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cherrysweets-world · 23 hours ago

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Eyes of the Gods VIII

series masterlist - part seven

Pairing - Caracalla x fem!Reader x Geta

Summary - The pot finally boils over.

Warnings - 18+, minors dni, historical inaccuracies, mentions of injured animals, reader is briefly intoxicated, dub-con, forced proximity, obsessive/possessive/unhealthy relationships & behavior, biting, dirty talk, reader is traumatized, alcohol consumption, violence depicted, blood, gore, vomit, slight breeding kink

Word Count - 5.4k

The cuffs on your wrists felt unnatural and heavy. They were not unlike the cuffs that slaves wore to signal who they belonged to, although yours were dotted with jewels and made with solid gold.

They had a matching necklace; a big, chunky thing that made you feel as though you were about to topple over. The jewelry paired with the fine clothing made you feel unrecognizable. Anyone who looked at you would not assume you had once been a simple worker.

The crowd roared with excitement and the sound created a buzz in your ears. Never had you thought you would have to endure the games again; once had been more than enough for you. Now, not only were you being forced to watch the games, you would be doing so from a prime viewing position.

It could have been your imagination but you felt as though you could already smell the scent of blood in the air. Cloying, suffocating. You reached up a hand to adjust the necklace and quickly dropped it when Geta side-eyed you.

You had thought the games would distract them from you. Their attention had become even harder to shake since your room had been destroyed. Crushed under the weight of it, you were desperate for a break that would not come.

Once again you had been placed on a wooden chair, but this time it was between the seats of the emperors. A position of honor. You wanted to tear the jewellery from your body and flee, disappear into the crowd and become invisible once more.

Occasionally you would catch the eye of someone in the crowd. You were getting used to receiving that same pondering look from everyone you saw. They wanted to know who you were, why you were sitting with the emperors, why their hands were all over you.

It was as if they were stripping you of you past, moulding you into someone who was more suitable. Dressing you up as they would a prized doll. Jewelry, clothes - there was even a smearing of kohl on your outer lids.

Would your friends recognize you if they saw you now?

The emperors were dripping in luxury. Draped with expensive clothing with the most intricate of patterns and colors you could not even name; you couldn't help but admire them up close. They looked every bit the gods you had believed them to be.

Caracalla's enthusiasm was palpable. He kept yanking you close to his side, pointing out things in the crowd or regaling you with tales of past games. You nodded numbly through his explanations, too wrapped up in your own nerves.

Geta was unusually twitchy and it took you a moment to realise that he, too, was eager for the games to begin. Your hands clenched around the fan you had been given and you glanced over your shoulder, at Lucilla and her husband.

General Acacius was striking man. Tall, muscular and certainly handsome. Together, he and Lucilla made an impressive couple.

Geta leaned close and hissed, "Is there something particularly interesting back there?"

"I have never seen a General before," you said stiffly, returning your attention back to the arena.

Geta's lips twisted and he placed a warm hand on your thigh, squeezing.

The crowd adored Acacius. Geta instructed him to speak and he did so, offering a few coarse words before returning to his seat beside his wife. Geta and Caracalla earned similar applause, likely because of the food that had been provided. People were all too easy to please.

With that, the games began.

Your face tightened as several men rode out on exotic animals, swiping and slashing at the gladiators to thunderous applause. It seemed such a waste - both of human and animal life. You snapped open your fan and attempted to breath steadily.

Caracalla pushed a cup of wine into your hands and you drank it down in its entirety. It was more potent that what you were used to and you leaned heavily on the side of Geta's throne, exploring the bitter taste in your mouth.

Both emperors were enraptured by the games. When the first man died you gasped, craning your neck to watch him flail in the sand. Red blossomed around him and it felt as though it took hours for him to finally go still.

The smells were getting to you. Blood, filthy men and animals. You stuck your nose into another cup of wine and attempted to drink slowly.

"That gladiator is talented, is he not?" Geta asked.

"Certainly," Caracalla agreed.

You felt their eyes on you, gauging your level of interest. You busied yourself with another cup of wine, drinking it down in big gulps. You felt nervous and yearned for a distraction. You had found one in the bottom of your cup.

Once your cup was empty Geta signalled for it to be filled again. Your hand trembled as the attendant topped up your cup. You stared at the woman and she finally met your gaze and dipped her head.

"My lady," she said.

You breathed slowly out of your nose. You were so far from a lady it was comical. Could no one else see that? Could they not feel it the way you felt it?

Caracalla pinched your waist. "My lady," he cackled. "You certainly look the part."

"It is all thanks to the generosity of my emperors," you smiled tightly.

Caracalla's attention was pulled from you once more when the crowd cried out. He got to his feet, pressed himself to the edge of the box for a better look.

Geta eyed you, an unfamiliar look on his face. "You are going to be drunk by the end of this if you continue."

"I am thirsty," you lied.

It had been an age since you had last been drunk. And never off of something so exquisite. The wine drowned out the roars of the crowd and the squealing of injured animals.

Miserable, you scanned the crowd. How could they dislike the emperors when they, too, were so bloodthirsty? As long as it was not theirs, they did not care. How was that any different to Geta or Caracalla?

Nauseous, you finally set down your cup. It would not do to make yourself physically sick.

Geta ran and finger down your inner arm before entwining his hand with yours. The physical affection startled you and you would have moved if you didn't feel so suddenly ill.

He called for a refill - of water this time. He used his free hand to push the cup into yours, telling you to drink.

"Fool," he shook his head, "you should not have drank so quickly. Now sit up and look amused."

You did your best to sit up straight and do as he had ordered. Whenever you began to shiver or look away his hand would tighten on yours ever so slightly. You were almost grateful; the last thing you wanted to do was humiliate yourself in front of any curious onlookers.

Even shaded from the sun you felt hot. So many heaving bodies pressed together generated almost unbearable heat, even from your position in the emperor's box.

An hour slipped lazily by. You felt every moment of it even in your drunken state. Men died below you like flies. The crowd devoured every death until they became meaningless.

It took a moment for you to realise why Geta was getting to his feet. The games were almost over. There was one man standing and another on his knees. Both were bloodied and dirty, sweating in the hot sun.

The winner looked up to Geta for his answer. Geta paced for a moment, palms upturned as though asking for guidance from the gods. It looked real enough from where you sat; you could not imagine how he appeared to those in the crowd.

Geta held out his hand, shaking as though coursing with power. You stilled, leaning forward. What would he decide? What would the gods decide?

When Geta flipped up his thumb you nearly vomited with relief. The crowd went wild, rising to their feet and screaming for the hero in the arena. Relief - albeit temporary. The man would likely meet his death before he earned his freedom.

Your feet felt unsteady as you attempted to get up. Geta saw you sway and locked your elbows together, jerking his head at Caracalla who appeared on your other side.

If you spoke to Lucilla or Acacius you did not remember it. The emperors were doing a good job of making it look like you weren't about to spill all over the floor. You leaned heavily on them, teetering down the steps like a newborn babe.

The journey back to the palace felt torturous. Geta's hands wandered, encouraged by your inebriated state. His rings were cool against your skin and you welcomed his touch, sagging into his side. Pleased with your reaction, he peppered tiny kisses behind your ear whilst scolding you for drinking so much alcohol.

Geta's forwardness would have been startling if not for your current state. The heat of the afternoon sun combined with the wine was making you delirious.

Once you were back in the confines of Geta's rooms, Caracalla placed a smacking kiss on your lips.

"You taste of wine," he commented, squeezing your chin. He leaned in for another kiss, relishing the taste.

You took a step back, evading Caracalla's grabbing hands. He pouted and followed, hands tight at your waist. You swayed in his arms, letting your head drop onto his shoulder. The jewelry he wore dug into your forehead but you felt paralysed.

"I am not well," you moaned.

"Poor girl," Caracalla cooed, hands cupping your ass. "She cannot hold her wine, brother."

He released you and you sank to the floor, curling into a ball and breathing heavily through your nose to ward of the nausea. Foolish indeed.

You could hear Caracalla and Geta arguing but it barely registered. Your thoughts turned slow and syrupy and you succumbed to the alluring lull of wine-fueled dreams.

Sleep was filled with feverish dreams. Crowns of golden laurels, soft hands, red hair. You awoke sweating, dizzy and alone.

Staggering to the table, you poured yourself a cup of water. It went down smoothly, soothing your throat. Geta's rooms were empty and you were, for once, blissfully alone.

The cuffs had left indents in your skin and you hissed as you pulled them off, followed by the chunky necklace. You rubbed at your neck, absentmindedly tracing the patterns it had left on your skin.

You poured yourself another glass, lowering yourself to the floor in a sitting position. The sky had darkened considerably since you had slept and it left you feeling disorientated.

Lifting your hand to your eyes, you patted gingerly at the corners, pulling away to see kohl still on your fingers.

You no longer felt entirely fearful around the emperors. There was always a level of uncertainty, naturally, but it was exhausting to constantly be afraid. They would always be unpredictable and you would never be able to fully understand them but you had come to feel somewhat. . .secure.

You did not know what you had done to deserve this. Both the positive and the negative.

Your days all blurred together in a smear of gold and red. They had inserted themselves in your life - or, rather, forced you into theirs.

They could still have you killed at any moment. The way Geta had looked at you when he caught you staring at Acacius had turned your stomach. How far would you have to push to have the full brunt of that aggression turned on you?

Their violence was something you had to keep reminding yourself of. You had seen it with your own eyes and heard so much worse. Yet it was hard to remember when none of it had been directed at you and it made you feel like a traitor to those who had been beaten bloody and killed on the orders of Geta and Caracalla.

Sighing, you got back to your feet. You put the jewelry back on. It was probably best the emperors did not see you took it off without their permission.

With no one around to tell you otherwise, you left the room under the pretence of searching for the emperors. You needed to get out of Geta's rooms for at least a little while.

There was a Praetorian waiting outside the room. For you, you realised. He told you that the emperors were in a meeting of sorts with Macrinus and that he was to bring you to them once you awoke.

You nodded. "I'd like to go this way, please."

The Praetorian allowed you to lead him the longer way round. He did not comment if he noticed you dragging your feet.

Being trailed by a guard felt strange. It had been enough just to have their eyes on you, now they were ordering others to watch you as well. You did not have it in you to protest. Whatever boundaries you had had been crushed by Geta and Caracalla days ago.

The shadows deepened the longer you walked. Cool air floated through the windows, dusting across your cheeks. The scent of food and smoke was in the air. You inhaled eagerly, a smile forming on your lips. In a moment like this it was simple to pretend everything was normal.

It disappeared as you went further into the palace. Once you entered the entertainment hall you stalled, glancing about at unlit walls. It was an odd place to be when it was empty of revellers.

A thump sounded from behind you and you glanced over your shoulder at the unexpected noise. Everything stopped as the guard fell forward, clutching at his throat and trying to stop the red river that was pouring from it.

He fell to the floor, amour clanking, body spasming. Your mouth parted and you tore your eyes from his body, meeting eyes with the man who had slid up behind him and slit his throat to the bone.

Iron, you thought, it stinks of iron.

There was nothing unusual about him; he looked like any man you would pass in a market or brush shoulders with in the hallway. The only thing that stood out was the knife he held and the serious expression on his face.

"Who - who are you?" you spat out, staggering back.

There were no guards in sight other than the dead one on the floor. Never had you so yearned for the sight of a Praetorian. Your hands twitched at your side, desperate for a weapon of your own.

"It does not matter," he said. "This is nothing to do with me. Or you. Not really."

There was no time to consider his words. He dove at you and you screamed and raised your hands. By some luck the knife glanced off of the cuff and clattered to the floor. The man considered this for only a moment before tackling you to the floor and securing his hands around your throat.

Being choked was more painful that you expected. You could feel the grinding of your bones beneath his hands, the full weight of his upper body being forced down onto such a fragile body part.

You could feel your legs flailing on the floor behind him. Your hands scrabbled at his fingers but you could not get him to release. Finally you turned your attention elsewhere, clawing at his eyes until he gave a shout and released you.

Turning on your stomach, you heaved painful breaths and tried to blink the bleariness out of your eyes, crawling frantically across the floor to reach the dropped knife.

The man swore and, still clutching his right eye, ran past you. You grabbed at his ankles and he fell with an almighty thud.

Each breath felt like agony but you had the knife in your hands. Shaking, you held it with both hands and pointed it at your attacker.

It was him, you thought, he broke my wolf.

This time, when he charged, you were somewhat ready. You swung your arm back and slashed with the knife. Blood splattered over the marble as he wrestled with you for the weapon.

"Please," you sobbed through clenched teeth, "please, please."

You could not say how it happened. Only that, in one moment the man was on top of you and the next he was looking up, distracted. Sensing a moment of opportunity you slid the blade through his fingers and into the side of his neck.

Free once more, you screamed. The sound was painful and croaky and muffled by blood falling into your open mouth. You turned your head to the side and vomited. You could not tell what was wine and what was blood.

The man fell off to the side, suffocating on his own blood, writhing amongst it.

Everything ached as you struggled to sit up. Your ribs, your wrists, your throat. Your lungs were on fire as you took huge, greedy gulps of air. You would never take it for granted again.

A heavy hand fell on your shoulder and you screamed again, scratching at it and trying to get away.

"Shhh," Geta hauled you up from the floor, "shhh, it's okay."

His eyes were wide and he could not stop looking at you and the men on the floor. There was so much blood. He could not tell how much of it was yours.

"No," you sobbed, "it is not okay. He tried to kill me. I killed him. I killed a man."

Before, you had been so angry at the person who had destroyed your carving. You had thought you wanted to see him dead. And maybe you had - but not by your own hand!

You were covered in his life's essence. It would stain more than your clothes.

"Praetorians!" Geta roared. His entire body was shaking in unbridled rage, you could feel it.

"He killed that Praetorian," you said numbly, pointing.

Caracalla appeared next to you, furious. "Good!" he cried, "What use was he if he could not protect you?"

You flinched as Caracalla kicked the corpse of the fallen Praetorian. It made a disturbingly meaty sound and you would've thrown up if you hadn't already emptied your stomach.

Caracalla knelt beside your attacker. "This one is still alive, brother. Barely."

"No, no," you shook your head. "I killed him."

Guilt was clawing it's way up your throat. You had ended a man's life and you did not even know why it had happened.

Caracalla pulled the knife from the man's neck and he jolted. You gasped and stepped back further into Geta's arms. The man let out a garbled moan and Caracalla spat at him, plunging the knife once, twice, into his neck again.

"You did not kill him," Caracalla said, "I did. See? It will be okay."

The tears would not stop coming. You looked down at yourself and saw nothing but blood.

Geta cupped your cheek and forced you to turn to him. "What did he do to you?"

"He strangled me," your own hands came up to encircle your throat. "Hurts. Bad."

Geta's nostrils flared. Praetorians had began to fill up the room behind him but you could not focus on them. Caracalla was in front of them, furious. He kept pointing over at you, gesturing wildly, his voice getting louder and louder.

"He - he said it was not about him," your words hardly made sense to your own ears but you continued, "or me. He was on top of me, strangling me -"

"Shhhh," Geta soothed once more, cupping your face. "It will be okay."

"I'm covered in his blood," you said, "how can it be okay?"

Geta called over a woman. She was elderly and appeared kind. She took your hand in hers and squeezed.

"Take her to our baths," Geta ordered, "we need to see how bad the injuries are."

"No," you shuddered, "what if someone else comes?"

Geta considered this, his own eyes wide and frantic. You sensed that he wanted to go with you but he needed to deal with the Praetorians.

In the end, he chose six of them to accompany you and the woman to the baths. He watched you leave the room as though he couldn't bear to tear his eyes from you.

Numb, you followed the woman. You would have been too afraid to go if not for the sheer amount of Praetorians accompanying you.

The woman led you down an unfamiliar route until you came to an ornate set of doors. Upon opening, steam spilled out and soothed your aching throat.

A bath suddenly seemed appealing, the urge to be clean overtaking any of your reservations. The woman gestured to go with you but you shook your head and told her she could wait outside with the Praetorians. Being alone was scary but your trust of strangers was slipping away.

The bath was huge and the waterwould come up to your neck once you were sat. There were several tiny windows littered across the top of the room to reduce the steam. Small enough that no-one could climb in. There were petals scattered across the surface of the water and bottles of oils and perfumes littered the side. There was a small set of steps leading up to it, allowing you to clamber over the sides. This was the bath of the emperors.

Breathing heavily, you peeled your blood-soaked clothes from your body. The blood had begun to dry and tugged at your skin. You stripped as quickly as you could and dumped your clothes in the corner.

You stepped back, biting your lip, before bending down and arrange them so that you could not see the blood. You ran your fingers over the cuffs, reluctant to take them off. You could see a slight indent in one where the knife had threatened to pierce you.

It took a moment but you eventually took it all off, laying the pieces reverently on top of your clothing.

Naked, you shivered. You let your hands explore your body, searching for any injuries. Apart from your throat and several cuts on your hands you could not find any. The gods had been merciful.

You tip-toed up the steps before bending and seating yourself on the edge. The stone was comfortingly warm beneath your bare ass. You slipped your toes in and moaned at the delicious heat licking up your calves.

You allowed yourself a moment to adjust before sliding in. The sensation was incredible, the water clean and scented. The heat seemed to help your throat and you ventured further in.

The water on the outskirts of the bath came up to your shoulders in place but varied in shallowness. As you neared the centre it began to deepen until you were kneeling. You half walked half swam to the furthest side, pressing your back to the edge and curling in on yourself.

Blood flaked from your skin in the water. Although you wanted it off of you, you could not bring yourself to touch it.

Your eyes fluttered shut. The only sound was that of the water. Exhaustion settled in every line of your body, battling with fear. Someone had tried to kill you.

He was dead now. By your hand and Caracalla's. A combination of relief and guilt stirred in your gut and you buried it deep, recalling your previous words.

Kill or be killed.

The hinges of the door squeaked as it opened and you sat up, almost spilling water over the edge. Your heart calmed as Caracalla entered, his eyes rounding at the sight of you in the bath.

You said nothing and watched as he shut the door, eyes never leaving you. He began to tug off his own clothes, expensive accessories clattering to the floor as though they were nothing.

Something else stirred in your gut at the sight of his chest, dusted with hair. Your eyes drifted lower, naturally, until they settled on his cock, bare and twitching against his thigh.

The tip was flushed red. It was thick and longer than you had imagined, nestled in a bed of reddish-brown hair. It seemed to perk up beneath your gaze and you swallowed, eyes jerking up back to his face.

His expression was one of pure want. The blatant desire did something to you, made the ache in your throat fade. You watched as he climbed into the bath and made his way to you, water lapping at your shoulders.

Caracalla stopped in front of you and settled his chin on your knees.

"Show me where it hurts," he urged. It reminded you of that first night in his room.

You found his hand under the water. He was watching your face carefully, looking for something. You brought up his hand and settled it on the base of your throat.

"Here," you croaked.

Caracalla's hand was gentle. He reached over your shoulder to pick up a woven cloth, dipping it into the water and dabbing at the blood crusted on your face.

It was a bad idea to let him touch you the way he was but no part of you wanted him to stop. You yearned for a distraction, for tenderness in the wake of such violence.

So you let him pull your knees from your chest. His breathing got heavy at the sight of your breasts and he wiped at your chest with a cloth, wiped your arms and legs until there was no more blood and the water took on a pinkish tint.

You reached out to grab his hand and he stilled, eyes bleary but questioning. You gently tugged the cloth from his grip and brought his hands up to cup your breasts.

"Oh," he breathed, palms firm against your puckered nipples.

"Please," you begged.

Caracalla's hands left your breasts to cup your face and slot your lips together. His tongue flickered into your mouth, drawing a languid moan from you as you melted in his hands.

You shuddered in his hands as his tongue began to massage yours. When he parted from your lips you felt dazed, blood buzzing in your ears. Caracalla urged you up, higher out of the water until your breasts broke the surface.

The feeling of his mouth on your breasts was intoxicating. You let your head fall back, burying your hands in his hair in encouragement. He lapped at your nipples, teasing them, before taking them in his mouth and sucking.

"Gods," you purred, "Caracalla."

He pulled from your nipple with a wet pop, looking at you with red cheeks and damp hair. His breathing was ragged and you could see the wetness on his lips from where he had kissed you.

"You want it too," he rasped, hands coming to part your knees under the water.

Then he seemed to change his mind. With some careful rearranging, he got you out of the water and perched on the side of the bath. There was enough room for you to sit back, half supported by the wall.

You felt a little dizzy at how exposed the position left you as Caracalla knelt and spread your knees. Your hands fluttered at your sides, not entirely sure what to do.

"Elysium," Caracalla moaned, eyes glued to your cunt and the wetness that was glistening on your puffy folds.

He tucked his arms under your thighs and moved you until you were right in front of his face. He took one, long lick from the bottom to the top of your cunt, eyes on yours the entire time. He lapped at the wetness gathering at your entrance, parting your lips to expose even more of you because he wanted to see and taste everything.

Babbling incoherently, you let yourself be feasted on. You could feel yourself dissolving into pleasure, your only connection to earth being Caracalla's hot tongue flicking across your clit. He watched your every reaction greedily, determined not to miss a thing.

He ate like a man starved, devouring your wetness with broad strokes of his tongue that left you reeling.

You jolted when one of his hands left your thighs, delving under the water. It pumped rhythmically, sending ripples across the bath.

Fire seared across your skin. "Are you. . .?"

"Yes," he murmured. "Your cunt is so pretty. Tastes like ambrosia."

Your orgasm pulsed through you, made you draw your legs up to your body and cry out. Hips undulating, you rode out the shockwaves of your orgasm on Caracalla's tongue as he stroked his cock beneath the water.

Before you could think, Caracalla rose from the water. Water sluiced down his body, his cock was heavy and flushed against his stomach. His eyes were scorching and he grabbed himself and positioned you at the edge of the bath.

"Wanted this," he said, "wanted you so bad."

He positioned the fat head of his cock against your cunt, rutting against you several times until you could hear the slick mess you had made. You keened when he sank inside in one slow move, all the way in until your hips were flush together.

Panting, he pressed one bruising kiss onto your lips, keeping you pinned with his cock until you were practically writhing, yearning for movement.

