#chess player x chess piece

[hydefever]

warm up hollowking

[tomboxed]

knight to k6

[joelsgoldrush]

“never is a promise” | 12.4k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: You are everything Logan isn’t: sweet, trouble-free, much younger—and, to top it off, Charles' caregiver.

WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ mentions of drinking. angst. some fluff. old man!logan x caregiver!reader. implied age gap (reader’s in her twenties). miscommunication. slow burn. pining. reader is shorter than logan and has long hair. charles in his cupid era. petnames. minor injuries. wound tending. mentions of blood. virgin!reader. dirty talk. cum shots. fingering. handjobs. oral sex (m receiving). loving sex. sex with a lot of feelings (is that a tag?). unprotected p in v.

A/N: i just want to fall in love with him. that’s it. that’s the reason why i wrote this long ass fic 😭 while doing so, i had “never is a promise” by fiona apple and “cool about it” by boygenius on repeat. give them a try if you haven’t listened to them (your lives will be CHANGED) (also, thank you for reading <3)

No matter how often you play chess with Charles, you never manage to beat him. 

“You’ve been staring at that knight for five minutes. It’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

Chuckling at his sarcasm, you fold your hands in your lap, lifting your eyebrows in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. You’re the master of chess,” leaning back in the chair, you cross one leg over the other. “Can we play something else?”

“I’m quite entertained, thank you,” Charles says, sliding the board closer to you across the table. “Your turn.”

“How is it that you don’t get tired of this game?” you mutter under your breath, eyes fixed on the board as you weigh your options, hovering your hand indecisively over the chess pieces. 

“Please do something before I’m forced to make a dash for the toilet.” He hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose—a telltale sign of one of his irritable days.

His words spur you into action, encouraging you to finally slide the knight into position. You glance up, meeting his gaze with a hint of challenge. “You go now.”

Charles doesn’t hesitate, and he moves a bishop. “Check.”

Fuck. You hadn’t seen that coming. “I’d prefer to walk away with my pride,” you joke, pushing your chair back and pretending to lose interest in the board.

That makes him smirk, a barely there grin dangling on the corners of his wrinkled lips. The truth is, you wouldn’t stop playing for anything in the world—not even if this old man kicks your ass every single time he suggests playing chess. “You’re not out of the game yet.”

Quietness settles over the tank while you allow yourself some time to come up with a new strategy. After a moment, you decide to go for a pawn, using it to block his bishop.

He doesn’t stop grinning, studying your move with an amused glint in his blue eyes. “Not bad, but you’ve left your king exposed.”

You gape at the board, your fragile confidence faltering for a split second. "I still have some pieces in play."

Charles nods, his brows drawing together in thoughtful consideration. "True. But sometimes, it’s not about how many pieces you have left—” He reaches out, carefully sliding his queen across the board. "It’s about where you place them.” He relaxes, hunching over, his eyes searching for yours. A smile that’s all teeth welcomes you. “Checkmate."

“Damn.” You blow out your cheeks, your gaze tracing the path of his queen. Somehow, he’s trapped your king with no easy way out.

He leans back with a satisfied grin. “That’s three games in a row. My suggestion is that you start rethinking your strategy.”

“Or maybe you’re just a better player,” you admit, a mix of frustration and admiration palpable in your tone. “No more chess for today, though.” You stand up from your seat, gathering the board and chess pieces. As usual, they find their place under Charles’ bed, and you turn back to him, beaming with delight. “I think you owe me one after all this.”

“You’re a terrible loser, my dear,” he says, his eyes twinkling as they take you in. “Reminds me of someone I know.”

At that exact moment, you hear the familiar creak of the tank’s door opening, followed by a cough you immediately recognize.

Without thinking, you straighten your back as Logan steps into the room. Charles notices it, but says nothing in return.

It was an infatuation—or at least, that’s what you try to convince yourself of. Logan is a very good-looking man, probably the most handsome you’ve ever laid eyes on.

The fact that you live with him doesn’t help at all. You think that if you only saw him occasionally, this—this anxiety that grips you whenever he’s around or when you hear his voice—wouldn’t happen in the first place.

Whether it’s good or bad luck, you’ve been sleeping under the same roof as him for over a year, and the crush you’ve had since the first time you exchanged words with him only seems to grow stronger with each passing day.

What you figure out over time is that men like Logan aren’t the dating type. He’s never brought anyone home, and for that, you’re secretly grateful. The last thing you need is to see him with another woman—thank you very much. Still, the thought gnaws at you: he could easily be meeting someone elsewhere.

In fact, it’s more than likely that he’s hooking up with other people. It doesn’t have to be at—

Alright. You don’t need this either.

Logan’s heavy footsteps resonate even louder, his presence more imposing, and he seems especially pissed off. Then again, he always has that demeanor—angry, grumpy, locked in a constant battle with life.

But today… today, you haven’t seen him this troubled in weeks.

“Look who’s joined us,” Charles mumbles, steering his motorized chair to meet him halfway. The chair bumps against Logan’s legs with a thud that sounds almost cartoonish, and Charles scrunches up his nose, his nostrils flaring in disgust. “You smell like shit.”

“Yeah, I missed you too, Pop,” Logan grunts, shoving his hand into the pocket of his suit, searching for something. That’s when you notice the bloodstains on his shirt, smeared across his chest, and the missing buttons at the top. Your breath catches in your throat, and you bite your tongue to keep from asking any foolish questions. “They gave me new ones,” he mutters, looking you in the eye as he tosses the pill bottle at you.

You leap forward to catch it mid-air, your heart skipping a beat. Logan holds your gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before giving a slight nod and turning on his heel to storm out of the tank.

When your attention goes back to Charles, you see how his eyes remain locked on the pills you’re holding, his head lowering in defeat. “He’s waiting for me to die.”

“Don’t say that.” You squat to be at his eye level, momentarily hiding the meds from his view. Still, you struggle to make him shift his gaze. “He’s taking care of you, which is something completely different.” You place your hand on top of his knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. You’ve had this same conversation innumerable times, yet each time feels like the first. He offers you a melancholic but knowing look as you softly say: “You have to take them, Charles. I’m sorry.”

He raises a hand, his trembling fingers curling around your wrist, examining you, trying to find an answer in the lines. “Don’t be. At least you’re here.”

“I’m sure Logan’s tired; that’s why he doesn’t stay any longer. Haven’t you seen him?” You rise to your feet, moving behind him to guide his chair. The tank sort of has a chill in the air, metallic walls that seem to press in around you both. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to play chess with him. Rest assured I’ll always let you win,” you murmur next to his ear, succeeding in eliciting a chuckle from him.

After that, you help him with his daily routine. Charles isn’t heavy, and you manage to get him onto the bed, his frail body yielding to your gentle support.

You slip the rest of his body beneath the blankets, tucking him in carefully before handing him two pills and a glass of water. “All the way down, okay? And I wanna see that tongue after you swallow them.”

If looks could kill, you’d be six feet under, covered in dust and dirt. Charles sticks his tongue out, putting the glass down on his nightstand. “Happy?”

“You’ve got no idea how much,” you say, adjusting the covers. The silence of the tank surrounds you both, and you can sense his gaze lingering on you. You flick your eyes up, furrowing your brows as you sit in the small space beside him on the mattress. “What is it?”

“You fancy him, don’t you?”

Freezing on the spot, your eyes narrow. “I—I don’t—” you trail off, pushing the words out with some effort. “Are you trying to read my mind?”

His whole chest rumbles with laughter under your touch. He finds your hand once again, intertwining your fingers with his. “Don’t be so naïve. I don’t need my abilities to see the way you get all flustered when he passes by. Why do you think they say older people are wiser?” he inquires, his lips forming a straight line. “We’ve lived too much not to notice the most common things, my dear—and let me tell you that you do a horrible job at pretending.”

“Of course I like him. Logan’s a good man, he keeps us safe.” You glance down at your hands—his, weak and delicate, in evident contrast to your own. “I’m not in love with him, Cupid.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen him years ago,” Charles says, his eyes glazing over as he drifts back into the past. His body remains here, within the confines of the room, but his mind is elsewhere, somewhere far away. You give his hand a gentle tug, trying to bring him back. “When we took him in, he was pursuing a career as a cage fighter. I had never seen anyone like him in all my years of educating mutants. He was so… different from the rest. Reserved, didn’t talk much at first. But I gave him a family, I—” His voice falters, overcome by his own emotions. 

That’s when you realize he’s no longer with you, his gaze unfocused, looking around the tank as if seeing it for the first time. It pains you to see him like this, completely disoriented and disconnected from reality.

“Why are we here? What has happened to the rest? Has he told you anything?”

These are the questions he asks every day without fail—questions that you can’t, nor want, to answer. Since you’re not exactly sure the explanation would soothe his troubled mind, you feel forced to play dumb.

“I don’t know, Charles. We don’t really talk that much, Logan and I.” You stand from the bed, not without pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead before. You smile at him, hoping he doesn’t realize the gesture lacks authenticity. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll let you know if I hear anything worth sharing.”

Once you close the door behind you, you settle back into it, releasing a shaky breath. Being Charles’ caregiver was a challenging task, especially in moments like these, which required immense internal strength not to crumble in front of him.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you adjust to the harsh sunlight, fighting to regain your composure. When you finally scan the area, the only thing that meets your eye is the deserted smelting plant you now call home.

You open the sliding door, the noise breaking the stillness and forcing Logan to look up from his plate. He’s eating like a starved man, casually drinking from a small bottle of whisky on the table, already half of it gone. After those long drives through the nights and the early hours, he always returns hungry.

You pour yourself a cup of coffee, setting it on the stove to heat. Neither of you says anything for a few minutes: he eats, and you sip your hot coffee in silence, not wishing to disturb the breakable peace that hangs by a thread.

Thinking this is how the noon will continue, you begin to walk toward your room until he clears his throat, stopping you in your tracks. That simple gesture makes you whirl around, anticipating something.

“This is delicious,” he acknowledges, pointing to his plate with his fork, the rice with veggies and meat you cooked last night nearly gone. Dipping his chin, he adds in a low voice: “Thank you.”

You’re taken aback by his unexpected willingness to engage in conversation. Moments like these are as rare as seeing Halley’s Comet, so you proceed with caution, as if you’re approaching a skittish animal—one wrong move, and the opportunity is lost.

Setting your mug down on the table, you sit on the chair opposite him. Deep down, the hammering of your heart echoes in your ears, and you hope his sharp senses don’t pick up on it.

“I’m glad you liked it. Charles ate two bowls of it,” you explain, unable to suppress a smile. Logan hums, tilting his head to the side as he keeps devouring his meal. You take another sip of your coffee, blowing on it in a futile attempt to cool it down. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Huh?”

“Charles. He—he asks to see you a lot,” you begin, carefully choosing your words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think it would make him feel better if you spent more time with him.”

The sound of a distant train rumbles through the walls, amplifying the silence between you. Logan doesn’t utter a word; instead, he puts down his fork, the clinking noise making you jump slightly, the intensity of his stare becoming overwhelming.

“You’re right about one thing—what I do or don’t do is none of your goddamn business.”

Just like that, the buildup dissolves in a matter of seconds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, nodding absentmindedly. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling a wave of shame wash over you. How stupid were you to think he might want to talk to you?  “I just—I want to be of help.”

“Just take care of Charles. That’s all you gotta worry about, all I’ve ever asked you to do,” he barks, clenching his jaw, and you can tell he means each word.

When he talks to you in this tone, it makes you think more rationally—it reminds you that you don’t really know him, and yet you agreed to work for him in exchange for a roof over your head and food on your plate. He’s not your friend, and he’s excellent at making that crystal clear every time you cross the line.

Logan pushes you away like you’re nothing, like you’re just another of the many burdens he has to deal with.

It should be enough to send you running to your room, but despite the knot tightening in your belly, you somehow remain rooted in place, your eyes sharp like daggers.

As another train echoes in the silence, you come to terms with the knowledge that one more question will drive him away.

And sometimes, you speak before you think, as you do now: “Whose blood is that on your shirt?” you ask, voice steady and cold. Perhaps it’s you who wants him to leave this time.

He shakes his head with offense, frustration crinkling his eyes. “I don’t need this shit,” he groans, his gruff voice loud enough for you to hear it. He gets up from the table, placing his plate in the sink without much delicacy. At last, he heads to his room, slamming the door with a deafening thud that reverberates through the entire place.

It’s not a crush, that voice deep inside you insists as you’re left alone in the kitchen. And it’s valid: a mere crush wouldn't cause this kind of pain, wouldn’t make your chest feel this heavy and your limbs numb.

Whenever he leaves, he takes a part of you with him, never to be returned. By now, you’re certain he’s stolen all those missing pieces from you, and you’ve got no idea how much longer you can endure before you shatter completely.

You seem to have won this battle, but what you end up losing is far greater than any fleeting gratification.

Loving Logan is maddening, to say the least.

To this day, you still recall every detail of the night that altered the course of your life—the night you met Logan.

The memories are rather vivid in your mind, and you revisit that moment on nights like these, when you can’t sleep and the past appears to be much more appealing than your present.

Pressing your cheek against the cold pillow, you let your eyelids drop, reconstructing the full scene behind your sealed eyes.

It was your third week working at that restaurant, and you were still getting used to its daily rhythm. Waitressing was working wonders for you—you had a good memory, and people often gave you generous tips.

Everything was going well: you were the only waitress on shift, and your boss had left for a brief errand, promising he would be back soon.

During this lull, a group of men entered the restaurant, already drunk or high—probably both. They sat at one of the empty tables, immediately calling for you.

One of them, a tall blonde, was the loudest. “Come here, baby.” He pointed his finger at you, gesturing for you to approach him. The nickname felt wrong rolling off his tongue, and as you obliged, he shoved a handful of bills into the front pocket of your apron. He clutched your waist, dragging you nearer. “I’m getting married tomorrow. Think you can do something special for me?”

His friends cheered him on, laughing and pounding their fists on the table. You managed to slip from his grasp and asked them what they wanted to order.

While they took their time deciding, you noticed a limousine parked in the distance, probably the vehicle that had brought these morons here. The driver rolled down his window, hanging his arm from the armrest.

Though you couldn’t see his features, the interaction alone was enough to make you look away.

An hour went by, and the men refused to take off. They’d eaten, drunk, and danced—and driven you crazy in the process. The rest of the customers had decided to leave once they realized the night was far from finishing for the noisy group of friends. You apologized, feeling incapable of doing anything to change the situation.

Your sanity felt threatened as you turned off the TV, ending the sixth round of karaoke, their shouts and hoots ringing in your ears.

“We’re closing in ten minutes,” you informed them, starting to collect their dirty plates and glasses. Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted the blonde man standing right beside you, his piercing blue eyes burning holes through your skin. He attempted to graze your shoulder, but you quickly stepped back, keeping a safe distance between you. “How do you plan to pay? Cash or credit?”

“How about with a kiss, huh?” He inched forward, his face dangerously close to yours. Unaccustomed to being approached in this manner, you ducked your head, unsure of your next move. His breath reeked of beer and vodka, a horrendous combination that had you nearly gagging on the spot.

As he backed you against the counter, one of his large hands cradled your face, urging you to make eye contact with him. “I swear I can be very, very nice. You haven’t given me the chance to show it yet.”

“Hey, pal. You said one hour.”

The first time you heard his voice—low and husky, the kind that could send shivers down your spine.

Your eyes locked with Logan’s, your pleading gaze seemingly stirring something in him as he got a grip on the situation. His brows bumped together in a scowl, and you didn’t miss how he limped as he made his way into the restaurant.

There was something about him—how he moved, his stance—that felt strangely familiar.

“We’re busy in here, chauffeur,” the blue-eyed man protested, slightly losing his balance while still holding your cheek.

Your rescuer squared off against him, their noses practically brushing. He worked his jaw, his half-lidded, tired eyes taking in the sight of you. “I’m no fortune-teller, but I don’t think she’s into you, bub.”

“Come again?” the blonde guy released you, much more concerned with defending his bruised pride. “What’s the matter, Grandpa? Is it past your bedtime?”

“I want you to pay me for the ride, and for waiting a fucking hour and a half for you and your friends,” the older man spat, jerking his thumb toward the limousine. “I’m not taking you back to the hotel. You might want to start looking’ for another driver.”

The group of men closed in around him, their anger bubbling. “That’s not cool, dude. We had a deal,” another voice snapped, but Logan couldn’t seem to care less.

“Well, the deal’s off. And leave the girl alone, will you?” he retorted, his tone dripping with disdain. “So, where’s my money?”

He couldn’t have predicted it. One of the men behind him swung a plate, striking him in the nape and catching him off guard. Logan collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in pain. The others took the opportunity and began to pummel him, kicks and punches landing wherever they could.

You screamed at the top of your lungs, desperately trying to intervene. You grabbed at their clothes, digging your fingernails into every patch of exposed skin you could find, but they shoved you aside with brutal force. Your back slammed against the nearest wall, a jolt of sudden pain making you wince.

The blood in your veins turned to ice as you watched, paralyzed with fear that they might kill him. But then—

Three metallic claws emerged from his knuckles, and he used them to push himself upright. Despite the blood smeared across his nose and mouth, he managed to stand, his quickened breathing coming out in short puffs.

The men backed away in shock, leaving him alone amidst the chaos. 

You stared at him, your hands trembling as recognition dawned: it was The Wolverine.

The familiarity, the sense of having seen him before, all made sense now. It all flooded back in a rush—the comics, the news, the rumors.

“Get the hell outta my sight,” he growled, pressing his claws against the fabric of the blue-eyed man’s jacket, making him flinch.

You couldn’t make out what you were feeling. It wasn’t fear, but intrigue. Even as the group of men fled the restaurant, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. At first, he avoided your gaze, focusing on his shoes as he retracted his claws.

Once the immediate danger had passed, he slumped forward, groaning. You gently draped one of his arms around your shoulders and helped him into a nearby chair. His weight felt like a thousand bricks, but you accomplished to get him seated.

He rubbed a shaky hand over his graying beard, his face twisting in pain as you pressed a makeshift towel of napkins against his lower lip, where blood continued to flow.

Taking the towel from you, he continued tending to himself. You scanned his features, scrutinizing him.

“You are…” you began, the words feeling inadequate at the moment.

Logan nodded hesitantly, his silence confirming your suspicion. “Yeah, that’s me,” he tugged at his shirt collar, exposing some of his chest hair, fresh blood staining his work clothes. Your gaze fell there, and you quickly chided yourself.

The poor guy was bleeding, and you were checking him out. Jeez.

Kneeling by his side, you introduced yourself. “Thank you for stepping up for me,” you said afterward, and he shook his head dismissively. “They were a pain in the ass. I don’t know how you even managed to drive them here.”

“Money’s money, darlin’. Doesn’t matter where it comes from, as long as—” he was interrupted by a coughing fit, and your concern deepened as you continued to spot more of his injuries. “I’ll heal,” he reassured you, his expression softening in an attempt to calm your anxiety.

Your eyes pierced his with an intensity that seemed to unsettle him. Warmth crept into your cheeks as a question surfaced in your mind: “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, kid,” he replied, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

“But I could help you,” you persisted, your voice betraying a touch of eagerness. Stifling a cough, you tried to mask your enthusiasm, and sighed. “Are you hungry? I could cook you something, or pour you a drink. We’ve got plenty of liquor—”

Logan interrupted you, placing the towel down on the table. “Have you ever taken care of an old person?” 

Tilting your head, you considered his question. “How old?”

“Ninety-somethin’.”

You nodded, memories of the events from years ago surfacing. “I lived with my grandparents for most of my life. When they fell ill, I spent a lot of time with them. My mom had to work long hours, and I—well, the point is, I did take care of them,” you paused for an instant, his expression unreadable, though you perceived a slight relaxation in his posture, as if your answer had put him at ease. “I like being around old people. They have stories to tell,” you added, a genuine smile breaking through, “and I’m a good listener.”

“Then I suppose there is somethin��� you can help me with.”

And so began a new chapter in your life.

The very next day, you were moving in with him and Charles. It took several weeks for the latter to warm up to you and get used to your presence.

Initially, he was hopeful that you might also be a mutant, but his disappointment was palpable when he discovered you lacked any supernatural gifts. Leaving that aside, he valued your company.

“The shots mellow the seizures. The pills keep them from happening,” Logan had once explained, detailing the medications Charles needed. You recalled the psychic attack from a year ago and its consequences, but that wasn’t a topic to be discussed with Logan, and you understood why.

“Where do you get these?” you asked, examining the bottle of pills with a curious glance. “Without a prescription, I mean.”

“Oh, you don’t wanna know.”

Soon, you got adapted to the whole package: his unpredictable temperament, his mood swings, and his nightmares. Logan Howlett was a puzzle box of surprises, one you could never quite unlock.

Fast forward to the present day, you realize it must be already late, because Logan’s heading to work. You stand on your tiptoes, peering out of your bedroom window. Your humid breath fogs the glass as his eyes find yours, and then he slips into the vehicle, blending into the shadows of the night.

The distant rumble of his limousine signals his departure, your forehead pressed against the glass, as if somehow that could take you with him.

There goes another piece of you.

You find yourself shaving Charles the moment worry takes over your senses.

He’s retelling a familiar story: that one time Logan, Scott, Jean, and Storm saved Rogue from Magneto.

On any other day, you wouldn’t mind listening to his stories, despite having heard them countless times. This one in particular is your favorite.

But today, it’s hard to focus on it, even more when one of its main characters is missing in action.

Logan hasn’t come back home yet.

It’s been an entire day, and he’s usually back by morning to rest. Now, after having cooked dinner and helping Charles shower, you’ve run out of distractions. There’s nothing left to occupy your thoughts, nothing to ease the building anxiety gnawing at you.

You texted him multiple times—no answer. You even called—also nothing. Every time Charles asks if Logan’s at work or sleeping, the knot in your chest tightens. That’s when your mind starts to spiral, and you’re convinced you’ll burst any moment.

After putting him to bed, you pace the kitchen, picking at your nails and biting the raw skin around them. The sting of pain is there, but it’s faint, not enough to overshadow the real fear clawing at your insides.

All these what-ifs that storm through your mind make you feel nauseous: what if he’s dead? What would you do with Charles? How would you provide for both of you without a salary?

Just as you’re about to dial his number again, Logan materializes out of thin air through the sliding door.

He’s got a dark bruise under his right eye, and his once-white shirt is littered with bloodstains. You stare at him—he’s limping harder than usual, each of his movements slower.

Walking towards him, your hands cup his face. His skin feels rough beneath your fingers, and he lets out a grunt as you graze his split lip. “What happened?”

“They were followin’ me. Had been doin’ so for a few days now,” he says, making no effort to pull away.

“Did you kill them?” you wonder out loud, still inspecting his injuries. The pad of your thumb hovers inches away from his bruised mouth.

Covering your hands with his, Logan ducks his head, closing his eyes for a brief second and swallowing thickly. “Somebody had to do it, sweetheart.”

You limit yourself to a nod, because you know there’s nothing you can reproach him for. You were no stranger to the idea of him killing. It was an implicit truth between you.

“I thought—I was so scared, and I—” your voice wavers, and you feel your eyes watering, the tears prickling at the corners. “I thought you—”

He doesn’t let you finish, already knowing how it would end. “Hey, look at me,” he’s the one touching you now, tilting your chin up. Your eyes keep flickering over the cuts and old scars you spot on his cheeks, his neck. Logan forces a pained smile, unable to hide his discomfort. “It’s fine, I’m alright. Just a bit fucked up, but nothin’ you haven’t seen before,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood, and it works. You bite your lower lip, suppressing your grin. “I always come back, don’t I?”

“But you can barely stand,” you whisper, not sure why you’re speaking so softly. You make him turn his back to you, helping him shrug off his coat. As expected, remnants of dried blood decorate his shirt like highlights. “Let me help you.” 

“I don’t—”

”There are cuts all over your back. And your chest—you’re not healing properly,” you say, turning him to face you again. The look on his face suggests only one thing: he’s about to throw in the towel. “You don’t have to do everything on your own.” You think you’ve never been this close before, his proximity both intoxicating and comforting at the same time. “Please.”

He ends up giving in to your persuasion, allowing you to guide him to the bathroom. Logan sits down on the toilet, watching you gather supplies to clean his wounds. When you come back, he’s still staring at you, his eyelashes fluttering together each time he blinks.

Starting with his cheek, you press a damp towel to his skin, and he hisses. It takes everything in you not to flinch in sympathy.

“How’s Charles?” he asks, probably trying to distract himself as you continue to clean his wounds, the towel darkening with his blood over time. 

“He’s doing great. Asked for you a lot, actually,” you take a look at his jaw, where one shallow cut is already starting to fade away thanks to his healing ability, something that never fails to amaze you.

Logan hums, tilting his head. ”I’ll check on him in the morning,” he murmurs, and you flash him a quick smile, finishing with his face. He’s now free of dirt and blood, his brows furrowing as he pauses to collect his thoughts. “The other day, when we talked—”

You cut him off, turning to the sink as you rinse the towel, watching the water get red. “Forget it.”

“No, it wasn’t okay—how I acted,” he stands up from the toilet, and you feel his presence behind you, the alarm inside your head going off as the space between you shrinks. “I know you just want what’s best for him. For us. I’m sorry I was a jerk,” his voice comes out even huskier at this time of the night, sounding afraid of waking someone, even though it’s just the two of you here.

“Apology accepted,” you swirl around to meet his gaze, only to find yourself nose-to-nose with him, and you lean back against the sink, your spine pressed into the cool surface.

Logan places his hands on both sides of the vanity, caging you with his body. Like the most beautiful tree, he stands tall in front of you, and you take a deep breath, getting drunk on his distinctive scent. “Are you… okay?”

You watch as he lowers his head, pursing his lips before muttering: “Imma need you to do something more for me,” he says, almost pleading, and you can’t avoid the amount of thoughts that rush into your mind.

Gone was your decency when you had to deal with him.

That’s when he looks up to find your eyes, his harsh expression evolving into a more vulnerable one. “Have you ever removed a bullet?”

If you thought listening to Logan’s nightmares was painful, nothing could have prepared you for the sounds he makes while you pull several bullets from his wounds. 

He sits shirtless in front of you, grunting at each of your careful movements. As you remove one bullet lodged near his ribs, Logan practically yells, and you rest your cheek against his, desperate to ease his suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Almost done,” you whisper into his ear, hoping your words might bring him some relief. He lets his head fall forward, resting it on your shoulder, trusting you enough to tend to his injuries, his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

It takes you half an hour to clean both his chest and back, but Logan doesn’t complain. When you’re finished, he goes straight to his room, flopping onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. You see the way his chest rises and falls rapidly, his breathing still labored.

You wish you could lie beside him, even just for a few minutes, but your last shred of self-control stops you from doing such a thing.

“Get some sleep,” you say leaning against the doorframe, your advice sounding more like a plea. He looks exhausted, dark circles sunken beneath his eyes. 

Logan lets out a bitter laugh. “Do I look that bad?”

You roll your eyes at that, your fingers curling around the doorknob. Glancing back at him over your shoulder, you catch something in his look—a glimmer of something you struggle to put into words, but you decide not to look further into it. “Good night, Logan.”

“Good night, darlin’—and thank you,” he murmurs, holding your gaze until the door shuts between you.

Then you sprint to your room, gently closing the door before biting back a smile, replaying the last hour in your mind. How close to you he had been, how comfortable he seemed around you.

You hadn’t just crossed lines—you’d broken them. You almost pinch yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Somehow, your racing mind calms down, and you fall asleep, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, the other resting against your chest.

You’re a light sleeper. The sound of something shattering wakes you, leaving you startled and disoriented.

Dawn is just breaking, the first rays of sunlight slipping through your window. You sit up, pricking up your ears as you scratch the back of your head, listening attentively.

Logan’s voice filters into your room—he lets out a string of profanities, and you stifle a giggle, throwing off your covers and putting on a sweatshirt that matches your pajamas.

Barefoot, you walk down the hall, stopping at the kitchen’s entrance. Logan is kneeling beside the table, gathering the shards of a broken mug. It seems like he’s just gotten out of the shower, tiny droplets of water trailing down his neck.

“That was my favorite one,” you say in a low voice, teasing him. His back muscles flex under the material of his shirt, and he turns to look at you, his expression a silent apology. “I take it you’re not using your glasses?”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rising to his feet, he grunts, digging his fingers into his lower back with a grimace. “They’re called readers for a reason.”

You decide to let him have that one, grabbing a new mug from the shelf and handing it to him. He accepts it, thanking you, and fills it with freshly brewed coffee.

“Was it a nightmare?” you ask, watching as he sinks into the couch, spreading his thighs apart with a sigh while you take a seat at the table instead.

Logan gives a nod, sipping some of his coffee. “At least I slept for a few hours.” 

“Are you really going to stay up? It’s pretty early.” You stretch your arms over your head, a yawn escaping you before you can hold it back.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then comes your question: “Can I join you?” You prop your elbows on your knees, any trace of sleepiness now gone with the wind.

He squints his eyes, his unrelenting stare boring into you. “Feel free.”

So here you are, studying him as he drinks his coffee, his fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic. There are so many things you want to ask him—about how he’s feeling, if his wounds have healed—but it seems you’ve entered a silent staring contest without even knowing it.

Not that you mind him looking at you—you just want to know the reason why.

You snort, and he arches a brow. “Do I have something on my face?” You decide to ask him, straightening your back.

“I guess I can’t help but wonder why you agreed to all of this,” he says, setting the mug down with a soft clink. By this, you understand he’s referring to being Charles’ caregiver and leaving your old job behind. “I mean—you could be doing better things with your life. Why would you choose to do this?”

“I told you before: I wanted to help you,” you shrug, trying to keep your tone light even as your stomach tightens with nerves. You watch as Logan folds his arms, the muscles of his biceps becoming more visible. “Plus, I love being around Charles.

“I don’t think people your age would be that interested in spending their days like this,” he says, and you toy with a lock of your hair, wrapping it around your finger.

“Well, good thing I’m not like most people my age then.”

His silence hangs heavy in the air until he speaks again. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know that feeling when life seems like a race? And you just have to keep up with certain things that everybody else is doing, or you’ll be left behind?” You pause, the words falling more naturally than you’d expected.

Logan nods, making it seem like he understands what you’re trying to say. Whether he truly does it or not, you don’t know.

