#ephemeral doing what hes told
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cookiedough77 · 2 months ago
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something something ephemeral having a similar color palette to hawkmoth/shadowmoth
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something something chat blanc and season 5 gabriel being all white
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something something...
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joelsdagger · 5 months ago
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walk the line || one shot
joel miller x f!reader
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masterlist | ao3
pairing: boston qz!joel x f!reader summary: you and joel have a deal: sex in exchange for supplies. no questions asked. so what happens when you do? or joel fucks you while you’re in a headlock. that’s pretty much it. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: boston qz era, undefined relationship, mentions of sexual favors, choking, rough unprotected p in v sex, dark!joel, mean!joel [in the sense that he doesn’t let her come oops :( ], dubcon [reader tries to loosen his grip], noncon [i’m putting this here just in case], no aftercare. think that’s it. word count: 1.2k
a/n: just….don’t ask. i don’t know what this is. thank you to @papurgaatika for holding a gun to my head so i would post this looking this over, love you schmooks <3 
please heed the tags. protect your peace if this isn’t for you.
He’s being rough. Rougher than the countless times he’s fucked you before. 
In the time since you and Joel started this whole arrangement, you never needed to tell him to fuck you at a blistering pace. He just did it. 
Because you and him are the same. He told you that once. He said that you and him are two sides of the same coin. Both of you are always keeping your walls up and people out. Always keeping everyone at arm’s length. It made this arrangement easy, simple. 
There was just one rule: Nothing personal. A rule you happily got on board with. Getting personal is not really your thing. You learned that it was easier to survive at the end of the world without having someone to care about. Staying detached worked for you. You didn’t care enough about Joel Miller to even bother giving him a second thought. 
At least, that’s what you wanted to believe. 
A few minutes ago, you made the mistake of doing just that. 
You got personal. Flicked open the glass casing and pushed the big red button. Nobody gets personal with Joel Miller. Most importantly, you don’t. No. Never you. And now he’s punishing you. Maybe he’s punishing himself too, because he didn’t stop you. Didn’t stop this.
He’s being brutal, intense, and mean. And usually you could handle it because, like plenty of times before, you wanted him to.
But this time, you didn’t.
Your cunt is sensitive, and it hurts; it burns more and more with every rough snap of his hips; warm liquid pricks at your eyes in discontent. Your swollen cunt betrays you, squeezes around his wide girth, and he grunts against the shell of your ear in response. You’re sure he thinks you're begging him for more. To him, the swift flutter of your cunt is a silent tell to pick up the pace. 
And he does. Relentlessly. 
With every unforgiving thrust of his hips, knocking the wind out of your lungs, and the firm hold of his forearm against your neck, compressing your throat, you were barely hanging on. Black spots spatter across your vision, and your eyes slip closed; tears of anguish streak down your cheeks.
It’s too much. You choke on a sob, and your hand comes up to his left arm, weakly tugging at it, attempting to make space between the crook of his elbow and your neck to suck in an ephemeral breath of air. 
Instead, he tightens his grip on you; his left arm pulls you into his chest, and his right hand moves heavily to the top of your head as he brutally fucks up into your throbbing hole. Your head dips back beneath his chin, and the crown of your skull stings as the plastic clip hanging out at the bottom of the valve of his gas mask digs into your scalp.
Your failure to follow his rule — his only rule — had pissed him off so immensely that he didn’t even waste a second to remove his mask.
His muffled voice cuts through the thick haze that took over your mind. “Stay,” he orders through gritted teeth, and you obey.
Because he’s teaching you a lesson.
With him, you mind your tongue.
With him, you do as you're told. 
With him, you don’t ask questions.
With him, you don’t get fucking personal. 
And with your head locked between both of his strong arms and his fat cock hammering your cunt, punching at your cervix — forcing himself in — he makes certain of that. Makes your mind go fucking blank. Because when your sloppy cunt is stuffed full of his cock, your mind goes fuzzy, and your body goes limp in his hold, you are in no position to question him. To pry. To challenge him. To fight him. A brutal, shattering reminder that Joel Miller calls the shots.
And Joel doesn’t say a word. Not this time. Not when he’s using your body as a way to cope with his anger — to get himself off. It’s all breathless groans and grunts that tell you your holes are enough to satisfy him. And for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if this is how he always saw you — a means to an end.
Maybe you felt the same way about him.
You don’t have time to dwell on it because then you feel it — he twitches inside your aching cunt, signaling his rapid release. He hisses as he pulls out of your wasted hole, his length bobs against the crease beneath your ass, smearing your sweaty skin with your mixed wet. His cock throbs against you as his seed spills onto your quivering legs, coating your inner thighs, and leaking onto the tattered, moth-eaten mattress. 
You whimper pathetically as his arms release you, and your shuddering form falls forward, crashing into the dusty mattress beneath you. Your chest heaves as your hand comes up to the column of your neck, your weak fingers pressing at the sharp, searing pang there. You don’t doubt your skin has already begun to smart. You cough profusely as your lungs fill with air, a humiliating attempt at catching your breath. 
Joel’s left hand comes down beside your head on the mattress, cushioning his fall as he hovers over you. He groans as his other hand replaces your cunt, and with every fast, wet pump of his fist, the pulsing tip bumps against your skin; his release now paints the small of your back.
A first. 
And in the back of your mind, you try telling yourself it’s his way of claiming you — that he still wants you after you stepped out of line. Your stomach lurches at the same time your cunt flutters at the thought. You’re not sure how you feel about it, but you do know you feel empty without him inside you. And other than what happened here, he typically makes you feel good. Leaves you satisfied before he chases his own release.
Today, he didn’t. He used your body as a means for punishment, and you let him. A penance. For crossing the line he told — you both agreed not to overstep. 
A few moments later, you’re pulling your distressed jeans over your cum-coated thighs while your glassy eyes watch Joel as he zips up his own, his eyes fixed on the molded wooden floor in front. “Joel,” your voice hoarse and raw. 
He peers up at you beneath his lashes, the sunlight clawing through the taped-up window catches on his eyes; the amber in his hazel irises glowering in the light. 
“It won’t happen again,” you whisper.
“No,” he leans forward, grabs his gas mask you didn’t notice he pulled off, and the orange pill bottle you were meant to deliver to him without sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, and he grunts while he moves to stand, “it won’t.” 
And only when his heavy footsteps fade down the dark hallway of the abandoned building on the outskirts of the QZ, leaving you alone to stare back at the pale, rotten wallpaper with a painful and pleading ache between your trembling legs, do you realize exactly why no one defies Joel fucking Miller.
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ghoulbrain · 9 months ago
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Saddle Up, Sweetheart
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18+ 3k ghoul x f!reader. cunnilingus/face sitting, overstim, pet names, clothed/naked sex, creampie. gif credit. prompt list. written for this ask. thank you! 🖤
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The Ghoul—Cooper, as you know him now—does not make himself an easy man to get to know. He was harsh with you from the start, one of the crankiest old bastards you’ve ever met. An accomplishment, given your life in the slums. He’s dismissive, angry that you even want to know him, and downright mean most days.
And yet you became fascinated with him.
It was ages before you were able to hold decent conversations, and longer than that before you had a name for him. Still, you keep digging. He intrigues you more than anyone else ever has, and despite his sour attitude, he keeps coming back. 
"You won't like what y'find," he told you one day. You knew then you were wearing him down with your persistence.
"What scares you more: the idea that I won't, or the possibility that I will?" You'd asked. 
He laughed. "Y'don't scare me, sugar."
You smiled. "Maybe I should."
Cooper started to look at you differently from then on. There had been a sense before that he was observing you as something ephemeral, a flower bud he was waiting to see bloom and die away as quickly as you'd appeared. 
Once you made it clear you weren't going anywhere, the invisible walls between you began to fall away. You feel his gaze lingering on you when he thinks you aren't paying attention. You watch him in turn, holding his gaze whenever he catches you.
"Eye contact like that'll get'cha killed someday. Predators take it as a challenge," he tells you, adjusting the holster on his thigh.
"Is that what you are?" You ask from where you’re leaning against the wall, arms crossed. You raise your brow, inured to his broody one-liners. "A predator?"
To your surprise, he's the one who closes the distance this time. His footfalls are heavy, his swagger loose. He looms over you, bracing his forearm on the wall behind you. Your heart skips a beat. He rarely ever gets so close.
"I'm the worst kind there is," he says gravely, but you clock his tone for what it is. He's toying with you.
Undeterred, you square your shoulders. "And what kind is that?"
He leans in closer, smelling of oil and gunpowder. "A hungry one," he says, the heat of his breath ghosting your cheek.
Pushing you away hasn't turned you against him. Cornering you won't either. Despite his insistence to the contrary, you're no prey animal. "Well then... I s'pose you ought to have something to eat."
His radiation scarred lips spread slowly into a wicked smile. "Y'offering, sweetcheeks?" He asks, his yellowed teeth parted, poised to take a bite.
You swallow dryly, so keenly aware of the thundering of your own heart, you wonder if he can hear it, too. You tip your head back, jutting your chin out and bringing your lips closer to his.
"You don't scare me, Coop," you whisper, wielding his name like a secret weapon.
He hums, head tilting slowly while his gaze moves down your body in a leisurely calculating sweep. "Well..." He drawls, voice a low rumble from his chest. "Maybe I should."
You're ready for him to do as he's always done and leave you like that, to rile you up and then act as though it was all in your head. You've accepted that Cooper is a man on the run, and he hasn't seen anything in you worth stopping for.
The press of his lips against yours shocks you to your core.
Your arms uncross, hands fumbling to catch hold of his jacket, grabbing him before he can vanish. He responds in kind, cupping your face in the soft worn down leather of his gloves. Your pulse is all the way up in your throat, so wild you’re sure he can taste it when he slips his tongue into your mouth. 
His touch isn’t a gradual thing. He’s upon you all at once, forcing your thighs apart with his knee and slotting his thigh between yours, pressing into you until you start to sing for him, those breathy little noises muffled by his devouring kiss. At your hip, you feel the press of his cock gradually filling out beneath the layers of clothing between you.
After so long without meaningful touch, the onslaught is dizzying. You roll your hips, grinding down on his thigh until you feel your underwear clinging wetly to your skin, an exquisite shiver trilling up and down your spine. His lips feel textured and hardened by his condition, but his tongue is hot and smooth, persistently licking into your mouth, determined to feel, to taste.
That hunger drives him from your lips to your jaw, your throat, peppering rough kisses that are as much lips as they are teeth along your neck. “S’your last chance, darlin’. Point of no return,” he tells you, voice coarse. His hand slips between your bodies and starts working your pants open. “Won’t be no comin’ back from this. I’ll ruin you.”
That he would have the audacity to warn you away from the door like this after you’ve been knocking and knocking and knocking is almost laughable. You would laugh if you had enough air in your lungs, but he’s kissed it out of you.
“So ruin me,” you tell him breathlessly. He grazes his teeth over your pulse-point in a way that makes your voice hitch. “I want you.”
The rim of his hat brushes your cheek as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, making a raw noise against your skin. “God damn it,” he says, yanking you from the wall so sharply you gasp. He whirls you around, hands fisted in your shirt, kissing you hard while he walks you backwards, towards the noisy heap of springs and fabric you call a bed.
“Y’outta your fuckin’ mind for that,” he grouses, shoving your pants down off your hips. You don’t disagree, You know how terrifying he should be, what his affliction does to him, to his hunger, but you don’t care. Not when he’s kissing life back into your dull dusty life at the end of the world.
You’re naked by the time he pushes you down onto the bed, standing above you, sunken eyes black with fervor. He unclips the bullet belt strapped across his chest and shrugs out of his coat, tosses his hat up somewhere high on the bed. You start to crawl backwards, but he snatches your ankle and drags you right back to the very edge of the bed.
“Unbuckle me,” he orders, the words all throaty feverish heat that makes your clit throb. You do, eyes flipping back and forth from him to his belt. He watches you all the while, pulling off his gloves with his teeth, dropping them to the ground. You unbutton his pants next, hands so eager they fumble briefly before you make it to his zipper, the hiss of it coming undone drowned out by the thunder of your pulse in your own ears.
Before you get any further, Cooper catches your wrists and hauls you up to your feet, spinning you around and pulling you down over top of him on the bed. He keeps you steady while you straddle his waist, moving his hands from your wrists to your hips. You start to move back, but he cups your ass and pulls you in the opposite direction.
“Saddle up, sweetheart,” he says, licking his lips. “Y’said for me to have somethin’ t’eat. I intend to.”
Oh fuck.
Nodding hazily, you follow his lead until your knees are on either side of his head, your hands braced on the wall behind your bed.
“C’mon now, relax,” he coaxes, urging you down with his grip on your thighs. You settle most of the way down before he yanks you the rest of it, startling a noise out of you that transitions into a low moan at the molten wet slide of his tongue dragging from the bottom of your pussy to your clit, upon which his lips close down and suck.
The sensation is leagues beyond the amateurish grinding, but that session still left you sensitized. The heat of his mouth is so intense it almost burns. His tongue feels just as unreal, thick and dexterous in the way it works you, swirling repetitive patterns on your clit. He drinks from you like you’re an oasis in the desert, swallowing greedy gulps before sinking his tongue into you, fucking it in and out, coaxing more and more thirst quenching wetness from you.
“Ffffuck, oh my God,” you moan, your hands curling into fists on the wall, sliding until your forearms are braced against it instead, your head hanging between them. You wish you had something to grip, something to dig your nails into as his devil’s tongue builds hot pressure inside of you, swelling sensation toward an inevitable explosion.
Cooper is shameless beneath you, devouring without care for mess or noise. Every so often you feel the graze of his teeth and you buck away from him, but you’re no match for his strength and he keeps you held firmly down, wholly at his mercy despite your positions. 
Once he’s satisfied that you’re not going to try and escape anymore, he relinquishes his hold on your hip and brings his fingers between your thighs, teasing where you’re wettest with the tip of his finger. With the way he’s sucking your clit you barely notice the initial touch, but he quickly wrings a gasp out of you by sinking his finger in all the way to the knuckle, crooking it wickedly while he rocks it in and out.
It’s simultaneously too much and not enough. He walks you on the knife’s edge of your climax, deftly toeing the line with every slow stroke of his finger and swipe of his tongue. Your stomach clenches up with it, breath catching. He pushes in a second finger, and by the time you feel the third working you open, your legs are shaking uncontrollably. He is feasting on you, humming appreciative little noises between the wet sounds of him eating you out.
A sudden jarring slap to your ass makes your quivering thighs tense up and startles a loud moan out of you. He most definitely smiles against you, fucking you steadily with his fingers.
“You son of a bitch,” you manage to choke out, tears prickling at your eyes from the sheer overwhelm of it all, your breaths growing sharper, more shallow. “I should smother you,” you say, the threat dulled by the thinness of your voice.
He smacks your ass again, harder this time. You decide that’s encouragement to do just that and grind down against his mouth, eagerly meeting every thrust of his fingers until one last good slap tips you over the edge, your orgasm striking you like a bolt of lightning. Your whole body goes tense, and Cooper ruthlessly fucks and licks you through it, sucking on your clit as it pulses and pulses and pulses through what feels like the longest climax of your life.
“Enough,” you moan weakly, pushing yourself from the wall on trembling arms. His fingers have slipped free, but he’s still drinking you down, holding your thighs in a vice grip. You can’t stop shaking, the burn of pleasure beginning to feel like the most exquisite pain. “C-Coop, enough, I can’t–you fucker,” you gasp, jolting in his grip when he nips at your clit.
He finally lets you up, easing you down with two hands firmly on your ass. You slide back until you’re straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest while you catch your breath. He doesn’t give you much time, knocking you down into his lap as he sits up. He takes your face in his hands and kisses your own taste into your mouth, giving a throaty little rumble.
“I decide when you’ve had enough,” he says, dropping one hand to work his cock free from his undone pants. “And you’ll remember that you asked for it.”
Each word feels like a spark of electricity. You lift yourself on trembling knees, hands on his shoulders, and he puts his arm around you, drawing you in while you sink down until you feel the thick head of his cock–wet with his own precum–nudging against your spit-soaked pussy.
“That’s it, pretty girl. Show me how good you can take me.” You can hear the restraint in his voice, feel it in the thrum of his touch. You hold his gaze while his cock forces you open in one smooth, frictionless slide, the stretch a dull ache that rapidly ascends into pleasure. He lets you adjust a moment or so before he begins to move, holding your hips steady while he rocks his own, reclining down onto his back.
“Don’t you hold out on me,” you tell him through a shuddered breath, hands behind you, braced on his thighs. “You promised me ruin.”
As sharply as he’d slapped your ass, Cooper gives a hard thrust up, his dull nails biting crescents into your skin, his grip all that keeps you from losing your balance. “One taste and y’already damn spoiled,” he says, planting his boots on your bed–you’ll give him shit for that later–and picking up a brutal pace almost immediately. “C’mon then, sweetheart. Ride me.”
You have no choice but to comply, grabbing hold of what you can of his shirt while he bucks hard under you. Every thrust sparks inside you like the strike of a match, your cunt still sensitive. You can already feel yourself climbing towards another peak. You arch your back, watching him through the haze of your own pleasure. His eyes are dark, his teeth bared. He looks like something wild, like something ready to bite.
“Goddamn, that’s it, y’squeezin’ me fuckin’ good now,” he groans, tipping his head back, watching you bounce on his cock through heavily lidded eyes. “Give it up for me, pretty girl. Show me this is really what you want,” he rambles, his accent growing thicker the closer he gets. You nod along, panting wordlessly, his thrusts knocking sweet little keening noises from your throat. “Go on now, that’s it. Show me how it feels when I make you cum.”
The world around you goes black just before an eruption of white explodes behind your eyelids like stars, your whole body stilling to endure the overwhelming crash of your release, the shock of it rolling out in waves throughout your entire body. You don’t speak, you don’t even breathe, too struck by the magnitude of it. 
Cooper fucks you through every second of it, slurring a litany of feverish nonsense–your name sprinkled within it–until he breaks off into a choked off noise, and in the middle of your euphoria you feel a the rush of his release spilling deep inside you, his body finally stilling under yours.
You sink down onto his chest, panting against the collar of his shirt. He moves his hand along your back, and a distant part of you is caught off guard by how tenderly he sweeps his fingers up the back of your neck. You answer in kind by slipping your fingers just under his collar, fingertips brushing bare skin that’s as gnarled as the rest of him.
The two of you sit in silence for a long while, neither of you willing to break the spell of your afterglow. The entire world feels softer in it, the dull sepia of it tinged with hints of gold. The dust particles floating around you almost seem to sparkle. In any other moment, you’d scold yourself for romanticizing the rotten remains of a dead world that has been so cruel to you, but for just this moment, you let yourself believe that things can be beautiful, too.
You lose yourself to the warmth of his body beneath yours, and the gentle way he traces the slopes of your body with his fingertips. Eventually, Cooper cleans his throat. You ignore it, reluctant to acknowledge him. You know once you do, the moment will be over.
“Y’might wanna get situated with a pack of Radaway soon,” he murmurs, the twang of his voice still heavier than usual. 
Tucked into the crook of his neck, you smile while he still can’t see you, endeared. “I’ve had worse exposures.”
“I find that hard t’believe,” he says, cupping the back of your neck in his palm. His thumb strokes absently back and forth. You can almost believe he’s dragging out these last few moments together, too.
Lifting yourself, you brace your forearms on his chest, staring down at him. His expression is difficult to parse–while there is most definitely a sense of ease you don’t normally associate with him, there’s also a profound sadness.
Your brows furrow. “What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves his hand from your neck to your cheek, swiping his thumb along the ridge of it. You lean into his touch, ready to ask again, when he makes a grab for his hat and places it firmly on your head, obscuring your vision.
“That was some fine ridin’, sweetheart,” he says, voice as coarse and sweet as raw sugar.