"Fuck me," you cried wantonly, "Caracalla, need you to fuck me."

From the moment he pulled back his hips and slammed into you, you knew there was no denying it. You were his. Would soon be Geta's too. A part of you whispered that you would do terrible, terrible things so long as he kept making you feel like this.

Caracalla must have read it on your face. "Tell me you're mine."

"'M yours," you breathed, rolling your hips to meet his.

Hands on your hips, he rolled into you as though you had been made for this - made for them. When your eyes threatened to flutter shut he cupped your cheek, directing your gaze to downward and to his cock pumping inside of you.

"Need you to see this," he swore, "want you to remember how good I made you feel."

You were not sure you could ever forget. The room became an orchestra of sloshing water and slick, wet sounds from your union, punctuated by Caracalla's possessive words.

"You belong to us," he thrust into you as though that would make you believe it. "Ours. With us, always."

"Yes, yes, yes," you babbled, believing it entirely.

Everything had been working up to this moment; you could see it now. There was no need for confusion or fear when there was this. Blissful, mindless pleasure.

When Caracalla slotted his hand between you and began to rub tight circles on your clit, you nearly lost your mind. Your nails dug into his back and then his hips, drawing him impossibly closer and urging him on. No experience you had had before compared to this and pleasure was quickly mounting again.

"I can feel you," Caracalla fucked into you harder, faster, "can feel you tightening on my cock. You want me inside you, want to be ours forever."

You squeezed your eyes shut, white light splintering across your vision as you came once more. Caracalla followed close behind you, rutting desperately and palming at your breasts until he reached his own orgasm. He rode it out, hips stuttering into yours as his chest heaved and he partially collapsed onto you.

He did not pull out of you immediately. He pressed soft kisses to the base of your neck and your cheeks, whispering filthy things into your ears. You did not push him away. Instead you ran your fingers through his damp hair and let him nuzzle at your jaw.

Finally, he pulled out. You bit your lip at the feeling of his seed spilling out of you. Caracalla ran a finger through your swollen folds, collecting some on his fingers before pushing it back in. You whined a little but held still, letting him push his seed deep inside of you.

"I hope it takes," he whispered, nipping at your lips.

You slid back into the water, boneless. You had heard other women talk about their sexual experiences before, about how sometimes when you gave in the man lost all interest. You had had two partners before but had never cared enough about them to be bothered when you lost contact so you were not sure what to expect with Caracalla.

If possible, he was more affectionate than before. He pressed his body tight to your side, hands busying themselves with your breasts and exploring your inner thighs. Insatiable.

Caracalla picked a glass bottle from the side, pouring the oil in contained into his hands. You held still as he oiled your shoulders and body, covering you thoroughly.

"Smells like you," you said.

He giggled before pushing the bottle into your hands and turning around. He had several scars on his back and chest that seemed to have healed. You bit your lip at the scratches that now adorned his back along with several puncture marks from your nails. He shuddered when you ran your fingers across them.

You let the oil pour across his back and began to massage it into his skin. He sank into your touch until there was no space between you and his back was pressed against your chest. Intimacy was something you had not experienced in a long time and you almost teared up at how relaxed you felt.

Caracalla took the bottle. "Don't cry," he cooed, "no more tears because of those animals."

"No more tears," you agreed.

It had been a very fucking long day.

Author’s Note - okay guys how did I do??? Let me know with notes/comments/reblogs and asks!!! Interactions with you guys is my favourite thing♥️

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ruewritesoccasionally · 2 days ago

Text

A Symphony of Sin | Terry Richmond

Pairing: Dark!Professor Terry Richmond x Dark! Black Reader

Warnings: extreme dark themes and smut (18+), stalking, obsessions, manipulation, teasing, jealousy, possessiveness, power dynamics, oral (m receiving), rough sex, choking, spitting, light slapping, hair pulling, degradation kink, praise kink, use of names (princess, slut, sweetheart) } everything is consensual but read at your own risk !

Summary: The final movement between her and Terry reveals who is really playing by the rules and who runs the game. The next moves are darker, more psychological, and with an even bigger power shift. By the end of it, she’ll know—this isn’t just her obsession anymore.

Word Count: 3.6K

a/n: this is a part 2 to 'Lessons in Obsession', one in which I initially had no intentions of writing because tbh sequels aren't my strength but @barnesnnobles comment inspired me to delve deeper so thank you bby. when i first started writing this, i didn't think it was going to be this dark but i think it's depraved in the best way 🤭...

The game had changed. She knew that. He had made sure of it.

Ever since that night—the night where her carefully constructed fantasy collided with his very real intentions—things had been different. She no longer watched from the shadows, no longer merely observed him like a scholar collecting data. No, now she felt him. Everywhere.

But the most dangerous thing?

She thought she had a handle on it.

Terry still carried himself with that same unbothered confidence, that slow, deliberate way he moved, as if every step, every glance, was calculated three moves ahead. In class, he was the same strict, enigmatic professor he had always been—sharp-minded, sharp-tongued, and completely unreadable.

And yet.

When she sat in his lecture hall, knees pressed together beneath the desk, hands folded as if she weren’t replaying the way those same hands had gripped her thighs, there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—where she swore she saw something in his eyes. A flicker of amusement when she adjusted in her seat, when she bit her lip without realising, when she lingered a second too long after class.

She was under no illusions now. He was watching. He had always been watching.

And God, she loved it.

It started small.

Little things—things that no one else would think twice about, but she caught them.

“Some of you seem to be distracted today,” Terry remarked one afternoon, his voice even but laced with something dangerous. His gaze swept the lecture hall, pausing for a half-second too long when it landed on her. “If you’ve got something occupying your mind, I suggest you clear it before it gets in the way of your work.”

Her breath caught.

A warning.

He didn’t need to elaborate. She knew exactly what he meant.

The previous night was still seared into her skin—his mouth, his hands, the way he made her admit to everything. How she’d clung to him when he finally let her have what she’d been chasing for so long.

She shifted in her seat, pressing her thighs together, pulse thrumming.

And Terry? He just continued lecturing, unbothered, as if he hadn’t just sent a shockwave straight to her core with a single sentence.

Then, he started testing her.

“Read the passage out loud,” he ordered one day, flipping through the textbook. “Slowly. Every word. Let’s see if you can follow simple instructions.”

Her stomach flipped.

She swallowed, gripping the page tighter, pulse pounding as she realised exactly what he was doing.

When she hesitated, Terry arched an eyebrow. “Having trouble, sweetheart?”

The term of endearment was so casual, so devoid of its usual weight, that no one else thought twice about it.

She knew better.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she parted her lips, voice coming out steady—too steady. She would not let him shake her. Not here. Not in front of everyone.

She read. Slowly.

And he watched.

The entire time.

She liked the game. The push and pull. So she pushed back.

One day, she lingered after class—not out of necessity, but out of something else.

“You’re staying late,” he remarked, not looking up from his notes.

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just needed some clarification on the assignment.”

Terry hummed, unconvinced, flipping the page in front of him. “You’re a smart girl. I find it hard to believe you don’t already know the answer.”

Her stomach clenched. The way he said smart girl—like he was reminding her exactly who had the upper hand.

She exhaled through her nose, willing herself to keep her composure. “Can’t a student just want a little extra guidance?”

That made him look up.

Slowly.

She swore she saw it then—the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, the knowing glint in his eyes.

“You’ve got five minutes,” he said, his voice silky-smooth, as if they both didn’t know he was lying.

But then, she made a mistake.

She got too comfortable.

Too bold.

And she pushed too far.

It started as harmless flirting. A casual, easy smile to another professor in the hallway. A lingering laugh with a classmate in the library. Nothing that would have mattered before.

But now?

Now, everything mattered.

She should’ve noticed the way Terry’s eyes darkened when he caught the exchange. She should’ve registered the subtle shift in his body language when she walked into class the next day.

But she didn’t.

Not until he called on her, voice calm, smooth as glass.

“You. Come here.”

A command, not a request.

The air in the room changed. She felt it, like the drop in temperature before a storm.

She stood, swallowing hard as she walked to the front of the class, acutely aware of every pair of eyes watching her.

Terry gestured to the board. “Demonstrate the method we discussed last class.”

It wasn’t a difficult request. She knew the answer. But when she reached for the marker, her fingers trembled slightly.

She felt him behind her. Not close enough to be inappropriate, not close enough for anyone else to notice—

But she noticed.

Her heart pounded as she wrote, forcing herself to focus, to pretend she didn’t feel his presence like a second skin.

“Careful,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Your hands are shaking.”

She froze.

His voice was even, calm. But when she turned her head slightly—just enough to catch the edge of his expression—she saw it.

The warning.

The punishment brewing just beneath the surface.

She’d underestimated him.

She’d thought she had control.

But one look at Terry told her exactly what was about to happen:

She was about to learn—again—who really held the leash.

She expected him to crack. To seethe, to glower, to grip the desk and try to control himself in that careful, calculated way he always did. She wanted him to react, to burn hot, to show her that she wasn’t the only one consumed.

But when she risked a glance at Terry?

He looked... calm.

Unbothered.

Like he didn’t just watch her bat her lashes at another man. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

And that unsettled her more than if he had reacted.

A coil of unease settled in her stomach. She didn’t like this. The game was theirs and theirs alone, a perfectly balanced scale of control. But now?

Now it felt like she had miscalculated. Like she had poked something she shouldn’t have.

That evening, as she lay in bed, her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

No name. No explanation. Just a location, a time.

Nothing else.

Her stomach flipped, fingers tightening around her phone.

She shouldn’t go. She knew that. Knew it the way she knew that staring into the sun would burn, that running her tongue along the blade of a knife would slice.

But of course, she went.

Because no matter how much she wanted to believe she was the one obsessed—Terry had been keeping tabs on her too.

She just hadn’t noticed.

Not until now.

The address led her to a secluded townhouse. Upscale. Cold. The kind of place that felt too pristine to be truly lived in.

Her stomach tightened as she stepped inside. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged whiskey and something else, something undeniably him.

And there he was.

Sitting back in a leather chair, legs spread in that lazy yet controlled way of his. A glass of amber liquid in his hand.

Waiting.

Her throat went dry.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her fate.

Terry’s gaze dragged over her, slow, deliberate, like he was cataloguing every inch of her. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched. Let her squirm under the weight of his silence.

Then, finally—

“Sit.”

Her breath hitched.

“Don’t speak.”

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to move.

The moment she lowered herself into the chair across from him, he hummed, swirling the glass in his hand. “This rhetoric has become a habit, you know? Thinking that you’re clever, smarter than me, even.”

She opened her mouth—

He raised a hand. Don’t speak.

She clenched her fists in her lap.

He sighed, shaking his head. “You really thought that would work?” A small chuckle, rich and amused. “Thought you’d get a rise out of me? That I’d lose control?”

A pause. Then—

“Tell me, sweetheart—was it worth it?”

Her pulse pounded in her throat.

“I—”

He cut her off with a sharp look. “Don’t lie.”

She exhaled slowly. “I wanted your attention.”

“Mm. And now you have it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the moment drag out. “The real question is... do you deserve it?”

A fresh wave of heat rolled through her, pooling low in her stomach.

She clenched her thighs together.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Terry tilted his head, studying her. “You wanted to play, huh?” He set the glass down, leaning forward just enough to make the space between them feel smaller. “You wanted to make me jealous?”

Her breath caught.

He smirked. “Tell me, then. When you batted those pretty lashes at that boy, did it make you wet?”

Her thighs pressed tighter.

Terry’s eyes darkened.

He leaned back, stretching lazily. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” His fingers tapped against the arm of the chair, contemplative. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

She swallowed hard.

“You’re going to sit there and do nothing.”

Her brows knit together.

His smirk widened. “No touching. No begging. No moving.” He let the words settle, watched the way her breath quickened. “You’re just going to sit there and take it.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

Terry reached for his drink, taking another slow sip.

Then, as if it was a passing thought, he murmured, “If you’re good, I might even let you come.”

Heat licked up her spine.

She clenched her hands in her lap, nails digging into her palms.

Terry smirked.

God, she wanted to wipe it off his face.

Or maybe she wanted him to ruin her.

Either way, she was fucked.

Terry’s eyes never left her as he rose from his seat, his movements slow, deliberate. It was almost like he was savouring the moment. He didn’t need to speak, not yet—his presence alone was suffocating. His hands undid the buttons of his shirt with a purpose, the sound of fabric pulling apart thickening the already heavy air between them. Each movement, each pull, every inch of skin exposed to her gaze was calculated, meant to drive her mad with want and frustration.

His chest was broad, his abs defined and tight. He was the perfect picture of control, yet there was something in the way his eyes darkened that spoke to an ache—a hunger that matched her own, though he’d never admit it. Not yet. He kept stripping, undressing with that same cold composure, his gaze trained on hers with intensity. Every inch of him being revealed, the heat radiating from his body, only made the ache in her chest worse. She clenched her thighs together, desperate to release the tension, but he hadn’t even touched her yet.

Terry tilted his head, watching her squirm, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "Look at you, all worked up. You thought you could control this, didn’t you?" His voice was smooth, mocking, but there was a bite under the words. "You thought you had it all figured out. Cute."

She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but he raised a finger, stilling her. "Ah, ah, ah, princess. No talking. I didn’t tell you to speak. Remember your place." His voice was low, a command now, one she was afraid to disobey.

Her body trembled under his gaze, tears stinging the corners of her eyes as the realisation hit: She wasn’t in control. She’d never been. Every part of her wanted to push back, wanted to break free, but there was something in him—something dark—that made her feel small, insignificant. His dominance was suffocating, and she couldn’t escape it.

Terry leaned in, his breath warm against her skin. Briefly, it almost felt like he was comforting her, his hand cupping her cheek in a tender gesture. But then he whispered, low enough that only she could hear, “It’s okay, princess. Let me show you how it’s done.”

His words hit her like a punch to the gut. They weren’t soft. They weren’t comforting. It was a promise. One she was scared to face.

The words hung in the air, heavy with promise, and something primal stirred within her. Before she could brace herself, Terry’s hands were in her hair, yanking her face up to meet his gaze. His kiss was brutal—demanding, possessive, a clash of teeth and tongues, each second a battle for control. He pulled away just enough for her to gasp for air, before descending on her neck with vicious intent, his lips and teeth leaving marks as though he was claiming her.

"Come on now, Princess. You’re better than this" he murmured against her skin. "You thought you could push me. Make me jealous? Make me lose control? You really didn’t know how to play this game, did you?"

She gasped again as he pulled her forward, his hands on her throat now, his fingers light but unyielding. "I’ll show you what happens when you make me mad, sweetheart."

He didn’t wait for permission. He was already on her, his dick shoved into her mouth before she could even process the movement. She choked, the thick length stretching her jaw, her mouth forced open in a way that hurt. But it was a good hurt. A reminder of her place, of his control.

He groaned as he thrust deep, his hand holding the back of her head, guiding her to take more of him. She couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe without his length hitting the back of her throat. He lost control in his own way��moans, growls, and guttural sounds poured freely from his parted lips, his knees bent ever so slightly, sweat trailing down every part of him that she’d been forbidden to touch. He reached down to feel the bulge in her throat, his length lodged perfectly there. The sensation nearly made him cum on the spot.

“It’s hard to talk back with your mouth full, isn’t it?” he growled. “Ugh, I wish you could see what I see right now. A fallen, over-ambitious slut too dumb to know when she’s been done.”

Her breath was shallow, her body trembling as he fucked her mouth with brutal force. She gagged, struggling to keep her composure as he forced his dick deeper, the back of her throat tightening with every thrust. She could feel him press against her, the sensation of him hitting her throat sending shocks of unwanted pleasure coursing through her.

“Such a good little toy,” he mocked, his voice dripping with both praise and contempt. “You wanted this, didn’t you? All you had to say is that you wanted me to yourself.”

She couldn’t answer. Not with her mouth full. She just moaned in response, her hands gripping the chair, nails digging into the armrests as he continued to ravage her with his thrusts.

His movements grew harder, faster, each thrust forcing her to take more of him. The ache in her jaw was almost unbearable, but the pain was secondary now. She was losing herself in the brutal rhythm of it all, in the way he made her feel so small, so insignificant, her body betraying her with each muffled moan that escaped her.

Terry pulled away from her mouth suddenly, making her gasp for air, but the moment she exhaled, he was on her again. His hands were everywhere—gripping her, tearing her clothes off, exposing her skin to his hungry touch. He worshipped her body, trailing his fingers over every curve, every stretch mark, every dip and rise of her form like it was a work of art he couldn’t get enough of. Her lingerie, the way it hugged her body, the way her skin glowed beneath it—he wanted to consume it all.

The sex itself was equally as pleasureful as it was torturous, a reminder that the moment she pushed him, she hadn’t broken his resolve—she had played into his hands once more. His actions juxtaposed his words, his touch both cruel and reverent. Her body was a canvas to him, a fragile porcelain doll not to be broken—unlike her mind. He admired every detail she put into her looks, how her lingerie complemented her dark, rich skin tone, the swell of her breasts, the stretch marks that looked almost hand-painted as they adorned the curves he had claimed. He trailed down her body, inhaling her sweet, natural scent like it was something sacred. He would kill for even just a vial of it.

His fingers slid down, finding the slickness between her legs. A low, satisfied hum vibrated from his chest as he pushed into her, slow at first, drawing out her moans, savouring the way her body clenched around him. Then faster. Harder. He swallowed each gasp, each cry, consuming her whole. She was on the edge of something—something dangerous, something that would burn her alive. But she couldn’t stop it.

Terry’s hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to steal the breath from her lungs. Her pulse throbbed beneath his fingers, her body trapped between the firm press of his palm and the unrelenting pace he set. “Open your mouth,” he murmured, his eyes dark with something almost sinister—daring her to disobey. When her lips parted, his grip tightened just slightly before he let a slow stream of spit drip onto her waiting tongue.

“Swallow,” he ordered, watching intently as she obeyed, the heat in his gaze burning straight through her.

His fingers weaved into her hair again, the motion almost tender—until he yanked, sharp and sudden, pulling her back into the moment with a quick slap across her cheek. It wasn’t meant to hurt, not really. It was a reminder. A warning. A claim. The sting barely registered against the flood of pleasure overtaking her, her body betraying her, arching into him, silently pleading for more.

The kisses were a battle, all tongue and teeth, his dominance bleeding into every movement. He took everything she had, demanded more, never relenting—never letting her forget exactly who was in control.

He practically imprinted himself onto her, searing his every being into her flesh so he could never be mistaken for anyone else, and certainly not the lesser in this dynamic. They were equals in their obsession, but one always had the upper hand—to remind the other not to get too comfortable. Someone had to know what was lurking around the corner.

He held her down, fucking her hard, relentless, until she couldn’t think anymore. Until her moans became cries, until her body was trembling beneath his weight, her mind untethered from reality. His words blurred into a haze of pleasure and pain. She was floating in it, drowning in it, lost in the brutal rhythm he set. But it felt like freedom.

He was still in control. She was still his.

And as he came, shuddering against her, his body trembling with the force of it, he pulled her close, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a low, breathless whisper—

"You’ll never be the one in charge, sweetheart. Not now. Not ever."

Terry had barely left the room when her eyes landed on his briefcase, tucked neatly in the corner, the edge of a notebook peeking out. The sight of it sent a strange thrill through her, curiosity slithering up her spine. He had always been meticulous—calculated—but something about the way that notebook sat, slightly exposed, made it feel like an invitation.

She hesitated for a moment. Then, lightly stepping across the room, she reached for it.

The moment she flipped it open, her breath caught in her throat.

Pages and pages. Notes scrawled in sharp, precise handwriting. Her name repeated over and over. Every move she had made, every place she had been. Polaroids tucked between the pages—some she recognised, old photos she thought were buried in her past. Others… others she had never seen before. Shots of her walking home. Eating with friends. Sleeping.

Her hands trembled as she turned another page. More details. Names of her past lovers, their habits, their schedules. Addresses—previous and current. The make and model of her car, the exact date and time of her last oil change. A level of detail that made her own obsessive notes on him seem amateur, laughable.

She should have been horrified. And maybe, deep down, she was. But mostly? Mostly, she was impressed.

All this time, she thought she was the one keeping tabs, the one pulling strings, feeding her obsession in secret. But compared to this? Her work was nothing but a failed imitation of his masterpiece.

She was so enthralled, so absorbed in his twisted devotion, that she didn’t hear him return.

A quiet throat clearing made her snap the book shut, her heart hammering against her ribs. She turned, and there he was—standing in the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression. But there was no panic, no urgency. No fear.

Because why would he be afraid? He had intended for her to see this one day. He had wanted her to know.

Terry stepped forward, slow, deliberate. A smirk pulled at the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his voice a low murmur, thick with satisfaction.

“As you can see, sweetheart,” he said, his fingers trailing along the cover of the notebook, “you were mine from the moment you stepped into my class.”

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hwajin · 1 day ago

Text

☆°. — burn me | hhj

genre: smut

pairing: nerd!hyunjin x afab!reader

wc: 3k

cw: wax/ heat play, dacryphilia, hyunjin is insanely needy

author's note: this hyunjin is @astraystayyh 's and hers ONLY. (she holds a gun to my head forcing me to say this)

You had wanted Hyunjin to speak to you. To reach out to you, to tell you things about himself. You knew he was shy, and you liked that about him. You liked when his ears shot red because you gave him a simple compliment, to his new computer set-up, or how very eloquently he helped you out with your Statistics homework. You liked how his body jolted when you touched him, when your fingers tickled him featherlight while he was studying, head deep in a book. You liked it even more when you teased him beneath the table when you dined out, a leg of yours creeping up his trembling one, and when he looked at you as though you were crazy. As though you were doing something so very forbidden, as though he never wanted you to stop.

But you had told him that you wanted to know more. That, yes, you could often read his face, his eyes, his body as it was, that he was an open book regarding his feelings, his preferences – sexual or not – his moods; but that it wasn’t enough. You wanted him to tell you if he was having a bad day, if he was struggling with the pressure he put on himself. You wanted him to tell you if he was feeling good, when you let your fingertips dance delicately across his stomach, tracing the lines of his faint muscles, wondering where they came from with the lack of exercise and the hours spent in front of his computer. You wanted to know if there was something he wanted to do, he craved to try, dreamed of at night. What he thought about when he lay alone in his bed, on nights you couldn’t spend together, what went through his mind when he closed his eyes and touched himself. You wanted him to spell it out. To tell you. To get past his futile embarrassment and open himself up to you.

