#but i had to express this overwhelming feeling

[faebled-stories]

A Journey to Belong

Kinkvember Day 26: Collaring

LOONA/Lossemble Kim Hyunjin x Male reader

AN: Woke up this morning to see an anon sharing a picture that was absolutely perfect. I'm a little gutted I didn't think to use it first, but I'm swapping out the original because it fits so well. Shoutout to that anon!

Hyunjin used to wear her collar with pride. To her, it was more than just an accessory; it was a quiet proclamation of something deeper, something grounding. The soft leather always warmed against her skin, like a second pulse in tune with her own. She would touch it absentmindedly, her fingers brushing its edge when she was lost in thought or overwhelmed by emotion. It wasn’t just a tether—it was comfort, a mark of belonging, a secret she carried that only the two of you truly understood.

Sometimes, you’d catch her tracing its curve, her lips curling into a playful, knowing smile. She seemed to radiate joy in those moments, a quiet confidence that reflected her connection to you. When she laughed, her head tilted just enough for the light to catch its polished surface, creating a subtle gleam that felt like it winked just for you. That collar wasn’t just part of her identity—it was part of yours. A symbol that carried the weight of something words couldn’t touch, a connection that went deeper than mere appearance.

In the past, she treated it with reverence. Her hands would move with care as she adjusted it in the morning, her fingers slow and deliberate, as if the act were a ritual. When you fastened it around her neck, her posture straightened, her shoulders set, as though she were bearing the weight of something noble, something cherished. But lately, that reverence had begun to fade.

The world had grown heavier on her shoulders, its quiet burdens pressing into her with relentless persistence. It dulled the gleam in her eyes, dimming the light that once made them shine like distant stars. She moved slower now, less deliberate, her rhythm disrupted by the constant push and pull of responsibilities she could never quite shake. You saw it in the way her hand brushed the collar less often, in the way it hung around her neck without the same meaning. It had begun to feel like an afterthought—a once-sacred symbol reduced to just another thing she wore.

The rituals that once anchored her, those small acts that reminded her of who she was and what she meant to you, had grown scarce. The quiet moments where meaning was woven, thread by thread, had been replaced by silence. It wasn’t just the collar losing its weight—it was the spaces between you that felt heavier now, filled with an unspoken distance that you couldn’t quite bridge.

That evening, the house was quiet. The golden hues of sunset filtered through the curtains, pooling in soft puddles of light on the wooden floor. You stood in the bedroom doorway, your shadow stretching long across the room as you watched her. She was tucking her legs beneath the blanket, her movements slow, tired. Normally, this hour was sacred. She would kneel beside the bed, her posture straight, her head bowed, her breaths even as she let the weight of the day melt away. It was a small ritual that belonged to the two of you, a moment of balance in a chaotic world.

But tonight, she simply climbed into bed. Brushing a few stray strands of hair from her face, her expression was one of quiet resignation, as though that ritual were nothing more than a faint memory.

“Hyunjin,” you said softly, your voice steady but questioning.

She glanced up at you, her eyes heavy with exhaustion, faint shadows beneath them betraying just how long the day had been. “Hmm?”

“Your ritual,” you reminded her gently, careful to keep your tone light.

“Oh,” she murmured, shifting slightly as she pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders. “I’ll skip it tonight. I’m tired.”

The word hung in the air between you, cold and unyielding. It felt like the first crack in something you’d thought was unshakable. You wanted to press her, to remind her that it wasn’t just a routine but a connection—a space for her, for you, for what you’d built together. But something fragile lingered in her gaze, a weariness that ran deeper than physical fatigue. She looked like a bird perched precariously on a wire, ready to take flight at the slightest movement.

So instead, you nodded and stepped away, the sound of your footsteps fading into the quiet of the house. Still, the tightness in your chest lingered, an ache settling deep as you heard the soft creak of the bed springs signaling her restless sleep.

-----

A couple of mornings later, sunlight poured through the kitchen window, a golden warmth spilling across the tiled floor. Faint motes of dust swirled lazily in the still air, catching the light. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound breaking the silence. You stood at the counter, the warmth of your coffee mug grounding you, your gaze fixed on the corner of the room.

It was the spot you’d asked her to clear days ago. Yet, it remained untouched, the clutter seeming to expand every time you looked at it. Books with dog-eared pages teetered in uneven stacks, half-empty mugs marked with faint coffee rings sat beside plates with crumbs still clinging to them. Papers—some folded, some crumpled—spilled across the surface, as though she’d abandoned them mid-thought. It wasn’t just a mess; it was her mess. Her habits left to fester, her tasks left undone, her things bleeding into the shared space as if their importance extended only as far as her immediate need for them.

You took a slow sip of your coffee, the bitter warmth grounding you as irritation flickered faintly in your chest. Turning toward the sound of soft footsteps, you saw Hyunjin shuffle into the room. Her hair was loosely gathered in a bun, messy strands framing her face, and her phone cast a pale glow across her features. Her thumb moved idly, scrolling with an almost hypnotic focus that made the rest of the world feel distant.

Without looking up, she moved toward the counter, her movements slow and distracted. You waited, letting the silence stretch for a moment, then finally spoke. “Hyunjin, why haven’t you cleaned the corner yet?”

She paused mid-step, her thumb hovering over her phone. For a fleeting second, she looked genuinely confused, like she wasn’t sure what you were talking about. Her eyes followed yours to the mess, and recognition flickered faintly across her face.

“Oh,” she said lightly, her tone casual, as if the neglected corner was an afterthought. “I haven't gotten to it yet.”

You set your coffee mug down carefully, keeping your voice calm but deliberate. “You didn’t get to it?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her tone dismissive, already brushing off the moment. “I’ll do it later. It’s not a big deal.”

Her hand waved vaguely toward the clutter, and she didn’t even glance up from her phone. Her thumb resumed its slow scrolling, her focus absorbed once again by the screen in her hand. The dismissiveness in her words stung more than you expected. It wasn’t the mess itself—it was the meaning behind it, the erosion of care, the growing distance her casual attitude revealed.

“Hyunjin,” you said, your voice tightening slightly. “When I ask you to do something, I expect it to be done.”

She didn’t even glance up, her gaze fixed firmly on her phone. “Okay, okay,” she mumbled, the words quick, automatic, more reflex than acknowledgment. As she turned slightly, she muttered under her breath, “Jeez.”

The word was quiet but sharp enough to cut. It hung in the air, a small jab that carried a weight far heavier than the sound should have. Your jaw tightened, the flicker of irritation blooming into something harder to ignore.

The warmth of the sunlight streaming through the window felt out of place now, incongruous against the tension crackling in the air. The room, once a peaceful haven, suddenly felt heavier. The silence was no longer soothing but charged with something unspoken. You turned back to the window, gripping your coffee mug a little tighter as you stared out at the trees swaying gently in the breeze.

It wasn’t about the mess, not really. It was about what it represented—the slow, creeping disconnection that seemed to settle in the spaces between these moments. You wondered how something so small, so seemingly insignificant, could feel so monumental. But the distance was there, undeniable, growing wider with every careless dismissal, every idle word. You stared out at the golden light playing across the trees and wondered when things had started to slip away.

-----

That evening, the restaurant was softly lit, the golden glow of candles casting flickering shadows across the table. The low hum of conversation mixed with the gentle clinking of silverware, creating an atmosphere that felt both intimate and alive. You and Hyunjin sat among her friends—Go Won, Yeojin, Hyeju, and Vivi—whose chatter flowed easily, punctuated by bursts of laughter that seemed to brighten the room. The five of them shared an easy rhythm, their teasing and playful banter weaving a language they all seemed to instinctively understand.

Hyunjin looked radiant tonight, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the room and the laughter bubbling from her lips. She leaned forward as Yeojin said something outrageous, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement, her smile wide and uninhibited. It was the kind of joy that drew you in, making the rest of the room blur around her. For a moment, you let yourself get lost in it, in the way her laughter lit up the space between you, in the quiet pride of seeing her so at ease.

Then, Go Won leaned forward, her grin mischievous, her tone teasing. “So,” she said, drawing out the word, her eyes glinting with barely contained glee, “is it true that Hyunjin’s partner is, like, totally in charge?”

Yeojin giggled, her eyes darting between you and Hyunjin, while Hyeju smirked knowingly. Vivi, who had been sipping her wine, set her glass down delicately and raised a curious eyebrow, her lips curving into a subtle smile. Their teasing filled the air with an electric anticipation, the kind that came before someone said something bold. All eyes turned to Hyunjin, waiting for her response.

Hyunjin laughed, but it wasn’t the soft, genuine sound you’d heard moments before. This laugh was sharp, cutting, her tone tinged with something defensive. “Yeah, right,” she said, flipping her hair with an exaggerated flourish. “He thinks he’s in charge? Oh please.”

The table erupted in laughter. Go Won clapped her hands while Yeojin practically doubled over, her giggles carrying across the room. Even Hyeju, who often played it cool, cracked a grin. Vivi, ever poised, hid her smirk behind her hand, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. You smiled along, but it felt stiff, a hollow gesture as her words sank in.

Beneath the table, you reached for her hand, a subtle gesture meant to ground the moment, to remind her of the connection that should have been there. But her hand shifted slightly, pulling away as if she hadn’t noticed—or perhaps as if she had and didn’t care.

“Hyunjin,” you said softly, leaning toward her so your words wouldn’t carry to the others. Your tone wasn’t angry, but there was a question in it—a quiet nudge toward something unspoken.

For a fleeting moment, her smile faltered. She glanced at you, her eyes flickering with something—hesitation, regret, a sliver of guilt—but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “What?” she said, her voice light, brushing off the moment. “It’s just a joke.”

Her words hit harder than you expected, their casual dismissal cutting deeper than they should have. The conversation rolled forward without missing a beat, the others picking up where they’d left off. Vivi leaned toward Go Won, quietly asking a question that made her laugh, her soft voice adding to the warm hum of the room. Hyunjin, meanwhile, turned back to Hyeju, her smile slipping back into place. On the surface, everything seemed normal, her laughter blending seamlessly into the rhythm of her friends’ banter.

But beneath that surface, her thoughts tumbled. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal—that it was better this way, keeping things light, keeping her independence in view for others to see. They didn’t need to understand everything. They didn’t need to see what happened between the two of you, the private bond that defined her. That was hers to guard. And yet, as she laughed, the thought settled heavily in her chest, an unease she couldn’t quite push away.

You leaned back slightly, withdrawing into the golden light of the restaurant. The room around you was alive with warmth and conversation, but it felt distant, as though it belonged to another world entirely. You watched her across the table, the way she tilted her head toward Hyeju, sharing a private joke, the corners of her lips lifting just enough. It should have been enough to warm you, but instead, a quiet ache gnawed at the space between you.

There was a disconnect now, sharp and unyielding, like an invisible chasm that had opened in the space of a few words. It wasn’t the laughter or even the teasing that stung. It was the way she pulled away—the way her words had drawn a line that neither the candlelight nor the soft hum of the restaurant could cross. The warmth of the evening felt muted, its glow unable to soften the weight of the unspoken distance. You sat back in silence, watching her laugh and smile, and wondered when the connection you shared had started to feel like a memory rather than something real.

The days had begun to blur together, the weight of unspoken tension threading through the quiet of the house. Little moments that once felt warm now felt distant, replaced by a growing disconnect that neither of you had yet acknowledged aloud. You found yourself noticing the small things more—the sound of her keys dropping onto the counter, the way her shoes landed haphazardly by the door, as if she no longer cared where they fell. It was as if the rhythm you once shared had gone slightly out of sync, a subtle discord that lingered in every interaction.

This evening was no different. The house was still, the muted hum of life outside barely audible through the windows. You sat on the couch, a reading lamp casting a soft glow over the book in your hands, the quiet, a fragile balm you hadn’t realized you needed. The words on the page barely registered, your mind wandering to the space between you and Hyunjin, to the way things had begun to fray. You turned the page absently, your focus more on the soft creak of the house settling than on the story in front of you.

The sudden slam of the front door shattered the stillness, the sharp crack slicing through the quiet like a thunderclap. Hyunjin stormed in, her movements hurried and agitated. Her bag slipped off her shoulder and hit the floor with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating in the space like a dropped weight. It landed crumpled and forgotten, a statement as loud as the door she had slammed behind her.

Tension radiated off her in waves, her presence electric, charged with barely contained frustration. She moved with a restlessness that seemed to fill the room, suffocating in its intensity. Her breathing was uneven, her fingers twitching as they reached up to push her hair back from her face, her movements sharp and unrelenting.

From your spot on the couch, you looked up, your grip tightening slightly on the book as the soft light from the lamp illuminated your face. You studied her, taking in the way she paced slightly, her gaze flickering over the space like she was searching for something to anchor her. The energy she brought into the room was undeniable, sharp and restless like the air before a downpour.

“Rough day?” you asked, your voice neutral, carefully measured as you closed the book and set it aside on the small table next to you.

“Don’t start,” she snapped, her voice taut and edged with irritation, each syllable cutting through the stillness like a blade. She kicked her shoes off with thoughtless movements, one landing askew near the door while the other slid across the hardwood with a soft scrape. Without so much as a glance in your direction, she headed toward the kitchen, her movements brisk and full of a frustration she seemed unable to contain.

You rose from the couch, moving calmly in her wake, each step deliberate and unhurried. The tension radiating from her seemed to fill the air, but you kept your own energy steady, refusing to be drawn into the storm she was carrying. “I’m not starting anything,” you said, your voice low and even. “I’m asking.”

“Then don’t!” she said, whirling around to face you, the sharpness in her tone reverberating between you. Her eyes burned with an emotion that went beyond anger—it was raw, layered with exhaustion and something deeper, something tangled and unspoken that caught you off guard. “God, you’re always hovering. Can’t you just give me some space?”

Her words lingered in the air like smoke, acrid and stinging. They cut through the fragile quiet that had filled the house before she arrived, leaving it broken and jagged in her wake. Her shoulders rose and fell with shallow breaths, her chest heaving slightly as though even the act of speaking had pulled something out of her. You took a small step closer, your movements measured, keeping your gaze steady as you tried to read the tension in her stance. Her posture was tight, defensive, her arms twitching slightly as though she wanted to cross them but couldn’t quite commit to the action.

“Hyunjin, come here,” you said softly. Your voice was calm but firm, a quiet invitation edged with a gravity that couldn’t be ignored. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, a steady anchor in the turbulence that crackled in the space between you.

Her jaw tightened, her teeth pressing together as she hesitated. For a moment, her arms wrapped around her chest defensively, her body closing off. Her eyes flickered with something between defiance and vulnerability—an emotion she seemed desperate to mask. “What now?” she muttered, her tone laced with sarcasm and exhaustion. “Another lecture? Another rule I’ve broken?”

You let the words hang in the air for a moment, refusing to take the bait. “Come here. Now,” you said again, sharper this time. The calm authority in your voice sliced cleanly through her deflection, leaving no room for argument.

Her body stiffened, her lips parting as if to fire back a retort, but the words caught in her throat. She froze, her arms tightening against her chest as she stared at you, her expression caught somewhere between rebellion and hesitation. The air between you felt impossibly heavy, thick with the weight of all the things left unsaid. Her defiance was still there, simmering just below the surface, but quieter now, edged with uncertainty.

Slowly, deliberately, you reached for the collar around her neck. The movement was calm, but its intent was unmistakable. Her breath hitched audibly, her eyes widening as your fingers brushed the soft leather, warm from her skin. The cool buckle under your touch seemed to amplify the tension, vibrating in the charged silence.

Her reaction was immediate. Her hands shot up, grasping yours with sudden urgency. Her palms pressed against the backs of your hands, trembling slightly as though to stop you—or at least to understand. The contact struck you both, heavier than the action itself, more intimate than any argument could ever be.

Her fingers curled lightly against yours, delicate but insistent, as if trying to cling to something intangible. She didn’t speak, but her eyes searched yours, wide and pleading. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, but the emotion in her gaze spoke louder than any words she could muster.

The buckle clicked open, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet. Her hands lingered on yours for a moment, trembling as though reluctant to let go. When the leather slipped free from her neck, her hands fell away slowly, brushing over her collarbone as if trying to feel the weight that was no longer there.

Her gaze darted downward, her expression shifting between shock and raw vulnerability. “What—what are you doing?” she stammered, her voice faltering, unsteady. Her fingers rose instinctively to the bare skin of her neck, searching for the familiar presence of the collar, now conspicuously absent.

You held the collar in your hands for a moment, its weight feeling heavier than it had ever been. The leather seemed darker under the dim light, more imposing in its absence from her neck. Without a word, you turned and walked toward the mantle, your footsteps deliberate, every step sinking into the silence like a nail into wood.

Carefully, almost ceremoniously, you placed the collar on the mantle. Its dark band stood out starkly against the pale wood, a silent reminder of what it represented. You let your hand linger for a moment before stepping back and turning to face her again.

“If you can’t respect what this collar means,” you said, your voice steady and measured, “then you don’t deserve to wear it.”

Her breath hitched audibly, sharp and hollow in the heavy silence. For a moment, she stared at you, her lips parting as if to argue, but no words came. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she looked away, her hands twitching at her sides. Then, her gaze snapped back, flickering with faint resistance, though it was muted—more defense than defiance.

“That’s not—” she began, but her voice faltered, the words tapering off. She looked down, her fingers brushing her neck as though searching for the familiar weight that was no longer there. Her jaw tightened, and her voice came softer, almost subdued. “You’re… overthinking this,” she muttered. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

You stayed silent, your gaze steady, letting her words linger in the charged air. She shifted uncomfortably under your scrutiny, her hands falling away from her neck as she glanced toward the collar resting on the mantle. The sight of it made her flinch, her shoulders drawing inward, but she refused to let herself stay vulnerable for long.

“Whatever…It’s just a stupid collar,” she said finally, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively, as though trying to shield herself from the enormity of the moment.

Your expression didn’t waver, your silence speaking louder than any response could. Her dismissive tone lingered in the air, but it felt brittle, as though it could shatter under the weight of her unspoken emotions. The room settled into an oppressive stillness, the warmth of the house replaced by a cold tension that neither of you could escape.

Her gaze flicked back to you for a fleeting moment before dropping to the floor. She stood frozen, her fingers twitching at her sides, her vulnerability laid bare despite her words. And as the silence deepened, you wondered if she truly believed what she had just said—or if it was simply easier to say than to confront what the collar, and everything it represented, meant to her.

-----

The absence of the collar should have been no big deal. That’s what Hyunjin told herself that first night, staring at the faint shadows cast by the moonlight on the ceiling. The glow of the streetlights outside spilled through the curtains, painting shifting shapes that danced with the breeze. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the cool air brushing against her bare neck—a subtle but insistent reminder of what wasn’t there. She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders, seeking warmth, but it didn’t help. No matter how tightly she cocooned herself, the emptiness followed her, clinging like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

Her fingers fidgeted at her sides, brushing against her throat as though searching for something that wasn’t there. Each time they met bare skin, a pang of frustration mingled with something deeper—something she refused to name—flared in her chest. She shifted onto her side, then her back again, the rustle of the sheets doing little to calm the restless energy coiling within her. The room felt colder, quieter than it should have been, the stillness pressing down on her like a weight.

“It’s just a strip of leather,” she whispered into the dark, her voice barely audible. The words felt hollow even as they left her lips, a weak attempt to convince herself of something she didn’t truly believe. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Saying it aloud should have helped. It should have silenced the thoughts, dulled the ache in her chest. But the words dissolved into the silence, weightless and meaningless, leaving behind only a sharper awareness of the void they couldn’t fill. She turned her face into the pillow, her fingers clutching the blanket as though holding onto something tangible could ground her. But even that felt futile, like trying to grasp smoke.

Sleep, when it finally came, was fractured and uneasy. Flickering images and sensations haunted her dreams, vague and ungraspable. The sound of your voice lingered in her subconscious—steady, grounding, sure. The firm yet comforting pressure of your hands left an imprint that refused to fade. And the collar—it haunted her, its weight vivid in her dreams, so real she could almost feel it pressing against her skin.

She woke several times throughout the night, her body restless, the blanket tangled around her legs. Each time, her hand instinctively reached for her neck, her fingers brushing the bare skin as though to confirm what her mind already knew. The absence felt like an accusation, a silent reminder of what she had dismissed too easily. By the time the faint light of dawn seeped through the curtains, her body was drained, but her thoughts were relentless, circling the same question: Why did it feel like so much more than just a collar?

-----

By the third day, the weight of the collar’s absence had become unbearable. The void it left consumed her thoughts, gnawing at her relentlessly, each quiet moment amplifying the ache. The collar sat on the mantle in the bedroom, unmoving yet commanding, its polished leather gleaming faintly in the soft light of flickering candles. It seemed so small, so unassuming, yet its presence loomed large, dominating not just the room but her every thought.

At first, she avoided looking at it directly, telling herself it didn’t matter, that it was better to stay busy and keep her focus elsewhere. But the effort was futile. Her eyes betrayed her, flickering back to it again and again, her chest tightening with each glance. The ache inside her grew sharper, more insistent. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers twitching at her sides as though resisting the urge to reach out. It wasn’t just the object that unsettled her—it was the creeping realization of what it symbolized: trust, connection, submission, and the bond she had taken for granted.

She tried to leave the room, to find distraction in other parts of the house, but the bedroom pulled at her like a tide. Each step away felt heavier, harder, until she couldn’t bring herself to leave at all. By midmorning, she was back, sitting on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the mantle. Hours stretched long and quiet around her as she lingered, her presence a silent acknowledgment of the tension she couldn’t escape.

By evening, Hyunjin’s resolve had crumbled entirely. She remained in the bedroom, the air thick with the faint scent of mint and the lingering trace of your cologne. The room seemed heavier than usual, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for her to face what she had been avoiding all day.

Her gaze locked on the mantle once again, drawn to the collar as if by an invisible force. Its polished leather caught the flickering candlelight, the buckle gleaming faintly like a distant beacon. Her chest tightened with every passing second as she stared, her reflection faintly visible in the metal, distorted and fragile. Her breath grew shallow, her thoughts swirling into a chaotic storm of guilt, longing, and determination.

Unable to stand the weight of it any longer, she slowly sank to her knees. The wooden floor felt cold against her skin, grounding her trembling body as she settled into position. Her hands rested lightly on her thighs, but her fingers quivered, unable to stay still. She bowed her head, her breath uneven, as though the very act of submission was drawing the truth out of her.

The room pressed down on her in its quiet stillness. Each flicker of candlelight seemed to illuminate the depths of her turmoil, the flames dancing in time with the raw emotion that churned within her.

Her heart pounded steadily in her chest, her body aching from the strain of holding the position, but she refused to move. The act of kneeling felt like the only thing tethering her, a physical manifestation of the submission she had neglected.

She whispered to herself, soft and uncertain, the words carried by the silence. “It wasn’t just a stupid collar. It never was.”

The admission felt raw, vulnerable, but the weight of it didn’t lift. Her breaths came shallow and uneven as the minutes ticked by. Her muscles burned, her knees aching against the hard floor, but she stayed resolute, unwilling to let the discomfort deter her. This was where she belonged—waiting, asking without words for the chance to prove herself.

When the sound of the front door opening echoed through the quiet house, her heart leapt in her chest. Her body stiffened, the faint creak of your footsteps growing louder as you moved closer. She didn’t dare lift her head, the air around her thickening with anticipation. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her thighs, her breath catching as your familiar presence filled the doorway.

You stopped, your shadow falling over her as you took in the scene: Hyunjin kneeling at the foot of the mantle, her head bowed, her form trembling slightly with emotion. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows across her figure, accentuating the strain in her shoulders, the tension in her hands. She didn’t look up, but the weight of your gaze pressed into her like a tangible force.

“Hyunjin,” you said, your voice low and steady, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Her head lifted slightly at the sound of your voice, her eyes wide and glistening as they met yours. “Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I… I know I wasn’t called here. But I needed to be here.”

You studied her, your expression unreadable, and she hurried to continue, her words spilling out in a rush. “I’ve been so foolish,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I thought I could brush it off, that it didn’t matter. But I was wrong. So wrong.”

Her fingers twitched against her thighs, her entire body trembling as she spoke. “I’ve learned… that submission isn’t automatic. It’s not something I can take for granted or expect without effort. It’s something I have to give—fully, every day. And I failed to do that, Sir. I failed to value you, to trust you, and to honor what this collar represents.”

Her voice broke, a sob catching in her throat. “I thought I could handle its absence. That it wouldn’t affect me. But it does, Sir. It does more than I ever imagined. Without it… without you, I feel so lost.”

Her head dipped lower, tears spilling over as her breath hitched audibly. “Please, Sir,” she whispered, desperation threading through every syllable. “I don’t deserve it yet, but I want to. I want to earn it back. I’ll do anything. Just… just let me prove myself.”

“Words are easy, Hyunjin,” you said, your tone calm but unyielding. “They don’t mean as much as action.”

Her breath hitched, and she quickly looked up, her wide eyes searching your face for any hint of mercy. “Please, Sir,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’ll show you. I’ll prove it. Just… please, let me earn it back.”

“You’ve been working hard,” you acknowledged, stepping closer, the collar still in your hands. “But hard work isn’t enough. What makes you think you deserve this again?”

Her lips parted, trembling as she struggled to find the words. “Because I—I know what I lost,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “I know what it means now, Sir. I’ll do anything to earn it back. Please, don’t keep it from me.”

You took another step forward, looming over her. The weight of your presence made her lower her head again, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. “Anything?” you asked, your tone steady but sharp. “Because this collar isn’t just about obedience. It’s about trust. Commitment. Do you even understand what those mean?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said quickly, her voice rising in desperation. “I understand now, I swear. I didn’t before, but I do now. Please… let me prove it to you.”

Her hands twitched against her thighs, instinctively wanting to reach for you but staying frozen in place. The room fell silent again, the tension thick as her pleas hung in the air. You stayed quiet, letting her squirm under the weight of your gaze. Her breathing grew more frantic, her fingers curling into fists as her composure began to crack.

“Sir,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m begging you. Please… I need it.”

You crouched in front of her, the collar dangling from your fingers. Her eyes locked onto it instantly, her breath catching as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. But you didn’t move to put it on her. Instead, you leaned closer, your voice a low murmur. “Needing it isn’t enough. You’ll have to earn it, Hyunjin. Through action, not words. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll do anything. I’ll prove myself.”

“Then keep proving it,” you replied, your tone firm as you straightened again. Her body tensed, and for a moment, she thought you were going to walk away. The thought must have terrified her, because she moved without thinking, her hands clasping around your ankle.

“Please, Sir,” she begged again, her voice raw with emotion. “Please… I’m sorry for taking it for granted. I’ll never do it again, I swear. Just give me a chance.”

You watched her for another long moment, letting her desperation sink in. Finally, you knelt again, holding the collar at eye level. Her eyes widened, hope flickering across her face, but she stayed still, trembling as you leaned in.

