a care for her dress. she gathers their daughter into her arms, pulling her in so tightly it’s as if she’s afraid to let go.

“my mia,” azzi murmurs, voice low and thick with emotion. “happy birthday, baby.”

mia beams, the gap in her teeth dark and small, laughter bubbling up as she buries her face in her mother’s neck. it’s almost uncanny how much she looks like azzi. the same wide, joyful smile. the same burst of blush that rises along their cheeks when they’re excited. even the same curls, though looser—tumbling around the glittering spires of her birthday tiara.

azzi cradles mia’s face, thumbs stroking the plush of her cheeks. she fusses over her, straightening the sequined sage-green tutu and retying the laces of her chunky mini sneakers, her fingers gentle and practiced. paige knows it's a chance for her to collect herself. azzi hates crying in front of other people.

“mommy, i’ve been waiting for you! you weren't at home!”

“i’m sorry, baby. there was traffic,” azzi croaks, her voice betraying her. her hand flies to her throat—her tell, the reflex she always has when she’s trying not to cry. “but mommy sped a little bit. she just couldn’t wait to see her favorite girl.”

mia frowns. “you should be careful. mama says we shouldn’t go too fast, or we can get hurt.”

azzi exhales a quiet laugh, smoothing a hand down mia’s back. “yeah,” she whispers. “mama’s right.

paige clenches her jaw, something bitter and painful lodging itself deep in her ribs. she feels so sick at the idea that anyone could believe azzi doesn’t love their girl, this spitting image of her—maybe the only thing of azzi that she has left. she watches them—azzi, kneeling in the grass—and stands, her drink dangling dangerously from her hand, going to join the two. but then azzi stands and is gone—dragged away by mia’s small hand and even smaller strength.

she watches as azzi jogs along behind her, her heels puncturing the earth like glass through a lung. her hair bounces, streaked from the sun, and her body looks as though it’s trying to vibrate out of itself, her love so evident that it struggles to leave her and get to the child in front of her.

the light catches on the strands of her hair, identical to mia's who is bouncing with each hurried step.

and it’s so obvious—the way she moves, the way her whole body seems to vibrate with affection, her love so intense it barely fits inside her. it pours out of her like light, desperate to reach the child in front of her.

paige swallows hard.

𓃹

paige finds azzi in the kitchen, her hands braced on the countertop before they come up to wipe her face.

“why are you crying, mama? c’mere.”

azzi exhales sharply, shaking her head. “please don’t.”

paige doesn’t listen. she steps forward, hands curling around azzi’s waist, gentle but firm. azzi lets herself be held for a second. just a second. then she presses her hands against paige’s chest and cuts her off. she wraps her arms around herself as if she’s attempting to recreate the warmth.

paige sighs. “you mad at me?”

azzi laughs, quiet and humorless. “yeah, p, a little. there’s a point at which i can no longer take being ignored by my wife.”

the nickname just slips out. it’s muscle memory.

paige stills. “azzi.”

azzi tilts her head, searching her face. “i feel like—it’s just. you’ve only ever wanted me when you didn’t have me,” she murmurs. “and my whole life, i’ve been right there.”

paige opens her mouth, then closes it. she looks away, rubbing a hand over her jaw. “you know that ain’t true.”

“and then we got married, and i thought this would be it. we’d be happy and okay. but then—i don’t know. you were less my wife and more the most famous woman i knew saying hello from my ipad.”

paige’s eyes lower, growing dead and dark. azzi watches her for a long moment, recognizes the signs of her checking out, then sighs. “paige. why haven’t you told anyone we’re separated?”

paige blinks at her, called back into the present, and then lets out a short, incredulous breath. “azzi, you can’t be serious. i don’t want this.”

azzi’s jaw clenches. her hands shake as she turns away, pressing her palms to the counter again. the position emphasizes the toned silhouette of her arms.

paige steps closer, voice softer now. “i don’t want this.”

azzi swallows hard, staring at the marble beneath her hands. “i’m tired, p,” she says quietly. “i just want to wake up and love you and know you love me back. i just want to go on my walk and come back to find you there. i want to be with mia all the time. i want you to start talking to me.” her throat tightens. “but i’m never going to get that, am i? maybe it’s just too much to ask.”

paige exhales sharply, jaw tightening. “azzi—baby, you have to know that i didn’t step out on you. i wasn’t with anyone else. i wasn't. i just got caught up in the pressure and—”

“i know,” azzi says, finally looking at her. “i know, p, everything i do, i always understand. i always understood. but honestly, infidelity would have been better than the things i was feeling.

paige runs a hand over her face, lets out a rough laugh. “like what?”

“endless loneliness that was never going to stop.” paige remains quiet, her teeth digging into her bottom lip until it splits. “then we did ivf and had mia, and for a moment i was okay. i was better. i was good.”

“i couldn’t complain,” azzi says. “i didn’t.”

paige shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. “man, you act like i’m tryna hurt you.”

azzi closes her eyes. “it’s not like that.”

paige doesn’t know what to do with her hands. she shifts her weight like she wants to argue, but azzi doesn’t give her the chance.

“the fact that it’s not intentional is what makes it hurt so much,” azzi says after a moment. “that’s why i kept letting it go. it’s so easy to forgive you.” her mouth twists into a pained smile. “despite your mistakes, you’re not a malicious person.”

paige presses her lips together, her fingers twitching at her sides. “azzi, please—”

azzi shakes her head again, this time slower, more deliberate. “you don’t mean to hurt me, and so i’m still here. it’s my fault, really. no one is asking me to stand in the wreckage of the life i can’t seem to walk away from. that i still want.”

paige swallows hard, her throat bobbing. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi close, but she doesn’t. for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know how to reach her. azzi breaks the silence, wiping underneath her eyes with a bit of paper towel.

“come one. it’ll be time for presents soon.”

paige watches her walk away for the millionth time, watches how her back ripples with the flex of her muscles. in the following silence, she only thinks of azzi’s eyes and how dark they are. just like mia’s.

𓃹

the night is a welcome change. the house is quieter, the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the balcony doors. the partygoers have gone, goody bags in hand and heads lolling sleepily along their parents’s shoulders. mia herself had been babbling nonsensically, her hand tight around her brand-new barbie doll. paige had it specifically made to look like her mommy.

it was mia’s favorite present of the day. it made azzi cry for the second time that afternoon.

inside, the house is still cluttered with evidence of a child’s birthday well celebrated, a day well lived. paper plates are stacked on the counter, ribbons forgotten on the floor, the faint scent of frosting lingering in the air. paige tosses a few cups into the trash and wipes down the counter before realizing azzi isn’t beside her anymore.

she roams the halls, peeking into rooms until she finds her on the balcony just outside of paige’s childhood bedroom, leaning against the railing, a thin, silver vape pinched between her fingers. the glow of it flares as she takes a slow inhale, her body unmoving except for the way her shoulders rise and fall.

paige frowns. “since when do you smoke?”

azzi exhales, a thin stream of vapor curling into the night. it smells a bit too sweet, a few inches too far from the cherry it aims to evoke. it’s clearly not hers.

“since i shattered my knee and my dreams and became my top athlete wife’s accessory?” her voice is light, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. “i’m kidding. only recently. i don’t do it all the time, though, and never around mia.”

she shifts and paige steps closer, leaning against the railing beside her and sliding her hands into the pockets of her black sweatpants.

“truth be told, i hate how it makes me feel.”

“so why are you doing it?”

azzi huffs out a laugh, breathless, humorless. she tilts her head back and blinks up at the sky like she’s searching for something. “feels better than this.”

that’s when paige sees it. the sheen in azzi’s eyes, the way her lashes are clumped together, the tiny tremor in her fingers. she’s been crying again.

paige exhales, something tight wrapping around her ribs. without thinking, she reaches out and takes the vape from azzi’s hand, flicking it off and setting it on the balcony ledge. azzi doesn’t stop her.

“you’re such a crybaby,” paige mutters, but it comes out soft, almost affectionate. she turns, crowding azzi’s space just enough. “i don’t know why you don’t talk to me—”

“i don’t want to bother you,” azzi says, and her voice is incredibly small.

azzi looks at her then, really looks at her. for a second, it feels like the air between them shifts, something raw and fragile opening up. paige can feel her pulse in her throat, a nervous tremor she isn’t used to.

azzi reaches up, slow and deliberate, and cradles paige’s face in her hands. her thumbs skim the sharp edges of her jaw, her touch featherlight but grounding. paige exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. when she opens them again, azzi is watching her with something so deep it makes her ache.

“you know i’m so proud of you, right?” azzi whispers. “regardless.”

paige lets out a breath, something falling away miles down inside of her. she nods, just barely, and then—because she can’t help herself—she presses their foreheads together.

“you know that i love you, right?” paige says, voice rough. “for fucking real, az. you’re it for me.”

azzi closes her eyes, and when she breathes in, paige breathes with her. she doesn’t say anything, but her hands stay where they are, holding paige steady like she’s afraid to let go. her grip tightens, and then she goes to pull away but paige stills her with a hand around her wrist. azzi is cooperative with her touch this time, allowing paige to guide her back into the bedroom.

she doesn’t ask any questions when paige pulls her to the bed, pushing her down until she’s on her side. her head is heavy, afflicted with the buzz of nicotine, and she stays silent as her wife climbs in beside her. the two of them are two crescent moons made of flesh, mirroring one another in their grief and desires. paige presses their foreheads together once again and azzi focuses on the feeling of her warm skin, the hard bone.

she breathes out and paige breathes in as if to inhale her. azzi’s breath smells like cherry—real cherry.

“i hate it when things change,” azzi says, and her voice is strained with emotion.

“you could never make a decision,” paige teases, and azzi laughs wetly.

silence, then,

“p?”

“hmm?”

“i don’t want this either.”

paige pulls her closer, lifts one of her legs so that her dress slides up, and reveals the soft meat of her thigh. she settles azzi’s legs on top of hers, ensuring that they’re closer together.

“i know, ma. that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you.”

azzi’s buzz continues, drifting gently over her limbs until they’re heavy; her thoughts hazy around the edges. the world feels softer somehow; the pain is less jagged. she can feel every point where her body meets paige's—hip to hip, chest to chest, the tangle of their legs a familiar comfort she's been starving for.

the familiar scent of azzi’s perfume—something floral, threaded with dry vanilla, and subtle—fills paige's lungs. it's the same perfume paige had bought her for their fifth anniversary, the one azzi had worn every day since, even after she'd left.

"where you staying at?" paige asks, her voice low and rough against azzi's ear.

"the marriott downtown," azzi murmurs, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on the cotton of paige's shirt. "just until i figure things out."

paige makes a noise in the back of her throat, disapproving. "nah, i don’t like that. don't want you living out of suitcases in some hotel. and marriotts are very unsafe, you know. read an article that said they have the highest break-in rates of any hotel franchise.”

“and where was this article from?” azzi asked, her voice thick with amusement.

“girl, don’t even worry about it.” her hand travels up azzi's spine, warm and steady. azzi presses back into them, her body contorting in its search for comfort. "just come back home to me, mama. i'll sleep on the couch if you want, but at least i'll know you're safe."

"safe," azzi repeats, a small, broken laugh escaping her. "as if that's ever been the issue with us."

"it's always been the issue," paige counters, her fingers now threading through the loose curls at the nape of azzi's neck, careful not to disturb her bun. "you not feeling safe enough to tell me when i'm fucking up."

the honesty surprises them both. azzi shifts, propping herself up on an elbow to look at paige's face. in the dim light filtering in from the balcony, her features are soft, open in a way azzi hasn't seen in months.

"maybe we could try therapy," paige suggests, the words so deeply obvious of their difficulty.

azzi's eyes widen slightly. "you'd do that?"

"for you? for us?" paige's throat works as she swallows. "yeah. i would."

azzi leans in, drawn by something familiar and inevitable between them. their lips meet, soft and hesitant at first, then with growing urgency. it's not frantic, not desperate, but deep and prying. when they touch like this—in any capacity really—their lives feel as though they are their most sustainable.

paige's hands drift to azzi's waist, holding her close as if afraid she might evaporate. they're trying to get closer, always closer, as if the mere millimeters of space between them are too much to bear. azzi shifts until she's practically melted into paige, their bodies remembering each other in the dark.

they are teenagers again, rediscovering that the other feels the same, trying to live inside of each other.

when they break apart, azzi's lips are kiss-swollen and so dark, all the blood sucked to the surface. her eyes are heavy-lidded from more than just her high.

"i never signed the papers," she confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

paige stares at her for a moment before a genuine laugh bubbles up from her chest. "you really can't make a decision to save your life, can you?"

"shut up," azzi mumbles, burying her face in paige's neck, but there's no heat behind it. she loops a hand through paige’s hair, taking in the spill of gold across her palm. "i kept finding reasons to put it off."

"what kinda reasons?" paige asks, her hand sliding beneath the hem of azzi's dress to rest on the warm skin of her thigh, the touch reverent and possessive all at once.

"i don’t know. um, mia's birthday was coming up. then it was our anniversary. then it was…" she trails off, her voice dropping even lower. "then it was because every time i went to sign, i couldn't—i couldn’t remember why i was leaving in the first place."

the admission hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication. paige's hand stills on azzi's skin.

"you still love me," paige says, not a question but a revelation.

"that was never the problem," azzi replies, the words muffled against paige's collarbone. "loving you is like breathing. i don't know how to stop, and i’d die if i did."

paige's arms tighten around her. they still aren’t looking at each other. "then don't. come home, az. we'll figure the rest out."

"it's not that simple—"

"it is. it could be," paige insists, but her voice is gentler now. "i know i fucked up. i know i let my career become everything. but i swear to god, az, i'm done with that shit. nothing's worth losing you. nothing."

azzi lifts her head, her gaze meeting paige's in the semi-darkness. the proximity has left her thoughts fluid, boundaries blurred, making it easier to say what she's been holding back. "hope is a dangerous thing, p, and you’re giving it to me.”

“i know," paige agrees, her thumb brushing over azzi's bottom lip. "but what's the alternative? living half a life? watching mia grow up in two different homes when we both know that ain't what we want?"

azzi closes her eyes, letting the weight of paige's words wash over her. when she opens them again, there's a quiet determination there, fragile but present.

"i'll consider coming home," she says finally, her practicality still firm despite her emotional exhaustion. "but we have to go to therapy, and you have to try. no excuses."

relief floods paige's face, so naked and earnest that it makes azzi's heart clench. "yes, yes, okay," she whispers, pressing her forehead to azzi's. "thank you, baby.”

"you don’t have to thank me," azzi replies, playing nonchalantly but there's a softness to her words that takes away the sting. her hand comes up to rest against paige's jaw, her thumb brushing over the bone. “i want—i miss you so much. it hurts sometimes, aches right inside of my ribs. i haven't been able to sleep without you.”

"i'm right here," paige murmurs against her temple. "i'm always gonna be right here, waiting for you."

they lie there in the quiet, bodies intertwined, the world spinning just beyond the balcony doors. neither speaks for a long time, content to exist in this fragile moment. azzi closes her eyes, her head heavy on paige's chest, rising and falling with each breath. the buzz is fading, reality seeping back in, but she holds onto this feeling—hopes that she will get to feel it again.

she thinks of mia, pictures their baby girl sleeping with her mouth slack and none the wiser to the complexities of loving someone else. she hopes she never finds out.

"you're it for me, az," paige murmurs into her hair, the words a quiet repetition from earlier. "always have been."

azzi doesn't respond for a moment, but her fingers tighten in paige's shirt, holding on as if to say: i know. me too.

"i know," azzi says, out loud this time. "you’re it for me too. i mean, you're paige. we go together. you're everything. i don’t think there was ever anyone else for me."

paige's heart clenches, a painful pulse in her chest. she smooths a hand down azzi’s side.

her heart pumps, thumps out a message.

azzi’s heart thumps back.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #uconn wbb #wlw #uconn huskies

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clairifys · 11 months ago

Text

You are mine, and I am yours.

Benjicot Blackwood x Fem!Targ!Reader

w.c: 3.0k

18+ minors dni!!

c.w: violence, blood, death, 18+ content, nsfw, tent sex, fingering, making out, kissing, p in v, descriptive words, not-canon (sorry!)

ok guys i finally finished.. lmk if y’all like it!

There had been whispers from the Riverlands. You sat in on your mother’s council as you listened to the lords brabble around you. It wasn’t until Maester Gerardys spoke up that everyone went silent.

“Your Grace, a raven from Raventree came in, unfortunate news.” He spoke slowly, “Samwell Blackwood, Lord of House Blackwood was slain. His heir, Benjicot Blackwood now sits where he once sat.” Maester Gerardys concluded.

“Unfortunate news indeed..” Your mother, Queen Rhaenyra spoke saddened by the fatality.

“..Along with that news, the Riverland houses have expressed concern.” Maester Gerardys added.

“And what concern is that?” Your mother spoke cautiously.

“News that Aemond Targaryen’s dragon, Vhagar has been flying above them on multiple accounts.” He concurred, upon hearing this, you speak up.

“Mother..” You began, “Allow me to go out on Vermithor and keep our troops protected from the sky.” You suggested slowly, your mother looking at you with uncertainty and love in her eyes.

“My daughter, my only daughter,” your mother began before being cut off by Princess Rhaenys.

“Rhaenyra. We are at war, only few of us have dragons and Vermithor would be the best chance against Vhagar.” She affirmed strongly, “Vermithor has been with (Y/n) since she was a babe. She’s been riding much longer than Aemond.” Rhaenys left no room for objection and your mother looked at you with determination and melancholy.

“Alright.” She spoke firmly. “You will go on Vermithor before break of day.” Rhaenyra stood up and softly grabbed your arm to lead you with her to her room.

“My love, be careful and stay concealed until you reach the Riverlands.” She spoke lovingly as she took off the necklace your father, Daemon, gave her when she was a teenager. She fastens it around your neck before speaking, “Take this with you, to remember and to hold when you feel lonely.” She finished as a tear rolled down her cheek. She gives you a kiss on the forehead and holds you in her arms.

Benjicot had received no letter of affirmation from Queen Rhaenyra and only hoped she’d seen it and considered sending a dragon. The Northerners had arrived the previous day with Cregan Stark, the Lord of Winterfell.

“Oye, Benji get your arse back in and train with me.” Kemit Tully taunted with a smile. He had been training with two of the boys he grew up with, Kermit and Oscar Tully.

“Yeah, yeah keep up with your taunting when I have my dagger at your throat and my foot on your chest.” Benjicot spoke up, a glint of madness in his eyes, the same as when he was on the field.

Benjicot Blackwood was a strange man. Soft and sensitive in any other occasion, even crying after his first battle once he saw all the casualties, but there was a reason he was named ‘Bloody Ben’ when he began his fights.

Kermit and Benjicot were about to start sparring when they noticed Oscar was silent, looking up in fear.

“Oscar..?” Benjicot spoke softly, unsure.

“Dragon.” He mumbled before shouting, “Dragon!”

As the men around them turned to look up, ready to be set aflame by Vhagar, they noticed the bronze color and tan wings. Still weary, the men around them took shelter under the trees as Benjicot, Oscar and Kermit stood planted in their spot, marveling at the sight of the beautiful beast.

You commanded Vermithor to land when you had seen the men cower under the blanket of trees. Flying downwards, your pearly ivory hair whipping behind you as it stayed in the same braided style, lest you need to engage in combat. Guiding your dragon to landing, you slowly climb down off of him as you pull your riding gloves off with your teeth. Your black and red dress blowing behind you as the men who ran to the trees slowly come out. Before you can speak, a man of considerable size, donned in Northern armor approaches and bows before kissing your hand. Cregan Stark you come to realize as he begins to speak.

“Princess (Y/n). It is good to finally meet. I met with your brother, Jacaerys a moon ago. I thank you for coming.” He finishes politely. You feel your face flush at the open show of adoration, it’s never not embarrassing for you, but you give him a soft smile, albeit awkwardly before he leads you to the tent where all the lords were meeting.

Benjicot had already made his way to the tent when Lord Stark greeted you, he was too nervous to go up to you, due to your lineage and beauty. When you made your way in the tent and situated yourself, you spoke confidently.

“I have been sent by Her Grace to ensure the safety of our men who have selflessly put their lives on the line for my mother’s cause. Whilst I am here, I assure you, if Vhagar is to begin attacking, there will be a dragon in the sky for you, to protect you.” You stated confidently, hoping none of the men could notice your nerves. You hadn’t ever been the highest of royalty as your mother was always there. Now though, you needed to keep your promise to your mother to ensure her birthright, even if it caused you to perish to achieve it.

“So..” Oscar started as he and Kermit looked at Benjicot when he met up with them after the short-lived meeting.

“What?” He asked softly.

“What was she like? It’s not everyday a Princess as beautiful as her flies down from the sky to protect an army.” Oscar pleaded for information.

“Gods, she’s..” Benjicot trailed off as he looked at you from the training ground to see you lovingly caress and speak to your dragon in a language he didn’t understand.

“..we should be glad they sent someone as fierce as they did, she promised that if Vhagar were to return attacking, she’d meet him in the sky.” He finished softly, still watching you.

“Alright you two, let’s stop talking about her before she has her dragon eat us and start training.” Kermit insisted, secretly in awe.

Benjicot and Kermit were up first, not being able to begin their fight due to the Princess’s arrival. The only sound around them was the clashing of steel and the thumping of their hearts, which in turn, distracted the Princess from what she had been doing prior.

You walk over to where you see two men fighting, you notice them as Lord Benjicot Blackwood and Lord Kermit Tully battling it out. Benjicot gains the upper hand eventually as you watch in a trance of the crazed man’s ability and soon, Lord Tully is on the ground with a dagger to his throat. Ser Oscar Tully, you come to believe, begins cheering as Benjicot puts his hand out to the Tully on the ground. His back to you, you begin a gentle clap which sends all three men’s spine straight up. They all turn to you as you focus your gaze on Lord Blackwood while he maintains eye contact before nervously fiddling with his fingers and averting his gaze.

“Princess,” Lord Blackwood speaks up, meeting your eyes again with a slight flush on his face. You wonder if it’s because of the sparring, or maybe because of you. Normally you’d get weirded out when men expressed any sort of adoration towards you, but this time it was different.

“I can see where the name ‘Bloody Ben’ comes from, Lord Blackwood.” You state gracefully. You notice the two Tully’s giving him a look and smirking. His face flushes red as he responds,

“Thank you, Princess, but please call me Benji.. or Ben.. or whatever you wish.” He stumbles on his words and you find it endearing, you hear his friends laugh and you chuckle softly.

“Alright, Benji.” You speak as his face flushes an impossible red, “I’m glad to have you on our side, your swordsmanship is unlike any I’ve seen.” You state clearly before taking your leave to your tent.

