#edge of everywhere: across the stars

[djarrex]

Hey M, bff I don’t mean to sound like I’m rushing (genuinely, take your time!) but I’m just wondering if you’re still planning on updating Across the Stars/Edge of Everywhere? I’ve been reading since the beginning, and it’s still my favourite Rex fic; I always come back to it. Love you lots!

hey there- so sorry for responding so late!

I'm very flattered you're a fan of the series!!! 🥹 I honestly don't know when I'll come back to it. I definitely want to eventually wrap up ATS because I know I can't just leave Rex in pain like that lmao. I got stuck for a while but every now and then I go back and read what I've posted and make little edits to the wips hanging out in my docs.

A couple years ago I did have ideas for what the future of EOE would look like but I'm not sure how to come back to it. If anything, I'd like to do more side stories with the characters. Drabbles and the like. One day. 😩🫣

[porcelian]

Tinsel glitters everywhere, sparkling and shimmering like a thousand little stars scattered across the room.

You peek from behind the pine-colored tree, laughter bubbling up. "I think you got more of it on yourself than on the tree."

Jason snorts, his voice a mix of amusement and mock frustration. "I'm glad my struggle is so entertaining for you."

"Oh, c’mon," you tease, stepping closer to Jason, your fingers lightly catching the strands of tinsel tangled in his hair and on his shoulders. "What would you do without me?"

He rolls his eyes playfully, his gaze flickering to yours with that bright, seafoam gleam that always seems to captivate you. The warmth in his eyes holds you for a moment, and you notice the faint pink tint coloring his cheeks. His eyes, heavy with intent, slowly drop to your lips.

"You wanna kiss me, loverboy?" you tease, your voice dipping into a playful, almost challenging tone, half-expecting him to shoot back with something witty.

But he never does what you expect.

"Yes," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, shaky with shyness, yet full of earnestness. "Please?"

The world seems to blur at the edges as his words settle into the space between you, pulling everything else into silence. His hands lift slowly, tracing invisible patterns on your arms, each touch igniting sparks of warmth that race across your skin.

Your gaze locks with his, and for a moment, you both seem suspended in time, lost in each other’s eyes.

"Don't make me beg, baby," he mutters, the words slipping out in a way that’s almost a whine, full of vulnerability.

"But I like it when you do," you murmur, your lips brushing the corner of his, leaving a trail of soft kisses across his skin.

His hands move to your chin, tilting your head gently to face him, and the moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away. His kiss is tender, but there's a hunger beneath it that makes your heart race.

Jason smiles into the kiss, his hands pulling you closer, the warmth of his touch wrapping around you. You cup his face, fingers tracing his jawline, feeling the heat of his skin under your fingertips.

You can feel his breathing falter, in rhythm with your own. It’s like the air between you thickens with every shared breath, each one deeper than the last.

One last soft kiss brushes against his lips before you pull back, but Jason instinctively follows, lips seeking yours again.

"Uh-uh," you quip, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "The tree, remember?"

He chuckles, a little breathless. "Oh, right. Sorry, I got a little distracted."

"A little?" You raise an eyebrow, a smirk dancing on your face.

"Okay, maybe a little more than a little," he admits, his grin widening.

"Guess I’ll have to up my game, then."

"Looking oh-so-very forward to it," he grins, before bringing his forehead gently to yours, a soft, grounding touch that feels like home.

"The tinsel still needs fixing, Jay," you whisper, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

"It can wait," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, his hands finding their place on your waist.

[grandlinedreams]

“We should get married.” 

The question in and of itself is a strange one, made more so for the fact that it’s coming from Zoro of all people – and the fact that he’s asking you in the middle of a fight. Your back is pressed against his, the heat of his skin seeping into your clothes – and you wonder if he’s gotten hit in the head too many times. Or thrown through too many things – too much of something. 

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your tone is incredulous as you swing your weapon, scowling as you watch another enemy drop with a cry and a splatter of blood. “We’re a little busy right now, aren’t we?”

Zoro grins, expression manic with the deepened shadows of his face from his bandana, adjusting to place the hilt of Wadou Ichimonji in his mouth. “Is that a yes?”

You have the brief moment of considering knocking Zoro out for your opponent – clearly his daily naps out in the sun have baked his brain more than you previously thought. “No!”

–

The question doesn’t turn out to be borne from a brain-based injury flaring up, because Zoro doesn’t let the subject go. He bides his time, waiting about two weeks from when he first asked before he tries again.

This time, the stars are a witness to his buffoonery – now fueled by the bottles of sake he seems to have squirreled away everywhere on the Thousand Sunny. You watch as he tips the bottle to his lips, the brief shimmer of liquid that beads at his lips before it disappears as he swallows. 

“We should get married,” he says, and this time, you scoff. It isn’t one of disdain, rather of amusement as you wait for the alcohol induced flush to rise to his cheeks. “‘m serious, you know.”

“No,” you counter softly as you scoot closer to him, reaching up to wipe a drop of sake from the corner of his lips and bring it to your own for a taste. As ever, his own choices in alcohol seem to be tailored for him and him alone – sake still isn’t your thing. “You’re drunk.”

Zoro hums, eye flicking from the night sky above to you. “Is that a yes?”

You press your lips to his warm cheek. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

–

The third time that he asks, he’s waited so long that you’ve almost forgotten that he ever asked in the first place. After all, Roronoa Zoro has never seemed like someone interested in the intimate entanglement of marriage – you have absolutely no clue what has possessed him to suddenly ask you with this kind of tenacity. 

“We should get married,” he says, and you resist the urge to sigh as you stare at him, his head pillowed against your thigh. Below the shade of Nami’s tangerine trees, you can hear Luffy’s bright laughter intermingled with Usopp and Franky’s. 

This time you aren’t in the middle of a fight, nor is he drunk. This time, you take a moment to study his face, the dapple of sunlight through waxy green leaves, the scent of citrus in the air. You love him, you’re sure of that – as sure as you’ve been of anything in your life. 

“We’re pirates,” you answer, tapping your fingers against his cheek in an echoed rhythm of one of Brooke’s songs from the night before. “Pirates don’t get married.”

“Sure they do.” He’s watching you now, with the kind of intensity he usually only reserves for battle, and you look away. “Captains can officiate marriages. I asked Robin about it.”

You blink and let your attention shift to Luffy for a minute – you love your captain, you do. But the idea of him being serious about much of anything beyond what matters to him (food, his crew’s safety, finding the One Piece – in that order) makes you giggle. You can’t imagine him officiating something like a marriage. 

“What if I want a ceremony?” Your fingers find his cropped green hair, stroking gently across his scalp. “Those are expensive.”

He shrugs. “We’d find a way. I’m sure Nami would help.”

Your lips curve in an amused smile for a moment before it dims at the edges. “It’d be dangerous,” you point out, and he answers with a short bark of laughter.

“Not any more than shit we’ve already faced.”

“Rings?”

“We don’t need that fancy stuff.” 

Your smile fades completely, hand stilling in his hair. “Why do you think we should get married?”

There must be an edge to your tone now, because Zoro refocuses on you, all signs of mirth gone. “Because we love each other, right? Sounds like the next logical step.” 

Your gaze hardens. “So you’re asking because you think we should? Or because you want to marry me?” He sits up, and you get to your feet. 

“Is that a no?” he asks, and you pause.

“Ask me again when you figure things out, Zoro.” 

–

“Marry me.” 

This time, his voice is quiet. Soft and vulnerable – for the late hour or the intimacy of his bare skin against yours, you aren’t sure. His hand drifts up and down your back, counting the bumps of your spine over and over. 

You shift against him, face nestled to rest against his chest. “Zoro–” 

“I’ve thought about it,” he cuts you off. “So just be quiet and listen, okay?” You don’t say a word, waiting for him to continue on his own. “I don’t want to marry you just because I think that I should, I want us to get married because you...you mean a lot to me. You’re important to me, and I –” He pauses, struggling. This kind of thing is not Zoro’s forte, you both know that – but after a moment, he resumes. “I don’t see myself being like this with anyone but you. I don’t want to be like this with anyone but you. Just want you.” A moment of silence, hearts beating in tandem. 

You move, adjusting enough that you can look at him properly, the gleam of moonlight against his face. And you kiss him. Slow and sweet, eyes sliding shut as you linger for as long as you can before you pull away. 

“Marry me,” he repeats. 

This time, you don’t squawk at him like he’s crazy. You don’t accuse him of being drunk, don’t deflect him for fear that he’s doing it because he thinks he should, not that he wants to. This time, you smile.

“Yes,” you answer. “I’ll marry you.”

[alexanderwales]

Everyone is born into a Genre, except for those poor souls who are destined to be side characters and bystanders, or occasionally taken hostage.

You were born to parents of different Genres, which was unthinkable a generation ago but now only raises a few judgmental eyebrows. Your father was a spy and your mother was a ninja, which is one of the more acceptable Genre pairings. There's crossover there, people understood it.

But when you were four, you first put on a cowboy hat, and it just felt right. Your parents were appalled. They didn't even know where the cowboy hat had come from.

You'd think, given the struggles they had in their own marriage and the prejudice they faced from the rest of the world, that they would be more understanding, but your father yanked the lasso you made from bedsheets away from you when you were eight years old, and your mother made you do throwing star drills in the family dojo for hours. You were horrible at it, and she blamed your father. Granted, you weren't any better at dodging laser tripwires.

Eventually you settled into dressing "normal". Dad and mom could pretend that it was a disguise, and it sort of was. Dad didn't wear his tuxedo everywhere, and mom only wore her shinobi shozoku when things were getting serious.

But then when you went to college you saw her, a coed walking across the quad in boots with spurs on them. Her blonde hair was in braids that stuck out from beneath her ten gallon hat. She was wearing chaps, and you followed after her like a puppy dog, trying not to be obvious about it but in retrospect being very obvious about it.

It was a rocky start. You made an awkward introduction, then she thought you were making fun of her when you started asking all kinds of questions. Western wasn't a popular Genre. It's time had come and gone. And even when she realized that you were serious, she was skittish, worried that you were interested for the wrong reasons, a Genre seeker.

Eventually she understood where you were coming from, that you were Western too, even if you didn't look like it, even if you didn't speak the language or have the skills.

One night, a week after you'd met, you asked her some innocuous question and she gave you a playful shove and called you a greenhorn. You felt your heart soar and a frission go across your skin. "Aw shucks," she said as you wiped away a happy tear, "Weren't nothin' but the truth."

From then on it was a blur of rodeos and saloons. You bought new clothes from the one general store they had in the city. You learned how to hogtie and cattle call. You ate beans around a campfire and then went to class the next day smelling like wood smoke and yearning for the wide open plains.

Going home felt itchy. It was too difficult to ignore how the clothes didn't feel quite right, and you wore flannel and jeans, on the edge of acceptability, flirting with the line. But you carried yourself differently too, and that was harder to disguise, especially since it was hard to remember the mask you'd been wearing.

One of these days you'll tell yours parents who you are, but there's a nagging feeling that they should have known all along, that they deprived you of a childhood that could have been happier if they hadn't tried to mold you into a version of them.

But until then, you'll guide your horse through town, moseying along, eating your vittles, and maybe with a cowgirl by your side.

[lelengerine]

pairing. nct dream (ot7) x reader

synopsis. waking up with the dreamies!

genre. established relationship, just a lot of cutesy fluff, mentions of food in jaemin’s, lmk if there's anything i missed <3

wc. around 150-200 words per member

notes. this is my first time writing these shorter drabbles so i hope you like them hehe i’d love to know if you guys wanna see more of this >< likes and feedback are highly appreciated!

m.list

→ mark

mark stirs awake, the morning light creeping through the curtains, casting soft shadows across your sleeping form. he feels a tug on the blanket and realizes you’ve taken most of it, leaving him with just a sliver of the warm fabric. a quiet laugh escapes him, though he quickly stifles it. the room feels too still, too peaceful to disrupt. his fingers move gently, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. you grumble a little, but don’t wake. “always stealing the blanket,” he whispers, voice amused. you murmur something incoherent, your sleepiness tugging a smile from him. he pulls the blanket back, careful not to disturb you, before pressing his forehead to yours. “i’ll let you get away with it this time,” he softly tuts, a quiet promise in his words. you nuzzle closer in contentment, eyes still closed, and whisper back, “just stay like this.” and so he does, letting the silence fill the space between you, content to lose himself in the warmth of your closeness.

→ renjun

the morning is still, the kind of quiet that feels sacred. renjun opens his eyes, immediately finding you beside him, your breath steady and soft. he’s always admired the way you look when you sleep. there’s a serenity in it, as if the whole world has quieted just for you. without thinking, he reaches for his sketchbook, sitting on the edge of the bed, pencil poised—a habit of his that developed ever since the two of you moved in together. each line he draws is delicate, a reflection of how he sees you: peaceful, beautiful, ethereal. you stir slightly, eyes fluttering open, catching him in the act. “drawing me again?” you ask, voice thick with sleep, a gentle tease in your tone. he flushes after being caught, the pencil in his hand freezing mid-stroke. “i couldn’t help it,” he admits quietly. you smile, shifting closer, peeking over his shoulder. “let me see.” he turns the sketch toward you hesitantly, and when you look up at him, there’s nothing but warmth in your eyes. “i love it.”

→ jeno

the first thing jeno feels is the weight of you against him, your head nestled into his chest, breath steady and slow. he smiles, still half-asleep, as his fingers begin tracing slow, lazy patterns along your back. he’s not sure if he’s drawing hearts or stars, only that he wants to keep you close. you shift slightly, waking up, and your eyes meet his, still hazy with sleep. “morning,” you mumble, voice soft like it belongs to this quiet hour before the world stirs. “morning,” he greets back, words rumbling from his chest. you smile, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw, the touch light, like a secret shared between you. “you’re always awake before i am,” you note with a playful sigh. he grins, his arms tightening around you. “just can’t help it,” he admits softly. “waking up with you feels too good to miss.”

→ haechan

you’re draped across the bed, limbs everywhere, your hair a wild mess against the pillow. haechan wakes to the sight of you, and a grin immediately spreads across his face. mischief bubbles in his chest, and before you know it, his fingers find your sides, tickling you awake. “why do you always take up the whole bed?” he teases, laughter in his voice. you groan, eyes still closed as you bat at his hands, but a laugh slips out despite it all. “haechan, stop,” you whine, still half-asleep, voice muffled against the pillow. the sound of his laughter follows not long after, pulling you into his arms with ease. “i’m awake now, so you have to be too,” he declares with certainty, wrapping himself around your torso as if daring you to escape. you sigh, melting into him despite the protests leaving your mouth. “you’re impossible,” you mutter, but there’s a smile in your voice, one that he catches immediately. “yeah, but you love it,” he replies smugly, his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head. and in that moment, wrapped up in the mess of limbs and laughter, you know he’s right.

→ jaemin

the smell of something sweet pulls you from the comfort of your slumber, and you realize the space beside you is empty, but warm. you blink against the soft morning light, listening to the faint clatter of dishes barely seeping past the door. quietly, you slip out of bed, padding towards the kitchen of your apartment. jaemin stands there, humming softly as he flips pancakes with a focus that makes you smile. “you’re cooking?” you ask in the midst of rubbing your eyes awake, still groggy, but unable to suppress the fondness in your voice. he turns at the sound of you, a smile spreading across his face as he sets the pan down. “surprise!” he says, moving toward you, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist. you lean into his embrace, the warmth of him grounding you. “you didn’t have to,” you murmur, though you’re already imagining the taste of the breakfast he’s prepared. he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes. “i wanted to,” he says softly, his fingers brushing your hair back. “i love mornings like this—with you.”

→ chenle

you wake up earlier than usual, passing the time as you scroll through funny videos on your phone, trying not to wake your boyfriend up, but it’s too late—he’s already blinking awake beside you, squinting through the morning light. “what’s so funny this early?” chenle asks, his voice still thick with sleep, but there’s a curious smile playing on his lips. you turn the phone toward him, showing him the random cat video that has you in stitches. he watches, his sleepy expression giving way to a grin, and soon enough, he’s laughing too. “you really start your day with memes?” he teases, shaking his head in disbelief. you nudge his side playfully. “it’s the best way to wake up!” your defense is only met with a sharp laugh from your boyfriend who pulls you closer, arms wrapping around you as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. “you’re ridiculous,” a murmur comes out of him, his voice soft yet a hint of laughter trails behind. “but if it makes you happy, i guess it’s the best way to wake up for me too.”

→ jisung

you wake to the soft sound of steady breathing, and as your eyes flutter open, you realize jisung is already awake, his gaze fixed on you. his arm is loosely draped over your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of your shirt absentmindedly. “morning,” you whisper, still half-asleep, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. jisung’s cheeks flush slightly, a shy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “morning,” he replies, his voice quiet, unsure. you briefly stretch and shift around the pillows and comforters, turning to face him fully, and you notice the way his gaze softens as he looks at you. “you could’ve woken me,” you murmur, your hand coming up to trace the curve of his jaw. jisung shakes his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. “i didn’t want to,” he admits. “you looked too peaceful. i… i like waking up like this.” his voice is barely above a whisper now, as if he’s confessing something he’s only just realized. you smile, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, “i like it too.”

