#but the lack of energy matching still stands)

[fandomish]

Thinking about how Leo always flips his shit and searches recklessly for his brothers when they go missing/are separated but probably genuinely didn’t expect to be saved at all when he locked himself in the prison dimension

[gentlethorns]

you know what? i'm gonna say it. i miss being seventeen. not for the "glory days," bc they weren't, by a country mile lol. if i had glory days i'd say they were in 2020. but i miss the electricity, the constant undercurrent of euphoria and deep plunging black. i miss the fight i had. i was literally known for being scrappy. i was self-destructive and coping poorly, but goddamn if i didn't burn bright and long. it took me until my twenties to finally start to fizzle out. does the candle with its wax melted down to the base of its glass cage miss when the wick was lit?

[jaysbaefie]

sanctuary | psh

synopsis: in which a prison escapee breaks in for shelter, but finds something he wants to keep and ruin.

genre: prison escapee au

pairing: escapee!sunghoon x afab!reader

warnings: yandre!sunghoon, possesive!sunghoon, reader is held hostage, non-con, lots of threatening, forced submission, oral (m.rec), slapping, choking, hair pulling, manhandling, fingering, gagging, spanking ass + pussy, light male masterbation, some blood. i think that’s it …

wc: 10.4k

a/n: a bit of a darker fic.. so please do take warnings seriously. my first time trying to write a yandre character so if it’s a bit meh i’m sorry!! ‘bullshit’ won the poll so stay tuned for that fic it’ll b out by the end of the month (hopefully) as well as the first chapter of ‘double trouble’. notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy!!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the sound of what you assume is your window shattering wakes you up from your sleep. still half asleep, you sit up on your bed—your heart racing as you look around your room with sleepy eyes.

"what the-" your murmur, eyes shooting to your window which was still in tact. a part of you wanted to get up and search the rest of your home, but the tired side of you convinces you to stay in bed. it was probably just the neighbour's cat again.

you had finally finished your finals, the lack of sleep and energy outweighing the thought of searching your home.

grumbling, you allow yourself to shut your eyes and fall back into your bed. the warmth of your blanket and sheets surrounding you as you sign in bliss—the thought of possibly being a victim to a break and enter slipping your mind.

you hear rustling outside your room, however choose to over look it.

not a good idea..

you shift under the blanket, tugging it higher over your shoulders with a sleepy sigh. the rustling sound outside your room grows louder for a moment, then stills. your mind barely registers it—dismissing it as the wind, or maybe the pipes, or maybe just your imagination playing tricks on you in the haze of half-sleep.

the room is quiet again.

too quiet.

but your body, still tense beneath the comfort of the sheets, eventually relaxes. the softness of your bed lulls you back into that cozy liminal space between dreams and awareness.

until a sound has your eyes snapping wide open.

click.

a door hinge.

your bedroom door.

you freeze in position, a chill creeping across your spine as your eyes widened in horror—looking up at your ceiling in fear.

that wasn't your imagination.

you sit up again, slower this time, heart pounding loud in your ears. the door is cracked open now. you know you closed it when you came to bed. you always do.

your voice catches in your throat.

"hello?" you call out weakly, trying to sound firm. "is someone there?"

no answer.

just more rustling. closer this time.

your hand reaches for your phone on the nightstand—but it's not there. your fingers scramble across the empty surface, your panic now matching the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat.

it's gone.

the silence presses in, thick and suffocating.

and then—you feel it. the weight.

a presence. in the room.

you whip your head toward the corner, breath catching in your lungs. a figure is standing there, shadowed and still. you can barely make out the sharp outline of him—tall, lean, covered in darkness like it's part of his skin.

the stranger steps forward, and the dim light from your bedside lamp finally catches his face.

a familiar face comes into view, thick prominent eyebrows, a sharp face, plump lips and midnight black locks. as if his usual appearance wasn't enough to send you off into panic he was covered in blood and dirt. his hair disheveled and wild, accompanied with glassy eyes.

it takes only a second for recognition to hit you like a punch to the gut.

park sunghoon.

your legs move before your mind does, kicking your blanket away as you lunge out of bed—only to be shoved back down hard.

his hand clamps around your wrist, and in a terrifying blur of strength and precision, he's on top of you—pinning you to the mattress with one knee between your legs, the other hand already pulling something from his back pocket.

"stop fighting," he grits out, voice low and breathless, like he's already on the edge. "i'm not here to hurt you. just need you to shut up and stay still."

you struggle harder, panic flaring hot and raw—but he's stronger. faster.

the zip-ties are around your wrists before you can scream. the sound of them tightening feels louder than your own heartbeat.

he pulls the covers off you completely, checking your legs, then curses under his breath. "should've grabbed more ties..."

you scream.

or try to.

but he's already pushing something between your lips—a shirt, wadded up and shoved into your mouth. it tastes like cotton and salt and tears. his hand presses it deeper, muffling the sound of your screams completely.

he stares down at you for a moment, chest heaving. then, slowly, he lifts his hand away from your mouth.

your eyes are wide. blown with terror.

he doesn't look angry. just tired.

"i wasn't supposed to pick a house that had anyone in it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "just needed a place. just needed time."

you try to kick him. scream. thrash beneath him.

his hands pin your legs down with an easy shift of his weight, and his voice turns sharp again.

"don't," he warns. "i really don't want to hurt you. but i will."

the words hang in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, dangerous.

you stop moving.

and for a moment, the room is silent again.

sunghoon runs a hand down his face, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he tries to calm the adrenaline surging through him. when he opens them again, his gaze is locked on yours.

"i'll let you go... eventually," he says. "but if you do anything stupid—I won't feel bad about tying you to this bed and gagging you all over again."

he reaches out slowly, brushing hair out of your face like he hasn't just shattered your entire sense of safety. his touch is oddly gentle. confusingly careful.

"i'm not the monster they say i am," he whispers, almost as if he was convincing himself.

but right now, lying beneath him, helpless and bound, you can't tell the difference.

he finally pulls himself off you, but not before trailing his eyes down your body again—slow, deliberate, lingering far too long on the way your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.

suddenly, you regretted wearing your tiny sleep shorts and tank top to bed.

you want to yell at him. fight him. spit in his face. but your mouth is stuffed, your wrists burn, and your fear makes your limbs too heavy to move.

he walks across the room without urgency, opening your closet like he lives here. like this is his place now. he pulls out one of your hoodies, yanks it over his bloodstained shirt, then grabs a pair of your socks and wipes the dirt from his face.

he doesn't say a word.

you watch, helpless, as he rummages through your drawers. your shelves. your life.

he's looking for something.

eventually, he finds it—your phone charger.

"need to use your hotspot," he mutters, plugging your phone in and sitting on the edge of your bed like the act of invading your home and tying you up was just some minor inconvenience.

your body jerks when the mattress dips beneath his weight.

he doesn't look at you, but his voice lowers again.

"you're gonna stay quiet," he says. "you're gonna stay still. and you're not gonna do anything that'll make me regret sparing you."

you glare at him, muffled curses twisting behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

finally, he turns to you. cold eyes meeting yours.

and then he smiles.

a small, tired, fucked-up smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"we'll get along just fine."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you wake up in the exact same position you passed out in.

arms aching. wrists burning. legs numb from being tied up too long. your mouth is dry, your lips cracked around the fabric still shoved between them. every part of your body feels used—like even your skin remembers the panic of last night.

you blink slowly.

the room is bathed in warm daylight, soft and almost cruel in how normal it looks. like nothing's wrong. like this isn't a crime scene waiting to happen.

your eyes drag toward the door when it creaks open.

and then he walks in.

park sunghoon.

your body freezes up in fear, you knew him and of his crimes.

you were half-asleep at the library, head buried in a textbook, highlighter in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. finals week was already draining what little life you had left in you, and the last thing you cared about was whatever the old guy at the next table was watching on his phone at full volume.

but then you heard it.

"—escaped late last night during a prison transfer. armed, dangerous, do not approach—"

your eyes flicked up, annoyance flashing before curiosity took over. you caught a glimpse of the screen—blurry, low-res, but clear enough. a mugshot.

young. dark hair. sharp eyes, jaw clenched like he'd rather eat glass than be photographed.

park sunghoon, the name beneath it read.

the guy beside you muttered something about the justice system falling apart before going back to his crossword.

you hadn't thought much of it. just another headline. another manhunt. the world was full of danger you'd never come close to.

well, until last night.

he looked cleaner now. fresher. his hair is damp, like he's showered. one of your hoodies is draped over his frame, sleeves pushed up casually as he carries in a glass of water and a granola bar—like this is some sick sleepover and not a hostage situation.

he glances at you, expression unreadable. then smirks faintly.

"you're awake."

you glare at him, rage bubbling beneath the surface of your exhaustion.

he walks over, crouches beside the bed, and places the glass on your nightstand.

"you gonna be good?" he asks. "nod if you are. shake your head if you want that gag shoved deeper."

your jaw clenches. you hold his gaze.

then, slowly, you nod.

he watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion—then reaches up and pulls the crumpled shirt from your mouth. your jaw aches instantly, tongue thick and raw.

you cough, your voice barely a whisper. "fuck you."

he chuckles, it would've been cute if he wasn't holding you hostage in your own home, "thought we were starting over."

you don't respond.

he stands, pacing your room slowly as he opens the granola bar and bites into it. "you're lucky it was me. anyone else who broke in would've done worse than tie you up and take a shower."

he says it so casually it makes your stomach turn.

and for a few moments, you just lie there. breathing through the pain, waiting for an opening.

when he turns his back—your chance comes.

you twist, rolling off the edge of the bed. it's sloppy. painful. you hit the floor hard, knees burning as you try to scramble to your feet, legs still partially bound. you hop, trip, catch yourself on the dresser and launch toward the window.

you don't think. you just scream.

loud. broken. bloody murder.

sunghoon is on you in seconds.

"no—fuck—stop!"

you scream again, louder.

he grabs you from behind, one hand over your mouth, the other wrenching you back against his chest. your heart is hammering. you're kicking, thrashing, desperate. but he's stronger. faster.

again.

he spins you and shoves you against the wall, arm across your chest as he digs something from his pocket.

a black gag.

fabric. straps. thick and menacing.

"you had one chance," he growls. "just one. and you blew it."

your scream is muffled the second he stuffs the gag between your lips and tightens it around the back of your head. it's snug. suffocating. humiliating.

he holds your jaw, tilting your head up, breathing heavy against your cheek.

"next time you open that mouth without permission—" he growls, voice low and venomous, "—i'll gag you with my dick. understood?"

your breath stutters. your eyes burn with tears.

he pulls back, studying you. watching how your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. then, he lets go and takes a step back.

"new rules," he says calmly, like he hasn't just threatened to fuck your throat as punishment.

he raises a finger.

"one—no screaming. not once. i hear so much as a whimper out of you without my say-so, i'll make you regret it."

a second finger.

"two—you don't try to escape. you don't touch the door. you don't look at the window. you so much as think about running, i'll tie you up worse than before. i'll make it so you beg me not to leave you alone."

a third finger.

"three—you do what i say. when i say it. no attitude. no tricks. no more chances."

he steps forward again, slow and looming, until you feel his breath against your gagged mouth.

"break any of them," he whispers, "and next time, i'm not stopping at just words."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you don't speak.

you don't scream.

you sit perfectly still on the edge of your bed, wrists still raw from the zip ties, legs aching—but obedient.

sunghoon watches you from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a slow, unreadable expression on his face. then, finally, he moves.

he walks in with the glass of water and a granola bar again, this time crouching in front of you and reaching behind your head to undo the gag. it slips from your mouth, slick with your spit.

you gasp softly, jaw stiff and sore, but say nothing—his threats still fresh in your mind.

he offers the water first, and you drink—slow, cautious sips. then the granola bar. you take it with trembling fingers, never breaking eye contact.

"good girl," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. you flinch at his touch, but he just smirks.

he leaves you untied this time.

your limbs are stiff, but you pretend not to notice. you chew slowly, swallow, nod when he tells you to stay put.

but your eyes are already moving. scanning. searching.

his phone is in his back pocket. but yours—your phone—is on the desk.

screen dark. unplugged. untouched.

you wait. bide your time. he leaves the room for a second. maybe to grab something. maybe just to test you.

you count your heartbeats. one. two. three—

you move.

you slide off the bed as quietly as possible, fingers creeping toward the desk. one foot in front of the other. your hand is just about to touch the edge of your phone when—

"what do you think you're doing?"

his voice is quiet. dangerously soft.

you freeze. your hand lingers over the phone, not daring to close the distance.

you turn slowly.

he's standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

for a moment, you expect him to snap. to yell. to grab you by the hair and throw you back on the bed.

but he doesn't.

he smiles.

walks over slowly and picks the phone up himself, slipping it into his back pocket.

"strike one," he says calmly. "but i'll be nice. just this once."

he brushes past you, but there's tension in his movements now. less patience. more heat behind his stare.

you return to the bed, defeated but not broken. not yet.

and then—

ding-dong.

the doorbell.

you don't even think this time.

your body moves before your brain catches up. you run. toward the door, toward the one fucking hope you've had since this nightmare started.

you run down the stairs, your body trembling in fear and adrenaline as you make it to the last step—leaping for the door.

but he's faster.

he slams you against the wall with one arm across your chest, the other pressing tight around your throat.

you gasp—your feet nearly leave the floor as he holds you there.

his grip isn't bruising—yet—but it's tight enough to keep you from moving, from breathing too deep, from making a single sound.

you can hear the footsteps outside. then a knock.

sunghoon leans in, his lips brushing your ear.

"you make a sound," he hisses, "and i'll kill whoever is outside. right here."

snapping on the safety chain, sunghoon grabs a hold of the door knob. he opens it with a click before his hand reaches into his pocket—a gun. he makes sure that you can see it, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'don't test me.'

"oh! hey—sorry to bother you," a familiar voice says. "i'm looking for my cat again. little bastard slipped out last night. have you seen him?"

it's mr. han. your sweet old neighbor.

your eyes burn. your fingers twitch.

you try to speak, but sunghoon tightens his hand around your throat and leans his head out the door.

"hi," he says, perfectly pleasant. "i'm her boyfriend. she's in the shower right now, but i'll tell her you stopped by."

mr. han blinks in confusion, his soft smile slipping. "oh. i didn't know she had a boyfriend."

sunghoon glances at you over his shoulder, a smirk creeping across his face as he presses you harder into the wall.

"yeah, hasn't been to long. just moved in."

"well, good for her!" mr. han chuckles. "if you see a tabby, let me know, will you?"

"of course," sunghoon says, eyes squinting as he forces a smile. "have a good one."

sunghoon watches the elder man walk off the porch and zoom off of the lawn, he shuts the door.

locks it and turns to you slowly.

his grip around your throat doesn't loosen. it tightens.

"you just don't fucking learn." he slams you back against the wall hard enough to make the frame shake. your head knocks into the plaster, breath choking in your throat.

"you think i'm stupid? you think just 'cause you stayed quiet for a day that you could get bold?" his free hand moves, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark. wild. no trace of the calm he faked a minute ago.

"what do i do to brats who don't listen?" he growls, voice low and threatening. "hmm? what did i promise i'd do?"

your heart drops in your chest.

his hand drops to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he manhandles you away from the wall and drags you up the stairs and towards your bed again, shoving you face-first into the mattress.

sunghoon's eyes snap to your behind, the vulnerable position you were in leaving little to his imagination of what you hid underneath your flimsy shorts.

"you want attention so bad?" he snaps. "fine. i'll give you attention."

his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, pinned like prey. his other hands smoothens over your behind, grabbing a hold of the fat on your ass making you whine into the sheets.

"but after this—" he breathes against your ear, "—you'll beg to follow the rules."

"you remember what i said i'd gag you with next time you pulled shit like that?"

his voice is low. dangerous. every word laced with venom and heat before he's griping your jaw, thumb dragging over your trembling lips.

your silence earns you nothing. he flips you around, pushing you down onto the bed with your back against your soft sheets.

he tilts your head back further, pressing your skull against the headboard now, his body wedged between your knees.

"oh, now you're quiet?" he mocks, fingers tightening around your face in a grip that you were sure would leave bruises. "no attitude now that you know what's coming?"

you try to speak, to plead maybe—but your mouth barely opens before he shoves two fingers past your lips, forcing them deep against your tongue.

sunghoon holds back a groan when he feels how warm and wet your mouth was around his digits, pressing down on your tongue making you gag.

"nah," he growls, "you don't get to talk. you had your chance."

he pulls his fingers out, dripping with spit, and pulls down his pants with ease without taking his eyes off you.

"since you can't keep your fucking mouth shut, i'll put it to better use."

he's straddling your waist, knees on either side of your body as his cock stands proud in front of you.

he fists your hair, yanking your head toward his cock, already thick and flushed with need. the first tap of it against your lips is sharp, mean.

"open."

you hesitate—so he slaps it against your cheek. hard.

"i said open."

your lips part automatically. it's instinct at this point—survival.

he doesn't ease in.

he shoves, thick and heavy, making you choke on the first thrust. both hands grip your head now, holding you exactly where he wants you, using your mouth like he promised.

"there you go. that's better. this is how i like you—stuffed full, not making a sound," sunghoon grunts out, basking in the way your warm mouth seemed to suck him in.

you gag as he pushes deeper, spit dripping from your chin as he rocks his hips, forcing you to take it all.

his voice stays in your ear, low and taunting.

"next time you scream? next time you run? i'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't even remember your own name."

your eyes water, throat stretched, his cock filling every inch. but he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. the tip of his length hits the back of your throat repeatedly as you try to push yourself away from his brutal thrusts. sunghoon sees this and his grip in your hair becomes stronger, stuffing his cock deeper so your nose touched his pelvis and your breathing stuttered.

"you like this, don't you? being punished. being used. my little brat who acts tough but melts the second i get my hands on her."

his pace quickens, brutal now, the sound of your wet gagging and his filthy growls echoing off the walls.

"better than screaming, isn't it?" he sneers. "go ahead—choke on it, since you couldn't behave."

your hands claw weakly at his thighs, but he just holds you there, hips snapping forward, using your mouth until your throat is raw.

"fuck. your mouth is so good when it's used right," he mutters lowly, feeling that familiar feeling tighten in his lower stomach as he watches your tear stained face take his cock over and over again.

with no warning, he shoots his load into your mouth—coating it white. you gag at the feeling, your eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen begins to really get to you.

and only when he's satisfied—only when he's sure you won't be trying to run again—does he finally pull out, dragging his spit and cum covered cock over your lips.

"swallow," he demands.

afraid of what he'd do if you disobeyed, you obliged.

"look at you," he pants, gripping your chin. "fucking perfect like this."

he leans down, mouth against your ear.

"you make a sound again—and next time, it won't just be your mouth i use."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

it's been days.

you don't know how many, exactly—time feels warped in here. sunlight comes and goes through the windows, but you're barely conscious enough to count the difference anymore.

you're weak. too weak.

he barely feeds you. you get enough to survive, some water, maybe crackers or a half-eaten bar—but not enough to fight back. not enough to scream through the gag still strapped tightly across your mouth.

your wrists are red, raw from how often he binds them. sometimes behind your back, sometimes above your head. your legs, too—he likes to keep you where he can see you, spread open and helpless, arms cinched tight and useless at your sides.

he doesn't talk much now. just watches you. moves you. like a thing he owns.

it was supposed to be temporary for him.

a place to hide. one night—maybe two. long enough to lay low, avoid the flashing lights and barking dogs. just long enough to scrape by without being seen.

he didn't expect the house to be so quiet.

so soft.

he didn't expect to hear the sound of slow breathing upstairs—the kind that came from deep sleep. vulnerable. defenseless.

and he definitely didn't expect you.

the first time he crept into your room and saw you lying there, curled beneath the sheets, skin glowing under moonlight, he nearly forgot to breathe. fuck, you were pretty. a cute little thing in a tank top and sleep shorts, completely unaware of the danger breathing over you.

it should've ended there. he should've turned around and used the basement or the attic or anywhere else.

but you shifted in your sleep—lips parting, a soft whimper slipping from your throat—and it hit him.

you didn't know he was there. you didn't know anything, he could do whatever he wanted.

and no one would stop him.

his chest tightened. not with guilt. not with hesitation.

with possibility.

he could make this place more than a hiding spot.

he could make you his.

his to keep. to touch. to break.

he had ruined your peaceful sleep when he knocked over a vase that you had placed on your vanity. he knew what he had to do from there.

he told himself he'd leave eventually. but the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to go.

he started to crave the way you looked at him—wide-eyed and shaking. he started to need the way your body recoiled, only to soften when he touched you gently. the way you flinched, but didn't fight—not right away at least.

he could mold you.

he could make you something new. something better.

his.

the house became his kingdom. and you—his prize.

he told himself you were safer this way.

he was safer this way.

because if he let you go—if he walked out and left you behind—there was no guarantee you wouldn't take something from him with you.

and if he had to be on the run... might as well have a pet to keep him company. one that couldn't run. one that knew who she belonged to.

you try not to look at him anymore.

but then—this time—it's different.

he walks in with that quiet menace, dragging a chair with one hand and a towel with the other.

you're curled in the corner of your bed, wrists tied, gag biting into your cheeks. your limbs shake with the effort of just staying upright. your skin feels oily, dirty, your scalp itchy from days without washing.

you've never wanted a bath more.

but not from him.

"you stink," he says flatly, his plump lips pulled into a thin line.

you look up, exhausted eyes narrowed.

he walks over, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet like you weigh nothing.

you stumble, legs buckling—but his grip stays locked around your bicep, dragging you down the hall and into the bathroom.

"don't fight me," he mutters. "you don't have the strength."

he's not wrong.

but your pride forces you to resist anyway—so he slams you against the sink.

you grunt, head hitting the mirror lightly. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down.

you scream against the gag, but it's useless. muffled. pitiful.

he turns the faucet on in the tub, steam rising slowly. the water looks too warm—comforting, tempting—and it makes you hate him more.

you look up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to let you free so you could at the very least bathe yourself. his cold eyes remain the same, reaching down to grip the flimsy straps of your tank top.

he doesn't undress you gently. he yanks your shirt up over your head, roughly tugging it off your arms even with your wrists bound. your shorts follow. he doesn't avert his eyes—he drinks you in, every shiver, every twitch, every part of you exposed and vulnerable.

his eyes linger on your tits, sitting on your chest with your nipples hard from the cold air in the room. he swallows harshly, dragging his gaze down to instead linger on your thighs and your uncovered core.

you're trembling now, from weakness or humiliation or both.

he grabs your waist and lifts you into the tub like you're nothing but a doll. the hot water stings your skin at first, but you sink into it anyway—your body aching for warmth, for some kind of relief.

you expect him to leave, to have some mercy. he doesn't.

he kneels beside the tub and grabs a cup, filling it before dumping it over your head. your hair clings to your face, your gag soaked.

he works a bottle of shampoo into his hands and starts lathering it into your scalp. not gentle—but not cruel either. just firm. efficient. like this is just another task.

his hands roam as he scrubs. over your shoulders. down your back. between your thighs. you jerk when he gets there—more out of instinct than strength—but his hand tightens on your thigh.

