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scarrrletales · 5 months ago

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DRAGON AND DAMSEL

DRAGON!SYLUS X PRINCESS!MC

🔞 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🔞

This blog and its content, including this post, are strictly 18+ only. If you are under 18, please do not interact, like, reblog, or follow.

Tags : Dark romance, PWP (P0rn with plot), dirty talk, past life lovers, creamp!e, double p3netration, marking, br3eding, m0nsterfvcking, unprotected s3x, r0ugh sex, MC is h0rny.

Summary : A princess is offered as a sacrificial bride to a dragon but discovers a dragon in heat.

A LONG LONG TIME AGO.....

It was a lovely morning at the kingdom of Tarus. Everything was going perfect for you, being bethroted right after you come of age — to a prince.

You can't help but to giggle and feel giddy, still not believing that you are to be his in a few hours, it's your wedding day after all.

A knock suddenly interrupted your thoughts, followed by the door opening and maids scattering to your room. I turned to look at them and smiled nervously.

"Princess (Name), it's time."

I nodded and let them take over. The maids took off my nightgown, slipping me off to a white chemise, a red sleeveless dress — followed by a corset and a large crinoline. Whilst the others gets busy with combing and styling my hair.

Heaving a sigh of relief after the torturous cinching of the corset's ribbons, the maid gently takes my wedding gown off the wooden mannequin and dressing me.

I looked at myself in the mirror "Wow...." I smiled and looked the maids. "T-thank you..." I said gently as my smile dropped as I saw their expression full of indifference. They then bowed and left my room coldly.

"We're they always like this?" I asked myself

Eversince I set foot in this castle, everyone has been so distant, even the king and queen. Only the prince was kind and welcoming towards me, even touring me the gardens and horseback riding in the mountains with me.

"I hope that all is well soon...."

—

After the wedding ceremony ended, we rode a carriage heading up to the mountain. He held out his hand after the carriage stopped, I smiled and gladly took it. I looked around and saw guests wearing masks, which made me puzzled.

"Welcome princess."

The queen greeted warmly and hugged me.

I hugged reluctantly and hugged her back "T-thank you for welcoming me into your family, your highness." I looked up to her smiling.

She nodded and took the lead on walking through the rock bridge. The queen then spoke.

"For generations, its been our task, our duty, to protect our people."

I listened intently as I tried to ignore what's underneath we're walking on. It's dark and creepy, with multiple dead roots and a never ending abyss below.

She cleared her throat and continued.

"Today, you join a legacy of women who shaped this kingdom......When our ancestors claimed this island, they discovered a bloodthirsty beast already here. It attacked the village. In retaliation, the king took his revenge, by killing the dragon's lover and the king led his soldiers against it, but none survived except him."

A beast? Here in this kingdom? How gruesome.

"The beast demanded a terrible price: bring the the fairest maiden in the land in exchange for peace. The women were sacrificed, and so......the kingdom was born."

She came to a halt and looked at me with a serious face. Signaling a red cloaked and masked individual, she took out a dagger.

"It is a tradition we commemorate every generation. A tradition going back centuries."

I looked at her nervously as she slowly asks for his son's palm — the prince. Without hesitation she slashed it. My hands trembled as I slowly took out my hand, I bit my lip in agony as I tried to held out a scream as the blade cuts through me. The queen then pressed our palms together, mixing our blood, followed with covering it with a white cloth. The queen smiled eerily "She is now of royal blood!" she proclaimed. The guests bowed in respect.

"To ensure our kingdoms thrive forevermore, toss the coin into the abyss now." I nodded determined, I slowly walked closer and tossed it below.

"The ceremony is now complete, you may now make your return."

The prince and I looked at each other smiling. I wonder what will happen later at our wedding night? I snapped out off my thoughts as he gently picks me up and carried me.

"I-i can walk fine y'know..." I said, embarrassed and smiling.

He chuckles as he looks at me and asks for me to close my eyes as he came to a halt on the middle of the bridge, I giggled. "I'm sorry." The prince said.

I looked at him confused. The last thing I new that my husband. My prince. Tossed me into the dark abyss.

"Argh....." I groaned painfully as i slowly awoke.

I writhed in pain as I tried to get up but failed. What the hell? This must be just a dream? With all the strength I got, I stood up and looked up. "HELP! I-is there anyone there? HELP ME!" I sobbed in pain as I tried desperately to climbed up the stones, only to fall down again.

"FUCKING SHIT!" i threw the crown and my ring on the ground and yelled in rage.

There was barely any light left in the cavern that I was tossed on. How will I ever survive this? Will I die here? My parents, my sister, my kingdom..... A fire suddenly flashed afar on one of the passageway of the cave. Curious, i followed the light that led to a tight cave.

I held my breath as i stumbled upon another cave, a huge one field with large rocks and a smoky-burning breeze inside it. My legs brought me to the pathway that led to a shiny spot. Why is it all so familiar? I flinched as a booming voice suddenly interrupted my admiration for the precious items.

“I…like your eyes, they are beautiful i can see your hatred, defiance and greed for life.”

My face dropped as i sensed an dark ominous aura clouding the area. Then it hit me, remembering what the prince told me when we're on a walk. Thousands of years ago, dragons ruled over the lands of Philos. By nature, dragons are wicked creatures that feed on human souls. They excel at drawing out the darkest parts of a person's heart, driving humans to turn on one another and become slaves to their desires. The greedier the soul, the more irresistible it is to a dragon.

Weary about my surroundings, i picked up a stone "W-what do you want from me!?" I shouted, full of fear as the winged figure circles around me.

"My...my....look like something's never changed. Sweetie."

The figure revealed itself as a man. Winged, sharp and undeniably good looking? I wasn't expecting this at all,

I chuckled nervously "W-what are you going to do to me?" i held back my tears, my hands clutched over to a fist. The dragon chuckled deeply and and landed Infront of me. I closed my eyes tightly, prepared for death.

His lips came crashing down on me making me gasp for air as he continuously. His lips were desperate, passionate and rough. "Mmmm..!" I tried avoiding him, but failed. It was making you go into a haze, it's almost like as if your hypnotized and familiar with his touch.

I couldn't help but to return his kisses, his large hands suddenly wrapping around my waist and his tail lifting my skirt then ripping it off. "H-hey!" I gasped, blushing.

"Relax my princess, you can handle it."

You feel so needy for him. Why? why is it like this? Why is the dragon suddenly kissing me all off a sudden? I bit my lip to prevent myself from whining. He stops kissing me and clawed open my corset revealing my body. It's tail suddenly striking my butt, making me gasp and fall over to the red cushion surrounded by sparkling treasures and bones.

"What's your name?" he asked, before dipping down to my chest ravaging and marking it down. You couldn't help the noises coming out of your mouth. "(N-name)...ohh fuck!" i whined, he bites your thighs before completely making your mind go blank. The dragon's tongue rapidly licks over your dripping wet cunt, it was so undeniably good. I gripped his hair tightly and whined.

"Sylus is the name. In case you forgot, sweetie. It's been many years after all." he smirked before starting to ravish your dripping wet pussy again. The dragon — Sylus.

His red eyes gleamed over you before showing off his two massive cocks. I gulped and bit my lip as i looked at it astonished. How will that even fit inside me? Sylus claims my lips as he spits on his hands before pumping his cock.

"I-i..---" i stuttered "Scared now aren't we?"

I looked down nervously and backed away a bit. He then flips me over before slowly plunging his length inside me, making me moan and my eyes rolling back in pleasure.

Holding into him tight as i closed my eyes in pain, i moaned and clawed his back. "Such a fucking whore for me. Look, your cunt perfectly hugs my cock, kitten." Slowly looking down, i bit my lip as i saw his length plunged inside me.

Sylus then began to move, his hips becoming faster and faster by time while claiming my lips and neck. "Ahhh! sy-lus..." My mind was now full of lust and need. Giving in, i started bucking my hips onto him while kissing him.

Oh...is this what the elders told me about? What happens only most to married couples on their wedding night. I fantasized about this, i red about this day. So immoral......

"Oh? you're getting a bit desperate aren't we slut?" Sylus said as he carried me, face to face before thrusting it inside my cunt. "Ohhh! yes! ohh ngh!" i whined over his shoulder and bit his neck, marking it.

You let out an shriek as he suddenly forces your head down, causing you to choke on his cock. Bucking his hips into your mouth you can only tear up in the sensation you are feeling whilst you kept eye contact with him.

"Good girl, taking my cock like that." You whimpered as his length was buried deep inside your throat, making a bulge. It was painful at first but it suddenly was replaced with pleasure as he then gets busy with your tight hole. Teasing and licking it before thrusting it once again. "s'too much...ah!!" i drooled over him. Fuck.

Delighted, he inserted the other one in to your ass. "!!!" i gasped and let him take control. "You like it that much huh? i'll teach you what love is again, sweetie." he bucked his hips and started to go rough with me. Sylus growls into your neck as he plunges into your pussy deeper. I was crying in pleasure, i looked at him desperate and kissed him as we both continue to buck our hips together in pleasure.

"I-i...i'm gonna! i'm gonna!" i moaned desperately and wrapped my legs around his waist as both of his cocks continue to delve inside me. "Let it all go, kitten." Ropes of hot seed came rushing inside your cervix. It was jaw droppingly good.

I was panting heavily and fell on top of his chest, my legs all wobly and my cunt dripping full of cum.

The cavern was silent now, the crackle of fire replaced by the rhythmic sound of their breathing. The princess lay against his chest, her fingers tracing the faint glow of scales that shimmered beneath his skin—half-man, half-beast. The intensity of their union still lingered in the air, but her mind raced as fragments of memories stirred, tugging at the edges of her consciousness. He watched her, his red eyes softened with something far deeper than desire—an ancient pain.

Sylus tilted her chin, his clawed hand surprisingly gentle. Her heart skipped. A flicker of recognition. Those eyes, that voice —it wasn’t new. It was something buried, forgotten.

She pulled back, her breath catching. "I know you.." she gasped. Her blood ran cold, then hot, as the truth hit her. "You’re... my—"

"Your lover." he finished, his voice heavy with centuries of longing. "And now, your dragon." The cavern seemed to shrink around them as her tears fell. She clung to him, her words a whisper against his chest. The dragon only held her tighter, his fiery embrace a promise of love that defied even time itself.

— the end.

1K notes · View notes

lalo0 · 11 days ago

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INSIDE AESPA EP. 3┃ Still Think I’m Soft?

Male reader x Ningning Word count: 6.8k Tags: facefucking, anal, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing PART 1 PART 2

She didn’t slam the door.

That would’ve been easier.

Karina just stood there. Her hand still on the knob. Eyes on me.

Not on Giselle. Not the bed. Not the scattered clothes or the marks still cooling on her skin.

Me.

I’d never been looked at like that. Not with disgust. Not even with shock.

Just... like she was measuring my worth.

Like she was pulling up a chair in her mind and watching me bleed without touching the knife.

Giselle pulled the sheet tighter around herself. Her lips moved, but no sound came. Her face was flushed, lashes damp, mouth still kiss-bitten. She looked like what she was — someone who’d just been fucked hard and loved every second of it.

And now she was trying to hide it.

Karina’s gaze didn’t move.

I sat there. Half-covered. My breath still uneven. Muscles tensed in places I hadn’t known were still working. My shirt was somewhere on the floor. My jeans, still open. The air was warm, but I felt cold.

“Karina,” Giselle finally said, voice soft. Unsteady. “This isn’t— I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

No answer.

From behind her, I heard another voice. Softer. Curious.

“Is everything okay?”

Another followed. Lighter, with a spark.

Karina stepped forward slightly. Just enough for the other two girls to peer inside.

I didn’t know their names.

But I knew when people were sizing me up.

One of them let out a low whistle. “Huh.”

The other didn’t say anything.

Karina’s voice was level.

She didn’t yell.

Didn’t ask what happened.

Didn’t call security.

Just looked at me like I already didn’t belong here.

And said: "You need to leave."

I looked at Giselle.

She was already standing. Bare feet on the floor. Sheet wrapped around her like a robe, but it couldn’t hide the tension in her shoulders. Or the bruises shaped like fingerprints on her thighs.

“No,” she said. “He’s staying.”

Karina didn’t blink.

“Giselle.”

“I invited him.”

Silence.

The girl who whistled leaned against the doorframe like this was all a performance. The other just watched, unreadable.

Karina’s voice dropped half a degree. "We're not just talking about you room, Giselle. We're talking about this house. About all of us. And you brought a stranger into it like it didn't mean anything."

Giselle’s jaw clenched. “I’m not ashamed of this.”

“Doesn’t mean it was smart.”

Karina didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t scold.

She didn’t have to.

It was in the way she looked at Giselle — like she expected better.

And in the way she looked at me — like I had no business being there.

This wasn’t about sex.

It was about respect.

About the lines you don’t cross when you’re part of something bigger than yourself.

No one moved at first.

Not Karina. Not the two girls flanking her. Not even Giselle, who stood like she was bracing for a slap that hadn’t landed yet.

It didn’t matter that I wasn’t ashamed.

The silence made me feel like I should be.

Karina turned without another word, the door swinging wider as she walked out. The girl who’d whistled followed a beat later, still silent but smirking, like she was filing the whole thing away for later.

The last one lingered.

She looked at me — not like Karina had, not like I was a stain on the rug — but like she was curious. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to let a piece of her hair fall into her eye. She didn’t move it. She didn’t say a word.

And then she left too.

The door stayed open.

I sat there, bare-chested on the bed, trying to remember how to breathe.

Giselle was already moving — collecting my shirt from the floor, tossing it onto the bed like it was a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she said, without looking at me.

Her voice was sharp. Not angry. Just embarrassed — not at me, but because of the situation.

“You don’t have to be,” I said.

She pulled a hoodie from the back of a chair and tugged it on. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks still blotchy with sex and tension. Faint bruises were already blooming on her thighs — places I’d gripped too hard, places she hadn’t told me to stop.

She looked like someone who wanted to be anywhere else but here.

I slipped my shirt over my head and stood, grabbing my jeans off the edge of the bed.

“Maybe I should go.”

Her eyes snapped up.

“No.”

Then softer, almost like she regretted how fast that came out.

“I mean… unless you want to.”

I didn’t answer right away. My fingers fumbled with the button on my jeans.

There was a sound down the hall — a door closing. Then another. The house had that strange, eerie quiet big places always had when something loud had just happened.

Giselle exhaled through her nose, pacing. “She wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

“I figured.”

She gave a hollow little laugh. “Of course she’s early. Karina’s always early.”

I sat back on the edge of the bed, half-dressed, waiting for the panic or guilt or even anger to kick in. Nothing did.

“You in trouble?”

“With her?” Giselle asked. “No. Not really.”

She paused.

“But if she decides to make it a problem... I’ll know.”

“You regret it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She was sitting beside me — not touching, but close enough that it felt like she wanted to.

The hoodie she threw on hung off one shoulder, and her hands were curled around the edge of the mattress like she needed to grip something solid.

Then: “No. Not even a little.”

She said it too fast. Like she wanted it out of her mouth before she could change her mind.

I nodded slowly. “Good.”

She glanced at me. “You?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

I met her eyes. “You want me to lie?”

She smiled. Not her flashy stage smile — the real one. Small, unguarded, like I’d caught her off balance and she didn’t hate the feeling.

“That’s the part I wasn’t ready for,” she said softly. “You… not treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“You’re not.”

“Some people act like I am. Like if they say the wrong thing, I’ll cry or call my manager.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Only if I need to.”

That got a laugh out of me.

She bumped her shoulder against mine.

I let it linger.

We sat there for a while, quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding its breath. Like the room itself knew something had shifted and didn’t want to jinx it.

Her hand slid across the blanket and brushed mine.

I took it.

Her fingers curled around mine like they’d been waiting for permission.

“I don’t do this,” she said.

“Invite guys into your room?”

“Let them stay.”

I looked at her profile — the way lips compressed when she was unsure, how her gaze kept dancing around the room like it was safer to look anywhere but at me.

“Do you want me to go?”

She hesitated.

“No,” she said. Then, quieter: “But maybe you should.”

“Because of Karina?”

“Because of all of it.”

She looked at me then — really looked — and I saw it: not fear. Not shame. Just the recognition that something real had happened. And real things had a way of changing everything around them.

“This wasn’t how you planned it, was it?”

She looked down. Her fingers picked at the edge of the sheet.

“No. Not really.”

“You mean, it was supposed to be casual.”

“Controlled,” she added.

“You mean you were supposed to be in control.”

She didn’t argue.

I didn’t leave right away.

I thought I would. Get dressed, find the door, disappear before anyone changes their mind.

But I didn’t.

We sat there a few more minutes — her with her legs drawn up and her hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands, me with my elbows on my knees, trying not to think too hard about what came next.

Eventually she stood and stretched, the fabric of her hoodie riding up just enough to tease. She caught me looking and didn’t hide her smirk.

“I should get dressed for real,” she said.

I nodded and stood, brushing off my jeans.

“I’ll give you a minute.”

She didn’t say anything, just watched me head toward the door like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to stop me.

Out in the hallway, it was darker. Quiet.

I didn’t get two steps before someone was there.

Shorter than me. Wide eyes. Long dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail and a silk robe she hadn’t bothered to tie properly.

She was leaning against the wall across from Giselle’s door, arms folded, like she’d been waiting.

We locked eyes.

She didn’t look surprised to see me.

“Hey,” she said, like we were old friends who’d just run into each other in line at the grocery store.

“Hey,” I replied, slower.

She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not very good at sneaking out.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

That got a little grin. “Bold.”

I nodded toward the far end of the hall. “You standing guard?”

“I’m standing.”

“Right.”

We both looked at each other for a second too long.

Then she pushed off the wall and took a few steps closer. Her bare feet made no sound on the hardwood.

“Just so you know,” she said, voice lower now, “I don’t think you should feel bad.”

“About what?”

“Whatever happened in there.” She glanced toward Giselle’s door. “She’s not stupid. And she doesn’t usually let people in like that.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

Ningning gave a little shrug. “Well. You got past the front gate. That’s something.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

She stopped in front of me. Not close enough to crowd me. Just close enough to see her eyes weren’t as playful as her tone had been.

“You have a name?” she asked.

“Mylo.”

Her lips curved just slightly. “I’m Ningning.”

I nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

She leaned in — not to whisper, just to keep the moment between us.

“You’re already causing trouble,” she said. “Might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here.”

Then she walked past me, back toward her room, not looking back.

The hallway felt colder after she walked away.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the space she left behind. Then I turned, walked back to Giselle’s door, and knocked lightly before pushing it open.

She was sitting on the bed with her legs folded under her, now in a fresh pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Hair combed, skin scrubbed, no makeup — just her. The kind of raw, pretty that didn’t need effort.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

She nodded, but something in her expression told me she’d been thinking too much.

“I ran into Ningning.”

Her mouth twitched. “Let me guess. She flirted with you.”

“Little bit.”

“She’s shameless.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “Clearly.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Giselle looked up, hesitant. “You’ll text me?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She walked me to the door, barefoot. No words this time. Just stood in front of me, fingers playing with the edge of her shirt.

“I liked tonight,” she said.

“Me too.”

Her eyes flicked to my mouth. “Don’t ruin it.”

I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She leaned in and kissed me. Quick. Soft. Final.

Then she nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room’s second door on the left.”

I smiled. “So I’m not kicked out after all.”

“Not yet.”

She opened the door.

The sheets were too clean.

That was the first thing I noticed when I lay down. Everything smelled like detergent and linen spray and something vaguely floral — nothing human. No warmth. No breath. Just a pristine bed in a house too big for comfort.

I lay there with one arm behind my head, eyes on the ceiling, not really thinking. Or maybe thinking too much. Giselle’s kiss still sat at the edge of my mouth. The way she looked at me — not like an idol, not like someone who knew how to pose for cameras — it stuck.

I heard footsteps.

Soft, then softer. Slowed just before my door.

I didn’t move. I waited.

Nothing.

Then another step — this time toward the guest bathroom. A creak. Running water. Silence.

The door across the hall clicked.

I closed my eyes.

I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve slept. Should’ve done anything but what I did.

But I got up.

I cracked the door open just as her light went on — a soft gold spill from the room across the hall. Her door wasn’t shut. Not fully.

And I swear I saw her silhouette pause at the mirror. Then her eyes flicked toward me.

And then?

She walked out of sight.

Leaving the door half open.

I didn’t knock.

I told myself I would. Told myself I’d stay on my side of the hallway, be the respectful guy, the guest with boundaries. But the door was cracked just enough — just wide enough to whisper you can instead of you shouldn’t.

And I stepped inside.

The room was warmer than mine. Not just physically. It had that lived-in feel — cluttered vanity, a hoodie draped over the desk chair, perfume bottles scattered like forgotten glass chess pieces. Her phone was face down, glowing faintly. The music was low, some soft synth line playing under a steady pulse. And Ningning?

She was brushing her hair.

Slow, methodical strokes. Like it wasn’t about untangling anything. Like it was a ritual.

She caught my reflection before I said anything.

“I was wondering how long you’d wait.”

“I wasn’t—”

She looked at me through the mirror. “Yes, you were.”

I didn’t argue.

She kept brushing. “You sleep okay in the showroom guest suite?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.”

Ningning set the brush down and turned on the stool, crossing one leg over the other. Her robe had slid halfway down one shoulder. Not by accident.

“You don’t strike me as the polite house guest type.”

I shrugged. “You left your door open.”

“Did I?”

She stood slowly and padded toward me barefoot, the hem of her silk robe swaying just above her knees. It wasn’t tied shut. Just overlapping at the front, loosely. One wrong movement and it’d fall open.

I didn’t look away.

She stopped in front of me. Close. Not touching. Just hovering at that delicious, unbearable distance.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“You’re not.”

That got a smile. “Fair.”

I waited. I didn’t know what for.

She moved first. Her fingers brushed the hem of my shirt, light and deliberate.

“You already broke one rule tonight,” she murmured. “Might as well break a few more.”

I caught her wrist gently. Not to stop her. Just to slow it down.

“This isn’t a game,” I said.

Her eyebrow arched, amused. “Sure it is.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” Her hand twisted in my grip, fingertips sliding up my forearm. “That’s why it’s fun.”

Her other hand came up, palm flat on my chest. She didn’t push. Just let it rest there.

“You’re not mine,” she said, low. “I know that.”

“I didn’t say—”

“But you’re not hers, either.”

I hesitated.

“That’s what makes this okay,” she added, stepping even closer, pressing her body to mine. “We’re not breaking anything. We’re just… seeing what fits.”

Her lips brushed my jaw — a test, not a kiss. Her breath smelled faintly like green tea and strawberries.

“Still thinking?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

She pulled back, just a little, and looked up at me. “You can leave. Right now. No hard feelings.”

I didn’t move.

“Or,” she said, fingers sliding down the front of my shirt, “you can stop pretending you don’t want this.”

I kissed her.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was the kind of kiss that says I’ve already made my decision. She tasted exactly like she smelled — bright and sweet with something darker underneath, something playful, biting.

Her arms slid around my neck. Mine found her waist. The robe shifted.

“I thought you were the quiet one,” she breathed between kisses.

“Only when I’m not being kissed like that.”

She laughed, and it turned into a moan as I sucked lightly on her lower lip.

Then she pulled back, just a step. Enough to look me over.

“Take off your shirt.”

I did.

She let her eyes roam, open and slow, not shy about it. She stepped forward again and ran her fingers across my chest, down my stomach. Nails dragging. Barely.

“Don’t get shy now,” she teased.

“I’m not the shy one.”

“Oh? You think I’m shy?”

I gave her a look.

Ningning stepped back and shrugged off her robe in one fluid motion. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Not lingerie. Not a bra. Not even a pair of shorts.

Just skin and heat and that cocky little smirk she wore like armor.

“Well,” she said. “Now you know I’m not.”

I stared for a second too long. She knew I would. Her body was smaller than Giselle’s, but just as dangerous — smooth lines, delicate curves, a kind of quiet athleticism that said she could climb you like a rope and make you thank her for it.

She climbed onto the bed without a word.

Then looked back at me, on her knees, hair falling over one shoulder, mouth parted.

“Your turn.”

I stood at the edge, shirt off, hard as hell, pulse drumming behind my ears. She looked at me with her legs folded underneath her, hair slipping down one shoulder. Her nipples were already hard, rising and falling with her breath like she was trying not to pant.