[revelboo]

I JUST WANTED YO LET U KNOW I GOT CONFIDENT ENOUGH TO WRITE MY OWN FANFICTION BECAUSE OF YOU!! ✨✨💕

(that's all I'm sorry 🥺)

Do it! We need more writers! Spread the Transformers corruption

True Romance Pt 14

Trine x Reader

• Trying to ignore Thundercracker, Skywarp mass displaces and sprawls out alongside you in the nest Thundercracker has made for you. Hears your startled noise and grins. Tossing an arm across your middle and burying his face against your warm throat as Thundercracker vents at him. “You like me best, don’t you? I’m more fun,” he purrs, mouth against your skin. Wondering exactly how much you’ll let him get away with.

• Shivering as he vents against you, lips brushing your skin, you stare up at Thundercracker’s disapproving frown. “I like all three of you.” Which is true and probably safer than playing favorites given how mercurial Skywarp can be. Wanting all of your attention mainly whenever someone else has it. Shifting to lean over you, propping himself up on a hand, even at this size he’s much bigger than you are. That crooked grin of his all mischief as he bumps his helm against your forehead, invading your space.

• “Do you?” Thundercracker asks despite himself as you look at him. Because that’s a whole other possibility he hasn’t considered. Instead of vying for your attention, just sharing you. Star’s always taken the lead with their Trine, but he’s sure Star cares for you, too. He’s just too busy worrying over them, his duties, and now you to get to show it much. “You want to stay with us? Belong to us?” Mass shifting, he ignores when Skywarp flares his wings. “Choose us?” It’s not like sharing is completely unheard of for Trines. Rare, but it does happen.

• There’s a silken edge to Thundercracker’s words you’ve never heard before that spins you tight. Because you’re not so sure he’s talking about keeping you like a pet anymore. That this question is important and you need to understand what he’s asking before you answer. Feeling strangely strung tight with anticipation as he stretches out on your other side, propping himself up with an arm. “If I did?” You ask as he traces his servos down your arm and pulls your hand to him to press against his chassis as if he wants you to feel the thrum of his spark. Sandwiched between them, feeling their warmth, you’re aware of everywhere they’re touching you. That this is different.

• Letting himself back into his shared habsuite, Starscream hesitates until he finds his Trine. Venting when he spots them almost pinning you in a nest of blankets, leaning over you. Knows you’re not doing it on purpose, not trying to antagonize them by putting them at odds with each other. Making them compete for your affection. And you don’t understand that having you around, alternating who you rest with every night is making this harder on all of them. Your affectionate nature sending mixed messages. But his brothers aren’t rumbling at each other now. Aren’t snarling. Optics narrowing as he plants a hand on the berth and leans over the three of you, he watches Skywarp mouth your neck as your hooded eyes lock with his optics. “If I chose all three of you?” You ask, voice little more than a whisper as his wings lift with the question. Hearing the cautious invitation in your words, the submission.

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[chericos]

𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 ᝰ ⋆⁺₊❅.

CHRISTMAS ACTIVITIES WITH THE JJK MEN!

you can definitely see my favorites...

Satoru Gojo:

Satoru would try and take you moose-back riding: keyword try

he grew up being exceptional at everything, so he thought this would be no different

boy, was he wrong

you walked up to your moose calmly, hands held out for the massive creature to sniff—to gain its trust. It seemed to relax in your presence. with a few reassuring words and a couple of pats, it allowed you the honor of being able to climb onto its back with ease. meanwhile, the scene next to you was anything but graceful. gojo was struggling. a lot. "why is he looking at me like that?" "i think it wants to kill me," "why doesn't he like me..." he all but whined "maybe he can sense your charming personality," you teased. gojo spent the majority of his time whining about the audacity of the moose (that he picked out mind you). and when he was finally able to mount it, for a few gratifying seconds, the moose bucked wildly, sending him flying backward. you guide your own moose towards where he lies sprawled out in the snow, trying to contain your laughter. "totally planned for that to happen." "sure ya did honey," let's just say gojo never looked at a moose the same way again.

Suguru Geto:

Suguru was skeptical when you brought up the idea of Christmas baking.

you wanted to do something to keep the twins, mimiko, and nanako, entertained

"are you sure this isn't going to end in a mess?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest as he stood in the kitchen doorway. "it's supposed to be messy, besides, they'll love it" mimiko and nanako were already perched up on the counter, smiling excitedly as they tried to get geto to join them, tugging on is sleeve and looking up at him with big puppy eyes. its no surprise that he gave in. mimiko was meticulous, carefully pressing cookie cutters into the dough with laser focus, while nanako was more chaotic, enthusiastically cutting out shapes in rapid succession—often forgetting to clean off the edges. geto couldn’t help but chuckle as he leaned over to help Nanako fix her crooked star cookie. “like this,” he said softly, guiding her hands. meanwhile, you were rolling out more dough when mimiko quietly came up to you. “can we make a heart one?” she asked shyly. You nodded, handing her the cutter. “of course, sweetie. maybe we can decorate it for suguru-nii later?" geto definitely overheard that. when it came time to decorate, the real chaos began. nanako somehow managed to get frosting everywhere—on her hands, her face, and even a streak across her cheek. “nanako, the frosting is for the cookies,” geto said with a sigh, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. mimiko, ever the perfectionist, took her time placing each sprinkle with care. “suguru-nii, look! I made a snowman!” she said, holding up her creation proudly. he smiled, brushing a hand over her hair. “It’s perfect, mimiko.” by the time you were done, the kitchen was a disaster. flour dusted the counters and the floor, and there was frosting on practically everything, including a streak in geto’s hair that he hadn’t noticed yet. (no one tell him) the girls were exhausted but happy, sitting at the table with mugs of warm milk and admiring their cookies. mimiko leaned against geto’s arm while nanako leaned against yours, both content and sleepy. geto glanced over at you, a soft smile on his face. “you were right, they loved it,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “told you,”

Kento Nanami:

tree picking with Kento was probably one of the most tedious tasks on the planet

you never expected him to be so serious about such a holiday, but you can't say you're surprised

nanami wasn't sure how he roped into picking out a Christmas tree with you, I mean, this wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing afternoon. but with relentless begging and pleading on your end he found himself holding a saw in one hand while his other had his fingers laced between yours and secured in his coat pocket. "we should get this one" you gigglied while pointing towards a lopsided tree. "absolutely not." "but it adds character!" after what felt like hours of deliberation (and a lot of back and forth over the "symmetry of a tree") you finally settle on a tall, full tree, that met nanami's (ridiculous in your eyes) standards. decorating, however, was a different story. nanami was a perfectionist in every sense of the word. as he meticulously placed ornaments and adjusted the lights until everything was perfectly balanced. “It’s just a tree,” you teased as he redid the tinsel for the 3rd time. “It’s not ‘just a tree.’ It’s the centerpiece of Christmas,” he replied, dead serious. by the time the tree was finished, it was nothing short of a masterpiece. as you admired the warm glow of the lights, nanami handed you a cup of hot cocoa and let out a rare, contented sigh. “you were right,” he said softly. “It was worth the effort.” for the rest of the night, you caught him stealing glances at the tree, his lips curving into the faintest smile.

Ryomen Sukuna:

it took you 3 hours of incessant pestering for Ryomen to finally crack and join you on your holiday shopping trip

let's just say you end up regretting it.

sukuna couldn't care less about christmas. to him, it was nothing but an annoying excuse for humans to prance around in hideous sweaters and screech (sing) ridiculous songs to one another. so when you dragged him out to do christmas shopping, he made it his personal mission to ruin everyone else’s day. “why are we even here?” he grumbled as you wandered through aisles of ornaments and festive decorations. “because you need to get out more,” you replied, dodging his annoyed glare. but instead of helping, sukuna decided to make his own fun. anytime a kid got too close, he’d flash them a devilish grin, his sharp teeth on full display. “you better behave, or i’ll really give you something to cry about,” he said, voice low and menacing. cue the immediate screaming. “kuna!” you hissed, swatting his arm as the poor kid ran to their parents. “what? i thought this was the season for fear,” it got worse when he found an aisle with animatronic decorations (ok maybe this is just where I live but why is there still halloween decor out???). he’d activate the ones with creepy faces, making them jump-scare unsuspecting shoppers while he cackled in delight. “look at them! scrambling away like scared little mice,” he sneered, clearly having way too much fun. you, on the other hand, were mortified. “this is christmas, not halloween,” you groaned, dragging him away from the chaos he caused. but he just smirked, completely unbothered. “could’ve fooled me. everyone looks terrified.” by the time you finished shopping, the store staff was glaring at you, and sukuna looked smugger than ever. as you hauled your bags to the car, you gave him a pointed look. “you’re impossible.” note to self: never let him out to the general public.

Megumi Fushiguro:

megumi has been ice skating once in his life, at the age of 10

he fell flat on his ass and vowed to never touch the ice again

until you, that is

megumi still wasn’t sure how you convinced him to come ice skating. “it’s not like i’ll be good at it,” he grumbled, he was already mentally preparing for disaster. but somehow, here he was, lacing up skates while you beamed at him. a bright smile on your face as you tugged on the sleeve of his sweater (your favorite) and directed him towards the ice. the moment he stepped onto the ice, his legs wobbled like a newborn deer. he gripped the wall with a death grip, glaring at the ice as if it personally offended him. “this is stupid,” he muttered. you, ever the showoff, skated effortlessly back toward him, stopping with a little flourish. “you’re supposed to move, megumi, not cling to the wall,” you teased, holding out your hands. he stared at your hands, then at the ice, then back at your hands. “i’m going to fall,” he stated flatly. “probably,” you said with a shrug, “but that’s part of the fun!” begrudgingly, he let go of the wall and took your hands. his movements were stiff and awkward as you guided him across the ice. every slip and stumble made him scowl harder, his ears burning red from embarrassment. at one point, his balance gave out completely, and he went down with a thud. you tried not to laugh, but the way he just sat there, glaring and grumbling at the ice like it betrayed him, made it impossible. “go ahead. laugh,” he deadpanned. “i’m not laughing at you! just… near you,” you replied, wiping tears from your eyes before offering him a hand to get back up. he hesitated but eventually allowed you to help him. after a while, he found a rhythm—though he still refused to let go of your hand for long. by the end, he was still wobbly, still scowling, but there was a faint sense of satisfaction in his eyes. when you pointed it out, he rolled them and muttered, “it’s not like i enjoyed it.” he was a liar.

Yuji Itadori:

yuji was so excited to decorate gingerbread houses

at least, until the smell hit him

“this smells so good,” he said, already nibbling on one of the walls. “yuji, that’s supposed to be part of the house,” You watched as he sheepishly put it down… only to sneak a bite of a different piece when he thought you weren’t looking. you were. at first, he tried to stay focused. he squeezed out some frosting here, stuck a gumdrop to the roof there, and proudly showed it off like it was a masterpiece. but within minutes, you noticed the pile of gingerbread shrinking. at an abnormally fast rate. “yuji, for the love of—stop eating the house!” “i’m not!” he said, crumbs falling from his mouth as he tried to look innocent. “i’m just… quality checking.” "quality checking my—" by the time you finished your own gingerbread house, yuji’s was barely half built. instead of walls, there were just scattered crumbs and a single frosting-covered gummy bear left standing. it was a mess. “what happened to your house?” you asked, trying not to laugh. “it’s an abstract gingerbread house. very minimalist. also, i was hungry.” he shrugged, unapologetic. you couldn’t even be mad at him—especially when he offered you a piece of gingerbread with a sheepish grin. “want to split the roof? it’s the best part.”

Yuta Okkotsu:

it was a miracle that yuta was even in town for christmas

after a rough week-long mission you just wanted him to relax

yuta had just returned from a week-long mission, his exhaustion obvious in the way his eyes barely stayed open and the dark bags under them. his voice was hoarse from the travel and long days, and when he stepped into your place, he gave you a tired smile. “sorry, i’m late,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “it’s been a long week…” you didn’t mind, though. seeing him home was enough. “you’re not late,” you said softly, leading him to the couch. “how about we just spend christmas indoors? we can watch movies and… just relax.” his eyes flickered with relief at the idea. “sounds perfect,” he murmured, sinking into the couch beside you. you picked out a christmas movie to start, but the moment the opening credits rolled, you noticed his breathing slowing. yuta, still curled up in a blanket beside you, let out a soft sigh, his head leaning gently on your shoulder. as you ran your fingers through his hair, he gave a small hum of contentment. “you’re really tired, huh?” you asked quietly, looking down at him. “mm… a little,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “just need to rest for a bit… your hands feels nice…” the movie played on, but yuta didn’t even make it halfway through the first one. his body shifted, and soon, he was completely asleep, his head still resting on your shoulder, his chest rising and falling slowly in deep, peaceful breaths. you smiled softly, continuing to run your fingers through his hair, the warmth of him against you making the entire room feel cozy. the movie continued, but no one was watching at this point. you pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead before whispering "welcome back, my love,"

an; i was gonna add toge but when I got home and clicked on my drafts I never finished his part and I couldn't for the life of me remember what I was going to do or think of a new idea so... sorry!

hope you all had a wonderful holiday!

unedited!

@ CHERICOS 2024 all rights reserved do not repost, edit, copy, translate or plagiarise my works

[dovveri]

twisted torturous love

synopsis: nayeon and your relationship has been on the rocks for some time now. when something finally breaks you apart, you find yourself lured back into her cycle of temptation. you could never get enough of her.

warnings: dom!nayeon who’s mean, manipulative, degrading, toxic! cheating, swearing, semi-public sex, fingering, cunnilingus, mirror sex, mommy kink, reader is reduced to nayeon’s dumb little baby aaaand edged once

w/c: 6.0k

a/n: requested! was in shock when i first got this like girl i could never write this and then i had an angsty weekend and i was like yk what! maybe i can! and i did! enjoy the filth if this is what ur into

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖

"where are you going?"

"out."

"where?"

"out."

you sigh in frustration, moving to stand in front of your door, blocking her exit and asking her again, "where are you going nayeon?"

she tuts, shoving her arms inside her leather jacket, picking out a cigarette, "move y/n."

"not until you tell me where you're going."

"why does it matter to you?"

"i'm your girlfriend. i want to know what you're getting up to without me."

"god y/n you're so fucking clingy. you don't have to know what i'm doing all the time. i have a life that exists outside of you too y'know?" she doesn't bother looking at you, trying to push past you to get out, but you resist.

"you used to like that i was clingy."

that makes her pause, finally looking at you. her eyes hurt you. she used to look at you with so much love, like you put the stars in the sky, rode the sun across the horizon each morning, now they're hollow and empty.

she turns away, forcing past you, "go to bed y/n."

you don't stop her this time when she slips her shoes on and slams the door closed behind her. you sigh, running a hand through your hair. things between the two of you haven't been good for a long time now. you don't know when it started, maybe it was when she started getting busier, preparing for her solo comeback, having to travel a lot more for her job leaving her with a lot less time to spend with you. or maybe it was when you started paying less attention to her when she was available to you, you wouldn't notice the way she smelt slightly different, didn't even realise she started smoking again despite caring so much about keeping her voice in top condition when she was younger. the slow deterioration of your relationship was certainly noticeable overtime, nayeon's members and your friends asking if the two of you were still together. you moved out and slept in your own bed a lot more than you slept in hers now, of course people were confused when the two of you were out with mutual friends but barely talked to each other, and then went home seperately.

you knew your relationship was hanging on by a thread, but a part of you still held hope that you could get back to what you once were. and nayeon must have felt something similar if she hasn't ended things with you yet. still, it wouldn't take much for that hope to break into a million little pieces.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖

the next morning you decide to try and make amends again. you were always the one to apologise first whenever you fought.

you punch in nayeon's apartment code, entering quietly and making sure the door doesn't make a sound when closing. but when you turn, you're faced with nayeon's apartment in a state you can only describe as filthy.

there are bottles lying everywhere, the smell of cigarettes making it hard for you to breathe. you immediately go to her kitchen window, opening it to let some fresh air in, her sink full of dirty dishes and takeaway boxes yet to be disposed of.

you habitually start cleaning. throwing out her trash and wiping down her countertop, not all that surprised that she hasn't woken up with the noise you're making. she was probably completely passed out judging by the state of alcohol bottles strewn across the apartment.

but then when you get to her living room and start picking up dirty laundry, you notice a skirt that was either new or definitely not nayeon's.

and then across the room there's a top that you've also never seen in nayeon's closet. you follow the trail to nayeon's bedroom door, shut tight, but you don't hesitate to open it gingerly, she was your girlfriend, you've seen her in all states of undress.

as you squint into the darkness of her room, you take a step forward, stepping on a bra that was not in nayeon's size and definitely not nayeon's.

your heart drops. you knew your relationship was on the rocks but you had never thought nayeon would be one to cheat. you always had complete and utter trust in her, even when she was overseas, she would always call or facetime you, making sure you didn't feel lonely without her despite her busy schedule and late nights.

just to confirm, because you still can't quite believe this is happening, you step closer towards the bed, eyes adjusting to the darkness better.

you peel back the blanket, and sure enough, the face you're looking at does not belong to the person you fell in love with. you're frozen for a second, staring down at the unfamiliar features, sharp lines, soft breaths.

and then all of a sudden the reality of it all hits you. you're stomping towards nayeon's blackout curtains, ripping them open and letting the midday rays flash into the room.

you turn on your heel, crossing your arms and wait for nayeon to realise you were there. the two people on the bed groan, trying to find where the source of sudden light was coming from. the girl you don't know sees you first while nayeon is still rolling around trying to crawl back under the sheets. she yelps at the unknown presence, pulling the sheets up to cover herself while nayeon groans, trying to pull the sheets back to cover her eyes.

now that there's more light, you can see the array of marks left across the girl's neck and collarbones. there's a pang of jealousy, remembering how nayeon used to mark you up like that, when you were still intimate that was.