"stay still."

his fingers drag along your inner thigh, slow, invasive. he doesn't go further, just lets you know he could if he really wanted to.

and you're forced to sit there, bound and gagged, water lapping at your chest while he washes the filth from your skin like you're some helpless pet.

"next time," he says lowly, rinsing your hair, "you listen. you don't fight. you don't run."

you can't even respond. all you can do is whimper beneath the wet gag, body trembling in his grasp. he finishes washing you, lifting you out of the tub, wrapping you in the towel like he cares.

but the second your feet hit the floor, he's gripping your arm again—dragging you back to the room.

you don't even resist.

you're too tired. too humiliated. too broken in.

he throws you on the bed, ties your wrists to the headboard again with a new set of restraints. this time tighter, less forgiving.

he fixes the gag and adjusts the straps. he brushes your wet hair back from your face with a mockingly sweet touch, his hands gentle as he looks down at you with affection.

"see?" he whispers, brushing his lips just above your ear. "i take care of what's mine."

he dries you off just enough so the sheets won't get soaked—then he tosses the towel aside like it means nothing and grabs your ankles, dragging your body up the bed like dead weight.

you try to squirm, but he slaps your thigh. hard.

"don't start."

you're still gagged. your wrists are already tied above your head. there's no room for rebellion here—and he knows it.

he climbs on top of you, straddling your hips with his knees. he's not naked, but you are. he doesn't need to be. the only thing that matters right now is you.

your body.

your obedience.

he cups your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks roughly, pulling your gaze to meet his.

"look at you," he sneers. "a fucking mess. barely standing. can't talk. can't run. all that fire you had—where the fuck did it go?" you can't answer—not with the gag pressing your tongue down, soaking with your spit. you just blink up at him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

"you wanted to be saved, didn't you?" he mocks, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to slap it again. "thought someone would come for you. knock on the door, maybe hear you screaming."

he laughs. bitter.

"they came. and you failed. just like everything else you've tried since i got here."

his hands start roaming again—gripping your breasts, digging into your ribs, sliding down to your stomach like he's taking inventory of every inch he owns.

"this body?" he mutters. "not yours anymore. it's mine. to touch. to punish. to fuck."

he grabs your thighs, spreading them roughly, pushing your knees apart like you don't even get a say.

"you're not a person right now," he breathes. "you're a hole. a toy. and you'll be whatever i say you are until i get bored."

you whimper against the gag, eyes starting to sting. but that only seems to turn him on more. he leans down, mouth at your ear again, voice sickeningly sweet.

"cry. beg. scream into that gag. it won't change a fucking thing. no one's going to save you."

his hand finds your core, pressing his fingers against you with no warning, no care. "already wet," he mutters, almost smug. "pathetic."

he drags his fingers up slowly, deliberately—just enough to make you flinch, to remind you how little control you have over yourself.

"you'll learn, baby. you'll learn. and when you do—when you stop fighting and just take it like the good little thing you are? it'll be easier."

he slaps between your legs. hard. you jolt.

"until then? i'll break you."

you don't know when the pain became pleasure. maybe it was the moment he touched you without hurting you. maybe it was how long it's been since you felt anything that wasn't fear or humiliation. or maybe it's just that your body's giving in, finally breaking, surrendering to him because it's the only option left.

sunghoon sees it. feels it.

his fingers slide over you again—slow this time, calculated. he presses two between your chubby folds, dragging them through your slick like he's proving a point. he presses hard on your clit before rubbing right circles, watching your face contort into one of discomfort and pleasure.

"look at this," he breathes out heavily, watching your body twitch with his every touch. "you like it."

you shake your head, gag muffling your protests—but your hips twitch forward without your permission.

his smile is cold. smug.

"no?" he mocks, rubbing lazy circles around your clit with the pads of his fingers. "then why are you so fucking wet? you're soaking my fingers, honey."

you squeeze your thighs together instinctively—but he shoves them apart again, gripping them wide open and holding them there in a bruising manner.

"don't hide from me. not after this."

his other hand slides up your body, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat, not squeezing—yet. just enough to make you feel it. make you still.

"you want to cum?" he asks, cocking his head—his dark locks falling over his forehead as his lips curl into a smirk. "is that what this is? you think i'll reward you after the shit you pulled? after how bad you've been, you think you deserve it? hm?"

his fingers slow down, barely touching now. feather-light. teasing. "maybe i should edge you until you break. over and over. never let you finish. see how long it takes before you're begging."

your breath stutters—every inch of you tense, desperate.

he sees it. loves it.

"or..."

he leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

"...maybe you can earn it."

you freeze.

his fingers start circling again, more firmly now, making your hips buck involuntarily as you chase your release desperately. your heart aches at the feeling, shame filling you.

"yeah. that's right. i'll let you cum—but only when you prove you're mine. when you stop fighting. when you're good."

he pulls the gag down, slow and wet with spit. your lips are trembling, red and swollen. sunghoon watches your lips twitch, your chest heave up and down as you struggle to keep in your lewd sounds.

"say it," he whispers.

you hesitate.

his hand leaves your throat, trailing back down your chest. he pinches your nipple hard, making you jolt in pain.

"say it."

your voice cracks when it comes out. weak. wrecked. ashamed.

"...i'm yours."

he grins. dark. dangerous.

"again."

"i'm... i'm yours, sunghoon," your voice coming out weak and strangled as he continues to tweak at your nipple and rub at your core.

his hand between your legs moves faster now, relentless, cruel in how perfectly it works your body—building that ache, that pressure, that need.

"you cum only when i say," he growls. "not before. not without permission."

you nod. frantically. desperate for a release, desperate for any other feeling besides pain and humiliation.

your thighs start to shake, breath stuttering, but just when you're about to fall over the edge—

he pulls away. completely.

you sob. instantly. broken, needy.

he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, mockingly sweet.

"not yet, baby. you're not there yet."

he strokes his cock lazily now, right in front of your face—watching you unravel. you hadn't noticed when he had pulled himself free from the restraints of his pants, watching him touch himself as he made you squirm and beg.

"you want to cum?"

you nod again, more desperate.

"then earn it. really earn it."

he slides two fingers back inside you—slow, deep, hitting exactly where he knows will make you cry.

"submit."

his fingers curl deep inside you again—slow, precise, knowing.

you arch, back bowing against the mattress involuntarily, your wrists straining in their binds. it feels too good, too dangerous. you bite your lip to keep from moaning, but it slips out anyway—a soft, shaky sound that betrays everything you want to hide.

he grins, "there she is."

you glare at him. breathing hard. eyes glassy, but still sharp. "fuck... you," you hiss.

he chuckles, low and unbothered, never stopping the rhythm of his hand.

"yeah?" he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw. "you say that, but your pussy's soaking my fingers."

his thumb moves to your clit—just a light press, a tease—and your whole body flinches. you clench your teeth, swallowing a moan. he notices.

"still fighting," he murmurs. "i love that."

he stops stroking himself, his hand snaking up to your throat again, squeezing this time. firm enough to make your breath hitch.

"but it won't save you."

his pace picks up. fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles. the pressure builds fast—your body's too sensitive, too deprived—and you hate how close you are, how easily he has you trembling.

"don't you dare cum," he growls. "not until i say." the sound of wet smacking fills the room, you could hear yourself squelch against his fingers, your lower stomach tightening as you buck your hips against his hands.

you try. you really try.

but your hips keep rolling into his touch, your walls clenching around his fingers, the pleasure dragging you closer and closer to the edge. your moans break free, desperate, breathless, despite every part of you screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

he watches it happen with dark amusement. "look at you," he says. "trying so hard to hold out. you're pathetic."

you meet his eyes, defiant even through the haze.

"i'm not... yours," you whisper.

his hand stops.

your whole body seizes up with the sudden loss, a sob catching in your throat.

"no?" he murmurs.

he pulls his fingers out, slow and sticky, then slaps your inner thigh hard enough to sting.

"then you don't get to cum."

you cry out, body trembling. your thighs rub together, instinctively chasing friction, but he grabs your jaw hard and yanks your face toward his before landing a strong smack to your puffy cunt.

"say it again," he demands. "go on. tell me you're not mine."

you don't. not right away. he smirks.

"thought so."

he leans in, lips brushing yours—but not kissing. just hovering. "you'll break," he whispers. "piece by piece. you'll cum when i let you. breathe when i let you. and someday, you'll say it and mean it—i'm yours, sunghoon."

you spit in his face.

it lands right below his eye.

he pauses. then he laughs—low and deadly—and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"good," he says, gripping your chin harder. "keep fighting. it makes owning you so much sweeter."

he shoves the gag back into your mouth, tight, unforgiving. your jaw begins to ache again, crying against the restraint.

"no more chances."

he ties your legs open, so you can't even squirm now. exposed. vulnerable. soaked.

"you'll cum when you beg. and mean it."

he slides his fingers back inside, slower now. torturous. your gummy walls welcome his fingers, stretching to accommodate the girth of his digits.

"let's see how long you last."

he thinks he has you right where he wants you.

tied, gagged, spread open—body sensitive, on edge, desperate. but he's predictable now. obsessive. careless in the way he touches you, in the way he lingers. like you're not just a hostage anymore—like you're something more.

and that? that's a weakness.

he's working you with his fingers again—slow, deep strokes meant to drag out the ache, to make you beg.

but this time, you don't squirm.

you start moaning for him.

soft at first—just breathy little sounds muffled through the gag—but enough to make his head tilt. enough to make his fingers pause for a second.

you moan again. louder this time. exaggerated. needy. you flutter your lashes, shift your hips just the way you know he likes.

his gaze flickers down to your face, suspicious. "what're you doing?" he mutters, voice low with suspicion.

you blink up at him—wide-eyed, innocent—then roll your hips into his hand with a soft, choked sound.

he curses under his breath.

you can feel it—the tension in him, the way his fingers falter for half a second. he likes this. too much. he likes seeing you like this. needy. soft. wanting him.

so you give it to him.

you moan into the gag again—arching your back a little, letting your thighs tremble, pretending to lose yourself.

his hand tightens on your leg. his breathing shifts as he curls his fingers in your cunt making you delirious.

"fuck," he mutters. "look at you. finally learning."

you nod. slow. deliberate.

then you hold his gaze. and you smirk. just a twitch of your lips—barely there. but he sees it and he freezes.

his eyes darken, narrowing, hand yanking back from between your legs like he's been burned.

you tilt your head, mockingly sweet.

"you think you're clever, huh?" he growls.

you nod again, smug, even through the gag. he grabs your throat—hard this time, his thumb pressing into the side just enough to make your vision pulse.

"you think you can manipulate me?"

your lashes flutter, but you don't stop smiling—not with your eyes. not with your body still glistening, still wanting.

you're challenging him. and he lives for it.

"fine," he breathes, voice shaking with something between rage and arousal. "you want to play that game? we'll play."

he rips the gag out of your mouth, shoving two fingers in right after, deep, gagging you all over again.

"suck."

you choke, but your lips wrap around them anyway—defiance still burning in your eyes, even as he uses your mouth like it's his.

he groans.

"you want to be in control?" he snarls, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. "then earn it."

he flips you over onto your stomach, rough—palms pressing your face into the mattress.

"but don't forget who you belong to."

he grabs your hips, yanking you back until your ass is flush against him, his breath hot against your spine.

"mine," he growls. "you'll always be mine."

you're still face down when he lets go of your hips. your cheek's pressed to the mattress, wrists raw from the binds, your body trembling—but not just from exhaustion anymore.

you got to him.

you felt it—the hesitation, the way he gripped you too tightly, the way his voice shook when you moaned just the right way. he's not just trying to break you now. he's unraveling with you.

you breathe slowly, letting your body go limp—making him think he's won again.

he grabs your jaw, turns your face toward him. "what's that look for?" he mutters. your lips are swollen, spit-slick, and you part them just enough to whisper, "i thought you liked when i was good."

his jaw tightens. you can see it—how those words land somewhere deep, how they confuse him. punish him. "you're playing games."

you blink up at him, feigning innocence. "no, sunghoon. i'm just... learning how to please you."

he stares.

and in that pause—in that split-second hesitation—you win again.

he pulls back just a little, his hand still on your throat, but lighter. his thumb drags up the side of your neck, over your pulse. he can feel how fast your heart is racing—but he can't tell anymore if it's fear... or excitement.

"you think i'll go easy on you just because you moan a little and look pretty?" he growls, but the edge in his voice is starting to waver.

"no," you whisper. "but you liked it."

his eyes flicker down your body—bruised, bitten, wrecked. then back up to your lips, still curved into the faintest smirk.

"you don't get to control me," he says, but it's not as sharp as before. you lean forward slowly, as much as the binds will allow, lips brushing his ear.

"don't i already?"

he grabs your hair—rough, punishing—but it's reactionary now. desperate. his breathing's shallow, his cock pushing up against your ass, you feel how hard he is.

"you're mine," he snaps.

you hum, soft and sweet. "then make me feel like it."

it's the final push.

he curses, shoves you back onto your back, climbs on top of you again—but this time, something's changed. his hands are still rough, but they tremble. his eyes burn with hunger, but there's conflict behind it.

because now? you're not just a hostage anymore.

you're a temptation. a threat.

he kisses you—finally. messy, punishing. full of frustration and need and something deeper he doesn't want to name. and when he pulls back, his voice is strained.

"keep playing with fire," he says. "but don't forget—i'll burn you."

you smile, lips swollen, blood on your teeth.

"maybe i want to burn."

he stares at you like you just did the unthinkable.

because you did.

you made him want you—not just in the brutal, instinctive way he always has—but in that dangerous way. the way that makes him hesitate. that makes him feel.

your smile is slow. calculated. seductive in its smugness.

"what's wrong?" you whisper, still tied down, but holding all the power in your eyes. "can't handle someone else pulling the strings?"

sunghoon doesn't move at first.

he just breathes. shaky. tense.

you think you've done it—you've finally broken through. made him doubt himself.

but then—

his hand wraps around your throat and slams you into the mattress, pinning you so hard the air punches out of your lungs.

"you think this is a game?" he snarls, voice low and trembling with rage. "you think i don't see what you're doing?"

your legs kick instinctively, wrists pulling hard against the binds. your chest rises in shallow, panicked breaths beneath him.

he leans in—forehead pressed to yours, wild eyes burning into you as he stares at you with a crazed look.

"you almost had me," he says, like it's a confession. like it kills him to admit it. "but you're not the one in control."

his hand grabs your jaw—fingers digging in bruisingly tight.

"i gave you a taste," he growls. "a sliver of reward. and you thought you could twist it. twist me."

he shoves your thighs apart again, this time using his own knees to keep them there. immobilizing you completely.

you try to turn your face away—deny him the satisfaction—but he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.

"no more teasing. no more playing smart. you want to win? then earn it the way you were always meant to."

his fingers are back between your legs in seconds—this time rough, relentless. punishing. no teasing, no slow build.

you scream into the room, not out of fear—but at the overload. he's not holding back anymore.

you could feel every drag of his digits in your slick walls, your body convulsing as he hooks his fingers in you—pounding into your cunt.

he's reclaiming every ounce of control you tried to steal. "you cum when i say," he hisses, voice right against your lips. "you break when i decide."

you whimper beneath him, still resisting—still fighting with what little strength you have—but your body's traitorous. you're already dripping, already twitching under his touch.

he sees it. feels it.

and that's what snaps the last bit of restraint in him.

he presses his mouth to your ear, voice dark and ragged.

"i'll keep you right here until your body forgets what it was like to disobey."

his rhythm doesn't stop—not even when your legs start to shake, not even when your head thrashes side to side, overwhelmed.

"you want to manipulate me?" he pants. "go ahead. try. but every time you do..."

his fingers curl deep, making you scream.

"...i'll make you cum harder than you ever have in your life. and then i'll deny you again."

your tears spill. your hips jerk. your moans are breaking free even when you try to swallow them back.

and sunghoon smiles. wide. unhinged.

"you don't win, baby."

he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth softly—mockingly.

"you submit."

you're gasping beneath him, body limp, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs still twitching from the assault he just dragged you through. your chest rises and falls in jagged, uneven breaths. your wrists ache from how hard you pulled and you taste blood from biting at you lip to contain yourself.

but your eyes? still burning.

sunghoon hovers over you—breathing heavy, watching the way your body trembles. there's pride in his gaze. possession. satisfaction.

he leans in again, brushing your lips with his, voice low and mocking.

"there she is," he breathes. "my good girl."

you pause—breathing, blinking, letting the silence hang.

then you smile.

bloody lip, tear-stained cheeks, body ruined...

you still fucking smile.

"you're pathetic," you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked but sharp like a blade. "all that, just to prove you're in charge."

his jaw tightens. the grip on your face hardens again, but you don't flinch. not this time.

"i made you lose control," you rasp. "again."

his nostrils flare.

you lean forward, barely—just enough for your lips to graze his cheek.

"and you'll keep doing it," you breathe. "because you need me more than i'll ever need you. you sick fuck."

for a second, just a second—his whole body stills.

and you know. you got to him again.

your words linger in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, taunting. and sunghoon just stares at you.

quiet. too quiet.

you feel the shift in the room immediately—like the oxygen's been sucked out, like the world itself is holding its breath.

his hand slides from your jaw to your throat.

slow. calm. dangerous.

his gaze never leaves yours.

"say it again," he murmurs. dead calm. deadly.

you blink—swallowing hard, but refusing to look away.

and that's what makes him snap.

his hand slams you into the mattress again—choking, bruising, cutting off your breath as he straddles your body with renewed fury.

"you think this is about need?" he hisses, low and shaking. "you think i'm the one that's weak?"

his free hand grabs your wrists, rips the bindings tighter, yanking your arms above your head so hard your shoulders strain.

"look at you," he sneers. "lying here soaked, shaking, moaning for me like a fucking whore—" his voice cracks. "—and you think you have control?"

you try to twist your body, to squirm away—but there's nowhere to go. his grip on your throat tightens.

your lips part in a gasping cry—but he's already reaching for the gag again.

"you want to talk?" he growls. "you lost that right."

he stuffs it in rougher this time—no care, no softness—pressing it deep into your mouth before tying it so tight behind your head your jaw aches.

he doesn't give you time to breathe. doesn't give you space to recover.

he flips you again, stomach down—your body limp, wrists still bound tight above your head, legs spread.

he grabs your hair, pulls your head back so you're arched beneath him.

"you want to twist me around your finger?" he breathes against your ear, his voice shaking with pure rage. "then i'll fucking break every single bone in your body until there's nothing left to twist."

his hand slides back between your thighs—rougher now, punishing.

no more rhythm. just control.

you scream into the gag—muffled, helpless, as your hips buck and shake without your permission.

"no more pretending," he growls. "no more teasing, no more games."

he grabs your ass, slapping it hard, again and again, until the skin stings raw beneath his palm.

your legs kick, your body trembles, your sobs spill out in broken little whimpers.

but it only excites him more.

"you want to be smart?" he snarls, pressing his body down over yours, fully covering you. caging you. "then learn something, baby."

he thrusts his fingers back in, curling them cruelly until your entire body jerks beneath him.

"you don't win," he hisses. "you submit. you obey. and if you don't..."

his mouth trails down your spine, hot breath against your skin.

"...i'll make you beg for mercy."

your body's shaking beneath him. raw. used. aching in ways you didn't know were possible.

your jaw throbs from the gag, your throat burns from choked sobs, your wrists are nearly numb from how tight he's bound you. your skin stings where he slapped you, and your thighs are soaked, muscles twitching from overstimulation.

you're a mess. his mess.

he kneels behind you, breath heavy, chest rising and falling like a man who just won a war.

but when he grabs your hair again and yanks your face up from the mattress—

he sees it.

that look.

that tiny, fucking spark that shouldn't be there.

he growls, yanks the gag down—ripped so fast it leaves a burn around your mouth—and grabs your jaw.

"go on," he hisses. "say something smart. i fucking dare you."

you cough, breathless and wrecked, lips parted, face smeared with sweat and tears. you look at him—eyes glassy but locked onto his.

then—

you smile.

small. crooked. blood at the corner of your mouth.

but it's a smile.

"...that all you got?"

he stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. his chest heaves. fists clenched. he doesn't know if he wants to destroy you or worship you.

and that's what makes you laugh. soft. strained. broken, but alive. you spit the blood from your mouth onto the mattress.

"you can break my body all you want, sunghoon," you whisper, voice rasped raw. "but you'll never be more than the scared little boy who needed rope and violence just to keep a girl in his bed."

his hand flies.

your head jerks to the side, cheek stinging, but you don't cry out. instead—you turn your face back slowly, looking up at him through swollen eyes.

smiling again.

"you're pathetic," you breathe.

sunghoon's whole body tenses. you can see it. feel it. his eyes darken. his hands shake.

but for the first time, there's hesitation. you've planted the seed. and now? he doesn't just want to dominate you. he wants to own you. fully. mind, body, soul.

and that means breaking what's left of your fire.

completely.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the days blend like bruises—fading into one another, painful, discolored, ugly reminders of time passed. your body is thin now, your limbs weak, skin pale from lack of sunlight. everything smells like sweat and confinement. the bindings around your wrists and ankles chafe more with each passing hour, and even when he unties them briefly—to "care" for you, to feed or bathe you—you never forget what they're there for.

sunghoon has shifted. less violent now, more possessive. frighteningly tender, like the calm after a storm that knows it'll return.

"you're mine now," he whispers as he brushes your hair, the back of his knuckles grazing your cheek. "you stopped screaming. that means you understand."

you don't answer. you haven't in a while.

he likes it that way. but that doesn't mean your mind has gone silent.

you're just... waiting.

and on this morning, as sunlight spills across the floor and he leaves the room to scavenge the kitchen, you push yourself off the bed. legs wobble beneath you, almost giving out. your mouth is dry, lips cracked. your arms are sore from the way they've been pulled above your head for hours.

but you stand.

bare feet drag across the hardwood toward the cracked-open window. you lean against it, arms limp over the sill, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

movement outside.

him.

mr. han, the older man from next door, wearing his usual cap and jacket, walking past with a leash in hand and no cat at the end of it. he's scanning the street.

your breath catches. you shift—just barely. the curtain twitches with you.

he glances up.

and freezes.

his mouth opens slightly, confused. then worried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the window frame.

a second passes. he squints. takes a step closer.

and you nod. the smallest movement. a desperate one.

his eyes widen.

he takes off down the street—fast, but not frantic, trying not to draw attention. your legs give out, and you slump to the floor just as the front door clicks open again.

"where are you?" sunghoon calls out.

panic races through you, but your limbs won't move fast enough.

he appears in the doorway a second later.

eyes drop to you.

your body crumpled by the window.

and that's all it takes.

he lunges.

his hands are on you instantly—grabbing your arms, dragging you up with no care for your trembling body. he spins you toward the bed, but you're dead weight now, slumping in his grip.

"what the fuck did you do," he growls, voice tight with fear. "did someone see you?"

you don't answer.

he shakes you hard, fingers digging into your arms. "did he see you?"

your silence is enough.

his breathing becomes frantic. he shoves you back onto the bed and runs to the front window. peeks through the blinds.

and curses.