“‘Please call me Benji, or Ben, or whatever you want, My Princess, please take advantage of me!’” Kermit taunts him as Benjicot swings around and begins to wrestle with the Tully boy.

You hadn’t lied when you told Benjicot that you’d never seen skills such as his. It was true, you think as you lie awake in your tent. You feel your face heat up as you think about the timid, yet brutal man. He fought without grace, he fought like a real warrior. None of that pansy dancing you’d seen around you growing up in King’s Landing.

You awake in the midst of the night to the sound of your dragon's calls. Something was wrong. Vermithor only ever made noises such as that when there was a threat evident. You rush outside, regretting not getting a cloak as it’s freezing in the dead of night wearing only a nightgown. You notice some of the men stepping out of their tents, sleep ridden eyes soon turning to determined anxiety. Benjicot steps out of his tent and you rush past him, almost knocking into him.

“Princess?” He questions before hearing the roar of a dragon overhead. Vhagar. You rush past him, grasping his arm gently and run up to Vermithor, who is undoubtedly concerned, climbing up him quickly, you command him to fly.

Before you can situate yourself, you hear Aemond.

“Dracarys”

Suddenly, the trees are ablaze and men on the ground begin to shoot arrows at Vhagar in hopes to weaken him. Commanding Vermithor forward behind Vhagar, you ready yourself.

“Dracarys!” You scream as Vermithor lets out a wall of fire onto Vhagar, Aemond, noticing, turns Vhagar around to attack. You quickly fly up in hopes of Aemond following, you turn your head to see him behind you, gaining on you.

As a last resort you make a hard right and when Vermithor flies close enough past him, you jump.

Landing on Vhagar’s tail, you begin to try and climb when Vhagar whips his tail around to shake you off. Your dragon, Vermithor, begins to shriek in despair that his rider had ‘fallen’ off. Vermithor, being a war dragon, circles behind Vhagar, before coming to the front of him and sinks his teeth into Vhagars neck. In the midst of this, you had climbed up his tail and when your dragon attacked, so did you.

Vhagar descends down, thick, gallons of fiery blood spewing from his neck as you and Aemond clamber about, trying to plunge your daggers into each other. Noting that Vhagar was descending into The Fork, you grasp onto Aemond and jump. You hear your dragon scream and screech in agony of losing his rider.

In your struggle as you and Aemond begin to fall to your descent, you plunge your dagger into his one good eye, and you let go of him.

You knew dying was a common occurrence, and you had been ready to die for your mother’s cause, but you hadn’t known it’d be so soon. You prepare yourself for the plunge into the deep, cold water of The Fork, and you hope your mother is proud of you for going down with a fight as you close your eyes.

You feel yourself fall as you try to slow your breathing, but before you can feel the hard slap of the cool water, you feel the hard slap of your stomach hitting a dragon saddle. Wrenching your eyes open, your head whips around as you grab onto scales to prevent yourself from falling. Vermithor. He had seen you falling. He came and he saved you from the terrible fate you were about to be bestowed upon. Vermithor flies up and begins to spit fire, unable to hide his joy at saving his rider as your eyes well up with tears that threaten to spill. After calming him down, you fly over where Vhagar and Aemond met their demise. You see Vhagar’s huge body float slowly over the river, but Aemond begins to sink down.

When you land back on the ground, cheering erupts from all around you. Everyone comes up to you and gives you their appreciation, some of the older Lords even ask for a betrothal between you and their sons from your stunt. Once the crowd dies down, and eventually disperses, you fail to see the one person who hadn’t come up to you yet. Benji. You walk around for a little in hopes to see him, but eventually you retire to your secluded tent farther from the rest of the men as they begin drinking at a fire.

Hoping to see him in the morrow, you enter your tent smoothing down your disgruntled nightgown before looking up. Your big, purple eyes meet his stormy brown ones and you make a noise of surprise. The two of you stare at each other, taking each other in for the first time. You notice his eyes hold that crazed look, but something else glosses over them. Love? Lust? You couldn’t tell. Your eyes meet with his before he quickly looks down at your lips. He takes a step forward and you meet him in the middle.

The kiss was sweet, a gentle, sensitive thing. Your hands tangle in his hair as one of his hands cradles your neck, the other coming down to squeeze your waist. You gasp in surprise and when he hears it, he smiles against your lips before gently meeting your tongue with his. Your thoughts are clouded with the thought of him, so much so, you completely forget your near death experience. Breaking apart for air, he leans his forehead against yours and whispers, “You’re mine, and I am yours.”

He leads you down to your futon in the tent and lays you down gently before pressing a loving kiss on your lips. Your mind is dazed with desire as your body begins to react to the growing bulge in his trousers. You rut up into him, not in control of your body, blinded by the feeling of his body being so close to yours. He laughs softly before asking, “Are you sure? If you want me to stop, just tell me.” Beginning to get irritated at the lack of attention to your body, you grab him by his hair and your lips meet in a searing kiss. He pulls your nightgown down your body with a featherlight touch, leaving you in only your shift. The cool air makes you shiver as you grab his tunic and shove it off of him. Your lips meet again, your mind going dumb. He pulls his trousers off, leaving him in only his breeches before taking your shift off in one motion. Laying bare in front of him, he feels his breeches tighten as he takes you in.

You begin to feel nervous as his full attention is on only you, and you’ve never laid with someone before.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He groans out, looking at you as if you’ve hung every star in the sky. You feel yourself grow impossibly wetter before he pulls his breeches down and leans down on his forearms on top of you. Your lips meet again for the umpteenth time and he begins to slowly rub his fingers through your slit, catching your slick. You moan out in pleasure, bucking your hips up when he pushes two of his fingers inside and groans. He pumps them in and out of you before adding a third finger, and you begin to feel a pressure building in your abdomen. You moan out in desperation when you feel his fingers leave you and you crack open your eyes that had been sealed shut.

“Well, aren’t you needy?” He purrs before taking his slick covered fingers and shoving them in his mouth. You moan at the sight and let your head fall against your pillow. Suddenly, you feel him hovering over you and something prodding at your entrance. Slowly guiding it in, you both moan out in ecstasy. The stretch is insane, if you hadn’t been so aroused, you’d say it hurt. Once it’s fully sheathed in, you wriggle around, drunk off the pleasure of it all. Benji lets you adjust to his size before slowly rocking into you.

“Benji.. Please” You moan out in pleasure. His eyes darken, as if he had just won a battle and he begins to slam into you. You mewl out sounds as he grunts and groans. Your abdomen begins to tighten and your legs begin to uncontrollably shake. His thrusts get messier, before the white, hot pleasure rips through you. You hear Benji groan on top of you before his thrusts get deeper and faster, overstimulating you. He grabs onto one of your breasts, softly massaging it while his lips connect with your other peak. Your womb is suddenly coated, and you feel the beautiful feeling of being stuffed full.

Benji collapses on top of you, his head on your bare chest as you pull the blanket up over you two. You run a hand through his sweaty hair and he looks up at you with love in his eyes.

“Please, please, come home with me when this war is over. Let me love you for the rest of our days.” He practically begs and you make no objection. Kissing him softly as one of your hands holds his head and the other rests on the necklace your mother gave you.

hope you guys liked it!!

#hotd x reader #hotd #house of the dragon #benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot blackwood #davos blackwood #house targaryen #team black

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sunshinesfreckless · 2 months ago

Text

Beach Hazard

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Lifeguard!Felix x Fem!Reader

Summary: Visiting your cousin in Australia for the first time without being prepared for the heat was one thing — but her not warning you about the real heat at the beach was another.

Warnings: Smut MDNI, Hot lifeguards

A/N: The reader does not have a specific skin color, ethnicity, or body type. The picture I chose from Pinterest is just to help visualize one of the bikinis better!

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

The sun was merciless. It clung to Y/N’s skin, wrapped around her like a second layer, and turned every breath into a sigh of defeat. She fanned herself with a limp hand, already regretting everything.

“You never told me Australia was this hot,” she groaned, dragging her sandals through the burning sand.

Yeji, unfazed and radiant as always, only shrugged. “I thought it was kinda obvious, you know?”

They finally reached the beach—a postcard come to life. Crystalline waves kissed the shore, sunlight danced off every surface, and bronzed bodies glistened like they’d been sculpted for worship. Y/N squinted through the brightness, adjusting to the sheer number of abs per square meter.

She dropped her towel, barely finding the will to sit down before Yeji nudged her hard in the ribs.

“Just so you know,” Yeji whispered, eyes twinkling behind her sunglasses. “A little tourist highlight here… are our lifeguards.”

Y/N raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You can’t be serious. Baywatch-type lifeguards don’t actually exist—”

A sharp whistle sliced through the air, and then… slow motion.

The first one bolted down the beach like it was a fashion runway. Long, black hair whipped behind him, his expression carved with intense focus. His frame was lean, but corded with elegant muscle, the kind that made you forget how to breathe. His lips—full, plush, kissable—pouted naturally, and his shoulder-to-waist ratio defied logic. He sprinted toward a jet ski like a Greek god late for Olympus.

“That’s Hyunjin,” Yeji murmured, voice reverent.

On the jet ski, a man sat waiting, stoic like a painting in motion. His thighs alone could crush watermelons, tanned and glistening as the sun traced every line of definition. His gaze was sharp as steel as he nodded at Hyunjin.

“That’s Lee Know.”

A third lifeguard joined them, tossing a life vest with a lazy flick of the wrist. His tattoos were etched into golden skin, glinting under the sunlight. His Muscles…. eye candy.

“Han,” Yeji added, grinning.

Behind him, another man held up a pair of binoculars, but his forearms stole the show. Veins, muscle, pure buffness.

“That’s Changbin.”

Two more figures were prepping a small rescue boat. One had a smile like a slice of mischief—Jeongin. Playful eyes, sun-streaked hair, and that lean, boyish physique.

Beside him, Seungmin—cool, calm. His jawline could’ve cut diamonds, Understated beauty, the kind that lingered.

And then—

Yeji inhaled. “My personal favorite… Mr. Bang.”

Bang Chan strode behind them all like he owned the beach. His back—broad, powerful, unfair—was on full display as he adjusted a rescue board under one arm. He was all tan, sinew, and control. The leader energy radiated.

Y/N tried to swallow, but her throat was dry. “You’ve gotta be kidding me—”

And then… he appeared.

From the ocean itself. A mirage made real.

He walked out of the water like a dream crashing into reality. Golden skin wet and glistening, every curve of his abs carved by the gods. Water rolled down his torso, catching on the sharp lines of muscle, and Y/N actually forgot what she was saying. He ran one hand through his soaked blonde hair, pushing it back to reveal pretty brown-eyes that accidentally locked with hers.

Time paused. Her lungs gave up.

His lips parted slightly, breath catching—and hers did too.

“Jesus,” Y/N whispered. “Who is that?”

Yeji smirked. “Felix.”

Y/N could only blink. Hello Felix…

Never in her life had Y/N felt so painfully, violently unfucked. It hit her like a freight train the moment he emerged from the water, all abs and attitude, and it hadn’t let up since. Her thighs clenched instinctively.

Holy. Shit.

“It’s nothing serious!” Changbin yelled toward the jet ski, giving a thumbs-up as Lee Know veered off with that stone-faced drama only he could pull off.

Hyunjin jogged over, hair flying behind him like he was in a shampoo commercial. “Did you see what’s up?”

“A woman thought she saw a shark,” Felix murmured, voice low and rough. “False alarm.”

His gaze drifted lazily back to the woman in a tiny white bikini, the kind that looked like it would disintegrate if the wind picked up. His eyes lingered—just for a second—then flicked back toward his friends.

“Mate, we’re still on duty,” Chan said, clapping him on the shoulder like a disappointed dad.

Felix just gave a low, cheeky laugh—the kind that made Y/N’s stomach flip. “I’m on watch.”

He grabbed the whistle Chan held out, slipping it around his neck with lazy precision. Then came the sunglasses.

“I know you’re on watch. I’m your boss,” Chan muttered. “But I literally just caught you ogling a girl.”

Felix raised one perfect brow and waved it off, already turning to patrol the beach like he owned the damn coastline.

Y/N’s jaw dropped. She wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t breathe.

“He literally just looked at me,” she gasped, gripping Yeji’s arm like a woman in spiritual distress.

“Felix?” Yeji asked, amused.

“Mhm.”

“Sure, sweetie,” Yeji snorted, clearly unconvinced.

Y/N turned her head slowly, eyes tracking Felix like he was prey and she was starving. “No, I need to have him.”

Yeji burst into laughter. “Good luck. All of them are fellow students in my class at my college, and I’ve been trying to get into Chan’s pants since high school.”

“Any luck?”

“Not even a crumb.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, watching Felix’s golden skin disappear into the distance, his shoulders flexing with every step. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“I’m going to make that man sin.”

The plan formed fast. Reckless. Beautiful. Stupid.

Y/N sat up, adjusting her bikini top like she was about to enter battle.

“No,” Yeji hissed. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I have to,” Y/N whispered. “He’s walking away, Yeji. Away from my life. My future. My Body. My womb.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in heat.”

Yeji groaned and dragged her sunglasses down. “Please tell me you’re not about to fake a drowning.”

“Not drowning. Just… distress. Sexy distress.”

“Oh my God. Y/N, no—”

But she was already walking—no, striding—toward the shore, her hair catching the breeze. She reached the shallows, flipped her head dramatically, and waded in.

Step. Step. Gasp.

She stumbled, flailing her arms like she was being attacked by invisible seaweed. “Ah! Oh no—help! Help me! I—I think I twisted my ankle in the water!”

Yeji slapped her own face. “Jesus Christ.”

A whistle shrieked.

Y/N turned in slow motion, ready to fall into the arms of her dripping wet, Australian savior.

But it wasn’t Felix.

It was Hyunjin.

Her smile faded.

Hair flying (WHY WAS HIS HAIR ALWAYS FLYING), eyes full of panic and beauty, he wrapped his arms around her effortlessly and lifted her like she weighed nothing. “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and soft.

And sure, it was nice. Sure, he was an Adonis. But he wasn’t Felix.

She let him carry her all the way to the towels, fully committed to the bit, but as soon as her feet touched the sand, she peeled away like an annoyed cat.

“Thanks,” she said stiffly, and stormed back to her towel.

Yeji stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “What? Hyunjin isn’t enough for your greed?”

Y/N dropped onto the towel and grabbed her water bottle like it was a flask. “Believe me,” she muttered. “I was this close to showing Hyunjin my tits.”

She sighed.

“But I’m going to stay loyal to Felix.”

────୨ৎ────

She “accidentally” kicks her water bottle too far and jogs after it like a distressed deer.

Cue: Seungmin.

Polite. Kind. Hot in an infuriatingly nonchalant way.

He jogs over, picks up the bottle, and hands it to her with a smile so charming it could be a toothpaste ad.

“You dropped this.”

Y/N forces a smile. “Thank you… so much.”

Yeji just snorts behind her towel. “So loyal, huh?”

────୨ৎ────

She pretends to get stung by a jellyfish. “Ow! My leg—oh no—what if it’s venomous?!”

Jeongin appears, pulling off his shirt with impressive speed.

“Where is it? I’ll check for swelling—do you need me to pee on it?”

“What? NO! God, no! I’m fine—I’m fine now.”

Jeongin tilts his head. “You sure? I’ve been trained for this.”

“I don‘t want YOUR pee,” Y/N mutters under her breath and limps away, emotionally wounded.

Yeji looked at her disgusted and shocked.

────୨ৎ────

She fake-coughs dramatically, clutching her throat like she’s choking on saltwater air.

This time it’s Changbin. Concerned. Sincere.

“Do you need CPR?!”

Y/N widens her eyes. “N-no…?”

He gets closer. “Are you sure? You don’t look okay.”

She looks up at the sky, whispering, “Why do you mock me, God?”

────୨ৎ────

She splashes herself with water and flops down like she fainted.

Bang Chan runs up with a literal first-aid kit and more authority than a SWAT team.

“I need you to stay still, okay? Can you hear me?”

Y/N stares up at him. “You’re… not Felix.”

Chan blinks. “Um. No?”

She sighs. “Then leave me here. Let the sun take me.”

Yeji cackles so hard she nearly chokes on her mango smoothie. “You’re an embarrassment to this family.”

────୨ৎ────

Y/N glares at the sea, where Felix is, of course, walking along the waterline, shirt off, towel over his shoulder, hair wet and golden like he just stepped out of a wet dream.

She slams her fists into the towel. “WHY does God keep sending other hot lifeguards?! I don’t want the entire calendar, I want SEPTEMBER !”

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, Y/N burst into Yeji’s room like a woman on a mission.

“Get your towel. We’re going back.”

Yeji groaned from under the blanket. “I am not emotionally strong enough to watch you throw yourself at lifeguards again.”

Y/N clasped her hands like she was begging for water in a desert. “Please. I just need one more chance.”

“…You said that yesterday.”

“And I meant it then. But today I’m serious.”

Ten minutes later, Yeji was dragging her cooler through the sand, watching Y/N strut ahead in a bikini so small it could be mistaken for shoelaces. Leopard print. Glossy lips. Hair beachy and bouncy. A menace.

And there he was.

Felix.

Standing near the lifeguard tower, talking to Seungmin while tying his hair up. The muscles in his arms flexed as he looped the elastic around his damp blond strands, biceps and shoulders glistening in the sun like someone had Photoshopped reality.

Y/N stopped walking. “That’s it. This is the day I make him fall.”

“Or call security,” Yeji muttered, finding them a shady spot.

────୨ৎ────

She walks past the lifeguard stand, slow and deliberate. She bends to pretend to fix her flip-flop. Her butt is absolutely facing him.

Nothing. No reaction.

She peeks.

He’s looking at a seagull.

“You’re watching a bird?” she seethes.

Yeji sips her iced latte, unbothered from afar. “Damn, even the bird’s getting more attention.”

────୨ৎ────

She pretends to drop sunscreen and bends very slowly to pick it up. She even lets out a small gasp. Like it’s so hard to pick something up off the sand.

Felix jogs past her—past her—shouting something into his walkie-talkie.

“He didn’t even see me!” she hisses.

“He’s literally working,” Yeji deadpans.

────୨ৎ────

She finally gathers the courage to walk up to the tower. Felix is leaning on the rail, looking like an ocean god sent to torment her.

“Hi,” she says, as seductively as possible.

“Hey,” he says, smiling—but friendly. Polite. Professional.

She freezes. “I… like your whistle.”

Your whistle? Your WHISTLE?

“Thanks,” he chuckles, then leans over the edge. “Hey, Seungmin! Can you cover my post for five? I’m gonna refill my water bottle.”

YES! A window!

But before she can say anything else, he hops down and jogs right past her.

Y/N turns to Yeji, who is visibly crying from behind her sunglasses.

“I’m going to die alone.”

“No, you’re just going to die of dehydration from how hard you’re thirsting.”

Y/N flops onto her towel in defeat. “This is the worst vacation of my life.”

Just as she’s about to bury herself in sand out of shame, Felix calls out behind her, towel slung over his shoulder, voice teasing:

“Leopard print, huh? Bold.”

She jerks upright. “What?!”

He’s already walking away again. But this time, he smirks.

She turns to Yeji, completely unhinged. “Did you see that? That was flirting.”

“Or basic human interaction.”

“I am winning.”

────୨ৎ────

But the Euphoria didn’t last long……the rest of the day, Y/N gave up.

No sultry poses. No hair flips. No fake injuries.

She was just… tanning. Peacefully. Like a normal, non-horny person.

Face down, book open, towel beneath her. Her hair tied, sunglasses on, headphones in. She barely even looked in Felix’s direction.

Which apparently meant everyone else did.

“Who’s that?” Han asked, squinting through his sunglasses as he handed out ice pops from the cooler.

Seungmin tilted his head. “That’s Yeji’s cousin, Y/N. She’s been here two days in a row. Yesterday she tried to drown herself like three times.”

Jeongin laughed. “You mean the fake fainting girl.”

Felix frowned, not even sure why. “Why are you all looking over there?”

Han grinned, obnoxiously. “Because she looks hot.”

Felix scoffed. “She’s just reading.”

“Exactly,” Han said, chewing on his popsicle. “Effortless hot. That’s rare.”

Felix followed their gazes—casually, of course. And yeah. Okay. Maybe she did look a little too good just lying there in the sun, legs glistening, hips arched slightly, bikini flattering her every curve. She wasn’t looking at them.

Not looking at him.

He looked away, annoyed for no reason. “Focus. You’re on duty.”

But the rest of the afternoon, his eyes kept drifting. Especially when some random guys walked by a little too slowly. He tensed every time they looked at her twice. When one guy tripped trying to check her out, Felix nearly stood up.

He didn’t, though.

Didn’t matter.

Not his problem.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N came alone this time.

No Yeji. No plan. Just her book, her floral bikini, and a promise to herself to act normal.

She found her same spot, laid out her towel, and sank into the sun. She didn’t look around. She didn’t need to.

But she did feel it—the prickling sensation of being watched.

Felix was on his post, up in the tower. Sunglasses on. Elbows on the rail.

Watching.

Not obviously.

Just enough.

She smiled to herself but didn’t look up.

A few hours later, the sun was high, and she decided to take a quick dip. She set her book down, tied her hair up, and stepped into the water, sighing at the coolness against her skin.

She was waist-deep when two boys—maybe sixteen, seventeen—started splashing nearby.

They were giggling. Whispering. Then.

Snap.

She felt the back of her bikini top loosen.

“What the—?!”

She turned just as one of the boys tossed her top into the deeper waves, cackling. “Oops! Didn’t mean to!”

Y/N let out a scream, arms crossing over her chest, eyes wide with panic. “Are you kidding me?! What the hell?!”

The boys were still laughing, not realizing how serious she was.

But someone else did.

Felix was already sprinting from the tower.

His feet hit the sand hard, running full speed. Past the shoreline, crashing into the water like a force of nature. One of the boys saw him coming and bolted. The other stood frozen, half in shock, half in fear.

Felix didn’t stop.

He reached her, wrapping his arms around her from behind in one fluid motion, he turned her around his chest pressing against her breasts, strong arms holding her protectively.

“Got you,” he murmured, his voice low—too low—and calm despite everything.

Y/N was shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the water. From him. His arms. His voice. The sheer intimacy of it.

Her heart was somewhere in her throat.

“Stay still,” he said, one hand still holding her close, the other reaching out to catch the drifting bikini top with a perfect, practiced swipe.

Then his voice snapped like thunder toward the boys.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His accent hit harder when he was angry. “You think this is funny? You touch anyone like that again and you’re not just getting kicked off the beach—you’ll be talking to police. Get lost.”

