#expect a mild delay in a response :)

[yazmarina]

in my drafts

for the love circuit series

—that message wasn't for you but paul doesn't mind as long as you don't, either.

paul aron (f2) x gn!social media admin reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex, lewd photography, office sex, fingering, creampie, accidental nude sending, mild dirty talk

a/n: sorry i disappeared again!!! pls take this as my apology

It was supposed to be just pictures of him during the break. You expected innocent, somewhat average snapshots of how Paul spent his past two months. You knew he took that trip to Italy, attended his sister's graduation, did some training. It was your job to be at least a little updated on the drivers' whereabouts, in case the head of comms needed you to capitalize on it for content.

So when you received a few photos from Paul through iMessage of all his fall whereabouts, you didn't think much of it. You messaged him a few days earlier asking if he could send a few more unreleased pictures that he hadn't posted on his personal account yet, stating that it was for a post you were putting together for the Hitech Instagram. He was delayed in his reply, as usual, but that's something you expected. He was busy, after all.

Perhaps too busy to notice the outlier in the stack of photos displayed in your message thread. Everything seemed to be normal at first; Italian architecture, gym photos, the cheesecake he made. Typical day in the life photos.

And lastly, a photo of him in dim lighting, taken in front of a mirror, with nothing but shadows covering most of his naked body.

You stare at your phone, dumbfounded. Your first instinct is to wait to see if Paul has anything to say, an apology, maybe, or a half-assed excuse. Anything to indicate that he noticed how he sent you a full-on nude. You prepare yourself for the three dots that show he's typing, the frantic scramble to delete the photo from your exchange, but it never comes. Heat rises up your neck as you realize you're going to have to confront him about it. This was, after all, a professional exchange and you'd hate for HR to come knocking at either one of your doors.

-Paul, please review the photos you sent. Thanks.

You regret it as soon as you send it. Was that perhaps too snippy? Too callous? It was as embarrassing for him as it was for you, maybe even more. But come on, how hard is it to distinguish your nudes from your vacation photos?

The loud throb of your heartbeat reverberates in your ears as you wait, cursing under your breath as a full minute passes and then another. You lock your phone, getting up to pace around your room. You're most likely going to see him tomorrow as he'll be at HQ for sim work and other things and you just so happen to have a lineup of meetings at the very same time. You're going to have to face the fact that you'll have to look each other in the eye after you've seen the outline of his dick.

Wonderful.

You unlock your phone, resigning to just delete the photo from your side. You can claim plausible deniability or whatever legal term it is, if it comes down to it.

Just then, Paul starts typing.

You yelp, setting your phone down on the desk harder than intended.

You realize belatedly that you're holding your breath, fingers pressed into your mouth as if suppressing any more potential noises. He stops then starts again then stops, as if he's unsure of what he's typing out.

-I'M SO SORRY!!!! It was an accident I promise 🥹 Don't report me

-Please I'm so sorry it's totally my fault ______ 😭😭😭

-______ please I'm so sorry

Somehow, despite everything, this coaxes a chuckle out of you. Paul was always open and easy around you, and you know he knows you won't report him for an honest mistake. He's probably just red in the face right now, fighting his inner demons.

You type out a reply to ease his nerves.

-I'll just delete it off my phone so no one can say we were fraternizing inappropriately 🥲

The response from Paul is almost instant.

-YES please I'm sorry again

Your finger hovers over the photos when another message comes in.

-Unless you want to save it for a rainy day that's okay too

-I WAS JOKING its a joke I'm sorry I'm sorry

You groan, throwing your head back against the backrest of your office chair.

He's done this on occasion. Flirt. Compliment you on your hair, your outfit (despite it being the team uniform), your smile, even. You brushed it off as typical driver behavior. Nearly all of them had that kind of nerve about them, a confidence that only comes with driving cars that are closer to rockets than actual cars on the street.

Bringing the phone up to your face, you gingerly scroll back up to the photos Paul sent, opening the accursed photo. Your breath hitches as you take it in more carefully, the light cutting sharply between the shadows of whatever hotel room Paul was in. Your eyes trail down and your fingers pinch at the screen, zooming in.

"No! No, no, absolutely not," you admonish yourself, swiping the photo away and typing back a slightly crazed reply.

-Whoever that photo was meant for might not like it if I do

-

"________!"

You freeze on your way out the door from the conference room, Paul's figure jogging toward you from the other end of the hall. The presence of some execs and the head of comms looms from behind you and you quickly shuffle out of the way to let them pass, all of them greeting Paul as he sidles up to you.

"Hi!" You say a little too brightly, turning to Paul, arms coming up mechanically then stopping, your brain reminding you that a hug might be too awkward but standing around without greeting him in some way would be just as weird. A flurry of butterflies erupt in your stomach as Paul stops in front of you, his cologne coming off strong as always. Just the way you liked it.

"How's the meeting?" Paul asks, gesturing to the room. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, a nervous habit he has that you've observed over the time you've worked with him. He has his hands shoved deep in his jeans, too.

You shrug, forcing out a laugh. "Same old, just going over social media plans and PR."

Paul nods, a little too eagerly perhaps. His eyes shift to the retreating personnel, all of them turning a corner, leaving you and Paul alone in the vicinity.

"Were you waiting for me?" You ask before he can say anything else.

Paul swallows. "Yeah. Look–"

"Paul," you cut him off, raising a hand between the two of you. "It's okay. It's no big deal. Happens to the best of us."

He raises an eyebrow at that. "Have you ever sent a nude to the wrong person before?"

Your cheeks flare up in a violent blush.

"Well, no. And keep your voice down," you berate lightly. Paul looks around and shrugs as if to say, 'Nobody's here'.

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "But what I meant was, like, messages are sent to the wrong people all the time, I'm sure you didn't mean any harm, and besides, no one else knows. I promise I haven't told anyo–"

"Okay." It was Paul's turn to cut you off. "Okay, I believe you."

He smiles at you good-naturedly, opening his arms and coaxing you into a hug. It takes you a second, but eventually, you let yourself laugh in relief, wrapping your arms around his strong frame.

"I missed you over the break," Paul admits, pulling away and holding you at arm's length. You blush again, masking it with a chuckle.

"Well, the break isn't over yet. We still have three weeks to go," you remind, your own hands coming up to settle on Paul's outstretched arms, making it look as if you're holding him in place. To anyone who didn't know, you two would look like a couple deep in discussion.

"At least you get to see me more," Paul offers with an easy smile. nudging you lightly.

You scoff. "I think I've seen enough of you, thank you very much."

A heavy silence settles over the two of you as you realize what you just said. Paul lets his arms drop from where they held you, an apology ready at your lips but Paul gets to it first. He runs a hand through his unkempt hair, blonde strands tugged between his fingers.

"You haven't deleted it, have you?"

No, you haven't.

"I was going to, but I got distracted with other things." Not entirely a lie. You really meant to do so, but thoughts you'd rather not share took hold and there were matters you needed to attend to. Matters that could only be solved with your fingers and a vibrator.

You should feel guilty, getting off to a picture of a coworker that wasn't even meant to be sent to you in the first place. Maybe you're terrible, maybe you should be fired, sued by the Aron family.

Memories of you gasping out Paul's name in the quiet of your room come flooding back and you pray that Paul doesn't notice the irregularity in your breathing.

"I'll delete it now, in front of you, so you can see that I did," you offer, fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Paul shakes his head, catching you by the wrist, his hand large and warm against your own skin.

"I mean if I was going to send it to anyone, it would have been you," Paul says lowly, as if afraid someone would hear him, despite the entire expanse of the hallway void of any people other than yourselves.

"Consensually, of course," Paul adds in a hurry, eyes widening. "If you wanted to receive them. It. Receive it."

Your eyebrows shoot up, your mouth curling into a smirk. "You have more you want to send?"

Paul's lower lip slips between his teeth and it seems the two of you are finally on the same page. You try to suppress the smile threatening to break out, clearing your throat and avoiding his eyes.

"Until when are you staying here?" You ask casually. You didn't mean 'here' as HQ. Here as in, in town, close to you.

"Next week," Paul replies, stepping closer. "I won't see you until Qatar after that."

"Shame," you mutter, tilting your head as you meet his gaze once more.

"Maybe," Paul begins, slipping his hand into yours and twining your fingers together. "I can add one more thing to my break to-do list."

"Now?" You ask incredulously. Paul nods immediately.

"You know that one storage closet inside the sim room?" He asks, winking at you.

"What? Paul!" You whisper-shout, but he's already leading you down the hallway. The two of you make a sharp turn to the right where big blocky letters spell out 'SIMULATOR' on the large double doors of the sim room.

You squint, immediately plunged into darkness as the only source of light inside is the curved screen, dimmed as well as it sits on standby.

"What if your engineer walks in? Your teammate? Doesn't he have a session soon?" You continue to protest, even when Paul gently pushes you toward the storage room door at the very corner. He flings the door open and you see that it's filled mostly with spare sim components and monitors.

"Babe, that's why they call it a quickie," Paul reasons, flipping the light switch on inside. The lightbulb offers little respite in the darkness and shadows still play along the lines of Paul's face. He shuts the door behind him.