"fuck. fuck!"

he spins around, pacing.

then—

sirens.

distant.

not close yet, but unmistakable. your heart surges.

sunghoon's entire face crumples with fury and panic.

he grabs a bag—throws it across the room. opens drawers. grabs knives. rope.

sirens grow louder.

closer.

you're still lying on the bed, too weak to fight, but your eyes track his every movement.

he moves to the door. he's going to run, but something stops him.

you.

he turns, stares at you for a beat. long and quiet. then walks back toward you slowly. you flinch when he reaches for your face—but he doesn't hurt you.

instead, he cups your cheek. wipes a streak of something off your skin. sweat or tears. maybe both.

"you did this," he whispers.

his voice is calm again.

the sirens are just outside now—cars skidding, doors slamming.

he leans in closer. kisses your forehead.

"i'll see you again."

and then—

bang—bang—BANG.

"police! open up!"

the door doesn't wait for an answer. it bursts open in seconds. officers storm inside—guns raised, shouting commands.

sunghoon stands tall. his hands rise slowly. he doesn't struggle.

but he never takes his eyes off you.

not once.

as they shove him to the ground, shouting, cuffing him, dragging him away—

he turns his head back to look at you.

eyes wide. wild and devoted.

"i'll find you," he calls, voice breaking. "no matter where they take me. you belong to me."

he never thought it would end like this.

face pressed to the hardwood, cold metal biting into his wrists. police shouting over each other, boots stomping through his space—your space.

they're dragging him away now. but his eyes won't leave you.

not once.

you're huddled near the corner of the bed—blanket pulled over your shoulders, shivering, pale, but awake. not limp. not broken. your eyes are on him.

terrified and defiant.

just like the first time you stared him down.

he thought he'd taken that out of you. smoothed your edges, broken your fight. he thought you'd learned.

but now, looking at you...he sees it.

you never stopped burning. you just waited for the moment to breathe.

it makes his teeth grit.

he remembers the first night he stood over your bed, zip ties in his hands, heart thudding not with fear but need. the thrill of control, the high of being wanted—or at least needed—by something warm, soft, his.

you were supposed to need him by now.

he told himself he'd remake you. that it was fate you were the one sleeping in this house, with the window left open like an invitation.

you were supposed to belong to him.

but now? they're hauling him away and he's powerless.

just like he was before. before the escape. before he found you. before he felt that sick sense of purpose in your screams and silence alike.

you're slipping from him.

you're blinking and breathing and safe in someone else's arms now. and he knows—knows deep in the marrow of his bones—that they're going to take you far away from him.

his lip curls. he twists in the officer's grip, eyes locked on yours.

"i'll see you again," he growls, voice hoarse with rage and obsession. "you hear me? you're mine."

you don't reply.

you just watch him disappear down the hallway.

no more ropes. no more gags. no more silence.

just the ghost of his voice echoing down the corridor, and the sound of your own breath finally filling your lungs—free.

you tremble.

someone rushes to your side—a medic. hands on your face, checking your vitals, voice soft and reassuring. but all you can do is stare at the door.

where he disappeared.

and pray he never keeps that promise.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[kthologue]

happy wife, happy life  — gojo satoru

synopsis. not fawning over his wife may prove to be harder than gojo thought.

contents. fluff, gojo is so whipped for his wife and everyone is tired (whats new), ooc gojo?

notes. this was pure self indulgence. i wanted to slander and coddle gojo all at once and this was it teehee :3

the first thing you hear when you stand up to leave the staff meeting is a wolf whistle.

“looking good,” satoru looks you up and down. you roll your eyes playfully, your husband’s behavior is not foreign to you. he taps your upper thigh, dangerously close to your butt as you take your leave. however, the others in the room don't take kindly to the action.

“highly inappropriate behavior gojo,” utahime mutters under her breath from across the table. beside her, nanami is giving your husband a hard stare. 

satoru pays no mind to them though, smiling up at you as you walk out of the room. you shake your head when he continuously blows a series of kisses. he ignores your rejection, opting to mouth crude comments instead.

the moment the door shuts, the strongest sorcerer immediately deflates, disinterested in whatever matters the rest had to discuss about. 

“i don’t know how she puts up with you,” utahime takes a long sip out of her cup of tea. beside her, shoko snorts.

“probably for his body.” shoko is not unfamiliar with satoru’s antics, having witnessed it since his rowdy school days. she applauds him for coming far with you, but it was still fun to tease him.

gojo crosses his arms, emitting a disgruntled sound. “and my golden personality?”

nanami sighs, “ieiri’s conclusion is most likely right.”

the limitless user wiggles his finger playfully. “nanamin, how scandalous of you to fantasize about my body! i’m a married man y’know~” 

nanami looks like he has eaten something sour. unlike you, nanami’s attitude towards gojo has not softened as the years passed.

“i’m surprised she’s still with you.” utahime snickers. “she’s a sensible woman and you’re–” 

satoru frowns at her statement.  he’d never thought about how you felt about his behavior. perhaps that was his fatal flaw. gojo satoru had a nasty streak of negligence. and the last time he failed to notice someone dear to him —   

“well i’m glad she ended up choosing me, yeah?” his frown is quickly covered up by the wide smirk on his face. he leans back on his chair that’s starting to feel less comfortable by the second. the chair creaks under the weight of his body. honestly, how old are these old wooden things? “as much as i’d like to keep chatting about my lovely wife, i’d like to get this meeting over with so i can see her again.”

the rest of the meeting ensues as usual.

“sensei has been weird… right?” itadori offers his hand after knocking megumi down during a sparring match. the black haired boy grunts as he is pulled up.

“if by weird, you mean normal.” megumi glances back at you and gojo who are watching intently at the first and second years practicing close combat on the training field. it was a bit peculiar to see satoru not throw himself all over you. gojo without pda is like a jigsaw puzzle missing its most essential piece, leaving the overall picture incomplete and lacking the electrifying energy that defines his existence. 

“i feel like i should be happy, but it’s unsettling to see him not initiating some misconduct. do you think they’re fighting?” nobara is panting on the grassy floor. she raises her hand in surrender when maki leaps in to take her head off with a spear.

maki retracts her blade, turning back to observe you and gojo, “nah, gojo would fold at her command.” 

“salmon.”

from across the training field, you turn to your husband nervously, “why are they staring at us?”

satoru hums, his blindfolded gaze focuses on the field in front of you, “hm, maybe they’re admiring their very beautiful [name] sensei.” the blindfolded man pauses. compliments should still be okay– right? satoru can’t imagine a life without lavishing you with love, yet he will content himself with gently sprinkling you with affection. 

you smack his shoulder playfully. to your surprise, your husband doesn’t reciprocate with some form of physical affection. you tilt your head, perplexed. 

quickly dismissing it, you yell at your students to continue their training.

you don’t notice the way satoru clenches his fists, keeping his eyes trained anywhere but you.

the next time satoru is tempted by your presence is when he comes back home after a mission. it was a walk in the park, but the heavy stack of paperwork that followed it had depleted his energy. all he wanted was to snuggle in bed with his wife, selfishly keeping you all to himself.

and you’re not making it easier to resist with the way you warmly greet him with a smile in nothing but a small cotton tee and those tiny pajama shorts. eyes up, eyes up, eyes up, satoru mentally chants.

he thinks he might actually die.

“toru!” you abandon the book you had been reading to pay your husband taxes (kisses that satoru demands he must have). “you’re home awfully late.”

“mission… paperwork,” his clipped response is mumbled as he hurries past you and to your shared bathroom, avoiding your touch. satoru silently prays to the heavens that you don’t notice his suspicious efforts as he makes his way to take a much needed ice cold shower.

you stand in your spot in confusion, letting your husband go. slowly, you start to connect the pieces of satoru’s strange behavior from his refusal to touch you to his sudden responsible disposition. gojo satoru never does paperwork– not unless you bribe him with a dozen kisses. speaking of kisses, you don’t even remember the last time he had demanded one. something was definitely wrong. 

without missing a beat, you quickly follow your lover’s trail into the bathroom.

to your delight, your husband had failed to lock the door. in the hush of your silence, you can hear the subtle rustle of satoru's garments.

his sky blue eyes go wide when he sees you walk through the door.

“toru… is there something wrong?” your voice is careful. 

the white haired man in front of you nervously laughs as he covers his bare chest, “geez, ask me out to dinner first.” 

“gojo satoru.”

your husband winces at his full name being used, but he puts on another mask. a faux smile plays on his lips as he shrugs. “i don’t know what you mean, gojo.” 

your heart drops at his insistence to shut you out, but you stand your ground. with sheer determination, you walk up to your husband, closing the gap between the two of you. you cup his cheek with a hand while you start to lean closer, your lips nearly brushing.

satoru shuts his eyes, inhaling a deep breath to regain composure. he even sucks in his lips, making him look utterly ridiculous. despite the dangerous allure of your proximity, he resolves to stand firm.

"you won’t even kiss me anymore! satoru, this is absurd. what's happening?" you distance yourself, seeking answers.

despite his towering stature, a snort escapes you as satoru resembles a mere child when mumbling something under his breath.

"come on, use your big boy words."

"i don't want to drive you away," he avoids making eye contact now that his blindfold is off. "i know i can be a bit overwhelming at times."

upon hearing his excuse, you snort loudly, “seriously?”

“seriously.”

“i can’t believe i married such an idiot.” you huff, wrapping your arms around his neck.

satoru pouts, “you’re breaking my heart wifey.”

your lips softly kiss the corner of his mouth. like it was muscle memory, satoru’s lips chase yours even after you pull away. you smile.

“for such a genius, you really are stupid ‘toru.” you flick his forehead. he whines and you know it didn’t hurt, yet you entertain him by leaning up to kiss his injury. “believe it or not, i married you for reasons beyond your pretty face and body.”

“you think i’m pretty?” his eyes shine bright as they lovingly gaze into yours. you take one hand to cup his cheek. he nuzzles his face into it.

“of course you’d say that.” you laugh softly. “but honestly, i’m offended that you thought i would ever be annoyed by your affections. might i remind you that we have been madly in love since our youth? i found myself captivated by your ability to love effortlessly, and the way you hopelessly pined for me for years? i knew i was a goner. that… and your bank accoun–”

satoru kisses you with an intensity that leaves you feeling blissfully lightheaded. lost in the haze of the moment, he showers the rest of your face with tender, wet kisses, and you stand there, surrendering to the sweet assault.

upon withdrawing, satoru wears a broad grin. "i was an idiot today, wasn't i?" you nod, breathless. "how about i make it up to you tonight?" he proposes, drawing you close. you are all too familiar with that feral grin adorning his face.

[lov3notts]

End Zone

cheerleading!reader x quidditchplayer!theo

summary: theo gets jealous during his game when he sees Cedric flirting with you. also based on this request

warning: toxic theo, jealousy, unprotected, praising& degrading, creampie, locker room??

a/n: my first request, struggled a lot with this but its done!! I will most likely be MIA due to finals but hopefully I'll have something up for Christmas? enjoy :)

18+only: minors don’t interact

Navigation; masterlist; request rules

The game is in full swing, the stands packed with cheering fans. You're on the sidelines with your cheer squad, leading the crowd in chants and cheers. The adrenaline is pumping through your veins, your body moving in perfect sync with your teammates.

Suddenly, a Slytherin player scores a goal, and the crowd goes wild. In the commotion, Theo makes his way over to the sidelines, Theo zooms past on his broom, he catches your eye and grins, winking at you flirtatiously. You roll your eyes and turn away, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach. 

You've been hooking up with Theo for months now, but he refuses to commit to anything more than casual sex. It's starting to wear on you, the constant string of mixed signals and empty promises.

As you continue your routine, you can't shake the feeling of Theodore's eyes on you. His presence is like a physical force, drawing your attention even as you try to focus on the game. 

The match continues, the score seesawing back and forth, but your mind isn’t focused on the game

you're so lost in thought that you barely register the game going on above you. 

your eyes are focused on the ground, your mind wandering to places you’d rather not go. It's only when you feel a tap on your shoulder that you snap back to reality

Theo soars through the air, the wind whipping at his face, he spots you on the sidelines, distracted but still cheering and swaying your pom-poms. But it's not just your lack of enthusiasm that catches his eye - it's the tall, handsome figure standing beside you, the one with the easy grin and the sparkle in his eye.

Cedric Diggory.

you turn to see Cedric standing beside you, sending a friendly smile.

"Hey there," he says, his Hufflepuff uniform looking crisp and clean despite the intense game.

"Hey, Cedric" you reply, returning his smile. You two make small talk for a few minutes, discussing the game and your respective teams. Cedric is charming and attentive, his blue eyes sparkling with warmth as he listens intently to every word you say.

"I noticed Nott seems to be playing extra hard today. Must be all that pent-up energy from studying for exams." cedric says as he leans closer to you

you chuckle at his joke “yeah, exams”

Theo's grip tightens on his broomstick, his knuckles turning white. He watches as Cedric leans in close, saying something that makes you laugh. The sound of your laughter cuts through the roar of the crowd, piercing Theo's heart like a Bludger.

Jealousy surges through his veins, hot and bitter. Theo's gaze burns into the back of your neck, and you can practically feel the waves of jealousy radiating off him. He plays more aggressively than ever, his broom dipping and weaving as he tries to outmaneuver the ravenclaw team.

His grip tightens on his broom handle as he zooms past the stands, his mind racing.

He knows he has no right to be jealous, not after he told you he didn’t want anything serious. But seeing you with someone else, laughing and smiling like that, it's like a punch to the gut. He wants to march over there and tear Cedric away from you, to remind you that you belong to him.

You can't help but notice Theo’s intense gaze locked on you and Cedric as you chat on the sidelines. Even from across the pitch, you can see the jealousy burning in Theo's eyes, the way his jaw clenched as he watches Cedric lean in close to hear you over the roar of the crowd.

A part of you feels a thrill at seeing Theo so clearly affected by your interaction with another guy. It's a power trip, knowing that you have that kind of hold over him. Theo zips past the other players, his broomstick cutting through the air like a knife. There's a wildness to his flying, a recklessness that both thrills and terrifies you.

you bite your lip, torn between wanting to reassure Theo that there's nothing going on between Cedric and you, and the desire to let him stew in his jealousy a little longer. It's petty, you know, but seeing him so worked up over you is intoxicating.

In the end, you decided to play it cool, focusing your attention on the game and cheering loudly for slytherin. But you can't help sneaking glances at Theo, watching for any sign of how he's handling your conversation with Cedric.

And deep down, you have to admit that a part of you is hoping he'll do something dramatic, something that will force him to confront all his feelings for you once and for all.

As the final whistle blows, announcing Slytherin's victory, the green and silver stands erupt in cheers. you join in the celebration, waving my pom-poms and shouting for your team. But even as you revel in our hard-fought win, your eyes are drawn to Theo.

He's hovering near the ground, his chest heaving with exertion, a triumphant grin on his face. The other Slytherin players mob him, slapping him on the back and congratulating him on his impressive performance. But Theodore seems oblivious to their praise, his gaze fixed on you.

He strides towards you, his movements purposeful and angry. As he approaches, you can see the tension radiating off him, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides. But then you remember Cedric, still standing beside you, feeling a twinge of anxiety .

When he reaches you, he doesn't even acknowledge Cedric, his gaze laser-focused on you.

Theo grabs your hand roughly, his fingers intertwined with yours as he drags you towards the locker room. His pace is fast, almost frantic, as he weaves through the crowd of celebrating players and cheering fans.

Once inside, he slams the door shut behind you, the sound echoing in the empty room. 

You're alone now, trapped with the angry, jealous Theodore you've managed to provoke.

He turns to face you, his chest heaving with exertion and his eyes dark with a mix of anger and desire.

“Diggory huh? look who's cozying up to the enemy."

You feel your face heating up, a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment rising in your chest. 

"I wasn't cozying up with anyone," you snap, trying to keep your voice steady.  "I was just being friendly. It's part of my job as a cheerleader."

Theo lets out a short, derisive laugh.

"Friendly? Is that what you call it?." He leans in even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear.

he purrs, his voice low and threatening. "You think you can just toy with me and get away with it?"

his breath hot against your face. "You're mine, dolcezza. Whether you like it or not. And I won't let Hufflepuffs golden boy come between us." His other hand comes up to cup your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle compared to the bruising grip on your arm.

"You belong with me. You always have. And I won't let you forget it."

His hand slides up your thigh, his touch possessive and demanding. your heart pounding in your chest.

You know you should pull away, tell him off for his arrogance and possessiveness. But there's a part of you that thrills at his words, that wants to give in to the desire that's been building.

Theo's lips crash against yours, his kiss rough and hungry. He devours your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours, claiming you as his own. His hands roam over your body, slipping under your cheerleader uniform, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing heavily, your lips swollen and your skin flushed. Theo's eyes are dark with desire, his gaze roaming over your body with a predatory intensity.

"You had your fun out there, Bella," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Teasing me, flirting with that prick. Well, now it's my turn."

You watch as he strips off his Quidditch uniform, his lean, muscular body on full display. Your mouth goes dry, your pulse racing at the sight of him.

Theodore turns to face you, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Theodore leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Now, let's see if you can follow orders like a good little cheerleader."

He shoves you to your knees, his hand fisting in your hair. You gasp as he forces your head towards his crotch, the bulge in his Quidditch pants impossible to ignore.

"Go on, bella. Show me how sorry you are. Show me that smart mouth of yours can be put to better use than running off at the gutter."

His words are harsh, but you can feel the heat of his arousal pressing against your face. Your heart pounds in your chest as you reach for his zipper, your fingers trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation.

As you free his cock from the confines of his pants, no matter how many times you’ve seen him you can't help but stare. He's huge, thick and hard and throbbing with need.

Theo's hand tightens in your hair, urging you forward.

“Well, someone’s inpatient” you tease 

"Don't make me tell you again, dolcezza. Put that pretty little mouth to work before I really lose my temper."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and excitement. You know you're playing a dangerous game, but the thought of submitting to Theodore's desires is just too tempting to resist.

He rocks his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against your lips. You can feel the heat of his skin, the pulsing need that radiates from his core. Your mouth waters as you imagine the taste of him, the feel of his thick shaft sliding over your tongue.

"Open that smart mouth of yours and put it to good use. Show me how much you want to please me."he warns, his voice a low rumble.

With a shaky breath, you part your lips, letting your tongue dart out to taste the bead of pre-cum that leaks from the tip of his cock.

Theo groans, his grip on your hair tightening as he guides you forward. You open wider, taking him into your mouth inch by delicious inch. The taste of him explodes on your tongue, salty and musky and utterly intoxicating.

As you begin to bob your head, taking him deeper with each movement, Theodore's breath comes in harsh pants. His hips rock forward, meeting your mouth with each downward stroke. You can feel him growing harder, thicker, stretching your lips around his girth.

The locker room is filled with the wet sounds of your sucking, the grunts and groans of Theo's pleasure. You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the feel of his cock sliding over your tongue, hitting the back of your throat with each thrust.

As Theodore's cock slides deeper into your mouth, you can feel him growing harder, thicker, stretching your lips around his girth.

His grip on your hair tightens, forcing you to take him even deeper. You gag slightly as he hits the back of your throat, but the discomfort is quickly overtaken by a sense of power, of control.

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, faster. Your tongue swirls around the head of his cock, teasing the sensitive flesh. Theodore groans above you, his hips rocking forward to meet your mouth.

"Fuck, tesoro" he gasps, his voice rough with pleasure. "Just like that. Use that pretty little mouth of yours to make me feel good."

His words spur you on, and you double your efforts. You look up at him through your lashes, your eyes meeting his. The look in his gaze is one of pure, unadulterated lust. He's watching you, drinking in the sight of your lips wrapped around his cock. His free hand moves to grip your chin, holding you in place as he thrusts deeper.

"You like this, don't you?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. 

"Like being on your knees for me, like having my cock in your mouth. I bet you've been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of shame and excitement. You know you shouldn't enjoy this, shouldn't revel in the degradation of it all. But the truth is, you do.

You love the feel of his cock in your mouth, the taste of him on your tongue.

He rocks his hips forward, driving his cock deeper into your throat. You gag and sputter around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. But the pain only seems to spur him on, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.

"You wanted to get me all worked up, did you? Wanted to see what I'd do? Well, here's your answer.",

The taste of him fills your senses, the musky scent of his arousal making your head spin. You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, faster, determined to bring him to the edge.

Theo groans above you, his hips rocking forward to meet your mouth. His grip on your hair tightens, guiding you as you bob your head up and down his length.

 "Fuck, yes,"he hisses, his voice strained with pleasure. "Just like that. You're going to make me cum so hard, tesoro. You're going to swallow every last drop.” your tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his cock, teasing the slit.

Theo's breathing becomes more ragged, his thrusts more erratic. You can tell he's close, his balls tightening as he nears his peak. "That's it" he growls, his voice a low rumble.

"Don't stop. I'm going to cum down your pretty little throat, dolcezza. You're going to drink every last drop like a good girl."

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt in your mouth. You can feel him pulsing, throbbing against your tongue as he reaches his climax. Hot, bitter fluid floods your mouth, and you have no choice but to swallow it down.

As he pulls out, a string of cum connects your lips to the head of his cock. He wipes it away with a careless swipe of his thumb, smearing it across your cheek.

"There's a good girl" he purrs, his voice low and satisfied. "You took your punishment well. I think you've learned your lesson about flirting with other boys, haven't you?"

You can only nod, your mouth still full of the taste of him. Your thighs rub together, the ache between them a constant reminder of your own arousal. But you know better than to ask for anything more.

Theo tucks himself back into his pants, his eyes never leaving your face. He looks pleased with himself, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Get up," he commands, releasing his grip on your hair. "We're not done yet. I still have a few more lessons to teach you."

With shaking legs, you rise to your feet, your knees weak from kneeling on the hard floor.

Theo's hand finds your ass, giving it a rough squeeze as he guides you towards one of the benches.

"Bend over" he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You bend over the bench, Your skimpy cheerleader skirt rides up to reveal the curve of your ass, exposing the lacy panties underneath. You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your vulnerable position.

A smirk plays on your lips. You can't help but poke the bear, even as your heart races with anticipation

"Ooh, I'm sooo scared," you drawl, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "Whatever shall I do? The big bad Slytherin is going to punish me for flirting with another boy. I might just faint from the sheer terror of it all."

You hear Theo's sharp intake of breath behind you, followed by the sound of his palm cracking against your ass. The sting is immediate, a hot burst of pain that sends shockwaves through your body.

"Watch it, Bella" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "That smart mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble one of these days."

His hand comes down again, harder this time, the force of it sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain straight to your core. You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moan that threatens to escape.

"That's it, keep that smart mouth shut,"

Theodore taunts, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he kneads the reddened skin.

"I'm going to fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in and see" Theo whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"And you're going to take it like a good little slut, aren't you?"

He reaches down, his hand sliding between your legs to cup your aching sex. You're already soaked, your panties clinging to your skin. Theo chuckles darkly as he feels how wet you are.