The boys scattered like roaches.

He turned back to her, gentler now.

“Hold on,” he murmured. “I’ve got it.”

With a strange tenderness, he helped her tie the top back on, his fingers brushing along her back, slow and methodical, careful not to look even though her blush was violently visible.

Then—just as he finished fastening the strap—he leaned in slightly, voice lower than it had ever been.

“Shame it wasn’t me who took it off.”

Her eyes snapped wide open. “What did you—?”

But he was already walking away, water dripping down his back, shoulders flexing with each step as he moved toward the shore like nothing happened.

“FELIX?!”

He didn’t turn around.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N sat wrapped in a towel like a sad burrito.

Yeji had finally arrived. “You had one job. Not to flash the beach.”

“I didn’t flash anyone, I got assaulted by middle schoolers.”

Yeji squinted at her. “Okay, fair. But can we talk about how you’re glowing right now? What happened?”

Y/N stared into the middle distance, whispering: “He said it.”

“Said what?”

“He said shame it wasn’t me who took it off.”

Yeji almost choked on her drink. “I’m sorry—EXCUSE ME?? Sir Felix ‘No Fun, Just Whistles’ said THAT?”

“WHILE tying it back on.”

Yeji stared at her in awe. “You have to seduce him today.”

“I need to interrogate him first.”

────୨ৎ────

She walks up to the lifeguard stand later, trying to be chill. Super casual. Not at all like she’s having an internal breakdown over a whisper.

He’s sitting there, eating from a container of cut-up mango like he didn’t just ruin her inner peace forever.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” He looks up, relaxed, tongue flicking a mango slice into his mouth.

Unacceptable.

She blurts: “Did you mean it?”

He pauses. “Mean what?”

Her entire soul short circuits. “You know… the thing. The top. The taking-off thing.”

He raises a brow, amused. “Are you asking if I’m a pervert, or if I have taste?”

“I—what—no, I mean—yes?!”

He leans back, watching her squirm. “Maybe I just wanted to shut you up.”

“…What?”

“All that seduction. The sunscreen. The flip-flop. The fake fainting. The sunscreen again.”

Her mouth drops open. “You saw all that?!”

“I’m on watch,” he says, smug. “I see everything.”

She makes a strangled noise and nearly falls over trying to flee the scene.

────୨ৎ────

Y/N came prepared.

Leopard print? Too obvious. Floral? Too soft. Today, she wore nothing but white again. Her bikini bottom sat dangerously low, and she wasn’t wearing a top—just lying face-down on the towel with her arms folded under her head, chin resting on her wrists, legs stretched long and lazy. Her hair was in a loose bun, sunglasses on, lip gloss shining even under the sun.

And she knew he was watching.

Yeji was next to her, pretending to scroll her phone but clearly eyeing her like she’d lost her mind. “You’re insane.”

“He likes me,” Y/N said simply.

“I’m sorry, is this ‘he’ the same Felix that laughed when you pretended to drown? That Felix?”

“He told me it was a shame he didn’t undress me.”

Yeji went dead silent.

Y/N smirked and arched her back a little more, pushing her hips up so her ass caught the light, the curve dramatic, deliberate, and lethal.

“…Babe, you’re not even flirting anymore. You’re staging a porn.”

“I’m tanning.”

“You’re sinning.”

And then—

Crunching footsteps.

They both froze.

“…No fucking way,” Yeji whispered, staring over her sunglasses.

Y/N didn’t look. She felt it.

Felix crouched beside her towel, close enough that the shade of his figure darkened the sun on her shoulder. She smelled salt, sunscreen, and whatever cologne was hanging off his damp skin today.

“You’re going to get a sunburn on your back,” he said lowly, voice brushing the shell of her ear.

Y/N didn’t move.

Yeji’s jaw was somewhere in the sand.

Felix tilted his head. “Need help with the sunscreen?”

Silence.

Then—Y/N turned her head just slightly toward him, lips parted. “Do I look like I’d say no?”

He chuckled, not answering right away. He reached for the bottle Yeji had carelessly tossed beside them and popped it open with a click. Squeezed a generous amount onto his palm. The sound alone made Y/N squirm.

And then—his hands.

Warm.

Firm.

Slow.

Moving over her shoulders, across her back, then lower—his thumbs brushing her waist, fingers splaying wide. She gasped softly when he reached the small of her back, just above the waistband of her bikini bottom.

Y/N bit her lip.

His hands were so steady. Too steady for someone who should be flustered. But that was Felix—infuriatingly composed while she melted into the towel like butter on a grill.

He rubbed slow, methodical circles into her back, and every press of his thumbs felt like a kiss dipped in warning. You’re playing with fire.

And she was. Happily.

Yeji was still frozen beside them, pretending to scroll through her phone but definitely watching through her sunglasses.

“Relax,” Felix murmured, voice deep and smooth. “You’re tense.”

Y/N scoffed, half into the towel. “Wonder why.”

“Maybe it’s because you’ve been throwing yourself at lifeguards all week.”

“Not all lifeguards,” she mumbled.

“No?”

“Just one.”

Felix’s fingers paused—just a beat.

Then he smoothed the lotion lower, brushing close to the sides of her chest, but never quite crossing the line. He knew exactly what he was doing, the bastard.

“So I should feel special?”

She could feel the smirk in his voice. That cocky confidence, just barely covering something hungrier beneath it.

Then—

He leaned in.

His lips ghosted just above her ear, breath warm. “I like when you beg for attention.”

Her whole body stiffened—and not from the cold.

Before she could answer, he was already up. Walking away. Cool and casual, like he hadn’t just lit a match and tossed it over his shoulder.

She looked up in disbelief, eyes trailing after him. His back muscles were so unfair.

Yeji finally spoke.

“Are we going to pretend that didn’t just happen or—?”

────୨ৎ────

The lifeguard hut was humming with energy—half of them shirtless, all of them sun-kissed and cocky, talking over each other and sipping iced coffees.

Y/N walked in like she belonged there.

And technically, she didn’t.

But technicalities were for people who weren’t being ignored by the blond menace known as Felix.

Yeji had tried to stop her. “Y/N, I swear, if you go in there and start fake-rashing your way into his lap—”

“It’s not fake,” Y/N lied. “I’m itchy. And mad. And petty.”

The door creaked open behind her and heads turned. All of them. Like some Greek god convention had a roll call.

“Oh—hey,” Han said first, eyes already scanning her frame with his usual curious glint. “Everything alright?”

Y/N pouted. Dramatically. “I think I’m having a reaction to the sunscreen or something. There’s like… a rash?”

“Where?” Jeongin stood up so fast his chair squeaked.

“Need help?” offered Seungmin, already pulling on latex gloves from somewhere, like he’d trained for this exact emergency.

“Boys, please,” Chan said, chuckling. “Give her some space.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Y/N said sweetly. “It’s just—kind of hard to reach.”

Felix, sitting back with his feet up on the table and sunglasses on, hadn’t so much as flinched. His head turned lazily, a single brow raised above the rim of his shades.

“No comment?” she asked pointedly, arms crossed under her chest.

He shrugged. “I’m not a dermatologist.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Debatable.”

The other boys looked between the two of them like it was a tennis match from hell.

“Oh really?” Y/N said, tone sharpening into sugar-dagger territory. “You won’t help?”

“I’m on break,” Felix said simply.

“That’s it,” Y/N muttered.

And then—without fanfare, without shame—she dropped her bikini top.

“The rash is right here,” she said, pointing at her bare chest like she was unveiling the Mona Lisa.

The room short-circuited.

Jeongin turned around so fast he tripped over a stool.

Han fell off his chair.

Chan stared into the corner of the ceiling like he was mentally in church.

Seungmin had gone into full CPR mode and was frantically opening the first-aid kit with shaking hands.

Felix?

Felix exhaled the heaviest sigh known to man. “Y/N.”

“What?” she snapped, arms flaring with indignation. “If you won’t help, someone else will.”

But just as she tied her top back on with all the wounded pride of a tragedy heroine—her bravado slipped.

Literally.

Her chest started itching.

Burning, actually.

“…wait.”

She scratched her collarbone. Her neck. Her stomach.

“Wait. Oh no. Oh no no no—”

“Do you… actually have a rash?” Jeongin asked, blinking.

Y/N didn’t answer. She was already lifting her top again (to check, not to seduce anyone this time, thank you very much), and what she saw made her shriek.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT.”

There were red blotches. Angry ones. Spreading up her sides and over her chest like she’d rolled in poison ivy and then insulted its mother.

Han leaned in, still lying half on the floor. “Okay but that’s definitely not acting anymore.”

Felix was already up, all trace of apathy gone. “Shit. Emergency bed. Now.”

Before she could argue, he scooped her up bridal-style—her dramatic ass, red patches and all—and laid her on the narrow cot in the back of the hut.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, near tears. “I was just being dramatic.”

“No way,” said Seungmin, who was now dabbing her chest with some kind of cooling gel like a very professional nurse who wasn’t looking too hard.

“Is it from the water?” Chan asked, peering at the redness.

“She swam right after lunch,” Han added.

“Oh my God,” Y/N groaned, hiding her face. “I flashed all of you and now I’m actually allergic to the ocean.”

That was when Yeji burst through the hut door, cheeks pink from laughter, holding her phone like someone had just live-texted her the whole incident.

“WHAT HAPPENED—” she gasped, doubling over when she saw Y/N laid out on the emergency bed like some half-naked cautionary tale.

“Don’t,” Y/N said weakly, pointing at her. “Don’t you dare. How did you even find out !”

Hyunjin lowered his Phone and avoided Y/Ns Eyes.

“I told you not to pretend to have a rash.”

“I WASN’T PRETENDING—ANYMORE.”

Felix stood beside her, arms crossed, lips twitching like he was one laugh away from completely losing it.

“Next time you want my attention,” he said lowly, “just say hi.”

Y/N stared up at him in betrayal. “I already did once ! You ignored me. I hate you now !”

“You look hot like this,” he said.

She blinked.

Yeji cackled.

“…I hate you slightly less.”

────୨ৎ────

“Hey, do you guys have more of that aloe gel?” she asked, approaching the lifeguard hut where Felix was adjusting one of the rescue boards. “My skin’s still kind of itchy.”

He glanced at her. A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Storage shed.”

He turned without another word and walked off toward the back of the hut. Y/N followed, pretending not to care that he hadn’t even looked at her bikini today.

The metal latch creaked as he opened the shed. She peeked inside—dim, stuffy, packed with boards, towels, boxes. It smelled like sunscreen, sea salt, and wet fabric.

“Do you need help finding it?” she asked, trying not to sound like she was begging for attention.

But before she could step back—

Clang.

The door closed behind her.

Click.

Locked.

Y/N blinked into the darkness. “…What the—”

Felix was there.

Close.

Too close.

She backed up until her shoulder hit the cool fiberglass of a surfboard. Her breath caught. He hadn’t touched her. Not yet.

He didn’t need to.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he said lowly, eyes gleaming in the narrow slice of light. “That rash stunt? You really dropped your bikini top for them?”

She swallowed. “If you weren’t so goddamn unbothered I wouldn’t have to—”

His hand hit the wall beside her head.

She stopped.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

“You followed me in here, babe. You sure you want what you’re asking for?”

Dim sunlight sliced in through the slats, streaking across Felix’s face, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw.

She should’ve said something clever. Should’ve smirked. Should’ve denied it.

Instead, she whispered, “Yes.”

And then he moved.

One step. One shift of his hips—and he pressed her to the wall, his body caging hers, the hard line of his cock grinding slow and rough against the thin fabric of her bikini bottoms.

She gasped. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days.

“I’ve been patient,” he muttered, mouth dragging down her throat. “Too patient.”

Her fingers fumbled for something—his shoulder, his hair, anything to hold onto. But it didn’t matter.

His hand slid down between them, tugging the fabric of her bikini to the side. She barely had time to register the touch before his fingers were brushing over her folds, already slick.

“You’re soaked.”

“Felix—”

“You’ve been walking around like this? All week?” He growled into her skin. “What if someone else had touched you first?”

“Then you should’ve gotten there sooner,” she snapped—then gasped as he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them deep.

Her legs buckled. He caught her with a low chuckle.

“No time for games now, quit talking like a Brat” he said, already shoving his shorts down just enough to free himself. She felt him—hot, thick, flushed against her inner thigh. Her eyes widened.

“Lift your leg. Yeah—like that.” He hooked one of her thighs over his hip, steadying her against the wall. “You’re gonna take me just like this.”

And then he pushed in.

Slow at first. Stretching her open inch by inch, until she cried out against his shoulder.

“Fuck—fuck—”

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groaned, dragging his hips back before slamming forward, filling her deep. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted me to ruin you.”

The words made her clench around him.

His rhythm built fast. Brutal. He was practically slamming her against the wall now, one hand gripping her thigh, the other braced beside her head, anchoring them both.

The storage shed echoed with the wet slap of skin on skin. Rescue boards rattled. A life vest fell from a shelf. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—just felt.

“Turn around.”

“What—?”

“Turn. Around. Now.”

He pulled out with a grunt, spun her to face the wall, and bent her forward over the stacked beach towels. The moment her hands hit the crate, he was inside her again, deeper this time—rougher.

“Look at you,” he hissed. “Moaning like a whore, letting me fuck you in a damn shed.”

She couldn’t even deny it. Her eyes rolled back when his hand slipped around her front to rub harsh circles on her clit.

The noises were filthy. The air stank of sex and sweat and sun.

And when she came—biting down on her arm to muffle the scream—he kept fucking her through it, chasing his own high until his breath hitched.

Then he pulled out and finished across the curve of her ass, panting like he’d just survived a shipwreck.

Silence.

Only the sound of their breathing.

Her knees gave out. He caught her again, wrapped her up against his chest as her body trembled.

“…We just had sex on a crate of lost-and-found goggles,” she croaked.

Felix kissed her temple. “Hot.”

His breath was still ragged when he kissed her again.

Not gentle.

Not soft.

It was needy.

Y/N barely had time to register it. Her head spun, her thighs still trembled from the first time, but Felix was already reaching for her again, dragging her bikini bottoms all the way down this time and letting them fall around her ankles. She shivered.

“F-Feel like jelly,” she whispered.

“Then let me hold you up.”

He turned her, pressed her back against the shed wall once more, and hoisted her effortlessly—her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

His cock was hard again. Already.

She stared at him, breathless. “How do you even—?”

“I told you I wasn’t done.”

And just like that—he was inside her again.

No warm-up. No mercy.

She cried out, arms wrapping around his neck as he slammed into her, the motion jarring and raw and insane, but her body took it. Welcomed it. Soaked for it.

The surfboards rattled. Sand fell from the shelves. A whistle clattered to the ground.

He buried his face in her neck, sweat dripping from his temple to her collarbone.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled. “Tight little pussy still clenching like she didn’t just milk me dry five minutes ago.”

She moaned and bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He fucked her harder.

The rhythm was relentless. The slap of his hips against her ass. Her heels digging into his back. Her hands desperately clawing at his lifeguard tank top. It was rougher than before—less about teasing, more about need.

She couldn’t even speak anymore.

Just moaned. Just whimpered.

His name on a loop in her mouth.

Felix. Felix. Felix.

“Gonna make you cum again,” he panted. “Wanna feel you squeeze me. Wanna hear those sweet little sounds you make when you lose it.”

“I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he snarled, and reached between them again, rubbing her clit with the kind of cruel rhythm that shattered her.

She came with a strangled gasp, head thrown back, nails digging into his shoulders.

But he didn’t stop.

Kept pounding into her while she was still spasming, overstimulated and whimpering, until he finally groaned her name and pulled out just in time—again—finishing hot and fast against her inner thigh with a choked moan.

They slumped against the wall together. Panting. Drenched. Shaking.

He looked down at her legs and laughed.

“You’re trembling.”

“No shit,” she mumbled into his chest. “I think my soul left my body halfway through.”

“I’m gonna have to carry you out of here.”

“Absolutely not.”

He kissed her again, this time softer. Lazy. Almost smug.

“…I love my life,” she whispered against his lips.

Felix grinned.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

POST-CREDIT SCENE (Wrap it up Marvel)

The air in the shed was thick—salt, sex, and shame clinging to the wooden beams.

Felix peeled a towel from the nearest crate and gently wiped between Y/N’s thighs, trying not to laugh when she squirmed.

“You okay?”

“No.” She was still breathless. “You broke me.”

“You’re walking. Eventually.”

He kissed her knee. Then her inner thigh. Then pulled her bikini bottoms back up, slow and gentle, like he hadn’t just ravaged her against the wall twice in a row.

He tucked himself back into his lifeguard shorts, ran a hand through his wild hair, and muttered, “We look so guilty.”

“We are guilty.”

She fixed her top, cheeks flushed, trying to rub some sand off her elbows with zero dignity left in her body. “I feel like I’ve got sunscreen in places it should never go.”

“Can i have your Number ?“ Felix interrupted her. She blinked at him. “I would even give you my Social Security Number“

Felix opened the shed door, the blinding sunlight making them both flinch like goblins.

Then—

“THERE you are!”

Yeji.

Standing ten feet away with a coconut in her hand and the biggest grin on her face.

Next to her—Chan. Shirtless. Holding a pool noodle like a sword.

Y/N froze.

Chan tilted his head. “You guys were gone for a while.”

Yeji took one look at Y/N’s flushed face, damp hair, and the towel clutched around her waist—and lost it.

Dropped her coconut. Fell to her knees. Screamed with laughter.

Y/N just stood there, mortified, as Yeji literally wheezed, gasping between fits:

“Your hair—your HAIR is still pressed flat on one side—you leaned against something! Oh my GOD—!”

Felix slid an arm around Y/N’s waist casually. “We were checking inventory.”

Chan raised an eyebrow. “In the shed?”

Felix: “A very… thorough inspection.”

The rest of the team started glancing over now. Hyunjin blinked at their reappearance, clocked the rumpled towel, the shell-shocked look on Y/N’s face—and immediately turned away, muttering, “Nope. Not my business.”

But Felix leaned into Y/N, kissed her hair, and whispered, “You good?”

She nodded. And then—louder, so everyone could hear:

“I love my life!”

She raised her Fist into the Air.

“I MADE IT ! The hard work paid OFF“

Felix snorted and pulled her to the Ocean to get her more Clean.

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #lee felix smut #stray kids #skz smut #stray kids smut

428 notes · View notes

multi-fandom-imagine · 27 days ago

Note

Poseidon (and possibly Zeus separately pleasee) x plus size reader with body worship mayhaps?

A/n: Back on my Epic obession

•Poseidon body worship with a plus size!reader•

The ocean waves crashed against the rocky shore, the air heavy with the scent of salt and sea. You stood at the edge of the water, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over your skin. The wind danced through your hair as you closed your eyes, feeling the pull of the sea deep within your soul.

Behind you, a low, rumbling voice echoed through the night, sending a shiver down your spine.

“My queen,” Poseidon’s voice was a rich, deep baritone that seemed to resonate through the very ground beneath your feet. You turned, and there he was—tall, powerful, a god made flesh. His eyes, the color of the deepest ocean, bore into yours as he strode toward you, water droplets glistening on his bronzed skin.

He reached you in two long strides, his massive hands cupping your face as he lowered his mouth to yours. The kiss was deep, consuming, leaving you breathless as he pulled away, his thumb stroking over your cheek.

“Why do you hide yourself from me?” he murmured, his voice a gentle chiding, yet filled with tenderness.

Your cheeks burned, the familiar heat of insecurity prickling at your skin. “I… I don’t,” you whispered, but your eyes fell to the ground. Poseidon’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening against your jaw, tilting your face back up to his.

“You do,” he said, a growl threading through his words. “You still don’t see yourself as I see you.”

Before you could protest, he stepped back, his hands gliding over your shoulders and down your arms, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He knelt before you, his large hands resting against your plush thighs as he gazed up at you, eyes dark and fierce.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice reverent. “Every inch of you is divine. Every curve, every dip, every valley—crafted by the gods themselves.”

His hands roamed up, cupping your hips and pulling you closer, pressing his lips to your stomach. He placed soft, lingering kisses there, his beard scratching against your sensitive skin. “These hips,” he murmured, his teeth grazing the soft flesh. “Made to bear my touch. To carry the weight of my love.”

His lips moved lower, tracing a line along your thighs, his hands massaging the soft flesh as he went. “These thighs,” he said, his voice husky as his mouth moved against your skin. “So strong. So perfect.”

You shivered, your knees buckling slightly as he continued to worship you, his lips trailing down to your calves, his large hands splaying against the back of your thighs, squeezing, holding.

“Do you know how badly I crave you?” he asked, his voice a rasp, his eyes blazing as he looked up at you from his knees. “Every night, every moment, all I think about is you. How soft you feel against me. How sweet you taste.”

He rose slowly, his hands gliding up your body, taking your dress with them until it slipped over your head, leaving you bare and trembling beneath the moonlight. Poseidon’s eyes roamed over you, a dark hunger burning in their depths as he reached for you, pulling you against him.

“My queen,” he whispered, his lips brushing over your ear. “You are mine. All of you.”

And as his lips claimed yours once more, his hands mapping every inch of your soft, beautiful body, you finally began to believe him.Poseidon’s lips moved down your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he trailed his way down to your collarbone. His teeth scraped against the delicate flesh, a low growl rumbling from his chest as his large hands roamed over your body, kneading and squeezing, exploring every inch of your softness.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice dripping with reverence. “So soft. So sweet.”

He dropped to his knees once more, his ocean-blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he looked up at you. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart as he pressed his face against your stomach, breathing in deeply. The sensation of his hot breath against your skin made you shiver, your legs trembling as he nuzzled you, his stubble grazing over the sensitive skin.

“Lean back,” he commanded, his voice a soft yet firm growl. “Let me worship you properly.”

You did as he asked, leaning back against the large, flat rock behind you, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat of his hands. Poseidon grasped your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spread you open before him, his gaze locked on your core.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with awe. “Every inch of you. Every. Single. Inch.”

He lowered his head, his warm breath ghosting over your inner thighs as he placed slow, deliberate kisses along the tender skin. His tongue flicked out, tracing a wet line up to the crease of your thigh before he nipped at the flesh, his teeth sinking in just enough to make you gasp.

“Mine,” he rumbled, his voice a dark, possessive rasp that shot straight through you.

His mouth moved closer, his thumbs spreading you open as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your folds. The warmth of his tongue flicked over you, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Poseidon,” you whimpered, your hips shifting against his face, seeking more.

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice a hot breath against you. “Let me take care of you.”

He pressed another kiss, then another, his tongue parting your folds as he licked a slow, languid stripe from your entrance to your clit. The sensation was electric, a bolt of pleasure that had you arching against him, your fingers threading through his dark hair.