“When my friends started going to parties, getting boyfriends… I couldn’t. My family wouldn’t let me. And even when I could, it felt like it wasn’t really what I wanted.”

Inhaling sharply, you stop yourself. The conversation suddenly feels far too personal.

“You never had a boyfriend?” He gets more comfortable on the couch, his voice gruff as he rubs his chin, waiting for a reply.

A familiar heat settles between your legs. “I went out with some guys, but it never led to anything serious,” you say, your cheeks getting warmer the more details you share with him. “I guess I wasn’t the kind of girl they were looking for,” you add, not missing the way his lips twitch momentarily.

“How could they not want you?”

“They didn’t think like you do.”

“That’s because they were boys, not men,” he mutters, his gaze dropping to your hands before returning to your face. “Did they treat you right, those boys?”

Swallowing hard, you can hardly register the uncertainty in your own voice. “I mean… yes, I think they did. They were nice to me.”

There it is—the faintest hint of a smirk dancing on his lips. “Nice doesn’t mean good, though.”

You dig your nails onto the table, your pulse quickening, trying to hide how affected you are by his words. “What is it that you want to know?”

“Come sit with me, doll.”

Doll. Doll. Doll. Inside your chest, your heart gallops, your legs trembling as you get off the table, moving closer to him.

Feeling lighter with every step you take, you plop down beside him, and Logan sits straighter, his knees almost bumping into yours.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him—this is happening, just like in your filthiest dreams.

His hand slides up to yours, not applying any sort of pressure. He scrutinizes your skin, bringing your hand to his lips, and he presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist.

It tickles, it burns—it ignites a fire inside you, one you know you can’t ignore. A gasp attempts to escape you, but you suppress it.

“Did you let them touch you?” he whispers, attaching his mouth to your neck, brushing the sensitive spot where your jaw and ear meet.

This time, you moan, any possible rational thoughts turning into putty, melting with the way he’s touching you. “Logan,” you purr his name, begging for something, anything he’s willing to give you. Your thighs, once shoved together, spread of their own accord, and you hear him click his tongue.

“I asked you something.” His teeth graze your pulse point, forcing you to close your eyes.

“I didn’t. They wanted to, but I—I wouldn’t let them,” you answer, and as if he’s rewarding you, his fingers begin to tug on the hem of your sweatshirt, rolling it up your body and over your head. He tosses it to the floor, admiring you.

“Why?”

Goddamn.

“Because I was waiting for the right guy,” you manage to get out, grasping his hand and positioning it on top of your right breast, encouraging him to go on with what he had started. His pupils widen further, and he squeezes your tit roughly, eliciting a moan from you. “I think I’ve found him.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any sign of repentance in your expression. “I’m going to hell for this,” he murmurs under his breath, his hard-on noticeable through his tented sweatpants. “Lay down.” You obey his command, easing yourself onto the couch, and sinking into the cushions as he presses himself to your side.

He peppers your neck with kisses, playing with the waistband of your shorts. “I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.”

You accept his offer, knowing that you’ll probably regret it in a couple of hours. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You need his electrifying touch, his fingers, his—

With a swift motion, your shorts are yanked down your legs, and his calloused hands part your thighs even wider. A damp spot on your underwear sells you out, and his thumb rubs gentle circles over that area, causing you to lift your hips.

“So this is what you look like when you touch yourself, huh?” He edges his fingers closer to your clit, his breath tickling your ear, and he dips his tongue into your collarbone. “I hear you all the fuckin’ time. You’re not as quiet as you think.”

It should embarrass you, the fact that he has listened to you pleasuring yourself. But in a moment like this, it only succeeds in fuelling your desire. “Please. You said you’d make me feel good.”

“And I will, but you’re greedy as hell,” he says, his movements more deliberate now. You feel hot all over as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing your glistening cunt.

Logan’s on the verge of drooling all over you, reaching for your folds and spreading your wetness. “Men aren’t strong creatures, honey. You’ve got no idea how hard it is to hold back.”

“D-don’t hold back,” you stutter, losing your composure when he returns to your clit, his fingers coated in your arousal while they flick your swollen bud. “Oh, Logan…”

“You make the prettiest sounds,” he rasps, mouthing at your jaw, though as you try to kiss him, he slows his pace. “What’s wrong? Am I not giving you enough?”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you whisper, fascinated by how big his fingers look in comparison to your pussy. “I’m just—”

“Needy, I know,” he finishes for you, and he picks up his merciless rhythm again. Heat pools in your lower abdomen, and you can’t help but arch your back every time he teases you, grazing your entrance with his middle finger. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You dig your nails into his arm, relishing the way his body responds to your touch. He grinds his cock against your hip, his teeth nipping at the column of your neck. “I want to come. Please, make me come,” you sob, letting out a shaky breath.

A thin sheen of sweat covers your forehead, and Logan locks eyes with you after what feels like an eternity. “Please, Lo.”

The nickname snaps something inside of him. His fingers circle your clit with a fervency you hadn’t experienced before, your pleasure seemingly being his primary focus. “The shit I’d do for you.”

You warn him, telling him you’re close—so so so close—until the fire in your belly flares, and blood rushes to your ears. You collapse against him, holding his hand firmly against your core, hips jerking as you ride your orgasm.

The world narrows down to this—this moment, your most desired fantasy.

Logan holds you as you go limp in his arms, rubbing your clit ever so slightly, murmuring soft praises. “Y’did so good, sweetheart,” he whispers, planting a kiss on your temple, burying his nose in your hair. You’re still out of breath, the pulsing between your parted legs persisting long after your release. “Told you you weren’t quiet.”

A giggle bubbles up from your chest, his beard tickling you as he slides his hands up under your shirt, finding your nipples.

“It was n-nice,” you tell him, your voice faltering the more he toys with your hardened peaks. Your skin heats up again, heart racing at the thought that he isn’t done with you yet.

“Just nice?” One of his hands makes its way back into your pussy, ghosting his fingers over your hole, and he smirks when he feels you squirm. “You surely know how to hurt a man’s pride.”

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to—” You can’t structure a proper sentence, not when he’s playing with you like this.

Logan rubs your arousal between his fingers, as though he wants you to see how slick you still are, even after coming. “Are you going to touch me again?”

He hums, feigning uncertainty. “What do you think, baby? Should I make you come with my fingers now?”

It’s like a switch flips in your mind. He knows exactly how to make you beg and which buttons to push, using that power to his advantage. “Yes, please. I want it,” you plead, intending to buck your hips into his touch, impatient for more.

“Do you fuck yourself with your fingers?” 

“Sometimes, but I can never finish—Oh my God.” He slips one finger inside you, causing you to curse, your voice barely above a whisper. You clench around the intrusion, your head falling back onto the cushions. “Fuck me.”

“In a minute.” He begins to thrust his finger in and out, gathering your juices every time he goes back to hammering that sweet spot in your interior. Soon, one finger becomes two, and he reduces you to a panting mess.

Tears threaten to swell in your eyes, and you whine as he involves his other hand in the matter, furiously rubbing your clit. “Your fingers feel much better than m-mine, Lo.”

“I can tell.” He curls them just right, and you push back against his thrusts, tilting your pelvis to meet him halfway. “There you go. Take what you need, sweetheart. I’m right here, I’ve got you.”

Everything feels frenzied, fast, the way your inner walls spam and contract around his fingers as you chase your second climax.

Once you come down from your high, your blurred vision catches him tugging the waistband of his sweatpants down. His cock springs free, and he fists himself, stroking his length angrily.

You watch as some pre-cum dribbles from the head, and you lean forward, watching it closely.

“You look goddamn beautiful when you come, darlin’,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched tight. Hovering over you, he rucks your shirt up until he can see your tits from above. He alternates between your breasts, squeezing them while he continues to stroke his girth. “Want to see these all dirty.”

Logan truly loses it when your hand reaches out to him, tracing a bulging vein near the head of his cock. You meet his lustful gaze, batting your lashes, and then you feel his come splashing against your bare chest, a choked moan escaping Logan’s throat, spurts of his hot seed landing on your skin.

“Fuckin’ hell… fuck,” he grunts, still tugging at his cock, enamored with the masterpiece he’s created. When it’s finally over, he lies beside you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. You run your fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles further into your touch with a groan. “I’m too old for this.”

Minutes pass as both of you seem to grasp the gravity of what has just happened. Eventually, Logan rises to his feet, disappearing for a brief moment before coming back with a towel to wipe his come off your stomach and chest.

He’s gentle with you, his gaze trained on his task until his eyes flick up to meet yours. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, pulling your shorts back up.

“Like what?” 

“Like you want to see right through me.” He adjusts your shirt to cover your body again, but the towel remains in his hand, a reminder of the previous events.

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

You don’t have to talk about it. You definitely don’t. 

Two days later, he’s the one who comes looking for you.

You’re nearly asleep when he knocks on your door. “Come in,” you mumble, a bit of drool having dampened your pillow. You dry your mouth with the back of your hand, your back turned to the door.

He steps into your room cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. The mattress dips under his weight. “Were you sleeping?” he asks, caressing your leg over the covers. 

You shift onto your back, your body responding before your mind. There’s no blood on his clothes—that makes you feel a bit better, and you shake your head.

“Good.” He looms closer, fumbling with his belt. His thumb applies little pressure to your lower lip, and your mouth parts to let him in, salivating.

This is just like Pavlov’s dog experiment—except that Logan isn’t an experimenter, and you aren’t a dog.

Yet, when he approaches you like this, you can’t help but respond, settling into a routine where you both take take take from each other.

Logan doesn’t fuck you, even when you beg him to. He gets you off with his fingers, his thigh, his mouth—but his cock remains out of the equation. 

“Just the tip,” you plead, voice laced with pure need, when he’s got his face nestled between your legs. 

As he stops eating you out, his beard shiny with your arousal, he’s still got that angry look on his face. Your cries don’t get to him.

“That lie’s older than me.” He slips his fingers back inside you, aiming to make you drop the subject. “Come on, baby. Gotta get ready for work, but you need to come first.”

Nor does he stay the night after telling you you’re the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen in his life. Just when you think he’s fallen asleep, his legs intertwined with yours and one of his large hands under your head, you drift off.

By the time morning comes, he’s gone. You just know that when night falls, he’ll be back for more, drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Despite all that, Logan won’t kiss you. He keeps his promise, and you hate how determined he is. 

“Not even once?” you ask him one night while going over the scars on his back. You’re in his bed this time, and he has his nose buried in his pillow, moments away from dozing off. 

“No,” he answers, squirming slightly under your touch. “I’m tired. Stop doing that.”

“How did you get this one?” You trace one scar that’s close to his shoulder, resting your chin just inches from it.

He turns his face to see your eyes. “Well, I was doing Pilates, and I—Hey!” He laughs when you pinch the skin near his ribs, tickling him. “I don’t even remember. Must’ve got it a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?” It’s a dumb question, but he doesn’t mention it.

His index finger grazes your cheek, and he chuckles at the way your eyelids flutter. “In the past, they all did. But not anymore,” he replies, though you wish you could believe him.

You know he’s in pain most days. That when he goes down on you, and he’s on his knees for too long, he has trouble standing up without cursing. That no amount of alcohol, or his healing ability, helps him with it.

You kiss each of his scars before curling against his side, brushing your nose against his. “And now?” Your eyes fall to his lips, silently hoping he’ll say Yes.

Instead, he sighs. “I think we should go to sleep.”

So despite the lack of kisses, the miscommunication, and the fact that he won’t fuck you even though you know—you feel—he wants to, things are good between you.

Charles notices it, openly expressing his recent realization. “He looks happier, doesn’t he?” he asks says after winning two games of chess in a row, startling you. 

“Logan, you mean?”

“Yes, my dear.”

You glance down at the board, fidgeting with the pieces. “I guess so.”

“You guess so?” he parrots your previous words, raising an eyebrow in doubt. “Look at me,” he says, and as you do it, he points a shaky finger toward your neck. “I assume mosquitos have taken a liking to you.”

Heat rises to your cheeks, your hand flying up to cover the hickey you had completely forgotten about in the first place. “Charles, I’m—“

“Are you happy?” he interrupts you, and you nod, because you are. 

A nagging thought lingers at the back of your mind. You don’t know if you’re asking for too much, but it still feels like something’s missing.

One morning, you accidentally overhear a conversation between them. The door of the tank is ajar, and right before you step inside, you recognize Logan’s voice in the distance.

“Charles, I’m fine, alright? I don’t need your advice.”

There’s a pause before Charles responds. “You know, Logan… this is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.”

Logan doesn’t say anything in response to that. And if he does, you don’t stick around long enough find out, because you’re already turning on your heel.

A poet once said: “Blowjobs are fucking amazing.”

Actually, you might be wrong. Those may not have been a poet’s words, but your best friend Keira’s from high school.

You remember the sleepovers at her place—she had a boyfriend at the time, a boy she had met at a party you hadn’t been invited to. 

“Welcome to blowjobs 101,” she had declared one night, holding a hairbrush like a microphone. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll tell you everything you need to know when the moment comes.”

Luckily, many years later, that moment arrived.

Just ten minutes ago, you were cooking dinner, sniffling back tears while chopping onions, so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Logan was already home.

He tossed his keys onto the table, hugging you from behind seconds later. You leaned back against his chest, enjoying the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin, his lips planting soft kisses wherever they could.

“How was work?” you dropped the knife, wiping your tears as you turned to face him, throwing your arms around his neck. Logan pulled you in tighter by the waist, giving your ass a firm squeeze.

“Hell, as usual,” he looked into your eyes, finding them all glossy. “You miss me so much you started crying?”

Of course, you didn’t talk about it—but words aren’t the only ones who can convey meaning.

You’re not sure how, but one thing led to another, and now you’re on your knees, Logan’s cock filling your mouth. Your lips, swollen and red, suck hard at his tip, pulling the foreskin back, and his hips jerk deeper into your throat. “That’s it, fuck. Doin’ so good.”

Your movements are far from graceful. As a matter of fact, it’s all too sloppy and desperate. Saliva drips down your chin, some of it coating his balls, and you fondle them at the same time you bob your head.

Keira’s advice plays on repeat in your mind, and you pull out every trick you know to make Logan roll his eyes.

So far, you think you’re doing pretty great, judging by the way he’s gripping the back of your head.

“H-how is this your first time suckin’ cock?” he slurs, more to himself, his voice strangled as you make eye contact with him. He brushes your hair out of your face, bewitched by the sight of him disappearing into your wet mouth. “God, I fuckin’ love you.”

Taken aback by his sudden confession. you involuntarily gag around him. He pulls you off his cock, not even sparing you a glance, tucking himself back into his briefs. “Wait, Logan—”

“Not now,” he mutters abruptly, withdrawing into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

But still, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

How bad is it to tell somebody you love them and then avoid them?

Yeah, it’s absolutely terrible, right? Tell that to the idiot himself—Logan Howlett.

It’s been over a week, and no matter how many times you press him for an explanation, he keeps dodging it.

Things go back to how they were before you two started fooling around, and Charles’ questions don’t take long to come: “I thought you two were getting somewhere.”

“Me too,” you admit, your voice quieter as you try to appear indifferent.

You have no answer for him. Not that you don’t want to discuss your relationship problems—it’s just that you don’t know what went wrong.

When evading you isn’t enough, he works longer hours, which only adds to how little you see him. At least he lets you know if he’s going to be late, sparing you from waiting up.

But apart from that, your interactions have dwindled to nothing, and it’s eating you alive.

You’re madly in love with him. You thought you knew that already, but now that he’s distant, the depth of your feelings has become clearer than ever.

He’s everywhere you go, just not physically—he has conquered your mind.

And it should be funny, loving someone who used to be no more than a myth for you. Though Logan is real—maybe too real for your own good—and he hasn’t been the mutant you once read about for quite some time.

This morning, he’s having breakfast at the table when you walk into the kitchen. You hold your breath as your shoulders brush for a microsecond, his gaze following your steps.

You’re no longer accustomed to sharing the same space with him, so it makes sense that you stay as far away as possible.

After an awkward silence, he stands up and mutters something about checking on Charles and giving him his meds, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s infuriating, how collected he seems. Why isn’t he miserable like you? Doesn’t he miss you? Didn’t you two have something… special?

I’m not gonna kiss you, but I’ll make you feel good. Just this time, ‘kay? And we don’t talk about it.

The shit I’d for you.

God, I fuckin’ love you.

Not now.

The memory of his words lingers, seared into your unconscious, though the sound of his phone jolts you out of your thoughts.

It’s ringing beside the coffee machine, and you try to ignore it, determined to be the bigger person.

But after five minutes of the relentless ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen, you’ve had enough.

Unknown caller—interesting. What could he possibly be hiding?

Charles, you better keep that asshole busy, you think to yourself, swiping right to answer the call.

Before you can say anything, a woman’s voice fills the line.

“James! Thank God. It’s Gillian. You didn’t reply to any of my texts, and I was starting to get worried,” she lets out a giggle, the sound grating against your nerves.

As your grip on the phone tightens, your knuckles start to go white.

“Look, I know you said you weren’t available, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since that ride. I didn’t see any ring on your finger, so what do you say, huh? Will you let me take you out?”

Red. You’re seeing red.

“James? Hello? Cat got your tongue?”

At last, you clear your throat. “Hey,” you greet her, pacing around the kitchen. “I’m deeply sorry, but James can’t talk right now.”

“Excuse me?” she snaps, her high-pitched voice echoing through the speakers, and you pull the device away from your ear. “This is James’ number. Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you who the fuck I am, you intolerant piece of—”

Before you can finish, the phone is yanked out of your hand, the call hastily ending.

There is no use in playing dumb, not when Logan’s standing right in front of you, observing you like you’re a child who’s made a severe mistake.

His deep, brown eyes pierce your soul, shattering any chance you had of coming up with an excuse.

“What where you doing with my phone?” It’s the first thing he asks you, his voice still steady, the calm before the storm.

Perhaps you’re not as mature as you thought you were—your forehead furrows, unwilling to back down, and you fall silent. He takes a step forward, as if he can’t believe your attitude. “Think I asked you somethin’. Why did you answer?”

“Gillian sounds like a lovely lady. Tell her I said ‘Hi’ the next time you see her,” you croak, attempting to walk past him, but he doesn’t budge, his solid frame blocking your path. You collide with his chest, and it feels like trying to move a brick wall without success.

“We’re talking. You can’t just leave.”

The nerve of this man.

“You can’t be serious,” you retort, staring at him, wishing the emotion in your tone could capture even a fraction of what you’re truly feeling. “Weren’t you the one who walked away first? After telling me you loved me?”

You search for any sign of the man who once held you close, but he feels miles away, hidden under all these layers that smell like cheap whiskey and gasoline. “You didn’t mean it.”

“I did. I meant every word,” he growls, his fists clenching at his sides, and you don’t miss the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles that expose the fragile façade of control he’s so desperate to maintain. “Goddamit! You’re doing that thing again!”

“What thing?” you exclaim, your mouth hanging open in frustration. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re trying to see through me, like you can read my mind.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a fucking mutant. I just have eyes, Logan.” You throw your arms up, exasperated. “People actually look at each other when they have a conversation, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“You’re testing my patience,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

“And you are testing mine.” You rest your back against the table, raising your chin. “So, who is she?”

Logan drops his shoulders, slamming his eyes shut. “I drove her once, last week. It was a long ride and she… wouldn’t stop talking. Didn’t shut up for a single second. She hit on me, but I told her I’m off the market.”

“Why? ‘Cause she talked too much?”

“No. Because I love you,” he says, pure awe transforming his expression, like he doesn’t believe he has said it out loud. “I don’t know when I started feeling like this, or if I’ve always felt it, but—I do. I love you.”

Oh.

You had heard those words slip through his lips before, but now they sound different. It might be that keeping him at arm's length has felt like death by a thousand cuts, or perhaps it’s the realization that this is the first time someone’s declaring their love for you.

Fuck. He loves you. As in, he’s in love with you?

“Then why do you keep running?” You edge closer to him, your eyes trained on his. “I’m done with the chase, Logan. It’s tiring—I am tired. I’ve been sleeping like shit, trying to figure out what—”

His arms surround your body, cutting you off and pulling you close. The hammering of his heart matches yours, and you return the hug, nuzzling your nose against his neck.

You fear that this might be all you’ve ever needed, feeling as if the pieces he took from you in the past are finally falling back into place.

Logan holds you as if in a past life he lost you, but now, he’s decided to never let you go.

This profound sense of completeness, of being where you’re meant to be, makes you realize you’ve found home in the warmth of his embrace.

“I’m sorry. This… this scares me, alright?” he murmurs next to your ear, raking his fingers through your hair. “You make me feel things I didn’t think I could feel anymore. That’s what I’m running from—the part of me I thought was gone. But you… you brought it back.”

You feel a deep urge to curl up and cry, wondering why on earth he would ever think he was unworthy of being cared for. “Logan, I…”

“I sound pathetic, I know. It sounded way better in my head.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” You retreat a bit, looking him in the eye. He stares down at you with a tenderness you’ve never seen before. “It’s not pathetic to voice how you feel. I want to know it all, want to know everything about you.”

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything. But I need you to promise me that you won’t run away anymore. I know it’s difficult, but it’s not fair to any of us.”

His eyes peer directly into yours, and he gives a nod. “I promise to do my best.” He presses your foreheads together, and that’s when his mouth turns into a grin. “You’re not going to say it back?” he teases, gripping your waist. “Come on, I said it first. Twice, for the record.”

Lifting your shoulders in a half-shrug, you find it hard to conceal your smile. “I may need a bit more convincing.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Before you know it, his lips are on yours, almost making you lose your balance. You whimper into his mouth, tightening your arms around his neck as his tongue wastes no time in finding yours, stroking it sensually.

The wait had been definitely worth it—you’d do everything all over again if it meant having him kiss you like this at the end of the day.

He tilts your face so that he can deepen the kiss, and a whine gets caught in your throat when his fingers pull gently at the hair at your nape, nibbling at your bottom lip. 

“I love you, too. Very much, to be honest,” you blurt out against his mouth, pleased with the way he laughs at your reaction, squeezing your hips. “But I still have some ideas in mind.”

“I’m all ears.”

Here goes nothing. “Fuck me like I’ve been asking you to.” You cup his cheek, guiding his lips into yours one more time. “Please,” you mewl, standing on your tiptoes. “Want you to be my first.”

If it were up to you, you would’ve begged him to take you right there on the kitchen floor. But Logan, ever the gentleman, insists on moving things to his room.

Each of his movements is slow, igniting your skin with a burning heat, leaving his name imprinted where his teeth sink into your soft flesh.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear by the time he murmurs: “Let me take my time with you.” He trails his lips down your chest, your stomach, until he’s planting several kisses along your ankle. “I don’t know how I got so lucky, baby. Look at you.”

Under his gaze, you feel shy, your eyes snapping to the ceiling instead. “Shut up,” you say, tugging at his shirt to undress him, your fingers tracing the lines of his abdomen before you pull him into a bruising kiss, sucking on his tongue.

He strips out of his black slacks and hovers over you, his clothed cock grinding against your throbbing core, eliciting a moan from both of you. “So goddamn beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine.” His tip grazes your entrance through the fabric, making your toes curl in ectasy. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I swear.”

At first, he’s extremely careful, making sure to stretch you out with his fingers while you stroke him, pumping your fist to match his rhythm. “Keep that up and this’ll be over sooner than expected,” he warns, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.

It doesn’t happen like it does in the books or movies. No foreplay could’ve prepared you for the moment he enters you.

You move clumsily beneath him, your nose bumping into his forehead as he eases the first inch of his length inside.

For a moment, you’re not certain which hurts most: the dull ache in your nose or the way he’s splitting you open. 

Logan freezes, his eyes wide in concern. “Shit. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Are you okay?” His hand cradles your face as he props himself up on one forearm, pushing your hair back while you adjust to his size. You laugh despite the sting, and he wipes away your tears with his thumb. “You’re laughin’?”

“I’m just happy,” you manage to get through the lump in your throat, raking your nails down his back, feeling the rough texture of the scars beneath your fingers. “I love you. Since that day at the bar, I—” you pause for a second, gasping at the sudden wave of pleasure when he twitches inside you. “I’ll always l-love you. Forever.”

As you wrap your legs around his waist and tell him you’re ready, something inside him shifts.

He feels like a madman, his eyes fixed on your face the whole time, searching for any hint of discomfort, though he occasionally glances down at the place where your bodies meet and become one, entranced by the sight of you taking him in, slick coating his length. 

Your heels dig into his lower back, pulling him back to the present—back to you, with your pretty tits bouncing each time he pistols his hips, the intensity of his thrusts increasing.

“All those times you took care of me, when you—Fuck,” he groans, nipping at your jaw to regain some of his composure, his humid breath dampening your skin. Your scent drives him wild, and he reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You made me feel loved when no one else did. My girl, love you so f-fucking much.”

His pace is nothing more than a voiceless testament to everything he feels but can’t find words to express.

With each minute that passes, your dripping cunt grips him tighter and tighter, his thrusts losing finesse. He needs you to come first—why does he feel like a virgin?

When you tell him you’re close, the world around him turns into a musical. You cling to the sheets, the mattress creaking noisily as he clutches the headboard, determined to find that angle that will push you over the edge.

“That’s it, sing for me,” Logan mutters from above, hypnotized by the crease forming between your brows. “Come on, let go.”

Time seems to slow down as your muscles tense and you clamp around him, your body sagging against him. His name spills from your lips in breathy whimpers, like an endless prayer, and your mouth engulfs his, tongues and teeth clashing in a fevered kiss.

Soon after that, he surrenders to the coiling tension deep within him, pulling out just in time to stroke himself once, twice, before emptying his hot load across your mound.

You gently thumb the head of his cock, coaxing out every last drop of his hot seed. He’s panting as he comes down from his high, his brain foggy and blissfully blank for a while. 

Logan loses track of how many times he tells you he loves you—he does it when he pulls you into his chest, when his lips press against your temple, and when you crack that smile, the one that resembles the very purpose of his existence.

“So this is what it feels like.” His voice sounds low like a murmur near your ear, and you stir, half-asleep.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, baby. Just thinkin’ aloud.”

You don’t have to talk about it, at least not now. Deep down, he knows that whatever thoughts run through his mind will somehow find their way into yours.

This is what life looks like. You should take a moment and feel it. You still have time.

And God, is he feeling it.

dividers by: @cafekitsune thank you!!! :)

[hypno-matt]

One of the best parts about hypnosis is that you can turn any fun game into something completely incredible by just sprinkling a few trancey elements into it.

Take HypnoChess, for example. It's just regular old chess, but every piece you lose makes you dumber, dizzier, and less focused. This one change alters a game of wits into a game of defense, where trades of pieces are incredibly risky at all times, while also turning losing from a frustrating result to an arousing one.

Or we can look at Hypno Truth or Dare. It has all the elements of regular Truth or Dare, mixed in with dirty questions about hypnosis and dares to go deeper, listen to files and to obey without question~

And the best part is that this change is incredibly easy to do. Any game can be made more fun with hypnosis if you alter a few rules. You can replace boring punishment cards with suggestions to stare at a spiral, or to become another player's toy for x ammount of turns.

You can make it so that the closer you get to the finish in a game like Snakes and Ladders, the emptier you get, and the more addicted you become to the thought of sabotaging yourself going back to the beggining.

This does not just apply to physical games either. Video games lerfectly lend themselves to hypnosis. A lot of them feature very rigid gameplay rules and repetitive gameplay, so, in theory, you could make a very mindless task like farming for a certain item or mining for a certain ore condition you deeper, every level gained and block broken drilling in the suggestion of your choosing into your already focused head.

I'm sure that there are a million other examples, ranging from simple to extreme, but I'm going to let you readers share some of yours~

[ellecdc]

💰jingle jingle💰

how much for you to continue the barty shirt fic where they make it up to the tower and tell the marauders🤭

I'll give you this one for free but the rest will cost you

Barty Crouch Jr x potter!reader who tattles on Jegulus

CW: making fun of only children, siblings insulting one another, platonic Prongsfoot drama, no real angst - just chaos Continuation of this one shot

The trek from the Slytherin dungeons up the Gryffindor tower in a full sprint was unideal for even the most athletic and fit quidditch player in the castle; but if there was one thing a lifetime worth of living with James Potter and his pranking ways prepared you for, it was running.

Fortunately for you, this was not a universal experience and you were quickly able to leave Regulus and Barty well enough behind you.

You screamed the password at the Fat Lady who shrieked in fear when she saw you barrelling towards her causing her to open so quickly that the portrait thwacked against the stone walls and you all but dived into the common room. 

You stood up straight as your chest burned to survey the patrons of the common room only to find that the entire common room was already doing the same to you.

“Circe’s tits, Potter.” Lily said with a smirk. “You look like you were trying to outrun Peeves.”

Your smile turned devious as you continued panting. “Better.” You answered quickly, turning your sights towards your brother, Peter, Remus, and…

“Sirius!” You greeted as you speed-walked over to their sofas.

“Hey Trouble; get tired of the snakes?” Sirius teased as he moved a chess piece with an air of nonchalance.

You were eager to change that.

Before you could open your mouth, two Slytherin’s came spilling into the common room before the portrait had a chance to close behind them.

“I’m so glad you could join me for this.” You taunted Regulus who’s jaw tightened as he straightened himself up and shook Barty’s hand off his shoulder.

“Isn’t this a nice shirt, Siri?”

Sirius looked up at that as he considered your form. “Yeah, actually; that’s designer, right?”

You look down at it with a smirk when you heard Regulus whisper a cautionary, “Potter.”

“I’m not sure…it’s got a little crown on the sleeve.” You explained innocently.

Sirius’ eyebrows widened at that. “Shit. Yeah those are super expensive; but great quality and super soft. Great choice, Junior.”

“Thank you!” Barty accepted eagerly. “See Treasure? Black gets it.”

You smirked as you looked over at James who you could see by now was clearly sweating. “Right���but I actually stole this from Jamie’s trunk.”

James’ eyes shot to Regulus as yours moved back to Sirius who was staring at you bemusedly.

“That is not Prongs’ shirt, and didn’t Junior just admit it was his?”

“Nope.” Barty answered with a pop of the p. “I admitted buying it.”