You push the brim up until you can see him again, failing to bite back a smile. “Guess I’m the sheriff ‘round these parts now.”
“I ain’t a sheriff," he says flatly, though the slight tic at the corner of his mouth gives away his amusement.
“That’s right, y’ain’t. ‘Cause I am,” you say in your best impression of him, tipping his hat at him.
He blows out a breath and tugs the rim back down over your eyes. “Whatever you say, sweetcheeks,” he says, and though you can’t see him, you’re certain you can hear the smile in his voice.
Today may never happen again. The world could end tomorrow–again–or Cooper could walk off into the Wastes for the very last time. If you’ve learned anything in this world, it’s that nothing lasts forever. So, you drop your head back down and listen to the beat of his heart, using it to count the moments as they pass.
If they’re gonna be the best you get, you’d like to know how many of them you have.
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eowynstwin · 3 months ago
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Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI. Ao3
The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.
He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.
A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.
You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—
—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.
He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.
Noxious. Fetid.
The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.
Borderline pyrolic.
You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.
“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.
Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.
Searching, maybe.
Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.
The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.
“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”
On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.
Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.
But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.
Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.
You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.
You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.
Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—
And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.
Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.
Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.
He sets the glass aside. Rises.
Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.
You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.
He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.
You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.
He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.
You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.
It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.
Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.
Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.
Your breathing quickens—
And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.
You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.
The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.
Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.
He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.
Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.
Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.
Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.
Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.
Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.
He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.
Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.
He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.
He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.
But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—
He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.
One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.
Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.
He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—
And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.
His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.
It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.
So, the whip.
You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.
He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.
There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.
The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.
Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.
Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.
Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.
A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.
He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.
With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.
Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.
Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.
More of you. He always wants more of you.
He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—
This time, he’s broken skin.
You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.
As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.
It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.
You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.
Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.
“Did you come?”
You shake your head.
Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.
Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.
Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.
It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.
You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.
He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.
Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.
His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.
He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.
“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”
You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.
Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.
The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.
He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.
Obedient to perfection.
You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—
And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.
Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.
He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.
Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.
This—this isn’t that.
But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.
His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.
It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.
He loves you so frightfully much.
“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”
You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.
“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”
You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.
You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—
The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.
When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.
You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.
He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.
He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.
“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.
It’s what he always says, after.
You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.
You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.
“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—
And the smoke clears from his eyes.
-
He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.
“What happened?” you ask.
You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.
Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.
You know him too well.
John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.
Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.
The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.
A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.
“The usual,” Price says.
With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.
When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.
Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.
You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.
It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.
“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.
He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.
You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.
“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.
It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.
There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.
He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.
You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.
In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.
Remembering the hand that held the lash.
He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.
-
a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.
Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.
Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.
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nina-ya · 8 months ago
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Hey! I love the 3 times you tried to confess and the time it finally works. The story you did for Sanji. I'm interested in how it would go with Zoro. Please and thank you 😁
Three Times You Tried to Confess to Zoro and The One Time That You Did
A/N: HIIII i had so much fun writing this i hope you love this just as much as i do!! And thank you @tetzoro for letting me bounce my ideas off of you!! Pairing: Zoro x reader CW: Mild onigashima spoilers in the last two chunks. WC: 1.8k
You had spent the entire day psyching yourself up to confess to Zoro. Another serene day at sea had finally come and it seemed that nothing could ruin this moment. You were sitting in the crows nest, accompanying Zoro as he worked out.
As he completed another set, Zoro paused to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looked at you, curiosity evident in his features. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.,” he remarked.
You smiled nervously, feeling the butterflies in your stomach start to flutter. “Yeah, just thinking,” you replied, the nervousness accidentally peeking in your tone. 
Zoro nodded, picking up his water bottle taking a swig from it. He placed the water bottle down before asking, “What’s on your mind?” 
You took a deep breath as you tried to steady your heart. Now was your chance. This was your moment to say what’s on your mind. “I uh…” you trailed off, words evading you. He was staring at you at this point, wondering what you had to say. You decided to just rip off the bandage and say it. “Zoro I l-”
The hatch to the crows nest swung open and Sanji's head popped up, that beaming smile on his face interrupting your words. “There you are!” he exclaimed, climbing up with a tray in his hands. He waltzed over to you, flashing that charming smile of his before declaring, “I made a special treat for you. Thought you might like something that’s just as sweet as you are.”
You glanced at the tray, which held an intricately made dessert, made specially for you. You took the treat off the tray, thanking him. “Oh, thank you, Sanji. That’s very kind of you.” 
Sanji’s smile widened and you swear you could see heart eyes forming by the second. “Anything for you, my dear,” he said with a wink. 
You felt your face heat up; not from the behavior from Sanji, rather from the frustration of your confession being interrupted. You still smiled at him, hiding your displeasure. Before you could say anything, though, you noticed Zoro’s expression darken. He scowled at Sanji, his fists balling up.
“Oi, curly-brow,” Zoro growled, “we were in the middle of something.” Sanji straightened up, his eyes narrowing. “Is that so, marimo? I didn’t notice anything important.”
Zoro took a step forward. “Yeah, well if you weren’t always butting in where you’re not wanted–”
Sanji bristled, taking a step closer to Zoro. “And maybe if you-”
The tension in the room escalated rapidly as the two began to bicker and go head on. You quietly backed out of the crows nest, leaving the two to their argument. You’d find another moment, you told yourself. One where you could have Zoro’s undivided attention, without the interference of well-meaning crewmates.
- - - You had been waiting for the right moment to confess your feelings to Zoro. The shared moments, the silent understandings, the ephemeral glances had all accumulated to this built up courage. Now seemed more perfect than ever– the waters were calm, there were no signs of danger approaching the ship, and you’re sitting right next to the man who you hope to call your lover.
“Zoro,” you began, your voice quiet, but steady. He turned his head slightly, acknowledging you with a grunt with his gaze focused on the gorgeous orange golds of the sunset that painted the sky as the sun made its descent. You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts and more importantly, your courage. “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
You glanced down at the deck below, eyes following the patterns of the wood with your eyes as you attempted to remain calm. The words you had rehearsed so many times in the mirror seemed to just turn into mush, and your throat suddenly felt dry. You glanced back at Zoro, only to see him still looking at the sunset.
“I…I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now,” you continued, your voice carrying a tremor. “It’s just that… spending all this time with you, I’ve come to realize how much you mean to me.”
You could feel heat rising to your cheeks, and your eyes darted around, refusing to focus on him in fear of possible rejection. Your heart was running a marathon, and the anticipation nearly killed you. You had imagined this moment so many times, but now that was happening, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of anxiety and you could only hope that he felt the same.
“I… I think I lo–”
A soft sound interrupted your words. You paused, not daring to look up to confirm your suspicions. That sound can’t possibly be… You looked up and saw Zoro sitting beside you, his head tilted slightly forward, eyes shut and a peaceful expression on his face as he snored. Your heart filled with an immense disappointment that his need for sleep had stolen your moment, but you couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of relief knowing that the pressure of the confession was momentarily lifted off of your shoulders for another day. - - - Zoro lay unconscious, his body battered and bruised from the fight with King. Chopper was working frantically, his small hives moving quickly to stabilize Zoro’s injuries. You were right there by his side, your heart heavy with worry. 
You couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down your face as you watched chopper tend to him. His face was pale and his breaths came in shallow uneven rasps. The sight tore at your heart.  “Zoro,” you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. “You have to pull through. You always do. You’re the strongest person I know, and I need you to keep being that strong.’
Chopper glanced up at you, his eyes filled with concern, “He’s tough. He’ll make it. He’s just got a lot of internal injuries that I need to focus on,” he muttered in concentration.
You reached out and gently took Zoro’s hand, your own fingers trembling. “Zoro, I love you,” you said, your voice cracking. “And I need to say that to you while you’re awake and can hear me, so you better pull through, goddammit.”
Chopper’s hands faltered for just a moment, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked up at you as he said, “W-well, it’s about time you admitted it.” 
You couldn’t help but chuckle through the tears at Chopper's comment. “Was it really that obvious?” you asked, your tears dripping off your chin and falling onto yours and Zoro's clasped hand.
“Yes, it was.” Chopper started. “It’s also obvious how he loves you too. So I’m going to focus now so that I can get him conscious for you.”
You nodded at Chopper, and you shifted so you were by Zoro's head. You leaned down, resting your forehead against his as you declared in a whisper, “I love you, Zoro.” Your tears mixed with the sweat, blood and grime on his skin as you continued, “I should have told you sooner. I should have told you a thousand times. But I’ll tell you now, and I will tell you again when you wake up, and I will tell it to you until it is my dying words.” - - - The days following Kaido's defeat were filled with joy and celebration by everybody on Wano. Everybody except for you. Your heart was filled with anxiousness as you waited day by day, hoping that Zoro would wake up. You had taken on the task to spend most of the last couple of days by Zoro and Luffy’s side. This was just your excuse to be close to Zoro so you would be right there the moment he woke up.
You noticed a slight movement. Zoro’s fingers twitched, and his eyelids fluttered. You leaned forward, your heart racing. “Zoro?” 
His eye slowly opened, a groan escaping his lips as he adjusted to the light. He blinked a few times before his gaze settled on you. “Hey,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from days of disuse.
Tears welled up in your eyes as relief flooded you. “You’re awake,” you whispered, a smile breaking across your face.
He tried to sit up, but you gently pushed him back down. “Take it easy, you’ve been through a lot.” you said softly. Zoro’s head turned and his focus landed on Luffy, who was still unconscious besides him. “Luffy?” he asked, his concern evident. “He’s still resting,” you replied. “Chopper says he’ll be fine. You both just need some time to heal.” Zoro nodded, his gaze returning to you. “You stayed here?”
“Of course,” you said, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t leave you. Not after everything.”
There was a moment of silence, and Zoro shifted slightly to get more comfortable. “You look exhausted,” he said. “Have you been getting any rest?”
You chuckled, shaking your head. “Not really. I was too worried about you.”
A smirk tugged at Zoro’s Lips. “You know you don’t have to worry about me so much. I’m tougher than I look.”
You gave him a half hearted smile, running your fingers through his hair. “I know. But it doesn’t stop me from worrying.”
Zoro's gaze softened, and he reached out, taking your hand in his. Your heart pounded at the gesture, and you took a deep breath, feeling the words rise to your lips. “Zoro, I…” He looked at you, raising an eyebrow as your demeanor suddenly shifted at your own words. It was then that you finally ripped off the band-aid. “I love you, Zoro,” you blurted out, unable to contain it any longer. “I love you so much, and I should have told you a long time ago when I first realized it. But now I just need you to know how much you mean to me and how much I care about you.”
For a moment, Zoro was silent, his eye searching yours. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that you could only hope to pull out of him more in the future. “You took your time,” he said, his tone teasing yet tender. 
You laughed through your tears, the sound a combination of relief and joy. “Yeah, I guess I did.”
Zoro's grip on your hand tightened, his eye never leaving yours. “I love you too,” he declared. “I always have. I just… didn’t know how to say it.”
You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Well, now we both know.”
A content sigh escaped his lips, and that teasing edge made an appearance once again as he said “you missed, by the way.”
You looked at him confused for a moment before you realized he meant the kiss. You chuckled and leaned in, brushing your lips against his as you whispered, “I love you so much.” His eye fluttered closed as he kissed you back, his lips soft and warm against yours. In that moment, you knew that your heart had chosen the right man to be the love of your life.
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devilander · 8 months ago
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rain falls in love
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homelander x gn reader. fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of past abuse
Cozy Corner Domaystic: Thunderstorm
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You were a light sleeper. Even minor disturbances would wake you instantly; your cat meowing, a neighborhood’s TV turned on, cars passing through the street. Whenever Homelander and you slept together you couldn't help but be slightly envious of how he could turn off the whole world—he slept like a stone, slept like the dead. 
Today, though, you doubted many could sleep through the thunderstorm that split New York’s sky. Each thunder louder than the other, sequences of lightning turning the apartment clear as day. And, courtesy of your boyfriend's gigantic windows, you felt enclosed in the roar of the night. 
For some, it could be an entertaining spectacle; nature's power a soothing balm, a way to make you contemplate how much of your worries were small and ephemeral—in the end, there was only the earth and the rain. 
You could, in theory, see the poetry of it. But all you felt was an overwhelming fear. The loud noises reminded you of your father's booming voice, the cracking of electricity too similar to his heavy hands landing on you. 
John was away, having left a week ago in some undisclosed mission. Undisclosed to the public, of course, because he told you in detail how, actually, he was going to take part in a non-authorized invasion of a terrorist cell. Or so he called it. 
You were alone. Only you and the storm and Popsicle purring in your lap, indifferent to his surroundings. 
After another furious thunder nearly frightening you to death, you decided to call John. Tears streamed down your face and you felt ridiculous—it’s only rain. And yet. 
He probably wouldn't pick up. If he did, he'd be too busy, what could he do?
In the first ring, however, he answered. “Hello, sweet face. Awake at this hour?”
“Oh, it's nothing.” You tried to disguise your sniffles, suddenly beyond embarrassed. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Silence, and then—
“Is it the storm, sweetheart?”
“Yes, yeah. I can't sleep, it keeps reminding me of… you know. I'm sorry for bothering you.”
“Don't you ever apologize to me for that, ever,” he retorted, voice tinged with anger, though you knew it wasn't aimed at you. 
“Can we—” Another thunder, and this time you yelped, scaring Popsicle so that he ran to hide under the bed. “God, I hate this,” you whimpered. “I just want you here. I miss you so much.”
“I miss you too, you precious thing. Fuck, this is bullshit. A fucking week here and we accomplished shit. They sent me the most incompetent team of motherfuckers, I'm up my ass with their whining and ‘but sir, mister Edgar said we should be cautious’.”
You laughed. “Sounds like a trifle.”
“Ugh, fucking tell me about it. A week without you for this bullshit. Y’know what, I'm out. Hold on there, honey, I'll be with you in a moment.” 
And he hung up. And the storm raged on, but you felt a giddy warmness settling on you. 
Not before long, he barged in, completely wet, but you couldn't care less. You ran to his arms, letting the raindrops seep through your clothes as tangible proof of his devotion. 
“You didn't need to come.”
“Ah, but I promised, didn't I? I'll be with you anytime you need me, and you need me now, don't you?”
You giggled, forgetting all about the fears. It was washed over. “I do. And you need a hot bath.”
“Hmph. You too, little baby. C’mon, join me.”
You sat behind him in the tub, washing his hair, enjoying every second of this quiet moment. He moaned at the contact and squeezed your thigh as it circled his waist. 
If the storm was a demonstration of nature's power, John was both its likeness and antithesis—he himself was a force to be reckoned with, an amalgamation of sheer strength and might. Created by men, but a victim of them. You could understand that, quite intimately.
He gave you security in his power, and you gave him peace in your tenderness—the value of a whisper to a snowbank. 
“John,” you whispered. “I love you. I'll keep you forever, because you belong to me and I to you. Will you let me?”
You felt, more than you saw, his deep breath, swallowing back tears you knew were spilling down his cheeks. You didn't care what they said, what he did looking back in anger, because this was the only truth. 
“Yeah…” He choked up, but soldiered on. “Yeah, my love. I'm never letting you go. I fucking love you to pieces.”
As you lay in bed together you decided—in the end, there was only he and you. 
427 notes · View notes
mandalhoerian · 2 years ago
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moth to a flame | leon kennedy x reader
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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader
summary: Break-ups are never easy. Thankfully, you've been preparing for yours for a long time. Leon doesn't let this revelation go for reasons you cannot fathom when he's the one who wants to leave.
word count: 9K
warnings: angst, smut, thigh riding, p in v, kinda body worship, switch leon, he subs for like a moment and goes this better not awaken anything in me
notes: i winged this please don't judge me. also, "plot"-wise, this is an extension of my leon love language post. header template can be found here. enjoy the filth
🌀 read on ao3!
📍 continue to the BAD ENDING!
📍 continue to the GOOD ENDING!
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In hindsight, you’ve seen this coming. Your face barely moves at your on and off situationship of two years forcing out, “I think we should break this off.” 
So faint and unsure it’s barely above a whisper.  
He looks so uncomfortable hunching over, forearms resting on the countertop, breakfast untouched, as if trying to make himself smaller than you, it’s absurd considering the nerves of steel you envy him for, and sure, he’s adorably awkward sometimes for a man of his looks, but not like this. Never vulnerable like this.
The kitchen is gloomy despite the bright winter sun seeping through the windows, almost suffocating because of his uncharacteristically transparent malaise. Leon isn’t one to openly squirm, and in turn, it’s making you all the more nervous — nothing about this is fair when you were thinking you got all the practice needed from imaginary scenarios and possibilities on all the directions the eventual separation would go.  
He can’t look at you, shaking his head nervously, choked by the silence. “Say something.”
How funny it is that he’s the most fit man you’ve ever known, could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat— one bicep literally the size of your head, yet looks like he’d cry if someone touched him right now. It’s a hard to swallow, unreal pill that you’re the one doing this to Leon, making him weak like this. 
You’ve never known you had that kind of power over him until now, how he says he wants to break up but would throw up if you actually say yes.  
You shift in your seat, the wood of the chair suddenly digs sharply into your skin with how hyperaware your body is of all the surroundings to deviate your attention from Leon, folding your hands on your lap. 
The answer is at the tip of your tongue, it was stashed away there months ago. Of course you’ll let him go. 
What makes it easier for you is having consented to how absent and private he warned half the things involving him was going to be, or it’s that you knew from the start your time with him would be limited. You just don’t question it; completely skipping the first four stages of grief and jumping readily to acceptance. 
The lamb knew it would be slaughtered by the nurturing, kind humans, and yet it still got attached to them; Homer straight up told the readers how the story would end right at the start of Iliad, yet the fall of Patroclus and the rage of Achilles burned the same, if not worse — you knew Leon would inevitably fall apart and run away one day, yet chose to cherish your limited time with him all the same.
It can’t be called a tragedy if you agreed to how it would end in the first place. 
Leon Kennedy is ephemeral in his nature, daydream-present and lucid-absent in your life all at once. You thought of him as an outdoors cat, never really yours in the first place, randomly shows up whenever he wants to, reluctantly leaves out of nowhere — a flighty, mysterious companion who’s happy and eager to be there but withdrawn when poked and prodded. 
You accept him as such, love him all the same.  
You’re not sure if he loves you just as much. 
Fondness and like is there, enough for him to have stuck around for this long, but you figure it’s because you’re safe and constant. You’re happy to have provided him with at least that because you’re not sure what he saw in you, to be honest. 
What’s happening is painless enough to go through exactly because of this, you hadn’t let yourself get too attached to Leon knowing he isn’t into you as much as you are into him. Maybe you are deluding yourself, maybe you are numb and not as apathetic like you thought you are, but you’re convinced this is how it should go — how it’s meant to go. What’s the point when you’re aware your name won’t be at the top of his list? 
The insecurity surely is a small part of the ‘Leon Kennedy Breakup First-Aid Package’ you’ve been cultivating over time in preparation to cushion your own fall when the time would naturally come, but it doesn’t cover the shape Leon is in that even when he’s the one breaking your heart, he looks like he’s shouldering the pain you’re going through on top of his. 
This is why you can’t ever be mad at him. You wanted to be with him knowing the way he is, after all. 
Leon is a mess despite trying not to show it, his messy straw-blond hair doesn’t shine like it usually does, he hasn’t conditioned it, the golden sheen to it wilted almost. His bloodshot, red rimmed eyes are dim in their blue, laser-focused on the black coffee mug he’s tightly gripping, the skin underneath his lower lashes spread out in faded pink-purple half-rings and it only ever happens when he hasn’t gotten enough sleep in more than a couple days’ time whenever he has to be away for an unprecedented amount of time, or gets buried too long in his paperwork. His thumbs are wiping at the place he puts his lips on and have a sip at the contents of it you’ve seen he fed some liquor to a few minutes prior. He’s awfully domestic in his black sweater and pants, not at all looking like he just asked for a breakup.   