“This collar is not just a decoration,” you said, your voice low but deliberate. “It is a gift. A privilege. And for it to stay on, you’ll need to show me that you understand that.”

Her breath hitched as you moved closer, the collar brushing against her neck. Slowly, with deliberate care, you fastened it around her throat. The soft click of the buckle echoed in the room, final and absolute, like a vow being made. Her chest rose sharply as the familiar weight settled back into place, grounding her once again.

Her fingers twitched again, instinctively wanting to reach for it, but she stopped herself. You tilted her chin up with a single finger, your gaze locking onto hers.

“To keep this collar,” you said, your tone soft but firm, “you will face tests. Challenges that show me you’re worthy of wearing it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted, and her wide eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Thank you, Sir. I won’t let you down. I promise.”

You let your hand linger on her chin for a moment longer before releasing her, your gaze steady as you straightened to your full height. Towering over her, your presence filled the space, commanding without a single word. She remained kneeling, her hands resting on her thighs, her posture perfect but trembling slightly as the weight of the moment settled over her.

“Good,” you said, your voice steady, firm. “Because this is your second chance. Don’t waste it.”

She swallowed hard, her breath shallow, her gaze flickering between your face and the collar now secure around her neck. The room seemed to hold its breath, the tension shifting into something heavier, warmer, charged with the quiet promise of something restored.

Slowly, you leaned down, your hand brushing her cheek as your lips met hers. The kiss began tentative, a gentle press of lips, testing the waters of the bond you were rebuilding. But it deepened quickly, fueled by the unspoken emotions of the past week. Her hands, still trembling, reached for your shoulders, clutching at you as though afraid you might pull away.

Your hand found the collar, your fingers curling around the leather as you tugged gently, pulling her closer. The sensation sent a visible shiver down her spine, her breath catching in her throat.

“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” you murmured against her lips, your voice low and knowing.

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “So much, Sir.”

A faint smile played across your lips as your grip on the collar tightened slightly, guiding her as the kiss deepened. The heat between you grew steadily, the air thick with the mingling scents of mint and her rising need. She pressed closer to you, her hands sliding down your chest, fingers clutching at your shirt as if anchoring herself in your presence. Each touch, each movement was an affirmation of the connection you had rebuilt, the trust slowly returning.

Her body leaned into yours instinctively, the energy between you palpable. You pulled back just enough to let her feel the tension lingering in the space between your bodies. Your hand, still curled around the collar, applied the slightest pressure, keeping her gaze locked on yours.

“Then show me ,” you said softly, your voice steady, deliberate.

Her breath hitched, her hands falling back to her thighs as she lowered her gaze slightly, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice filled with reverence. The atmosphere between you was electric, charged with anticipation as she prepared to prove herself once more, piece by piece, rebuilding what had been fractured.

Hyunjin nodded, her body visibly tense with anticipation. Her fingers moved with care, unfastening the button on your pants and sliding the zipper down. The soft sound of fabric shifting against the leather chair seemed deafening in the silence. Her breath hitched as she tugged your pants and boxers down, her cheeks flushed as you were exposed to her fully.

Her wide eyes flickered upward, a mix of nervousness and need shining in them as she hesitated for a moment. You didn’t speak, letting her feel the weight of the moment, your hand moving to rest lightly on her head. That gentle guidance was all she needed to lean forward, her lips parting as she placed a soft, tentative kiss at the base of your length. Her warm breath brushed against you as she began, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate path upward.

Her movements grew more confident as she worked, her lips wrapping around you, taking you deeper with each pass. The soft moans that escaped her vibrated against your skin, the sound sending a jolt of heat through your body. You threaded your fingers into her hair, your grip firm but not harsh, guiding her pace as she moved with increasing fervor.

“Good girl,” you murmured, your voice low and approving. She responded immediately, her pace quickening, her tongue and lips working in perfect harmony. But just as the tension in the room began to build, you tightened your grip in her hair, pulling her back sharply.

“Stop,” you said firmly.

Her lips slipped off you with an audible pop, her eyes snapping up to meet yours, wide and questioning. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her hands still resting lightly on your thighs as she froze in place. The sight of her—lips glistening, cheeks flushed, her pupils blown wide with desire—sent a wave of satisfaction through you, but you held your expression steady.

“Look at it,” you commanded, your voice calm but unyielding. “Just look.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to your length. Her hands twitched against your thighs, her lips parting slightly as she stared, her breathing ragged. The heat between you was palpable, thick in the air as the seconds stretched on.

“Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Not yet,” you replied, your tone firm. “You’ll wait until I say.”

Her fingers dug slightly into your thighs, her need evident in the way her body shifted, her legs pressing together subtly. The denial was working—her arousal was unmistakable, her lips trembling as she obeyed, her gaze fixed on you.

“Resume,” you said after a long moment, your hand loosening its grip on her hair.

She dove back eagerly, her mouth enveloping you with renewed fervor. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her movements quicker, more precise. The warmth of her mouth, the slickness of her tongue, and the soft, muffled sounds she made sent sparks of pleasure through you.

Just as her pace became frantic, you tugged on her hair again, pulling her back abruptly. Her head tilted up, her lips red and swollen, her eyes glassy with desperation. A soft whimper escaped her as she looked at you, her need etched into every line of her face.

“Stop,” you said again, your voice sharp.

“Sir,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “Please.”

You tilted your head slightly, observing her with quiet intensity. “Please, what?”

“Let me continue,” she begged, her voice trembling. “I need to, Sir. I need to.”

Your lips curled into a faint smile as you leaned forward slightly, your thumb brushing over her swollen lower lip. “You’ll wait,” you said, your tone commanding. “Until I’m ready.”

Her body visibly trembled, her arousal spilling over into every movement. Her thighs pressed together tighter, her hands clutching at the fabric of your pants as if anchoring herself. She was desperate, her need growing with every second you held her back.

Finally, you tugged her closer pulling her head down slightly. “Resume,” you said, your voice low and rough.

She whimpered softly, the sound drenched in need, her lips parting as she immediately obeyed. Her mouth found you again, her movements feverish, as if every second away had only amplified her desperation. Her tongue glided along your length with reverence, each flick and swirl precise, her lips sealing around you as her moans vibrated against your skin. Her soft, muffled sounds filled the room, fueling the intensity of the moment. Her submission was complete, every movement a display of her devotion and longing to please.

The tension inside you built higher with every stroke, every delicate movement of her lips, her frantic need feeding your own growing pleasure. Her breath came in quick huffs through her nose as she worked, her hands lightly gripping your thighs for stability. She was utterly lost in the moment, her entire focus on serving you, and it was intoxicating.

With a firm tug on the collar, you pulled her head back once more, her lips slipping off you with a soft, breathy whine of frustration. Her wide, pleading eyes locked onto yours, her need written plainly on her flushed face. Her breaths came in shallow, desperate gasps, her chest rising and falling as she tried to steady herself.

"Strip," you ordered, your voice steady and commanding.

Her trembling hands immediately moved to obey, her fingers fumbling slightly in her haste as she shed her clothes. The fabric slid from her body, pooling on the floor as she stood before you, bare and vulnerable. Her skin glowed in the flickering candlelight, every curve and line of her body laid out for your gaze. She shivered, a mix of anticipation and arousal coursing through her, but she didn’t waver, her eyes cast downward in submission.

“Now, get on the bed,” you said, your tone leaving no room for hesitation. “On all fours.”

She scrambled to comply, her movements quick but deliberate, the urgency in her actions undeniable. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her as she positioned herself, her knees sinking into the plush surface. Her back arched instinctively, her head bowing submissively, her hands gripping the sheets tightly as if anchoring herself. Her breath hitched audibly as you stepped behind her, the leash in your hand taut, its tension a constant reminder of your control.

Reaching for the leash attachment on the bedside table, you let the quiet sound of metal against wood fill the room. Her body tensed at the faint clink, her breath catching as she froze in place, her anticipation palpable. The polished attachment glinted in the candlelight as you clicked it into place on her collar, the sound sharp and commanding. A tremor ran through her as the leash went taut, and you gave it a testing tug, pulling her head back slightly.

“You’ve done well,” you murmured, your free hand trailing over the curve of her spine, feeling the way her body shivered beneath your touch. “But I’m not done testing you yet.”

Her whimper was soft, her voice barely audible over the quiet tension in the room. Her hips shifted instinctively, pressing back slightly, seeking more of your touch as though her body had a will of its own. The leash in your hand grew taut as you pulled her back, her movement halted with deliberate precision. A shiver ran through her, and the small sound that escaped her lips was almost a plea, fragile and raw.

You smirked at her eagerness, letting your hand slide to her hips, gripping them firmly to keep her still. “Desperate already?” you murmured, your tone edged with amusement. The heat of your palm against her skin only heightened the tension, her trembling body betraying the effort it took to remain obedient.

Slowly, you teased her, letting the tip of you brush against her entrance, the barest touch enough to make her tense and gasp. Her thighs quivered, her breath catching audibly as her body trembled with restrained anticipation. Her need was palpable, her entire form aching for more, yet she remained frozen, holding herself steady with a visible effort that only deepened your satisfaction.

“Patience,” you said sharply, your voice slicing through her whimper. The leash tightened slightly, a reminder of your control. “You’ll take what I give you. Nothing more.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice shaky yet obedient, her words punctuated by shallow, unsteady breaths.

You pressed forward just enough to enter her, your movements slow and deliberate, the sensation electric as her body responded instantly. Her muscles clenched tightly around you, a soft, broken cry escaping her lips as her fingers curled into the sheets. Her need was overwhelming, radiating from her trembling frame, yet she didn’t move, her submission absolute even as her desire consumed her.

“Don’t move,” you commanded, your tone low but firm.

“Yes, Sir,” she gasped, her voice filled with effort as she fought to remain still. Her fingers dug deeper into the sheets, her knuckles white as her body vibrated with barely restrained longing. Every breath was a struggle, her soft whimpers growing louder as you stayed motionless, letting the weight of the stillness press down on her.

But then, instinct betrayed her. Her hips shifted ever so slightly, seeking more of you, her desperation winning out for a fleeting moment. The rustle of the leash was sharp as you pulled it taut, her head jerking back as your hand came down sharply on her ass with a loud, resounding smack. She yelped, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure, her body jolting forward even as she froze in realization.

“What did I say?” you growled, your voice low and commanding, the leash a firm tether in your hand.

“Not to move,” she whimpered, her voice trembling with both need and apology.

“Then don’t,” you snapped, your tone sharp, leaving no room for argument.

“Yes, Sir,” she replied quickly, her words laced with desperation as she braced herself, her hands gripping the sheets tighter.

Leaning forward, you pressed in further, filling her slowly, deliberately, her sharp gasp echoing in the room as her body quivered around you. Her whimpers grew louder, her breaths shallow and uneven as her restraint began to unravel. The tension between you was palpable, the air charged with her aching desire and your unyielding control.

Again, she moved—a tiny, involuntary tilt of her hips, but it was enough. Without hesitation, you tugged the leash sharply, pulling her head back as your hand came down on her other cheek with another sharp smack. Her cry was louder this time, her body jolting beneath you as the sting radiated across her skin.

“You’ll wait until I allow it,” you said, your voice a growl. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice breaking, her body trembling as she tried to steady herself.

The leash tightened in your hand as you leaned over her, your lips brushing against her ear. “Good girl,” you murmured, the words low and deliberate, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now, let’s see if you can do better.”

You stayed still inside her, savoring the way her body clenched around you, her desperation growing with each passing second. Her soft, broken whimpers filled the room, every sound a testament to her struggle and her need. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the sheets, her entire body trembling with the effort to obey.

When she moved again—a subtle, instinctive tilt of her hips—you didn’t hesitate. The leash tightened sharply, pulling her head back as your hand came down once more with a sharp smack. The sound reverberated through the room, her cry echoing louder, her body jolting before falling still.

“Again?” you growled, your tone low and dangerous. “Have you not learned?”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she whimpered, her voice cracking, her words tumbling out quickly. “I’ll be good. I’ll be still.”

“Prove it,” you said sharply, your grip on the leash firm, holding her exactly where you wanted her. “Show me you deserve this.”

She nodded frantically, her breaths coming in soft, broken gasps as she fought to hold herself steady. Her body quivered beneath you, every inch of her radiating need, but she didn’t move again. The leash in your hand was a constant reminder of her submission, the tension pulling her further into the moment as her fingers gripped the sheets tightly, her knuckles white.

You pressed into her fully, slow and deliberate, filling her completely. Her sharp gasp echoed in the room, her body instinctively clenching around you as she felt the stretch of you inside her. But you didn’t move. You held her there, buried deep, the weight of the stillness pressing down on her.

“Do you want me to move?” you asked, your voice low, calm, and teasing.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “Please.”

You stayed perfectly still as the tension built between you. Without warning, you twitched inside her, the subtle movement making her entire body jolt. A broken whimper spilled from her lips, her thighs trembling as she clenched around you again, her breath shaky.

“Is that what you wanted?” you asked, your tone almost mocking.

“More,” she whimpered, her voice cracking. “Please, Sir. Give me more.”

Another twitch. Her cry was louder this time, her back arching slightly as the sensation rippled through her. Her hands clutched at the sheets, her entire body quivering with desperation.

“Why should be so generous?” you murmured, your voice calm, almost curious. “Have you earned it?”

“I—I’ll earn it,” she stammered, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “Please, Sir, I’ll do anything. I’m sorry. Please.”

You leaned over her slightly, the leash in your hand taut as your free hand slid down her back, your touch soft, teasing. “Anything?” you asked, your lips brushing against her ear.

“Yes,” she gasped, her voice trembling. “Anything.”

Her body tensed as she waited, anticipation written in every trembling muscle. Then, you twitched again, the small, deliberate movement sending another jolt of sensation through her. Her cry was a mix of frustration and arousal, her thighs pressing together as she fought to stay still.

“Please,” she begged, her voice raw and desperate. “Please, Sir, I’ll be good. I won’t move. Just—please.”

Her desire was palpable, her submission complete as body trembled beneath you. You stayed still for a long moment, letting her desperation simmer, the leash pulling her head back slightly as a reminder of your control.

Finally, you pulled back all the way, the cool air brushing between you as her breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation. Her hands gripped the sheets tighter, her entire form taut, waiting for your next move. Without warning, you thrust into her fully, your entire length filling her in one deliberate motion. A loud cry escaped her lips, raw and unrestrained, her body clenching tightly around you in response. But she stayed completely still, every muscle tense, holding herself in perfect submission despite the overwhelming sensation.

You stayed there, buried deep inside her, your hand trailing down her back in a slow, soothing motion. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her entire body trembling with the effort to hold herself still. “Good girl,” you murmured, your voice low and warm, laced with pride. “You listened this time.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, her voice trembling but steady, filled with quiet gratitude. Her submission radiated from every inch of her body, her fingers gripping the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Slowly, you pulled back again, her breath catching as she braced herself. Then, without warning, you thrust into her a second time, your motion smooth and deliberate, your entire length filling her completely. Her cry was louder this time, her voice breaking as her body clenched around you again. But once more, she didn’t move. She held herself perfectly still, her submission unwavering, her breath shaky as she fought the overwhelming sensations.

The leash in your hand stayed taut, keeping her aligned with your control, her body bent to your will. You leaned forward slightly, your breath warm against the back of her neck as you murmured, “That’s what I wanted to see. You’re doing so well.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, trembling with relief and pride.

This time, you began to move, your pace slow and deliberate, the shift a clear and deliberate reward for her obedience. The relief in her voice was almost tangible, her muffled cries spilling out with each thrust, each sound a testament to the weight lifted from her desperation. Her body responded instinctively, perfectly aligned with your rhythm, the curve of her back arching as though offering herself entirely to you.

The leather leash in your hand stayed taut, a constant tether to her submission, its tension drawing her further into the moment. Each measured thrust pressed her hips forward, only for her to press back with a growing urgency, her movements eager yet restrained, still seeking your permission in every motion. The slick heat of her enveloped you completely, her body clinging with a fervent need that made the air between you crackle with intensity.

Her cries grew louder, each sound a mix of pleasure and surrender, her voice rising in raw emotion with every deliberate thrust. Your grip on the leash tightened, and you pulled her head back sharply, eliciting a sharp gasp from her lips. Her neck arched beautifully, her vulnerability on full display as she submitted to the pull of the leather.

In a fluid motion, you wrapped the supple leash around her head, positioning it snugly between her lips. The soft leather pressed firmly into her mouth, transforming her cries into muffled, broken sounds of pleasure and need. The gagged whimpers and desperate breaths filled the room, blending with the rhythmic sound of your movements. Her body trembled beneath you, every shudder and quiver a display of her surrender, her raw need laid bare.

"This," you murmured, your voice low and edged with a commanding roughness as you leaned in, your lips grazing the delicate curve of her ear. "This is who you truly are," you continued, your breath warm against her skin, each word sinking into her like a brand. "Your best self," you whispered, the possessiveness in your tone undeniable, each syllable deliberate, drawing her deeper into the moment. "Completely mine."

Her muffled response was unintelligible but filled with emotion, her entire body reacting to the weight of your claim. Her hands gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity, her nails scraping against the fabric as her body buckled beneath the steady, purposeful rhythm you set. The leather pressed into her lips, the tension in the leash anchoring her fully in the moment, as if nothing else in the world existed except your control and her submission.

Her cries reached a fever pitch as you slowed abruptly, pressing deep inside her and holding completely still. The sudden lack of motion made her freeze, her muffled whines of frustration breaking the quiet tension in the room. She clenched around you instinctively, her body desperate for the friction and release that had been so cruelly denied. Her desperation filled the air, thick and electric, as she quivered beneath you.

“You don’t get to cum until I give you permission,” you growled, your voice low and commanding. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpered, her voice shaky, her words muffled by the leash pressing against her lips. Her hands gripped the sheets tightly, her knuckles white as she fought to obey, every fiber of her being screaming for relief. Her body trembled violently, her thighs quivering as she remained perfectly still, holding herself together only through sheer willpower.

You began to move again, deliberately slow, each thrust measured and purposeful. Her muffled cries grew louder, her hips instinctively pressing back into you, desperate to match your rhythm, to take more of you. But each time her movements matched yours, you slowed again, the leash taut in your hand a constant reminder of her place.

"Patience," you said sharply, landing a firm slap on her ass. The sound echoed in the room, followed by a sharp gasp as she jolted slightly under your touch. Her body trembled, the sting blooming across her skin as a mix of pain and pleasure heightened her arousal.

You smirked at her reaction and spanked her again, your hand coming down with enough force to draw a muffled cry from her lips. Her muscles tightened around you, her body reacting instinctively as her breath hitched. “You take what I give you, nothing more, nothing less” you ordered, your voice a low growl. 

She nodded frantically, her breaths ragged as her body trembled with the effort to obey. Her submission sent a thrill through you, and you rewarded her with another deliberate spank, your palm landing squarely on her other cheek. Her cry was louder this time, her body jolting forward as the sensation spread through her.

“Good girl,” you murmured, your tone approving but firm. “I can feel how much you want it. Is this all it takes to make you fall apart?”

Her muffled cries grew more frantic as you thrust into her again, slow but deep, her body tensing with every motion. The deliberate pace was maddening, designed to keep her on edge without letting her tip over. You spanked her once more, the sound of the impact followed by a sharp whimper that was pure need.

Then, leaning over her, you tugged the leash tighter, tilting her head back. Your breath was warm against her ear as you growled, “Where do you deserve my cum?”

Her muffled response was immediate, frantic. “Inside, Sir,” she gasped, her voice trembling as her hips instinctively pressed back against you. “Please, Sir, inside. Fill me.”

You smirked, leaning closer, your voice low and teasing as you asked, “Do you think you’ve earned that?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whimpered, her voice cracking with desperation. “I’ll be good—I’ll do anything. Please, Sir, I need it.”

You spanked her again, the sharp smack drawing a broken cry from her lips. Her body jolted, her thighs trembling as she clenched tightly around you. “Then beg for it,” you commanded, your voice thick with authority.

“Please, Sir,” she sobbed, her voice trembling with emotion as she broke completely. “Please let me have it. I’ll do anything—I’m yours. Please let me feel it.”

Tightening your grip on the leash, you thrust into her slowly, deeply, savoring the way her body trembled beneath you. “Good girl,” you murmured, your voice a low rumble against her ear. “You’ve earned it.”

Your pace quickened, each thrust deliberate and deep as the tension between you reached its peak. Her muffled cries turned to sobs of relief and pleasure, her body responding instinctively as she gave herself over completely. The connection between you was electric, her submission feeding your control as the leash stayed taut in your hand, keeping her exactly where you wanted her.

Leaning closer, your voice dropping to a low growl. “Who do you belong to?” you demanded, the authority in your tone leaving no room for hesitation.

“You, Sir,” she gasped, her voice trembling but resolute, her entire body arching under your control.

You thrust harder, making her cry out as you repeated, “Say it again.”

“You, Sir! Only you!” she sobbed, her voice raw with submission as her body shuddered.

"Good," you murmured, your voice thick with satisfaction as you leaned in closer, tightening your grip on the leash-turned-gag. The leather pressed snugly between her lips, muffling her cries as her body quivered beneath you. "Never forget it."

You didn’t give her time to respond. Your hips began to move with unrelenting purpose, each thrust harder and deeper than the last. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of your movements and her muffled cries, raw and desperate, vibrating through the leather gag. Her body arched beneath you, trembling with the effort to hold herself steady, her fingers clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Her thighs quivered as she clenched around you, her body reacting instinctively to your relentless pace. Each sharp motion drew another muffled moan from her lips, her cries growing higher, more frantic, as her body teetered closer to the edge. The leash stayed taut in your hand, pulling her head back just enough to keep her perfectly aligned to your will.

Her entire form shook beneath you, her body taut with tension as the heat between you built to a fever pitch. Her muffled sounds became a pleading melody, her desperation spilling out with every motion as her submission deepened. You could feel the way she clenched tighter, her body begging for permission even without words, every inch of her crying out for release.

You pulled the leash back, the leather taut between your fingers, leaning into her ear as your voice dropped to a sharp, commanding growl. “Now. Cum for me.”

Her release was immediate, her body convulsing beneath you as a muffled scream tore from her lips, raw and unrestrained. Her walls clenched tightly around you, the intensity of her climax gripping you like a vice, pulling a guttural groan from your throat. Her limbs shook uncontrollably, her strength failing as her muscles gave out. Her body became weightless against the collar, her submission leaving her completely at your mercy.

The leash in your hand became a lifeline, pulling her back as her head tilted, her breath hitching in sobbing gasps. Each wave of her release rolled through her, leaving her trembling and arching into you, her body unable to do anything but feel. Her fingers clawed weakly at the sheets before falling away entirely, her arms limp, her legs shaking so violently they could no longer support her weight.

You didn’t let up, your thrusts deep and deliberate, each motion designed to draw every ounce of her climax from her quivering body. Her walls pulsed around you, the sensation almost too much as she squeezed tighter with every tremor, her body desperately holding onto you. The heat of her, the way her back arched instinctively, and the desperate, muffled cries that spilled from her lips pushed you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” you growled, your voice low and rough, satisfaction lacing every word as her sobs softened, her trembling body still clenched tightly around you. Leaning over her, your breath brushed her ear, sending a shiver through her overstimulated form. “Take it all.”

Her submission fueled your own release, the way she surrendered entirely to the moment, her body collapsing beneath you. You thrust into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as possible as the pleasure surged through you, your groan low and primal as your release hit. The sensation of filling her completely, the warmth of it spreading between you, sent another shockwave through her. Her body tensed again, her climax reigniting in perfect rhythm with yours, her walls tightening and pulsing as if to draw every drop from you.

Her muffled cries broke into breathless sobs, her body trembling violently as the overwhelming sensation left her utterly undone. The collar pressed firmly against her neck, grounding her even as her limbs refused to obey her, her submission total. Each pulse of your release seemed to extend her own, the shared intensity forging a connection so powerful it felt as though the air around you crackled with it.

As the last tremors of your climax subsided, you stayed buried inside her, the weight of your body pressing her into the mattress. The leash remained taut in your hand, a steady reminder of her surrender, the collar snug against her flushed skin. Her body slowly relaxed, her trembling subsiding into soft, uneven breaths, her whimpers barely audible as her submission became absolute.

You leaned down, your lips brushing softly against the back of her neck, your breath warm and soothing as it ghosted over her flushed skin. “Good girl,” you murmured, your voice low and filled with satisfaction. “You took it so well.” The heat between you lingered, a tangible reminder of the bond you had just reaffirmed, the connection pulsing in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Her voice was a trembling whisper, filled with gratitude and exhaustion. “Thank you, Sir.”

You loosened your grip on the leash slightly, one hand sliding soothingly along her back as her breathing steadied. The quiet weight of the shared moment settled over both of you, a tangible understanding of control, devotion, and the bond that held you together. Her body relaxed beneath you, pliant and trusting, the tension of the night ebbing away.

As you moved to release the binding and settle beside her, she surprised you. Slowly, shakily, she pushed herself up, her limbs trembling with effort, and turned to face you. Her knees met the floor, her movements reverent despite her exhaustion. She knelt there, her gaze steady but soft, shining with unspoken emotion as she clasped her hands lightly in front of her.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, her voice wavering but firm, her head bowing slightly in deference. “Thank you for giving me another chance. I promise I’ll never take it for granted again.”

The sincerity in her tone struck something deep within you, her submission layered with gratitude and determination. You reached out, cupping her face gently in your hand, tilting her chin so her eyes met yours. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you, the depth of her devotion reflected back in her gaze.

“I believe you,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over her cheek as her eyes glistened with unspoken emotion. “And I’ll hold you to that promise.”

The connection between you was palpable, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling like a balm over the intensity of everything that had come before. As she knelt there, a renewed sense of trust and devotion radiating from her, you felt the unbreakable bond between you solidify once more.

You reached down, your fingers brushing lightly against her chin as you guided her off her knees. Her body moved with a hesitant grace, her legs trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. She followed your lead without question, her wide eyes flicking up to meet yours, silently searching for reassurance as you helped her onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight as she settled, her hands clutching the sheets tightly, knuckles whitening as though anchoring herself.

When you reached toward the collar around her neck, her breath hitched audibly, her entire body going rigid beneath your touch. “Sir…” she whispered, her voice trembling with uncertainty. “Please… don’t take it off. I’ll do better, I promise.”

Her plea was laced with desperation, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as her gaze darted between your hands and your face, searching for any hint of mercy. A small, involuntary shiver ran through her, and her fingers twitched against the sheets, her need to hold onto the collar palpable.

You paused deliberately, your hand still resting against the cool leather. Leaning closer, you met her panicked gaze, your voice calm but firm, the tone leaving no room for argument. “This isn’t punishment,” you said, your breath warm as it ghosted over her cheek. “You’ve earned it back, but I need to take care of you first.”