"w-who are you?" the girl speaks up.

you scoff, "i should be asking you that."

you can see when nayeon's eyes open at the recognition of your voice, quickly scrambling up and reaching for her glasses on the nightstand, not bothering with modesty unlike her bedmate.

"y/n."

"so this is why you wouldn't tell me where you were going last night. you were going to fuck some other girl? how long has this been going on?"

nayeon stands, trying to calm you. you keep your eyes strictly on her face, not letting anything distract you from what she had done. "y/n wait i can explain. this was- i was drunk-"

"when are you not?"

she frowns, "that's not fair."

"isn't it? you were already tipsy when you came over to mine last night. and once that buzz wore off you just had to go out again and get drunk didn't you?"

"that's not- no-"

you tap your foot impatiently, "so who is she?"

nayeon looks back to the woman that's still in her bed, giving her a death glare that obviously meant get the fuck out of my house, the woman thankfully getting the message and scrambling upwards, pulling on her panties and then holding her chest while looking around for her bra.

you clear your throat, holding it up.

she blushes bright red, stepping forward and taking it from you, muttering a small thanks before dashing outside. you wait to hear the front door close before looking back at nayeon who's started to move around, cleaning her room up a little and putting on some clothes.

"she's no-one y/n. we just- i was drunk and she helped me home."

"i'm sure she helped you with some other stuff too." you glare daggers into her back, tracing the red scratch marks that are raked across the skin.

"don't be like that y/n."

"be like what?"

"look i made a mistake. okay? can we just move past this now?"

you scoff, "are you fucking serious nayeon? you didn't just make a mistake. you made the mistake."

nayeon turns now, fully dressed, her temper also flaring, "okay! and i admit it! i'm sorry! what more do you want?!"

"for you to actually fucking mean it! she's not even the first person you've cheated on me with is she?"

"what? what are you trying to say?"

"don't gimme that. i didn't want to believe it. when you'd come home smelling like someone else. when things would be better for short periods of time after you come back from your trips or from overseas, it was because you went and fucked out all your frustration right? frustration with this relationship? i'm sick of tiptoeing around this nayeon, let's sort our shit out right now because this has got to end somewhere."

"end?" nayeon laughs cruelly, "where do you want this to end y/n? if you've known i've been cheating on you for so long why haven't you ended things? are you so fucking pathetic you'd stay with someone who's actively sleeping with someone new every night?"

you're taken aback by her tone, but you steel yourself, spitting right back, "well if you think i'm so pathetic why haven't you broken things off?"

"too much work, too much drama. and i felt bad. what do you have if you don't have me? i was being considerate."

"considerate? you're fucking joking. you think cheating on me for however long is being considerate?"

nayeon throws her hand up in the air in frustration, "so what!? it's not like you've been trying to make this relationship work recently!"

"oh don't you try and shift the blame onto me nayeon! you're not the same person i fell in love with. you started drinking uncontrollably, you started smoking, sleeping around, lying to me, i don't even recognise you anymore. you know what? you're right. i've been pathetic. pathetic for holding on to the hope that you still loved me. that you still even fucking cared about me. so this is me ending things now. thanks for helping me realise that i guess." you start to go around her room, collecting a few of your things that are still in her space, moving out to the rest of the apartment to do the same.

nayeon's left in her room, fuming and lighting up a cigarette.

when you're almost done, she comes out again, seeming to have calmed down and recollected herself.

"y/n wait. don't go. why are we doing this? we don't have to break up. we've been together for so long, i won't cheat on you anymore. i promise, we can get back to what we were y/n."

your heart strings tug at the sight, wanting to cling onto her words, the only thing you've been wanting to hear from her since the start of the deterioration of your relationship.

she senses your hesitance, stepping forward slowly, and then engulfing you in a hug.

you almost burst then, sighing against her and breathing in. but what hits you isn't her usual lemon scent, it's the stink of cigarettes and another woman's perfume. that brings you back to reality very quickly.

you shove her off, "bullshit. we're done nayeon."

it takes everything in you to turn away from the confused, hurt look on her face, stalking out her apartment and not looking back.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖

the next few weeks are hell. nayeon keeps trying to contact you and talk about the breakup, all while you're slowly trying to let go of the pieces of her you've clung onto. throwing out her things, memoirs of your relationship back when it was good, trying to healthily move on as best you could.

but it's hard when nayeon storms into your office space, employees turning over to look on in curiosity at why im nayeon, face of TWICE, saver of JYP and the reason they all have jobs right now, was coming down to talk to lowly office workers.

she stops at your desk, "y/n."

"don't do this here nayeon. i'm at work. you should be too."

"i make the work. they can't do anything without me. stop avoiding me. let's talk."

you sigh frustratedly, looking around at the prying eyes, "fine but not here." you really didn't want to talk to her but this was better than causing a scene in front of the entire staff.

you lead her towards the staff bathrooms, locking the door behind you and gesturing for her to talk.

"look, i messed up. i admit it. these last few weeks have been hell without you. i realised how much you meant to me when i lost you. i promise to do everything i can to make up for all the shit i've pulled. i want us to be together again. i want what we used to have."

you sigh, "don't do this nayeon."

"what?"

"don't lie to me again. i can't take it."

"i'm not lying!"

"how can i trust that after you cheated on me?! after you lied about it to me for months?!"

"i'm sorry! i said i'm sorry! i want to earn your trust back again! i'm trying here y/n!"

"i tried for us for months. you didn't even acknowledge that. do you know how many times i've had to apologise to you? because i thought we were fighting because of me? how many times you've made me feel like i was just an insecure girlfriend? while you were out fucking half of seoul?"

"i'm sorry baby please! i'll never make you feel like that again. i promise to be honest and- and- i love you y/n please don't leave me."

"i can't believe you nayeon. and i don't want you to talk to me anymore. it's hard enough getting over you without you blowing up my phone every 2 minutes."

you turn around again, unlocking the door and intending to leave, but then nayeon rushes to hug you, squeezing herself against you, burrowing her face in your neck. you can feel her tears dripping down your skin.

"p-please y/n. i messed up. i don't want to lose you. i don't know what i'll do with myself. i was wrong the other day. i'm the pathetic one. i can't live without you y/n please."

everything in you is screaming to take her back. but she'd made a fool of you enough times. you shrug her off, opening the door and leaving her behind for a second time.

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖

it seems your message got through to nayeon this time. the next few days are a little quieter. she doesn't try to contact you, nor does she try and come by your house or catch you outside on one of your routines.

your coworkers had tried to ask you how you knew the im nayeon, but you brushed them off, saying she was just asking you some things about her next promotion. you were thankful you didn't have to see nayeon too much at work, and she didn't try and confront you again either, so things returned to as relative normal as it could get working for a major entertainment company.

that is until, you're suddenly called up into the top brass' office on a random tuesday morning as soon as you clock in.

"y/n. please sit."

you hesitate, tentatively sitting down on one of expensive leather chairs, back straight and feeling sweat collect in your palms.

the directors in the room gesture towards the massive screen at the end of the board table, flicking it on.

your eyes widen as the audio starts to play. it was a shoddily recorded video from inside a bathroom cubicle, but you could clearly hear the argument you and nayeon had just a few days prior. your cheeks flare up as the video continues to play, you feel extremely small in the boardroom, your privacy completely invaded, your breakup argument aired out for everyone in the room to hear.

"now y/n, of course we knew about your relationship with nayeon, if we didn't, nayeon would quite literally be in deep shit right now."

you shuffle in your seat, deeply uncomfortable with the various men staring at you, "this was a personal conversation between nayeon and i. how did you get this video?"

"someone recorded the two of you in the bathroom and then leaked it to all the major news and gossip sites. this video is currently being viewed by everyone across seoul and has even gained some traction overseas."

your heart sinks, this is the worst possible outcome, worse than just losing nayeon, worse than finding out she was cheating on you, it's finding out all of that with all her fans, all her haters, who didn't even know nayeon was dating you of all people, find out it was actually you who broke up with her and not the other way around.

"you work in publicity. i'm sure you understand how this is not a good look for nayeon's public image right now yes?"

you nod dumbly.

"great. so we're gonna need you to fix this. we have press outside waiting for a statement from you already."

you stutter, "r-right now?!"

"yes. so you better come up with something quick if you want to keep your job." they're getting more impatient.

you gulp, nodding again, mind scrambling, ideas flying through your head while they lead you up, and then outside to a room with various journalists and photographers. you don't even realise you're standing in front of everyone on the podium until one of the directors nudges you, indicating for you to speak.

"u-um h-hi everyone. i'm sure you're all here because of the recent news about nayeon and i's... altercation."

cameras start flashing as everyone looks at you with bated breath.

you can tell the directors behind you get a little antsy under the attention, wanting you to hurry things up.

you clear your throat, "nayeon is involved with a new filming project that has not yet been revealed. as part of her publicity team she asked me to run a few lines with her in what we thought would be the privacy of one of the staff bathrooms. i have had a little experience in the film industry which is why she specifically asked for me. there is nothing else going on between us and there has been nothing going on between us. this is all simply a big misunderstanding and we hope that you will respect nayeon's privacy in the months coming forward as she prepares this new project for you all. thank you."

as soon as you're done the reporters all clamour forwards, yelling out questions but you're pushed to the side, being led away quickly, distantly hearing someone take over the podium stating a curt, "there will be no questions at this time."

you're still processing everything that's happening when they sit you down in a room you haven't seen before, terrified you're about to lose your job, but also concerned for nayeon. you wonder if she's seen the news yet? you shouldn't care about her anymore but you couldn't help it. it was still too soon to be completely over her. this was all happening so quickly. you knew falling for a celebrity was going to be difficult, and in the beginning nayeon had promised that as long as you had her, everything would be okay, neither of you expected this to be the outcome.

your head's in your hands when you hear the door open, the hushed whispers of people and footsteps doing very little to pull you out of your thoughts. you wait for them to quiet down, the door shutting quietly behind them. you take a breath, prepared for any outcome, looking up to face your consequences.

only to find it was nayeon standing in front of you. you finally take in your surroundings, it seems you were in one of the dance practice rooms. you didn't even realise you had been taken to the idol levels of the building, no recollection of even going into the elevator.

you stand apprehensively, "n-nayeon."

she stares you down, eyes fierce. she's silent for a moment, before speaking up, "are you fucking stupid y/n?"

you flinch at her tone "w-what?"

she stalks forward slowly, backing you against the floor to ceiling mirrors behind you. you can see your own face in the mirror on the other side of the wall, terrified and bloodshot.

"i said, are you fucking stupid?"

"n-no?"

"i thought you were meant to be on my publicity team." she spits out the words.

"i- well- they didn't give me any time. i had to come up with something on the spot."

"i told you when we first started dating didn't i? that as long as you were with me everything would be okay? that meant for you to leave things to me to deal with."

you gulp, your hands flat on the mirror behind you, trying to make yourself as small as possible, the coolness of the glass doing little to ground you.

she scoffs, "pathetic little baby. you really are useless without me aren't you? a film project? are you serious? now the company has to go find a screenwriter to write our private discussion into some shitty film that i have to work even more for. and they're gonna rush me too since you said we've had this in the works for a while already. not to mention it means we'll have to spend more time together. after i had just started letting you go too."

she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose and squeezing her eyes shut, bringing her hands up to mess through her hair in frustration. you nervously take her in, she must have just come from dance practice. her skin still has the sheen of sweat, clothes sticking to her body, you always had a thing for her after her workout sessions. you're not sure if it's because you hadn't been intimate in so long, or if you just missed her, but there's a twinge of arousal in your core at the sight of her so close to you, being able to smell the distinct scent of her sweat, clean of any cigarettes or perfumes you didn't recognise, it was just nayeon.

your eyes flick back up to her's when you realise they were open the whole time, watching you check her out. she knew the effect she had on you, her lips turn upward in a little smirk.

she takes a step forward, cocking her head. you don't have any more steps back to take.

"i thought you wanted us to be over y/n."

"i d-do." you're eyes are flicking everywhere, avoiding her dangerous gaze, but the mirrors only make you grow more aroused, able to see the two of you from all angles.

"really?" she's close enough you can feel her breath fan over your face, her voice husking out in a drawl she's reserved for the bedroom. "so you don't want me at all right now?"

"n-not at all m-" you slip, almost calling her by her title in bed, something you haven't used in months.

she raises an eyebrow, "what was that baby?"

"n-nothing."

she tuts, "so if you don't want me... you're not gonna be wet if i check right?"

your eyes widen, thighs clenching together uncontrollably, "n-no."

"hmm, and if you're lying?"

"i'm not."

"prove it."

you flush, the proximity making you feel dizzy, it was like your first time with her all over again.

"how am i gonna prove it?"

she walks back then, completely nonchalant, sitting on the couch on the other end of the room, legs spread, arms thrown over the back of the couch carelessly, eyes never leaving your body.

"strip."

"w-what?! we're not together anymore i'm not gonna-"

"strip."

"nayeon this isn't- we're both at work-"

"it hasn't stopped us before. i clearly remember fucking you on the rooftop of this building while everyone was at that special lunch event for JYP's birthday."

you're so flustered, mind torn between your brain and your throbbing cunt, she already had such an effect on you after not having touched you for months.

"i'm not doing this with you nayeon. this is completely unprofessional not to mention anyone could walk in and-"

"fine. leave."

you're completely stumped. her hot and cold attitude was sending you into a confusion you couldn’t make sense of. you walk towards the door, bring your hand up to the doorknob, but before you know it, instead of listening to your brain and leaving then and there, you lock the door, turning back to your ex-girlfriend who looks smugly sat and comfortable, expecting you to have chosen her.

"you can never be good can you baby? i have to tell you the opposite for you to do what i want you to do hmm?"

you mutter a small shut up, slipping out of your clothes quickly and moving in towards her. but the second you try climbing into her lap, she's pushing you up, standing, one hand on your chest, the other cupping your face.

"nuh uh. you don't just get to use me and leave me. i'm the one that's mad with you right now. dumb little thing couldn't even come up with a good enough excuse for that publicity stunt back there. you know you come to mommy first when something about my job comes up don't you?"

"i-i-! i didn't have a choice! they had the press outside waiting as soon as i got the news and-"

"there's always a choice. poor little thing's just too innocent, letting herself get taken advantage of. you know what the media are saying right now? that it's all a lie. that we do have history and you're the one that made the statement because the company wanted you to take the fall. that doesn't sound good does it?"

you shake your head, feeling terribly exposed in just your underwear and bra.

"no it doesn't. and now i’m gonna have to fix the mess you made."

you can't do anything else except bow your head in submission, mumbling out a small, "i'm sorry."

she tilts your head back up to look at her, and even though you had a few inches on her, her presence filled the room, you were tiny standing before her.

"at least you know how to apologise. now are you going to let me check if you're wet?"

you nod, afraid of speaking up.

she smirks, trailing her fingers down your chest, skimming over your nipples and your stomach, leaving goosebumps in her wake. you try your hardest not to shiver or squirm underneath her touch, anticipating what nayeon was to find at your core.

her fingers finally dip down past your hips, pulling down your panties slowly, watching you like a hawk. and then her long, long fingers are teasing down the line of your cunt, she tuts, collecting your arousal and pulling her hand back up.

"looks like you were lying after all. what are we gonna do about this hmm?"

your eyes clenched shut at the feeling of her fingers running down your pussy, you're unable to open them again when she questions you. "d-don't know mommy."

nayeon grins at the title, "so polite. so dumb. it's okay. mommy's gonna take care of you now yeah?"

and then before you can formulate your next thought she's turning you around, pushing you down into the couch. you land with an oomph, eyes opening at the shock of force, but nayeon simply gets on her knees and rips your panties off, pulling you to the edge of the couch and throwing your legs over her shoulders, diving in without another word.

your hand immediately comes to her head, gripping her hair and pulling slightly in the way you know she likes, moaning as you feel her clean all the slick that's leaked down to your inner thighs and outer lips.

she's absolutely insatiable. starved for pussy like she hasn't eaten anything in three days. she doesn't care when you whine and tell her to slow down or be softer, she knew better, you dripped at her rough treatment. it was like riding a bike to nayeon. despite not having tasted you in so long she still remembers each sliver of skin that makes your toes curl, every spot that makes your heels dig into her back and beg for more.

all of your senses are focused only on the feeling of her tongue inside of you. you can feel the vibrations of her moaning and speaking up, but your ears don't pick up on the words, strained only to hear the sloppy sounds of nayeon slurping up every drop of arousal that spills out of you.

"m-mommy- i- oh fuck-"

you don't hear her response, only a messy suck on your clit as she hums around it.