You take pity on him. 
“I see. Alright.”
His head shoots up, eyes immediately finding yours, no longer blank. He doesn’t seem sure if he heard you right, expression disbelieving. “What?”
“How do you want to do this?” Mirroring Leon’s anxious movements, your own fingers trace the rim of your own teacup. “You could start gathering your things today, but if you want to call it a day, I don’t mind—”
“No—wait—what are you saying?” 
“I’m saying okay, Leon.”
He winces at the name, gaze escaping from you again momentarily and he has to blink, the lack of your usual pet name for him must have hurt him, you presume. He has to swallow before talking. “This is it?”
You’re not sure if it’s directed at the end of your relationship or you letting him off easy. “I don’t understand. What else was I supposed to say?” 
“I don’t know, I just—”
This isn’t being hopeful, but you ask anyway. “What did you want me to say?” 
He sighs in return, tearing away his gaze and hiding it with a hand that wipes at his forehead.
Yeah, it isn’t your hopes that were crushed. You adamantly tell yourself it isn’t. He’s being nice as he always is, of course he’d question how agreeable you’re being, it’s not like his resolve is going to change. “I’m just being cooperative so we can—”
“Aren’t you angry with me?”
That was the problem?
“I’m not, Leon.” 
“How can you not be?”
“Well, I…” It’s because you love him, but bringing this up would only make it harder. “I’m not sure. You’ve been that good to me along the way, I guess. I don’t resent you for anything.”
He has that subtle sarcastic look on his face you would take as mocking if you were a total stranger, but you know better. He’s being self-deprecating. You could read it. But you should, he’s thinking. You should resent me. 
You don’t. 
The thing with Leon is he’s too good to be true that his only flaw is being a literal ghost. A well-meaning ghost who’d send presents upon presents and work his ass off to make extra time for what he had to give up on every time your plans falls through with unexpected shit that came up from his mystery job at the White House he never talks about that has him battered and bruised each time he turns up after prolonged leaves.  
Which is an oxymoron considering how attentive and absent he is at the same time. Sometimes you wondered if he’d fix his habit of being a clam about everything concerning himself after you guys were through, but imagining him becoming more open and changing for someone else hurt too much.
“Don’t you want to know why? I mean—god, why are you just taking it?” 
“What do you mean taking it? You’re not doing this to hurt me, look at you, Leon, when have you last slept? It’s hard on you too.” 
“That really doesn’t have to do with anything right now,” he dismisses. “How are you this unaffected? I’ll take it if it’s to get back at me…”
“It’s not.” You stand up, appetite lost. You want to wrap your food up and put it in the fridge to eat later, and this way, you don’t have to look at him while saying the sentences you have rehearsed for so long. “If you want to break up, I can’t force you to stay—or into anything you don’t want to. It’s not fair for either of us. You’ll be stuck with someone who you don’t want, and I’ll have to live with the knowledge I’m with someone who doesn’t want me.” 
You find him staring at you when you’re done, your hand stays wrapped around the handle of the fridge door at how tortured he is. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
He shakes his head, blond strands framing his face gently swishing in the air. He does the angry eyebrow scrunch whenever he disagrees with you strongly on something you’ve said, but decides not to at the last minute, and you find yourself the tiniest bit disappointed at him not refusing he doesn’t want you. “You always— you always do this... Be angry. You have to be angry at me.”
You find refuge in the kitchen sink, washing your hands. “Stop it. I don’t want to fight, please.”
“So you are angry.”
“I’m not!” You slam the water shut a bit too forceful and you breathe for a second before turning to him. “I’m not. Angry. I’m sad, yeah. An understatement. Who wouldn’t be?” 
He just says, “I’m sorry,” at that, and hates it’s the only thing he can manage to give you, it’s blatant in his face. 
You take a seat at the chair directly next to him, you both need the intimacy of good communication at the moment. “But I had a lot of time to mourn, alright? It’s not that I’m taking it or being passive or whatever—”
“Mourn?”
His eyes search yours for a second, and the realization leaves him breathless, the insides of his brows raise up, making him look younger and more innocent. “You were expecting this.”
“Yeah, I mean.” Your lips press together, and you chew the insides before hopelessly shrugging, a small smile doing its best to put itself together. “Look at us. It was never going to work out in the long term. Not really. I consider two years a miracle, to be honest. I don’t know how we got this far.”
“All this time we were together.” Leon’s voice is thick, on the verge of shaking, you weren’t expecting him to take this so badly. His pupils devour all the blue from his eyes, he has never looked at you this hostile before all the hair on your arms rise up. “You were just thinking about breaking up? Have I only ever made you insecure?”
“Not all the time—it’s just—” You swallow. ““Why are you angry at me now? What did I do? You are the one breaking up with me.”
“And here you are okay with this. You’re telling me you didn’t think we’d ever work out when I—” He huffs. “I didn’t even notice a thing. You weren’t happy at all. Ever? You were uneasy all this time?”
“No, Leon, you’re not listening to me. What I expected was that you would leave one day, eventually. Because that’s how you are. That’s how your life is.” He leans back when he gets what you are alluding at, rubbing his face with a hand, refusing to look at you — but out of anger this time around. “I know you wouldn’t be able to stand being in limbo about not letting yourself go and wanting to at the same time. I know you felt bad about everything. I guess it’s just not the right time?”
You don’t say, right person and wrong time, it’s wishful thinking on your part—Leon probably doesn’t think that, someone else seems to take that crown in his heart, you know that all too well. 
The muscles on his arm closest to you flexes, he must be thinking about taking your hand in his, so you remove them off the table and nestle them between your thighs. Any physical contact from him might lead to you crying in the end. 
“I’m sorry I made you go through all that,” he laments. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
Your head tilts sideways. “It wasn’t about me, Leon. Suppose I sat you down and complained you weren’t open with me, you were distant. Especially when you weren’t ready for the conversation. I’ll tell you what would have happened. Two weeks of radio silence.”
“Ah, c’mon…”
“It’s not something you haven’t done before. You said it was work, but… You know. I get it.”
Leon exhales from his nose and lowers his head, broad chest puffing up with rapid breaths, his neck is getting redder by the second. You’ve never taken him for someone with an explosive anger, but it looks like that could change any second. 
“I wish you wouldn’t take this to heart, I’m not saying this to hurt you when I say I knew this was always going to happen.” You’re talking like you’re trying to soothe a tiger, and he especially looks to hate it. “You can’t possibly have expected me to ignore it. And it wasn’t going to come from me either, I’m happy to be with you either way, but—”
“That’s the problem.” He has his head between his hands, like that could possibly hide him away from the conversation. “I treat you like this and you still say that.”
You wish he wouldn’t be this hard on himself.
“I signed up for this.” He tilts his head at that, accusatory, and you get more agitated in return. “I know your circumstances. You can’t help being absent most of the time, I understand. I understand more than you think.” His forearms hit the counter loudly, he looks about to spit fire any second, but you don’t let it happen. “However. It’s no way to continue a relationship, I know that too. My perspective is that it shouldn’t be guilt that comes to your mind whenever you think of me. I wish things could be different. I wish I could be a priority to you—”
Leon’s face sours, and you stop talking when you see it. 
You didn’t mean for the words to hurt him as they did, explanations becoming distraught. “Look, I like you, you know this. Possibly too much. More than I should. You have to understand that’s why I’m being this amicable with you right now. Break-ups don’t always have to end in fights, sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s what’s happening right now, isn’t it?”
It doesn’t reach Leon. His gaze is faraway, defined jawline locked clenching and unclenching. 
“If it makes you feel better, I was angry for a while.” His hand comes down from rubbing a circle in the middle of his brows, eyes shifting back to yours. “But it is what it is.”
“You’re not even gonna ask?” he says, defeated.
“Would you tell me anything different from what I know?”
He opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a sigh, one of his legs shaking, and his head falls forward, curtains of dark blond hair covering your view of his face. For a moment, all you want is to slip your fingers into the silky strands and comb them back, take his heat away, the pads of your fingers on his smooth cheekbones, you know he’d melt into your touch straight away and his expression would lose weight of the strain he carries you can only imagine the root of most of the time, but you abstain. 
He wouldn’t appreciate it on the brink of a break-up, you were about to become nothing but strangers. 
That’s why it’s abrupt when he leans forward and captures your lips in an unfair, unfair kiss, the force of it makes his teeth clack against yours and you grimace, retreating to break it. His hand slips to the side of your neck to pull you back in, the drag of calluses and heat against the skin of your neck sends goosebumps all over your body, his thumb caresses your cheek in a loving way that hurts but his lips are frantic in their gentler search to open your mouth to his, and suddenly you can’t breathe from how much Leon keeps advancing. 
Turning your face away to break the assertive, overwhelming liplock, you take in lungfuls of air as you look as away from him as you can, panicking at the way he presses his forehead to your temple and the way his nose nudges your burning cheek, he doesn’t budge when you attempt to push him off the second you realize you’re enjoying this. He’s built like a fucking tank. “Leon—”
“Say no if you don’t want it,” he breathes, right into your neck, the tickle is mixed with something dangerous that sears your skin along with the low rumble to his voice directly in your ear, and you have to stop yourself from squirming, a coil of incandescence binds its threads together in the depths of your stomach. “Say it and I’ll stop.” One muscular arm hooks around the back of your upper thigh and one around your waist, he quite literally snatches you off your chair and plops you down on his lap, each of your legs hang from the sides of his hips, and you yelp at how effortlessly Leon seems to arrange you to his liking. 
He’s needlessly, uncharacteristically cruel. You would always want him. Leon knows this. 
“You’re so—” Your breath hitches when his fingers bypass your shirt and sneak up the bare skin of your waist and his other arm readjusts you as he buries his forehead in your shoulder and you gaze at the top of his golden hair kissed by morning sunlight and take in the familiar scent of him and his shampoo. His body against yours leaves a festering sweet longing. “So unfair—you were just breaking up with me—”
He bites down at the meat of your clavicle and you draw in a short breath, the dig of his teeth sting, but he immediately soothes it with a lick and his tongue is hot, too hot. “Unfair?” he groans, you contain the shudder at the emotion he keeps at bay and at the path his blunt fingernails make above the clothing from your hips to the sides of your legs, he’s never been like this. “You already left me in your mind before this and I don’t even know exactly when.” The tip of his nose faintly traces the curve of where your neck meets the shoulder, the tickle is unbearable, aching, you wish he would have left marks instead. “You were always thinking of leaving— our time together didn’t matter to you. What do you think that makes me feel like?”
“That’s not—” You grip both of his biceps and feel the protruding veins and the flex of the muscle underneath the skin, intimidated as always by how both of your hands added together were too small to form a full hold around one. I work out a lot, was his excuse while you were first getting to know each other as acquaintances, and you’d thought how this man belonged with someone of his league. “You’re the one—” 
“You dummy, I’m not leaving you because I want to.” Leon’s arms circle your waist and pulls your body flush against his in a crushing hug, his head finding home under your chin and against your chest. It’s innocent and you feel the helplessness, the desire to hold but not be seen, but you don’t know what to do in return, his words don’t quite register. “Why would I ever when I—“ He cuts himself off, breathing shaky as the rest of the sentence dies at his throat. “Jesus, I can’t believe this.”
You tentatively hold his shoulders, surprised at how taut they are. How winded he is like some wire. “I don’t understand.”
“You are just letting me leave like that. Like some business deal done and gone, you just…” 
You can’t help the sound that escapes as he bites your earlobe. Why does he keep biting? 
“Ow!—“ Leon starts sucking, the wet sounds and his breathing directly in your ear sending shivers down your spine, and you’ve had enough of his thought processes ending up being completed by his lips on your body. 
He’s easily able to overpower you, but obeys when he feels you’re genuinely pushing him away, some strands of your hair get stuck on his face and the view of the detained obscenity of his expression  —the half-closed eyes and the missing blue, the flush of his cheekbones, glistening of his pinked lips— sends a hot wave downstairs. “It’s you. You! You’re the one leaving, Leon, I don’t get it—“
Some clarity through the pinkish haze of want dawns back to him, and he gingerly combs the threads of hair away from your face, some of them behind your ear. “I don’t want to. That’s the thing. I thought it was clear as day.” Leon searches your eyes, looking down at the details of your face, your heart races as his stare gets stuck at your lips the longest, he isn’t even aware he’s doing it and you feel feverishly desired from his insatiable look, from the slow movement of his Adam’s apple. “But—“
“You can’t help it. Right?” Your thoughts are blurring together, and he’s a black hole pulling you in. “I understand—“
Leon kisses you again, and your stolen exhale turns into a pleased hum. “Stop saying that,” he whispers with inches between your lips, eyes closed, so close your breath is his.  
“What do you want me to say?“
“Stay.” He takes your hand and brings it up, planting a singular kiss at the inside of your wrist, and then rests his cheek against your palm. You can only stare at the vulnerability he’s offering you on a silver platter, the tormenting softness is blinding. “Stay.” 
Your heart soars. God, you’ve longed for him to give away that he wants to be with you all this time, the insecurity is a blanket you’ve hidden under, this is it, but he’s so torn and you don’t get his struggle, what he must be hiding for such a visceral reaction. He wants to, but he can’t, and you don’t know why, having accepted he wouldn’t tell you from the start anyway. 
But you ask. You ask anyway. Hope is a flightless bird waiting for her wings to grow each day. “Will you?”
Something shifts, a delicate moment broken, and Leon draws back, his eyelashes flutter as if he’s shaking off some daydream — and then he’s upset, a pinch in his brow. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I can’t—“ You’re grabbed from the arms and scooted away from his lap, putting some distance between the two of you. Leon is physically pained, unable to meet your eyes. “I don’t know why I’m being like this.” He holds your hands between the two of you, and you get whiplash from the passion just mere seconds ago and the tenderness of this touch. “I can’t keep doing this to you. I don’t know why I’m this unreasonable, it’s so childish— Shit. I’m sorry, I’ll just—“
“No.” You cup his face in both hands and he looks like an abused puppy tasting kindness for the first time. “Stay for a bit.” Your heartstrings are tugged by the way Leon’s eyes are lit up. “I want to have you. One last time. Is that alright?”
A beat passes.
“Yeah,” he says, blanking out at first, but then repeats stronger, his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs as he licks his lips. “Yeah.” He turns his head and kisses your palm, somber. “You can have me however you want.”
Leon doesn’t look like he’s particularly looking forward to it. “You sure?”
“I’ll always want you, any day, any time,” he says, and you’re flabbergasted at the burden of his meaning. But you force yourself to look past it, look past the unguarded and unarmed honesty, choosing to interpret it in the language of lust. 
“Not here, though.” You get up from his lap and he doesn’t stop you. “It’s kinda cramped.”
“We can make it work if you’re up for it,” he half-teases, one corner of his lips curling up, his eyes are humorless. 
You snort. Easy for him to say. He’s fit, you aren’t, that’s why being on top can’t last half the time without his assistance. “You can. I certainly can’t.”
“You keep saying I can’t to me, knowing I take it as a personal challenge.” Leon’s touch moves up your forearm and in one swift move, he pulls you in between his legs. He leaves a kiss at the lower valley between your clothed breasts. “Maybe you’re doing it on purpose?”
You’re heating up right away. “I’m not—”
Leon pats his right leg, pulling up the sleeve of his shorts all the way up to the hipbone, exposing the well-endowed, firm thigh. “Sit here.”
“Your leg’s gonna get a cramp,” you say, but it’s hardly a complaint, your crotch has begun to contract at the thought of feeling the flawless skin slipping against your slick folds and how he would mold the tendons to fit just right for your pleasure. Expectation was pulling you tight right from the start where he had you hanging from his every word.  
Leon’s almost offended. “It won’t.” But his encouragement is gentle. “Come on, sweet girl.” Hooking one arm between the two layers of the bands of your underwear and pants, he lets them snap back against your skin after he pulls considerably. “And you’re taking off all that.”
You let it go. Immediately. “Fuck, okay.” 
It’s morning. You’re in the middle of the kitchen. And you’ve forgotten all of that, head lost in the beginnings of a dull throb between your legs. Your dignity would have been trampled on if you were too enthusiastic, so you try to take your time, and he asks, “How do you want to go about this?”
“Huh?”
His hands ride up your knee and inch up, his thumbs in the line of your inner thighs, and your first instinct is to press them together to alleviate the ache, but Leon’s forcing them apart. “You can have my tongue or fingers first. To help the friction.” You swallow when the nail of his thumb scratches the material of your panties and feels the slight dampness, and he’s watching your reactions very closely. “Or you could just sit down.”
You don’t have strength left in your knees anymore, head spinning with the way his darkened, narrowed gaze is simultaneously bearing down on and  looking up at you, and Leon helps you settle your weight on his leg after sliding your underwear down your legs, the warmth of his palms on your naked hips alone is vexing enough and it’s embarrassing that he feels the particularly strong pulse of your sex. 
He angles his leg up and you slide forward with the gathered moisture, arms catching onto his neck in surprise from the sudden jolt of pleasure. “Eager, are we?”  
You aren’t normally bold like this, would let him keep softly teasing rather than give the same energy back, but there’s a certain finality to this time, your brain is liquid smooth from the tantalizing delight of his touch, and you don’t hold back to inform just what he does to you breathily. “Always for you.”
The movement of his leg staggers and you look up to see him caught completely off guard. And the next thing you know, Leon has you in a bruising kiss, or you think it has the strength to bruise, he hasn’t been this rough before, and you certainly haven’t been craved to this extent in your entire life before him. 
This time you accept his tongue willingly into the cavern of your mouth, his fervent licks and gasps rise the question of who’s really the more eager one here, but it doesn’t really occupy space in your mind, limbs stilling overall from how he steals away all bodily functions with just kisses that radiate desperation. 
Leon ushers your hips to languidly move when you fail as a multitasker all the while the swirl of your tongues continue to tangle, and it proves difficult as your slide against him becomes smoother and wetter with him finding just how to pull the hood of your mound while you’re pulling back and drag against it in the correct angle, flexing his thigh accordingly. 
He pecks your jaw. “Faster?”
Skin contact goes straight to the tightening spiral in your stomach like this. “I can’t—”
“Don’t say you can’t.” He does something that has you dropping down from heights by circling his leg, and completely out of your control, small noises emerge from the back of your throat and you can’t kiss him back anymore. “Do you want it faster or not?”
You try to hum in agreement, but he catches you in the middle of it and jerks you forward, the sharp zap electrifies all your nerves and grants him a startled moan, you can barely see the satisfaction in his face from the sudden tears. You were somehow in control of the pace previously, but once he knows you want it faster, it’s him that anchors your hips to the edge of the stars, a man on a mission. 
Leon begins to leave open-mouthed, wet kisses on your neck that has you tilting your head to give him more room, and you’re glad his heavy gaze isn’t drinking in your bliss-stricken expression anymore. “You hear that?” His question is thick. “Listen.” 
The noises your wetness make sliding across the muscles of his thigh in a rapid speed makes some of the blood rush up to your cheeks, and the knot is stretched so agonizingly beyond the point of no return that you’re hurling towards absolution, legs beginning to shake and your whines become sweeter. “Leon,” you pant, the fever to keep going as he is conveyed in one singular word reaches him. “Leon—ah, mmh— I’m— Leon!”
“Yeah, I got you.” Adoring kisses are peppered along your jawline and your fingers clutch to his blond hair, pulling him in, your stiffened, perked up nipples are smushed in the press of his chest against yours, and you arch into him like a cat, lost in the ascending ecstasy. “Just let go.” He bites down and your sore walls clench around nothing, the pulsating increasing in intensity. You’re on a thrill ride, shooting up, up, up— “Come for me, sweet girl, come on, give it to me.”  
With a sharp, choked cry, and the throw of your head back, the coil explodes and unravels, white sparkles in your vision, and Leon holds you down when your body tries to fly off with the force of your orgasm, the sinking of his hands into your sensitive flesh only heightens and sends crashing waves as he helps you ride through it, rocking lazily with you back and forth. 