“You're gonna stand there and admire me,” she said, licking her lower lip, “or are you gonna do something?”

I didn’t answer.

I crawled onto the bed.

She gasped when I grabbed her hips and pulled her forward in one clean motion, forcing her to lie back. Her head landed on a pillow, eyes wide but hungry. My mouth met hers hard — no teasing, no soft warm-up. Tongues colliding. Teeth scraping. Her moan vibrated against my lips as my hand slid between her thighs and pressed.

“F—fuck—yes,” she breathed, hips lifting into my palm.

Wet didn’t even begin to cover it. She was soaked. Dripping. Her legs opened wider without me asking, one hand gripping the sheets like she needed something to anchor her.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” I said into her mouth.

She nodded fast, whining a little. “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

My fingers slid through her folds, and she choked out a moan, already squirming.

“You like it messy?”

She didn’t answer — just bucked her hips again.

I kissed her neck, dragging my teeth along her collarbone, and pressed one finger inside her pussy. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Then—

“Aghh—ahh! F-fuck, yes…”

I pumped once, twice, watching her unravel with just my hand. Her hips rolled like she couldn’t decide if she wanted more or was already overwhelmed.

“Another,” she gasped. “Give me another—fuck—yes—there—right there—”

I added a second finger and curled them just right. Her back arched. Her thighs trembled.

She reached for me blindly, nails scratching down my back, pulling me close enough that her breath hit my cheek.

“I want your cock so bad—please, please—just—God—”

I pulled my hand away.

“No—!”

She whined, actual frustration in her voice.

“I didn’t say stop…”

“You didn’t say please.”

“I did—!” she gasped. “Twice—fuck—please, please—”

I reached down and grabbed a pair of panties from the floor. Light blue, still warm, still damp. I balled them up and brought them to her mouth.

“Too loud,” I said.

Her eyes widened, then darkened.

And she opened her mouth.

I stuffed the panties in slowly. She moaned behind the gag, lips closing over the fabric as her hips rolled against the air, searching.

“Good girl,” I said, kissing her jaw. “You’re gonna stay quiet now.”

She nodded — barely — and I could see her trying to breathe through her nose, flushed from the buildup, thighs squeezing together.

I pulled back just enough to admire the view.

Ningning. Spread open. Gagged with her own panties. Dripping wet and twitching under me like she was wired to explode.

“You ready for it?”

She moaned against the gag. Nodded hard.

“Don’t cum until I tell you.”

Her eyes rolled.

And then I slid down the bed, hands pushing her legs apart, breath brushing her soaked cunt — tongue about to meet heat.

I didn’t ease into it.

The second my tongue met her, she convulsed — thighs twitching, toes curling, a desperate muffled moan vibrating behind the panties stuffed in her mouth. I flattened my tongue against her clit and dragged it slow, deliberate, from bottom to top. She clenched hard.

Her taste was perfect. Salty-sweet, slick, fever-hot. Her pussy was already swollen, soaked, begging. And I hadn’t even used my fingers again yet.

She whimpered behind the gag — soft, choked, and feral.

I reached up and pressed a hand flat against her stomach, holding her down as she tried to grind against my mouth. Her hips had no rhythm now — just jerks of raw need. Her body couldn’t decide if it was trying to run or pull me deeper.

She tried to say something behind the gag. Couldn’t. Just a desperate, high-pitched moan.

I circled her clit with the tip of my tongue, then flicked harder — faster. I didn’t stop. I didn’t let up. She was panting through her nose like she couldn’t take it.

Then she started crying — not sobbing, not pain. Just overstimulated tears that spilled sideways from the corners of her eyes.

Her whole body writhed.

She was right on the edge.

And I didn’t stop.

I locked my arms under her thighs and kept eating. Tongue lapping, lips sucking, eyes locked on the way her stomach kept twitching under me. Her muffled voice was wrecked now — whines and moans bleeding together, hands clawing the sheets, one leg jerking involuntarily every time I sucked hard.

She tried to shake her head. I looked up.

Her eyes were wide. She was trying to tell me something.

I reached up, pulled the gag gently from her mouth.

She gasped the second it came out, chest heaving.

“C-Can I cum?” she begged. “Please, please—Mylo, fuck—please let me—”

Her voice broke.

I growled against her pussy, then nodded once.

“Do it.”

She shattered.

Her scream ripped from her throat as her thighs locked around my head. Her back arched clear off the bed, hips bucking like she was being electrocuted. Her pussy clenched and throbbed, gushing against my tongue — so wet I could feel it drip down my chin. Her hands tangled in my hair like she couldn’t tell if she was trying to pull me off or keep me there forever.

“AHH—ahh—fuck, fuck, I’m cumming—!”

I didn’t stop.

I kept licking. Slower. Then faster again.

Her scream cut off into choked moans — then laughter, then moaning again, her voice completely undone.

“Ohmygod—oh fuck—stop, I—I can’t—”

I didn’t stop.

She started shaking.

Her hips lifted — then collapsed — then lifted again.

“No—no—fuck—too much, too much—!”

Her body betrayed her. Another orgasm slammed into her out of nowhere — a second wave she didn’t see coming.

She sobbed through it.

And I kept going.

I pulled back only when she physically tried to crawl away from me — legs twitching, voice wrecked, pussy throbbing and red and soaked.

I crawled up her body, licking my lips.

She was breathless.

Hair tangled. Face flushed. Drool at the corner of her mouth. Her nipples were stiff, her chest heaving, and her thighs still trembled.

“Y-You’re a fucking psycho,” she whispered, half-laughing.

I smiled.

“You’re not done.”

She turned her head slowly. Met my eyes.

Then smirked.

“No,” she said. “You’re not done.”

She pulled one leg up, bent at the knee. Her fingers slid behind her, teasing herself — then stopping just long enough to say:

“Do me here.”

I blinked.

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. “I want you in my ass.”

I didn’t move.

“I want to feel all of you,” she whispered. “Stretch me out. Use me. Don’t be gentle.”

Then she grabbed her panties from where they were still damp on the sheets.

Smiling, breathless, glowing.

“I’ll need these.”

She said it with a smirk, voice rough and breathless, holding out her damp panties like she was giving me a challenge. Her legs were still trembling, her chest flushed, lips parted with that smug, post-orgasm haze painted all over her.

I took them from her hand.

But instead of turning around for me — instead of staying soft, pliant, desperate — she rolled onto her side and gave me a look. A raised brow. That same spark from earlier, only sharper now. Hungrier. Dirtier.

“You’ve got no idea what to do with me, do you?”

I blinked once.

She tilted her head, dragging her nails across her thigh, slow and deliberate.

“That little tongue act? Cute. Real cute. And maybe that sweet-boy edge works on Giselle, but me?” She ran her fingers between her legs, deliberately collecting the slick I’d left there, then licked them clean while holding eye contact. “I need more than a guy who thinks making me cum twice is enough.”

I didn’t speak.

“Thought you were dangerous,” she added, voice soft and mocking. “Right now, I feel like I should pat your head and call you adorable.”

That did it.

I grabbed her by the hips and yanked her hard, dragging her onto her stomach. She yelped, legs kicking instinctively, but she didn’t resist — not really. Not when I shoved her thighs apart. Not when I spread her ass and let that second of silence stretch.

She was soaked, still twitching. Her cunt glistened. Her asshole clenched when the air hit it.

“You sure you want this?” I asked low, voice near her ear as I leaned over her.

She grinned into the sheets.

“Break me.”

I poured lube straight down the middle of her, cool and slick. She gasped, just once, and then pressed her hips back against my hand. Shameless. Eager.

“You gonna take it like a good girl?” I muttered, lining up behind her.

She looked back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming.

“I’m not a good girl.”

I shoved the panties between her lips.

“Then shut up and take it.”

She groaned — deep, needy — and her hips twitched the moment the head of my cock touched her. I pushed forward slowly at first, watching her face, her body, the little flinch of resistance.

And then I didn’t wait.

I pushed all the way in.

Her scream was muffled by her own panties, loud and broken. Her hands clawed at the sheets, body bucking underneath me as I buried myself inside her tight, tight ass.

“Ffff—fuck—mmmph—!”

I stayed deep for a second, feeling the way she clenched around me. Then I pulled back — almost all the way — and slammed into her again.

Her body jolted.

Again.

And again.

Harder. Rougher. Her ass rippled with every thrust, every slap of skin echoing through the room. She moaned into the gag, messy and half-strangled, drooling now, her face wrecked and twitching.

She tried to push back against me — match my pace — but I grabbed her wrists, pinned them to the bed above her head, and really started to fuck her.

Brutal.

No rhythm, no mercy. Just sound. Just flesh.

She couldn’t form words anymore.

Only screams.

Only sobs.

Her legs started to give out. Her face smashed into the pillow. Her body trembled violently with every thrust. But I didn’t stop.

I was going to ruin her like she’d fucking asked.

And she was loving every second of it.

Half-screaming into the panties stuffed in her mouth, drool running down her chin, her entire body trembling under me like every nerve had been lit up and exposed. Her wrists strained against my grip, but not to escape — just reacting, raw and helpless, twitching under the weight of every thrust.

Her ass was red now, every slap echoing. My cock slammed into her with no softness left, just wet heat, friction, and tight, relentless pressure. I was buried to the hilt every time. She took it. Every inch. Every time.

And she didn’t stop moaning.

Not once.

She was gasping around the gag like she needed air between sobs, but her hips still pushed back on instinct. Her cunt was soaked — dripping onto the sheets — and every time I bottomed out, her body clenched again like she was trying to milk me from both ends.

She was shaking violently.

Her legs twitched. Her toes curled. Her arms gave out and her face dropped to the pillow. Her back arched like she was being held in place by invisible strings.

Still, I didn’t stop.

I grunted as I leaned forward, yanked the panties from her mouth, and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up.

“You still think I’m soft?”

She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a broken sound — part laugh, part sob.

I slowed down just enough to let her catch one word.

“More.”

It wasn’t even a whisper. It was a prayer.

I growled and pulled out.

She collapsed face-first, moaning when I let go of her wrists. Her whole body quivered. Her ass stayed high, begging. Her pussy was glistening and wide open, twitching like it hadn’t been touched in hours, even though it had just been flooded with her own juices and my cock rubbing past it.

I pushed her flat onto her back. She groaned — too limp to help me move her, but not resisting. I kissed her once — slow, rough — and grabbed her thighs.

“You want more?”

She nodded weakly. Then smirked.

“Don’t slow down now.”

Her voice was wrecked, hoarse, scratchy with use — but that smile. That cocky little curl.

She wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

I caught the glint of something on the nightstand drawer- a small toy, black and sleek, the switch already worn from use.

I spread her legs, grabbed the vibrator on the drawer and turned it on. The hum was low. She flinched when I pressed it to her clit.

“No—no—fuck—” she gasped, laughing like she couldn’t believe it. “Mylo—Jesus—oh my God—”

She screamed.

There wasn’t a better word for it. Just a ragged, full-body cry as her pussy clenched around me again — hotter, wetter, tighter than before. Her legs locked around my waist and her nails clawed my back, but I didn’t stop moving.

“You’re insane—ahh! Fuck, I’m gonna cum—don’t—don’t—don’t stop—”

I didn’t.

She came again.

Hard.

Her body jerked. Her voice cracked. Her whole core clenched like she was trying to push me out and pull me deeper all at once.

I felt her break.

Her arms went limp. Her hands slapped against the mattress. Her eyes rolled back for half a second, and a drool thread slipped from her open mouth.

She moaned like she couldn’t help it.

Again. And again.

And then?

She laughed.

This breathless, dizzy little laugh.

“Still think I can’t take it?” she choked out.

I slowed.

Then pulled out.

She blinked — dazed.

“What—?”

I grabbed her by the jaw. Lifted her chin. My cock pressed against her lips.

“Open.”

She blinked again.

Then smiled — half-wrecked, all heat.

Her mouth opened slowly, still catching her breath, eyes half-lidded and lips glistening from moans and drool. I gripped my cock at the base, slid the tip across her bottom lip, and watched her tongue dart out like instinct.

She wasn’t broken.

She was starving.

I didn’t slide it in gently.

I pushed past her lips, past her tongue, to the back of her throat.

She choked once — a reflex — but didn’t pull away. She looked up at me with tears brimming, gagging around the thickness like it was nothing new.

I groaned. “That’s it.”

I grabbed a fistful of her hair, both hands now, and started thrusting — short, controlled strokes at first, then deeper. Sloppier.

Her moans vibrated around me, low and wet, her jaw flexing as her spit ran down my length. Her eyes didn’t close. She stared up at me while I used her mouth like it belonged to me.

Then I said it:

“Touch yourself.”

Her brows twitched. Her hands slid down.

“Yeah,” I growled. “Rub that ruined little pussy while I fuck your throat.”

She obeyed.

I felt it before I saw it — her body shifting slightly, hips squirming, legs twitching. Then her moan turned desperate. Higher. Faster.

“Good girl,” I muttered.

Her eyes rolled back as I pushed deeper, forcing her nose to my skin. She gagged, eyes fluttering, and I pulled back just enough to let her breathe before I rammed in again.

Again.

And again.

Her spit coated my shaft, dripping down her chin, mixing with the mess already painting her face. Her fingers moved faster between her legs now — wild and sloppy — and every time I bottomed out in her mouth, her thighs flexed.

“You want to cum?” I asked, hips slamming forward again. “Make yourself cum. I want to feel you fall apart while you choke on me.”

She whimpered, barely audible, her throat full.

I didn’t stop.

Her nails dug into her thighs. Her legs trembled. Her moans grew frantic, desperate little gulps of air between strokes. Her whole body jerked when I stayed deep just a second longer.

Then she started to twitch.

Her thighs clenched.

Her pussy clenched around her fingers.

She was cumming.

Sobbing and choking around my cock, her whole body writhing as she came for the fourth — fifth? — time tonight. Her scream was trapped inside me. Her lips sealed around the base. Her eyes rolled back.

I was close.

I gripped her hair tight and let go — thrusting deep, staying there.

“Fuck—take it—take all of it—”

I came hard.

Down her throat.

Hot, thick, pulse after pulse, and she took it — moaning as I filled her, drool and cum leaking from the corners of her mouth, her body still twitching, her hand still working her pussy like she couldn’t stop.

When I pulled out, she gasped once — then let her tongue loll out, panting, face soaked and wrecked.

I dropped to my knees and kissed her.

Hard.

Tasting myself. Tasting her. She moaned into my mouth, and I felt her legs give out.

We sank down together — breathless and shaking, sprawled across the sweat-damp sheets, skin to skin and fucked clean out of words.

And just before she drifted off — eyes fluttering shut — she mumbled it.

“Mylo…”

Then, softer.

“Goddamn.”

I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep until I woke up to her laughing.

Not loud. Just this low, breathy giggle, like she was trying not to move too much but couldn’t help herself.

She was lying sideways across the bed, one leg thrown over mine, face buried in a pillow, bare ass peeking from under a sheet. Her hair was tangled, lips shiny and pink, and when I shifted, she blinked slowly like she’d forgotten I was real.

“That was you,” she murmured. “Huh?”

I rubbed my eyes. “You're just figuring that out?”

“No,” she said, yawning. “Just processing.”

She flopped back beside me, arm stretching over her head.

“Damn,” she whispered. “I thought I was gonna break you.”

I snorted. “You tried.”

“I succeeded.” She poked me in the ribs. “You were shaking at one point.”

“You were sobbing.”

“You gagged me!” she laughed.

“You handed me the gag.”

She smiled, smug and satisfied. “I know. And I stand by that decision.”

The room was quiet again for a beat. She curled up beside me, head nudging into the crook of my shoulder, like it was a habit she hadn’t realized she had.

I ran my fingers slowly down her back. She hummed at the touch.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Better than okay,” she said. “Just… quiet.”

Her hand moved to my chest, resting flat.

“People always think I’m loud,” she said. “Like, nonstop. Funny. Bubbly. That’s what they want, you know? The energy.”

I stayed quiet.

“But I like quiet, too,” she added. “Like now. After.”

“Yeah,” I murmured.

She looked up at me. “Do you always fuck people like that?”

“Like what?”

She laughed again. “Like you’re trying to prove a point.”

I didn’t answer.

She traced slow circles on my chest.

“I liked it,” she said. “Just so we’re clear. You’re not in trouble.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“Mmhm.”

Another beat.

“Do you think Karina heard anything?”

I blinked. “I—what?”

“I mean, her room’s down the hall.” She stretched her arms above her head. “And I was loud.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“She’ll pretend she didn’t. But she’s definitely going to say something passive-aggressive at breakfast.”

I groaned and dragged a pillow over my face. Ningning cackled.

“She’ll be fine,” she said. “Eventually.”

“Right. Because she loves me.”

“No. She doesn’t.” Ningning rolled onto her side. “But that’s not your fault.”

I peeked at her under the pillow.

“She’s under a lot of pressure,” Ningning said, tone softer now. “She has to be the leader, the oldest, the one who keeps it all together.”

She paused.

“People forget that it takes a toll.”

I stayed quiet. Let her keep going.

“She’s always expected to protect everyone. Keep us moving. Carry the image, the team, the weight. But nobody ever really stops to think…”

She trailed off.

“To think what?” I asked.

Ningning’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling.

“Who protects her?”

It sat heavy and quiet in the room, louder than her laughter, more grounded than her teasing.

After a moment, she sighed, shifting so her cheek rested on my chest again.

“You should go soon,” she murmured.

“Yeah,” I said.

Neither of us moved.

I dressed quietly.

Ningning didn’t move much — just curled deeper into the mess of blankets, her breath soft and even, one arm tucked under her head like she’d melted into the bed. She was flushed, glowing, hair fanned out on the pillow like the aftermath of a storm.

For a second, I didn’t want to leave.

I pulled my shirt over my head and watched her shift slightly, murmuring something incomprehensible. Her lips parted, then closed again.

I grabbed my jeans. Shoes in hand.

Careful.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in low amber light from the sconces. Quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful — the kind that felt like it was watching.

I crept down the hall, heart beating faster than I wanted it to. Not fear, exactly. Just awareness. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this hallway, not on this floor, not in this part of the story.

I paused at the top of the stairs.

The house was beautiful in the dark. Expensive without being loud. Sculpted. Stylish. But sterile, too. Like every piece had been approved by a manager and a stylist before it earned a place on the shelf.

Like nothing here belonged to them. Not really.

I started down.

Halfway to the landing, my phone buzzed.

I flinched. Fumbled it from my pocket.

Giselle.

A text.

The last thing she’d sent: "Tell me if you leave?”

I stared at it.

Then I looked away.

I kept moving.

The front door came into view. I reached for the handle — paused when I caught my reflection in the glass.

Shirt rumpled. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Scratches across my neck.

No hiding what happened.

The guilt wasn’t sharp. Not a stab. Just a slow curl in my chest. A twist.

Giselle and I weren’t anything. No promises. No label. But there had been… something.

Connection.

I hadn’t forgotten it.

I just hadn’t known what to do with it.

I stepped outside.

Cool air hit my face. Night still hanging low. The stars blurred into the city haze and the wind carried just a hint of jasmine from the garden. I breathed it in and closed the door gently behind me.

The driveway was empty. The gates were still open.

I walked.

No noise. No music. Just the sound of my shoes on pavement and the thoughts I didn’t want to hold onto:

Giselle’s hand in mine. Her voice. Her breath in my ear when she told me she wanted me again.

The way she looked when I kissed her goodbye at the door.

I wasn’t sure what I’d say if she asked.

If she looked at me with that half-smile and said, Did you miss me?

I didn’t know.

But I was starting to wish I had.

A woman’s voice pulled me back. Soft. Familiar.

Across the street, a mom was helping her kid into a carseat. Brushing the hair from his face.

“Come on, sweetie. It’s for our own good, remember?”

My stomach twisted.

I stopped walking.

The words echoed in a different voice. One I hadn’t heard in years.

"It’s for our good, okay?" My mother. Not looking at me. Not meeting my eyes. The hallway light yellow and sick. A man in a suit smiling at me. An envelope changing hands. The click of a door closing. The sound of a zipper.

I blinked.

Came back.

The woman was gone. Just taillights now. Fading around a corner.

I breathed out and rubbed at my face with both hands.

Kept walking.

I didn’t know where I was going.

But it wasn’t away from her.

Not anymore.

TO BE CONTINUED... PART 4

#ningning smut #aespa #aespa smut #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader

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martygraciesversion381 · 2 months ago

Note

hii i was wondering if you could write a smut about kimi?

BUSY WOMAN

kimi antonelli x reader

warnings: smut, pnv, fingering, unprotected smut (don't), talk about wedding, fluff and that's all i think

song: busy woman ~ sabrina carpenter

a/n: i didn't expect the first request to be a kimi smut but ty anon for it since i love kimi and he's been such a good driver so far so he deserves a smut <3

masterlist

requests[open]

You and Kimi first met when he got into f2. You were a pretty, young girl back then, working so hard to get the job that you had always dreamed of. And when that day happened, you didn't have a second to breathe after.

You were a model in one of the world's most famous modelling agencies. You were also one of the most gorgeous women on earth and as much as you would have liked to give a chance to all of your pretenders, you were far too busy for it.

Planning a date always turned into placing some meetings and work at crazy hours, it was a rhythm that you couldn't keep up with. So, you decided to just not date.

That was until Kimi, invited you to assist to one of his races. Now, let's not lie to ourselves, the boy was handsome and incredibly sweet. To say that you liked him would have been an understatement.

You had confessed to him a lot of times but it was always met with rejection. Still, you never stopped trying. That's why a bright smile was on your face as you entered the Mercedes garage. The first person that saw you was George Russell his teammate.

"Y/n hey! How are you?"

"Hi George...I'm good you? How's Carmen?"

"We're both good thanks...Kimi's in his drivers room"

You smiled at George, he knew you so well that he guessed who you were looking for.

"Thanks George."

"Your welcome...and please guys keep it down for our poor ears."

You felt heat creep up your neck as you walked away heading for Kimi's drivers room. You knocked at the door and when it opened, you were met with Kimi already dressed for the race with his racing suit hanging from his waist.

"Hey" he greeted you with a soft yet charming smile

"Hi Kimi" you answered shyly

He motioned for you to get in. You stepped into his drivers room, it was messy, like really messy. Clothes were on the floor and a few bags of snacks were scattered around. The room smelled like sweat, soap and something so indistinctively Kimi.

You turned back to him when you heard the door close behind you. You both stood there looking into each other’s eyes for a few minutes before Kimi broke the silence.

"Been busy lately?"

"Yeah...a lot" you sighed. You loved your job but sometimes it all became too much.

"Need help relaxing?" he asked, his voice becoming deeper and sounding almost like a whisper.

You gasped and your eyes went wide but who were you to say no to Kimi. So you nodded your head because you couldn't trust words right now. The next thing you knew was that Kimi was kissing you, and you were kissing back.

His lips felt like heaven against yours. If only he knew how many nights you had dreamed of this. If only he knew how much this simple kiss meant to you.

Kimi walked the both of you to the couch before sitting down and pulling down to straddle his lap, all of this while kissing. The only moment that his lips detached from yours was to take off your shirt leaving your bare torso in front of him.

“No bra? Girl you’re trying to kill me”

You blushed and went back to kissing him, this time hungrier than before. You both wanted something and you had wanted it since the day that you met. You couldn’t wait anymore.

You helped Kimi out of his shirt before he started to attack your neck leaving some hickeys there before sucking where your neck and shoulder met making you whimper as you gripped his hair. He then moved to your collarbone before finally paying attention to your breasts.

He sucked on your left nipple while his fingers worked on your right one. You ground down on his lap feeling him already hard under you and you let out one of the neediest whimpers that this drivers room had ever heard. Kimi looked up at you with a smirk.

“My girl is needy? Want me to give you what you want?” he teased.

You nodded and before you knew you were lifted from his lap so he could take off his pants and underwear and fuck…he was huge. He pulled you back down on his lap as his hands disappeared under your skirt to tease you through your panties.

“Merda, you’re soaked” (shit)

He slipped his fingers under your panties and started to massage your clit. You bit onto his shoulder and moaned as you started to grind your hips on his hand. Kimi inserted a finger in you and started to pump it in and out slowly. That’s when you lost it. You had been dreaming for this moment for years, spent night fantasizing about this and now it was happening. Kimi’s touch was overwhelming, it was like he knew your body by heart.