Poseidon groaned against you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he wrapped his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer, holding you in place as he devoured you. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, swirling around your clit before dipping lower, plunging deep inside you.

You gasped, your head falling back against the rock, your legs trembling as he continued his relentless worship. His tongue worked you skillfully, every flick and swirl designed to drive you higher, to make you forget everything but the feel of his mouth on you.

“Gods,” he murmured against you, his voice thick and reverent. “You taste like the sea. Sweet and… perfect.”

He sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue circling the sensitive nub as he increased the pressure, his hands gripping your thighs tight enough to leave marks. Your hips bucked against him, a desperate whimper falling from your lips as he took you apart, inch by inch, with his mouth.

“Poseidon,” you gasped, your fingers tightening in his hair, your thighs quaking as the pleasure built, coiling tight and hot in your belly. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his voice a low, gravelly command. “You will.”

And with one last, devastating flick of his tongue, you shattered, the pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under as his mouth worked you through it, drinking in every drop, every moan, every shuddering breath.

When you finally came down, your chest heaving, your body limp and spent, Poseidon pressed one last lingering kiss against your sensitive flesh before he lifted his head, his mouth glistening with your essence.

He met your gaze, his eyes dark and wild, his lips curling into a wicked, satisfied grin.

“My queen,” he purred, rising to his feet and capturing your mouth in a searing, possessive kiss. “You taste like heaven.”

•Zeus body worship with a plus size!reader•

The sky crackled with electricity, the storm outside echoing the intensity of the god before you. Zeus stood tall, his powerful frame backlit by flashes of lightning, his golden eyes fixed on you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

You swallowed, your heart racing as he closed the distance between you, his large hands finding your waist and pulling you against his hard, muscled body. You gasped, your palms pressed against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“My goddess,” he murmured, his voice a deep, thunderous rasp that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “You are magnificent.”

His hands roamed over your hips, squeezing, caressing, reverent as though he were touching something divine. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over your ear. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to have you like this?”

Before you could respond, his lips were on your neck, hot and insistent, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, his tongue following in a soothing stroke.

“Look at you,” he said, his hands moving to your shoulders, sliding the straps of your dress down to expose your bare skin. The garment fell away, pooling at your feet, leaving you completely bare before him.

Zeus stepped back, his gaze raking over you, his eyes darkening as they took in every inch of your plush, curvy body. “A goddess,” he said, his voice thick with reverence. “My goddess.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, his thumbs circling your nipples in slow, deliberate strokes that sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core. “So perfect,” he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of each breast. “So beautiful.”

He dropped to his knees, his massive hands sliding down your sides, over your belly, to your hips. He squeezed, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh, groaning low in his throat. “These hips,” he said, leaning forward to press hot, wet kisses to your lower belly. “Made to take me. Made to bear my children.”

You shuddered, your hands tangling in his thick curls as he continued to trail kisses down your body. His tongue flicked out, tracing a path along the curve of your hip, his hands spreading your thighs apart as he settled between them.

“Lay back for me, goddess,” he commanded, his voice deep and authoritative. “Let me worship you.”

You did as he said, your back resting against the soft furs on the floor, your thighs trembling as Zeus positioned himself between them. He gazed up at you, his golden eyes molten, his expression fierce and reverent.

“You are perfection,” he said, his hands parting your thighs wider, exposing your soaked core to his hungry gaze. “Every inch of you, a masterpiece.”

Without another word, he lowered his head, his lips pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your folds. You gasped, your hips lifting off the furs as his tongue flicked out, tracing a wet, heated line up to your clit.

“Zeus,” you moaned, your fingers clutching his hair, your body arching beneath his mouth.

“Shh,” he soothed, his tongue circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. “Let me worship my goddess.”

He licked again, slow and torturous, the sensation sending a rush of heat pooling between your thighs. His hands gripped your hips, holding you still as he devoured you, his mouth moving over you in hot, wet strokes that had you gasping, writhing beneath him.

“Sweet,” he murmured, his voice a low, husky growl against your skin. “You taste so sweet.”

His tongue delved deeper, parting your folds, plunging inside you in deep, languid strokes that had you crying out, your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He growled against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice dark and possessive as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it in quick, merciless strokes. “Every inch of you. Mine.”

You cried out, your hips bucking against his face as he continued his relentless worship, his mouth working you with the skill and precision of a god. He feasted on you as though you were the only thing that could satisfy his insatiable hunger, his tongue delving deep, his lips wrapping around your clit as he sucked hard.

The pleasure built rapidly, a tight, coiling heat that spread through your entire body, consuming you. Your breaths came in quick, shallow pants, your body arching beneath his mouth as you teetered on the edge.

“That’s it,” Zeus growled, his voice a dark, sultry rasp. “Give it to me, goddess. Let me feel you come.”

And with one final, devastating flick of his tongue, you shattered, the pleasure exploding through you like a bolt of lightning. You cried out, your entire body convulsing as he held you down, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue lapping up every drop of your release as though he were a man starved.

When you finally came down, your chest heaving, your skin damp with sweat, Zeus lifted his head, his golden eyes blazing as he licked his lips, savoring the taste of you.

“My goddess,” he said, his voice thick with pride and possessive satisfaction. “You are everything.”

And the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the heavens and earth that mattered, you almost believed it.

313 notes · View notes

peachsayshi · 1 year ago

Text

₊ ⊹ . ݁ MILLION DOLLAR BABY ₊ ⊹ .

(sex worker!suguru geto x rich girl!reader)

⊹ tags: suguru geto x female reader; nanami kento x satoru; sukuna is reader's ex; character mentions: yuki, mei mei, shoko, toji; alludes to dd/lg relationship (very very mildly) with sukuna; a mix of angst/smut/fluff; domestic; non curse au; reader was in a toxic relationship; reader has daddy issues a bit lol; mentions of troubled past; mentions of death (parental)

:about: you grew up in a supremely wealthy household, but that came with a price. you’ve never had control over your own life, and now your father is set to marry you off. luckily, there's someone else who captures your heart. what does it matter that you pay him for his company?

:note: hi, everyone! this story is finally here, and it's one that's taken me forever to work but I actually loved this piece. I haven't been excited about something I've written in a while. I hope it lives up to all your expectations. comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3 - this fic is one shot, and I am willing to explore stories with the side characters. I'll happily answer any lore questions regarding sex worker geto x rich girl reader, but there will not be a part two or more parts of their story. It is a standalone.

wc: 14K+

The ceiling is covered with hanging irises, each one carefully handcrafted in paper. Edison bulbs dip down from between in staggering heights, illuminating the bar around you in warm light. It’s crowded tonight, clinking glasses and roaring laugher bouncing off the walls and clashing against the bass coming through the speakers. You scan the crowd, anticipation making your stomach flutter, but it quickly eases when you spot a head of golden hair among the audience.

Nanami is at the bar, looking dapper as usual in a chocolate brown suit offset by a cream colored shirt. He’s drinking a whiskey when you approach him, the amber liquid mirroring the touch of bronze on his cheekbones. You sling your designer purse off your shoulder (the latest splurge of the week) and slide into the seat right next to him.

“And how was your vacation?” you ask, greeting him with a question and noticing his mouth draw into a firm line.

“Let’s not talk about it,” he insists, his eyes a little sad which only makes your stomach ache at the sight.

He’s your closest friend - the only real friend you have. Kento Nanami doesn’t carry two faces. He sticks to the one that he has. As one of the top investors in the country, he made a name by keeping the rich wealthy. He loathes his job and the pressures surrounding it - a walking hypocrite for despising the life that lines his pockets.

He can’t find an escape no matter how hard he tries.

And that's why you’re both two peas in a pod.

He does, however, like you - not because of your background, but because you don’t try to be something that you are not as well. In a world where you are surrounded by parasites, Kento proved to be a nearly extinct butterfly, quietly fluttering by your side as you both drift across the harsh jungle around you.

You concede, knowing better than to push his buttons. “Okay, I guess we aren’t talking about it…”

“Tell me something else. Do you ever know how to walk into the room and not be the center of attention?”

You smirk as he calls the waiter over. Your presence easing the twinge of disdain on his face.

“What are you trying to say, hmm?”

“You look nice tonight. New dress?”

“New dress, new bag, new nails...” you list off, showing off each expensive purchase as you check them off your list.

Nanami shakes his head playfully before ordering your usual once the bartender approaches. He angles his body towards you and breathes out a heavy sigh.

“How are you?” He asks, genuine concern masking his face.

Your shoulders drop. “I don’t want to talk about it…”

His expression softens, one hand moving to touch your thigh exposed by the slit of your dress.

“When do you meet Naoya?”

He’s the only other person who knows about the pending engagement. The only person who offered you a way out by proposing instead. Despite his stance within the social community, you know that it’s not an offer that you can easily accept.

Kento wasn’t bred into this world, and that makes all the difference.

Your father would never accept a man from such a humble background. Especially not one whose offer wouldn't benefit him by any means.

“A few weeks from now,” you reply, eyes shifting to the bartender who passes your drink towards you. “He’s given my father specifications on how I should be presented…”

Your friend scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Pardon my vulgarity but he just sounds like the kind of guy who wants to swing his dick around. I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up tonight…”

The opening of the Ayame Lounge & Bar was invite only, exclusive to socialites and the elite. You know that Naoya must have received an invitation, everyone from the Zen’in family was here in attendance including the infamous outcast Toji.

“He wouldn’t be caught dead here,” you inform, picking up your beverage and taking a small sip. “Naoya likes to uphold “tradition” but we all know it’s just a facade.”

Kento’s thumb strokes your skin tenderly, worry ingrained in his gentle eyes.

The two of you spend the night talking, catching up on the little things since his return from a two week vacation in Malaysia. He keeps the conversation light, telling you about his fantastic accommodation and all the food that he ate while he was away. In between you find yourself glancing over his shoulder, your eye on the crowd taking in the people around you.

That’s when you spot him, standing just a few feet away, looking like a demigod among mere aristocrats. His hair is pulled back into a neat bun, a layer of his bangs kissing his forehead. His face is serious, jaw tight and eyes sharp as he focuses on his white haired counterpart. The black tee hugs his torso, his neat slacks cinched by the waist with a leather belt. You can’t help but bite your bottom lip, your mind drifting away from the conversation at hand.

Your friend notices, of course. Kento is so tuned in to everything around him that he almost can’t help himself. He glances over his shoulder to see what caught your attention, only to instantly turn back around and stare at the whiskey glass on the table.

The tips of his ears burn red.

You register the response, knowing exactly what struck him to react in that way.

Satoru Gojo - former porn star, turned model, turned mega influencer. With a follower count in the hundreds of millions, he is the world’s hottest it boy. Nobody can deny his sheer beauty - whenever he walks into a room, he manages to steal a glance from every single person within his vicinity. Due to a rare genetic condition, his sapphire blue eyes and frosty white hair earned him the title of “The Prince”, and the people were desperate to share a place by his side.

Suguru and Satoru were also the best of friends, a fact that Suguru revealed to you one night in bed. The two of them met on set, back when Satoru was still doing adult films. At the time, Suguru was just a camera man and it was Satoru who told him he could increase his earnings if he just performed instead.

You remember telling Suguru: “it’s crazy how quickly his life changed”

“Some people are just lucky,” he responded, though you easily picked up the bitterness laced in his words.

What most people don’t know is that Satoru Gojo is also involved with the man seated right next to you. You stumbled upon Nanami’s secret affair by accident when the two of you attended a resort opening by hotel heiress, Yuki Tsukumo. Everyone was invited to stay overnight for the weekend, and the morning after your first night there, you walked over towards Nanami’s room to grab some breakfast. He greeted you in a grey robe with his hair tousled, with hickeys trailing the side of his neck. You quirked a brow in his direction, your mouth forming into a blatant circle when you found Satoru Gojo fast asleep on his bed right behind him.

The man in question looks away from Suguru towards you and Kento. His brows lifting in surprise when he spots your golden haired friend, but your eyes rest on Suguru who gestures that he will catch Satoru around.

They both walk in opposite directions.

You take a sip of your drink, your eyes shifting to Nanami.

“You’ve got about five seconds to figure out what you want to say because Satoru is walking over here as we speak,” you inform.

He exhales and straightens his back, his guard entirely up.

You smile at Satoru when he approaches you, his pearly whites radiant as always.

“Hi!” He says casually, though you can hear a touch of apprehension in his voice. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Not at all!” you respond, “Can I get you a refill?”

His cheeks blush a subtle shade of pink, the tiny gesture making you understand how easily it is to fawn over such a beautiful face. “It’s just soda, but sure”

“Not drinking tonight?” You continue, glancing between him and Nanami as you wait for your friend to interject.

“Actually, I’m three years sober,” he explains.

“Good for you!” You cheer honestly, before turning to the bartender and ordering him another soda.

From your peripheral vision you see him inch closer towards your friend.

“I haven’t heard from you in a while,” he states, though his voice comes across as a little small.

“I’ve been busy,” Nanami curtly replies, and your brows furrow at his unusual tone.

“Too busy to even say hi?” Satoru continues, his voice low enough that only the three of you can hear each other.

“Aren’t you here with a date?” Nanami chides, glancing up at him with a mocking eye.

“Utahime isn’t my date, we both got invited together by our agency…” Satoru answers through gritted teeth. “Besides, I was hoping to spend time with you. I haven’t heard from you since Kuantan…”

Nanami’s face burns an even brighter shade of crimson, the intimacy of Satoru’s comment flaring his humiliation.

“Come on,” the white haired prince teases, attempting to ease the discomfort. “Don’t be such a grump. Let’s go outside. Get a little fresh air.”

You can see that people are starting to stare at the three of you.

Wherever Satoru goes, eyes follow him.

While he may be immune to the attention, you can clearly see that Nanami is not.

“No, thank you.”

“What? You going to make me beg?” Satoru presses cheekily, but there is a twinge of desperation in his voice.

“Begging is not difficult for somebody like you,” Nanami bites, and you can’t help but glare at him in shock.

“Kento!” you chastise, but the look on his face speaks volumes.

Regret.

Instantaneous Regret.

In front of him is a visible hurt that breaks Satoru’s face, like paint slowly chipping away. His eyes gloss over, and he anxiously rubs his hand over the back of his undercut before excusing himself and turning on his heel.

Nanami covers his face with his palm, while you can only stare at him in disbelief.

“How can you say that to him? I thought you liked him!” You whisper.

“I-I didn’t mean to-”

“You act like you’re ashamed of him whenever he’s around you…”

Nanami avoids your eye, “How do you think this makes me look? I can’t have people seeing us together. I don’t want the world to swallow me up just because he prefers being gawked at by everyone around him”

“That’s his job - it’s how he earns a living. I can’t believe you would degrade him over it,” you shake your head, unaware of where your sudden defenses are coming from.

“I know that…”

“Is that why you don’t want to talk about your trip? Did something happen?”

The man grows quiet, a sigh escaping him.

“I broke up with him”

“You what?” You gasp.

“It'll never work. Our lives are too different”

“You didn’t even give him a chance, Ken. He likes you. He really, really likes you.”

“What chance is there to give? My life would come apart because of him. He would never be truly mine. I would have to share him with the rest of the world day in and day out. And the worst part is that…what should be intimate between us will never be ours either. Do you know that he’s still the highest streamed porn star in the world-”

“He’s just a person. A person like me and you. Neither one of us chose this life. I didn’t ask to be born into my family, and you weren’t asked to save yours from debt. Yet, here we are. Existing in a world that we had to carve out for ourselves. Don’t you think the same applies to him?”

You take another sip of your drink, your cheeks warming with anger at your friend’s condescending tone towards Satoru.

Although, you find your reasons for defending him to be far more self serving.

“So what if he sells his body? That’s his choice to make. Does it change anything else about him? Does it change his feelings for you?” You lecture, “I can’t believe that you be this ungrateful over skewed morals. If you both care about each other, there is no reason why you can’t be together. Take it from somebody who’ll probably never get the chance. This isn’t something you want to simply let go of, Kento. You’ll regret this decision for the rest of your life.”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Nanami downs his whiskey and excuses himself then, your words stinging the microscopic cuts on his heart. You find yourself a little flustered after watching him walk away, unsure of where that outburst even came from.

The eyes surrounding you look away.

You know you’ve given everyone within your peripheral area a story to gossip about. One that would be twisted and chewed until there is no morsel of truth left in it.

Your drink gives you enough liquid courage to socialize and face the music instead.

You steer your way through the crowd hoping to find one person in particular, but instead you are caught among the net of cliques, old faces, and fake friends. You manage to bypass any pointed questions, passing through each conversation with a forced grin and entertaining the discussions at hand with fluffy anecdotes and petty rumours.

When you walk away, you know full well that there will be whispers behind your back.

That’s the give and take about this world. Everyone is a vulture secretly waiting to witness the rise and fall of those around them. It’s a vicious circle, which is why nobody ever reveals their true hand in the process.

You glance around the room, honing in on the handsome dark haired boy you’ve grown entirely too attached too except you spot someone else in between who makes your spine seize.

Your toes curl in your pointed heels.

Your heart stutters unsteadily.

Blushed strands, a wolfish grin, and a broad build - Sukuna always takes up far more room than he needs.

You personally believe it’s because his ego is so massive it requires that extra space.

You haven’t seen the man in five years, not after the messy relationship that that followed your even messier break up.

You should have known better than to get involved with him while still so young.

You remember that version of you. When you first met Sukuna, you were a small rabbit who had accidentally hopped its way into a lone wolf’s den. Twenty one and just embracing the glitz and glamor of the world around you. The man was charming, flirtatious and most of all dangerous. You couldn’t help but return to his lair, especially when he would take the time and effort to approach you at every function, party and gathering that you attended. When you think about your relationship with Sukuna, it fills you with shame until you can only drown in it. There is a reason why you’ve kept it a secret for so long. Even staring at him right now, the dishonor hangs on your shoulder like a weighted sin that you’re burdened to carry for the rest of your life. Every time it hits, the memories play like a movie on hyper speed.

How often you allowed him to spill his seed all over your body. How often he brought you to tears with his tongue between your legs. How often you would moan the words “daddy” over and over again while riding him. How often you let him manipulate your heart. How often you let him convince you that you were happy.

That twisted relationship was testament to how broken you were.

You didn’t even know about his wife who lived in Kyoto until it was far too late.

Your instinct tells you to turn on your heel and walk in the other direction, but you catch Suguru just up ahead in the crowd and your courage outweighs your hesitation.

You manage to stride past Sukuna, a darting feline scurrying towards the safety of a shadow. Your hammering heart steadies itself when the trail of his strong cologne is a safe distance behind you. You nervously clutch onto the strap of your purse, exhaling a quick breath before marching up to Suguru.

You tap his shoulder twice.

He spins around, eyes lifting as a smile spreads across his handsome face.

Like a full moon on a clear night sky.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise.”

“I sure hope so,” you remark, biting your bottom lip playfully as you glance at your own feet.

Suguru chuckles, taking a step closer. “It is.”

You glance up at him from underneath your lashes, your heart vibrating with pure excitement. You think it’s silly to have such a schoolgirl infatuation over him, especially since you understood the terms that surrounding your relationship.

You pay him for his company.

You aren’t supposed to have a crush on man who you employ to have to sex with you.

Yet, your gut tells you otherwise. Convinces you that the softness in which he speaks is reserved only for you.

“Are you here with anyone?” You ask a little breathlessly, hoping that you weren’t interrupting him working.

Suguru shakes his head.

“Satoru invited me,” he clarifies, and it’s an answer that only makes you giddy.

“Oh!” You squeak, “well that’s nice. It’s a really exclusive party, make sure you to take it in…”

His eyes blatantly fall over you, cascading down your body like ink dripping over a canvas.

Your cheeks warm.

He’s not even hiding that he’s checking you out, and it triggers the wild desire within you.

“Are you here alone?” He questions.

You nod your head, knowing full well that Kento is probably in the midst of a heated conversation with his distraught lover and won’t be returning anytime soon.

“Why don’t you join us then?” He adds, cocking his head to point at the table behind him.

You glance over his shoulder, barely recognizing the crowd.

A fact that seems ideal to you.

“I’d love to,” you say with a pretty smile, all the while Suguru’s eyes continue sparkling.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The last time you saw Suguru was a few weeks ago, where your heavy heart spilled the news of your pending engagement.

“An arranged marriage, huh?” he whispered in the dark, his sharp eyes dipping to your naked chest while his delicate fingers carefully pushed the bedsheet further down to your hips.

You inched a little closer into his frame, soaking in the outlines of his chiseled torso and bringing one finger to trace little shapes on his broad shoulder.

Your brows furrowed with annoyance, “yeah, ever heard of the Zen’in family?”

Suguru scoffed, breaking character for only a second but it’s something that you’ve caught him doing more recently. He doesn’t hold his reactions around you as tightly as he used to. The front of this alter ego that he created faltering, which is probably why you find yourself drawn to the person existing underneath the mask of the seducer.

You sigh before continuing your explanation, “my father thinks Naoya Zen’in is a perfect match for me.”

An uneasy expression flickered across Suguru’s face, but he suppresses it before allowing it to linger.

You lifted yourself up onto your elbow and rest your cheek on your palm. “What is it?”

Suguru mirrors your position, his large hand gliding back and forth over the slope of your hips and waistline which sent goosebumps all over your body. “I’ve heard that Naoya…” Suguru stated, pinching the pads of his fingers lightly against your flesh before leaning forward to kiss the crease between your brows, “can be a handful to deal with…”

You thread your fingers around his neck, your lips finding his jaw where you return a kiss. “And who told you that?” you murmured as the weight of Suguru’s body rolls on top of yours.

You were staring at his devastatingly handsome face from below. The longer you spent time with him the more you began to wonder about his circumstances and a reoccurring thought crossed your mind once more.

Suguru could truly be anything he wanted, but instead he was here making a killing off of fucking lonely women and porn videos.

You don’t judge his choices, but you couldn't help but feel puzzled by the situation especially when you knew the trajectory of his best friend’s career path.

One photo shoot at a mid-level fashion brand skyrocketed Satoru Gojo’s career and made him a household name. Yet, Suguru Geto was a taboo that was whispered behind closed doors.

“I have a client who likes to gossip,” he admitted.

That’s all you got because Suguru kept everything else about his clients confidential. You shivered when his mouth met your neck, his lips sucking along the tender skin that sent goosebumps all over your chest, but there’s an ache in your heart when you consider that if it wasn’t for the signed cheque in your purse, he wouldn’t even be here in the first place.