“Why are you buying clothes for James?” Remus asked cautiously then, eyes darting nervously between your mischievous form, James’ anxious form, Regulus’ tense form, and Sirius’ confused form.

“Oh, I’d never buy clothes for that Potter.” Barty scoffed. “That shirt was Reggie’s birthday present last year.”

The sound of Peter’s hand slapping against his mouth as he stared at you all wide eyed was the only sound in the entire common room.

Remus was holding his book in front of his face like a shield as he watched the spectacle that was his friend group.

Finally, Lily let out a long suffering sigh. “Potter, you might want to take this chance to get a head start.”

“Right.” James agreed quickly as he took off towards the portrait hole, pausing as he passed Regulus, seeming to decide since he was already going to die tonight, he may as well go big or go home.

He paused long enough to pull Regulus into a searing kiss before ripping away from him and taking off out of the common room.

The room continued to sit silently as everyone digested what they just saw.

“Did we seriously lose both Potter’s to Slytherin’s?” Marlene asked finally, causing Regulus to scoff.

“Like you’ve got a leg to stand on here, McKinnon.”

“At least I’m not fucking my brother’s best friend!” She volleyed back, causing Sirius to let out a dramatic gagging sound.

“You lot really need to spend less time worrying about who your siblings are shagging.” Peter said with an air of finality.

“Thank you!” You and Regulus chorused, causing you to glare at one another.

“You’re taking this rather well, Pads.” Remus chuckled, tapping Sirius’ knee with his book as Sirius continued staring unseeingly at the portrait hole.

“Mhm.”

Remus and Peter exchanged a worried glance. “What are you waiting for?” Peter asked finally.

“James will get lonely when he realizes no one is chasing him.” He replied in monotone. “He’ll be back in a few.”

“Sirius, please be cool about this; I’m happy, alright?” Regulus sighed in exasperation.

Sirius’ eyes flit over to his younger brother as his brows furrowed. “Listen, am I particularly pleased about…this? No. But that’s not what I’m going to kill him for.”

“What are you going to kill him for?” You inquired, wondering if it was worth writing home to your parents about.

The second your sentence finished, James cautiously stepped back through the portrait hole to find the common room in much the same state as he’d left it.

Suddenly, Sirius stood from his spot on the sofa. “ALL THOSE TIMES YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE TOO BUSY TUTORING TO PRANK WITH ME, YOU WERE DITCHING ME FOR MY BROTHER!?”

The room collectively grimaced as they looked over at James. 

“Listen mate, it’s not what it looks like.” James pleaded, earning him a scoff from his best friend.

“It isn’t what it looks like!? Because the way it looks to me is that you lied, and you kept secrets! You know, there was a point in this relationship that trust and honesty meant something!” Sirius shouted back.

“It does!” James offered quickly. “It does, Pads! Swear it!”

“Right, forgive me, but your word means nothing to me right now.” He spat as he went storming up towards their shared dorm, James quickly following behind.

“Please don’t shut me out like this; you’re still my other half!”

But the rest of the argument performance was silenced when the door to their room shut behind them.

“Well, Regulus.” Remus sighed with a tired smile. “Welcome to the family; our boyfriend’s are each other’s boyfriends, and this happens every three days.”

“Salazar’s fucking balls.” Regulus groaned as he threw his head back. “This is why I didn’t want it going public.”

“Oi!” You shouted as you lobbed a throw pillow at your new future brother-in-law. “If you’re going to love my brother, love him with your whole chest, coward!”

“You take that back.” He hissed at you.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“I…I don’t know what to do…should…should we get a professor? What’s happening?” Barty started, looking around the Gryffindor common room with a look of panic on his face.

“Oh, relax, Junior. Your only child is showing.” Remus sighed as he pulled his book back out.

“Aren’t you an only child, Lupin?”

“Yup.” Remus responded as he turned a page of his book. “But I’ve lived in the same tower as the Potters for seven years, and dealt with Sirius and Regulus for the past two; you pick up a few things. Things like this-” he explained as he pointed towards you and Regulus who were still throwing insults back and forth. “Is what siblings call bonding.”

Lily chuckled as Marlene, Barty, Peter, and Remus watched as you called Regulus a “spoiled rotten toerag” to which he replied that “even listening to your voice made him feel like he was losing brain cells”.

“Siblings are weird.” Barty decided.

[kedsandtubesocks]

game changer (national league)

MLB catcher!Frankie Morales x F!Reader

summary: it’s your boyfriend’s first big game on his new team & you can’t wait to see what fun the match holds for you and your favorite player

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI, baseball AU, light use of gendered language, good cozy fluff, lovesick & sweet!Frankie, competency kink, smutty thoughts, spicy themes, light mask & outfit kink, car sex, heavy making out, oral (f receiving), allusion to p in v, eventual!husband Frankie, lots of baseball talk

word count: 2.9k

a/n: yeah didn’t think I’d ever make a new baseball story for another Pedro boy but I’m on that World Series championship celebration high so here we are LMAO, thanks to @tonysopranosrobe my darling for always dealing with my sports ass (ily forever Han) & to @jolapeno for always being the best Frankie enabler i could ever scream with (I adore you Jo) - and to anyone who decides to read please know I appreciate you thank you so much ♡

This is Frankie’s first season catching as a Los Angeles Dodger. You thought he’d be playing for Miami until he eventually retired. But baseball is still a strange sport, an almost chaotic rush of chess at times with pieces switching all around.

“A team still wants me even when I’m about to turn thirty nine. So fuck, yeah I’ll take it.” Frankie had joked then, but you knew, even for his age, he’s considered one of the league’s best veteran players.

Then before the trade was finalized, Frankie sat you down and told you he might be moving to LA.

“This means…we really might not be seeing each other as often.” He muttered. “But I can maybe try to see if Tampa can be an option.”

He was willing to find a way to stay in Florida for you. Even though you were a bit heartbroken he was leaving, you couldn’t let him pass up on this amazing deal and new opportunity.

The gentle cooling California breeze now flutters all around. You won’t be able to make many trips out here often, but you wanted to at least be here for the first home game to support your favorite baseball player.

You first were introduced to Frankie at your best friend cookout. You had met her cousins Benny and his brother Will before. You were instead being introduced to all their friends, including the very handsome Santiago who insisted you call him Pope.

However, it was Frankie who stole your heart that day.

You and him had accidentally walked into each other, causing your drink to spill on him. Frantic, and so embarrassingly apologetic, you immediately went to wipe away your mess.

“I gotta admit… I’ve been trying to work up the confidence to talk to you. Guess the universe helped me out a bit.” Frankie had shyly said, and his words sent your heart fluttering.

It was an effortlessly sweet introduction after that, filled with easy small talk. When you asked what he did for work, Frankie explained he worked at the stadium for the Miami Marlins.

“Oh that’s cool!” You had said bright, but Benny just as bright yelled out -

“It’s cause he fucking plays there!”

Frankie had blushed furious, cussing angrily in Spanish at Benny. But what Benny said was true.

Frankie, very humbled and almost embarrassed, confirmed he did in fact play for the Marlins.

“But I’m just a water boy.” He added with a boyish grin.

“He’s a fucking liar! He’s one of the league’s best catchers!” Pope had then yelled proud.

You became friends with Frankie that day, but you also quickly learned about Francisco Morales.

Professional Major League Baseball player Francisco Morales.

That very first day you met Frankie your knowledge of baseball was bare bones.

Now, as his girlfriend, he jokes how hot it is hearing you talk about the game with him or anyone else.

It’s how you’re able to mingle with the others in the large friends and family suite for the team now. The food of course is delicious, and everyone warmly welcomes you. But you want to be by the action when the game starts.

You need to be near your guy.

Frankie’s job as a catcher has him sitting behind home plate.

A catcher is an intense position. They’re the one person during the game that has full eyes on the field. They alone protect home plate and sometimes call pitches for the pitcher to throw. The catcher is even argued to be the commander of the field. Catchers need to be solid, almost a rock like foundation for their team.

“I only started playing catcher in high school ‘cause our team’s catcher got suspended, and they needed someone, so I just did it.” Frankie had told you with a shrug.

To you though, Frankie seemed born to be a catcher.

Even as quietly warm and playful your Frankie can be, he holds a stead quiet diligence. Always watching, protective of those he cares for. He’s hardworking and incredibly resilient.

However, there was a joke you read about catchers being stubborn because what person willingly and stubbornly sits in the same position game after game. You can greatly agree to the hidden stubborn streak Frankie holds, like stubbornly telling you he was going to fix your ceiling fan and then getting pissy when you had Benny simply do it for you.

But stubborn or not, Frankie has been the most perfect and openly communicative partner. Even with the long distance between you and him, he has always been a phone call away. He even stepped away from a pregame warm up when you called him crying and upset.

Your heart tries not to burst just thinking about him.

Then you catch a glimpse of him sliding his protective mask on, and your throat gets dry.

The first time you went to a game and witnessed Frankie in full catcher mode, you almost didn’t think it was him. The mask covered his face most of the time and the gear almost made him seem bigger.

It’s been many games since that first match, yet he still takes your breath away.

The mask covers most of his face, but you can still catch peaks of him. It does something to you knowing it’s him beneath it.

Now he takes the field in his new lovely blue catcher’s gear.

The chest guard extenuates his broad shoulders and strong chest. And if you thought baseball pants did amazing things for men’s legs and butts, the catcher’s leg guards highlight Frankie’s gloriously thick thighs and study legs.

Pride absolutely courses through you watching him behind the plate and warming up with the dodger’s pitcher.

“Come on, catfish!” Someone from the crowd even yells his famous nickname, and your lips twitch fondly.

With your Morales jersey on, you cheer loud and exhilarated when the game starts.

Frankie is unwavering behind the plate, rarely letting any wild pitch get past him. He earns the love of his new team fast.

Especially when he goes up to bat.

The walk up song he picked to play in the stadium is Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog, and the crowd cheers electrified when it booms loud over the speakers.

As hot as Frankie looks in his catcher’s gear, seeing him in the base uniform, with his batter’s helmet on, working on his swing just amplifies the strength of his shoulder and amazing arms - you’re in awe of how absolutely gorgeous he is.

He ends up striking out, but you still cheer loud and with reassurance.

“Looking good, Morales!” You even scream, and you swear you see his lips twitch fighting a grin.

The Cardinals take the lead fast with two runs. The game becomes a slow claw to catch up. By the fifth the score hasn’t changed with St. Louis leading. But then the bats get hot and the dodgers manage to get on the board to tie.

The game heads to the bottom of the eight inning and the atmosphere dances electrified with the hope of a chance.

Eventually two players get on base with two outs, a very dangerous situation.

And Frankie goes up to bat.

You along with the rest of your section close by the field stand to cheer him and the rest of the team on.

This is a chance to score.

The first pitch comes too high.

The second speeds in, a sharp inside pitch that has Frankie swinging a strike.

It stings, but it’s a good swing. Plus there’s still time, more pitches. You reassuringly rally behind Frankie hoping just an inch of your words reach him among the buzz of the game.

The pitcher throws the next pitch, a wild breaking ball.

Frankie swings. The bat hits the ball with a rattling whack sending it zooming right along the first base line.

The stadium erupts wild. You scream watching Frankie run to first then watching a player run in, scoring the run. Francisco’s hit brought in the lead.

Your favorite player now on first base screams jubilant and punches the air elated.

The excitement of seeing Frankie bring the run in, seeing him so exuberant…it’s a moment coated in a glimmering confetti that cements into your soul.

The start of the ninth inning comes, and Frankie emerges behind the plate, your armored hero.

If the Dodgers manage to hold the Cardinals, they’ll win.

Each pitch, each play, has you on the edge of your seat.

At one point the batter for St. Louis hits a foul ball. Frankie flips off his mask, allowing for sight to catch the ball.

Of course the ball soared over the net into the stands unable for him to maybe catch it. But without his catcher mask on, you’re rewarded a glimpse of his gorgeous face.

Frankie’s traditional catcher’s helmet keeps his hair flat, hidden, but it highlights his strong features, that beautiful nose of his and his perfectly classic scruffy Frankie beard.

Then seeing him covered in sweat, your mind can’t help but flash to images of him in bed sweaty, his face blissed out and panting. Your mouth waters just thinking about your tongue dragging across his sweaty neck and tasting the salt of him-

You immediately snap yourself of the too heated thoughts when the crowd yells upset at a bad call.

With a runner on base now and two outs, the tension piles on as dread trickles in.

Soon enough the cardinal’s batter makes a solid hit. The ball gets fired up high in the air.

Then center field rushes in and catches the ball.

Game over.

Dodgers win.

The stadium overflows with excited pride, and you happily embrace the atmosphere in all its warmth.

You don’t move from your spot, too hypnotized by Frankie who beams with the brightest smile while he celebrates with his new teammates.

You feel prouder than ever to wear his jersey.

The third baseman's wife, who you clicked with earlier, brightly tells you to follow her so she can show you to the locker room. You readily go.

Excitement electrifies every inch of the place. Even though you feel slightly awkward being here for the first time, no one seems to pay you attention.

Until you hear someone shout your name.

When you turn to spot Frankie, he's in gear looking intimidating and sexy wearing his chest guard and protective leg gear. Heading down from the dugout, your catcher rushes over to you. Like a magnet, almost like sensing a tug at your soul, you instantly move towards him.

Frankie collides into you solid, all encompassing as he gathers you into your arms squeezing you tight.

“You need to get out of your gear, Morales!” You laugh.

“It’s fine. Bebita, you’re gonna have to keep coming to the games now. I’ve told ya, you’re my good luck charm.” Frankie’s voice sounds like the bright sun from today’s game still shines brilliantly in it.

You hug him back, spilling nothing but praise.

“You were amazing! I’m so proud of you!” You gush.

You’re already thinking of how to celebrate.

“Marry me.” Frankie says simply that you think you maybe misheard him.

“Frankie honey, what?” Curiosity has you about pulling away from his grasp. Instead Frankie clutches onto you even more.

He says your name. “I…fuck I don’t have the ring with me here, and I know just sprang this up but-“

“You wanna marry me?” Your voice wavers, cutting him off.

You and him have talked about the future, a tentative slow swim treading the possible waters. Frankie’s mentioned buying an apartment together. He’s made the joke, lightly teasing, about you one day becoming a baseball wife.

You had held onto all these small edges of hope. It now all unfurls beautifully overwhelming.

“Yeah baby, but only if you’ll have me.” Frankie nods, his voice thick as he finally draws back out of your arms to get down on one knee.

You wonder if this is a dream you’ve slipped into.

Asking this still in uniform is so Frankie, and your eyes spill over with tears. You nod yes, and your favorite baseball catcher springs to life bolting up to kiss you.

You forgot you’re still in a very open and public setting until all the gasps and excited claps fill the space.

Taking it all in stride you warmly laugh it off letting Frankie hold you close to his side. His eyes even shimmer, precious earth stones.

The evening feels soaked in joy like a beautiful watercolor dream.

You urge your favorite baseball player to go eat dinner with his team, celebrate. But he leans down to whisper in your ear -

“I wanna eat my fiancée’s pussy for dinner.”

Your knees almost give out that second.

Frankie and you barely make it to his truck before he’s drawing you into the backseat, clawing at you, frantically. And you’re just as bad.

You want him inside you. But as promised, Frankie maneuvers you to sit up for him to crawl between your legs. The position is cramped, but you could care less.

Your sweet Frankie, who normally loves to take his time, tear you apart with the most focused and patient ease, now is replaced by a man wild who grips your thighs so tight and laps at your clit messy. You come ridiculously fast on his skilled fingers and feverish tongue feasting on you.

You whine unbearably needy for him, can't go on anymore without him inside of you.

Frankie shifts to sit on the back seat and keep you close while you slide on top of his cock. His stretch in you rips a fire up your spine and you moan as your eyes close.

“Mi amor, my future wife.” Frankie’s voice fills the heated sweaty space with a gilded reverence, and you scramble to kiss him.

Your future husband.

You were slightly worrie about Frankie being tried from his game, but the way he frantically fucks up into you reminds you of a man compeltely possessed. His hands grab you as if he’s worried you’ll float away.

“God, I fucking love you…gonna marry you,” Frankie mumbles, pussy drunk.

You feel just as drunk and reborn as he does, melting into this love.

Your climax knocks you breathless, a blazing star, and Frankie is not far behind.

You don’t move off him and with the way his arms tighten around you, he’s alright with you staying simply close to him as possible.

“You said you had a ring?” You ask tentatively, running your fingers through his hair.

“Yeah,” Frankie chuckles. “Bought it the day after you face timed me about that cute dog you saw at the store.”

That was a year ago. Your heart feels like it’s blooming a new world right in your chest, and you curl closer into him.

“Thought about proposing to you when I picked you up at the airport yesterday, but you were so tired baby.” He softly says, his hands a warm cocoon around you.

“And today…fuck seeing you cheering in the stands, hearing you. It just got me to more.”

Curiously, you ask what he means.

Frankie, confident as he is on the field, is still so shy, especially now as he burrows his face into your shoulder.

“I mean…I just want to see you at every game. Wanna come home to you. Then just thinking about that, and seeing you wearing my jersey, maybe having it as your last name-”

You rush to kiss him quickly, overtaken by so much adoration and love for this man. The thought had come once, or twice, about being a Morales yourself. You even tell him that.

“Yeah, you ready to be mine officially?” His voice drops low and silky.

You nod moving to kiss his cheek, then rest your face against his.

A soft moment passes while his warm hands rub against every inch of you he can reach.

“Know it’s still early to even talk about wedding shit or living arrangements, but just wanna take care of you, that’s all.” Frankie says firm. “I’ve joked about it but… you could quit your job tomorrow, move out here this weekend, and I’d be fucking over the moon. But I also want you to have your own path too.”

You think of Frankie, your stable ever loving and giving Francisco. His heart shines beautiful right here, right now. It’s like a live wire dances on your skin. Everything still feels intense. Maybe the sensation and rawness of becoming engaged has your mind feeling deliciously fuzzy.

“Just want you Frankie, that’s all.” You breathe those words letting them sink past your bones.

You softly kiss him, love sick syrupy drunk again.

It’s a promise to talk about this more later, about the possibility of living among the California weather with your future husband, it’s a dream you want to soak in.

But it summons up another dream, a sticky hot desire that crawls its way up.

“You remember that fantasy I told you about?” So dazed and in love, your thoughts slip out.

Frankie groans clutching onto you tighter.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he sighs. “Trying to fuck me in my gear, before a game.”

“Yeah but that was before when I was just your girlfriend.” You coo already feeling your body slowly roll against him.

“As your wife maybe I could-”

Frankie swiftly cuts you off, kissing you so fast that it rattles your bones, and it’s beautiful.

You laugh feeling like maybe you’re the one who truly won tonight.

[lizardboiii]

Tongue Tied┃One Piece - Pt. 2

[Protective!Dracule Mihawk x Poneglyph Speaking!Reader]

│Summary: Washed up on a gloomy shore, your only solace is a dark an empty castle. Yet, when the castle's only resident finally returns, you are met with an undeniable problem. The language you speak is completely dead to his world.

"Flailing your hands around isn't going to make me understand you any more."

"𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐!"

・❥・

│cw: SFW, 18+, unfortunate slow start

│wc: 1.4k

│chapters: I II III

│notes: accidentally wrote the reader as such a golden retriever lmao. also, please let me know if the switch between languages is getting hard to understand! shorter chapter cause i'm overworked ;(

・❥・

│Chapter II: Golden Hour

Ever-eerie. Ever-present. Ever-gold. 

The undeniable sensation of watchful eyes consumed you as you haunted the castle’s halls. They followed from vestibule to vestibule. The source of them hiding somewhere in the darkest of corners. Sometimes…Goldy seemed more phantom than man.

It was foreign at first, the omnipresent feeling of sharp eyes piercing through you. They reigned supreme. Placing every action you made on trial, Goldy played the judge, jury, and executioner.

Eventually, you learned to pay his stare no mind, preferring to slowly attempt communication with the ravenette in your native tongue. 

The aforementioned man merely allowed you to rattle on. He treated your voice as if it was simply background noise, disregarding your presence like a lesser being. 

Goldy’s pride scarcely made a dent in your determination. In fact, after a few days had passed, you no longer clung close to the walls, favoring to follow the massive man around like a lost duckling. 

Your previous isolation had made you needy.

Before you knew it, you and Goldy had developed a routine - whether he liked it or not. Your day started earlier than most. The sun just barely rising before you stirred awake from a restless sleep. You found Goldy preferred to slumber longer. His form not stalking the halls till an hour later, possibly more.

Until then, you’d pad around the empty halls. You walked with no destination in mind, noting any foyers you preferred over another. And when you scoured the entire castle - you’d start again. The soles of your feet wore into the stone. You were sure if you looked hard enough, you could see the beginnings of a path in the shape of your feet.

At last, Goldy would awaken. He moved with little disturbance, often evading your notice. However, whether he was outside refining his skill in the art of sword or simply relaxing in the parlor, you always managed to find him.

Today was no different. 

You had been meandering throughout western wing, absentmindedly tracing the serpentine engravings of the coffered ceilings with your eyes. Then, a wedge of light caught your attention. 

You dropped your gaze, glancing out of one of the many floor length windows. Its cracked windowsill framed a direct view of the northwestern courtyard. 

Through the quickly fading golden hour, you could just make out the form of Goldy. He sat passively in a cushioned chair facing the sea. 

A fresh newspaper was clutched in his hand while the other held an opaque chalice. Across from him was a chess table. However, no second chair existed for another player to claim.

You smiled at your discovery, you had found him faster than usual. It didn't take long for your form to gently glide towards the window. Curiosity consumed you. Standing before the window enthralled, you watch every movement Goldy made intently. 

When he yawned - so did you. 

When he rubbed his chin - you followed in suit. 

When he re-crossed his legs - you shifted your feet.

Your mimicry didn't last long. As quickly as you noticed him, he noticed you. Without warning, Goldy’s eyes flung to your own, drilling into them. You jumped in surprise. Even after a week of dancing around each other, you still couldn't get used to their divine aureolin. 

Regaining composure, you grinned at him with a wave. Goldy ignored your hospitality. He was quick to return to his newspaper, feigning ignorance. However, you were sure he understood what would come next.

You barreled towards the courtyard. Skipping steps and slamming doors, you easily found your way to the grumpy man. Goldy remained unfazed at your sudden appearance. 

You walked beside his chair with a large smile, excited to talk to someone other than yourself. 

“𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!”

Your voice drew a puff of air from the man, his eyes shifting to you for only a moment. You hummed at the attention. Plopping down on the ground, you rested your head against the arm of his chair.

“𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?” You beamed at the man above you.

Flip.

You turned your gaze to the sea, “𝙳𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕?”

Flip.

Your composure began to waiver, “𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢? 𝙸 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝!”

Flip.

Finally, the smile you forced dropped, “𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚐𝚎.” You picked at the grass beneath you, “𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎.”

A long sigh made you jolt in surprise. Goldy tossed his newspaper on the side table next to him in annoyance. Two firm fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Just what are you chattering about?” 

You perked up at the response, returning your gaze to the ravenette, “𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢?”

He met your excited gaze coolly. You could practically see the gears in his head turning, frustrated with the fact he wouldn't be able to pull answers from you.

Goldy leaned his head on his hand, refusing to move his eyes off of you, “What am I going to do with you?”

Your mouth curved into a small smile. Although you couldn't understand him, you've determined your second favorite thing about Goldy was his voice.

You turned back to the sea solemnly. Even though you could see his imposing figure, hear his rich cadence - it was as if nothing had changed. You still felt so utterly alone. 

The crashing waves called you home, beckoning your aching heart. Beyond them, bobbing up and down, Goldy’s ship offered itself. A way back home. 

A way back to sanity.

Pointing your finger at the ship, you snapped your head over to the older man, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚊𝚝!”

Goldy raised a sharp brow at your sudden outburst. 

You chewed your bottom lip, trying to figure out a way to articulate your thoughts. Determined, you pointed at him, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢.”

Then, you pointed to the ship, "𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

A low rumble escaped his chest before he gestured to himself, “Goldy?”

You shook your head enthusiastically, “𝙶𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚢!”

“You named me?” He spoke more to himself than you, rubbing the pointed edges of his beard. Displeased, Goldy quickly shook his head, “No.”

You tilted your head in confusion. Had he rejected the name? 

Goldy swished the glass in his hand, “Mihawk.” 

You tasted the name on your tongue, carefully mouthing every syllable, “Mi-hawk?”

A faint smile grew on his face, “Mihawk.”

Grinning, you signaled to yourself, “(𝚢/𝚗)!”

“(𝚢/𝚗)?” He placed the chalice to his lips, “You’re quite a troublesome brat, “(𝚢/𝚗).”

Your stomach flipped at the sound of your name. You hoped he'd say it more.

Pointing at the ship once more, you called out to him, "Mihawk. 𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

Mihawk followed your finger, “𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝?” His brows furrowed slightly before relaxing, “Do you want my boat?”

He stood suddenly, as if he connected the dots he had been chasing. Ignoring your confused form, Mihawlk allowed his long legs to lead him to the path back to the castle. He looked back only for a moment. His large hand beckoning you to follow in suit. 

You stood quickly, fumbling over your own feet. You couldn't lose this chance. 

Mihawk walked briskly, winding through the castle halls before he led you to large french doors. You had seen them before during your morning strolls. However, you were never able to investigate what was hidden behind them. Mihawk kept them under lock and key. 

Reaching inside his pocket, the aforementioned man pulled out a small silver key. It glimmered under the sunlight enhancing the skull design on its embossed head. As quick as he revealed it, he unlocked the room.

The door swung open ominously. The darkness of the room seemed to creep out into the hallway, dying the floor black. Even so, Mihawk entered the room without hesitation. You wasted no time following close behind.

Eventually, Mihawk allowed himself to relax in an armed car across from the room’s fireplace. Taking out a pen and paper, he offered the utensils to you. You gladly accepted them. 

Twirling the pen in your hand, you tried to ignore Mihawk’s piercing stare. 

First, you began to draw a boat. Beneath it you labeled:

“𝙱𝚘𝚊𝚝.”

Next, you drew an arrow leading to a small island with a house on it. Beneath which you wrote:

“𝙷𝚘𝚖𝚎.”

Looking up from your drawings, you smiled at Mihawk eagerly. However, your grin quickly dropped at Mihawk’s expression.

You had never seen Mihawk’s face get so pale.

“This is impossible.”

Mihawk snatched the paper from your grip. 

“How could you possibly know…”

His eyes searched your writing frantically.

“Poneglyph.”

・❥・

[ouiouimochi]

Touch-move! Game for two

pairing: gen narumi x reader

genre: slice of life, romance(?), teen narumi

wc: 3k+

warning/s: profanities, manga spoilers for non-readers, no beta we die like (redacted), wonky format yey

note/s: takes place before narumi got recruited into the JAKDF. no mention of kaiju in this part. inspired by something I apparently experienced that I was unaware of until my friend hilariously told me (a better ending ig?)

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⊹

Gen Narumi was left on his own once more as his highschool peers chattered amongst themselves in their own groups. He paid them no mind, walking through the bustling hallways and up the stairs leading to the rooftop while absorbed into his handheld console. The male reached for the door handle and turned it, slightly wincing at the amount of light that greeted his face upon opening the entrance to the top of the school.

He strides over to his usual spot only to find it was occupied by a girl that he figured was his senior as indicated by the colored stripe on her uwabaki. She was staring intently at the familiar checkered playing board and its signature pieces

You didn't hear the rooftop door opening, nor did you notice someone walk up to your spot. Very immersed in the game of chess you were playing…

with yourself

Gen was curious as to why this senior of his was playing a game meant for two on her own. He would've thought you were quite the sad sight but he spectated you silently, watching as you moved the chessmen of both sides in turn. He eventually gets engaged as well, impressed at how you move the pieces as if you were placing two chess experts against each other— without having a bias as to which side to win either.

You thought hard about the next move, in a predicament. It was taking you quite a while to decide until a hand smoothly took a piece and carried the ivory knight to a specific coordinate.

You processed the whole setup, in agreement that the action was the best one at the moment. You were delighted, only noticing the person that joined you on the rooftop had crouched on the ground to impose themself in your game.

You allowed your eyes to trail from the unknown person's green-striped uwabaki before settling on the person’s face. He doesn't seem familiar to you, heck you think you'd never be familiar with anyone even in your year level. However, you can't help but think he was pleasant to look at.

“Make your move,” his voice rumbled, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You blink a few times before placing your attention back to the chessboard. You scanned the pieces before making a bold move of threatening the ivory queen. The unnamed boy comfortably settled himself on the side where the white pieces were positioned.

You look up at him as his red eyes surveyed the board. It was intriguing for you to see how focused he seemed to be in the spontaneous game. You may as well be delighted that another person has joined you in your lonely session, he seemed to be good at it too.

Clack.

You snap your attention back to the board before using the ebony bishop to take his pawn. The male raises an eyebrow at the move, making you unknowingly grin.

He scoffs and confidently moves his rook, challenging to take your knight. You lick your lips, excited to have a thrilling chess game with an actual opponent. You moved a pawn, confusing the other player immensely. You two continued to play the game silently, not even a word of introduction to each other.

Narumi stares blankly at the chessboard, gobsmacked at the turn of events. He had realized a few turns in that your actions all had a purpose— the unsuspecting pawn from earlier had upgraded itself into replacing the ebony queen he took from you. The gears in his head going into overdrive, he realizes that no matter what he moves, you'd be able to counter and corner him closer and closer to checkmate. His pride didn't allow him to lose, no it wasn't in his dictionary to lose.

You surprisedly blinked at his decision to move his remaining bishop. You furrowed your eyebrows, staring intensely at the board as if with intent to bore a hole into it.

The boy became impatient, “Move,” he had crossed his arms to tap on his bicep.

“I can't,” your soft-spoken voice echoed, making him realize this was the first time you talked. “It's gonna end in a stalemate no matter which piece I'd touch.”

Narumi gazed at your delicate face before evaluating the game, figuring out that you were right. A dulcet laugh pierced through the silence, sounding like the pleasant tinkling of bells to his ears.

The two-toned haired boy stared at the hand outstretched to him. You introduced yourself.

“Gen Narumi,” he huffed out, tone having no hint of respect meant for someone older than him. You cracked a small smile, not liking the stiff dynamics of this school hierarchy anyways.