"It doesn't lock? Paul, I swear–"

You gasp but barely any sound comes out as Paul presses his lips to yours, hands settling on your hips. He maneuvers you toward a shelf, pushing you against it and pressing himself fully on you.

You can feel how hard he is through his jeans.

"Did you like it?" Paul asks as he breaks away for a second. He kisses your jaw, tracing its outline as you sigh, your head falling back. He takes his opportunity to kiss along the column of your neck, his tongue smoothing over your skin.

"Did you get off to it?" Paul asks again and your breath catches in your throat. It's as if he knew all the dirty, deplorable things you did over that one picture.

"I know you did," Paul concludes with a breathy laugh, reclaiming your lips and driving a knee between your legs. You groan in response, grinding against his thigh while your fingers tug at his belt.

Paul pulls away and takes over for you, undoing his jeans and slipping them down to his knees. You silently thank whatever god is listening for the fact that you so conveniently decided to wear those easy cotton office pants, slipping them off in one quick swoop along with your underwear.

"I'm tempted to get on my knees right now so I can eat you out," Paul teases, hiking your shirt up and exposing your chest.

A snide remark forms in your brain but it's cut off when you feel the cold press of fingers on your clit. You clamp a hand down on your mouth as Paul gently flicks at it, feeling yourself getting wetter by the second.

"Maybe later after work," Paul says, rubbing harder. Your elbow spasms at the sensation, hitting the shelf behind you.

"Ow, fuck," you curse, meeting Paul's eyes. You two burst into muffled laughter just as Paul slips a finger in.

"What happened to a quickie?" You demand, hips moving along with Paul's hand. He adds a second finger and you whine, fingers digging into Paul's shoulders.

"I have manners," Paul informs with an easy smile, face impossibly close to yours. You can see the shift in his bright blue eyes. "I need you wet and ready for me, no?"

You bite down on your lip, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Paul curls his fingers inside you. A shiver runs through you and you feel yourself clenching down and around his digits.

Paul retracts his hand, much to your dismay, but you don't get to complain before Paul kisses you again, rough and heated. His tongue dances against yours and you grip at his Hitech team kit for purchase.

"Bend over," Paul commands and you're more than happy to oblige, turning around to do just that.

You brace yourself against the shelf behind you, gripping at the wood as you lower the front of your body. Paul grabs your hips and your back arches almost automatically. You can feel him pressing up against you and you sneak a peek behind you to see Paul with his phone in hand.

"So I can 'accidentally' send you another one," Paul jests before slowly sinking in. You whine, head dropping down between your shoulders. The thought of him documenting your little tryst sends a shiver up your spine which only intensifies as Paul grabs one side of your hips. He sets up a hard, steady pace that has the shelf in front of you creaking.

"Paul," you gasp out, your whole body shuddering at the force of how hard he's fucking you.

Both of his hands grip at your sides now so you can assume his phone has been put away. You try to stay upright which proves challenging considering Paul is ramming into you ferociously.

Contradictory to it all, you feel the soft touch of fingers through your scalp, smoothing over your hair. In a moment's turn, your head is yanked back as Paul tugs at your hair, arching your back even more.

A garbled sound escapes you, part moan, part sob as the sting in your scalp shoots straight down to your core, pushing you ever so closer to your release.

"The social media person," Paul begins through gritted teeth. "Always so pretty behind the camera. Making me do trend after trend. I'd do anything for you, baby."

You mewl in response, reaching back to grip at Paul's wrist, pushing back against him, urging him to go faster. Paul gets the memo.

"Funny how that photo was taken only because I was about to jack off to the thought of you," Paul continues. "You sent me a message and I was missing that pretty face of yours so I went through your Instagram. Looks like you had fun in Mallorca, tiny swimsuit and all."

"Sorry, baby," Paul says close to your ear. "Couldn't help it."

"Inside," you plead. "P-Please, I'm close. N-Need you to cum inside me."

Paul merely grunts, letting go of your hair so he can pull you flush against him. His thrusts grow erratic, barely pulling out of you each time. He pulls you back to him, your back against his front as he bites down on your shoulder.

"Yes, yes, right there." Your voice comes out raspy, walls squeezing around Paul's throbbing cock. He reaches over and resumes his movements from a while ago on your clit and you yelp, hips spasming pathetically.

You cum with Paul deep inside you, his groans filling your ear as he follows soon after. He stills and pulls you even closer to him, arms encircling your torso. He kisses the spot where he had bitten you, pressing his lips almost reverently to the indented skin.

You're both breathing hard and you're perfectly content to stand around while the two of you gather your bearings. But Paul momentarily disentangles himself from you and reaches down. You see him pull his phone out from his jeans from where they've presumably fallen down to his ankles.

"Smile," Paul prompts, his lips planting a soft kiss behind your ear as he angles the camera toward the two of you.

He snaps a blurry photo, just in time to capture your hand coming up to rest against his cheek as he grins into your skin. Emboldened by the somewhat artsy, flirtatious nature of the photo, you turn around and land a proper kiss on Paul's lips, savoring each second his tongue passes over your mouth.

"Send all the photos you want," you whisper, smiling up at him.

"Or we could just take them together," Paul offers, kissing the tip of your nose.

[readingkitty22]

Beneath Silk and Sword

Paring: King!Alpha Satoru Gojo × Omega!Princess Reader

description: You were sent to marry a duke. A political match, a quiet life, a future bound in duty. But the king ,Satoru Gojo, Alpha, untouchable and devastatingly kind, looks at you like you're worth choosing.

A slow-burn tale of swordplay in moonlit courtyards, soft confessions in secret libraries, and a love that dares to claim the crown.

🚨warnings: A/B/O dynamics (non-explicit) ,Possessive and emotionally manipulative Naoya, Mention of scent marking, Alpha jealousy & dominance tension, Mild angst with strong emotional payoff, Fade-to-black (no explicit smut), Reader referred to as “princess,” no specific physical descriptors

w.c. 5.4k

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You arrived in the Kingdom of Six Eyes on the coldest morning of the season.

Snow blanketed the landscape like spilled salt, soft and deceptive. The castle perched high on the cliffs like a crown of stone, its towers reaching into a sky as pale as silver. Banners,deep sapphire stitched with an intricate eye sigil,snapped in the wind, welcoming you not with warmth, but with warning.

You were not here as a guest.

You were here to marry.

As an omega, your worth had never belonged to you. You were a peace offering wrapped in velvet and diplomacy,sent across kingdoms like a letter sealed in blood. Your father’s decree was clear: marry Duke Naoya Zenin, secure the alliance, bear children with the right scent.

You had memorized the shape of your duty long before you crossed the border.

And still,when the gates opened, it was not Naoya waiting to greet you.

It was King Satoru Gojo.

He stood at the base of the castle steps, tall and loose-limbed, as though the entire world bent toward him and he hadn’t yet decided what to do with it. His coat was white, fur-lined, open enough to show the black of his armor beneath. His hair,silver-white, wind-tousled,seemed kissed by frost, and his eyes...

His eyes were unnatural.

Piercing blue, glowing faintly even in the shade. Beautiful and terrifying, like the calm center of a storm that could level cities.

He smiled when he saw you, and something ancient in you stirred.

“Welcome to Six Eyes, Princess,” he said. His voice was smooth, low, amused, with a warmth that didn’t quite reach those eyes. “I trust your journey was tolerable.”

You curtsied, keeping your expression polite.

“Your Majesty,” you said softly. “It was as expected.”

He held your gaze a moment longer than was proper. The wind carried your scent,cloaked in suppressants, yes, but not gone entirely. Something in his jaw shifted. You felt seen. Measured.

And then, dismissed.

“Naoya is... delayed,” he said. “You’ll be shown to your chambers.”

He turned without waiting for your response, and the soldiers moved to escort you.

Naoya Zenin did not greet you until the next morning.

Where Gojo was radiant and unsettling, Naoya was composed, controlled. He wore his breeding like polished armor,every movement efficient, every word chosen for maximum impact. His eyes were darker than Gojo’s, colder. He looked at you not with curiosity, but calculation.

“You’re smaller than I imagined,” he said by way of greeting. “And quieter. Good.”

You didn’t flinch. You had been underestimated before.

He offered you his arm. You took it. That, too, was expected.

But something in your stomach twisted.

Not from fear.

From instinct.

Because even as Naoya guided you through the long halls of the castle, your thoughts drifted not to your future husband,but to the king who had looked at you like a warning and a promise all at once.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The dining hall of Castle Six Eyes was all glittering gold and long shadows.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the banquet table in warm light, reflecting off polished marble and cutlery sharp enough to draw blood. The nobility of the realm sat in neat, elegant rows—alphas in black and steel, betas in jeweled finery, and only a scattering of omegas, each of them carefully spoken for.

You sat at Naoya’s left. A position of respect. Visibility. Display.

“Try the venison, darling,” he said loudly, gesturing with his goblet toward your untouched plate. “Imported from the northern forests. Only the best for my bride.”

Several eyes turned toward you. You smiled, politely.“It’s very generous.”

Naoya hummed, setting his wine down with more force than necessary.