"g-gonna- fuck mommy please- make me cum please-"

she never stops her assault, her hands gripping your thighs, keeping them forced open while you wriggle and strain against her. one of your hands leaves her head, coming up to palm at your breast over your bra, easily finding your hard nipple through the fabric and pinching. you can feel yourself clench at the feeling, more arousal leaking out of you, all of which nayeon eagerly drinks up.

one more thrust of her tongue, another suck to your clit, another pinch of your nipple, and you're crying out her name, throwing your head back, hand clutching onto her head for dear life, but then everything stops.

you feel the orgasm that had near electrified you pull inwards and back up to your stomach, like the waves on a beach right before the tsunami hits. you're panting, looking back down and clumsily trying to bring your hand to your clit to bring back the orgasm she ripped away from you so violently.

she smacks your hand away, pulling you up onto shaky legs and then turning you around, pushing you back down so you're ass up, grabbing onto the back of the couch to support what your legs couldn't. she kicks open your legs wider, delirious at the way her spit mixed with your slick dribbles down your thighs, hands coming in immediately to scoop it back up, teasing the sensitive skin on your inner thighs.

she leans over you, pulling your hair back so you're forced to look into the mirror right in front of you. the scene is pornographic. your eyes are lidded, mouth open, drool slipping out, skin blotchy and red, while nayeon is behind you nosing at your neck, her mouth covered in you, hair a mess from the way you had pulled her out of her updo.

"look at you-" she coos, "so fucking pathetic for me. spread out like this with me between your legs, where anyone could walk in and see you come undone because of me. that would give the press a field day wouldn't it?" she laughs cruelly, tugging your hair back more to expose your throat, "what would you say then? would this be practice for another film again?" she bites down at the side of your neck, sucking a newly formed mark into your skin.

“mmf- mommy please- more please- i d-don’t know i-“

"god you don't know how hard these last few days have been for me. i don't know what more you want from me. i apologised and i told you i'd never do it again, that only you would get to see how these fingers feel inside of you." she punctuates her sentence by sliding two fingers inside, no further preparation needed with how soaked you were after she ate you out. you immediately clench around her, your body needing to keep her inside of you as long as possible, terrified she would leave you on the precipice of cumming again. "but that just wasn't enough for you was it? greedy little baby. i bet you missed me too. actually, i know you missed me too with how fucking wet you are right now. no one can fuck you like i can right? no one can make you feel as good as i do."

every filthy word that comes out of her mouth is accompanied with a thrust into your pussy. the squelch of her fingers entering and exiting you leave your thighs shaking, almost all your body weight held up by your arms on the back of the couch. it’s pathetic the way she has you wrapped around her finger, literally. you bite your lip, shame washing over you as you remember where you were and what she did to you. you’d expect that feeling to anger you, push her off of you, but you only clench down tighter against her, impervious to your more sane thoughts.

“what if you were the one who leaked that video to the press? did you want my attention on you that badly baby? want the whole world’s attention on us? was that your sick way of revenge against me, let the whole world know you were mine first instead of all those other randoms i fucked? you’d love if someone came in right now and filmed us wouldn’t you? release that to the media too? that way you’d be immortalised, everyone would see you’re just a fucktoy for im nayeon.”

you whine, needing to come so bad the overstimulation forces tears out of your eyes, the sight of her pressed up against you, your breasts bouncing with each thrust of her fingers, still contained within your bra.

nayeon notices your line of sight, hand snaking up around your waist to pull your cup down roughly, your left tit bouncing out, nipple already perked up and pretty. nayeon wastes no time, still whispering filth into your ear while she watches herself take your exposed tit into her large hands, squeezing as you moan at her touch, pushing out your chest submissively for her. she moulds and plays around with it, fingers coming in to pinch at the nipple, smirking when she feels your cunt clench around her fingers at the movement, rolling your nipple around between your fingers and pulling it roughly.

“you gonna cum baby? you’re squeezing me so fucking tight right now.”

you babble in response, a string of yes and please slurred together.

“mm you’re mine. if anyone ever fucks you in the future all you’re gonna remember is me. how i feel inside you right now. reaching parts of you no one else will be able to reach. you’re ruined for me baby. now cum.”

you shudder as you cum on command, legs completely giving out while nayeon holds you up, still thrusting into you to help you ride out your orgasm.

it takes you a while to come down and back into your senses, nayeon doesn’t seem to leave your body, her fingers still fit snugly inside you while you flutter around the feeling of being full.

finally, when she’s had her fun, she props you back down onto the couch, you’re sprawled open, cum leaking out of you, one tit falling out of your bra, arms uselessly laid against your side.

she smirks at the sight, fixing herself in the mirror before looking back to you.

“i’ll talk to the directors about the film. you don’t have to worry your dumb little brain about that anymore. but it is a little weird for one of my publicity officers to be running lines with me, so i’m also gonna talk to them about bringing you on as one of my managers. that means you’re gonna move your pretty ass back into my apartment, bring all your things and whatever else you need, non-negotiable. i own you y/n. and i know deep down you still want me too.”

she takes her leave at that, leaving you exposed and sweaty, head empty except for the fact that she was right. you’d never be able to get enough of nayeon, you’d always be in this twisted, torturous cycle of misguided love and lust with her, and you brought it upon yourself.

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Motion Sickness by Phoebe Bridgers

tws: trauma, child abuse, blue getting tipsy

previous chapter → chapter 6

word count: 6.4k

You’re already late to Friendsgiving.

The stuffing burned. You’d been in the shower, washing away the sweat and things you wish to forget, the scalding water pelting the burn on your chest. It had started to look better—less red, less bitter. It had begun to forgive you—but it still throbbed, a dull ache that flared with every fiery drop and unpredicted movement. The acrid smell of smoke didn’t hit you until it clawed its way under the bathroom door.

Dripping wet and wrapped in a threadbare towel, you bolted to the kitchen, your feet thwacking against the floor. Smoke slithered from the oven’s withered edges, curling upward with a mind of its own, eager to consume everything in its path.

It wasn’t the first time smoke had chased you.

Once, when you were young, your father burned a pizza in the oven. He’d left you alone in the house, small and helpless, while he wandered off somewhere. When the smoke crept through the screen door, you stumbled outside, coughing, your tiny lungs unable to fight the gray fingers curling through the trees and clinging to the sky. You called for him, begged him to save you with fragmented warbles and a quivering chin.

When he found you, grimy and gasping, he didn’t hold you or brush the soot from your cheeks. He smacked you. Open-palmed. Swift. Stinging.

You wanted to cry then, to let the tears fall so maybe he’d feel guilty, maybe he’d see you as something fragile and worth protecting. But you couldn’t. You didn’t. And he didn’t.

He waved at the smoke pouring from the house and made you sleep outside that night, the sky vast and cold above you, its stars nothing but indifferent pinpricks in the dark. You tried praying to a God above, looking up at the stars with whispers you hoped would travel far enough to reach someone, something. No answer.

Now, standing in front of your smoking oven, it’s hard to tell if the smell filling your nose is coming from the burning food or memories that are embedded in your bones, licking at the marrow and sucking off the meat. The darkness of that smoke feels like it never really let go. It's stuck in your hair and the creases of your palms, stuck in your throat and everywhere you’ve tried to belong.

You yank open the oven door, coughing as the heat prickles your face, and pull the tray out with jittery hands. The stuffing is ruined, blackened and crumbled. Its harsh scent stings your eyes.

So, you start over.

By the time the stuffing is in the oven again, you’re in front of your bathroom mirror, your chest heaving from the effort. The burn on your chest screams at you with every breath, though it’s quieter now than it was. It looks less like a wound and more like a reminder, its edges faded but still aching.

Your neck, however, refuses to be quiet, refuses to let you forget it's there. Deep bruises bloom across your skin, sickly hues of green and purple that bleed through makeup no matter how many layers you cake on. Each attempt to cover them is a losing battle that leaves you frustrated. Finally, you give up and scrub your neck clean, throwing the foundation-streaked cloth into the sink.

You dig through your drawer, pulling out an old, itchy turtleneck. It’s a hay-colored sweater, rough and coarse against your skin. The threads scratch at the raw patches on your chest and cling to your neck You pull at the collar, desperate for it to give you some air. It doesn’t help. It never does.

Now, you’re at Olive’s door. Voices hum through the walls, muffled but warm, and her laugh rings out above them. Lively. Ludic. Your stomach churns, nerves buzzing as your fingers twitch in your mittens. A tic builds in your throat—a compulsive hum you can’t quite swallow. Your head jerks slightly to the left, the movement sending a sharp sting through your chest and neck. It almost makes you whine, but you press your lips together and try to push the pain somewhere else.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand against the sweater’s collar, the coarse fabric adding insult to injury. The tic comes again, this time with a sharp hum that escapes your lips. You glance down at the tray balancing precariously in your other hand and force yourself to breathe.

The burn on your chest throbs. Your head jerks again. You knock twice, sharp and quick, before you can change your mind.

The door swings open almost immediately, the warmth of the room spilling out into the gelid night. It's so warm that you feel like you are glowing, incandescent and hot to the touch. Olive stands there, her hair lit like a halo by the soft light of her home.

“Finally!” she sighs, her voice dreamy. Effortless. She takes one look at you and snatches the tray from your hands before you can even open your mouth. The sweat pooling in your palms is luckily shielded by your mittens, stopping the tray from slipping from your hands.

“Hi. Sorry I’m late—I burned the stuffing, and then I had to—”

“It’s fine.” She cuts you off with an airy laugh, waving away your words. You can see them dissipating in the air with your foggy breath. “You’re here now, and that’s what matters.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder as she guides you inside, the gesture so casual and warm that it catches you off guard. The room is small but alive, people cramp themselves onto the couch, elbow to elbow, knee to knee. Glasses clink, laughter spills over the hum of conversation, and the air smells of rosemary and wine. Price is wrapped in Olives checkered apron, bent halfway in the oven with a baster in hand. He peeks over his shoulder and smiles. It’s cheeky, glinting against the darkness of his bushy mutton chops.  

“Hey Blue,” He says, head back in the oven, Sylvia Plath style. That wouldn’t work though, his shoulders are too big to fit into the small thing.

The word "Hi" spills from your lips like syrup—thick, sticky, and sluggish, clinging to the air before it dissipates into the space between you and the world you’ve never quite felt part of. The house around you pulses with an unfamiliar energy, like the hum of a broken lightbulb flickering in the corner of a room that is too full of ghosts. Olive’s decorations are too much, and yet not enough, a glittering cascade of beauty that threatens to swallow you whole. Golden garlands twinkle across the dining room ceiling, casting delicate shadows that dance like ghosts on the walls, frozen sunlight trapped in a world that has already moved on.

You shrug off your coat and drape it over the hook by the door, fingers brushing the fabric as though it were a lifeline. You fold your arms around yourself, a reflex, like gathering the shards of something you didn’t know had cracked. It’s not to shield yourself from Olive or Price—they are familiar, constants in a place that doesn’t belong to you. No, it’s the strangers that linger, their laughter spilling like wine into a glass already full, unfamiliar faces that hang in the air like fog, dense and suffocating, threatening to smother you in their warmth.

Across the room, Johnny catches your eye. His mohawk juts up like a beacon, daring the world to notice. His body sprawls across the leather couch, limbs loose and easy, the fabric creaking under him like an old door about to fall off its hinges. And then, just like that, his gaze locks with yours, sharp and unrelenting, and you feel it—the weight of him—like a stone dropped into the depths of an otherwise still pond. A grin splits his face, jagged and crooked, a flash of something dark and teasing. The leather groans beneath him, and your nerves tighten, an invisible string pulling taut in your chest. You turn away, seeking refuge in the warm familiarity of Olive’s face, her smile a flicker of light in the haze of strangers.

Olive notices, of course, her eyes finding yours as she slices through the conversation like a breath of fresh air. "Okay, Blue," she says, her voice soft but firm, cutting through the knot in your throat. "You’re helping me with the mac and cheese."

You exhale, a sigh that feels like a storm passing. You nod, grateful for the distraction, the simple task of grating cheese a small act of survival, of doing something normal in a room full of things that make you feel like you don’t belong. Your hand aches with the motion, but it’s a welcome pain, the rhythm of it grounding you in a way that nothing else can.

"Doesn’t he look so snazzy in my apron?" Olive teases, and you glance up just in time to see Price flitting around the kitchen, his movements fluid, almost unrecognizable in the apron that clings to him like a strange second skin.

A laugh slips out of you, jagged and raw, a sound that feels foreign in your throat. It cracks as it leaves your lips, a brief, fragile thing that vanishes before it can settle. You hate how it sounds—forced, brittle—but it’s all you can offer.

Price grins, his deep, rumbling laugh shaking the walls, filling the room with its warmth. "It’s making me a better cook than you."

"Oh, you wish," Olive retorts, her voice light, teasing, but there’s a softness there too, a warmth that clings to her words like the memory of summer rain. As she leans past him to stir the pot, Price brushes a hand over her shoulder, a touch that is almost absent, but meaningful nonetheless.

Their banter fills the room, a background hum that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t quite reach. And then, Olive’s eyes flicker toward you, a mischievous gleam in them.

"What?" you mumble, the grater scraping against the block of cheese, the sound steady and metered like a clock ticking in the silence.

"Here comes Johnny," she murmurs, her half-smile betraying the amusement that you don’t quite share.

You glance over your shoulder. There he is—Johnny—moving toward you with the lazy confidence of a predator, eyes narrowing as he inches closer. His grin is wide, calculated, a mask he wears like armor to disarm. He’s too close now, his presence heavy, pressing against the air like a stormfront moving in. You feel the heat of his breath as it ghosts along the side of your neck, and your stomach churns, a cold knot tightening as he leans in, his voice a velvet slither.

"Hey, bonnie," he drawls, the words curling around you, soft and dangerous, like smoke that seeps into your lungs and lingers.

You want to shrink away, to vanish into the shadows of the kitchen, but you don’t. You stand there, waiting, caught in the pull of something you can’t name, your heart pounding like the beat of a drum you didn’t choose to hear.

"Hi," you manage, the word barely a whisper, fragile as a breath lost in the turbulent hum of the kitchen. It fades almost immediately, swallowed by the clatter of plates and pots, the heat of the stove, the sizzle of oil in the pan. Your fingers, slick with tension, glide the grater down the block of cheese with an intensity that almost betrays you. The blade kisses the surface too close to your skin, a faint, electric reminder of how easily things can go wrong.

“Get out of the kitchen,” Olive commands sharply, her brow lifted in a maternal arch, the kind of look that says she knows everything—what you’re thinking, what you’re hiding. “I know you’re trying to sneak a bite of something.”

“I’m not sneakin’ anything!” Johnny protests, his voice rising, honeyed and teasing, a mock offense that falls like a soft sigh through the air. The sound crawls along your spine, a warm shiver igniting across your shoulders, goosebumps blooming like stars across the expanse of your skin.

“Don’t give in, ‘Liv,” Price calls from the pantry, his voice low, thick with amusement, muffled by the rustle of cans and spices. “He’s a scavenger. He’s not getting shit.”

Johnny laughs—a light, airy scoff that slips through the room like smoke, dissolving into the space, leaving behind only the echo of something faint, elusive. He steps closer, his presence a gravity you can’t escape, pulling the air tight around you. “I jest wanted to introduce meself,” he says, his voice now lower, darker, like a velvet cloud pressing down on your chest. It lingers, suffocating, until his gaze settles on you—a quiet, insistent weight. His eyes lock with yours, a slow, searing pressure that promises to pin you in place, hold you until you can no longer move, speak, or breathe.

"Name’s Johnny."

You force a smile, one that barely skims the surface of your lips, like a cracked porcelain mask. It’s more a reflex than anything else—automatic, stiff, lacking any trace of warmth. “Blue,” you murmur, stealing a glance at him, just long enough to see the sharp edge of his gaze cut through the air, the flicker of something sharp—dangerous—in the depths of his eyes. Your attention snaps back to the cheese, the task of grating a flimsy excuse to escape the magnetic pull of his stare.

“From the diner. I remember.” His voice, smooth as silk, slides around you, weaving through the quiet spaces like a thread binding your senses to him. The weight of his gaze on you is almost tactile, like a slow burn against your skin. It presses through the veil of your peripheral vision, making your pulse stutter, each throb loud in your ears as it rushes to your throat.

“Olive!” Price calls from the pantry again, his voice an abrupt slice through the thick tension, breaking the spell. “Y’got any idea where the oregano is?”

Olive mutters something unintelligible under her breath, stomping toward the pantry, leaving you alone with Johnny. The silence left in her wake is heavy, like a storm about to break. The distance between you both shrinks, as if the air itself tightens, presses in.

“How’s the burn, lass?” His question is a sudden gust of wind, sharp and biting, cutting through the heat and making the hairs on your neck stand at attention. It stirs something deep inside you, makes your chest tighten and your breath catch, though you can’t quite place why. You grip the grater harder, your palm slick with sweat that betrays you, a signal of just how much he rattles you.

“Uh—it’s better. Fine, really,” you answer, your voice smaller than you want it to be, swallowed by the weight of his unwavering gaze. You wish you could control the way your heart starts to race, the way the air feels thicker, harder to breathe the longer he stands there. His gaze doesn’t waver, though it remains casual, deceptively so, like a predator pretending indifference while waiting for the slightest movement, the smallest crack in your composure.