"Look at you, getting off on this. You're sick, you know that? Teasing me, flirting with other boys, just to get a rise out of me." His fingers slide under your panties, teasing your swollen folds. You can't help but arch into his touch, desperate for more.

"Beg for it, tesoro" he demands, his voice rough with desire.

 "Beg me to fuck you like the naughty little slut you are. Maybe if you beg nicely enough, l'Il give you what you want."His words are cruel, but they only serve to fuel your arousal. You're desperate for him, desperate for the release only he can give you. But you refuse to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.

"Fuck you, Theodore" you hiss, glaring back at him over your shoulder.

“awe come on baby, i know you can’t resist me”

His fingers dip inside you, stroking your inner walls. You can't help but moan at the intrusion, your hips bucking back against his hand. Theodore chuckles darkly, his thumb finding your clit and circling it mercilessly.

"That's it, let me hear you," he taunts, his fingers pumping in and out of your dripping core.

Theodore's fingers pump in and out of you, his thumb rubbing circles around your clit. The dual sensations are almost too much to bear, your hips bucking back against his hand as you chase your pleasure.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me," he growls, his voice low and dark

You can't hold back any longer. As his fingers drive deeper, his thumb pressing harder on your clit, you let out a loud, wanton moan.

Your back arches, pushing your hips back against his hand, desperate for more of that exquisite pleasure.

"Fuck, Theo!" you cry out, your voice echoing off the locker room walls. "Please, don't stop!"

Theodore chuckles darkly, his fingers never ceasing their relentless assault on your most intimate places. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

"That's more like it, You sound so pretty when you beg." he purrs, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Theo's fingers pump harder, faster, his thumb rubbing your clit with merciless precision. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the locker room, mixing with the slap of skin on skin as he fucks you with his fingers.

"That's it, tesoro" he growls, his voice low and husky. "Cum for me. Show me how much you want it. I want to feel you clenching around my fingers, begging for more."

You're so close, teetering on the brink of ecstasy, your body trembling with need. With a final, brutal thrust of his fingers, Theo sends you over the edge.

“oh godd” Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your inner walls clenching around his fingers as you cum hard. You cry out, your voice raw with pleasure, your body shaking uncontrollably. Theo doesn't let up, continuing to finger-fuck you through your climax, drawing out your pleasure until you're a boneless, panting mess.

As you come down from your high, Theo withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes locked on yours as he savors your taste.

"Delicious", a wicked grin spreading across his face. "But we're far from done. I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight, until the only name you remember is mine."

Theo's hands grip your hips, he positions you on your hands and knees on the bench. his fingers digging into your flesh as he positions himself at your entrance. You can feel the heat of his cock, the hardness of it pressing insistently against your sensitive folds. 

"Spread your legs wider,tesoro” he commands, his voice rough with lust. "Let me see that pretty little cunt." With a brutal thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely.

"Fuck, you're so tight" he groans, his voice strained with pleasure. "I can feel every inch of you squeezing around my cock."

He sets a relentless pace, pounding into you with a force that steals your breath. The bench creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin, the grunts and moans of your mutual pleasure.

Theo's hips snap forward, driving his cock deeper with each thrust.

His hands roam your body, groping and squeezing as he fucks you. He reaches around to your front, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in time with his thrusts. The added stimulation sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Mine to fuck, mine to use, mine to claim. Say it." he growls, his voice rough with desire

The moment you hesitate, Theo's hand cracks across your ass in a stinging slap.

"I said, say it" he demands, his voice low and dangerous. "Tell me who you belong to."

He doesn't give you a chance to respond, instead thrusting forward hard and fast.

You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your body tensing at the familiar burn of being filled so completely.

Theodore doesn't pause, pulling back only to slam into you again, setting a brutal pace. The force of his thrusts rocks you forward on the bench, your breasts bouncing with each harsh snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the locker room, mixing with your moans and Theo's grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel so good" he pants, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. "So tight, so perfect for my cock.”

You can feel your pleasure building with each thrust, your inner walls clenching around him, desperate for more. Theodore leans over you, his chest pressing against your back as he pounds into you relentlessly.

"Say it," he growls in your ear, his hot breath fanning across your neck. 

"Tell me who you belong to”

You're so close to the edge, your body trembling with the force of your impending orgasm. But you refuse to give in, refuse to give Theodore the satisfaction of hearing you submit. Instead, you clench down hard on his cock, trying to distract him, to throw him off balance.

It works, at least for a moment. Theo curses, his hips stuttering as your walls grip him like a vice. But he quickly recovers, pulling out entirely and flipping you over onto your back. He hovers above you, his eyes dark with lust and frustration.

Theo looms over you, his eyes wild with lust and frustration. You meet his gaze defiantly, refusing to submit, to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. Instead, you reach up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him down to you.

"You're mine, Theodore," you whisper, your voice low and seductive. "You've always been mine, even if you won't admit it. Say it. Tell me who you belong to."

Your challenge hangs in the air between you, heavy with unspoken desire. Theo's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as he struggles to maintain control. But you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the momentary crack in his carefully constructed facade.

You arch your back, pressing your breasts against his chest as you wrap your legs around his waist.

"Fuck, Bella" he pants, his voice strained.

"You drive me crazy. You make me want things I shouldn't want, feel things I shouldn't feel. But you're right. I am yours, just as much as you're mine. We belong to each other, whether we like it or not."

Theodore's admission hangs in the air between you, a confession whispered in the heat of passion. He gazes down at you, his eyes softening for a fleeting moment before the hunger returns, dark and intense. His hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust driving him deeper, filling you completely.

"My perfect little minx, my tempting little tease. You drive me insane, make me want to possess every inch of you, claim you in ways no one else ever could." he growls, his voice low and possessive.

His hand slides up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast before palming the soft mound 

Theo's hand slides lower, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, teasing circles. Your hips buck against him, seeking more of that delicious friction. He chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your skin.

"That's it, my little slut" he purrs, his voice dripping with praise. His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back as he leans down to claim your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue delves deep, exploring, conquering, leaving no doubt as to who owns you.

You moan into his mouth, your own tongue tangling with his in a dance of dominance and submission.

Theodore's thrusts grow harder, faster, each one driving you closer to the edge. Your nails rake down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. You can feel your orgasm building, your inner walls clenching around him, desperate for release.

"You're going to be the death of me, dolcezza. But what a way to go." his lips crashing against yours in a brutal kiss.

He angles his thrusts, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

Each stroke sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your body, building the tension coiling in your core.

"Harder," you gasp, your voice raw with need.

"Fuck me harder, Theo. I can take it. I want it." you whine out

Theo obliges, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more brutal. The bench creaks beneath you, the metal frame rattling with each powerful stroke. You can feel him growing harder inside you, his cock throbbing against your walls.

Theo's hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, teasing circles. The added stimulation is almost too much, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches.

"Cum for me, Bella " he demands, his voice low and commanding. "Cum on my cock like a good girl. Show me who you belong to."

Theo groans, his hips stuttering as he nears his own climax.

"Cum for me, cum all over my cock. Fuck, I'm going to fill you up so good."

“omg theo!” You cry out, your back arching off the bench as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. your voice raw with pleasure, your body shaking uncontrollably. Theo doesn't let up, continuing to pound into you, riding out your climax with his own.

Even as your orgasm crashes over you, Theodore doesn't let up. He continues to pound into you, his hips slamming against yours with relentless force. The sensation is almost too much to bear, your overstimulated nerves screaming with pleasure.

"Fuck, you feel incredible when you cum" Theo groans, his voice strained with effort. 

"So tight, so perfect. I could fuck you like this forever, make you cum over and over again until you're a satisfied mess."

"Theo" you moan, your voice raw and desperate. "I can't... I can't take anymore. It's too much."

But even as you protest, your hips are moving in time with his, meeting each of his thrusts with your own. You're lost in a haze of pleasure, your body responding to his touches even as your mind struggles to keep up.

“It's okay baby just a little longer, you can handle it right?”

you nod not being able to say anything else

His hip quicken as he feels his release approaching 

“fuck fuck fuck” he cries out, his voice raw with pleasure

Theo slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat. His body tenses, his muscles rigid as his climax hits him like a freight train. With a guttural groan, he finds his release, his cock pulsing and twitching as he fills you with his seed.

The sensation is overwhelming, your oversensitive body shaking and quivering with the force of his orgasm. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, your body milking him for all he's worth.

Gradually, his thrusts slow, his body relaxing as he comes down from his high. He collapses beside you on the bench, both of you gasping for breath, your bodies glistening with sweat. For a moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing, the pounding of your hearts gradually slowing.

Theo reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. His touch is gentle, almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutal passion of moments before. He looks at you, his eyes dark and intense, a hint of vulnerability in their depths.

You reach up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him down for a kiss. It's slow, tender, a stark contrast to the brutal passion of moments before. You both pour all your feelings into the kiss, all the emotions you’ve been trying to deny, to suppress.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathless, smiling softly at each other. Theodore's hand slides down your side, his fingers interlacing with yours.

"no more games" he whispers as he kisses your forehead "just you & me okay?"

“just you and me” 

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

tag list: @leona-hawthorne @kaliuchislov4r @esmerai-artemis @5cr3w101

[okaylikeschaewon]

Jamboree

~6k words, smut kinda

“I don’t give a fuck.”

“Wonyoung, I’m not sure about this-”

“Stop thinking,” Wonyoung’s palm ripped across your cheek, leaving a mark that you would most definitely feel the next morning. “And stop wasting my fucking time.”

Tonight was going to be one for the history books, you thought to yourself silently, taking a moment to appreciate how you ended up in this position.

Your work had required you to show up at this formal event full of young adults who had more money than sense and obnoxiously rich old people. Admittedly, not that you weren’t well off by any means, you did feel incredibly out of place. Your job was to just show up and shake a few hands to make sure it was known that your company was present, other than that you were free to ‘enjoy’ the event. While most of the ambitious young people here were trying to make connections to further their careers, you found it difficult to pretend to care.

The venue was quite the spectacle, a blend of classic architecture and modern elegance, but it lacked any sort of soul. Lush velvet drapes framed the tall windows, each showcasing a view of the meticulously landscaped gardens outside. The gardens, though beautiful, appeared untouched, as if meant only for admiration rather than exploration. Overall, the venue exuded an air of extravagance, yet it felt almost too perfect - as if it were a stage made of artificial props.

Just like the atmosphere of the lavish mansion was void of allure, the people inside lacked any form of charm. Despite being impeccably dressed, they seemed to embody the very definition of tedium. Their expressions a mix of forced politeness and mild disinterest. Conversations unfolded in monotones, punctuated by the occasional polite chuckle that felt rehearsed rather than genuine.

That was, at least, until your eyes found Wonyoung. She was a princess amongst peasants - a diamond amongst coal. From the moment you saw her roaming from waiter to waiter, collecting every hors d'oeuvre she could get her hands on while impressively avoiding the dreary conversations plaguing the event, you just knew you had to talk to her.

The greatest surprise of them all? Once you finally managed to find an opening, you discovered she was actually amazing. Not just amazing, but perfect in a way. The two of you clicked instantly, it was marvelous. Never have you in your entire life felt your energy match so instantaneously with someone before. It almost - no, it definitely - made this lifeless event worth your time.

That being said, this tiny little girl had no business being this intimidating. It had to be her thanks to her confidence, something she was far from lacking, wearing a dress that barely made it to her thighs, flashing her lacy black panties to the entire world. She just had this aura, it was difficult to explain. Yet, it was even more difficult to say no to whatever she wanted, which was exactly how you found yourself in this position. Well, truthfully, her convincing nature was in part aided by the countless glasses of pretentiously priced champagne coursing through your veins.

Regardless, even if it was by pure chance, you were grateful to have been selected from the sea of Dior Sauvage that was currently downstairs, still flailing their bodies around in the name of ‘dancing’. In the seven or so minutes between your eyes finding Wonyoung and the start of your conversation with her, you had seen her reject at least four advances. But you knew. The second you made eye contact with her, you knew.

“Are you going to close the door or do you plan on standing there like an idiot all night?” she scowled as she bent down and slipped off her stilettos.

By the time you shut the door behind you - making sure to lock it - Wonyoung had walked across the room towards the dresser by the window and had begun using the mirror to adjust her hair. It was almost like you weren’t even in the room anymore, and you, evidently, weren’t nearly as important as her hair.

The long brown strands cascading delicately down her back, flowing like a river of rich chocolate. Each individual hair shimmering as the moonlight hit from countless angles. The elegance, the grace, every movement further accentuating all the reasons this girl had to be the most supercilious woman in the building. Again, this girl had every right to be as confident as she was.

After who knows how long she spent admiring herself in the mirror, she turned on her heels to face you. A subtle frown formed on her lips as she crossed her arms, giving you a concerned look. Maybe it wasn’t concern, but it was something.

“You’re bleeding.”

Not what you expected her to say, but the scarlet smear left on your finger when you wiped your cheek confirmed it was indeed true. Only now did the sound of your heart thumping calm down enough for you to notice the sharp stinging coming from the cut.

“Huh, would you look at that,” you noted, staring at your finger.

Wonyoung stared down at her hand, where the metal band of one of her rings was blatantly stained with a patch of your blood. She looked away, spinning the ring off her finger and placing it on the dresser behind her. It seemed as though she was considering an apology, but she also didn't seem to comprehend the concept. It made you think - has this princess of a girl ever offered an apology to anyone before?

After grabbing a tissue, she crossed the room and approached you. She dabbed at your cheek, cleaning the wound. She didn't even look up at you; rather, her determined expression was fixated on the cut. Once she finished, she took your hand and wiped the blood off your finger as well before she crossed the room once more, tossing the tissue in the garbage and turning back to stare at you.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you replied, trying your best to hold back your smile.

“That was an accident,” she continued, stepping slowly until she was directly in front of you.

“It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t apologizing.”

“Oh.”

Words hung suspended between the two of you as the palpable silence enveloped you. Ignoring the minor inconvenience of her assault, Wonyoung brought you into this room for a reason. Unspoken desire filled the air as your eyes locked together. The speaking part was taken care of, that happened downstairs, now was time for action. Yet, for some reason, both of you stood there waiting for the other, a ridiculous game of chicken since you both knew what the other wanted.

“What are you waiting for?” Wonyoung clicked her tongue, finally conceding.

Good question. The answer, the one you just knew Wonyoung was looking for, came when you picked her up in your arms and tossed her onto the king-sized mattress. Before any more noise could follow up the high-pitched squeak of shock that escaped her lips, you took off your coat and fell on top of her body and sealed your lips against hers.

A surge of heat ignited between you and Wonyoung. The connection was overwhelming, causing the world around you to fade in and out of existence. Each subtle movement of your mouths was full of urgency, as if time itself had paused. The fact that you met this girl barely an hour ago had not an ounce of relevance in your mind.

While the pain in your cheek was a long forgotten souvenir, a new piercing sensation shot up your spine as Wonyoung’s nails dug deep into your back. You gasped into her mouth before biting down on her lip, only for her to bite yours back even harder. The raw, visceral intensity of the coppery essence hitting your taste buds made you lust for her even more - something that, a minute ago, you would not have imagined was conceivable.

Each subtle movement of your tongue was with purpose, exploring the delicate contours of hers, your tongues dancing together with intoxicating urgency. She met each of your movements with her own, even now matching your energy to a tee. The silent conversation consisting of flicks and swirls engulfed the world around you, overpowering even the thumping music downstairs where Mozart had been replaced by some generic club noise of the youth.

While Wonyoung’s hands explored every inch of your back, your own hand began roaming over her curves, tracing her body to give you a perfect image of her frame despite your eyes being closed. As your hands slid past her hips, giving them a rough but quick press with your fingers, your lips parted for the first time.

“Yes,” Wonyoung gasped, her chest heaving up and down against your body.

That was it, all she was going to give you before she reached up with her hands to cup your face, pulling you back into a kiss.

With newfound inspiration, you swiftly slipped your hands up Wonyoung’s dress. As your fingers snaked their way up her thigh towards the waistband of her underwear, they paused for just a second, leaving the smallest hint of timidness. A hint that evaporated into thin air as soon as Wonyoung gasped softly into your mouth, a signal of provocation that filled your hands with boldness.

As difficult as it was, you lifted yourself up away from Wonyoung’s mouth until you were holding yourself right above her. The two of you locked eyes for just a brief second before, in one swift motion, you yanked down the lacy black panties you had been getting peeks of all night.

Wonyoung gasped again, shutting her eyes tight and arching her back towards the roof. You took the opportunity, leaving her panties at her knees, and lunged forward into her neck like a moth to a flame.

Your lips pressed deeply into her skin, absolutely intoxicated by her taste. A mix of sweetness and warmth, a temptation that left you craving more. Each consecutive kiss was met with a hitch of her breath that just made you want her even more.

Inch by inch you moved lower down her body, pressing your mouth against her clavicle a few times before slipping lower into the neckline of her dress. Wonyoung’s slender fingers pressed into the back of your head, shoving your mouth deep into her chest, pressing your face against the thin fabric covering her soft breasts. Urgency began taking over, an insatiable hunger from within, and you began lowering yourself even more. You slid all the way backwards, dropping to your knees at the edge of the bed, and you finally placed your gaze on your true prize.

Just a few irrelevant inches in front of you, Wonyoung’s pussy was there for your taking. Those delicate folds radiating tantalizing allure, glistening with the essence of desires. Each curve of her skin seemed to call to you, urging you to forget everything and to just shove your face as deep up her dress as physically possible.

Then, abruptly, your view was blocked by Wonyoung’s gentle fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, looking up at her as she sat up at the edge of the bed.

All that confidence, that lust, that demand, it all turned to a facade in the span of seconds. In front of you wasn’t that same intimidating princess that you met earlier in the night. It was a vulnerable and beautiful girl. Even after the sudden change, you were still just as attracted to the girl; If anything, you were more attracted to her vulnerable side.

“Wonyoung?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she shook her head and took a deep breath. “I’m good, let’s do this.”

Something just felt a little bit off. Earlier, she was so adamant about fucking you, almost to the point where you were starting to question if she was secretly part of the party’s entertainment. If you hadn’t seen her reject those other guys, you maybe would have believed she was being paid to be here, but still something felt not right.

“If you’re having doubts-”

“No, come on,” Wonyoung interrupted you. “I want this.”

“Then lean back,” you instructed her, deciding to take it slow until you were able to shake this feeling you had.

Wonyoung listened to you and leaned back on the bed, her legs dangling off the edge. You gently spread them apart from the knees, resulting in her tiny dress riding up her body slightly. You softly grabbed her hand and moved it away, unblocking your view of her glistening pussy. As you stared at her pussy again, you helped her untangle her panties from her feet before tossing them across the room without any thought.

Your mouth began salivating uncontrollably, you just needed a taste of Wonyoung’s pussy. Showing just the slightest bit of restraint, you first grabbed both of her hands and interlocked your fingers with hers before pushing forward.

Her whole body shivered as your warm breath teased her skin, igniting the tension in the room into an inferno of heat. As soon as your lips made contact with Wonyoung’s pussy, your world flipped upside down. The subtle - yet intoxicating - taste of tangy sweetness lingered on your tongue, sending waves of warmth through your entire body.

With each exploration of Wonyoung’s pussy, your connection with her deepened. New sensations were discovered, each one hitting like a truck, overwhelming you time after time. You’ve never tasted a pussy that has had you this addicted. You wanted it all - greed began taking over.

Your lips pressed down hard against her skin, creating a seal between you and her. Electricity shot through you as Wonyoung’s breath quickened. Warmth and desire attacked both your taste and hearing now as the next lick of Wonyoung’s tantalizing mix left her moaning into the thickening air of the luxurious bedroom.

“Oh fuck,” Wonyoung moaned softly, squeezing hard against your fingers.

Her addictive sweetness was overwhelming. You were losing track of time, all you could focus on was your attempt to quench this undeniable craving for her body. Nothing could stop you, not as long as she kept responding to each touch, each lick, soft gasps escaping her lips - It was a dangerous loop.

Only a few more - or maybe it was a lot more - moments of pleasure were left for you to enjoy. Before you knew it, Wonyoung’s body seized up, quivering against your lips. A rush of exhilaration surged through you as Wonyoung’s melodic gasps of pleasure began caressing your ears.

It was as if the world had exploded in a cascade of warmth. Her fingers had this newfound strength that made you feel like she was about to snap your hand in half, and her body began to arch even more as every muscle in her body tensed up. The lovely trembling of her body kept your mouth glued to her pussy, sharing in the ecstasy of her climax.

The fulfillment you had coursing through your body as you finally lifted your mouth off her pussy was impossible to compare. You stood up, admiring the absolute mess of a girl laying on the edge of the bed before you. There was no denying it, your cock was begging to be freed, to get a chance with Wonyoung’s body. Just as you unbuckled your pants and began lowering them, the most soul-crushing sound in the universe hit your ears.

“What the hell, who locked this?”

“It shouldn’t be, guests aren’t supposed to be up here,” a second voice answered, giving the door another shake. “Maybe someone locked it earlier. Here, I have a key somewhere.”

“Shit,” you whispered to Wonyoung before quickly buckling your pants back up. “We gotta go.”

She nodded rapidly, suddenly recovering from the intensity of her orgasm just a minute ago, fear filling her pupils as she stood up and froze. You quickly grabbed your jacket and her heels before pointing to the bathroom. Wonyoung ran across the room towards the bathroom as you followed, pausing briefly to shove her ring from the dresser into your pocket - you didn’t want to leave any evidence.

If your heart wasn’t beating out of your chest, you would have loved to admire the beauty of the bathroom. It was like entering a luxurious spa retreat. The air was infused with a subtle blend of essential oils that were supposed to calm you down - unfortunately they weren’t working. The walls, creamy marble decorated with gold highlights, created a feeling of warmth and tranquility - unfortunately this also wasn’t working.

“There,” you pointed towards a massive window above the tub. “Hold these,” you handed Wonyoung her heels.

As you put on your coat quickly, you noticed again just how terrified Wonyoung was. You took a second to pause, ignoring the dire situation you had found yourself in, and leaned forward to give her a quick kiss. Her cheeks burned bright crimson as you turned back to the window, climbing onto the edge of the tub to open it.

“It’s a bit of a jump,” you admitted, looking back over your shoulder as you leaned out the window. “You trust me?”

Wonyoung nodded, still unable to speak. She stepped forward, taking your outstretched hand, and leaned over to look out the window with you.

“I changed my mind,” she gasped, dropping her heels into the tub below you in panic.

“Hey,” you wrapped your arms around her. “I don’t know that much, but I do know the host of this place isn’t one to be messed with.”

“But I’m scared,” she whispered quietly into your chest.

“I know,” you let go of her and held both of her shoulders, staring her directly in the face. “I won’t make you jump, but if you trust me, I’m telling you it’ll be fine.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting to the window before returning to you, but then she took a deep breath and nodded.

“Perfect,” you took her heels and dropped them out the window. You could see the pain in her eyes at the delay before the sound of them hitting the grass, but all you could do was smile meekly at her. “Alright, I’m going to go first and then catch you, but then you need to promise me that you’ll be able to jump alone.”