“I imagine you’re used to simpler fare. Your people prefer root vegetables and salted meats, don’t they?” he asked, tilting his head. “Hardy food. Very... provincial.”

You said nothing.

You’d learned early in life that silence could be a weapon sharper than any blade. Still, the comment stung and not because it was inaccurate. But because he made a show of offering you dignity only to carve it apart in front of strangers.

You caught Gojo’s eyes across the table.

The king hadn’t spoken much. He lounged at the head of the table like a lion bored of court politics, his hand curled loosely around a goblet he hadn’t touched. His snowy lashes lowered slightly as he studied Naoya. Then you.

And for the briefest second, his gaze narrowed.

“I’m sure the princess has taste refined enough to decide what she prefers,” Gojo said, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Food... or otherwise.”

The conversation paused like a held breath.

Naoya gave a tight, forced smile. “Of course, Your Majesty. Though omegas often need guidance in such matters.”

“Then perhaps you should try listening before leading,” Gojo said lightly, and took a sip of his wine without ever breaking eye contact.

Laughter stirred down the table,masked and polite. Naoya’s fingers clenched around his fork.

You kept your face composed, but something sparked inside you. A flicker of warmth. Not protection, exactly.

Recognition.

Gojo didn’t look at you again for the rest of the meal. But when you stood to leave, he rose too,customary yes, but unnecessary for someone of his rank. He didn’t speak, didn’t offer his arm, didn’t smile.

But his presence beside you as you stepped out of the hall felt... intentional.

Deliberate.

You didn't say anything until the guards' footsteps faded down the corridor.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly, eyes ahead.

“Correct,” Gojo replied. “I didn’t.”

You slowed, glancing at him. “Was it pity?”

He arched a brow, amused. “No. I just don’t like when people confuse ‘possession’ with ‘protection.’”

“So you were defending omegas?”

“No,” he said again, more softly this time. “I was defending you.”

He stopped walking. So did you.

“Naoya’s not clever enough to realize what he has,” Gojo added, voice low, unreadable. “But I see it. And I don’t think I’ll unsee it now.”

Your heart stuttered once behind your ribs.

He stepped back with a nod, the conversation ending as abruptly as it had begun.

But you were still thinking about it hours later, wrapped in silence, curled beneath velvet sheets in a strange bed that still smelled like a room that did not yet belong to you.

And when you found yourself wandering the royal library the next day, drawn by restless curiosity and the scent of aged parchment... You weren’t surprised when you found him there too.

Waiting.

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The royal library was nothing like the quiet ones you’d grown up in.

It stretched high into the rafters, books stacked like ancient spells, each one older than you, older than even some kingdoms. There was a scent to the place,dust and ink, but also something rich and strange. Like secrets.

You sat in a wide velvet armchair, half-lost in a worn leather volume on early sword formations, the kind used in border skirmishes long before the age of treaties.

Your fingers grazed an illustration of a two-handed strike when his voice came from behind the shelves.

“Didn’t peg you for a war historian.”

You startled,just slightly. Satoru Gojo stepped into view, no guards, no crown. Just him.

He leaned against a nearby column like he belonged to the shadows themselves.

“Should I apologize?” you asked dryly. “Or were you hoping to catch me sneaking romance novels instead?”

“You don’t strike me as the swooning type,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Though I could be wrong.”

You returned your gaze to the book. “Back home, I read everything I could get my hands on. Stories, history, tactics. My governess said it was charming. My father said it was dangerous.”

“Because it made you think?”

You nodded. “Because it made me want.”

Gojo’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing. He stepped closer instead, pausing to glance at the page you'd been studying.

“You know this formation’s flawed, right?” he murmured. “The third stance leaves the flank exposed.”

You raised a brow. “Do you spar, Your Majesty?”

“I’ve been holding a blade since I could stand,” he said. “Every king should know the weight of steel before asking others to bleed for them.”

Something tugged at you then,a memory. Half-formed and aching.

“I used to train,” you admitted, closing the book carefully. “At night, with my brother. Wooden swords. We were scolded when the bruises showed.”

“Let me guess. ‘Unbecoming of a princess.’”

“Exactly.”

Gojo looked at you for a long moment.

“Would it be unbecoming of a king,” he asked slowly, “to offer you the sparring grounds?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He smiled. “You’ll be well supervised, of course. Don’t want Naoya getting dramatic.”

“So you’ll oversee it.”

“Naturally. For safety,” he added, mock-innocent. “And for the sake of history. Who knows? You might correct the ancient third stance.”

You laughed softly, but real.

And for the first time since arriving in this kingdom, something in your chest unclenched.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

Your chambers glowed gold in the candlelight,ornate, suffocating, too soft in all the wrong places.

Naoya arrived without warning, as he often did. He never knocked.

“You're difficult to find,” he said, his tone light but edged. “The guards said you were in the library again.”

You closed the drawer to your writing desk calmly. “I enjoy the quiet.”

“Hm,” he muttered. “You’re not here to enjoy anything. You’re here to be useful.”

You turned, watching him cross the room in slow, calculated steps. Always so poised, like he was being watched,even when alone.

He cupped your jaw suddenly, fingers cold against your skin. Not violent. Just firm enough to remind you.

“You look the part now,” he said. “Pretty. Controlled. Mine.”

His mouth dropped to your neck.

You didn’t flinch.

You’d trained for this.

The scent glands beneath your skin responded involuntarily to the pressure of his touch,his mark imprinting, temporarily, into the delicate crook between shoulder and throat. It left behind a warm, spicy musk, strong and cloying. His.

He pulled back just slightly, examining you like a finished painting.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now no one forgets.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and nodded.

“As you wish.”

Naoya didn’t kiss you. He didn’t hold you.

He simply turned and left, leaving the scent of his claim behind like a stain you couldn’t scrub out.

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The sparring grounds were hidden in the lower courtyard, shielded from public view by tall stone walls and flowering vines. The air was brisk, a crisp contrast to the cloying scent still lingering faintly on your skin.

Gojo stood waiting, dressed simply,training leathers and gloves.He tossed you a practice blade without a word.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, setting your stance.

“You’re tense,” he observed after your first swing. “Is it me?”

“It’s not you.”

He stepped closer, carefully adjusting your grip. His touch was light, respectful,never lingering longer than necessary.

“It’s him,” he said after a moment.

You didn’t deny it.

“Naoya marked you,” Gojo continued, quieter this time. “I can smell it. But I can also smell you. And you’re not happy.”

You met his gaze steady, sharp. “What am I supposed to be?”

Gojo tilted his head, eyes gleaming faintly in the dying light.

“More than someone’s property.”

You struck again,harder this time. He blocked it with ease but didn’t hide the small smile.

“Better,” he murmured. “But you’re still thinking too much.”

“Then give me something else to think about.”

His grin turned wicked. “You sure?”

You nodded.

He moved.

The next strike was faster, sharper. You dodged, parried, countered. The rhythm built between you like a drumbeat,sweat at your brow, hair sticking to your temples, breath fast and clean. Gojo never mocked, never held back. He challenged you because he saw what you were capable of.

And when the final clash of steel sent your blade skidding a few feet away, he didn’t gloat. He just stepped back and offered his hand.

“You’re quick,” he said. “Sharper than most soldiers I’ve trained. Has anyone ever told you that?”

You took his hand. Let him pull you up.

“No,” you said honestly. “No one ever wanted me to be.”

Gojo studied you for a long, breathless moment.

“Then they were fools.”

He released you gently. “Come again tomorrow. Earlier this time. Less risk.”

“You’re not afraid of risk?”

“Not when it’s worth it.”

You left the courtyard with a sore wrist and aching legs and for the first time since your arrival, the scent of Naoya no longer felt like a chain. Just something fading.

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It started at breakfast.

Naoya barely looked at you, chewing his food with mechanical disinterest as he scanned over court reports. When you reached for your tea, his voice cut through the clatter of dishes.

“Did you bathe before this?”

You blinked, setting the cup down carefully. “Excuse me?”

He looked at you then,dark eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring just slightly.

“I marked you. Three nights ago. And I don’t smell it.”

The table went still around you. Your stomach turned cold.

“I didn’t wash it off,” you said evenly. “It faded.”

He scoffed, sitting back in his chair. “Convenient.”

You didn’t answer. There was nothing you could say that wouldn’t provoke him further.

Naoya leaned forward, voice just loud enough for the closest attendants to hear.

“I wonder what you’ve been doing to dull it so quickly.”

“Perhaps it was never strong enough to begin with.”

That was a mistake.

His hand came down hard against the table, startling even the guards. He stood, sharp and silent, and left without a word.

You didn’t follow.

You simply reached for your tea again, hands steady, even as your throat burned.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

You found it later that day, tucked between the folds of your training clothes in the sparring yard: a small, hand-bound notebook. Simple. Elegant. The front bore no title,only the stitched symbol of an open eye, sewn in silver thread.

Inside, the first page bore a short note, scrawled in neat, masculine script:

"For strategies no one taught you, and the ones you’ll one day create yourself. —S.G."

The pages that followed were blank.

But they were yours.

Not a gift to soften or seduce. A gift to empower. A space to shape your own knowledge, your own choices. Your own voice.