Not a single man you’ve met in the world compared to Suguru. You’ve never known how sweet lovemaking can be until he fucked you for the time. Not only was he beautiful beyond comprehension, but he was charming and extremely smart. You found yourself enjoying his company beyond physical purposes, and conversations with him turned out to be one of your favorite ways to pass time.

“Think we’ll still get together when you’re a missus?” he teased, his lips trailing lower to your collar bones and hovering just a above your breasts.

The thought of you getting married only made you sick.

“Do you peg me as a terrible wife? a woman who would happily cheat on her husband?” you questioned, your voice trembling when Suguru circled his lips around your hard nipple.

He hummed, drawing out a whimper when he nipped at the bud lightly, his tongue gliding over the hardened nub.

“No,” he answered, his voice dropping an octave and your mind swirled when you contemplate if that strange tone is actually jealousy. He rested his chin on your chest, his inky hair framing his face in a waterfall of obsidian. “I do, however, peg Naoya as a terrible husband.”

You sank your fingers into his locks, “it doesn’t matter who my father chooses. All these men are the same. Naoya is no worse than the rest. I’m trapped regardless…”

It was the first time you allowed yourself to think about Sukuna when in bed with Suguru. The first time you thought about the last four years and the many men who tried to weasel their way into your heart just for the sake of obtaining status. The discomfort is written plainly on your face. Suguru doesn’t know that seeking him out was your way of taking matters into your own hands, even in just the smallest way.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he responded sincerely, the kindness in his voice the reason why your eyes prick with tears.

You sniffled, using your free hand to wipe away a rogue droplet that freely falls down your cheek. Suguru adjusted his position so he was lying by your side. He didn't say anything but draws you into his chest for a hug, enveloping you in his warmth. You tried hard not to consider the reality of the situation, and accept the gesture freely as you cuddle him.

But the moment of peace is interrupted by a loud vibration. You and Suguru both perked up to stare at his phone buzzing on the side table.

Your heart sank.

Another client.

Suguru reached his arm around to grab the phone, and you closed your eyes to inhale his natural scent, trying to soak him in for as long as you can before he leaves you like he’s done many times before.

To your surprise he simply switched it off, before proceeding to wrap his arm back around you to return to his position.

“You sure you don’t need to take that?” you mumbled, trying to play off your disappointment as casually as possible.

“I’m booked out for the rest of the evening,” he answered nonchalantly, “there’s no reason to respond.”

A tickle in your belly sent sparks all over your skin. “but your cheque only covers the hours we agreed on…”

Two fingers touched the underside of your chin, and Suguru tilted your head up so you were both face to face again. “Don’t worry about it,” he consoled, his thumb lightly outlining your bottom lip, “this is on the house.”

What bliss it was to fall asleep in his arms that night. You recall waking up right before dawn to find him in deep slumber, his strong arm draped protectively across your body with the heat cocooning you from the rest of the world.

Disappointment shattered you the next morning, when you were greeted by the sun and an empty bed.

You’re not sure when Suguru had snuck out, but you were puzzled to find that your cheque was still tucked away safely in your purse.

It was the first time he walked away without any payment.

You still vividly remember his reaction when he met you just a little over a year ago.

“You’re young,” he blurted, his eyes widening with confusion.

“We’re around the same age,” you replied defensively, already feeling insecure for having hired him after spending weeks watching his videos. You didn’t even know about his house calls until you heard it from a source within your social circle. "Is this how you greet all your clients?”

Suguru raised his brow in contemplation, “my other clients don’t look like you…”

Over time you learned that he catered to a specific demographic: older divorcees and cheating housewives.

The person you might turn into years from now if this marriage goes through.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

After that night you told yourself that you would schedule another meeting with Suguru to compensate him for his last session.

Right now, all you can think about is your heart hammering when Suguru subtly interlaces his fingers with your own, and leads you through the crowd until you both find a safe spot on the corner of the lounge chair. His group is far too engrossed in their own conversations to notice you both, drunk on the buzzing night and enjoying the many amenities of this exclusive party.

“You look nice,” you compliment, catching Suguru’s attention while trying to ignoring his knees bumping against yours.

“As do you,” he replies, his voice smoother than velvet. “But you don’t need me to tell you that you’re gorgeous.”

Oh but I do, you think, masking your excitement with a giggle and casual roll of your eyes. I could hear you tell me that forever.

Suguru shyly looks down at his lap, hiding his own smile.

It’s strange, you think, how the two of you are talking. Like this man hasn’t been inside you multiple times and made you cum until you can’t think straight. Like he doesn’t know your body in the most intimate sense.

Like you don’t fund a decent chunk of his salary.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

Suguru shrugs, “It’s not too bad. Though, I’m not one for big crowds if I am being completely honest...”

“Makes sense. I don’ get a kick out of it as much as I used to.”

Suguru angles his body to face you, giving you his full attention. “Why’s that?”

You sigh, your hands suddenly feeling empty without a drink. You sling your purse off your shoulder and place it between you both, before proceeding to fiddle with the fabric of your dress instead.

You can lie, but you don’t know how.

Well, you don’t know how to lie with him.

Something about starting this contract with Suguru unveiled a level of vulnerability in you that you can’t seem to hide. The first night you both spent together you were a nervous wreck, stumbling and bumbling over words trying to find excuse after excuse as to why a woman of your age would even hire him. By your third appointment, you asked if he could be slow and gentle with you, the emotional scars of your previous relationship a stinging wound. You were desperate for tenderness, and Suguru obliged with your request. By the end you found yourself reaching your climax with tears in your eyes.

If you were to list out more moments like this, you would simply go on and on.

You can’t hide your truth with Suguru when it was the first thing you’ve ever shown him.

“Because it’s a constant reminder that I can be in a room full of people I know and still feel incredibly alone…” you mumble, your gaze catching his.

His hand finds your thighs, the warmth of his large palm burning through the fabric of your dress.

“You’re not alone tonight, sweetheart,” he reassures.

“You don’t have to be so nice…” you insist, suddenly self conscious over his flattery. The same sweetness he bestows upon you when you’re both locked away in a hotel room somewhere, but you didn’t sign off on any bonus transactions tonight.

He squeezes your thigh and tilts his head. “But I like being nice to you”

He says it so matter of factly it almost makes you faint.

Your brows upturn with confusion. “Why?”

His touch expands upward, grazing over the curve of your thigh, bunching the material of your dress between his fingers. He leans closer, the scent of bergamot wafting up your nose and kissing your neck.

“Look there,” he states, and you follow the line of his gaze.

“That woman has been married for fifteen years and her husband never got her off once. And that woman…” he continues, shifting his eyes from body to body, “has a birth mark just above her hip bone. And at the table right behind us,”

When you turn your face you accidentally bump into the tip of his nose.

“...are two sisters who pretend they get along well but are currently in a massive fight over their inheritance”

Your stomach coils with jealousy. “Acquaintances of yours?”

Suguru leans back slightly, giving you both room to breathe.

“Yes, clients…” he confirms, “there’s a few of them here tonight, but you’re the only one who acknowledges me. I’m just a dirty little secret to the rest.”

Your envy dwindles into sympathy, and you can’t help but let the question slip.

“How does that make you feel?”

There’s a twitch in Suguru’s jaw, a hint of scarred pride. You know he has plenty of it, he just hides it well.

The man shrugs, averting his sharp gaze as he downs the rest of his drink. “It is what it is”

Oh, but that response doesn’t nothing to help your heart, the muscle practically screaming at your brain to do so something and make him feel better.

Mindlessly, you loop both arms around his bicep, casually resting your chin on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel that way...”

You’re not sure why you’re apologizing, but you’re hoping it’ll mean something to him. He turns to face you, and if he inched a little closer he could probably kiss you.

“You are an enigma to me”

“In what way?”

He brushes his lips past your own, making you catch your breath for a moment. His mouth trails its way up to your ear, and he whispers a sentence that sends goosebumps running all over your body.

“In the way that how a woman like you can fit in a life like this”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The night carries on, the pulse of hedonism sending reverberations across the establishment. The crowd grows larger, the air a potion of liquor, expensive cologne, sweat and pleasure. The lights dim, inducing everyone into the trance of the ambience set around them, allowing them to indulge and consume. Your conversation with Suguru feels like minutes, but two whole hours pass with the both you concealed from the crowd. You’re almost mesmerized by him when he talks, cast under an entirely different spell that seems to effect nobody else. His touches turn more intimate the longer you speak, with Suguru securing his arm around your waist and leaning back against the chair as he keeps you tucked into his frame.

That’s another thing you started noticing - how this man likes to hold you.

He even did it when you were in bed together last.

And the time before that.

And the time before that-

If you weren’t surrounded by so many eyes you would simply curl into him, but you find yourself restraining while thinking of what excuse might work to get you both out of here because you just want to be alone with him.

“Can I get you a drink?” Suguru offers, a wave of disappointment rolling into you as he untangles himself slowly.

“Just some water...”

Suguru kisses the inside of your wrist with the reassurance that he’ll be right back, but the public display only makes your cheeks bloom with endearment.

“Got it”

When he stands up and walks away is when you notice how the crowd around you has dispersed. Most of Suguru’s party were gone - standing either by the bar or caught in the middle of the dance floor. You can see that there were a few shifty eyes staring at you, and a lump forms in your throat when you realize that by allowing yourself to melt into Suguru it meant that you revealed your weakness to the rest of the wild.

You take a second to readjust - fixing the hem of your dress before pulling out your pocket mirror and reapplying your lipstick. You fight off any anxious thoughts, sticking a big metaphorical middle finger to whoever was watching you with any hint of judgement.

Your care for Suguru outweighed their own by tons.

You just didn’t know how far you had let your guard down until a strange shadow veils over you.

“Red still looks good on you.”

Your heart doesn’t sink, it seizes, collapses into itself when you drop the mirror in your hand. His dark chuckle makes your spine tingle with unease. Sukuna kneels to pick up your mirror, his devilish smiling greeting you as you swallow the lump in your throat.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” He teases, huffing out another laugh when you snatch the pocket mirror from his hand and quickly throw your things back into your purse.

“I have to go.”

You bolt onto your feet, only to pause when his contact scorches your forearm.

“What’s the rush? I’m just saying hi.”

You shrug him off aggressively, eyes violent and full of fury.

“I don’t want to say hi to you. As a matter of fact, I hope that we never have to speak again.”

“C’mon doll, don’t be like that. It’s water under the bridge…”

His nonchalance enrages in you ways that you can’t describe, but rather than make a scene you smoothly shove him aside before uttering “asshole” and storming off towards the bar.

Your frantic eyes search for your solace, of the man who can suture any wound that’s in desperate need of healing. You spot him from behind, noticing that he is speaking to a friend, his shoulder leaning on the bar as he patiently waits to pick up the drinks like he promised. Refusing to look back because you know Sukuna is probably on your trail, you breathe out your apprehension to compose yourself and keep one hand securely on your purse before steadily making your way towards to Suguru.

You hear the two of them as you draw closer, unintentionally eavesdropping on the conversation at hand.

“Who’s the chick?” his friend asks.

“A friend.” Suguru replies.

“Which friend?” they press.

“None of your business…”

“Ah, one of your desperate clients I’m guessing?”

You cease before making your presence known.

Stunned; your face boiling with embarrassment.

“Shut up.”

“It’s so obvious, Suguru-” his friend scoffs, “she’s practically crawling on your lap. It’s fucking pathetic, don’t you think?”

Pathetic?

The word splits you into half.

Is that how Suguru sees you?

Is that how everyone else does to?

Something clicks then, every memory and act of kindness tainted with the thought the man was simply pitying you. That the root of his good-hearted nature was merely sympathy towards a sad, broken little rich girl.

Suguru picks up the drink, mumbling a “fuck off” before turning on his heel only to find you standing there stupefied by his friend’s demeaning commentary. Only an idiot would assume that you probably didn’t hear a thing, but Suguru is far smarter than that. Whatever trace of the mask he’s been wearing dissipates then, and you see the genuine concern on his face. He parts his lips but you’re too wounded for an explanation, and you instantly dash past both of them, excusing yourself politely before speed walking your way towards the exit.

You can hear him call out your name, but there is no way you would let that man see you crying after what was just said.

Of course he doesn’t like me, you self-consciously deliberate, I pay him to fuck me.

I pay him to fucking like me.

A sob leaves you, and you cover your mouth with the back of your hand as you rush past the bouncer and dart out the front door, leaving a crowd of people staring at you with confusion. All of them hoping to make their way inside.

“Must be drunk,” one person says, while another screams at the bouncer “hey, can you let us in?! Someone just left!”

You strut down the street, desperately trying to maintain your balance as you dab your eyes lest your tears ruin your make up. You hear someone call out your name, half hopeful that it might Suguru but when you glance over your shoulder all you see is the dreadful sight of your ex-boyfriend.

You keep walking. “Don’t follow me.”

Sukuna is quick to catch up, practically jogging down the street and you curse your choice in footwear for slowing you down.

“Then don’t keep running away.”

You halt, the man nearly colliding into you from behind.

“What?!” you spit out as you glare up at him. “What do you want from me?”

Sukuna arches his brow, the smell of whiskey sticking to him. “The fuck got you so worked up?”

You wipe away any leftover tears, your indignation towards this man overriding all other emotions.

“None of your fucking business…”

Sukuna reaches for your elbow, “Let’s not be testy. My car is in front of the bar. Let me take you home.”

You already caught that eye sore of a ridiculously expensive sports car when you stepped out of club. “I’d rather walk home barefoot on a bed of hot coals then go anywhere with you.”

“Don’t be like that, kitten…”

“Don’t,” you snapped, “call me that.”

“You know I still nothing but love for you, right?” He slurs mildly, “Let me take you back to my place and we can talk-”

His thumb grazes your elbow gently. Once upon a time you actually believed that his affection was real, but you’re older and wiser to know the truth now. “You miss my pussy,” you crudely admonish, “you don’t give a fuck about me.”

He pinches your elbow with mild irritation. “Why don’t you tuck those claws back. I’m trying to have a fucking conversation.”

“If a conversation is what you want, then speak to your fucking wife-” you hiss, striking a cord that makes Sukuna furrow his brows which brings you an odd sense of satisfaction.

His face falls.

You huff with approval.

“What?” your mock, “cat got your tongue?”

“Is everything alright?”

You and Sukuna both halt, your heads twisting to face whoever spoke with Sukuna letting go of you faster than you can even blink. You only catch a tiny glimpse of his fear, the terror that somebody caught him in the act.

Thankfully, it was only Suguru.

Your body hums with relief.

One hand is in his pocket, the other keeping a helmet tucked under his wing. His stance is relaxed but his irises are piercing daggers sinking into Sukuna’s skull.

“Everything’s fine-” Sukuna insists.

“Suguru,” you call out at the same time, instantly going to him and finding your place by his side.

The word pathetic hammers in the back of your mind but you need deal with one problem at a time, and right now you don’t care about looking desperate if it means escaping the shackles of Ryomen Sukuna.

Suguru’s eyes don’t leave your ex-lover, but he inches closer towards you to assert his ground.

Sukuna frowns, the expression on his face all too familiar.

You clutch Suguru’s sleeve, “Nothing to fret over. Do you mind taking me home?”

He turns to face you, a mixture of worry with a flare of anger on that handsome face.

“Yeah, I’ll take you home.”

“Tsk,” Sukuna grumbles with frustration, “Don’t cheapen yourself by fucking off with some whore…”

A static shock trickles each point of the triangle where you all stand. The hair on the back of your neck stands upright, your attention moving to Suguru whose entire face darkens with a fury that you’ve never seen before. He steps forward, his helmet dropping to his hand like he’s ready to wield it as a weapon, and the target is the spot on Sukuna’s skull that he’s been carefully observing. Your vision goes white imagining the outcome of this blow out, and you can practically hear the crack of the impact if Suguru follows through.

Despite how much he deserved it, you know just how powerful Sukuna is.

He would ruin Suguru without any remorse.

“Suguru,” you beg, stepping forward and clutching onto his shirt as you reel him away from the man before you.

His nostrils flare, the intoxicating poison of wrath swirling in his irises which quickly diffuses upon finding you.

“Take me home?” You softly repeat, earnest and sincere, all the while erasing Sukuna from your presence entirely.

It only takes a few seconds for Suguru to register your request, but he complies by reaching for your hand and knotting his fingers between your own. He grips it protectively, eyes looking straight ahead as he leads you down the street and far away from the chaos behind you.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

The patter of your feet colliding onto the concrete surface echoes around you. A part of you is embarrassed, the other ashamed, a third grateful while a fourth shivers anxiously. You’re thankful that Suguru is at least allowing the silence to linger because it’s giving you a chance to settle from the roller coaster of emotions you just experienced. You try not to think about the pressure of his grip, or how the length of his fingers are wrapped securely around yours and instead piece together some semblance of an explanation worthy for him to listen to.

You eventually decide that you’ll just grab a cab back to your place. That you’ll thank Suguru for playing the role of rescuer, and hand off the cheque that you’ve been holding onto. You won’t be a burden, bother him any longer or a do anything else to force his empathy.

Suguru pauses in front of a jet black motorbike. The color itself blending into the darkness around you. You clear your throat ready to make your declaration, but you’re silenced when you feel the weight of his helmet press against your palms.

“Wear this,” he commands. “I’ll take you to my place.”

Your mouth goes slack, your practiced words shrinking to the back of your throat.

His place.

“Your place?” You find yourself whispering your thoughts out loud.

Suguru reaches for the handle of his bike, tapping his index finger against it, his back facing you. “If you want.”

He hops on before searching you for an answer. The look animates you back to reality and you nod your head before swiftly putting on the helmet. You find your place behind him, taking a second longer to adjust in your dress. You knot your arms around his waist, your eyes noting his exposed head.

“You don’t have a helmet.” You point out.

“I don’t live that far,” he answers back, “besides, I didn’t think I’d be traveling with precious cargo.”

He taps his palm over your clasped hands. “Hold tight for me, alright?”

You nod your head, covering your face with the shield visor before resting your cheek against his back.

Suguru takes off.

The wind whips against your bare arms, the pressure sweeping between your legs as Suguru swerves between each lane. The city blurs into vivid colors, only resurfacing when you come to an immediate halt at the traffic light. The adrenaline courses through your veins, the exhilarating sensation a thrill that you’ve never experienced before. Unfortunately, the journey was short lived and within twenty minutes you find yourself coming to a halt in an underground parking lot.

Suguru parks the bike, hopping off before reaching his hand out to assist you.

Your legs felt like jelly when it hits the surface, and you tumble on your own footing as Suguru reaches his other hand out to steady you by holding your waist.

“You okay? Was I going to fast?”

You take off the helmet, attempting to make yourself look somewhat presentable.

“No, no” you answer a little breathless, “that…that was actually kind of fun…”

“First time?”

You nod your head.

Suguru hums.

He takes the helmet away from you and directs you straight to the entrance of his apartment building. He pulls out an electronic key, and presses it against the elevator door. The elevator pings, the panels sliding open as you both step inside. Suguru clicks the button to his floor and you both stand on opposite sides watching the numbers go up.

Suguru lived in a newer development, you could tell when you walked through the hallway as he stands in front of his apartment door, and uses the same key to grant you both entrance.

As you enter the hallway, you’re greeted by a wall with mounted iron hooks. There’s five to be exact, each one holding a different helmet with one space empty. Suguru fits the helmet back onto the vacant spot, before glancing over his shoulder and finding you still by the door struggling to take off your heels.

He returns and kneels before you. His hands carefully moving your fingers away.

“Let me help with that”

“You don’t have to-” but you’re interrupted with him patting his thigh in gesture.

You bite your bottom lip and place one foot against him, careful not to dig your heel into him.

He delicately unravels the straps around your ankle and slips of the heel with a brush to the back of your calf, making the muscle twitch.

“Other foot,” he instructs, then repeats.

After placing your shoes neatly by the door, he stands up and reaches for your hand once more. “This way”

You take it warmly, and follow him while trying your best not to acknowledge the noticeable height difference with you two standing side by side.

You never paid much attention to it before, you didn't have too really considering you both spent most of your time together in parallel positions.

Suguru leads you into the living room, and a small gasp escapes you when you are met with floor to ceiling windows. The horizon is of the city skyline, but it’s half blocked by a decent size balcony which is covered in greenery. The scene contrasts the inside of Suguru’s apartment, which is more minimal. To your right is a small dining nook, the light above an accent piece that added some detail to the decor. To your left is a small furniture set, the sage green fabric making you avert your gaze with shame because your recognized that very same couch in most of Suguru’s videos.

You find yourself quickly staring at your feet.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Water? Tea?”

“Tea would be great,” you answer back, returning to look directly at him from underneath your lashes. “Do you have anything herbal?”

“Mhmm.”

You follow him into the kitchen and realize that the man keeps his place meticulously clean. The back counter is what catches your attention the most. Suguru has a full serviced at home barista station set up for his own convenience. You pick out the coffee grinder, espresso machine, assortment of tea pots, jars of fresh leaves and coffee bags all neatly organized.

Suguru pulls out one jar with a hand written label that reads "lemon balm and chamomile".

You slip off your purse and place it on the counter behind him. “Did you make all these yourself?”

“My parents used to run a tea shop in Hokkaido,” he answers back.

“A tea shop?” You squeak, a little too excited from the morsel of information about his personal life that he just bestowed. “That must have been lovely…”

“It was,” he answers, his voice growing small.

You watch him fill the kettle with water, before placing it on the electric stove to warm up. He opens the jar, closing the gap of space between you both and lifts it to your nose.

“Take a deep breath in,”

You oblige, and inhale.

“Oh my,” you sigh out loud, your fingers subconsciously clasping over his own as your eyes flutter from the aroma of citrus, ginger, flora and subtle spice. It calms every firing nerve in your body. “That smells wonderful”

When you open them again, you see that Suguru is looking at you thoughtfully.

“It tastes good too,” he says proudly, and your heart glows at the reaction. “I was a terrible night owl as a kid. Still am, I guess. My mom used to make this to help me go to sleep…”

“That’s really sweet,” you admit, wondering how lovely it must be to be looked after with such care.

He slips away again, taking a spoon and putting a generous amount of the blend into a ceramic tea pot. You hear the tea bubble lightly, but your head spins as Suguru cages you in place while you both wait for it to reach the right temperature. Your back is against the counter, his arms by your side.

“That guy you were talking to. Who was that?” He questions, cutting right to the chase.

“Nobody important,” you confess, “he’s an asshole.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry about what he said to you. What he called you…”

Suguru’s fingers dig into the counter, making the muscles in his arms flex with irritation.

“Don’t apologize for him. Don’t apologize for any of them.” He firmly maintains. “Their words are empty to me...”

“You almost bashed his head in,” you point out, a tiny smile easing the tension binding around the man before you.