He pulled out his finger slowly and looked at your juices before pulling it into his mouth and licking it clean.

“Sei deliziosa” (you’re delicious)

He waisted no more time and pulled your panties to the side, lifted you up and pulled you back down on his dick. You both let out a moan together as he started to move you on top of him. You started to ride him, your breasts bouncing with his thrust.

“Cazzo sei bellissima” (fuck you’re gorgeous)

You kept going, every time that he bottomed out, he hit your cervix. His hands were gripping you hips as his lips left more love bites on your neck. Your hands were on his shoulders with your nails digging in his skin. It felt amazing.

“Kimi….m’close”

Kimi started to thrust his hips up to meet your movements as he brought his hand down to your clit. The sensation of his dick inside you and the small eights that he traced on your clit sent you over the edge, milking his dick as he stilled and painted your walls white with his release.

You both stayed there for a moment, just catching your breath. That’s when you heard it.

“Ti amo”

You didn’t speak Italian but you knew what these words meant. ‘I love you’. Kimi had just confessed that he loved you….in one of the less romantic scenarios ever. Yet you answered.

“I love you too”

BONUS:

After the race, George walked over to you.

“Congrats for you and Kimi but reminder, the walls aren’t that thin here so please have merci next time.”

He walked away leaving a blushing you standing in the middle of the Mercedes garage.

Yourusername

I’m a busy woman I wouldn’t let you come into my calendar any night. But if you want my kisses, I’ll be your perfect Mrs.

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#f1 #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you #kimi antonelli x reader #kimi antonelli #kimi antonelli x you #kimi antonelli imagine #kimi antonelli fic #andrea kimi antonelli #f1 smut #f1 fluff #kimi antonelli fluff #kimi antonelli smut

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adore-laur · 5 months ago

Note

hiii lovely i don’t know if you take requests but if you do please can we have an angsty piece for dadrry, like i know we had the christmas fight but like maybe h says something super mean to yn during an argument or he’s been super busy with work and he ends up being neglectful and stuff, and like i wanna see the groveling!!! it’s just a request if you don’t do angst i get it, but i would really love to see it !! no pressure tho xx

NEED YOU NOW

——

The time was 7:55 p.m., nearly three hours past when Harry had promised to be home. The plate of food you had made him sat cold on the countertop. It’d been his to make, but when you heard that he was staying late at the restaurant, you threw a quick meal together that was subpar even by your standards.

Truthfully, you were livid. Harry's paid paternity leave expired a week ago, and he was already breaking promises. I will always be home for dinner, he had vowed when you began to dread the day he put his white chef coat back on and left you to parent alone. Remarkably, he had upheld it thus far. You just didn't think he would let it collapse so soon.

You stewed over it in bed while trying—and failing—to put your four-month-old daughter down to sleep. It was the first time you had to do it by yourself, and to say it was shaping up to be a colossal catastrophe was an understatement. You didn't possess Harry's deep, soothing voice that was practically a lullaby of its own, nor did you possess his natural, rhythmic hip sway while rocking her to sleep. So, yes, there was a tiny kernel of resentment building pressure inside of you because of your shortcomings as a parent, and it could explode any second now. Because missing dinner was one thing, but missing the baby's bedtime? Outrageous.

Restless cries rattled around the room as her body squirmed in the bedside bassinet. The probability of you joining in on her meltdown was soaring higher as the sky darkened. Nothing you were doing was successful in calming her conniption—not nursing, ocean air, white noise, or even her trusty pacifier could settle those high-pitched wails that simultaneously broke your heart and frazzled your nervous system beyond its regular state. You were determined to remedy the situation as a perfectly capable mother, but in your heart of hearts, you knew that sometimes you weren't the needed parent. Tonight, Harry was the desired nurturer. And he wasn't here.

With clammy palms, you surrendered your pride and unlocked your phone to call Harry. The last text he had sent was at 4:37. It read: I won't be home until late tonight. Don't know what time. I'm sorry. Out of frustration, you had left him with no response.

The ringing tone droned, and you held no hope that he'd answer. Realistically, there was no open opportunity to take a phone call in a fast-paced restaurant kitchen. The cogs needed to be moving at all times—otherwise, the wheel would splinter. You had accepted it years ago.

When you first started dating Harry, it had been strenuous finding time for each other. On a lucky day, you'd talk to him during his lunch break. Weekends bestowed the moments that made the relationship flourish. It should have gotten more manageable after many years, but as a new mother, it wasn't something you could handle like a champ anymore.

Therein lay the problem: You had become too comfortable with having Harry home for twelve weeks. Calibrating to the changes that parenthood presented was much easier with a dedicated husband ready to face them with you. It had been a luxury to be a team from sunrise to sunset and every nocturnal hour that you both spent devoid of energy. Your steadfast lover, now far away from you.

"Hello?"

You jolted, surprised to hear Harry's voice. It caused relief and rage to clash within you—not a pleasurable combination. "How much longer are you working?"

His sigh was smothered by scattered voices speaking in the background and kitchenware clanging noisily. "I don't know. We're finishing the dinner rush, and there's still loads of cleaning to do. Trust me, I've been trying to make an exit for the past two hours, but the orders keep coming."

"I need you here, Harry," you said shakily. "I can't do this by myself."

"Do what by yourself? What's going on?"

Rage won the internal battle and staked its claim over your sensibility. "Seriously? I have a baby that won't stop crying, a husband that has been missing in action for the past three hours, and I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown."

"You never texted me back," Harry said, sounding like his focus was split half on the conversation and half on whatever task he was doing. "Have you tried walking her around outside? Maybe some fresh air will help."

You stood and started pacing around the room. "I tried that. I need your help. She wants nothing to do with me."

"Honey, I... I can't right now. I have to be here."

"Please," you begged, panic crawling up your throat. Could he even hear the baby crying on your end? How could he possibly understand your crisis through a muddled phone call? "I'm telling you I need you now."

"And I'm telling you I have a kitchen to run," he replied firmly. His tone softened when he added, "If I could leave right now, I would. It's just not viable when it's been this busy."

You stayed silent, chewing on his weak explanation. All your pent-up exasperation was simmering and had nowhere to go, so you infused your next words with it. "You're being neglectful."

"What?" Harry said. You could picture him with that cute little divot between his eyebrows, except the reasoning behind it wasn't so cute this time. "Wait, hold on, hold on. Say that again? Shit, I can't focus." A loud clattering of metal punctuated his rambling.

There was no fight left in you. Numbly, you walked over to the bay window and watched the ocean tide swell under the moon. "Never mind. Go finish what's clearly more important."

"Listen, it's hard to hear you in here. Can I call you back in... um, I don't know, fifteen minutes?" He didn't seem angry and didn't sense the urgency you were conveying. He just seemed distracted, and it felt like a bruising kick while you were already down.

"Bye, Harry." You hung up, not regretting your stubbornness. His communication during the day had been meager. He should have known to keep you in the loop after three hours of waiting for him to come home. You had hung on by a thread and wondered if this would become the norm. You thought he was done with his old tendencies of being a yes-man.

What mattered to you the most was that Harry knew when to put family first, and tonight, you and your daughter were put on the back burner.

With two tears slipping down your cheeks, you succumbed to the feeling of utter helplessness.

——

Harry unlocked the front door, trying to recall the last time he had come home at nine-thirty at night. Surely months ago, when you were heavily pregnant and couldn't sleep. He used to take you for slow drives around the neighborhood and play with your hair in hopes of lulling you into a deep slumber. Worked like a charm every time.

God, he knew you were pissed at him. He was in the doghouse for good reason. Usually, you'd greet him at the door, happy to see him. Now, the quiet bounced off the walls uncannily.

He had barely been able to concentrate on anything while in the thick of dinner service. Too many stressors flew around the kitchen like bullets. It had been the absolute worst moment to respond to your panicked phone call. Why had he said yes to staying late? The agreement was to work from seven to five, Tuesday through Friday. He failed you today, and it killed him.

Ever since the baby was born, Harry had turned into a homebody. He loved seeing every room hold signs of his little girl. Milk bottles in the refrigerator; tiny onesies in the washer; storybooks on the nursery's rocking chair; the tummy time mat on the living room carpet; the foldable bathtub in the kitchen sink (he planned to research if adults could use baby shampoo since the smell was irresistible). He had gotten so attached to the routine that it came as no surprise: his first week back at work had been hell. He had messed up several times, struggling to get back in the groove. His hands moved slower, his mind on overload as he played catch-up with the twelve weeks he missed. Everything there felt foreign, and it sparked a realization that nothing came as close to feeling natural as being a dad did.

Harry shook his head to clear the tornado whirling around his brain and turned on the kitchen light. He immediately spotted his plate of dinner waiting for him, a depressing reminder of his broken vow.

An awful feeling sank like a stone in his stomach. This was all wrong. It was supposed to go like this: Harry, ravenous and in dire need of affection, would arrive home at five, the sun still shining. He would kiss you in the foyer as you passed over his daughter. She would coo happily, the weight of her in his arms a precious comfort. He'd then carry her and entertain her with silly voices and other theatrical dad antics before getting started on cooking dinner. Then the night would slowly progress, and as everyone's eyes grew heavy with sleep, he'd wait until you were done nursing before burping a full-bellied baby and setting her in the bassinet.

And who was to blame for blowing that beautiful sequence to smithereens? This guy.

When Harry reached the hallway, he shivered. Was the window open? There was a chilly draft floating around, and when he peeked his head past the bedroom doorway, his assumptions were proven correct. There you were on the cushioned windowsill seat, the glittering moonlight illuminating your sleeping frame as you held his baby girl against your chest. She was asleep as well, with her limbs tucked all cozily in your motherly embrace. Harry just stood and watched for a minute, the day's stress cascading off his shoulders. Home. This was what remained the most paramount part of his life. He needed to apologize before you formed a grudge.

He didn't want to wake you or the baby, especially considering the overwhelming night you had helmed, so he hopped in the shower to contemplate the best way to handle... whatever had occurred over the phone. Harry knew that the postpartum phase was treating you roughly—your anxiety was a tight rubber band ready to snap at any moment. He hadn't fully grasped the reality of you doing the bedtime routine alone. How hard it probably had been with a baby experiencing major sleep regression. He'd thought your using the word neglectful was harsh, but it was fair.

With a cleansed body and mind, Harry exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. The breeze blowing in from the open window was too brisk for his liking, so he walked over and reached past you to close it. It squeaked, and he winced when you stirred awake. He stalled his movements as you came into consciousness, slowly and with weariness.

How motherhood looked on you was a thing of beauty. Even in the most ordinary moments, you were radiant, emanating warmth and solace. You were this family's guiding light.

Eventually, you swung your legs over the edge of the windowsill seat and stared at him blankly. Guilt struck Harry speechless, and all he could do was sink to his knees and press his face into your shin, like Stephan Sinding's Adoration. "Please forgive me, baby," he murmured, kissing your almond-scented skin. "I'm so sorry. There's no excuse."

When you remained silent, Harry lifted his face and looked at you. The sight of your expression crumpling and tears welling in your eyes shattered his heart. He got up to sit beside you, pulling you and your daughter into a remorseful hug. "I've made you cry. I'm awful, aren't I?"

You sniffled. "No, you're not. I just don't understand."

"Can I try to explain?" he asked.

You nodded and let your head fall limply on his shoulder. Harry was grateful you weren't shunning him. After pressing a soft kiss to your temple, he said, "You needed me tonight, and I fell short as your husband and as her father." He stroked his baby girl's back, his palm nearly covering the entirety of it. "It was an unexpectedly chaotic day at work, and I... I don't know, it's like I forgot how to hold the reins. All my skill retention just vanished. It was bizarre, and I'm sure it has to do with being sleep-deprived, but it shouldn't have pushed me to stay late. I should've put our family first, and I'm sorry you felt neglected. That wounds me to hear that." He grabbed your hand and held it against his heart, leaning down to kiss your knuckles tenderly. "So, from now on, I will be home for dinner. I will be here for bedtime. I will be here when you need me, for whatever reason. Because when you hurt, I hurt. And I don't ever want to make you feel like that again. Don't want you to doubt starting a family with me."

You were crying against his neck, and Harry couldn't tell if it was a good or bad sign. Every word he had said was honest. Poured straight from his soul. It was a vow to be better and to learn from his mistakes. The adjustment from a blissful four months experiencing fatherhood at home to transitioning right into a forty-hour workweek had been messy, and it still would be in the weeks to come, so he hoped you understood that he was trying. It would all balance out soon enough. It just took time.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," Harry whispered to you. His daughter was making whiny noises now, so he carefully took her from your arms and cuddled her close. It felt like his vital purpose.

Meanwhile, you inhaled a few deep breaths to collect yourself. Your hand gripped the towel around his waist, and you gasped before saying, "This whole time, I thought you were naked."

He laughed, thankful for the brief levity. "I think you're still dreaming, sleepyhead." A small smile lifted your lips, and he had no choice but to kiss them. He'd been gone for far too long today.

"I forgive you," you said quietly. "I trust that you won't let this become a habit. I think there were heightened emotions from both of us, for valid reasons, and I found it hard to communicate exactly what I needed."

"You needed me," Harry replied, feeling guilt creep its way back into his mind.

"I know, but I can't always expect you to drop everything when you're needed elsewhere. That's not fair."

He nodded. "Still, you're my partner. It's my responsibility to make you feel adored, and since I blundered that today, how about if I take all the night shift duties this weekend?"

Your eyes fluttered shut, relief softening your facial features. "That would make me feel very adored."

"Yeah?" He kissed your forehead. "And since tomorrow's Saturday, I think I'll treat you to breakfast in bed."

You hummed, pleased as punch. "Tell me more."

"We'll sit on the porch swing and drink coffee," he continued, the domestic visualization sending a rush of heat through him. "Watch the sunrise and listen to the mourning doves."

"No, I meant tell me more about treating me to things in bed."

"Oh, my sincerest apologies," Harry said with an amused laugh. "Are we talking about innocent bed activities, or...?"

You were in a reverie, no doubt thinking of not-so-innocent activities. "Remember our wedding night when we tried using that—" A sudden and sharp wail sliced through your sentence, and in Harry's mind, he caught a brief flash of the memory: you, perched seductively on the living room sofa in the newly purchased beach house, more breathtaking than the ocean view in the distance. Harry, unable to believe he had found you and got to treasure your love for life. And yeah... he couldn't possibly forget that ridiculous toy he'd been gifted with at his bachelor party. Moving on.

"Let's all get some sleep so we can act alive tomorrow," Harry said. When he stood to start rocking the baby, the loosened towel dropped to the floor, leaving him stark naked in the moonlight. You giggled, and the sound was like a shot of bliss straight into his veins. He laughed too, drowsiness finally hitting him. It would be a long night ahead, and although he would likely rack up a measly four hours of sleep, knowing he’ll wake up beside you and have only dad-related obligations for the next three days made it sound peachy.

For the first time that day, a sense of calmness washed over him. Home, sweet home.

——

#harry styles blurb #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #dadrry #dad!harry #harry styles au #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #harry styles #adore-laur

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lucienweekofficial · 1 month ago

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Lucien Week 2025: Announcing the Prompts!

🌲 It's time to put your Lucien Simp hats on, everyone: the official Lucien Week 2025 prompts are here! We're working diligently on delivering a fun-packed event for you, returning this November 2 — 8!

🌲 The full prompt guide is included under the cut! For more information about this year's prompts, make sure to check it out!

🌲 Remember, these prompts serve only as a guide and are purely optional: you can let your imagination run as wild and free as Lucien in the Prythian forests.

Art Credit: @laxibbeb

🌲🌲🌲

Lucien Week 2025: Prompt Guide

DAY 1 || Fireling

"Mind your own business, fireling."

There's no denying Lucien's got fire in his blood. With his blazing eyes and hair like molten metal, he is the very epitome of a flame come alive. Day 1 is all about exploring the depth of his raw power, whether it be in his appearance, combat, or... other activities 👀

DAY 2 || Scars

"Ignoring this"—he waved a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face—"surely we're not so miserable to look at."

Lucien has suffered a lot throughout his long life, earning him scars both visible and hidden from the naked eye. On Day 2, bring out all the angst as we manifest a journey of healing and happiness for Lucien down the road.

DAY 3 || Brotherhood

"No," Lucien said, and Cassian marked the tightness of his shoulders beneath the dark grey jacket he wore, the taut silence emanating from every stone of the house." [...]

Without turning, Lucien said, "Eris is here."

Exiled from his home all those years ago, Lucien had been forced to forge bonds beyond his familial ties. But has he truly been forgotten by everyone in his family? Or perhaps, he has found new people to call a family of his own? We hope Day 3 will be full of found family theories, childhood memories, and Autumn Court headcanons as we take a look at Lucien as a brother and friend over the years.

DAY 4 | Warrior

"Did you think it was mere hatred that prompted my brothers to do their best to break and kill me?"

There's no denying Lucien Vanserra is a silver-tongued diplomat, with centuries as a courtier and emissary to prove it. But what about his other side? Throughout the books, Lucien has been described as a highly skilled warrior and hunter, and though he often opts for the diplomatic route, he's been forced into more and more battles as his story progresses. Day 4 is the perfect opportunity to see a not-yet-explored side of the cunning Fox-Lord, and we cannot wait to see your interpretations of him.

DAY 5 || Glamours

"This eye..." Lucien gestured to the metal contraption. "It can see things that others... can't. Spells, glamours..."

Day 5 truly contains multitudes. With an ability to see through potent magic, are there any secrets Lucien does not yet wish to reveal? Or perhaps, as a wanderer across Prythian's Courts, you'd like to explore him as a male of many faces? Finally, maybe you'd like to take the word ✨ glamours ✨ literally — and dedicate Day 5 to Lucien being the fashion icon that he is. We can't wait to see what you come up with!

DAY 6 || Destiny

"Helion is Lucien's father."

"Holy burning hell."

Day 6 is the time to theorize about where Lucien's story will take him. Is his destiny a place? With an undiscovered heritage in the Day Court, and homes scattered around Prythian and Human Lands alike, the possibilities are endless. Or... perhaps the place doesn't truly matter, and Lucien's destiny is a person he will find his true home with?

DAY 7 || NSFW

"He nodded, retreating into the room to let me inside. Bare from the waist up, he'd managed to haul on a pair of pants before opening the door, and hastily buttoned them as I strode past."

Alright, alright, you caught us. We are a little feral for Lucien Titserra, uh, we mean, Lucien Thighserra, or um— OH WHATEVER. We want to see that man nakey. You agree. With the above prompts being optional, any day can be a Free Day. But a dedicated [Redacted] Lucien Day... yeah, that deserves a spotlight of its own.

—

Lucien Week 2025 is returning November 2 — 8, but don't worry, you'll be seeing a lot more of us in the months leading up to the event! Thank you for being here with us!

#lucienweek2025 #lucienweek2025 prompts #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #acotar #a court of thorns and roses

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luveline · 2 years ago

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jadey!! would you ever write something for spencer where reader gets tipsy/drunk and is all over him? i just think he would be so cute and flustered, especially if she isn’t usually this forward with him (either established relationship or mutual crushing!)

thanks for your request lovely♡ —you really want spencer to be your boyfriend. fem!reader, 1k

The smell of your lip balm is the very first thing Spencer acknowledges, rather than the soft press of your lips to his cheek, or your hand on his neck. When he does realise you're kissing him it's like a shock to the system; Spencer hadn't thought about what his neck might feel like to a new hand until you're cupping it sweetly, hadn't worried about the neatness of his hair before you ran a hand over it with reverence.

"Thanks for coming to pick me up," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Best boyfriend ever."

Which is a great sentiment and all, but Spencer isn't your boyfriend. He holds your back in one arm, the other busy strangling his shiny car keys, his mind racing. He isn't your boyfriend. Right? You have to ask someone for it to be official (according to Derek, Penelope, and Emily) (JJ was a little more lax about it) and Spencer's been too scared to ask you.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly. You're wobbly.

"Super drunk," you say, like it's one word, a diagnosable affliction. "Sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to be sober for me to drive you home. I'm really glad you called me."

You're drunk enough to miss his confused tones. "No, I'm sorry 'cos I knew you'd say yes even though you hate driving. I honestly didn't even think you had a car."

Spencer pulls you closer as a couple stumbles out of the same bar you'd been inside of, though when he arrived you were sitting on the cold sidewalk with your knees pulled up and your dress slipping out of place. He adjusts his grip to put an arm under yours and begins leading you toward to the parking lot.

"Next time, I'll come inside to get you, okay? I don't think I need statistics to remind you that it's not safe to be inebriated by yourself in the city, especially now." It's pitch black outside, stars like a scattering of tint salt grains visible to only the most dedicated of eyes. "It's dangerous for you. I don't mind coming in to find you."

"You're the nicest," you declare, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

He's fitter than he used to be, but Spencer doesn't have a chance of getting you to the car if you're not conscious. "Hey, keep your eyes open. It's not far, okay? Work with me."

"Will you call me something nice if I do?" you ask.

Spencer helps you down off of the curb and across a naked stretch of asphalt shining like grease in the light from the lamppost. "I'll call you whatever you want me to."

"You called me pretty on Thursday."

Spencer feels the heat of a blush blooming at your slurred proclamation but doesn't back down. "You looked pretty on Thursday. You look pretty every single day. Watch the curb."

"What about, uh, pet names?"

"Like what?" he asks.

"Like honey, and sweetheart. Angel, doll, dove."

"Is that what you want?" he asks, trying to sneak a look at your face. You're concentrating hard on your footsteps, your tall shoes slippery on the wet ground.

"If we're together…"

"Are we together?" Spencer asks. He shouldn't ask while you're drunk, and it's not like he's going to take your word for it now over any sober discussion in the future, but he wants to know.

"You don't think we're together?" you ask, frowning. He's horrified to see the crushed tremble in your lip.

"I haven't had the chance to ask you yet," he says quickly.

You sniffle, looking at him with a wide-eyed hope. "But you're going to ask me?"

"Yeah, I'm going to ask you." He lowers his voice. He's not afraid of other people hearing him. If anything, he's afraid you will. He's afraid you'll hear him and reject him, despite every sign that says you won't. "I've wanted to ask you for a really long time, but you're– I was scared. You're beautiful, and kind, and you make me feel like I've found something I was missing, now. I guess I thought holding off would change the odds."

"I thought you got banned from all those casinos," you say, clinging to his arm.

Spencer's nose wrinkles. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You count cards and pr… probability," —you sound it out— "right? Have you not been doing that with me?"

Spencer stops walking to help you pull your jacket back onto your bare shoulder. It's too cold to stay out here long. "It's different. You're different."

"Oh." You smile at him dreamily. Eyes squinting until your lashes kiss in the corners, you smile like your lips have been stuck together with honey. You pout at him very gently, and he thinks you might want a kiss.

Spencer pats your back. "Come on. I'll take you home. You can sleep it off."

"Can I come home with you?"

He sees his car in the distance, a beacon of hope. "Yeah, if you want. But I don't have any pyjamas or anything for you."

"Not yet," you say.

Spencer goes pink to the ears, and unfortunately for him, you notice. You refuse to walk a step further, throwing heavy arms over his shoulders to beam at him eye to eye. Your fingers tangle gently into the ends of his hair and twist in circles that have butterflies exploding in his stomach. His breath catches when you tug on a strand, clearly bemused.

"I really want to be your girlfriend."

"I–" He swallows roughly. "I really want you to be my girlfriend."

"Will you ask me?"

"Tomorrow?" he asks delicately. He might be shy with you, but he has no qualms now showing you how vehemently he returns your affections, his arms curling slowly but surely behind your back.

You fall into his arms for another hug. "Yesssss," you cheer under your breath.

He sneaks a kiss against the shell of your ear. "Wanna go get something to eat first?"

You gasp like you've been offered the world. "You really are the best boyfriend."

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid scenario #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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woantohae · 3 months ago

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hey friend you should do a bob reynold x witch!reader like she has the same powers as wanda but like not??like a headcanon or them meeting through the thunderbolts idk just something fr fr

thank youuuu for stepping up

Thunderbolts || (Bob Reynolds x Polaris! reader)

Summary: They're not supes. They're not heroes. The don't give up.