You tucked it into your cloak with trembling fingers.

And you went looking for him.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

It was raining this time.

A quiet drizzle kissed the windows of the library, shadows dancing against the amber candlelight. Gojo stood near the far shelves, glancing over a weathered book of military theory.

He didn’t look surprised when you approached.

“You found it.”

You held up the journal. “You left it for me.”

He nodded. “I thought you might need somewhere to start building your own language. One that doesn’t come from your father. Or Naoya.”

You held the journal tighter.

“He’s angry,” you said, not sure why the words came out a whisper.

“He’s insecure,” Gojo replied. “Anger’s just the mask.”

“He thinks I’ve been trying to erase his scent. Trying to prove I don’t belong to him.”

Gojo stepped forward, gaze serious now, stripped of charm.

“Do you?”

The question stopped your breath.

He waited. Gave you the silence to find the answer yourself.

“No,” you said, finally. “But I think... I was trained to pretend I did.”

“Pretending takes its toll,” he said softly.

You looked up at him.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked. “You’re a king. You shouldn’t care.”

Gojo smiled then,not the playful, courtly one he wore like armor, but something quieter.

“Because you remind me what it looks like to keep breathing in a place that’s trying to suffocate you.”

Silence stretched between you, warm and fragile.

“You’re not alone, you know,” he said finally. “Not in this. Not anymore.”

You didn’t reach for him.

But you didn’t have to.

Because somehow, in that moment, the space between you felt safe.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The courtyard buzzed with the lazy hum of court on a warm afternoon, nobles milling with wine and idle gossip. You were near the rose garden, sweat still drying beneath your training layers, when Naoya found you.

His gaze raked over your attire, pausing at the bruises on your wrists,earned fairly in a sparring match earlier that day.

“Are we playing soldier again?” he asked, lips curling into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“It’s training,” you replied calmly. “King Gojo oversees it himself.”

“How noble,” Naoya drawled. “Though it’s a shame you’ve forgotten your real role.”

Before you could answer, he stepped in close. Not gentle, not cruel,just firm, in the way of men who have never been told no.

“You do understand,” he murmured, “once we’re wed, this nonsense ends. No more swordplay. No more late nights in the library with other alphas.”

His hand brushed possessively down your side.

“I plan to keep you barefoot and well-bred,” he said, low enough only you could hear. “Pregnant within a month.”

You froze.

And that’s when Gojo appeared.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, casually strolling toward the pair of you. “Though from the look on your face, Princess, I’ll assume I’m right on time.”

Naoya turned, visibly bristling, but Gojo didn’t acknowledge him right away. His attention was on you ,direct and unflinching.

“Did you stretch properly after training?” he asked. “You’ll be sore tomorrow otherwise.”

You nodded mutely, voice caught somewhere between gratitude and grief.

Naoya scoffed.

“All this fuss over play-fighting. You spoil her, Your Majesty. She’s soft by nature. Too delicate for real combat.”

Gojo tilted his head, smiling thinly.

“She bested two guards last week with a feint most of your soldiers still fail to recognize. But yes, let’s pretend she’s fragile. It’s clearly helping your ego.”

Naoya stiffened.

“She’s mine,” he said sharply.

Gojo's smile deepened, turned colder.

“Is she? Funny,she doesn’t smell like she wants to be.”

Silence.

Tight, strained.

You could feel the tension ripple across the garden, even from those trying not to look.

Naoya’s fists clenched, his aura flaring.

You reached out, brushing your fingers gently to Gojo’s wrist in silent plea,not now, not here.

He saw it. And dialed back. Just a hair.

“Well,” Gojo said, voice light again. “I suppose you’ll have plenty of time to discuss obedience and ovulation schedules on your wedding night.”

“Until then, she’s under my court’s care. And as long as that’s the case,she’ll train. She’ll read. And she’ll walk anywhere she damn well pleases.”

Naoya turned on his heel, storming away with barely restrained rage.

You stood still,shaking, not from fear, but from the pressure of keeping it all inside.

Gojo’s voice softened.

“You okay?”

You nodded, even though your eyes stung.

“He makes you feel caged.”

“He makes me feel… erased.”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, voice low and final:

“Not while I’m standing.”

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The rain hadn’t stopped. It softened the world to gray mist and soft drips against stone, making the library feel like a secret between breaths.

You were curled in the far alcove, fingers resting on the open pages of a book you’d stopped reading half an hour ago. The fire crackled nearby, warm, but not enough to thaw the ache Naoya’s words had left behind.

Gojo entered without fanfare, carrying a book under one arm and a plate with warm bread and berries.

“You missed supper,” he said simply.

You looked at the food, then at him. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“Lie better,” he said, setting it beside you. “You don’t need to waste away just because he wants you small and quiet.”

Your throat closed. “It’s not that simple.”

He sat across from you, eyes softer than usual. No mask. No crown. Just Satoru.

“I know.”

Silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

You spoke first.

“Why are you doing this?”

He tilted his head.

“Protecting you?”

You nodded.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of someone like you being handed over to someone who sees you as nothing but a womb in silk.”

That made your breath catch.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered. “I’m already betrothed. To him. I’m... I’m not even worthy of a king.”

“Worthy?” Gojo echoed, voice low. “You stand taller than anyone at this court and still know when to lower your gaze to survive. You learn faster than most men I’ve trained. You read philosophy in three tongues. And you still have kindness left, after everything.”

“If you were mine, I’d never let anyone silence you again.”

You blinked hard, staring at your lap.

“But I’m not yours.”

He leaned forward slowly.

“Let me fix that.”

You looked up, eyes wide.

“Let me handle it. All of it. You just… keep being brave.”

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

Dinner that night was a glittering affair,officials and nobles crammed shoulder to shoulder, wine and indulgence running free. At the head table, Naoya stood, glass in hand.

“A toast,” he said. “To my future wife,her grace, her beauty, her… obedience.”

Soft, restrained laughter rippled through the room. You sat perfectly still, hands clenched beneath the table.

“The wedding will be held in three weeks,” Naoya continued. “As her family has agreed. Preparations are already underway.”

Across the table, Gojo froze.

His knuckles whitened around his fork. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his silence roared.

Naoya glanced at him with smug satisfaction, fully aware.

Gojo raised his glass. But he didn’t drink. His icy smile said: Try me.

You couldn’t breathe.

The clapping felt like knives against your ears.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

Later that night, in his private chambers, King Satoru Gojo dipped a quill into ink and began to write.

The letter was addressed to your father.

It was formal. Respectful. Regal.

But beneath the political polish, it was clear:

Your daughter is no longer safe under this arrangement. The Duke has treated her with disregard bordering on cruelty. As King of this land, I will not permit her future to be squandered in misery.

I humbly request your blessing to dissolve the existing betrothal.

In its place, I offer a new proposal: A union. Between your daughter and myself.

She deserves not a cage, but a throne beside mine.

He sealed it with wax, the royal emblem pressed hard into red.

“Deliver this personally,” he told his most trusted emissary. “No one sees it but her father.”

And when the door closed behind the messenger, Gojo exhaled.

Let’s see how fast they scramble when a king comes to claim what’s his.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

Three days after the letter left the capital, a reply arrived.

The seal was your father’s,stamped in gold and heavy with power.

Gojo opened it alone. He read it once. Then twice.

And then he smiled.

“He agreed.”

Not just to dissolve the betrothal.

But to honor the new match. To acknowledge you not as a bargaining piece but as a woman worthy of standing beside a king.

You found out that evening, summoned quietly to Gojo’s private chambers. He didn’t make you guess.

He handed you the letter, said nothing as you read it. Your hands trembled.

“You—” you began, barely able to speak. “You risked—”

“Everything,” Gojo said, stepping closer. “And I’d do it again.”

Tears burned your eyes. “What if they refuse? What if Naoya—”

“Let him come,” he said, voice low and final. “He’s already lost.”

But Naoya didn’t come quietly.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

He stormed into court the next day like a man scorned, boots thundering across marble, letters crumpled in his fist.

“You went behind my back,” he growled. “You think you can take what’s mine with a scrap of parchment?”

Gojo stood from the throne. Calm. Icy.

“She was never yours. You were only ever holding a contract signed in convenience.”

“That contract was binding.”

“And it has been burned.”

Naoya turned to you, eyes wild. “This is what you want? You’d rather spread your legs for a man who pities you than—”

He didn’t finish.

Because Gojo was in front of you in an instant, hand on Naoya’s collar, teeth bared in a snarl that turned the air electric.

“Speak to her like that again, and I’ll feed you your own tongue.”

Gasps echoed. No one moved.

Gojo released him with a shove that sent him stumbling.

“You brought shame to my court,” he said coldly. “You humiliated a future queen. You touched what you didn’t own.”

“Leave. Before I decide to stain my floors with your pride.”

Naoya’s face twisted with fury but he saw the guards waiting, and the entire court watching.

He left. The echo of his defeat rang louder than his steps.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

That night, the world had gone still. You stood on the balcony, the wind brushing your hair like a lover’s touch.

Gojo joined you in silence, shoulders close but not touching.

“You don’t have to,” he said softly. “You’re free now. If you want to leave,to be something else, somewhere else,I’ll make it happen.”