The words hung in the air, steady and unyielding, and her resolve cracked just slightly. She nodded, swallowing hard, the submission in her posture softening into trust as she tilted her head, baring her neck for you. Even as she complied, her lips parted as though she wanted to speak again, but no words came. Her breathing quickened as the soft click of the buckle echoed in the room, impossibly loud against the quiet backdrop. You slipped the collar off carefully, her skin faintly red where the leather had rested. The collar felt heavier in your hand than usual as you set it on the bedside table, its presence a silent promise.

Her gaze followed the collar until it was out of sight, her trembling form still taut with unspoken emotion. Before she could voice any of it, you leaned in, your lips brushing against the now-bare skin of her neck. The first kiss was featherlight, your breath warm and soothing against her flushed skin, a deliberate reassurance. Her body shivered beneath you, a soft, involuntary sound escaping her lips as you began to trail kisses along the delicate curve of her neck.

Each kiss was purposeful, slow and deliberate, leaving a path of heat in their wake. You felt her breath catch, the tension in her shoulders melting under the tender press of your lips. When you reached the sensitive spot beneath her ear, you lingered, your teeth grazing her skin gently before sucking just enough to leave a faint mark. Her gasp was sharp, her hands tightening their grip on the sheets as a visible shudder ran through her.

“These,” you murmured against her skin, your voice low and possessive, “will be your substitute until tomorrow. A reminder of who you belong to.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, trembling with emotion. Her body sank deeper into the bed as you continued, your mouth leaving faint marks that dotted her neck like a constellation of your claim. Each kiss was deliberate, your teeth grazing her skin just enough to send another wave of sensation coursing through her. By the time you finished, her breaths were shallow, her body completely relaxed, her submission absolute.

Satisfied, you reached for the lotion on the bedside table, the faint scent of vanilla filling the air as you warmed it between your palms. “Lift your chin,” you instructed gently, your tone soft but commanding. She obeyed instantly, her head tilting back to expose the expanse of her neck, her trust in you evident in the way she remained perfectly still.

The cool lotion met her heated skin, and she shivered under your touch, the contrast heightening her awareness of the care you were giving her. Your fingers moved slowly, deliberately, smoothing the lotion over the faint redness left by the collar. Each stroke was tender, soothing, a tactile affirmation of her worth and your devotion.

When you finished, you leaned in one last time, pressing a soft kiss to the base of her neck. “Tomorrow,” you promised, your voice steady, carrying the weight of your conviction. “You’ll wear it again.”

Her voice broke slightly as she whispered, “Thank you, Sir.”

You stayed close, your hands resting lightly on her shoulders as her breathing steadied. The room settled into a quiet hum of intimacy, the bond between you unspoken but profound. The collar rested nearby, waiting for its return, but the marks you left on her skin and the care you had shown were enough to remind her of everything she had earned.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

Long one shot for Jealous!Toto Wolff with wife reader. With how many celebrities and famous people at the Las Vegas GP, it's no wonder how many times she has been hit. Toto and their son, Jack saved her. Fluff/suggestive. Anything, I don't mind. Thanks!! :)

With prompts : Are you jealous?” “No, I’m not!” “Oh, you really are jealous! Wait, why would you be jealous?”, "I trust you, I just don't trust them." & “Jealousy doesn’t suit you. I like to see you smile more.”

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Reader

i loved writing this fic!! i have a serieus one coming out soon with a rather similar plot just more angst it is toto based!!

Jealous!Toto Wolff - One-Shot

The bright lights of the Las Vegas Grand Prix shimmered like a thousand stars on the Strip, illuminating the desert night sky as the paddock buzzed with excitement. The air was filled with the sound of revving engines, the chatter of celebrities, and the occasional laughter of fans mingling with drivers and team members. But for you, the night had started to feel overwhelming, your patience tested by more than one unwelcome encounter.

You had come to the race with your husband, Toto Wolff, and your young son, Jack. The plan had been simple: enjoy the thrill of the race, soak in the electric atmosphere, and have a good time with the family. But as you wandered the paddock, admiring the sleek cars and waving to some of the familiar faces in the crowd, the attention you were receiving started to feel less flattering and more intrusive.

It wasn’t uncommon for people to approach you—many of them were fans of Toto, or simply curious about the wife of the Mercedes team principal—but tonight, with the who’s who of the celebrity world filling the stands and the paddock, it seemed like everyone wanted a piece of you.

It started innocuously enough. A few polite conversations, quick photo ops with fans, the usual pleasantries. But soon, it became clear that a few of these “fans” weren’t as well-meaning as they appeared. A touch on the arm here, a lingering gaze there—nothing outright inappropriate, but enough to make you feel uncomfortable. And when you tried to escape back to the hospitality area, a certain well-known actor had greeted you with a lingering kiss on the cheek that, while nothing more than friendly in appearance, sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine.

It was at that exact moment that Toto appeared. His sharp eyes, usually so focused on the race, were now locked onto the scene before him with an intensity that made your stomach flutter—though not in a good way. He was standing by the entrance of the hospitality suite, his gaze fixed on the interaction, his posture stiff and controlled.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice calm but with an edge you had never heard before.

You nodded, attempting to brush it off. “It’s fine, Toto. Just… a lot going on tonight, you know?”

His eyes narrowed, and he took a few steps forward, the crowd seemingly parting for him as if they could sense the subtle shift in his demeanor. He turned to the actor, his expression cold and polite. “Excuse me,” Toto said, his voice flat and even. “I’m afraid my wife is not interested in further conversation.”

The actor blinked, startled by the sudden intervention, and gave a half-hearted smile before backing off, muttering something under his breath.

As the actor walked away, you felt the warmth of Toto’s hand on your lower back, a gesture meant to reassure but also to stake a claim. You glanced up at him, catching the faintest flicker of something in his eyes—something between possessiveness and concern.

“Toto, you didn’t have to do that,” you said, trying to lighten the mood. “I was fine.”

His expression didn’t soften. “Are you sure? Because it didn’t look like you were fine.”

“I’m fine,” you reassured him, offering a small smile.

He didn’t return the smile. Instead, he took a deep breath and spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing his words. “I trust you. I just don’t trust them.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “Wait, why would you be jealous? It was just a kiss on the cheek.”

Toto’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “Jealous? Me?” He raised an eyebrow, as though the idea was ridiculous, but the tension in his voice betrayed him. “No, I’m not jealous.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, maybe a little. But only because I don’t like how they treat you.”

Before you could respond, Jack appeared, holding a toy car in his hands and grinning from ear to ear. His innocence broke the tension in the air, and Toto’s stern expression softened. He crouched down, scooping Jack up and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“Are you having fun?” Toto asked, his tone much lighter now.

“Yeah, yeah! It’s so cool here, Daddy!” Jack exclaimed, looking between you and his father. “But I think Mummy’s getting bored.”

You chuckled, even as you shot a playful glare at Toto. “I’m not bored, Jack.”

But Toto wasn’t letting it go. “I think you need a break,” he said, glancing at you with an unreadable expression. “You’ve been dealing with a lot tonight. How about we get some privacy? Just the three of us. We can go back to the hotel, away from all this madness.”

His suggestion caught you off guard, but it was exactly what you needed. A moment to breathe, to relax, to remember why you were here in the first place: for each other. And maybe, just maybe, Toto needed a little time away from the chaos too.

Later that evening, after the race had ended and the crowds had dispersed, Toto had whisked you and Jack away to a luxurious suite in one of the quieter corners of the Strip. The moment you stepped inside, the world felt miles away. The chaos of the paddock, the glittering distractions of celebrity and competition—none of that mattered now. It was just the three of you.

You sank onto the plush sofa, feeling the weight of the day lifting off your shoulders. Jack immediately jumped into your lap, grinning as he showed off the race car he had “won” from one of the games in the paddock.

Toto, still standing by the door, watched the two of you with a soft, almost tender smile, his earlier frustration completely dissipated. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, you know,” you teased, leaning back into the cushions and catching his eye. “I like to see you smile more.”

Toto’s smile grew, but there was still a playful edge to it. “I’m smiling now,” he said, walking toward you. “And I don’t want to see anyone make you feel uncomfortable again. You’re mine, and I protect what’s mine.”

You laughed softly, reaching for his hand as he sat beside you. “Toto, we’ve been together for years. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezed your hand, the unspoken words between you both speaking volumes. “I know. But I still don’t like the idea of anyone else thinking they can have you.”

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Well, they can think whatever they want. But the only person who gets to be close to me, in every way, is you.”

Toto’s smile turned into a grin, and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Good,” he whispered, resting his chin on top of your head. “That’s the way I like it.”

There was a long, comfortable silence between you, the kind that only true intimacy can bring. Toto leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your lips, the kind of kiss that spoke more of reassurance and love than anything else. When he pulled back, his eyes softened, and you could see the shift in him—the guard he’d been holding up for so long had finally come down.

“You know,” he murmured, his fingers brushing your cheek as he traced a gentle line along your jaw, “you’ve always been the one to make me smile the most. But tonight… tonight you’ve made me feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

A blush crept up your neck, and you ducked your head, feeling a flutter in your chest. “Stop, Toto,” you whispered with a shy smile, but your heart was racing, his words making you feel cherished in ways you hadn’t expected after a long, chaotic day.

He grinned and kissed the top of your head. “I’m serious. You’re everything to me. And I just want you to know… no matter what happens, you’re the only one I care about.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “And I’m the only one who’ll ever have you,” you said softly, your hands moving to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

Toto’s grin softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you—no words, just that quiet understanding that had always been the foundation of your relationship. His lips hovered over yours again, but this time, instead of kissing you immediately, he lingered, savoring the closeness.

“Let’s not think about the world outside for a while,” he whispered. “Just us. Here. Together.”

You nodded, a sense of peace settling over you as his lips finally met yours, slow and deliberate. The kiss deepened, and in that moment, everything else faded away—the buzzing, the noise, the world outside your hotel suite. There was just him, and you, and the soft, perfect rhythm of the love you shared.

As you pulled back, Toto’s fingers gently traced the line of your collarbone. “We need more moments like this,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate.

“Then let’s make them,” you replied, smiling up at him, knowing that no matter how chaotic life could get, moments like this—just the two of you—were the ones that would always matter most.

In the quiet of the hotel room, the two of you drifted off to sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

[mattsnight]

Summary: in which Chris can’t hide his feelings for Y/N any longer.

Warnings: cursing !!

WC: 5k+++

Chris hated how he felt for you. The extreme feelings were overwhelming and it was hard keeping them together. He couldn’t live like this. He couldn’t live knowing you were his best friend and that nothing would ever happen with the two of you.

You were always the clingy kind of type. You couldn’t be alone for more than 24 hours and always had to be with someone who you loved. Most of the times it was Chris, which he didn’t mind at first, but when his feelings for you started, it all became a lot.

You came over to the triplets’ house today, since Chris hasn’t been answering your calls. You were really worried about him. When you walked into the house you were met with an angry Chris. He didn’t want you here at all. He didn’t want to talk. It hurt him to do this shit to you, but he needed these feelings gone. And there it was, he was bottling up all his feelings and is now taking it out on you.

“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you?” You say to Chris as he just ignored you when you tried giving him a simple hug. He never did this, he would always hug you even when he was annoyed. He lets out a huff, rubbing his eyes as he glances in your direction.

"Me? Nothing is wrong with me, I'm absolutely fine. It's you, you're just always around being clingy, I can't even breathe without you being all over me. Seriously, do you have to be so clingy? Give me a break every once in a while," Chris bites back with a roll of his eyes. A small gasp leaves your mouth at his sudden anger. “What the hell happened to you, chris? At first you’re all nice and sweet to me and now you’re acting like a huge dick.”

Chris grits his teeth, turning to look you in the eyes a lot sharper than usual. "So now it's wrong that I've decided to give myself a break from your clinginess? Is that a crime now?" He quips, raising a brow at you unimpressed. "God, you're always so needy, you can't even go half a day without wanting my attention. Have you ever considered that maybe I'd want alone time?”

“I was giving you one hug, chris. I wasn’t sat on your lap touching your chest while waiting for you to fuck me!” You yell back, anger now running through your body. Chris is visibly taken aback by your words, the harsh bite of them makes his chest ache, but he can't focus on that right now. He lets out an annoyed huff, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. "You always hug me!" He points out, throwing his arms out. "Like, it's never just one hug, you're always all over me, no matter if we're alone or in public. It's like you can't stand the thought of not being attached to me or something!"

“Im not always hugging you! I was so excited to see you, is one hug that bad?” You say, running your hands through your hair. "And there it is again, the excuses!" Chris exclaims in annoyance. "You're always all over me, you've gotta touch me. You know I'm not the biggest fan of physical touch, so why are you always so clingy with me, huh, can you answer that?" He asks, raising a brow at you with an expectant expression on his face.

“Because we’re friends? Cus i enjoy being with you? Because maybe im trying to get our friendship back!” Yeah, that one hurt. It had been a while since you and Chris had hung out. At first you thought it was because he got a girlfriend, but he didn’t, Nick told you that.

"And you need to cling to me to do that? You need to be attached to me at all times to do that, is that it?" Chris asks, clearly still frustrated and a little on edge. "It's annoying. I'm allowed to want my own goddamn space every once in a while, why's that so hard for you to understand? I just want a little space to breathe, alone, without having you sticking yourself to me like glue."

Fuck, why did it have to go like this? You hated this and you knew he did too. There was hurt smashed on both of your faces, but the both of you didn’t stop. “Then tell me to shut up, leave and never come back!” You say, a voice crack slipping through. Chris's eyes widen slightly, his mouth going slightly agape at your words, his heart beating loud in his chest. He did not see that coming. "What?" He asks, a hint of surprise sneaking into his voice. “Tell me to leave, end our friendship and do whatever the fuck you want without me.” You repeat with a voice crack.

Chris's jaw clenches, his chest feels tight and his stomach sinks at your words. Every fibre of his being wanted to scream at you to shut up, to stay with him forever. He did not want you gone, but for some reason he just couldn't bring himself to tell you. "I don't want-" he tries to protest, swallowing hard and averting his gaze. "I don't want that."

“Then what do you want, Chris?!”

"You!" His eyes widen the moment the word escapes his mouth, he didn't mean to say that, he meant to say anything other than that. He clamps his mouth shut, staring at you with a mix of shock and frustration. “What?” You say quietly, not believing that you heard him right.

"I- nothing, I... nothing, forget I said that," he runs his fingers through his hair, cursing himself inwardly. This did not get better. "I just... I think, maybe, we should just have some time apart for a while. Take some space, I'll be fine without you glued to my side, you'll be fine without me around all the time." His voice stays the same, not even a slight change.

“You said me.. chris.. what does that mean?”

"I said nothing, alright?" Chris snaps, trying to cover up his slip of the tongue, but it was too late. He couldn't lie his way out of this now. He lets out a huff, scrubbing his face with his hand, looking at you with a frustrated expression on his face. "Damnit... you weren't supposed to hear that."

You take a small step back at his snap. It wasn’t because you were scared, you wanted to give him space. His expression softens just the slightest as he sees you take a step back, his heart panging in his chest as he registers the hurt in your eyes. He shakes his head in defeat. "No, I... Damnit, I can't... Look, I can't do this right now." He runs a hand through his hair again, turning his back to you and walking a few moments. Clearly he was frustrated and upset about the whole situation. “Chris—“ you try, but he doesn’t want to talk.

"Just don’t." He bites, his voice low as he keeps his back turned to you. He clearly wasn't in the mood to keep the conversation going. He was upset, and in pain, and he knew he was hurting you as well. He didn't want to hurt you, but he knew he was, and that was so much worse in his mind. “Please just talk to me, Chris. I want to understand what is going on.”

"What is there to talk about, huh?" Chris turns to look at you again, eyes sharp and his muscles coiled tight with tension. "What are we supposed to talk about? I said something I wasn't supposed to, I can't take it back, so what do you want me to say? I don't want to talk about it, not like this, not right now."

He is still staring at you, his expression pained and frustrated. It was like he was trying to hold back so many things, trying desperately to keep them all at bay and yet they were so obvious on his face. "And what was that little stunt anyway, huh? Trying to get a reaction out of me, is that it? Well great, you got one. You did what you set out to do, I screwed up. I said something I shouldn't have said. Happy?"

Your eyes start filling up with pain. It wasn’t your intention to do this. You didn’t mean any of it, you just wanted a reason why you’re losing your best friend. Chris's heart clenches within his chest at the sight of your hurt expression. The sharp pang of guilt and regret hits him hard, but it doesn't stop him from continuing. "You wanted a reaction, and you got it. I'm human. Do you think you can just prod and poke at me all the time and I won't snap back?" He bites, narrowing his eyes at you despite the panging in his heart. “Im sorry, okay?…” you say.

"You're sorry, is that it? You're sorry?” Chris snaps, taking a step closer as he towers over you. His face is a mixture of anger and pain, despite the growing guilt at the expression on your face. “You're sorry? Great, that just fixes everything, doesn't it? You didn't mean to make me snap, didn't mean to prod and poke at me until I exploded, but that's fine because you're sorry now, right?" All his anger is aimed at you when you just tried to fix something broken. You don’t dare to speak, scared you’ll ruin it even more.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I thought," he continues, his voice still sharp and bitter. "You can apologise all you want but it's not gonna change the fact that you got exactly what you wanted out of me. You pushed me to the limit, and you got a reaction. So don't bother apologising, it's too late for that." He says, letting out a frustrated huff while scrubbing his face with his hand as anger and guilt clash together in his mind. He wants to yell at you, wants to scream at you and let it all out, but at the same time the sight of your hurt expression is killing him. "Goddamnit.." he mutters under his breath, running his fingers roughly through his hair.

“I should go home.. this isn’t gonna work.” You finally say, breaking the silence. "Yeah... maybe you should," Chris responds, but the moment the words escape his mouth he wishes he could take them back. His heart is panging against his chest, his stomach clenches with guilt at the idea of you leaving. He didn't want you to go anywhere, he wanted to talk to you, he wanted you to not look so hurt and upset, but he'd gone and made it all worse in his anger.

You grab your bag quickly after his respond, ready to leave. Chris can’t take this anymore, he needs to make this right. He needs to talk to you. His heart drops to his stomach as you reach for your bag, the reality of the situation hitting him hard as he watches you get ready to leave. "Just... just wait," he says suddenly, the words slipping out before he can even think about it. "Please don't go. I... shit.”

He falters, his breath catching as he tries to find the right words. "I... look, just... just sit down, alright?" He asks, his voice suddenly much softer and more vulnerable than before. He wanted you to stay. He couldn't stand the thought of you leaving right now, he needed you to stay. He swallows hard, forcing out the next words as his heart pounds in his chest. "Please just... just sit down. We need to talk, not like this. Just... just sit down and listen to me. Please."

“Why does this all have to be so difficult?” You ask, sitting down on the couch to listen to him. "I don't know!" Chris exclaims, frustration and annoyance rising in his voice again. Why does it have to be so difficult? He should've just kept his mouth shut in the first place, he'd made a huge mess and he knew it. "I don't know why it has to be so... so difficult." He repeats, softer this time. "I don't... I just don't know." He scrubs his face with his hand, gritting his teeth and taking a deep, calming breath.

“What happened between us?” You ask, wanting answers. Chris's heart pang's in his chest again at your question. A million answers could've come to his mind, but he couldn't get the words out of his mouth. Instead, he clenches his jaw, sighing deeply and shaking his head. "I don't know," he repeats again, his frustration growing. "I... I don't know, things just... changed."

He runs his fingers through his hair, raking his brain for the right words to say, the right way to explain things without saying too much. "I can't explain it. Things just... look, it's just so complicated." He glances at you, his expression a mixture of pain and confusion. He looks away again quickly, sighing heavily and shaking his head. "Things just aren't how they used to be. Something changed... and it's all wrong now."

“Does it have anything to do with you saying that you want.. me?”

Chris visibly tenses, his breathing catching in his chest as the memory of his earlier words comes back to him. He swallows hard and nods, his heart thudding against his ribcage. "Yeah," he mutters, his voice strained. "It has... everything to do with that." He says before looking up at you again, his expression pained and his eyes full of anguish. "You weren't supposed to hear that," he explains, his voice cracking slightly. "I didn't... I didn't mean for you to hear that. I didn't want you to know."

“But you said it, what does it mean?”

Chris takes a deep breath, his heart thudding so hard in his chest it's all he can hear. He knew he was in too deep now, there was no backing out. "It means exactly what you think it means," he mutters, his voice low and heavy. "I... I want you. I want you." He couldn't believe the words were coming out of his mouth, but now they were out there in the open and he couldn't take them back. His eyes search your face, looking for a reaction, a response, any sign of how you felt at his words, but he couldn't find it. "I... I want you," he repeats, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion. "I've wanted you for a long time, and it's been killing me. I... I've messed it up, I know I've messed it up and I can't take it back, but it's the truth. I want you. I need you."

“Jesus christ, Chris.. we could’ve talked about this sooner without that arguing.” You groan as waves of mixed feelings wash over you. Chris lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he runs his hands through his hair again. "You think I wanted to argue with you? This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. I didn't want to deal with this, I didn't want to admit this." He sighs deeply, his heart panging in his chest as he meets your gaze. "I'm an idiot," he mutters, his voice quiet. "I just ruined everything, didn't I?"

“No chris— god.. i am in love with you too.”

Chris's heart stops in his chest, his breath catching in his throat as your words wash over him, a rush of emotions surging through him at your confession. His eyes widen, his heart thudding so hard against his ribcage he's sure you can hear it. He just stares at you for a moment, like his brain isn't quite comprehending what he's just heard. "You... what?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you, chris..” you say. Those three words hit Chris like a ton of bricks, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending his heart into overdrive. He didn't think he'd ever hear those words from anyone, especially not from you. His expression softens, a mix of surprise and wonder and disbelief on his face as he takes a cautious step towards you, like he's afraid he might shatter whatever fragile dream he's suddenly found himself in. "You... you mean that?" He asks, his voice hoarse and low.

“Yes! I have for a long time, but i didn’t know how to feel when you just.. stopped talking to me.”

A wave of emotions washes over Chris at your words. Relief, joy, disbelief, excitement. He swallows hard, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes another step closer to you. "You... you love me?" He repeats, his voice a little shaky as he tries to process everything. "You love me?" He takes one more step towards you, his expression full of hope and awe. You look up at him, noticing he was already staring at you. His blue eyes are searching your face for any sign of dishonesty or deception. Instead, all he sees is love, and a whole lot of it. His heart is beating so hard in his chest it physically hurt, but he didn't care. All he could see was you, and the fact that you just confessed to loving him. He reaches out hesitantly, slowly putting a hand on your waist, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he moves too quickly.

And there it was, the kiss you’ve both longed for. It feels like a switch is flipped inside the two of you. Like you’re finally free. Your hands move to his cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer. His hands move to your ass, letting them rest there. Everything is how it’s supposed to be.

When the kiss finally breaks, Chris's expression is a mixture of wonder and shock, like he can't believe that just actually happened. His heart is pounding in his chest, his brain struggling to process what's just happened. He couldn't believe that you actually wanted him, that you loved him. He lets out a breathless laugh, his face still so close to yours that he can feel your breath on his face. “Shit that was so good.” He says, trying to get some air. Oh and it was good.

It was the best kiss you’ve ever had.

The end<3

Oh my god why is this sooo long :,) i hope yall liked it!

[0omillo0]

FELIX X READER ;༊๋࣭ fluff ; comfort

request from @jeonginsleftcheek (love your works btw tysm for the request ♡ )

a/n: HI GUYS IVE GOT MY TICKETS FOR THE DOMINATE TOUR IM SO EXCITED!!

It had been one of those days—the kind where the weight of everything felt unbearable, like the world had conspired against you. From the moment you woke up, nothing had gone right. Work was overwhelming, people were impatient, and even the smallest things seemed to fall apart in your hands. By the time you finally walked through the door to your apartment, the tears you had fought so hard to keep at bay spilled freely, slipping down your cheeks in silent streams.

You leaned heavily against the door, closing your eyes as the exhaustion overtook you. The quiet of your home was supposed to feel like relief, but tonight it only felt heavy, empty.

“Y/N?”

Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest at the sound of Felix’s familiar voice. You hadn’t even noticed him sitting on your couch, his long legs tucked under a throw blanket, a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him. His soft brown eyes widened when he saw your face, his expression shifting from surprise to deep concern in an instant. He stood quickly, taking a tentative step toward you.

“What happened? Are you okay?” His voice was gentle but full of worry, the kind of tone that made you want to crumble entirely.

You quickly wiped at your tears, trying to pull yourself together. “Lix… Hey. I didn’t know you were here.” You tried to force a smile, but it wavered. “It’s nothing, really. I just… had a bad day.”

Felix’s brows knit together as he studied your face. “Nothing doesn’t make you cry like this.” He took another step closer, careful not to overwhelm you. “Come here,” he murmured softly, opening his arms.

You hesitated for only a second before collapsing into his embrace. Felix wrapped you up tightly, his arms firm and protective as he pulled you against his chest. His sweater smelled faintly of vanilla and something warm and earthy, and the familiarity of it made your tears flow harder. You buried your face in his shoulder, your sobs muffled against the soft fabric as he held you.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm against the storm raging in your heart. “I’m here. Let it out.”

And you did. You cried until your shoulders stopped shaking, until the ache in your chest started to feel a little less overwhelming. Felix didn’t let go, not once, his hands rubbing slow, calming circles on your back as he murmured quiet reassurances.

Eventually, when the tears had slowed to a stop, he pulled back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, wiping away the last traces of wetness. “Come sit down with me,” he said gently, guiding you to the couch.

He settled you beside him, tucking the blanket over your lap before draping his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his chest as his fingers absently played with the ends of your hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked softly after a moment.

You sighed, unsure where to even begin. “It was just… everything. Work was stressful, and people were rude, and I just felt… I don’t know. Like nothing I did today was good enough.”

Felix’s arm tightened around you slightly, a protective gesture. “Y/N… I hate that you had to deal with all that today. None of it’s fair. You’re so amazing—whether it’s at work or just… being you. And if other people can’t see that, that’s on them, not you.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, a fresh wave of emotion rising in your chest. You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his presence soothe you.

“Thank you, Lix,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Always,” he replied without hesitation, his tone so sincere it made your heart ache. “I’ll always be here for you.”

The room fell into a comfortable silence after that, the only sounds the soft hum of Felix’s breathing and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. His hand moved to gently rub your arm, his touch feather-light but grounding. You felt yourself starting to relax for the first time all day, the tension slowly melting from your body as you sat wrapped in his warmth.

“You know,” Felix said suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “What is it?”

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering away from yours as if he were gathering his courage. When he looked back, his expression was soft, but there was a seriousness in his eyes that made your breath catch.