“Oh god,” you shiver, clinging to him, upper body basically draped across his chest as the pleasure rolls into a stinging ache of pain with the overstimulation, bones jiggly from the floaty feeling to get away yourself. “Too much. Leon. Too much.”
His voice is croaky. “Yeah, we’re not done yet.” 
He stands up with his arms supporting your legs around his waist, and you hold on for dear life. It scares every single time he does this. Leon makes it look so easy to carry you around from room to room without breaking a sweat. 
The full meaning of his words only get to you when you’re thrown on the bed, wind knocked out of you. “Leon, wait, aren’t you going to Spain tomorrow, don’t you have to prepare—”
“I’m preparing,” he says, putting one knee on the bed and oh god, the shine on his thigh, the drench, that was all you—- “Need to get my fill of you to last for the whole trip, yeah?”
It’s more like he’s saying, ‘To last for the rest of my life’, the hunger and melancholy makes for a Frankenstein’s monster of ravenous, unquenchable yearning when you’re right in front of him and your flame is rekindled.  
More than one round with him is uncommon most times because he’s simply busy and moves around a lot, you weren’t used to the practice, build wired to exhaustion taking over when he was finally done with you, either hot, heavy and fast or sweet and intense, each time leaving you with honeyed sore bones and the best sleep following right after. 
Arousal pools in the pit of your belly thinking about what comes next. 
Kneeling at your feet, he taps your tight-locked  knees. “Open up for me.”
It’s morning. He could see every detail of imperfection in this light and uncertainty washes over you for a second before you do as he wishes, the sheets crinkling and rustling beneath your shifting, and he gets on his stomach and puts one of your legs to his shoulder when you thought he would be entering you already. 
Flustered, you get up on your elbows. “Leon, you don’t have to.” 
“Didn’t think you wanted to get it over with right away.” Sliding his hand up, he fans his fingers on your tummy, thumb pulling at the skin dipping into your vulva, and looks up at you from his eyelashes. Little sparks of pleasure light up at each stroke. The weight of his arm is wonderful. “Breaking my heart over here.”
“It’s not that, I…”
He scooches up, and the knowingly feather-light kiss he leaves on the inside of your thigh, close — right there but not there, makes your leg twitch. “Oh, you wanted something else?” The teasing view of Leon inches away from where you wanted him was a sight for sore eyes, but his sudden hot breath on your post-orgasmic sopping heat broke your daze, making your hips attempt to jump up, but his arm had you absolutely pinned on the mattress. “Well?” 
It’s not something you’d planned, but his wanton beauty looking up at you shoves an image inside your brain unexpectedly, reminding you how you’d said you wanted to have him, not the other way around. This is going to be the last time Leon would be like this with you, and there were so many things left unexplored. What would it feel like to have this feline-gracious, strapping man underneath you, to run your lips through his unbelievably sturdy body all over and return the kindness on how good he’s been taking care of you? Leon was always perfect to you. Is perfect. Your wish to present him with how exactly on top of the world he has you feeling for your final time, to return the favor. 
Leon has stopped moving and it’s because of your lack of reaction and the long look of contemplation regarding him. You lift his hair away from his eyes. “Can you lay down on your back?”
“You wanna get on top?” he asks, but doesn’t object to it, moving up on the bed and sitting up, getting the hint on taking off his clothes, enamored, you watch his abdomen flex and limbs stretch like a cat’s as he slips his shirt off and throws it away and shimmy off his briefs. Every single movement of his is a wonder. 
“No, I want to touch you,” you say, stare not knowing where to focus on him and his half-hard dick jumps at your words. “Explore you.”
He meets your eyes, pupils blown, and swallows, nodding. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I wanted to have you, remember?” 
There’s a semblance of a laugh and Leon rolls on his back, one knee up and hands on his stomach, blond hair fanning around his head on the sheets. He looks like a sculpture. “And how will you have me?”
“Pleasured without thinking of pleasuring,” you explain, he’d be better at the dirty-talk in your position, perhaps say something like ‘Crying for me’, but you’re way too fascinated by him to think about what would have him helplessly turned on. “Vulnerable.”
You would be lucky if you are able to push him to the point of not even one thought behind those pretty blue eyes, but you just want to make him feel good, and with that in mind, reach a hand and trail the tips of your fingers through the prominent web of veins along his forearm, his fingers jump, and you continue through his upper arm, lingering on the sharp lines of lighter-colored small scars until you reach his shoulder, feeling the cluster of the goosebumps that rise in his skin. 
“Seriously?” he says with an annoyed timbre and you see him having gone completely hard, eyebrows shooting up in shock. “You’re going this slow? Am I some package you’re unboxing?” 
“You seem to be enjoying it,” you murmur in interest, and Leon sulks at how you run all five of your fingernails all the way down the lower of his belly button and how it’s hardly even a graze at all. His abs keep contracting. “I barely touched you.”
“You, haah,” he sighs at you straddling and hovering above him. “Don’t need to point that out.”
Leon tries to hold onto your thighs but you maneuver him away, and unsurprisingly, he isn’t pleased by that, groaning. “Oh we’re doing this?”
“I’m touching you. Stay still like a good boy.”
It’s your usual banter, but for some reason, he turns his face away and closes his eyes for a second, wetting his lips as if his mouth is dry. The line of his neck clenches and unclenches and you feel the brush of his dick lightly hit the inside of your leg. You’re fascinated again. He likes this more than you expected. “God, you really want to kill me.”
Leon could stop it if he wanted to. Switch it around. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before. All the times you’ve attempted to ride him and your knees and calves failed you, he ended up sitting up and hugging you close, fucking up into you and kneading your insides from below and littering your shoulders with angry red marks, taking control of the pace, especially riled up from how endearing and sexy you were trying your best to pleasure him, in his words. He can do it again, but doesn’t. Just lies there, all for you, stuck between a rock and a hard place — which, in this case, is his discomfort and enjoyment. The lack of stimulation gets him going. 
You lean down and nip at the corner of his mouth, and he responds immediately, turning back to you, chasing the kiss. His hands come up to your waist but you take them off, pinning them to his sides, and Leon complains through sharply breathing into your mouth. “I’ll only,” Kiss. “Hold you.” Kiss. “Please, just let me—” You lightly bite his tongue. 
As if he couldn’t do it if he truly wanted to. He is letting you do this to him. Pleading. In that tone of voice, too. You’re in over your head, what is happening? 
“No,” you say, kissing his jaw and caressing the hinge of his opposite jaw with your thumb, sounding stern but feeling silly inside, unsure if he’s amused by you deep down. But Leon huffs again like a spoiled brat not getting what he wants. 
You’re shell-shocked, but continue your pursuit to find out what else he likes, settling on his ear, making a line through the outer rim of soft tissue with your tongue and sucking kisses until he’s shifting around, you can hear how he’s trying to level out his breathing, then you bite, and he hisses as you repeat it over and over again. 
You’ve heard that some men enjoy getting their nipples played with, and you caress and massage, knead and fondle all over his torso with both hands as the switching of your gentle and silky mouth and the needling pleasure of teeth assault his ear, and you listen to his heavy breathing the occasional hitch of it until you circle around one nub, and flick it, rubbing down and pressing the pebbled nipple inwards, just like how he does it to you, and twist the other one. His face hides itself in your neck, and you let him have that, at least. 
His exhale turns into sound and he shuts it down pretty quickly, opting to speak up instead. “Can you—” he begins, and then tuts, sounding nonchalant, but you hear it. You hear the thickness of contained arousal. “Can you move on already?”
“You want the other ear?”
His head jerks in your position at you saying that straight into his ear and breathing into it, you know the thin sheen of saliva coating it makes the sensation sharp and cool and warming at the same time. “No—” he says, but you ignore him, cutting the rejection off by taking his other earlobe between your teeth. “Jesus Christ, this isn’t necessary—”
“If it isn’t, why is this wet?” You ask, watching him closely, tapping the pearl of clear liquid gathered at the tip of his ramrod straight hardness. It’s scalding hot, throbbing at the contact. Leon hisses between his teeth, trying to contain it, and sighs as your index finger circles the tip to spread it around, another bead of precum swelling in the wake of your touch. His eyebrows are scrunched, lips thinning and returning to their usual plushness with him pushing them together, a dust of pink coloring his complexion, a weak glare is on you. “Just enjoy it.”
“I could if you actually did something already.”   
You wrap a tight hand around Leon’s needy cock, heavy and thick, and he shouts, the cry turning into a high-pitched whine you would never dream of coming from him and he clamps a hand on his mouth right in the middle of it, hips bucking into you, head thrown back, blown eyes horrified at what he just did. His breaths are loud and shaky, face turning red in seconds, and you watch, utterly captivated. You’ve seen adorable sides of him before when he lets himself be light and his brow isn’t hanging close to his eyes in that grumpy mood, but what you have right here…   
You’re drunk on this side of his, nibbling at his exposed throat. “You’ll take what I give you.”
“God,” he whispers behind his palm, with a subtle tremble when you squeeze once and let go. His hips stutter up before falling back. Leon’s embarrassed. “Fuck.”
He doesn’t retort back, all of the sass packed and left. You can’t believe this is working. That Leon’s obeying you like this. He’s leaked all over your hand. Oh my god. 
And you’ve really barely even done anything to him. 
You can’t help but wonder if this is you doing this to Leon or he’s just into being bossed around in general. 
How further can you push?
“Look, you’ve wet my hand,” you say, bringing your glistening palm up and separating your fingers after circling the gathered precum around, a thin thread forming between the digits. Like a hawk, he watches you lap it all up and you don’t take your eyes off of his, hearing him grip the sheets. “Still gonna act like this isn’t doing anything for you?”
Leon’s voice is gravelly as he rasps, “Kiss me.” It’s something between a request and a demand that if you don’t do it, he will. 
You oblige, pushing down on his chest to get him to lie down again when it’s apparently too slow and soft for him, and he avidly presses forward to make it rougher, intertwining his tongue with yours harsher to the point of your mixed drool sliding down his chin for more. 
He’s yanking and pulling on his clasp on the dreadfully wrinkled covers in self-restraint as he bites and licks and pulls at your lips, butterflies light up the pit of your stomach and thrash against the liquefied rapture that throbs in your pussy and seeps out, the need for attention growing impatient by the minute.  
You go down and focus on kissing his neck, alternating between openmouthed licks and bites, careful not to leave marks, insides doing a summersault at the small noise of disappointment he makes that transitions into husky gasps. Leon still is concerned with suppressing any kind of unbecoming sounds he’s appalled to come out of him, and you’re bothered by that. Pressing your palm on the head of his cock and twisting sure does the trick to vocalize him a bit, restoring your confidence. 
“Ah… Can’t you just directly touch it,” he sighs gruffly. “This isn’t enough—”
“You aren’t asking nicely enough.” 
His head snaps down, brows raised in disbelief, self-consciousness clouding the teased promise of bliss that edges him on, and you stare back at him pointedly — however, on the inside, you’re worried if he’d ever beg at all. 
You twist your palm with added pressure enough to alleviate the pain, but not enough to carry him to the peak he wants to get to, and his shoulders jump up, “Ah!” Biting down on his momentarily trembling lower lip and shaking his head with closed eyes as if he doesn’t want to see you watch him be like this, he mutters, “I’m gonna get you for this…” 
You grip the base of his cock so hard his hands fly up to your wrists and with a shuddering whimper, stop at the last second before he touches you and he drapes his forearms on his reddened face instead, his back rises from the bed involuntarily, Leon’s flat-on squirming and hating it. 
“That’s not nice,” you tease, pressing your legs together in momentary relief and waves of pleasure that slip on your skin like silk, and narrowly stopping the moan. You breathily add, “What do we say?” 
“Please,” so fast and quiet, humiliated. You understand, but don’t let him off.  
“I didn’t catch that.”
“Fuck, please, come on, please.” His hands ball into fists and his arm veins pop out and his right knee curls upwards. “You can’t keep doing this to me—AHH—mhhmh—!”
His sentence gets cut off into incomprehensible babbling once you start pumping your fist up and down his neglected erection, not even needing lotion for it, he’s drenched enough to make the slide beyond slippery. You add your other hand into the mix and begin teasing the tip, and his chest, having developed a thin layer of sweat and gleaming in the sunlight, is heaving, and he can’t swallow the gasps and noises anymore, fingernails digging into his palms. You can only see his puffed, rufescent lips from the way he’s covering his face.  
“Wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’ll take it,” you say, and it’s genuine. This much alone was too much, way beyond what you thought could happen. Leon is always in control, he has it together so brilliantly that this is actually him falling apart, it’s an enthralling, spellbinding natural disaster so beautiful you can’t look away, want to touch yourself to the sight. 
“I’ll show you what I have in mind,” Leon all but snarls, and he has you on your back and pulls you towards him by your legs harshly even before shivers can go down your spine. “Let’s see if you can take that.” 
You pushed him past his limit it seems, and he darkly stares you down, eyebrows scrunched and beads of sweat rolling down his temples. sweat-dampened hair curtains his face from both sides. His hand slips behind both of your knees and scratches at the smooth skin of the crevice, shooting lightning directly into your core, and he hikes them up to hook over his shoulder and hugs one bulging arm around to hold them together, lining himself up with your slit with a trembling hand, dragging the cherry red, furious tip up and down, slipping it in for a bit, catching your insides in a tantalizing drag, and then taking it out next, making your toes curl in the air and drawing squeals out of you. 
Leon would normally send you to the underground and back from how horribly he’d tease you for being this drenched for him, but he’s strained and silent now, snapping his hips against yours and burying himself to the hilt in the spasming cavern of your pussy in one go, with no resistance from how ready for him you were, ripping a fractured cry from you as your vision blacks and stars dance behind your eyes. He groans gutturally, cock pulsing inside, and you feel the sound in your body. You’re overly sensitive from head to toe, and even the sheets sliding against your burning skin makes your clit throb painfully, deliciously. 
He doesn’t start slow or build to something, it’s quick and rough right off the bat as he’s ramming into you with no mercy, and he’s basically catapulting you into glorious completion, but you need more stimulation, more, something more—
He slaps your hand away when you try to reach down to your clit to slip two fingers between your tightly shut legs and falls on his forearms, “No way I’m letting you do that.” Leon arranges your legs to wrap around his waist, grinding against you. 
His attention then shifts to something else and he pulls on the sleeve of your shirt that’s still on, a scheming shine comes to the blue of his eyes that worry you, and then he’s leaning in and forcing it up. It’s hard for you to move your back and slip it off with the way he’s pinning you down, and it dawns on you late after you make the mistake of raising your arms that it’s what he wants after all. After getting your head out, Leon turns it inside out around the entire length of your arms that act as a makeshift restraint and leaves it like that, you’re incapacitated with your hands over your head like this. 
You whine, this is so about not letting him touch you, and he thrusts up sharply to shut you up, sucking blossoming reds into the crook of your neck, hands pulling and pinching at your nipples. It’s building up. It’s building up, but— “You’re going to come like this.”
The frantic slap of skin against skin is echoing in the room and you struggle against the bunched up shirt around your arms. “Can’t—”
“You’re doing it on purpose at this point.” He laces his fingers into your hair on top of your head, thumb on your forehead in little caresses, contrasting how he fucks you shallow and fast, his voice a couple octaves higher than it usually is as he angles your hips upwards to hit deeper, and your moans are a metronome in beat to his ruthless pace. 
“Yeah, that’s right, take it!” Eyes glazed over, mouth agape, the muscles in his thighs jumping, body pulled taut, wrecked and somehow begging, Leon doesn’t leave a single spot unkissed on your face and throat and he’s hurling towards an uncontrolled craze, he’s so close himself. “More? You want more? Too bad, this is it—mmm—for what you just did to me, and you’re gonna take it!” 
You’re clamping down on him and he hisses in your ear as you repeat it like a mantra, Leon is wrenching a merciless orgasm from you and you have no control over it, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t—!”   
Leon’s delectable weight pins you down as you shoot up with the detonation of the pleasure into a thousand pieces, rippling through your body in building waves, your pussy clenching down on him catches him off guard and he unceremoniously spills into you with a choked, staccato shout shuddering, the succulent warmth coating your insides and adding to the ecstasy, and it just keeps coming, his load is too heavy and too much. Your stiffened legs lock the shivering man in place and tremble around his waist as he languidly rides his bliss out, forehead sticky against your clavicle, the sheer strength with which he holds you against him is euphoric rather than suffocating. 
“God, what the fuck was that,” he mumbles at some point, collapsing on top of you and turning you around with him so he won’t crush you, pulling you to his sweaty chest and putting his chin on top of your head. His scent has you in a fuzzy daze. “What did you do to me?”
You don’t respond, consciousness slipping from your fingers and pulling you deep into the sweet comfort of the dark. 
You feel his hand on your cheek, lightly nudging. “Hey, you okay?” 
“Mhm,” you manage to make out. “Wanna sleep…”
“Okay, sweet girl, I got you,” he says, soft and endeared, from far, far away. 
And with that, you’re out like a light. 
When you wake up, you find yourself thoroughly cleaned up, in comfortable, cotton pajamas, with no Leon in sight and a small note left on your nightstand with the keys to your apartment on top of it. 
It reads: Had to go. I’m sorry about not staying until you woke up. Talk to you when I get back.
You plop back on your fluffy pillows and sigh, chest hurting. It was always going to end this way. In hindsight, you’ve seen it coming. 
Your heart doesn’t agree, tears freely falling from your eyes. It’s really over. Leon really left like that. Just as he came into your life. 
You don’t have the right to complain. You’d agreed to it in the first place. 
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thefandomsfervent · 14 days ago
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JayVik x Reader Personal Pigments (Part 21) - Phthalo Emerald (NSFW)
As of last chapter this is a jayvik x reader fic now. It is going to be a JayVik fic. Ft. Viktor being a quiet lover boy and JayVik smut. haven't written MLM +18 before so careful and I'm sorry in advance lol. it'll be marked by a breaker MDNI
Find my imagine that inspired it here. Previous and next chapter will be linked at the bottom.
As much as daily chapters were fun to do, not feasible with my current work schedule. It may move to 2-4 days between releases now. stay tuned and Thank you for reading <3 Sorry it took so long for this update! I was in a wedding that I had to travel for and also holiday burnout. But I'm back with a vengeance.
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It had been a good morning for Viktor, he had awoken rested. Warm. Wrapped in Jayce's arms. This became a more familiar feeling. What was once ephemeral memories of rarely shared naps had turned into cuddling in bed together, warm broad hands rubbing into his legs and back. Jayce cologne settled into his pillows weeks ago. Cold mornings alone now were warm and slow starts to the day. Fleeting kisses and soft touches, drapes of cloth and linen. This morning was like all the others, and there was nothing that either of them would change about it. Aside from you. 
Time had continued to pass as it always did, and their patience began to wane. Admittedly it was Viktor’s own that seemed to dwindle. Jayce seemed content with just having him for now. That didn’t stop Jayce from joining in on the teasing. Now he had both of you in this lab. His golden darling, and you. Who was not his just yet. But he could want you to be. And for now that was enough. Because he saw how you were watching him and Jayce. He saw your lingering glances. Your weighted gaze on where their hands held each other. Something that lit a fire in himself and in Jayce. It resulted in some... testing this morning.  Gauging your reaction to their actions and eyes.  Seeing how beautifully red you could get just from their gentle teasing. It made some primitive part of him imagine what more hands on approaches could do to you. Discussions that he and Jayce indulged in when the wine gifted from Mel would find itself in their glasses. 
That would come later, much later if it needed to. Today all they had were words and time. That shyness that swept across your face when you heard him call Jayce, Zlato. A pink gone crimson when you heard your own endearment. If you had asked why Viktor would have gladly answered. Even if he preferred to keep such close sentiments to himself, he knew your love for imagery. He knew that if he told you why he had picked those words that you would have been putty in his palm. Zlato and Broučku each had their own meanings that he had chosen to share and that he chose to keep private. 