You turned to him.

“But if I stay?”

He looked at you fully then.

“Then you’ll never kneel again. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

You stepped into his space, heartbeat loud in your chest.

“And if I choose you?”

“Then I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you were right to.”

His hands touched your waist, gentle and reverent. His forehead pressed to yours.

No heat. No frenzy.

Just promise.

And the beginning of a crown built for two.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The bells rang long before dawn.

A kingdom watched as the sky blushed gold, their sovereign standing tall in ivory and silver, the omega princess in moonlit silk edged with threads of sapphire.

No one spoke as you entered the hall.

They didn’t dare.

Not when the way Gojo looked at you could have set kingdoms ablaze.

When you reached the alter, he didn’t offer his hand like a king,he offered it like a man who had waited his whole life for something soft, and fierce, and real.

You took it.

“You’re sure?” he whispered.

“I was sure the moment you told him I wasn’t his.”

The vows were simple. Direct. Sacred.

No elaborate ceremony could outshine the moment Gojo bent forward, lips brushing your knuckles, and whispered:

“You’re mine now. And I protect what’s mine.”

The crown settled on your head. Your fingers laced with his. And the court bowed,not to tradition, not to strategy,

To you.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The doors closed behind you with a finality that stole your breath.

You were alone with him now.

Gojo stepped forward, slowly. No smirk. No teasing.

Just heat. Steady, quiet heat in the way his eyes traveled down your figure like he meant to memorize every inch.

“Say no,” he murmured, “and I stop.”

You didn’t.

You reached for him.

He kissed you like he was afraid to break you,then like he knew he could never hurt you.

Your wedding robes peeled away like petals, his hands reverent as they traced your skin like a map to a home he already knew.

Breaths hitched. Fingers gripped. The air between you melted with need.

“Let me love you like you deserve,” he whispered against your throat.

And when he finally laid you down on silk, eyes locked with yours, you let him.

Not because he was king.

But because he was yours.

The night burned slow and sacred. And when it ended, you were wrapped in his arms, his scent around you like a shield against the world.

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

The sun streamed gently through the sheer curtains, catching on silver threads and the edges of discarded wedding finery.

You woke to the sensation of warmth,Gojo’s arms wrapped around you, one hand loosely splayed over your stomach, the other curled against your shoulder. His face was buried in your hair, his breath steady, grounding.

“You didn’t sleep,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“I did.”

“Not enough.”

You turned in his hold. He didn’t let go.

“It’s real, right?” you whispered. “Not a dream?”

His eyes opened soft, bright, so sure.

“Very real,” he said. “And very permanent.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ve never had anyone put me first.”

He didn’t flinch. Just reached to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Get used to it.”

═━┈┈━═⟡⟡═━┈┈━═

Later that morning, the great doors of the throne room opened to your steps.

You wore your crown,not heavy, not anymore,and walked beside your king, no longer trailing behind.

There were nobles gathered, emissaries bowed, and scribes scribbling notes as you took your seat.

Beside Gojo. Not beneath him.

He leaned in, his voice only for you.

“You don’t need to speak unless you want to.”

“I want to,” you said quietly. “It’s my place now.”

A man rose to bring forward a dispute between merchant factions. You listened, thoughtful, weighing their words and when Gojo glanced at you for your opinion, you spoke with clarity.

He grinned at your logic. Smirked when you leaned in with a solution that cut through both their complaints.

The court noticed.

They didn’t just bow to a new queen. They adjusted their gaze to include her.

Gojo watched them watch you and the pride in his eyes wasn’t performative.

“I told you,” he murmured when the room cleared. “You were made for more than silk and silence.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he said, “you’ll rule beside me.”

“As my equal?”

“As my queen. My mate. My match.”

He took your hand,not for show, not for custom, but because he wanted you close. Because the court could know what you already felt deep in your bones:

You weren’t anyone’s property now.

You were a woman who had taken back her story.

And you were sitting on a throne beside a man who would burn the world before letting it be rewritten again.

.

.

.

Bonus

The rain had come again, softer this time. It pattered gently against the windows of the solar, where warm light flickered from the hearth and papers lay forgotten on a table.

You were curled on the window seat, wrapped in a wool shawl, staring at the horizon with a small smile you didn’t even realize you were wearing.

Gojo noticed, of course.

“You’re quiet,” he said, setting down the sealed royal missives he hadn’t really been reading. “That usually means either something’s wrong... or you're planning something.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, heartbeat slow and steady.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of wrong.”

He stilled.

“...Talk.”

You tilted your head. “I could make you guess.”

“You’re glowing in a very suspicious way. Either you’ve just overthrown another noble house or—” His words stopped midair. His eyes widened, just slightly.

You gave him a tiny nod.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just crossed the room with those long, unhurried steps of his and knelt in front of you. His hands slid to your waist, gentle, reverent, deliberate.

“My omega,” he murmured. “You’re carrying ours.”

You exhaled shakily, blinking back the tears you hadn’t meant to cry. “You’re not upset?”

He looked up sharply, almost offended. Then softened.

“You could hand me fire and I’d thank you for the warmth.”

He pressed his lips to your stomach,just barely showing, just the first glimmer of what was to come.

“They’ll be strong,” he said against your skin. “Smart. Stubborn like you.”

“Like us,” you corrected softly.

Gojo rested his head against you, arms wrapped around your waist like he might never let go.

“The kingdom’s going to lose its mind,” he said, tone half-laugh, half awe. “Heirs. Already.”

“Let them talk.”

“Let them kneel,” he said, more serious now. “Because this child will be born to power, yes,but more than that, they’ll be born to love.”

You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, his hold grounding you. The fire crackled. The future waited.

And for the first time in your life, it didn’t feel like a cage or a contract.

It felt like home.

[namism]

first shot (1) | koby

➳ categories: modern au, established relationship ➳ warnings: nsfw (virgin koby, afab reader, masturbation, dry humping, koby has wild fantasies) ➳ word count: 4k

➳ summary: You're Koby's first at everything, so naturally, he has the wildest fantasies about you.

➳ PART ONE | PART TWO | FANART (credits to mibso) ➳ notes: dedicated to and requested by @mibso! 🩷 ➳ cross-posted on ao3

"Did you date anyone before me?"

Koby looks behind his shoulder to eye your laid back form on the bay window of your kitchen. Shaking his head, he looks back at the cup of hot milk in front of him, swirling the liquid to dissolve the clumps of chocolate powder he just dumped five seconds ago.

"No. You're my first."

"So, you're a virgin?"

Koby swears he would have dropped his cup had he been holding it. Instead, he drops the metal spoon and tries with all his might to process your words.

His response is delayed.

"I am," he settles, but it comes out weak, small.

You grin. Koby knew you would. Dating you for the last three months has given him enough foresight for your actions, and you're quite known for your cheekiness. You love seeing him flustered, but he doesn't mind it. Not at all.

You hop off the bay and stroll over to your boyfriend. He prepares himself for your mild teasing, but it doesn't come. You kiss his cheek instead.

"Okay."

It's the last thing you tell him before you disappear into the living room, never to be seen again for the next ten minutes. When Koby peeks past the kitchen archway, he sees you engrossed in the same series you've been watching the past week. Too occupied, he thinks, you won't even bother answering him if he prods any further.

So he sits beside you with his cup of hot chocolate in both hands. He drowns his flustered thoughts in a sea of happy ones, laughing his nerves away as he watches the show you just put on.

But even as he leaves your flat and swaddles himself in his blankets that evening, he's reminded by your questions. Your voice echoes in his head even when his eyes are closed, when exhaustion coos him into slumber. To his luck, the image of your playful grin stays in his head the following morning and the morning after that.

Eventually, he snaps.

"Seriously, now," he whispers to himself because he's ashamed of how he feels. He was in the middle of entertaining Hibari's questions when she brought you up in the middle of a convo and it sent him spiraling.

"I have yet to ask about it," she continued, but Koby was long gone. He doesn't remember what other request Hibari had for him after that. All he remembers is giving a half-assed excuse before scrambling back to his dorm where he can take a breather, and now that he's here, he collects himself painstakingly.

He reflects on his feelings as his body sinks into his bed. Two things are for sure: one, he's still hung up on the question you decided to ask three weeks ago, and two, he's painfully, painfully hard. Very hard.

Koby looks down at his pants. He groans. This isn't the first time he's been hard like this, or the second, or the third. He knows it's out of character. It's beyond stereotypes, superficial impressions. But contrary to what most people think, Koby's been hard several times in his life and he's jacked off more than one would expect, with his own set of fantasies fueling his wildest actions in private—he just doesn't make them public, doesn't voice them out loud. He thinks that if he would, ill-natured banter is going to bite him in the ass, so he shuts up. He keeps quiet.

Unfortunately, he's a virgin. It's quite pathetic, really, but at the same time, maybe not so much. Most people don't lose their virginity until university, so Koby has a few years left until his situation becomes too pathetic for someone who wants to have sex—but he can't blame anybody but himself because he doesn't make the effort to initiate, and never has.

Until getting with you.