What happens when a group of "bad people" needs to assemble to fight something bigger than them?

Author's note: Hello! So this is a series of Bob Reynolds, the other parts can be found in my masterlist <3333

Y/N had arrived at the place where Valentina had summoned her. The girl didn't entirely trust her word, but the woman had information that was valuable to her. For months she wanted to know where her sister Wanda Maximoff was. After the battle against Thanos, Wanda had completely disappeared. The black-haired woman tried to call her whenever she could, but her cell phone was always busy or she simply didn't answer.

Y/N knew she was still grieving Vision's death. But she let her know that if Wanda needs something, or a sister.... she would be there in an instant.

The darkness of the corridors did not give her a good feeling, she kept her eyes fixed on each corner to make sure she was prepared to fight if necessary. She turned the corner and found a room with various furniture and objects scattered around the space. There was a light illuminating the room but it didn't calm her down completely. She heard someone else enter the room, so she quickly hides in a dark corner. The girl doesn't want to start a fight so soon.

The new person is a man wearing a suit similar to Captain America's and wearing a shield with pride and confidence. It's John Walker. She had heard of him.

Y/N frowns when she sees that he is also hiding when she hears another person enter the room. Why on earth had Valentina summoned her here if more people were arriving?

She remains in her place until she sees how a new girl with short blonde hair enters the place at a slow but sure pace. She looks at some papers and her face expresses distrust. She knew she was not alone, especially when John decides to come out of hiding and start shooting her, to which the blonde dodges him. There are two more people who enter the scene and start fighting. Y/N lets out a sigh and takes off her coat, letting it fall to the floor. She comes out of hiding and stands in front of the rest.

"Who are you?" John asks. He proceeds to throw his shield, but the girl raises her hands and lets the energy flow from her fingers to stop the vibranium in mid-air and throw it across the room.

"Bad move" Y/N observes her opponents.

"How did you do that?" the blonde asks, without moving from the spot.

"What? This?" She lifts a metal box and throws it at the soldier. The shor-haired blonde girl throws a knife through the air, which Y/N catches and throws away, being caught by a masked person. The fight continues with bullets fired by another black-haired woman.

Suddenly, the short blonde haired girl stops the fight with a scream.

"Enough!" She exclaims "We're not going to gain anything if we keep trying to kill each other."

The masked person stops next to the black-haired person in the black suit. John looks at Y/N suspiciously and she raises her hands in surrender to hear what the blonde has to say. Everyone watches each other carefully to see their movements and not let their guard down.

"It's obvious that someone wants us gone," she points out with a gesture. "We've all done bad things here."

Y/N looks at her with a frown.

"Shadow op. Contract kills" she raises an eyebrow.

"Why would anyone want that?" John questions picking up his shield. He shrugs. "And you former Red Room assassin. Why should I trust you? God only knows the blood in your hands"

"That's pretty ludicrous coming from the dime store Captain America." the other black haired woman says.

"I'll have you know the official Captain America, so..." he defends.

"Yeah. For like, two seconds" Y/N jokes.

They both laugh with sarcasm.

"It getting so tense in here" a new voice says.

Everyone turns to where the voice is heard and sees a man dressed in scrubs. Y/N is ready to use her powers if he tries to attack them. The man immediately throws his hands in the air.

"Wow, easy"

"Who are you?" Ghost asks.

"I-I- I'm Bob" he says pointing to himself.

"Great. Another one we need to fight with" John says.

"Wait. Weren't you sent together?" Bob asks pointing at them, still raising his hands. It seems harmless, Y/N thinks.

"If that were the case, believe me, I wouldn't have thrown the shield at her," John points out Y/N.

"Yeah, sure," she says.

Before they can fight again, a clock starts counting down and the lights of the room turns off.

"Shit," Yelena says. He turns to Bob "Why are you here?"

"I-I don't know." he seems nervous.

The clock continues counting until there are only seconds left to find out what it is.

"We must go. Now!" Ghost says.

Everyone starts running as soon as they hear the clock beeping at zero. Y/N runs to Bob's side by chance and upon hearing an explosion, Y/N pulls his hand to fall to the ground with her.

The smell of smoke fills Y/N's nostrils and she coughs at the sensation. He looks to his side and sees everyone lying on the ground, trying to catch their breath as best they can. Bob looks at her fearful of what just happened and nods his head.

"Thank you" he thanks. Y/N just watches him and shakes her head, having only one thought in her head at the moment.

Valentina was behind all this.

........

Part II

Hi! I know it's short and nothing is happening between Bob and Y/N..... yet.

But I'm thinking about how to continue the story and I would like to complement it when "Thunderbolts" is released. However, I'm going to let my creative process take care of the continuation between both characters for now.

Hope you enjoyed it <333

#thunderbolts #sentry #marvel #fanfic #bucky barnes #lewis pullman x reader #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #fluff

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writesvani · 2 months ago

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coming down | 02

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to-enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): complicated parent-child relationships, toxic friendships, substance use (cigarettes, weed, implied past substance abuse), emotional & verbal conflict, misogyny & objectification, mentions of cheating & sexual situations, mentions of self-worth issues, brief mentions of past trauma

THESE CHARACTERS ARE NOT MEANT TO BE PERFECT AND IDOLIZED.

comment here for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M.LIST

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 9,5k // date: 7th of March 2025

CHAPTER TWO - KISSLAND proceed with caution...

AN: first of all, this chapter is dedicated to everyone around the globe who has a complicated relationship with their parents—always feeling the need to make them proud yet subconsciously sabotaging that effort. i see you. i feel you. i get you. we are holding hands in the trenches. stay strong, soldiers.

the necklace. the mystery. the lore. the foreshadowing. we will find out more soon, and i am begging you to prepare yourselves.

and finally, THE KISSLAND SCENE. i am not okay. why are they like this. why are we like this. i need everyone to take a deep breath because we are in for a long ride.

anyway, tell me your thoughts. scream at me. cry with me. i’m here for it.

love, [@writesvani] (still ren's #1 fan)

It’s March, for Christ’s sake! And technically, spring hasn’t even officially begun yet, but here you are, sweating like it’s the middle of July. Seriously, who needs a calendar when the weather’s already acting like it’s summer? You’re drenched, sweat dripping down your face and neck, and you actually scoff at yourself for wearing a jacket today.

It’s too hot. Summer hot. You’re panting, sweating, and groaning like you’ve just run a marathon in the Sahara. You’d throw the jacket off, but your hands are too busy holding groceries that are slowly but surely turning into a puddle of disappointment. Actually, screw the groceries. Screw March, and screw spring while we're at it. What you really want to do is crawl into bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

But nope. Your mom decided to bless you with her presence this evening, giving you absolutely no time to prepare mentally or emotionally. But hey, at least you’ve got time to clean your apartment and cook her something nice. Who doesn’t love an impromptu cooking show under duress?

And here you are—cursing your life, your poor choices, and your bed-rotting habits. If you weren’t so lazy, you wouldn’t be stuck in this ridiculous situation in the first place.

Thankfully, grocery shopping is the last thing on your to-do list for today. And cooking after it, but cooking doesn’t count as a chore - you actually adore doing it. You've already tackled the bathroom—scrubbed it until it actually looks presentable. You’ve vacuumed, cleaned everything properly—or at least, you’re telling yourself that. After all, you're a struggling college student with no time for the "simplicity" of house chores. Who needs that when you’ve got an endless pile of textbooks waiting to ruin your life?

Well, that’s the image you want your mom to have, anyway. So, you’ve left a few textbooks scattered messily on the table, pages marked with pastel highlighters and slightly crumpled corners. It’s all part of the act. See, Mom? I’m so deep into my textbooks that I don’t even have time to exist outside of them.

Perfect illusion, right?

As you step through the front door, the first thing you do is rip off that stupid jacket—finally. You’re pretty sure you look like a worm trying to escape its own skin as your body does some weird wiggle dance, but who cares? You can breathe again, and that’s what matters.

Before fully releasing yourself from the torturous clutches of jacket hell, you haphazardly toss the grocery bag next to your shoe closet. Now, it’s time to put the groceries in the kitchen, but not before you do a quick scan of your apartment. You know, to make sure everything looks Pinterest-worthy (because that's totally a realistic goal for a college student).

The cushion on your sofa is pink and soft—at least you pretend it’s soft, since it’s been there forever and you’ve never actually sat on it. The pillows are neatly placed in the corners, probably by some invisible cleaning fairy. There's a pinkish-red jar filled with candy on your coffee table, and next to it, a cheap air freshener Ren picked up at a dollar store. “Something has to get rid of that smoke stench,” he had said, with all the seriousness of a man on a mission.

Your shelves are stacked with old perfume boxes (because you just had to keep them), random jewelry, and books by authors you claim to love, though you haven't read half of them. Then, there’s the picture of you and Ren from his 18th birthday. Ren’s arms are crossed, glaring at the wall like he’s about to solve world peace, while you’re kissing his cheek, looking like you just stepped out of an ‘80s music video, with your hair a chaotic mess of silky, untamed locks. Ren’s rocking a blue shirt and gray pants, like he's going to a business meeting, while you’re channeling some sort of leather-clad, retro goddess.

You love that picture. It’s pure magic.

But, of course, you don’t mention the tiny detail in the far-right corner—a speck of white hair and an angry, brooding figure, accidentally caught in the background. Because who needs that kind of energy, right?

The apartment looks perfect. No more overthinking it.

Now, it’s time to throw yourself into the real challenge—making brownies and bolognese for your mom. You do a dramatic flop onto the task like it’s the most important thing in the universe. A hair tie swoops in to shove your hair out of your face, because, let's be real, the last thing you need is your hair mixing with your food—though it’s probably inevitable. You're wearing a new pair of sweatpants and a hoodie —courtesy of your aunt, but hey it's a birthday gift. You know cooking in new clothes is a terrible idea, and by the end, you're probably going to look like you’ve been attacked by a spaghetti tornado, but whatever. Changing is too much effort.

Cooking? Well, that’s your jam. You love the gleaming smiles when someone takes a bite of your food, like they’ve just discovered the meaning of life. You love watching them devour it like it’s their last meal on earth. And, let’s be honest, you thrive off the compliments. “You’re a monstrously good chef!” they say, and you just stand there, glowing like you’ve earned a Michelin star.

The smell of tomatoes and minced meat fills the air, and while it’s making your stomach do happy flips, it’s also turning your tiny apartment into a sauna. The kitchen and living room are basically one open furnace, and the stove is the blazing sun. You really start questioning your life choices—like, why on earth don’t you own an AC? What kind of college student are you? Clearly, one who spends all her money on clothes she doesn’t need and overpriced coffee at cafes she can’t afford. Air conditioning? Nah, that’s for rich people.

You decide to throw open the window, because fresh air is the answer to everything, right? But nope, that doesn’t solve your personal heatwave, so you go for the ultimate lifehack—off comes the hoodie. Boom, problem solved. It’s tolerable now, and you’re literally standing there wondering why you didn’t do this an hour ago. Like, how did you not think of this? Rookie mistake.

In the midst of cooking up the world’s most delicious sauce (seriously, your mom is going to faint from how good this is), your phone rings with that familiar tune. You don’t even need to glance at the screen to know it’s Yumi. You've given everyone their own ringtone, and it’s a system that works—except when it rings in the middle of something important like dinner prep.

“Hey, wassup?” you say casually, balancing the phone between your shoulder and ear while stirring the sauce like it’s a magical potion.

“Girl, what are you doing tonight?” Yumi’s voice is practically vibrating with excitement. “I was thinking of hitting that bar everyone’s been sending streaks from. You know, the one where all the Instagram influencers go for ‘content.’”

“Can’t,” you reply, giving her the full dramatic treatment. “My mom’s coming over tonight. She’s staying with me for two days, so I’m officially off-limits for drinking and smoking for the next 48 hours.” You turn off the stove with all the flair of someone who just won a gold medal in cooking. Take that, world.

“Ouch, I feel you,” Yumi says, her sympathy overflowing. “Can I come over instead? I haven’t seen Miss L/n in forever and I just know she missed me as much as I missed her.”

“Well, uhm, sure, why not?” You shrug, even though deep down you know your mom’s going to give you that disapproving look when she finds out you’ll be having company. “I’ll set another plate for you.”

“Yesss! I’m so excited!” Yumi squeals, and then suddenly goes full-on dramatic. “Oh my God, I gotta go. Kento and Satoru are yelling at me to come back—bye bye!” And before you even get a chance to say goodbye, she hangs up, leaving you holding the phone, talking to thin air.

You don’t hold it against her, though. It’s just the way Yumi is. The girl’s like a tornado in human form, constantly swirling from one thing to the next, with nothing really sticking. What does catch you off guard, however, isn’t the way she magically hung up and vanished into what you assume is her next smoke session or impromptu adventure. No, what really surprises you is the fact that she mentioned Satoru.

Yes, you know that Satoru and her boyfriend are thick as thieves—best friends, practically joined at the hip. But that doesn’t change the fact that back in high school, Yumi loathed Satoru. Like, if you’d asked her then, she would have rather been seen wearing those leopard-print tights she absolutely hated (the ones you judged along with her) than have a conversation with the “awkward teacher’s pet.” Now, though? Now, Yumi’s hanging out with her newfound love and his bromance buddy and it totally throws you off.

You try not to dwell on it too much, even though it gnaws at you. Deep down, it eats away at you more than you care to admit. Because Yumi has no idea just how close you and Satoru actually were. She knew you were next-door neighbors and probably assumed you were just, like, casual acquaintances. You’d say “hi” at school, maybe. But she never knew that Satoru was the first person you’d run to as soon as you were free from the suffocating school gates.

Because back then, you and Satoru were… well, different. You were a mess, and he was the golden child. The kid every adult dreamed of having as a son—or a future son-in-law. You were the one parents pointed at when they wanted to prove the dangers of too much freedom—"See what happens when kids have no rules?!"—and then their kids would be like, “But Satoru’s parents also let him do what he wants too, and he’s perfect!”

He was the kid winning debate championships while you were hidden behind crumbling school walls, trying to sneak in one more smoke before the bell rang.

But despite all that, after school was over? It was always Satoru, right there, a few steps behind you. And as much as you’d never admit it out loud, you secretly wanted him to catch up, to always be there. And he always did. You’d never let him know, though. That’s just how it was.

Since you’re already holding your phone, it wouldn’t hurt to check the time—shit, it’s almost 5 p.m., and your mom will be here in 20 minutes. Panic mode activated. You scramble to wash the dishes—well, as quickly as your clumsy self allows. The remnants of your cooking extravaganza must be banished to the sink before your mom sees any of it.

Before you can even finish rinsing off the last plate, you hear knocks vibrating through your door. Your mom’s here. And, wow, she’s absolutely glowing. Her smile lights up the whole entryway, and suddenly, something stirs deep in your chest. You realize just how much you missed her.

She throws her arms open wide like she’s some kind of grand diva welcoming her long-lost child, and you take in her familiar floral scent—mostly roses, but just perfectly feminine. You briefly entertain the thought of buying that perfume, but quickly dismiss it because, let’s be real, it would smell ridiculous on you. But on her? Chef's kiss.

“My baby!” Your mom beams, and her hug is so strong, it feels like she might crush your ribs in the process. Ouch, you think. It hurts. But it’s the good kind of hurt, the kind that reminds you how much you missed her.

You hug her back, tightly, even though she’s probably breaking you in the process, and as she pulls away, you think, Yeah, this is worth it. Even though, in a few hours, you’ll be telling your friends how much of a drag it is that you can’t go out and do something fun because of her. Well, except maybe Ren—he’ll definitely get an earful of how much you actually wanted her here.

Still holding you in the tightest hug ever, your mom manages to close the door—with her leg, for Christ’s sake. You’re pretty sure she’s trying to reenact a scene from a bad rom-com, but you’re not in the mood to be the punchline.

“Mom, you don’t have to destroy my doorframe already, you just got here,” you mutter.

“Nonsense, honey, I’m just showing my love,” she declares dramatically, letting go of you to toss her travel bag and purse on the nearest surface. She then glances at you, her eyes lighting up. “Will you make a cup of coffee for your mom? I want to hear all about the madness of college life—boys, cocktails, aaaand exams.”

You chuckle, a smile plastered on your face as you agree. “Of course.” But as soon as you turn your back to her, there's a little quirk of your lips that she doesn’t catch. Like you’d spill all your college secrets to her.

Over the years, you’ve learned the hard way to filter what comes out of your mouth when it comes to your mom. For example, the extensive list of questionable decisions you made in high school involving unprotected sex and lots of substances.Yeah, not going to bring that up. And you’ve mastered the art of smiling and nodding when she talks about how proud she is that you stopped smoking weed—painful clutch to the chest every damn time.

It sucks, though, because all you’ve ever wanted is to make your parents proud. But there’s no way they’d ever understand the pure joy of taking that first hit of the day. So you’ve decided to settle for honesty about smoking cigarettes, something she can’t really argue about since she’s an avid smoker herself.

Just as you’re mulling over this, you hear the soft click of her lighter igniting and then then you feel the familiar swirl of smoke hit your senses.

“Want me to add milk in? I know you don’t like your coffee pure black,” a question leaves your lips and you see her eyeing you with the sort of judgment only a mother can give when you dare drink your coffee like a grown-up.

“Yes, because unlike my daughter, I don’t enjoy setting my tastebuds on fire with coffee that tastes like burnt sadness,” she shoots back, smirking. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

“You just don’t understand, Mom,” you retort, shaking your head like you’re the misunderstood genius of coffee culture. “I like to treat my tastebuds to the pure, unadulterated flavor of espresso. None of this sugary nonsense—just the bold, unflinching taste of real coffee.”

“Okay, okay, don’t get all dramatic and start talking about the science of coffee,” she grumbles, gesturing with her coffee cup like she’s in the middle of a bad soap opera. “Coffee’s coffee, and I like mine sweet and milky, thank you very much.”

You previously served it in two pastel-colored mugs and she tries to maintain her cool. But you see it—her eyes twinkle for a second, like she’s secretly in love with the mugs. Oh, she’s gonna be so easy to shop for this year. New idea for her birthday gift? Check.

“So, what’s up, honey?” she asks, sounding casual, but you can tell she’s about to interrogate you like a detective in a crime drama. Her cigarette dangles from her fingers like she’s the star of an artsy indie film produced by questionable people. You light your own cigarette, puffing a cloud of smoke that looks suspiciously like a perfect O. Might as well embrace the cliché.

“Nothing much. Studying, sleeping, and chilling,” you say, making sure to sound effortlessly cool, even though you’re internally cringing at how not cool you are.

“I can see that,” she says, pointing at the pile of open textbooks you so strategically left out. Honestly, you’re proud of yourself for leaving them visible—no way she’ll think you’re wasting time on TikTok now. “Chilling? What the hell does chilling even mean? Like chilling chilling?”

You already know what’s happening—she’s trying to put the pieces together and wondering if you’ve slipped back into your old ways. Her mom-radar is going off like a siren.

“Ma, it’s not like that,” you say with a wave of your hand, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just hanging out with friends, having a drink or two. But nothing crazy, promise. Definitely nothing like... before.” You add that last part in a dramatic whisper, as if you’re revealing the greatest plot twist of the century.

“Good, good, that’s good,” she mumbles, nodding like she’s just solved world hunger. But then, just as quickly, her eyes crinkle, and the spark that dimmed in the last thirty seconds reignites. “Actually, that’s great! See? I told you—you don’t need all that nonsense to have fun. All you need is the right people around you,” she beams, looking like the wise mother from a coming-of-age movie.

Your soul, however, twists uncomfortably. Because, well... that’s a lie. And not just any lie—a perfectly crafted, strategically placed lie that ensures family harmony. If your mom ever found out the real details of your college lifestyle, she’d probably faint. And your dad? Oh, he’d skip the fainting part and go straight for murder and disownment. Maybe both at once.

But sometimes, little lies build a happy family. And the big ones? They keep it from sinking.

“And you were right,” you say, flashing her the most reassuring, Oscar-worthy smile you can muster.

She looks at you for a second too long, and for a terrifying moment, you wonder if she sees through your well-crafted facade. But then—she laughs. Oh, thank God. Some long-forgotten ancestor must’ve blessed you with the genes of a master liar and parent manipulator. You mentally salute them.

“And while we’re talking about friends,” she continues, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray, “what’s my favorite bundle of joy, Rennie, up to?”

A small pouch of ash falls from her cigarette onto the table. You’ll have to clean that up later, but there’s no way in hell you’re pointing it out. You cherish your life.

“He’s great, actually. We had a sleepover and breakfast just three days ago,” you say casually, knowing damn well this information is about to delight her. “I told him you’re coming, and he sends his regards—actually, he mentioned we should all grab lunch tomorrow if you’d like.”

The way her face lights up—you’d think you just told her she won the lottery.

“Oh my God, YES, of course I want to! Call him immediately and make plans!” she exclaims, practically bouncing in her seat.

You chuckle. “Mom, he has evening classes right now. I’ll call him later tonight.”

“Okay, but don’t forget,” she warns, pointing at you as if forgetting would be a crime punishable by law.

You nod, taking a sip of your coffee, feeling victorious for making her happy. But, because life is cruel, you open your mouth again and instantly regret it.

“And since we’re talking about friends... Yumi’s coming over for dinner.”

You almost miss it. Almost. But there’s a tiny shift in her posture. Her back straightens ever so slightly, her jaw tenses just a bit, and that overly polite, tight-lipped smile creeps onto her face.

“Oh, sure,” she says, voice dripping with forced enthusiasm. “That’s just going to be lovely.”

And just like that, you mentally slap yourself for not making up an excuse when Yumi invited herself over.

As soon as Yumi enters your apartment, your mother’s mood is back to perfection—like a switch has been flipped. It’s honestly impressive. The charm, the warmth, the perfectly rehearsed laughs—it’s all so seamless, you’d think she had been dying to see Yumi again. But you know better. You recognize the act because, well… you do the same thing. Turns out, the poker face you so proudly wear when needed? You definitely got it from her.

The table is perfectly set for three, decorated in soft patterns of yellowish gold and white, all thanks to the Valentine’s Day sale you definitely did not regret splurging on. Totally a good investment. Definitely not an impulsive decision made out of boredom.

But, of course, peace never lasts.

The conversation has taken a dangerous turn. Yumi, in all her zero-filter glory, has decided to bring up THE recent party—the birthday one. The one where you, oh-so-gracefully, crashed at Ren’s place afterward. And because the universe loves to make your life difficult, she’s conveniently leaving out the necessary details and instead painting the most inaccurate picture possible.

“So, this girl right here,” Yumi says, pointing at you with her fork like she’s revealing some deep, scandalous secret, “was totally all over that guy. Seriously, Miss L/N, she was so into him.”

The words feel sharp—unnecessary, exaggerated, dangerous. Your mother’s smile doesn’t waver, but you see the way her fingers press just a little tighter around her fork.

Your stomach twists.

“That’s so not true, Yu,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “I was literally just talking to him. For five minutes.”

Yumi scoffs, waving you off. “Oh, come on, it’s just us. No need to downplay it.”

A silence falls over the table—one that stretches just a second too long.

Abort. ABORT.

And then, your mother speaks.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this,” she says smoothly, setting her glass down with deliberate care. Her voice is light, but her posture tells a different story—her shoulders are tense, her breaths are slow and measured. The smile is still there, but her eyes… Her eyes are sharp. Calculating.

Yumi doesn’t notice.

But you do.

Because you know that look. It’s the same look she’d give you when you were younger—when she already knew you were lying but was giving you the chance to correct yourself before things got worse.

Your pulse quickens.

Yumi keeps talking, oblivious to the way the atmosphere has thickened, to the way your mother’s patience is thinning. But you don’t.

You’re hyper-aware of every second that passes, of the way your mother’s fingers drum once against the table before going still. Of the way her eyes flicker to you, just for a moment, like she’s silently telling you, fix this now.

And suddenly, the apartment feels too small.

The tension in the room is suffocating. Heavy. Like a thick fog settling between the three of you, wrapping itself around your throat and making it impossible to swallow. And Yumi—God, Yumi—as if reading the room is suddenly too much effort for her, keeps going, like she’s on some mission to drag this out as painfully as possible.

“And to make things even more uncomfortable,” she says, leaning in slightly, voice dripping with glee, “the guy has a girlfriend.”