You were looking at the package in your hands as you were sitting at the edge of Hyunjin’s bed. Perplexed. Curious. The water hitting the tiles in the other room reminded you that your boyfriend would take a while to come out, always preferring long showers, always waiting for the stream to turn cold before he considered reaching for the towel; so you were left figuring out the contents of the package yourself.

Wax. Massaging wax. Wax which looked too… sensual to be put on his windowsill and lit on romantic evenings. Wax which he had ordered for different purposes, you were sure.

And you knew you were right when Hyunjin, not fifteen minutes later, stood in front of you, stuttering, flushed, the redness on his cheeks spreading all around, his glasses still fogged up from the condensation in the bathroom. It didn’t help his embarrassment that he had chosen to only throw around a towel over his waist; you liked that. You liked that he deemed clothes as nihil after his showers; you both knew that whenever he was done studying, long past midnight, clothes would discard themselves from your bodies in mere minutes, anyways. You liked that though he was shy, he granted himself to you in a certain way, gifted you a part of his vulnerability. That he wasn’t afraid to be loved by you.

“Listen, I wanted to tell you…”, he started. But he didn’t make it far. Words failed him, the heat on his face distracted him. He couldn’t even look you in the eyes; and you hadn’t even said anything. You had only watched him, knowingly, before he had sat down on the bed, next to you, face in his hands to hide his embarrassment. Mumbling apologies you giggled at, because “Why? You did nothing wrong?” You couldn’t help but tense at the sound which escaped him at that, a faked sob, a deep whimper, something between that and an embarrassed laugh before he bent his body further into his arms. Hiding himself. Exposing himself. Because the skin on his back moved with him as he did, and you wanted to touch it. Because the skin on his stomach folded into million creases, tummy soft and protruding, and you wanted to kiss it.

“No, but I feel like I should have told you, before… before I just order something you might- like- end up not being into. And…”, he looked at you then, barely. Glanced at you from beneath the confines of his arms, glasses sitting on his nose crooked. The look in his eyes when he struggled to find the bravery to speak, to admit. “I’m not even sure I’m into… wax play; heat play. Whatever. I wanted to… try it. On myself- by myself. Before we tried it together.”

You chuckled, and he closed his eyes in pained expression again. You could say you had never seen him so crimson, but that would be a lie; you saw him so crimson every day, whenever you tickled a confession out of him by kissing the lobe of his ear, or when you sighed out how good he felt when he found himself hovering over you, inside you. Quite frankly, you saw him dripping in red more than you saw his actual skin, and it made you chuckle at him again.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, love. And you don’t have to- like, know exactly what you’re into to tell me it’s something you wanna try. We can experiment together.”, you said while sliding closer to him along the mattress. You felt the heat of his body radiating over to your own, and you nudged his shoulder slightly with your head. Made him glance at you again, from the side. You smiled at the smile he granted you, giggled then, to soothe him some more. Your shy lover. Your lover who bore secrets so erotic and deep you feared to never get behind them all in this lifetime.

“And besides, it’s more fun together.”, you ended with a playful wink, and Hyunjin’s whine turned into a laugh, and it sent a shiver along your neck, behind your ears.

It’s how you found yourself over his body. Watching his limbs spread across the bed, his fingers digging into the pillow beneath his head, the knuckles white. It made his arm tense up, made his veins shine blue in the relative darkness of the room. Ignited only by candles. Smelling only of vanilla. And his body. And sex.

When the first drip of hot wax had spilled on his naked body, close to his navel and so red against his pale skin your eyes had fluttered, Hyunjin had hissed. He had jumped in his place, a big palm reaching for you and long fingers digging into your flesh. You had asked if he was okay; he had looked almost concerned, and you’d been sure he’d tell you to stop. To just try something different. That it didn’t feel like he’d imagined it to. But then he’d raise his head a little, and his eyes had searched for yours; and you knew he had loved it. You knew that a little more of this, and he’d be a puddle in his own mattress, a wet, whining, desperate puddle in your hands.

Now, his lips were as red as the dried wax all across his body. Scattered here and there, two drops on his collarbone, perky and bony whenever he moved. Three drops on his chest, dangerously close to his nipples; he had whined particularly loud at those. The drops formed a path to his sex, scattering the skin there the most. On the lines by his abdomen, the dips in his hips, pooling there. Cracking at his thighs because he moved so much, squirmed under you uncontrollably. Hyunjin had spread his legs somewhere in the process; he was so needy, so lost in chasing after his pleasure that he lost himself, found himself in your eyes and grew bashful. You had taken the opportunity, had seen the supple flesh of his inner legs, so close to his darkened erection, that you let a few drops fall there. And Hyunjin had screamed. He had bitten the back of his hand, remembering the other students in the dorm. Had forgotten all about them in a manner of seconds when you did it again, let wax meet the sensitivity of his skin, and he had cried your name. Had writhed and groaned into the pillow beneath him. Had struggled finding his glasses when he’d lay on his back again.

You watched his bent arm, the way he was digging his fist into the space between the pillow and his hair. Struggling. Whining. Constantly whining; he wasn’t ever quiet now. His eyes were shut, making his face crease and contort, his teeth fletched, so the feeling of heat on his biceps was a surprise, and he yelped at it. It trickled closer to his armpit, and when it tickled, he shivered. A moan so throaty ripped through the room that you felt your clit throb, your stomach twist. And then Hyunjin sobbed, in frustration, or in pleasure, or due to sensations even deeper, emotions even greater. He sobbed, dryly, because he seemed overwhelmed of what else to do, and it made you kiss him. You bent down to peck his chest, to nibble at his collarbones. You kissed his neck, licked it, breathed in the scent of the vanilla candle there, of his sweat. You tickled his jaw with your breath, as hot as the wax, or hotter, felt him pant, felt him whine. You kissed his chin wetly, with an open mouth, leaving traces of you everywhere, traces of spit next to the traces of wax, a body traced in love. Because his body was made for it. To be loved, adored. To be destroyed and put back together.

It was when you kissed his lips, red and puffy and spit-laced and bruised, that you noticed the wet on his pink cheeks. The tears behind his glasses, past his eyes. You halted in your tracks.

“Babe, you okay?”

Eyes shooting open, and Hyunjin caught you off guard when he looked at you; eyes flooded with desire, with you. Bloodshot, reddened. Everything was red, you saw it everywhere on his body. And he nodded. Frantically. Desperately. You didn’t need to ask if he wanted you to stop, you could read it on his face that “Please, please, whatever you do, don’t stop. Never stop.”

So you pulled back again, a smirk tugging at your lips. And Hyunjin flushed when he saw it. You took hold of the candle again, hovered it over him. He watched it. The anticipation made the man suck in a breath, and his abdomen hallowed out. You let wax drip into the dip it created, liked the way it nestled there. As if it belonged there. As if he was made to be painted, to be pleased like this.

„Does it hurt, baby?“

A whine from his mouth, and the glasses on his nose sat so deep. He was sweating, wet all around, and the piece of metal just didn’t want to stay where it belonged. You liked it. Would never, not after half a year of being with him, get tired of the way he fixed them. Though he didn’t now. Now, his glasses where the last thing on his mind. Hyunjin shook his head, then he nodded. Then he shook it again. He couldn’t look at you. He was too shy to.

“N-no… yes. I- hmm… I don’t know- fuck-“

Fingers digging into the mattress, finding your flesh then, marking you with the tips of his fingers, with the sharp of his nails. Mindlessly, he was clinging onto you without knowing he was. Because he needed you. Because his body was calling for your own.

“Why are you crying, then?”

Another tear of his fell gen his temple just as you let another droplet of wax meet his skin; it was so close to his sex, tangling with his pubes as it trickled further down that you were sure it pained, but his reaction was heavenlier than anything you could have imagined; a cry of your name and he sobbed it, every syllable, every letter. More tears were rolling past his eyes. He was calling out to you, for salvation, for more, for less, for everything. And the muscles beneath his skin were trembling; you believed you could see it. He was vibrating, he was hot. He was red all around; his erection the most aggressive tone of them all, the white precum so pearly, so white in contrast. You wanted to lick it off.

“I- I don’t know. Because- fuck, ohh my god-“, heavy breathing, heaving chest. Hyunjin knew you better than leaving the question unanswered, though. Was too eager to leave a question simply hang in the air. “Because it feels so fucking good.” He didn’t look at you when he said it. He reddened deeper when he said it. The sweat on his forehead thickened when he said it.

“Yeah? Does it?”

He nodded, nodded and nodded so hard his glasses dared to fall off. He didn’t care. He continued nodding, until you chuckled. Then he looked at you. His eyes were so clear, so shot with pleasure. They were saying everything his mouth couldn’t, was shy to. You shivered in his gaze; how could a man so beautiful be so unaware of it?

“And because- because I’m so embarrassed.”

He whispered the words. He looked at you so intently; because he knew you’d ease him off. He was aware that his shame was futile, that it was never justified. And you knew that a part of him liked it. That sometimes, a man as smart as him enjoyed to turn dumbfounded in your hold. That the lack of thoughts, the struggle to find words when he was around you, reminded Hyunjin of the effect you had on him. It reminded him how much you liked it; when he started stuttering, when he forgot what he was talking about, when his only affections, his only obsession was you.

You chuckled, face smitten, lashes batting at him. He whimpered, bit the back of his hand when he felt the wax near his erection. It was so hard. And he was so close; if you didn’t touch him soon, he thought, he would come undone without any contact at all.

“You don’t need to be embarrassed about feeling good, baby. You can let go when you’re with me. Don’t be shy about feeling good when you’re with me.”

Hyunjin thought this was his demise. His hell and heaven simultaneously, that it was in your hands he would die, in your hands he would be reborn again.

He pleaded you. Silently first, then with a trembling word; he needed you. He had never needed you more than now. He put his embarrassment to the side, took to heart what you always wished of him; to tell you what he wanted. To tell you what he needed.

“You, babe. I need you, I can’t, I- fuck, please, baby, please. I need to feel you, please.”

You had never heard him beg this way. Had never seen such lust in his eyes. You had never been so wet, not for him, not for anyone. He had the ability to break you, and he wasn’t even aware of it. Laying in the nude before you, traces of wax and spit and love on his body, and he didn’t even know you were as obsessed with him as he was with you.

Your panties and shirt were discarded quicker than either of you could look. You were hovering over him, and Hyunjin swore your pussy was hotter than the wax, than the fire burning it down. Before you sank down on him, he stopped you, numb fingers caressing your waist. He whined, writhed. He couldn’t look at you, he mumbled something. It wasn’t until you put a thumb on his chin and made Hyunjin look at you that he reddened, again, always reddening. He was breathing heavy when your eyes met. So heavy that you felt the warm condensation of it on your fingers. It was shaky, he was shaking.

“I’ll come. Like, right away. I’m already coming, I think.”

The confession knocked the breath out of your lungs. For someone so shy, so bashful about the slightest touch, the most innocent contact his words were always marked with an eroticism so great, so honest. No one had ever talked to you the way he talked to you; despite his shyness, despite his hesitations.

You assured him, kissed him, pecked his lips. They were hot, wet. They were dripping with his love for you.

And then you positioned yourself above him, and when you took hold of his base to guide him against you, when you felt him slide past your wetness and into you his hands dug into your flesh, so deep into your waist it hurt, but you didn’t mind it. It was his face you were focusing on; heavenly. As though he had found heaven. He was coming, hard, jolting his trembling hips against you; he was merely grinding against your pussy, against your clit, not much penetrating even, and yet he looked as though he had never felt a pleasure bigger than this. Eyes rolling back, violently. Lip bleeding between his teeth. Spit spewing when he cursed deeply, throaty. Sweat running down his temples, your waist because his palms coated you in it. In him. His scent, his wetness.

And you watched the red traces on his body. The pale colour on his cheeks, the feverish one on his lips. The deep, sensual one on his chest and stomach and abdomen, the bit on his biceps, the dried and flaked red wax. Only memories of it remaining when you’d wash it off later in the shower, when the morning sun would almost come out again. When you’d kiss him there later, after he’d come down, in the spots the wax had been, to soothe skin, to comfort him. And the wax would stand by his nightstand, proof and witness of the past hours, of Hyunjin’s desire, of your love.

@es-kay-zee @jeyelleohe @angelwonie @ppiri-bahng @cherrrywon @svintsandghosts @llunapastell @sensitiveandhungry @junebug032 @noellllslut @unexceptional-h @like-a-diamondinthesky @katsukis1wife @astraystayyh

#hyunjin smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz x reader #stray kids hyunjin smut #stray kids imagines #stray kids x reader #skz hyunjin smut #hwang hyunjin smut #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagines #skz fanfic #stray kids fanfic #hyunjin fanfic

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somnus-lucis-caelum · 3 days ago

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Smaller, yes. But nonetheless deadly. The target would be clear: Jacob would want Aerith. He would kidnap her. Possibly Roran, too, for good measurement. Their father would be killed, he had no further use and was just a hindrance. And this all to make Ifalna falter and bow to Jacob’s every whim. With her most precious treasures in his hand, he could play her to any tune he wished.

That was the way men like Jacob though. Somnus knew them. And he despised it. But it was a rather simple factual plan.

Aerith’s idea of shuffling carriages and getting his soldiers into them was a good first step, but it would need a few adjustments.

Well… that was for tomorrow. It would be early. Somnus just nodded – at her recalling her former tease of the left side, he even had almost a smile for her. Though Somnus waited till Aerith had laid down and wrapped herself in blankets, before he himself did the same. There was no further contact that Somnus attempted between them. No. They would need all the erst they could get – and lying beside one another was already the biggest sign of trust he could show her.

Somnus had strayed from their bed before the first sunlight at the skies. Silently packing things he deemed important to bring along. It was a strange feeling. To be so quiet as he cut off his ties to the life he had led up till now. But maybe it was better that way. It allowed Somnus to act stoic, cold, quick. There were more important things at hand anyway.

As he finished, he carefully approached Aerith, laying a hand onto her shoulder.

“Aerith…?”

There were things they had to speak about. With her parents, of course. But there was something else.

Somnus sat down at the end of the bed and waited for her to have gathered herself enough to understand the world again.

“Aerith, there is one more thing we need to discuss.”, he announced. This was an uncomfortable subject, but nonetheless pressing. So maybe it was easiest to just treat it like any of the dutiful stuff they had to deal with. A stark contrast to how red his face had been last evening when she had stood bare in front of him. But this was… pressing.

��We have been wed yesterday. There are things that come with a wedding – the people expect us to have consummated it, to make it true in their eyes and the gods. I know to prove this, some have the linens of the couple’s bed checked for bloodstains that are supposed to happen, apparently.”

He explained all this gesturing with his hands. It was clear he had thought about this for the past hour or so already, weighing all possibilities. Maybe it was a little unfair to spring this on her when she had barely rubbed the sleep from her eyes. But they had little time…

“Now. I will leave this decision to you. Do you want me to trickle some of my blood onto the sheets to make it seem legit? Or do you want us to appear innocent. In case of my death in the war against Jacob this would make any remarriage way easier.”

Aerith closed her lashes, lulled into the safety of his embrace. That was the only way she could describe how she felt — was it too soon to feel that kind of ease? But... when she had needed him the most, he had been right there...

It wasn't a bad thing to trust in a man like Somnus, she thought. He had proven himself in quite a grand gesture when he helped her to Roran in time. There were little things too. Small moments that slowly were adding up.

So, when he voiced his concerns, she listened. And she listened closely.

"... so, if some rumours have reached Jacob... no, he wouldn't have been able to mobilise his army in this time. If he had anything planned... it's probably a lot smaller then, right?" Aerith creased her brows a little. "I don't know what his goal would be. To... what, stop the carriages and strong-arm his own arrangement? He wouldn't be that political, he'd just..." well, he wouldn't be seeking some approval, but would he attack them?

"There won't be any discussion tonight, but you could arrange to meet with my parents before breakfast? — Of course I can be there too. This is a matter that can't wait. Maybe we can shuffle the carriages. Maybe stuff them full of your men, I don't know."

She eased back a little. Just enough to look at Somnus' face again. "... I'll be taking the left side of your bed." she half-teased, forcing a little smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We should try get some sleep."

#holyguardian #AU | Star Crossed

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cthulhus-curse · 3 days ago

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Top!R thoughts you said? Milf!Wanda x escort!gip!R, Wanda has been divorced for some time and she's determined to experience as much as she can in some aspects of her life including her sexual life since it was more like a routine for her and Vision. She gets introduced to escorts through somebody close to her that had use their services before (Agatha, duh) and while Wanda is super nervous, she's also excited when she meets R. Their first time together, Wanda lets R blindfold her, telling her to only focus on their touch and it's the hardest Wanda has cum, the feeling of R's hands on her body, gripping her hips as their cock stretches her and they tell her how beautiful she looks when she's being used, how her pussy is taking them so well...she feels so desired, she feels like she's in heaven. Needless to say, that's not the last time she sees R.

Agatha totally has an on/off thing with escort Rio, just had to say that-

The first few times were a tad bit awkward on Wanda's part given how used she was to the routine her and Vis had -- which mostly consisted of her laying there and...taking it, really. But with you, it's different, even if she has to pay for it. And eventually, luckily at that, Wanda is able to relax enough prior to your shared meetings, ones she practices for in her lonesome with a handful of toys she purchased just for the occasion.

"I want to try something new," Wanda tells you, and you are more than happy to oblige. This time her body is covered by dark red lingerie that, truth be told, won't last long, but still hugs her body in all the right places. It's thin enough that you're able to enjoy the sight of her tummy that is adorned by stretch marks; something which takes all of you to not reach out for and worship.

The sight of Wanda getting on her hands and knees over the bed is not one you expected. The position is nothing alien to you, but you muse that in her former loveless marriage, even something as simple as that would never be done. Slowly, you inch towards her, undressing yourself to follow suit over the bed.

"I...I want it to be rougher. If that's okay, of course," a rather shy Wanda says, hiding the red tint her cheeks turn into. "Take control, do whatever you want. Just rough enough that I don't even think. Can you-" She turns to you, eyeing your semi-hard cock that you pump your hand over. "Please?"

"Whatever you wish," you hum. With enough lubricant strewn over your dick, you glide your hand, turned into a fist, up and down the shaft until it hardens fully. "But if at any point it gets to be too much, let me know."

Yet it never turns to be too much, not for Wanda anyway. Not even when you slowly inch your penis into her, her cunt tighter than ever given her position. You can barely move given the immense pleasure you experience from being in her. All you can hold onto are her love handles that keep you from falling over.

"Shit," you grunt. "You feel so good."

And by the time you're just about to burst, rather than pull out as you oftentimes do, Wanda holds you hostage, hugging your cock with her puffy puffy that you stuff with copious amounts of cum <3

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff imagine #asks #🪼 anon

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rhiannonsknife · 1 day ago

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hc of yj characters asking fem!reader out for valentines?

— VALENTINE‘S DAY WITH THE YELLOWJACKETS

— it’s february, so valentine’s day is coming up, yellowjackets s3 is coming out, and it’s my birthday month!! if you don’t have a valentine yet, consider this your invitation for us to all be each other’s! 💌

SHAUNA SHIPMAN

৻ꪆ shauna spends weeks rehearsing how she’s going to ask you out for valentine’s day. she writes and rewrites little notes, practices lines in her mirror, and almost talks herself out of it half a dozen times because she’s convinced you’ll say no or think it’s silly. even though you’ve given her zero reason to think that.

৻ꪆ she eventually settles on something lowkey but heartfelt: she spends hours preparing her attic room, decorating it with string lights, candles, and little paper hearts she cut out herself. it’s simple but so intimate, so very her. the effort shauna put in is obvious, and she hopes you see that.

৻ꪆ when you arrive, she’s practically buzzing with nerves, immediately giving herself away. she ushers you up the stairs to her room, watching your face carefully as you take in the space: on her bed, there’s a handwritten letter waiting for you, sealed with a little heart sticker. she insists you read it, standing by your side the whole time. as you read, you notice her mouthing the words. she’s memorized every line.

JACKIE TAYLOR

৻ꪆ jackie is not about to settle for a basic valentine’s day ask. i mean, it’s jackie taylor. she doesn’t do things halfway, especially not when it comes to you.

৻ꪆ while you’re in class, she sneaks out to decorate your locker with perfectly arranged hearts and ribbons (color coordinated, obviously). inside, there’s a bouquet of your favorite flowers, a handwritten note, and a coupon for ‘one valentines dinner date with jackie taylor’. she delivers the whole thing while casually leaning against the lockers, looking completely unbothered but making sure there’s an audience.

৻ꪆ jackie acts like she’s totally confident (you see right through her from the start), but the second you say yes, that fake composure cracks just a little. she’ll beam at you, maybe brush your hand, and say, “great. pick you up at 7?” on the inside, though, she’s screaming with excitement.

LOTTIE MATTHEWS

৻ꪆ lottie’s approach is definitely gentle and thoughtful!! she decides to ask you out during one of your shared moments of quiet: she invites you over to her house one evening, leading you through the back door to her spacious yard, where twinkling fairy lights are strung between the trees.

৻ꪆ you’re sitting together on a blanket, knees almost touching, when she finally brings it up: “i was thinking,” lottie starts, “i’d really like to spend valentine’s day with you. just us. would that be okay?” shes holding your hands with both of hers, glancing up at you from under her lashes hopefully.

৻ꪆ when you agree, lottie’s face lights up with the softest, happiest smile, the kind that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “i was hoping you’d say yes,” she admits, squeezing your hand before bringing it to her lips for a soft kiss. the rest of the night is spent planning your actual valentine’s date together: nothing too over the top, just something that feels right for the two of you.