Since entering an exclusive relationship with you, Koby has done many things he's never dreamed of doing until age 30 because he's stereotyped as the innocent cutiepie. A sweetheart, a pure soul. You've initiated all things remotely sexual with him—kissing, making out, subtle consensual groping that coaxes a moan out of him—but it never escalates to something more. At least not yet.

It's expected to happen someday. With how you throw yourself at him at any given chance, Koby thinks about giving your relationship a month or two before it happens. Before it gets there. But for now, he's confined to his thoughts and fantasies.

Without question, he grips himself. A sigh leaves his lips when he presses his balls just a bit to relieve the pressure within his pants. He traces his dick with his fingers moments later and spends a minute in deep silence. Half of his thoughts are occupied with sexual fantasies, but the other half speaks to him out of exhaustion. He's tired after a long day, that's no question. Is he willing to spend the last of his energy jacking off?

Koby makes a decision not long after that. Tiredly, he undoes his buttons and slips out of his pants, which he discards on the floor with his shoes. He pumps himself a few times with slow languid movements, like he's still debating whether or not he should stop—but the reluctance jumps out the window once he remembers you, his girlfriend, the very reason why he's in this state, and imagines you kissing him sensually while he touches himself.

As painfully hard as he is, Koby doesn't rush. One hand works himself just the way he needs, while the other is splayed on the sheets to ground himself. His strokes are fluid, beginning from the base of his dick and ending up at his tip before going back down again.

His eyes fall close.

He imagines you again. In his darkest thoughts, you're stripping for him until you're in nothing but your underwear. In his head, you spread your legs wide open for him while your tits bounce free from your bra. Your hair would fall on his pillows. You would guide his dick inside you. In the heat of the moment, Koby speeds his touches and grips his cock tighter, the pressure that presents at his stomach almost unimaginable.

"Fuck, wow— like that please."

He's thinking about what you can do to him. You're bold, you take initiative. So maybe you'd tease his cock with your hands until he's whimpering for release or until he's shooting cum uncontrollably after being edged to his limit. Maybe you can dip your head low and start blowing him clean after his orgasm, or maybe you can wet his cock with your mouth before fucking him again.

You'd guide him to different positions. Maybe you'd start with your favorite. He doesn't know what they are, but he's bound to find out. You probably like the ones that accentuate your features—cowgirl to show your ass, missionary for your tits. Then, when his energy is spent, he can flip you over and take control from behind. Or he can pin you to the wall for a change. Or he can fuck you standing up, if that's your thing. Koby has been working out the past year. Picking you up is no big deal.

He opens his eyes. His cock can't get any harder, any redder. He wets his hand with spit and puts more pressure on his head, teasing it every so often until he's whimpering for more, whimpering like you're there with him. Like you're watching him. Beads of cum stream down the side of his dick as he teases himself further, his thumb swiping over his head, and his fingers massaging his balls just the way he likes it. He traces the underside of his dick with his pointer finger, sickly pretending that it's you, your wet tongue that he would love to suck on given the off chance that you're up for it.

"Fuck, that's so..." Koby curses, but his cock pulses in his hand and he has to take a deep breath in. Hot. 'Hot' is what he would like to say, but he feels embarrassed enough by the barrage of dirty thoughts in his head that he can't get himself to speak it aloud. The best he can do is to curse, but even his faintest curses are muffled by his shyness.

"So, you're a virgin?"

Yes. Yes, he is. So what? Do you want to fuck him, too? Are you meticulously planning on swiping his virginity after months of innocent and not-so-innocent kisses? Koby's eyebrows furrow. Are you thinking of fucking him of his virginity like he's thinking of fucking you?

It doesn't matter, Koby says in his head, and there's a silent agreement between himself and his demons that it truly doesn't because his resolve is quite clear. He can give you all of him if it means getting to fuck you, taste you, and see how good your mouth sucks him dry.

"Fuck, please, please," he begs, "please, please, please, I feel so good, please—"

He cums. It's quite a lot. A waterfall of white liquid leaks from his dick, shooting into his sheets that he has to change later on. Koby doesn't care, though. He keeps cumming into oblivion, wishing again that it's your face he's painting white. As his vision clears in the next few minutes, he decides he'd act on it when he can.

"Next time," he says through heavy pants.

Next time, he's having you.

"Is everything okay in there?"

You're in Koby's dorm room twenty or so minutes later. It's eight in the evening, so you decided to drop by with an offering of store-bought pastries from the bakery that just opened downtown, figuring that he hasn't had anything to eat since that morning. Problem is, Koby was in the shower when you arrived and it's been more than ten minutes since then, so now, you're knocking on his bathroom door.

You're half-worried and half-curious on what he's up to because he hasn't uttered a word since you announced your arrival, which is nothing short of strange. If there's one thing you know about your boyfriend, it's the speed at which guilt eats him up. Koby would've felt bad about making you wait, so he'd storm out of the shower once he learns that you've been waiting for him and apologize profusely.

That doesn't seem to be happening now, though.

"Sorry, just a second!"

With that, you strut back to his study desk and waste your time on a mobile game until Koby emerges from the bathroom. He's hosed down from head to toe, his kobi pink-colored hair thrashed around in a wet mess in need of combing. Although the oddest of it all, beyond the suspicious amount of time it took him to shower, is probably the fact that he's dressed in his pre-shower clothes.

If you squint hard enough, you can see his chest peeking past his white shirt, the fabric sticking to his damp skin and outlining the ridges of his chest.

"You're soaked," you point out.

He laughs nervously.

"Yes, um, I just— I just got out of the shower," he explains, but he sees the source of his problems on the bed. "I didn't bring the towel with me."

Shaking your head, you turn your back toward him. You dig through the bag of pastries, picking out the flavor Koby would appreciate as a post-shower snack. "I could've brought it to you," you say. "Anyway, I bought you something. Check these out when you get changed. I won't look."

Koby nods like you can see him, snatches the towel from his bed, and ransacks his closet for a fresh set of clothes. He hurries to the bathroom, then meets you back outside a few minutes later.

You spin around in his chair. "Did you just change in the bathroom?"

"Yes?" he replies in a questioning tone. "Yes."

You shrug. "I told you I wasn't going to look."

"I was scared you would—" Oh. At that moment, Koby realizes that he is his own downfall. You were signaling an innuendo, suggesting that it was okay for him to change with you around. That you weren't going to ridicule him or anything, that he was safe being bare and vulnerable with you. He wishes he realized this sooner, but he's too abashed to backtrack his words. "That was my bad."

Chuckling to yourself, you walk over to him and throw your arms around his waist. He reciprocates instantly and looks at the pastry in your hands.

"Sweets to fill your stomach?"

The night proceeds calmly, but Koby has to walk back to the bathroom at one point to collect his thoughts. You have no clue what you just walked into earlier. He was in the middle of washing himself clean when you snuck into his room using the spare key he gave you a month ago. The moment he heard you come in, panic consumed him alive until he realized just how lucky he was to have finished before you visited.

As Koby watches you ramble about your day on his bed, he's awfully thankful that he had half the mind to change his bedsheets after that.

"Hey, do you moisturize or something? Why's there a bottle of lotion by your pillows?"

He isn't thankful for his forgetfulness, however, as you seem to have caught up with his dirty antics. Koby watches you feel under his pillows, where you eventually find a bottle of lotion that he had suspiciously hidden there. He panics.

"I-I forgot to"—he gulps—"put it back in the cabinets a-and stuff."

"'And stuff'? I know your hands are smooth, but I always thought they were naturally like that," you say as you inspect the bottle. It's when you raise a questioning brow and Koby pathetically tries to wrestle it from your hold that you burst out laughing. "No way, please don't tell me you—"

"I don't!" He panics. "I don't use— I don't do that silly stuff! Can you please give it back to me?!"

Koby reaches for the bottle in your hands, but you stubbornly move it away. "It fascinates me how guys use lotion to masturbate," you remark. "How does it feel?"

"Good," he answers. His eyes widen. "Actually, very bad. ACTUALLY, I don't even use it! Give it back!"

You smirk. "Pervert."

"I'm not!"

Satisfied with his answer, you toss him back the bottle. Koby shoves it deep inside his closet and comes back to the bed with a face colored pink.

"I know much better alternatives to lotion," you tease. He shakes his head.

"I don't need them."

You laugh. "I'm kidding, you dork. You're so adorable." Falling back into his pillows, you open your arms toward him. Koby crawls over to you and gently lays his head on the pillow beside you.

"I think we should have a sleepover one day," you whisper.

Koby doesn't know where that suggestion came from, but with his thoughts still muddled, there's one thing he wishes that would happen at a sleepover with you.

"I think we should," he says.

A few weeks later, you celebrate your four months together. Koby takes you out to somewhere special after your morning classes, and by evening, you're spending a heartfelt discussion with him by the seaside. When the sun dips past the horizon, you take the peaceful walk back to your apartment, where Koby decides to stay for the night.

"We should put a movie on. Or a show," you suggest as you emerge from your bedroom, freshly showered and clothed in your pajamas. You snuggle beside Koby on the couch, where he flips through the Netflix shows projected on your TV.

"Forever just released," he says. "It's based on a book by Judy Blume, but we have other options."

You shrug. "Put whatever you like."