“Good.” He draws the word out, savoring it, letting it linger between you like the softest of threats. And even though his tone remains deceptively easy, you know—without a doubt—that his eyes are waiting for you to falter. To show him something you’ve kept hidden, something you can’t afford to let slip.

Before he can speak again, the door creaks open, the sound slicing through the stillness like a knife cutting through velvet. You don’t raise your eyes, but the chill that rushes in steals the warmth from the room, biting at your skin like an unwelcome guest. It lingers in the air, a stark reminder of the world beyond this little sanctuary of soft conversation and heat.

“I brought gifts,” Simon’s voice rolls in, smooth but carrying weight, the kind that demands attention like thunder rolling in the distance before the storm. You flinch—not outwardly, not enough for anyone to catch—but your hand stills mid-motion, hovering above the cheese as if his very presence has sent ripples through the calm.

When you finally glance up, he’s placing a bottle of red wine and a foil-wrapped dish onto the counter. The deep red of the wine catches the light, as if it holds the evening’s secrets within it. He’s dressed in dark jeans, sharp and unscathed, with a navy wool sweater that clings just enough to outline the muscle beneath, the shoulders broad like the horizon at dusk. Tattoos snake down his arms, curling like dark tendrils around his wrists, hidden art that only seems to emerge when he’s close, as though parts of him were always kept at bay.

His gaze locks with yours, and for a moment, the room feels too small to contain the weight of it. He smiles, his lips pulling back to reveal white teeth, the slight chapping of them speaking of cold nights and long drives. “You’re late,” Olive’s voice rings out with playful reproach, as she reaches for the tray with hands that know the rhythm of shared meals.

“I know, I know. Had to stop for wine. Long line,” Simon answers, the shrug of his shoulders dismissing the lateness like it’s nothing at all. His jacket slips off, revealing the familiar scabbed knuckles, each wound telling a story deeper than words. They’re raw, angry against the soft fabric of his shirt, as though they belong to someone who’s lived in the spaces between calm and chaos.

“Well, it’s a good brand, so I’ll forgive you,” Price chimes in, his voice warm and familiar as he uncorks the bottle, the sound sharp and final, like a sentence passed in a court of good taste.

“Nice apron, boss,” Simon says, his tone light but weighted with something more, something sharp that cuts through the air between you like a thread pulled taut.

“Pleasure of my wife,” Price quips, his hand steady as he pours the wine with a flourish, each gesture so practiced it feels like a performance. Every motion has purpose, as if he’s acting out a play where every guest is a character, and each gesture holds meaning.

Johnny grabs a fistful of cheese, stuffing it into his mouth before anyone can stop him, his grin wide and unrepentant.

“Hey! No dirty fingers in the food!” Olive snaps, swatting at him with a swift, playful flick. He laughs, stepping back in exaggerated shock, as if the moment were made for an audience only he can see.

The air shifts again, thickening with Simon’s presence as he leans in, his voice low and measured, a hum that vibrates against the very walls of the room. “Hi, Blue,” he murmurs, his head tilting just enough to catch your gaze, like a wolf who knows the hunt is close but won’t rush it.

“Hi,” you whisper, your grip tightening on the bowl as though it could hold the moment still, anchoring you to the room, to the space between you.

Olive reappears, her wine glass gleaming like a polished ruby in the dim light, the liquid inside swirling like blood in a vein. She steps into the room with the effortless grace of someone who’s long mastered the art of disappearing into the spaces they occupy. Her eyes flick between you and Simon, measuring the air between you two with the clinical precision of a seasoned chemist, knowing exactly when to introduce a new element, when to let it simmer.

Price greets her with a kiss to the crown of her head, a gesture that lands soft as rain on a tired roof. His hand gives her rear a playful tap, a reminder of old routines, of moments that don’t need words to linger. She rolls her eyes, the motion habitual, but even in that, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or just the quiet contentment of a life too familiar to be anything else. She swallows down the wine, her throat moving with the smooth, deliberate motion of a cat licking its wounds in the sun.

“Thanks, sweetpea,” Olive purrs, tugging at the apron strings knotted at Price’s hips. There’s something intimate in the way her fingers dance around the fabric, a tether binding them together in this small, circumscribed world. As if their world, this little kitchen where time seems to pause, is the only one that matters.

Simon’s gaze sharpens when he asks, “Olive’s got you cooking?” His voice, calm and composed, lingers in the air, like a stone sinking slowly into still water. There’s weight in his presence, a subtle pressure that presses on the ribs, a quiet pull like the tide, always there, always moving beneath the surface.

“I want to,” you reply, shrugging as the words slip from your mouth, slippery and unformed, before you can weigh their cost. They feel like something you might have said years ago, when you still believed in the power of wanting. The truth, like a cold shadow, stirs quietly in the background.

Simon’s brow arches, and the pause between you thickens. His gaze lingers, a soft dissection, like the way sunlight pulls at the edges of things, revealing the cracks you’d rather keep hidden. You feel as if he's peeling back layers, layer by layer, until there's nothing left but the parts of you you'd prefer to forget.

When you finally meet his eyes, there’s a flicker of amusement—a quiet, knowing glint—as though he’s caught the lie you didn’t even know you were telling. A shadow of something darker flits across his expression, like a stormcloud crossing the moon. His eyes gleam with something unreadable, but you know—he sees right through it.

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not working,” he comments, his voice curling around the words with a softness that betrays a hidden edge, something faint but sharp, like the quiet hum of a cello in a room too silent to bear the sound.

“Olive made me take off,” you admit, eyes dropping to the counter, where your fingers twirl around the cold, unforgiving edges of the cheese grater. It’s a small gesture, but in it, the tension in your hands speaks louder than any words could.

“Probably for your own good,” Simon teases, the sip of wine punctuating his words like the final note of a suspended chord. The sound of it lingers in the air, thick and heavy, as though the room is holding its breath, waiting.

“I don’t mind.” Another lie. The words feel sharp against your throat, like broken glass. You push them out anyway, not letting them falter, though the weight of them feels like lead in your stomach. The thought of returning to your father’s house—his voice like a whip and his hands like steel—tightens your chest.

Simon’s eyes remain on you, his gaze quiet and unwavering. He doesn’t press, just holds the silence with you, giving you room to breathe in a space that feels smaller by the second. His lack of words is a concession, a gift of sorts, the kind of offer you can’t return.

Olive interrupts the moment, her voice light as a summer breeze. She holds up two glasses of wine, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, and doesn’t wait for your response. The glass she presses into your hand is cold, smooth against your palm, and the liquid inside feels like something forbidden as it slips past your lips—rich, tart, like a balm to the wound you’re too tired to care for.

“Good, right?” Olive teases, her voice like a bell, sharp and light, as she tilts her glass toward yours in an exaggerated mock-toast.

You hum in agreement, focusing on the way the wine dances down your throat, its warmth settling in your chest like a fire too low to burn. It's smooth, numbing, the kind of comfort that doesn’t ask too many questions, just offers its presence—an unspoken agreement between you and the night.

And for a moment, the room feels just a little bit smaller, the edges a little more forgiving.

“Surprised Price didn’t pick this out,” Simon jokes, his eyes flicking toward the other man, who’s engrossed in the turkey carving ritual, every movement deliberate and reverent, like a priest at the altar, cleaving into the flesh of the bird with devotion.

“Price would pick boxed wine if I let him,” Olive quips back, a playful fire in her glare aimed at her husband, but softened by the warmth of affection.

The kitchen hums around you, the voices and laughter flowing like honey, sweet but thick, and somehow sticky. Yet, you feel distant from it all, your focus slipping through the cracks of the moment like sand slipping from your clenched fist. Johnny’s laugh, loud and brash, rips through the air, filling the space like a storm cloud bursting with rain. Simon’s presence beside you is a weight—heavy, suffocating—as if gravity itself has chosen to rest on your bones, a force that tugs at your very center. You wish you could sink into the floorboards, disappear into the seams of the house like a whisper that no one remembers.

Ten minutes pass, though time feels as though it’s dragging its feet, unwilling to hurry. The turkey emerges from the oven, golden skin shimmering like a prize, gleaming in the artificial light. It’s a spectacle, untouched by the hands of real life, a thing that could only exist in the pages of a catalog—perfect, polished, out of reach. It sits there, a symbol of a life you could never own, no matter how many hours you spent chasing the illusion of it.

Olive tugs you into your seat, pulling you closer with a gentleness that feels foreign. Johnny takes the place beside you, as though slotted in place, a man-sized puzzle piece. Across the table, Simon settles into his chair, leaning back, drink in hand, his fingers tracing patterns along the glass’s rim as if the table itself were an ancient artifact—something he’s studying, examining, perhaps deciding whether it’s worth his attention.

The conversation swirls around you like wind through a field of tall grass, all clinking glasses and overlapping voices. The golden garland above seems to glow with a light that is too perfect, like halos that should belong to angels but somehow rest on mortal heads. It makes the room feel unreal, as though the whole thing could dissolve like mist if you looked away too long. You chew your food with the precision of someone on autopilot—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—filling the empty spaces with tasteless bites. You nod along, but the words are like echoes, bouncing off your skull and fading before they can register.

Johnny’s voice cuts through, jagged and loud, like a knife scraping the edge of a stone. “So, Blue,” he says, the name falling from his lips with the sharpness of a saw’s edge. “How d’you know Olive?”

You don’t want to look up. You don’t want to see the expectant faces around you. So, you keep your gaze fixed on your plate, hoping the food might swallow you whole or at least offer some kind of refuge from the scrutiny, the weight of their attention pressing in from all sides, suffocating.

“Coworkers, huh?” Johnny’s grin splits like a crack in ice, his voice a low hum as he leans in closer, the scent of beer pushing you back in your seat like a tide. “Never heard her mention you.”

“I keep to myself,” you reply, your voice calm, though you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into your skin.

“Clearly,” he teases, fingers brushing against yours, a casual touch that feels far too intimate as he reaches for his glass.

Across the table, Simon clears his throat. It’s subtle, a soft rumble like distant thunder, just enough to make Johnny pause. Simon’s eyes are locked on him, unreadable, but there's a charge in his gaze, a quiet warning, sharp as a blade beneath calm water.

Johnny shrugs, muttering something under his breath, his grin slipping as he turns back to his plate.

You glance at Simon, and find him already watching you. His eyes are darker than you remember, the shadows beneath them deepening, the hollows of his face making his stare heavier, like gravity itself is pulling you in. The inflamed scabs on his knuckles catch your eye again, and the urge to ask about them rises, but you swallow it down, unsure if you want to know the answer.

After dinner, the house spins into a blur of motion. People scatter—some to the living room, others toward the kitchen for more wine—but you slip away unnoticed, the weight in your chest too much to carry. The bathroom is cool and quiet, a refuge where the soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound as you lock the door behind you, isolating yourself from the rest of the world.

You catch your reflection in the mirror, but quickly look away. Your sweater is hiked up, revealing the tight bandages weaving around your ribs, crisscrossing away from your one-size-too-big bra, and continuing its journey around your sternum. The burn throbs in defiance, swollen and achy, the pain sharper now than it was this morning.

You rummage through Olive’s medicine cabinet, fingers grazing over the cool bottles until one catches your eye—a prescription bottle. Antidepressants. You blink at the label, too dazed to focus on the name beneath it. Setting it aside, your fingers fumble as you search for something more…immediate. You find a bottle of Advil, pop a few pills, and swallow them with a handful of water from the tap, some dribbling down your chin. You wipe it away with your sleeve, the fabric damp but scratchy against your skin, a quiet reminder of the tension coiling around you.

A knock at the door startles you.

“Blue—” Simon’s voice filters through, low and calm, threading into the space. “It’s Riley. You alrigh’? Y’been in there a while. Jus’ worried.”

You’re moving before thought has time to settle, unlocking the door and swinging it open. His eyes widen in surprise, disbelief flashing across his face as you grasp the soft fabric of his sweater, tugging him inside. The wool is buttery under your fingers, a sensation both foreign and familiar, and for a brief, stolen moment, you pause—suspended in the unexpected warmth of him.

Simon doesn’t resist. He lets you pull him in, his presence filling the small space, the air thickening as you shut the door behind him. The bathroom seems impossibly smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders brushing the tiled walls like a storm cloud settling into the room. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet, and he does, his long legs folding awkwardly, pressed against yours in the tight space.

“My burn hurts,” you mumble, slumping back against the cool tiles, your voice heavy with exhaustion, each word thick as though the weight of everything pressing on you has turned your tongue to lead.

“It’s gonna do that,” Simon replies, his tone steady, firm, but not unkind—like a reminder of what you’ve neglected. “You neglected it.”

“No, like—like it really hurts,” you insist, your fingers fumbling at the hem of your sweater, as if searching for something to anchor you in a world that refuses to stand still. The words slip from your mouth, stuttering, as if they’re afraid to be spoken. “Just—just look.”

“Blue—” His voice softens, threading through the air like a fragile thread, one that could snap at the slightest tug. There’s something unspoken between you, an understanding so thin it could be made of mist, too delicate to be held in the light of day.

“Look!” The command escapes your lips with a desperation that feels almost primal, the kind of desperation that births from the deepest wells of need. You tug at the fabric of your sweater, intent on exposing the wound beneath, but Simon’s hand is there in an instant, a sudden force, wrapping around your wrist with the quiet strength of someone who’s borne witness to things that bleed in silence.

“What are you doin’?” His voice is soft now, but there’s an edge—a warning, like a hand hovering over the broken glass of a dream. His grip is firm, but there’s a tenderness to it, as if he knows the fragility of what you’re offering him.

“I’m showing you,” you say, the words tumbling out, raw and unpolished, as if they could never be anything but the exposed parts of you—the parts that were never meant to be shown. Your voice quivers, breaking open at the edges, offering him something you weren’t even sure was real.

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, his voice low, a quiet conviction wrapped around every syllable. “I believe you.”

His eyes, dark and unreadable, seem to understand more than you ever could say. You stand there, caught between the sharp breath that claws at your lungs and the steady rhythm of his hand, still holding your wrist, his thumb tracing circles along your skin. It’s a touch that holds you together, but threatens to tear you apart.

You don’t want to pull away. You can’t. The connection is a thin thread, fragile and necessary, like the last stitch holding a broken heart in place.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs, and you feel his gaze soften, though it carries the weight of something deeper, something harder. There’s a flicker of understanding in his eyes, something you can’t place, but it settles in the air between you like dust on a forgotten shelf.

“No, I’m not,” you slur, but the words feel like ghosts slipping through your fingers, no more substantial than the fog that clings to your mind. You can’t even make your body obey you. You press your forehead to the cold tile wall, and sigh. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” He exhales, the sound heavy in the room, a sigh that’s both worn and weary. There’s a quiet compassion in it, as if he understands the quiet wars you’re fighting, even if they’re wars you can’t speak aloud. “C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you out of the bathroom, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. The touch is fleeting but steady, grounding you as the hallway spins, the walls bending and swaying in your peripheral vision. His hand at your back is light, but it grounds you—just enough to stop you from crumbling completely, though it feels like everything inside you might just shatter if you let it.

In the guest bedroom, Simon helps you sit on the edge of the bed, his touch gentle as he kneels, movements precise and measured, like someone accustomed to tending to broken things. His fingers work deftly to untie your shoes, each motion a small act of tenderness, as though he’s learned the quiet language of care for the tired and lost.

“You didn’t have to—” you start, but he silences you with a soft murmur, the sound barely more than a breath.

“Hush,” he says, his voice a low, insistent hum. A command wrapped in compassion. “Jus’ lay back.”

The room tilts, the world around you spinning slowly as the alcohol buzzes in your veins, a lullaby played by the distant hum of the night. Your head sinks into the pillow’s softness, as if gravity itself is pulling you down, coaxing you to surrender to the darkness. The blanket clings to your body like a last defense against the cold, a fragile shield against the gnawing chill of an empty room. But Simon tucks it higher, drawing it gently beneath your chin, his movements deliberate, as if wrapping you in something more than fabric—something almost sacred, something that feels like care.

His hand pauses, fingertips brushing the stray strand of hair from your forehead, the gesture small, almost imperceptible, but it lingers in the air between you, a silent vow. He looks at you, studying the fragile curve of your face, as though trying to capture it, memorize the way you’ve finally found stillness. You, who are never still, who wear your restlessness like a second skin.

Your breathing evens out, the soft rise and fall of your chest now a steady rhythm in the quiet room. It is the only sound, and it’s enough. Simon watches you, his gaze heavy with a quiet sadness, as if you’ve unraveled something in him that he can’t quite name. His silence speaks volumes, his stillness matching your own.

With a soft clink, he unbuckles his boots, the sound too loud in the otherwise empty room. The weight of his presence settles beside you, as though his body is a tether, pulling the world a little closer, a little heavier. The mattress creaks under his weight, a sound almost apologetic, as though it’s trying to make room for the tension in the air. His movements are slow, deliberate—every inch of him cautious, as if each breath he takes might shatter the fragile peace that exists in the space between you.

The moonlight spills through the window, soft and silvery, like the touch of a lover long gone. It paints your face in shadows, tracing the lines of your quiet surrender. Your lashes flutter, a delicate ripple beneath the stillness of sleep, as if the world outside doesn’t know you anymore. And for a moment, neither does Simon. You are nothing but a shape in the dim glow of the night, a broken melody that has yet to find rest.