The bell rings, signaling the end of your lunch break. You were slightly disappointed, wanting to play an actual match against Narumi. You started neatly fixing up the chessboard.

“Rematch tomorrow, got that?” you gaped at the male’s suggestion, secretly ecstatic that you found yourself a player to go against without judgment or underestimation. He helped you pick up the other pieces to place inside the board.

You nod.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

“No fucking way, I lost again!” Narumi cursed, not believing that someone as great as himself was capable of experiencing losses back-to-back. Although he won a few rounds and got a lot more of stalemates, his pride didn't allow him to have such a bad W/L ratio.

You giggled and sat up proudly, finding it amusing to defeat your…

‘Can we be considered as friends?’

You shook your head at the thought. Poking your tongue out when he accuses you of cheating. You ruffled his already messy two-toned hair, making him glare at you like an angry cat.

“A million years too early to beat me,” you hummed.

“We're the same age, you just skipped a grade,” he argued back, not liking how you were treating him like a kid.

“Fuck this game, I challenge you to a different one!” he exclaimed, tired of losing. He wanted to rub in your face that chess would be the only thing you can have over his head.

He takes out his Nimtemdo Sweetch, positioning the screen to be propped up on a stand. He gave you the blue controller, taking the red for himself. You tilted your head curiously, although video games were not a foreign concept to you, you were not well acquainted with them.

“Don't fucking tell me you've never played any other games,” he raised an eyebrow.

You look at him, a bit offended, “I have, actually! Go, Scrabble, Game of the Generals, and so much more.” You crossed your arms and harrumphed.

“All of which you play alone,” he rebuked, making you blow a raspberry.

“Hey! I play with people sometimes, like the nice elderly at the park…and…” you trail off, unable to keep up the confidence when he continues to stare at you expectantly. You scrunch your eyebrows and pout.

Narumi rolls his red eyes, “Not video games then, fine I'll teach you. It's not satisfying to win against someone who knows little of the game,” he flippantly said. Despite his brash comments, you knew he meant no harm at all. If anything, you found it cute that he was willing to patiently teach you how to play.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

“OI, Why aren't you doing the combo I taught you?? It'd defeat the boss so easily too!” Narumi continued to smash his controller’s buttons as he angrily barked out orders to you. You get irked, focusing on the boss you two decided to fight in co-op.

The male cursed as his character died due to being unable to dodge the monster’s specialized attack, leaving everything up to you.

“Go, go, go! Use your items for fuck’s sake!” he commented, scooching himself close into your space.

“Can you please stop backseating?” you exasperatedly responded, still focused on surviving and ending the fight.

“I wouldn't have to if you had stuck to the plan!”

“Oh my god, my skills were on cooldown to do the combo! The boss was also transitioning to its next phase, stop hounding me!”

Silent falls over as the screen showcases the ending cutscene, indicating a successful boss raid. You smugly look over at him, making him irritated.

“If you just stop being a metaslave, you would've responded easier to unexpected situations.” You tutted at him as though he wasn't the expert in video games among you two.

He growls(I can't AHSHDH I CAN IMAGINE HIM AS A GROWLING CAT), but otherwise stays quiet since you made a point. You made it clear to him during the gaming sessions that you were quite quick on the uptake, soaking in game mechanics like a sponge.

He feels miffed, as your mentor, when he can't help but notice how you were better in certain aspects of gaming than him. Another jab at his pride. However, he couldn't ignore how he's enjoying your presence and skills in different gaming mediums.

“Congrats on winning the judo tournament, by the way,” you caught his attention as he raised his eyebrow in question. You then dangled a small keychain, a trophy with the ‘#1’ engraved on it, in front of his face, urging him to accept it.

Narumi does not know how to react, he had already grown accustomed to not receiving praise or even acknowledgements for his feats. This was quite new, you even gave him a token of congratulations.

His ears burn pink as he accepts the gift. He does not allow himself to be caught lacking so instead of straight out thanking you, he hits you with a

“It's only expected for me to win the tournament,” he smugly huffed out, raising his chin arrogantly while straightening his back to look taller.

You jokingly rolled your eyes, “Confident? Play chess against me, then.” You challenged him.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

You were pleasantly surprised when Gen progressively improved in playing against you, slowly and surely bridging the skill gap between the two of you. He steadily gained more wins over losses recently too.

You furrowed your eyebrows, admittedly having a bit of a hard time. You zoned out for a while but noticed Gen’s lips moving from your peripherals.

Your eyes then lit up, before taking your bishop to check his king. You looked up at the two-toned haired male for his reaction only to be greeted with an intent stare from his carmine orbs. Confused, you tilted your head to one side as he pushed a hand on his forehead to mess up his locks. He muttered something too incomprehensible to reach your ears.

You didn’t dwell too much on it and took a bite out of the school cafeteria’s lunch sandwich he bought for you. It was quite delicious, actually — you could've sworn you've seen the limited promotion for this specific menu item. You shook your head and focused back on the board as he made his move. You smiled, a sign of guaranteed victory.

“Checkmate.”

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

It was too cold to chill at your usual spot on the rooftop. You two didn't want to go anywhere filled with busybodies either, so you and your friend agreed to stay at the stairs before the entrance to the roof.

Despite being indoors, you still shivered, covering your arms for a little morsel of warmth. You closed your eyes before you felt a cozy weight drape itself across your back and shoulders. When you opened your eyes, Gen was already settling himself back to his spot. He didn't have his outer coat on anymore, finding that it was what he placed on you.

“Won't you be cold, then?” you asked, concerned for him.

“The cold’s nothing, you're just overreacting.” he rolled his eyes as he leaned backwards, his arms supporting him.

You can't help but smile, wanting to rebuke but decided against it.

“Thank you,” you gratefully said instead, knowing the male doesn't like to outwardly express his true emotions and intentions.

He wasn't making eye contact, instead bringing out the familiar gaming device and setting it up for you to play together.

You remember something and turn to your bag, rummaging through it, pulling out a small but well decorated package. You then extended it towards the two-toned haired male for him to take as he looked at you a bit weirdly.

“And what the fuck’s this for?” he suspiciously asked, eyeing the bag cautiously like a cat.

You rolled your eyes, “Just take it!” you urged. Excitedly anticipating his reaction.

He opens the bag to take out its contents as his eyes widen in surprise before turning to you in disbelief.

“Happy early holidays! Consider it as an early birthday gift as well,” you gave a thumbs up, but he shifted his body away to hide his facial expression.

It might just be from the cold but you can't help but notice how his ears were tinged a little red.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹

Spring has arrived with the cherry blossoms blooming and scattering its petals into the wind. The front of the school was filled with a solemn atmosphere of tearful goodbyes among friends and the good memories made on campus. There were also students hounding other students to confess their dearest adoration for their crush and ask for their uniform button. You could've seen people confessing under the romantic blossoms if you squinted.

You sighed at your spot on the rooftop overlooking the front yard on your lonesome. Yet again, you didn’t notice someone sneaking up on you until they plopped themself beside you on the railings. You immediately recognized the messy black and gray mop of hair belonging to your only friend in this school.

“Shouldn't you be down there?” His question pierced the silence.

“I don't want to, to be honest.” you hummed out as he turned his head to look up at you, still resting on his crossed arms on top of the railings. You continued to watch the other students below hugging each other.

You heard a deep sigh before some rustling of clothes as Gen shifted his position to stand. He gets something from his pocket, catching your attention.

“Your hand,” he commanded as you placed your hand palm side up, awaiting what he'd give you. He unceremoniously drops a little accessory on it.

You inspected it, bringing it closer to your eyes. It was a very pretty keychain of an ivory queen chess piece made out of a crystalline material. It glinted beautifully in the sun as some refracted stray lights managed to hit the surface of your face. Gen might as well have had his breath stolen away right there and then, but refused to surrender.

You looked at him and gave him a smile wider than any he'd seen from you. You were quite giddy, more than happy that there was at least one person who was there to make memories with— to make your last year in this school more enjoyable than the previous years.

“Gen,” you called out his name so softly, the boy might have as well allowed his knees to give up on him.

“Thank you so much.”

“Why'd you need to thank me for a small, shitty gift?”

You shook your head.

“No… I mean to thank you for all the memorable lunch breaks of playing chess, of teaching me new games— of just hanging out with my lonely ass…” You spoke, perhaps his vocabulary may have rubbed off on you at some point.

Gen ran his hand through his hair, pushing it upwards as he looked away. He failed to muster up the words he wanted to respond with, being really bad with people for a long time. He didn't want to speak like he usually did, lest you'd burst into tears at his harsh tone even when you spoke with such sincerity.

Your phone rang, interrupting the moment. After picking the device up to your ear, Gen noticed how displeased you were getting each second that passed even if the call only had lasted for around 30 seconds at best. You clicked your tongue in distaste after the call got dropped.

“That's my signal to go,” you turned to your only friend, a bit hesitant. “See you around, I hope?”

He nods his head, waving goodbye when you start to leave. His carmine eyes can only watch as you disappear through the rooftop door.

You arrive at the front where the crowd has significantly dwindled already, only a few stragglers left behind. The sleek black car awaited you beyond the gates of the highschool. You continued making your way towards the vehicle but got stopped when you heard your name being called from behind you.

You rotated to be met with Gen standing tall with his hand on his chest. “Your hand.”

You follow as he placed the small item in your hand, it was a button— more specifically a button from his uniform dress shirt. You look up at him to ask but get interrupted by a beeping horn, reminding you to get in already.

You hesitate again, but end up having to go and leave the two-toned haired male. You get in the car, the vehicle immediately driving off as the damned highschool grew farther and farther from your visuals.

You open your palm and inspect the button. More questions forming rather than answers. It was more of a common tradition for the graduating students to give away their shirt buttons to either friends and admirers in order to symbolize leaving a piece of themselves with these people. However, you cannot forget the crucial detail you noticed when Gen removed his hand from his chest.

The second button, symbolizing the piece closest to the heart, was absent from its spot on his uniform— and it was right there sitting in your hands.

⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⁠⊹⚆⁠•⁠⊰⊹

i was supposed to be working on something else lmao-

will post part 2 someday when brain juice comes back

[f2e5b1]

blue lock: endgame | prologue

in a country where tradition is of utmost reverence, [Surname] [Name] aims to set her own path and follow it, even if it means leaving behind everything she has ever known in her quaint city of kamakura.

pairing(s). itoshi sae x fem. reader, itoshi rin x fem. reader, nagi seishiro x fem. reader, mikage reo x fem. reader, isagi yoichi x fem. reader, hiori yo x fem. reader, karasu tabito x fem. reader, michael kaiser x fem. reader, chigiri hyoma x fem. reader

genres + tags. childhood friends au, reverse harem, coming-of-age, romance, slight angst, canon compliant + profanity, mentions of bullying/ostracization, slow updates, reader is a chess player in jpn (wow crazy i know), implied gyaru!reader

wordcount. 404 words

Geniuses are born, and recognized too quickly. 

Take the most famous genius for example, Leonardo da Vinci, an artist and a pioneer for many advancements said to be well-ahead of his time, and subsequently  became so famous during his time in the Renaissance. Or maybe Albert Einstein, who was a child prodigy well-versed in high-level physics before he was even eleven years old, becoming the most famous physicist of all time for his theory of relativity and his contributions to quantum mechanics. Or Mozart, the musical genius who began composing music at the mere age of five, then became widely regarded as the greatest composer of all time during his time and now—his compositions having stood through the test of time, constantly being repeated by those who wish to perfect his craft.

Going local would be towards the genius Samurai, Oda Nobunaga, who was praised for his excellent military skill which allowed him to overthrow the Ashikaga bakufu, ending the long-standing feudal wars and unifying half of Japan. Or maybe Dazai Osamu, the literary genius praised for his influential work in and out of Japan during the 20th century. Even Oda Eiichirō, the creator of the hit series One Piece, is widely accredited for his incredible work and influence in the manga and anime scene—a genius of his own right. 

The world has its geniuses, the best of the best, the cream of the crop, and it knows them. It recognizes them. It will always recognize them. 

Which is how you know that the world will one day recognize your childhood best friends Itoshi Sae and Itoshi Rin, two geniuses at football in their own right, long after you have recognized them first. 

But, you often wonder: will the world recognize—you? 

…Will it recognize the genius born between Fujisawa and Zushi in the peaceful city of Kamakura? The genius who chooses to claw her way out of Japan and its islands to one day show the world what she is made of? The genius so incredibly full of passion it would be unwise to derail her of her goal, to not recognize that she, just like all the other geniuses in this world, the da Vincis and the Einsteins and the Nobunagas and even the Itoshis, is deserving of that title as well? 

Genius—that is what you are. 

And you will be recognized, too. You will make sure of it. 

story by f2e5b1. do not steal.

[bakubonez]

Dan Heng x GN! Reader || fluff(??)

Summary: Dan Heng was notorious for being good at chess. Everyone on the express knew it. Little did he know, you were coming for his throne.

A/N: this is so stupid. can be read platonically or romantically—just don’t take it too seriously. also, don’t try to replicate anything you see in this fic 😭😭

You had played many games of chess with Dan Heng during your time on the express. He always won. You weren’t bad at the game—you won from time to time against March and the others on the express when you could lure them into playing with you—but Dan Heng was just… better, apparently.

You’d spent ages learning new tricks and watching professional chess players do their magic, but alas, you had yet to beat Dan Heng.

Once again, you had sat down with him in the parlor car, challenging him to another round. This time, however, you had a game plan, one that was nearly foolproof.

The game goes as it usually does, until Dan Heng notices something strange. You were winning. His brows furrow ever so faintly when he realises, and he looks over the chequered board carefully. Not to undermine your intelligence, but he was going to be highly surprised if you won. And so far, all signs were pointing to you claiming victory this time.

Dan Heng hadn’t really been taking the game seriously before now—he’d been balancing reading over an article he was working on and responding to your turns in the game, though he was mostly focused on his article.

Now, however, he was paying closer attention, trying to discover what technique you had been using.

He tapped on the table thoughtfully, because no matter how many combinations of tricks and such he thought of, none of them seemed to align with the game at hand. Had you some how invented some new way to play the game that he hadn’t discovered yet?

It was truly a strange predicament for him.

Little did he know, you truly did have an ace up your sleeve. You had taken advantage of his lax attitude at the beginning of the game.

You were eating his chess pieces when he looked away.

.

.

Based on this stupid meme:

[savannahsdeath]

hii i love ur work!! id love to read about chess player!ellie x chess player!reader hate fucking the shit out of each other after one of them wins the tournament 🤭🤭

"You're not as boring as I thought...

...you are not as bright, either."

warnings: 18+!! edging, brat!reader, slight mean!ellie, dom!ellie, sub!reader, yeah js.. smut

writers note: i never told u guys before but pspsp.. i play chess !! so surprising right🤭🤭 and yes i used dominiques quote because . and . also ...,.

"what the fuck was that, huh?" she asked with a serious, cold tone. and maybe you'd even bother to answer, if she wasn't about nine inches deep in you. you rolled your eyes with a quiet whimper. "what? gonna throw a tantrum? i'm the one who should be mad. shit— i am fuckin' mad."

"see, el— maybe..." you hiccuped, managing to fully open your half-lidded eyes for a second. "maybe i'm just... better."

"better?" her eyes widened in shock, because even though she knew how much of a brat you can be she wasn't expecting that.

at some point, you were right. on the other hand, you didn't have to rub it in her face like that.

⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

you could tell she had studied the art of offensive chess for quite some time. she would frequently sacrifice her pieces to gain control of the center of the board, relying on her opponent's hesitations to gain a positional advantage. however, her tactics had limitations.

as you continued to play defensively, her attacks became more predictable, and you were able to counter them. while you wondered how she had reached this level, you had to admit that her strategy would work perfectly against a not patient or uncertain opponent. time didn't matter to you, not as much as to your rival, so you easily took advantage of it.

she looked either bored or amused most of the time, keeping the atmosphere more relaxed than it should be. "...so those girls like chess players, y'know? they're just so easy-"

"focus." you cut her off in an indifferent tone. the fact that she wasn't paying much attention to your moves, busy with talking, was good, but her rambling also distracted you. you clicked the little button on the clock, signaling it's ellie's turn. "i get it, people like smart girls." you mumbled, leaning back in your chair. "are you one of them, though?" you continued in a doubting voice, unintentionally insulting her.

her usual smirk didn't leave her face but you could see her bite the inside of her cheek in slight annoyance or even frustration. "i'm gonna show you." she nodded, as if to reassure herself with a silent 'yeah, just you wait!' which you couldn't help but laugh at. well, maybe not laugh, but chuckle under your breath. your comment must really bother her, to the point you ruined her offensive tactic.

"you're not as boring as i thought..." you scanned the board through your firm gaze, searching for any potential threats. you straightened up, propping your elbows on the small table and laying your head on your hands, impatiently tapping your cheeks. as soon as she clicked the little knob you already knew what'll your move be, so you quickly extended your hand. "you're not as bright, either." you picked up your knight, tauntingly pattering it through the squares, mimicking a real horse. finishing the L-shaped distance seemed to take you ages, though it was really less than four seconds. you let go of it, making a muffled knocking sound as it hit the wooden board. "checkmate." you whispered, folding your hands and tilting your head.

you took a moment to take in her reaction, which, much to your disappointment, wasn't an interesting scene. in fact, her smirk only widened as she looked at the clock and saw what led to this - her reckless haste. she hummed and shook your hand, what showed that she agreed with the score.

"how could i not notice that?" she smiled, letting you know it doesn't matter to her. you started to wonder about her strange behaviour, which seemed weird compared to the known, easy to piss off ellie williams. and just then, you understood everything's how it should be. her grip on your hand painfully tightened, as if to prove that your suspicion is correct.

⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

you felt her strap slid out of you, leaving your cunt hopelessly clenching around nothing. you raised your head, letting out a needy whimper and hoping to see what was she's up to. "els—"

"shut up." she murmured as she parted your thighs, revealing herself between them. she leaned down to have your slit at her eye level, with a quiet growl. "you're such a—" her tongue ran up and down your lips, collecting most of the slick you have accumulated. she looked up at you with a proud smirk. "fuckin' slut."

your fingers uncontrollably tangled with her hair, tugging on it while your free hand gripped the bed sheets. your cunt was still sensitive after being filled with her strap, so her soothing tongue felt comfortingly painful. she lightly sucked on your clit, forcing a desperate moan out of you.

"so you're the smart one? is that right?" she asked, her voice interrupted by either your little gasps or her breaks to plant another kiss on your core. "why don't you say something smart then?" her mocking tone echoed in your head as you tried to form a sentence. before you could, she stuck her tongue in your throbbing hole, making your thighs snap shut. she quickly helped them regain to their previous position, not pulling her hands away for longer than needed as if she wanted to make sure her fingers will leave a reminder, in form of at least reddening your sensitive skin or, most likely, giving you some bruises.

you felt your climax approaching so soon it felt embarrassing, truly embarrassing. you started babbling nonsense as your cunt clenched around her tongue, which continued to fuck in and out of you.

the amazing feeling suddenly left, replaced by her thumb roughly circling your clit. you watched as she sat up and smiled down at you, licking her lips in a temptingly slow way. the brat living inside of you was the first one to speak up, huffing out her name in an obviously annoyed gesture.

"c'mon." she cooed in a mockingly sweet voice, making sure her thumb is doing a good job. good job at torturing, ruining and making you even more desperate, if that's even possible. "what would a smart girl say in your situation?" she clicked her tongue, making you feel all the control you had slid out between your fingers and sink into the bed sheets. no matter how much you didn't want to admit it, someone finally managed to make you feel hopeless.

"but, ellie, look—" you whined, trying to take as much satisfaction from the touch she was giving you, but it only seemed like a pathetic version of what you could have. you could have way more. you needed way more.

"i don't want to hear any buts." she stopped her thumb, hardly pressing it against your clit, staring at you with stern and serious eyes which you weren't used to see from her. "we both know what a smart girl should say, yeah? aren't you one? are you admitting you're just a slut?" she sighed as if she was disappointed in you.

you shook your head, closing your eyes from the mix of all possible emotions; from embarrassment to proudness. "please, need— need you and... oh, please, ellie..." you broke, begging for more in the most miserable way imaginable.

she bitterly laughed, murmuring an amused "god, you're really a slut" under her breath. her thumb left your clit and both of her hands found their place on your thighs, making you hiss at the touch of your earlier irritated skin. you whined, the sound of your rambling slowly drifting away and getting replaced by just as beautiful moans. you heard her voice but you didn't really understand what she said, nor paid any attention to it, as your mind went blank. your hips kept waving up and down, trying to add to the feeling. your miserable attempts earned either a chuckle or scoff from ellie, but she didn't even try to stop you, enjoying this as much as you.

hooking up with bimbo's might be easy, but making a mess out of a girl smarter than her was way more satisfying.

[leviscolwill]

— dad!jude bellingham headcanons !

pairing: dad!jude bellingham x fem!reader

req: could you write dad!judebellingham ml <3

note: i tried writing headcanons because i feel like my writing is very 👎👎🍅🍅🍅 at the moment, i hope you'll like it still !! reblogs are VERY appreciated since the tags are in a silly goofy mood right now #useless 😝🤪

tag list: @ceofmercedes &lt;3

it's well established on judeblr that he is a girl dad, so girl dad it is

i think he would spiral a bit over the fact that you're growing a whole human being in you

he would say random shit like “no but do you feel her legs grow ?”

and you're like 😐😐😐 of course not

but the poor boy is just clueless 😪

he would always remind you of how you're the most beautiful woman on earth, even when you're crying your eyes out because ron fell off his chess piece in the philosopher's stone

now,, i think we're all well aware he would spoil your daughter rotten

getting her new clothes or new toys whenever he passes in front of a store because “she might need it one day”

but !! he would never let her turn into a “daddy i want a squirrel” kinda girl

you would both make sure she's very well mannered because he is very aware his parents' education played a big part in who he is today

i feel like being strict wouldn't be a problem for him either

yk being the eldest in his family, he wouldn't be swayed by your girl's pleading eyes when she acts wrong

he would 100% cry on her first day of pre-school (it's the cancer in him)

and he would try to drop her / pick her up from school as much as he possibly can with training and stuff

if you speak another language, you'd learn it to your daughter and use it to talk shit about jude 🤭

“have you seen what he wore today ?” “yeah daddy's shirt is very ugly”

in my case she would say quoicoubeh to him

i feel like he'd get so frustrated and start sulking amd pouting before your daughter reassures him

okayy bc it's spooky szn rn 😋

family matching costumes !! (call it corny 😡 i do not care)

monsters, disney characters or the adams family... he'd have soooo many ideas

he'd go trick or treating just to eat all the sweets

playfights with your daughter for their girl's attention

“it's my mommy !”

“oh yeah ? but mommy liked me before, so i'm the number one in her heart”

“it's not true ! mommy tell him he's a liar”

you can only roll your eyes because he really has beef with a whole child ???

but he's just a kid himself !!

everytime she gets to see uncle jobe she's overly happy

and jude would smack the back of his head when he says a bad word

(like he's not the one to curse at home yk 🙄)

is it a bad thing i think he would secretly hope your daughter has a bad dream so she'd have a good excuse to sleep in between you both ?

because he would

just to cuddle with her

then he regrets it when she wakes him up early in the morning

when she grows up he would be soooo invested in her school's dramas

like, actually asking for updates during dinner like he's dan from gossip girl

“what do you mean ben is dating his ex's best friend ?? he's such a di... bad person”

he'd be so gassed whenever she would wear his shirt (especially at school)

like you got all these clothes but chose this particular england shirt ? 🥹🥹

(as if half her wardrobe isn't his jerseys from every club he's been at)

(+ jerseys he exchanged with other players and signed jerseys by football legends)

he would sooo show her off to his teammates

“yeah my girl knows how to read now” 😎

and show every picture of her EVER

even the embarrassing ones

100% would introduce his friends as uncles

“say hi to uncle gio” (🫠)

now hear me out bc i think it's my favourite idea

he would totally look up hairstyles tutorials for your babygirl and try them out

once he gets the hang of it, he would never stop finding new ones

and since he doesn't have a sister, he would go to his mum for advice

on hair, but also girl stuff so he can pretend he already knows it all in front of you

you'd also go to his mum to advice tho, because being a parent (especially a mum) is never easy

and she would gladly share all of them with you

when you get into fights with jude your girl would always try to make it better

“dad says he's sorry”, “mum said she's not mad anymore”

of course you both know she's lying but somehow it always works ???

so your relationship is the prime example of what she's looking for when she grows up

and she secretly hopes she gets to love her s/o just like her parents love each other (too corny now ?)

anyways jude would treat you both like his little princesses, and he's so so so grateful he gets to live a lifetime with you two

or maybe more than two who knows 🚶‍♀️

[ryuzakistoe]

Empty Crown (Michael Kaiser x Fem!reader)

Angst, angst with no happy ending (sadly), mentioning of Kaisers past, fem!reader, Michael Kaiser, language, sports journalist {reader}, intimate kissing, smuttt, finger fucking, breast fucking, bedroom sex, body pleasure/worship, manipulation kink, vaginal sex and the usual smut stuff, arguing

a/n: I've seen a bunch of Kaiser edits on my fyp recently so…

I think this is longer than my Sae one i believe. Also its kind of hard trying to keep Kaiser from being ooc..

_______

(no song either)

She had always been captivated by the idea of uncovering a player's true feelings—their raw, unfiltered intentions. It wasn’t just the game that intrigued her but the psychology behind it: how they felt under pressure, how they prepared for battle, how they devised strategies to secure victory. It was a puzzle she never tired of solving. 

Her career had already brought her face-to-face with some of the biggest names in sports, particularly soccer. But today, she was in Germany, seated across from a man whose reputation transcended the field—a man known as "God's Chosen Emperor." To say she found him fascinating would be a gross understatement. 

But her curiosity wasn’t limited to the shiny veneer of titles or the glory his name commanded. No, what truly intrigued her was the truth lurking behind the gilded facade. Who was he beneath the crown? What did his victories cost him? What emotions stirred beneath that composed exterior?

He smirked, his confidence radiating like an aura, as his piercing eyes studied her from across the table. His gaze flickered briefly to the pen in her hand, moving in sharp, deliberate strokes as she jotted down notes in the folder resting on her lap. The room crackled with an unspoken tension—one born of his arrogance and her relentless pursuit of the truth.

"So, Kaiser—or should I say Michael Kaiser—how does the excitement, the thrill of making those goals with that inhuman kick of yours, make you feel on the field?" she asked, her tone even but her eyes sharp. She lifted her head, her gaze locking onto him with purpose as her pen hovered just above the paper, poised to catch every word. 

Kaiser leaned back in his chair, his grin widening, as though the question was a cue for him to bask in his own legend. Of course, it felt good—no, better than good. For the self-proclaimed "king" of the pitch, every goal was another piece moved in his personal game of chess. Every calculated strike, every triumphant roar of the crowd was proof of his dominion. Confidence, skill, and a charm that bordered on arrogance made him untouchable, both on and off the field. 

He thrived on the adoration of fans, the envy of rivals, and the weight of the crown he so proudly wore. Each goal was a reminder of his superiority, a validation of his reign. So naturally, they brought him pleasure.

"Y/n L/n, wasn’t it?" he said, his voice smooth, laced with the kind of pride that made his name synonymous with greatness. His smile, sharp and practiced, creased his eyes as he leaned forward slightly. "To answer your question, those goals feel... exhilarating," he said, drawing out the word like it was a secret only he truly understood. 

Her brow arched, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "Exhilarating, you say? And how, exactly, does that feel for someone like you?" she pressed, her tone deceptively casual. 

Kaiser chuckled, his grin deepening. This was a game he was all too familiar with—a battle of wits as much as words. And just like on the field, he had no intention of losing.

Kaiser leaned back into the chair with an air of effortless confidence. "Exhilarating in a way that makes me feel exemplary, of course," he said, his voice smooth, almost lazy, as if the answer was obvious. "Like I'm the only one on the field, and all the lights are directed at me." His words carried the weight of someone who thrived on being the center of the universe.

Y/n nodded, her pen gliding swiftly across the paper as she recorded his response. "Do you believe you’re the only one capable of such outstanding goals?" she asked, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp, gauging his reaction.

Kaiser’s grin widened, his signature arrogance gleaming like a polished trophy. "Well, of course," he replied, as if the question itself was redundant.

She hummed thoughtfully, acknowledging his answer while continuing to write. Then, after a calculated pause, she glanced up. "Say... people have been wondering. Why did you start playing soccer? Was it just a childhood hobby that turned into a career, or was there something deeper behind it?"

For the briefest moment, his smirk faltered. It was subtle—almost imperceptible—but not to her. She caught it instantly, her keen eye trained to spot the cracks beneath even the most carefully constructed facades. This was why she thrived in her line of work: not for the surface-level answers, but for the truths that slipped through the gaps, the ones people didn’t mean to reveal.

She lived for the unraveling. For the moments when masks slipped and raw humanity peeked through, unguarded. Truths that couldn’t be packaged for headlines or social media clout. Truths that even the interviewee might not fully recognize until they heard themselves say it.

She waited, her pen hovering, her silence a subtle push. Would Kaiser retreat behind his armor of arrogance, or would he crack under the weight of her question?

She was relentless. Every question, every glance, was calculated. She didn’t just want answers—she wanted the truth. The person beneath the accolades and bravado. To her, interviews were more than conversations; they were excavations. And if breaking someone’s polished exterior was what it took to uncover their real identity, she was willing to do it.

That fleeting crack in Kaiser’s smirk had barely formed before it repaired itself, his composure snapping back into place. "I guess it was just a childhood game I grew to enjoy," he said smoothly. "Well, it was the only thing I did enjoy back in my childhood years."

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in subtle curiosity. "The only thing you enjoyed back then? How so?" she asked, her voice light, but her intent razor-sharp.

Kaiser’s grin didn’t waver, but there was something guarded in the way he adjusted his posture. He was a master of deception, a pathological liar wrapped in layers of charm and self-assuredness. Few could see through the dense fog of lies he spun. At first glance, he appeared invincible—strong, untouchable. But beneath the sheen of arrogance lay a man who feared vulnerability more than failure. A man who had built walls so high, even he seemed unsure what lay behind them.