“Y/N… I don’t think I can keep this to myself anymore.” His voice was quieter now, almost nervous. “I care about you. A lot. More than just… as a friend.”

Your heart stopped, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you weren’t sure if you had heard him correctly. “What?” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Felix gave you a small, almost shy smile, his cheeks tinged pink. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you for a while now, but I didn’t want to risk ruining what we have. But seeing you like this tonight… I realized I can’t keep it in anymore. You mean so much to me, and I just… I wanted you to know.”

You stared at him, your mind racing to process his words. And then, slowly, warmth bloomed in your chest, chasing away the heaviness that had lingered there all day. “Felix… I—” You paused, your lips curving into a soft smile. “I love you too.”

His eyes widened in surprise, his mouth opening slightly as if he hadn’t dared to hope you would say those words back. And then, his face broke into the most beautiful smile you had ever seen, his expression radiant with relief and happiness.

“Really?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Really,” you confirmed, reaching up to gently cup his face. “How could I not? You’re… everything to me.”

Felix let out a breathy laugh, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”

He leaned down, resting his forehead against yours, and for a moment, the world felt still—just the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth. His thumb brushed over your cheek again, his touch as tender as ever.

“I’ll take care of you, Y/N,” he murmured. “On your bad days, your good days, and everything in between. I promise.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink into your heart. For the first time that day, you felt truly at peace, safe in the arms of someone who loved you completely.

tags: @hannamoon143 @intartaruginha

[perfectsunlight]

[32] ENOUGH

warnings: therapy sessions, overwhelming emotions, family conflict, intense feelings of isolation and public scrutiny.

JULY 2018

the therapist’s office felt too bright, almost too sterile, with white walls that seemed to reflect every thought jennie was trying to push down. she sat on the edge of a plush couch, her hands folded tightly in her lap, the weight of her secret pressing harder than ever. she couldn’t even look at the therapist—some stranger who was supposed to help her sort through the mess of emotions she couldn’t afford to acknowledge.

jennie had agreed to come here because her manager insisted. it wasn’t for her, though—it was for the image. “you’re under a lot of pressure, jennie. it’s okay to talk about it,” they had nagged. but she wasn’t here for herself. she was here because someone had told her to be. across from her, the therapist—a woman in her late 40s with kind eyes—sat quietly, her notepad resting on her lap. she wasn’t asking anything intrusive yet, only waiting for jennie to open up. 

but she couldn’t.

“jennie,” the therapist smiled, her voice warm and steady, “i understand that things have been moving very fast for you since your debut. how are you feeling about everything that’s happening right now?” the idol stiffened at the mention of blackpink. the group’s rise to fame had been overwhelming, every step met with more pressure, more eyes on her. she wanted to say something, but the words felt trapped in her throat. this wasn’t about being a star—it was about the other part of her life, the one she had to keep hidden.

"everything’s fine," jennie replied, her voice flat, distant. "it’s just a lot to handle sometimes." the therapist simply nodded, her expression calm. "i can imagine. you’re balancing so much. what’s been the hardest part for you?"

jennie’s mind raced. the hardest part? where could she even begin? she was living a double life, caught between the woman the world saw and the woman she had to hide. she was expected to be jennie kim, the idol, the one who smiled for the cameras and smiled through the pain. but what the cameras didn’t know was that there was another life—a life she couldn’t talk about. the one where she was a mother.

her chest tightened as the thought crossed her mind. her daughter. her ivory. her baby girl, who she had to keep from the world. no one can know. no one could ever know. 

the secrecy suffocated her.

"i’m just tired," the rapper replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “all the time, it feels like i’m pretending. i’m not allowed to be real. there’s always this pressure to be perfect. to be this person for everyone, but no one knows the real me.”

the therapist leaned in slightly, sensing the vulnerability behind the idol’s words. “that sounds really exhausting. can you tell me more about what you mean by ‘pretending’?” jennie let out a breath, but no words came. she didn’t know where to start. how could she explain the tension in her chest, the constant guilt, the way her heart ached every time she had to leave her daughter behind? she couldn’t even say she was a mother. she had to keep that part of herself locked away.

“it just all feels fake.” the idol had answered, her voice tinged with a frustration she couldn’t quite name. “like everyone wants me to be this one thing. they expect me to be perfect all the time. it’s like i have to be this persona, and if i show any cracks, everything will fall apart.”

jennie’s slender fingers gripped the edge of the couch, her knuckles shades of her daughter’s name from the pressure. she didn’t dare look at the therapist, afraid that if she did, she might reveal too much. she had to hold herself together—even here, she had to be jennie kim, the image the world adored, the person they thought they knew.

the therapist, quiet and patient, let the silence stretch between them. she understood—jennie didn’t need advice or platitudes right now. she needed someone to hear her, someone to acknowledge the struggle that came with the life she had chosen.

the idol finally spoke again after a few beats of silence, her words a soft confession, her voice breaking slightly with the weight of what she wasn’t saying. “there’s always someone who wants something from me. always someone who wants to use me. nothing feels real, nothing feels genuine.”

the therapist nodded slowly, leaning back into her leather chair but maintaining her focus. “that sounds incredibly isolating. to feel like you have to keep everything locked inside, and not be able to share your true self with anyone.”

the idol’s gaze dropped to her hands, now fidgeting nervously. she didn’t want to share her true self. she couldn’t share it. she couldn’t risk it. the truth, the part of her that was real, wasn’t something the world could ever accept. 

it was too dangerous. too fragile. 

“i don’t know who i’m supposed to be anymore,” jennie whispered, her voice barely audible. “i don’t know how to be everything they want me to be. and still be me.”

there was a pause, and the therapist gave her the space to gather her thoughts, even if the words felt impossible to say. jennie had spent so many months—years, really—burying parts of herself. she couldn’t even let herself believe she could be anything other than the image she had crafted. even now, sitting in a therapist's office, she couldn’t speak the truth about who she was beneath all the layers.

the therapist spoke again, her voice quiet but insistent. “well, it sounds like you're carrying a heavy burden. you don’t have to bear it alone. is there anyone in your life who makes you feel seen? someone who knows the real you?”

jennie wanted to laugh in her face and just walk out the door, the absurdity of the question hitting her like ice in her veins. who could ever understand this? who could understand her?

her eyes flicked to the woman who sat waiting, her gentle expression a stark contrast to the ocean of thoughts drowning in the idol's mind. the question had unintentionally struck a nerve. of course, there was no one. not in the way the therapist meant. 

no one could understand the weight of the mask jennie had to wear. no one could see past the glossy surface of the public persona, the polished image that was expected of her. and even if someone tried to see me, would they even care?

jennie’s fingers curled tighter around the fabric of her jacket. “no,” she said, the word escaping her like a cold, sharp breath. “no one knows me. not really.”

she didn’t even believe it herself. not completely. it was easier to lie, easier to convince herself that she was better off this way—alone in her truth, because the alternative was too terrifying. to be seen, to be known by anyone, meant the possibility of being rejected, of being abandoned by the very people who adored the version of her they had created in their minds.

the therapist sat back a little, not pushing her further, but giving jennie the space to breathe, to consider her words. the silence in the room felt heavy now, almost suffocating.

the idol cleared her throat, fighting back the lump in her throat. her gaze dropped to her hands, which were twisting and folding in her lap, betraying her anxiety. she had to get out of here. she had to escape from this room, from the vulnerability that was creeping in, inch by inch.

“i don’t know how to be me,” jennie muttered under her breath, the words barely audible. “i don’t even know who that is anymore.”

as if on queue, the timer went off, signaling the end of their time together. jennie felt a rush of relief surge through her chest. it was as if the weight she’d been carrying for the past hour finally lifted, and for the first time that day, she could breathe. she didn’t even bother with pleasantries as she stood up. "thank you," she muttered almost automatically, her voice a little hoarse. she wasn’t sure if it was gratitude or just a desperate need to escape the room, but either way, she was out of there as soon as the words left her lips.

as she hurried down the hallway to the parking lot, the rest of the world seemed to fade into a dull hum. she didn’t want to think about the things they’d discussed. she didn’t want to process the way the conversation had unraveled parts of her she wasn’t ready to face. all she wanted was to be home, to be with ivory. the little girl who somehow made everything feel right, even if only for a while.

when she stepped through the door, jieun was there, but jennie barely spared her a glance. her mind was already on ivory. her heart, which had been tight all through the session, began to loosen at the thought of holding her daughter.

“i’ll be with her,” the idol said quietly, her tone flat. jieun, sensing her need for space, gave a soft nod and stepped back, leaving her daughter to retreat into the quiet of their home.

jennie’s pace quickened as she made her way down the hallway. she opened the door to ivory’s room softly, and there the little girl was, sitting on her little rug, her tiny hands putting bows on kuma. at the sight of her, the idol felt the first wave of peace she’d had all day.

ivory looked up and saw her mother, her brown eyes lighting up with pure, unfiltered joy. “mommy?” she said in surprise, her head tilting to the side, a grin spreading across her face. 

the idol’s own face softened, though there was a tightness still lingering in her chest. she didn’t answer with words. instead, she moved to the floor and immediately pulled ivory into her arms, her heartbeat slowing as she pressed her daughter against her. jane’s little body fit perfectly in jennie’s arms, a familiar weight she could never grow tired of.

they didn’t need to talk. jennie didn’t want to talk. there was no need for anything else at that moment. she just needed to hold her daughter, to feel her warm breath against her neck, to know that, for a little while, she didn’t have to be anything other than here.

jane nestled against her, sighing contentedly, her small hands reaching up to trace her mother’s face, as though memorizing the shape of it. jennie closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of baby lotion and something uniquely ivory.

for a while, the room was quiet, the only sound was the soft rhythm of their breathing. ivory shifted in her mother’s arms, her face nuzzling into jennie’s shoulder, and jennie tightened her hold, as if trying to shield her from everything—everything outside of this room, outside of this moment.

it didn’t matter that the world was still waiting for her, that the pressures, the expectations, the fear—everything—was still looming. in this little bubble, with her daughter in her arms, none of that mattered. she could almost forget it all.

she could just be jennie, the mother. the most important title in her life.

as the hours slipped by, the idol found herself reluctant to move, reluctant to even speak. she just wanted to stay like this, to hold her daughter close and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist. the way ivory’s tiny fingers curled into her sleeve, the way she let out soft giggles as jennie kissed her head, made her heart swell.

and for that fleeting moment, that brief escape from everything else, jennie allowed herself to believe that this was enough.

—

OCTOBER 2025

the office space was painted in dark, muted colors, the kind designed to be calming. dark blues and greens lined the walls, interrupted only by a row of shelves filled with books and puzzles. a small table in the corner held crayons and coloring sheets, their cheerful appearance clashing with the suffocating weight jane felt pressing against her tiny chest.

she didn’t want to be here. the only reason she agreed was because jennie had asked her to. however, ivory was starting to question why in the world she agreed to it.

the therapist was a kind-looking woman with dark eyes and a soothing voice. she sat across from her, the wall behind her littered with framed awards and certifications. ivory couldn’t remember her name—ms. something—but it didn’t matter. the woman was just another stranger, someone who didn’t understand.

“hi, jane,” she said, her voice warm like honey. she opened one of her notepads and grabbed a sleek looking pen from her drawer. “it’s so nice to meet you. your grandma and your mom told me a lot about you.”

the eleven year old glanced at the therapist in slight annoyance, then quickly averted her gaze to the patterned rug beneath her shoes. it felt safer to stare there, at the swirling blues and whites, than to meet the woman’s kind, probing eyes.

she didn’t want to be here. matter of fact, she had no idea why both her grandmother and mother thought this was a good idea. the therapist paused for a beat, giving her space, then continued.

 “they said you’ve been feeling a little sad lately. that you’ve been missing your mom a lot when she’s away. is that true?”

jane’s fingers gripped the hem of her grey oversized sweater. it was a gift from her mother. a one of one vintage designer piece. she didn’t remember exactly what brand, all she cared about was that it was from her mom. she wanted to laugh at the question, to stand up and just walk out already.

of course she missed her. she missed her every single day that jennie was gone, every moment she had to pretend she was like every other kid when her life was anything but.

but how could she explain it? how could she look at this stranger and tell her the truth? that her mom wasn’t just some busy woman working long hours, but jennie kim—the jennie kim? that her absence wasn’t just because of an ordinary job, but because of cameras and flashing lights and a career that consumed her whole world?

so she stayed quiet.

the therapist tilted her head slightly, her expression patient and encouraging. “it’s okay if it’s hard to talk about. you don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready.”

the young girl’s throat tightened as the therapist’s words hung in the air. she clenched her jaw and stared harder at the patterned rug, as if the swirling shapes could somehow anchor her, stop the storm of emotions from bubbling over.

the room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that made everything feel louder—the hum of the air conditioning, the subtle creak of the chair as she shifted, even her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“i…” jane started, her voice barely a whisper. but the words caught in her throat. she could feel the therapist’s eyes on her, gentle but expectant, like she was waiting for her to find the words to continue.

the silence stretched on, unbearable. her slender fingers twisted the hem of her sweater tighter, the soft fabric biting into her palms. she thought of her mom—her amazing, beautiful mom—smiling at her from the screen, her voice like sunshine when she called from some faraway hotel room. jane hated how much she craved those moments, the rare ones where her mother felt like just her mother.

but they weren’t alone moments. not really. there were always fans, schedules, cameras. always someone else demanding a piece of her mom.

jane swallowed hard. she couldn’t say any of that. couldn’t say how much it hurt to share her mom with the world. to feel like she was competing with millions of strangers for her attention.

“i’m fine.” the young kim whispered, giving a firm nod of her head. the therapist didn’t react right away. she just nodded in reply, her smile small and understanding, like she knew the young girl wasn’t fine but wouldn’t push her to admit it. 

“sometimes it helps to draw or write about how you’re feeling,” she said, sliding a blank sheet of paper and a box of crayons across the table. “no one has to see it. it’s just for you.”

jane’s eyes flicked to the paper. her hands didn’t move. she hated how everyone kept asking her to “express her feelings” like it would magically fix everything. the young girl gave the therapist a look, one that definitely meant jane knew what the older woman was trying to do. when the therapist realized the girl wasn’t going to take the bait, she leaned back slightly. 

“do you want to tell me about your mom?”

that question hit harder than it should have. jane’s chest tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “what about her?” she finally scoffed, her voice a bit sharper than she intended to. she could feel the irritation bubbling up inside her, the urge to push back, to defend the one part of her life that was supposed to be her own. as if this therapist even knew who her mother was. jane could already call it from a mile away—the polite, clinical smile on the woman’s face, the soft, empathetic tone. 

but it was all fake, wasn’t it?

jennie had probably used one of her four (and yes, she had counted) fake names when signing jane up for this session. four. because there was no way anyone could know who jennie kim really was—not even a therapist. not in a place like this. not in this life jane had to pretend to lead.

the therapist, not flinching at the sudden shift in jane’s tone, asked again, “what’s she like?”

it was a loaded question, at least to the young girl it was. what was jennie kim like? to the world, she was untouchable—charismatic, talented, adored by millions. she was the kind of person people wrote songs about, the kind of person who could command a room with just a glance. but to ivory, jennie was a puzzle, one she couldn’t quite figure out. 

her mom, who could light up her entire world in one moment and then disappear from it the next.

she thought of the sweater she was wearing, the way her mother had handed it to her with a bright smile, saying, “this reminded me of you.” she thought of the lullabies jennie used to sing when she was younger, of the way her mom’s hugs felt like the safest place in the world.

but she also thought of the canceled birthdays, the missed school plays, the empty chair at dinner. she thought of how every time jennie said, “i’ll be home soon,” jane stopped believing it a little more.

ivory’s throat burned, feeling like shards of glass in her windpipe. she hesitated, her voice trembling a bit more than she had planned. 

“she’s busy.”

the therapist’s head tilted slightly, her expression softening. “that must be hard. when someone you care about is busy a lot.”

jane felt the lump in her throat grow, the tightness in her chest spreading like a burning wildfire. she wanted to scream at the woman to stop, to leave her alone, to stop digging at things she didn’t want to talk about. but instead, she forced her voice to stay steady. “i’m used to it.”

the therapist paused, watching her carefully. “you must be very strong to handle that,” she said gently.

jane’s hands relaxed slightly at the words, but only for a moment. they didn’t feel like a compliment. they felt like a reminder—one she didn’t need. being strong wasn’t a choice. it was just something she had to be.

the session dragged on, filled with more questions jane didn’t want to answer and silences she couldn’t fill. by the end of it, she was exhausted, her body heavy with emotions she still didn’t know how to name.

jieun picked her up after the session, her usual warm smile in place as she waved from the car. jane slid into the passenger seat, her silence as thick as the tension in her chest. she felt jieun’s eyes on her along with the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

“how was it?” the older woman finally asked, her voice light but careful. jane stared out the window, watching the world blur past. “it was fine,” she muttered. the words were flat, stripped of anything that might invite more questions.

her grandmother didn’t press her, but as they pulled into the driveway and parked, she turned to the smaller girl with a softness that made the girl’s chest ache. “do you want to go back next week? you don’t have to if it’s too much.”

jane hesitated, her fingers curling around the strap of her backpack. the weight of the question pressed down on her. did she want to go back? did she want to sit in that room again, feeling like she was being pried open? did she want to pretend that someone else’s words could fix the cracks that had already run so deep?

“no,” she said finally, her voice quiet, even as her chest tightened further. “i don’t want to go back.”

jieun nodded, her expression unreadable. she didn’t argue, didn’t try to convince jane otherwise. “okay,” she said softly. “that’s okay.”

but as they walked into the house and ivory retreated to her room, she couldn’t shake the hollowness that had settled inside her. she dropped her bag to the floor and sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. the session had left her drained, not relieved. the therapist’s words echoed in her mind, the attempt at comfort ringing hollow.

"you must be very strong."

strong wasn’t enough. pretending to be strong didn’t make the loneliness go away, didn’t fill the spaces where words failed, didn’t erase the ache that came from being so close to someone and yet feeling so far away.

this wasn’t going to work, she knew that now. she couldn’t keep doing this—couldn’t keep sitting in rooms with people who wanted her to explain the things she barely understood herself. no one’s words were going to fix it.

no one’s reassurances were going to be enough. no matter how many fancy degrees or framed certificates they had hanging on their walls, they didn’t have the answers she needed. they couldn’t untangle the mess inside her head or quiet the ache in her chest. every question felt like a spotlight on something she wanted to keep in the dark, every answer she gave felt like handing over a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to share.

ivory sat on the edge of her bed, her hands gripping the comforter as if it might anchor her. the house was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in on her and made her feel smaller. she thought of her grandmother downstairs, probably pretending not to worry, probably thinking about what to tell her mother later. for now she’d be giving her space, because that’s what jieun always did.

but space wasn’t what jane wanted. not really. what she wanted wasn’t something she could name, and it definitely wasn’t something anyone could give her. it wasn’t something she’d find in a therapist’s office, no matter how soft their voice or kind their eyes were.

her chest felt tight again, like it might collapse in on itself. she pressed her palms flat against her legs, grounding herself, but the weight of everything she was carrying still felt like too much.

this wasn’t going to work. jane had always known, deep down, that it wouldn’t. and now, staring at the cracks in her ceiling, she let that truth settle over her like a blanket. no one could fix this for her.

and no one’s words—not a therapist’s, not jieun’s—were ever going to be enough.

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CLOSED.

[lemon-russ]

We're in too deep now. I'm dragging you all down with me.

Short today!

Mortarion x F!Reader (Pt. 4? 3rd prequel?? )

Previous

CW: Nothing sexual, but like. It's a little dehumanizing.

TAGS (you're all coming down with me, hand in unlovable hand): @sleepyfan-blog @undeaddream @scriberye @lisikk @moodymisty

You stare down at the bowl of what is apparently food. It was unlike anything you’d eaten at home, or what you had been eating since being brought aboard the Endurance.

“Why do you hesitate?” Mortarion asks in his deep, wheezing voice. He had just come back and taken off his gas rebreather, something he only did around you so you could understand him better, you learned. After his initial coughing fit had subsided, he’d put this bowl in front of you expectantly.

You scrunch your brow and look back at the bowl. It had something fluffy and white, on top of something that looked sort of like bread. It smelled unfamiliar, yeasty but oily.

“What… is it?” You ask, touching the white fluff carefully. It seems a little sticky, and mostly made of air.

Mortarion wheezes a little cough as he goes about taking off his gas canisters and weapons. “It’s a pastry. The planet I was just on had a bakery. I assumed, seemingly correctly, you’d never tasted it.” He pulls his hood back and runs a large hand through his hair, sitting on the edge of his bed to watch you. “Go on, try it.”

You grimace, scooping up some of the fluff on your finger and hesitantly sticking it in your mouth.

The overwhelming sweetness makes you cough. It feel like it is coating every surface of your mouth and throat in cloying sugar. You try not to gag, coughing through the way it burns your throat. “Why-” you gasp, “why is it so sweet-?”

Mortarion furrows his brow, shuffling over to hand you your water. “You don’t like it?” He asks, voice tinged with dissapointment.

You take the bottle and chug, thankfully the water easing the overwhelming taste. “It’s like the root sugars we used to make holiday sweets, but tripled…”

Mortarion frowns. “Ah. It is too much then. We will build your tolerance. Baselines love sweets. Here-” he comes to kneel beside you with some effort, grunting as he eases down to his knees. “Eat just this part.”

He tears off a piece of the bread and holds it up to your face. You reach to take the bread from his fingers, but he pulls his hand back.

“No-” he says quickly, then stops himself and glances away. “Just… let me.” He grumbles.

Your brow knits. “Oh, um… okay…”

Mortarion has some weird demands from you sometimes- sleep on the floor, don’t leave his room, greet him when he comes back- but you were learning arguing got you nowhere. He always just tells you to not talk back, or not to question him, or because he says so. None have been anything worth fighting over, so you have been questioning less and less.

He holds the bread back out to you, and you open your mouth for him to feed you. Mortarion’s face twitches into an unfamiliar expression as he looks down at you, kneeling before him with mouth open expectantly, but he shakes it off and places the pastry in your mouth.

This part is much less sweet thankfully. It is actually really tasty. Rich and oily and just sweet enough, and the bread was fluffy and chewy. You smile up at him as you swallow. “Oh, I like that part!” You proclaim happily.

He blinks a few times down at you, then smiles a little, his cracked skin protesting at the rare expression. “Hmmm.” He grumbles. “I haven’t seen you smile like that before…” he says almost to himself.

You quirk your head to the side curiously. You haven’t exactly been thrilled with your new situation, you suppose. You weren’t miserable, but it was mostly just confusing and boring. Though you’ve been warming up to it. The plush toys, pillows and blankets were an improvement from your bed at home, and you got three hearty meals a day of some sort of porridge. You didn’t mind not having to work fields, and when he wasn’t being cryptic or talking about strange alien things, your new master was at least kind to you, in his own way. Asking about your comfort, offering you things to do, telling you about new things.

You smile again, making him smile back a little wider. “Can I have more?” You ask.

He chuckles, which turns into a small raspy cough. “Of course, here,” he tears off and holds more pastry up to your mouth. “Eat, pet. You’re too thin for a mortal, anyway.”

You bite another piece off from his hand, smiling back up at him. “Wha’s a ‘pet’?” You ask with your mouth full.

He chuckles again, wiping some of the white fluff off the tip of your nose. “Don’t worry about that. Eat.” He says in a tone completely new to you from his mouth- he almost sounded affectionate.

[hikarry]

I...I think I just spent 13 hours processing my newest trauma through Aziraphale and ended up writing the most serious and fucking real break up scene between Aziraphale and Crowley I've ever even considered writing

I...Fucking hell

Just-

I sat here, tears in my eyes, and I chose them to help me procress and I just wrote the most real thing that ever came out of my lil fingertips

I will not throw this away. I will figure out a way to write a story around this scene alone, but I'm just going to leave it here for now. Cause, fuck.

It's still not refined, mind you. I just wrote this and felt like posting it here, so nevermind the mistakes and whatnot

Crowley awoke to sunlight spilling over him, casting a warm glow that he immediately tried to escape. He groaned, pulling the blankets over his head, desperate to keep the world out a little longer. But as he tugged the covers, he noticed a strange weight to them—not quite right, somehow softer, smelling faintly of old books and tea. The dissonance nagged at his half-dreaming mind, until the realization hit him, sharp and sudden.

This wasn’t his bed. This was Aziraphale’s.

Memories surged, each one a jolt to his drowsy senses. Aziraphale collapsing into his arms, Raphael’s sombre warning about the angel’s deteriorating core, the fear that it might devour him from within. Crowley recalled their painful conversation—Aziraphale pressing his pinky ring into his hand and giving him an ancient box, packed with letters, photographs and sketches. Each drawing was of Crowley—his eyes, his smile, his hands—captured in Aziraphale’s tender, attentive gaze. They were relics, moments preserved over centuries, a farewell gift for Crowley to remember him by if…

Then he remembered the new attack at night. Aziraphale’s body trembling, his essence struggling against itself, and Crowley, desperately holding him close, trying to soothe the angel through the worst of it, following Raphael’s advice as best he could.

Finally, exhausted, Aziraphale had drifted off, leaving Crowley to watch over him until sleep claimed him too.

Crowley reached across the bed, expecting the familiar warmth beside him, only to feel the cold emptiness of the sheets. Panic surged through him, flooding his senses and banishing any lingering sleep. His heart pounded as he sat up, scanning the room with wild, searching eyes.

“Aziraphale!” he called out, his voice hoarse, thick with fear. He pushed himself out of bed, stumbling, as he searched the flat in a frenzy.

He dashed down the stairs, heart racing with every step, calling Aziraphale’s name. His voice echoed through the stillness of the bookshop, each unanswered call intensifying his dread.

Then, he spotted him.

Aziraphale sat at his desk, removing his reading glasses with that calm, familiar gesture, looking up at Crowley with a mildly perplexed expression, as though yesterday’s horrors were nothing but a forgotten dream. He was impeccably dressed, the picture of serene composure, as if-.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft, achingly gentle, piercing through Crowley’s panic and grounding him in a way only the angel’s presence ever could.

Crowley freezes, his breath catching in his throat as a rush of disbelief floods through him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of relief that he barely knows how to process. His heart is a frantic drumbeat in his chest, each thud like a battering ram against his ribs. The word escapes him in a choked whisper, almost too quiet to hear. “Aziraphale…” His name sounds foreign on his lips, trembling, as if he’s afraid speaking it too loudly might shatter this fragile moment. Without thinking, he takes a step, then another, his feet moving quicker than his mind can catch up.

Aziraphale watches him, his expression a study in calm, but there’s a subtle sorrow hidden behind those soft eyes. He sets his book aside with deliberate slowness, as if aware of the weight of the moment, as if he understands how badly Crowley needs him to be real, to *be here.* When Crowley reaches him, he stops, every inch of his body tense, his eyes scanning Aziraphale’s face like a desperate search for any crack, any fracture, anything that would suggest the angel is not whole. He’s afraid to blink, afraid that when his eyes open again, Aziraphale might disappear.