He leans back against the headboard, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if it might hold some kind of answer. The silence stretches between you, thick and impenetrable, each of you trapped in your own quiet despair. But Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare to break the fragile bond you’ve silently shared. The night grows longer, each passing minute a weight, a quiet void that neither of you can escape.

But sleep doesn’t come to him. It hovers just out of reach, a specter he can’t outrun, just like the darkness that lingers in the corners of the room. His gaze stays fixed, his body unmoving, as if he’s waiting for something to change—or perhaps just for the night to finally end.

some fluff if you squint since I made u wait so long for this

[starboye]

starring: scott summers x male reader x remy lebeau

request: Do you think you could do vanilla sex (Doesn't have to be too vanilla but it's just nice and slow and maybe body worship) with Gambit x Scott x bottom reader?? I wanna make Scott all flushed when the reader praises him and Gambit just begging the reader to focus on him as well and he might be a little rougher with his thrusts or something to get his attention!!

warnings: smut, cursing, double penetration, praising, body worship if you squint, vanilla sex, jealous!remy

after a successful mission like today it would be so wrong not to reward your two favorite boys with some loving, bringing them back to your room and slowly starting to make out with them, little congratulation kisses turning into sloppily making out with each other and then you on top of scott with remy standing behind you, both slowly thrusting in and out of your supple hole.

"you did great today scott" you lightly moan leaning down to kiss him deeply "well i couldn't have done it without the team" he tries to say but you stop him with another kiss "and who commanded that team hm" you softly say "i- i did" he stammers to your words, remy standing behind you hoping that he could get some compliments to but no all your loving words go straight to scott annoying him.

"y/n" remy says snaking his hands around your waist "yeah rem" you question turning your head to face him "d-did i do good" he flashes a smile hoping you say something nice "yeah you did good" you shrug your shoulders before turning back to praise scott more, but good just good how come scott gets great and he gets good, what did he do wrong, oh my god are you mad at him, all things remy was thinking as you talked to scott more.

"you were so brave, fighting off the sentinels all by yourself" you further praised him as your hands roamed his body, feeling down his chest all the way to his glistening abs "thank you" he blushes, flustered by all your kind words while remys face turned sour, quietly mimicking your words with annoying facial expressions till an idea sparks in his head and a smirk spreads across his face.

he slowly begins thrusting into you harder trying to get you attention, you feel your body jolt forward a little and some pressure build in you stomach from remys cock hitting the inside of your gummy like walls so you whip around to see the cause, you see remy looking at you with angry eyes, glowing a slight hint of purple at you "is there something you want to tell me remy" you ask, glaring at him with narrow eyes.

breaking down remys walls immediately, his face turning from anger to softness "where's my compliments, i mean you tell scott all these sweet things but not me" he whines sitting his head on your shoulder and slowing thrusts to be more careful "who would've thought that the tough remy lebeau would be a sucker for compliments" you laugh running your fingers through his hair.

"i just wanna hear you" he softly speak into your neck with kisses before wrapping his arms around you into a hug, scott watching in amazement at remy becoming a softy "well you also did so go- no so great today, i saw you out there throwing you cards and blowing stuff up as always" you compliment bringing a little grin to remys face.

"matter of fact both of you did amazing today" you cheerily say making the boys smile widely and inch them closer to their own climaxes "c-can we... cum now" scott asks feeling himself on the edge of blowing "mhm please y/n" remy asks still holding you tightly as if you were going to leave him right there "yes you can" you say feeling them shake under you.

a slew of whines and moans fall from both of their mouths as the pump cum into you, shudders running down your back as their hands search your body for any contacts they can make, groping and grabbing everywhere on you, finally coming down from the high they pull out of you, cum dripping from your sloppy hole and running down your legs.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft

[azullumi]

"orion" ; aventurine

summary : he has lived through many lives, has met many people, has gone through many places, but the shadow of your soul follows him wherever he goes and his eyes would search for a glimpse of your smile everywhere. he continues to look for the light that touches him, not the sun, not the moon, but you.

tags : star-crossed 2024, reincarnation concept, established relationship but also not established in some parts, usage of metaphors, fluff with angst and comfort, crumbs of insecure aventurine, snippets of his lifetimes and how he finds you in each one of them, not proofread sorry, 2.9k words ; one-shot

tagging : @toorurs (hi boo)

notes : i had two ideas in mind but the other was too complicated and would be lengthy so i decided to have this one instead. anwss, i hope you'll like this one!!

Aventurine has recurring dreams of you.

(It was a blessing.)

Ones that feel like fleeting moments in the wind destined to be taken away from him as soon as he tries to hold it. It crumbles into dust and falls to the ground he stands on, and he’ll try to pick up your pieces but it doesn’t stay in his hands for long. Perhaps it was meant to leave, not to last, and perhaps, he’ll hold on to what little is left of the particles in his palms.

In his dreams, you’ll kiss the scars on his skin and he’ll adore you, clear vivid eyes painted with vibrant hues that capture all his affection for you in his soft gaze (they say the eyes are the windows to the soul and you’ll see your reflection in his). You’ll tell him of all the worries that plague your mind, of all the thoughts that bothers you, of everything that you’ll think of.

“If you have 3 lifetimes, what would you do in each one of them?” You speak softly, a soft murmur to the night as you look at him with your eyes wide with curiosity. Aventurine will find himself baffled over your question, eyebrows knitted as he falls into his thoughts—he wouldn’t know what to say.

“It’s not that hard to answer, is it?”

“How about you answer first? I’m a little curious about what you’ll say.”

You hum, lips pursed into a smile as if you already know what to say, as if you’ve been waiting for the moment that someone will ask you that question; You recount your desires to him on how you want to be a bookstore owner but also a florist, on how you wish to soar the skies but also travel across the seas, on how you want to be everything and nothing all at once. 3 lifetimes would simply not be enough for your wishes.

He likes listening to your voice as you speak, adores the way the corners of your eyes wrinkle when you think of something you like. But somewhere in the back of his head, turmoil creeps into the cracks of his mind and settles on the sharp edges.

“Your turn.” You say, beaming a warm smile at him yet he falls into silence once more. He feels ashamed, humiliation seeping into the gaps of his fingers and traces the lines of his palms—you were so full of light, embodying solace in your being, you are what is adored and seeked yet he stands beside you, seemingly like a shadow that haunts your steps, hesitation lingers and tugs at his hand even when he’ll try to touch you. He’s unsure of what he wants in this life even more for the ones that will supposedly come. He finds it unfair—perhaps for you—for him. 

“Still no answer?” Your voice sounds reassuring, soft as you lightly graze your finger on his skin, your ghosting touch making his lips shudder. It was comforting, the way that you’ll speak to him, the way that you’ll touch him, the way that you’ll love him—it was all warm and comforting. You brush your hand on his cheek, tucking away stray strands of hair behind his ear; “It’s alright, it was a sudden question anyways. Also, something stupid to ask.”

“No, it’s not—it’s not stupid.” He stumbles over his words; he rarely stutters, rarely finds himself tripping on the bumps of the letters that fall out of his mouth but he finds himself staggering on the line of vulnerability and uncertainty. You hum, nodding, seemingly encouraging him to spill out whatever he wishes to say because you’ll listen, no matter how ridiculous it can be.

“I just haven’t thought about it.” Aventurine, though he may not say it, doesn’t like thinking of the future. It just reminds him how everything ahead of him is just empty and narrow, it’s as if he has to walk alone.

“But I…” His voice trails off and yet a thought lingers inside his head, making its way down his throat and clawing the walls of his mouth; the more he’ll keep it in, the more he’ll taste the blood of his perished words on his tongue.

“I’ll look for you in each one of them.”

The wind blows against his and your form and he feels your lips all over his face, pressing delicate kisses all over the lines and wrinkles of his features as if a brush to a canvas. The light would become too bright for him so he closes his eyes, relishing in this moment where you hold his face in your hands as if he was made out of broken pieces carved out of people’s miseries, as if he was something fragile, and the dirt that stains the waters of his mind seemingly dissipates like it never existed.

“Another stupid question, did you know how much I love you?” You’ll whisper against his lips, a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth. Your breath tickles his skin and he can’t hide the smile that draws on his face.

“How much?”

“I’ll give the world to you.”

And he’ll wake up.

(Or perhaps, a curse.)

Aventurine stands before the colorful blossoms displayed in pots and buckets of different sizes and colors. The essence of spring dances in the air, filling the place with the scent of blooming flowers and the sight of receding snow that unveils the land below; the sight of it is not unfamiliar to him. He has seen thousands of it—the different seasons that weave its life in his surroundings and has lived through many of them.

He has had many lives and he has been everyone but also no one. He has been a puppet, a poet, a prince, a musician, a gambler. Little pieces of himself merge into the likeness that he sees in front of the mirror everyday. His form is battered, bruised, broken all over, patched and affixed together with nonviscid tape, sewed with delicate threads of fate—there are days that he doesn’t recognize the person standing in front of the reflective glass. Even if has retained most of his features, most especially his eyes, and nothing drastic has changed from what he once was; yet he struggles in seeing himself in the mirror.

“Are you looking to buy a bouquet?” A voice breaks him out of his trance, pulling him back to reality. It must have been weird seeing a man just standing for minutes in front of the displays and staring into space.

“No, not re—” His sentence breaks off abruptly when he turns his head to the sound of the voice and his eyes meet a pair that causes memories to surge like a harsh tide that pulls everything into the depths; it sweeps him under like a fierce undertow as it drags him back to the profundity of what haunts him. His thoughts that seem like old, faded photographs flicker in his mind, and the sound of buzzing fills his ears as the world comes to a still.

It feels as though the ground beneath him has crumbled away. There you are.

“Sir?” It’s you, it’s you that calls out to him and not a random person that he meets somewhere he can’t remember, not a stranger that would approach him and ask for his name, not someone that he thought was you.

“Nothing,” Aventurine shakes his head and composes himself, “I would like to get a bouquet.”

“Of course, which flowers would you like to have?”

“I’m not entirely sure. What do you recommend?” If this was his attempt of making a conversation, he lies between the line of failing and succeeding. He’s not even here with the plans of bringing home a bouquet to give nor decorate his house and he’s not even sure if he has his wallet with him.

You hum as you fall into deep thought and you begin to count tales of different flowers and paint the meanings behind them with your voice, and you come to mention one that made his heart skip like stone in a pond, and his breath hitch. You speak of a certain flower with such tender affection and all he can think of is how you used to adore this very one even back then, and how your home used to be adorned with it.

“Is that your favorite?” The golden-haired man asks, curiosity wrapping around his tone as he speaks despite the fact that he already knows your answer and you smile at him, warmly—and oh, how much he missed seeing it. It’s like he has fallen in love all over again and the colors paint all over his once bleak and mellow life. Even after all this time, all these years, all these lifetimes, he still has you carved in his soul, every part of you etched on the bumps of his skin. As if you’re engraved like a scar on his body, persisting, lingering.

“It’s a lovely flower, how could I not?” The sound of laughter forms in your throat and spills out of your lips. It’s a lovely sound that he has inscribed in the very depths of his mind, one that would muddle his sleep or disturb him in the moments of silence he would revel in, trying to find the wind to ground himself.

You’re still the same as he remembers.

Memories lie dormant like fragile butterflies trapped within glass jars, fluttering and flickering, casting shadows upon the vulnerable walls of his conscience. Remembering, a troublesome thing that weighs heavy in his mind, tugging on his thoughts, and having a tight embrace on his heart. Sometimes he thinks it’s just a dream, one meaningless and lengthy dream that is meant to harrow him every time that he wakes up. But it was real, all of it is real—the laughter, the kisses, the touches, the smiles, you. How could he ever deny your existence?

Aventurine is in his nth life, not knowing how many times he has experienced death and the feeling of waking up to a strange and unfamiliar place, while his memories would flow to him like water in a stream. It comes in slow, steady, he’ll pick up broken shards of it and keep his fingers close—it will stab and make his hand bleed.

His hand, it was yours once. Clasped, held, weaved into the small gaps of your own. You held him as if he was yours to have—and he really is. He’ll walk through the busy streets with a gaze that roams everywhere, holding the anticipation, hope, that he’ll catch you amidst the crowds of people whose face appears to be nonexistent to him. 

(He’ll look for you everywhere he goes, in museums, flower shops, bookstores, in the rivers, in fields, on the ground, everywhere.)

“Oh no, I’m sorry!”

Books came falling, papers scattered all over the pavement, and he saw someone in front of him, seemingly panicking as they gather all of their things; Aventurine wasn’t a heartless man nor was he cruel so he knelt to the ground and picked up all the remaining papers before handing it to them—lifting his gaze, to be met by a pair of eyes that he looks for everywhere.

(And he’ll find you.)

There was once a moment where you remember him.

It wasn’t just a, “I passed by you on the streets and you caught my attention since and I think of you everyday,” but it was, “I know you because you existed in my life before this.” It was something he had never expected, a moment where he had to pinch himself on the thigh to see if this was one of his messy dreams but it hurt and his heart ached.

(In this life, you were lost, alone, not knowing what to do nor what you wished to do—you simply stood still as you watched the strangers passing by, as everything before you crumbled. In this life, you were nothing but his friend and he was nothing but yours.)

“I’m sorry?” He says, still in disbelief on what he is hearing. Maybe it was just his ears playing tricks on him, his mind playing illusions for him due to how much he misses you. Oh, if only you knew how tight your grasp is on him; it troubles him with the way he’ll catch you in the corner of his eye but there’s nothing there but dust, he’ll feel your presence everywhere even when you’re nowhere to be found.

“You’re him. The one that is always in my dreams.” Aventurine will open his mouth to speak but nothing would come out; he remains silent, unable to find the words to say.

“Rine.” His breath hitched. Everything faded into white noise and there was only you in his eyes—there was only you and him. He has long abandoned that name, taking on different ones in each passing life but even if he has left it behind, he always remembers how you used to call him so sweetly and gently as if he was the only one that matters to you. “I missed you.”

Your voice breaks and he swears, it felt like something inside him had shattered. How long has he waited for this moment? How much has he dreamt of the day that you’ll remember him? He didn’t think it was possible but he holds on to the thin thread of hope that you will.

“Do you… Do you not remember me?” You look hurt at that thought, your gaze wavering as you look at him with tear-stained eyes.

“I do.” He whispers, broken. “I do remember you.” He always remembers you. It’s a burden that he carries for so long but he will never let go—he wishes he could, he wishes he wanted to. Your voice, your touch, your laugh, your embrace, your eyes, everything about you will always come to haunt him; you are too entertwined with his soul, threads bound and tangled together in knots that can never be undone.

The two of you talk about everything on this night as the stars above you listen, as the moon will become a witness to the words and caresses. You’ll tell him of all the dreams that you had, memories that will haunt you the same way it haunted him.

“I’ll remember you tomorrow and even the days after. I’ll remember you, always, even in the next lifetimes.” You say, certainty and assurance seeps into the tone of his voice and a part of Aventurine feels relieved and broken at the same time.

He smiles, “You will.” (You don’t know it but this too will be buried in the grave of the past and he will come to mourn it in every moment he wakes.)

“Kiss me, please?” You didn’t have to beg for anything, you will never have to beg for anything. He has looked for the shadow of your form, for the sound of your footsteps and laughter, for the feeling of your hand in his. You will never have to beg him for anything—he’ll give you the world if you ask.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He whispers against your lips, his warm breath fanning your skin—a contrast to the cold night breeze that brushes against you.

“You’ll hear me tomorrow. I’ll call you, I promise. So please don’t keep your phone on silent.”

“I don’t. You’re the only person on my phone.”

You laugh at that, short and sweet. “Really?”

He kisses you once more, a fleeting one but the taste of his lips lingered on yours. “I only have you.”

The night draws to a close and Aventurine waits for the sun with bated breath but you weren’t able to fulfill your promise, for on the morning when the sun’s embrace caressed your skin, you remained in slumber’s hold.

It’s his second life, the life where he first remembers everything and when he is still not tormented by the burden (a curse) that he will hold all of the memories and you will remain in each one of them.

“I have a question.”

You lay your head on his shoulder, all the while your hand plays with his own. Your fingers softly dance across his palm and mindlessly sketches invisible patterns and traces the lines etched on it, while he watches, captivated by the ballet of your touch. There’s the fresh smell of shampoo and soap in the air around him, and the warmth of his hands provides a refreshing contrast to the coolness of your skin, still tingling from your recent bath.

In this life, you own a bookstore just like you wish and he’s simply just your lover.

“What is it?” He answers, watching you as you draw what seems to be a flower on his palm. He finds it endearing, every moment that he spends with you is all too sweet and dear for him, no matter how small and mundane it can be. He adores seeing you under this light, cherishes the way you melt into his embrace and how you hold him in your arms (he wishes everything would be this simple).

“How would you know if it was me?” The movement of your fingers comes to a halt as you look up to him to meet his gaze; eyes wide with curiosity and affection, he meets your gaze. Aventurine thinks for a moment before he answers:

“I’ll know if it’s you, always.”

You let out a short laugh, your expression breaking out into a soft one. “What if I was a worm then?”