Crossing one leg over the other, he leaned back, his elbow propped on the armrest, his hand resting against his cheek as though the question was of little consequence. "It was just something I found fun," he replied, his tone casual, practiced. "The cool tricks I saw—and later mastered—with the soccer ball never failed to impress me. It kept me inspired, in a way."

Her pen paused mid-stroke, her gaze never leaving him. His answer was polished, the kind of response that would satisfy most interviewers. But she wasn’t most interviewers. The careful detachment in his tone, the calculated ease of his posture—it was all too perfect. Too rehearsed.  

She leaned forward slightly, her pen hovering over the page. "Inspired?" she echoed softly, her voice carrying the kind of weight that dared him to elaborate. She didn’t need to push hard; the cracks in his mask were already there. All she had to do was wait.

Y/N’s pen moved steadily across the page, her practiced precision unbroken. Yet something about his tone, his carefully curated demeanor, set off a quiet alarm in her mind. The answer he gave wasn’t wrong, exactly, but it felt... off. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but it didn’t sit right.  

She prided herself on her ability to read people, to sift through the layers of their words and find the truths buried underneath. So why was the man in front of her so hard to decipher?  

Her hand froze mid-sentence as her brows knit together in thought, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied him, trying to unravel the threads of his performance. But after a brief moment, she resumed writing, forcing herself to focus, even as her instincts whispered that something was being deliberately concealed.  

Unbeknownst to her, Kaiser’s gaze remained fixed on her, his grin widening ever so slightly with each passing second. Amusement flickered in his eyes like a spark threatening to ignite. He could tell she was struggling, and he loved it. Watching someone so perceptive, someone with a reputation for cracking even the toughest facades, falter in his presence? It was thrilling.  

Kaiser thrived on this—on games, on control, on keeping everyone around him unbalanced. He’d done his homework on her, of course. Well, technically, his "buddy" had. He knew all about the headlines she’d made, exposing the untold truths of players far less guarded than he was. She was clever, skilled, and dangerously persistent.  

But Kaiser was no ordinary interview subject. He had perfected the art of manipulation, and one thing he relished above all else was the sport of toying with people. Watching them scramble, watching them doubt themselves, only to realize too late that he’d been pulling the strings all along.  

And right now? The woman in front of him was another game he intended to win.  

He relished the feeling of holding people in the palm of his hand, their pride crumbling beneath his calculated words. There was a unique satisfaction in breaking egos, in bending others to his will. Control wasn’t just a tool to him—it was an art form. And soon, he decided, Y/N would be another masterpiece in his growing collection.  

But she wasn’t so easily swayed. A faint shake of her head seemed to clear whatever troubled thoughts had momentarily clouded her focus. Her pen stilled, and her eyes locked onto his, sharp and unyielding. "So, Kaiser," she began, her tone precise, cutting through the air like a blade. "It’s impossible not to notice how you’ve surpassed and crushed your rivals. But tell me, do you ever get tired of playing the villain?"  

Her question struck like a well-placed shot, catching him off guard. For a moment, the silence between them stretched taut. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied her, his eyes narrowing as if she were a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. Then, as the tension reached its peak, a grin broke across his previously expressionless face, slow and deliberate.  

"No," he said finally, his voice low but firm. "Never."  

He took pride in being the villain in other people’s stories. To him, the title was a badge of honor, a mark of his ability to dominate and destroy. Being the villain gave him permission—no, purpose—to crush people without restraint. To watch their downfall unfold, step by step, especially when he was the architect of their demise.  

His grin deepened, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous amusement. "The villain," he continued, leaning forward slightly, "always wins in the end, don’t you think?"  

༻♕༺

Kaiser tilted his head back, the cool water cascading down his throat as he chugged the bottle Ness had handed him. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, and when he was done, he let out a satisfied sigh, setting the bottle down with a soft clink.  

"That girl... she’s annoyingly perceptive," he muttered, almost to himself.  

Ness, seated beside him on the bench overlooking the empty football field, turned his head sharply at the comment. His brows furrowed. "Girl? You mean that journalist from earlier?" he asked, his tone tinged with curiosity.  

Kaiser hummed in response, his gaze fixed on the field as if the game were still unfolding in his mind. "Yeah, her."  

For a moment, Ness hesitated, his teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek. He debated whether to ask the question lingering on his mind. Finally, he caved, his voice quieter than before. "What... what do you mean by ‘annoyingly perceptive’?"  

Kaiser didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward Ness, studying him briefly before turning back to the horizon. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, a flicker of amusement and unease mingling in his expression.  

"She might just figure me out," he said, his voice carrying a rare hint of vulnerability beneath the usual confidence. His smirk deepened as he added, almost as an afterthought, "My past, I mean."  

Ness blinked, caught off guard by the admission. Kaiser never talked about his past—it was a subject shrouded in mystery, just like the man himself. He opened his mouth to press further but hesitated, the weight of Kaiser’s words lingering between them like an unspoken challenge.  

Ness’s eyes widened at Kaiser’s response, panic flickering across his face. "B-but Kaiser, wouldn’t that be bad? She could expose you! What if she digs up all your personal information and reveals it to the public—"

"You don’t think I know that, Ness?" Kaiser interrupted smoothly, his smirk remaining intact. If anything, it only widened.  

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he turned to face Ness, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Don’t you get it, Ness? It’ll be fun."  

Ness blinked, his growing unease evident in the way his shoulders stiffened. "Kaiser…"  

But Kaiser wasn’t finished. His voice carried an almost playful edge, one that made Ness’s skin crawl. "It’ll be entertaining to watch someone so desperate try to figure me out. And even more fun to lead her astray—with nothing but lies."  

Ness remained silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. He knew better than to interrupt when Kaiser was on a roll.  

"I’ll manipulate her," Kaiser continued, his tone almost gleeful. "Toy with her, twist her perception until she doesn’t know what’s real anymore. I’ll use her like a puppet, feeding her one lie after another, watching as she clings to every word."  

He laughed, the sound low and rich, as though the thought alone was enough to entertain him. The image of Y/N caught in his web, entirely at his mercy, sent a thrill through him.  

"Wouldn’t that be exhilarating, Ness?" he asked, his voice carrying a dangerous undercurrent.  

Ness swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. The gleam in Kaiser’s eyes was unsettling, and though he knew better than to challenge him, a quiet unease settled in the pit of his stomach.

Ness swallowed hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go down. The way Kaiser looked at him—eyes alight with excitement, yet darkened by something almost sinister—sent a chill crawling up his spine. The sheer thrill Kaiser seemed to derive from his schemes was unnerving, but Ness knew better than to voice his discomfort.  

All he could do was nod. Agreeing with Kaiser’s antics, no matter how twisted, was easier than opposing him. He’d long since learned that resistance only amused Kaiser further.  

It had been a while since Ness had seen his idol take such a keen interest in something—or, more accurately, someone. Kaiser rarely fixated on individuals; people were disposable to him, fleeting sources of entertainment at best. But now, it seemed, he’d found a new toy.  

Ness’s stomach churned at the thought. He’d seen it before: the way Kaiser broke people down, piece by piece, until they were little more than playthings to him. And yet, this time felt different. There was a dangerous spark in Kaiser’s eyes, an almost childlike glee at the prospect of unraveling someone so clever, so perceptive.  

It wouldn’t be long now. Kaiser’s newest "interest" would soon find themselves caught in his web, and Ness could already foresee the chaos that would follow.

༻♕༺

He always knew where she’d be. Her schedule, the events she’d attend—it was all too easy to track. With that knowledge in his back pocket, he’d find her in the crowd, scanning for her familiar figure among the sea of faces, certain she was either there or just a few steps away.  

It was strange, he thought. Putting in this much effort for someone—it wasn’t his usual style. But something about her, something about the way she moved through the world, made it impossible not to seek her out.  

And today, she was at a press conference. Of course, he’d be there too.

Kaiser approached her quietly, his footsteps soft as the press conference wrapped up, the chatter of departing attendees filling the air. She was engaged in conversation with someone—an individual who radiated importance. The man wore a sharp suit and tie, paired with glasses from an expensive brand, and a watch that spoke of wealth and status. He practically screamed high-profile.  

Kaiser tapped her shoulder lightly, interrupting their exchange, and she immediately turned to face him.  

Their eyes met, and what struck him was the lack of surprise in her gaze. There was no shock, no flurry of confusion—just calm recognition, as though she’d been expecting him all along.  

She wasn’t blind. She had seen him at every event she attended, at first dismissing it as coincidence. But now, after so many encounters, she could no longer deny the truth.  

Kaiser had been following her.  

Y/N knew what that meant. She knew that no one in their right mind stalked someone without a reason. And she was certain Kaiser didn’t do anything without a purpose. Whatever game he was playing, she knew she was a part of it.

Y/N’s curiosity burned brighter than ever. She was determined to uncover Kaiser’s intentions, to see what game he was playing this time.  

"Kaiser, it's great to see you," she said with a calm smile, her attention fully on him now.  

Kaiser’s smirk only deepened at her greeting. "I can say the same thing, Ms. Journalist," he teased, his voice smooth and laced with a playful challenge.  

He studied her, his eyes raking over her with deliberate intent. She was attractive, no doubt about it. But Kaiser’s mind was on something else entirely. Her appearance didn’t matter to him in this moment; his goal was simpler—to get under her skin, to make her unravel, to watch her crumble before him.  

"Would you look at you?" He took a step closer, his tone shifting to something more dangerous. "You look irresistible, Ms. Y/N."  

The words hung in the air as he leaned in, inching ever closer, his presence all-consuming. "Are you trying to seduce the men here? If so, it’s working," he murmured, his breath grazing her ear.  

Y/N’s eyebrow arched, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she took a step back, putting some distance between them. She wasn’t intimidated. She knew Kaiser all too well—his charm, his power over people. He could have anyone kneel before him in seconds, and it was the one thing he loved to brag about.  

But she was perceptive of him. She’d seen through his games before. She wasn’t about to let him win that easily.

A small laugh escaped her lips, and she shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Sorry, Kaiser. That’s not going to work on me."  

For the briefest moment, his teasing smirk faltered, replaced by a pout that almost seemed forced. "That’s a shame. I really thought you’d fall for my compliments," he said, his grin returning in full force. "How could I help myself? You look very... tasty," he added, emphasizing the last word with a playful gleam in his eyes.  

She laughed again, shaking her head at his antics. "That’s all you know how to do, huh? Flirt. You’re so used to having people fall at your feet that you don’t know how to have a real conversation, do you?"  

Kaiser’s smirk returned, wider this time, his gaze sharpening with a flicker of admiration for the way she held her ground. "Oh, you wound me, Y/N," he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if her words had struck him deeply.  

This was a new record for Kaiser. Out of all the people he’d spoken to, she was the only one who didn’t get swept up in his charm. The only one who didn’t fawn over him. And it intrigued him. Never before had he felt this kind of genuine interest in a conversation.  

What was even more surprising was that he hadn’t once grown bored. Their interactions, especially the ones where he accidentally bumped into her, were becoming more engaging with every exchange. This one, in particular, was the most stimulating yet. And that only fueled his curiosity even more.

_______

Bit by bit, Kaiser began to lower his guard around her, the cracks in his facade growing wider with every interaction. Unknowingly, he allowed Y/N to catch glimpses of the man beneath the crown—fragments of a person that few ever saw.  

And despite every instinct telling her to walk away, Y/N found herself inexplicably drawn to him. She knew who he was, what he represented. She understood the chaos that swirled around his world, the power he wielded, and the danger that came with being entangled in it. Yet, despite that, she couldn’t tear herself away.  

She had her reasons, of course. The first, and most obvious, was the truth—the truth that lay just beneath his carefully constructed mask. The truth that had eluded her for so long, no matter how many times she tried to unravel it.  

But there was something else, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. A pull, a magnetic force that seemed to draw her in. It wasn’t just his looks, nor his sharp, confident personality. She’d encountered countless famous men, men just as attractive, just as bold. And yet, none had ever affected her this way.  

Y/N wasn’t sure if it was the sensation he gave her—the way he made her feel like she was the only one in the room, like she was a part of something dangerous and exhilarating. It was a feeling that both thrilled and unnerved her. But there it was, undeniable. She was tethered to him in a way that made no sense, and that fact alone was enough to keep her coming back.

So, she was left with only one conclusion: the sensation he left her with. A strange, undeniable craving for more. It was an odd feeling, something that gnawed at her insides with an intensity she couldn’t quite understand.  

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t just that. There was something else—something beneath the surface that kept her tethered to him, something that made her unable to look away. What was it about him that had this hold on her? What was it that made her so drawn to him, despite knowing all the risks?  

The answers she sought would come, sooner than she anticipated. After the press conference, everything changed.

From that night onward, they grew closer. Closer than she had ever expected. Their interactions shifted from professional to personal, the banter, the snarky retorts, becoming a comfortable rhythm between them.  

The facades they’d both so carefully built began to crack, slowly, piece by piece, until there was little left to hide behind. And as the walls came down, the truth—about him, about her—started to reveal itself in ways neither of them had anticipated.

༻♕༺

The cold seeped into her bones, a biting winter chill that seemed to freeze everything around her. But it wasn’t just the weather. No, the real cold came from something far deeper.  

Y/N stood behind him, her eyes reflecting a mixture of pity and disbelief. She had never seen him like this—vulnerable, shaken, a far cry from the confident, unshakable man she was used to.  

It was a rare loss, one that had taken more from him than anyone could have anticipated. A loss that had clearly left its mark, its weight pressing down on him in ways he couldn’t hide. The toll it had taken on him was evident in every tense line of his posture, every stiff breath he took.  

This wasn’t just a defeat—it was something far more personal. And for the first time, Y/N wondered if he would ever be the same again.

The cold bit at her skin, sharp and unforgiving, the air heavy with the weight of winter. But it wasn’t just the chill of the season that made everything feel frozen. It was the coldness of something deeper, a loss that had struck like an icy gust of wind, leaving everything in its wake distant and hollow.  

This wasn’t just any loss—it was rare. And it had taken more than just the game from him. It had cost him something personal, something she could feel even without knowing the full extent of it.  

The match had ended hours ago, but Kaiser remained. Alone. Silent. His figure barely visible in the fading light of the pitch, his usual confidence stripped away.  

With every step she took toward him, the cold seemed to grow sharper, more furious, as if it was fighting her approach. But she didn’t stop. Even as it felt like she was wading through a blizzard, Y/N pressed on.  

Finally, she stood closer to him, close enough to see his face—or what little of it she could. His head hung low, his hair casting shadows that obscured his expression.  

When she finally caught a glimpse, her breath caught in her throat. It was a look she was unfamiliar with, one that didn’t belong to the Kaiser she knew. It was raw, unguarded—something close to defeat, but deeper, more complicated than just that. And for the first time, Y/N wondered if the man she had been chasing after was even the person he pretended to be.

He looked like a shell of himself. Empty.  

For the first time, Kaiser appeared as though he had lost everything—not just the match, but something far more profound. To him, this wasn’t just a game lost; this was personal. His team had lost. He had lost. And that shattered the very foundation of his pride.  

Losing wasn’t a part of his world. It wasn’t even something that registered in his vocabulary.  

So when the final whistle blew and his team was declared defeated, it wasn’t just a score—it was a rupture in everything he believed. He shattered. The loss was far more than the scoreboard. It meant he was a failure, and that idea cut deeper than any defeat ever could.  

Y/N could see the pain in his eyes, the kind of raw agony that an emperor, someone so used to control and dominance, rarely allowed anyone to witness. It was a vulnerability she wasn’t prepared for.  

That’s when it hit her—Kaiser was no longer the man who ruled the field, untouchable and arrogant. He was just a person, fragile and broken.  

Her heart clenched in her chest. She hadn’t expected to feel sympathy for him, but there it was, overwhelming.  

Without thinking, she stepped closer. "Kaiser..." Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, a note of concern breaking through her usual sharpness.

The words barely registered in Kaiser’s mind, but the tone did. It was different from the usual sharpness he was accustomed to. When he spared a glance at Y/N, it wasn’t the smirk or the arrogance he often wore in her presence—it was something far more guarded. But at least she knew he acknowledged her.  

"Kaiser, talk to me." Her voice was quieter this time, more insistent.  

Y/N had never expected to care for him this way. For so long, her focus had been solely on uncovering the truth, on peeling back the layers of the man who intrigued and frustrated her. But with every moment spent near him, the answers she sought only seemed to deepen the mystery. And now, in this strange moment, she found herself questioning something else entirely: Did he care about her, too?  

But Kaiser didn’t respond. He remained as still as stone, his silence speaking volumes. His mind was a battlefield—on one side, the urge to push her away, to demand she leave him in peace. On the other, an inexplicable resistance to that very thought.  

The inner conflict tore at him. His jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his face twitched. The only outward sign of his internal struggle.  

He was furious—furious at the loss, at the feeling of vulnerability she seemed to evoke, at the strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Confusion clouded his eyes, and for once, Kaiser found himself at a loss.  

He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what she wanted from him. And he certainly didn’t know what he wanted from her.

"I hate this."

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the words, the vulnerability in his voice catching her off guard. Finally, after all the silence, he spoke.  

"Hate what, Kaiser?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking—she just needed him to respond, to break the suffocating silence between them.  

"I hate what I'm feeling right now." His voice was softer now, almost as if he didn’t want anyone to hear it. His head drooped even further, his posture slumped under the weight of something far heavier than just the game.  

Y/N’s eyes softened as she watched him, her heart tugging painfully. She felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy for him, but at the same time, she felt helpless. What could she do? Every time she tried to reach out, he shut her down, pushing her away with his walls.  

She had seen it all—the game, the way the light in his eyes dimmed with each passing moment, the defeat that seemed to crush him. It was a rare sight, this version of Kaiser. The one who wasn’t so certain, so untouchable.  

"It’ll get better, Kaiser. I swear," she said quietly, almost pleading with him to hear her, to believe in her words.  

But a small scoff escaped his lips, laced with annoyance and something darker—frustration, confusion. "How? How can it get better, Y/N?" he snapped, his voice sharp.

A frown tugged at Y/N's lips as she watched him. "The feelings are temporary, Kaiser. I know it feels like shit right now, but it won't last. You did great, regardless—and for that, I’m proud. Others are, too, I think—"

But before she could finish, Kaiser interrupted her, his words cutting through the air with an edge that startled her. "Did you know I hate losing?"  

Y/N blinked, her breath catching slightly at his tone. But he didn’t stop.  

"I hate losing, not because it hurts my pride," he continued, his voice steady but laced with something deeper, darker. "But because it reminds me that everything—this, my career, my reputation—can disappear in an instant."  

He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, and then, more quietly, he added, "It brings back the memories of the old me. It’s like reliving the past all over again. All the way back to my old household… back to how useless I was. I was pathetic. I was nothing."  

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Y/N’s eyes widened just for a fraction, the weight of his confession settling over her. She quickly masked her surprise, but something inside her stirred.  

This was new. Kaiser had never spoken like this before. He had never let her—or anyone—see beneath the mask he wore so carefully.  

And for the first time, she felt the barrier he had placed between himself and the world—the one that had kept his true feelings locked away—begin to crack. She could see it. She could feel it.  

Her heart swelled with something she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t sympathy. It was something deeper—something that made her want to keep listening, keep understanding.  

This was the truth she had searched for. The truth she had wanted to uncover all along. The one that had eluded her, hiding behind all the layers Kaiser had carefully constructed. And now, for the first time, she was seeing it for what it truly was.

But now wasn’t the time to dwell on the emotions swirling inside her.

“I despise losing in a way too, Kaiser,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kaiser’s gaze shifted to hers, catching her off guard. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him, but she wasn’t expecting this—this quiet attentiveness. This was the first time she had seen him focus on her with such intent.

“I hate that losing against people who are far more superior than me takes such a huge toll on me,” she continued, her words flowing slowly, as if each one carried more weight than the last. “It’s like I’ll never measure up in a world dominated by people who are better.”

His entire attention was on her now. She could feel it. And for some strange reason, it eased the tension that had been building in her chest. It felt… calming to know that, for once, someone else understood. Even if it was just in this small moment.

"I’ve always feared the people who were better—who were born with gifts I could never surpass," she said, her voice softening with each word. “But I always fucking hated that about myself,” she whispered, the words carrying an undertone of self-loathing she hadn’t shared with anyone before.

Y/n gritted her teeth slightly, her eyes narrowing in a mix of regret and frustration. The vulnerability was almost suffocating, but it was real. It was raw. And in this moment, she wasn’t afraid to show it.

Kaiser noticed the shift in her expression—the self-hate she had felt earlier now seemed to dissipate, replaced by something more complex, something that caught him off guard. It was the same surprise that stirred within him.

"It bothered me so much, the fact that I always managed to push myself down at any given moment when I saw someone even just the slightest bit better than me," she continued, her voice steady, though it carried a weight. "It made me feel even more worthless than I really was. All I did was force myself into believing I was lower than everyone else when, in reality, I was so much more than that."

She finally lifted her gaze to meet his. It wasn’t the confusion he was used to seeing. No, this time she held his stare with something softer—something almost vulnerable. He found himself looking at her with a kind of admiration, something unfamiliar to him, mixed with a flicker of surprise.

"Y/n," he mumbled, his voice no longer tinged with irritation, but instead with a curiosity that mirrored his feelings. "I don’t want to see the same thing in you, Kaiser," she added, her words a quiet confession that hit him harder than he expected. "It bothers me so much when I see someone making themselves feel like shit."

Her admission stilled him, and his chest tightened at the rawness of her words. "I didn’t want to see what I went through in your eyes."

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, he felt a shift—a shift in the way his heart pounded. Did she care for him? The thought was almost foreign, but the possibility of it lodged itself deep within him. Someone who cared. For him.

The realization made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. It was an emotion he hadn’t quite known how to process, but it was there, undeniable and consuming.

Kaiser’s heart raced as he asked the question, though he already knew the answer—or so he thought. "Y/n, do you... care?"

It was blunt, direct. He needed an answer, even if it hurt him further. The silence that followed stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Y/n froze, her eyes searching for an answer within herself, and that’s when it hit her—she cared. All the confusion, the uncertainty, the strange pull toward him… it all made sense now. Those feelings she had tried to unravel earlier, they were tied to this simple, yet profound word.

Care.

The realization crashed over her. That was it. That was why her heart felt heavy. Why she couldn’t tear herself away from him. Yes, it was hard to believe, hard to admit, but in that moment, it was undeniable.

She cared. 

For Michael Kaiser. 

The word fit perfectly. It was the missing piece that made everything click. It felt right. Perfect, even.

She didn’t hesitate this time, her voice softer than before. "I do, Kaiser, I really do."

It was enough. That simple truth was all Kaiser needed to hear. For the first time in what felt like forever, someone—anyone—cared for him. The weight of her words settled into his chest, filling a space he didn’t know had been empty for so long.

And in that moment, it felt like a dream come true. Like he could finally exhale, like he was at peace. At rest.

Someone cared for him. The thought alone made his heart ache in a way he wasn’t used to, the tenderness stirring deep within. His eyes softened, losing the usual sharpness that defined him. 

There was no smirk now. Instead, a smile—a real, unguarded smile—replaced it. It was subtle, but it was there. 

He took a step toward her, then another, until the space between them dwindled to nearly nothing. She could feel his presence, so close now that her heart began to race with uncertainty and anticipation. It was like the world had quieted around them, and everything he was—everything he had hidden—was on the brink of being laid bare. 

Just for today, he told himself. Just for today, his guard would be lowered. Just for today, he would let the mask fall.

His chest tightened with something more than nervousness—something that felt raw and unspoken. A pull, a need, an undeniable feeling that screamed at him to take action.

And surprisingly, he didn’t hesitate. He didn’t force his body to stop. For once, he didn’t fight against it. 

Now, in this moment, he realized the truth—he cared for her too. And he wanted her to care for him forever. 

He took that final step. The one that closed the distance between them, the step that meant everything. The step that brought them together, on the edge of something neither of them had expected, but both knew would change everything.

He reached up, his hand gently cupping her chin, guiding her face toward his. His eyes locked onto hers, searching for something, anything—confirmation of what they both already knew. 

Her eyes, wide and vulnerable, spoke the truth without words. They were everything she had just confessed. And then, his gaze dropped lower. Her lips—soft, full, and so inviting—pulled him in, a magnetic force he couldn’t resist even if he wanted to. They were perfect. Delicious. Everything he never thought he'd want, yet now couldn't imagine living without.

He studied her entire face, her entire being, drinking in every detail. And in that moment, he realized he was lost. Completely. And it was all Y/n’s fault.

He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He was caught in a trance, a deep desire bubbling up, leaving him no choice but to close the distance between them. His lips crashed against hers, a sudden, urgent kiss that left no room for words.

The shock was mutual, taking them both by surprise. Kaiser, usually so in control, found himself caught in the rush of emotions he had never expected. And Y/n—she couldn’t process it at first. But that hesitation lasted mere seconds.

Without missing a beat, she responded, mirroring the intensity he had brought to her. Their lips moved together, desperate and passionate, as if they had been waiting for this moment all along.

Kaiser's lips claimed Y/n's with a fervor that was both tender and dominating, their mouths aligning in a rhythm as natural and inevitable as the tides. Each passing second saw their kiss deepen, growing more intimate, more passionate, more consuming. It was as if their lips had been sculpted by the gods themselves, destined to fit only against each other.

Kaiser's strong hand gripped Y/n's chin, holding her fast as he plundered her mouth with increasing aggression. She gasped, a shocked murmur escaping her, and he seized the opportunity to delve inside, his tongue invading and conquering. It twined around hers, dominating, possessing, staking his claim.

A breathy, needful groan spilled from Y/n's lips, a sound of surrender and submission. Kaiser felt a surge of male pride, a dark satisfaction at reducing this proud woman to such a state with naught but a kiss. She was his, utterly his, and he reveled in his power over her.

His grip tightened, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her jaw as he angled her head to deepen the kiss yet further. He would have her, all of her. He would lay siege to her every defense until she yielded completely. And he would enjoy every moment of conquering her, body and soul

Kaiser's earlier anger had dissipated like the morning mist under the scorching sun, leaving no trace behind. All that remained was a burning desire, a hunger to unravel the woman in his arms, to make her unravel for him. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, trapping her soft, pliant body against the hard planes of his own. She was a delicate doll, a plaything for him to manipulate and enjoy as he saw fit. His doll, his prize, his possession. And he would guard his treasure jealously.

He broke the kiss, only to catch his breath for the briefest of moments before his mouth was back on hers, claiming, conquering, consuming. She was a woman possessed, lost in the haze of sensation, unable to break away from the addictive pull of his lips. Her hum of acquiescence, trapped between their joined mouths, only spurred him on further.

"Your enjoying this aren't you?" Kaiser murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He didn't wait for a response, his lips latching onto hers once more as if to swallow any protest. She was addicted, he could feel it, could taste it on the sweetness of her breath. And like any addict, she would crave more, would need more. He would make certain of it.

Kaiser's palm skimmed over the curve of Y/n's hip, squeezing and caressing, igniting sparks beneath her skin. Each pass of his hand stoked the flames of his desire, the kiss growing ever more fervent, ever more consuming. He reveled in her surrender, in the way she melted so sweetly against him, a puppet dancing on his strings.

But it was more than her submission that ignited the beast within him. It was the raw, primal satisfaction of seeing his actions, his touch, his very presence eliciting such a response. She was a canvas, and he was the artist, painting her reactions with every brushstroke of his desire.

Her need to continue the kiss, to lose herself in his embrace, only fueled his own burning hunger. He could feel it, the pull, the ache, the desperation. She craved him, yearned for him, and he would feed that hunger, that yearning, that desperation. He would be her addiction, her poison, her reason for breath.

Kaiser broke the kiss abruptly, leaving her lips hovering, searching, aching for his touch. Her eyes, hazy with desire, sought his own, a plea swirling in their depths. She tried to close the scant distance between them, to recapture his lips, but he pulled back, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Confusion clouded her gaze, warring with the need, the want, the undeniable desire. He had her on the cusp, teetering on the edge of something terrifying and thrilling. She was his puppet, and he held the strings, ready to dance her to his tune

Y/n stared at Kaiser, his name falling from her lips in a breathless question. As her gaze met his, she felt the weight of his desire, hot and heavy, pressing down upon her like a physical touch. She felt laid bare, stripped of all defenses, as exposed as if she stood naked before him. His eyes blazed with a madness, a hunger that made her heart stutter in her chest.

"Kaiser," she breathed, a flicker of uncertainty in her tone. But before she could voice any protest, he was already moving, his large hand engulfing her own, pulling her towards his waiting vehicle.

She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his urgency, his insistence. But he didn't give her time to compose herself, to steel her nerves. No, he was already ushering her into the passenger seat, the cool leather of the car interior a shock against her flushed skin.

The door slammed shut with a resounding finality, sealing them both inside the confines of the luxurious vehicle. Kaiser slid into the driver's seat, his presence commanding, dominating the space. She could feel the tension radiating off him, the coiled energy, the barely restrained desire.

He didn't say a word, didn't bother with pleasantries or explanations. He simply engaged the ignition, the engine roaring to life with a throaty purr. And then they were moving, the car surging forward with a burst of speed that pressed Y/n back against her seat.

She had no idea where he was taking her, no concept of their destination. But it mattered not. All that consumed her thoughts, all that mattered, was the promise of what was to come. The completion of what they had begun.

The car pulled to a halt, and before she could blink, Kaiser was there, opening her door, his hand outstretched to assist her exit. She stepped out into the cool night air, her heels clicking against the pavement as she gazed up at the imposing structure before them.

It was a house, a grand and opulent affair that spoke of wealth and privilege. Of course, it made sense. Kaiser was a man of means, a famous athlete who had amassed a fortune through his talents and dedication. And now, he was inviting her into his inner sanctum, his private domain.

He led her towards the imposing front door, his hand a brand at the small of her back

Y/n found herself powerless to resist as Kaiser's iron grip tightened around her waist, propelling her forward into the cavernous entrance of his estate. The door slammed shut behind them with a resounding bang, sealing them off from the world outside, leaving them alone in the charged atmosphere that crackled between them.

Before she could catch her breath, Kaiser had her pinned against the door, his hard, muscular body caging her in, his lips claiming hers in a searing, urgent kiss. A startled gasp escaped her, only to be swallowed by Kaiser's hungry mouth as it moved demandingly against her own.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him, anchoring herself against the onslaught of sensation. Her lips, as if possessed of a will of their own, softened and yielded to his, falling into a rhythm that matched his own. She met him kiss for kiss, desire for desire, her body melting bonelessly against the hard planes of his own.