Koby settles for a coming-of-age movie, a film so reminiscent of the high school days the both of you lived together. Halfway through the film, you've shimmied yourself next to him until he's spooning you on the couch, your legs entangled with his and your face tucked in between his arms.

"Um," Koby stutters as the screen goes dark and orchestrated moans fill the room, "this is awkward."

You sneer. "Figures. Teenagers are horny."

"Yeah..." he says. Looking back at the screen, he makes a face of horror as a sex scene drags on longer than he expected. "But this is unlooked for."

You move around on the couch to face him. Koby looks down at you in his arms. "Don't be a prude," you tease.

"I'm not," he retorts, but he takes it back. "Actually, I kinda am. But this is too much vulgarity for a 16+ movie."

"Of course, a puritan critic." You look back at the screen. The girl is getting her shit rammed raw in a cinematic sequence like the ones you've seen in Euphoria, with the only difference being the magnitude of sexual display overpowering that of the HBO show. Your boyfriend might have a point, but you aren't about to give him that.

"You're making fun of me again," he says. He pokes the side of your waist. You squirm.

"I was joking."

You hit his hip bone to retaliate, but your hand lands dangerously close to somewhere untouched. Koby swears his head spun during the 2 seconds your hand glided across his skin, but he keeps his perverted thoughts at bay because he doesn't want to be disrespectful. When he looks past your head and sees the erotica on the TV, however, he's immediately challenged by his demons.

Little does he know that this is only the start of a tempting evening.

"Come to think of it, I haven't kissed you enough today." Flirtatiously, your hands encircle Koby's head and begin to get handsy with his face. You trace the side of his cheek, his jaw, his neck, until your hands land on his chest. You push him farther into the couch until he's laying on his back, while you hold yourself up on your elbows.

"What are you doing?" he asks, but it comes out as a mumble. Frankly, Koby knows what you're doing. You've kissed him in the same manner before, but the erotic noises coming from the TV and his four-month-long sexual yearning impair his ability to think properly. As you knead his skin through his clothes, you peck his cheek with slow sensual kisses, eventually getting close enough to his lips.

"I'm kissing you," you say in between pecks. "Show is giving me some ideas. Didn't get to kiss you enough today. Happy four months."

Four months, Koby thinks to himself. Not to be a pervert, but Koby wonders if four months is a decent period of time to get seriously sexual with you. He knows it's taboo for some people, but you don't seem to mind it. Your flirty stunts prove that.

Still, Koby holds himself. He doesn't let temptation take over even if he wants it to. The most he does is to support your body weight with a strong arm, then, once you're satisfied with his face, he parts his lips wide enough for yours to slip in just the way they always do. Koby doesn't do much but give you control, instead cherishing a moment well-spent between the both of you.

It starts slow, but kissing you always starts that way. When you climb on top of him and straddle his waist, Koby feels his stomach turn. He's never had you do that before. Worse, he's never made out with you at such a private time. It feels like one passionate kiss away from the best fuck of his life—not that he's had prior experience, but if he did, he'd call the shots right here, right now.

With that, Koby decides that he's horny. His dick stirs in his pajamas in response to your consistent work on his lips. You move more passionately than all the times you've kissed him, your hips matching the rhythm of your lips. Koby tries his hardest to prevent an erection, but your ass lightly grazes him a few times and he admits defeat.

It doesn't take you long to notice it. When you move back, you feel his hard-on through your pajamas. You gaze at his pelvis, but Koby directs your lips back to his with a guiding hand.

As you kiss him once more, you sit down on him. Koby gasps loudly. His hands suddenly come up to feel your hips, your waist, and anything else that they can hold onto. Experimentally, you roll your hips on him, and his grip tightens around your body.

You repeat it for the next couple of minutes to rile him up. Koby responds well to your movements, his lips parting for a whimper and his hips wriggling through the pleasure.

When you're spent, you attach your lips to his jaw and tiredly kiss the skin down his neck. "Koby..." you mumble.

"Yes?" He cranks his head away to allow you more space. He looks at you through hooded eyes, wondering what you're up to next.

You push yourself down on him. Koby feels you through your pajamas, a growing wetness in your pussy. Suddenly, he fears you stopping. He hopes that you don't.

You bite down lightly on his neck. Koby makes a noise.

Looking up at him, you ask, "Do you want me to blow you?"

His eyes snap back down at you. He looks at you through equally watery eyes, needy irises, and plump lips. Koby begins to lose his mind. He's so hard. And in need. But he can't form a coherent reply. Fuck. Is this real?

"Like... that blowing?" is what comes out of his mouth. You grind down on him another time, and this time, Koby doesn't restrain the moan that escapes his lips. He lets it free in your living room, where it battles with the background noise tinkling from the TV.

"Yes. Give you head," you tell him. You snuggle your head into his neck and leave gentle kisses on his skin. "Do you want it?"

Koby's automatic answer is yes. Of course he wants it. As a matter of fact, he's been wanting it for ages. He even yearns for it in his dreams. He doesn't believe it's actually happening, though, so he makes a nervous decision.

But the moment he says yes, you're smiling from ear-to-ear with excitement. You peck his lips before crawling down to his lower body and feeling his thighs. Your hands coil around the hem of his pajamas and slowly pull them down past his hips.

But suddenly, your ringtone alarms from the coffee table.

"Oh no," you curse, "oh no, no, no, you've got to be fucking kidding."

As you hop off the couch and race to answer your phone, Koby's face twists into a frown. Disappointment is etched across his face. You come back into the living room some seconds later, mouthing the words, "my mother" before going back to your bedroom to take the call.

So, Koby shifts around the couch and lays his head on the armrest dejectedly. He's still hard as shit—that's no question—but he doubts you would want to go back to doing the nasty with him right after speaking to your mother. Besides, putting it realistically, he doubts he'd even have the balls to ask you to continue.

When you come back five minutes later, he's admittedly more bummed out than horny. Sensing his disappointment, you cuddle next to him instead.

However, Koby feels that you're equally upset, so he hugs you tightly and rubs a comforting hand on your back.

"It's okay. You can give it to me anytime," he tells you.

You look at him. His eyes are still glossy and his lips are still plump, but you don't miss the sexual frustration on his face. "Anytime?" you ask.

There's a sparkle in your eyes that Koby cherishes. He loves you.

"Yes. Anytime."

[mistyshane30]

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 13)

Synopsis: You wake from a short nap, but the day has already shifted—conversations tense, glances lingering, something unspoken hanging in the air. As night falls, ghost stories and laughter blur into something else, something quieter, something charged.

Word count: 6.6K

Warnings: Sexual tension, Mild language

A/N: My sincere apologies for the delay in updates. My studies as a maritime student, including recent training exercises, have unfortunately limited my writing time. Thank you for your understanding and continued support♡

You wake to the sound of soft rustling and the smell of food.

 Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see is Agatha crouched next to you, holding a plate.

"For you," she says simply.

 You blink, still groggy, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. "How long was I out?"

 "Thirty minutes, give or take." She shrugs. "You looked dead to the world."

 You rub the sleep from your eyes, staring at the plate. It’s rice and some beef strips. Simple, but warm.

 "You—" You clear your throat. "You brought this for me?"

 Agatha smirks, setting the plate down beside you. "You did tell me to wake you when lunch was ready."

 You hadn’t expected her to actually bring you food, though.

 There’s a flicker of something soft in your chest.

 But Agatha is already turning away, crawling toward the tent entrance. "Come on. Eat with the rest of us."

 You glance down at the plate, then back at her.

 For a second, you consider just eating inside the tent, away from everyone, away from the possibility of Wanda staring at you again.

 But Agatha pauses at the tent’s entrance, looking over her shoulder. She raises an eyebrow.

 "What?" you mumble.

 She tilts her head, amused. "Don’t tell me you’re hiding."

 Your face heats up. "I’m not hiding."

 Agatha hums, not believing a word of it.

 Then, before she exits, she adds, "Better hurry before I eat your food instead."

 And just like that, she’s gone.

 You groan, running a hand down your face.

 She’s insufferable.

 You crawl toward the entrance, preparing yourself for whatever chaos awaits outside.

 The moment you step out of the tent, Alice calls you out immediately.

 “There you are! We thought you were gonna sleep through lunch.”

 You barely have time to react before your eyes land on Wanda.

 She’s looking at you—but she’s also looking at Agatha.

 Your stomach clenches.

 "Are you feeling better?" Wanda asks, her brows knitting together in concern.

 Well, of course you are. It’s a hickey, not a damn injury.

 But they don’t know that.

 You clear your throat, nodding quickly. "Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just needed a quick nap."

 You step forward, grabbing your plate—the one still in Agatha’s hand.

 She doesn’t say anything as she hands it over, but there’s a look on her face.

 Alice raises an eyebrow.

 “Wow, Agatha, serving Y/N food?” she teases, grinning. “Since when?”

 You nearly choke on air.

 “I—She didn’t—” You fumble for a response, but Agatha beats you to it.

 “She was practically dead to the world.” Agatha shrugs, completely unfazed. “Figured I’d do a good deed.”

 Jen snorts. “That’s a first.”

 Lilia leans in, amused. “What’s next, Agatha? Carrying Y/N’s backpack?”