“I-I thought…” Crowley starts, the words stumbling from his lips, each syllable trembling as if the very act of speaking could unravel everything. His breath is shallow, the air thick with an almost suffocating fear. His chest is tight, constricted, and his heart thunders in his ears as he struggles to form a thought that makes any sense at all. But the fear that clings to him like a shadow has no words, no logic. All that remains is this raw, pulsing panic, the lingering horror of something worse just out of reach.

Aziraphale’s eyes soften, a glimmer of understanding passing through them. He steps closer, slowly, deliberately, as if every movement is meant to reassure, to calm. His hands rise, gentle, placing themselves on Crowley’s shoulders with a touch that feels both familiar and distant. It’s cold. The coolness of Aziraphale’s fingers seeps into Crowley’s skin, a stark contrast to the warmth he craves, and something inside him snaps. He’s here, yes, but there’s something wrong. Something’s missing.

“Forgive me, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his voice gentle but carrying a depth of sorrow, as though he, too, feels the weight of the unspoken words between them. “I woke hours ago and couldn’t bear to disturb your rest.” His hand moves up, his fingers brushing a lock of Crowley’s hair away from his forehead with such tenderness that it almost aches. But the coldness of that touch, too, is an unforgivable reminder of the fragility of this moment, of how close they came to losing everything. Yesterday lingers between them, a tangible thing, and Crowley can almost taste the terror that still clings to the edges of his mind.

Crowley’s breath shudders in his chest, his hands moving on their own to grab Aziraphale’s wrists, the action almost frantic, his fingers trembling with an urgency he can’t control. He holds on as if the simple act of touch can anchor him to this reality, to the feeling of Aziraphale being alive, being here. “You… you scared me, angel,” Crowley breathes, his voice hoarse, cracking under the weight of the emotions he’s barely able to express. “I thought…” He falters, unable to finish the sentence, unable to voice the horror that still simmers in the pit of his stomach. His pulse races, but the relief he should be feeling is tangled with something darker, something deeper that refuses to let go.

Aziraphaletakes hold of Crowley’s hands, his fingers cold, trembling—just as they were yesterday. The coldness isn’t just the absence of warmth, it’s something else, something more. A coldness that seeps into Crowley’s bones, that gnaws at his soul. The tremors in Aziraphale’s touch are like a faint echo of the nightmare they just survived, a reminder that whatever they’ve survived—whatever they’ve won—isn’t over. Not yet.

“Take a deep breath, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice low and soothing, yet edged with something brittle, something that tells Crowley this calm is fragile, as if one wrong move could shatter it. Aziraphale’s thumb traces circles on Crowley’s knuckles, slow, deliberate, trying to steady him. But the touch is faint, delicate, like the fluttering wings of a moth in the dark, and Crowley feels the tremors of Aziraphale’s fingers under his own, an unmistakable sign that the danger still looms over them. The same cold fear claws at Crowley’s insides, pulling him down into a place he doesn’t want to go, a place where he can’t save Aziraphale, can’t stop whatever is coming.

Crowley inhales sharply, the breath caught in his chest, but it does little to calm the panic roiling inside him. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hands harder, his knuckles white with the effort, trying to hold on to something, anything, that might give him control over this suffocating fear. “How can you stay so calm?” His voice cracks, thick with emotion, the words escaping like a ragged plea. “How can you act like nothing’s wrong when you…” He can’t finish the sentence. It’s too much. The thought hangs in the air, suffocating him, a silent terror too vast to voice.

Aziraphale’s lips form a smile—gentle, almost pitying—but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a smile that feels like a lie. He lifts Crowley’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it with the same chilling coldness that’s invaded every inch of their world. The touch is wrong. So wrong. Crowley feels it deep in his bones, the absence of warmth, the emptiness where something vital should be. Aziraphale’s warmth has always been his anchor, but now it feels like a lie, like something pretending to be real.

Aziraphale pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting Crowley’s with an intensity that sends a shiver down his spine. “We said what we had to say yesterday, remember?” he whispers, his voice soft, but the words heavy with unspoken truths. “It’s done, my dear.” He kisses Crowley’s hand again, the coldness like a knife to Crowley’s heart. “Now we just have to keep going and see what happens.”

Crowley feels his heart twist at the words. Keep going? The question hangs between them like a stone. How could he go on, knowing that at any moment, the coldness might take over, that Aziraphale’s life might slip away, like sand through his fingers? How could he keep living in a world where any breath might be the last?

“Keep going?” Crowley repeats, his voice raw with emotion. “You want me to just go on, knowing I could lose you at any second? That any moment might be your last?” His hands tighten around Aziraphale’s, his fingers pressing into the cold skin, trying to hold on, trying to do something—anything—that might stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale gazes at him, soft and steady, though Crowley sees the weariness in his eyes, the fragility beneath the calm. “I’m here now, Crowley,” he whispers, his voice carrying a quiet, almost tragic certainty. “I’m still here.”

“But for how long?” Crowley’s voice cracks, the words slipping from him like sand through a sieve. He can’t stop the tremor in his voice, the panic that tightens around his chest. “How much longer before…” He can’t finish, his breath catching in his throat, his chest constricting under the weight of the unspoken. His grip on Aziraphale’s hands tightens, desperate, as though holding on tighter could keep the inevitable at bay.

“Remember what I told you yesterday,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice imbued with a quiet strength that Crowley can’t quite reconcile with the coldness in his touch. His eyes are gentle, but there’s a firm resolve there, the kind of determination that makes Crowley feel both comforted and frustrated. “Let’s make the most of the time we have left. Worrying won’t change anything right now.” His words are like a balm, meant to soothe, but they sting, too, because Crowley knows the truth buried in them—their time is slipping away, and there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it.

With a fluid motion, Aziraphale gives Crowley’s hand a tug, a silent invitation to follow, and Crowley moves almost automatically, his feet dragging slightly as though his body’s trying to delay the inevitable. Aziraphale leads him into the kitchen, the familiar hum of the backroom falling away as the warm, homely space embraces them in its quiet comfort. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, but it does little to erase the heavy, anxious weight that still clings to Crowley’s chest.

“Come now. Sit down. Just breathe, okay?” Aziraphale’s voice is still calm, still that gentle pull to something more grounded, more present. It’s almost maddening—the way he seems to accept everything with such grace, such peace when all Crowley can think of is the clock ticking away, each second closer to the end. Aziraphale releases his hand, and Crowley’s eyes linger on his retreating form as the angel moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, opening cupboards and retrieving mugs as if this is just another morning as if the world isn’t crumbling in slow motion around them.

“Coffee?” Aziraphale asks, his back turned as he busies himself with the preparations.

Crowley nods, but the action feels hollow, the sound of it a thin echo in the stillness. He can’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, the fluidity of his movements unsettling in its normalcy. It’s so strange, so disorienting, to see the angel functioning as though nothing is wrong when everything feels so terribly, undeniably wrong. The sense of detachment gnaws at him—like he’s floating, disconnected, watching this moment unfold from a distance.

“I can’t just…” Crowley’s voice breaks the silence, raw and jagged. His words feel like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, something ugly and vulnerable. “Sit here and enjoy our time together, knowing…” His throat tightens, the words strangled with an emotion that refuses to settle. “Knowing that every moment could be our last.”

The words hang in the air between them, thick with fear and pain, but Aziraphale doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, he finishes making the coffee with the same unhurried precision, then carries the steaming cup over to Crowley, setting it gently in front of him. The warmth of the cup contrasts sharply with the chill that still lingers in Crowley’s veins, the tension that hasn’t yet loosened its grip.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down beside him, the movement smooth, almost comforting. For a moment, they’re both silent, the weight of everything unspoken pressing on them like a heavy, suffocating blanket. Then Aziraphale speaks again, his voice soft but unshakable. “The more you focus on that fear, the less you’ll appreciate the time we have.”

His words cut through the silence, and they settle into Crowley’s mind like stones dropped into water, sending ripples through the chaos in his chest. It’s not what Crowley wants to hear—not at all—but there’s something about the way Aziraphale says it, with that same quiet conviction that has always grounded Crowley in a way he’s not sure he understands, that makes him stop and think.

Crowley looks down at the cup in front of him, the steam rising in delicate tendrils, and for a moment, he allows himself to inhale deeply, the rich scent of the coffee filling his lungs, pulling him away from the frantic, spiraling thoughts. The world feels still, as if time has bent around them, waiting, uncertain. But no matter how much he tries to center himself in the present, the fear lingers, clawing at the edges of his mind. Every moment could be their last.

“You don’t understand,” Crowley mutters, the words barely above a whisper. He takes a sip of the coffee, the bitter warmth hitting his tongue like a small comfort, a brief distraction. But it doesn’t change the heaviness in his chest, the pit of dread that refuses to let go. “I can’t just forget about it. I can’t just…” He trails off, his voice faltering, before adding, softer, “I can’t lose you.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching Crowley’s face, reading the depth of the fear that lingers there. His fingers move to rest lightly on Crowley’s hand, the touch tender but insistent. There’s a stillness in him that Crowley can’t quite understand, a quiet acceptance that doesn’t sit right with the storm of panic inside him.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale finally says, his voice low, a thread of sadness woven through his words. “Don’t lose me. Not yet. Not here.”

Crowley wraps his hands around the cup, the warmth of it almost mocking as his fingers tremble around the edges. The heat is a stark contrast to the chill gnawing at his insides, and he presses it to his lips, taking a sip without truly tasting it. The burn on his tongue barely registers—his mind is too consumed with the weight of everything else to care about something so trivial.

As he lowers the cup, his eyes find Aziraphale, and in that moment, the frustration he's been holding back finally boils over. He doesn’t even try to hide the sharpness in his voice, the edge that has been growing with each passing second. “You can’t just expect me not to worry,” he spits out, his chest tightening with the sting of helplessness. “You can’t be so… accepting of your own fucking death. It’s… it’s not fair.”

Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away from the heat in Crowley’s words. Instead, he places his hand on Crowley’s forearm, the coolness of his touch seeping through the fabric of his shirt, sharp and unmistakable. The contrast of it hits Crowley like a punch to the gut, a reminder that nothing is normal, nothing is safe. The weight of Aziraphale’s touch is gentle, but there’s a certain finality to it that makes Crowley want to recoil.

“What else can I do?” Aziraphale murmurs softly, his voice as calm and steady as ever, almost too calm. His thumb moves in slow, deliberate circles on Crowley’s arm, as though the gesture alone can somehow fix everything. “I’d rather focus on living—on cherishing you while I still can, reading the books I still can read—than worry over what may or may not come.”

The words fall over Crowley like cold water, and for a moment, they don’t make sense. He watches Aziraphale, still not entirely grasping the serene acceptance that emanates from him, the angel so resigned to a fate Crowley can’t even begin to wrap his mind around. He wants to scream, to shake Aziraphale, to make him see reason, to make him *fight*. But the words that come out instead are hoarse and raw, brittle with frustration. “You could… try. You could look for some way to fix this, to—”

He falters, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. The weight of Aziraphale’s cold hand on his arm pulls him under, like sinking into the deepest part of the ocean. He can barely breathe as he looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him, and for the first time in a long while, something like doubt, something sharp and ugly, pricks at his heart.

Aziraphale’s expression is unreadable as he stares back, that familiar calm still settling around him, but Crowley can see it now—the faintest tremor in the angel’s eyes, a flicker of something deeper, something resigned. It’s that same quiet acceptance, but now it feels different. It feels like… giving up.

Crowley feels his chest tighten with something dark and unbearable. His breath catches in his throat. “But you’ve already… given up, haven’t you?” His voice cracks on the words, the realization settling on him like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He doesn't want to admit it, but he knows it now, deep in his bones. He knows that Aziraphale isn’t fighting anymore. And that thought, that cruel truth, makes his stomach churn with helplessness.

Aziraphale doesn’t look away. His hand lingers on Crowley’s arm, but it’s colder than it should be, colder than Crowley remembers. “No,” Aziraphale says softly, his voice steady despite the weight of Crowley’s words. “I haven’t given up. I’ve simply chosen to live as fully as I can for however long I have left.” His gaze doesn’t waver, and Crowley feels the weight of that look, like the angel is daring him to understand, to accept it. But all Crowley can think about is the absence of hope in those eyes, the stillness that has settled in Aziraphale’s soul. It cuts deeper than anything he could say. Aziraphale shakes his head slowly, almost as though trying to rid himself of the weight of Crowley’s words. His voice is softer this time, but the strength in it is undeniable. “I haven’t given up, Crowley. I’m still waiting for the right moment to meet with Raphael—to finally get concrete answers about what's happening to my core, my True Form…” He takes a slow, steadying breath, as if gathering every last bit of strength. His grip on Crowley’s forearm tightens ever so slightly, a silent anchor. “But… the risk of it all… It’s real. I can’t just live my life in fear.”

The words hit Crowley like a stone sinking in his gut. His chest tightens painfully, the breath in his lungs becoming thick, difficult. He sets his mug down with a soft clink, the sound somehow more jarring than it should be. The porcelain seems too delicate in his hands, too fragile for the weight of what Aziraphale is saying. “So, we’re just… waiting?” he asks, his voice rough. “Waiting for this thing inside you to slowly eat away at you until… until everything is completely gone?”

He reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, his fingers trembling, but he grips it firmly, unwilling to let go. His touch is desperate, as though holding on to this one moment, this one piece of Aziraphale, might somehow stop the inevitable.

Aziraphale’s hand trembles beneath his grip, and the sight of it breaks something in Crowley. He swallows hard, forcing down the bitterness rising in his throat. “We wait… until Raphael can get me to Heaven and do a thorough examination,” Aziraphale says quietly, the words almost a whisper, as though speaking them aloud makes them too real to bear.

Crowley’s knuckles whiten with the intensity of his grip, his breath coming in shallow bursts. “And if he finds there’s no cure?” he forces out, his voice cracking as he dares to ask the question he’s been too terrified to face. “If he tells you that your core is… is set on destroying you?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze without flinching, the sorrow in his eyes as clear as the day itself. “Then… we’ll have to accept it.” His voice is steady, but Crowley can hear the hesitation, the barely contained fear beneath it. He leans in closer, his forehead almost touching Crowley’s. “That’s why we need to cherish this time we have now, Crowley.”

But the words only make Crowley’s chest tighten even more, as though an invisible weight is pressing down on him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. “You say that like it’s easy,” he rasps, his voice breaking with the rawness of his emotions. “Like I can just… sit here and enjoy each second, knowing it might be your last. That… that at any moment you could be gone.”

Aziraphale raises his cold hand, gently cupping Crowley’s chin, his fingers sending an icy shock through him. The touch is tender, almost too tender, and yet it leaves Crowley feeling more alone than ever. “If it comes to that, you’ll regret not making the most of the time we had,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency, as though he’s begging Crowley to understand.

Crowley’s heart aches at the angel’s words, the raw pain in his chest spreading like wildfire. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes, searching for the warmth he’s always known, but all he can see is that cold acceptance. The thought of losing him is like a jagged knife twisting in his soul. His voice is hoarse as he finally speaks, his words trembling with emotion. “Enjoy what, angel?” he whispers. “Living each moment terrified it might be the last? Knowing you could… disappear, just… just like that?”

His voice catches, and he swallows hard, fighting to keep himself together. The ache in his chest is unbearable, and yet it pales in comparison to the crushing fear that threatens to swallow him whole.

Aziraphale brushes his cool thumb over Crowley’s lower lip, the touch soft, almost tender, but it feels like a cruel reminder of everything they stand to lose. “That’s why you have to push those fears aside. Live in the moment.” He gives Crowley a sad smile, his gaze searching the demon’s face as though trying to piece together a way to make him understand. “I’m here right now. I don’t want you looking at me and already seeing a memory… while I’m still right here.”

Crowley’s heart aches at those words, a heavy, suffocating ache that feels like it might split him open. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to break free, but he keeps them at bay. The thought of Aziraphale slipping away, of losing him before he’s even had the chance to truly *live* with him, is more than Crowley can bear.

“How am I supposed to do that, angel?” he whispers, his voice cracking with the weight of it all. “How can I just act like everything’s normal when I know it’s… it’s not?”

Aziraphale leans in, his lips pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, and then another, gentle and lingering, on his cheek. The kiss is cold—so painfully cold— the warmth of Aziraphale’s breath against his skin is the only warmth left in him. “Why?” Aziraphale asks softly, his voice almost a plea. “Why do you look at me here, right next to you, and already think I’m gone?”

Crowley’s eyes remain closed, but a fresh wave of emotion surges up from deep within him, breaking free in a burst of frustration. “Because I’m terrified!” he snaps, his voice a harsh rasp. “Because the thought of losing you… it’s unbearable. And I feel so… so helpless, knowing I can’t stop it.”

The words come crashing out of him, raw and unfiltered, and as soon as they’re spoken, he feels them settle in the air between them like a weight neither of them can escape. Aziraphale doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil from the outburst. Instead, he just stays there, his cool hand still cradling Crowley’s cheek, as though trying to hold him together even when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Crowley opens his eyes, and the sight of Aziraphale, with his eyes wide and sad, feels like a cold slap. There’s anguish in his gaze, a raw, unrestrained dread clinging to every feature. His heart aches, and his words catch in his throat, the simple act of breathing becoming a struggle. “Seeing you like this—feeling how cold you are…” he begins, his voice shaking. He swallows hard, and when he speaks again, the words come out in a ragged whisper. “It’s like you’re already slipping away from me.”

Aziraphale steps back just slightly, and with the gentleness that only he can muster, he reaches up and wipes away Crowley’s tears with his cold fingertips, the chill of his touch cutting through the rawness of the moment. His eyes are tender but laced with sorrow. “You’re grieving me before I’m even gone, Crowley,�� he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost too soft. “This is why I didn’t want you to know.”

The weight of Aziraphale’s words presses down on Crowley, settling deep into his chest like lead. His throat tightens, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak. Aziraphale’s voice drops to a whisper, laced with something deeper, a sadness that feels almost like resignation. “You’re looking at me, but you’re not really seeing me anymore, are you? In your mind, I’m already dead, aren't I?”

Crowley feels a sharp ache slice through him, a twisting pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He tries to form words, tries to push through the suffocating knot in his chest, but they come out cracked and broken. “I see you, angel. I do.” His voice falters, and his eyes begin to burn. “But I can’t forget that you’re… that you’re not well. That you’re not…” He trails off, his voice a mere breath, as if he’s afraid to even say the words.

He looks at Aziraphale, really looks at him—searching, searching through every inch of that familiar face, the one he’s known for over six thousand years. But now, those features seem different. Fragile. Temporary. Like they could vanish in a blink. Like they’ve never been more precious, and yet so delicate.

Aziraphale gently runs his fingers down Crowley’s jawline, as if touching him like he would one of his most treasured books—careful, reverential, and full of a quiet, unspoken sadness. “I may be the one who’s sick,” Aziraphale says softly, his thumb brushing over Crowley’s skin, “but you’re the one leaving me before I’m even gone.”

Crowley’s heart gives a painful lurch, the air catching in his chest. He fights to breathe, but it feels like there’s too much weight pressing on his lungs, too much hurt lodged in his ribs. “I can’t help it, all right?” he spits out, his voice cracking like shattered glass. He grips Aziraphale’s wrists, holding on like a lifeline, the coldness of the angel’s skin sinking deep into him, grounding him in the unbearable reality of it all. “Every time I look at you, it feels like I’m standing at the edge of an abyss, just waiting to fall.”

Aziraphale’s gaze drops to where Crowley’s hands are clenched around his wrists, his breathing shaky now, like he’s caught between something painful and something beyond his control. “Crowley…” His voice is hesitant, breaking in places, though his words are measured. “You can’t go on like this.” He pulls back, just enough that the space between them feels unbearably large. “You’re torturing yourself by staying with me. Every time you look at me, all you see is what’s coming—and that’s going to destroy you too. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

Crowley’s chest tightens painfully as Aziraphale carefully, deliberately pulls his wrists free from his grasp. The loss of that contact—the absence of the only thing that’s felt real in this moment—almost knocks the air from him. Aziraphale takes another step back, and the space between them seems to stretch, pulling Crowley’s heart with it.

“You should go.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, but there’s no mistaking the finality in it. The words strike Crowley like a blow, the weight of them enough to shatter him entirely. Every instinct in him screams to hold on, to keep fighting, to do whatever it takes to stop this. But Aziraphale’s eyes—those kind, eternal eyes—hold his gaze, and for the first time in forever, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s staring at the angel he’s loved for millennia, or the ghost of the man he’s losing.

Crowley stands frozen, his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, his heart beating erratically in his chest. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, can’t comprehend the words that just came out of Aziraphale’s mouth. The ground beneath him feels like it’s slipping away, pulling him into a void he doesn’t know how to escape from. His voice trembles as he whispers, barely managing to get the words out. “What..? You… you’re telling me to leave?”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to face him, but Crowley can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a thousand-pound stone. He swallows hard, his throat dry. “You can’t be serious. You’re asking me to leave you now, when you’re… when you’re like this?”

The silence between them is deafening, broken only by the sound of Aziraphale’s slow, measured breaths. Finally, Aziraphale stands, his posture stiff and fragile, as though each movement is costing him something precious. His heart is pounding in his chest, every beat a reminder of the pain he’s trying to keep buried. The sound of it echoes in Crowley’s mind like a ticking clock. He can see the anguish in Aziraphale’s eyes even without looking directly at him. “I can’t watch you tear yourself apart like this, Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly, his voice a little too controlled, too careful. “I can’t keep looking into your eyes and seeing you staring past me, into a future that hasn’t even happened yet.”

He walks toward the sink, taking Crowley’s empty mug and placing it with mechanical precision in the basin, as though it’s the only thing he has control over right now. “Go.”

Crowley stumbles, his body aching as he tries to steady himself, his legs weak, unsteady. He feels as though the floor is slipping out from beneath him. “No,” he says, his voice rough, desperate, and it cracks at the end like a dying breath. “No, angel. You can’t… you can’t tell me to leave. I can’t just walk away, knowing you might…”

His voice trails off, his chest tight with fear, with a dread that he can’t push away. “I won’t leave you, angel. I can’t.”

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him. His voice comes cold and distant, like an echo from a faraway place. “Why?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the sink, his voice as measured and distant as a thought long past. “Is it because you love me, or because you’re feeling guilty?”

Crowley feels the words hit him like a slap, the coldness of them sinking deep into his skin. His heart clenches painfully at the accusation, at the ice in Aziraphale’s tone.

“Both,” he admits, his voice cracking, rough with the weight of the truth. “Of course, both. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He takes a step forward, though the space between them feels impossibly wide, like a chasm he could never cross. “Sitting here, absolutely powerless, is driving me fucking insane, Aziraphale.”

But Aziraphale doesn’t move. He remains still, picking up a dish towel and methodically drying the mug as if the act of cleaning is the only thing keeping him grounded. His voice, when it comes, is soft but unyielding. “Leave.” He dries the mug with a slow, deliberate motion. “If you truly love me, come back when you can look at me without seeing my True Form being destroyed. Come back when you can see me.”

Aziraphale turns then, his face streaked with tears, and Crowley’s chest constricts painfully at the sight. “The angel who’s still here,” Aziraphale says, his voice catching. “Not just an empty shell.”

Before Crowley can say a word, Aziraphale turns again, his movements precise, almost mechanical as he places the mug back in the cupboard. “But if you realize your reason for coming back is just fear and guilt—not love—then don’t return.” His voice remains steady, but there’s a subtle break, like a crack in glass, that Crowley can barely hear. Still, Aziraphale doesn’t look at him. He closes the cupboard door with a soft click, and the sound echoes in the stillness of the room.

Crowley stands there, his heart a tangled mess of emotions, his chest tight, suffocating. He wants to argue, to fight, to deny everything Aziraphale just said. He wants to scream, to tell him that this isn’t right, that he can’t leave him like this. But deep down, he knows Aziraphale is right—his love, tangled as it is with fear and guilt, isn’t enough to change the inevitable. He isn’t strong enough to fix what’s broken.

Aziraphale brushes past him then, moving toward the hall. For a brief moment, Crowley catches sight of the tears streaming down Aziraphale’s face, streaking down his cheeks, disappearing into the collar of his coat. The sight of it sends a knife of pain through Crowley’s chest. He wants to reach out, to pull Aziraphale close, to tell him that none of this is fair—that he can’t lose him—but his limbs feel as if they’re weighed down with lead. His heart is an anchor, pulling him deeper into the darkness of helplessness.

Aziraphale’s figure is distant, slipping away, and Crowley feels that cold void widening between them. And in that moment, despite every instinct screaming at him to reach out, to fight for them, he feels the weight of a loss that hasn’t even happened yet.

Crowley stands frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the weight of Aziraphale’s departure pressing down on him. He watches the angel’s retreating figure, each step a reminder of the growing chasm between them, an abyss he feels powerless to cross. The silence in the room is deafening, and every breath Crowley takes seems to echo louder in the emptiness

A faint metallic sound slices through the quiet, drawing Crowley’s attention downward. His eyes fall on the Bentley’s keys, lying innocently on the kitchen table. Aziraphale must have miracled them there—another sign of the angel’s quiet control, even in the midst of his own heartache. The keys glint in the dim light, a small, seemingly insignificant object that suddenly feels like everything.

Crowley feels a wave of emotions crash over him, each one more overwhelming than the last: a searing anger, raw and unjust, directed at Aziraphale for pushing him away; a deep confusion, questioning everything that’s brought them to this point; a heart-wrenching hurt, knowing that Aziraphale is slipping away, piece by piece; and a sorrow so profound, it makes the air feel thicker, harder to breathe. But there’s one feeling that cuts through it all—a deep, hollow acceptance. He knows this is the way it ends. He knows he can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

He picks up the keys, clutching them tightly in his hand, feeling their cool weight anchor him to the present. Without a second thought, he snaps his fingers, summoning the pair of shades from Aziraphale’s nightstand. He places them on his face, the familiar, dark lenses a mask he can hide behind. The world outside the shop suddenly feels sharper, colder, and yet somehow farther away. The door swings open with a heavy, final sound, and he steps outside into the crisp November air.

The cold cuts through him, biting at his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He’s numb, each step feeling like it’s dragging him through quicksand. His mind is consumed with Aziraphale—his face, his words, the unspoken pain that lingers between them. But the more he thinks about it, the more it all becomes a blur. His mind is spinning, trapped in a vortex of grief and helplessness.

When he reaches the Bentley, his hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, his fingers betraying him, too unsteady to get the door open. He grits his teeth, frustration rising in him like a storm, but finally, the door clicks open. He slides into the driver’s seat, the familiar leather creaking under him, and the cold touch of the steering wheel does nothing to ground him. His fingers wrap around it, gripping it too tightly, as though trying to hold onto something that’s slipping through his fingers.