NAT SCATORCCIO

৻ꪆ out of all the yellowjackets, nat is the least concerned with valentine’s day…at least, that’s what she tells herself. if it weren’t for you, she wouldn’t even think twice about it. but because it’s you, she finds herself secretly stressing over how to ask you out. she wants to do this right. nat spends way too much time trying to come up with the least awkward way to do it, all while telling herself she doesn’t actually care that much. (she totally does)

৻ꪆ after practice, nat catches you outside the locker rooms, leaning against the wall with her hands awkwardly hidden behind her back. “hey,” she says, trying to sound casual. “you doing anything for valentine’s? no? cool. cool, cool, cool. uh- wanna hang out with me? maybe?” it’s simple, direct, and couldn’t be any more nat until she pulls out a slightly crumpled bouquet of roses when you say yes.

৻ꪆ the gesture is so unexpectedly sweet coming from her that you can’t help but grin. before she can fully recover, you lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek, and nat lets out a breath she didn’t even realize she was holding. she stands there for a moment, stunned, before a slow, lopsided smile spreads across her face. “yeah…okay,” she murmurs.

#yellowjackets Ღ #yellowjackets x reader #shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #nat scatorccio #nat scatorccio x reader

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princessfanonanona · 2 days ago

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Touring Babel - An Infinite Realms Remix Fic

Mr. Lancer planned for a simple field trip to the museum. He wasn't expecting to find himself and the entire class in the ghost zone, looking up at a mythological architectural landmark. He really should just accept the ghostly interference.

The class wanders in a loose cluster after Mr. Lancer on their way towards the museum through the parking lot.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lancer?” Danny raises his hand, shifting from foot to foot.

Mr. Lancer sighs the sigh of the aggrieved. He stops walking ahead of the group, turning to look at Danny.

“Yes, Mr. Fenton?” he asks.

“I know we just got off the bus, but I think we should go back.”

“And why is that?”

“That’s not a museum,” he points to the marble building ahead of them.

“Of course it’s the museum,” Mr. Lancer can’t help but scoff. “I think I would recognize…”

He trails off when he turns to look up at the towering structure. “That’s not a museum.”

The round tower of marble stretches higher than any skyscraper, tapering upwards until the top disappears into the clouds above.

The class gape upwards before looking around.

The once clear blue sky has been replaced with green. Purple clouds gather around the tower, drifting by lazily. The parking lot, once filled with other cars, is now nothing but a sparse field with scattered clumps of weeds and wildflowers. The bus they had just disembarked from has become a pile of stones.

“Paradise Lost!” Mr. Lancer declares quietly. “Where are we?”

“Too late,” Danny sighs.

“Danny?” Tucker sidles up, still staring up at the tower. “What in the actual fuck.”

“Transient portal? Maybe?” he shrugs. He glances around his class, “the real question is how do we get back?”

“Fentina, is this your loser parents’ fault?” Dash practically shouts from the other side of the group.

“They haven’t built anything new, so no,” a shiver goes down his spine making him gasp. He frowns, turning to glare at the empty field beside them, “but now I think I do know what started this.”

“Hello, Daniel and company,” Clockwork greets, fading into view, looking older than usual.

Danny throws his hands up in a WTF way at the ghost.

“Welcome to the Tower of Babel, please, enjoy your visit,” they offer an enigmatic smile before disappearing into the mists.

The class erupts into confusion and panic.

“Now, now,” Mr. Lancer declares loudly, “let’s all calm down.”

“Calm down?” Kwan cries in dismay, “we’ve been kidnapped by a ghost!”

Dash pushes through the crowd to grab Danny by his shirt front, “this is your fault, get us home!”

“Enough!” Mr. Lancer shouts, making his way to the boys to separate them. “There is no blaming anyone! We are going to calmly evaluate the situation-”

“That creepy ghost knew Danny,” Star says, “how else would we end up here if they didn’t know him?”

“Hey, sorry, can we get back to the fact that we’re at the Tower of Babel?” Sam asks, stepping forward. “You know, the ancient city where all of humanity was once unified in language and culture?”

Mr. Lancer frowns, “that would be relevant if it were true, but I would hardly believe the words of an apparition.”

Sam looks to Danny, gesturing towards the building.

Danny makes a face at her before turning to Tucker.

Tucker shakes his head, holding his hands up to make an X with them and takes a small step backwards.

Danny looks back at Sam and holds his palms up.

Sam gestures at the tower again.

“My prophetic bladder says it is the Tower of Babel,” he says.

Mr. Lancer gapes at him.

“Would you prefer if it was the Hanging Garden of Babylon?” Danny asks.

“I would prefer if we were at the Natural History Museum,” Mr. Lancer says.

“Hey guys!” Mikey calls from the top of the steps near the arching doorway. “They have a tour guide ready for us!”

Danny exchanges a glance with Tucker before jogging across the distance.

“Wait!” Mr. Lancer calls after him, “you need to stay with the group!”

“Oh, Sinilis!” Danny greets, spotting the green ghost, “I thought you were at the Library?”

“Hello, sir,” the scholarly ghost bows his head in greeting, “I have been assigned to guide you and your companions today.”

“You know him?” Mikey asks, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Uh…” Danny blanches, he glances back at the class who have moved closer. “Sorta.”

“You know its name.”

“His name,” Sam says. “He’s not an it.”

“How do you know him, then?”

“He has a name tag,” Danny says.

Sinilis taps his chest under the pin that spells out his name and preferred pronouns in Hittite.

“That’s not even- holy shit I can read that!” Mikey exclaims. “How can I read that?”

“That would be the power of Bāb-ilim, wherein the separation of cultures have been erased,” Sinilis explains. “Will the rest of your group be joining us then?”

“I think it would be more informative than the museum,” Sam says.

“Will you please stop running off on your own, we need to stay together,” Mr. Lancer says, making his way up the steps. The rest of the class hovers at the bottom. “Oh wonderful, another ghost.”

“Hello sir,” Sinilis bows his head in greeting, “my name is Sinilis, a scholar of the Great Library of Alexandria and have been assigned to be your guide through the City of Bāb-ilim today.”

“That’s great, but we really should be on our way-” he freezes, the previous statement finally processing. “The what library?”

“The Great Library of Alexandria,” Sinilis repeats. “If I recall, that will be your next group trip should today’s tour prove successful.”

Mr. Lancer falters. Dash, who had snuck up behind them, catches him from falling as his foot slips on the step.

“Whoa!”

Danny jumps forward, grabbing Mr. Lancer’s arm to pull him back onto the landing.

“Are you alright, sir?” Sinilis asks, hovering slightly, hands outstretched to help but not touching. “I do apologize for whatever fright I have caused.”

“No no,” Mr. Lancer shakes his head, stepping carefully away from the steps. “You just- run that by me again?”

Sinilis floats back to stand where he previously stood in the entranceway. He pulls out a scroll from the sleeve of his robe. Unfurling it, he reads it aloud.

“For the continued education of the Heir Apparent and entourage candidates, tours of cultural and historical significance have been scheduled at the following locations: the City of Bāb-ilim, also referred to as the Tower of Babel, the Great Library of Alexandria, the City of Pompeii, the City of Mycenae, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Zapotes-”

“The city of the Olmecs?” Mr. Lancer interrupts. “And several other ancient wonders? They exist?”

“They actually refer to themselves as Tamoanchan,” Sinilis clarifies. “But yes, they do exist here, as anything that once was and subsequently ceased to exist in the Lands of Life will be reborn here in the Infinite Realms.”

“I think I need to sit down,” Mr. Lancer says, rubbing his temples.

At this point, most of the class has moved closer to the top of the steps.

“I would offer you a drink, but all I have is pomegranate juice,” Sinilis offers.

“That wouldn’t be very helpful,” Sam says. Tucker barks a laugh, turning to cover his face.

“Does that mean we’re going to tour the tower?” Mikey asks.

“I want to know what that heir apparent means,” Paulina asks. “Who is it?”

Sinilis very pointedly does not look at the trio.

“I’m with Paulina,” Valerie says, crossing her arms. “We got kidnapped by ghosts for some supposed ghost heir and named us the entourage? I think we deserve to know.”

“I think it’s Danny,” Mikey says.

“What could Fentonail-”

“Mr. Baxter.” Mr. Lancer chides.

“-do to be this ghost whatever?”

“Well, he was named by the first ghost and he knows who this ghost was before an introduction.”

“So?” Sam asks. “I think we should just accept the absolutely impossible chance of getting guided tours through ancient myths. Do you not realize the actual historical impact that is right there?”

“I mean, Clockwork did say it would just be a visit, which means we would be returned home without a problem,” Tucker offers.

“Who’s Clockwork?” Dash asks at the same time that Valerie demands “Why do you know its name?”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Mr. Lancer holds his hands out to quiet down the class. “Mister uh…”

“Sinilis,” the ghost offers with a tight smile.

“Sinilis,” he continues, with a small nod of thanks, “what is the process for us to return home?

“Why, there’s a portal for your return being prepared on the other side of the city,” the ghost gestures towards the arch.

“But-!” Valerie protests.

“And can you ensure that the class will be safe and unharmed during this tour?”

“Certainly, sir! I swear it upon my core that no harm shall befall the class.”

“I don’t trust you, and I refuse to enter that ghost infested-”

“Stop being rude,” Sam interrupts her. She turns to Sinilis, “is there a way for anyone who doesn’t want to participate to go home now?”

He glances at Danny but doesn’t answer.

“So we’re trapped here?” Valerie says, aghast.

Tucker nudges Danny with his elbow who rolls his eyes back.

“Val,” Danny steps towards her, hands up in a placating manner. “Look we’re here so we might as well do what they ask. When in Rome and all that-”

“But they’re ghosts!” She practically shouts, “you can’t ever-”

“You trust Dani.”

She freezes.

“But she’s-”

“Half, I know, but do you really think that the other half is as bad?”

She doesn’t answer.

Danny takes her hands, “besides, have you ever met a violent librarian?”

She huffs a laugh out of surprise, “no, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“If I may,” Sinilis floats closer, “the sooner we begin the tour, the sooner all of you may return home.”

“Fine, no funny business.”

“Of course,” he bows his head and floats back, glancing at Danny before turning to Mr. Lancer. “Are we all set then?”

Mr. Lancer looks over his class before taking a deep breath. “Well, this will certainly be far more informative than a museum trip.”

#danny phantom #infinite realms #infinite realms remix #dp events #phandom event #nona writes

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devixncy · 2 days ago

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could you do a dae ho fic please? Like the reader was a barista he has a crush on but never had the courage to ask out previously to the games. And then once they get into the games he protects her and she reveals she always found him cute as well. Thanks :)

so, i may have gotten carried away while writing this one. pretty sure i typed out wayyy too many unnecessary details oops! (but i can't help it i'm sorry). anyways, i love dae-ho so so much like <3333 such a cutie

✧ pairing: kang dae-ho x fem!reader

✧ summary: dae-ho happened to be a regular at the cafe you worked at as a barista, and you had started to grow feelings for him over time. when you find yourself in the games, he ends up there as well and ultimately saves your life. fearing for your life and the fear of the unknown leads to late night confessions.

✧ content: typical squid game violence, mentions of death, i think that's it. literally just straight fluff

✧ word count: 4.8k

Your life was quiet, but you enjoyed it that way. Being a barista was the perfect job for you, it was relaxing and there was nothing you loved more than interacting with customers, especially the regulars. Unfortunately, while you loved your job, it wasn’t enough. You lived in a cramped apartment that was cozy, but your job just barely covered the rent. On top of that, you couldn’t cover your debt. You were swimming in debt, trying your hardest to help pay for your younger sister's medical bills. She was ill, and constant hospital trips and stays started building up fast. It was just the two of you, your parents having passed a few years prior. You would do anything for your sister, but having the loan sharks breathing down your neck constantly was beginning to drive you insane. You needed more money and fast.

Lost in thought, you absentmindedly drew shapes into the counter with your fingernail. The cafe was quite slow, but with the gloominess and light drizzle outside, it made sense. The bell above the door rang, signaling that someone had entered. Looking up, you immediately began to smile. One of your favorite regulars, Dae-ho, had stepped inside.

His eyes immediately met yours and he smiled at you, making your heart flutter. Dae-ho was the most kind, genuine soul you had ever met. He never failed to light up your day, even just by being in his presence. He truly was a gentleman, most likely thanks to growing up with four sisters.

“Just the usual?” You asked as he walked up to the counter.

“What, no ‘hello Dae-ho, how are you’?” He asked teasingly as you rolled your eyes.

“Hello Dae-ho, how are you?” You feigned annoyance, however you truly did want to know how he was doing. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t developed a crush on the man in front of you. He was incredibly sweet to you (and incredibly handsome), so how could you not fall for him?

“I’m great, (Y/N). And yes, I’ll take my usual.” The grin on his face was contagious, and you smiled, nodding as you began to make his order. He was a man of simple taste, ordering an Americano every time he came in. While you made it (and grabbed him a free pastry), you could hear him ask how you were doing.

“Oh, you know. Same shit different day. Just trying to get by,” You replied as you snapped the lid on his drink. Turning around, you slid it across the counter along with the bagged pastry. Dae-ho furrowed his brows at the sight of the pastry, looking at you questioningly. You shook your head before he could say anything. “Just take it, Dae. It’s on me.”

His cheeks turned a little pink at the sound of the nickname, but he nodded gratefully. He placed his money for the coffee in your hand, your skin tingling as his fingers brushed yours. You took the money and put it in the register, handing him back his change. Of course, he took his change and put it in your tip jar.

Before he picked up his items, he looked at you as you leaned on the counter. Your eyes were so full of life, the smile on your lips making his heart thud. But he could see the exhaustion in your face, no matter how hard you tried to hide it. Without thinking, he leaned over and tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed against your jaw gently. Eyes wide, you looked at him, cheeks starting to burn. He smiled softly, dropping his hand and picking up his coffee and pastry.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He asked, even though he knew your work schedule like the back of his hand. You nodded, still dazed, as he chuckled and walked off with a small wave.

Once outside the shop, he cursed to himself. Oh, how he wishes he were bold enough to ask you out. Every time he thought he could do it, he backed out, fearing rejection. He didn’t want to mess up the friendship the two of you had. One day, he promised himself.

— Once you had closed up shop for the day, you locked the doors to the café and headed towards the subway.

You sat down on a bench, placing your bag directly next to you. While you waited, you stared at the ground in front of you as you absentmindedly picked at your cuticles. When you weren’t working and keeping yourself distracted, the stress started to take over.

Your body tensed as someone sat next to you. Turning your head, you saw a man dressed in a nice suit, a briefcase by his side. Sighing, you scooted away a little bit more. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m definitely not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything. In fact, I would like to let you in on a great opportunity. Would you like to play a game with me?”

You frowned, confusion evident on your face. A game? Seriously? Turning towards him, you studied him for a moment. Something about this man was off putting. As you were about to open your mouth to decline his offer, he opened up a briefcase. The words died on your tongue as you saw the stacks of money.

“I’m sure you’ve played ddakji before, yes?” He asked as he picked up the red and blue squares. You nodded slowly. “Play a few games with me. And each time you win, I’ll pay you a 100,000 won.”

You stared at the money as you pondered. You needed this. A couple games of ddakji couldn’t hurt, right?

And you played. You had won most of the rounds, earning a couple of slaps in the face when you didn’t. By the time the game was over, you had accumulated a decent amount of money. Of course, not nearly enough to cover what you needed it for. As you sat there counting the money, the salesman began to speak.

“You know, miss. There are more games like this where you can win even more.”

You paused, looking up at him. It sounded too good to be true. As you were going to decline, he began to list all of your personal information. He knew your name, your occupation, the amount of debt you had accumulated. Your mouth dropped, unable to get a word out. He smiled smugly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a card. He handed it to you, and you snatched it.

“We don’t have many spots left.”

Those words resonated with you as you sat in your apartment. Taking a deep breath, you called the number on the back of the card.

“Do you wish to participate in the game? If you wish to participate, please state your name and birthdate.”

Next thing you knew, you were standing on a street corner in the dark. You rocked back and forth on your heels anxiously as you waited. Soon enough, a car pulled up next to you, rolling down the window. A masked person donning a pink suit turned his head in your direction.

“Ms. (Full name)?”

You nodded, following up with the password they had given you over the phone. The back door slid open and you climbed in, noticing the other people in the seats who were seemingly asleep. You shook off the uneasiness, trying to get comfortable in the seat. Seconds later, steam began to fill the car, making you cough. And then the world went dark.

When you awoke, your brain felt fogged and you were incredibly groggy. You screwed your eyes shut as the overhead lights threatened to blind you. Classical music filled your ears, and you groaned as you sat up. Opening your eyes, you scanned your surroundings. Numerous people were getting out of their beds, all wearing the same green tracksuit with numbers plastered on the back. Quickly looking down, you saw that you wore the same thing. Then you noticed your number in bold white, 301. You got out of the bed, making your way down the stairs the same way everyone else was. As you were taking it all in, the doors at the front of the room underneath the screen opened. Multiple masked figures stepped out, walking forward. The one in the front began speaking.

“I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six games over the course of six days. Those who win will receive a handsome cash prize.”

Players began to speak up. All made good points, and you agreed that you all being basically kidnapped and the masked guards were a little strange.

Then, you gasped as multiple players were shown on screen playing the game of ddakji, announcing their names and how much debt they were in. Thankfully, your name didn’t come up.

When it came time, you got in line and signed the consent form. You didn’t bother reading it, you were just here to play some games after all. You were sure it was just some dumb fine print that didn’t really mean anything.

Soon enough, yourself and all of the other players filed into a multi-colored room. There were stairs leading up, and as you looked around you noticed multiple guards stationed in different spots. Shaking off your unease, you stepped up to the photo booth and turned to face the camera. Upon hearing the ‘smile!’, you mustered up a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“The first game will begin momentarily. After having your picture taken, follow the staff’s instructions and proceed to the game site.”

You followed behind the other players up the stairs, coming up to a large door where everyone was filing into.

“Welcome to the first game. All players, please wait a moment on the field.”

You entered the large clearing in front of you, squinting as the sunlight hit your eyes. As your eyes adjusted, you looked around at the four large walls and the comically large doll with the tree directly ahead. There were two guards standing on either side of it.

Suddenly, the three large doors slammed shut behind you with a loud clank. You gasped and turned around, as did many others.

“The first game is Red Light, Green Light. Cross the finish line without getting caught in five minutes. If you do, you pass.”

Suddenly, someone pushed past you to get to the front of the group. He seemed frantic, turning towards everyone.

“Everyone!” he shouted, waving his arms in the air. He had your full attention now. “Everyone listen up, pay attention!”

“This is not just a game! If you lose the game, you die!”

Your breath caught in your throat. There’s no way he was serious, right? How could you possibly die playing a children’s game? Others seemed to think the same thing, as someone asked him what the hell he was talking about. “We’re going to die playing Red Light, Green Light?” someone asked with a scoff.

“Yes, that’s right! If they catch you moving, they will kill you! They will shoot you from somewhere! Stay on your toes. That doll’s eyes are motion detectors!”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, no one seeming to take his word for it. Many were voicing their thoughts that this was just some ploy to get all of the money for himself.

“You have to believe me!” His voice was laced with desperation. As he finished his sentence, the doll began to whir to life, turning to face the tree. Its arm raised up, placed against the tree. The man, player 456, whirled around, panic evident in his movements.

“Do not be alarmed or panic! No matter what happens, do not panic and start running!”

Your heart began to hammer in your chest. Something in your gut told you to believe him. He seemed way too genuine to be making this all up.

“Let the game begin.”

The timer across the room flickered to life, displaying a red five minute timer.

Mugunghwa Kkoch-i Pieossseubnida

You began to move forward, freezing as the doll whirled back around and player 456 held up his hands. “Freeze!” He yelled out. Everyone stayed as still as a statue.

“Well done! You just need to stay calm like this!”

Once the doll turned again, you started to run forward, freezing again moments later. The doll's head turned, its eyes calculating everyone’s movement. Player 456 continued to yell out instructions, and so far everyone seemed to be listening despite calling him crazy.

Mugunghwa Kkoch-i Pieossseubnida

You began to run forward again, stopping dead in your tracks along with everyone else. This continued successfully for a couple of cycles. For a moment though, while you were all paused, someone began to scream. Yourself and many others side eyed the girl in shock.

“Crap. I just moved.” And with that, moments later, a gunshot rang out. Your eyes widened, unmoving, but terrified.

“NOBODY MOVE!! You must not move!” Player 456 shouted frantically, not wanting panic to ensue. Unfortunately, it was far too late for that. Multiple gunshots began to follow the first, people dropping around you left and right. Blood began to cover the field. It seemed non-stop. Your body began to tremble, feeling nauseous as the chaos unfolded around you. Player 456 was screaming at this point, trying to save everyone that he could.

“Let me repeat. You can move forward while the tagger shouts ‘Green light, red light’. If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

After the announcement, the game resumed. This time, nobody dared to move from their spot. Once the green light was given again, the only person to move was player 456. And then again, he was the only one to move. Everybody was glued to their spot, too terrified to move. He began to shout instructions again, telling everyone to get behind someone bigger than you. That’s exactly what you did at the next cycle, getting behind players 120 and 124. You stayed close behind as they moved forward, trying to make sure your movement was minimal. This continued until you were almost at the finish line.

“LETS GO!” Player 456 screamed, everyone beginning to push forward as fast as they could. You did the exact same, until your foot slipped as you were trying to come to a stop. Fear coursed through your body as the ground got closer, the doll about to turn around. Everything was moving in slow motion. This was it, this was how you were going to die. Your eyes screwed shut, waiting for the impact from the ground and the bullet. Suddenly, though, you weren’t moving anymore. The back of your jacket was held tightly by somebody behind you, right as the doll said red light and turned. Your eyes flew open in shock, not daring to move a muscle. It was the longest moment of your entire life, praying whoever had their grip on your jacket didn’t lose it. As soon as the doll turned back around, whoever was behind you instantly pulled you back up. Your arm was grabbed and you were hastily pulled towards the red line, being shoved over it as the doll said red light. You stumbled and fell to your hands and knees, wheezing as you tried to catch your breath. Then you paused, whipping around to see who it was.