Kaiser's calloused hands, rough and textured from years of gripping balls and battling opponents, skimmed over the soft, sensitive skin of her waist. They fit her curves as if she had been sculpted to his touch, his hands a perfect mold for her body. His fingers tightened, squeezing the soft flesh, marking her as his own.

"Kaiser..." His name left her lips in a breathless whisper, a sound of surrender and need. The way it echoed in the grand foyer, a testament to her submission, sent a shiver down Kaiser's spine. This woman, this exquisite creature, was undone by his touch, his kiss, his very presence. And he reveled in the power of it, the heady rush of knowing he could bring such a strong woman to her knees with a mere touch.

He plunged his tongue past the seam of her lips, delving deep, conquering, claiming, possessing. She tasted of honey and sin, and he couldn't get enough. He wanted to drown in her, to lose himself in the sweet oblivion of her mouth, of her body.

The need that surged through him at the sound of her breathless whisper, the way it made his skin prickle and his blood burn, was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. She was doing this to him, unraveling him, just as he was unraveling her.

Kaiser felt the weight of her whispered plea, the way it settled heavily in his chest, igniting a primal urge within him. The sound of his name on her lips, the desperation in her tone, stirred something dark and possessive deep inside him. In that moment, his sole desire was to see her bow down before him, to make her submit completely to his will. He wanted her to remember only one name, only one identity: Michael Kaiser. He wanted to be her god, her master, her everything.

A smirk tugged at his lips, felt rather than seen, as a low, sensual chuckle slipped between their joined mouths. "Let's take it further," he murmured, his voice a rumble of promise and dark intent. "Yeah?" It was a command more than a question, a decree that brooked no argument.

His hands slid from her waist to the backs of her thighs, squeezing the firm, toned flesh. In a fluid, effortless motion, he lifted her, silently demanding her cooperation, her obedience. And to his satisfaction, she complied without hesitation, without a moment's doubt.

Her legs wrapped around his waist. Kaiser groaned into the kiss, the feeling of her body pressed so intimately against his own stoking the flames of his desire to new heights. He could feel her heartbeat pulsing against his chest, could feel the heat of her core pressing insistently against his abdomen.

Blindly, his eyes still locked with hers, Kaiser carried her through the darkened halls of his estate. He didn't need to see where he was going, trusting his memory, his instincts, to guide them to their destination. The bedroom loomed before them, a spacious and opulent affair, the grand four-poster bed dominating the center of the room.

He carried her to the edge of the bed, his lips never breaking the heated kiss, his tongue still plundering the sweet recesses of her mouth. Only when the backs of her knees hit the mattress did he reluctantly withdraw, his breath harsh and ragged as he gazed down at her with a look of pure, unadulterated hunger.

"You're mine," he growled, his voice a low, possessive rumble.

Kaiser loomed over Y/n, his powerful frame pinning her delicate one to the luxurious bed. His hands roamed her curves with a boldness born of desire and possession, mapping out the terrain of her body as if he were a conqueror claiming new land. She was utterly at his mercy, trapped beneath him, a willing captive to his touch.

Soft, breathy moans spilled from her lips, a symphony of pleasure that sang to his ego, stroking his pride. Each touch, each caress, sent her spiraling further into a world of sensation, craving more, needing more. He could feel it, the way her body responded to his, the way it yearned for his touch like a flower turning towards the sun. She was his, utterly and completely, and he reveled in the knowledge.

A growl of pure male satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he hooked his fingers under the hem of her shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he began to lift it, revealing inch after tantalizing inch of the smooth, silky skin beneath. She didn't protest, didn't try to stop him. No, she wanted this as much as he did, her body singing with the same desperate need that consumed him.

He didn't bother asking permission, knowing it was unnecessary. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she arched into his touch. She was his, and he would take what was his.

With a swift, decisive motion, he whipped her shirt over her head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His breath caught in his throat as he drank in the sight of her, his gaze raking over her half-naked form with a hunger that bordered on reverent.

There she lay, a vision of feminine perfection, her ample breasts encased in the delicate lace of her bra. A bra that, like everything else about her, seemed to have been made just for him. He could not look away, could not tear his gaze from the exquisite beauty before him.

She was a woman he had grown accustomed to, a woman who understood him like no other. A woman who had become his everything, his reason, his obsession. She was his dog, his plaything, his treasure. And he would enjoy every single moment of possessing her, of owning her, of claiming her as his own

Kaiser's hands found their destined home as he deftly unfastened the hook of Y/n's bra, the last flimsy barrier between them falling away. With a sense of purpose, he peeled the delicate lace away, revealing the glorious expanse of her breasts to his hungry gaze.

He stood there, admiring her, drinking in the breathtaking sight of her upper body laid bare before him. Her breasts were perfect, full and ripe, begging to be touched, to be worshipped. And touch them he did, his large hands finding their way to cup the soft, pliant flesh, his fingers sinking into the giving softness.

"Y/n..." he murmured, his voice rough with desire and awe, "you're fucking beautiful." His eyes raked over her body, taking in every dip and curve, committing every inch to memory. She was a work of art, a goddess, a vision of pure feminine perfection.

Unable to resist, he brushed his thumb over the peak of her nipple, watching as it puckered and tightened at his touch. A breathy, needful grunt spilled from Y/n's lips, a sound that went straight to his groin, stoking the flames of his desire.

Kaiser grinned, a fierce, possessive grin of pure male satisfaction. He had power over her, absolute control, and he reveled in it. He could make her feel, make her react, make her crave. And he loved every single second of it.

His lips crashed against hers once more, his kiss aggressive, demanding, conquering. His tongue delved into her mouth, sliding against hers, stroking, tasting, claiming. He drank down her moans, her whimpers, her cries of pleasure, each one fueling the inferno that raged within him.

As he plundered her mouth, his thumb continued its assault on her sensitive nipple, rolling and pinching, tugging and teasing. Her body bowed off the bed, arching into his touch, silently begging for more. And more he would give her, more he would take from her. He would have her begging, pleading, screaming his name until it was the only word she knew, the only prayer on her lips.

Kaiser's hand blazed a trail of fire down Y/n's torso, his calloused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. The heat of his touch contrasted deliciously with the cool air of the room, sending shivers of pleasure racing down her spine. She arched into his caress, a breathy moan escaping her lips at the exquisite sensation.

His hand found the waistband of her pants, and with a decisive tug, he gripped the fabric, his intent clear. But before he could act on it, his mouth tore away from hers, leaving her lips feeling suddenly bereft and cold. A needful whimper escaped her at the loss, her body aching for his touch, his warmth.

But that whimper quickly turned into a loud, wanton moan as Kaiser's lips found the sensitive skin of her neck. He nipped and sucked at the delicate flesh, leaving a trail of marks, of bruises, of brands. He was claiming her, marking her, making her his in the most primal way possible.

His mouth trailed lower, over the swell of her collarbone, down the valley between her breasts. And then, without warning or hesitation, he took her nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he began to suck.

A sharp cry tore from Y/n's throat, her back bowing off the bed as pleasure exploded through her. Instinctively, she clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle the shameless sounds of her desire. But that action only served to anger Kaiser, to spark a fierce surge of irritation within him.

His mouth released her nipple with a lewd pop, the sound echoing obscenely in the charged air of the room. His eyes flashed with a dangerous light as he glared down at her, his tone shifting from seductive to harsh in an instant.

"Who told you to cover your fucking mouth, huh?" he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "You think you're being loud? I'll make you even fucking louder." His smirk returned, wider and more wicked than before, a promise of pleasure bordering on pain. He meant every word, and she would feel the weight of his intent in every kiss, every touch, every breathless cry that tore from her throat.

Kaiser's hand shifted, his fingers finding the button of Y/n's pants with unerring accuracy. With a deft flick of his wrist, he unbuttoned the fabric, the sound of the release echoing in the charged air. Without hesitation, without giving her a moment to catch her breath, he tore the pants down her legs, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

And there she lay, a debauched vision in the dim light of the room, clad in only her soaked panties. The damp stain was unmistakable, a testament to her arousal, her desire, her desperate need. Kaiser felt a fierce surge of pride, of possessiveness, knowing that he was the sole reason for her current state. He had done this to her, had brought her to this point of desperation, and he would revel in every moment of it.

His eyes raked over her body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, lingering on the damp patch that darkened her panties. They were wild, crazed with a lust that bordered on madness. In the dimness of the room, Y/n could see the aura of desire swirling in their depths, could feel the weight of his gaze boring into her very soul.

"Already wet, huh?" he growled, his voice a low, rough rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "And you weren't even fully naked." His finger hooked into the band of her panties, the flimsy fabric stretching taut against her skin.

Slowly, torturously, he began to pull them down, the action agonizing in its deliberate slowness. He was teasing her, keeping her waiting, denying her the pleasure she so desperately craved. His eyes never left hers, watching as her body squirmed beneath his touch, watching as she fought the urge to beg, to plead, to demand.

The sheets crumpled beneath Y/n's gripping fingers, the fabric twisting and bunching as she clung to them in desperation. Her hips lifted off the bed, seeking more of his touch, craving the relief only he could give her.

"Kaiser..." she whined, her voice high and breathless, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. "Don't tease me like that. Just...fuck, hurry up." It was a plea, a desperate, wanton plea for him to take her.

Kaiser's lips curled into a wicked smirk at Y/n's desperate plea, a sound of pure, unadulterated need. He chuckled, a low, dark sound that rumbled through his chest, as he continued his tortuous descent, his fingers toying with the delicate fabric of her panties.

"Teasing?" he murmured, his breath hot against her skin, "I'm just getting you ready for what's to come." With a final, sharp tug, he peeled the soaked fabric down her thighs, the cool air kissing her overheated skin as he exposed her fully to his hungry gaze.

Y/n shivered, her body instinctively trying to close, to hide, to protect her most intimate place. But Kaiser was having none of it. His hand clamped around her knee, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he forced her legs apart, baring her glistening sex to his appreciative eyes.

"Don't you dare," he growled, his voice a low, commanding rumble. "You're not allowed to hide from me, Y/n. Not now, not ever." His gaze raked over her dripping folds, taking in the sight of her arousal, the proof of her desire. He could barely contain himself, barely restrain the primal urge to bury himself inside her heat and claim her, ruin her, make her his.

Unable to resist any longer, he traced a teasing finger over her clit, circling the sensitive nub, feeling it throb and pulse beneath his touch. Y/n squirmed beneath him, her hips lifting, seeking more, craving more. She was at his mercy, completely under his control, a puppet dancing on the strings of his desire.

A throaty grunt escaped Kaiser's lips as he felt her wetness coat his finger, her body welcoming him, inviting him inside. Without warning, he plunged his finger deep into her tight, clutching heat, a loud, wanton moan tearing from Y/n's throat as she arched beneath him.

"Fuck, Y/n," he groaned, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of not taking her right then and there. "You're so fucking tight. So fucking perfect." He pumped his finger in and out of her, feeling her walls flutter and clench around the invading digit, her body instinctively trying to draw him deeper, to keep him inside her.

Kaiser's fingers continued their relentless assault on Y/n's dripping core, plunging in and out of her tight, clasping heat. The obscene sound of his digits pumping through her slick arousal filled the room, a lewd symphony of their coupling. He could feel her velvety walls gripping him, fluttering, clenching, as if trying to keep him inside her.

"So fucking tight," he breathed out, his voice rough with desire and appreciation. Unable to resist the urge to feel more of her, he forced a second finger into her tight channel, stretching her, filling her, claiming her. His long, skilled fingers reached that sweet spot deep inside her, the one that made her see stars, that made her cry out in ecstasy.

Y/n's moans filled the air, a beautiful, erotic melody that sang to Kaiser's soul. Each pleasured sound she made, each whimper and mewl, only spurred him on, making him want to wring more from her, to make her scream his name until it was the only word she knew.

"Fuck-Kaiser you're still clothed —" Y/n managed to gasp out between the waves of pleasure crashing over her. Her voice was high, breathless, a sound of frustration and longing.

Kaiser paused, his fingers still buried deep inside her, as his gaze flicked over his own body. She was right, of course. While she lay bare and exposed beneath him, he was still clothed, still covered in the layers of fabric that separated his skin from hers.

A small, mocking laugh left his lips as he met her gaze, his eyes glinting with amusement and dark promise. "You want to see me naked too, hmm?" he murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Consider it a reward for being so good."

Kaiser's hands gripped the hem of his undershirt and jersey, the fabric stretching taut against his broad shoulders. With a swift, decisive movement, he peeled them both off in one go, tossing them carelessly to the floor. His chest was a work of art, each muscle sculpted and defined, the hard planes and ridges a testament to years of discipline and training. In the dim light of the room, Y/n could see every contour, every line, the way his skin seemed to glow as if illuminated by an otherworldly source.

Next, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and socks, shimmying them down his powerful legs with an ease that spoke of long practice. His cleats were already discarded, left forgotten by the door, and now the rest of his lower half was bared to Y/n's hungry gaze.

Y/n's eyes raked over his body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, every toned muscle that rippled beneath the surface. He looked ethereal, a god made flesh, a king sitting upon his throne. She could hardly believe that such a perfect specimen of manhood existed outside of myth and legend.

Her gaze traveled down, over the defined lines of his abdomen, the V-lines that disappeared teasingly into the waistband of his boxers. The only fabric left, the last barrier between her and his complete nudity. She could see the bulge of his arousal straining against the confines of his underwear, could feel the heat of his desire radiating off him in waves.

Y/n’s eyes widened, her mouth hanging at the sight of him, at the promise of what was to come. She ached to touch him, to run her hands over his skin, to feel the power coiled in his muscles. She wanted to worship him, to make him feel as good as he made her feel.

But more than that, she needed him. Needed to feel his skin against hers, needed to be filled, claimed, owned by him completely. She was already naked, already bared to him in every way possible. It wasn't fair that he still had one last scrap of clothing separating them.

Kaiser chuckled, a low, rich sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against Y/n's skin. He reveled in the effect he had on her, the way her eyes widened and darkened with desire as they roamed over his naked form. It was a heady feeling, knowing that he could reduce her to this state, could make her crave him with such desperate intensity.

"C'mon, don't tell me you're nervous now?" he teased, his body crawling over hers, his hands coming to rest on her thighs. He held himself up, his muscular arms flexing with the effort, as he gazed down at her with a wicked, mocking grin.

His palms began to rub up and down her thighs, the rough skin of his hands a delicious contrast to the smoothness of her own. Y/n bit back a whimper as he intentional brushed over her sensitive clit, the fleeting touch sending sparks of pleasure shooting up her spine.

"Nervous? You're funny," she scoffed, trying to maintain some semblance of control even as her body betrayed her true feelings. Kaiser raised an eyebrow at her bravado, a smirk playing about his lips.

"In a situation like this, it's not very smart to talk back," he murmured, his voice a low, warning rumble. But Y/n could see the glint of amusement in his eyes, could tell that he enjoyed the back-and-forth, the challenge.

She glared up at him, her chin set at a defiant angle even as her heart raced in her chest. As much as she tried to deny it, Y/n couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at being at the mercy of this powerful, dominant man. The power dynamic between them thrilled her in a way she had never experienced before.

"Let's continue, yeah?" Kaiser murmured, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing promise of a kiss. Y/n's breath hitched in her throat, her body arching up towards him, seeking more of his touch, more of his heat.

She knew she should be nervous, should be intimidated by the raw power and hunger she saw in his eyes. But instead, she felt a corresponding surge of desire, a need to meet his passion with her own. She wanted to see how far they could push each other, wanted to explore the depths of pleasure and ecstasy.

Y/n let out a small grunt, her body trembling with anticipation and need as Kaiser's hands continued their sensual exploration of her curves. The kiss deepened, adding fuel to the fire that raged within her, stoking the flames of her desire until she felt they might consume her entirely.

She could feel the knot forming in her lower belly, the ache of emptiness that could only be filled by one thing. By him. By Kaiser. She needed him inside her, needed to feel his hard length stretching her, claiming her, completing her.

"Kaiser..." she breathed out, the name falling from her lips like a prayer, a plea. She was drowning in sensation, in the heat and hardness of his body pressing against her own, and she needed an anchor, needed something to tether her to reality.

Kaiser broke the kiss, his eyes dark and hungry as he leaned back. His hands fiddled with the waistband of his boxers, and Y/n eagerly sat up, wanting to see, needing to witness the final reveal. She had to know, had to see all of him, had to drink in the sight of Kaiser in all his naked glory.

"Eager are we?" he lowly chuckled, a smirk playing about his lips as he slowly, teasingly, began to tug down his underwear. Inch by torturous inch, he revealed the base of his cock, and Y/n's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs.

She gulped as more of his impressive length was revealed, the thick veins and ridges clearly visible, the hard flesh throbbing with his arousal. He was so big, so much bigger than she had imagined, and the sight of him made her mouth water and her core clench with need.

Kaiser kicked his boxers away, tossing them carelessly to the floor. And then he was climbing over her, his naked body covering her own, his hard length pressing against her lower belly. She could feel the heat of him, the weight and power of him, and it made her feel small and feminine and desperately, achingly empty.

"You want this just as bad as I do, right?" Kaiser asked, his voice a low, rough murmur. His hand rested on the dip of her hip, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh possessively.

"Yes... I want it just as bad," Y/n confirmed, her voice breathless and high with need.

Y/n let out a guttural moan as Kaiser's thick, hard length speared into her, filling her in one powerful thrust. Her back arched off the bed, her nails digging into his shoulders as she was stretched and filled and claimed completely. The suddenness of it stole her breath, left her gasping and panting, her lungs burning for air.

"Oh god, Kaiser!" she cried out, her voice a mix of surprise, pleasure and need. She could feel every ridge, every vein, every throbbing inch of him pulsing inside her, stretching her walls to their limit. It was almost too much, almost painfully intense, but she never wanted it to end.

Kaiser groaned, a deep, low sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against Y/n's skin. He threw his head back, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss on his face as he savored the feel of Y/n's tight, wet heat enveloping his aching cock. Her walls gripped him like a vice, fluttering and clenching around his shaft, as if trying to draw him even deeper.

He gripped her hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. It grounded him, anchored him, kept him from losing himself completely in the overwhelming pleasure of finally being inside her.

"Ready, Y/n?" Kaiser asked, his voice a low, rough rasp. He tilted his head down to meet her gaze, a wicked smirk playing about his lips as he took in the sight of her flushed cheeks, the sweat drops dotting her forehead, the red hue spreading across her skin.

Y/n could only nod, too lost in sensation to form words. But Kaiser wanted more, wanted to hear her say it, to give voice to her desire.

"I told you I needed words, didn't I?" he huffed, his tone a mix of teasing and demand. His lips moved to the side of Y/n's neck, his warm breath ghosting over her skin, making her shiver and tremble beneath him.

"Yes Kaiser," Y/n breathed out, her voice a needful whimper. "Yes, I'm ready. Please, please..." She didn't even know what she was begging for, only that she needed more. More of him, more of this, more of everything.

Kaiser grinned down at Y/n, his eyes glinting with a mix of triumph and dark promise. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he murmured, his voice a low, teasing rasp. "I'll have you bowing down to me soon enough, like the needy little peasant you are, Y/n."

He rocked his hips back, his hard length sliding out of her dripping sex until only the tip remained nestled inside. Y/n whimpered at the sudden emptiness, her walls clenching around the head of his cock, trying to keep him inside. But Kaiser was having none of that. With a sharp grin, he slammed back into her, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Y/n cried out loud moans, the sound tearing from her throat as pleasure bordered on pain. Tears sprang to her eyes, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming her. Kaiser groaned, a low, guttural sound that spoke of his own pleasure and need. Her walls were so tight, gripping him like a velvet vise, the wet heat of her sex coating his shaft, making the glide easier even as it clenched and fluttered around him.

He set a brutal pace, pounding into her with deep, powerful strokes. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, with Y/n's needful cries and Kaiser's harsh grunts and groans. He was taking her hard, claiming her, marking her, staking his ownership of her body and soul.

"Fuck, Y/n," Kaiser growled, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, no doubt leaving bruises in their wake. "You feel fucking incredible. So fucking tight and wet and perfect."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, dark murmur. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. No one else will ever make you feel this good, will ever fuck you like I can. You're mine now, Y/n. My perfect little toy to use as I please."

Kaiser punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his hips against hers, his pelvis pressing against her sensitive clit. Y/n keened, a high, breathless sound of pure pleasure, her body arching up to meet his.

Kaiser growled in feral satisfaction as Y/n wrapped her legs around him, giving him an even deeper, clearer angle to plunge into her. His hips snapped forward with renewed vigor, each powerful thrust striking that perfect spot deep inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids.

"Fuck, Y/n!" Kaiser groaned, his voice a low, guttural rumble. "Scream for me, let me hear how good it feels. Fucking scream my name!"

His movements grew more intense, more demanding, the force of his thrusts shaking the bed beneath them. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their escalating moans and cries. Kaiser was relentless, pounding into Y/n with a single-minded focus on her pleasure and his own.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," Kaiser grunted, his fingers digging into the flesh of her hips, no doubt leaving vivid bruises in their wake. "Your cunt is gripping my cock like it never wants to let me go. Fuck, I can feel you throbbing around me, begging for more."

He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, his teeth sinking into the tender skin. "That's it, take it all like a good little slut. Take every fucking inch of my cock. This is what you were made for, Y/n. To be a warm, wet hole for me to use as I please."

Kaiser punctuated his filthy words with a sharp, brutal thrust, grinding his pelvis against Y/n's clit, the rough friction sending bolts of electricity zinging up her spine. Y/n could only scream, could only let the pleasure consume her as Kaiser fucked her with wild abandon, chasing their mutual release with single-minded intensity.

Y/n's nails raked down Kaiser's back, leaving red lines of pleasure-pain in their wake. She couldn't help but claw at him, needed an anchor, something to ground her as the intense sensations threatened to sweep her away. It felt too good, too overwhelming, too much like drowning in a sea of ecstasy.

Tears streamed down her face, pouring from her eyes as her body trembled and quaked beneath Kaiser's relentless assault. She could feel the coil of tension in her belly winding tighter and tighter, the knot of pleasure growing bigger, more insistent with each passing second.

"Kaiser... I'm close," Y/n managed to whimper out between ragged breaths and broken moans. Her voice was high, thready, a needful keen that spoke of her impending release.

Kaiser could only nod, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes dark and wild as he gazed down at Y/n. He was close too, teetering on the edge of his own climax, the pleasure gripping him like a vice. But he pushed through it, determined to bring Y/n to the heights of bliss before seeking his own.

"Almost there," Kaiser grunted, his thrusts growing sloppy, his rhythm faltering as he chased their shared release. He was enjoying this, reveling in the way Y/n's body squeezed and fluttered around him, the way her cries of pleasure filled the air.

A few more deep, powerful thrusts, and then Y/n was coming undone. Her head tipped back, her eyes rolling up in sheer bliss, her body convulsing beneath Kaiser as her orgasm crashed over her. Her fluids gushed out around his pistoning cock, coating him, dripping down onto the sheets.

Kaiser couldn't hold back any longer. With a hoarse cry of Y/n's name, he pulled out just as his own climax hit him like a freight train. His seed erupted from his cock, painting Y/n's lower abdomen with thick, hot ropes of his release. He shuddered and groaned, his body jerking with the force of his intense orgasm.

Heavy breaths lingered in the still air, the only sound that filled the space between them. Both of them were still catching their breath, their bodies spent from the intensity of what had just transpired. The silence was almost deafening, yet neither of them seemed to want to break it.

Kaiser finally collapsed onto the side of the bed, his body sinking into the soft sheets with a low exhale. "Fuck..." he muttered, his voice strained, and his eyes staring up at the ceiling as he tried to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

Y/n remained still, her own chest rising and falling with each shaky breath, her thoughts swirling as she tried to make sense of the whirlwind that had just unfolded. It had happened so quickly, so intensely, that she felt as though she couldn’t fully grasp the reality of it. She hadn’t expected to feel this... overwhelmed.

Her gaze drifted to him. Kaiser’s bare chest heaved up and down, glistening slightly in the dim light of the room, his usual arrogance softened for the moment. There was something about the vulnerability in his expression now, the way his sharp features seemed more relaxed, that struck her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. She hadn’t expected to see this side of him, especially not after everything they had shared.

Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes locking with his. His blue gaze met hers, intense and burning with a quiet intensity that made her heart flutter unexpectedly. There was a flicker of something deeper in those eyes—something she hadn’t seen before. He smirked then, though it wasn’t his usual cocky grin. It was different, softer. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Y/n,” he teased, his voice low and husky.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she couldn’t look away from him. The way the light caught his face, the way his features softened in the aftermath of their connection—it made her breath catch in her throat. Kaiser, with all his arrogance and power, looked... beautiful in that moment. Vulnerable, almost raw. She hadn’t expected to see him this way, and yet it pulled something in her that she couldn’t deny.

There was something about the way he lay there, his body still warm and flushed, his chest rising and falling in time with hers. The silence between them was heavy, charged, and it made her feel like she was caught between two worlds—one where she was just the journalist trying to uncover the truth, and the other where the truth had just shifted in ways she didn’t fully understand.

Kaiser, too, felt it. His heart thudded in his chest, though it wasn’t out of anger or frustration this time. No, this felt... different. Her presence, her eyes on him, it was like nothing he’d ever experienced. A quiet ache settled in his chest, but it wasn’t a painful one. It was almost as if his heart was beating in rhythm with hers, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something so... real.

Kaiser couldn’t afford to lose focus now. His goal was clear, his mind set. He was going to make Y/n break before him, piece by piece. Like shards of glass, he would walk over her, feeling the satisfying crunch of her resolve shattering under his weight. She had become a challenge, a puzzle he had every intention of solving in his own twisted way.

He needed to see her bow to him, to crumble under the weight of his control. She had become nothing more than a pawn in his game—an object he could manipulate at will, a doll to be twisted and molded. But all dolls, no matter how beautiful, eventually lost their shine. They aged, wore down, and lost the spark that made them desirable. And like any owner of such a toy, he would discard her when she no longer served a purpose. He would use her—hold her close, make her his submissive, obedient lover. He would keep her under his thumb until there was nothing left of her but a hollow shell of the woman she once was.

That was his goal. And it was all that mattered right now. But as he watched her, there was something nagging at him—a strange pull he couldn’t ignore. Something flickered in the depths of his chest, unsettling him for a brief moment. But he pushed it down quickly. No distractions.

What about Y/n? What was *her* goal? 

Y/n’s goal was far different. She hadn’t forgotten what had brought her here—what had driven her to this point. The truth. The elusive truth that seemed buried beneath his walls. She would get it. No matter what it took, she would uncover the man behind the mask. Even if it meant breaking him. Even if it meant pushing him to the very edge of himself. 

She couldn’t let herself falter. She had promised herself she would get the truth, no matter the cost. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it was worth it. 

However, deep down, she understood that it might be more complicated than she had first imagined. Kaiser was unpredictable, dangerous, and far more manipulative than she had given him credit for. But she had to try. She had to push forward. Even if she was playing with fire, even if it burned her in the process. It was the only way she would ever get to the heart of who Kaiser really was.

And as their paths collided, both of them were on the edge of something neither was fully prepared for.

Who knows, she might just get lucky.

She had already gathered enough intel—enough pieces of Kaiser's carefully constructed persona to build a story. More than enough to expose him, to rip the mask off and unveil the ruthless, complicated man he really was. A paper revealing his true nature would make waves—she was certain of that. Every word, every detail she had gathered felt like a potential key to unlock the final truths he was so desperate to hide. 

But that night, that moment of intimacy, what did it really mean? Did the sex they shared mean nothing in the grand scheme of things? Were they just swept away in the heat of the moment? Maybe it was just an impulse for both of them. Or maybe, it was something more—but right now, neither of them cared enough to dwell on it.

It wasn’t on the top of their priorities. Not now. 

For Kaiser, the goal was simple: to mold her into another loyal, subservient piece in his world. A filthy dog, obedient and at his beck and call. He wanted to control her, twist her into something he could possess—just like he had done with so many before her. He was used to having people bow to him, obey him, and now, Y/n was no different. The power struggle had only just begun.

But for Y/n, her focus was fixed elsewhere. She wasn’t concerned with the intricacies of his twisted games or his domineering desires. She cared only about one thing—getting the truth. The real man beneath the arrogance, the lies, the carefully constructed walls. The truth that had always been just out of reach. She wasn’t afraid to push him, to break through those defenses. She would squeeze the truth out of him, no matter how much she had to endure. That was the prize she sought, the only thing that mattered in this dangerous dance they were caught in.

Both of them had their objectives. And neither of them would stop until they achieved them.

༻♔༺

The grip around his phone tightened as a searing sense of disbelief coursed through him. How? How had this happened? How had she—*she*—managed to slip from his grasp, just when he thought he had her fully under control? 

That night... it should have been the turning point, the moment he solidified his hold over her. Didn't she already prove her loyalty to him? Didn’t she beg for more, didn’t she give in to him in a way that made her his, body and soul? Hadn't he already made her submit, wrapping her around his finger like it was nothing?

So what had changed? What had shifted in that brief moment, in the aftermath of all that power he had over her? 

Kaiser’s heart dropped in his chest. His eyes burned as they scanned the article before him. Reading those words felt like a punch to the gut, a reminder of everything he had fought so hard to bury. The words weren’t just an attack—they were a mirror, showing him the parts of himself he’d rather stay hidden. The article, no doubt penned by her, exposed everything: his drive for perfection, the way he had always lived in the shadow of his father’s expectations, the years of feeling like second-best in his own home. 

His teeth clenched so tightly it hurt. He wasn’t just angry—he was furious. But it wasn’t only anger that churned in his stomach. There was a gnawing anxiety, a sickening feeling that perhaps he hadn’t been as in control as he thought. The walls he had so carefully constructed were beginning to crumble, and there was no one to blame but himself.

He glanced back down at his phone, his eyes scanning the title again, as though hoping he had misread it. But no. The words were still there, mocking him. *"THE TRUTH ABOUT THE FAMOUS MICHAEL KAISER HAS BEEN REVEALED!?"*

The question mark seemed to echo in his mind. How could she have done this? How had she pulled it off? 