“I promise,” Wonyoung answered with conviction.

“Good girl,” you gave her another kiss before climbing up into the window. The edge was sharper than you expected, and you ended up cutting your hand. “Fuck, be careful, it’s sharp.”

“Got it,” Wonyoung replied, helping support your body as you climbed up.

As carefully and quickly as you could, you grabbed the ledge and lowered your body out the window. After taking a deep breath, looking up at Wonyoung’s face of concern above you, you let go.

All things considered, the fall went as well as it could have. It honestly wasn’t that bad as the soft grass made for a perfect landing spot. Without wasting time inspecting for any injuries, you turned your head upwards to where Wonyoung looked frozen again.

“Come on,” you whispered, knowing that you couldn’t yell. “I got you, just do it.”

Sweat began dripping from your forehead as you began losing hope. She wasn’t going to jump. She was too scared. Your heart began thumping out of your chest. Maybe you should have lowered her down first. Maybe you should have just opened the door and tried to make an excuse.

None of that mattered, though, as suddenly you saw Wonyoung’s feet come out of the window. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched her lower herself as low as she could. She looked down at you, making eye contact for a moment, a moment where time froze, before suddenly letting go.

It all happened so fast. One second you were looking up at her, the next second you heard her scream, and now you were on the grass with Wonyoung’s body on top of yours.

“Are you okay?” you quickly asked as adrenaline shot through your body.

“I think so,” she answered as she hyperventilated in your arms. “Sorry about the scream.”

She took a moment to compose herself before getting off you and standing up. Only once she held her hand to help you up did you notice how intense the pain in your side was.

It was excruciating, the worst pain you have ever felt. You almost wanted to fall back to the ground in a crying fit, but you somehow - with the power of more adrenaline most likely - ignored it and kept your head straight.

“Grab your shoes, let’s go,” your voice far more stable than even you expected.

Without hesitation, Wonyoung followed your instructions and put her heels back on.

“Shit,” she gasped, looking down at her dress.

There was a large tear on the side, exposing a patch of skin on her hip towards her back.

“It’s fine, just stay close to me,” you held your arm out for her to nestle herself next to you. It hurt like hell when her body pressed against your side, but you kept ignoring it. “We’ll have to walk around the building, if anyone asks anything just say you’re my wife and we stepped out for some fresh air and time alone.”

“Oh, sure,” Wonyoung began flushing profusely at the plan.

WIthout giving it a second thought, you lowered your arm around her body and pressed your palm against the part of her dress that had the tear to cover up the skin before guiding her along the path. The two of you swiftly walked around the house, silently admiring once again how beautiful it was. You kept your heads down, making sure not to draw any attention from the windows.

Luckily, everyone inside was seemingly preoccupied in their own little worlds, not surprising considering the pretentious nature of the event. You made it to the front without any issue, all that was left was a cartoonishly long driveway. By the front door stood a couple who seemed to be having a very heated argument.

“Just keep going,” you muttered quietly to Wonyoung, walking past the couple as they began raising their voices.

It was only a couple of steps before Wonyoung began giggling at the slurs being launched into the night sky by the couple before taking off as fast as her heels allowed down the driveway. You chased after her, laughing as the pain in your side disappeared for a moment.

“I think we’re good,” you began panting with your hands on your knees as you caught your breath.

“That was insane,” Wonyoung laughed, falling to the ground in front of you.

“I know right? That was…” your voice trailed off as you looked up and caught a glimpse up Wonyoung’s dress. “Oh fuck.”

“What?”

“First of all, sorry, I didn’t mean to look,” you turned your head away from her. “But we definitely left something in the room.”

“What are you… Oh!” Wonyoung squealed, pulling her legs together tight. “You pervert!”

“Seriously?”

“I’m kidding,” Wonyoung giggled, standing up to her feet, making what seemed to be an obviously intentional ‘mistake’ of flashing her pussy at you again before fixing her dress. “It’s fine, no way they’ll be able to trace them back to me.”

“Good,” you held your hand out for her to take. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

As the night wore on, the two of you strolled across the waterfront town, which was fortunately in a very upscale and safe area. The velvety darkness, punctuated by the tranquil glow of the moon, brought you an otherworldly level of peace - especially after the intensity of your evening.

The streets were serene, only disturbed by the sound of Wonyoung’s heels hitting the pavement in a gentle rhythm and the occasional rustle of leaves as the nightly breeze flew past you. From time to time you’d hear the sounds of laughter coming from people on their own nightly adventures being carried by the crisp and cool air.

“Oh, I’m an idiot,” you stopped abruptly and took off your coat. “Sorry, mind was on other things.”

“I considered asking,” Wonyoung giggled as she accepted your coat and draped it around her shoulders. “But I figured you weren’t really the gentlemen type after I caught you looking up my dress.”

“Oh come on,” you protested. “First of all, accident. Secondly, you didn’t catch me, I confessed.”

“I know, I’m just giving you a hard time,” Wonyoung giggled softly. “We still need to finish what we started by the way,” she added, giving you a little nudge in the ribs.

“Ah,” you gasped, inhaling sharply through your teeth.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No no, I’m good,” you lied, hiding the fact that it felt like there was a knife in your ribs right now. “You wanna sit down for a bit? It’s gorgeous out there.”

“Sure,” Wonyoung agreed, looking over at the water.

The two of you sat on the stone wall that bordered the path with your feet dangling over the edge. Now that you weren’t walking, the frigid night started to hit you. Thankfully, Wonyoung understood what you wanted when you inched closer to her, and she lay her head peacefully onto your shoulder. You followed her lead, gently resting your cheek against the top of her head.

The world seemed to fade away, leaving nothing but the soft sounds of water lapping against the shore. The moonlight shimmered across the water, leading a never-ending path deep into the night. The salty sea breeze and the floral tones coming from Wonyoung’s hair pleasantly combined into a mixture of satisfaction.

It felt nice, everything that happened tonight was irrelevant now. All that mattered was this view, and the warmth of Wonyoung leaning against you. Time stood still, yet again, as the two of you silently soaked in the beauty of the world around you. The connection you felt with her felt infinite, forever to be etched into your brain.

“I need to confess something,” Wonyoung broke the silence as she stared down at her hands as if she had never seen them before. “I’ve never actually been with a guy before.”

Carefully, you lifted your head off hers and turned to look down at her. She followed suit, lifting her head off your shoulder, turning to look up at you.

“Wonyoung,” you paused to give her hand a little squeeze. “This doesn’t change what I think about you, but I’m a little surprised.”

“Tonight was supposed to be the night,” she continued, her eyes glowing in the moonlight. “That was the whole reason I went to this party.”

“Well, it wasn’t the reason I enjoyed my time with you tonight.”

“Isn’t that why you went upstairs with me?”

“Truthfully, yes,” you admitted. “Can I ask what you meant by that being the whole reason you were there tonight?”

“Exactly what I said,” she replied. “I… felt like it’s a bit embarrassing that I haven’t done it yet.”

“I don’t think it’s something you should be embarrassed about,” you said gently. “But why at such a pretentious party filled with douchebags?”

“Um, you were also at that party,” she cocked a brow at you.

“Not by choice,” you retaliated. “You’re the only reason I even stayed as long as I did.”

“Sounds like you’re still saying you want to be my first.”

“Look, I just met you, I don’t know much about you,” you replied gently after a pause to think. “But I do know I’ve loved every second we’ve spent together. I also know that I would do it all again in a heartbeat without changing a thing, even if I knew this right here was the end and we both went our separate ways.”

“Really? You wouldn’t maybe change the height of the house?” Wonyoung giggled.

“Nope, but maybe I’d change the way you fell on me.”

“I’m really sorry, does it still hurt?” Wonyoung’s face suddenly turned to concern.

So, she did know how to apologize.

“It’s fine,” you smiled at her.

“You said you’d be fine if the night ended right here and we never spoke again,” she whispered softly. “Is there any way this didn’t have to be the end?”

“Is that what you want?” you asked while letting go of her hand.

She nodded slowly.

“Then no, it doesn’t need to end here, I’d love to see you again."

“Thank you,” she smiled warmly. “But you never answered my question.”

There was another pause for you to think about your answer.

“Whether or not I’m your first, tonight is not the night for us to make that decision,” you answered carefully.

Wonyoung lunged forward and hugged you tightly. It was so sudden, you weren’t prepared. Unfortunate, really, as her very pure-intentioned action ended up being the most painful event of the night; A very loud and visceral cry left your mouth as intense pain shot into your ribs.

“What happened?” Wonyoung gasped, immediately letting go of you in fear.

“Nothing,” you winced in pain as a second wave shot up your body.

Wonyoung, as gently as she could, grabbed your shirt and slowly lifted it up.

“Oh my God!” she screamed, covering her mouth with her hands as the moonlight illuminated a massive purple patch on the side of your body. “Why the fuck have you been hiding this from me?”

“It’s fine,” you winced as you lowered your shirt back down gingerly. “Just a bruise.”

“Just a bruise?” she repeated as tears began spilling from her eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Stop, it’s fine,” you brought your hands up to her face and carefully wiped her eyes with your thumbs. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is! I’m the one who-”

Her panic was silenced as you pressed your lips against hers again. You held your mouth to hers for a few seconds before slowly pulling back, leaving her staring at you with her mouth still slightly agape.

“Please relax,” you smiled warmly. “I’ll be fine.”

“Should I take you to the hospital?”

“No.”

“Can I at least bring you back to my place?”

“It’s no big deal, don’t worry.”

“Please.”

“Alright,” you sighed, admittedly feeling quite touched by her concern. “My place is just up the street, how about you walk me home before I call you a cab?”

“Okay,” Wonyoung leapt to her feet and held her hands out for you. “I can live with that.”

“Thank you,” you graciously accepted her hands and stood up with her, wincing again in pain.

“Here, does that feel fine?” she asked as she placed your arm on her shoulder.

“I can still walk, my legs are fine,” you chuckled. “But yes, it’s perfect.”

The walk only took a couple of minutes, during which not a single word was uttered between the two of you. Yet, somehow, it didn’t feel awkward or strange. It actually felt incredibly comforting walking through the night with Wonyoung. Things were so different now compared to when you met her earlier in the night, it felt like you’ve known this girl all your life.

“One second,” you unwrapped your arm from Wonyoung’s shoulder to reach for your phone.

“I got it,” she quickly reached into your pocket, pulling it out for you.

“Thanks,” you smiled at her thoughtfulness before unlocking the front door to your apartment with the app.

“So fancy,” Wonyoung teased before stepping into the lobby with you, her heels tapping loudly against the marble floors. “I guess it makes sense considering where I found you.”

“It’s not that special,” you replied humbly. “Thank you again, for everything.”

“No, thank you,” Wonyoung responded. “Also, does your physical condition have any bearing on your answer earlier?”

“No,” you smiled at her. “I stand by what I said.”

“Okay, just making sure, let’s go,” she pressed the button for the elevator.

“Let me call that cab for you first.”

“Not yet,” Wonyoung held her hand over your phone. “Let me at least help you clean up the cut.”

“It’s late, I really don’t want to keep you up. I’ll manage.”

“Do you have a girl upstairs waiting for you?” she asked abruptly.

“What? No, of course not. I live alone.”

“Are you uncomfortable with me being in your apartment?”

“No.”

“Then let’s go,” she stepped into the elevator, arms crossed while staring at you.

“I appreciate this,” you said as you stepped in and pressed the button for your floor.

After walking down the hall towards your apartment, Wonyoung forced you to sit on your couch.

“Where’s your medicine cabinet?” she called out to you as she walked into your kitchen.

“Wonyoung I’m fine, I promise, I just need to rest,” you called back. “Just come sit with me for a bit.”

“Where is it?” Wonyoung walked back over, completely ignoring you, with an ice pack in her hands. “Take your shirt off.”

Realizing that she wasn’t going to give up, you sighed before carefully unbuttoning your shirt and opening it up. The bruise had gotten worse, and it already looked terrible compared to earlier. In front of you, Wonyoung had stopped moving and her gaze was locked on your body.

“Wonyoung?” you held your hand out for the ice pack.

“Huh? Oh, right,” she began blushing as she handed you the pack. “Hold that to the bruise. Medicine cabinet?”

“Bathroom mirror,” you replied, gasping as the cool ice pressed against your skin.

It was definitely soothing, and you immediately felt a bit of relief. You watched Wonyoung walk towards the bathroom, your eyes slowly closing as you began drifting out of consciousness. The next thing you remember is the softest of soft touches against your cheek.

“Sorry, did I press too hard?” Wonyoung apologized gently as she continued rubbing vaseline on your cheek. “I’m leaving this one uncovered so that it heals faster and doesn’t scar.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your heart rate spiking as you opened your eyes to see Wonyoung’s face right in front of yours. Once again, she was entirely focused on the wound, her gaze never faltering.

“You’re welcome, I wrapped your hand up as well. Are there any other injuries that you know of?”

“I don’t think so,” you shook your head.

“You didn’t have any…”

Those were the last few words you heard before you faded out of consciousness again. The next time your eyes opened up was when you heard the click of your front door opening.

“Still alive?” Wonyoung called out softly when she noticed your eyes were open.

“What, how long…” you paused to look at the ice pack, which had melted entirely by now, before continuing, “...have I been asleep?”

“Like thirty minutes or so,” Wonyoung answered casually as she sat down next to you and removed the pack. “Just rest, you can sleep again if you want.”

She pulled a little bottle out of a small bag and took the lid off before sticking two fingers into it and scooping out some of the cream.

“What’s that?” you mumbled.

“It’s just an anti-inflammatory,” she answered warmly before very gently rubbing her fingers against the bruise. “Does it hurt?” she asked as you let out a little gasp.

“No, it feels good.”

“Good, it’s supposed to,” she smiled as she continued to rub the ointment into your skin. “I’m convinced there’s no girl living here, by the way. After seeing the state of your medicine cabinet, it’s definitely just a man here.”

“Why would I lie…” you mumbled back, slowly fading out of consciousness again. “I really like you…”

Wonyoung paused, her cheeks turning rosy again, before closing the lid of the bottle.

“That should be enough, try not to wipe it off,” Wonyoung said casually before standing up. “Does it hurt when you breathe in?”

“No,” you groaned, sitting up slightly.

“That’s good, you don’t have a fever either,” she noted while pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. “I think you’re right and that it’s just bruising, but I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow to get x-rays.”

“It’s fine,” you smiled before wincing in pain again.

“I should really be taking you right now to be honest,” she said while staring at your bare chest. “It could be a fractured rib.”

“Tomorrow then, I’ll go.”

“You’re saying it like you have a choice.”

“Also, wait a minute, are those my clothes?” you just now noticed what she was wearing. “When did you put those on?”

“I wasn’t going to walk into a store with a ripped dress and no panties, you idiot,” Wonyoung shook her head in disbelief. “Get some sleep, as soon as you wake up we’re going to see a physician.”

“Thank you…” you mumbled quietly, slouching back down into the couch and closing your eyes. “Goodnight.”

After a small pause where you heard a couple of footsteps, you felt Wonyoung place a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Goodnight.”

---

A/N:

I don't think I have too much to say about this one. I wrote it because @writerpeach made me horny for Wonyoung. I know it's not the smuttiest of my works, but frankly I was more focused on other aspects of my writing for this one. I've left it open for future parts, no idea when I'll be writing them but I do already have the plot.

Wrote and edited this whole thing in essentially one weekend, so forgive any mistakes. This one really was more of a test for my own writing capability. A small side project if you will. Feel free to let me know what you guys think, and if you have any sort of interesting requests I'm not opposed to taking them for more practice.

[fishnapple]

How do they love you? How does their love feel like?

(Future spouse/partner/lover)

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI (→ personal reading)

CUBE 1

There's always something to look forward to when you're with them. Life never stands still for the two of you, no, it doesn't mean your life together will be hectic and full of fast movement. On the contrary, they will take things slow with you, but you're always sure of their attention and how they see a future for the two of you. They will be very protective of that future, almost stubbornly so. You will hear them talk often about plans, they will ask you how you want to go at things, what's your comfortable pace, what do you hope for the future, what do you expect of them, of the relationship, they will also frequently joke or talk seriously about the vision of a retirement life together with you. There's just this sureness about the future with them, also hope and excitement.

But they also like to reminisce about your memories together. They probably will like to take a lot of photo with you, just daily activities, small beauty around you, and then like to spend some nights, sitting comfortably on the couch with you, warm blanket wrapping around you two, flipping through the physical photo album or the one in their phone. They like to remind you of your many "first" memories together. How you first met, how you first confess, your first kiss, the first sunset watched together. Things like that. They will also like to tease you about it but also want to recreate that memory again someday.

They might have to travel a lot for their work, and overseas trips can be frequent. You will sometimes feel that your house lack a little warmth of their presence. But when they're with you, they will make it up to you when they're home, by staying home with you lazily, just the two of you relaxing together, enjoying simple moments. But they will surprise you now and then with romantic dates, travelling to some far away lands for some changes of scenery. You once said to them absentmindedly how you wish to do something, go somewhere? They will make that happen for you, unexpectedly, they like surprise gifts. These instances are when you can feel their playfulness the most visibly.

Other times, they will remain a practical and dependable person. They will make sure that you feel safe in the relationship. So they tend to hide a lot of their worries and doubts. If they're quiet or not communicative, it's likely that they're worrying about something. If you ask them what's wrong, they probably will brush it off and assure you that nothing is wrong. Just let them be for a while to collect their thoughts. They will come around and discuss it with you, with a clearer mind and trust.

CUBE 2

They will be a tease alright. You might sometimes be puzzled by their behaviour, are they just a bully, or are they being playful? This person has two sides to them, I think it's likely due to their upbringing or their environment that requires them to be accommodating and mild manner. Strangers, acquaintances, or even those who work closely with them will find them very charming, patient, and hard working. But when it comes to the person they love romantically, it's like something switched up inside them. They can act a little childish,snarky, and passionate around you, poking you here and there just to get a reaction. They love playing pranks on their lover. But not to the point of angering you or in a mean spirit way. For all their jokes and pranks, they do fulfil your desire for a perfect partner and also a friend. I think the way they act playfully like that is to match your energy. Whatever they do, they do it in consideration of you, so they never take the teasing too far, just enough to rile you up a little.

They like to ask your opinions on everything, purposefully create a debate with you, even when you share a similar viewpoint. They want to include you in every decision that they make, always a team, especially when the future of the relationship is concerned. If you have any dilemmas, they will always be there to help solve them with you.

You guys might be the couple that giggle with each other in public, sharing inside jokes and exchanging looks across the crowd. They would love to lean in and whisper to your ear. Their display of affection in public can be restrained and moderate, nothing offensive to the eyes of lonely hearts around you guys. But in general, they prefer to stay at home with you rather than go to a public place. Almost like being secluded with you, muting out all the noises outside. It's because they work a lot, they can be too absorbed in their work and spend many hours working. So when they can get off working, they want to relax with you. Your home together will be like a sanctuary to them.

They can act like a fixer sometimes, always eager to solve your problems for you. If you have some bad habits, they will push you to get rid of them, sometimes it can feel heavy-handed. But usually, the way they do it is sincere and charming enough for you to listen to them without resistance. One of their habits that you might be a little worried about is their spending habit, they have a loose attitude towards money, spending on whims. If they see something they fancy, they will not just buy it for themselves but for you too, they love matchy-matchy. Luckily, they don't act like that towards just everyone, only to the person closest to them.

CUBE 3

Your domestic life with this person will be so peaceful and fun. They just give a very stable and dependable energy without being rigid or overbearing. You will feel spoiled by them a lot. They will put you on top priority, trying to make life easier for you in every aspect. From small daily chore to important decisions like moving home or changing jobs, they want to be there for you and support you in everything. This person likes to share the workload with you, there's just no definite role in your relationship where one person is the bread winner while the other is the one who takes care of the house. Your relationship will be balanced, if one person is working, the other will do the housework, and vice versa. But they're especially proactive in making the mundane details comfortable for you, I think they're someone who enjoys doing chores around the house and taking care of their person. They like to iron your clothes for you, preparing meals, cleaning the house while you lay there relaxing.

But in that scenario where they're cleaning the house and you're relaxing, they'd like that moment to be when you guys can have some fun banter together. There's maybe a sense of duty when they're doing the work, but it's actually because they enjoy these small peaceful moments with you. They like to joke and tease you a lot. Talking with them will feel so easy and free flowing, you guys will never run out the things to talk about. Reminds me of birds chirping together on a branch in springtime. But they can also dive deep with more serious topics. The things they say are never superficial and shallow. What they say is what they do and what they think deeply about. They probably won't say something if they're not sure of it. You will feel like their words are the most dependable pillars. They're also very strategic, taking care steps in whatever plan they're executing, appraising the progress, and making adjustments when necessary. So life with them will feel like a sturdy ship that can weather any storms and still sail to the bright horizon ahead.

They have a strange blend of tenderness and passion. You won't have to doubt their desire for you, they'll be just very straightforward with you. But they're creative and flexible in their display of affection and they know various techniques to melt your heart. One moment they may act like an excited child asking their playmate to hang out with them. Other times, they act all assertive and self-assured that you feel like there's no one sexier. Another time, they will be silent and attentive, listen to your every dark thoughts that are clouding your mind. You will believe that as long as you're with them, nothing can hurt you, that you can relax and just be cosy in their arms, even when the world is cold and dangerous outside.

CUBE 4

This person could have some deep wounds that they hold in their heart for a long time. These wounds made them become cautious and value their independence a lot. They're not willing to sacrifice their personal values and autonomy for just anyone. So you might have a hard time getting closer to them in the beginning. The frustrating thing is, they're very charming as a person, they can say all the right words that can melt your heart in no time, they're a great conversationalist and a visionary, but only as an individual, in relationship, the more messy and problematic side will rear its head and make itself known. There's a very strong mental energy here. If you're the kind of person who values mental connection above all else and tends to lean on the logical side of thinking, you might not see much problem with them, for they can be a satisfying mental opponent for you. But if you're more sensitive and seek an emotional connection, both of you will have to compromise a lot to make it work.

You could feel that sometimes, their approach to the relationship with you and life in general can be aggressive or pushy. They like to take control of the situation and take charge of everything, including the small details of your life together. They want to do everything on their own, not exactly because they don't want you to lift a finger, but more because of the desire to take everything into their own hands, for efficiency. You will never have to doubt if they pay enough attention to you or not, sometimes, you might even wish that they don't give you so much attention, because it can feel a little antagonistic at times.

Communication is very important in your relationship. With your honest and straightforward feedback, they will slowly curb their impulsive tendency and be more gentle with you. The relationship with you will change their mindset a lot. They could be more high-strung and anxious in the past, but they will learn to relax more and be more appreciative of peace in the relationship. When they're relaxed and trust you more, they can be touchingly tender and romantic with their words. They probably like to go on many trips together with you, exploring the world around. You will feel that other people won't be able to understand the dynamic of your relationship and the unique experiences you share together. So you won't feel the need to compare your relationship with other people's, sure there are problems, but you wouldn't trade it for any other kinds. There's a strong element of getting out of the storm together, seeing each other's dark side and helping each other see the light.