And there he was, standing mere inches from the finish line. You stared at him, mouth agape. Dae-ho was standing right in front of you, the number 388 plastered to his jacket. Your heart thudded in your chest, your ears ringing. You couldn’t even process it, that he was in this mess just like you were. Moments later, he crossed the line, running straight to you. He crouched down next to you, gripping your face in his hands like he was making sure you were real. Your lips parted, but words refused to come out. He had just saved your life and there you sat trembling like a leaf, not even able to muster a ‘thank you’. However, he didn’t say anything either. His eyes said it all. He was completely terrified.

“Dae-ho…” You whispered, your voice shaking. Before he could respond, everyone’s heads shot up towards the sky. A retractable roof was closing over the top of the arena, closing you all in like animals in a cage.

Before he could say anything, you were all being herded back to the main room. The guards gave you no time to process anything, forcing you to get moving. Dae-ho stayed right next to you, a gentle grip on your upper arm. The atmosphere entering back into the main room was dark, the obscene amount of death and bloodshed looming over everyone’s head like a dark cloud. You sat next to Dae-ho, silent as a mouse. Everyone was silent. What could possibly be said after what you had all just witnessed? Your gaze bore into the ground in front of you, knees tucked into your chest with your arms wrapped around them. Dae-ho was lost in thought, his side pressed up against yours. The touch kept you somewhat grounded, though just barely.

Suddenly, the bright overhead lights flickered to life and the door opened. Everyone's attention turned towards the guards that stepped into the room. Upon seeing them, everybody scrambled back further, clearly terrified. You were no exception, pushing yourself backwards up the stairs behind you. Dae-ho did the same, a protective grip around your body.

“Congratulations for making it through the first game. Here are the results from the first game.” The board above them began to change, the number 456 changing to 365.

More chaos began to ensue. People begging for their lives, the promise of a fair voting process. The voting process was anything but smooth, tensions beginning to rise between the players. You chose X with no hesitation. While you needed the money, you had to be there for your sister. You couldn’t help her, the only family she had left, if you were dead. Dae-ho had voted X as well, much to your relief. Unfortunately, your relief was short lived, as you lost the vote to leave by one. You were devastated, wanting nothing more than to curl up and cry. Showing weakness may not be the greatest idea, though. Not in a place like this.

Once it was meal time, you sat on the stairs with your tin of food in one hand and water bottle in the other. You had zero appetite. Dae-ho, who was sitting next to you, wasted no time in digging into his. You turned your head towards him and he paused.

“What?” He asked halfway through shoveling food into his mouth. You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “You need to eat something too, (Y/N). You can’t let yourself go hungry, gotta retain your strength. Here,” He said, scooping some of his onto his spoon and putting it up to your mouth. Your lips tightened into a thin line, silently refusing. He frowned. “I’m serious-”

“What are you even doing here, Dae-ho?” You cut him off, turning towards him a little more. He swallowed, frown still on his face.

“I could ask you the same thing.” His tone was completely serious now, setting his tin down next to him. You set yours down as well, refusing to meet his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter. We’re both in this mess, and now we both have to somehow make it out alive.” You hoped you didn’t come off as hopeless as you felt. Dae-ho decided not to press any further. He nodded in agreement. There was nothing the two of you could do about it now.

“We’re going to get out of here, you and I. Together. I swear to you,” He grabbed your hands in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. That was his typical positive attitude coming out. You sighed, finally meeting his eyes. “Now come on. I was serious before, you need to at least try to eat.” He said, his usual grin returning to his face. You couldn’t help it, your lips twitched up into a smile. If it were possible, his smile got even wider, gently pinching your cheek with his fingers. “Aha! There’s that smile that I know and love.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him a light shove. He laughed, and you gave in, picking up your tin. You ate in small bites, finally realizing how hungry you truly were. Dae-ho resumed eating, scarfing his down before you were even a third of the way done with yours. He patiently waited until you were finished with yours, taking your tin from you and setting it aside.

After meal time, you and Dae-ho had begun conversing with player 456 and player 399 who were nearby. As it turns out, player 399 whose name you found out to be Jung-bae, was a former marine just like Dae-ho. They saluted each other, their interactions causing you to giggle, letting some of the tension leave your body. Dae-ho’s eyes lit up at the sound, warmth spreading through his body. The rest of the night went as smoothly as it could save for the scuffle that occurred between players 230, 124, 333 and 001.

Then, it was time for lights out. Most players were fast asleep, but you laid in your bed, staring up at the glowing piggy bank. Alone with your thoughts, your mind was racing. There was no way you could sleep. Your head was pounding and you sighed as you turned onto your side. Lucky for you, Dae-ho’s bed was right next to yours. Realistically, he had claimed it as soon as he saw it was empty, assuming the person who was there previously was eliminated. From what you could tell, he was fast asleep. However you really needed some company and reassurance at the moment.

“Dae,” You whispered. He didn’t budge. Of course, you thought as you rolled your eyes. He would be a heavy sleeper. “Dae-ho!” You whisper-shouted, hoping you didn’t have to say it again. Thankfully, you saw him starting to stir. His eyes fluttered open, opening completely as he realized it was you who had awoken him. Quickly, he sat up.

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?” He whispered, concern gracing his features. You shook your head, starting to feel a little silly for waking him.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you up. You can go back to sleep.” You whispered back, realizing he was probably exhausted.

He shook his head, getting up from his bed and coming over to yours. He knelt down next to you, tucking your hair behind your ear. You felt pitiful.

“Will you lay with me?” Your voice came out as barely a whisper, but he heard you loud and clear. His heart skipped a beat, a soft smile spreading across his face.

“Of course, love. Scoot over.”

You blushed at the nickname but immediately moved over to make room for him. Without hesitation, he hopped into your bed, laying on his side so that he was facing you. He cupped your face gently, running his thumb over your cheekbone. You didn’t say anything, but he read you like a book. “What’s wrong?”

You could feel a lump forming at the back of your throat, and you stared into his eyes. Truth be told, you were so terrified. This was a fear you had never felt before in your life. If it wasn’t for the man next to you, you wouldn’t even be alive. How did you go from casually flirting with each other in the coffee shop, not a care in the world, to arriving at death’s door together? Tears burned at the back of your eyes, threatening to come to the surface.

“I’m scared, Dae-ho. I’m so scared,” Your voice cracked, tears spilling over your eyes slowly. Dae-ho was quick to wipe them away, his heart breaking. “I just wanted to save my sister. I thought that if I joined the games and won some money, I could take the stress off of both of us. I wouldn’t have to worry about the medical bills, or the loan sharks, or anything. I would be able to work without having the weight of the world on my shoulders, and it would just be us in the cafe, and nothing else would matter. You and my sister were the only things keeping me going, and now you and I are both here and one or both of us could die.” You cried quietly as Dae-ho looked at you sadly. He pulled you into his chest, shushing you as you wept into his shirt. He let you cry it out, not saying anything as he rubbed your back. Eventually, when you became silent, he pulled back so he could look at your face. Your eyes were red, cheeks tear streaked.

“(Y/N), listen to me. As long as we’re in here together, I won’t let anything happen to you. Truly, you’re the light of my life and if something happened to you I don’t think I could forgive myself. You’re my anchor, especially in a place like this. I have something here to keep me going, you know?” He murmured. You sniffled and nodded, but he kept going. “The moment I saw you in that cafe I knew I was in trouble. I thought you were the most perfect thing to grace this earth, and if I wasn’t so stupid, I would’ve asked you out a long time ago.”

Your eyes widened at that, looking at him as he smiled at you. “You really mean that?” Your pulse quickened at the confession.

“Every word,” He chuckled as he drew shapes into the fabric of your jacket. “This is gonna be awkward for me if you don’t feel the same.” At that, you gave him a light shove and he laughed.

“Of course I feel the same, you idiot. Why do you think you were getting so many free pastries?” You joked, then became serious. “Seriously though, Dae-ho. I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. I wish you would’ve asked me out a long time ago, I’ve had a giant crush on you for a while now. I thought it was obvious.”

“It was obvious,” you rolled your eyes at that. “I was just too scared to do something about it. I didn’t wanna mess anything up between us. And now here we are, in the worst possible situation, and I’m finally confessing this to you.” He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes as he thought about the circumstances. “How about when we get out of here, I take you out on a date, yeah? We’ll go somewhere nice with my share of the money.”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy, Dae-ho. As long as I’m with you it doesn’t matter,” You said sincerely, a small smile gracing your lips. “But I would love to.”

He grinned at that, his entire face lighting up. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You grabbed one of his hands and he gave it a gentle squeeze. To his surprise, you craned your neck up and placed your lips directly onto his. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you could feel him smile against your lips as he moved his free hand to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss. He pulled away after a few moments, before leaning back down and placing another quick peck to your lips.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that.” He teased, excitement present in his voice. You giggled, feeling over the moon with happiness even if it was just for a moment. Dae-ho shifted to lay flat on his back, pulling you with him. Your head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He had his arm around you and you threw your leg over the top of his, making yourself comfortable

“Thank you for saving my life earlier.” You spoke quietly as you wrapped your arm around him, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest. He was quiet for a moment.

“I would do it all over again. I’m not leaving your side so long as we’re still playing these games.”

Those were the only words you needed to hear, shutting your eyes as you finally drifted off into a peaceful slumber as you could feel him pull the blanket over the two of you. For the first time in a while, your body felt at ease. You felt safe, like there was nothing in the world that could harm you. Even if it was just for the night.

#squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #kang dae ho #kang dae ho x reader #dae ho x reader #player 388 #player 388 x reader

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diushek · 12 hours ago

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One day, Airplane sends a message to Peerless Cucumber, something like "Hey bro!! I promise not to doxx you. In fact, [redacted] is my name irl. What's yours?! :D"

Shen Yuan is curious and intrigued, so he decides to answer him truthfully. After all, Shen is a very common surname. So common that even the damn Scum Villain uses it.

A few hours later, in his inbox, Shen Yuan has a poor imitation of a marriage certificate that Airplane made for him, something like marrying him to Luo Binghe to stop him from crying and complain, and be considered an honorary harem member. Obviously Shen Yuan sends him to hell and back.

Moving forward, Shen Yuan is now Shen Qingqiu, and he is with his very real and not fictional at all husband Luo Binghe walking in some pretty city. So, they find an old fortune teller who seems to be right about very specific things about their pasts and histories together, then, the next thing she says can only be true. And the next thing she says is:

"Oh, this blackened lotus... I can see how his soul is intertwined with someone beyond the understanding of this world. He has been married to this soul in a way beyond what we know."

Luo Binghe, simple and pompous at the same time, says something like: "Of course, Shen Qingqiu is my husband."

And the old fortune teller, looking at Shen Qingqiu, just smiles and says, "No. You have married a soul twice, but it is not Shen Qingqiu's soul."

And Luo Binghe doesn't understand anything at all. But... it must be true, right? From how nervous his Shizun looks about it. And Shen Qingqiu insists that they leave, ignoring that old lady's expression and calling her a bit of a liar about it.

Shen Qingqiu distracts his husband, but despite this, Luo Binghe can't stop thinking. And think, and think...

And somehow, Luo Binghe comes to a conclusion: the soul now inhabiting Shen Qingqiu is his soulmate that comes from another world. He could assume that Other Worlds exist, after all, that Binghe double of his exists, so… Why couldn’t there be another Shen Qingqiu? Or another Shen-something? And, think that maybe this Shen Qingqiu (which, surely, is another name, but he won't go into that) had wanted... another chance? Another life? If they were married in another world as the old woman said, and the other Binghe had a harem, maybe he was one of those harem wives? But why had he thrown him into the Abyss then? It made even less sense now.

Luo Binghe is not clear about it. He wakes up very early and goes to talk to the fortune teller, secretly. The woman just laughs at him:

"Of course, if we look at it in some way, the soul you married could be part of a harem... In some spiritual way" and that doesn't clarify anything.

Luo Binghe can only come up with a few resolutions about it. Shen Qingqiu is a body with his husband's soul. There is an almost divine power beyond what is understood and explained that controls and regulates what truths his Shizun can or cannot tell. Binghe's story was written, but not in stone. And the soul he had married was aware of that.

Luo Binghe is too confused, thoughtful, overwhelmed. The truth is that he had never wanted to meddle too much in his husband's secrets. If his husband wanted to tell him something, he would. Or Luo Binghe would coax it out of him with kisses or pleasure until he had to confess. But this, this was bigger than even Shizun could explain.

And Luo Binghe doesn't know what to do with it.

(Hilariously, Shang Qinghua passes by that old fortune teller out of curiosity after Shen Qingqiu tells him about it, and ends up being called Dear Creator, which turns his hysteria upside down. Well, that crazy old lady is very OP, but the enthusiasm is appreciated. Someone nerf her.)

#svsss #svsss au #svsss ideas #scum villain self saving system #luo binghe #shen qingqiu #something like identity revelation #partially #shen yuan uncovered #shang qinghua too #bingqiu #svsss post canon #more or less #i inevitably had to add airplane harassing cucumber bro #affectively of course

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aubvrns · 1 day ago

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just on time, sweetheart

| wanda maximoff x reader

Synopsis - You were running late because you missed your alarm. Who knew that a simple mishap could be met with connections from the past?

Note - i’m happy so lemme hurt you a bit #sadist

You weren't the type of student to be irresponsible.

You just happened to miss the aggravating sound of your alarm. It was just one of those mornings where your blanket feels much softer than it was when you slept. You bolted through the university halls, your bag bouncing against your back as you struggled to catch your breath. Your alarm betrayed you, and now sprinting to your second period, a strict voice cuts the uncomfortable silence.

"You're late, Miss Y/L/N."

You cursed under your breath and turned around, facing the disapproving gaze of Professor Fury. You had no excuses, not really. No one would believe that your alarm clock had miraculously decided to rebel against you this morning.

"Guidance office," The professor ordered, tapping his pen against his clipboard.

You groaned inwardly. Just great, you thought.

You turned on your heels and dragged yourself towards the guidance office, mood already sour. The last thing you needed was another lecture about punctuality and responsibility. As you pushed the heavy door open, you barely glanced at the person seated inside—until your gaze locked onto a pair of all-too-familiar green eyes.

Wanda Maximoff.

Your breath hitched, like you forgot how to breath. You heart slammed against your ribs, and for a moment, you wondered if the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on you. The girl who had once whispered forever into her skin.

The girl who had shattered you. The girl who was now sitting right across from you, looking just as stunned.

A beat of silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, suffocating.

Then, the Dean cleared his throat. "Miss Y/L/N, since you have time to be late, you have time to be useful. Our new transfer student, Miss Maximoff, needs a tour of the campus. You’ll be her guide for the day."

Your blood ran cold.

The Dean continued, oblivious to the storm brewing between you two. "You'll show her around, make sure she knows where everything is. Understood?"

You forced herself to nod. Words were a foreign concept right now, especially when Wanda’s gaze was still piercing into her, unblinking, unreadable.

The Dean dismissed himself, and before you could think of an excuse, you found yourself stepping out into the hallway with Wanda right beside you. The silence stretched, clinging like ghosts.

Finally, Wanda spoke. "You look different."

You let out a humorless chuckle. "To you, maybe."

Wanda flinched, just barely, but you caught it. And for the first time in years, you felt something close to satisfaction.

It was going to be a long day.

The tour was hell.

Every hallway, every classroom—they all held the weight of things left unsaid, of a past neither of them had completely buried. You led Wanda through the university, pointing out the library, the gym, the best place to get coffee. You kept your words clipped, distant, careful.

You didn’t want to remember. But memories had a funny way of creeping in, uninvited.

"Do you still drink too much coffee?" Wanda asked suddenly, her voice softer than before.

You clenched your jaw. "Some things never change."

A flicker of something crossed Wanda’s face— regret? Guilt? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t care to find out.

"You were always late in high school too," Wanda mused. "I used to wake you up."

You swallowed hard. "Well, you’re not here to do that anymore, are you?"

The redhead didn’t respond, but you felt her gaze linger. It was the same way she used to look at you—like she saw through the walls you tried to build. Like she still remembered.

You hated it. Because you remembered too.

The remembrance of Wanda’s laughter in the morning, the way she used to tug you closer under the covers, whispering nonsense just to make you smile. You remembered Wanda’s hands, warm and certain, tracing constellations on your skin. You remembered the way Wanda had said, “I love you,” like it was a promise.

A promise that she had broken.

You clenched your fists, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. You wouldn't give Wanda the satisfaction of knowing you still cared.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

The tour ended at the courtyard, beneath the massive oak tree where students gathered between classes. It was the kind of place that should’ve been peaceful. But with Wanda beside you, the air felt suffocating.

"You don’t have to act like this, you know," Wanda said finally, her voice quiet.

You exhaled sharply. "Like what?"

"Like I never meant anything to you."

You turned to face her, something sharp curling in your chest. "You broke up with me, Wanda. You fell for someone else. What exactly do you expect from me?"

Wanda flinched, and you hated that she still cared enough to notice.

"Vision wasn’t—" Wanda hesitated, then sighed. "I thought you never took us seriously.”

"You thought wrong."

The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t regret them. Wanda searched your face, your expression unreadable. "I’m sorry."

You almost laughed. "You don’t get to be sorry." And just like that, the dam inside her cracked just a little.

Because the truth was, you had stayed. You had waited, you had hoped. You had watched as Wanda chose someone else, as if everything meant nothing. And now, she was supposed to pretend like everything was fine? Like the past didn’t still dig its claws into your heart?

You wouldn’t give Wanda the satisfaction. So instead, you turned on her heels and walked away. You walked furiously, each step slowly detaching yourself from the past

“Y/N, please.”

You didn’t look back. You refused to let yourself be vulnerable again.

But you knew Wanda’s was on your back, lingering like a wound that had never truly healed. Like an echo of something that still, somehow, refused to fade.

The wind was colder than usual, sending a shiver down your spine as you hurried across campus. The weight of Wanda’s gaze still lingered on you like a phantom touch, unwelcome and yet impossible to ignore.

You had thought you were over this. Over her.

You had spent years convincing herself that the past was just that—the past. But the second you saw Wanda sitting in that office, looking at her like she wasn’t a shattered remnant of what they once were, something inside her cracked. Not Wanda looking at her like she regretted it. Like she missed her.

You shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to let Wanda drag you back into a storm you barely survived the first time.

As you reached the hallway towards your locker, you heard your name.

"Y/N."

An all-too familiar voice called you. You clenched your jaw before turning, already knowing who you’d see.

Wanda stood a few feet away, arms crossed, shifting on her feet like she was hesitating. You arched a brow. "What do you want?"

Wanda hesitated, then sighed. "You’re mad."

You let out a hollow laugh. "Mad? No. That would mean I still care."

A flicker of something passed across Wanda’s face—hurt, maybe. "You never used to lie to me," Wanda murmured, almost like it was an afterthought.

You inhaled sharply. "That was before you made me question everything that came out of your mouth."

Silence stretched between them. The kind that wasn’t comfortable anymore.

"I didn’t want to do this here," Wanda muttered, running a hand through her hair. "But I don’t want to keep pretending either."

You scoffed. "That’s rich, coming from you." Wanda flinched, and for a moment, you almost felt guilty.

"You really think I didn’t love you?" Wanda asked, voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Your heart clenched, but you forced herself to stay distant. "I think that whatever we had wasn’t enough for you."

Wanda’s jaw tensed. "That’s not fair."

You took a step forward, and before you could stop herself, the words spilled out. "You left me, Wanda. You left us. And for what? Someone who didn’t even know you the way I did? Someone who didn’t—" She cut herself off, swallowing hard.

Wanda’s gaze softened. "Y/N…"

"Don’t," you sternly said.

Because if Wanda said your name like that again—like you still mattered—you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep standing.

"I never stopped loving you."

You clenched your fists. You didn’t believe it, because if you did, it would destroy you all over again.

For days, you did your best to avoid Wanda.

You took different routes to class, skipped places you knew Wanda might be, and buried herself in your studies. It should’ve been easy.

But then came the moments in between.

A glimpse of red hair across the courtyard. The sound of laughter that sounded too much like Wanda’s. The feeling of her eyes lingering on you when you weren’t looking. You hated how much space Wanda still took up in her mind.

Even now, as you sat in the back of the lecture hall, you could feel it. The ache of something unresolved. And then, as if the universe enjoyed watching you suffer, the professor spoke.

"You’ll be working in pairs for this project," he announced. "I’ll be assigning the partners."

You barely heard the names being called. You were too busy trying to focus on your breathing. There were at least twenty students in this class. There was no way you would get partnered with her.

"And lastly," the professor continued, flipping a page. "Y/L/N and Maximoff."

Your stomach dropped. The room blurred at the edges as you slowly turned your head, but Wanda was already looking at you.

And the worst part, she didn’t even look surprised.

"I can switch partners," you said as soon as class ended, already standing from your seat.

Wanda caught your hand, feeling her slightly caress your wrist, just like how she used to. "No, you won’t."

The touch burned. Not in the way it used to, soft and safe. But in a way that made you feel like she was drowning in everything she had tried to forget.

You pulled your arm back. "This isn’t going to work."

Wanda tilted her head. "Why? Because you still hate me?"

You exhaled sharply. "Because I don’t trust you."

For a second, something flickered in Wanda’s eyes— hurt, maybe. But then she straightened. "We don’t have to like each other to work together."

You clenched her fists. "Fine. But don’t expect anything more from me."

A small, bitter smile tugged at Wanda’s lips. "I never do."

You turned away before Wanda could see the way that sentence wrecked you. Because once upon a time, you had given Wanda everything. Every piece of yourself.

And in the end, it still hadn’t been enough.

You had been sitting beneath the old oak tree, headphones in, pretending to study. But the second Wanda sat down beside you, everything inside you tensed. Your eyes didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her. Maybe if you ignored Wanda long enough, she would just disappear from your life.

"Are you going to avoid me forever?" Wanda’s voice was quiet, but there was a sharpness underneath it.

You sighed, closing your book. "I don’t see why it matters to you."

"Of course it matters." Wanda hesitated, then softer, "You still matter."

You clenched her jaw. "Don’t," you warned, turning to face Wanda for the first time in days. "Don’t say things you don’t mean."

Wanda exhaled, looking down at her hands. "That’s the problem, Y/N. I meant everything."