“I almost bashed his head because of the way he spoke to you-”

Your eyes widen.

Was he being protective? You think, but shake your head when you think of what kind of pitiful state you must have been that would cause Suguru to react in such a way.

Pathetic.

Your shoulders dwindle slightly and you shake it off to gather yourself once more.

“He was a terrible mistake. I was young, and stupid. I thought I knew better when I really had no fucking clue…”

You didn’t realize how bitter you sounded until two fingers press underneath your jaw.

His thumb taps your chin in a featherlight touch. “Is it over? Whatever it was?”

“Of course,” you answer, the truth acrid on your tongue. “I’m to marry Naoya Zen’in, remember?”

Suguru frowns. “He’s no better. I told you that myself.”

You circle your hand around his wrist. “I’ll take anyone over Sukuna. Even if that person is Naoya…”

“Why can’t you just choose?”

You press your lips together and sigh. “Because it’s a transaction. I’m a token in my father’s universe. If he weds me off to the Zen’in’s then it’s profitable. Good for business…”

“I’m sure if you speak with him, he’ll understand-”

“Don’t be so naive,” you answer as you return to meet his gaze. “My father doesn’t love me. He just owns me. I spent most of my adolescence alone while he was busy working or galavanting off with his mistress. I think he assumed that if he kept shoving money my way, I wouldn’t notice his absence…”

The kettle sings, making you both jump in place as the water bubbles aggressively and a small spiral of steam releases from the lip. Suguru returns to making your beverage. Picking up the kettle and pouring the hot water into the pot. He places it on a tray, along with a beautiful cup.

“The tea needs a couple of minutes to steep. In the meanwhile, I’m going to change into something more comfortable.” He announces, “You want some spare clothes?”

You look down at your designer frock, the material snug on your body.

“Yeah, I’d like that”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. Suguru’s white shirt falls to your mid thigh, the material a little see through and revealing the bra you had on underneath. You eye the pair of worn boxers he handed to you to wear as shorts, but slyly tuck your bottom lip between your teeth before leaving it behind and walking out with your bare legs on display.

You’re not quite sure what the plan is here, but you don't see yourself leaving anytime soon.

You head back towards the kitchen where you pick up your purse, your dress folded between your hands carefully. Suguru is opening the door to the balcony, having changed into a cut sleeve shirt that exposes his arms and a hint of his ribs, as well as a pair of loose shorts. When he hears you enter, his attention instantly falls to your plush thighs, a hint of crimson blushing his cheek.

“Where can I keep my stuff?” You ask innocently, pretending to ignore his reaction.

“Anywhere is fine,” he answers back, his voice thick.

He tells you that he’ll wait for you outside, and in the meantime you put down your stuff onto the coffee table in front of his sofa.

You unzip your purse, Suguru’s cheque staring you at you with wide, scolding eyes.

Pathetic.

You furrow your brows at the voice inside your head, and swipe the payment before folding it and tucking it securely against your hip underneath the waistband of your underwear.

You head outside, sliding the window close behind you.

Suguru is sitting on a deck chair, the two of you camouflaged by the array of his overgrown plants. He pours your cup of tea, the aroma twirling between the current of the wind as he offers it your way. You pick it up, bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. A heavy sigh escapes you, and you remain standing leaning back against the cool glass surface as you stare out into the distance.

“Like it?” Suguru asks, and you only notice then that he has also brought out a second cup for himself and is pouring his own drink.

“It’s divine,” you respond.

“I’m glad”

The two of you sit in silence once more, mindlessly sipping your tea while contemplating the other person. You’re both at a clear standstill, carefully tiptoeing over the boundary that has so been strictly set in place.

A reminder of that is the folded cheque digging into your skin.

“How did you find out about contacting me?” Suguru randomly wonders.

You look towards him and he shrugs before adding on, “I never asked. I find myself curious.”

You thrum your nails against the glass cup, taking another sip of your tea before replying, “I saw you at a party with Satoru. I was with a group of friends, and one of them noticed me recognizing you. She asked if I was…familiar with your work. And when I told her I was she informed me that you both were…intimate.”

“Was it Mei?”

Your face falls at the blatant disregard of confidentiality.

“How-How did you know?”

Suguru huffs, and sips his tea.

“She’s the only other client I had close to our age. Wasn’t hard to make the connection…”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Go for it,” he replies.

“I’ve always been curious as to how you wound up doing what you do,” you bite your bottom lip nervously, your hands trembling slightly holding your glass and you hope that Suguru wouldn’t notice your sudden unease.

“Ah,” he acknowledges, his free hand moving to rub the back of his neck and you can’t help but sneak a peak at his abdomen from the side. “Well, I told you how I wound up making the videos. For a long time I just did solo work, but I knew I could make more money if I had on-screen partners to film with. I had a few good connections with some actresses and hired a friend to make a video with me…”

You knew exactly which one he was talking about.

The actress in question was well known, and the video was an amateur clip that was filmed on the very same couch that you walked passed earlier.

You clench your thighs together.

You don’t even want to admit how many times you came to that particular video.

“I didn’t know it would blow up in the way that it did. Shoko and I made a killing off it. We both saw the potential and we wound up doing six full episodes - trying out different techniques, roleplaying in a few…”

“But you stopped posting after that…”

Suguru pauses. “How would you know that?”

You swallow a big gulp of tea.

“I might have been a big fan of your work before we met.”

“Really?” He answers with a slight tilt of his head, clearly very amused.

“I wouldn’t have reached out to just anyone, you know. But I was really interested in...your work, and when I learned about your little side gig. I couldn’t resist…”

“Well, color me flattered, sweetheart.”

You swirl the last bits of tea in your cup.

“So, why did you stop posting?”

“I kept the videos up. They’re good and I still make revenue with every ad or view. Satoru’s career was picking up around that time, and he had just gotten clean. He needed somebody to hold him accountable so I started tagging along at his events. I didn’t realize how many people would recognizeme. My first client wasn’t even "a client", he gestures with air quotes, "she was just some woman I met and slept with. I woke up the next morning to an empty hotel room. All that she left behind was an envelope of cash…”

He pauses.

“I didn’t know what to feel. A part of me was insulted but another part had never seen that much money handed over so easily. The videos were great but what I earned in a day, is what I got in just a few hours. I was in my mid-twenties, just left the brink of making ends meet and desperate for security. I deposited the cash and kept going. Somehow it snowballed into…” he gestures his arms out, “this.”

He pours himself another cup of tea. “At first I was a little reckless. Took on too many clients it damn near gave me a health scare. So, I started spacing them out. Keeping to a set number a month and maintaining a high price. I didn’t think that so many people would actually pay for my services, but they do...and I'm comfortable.”

“Does it ever overwhelm you?”

“Not anymore. Keeping my partners to a minimum helps. I’m safe and get tested regularly, as I mentioned when we first met,” He lifts the teapot your direction to offer you a second cup, and you accept it by approaching him and allowing him to fill your glass.

“The thing is I went from never knowing when I was going to eat to having three meals a day. I don’t think I’d change that for the world…”

“What about your family? Your friends?” You find yourself mindlessly asking. "How do they feel about this?"

“Satoru and Shoko are the only ones who know. Everyone else thinks it’s porn that funds my life. As for my family,” Suguru stops, his voice scratchy as he quickly clears his throat. “Well, they don’t have to worry about it. My parents passed away when I was fifteen. It's just been me ever since”

The tea burns your lip and your body trembles at the statement.

“I’m so sorry…”

He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly.

There’s a heaviness in the air, and despite how hard he’s trying to hide it you can see how the memory tears him apart.

“My mom passed away giving birth to me,” you find yourself disclosing to even the scale, “I think that’s probably why my father resents me so much. He never got a son, and lost his wife in the process”

“I’m sorry to hear that too…”

You mirror his shrug. “It’s weird. I find myself curious about her - but there’s a detachment when I look at her. Sometimes I think about how different my life might be if she was still around. Or, if she was just like my father and everything would still be the same…”

“Well, since we are speaking of hypotheticals,” Suguru moves on, shifting the topic as he angles his body more in your direction. “If you had the freedom to whatever you wanted, what would you do?”

“Me?” You gasp, shocked by his pointed question.

He smiles an easy smile, “I don’t see anybody else around.”

You hum thoughtfully. “This might take a minute…”

He places his cup of tea on the tray by his side and then pats his free hand on his thigh.

“C’mere and think.”

Your heart flies up your throat, pulsing just at the base. “You want me to sit on your lap?”

Suguru nods his head.

You gulp down the vessel, returning it back to its place. You glide your way towards him, placing the tea cup just next to his own, before settling down onto his lap.

Suguru wraps his arm around your waist, securing you close into his frame.

“Do you hold your other clients like this?”

He shakes his head no.

“So, you like holding me…” you bluntly point out, “why’s that?”

Suguru’s face is directly in front of yours, so beautiful you can almost faint right here in his arms. He fingers dig into your waist, his other arm curving over your thigh and gently drawing circles on your hip.

“Because you fit nicely against me”

A swarm of butterflies take flight, making you feel lighter than air. You swear he might kiss you then but instead he returns to his question. “So, tell me what would you do?”

The answer comes to you far easier than you think. From the moment you saw him tonight, you know the truth in the depths of your heart. “I’d like to run away with you,” you confess before stuttering out, “or-or at least somebody like you. Someone who is kind and sweet and thoughtful...”

Suguru leans back against the chair, lifting up one leg and adjusting your positions. He’s careful not to kick the tray with the tea.

“And where would we go?”

You sling your arms around his neck, “anywhere - anywhere but here.”

Suguru slides his palm over the slop of your rear, slipping it underneath the fabric of his shirt and tracing a line over the dimples on your lower back.

“What would we do?”

“We could lay outside just like this and watch the stars.”

He hums, “we don’t get any stars out here in the city...”

“No, we don’t.”

“What else would we do?”

His other hand starts to unbutton the front of your shirt, revealing the details of the lace underneath. He cups your right breast, his lips shifting to find your neck.

“We’d do this too,” you sing merrily.

“Look at stars and fuck our brains out?” He teases, his teeth nipping at your skin. “Sounds like a dream to me…”

He gropes the fat of your breast, unknotting every single secret. “what else?”

“We’ll sleep all day, and kiss until we’re bored of one another…”

The hand on your breast moves to circle your neck, Suguru’s thumb massaging the column.

“I’d never grow bored kissing you-”

Your body renders against his touch. “Suguru,” you moan, your lips seeking his own.

Before you can even meet for the kiss, he mumbles your name and follows up with the claim: “you should run away with me.”

You giggle, still living in the proposed fantasy. “I’m trying to…”

“I’m being serious”

The tone of his voice is the reason why you stop to kiss him, pulling away to face the man before you.

There's no denying the truth on his face - he is actually quite serious about the declaration.

You hear the dreaded word once more: pathetic. Pathetic because this man is an expert at fulfilling fantasies, is a professional when it comes to healing the hearts of the lonely.

Pulling yourself out of this delusional imagination, you push off him before standing up straight.

“That’s not funny, Suguru”

“Who says I’m being funny?” He responds sincerely.

“What is this? What are we doing? What am I doing? You can’t just-” you lament, pressing your forehead to hand in disbelief as you enter the confines of his apartment, taking a second to breathe. “You can’t just say things like that-”

He calls out your name again, but the kraken has already been released.

He follows, tracking into his abode right behind you, all the while watching you stand in the middle of his living room with your quivering hands reaching for the waistband of your underwear.

“This was a terrible idea. I shouldn’t have-I shouldn’t have gone through with all of this,” you yank out the cheque, showing it to him. “You don’t have to take pity on me. I know I’m just another desperate, pathetic client, alright? I promise you don't have to keep putting up with me and my drama after this. And you sure as hell don't have to keep giving me these mixed messages which only confuse me. I can’t have things getting complicated right before this engagement is about to happen. So, here. Take this cheque and let’s just forget everything else about tonight.”

Suguru stands there, pensive. His eyes look to the folded paper in your hand, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Instead of reaching for the paper, he simply walks past you, making you spin on your heel as you follow his movements with sheer bewilderment.

He heads towards the shelf behind you and pulls out a tiny box. He removes something from it, before walking back and facing you once more.

“Shit got complicated about eight cheques ago, sweetheart,” he negates, holding the thin stack papers between his two fingers as he brings it to your face. His eyes fall to to the crumpled one you are currently holding, “Well, counting the one in your hand, I’d say nine...”

You can’t believe it.

You pick up the wad and sift through each paper; each cheque one of yours, the date issued a reflection of your last nine meetings with Suguru.

None of them cashed in.

“Why do you still have these?”

Two hands find your waist, your forearms fall into Suguru’s chest as you stare mindlessly at the cheques fanned out between your fingers.

“I didn’t have it on my conscious to deposit them once I realized my feelings for you. I'm sorry about what you heard earlier, but what Mahito said doesn't apply to you at all,” he responds. “You stopped being a client to me for quite some time...”

You look up at him.

His touch tightens around your waist. “You can’t marry Naoya. Or, you shouldn’t. But if you do, I don’t want us to stop seeing one another. We can work something out…”

“Suguru,” you pine, dropping the papers in your hand, each one twirling onto the ground, thousands at your feet.

His lips catch yours in a subtle peck, all before circling over your bottom lip and sucking on the plush base. He slides his tongue between your lips, feeling yourcrumple into him as the paper crinkles beneath your feet. You moan feeling the sensation of his tongue slide across yours - he tastes like running across a field of chamomile flowers, like you’re holding a basket of fresh, ripe lemons.

Like you're savoring the most beautiful sunrise.

His hands return to finish unbuttoning your shirt, shrugging the material off your shoulders and exposing your expensive lingerie set. He grips your hips, your ass - his touch hungry before pressing his pelvis closer to your frame so you can feel his aching member beneath his shorts.

You squeak into another kiss when he swiftly picks you up from the back of your thighs and carries you across the living room.

He places you onto his sofa like you’re made of porcelain, keeping you on the edge as he kneels to the ground, his knees sinking into the rug. Two hands find your inner thighs which he pushes apart to reveal the pretty triangle fabric covering your sweet cunt. He kisses your clit over the material. Once, twice, three times…until you’re sighing into the pillow behind you. His tongue drags up, pressing your clothing against your sex, one hand drawing upward to find yours which he holds lovingly. His index and middle finger hook underneath your underwear, and he tugs it aside to reveal your slick coated pussy.

He kisses your clit again, leaving a path down your damp lips which only makes you moan angelically.

“This is why I’d never get bored kissing you,” he coos, “You sound like heaven whenever I do...”

Your only response is a vowel, your hand holding onto Suguru’s for dear life as he returns to eat out with such devotion it almost brings tears to your eyes. You pant softly, his wet tongue making you weep between your legs and he gathers your essence and swallows it to parch his craving. You whine feeling the snap of your underwear pinch into your skin when Suguru lets go of the material to mold his palm over the slope of your pelvis. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, his tongue sinking between your wet folds, lips suckling on the petals of your cunt.

Your hips arch off the sofa, desperate for friction, but Suguru pins you firmly back down.

“Easy, easy…” he appeases, “don’t cum just yet. Hold off f’me, just for a little bit…”

He’s never asked because there was never a reason to. For the most part, he was always there to service you. Allowed you to use his body to get you off as many times as you so desired.

Your voice breaks, “okay,” you answer, drawing out a long exhale when he dives back in.

The hand on your pelvis climbs up the steps of your ribs, reaching for band of your bra right at the middle. He curls his finger over the boning, and tugs the material allowing your breasts to spill free. He finds the bud of your nipple and tweaks it between his finger, pinching and pulling the aching nub until your writhing beneath him.

He slurps and sucks, while you moan and whimper, forcing yourself to hold off for as much as your can but you find that it’s far harder to do when your lower belly quakes as it sits on the brink of release.

“Suguru, Suguru…” you beg, reaching your free hand to your breast and clenching over his fingers. “Suguru, I can’t-m’gonna cum if you don’t stop…”

He groans against your cunt, pulling away from your pulsing core and letting go of your hand to wipe the dampness off his chin.

He licks his lips, drunk off lust and of how you taste.

He keeps his body upright, drags your legs to secure them around his waist as he straightens your back. His hands unhook your bra from behind, the scent of you strong on his lips as he leans up for a kiss. Your hands fall to his shoulders, your belly fluttering as your sex begs for more stimulation.

Suguru loosens the bra, allowing it to fall to your elbows before kneading your breasts - his thumb swipes back and forth over your nipples. He devours your cry, wolfs down every panting breath as he moans into the kiss. Your hands slip underneath his shirt, taking in the lines of strong abdomen.

“Take if off,” you plead between breaths, “Take it off, please…”

Suguru listens, breaking apart from the kiss to toss his shirt to the side while you slip off your bra. Your lover’s hand finds your waist, his fingers pinching into the soft flesh. He leans forward to kiss the side of your neck, making a path down the curve and across the field of your décolletage.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmurs into your breast, his lips snagging your nipple as his tongue rolls over the bud.

Your fingers curl around the back of his head, loosening his bun as you untie the knot. His hair falls like waterfall, the strands tickling your bare skin. Suguru’s hand slips between your legs, his middle and forefinger meeting your clit. You hiss at the contact, sinking your teeth between your bottom lip when Suguru sucks on your breast while simultaneously drawing circles on the bundle of nerves between your legs.

Your breath grows heavier, your hips bucking into him from the sensation of his touch.

“Feels good,” you mumble, “feels so good with you…”

He shivers, relieving your breast as his lips search for your own.

He adds more pressure between your legs, increasing the speed while your tongues dance. When your thighs noticeably quiver he slows down, pinching your clit between his fingers as he softly pecks your cheek.

“The condoms are in my room…”

Your sharp nails scratch the back of his neck lightly, “I have one in my purse.”

Suguru nods feverishly, reaching back to the coffee table and rummaging through your purse. He picks out the shiny wrapper, and stands up to take off his shorts.

“Wait, can I?” You request, gazing up at him with glittering eyes.

Suguru swallows hard, and nods his head.

Your eyes dilate rolling his shorts down, focusing on the tent in the fabric and watching his cock spring free and lightly smack his lower belly. Suguru brings the condom to his lips and rips it open with his teeth, but his eyes flutter when your perfectly manicured hands glide up the length of his shaft.

You trace the prominent vein, your thumb swiping over the pre-cum beading over the angry tip. You lick your lips, leaning closer to kiss the base and listening to Suguru sigh.

You’ve only given him a blow job once before, and that was because you asked if you could. Suguru sets no expectations for himself when it comes to work, but that doesn’t mean that you haven’t fantasized about giving him head countless times.

You wrap your fingers around his length and stroke mildly, your lips fanning over his cock before reaching the tip.

“Sweetheart, don’t-” Suguru murmurs in an attempt to stop you, but you’re already enclosing your lips around the head and pressing your tongue over the slit.

His head falls back as you suck, a curse leaving him.

You move slowly at first, dragging your tongue back and forth as you stroke the base. Sukuna was far rougher with you when you went down on him, but Suguru is allowing you to take him at your own pace. Inch by inch, until you were bobbing your head back and forth, strings of saliva webbing off his cock and sticking your lips.

He thrusts once, not rough enough to hurt but the jerk catches you by surprise.

You carefully release him, mindlessly wiping your bottom lip and the sight makes his cock twitch.

Suguru pulls the condom out, and rolls it over his shaft.

He settles onto the empty seta by your side, and you crawl over the expanse of his gorgeous, chiseled body to kiss him once again.

His circles his fingers around his cock, his other hand guiding your hip as he aligns the tip to your entrance. Your nail nicks his pec when he pushes against the hole, your mouth circling over his own as you lower down his shaft.

He fills you up so, so good. Makes your body vibrate with unshakeable desire.

He groans until he bottoms out , the hand on your hip dipping down from your pubis to your lower belly like he’s trying to outline how deep he actually is before returning it back in place and securing his other hand on the opposite hip.

Your breasts flatten against his chest, your hands holding on to his strong shoulders for support as you roll our hips.

Suguru works in tandem with your rhythm to fuck you passionately.

His lips find yours once again for a final kiss, before the two of you get caught up in the moment when he swiftly picks up the pace.

His hips arch violently, while yours sink - your bodies moving silk.

“Unghh, oh god, yes-yes-yes~” you moan.

Suguru’s grip almost feels painful, you know for a fact that he’ll be marking your hips with a few bruises. “Gonna cum-” he rasps, “s-shit, I’m fucking close-fucking close-”

Your pussy tightens, practically holds his dick in a death grip that makes release a broken moan. His cock contracts upon his release, the sensation bringing you to the edge of yours as the muscles in your lower belly and inner thighs spasm around him. You leave crescents on his skin, your bodies shaking as you both take a second to breathe coming down from your climax.

You collapse into him, his arms circling behind you, with his racing heart pulsing into your own. He moves so you’re laying side by side, your body sandwiched between him and the couch since he takes up most of the room. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling him grow soft inside you.

Your stuttering breath finally finds a resting poin when he brings your hand and holds it against his heart.

“Where do we go from here?” You whisper with a kiss to his neck.

“Whatever you decide, we’ll figure out.” Suguru answers sincerely.

“I can’t marry Naoya,” you admit out loud, shocked for actually saying it for the very first time. “And I can't share you with anyone else - it already kills me having to do so.”

Suguru looks down at you, a reassuring smile resting on his lips. “There won’t be anyone else.”

“I can't just...leave. I can't just drop everything and walking away. It isn’t going to be easy-” you add on, “It’ll take me some time.”

“I can wait”

“It might get messy…”

“When is it ever not?”

“But we’ve never been in a relationship-” you insist, logic breaking through the barrier of your happiness. “How do we know if this will even work out properly? What if this thing between us fades?”

“I guess we’re both taking a gamble here…”

You both stare into the other’s eyes.

“Do you think it’s worth the risk?” You ask.

Suguru’s face softens but he leans forward to kiss your forehead.

“I think it’s worth a try.”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

TWO YEARS LATER

“You running out on Naoya on your wedding night is still the hot topic.” Kento explains over the phone, “People kept bringing it up, and for whatever reason they just can't seem to get over it.”

The guilt in your stomach twists into a very small knot, over time the size of it has shrunk to a point where you not longer carry any remorse regarding your scheming behavior.

You had a plan, and the plan worked.

"Let's not forget who was there to help..." you contend, disregarding the negativity surrounding your decision.

After you and Suguru spoke, you decided to carry on the facade, agreeing to the engagement and soon after the wedding with Naoya Zen'in. All the while you and Suguru were busy planning your way to cut and run. He cashed in your unsigned checks, and you pilfered a decent amount of the wedding budget which you kept into a seperate savings account.

You played the role as obedient daughter well, and no one was the wiser.