They have a hidden passionate and wild side that's sleeping underneath layers of caution and anxiety. Their display of physical affection can be subdued and not too spontaneous, especially in the presence of other people. But they tend to talk or boast about you a lot in your absence. They will feel like loving you is their biggest victory, victory over their own limitations and fears. And they like to express that sense of pride with people, especially their friends.

[staryuee]

are you able to make some head canons of scaramouche, kazuha, xiao, (BASICALLY ANEMO BOYS), neuvi, kinich on how they react to reader being nonchalant like lwk i think itd be funny

NONCHALANT S/O

꒰warnings꒱ N/A

⠀꒲ ` characters . . . xiao, kazuha, scaramouche, neuvillette, kinich

⠀꒲ ` notes . . . happy new year ♡ still on hiatus but i didn’t want to leave you guys completely high and dry d(^_^o) + also kinich is most definitely out of character just bc i refuse to play the new update so i know nothing about him

XIAO

ʚ it doesn’t bother him, if anything he likes the fact you’re able to brush things off easily (makes it easier for him to stop crouching on nearby trees to assure you’re safe, but lord do you sometimes hurt his ego)

ʚ xiao isn’t confident in romantic gestures, even something as small as a compliment or pinky holding has him wanting to disappear and recover…so when you so easily act indifferent to it while he’s practically drunk on flush straight up makes him die a little

ʚ aside from the slight jabs to his pride, you aren’t uncaring and dumb enough to let his love go unnoticed (thankfully) so he can fully appreciate that you protect your peace

ʚ haunted by memories of war, death and the stench of metal, it’s nice to find some solace in the cool air you exude

ʚ from the outer perspective, two people who have nonchalant energy wouldn’t seem to work too well (but lord do people drool when you two are duoed for a fight), but you and xiao just click!

ʚ he’s quiet, protective but sweet and ready to take the first step to love you, while you’re chilled, confident and allow him to take comfort in someone who’s stable (and sometimes snarky lol)

KAZUHA

ʚ he takes your nonchalant energy as you being ditzy or levelheaded if anything - in other words - it’s really endearing!

ʚ you sort of match his personality to the T, except he’s just the slightest bit more reciprocal with other people’s energy meanwhile you just stand back with your hands either tucked in your pockets or fiddling with the edge of his scarf

ʚ he actually kinda just enjoys teasing you if anything to see if anything can make you crack, most attempts end in failure but it is a rather cute bonding exercise to whoosh you with anemo energy out of the blue to then help you reorganise your hair and straighten your clothes

ʚ he does worry for you on the occasion when you seem to show a lack of interest in him, he’s a pure romantic at heart! he thrives off the attention from his beloved partner! but once in a while you do show him just how much you love him

ʚ did he immediately brighten when you once placed your head on his lap really quietly when he was humming a melody to you? yes, and he has no shame about that

SCARAMOUCHE

ʚ oh you PISS him off

ʚ if ignorance and arrogance were ever personified it would be you and him respectfully

ʚ obviously you both love each other on deeper levels than just: “even though i’m above you i’ll still let you hold my hand, — “okay.” - but your relationship is just…humorous at best from an outsider’s view

ʚ the akademiya’s student body is currently conflicted between the idea that your relationship is either ideal or highly toxic

ʚ on one hand, it’s really adorable to see the mysterious, snarky student of vahumana that rarely ever comes to class be so oddly…chatty in your presence, as you so lovingly listened to every word (if the people close enough to actually hear can be bothered to ignore the fact he’s badmouthing the entire school while you shrugged at every word)

ʚ aside from the yapper x listener duo, he’d also…a little more physically affectionate? he rests his head on your lap quite frequently because you say nothing and therefore don’t bother teasing him

ʚ that’s also the main thing he hates: how nonchalant you are about everything makes his indifference seem futile and oddly more vulnerable. you don’t care about anything, and it’s incredibly infuriating! the first time he said “i love you” you replied with “huh?” and that was the first time he’s ever felt so scornful

ʚ he loves you most days, so he will deal with your frustrating silence - it’s nice to see him become the person he wanted to be with someone who rarely intervenes

NEUVILLETTE

ʚ he’s worried, intrigued and a little jealous all at once.

ʚ worried because he fears that your indifference is a direct consequence of his own inadequacy. are you perhaps not satisfied?? do you not like it when he cups the side of your face when he kisses you? or do you hate the purring noises he makes when you curl your hands in his hair? …it’s raining in fontaine again

ʚ he’s intrigued mostly because you don’t seem to care or even be fazed by the fact you’re not only dating a dragon - but a primordial, godly being that precedes the creation of the modern teyvat. he didn’t think the information would be useful to you in the first place, but when you asked so nicely about the two blue steaks in his hair, he felt obliged to tell you - and yet you replied with “oh, cool.”

ʚ a little jealous just because this attitude is rather perfect in court. you can’t show bias and any emotion whether for defence or prosecution can skew your perspective on a trial - it’s difficult. he’s grown to love the little beings that run around fontaine carelessly, passing judgement has become something so much more colourful than black and white. but with you? it’s like you either have no opinion, or just to not engage - slightly admirable, if a little scary

ʚ at the end of the day, it doesn’t worry him too badly. nonchalance doesn’t necessarily mean emotionally unavailable - and believe me he spends enough time next to you to love the little quirks and habits you do when no one is looking at that façade of yours

KINICH

ʚ you 🤝 kinich - two peas in a pod

ʚ you don’t give a shit about anything? neither does he! do you wanna kiss?

ʚ ajaw lowkey hates you both (said with affection) and does NOT hesitate to let his opinion be known, though kinich is of course quick to shut him down

ʚ he kind of enjoys peering his head at you during conversations to see what you’re like - if your face scrunches when people say something weird, if your brows pitifully furrow at the mention of loss, or even if you smile at laughter — and he sees quite literally nothing, which was honestly like looking in a mirror

ʚ no one actually knows how two people with nearly the exact same level of charisma (none) got together, but you two are happy with each other, so really - who else needs to comprehend your relationship?

ʚ you have a really similar approach to life: do what you must to get what you want. but to him that means dangerous commissions that no one would probably want, and to you that means lounge around graffitiing a wall with some symbols you thought of on the spot

ʚ it’s genuinely infuriating to have a conversation with either of you though when the person speaking isn’t looking for particular help (or is speaking too slowly for either of your likings), you either brush the person off and walk away, or kinich talks back rather abruptly

ʚ mualani made it a non negotiable rule to have someone, hopefully the traveler, around either one of you like some sort of support dog to ensure you guys actually socialise and don’t sit there like owls waiting to bite

©STARYUEE do not copy, steal or repost ♡ ᴜsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ɪʜᴇᴀʀᴛɢᴀɴʏᴜ

[glasvera]

Bittersweet

Adam Warlock x Fem!Reader

Description: Recent attacks on your home town have slowed down business at the cafe you work at, but your day gets a lot more interesting when three of the Guardians of the Galaxy walk through the door.

Warnings: Rocket waving around a firearm, Star-Lord being an insufferable flirt... uh... other than that it's just cutesy shit.

A/N: Listen, I had to get around to the dreaded coffee shop trope at some point. Also, I mainly specify fem!reader because this may become a multi-part fic...? depending on how I'm feeling...? and a lot of the cutesy behaviors were written with a more feminine reader in mind.

EDIT: PART TWO IS OUT NOW!

Word Count: 2.8k

There were many things in your life that you could be thankful for: you had a job, you could afford rent (barely), and it hadn’t rained on your walk to work this morning. Though, that did mean you had to deal with the thunderous and grating sounds of construction during your commute.

Work had slowed down recently, but that wasn’t at all surprising. You were a barista at a fairly popular cafe downtown, and normally there would be a constant stream of customers in and out of the door. Unfortunately, when some idiot supervillain comes around town and decides to cause havoc and destruction up and down Main Street, fewer people feel safe enough to venture out for a cup of coffee. Really, the cafe shouldn’t be open at all. But the owner was a hardass, and rent and groceries don’t pay for themselves.

Still though, at least it was slow right now. Death and destruction sort of kills the mood to make lattes.

With your cheek smushed against your hand, you lean on the counter and drum your nails against the hard surface to the beat of the smooth jazz your boss always played, waiting impatiently for your shift to be over. Thanks to the lack of business, it was just you and one other employee right now, and you really weren’t in the mood to talk about the most recent episode of the current K-drama she’s been watching. Way too high energy for you right now.

Unfortunately, fate has decided to give you the big middle finger this afternoon when a boisterous trio walks through the door. You couldn’t even hear the chime of the door’s bell over the way two of them bickered back and forth. Snapped out of your mind’s pointless wandering, you stand up straight and take a good luck at your new clientele.

One of the ones arguing looked normal enough. Average height, messy dirty blonde hair… though he was definitely not wearing anything from this planet. It looked like some sort of strange space jumpsuit with a blue coat thrown over top of it. He’s looking down and practically shouting at a… bipedal raccoon? You blink your eyes before rubbing them, making sure you were seeing things clearly, but no. That was definitely a bipedal, talking raccoon wearing clothes and carrying a very large gun. Said gun seemed to be the root of their argument as the blonde guy gestures wildly at it.

“You can’t just bring that in here, Rocket! These are normal, human people! You’re gonna scare them!”

“Why should I give a flark? I ain’t leaving myself unarmed if any bad guys show up. You saw how torn up the streets were out there!” the raccoon replies, flinging his paws about even as he holds the gun. Your coworker has long ducked out and disappeared to the back.

You don’t know how to react. You don’t even know where to begin. Quite frankly, you were willing to ignore open carry laws if it meant you didn’t have to be on the receiving end of that. But all of the tension in your body, hell, everything else fades into the background when you see him.

A man, seemingly made of pure gold and with matching gorgeous golden locks, stands behind the other two with his hand on the back of his neck. A mantled red cloak rests on his shoulders, but otherwise it seems he’s completely shirtless, and you can see lines etched into his skin that contour his defined muscles perfectly. Well, perhaps you can ignore multiple rules today. Pupilless, milky white eyes meet yours, and he gives you an apologetic smile.

Perfection doesn’t exist, shouldn’t exist… So how is it standing before you as he approaches the counter?

“Please, forgive them,” he starts, and even his voice is perfectly soothing. “I asked my friend Pe--Star-Lord, if I could try this coffee I had heard so much about, and this was the only place open nearby.”

“O-Oh, it’s… it’s um, well… if I said it was okay, I’d be lying, but--”

His brows knit together with worry. “If we must take our leave, I understand. It seems as though your town has been through enough already. If only we had been able to minimize more of the damage.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” you respond almost frantically. The last thing you want is for this man to leave, even if the same can't be said for his companions. Once you process the rest of what he said though, you tilt your head to the side curiously and point to some of the wreckage being cleaned up outside the cafe window. “Wait… that was you guys?” you ask incredulously.

The other man halts his argument and shoves Rocket’s face down and out of the way, and the raccoon looks about ready to bite that hand off. “The Guardians of the Galaxy, at your service!” he proclaims triumphantly as Rocket exclaims muffled obscenities. “Or, at least, some of us. At least the best looking one is here!” he clarifies with his thumb pointed into his chest. Ah, the egotistical type. Wonderful.

“I’m so lucky,” you reply dryly as you roll your eyes and massage your temples. It does draw a snort from the golden man in front of you though, and that makes you smile slightly as your attention is brought back to him. His very presence is warm like sunshine and almost as blinding. So much so that you don't realize the other guy is walking up to join him at the counter until he's practically shoving his hand toward you to shake.

“Name's Star-Lord, though you can call me whatever you like, sweetheart,” he adds with a wink. You stare down blankly at his hand, unmoving, and you can practically feel the way he tenses up from the awkward silence that ensues. Being flirted with at work was nothing new for you, and you always hoped there was a special place in hell for those who decided to take their chances with the employees forced to receive their advances. “...Or, uh… yeah. Star-Lord is fine,” he backtracks as he withdraws his hand and brushes it on his pants.

“Right. Cool,” you respond nonchalantly, turning your attention down to the register's monitor. “So what can I get you?”

The golden man snickers behind his hand and Rocket grabs Star-Lord by the hem of his coat. “Sorry. We haven't gotten him fixed yet, so he has a hard time keeping it in his pants,” he jokes as he glares pointedly at the man who had handled him so roughly just moments ago. Okay, that gets a chuckle out of you.

“Hey, what-!?”

“Can it, flark-face. We're gonna wait outside while Goldie gets his fix,” the raccoon interrupts as he starts dragging him outside. “Don't take too long, ya hear?”

“The two of you can return to the ship if you do not wish to wait. I intend to take my time,” the man responds calmly, giving you a soft smile. Rocket grumbles something about not blaming them if he gets lost later, but he doesn't seem to protest as they exit the cafe with a chime of the door’s bell.

“I cannot apologize enough for my companions,” he starts, and he is a little confused when you titter at that. “You… seem to have handled them well, though. I admit I am impressed.”

He's impressed? It's such a simple little thing, just a comment in passing, but you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks.

“It's nothing, really. Once you get past the shock of a talking raccoon, at least,” you joke.

“I wouldn't recommend calling him that to his face,” he warns with a wry smile.

“Noted,” you reply with a toothy grin of your own that he quickly mirrors. Gorgeous, and good at both conversation and easing the tension? You were done for. But, you still have a job to do, and he was here for a reason.

“So… never tried coffee, then?” you ask as you turn to idly check the different bean blends you had on hand.

“No,” he responds almost sheepishly. You giggle softly.

“It's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's not everyone's cup of tea.”

“But… but I thought it would be a cup of coffee,” he says, his voice sounding rather confused and a little worried. Oh. He's adorable.

“Oh! It's just… it's a phrase. Saying it's not everyone's cup of tea just means it's not to everyone's taste,” you explain as you turn to look at him over your shoulder.

He looks positively befuddled, bringing a hand to his forehead and brushing back his hair. “It is so much simpler to say it that way…” he muses quietly to himself. You still pick up on it and chuckle.

“Well, regardless, don't be surprised if you don't like it,” you continue as you grind a scoop of beans from your lightest roast. “A lot of people say it smells better than it tastes.”

It was slow enough, and he seemed quite interested in your explanation sans the confusing turn of phrase. You could take your time. Hell, you were ready to give him the cup for free as payback to your boss for the stupid smooth jazz playlist you'd practically memorized from the amount of times it looped. Your customer waited patiently, taking in every detail as his eyes followed your movements.

“Do you enjoy it?” he asks, breaking the temporary silence. When you turn towards him and blink curiously, he clarifies, “Coffee, I mean.”

The slow, steady drip of freshly brewing coffee begins, and you return your attention to him. “I do, yeah. Definitely an acquired taste, but nothing a little bit of cream and sugar can't fix.” You lean your elbows on the counter and tilt your head to the side. “A lot of people drink it for the caffeine more than anything.”

He blinks those white gold eyes at you, but nods in understanding after a moment. “Yes… caffeine I am familiar with. Some of the Guardians have taken a liking to energy drinks…” His voice trails off, as does his gaze, and you quirk a brow. He looks as though he’s seen terrible things and is suffering PTSD flashbacks right before your eyes… maybe you should move on from that.

“Well,” you start, bringing him back to reality as his head snaps towards you. You grab a cup, slide on its cardboard sleeve, and begin pouring the contents of the freshly brewed pot into it. Sliding it towards him, you watch him cradle it in his hands, seemingly intrigued by its warmth. “Ready to try it? Be careful though; it’s hot.”

“That should be no trouble,” he responds before bringing the cup to his lips. Your eyes widen with concern for a moment, but he clearly speaks truth as he takes a long sip without so much as a flinch. At least, he doesn’t flinch from the temperature of it. The flavor, on the other hand…

“It is…”

He tries so desperately to force a smile. His eyes narrow a bit, and the corners of his lips tug their way towards his cheeks, but it’s tight-lipped, and his nose crinkles in displeasure. You roll your lips between your teeth and try to subdue the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Don’t force yourself. Here,” you say, holding your hand out to take his cup back. He does so instantly, dropping the facade and immediately regarding it with visible disgust. He looks akin to a cat that is about to smack something that has displeased them. Now you can’t help the chuckle from slipping out. “It can taste better, I promise.”

“I do not believe you,” he states plainly, but pauses when your fingertips brush against each other in the passing of the cup. It’s incidental, fleeting, but he seems to stare down at where your skin touched him, studying it. He blinks twice and meets your gaze. “...Though, I suppose I should relent to the resident expert on this vile beverage.”

“Vile?” you snort as you procure a spoon, cane sugar, and a small pitcher of half and half. “I suppose I can understand though. Even I don’t drink it black--er, without any additives,” you tell him, catching yourself before you confuse him with some other English terminology he clearly didn’t understand. Based on his reaction, you scoop a few spoonfuls of sugar, stirring it and pouring the half and half until the liquid takes on a lighter, cloudier hue. Blonde, you might call it. You slide it back over to him, and he squints at it. You laugh and, nodding at the cup, urge him to try it again.

“If this is some sort of trick…” he replies warily, taking the hot beverage into his hand for the second time. You give him a cheeky smile in return and rest your head on your wrist, waiting patiently for him to take another sip. When he realizes he’s not getting anything else out of you until he does, he sighs and brings it back to his lips. His trepidation is obvious; the liquid scarcely passes through the seam of his lips at first. But then it hits his tongue and his eyes widen in shock. After taking a proper sip then, he sets the cup back on the counter, staring at it as though it were the product of some sort of witchcraft.

“It is still bitter, and yet…” his words trail off as he stares at it before his eyes flicker to yours, full of wonder. “There is a complexity to it. Sweetness to combat the bitter. Cream to compliment the acidity…”

“Hmm, never seen someone turn into a coffee sommelier over the simple addition of cream and sugar,” you tease as he picks up the cup and continues drinking it. There is something fascinating about the utter innocence of it; rare is the occasion that one can witness a stranger’s firsts like this, and he brought an almost childlike wonder to the simple act of drinking coffee. It’s terribly adorable.

He sees the smile on your face and the tenderness in your expression, and he averts his gaze suddenly. The embarrassment doesn’t help his case in the slightest, instead pulling a lilting giggle from your lips.

“I’m glad you like it, really,” you add genuinely. “I would hate for your first impression to be one of just bitter, acrid bean water.”

“My first impression?” he inquires curiously. “I suppose such things matter. Though, truly, my first impression of you was that of a calm, patient, and gentle soul.”

That hadn’t been what you meant at all. You were referring to the cafe itself, not to its humble employee. His words leave your jaw slack and your eyes wide, and you turn away bashfully before covering your face with one hand. “O-oh, that’s--I meant--”

Now it’s his turn to chortle, and it’s a lovely, deep, rumbling sound. “I am aware. Still, I find it pertinent to speak of the truths I see in front of me,” he speaks, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he revels in the flush he feels radiating off of your very being. “Especially when they draw such wonderful expressions forth.”

He was teasing you. Here you were, moments ago, marveling at how naive he seemed to be. Now you truly felt the fool.

A golden hand places a few bills and coins onto the counter. “I look forward to the next time I visit this establishment. You can introduce me to even more of the seemingly vast world of coffee.”

You’re dumbfounded. Next time? And he wanted to see you? He’s moving to take his leave, giving you the softest yet somehow most knowing of smiles, and you feel yourself panic.

“Wait!” you call out suddenly.

He does. Though, there is a somewhat perplexed look about him at your sudden outburst.

“I… I didn’t catch your name. If you’re going to be a regular here, well… I like knowing my regulars’ names.”

That was a load of bullshit and you knew it, but that doesn’t mean he has to. You’d be damned if you didn’t know the name of the perfect, Midas touched man that would be haunting your dreams for weeks to come. At least he regards you with a solemn understanding, giving you a soft “ah” as though it made perfect sense to him.

“I am Adam Warlock. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Y/N,” he responds before, with an effortless flourish of his red cape, he finally exits the door with the gentle chime of its bell.

His voice… your name upon his lips sounded like heaven. Wait, how did he--!?

Oh. Right. Name tag, duh. 

Still though, you knew every shift from here on out would be painstakingly torturous as you waited for that beautiful golden man to walk back through the cafe’s door.

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art��s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[mullermilkshake]

Sixty one days

Part 3 <- Part 4 -> Part 5

Two months. Two fucking months.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Canon-typical violence,Trying for a baby, Jinwoo is getting a little desperate,Authoritative pressure,Mentions of pregnancy/unprotected sex/sexual acts/breeding

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

Two months later. And still no baby.

The morning followed news of Hae-In’s pregnancy announcement. You were still training and if you weren’t pregnant by now, that was the root cause.

You were pushing yourself too hard, Jinwoo knew it just by the sweat dripping from your forehead. The pressure from the association was the contributing factor that morning, paired with Jinwoo’s system quest, you and he weren’t doing so hot.

Each time you received Jinwoo’s load inside you, it was delivered on the hope that one would get you pregnant. One after the other, it grew way more than just a quest for him to complete. Jinwoo was driven to the point that he solely wanted those two little lines on that stick to prove that he was more than enough to look after you.

The whole day put Jinwoo in a foul mood, standing off by the viewing platform to witness your abilities alongside Jong-In. He wasn't participating, just mulling over how to smooth things with you and that strained apartment.

In a versus sparring match, Jinwoo put his money on you, despite knowing Jong-In’s abilities, yours were more of a utility. You were of the variety where you quickly learned that you were capable of fighting close and long ranged combat. Your abilities as a mage made you one of a kind for close quarters fighting despite your lack of experience. A perfect counter to other mage types like Jong-In.

The one ability Jinwoo took interest in was your direct spell casting. Royal’s Gatekeeper.

After the hunters finished swarming Jong-In with congratulations, he entered the area and faced you. Jinwoo’s eye twitched at the way you patted Jong-In on the back before standing in the indicated half box to await the match's starting point. He hated the way you were so friendly with him, loathed it, wanted to rip his hair out and slice the man up into pieces.

Like he was the ‘ultimate weapon’ and lately, Jinwoo found himself wanting to put that assumption to the test. It was clear who would win if Jinwoo took Jong-In on.

“Things are going to get hot in here.” Hunter Baek stood nearby with Hunter Ma, watching along as the match between two S-Rank hunters began.

“Yeah, but she’s pretty good at capture the flag.”

Baek shrugged and disagreed. “But Jong-In is pretty fast, she’ll have to break the distance first before she can even land a hit on him, he long range spell isn't refined enough yet, she's still got a long away to go. I'm not sure he’ll give her that chance at least, he was pretty riled up this morning.”

Ma scratched his head and rested on his chin over the railing. “But with her ability… makes it kinda difficult, right?”

Royal’s Gatekeeper was a peculiar ability which could beat Jinwoo’s shadow exchange in comparison. A direct summoning spell that essentially ripped holes in reality, making miniature gates for teleportation of objects and people. Shadow exchange had a three hour cool down, Jinwoo was working on reducing that tirelessly, however you just naturally received it, right in the palm of your hand without any delay, operating it in real time.