You scoffed, bitter. "Right. You meant it when you said you loved me. And then you meant it when you chose someone else."

Wanda flinched but didn’t look away. "You think that’s what happened?"

You stared at her, feeling something in your chest twist painfully. "Isn’t it?" A silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, suffocating.

And then, Wanda spoke.

"I never fell out of love with you." The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit you like a thunderclap.

Your breath caught, your heart pounding as you forced herself to stay still. "Then why?" you asked, your voice almost breaking. "Why did you leave me for him?"

Wanda swallowed hard, looking at you like she wanted to reach out, but didn’t. "Because I thought I had to."

She let out a shaky breath. "You never saw it, but my family was struggling. My father lost his job, my mother was barely holding things together, and I was scared. Vision—he had connections, opportunities. My mother thought if I was with him, I’d have a better future. A stable life. And I was stupid enough to believe that maybe, if I forced myself to feel something for him, I wouldn’t have to lose everything else." Wanda looked away, blinking quickly.

"But I never loved him, Y/N. Not the way I loved you."

You felt like the ground had been pulled out from beneath you. "You broke my heart," she whispered, voice unsteady. "And you didn’t even tell me why."

"I know," Wanda said, voice thick with regret. "And I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry every single day since I walked away."

You inhaled sharply, gripping the edges of your book as if it could keep you steady. You wanted to be angry, to hold on to the bitterness you had nurtured for so long. But now, the truth sat between them, raw and undeniable, unraveling every wall she had built.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

Because despite everything, despite the pain, despite the years of silence and regret— you still loved her. And you didn’t know if you could stop.

"I need you to know something," Wanda said, voice steady despite the hesitation in her eyes.

"I didn’t come here expecting you to forgive me. I didn’t transfer here hoping we’d just go back to how we were. I know I hurt you, Y/N. And if you never want to see me again after this, I’ll understand. But I can’t leave things the way they are. Not again."

You swallowed, heart in your throat. "Wanda—"

"I love you," Wanda said, voice breaking just slightly. "I never stopped."

You felt something inside her shatter. The walls you had spent so long building crumbled in an instant, leaving nothing but the undeniable truth of what had always been. You could feel the weight of your own feelings pressing against your ribs, too big to contain.

And then, before you could stop herself, you reached for Wanda.

You felt Wanda freeze, breath hitching as your fingers brushed against her wrist—tentative, testing. And then, slowly, Wanda exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, waiting.

One second, there was space between you two, and the next, Wanda was pulling you closer, warm foreheads nearly touching. You could feel Wanda’s breath against your lips, warm and familiar, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Tell me to stop," Wanda whispered, voice trembling. "And I will."

You swallowed hard, hands tightening against Wanda’s jacket. "I don’t want you to." And that was all it took.

Wanda closed the distance, and the second your lips met. You felt the weight of every year, every unspoken word, every heartbreak melt into the kiss. It was desperate and soft and everything in between, full of the years you had lost and the love that had never really left.

When you finally pulled away, Wanda rested her forehead against yours, breathing hard. "I don’t deserve this," she murmured.

You sighed, closing your eyes. "Maybe not. But I think we deserve a second chance."

Wanda let out a soft, shaky laugh, pressing another gentle kiss to your soft lips. "Then let’s not waste it this time."

And just like that, the ghosts of what once was this puddle of hurt finally began to fade.

You weren’t sixteen anymore, lying under the stars and making promises you couldn’t keep.

But maybe this time, you would.

Maybe this time, forever wouldn’t be a lie.

#valwrites .ᐟ #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x reader #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #second chance romance #angst #angst with a happy ending #hurt/comfort #fluff

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calebslittleapple · 18 hours ago

Text

feels like home: sticky fingers

After a few weeks apart, Caleb reconnects with his Pip-squeak, only to find that she's pretty beaten up after a mission. Fortunately, Caleb knows exactly what to do to take care of his girl. From one moment to the next, everything changes, and what starts as an innocent interaction quickly evolves into something else entirely... two-shot, post club-interactions, but can be read as a standalone as well (though, this is part of my feels like home series).

Pairing: LaDS Caleb x MC (she/her)

Genre: Smut (with feelings); chapter one is M, chapter two is E; 18+

CW: Codependency; Pip-squeak as an endearment; MC is named "Emme" short for "Emme Sea" lmao; Finger Sucking; sensual massage; Vaginal Fingering; humping

Also on AO3

Chapter 1/2

After that dizzying night at the club, things settle back into the same old, same old, mostly because work’s been insane for both of them. At least, that’s what Caleb’s telling himself.

Naturally, he can’t stop thinking, feeling, reeling over the memory of his sweet girl, his beloved Pip-squeak, coming apart in his arms. Along with that, the way she’d woken early the day after, slipped from bed and made him breakfast.

That was normally his role to fall back into, but it was a domestic kind of sublime to walk into her kitchen, and see her standing there, cooking bacon, while wearing one of his t-shirts—old, stretched out, and way, way too big for her.

Caleb couldn’t put his finger on why, but he liked the way she looked in his clothes. Felt a bit like she was wrapped up in him. The possessive pieces of his heart shifted upon seeing her there, ever so slightly falling into place as if a simple moment like that could make his fractured heart whole once more.

They didn’t talk about what happened, because, of course, they didn’t. But she was different. A little surer in her touch and teasing. Hands lingered as the food was shared between them. Her eyes fell on his lips, the line of his neck, the broad stretch of his chest, which was purposefully emphasized by the two-sizes-too-small tank top he was wearing.

He flexed some, and she noticed that too. What was the point of having a physique like his, if not to show it off to the one person he’d crafted it for? Judging from the way her chewing stopped and how her eyes lingered, his many, many hours spent working out weren’t going to waste.

“See something you like, Pip-squeak?” he teased, but his voice was raspier than he’d thought it would be. Catching her staring was painfully intoxicating.

“Hmm?” she replied while shaking her head a bit. “What did you say?”

Caleb huffed out a laugh. “Pass the syrup.”

Picking up the nearby vessel, Emme quietly cursed as some of the sticky liquid sloshed over the edge and onto her fingers. After setting the syrup down, she stood and started to turn toward the sink, but Caleb caught her up in his gravity before she could move away.

“C’mere,” he murmured.

Shifting on her feet, she cocked her head at him, and Caleb couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes fluttered, just a little, as he let his power roll over her before pulling back.

Caleb held his hand out for hers. “Let me see.”

She swallowed, looked at her sticky fingers, and immediately focused on his lips. Caleb’s mouth curved into a knowing smile, which earned him a pretty pout.

“You’re terrible,” she breathed but held her hand out, anyway.

“Oh, c’mon, Pip-squeak,” he murmured, his warm hand gently skimming along the length of her forearm before curling around her wrist. “I know you like it when I’m bad.”

Her lips parted with a soft sigh that sounded anything but perturbed, pink tongue flicking out to lick her lips as her actions betrayed her thoughts.

“What are you going to do…?”

“You don’t know?” he asked while leaning closer to her hand, slow enough that she could pull back if she wanted.

He needed to prove something to himself, needed to prove that it wasn’t just the alcohol or the strange anonymity of that seedy club. Caleb needed to know that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

He could see it now, in the way she stood there, legs spread just a touch too wide, as if she was imagining what it might be like to fall into his lap and straddle his waist. Or maybe it was in how her hips switched, swaying almost the same way they had while she’d ground herself into his thigh the night before.

No, it was definitely in how glassy her eyes looked and the pretty flush on her cheeks. There was no alcohol coloring this interaction. What other places on her body would flush, he wondered. The tips of her nipples? The soft skin at the juncture between her legs and thighs? What about her ass? As decadently formed as it was, would her ass look even better with a bite mark… or two?

Caleb could feel himself growing hard in his gray sweatpants but was marginally relieved that he wouldn’t need to reach down and adjust himself this time. No distractions. Just her eyes locked on his as he pulled her hand closer and closer.

She didn’t gasp when he sucked her fingers into his mouth—index and middle; warm, sticky, and sweet. No, what she did was much, much worse than that.

Watching for every single reaction, Caleb swirled his tongue before delivering a long, soft suck, and his girl took in a halting breath, fluttered her fingers in his mouth, and fucking whimpered his name.

“C-Caleb!”

Broken, halting, haunting. He wanted to hear her say it again. To hear her say it while he pressed into her from above, while his head disappeared between her thighs, while he did every single thing he’d ever dreamed about doing to her, but dared not do.

They were growing closer and closer to the day when they would dare, and he was doing his best to be patient. He’d draw out every moment so when that day did come, when she finally gave in to her desires and realized that everything she’d been wanting was right before her eyes, it would be after he so thoroughly seduced her that she’d never think of denying either of them.

Ever. Again.

Caleb wasn’t a patient man, but he could play pretend with the best of them. For her, he would make the planet collapse in on itself if she but asked. But all she needed right now was patience and time. As his tongue swirled and his mouth pulled, he lingered there, and let her think of all the other places on her body that would feel oh so good if he ever got his lips, teeth, and tongue on them.

And he would. But, for that moment, he let her go and was not so secretly smug about the sweetly blissed-out look on her face, and the way she stumble-sat into her chair before picking at her food again, desperate to look somewhere, anywhere but at the face of the man she knew the best, and needed the most.

Weeks flew by. She texted, same as always. She called, and he answered on the second ring, same as always. But where once Caleb could soothe himself with the knowledge that he’d be able to see her soon enough, now he is consumed with the memories of their interactions and, more to the point, her reactions.

The clothes she left at his place for use during her visits no longer smell like her, likely because he spends most nights with his face wrapped up in them. The only peaceful rest he’s able to get is when she’s near. When he knows she’s safe. Now, her shirt and shorts just smell like him, and as much as he enjoys leaving his scent all over her space, he wants the same for his home.

Logically, Caleb knows that Linkon is a safer place for her, for a multitude of reasons, but the greedy, dark spaces of his heart want to keep her high in the sky, in Skyhaven with him. He’s smart enough to know how to keep her safe at his apartment. God, he’s done it before. But as good as it makes him feel to know without a doubt that she is safe, he can’t stand the look in her eye at that particular betrayal.

Just one more sin for the consummate sinner. But with her, ahh… It feels like he can find absolution in her arms. No matter how dark he gets, his girl will always be there to pull him back into the light. She promised him, just as he’d promised to always be there with him.

Finally, when Caleb thinks he’s at his wits’ end, he gets a text from Emme asking if he wants to meet up at her place on the weekend. Naturally, he agrees. Even if he didn’t have the time off, he’d have figured something out. He’s so excited about it that he decides to surprise her the night before, which isn’t uncommon for him.

So, with snacks and an overnight bag in hand, he lets himself into her apartment and waits for her to get back home from work. From how she tells it, she’s been overtime on something important. Caleb did some digging and managed to find out it had something to do with Wanderers convening just outside of the city limits.

It’s miserable work, as important as it is, and he worries because that’s who he is. Caleb wouldn’t be Caleb if he wasn’t worrying about his Pip-squeak. He’s just wired that way. And this time, he’s right to be concerned because when she finally gets back to her apartment at just after 2 a.m., she stumbles in.

Of course, she’s not entirely surprised that he’s there—who else would be watching movies this late in her living room, who else would know the security code to her suite, and who else would show up unannounced, like him—but she looks put out, all the same.

He watches her for a moment longer as she pauses at the entrance to her home, leaning against the doorframe as she breathes deep, head hanging heavy, body drooping… He’s moving before she can fall, her body pitching forward into his strong body instead of the floor.

“Whoa, Pip-squeak! What’s wrong?”

She looks up at him, and the dark smudges under her eyes, along with the scrapes on her cheeks and neck tell him everything he needs to know.

“Caleb.” One word spoken, half annoyance, half supplication. It’s all he needs. A moment longer, and she’s swept up into his arms.

“Let’s get you washed, dried, and cared for,” he says, sounding more competent and put together than he feels. In truth, his heart is pounding in his chest, and it’s taking everything he has not to drive over to the Hunter’s Association and ream out whoever is responsible for putting her in the situation that got her in this state.

Not that he’d dare leave her now.

He carries her through the small space of her apartment and walks them both into the bathroom. Her bathroom is cramped on a good day, and with the two of them in there, it’s even worse. She bats at his hands and tries to tell him she can manage on her own.

“I’m not a child.”

“Of course you aren’t, but you’re still my girl. How could I live with myself if I left you alone now? What if you fell in the shower, or worse?”

She frowns, but some of the roughness of that expression is smoothed away as she thinks about it.

“You owe me, then.”

“Oh?”

“Next time you get sick. You call me. You let me in. No excuses.”

Caleb sighs. Of course, she’d bargain for something like that. It’s not in his nature to show weakness, least of all to her, but he’d promise just about anything and mean it to keep her happy.

“Deal. Now, strip.”

She blushes at that, only for her lips to frown again.

“What?”

As Caleb eases her from his arms, she’s unsteady on her feet. “I really… just don’t think I can.”

“Need some help?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but very much feeling like his heart is going to explode.

“Promise not to get mad?”

“No.”

“Caleb!” she exclaims while giving him a halfhearted shove. “There’s just a few scrapes. And I’m sure I’ll be bruised tomorrow. But it’s nothing major, okay?”

“Okay. But you’re going to let me treat your injuries.”

She pouts. “Fine, but it’s mostly just… really sore muscles. I think a Wanderer was trying to tear my spine out…”

He hates the sound of that but manages to transfer some of his anger to the fastenings of her clothes, quickly and efficiently stripping the layers of her outfit from her body until she’s standing there in nothing more than her underthings and the bracelet he gave her.

He loves that no matter where she goes, she’s got a piece of him with her, but he keeps that bit of information to himself. She already has his heart. Any more leverage and she’ll have him following her like a puppy… more than he already does, that is.

Caleb tries to be level-headed about this, but it’s a challenge given how very fuckin’ long he’s dreamed about seeing her like this, albeit in very different circumstances. Still, he loves her, loves her more than he longs for her, even, so he schools his features, wills his body to calm down, and has his Evol prop her up while guiding her roughed-up body into the shower.

And though it’s strange, and not entirely logical, Caleb swears he can feel her pressing back into his gravitational touch, leaning into his power as he works to support her and not lose his damn mind. Maybe it has something to do with her Resonance. God knows it wouldn’t be the first time that their shared connection bridged the gap between fantasy and reality.

Once the shower curtain is closed, his power slips away, leaving her to stand on her own two feet.

“You good?”

“I’ve got the wall,” she says with a sigh. “Can you help me after I’m done?”

“Of course.”

She manages to take off the rest of her clothes. They fall to the floor of her shower with a soft thump.

“Want me to grab ‘em?”

“Everything’s filthy,” she admits. “Guts and blood and gore. I think I’m gonna burn them.”

Caleb chuckles and shakes his head. He’ll get the gore out for her. He’s good at that. Listening attentively, he makes sure to check in with her as she bathes. Truthfully, she’s sounding better, at least, until a soft hiss sounds from behind the curtain.

“Everything alright, Pip-squeak?”

“Just a very, very sore muscle.”

The water stops, and she gingerly peeks her head out from behind the curtain. She’s adorably drenched, and every part of him is itching with the need to care for her. He’s pleased to note that most of the blood is washed away, and doesn’t seem to belong to her.

Guts and blood and gore, indeed.

“I got a towel ready,” he says, spreading it out and turning his head so she can step out of the shower without having to worry about him leering.

Caleb swears she snickers at him, but she ducks into his arms and lets him wrap her in the towel, just the same. She’s swallowed up by an excess of plush fabric, with only her feet and head peeking out from the edges.

It almost reminds him of when she was young, and how after playing with the sprinkler and tiring herself out in the summer sun, she’d complain about being cold, only for Caleb to wrap her up in a towel and help her dry off.

Well, he’s not that boy anymore, and she’s certainly not that girl, and what they are to each other is so much more than childhood friends.

Still, he tugs at the edge of the towel and lifts it so that he’s better covering her neck. “Can you turn around? I’ll dry your hair.”

“The blow dryer is—”

“Beneath the sink, I know.”

With everything ready, he first works at detangling her hair with her paddle brush. Her work’s made a mess of her hair, but he’s good at this—the best, actually. He has to be because the last thing he wants is to cause her any more pain.

After her hair is detangled and pulled back, he slowly runs the blow dryer over it while combing it on low heat. He’d hate to damage her hair. Once her hair is mostly dry, he quickly pulls it into a braid. Another thing that he’s quite good at.

“Hair ties?”

She holds up her wrist.

“Hair ties that haven’t gone through hell and back?” he clarifies while tugging the band from her wrist and throwing it in the trash.

“Medicine cabinet.”

He gets what he needs, ties off her hair, and picks her up again. This time, she squawks a little, but he gently rubs his lips against the top of her head and softly begs, “Please? Let me help.”

And mollified by his words or his actions, she settles and lets her head fall against his shoulder. It doesn’t take long to get to her bedroom, the door of which he gently nudges open with his power.

Caleb settles her on the bed and walks over to her dresser. “What d’ya wanna wear?”

“Mmm, I have some clothes ready in the top drawer.”

Pulling open the heavy wooden drawer, Caleb is surprised to recognize her clothes as his. “I was wearing this the last time I visited.”

“Yeah, your clothes are comfier than mine.”

“The shorts aren’t mine,” he points out.

“Your shorts would slide down my legs. The shirt is big, but it’s sooo nice to sleep in.”

As Caleb tugs the shirt and shorts closer, he can’t help but notice that it still smells faintly of his scent.

“Didn’t you wash this, Pip-squeak?” he drawls.

“Oh. No…” She sounds embarrassed, and he’s just about to tease her for always leaving her dirty laundry for him to do when she soundly sucker-punches him with what she says next. “It still smells like you… So… that’s why.”

That soft admission has the air retreating from his lungs in a wicked rush, words hitting with precision impact. Caleb doesn’t turn to face her. He can’t. His fist is tightly clenched around his shirt—the one that smells like him—his eyes are closed, and his breathing is so erratic that he needs to take a moment to calm himself.

Of course, he keeps her clothes at his bedside when she’s not in his home, but to hear she does the same—no, that she wears clothes that smell like him to bed—makes him feel fucking feral. He is not a good man. Far from it. He is who he needs to be so that he can keep her safe.

But when the reality of her words hits, it shifts his intentions for the evening entirely. He’d meant to put her to bed with a heating pad after checking for wounds, and then go to make her something to eat. Now she’d be lucky if he let her sleep at all.

“Where’s that massage oil that Tara got you?”

“How do you know about that?!” she balks.

“She was bragging about it at your birthday party. She’s remarkably chatty when she’s been drinking.” Tara was remarkably chatty all the time, but she got downright obscene with alcohol. Caleb got the sense that she was intentionally making him aware of the oil, almost as if she was giving him a not-so-subtle nudge.

As if any of this was up to him. Still, the knowledge came in handy. He’s feeling not the least bit smug about it, at least, until she hits him with another jab. “It’s in the drawer of my bedside table.”

Caleb closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and specifically does not think about what that likely means.

He clears his throat, but his voice is still rough when he finally manages to ask, “Can you dress yourself?”

“I can manage. But what are you going to do with the oil?”

Caleb shakes his head, turns, and fixes her with a look. “Massage your legs, silly girl. You could barely stand earlier. They’re gonna be hellish in the morning if you don’t take care of them now.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asks, cheeks still flushed from her shower, and towel wrapped tight. She looks good enough to eat, and Caleb expects that if he doesn’t somewhat sate the beast inside of him, he’s going to make a meal of her sooner rather than later.

Caleb stands before her, bunches her shirt—his shirt—up, and slides the top over her head. “Can you manage the rest?”

She nods, and he turns around to give her some privacy. “The shorts?”

“I can manage,” she replies, but her groans make his stomach twist with concern.

“They’re working you too hard.”

“My job is hard. This is what I signed up for.”

“Then you need to do a better job of taking care of yourself during your days off.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I think ‘Daddy’ would be more fitting.”

“Caleb!” she squeaks. “Don’t say things like that.” But she certainly doesn’t sound as scandalized as she should…

“All right, all right. I’m sorry. You finished?”

“…Yeah, I got it.”

Caleb turns, tilts his head, and gives her a look. Her hair’s messed up now from the shirt, and she looks tired. A perfect pout greets his smile.

“Poor baby,” he softly croons. “Lay back and let me take care of you.”

He can see her swallow at that, like she’s having a hard time making her vocal cords work. “You’re just taking advantage of my weakness.”

“Naturally. How else am I gonna get you to understand that you need me?”

She huffs at that. “You need me just as much as I need you, Caleb.”

He snorts softly, teeth pressing into his tongue, before he softly admits, “You have no idea… Now, no more stalling.”

Caleb points to the bed, and she dutifully scoots back onto the sheets, albeit slowly and with effort. He manages to dig out the oil from her dresser and pointedly ignores literally everything else that’s hidden away in there because he won’t be able to behave if he does otherwise.

“I guess I should have grabbed the oil,” she starts to say.

He frowns. “Why?”

“Oh… never mind.”

“Something you don’t want me to see in there?”

She nibbles her lip, eyes fluttering softly as she murmurs, “Maybe… maybe not.”

The look she gives him is so coy and tempting that his mind goes completely blank and he utterly forgets what the hell he’d been in the middle of doing. At least, until she points to the oil.

“Are you gonna massage my legs or…?”

“Yeah… yeah. Right. Roll over, Pip-squeak. Lemme see where it hurts.”

She rolls over and Caleb’s eyes trail reverently over the length of her legs. She looks good. Too good. He hates that her coworkers get to even see a measure of this. Of course, he knows it’s insane to want to be the only one who can appreciate her, but his greedy heart feels it just the same.

“You been workin’ out more lately?”

“Hmm? Why?”

“Things look… tight,” he rasps, voice betraying his interest and desire.

Her reply is soft and teasing. “Someone did make me join that squat challenge last month. And here, I thought you had ulterior motives, but you’re acting all surprised.”

Caleb coughs to cover up some of his embarrassment and dispel a measure of his lust. Yeah, he had gotten her to agree to that challenge. Honestly, he’d been grasping for things to say, because he caught her right after a workout and the fine mist of sweat on her brow, along with the gorgeous flush in her cheeks, had him thinking of exercise of a different kind.