Zlato meant darling, but it also directly translated to gold. Jayce Talis was golden to him. His tan, his energy. Where you drew him as the sun personified, Viktor thought of him as starlight. As a continuous pulsing of energy that ebbed and flowed, lighting the night sky on Viktor’s late nights. Something to look for, to be excited to see. To watch glow and twinkle. That smile so bright as if he was lit from within. Stars he didn't always get to see back in Zaun. The smoke from Zaun and light pollution from Piltover sometimes blocked out those celestial lights. But Jayce was like that to him. Moving and changing, part of history in a way that not everyone quite understood. A gold dusting across space and time. Like gold, he was soft and malleable. Like gold, he was still strong and desired. Like gold, he shone in the sun. Like gold, he deserved to be taken care of. Like gold, Viktor wanted to wear him on his skin. 
And you? There was brouček, which was cuter. Little beetle. But broučku fit you better, he thought. When he imagined you, your always working hands, there was a buzzing behind his neck. Deep and thrumming in his ears. You had wormed your way into his lab. His life. His heart. Had burrowed under his skin. An iridescent sheen in his mind when he thought of you. Something that had truly hit him that morning after you had mixed your paints in the lab. As a scientist he understood your explanation and preference for correct terminology. But your laugh warmed his chest and soothed the mental aches being in the lab brought him. He couldn't help himself. Especially after your note where you kept the silly name, had crossed out your own words just to call back to his misnomer. 
You had become embedded in him without him realizing. Despite there being the closeness that he and Jayce had shared he was certain that you were a part of him. A kind of stability that your presence had offered that he took comfort in. Regardless of if you became entwined in the romance he and Jayce shared, he knew that you would be a sweet constant. 
Viktor sees your mind processing the nicknames, sees how your cheeks are impossibly ruddy, sees the way you fidget with your hands. You had laughed and relaxed. Still, whatever limits you had it seemed that they were about to hit them, so he taps Jayce’s hand and gestures to their table. A silent “Let us work now.” When Jayce turns around he is barely hiding all the affection Viktor knows he holds. It pours from that smile, gleaming in those happy hazel eyes. And it fills Viktor’s chest with his own. He can hear the tense breath you let loose when they both face their table. He can only imagine how your shoulders must relax without their focus on you. Can not help the last look he gives you. His eyes are catching yours. Your own watering from laughter. Viktor almost speaks. But you smile at him and any words catch in his throat. So he offers his own and gets back to work. The soothing sounds of all three of you working plays in the background. 
As the day continues like normal there is a burning that had settled in him. There was a tenderness in today’s teasing, yes. But something in Viktor had been awoken by all that blushing of yours. It means that when you call it an early night he only waits until the door shuts to tug on Jayce’s tie. His golden partner was looking over his shoulder at calculations. Jayce says nothing at the action, simply waits. Having been victim to Viktor’s teasing in almost all its forms he knew better than to react too quickly now. 
“Perhaps we should call it a night too.” is all Jayce needs to hear to lean into Viktor’s back. Eyes closing when he feels Viktor rise to stand. There’s no straightening of notes before they leave. Just a silent walk back to their rooms. Lately they had spent most nights in Viktor’s room, the mattress more comfortable on his leg. Tonight they stop at Jayce’s door. 
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Jayce sat on the bed patiently,  his hand loosely fidgeting with the sheets as Viktor undresses. Jayce himself had already made it down to just his boxers, straining in the fabric just watching. An inaudible hitch in his throat when he sees how Viktor had loosened his tie. Two moles on the right side of his neck unveiling as the collar dipped open. Jayce can feel his own gaze travel down to those beautifully long fingers deftly working at buttons. Watching with a growing hunger. They had been so gentle and teasing this whole time they'd been together.  More so before their talk to make it more. But tonight was different. And so he didn't want to forget a moment. He would catalogue it deep within his brain. Would make sure to remember every little thing he did right. Remember every movement Viktor made. A clearing throat pulls his gaze up. 
Viktor’s small smug smile greeting him. Flushed cheeks. It's all he can do to not pull him down onto that bed right away. To kiss up and down every inch of the man before him. Instead, Jayce opens his arms wide. Asking. Pleading with his eyes, leaning forward without thinking. He tries to ignore the thumping of his heart. Jayce Talis was a lover. He was a man that had been with men and women, needed affection and to give it. Craved it. And with his partner here in his room that one simple fact about himself did not change. Only became exemplified. As soon as Viktor stepped between Jayce’s legs he could feel those tan arms wrap around his back. Feel them slide under the loose button up. Thick fingers splayed along his lower spine. He could feel Jayce’s lips trailing soft kisses, loving and slow up and down his stomach. The press of Jayce’s nose into his abdomen. Viktor wrapped his own arms around Jayce. He trailed his hands until they met with the nape of Jayce's neck. And how could he not chuckle at the sigh he heard in response? At the puff of air he felt in his skin as Jayce leaned into his touch and looked up through loving hazel eyes?
Jayce tries to stay focused, tries to not let the night become a blur of bodies and sensations. Leans into every kiss, committed to every action that has a taste and sound. Everytime his hands wander too low Viktor’s hands pull them away and up. When Viktor himself is only in his boxers he’s sitting in Jayce’s lap. Hands holding Jayce’s above his head, whispering about patience and behavior. Words that he wishes he could focus on. All he knows is that Viktor tastes like coffee today. Like home. Cold hands on his hot skin. Hips moving deep and slow, brushing against each other. 
Viktor isn’t sure how long he’s kept Jayce at this point before he settles further down the bed. Trailing fingers over where Jayce has made a mess in his underwear. Reveling in the gasps Jayce can’t hide. In the way he twitches beneath the wet fabric. It’s deliciously pathetic. Makes him hungry. Lightheaded. When he fully presses his palm down Jayce curses, trying to stay still. A task quickly abandoned as Viktor continues to tease, until he’s panting and whining. 
“Do you need more or could you finish like this?” Viktor’s voice is soft and admiring. A tone that is heavy with demand yet still asking. Jayce only nods, eyes barely open enough to see what Viktor’s doing. Crawling up for messy kisses and that hand never stops. “Vik I can’t, I’ll-” It takes an ear nip and a few well timed praises. A groan that rumbles deep in his chest, loud enough that Viktor can feel it in his own as a wet flood pulses through the fabric of Jayce’s boxers. He keeps moving, focusing on getting every last bit until he hears a whine. 
"Can't wait anymore, let me touch you. Please. Let me make you feel good. " His voice is hoarse. Emotion that could be lust or love. It’s both but that didn't matter as his lips met skin and hands fumbled with the waistband of his underwear. "Wanna taste you. Can I?" Viktor just looked at him. A ring of amber barely visible around the blown pupils. Finally Jayce could feel that sense of pride. Drinking in every second of those mole and freckle covered shoulders heaving up and down.  Loving every minute that he could be touching his partner. "Please V."
Viktor wants to deny him but impatient stuttering hips betray his resolve.  He lifts them and nods, not trusting the voice rising in his throat to stay steady. Not when Jayce looks at him like that. Pouty kiss bitten lips parted to show that endearing tooth gap. He had no time to take in the cool air he’s suddenly exposed to. Jayce’s hands are already on him, pumping his length. All their heavy petting and grinding meant that it didn't take much to get him fully hard. So Jayce wastes no time in pushing him down, leaning forward on his knees. The pillows by his feet getting kicked off the bed as he settles and puts his mouth on Viktor. The hot muscle moving to make room and properly cradle the underside on each slow pass. Viktor could hide his first groan, but not the second. 
Seeing Jayce’s brows furrowed together in concentration, those short thick lashes resting on the swell of Jayce’s cheeks. Especially not when Jayce hums as if he's content to be here of all places. Viktor can feel the back of his partners throat, kissing the head as Jayce tries to swallow around him.  It's too much, too far and he wants to pull away. But Jayce is lifting Viktor’s hips. Pressing himself impossibly close, nose brushing against that patch of hair, taking in shaky breaths. His orgasm is fast. Too fast. Viktor can't warn him, all he can do is let his head lean back as he spasms. He can feel his leg twitch, a heel dogging into Jayce’s back, he can feel himself twitching as he cums. The wet heat of Jayce’s mouth staying there the whole time, slowing down his movements to draw it out as long as possible. When he finally pulls off Viktor is barely there. That bliss of another person warming his whole body. He can barely register the kisses on his inner thigh, just when they stop and he feels Jayce lay his head on a bony hip. Jayce hums when he feels Viktor's hands in his hair. A few strands stuck to his forehead, just getting his breathing together and they both relax. 
“Again?” Viktor can feel Jayce pushing into his hand, head tilting to look up at him. Face so open and vulnerable, and absolutely drunk on the feeling of being there with each other. 
“Incorrigible.” It doesn’t stop him from tightening the grip of his fingers in those dark brown locks. 
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------------.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙-Part 20-.-Part 22.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ ✩ *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .--------------
------------‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙· Master Fic List *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊--------------
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after-witch · 1 year ago
Text
Caring Was a Thing With Claws [Yandere Sigma x Reader]
Title: Caring Was a Thing with Claws [Yandere Sigma x Reader]
Synopsis: Sigma is good at caring for Sky Casino. And he finds that he really, really wants to care for you, too.
Word Count: 2000ish
notes: yandere, unhealthy relationship, kidnapped reader, kissing, drugging
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You do not belong at the Sky Casino. Sigma knows this the instant that you’re granted access, all nervous smiles and downcast looks at the guards who usher you politely (but by no means meekly--they were hired to keep his clients, his world, secure, after all) through the security system.
Not that you would be the type to be hiding weapons or some secret, dangerous motive. No, no, that’s not you. He gets a read on you instantly, and he doesn’t even have to touch you. Though, he thinks, neither are you some voracious gambler looking for a higher thrill than those found in measly casinos on land. 
So why are you here? It’s curious. A debt you must pay, perhaps? Someone leaving home for the first time, intent on something new and exciting?
Ah, but he doesn’t really have time to be curious about someone that doesn’t pose a security risk, does he? So he shelves away that curiosity with his other unwanted things. Instead, he’ll stick to what he needs to know: your name, what you like, what you dislike. The facts necessary to create a mental shelf that will help you enjoy your time here.
That’s what he does best, make everyone within the casino happy. And safe. Safe as they can be, here in the sky, under his leadership. It’s all he has, this place, this space, these myriads of bells and whistles; sights and sounds that haunt his dreams, ephemeral though they are; now you, too, are part of that machine underneath him. 
--
Your code name is B8934. You don’t belong here.  You don’t fit in.
But he hates it when leave, all the same.
Because you really are different from the others. 
The first time he spoke with you, he almost couldn’t hear your voice. Soft and sweet, a whispering gentle tones that seemed to pull him towards you. But it was you who leaned in towards him, repeating yourself, apologizing for being so quiet. So shy. He told you it was nothing, no problem, and you cleared your throat to repeat your words.
“Your hair.” He had blinked at you, and you stammered out: “I like it, I mean. It’s really pretty.”
A new feeling had come over him then. A strange one. A prickling in his cheeks, a slight pressure. You didn’t realize it at the time, but you’d just stolen his first blush. 
And… it continued from there.  Your attentions. You sought him out, here and there, and at first it raised the creeping ivy of his defenses. Did you think he might rig games in your favor, if you befriended him? You wouldn’t be the first to try and, as he read in a book and spend an hour agonizing over the non-literal meaning, “butter him up.” 
But you weren’t like that. It became clearer and clearer with every day, every meeting, every hour you spent with him. You weren’t looking to manipulate him for anything; you were simply being you. 
You’re sweet. Kind. Entirely out of place here.
And Sigma thinks he might be in love with you. 
Yes, this must be the feeling that swells in his chest every time he sees you. Alone or in a crowd. It makes him feel faintly sick, and sometimes he even catches sweat building on the back of his neck. Words, which don’t always come easily to him anyway, seem to stammer and stutter all the more often.
This awful pressure in his chest, which is perhaps not so awful at all, makes him want to write down everything he can about you. So he does, carefully jotted in a notepad that he’s dedicated entirely to you and no one else. 
You don’t spend a lot of money. Perhaps you don’t have it. You don’t like seafood, but you sometimes eat oysters if someone else buys them and encourages you to down a few. He finds that he hates this, when it happens; hates the sight of you laughing with someone else. You laugh too loudly sometimes and then catch yourself doing it, and you touch your cheeks, even if you’re only talking with him--do your cheeks burn?
All this and more, carefully recorded and organized, so that he can reference it when he needs to; after all, if the casino is under his management and protection, don’t you fall within that carefully drawn up category? His goal is to keep the casino safe. To keep the patrons happy. 
You should be safe and happy too.
But more and more, he finds himself asking that same question: can you be safe and happy if he’s not there to make sure it happens? Who knows what you get up to in the outside world. 
Here, you can be a little too naive. A little too trusting. You sit close to drunk men who edge their greedy fingers on their thighs, and you never notice until they brush your skin and you slap them off. You accept fancy drinks bought by strangers with a grin and a raise of the glass. You bet too much money and drink too many roaming glasses of free champagne, stumbling and woozy by the end of the night.
You are in over your head, clearly.
He sees it, even if you don’t.
And that’s why he slipped a sedative into the cocktail delivered to your table tonight. You downed it without a second thought, which only confirmed his decision. 
You’ll thank him eventually, he thinks. When you realize that this is for the best.
--
The last thing you remember is losing a round of blackjack and downing a pretty pink cocktail that someone (but who?) sent to you. On the house, the waiter said, and that’s all you needed to hear before drinking the entire glass in one undignified gulp.
Maybe that’s why your head hurt so much. (Okay, that, and the multiple cocktails you’ve had tonight.) Maybe that’s why you couldn’t remember how you got here, in… someone’s room, on their nice, soft bed? 
Maybe that’s why there was a chain on your ankle.
Oh.
What?
Your clarity sobers up enough for you to yank hard at your leg, which rattles with the weight of a thick, silver chain attached to a silver bracelet around your ankle. The sight of the chain, the feel of its weight, the realization that something is terribly, terribly wrong all seem to crush your chest at once. 
Sobs come then, wheezy sobs, accompanied by thick tears that drip down your cheeks. 
“It’s… all right. Calm down.”
Your body jerks--Who is it--and your eyes dart until the source of the voice steps into the light.
And just like that, you stop crying. You break into a relieved, shaky smile. 
Because it’s Sigma. Sigma walks out of the shadows and for a brief moment, your heart soars. He’s here to rescue you! You got drugged by some creep and he’s looking out for you, like he always seems to do. He’s kinder than he realizes, and you’ll tell him exactly that after he gets you out of here.
Only he doesn’t seem to be moving towards your chained up ankle. Nor does he seem to look shocked at what he sees. He only looks... concerned, which is reasonable. But 
“I-I promise it’s not permanent,” he says, gesturing towards the chain. “It’s just to make sure you don’t hurt yourself while you’re still… adjusting.” He looks around, eyes downcast and uncomfortable. “You have everything you could ever need here. Good food. A comfortable bed. I’ll make sure you never need anything and never get hurt.” There’s something like pep in his voice that makes you want to puke. “I promise. I’m very good at managing these things. If-if there’s something you don’t like, I can get you some things, some books or--”
“Sigma,” you say, voice cracking. “What’s going on? Why--why am I chained up? What did you do?”
His eyes widen. His mouth opens, then closes.
“I’m going to take care of you.”
“But why?”
And then there’s a pager going off, and he huffs, pulling out his phone and flipping it open with hands that shake. 
“What is it?” You watch his eyebrows furrow. His frown twitch. “I’ll be right there.”
He glances at you, and he looks so sad and worried that some part of you wants to feel sorry for him. But then the reality that you’ve woken up on a bed (his bed?) with a chain on  your leg comes swinging back, and that fades away.
“I’ll be back soon. There’s…” He gestures towards the top of a dresser pushed against the wall, which you can see is littered with snack bags and water bottles. “Just for now, don’t worry, I’ll have real meals brought in. And um.” He stares down at the floor, and a peek flush creeps onto his cheeks. “The chain can reach the… bathroom, if you need to.”
He turns, and you almost get the impression that he’s forcing himself to leave without looking at you. His name dies on your lips before you can speak it.
And just like that, you’re alone.
Chained up.
In an unfamiliar room.
Because of Sigma? But why? Wasn’t he your friend? Or, as close to a friend as you could get, considering he basically owns the place?
And what did he intend to do with you? He didn’t seem like… that kind of guy. He was quiet, shy. A bit like you, except he didn’t drink, which always made you loosen up more. 
Curiosity and fear lead you to slowly step off the bed. Your head is still fuzzy from the drinks or drugs or both. But you don’t stumble as much as you thought you would when you make your way around the room, dragging the silver chain behind you.
There’s a dresser. A nightstand. The bed. A TV, but there’s a layer of dust all over it, and you doubt it’s been used much. 
A desk. Although it’s not messy, it’s terribly cluttered, covered in a few stacks of books and assorted printed pages all bound together. There are all sorts of bookmarks and sticky notes in them, and you can see the traces of pen ink on the margins of them. He’s been studying… something… hard.
A book on nutrition. A printed analysis on the optimum temperature for indoor health and wellness in all seasons from the maker of some heating and cooling system. A vintage volume bound in fabric with the gilded scrawl, “A Conversational Guide to Making Conversation.”
Your fingers just touch the edge of a printed article entitled oh-so-bluntly How to Kiss when the secure door slides open and Sigma steps in.
He stares at you.
You stare at him. 
Then he looks down to see what your fingers touch, to see that you’ve found his stash of reading material, and his skin flushes.
“That’s--it’s just--” And oh, how his stammering might be cute, if you were anywhere but here, in this room, with a chain trailing from your leg. “I wanted to make sure I did things right when I brought you here.”
Things.
Like feeding you. And keeping you warm.
And kissing you?
Heat creeps up from your toes to your scalp.
“I’ve never kissed anyone,” you murmur. Of all your conversations with Sigma--the shows you liked, the books you read, the cat you saw at your neighbor’s apartment window every morning--you’d never touched on anything like this. Why would you? This was something you kept tucked away at the back of your drawer, never to be known to anyone but yourself.
“Of course you haven’t,” he says, and there’s something like eagerness in his voice. “I haven’t either. I mean, I want to--with you--I’ve been waiting.”
Waiting, you think? For me? No, not for me. Waiting until he could take me.
Because that’s what he does. He takes.
He takes a step forward, and you’re afraid to move. Even when he takes another step, and another, and he’s standing so close that you can feel the warmth of his body against yours.
He takes those steps, and then he takes your first kiss. He doesn’t grab you or hurt you or force you, and maybe that makes it hurt more. 
His lips are soft. There’s a faint scent--mint, maybe--that lingers from his breath. He doesn’t stick out his tongue, but only covers your lips with his own, a faint wetness clinging to your lips as he pulls away.
His breath is heavy. So is yours. For different reasons, you imagine. Very different reasons.
You step backward now, chain clinking, until you hit the bed. Your legs give out--this is not the knee buckling that is meant to happen with a kiss, is it?--and you stare ahead. At Sigma, but not at him, all the same. 
The silence between you stretches thin until he clears his throat.
“Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”
You nod, even though the last thing you want right now is food.
“I’ll get something!” He says, perhaps too quickly, because then he’s clearing his throat and repeating himself. “I’ll have a meal brought up. I know all your favorites, and I’ve made sure they’re extra nutritious.” He blinks, then seems to consider something. “Ah, are you cold? I can go get you something warmer, flannel or a blanket or…” 
“Yes,” you answer, not really listening. 
His voice seems far away. You seem far away, even to yourself. 
Your fingers clench the soft, silk sheets underneath you and a slow, rolling thought wraps itself around you like an unwelcome blanket.