The things Jinwoo could do with that ability were infinite. For one, which you had displayed once before, was creating a way out of a red gate, allowing safe passage back. An escape spell.

Though Jinwoo did not need it to escape as such, he wanted it for something more elusive. The fascinating thing was that the gates themselves produced minute amounts of energy, explained by you to use practically none of your mana either. But if he controlled you, he had access to it. 

Jinwoo watched you run towards Jong-In, eager to bridge that distance as quickly as possible to avoid his wider spread attacks. Jong-In however, fired repetitively, sending you on a run around in the arena.

On another note, not only could you present these gates for teleportation and switching, you could hide them too.

Hence why your perception was so high.

Now, as a mage type, your strength was nothing to brag about, while you could fight in close combat as an S-Rank, your overall strength still lied in distance or evasion. Your natural skills lied in more with your agility and perception, the other areas could use work.

Jinwoo preferred it that way. Because then, you were weaker and you would have to rely on him more for your survival. Your fierce independence was nothing to shake a stick at, but it proved more of a hindrance when it came to your relationship with Jinwoo. Yes, it was developing, albeit slowly, into a relationship. Just a strained one.

You most probably took that frustration out in your training, Jinwoo saw the determination across your face and it must have spurred you on after your close call with Jong-In’s fire spear. It seemingly burned you upon contact that was barely there as it whizzed past, and what damage resulted, faded away in a blink.

That was your secondary ability. Eye’s handmaiden. Solely for your own gain and that fact did not pass you as a healing mage. A being that drained significant mana when summoned upon instinct, you barely registered it, its presence merely as a passive outsider until the battle ended and you no longer took damage.

The summoned being healed you constantly, it could not be destroyed and would withstand even Jinwoo’s attacks, its sole purpose to serve you blindly.

Jong-In threw more fire and Jinwoo noticed the smoke screen, because as the fire and destruction came away from the essence stone walls in the corner of the training room, you were gone.

Disappeared.

Vanished from thin air that even Jinwoo’s perception couldn’t locate you.

Until a hole in the wall appeared, its darkened mass sparkling like a million stars in the night sky from inside like a vortex. Like a sheet of paper, it was flat and non-existent. But it was there. Jong-In noticed and acted on instinct, launching his spear right through until it shot back out from across the room and lodged in the ceiling at speed. It vibrated, shaking from side to side at the raw power behind his throw.

Yet you did not emerge with a hole through you, Eye’s Handmaiden remained stagnant on the side lines, keeping its humanoid arms taught by its side and casted no spells to your health.

Then, you cropped in view, right behind Jong-In and tapped him on the shoulder.

Ma gasped with an exclamation that Jinwoo would describe as a child on his birthday. “Woah! She got him- she got him… That was slick!”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Beak crossed his arms with a pleased grin. “She’s improved…”

You tapped Jong-In on the shoulder which made him turn, revealing your path to victory right on his back.

So that pat on his back was a diversion for placing Royal’s Gatekeeper in a place she could secure the flag. Impressive. 

Baek wandered over to Jinwoo with his finger quizzically on his chin. “I never knew she could place that on living things, she really has improved… Hey, Jinwoo? How’s things going with you two? I hear the association is riding your asses right now.”

Ma came over to join and stick his nose in things as Jinwoo tensed up under his ginormous hand on his shoulder. “Probably why she’s been trainin’ so hard. That’s a lotta pressure for you two.”

“I think we’ll be alright, these things just take time, right?”

Baek shrugged with indifference, Ma chuckled and watched you conversing with Jong-in. “I heard that- what’s that sayin’ the one about Rome? I was never built or somethin’.|

“It's Rome wasn’t built in a day, Dongwook.”

“Yeah, that’s it!”

Well, Jinwoo wanted it built in a day, with his abilities, his shadows could build an entire city in a day for sure. While on that thought, he never took his eyes off of you, smiling away at something Jong-In said and waving him off like you were trying for a baby with him and not Jinwoo. 

Just the thought made his blood boil and hiss under his skin. He hoped that your frustration still existed, because he was getting rough tonight. Jinwoo ensured it. And if you weren’t flustered enough by the time you reached the apartment, he’d find a way to get a rise out of you and expose that bratty attitude come the drive home after their invitation to a dinner hosted by Chairman Go.

“I guess so… Well, I’ll be going now, we have plenty to do before the association dinner tonight.” Jinwoo left with his hands in his pockets and stepped away.

“Sure thing! See you then!”

“Hold on, Jinwoo. I’ll walk you down.” Baek followed him off of the viewing platform with his hands tucked into his pockets and the world on his shoulders. “Look… I know this isn’t my place, but I wanted to ask you how things are really going?”

“Hm?”

“Things might look dandy on the outside, but things have gotten pretty dark the last two months. There’s been a lot of facade going on around here to show the Chairman we’re all on board with this even though we’re not.” He let your name slip from his lips. “And she’s a good person and she’s never been his riled up. Things are pressured and I wanted to let you know, I’m here if you need anything. I know what the association can be like at the best times, so when shit like this crops up, I can only imagine what you two are going through.”

Jinwoo was having the time of his life, and you’d come around to it eventually. Even if it was ‘just sex’ to you right now. But Jinwoo knew different and Baek sticking his oar in it shot up his hackles and they were pointing right at his idiotic face.

Though, Jinwoo wasn’t idiotic, he knew when to pick his fights coming from where he did. This was not one to get hung up on, not when you were waiting by the entrance to go home.

“Thanks, uh… it’s been difficult, but we’re both doing our part. I appreciate the sentiment- anyway, gotta go, I have things to do. See you tonight.”

“...Sure thing.” He wasn’t convinced, yet Jinwoo didn’t care.

His frustration riled him up enough through the day that he could have jumped in, dominated a dungeon and the rewards of levelling up still wouldn’t have satisfied him. His mind barely kept on the road and spoke no further in the car with you. You did not utter one word either. Even on the way up to the apartment, you walked two steps ahead like Jinwoo was a stranger to you

Well… That won’t do. As soon as you could step foot over that threshold, Jinwo would do all sorts of filthy things to you and he’d hear nothing about it. It’s just how things went for the last week, and secretly, he loved it. Craved it. Fantasised more about it which got him hard more times than he would admit out loud.

Almost there, and he’d fuck you angrily in to submission.

Almost, yet nothing close. Woo Jin-chul stood by the front door, glaring at Jinwoo down the hallway. “Good evening Hunter Sung.” He addressed you second.

“Why are you here?” You said. “We had the call with the association this morning, if you’ve come to lecture us, we already had both barrels this morning.”

You shot inside and left the door open for him anyway, Jinwoo followed in last and left the door to depressingly click with awkward silence.

Woo Jin-chul leant against the kitchen counter and cleaned his sunglasses absentmindedly. “I’m here on informal circumstances, I’m giving you a head’s up, nothing more. So I suggest you take the advice if you want this to work out.”

What could that be? If he’s made an unofficial visit, then the Chairman doesn’t know. 

“What advice?” Jinwoo could tell you were tired from the way you were rubbing your eye. “We have this dinner to go to tonight, for Hae-In’s announcement. There’s alot to prepare before we go.”

“I’m well aware of your dinner, I’ll be attending along with the Chairman and it hasn’t gone unnoticed how distant you two are, so I suggest you use tonight as a way to get back into the association’s good graces.” Woo Jin-chul held out each finger as he listed the rules off. “No drinking, no murderous glares and certainly no eating irresponsibly… you have the nutrition pack we gave you. Stick to it. As for the do’s, at least look somewhat happy, it makes for a dull room otherwise. Keep public displays of affection to a minimum, this is Hunter Choi and Cha’s night. Though ensure the chairman is watching when you do decide to get appropriately intimate. He will be watching.” 

You huffed and slouched, taking a glass from the cupboard to drink from. “When did this programme get political? We’re doing everything we can, I came off my pill not long before we started this, it can take up to a year, what’s the rush? We have to wait years before we see any results anyway- I don’t get it? All you’re doing is putting pressure on us- on me.” 

A year? Jinwoo stared at his system screen in his periphery, one month left and he’d run out of time on the other end. It wasn’t that he couldn’t withstand the penalty, he just couldn’t be asked to. No way could he wait an entire year before getting you pregnant. He was already going out of his mind with this distance with nothing to show for it except great sex. He wanted to breed you so desperately, it ached, hurt his very being that out of all the things he could do, putting a baby in you was just something he was failing at.

No amount of leveling up or training could speed the process up or increase the likelihood. It just had to happen on its own and that was the frustrating part.

“How often are you part taking in intercourse?”

You almost spat water all over Woo Jin-chul. “W-what?! Why would you ask that?”

“I must enquire so I can give you more customized advice.”

“Jinwoo…” Your eyes were so wide and adoring when you were borderline pissed off. “Say something- no way we’re telling him that.”

He didn’t care who he told, preferably Jong-In to rub it in his face. But with Woo Jin-chul, there was a possibility for something in return. 

No… no way could I be that lucky…

“Maybe we should hear him out- hold on.” His hands went up in defense. “It could get the association off our backs for a little while, right?”

When you didn’t respond, burying your face in your hands, Jinwoo took it as a cue to say out loud to the world how frequently the two of you had been fucking. “Three times a week. Like we were told at the start.”

“Is that true?”

You looked between the two men with flushed cheeks. “Yeah…”

“Then double it, preferably once a day, everyday. Starting from tonight. I trust it’ll help speed up the process, but if that fails, we’ll have to look at secondary options.”

“And what’s that?” You chased Woo Jin-chul towards the door as he opened it. “You can’t just say that and walk away.”

He sighed, slipping his sunglasses on over the threshold to the hallway. “We’ll have to look at pairing you both with someone else. Now that Hunter Cha is pregnant, the association has approved more Ranked hunters for the programme. So, if you want to skip more formalities and stick together, I suggest you do anything you can to get her pregnant, Hunter Sung���”

Jinwoo nodded and stood there in a state of shock as Woo Jinchul left and the door closed behind him. Another pairing was disastrous, downright wrong and bad and not an option.

Shit, how the hell could Jinwoo get himself out of this? He only just got you close to him. No fucking way would he let you go and if he had to take on the Chairman himself, he’d make him disappear into blood mist before he let himself slip from the lulling confines of the space between your legs.

How on earth was he going to sit across the table from that man who was set on ripping you away from him?

Self restraint. That’s how, though Jinwoo barely had much when it came to you.

He was fucking you tonight, and his load better take.

Part 3 <- Part 4 -> Part 5

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DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[inloveinsickness]

❝ DON'T BE A STRANGER ❞ — itoshi rin

tags. gn!reader, reverse hurt/comfort, mild angst, brother troubles, spoiler warning! set after the U20 game, hand holding, childhood friends, written with a platonic relationship in mind but it's up to interpretation → wc: 915

there's helicopters over my head / every night when i go to bed / do you feel ashamed when you hear my name

rin finds comfort in knowing that you stayed when no one else did

masterlist

rin never thought much of his teal eyes, never quite understanding why you love them so much.

to him, it only served as a cruel reminder of his brother who has a matching pair that’s equally icy, seemingly devoid of feelings and love, just stone cold and unimpressed.

every time they bore into yours, he can’t help but feel almost bad, reluctant to taint the pure, comforting presence your gaze holds. there’s constantly black swirling behind his corneas, a thick dark energy that he can never seem to get rid of especially on the field, like a veil that blinds him, casting shadows into this vibrant world that he lives in and makes it anything but. he never did hold eye contact well with you anyway, even since you were kids.

rain’s pouring down into the stadium from the open roof, showering the astroturf in a glistening dampness. he stands right smack in the middle of it simply staring upwards disregarding the barrage of droplets pattering on his face, wetting his hair and potentially causing him to catch a cold, but against his bettter judgement, he decides that’s a problem for tomorrow.

rin often keeps his troubles stewing and brewing in that head of his, always keeping things to himself and never letting anyone in past the threshold. as you stand five feet away with an umbrella over your head, you watch him, keeping your distance and letting him make the call.

despite the weather, you don’t miss the sheen of moisture along his bottom lash line.

“he came up to me just to praise isagi, he never really did care about me even though i bested him in that moment.” he dryly chuckles, shaky words laced with an age-old resentment, spilling from a quivering lip bitten raw. “i don't know what else he wants from me.”

your heart sinks at the knowledge, eyes softening as you take in his hunched frame. he's standing tall, height still imposing but there's a droop to his shoulders and a tension so palpable, you don't even need to be up close to see it.

you know very well how much his older brother's departure and sudden change in demeanour affected rin, having been there to pick up the pieces both times. you understood sae must've gone through a lot in spain for him to get to that point, but he was evidently too harsh on the poor bright-eyed boy who simply wanted to continue chasing the innocent dream he shared with the one he looked up to.

staying silent, you take a tentative step towards rin, and when he shows no sign of discomfort, you take another, and another, until your shoulders brush against each others. you're keenly aware that there's not much you can do to mediate whatever's going on between them, but as you lift the umbrella over the both of your heads, you do what you do best, cover him from the storm, even if it's just for a little while.

as you take his larger hand in yours, you keep your grip firm yet gentle, something for him to hold onto, anchor himself to until the anguish in his heart simmers for the time being. despite his rough, dominating style of play on field, his hands remain soft save for a few callouses from intensive training and exercise, much like his heart hidden behind the impregnable fortress he's built brick by brick.

it's rare to see him cry, usually composed and headstrong. seeing him crumble beneath his own expectations and his brother's lack of acknowledgement leaves a pang of guilt beating in your chest, never knowing the true extent of how much it weighed on him until this very moment.

“he—” he stutters, words clipping against his tongue, “how can he just leave everything behind?”

“cast me aside like mum and dad, walk away and leave me in the dust like he did those years ago, like all i am to him is a shameful shadow of his past." the last part is unspoken, but you can tell what's running through his mind by the way he clamps onto your hand, the motion desperate and vulnerable, like if you let go, you'd disappear just like he did.

you don't tell him that his grip is hurting you, if that's the only way you can bear at least an ounce of pain he's experiencing, you'll take it in a heartbeat. instead you squeeze back in kind, praying it speaks to him in a way your words can't begin to convey, hoping it's enough to soothe his weary heart.

the two of you stand there in the middle of the field until the rain lightens and his tears slow, until the tension leaves his body with just a shell of exhaustion, your thumb drawing circles against the back of his hand. only now he looks at you, fringe sticking to his forehead and cheeks painted in tracks of dried up tears.

his expression leaves little for the imagination, but the lack of bite and edge in his aquamarine eyes is a sight that lifts a small smile to your face, one that speaks of relief and reassurance, of permanence, that you'd be there through the wind and the waves, the sunshine and the storm.

and as you lightly tug him towards the exit with the slight jerk of your head, you don't let go of your clasped hands, a silent promise that you're here to stay.

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© yogurtkags. please do not repost, plagiarise, or translate my work.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I don’t mean to pester but all the question I’ve seen about how something seems to be a mild inconvenience or just a thing that for humans it’s just whatever but for the bots it’s life ending or extremely dangerous.

ex- Adrenaline for humans is whatever extra energy but for bots to they’re final energy source that will be they’re last stand.

Do you have any head cannons that might be in reverse? Something at is mild to bots but severely life ending for a human?

I mean, a lot of things that are mild to a bot are probably lethal to a human. But if we are going the comedic route, this is one thing I see being pretty normal for the bots, at least during the war, that would automatically mean problems for a human.

Cybertronians are capable of operating with a surprising lack of limbs and internal organs when pressed. It entirely depends on what organs and limbs are taken of course, but they can continue living in very unfortunate states. Humans can also take a beating, but not to the same level as their autonomous robotic organism visitors. That said, generally the bots only received injuries that matched human ones in outward appearance. The humans weren't too disturbed since a broken arm or a busted plate mimicked human injuries. But when things got real? Yeah, it was a little disconcerting.

Bumblebee came back to base on one occasion with his legs partially detached from his body at the waist. He still had all the wiring, he was just strung out a bit. He didn't seem all that concerned once he had a painkiller, and Ratchet was more annoyed than truly afraid. But the humans? They saw it as terrifying, especially whenever Bumblebee moved and his internals moved around in a mechanical and yet far too organic manner.

Another situation that left the humans grossed out came in the form of Ratchet casually tending to a hit to the helm Optimus received. It was bad enough that something internally was knocked out of place, so the doctor simply got out his tools and removed part of Optimus's helm to work on his processor. The whole affair was reminiscent of brain surgery for the humans... at least until Ratchet straight up removed a few bits, fixed them, and put them back in place. All while having a casual conversation with the mech on his table. Optimus didn't appear very concerned, but there was something about watching Ratchet perform a surgery while chatting that left the humans unsettled. Similar surgeries weren't unheard of, but removing bit? Yeah no. If it happened, it didn't happen often and certainly not so casually.

In the third most terrifying incident, Arcee was brought back to base with part of her spine pulled out. The humans all but threw up on the spot, but Arcee appeared more annoyed than actually in pain as Ratchet laid her out and calmly began putting struts back into place. According to him, the injury was only a mild case of spinal disconnection and due to the swiftness of the team's response in getting her back to base, it was a quick fix. June however never really got over the scene of Arcee curled up in a weird position with bits of her spine clearly visible.

The bots can take a beating. And while injuries to the finer processes are dangerous, so long as they are addressed quickly, a bot can survive just about anything.

[usomads]

Dripping // Will Ospreay x Reader

Author’s Note -> Been sitting on this idea for a while but I moved states so I had to put it on pause– figured I’d use it as a little bit of a palate cleanser before jumping into more requests! And who better than my fav 🥰 first AEW one shot too! Lmk what you think and, as always, happy reading! 🙂‍↕️

Pairings -> Will Ospreay x Fem!Reader

Warnings -> Cursing, Slight angst, Blood play, Nipple Play, Hickies, Oral Sex (M!Receiving, F!Receiving), Unprotected P in V, Creampie, Not Proofread, MDNI

Word Count -> 3.6k

‼️Trigger Warning: Blood‼️

You were snapped out of your trance by Will slamming open the locker room door, the sharp sound echoing through the halls of the backstage area. His face is a mess of dried blood and sweat, a nasty cut on his temple leaking fresh crimson. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths and his hair is damp with a mixture of sweat and blood, clinging to his forehead in wild curls. You’ve been waiting in his locker room to tend to him, first aid kit in hand, but the intensity radiating from the man freezes you where you stand.

He brushes past you, throwing a blood-stained towel onto the bench with a frustrated sigh. You can’t help but watch as he rakes his fingers through his hair, his movements sharp. Every muscle in his body is taut, his frustration from his match practically radiating off of him. You attempt to speak but before you can do that he spins around, his piercing eyes locking onto you.

“You just going to stand there?” he snaps, his voice low and full of grit.

You swallow hard, clutching the first aid kit tightly. The air feels thick, his anger palpable, yet despite the warning in his tone you’re drawn to him. Maybe even because of it.

“I came to check on you,” you manage to say, your voice softer than intended. His eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of something else beneath his anger– curiosity, or maybe, challenge.

“I’m fine, Y/N,” he growls, turning away from you to grab the towel again. He roughly wipes at his face, but all it does is smear the blood further, leaving streaks of red down his cheeks and neck.

“Doesn’t look like it,” you reply, surprising yourself with the firmness in your tone. You set down the first-aid kit and cross the room to him, stopping just out of arm's reach. He stiffens, but doesn’t move away.

Up close, you notice every detail: the bruises forming along his knuckles, the tension in his jaw as he grits his teeth, the way his chest heaves with every breath. The blood on his face only sharpens his already striking features, and the raw energy radiating from him sends a shiver down your spine. 

“You’re gonna need stitches, Will,” you say, pointing to the gash on his temple.

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps again, though his voice lacks the same venom as before. He turns to face you fully, his green eyes locking onto yours. “Why are you still here?”

You hesitate, searching for the right words, but all you can think about is how disheveled and angry and utterly captivating he looks. Against all rhyme and reason, the sight of him like this– raw, unguarded– sparks something within you.

“Maybe because you look like you could use someone who isn’t scared to tell you the truth,” you respond, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

He blinks hard, caught off guard for a moment, before a smirk tugs at his lips– a sharp, dangerous thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Is that so?” he challenges.

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah.. and the truth is, you’re an absolute fuckin’ mess, but…” Your eyes linger on the blood streaked across his face, your pulse racing as you meet his gaze once more. “It suits you.”

For a moment his anger dissipates, replaced by something darker– something more calculated. His eyes flicker down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The air between you feels electric, the tension sharp enough to cut through.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with warning. “You might not like where that talk gets you.”

You swallow hard but hold your ground. “Maybe I do,” you say, the words out before you can stop yourself.

His smirk deepens and, for a moment, the frustration and exhaustion in his posture seems to melt away, replaced by pure intrigue. He steps closer, close enough that you can feel his heat radiating off of him, and tilts his head slightly. The cut on his forehead is still bleeding, but he doesn’t seem to notice– or care.

“Is that so?” he retorts, his voice a low rumble. His hand twitches at his side, almost like he’s debating whether or not to close the distance.

You don’t flinch, your eyes never leaving his. “It is.”

Neither of you move. The tension is thick, the air between you heavy with unspoken words. Then, as if to test you, he leans in, his voice dropping lower.

“You’re playing with fire, love,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. 

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. “Maybe I like the burn.” 

For the first time since he stormed in, his gaze softens, just slightly, and the corners of his mouth twitch in what might almost be a real smile. The anger in his eyes has faded, replaced by something more complex– something that feels like a reward and a challenge all at once.

“You’re something else,” he mutters, shaking his head slightly as he finally takes a step back and sits on the bench. But the way his eyes linger tells you he’s far from dismissing you.

As he grabs the towel again and starts wiping at his face, you silently grab the first-aid kit from the counter. He doesn’t stop you this time as you step forward, your fingers brushing against his hand as you take the towel away.

“Let me,” you whisper softly, and for once, he doesn’t argue.

He glances up, his piercing eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you thought you saw something soften, but then his jaw tightened and he leaned back, gesturing to his face. “Do what you’ve gotta do.”

You stepped closer, tilting his chin slightly to get a better look at the wound. The proximity makes your breath hitch– he was even more striking this close, his intensity nearly overwhelming.

“This might sting,” you warn, dabbing a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic on the cut.

He hissed through his teeth, his hand twitching before gripping the edge of the bench. “Bloody hell, Y/N, you trying to kill me?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ve been through worse.”

His gaze flicked to you, a hint of amusement breaking through. “You’ve been watching my matches, then?”

You falter for a moment, the teasing in his voice catching you off guard. “It’s part of the job,” you reply, focusing on cleaning the wound to avoid his eyes.

“Right,” he drawled, his tone dripping with skepticism. “And I’m guessing you just happened to be watching tonight?”

Your cheeks heat up, but you keep your composure. “Like I said, it’s my job.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. “You’re not very good at hiding it, you know.”

“Hiding what?” you asked, feigning ignorance as you reached for the bandages.

“The way you’re looking at me,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Like you don’t know whether to patch me up or pin me down.”

Your hand freezes mid-air, his words sending a jolt of electricity through you. You glanced over at him, meeting his gaze, and found his smirk snugly in place. The anger he’d walked in with had been replaced by something smug, something dangerous. 