And here she’d taken him seriously.

“Gonna be as strong as me soon,” he manages while stepping closer to the bed. Her legs are spread on either side of him, and for one long moment, he doesn’t know what to do, or where to look next.

“Doubt it. Your legs are too long, and your thighs are too strong.”

“Been thinking about my thighs, baby?��

He’s teasing, sweet, and he means to catch her off guard, but she hits back so hard as she replies, “Yeah, your thighs… and other parts of your anatomy.”

Caleb sighs, long and hard. Says a prayer for courage to whoever happens to be listening, the Gods of the earth and the sea and space, or otherwise, and then, he gets to work. He kneels on the floor at the edge of the bed, and he’s tall enough that this gives him a good vantage point. He knows exactly what he wants to do next, and he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

~~~

Author’s Note:

Sorry, this was so big that I had to cut it into two chapters because I hate editing and I got busy with other stuff. I’ll post the other chapter tomorrow, so you can have something to enjoy (I hope) over the weekend. The second part is spicier :D

I listened to the hipsterist hipster music for this one to get me into the right headspace, please enjoy haha. Also somewhat inspired by what has to have been the most painful massage I’ve ever had in my LIFE (did not have the same ending, there was only pain lmao, but I was like hmm maybe Caleb would be good at massages for MC, and then, PAIN). Also Deeply inspired by that secret times where Caleb takes care of MC when she’s sick. Like GOD DAMN, Caleb. “You’re worried I’ll spoil you rotten. Too late for that!” ??? ARE YOU KIDDING ME????

Also, not that it matters in the slightest, but I wrote this before I learned it’s canon that she likes to keep his clothes around (and wear them???) because they smell like him. They’re just really transparent with how fucking down bad these two are for each other lmao.

Still really fucking obsessed here, guys. Chokehold, I think is a good way to put it. Caleb is a mf bias wrecker, like oh my literal GOD. I swear, some of these are gonna be from MC’s pov, but I’m working through some SHIT rn lol.

I also gave the MC a little name, “Emme” which is short for Emme Sea lmao. I have a challenging time with writing y/n or like using second person present tense. No judgment or anything like that, it just makes it hard for me to think of the characters properly when I’m writing them. ANYWAY, I’ll use it sparingly, but sometimes, it’s just better to have a name lol.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading! And extra hugs for anyone who left a comment. You are the apple of my eye, and thank you for giving me a space to channel this whatever it is? Obsession lmao. I’ve got a few other interludes planned (shower), and I’m taking requests (on tumblr), so either give this/me a follow, or check up on my tumblr :) If you enjoyed, I’d love to hear from you! Or feel free to share with a friend, if you’re lucky enough to have some Caleb-obsessed friends haha.

Don’t forget! I'll be posting any updates as installments (not chapters), so be sure to sub to the series or my user name to get updates on ao3, or just check my tumblr, i'll post here too♥️🍎

#calebmc #lads caleb #lnd caleb #caleb smut #cla writes #caleb x mc #love and deepspace #my writing #sticky fingers chapter 1 of 2 #second getting posted tomorrow

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aspenmissing · 2 days ago

Note

Oooookay okay okay. I will never be over those accidental babies but I come in with a new request!

I'm thinking something along the lines of a super creative reader; a fiber artist and seamstress making clothes and quilts and anything that can be made with a sewing machine. I'm a sucker for pining (like, SUCH a sucker for pining), but instances of pre-relationships where she's made something for the one(s) she's secretly pining for (and is definitely a little shy about it).

I'd like to see with just about all the guys from Arcane and JayVik (your other writing is slowly turning me into a Silco fan, too.)

ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

10364 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀʜʜ ʏᴀʀɴ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ! (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ;)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Y/N sat in the quiet of her room, the soft hum of the sewing machine her only company as the late evening light streamed through the window. Her fingers moved nimbly, guiding the fabric through the machine, her mind lost in the rhythm of creation. She loved this; the flow of creativity, the way each stitch brought something new to life. It was her escape, a refuge where she could shut out the world and pour her heart into the things she made.

Today, however, her thoughts were far from the quilt she was piecing together. They kept drifting back to Jayce.

She had always admired him from a distance, Jayce being the best friend of her late mother’s brother—her only family. A brilliant inventor, a man who could charm anyone with a smile, his aura of intelligence and quiet confidence often drew others to him, but Y/N had always found herself fascinated not just by his mind but by the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed to those he cared about. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in—Y/N included. And she had tried, for months, to ignore the fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, but that never worked. The feelings only grew stronger. He never seemed to notice her the way she wished he would, always lost in his inventions and work, but she found her own way to show her affection through little, quiet gestures. She didn’t need him to know. She just needed to feel close to him.

It had been weeks since she'd secretly altered his academy uniform. The buttons on the jacket had been loose and misaligned, a small detail that bothered her every time she saw him in it. He was always so engrossed in his work, often absent-minded, that she knew he’d never notice the small imperfections. Without him knowing, she’d carefully fixed them, stitching each button with precision and care, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. She even added a small decorative patch inside the sleeve, something no one would ever see, just because she knew that if he ever did, it would make him smile.

But he hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, too consumed by his genius to care about such small things.

Y/N let out a deep, frustrated sigh, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe she should just tell him. The thought of confessing her feelings made her heart race, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. What if it ruined everything? What if it ruined their easy camaraderie, their friendship?

She sighed again and glanced at the quilt she was working on, but her mind refused to settle. The patchwork of colours, the simple joy of creating, felt like a distant memory as her thoughts turned once again to him.

Meanwhile, across town, Jayce sat in his cluttered workshop, deep in thought. The plans for his latest invention were sprawled across the desk in front of him, an amalgamation of ideas and blueprints that he hoped would take his research to the next level. But his mind kept wandering. To Y/N.

It had become almost impossible to ignore her presence lately, and not just because she was constantly in his orbit, helping with errands or offering encouragement in quiet moments. No, it was the way she made him feel that had started to occupy his thoughts. How her creativity seemed to weave light into everything she touched. How she was always so thoughtful, so dedicated. Whether she was sewing a piece of clothing or making quilts, her focus and artistry were awe-inspiring. Even when she wasn’t directly around, he would think of her in the quiet moments—her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of something she loved.

Then there was that one moment when he had caught a glimpse of the patch inside his academy jacket sleeve. It was small—almost hidden—but it had made him pause. Someone had taken the time to fix his uniform without his asking. A simple gesture, one that made him smile. But he hadn’t been able to figure out who had done it. Whoever it was hadn’t mentioned it, and Jayce hadn’t thought to ask, dismissing it as a small thing. But it lingered in his mind. The patch, the care, the mystery of it.

That night, after a particularly long day filled with setbacks in his work, Jayce found himself walking past her door, drawn by the familiar hum of the sewing machine. He knocked lightly, hesitant, before stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tired smile softening the exhaustion on his face.

Y/N looked up from her work, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. She quickly tried to hide the quilt she was piecing together, knowing that if he saw it, he’d ask about it. She hadn’t finished it yet, and it was still too personal for her to share. But Jayce had already noticed the burst of colour.

“What are you making?” he asked, his voice warm, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

Y/N chuckled nervously and shrugged casually, hoping her emotions weren’t as visible as she felt they were. “Oh, just a quilt,” she replied, her voice a little too nonchalant. “I like to keep my hands busy, you know?”

Jayce smiled, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to her. “You always make the most beautiful things. I don’t know how you do it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “It’s just a bit of practice,” she said, trying to downplay her skill. “You can make anything if you put your mind to it.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve always been so creative, Y/N. It’s not just the things you make, but how you bring everything to life. You inspire me more than you know.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. His words were unexpected, leaving her momentarily speechless. There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made her feel as though he might just be seeing her for the first time in the way she’d hoped. “I… I’m just making things for fun,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, hoping he couldn’t hear the longing that crept in.

Jayce, however, didn’t miss the way her fingers fidgeted with the fabric, nor did he miss the way her gaze dropped for a moment as if she were hiding something. His heart tightened in his chest. He had noticed the little things—her quiet glances, the way she would always be there with a thoughtful gesture or comment when he needed it most—but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly acknowledge the growing feelings inside him. He had convinced himself that it was just a fleeting thought, nothing more.

But standing in front of her now, feeling the electricity in the air, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Well, I just wanted to thank you, by the way,” Jayce said, shifting the weight in his posture as though he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her gaze still downcast. “Thank me? For what?”

“The jacket,” he said, lifting his sleeve slightly to show her the small patch inside. “I noticed it, and… I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to, but it’s a nice touch. You’ve always been so thoughtful, Y/N.”

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. He had noticed. She hadn’t expected him to, but the way he was looking at her now made her feel exposed. She didn’t know what to say, so she spoke quickly, desperately. “I… I just thought it needed fixing,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It was nothing.”

Jayce smiled, a tenderness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped lower, filled with sincerity. “It wasn’t nothing. It meant a lot to me. You’ve always been the one who makes everything a little bit better, just by being you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She looked up at him, her heart beating faster as the air around them felt heavier. The unspoken words between them seemed to hang like a thick fog, waiting to be broken.

“I…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I need to tell you something.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat at the vulnerability in her voice, and he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. “What is it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. Could she really say it? Could she expose her feelings after all this time? She inhaled deeply, steeling herself before speaking.

“I’ve been making these things for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “For a while now. Without you knowing. I’ve been trying to show you how much I care, in little ways, even if you don’t notice. But I didn’t know if you’d ever see it... or if you’d even care.”

Jayce reached out gently, his hand cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. “Y/N, I care. More than you could ever know. I think I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that for a long time.”

The words hung between them, a confession unspoken until now. Before Y/N could respond, Jayce closed the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. It was soft, tentative, but there was something undeniable in it—a recognition of the love they had both kept hidden for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads touched, and they shared a quiet laugh, realising that this had been what they had both wanted all along.

“I think I’ll need more of your little creations,” Jayce murmured against her lips, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask you to fix my clothes more often.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the weight of her secret finally lift. “Maybe you will, Jayce. Maybe you will.”

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

VIKTOR

Y/N’s fingers worked in a rhythm that had become second nature to her over the years—stitch, pull, knot, repeat. The sewing machine hummed steadily beneath her as the hours passed, unnoticed by her. The soft light in her workshop cast gentle shadows over the shelves of colourful threads, piles of fabric, and completed projects. Yet, among all the fabric she had touched in her life, this one felt different. Every strand, every stitch, felt like an expression of something more than just creativity—it was a piece of her heart woven into every seam.

Her mind had once again drifted back to Viktor. She found herself in a state of constant yearning for him, even if she tried to suppress it. After all, Viktor was brilliant and driven, a man consumed by his work. She had spent so many years working alongside him, but she’d never found the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, she focused on her creations, using her hands to express what her words could not.

The thought of Viktor was never far from her mind. She remembered the time, months ago, when she’d first noticed how his leg brace seemed to rub uncomfortably against his skin. Viktor, always so absorbed in his work, never seemed to notice the discomfort, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. So, without a word, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quietly, late at night, she had added some extra padding to his brace, making it a little softer. She didn’t tell him. She couldn’t bring herself to. But when he had worn it for the first time, she had caught him glancing at her with a look of surprise—and something more, something unspoken, that made her heart race. It wasn’t the most dramatic gesture, but it was hers, and that small act of care had meant everything to her.

Now, as she sat at her sewing machine, Y/N was working on something far more personal, something that she wasn’t sure Viktor would even notice—but it was something she needed to do for him. It had started out as a simple act of wanting to do something nice for him, but it had quickly turned into something far more complicated, the emotions woven into the fabric of every stitch.

She was making him a jacket—tailored to perfection, fitted to his form, with a deep, rich burgundy fabric that would complement the shade of his eyes. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the kind of material that could withstand long hours in his workshop while still offering him comfort. She added small, intricate details—a delicate embroidered pattern at the cuff, a hidden pocket inside the lining, just for him. The embroidery wasn’t loud or obvious. In fact, it was so subtle that it could only be appreciated by someone who took the time to look closely. Viktor would never be one to wear anything flamboyant, but she knew he would appreciate the effort, the quiet care put into it.

The jacket was far more than just a gift. It was her way of showing Viktor that she saw him—that she saw not only his brilliance, but also his quiet struggles. She noticed the way he winced sometimes as he moved, the tension in his body from working so tirelessly, his reliance on the cane to support him when his leg ached. This jacket, she hoped, would offer him not just warmth, but a sense of care—a small token of comfort.

As she stitched, Y/N couldn’t help but think of how Viktor would react. He was so focused on his work, so consumed by his inventions, that she often wondered if he even had the capacity to notice things like this. Would he even recognise the effort she had put into making him something so personal? Or would it be just another object to him, like all the others she’d made for people over the years—something useful, but not anything more?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts away. She was doing this because she wanted to, because he mattered to her. That was enough.

She finished the last stitch, running her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of her emotions within it. She only hoped that Viktor would recognise the love she had woven into every thread, even if he never said it aloud.

The steady rhythm of the machine was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, and there stood Viktor, framed in the doorway. His figure, so familiar, yet always startling to her in moments like this, stood with his usual intensity. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw something shift in them, something softer, but it was gone in an instant.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, melodic tone that always made her stomach twist. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to—” He faltered, his gaze flicking to the fabric she was working on, then to her. “I’ve been thinking about something. Perhaps you could offer me your thoughts.”

Y/N quickly hid the jacket under a pile of fabric, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Of course, Viktor. What’s troubling you?”

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room as he seemed to search for the right words. He always did this, Y/N noticed. His mind constantly shifted between ideas, a thousand thoughts racing at once. She loved how his mind worked, even if it sometimes meant he didn’t notice the little things. Or maybe, just maybe, he did notice—but was too focused on his work to say anything.

“I’ve been refining some of my calculations,” Viktor began, his tone slightly distracted as he shifted his weight, leaning on the cane that had become a constant companion. “But I feel like there’s something I’m overlooking. You’re the only one who always sees things others miss, Y/N. I could use your perspective.”

Her heart fluttered again, but she pushed aside the longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She nodded, focusing on the task at hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

As they moved to his desk, Viktor still seemed a little distracted, his brow furrowed in thought as he adjusted his grip on his cane, steadying himself. His eyes darted over his notes and calculations, his mind a whirlwind of equations and hypotheses. Y/N could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he leaned into his cane when he forgot to stand fully upright.

She loved these moments with him, even if they were fleeting, even if they didn’t change anything. Viktor was here, and that was enough.

Her thoughts, however, remained on the jacket she had made for him. Would he ever wear it? Would he ever realise that it was her way of saying all the things she couldn’t say out loud? Or would it simply be another creation in his ever-growing collection of inventions and projects?

But as she helped him with his calculations, something in the air shifted—a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable. Viktor’s hand brushed against hers, just for a second, and she could have sworn she felt the softest of sparks. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to see her, to see all the things she had longed to show him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would notice the jacket. And when he did, she would be waiting, her heart laid bare in every stitch, every thread, every moment of care she had woven into it.

Years had passed since that quiet, unspoken connection between Y/N and Viktor had begun. What had started as a secret longing, a quiet affection woven into the fabric of every stitch she made, had evolved into something deeper, something real. She still remembered the moments they shared, the hours spent together, working side by side, exchanging glances that held a thousand words. And now, as she stood at the altar, Viktor’s eyes locked on hers, everything that had once been unsaid, unspoken, was now there in the open, in the purest form of love.

The church was dimly lit, the gentle light of candles flickering along the pews, casting soft shadows over the gathered friends and family. But the world outside had all but faded into the background. There was only Viktor, standing at the front, dressed in the jacket she had made for him all those years ago.

The deep burgundy fabric, so soft yet durable, still held the same warmth, the same careful stitches she had woven into it. It seemed to almost glow under the light of the candles, every small detail—every tiny embroidered pattern at the cuff—still as beautiful as the day she had made it. It was almost as though the jacket had waited for this moment too, holding all the years of their journey together. Viktor had worn it countless times in the years that followed, but today, it felt different. It wasn’t just an article of clothing; it was a symbol—a symbol of how far they had come, how much they had endured together. And now, on their wedding day, it was more than ever, a reminder of the quiet care she had put into it, all those years ago.

As Y/N walked toward him, her heart seemed to beat in time with the soft rustling of her gown. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but one constant remained: Viktor, the man who had quietly become the centre of her world. The jacket—his jacket—was there, a reminder of the early days when she had hidden her love for him in the softest of gestures.

Viktor’s gaze softened as she approached, and for the first time, there was no question in his eyes. He had seen it all, all that she had ever wanted to say. His eyes swept over her with the same quiet reverence that she had once felt when sewing that jacket. The jacket she had made for him, not knowing how the years would unfold, not knowing that it would one day be worn on this day—their wedding day.

When she reached him, Viktor took her hands gently, his gaze not leaving hers. "You still remember," he murmured, his voice a quiet reflection of the emotions swirling between them.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching as she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course I remember. I remember everything."

He looked down at the jacket, then back at her, his eyes soft with affection. "It’s never left me, you know. I’ve worn it more times than I can count, but today... today it feels different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to wear it today, to wear the love you put into every stitch, to wear you as we stand here."

There were so many things left unsaid between them, but in that moment, words didn’t seem necessary. The past, the present, the quiet yearning from years ago—it was all woven into the fabric of that jacket. It was in every thread, every stitch, every moment they had shared since then.

The officiant spoke, but Y/N's attention was entirely on Viktor, the man who had quietly stolen her heart all those years ago. As they exchanged their vows, as they promised to stand by one another through everything life had to offer, she saw it—the weight of all their shared moments reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He was wearing the jacket, yes, but more than that, he was wearing her heart, and she his.

When the ceremony came to its close and they were finally pronounced husband and wife, Viktor’s hand slipped into hers with the same tenderness she had always known, the same tenderness that had always been there, quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And as they walked down the aisle together, Viktor’s jacket—her jacket—glowed with a quiet brilliance, just as it had all those years ago, when she had stitched it with the hope that one day, he might see her love for him, in all its subtlety, in all its care.

Now, here they were, standing side by side, not just as two people who had fallen in love, but as two hearts intertwined, with all the years of longing, of creation, of care, wrapped around them like the jacket that Viktor wore so proudly. The jacket was more than just fabric. It was the fabric of their love story, woven with patience, with hope, with trust, and now with the joy of a future they would share together.

And when Viktor looked at her, his gaze as steady as it had always been, she knew one thing for certain—he had finally understood all along.

JAYVIK

The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over Piltover’s skyline. Inside her modest studio, tucked away from the noise of the city, Y/N worked with a needle and thread. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was like a familiar lullaby as she focused intently on the quilt she was creating. Each stitch was deliberate, each fabric chosen with care. Her craft was a reflection of her soul, a blend of artistry and precision, and though she had countless patients in the medical ward, this was her sanctuary. A place where she could pour her heart into every thread, even if it was a thread she couldn’t yet share.

Y/N hummed quietly to herself, her fingers deftly guiding the fabric through the machine. She had always loved the process of creation—the way a simple piece of cloth could transform into something beautiful with just a little time and patience. Yet, lately, her thoughts often drifted to Viktor and Jayce, both of whom had become so important to her in different ways. She wished she could say something, but the fear of ruining what she had with both of them kept her quiet.

Her mind wandered to the first time she had made something for Viktor. It had been a late evening when she’d been working on a jacket for him, stitching together fine, rich fabric with delicate precision. She’d hesitated before gifting it, worried it might come off as too personal, yet the soft hum of the machine had given her the courage. The quiet moment when Viktor opened the small bundle of fabric had stayed with her. His eyes softened in appreciation, and for a brief moment, she’d seen a flicker of something more—a connection that made her heart race, but one she didn’t dare name. He had simply thanked her, and in his gratitude, she had swallowed down the emotions that swirled within her.

She smiled at the memory but felt the familiar ache in her chest. The quiet pining for Viktor had always been there, simmering under the surface. He was brilliant, driven, and had a kindness about him that she admired deeply. But despite their moments of closeness, it always felt like there was an invisible wall between them. She never quite knew how to cross it. But she cherished the glances, the brief exchanges of words that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t quite control.

Then there was Jayce.

Oh, Jayce. The brilliant, exuberant force of nature who filled every room with energy. The man who had always looked out for her like a protective older brother, but she had come to realise that there was something more to his affection. He teased her relentlessly, always with that smile that never seemed to fade. Yet, she could see it—how deeply he cared. He had been there for her in countless ways, just as Viktor had, but in a different light. She remembered making him a vest once, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. The intricate patterns she stitched into the fabric had reflected the boldness of his personality. He had grinned like a child on his birthday when she handed it to him, his eyes bright with that warmth that made her heart skip a beat.

The pining had started there too, subtle and slow, like the weaving of threads in a tapestry. She had tried to dismiss it, thinking that perhaps, like Viktor, Jayce only saw her as a friend. The small acts of kindness they showed, the gentle teasing and shared moments, all remained unspoken. She kept her feelings buried deep, hoping they’d never notice. But how could they not, when every thread she wove into her creations was a secret declaration of affection?

But tonight, she was finished. She had just completed the last stitch of a new project—a quilt she had been working on for days. It wasn’t as intricate as some of her other creations, but it was personal. The colours were soft, the patterns intertwined—much like her thoughts of Viktor and Jayce. She had chosen the fabrics carefully, pouring into it a quiet wish that maybe one day, they would realise how much she cared. Would they ever see her as more than just their confidante? More than just the woman who made their clothes, their comfort?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Y/N?" came Viktor’s low, warm voice. "Are you still working?"

She smiled, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. She opened it to find Viktor standing there, his cane resting beside him, his sharp eyes flicking to the quilt in her hands before meeting her gaze. She noted the concern that clouded his expression.

"You’ve been working late again," he said, his voice laced with both concern and tenderness. "You really should rest. You’ve done enough for one night."

Y/N laughed softly, a playful glint in her eye despite the weight of her emotions. "I know, Viktor. But I just needed to finish this. It’s been on my mind all week."

Viktor’s eyes softened, his features betraying the faintest sign of worry. He stepped inside, glancing around the studio with an appreciation she always found comforting. His attention quickly shifted back to her, the quilt she had just finished catching his eye.

"You always put so much into your work," he said quietly, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the fabric. His touch lingered, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the closeness. "It’s beautiful."