His world, carefully crafted and meticulously managed, was unraveling. And Y/n was the one holding the thread.

How had she gotten her hands on this? The question drilled into Kaiser’s mind as he racked his brain, trying to piece together the only possible answers. The only time he had opened up, the only time he had let his guard down—was that night on the football pitch. 

That night, when everything had slipped from his grasp.

He had confided in her, exposed pieces of himself that he kept hidden from the world. His anger, his frustration, the deep-rooted pain that had been festering for years—he had told her everything. 

And now, this? This betrayal? It was too much. His body tensed, muscles straining with fury as his veins popped, bulging out of his forearms and neck, as his grip tightened around his phone.

"Ill fucking kill her," he muttered under his breath, the words dripping with venom.

Ness, who had been nearby, instinctively stepped closer, sensing the shift in Kaiser’s mood. His voice came out in a shaky whisper, filled with concern. "Kaiser? There’s no need... just try to relax. We’ll figure out another solution—"

"Relax?" A dark chuckle rumbled from Kaiser’s throat, a sound that sent a chill down Ness's spine. Kaiser’s head tilted to meet his gaze, the look in his eyes sharp and cold. "Are you out of your mind, Ness?" His voice was thick with menace.

Ness swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew better than most what happened when Kaiser was pushed too far—he’d seen the chaos, the destruction. Kaiser was a force, and when his anger was unleashed, there was no telling where it would go.

Kaiser scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. Without sparing Ness another glance, he tore his gaze away and stared down at the phone once more, fury burning in his chest. "I’m going to find her," he muttered, his tone deadly quiet.

Ness’s eyes widened, panic rising in his throat. "Kaiser, I don’t think that’s a good idea..." His voice faltered, and he took a half-step back, fear flooding his veins.

"Who are you to tell me, Ness?" Kaiser snapped, his voice rising with barely contained rage. The words shot out of his throat, thick with anger as he glared at the other man. 

Ness stood still, his jaw clenched. He knew better than to argue with Kaiser when he was in this state—knew that continuing to push would only escalate the situation. So, he remained silent, his eyes dropping to the floor as he chose not to provoke the storm any further.

Kaiser’s footsteps were the only sound filling the room as he turned and stormed off. The sound of the door slamming behind him made Ness flinch, the sharp noise echoing through the still air.

Kaiser was gone. 

And Ness knew, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t be coming back until he got the answers he was looking for.

_______

It took less than thirty minutes for him to find her. 

For once, he didn’t have to track her down, didn’t need to follow her every move. She just happened to appear right there, walking down the same pavement he was on. It almost felt like fate had thrown him a bone. 

His eyes burned with fury as he locked onto her figure ahead. Every step he took toward her was driven by rage, and as soon as he spotted her, he didn’t hesitate. No pause. No second thoughts. He moved toward her with a single-minded purpose.

“You.” Kaiser’s voice sliced through the tense air, thick with irritation, as his glare locked onto her. 

Y/n could feel it—the suffocating heat of his anger, seeping through the space between them like a storm ready to burst. His eyes were hard, his body tense, every fiber of him radiating fury. Yet, she stood her ground, her posture unyielding. This confrontation had been inevitable. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, his teeth gritting with each word, voice tight with barely contained rage.

“My problem?” Y/n’s lips twitched into an almost dismissive smile. “I’m just doing my job,” she said coolly, as if it wasn’t painfully obvious. 

“Your stupid job? You exposed me for what, a paycheck? To get some cheap satisfaction?” Kaiser’s words were now laced with venom, his anger flaring hotter with each second.

Y/n’s expression didn’t flicker. She was already too familiar with his temper, too accustomed to his threats. “Look, Kaiser,” she replied, her voice low but unwavering, “I know all about your little games. I know what kind of man you really are. Hell, I know who you are beneath that shiny mask you wear.”

A flash of something dark flickered in Kaiser’s eyes. His jaw clenched, and he took a step forward, his presence looming. “You don’t know shit about me, Y/n,” he growled, his voice thick with barely-contained rage.

Y/n tilted her head, studying him with an almost clinical detachment. “You’re right. I don’t. And that’s exactly why I only took what you revealed to me.” She met his gaze head-on, the weight of her words hanging in the air like a challenge. “Everything in that article? It came from you.” 

Kaiser’s fist clenched at his side, his breath coming in sharp bursts, but she didn’t flinch. She wasn’t afraid of him—at least, not in the way he thought.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white as the surge of anger built within him. "That was only a moment of weakness you found me in," Kaiser muttered, his tone sharp.

"A moment of weakness that revealed things about you," Y/n replied, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. 

Her words hit him harder than he cared to admit. She was right, and he hated it. In his moment of vulnerability, he had let down his guard, exposing himself in ways he never should have. How could he have been so stupid, so careless? He cursed himself inwardly. He had been weak, and now she had a foothold. She knew something about him—something raw, something real. And it unsettled him in a way nothing else had before. 

But what bothered him even more was how she acted like she had him all figured out. Her calm demeanor, the way she looked at him, like she saw right through him—it drove him mad. She wasn’t close to understanding him, not even remotely. She didn’t know the real him, not the one hidden under the mask. 

A small, bitter laugh escaped his lips. It was laced with annoyance, and it made Y/n raise an eyebrow, her gaze scrutinizing him.

"You use my vulnerability for some story, huh?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "Just how pathetic are you?"

There was a flash of something deeper in his chest—a feeling of betrayal, but he couldn’t fully grasp it. It wasn’t just about the article, not really. No, there was more to it. It was the way she had used him, or so he thought. She had caught him at a weak moment and now she was going to expose it, turning his own pain into her narrative. 

Kaiser had always been in control, and now, in this moment, he felt the balance shift. He thought he had her right where he wanted her—on the verge of submission, ready to fall into his trap. But instead, she had found something he didn’t want her to see, something he wasn’t prepared to face.

For the first time, it felt like he was the one on the edge of losing control.

Kaiser stood there, his mind a storm of confusion and anger. His voice, though low, was laced with a tinge of vulnerability as he asked, "Did that night mean something to you?"

Y/n’s eyes widened at the unexpected question. She hadn’t anticipated him bringing this up—now of all times, in the middle of this confrontation. She could feel the tension thickening around them, and yet, she couldn’t avoid the truth. Her heart hammered in her chest as she struggled to find the words.

Did it mean something to her? As much as she hated to admit it... yes, it did. The more she replayed the night in her mind, the clearer it became. It wasn’t just the rivalry, nor was it the way he always seemed to have her figured out. It was everything. 

She wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it had grown out of the rivalry that once burned between them, or perhaps it was the way he would always read her so easily, effortlessly. But what mattered now was that she had become attached to him, in a way she hadn’t expected.

That night—when they were in the same bed, the space between them so much more intimate than she had ever imagined—she realized just how much she had been paying attention to him. His every movement, every shift, every detail. She noticed things about him, things she hadn’t before. Small things, subtle things that made her chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache.

And then there was his tattoo. 

The tattoo that stood out against his skin like a piece of art carved into his very identity. A blue rose, delicate yet fierce, wrapped in thorns that traced down his arm, curving around to the back of his hand where a crown rested. The crown, like a symbol of his reign over everything around him, contrasted sharply with the softness of the rose. 

The sight of it, the way it seemed to represent both his vulnerability and his strength, lingered in her mind. That tattoo—so personal, so telling—was a glimpse into the layers of Kaiser she hadn’t even begun to fully understand. Yet it was there, in plain sight, a quiet reminder of the complexities he hid beneath his cold exterior. 

She looked at him now, knowing she couldn’t lie to herself anymore. Yes, that night meant something—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Y/n took a deep breath, her eyes locked on his, her words carefully chosen as they left her lips. "Yes, it did," she answered earnestly, her voice steady yet carrying a weight of sincerity. Her gaze never faltered from his, willing him to see the truth in her eyes.

Kaiser's heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. It did? He couldn’t fathom it. If she truly felt that way, then why—why—had she exposed him like that? Why had she published that article, revealing everything he’d worked so hard to keep hidden? The confusion in his chest twisted into something darker. 

He was about to speak, to demand answers, but Y/n continued, her voice cutting through the tension that had built up between them.

"But it’s not in the way you think, Kaiser." 

Her words pierced the air, leaving him on edge. Kaiser stiffened, his body language tense, every fiber of his being urging him to press for more. What did she mean by that?

He couldn’t understand. All this time, he had been convinced that the only reason she was with him, or even had any interest in him, was for the story. He had thought she saw him as nothing more than a subject to uncover, a mystery to be exploited. And yet, here she was, admitting that night had meant something—but not the way he had assumed.

Y/n’s eyes narrowed slightly, but instead of answering, she turned the question back on him. "What about you, Kaiser? Did that night mean anything to you?"

He narrowed his eyes slightly, his earlier fury simmering beneath the surface, but something about her tone made him hesitate. What was she trying to say?

Kaiser didn't speak; instead, he waited, his expression a mask of impatience mixed with genuine curiosity.

Kaiser’s mind raced, the question hitting him harder than he expected. Did that night mean anything to him? He furrowed his brows, his gaze shifting as if trying to find the words that had evaded him. 

He had always prided himself on controlling his emotions, on keeping everything locked down tight. Yet, in that moment, with Y/n's eyes locked onto his, he felt something stirring inside of him—something unfamiliar, something foreign.

The dream, the one where Y/n was just another piece in his game, where she would bow to him, would surrender, was still there. But beneath that, there was something else. A fleeting warmth that he couldn’t quite grasp. Something about that night had been different. 

He felt it in the way her gaze softened when she spoke to him, in the way her touch lingered, in the way her presence seemed to affect him more than he cared to admit. 

He glanced away briefly, his mind racing, trying to piece together what it was that bothered him. The control, the power he always sought—it was still there, but it was almost overshadowed by... something else. Something he couldn’t quite define. 

And that, above all else, frustrated him. Because he didn’t like feeling unsure. He didn't like being caught off guard, especially not by someone like Y/n.

Her question hung in the air, and for a moment, he didn't speak. Instead, he watched her, trying to decipher her expression. What did she want him to say? Did she want him to admit that he felt something more than just the fantasy? 

But he couldn’t admit that—not yet, not to her.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, almost guarded. "It meant something... but not the way you think." His words mirrored hers, but there was a tension in his tone that didn’t match the certainty in hers. 

It was her turn now to see through him, to decide if she believed him—or if he was lying to himself.

Kaiser’s gaze never left her, his eyes scanning her face as if trying to find some answer in her expression. He couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes caught the dim light, how they seemed to shimmer in the shadows. He noticed the way her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, slightly tousled, as if she hadn’t been paying attention to how she looked at all. Her breath matched his, slow and steady, but there was an underlying tension, a shift between them that was too subtle to ignore.

It frustrated him to no end that he couldn’t put a name to what he felt. It wasn’t like him. He was used to knowing exactly what he wanted, used to controlling every aspect of his life. But her—Y/n—she was the only thing that made him feel off balance, like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. 

He had always dismissed her as just another person in his orbit, someone who was part of the game. But now, it was different. He could no longer ignore the small details, the things he had overlooked before—the softness of her gaze, the way she stood, the way she carried herself. 

He shook his head, trying to push those thoughts away. This wasn’t about that. Not yet, anyway. 

To answer her question, he still wasn’t sure what he felt, and maybe he didn’t want to admit it. He couldn’t afford to—he needed control, always. So, he deflected. "I don't know. Probably not," he muttered, his voice quieter now, the anger from before beginning to dissipate.

Y/n’s eyes flickered, and for a moment, he saw a glimmer of something—disappointment, maybe. But it was gone before he could fully register it. She nodded, her hands resting at her sides, and let out a soft breath. "That’s expected," she replied, her voice calm, almost detached.

That simple acknowledgment—her acceptance of the situation—stirred something inside him, a flicker of irritation that seemed to rise again. She knew how to push his buttons, how to make him feel small even when she was being neutral. 

His frustration came rushing back, the old anger bubbling up inside him. "But that still doesn’t answer why you published that story about me," he snapped, his tone sharp now, his eyes narrowing in challenge. 

Her gaze didn’t waver, and he hated that. She wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. She was too composed, too in control. But that only made him want answers more.

Kaiser’s eyes locked onto hers, his gaze intense, almost burning with frustration. She wasn’t backing down. She hadn’t given him a single shred of an answer that would satisfy him, and it infuriated him even more. She wasn’t budging, wasn’t cracking under the pressure. She just stood there, unwavering, as if his anger meant nothing.

He let out a frustrated huff, his jaw clenched. She was still sticking to the same tired excuse, and he hated it. “That’s bullshit,” he growled, his fists clenching at his sides.

Y/n sighed, her gaze shifting slightly as if she were trying to stay calm in the midst of his rising fury. She was tired of this back and forth too, but she wouldn’t give in. Not to him.

“Look, Kaiser, if you’re looking for someone to blame, it’s you,” she shot back, her voice steady, but tinged with something sharper now. “You let me in. Whether you meant to or not, you did. The truth isn’t a betrayal—it’s the one thing you’re too scared to face.”

Her words stung, and Kaiser could feel his anger flaring up again, more intense this time. “Like hell it is,” he snapped, his body moving towards her as if he couldn’t contain the boiling fury inside him anymore. His bangs fell over his eyes as he took another step forward, his proximity almost suffocating. 

She was calm, too calm, and it grated on him. He wasn’t about to let this slide, not without getting something more out of her. He was done with the charade, the bullshit. “Do you not have decency? I know there’s another reason, so stop bullshitting and just get out with it,” he demanded, his voice low and threatening.

Her expression didn’t falter, but something flickered behind her eyes—a flicker of defiance, a spark of something more. But it was fleeting.

The fire inside him flared higher, threatening to consume him whole. He wanted to break her composure, make her reveal something, anything that would give him control again. 

But Y/n didn’t let him have that. She wasn’t going to bend to his will.

“I’m not bullshitting anything, Kaiser,” she replied, her voice cold, almost emotionless. The fire she felt inside only made her more resolute. This was the truth, and he would have to accept it. She wasn’t going to let him manipulate her into something else.

Kaiser’s chest rose and fell with each breath, his frustration building, yet something in his gut twisted. He knew she wasn’t going to give him the answer he wanted, but that didn’t stop him from wanting it. The dynamic between them had shifted, and it made him uneasy. He hated that.

But Y/n? She was standing firm, and that made him even angrier.

A sharp, frustrated 'Tch' escaped from Kaiser's lips as he stared at her. He didn't want to admit it, but maybe she was right. Maybe she was just that devoted to her job. It didn’t sit well with him, though. The thought of her treating his vulnerability as nothing more than fuel for a story made him feel a knot twist tighter in his gut.

But he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge it fully—not yet. Not when his emotions were swirling in a hurricane of rage, regret, and irritation. Betrayal. That was what it felt like. The whole damn thing felt like a betrayal. 

He had let her in, he had allowed her to see his cracks. He had been in a state where his mind was raw, open, desperate for some kind of connection, and she had been there. He thought she understood—he thought, for once, that she could see him beyond the walls he’d built. But now, he hated himself for it.

His thoughts raced back to that night. He’d felt weak, vulnerable, and yet there was a strange comfort in her presence. She had been the only one there, the only one who had seen him in his lowest, most unguarded state. But now? Now, all that felt like a mistake. A massive, unforgivable mistake.

His chest tightened as frustration clawed at him, and he clenched his fists at his sides. His anger flared with every beat of his heart. Regret gnawed at him relentlessly. He hadn’t realized how much he had truly relied on her in that moment—how much trust he had placed in her, even for just a fleeting second. It was laughable now. He couldn’t even look at her without feeling the rush of bitterness in his throat.

He scowled, eyes narrowing as he processed everything. The anger in him boiled over, yet there was still something—some nagging feeling—that wouldn’t go away. It was like a foreign sensation, one that felt… different from what he was used to.

"Those fucking annoying feelings," he muttered under his breath. That’s all he could label them for now. Annoying. Uncomfortable. Unwanted.

Kaiser couldn’t admit it yet, not to himself, and certainly not to her. He wasn’t ready to confront whatever the hell this was. He just couldn’t. It was easier to shove it aside, to focus on the anger, on the betrayal, on the hurt.

But deep down, Kaiser knew that feeling wasn’t going away. And that realization, despite the rage clouding his thoughts, only made him more unsettled. 

The argument continued, a relentless back-and-forth, neither side willing to bend. Kaiser’s denial clung to him like a shield, a fragile barrier against the truth he wasn’t ready to face. His anger flared, a smoldering fire that refused to die. Y/n, on the other hand, stood firm, unwavering in her stance, her answer never changing, no matter how many times he tried to push her. 

They were locked in a battle of wills—Kaiser, consumed by his emotions, and Y/n, resolute in her position, each too proud to give the other the satisfaction of yielding. The silence that followed the last words they exchanged felt heavier than the heated argument itself. 

Both of them were left to stand in the aftermath, unsure of what came next. The walls they had built between each other felt thicker, harder to penetrate. What had started as a connection, a mutual understanding—even an unspoken bond—now seemed like a distant memory, drowned by the weight of their words and the tension between them.

Could this broken, fractured relationship survive the collision of their worlds? Was there a way for them to move past the hurt, the betrayal, and the raw emotions that had been exposed? Or had they reached a point where this was the inevitable end?

Kaiser, his mind still buzzing with questions, couldn't help but wonder if anything could ever bridge the gap between them again. Y/n, equally torn, questioned whether it was even worth it to keep fighting for something that seemed to slip further from her grasp with every passing moment.

The future felt uncertain, a blur of unanswered questions and lingering doubt. One thing was clear though—they were both changed by this. Whatever came next, their relationship, whatever form it might take, would never be the same again.

༻♕༺

A rush of exhilaration surged through Kaiser as the ball hit the back of the net, the goal sending a wave of adrenaline flooding his veins. The stadium erupted in cheers, but for him, the applause was distant—almost insignificant compared to the fire burning inside him. This match wasn’t just another game. It had become personal.

Kaiser’s movements were sharp, reckless even. His anger, his frustration, it all came spilling out in the form of brutal tackles, calculated risks, and explosive speed. He was consumed by the thought of her, the way she had exposed him, the way she had dared to challenge him. His focus had shifted from winning to something far more dangerous—domination.

Every strike of the ball was a release, a cathartic outburst. His kick had more power, more intensity than ever before, as if he was channeling all of his unresolved emotions into each play. The world around him blurred. His mind wasn’t on the game—it was on her. 

Kaiser had a new goal now, a fresh obsession that had wormed its way into his thoughts. It wasn’t just about proving himself anymore. No, now he wanted more. He wanted her to bow to him—not just in respect, but in submission. He wanted her to plead for forgiveness, to feel the weight of her betrayal in the pit of her stomach. 

With every goal, with every play, his frustration intensified. It was as if each victory on the field brought him one step closer to breaking her down, to seeing her on her knees. It was a dangerous game he was playing—both with the ball and with his own emotions. But he couldn’t stop now. Not when he was this close to making her feel what he felt. 

The match raged on, but Kaiser’s mind was already several steps ahead, imagining the scene he would create. The ball at his feet felt almost like an extension of his will—a tool to help him gain control, not just of the game, but of everything.

A small sigh of relief escaped Kaiser's lips as the final whistle blew, signaling the end of the match. Their team had claimed victory. The tension that had gripped him throughout the game seemed to loosen, though not entirely. His mind still buzzed with restless energy, the anger he’d channeled into his performance lingering beneath the surface. But now, the chaos on the field had settled. 

As he made his way off the pitch, he saw her. There she stood, waiting, her presence like a magnet pulling his focus. For a moment, he stopped, his feet frozen, eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers. Despite the boiling frustration and resentment he felt, something else tugged at him—something that gnawed at him, unexpected and unwanted. 

A strange mix of longing curled in his chest, subtle but undeniable. It was the same feeling he’d experienced before, the one he hadn’t allowed himself to fully acknowledge. The one he hadn’t been able to label. And now, standing there, it threatened to overpower him. He wanted to look away, to push it down, but he couldn’t. The ache was growing. 

Y/n met his gaze, her expression softening, a shadow of sadness clouding her features. There was something in her eyes that spoke volumes—regret, yes, but also a deep, unspoken longing. It mirrored his own. She knew she had crossed a line, and though she tried to justify it with her job, she knew it wasn’t enough. The excuse was weak, even to her. 

Kaiser swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pull, the twisting in his gut. He shifted his gaze away, unwilling to meet it any longer. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in this mess again, not now. So instead of walking toward her, he turned, the sound of his footsteps loud in his ears as he made his way to the locker room. 

But as he walked, the ache in his chest only deepened. It was a sensation he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried. The more he distanced himself from her, the more the weight of it settled in.

༻♔༺

Months had passed, and Y/n found herself once again attending one of Kaiser's matches—this time to cover his triumphant return to form. It had been so long since they'd had a real conversation. The exchanges between them had been reduced to nothing more than fleeting glances, heavy with words unsaid. There had been no resolution, no attempt at understanding. Just silence, stretching between them like an unspoken agreement to keep their distance.

As usual, she didn’t expect him to approach her after the game. She had learned not to expect anything from him. So, she improvised. She couldn't keep avoiding him, and she couldn't let it go on like this. There had to be a proper conversation, one where words were exchanged, where truths came out. She just had to talk to him, even if it meant breaking the stillness.

It happened that after the match, he was slated to sign shirts for the fans. Kaiser had initially resisted, unwilling to participate in the post-match rituals, but his managers had insisted, practically forcing him to stay and sign memorabilia. Y/n saw her chance.

She walked up to him, her heart hammering in her chest, trying to steady her breath. His expression was unreadable, his eyes distant. From the outside, he seemed calm, almost detached, as he handed her a signed jersey. But she could see it—the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched as if he were holding something back. Inside, he was struggling, as if something inside him was unraveling.

A flicker of regret flashed across Y/n’s face as she began to speak, but before she could gather her thoughts, it seemed as if Kaiser was the one breaking the silence. He spoke first, his voice quieter than she had expected, devoid of anger but filled with an unfamiliar vulnerability.

“To be honest,” he started, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before lifting to meet hers, “you were right about the whole thing… about me not being able to see the truth instead of the betrayal.” His voice softened, the harshness gone. “I thought winning was all I needed. But I realized something... you can't be king of an empty castle.”

His words hit her like a wave, a mix of sorrow and disbelief washing over her. She had spent months trying to ignore the ache of their unresolved tension, but in that moment, everything seemed to shift. Her chest tightened as his admission sunk in, and she found herself unable to look away from him.

Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, softer than she intended. “And I can’t love someone who only knows how to keep people at arm’s length.”

The words felt like a confession, a truth she hadn’t even fully admitted to herself until that moment. It wasn’t just about him anymore—it was about them, the space between them that had grown too wide, too unbridgeable.

Kaiser’s eyes widened, his breath catching as he heard her words. That was it. That was the word he had been searching for, the word that had been dancing around his thoughts for months. Love. 

The feelings that had plagued him, the ones he had been dismissing as mere annoyance, suddenly clicked into place. It all made sense now. He was falling in love, something he had spent his life pushing away yet finding, something he had told himself he didn’t need but craved. But now, standing here, with the truth staring him in the face, he realized it was everything he had wanted—and everything he had been too afraid to embrace.

But even in that realization, something else weighed heavily on him. It was too late. The feelings, the words, the truth—none of it could change what had already been lost. Y/n had already made her choice, and there was nothing he could do to take it back.

For a moment, Kaiser stood there, frozen, as the reality of his own heart hit him. It was a bitter, almost hollow feeling. He had spent years building walls around himself, pushing everyone away, thinking that the power, the success, the titles were enough. He thought they could fill the void. But now, looking at Y/n, he realized they never had. 

The king, the one who had always sworn to make others bow before him, now found himself bowing his head in defeat. It was a strange, painful irony. He had craved power, respect, adoration—but what he had never expected was that the one thing he truly wanted, the one thing that had eluded him all these years, was the one thing he had pushed away the hardest.

Kaiser felt the weight of his loss, the emptiness that followed the admission he had just made. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The trophies, the fame, the victories—it all seemed insignificant in the face of the one thing he couldn’t have. 

He had lost her. And no amount of titles, no number of wins, could ever bring her back.

Y/n, for her part, stood in stunned silence, her heart aching as she saw the pain in his eyes. There was nothing else to say. No words could fix this, not now, not after everything that had happened. They were both standing in the ruins of what could have been, and neither of them knew how to rebuild it. 

She took a step back, her own heart heavy with the realization that what they had could never be. Not like this. Not after all that had passed between them.

With one last look, she turned away. Kaiser stood there, watching her go, feeling the emptiness inside him grow. The silence between them was louder than any words could ever be. And in that silence, Kaiser finally understood.

༻♕༺

He watched her from a distance, his gaze following her every move as she conducted another interview with one of the players. The scene was familiar, yet it felt distant, like a memory from a past life. Despite the days that had slipped away since their last encounter, Kaiser remained a king in the eyes of the world. His crown still gleamed, his fame intact, and yet his heart carried a weight he couldn't shake. His eyes, once fierce with ambition, now lingered on Y/n with an aching mixture of regret and longing. The feelings he'd buried deep inside him seemed to claw their way to the surface every time she was near, and he couldn't escape the pull.

On the outside, no one could tell what had happened to him. The public continued to see the indomitable athlete, the ruthless champion whose titles and success overshadowed everything else. But beneath the polished exterior, a man was unraveling. The armor he wore so effortlessly could not shield him from the ache in his chest, nor could it conceal the truth he had tried to ignore. 

Y/n, on the other hand, moved through her days with a quiet determination, her heart guarded, but forever tethered to what had been. She kept the signed jersey he had given her, folded neatly in her closet, a relic of a time that felt both distant and close. It was a memory she couldn’t part with, no matter how much it pained her. She had always kept mementos—small reminders of things she wanted to hold onto—and this, despite everything, was one of them. A symbol of what had been, and what could have been. She would never throw it away. Not ever.

Though their paths had diverged, the space between them growing wider with each passing day, neither of them could escape the thoughts of the other. They remained in each other’s minds like an unspoken promise, a lingering memory of something beautiful yet broken. The past they shared hung between them, invisible yet palpable, a constant reminder of what they had and what they lost.

Kaiser remained on his throne in the stadium, ruling the field as he always had. But when it came to matters of the heart, he learned too late that even kings must face the consequences of their actions. His victories, his triumphs, came at a cost—a price he had never imagined paying. In the end, no title, no championship, could fill the emptiness left by what he had let slip through his fingers.

And Y/n? She moved forward, just as determined, just as focused—but her heart carried the weight of a loss that could never truly be healed. She had once believed in the possibility of something more, but now she knew better. Some victories come with too much sacrifice, and some battles are never meant to be won.

Both of them would carry the memory of what could have been, each in their own way, as they moved through the world. But deep down, they both knew—no matter how far apart they were, a part of them would always remain with the other.

a/n: AYGHHH HIS SEXY ASS FINALLY GOT ANIMATED FOR LIKE 10 SECONDS BUT THATS OKAY

This also took me longer than I expected. It was supposed to be published on the 25th (Kaisers bday‼️😫)

[dustcrumbs]

Ok, but in all honesty, I find it funny how similar Dust and Crosses story are

Cross n Dust both killed their entire AU, trying to stop something out of their own control.

Cross n Dust wanted to protect the people they loved the most.

Cross n Dust were both blinded by their own selfishness to see through their wrong doings.

Cross n Dust both struggle to communicate or express what they want.

Cross n Dust both don't know what life they want to lead.

They're both pathetic in their own ways but still intertwine in their choices.

And yet, Cross was the only one given more than one path. He was given more chances to find a place he belongs in. People cared about him more.

He was wanted.

Dust wasn't.

Don't get him wrong. He doesn't want to be saved. But he does wonder why no one had tried. Why no one had attempted to even throw a chocolate bar at him for some support, to give some hope, just something to tell him he's not alone in this.

Sure, you could argue that they seen the many variants of Cross pass through. He bonded with more people through these times.

But then why wouldn't they want to save a variant of the classic sans that they all love? The one who is the start of many people's stories. Why would they leave him to suffer with nothing left to defend? They don't know this specific variant, but they didn't know the specific Cross we know either. It was just a familiar face.

Oh, because they don't want to interfere? There isn't anything left to mess with, no other people. The player would've quit a long time ago, and that would mean that the timeline no longer serves a purpose. There won't be an impact on the timeline if you took the only thing existing in it. Leaving him to torture himself instead of bringing him into an omega timeline, seriously?

Oh, but he's a murderer! So what? Cross was tormenting and destroying/stealing parts of AU's, and they still let him into the omega timeline. He eliminated his entire AU and wiped it clean. Wouldn't that be more threatening than a guy who just killed only his(small) kind and not the global population?

Idk, I just think Dust would notice this and be absolutely pissed. Especially with how Cross views himself and the people around him. Cross is basically taking things that Dust can only dream of for granted. He says he doesn't have a home, but he doesn't understand what a home truly is. And Dust can't understand what makes him so special. Was it because X Gaster wanted to use him as some chess piece while Dust was a discarded tissue? Are people's lives truly dependent on what they can do over who they are.

Dust genuinely doesn't know. He feels betrayed by those who don't even know him. Dust is full of hate that there isn't any hope to see in a life other than crime. Crosses existence only solidifies that idea. After all, who would support him? Killer wouldn't. He isn't even sure Horror knows who he is. It's not like he would want him to. He doesn't need someone else to tell him how they'd have lived his life. How they would do something smarter. He's tired of people thinking they're better than him. When all of them are just hypocrites.

Anyways, sorry if I misspelled or made anything sound weird

Skibidi crumbs OUT!!

[theweepingangelofcas]

Pip pip from your friendly neighbourhood lurker, I saw your requests are open and so I shall request my fluffy little idea to you dear writer and I hope you find just as funny and sweet as I did.

So for my request for the mtp bois basically on TikTok I saw a vid where a gf found her bf sleeping on the soft and decided to prank him by setting up a fake game of uno (but you can choose a different board game/card game if you want) once set up she starts shaking him awake and telling him its his turn obviously confused and half asleep but still takes his turn.

I don’t have any pacifically for this request so I’m leaving up to you to choose who would be best for this scenario.