That was your first kiss. He took your first kiss. Or you gave it, and maybe here, in his room, with a chain keeping you from going too far, it’s the same damn thing. 
And it won’t just be your first kiss that he takes, is it? No. A glance around the room, a bit of applied thought, can attest to that. He intends to keep you for… forever?
Forever is a long time and so much will slip away from you, right into his hands. Onto his lips, onto his fingers. Sigma will be your first everything. Your first kiss.  Your first cuddle. The first one who tenderly kisses your knuckles and works his way up your arm to your neck, tickling it with peppered touches. 
He’ll be the one to take your virginity, too, and there’s some awful feeling in your stomach as you idly wonder if he’s gotten a book about that particular topic yet. 
630 notes · View notes
padfootagain · 1 month ago
Text
Love in Verses (XXXVI)
Chapter 36: ‘So I imagine such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine this is how it began’
Hi! Here is a new chapter! Time for an adorable first date!!! Also, a reminder that this is not meant to be read by minors…
I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!
****
Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)
Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here
Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?
Word Count: 3839
Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist
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Of love
I have been in love more times than one, thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting whether active or not. Sometimes it was all but ephemeral, maybe only an afternoon, but not less real for that. They stay in my mind, these beautiful people, or anyway beautiful people to me, of which there are so many. You, and you, and you, whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe missed. Love, love, love, it was the core of my life, from which, of course, comes the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned that some of them were men and some were women and some—now carry my revelation with you— were trees. Or places. Or music flying above the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun which was the first, and the best, the most loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into my eyes, every morning. So I imagine such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine this is how it began.
Mary Oliver, Red Bird
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Andrew looked at his reflection in the mirror, hesitated, freed his hair from the bun he had gathered it in.
He heaved a sigh, trying to slow down his heart, to alleviate the knot in his stomach.
He was so fucking nervous. God, Andrew had not been this nervous since his first date with Samantha. No, scratch that. He had not been so nervous since he had presented his thesis.
He checked his outfit again, pondered his choice for the hundredth time. A black shirt, black pants, black vest, brown leather shoes. Was it too much black?
He shook his head. He looked good in all black, his mother had told him so, and he trusted her with this. He readjusted his glasses. Should he wear contacts? Sam liked him better with contacts rather than glasses…
Fuck Samantha.
Andrew preferred wearing glasses, and so he kept them perched on his nose.
Hair up, or hair down?
He couldn’t choose, thought his hair looked good enough today even if he let it loose but then again he didn’t want to have his hair always falling before his face. He opted for the middle ground, tied up only a few strands in a half bun and let the rest fall loosely to his shoulders.
Yeah… he looked good enough.
He added a little bit of his cologne, just to make sure he smelled nice. He turned towards his dog, who was lying behind him on the floor, his head resting on his front paws.
“So… Elwood… what do you think? Do I look nice?”
The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name, making Andrew chuckle. He walked over to pet Elwood behind the ears.
“Yeah, I agree. I look decent enough. Wish me luck! I’m gonna need it.”
Andrew had made sure he wasn’t going to be late, even if he had to drop Elwood at his brother’s. He had set up five alarms to mark the passing of time. And indeed, when he knocked on your door, he was two minutes early.
He was picking you up tonight. For your first date he was the one planning everything. He hoped you would like the evening he had planned for you. He wanted to impress you, to be honest. He wanted to show you that he could be better than Frank, that you didn’t have to regret your choice…
He took a couple of deep breaths as he waited before your front door, looking at the bouquet of flowers in his hands. Your favourites, he had made sure to choose them. He hoped you would like them.
When you opened your door, he was left speechless. He froze, stared, couldn’t help his eyes from raking your frame. You in your emerald dress, the one he had bought with you and that he had dreams about, the way you had tied your hair, the light glimmer of a jewel around your neck…
You… you were… so fucking…
“Gorgeous.”
You raised a surprised but amused eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips now. And Andrew blushed all the way up to his ears…
He cleared his throat, tried to overcome his embarrassment. God, he really was the worst…
“You… Hi.”
“Hi,” you let out in an excited breath, grinning up at him.
“You… you look beautiful,” he complimented you, making you shy away a little.
“Thanks. You look nice too.”
He grinned at that, a wave of pride washing over his heart.
“Thanks, Y/N.”
He handed you his flowers, and you thanked him again, breathing in their sweet scent.
“These are my favourite flowers.”
“I know,” he nodded, and you seemed touched by his answer, emotional now.
“You’re ready to go?” he asked.
“Sure! Just have to put these in some water and grab my purse. Come in.”
He obliged, waited while you were getting ready. He was fidgeting when you came back, his shoulders bent, nerves making him want to disappear. He had to bend to pass your doorframe, and he hadn’t straightened his posture after that.
You noticed as you walked back from your kitchen, found him still standing before your door, rubbing at his palms. And you were frowning now, slowly approaching him.
God… were you second-guessing this already?
“Andy?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you alright?”
He looked at you, surprised.
“’Course. Just… a bit nervous, I guess.”
The understatement of the century. He was this far from shitting his pants…
You reached out, placed your hand on his upper arm. His heart quickened at the touch, he felt his muscles relax without being able to control his own body.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look smaller than you are.”
He raised a surprised eyebrow, but didn’t straighten his posture.
“You do that when you’re sad, or feel bad, or just… want to disappear. Are you… Are you uncomfortable with us going on a date?”
“Uncomfortable? No, of course not… I’m… nervous. Terrified that I’m going to do something stupid and ruin our date, but… no, I’m not uncomfortable with us dating at all, on the contrary.”
“I like it, you know? How tall you are. I really like that about you. So… no need to shrink down when you’re around me, alright?”
His heart was filled with warmth, and finally, Andrew stood straighter again.
“Besides… I’m already in love with you. So… no pressure. It’s not like you have to seduce me or anything.”
He laughed, rolling his eyes.
“Right…”
You offered him a tender smile, narrowing your eyes a little at him, mischief painted all over your features.
“Actually… can you bend down for a second?”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Just for a sec.”
Slowly, he obeyed.
“A bit more…”
He bent down again, until you were raising to your tiptoes and kissing his cheek.
You gave him a toothy grin, a mischievous one that made him giggle like a lovesick fool.
“Alright, now we’re ready to go,” you smiled, and he followed you outside of your flat again, his skin burning where your lips had touched him, feeling a little light-headed after your gesture, dizzy with your perfume.
He drove the two of you outside Dublin, all the way down to Wicklow. Andrew finally started to relax during the drive, conversation settling smoothly, as it always did with you. The sun was setting, it would soon be nighttime, but for now the light was painting the sky with golden and red, stripes of purple stretching towards the horizon.
“You haven’t even told me where we’re going!” you noted, and Andrew smirked.
“That’s a surprise.”
“A surprise?”
“Hmm… I hope you’ll like it. Had to ask for some help from locals to get everything ready.”
“Really?”
“Hmm.”
“What have you planned?” you asked, fully intrigued by now.
“Ha! Won’t say! It would spoil everything.”
You mumbled something about Andrew being annoying, and it made him laugh.
Indeed, he had asked a few friends to help him set up the scenery he wanted for the date. He was also using a part of the land owned by some family friends.
You frowned as you entered the property, but didn’t head towards the house; Andrew aimed the wheel towards the small wood instead, that stretched beyond the fields of barley.
“Where are we going?” you asked again.
“This property belongs to some friends. My parents live nearby, they’re practically neighbours, have been friends for decades. I asked if I could spend the evening on the edge of their wood. We shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“Oh… right…”
“They own the whole farm,” Andrew explained.
“Okay…”
“Don’t worry, no one is going to come during our date. I just needed a nice spot to set up my terrible plan.”
You chuckled at that, let Andrew drive the rest of the way in silence.
He parked by the edge of the trees, opened the door for you, and you smiled at the gallant gesture, a tinge of teasing in your smile.
“Oh, thank you, dear knight in shining armour…”
He rolled his eyes.
“Come on, don’t take the piss. Let me be romantic tonight, alright? The lad is doing his best…”
“Alright, alright… sorry.”
“Right, you need to close your eyes now.”
“What?”
“Close your eyes. This is a surprise. Don’t worry, it’s just behind those trees. And I won’t let you fall.”
He offered you his open palm.
“Trust me.”
His smile was kind, infinitely tender. You stared at him, but he didn’t read hesitation in your eyes, your expression was a little too emotional for that. Still, you nodded, slipped your fingers in his hand.
“I do trust you, Andy,” you tenderly smiled up at him, before closing your eyes, and Andrew struggled to breathe at your words, his heart feeling warm again.
“Although… I don’t know if I should,” you joked, back with your playful tone. “You are a pretty clumsy lad…”
He laughed at that.
“A clumsy giraffe, that’s what I am.”
Still, when he gently pulled on your hand, you followed him.
You walked for no more than a couple of minutes, before reaching a tiny clearing. Nothing impressive, but there was enough space between the pines and oak trees for Andrew to set up his plan.
He had hung a large set of white sheets between two trees, had set a projector so you could watch a movie. A blanket, some cushions and a picnic were set to eat during the film. He had borrowed some fairy lights from his parents to hang them around the clearing, and his brother and Alex had helped him set them up.
It looked nice. He hoped you would like it…
“Alright, you can open your eyes.”
You blinked, gasped as you took in the view. You looked around, found no words to say.
“Andy…”
When you turned to him again, you had tears in your eyes.
“This… this is…”
He offered you a shy smile, trying to take in the view as well. The way the sunset was painting your frame with orange hues, how the fairy lights shown in your eyes…
“Do you like it?”
You laughed, blinking tears away.
“I love it. This is… this is better than what I had imagined.”
“Good,” he whispered, burying his hands in his pockets, feeling himself relax.
“What are we watching?”
“A movie you like,” he answered simply, moving towards the cushions so you would both take a seat.
The picnic was simple, nothing too fancy, but you were glowing, a grin permanently glued to your lips, and so Andrew reckoned that he was doing something good. When the evening turned into night, that the sun finally disappeared beyond the Wicklow Hills, and that the moon and stars were left to light up the heavens with silver, Andrew proposed to watch the movie while you ate your dessert. You nodded eagerly, waited patiently while Andrew was setting up the movie with his laptop.
You recognised Pride and Prejudice with the first frame, gasped at the sight.
“This is perfect, Andy,” you breathed.
You leaned closer, letting your shoulder and head rest against his arm. He kissed your hair.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked in a quiet voice, warm and deep, and he noticed how you leaned even closer, until he was snaking an arm around your waist.
“This is… perfect,” you repeated yourself, and Andrew grinned, feeling proud and content.
“Good… That’s grand…”
“Andy… you know I… don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, by any means. This is magical. It’s… no one has ever done anything like this for me.”
He tightened his hold on your waist without noticing, his heart speeding up as he felt dread replace peace.
“But?” he encouraged you to continue.
“But you don’t need to impress me, you know? I… I love you. This is amazing, but spending time with you is enough to make me happy. Okay? I don’t need all of this to be happy to be with you.”
He felt tears rising to his eyes, but he blinked them away as he nodded.
“Thank you…”
“No, thank you, Andy. Thank you for tonight, thank you for everything…”
You both fell into a comfortable silence, picking up some fruits and watching Elizabeth and Darcy fall in love all over again…
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You helped Andrew pack up everything in his car, leaving the clearing undisturbed by human activity again but for the fairy lights hung in the trees, Andrew would come back for these later. You failed to spot the owl you heard before leaving, but you didn’t mind. You took one last look at the small clearing, at the moon almost to its fullest above your head, at the stars shining bright and clear against the inky sky, and you thanked them for keeping a warm and bright weather for tonight.
Andrew drove you home, you chatted all the way, sang along to the songs on the radio and laughed at the lyrics you invented. He walked you to the door of your building, and you both remained standing there for a couple of minutes, under the pretence of finishing your conversation when, really, you simply didn’t want to part. At last, once neither of you had anything left to say, you looked up at him in silence, hesitating. You didn’t want him to leave…
You noticed how his cheeks grew a little pink, how his gaze grew more intense, entrapping your stare. They held such tenderness as they rested upon your features, such fondness… you dared to call it love…
And Christ, Andrew was so handsome like this. All in black, elegant and so damn tall, with his hair held back to reveal his features. You wanted to trace the edge of his sharp jaw, you longed to feel the roughness of his beard under the pads of your fingers, to kiss the bright pink of his lips… And in the streetlights the red in his hair and beard shone brighter than usual, his eyes a darker shade of green and brown. Your heart was pounding at the sight, your entire body heating up at the thought of reaching out to touch him…
“Y/N?”
“Hmmm?”
“Can I… Can I kiss you?”
You grinned at that, reassured. He wanted the same thing as you did. Andrew wanted you too…
You finally noticed that his breathing was irregular, loud and slightly trembling. That his fingers, as they reached for your hand, were warm and calloused and unsure. He seemed vulnerable, waiting for your answer. As if he didn’t really believe this was happening either, as if he too was unconsciously awaiting a rejection.
You closed the space between your hands, intertwined your fingers together, and Andrew released a long breath.
You stared right into his eyes as you spoke.
“Please… kiss me, Andy.”
Something changed in his expression, then. It held the same tenderness still, the same loving expression, something close to adoration. But instead of doubt and fragility, his gaze darkened, he seemed more confident again. His grin was bright and a little dreamy as he reached up to cup your face in his large hand. And if it made you feel small, his touch also made you feel safe.
Slowly, he bent down, while you went to your tiptoes to meet him halfway. When he finally kissed you, it was like the world had disappeared, like you were the only beings left in the universe, like time itself had stopped to grant you this moment. You let go of his hand to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. Meanwhile, his now free hand was resting on the small of your back, pressing you against him. For how long you kissed, you couldn’t have guessed. All you knew was that when you finally pulled away, gasping for air, head spinning a little, your chin burning because of his short beard, all you wanted was to kiss him again, and again, and again…
“Andy?”
“Hmmm?”
“Do you want to come in?”
He blinked his eyes open, stared at you, but there was nothing but want, desire and awe to find in your gaze. And so, Andrew let out a shaky breath.
“You’re sure?” he asked anyway, even if the answer was obvious, written all over your features.
“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded.
Before you could add another word, Andrew was kissing you again, more urgently this time, something filled with sparks and want, kissing you like he never wanted to stop…
He did break away though, nodding, his nose brushing against yours in the process.
“Yeah… yeah, I definitely want to come in.”
You giggled at that, noticed he was blushing, but you still took his hand and guided him inside the building.
In the elevator, his lips were back on yours, he was pressing your back against the wall, hands holding tightly your waist. You had rarely felt so wanted in your life, and you were not even in your apartment yet, let alone your bedroom.
He followed you to your door, you noticed the way he closed and opened his hands repeatedly, as if refraining to reach out and touch you.
The second you were locking your door, Andrew was kissing you again, pressing your back to the wooden surface, holding onto you tightly.
“Y/N?” he whispered against your lips, and you hummed quietly to encourage him to continue. “You… I trust you to tell me if anything feels wrong, if you don’t want me to do something, if you feel uncomfortable or… whatever. Alright? No matter what it is. Okay?”
You looked up at him, pupils blown, and panting with want, hair already made a mess by your fingers, glasses a little lopsided upon his nose. You had never felt as safe as you did in this moment.
“Okay. Same for you. I trust you to tell me. And I trust you to stop, too.”
He gave you a reassuring smile, silently nodding. He kissed you again, tenderly, softly this time. Slow and loving.
“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, stealing all the air from your lungs.
“I love you too, Andy. I love you…”
You kissed him once more, passion making your movements more urgent again, he groaned when you gently captured his lower lip between your teeth.
“You’ll be the fucking death of me…” he murmured.
He let out a breathy chuckle, the kind that revealed he seemed barely able to believe this was real…
“Can I undress you?” he asked, voice deep and low, the sound alone making your entire body tremble.
“Yes… God, yes… Can I undress you?”
“Please, do…”
A second later, his jacket was on the ground; your shoes soon followed.
You felt the tip of his fingers glide up your waist, sneak behind you to touch the bare skin of your back. Every fibre of your being was on fire, boiling, burning, burning…
“Any boundary I should know about before we do this?” he asked, voice so deep, you thought you were losing your mind.
His warm breath was fanning over your lips and chin, reminding you how close he was.
“Erm… I don’t know… Nothing that could hurt, I guess…”
He chuckled sweetly.
“I’m not much of a bdsm kind of guy either, if that can reassure you.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed, you absolute softy…”
“Anything else?”
You couldn’t think straight, had nothing to add. You asked back the question.
“Nothing I can think of right now… but then… it’s hard to think at the moment.”
You both giggled at that, and if you were still both highly turned on, you bathed in the solace of the moment, all trust and tenderness.
“You’re still okay with me undressing you? With me touching you like this?” he asked, and you nodded.
“You too?”
He chuckled, something darker in his gaze as he bent closer to kiss you again.
“Y/N… you have no idea how much I want you…”
His lips moved to your jaw, your cheek, your neck. He nibbled at the tender flesh over your pulse, kissed and tasted your skin with a brush of his tongue…
Your legs were shaking, you were ready to combust right there, against your front door.
His fingers were back to your waist and then moved up your frame as he spoke again, a path excruciatingly slow across the velvety material of your dress, from your waist to the edge of your breasts. He flattened his hands on your stomach, and you took a sharp intake of breath at how big they felt across your torso.
“I’ve dreamt of this,” he confessed into your ear, before sucking on the skin behind it. “Dreamt of you… Christ… I want you so fucking bad. The sins I want to commit with you…”
Then his hands left your stomach to travel down to your arse, and then to the back of your thighs, a silent demand to let him carry you to your bedroom. You didn’t hesitate as you jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his torso and kissing him again. You undid the buttons of his shirt while he walked to your bedroom, letting your fingers cover his breasts, touch his chest hair, fall across his stomach. He shuddered under your touch, his breathing stammering, and you felt so powerful like this, held within his arms and able to summon such reactions from him.
“God… I want to taste you so bad,” he confessed, and you were surprised at how straightforward he was about this. “Can I? Can I put my mouth on you?”
“Yes… yes, please…”
The undressing resumed, he peeled off your dress, your stockings, your underwear from you, and you pushed away his clothes as well.
There was so much awe in his gaze as he took you in, eyes travelling your body as if to make sure he would remember every inch. When he caught your gaze once more, you could read nothing but want and adoration in his dilated pupils.
A silent question, one last checking in to make sure you were still fine to continue, and you nodded, reaching up to touch him, no matter where, you only longed to feel the warmth of his skin under your palm. You untied his hair, the last item remaining on his body, while his glasses had been discarded to your bedside table a while ago. His hair fell down around the two of you, you giggled as it tickled your shoulders, and so did Andrew. When he lowered his lips to your skin again, it was with the intention to touch and kiss every inch of you, make sure you knew how much he longed to worship you.
Your eyes closed with his lips reaching at long last their final destination across your skin, and the groan he let out when you pulled on his hair as a reaction to your pleasure made you question whether this was real or merely one of your dreams.
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b1xi · 20 days ago
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───𝘊𝘜𝘗𝘐𝘋───ハイキュー!!
Tsukishima Kei(ハイキュー!!)x fem!reader
Word count:2880
𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩
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By the time you returned, the atmosphere in the gym was electrifying, charged with a palpable tension that permeated every corner of the place. The scoreboard reflected an eerie equality between both teams, which foreshadowed a frenetic outcome. Sweaty and exhausted bodies moved dizzily around the court, each player fighting with all their might to keep the ball in the air, giving up any trace of tiredness. It was a fervent battle, an outpouring of energy that kept everyone on the edge of their seats.
Hinata, with a dazzling heavenly shot, had managed to take his team to the lead, his contagious energy igniting Karasuno and generating murmurs of excitement in the stands. However, Seijoh, with the skill and precision characteristic of their game, was quick to equalize the points, undoing the ephemeral advantage. Uneasiness took hold of you, your skin crawling as you watched each movement with almost hypnotic attention. The voice in your mind, animated and frantic, echoed: “You can do it, I know you can do it” – though the words never came out of your lips.