The engine rumbles to life, a low growl beneath him, but it feels distant, hollow. He pulls away from the curb, his foot heavy on the gas. The city stretches out before him, its lights blurring in the rearview mirror, but everything feels like a dream—too surreal to grasp, too far away to hold onto.

Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Crowley willingly lets them fall, his vision a mess of blurry streetlights and the endless dark of the road ahead. The tears come in waves—familiar, aching, unstoppable. There’s no destination. No plan. No reason for driving, except to escape the suffocating weight of what’s left unsaid, of what’s been broken beyond repair.

The city blurs past him, its sounds muffled and distant, as he drives aimlessly through the night, trying, and failing, to outrun the heavy, suffocating grief pressing down on him.

[kirain]

Rook/Emmerich fic Rook/Emmerich fic ROOK/EMMERICH FIC!

Lmfao! Here you go, anon.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the scratching of Emmrich's quill against parchment. His study was dimly lit, the warm glow of candlelight dancing across his cluttered desk, laden with books, maps, and papers detailing plans too dangerous to speak of. Though nothing was more dangerous than the journey he was about to embark on, the reality of death pervading his mind.

With a dejected sigh, he dipped his quill one last time, the ink glistening as he signed his name with a flourish.

"Darling!" he called as Vae entered, her cerulean eyes grabbed his attention. "I'm just finishing reviewing my bequeathments. It made me consider… a topic I must broach." He stood to face her, nervously rubbing his hands. "The eve before we kill a god, my thoughts turn to mortality. And what we are to each other."

Vae tilted her head, her smile laced with curiosity. "All right."

Emmrich paused, his expression uncertain, as though balancing on the edge of a precipice. "Even under the best circumstances, you will outlive me, Rook. You've… grown to mean much to me and… I care for you, Rook! Deeply. But there are such years between us, I shouldn't heap you with that burden."

Her smile faded, replaced by something softer, more sincere. "I get it. You're scared because you love me."

"What?" His voice faltered, betraying his usual composure. He could sense she was teasing him, despite the gravity of his insinuation.

"It's fine to say it," she pushed, searching for something he wasn't ready to give.

"I can't… at my—"

"You're older than me. I get it." Her words were firm but devoid of judgment, though Emmrich still thought she was joking.

"I'm perfectly serious," he replied, his tone heavy with exasperation.

"So am I!" she snapped back, her patience slipping. "Why are you making this such a big deal?"

"One of us has to pay attention to these things," he countered, his words coming out sharper than intended.

"One of us needs the guts to say how he feels!" Vae's voice rang out, rousing and raw. There was no anger in it—just frustration born from longing.

Emmrich froze, his eyes widening, a flicker of shock breaking through his unflappable facade. For a moment, it seemed as though he had something to add; some rehearsed reply teetering on the edge of his lips. But then, as if overwhelmed by Vae's very presence, he looked away, his shoulders sinking.

The silence that followed stretched on for far too long, thick and uncomfortable. Vae stared at him, willing him to speak, to mend the gap he'd suddenly torn between them. She could feel her pulse quicken, her anger rising with every second that passed without a response, but his eyes remained fixed on the floor.

His refusal to meet her gaze, to give her the acknowledgment she so desperately craved, stung more than the words he hadn't said. But soon her anger crumbled into something worse—disappointment. She could feel it welling up inside her, making her chest clench against her ribs as the realisation settled: he wasn't going to say anything. He wasn't going to do anything.

A sharp ache pierced her wounded heart, but she couldn't force him to speak, and she didn't want to. Slowly, she let her arms drop to her sides. "Look, I... let's pack. Eve before we face a god, right?"

The older man straightened up. He wanted to apologise, but amidst his creeping guilt all he could muster was, "As you say."

The look on Vae's face mounted his guilt tenfold. He could see the hurt in her eyes, much to his dismay. He caused it, and for that he'd never forgive himself.

As she turned away, he lowered his head in shame, every nerve ablaze. He knew he should say something, but for once his extensive vocabulary failed. So many words, so many meanings, and yet none seemed sufficient. Fear, degradation, the weight of his deepest insecurities, and the thought that Vae would one day have to mourn him, alone and heartbroken, chipped away at his sensitive soul.

He kept quiet, even as his inner voice screamed for her to stay. Only Manfred's inquisitive hiss jolted him from his stupor, earning him a rare look of reproach.

"Don't start," he grumbled, his eyes drifting back to Vae.

The further she moved, the more every instinct screeched at him to call out, to bring her back, to make things right. But the words stuck in his throat, his feet rooted to the spot. He could taste the cowardice in his hesitation, and the helplessness of watching her saunter away, but he convinced himself it was better. For her, it was better. His desires didn't matter.

"Actually... no," she whispered, stopping just shy of the door. "No, we're not leaving it like this."

He flinched as she marched back to him, her expression indomitable. "Rook?"

She raised a respectful hand. "Emmrich, do you really think I never considered your age?"

His fingers twitched. "I..."

"Because I did. Of course I did."

"Darling—"

"My parents were murdered, Emmrich. Right in front of me", she said quickly, causing him to wince. "My poor, sweet baby brother, too." She looked away, her brow arching. "I watched them die. I watched..." Tears prickled at the back of her eyes, but she swallowed loudly, forcing them down.

"Oh, Vaelyn..." Emmrich struggled. He reached out to comfort her, but thought better of it, worried she'd recoil in disgust. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you relive that awful memory."

She shook her head, meeting his gaze once more. "I know what it's like to love someone and lose them long before you should. But I've chosen to face that pain again... because it's worth it. You're worth it, Emmrich." Her words were like a physical blow, but she wasn't finished. "Not having you in my life, not because of the inevitable, but because you're too scared to share the time you have... hurts more than I can bear. Worse than losing you naturally."

Emmrich stood speechless, struck by the depth of her confession. He knew there was nothing he could say to undo the pain he'd caused her, but Vae wasn't looking for an apology. She was telling him what she needed, what she wanted. The truth.

"If you think you're the only one tortured by the concept of time," she added, her voice faint, "you're wrong. I think about my brother every day. About the time he lost. He was so much younger than me, Emmrich. So full of life he deserved to live." She took a breath, a brief respite. "But I also think about the time we had together, and that makes me smile. I'm glad I had him, for however short or long it was." Her eyes softened, and she reached out to touch his arm. "If you care about me, then stop hiding behind your age. Because you're right—we don't have forever. We only have the here and now, but that's enough for me."

Emmrich remained silent, his heart pounding like a drum. His thoughts were a whirlwind of emotions, more wild and unpredictable than he'd ever allowed. He hadn't known the full weight of what she carried—the profound, unstoppable pain. Yet there she was, choosing him despite it all.

The guilt he felt for holding back, for trying to reject her in the coldest way, washed over him like a ruinous flood. And in the quiet aftermath of her words, there was a part of him that felt something shift; a crack in the armour he'd built for himself.

Suddenly, before Vae could react, he pulled her into a tight, penitent hug. His arms wrapped around her with a force that conveyed everything he hadn't been able to say, his face burying itself in her lush, floral-scented hair.

"I'm so sorry," he whimpered. "I've been such a fool. I never wanted to hurt you. Never." He squeezed tighter, as if trying to make up for the rift he'd thrust between them.

At first, Vae didn't respond, her body stiff in his embrace, but being held with such genuine remorse, his arms trembling with self-condemnation, shattered her resolve. The fight swiftly left her mind, her hands riding up his back as she melted against him.

"Emmrich..."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice hoarse. "You were right, I was scared. Unfathomably scared."

Vae shook her head, clinging to his shirt in an attempt to soothe him. "Don't apologise for being scared. Just... don't shut me out. Please."

"I won't," he said, his bare hand moving to cradle her head. "I won't shut you out. Not again. I promise."

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter two: Everything feels...

Word Count | 1.9k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | slow burn, mention of the activities of the colisium, Acacius being a confused man. There'll be some author's note in the end. “From where I stood, the general was the most striking man I had ever laid eyes upon.” “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Vera. He looks... well, old and weary,” You said with a light tone.

“ I wouldn’t call him old. Word is, he hasn’t even seen thirty summers yet. And as for weary—he carries it as any soldier should” she replied with a grin.

Vera nudged your shoulder playfully, a gesture that spoke of the ease and familiarity between you. You feel tired and ready to take a good night of sleep—tomorrow would be a long day. Your father had planned a grand celebration in honor of General Marcus Acacius, with feasting and music from dawn till dusk.

Such celebrations always filled you with a peculiar joy. For at least one day, you could shed the weight of expectations, lose yourself in dancing and revelry, and be as free as any common citizen.

“Well,” You smirked, “tomorrow, you’ll have your chance to meet him. You could look into those famed eyes and say—”

Without hesitation, you took Vera by the waist, adopting a dramatic pose as if you were the general himself. Mocking the voice of a lady overcome with admiration, you declared: “General Marcus Acacius, you are the most handsome man I have ever beheld!”

Vera erupted into laughter, her mirth echoing through the room as your exaggerated performance ended.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · · The celebration began, and the day unfurled with a vivid splendor. Everything feels perfect. The music, the food, the flowers, even the way your dress touches your skin feels perfect. Hours passed in laughter and dance until your feet ached, and the cacophony of music and merriment became overwhelming. Seeking a quiet place, you slipped into the cool solitude of the back garden. The night’s breeze kissed your flushed cheeks, and the stillness wrapped around you like a gentle embrace. You closed your eyes, savoring the moment. A soft laugh escaped you as you tried to recall the last time you had so much fun. No more wine for the night.

“I see the evening agrees with you, Lady Aurelia,” came a deep voice from behind, startling you from your reverie.

You turned quickly, your heart skipping a beat. There, standing tall under the pale light of the moon, was General Acacius himself.

“Dominus,” you greeted, offering a somewhat unsteady bow, made less graceful by the wine. “I—indeed—I am enjoying the festivities,” you added, a smile lingering on your lips despite yourself. You should definitely not be smiling like this alone with a man like him.

And yet, there was something about his presence that felt oddly reassuring, disarming even. To your surprise, his own lips curved into the faintest of smiles.

“The feast is remarkable,” he said, his tone warm with amusement. “Your father truly knows how to host a celebration worthy of the gods.” He paused, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Though I confess, after such a day, I long for nothing more than the embrace of my bed.”

The way he spoke, as if sharing a secret meant for you alone, made you chuckle softly. The conversation flowed easily as you strolled through the moonlit garden paths.

He humbly spoke of his long campaigns—two hundred days away from home, he said, with the weariness of a man who had seen much and yet carried it with quiet dignity. “If I could, I’d sleep for three days without stirring,” he mused.

Feigning seriousness, you teased: “So, you reject the grand festivities my father has arranged in your honor? Even the games in the arena tomorrow?”

He stopped abruptly, his expression turning grave. “Forgive me, Domina,” he said earnestly. “I meant no disrespect. Your father is as dear to me as my own. I would lay down my life for him. The celebrations are an honor beyond words. As for the arena—” He hesitated, his gaze shadowed. “I respect his traditions deeply.” You couldn’t help but laugh softly at how seriously he had taken your jest. Following Vera’s example from the night before, you nudged his shoulder lightly. “I was jesting, soldier,” you said with a grin.

But the moment the words left your lips, you faltered. Your familiarity had crossed a line, and you realized with a pang of regret that he was not a childhood friend to banter with so casually. Drawing back, you lowered your gaze, chastened.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmured, your voice tinged with shame. “The wine has loosened my tongue more than it should have. I fear I’ve overstepped my place.” With a hurried bow, you added, “I wish you a restful night. If you’ll excuse me, I must retire to my chambers.”

Before he could respond, you turned and left, your steps quickened by the heat of embarrassment. It felt as though you were fleeing a ghost—one whose presence had stirred something within you that you did not yet understand.

But the soldier was no ghost—not at all. If you had looked back, you would have seen how utterly taken by surprise the General was. He parted his lips, as if to say something—anything to make you stay—but no words came. He simply stood there, watching as you walked away.

If only you knew how his heart felt just a little weaker with your departure. · · ────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

Your head throbbed. The deafening roars of the crowd, mingled with the clash of gladiators within the coliseum, did nothing to help. Attending the games was a duty you loathed above all others. You recalled your mother’s soft whispers when you were a child, not much older than six, as she leaned close during your first visit.

"You don’t have to look. Find something else to occupy your mind—count the soldiers in the stands, the women, the children..."

And so, every time you were forced to sit in that pit of violence, you obeyed her advice. Today, you noted there were more children and soldiers than before. The coliseum itself seemed different, too—three additional beams along the upper gallery, and a newly constructed gate to the prisons below.

Why does it grow larger every time I return?

You pressed your fingertips to your temples, moving them in slow circles to soothe the ache in your skull. The rhythmic motion was your only solace against the chaos surrounding you.

“I see the revelry of last night has caught up with you, Lady Aemilia.”

The voice was soft, tinged with humor. It came from the seat beside yours, where General Acacius sat. His words hung in the air, and with a light tone, his gaze lingered on you, searching for something.

Is he mocking me? Have I become his amusement?

Your eyes remained shut, but your tone turned sharp as you replied. “I expect respect from you, General, as I have shown you nothing but the same.”

Have you forgotten how to address a lady, Marcus?

The sting of your words landed precisely as intended. You heard him shift uncomfortably, and though your eyes were closed, you could sense the weight of his regret. Ever since your arrival, he had been looking for a way to earn your attention—desperate to hear your voice again, even if only to rebuke him.

Perhaps if I make her laugh...

He had misjudged, thinking of last night’s fleeting, playful moment when your shoulders had touched. He wished for that again—a simple touch, no matter how brief.

“I didn’t mean—” he stammered, pausing to collect himself. Then, taking a deep breath, he began again, his tone softer. “I wasn’t trying to mock you, Lady Aurelia. I only... Please, forgive me. I truly hope your headache eases soon.”

There was something in his voice that made your resolve falter, a sincerity that bordered on vulnerability.

If I could, I would take the pain from you and bear it myself, carissima.

You opened your eyes, finally meeting his gaze. For a moment, you saw the weariness etched into his face, more pronounced than the night before, as though he hadn’t slept at all. The sight gave you pause, but you said nothing.

Instead, his expression shifted, his features hardening into the same stoic mask he wore before his men. Diverting his eyes, he straightened in his seat, retreating behind his soldier’s composure.

Have I hurt him?

Before you could dwell on the thought, the cries of the crowd swelled around you. The word they chanted took a moment to register, and when it did, a familiar chill ran down your spine.

Death.

Your father rose from his seat, commanding the attention of the entire coliseum. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand. The crowd fell silent, holding its collective breath. But you knew what would come next.

His thumb turned downward. The crowd erupted in cheers, and another life was extinguished.

You flinched, as you always did. The hollow ache in your chest never lessened, no matter how many times you witnessed this. Bowing your head, you prayed silently for the soul of the fallen.

From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of the General. He had risen as well, but the look in his eyes was not one of approval. Fury smoldered there, dark and restrained. Without a word, he turned and left his place, seeking an exit from the coliseum.

You felt an inexplicable longing to follow him. You weren’t sure if it was to escape the horrors of the arena or simply to be with him—anywhere, as long as he was there beside you. · · ─────── ·𖥸· ──────── · ·

You felt no inclination to read or write today, so you wandered to the principal garden instead. The serenity there always held a quiet magic for you. How you longed to see the untamed fields beyond the city walls, where birds soared freely and the wind danced through the trees, carrying with it the fragrance of wildflowers.

Your steps were slow as you moved among the blooms, the gentle rhythm of your walk an attempt to soothe the lingering ache in your head.

I am never drinking again. Never, ever.

“Lady Aemilia Aurelia,” came the voice of the guard assigned to you. His tone was respectful but firm, pulling you from your thoughts. “A letter has arrived for you.”

You turned to him, accepting the letter with a nod of thanks. Curiosity flickered in your mind as you examined it. It couldn’t have come from one of the maids—they had been dismissed for the day. And letters from beyond the palace, whether from princes or clandestine admirers, always passed through your father’s hands first.

Carefully, you opened it, and to your surprise, a small flower fell from within. Its delicate petals rested lightly in your palm, and you lifted it to your nose, inhaling the sweet, calming aroma.

The letter was brief, the handwriting unmistakably bold yet neat:

"This bloom is known for its healing properties, particularly for those burdened with aches of the head. I hope it brings you relief. Your loyal General, Marcus Acacius."

The ache in your head eased almost at once, but now, inexplicably, something else stirred—a gentle, unfamiliar ache in a different corner of your heart.

That night, as sleep claimed you, the faintest of smiles lingered on your lips. · · ────────── ·𖥸· ────────── · ·

AN: I know pedro is beyond thirty years but this is how I imagine him for this fic. It is actually very dificult to keep it historically accurate, but I hope you understand! I will insert some references to the balls that happened in Pride and Prejudice and Bridgerton, but I think it'll be all. There's nothing I love more than an unconfortable dance between too characters who love each other in secret!

[wickedsmille]

broken and still breaking

uhhhh, this is a little fic technically titled Angsty McAngst Pants Angst in my notes because Jason goes to his Re-Welcoming/It's A(n Alive) Boy! gala then gets triggered into a PTSD episode of dying which Tim helps him through. It was SUPPOSED to be gen but then they started flirting and bantering so. Welp.

Buyer beware cause I haven't beta'ed this, aforementioned PTSD episode, mild depictions of blood and injuries and what nots.

Alright then *thigh slap*

If it weren’t for the overwhelming feeling of being settled in his own skin, Jason would’ve told Bruce to fuck a cactus for offering to make Jason Peter Todd a real boy again. On principle alone he nearly said no. Besides, creating aliases is fun. James Austen, John Red and, to be nothing if not a mature adult with refined tastes, Dick Dickins. So many others, too. He could get the utilities at a new safehouse hooked up under Stephen Wolfe’s name then turn right around and renew Emmerson Bronte’s license at the downtown DMV.  

See? Being legally dead has allowed him room to express himself creatively in a way that has nothing to do with experimental ammunitions and testing the limits of the human body. One might even say it’s a healthy passtime. Sort of. Relatively speaking, okay. He’s not a perfect person, wouldn’t even dream of entertaining the thought. Not when he’s had so much practice turning the inside of someone’s skull into a modern day Picasso. 

But he’s been trying. Is trying. 

So, rather than testing the integrity of Bruce’s dental implants, Jason bit his cheek so hard it bled, swallowed back every bitter, snide remark dancing along his tongue and nodded tightly. He can’t think about the way Bruce deflated after. How his eyes went soft and the weight of the cape and cowl fully slipped off to reveal an infinitely exhausted but relieved Bruce Wayne, Failed Father Extraordinaire. If Jason does, he might ask himself what it was all for anyway and if any of it really ever mattered. Those kinds of thoughts lead to nothing but self-imposed isolation and self-destruction. 

He’s definitely regretting his decision as his gaze scans over the crowded ballroom of the Grand Hotel in downtown Gotham. A sea of opulence swims below the upper landing he has stalled out on. Men and women stand around in circles, chatting one another with plastic smiles etched into their faces. The sound of faked laughter grates, making his jaw clench and his teeth grind together. Wouldn’t it be just his luck that the food tables are all the across the room.

“Ha, ha, ha. Oh my, this little thing?” a woman simpers loudly at the bottom of the stairs. “Why, it was my mother’s.” She fingers the delicate gold chain around her neck. On the end is a diamond large enough it could feed a family of four in the Alley for a couple years.

A man across from her, entrenched in his own conversation partners, tips his head back and holds his belly as he chortles. “Mr. Campbell, you’re in luck! I have a penthouse in uptown and a condo on the westside and they’re alright but, if you’re looking for a sound investment, I suggest getting a cabin or three in the Northwest. Best decision I ever made!” he says blithely like there aren’t families and children sleeping in their cars because every apartment building is leased up and the list for voucher programs are thousands long.

Jesus fuck, he did not miss this.

Being a Wayne again means he gets the horrific honor of taking a half-step into the limelight. At first, Bruce wanted to do a full spread. Interviews and press conferences, staged sightings by the paparazzi and several welcoming events. Jason promptly shut him down by threatening to find every copy of his adoption papers and burning them. He’d rather chew off his own arm and beat Bruce with the appendage than do any of that. The compromise? A single gala as a re-introduction then Jason could fade into the background once more. 

So long as you don’t cause a scene, Bruce had said sardonically, knowingly. Bastard.

With the implied threat to his privacy, Jason has smartly decided to be on his best behavior. Even though the simple, black suit he’s wearing feels too tight and too hot. Though his hair is stiff from all the product in it. Despite the shiny leather shoes pinching his toes. No matter the way he feels like everyone is staring at him even if they’re not. 

Sure, quite a few of the guests are surreptitiously staring, thinking they’re oh so clever with the way they side-eye him before quickly looking away. They’re subtle, or so they think. It’s not like everyone is facing him, gazes boring into him. He almost thinks that would be better. At least he’d have a good reason to sneer and dip out scot free. Would it really be a scene if he were to loudly trip coming down the stairs? He’ll feign embarrassment at drawing attention to himself if it means he can back out. 

An elbow bumps into his side, making him jolt. Jason’s head whips around, intending to give whoever has invaded his personal space a thorough tongue lashing until he sees Tim. Calm, cool, collected Tim holding two champagne flutes, one held towards Jason. He’s smiling softly with his head tipped to the side in an unspoken question. The gold and white of his corset vest contrast well with the black of the rest of his suit and make the blue-gray of his eyes pop without washing him out. Tim would look right at home if he were down on the floor swimming with the other sharks. Goddamn him for fitting in so well.

“I’ll back you if you want to leave,” Tim tells him. “Due to your violent bout of diarrhea and uncontrollable gas.”

Snatching the offered glass out of Tim’s hand, Jason drains the entire thing in one go. “I hate you,” he murmurs miserably, only partly meaning it. Then he snags Tim’s own glass and downs that as well. 

A thoughtful frown makes its way onto Tim’s face. “I’d be careful. Getting tipsy won’t actually make this any easier to navigate.”

“Stop talking like you know me.”

Tim shrugs amiably. “I might not know you as well as I’d like to but I know them.” 

He inclines his head towards the dodos guffawing over their latest insider trading power plays and gossiping on whose husband is sleeping with which of the help. Or lamenting on how finicky children can be, not realizing their kids aren’t really the problem because they’re capacity for introspection matches the frigidity of their hearts somewhere below absolute zero. Jason tries very hard to not bite and snarl at Tim since he’s one of the blue bloods. Born and bred for the hoity-toity bullshit with a silver spoon shoved so far down his throat he must’ve been gagging on it. 

Tim isn’t like that and never has been, he reminds himself. In fact, for all the ways Jason had to show Tim how to effectively coupon stack and explain why he microwaves his sponges, Tim is as far removed from the vultures and roaches and leeches they’re surrounded with as he could be given his upbringing. For one, Tim isn’t a total douchebag. Unthinking at times and eccentric, but not outright malicious. He can be surprisingly sweet like when he requests Alfred make one of Jason’s favorite foods when he knows Jason will be coming over for dinner or upgrading Jason’s helmet when his own tech know-how fails him without Jason ever needing to ask. 

The guy is a squishy ball of good intentions wrapped in a deceptively tiny package which has never, not once, held him back from putting dusty, crusty board members and hardened, violent crooks in their place. Once he’d had a chance to actually get to know Tim, Jason found himself feeling grateful. Bruce didn’t concede to just anyone stepping into Jason’s pixie boots. At least he went for the best. 

“If you knew me any better you’d have a key to my apartment and a drawer in my dresser,” Jason drawls, steering the conversation away from the swarm of jewels and silks he wants to pretend doesn’t exist.

“I already have a key to your apartment,” Tim points out. 

Rolling his eyes, Jason stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, but you come over so I can make you buy pizza and kick your ass in Mortal Kombat. Not fucking you into the mattress and making you breakfast in bed after.”

“You never asked, did you?” Tim asks him slyly.

Just about every coherent thought in Jason’s mind fucks off into some deep, dark hole. Leaving him a flustered mess with vague recollections of waking up sticky and wanting. So his witty, top of the line comeback is, “Nope.”

“Eloquent as always,” Tim laughs, patting Jason lightly on the shoulder like he didn’t just break Jason’s brain. “We should get down there before they start chattering about how egregiously anti-social we are.”

All the clamboring what if’s and could be’s get ruthlessly, shamelessly smothered and die a quick and violent end so he can get himself back on task. “I don’t want to,” Jason says petulantly to drive the conversation back to safer, calmer waters.

Now it’s Tim’s turn to roll his eyes. Huffing, he points at Damian to the far left where he’s leaned against a pillar with his arms crossed tightly. “Suck it up. If he can do it, so can you. Now come on.” 

Tim holds out his elbow which Jason bats away with a scowl. He can make his own way down the stairs, thanks. Telling Tim as much, Jason nearly trips over himself when Tim challenges him to put his money where his mouth is. There’s a reason Tim is his favorite because it’s just the thing he needs to unstick his feet and get him moving despite the way his skin prickles the closer they get to the main floor. Although Tim had been joking when he volunteered to escort Jason down, he finds himself wishing he’d taken Tim up on it if only for the grounding comfort of a familiar touch as the smooth soles of his shoes land on the polished floors. 

Graciously, Tim does see him through the crowd to the food tables Jason had been eyeing up. As a kid, they were an oasis. It’s hard for others to talk to you when you’re stuffing your face as fast as you can while chewing as slowly as possible to delay and discourage conversation. Plus, it’s good. A little bland because the chefs have to cater to the tastes of so many, watering down their usual Michelin star flair to a point that probably pains them. But still good in spite of it being pretentious.

Once satisfied Jason can be his own keeper no longer in need of a handler, Tim drifts off. He switches over from the insufferable geek Jason has come to like to the smoothed, glacial veneer of a corporate socialite. The totality of the shift leaves Jason reeling. One thing he’s never understood, no matter how much he puzzled through it and tried to emulate it, is how Bruce and Tim can switch between the two extremes so flawlessly. It���s like trading out coats for them. A flick and a swish then, poof, like magic they’re entirely new people. What that says about their psyches and the inherent fault in their neural wiring is something he shies away from.

Jason tucks in with gusto when an older woman in an inappropriately low cut halter dress and coiffed hair sets her sights on him and starts striding over. With nimble fingers, he loads up the plate his grabs and shoves whatever in his mouth, hoping the age-old trick still works despite being over a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. 

Score because it totally does. She wrinkles her nose at his puffed out cheeks and actually sniffs haughtily when he chews purposefully with his mouth open. He even smiles, masticated mush on full display, and waves cheekily. The woman redirects her steps to take her closer to where Dick is holding court about twenty yards out. She joins the gaggle of women and men magnetically drawn in by Dick’s natural charm. He doesn't quite fit like Tim and Bruce do but he has his natural personality to make up the difference.