“You’ll be the first worm to make my heart flutter.” There was no need for such questions—Aventurine will recognize you everywhere, in different forms, in different light.

“What if I was a stone?”

He chuckles, “I’ll know.”

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[randomdragonfires]

in your car, i'm a star (and i'm burnin' through you)

Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Girlfriend!Reader Oneshot

A/N | Yes, I'm still alive. Please take... whatever this is. I started spitballing and two hours later, this happened. Not my best work, lots of plot holes - but hey, at least I remember how to write lol. This was just to get my inspiration back, somewhat. Now I'll go back into hiding.

WARNINGS | NONE. Just a tinge of angst if you squint and complicated family dynamics. Hurt/Comfort drabble, really.

SUMMARY | She knows him, she loves that she does. But does she know him, truly?

WORD COUNT | 2.6k

Inspired by Love Song, by Lana Del Rey.

She knows him—or at least, she thought she did.

She knows him in the way his lip twitches just so, that subtle gesture standing in for a smile. She knows him from the lazy trails his fingers leave on the fogged-up shower glass, the only trace of his presence after he’s gone. She knows the way he walks—calm, feline, serene; as though he owns the room.

She knows his quiet confidence, the understated arrogance. She notices the rhythmic drumming of his fingers against the table as he studies his laptop, sleeves haphazardly rolled up, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. She recognizes how his face stays controlled, concentrated, yet always seems at peace.

She treasures the small things—the jam jar he loosens for her when he knows he’ll be gone before she wakes; he knows she can’t open it herself. She loves the way she seeks his warmth even in sleep, instinctively curling toward him like a moth to flame.

She notices the thoughtful details—the way he sets her mug next to the kettle before he leaves for work, her favorite tea bag already waiting inside. How he leaves his book open to the page she stopped at, knowing she’ll steal it from his nightstand. How he never forgets to replace the batteries in the remote, even though she wouldn’t notice until they were completely dead.

She loves how he adjusts her seatbelt when she forgets, his fingers brushing hers in a wordless reminder. How he orders her fries because he knows she’ll inevitably steal his no matter what. The way he folds her blanket at the end of the couch, even though he pretends it annoys him when she leaves it there.

Or how he always picks up her jacket when she tosses it carelessly over a chair, hanging it up with a faint shake of his head. How he coils her phone charger neatly, even when she leaves it everywhere, and always makes sure to charge her headphones before long trips because she never remembers.

She loves Aemond for who he is. She sees him, appreciates him, loves him, knows him—

Or at least, she thought she did.

He should never have brought her here.

He’s known for some time now—perhaps too long—that this was a mistake. Things are too easy with her, too peaceful, and he’s grown dangerously accustomed to it. The quiet has become a refuge, and he’s taken it for granted, blind to its fragility until now.

He sees how she’s changed him. How the razor-sharp edge he’s carried for so long has dulled in her presence, as if she’s gently worn him down, one quiet moment at a time. The way his heart still jerks when someone taps his shoulder, but her touch—the warm, steady weight of her palm—grounds him instantly. He loves how the bed feels when she’s in it, her warmth a quiet anchor that tethers him to something real. He loves the little hearts she draws on the shower glass when she’s up before him. Does she know it matters? Something so small, so effortlessly delicate, yet it lingers with him long after she’s gone.

He loves the sight of her sprawled on his couch, lying on her stomach with her calves kicked up, grinning at him like his world is hers to brighten. He loves the mess she leaves behind—her makeup scattered across his vanity, evidence of her presence. The second toothbrush in the holder, now a permanent fixture, though the thought of it being gone fills him with a dread he can’t quite name.

Her touch steadies him. Her voice slows him. Her presence halts the chaos of his world, if only for a brief moment, long enough for him to feel like he’s actually a part of it.

And now, she will leave. She’s seen him for what he truly is—the cracks beneath the surface, the brokenness he’s kept hidden for so long. She will leave.

She won’t be wrong to go. He wouldn’t stay either.

Going back home for Christmas is never something he looks forward to.

There are parts of it he likes, of course. He likes seeing his mother’s face light up when she greets him, the warmth in her smile wrapping around him like a blanket. He likes how Helaena beams at the thought of all her brothers being under the same roof again, her joy so pure and contagious it makes the house feel alive. He enjoys watching Criston ruffle Daeron’s hair as the younger one hunches over his notebook, too focused to care about the disruption. He loves watching Aegon embarrass himself with whatever woman he’s brought along for the season, loud and brash as always. Though he’d never admit it aloud—never—he sees himself in Aegon’s ridiculous gestures now that he has her. Aegon’s clumsy declarations of affection mirror his own, though his are quieter, subtler.

They’re all the same.

They’re all part of the same heart.

He likes who he is here, among the people who love him, who see him as something more than the jagged edges he keeps hidden from the world. He loves them back, fiercely, completely, in a way he rarely allows himself to feel.

This time, he brings her. Watching his mother embrace her with the same warmth she gave him fills him with something he can’t name. It’s as if his mother is returning a silent promise: Protect my son’s heart, and I will protect yours.

Criston’s approving smile lingers just behind them, and somehow, that quiet nod means more to him than any meeting with Viserys ever could. Helaena and Daeron whisk her away to explore the grounds, their easy chatter drawing her into their world effortlessly. Even Aegon, beer in hand, sides up to him with a mumbled, “She seems nice.” It’s as close as Aegon will ever get to openly welcoming someone into the family. In that, the brothers have always been guarded - just in visibly different ways.

He likes this part of Christmas.

But then, his father arrives. And with him, his golden daughter and her brood—a procession that feels more like a parade of veiled insults and subtle power plays.

In that moment, he wishes he’d kept her safe, whisked her away back to their flat, hidden her from the storm brewing on the horizon. Before Luke exposes him for who he truly is.

It happens before he even realizes it.

The thread, stretched taut for hours under the weight of veiled insults and sharp-edged jabs, finally snaps. Perhaps it was always inevitable—a breaking point years in the making, woven into the fabric of that night long ago, the night that changed everything.

He hates that she’s part of this charade, this grotesque tradition where both branches of the family pretend they are whole. The sickly-sweet veneer of unity grates at him, and watching her navigate it with grace only makes it worse. She listens to Daemon with a polite smile, nodding at his barbed remarks as though they’re harmless. It churns his stomach, the way she must endure this ugliness with a dignity he doesn’t think he could ever match.

He doesn’t know what Luke says. He doesn’t catch the exact words or the smirk that accompanies them.

It doesn’t matter.

He hears the snigger, feels the sting of the unspoken, and the weight of years-old memories crashes down on him like a wave. The next thing he knows, he’s let go of her hand, the warmth of her touch gone as he rises from his chair.

The room blurs, but his target is clear. Jace is on the ground before he even registers the punch that put him there. Off to the side, he sees Aegon slam Luke into the table, their mother’s expensive centerpiece shattering under the force. Aegon doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hold back—because once, long ago, he left Aemond to fight alone. The price for that mistake was written across Aemond’s face, a reminder neither of them could ever forget.

For a moment, the room is chaos. The cacophony of shouting and crashing fades into a dull roar as Daemon strides in, yanking them apart with a scowl that could burn through steel. Rhaenyra mutters something about being thankful their father has already gone to bed, sparing him the spectacle. Alicent clutches Criston’s hand tightly—an odd development, one that might have piqued Aemond’s curiosity in any other situation. Criston, ever composed, smirks faintly at the boys he helped raise - finally fighting side by side.

But none of it matters. None of it reaches him.

The loudest noise is the deafening silence of her presence. She stands frozen, her gaze locked on the floor, her hands clenched at her sides. For the first time since he met her a year ago, she refuses to meet his eyes.

Shame curls in his chest, threatening to consume him whole.

Hours later, as the dust settles, his mother pleads with him to stay the night. He shakes his head. He can’t. Staying here feels wrong, like prolonging the damage he’s already caused. He needs her back at the flat, where the world feels small and safe again, where her warmth in his arms drowns out the chaos his family always brings.

If, that is, the fragile peace he’s built isn’t already beyond repair.

When she wakes, his side of the bed is empty. The sheets are cold—he’s been gone for a while.

She pads through the flat, barefoot and quiet, her home now as much as his, even if she’s never said it out loud. The absence of him unsettles her, as does the memory of the man she saw last night. It wasn’t the Aemond she knew. It wasn’t the man she's come to love.

The Aemond she knows is gentle, deliberate. Even last night, after the chaos, he was careful as he tucked her into bed, his hand brushing through her hair with quiet apologies whispered between the spaces of her breath. His voice was soft, steady, soothing—enough to almost make her forget why they’d left Dragonstone earlier than planned.

Almost.

He rarely speaks of the other half of his family, and now, she understands why. Daemon’s sharp tongue had been enough to make her wince in a ten-minute conversation; the indifference his father showed in the face of his nephews' presence was stunning. She can only imagine the weight of years spent enduring that venom.

Perhaps Aemond keeps his silence not out of indifference, but out of necessity—to keep the anger locked away, to remain the man she fell in love with.

She tries calling him, but he doesn’t pick up. The unanswered ring unsettles her more than his absence.

Sighing, she heads to the kitchen. She begins to prepare breakfast, the motions familiar and grounding. Pancakes, eggs, sausages—things he likes. The onions sizzle in one pan while the eggs cook in another, the sounds filling the silence he left behind. She tries calling again, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she chops, but the call goes unanswered once more.

She knows why. He’s ashamed. She’s always suspected there’s more anger in him than he lets her see. She’s wished, in quiet moments, that he’d let her see it—not to judge him, but to show him that it wouldn’t change how much she loves him.

The food is ready long before he returns, so she eats alone, the stillness pressing against her. On the coffee table sits the watch she’d bought for him, still in its elegant box. She hasn’t had the chance to give it to him yet.

After clearing the dishes, she leaves them in the sink, knowing the housemaid will handle them later. She moves to the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest as she waits.

And then, finally, the sound of keys in the door. The soft creak as it opens. Footsteps. He’s home.

And he brought coffee.

She stands as he enters, the sight of him both a relief and a quiet ache. She takes the cups from his hands, her fingers brushing his briefly. He still won’t meet her eyes. Placing the cups on the table, she takes his hand in hers, leading him to the sofa.

When he sits, she moves to straddle him, her knees on either side of him. She holds him close, until she is all he sees, all he feels, all he can think about.

Her lips find his forehead first, soft and lingering, as her arms wrap tightly around his torso. She holds on as though she’s anchoring him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. Slowly, she maps her way downward, each kiss deliberate, each touch an offering. His eyelids, his cheeks, his nose—she doesn’t stop until she finds his lips.

He smells of sweat, faint and earthy, and she remembers the perfectly placed shoes near the door. He’s been on a run, she realizes.

He’s been running, in more ways than one.

Her kisses shift, deeper now, but still tender. He responds slowly at first, his hands tentative on her hips before they find her back, pulling her closer. For a while, the world shrinks to just them—soft breaths, soft lips, soft touches. The tension in his shoulders begins to melt, his hand slipping up to cradle her neck as if grounding himself in her presence.

When the weight of the moment settles, he leans back, lying down with her beside him. She shifts to rest her head against his chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns over his t-shirt. His arm curls around her, holding her against him, as his lips press to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, tinged with regret.

She lifts her head to look at him, her eyes soft, her voice softer still. “It’s alright. You’re so good to me…”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his steely, forever cautious gaze. She knows there’s more, an explanation forming behind his eyes.

But it can wait.

Right now, all she wants is for him to feel what she does. To know what she’s always known.

He’s home.

Moments pass, and he calms down again. Later, he murmurs.

“You should drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

She laughs, the sound light and easy, as she moves off him to pick up her cup. It’s a holiday drink—spiced, sweet, just how she likes it. He knows her well enough to bring her favorite, even when he’s apologizing for ruining the holidays this year. But as she takes a sip, she realizes all is not lost.

“I got you something,” she says, setting her cup down and reaching for the small box she left on the table.

Wordlessly, he takes it, his fingers brushing hers as he sits up beside her. She cups her coffee again, letting its warmth seep into her palms as she watches him open the gift.

The watch gleams under the soft morning light, the craftsmanship striking. He notices the details immediately, running his thumb over the smooth edge of the dial.

“Valyrian steel,” he says, his tone flat yet certain. It’s not a question—of course, he’d recognize his preferred metal. He always does. That’s who he is: the kind of man with a preferred metal, precise and particular in ways that often amuse her.

“I had it sourced from someone in imports,” she begins, her words spilling quickly, almost bashful. “The permits are hard to procure, and it took months—”

He stops her mid-sentence, pulling her into a hug. It’s sudden and firm, his arms wrapping around her in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.

“Don't leave,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice carrying an honesty that makes her chest tighten.

She smiles against his shoulder, her hands resting lightly on his back.

"I'm not going anywhere."

She knows him, and he loves that she does. And it truly is that simple.

[beansprean]

[Prints!]

(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: Art nouveau portrait, full body, starring a fat white woman with long curling orange hair in a sheer chiton style dress. She is laying back diagonally across the image, knees pulled up and crossed at the ankle, one arm tucked behind her head and the other lifted to lay the back of her hand across her forehead in a swoon. Her long hair flows everywhere behind her, curling every way and drifting off the edges of the page. The background is a circular slice of sky, the bottom edge on which she is lounging. The edges are lines with gold patterned plating and a swirling green leaf design, leading to a topper of green leaves and symmetrical orange and yellow lilies. Brown tree branches curl and twist around the outside, budding with small leaves and more orange flowers. In the center, another bare branch forks like a lightning strike against a cold blue sky with white clouds. /end ID

[cevherien]

Ellie Williams, ྀི♡

Yandere Alphabet Headcanons

Along with your blood, sweat and fresh wounds.

Warnings Yandere, Smut, Angst, Blood and Gore, Violence, Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Vaginal Fingering, Fingerfucking, Cunnilingus, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Lesbian Sex, ww, Sapphic, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Kidnapping, Verbal Humiliation, Abuse, Toxic relationship

Also, hey. Dark content. Clearly. Kidnapping and yandere business is never consensual so keep that in mind.

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Before Ellie started showing her lovesick tendencies, you'd thought that she was just the type of girl to be possessive over her loved ones, like a protective dog. But the more into the relationship you got the more intense her obsession became.

Insufferably jealous and easily irritable.

During sex she started getting rougher with you, leaving more visible marks across your body with her skilled mouth. Mumbling curses under her breath about how she couldn't bare to lose you, how you were meant to be. How much you meant to her.

"Tell me you'll never leave me angel, say it." she'd urge while two fingers knuckle deep into your sweet pussy, the pussy that belongs to her and her only. Curling them to your G-spot with ease, getting you to the edge with only simple movements.

With the way she blurs your thoughts, head in the stars with the satisfaction of each stroke, you can't get yourself to respond. All that leaves your lips are moans and the occasional call for her name.

Now that just won't do.

She'd grab your chin with her free hand, fingers squeezing your cheeks with a little more force than necessary, "I said tell me, tell me how much you need me." her fingers stop their movement so you can focus on her words better. "Say you'll never leave. Promise."

That night was the first time you saw such a dangerous spark in her pupils, one that spoke volumes about what was about to come.

"I promise, Ellie."

Not like you had a choice in her eyes.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Real messy.

We all know she gets the job done, she is no rookie in the killing game. This is not something new for her, the killing atleast.

But now she has you, she swore to be more careful to not get any unwanted attention from people but it's not her fault that a pretty little thing like you attract the worst kind of pesticides. She won't even dare call them human, just filth. Filth that wants to take you away. Unacceptable. Unforgivable.

-

Ellie violently stabs the now completely unrecognizable corpse. Been going at it even after it died. This little piece of shit had its eyes on you. Undeserving little whore that was, thinking it had a chance.

Her angry screams fill the night along with the wet splash of blood everywhere leaving god knows how many stab wounds behind.

Ellie pulls back away, but not without spitting at it for one last time.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Never. You are her sweetheart, her lifeline. The blood that pumps in her veins, it's all for you. The breath in her lungs rushes in for you and her heart beats with the contagious love she carries for you.

But the catch is, she expects the same from you. It's only fair, no? If Ellie is to dedicate her all for you, she thinks you should be doing just the same.

She worships you, quite literally.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Anything thats for your own good, for your own safety. She knows what's best for you, always. The more you deny, the more pervasive and stubborn she'll get, leaving you no freedom left whatsoever.

But in her eyes your freedom belongs to her. Just like how you do too. Her precious baby, all for her to love on, all for her to adore.

She doesn't acknowledge or recognize your autonomy & consent in times like this, yet ask her, she'll deny rape. Afterall, aren't you her sweet girlfriend, soon to be wife, darling, angel? ,,All her's so she doesn't really need to ask.’’

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

Ellie is absolutely infatuated with you. We know that, whats new?

She is truly her genuine self with you, shows you all her colors, which also -unfortunately- includes the ugly aspects. Since she loves you this much, why can't you excuse her imperfections? Love her as she is. as the monster she has become

Disinterested and rude as she may be to others, to her angel she is a saint.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Betrayed, confused and scared..? You were supposed to be by her side no matter what. No matter. You promised. Come back. Don't go. Please don't leave.

Was she too overwhelming for you? Was her love too much?

That night she makes her plans for the abduction.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

She isn't playing when it comes to you, she can't have you abandon her. Ellie genuinely believes she's better off dead without you.