Her heart skipped, and she fought to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

There was a brief silence, thick with the unsaid things neither of them spoke. Viktor’s gaze lingered on her, an unreadable expression on his face. And for a moment, Y/N thought she might drown in the weight of his attention.

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Jayce strode in, his usual confident gait betraying a tenderness in his eyes when they landed on her. The corners of his lips tugged up into a mischievous grin, but it softened as soon as he caught sight of the quilt.

"Did you finish it?" he asked, his voice light, though there was something more behind it. "I hope you’re not going to try to keep it from us."

Y/N laughed again, more freely this time. "No, it’s for both of you."

Jayce’s grin softened further as he moved closer, his gaze playful, but with an edge of something deeper—something Y/N tried not to read into. "You really do spoil us, don’t you?"

Her heart fluttered, but she held her composure, a small smile curling at her lips. "It’s just a small thing. Nothing too special."

Viktor stepped forward, his expression serious yet gentle. "To us, Y/N, everything you make is special." His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and it made her breath hitch.

Her chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Was this the moment? Would they finally see her for what she was—not just the woman who made their clothes, but the woman who had quietly loved them both for so long?

"I’m glad you like it," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between them felt charged, thick with the unsaid things that hung like delicate threads in the space between them.

Jayce’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, she could feel the tenderness he tried to hide behind his usual bravado. The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a spark through her that almost made her dizzy. "We love it. We love you, Y/N," he said softly, his words wrapping around her heart like a comforting embrace.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Jayce, and then back to her. There was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity. "Jayce is right," he agreed, his voice low and steady. "You’re important to us. More than you realise."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. They were so close now, standing in her small studio, the distance between them vanishing with every word they spoke. The connection she’d felt for so long was suddenly undeniable, woven through with every glance, every touch. She could feel it—a thread that pulled them all together.

And then, as if in unison, both Viktor and Jayce reached out, their hands brushing against hers in the same instant. The touch was soft, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her veins. It was a spark—quiet, but undeniable.

"Maybe it’s time we talk," Viktor said, his voice steady, yet there was a softness there that made her chest ache with longing. He stepped closer, his hand lingering near hers.

Jayce’s thumb brushed over her hand, sending a thrill through her that left her breathless. "We’ve been wanting to, for a while now," he added, his voice sincere.

Y/N’s heart soared, the quiet ache of unspoken affection finally breaking free. The thread of their shared feelings, woven so carefully through time, finally began to unravel, drawing them closer. It was a beginning—a slow, tender start. And for the first time, Y/N let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—her pining might finally be returned.

The soft hum of a crackling fire filled the cosy living room as Y/N sat comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked beneath a thick, woven blanket. The evening light bathed the room in a golden hue, and the warmth of their shared home wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

Her hands worked deftly, needle and thread gliding through the fabric of one of Jayce’s suits, mending a small tear along the seam. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the well-worn material, recalling how many times she had stitched up something for him—whether it was his suits or Viktor’s jackets, she had always taken care of the two men she loved. And now, as her gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, she knew she’d soon be caring for someone new.

Her pregnancy had been a dream so far, and despite the weight she carried, she had never felt more at peace. Viktor and Jayce had been doting beyond words, tending to her every need, often to an almost comical degree. But she loved them for it—loved them for everything they were and all they would become.

Just as she finished the final stitch, the sound of the front door opening caught her attention. She glanced up, amusement flickering in her eyes as she heard the telltale murmurs of her lovers, their voices hushed yet brimming with excitement.

Then, they appeared.

Jayce and Viktor stepped into the living room, their smiles wide and unmistakably mischievous. The sight of them—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lithe and sharp-eyed—filled her heart with warmth. They were up to something. She could see it plain as day.

Her brow arched in suspicion as she set the suit aside. “Alright,” she drawled, resting a hand on her belly, “what did you two do?”

Viktor smirked as he walked over to her, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor before he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her. Jayce, ever the dramatic one, sat on the coffee table directly in front of her, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. In his hands, he held a small bundle of fabric.

“We made something for you,” Jayce said, his voice tinged with pride. He turned the fabric over, revealing a tiny onesie—albeit, one that was crudely stitched together, the seams uneven, and the buttons slightly misaligned. It was far from perfect, but the love and effort put into it made it the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out, her fingers brushing over the soft material. “You two… made this?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

“Hand-stitched and everything,” Jayce grinned. “Well, mostly hand-stitched. Viktor got impatient with me and took over halfway through.”

“I would not call it ‘impatience,’” Viktor said with a smirk, his fingers ghosting over Y/N’s hand as she held the onesie. “I simply could not watch him continue to butcher the stitches any longer.”

Y/N let out a laugh, shaking her head as she turned the tiny garment in her hands. It was a little rough around the edges, but it was made with so much care and devotion that she couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, holding it close to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

Jayce leaned forward, resting a warm hand on her knee. “We wanted to do something special,” he said softly. “You’ve always taken care of us—always stitching up our clothes, making sure we’re looked after. We figured it was time we tried to make something for you… for them.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested over Y/N’s belly, his touch featherlight yet full of love. “We wanted to give our child something from us,” he murmured. “Something made with our hands. A beginning.”

Y/N sniffled, brushing away a stray tear as she looked between the two men who had become her world. Her heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer love she held for them.

“You two are going to be the most incredible fathers,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Jayce beamed, his fingers tightening around hers. “And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “are going to be the most incredible mother.”

Viktor pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We are a family. That is all that matters.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their love settle deep within her bones. In that quiet, precious moment, with their hands entwined and the tiny onesie cradled against her chest, she knew without a doubt—this was happiness. This was home.

VANDER

The steady hum of the sewing machine filled the dimly lit backroom of The Last Drop, the rhythmic whirring blending with the faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The scent of old wood, ale, and candle smoke mingled with the faint traces of fabric dye and thread wax, a smell that had become comfortingly familiar to Y/N. Her small workstation was cluttered but organised, bolts of fabric stacked neatly to one side, a basket of unfinished mending beside it. Spools of thread, needles, and small scraps of cloth lay scattered across the table, evidence of the late nights she spent here.

Her fingers moved with practised ease, guiding the needle through worn fabric, repairing yet another tear in Vi’s jacket. The girl was rough with her clothes—climbing, fighting, running through Zaun’s underbelly without a care. But Y/N never complained, never hesitated to patch up every tear and stitch every rip. Because Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—they were family in every way that mattered.

“You spoil them, you know.”

The familiar voice pulled her from her focus, low and gruff but tinged with something warmer than mere amusement.

Y/N didn’t have to look up to know it was Vander. The scent of ale and leather, the way his deep voice carried with a certain weight—it was unmistakable.

“They’re kids,” she replied without pause, finishing off the stitch with a deft flick of her wrist. “They tear their clothes faster than I can fix them, but they don’t have many to begin with. Least I can do is keep ‘em from falling apart at the seams.”

Vander exhaled a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway, watching her work. His broad frame nearly filled the entire space, his presence as steady and unwavering as the bar he protected.

“They adore you for it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Powder won’t let that rabbit out of her sight.”

That made Y/N smile, a small, fond expression that softened her features. She had made that stuffed rabbit from scraps of fabric, carefully stitching it together after seeing Powder clutching a threadbare piece of cloth as if it were a proper toy. It was a simple thing, but the way Powder had beamed when she received it—holding it tight like it was the most precious thing in the world—had been worth every stitch.

“She needed something to hold onto,” Y/N murmured, setting Vi’s jacket aside and reaching for another garment in need of mending. “Something that’s just hers.”

Vander was quiet for a moment, watching her hands work, the glow of the candlelight casting a golden hue over her skin. She was always doing this—fixing things, putting care into every thread, every patch. Not just for the kids. For everyone.

“And what about you?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence as she glanced up at him. “Still wearin’ that scarf I made you?”

Vander scoffed, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around the fabric. The scarf had been a gift from her last winter, something she had pressed into his hands with a quiet “Zaun gets cold, you know,” as if she wasn’t completely aware of how stubborn he was about taking care of himself. It was a simple thing—nothing extravagant—but she had chosen the fabric carefully, making sure it was thick enough to keep out the Zaun chill.

He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“Best scarf I’ve ever owned,” he admitted, voice quieter now, the words carrying more weight than he likely intended.

Their eyes met, a brief but lingering moment stretched between them. She could read him better than most, could see past the gruff exterior, past the strong front he put up for everyone else. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something in the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edges of the scarf, something in the way he stood just a little closer than necessary.

He pushed off the wall with a small shake of his head, as if breaking whatever spell had settled between them. “You should charge more for your work.”

Y/N only laughed, shaking her head. “And have half of Zaun freezing or running around with holes in their trousers? Not likely.”

Vander huffed, muttering something under his breath about her being ‘too damn kind for her own good.’ But there was no real heat behind it. He wouldn’t change her for anything.

She watched as he walked back towards the bar, the blue of her scarf still wrapped around his neck, the candlelight catching in his silvering hair.

She didn’t miss the way his eyes softened as he looked at her before turning away, the unspoken words hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Not yet. But maybe someday.

The following days passed in a steady rhythm, much like the quiet whir of her sewing machine. She continued her work, fixing torn garments, mending stuffed animals, and occasionally stitching together something entirely new. The bar bustled with its usual energy—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter or the distant hum of tension from the undercity’s unrest. And through it all, Vander was a constant presence.

He found excuses to stop by her small corner in the backroom. Bringing her a drink she hadn’t asked for, leaning against the doorway with a watchful gaze as she worked, making small talk about the latest scuffle at the bar or how Claggor had managed to tear a hole straight through the knee of his trousers again. He never lingered too long, never said too much—but his presence was always there, warm and steady, like the faint glow of candlelight on a cold night.

One evening, as she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece on a worn-out coat, she heard heavy footsteps approach. The familiar weight of his presence settled in the doorway before he stepped inside.

She looked up just in time to see Vander set something on the table beside her—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” he said simply.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, setting down her needle. She wiped her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the cloth, revealing a thick roll of high-quality fabric. It was unlike anything she could find in Zaun, sturdy and warm, likely bartered from Piltover’s markets. The kind of material that would hold against the bitter Zaun chill, something made to last.

“Vander, this is—”

“Figured you might need it,” he interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it, as if unsure how she’d take the gift. “For…whatever it is you’re always makin’. Consider it a thank you.”

She looked up at him then, her chest tightening slightly at the rare hint of hesitation in his voice. He wasn’t a man of grand gestures, wasn’t one to put emotions into words easily. But this—this was something.

Her fingers ran over the fabric, feeling the softness beneath her touch. The edges were neatly folded, carefully bundled together, as if he’d handled it with more care than he’d admit.

“I’ll make something good with it,” she murmured, voice softer now.

His lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that was gone too quickly but left warmth in its wake. “I know you will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of something unspoken settling between them. The candlelight flickered against the walls, stretching shadows long and soft. She could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, the quiet understanding neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, as if realising he had lingered too long, Vander exhaled and took a step back, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late workin’,” he said over his shoulder, voice gruff but tinged with something gentler.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her sitting there with warmth blooming in her chest, the weight of his quiet kindness settling over her like a well-loved quilt.

She traced the fabric with her fingertips, thoughtful. Vander wasn’t a man of words, but he had his own way of showing things—small gestures, quiet care. It had always been there, between them, stitched into every moment they shared.

Maybe someday wasn’t so far away after all.

SILCO

The first time Silco truly noticed her, it was not because of her appearance or her sharp wit. It wasn’t even the way she carried herself, though that too intrigued him. No, it was because of the rip in his coat.

It wasn’t the first time his clothes had seen damage; as a man in his position, a leader with enemies at every turn, he had grown used to the wear and tear. The fight in the Lanes had been a typical skirmish—fists, knives, and threats exchanged over petty rivalries. He’d never imagined it would result in a tear down the side of his long, dark coat. He had barely noticed it in the chaos, but when he returned to the Underbelly, the jagged tear caught his eye.

At first, he considered simply tossing the coat aside, but something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the way the fabric seemed to reflect the disarray in his mind after the conflict. His thoughts, much like his coat, felt torn and frayed at the edges. But then she appeared.

She was standing there at the entrance to his office, as though she had known he’d be there. There was something about her, something predatory in the way she stepped forward, almost as if she had been watching him for some time. Her sharp eyes assessed him immediately, but not with the usual wariness he was accustomed to. No, she took in the coat, the tear, and then—without waiting for permission—she moved to inspect the damage.

He had intended to wave her off, to brush aside the need for anything resembling care. But her presence was immediate, commanding, even without a word. The way she touched the fabric, her fingers sliding along the tear, tracing its path like a careful examination of a wound. She seemed to read the damage, as though she knew exactly how to fix it, where to pull, where to stitch.

“Leave it with me,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused, though he saw no mockery in her eyes. She said it with an assurance that left no room for argument. She already knew he would relent. And, to his own surprise, he did.

Silco wasn’t a man given to sentiment. His empire was built on dominance, control, and cruelty. He had no time for kindness, for softness. Yet here she was, standing before him, offering to repair a coat that, in his mind, held little value beyond its utility. But somehow, her words, her confidence, made him trust her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

She wasn’t from the grime and muck of the underbelly like most people in Zaun. She didn’t have the hardened edge that the typical denizens of the Lanes wore like a badge of honour. Instead, she had settled into the city like a delicate thread woven into an old tapestry—soft yet resilient, unfurling and unraveling at the same time. She had a sort of quiet grace about her, a sense of purpose that was both subtle and undeniable.

A seamstress. A maker of things. A woman whose hands were stained with ink and dyes, a patchwork of colours permanently imprinted into her skin from years of working with fabrics of every kind. She was a stranger to the underworld, and yet she had an undeniable place in it. The children of Zaun adored her. Her humble shop was always filled with the noise of their laughter, their cries for attention, their hands pulling at her skirts, eager to see what she was making next. They were drawn to her in a way they never were to anyone else—especially Powder, the youngest, whose fascination with Y/N’s work bordered on obsession.

And in a way, Silco found it curious. The children, so often abandoned and ignored by the world, had found solace in her presence, a warmth that he could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, he never doubted that she was something special.

After she mended his coat, a task that seemed so simple, so mundane, he found himself inspecting it more than he’d like to admit. He ran his fingers over the stitches, feeling the tightness of them, the precision in every movement. She had taken a coat that was merely a tool and turned it into something more—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to see what others might overlook.

When she returned it to him, there were no formalities. She didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t expect anything. She simply said, “Good as new,” and watched him closely, waiting to see his reaction. It was not the typical response she’d receive from others, and she seemed to know it. He nodded. That was all. But he could feel it, a certain unspoken understanding between them. The coat, now mended, was a marker of something unspoken—something subtle and deliberate.

And then there was the waistcoat.

It appeared one evening, folded neatly in brown paper and left at The Last Drop without a word, no explanation, no card. He found it tucked away in the corner of the bar, a surprise that didn’t fit with the usual chaos of his life. He unwrapped it carefully, the fine fabric smooth under his fingers. It was a deep charcoal, dark but with an intricate emerald design embroidered along the edges—a delicate touch, but one that spoke volumes. The kind of thing he never would have chosen himself, yet it felt... right. It was understated, quiet in its elegance, but unmistakably hers.

That night, after a particularly grueling day spent managing Piltover’s politicians and the constant friction with the people of Zaun, he wore it. He didn’t think about it much at first, just slipped it on as if it were any other garment. But when he looked in the mirror, something tugged at him. It wasn’t just a waistcoat. It was something more—a symbol of her care, of her quiet, unnoticed influence on his life.

They did not have the kind of relationship marked by loud declarations or gestures. No, their bond was built in quiet moments. In the soft rhythm of her sewing shears cutting through fabric. In the weight of the threads, carefully pulled through delicate fabric. In the way her eyes always seemed to search him, studying him like the seamstress she was, looking for the places where the seams might have frayed, where the edges might have come apart.

One night, he found himself standing at the threshold of her shop, unannounced, a place he rarely visited without a purpose. But that evening, there was no agenda, no business to be conducted. He simply wanted to see her, to observe her in her element. She was sitting at her workbench, the dim glow of a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she stitched together a new garment—one of her many projects, one of her endless creations.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her hands as they worked with unshaken precision. The needle passed through the fabric again and again, a rhythmic dance that felt hypnotic.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, his voice low but breaking the silence.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. “A coat. For a friend.”

“A lucky friend,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet humour.

She didn’t answer, only hummed as she threaded her needle again. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Just care.”

And for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something deeper. She cared. He could see it in her hands, in the steady way she worked. She didn’t do it for accolades, didn’t do it for recognition. She did it because she cared.

The thought unsettled him. She wasn’t like others, who cowered beneath his power or avoided his gaze. No, she studied him, watched him, as if she could see beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Silco had made his name as a man of power, a man who controlled the shadows, a man whose empire was built on fear and ambition. He had forged himself from the broken pieces of the world around him. But when she looked at him, when she saw him as she did, he wasn’t Silco the tyrant or Silco the visionary. For a brief moment, he was simply Silco, a man who had a tattered coat and a waistcoat stitched with care.

Weeks passed in a haze of strained negotiations, political manoeuvring, and the steady grind of maintaining his hold over Zaun. Silco didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on much outside of his empire, but there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when his thoughts wandered back to her. The way she had touched his coat, the subtle care in every stitch, the way she never flinched under his gaze. There was something there, something fragile yet strong, like an ember flickering in the dark.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Silco found himself walking toward her shop again. He had no particular reason to be there. His coat was still intact, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes repaired. But something in the back of his mind told him he should check on her, to see if she was still as steady, as unwavering as she had been the last time he’d seen her.

As he approached her shop, the dim light spilling from beneath the door caught his attention. The flicker of the lanterns inside, the soft hum of activity—it was a rhythm he had come to recognise, one that spoke to the quiet dedication she had for her craft. It was late, later than usual. Silco hesitated for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, considering whether to enter or not.

But then he heard it—the harsh rasp of voices, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle inside. His instincts kicked in, and he pushed the door open without a second thought.

Inside, the scene before him unfolded in a quick, brutal flash. Two men—rough, unkempt, with the stench of desperation hanging over them—had cornered her. One of them was holding a knife, its blade glinting ominously under the light of the lamp. The other was gesturing wildly at the shelves, clearly trying to intimidate her into handing over whatever they could steal.

Her back was to the door, and for a moment, Silco saw her—saw her not as the gentle seamstress who had repaired his coat, but as someone who had lived in the same world as him, someone who had faced her own battles. Her posture was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to bend to their will.

"Just give us the damn money, lady," the one with the knife spat, his voice low and rough. "We’re not here to play games."

Silco’s mind moved quickly, calculating the best way to deal with this. He didn’t care about the petty theft. What bothered him was the way they were treating her—as if she were just another victim to be taken advantage of. As if she were weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

Without a word, he stepped forward, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. The sound was enough to catch the attention of the men, who turned just as he moved closer. The one with the knife sneered at him, recognising the man who had brought Zaun to its knees.

"Who the hell are you?" the first man growled, his voice a mixture of surprise and aggression.

Silco didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment, allowing the tension to build. He wasn’t worried about them. The men were nothing more than irritants to him, mere distractions in a world full of dangers.

"You’re in the wrong place," Silco finally said, his voice low and measured, his gaze cold and unyielding.

The men exchanged wary glances. The one with the knife hesitated, but the second man, more desperate, growled. "You don’t scare us. We’ve got a knife. What’s it to you?"

Silco’s lips twitched, amused by their audacity. The tension in the room thickened, but Silco’s presence alone was enough to shift the balance.

The man with the knife stepped forward, brandishing the blade in an unsteady hand. "You want to make something of it, then? I’ll carve you up, just like I’m gonna carve her up if she doesn’t listen."

Silco’s gaze never wavered. He was calm, cold, the eye of the storm. There was no fear in him, only a sense of inevitability. Without a word, he reached for the concealed knife tucked in his belt. The men barely had time to register the movement before he had it in his hand, its cold steel glinting in the lantern light.

"Put the knife down," Silco said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife itself.

The second man, realising the situation had shifted, took a step back, his face contorted in confusion. But the first man—still gripped by his own desperation and pride—didn’t relent. He raised the blade, aiming to strike.

Silco stepped forward, his movements swift and fluid. His knife flicked in the air, and the man with the blade froze, his hand trembling.

"Now," Silco’s voice rang out like thunder.

The man’s resolve broke, and with a muttered curse, he dropped the knife to the floor. His hands raised in surrender, and the second man, seeing the fight drain out of his ally, backed away as well.

Silco didn’t need to say more. He watched as they stumbled towards the door, muttering under their breath, eager to escape the presence of the one man in Zaun they feared.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Silco turned back to her. He noticed the damage immediately—the rip along the seam of his coat where one of the men had caught it in the scuffle. A small tear, but enough to catch his eye.

Before he could brush it off, she was already moving toward him. Her gaze was focused, and without a word, she was inspecting the tear. The flickering lanterns cast a soft glow on her features, her expression filled with concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric.

"You’re going to want to get that fixed," she said, her tone both calm and concerned. "Let me—"

"I’m fine," Silco interrupted, his voice terse, though he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the care in her words. "It’s just a small tear."

She barely looked up, already beginning to gather her tools. "It’s a shame," she muttered, her hands moving quickly to pull a needle and thread from her kit. "The fabric’s too nice to let it go to waste."

Silco raised an eyebrow at her, bemused by her reaction. Most people would have been intimidated, maybe even scared, at the thought of trying to repair the coat of someone like him. But here she was, entirely unfazed, focused on restoring something that was clearly important to him.

"I’m not sure you understand, this coat isn’t just a coat," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It’s… important."

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with that same steady intensity. "I understand," she said simply, before returning to the task at hand. "I’ll make sure it’s good as new. It’ll be even better once I’ve finished."

Her certainty was palpable, and it settled over him like a weight. Silco felt something stir within him—something unfamiliar and quiet. He hadn’t expected to be here, hadn’t planned on staying this long. Yet, in this quiet moment, with her focused on repairing his coat, he realised he didn’t mind at all.

Maybe this was where he belonged, at least for now. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to stay a little longer.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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