Unlike Jason. Which he has no problem with. He’ll take himself, authentically cynical and caustic and brutally honest, over being a fake fuck any day. 

The bacon wrapped, maple seared figs don’t settle well as more people attempt to approach him. Even for him, there’s only so much he can eat. Rapidly, he’s reaching his limit. The twisting viper pit turning his stomach inside out isn’t helping his appetite either. So far he’s been successful in warding people off but his stomach flips, signaling his need to find a new method to avoid unwanted advances and carelessly hurtful words. 

Setting his plate aside, Jason casts his gaze out across the crowd once more. Being tall does have its advantages. Like being able to pinpoint where exactly the rest of the family is and relatively what they’re up to. Dick is wholly unaccessible with the amount of attention he’s getting. He can keep the center stage, Jason is trying to move behind the curtains. Bruce is similarly front and center with his own gathered horde so that’s a no go even if he thought he could handle it without fisting Bruce’s collar and dunking him into the champagne fountain in the corner. 

Damian is somewhere. It’s a toss up whether Jason just can’t see the shrimp or he’s faded into the shadows to either eerily stare out at the crowd from a corner or making his way towards a Bat bothole to go on an ill-advised patrol. As helpful as it would be to have Cass, she’s no better handling these things than Jason so Stephanie has been guiding her. Her attempts at bumbling but Stephanie is nothing if not determined and relentless. It’s why Jason likes her even though he hates those qualities, a reflection of his own, weaponized against him. Duke, the lucky duck, got to skip.

Then, there’s Tim. He’s making amiable small talk with a couple to Jason’s left. They’re too far for Jason to make out the words but close enough Jason feels comfortable weaving between bodies to reach him. So what if it makes him needy or weak. Everyone has to take a knee from time to time and he doesn’t need anything more than a temporary crutch to get him through the next hour or two before he can leave without causing a fuss. Tim is crutch-shaped. It makes sense. 

Saddling up to Tim’s side, Jason inserts himself into the conversation. The man speaking stutters, words petering out as he looks up, up, up at Jason. Jason flashes what he hopes passes as a polite smile. He’s not sure it works when the guy recoils minutely. The woman, his wife Jason assumes if the three-figure rock on her finger is anything to go by, gives him a flat grimace he assumes is supposed to be a smile.

“Jason, it’s good to see you. Enjoying the party so far?” Tim asks him, voice level and almost serene.

“It’s a blast,” Jason deadpans, bumping his hip into Tim’s as he shifts his weight from foot to foot.

“It is a fabulous venue,” the woman says. “We were delighted to get the invitation and haven’t been disappointed yet.”

Yet. Goddamn. He forgot just how snippy these people could be. 

“I’ll be sure to pass your praise along to our event planner,” Tim replies so Jason doesn’t immediately make an ass of himself. “By the way, Jason, this is John Anders and Mary Ann Anders. They’re the founders and CEOs of Anders Packaging. Wayne Enterprises is lucky to call them partners.”

“Jason Wayne,” Jason introduces himself. He holds out his hand which John hesitates to take but social norms win out. Jason makes sure to squeeze on the side of too tight and doesn’t stop till John winces. He goes easier on Mary Ann though, maybe he shouldn’t have because she digs her nails into the skin of his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

When Tim’s hip bumps into him, Jason reads it as the warning it is so he backs off. Tim takes back the reins of the conversation to steer them away from Jason himself. The transition back to dull, unassuming chatter is easy when Tim is the one leading. The tension from John drains away as he falls under Tim’s spell. Jason does feel some small amount of respect for Mary Ann as he notes she isn’t as enamored with Tim’s performance as her husband is. She gives Jason a shrewd look as if to say I see you both, I’m watching you and, yeah, he kind of likes her and hates that he does. But she probably hates him right back since she has to like him. Or pretend to.

Jason rises to Mary Ann’s challenge when she narrows her eyes at him. It becomes a game where they both adopt an air of cordial confidence whenever Tim and John are looking. Then they cast it aside for suspicion and mutual distaste when the other two aren’t. It’s kind of fun. If Mary Ann doesn’t think so, sucks to suck. Jason has had an entire lifetime of pissing people off by doing nothing but existing to hone his craft of being a nuisance without lifting a finger.

Tim looks at him askance, drawing Jason away from his silent feud with Mary Ann and back to the conversation. 

“I thought it would be fun,” John laments ruefully.

“You’re adventurous,” Mary Ann says as she pats his arm. 

“I suppose so,” John replies, giving her a small, genuine smile. “I certainly have a better appreciation for remodelers! Doing the kitchen in our summer house? Never again! I was trying to knock out the cabinets with a hammer for ages until Mary Ann grabbed me a crowbar.”

Jason’s blood runs cold. He abandons the game with Mary Ann in favor of racking his mind for a graceful, or graceless if necessary, way to leave. 

The mention of a crowbar sinks its hooks into his mind, making it run syrupy slow. Too slow to slink away before John keeps going. 

“Now that did the trick! It still took me an hour but, whoo, let me tell you. That is a workout,” John laughs. The arm he has around Mary Ann’s waist unwinds and he takes a step back to give himself some more room. Then he’s miming swinging his arm back and forth. High above his shoulder then down and across, grunting from the effort and smiling from the humor of it all. “You have to throw your shoulder into it. Really get into it. It was fun!”

John laughs again but it’s not John. Not to Jason. It’s too high, too loud. The sound echoes in his head and amplifies with every reverberation. He would cover his ears if he knew it would do any good but it’s all in his head. Now would be a good time to leave, decorum be damned. But his feet feel rooted to the spot and every muscle is coiled so tight he’s shaking with it and immobile. Jason's hands start trembling as John keeps going. On and on and on about his skill with a crowbar. Proud of himself for it. 

In horror, Jason watches as John’s smile keeps curving and twisting into a rictus grin so wide it should be splitting his face but it isn’t. The white straight line of his teeth shift and dull to a pale yellow while all the color of his skin drains away to an unnatural white. The charcoal gray of his suit bursts into color Purple and green and red. So much red. John’s hand isn’t empty anymore either. Now he’s swinging a real crowbar with the end of the metal dented from where he used it to shatter Jason’s femur and tailbone. 

Jason watches as John as the Joker pummels Jason as Robin right there on the ballroom floor. A deep dark red spreads out across the ground. Jason as Robin screams and pleads. Snot and blood and a broken jaw making it difficult to form words but he knows what he said. He was calling out for Bruce. But Bruce never came and the pool of blood has spread far enough he’s standing in it and Jason can’t do this anymore - 

He’s off like a shot. All the restless, animalistic panic inside him zips through his veins. His chest heaves with the effort to suck in as much air as possible but it’s never enough. There’s nothing but the jagged, wet sound of him breathing and the pounding beat of his pulse in his temples. Maybe someone is yelling his name, too, but it’s muffled like someone is holding his head underwater. The elite, esteemed guests gawk at him as he flies by and he doesn’t understand why they aren’t in a tizzy about the dirty warehouse they’re in. 

When he reaches the door, it isn’t locked with a winding length of chain. His hands scramble to clutch the knob of the door but it opens easily under his hands. Over the din of the crowd behind him, Jason can hear the tick, tick, ticking of the bomb. But the door leads to another warehouse so he sprints to the next door, hopping over the puddle of blood on the concrete. The next door opens without issue but it leads into a small, black hole. Yawning and bottomless and hungry.

“Get out!” someone commands from close behind him.

On instinct, he lashes out but whoever it is isn’t having it. Their arm smacks into his wrist, redirecting his punch. Then there’s hands on his chest, shoving him back and into the void. He expects to be falling endlessly but his ass crashes into the ground, arms buckling from the way he catches himself to keep from toppling over completely. He hasn’t even completely settled on the floor before the darkness is chased away by a bright cascade of light from above. Shadows lurk in the corners, wriggling and writhing like a mass of worms and maggots. 

“Jason, Jason,” someone says urgently. They try again gently, “Jay.”

“I need you to breathe with me,” they say, tone brooking no argument. It’s all a serious, low tone Jason can hear clearly over the he ha, ha, HA in his head. “You need to follow me. Fuck. Okay, okay. Can I touch you?”

He wants to understand who it is crouching next to him but the black spots dancing across his vision, the blurry edges of it, keep him from piecing it together. A hand encircles his wrist and he tries to twist away from it. They’re strong though. Stronger than he thought they’d be. His hand is planted firmly on a plane of smooth, warm fabric. The fingers around his wrist pop lose and disappear completely so he moves his head up until the pads of his fingers brush against skin. 

Then he latches on and squeezes with his teeth bared and all the higher thinking of a cornered wolf spurring him on. 

“J-Jay,” they choke out. “Alright then. Feel that?” 

They draw in a comically large breath around the pressure Jason is putting on their windpipe. The pulse beneath his fingers is thumping hard and quick but controlled. Up and down their throat presses against his hand. Unconsciously, he finds himself mimicking the movement. His focus narrows down to the rhythmic movement of their throat and the stuttering attempts his chest is making to imitate it. 

“Jay,” they say faintly. 

Jason becomes aware of two things immediately. He’s in a spacious store room. It smells like a hodgepodge of herbs and spices co-mingling into something overpoweringly herbaceous. The smell is enough to tickle his nose. Several overhead lights are shining down on the packed shelves of nonperishables and Jason and Tim. Because Tim is there with him, on his knees in front of Jason with his pants rucked up and jacket rumpled. With Jason’s hand around his throat and the pale skin of his face a worrying shade of red.

Like he’s been burned, Jason’s arm snaps back. The dimples from Jason’s fingers fade, leaving red indents sure to turn a nasty purple later. Tim gasps loudly and pitches forward onto his hands. He coughs and sputters, rubs at the tender skin of his throat. Checking for any cartilage damage, Jason realizes.

He did that.

The thought has Jason leaning to the side and emptying the contents of his stomach. It’s disgusting. Everything he ate earlier comes up for an encore but its decidedly less appetizing this time around. The bitter taste on his tongue makes him gag even after he’s done. All he can smell is bile as shame wells up, threatening to muscle everything else out because he was choking Tim. Fuck the food. They can get more food. If he seriously hurt Tim, they can’t get a new Tim. 

“Why didn’t you stop me,” Jason rasps, clearing his throat and spitting it out onto the rest of the mess. Not like it's salvageable anyway. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Tim looks up at him sharply. He pushes himself back onto his haunches. Defiance draws his shoulders up and back. Out of them all, Tim has never let him get away with shit. The kid spat in his face even after Jason beat him to a pulp. Never once has Tim backed down from Jason’s misdirected anger or shown fear the times they’ve needed to play fight for the villains intent on pitting them against one another. Dick lets his guilt bleed through too much and lets him be lenient with Jason. In contrast, Bruce is as immovable as Tim but where Tim is kind and even sweet at times, Bruce is a complete and utter asshole.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Tim snarks. 

Jason really hates how little Tim values himself sometimes. Especially given Jason’s own high regard of Tim. 

“Never do that again,” Jason orders, whole body quaking with the aftershocks of his episode. PTSD, one doctor had told him. A normal side-effect of The Life, Jason had privately corrected him.  

“LIke to see you try and stop me,” Tim says, cheeky and sharp with a half cocked grin to match. 

This fucking guy.

“Can I hug you now?” Tim asks with a hint of hostility hiding in his tone. 

Jason can appreciate Tim’s innate ability to understand him and all the ways Jason would outright reject him if he were nicer about it. The contrast to Dick’s antsy need to use touch as a comfort is stark and wonderful. Grumbling, Jason nods his head at the nasty puddle of ick next to him. 

Tim rolls his eyes so hard Jason’s surprised they don’t pop right out of his skull. “Oh, yeah, like I don’t deal with worse on a nightly basis.”

“Touche,” Jason mutters. 

He scoots closer to Tim and away from the gross. His palms stay flat on the ground but Tim shuffles to fit himself against Jason, molding them together as he winds his arms around Jason’s neck. One hand buries itself in Jason’s hair. The nails scratching at his scalp break apart the gel in his hair. It kind of hurts but it keeps him present and helps chase away the jittery feeling in his limbs. The other hand splays across the broad expanse of his shoulders. This close, he has no choice but to follow the rise and fall of Tim’s chest so the quickened pace of his breathing slows to normal. 

Jason’s gut says to push Tim away and maybe even kick him in the jaw for daring to touch him. The impulse dies a quick death as warmth spreads out from his center. It’s soft and sweet and gentle. He presses his face hard into the curve of Tim’s neck and breaths in Tim’s overpriced cologne. Although he’s bigger than Tim, he feels protected like nothing can touch him in this bubble of fragility they’ve created. Finally, finally his mind goes blessedly silent and he settles back into his own skin, not the phantom corpse of a boy who lost more than he ever gained and was cut down before he ever really had a chance. 

Shifting, Jason moves so he can wrap his arms around Tim’s torso and cling tightly to the back of his suit jacket. The ribs of the corset vest flex under his hold. Aside from a quiet grunt, Tim doesn’t say anything. To be a shit, Jason makes them flex again. A warning rumble reverberates from Tim’s chest straight down into Jason’s bones, shaking out the cobwebs of memory and making him puff out a breath through his nose in a parody of a laugh. 

“How do you breathe in this thing?” Jason mumbles into the damp skin of Tim’s neck.

“Force of will and spite,” Tim tells him succinctly. 

“Anything for fashion.”

“More like anything to make Mr. Williams as horrendously uncomfortable as possible after he let slip a couple choice words to me at the last gala.”

“Your commitment to pettiness is unrivaled.”

“Have you met yourself?” Tim accuses him incredulously. 

“I don’t have a commitment to pettiness. I am pettiness.”

The sound of Tim’s easy laughter washes over Jason. He can’t help but to join in even if his own is weak and half hearted at best. Things feel less heavy than they did, less inevitable and better. So much better. Tim still hasn’t let him go and he has no intentions of releasing Tim either. 

With the silence comes the realization of what happened and how it must have looked to everyone else. Jason curls into himself, arms tightening around Tim. In an uncharacteristically small voice, he gives life to his uncertainty and shame. “Everyone saw, didn’t they?” he asks. 

Tim shrugs as much as he can in the vice of Jason’s arms. “You were more subtle than you think you were. Nothing a quick cover of explosive diarrhea won’t fix,” Tim tells him lightly. The callback and absurdity of the idea forces a bark of laughter from Jason. More subdued and serious, Tim adds, “Besides, it doesn’t matter. To hell with them. What matters is that you’re okay and everything else we can fix.”

“Trying to say I can’t be fixed?”

Making an irritated noise, Tim bops his head into Jason’s in chastisement. “I’m saying you don’t need to be fixed. You are who you are and we wouldn’t have it any other way. If it means you need more support, we’re happy to give it but you don’t need to be fixed, Jason.”

“Cool it on the soliloquy, Timberly,” Jason teases so he doesn’t start tearing up. “Ain’t nobody wants to hear your bleeding heart.”

“Charming as always,” Tim sighs, resigned, but he still hasn’t let Jason go.

So Jason smothers the poisonous voice in the back of his head whispering about Tim backing away to leave him cold and bereft, mocking him then relaxes entirely in the safe space Tim carved out for Jason between his arms.

[wombywoo]

I love hearing how Vincent has always been such a good guy, protecting humanity even when they didn't know about it. 🥺

Can we know more about how desperately addicted to Quinn he is? I assume they only met due to the taskforce; did Vincent know then? Did he fall in love slowly or get one sniff of the guy's blood and decide to lay down his life right then? XD I neeeed to know!

Vincent *is* such a good guy and that's probably why he's so good for Quinn. For the most part...

On the other side of that--his devotion reaches extreme levels, especially when faced with extreme circumstances. When they first met, Vincent didn't have much of a reaction to him, tbh. There was the initial scent thing, which most vampires have, where certain people just smell...better. And sure, he got some of that with Quinn, but it was more of a gradual thing. Like, the more he got to know him, the more that curiosity got the better of him. Little acts of intimacy became near overwhelming for him, to the point where he didn't trust himself not to lash out and take it too far, so he kept things a bit...distant. When they do eventually get together, it's like Vincent is constantly battling this inner urge--to just. well. grab Quinn and hold him and keep him safe and also. y'know... [redacted]

Lots of vampires experience heightened senses of passion, so for Vincent, his love is an expression of everything he feels for Quinn, which is. A lot. He's never had this bond with someone before, and it's new and scary how deeply he lets himself fall in love with him. But a lot of this is internal; stuff he keeps to himself, almost as a sort of penance. He feels guilty about the depth of his feelings. He feels guilty about a lot of things tbh...

And Quinn doesn't really comprehend the scope of it, either because he never gets full access to Vincent's tortured inner conflict, or because he honestly doesn't think he's worth it :/

Suffice it to say, they're both a bit insane about each other 😩

[scrollonso]

White Lie — Pedroscar

"Hey, Osc," Pedro began, his tone unusually somber as he perched on the edge of the couch. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, betraying the nerves he was trying to hide. Aleix had sent him a video earlier — a video of a British guy pranking his girlfriend by telling her he wanted to break up — Aleix said he'd done it on Daniil so now Pedro should do it on Oscar.

Oscar glanced up from his book — his Spanish language book — his brow furrowing at the uncharacteristic seriousness in Pedro’s voice. "What’s wrong, love?" he asked, his tone calm but tinged with concern. He set the book aside carefully, giving Pedro his full attention.

Pedro hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to summon the courage to go through with it — he had no problem riding a death machine as a career but thid horrified him. His hands trembled slightly, and he dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly to steady himself. "I... I think we need to talk," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar’s frown deepened, his head tilting slightly as he studied Pedro’s face. "Okay," he said cautiously. "What is it?"

Pedro’s gaze darted away, unable to hold Oscar’s steady eyes any longer. He looked down at his hands, twisting them nervously in his lap. "I’ve been thinking a lot lately," he began, his voice faltering. "And... I uhm, I don't think this is working out anymore."

The words hung heavily in the air, the weight of them immediately shifting the atmosphere in the room. Oscar froze, his usually bright expression clouding over. He didn’t say anything at first, but Pedro noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"What do you mean?" Oscar asked finally, his voice carefully even but quieter than usual.

Pedro swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it harder to speak. He pushed through, though every word felt like a knife twisting deeper into his own chest. "I mean us," he said, his voice softer now, almost apologetic. "I feel like... we’ve been drifting apart. And I don’t think I can do this anymore."

Oscar’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. His expression shifted ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of hurt crossing his features before he quickly masked it. "Drifting apart?" he echoed, his tone neutral but tinged with disbelief. "Since when? I didn’t realize you felt that way."

Pedro’s stomach twisted, guilt clawing at him as he watched Oscar struggle to process his words. "It’s not you," Pedro said quickly, forcing himself to meet Oscar’s gaze even as his resolve began to crumble. "You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just... I don’t know. I feel like something’s changed, and I don’t want to keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not."

Oscar nodded slowly, his jaw tightening as he looked down at his hands. He was quiet for a long moment, his chest rising and falling steadily as he tried to collect his thoughts. "I see," he said finally, his voice soft but steady.

Pedro’s heart ached at the sight of him — Oscar, always so composed, trying to hold himself together even now. The temptation to abandon the whole act was overwhelming, but he didn’t. Not yet. "I just think this is the best thing for both of us," Pedro added, the words barely audible as they left his mouth.

Oscar’s hands curled into fists in his lap, and he nodded again, though this time the movement was stiffer. "If that’s how you feel," he said, his voice faltering slightly.

Pedro hesitated, watching Oscar carefully. He could see the cracks starting to form in his facade — the slight tremble in his hands, the way his lower lip quivered ever so slightly. Still, Oscar held it together, though Pedro could tell it was taking everything he had.

"Are you sure about this?" Oscar asked quietly, his voice laced with vulnerability despite his best efforts to stay calm.

Pedro’s heart sank further, and for a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to respond. This had gone too far. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Oscar the truth, but before he could, Oscar’s composure finally broke.

He let out a choked sob, his chest heaving as he buried his face in his hands. The sound was raw, broken, and filled with anguish, and it pierced straight through Pedro’s heart — what had he just done? Tears began to spill freely down Oscar’s cheeks, slipping through the cracks between his fingers as his entire body trembled violently. His breathing grew erratic, shallow gasps cutting through his cries as the weight of Pedro’s words hit him like a sledgehammer.

"Why?" Oscar finally managed to sob, his voice cracking with the force of his emotions. His hands fell from his face, revealing red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears and a look of sheer devastation. "Why would you do this?" His words dissolved into incoherent sobs, his chest shaking as he fought to breathe through the torrent of emotions overtaking him.

Pedro sat frozen, horrified at the sight in front of him. This wasn’t the reaction he’d expected — not even close. He thought Oscar might get upset, maybe even cry a little, but this? This was heartbreak, pure and agonizing, and Pedro felt the full weight of his mistake crashing down on him.

"Oscar," Pedro breathed, his voice shaky and filled with regret. He reached out hesitantly, unsure if Oscar would even let him near after what he’d said. But when Oscar didn’t pull away, Pedro wrapped his arms tightly around him, pulling his shaking form close.

"Osc," Pedro said again, more urgently this time, his own voice thick with emotion. "It’s not real. It’s not real! It’s a prank, cariño. I swear, it’s not real!"

Oscar didn’t seem to register the words at first, his sobs growing louder as he clung desperately to Pedro’s Red Bull branded shirt. His fingers curled into the fabric, holding on as if letting go would shatter him completely. "I love you," he choked out between cries, his voice barely audible. His words came in fragments, broken by gasps for air. "I don’t want to lose you, Pedro. Please... don’t do this."

Pedro’s stomach twisted, guilt and shame colliding in a sickening wave as he pressed his lips to Oscar’s temple. "You’re not losing me," he murmured, his own voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. "You’re never losing me. I’m so sorry, Oscar. It was a stupid, horrible prank, and I swear I’ll never do anything like this again."

Oscar pulled back slightly, his face streaked with tears and his lips trembling as he tried to form words. But another sob wracked his body before he could speak, and Pedro cradled his face in his hands, wiping at the tears with his thumbs.

"It’s okay," Pedro whispered, peppering kisses across Oscar’s forehead, his cheeks, and the tip of his nose. "I’m here. I love you so much, and I’ll spend forever making this up to you. Just... please, don’t cry like this. I can’t stand it."

Oscar sniffled, his breathing still uneven as he looked up at Pedro through tear-blurred eyes. "That was so mean," he said shakily, his voice breaking on the last word.

Pedro nodded, his heart aching at the sound of Oscar’s broken voice. "I know," he admitted softly. "I was a complete idiot. I thought it would be funny, but I didn’t think about how it would hurt you. I’ll do anything to make it up to you. Anything, Osc."

Oscar let out a shaky laugh, though fresh tears still glistened in his eyes. He swiped at his face with trembling hands, a flush creeping up his cheeks as the intensity of his reaction began to sink in. "I can’t believe I cried that hard," he muttered, his voice thick and embarrassed. "You're a fucking cunt, you know that?"

Pedro’s lips curved into a soft, apologetic smile as he pulled Oscar close again. "You cried because you care," he murmured, stroking his hair gently. "And that means everything to me. I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll never take that for granted again."

Oscar relaxed slightly in Pedro’s arms, though the occasional shudder still wracked his body. "You better not," he said quietly, his voice still hoarse but steadier now. "Because next time, I’m making you cry."

Pedro let out a soft laugh, relief flooding through him as Oscar’s words carried a hint of his usual playful spirit. "Fair enough," he replied, pressing another kiss to Oscar’s forehead. "But for now, just let me hold you. Please."

Oscar nodded, closing his eyes as he rested his head against Pedro’s chest. The sound of Pedro’s heartbeat beneath his ear was steady, soothing, and slowly, the storm inside him began to calm. "I love you," he whispered, the words barely audible.

Pedro’s arms tightened around him, his lips brushing against Oscar’s hair — he was definitely going to be yelling at Aleix later. "I love you too," he said, his voice filled with sincerity. "More than anything in the world."

[2346khith]

Imagine waking up every morning to devastation—a world where safety is a dream, and hope feels just out of reach.

Vetted by:

1) gazavetters my number verified on the list is ( #45 )

2) a-shade-of-blue (in my pinned post)

3) 90-ghost (in my pinned post)

4) dlxxv-vetted-donations (in my pinned post)

5)transmutationisms (in my pinned post)

My name is Mohamed Almadhonne, and I am reaching out from Gaza, where my family and I are enduring profound hardship. Our home, once a sanctuary of safety and comfort, has been reduced to rubble. We now face freezing nights and hunger in a makeshift shelter, holding onto hope amidst overwhelming uncertainty.

Each day brings new challenges—fear, loss, and the constant battle for survival. Yet, even in this darkness, I believe in the transformative power of compassion and the generosity of people like you to help us find a path forward.

I am humbly asking for your support. Your donation, no matter the amount, could provide us with essential relief: shelter, food, and a chance to rebuild our lives. If donating is not possible, sharing our story could connect us with others willing to help.

Here is the link to my campaign: https://www.gofundme.com/f/faydxu-help-mohammed. Your kindness could be the light that guides us toward safety and dignity.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for your support. Your kindness means more than words can express.

With sincere gratitude,

Mohamed Almadhonne

23% of my long-term goal

11,385€ out of 50,000€

Donations are protected by GOFUNDME

For those who see this please, visit their blog and reblog their blog’s posts so they  get more attention and if you have the money to spare please donate.

Also I apologize, but I do not have the ability to donate to you. Trust me if I had the ability I would but I don't and I can't. I have no bank account or credit card to transfer money to and no job to gain any money. Every time I ask my parents to help they shut me down so this is the only way to help you. Please forgive me.

[osunari]

⚠︎ s i l e n t t e m p t a t i o n s ( 18+ )

—ch.5 (NSFW route)

➤ s t a r t

Mr. scarletella x MC

— h o m i c i p h e r 𒌧

“Human Emotions”

[ Route 2 : NSFW (Shows a route wherein SFW content are replaced by NSFW scenes.) ]

Mr. scarletella knelt before you, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. The air around you both felt thick, charged with unspoken words and emotions that neither of you had fully acknowledged yet. You could feel his presence, so close, yet the tension in the room was palpable.

His eyes searched yours, almost as if asking for permission, his expression unreadable. He paused, his hand hovering near your leg, but not quite touching, waiting for a sign from you.

You held his gaze, heart racing, your breath shallow. The conflict within you swirled—part of you wanted to knee him in the gut, but something about this moment made you stay rooted in place. There was a strange comfort in the way he looked at you, like he wasn't rushing, wasn't forcing anything, but simply waiting for your next move.

Finally, with a quiet, almost imperceptible nod, you gave him the smallest sign of consent.

His eyes flickered for the briefest moment, almost half-lidded and full with unintended lust. Before you could even process what was happening, his hand moved swiftly to your leg, cupping it with his cold bare hand. His fingers were cool against your skin as he gently, yet confidently, lifted your leg with a strong but careful grip.