“Besides, I maintain that it's still the best decision I ever made,” you reply, stepping out of your room and into the kitchen where you are greeted by the sound of clinking dishes.

Your eyes shift to Suguru - his hair far longer now, flowing beautifully down his back, the front layers tied into a small bun. You smell dinner in the air, and your stomach grumbles with anticipation.

Nanami doesn't reply, but you can hear that he's distracted from the television in the background.

“What are you watching?” you ask your friend.

The man simply sighs.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing with that reaction. Is it Satoru’s new drama show?”

At the mention of his best friend you notice your lover glance over his shoulder, quietly tilting his head to direct you towards him. You smile his way, your feet pattering against the hardwood floor as you move closer to him. He bundles one arm around your shoulder, keeping you close while continuing to sauté the vegetables in the pan.

He kisses the top of your head.

“It’s all the rage,” you add on to your phone call, “Suguru and I plan on watching the next episode tonight.”

Kento remains quiet.

You release yourself from Suguru’s grasp, and instead hop onto the kitchen counter right next to him.

He reduces the heat and picks up the lid before covering the pan.

“I’m guessing you two haven’t-”

“No,” Kento curtly replies. “Not since that night…”

“I’m sorry”

“Don’t be,” he responds with frustration. “I screwed it up”

“You know I could just ask Sugu too reach out-”

“ Don’t,” Kento sighs regrettably. “It doesn’t matter. I heard he’s moved on”

You quirk your brow, your eyes shifting to Suguru who was back to chopping some fresh herbs.

“Oh?”

“It’s for the best I guess,” Kento reassures. “He should be happy with whoever-the-fuck he chooses.”

“You deserve happiness too, Kento.”

“You can be happy for the both of us,” he replies, gulping down a drink. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m meeting my lawyer for dinner.”

“When are you going to visit us next?”

“Probably around November, December. I just need a few things to ease up on my end-”

You bite your bottom lip, “I look forward to it.”

“Take care, love”

“You too, Ken.”

You hang up the phone and lean your head against the cupboard as you watch Suguru rinse his hand, a trail of crimson spiraling down the faucet.

“I cut my finger”

You pick up a clean towel by your side, and gesture him towards you.

Suguru extends his thumb out, and you curl the fabric over to keep pressure on the small cut.

“You ought to be careful”

“Your legs are a distraction,”

You stare up at him playfully, and he leans down to kiss the corner of your lips.

“How’s Nanami?”

Your lover is indebted to your friend. If it wasn’t for Nanami, the two of you wouldn’t have been able to set up this comfortably. He’s the one who found you the humble two-story abode in Hokkaido, and was also the person who set up your personal bank accounts while ensuring that you would both have a safe and quick getaway on the night of your almost-wedding.

“Fine, I think-” you reply, before removing the towel to check the damage. Thankfully, it wasn't anything serious. A little deeper than a paper cut.“Licking his wounds over a broken heart, but fine.”

Suguru reaches for the drawer next to you, and pulls out the emergency band aids. You reach for the box in his hand, taking out one and removing the plaster from the back. You secure it around his cut, and Suguru holds your fingers between his.

He arches down to kiss your brow. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome, handsome”

“Dinner will be ready in a few if you want to set the table”

You nod your head in acknowledgement, and drop down onto the ground before proceeding with your task.

You set the place mats down, a bowl for the soup and another for the rice and cooked vegetables. Your finger traces the rim of the one in front of your seat, a tiny chip from when you accidentally dropped it in the sink while cleaning it a few weeks ago.

Fragments of these blemishes are all around you - making you almost forget that you once lived in a perfect, curated bubble. But you would take these flaws over everything else. These markings may be worn, but they are a reminder of the home you've been building.

A home that is entirely yours.

“Baby, you want a drink?” Suguru calls from the kitchen.

“Melon soda, please” you reply, placing the bowl down.

“We’re out, I’ve got to pick some up tomorrow.”

“What are you having?”

“A beer,” he chuckles, and it sends a tremor of joy between the valves of your heart.

“I’ll share yours”

Suguru pulls out the bottle, cracking the cap off as he pops it using the side of the kitchen counter to do so.

You two meet each other halfway in the space that you've been nesting in. Suguru’s eyes never leave yours when he takes the first sip, and once done he passes the chilled bottle towards you.

“Am I ever going to have you back in the kitchen helping me with dinner?”

You shake your head no, and bite at the lip of the bottle before taking a sip. “I thought we agreed I was a hazard after the raw chicken fiasco and the almost-fire debacle…”

He laughs, “no, you agreed. I said it wasn’t a big deal”

“You just said that because you love me,” you respond, pressing the bottle into his chest as he takes it from your hand.

“That goes without saying…” he answers, slinging his arm around your waist and pulling you into his frame.

You lift yourself up on your toes, and kiss his nose.

“Do you think it’s worth the risk of me attempting to cook for you again?” You whisper against his lips.

Suguru smiles, a hand cupping your cheek as he leans forward to seal his reply with a kiss.

“I think it’s worth the try”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

tag list: @rottiens @an-ever-angry-bi @mononijikayu @brownskinnedgirll

#geto x reader #geto x you #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto x you #suguru geto x y/n #geto x y/n #geto angst #geto smut #geto fluff #suguru geto angst #suguru geto fluff #suguru geto smut #jujutsu kaisen fan fiction #suguru geto fan fiction #suguru geto fanfic

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astra-ravana · 8 months ago

Text

Working With Hekate

Goddess Of The Threshold

Other titles: Keeper of the Gates, The Triple Goddess, Bringer of Light, Night Wanderer, and many more

Colors: Black, silver, gold, red, white

Herbs: Asphodel, trillium, ebony, fly agaric, garlic, aconite, yew, datura, cypress, belladonna, saffron, foxglove, mandrake, willow, black poplar, dandelion, mugwort, henbane, mandrake, yarrow, myyrh, lavender, oak, mullien, thornapple, bittersweet, poppy, wormwood, sage, rue, fumitory, dragon's blood, rowan, black copal

Crystals: Moonstone (especially black), labradorite, mother of pearl, black tourmaline, obsidian, black/smokey quartz, lodestone, nuummite, serpentine, auralite, abalone, corundum, zicron, hematite, jet, lapis lazuli, pyrite

Element: Earth/water/darkness

Planet: The Moon, Saturn, Pluto

Zodiac: Scorpio (Aquarius)

Metal: Silver, copper, bronze

Tarot: The Moon, The High Priestess

Direction: All

Date: November 16th, the Night of Hekate

Day: Any

Animals: Goats, wolves, dogs, owls, snakes, horses, crows, bulls, sheep, skunks, lizards, dragons

Domains: Thresholds/liminal spaces/boundaries, crossroads, witchcraft and sorcery, the Moon, herbalism, the poison path, necromancy, nocturnal magick, truth, secrets, hedge-riding, shadow work and integration of shadow-self, baneful magick, protection, knot magick, foraging, divination, creatures of the night, the Underworld, the Otherworld

Offerings: Keys, hair of a black dog, any of her sacred plants, representations of any of her animals, divination tools, black mirrors, wands, athames, bolines, blades, things in sets of 3, fruit, wine, blood, rituals/magick in her honor/name, feathers, fossils, shells, bones

Symbols: Blades, fire, keys, crossroads, gateways, doors, entrances, moons, torches, wands/sceptres, whips, the number 3

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 19 days ago

Text

Watch your balls, boy!

Written for the May 2025 pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles

Prompt: School's out for summer

Rated: T

Tags: Summer jobs; Country club; Tennis; Eddie has a crush on Steve; Tommy Hagan being an asshole; Steve Harrington is a little shit

“Hey, ball boy! Don’t just stand there, go get it!”

Eddie jerks out of his heat-induced daze and jogs after the ball that has rolled off to the remotest corner of the tennis court. Another bead of sweat escapes from under his hat and trickles down his burnt neck.

“I got it,” says a voice, and before he can do anything, he is treated to the vision of a perfectly round, perfectly firm ass in tight tennis shorts wiggling merrily in the hot summer air as its owner bends at the hip. “Really, Tommy. You don’t need to have the staff do every little thing for you. What is he, your dog?”

Eddie bites back a snide remark and retreats into what little shade the wire fence provides. Great, not only is he about to die from heat stroke, now they’re adding unnecessary horniness and humiliation into the mix.

The ad for the summer job at the country club promised exciting tasks and plenty of opportunities to learn lessons for life. So far, Eddie has learned three things.

One: White is not his color - especially not if paired with the violent lobster red that his skin turns after twenty minutes in the sun.

Two: Baseball hats make his face look two inches too short - but the stupid thing is part of the uniform, so he hasn’t dared take it off.

And three: Steve Harrington in tennis gear will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

He didn't even know the Harringtons were club members, or he would’ve thought twice about applying. After all, who in their right mind wants to spend their summer melting into a sweaty puddle while their crush prances around them like a bronze-skinned, honey-haired, painfully straight Adonis with a tennis racket? Harrington probably doesn't even know his name - the chances of anything coming out of this are as thin as Eddie’s flimsy uniform shirt.

On the other side of the net, Tommy Hagan sneers.

“It’s what he’s getting paid for, isn’t it?” he grumbles. “Maybe they should get a dog instead. It would only have advantages, don’t you think? Cuter, better at following instructions, probably smarter.”

His eyes flick over to Eddie, taking in the way his fingers curl, and his mouth curls into a cruel smile.

Hagan, of course, recognized him the second he saw him. He probably has every single face from school committed to memory - all neatly categorized into those above him, so that he can grovel and bow to them, and the lowly scum at the bottom of the ladder, so that he never misses an opportunity to kick at them.

“Tommy, come on!” Harrington frowns unhappily, letting the ball bounce off the asphalt and twirling his racket. He, too, is sweating, but while Eddie is a sopping, miserable mess with a bird’s nest of wet bangs plastered to his forehead, he manages to make it look sexy, somehow. “I’d like to finish this match some time today, I still wanna hit the pool.”

But Hagan is far from done.

“Say, ball boy,” he drawls. “What does it feel like, being so dumb that a dog could do your job? What do they even pay you, huh?”

Eddie flexes his hands and stares off into the middle distance, wishing he could ram his fist into Hagan’s stupid, arrogant face.

“Hey, shitface, I am talking to you,” Hagan says, waving his racket in the air and scowling when Eddie doesn’t react. “Nevermind, whatever it is, it’s too much. Unless they pay you in dog treats, that would be- oooooow, motherfaaaaaaargh.”

Eddie blinks, trying to understand what just happened. All he knows is that, one second ago, Hagan was standing there and jeering at him, and now he’s doubled over, howling in pain and clutching the crotch of his tennis shorts.

It probably has a lot to do with the ball that just came zipping over the net and is now rolling away on the asphalt.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Hagan whimpers, looking up with accusing, teary eyes as Harrinton comes running. His freckled face has gone deadly pale and his voice is about half and octave higher. It’s almost enough to make Eddie cringe in sympathy, but only almost.

“I’m sorry,” Harrington gushes. “I thought you were ready to continue.”

“In what world did I look like I was ready?” Hagan snaps, then gasps again as another wave of pain ripples through him. “Oh fuck, you ruined me.”

Harrington claps his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just go back to the club house and put some ice on it, I’ll bring the bags.”

Eddie watches Hagan hobble away, still bent over and cursing under his breath, while Harrington packs up their gear. He just hopes the guy didn’t have any family plans with his bitchy little girlfriend.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Harrington says, walking up with two bags slung over his shoulder, and Eddie realizes a bit belatedly that he must’ve said that out loud. “I didn’t ruin him. Not in the way he’d like me to, that is. At least it’ll be a few days before he bugs anyone about balls again.”

Eddie whirls, mouth wide open. He doesn’t get to say anything, though, because Harrington has just pulled something from his bag and pressed it into his hand. It’s a bottle of sunscreen.

“This is my favorite brand, you should give it a try,” he says, gesturing at Eddie’s burned nose. And then, more quietly, “And don’t listen to him. You’re at least as cute as a dog. See you around, Eddie.”

Eddie keeps standing in the middle of the court, mouth agape and staring into nothing, long after he has disappeared into the club house. It’s only when the next couple of players arrive and scare him out of his stupor that he realizes Harrington called him by his name.

More holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles 2025

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veiledfox · 1 year ago

Note

It was a slight relief that Ren seemed to be much more comfortable being more social. Artig wasn't exactly fond of the idea of just going up to complete strangers and bothering them, even if they were employees in a store he was visiting. Did his best to refrain from bothering such people unless it was necessary for one reason or another. Unless, of course, they caught his eye like the more fashion-smart Male had done after bumping into him.

He mostly just glanced about the small shop while he waited, not at clothing specifically, but really anything. Taking in the design they had gone with, the vibe they were trying to give off, just generally trying to get a good read on the place to understand it a little better. Only really focusing again when he noticed his new acquaintance returning with a worker, to whom he gives a small nod for nonverbal greeting and appreciation for their assistance.

Only for him to snicker hearing Ren make such claim, the earlier in particular. "Not a stylist?" Almost a scoff. "Says the guy with an obvious eye for style." Shoulders jut upward with a shrug, his free hand rising to filter into his long, bronze, frosted tipped hair to scratch at his head a little. "Sure, Pretty Boy, I saw that look you had out there before inviting me along, see if you can pick out something to spice me up."

Ren nods in silent agreement before saying, 'Gimme a moment. I'll find someone.' It's one of his usual haunts; though he doesn't expect the staff to recognise and remember him, he often recognises them. He knows, too, that those staffing the store typically stay near the register at the back of the store, save for when they're cleaning or stocking the racks. (Maybe the back of the store isn't the best place for a register, for they cannot greet customers, but Ren is more than content browsing without intervention.) Having found and made his request of the staff member - on this particular day, a young woman with a bright smile - and knowing that it would take more than a couple of seconds to undress the mannequin, Ren peeked through each of the aisles until he rediscovered Artig. 'Wanna have a look?' he asked, motioning lazily towards the racks. 'I'm not a stylist or anything, but makin' good finds at places like this is like my hidden talent.'

#The Superposition {Artig}#idolsummons #Artig's hair is a bronze color for all but it's tips which fade to a light grey/white #about one or two inches of almost silvery grey at it's lowest points p/much

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sleepy-fiction · 8 months ago

Text

Little Treasure.

eleven weeks pt.2 | sebastian solace x reader SMUT

2K WORDS

tgs: monster fucking, overstimulation, gn sex terms for reader, two pp seb, bottom reader

an: I forgot about this whooopsiessss 🥲. A looooong time ago, ppl were asking for the smut, and I wrote it! But if you were looking for a lore expansion, this is only smut. UPDATED: ITS NOW BETA/PROOF READ!! YAAY

read part one

"Sebastian," you whined, humiliation blooming in your heart. You didn't know how you got here, you were just talking to him on the couch and now he has you pinned before him like an art piece. This was your first time seeing Sebastian in years since the day your contract with Urbanshade ended, since the day he was rumored to be dead, only for him to return with the military all strange and anew.

"Shh shh," the angler hushed. No longer was he that shorter, bronze tinted human you loved so much, no, he was large. His skin was a grayish blue, with three big eyes and a long slithering whale tail, two fins for ears, and three giant claws. And now, this creature, that you now know and love as sebastian, had declothed you.

Your fancy button-up that you wore to see him was hanging open, restrictive on your arms and shoulders, with your pants nowhere to be seen. And there was him, that large pointy tooth predator, hovering over you, with his tail wrapped in a circle around your body, trapping you to see nothing but him.

Your senses were heightened, every cold touch from him was driving you mad. There was so much of him that you could hear, see, feel, taste, smell it was overwhelming. You could taste his saliva on your tongue for every pant you made, the taste foreignly fish like, and could smell so much of his slithering body. It oddly smelled like shea butter, as if he took good care to keep his tail protected and moisturized. And with so much of him, so much of his body, the smell was puguently intoxicating, a natural aphrodisiac that had you thinking of him and only of him for every inhale you took. It left you shuddering.

No, no, and not to mention how large his soft bed was. It was like quick sand for your little body. For your aching bones, you were being sucked in and glued into place by bountiful white sheets.

Your sense of touch.

You could feel his touch as he dragged his sharp claw down your bare sternum, and to your stomach, you were whining under his touch. This was way too much for you.

You heard him giggle, so you open your eyes to see him. His giant left claw reaches to cup your face, holding all of your weight tenderly in his palm. His hair is tucked behind his ears, his razor shark teeth beaming delightfully at you, while he wore nothing but an unbuttoned shirt that too hung uselessly on his shoulders. You could see his chest from here, battered with scars but amazing blue, with his belly that mellowed out to a grey color. You could see the space where his humanoid belly met with the start of his tail, hugging at his hips like a true siren.

"F-Fuck... I'm fucking my best friend," you grunted. You couldn't take it as you shut your eyes again, bucking your hips out into the air, and succumbing into his hands. Your face was so hot in his hands, your lewd body posed so erotically, the way you were so sensitive to everything. God, even his words.

He clenched his teeth, as his exploration of you no longer was for gentle admiration, but for parched desire. "You say whatever you want," he growled as he rolled your nipple between his index and thumb, "you don't care about how it makes anyone feel..." His voice is hushed and teasing.

You squeak, feeling his cold fingers send waves of pleasure down your body, your nipples hardening up instantly.

He repeats your words, "'I can't believe I'm fucking my best friend' and not, 'I can't believe I'm fucking a monster'," he chuckles, "I guess I'll take it."

The circle that his tail has trapped you in restricts smaller. It restricts tight enough for him to lay your head propped on it instead of holding it up for you. He leans down to your body, rolling out that massive tongue, your breath hitches beautifully.

He can't take it.

He lied.

You're too bewitching.

You speak up, "I just, I think about that time back when we were just kids--" his large tongue rolls a stripe down your body, "--nnh fuck... and we were in band practice and you were showing me your teeth without those braces," You pause.

He halts his teasing, his eyes furrowing in intrigue, already knowing where this story is going. You continue, "You waited all day until 6th period, when we had our first class together, to show me your teeth before anyone else... And I think-- 'wow that's the boy that's going down on me right now', a-and it's embarrassing!"

A bright, hearty laugh escapes him, the sound crackled and mangled as if he had never laughed before. Your humilation worsened beneath him. You were enamored watching him, brain sucking in how prettily he laughs, how pretty he smiles. Those sharp, pointy teeth flash at you, and though they're dangerous. Despite that, he was too handsomely-silly for you to feel any fear; only worse embarrassment.

"You- huh," he snorts out, unable to find the words.

"It's not funny, Sebastian," you whine, covering your face.

"You're thinking about all that right now?" He asks with a giggle.

"Of course I am... Who wouldn't," you pout.

Sebastian leans in to steal your lips, pressing a sweet kiss against them. You gratefully kiss back, running your hands through his silky raven locks. They were cut into a short bob. Funnily enough, it was the same way he always had it while growing up. He never wanted to try anything different after graduation. It was sweet to feel him again like this.

Your racing heart slowed as you felt him, as his tongue nicely licked you for entrance, and as you generously opened your mouth for him. His tongue was thick and pointy, the sensation unlike anything else, but it radiated his essence. Your arms seemed to fit lovingly on his shoulders while his other two hands caressed your belly romantically. There were so many possibilities, so many ways your relationship could change - is changing. Fuck's sake, everything about him was alien now. But still, as you feel him caress you, you know deep down inside you're so ready to face it all for him. And you're not going to face it alone either.

You shoulders drooped in the kiss, your pinched eyebrows melting in sudden bliss.

God, when did you fall for him? Were you always in love like this?

He pulled away with a hearty smack, his hands running back to hold you sweet hips as he buried his face dear to your chest. He hums, "Now, where were we?" His breath tingles against your skin. "Ah, here we are," his dark eyes flicker to your lovely chest, "they look so lonely," he cackles.

Sebastian licks your tender nipple, his tongue warm from being in your hot mouth. You moan at the feeling as he rudely licks and slurps up your nipple. His left claw rolls your other nipple between his index and thumb. The feeling is sharp and tight, opposite to the sweetness of his soft tongue.

"Ooh, Sebastian," you mewl, staring down at him as he worked. You hear the end of his whale tail rattle possessively at the sound of his name. He pulls off them with a greedy moan and slides his large tongue down your belly in a stripe. He ends it tantalizingly close to where your underwear meets your hips.

He then buries his nose deep against your sex, a strong sniff making your bones rattle, and your legs clam his head on either side. It's then that you are viciously reminded that Sebastian is still a predator. Your jaw hangs open, neck arching backward against his tail as his tongue rolls out and licks you soaking through your underwear.

The moaning cry that leaves you is jittery and squeakish, a mewl filled with paralyzing erotic terror, "Ah--aa!" You buck your hips against his wet muscle, grinding down harshly against him. He grabs the hem of your underwear and tears it to nothing, his claws immediately reaching to your hole, while his tongue devours your main sex.

You whimper, and sebastian flickers his ears dangerously. He growls and pulls away, eyes lidded as he yanks his button up off his body. He hisses into the air, "I can't take this." He rises high above you, your jaw falls slack. His body is glisteningly beautiful, his reflective scales reach his belly and create a greenish hue, and scars litter his skin.

Oddly, he didn't have a penis, just his skin and scales and a small hole no bigger than your pinkie. He dips a clawed finger into it, a blissful moan rises from him, and he pulls it straight out. Within an instant, two fleshy, slimey pink rods burst out of his body. One of them has a head of a cock, while the other is smaller, thinner, but flexible as it curls enticingly around the other. Your mouth waters at the sight.

You bark out, "I can't take that Sebastian!" You whine, feeling your sex pour out it's arousal. You sit up zealously, but he dives in to meet you.

His three hands pull you into an embrace, as his two dicks press into your belly. The stiffer, human looking one bumps your belly button, just as he promised, while the flexible, alien cock sways circles into your skin. Primally, your hips buck forward, eyes disappearing to the crevices of your mind. Sebastian's breath is deep and full in your ears. A fire of feverous shakes overcome you, your brain lost in the foreign stimuli.

Before you could even think it any worse, he burries his lips against your ear and cries out a pitiful mantra, "Try f'me... please, guppy..."

In all of your life you've never heard Sebastian beg not once. He didn't beg for forgiveness when he crashed your sweet sixteen, neither did he when he got you in trouble in Urbanshade. But yet here he is. Begging so pitifully.

He licks your ear, whimpers bubbling out of his throat as he begins to buck against your sex, grinding his cocks against you mindlessly. You moan out, feeling his alien dick massage your sex intensely, sticking it up from its wetness.

His sharp teeth scrape gently across your earlobe, the burning feeling vibrating into your ears along with his pitiful cries. Your jaw falls slack in bliss as your feet eagerly wrap around his waist. "Ooh, F-Fuck Seb' mmore," You moan.