She gasps dramatically, eyes alight like she’s just spilled the juiciest gossip about some mutual enemy. Like she isn’t actively humiliating you in front of the one person whose opinion of you actually matters.

Your stomach twists, nausea creeping up your throat.

Your mother doesn’t look at you. Not immediately.

“A girlfriend, huh?” Her voice is quiet—too quiet. Not accusing, not angry, but there’s something chilling about it. Something worse. She isn’t even looking at you—her gaze drifts over your walls, your bookshelf, the ceramic vase you bought on a whim, like any of those things are suddenly far more interesting than this conversation.

It makes you want to shrink into yourself.

“We were just talking, Mom,” you say quickly, voice carefully controlled, measured. A calculated lie, necessary to clean up the mess Yumi just dumped all over your dinner table. “I promise, it wasn’t like that at all.”

Yumi starts to speak again—probably about to dig an even deeper hole for you—but before she can get another word out, your knee bumps into hers, pressing just hard enough to make your point clear.

Stop. Right now.

Your eyes find hers, dark with warning.

Her lips press into a thin line, but she sulks into silence, stabbing at her spaghetti instead.

Thank God.

Your mother finally looks at you. And the moment your eyes meet, your chest tightens. Because you know that look. Fragile. Like she wants to believe you. Like she needs to believe you.

“You promise, baby?” she asks softly.

And it’s the way she says it that makes the guilt sink into your bones, makes your throat tighten. Because she’s giving you an out. A chance to make things right. A chance to be the person she thinks you are.

But you’re not.

So you nod, forcing a smile, settling for the lie.

“I do,” you say, swallowing down the guilt. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

She watches you for a moment longer, searching. And then, she exhales, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” she murmurs, taking another bite of her food.

The conversation shifts. The moment passes.

But the weight of the lie lingers.

The clatter of dishes fills the room as you scrape leftovers into the trash, the sharp scent of tomato sauce and garlic lingering in the air. Yumi, sprawled out on your couch like she owns the place, giggles at her phone screen, completely unbothered.

You steal a glance at her, irritation simmering just beneath your skin. Of course she’s acting like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just throw you to the wolves at dinner, casually dropping a bomb in front of your mother and then sitting back to watch the fallout.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss, voice low enough to avoid waking your mom, who retreated in your room to take a quick after dinner power nap, just 10 minutes ago.

Yumi barely looks up. “What?” she says, blinking innocently, her thumbs still lazily scrolling.

You slam a plate down into the sink, harder than necessary. “You know what.”

She exhales, exaggerated, like you’re the one being ridiculous. “Oh my god, you’re still mad about that? It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Not a big—” you stop yourself, inhaling sharply, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Yumi, you literally made it sound like I was crawling all over some guy with a girlfriend. In front of my mom.”

“Okay, but were you?” she teases, flashing you a smirk.

Your glare could cut through steel.

Yumi sighs, tossing her phone onto the couch and sitting up, finally giving you her attention. “Look, I was just making conversation. How was I supposed to know she’d get all weird about it?”

“Because it’s my mom,” you snap. “And because you always do this.”

That last part slips out before you can stop it, but it’s true. And the way Yumi’s expression flickers—just for a second—tells you she knows it, too.

A tense silence stretches between you, the only sound the distant hum of your fridge.

Then, Yumi huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus, you act like I ruined your life.”

You don’t reply. You just grab another plate and start scrubbing, jaw tight.

She watches you for a moment, then flops back onto the couch with a shrug. “Fine, I’ll be more careful next time,” she says, and it sounds more like a throwaway comment than an actual promise.

Yumi leans forward slightly, her voice light and hopeful. “Hey, since your mom’s here, why don’t we all spend the day together tomorrow? We could go shopping, get our nails done—just have a girls’ day. I’m sure she’d love it.”

You glance at her from the sink, rinsing off the last plate. “Can’t,” you say simply. “We’re grabbing lunch with Ren.”

For a second, she freezes. It’s so brief that if you weren’t paying attention, you might’ve missed it. The corners of her mouth twitch, her fingers tighten around her phone, and something flashes in her eyes—disappointment? Annoyance? It’s hard to tell.

“Oh.” Her voice is airy, casual, but you know her well enough to notice the forced quality of it. “Well, maybe I could come along?”

You shake your head, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “It’s just gonna be the three of us. You know how my mom is—she really wants to catch up with him.”

There’s that pause again, the slight purse of her lips, the way she shifts in her seat like she’s trying to keep herself from reacting too much.

“Oh,”It’s a single syllable, but it carries weight. Her smile falters, just for a second, but you see it—the way her lips twitch, the way her fingers stop tapping, curling slightly against the phone case instead.

Then, just as quickly, the mask is back in place. She forces a light laugh, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “That’s nice. Tell him I said hi.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, but the air feels different now—tense, awkward, like something unspoken is lingering between you.

Yumi scrolls through her phone, laughing a little too hard at some random reel, and you sit beside her, lighting a cigarette.

But neither of you say anything else about tomorrow.

“What’s up with Nanami?” You try to get rid of the awkwardness of your previous - not so fun - conversation.

Yumi’s voice flows easily now, her earlier tension dissolving into excitement as she gushes about Nanami. You watch her, the way her hands move animatedly, the way her lips curl when she says his name.

“—and then he just whipped out his card, like it was nothing. I told him, ‘Babe, I can’t let you spend this much on me,’ but he just insisted.” She sighs dreamily, taking a sip of her coke. “Honestly, I don’t know what I did to deserve him.”

You exhale a slow stream of smoke, letting your eyes drift over her. She looks so happy—practically glowing—and yet, for some reason, something about it makes your stomach twist. Maybe it’s the absurdity of it all. Prada on a Thursday? You’re still debating if you should buy that overpriced sweater you saw last week, and here she is, getting designer gifts like it’s nothing.

Or maybe it’s something else.

“Must be nice,” you mutter, tapping ash into an empty can.

Yumi grins, nudging your leg with her foot. “Don’t be jealous, babe. Not everyone can have a sugar daddy boyfriend.”

You force out a laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

And as she keeps talking—going on about the perfume he got her, the dinner reservation at some exclusive restaurant, the spontaneous weekend trip he’s planning.

You lean back in your chair, the dim light casting shadows on the walls as you lazily drag on your cigarette. The smoke curls around you, and for a brief moment, you lose yourself in the haze. Your gaze drifts over Yumi's face, her eyes glued to her phone as she scrolls through something that seems to hold her entire attention. You’re not even thinking, just letting your eyes wander, following the line of her jaw, down her neck—where something catches your eye.

A soft gleam of silver catches the light, drawing your attention without warning. You shift your focus, now fully intrigued by the small object nestled against her skin. The pendant, a tiny four-leaf clover, sways gently with her movements. Its emerald green specks glint like small stars, reflecting the dim light of the room. Something about it feels… familiar. Almost too familiar.

You blink, your heart unexpectedly quickening, as you slowly begin to trace the length of her neck with your eyes. Your gaze hovers just beneath her collarbone where the pendant rests, the chain almost too delicate, too precise.

No way.

The sharp, sudden realization hits you like ice in your veins. It’s the same damn necklace. The one that you’ve seen before. The one that, despite everything, you never thought you’d see again.

You feel a tightening in your chest, the room closing in as your breath hitches in your throat. You try to shake it off, but you can’t. It’s like your entire body’s been frozen in place. A single thought flashes through your mind, pulling you from the overwhelming recognition. That necklace... it used to be yours.

You swallow, but the lump in your throat doesn’t move. And before you can even process it fully, your voice slips out—low, almost hesitant. “Yo, is that a new necklace?”

Her voice responds with casual confidence, but it’s like you’re hearing it from far away.

“Duuuh, of course it is. You like it?”

But you’re not listening to the words anymore. You’re too lost in the emerald gleam hanging just inches from her skin, a necklace that doesn’t belong to her. You already know the answer, and deep down, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop seeing it hanging there, a haunting reminder of the past you tried so hard to leave behind.

“Yeah, where’d you got it from?”

“Found it in Satoru’s apartament while Nanami and I were hanging with him.”

Oh, oh.

You hate how casual she sounds, like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a trinket she found lying around.

"So... you just took it?" Your voice comes out sharper than you expect, a mix of disbelief and something darker you can't fully control.

She shrugs, unfazed by the tension in the room. "Well, yeah, and not really. It was just sitting on a shelf next to some old childhood pics of his, and I saw it and liked it. Asked him about it, and he said I could take it if I liked it that much."

You stare at her for a long moment, disbelief mixing with an odd sense of betrayal. You can’t help but wonder if he even cared that she took it, or if he was just so far gone from the past that it didn't matter. But you know, deep down, that it matters to you — it matters to you more than anything right now.

“So... whose was it?” You ask, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. You don’t want to know, but you need to. You have to know.

Her answer comes too easily. Too carelessly.

"Some chick from his past," she says, rolling her eyes as if it’s some insignificant detail. “He doesn’t remember.”

You hear it, but you can’t fully process it. It’s all too much. A necklace, a past, a chick, all tangled together in a way that makes your insides twist.

Some chick from his past. You can't escape it, no matter how much you try to push it away. You try to hold onto the fragile calm that’s left inside you, but it's slipping away, piece by piece.

You clench your jaw, fighting to keep the rage and hurt from spilling out of you. Your eyes flick to the necklace again, the gleaming pendant resting innocently on her neck, and you feel that old ache rise inside you.

A part of you wants to rip it off of her. But you don’t. You stay quiet, your emotions tangled in knots you don’t know how to untangle.

And then, without thinking, you mutter, your voice low and cold, "Some chick, huh?"

She doesn’t hear the weight of the words, the way they cut through you. She’s already back to scrolling through her phone, blissfully unaware of the storm building inside you.

Yumi stays for the next two hours, talking nonstop about the latest 1st-year drama. Her voice fills the apartment as she eagerly recounts some wild story involving cheating, a gang bang, and all the chaotic details that would make anyone cringe. You nod along, barely listening, your thoughts drifting. The gossip rolls off her tongue easily, but all you can think about is the necklace. The way it gleams against her skin, the way she casually mentioned Satoru’s past—each word pushing you further into a spiral of frustration.

When she finally leaves, you’re exhausted, your mind buzzing with the stories and the unease that’s been gnawing at you since the moment you noticed that damn necklace. You barely register the passage of time, the gossip still swirling in your head as you head to the bathroom for a quick shower. You let the water run over you, trying to wash away the remnants of the day, but it’s hard to forget what’s still hanging in the air.

As you step out, you glance toward your bedroom. Your mom is still asleep, her body curled in a way that makes her look so vulnerable, so untainted by the mess of everything going on around you. Your heart softens, but there’s a weight in your chest that refuses to go away.

You walk over to her quietly, careful not to disturb her, and just for a moment, you allow yourself to feel the warmth of her presence, the peace she brings to the room. You slip into bed beside her, feeling the tension in your body slowly ease, but the thoughts in your mind keep swirling,

“You know, I always didn’t like that about you.” She doesn’t turn to face you, but you can hear the weariness in her voice, the kind of weariness that comes from years of watching you make decisions that break her heart, even if you don’t realize it. The kind of weariness that comes from loving someone who refuses to see their own worth.

She’s awake, you realize. Probably woke her up when you entered the room

“You always choose people who don’t choose you back. Ren’s the only exception.”

Your heart stops for a beat, but it quickly resumes a pounding rhythm as she continues. The night seems colder now, even with her warmth just a few inches away. The way she says Ren’s name, like it’s a beacon of light in a sea of dark. You can feel it. You can feel her disappointment coating the air, suffocating you just a little. You’ve always had a knack for choosing the wrong people, haven’t you? She’s always known that.

“The ones who just want all the best for you always end up pushed away somewhere and erased from your life.” She sighs, a sound that makes your stomach twist. “And the ones like Yumi? You somehow always stick to them instead of escaping.”

Her words are a lullaby, but not in the comforting sense. They don’t soothe. They burn. They remind you of every choice you’ve made that’s led you here—at this moment, in this room, with your mother who can see right through you.

You want to say something, to defend yourself, to explain, but the words get stuck in your throat. The truth is, you don’t know how to escape from the people who somehow feel like home, even when they’re the ones hurting you.

“Mom,” you finally whisper, barely able to manage the word. The silence between you stretches, thick and suffocating, and you know she’s waiting for you to respond. But your mind is spinning, trapped in the chaos of it all. “I didn’t mean to...”

But she’s already quiet again, her eyes closed, her breath soft. “I know,” she murmurs, but there’s something final in her tone, something that makes you feel like you’ve let her down yet again.

You lie there, the weight of her words lingering in the air like a faint smell that won’t quite go away. Your mom’s palm is warm against yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside the bedroom has faded completely, leaving just the two of you, suspended in time. It’s comforting, yet painful, her gentle touch contrasting with the tension in your chest that’s been building ever since she spoke.

“Don’t worry, Ma. Yumi’s okay, you know her, she just doesn’t really understand social cues,” you say, the words leaving your lips without much thought. You’re trying to brush it all away, to protect the fragile peace in the room. You don’t want to confront everything she just said. Not now. Not when her presence is the only thing that feels like home.

Her fingers tighten around yours, a soft, almost imperceptible squeeze. You can feel her warmth even through the darkness of the room, her quiet comfort wrapping around you like a blanket.

“I wish you saw yourself from my eyes,” she whispers, the words soft but full of meaning, full of something deeper. Something that digs into you. You don’t know how to respond to that, don’t know how to accept what she’s saying. There’s something in her tone that makes it clear she sees you in a way you don’t quite understand yourself.

And then, just like that, she’s back in the dreamland. Her breathing slows, the rise and fall of her chest the only sound that fills the room. But you stay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her words pressing down on you. You know you won’t be able to shake them off easily, no matter how much you try.

The next day passes in a blur of light and warmth. Your mom and Ren are lost in their little world, their laughter and chatter filling up the space between you like a comforting melody. The K-drama they’re obsessing over becomes their bond, something you don’t quite understand, but you can’t help but smile as you watch them. It’s a rare thing—your mom so genuinely happy, and seeing her connect with Ren like this feels...right. About the weight of her words. Almost.

But then, like everything else, that too fades. The hours slip by and soon the past two days are gone, and your mom is packing her things, ready to head back to the chaos of home and family. You watch her leave with a bittersweet feeling, the apartment suddenly feeling too big. Too empty.

You sit for a moment, unsure of how to fill the silence, but then reality hits. There’s no time for lingering on the loneliness. Dinner with Yumi and Nanami Kento is waiting for you. You had hoped to dodge the plan, to escape the awkwardness of spending time with Nanami outside of parties, but Yumi had insisted. She wanted more for you than just the surface-level interactions, wanted you to connect with her boyfriend, to step outside the bubble of social circles.

You roll your eyes at her persistence, but at the same time, you can’t help but respect her determination. Sighing, you grab the first presentable outfit you can find—a soft, oversized sweater and a pair of Michael Kors jeans you thrifted, nothing too flashy but cute enough to not feel totally out of place. The soft girl aesthetic that’s trending is easy to mimic, so you do your makeup in soft shades of pink and neutral tones, trying to look effortless and fresh. It’s not that you care about impressing anyone, but a part of you feels the pressure, the need to fit in with this new dynamic that Yumi insists on creating.

When you finish, you glance at the mirror, trying to ignore the nagging feeling in your chest. You’re going to have to face this now—spend an evening with Yumi and Nanami, pretend everything is fine. You pull yourself together, heading out the door with the practiced ease of someone who’s become too good at pretending.

The diner Yumi chose is surprisingly... normal. Thank the heavens. It's one of those classic American-style joints, with red leather booths and large windows that showcase the hustle and bustle of a busy street. You can already tell there’s no “look at me, I’m rich” vibe, and you're grateful for that—there's nothing more suffocating than an evening where you have to pretend to be impressed by some fancy place where the appetizers cost more than your rent.

You spot the back of Yumi’s head from across the room, the unmistakable blend of her bright hair and... well, her energy, so you make your way toward the booth. When you approach, your smile is polite but a little strained. And that’s when you realize—they’re not alone.

Great.

At the table sits not just Yumi and Nanami, but a whole bunch of his friends. You know some of them from passing, the kind of people you’d nod at or give a half-hearted “hey” when you’re too stoned to form full sentences at parties.

“Hey, Yumi! Nanami,” you greet, as smoothly as you can manage, and then proceed to make your way through the sea of faces.

You lock eyes with Shoko, who waves lazily, her aloof “what’s up” vibe floating through the air. Then Megumi gives you a half-smile, but the best part? Yuji, that ball of hype and chaos, practically jumps up from his seat, gesturing for you to sit next to him. You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, wondering if he thinks he's auditioning for a role in a buddy cop movie. But still, cute.

But then—oh, then—you see him.

Ryomen freaking Sukuna.

He’s sitting there, looking like he’s about to start a fight with a random glass of water. You and Sukuna have a... history—let’s just say one that ended in a “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” kind of way, but you still shoot him one of those “I know what we did last summer” looks. You’ve both agreed not to speak of that night. Ever.

And then... the real plot twist happens.

There, looming like a bad decision you’re going to regret later, is none other than Satoru Gojo.

You freeze. He locks eyes with you. And before you can even muster up a sarcastic comment, he scoffs at your presence. A scoff.

Your inner monologue is screaming: "Oh, you’re here too? Of course you are. What a surprise. As if I wanted to be here either, buddy. Oh, this is gonna be fun, isn’t it? A nice round of passive-aggressive banter and pretending we don’t know exactly what we did a while back."

You put on your best fake smile, just to show that you, too, are totally enjoying this delightful evening. "Hey, Satoru," you say, the words syrupy sweet with a layer of sarcasm that only he would get.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying how uncomfortable this is.

And you—well, you’re just trying to figure out how the hell you're going to survive this without setting the entire diner on fire with awkward energy.

But hey, at least you’re not the one who scoffed.

Satoru doesn’t greet you, which—well, expected, honestly. You almost laugh at the sheer audacity of him, but no, you’re a grown-up, right? Or at least, you’re pretending to be one in this exact moment. Yumi jumps in immediately to fill the silence, launching into a never-ending monologue about her exams and all the "tragedies" that come with them. It’s the kind of thing that makes your head feel like it's going to explode, but Yuji’s hanging on every word like she’s about to reveal some deep, world-altering secret. Shoko hums every now and then in that way that only she can, and Nanami—bless his soul—just gazes at Yumi her with that soft, patient look that somehow makes you feel like this evening isn’t a complete disaster.

But then—bam—the waitress arrives to take orders, and that’s when it happens.

Satoru, the satanic embodiment of all that is unnecessary and obnoxious, opens his mouth. You flinch when he orders an Americano and eggs and bacon. Just... eggs and bacon? That’s your thing. Your classic “breakfast for dinner” move. So of course, here he is, stealing your thunder with that trademark smugness.

You catch his eye as he looks up, and he shoots you that silent, I beat you again look. Like, okay, we get it, Satoru, you’ve got a weird sense of victory when it comes to trivial things, but you’re not playing his game today. No. Instead, you channel your energy into ignoring him. Sukuna's got your attention now.

You turn to him, engaging in a conversation about a new tattoo he's planning on getting. You mention something about wanting a tramp stamp. Why not? You’re at the point of no return, so might as well go for broke. Sukuna raises an eyebrow, his usual smirk playing on his lips as he nonchalantly offers to tattoo you for free.

You chuckle. "Sure, and what's the catch?"

He leans in just a little, that familiar dangerous glint in his eyes, and you swear he’s about to say something about a "special price" for services rendered. "I can think of a way you could pay me, baby," he mutters with that low, suggestive tone that sends a bolt of heat straight down your spine. You feel the flush creep from your lips, all the way to your core.

Before you can even recover from that moment, Yumi—oblivious as always—turns to Nanami with that innocent curiosity of hers. “Why isn’t Suguru here again?”

Nanami pauses, then answers casually, “He’s with his girl tonight.”

Yumi nods like this is the most earth-shattering news ever and dives back into her endless tirade about exams. You half-listen to her, feeling yourself slip into the weirdest mental tug-of-war: half trapped in a conversation with your ex-fling turned mildly annoying acquaintance, half trying to suppress the weird tension floating between you and Satoru.

You pretend—absolutely pretend—that the mention of Suguru doesn’t interest you. Not even a little. Nope. Not at all. Except… that stupid, lingering pending follow request Ren sent from your phone still haunts you like a ghost in the attic of your mind. You mentally cringe. You should have unsent it, but now it’s been six days.

Six. Whole. Days.

Like, come on. You didn’t send him a message saying, Hey, fuck me, please. It was just a harmless follow request. And yet, nothing. Not a single response. It’s infuriating in the most embarrassing way possible.

And, of course, because the universe has a personal vendetta against you, Gojo has to open his big, fat mouth.

"Too bad," he drawls, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s THE main character "I’m sure there’s someone here dying for Geto’s presence."

He points directly at you.

You want to lunge across the table and strangle him.

Instead, you slap on the most passive-aggressive, annoyed beyond belief smile you can muster and hiss, "I don’t remember anyone asking you anything."

Gojo grins, completely unfazed. Of course he’s unfazed. He thrives off this. "As if I need to be asked to speak," he says with an exaggerated eye roll. "This is called conversation, sweetheart. Maybe you should look it up sometime."

You feel your eye twitch.

You're so over this. Like, so over this that you start seriously considering your escape plan. Maybe you could grab Sukuna, leave this entire situation behind, and make that tramp stamp a reality. That would definitely be more productive than suffering through Gojo’s nonsense.

But just as you’re about to plot your exit strategy, the waitress finally arrives, setting your food and drinks down in front of you.

Great.

No escaping now.

The atmosphere is awkward—like painfully awkward. Everyone glances around, dumbfounded and weirded out, as if they just witnessed a couple fight at a party they weren’t supposed to be invited to.

Thank God for Yuji, who, in true golden retriever fashion, breaks the silence by turning to Megumi. "Dude, I watched the last episode of Naruto Shippuden this morning."

Megumi groans, already seeing where this is going. "Again?"

"Yeah, bro. I’m rewatching it for the millionth time."

And just like that, the tension dissolves. The entire table shifts gears into what is now an inevitable debate: Naruto or Sasuke?

Shoko rolls her eyes. "Both of them are overrated. I love Itachi the most. And the anime has too much Kakashi glaze anyway."

Nanami, ever the scholar, immediately launches into a counterargument. "Kakashi is essential to the story. Without him—"

You zone out, the voices blending into background noise as a soft, familiar melody swirls from the diner's speakers.

It pulls you back in time.

Fourteen years old.

Getting ready for school.

Humming Kiss Land under your breath in your bedroom while Gojo lounges on your bed, waiting for you to finally finish fixing up your hair.

The memory is warm, nostalgic in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. Unconsciously, a soft smile tugs at your lips as your fingers begin to tap the song’s rhythm against the table.

And then—

You glance at him.

Gojo is still focused on the Naruto versus Sasuke debate, expression unreadable. But his fingers—

His fingers are tapping the exact same tune against the table.

Your breath catches, a flicker of something unspoken sparking between the two of you.

You flinch. Shoving your hands into your food, you pretend it didn’t happen, pushing down the nagging feeling creeping up the back of your mind.

You try your best to ignore him—really, you do. And for a moment, it actually doesn’t feel hard at all to do so.

Not when Sukuna is sending you those looks—the kind that could make a nun rethink her life choices.

Not when Yuji keeps pulling you into conversations, making sure you’re included like the sweet boy he is.

Not when Megumi sends you a reassuring little nod every time you hesitate before asking a question, as if to say, It’s not dumb, you’re fine.

For the first time since arriving, you actually feel okay.

And then—

"You think she’d be easy to bring home?"

Gojo’s voice cuts through your peace like a knife.

He’s talking to Shoko, nodding toward a girl you recognize from some of your classes. He slides his glasses down, pinning her with that look—the one that has probably been responsible for at least half the campus population making bad decisions.

Shoko, unimpressed, shoves a fry into her mouth and doesn’t even dignify him with a response.

Across the booth, the poor girl blushes furiously. You worry she might actually combust under his gaze.

Gojo smirks. "Easy it is," he mutters to himself, like he’s already won.

And that’s it. You snap.

"You’re a disgusting, sexist, misogynistic pig," you hiss, the words leaving your mouth before you even think about them.