You gasped when Oikawa, in a moment that should have been critical for his ego, missed a decisive serve. The Seijoh captain, known for his grace and skill, had unintentionally handed a valuable point to his opponent. The pressure on his shoulders was evident, and you could imagine the storm of frustration he must be feeling at failing in a play he traditionally dominated. However, the Seijoh players were tireless, and within minutes, they managed to regain the lost point, reaffirming their determination not to give up in this match.
As the match progressed and each point was added to the tally, your heart beat with an unknown rapidity; you had never felt such an intense connection with a volleyball match. You were completely absorbed, following each play with an almost hypnotic concentration. The tension intensified with the approaching end of the match; only one round remained. 
The ball traveled through the air, finally landing on Karasuno's side. Kageyama, with his sharp gaze and unmatched precision, deftly received it, sending it to Asahi, who, with strength and determination, returned it to Seijoh's court. Seijoh's libero, however, demonstrated his agility and skill, intercepting the ball with ease and bringing it back towards Karasuno's court. 
Hinata tried to break through the defense with a powerful spike, but Seijoh was prepared, blocking the attempt with impressive timing. The ball rose again in a frantic dance, and in an instant that seemed to last forever, Kageyama, Nishinoya and Asahi launched themselves in a united effort to receive it. But time had run out, and the opportunity was lost in the face of fate: the ball hit the ground.
Your eyes widened, disbelief taking over as you took in the, until then, unthinkable defeat. The mix of emotions overwhelmed you: the euphoria of the game, the sadness of the loss, and an undeniable admiration for the effort everyone had put into that contest.
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The atmosphere at school felt heavy and oppressive. Hinata hadn’t exchanged a word with you since the game, and though you didn’t blame him, it was clear that he was mired in deep sadness. You understood all too well what it felt like to be dejected; you didn’t feel like socializing either. As you watched the hands of the clock slowly tick away, you realized that you would be spending the break alone this time. Nayuta had skipped class; she had told you over the phone that she wasn’t feeling well. 
“Today is going to be a pretty boring day,” you sighed heavily. Coach Ukai had cancelled practice, leaving you with the afternoon free. You thought you’d use that time to head to the music room. With auditions right around the corner, warming up a bit would do you good. 
You stood up and grabbed your bento, looking for a comfortable spot to eat lunch at school. Your eyes scanned the empty classrooms, longing for something to catch your attention. It was then that you stopped, drawn to the intense gaze of the tall, blonde boy from class 1-4. His golden eyes met yours, a flash of surprise in both of you.
You found yourself staring at him more than you'd like to admit. Just as the intensity of the moment was beginning to envelop you, Yamaguchi's voice snapped you out of your brief trance. You turned to look at him, feeling a sudden relief at the sight of his friendly face.
"Yamaguchi, hello," you greeted.
The young man, adorned with a pair of freckles on his cheeks, turned his gaze to your bento, which your dad had carefully wrapped in a pink handkerchief with daisies on it. "Would you like to have lunch with us?" he asked, accompanying his invitation with a genuine smile as he pointed at Tsukishima, who was still sitting at one of the desks in the classroom.
Your first reaction was to hesitate. If the invitation had come from the blond, you would have felt a rush of embarrassment and nervousness that would have led you to politely decline. However, the kindness emanating from Yamaguchi was so contagious that your heart rebelled, refusing to reject his offer.
 With a slight smile, you decided to accept the invitation. “Sure, I’d love to,” you replied, feeling a light blush creep up your cheeks. The nervousness that had previously gripped you gradually faded, replaced by a warm feeling of camaraderie. 
The two of you entered the empty classroom; Yamaguchi pointed to a seat next to Tsukishima, who remained silent. You felt a little uncomfortable, as if your mere presence irritated him. After a brief moment, however, you chose to ignore that feeling. Yamaguchi took the seat in front of you, and with a friendly gesture, the two of you prepared to share the meal.
Before you began eating, you exchanged a heartfelt “bon appetit” for the meal. The atmosphere in the room, quiet but cozy, allowed you to appreciate the small details you usually overlooked in moments of tension. The walls were adorned with student projects, and the rays of sunlight filtering through the windows gave a warm and pleasant air to the space.
However, once seated, you realized that you had never had the chance to meet Yamaguchi and Tsukishima outside the context of the sports club. A slight feeling of uncertainty came over you; you didn’t know what to talk about. As you began to eat, your eyes moved between your two companions, searching for a thread that could carry the conversation.
It was then that your attention was drawn to Yamaguchi’s handkerchief, which was decorated with designs of different Pokémon. “Does he like Pokémon?” you wondered, feeling that it was a good starting point. “What is your favorite Pokémon?” Hoping that it might open up a pleasant conversation.
 Yamaguchi smiled widely, his face lighting up immediately. He began talking enthusiastically, sharing his knowledge of the franchise and mentioning several Pokémon you hadn’t heard of in a long time. His eyes sparkled as he told stories about each one, and you realized his passion surpassed your own knowledge as a fan. The conversation flowed naturally, and before you knew it, time passed quickly. 
Once they had finished their lunches, Yamaguchi showed you his small collection of Pokémon cards, carefully organized and protected in laminated cardboard. 
“Look at this one! This is my favorite,” he said, holding up a card that shone with vibrant colors. 
Unable to help yourself, you exclaimed, “That looks just like Kenma!” Without thinking, you pointed at the Torracat illustration on the laminated cardboard. 
“Kenma?” Yamaguchi repeated, frowning as he looked at the card, as if he didn’t understand the reference.
“The setter of the Nekoma,” Tsukishima explained, breaking his silence. “The pudding-headed fool,” he added in a lower, sharper tone, averting his gaze elsewhere.
Tsukishima’s comment surprised you and caused an involuntary smile. There was perhaps a hint of jealousy in his tone, but you decided not to think too much about it.
“Ah, the boy Hinata said you liked,” Yamaguchi recalled as he rearranged his cards. A shocked expression was left on your face. How did he know that?
“What Hinata said that!?” You looked at him in bewilderment, feeling confusion and disbelief take over you. That carrot-headed fool.
“He had told us that you liked him. I assumed that from how you talked so animatedly with him and because you seemed to spend a lot of time together,” Yamaguchi explained, visibly flustered by the intensity of your annoyed look. Before you could retort, Tsukishima interrupted him.
“Shut up, Yamaguchi,” he said in a tone meant to be dismissive, and Yamaguchi looked down, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Tsukki,” he apologized, looking down in a gesture that showed his discomfort. His eyes held a slight glint of guilt, and you sighed in frustration.
“I don’t like Kenma,” you explained, crossing your arms in an attempt to convey your seriousness. “I just thought he was cute, that’s all.”
“So, you like him,” Yamaguchi replied with the same certainty as always, as if he were revealing the absolute truth.
“No, just because I think he’s cute doesn’t mean I like him,” you replied firmly, trying to make him understand your position.
“But if you think about it, isn’t it the same thing?” he insisted, his attitude stubborn. “Sometimes, when we find someone we like, we start by thinking that he’s cute...”
“Yeah, but… that’s not the point,” you interrupted, trying to adjust the conversation to your true feelings. “I don’t like him; I’m interested in someone else now.”
Yamaguchi’s question took you by surprise. “Who do you like then?” you frowned, feeling the conversation becoming awkward.
“You piss me off,” you said through gritted teeth, your frustration rising at the insistence.
“Who do you like?” Tsukishima joined in the conversation, his mocking tone ringing in your ears. “As if you didn’t know,” you thought disdainfully.
You sighed, straightening your back in your seat. “I won’t name names,” you stated, eyes narrowing as you cast a challenging glare at the blond beside you. “But he’s a tall, rather sarcastic boy,” you emphasized the last word, hoping the insinuation would be enough.
Yamaguchi brought a hand to his chin, making a thoughtful gesture. “Who could it be?” he murmured, his innocence contrasting with the tension you felt.
Finally, the bell announcing the end of lunch rang through the air, and you quickly said goodbye before standing up and heading towards your classroom.
“Hey, Tsukki, who do you think it could be?” Yamaguchi asked his friend, watching as you walked away through the door.
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You rested your head on your mother's shoulder as you both waited for the time to board the plane to Kyoto. Automatically, you shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, trying to calm the anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest.
According to the schedule, you would arrive in Kyoto today, just in time to participate in the auditions for the orchestra tomorrow. Yesterday, you had tried to locate Hinata at school to say goodbye, but you were unable to find him. You thought about looking for him at the gym, but the rush to return home prevented you from doing so, leaving you with a slight regret for not having been able to say goodbye properly.
"Calm down, sweetheart," your mother urged, placing a comforting hand on your leg, which was moving nervously up and down. "Yes," you replied, trying to follow her advice.
Turning your gaze to the magazine your mother was reading, you focused on the images of Kyoto's tourist sites, trying to distract your mind. However, as you looked at the beautiful landscapes and temples, a thought crossed your mind: you should return with a couple of gifts for your two best friends. Maybe in Kyoto you would find something that Tsukishima might like as well. With each image you passed, the thought of gifts intertwined with the memory of the conversation you had with him about his date to the festival, making you blush involuntarily.
You glanced at your mother, who was engrossed in her reading and didn't notice the flushed cheeks or the silly smile that adorned your face. You decided it was time to ask her permission so there wouldn't be any awkward questions later on.
"Mom," you called her in your native language, wrapping your arm around hers and putting on your best puppy dog eyes.
"What do you want?" she replied, getting straight to the point, already familiar with the innocent tone you adopted when you needed something.
“You know, the Tanabata festival is coming up and I was wondering if you could give me permission to go,” you asked, choosing your words carefully. “I want to go alone, without my sister or you or dad, just me and…” you paused for a moment, trying to properly categorize Tsukishima in your mind. “Just me and a friend.”
Your mother looked up from the magazine, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “A friend, you say? Sounds interesting. And is that friend someone special?” she hinted, her tone hinting at her curiosity.
“He’s just a friend,” you replied quickly, feeling the blush deepen on your cheeks. However, your mother’s expression, which had turned from surprise to a mix of amusement and expectation, made you hesitate. “It’s just that we like spending time together,” you added, trying to downplay it.
“Sure,” your mother said, a knowing spark in her eyes. “As long as you stay safe and come home at a reasonable hour, I think we can come to an agreement.”
The plane ride was fairly smooth and quick. Kyoto was really different from Miyagi; you were amazed at the number of temples and rich Japanese architecture that surrounded you. You stayed at a lovely hotel in the city center, mainly because your mother had plans to go sightseeing. She was excited to check out the prefecture’s cuisine and sights. You, on the other hand, felt nervous, fidgety even, as you moved your fingers on the small desk in your room, like they were piano keys. You had to do your best tomorrow; you had to make the trip here worth it.
You woke up early in the morning to get ready. Your mother made sure you looked radiant, insisting that a good appearance was key to making a good impression. Stepping onto the university campus, you were struck by the magnitude of the place. When you were led to the auditorium where the auditions would be held, your stomach dropped at how crowded it was. There were many young people your age, and most of them were students from the same high school.
You stood in a corner, holding your mother's hand tightly. You could feel your legs shaking, and at that moment, you completely regretted being there. Just as anxiety began to wash over you, a vibrant buzzing in your pocket made you snap. You quickly reached for your phone; an unfamiliar number appeared on the screen. You quickly apologized to your mother before leaving the room so you could answer it.
"Hello?" you said, trying to regulate your breathing.
"Hello!" a familiar voice answered, full of energy.
"Hinata... is that you?" you asked, feeling a surge of relief at the familiar voice. You lifted the phone from your ear to look at the screen; you thought you had added his number to your contact list, but apparently you hadn't.
“Yeah! It’s me. Well… not just me, the rest of the team is here too,” he explained, and in that instant, a chorus of voices echoed on the other end of the line, shouting a loud “hello!”.
“Oh, hello, guys,” you greeted, waiting for Hinata to explain the reason for the call, as you had to be back soon.
“Well, we were calling to wish you good luck,” Hinata said, his voice softening as other murmurs could be heard in the background.
You stayed silent for a moment, feeling your heart fill with warmth. “That’s really nice, Shoyo.”
“Don’t give me credit, it was Tsukishima’s idea,” Hinata replied, his tone changing to a lower one, followed by a small uproar among the boys. “Here, tell her something!” he insisted, struggling with someone.
“What am I supposed to say?” you recognized Tsukishima’s voice, which sounded somewhat resigned before falling silent.
“Uhm… hello,” he finally said, his voice clearer now. You felt your heart race at the sound of it. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, a little nervous, actually,” you confessed, feeling the mere act of talking to him give you a slight boost of confidence.
“That’s normal,” Tsukishima replied, his tone denoting understanding. “That time when I saw you play in the music classroom, you did amazing.” You can do it.” There was none of the condescending or hateful tone he usually used in his voice, and that pleasantly surprised you.
“Oh, it’s turning red!” Nishinoya’s voice exclaimed from the back, followed by a thump and Tanaka’s laughter, causing a smile to spread across your face.
Your eyes sparkled at his encouraging words. Receiving a compliment from Kei Tsukishima was nothing short of a miracle. The blood rushed to your face, dyeing it a lovely pink. “Thank you, Tsukishima,” you managed to reply, feeling that simple interaction give you a surge of confidence.
“Good luck,” Tsukishima concluded, his voice ringing with sincerity before the call was dismissed with a chorus of well wishes from everyone.
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Taglist @hwanghyunjinismybae @keishuii @darthferbert @kittyOsunny @hiqhkey @shoyosyoyo
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galebrainrot2024 · 1 month ago
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Day Two
Summary: a snippet of the journey of Gale and falling in love with you, a follow up to Night One | Ao3
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Gale’s eyes shot open, jolting him from sleep as his body began to spasm and ache. Cold sweat pooled at the back of his neck and he felt the acrid bile rise in his throat. Gasping for air, he gripped his chest, hoping the shudders of death would pass.
His skin pulsed beneath the orb, vibrant and alive, until it lulled to its similar, yet hungry rhythm. As it did, Gale’s eyes fluttered shut. He sighed. Relief washed over him, a thought that perhaps his luck was turning around after all.
Although the rancor of the troupe beckoned the start of day, Gale laid in the bed roll until he was sure he could steady himself. He clenched his hands in and out, seeing the blood pulse through his forearms and to his fingertips.
For so long he took being alive for granted. Now, not only was it likely he would die by detonation, it was also likely he’d become a mindflayer as well.
And then he would cease to exist.
Everything he had learned about mindflayers indicated a near absolute certainty - that upon sprouting tentacles and elongated digits, your soul (for all intents and purposes) vanished. It became nothing.
The fear of death was one matter. The fear of ceasing to exist was another. Although he wasn’t sure which was preferable at present since he had no God to claim him and would be destined to wander, listless, for all eternity.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tightly, the daylight too strong, too bright and it made his head ache. There were so many unruly emotions flooding his senses he needed to ground himself lest he erupt. Gale thought of his favorite meal, how tedious it was to prepare, how gratifying it was at the end of his efforts.
Steady.
Everyone had slept haphazardly, close to others but not too close - these were still strangers, after all. Gale was pleasantly surprised when you set your bed roll up closest to his.
What a wonder it was to feel alive for the first time in quite a while, to feel his pulse quicken to catch the eye of another, the air of uncertainty and adventure crackling around them.
“Are you just about ready? I’m sorry to rush you..” You said, almost shy. Gale rubbed the back of his neck before laughing and slapping his knee.
“What’s a wizard without a bit of dilly-dallying, eh?” When you offered a halfhearted grin he felt.. he couldn’t quite place it.
You see, when you are in relation with a God nothing feels quite real. It’s primarily intangible, an ephemeral exchange of bodies and minds that is difficult to quantify in mortal terms. Although he was merely a man, having experienced intimacy with a God had left him uncertain with traditional exchanges and emotions.
“Tas’ki,” Lae’zel spat, her face contorted. “Do you think it time for joking, wizard, or has the tadpole consumed what little sense you had?”
Gale smirked, an eyebrow quirked by her bluntness. Githyanki were known to be driven warriors, but being in the company of one was still jarring. “I’m not sure there was any there to begin with. If tadpoles needed sense to feast on, consider mine thoroughly starved.”
She rolled her eyes but again, he won a small snort from you.
It was invigorating being in the company of others. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed it.
Although it wasn’t long into the day until both Astarion and Lae’zel told Gale, in no uncertain terms, that if he kept yabbering on about the differences between mud mephits and magma mephits (in fairness, you had asked) he would no longer have a tongue with which to yabber with.
Gale rather liked his tongue.
It was disorienting going from extreme isolation to consistent companionship, so much so there were more than a few moments he chose to linger behind for some quiet. Although he could turn on the charm, it was exhausting. Particularly with his current condition. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
“Are you alright?”
He jumped, standing quick to turn around and there you were. Why? “Oh! I didn’t expect… you follow me?”
You shrugged and leaned against a tree, almost too casually. He wondered how you managed to keep such composure under the circumstances. If they didn’t find a healer within the day it was almost guaranteed they were doomed. Cooked like a poached egg. “Can’t have anyone wondering off too far,” you said, dramatically throwing up your arms in show, “lest you become a mindflayer.” Although your tone was light, the seriousness of the situation weighed upon you. “I respect the need for quiet, though - let me know if you need anything.”
Before he could say anything else you left him to his thoughts. He inhaled, knowing the more time that passed the more difficult it would be for him to bring himself to tell you what he needed, why he needed it. So, after they stumbled across a Druid enclave he frantically, but stealthily, searched the corpses for any magical item on hand.
“You little thief,” Gale felt heat prick his ears as Astarion knelt beside him, “are you planning to keep that all for yourself? How naughty of you,” he clicked his tongue as if disappointed.
Gale gritted his teeth and groaned, “The pot calling the kettle a bit black, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps,” he said, grinning. “Whatever would our companions think,” he feigned a pout, tapping his lip. “We all have our secrets, though, don’t we.” And he let the matter drop as you called for them, Astarion miming the lock of his lips and throwing away the key. He grinned and Gale sighed, following behind.
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ilikekidsshows · 1 month ago
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I always thought Kuro Neko is before Ephemeral but knowing it's the opposite instead just make it worse. I mean we have ladybug dismissing cat noir twice then, in Ephemeral instead of explaining why she called him to the tower she just goes "oh it's nothing" and in Kuro Neko she also said "ok!" When cat noir told her she should collect his miraculous as well. All after he hadn't been around to help fighting the akuma, means she has twice the chance to actually asked why he had been missing (as any caring friends and responsible leader would do) but never did. Did she forget he's the holder of the miraculous that hawkmoth targeted or what??? Like I get it, she didn't care about him as a person. But she also didnt care about the miraculous that he has?? Is this the greatest guardian that Su han praised about??
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The writers, and Marinette by extension, don’t care about anything else other than her petty personal problems. Cat Noir going missing and possibly losing his Miraculous to Hawk Moth doesn’t affect whether or not Marinette gets to mack on Adrien (for all she knows), so it’s just not a concern! Just like the world ending and being remade was a happy ending and totally Marinette’s victory, because she got to close the adventure off by finally telling Adrien she loves him. This is the climactic victory of five seasons of adventures, battles and “development”, Marinette delivering the most zero-stakes “I love you” ever, while Adrien is talking over her to say the same thing because he never had a problem with saying it.
Wow, how inspiring. Such good television.
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seattlesellie · 1 year ago
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knight!ellie x princess!reader drabble. ♡🗡️🕯️
an: since i’m thinking of writing a full fic of knight ellie x princess reader i wanted to know what you guys think ! let me know if i should turn this into something way longer. just a lil peak of the themes of a longer fic 💗
cw: mature themes, reader is a little lonely, tension.