His face is fucked out as he rises the two of you up, you're pulled up from the bed, secured to him by the two hands that hold your ass and hip. The final, tiny third hand is meekly holding you just above your elbow.

You can feel him part you as his head presses against your hole. It's achingly slick, and he breaches with no further hesitation. He's large, filling you with just the tip of one of his cocks alone. The second rushes in, curling in your walls sporadically.

"Oohh-- nnh- aah," You mewl.

"Z'orry," he hisses. With no warning, Sebastian fucks your hips down onto his cocks, bottoming out with a wistful moan. Your hands shoot to grab onto him, laying your face sloppily into his chest and familiarizing your nails with his back.

His dicks are hot, much hotter than the rest of his cold body. You can feel him expand your belly, his alien cock swirling and spasming like a furious vibrator. Your ankles lock your feet en pointe, your toes curling to finish the ballet look. And for his very first official thrust, you're already spilling out cum.

His claws dip into your skin, beading out tiny beads of blood into the bed. The smell of your blood is a fragrant garish to the smell of your weeping sex. A sweet appetizer to the drizzling aroma of your sweat. All of this is happening in his den, with the taste of ur lips still distant on his tongue, and the sound of your mewls in his ears. All of it makes his ears twitch in masterful delight.

He pumps into you mindlessly, your walls pummeled and stretched intensely, gummy as they milk his dicks of their juices. A lewd, hearty smack puckers out the space where your bodies meet, the sound squelching wet. Your combined slick dribbles down Sebastian's scales as he hurriedly burries himself into your shoulder.

He fucks your hips down onto him as he thrusts, meeting you both in the middle, the squeaking pleasure forcing your nails to scrape at the tough skin on his back. You're unfortunate to note you can't prick him to bleed the same way he'd made your hips to suffer, but your mind is burning with sparks too intense you fail to care.

Painfully, he pulls out of you mid thrust, the feeling of emptiness like a sear to your weeping sex and heart. You whine, "Sebastian--" Bit you can't even finish your shout as he cooes at you and shoves his tongue in your mouth.

He lowers back onto the bed, wrapping his tail around your body and propping you above him. Your head lays against his dorsal fin, your legs on either side of his hips and your feet touches the bed.

"T'gimme a sec'," he mumbles out, his eyes lidded, mouth agape and fucked out.

You watch precariously as his thin, alien cock coils around his more human one. It swirled around it like a precise torpedo, making it a thicker plunge for you to take. Before you can even register it, his tail shoves you down onto him, his absurd cocks forcing you into another orgasm.

Your mewl is airy and scratchy, drowning out the mantra of pitiful wanton "sorry"s from Sebastian's slobbering mouth. He bounces you onto him, your knees curled up on each side in a straddle. His cock adulterates your walls, the ridges from his swirling cock abuse your sweet spot, rubbing against it multiple times each thrust, and forcing you into your third orgasm.

You squeeze him tighter, and his back rises from the bed, his head shooting back into the pillows. His tail restricts tightly around your body, your airflow dimming beautifully as your hands claw at his tail. His moans spike, his tail growing weak with thrusts. Another orgasm was rising in you, but you wouldn't let it go to waist.

You take the liberty to bounce on him for him, your plunges quick and fast, energetic sloppy sounds spilling out your body. He cries out, baring his teeth, but you continue riding him, clawing at his tail with shaggy breaths. The restrictions felt so good, his tail squeezed your whole body so well, you were gonna cum you were gonna cum--

"Sebastian!"

Your sex bursts it's cum perfectly in-sync with the flooding of semen invading your walls. His cum is blood hot, intense as his shots stretch you worse and spill out the gaps of his cocks. Your jaw locks, your moans drawn and loud from you. You squeeze him tightly, dropping all your weight against his tail, as you meekly use your last drop of energy to pull off his spasming cocks. It slips out of you, flowing by a waterfall of orange cum spilling out you. You can barely take notice of his semen's alien color when your head gets light.

"M'guppy, c'mere," is all you hear from him as you're lowered down onto his chest, and developed into his three arms.

You fall asleep just as instant as your cheek touches his collarbone.

Fuck.

That was life changing.

🛋🐍🐋🦈

*Your groggy eyes flutter open, doused in the moving, warm thing you lay upon. It felt rubbery against your cheek, yet had a soft pulse ebbing from it.

You didn't recall falling asleep, but when you awoke, you found yourself laying on Sebastian's chest. It was rubbery against your cheek, yet warm and pusling eerily loud. With a grunt, you shifted but was met with an intense soreness dipping from your arms and lower half.

"Awake?," you heard him ask

*I feel so bad. This little part above was supposed to be continued, but I gave up. BUT I also forgot to cut it out of the fic??? So it ends so weird omg.

Now, here i am finally editing this fic like 6/7 months later just now realizing this was left in there 😭😭

I wont take it out for memories sake, but sheez sorry guys 😭😭💖💖

#sebastian solace roblox #sebastian x you #sebastian x reader #sebastian pressure #sebastian solace #sebastian solace x you #sebastian solace x reader #roblox sebastian solace #roblox pressure #pressure roblox #pressure #smut

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mandalhoerian · 1 month ago

Text

the shape of grief.

as far as rafayel is concerned, pygmalion's is a horror story, not a myth. guy decides all women are beneath him, quite literally designs and builds one for himself, and somehow his narcissistic prayers for her to live are granted. what humans define as love and the stories they tell about it are always so revealing of their selfish nature. he only ever gets the appeal of it when he looks at his faceless galatea unable to take shape in his clay-sodden hands, and thinks, what wouldn't i give for you to open your eyes so that i could remember their exact color.

♯ ⸻ pure angst, sfw, 3.7k, read on ao3

note: directly inspired by this post about rafayel trying to sculpt mc/reader but not remembering her face. a bit late to this but i was hit with the procrastination fairies LMAO . i wrote this in a feverish delirium without caring for any canon at all, i apologize if rafayel is ooc !! this work assumes he has his memories of his life as the god of tides, you can think it as an AU if you believe he has no memories of it in the main timeline (yet.) This also takes place before the Addictive Pain anectode (if you like nitpicking and think why he doesn't have a photo of her and that this could have been avoided HAHA)

but without further ado, i hope you enjoy, please let me know what you thought!

The gallery Thomas had to basically bribe him to attend was cold with intention. Whitewashed walls were almost blinding beneath the overhead lights, each fixture angled to make the sculptures glow faintly at the edges like relics, a violin track playing at a volume calibrated for reverent hush with the crowd adjusting its voice accordingly. Somehow, the worst of it was that they'd scented the room with something floral and expensive, and it was clinging so offensively to the back of Rafayel’s throat and wouldn't go away no matter how much he swallowed or sipped on the drink glued to his hand.

The exhibit was titled Breathed to Life: The Divine Muse in Modern Form. He’d read the placard twice, though once would’ve been enough. Wherever he looked, Rafayel couldn't escape from the oozed hauteur for the attempts at capturing a miracle, sculptures of taxidermied epiphanies resting under glass that was tempered with more care in Rafayel's opinion, preserved with just enough light to make the delusion shine. Words like transcendence, revelation, and worship had been worked into the catalog copy, and even the bubbles of champagne he was swirling in the flute glass was more interesting as he idly moved through the space.

He passed a piece labeled Galatea No. IV — a full-bodied woman in bronze, lips parted in awakening, arms half-lifted as if to greet the man who had imagined her, the texture of her skin smoothed to impossible precision, idealized down to the the pores with not a single wrinkle or mole.

One of the critics standing nearby called it sublime. Another said, "She looks so real I almost expect her to blink."

Rafayel said nothing. He kept walking.

A curator caught him between rooms. She was in something backless, dark green, dripping with confidence. “You must feel at home here,” she said, beaming. “Mr. Rafayel, you're the Pygmalion of our time."

He looked past her to one of his own works, mounted near the final archway. A man slouched on a low stone, arms folded, spine curved with a kind of refusal, turned away from something but looking up at it at the same time in criticism, his face gaunt with a pinch of displeasure, half-shielded by a fall of hair. No awe or supplication.

His was the only Pygmalion in the entire exhibit, and no one seemed to realize it. Rafayel had heard some talk about how progressive it was to genderbend Galatea for gay representation, or that this could be the moment Galatea came to life and rejected her maker in a plot twist.

Rafayel had left it up to interpretation if his Pygmalion was looking at Galatea at all. He was staring past her — past all of them, really. Every woman he ever imagined beneath him, too dull or too much or too sharp to matter. A man convinced that the thing he made was a compromise, that he’d been forced to shape it because nothing real had measured up. Neither a lover, nor a muse. A reflection bent to fit him. And maybe resenting how much of himself had ended up in the marble anyway. Nothing of the yearning saint the myth preferred.

The gallery had tried to soften this image of human ugliness within the divine benevolence of Galateas all around, projecting wind through bare branches beside the figure, trying to frame the posture as meditative. They titled the piece Invocation. Rafayel wasn't even asked before they changed the name and he was definitely having a talk about it with Thomas after.

He offered the curator a a dismissive hand. “A flattering comparison. Though I hear his success rate depended entirely on divine intervention.”

She laughed, unsure whether it was flirtation or rebuke. “Still, what an honor. So many of us see ourselves in the myth, don’t we? The ones who love so deeply we bring our muses to life.”

He excused himself with a nod that meant nothing. Her perfume followed him down the corridor.

The flowing hallway was a blur of marble, alabaster, glass, bronze, the women luminous and soft, the men always absent — except in the titles. The Sculptor’s Prayer. In the Hands of the Maker. Love Before Breath. One artist had suspended a torso in resin, veins threaded with copper, the heart cavity open and waiting with the accompanying quote that read: “She lives because I saw her clearly enough.”

Rafayel stopped in front of it. The figure inside was beautiful and fragile, designed to be admired.

He traced the edge of the plinth with one fingertip and thought: She lives because you needed her to. Not because she wanted to.

He left the gallery floor and stepped into the auxiliary corridor lined with donor plaques and black-and-white photographs. One showed a young couple posed beside a sculpture mid-process. The woman’s face was amicable, and the man looked directly into the camera, his hand on the small of her back. The caption read: The original Galatea — forever immortalized by love.

He looked at it until the focus dissolved, and the polished surface of the frame stopped reflecting anything but his own cold expression.

Pygmalion was granted his wish. That alone was enough to make Rafayel despise him.

A man shapes greed with his hands, pulls at the skirts of heavens like a petulant child, and the gods — watching from a distance they rarely breach — clap their hands in glee and say yes.

The myth pretended that mercy could be earned by longing, that a body sculpted by a beholder who sees himself so above others is owed because he called it love. There was no weight in that kind of miracle, only cruelty dressed as grace, a prayer granted just to mock the millions that weren't.

Pygmalion was the epitome of human selfishness, the final limit where want transformed into greed for more than the world could grant. Only his statue, made by his own greedy hands and given life through someone else's breath, was beautiful, because only she embodied perfection to him, not because she was worth desiring but because he desired her. Pygmalion's love didn't reach past his self, it served only to feed himself and satiate him with the sight of his narcissism, like any other creation brought to life by humans for their own benefit; machines built to kill, guns painted gold so they look like art when killing — all just tools made to feed men's hunger for more.

But he would have never cared about Pygmalion if it wasn't for the gods.

Because Rafayel envied those gods, all too human in their vanity, for the power and might they wielded to give so easily like that. Their ability to move mountains without ever being touched by grief, to pull strings that bind worlds without fearing losing something of theirs; it was unfathomable to someone so bound in mortal tethers such as he.

It must feel so freeing, living like that, he thought. Must feel so good, pulling at other lives like they are your playthings. So easy to get lost in those dreams.

The same way he did back then.

The disdain covering Rafayel in a second skin as if he was an oil-soaked seagull was fuel enough to get back to work after that travesty of a gallery.

He’d been developing a concept for a painting — a large-scale composition of a coral-devoured, bleeding cathedral submerged in the sea, its steeples fractured and stretching toward the surface in a gesture that evoked both surrender and yearning, an image meant to convey the contradictions of loss and reverence, a symbolic convergence of decay and devotion. At least that’s what the so-called critics were about to yammer on about. It in fact was the fate of a certain buyer Rafayel was targeting, and the message was meant for his people and his people only.

The draft lived on the sketchbook propped against his raised knees, his legs crossed on the high stool, charcoal gripped tightly in one hand and smudging downwards the length of a pillar as he added textures and shadows to create depth. It was a hasty thing, but effective at illustrating what he envisioned, complete with notes scribbled around the edges, jotted reminders for little details here and there he needed to add to truly flesh out the piece later on. Rafayel was so distracted by a couple more things to add to the sketch that the canvas already prepared beneath the dome skylight felt neglected despite the brushes sitting ready and dipped in paint atop a palette of bruised violet scraped from stormclouds, diluted ultramarine, blue fog, a soft grime green of oxidized copper, rotten ivory, a sliver of warm rust, a cold pink scraped from the underbelly of spent roses, and more.

And yet, when he finally got up to start for good, his gaze drifted elsewhere.

Toward the bust armature.

Rafayel stood beside it, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, head tilted sideways with one hand playing with it in thought. He loosened the buttons of the white dress shirt he wore after flinging off that horrid tie, sleeves pushed to mid forearms as he dragged a stool and took a seat before the armature, right elbow propped atop the round table to the side holding supplies, chin resting on knuckles, now gazing up at the base of the clay cast while chewing the inside of his cheek.

He had always told himself he would return to it when he was ready, when time had softened the raw, exposed nerve endings of loss, when he could render your likeness with a steady hand instead of a shaking one.

But then months stretched into a year, days faded into seasons which blended together into a period of numbness broken occasionally by an intrusive thought here and there while he focused on Lemuria and Lemuria only, and then — nothing. Until it was easier not to think about it at all. He became absorbed in his mission, dedicated to getting revenge, and avoided thoughts of you, for all intents and purposes, until moments like these where he simply sat in silence looking up at a form without feature to remind him why exactly he did what he did.

Galatea, huh?

He crossed the room with the same distracted focus he used to summon bruyous, hands rummaging through the storage shelves until he found the sealed bag of clay, not expecting it to be heavier than he remembered, dense with neglect. Dumping it unceremoniously beside the armature, he sliced it open, letting the block fall onto the slab table with a dull, resistant thud, finding it cold to the touch, too stiff to yield immediately, so he pressed it between his palms, wetting them, working the material slowly until the top layer lost its brittleness.

He didn't sit right away, hovering over the lump with furrowed brows, kneading it down into something usable, folding in water from the bowl on the side, rotating it as he moved, pushing and turning until the tension bled out. Once softened, he dunked the mass onto the metal plate mounted over the dented and sluggish, old man of a banding wheel. Only then did he sit, lowering himself onto a battered wooden stool, one bare foot braced against the leg of the wheel’s base while the other nudged gently to angle it.

All done. He reached for the wire loop tool without thinking or looking over, fingers already coated in the dull slip of moisture and clay.

The first lines came quick and confident. Indents for the eyes. The line of a nose. Just scaffolding, clearing a space where you might return to him, the only sound in the room the soft grind of his tools and his breathing.

He narrowed the chin, adjusted the brow. Then sat back, frowning.

Too young. This was closer to the child at the beach who had hooked pinkies with him.

He scraped the forehead flat again, thumb dragging clay down like peeling skin. The smoothed face stared up at him in blank reprieve, a temporary erasure before he tried again, less baby fat on the cheeks, sharper cheekbones this time, a more adult curve to the jaw, something more defined around the eyes, though he wasn’t sure what. A firmer mouth, perhaps. A stronger line. He reworked the nose — it ended up being too straight the first time and he chided himself for the mistake, then he decided it was too narrow, crooked it just slightly at the bridge, something he'd sworn felt right.

It wasn't long before the moment slipped from his fingers, and all the revisions felt more like mistakes than anything, tilting the whole balance of the face into something uncanny. He could pretend it was nearly familiar, but only in the way dreams pretended to be memory.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Rafayel tilted the wheel. Leaning in with an emotion-tense strain in his spine, he angled the bust toward the overhead light until the shadows shifted and spilled away from the features he’d laid out like a confession.

He stood up for a burning stretch to contemplate, stepped back, squinted with his head tilted, and stepped forward again.

Was it just him? The angle? The lighting? The fatigue of the gallery distorting everything?

After he sat back down with more determination to get over whatever this slump was that made him get you wrong over and over again, one adjustment in the temple led to a collapse in the jawline, and the later correction to the mouth made the chin too long.

The realization that the eyes looked distant now and he couldn’t tell if it was him failing the depth or the absence of something deeper was particularly worrying. Rafayel had always trusted the process, but this didn’t feel like a detour into arriving at the same destination, the clay was actually resisting him in a non-art block way and it was starting to actually bother him.

He scraped again, set the brow differently, ignoring the thing niggling at him at the back of his head and brushing against some the internal nerve. Was it ever really that shape? Or had he once wanted it to be, and kept telling you about how doing your brows that way would compliment your features better when Algie had sat you down before the vanity in your room to try out some dresses for the ceremony and work on make-up to go along with each one of them?

The clay warped gently beneath his fingers as he tried to trust the sensation, but every stroke seemed to subtract rather than add. The frustration Rafayel hadn't sensed had made its way into his hands like fire following the path of a wick, making the cheekbone dip under the tool, and he had to sit back straighter with a huff from his nose.

His eyes flew all over the features of the bust, the whole incomplete face. Rafayel couldn't even call it yours. One mistake or two could be expected, even pictures could be unflattering. But it was worse than that — he couldn’t figure out where it had gone wrong. The structure was exactly the same, proportions were what he remembered. The surface was close to reality enough to breathe, but the person who would come to life if they did wasn’t you, and he didn't know where he had gone wrong.

Rafayel stared longer. A pressure grew behind his ribs, and it was beginning to feel like trying to hum a melody he hadn’t heard in years. The more he reached for it, the more the silence beneath it yawned open.

He reached up and pressed his palm against the clay, not to shape, just to feel if it might suddenly remember for him.

It didn’t.

This was someone else. Too much of him.

He looked down at his hands, coated in slip and streaked with fine dust, and flexed the fingers slowly as though wondering how long they’d been disobeying him.

He pressed the backs of the base knuckles of his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes. Into the tear ducts.

Where was the scar you used to trace absently while thinking? He tried to recall the way your mouth moved when you were amused but trying not to smile. Was it one side that curled first? Or both? He had drawn it once, years ago, sketched it from memory with absolute certainty. But when he reached for it now, he found only doubt.

The chair scraped backwards and nearly toppled as he sprang to his feet, crossing to the small cabinet beside the canvas where he kept what little he dared to revisit. He almost flung the drawer halfway through the room when he yanked it open, pulled the first sketchpad he could reach, pages flipping too and frenzied to register until he paused and kept going through them slower to make sense of it.

Eyes, alone. Dozens of them. Glancing sideways, gazing directly, lowered in thought, every single one of them slightly different in expression, none of them quite right. A nose rendered in three-quarter view with a soft crease that might have been tension. The arch of a brow, mid-expression — concern, maybe? Hair texture studies in every style you wore it that he remembers. A mouth caught in a smile with no cause. Hands more frequently than anything else — folded gently, held in motion, reaching out. The gesture of a wrist mid-turn, the curve of a knuckle mid-thought. A sketch of a nape that vanished into the shadows of the page’s lower edge.

None of them carried your name. But they were you. Bits of you. Shards. And every one of them had been committed to the page when he hadn’t even meant to — absentminded, between tasks, in the margins of other projects. A fragmented archive of heartbreak he’d been too cowardly to complete. As if assembling you would demand an answer to where you had gone, as if seeing it finished would require confronting what it meant for him to have stayed, inviting something too vast and unhealed to fit back inside him without breaking something else a lie in full.

Rafayel had underestimated the sheer amount of notebooks he'd gone through for years now, like paper towels one would wipe away their tears with. The grudges he'd immortalized left to collect dust and avoided religiously.

He could only look through a draft of your eyes and hold on to the sketchbook for dear life when his vision blurred and something trickled down his cheek. One by one, the tears solidified into pearls, striking the floor and rolling away into obscurity among the chaos of his studio.

Dropped right into the throes of a realization far bigger than he could accept.

Like a dream that slipped away upon waking, your face had receded to the place where Lemuria had sunk — unable to be grasped fully or played back clearly unless he called them forth, the rest reduced to snippets and gestures instead, images that flickered through his mind like slides projected on a screen, ephemeral and fading faster the harder he fought to keep hold of them. What remained was abstraction — softness that used to be hair, the dimple of an incisor tooth, a tilt of the mouth that belonged to laughter. Those fragments still possessed color. What they lacked were definitions that would allow him to shape the clay in your image.

He went through more sketchbooks until the last of it joined the pile around him and he was left standing motionless in the wreckage of graphite and paper spilling open across the floor like overturned reliquaries, pages fluttering mockingly gentle under the breeze nudging through the half-cracked windows, reflecting back a half-you, or an almost-you. He stared at them for a long time without moving, eyes dragging from shape to shape, as if willing one to speak with your voice.

What answered was a notification pinging in his pocket, a sound so mundane amid the shambles of his misery. He pulled his phone out in a detached daze, swiping at it with no thought.

Thomas: Pygmalion and Galatea gallery photos are up on their page! Your attendance was well publicized and people are talking about your piece, so I expect requests for interviews soon. Just letting you know 😃

His knees gave out before the grief did, he caught the armrest at the very last possible second, and slid down the length of the sofa's side.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough. Those words barricaded his mind like blood rushing to fill a bruise.

Rafayel was a creature built from ripples, shaped by a lineage of memory so ancient it existed without written record, a primordial awareness of past pains and future sufferings alike, generations upon generations worth of invisible scar tissues patching him up like a rag doll. Cities had fallen and crumbled behind him, yet he could name their street corners and the songs sung during their funerals.

So why — how — had you slipped from him this way?

The thought unspooled inside him slowly, a wet thread tugged from a wound so raw that Rafayel didn’t dare touch it. He had thought, in some arrogant, buried part of him, that if he ever tried, truly allowed himself to miss you more than he mourned his people, and stopped tormenting himself by creating puzzle pieces of you out of scraps in his refusal to obtain a photo of you living your new life, he would be able to rebuild you perfectly. Even the gods who breathed life into Galatea would turn green with envy.

His gaze crawled back to the Frankenstein's monster of a bust, all unrelated bits and pieces that had looked like you when isolated but made no sense when he put them together, taking the shape of grief itself.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough.

He tossed the phone aside without giving Thomas an answer, threw his head back to lean on the lip of the couch, and covered his face with a forearm.

And at last, bitterly, he realized he was no different than Pygmalion: longing for the memory of a woman to etch itself into life.

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