And Gojo—he smiles.

Like he expected it. Like he wanted you to say it.

His eyes gleam.

As if he was waiting for you to say something.

"And you’re a junkie," he fires back.

It shouldn’t hurt.

But it does.

The words cut straight through you, sharper than any knife, and the pain—oh, fuck—the pain is instant and overwhelming, a familiar ache wrapping around your ribs and squeezing tight.

You try to recover, to throw him a devilish grin, to act unbothered—

But you fail.

Miserably.

"Gojo…" Nanami warns, his voice low, cautious. A worried look etches onto his face, and for once, you actually appreciate his presence.

But Gojo just shrugs, completely unbothered.

"What?" He leans back, his voice so casual, as if he didn’t just gut you like a fish. "I thought we were just saying what we really think of each other."

The table is silent.

Not the good kind of silence—the one that comes when friends are too comfortable to fill the gaps with mindless chatter.

No, this silence is thick. Heavy. Unbearable.

It presses against your chest like a weight, suffocating, pulling you under.

You hate that you let him get to you. Hate that he can still rip you apart with a single sentence.

But most of all?

You hate that he’s right.

A shaky exhale slips from your lips as you grab your drink, gulping it down like it might wash away the lump in your throat. The cold liquid burns against your insides, but it does nothing to numb the ache spreading through your ribcage.

You can feel Gojo’s eyes on you. Watching. Waiting.

Daring you to snap back.

And fuck, you want to. You want to say something cruel, something cutting—something that would make him feel even a fraction of the pain that’s been eating away at you since the day you walked away from him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you push yourself up from your seat, grabbing your bag with more force than necessary.

"Where are you going?" Yuji asks, confused.

You don’t answer him.

You don’t answer anyone.

You just move.

Because if you stay here any longer, you’ll either start screaming or crying—and you don’t want to give Gojo the satisfaction of either.

You barely make it past the counter when you feel a presence behind you.

"Yumi," you breathe out, relieved.

But when you turn, it's not Yumi.

It’s Gojo.

Standing too close.

His lips part like he’s about to say something—but you don’t let him.

"Don’t," you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

For a moment, just a moment, something flashes in his eyes. Something almost genuine.

But you don’t stick around to figure out what it means.

You leave.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t stop you.

He doesn’t catch up.

taglist: @zeunys @charmstarr @ovela @kur0mii3 @dabisdolly @17362939 @krispywhisperswhispers @mintcheery @kazupop @heh123321

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kissies4jiwon · 7 months ago

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a new addition ? 은채 x reader

synopsis › eunchae is admiring a new girl at school and how pretty she is, not knowing shes actually joining her group.

a/n › uhm first time writing in a while how are we feeling..

pairing › hong eunchae x idol/trainee!reader

warnings › gay people eek! /j

word count › 722

eunchae sat cross-legged on the floor of the dormitory, her phone resting on her knees as she doom scrolled through social media. the room was filled with her members: yunjin, kazuha, and sakura, chaewon who were scattered around, engaged in their own activities. their talking filled the room mostly being yunjins and chaewons.

ever since the new school year started, eunchae found herself daydreaming more than ever during math class, catching herself having these daydreams even in practice. with her busy schedule with idol duties and with the annoyance of tests, there was one reason that kept drawing her back to school: y/n. every time she walked into the classroom, her heart would skip a beat at the sight of y/n sitting by her desk, her beautiful face lit by the morning sun streaming through the window. the way y/n would occasionally glance at her, catching her staring, it all made eunchae’s heart race.

eunchae often found herself skipping practice just to catch a glimpse of y/n during the day. she knew she shouldn’t, especially with a comeback looming and chaewon’s wrath if she catches her skipping, but the thought of missing out on seeing her was unbearable. as much as she loved being an idol, she couldn't help but feel a pull towards this new girl. math soon became a blur, the numbers and x’s on the board fading into the background as she focused on the girl who had caught her heart. her mind would often wander to scenarios where they she would hear her sing, complimenting her dancing. she hoped the new girl would share her dream, but it always ended with her returning to reality—realizing that she had to balance her dreams with her idol responsibilities.

"uhm guys, theres this new girl at school—" eunchae spoke up, her eyes lighting up with excitement and nervousness. she put down her phone and leaned forward, eager to share the details. "her name is [y/n], and she’s really— absolutely gorgeous. school actually doesnt seem that boring with her in math, for once."

yunjin looked at eunchae, intrigued. she always bragged about not going to school, not wanting to go. "really? what does she look like?"

eunchae's cheeks flushed slightly as she spoke. "she has these beautiful pins and cute pencils and the prettiest eyes. i saw her in the hallway today, and i couldn't take my eyes off her! she seemed so kind, too she—"

kazuha, who had been quietly listening, chimed in. "do you think she’s into music or dance? you could invite her to karaoke or something."

sakura nodded, a calm smile spreading across her face. "it would be nice to have another friend your age except kyujin. plus, if she’s as pretty as you say, i can see why you’re so captivated, eunchae." the eldest added with a wink.

eunchae giggled, her excitement bubbling over with all her members support. "i just think she’s really unique! i hope i get to talk to her someday.. i just see her in one class."

just then, the door swung open, and their manager stepped in with a smile. "girls, i have a big announcement"

the members turned their attention to the manager, curiosity etched on their faces. eunchae’s heart raced—she couldn’t help but think it might be something related to the new girl she had been talking about, or she hoped.

"we're going to be adding a new member to le sserafim!" the manager announced, and the room erupted with a mix of glances and excitement.

"wait, really?" yunjin exclaimed, her eyes wide. "who is it?"

eunchae’s heart skipped a beat as she felt a strange sense of anticipation, were her dreams answered? could it be?

the manager continued, "the new member is y/n l/n. she’ll be joining us after this comeback, but she will training along side you—"

the mangers words fell to the background all eunchae heard was y/n. eunchae's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "wait, are you serious?! that’s the girl i was just talking about— shes in my math class"

the eldest eyes sparkled with delight for eunchae. "no way! that’s amazing eunchae. we have to make your classmate feel welcome."

eunchae's mind raced with thoughts of how she would introduce herself to y/n. she wanted to make a good impression, especially now that they would be part of the same group.

as the excitement settled in, eunchae couldn’t help but smile. maybe this was fate. she would have the chance to get to know the girl she had admired from afar. her heart fluttered at the prospect of spending more time with y/n, and she felt a new sense of determination to make her feel at home in lesserafim.

#writings ᙏ̤̫#divider by @/plutoism #eunchae #eunchae x reader #eunchae x you #le sserafim #le sserafim x reader #le sserafim x you #le sserafim x y/n #eunchae x y/n #hong eunchae #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x fem reader #le sserafim eunchae #le sserafim smau #hong eunchae x reader

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unknownati · 5 months ago

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xi. christmas!

a/n: guys part of this was supposed to be the PROLOGUE to a 12 part sfw and nsfw winter/christmas themed drabbles (mini fics?) but i got too busy 💀 literally had 4 days left to write but then the 12th went by and i was like... damn

its ok tho i might upload the finished days just as separate fics

while we're here why does nle choppa have a christmas song

warnings/tags: none rlly, just fluff, SO corny, SO sappy, no use of y/n, no description of reader's features, gn!reader, decorating w/ ekko 🎉, reader is a THIEF, pre-arcane plotline (choosing happiness)

_______________________________________________

christmas in zaun was nothing close to ideal. it was never if people celebrated, but more if they could afford it, which most of the time was a no. unless people had kids, they weren't going out of their way to make it a whole thing. not only that, but people didn't really care for it, anyway. they had other things to do. sure, maybe you'd see some extra lights around, or maybe a few lopsided wreaths hanging on a weathered door, but it was always the bare minimum.

but ever since you snuck into piltover as a kid right at the tail end of december, your world was absolutely rocked by the blinding lights and stars and bows and garlands and wreaths and the huge tree sitting smack dab in the middle of the city, illuminating the night sky.

after that, you were obsessed with the idea of christmas. you never had the funds, nor the time, nor the energy, nor enough friends or family to make anything happen all by yourself. but the dream stuck to you.

and then came ekko, and with him, a chance. a huge tree? with an abundance of people living there? it gave you the best idea.

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆

cool november air was giving way to the first hints of winter, the sharp bite of cold nipping at the cheeks of zaunites. warm colored leaves were shriveling into themselves and trembling down onto the concrete, scattering through the town. settled in uneven piles, nestled in corners, where the wind could push them no further. christmas has long began to be advertised in piltover, and your excitement was uncontrollable.

quiet as a mouse, you slipped into ekko's work room. he's sat on his stool, elbows rested on the table with his figure shadowing over his work. your fingers glide across his biceps, chin resting against his right shoulder.

"hey handsome," you chirped, working your digits over the curves of his muscles. your lips curled into a grin you were incapable of withholding. "y'got a minute?"

"for you, always." he turned, hands hoisting the weight of his upper body on his knees. his eyes softened upon looking at you. "what's up?"

you slid on his lap, feet swinging back and forth, pendulum like. "soooo," you begin, leaning back on his shoulder. "i'm sure you know what christmas is."

"yeah, why? want me to get you something?" his fingers twisted at the hem of your sweater. you shake your head—not the goal right now.

"no. well, yes, but not what i'm asking you for right now," ekko's head tilts in response. your voice dropped into a playful yet unsure murmur. "iiiiii wanted to know if you'd maaaybe be willing to decorate the base and celebrate it this year?"

his thoughts stutter, and then he laughed. "baby, you know i'd love to, but i can't. don't have the time or the money."

a pout formed on your face, lips jutting out. "we don't have to spend money, we can use what we have lying around! and i have some extra money on the side. we're not flat broke."

"doesn't solve the whole time thing."

"oookay, make time. we'll have the kids help, too! you won't even have to do much, like—seriously, think about it. we don't even need to get a tree because the firelight tree, duh. we can use big cardboard boxes to look like fake presents, we can steal lights 'n' other stuff from the pilties—"

you rambled on, every idea you've ever had since childhood resurfacing and bubbling out of you in an unstoppable torrent. each thought, each plan, all of it spilled out, an overflowing pot.

"hey, hey—" he interrupted, thumb stroking your thigh. "listen, those ideas are great. but we can't. and you have got to stop stealing from topside."

your smile faltered. "but why!? think about the kids, think about me!" ekko hesitates to speak, eyes darting around the room as your face transitions into a pleading pout. "please? pretty please? i'll do the dishes for a month?"

"fuck," your eyes filled with stars. ekko groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "fine! fine, jeez."

the squeal that exited you entered directly into his ears, lips pressing kisses into his face in rapid succession.

"thankyouthankyouthankyou!!! oh my god, it'll be great, we can have the kids make little snowflakes, we could have a little fucking wish box to get gifts for some of the kids—" you gasped loudly upon a realization, planting your hands onto his shoulders. "—you can be santa!!!"

he scoffs, brushing a loc of white hair out of his face. "don't push your luck."

you sigh in mock defeat. "fine, hiemerdinger's got that. i'll take what i can get."

"isn't he kinda short for santa?"

you shake your head. "don't height shame."

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆

ekko rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, a small groan rumbling in his throat as he reached over on the bed to find you.

empty.

his head flipped. you've left a now cool dent in the bed in your wake, blanket left in a wild mess.

he frowned, sitting up and looking around. you're nowhere to be found.

maybe you got up to use the bathroom, he thinks, standing up to search the place for you.

the second his feet hit the floor, his brows furrow.

'...glitter?'

his gaze lifts, and his eyes widen as they follow the specks of glitter scattered across the floor, which caught the faint morning light that bled through the curtains.

he followed the trail, small drops of glitter turning into discarded cardboard scraps, which turned into unfinished rolls of ribbon, which lead him to his workroom, where the door was slightly ajar.

he slowly pushed the door open, finding you hunched over a box that you were decorating to look like presents. you tilt your head up to look at him, a smile spreading ear to ear.

"w'ssup?"

he glanced at the small clock on his desk. "it's...five in the morning, why are you up so early?"

you gestured towards the pile of finished boxes in the corner. "working!" the sound of tape ripping off of the roll fills the air as you took a strip, taping the box shut. "i already collected a bunch of paper for the kids to make snowflakes, borrowed some lights 'nd garlands from topside, aaand i'm almost done making all these boxes."

a lot done considering you had had that conversation just the night before.

ekko crouched down to your level, eyes meeting yours. "but...you're gonna clean all this up, right?"

silence.

"right?" he repeated.

your eyes narrowed. "yes?"

"why is that a question?"

you scoff, pressing an empty roll of wrapping paper into his chest. "why are you asking me so many of 'em? get to work. and i need you to use your hover board to fly around and get those lights up," you nod towards a pile of lights on his desk without looking away from your box. he opened his mouth to reply, but you cut him off. "thank you!"

he rolled his eyes and stood, tossing the wrapping paper roll into the recycling bin.

at a more appropriate time in the day, you stood at the top of the firelight tree after capturing everyone's attention. public speaking wasn't exactly your thing, but ekko insisted you do it since everything was your idea.

you cleared your throat as the crowd settled into silence, all eyes on you. you shifted your weight onto your other leg.

"um—wow, okay, hi guys. so, i'm sure you've all...heard of christmas. and i know it's usually kinda lame, but truuust me, this year i'm gonna make sure it's—" you gather your fingers, kissing the tips of them and flaring your hand out. "—chef's kiss."

eyes leave you to glance at other's reactions, the silence lifted by an excited murmur.

"yeah, but i'm gonna need help. i have a bunch of paper that i need to be made into snowflakes, so that by the end of the day this place can look better than it already does."

you shifted their focus to scar, who carried a large bin of scissors, string, and paper of various colors. (earlier, scar questioned how you got all these supplies. you just smiled at him.)

after a quick tutorial, children started racing to gather around him, picking their colors and scissors. within a few minutes, the kids were gathered in groups on the floor, cutting out their best attempts at snowflakes.

pride swelled in your chest and you looked up into the bulk of the tree's leaves, ekko's form flying around in circles with lights being strung along behind him. with fists on your hips, you beam. "i'm amazing," you praise, making your way back inside.

everything came together surprisingly quick. ekko had never seen you that focused—hanging up lights, making paper bows to place at the points where lights held, and placing those big fake presents around the tree. of course, other people helped too, which made the work lighter.

you mostly left the mural alone, only placing a few extra candles and waving to the colorful portraits.

by the time night fell, the project was close to finished. it wasn't perfect, but to you, it was. the entire base was illuminated in warm, white lights, paper snowflakes dangling from the branches and twisting in the wind. the beat in your chest stuttered. it all felt...magical.

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆

over the next few weeks, you kept adding and adding to the scene. and it was all finished just in time for today, christmas eve.

by now, you'd forced ekko into so many christmas activities, some more enjoyable than the others. he thoroughly enjoyed making matching pajamas with you and drinking cocoa that was overflowing with marshmallows—being constantly tricked into mistletoe kisses, not so much. at least, he acted like he hated it. he secretly adored accidentally walking right into your trap of a hidden mistletoe and being attacked by an onslaught of messy kisses.

ekko finds you at the balcony again, glancing out into the scene below. "hm. not bad." he leans against the railing, hips bumping into yours.

"yeah, cuz it's awesome. i did that, thank you."

warm lips meet your cold cheek. "mhm. you did." he paused, tongue running over his molars. "i-um...got you something."

you perked up at his words, head whipping around to face him. "ooh, you just reminded me that i have to finish making your gift, i—"

as you're speaking, he pulls a little box from his coat pocket, black with a messy red bow.

"it's not perfect, but...y'know," his voice trails off. he pops the box open and offers it to you.

inside rested a delicate necklace, light reflecting off of the silver metal and glimmering into your eyes. the chain was thin, the links very neatly melded together, and a little circular locket hanging off the center.

you take the box and reach in, mouth agape in awe, gently pushing the locket open. inside was a tiny picture of the two of you, laying in bed, with you sound asleep on his shoulder. ekko's eyes were shut as he was in the middle of pressing a kiss to your forehead.

you smile down at the picture, warmth flooding your chest. for a long moment, you're just staring at it, ekko awaiting your reaction. your lips press together, your vision starts to blur, and a tear rolls down your face and into the velvet lining of the box. then they just kept streaming down.

ekko's face drops, immediately reaching to wipe your tears. "hey, it's okay, if you don't like it i can get you something else."

you hiccup, shaking your head. "shut up, i love it so much, this is just everything i've ever wanted for my whole life, and it's so stupid but you've literally made this the best christmas i've ever had a-and this necklace is really cute and this was so worth doing the dishes—"

you could've kept going but your joyful sobs cut you off. it was all too much, all the decorations and all the traditions you once wished for finally coming into fruition. ekko's arms wrap around you and you return the gesture, fingers twisting into his coat.

"i'd do it again in a heartbeat." he whispers, moving to peck your wet cheek. once, twice, three times.

"boo," a voice calls below you. "get a room."

*✲ﾟ*｡⋆

#arcane x reader #ekko x reader #ekko x you #arcane ekko #arcane x you #arcane x reader fluff #ekko x y/n #ekko arcane #ekko fics #ekko x reader fluff #ekko fluff #Spotify

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i2sunric · 5 months ago

Text

𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥 (k.sn)

PAIRING: sunoo x reader (f)

SUMMARY: they say christmas makes everyone feel emotional, but none of the members had ever seen sunoo treat someone the way he treats you.

WARNINGS: fluff, crack, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 3rd December 2024

WC: 1.1k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @who-tf-soddhi

a/n: based on this ask from anon! i changed it a little bit i still hope you like it 🩷

The living room sparkled with the glow of string lights wrapped around the tree, the golden star perched on top glittering as if it were the crown jewel of the night. It was Christmas Eve, and the dorm of the group was abuzz with holiday energy.

The members were scattered across the room, some lounging indolently on the couch, others sprawled on the floor with a mountain of colorfully wrapped presents. Laughter bounced off the walls, fueled by Riki’s dramatic reenactment of accidentally burning cookies earlier in the day.

You were seated comfortably on the plush rug, sandwiched between Sunoo and Jake, while the others passed around mugs of steaming hot chocolate.

You were so glad they decided to include you in their holly jolly Christmas day, despite not being too close with everyone.

Despite the warmth of the room and the festive chatter, you just couldn't ignore how close Sunoo was sitting to you— his shoulder lightly brushing yours every time he shifted, his warmth unmistakable.

“Alright, who’s next?” Jungwon’s voice cut through the noise, his leaderly tone commanding just enough authority to keep everyone somewhat focused. “We’re not going to be here all night, people.”

Jay smirked, holding up his present dramatically. “Relax, Jungwon, it’s Christmas, not a board meeting.”

The group burst into a fit of laughter, but Sunoo was unusually quiet beside you, fidgeting with a small box wrapped in silver paper. You looked at him curiously, noting the unusual pink tint on his cheeks.

"Hey man, are you nervous or something?" Heeseung teased, noticing the same thing. "You've been holding that gift like it's a newborn baby.”

“Me? Nervous? Never," Sunoo said hastily, though the way his hand closed much tighter around the present belied his words. "I just… it’s a special gift."

Jake leaned forward, that mischievous grin spreading on his lips. "Oooh, this is juicy. Who's it for?"

Sunoo shot him a mock glare; his lips twisted wryly. "Why don't you mind your own business?

Before Jake could say anything back, Jungwon clapped his hands again. "Let's keep this moving. Sunoo, if you don't open something soon, we're skipping you."

Sunoo let out a melodramatic sigh, but instead of opening his own gift, he turned to you. "Actually… this one isn't for me." He held out the small silver-wrapped box, his voice soft yet clear. "It's for you."

The room fell silent.

“For me?" you asked, the sound of your voice barely above the crinkling of wrapping paper in the background.

Sunoo nodded, his face growing redder as he placed the box in your hands. "Yeah, I— uhm… Go on, open it.”

You hesitated for a moment, aware of the eyes on you, but the genuine anticipation in Sunoo's gaze urged you forward.

You carefully peeled back the wrapping paper, revealing a small wooden box etched with delicate patterns of stars and moons. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft velvet, was a bracelet unlike anything you'd ever seen.

It wasn't just jewelry, but a story. Delicate charms dangled from the chain, each one different. A sun, a music note, a book, a snowflake, and even a small heart-all symbols of moments you and Sunoo had shared.

Your breath caught in your throat, "Sunoo…” you murmured, your eyes swelling with unshed and happy tears.

He leaned closer, his voice almost at a whisper. "Each charm is meant for something. Like the sun because well, you are my sunshine, and the musical note because you always hum even though you think nobody hears you.”

Sunoo continued “The book because for the first time we stayed in a book shop for hours, and the snowflake because well, for today."

You stared at him with your mouth agape; it seemed that the whole rest of the room was erupting.

"Hold on a second!" Jake practically shouted, with his mug of hot chocolate just about to spill. "Did I just hear 'you're my sunshine'?”

Jay tossed his head back and let out a laugh. "This is better than expected. “Hey, are you trying to make us all look bad?"

"Right? Where's my custom jewelry?" Riki said, faking outrage. "This is just favoritism, and I'm not going to stand for it."

Sunoo, to his credit, took the teasing in stride, though his cheeks stayed pink. "This is only for her.”

Meanwhile, you were still in your processing, your fingers tracing the charms on the bracelet lightly. "Sunoo, this is… I don't even know what to say."

He leaned his head to one side, softening his expression. "Say you like it."

"I love it," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "It's perfect."

A warm smile spread across his face, and for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you in the room. But of course, that peace didn't last long.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Jake’s voice broke through the moment. "Did Sunoo just lean in closer?” Sunghoon continued, “Are we witnessing the beginning of a love confession?

“Stop it, you two,” Heeseung said, though he was clearly holding back laughter. “Let them have their moment.”

Sunoo rolled his eyes, finally leaning back with a sigh. “You’re all impossible.” Then, with a playful grin, he turned back to you. “Merry Christmas.”

And because it was Sunoo, he didn't just leave it at that. He leaned in and lightly touched his forehead against yours in an action so sweet and intimate that sent the room into another frenzy.

Riki dramatically pretended to faint onto the couch. "I can't handle this. It's too cute.”

Jay nodded, crossing his arms in a stern manner. "I didn’t even realise Sunoo liked Y/n this whole time.”

He smirked at last, finally folding into his usual mischievous self. "I’m just a good actor.”

The night was a continuation of laughter and teasing, but the bracelet on your wrist kept going back to that quiet, meaningful moment you'd shared with Sunoo.

Even in the midst of chaos, you couldn't help but steal glances at him, and every time you did, you caught him looking back—his eyes sparkling like the stars on the tree.

But the best was when, by the end of the night, it was time for you to go back home, Riki placed a mistletoe on the door as Sunoo was seeing you out.

And well, the fireworks set as his lips met yours, more tender than the cake you had earlier.

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kingkat12 · 6 months ago

Text

procrastination (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: FLUFF, biting, suggestive content, mentions of sex

summary: Roman knows exactly why you're up so late-- and now it's time to get you to admit it and go to bed

word count: 1,155

a/n: enjoy this oneshot i wrote at one a.m. yesterday to talk myself into going to sleep, and i hope it might work as efficiently for u as it did for me<3333

"You should go to bed,"

I turned away from my computer, staring back at Roman with an annoyed look in my eyes-- still, I was sure he would spot the heaviness of my lids instead, along with the way my lashes moved in slow strokes as I continued to battle sleep. "I can't. I have to finish this,"

"You don't have to do anything at all," he murmured, taking off his reading glasses as he put today's paper down in his lap-- I was glad he finally wore them after I had dragged him to the optician to get a prescription. "This is just yesterday's argument all over again."

I cocked a brow; "We're not arguing, though?"

"... You know what I mean,"

"We didn't exactly argue yesterday, either,"

Roman sighed, the yellow hues of a lamp nearby dipping into the golden brown of his hair. "Yeah, you're right," He placed the paper next to him on the couch, crossing his legs as he stared back at me. I wasn't sitting too far away as he had allowed me to use his home office today, and he was on the couch a little further away from the desk. I loved being in this room; it smelled like Roman. It looked like Roman. Everything from the minimalistic style of the interior to the whisky glasses scattered all around the room which he had forgotten to put coasters beneath. He continued; "We didn't argue, and I'm not going to argue with you now either. I'm simply saying that you don't have to get that stuff done right now."