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the moon is so bright, so big, so white, luminous, it reflects in her emerald eyes and renders them almost mystical, bordering on the verge of the unreal. one couldn't help but wonder if she herself was not entirely real, a specter of dreams made flesh. do you recall those distant days of childhood? just eight years old, insisting that your imaginary friend — aurora, was right by your side? you clung to her like a lifeline. you'd shed tears as your mother, the reigning queen, denied the request for an extra place setting, an empty plate reserved for aurora alone. how you fell asleep bawling, tasting salt on your tongue, bitter and sickening, feeling as if you were drowning in your sleep, the specter of aurora growing gaunt and wretched, as though starved for existence.
how you woke up plagued by guilt, tormented by a high fever and a stubborn eye infection, crying and screaming for your imaginary best friend. and how from that day on, the castle fell empty. you wandered around, through those regal halls like a specter, floating like a brittle ghost, nodding politely when a maid curtsied in reverence, offering a feeble smile to the steward as he addressed you as his cherished princess.
you filled your duties, all your royal obligations, attended to your classes, spoke only when spoken to by your parents, ignored when another royal called you a “loony” when catching you in the midst of a conversation with several alabaster rabbits.
you formed a connection with the world around you, a bond that ran far deeper than what met the eye, and now one knew.
you rub on your eyelids with the back of your hand, and blink in dismay — oh, you’ve been mistaken, she is real, and her abdomen rises and falls with each breath, the clang of her armor a testament to her existence, to your sanity. her eyelids flutter, and her throat subtly moves as she swallows. a strand of her auburn hair sways in the wind too, but sweet aurora’s hair also danced in the breeze, so who knows.
sometimes it all is simply too blurry.
for now, you choose to believe.
the grass tickles your bare toes, you don’t laugh.
“hate being a princess” you mutter with a sigh, tilting your head to the side — her side, to see if perhaps she vanished like the rest of them, yet finding her there.
her role as a knight is dictated with silence in your presence, a mere executor of commands from your father with a duty to bow in submission, so she doesn’t respond. all she has to do is be your protector, keep you safe and guarded, make sure you won’t try and run once more.
she’s also not supposed to help you with your clandestine escapades from the castle, she’s not supposed to lay in the tall royal gardens ridiculously green grass with the princess, to allow the opulent and delicate fabric of her dress to gently brush against the barest portion of her knee. yet — she allows it.
she’s not supposed to help you pick flowers and greet you good morning, she was supposed to be unyielding as stone, almost ephemeral yet ever-present.
and now your ankle shifted to rest gently against hers, and she didn’t even nudge you.
“i despise it” you repeat. you try and voice your frustration but it comes off as too soft. ellie typically abhorred anything soft. she’d rather sleep on a hard mattress than a plush one, favored stomping over floating.
and yet you seem to be an exception.
you seem to be an exception for lots of things.
and ellie doesn’t respond. she blinks at the full moon and it blinks back at her.
“do you like being a knight?”
you think you may have heard a breathy chuckle. you’re unsure, you sigh.
“ellie?”
and she never told you her name. you figured it out by yourself.
then she begins, pink tongue folding and moistening her lower lip. “i like being your knight”, she blinks thrice, in a hurry — like she said something wrong, as though she feared she might have offended anyone else whose knight she was not. she takes a deep breath, for some reason it's shaky.
“i like, i- need, to protect the kingdom. it’s my duty. for the sake of your father, the people, you — you know that, my princess”
and usually you’d cringe when addressed with that title. you voiced it already — that title isn’t you, you don’t want it, it felt like a burdensome label imposed or cursed upon your birth, but for some reason, when she says it ; “my princess” it feels like her “my”, is the one that holds the power to cloud your mind. and that’s why you don’t argue that it isn’t your name, because she calls you as hers, and oh how bad you want to be hers.
you overheard the conversations among the other young royals, who spoke in hushed tones about "crushes." you eves dropped and furrowed your brows intently when they talked about the charming sable boy, a dark haired prince from a faraway land, an adviser. they described the feeling of having a crush as if they were “falling”, “giddy”, “thrilled”, “like riding a horse, really really fast”
and it never really happened to you, albeit you really did try. you just accepted it, you’d be crush-less forever, forced to marry a crush-less prince, forced to live a crush-less life.
then you met knight ellie.
it happened when she removed her bascinet, when she casually tossed her tousled auburn locks from side to side, when she smiled that sly smirk then immediately wiped it off and glued her gaze to the stone wall. it was in the way her eyes met yours, her all but graceful bow, and the sound of her armored knee meeting the ground, when she chuckled after winning the battle of who would be the princesses knight. how cocky she looked as her arm was raised in triumph, only to transform into humble grace when officially declared the winner.
but it wasn't a feeling akin to falling; it was more like crashing down. you also didn’t feel giddy, you felt nauseous and tight everywhere, you weren’t thrilled you were petrified, and you didn’t ride a horse really fast — it was more like being thrown off the horse and crashing onto the ground, nose-first.
so it didn’t feel like crushing, it felt like something else. and you really had to go to the washroom.
“you don’t… owe anything to the kingdom, or to my father” you murmur.
she really doesn’t. it got her family starved, killed. “i do” she lies, swallowing thickly. “also, i really don’t need protection” then you lie, rolling your eyes with a huff.
she'd call you a brat if she wasn't your knight, and if she knew for certain that you wouldn't go running to your father after being offended.
“i should run away” you muse, idly toying with the hem of your dress. ellie sees the bare flesh of your thigh and she feels like maybe she shall run away as well. then her breath hitches down her throat, and she really hates it because this isn't the first time. perhaps she's sick, a throat infection. it's getting very hard to breathe.
t'must be the armor, the decides.
then she decided it's not.
it's simply the cold night air. definitely not your naked thigh, or your hunger to be free, or the way your dress flows with the wind, or the way your eyelashes flutter and your fingertips tap tap tap on your plushy lips.
“should i fetch the horse then, my princess? which one d'ya want, charlie... or buster, maybe. he's a strong one” ellie croons then swallows a chuckle.
she’s also not supposed to joke with you. or to stare at your thigh, or to let you place your head on her armored chest.
“yes” you reply like she’s serious.
then a cloud veils the once-bright moon, and your knight clears her throat.
“i should take you to your room, freedom warrior, s’getting late”
“you shall take me to the forest to pick some blackberries, knight”
ellie chuckles and argues back. “i shall not”
“disobeying a royal?” you say with a wink.
you might actually be the death of her.
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ateez-himari · 4 months ago
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FASHION WEEK; HIGHLIGHTS
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"I can be all the things you told me not to be"
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MILAN; VERSACE
• The vocalist recognized the journalist that had made tasteless and uncomfortable comments suggesting she was only in ATEEZ because of her appearance in 2021, continuing to throw sly comments into articles since then. When their manager began motioning him over for the common short interviews, she reminded him that he had been blacklisted from events for years - he was also the only one who she did not bow her head to as a greeting.
• When both ambassadors stepped out of the car together, the large crowd that had been gathered for hours flickered with bright flashes almost instantly whilst he extended a hand in order to help stabilize her.
• During the showcase of 'Ephemeral' the vocalist sat down on a white cushion to play the Koto - the national instrument of Japan - in order to accompany the music composed with different Korean instruments, representing her identity perfectly.
• To close off this impressive debut the runway welcomed the artist dressed in flowing light pink fabric adorned with golden details, displaying the very last design of her collection while she thanked the audience. Himari then bowed before the house's artistic director who in response mouthed the word 'Bellissima' and cued for attendees to toss red peonies towards her ambassador, a flower representing prosperity and good fortune in Korean culture.
• San attempted to hide that he was wiping away tears at the sight of their maknae accomplishing one of her dreams right in front of their eyes yet could not conceal his emotions when engulfing her in a tight hug.
• Once the show had concluded, Himari left her bandmates' sides to search the room for someone and hurried over to embrace the house's artistic director, who returned the hug warmly before placing a specially prepared tiara on her ambassador's head. Fans have compared their interaction to an aunt with her favorite niece due to the way Donatella seemed so attentive to her at all times, meanwhile the idol would hold her hand while being introduced to guests and the two were even seen gossiping at some point before the show began.
Afterparty;
• YouTuber Isaac M.I.K taught her how to do the South African dance move 'Tshwala Bam' over which they bonded very quickly before the vocalist in turns taught him the 'Work' challenge which was later released on the ATEEZ TikTok account. He now follows her personal Instagram account.
• In footage posted by guests, she could be seen visibly tipsy while whispering something into Mingi's ear, before pulling away biting her lip with flushed cheeks making shiny doe eyes even more noticeable as she gazed up at him. Whatever was exchanged between them made the rapper tighten his hold on her waist as he left a kiss on her neck. This clip rapidly made the rounds through social media with the unreleased song 'Come Through' by The Weeknd used as the background.
• Throughout the night, Gigi Hadid was seen dancing with her and later on posted several stories containing endless pictures of the two clearly forming some kind of friendship. The poses were different from what is usually seen from female idols but this allowed netizens a look into her more relaxed personality, dimming the cuteness shown during fan interactions to make way for natural charm.
• Madonna asked San for her Instagram handle during the Dolce & Gabbana afterparty the following day, and posted about the Ephemeral Collection with the caption; "What can't this girl do ?"
PARIS; BALMAIN
• The vocalist seemed overwhelmed with the loud sounds created by the crowd as both artists signed autographs, so Hongjoong discreetly reached over before lowering the volume on her hearing aid.
• Upon meeting his ambassador's youngest member for the first time, Olivier Rousteing let out an audible squeal and noted that both seemed to fit the other perfectly in terms of visuals. Some journalists present during the interaction even managed to catch him joking about wanting to steal Versace's Princess for his own fashion house.
• Dove Cameron cheerfully greeted the idol with a warm embrace along with seemingly endless compliments about her beauty when the show was being prepared. An entire camera roll long photoshoot ensued which was then posted on both of their social media accounts with captions conveying affection for the other, and both were seen giggling whilst sitting next to one another.
• Throughout the event the maknae seemed much calmer in the presence of their group's captain and sparked conversations with numerous high profile attendees, although this happened only when he stood at her side. Much like during their debut years, there were several pictures of her holding on to Hongjoong's sleeve while walking around.
• When came time to leave, Mingi stepped out of the car waiting for the bandmates in order to help his girlfriend inside with one hand under her own while the other guided her by the waist. Their manager could be seen standing aside smiling to himself, though trying to hide it, much like their captain.
Extra;
• While the members currently present in the city were taking a stroll, they ran into the vocalist's friend of three years, SEVENTEEN leader S.Coups, who immediately chastised her for having time to travel throughout countries yet none to stop by their studio despite having a keycard to the HYBE building.
• The Paris Saint-Germain Football Club invited their player's younger sister to the game against Rennes and despite having been apart only since Chuseok, the siblings ran up to one another as if it had been years once it was over. Since most players present had never before met her, Hanzo excitedly rambled on about nearly every accomplishment while the embarrassment flushed her cheeks with every passing moment.
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yuri-is-online · 1 year ago
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And Your Name Is? (Deuce, Azul, and Floyd)
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After successfully resolving whatever was causing NRC to be trapped in an endless time loop of overblotting and disaster, one last reset should give him a chance to experience a normal school year with you. But instead you find yourself trapped in the here and there, appearing as a vague shadow around the school that vanishes as soon as he catches up to you. The kind thing to do would be to allow you to be forgotten in the chance it lets you return to your world.
But this is Twisted Wonderland where the kind thing is seldom done, and he wants you back as much as you want to find him again.
notes: they/them used for Yuu, we are back in business bby, these three are by request, next up are Lilia, Jamil, and Grim! Angst with the intent of comfort, if you like this please consider checking out my masterlist for the previous three parts.
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Deuce
"Don't go where I can't follow."
Deuce has said that many times before.  He wonders if you thought he didn't mean it or had taken it as a joke, and truly he cannot decide which is worse. He had foolishly thought when he first woke up and saw the school year begin anew that he could relax knowing he wouldn't need to chase you across an ocean into the depths of S.T.Y.X. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy, his memories of you might have been scattered across time and space but he knew with certainty this set back did not surprise him.
"Are you alright?" Trey's concern does not go unappreciated, but Deuce can't really bring himself to respond out loud. "You seem a bit distracted." There are countless wishing stars hung above him in the trees, he wishes he remembered if any of the wishes he heard had been the same. He knows his no longer is.
"Let him be." Idia surprisingly in the flesh, but still draped like a wet cat over the drums. "We can afford to take a break anyway." His seniors move away as Deuce remains staring up at the wishing stars. Yuu is sort of the same color as them now, and just as ephemeral.
"Do you remember this?" The starsender robes don't feel as special anymore, he wants to be proud that he was really meant for this task seeing how time itself has seen fit to make him repeat it. "I only remembered to ask you what your wish was after... I think you passed it off as me being dumb but I don't think that's what happened now. Somehow I knew if I asked you to make a wish what you would say." A gentle breeze sways the little lights above his head as Deuce tries to spot the star Trey had helped him make. "I meant what I said, I want you to see just how cool I'll look in my officer's uniform. I want to make my mom and grandma proud, and I want you to come home and be proud of me with them." Sometimes he swears he can feel your head leaning on his shoulder, your arms embracing him from behind, your voice carried by the breeze drowning out shouts for him to come back to reality and pay attention to his surroundings. There's a legend in Twisted Wonderland about a man that dives into the Underworld to rescue his beloved, you had told him your world has the same story but it has a different ending. Deuce doesn't want to think about that as his hands curl around where yours should be, just over his rapidly beating heart. "I wish," he already has but he swears the star twinkles with magic in response all the same "for Yuu to come home." He squeezes your hand and jumps when he finds purchase, your weight forcing him to stumble forward and crash as he rapidly tries to turn and see your face.
Idia and Trey make noises of surprise, he thinks that they're talking but he can't seem to hear them above the sound of your heavy breaths. "I'm back Deucey." You whisper softly into the evening air.
"Welcome back Yuu." He hopes you never make him let you go again.
Azul
There is a mournful song flowing through this strange cold place you have found yourself. It's familiar, but you swear you have never heard it before, perhaps it is the voice you find yourself stumbling towards and not the music itself.
"There you are." It's pleased with itself this voice. "Come to spend some time with me again?" You don't know, you can't even really tell where you are. It looks like an office, but it is bereft of papers or any light. You feel more than see the desk at the center, the smooth grain of the wood chills your fingertips as you run along looking for something. A sigh rattles the room as you are dragged away, back to the mirror chamber by frighteningly cold darkness and you grope wildly around for the person you thought had been there with you. "Goodnight Yuu. I will see you tomorrow."
"Why can't you see me today?" You swear you speak but you hear no noise. And in the solid space you've left behind Azul leans back against his chair and studies the ceiling above him. He should be pleased. He had a theory and the tattered scraps of paper in his hand would seem to have proved it. Azul should be angry that your state demands such a sacrifice of him, he should be weighing the potential cost of this decision. Of saving you.
But instead he laughs.
"Yuu. Yuu, Yuu, Yuu. I wonder if I ever stood a chance." He knows the answer of course, but he wonders if it is as ingrained in your soul as it is his. ~~~~ "Do you believe in other worlds Yuu?" The voice is asking you a silly question, and you chase after it determined to tease. "And I don't mean like yours, I mean completely other realities where things even mages would find unbelievable exist." You manage to push yourself through the waters and begin to wander the purple and grey hued halls, desperately searching for someone you swear is here, his name on the tip of your tongue. "I admit it's not something I ever thought too much about, but after we got together the first time I would lie awake thinking about it. You and I meeting was never a guarantee, so why did it feel so much like fate? I think I asked you once."
"Don't underestimate me." You can hear yourself now, and the walls around you are coming into more solid focus. There is only one door between you and the person you have been searching for now. "I will find you in every lifetime." Delighted laughter moves towards you now, as the door opens to reveal the outline of a man, shimmering just like you.
"Yes that's exactly what you said." His hand is cold, you reach to catch it worried it will fall through you and almost sob as you both find the familiar sensation of the other's touch. "And I think I said, 'Well that's not threatening at all!' Because in my mind there was no other way for us to meet than as adversaries, but that didn't need to be true did it?" Azul's coat and scarf is slung over the back of his chair, your breath catches in your throat at the unusual sight of Azul in just his tuxedo. He preens under your attention, guiding you carefully towards the couch, hands trembling in equal relief, excitement, and still small fear that this was all a painful dream. The shredded remnants of carefully counted contracts can remain scattered across the desk behind you, yet he finds himself surprisingly unconcerned. He curls himself around you, sighing in content at the return of the warmth of your solid form. "I found you this time." You return his embrace with a half sob, the memory of the here and there cementing itself within your fears alongside the sheer relief of Azul's presence. "If other worlds do exist, if time gets re-set again, even if you are forced to return to where you came from, please don't underestimate me either. We found each other once, and we will in every timeline we exist." He kisses your hand and dares reality to prove him wrong.
Floyd
"Man every day's a party when I'm with you. I can't get enough!" He had really meant it, but he could see the doubts still flickering behind that smile.
"Glad you had fun Floyd."
Had. You were glad he "had" fun not "was having." It was an odd thing to get caught up on, Floyd didn't fully understand why it soured his mood so much himself. There was always this carefully crafted barrier between the two of you, carefully built up by you that he never noticed until it was too late. Until little shrimpy was just Yuu and the nickname became a facade to deny the depth of his emotions.
It was silly to think that he was the only one lying to himself.
"Y'know you can't stay all ghostie like that forever." He tries to poke you, disappointed in how you shimmery form neither disappears nor wavers. "It's not good for your health." Floyd has never had the smoothest of emotions, they tumble around his chest like waves, but he knows them to be consistent. He hates standing in place and doing the same thing over and over, he loves it when people make stupid mistakes and he gets to watch them blow up (sometimes literally) in their face, and he hates how predictable he has been. The jumbled memory of countless looping timelines and never once did he do anything more than maybe chase you around a little and come up with excuses to monopolize your attention. Floyd wants to squeeze himself, that's what this entire situation already feels like anyway. "Say do you know what humans used to say about merfolk?" His mood twitches back to something like happiness as he rolls his head up from lying on the library table up onto his hands. "They thought that when we died we turned into sea foam cause we didn't have souls. Isn't that silly! Say Yuu, which one of us looks like foam now huh?" Floyd hasn't cried since he was a fry, but these past few days he feels like he has done little but cry and sleep. In his dreams he gets to re-write his impossible memories to be a little lighter, he gets to drop the nickname and call out to you and have you cry out to him in return. In his dreams everyday is still a party and not a waking nightmare. Your hand, or maybe he is delusional and has begun to dream yet again, reaches towards him, fighting its foamy nature to try and touch his head.
"I like you." He had said it into your neck while you died that time, still lying to save himself some face in case that was the last thing you wanted to hear. "C'mon dance with me Yuu!" He had tried hyping himself up in his head, all words dying in his throat when he finally spun you away from Crabby and Mackerel calling you shrimpy once again.
"I love you." Why is he only brave enough to say it now when he swears it won't actually matter? "I think I've loved you since the first time ya tricked Azul and then immediately every time I saw you after. So come back yeah? I thought I had all the time in the world but I don't, and I ain't ever gonna be board of having you around..." The foam flickers, and for a brief delusional moment Floyd thinks he sees your proper face. "You know that, right?"
"I love you too." It's watery, he feels the answer somewhere in his soul rather than hears it as you crash under your own weight back into reality and onto the hard wood of the NRC library. His laughter cackles up and out across the whole school as he leaps across and over to catch you up and soothe your bruises with soft kisses, not at all the activity Jade expects to find him engaged in when he follows rather than flees at the noise.
"Mine." He kisses your pulse point and you wonder, not for the first time but with much more joy than sorrow, why it was his hand you were searching for. "My Yuu." Floyd purrs, a dangerous tittering laugh of genuine relief convincing you of his genuineness more than anything else.
If he was going to get bored of you, he would have done it timelines ago.
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