Foreshadowing

Oh and don't even try your luck running away, your first few attempts were futile and she had gotten more paranoid and violent after each try, leaving you no choice but hope for someone else to come get you. But Ellie would make sure nobody even knew of you.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Probably first week of the kidnapping, just freshly captured and kept in Ellies basement for the time being, until you accept the shackles your new life, she'd be keeping you safe and sound.. or with no sound with the gags she used on you.

In her defense, you were screaming too much, tch her poor baby. You might just damage your throat and that just won't do. It's for your own well being baby, she swears.

"It hurts me more than it hurts you puppy, you know that."

-

The night that she drugged you, once too many times, she'd swore upon her love for you that this would be the last time. Since.. you won't be needing that no more, Ellie had planned this long before but now that it was finally happening, it felt surreal.

But hell, she couldn't keep her promise.

Why'd you have to misbehave so much? Just sit tight and enjoy your new life with her; getting used to it would take time, sure, but she had that in mind when she captured you, giving you some alone time in the basement to.. ehm, cope for a lack of a better word, cope with the loss of your old life, your freedom, your ways of living.

And soon yourself.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

After the difficult first two weeks in the basement with a fit thrown every other day, it was inevitable for your resolve to slowly crumble, shattering into in salvageable pieces like the shards of a broken wine glass; knocked, devastated, broken.

And that's exactly what she wanted, what she needed. She had too many things in mind for you: wife you up, keep you safe in her grasp. Her little doll to do whatever she desired. But planning too far ahead was never Ellies forte, you knew that. Her kidnapping you was impulsive and selfish, and she doesn't regret it one bit.

But for now, she'll just have you all by herself. Keep you naked for her viewing pleasure, her sweet insatiable eye candy you were.

Just sit pretty, thats all you had to do.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Once she feels like you finally accept her and your new life she would start taking you out occasionally, not too much though, and you can't leave her side not even for a second. Ground rules are to be followed, and thats one absolute.

And at days when she felt jealous or envious, sometimes for absolutely no reason, she'd take it out on a complete stranger she claims looked your way weird or stared at you for too long. When she doesn't have anybody else to blame she takes it out on you.

"Baby how could you do something like this to me? Betraying me and my trust like that..?" she'd spit on your face while fingers digging through the sensitive skin of your cheeks, "Is that what you are, bitch? A whore?"

"Ellie please-"

"A fucking whore that tries to seduce anyone she possibly can, and for what huh? All you need is me, don't you get it-!"

With that Ellie has her way with you for the rest of the night. Nose buried deep into your cunt, sniffing in your scent while she sobs as you are too tired to shed more tears. She'd apologize a mantra, yet your body would be too boneless tired and overstimulated to even respond. You'd only be hearing her pleading in tidbits in your state.

sorrybaby sosorrybaby imsosorry iloveyou please pleasedontleave dontleave me please dont leave

-

Before the usurp, before she opened your eyes as to what kind of person she truly was, before all the trauma and abuse, when you two were just an unconventionally overloving couple, she'd be constantly on your neck about how other people had their eyes on you and how she wasn't having it. You'd shrug it off with 'they don't matter to me', 'you're the only one for me Ellie.' or 'why does it matter, just ignore them'

At first she'd listen to you, but time pass, and her impulses get heavier to control leading her to murder them, or worse, torture them behind your back. And things would only escalate from there.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Like a primal fucking animal.

Groping your ass every chance she got, one hand one your waist constantly as if something or someone was going to take you away from her.

Hands exploring your inner thighs when sitting together, occasionally going in too deep and settle on top of your crouch, just lets it linger there. Arousal hits your core in times like this, guilt getting harder to swallow with how enticing her touch is, yet her hand doesn't move. Just holds it still as to tell 'this pussy belongs to me' her eyes recite the same story, 'she's mine right? my cunt.'

When she has you naked, fingers in your mound just fingerwarming your wet pussy barely moving and avoiding your clit and leaking hole, only maybe caressing your puffy wet lips if she's feeling generous. Afterall, you were but trouble at times, and she was just giving you a lesson. Patience.

She was doing much more than you deserved, with how ungrateful you were, she was convinced.

But with the way your nails would imprint on her forearms and wrists, her name falling with heavy moans as you whine for your sweet most anticipated release, she'd give in and slide two fingers in, just easily with the way you were creaming all over her palm.

And when your orgasm finally hits, you cry out with so much pent up satisfaction that it would make Ellie hurl. Music to her fucking ears.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Ellie is hardly around people, and if she is, she's stoic and serious. Really not much of a people person, not anymore atleast. The only person she needs is you, anyway. Why would she bother with incompetent fools.

The only time she's around people is when she's out on a deputy, and it doesn't take her long to come back considering she skillfully handles the missions with ease, swift and faithful with the thoughts of you at home. Home. What a foreign concept made possible by you.

But what could be said is, Ellie has an impossible to read Poker-Face. Try as they might, no use. She's a mystery to everyone but you. She shows the real Ellie to you and you only.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Sex. Ellie uses sex both as a gratification and as a punishment. It might sound dubious but really, is the least painful thing she does. Atleast on your end, it makes you feel good even for the shortest of time. Goddamn her and her masterfully talented hands and tongue.

Everytime you cum for her you feel guilty, guilty for feeling good in your situation. Guilty for liking the rape.

Guilty for starting to crave your kidnapper.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

She's certainly patient with you, as long as you don't make a fuss, she'll tolerate you quite fine.

Just.. don't try to leave her, that won't end well.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

You're not going anywhere, she's convinced herself that. Atleast not physically. You're binded to her as long as you live. But what if you die. Then what?

Then she dies too, that simple. If you were killed, she'll seek revenge and pull another Abby hunt before she commits. But more violent this time around, the second time losing someone so close, this close, and now she truly has nothing else to lose.

Her death would be quick and smooth with a revolver to her head. Not wasting any time, she wants to see you again. Maybe in an afterlife. Ellie's never been a believer, she never believed in that kind of stuff, but for you she wants to. She hopes to.

With the pull of her trigger she'd go out effortlessly. Her body going limp with a subtle smile on her lips, ready to see you once again.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Regretting kidnapping you? No way in heaven or hell, that was the best thing she'd ever done, the only right thing -she's pretty convinced - she's ever done.

But after every punishment you receive, the smallest resemblance of humanity left in her twinges. Not enough for her to stop or change her ways though. Just an uncomfortable little shiver up her spine.

She's not ever letting you go.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

All her life, Ellie's been abandoned wether they intended to leave her or not. She'd been left alone for too long, nothing was ever permanent in her life. Every thing and everyone she'd loved and cared for had turned into nothing but a figment of her memories.

... Joel was her breaking point.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

She's conflicted when it comes to this, at one hand it turns her on. She can't really explain why. ever heard of a fetish Ellie? But it also hurts her soul to see you suffer like that. And for what?

For you to get used to her that is. If then, she finds no mean in interfering with that. When it comes to that point of denying her so much that you isolate yourself for days, she knows your resolve is about to break soon.

It's just a matter of time before you fully give in.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

Definitely the love and admiration she has towards you. She cherishes you so much to the point that, she would not only kill but die for you.

Do what you will with that information.

But she will certainly be hesitant with the self sacrifice route, since she doesn't want to leave you alone. What would you possibly do if she died?

Especially since she made sure to mindbrand you shamelessly.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

This goes without saying but she truly believes there is nothing more serene than having you under her touch, besides wasn't all the hussle she went through just to have you enough to prove it?

And the worship doesn't stop there, not with the murders or the sex. With her devoting everything she is to you, it's only a matter of time for you to get lost and be over consumed by her lust love.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

You're not aware but she'd been watching you left and right for years. Not making a single mistake in her ways or getting caught.

Never thought she would even end up with you at first, but when a night in the bar had you two all over eachother - definitely not because she spiked your drink, it was all for you she says - and fucking like animals all night she asked you on a date and things progressed.

You were completely oblivious to the fact that this was her plan all along. You only thought of her as a faithful encounter, a one night stand turned into your new girlfriend. But Ellie had something completely different in mind.

-

You have no idea how painful it is for her to be away from you, like ever. After Ellie kidnapped you, she still had to work to keep things moving. Which meant being away from home, from you.

Her being away so often left you all alone in the house, resolve broken from the emotional manipulation she'd been doing to you for so long.

In the earlier days of the abduct you had tried to escape, multiple times. But after some time -and a lot of abuse- you'd became completely dependent on her. The plan she had worked wonders, breaking your resolve and keeping you all to herself till the end of days.

Now you just wait for her arrival like a loyal little puppy. Stockholm syndrome so strong that you feel stressed and anxious when she's not around.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

Her poor little innocent angel, you don't know any better now, do you? It breaks Ellie's heart to see you hurt, see you so out of it and shattered, but it had to be done.

When she first took you in and you rejected to eat or drink anything, let alone spare her a glance, it became the only option. Had to have you one way or another. Either you'd eventually submit to your new life or she'd have to get you get used to it.

Has to have you to the point of no return in which you feel the constance of time breathing down your neck everytime you're not with Ellie, not under her touch, not near her warmth. Craving her like some drug. Completely dependent on her to feel something, anything.

Then again, she'd much rather not have you go through a single bad experience with her, -that's what she promised, yet..- unless you really push it she'd be as gentle as the night sky.

Just be her sweet escape, the darling she can come back home to, her beloved. It's about time you get used to it by now.

[metal-mouse]

Kinktober Week One

Pair: Kakashi Hatake x GN!Reader (M/GN Pairing)

Themes: Smut. Kinktober Week One: blowjob + semi-public sex.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. Smut. Oral sex.

Summary: 1k-ish. Paperwork is just so boring. You take pity on poor Kakashi, slipping under his desk to help make the Hokage's day a little more interesting.

Note: Surprise! I very impulsively decided to do something fun for Kinktober. I have five cheeky little one-shots lined up that will drop every Friday + Halloween. They will all be anime themed, because the brain rot is real rn. Week Two: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader.

Kakashi’s fist clenched around the pen in his hand as he tried to focus on the papers strewn across his desk. It was pretty fucking hard, with the way your lips were wrapped around the head of his cock. His gaze flicked over to the door of his office, woefully unlocked. There was a little thrill that went down his spine at the thought of someone walking in. It was risky, having you on your knees under his desk, yet when you had come in offering to make doing paperwork more entertaining… he’d been too intrigued to say no. 

His free hand dropped to your head as your tongue teased the bottom of his tip, his jaw clenching as he held in a groan. Teasing little… He gently pushed down on the back of your head, ignoring your little sound of surprise as his length slid into your warm mouth. His eyes rolled back for a moment, before he glanced over at the door again as footsteps drew close. The pen in his hand started to creak as your nose bumped into his lower belly, and his cock hit the back of your throat. He had to drop the pen, not wanting to snap it and get ink everywhere. 

Fuck. Kakashi tried to make himself look busy with his papers, one hand still on the back of your head encouraging your every move. Up and down the entire length of his cock, he had to fight the urge to look down to watch himself disappear into your mouth. Beneath his mask, his face was burning. He bit down on his bottom lip as soft, wet sounds came from under the desk. Should’ve played some music. Too late now. 

His eyes widened and his thighs tensed up as your cheeks hollowed and you started to suck him in more and more. It was too much, it was too good. Damn it! His hips pushed up, and he roughly pushed your head down. He was panting - no way to play it off if anyone walked in now - as he fucked your face. His inhibitions abandoned, all he could do now was try to stay fucking quiet. 

“Ngh–” Kakashi stifled a groan as best as he could, the vulgar sounds of you choking on his cock were like music to his ears. It paired so nicely with your warm, wet mouth that had him on cloud nine. Your nose bumped into him, your head bobbing so enthusiastically as he pushed his hips up over and over. He exhaled sharply as your fingers dug into his thighs, pressure building up in his core as you massaged his thighs. When you began to palm at his balls, Kakashi’s free hand grasped the edge of his desk to try and ground himself. 

His senses were honed in on you entirely, at this point Tsunade could barge in and start yelling at him and he wouldn’t notice anything but that pretty mouth wrapped around his cock. His eyes trained on you, “Look up at me.” He growled out, watching as you looked up at him through your lashes while he fucked your face. That hazy look in your eyes, the way you did your best to breathe through your nose, you looked so damn good… If he had any faith in your ability to keep your mouth shut, he’d bend you over his desk and fuck you senseless.

Later, he’d have time for that later. For now, he felt your tongue pushing up against the underside of his cock and his back arched as his hips pushed forward. Your warm hand massaged his tightening balls, and Kakashi swore he was seeing stars from the way your cheeks hollowed out as you tried to suck his soul out through his dick. 

“Shit… Just like that.” His voice was low, vaguely aware of the busy hallway on the other side of his office door. His mouth fell open, Kakashi’s breath being taken away. He reached up, pulling down his mask desperate for some clean air with how hot his mask was getting. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted. You were relentless, and he loved the way your eyes narrowed slightly in delight at the effect you had on him. 

His toes curled as his cock and balls pulsed with imminent ecstasy, his hands flying to the arms of his chair. Kakashi squeezed, the wood groaning from his grip. His back arched and his hips lifted him up off the chair as he mindlessly thrust into your mouth while you had no choice but to hang on to his thighs to stabilize yourself. Kakashi’s eyes squeezed shut as the tension in his body snapped, his cock throbbing as he exploded in orgasm. Ragged breaths and low grunts spilled from his lips, low enough not to draw attention. 

While he came, you didn’t relent. Swallowing down every last drop, your tongue massaged the underside of his length and your head bobbed back and forth even as Kakashi’s thrusts faltered. As you drew out his pleasure, it took everything in him to keep from whimpering. As he squirmed, letting out a little shuddering breath, you finally lifted your head and freed him from your intense stimulation. 

You should not have that effect on him, Kakashi decided. He was the Hokage - the damn Copy Ninja. He was meant to be aloof, cool as a cucumber, not a complete puddle under your touch. Not making soft eyes at you and exposing his face to you as you delicately wiped the corners of your mouth with the back of your hand. Yet, here he was, knowing he’d do it all again. Already, he was plotting the way he’d get back at you for distracting him from his work - preferably in the privacy of your own home - where he could repay the favour tenfold. Yes, he’ll do it again. You had made good on your promise, his day had certainly been far more interesting than just doing paperwork - although not much work had been done. 

That seemed like a problem for tomorrow Kakashi. For now, he put himself back together. He wasn’t quite finished with you yet - not at all - and he loved the smile that spread on your lips when you realized precisely that. Paperwork and Hokage duties could wait, Kakashi’s needs couldn’t. It was going to be a long night.

[hpdmguy]

ways they show each other love !

loads of rambles + clutter-less version below the cut

the yellow lines highlighting things is actually marking (almost) everywhere they touch since the primary theme of this piece is physical affection! the stars were just for fun

top left (kissing): pretty self explanatory! fun fact, it was the first thing i drew for this piece :)

top middle (hand on back): i was trying to sleep the other night and my brain suddenly went. drarry physical affection and that was the first thing i pictured! i kind of imagined this one as like... dracos stressed or something and harry just puts a nice comforting hand on his back

top right: the good ol pinkie hand hold,, link, ,think. yeah. no real thoughts behind this one. it fit the box and its cute

middle left (speech bubbles): one thing i see a lot (im pretty sure this is ((implied in)) canon as well, but dracos a big yapper! so its kinda showing here that harrys just listening to all hes got to say. probably my favourite one of the lot, i had fun rendering it. (looking at this post i too am a yapper)

middle (orange slices): theres this thing where you peel an orange for the people you love. you can look at it either way; draco providing food for harry, knowing his childhood food insecurity and always wanting to make sure he has something, or harry (whose love language is acts of service) giving something to draco, maybe after a long day

watermarked middle (draco constellation): just some fun symbolism i thought i might try to fit in

middle right (legs): in this theyre just chilling. dracos reading (the book didnt come across well ((i cant draw hands very well)).

right edge (flowers): these are narcissus flowers, also known as daffodils. a reference to narcissa malfoy, and also a reference i suppose to how she saved harry in the forest, because draco was alive, because harry saved him in the room of requirement

bottom left edge (flowers): these are lilies. partly to complete the circle of mothers saving sons saving the world, and partly because i wanted to fill space. (theyre fucking terrible to draw tho i do not recommend)

bottom left (hand in hair): well harrys hair is very luxurious as you can see and i imagine during cuddles draco cards his hand through it and teases out snarls and such. (i know hair pulling is something that can be seen as sexual, this isnt that and it isnt meant to be that and please dont see it as that :(

bottom watermark (stag): harrys patronus because why not

bottom middle: so this is a bit obscure but theres this post by @/iamnmbr3 that talks about a headcanon that they can share wands and its kind of special and intimate. so thats what ive depicted here. also for funsies harry has the draco constellation on his arm. not the big dipper. also i cant draw the dark mark for shit

bottom right (shoes): just a subtle way they can touch, not always big. just under the table or sitting on the sofa together, just to feel the other person there.

i knew i wanted a warm scheme and i knew i wanted orange and blue to play a big part in this. i was going to have warm colours on blue and cool colours on orange as a sort of contrast but that didnt end up working out.. the wand scene is an attempt at it except i mixed it up and made it cool on cool, its so washed out and i didnt bother to fix it