"But--"

"It's not life or death, is it?" Roman shifted, uncrossing his legs as he moved to the edge of the couch. "How much work do you really think you can get done at one in the morning?"

I shrugged. Being put on the spot like this wasn't my favourite thing in the world. Realizing I had to get real with him to get my point across, I let my shoulders slump as I rolled the office chair an inch or two away from my previous spot near the desk. I had to do everything in my power to not start spinning around on it like I usually liked to do with chairs like these. "I don't want to sleep, though,"

Roman nodded, ready to attack the root of the problem; "Why?" he asked, voice soft and gentle.

I wanted to shut down. Go quiet again and get back to work. Still, I had a feeling this was coming from genuine concern-- and when Roman Godfrey is concerned about your sleep schedule, you know something is off. "I've procrastinated all day," I mumbled, tapping my fingers against the table as I grew uncomfortable with the truth I had suppressed. "I'm procrastinating now. And if I don't make my mind busy with something, I will think about the fact that I haven't gotten anything done today."

Humming, Roman folded his arms over his chest as he listened. Had he not been my boyfriend, I could've mistaken him for my therapist. "You staying up any longer won't change that, though,"

"Yeah," I breathed, no longer meeting his gaze. "But at least I'm not rolling around in bed right now feeling guilty about it." My sentence ended with a sigh, and it didn't take long before I drove my elbows against the hard wood of the desk and buried my face in my hands. Just talking about sleeping made me further exhausted-- was this what he wanted to get out of this conversation? My next words were muffled against my palms; "You don't have to stay up with me, if that's what you're doing. You should get some sleep."

Roman remained quiet, nodding to himself as he kicked back on the couch and ended up in a casual manspread. He grabbed the paper beside him-- "I'll make myself busy with this crossword. By the time I'm done, I hope you've come to your senses,"

I peeked at him through my fingers, and I couldn't help the confusion coursing through my veins as I spotted him reaching for a pen. Was he actually going to do this? Roman Godfrey... doing a crossword puzzle? I must've opened a portal into an alternative universe with my whining. "Come to my senses about what?"

Roman shrugged, filling in his first word on the paper as he no longer met my gaze. "How much nicer it would be to roll around in bed with me instead of doing whatever it is you're doing on your computer,"

Oh. He had a point. I hated when he did that. "Doesn't sound like we'd be getting much sleep that way either,"

Roman chuckled softly, mostly to himself, and wrote down another vertical word across the puzzle. "Perv,"

"... Me?"

"Yes, you," He tsked, pulling his pen away to think about which word to go for next. "Rolling around in bed doesn't necessarily have to mean sex."

I cocked a brow-- "Roman, are you perhaps having a stroke? Everything usually means sex when you're the one talking,"

"Well, tonight I'm a new man," He smiled as he found the answer for a word going across, finally meeting my eyes as he finished filling in the empty slots. "What do you say about making out like we're sixteen and sexually repressed?"

I nearly choked on air. "That's specific,"

"I'm not denying that,"

"How is that different from just... making out like usual?"

Roman leaned his head against the back of the couch, staring up at the ceiling as he thought out loud; "I think it'd just be messier. So uncoordinated that we'd constantly be knocking teeth,"

It was impossible not to laugh-- "You want to knock teeth, Roman?"

He turned his head to me, his green eyes meeting mine with the loveliest of smiles. "Fuck yeah. I'll even bite you if we get that far,"

"... Christ," With a giggle, I shut my laptop. "Fine! I'll go to bed, but only if you promise to keep your teeth far away from mine."

Roman sucked in a sharp breath as he got up to approach me. He spun the chair to make me face him, and he leaned down far enough for his hot breath to graze my cheek; "Actually, I'll bite you right now if you don't get out of my chair, young lady,"

Oh, I loved this mood of his. "Your chair?"

"Yes. My chair," His classic smirk made an appearance as his eyes darkened; "And my girl."

It didn't take long before Roman scooped me up, hoisting me over his shoulder as I yelped. Still, I knew there was no fighting him. If I did, I'd get another one of those bite marks on my thighs that would linger for days, and I couldn't go through that again. To be frank, I planned to wear more short skirts going forward-- I was visiting his actual office tomorrow, and I planned to make my visit one he'd remember for longer than I had ever had a bite mark lingering on my skin.

#roman godfrey #roman godfrey x reader #hemlock grove #bill skarsgård #fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #bill skarsgard #oneshot #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard fanfiction #hemlock grove fanfiction #holy fuck i need to fix my sleep schedule

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totallynottinsel · 2 months ago

Note

Thorin at the height of the dragon sickness dressing Bilbo in the finest of clothes and jewls. That's it, that's the prompt

yes.

"This is ridiculous..." Muttered Bilbo as he examined himself in a dusty, near broke mirror, running his fingers over the cold feel of Mithril that weighed his chest. He wasn't sure what to make of it, in all honesty; Thorin's 'token of friendship' had very well dazed him. In the truth of those words, he pondered if he'd misread Thorin's acts of kindness and that of possible affection to be more than friendship. He wasn't suited for a king after all, he was... well, a Baggins of Bag End! Nothing more to it; Yet Mithril stared back at him with a different story.

Bilbo slumped down to his bed, in the private chambers Thorin gave him, well---insisted he must have. He didn't recall anyone else in the company talking of their own room, now that he thought of it. He rubbed his weary eyes and sighed, tapping a foot repeatedly against the stone floor. Thorin was not himself, that had become clear, so did this gift of fondness come from a darker place, or had it truly been from the dwarf's heart? Bilbo smacked a hand to his face in unknowing frustration. Why did dwarves have to be so cryptic?

The knock of his door startled him up. "Ah---yes, come in!" He cleared his throat and grabbed for his over coat, fussing to get it on and praying to whatever sort of spirits roamed the halls that it was not Thorin for a multitude of reasons. He felt the heavy bulk of the Arkenstone move in his pocket that made him feel queasy.

Lucky him, it was Balin. "Sorry to bother you laddie." He said kindly, though his smile sunk down soon after as if he were to deliver unsavory news. "Thorin wishes to see you."

Bilbo's heart jumped to be at least twice as fast then; had he finally found out he had been keeping the Arkenstone? Was he being removed from the company? He did do his duty, technically speaking... or perhaps Thorin had another reason to get rid of him. Balin's smile was the only thing to console him that it wasn't something horrid. "Er, what did he say he wanted me for, exactly?"

"Oh, not sure." Balin shook his head. "Something about dressing you, is what I heard."

"Dressing?" Bilbo could barely speak the word aloud, as it came with far too many connotations for his liking. "As in literal?"

"Suppose that's between you and him."

Suddenly Bilbo felt his face grow unimaginably hot. With a pat on the back that could only be read as 'good luck', Balin left his side. A few careful steps in a new corner of Erebor he had yet to see, he eyed Thorin's figure from afar, and as his hand went to reached for support on a nearby shelf, a parade of coins and goods fell to the floor with a loud clank. Bilbo winced, waiting for the noise to fully die down; well, maybe he was about to be hired as a jester.

"Master Baggins." Thorin called to him, his voice riddled with command as if it could be faltered by no one.

"Yes, right, ah---" Bilbo stepped over the mess he'd caused and made his way over more awkwardly than he should've. "Here. And Bilbo is fine, no need for all the... 'Master' business. I'd like to think we're on familiar enough terms." He went to fiddle around with his pockets, but drew back at the feel of the Arkenstone. He really needed a proper hiding place if being this close to Thorin was going to be a regular occurrence.

Thorin turned a shoulder to acknowledge the presence of Nori and Bofur, who were likely tending to another odd job, standing (not so subtly) to watch before quickly pretending they weren't doing so at all. "Leave us." Was all he said to make the two dwarves scatter out.

"So," Bilbo started, patting at his sides, trying to make little eye contact. "Balin said you, er... wanted to dress... me." His heart picked up again.

With a silent nod Thorin lifted a hefty crown clad in solid gold from a table that held many treasures. The crown was embedded with shining dark blue gems, and out of it was the figure of a great raven. "If you are to be at a kings side," He stepped forward and held the crown high, placing it a-top the hobbit's head. "Then you should look the part."

"Thorin I---I can't wear this," Bilbo chuckled, holding to the crown that was a bit too large for him. "I'm not like you. I'm just... a hobbit. Far from dwarven royalty." He lifted his shoulders to shrug.

"You are more than you credit yourself to be." Said Thorin, as he then brought near an elegant robe much to his own, lined with fur and detailed embroidery. "Take off that odious coat the men of the Lake swayed you in; you need not wear its burden."

Bilbo had little excuses left to argue with that, though he did suppose he could use a decent change of clothing after rolling away from a displeased dragon. He slipped the weight off his arms, holding it to his chest as he grew in search for a place to keep it. He hastily placed it on an empty stool, and the aches of the Arkenstone tugged at him. He could be at ease if you gave it to him, maybe. His thoughts conflicted, till the sudden feel of Thorin's hands brushing against his shoulders turned his mind elsewhere; he guided his arms through the robe, and over Mithril it lay, drowning him in wondrous riches.

"You hold beauty unlike any other." Thorin's hand lifted Bilbo's chin, directing his eyes to look upon a golden mirror that reflected their figures. "It deserves to be treasured, to be kept from the wrong gaze. When you stand by me no one will treat you lower ever again; they will see us as one, and flock to our command."

There Bilbo saw them, a possibility, a future, and there he fell to Thorin's words. He watched the hobbit that stared back at him, the crown above his head that promised a life loved by all---a great kingdom, and someone to share its bliss with. He then did not yearn for the comforts of Bag End; what had he left there? Was he to deny an offer most could only dream of, to return to a lonely hole in the ground for the rest of his days? He found it hard to imagine going back to a life missing what he'd grown so used to over the course of their journey, and that of Thorin's touch he did not wish to see go most.

Bilbo let his eyes fall shut, leaning back to the warmth of Thorin that made his heart sure of itself. "Would you truly take me?"

At that, Thorin scaled down Bilbo's arm, taking hold of his hand with gentle ease, looking to him through the mirror. "I would have you in this life and all those after."

#the hobbit #bilbo baggins #thorin oakenshield #bagginshield #thorin x bilbo #fic request #there's a running joke in my family about bilbo becoming a trad wife by this point in botfa and it kills me every time #the hobbit botfa #also gayest gif i've ever seen #angst???#this will also lead right into another prompt/idea of dragon sick Thorin + Ring Delusion Bilbo!#i got a lot more requests than i thought so expect there to be a bit of a delay 😭#suffer with cliffhangers

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dmitriene · 1 year ago

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THOUGHTS ABOUT SIMON GETTING HIS NIPPLES PIERCED BY YOU.

cw: fluff, comfort, little suggestive possibly, piercing, mild description of blood, possible lack of dialogues, hints of strangers to lovers, simon is a tease, may be ooc simon, bit of tension. pairing: simon ghost riley x piercer fem reader

✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

the tart aroma of wood and coffee, the crackle of disposable gloves, things that routine of work in a tattoo and piercing parlor brings with itself, a designated place with large, wide, blacked out windows, located along the street, in general view, but without too much influx of visitors.

quiet and calm routine, filled with warm conversations with colleagues and people leaving and coming, someone to do something new, someone to redo something old, everyone in one way or another gathers in this small, but warm and bright place.

at least that's how it was, until a figure appeared in the parlor, casting a wide shadow in the room and causing all conversations and movements to lead to the halt.

a broad body to match the tall stature, prominent muscles tight but not completely under a black clothes and a balaclava that causes both misunderstanding and slight fear, black fabric with a skull pattern revealing only the dark beads of the eyes, which seizing the room with quick glance before going to the reception.

he looks like one of those men who come to the salon for a tattoo session, something memorable for them, the names of comrades, important names and numbers associated with the army, exactly, guys resembling him often serve in the army, but if they are usually bright and cheerful youngsters, then this one is a breath of darkness so thick, that you can't see anything behind.

— “not my business anyway, he's here likely to have a tattoo, and he's already have one„ you're comforting yourself in your head, after all, you're doing piercings, and he's obviously come to get another tattoo, maybe dilute the already existing sleeve of skulls, or something on the other arm, definitely not for you, so you keep yourself busy cleaning your workplace, ignoring the literal storm behind your back.

— “i'm here for a piercing appointment, nipples, called abou' a week ago„

and that's the tipping point when you can't ignore the elephant in the room, you jerk your head just as he turns around and shamelessly looks at you, from head to toe and back in a burning path that makes you shiver, squinting his bottomless eyes until small wrinkles form, while your colleague behind the wooden counter points at you, letting him know that you are indeed his master for today, and he came for you.

— “simon„ he introduced himself with a hoarse chuckle when you addressed him with unexpected respect, «sir» you called him, asking him to lift his shirt to expose his chest, to which he complied without further words, flexing his biceps with next movements.

simon leans back on a leather, hydraulic chair, spreading his muscular legs, as he lift his shirt, exposing the pale skin with a scattering of scars of all kinds, a picture that confirms your suspicions that he belongs to the army, but you dare not mutter, nor ask a single question, on the contrary of how you usually do, only preparing the needle and silently stand in front of him.

he doesn't twitch or hiss when the needle first pierces the sensitive buds, causing them to harden visibly, pale pink in contrast to the fair skin that lets out small drops of blood that you gently wipe as you touch the fresh piercings, and he doesn't even raise an eyebrow, but stares intently at your downcasted eyes.

the metal jewelry gleams slightly under the white light, playing against the background of his skin in a mixed way, he looks even more intimidating with them, but also adding a touch of something hot to his look, seductive, thoughts that you quickly brush away with a nervous flick of your tongue over your slightly parched lips.

— “that's, umh.. that's all, we're finished„ you let him know, trying to control the frown of your eyebrows, the strange struggle with your own emotions as he hides the fresh piercing behind the black fabric of his tight shirt and stands up, giving you a gentle nod and a seemingly unleavened squint.

he pays in front of the same counter that you can watch from your workplace, taking out the pre-rolled cash and giving it to your colleague, before leaving as unexpectedly as he came.

that's when you remember that you didn't give him your contact number.

of course, if something really happens to his piercing in the future, he can find your contact details through the number of parlor himself, but your feet carry you to the exit faster than rational thoughts, the cardboard card is tightly clenched in your hand as you unlock the heavy door, and practically slam into his back.

simon is just in time lighting the tip of his cigarette with a lighter, pursing his pale, thin lips into a line, showing the lower part of his face with a balaclava raised to his nose, turning at you with raised eyebrows, hiding the lighter in his pocket and exhaling a puff of smoke, tilting his head to the side questioningly, until you hand him an embarrassedly crumpled business card.

— “my.. my number.. if something would happen to the piercings, or if you'll have questions, you know..„

you hurriedly explain, as if making excuses, denying the strange attraction that pulls you to this stranger, and his lips part in a wide grin, showing a row of his light teeth and fangs, before he reaches out his broad hand and with a fleeting brush of his fingers against yours, takes the business card, hoarsely, amusingly adding — “of course, don'' worry, lass, i'll call you if something, eh?„

after which, he walks away, showing you his broad, gradually disappearing back, leaving you on the threshold of parlor with a strange, unsettling sensation at the bottom of your chest.

but he'll call you, for sure, maybe he'll have to take them off when he gets back to base for a mission, ask if you can check if the piercings are closed up, maybe he'll even lose the jewelry, but his legs will definitely lead him back to you, or he'll dare to do something more risky with his body, just to feel your warm hands all over his body and even between his legs.

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velvetvisionsaurora · 2 months ago

Text

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader, Seonghwa x reader, Yunho x reader, Mingi x reader, Wooyoung x reader.

Summary: Five eight-year-old boys aboard the slave ship Crimson Serpent form an unbreakable bond with five-year-old y/n. before she's sold at auction. Despite their failed rescue attempt, they swear a blood oath on her teddy bear to find her. Fifteen years later, now feared pirates leading the ATEEZ

Warnings: Slavery/Human Trafficking, Separation/Loss, Violence, Eventual Smut. SA(not by any main characters) y/n gets switched to a real name but it has a purpose. More warnings to be updated.

Want to be notified when a chapter is updated? Join the Taglist!

Authors note: I was going to post this tomorrow but honestly I couldn’t wait. The banter between Wooyoung and Yeosang is one of favorite parts of this story, I love writing it! Enjoy! And get ready for the next chapter! The big moment is coming! 💜

‼️if you have read chapter 7 already please go back and make sure you have read the reunion part with Ella/yeaosang! It’s after the flash back scene! Something happened with posting and it got removed‼️

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 8

Hidden Currents

Morning in the ATEEZ's galley was chaotic but organized. Crew members grabbed quick meals before their daily duties instead of sitting down for formal dining. Unlike the officers' mess with its scheduled mealtimes, the main galley stayed open all day to work with the ship's various watch schedules.

Ella paused in the doorway, feeling a bit out of place in the casual atmosphere after her previous meals in the more formal officers' dining room. Pirates in various states of wakefulness sat at scattered tables, some clearly just ending night watch while others were getting ready for day duties. The conversations flowing around the room suggested these people were more like a family than just workers on the same ship.

What caught her eye was how officers and regular crew mixed freely. There was no special seating or service for officers - everyone helped themselves from the same food stations. Seonghwa sat at a corner table with navigation charts spread in front of him, eating absently while making calculations. Two gunners talked with Mingi by the drink station, looking serious enough that they were probably planning something rather than just chatting.

"Ella!" Wooyoung's voice cut through the noise. "Come in! Breakfast is casual today—we're too busy for sit-down service."

He waved enthusiastically from behind a serving counter where he seemed to be cooking three different things at once. Several assistants moved around him in well-practiced patterns that somehow worked despite the apparent chaos.

As she approached, Wooyoung kept cooking while chattering away. "The captain's dealing with some tricky currents today, so everyone's grabbing food when they can. Help yourself to whatever looks good—bread's fresh, and we have actual eggs today, thanks to that merchant ship that should have surrendered faster."

The casual mention of piracy—delivered with the same enthusiasm as his menu suggestions—caught Ella off guard. Even after days aboard the ATEEZ, she was still surprised by how easily these men blended violence and everyday life, how the feared pirate ship also felt like a community.

"Thank you," she said, taking the plate Wooyoung pushed toward her. "Everything looks amazing."

"Of course it does," he agreed without a hint of modesty. "Food matters even more on fighting days—might be someone's last meal, so it should be good."

The dark joke, delivered cheerfully rather than grimly, reminded Ella that despite its unusual culture, the ATEEZ was still a vessel of calculated violence—feared throughout the seas, its black sails striking terror wherever they appeared.

As she gathered food from the available options, Ella noticed Yeosang entering the galley, his face composed despite the morning chaos. He nodded slightly to various crew members as he walked directly to the medicinal tea station near Wooyoung's cooking area.

"You're up early considering your late night," Wooyoung called to him, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "Midnight medicine mixing again?"

Yeosang's neutral expression didn't change, though Ella—watching carefully after their reunion hours earlier—noticed the slight tension that appeared in his shoulders at Wooyoung's teasing reference to nocturnal activities.

"Inventory requirements," he replied blandly, selecting specific herbs with practiced efficiency. "Unlike some, my work benefits from methodical organization rather than chaotic improvisation.

"Chaotic?" Wooyoung clutched his chest in theatrical offense, somehow managing to continue stirring a large pot with his free hand. "This is carefully orchestrated creative genius, I'll have you know."

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Yeosang deadpanned, his tone perfectly neutral despite the subtle barb. "I thought it was simply randomized ingredient selection based on whatever hasn't spoiled yet."

Several nearby crew members snickered at the familiar banter, clearly accustomed to this dynamic between ship's cook and doctor. Wooyoung's exaggerated gasp of indignation only heightened the comedic effect, his natural dramatic flair turning routine morning interaction into entertainment.

"Randomized? Me?" He gestured wildly with a wooden spoon, narrowly missing one of his assistants who ducked with practiced ease. "Everything I create is precisely calibrated for maximum nutritional and morale benefit. Tell him, Ella—wasn't yesterday's breakfast a masterpiece of culinary precision?"

Suddenly drawn into their exchange, Ella found herself momentarily caught between Wooyoung's expectant gaze and Yeosang's carefully neutral expression. The dynamic between them fascinated her—Wooyoung's effusive animation deliberately drawing reaction from Yeosang's controlled reserve, the contrast creating balance rather than conflict.

"The cinnamon wheels were exceptional," she offered diplomatically. "Though I lack comparative experience with your other creations."

"Ha!" Wooyoung exclaimed triumphantly. "Even our newest passenger recognizes culinary excellence when she tastes it."

Yeosang's expression remained impassive, though Ella noticed the slight softening around his eyes that constituted amusement in his restricted emotional display. "Recognition of quality and recognition of spectacle are not necessarily the same thing," he observed mildly.

"Spectacle?" Wooyoung's voice rose dramatically as he waved both arms, abandoning all pretense of continued cooking. "Is that what you call feeding this entire crew of ungrateful pirates three times daily? Creating meals that keep morale high during weeks at sea? Transforming basic provisions into feasts that make even the captain smile?"

His theatrical indignation expanded with each statement, body language growing increasingly expansive until he resembled a performer rather than ship's cook. Several crew members paused their own conversations to watch the familiar entertainment, evident amusement in their expressions.

Throughout Wooyoung's escalating performance, Yeosang continued calmly preparing his medicinal tea, his methodical movements contrasting sharply with the cook's animated gestures. Yet something in his careful precision suggested deliberate participation rather than mere tolerance—as if his controlled reserve provided necessary counterpoint to Wooyoung's exuberance.

"Your creative approach has merit in appropriate contexts," Yeosang conceded with clinical precision, measuring herbs with the same careful attention he would give to potent medicines. "Though I maintain that consistency and methodology produce more reliable results than spontaneous inspiration."

"Consistency?" Wooyoung scoffed, dramatically flourishing a ladle like a conductor's baton. "Do you know what happens with too much consistency, my methodical friend? The same meal, day after day, until the crew starts eyeing seagulls with hunger and contemplating mutiny."

"Methodical doesn't mean monotonous," Yeosang countered, not looking up from his preparations. "It means intentional rather than accidental."

Wooyoung gasped, clutching his heart as though mortally wounded. "Accidental? You think my culinary masterpieces are accidents?" He gestured expansively at the various dishes arrayed across the serving counter. "This, my skeptical friend, is what we call 'intuitive genius.' Something your rigidly organized mind cannot possibly comprehend."

Yeosang finally looked up, his expression betraying the faintest hint of amusement only Ella could recognize from their childhood. "Is that what we're calling the incident with the exploding dumplings last month? Intuitive genius?"

A chorus of laughter erupted from nearby crew members, several calling out supportive comments or making explosion gestures with their hands. Clearly, the dumpling incident was well-known throughout the ship.

"That was a CONTROLLED flavor release!" Wooyoung protested, pointing his ladle accusingly at various laughing crew members. "And every single one of you still ate them, I might add!"

"After they stopped raining from the ceiling," someone called from across the galley.

"And we scraped them off the walls," added another sailor.

"The medical bay treated three burns and one concussion," Yeosang noted dryly. "Your 'controlled flavor release' required more bandages than our last skirmish with the Royal Navy."

Wooyoung swiveled toward Ella, who was watching this exchange with growing amusement. "You see what I deal with? No appreciation for culinary innovation aboard this ship of critics!"

Ella was silently giggling. She looked to her side seeing Yunho already watching her with a soft smile. He gestured to the two bickering and shook his head in feigned exasperation. "Like an old married couple," Yunho mouthed to her, causing a wider smile from her much to Yunho's delight.

Ella turned back to the bickering pair.

"The captain appreciated it," Yeosang deadpanned. "Especially when a dumpling landed directly in his navigation charts. I believe his exact words were 'tactically unprecedented.'"

"It was a difficult nautical element to chart," Wooyoung defended, struggling to maintain his indignant expression as his own laughter threatened to break through. "The captain now has the only sea chart in existence with a dumpling-shaped island in the western strait."

"Which is apparently creating significant navigational challenges," Yeosang continued, his delivery perfectly serious despite the absurdity. "Seonghwa reports that we keep sailing in circles trying to find it."

"It's a migratory dumpling island," Wooyoung declared, completely abandoning his cooking to fully embrace the ridiculous narrative. "It only appears during certain lunar phases and can only be summoned with the proper culinary incantations."