“Careful, Will,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady as you press gauze on his cut. “You’re not as charming as you think.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between you. “Is that right? Because judging by the color of your cheeks, I’d say I’m doing alright.”

Your pulse quickened, but you refused to back down. “You should save that energy for the ring,” you shoot back, your voice tinged with amusement.

His smirk widened, and he tilted his head, his eyes scanning your face. “Why waste it on a crowd when I’ve got you right here?” 

The air between you cracked with tension, the lines of professionalism blurring with every passing second. You step back slightly, needing space to catch your breath, but he didn’t let you off the hook so easily. 

“You’re good at this,” he says, nodding towards your handiwork. “But I can’t tell if you’re more interested in fixing me up or staring me down.”

“Maybe both,” you say before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out in a moment of boldness.

His eyes darkened, the teasing smile on his lips turning into something more serious. “You’ve got a dangerous mouth on you, don’t you, love?”

“Only when it’s deserved,” you reply, your voice soft but steady.

He stood to his feet, towering over you, his presence making the room feel smaller. “And do I deserve it?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken intent. You didn’t answer– not with words, anyway. Instead, you let the tension carry you forward, your hand brushing against his chest as you tilt your head up.

His lips were on yours before you could think twice, the kiss fierce and demanding. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer as the world around you disappears. Your professionalism, your carefully crafted boundaries– all of it melted away in the heat of the moment.

When you finally break apart, your breath comes in short gasps, and his forehead rests against yours.

“Still think I’m not as charming as I think?” he murmured, his voice low.

You smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw– a small amount of his blood collecting on your index finger. You gaze into his eyes as you bring your finger to your lips, the metallic taste hitting your tongue and drawing a low moan from your throat. “You’re getting there.”

He bites his lip at you, his eyes darkening as he watches you suck on your fingers. “Fucking hell, you’re gonna be the death of me.” 

His lips are back on yours in an instant, pulling you into him by your hips as he walks with you to the bench, sitting back down as you climb on top of him. You pull apart again and run your fingers through his sweat and blood clad strands, watching as the cut continues to ooze droplets of fresh crimson.

“You’re still bleeding, Will,” you whisper against his lips.

“You gonna clean me up then, love?” his eyes glimmer up at you, watching you closely as if to dare you to make a move.

And you do, bringing your lips to his temple and pressing a soft kiss to the wound, a low growl emanating from his throat. Your tongue pokes past your lips and licks a stripe along the cut, collecting the liquid on your tastebuds and pulling back, licking the excess off your lips. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re trouble,” he moans.

“What, can’t handle me?” you smirk at him, cheeks flushed and blood stained on your lips.

“Oh, I can do more than that, love.” he teases.

“Then prove it.” you murmur as you connect your lips once more, moaning into the kiss as his bruised hands ravage your body, digging into your sides as he rocks your hips against his cloth-covered bulge. He hisses at the contact, his lips falling below your ear to nip the sensitive skin, his heavy pants along your earlobe sending chills throughout your body. Your hands move from their resting place on his shoulders to the hem of your shirt, pulling away from him and lifting the material over your head before discarding it somewhere across the room. His hands trail up your spine as he takes you in, his fingers toying with the clasps of your bra before removing it and tossing it to the side. 

“Goddamn, you’re fuckin’ stunning, Y/N.” His eyes take in your exposed chest and torso, committing the image of you to his memory– the smooth skin of your chest and the way it rises and falls with each breath, your perfectly shaped breasts, even your hardened nipples all being permanently ingrained in his mind. He finds himself gravitated to you, his lips finding the skin along your collarbone and pressing firm kisses to the area– trailing downward to your breasts. His eyes find yours, glazed over in lust, before abruptly wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking hard on the bud. A whispered curse falls from your lips as you arch into his touch, your hips involuntarily grinding into his. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you into him as he groans– while continuing to suck and bite your skin.

Your hands tangle in his hair, lightly tugging on the strands as he gives your other nipple some much needed attention– alternating motions of licking, sucking, biting. Before long he’s attempting to flip you over onto your back, but you stop him.

“Let me take care of you, Will. Please..” you whisper against him. He pulls away from your breasts, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And how might you go about doing that?” he asks, but rather than answering his question with words you respond with actions– climbing off of his lap and falling to your knees in front of him, bringing your hands to his thighs and running your fingers slowly over the material. He gets your hint, chuckling darkly at you below him before removing his pants and boxers– his cock springing free and hitting his stomach. You lick your lips at the sight of him before you; he was very well kept, little to no hair along the base leading to a long and thick shaft with prominent veins, which trailed up to his tip– pink and glossy in his arousal. 

“Go on then, love,” he coaxes you, forcing you to look up at him through your lashes, “take care of me.” You nod, wrapping your fingers around him, leaning down to press your lips to his tip with a soft kiss and collecting his precum on your tongue before replacing it with your spit– using your hand to lubricate the rest of his cock, pumping him before wrapping your lips around him. He hisses, throwing his head back and placing a hand on your cheek and watching as your lips hollow around him. You suck on the tip, giving kitten licks to the sensitive head as you do, while he curses under his breath and his hand gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail– guiding your head further down his cock.

You make eye contact with him as your mouth goes further down his shaft, your eyes beginning to water the further down you go. He guides you, helping you bob your head on his length as you continue hollowing your cheeks on him and dragging your tongue along the veins of his cock.

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re so fuckin’ good at this…” he moans out loud, giving you the confidence to relax your jaw and take him in your throat. He grunts as the tightness of your throat squeezes his cock, his hips involuntarily bucking in your mouth. Tears slowly stream down your cheeks as you take him, gagging occasionally on his cock as he fucks your throat. You look up at him once more, eyes watery, as he watches his cock slide in and out of your throat.

“Jesus, Y/N, you’re fucking incredible, baby. Taking me so well.” he groans as you come up for air, stroking him as you move to his balls, sucking them and taking them in your mouth. Your thighs squeeze together at his words, feeling your own arousal pooling in your panties as you pleasure him. He notices, however, and brings a hand to your chin– lifting your head up to look at him.

“It’s my turn, love. Come lay down for me, yeah?” You rise to your feet, climbing back on top of him and kissing him, the taste of him still sitting on your tongue. He flips the two of you, your back laying on the bench as he positions himself between your thighs and hooking his calloused fingers in the waistband of your leggings, pulling both your leggings and panties off of you in one motion. Your pussy glitters before him, soaking wet in your need for him and dripping off your thighs. 

“Bloody hell, you’re fuckin’ soaked, love. Who did all this, hmm?” he teases.

“Will, please–”

“Uh, uh, answer me, Y/N...” he threatens gently.

“Fuck, Will… you did. Now plea–” A gasp from your throat interrupts you as Will licks a stripe along your folds, groaning as he tastes your wetness.

“So fuckin’ sweet…” he murmurs, placing wet kisses along your opening and up towards your clit, now red and swollen– begging to be touched. His lips wrap harshly around the bud, using his tongue to play with it as his fingers dipped into your folds and teased your entrance. He gently pushes two inside, his eyes fluttering shut as he feels your walls squeeze around them, thrusting deep inside you– curling his fingers enough to brush lightly against your g-spot, making your eyes squeeze shut and the fingers that were again tangled in his hair to gently pull.

“F–fuck, Will… I–”

“Yeah? Feels good, hmm?”

“Mmm, please…”

“Use your words, Y/N. Tell me what you need, baby.” he mutters against you.

“F–fuck me, p–please…” you whined, “I– I need you.”

Will doesn’t hesitate, lifting his head and pulling his fingers out of you, cleaning them with his tongue as he climbs on top of you. His hand grips the base of his cock and teases your entrance, watching your brows furrow as you whimper underneath him– begging him to do something, anything. 

“I’m gonna absolutely fucking ruin you, Y/N.” he whispers.

“Then what are you waiting for?” you whisper back.

His cock pushes inside you, his length stretching you gloriously. You gasp loudly as he goes deeper, bottoming out inside you as you adjust to his size. He pulls out enough to leave just the tip inside, slamming back into you and gradually increasing his thrusts. The bench creaks underneath you as he gets faster and faster, but it’s the last thing on your mind as he pounds into you relentlessly.

“So… fucking… tight” he grunts with each thrust, your moans matching his as he fucks you. He throws one leg over his shoulder and pounds you hard, the new angle allowing the tip of his cock to directly hit your g-spot over and over again.

You can’t control the moans and cries falling from your lips, the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the right ways making you spiral out of control. You are at his mercy, at his will, and there is nothing you can do about it.

You feel something fall onto your cheek, causing you to come back to reality for a second as you look up at him and notice the gash on his forehead is still dripping blood– less than before, but still bleeding nonetheless. He notices too, watching as his blood drips onto your face and stains your skin. He brings his head to your cheek, licking it clean and locking your lips once more, allowing you to taste him on his tongue before pulling away and pressing his forehead to yours.

“You’re all mine, understand? Got my blood on your tongue, blood on your face, and now I’m gonna fill this pretty cunt full of my cum…” he grunts in your ear, his hips snapping into yours at a dangerously delicious pace, “I’m going to consume you, love. Tell me who you fucking belong to, Y/N.”

“Y–you, Will. I’m yours, I– oh fuckkk…”

“I feel you, baby… you’re close, huh?” You moan in response, your nails digging into his shoulders, making him hiss.

“I’ve got you.. go ahead, baby. Cum for me.” With one last thrust you tighten around him, your vision turning white as you cry out, nails digging deeper into his shoulders as you coat his cock in your juices. He follows you, releasing himself inside you with a groan, filling you completely. For a few moments you both lay there, his body on top of yours, soaking in the ecstasy of your respective orgasms as you collect yourselves until he reluctantly pulls out of you– the mixture of yours and his cum leaking out of your swollen pussy. The two of you are still trying to steady your breathing, feeling rocked after what just happened. After a moment, you regain the ability to speak.

“Will...” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Are you finally gonna let me clean that cut now?”

He chuckles, looking at you laid in front of him with a gleam in his eye. 

“Alright, alright, fine. Patch me up, love,” he smiles, “But if I get to fuck you like that every time, don’t be surprised if I start doing this,” he gestures to the cut on his forehead, “on purpose.”

You laugh, shaking your head at him while getting up off the bench and walking to grab the first aid kit– but not before getting a harsh smack to your ass. You gasp, turning around to face him as he puts his hands up in surrender.

“What?” he laughs, “I never said I was gonna make it easy for you.” He winks, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back in to straddle his lap. God, this is going to be a long night.

[b1xi]

───𝘊𝘜𝘗𝘐𝘋───ハイキュー!!

Tsukishima Kei(ハイキュー!!)x fem!reader

𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

"I'm sorry, but only one manager is allowed on the bench," one of the organizers stopped you, stepping in your way just as you were about to follow Ukai and the rest of the team.

"What?" you asked, frowning in disbelief as you came to a halt. You turned your head toward Yachi, who had also stayed by your side, clearly just as confused.

"But we..." you began to say, indignation rising in your voice as you tried to take another step.

"Tournament rules," the man replied, unbothered, with the calmness of someone who had repeated the same thing far too many times that day.

You held back a sharp retort and exhaled in frustration. It was ridiculous. You had been by the team’s side throughout training—preparing water bottles, organizing schedules, taking notes. And now, at the most important moment, they were asking you to stay on the sidelines.

You felt Yachi’s hand gently rest on your shoulder. When you turned around, you found her smiling—small, a little tense, but determined.

"It’s okay! Come on, we can still cheer for the team from the stands. Let’s go!" Yachi exclaimed with forced enthusiasm, trying to lift both your spirits.

Before you could respond, she took your hand firmly and led you through the crowd that was starting to settle into the bleachers. Despite the disappointment still weighing on your chest, her warm gesture managed to draw a faint smile from you.

The buzz inside the gym grew louder with every step. Voices, cheers, and footsteps echoed across the polished floor as you searched for a good spot. Finally, you stopped at a raised corner with a perfect view of the court. From there, you could see the Karasuno team gathered by the bench, getting ready. Ukai was speaking seriously, Daichi nodded, and the others stretched in silence, tense and focused.

You were surprised to see the former coach Ukai had come to watch the match as well. He stood next to someone he seemed to know, not far from where you were. Shoyo had mentioned him before, saying he was a rather strict man, but had been key in helping him improve his blocks.

You turned when two boys, younger than you, looked at you and Yachi curiously.

"Are you from Karasuno too?"

The boy tilted his head slightly, confused.

"What are you doing up here?"

"O-only one manager is allowed on the bench," Hitoka answered nervously. You nodded to confirm her words and turned your gaze back to the court, your brows knitting slightly as the tension in the air settled in around you.

But your worries faded the moment Karasuno scored the first point. A clean, precise play that lit up the crowd’s excitement and allowed you to breathe a little easier. It looked like they were off to a solid start, and against this team, the odds of victory seemed promising. You could allow yourself to enjoy the game without so much tension.

"Nice one, Kei!" you shouted enthusiastically, raising your voice above the noise in the gym just after Tsukishima executed a flawless block against Ohgiminami’s attacker.

You bounced lightly with excitement, clapping your hands in front of your chest. Pride swelled in your chest, swept up by the energy of the moment, while Yachi laughed beside you, sharing your elation.

Down below, Tsukishima didn’t turn around, but you caught the slight tension in his shoulders, as if he had heard your voice among all the others. A small smile tugged at your lips as you let yourself get carried away by the match.

It was a clean victory. Fairly easy, if you were being honest with yourself. Harsh as it might sound, there wasn’t much to highlight from Ohgiminami’s team: their formation was standard, predictable, and their blocks lacked the aggression or precision you were used to seeing in more competitive teams. They did a decent job within their capabilities, of course, but the contrast with Karasuno’s dynamic was obvious.

-------------------

It was shocking to see the next opponent step onto the court. You had heard the guys whispering about a particularly tall player on Kakugawa’s team, but like many times before, you assumed they were exaggerating. That wasn’t the case. The moment you saw him walk past you, you realized they had been serious: that player didn’t just stand out among his teammates — he looked like a tower in a sea of rooftops.

A volleyball player might have technical limitations, but height —especially when positioned near the net— is an undeniable advantage. And this number nine had plenty of it.

“I didn’t think Kakugawa’s number nine was actually that tall…” you thought as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, barely turning your head so as not to be too obvious.

“There’s not that much of a difference,” you murmured more to yourself than to anyone else. You were 1.66 meters tall; he was around 2.01. Only — you told yourself — 35 centimeters. Technically, there were players in Karasuno with whom you also shared a considerable height gap, though maybe not such an overwhelming one.

“He’s not that tall,” you finally said, crossing your arms and pretending to be more confident than you actually felt.

Hinata, who stood beside you, looked at you with wide eyes, as if he had just heard the greatest sports blasphemy of his life.

“Not that tall!?” he repeated in disbelief. “Are you blind?”

“No,” you replied casually, a small smile on your lips. “He seems tall because we’re short. But for someone over 1.70, the difference doesn’t seem that dramatic,” you explained calmly, convinced of your point of view. “Right, Asahi-senpai?”

You turned your head slightly toward the senior, waiting for his support. However, Asahi remained silent for a moment, staring at the Kakugawa player as if he had seen a walking tower. His expression said it all: not even he, with his solid build and respectable height, seemed comfortable in the presence of the towering opponent.

“Uhm… well…” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck with clear discomfort. “To be honest, he is kind of intimidating…”

Hinata nodded vigorously, as if he had just won a crucial argument.

Even if that player was two meters tall, he was still a rookie compared to the experience and cohesion of Karasuno’s starting lineup. While he did cause some trouble during the first set—blocking effectively and using his height smartly—the team managed to regain their footing. It was at a key moment that Kageyama and Hinata executed that quick attack they had perfected in practice. That move reignited the team’s spirit, and for the final point, Hinata managed to break through the giant’s block with a precise spike, securing their victory.

After the initial excitement and the shared cheers with the team, you offered to help Kiyoko and Yachi gather the water bottles, towels, and other items from the bench. Once everything was in order, you joined the others in the exit hallway. The group was making their way down the stairs at a relaxed pace, trading jokes and still riding the high of their win.

That was when a sudden shout startled you, making you lift your eyes from the handheld console in your hands.

“Ah! I forgot my lunch!” Hinata shouted, coming to an abrupt stop.

Everyone turned with puzzled expressions, just in time to see him spin around and dash back toward the court.

The instinct to keep walking while looking up almost got you in trouble. You slightly tripped on the edge of one of the steps at the exit, losing your balance. Before you could fall—or even drop the console—a firm hand grabbed you by the strap of your bag, stopping you in your tracks.

“Be more careful,” Tsukishima murmured, still holding onto the strap with two hooked fingers.

“Thanks…” you whispered with a faint blush, quietly adjusting your bag.

The ride back was calm, almost peaceful. The gentle sway of the bus, combined with the barely audible murmur of scattered conversations, created an almost drowsy atmosphere. Some were sound asleep, their heads leaning against the windows or the seats. Others, like you, preferred to get lost in the dim glow of a handheld console as the nighttime scenery slowly passed by outside the window.

Hinata, exhausted from the match, quickly gave in to sleep. He rested his head on your shoulder without hesitation, mumbling something unintelligible before falling still. You didn’t push him away. You simply adjusted your posture a bit so he’d be more comfortable and went back to your game, alternating between the screen and watching the sky grow completely dark.

When you finally arrived back at school, everyone got off the bus slowly, dragging their bags and yawning without shame. You said goodbye to each of them with a soft smile, wishing the players a good rest and thanking Kiyoko and Yachi for all their help.

“See you tomorrow,” you said with a small wave, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you prepared to walk home.

“I’m walking with you,” Tsukishima announced, not asking for permission as he slung his backpack over one shoulder, avoiding your gaze.

You didn’t argue. You simply nodded, and the two of you walked in silence for a couple of blocks, wrapped in the quiet of the night. The sound of your synchronized footsteps was the only thing filling the air for a few minutes.

“The weather’s starting to change,” you commented, your eyes on the clear sky. “In a few days, it’ll probably start to feel colder.”

Tsukishima let out a soft hum of agreement. He wasn’t the talkative type, but he never cut you off when you spoke. In fact, you’d come to notice that he always listened, even when he pretended not to.

“I’ve been thinking… I have some math exercises due next week,” you continued, not entirely sure why you were bringing it up now. “And honestly, I don’t get any of it. I think I’m starting to tank that class.”

“It’s not that hard,” he said simply, his tone calm and even. “I could help you… if you want.”

You turned to look at him, a little surprised by the offer. Tsukishima kept his gaze straight ahead, hands still in his pockets, as if he hadn’t said anything out of the ordinary.

“Really?” you asked, a small smile forming on your lips.

“I mean, if you’re going to fail, that would be a problem for the team,” he added indifferently, though the slight flush on his ears betrayed his detached tone.

“Right… for the team’s sake,” you joked softly, suppressing a laugh.

When you reached your house, you climbed the few steps up to the porch and turned naturally to say goodbye. But as you stood by the door, you noticed Tsukishima hadn’t moved. He was still there, standing on the sidewalk, as if waiting for something. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was fixed on you.

Then, with sudden resolve, you crossed the small distance between you, stood on your tiptoes, and kissed him. It was a brief, tender, and slightly awkward kiss—but full of meaning. You felt his body tense at first, surprised, before slowly relaxing.

When you pulled back, he looked down at you slightly. He didn’t smile, as expected, but there was a new brightness in his eyes.

“See you tomorrow,” you said quietly, finally opening the door.

“Bring your math notebook,” was all he said before turning and walking away down the sidewalk.

[tiamathh]

How do they Remember You?

Note: Hi!! I'm back with another PAC :P Hope you like it! Please Like, Reblog and comment, if you do/if it resonates. Btw some of the likes are tough so like goodluck T_T. DO NOT REWORD, STEAL, PLAGIARISE, REPOST MY WORK!!

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Masterlist <3

Pile 1

Hi Pile 1! Okay, you may not have had the cleanest break with whomsoever you are asking about. To begin with, this person remembers you as a bad lesson in their life I'm getting "bad news", they remember you as someone who was very blocked and stunted creatively and intuitively, someone who is not that passionate or fun and is very hesitant to do anything or even interact with them. Damn, this person has a bone to pick, they think you moved on from them too fast and don't know who you are. They remember you as someone who wastes not only money but also your talents and your potential, and when they reminisce they think you were overly infatuated with them not necessarily romantically, just in a clingy way I got, "for someone this clingy you sure moved on fast" oof.

They were definitely hung up on you for longer than you thought about them post leaving or the falling out happening. They remember you as a hopeless romantic who could easily get swept off their feet, may think you are "easy" ew I don't like that word that's mean asl. They could also remember you as someone who gives up easy and is very weak or timid about their beliefs and views, someone who can't stand their ground.

I am also feeling a burning in my chest (not a heartburn) but this person has strong STRONG feelings either one of you could have strong fire energy too, but you are kind of etched in their memory for better or for worse. I am also getting "barren field" if this is relevant for anyone, like you burnt everything they had and then just left them with nothing. They do remember you with good characteristics too I'm getting, thinking you were grounded and humble and stable with your career, knowing what you want and being thoroughly planned out.

Pile 2 (Fun fact while typing 2 I accidentally typed W which is exactly what this pile is)

Hello pile 2, this person thinks the World of you, whoever you are asking about, you made a very big and positive impact on their life and how they were shaped. Your image in their mind is one of royalty, they hold you in high regards still and remember you as a mother figure, someone warm and welcoming, who was there for them when others were not, someone with overflowing femininity and warmth who had the beauty to match it, I see someone with beautiful shiny hair that sways as the light hits it just right.

They remember you as someone who not only had a lot of luck, but also someone who brought a lot of joy and love with you wherever you went, they remember you as a karmic connection to them, destined to happen and end but some of the best moments they may have in life, I heard "taught me how to love", I'm kinda tearing up randomly, they may miss you a lot, especially your smile and your eyes.

They also remember you as someone who held a lot of power and resources, someone who had the ability to anything they want, like a jack of all trades kinda person. Not only that but, they remember you as a master manifestor, you create your own life and helped them realise what they want in life too. Whenever they are thinking or remembering what you are like, they cannot help but attach themselves to it as well it's like they cannot see you without them, they still feel a deep attachment and deep love towards you.

Pile 3 (Sighs...goodluck)

Pile 3, this person feels so wronged by you. Like they remember you as someone who used them and manipulated them, someone greedy and untrustworthy, I also heard "slimy" they could think you tricked them into something and remember you as someone who tried to blame your failures and lack of success onto the world rather than looking inwards.

Oh, this is so bad, they think you were a disappointment and burdened yourself with responsibilities you did not have the ability to handle, which led to your "demise". When they reminisce about you, they sense that you did not see something through with them, like you were supposed to complete something with them, but you left in the middle, and they are very bitter about that.

They remember you as someone greedy as I mentioned earlier and someone who used them for their money till you got into a better position and left them, that you did not wait for them. They remember you as someone who they wanted to treat as an equal, but could not because you held more power over them than they did over you. I am sorry Pile 3 this is all I can channel from them, the energy is very negative.

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