From yours truly,

Your friendly neighbourhood lurker 

Hello, Friendly Neighborhood Lurker! For your ask, I decided on a few things on my own. Sadly, I don't believe uno existed during the Victorian era, so I opted for chess instead (a game I am absolute trash at, but shall write about it nonetheless). I also decided that William and Sherlock would be the most likely to fall asleep on the sofa during a busy day, so they will be our victims lol

***********************

My Turn? - Moriarty Boys x Reader

William Moriarty

Your poor William had been working himself to death lately.

Between the long days of teaching, long evenings of grading papers, and long nights of committing acts of violence, it was a miracle he ever got any sleep.

So when he finally fell into a deep slumber on the sofa one lazy morning, you knew now was the perfect time to spring your trap.

William awoke to the realization of a few things. 1. There was fresh tea brewing beside him. Earl grey, as far as he could tell. 2. You were sitting beside him. The floral notes of your favorite perfume was unmistakeable. 3. You were calling to him. Gently, lovingly. It brought him out of his slumber in the most lovely way he could imagine. His eyes opened sluggishly, turning his head to look over at you. "Yes, y/n? What is it?" He yawned, trying to focus on your words. You giggled, "It's your turn, William." He realized what you were talking about. There was a chessboard in front of you, set up next to said previously mentioned tea. The table between you two held snacks as well, set up like one of your usual game nights. He observed the board, before chuckling himself, "I can assure you, my dear, I am not the one who placed these pieces. But, to humor you..." He picked up a pawn, using it to behead one of your knights. Another laugh, "Why do you say that, Will? We were playing, and you must've been so tired you dozed off-" "This board is set up to a Stafford's gambit. Though I am no great chess player, even I know that this is a poor choice of plays." You finally released your laughter, trying to scoff it down to no avail, "And here I was, dear, hoping I had finally tricked you." Finally, he sat up. leaning across the table to give you a peck on the cheek. "Mm. Maybe one day, my sweet girl. Maybe one day."

Sherlock Holmes

This man is the most manic creature ever created by fiction, do you think he sleeps on a regular basis?

He's too smart to fall for your tricks after just one nap, which is why you waited for a much different occurance to happen...

You waited til he was coming back from a case.

"Dove?!" He was elated. His latest case had truly been genius. A devious crime scene, a truly mad perpetrator, everything he could have wanted! Even a headless nun! He simply had to tell you, his beloved partner of 2 years, all about it! "I'm over here where you left me, Lock!" He ran to you, bounding over heaps of books that he had looked through earlier, before joining you on the ragged sofa. In front of you was a chessboard, still in the early few plays. "Did John play a few games with you? Goodness knows that man is rubbish at chess. He should stick to being a doctor." You laughed, placing your hand on his knee, "No, dear, remember? We were just starting our game when Lestrade barged in and asked for your help." His face fell, trying to recall the events earlier that day. Truly, he couldn't recall too much besides following Lestrade out the door. A guilty look marred his face, "Dove, I am so sorry. I don't even remember. The case, it took up so much of my mind..." He looked over to you. Normally, he would have expected you to look sad. Disappointed, maybe. Instead, you had a smile. He took an extra second to observe the layout in front of him. Those were not any type of moves he would have played. He pinched your arm, and you squealed, "Liar. Good one, though. You almost got me." A kiss on your cheek, and he picked up one of your bishops off of the board. "Now, let me tell you about the headless nun."

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

the counterpart

chapter 4 — the day after you stole my heart

rating: explicit. the smut chapter is here. i’m done edging ya’ll. or am i?…

word count: 5,5k

pairing: viktor x fem!reader (no use of y/n, as usual)

cw: smoking, some mild cussing. now to the real shit: did you know you can play chess and fuck simultaneously? well now you know. everybody say thank you sober. brief oral, (fem receiving), unprotected sex. poorly proof-read, i’ll deal with that a bit later.

part 5 —

Every chess player had a favourite vice. That is a proverbial axiom, a mandatory requirement to pursuing a chess career: if one doesn’t have a murderous little something to kill him slowly, but surely — then they shall forever be declared an amateur, a poser, a pathetic excuse of a genius. 

Blackburne loved a good drink. He would chug that scotch down like a thirsty man, but it didn’t stop him from becoming the greatest of his time — he mastered the art of combining poison with flawless skill. Tal, on the other hand, held onto his liquor crutch a bit too tight — it didn’t blunt his sharp mind, yet still made people wonder how he‘d managed not to drink himself into a much earlier grave. Generational differences or the infamous Eastern European relationship with alcohol? The biographers weren’t exactly sure, but one fact still remains a tragic reality: once you touch the piece professionally — you’re doomed, and winning a tournament won’t be the only addictive feeling in your life. 

But what were Viktor’s vices? 

He liked to think he had none. He would politely turn down every temptation, and it made him unique — an outstanding exception, a pleasant anomaly. 

Until he met his undoing. His mess of disheveled hair, mingled scents of thrifted threadbare leather, nail-polish and tobacco, mascara fallouts under each tortured with the lack of sleep eye, his  constant, impeccable taunt — light-hearted, slightly erotic, animate. 

A vice of special danger. A vice much worse than some substance corrupting one's lungs or liver. A vice that went straight for his poor heart. 

A woman. 

A provocation.

You. 

Viktor knew he was a goner the second you challenged him, smartassing your way out of the massacre of pawns — a risky trick not every professional is daring to try, crass and intimidating, and therefore effective. Quite the aggressive nuisance you were — you encroached on his pieces, yet even the possibility of swallowing a delicious knight or two wasn’t tempting enough for you to stoop down to chasing after a man. He really had to lure you into losing that carefulness, boring you out to make you throw yourself at him — but only on the board, of course. Viktor would never indulge more unvarnished fantasies. A bewitched one, yet still a gentleman. 

Although he could picture making a solid threat out of you. After all, you were already threatening his sanity. He wore the afterglow of your touch like a phantom trophy, sweetly picturing how other parts of you would feel at the mercy of his tenderness — if only you’d be willing to allow him near you like that: in ways that involved sacrally holding hands and shyly asking for permission to press a goodbye kiss to the crooked corner of your smirking mouth. A threat like that is more than capable of becoming a chess menace: if that’s what you can do to a delicate man’s mind after just one unfinished match and a few equivocal conversations — then you could easily become a champion.

But was he allowed to become something more than just a counterpart shaping you into a better player? Was he allowed to think of you softly when he laid face up in the dark comfort of his room, silence pulsating rhythmically in each ear, as mind drifted to the sound of your laughter — raspy from all the cigarettes you have for lunch? Was he allowed to stare at your hands as they contemplated their next move? To memorize each crack of the thick red coating your nails? To wonder if you’d be opposed to accepting a soft kiss pressed to the cleft of your knuckles after he’d helped you patch up — if only he was brave enough to offer it?

The desperate need to acquaint himself with you more intimately kept suckling at his usually reserved demeanor, melting it off his secretly passion-starved soul. The whole Saturday was spent in aching anticipation, the board with your by-heart recorded moves spread on his desk, a palm slammed across Viktor’s forehead as he replayed your game over and over again. Jayce peeked from behind the sharp arc of his shoulder, clueless as to what could possibly drive his tactful friend into a distress of that extent. 

Viktor groaned, aggressively pressing his fingers into his hot from the restless thinking temple. The pieces were mocking him from their hopeless positions — at this point they could’ve aligned into the word ‘liar’ and it would still pain him less than their current placement. 

There was no draw. The absence of queen was crucial in your situation — especially considering your previous moves. You really couldn’t get out of this. And he knew it the very instance you’d accidentally caged yourself with that impulsive hunger for his bishop. 

And he lied to you. Willingly. Out of pure, selfish eagerness — just to see your brain come up with a solution, and he was oh so close to witnessing it — if only you didn’t gnaw into your nail halfway through. If only he didn’t have a lecture to get to that Friday. 

But charming women demand academic sacrifices. He’ll do better next time. If next time ever comes. How naїve of him. 

“I don’t get it,” Jayce muttered, throwing another puzzled gaze on Viktor’s dim misery, “why would you lie to her about the draw?” 

Viktor sighed, leaning into his chair, wincing at the heavy moanful creak of it.

“I wanted to see her squirm, I suppose,” he confessed, but the answer didn’t seem to please him. “Scratch that, not squirm. She’s a… strange player, let’s put it that way. I just wanted to see her try to get out of that irreparable quandary. Sheer curiosity, if you will.” 

“Strange player as in… hopeless?” Jayce quiered, carefully hovering about the board, forehead wrinkled into a frown as he desperately tried to understand what ‘quandary’ Viktor was referring to.

“No, not at all,” Viktor objected, defensively. Had Jayce smiling knowingly at the rushed remark, light-hearted mockery spilling out of his friendly grin. “Impulsive, more like. Brilliant, but so impulsive. If that wasn’t the case — I would‘ve offered her a draw. At the very least. She could’ve beat me if she noticed my plans on her queen in time.” 

“Tell her you lied to her.” 

“I’m certain she already noticed that much,” Viktor muttered, tired frustration prominent in each heavy sigh as his fingers found a few pieces, twisted them nervously a few times, then poked the pad of his index sharp and angry — as if trying to pierce right through it, to sober up from the heaving regret. 

Charming women demand honesty. Precision. Utter resentment even towards experimental white lies.

Or do they really? Viktor was about to find out. 

On a Sunday morning he woke up coated in sweat, trembling hand an anxious slam against his wet forehead in a frightened search for signs of fever, followed by a relieved exhale when he didn’t find any. The squealing alarm clock kept persistently reminding him of the tortures he was yet to endure before the revanche — two hours of cramping anticipation: one spent on a rushed meal and a cold shower and the other on an even more hastened trip to the bakery. 

He watched the baker wrap the pastries for him with a meticulous frown — that polite old lady wasn’t aware of the importance of her mission, of the fact that those fluffy buchteln were actually a peace offering. Them, and his decision not to bring the timers with him today. Perhaps keeping you well-fed and unlimited in torturing him on the board for however long you pleased could make up for the silly lie he’d regretted so immensely. 

The walk to your dorm was slow, slothful even — he picked the long picturesque path on purpose: both not to suffer from the still merciless sunlight, and to avoid showing up earlier than you requested. It takes a lot to please a woman, and he was willing to commit to it — but a sweet little something and some punctuality would have to suffice for now. 

So at eleven sharp, with a handful of baked goods wrapped in crispy paper and a nervous grip on the handle of his cane, Viktor was already standing at your door. He sighed, checking the number on it for the umpteenth time — and when that glistening little ‘505’ glared down at him from its honorary position, his hand had finally flexed into a fist and knocked. Politely. 

No response. Only an illegible little something — supposedly, an annoyed groan — audible through the door, and Viktor cocks an eyebrow, knocking again; this time, a little bit more insistently. 

“Fuck’s sake, what part of ‘do not disturb’ you didn’t get?” 

Five angry footsteps. No warning to back off. Five more jarring spins of the clanking keys — and the door flies open, practically disarming Viktor of his cane, forcing him to clumsily step away, going limp and even paler. 

“Oh. It’s you.” So soft. Like that mouth — now stretched into a lovely grin — wasn’t just spewing harsh swears. Like those tangled signs of freshly interrupted slumber weren’t scattered across your hair like a sweet morning torture. Like you were completely oblivious to the slight arc your waist caught as you leaned on the doorframe, thin straps of the see-through shirt hanging loosely off each shoulder.

A dare. To slip even lower, to find that fabric crumpled above your navel and — of course — fully absent around the hips, flowing into just as exposed thighs, then calves, and, finally, a definitely barefoot sight. 

He didn’t make it past your underwear. 

Spellbound, he followed the nod of your head — a few hesitant steps inside, gaze clumsy and inquisitive, already roaming across your room. A humble tremble as it slid over the swell of your backside when you rushed to the lock — to keep him in that cozy cage of yours for today. Eyes rolled, running over the messy bed — no doubt, still warm after you basked in it sweet and half-naked. He spotted the board and lingered there, in a nervous attempt to count every fallen into the folded sheets piece. Anything to find a decent enough distraction while you were struggling to crawl into your jeans — the ones you threw onto your desk the night before, hoping to have them on before he shows up. 

“You really do sleep in on Sundays,” he found his voice, choking on a chuckle and watching you scurry around the place, finally not with your ass out. One hop to the left to grab a brush, one slip to the right to practically knock over an ashtray on the bookshelf — a haphazard thing, chaotic and rhythmless. 

“I went to bed late,” you mumbled a confession apologetically. “Took me a while to analyze our game. Which, mind you, wouldn’t have been the case if someone hadn’t lied to me about the draw.” 

“Is that the reason for your, eh… discontentment?” Viktor quiered, chuckling again. Caught you facing his back with a quizzical frown and met your gaze slyly over his shoulder. Pupils dilated and swiftly followed you to the bathroom, beautifully regretful as he realised that you were about to leave him for a few minutes. 

“No,” you laughed, walking out of the reach of his peripheral vision. “A few neighbors tried to disturb my precious beauty sleep earlier. You just happened to come under the fire.” 

He hummed in silent understanding, accepting the invitation to explore your room with every fiber of his insatiable curiosity — fingers ran over the contents of your bookshelf, stroked the spine of ‘Masters of the Chessboard’ languid and delicate, relishing that delicious dejavu of the library incident in dreamy reminiscence. Had him stiffening as he caught a rhythmic shuffle coming from the bathroom, then smirking awkwardly as he realized you were simply brushing your teeth. Legs were aching for rest, yet he didn’t answer their painful calling, simply hovering above your desk with a heavy gasp — taking in every notebook and unsharpened pencil.  

“Would you take that handsome nose out of my writing?” 

Viktor shuddered, clinging off the crime scene with a dismissive shrug, shoulders arched and tense as you raced past them and whisked an ashtray out of its lonesome spot behind the books. Elbows brushed against each other sharp and brief, causing him to turn around with a guilty giggle. Eyes met yours one more time, then fell to your still tortuously uncovered clavicles. You didn’t change out of that loose shirt. A vengeful move or a generous blessing — Viktor was grateful for it nonetheless. And you kindly let him feast upon you in his respectful rapture, as long as he kept looking at you like that — with the excitement of a medieval man fainting at the sight of an exposed ankle. 

You crossed whatever little distance divided you from the bed in a single step, kicked the muddled blanket off it like a stupid obstacle and slithered straight on the mattress, ordering him to sit down with a muffled tap by your side. Viktor cleared his throat and obeyed, albeit not expecting to get into one bed with you that fast; left his cane by your desk, took his shoes off and joined you on the sheets, stretching a braced leg out with a fleeting wince. Smiles were exchanged again, limbs relaxed and sank into the all-besieging softness, fallen chess pieces found and resurrected from their countless dents in the linens. 

“Did you have any trouble finding me?” you finally interrupted the comfortable silence. He shook his head. 

“No. I’m good at following instructions. Didn’t even have to bother your clientele.” 

“And what’s that?” your finger pointed at the package he held protectively and your stomach suddenly whined for whatever was inside of it, instantly recognising the familiar bakery label on the paper. You spotted an oily stain at the bottom of it. Must be something sweet. Pastries. 

“Oh,” he handed the precious wrap to you. “I’ve brought lunch. Well, breakfast, in your case, I suppose.” 

You abandoned the chess board for him to set and anchored greedily into your bucheln, devouring it in a few excitedly large bites. It made him laugh — low and raspy, head rocked back in a precious quiver as eyes closed shut, tempting you to steal a peek at his contorted with chortling face. Flushed. Pretty. 

“Thank you,” you mumbled through a chew, feeling the treat melt on your tongue deliciously — a freshly baked gift all yours to satiate with. And when you were done with it — all too fast, to be frank — your gaze returned to the board, widening at the sight of patiently waiting at your side white pieces. 

“I thought we’re handling some unfinished business first?” 

“No need. We both know the outcome anyway,” he declined discreetly. “I’d rather watch you take your revenge.” 

You froze above the row of your pawns, considering the offered privilege. They were reflecting the light with hostile glints, ready to attack. Belligerent and nothing like those glimmers in Viktor’s eyes — all humble and endlessly curious. His dark pieces tensed up in quiet obedience, fully anticipating the first blood to be drawn. 

So you indulged him, but not at all mercifully. No pastries can quench the hunger for vengeance. And he understood. He complied. 

You greeted him with the taste of his own venom — pawns met in a good old Sicilian once again, resenting each other obliquely from their standard positions. 

1.e4. The predictable, flavourful treason. A choice made not for the sake of efficiency — you opened like that because it was personal. 

Simply couldn’t resist when it felt so right — to have Viktor completely at your disposal, and, most importantly, out of his own will. He huffed and moved his piece with an unimpressed sigh. Must’ve seen that coming. Of course. 

“Eye for an eye, Viktor.” 

He snickered. “Pawn for a pawn, more like.” A fucking smartass. 

Your knight made an appearance next — you wanted to punch your way through a barricade he was about to build for you, hoping to prevent a possible attack. No need to fight the urge to shift closer, foreheads practically touching as both of you hovered above the board, glances so sharp no blade could ever compete with their inveteracy.

The plan was working. He moved another pawn to d6 for protection, playing into your delusion, and your breath grew hotter before his face in a cheeky laugh. Matched his energy with the same careful move — but not for the sake of creating a shield. It was a calculated preparation for a strike. And as you waited for him to bend to your will, he proved you wrong and took your pawn in two swift motions — one on the board, the other in a small jerk forward, close enough to steal that incredulous gasp of yours into his mouth, if only he was persistent enough. 

Oh the fucking audacity! You pulled away from him to a distance more appropriate for a game of chess: both to bite back and to compensate for the distracting nature of your attire. Amber eyes twitched and descended to the crevice of your cleavage, then sprinted back to the board. Either still not brave enough, or simply reluctant to stare at the cost of a loss. 

But you noticed. Noticed, and took it to your advantage, cruelly destroying the pawn he tricked you with while he was distraught. Weaponized his obvious weakness to whatever was so precious about your chest and bare shoulders, watching him put his knight into action with a now trembling hand. All is fair in love and war. 

The torture was impeccable. It lasted long — diabolically so, extending every time he stepped back to save his pale ass from your aggressive approach. Fingers fiddled with the button of his collar when you almost caged him into a stalemate. Took you a dozen moves, one lost knight and around twenty minutes to do so.

Only twenty minutes. Filled with tension thicker than Bobby Fisher’s book, but that’s besides the point. 

And yet he managed to get out of it — his queen lurched a few squares forward and dissected you from the check, ruining the perfect sight; made you swear angrily in a bitter whisper. Close, but no cigar. And you needed one. Desperately. 

“Do you mind if I smoke?” you queried, watching him frown with a dismissive shrug. 

“It’s your room.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Viktor sighed. Fingers flew to his shirt again, popping open one more button. Had your gaze nailed to the bulge of his voice box, to the slight tilt of his head when he smiled, tucking a single chestnut strand out of his narrowed eyes. A tease. A fidgety vision. 

“If you please.” 

Good. 

You reached for the thrown somewhere nearby ashtray — as if the version of you from twenty minutes before knew that dealing with this man would be impossible without nicotine. Slipped into your pocket and handed him a pack, offering to share the poison together. He declined with a polite head shake and watched you put the cigarette slowly into your mouth — supposedly jealous of the stupid thing. Your pieces waited all around the place, aching to repeat the maneuver as soon as you were done harassing that poor, rusty lighter. 

He ousted you of some promising options. You let the smoke fill your lungs, overlooking whatever little possibilities he left you to choose from — you could sacrifice one more pawn in exchange for his bishop later: but that won’t work if he notices it in time. Or you could refrain from attacking him just now in order to move closer to that delicious piece you were eyeing — both would result in a little compromise nonetheless. 

You picked the latter. Moved the rook to d6 and exhaled with a wet little pop, catching him drawn to the slowly flowing out of your mouth smoke. Like he cared more about the shape of your lips than a grave you dug for him on the board. If only he slipped up to actually fall in it. 

“You look distracted,” you whispered, going in for another drag. It burned your throat nice and thorough, adding to the kick you were getting out of aiming for his defense. 

“I am distracted,” he confirmed with a hard swallow. “You’re not playing fair.” 

“How so?” 

“There was no need to make this so, eh… intimate.”

“Intimate?” 

“Well, excuse me for the lack of a better vocabulary,” he snapped and abruptly captured your pawn, then threw it off the board with a hopeless huff. “You never claimed to be condescending and I’m aware of that, but please don’t toy with me. That’s beyond cruel.” 

You stirred, letting the cigarette smolder into a thin bridge of ashes. Smiling to the accusation didn’t feel right anymore — his voice, tired of devastation, reduced you to thoughtfulness for a split second. Made you crave to address it softly. 

“Are you questioning my methods?” 

“No,” Viktor sighed. “I’m questioning my ability to resist them.” 

Amber eyes flickered and slid up the curve of your shoulder, hands failed to abide by the stupid restraint and reached for you: one twined around your wrist and squeezed, tight and desperate, the other itched to cup your knee — but still lacked the boldness. Thankfully, you had just enough to flood the whole room. 

“Then don’t resist,” you pleaded, feeling his breath collide with the bitter heat of yours. 

And his hesitation crumbled, spilling clumsily against your bottom lip. Faces crushed together above the board, mouths opened and molded together hastily — a strangling union, full of whimpers and urgent tongue flicks. Made your hand go limp in his possessive clutch, and he used that opportunity to guide it into the ashtray, putting out the cigarette your tongue still tasted of. 

So needy. Like he wanted you to crawl into his throat and slice it tenderly from the inside — if only doing so could guarantee that your kiss will be his undoing. In every single appropriate and inappropriate way. 

Lips felt bruised, fingers used their newfound freedom to dig into his hair and tug him away from you softly, lungs burned from breathing him in sharply but oh so heavenly, and you were back at it again within seconds, though with starvation not nearly as impressive as his. Spine arched for him, tingling sweetly when he nudged you slightly to the left  — away from the ashtray, the board and all the moves you were yet to make. Feral, but so careful — he was so afraid of destroying your work, yet so keen on ruining you. Preferably for any other man. 

Viktor touched like a keeper, like someone others wouldn’t even dare to compete with. Had you shivering in a little convulsion when two undoubtedly talented fingers clung to your lower back and pressed, gliding swiftly into that delicious little dip. Made you wish he could grab more — like a trembling thigh or an ass cheek. You should’ve stayed in your underwear. 

But he yielded so preciously. Didn’t let you near that pulsing spot on his neck when you tried to switch to it from his mouth: lips stayed on lips, and he intended to keep it that way. Hands locked behind your back and forced an attack, pulling you close enough to melt gently into his lap, and you left that vampiric attempt for later, settling for straddling him — tight and selfish. Not without a tiny evil itch to tease him out of that sudden bravery, to remind him that it’s you who plays White today. But judging from every pant Viktor made beneath you, he was pretty much aware of that. 

You heard him gasp when tongues finally unraveled reluctantly, sharp chin still glistened with your spit, breath was a mess subtly tickling your neck. It drew a laugh out of him — that lovely sound of contentment nuzzling your collarbones with a soft shake, grateful for whatever pieces of you he was allowed to feel. Palms kept sweating nervously against the skin he found under your rolled up shirt. 

“Greedy much?” you gave into the soft, tempting mockery. Leaned into his craving mouth and threw your head back, seizing every lick, nip and suck it had to offer. Let him move his palms elsewhere — wherever he pleased, really — and they fell into a cautious squeeze of both breasts, leaving sweet, eager scorches. Scooped your heart race up into a grip and pinched teasingly at one nipple, rolled it hard and stole a choked up moan. Yes. He was greedy. Very much so. 

But the jeans were still there, tangling into the embrace and making it impossibly hard to find where he was hard for you. And you needed to feel him throb, raw and impatient as he was against your own torturous ache. As he would’ve been, to be precise — if not for the thick denim separating you cruelly from this obscenity. 

He wasn’t thrilled to part with you even for a moment, eyes the prettiest begging stunt when you slid out of his lap — and, simultaneously, out of bed, pupils widened when he realized just what kind of honor you were about to do him. Fingers stayed on your hips and held them in place as you rose above him, digging into each shoulder for whatever leverage those trembling things could provide. Letting him help you out of that attire nice and slow — for the sake of savoring the sight Viktor didn’t deem himself worthy of earlier. Catching the bat of his breath when the cloth thumped to the floor, wrapping around your feet creased and forgotten. You stepped out of it in mad haste, felt him admire the softness of thighs with a languid touch as gaze flew back to yours in a shy request for permission. 

And when you nodded, suddenly flushed from having this boy like this — messy-haired, hot and soft spoken, he stilled you securely between his widely parted legs and kissed you softly on the belly — just above that aroused little spot where you needed him most. Had you breaking in half above him, keening raggedly as he hooked his thumb into your pitifully soaked underwear and pulled it tenderly to the side, dark eyes glistening about just as much as the slick of your exposed folds. 

A resolute man —  he knew exactly what he wanted and went for it without hesitation. His tongue darted out to taste you in one long, relishing swipe — from slit to clit, deliciously sour as you were, moaning at his ministration. And that skilfull torture lasted a few pleasantly long minutes — until you were turned into an almost cumming disarray of weak knees and spasming muscles. 

But, strangely enough, you wanted to be even with him. One knee bent and pushed lightly into his crotch, felt him tense up inside the tight cage of pants. He handed you the lead and fell boneless onto the sheets, head a muffled smack against the roughness of your headboard. Had you crawling back to him on all shaky fourth, shirt and ruined undergarments thrown barbarously to the nearest nightstand. 

Impeccable in your naked splendor, you sat atop him again, chest heavy with all the things his spread out form did to your fragile heart. And it failed to resist the flaming urge to kiss him, smiling at the way he absorbed all of you so quickly — tongue caustic with your flavour, chestnut hair smelled of bitter cigarettes. Like he was already yours, ready to be kept in this muggy room for as long as you wished to have him. 

You pulled away to cup him gently through the tortuous obstacle of clothes, palming whatever you could feel through that redundantly thick layer. And, judging from the Czech curse he hissed through his clenched teeth, you managed to feel just enough — made him slam a palm against that debauched little whimper, appalled to his own loss of eloquence. Bit his lip and nodded, weak and wobbly, at that curved throb. 

“Please.” 

And you allowed him that mercy. More so to soothe that painful need of him inside you than to ease his sensitive predicament — but it didn’t matter. Not when you pulled his pants down, brusque and impatient, let them roll clumsily around his lean thighs. Didn’t waste much time on his underwear either — lust came before manners, made you gasp when fingers wrapped around just what you were about to take. Body foretasted a tight, girthy fit. 

It felt heavy in your hand, smacked against his stomach with a lewd sound when you failed to hold it through a shudder. Caught him staring not so placidly when hips arched, making you glide along the inches of him in a smooth little agony. Gaze darkened when you hovered, working him through the warm clench of entrance. He didn’t dare to rush you, to pierce through you to get that over with. Just took you carefully by the wrists and leveled the back of one palm with his swollen lips, softly kissing each knuckle while you stretched around him slow and pliable. Had you swearing when he budged and tip finally slid deep inside with a delicious tingle. 

“Is being defeated the price I must pay for this?” he spoke through a raspy laugh, eyes still nailed to the debauched twine of your bodies. “I’ll gladly start resigning after my very first move if that’s the case.” 

“But I didn’t win,” you breathed out, freeing one hand out of his lovely grasp. “We didn’t get to finish.” 

He stiffened. Fingers unraveled from yours completely, returning to his side. 

“Would you like to finish?” 

You gulped, twitching around him with a strangled whimper. 

“Yes.” 

And he took it for a command. Turned slowly to the board and reached for it not exactly effortlessly, cautious not to knock any pieces over. Brows formed a concentrated frown as he rotated it, attentive and skittish, returning the army of attacking white into your possession. Placed it all softly onto his stomach and held a breath, trying oh so diligently not to ruin a single thing with the slight rise of his inhale. Made you laugh as your thighs parted wider to make more place for the duel, felt him quiver inside you out of sheer, depraved excitement. 

He won’t last long. Not a chance. 

So you decided to rid him of his misery. First rid, then ride, to be precise — but was it really a misery when you were wrapped around him so viciously tight, keeping him so warm through the rough slap of defeat? If anything, a single loss is a steal for that twisted bliss. 

And you could already see the sweet victory. Rook took the bishop you were drooling over the whole time, gave you the cheeky opportunity to switch to a wheezy whisper. 

“Check.” Good god. 

Caught you nearly cumming on his cock — who needs friction when seductive mockery is an option?

His move smelled of retreat — not that he had any other routes. King ran away to h7, hiding behind the pawn, but you were biting right at its shiny crown, destroying his precious shelter with that same acute rook. 

“Check.” Again. Had him twitching into that luscious spot in one sudden hitch, mouth failed to suppress the most pitifully delicious moan. 

So when he attempted to escape for the third time — though rather reluctantly, to be frank — your queen stood right there before him, emitting pure humiliation. And, sure, he could still sweep it off its precious square by a simple f8 move — but it wouldn’t save him from the sly rook, sneakily waiting to put him into a numerous deadlock. A sweet, inescapable doom, leaking all over him. So he picked that poison and surrendered. In an old-fashioned way. Just like you imagined. Left the honors for you to do. 

“Checkmate,” you uttered, and couldn’t take it anymore — foreheads bumped together fervent and sweaty, pieces poked the skin of your stomach, crushing beneath it as you leaned to kiss him rough and desperate. Hips finally made their first buck to help you both pick up where you left off. 

But Viktor yearned to be helpful too. Pieces fell all over the place for you to find them later when long fingers dug into your hips, forcing both you and the board off of him. So pent up, so lovingly untamed — he threw you into the pile of chess, sheets and ashes, and thrusted deeper, had you seeing stars on the blank space of your ceiling. Quarrel died beneath him with whatever little shame you still weren’t disposed of, and your legs wrapped around his waist into a tight lock, pulling him so flush against you that breasts started to hurt from just how hard they were squashed under the pressure of his chest. 

—

That Sunday you received a noise complaint from your neighbors. Lost three pawns, one rook and two bishops somewhere in your sheets. Viktor walked out of your room with a giant scratch across the crook of his sore shoulder and a few buttons of his shirt missing. 

But looking back at it, when you collapsed, breathy and fucked out, onto the destroyed amenity of your bed — the thoughts of your newfound counterpart haunted you until eyes squeezed shut, drifting to slumber with a content smirk.

And it was totally worth it.

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @thehistoriangirl @queen-of-elves @vyshnevska