He dramatically raised his hands above his head, wooden spoon pointed skyward like a wizard's staff. In a deep, theatrically mystical voice, he intoned: "By the power of excessive garlic and questionable fermentation techniques, I summon thee, Sacred Island of Explosive Dumplings!"

"Please don't," Yeosang sighed, though his eyes betrayed the faintest crinkle of amusement. "Im still exhausted from the aftermath of the last Wooyoung 'summoning.'"

"The casualties were worth it," Wooyoung insisted, now fully committed to his performance. He turned to Ella, dropping his voice to a stage whisper. "Yeosang's just upset because one dumpling flew directly into his meticulously organized medicine cabinet and rearranged his alphabetical system into what I maintain was a more intuitive categorical framework."

"It spelled 'chaos' in three different languages," Yeosang corrected. "And required four hours to properly sanitize."

"It was a message from the culinary gods!" Wooyoung declared, spinning in a dramatic circle with his arms extended. "They were telling you to embrace spontaneity!"

"They were telling me to invest in stronger cabinet locks," Yeosang countered, finishing his tea preparation with the same calm precision he'd maintained throughout their exchange.

Wooyoung clutched his chest again, staggering dramatically as though mortally wounded. "Such cruelty from our ship's healer! This is why pirates have a reputation for scurvy—medical professionals with no appreciation for culinary artistry!"

Without missing a beat, Yeosang picked up a small orange from a nearby fruit basket and tossed it directly at Wooyoung, who caught it with surprising dexterity despite his theatrical flailing.

"Vitamin C," Yeosang stated flatly. "Medicine's contribution to culinary health. No explosions required."

"Unless you're doing it wrong," Wooyoung quipped, immediately juggling the orange with two apples he snatched from the same basket. "Everything is more interesting with a little danger involved."

As he juggled with impressive skill, he began tossing the fruits higher and higher, his expression one of exaggerated concentration. "Observe the controlled chaos of true culinary mastery!"

Just as the juggling reached its peak, the ship pitched slightly with a wave. One apple went off course, bouncing off Wooyoung's forehead before he could catch it. His expression of complete surprise, combined with his theatrical gasp of betrayal as he pointed accusingly at the fallen fruit, was so perfectly comical that Ella couldn't contain herself any longer.

The laugh burst from her unexpectedly—not the careful, controlled chuckle she sometimes permitted herself in social situations, but a genuine, unrestrained sound of pure amusement. It rang through the galley, surprising even herself with its intensity and freedom.

The room seemed to pause for a fraction of a second, several nearby crew members glancing toward the unfamiliar sound. Wooyoung froze mid-gesture, the remaining fruit forgotten in his hands as he stared at her with undisguised delight. Even Yeosang paused, his normally impassive expression softening into something like satisfaction. Even he had only heard her genuine laugh once in all the time they spent together.

Ella immediately tried to compose herself, years of conditioned restraint making her self-conscious about such unguarded expression. But Wooyoung, sensing the moment's importance, immediately doubled down on his performance.

"The apple!" he cried, pointing dramatically at the fruit rolling across the floor. "It's escaping to join its brethren in the mythical Orchard of Wayward Produce! Quick! Someone stop it before it convinces the oranges to mutiny!"

The absurdity broke through her composure again, and Ella found herself laughing even harder, one hand pressed against her mouth in a futile attempt to contain the unfamiliar sound.

Across the galley, she caught sight of Yunho and Mingi pausing in their conversation, both watching her with expressions that mirrored Wooyoung's delight—Yunho's open and warm, Mingi's subtle but unmistakable. Even Seonghwa had looked up from his charts, his analytical gaze softening as he observed her unguarded moment.

"You see?" Wooyoung declared triumphantly to Yeosang, gesturing toward Ella with obvious satisfaction. "This is why spontaneity trumps methodology! When was the last time someone laughed like that over properly measured tea leaves?"

"Enjoyment and medicinal efficacy serve different purposes," Yeosang replied, though his tone lacked its usual clinical detachment. "Though occasionally they can complement each other."

As her laughter finally subsided, Ella felt strangely lightened, as if some tightly-wound spring within her had loosened slightly. The sensation was unfamiliar after fifteen years of careful self-control, yet somehow reminiscent of childhood moments aboard The Crimson Serpent when Wooyoung had first taught her to laugh silently to avoid unwanted attention.

Now, surrounded by the ATEEZ's crew—men feared throughout maritime waters for precision and ruthlessness—she had laughed openly for the first time since captivity had taught her the danger of unguarded expression.

"I apologize," she said automatically, years of conditioning making her uncomfortable with attention.

"No apologies for laughter aboard this ship," Wooyoung declared firmly, his usual playfulness momentarily replaced by genuine conviction. "Captain's orders."

"Genuine medical benefit as well," Yeosang added, surprising her with his supportive contribution. "Physiological advantages to unrestricted expression of positive emotion."

Their coordinated defense—Wooyoung's heartfelt encouragement balanced by Yeosang's clinical endorsement—revealed complementary aspects of protection rather than contradictory approaches. Despite their apparent contrast, both men sought the same outcome: her comfort and wellbeing aboard the ATEEZ.

"Thank you," she said simply, the gratitude encompassing more than just their current kindness.

Wooyoung beamed, his expression suggesting her laughter represented personal triumph. "My life's mission is complete. I've made Ella laugh—the rest of my culinary career can only be anticlimax."

"A concerning statement from the person responsible for feeding a crew of seventy-three pirates," Yeosang observed dryly, though his eyes remained warmer than his tone suggested.

"Seventy-three pirates with excellent taste and appreciation for culinary genius," Wooyoung corrected, immediately returning to his theatrical self-promotion. "Unlike certain ship's doctors who wouldn't know culinary inspiration if it exploded in their meticulously organized medicine cabinets."

"Which it did," Yeosang reminded him, lifting his completed tea preparation. "Hence the need for stronger locks."

As their banter resumed, Ella found herself still smiling—a real smile, not the careful one she usually put on. Something about their back-and-forth, the contrast between Wooyoung's enthusiasm and Yeosang's calm precision, let her respond naturally instead of calculating every reaction.

She caught Yeosang's eye briefly as he prepared to leave with his tea. In that moment of shared understanding, invisible to everyone else, two survivors of Blackwell's cruelty found an unexpected moment of freedom: through Wooyoung's absurd theatrics and Yeosang's dry comebacks, they'd found space for real laughter after fifteen years of necessary caution.

As she collected her breakfast and found a seat at a small corner table, Ella realized the ATEEZ was more complicated than she'd thought—a feared pirate ship whose culture made room for both Wooyoung's creative chaos and Yeosang's careful precision, for both calculated violence against enemies and kindness toward friends.

This complexity drew her in as she watched the crew's morning interactions. These feared pirates seemed genuinely human in their private moments—laughing at Wooyoung's antics, respecting Yeosang's quiet authority, working together with a sense of community rather than just tactical advantage.

Most importantly, five officers who had once been cabin boys on The Crimson Serpent were still searching for a little girl sold at auction, their childhood promise now the mission that defined their adult lives. And now that very girl sat among them, her identity hidden by choice—a decision that remained hers alone despite the blood oath that had driven five boys to become the most feared pirates on the seven seas.

After breakfast, Ella found herself heading to the upper deck, drawn by the need for fresh air after the crowded galley. The morning sun bathed the ATEEZ in golden light, softening its fearsome look. Crew members worked efficiently, adjusting sails and securing rigging as the ship navigated through challenging currents.

Near the helm, Captain Hongjoong stood with Seonghwa, both focused on navigation charts while occasionally looking toward the horizon. Their conversation seemed intense—clearly planning something important, not just chatting. The way they stood showed their partnership: Hongjoong's stance suggesting leadership, while Seonghwa's precise posture reflected careful analysis—different approaches working toward the same goal.

As she watched from a distance, Hongjoong suddenly looked up, his eyes finding hers with uncanny accuracy, as if he'd sensed her watching. Something like recognition flashed across his face—not of her identity, but of her presence. He said something brief to Seonghwa, who nodded before gathering the charts and walking away, deliberately avoiding where Ella stood.

Hongjoong walked toward her with measured steps, his captain's authority clear yet softened by the same consideration he'd shown since she boarded.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice carrying easily over the wind and activity. "Was breakfast good? Wooyoung can be... over the top, but he really can cook, despite all the drama."

"Very good," she confirmed, still amused. "Though I hear the 'exploding dumplings' incident has become quite the legend."

A brief smile touched Hongjoong's features—a rare expression that made his usual strategic composure seem more human. "A story we'll be telling for years. My cabin still has dumpling fragments turning up in odd places."

The casual humor, so different from his usual careful interactions with her, gave her a glimpse of the boy beneath the captain's authority—the child who had taught a little girl about stars during secret midnight excursions on another ship long ago. Ella found herself responding with her own small smile, feeling more natural after her unexpected laughter in the galley.

"We're approaching the Meridian Straits," Hongjoong said, pointing toward the horizon where distant land created a narrow passage between open waters. "It's one of Blackwell's favorite shipping routes, which is why I'd value your thoughts. The charts in my quarters would be easier to work with than out here on deck."

The invitation—professional yet somehow personal—offered both practical purpose and a chance for the private conversation she'd been considering since reuniting with Yeosang. After days of watching life aboard the ATEEZ, Ella found herself increasingly curious about the captain himself: the boy who had called her "Treasure" now grown into a man whose brilliance had created the most feared pirate vessel on the seven seas.

"Of course," she agreed, following as he led the way to his quarters.

Unlike her previous brief glimpses of the captain's space, this visit let her really see how Hongjoong had made it his own. Navigation tools shared space with personal touches—carved figures she now recognized as Mingi's work, books ranging from technical manuals to poetry, even a small collection of unusual shells and stones. The room balanced practical function with personal identity—necessary tools alongside touches of humanity.

Most noticeable was the locked sea chest she'd glimpsed before, now positioned prominently near his desk. The antique box, decorated with navigation symbols and secured with heavy iron, caught her attention despite her attempts to look casual. Something about its placement suggested it was more than just storage—almost like a reminder or symbol.

Hongjoong spread charts across his large desk, weighing down the corners with smooth stones that seemed chosen specifically for this purpose. "These show Blackwell's usual shipping patterns through the Meridian Straits," he explained, his focus professional despite the private setting. "Based on your information and our observations, we've found potential weaknesses in his security."

As he outlined their assessment, Ella was impressed by how much the ATEEZ knew about Blackwell's operations. Their understanding went beyond just shipping schedules to include key personnel, communication methods, even emergency plans. The detail showed years of careful study, not just casual observation.

"You've been tracking him for a while," she said, both asking and confirming.

Hongjoong's expression shifted subtly, professional assessment giving way to something more personal. "Fifteen years," he said quietly, the simple words heavy with meaning.

The specific timeframe—exactly matching her years in captivity—created momentary silence between them. For the first time, Hongjoong had directly referenced their shared past without explicitly saying he knew who she was. The opening seemed deliberate, an invitation without pressure.

"May I ask why?" she asked carefully, keeping up her persona while trying to understand more. "Blackwell certainly deserves opposition, but your focus seems... personal rather than just strategic."

Hongjoong studied her for a long moment, as if weighing an important decision. Then he gestured toward two chairs near a small window overlooking the ship's wake.

"Please," he said simply, waiting until she'd seated herself before taking the opposite chair. The arrangement created a conversation space separate from the tactical discussion at his desk—shifting from professional consultation to personal exchange.

"The ATEEZ was built for a specific purpose," he began, his voice carrying a new quality—neither the captain's authority nor strategic calculation, but something more genuine, more human. "Ship and crew gathered around a central mission, not just for profit."

He paused, glancing briefly toward the locked sea chest before meeting her eyes directly. "I wasn't always Captain Hongjoong of the feared Compass Crew. Before that, I was just Hongjoong—orphaned cabin boy on a vessel called The Crimson Serpent."

Though she'd pieced together much of this history through observation and Yeosang's confirmation, hearing Hongjoong speak these words directly created an unexpected emotional response. His simple acknowledgment of his origins offered a potential bridge between her carefully maintained present and buried past.

"The Crimson Serpent," she repeated carefully, showing appropriate recognition without revealing personal connection. "A slave ship?"

Hongjoong nodded, something dark crossing his features. "Though they called it 'labor recruitment' and 'personnel acquisition' in official documents. Captivity hidden behind fancy words."

The bitter observation revealed genuine emotion beneath his usual control—moral outrage rather than just tactical opposition. This wasn't simply professional assessment but personal conviction born from direct experience.

"Five of us were taken as children," he continued, his words flowing more naturally than his usual measured speech. "Myself, Seonghwa, Wooyoung, Yunho, and Mingi. Orphans or street children with no one to report us missing, no one to demand our return."

Ella remained silent, understanding the significance of this disclosure. Though she'd glimpsed aspects of their shared history through observation and hints, Hongjoong's direct story represented a deliberate choice to share rather than a casual revelation.

"We learned to survive together on that ship," he continued, his gaze momentarily distant with memory. "Formed an alliance that became the foundation for everything that followed. But it wasn't until..." he hesitated slightly, "...until another joined us that we found purpose beyond just surviving."

"Another cabin boy?" she prompted when his story paused, careful to maintain her disguise despite her growing emotional response.

"A child," Hongjoong corrected, something soft entering his expression. "Captured during a coastal raid. Five years old, torn from everything familiar, expected to accept captivity without resistance."

The explicit reference to her own history—the first direct acknowledgment from any officer beyond Wooyoung's veiled comments—left Ella momentarily breathless. Fifteen years of calculated survival had taught her to keep her composure during even the most difficult circumstances, yet Hongjoong's simple description of her childhood self threatened that hard-won control.

"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral despite her inner turmoil.

A shadow crossed Hongjoong's features, regret and determination mixing in equal measure. "We tried to protect her. For three months on that floating hell, we created whatever safety we could. Then, during a stop in Halazia, we tried to escape."

His voice hardened slightly, the captain's strategic assessment temporarily displacing personal narrative. "We failed. Badly. A fire broke out during our attempt, creating chaos that separated us from her. The captain used the confusion to take her directly to auction. By the time we could move freely again, she had been sold."

The clinical description of that devastating day—stripped of emotion, reduced to tactical assessment—revealed Hongjoong's continued struggle with their failure. Fifteen years later, he still analyzed the event strategically, identifying errors in planning and execution rather than simply accepting the emotional impact.

"That night, we made a blood oath," he continued, unconsciously touching his palm where that long-ago cut had sealed their promise. "To survive, to grow stronger, to find her again—no matter how long it took, no matter what we had to sacrifice."

He looked toward the locked sea chest, tension visible in his shoulders despite his controlled expression. "Everything that followed—our eventual escape from The Crimson Serpent, our years learning necessary skills throughout the maritime world, our claiming of the ATEEZ and turning it into a vessel feared by slave traders—all started from that single promise. All focused on fulfilling a blood oath made by five children who failed to protect someone vulnerable."

The raw honesty of this disclosure—delivered without theatrical gesture or manipulative intent—affected Ella more deeply than Wooyoung's emotional hints or Yunho's gentle stargazing references. Hongjoong offered neither pressure nor expectation, simply truth: that finding her had defined their existence for fifteen years, that the ATEEZ's fearsome reputation had been built upon the foundation of a childhood promise.

"You've searched for her all this time?" she asked, the question emerging with unexpected emotion despite her efforts to maintain distance.

"Without stopping," Hongjoong confirmed, meeting her gaze directly. "Every port, every auction house, every slave market. Every rumor of a young girl sold in Halazia fifteen years ago. Every possible lead, no matter how unlikely."

He hesitated, then added with quiet certainty: "We'll continue searching until we find her or confirm beyond doubt that she's no longer alive. The oath remains unbroken regardless of years passed or obstacles encountered."

Something in his tone—not just determination but absolute commitment—affected Ella profoundly. For fifteen years, she had survived through calculated isolation, believing herself forgotten or abandoned by anyone who had ever shown her kindness. The reality that five boys had transformed themselves into the most feared pirates on the seven seas specifically to find her challenged fundamental assumptions that had guided her survival since childhood.

"And if you find her?" she asked, the question revealing vulnerability she rarely permitted. "After fifteen years, she would be much changed from the child you knew. Perhaps unrecognizable in ways beyond physical appearance."

Hongjoong considered this carefully, his expression showing deep thought rather than a hasty response. "We understand this," he said finally. "Fifteen years of captivity would necessarily transform anyone, creating a person shaped by survival rather than childhood potential. We're not trying to reclaim what was lost but to fulfill a promise that remains binding regardless of changes time and circumstance have created."

The distinction—seeking fulfillment of promise rather than restoration of past—suggested understanding beyond simple nostalgia. Unlike potential expectation that "y/n" should somehow match their childhood memories, Hongjoong acknowledged the inevitable transformation that fifteen years would create.

"Your campaign against Blackwell," she said, shifting toward practical implications rather than emotional response. "It's connected to this search?"

"Directly," he confirmed without hesitation. "At first, we simply targeted all slave traders as a matter of principle. But two years ago, we discovered Blackwell had purchased a girl that same night, at the Halazia auction. Since then, our operations have focused specifically on disrupting his activities, gathering intelligence about his organization, and systematically dismantling his trading network."

The timeline aligned with her own history—her transfer from Blackwell's direct ownership to his business associate had occurred approximately two years ago, shortly after the ATEEZ had apparently discovered her connection to their target. The correlation seemed unlikely to be coincidental.

"You believe Blackwell transferred her to prevent you from finding her," she observed, the realization crystallizing as she spoke. "That he recognized your campaign's personal motivation and deliberately hid her location."

"It's our working theory," Hongjoong acknowledged, professional assessment temporarily replacing personal narrative. "The timing suggests deliberate countermeasure rather than coincidental business arrangement. Blackwell's records regarding that specific transfer were methodically eliminated—unusually thorough even by his standards of operational security."

The implication clarified aspects of her captivity that had previously seemed arbitrary. Blackwell's decision to transfer her to Calloway—his associate specializing in "premium domestic personnel"—had appeared merely a business opportunity at the time. Now, understanding the ATEEZ's targeted campaign against Blackwell's operations, the transfer revealed strategic dimension beyond simple profit motive.

"He feared you finding her," she concluded, pieces connecting with increasing clarity. "He recognized her value as leverage against a potential threat."

Hongjoong nodded, the captain's strategic assessment evident despite the personal context. "Blackwell's operational methodology prioritizes advantage through intelligence. Once he identified connection between our campaign and his past acquisition, he would naturally implement countermeasures to maintain control of a potentially valuable asset."

The clinical terminology—"asset," "acquisition," "countermeasures"—revealed how thoroughly Hongjoong had integrated tactical thinking into his understanding of their shared history. Unlike Wooyoung's emotional responses or Yunho's gentle reminiscence, the captain analyzed even personal tragedy through a strategic lens—necessary perspective for a leader responsible for crew's survival during increasingly dangerous operations.

"And now?" she asked, careful neutrality masking deeper inquiry. "If this search has driven your mission for fifteen years, what happens if you succeed? If you find this girl who has shaped your existence from absence rather than presence?"

Something shifted in Hongjoong's expression—the captain's strategic mask temporarily giving way to more vulnerable humanity. For a brief moment, the boy who had once called a little girl "Treasure" during midnight stargazing emerged from behind fifteen years of necessary authority.

"Then she would be free," he said simply, the words containing both promise and limitation. "Free to choose her own path without obligation or expectation. Our oath was to find her, to restore the choice that captivity had eliminated. Not to impose new constraints based on childhood connection."

The declaration—simultaneously liberating and carefully bounded—revealed complex emotional territory beneath Hongjoong's strategic exterior. Unlike potential expectation that fulfilling their oath would create specific relationship or outcome, he offered something more profound: respect for agency that fifteen years of captivity had systematically denied.

"Many girls came and went from Blackwell's ownership. I wish I could help you find her. However I don't remember any girl named y/n in Blackwell's possession." She said nervously. "But I will help where I can."

Hongjoong stared at her for a long moment, almost in amusement. "I appreciate the help greatly. However, I never said her name was y/n." His eyes shinning with something she couldn't understand.

Ella's heart rate picked up as she tried to mask her panic. "Wooyoung mentioned this story earlier, he let her name slip." She said stone faced.

"Ah, I see." Hongjoong's amusement never fading. "For an intelligence specialist he has very loose lips."

Before she could respond, a sharp knock at the door interrupted their conversation. Hongjoong's expression immediately shifted, the captain's authority replacing personal vulnerability with practiced efficiency.

"Enter," he called, rising from his chair with smooth movement

Seonghwa appeared in the doorway, his expression revealing urgency despite characteristic composure. "Captain, vessel approaching from eastern quadrant. Flying Southern Trade Company colors alongside official pennant."

Hongjoong moved immediately toward his desk, professional focus displacing the openness of moments earlier. "Distance and heading?"

"Three miles, course suggests interception rather than parallel tracking," Seonghwa reported, his attention briefly acknowledging Ella's presence before returning to the captain. "Yunho confirms it matches the escort class recently commissioned by Blackwell's organization."

"Prepare the crew for potential engagement," Hongjoong instructed, already examining the charts they had been discussing earlier. "Standard protocol—hide primary weapons until identification confirmed, maintain course that suggests we're just merchants rather than trying to run."

As Seonghwa left to implement these instructions, Hongjoong turned toward Ella with an apologetic expression that nonetheless contained the captain's authority rather than personal regret. "I need to handle this situation. Please return to your quarters until we've assessed the threat level."

The abrupt shift from intimate conversation to tactical necessity reminded Ella that the ATEEZ was both a vessel of personal quest and feared pirate ship with a reputation built on precision and calculated violence. The men who searched for a lost girl were simultaneously commanders whose tactical brilliance had created a maritime legend.

"Of course, Captain," she replied, acknowledging both his authority and the necessary transition.

As she moved toward the door, Hongjoong's voice stopped her—softer than his tactical instructions to Seonghwa yet carrying equal certainty. "This conversation isn't finished," he said, something in his tone suggesting significance beyond mere scheduling. "Just paused for now."

The subtle distinction—pause rather than ending—offered connection that went beyond their current interaction. Unlike potential dismissal once practical information had been exchanged, Hongjoong indicated value beyond tactical advantage.

"I understand," she acknowledged, matching his tone. "Until circumstances permit."

Something passed between them in that moment—recognition not of shared past but of potential future, connection based on present choice rather than childhood memory. Then the ship's bell rang, calling crew to battle stations, and the captain's focus returned with practiced efficiency.

As Ella made her way to her quarters amid increasing activity above decks, she found herself processing the implications of Hongjoong's disclosure. Unlike her conversation with Yeosang, which had confirmed suspicions through shared experience, this interaction had revealed emotional dimensions previously hidden beneath strategic exterior—the human motivations driving tactical brilliance, the personal quest underlying fearsome reputation.

Most significantly, Hongjoong had offered his story without demand, history without expectation. Unlike potential manipulation that might have used shared past to extract specific response, he had simply shared truth: that finding her had defined their existence for fifteen years, that fulfilling blood oath remained binding regardless of changes time and circumstance had created.

The ATEEZ's sudden encounter with Southern Trade Company vessel perfectly mirrored her current situation—caught between past and present, between memory and reality, between comfortable anonymity and risky recognition. Like the black-sailed ship now preparing for potential combat, she navigated dangerous waters where decisions carried significant consequences.

As the sounds of battle preparation filtered through the ship—Seonghwa's precise commands, Wooyoung's unexpectedly authoritative coordination of below-deck crew, Yunho's calm instructions to rigging teams, Mingi's low voice directing gunners toward concealed positions—Ella recognized how seamlessly they transitioned from peaceful sailing to potential violence. These men who had shown her consistent kindness were simultaneously feared throughout the maritime world for ruthless efficiency and unwavering purpose.

In her cabin, secure behind closed door as naval confrontation developed above, she whispered, the familiar names carrying new significance after Hongjoong's revelations.

"Joongie, Hwa, Woo, Yuyu, Puppy, Angel," No longer merely comfort ritual but acknowledgment of connection maintained despite fifteen years' separation, of paths converging against seemingly impossible odds.

As naval confrontation developed above decks, tactical brilliance flowing through coordinated action, y/n found herself facing parallel challenge beneath strategic surface—navigating emotional waters more complex than any maritime passage, where recognition carried both promise and risk beyond simple identification.

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