You gasped, your face instantly flushing crimson as he placed it carefully over his shoulder, the motion smooth, almost practiced. The contact was intimate, though not in the way you expected. His gaze never left you, reading your expression as if satisfied by the outcome of his action, his demeanor cool and collected, as if he'd done this a thousand times before. But you could see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—what was his intent? Is this maniac really going to impregnate me at this very moment?

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. You felt exposed in a way that made your heart race, but at the same time, a strange comfort settled in your chest. You embraced yourself tight as your whole womanly area faced the crimson man, though despite this—he restrained himself from any uncontrollable urge to dig in. Instead, he held the eye contact, still unsure of the level of your willingness as he didn’t want to do anything you didn’t want to be a part of. Mr. scarletella wasn't pushing you; he was waiting. Waiting for you to guide him, to show him where the line was.

“H-hold on a bit…” you were flushed, every nerve in your body alive with electricity. The intimacy of the moment wasn't just physical; it was psychological. You were both waiting for each other to make the move, standing at the edge of something unspoken, something that neither of you dared to initiate.

But in that instant, with your leg draped over his shoulder and his steady gaze locked on yours, you understood. The tension wasn't about power or control. It was about mutual understanding, the push and pull between two people drawn together by something deeper than just attraction. And for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of it.

. . .

The room was silent except for the soft sound of moaning and skin slapping, mingling with the faint rustling of fabric as mr. scarletella knelt before you. His focus was entirely on your dripping cunt, his hands steady and sure, pumping in and out of your hole that had turned bright red from the overwhelming abuse of the crimson man’s long, slender fingers.

You could feel everything as two of his fingers entered and exited you, the rhythm of your moans subsequent to the grunts of the man as he fingered your hole faster and harder with each passing moment he heard your moans. The sleeves of his red coat, now coated with your love juices as you uncontrollably pumped them out constantly, the crimson man’s face unable to escape from being a victim to the same substance.

You attempted to restraint your shaking, your legs unconsciously wrapping around the man’s neck as it slightly forced him down near your wetness, “N-nghh~… f-fuck!.. mm- mmm~!..” you cursed—nearing to your release as you dug your nails on the cracked wall behind you.

His touch was careful, tender, but there was an undeniable force behind it. You could feel the weight of his affection, his will, pressing against your womb which he teased every now and then.

Your fingers curled involuntarily, digging into the soft strands of his hair as the curse writhed inside you. You couldn't help it—his proximity, his touch, the way he focused so intently on relieving you made your heart race and your senses heighten. Every time his gaze would leave your womanly area and fixate it on your face—to check on you constantly, it sent a ripple of sensation through your body, stirring both pleasure and something deeper. He couldn’t bring himself to drag his eyes back down to your wet cavern as his half-lidded eyes took in the taste of your flavorful expression instead; eyebrows nitted highly, eyes almost crossing, cheeks so flushed you could feel its hotness, and lips pouted as if an attempt to restraint yourself from the embarrassing moans and noises that you made.

"ㄚ几卩卂(good) ?" Mr. scarletella murmured, his voice low and soothing, though there was an undercurrent of strain in it. His hands never faltered as he worked through the depths of your satisfaction, leaving you nodding mindlessly as you brought yourself closer to him. You gripped his hair harder, the heat of your body rising as his fingers took on a slow rhythm—which you thought was not that bad at all. A wave of plessure shot through every nerve of your organ, your tongue slid out of its socket, your hole tightening around the wrinkled fingers of the crimson man as it became harder for him to push through. You could feel the weight of his will to make you release, his strength, anchoring you, dominating you in the moment as the overflowing relief clawed at your very sanity.

Despite all that, mr. scarletella couldn’t quite take in of what was happening just yet. His heart raced as he looked down at your sweating figure, an expression so filled with erotica as you nestled impossibly closer into his chest. The strands of your hair sticking to your neck up to your forehead, the reflective bit of gloss on your kissable plump pink lips, the seducing shape of your womanly physique—Is this what drove male humans to breed female humans? he thought to himself as he finds himself lusting to your wholeness, seeing it all make sense now.

The warmth of your body against his sent a wave of tenderness rushing through him. This was everything he imagined in his fantasy—yet now, here it was, real and definite. The closeness between you was undeniable, as he held you, every part of him felt as if it were falling into place, like the puzzle pieces of his fantasies finally fitting together.

Suddenly, he remembered his foe’s words.

.

.

.

“乙山(she) ㄚ乃(not) 乃丂几(want) 几ㄩ(you) .”

.

.

.

“卩爪乇(big) ㄩ乂乃(man) 乇ㄖ(with) 卩爪乇(big)丂爪乂(fantasy) .”

.

.

.

He couldn’t help but grin, feeling a sense of possessiveness crawl back to his head, his view darkening as he suddenly finds himself pounding his fingers harder into you. He wasn’t gonna let anyone take you from him now, it was far too late for that. You were his, and he was yours, anyone who defied that must be stupid in the head—as he claimed. You were only his—not anyone else’s, but his.

Mr. scarletella’s grin twisted into something darker, more dangerous, as he pulled you closer to his chest. His arm encircled you like iron bands, unyielding and protective, his fingers roughly going in a inhumane speed—unrealizingly. “几ㄩ(you) . . . 爪丫尺丂(mine) .” he murmured, the possessiveness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. His gaze burned into yours, a mix of obsession and adoration, you could feel the intensity radiating from his form. “几丫尺(one) 乇ㄒ丂乇 (touch) 几ㄩ(you) , 几丫尺(one) . . . 丂ㄩ几(die) .” he declared, his voice low and threatening, as though the thought of someone else laying a hand on you ignited a deadly resolve within him. There was no hesitation, no room for negotiation in his words. To him, you were his world—his to hold, his to protect, his to destroy anyone who dared come too close. It wasn’t love in the soft, tender sense—it was primal, all-consuming, and terrifyingly sincere.

But you, you too, felt the intensity of the moment—not positively, but quite negatively. The thought clawed with your mind like a guilt you never succeeded to escape from, feeling a sense of regret hit you just right after the action, the decision, had already been done, been committed. The fact you had let him touch you in ways you would have never thought you would let him, it was happening right in front of your very eyes. You didn’t love him, nor even trusted him—so why?..

.

.

.

And… why is he lowering his head a bit too low into my wet region?.. “A-ah~!.. s-scarlet… you-“ before you could interpret the scene unfolding in front of your very eyes, his tongue swirled at your entrance like a predator preparing to take in his prey. He burried his face into your wide open thighs, hungrily licking you clean while never missing a single drop. The unforeseen gesture left you staggered, but instantly as if on instinct—you slowly started widening your opened legs for him, but his hungry state grew impatient—rushing them open as the palms of his hands separated your thighs.

He gave a quick gaze up at your blushing face, “M-mm, mmm…” he continued to lick and suck at your sensitive folds, savoring the taste of your arousal mixed with your release. He felt you growing more and more excited, focusing his attention on your clit, swirling his tongue around the bud and applying gentle suction. He could feel your legs shake with no control and more of your ragged breathing, knowing that you were close to orgasm—he redoubled his efforts, his tongue moving in rapid circles as he slid two fingers back inside you, pumping them in and out in time with his licking.

The pleasure was overwhelming, the power of his tongue licking you dry as his fingers shaped your insides—it edged you closer and closer to your release. “I-I’m cumming, I’m… cumming~..!” With a quiet yelp, you cleched your thighs together as they squeezed his head as you came, a wave of pleasure washing over your weary and tired physique as the man helped you ride your release. He continued licking and fingering your flushed hole through your orgasm, not wanting to stop until every last tremor had subsided.

His face had been covered by the liquids you spurted out from your body, a few stands of his hair dripping damp with the same substance. You turned out to notice some of it had dripped down the tiled-floor as well, a faint red decorating your cheeks—indicating your embarrassment.

After everything, the hallways were quieter, more serene than they had been moments ago. Mr. scarletella’s grip on your leg had softened, his touch no longer dominant but gentle, as though he needed to ensure you were alright. He looked at you with a gaze full of both admiration and care, his earlier intensity replaced by something deeper, more considerate.

You could still feel the lingering heat from the moment, but now it was replaced by a quiet tenderness. He wiped you clean with a handkerchief placed inside his coat, before cleaning himself off with the same piece of cloth— gently sliding your leg off his shoulder as his hands lingered on your skin as if reluctant to let go. He caught your gaze, his expression a mix of awe and a subtle hint of satisfaction. His fingers brushed your hair back from your face, his touch soft as he murmured, “几ㄩ(you) ㄚ几乙卩(okay) ?”

You forced a smile at him, your cheeks flushed but your heart calm, the bond between you both clear now in the quiet of the hallway. “M-me okay.” you whispered, brushing off the guilt you pondered in your mind earlier. There was no rush, no pressure now—just the two of you, the distance between you now filled with trust and a quiet understanding. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice low and sincere, “几爪卩ㄖ(good) .”

You dived deeper into his eyes, the sense of guilt beginning to gnaw at your chest once again. It was hard to ignore, no matter how warm his embrace felt, or how gentle his touch was. Deep down, you knew the truth; what had just happened wasn’t driven by love, but by overwhelming emotions. You’d acted on impulse, lost in the intensity of the moment, and now it felt like there was an undeniable weight pressing down on your heart. The guilt only deepened as you realized this wasn’t with someone you had ever truly seen as your equal, someone you thought was worthy of such an intimate connection. It wasn’t a love you had imagined or hoped for—it was a fleeting, heated connection, and now you couldn’t help but feel conflicted.

You had hoped your first time would be with someone who made you feel more than just desire—someone who had earned your trust completely. But now, sitting here in the quiet aftermath, you felt unsure, questioning whether your heart had truly been in the right place.

—ch.5

➤ e n d

“Human Emotions”

[storiesabouteli]

TellTales // Elijah Hewson X Reader! (Fluff) Part1 of 2.

prompt: It's a narration of how they are young and in a way they share differences, but they are in love. It takes place in a student environment (college) and continues with a car trip and in the next part reader meets the boys, the fic is just about how they feel about each other in the midst of everyday life and a relationship that is new. And although I commented on sexual relations, I did not describe the act itself, there is no smut. (This story is from my old blog, it's very old, and I decided to rewrite it)

words: 3K

You tiptoed your way through the bleachers, scanning the crowd for him. You hadn’t explicitly asked him to come, but you’d dropped enough hints to hope he’d show up. Deep down, you understood if he couldn’t make it, but the thought of him not being there still left a pang of sadness.

Either way, he’d be picking you up shortly after the game ended. You’d agreed to spend the weekend with some of his bandmates and their girlfriends. You recognized them from glimpses in the hallways and the gigs you’d attended, but meaningful interactions with them had been rare. You were aware of the reputation you’d unintentionally acquired in that social circle but didn’t let it bother you.

You hadn’t dated much in life. In fact, Elijah was the only person you’d ever been involved with—both emotionally and physically. While that choice sometimes stirred whispers or the occasional mean-spirited comment, it was clear that most people didn’t care, if anything, they just found it curious.

“How was last night?” your best friend asked, a knowing smirk on her face. Judging by your expression, she already suspected the answer.

“It was… great,” you admitted, the butterflies in your stomach still fluttering from the memory. Your hands felt clammy, and your nervous cheeks were impossible to hide.

“Was sex with Elijah really that good?” There was a teasing edge in her tone, but you couldn’t tell if it was genuine or sarcastic. You elbowed her, though the heat in your face only deepened.

“Did he take charge? Or was all the work left to you?” she continued, her grin widening. You rolled your eyes, but her playful jab stayed in your head longer than you’d care to admit.

Hiding your face in your hands, you realized she just wanted to embarrass you. Asking her to lower her voice, she laughed and agreed, though it was clear she expected more details. It was your first time with Eli, and you’d been nervous—something entirely unusual for you from her perspective. Naturally, she wanted to know everything.

You decided to keep most of it to yourself, knowing she’d get the picture. You settled on something simple: “He’s not shy, but in a good way. He’s... observant, and he made good use of that. He’s fine,” you said, biting your lip to contain a smile. But the memory of him holding you, the way his hands moved so assuredly, and the soft sighs and muffled moans you’d shared—it all came flooding back, making your heart crazy. You didn’t know how, but it had been intimate and irresistibly sexy, leaving you on the brink of tears from the overwhelming connection. You couldn’t wait to be with him again.

She nodded knowingly, her expression softening at your obvious happiness. “It’s nice that you have him. I’m glad for you. He seems like a great guy.”

Her words made you smile, but they also left you feeling a little unsettled. Eli was your complete opposite in so many ways. You had no doubts that he liked you, but the thought of him realizing how easily he could find someone better lingered in your mind.

You were popular, but it was something that had happened by accident rather than design. You didn’t care about it much, though you appreciated the “good girl” image that came with it. Eli, on the other hand, had a laid-back, effortlessly cool demeanor. He wasn’t concerned with appearances and didn’t seem to care about what others thought. Maybe that was something you needed to learn from him.

Even your interests didn’t align much, but so far, things had been going well.

Lost in your thoughts, your friend shook your shoulders, snapping you back to reality. She turned you toward the crowd, and her grin widened when she saw your face light up. There he was—his messy curls catching the light.

“Damn, you really got Hewson to come to a college game,” she teased.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously. It wasn’t exactly his scene. The echoing cheers of the players and the squeals of the cheerleaders were likely grating to him, but there he was, leaning casually in the back corner. You tried not to let your nerves spiral as you wondered how he felt about all this, about you.

Before you could respond, you spotted him in the distance. Your heart skipped a beat. He looked serious, like he’d rather be anywhere else, and for a moment, doubt crept in. But then his eyes found yours. His expression softened, his hands in his jacket pockets, and his lips curled into a small smile.

You waved enthusiastically, and to your relief, he lit up, waving back just as excitedly. He brushed his hair back, standing still in that secluded spot, and blew you a kiss. A few people nearby noticed, and his cheeks turned pink, but he didn’t seem to care. Your Eli was there.

You threw him a kiss in return, and with his typical playful flair, he pretended to catch it, tucking it into his pocket. It was such a simple, teasing gesture, yet it made your heart swell. He might not love the setting, but he was there for you.

As you turned back to your position on the court, you couldn’t help but steal another glance at him. He looked proud, as though being there and seeing you so happy made everything worth it.

The performance began, and you gave it your all—the dances, the spins, the choreography. A small part of you felt self-conscious, knowing he was watching. While you were sure he wouldn’t judge you, this wasn’t his thing, and you worried about what he thought.

But when your eyes found his again, there was no doubt. It was you. He was there because of you. And that was all that mattered.

The game ended, and as you and the girls announced the final score, thanking everyone for coming, your focus was already elsewhere. You didn’t even register who was speaking to you as you made your way toward Eli. His smile didn’t falter, and he opened his arms wide, waiting for you.

Instinctively, you ran into him, throwing your arms around his neck. He caught you with ease, lifting you slightly off the ground as his arms tightened around you. Without hesitation, he adjusted your skirt, his hand lingering protectively to keep it in place. You had noticed this habit of his before, and though you found it sweet, you hadn’t told him yet that you always wore shorts underneath. You were sure he knew, but the gesture was heartwarming.

You buried your face in his hair, letting the softness of his curls surround you. He nuzzled into your neck in return, inhaling deeply as if to draw comfort from your scent. For a moment, it was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, while the noise and chaos of the game faded into the background.

When your feet touched the ground again, you lingered there, gazing at one another in a rare moment of silence. The world around you seemed to disappear, leaving only the warmth in his caramel eyes and the soft curve of his lips.

You took a small step further, closing the distance between you, and kissed him. It wasn’t tentative—it was the kind of kiss that spoke volumes, a mixture of longing and familiarity. You could taste the faint trace of gum on his tongue, a detail you’d remember fondly later. His hands trailed over your sides, light and deliberate, grounding you in the moment. He felt like calm, like home, and you melted into him, despite the murmurs and stares from the crowd.

The kiss ended quickly but left a deep impression. His hands stayed firmly on your waist, keeping you close, while your gaze was on his lips, too shy to meet his eyes just yet. He broke the silence with a soft kiss to your cheek, then your forehead, dotting your skin with gentle pecks that made you nervous. He always did this, and every time, it made you fall for him all over again.

“Sorry for being late,” he said, his voice low and apologetic. “Josh needed the car.” He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders in one smooth motion, pausing to kiss the top of your head. “Keep it—you look cold.”

You clutched the jacket tightly, enveloped by his warmth and the faint smell of him in the fabric. “I don’t mind,” you replied, light and genuine. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

You squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back, intertwining your fingers. “I know this isn’t your favorite place, so it means a lot to me that you came tonight.”

Eli didn’t respond right away, his mind swirling with thoughts about the people around him, whom he saw as unremarkable, living to meet expectations rather than exploring life’s possibilities. It was an opinion he had once extended to you, long before he became enamored with the way you danced, your laugh ringing through the halls, and your quiet determination to pursue what you loved. Now, he saw you differently. You weren’t just going through the motions—you genuinely enjoyed being there, with your friends and your passions.

Such a realization had led him to fill your locker with letters—awkward yet heartfelt, each building the bridge to this very moment.

He rubbed his thumb over your palm, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “I’ll be here as many times as necessary,” he murmured. “I like to see you happy.”

His words made your goofy smile return full force. He placed a hand gently on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car.

Eli’s ears were still flushed as he opened the door for you, and you couldn’t help but wish for more of that.

...

He sifted through his belongings, handpicking a few tapes and placing them on your lap. "Pick one," he said, anticipation lacing his voice.

You scanned the options before spotting a familiar purple cover. "Oh my God, it's Kate Bush!" you exclaimed, grinning ear to ear. It was surreal. Even as he kept his eyes on the road, his presence filled the small, borrowed car.

"Josh mentioned you were a fan," he said casually.

"And you went and got it for me?" you asked eagerly, pressing play without hesitation.

He nodded, watching your smile grow with every note.

Before he could say anything, you squealed and leaned over to kiss his cheek quickly, careful to avoid causing any accidents. Feeling at ease with him, you mimicked Kate’s vocals, exaggerating your facial expressions to match the drama of her delivery. He chuckled, thankful to Josh for tipping him off about the tape.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it, lil' one," he murmured, his voice warm. Your enthusiasm for the lyrics matched his quiet contentment in seeing you well.

He didn’t know the words or the instrumentation but encouraged you to keep going, like your number-one fan.

"Did you know David Gilmour kind of discovered Kate Bush?" you asked between breaths.

"I’ve heard that somewhere," he replied, prompting you to share more. He liked Pink Floyd, you knew that.

"It’s like we’re all interconnected, isn’t it?" you mused, glancing at him solemnly before turning back to the road, tapping the melody out with your fingers. "I kind of like the thought of it."

"Yeah, it’s a nice thought," he agreed, his chest filling with a quiet warmth. Not ready to let the conversation fade, he added, "So, have you been checking out any of the bands I like?"

The world seemed to slow down for a moment. You noticed the softness in Eli’s features, a rare, relaxed smile that only appeared when he was with you. In other settings—classes, the cafeteria, gigs—he maintained his usual unbothered demeanor, some cool smiles yet nothing more, which you found charming, but this version of him was your favorite.

He placed his large hand gently on your thigh, not moving it but bringing you a sense of comfort. You fingered the rings and felt the more prominent veins on his skin. Smiling, you placed your hand over his, threading your fingers through his long ones. Even brief touches like this filled you with quiet joy.

"I have," you admitted, feeling a little shy. "I wanted to hear what you liked, and I found one I really enjoyed."

His eyes widened in disbelief, and for a moment, you feared he might crash the car. But Eli, ever grounded, kept things steady. "No way! You've reached Blackstar?"

The thing was, you already knew Bowie, of course, but Eli saw him through a unique lens. He had favorite albums and endless commentary about every track. After spending hours with you the night before, he’d gone home, obsessed with crafting a perfect playlist to introduce you to his idol. He never imagined you’d actually listen.

"I did," you confirmed, suppressing a laugh at his attempt to maintain his unbothered facade, though it failed to hide the goofy smile creeping onto his face.

You grinned and began to sing, “Just like that bluebird, oh, I’ll be free…” pretending to hold a microphone.

He smiled as if he’d just won the lottery. “Just like that bluebird, oh, I’ll be free. Ain’t that just like me…” he sang back, pouring affection into every note.

Bowie’s words felt like home, like the perfect bridge between you. Eli never spared feelings when it came to sharing his passions, not like that, not for any special one, even when he initially thought your differences might be too vast. He was starting to see the beauty in complementing perspectives.

You loved Bowie, though not quite as much as he did. And, much like him with Kate Bush, you were learning to appreciate the depth of the connection through each other’s eyes.

...

You were asleep, your hand resting on Eli's arm as he drove down the empty highway. He glanced at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched you sleep peacefully.

Suddenly, as if your mind had been waiting for it, you jolted awake, gasping for air and clutching your chest. Your body trembled as you struggled to catch your breath.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Eli said, his tone soothing as he reached over, gently rubbing your back. "Just take deep breaths with me, huh?"

You nodded, your eyes wide with fear. "I'm sorry," you whispered, guilt heavy in your voice.

"Don't be sorry," Elijah said firmly, his gaze unwavering. "You're not bothering me. I just want to make sure you're fine, babe. Are you good?"

Leaning back against the seat, you inhaled deeply, trying to calm yourself. "It's just...a nightmare. I get them sometimes, and they're always hard to shake off."

"I see," Elijah murmured. "I've been there with you before, remember?" His sweet smile softened his words as he squeezed your hand. And it was true-it wasn't the first time, and you didn't need to feel ashamed. "We'll get through this, okay?"

Pulling the car to the side of the road, he opened the windows and doors to let in the crisp, early morning air. You sat quietly, watching as the sky began to shift, the first rays of dawn painting the horizon with soft light.

"It's so nice, quite beautiful," you murmured, feeling an odd sense of peace settling over you. Small but present, a reminder that he didn’t see you as a problem to be dealt with.

Eli nodded. "Yeah, it is. Like you, when you're comfortable like this," he added, immediately regretting his words, fearing they might sound wrong.

You smiled warmly, your face heating at his unintended confession, making Eli relax. "Thank you."

He reached into the backseat and grabbed a comforter, draping it over you with care. He made sure you were snug and warm, his movements gentle as he tucked you in.

Stopping briefly, he stood silently by the car, watching you shift restlessly under the duvet. Your eyes stayed locked on him, steady and observant. Though your breathing had calmed, you didn't seem ready to sleep again.

"Do you want me to stay here until you sleep?" His voice carried a mix of awkwardness and worry.

"No," you said after a pause, your gaze lingering on his hands gripping the steering wheel and the way his lips were reddened from nervous biting. Your breath hitched faintly, betraying your unease. "Actually, we could stay here for a while." You loosened the duvet, the warmth of the moment overtaking your earlier chill.

He arched a brow, his features shadowed in the dim light. "Okay, but you feel good, right?”

"Yeah, just can't sleep," you admitted, your hand brushing over his shoulder and trailing to the back of his neck, seeking the comfort of his warmth. "Come closer. I want to feel you." You tugged him toward you, your words low and certain.

And Eli had that moment of realization, noticing how different you were from what others perceived, from the image they had built of you. He loved that—that this raw, genuine side of you was something only he had access to.

Eli hesitated for a second before leaning in, his nose brushing against your cheek. His lips met yours, soft and hesitant at first, contrasting with the sudden urgency in your touch. He melted into the seat, his hand naturally finding your waist as the kiss deepened.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven. The darkness obscured his face, but you could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

"I like how you taste," you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer. The warmth of his breath brushed your skin as you trailed kisses from his lips to his nose, playfully licking his parted mouth along the way.

Your laughter filled the car when you noticed how flustered he had become. You relished the effect you had on him, thinking about how you might use it to your advantage in the future.

Before Eli could lean in for another kiss, his usual lovesick expression plastered on his face, you leaned closer, your voice dropping to a mischievous whisper.

"I need a favor, if you don't mind.”

...

You stopped in a dark, desolate spot, your hand crazy with sweat as nerves took hold. Elijah could tell you were uneasy about being out in the middle of nowhere.

"El, I don’t want to be alone," you murmured, your voice drowsy but trembling with it all.

He didn’t question it, just as he didn’t even consider leaving you behind. Truthfully, he wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of braving the rickety gas station alone either, even if it was just to relieve himself.

He nodded, his expression steady, trying to ease the tension in your own. The worry was etched across your face, and Elijah knew you tended to spiral into pessimistic thoughts in situations like this. He couldn’t begin to guess the scenarios playing out in your mind, but he was determined to dispel them.

"Look," he said quickly, color rushing to his cheeks and necks, "I’ll step outside, stay by the car, and just use the tree right here. I won’t go far, I won’t leave your sight, and I’ll shut the door so you’ll still feel safe. Just, uh… don’t look, y’know? That’d be awkward."

You nodded, avoiding his gaze as your hands fumbled for the radio, turning up the volume to drown out any sound from outside. It was a flimsy attempt to preserve the boundary of intimacy, even for something as brief and mundane as this. Still, you couldn’t deny his plan made sense, even if it left you feeling slightly on edge.

—

Part 2 will be posted soon! Promise!

[surging-eyes-seeing-through]

"...I guess I can understand that, to a certain degree. If people found out certain things about me, I'd turn into a sort of hermit, too."

(I kind of am right now, aren't I? Well, I'm talking to this thing, but... I haven't stepped outside in a few days, have I?)

"The Phantom."

[His tone changed entirely, filled with anger and spite. Undoubtedly, he must be wearing an upset expression... Something that was confirmed once the man sat up. Thankfully for Vaz, his negative emotions seemed to be firmly pointed at the concept of this man, his tone indicating he wasn't at all unhappy with the hologram.]

"...He was afraid for good reason, I'd say. That... that thing, I... they're no joke. That bastard has no regard for human life. At least they're in prison, now..."

(...Though, and I feel bad for thinking this, but... I wish that bullet had ended him.)

[His voice trembled slightly, his eyes glancing around the room. Like talking about Clay, this seemed to overwhelm him a little emotionally, but... in a completely different manner.]

Ongoing RP Chain with @mechanical-masquerade

[Part 1]

"...Well I don't blame your creator. Becoming an astronaut... it's tough business, that's for sure. I certainly wouldn't be up for it, even when I'm at my best. Being a lawyer's more boring, but... oh well."

"Sabotage... yeah, that's... weirdly prevalent, isn't it? I... can appreciate his effort to mitigate it, even if none of it affected me. Sorry that he was killed, though, I can... understand the situation.

And it's fine... It's not like you were doing it on purpose. I have to get over this at some point, anyways."

"...Ah, but I'm curious now. You say you were a result of this thing? So... are you some sort of... rocket defense system, or something?"

[It was... the best guess he could come up with.]