 Agatha smirks, eyes flicking to you. “I mean, if she asks nicely.”

 Your face burns.

 You’re about to snap back—say something, anything—but then you feel a hand on your arm.

 It’s Wanda.

 You glance at her, and she gives you a look. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

 Oh, shit.

 You force a nod, letting her pull you aside while the others go back to eating.

 Once you’re out of earshot, Wanda folds her arms.

 “So…” she starts, tilting her head. “You sure you’re feeling better?”

 You gulp. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

 She stares at you for a long moment, then exhales.

 “Look,” she says, softer this time. “I know you don’t wanna make a big deal out of it, but… if something’s going on, you can tell me, okay?”

 Your heart skips.

 Shit.

 Does she know?

 You force a smile. “Nothing’s going on.”

 Wanda watches you carefully. Then, finally, she sighs.

 “Okay,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

 Before you can dwell on it, Alice calls out, “Hey, are you two coming back?”

 You immediately turn away, heading back toward the group. “Coming!”

 You take a seat next to Wanda on one of the logs, the warmth of the fire licking at your skin despite the afternoon heat. Across from you, Agatha settles down next to Jen, her posture relaxed, legs stretched out in front of her like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Alice and Lilia share the last log, already picking at their food as they talk about something you’re not paying attention to.

 You blink, glancing up just in time to see Agatha standing up, making her way over to you. She hands you the can of soda, then, just as smoothly, returns to her seat across the fire, smirking.

You didn’t even ask for one.

She just knew.

You hesitate for a moment before cracking it open, taking a sip, and looking away before anyone notices the warmth creeping up your neck.

Well. Before most your friends notice.

Wanda is staring.

 She’s watching Agatha, then you, then Agatha again.

 Then, suddenly, she clears her throat. “So, about that bite.”

 You freeze mid-sip.

 Agatha raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

 Wanda tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You were with Y/N when it happened, right?”

 Agatha leans back, unbothered. “She was with me, yeah.”

 Wanda’s fingers tap against her knee. “And you didn’t see it?”

 The air shifts slightly.

 Agatha shrugs. “Guess I was looking the other way.”

 Wanda doesn’t look convinced. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”

 You clear your throat, trying to cut in. “It happened fast, Wanda. It’s not a big deal—”

 “It’s just—” Wanda exhales sharply, shaking her head. “You’re usually more aware of things, Agatha.”

 Agatha just tilts her head. “Well, guess I slipped up.”

 There’s a flicker of something in Wanda’s eyes. She’s still staring at Agatha like she’s trying to piece something together.

 You grip your can tighter, resisting the urge to press your hand over the band-aid again.

 Alice, sensing the tension, jumps in. “Well, let’s just be glad it wasn’t worse, right?”

 Lilia hums in agreement. “Yeah. Could’ve been a snake.”

 Great. Now you have to worry about that too.

 Wanda pushes further, ignoring Alice and Lilia’s attempts to steer the conversation elsewhere. "It could've been worse, you know. What if it had been something venomous? What if it got infected?"

 She crosses her arms, gaze flicking between you and Agatha. "And earlier, Agatha, you were laughing like it was funny. What’s so funny about Y/N getting bitten?"

 Agatha smirks, lips twitching as she fights back another chuckle. "Nothing. Just—" She waves a hand vaguely. "It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be."

 Wanda scoffs, not letting up. "You sure about that?"

Before Agatha can reply, Jen suddenly cuts in. "Alright, alright," she says, loud enough to break the tension. "Let’s talk about something else. What’s the plan after lunch? Maybe we should explore the area a bit?"

The group agrees, though Wanda is still watching Agatha with narrowed eyes. Eventually, she exhales sharply and shrugs it off, but you can tell she’s still irritated. Agatha, as expected, doesn’t seem to care.

After lunch, the group decides to explore the surrounding area. The air is crisp, the trees providing shade as you all navigate through the trails. It’s peaceful—until Agatha falls into step beside you.

“You’re walking kinda slow,” she comments, smirking. “Getting old?”

You roll your eyes. “Or maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”

Agatha raises a brow, glancing around dramatically. “Oh yeah, breathtaking trees. Real once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

You shove her lightly with your elbow. “I meant the scenery.”

She snorts. “Sure you did.”

Behind you, Wanda is keeping a close eye on the both of you. You can feel her gaze burning into the back of your head, and every now and then, when you steal a glance, she doesn’t even try to hide it.

At some point, the group stumbles upon a really scenic spot—overlooking the valley, the trees opening up just enough to give a perfect view of the horizon. Jen immediately pulls out her phone. “Okay, group photo. Everyone get in.”

You shuffle into place, Wanda beside you, and Agatha on your other side. Just as Jen is setting up the shot, Agatha reaches out, flicking a stray leaf out of your hair without a second thought.

You freeze.

Your eyes meet hers, and for a second, everything around you fades. The warmth of her fingers lingers near your temple, the touch barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

Then—

Wanda clears her throat.

Loudly.

The moment shatters. Agatha pulls her hand back, smirking like nothing happened. You force yourself to look straight ahead, pretending your face isn’t suddenly burning. The camera clicks, and just like that, the moment is over.

The rest of the afternoon passes with the group continuing to explore, snapping photos, and taking in the scenery. Every so often, you catch Agatha looking at you, and each time, when your eyes meet, she just smirks. It’s infuriating. It’s distracting. And yet, you can’t stop yourself from glancing at her, too.

Eventually, as the sun begins to dip lower in the sky, the group makes their way back to camp. As you settle in, Lilia glances around and announces, “We need more firewood.”

You straighten, about to volunteer, when Wanda nudges you sharply. When you glance at her, she’s already shaking her head, giving you a look that clearly says, Don’t.

Before you can argue, Agatha stretches lazily and says, “I’ll go.”

“I’ll go too,” Wanda adds immediately, tone firm.

Your stomach twists.

Agatha lifts an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Afraid I’ll get lost?”

Wanda just crosses her arms. “Just making sure we get enough firewood.”

They hold eye contact for a bit too long before Agatha chuckles under her breath and starts walking. Wanda follows, glancing at you one last time before disappearing into the trees with her.

You exhale, slumping slightly as the rest of the group starts chatting again. A small pit of unease settles in your stomach, knowing Wanda isn’t the type to just let things go—especially when it comes to you.

After some time, Agatha returns with some firewood, but Wanda isn’t with her.

When Jen asks, Agatha just shrugs. "She’s still out there."

You frown. "Alone?"

Agatha glances at you, tossing a log onto the pile. "She insisted."

Without another word, you turn and head into the woods, calling out for Wanda. The sun is starting to dip, casting golden light through the trees. After a few moments, you find her silently gathering wood, methodically picking up sticks and branches as if she’s trying to focus on anything but whatever’s on her mind.

"Wanda," you call again, stepping closer. She glances at you briefly but doesn’t say anything, just bends down to pick up another branch.

You sigh. "Why did you let Agatha leave you out here alone?"

She shrugs. "I didn’t let her do anything. She just left."

You press your lips together, watching her work. "Wanda, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird."

She lets out a sharp breath and straightens up, turning to you. "You tell me."

Your stomach twists. "What do you mean?"

Wanda crosses her arms, her gaze sharp. "That 'bug bite,' Y/N. Neither of us saw it happen. Agatha didn’t see it happen. But she thought it was funny—she was laughing earlier when we found out. Why?"

You freeze for a second before quickly composing yourself. "It’s not that deep, Wanda. We’re in the woods, bugs are everywhere. It’s not a big deal."

She squints at you, unconvinced. "It’s just... Agatha’s been weird with you. Clingy. She wasn’t like this before. And now she’s always near you, touching you, looking at you like—" Wanda exhales sharply, rubbing her temples. "I don’t know, Y/N. It just feels off. Like something’s changed, and I don’t get why. I just don’t want you getting hurt, okay?"

You hesitate. Your best friend is worried. And she has every reason to be, given how complicated things have been with Agatha. You want to tell her—you should tell her—but now doesn’t feel like the right time.

So instead, you shake your head and offer a small smile. "I get it, Wanda. I do. But you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle Agatha."

She studies you for a moment before sighing and shaking her head. "I don’t know if I believe that."

You nudge her shoulder. "Trust me."

She exhales, then reluctantly smiles. "Fine. But if she messes with you, I will fight her."

You chuckle. "Noted."

The two of you walk back to camp, the tension easing slightly. As you step into the clearing, your eyes immediately land on Agatha. She’s sitting on one of the logs with Alice, casually chatting. Then she looks up and meets your gaze.

Your breath catches for half a second before you manage a small smile and quickly look away, following Wanda back to the group.

The afternoon stretches on as the scent of sizzling food fills the air. You’re standing by the fire, stirring a pan of stir-fried mushrooms and bell peppers, the wooden spoon warm in your grip. Wanda, Lilia and Jen are chatting nearby while Alice turns marinated chicken on the grill with practiced ease.

A voice behind you makes you pause. "What’s this supposed to be?"

You glance over your shoulder. It’s Agatha, peering into your pan with an amused smirk.

"Stir-fry," you say. "Want to try?"

She picks up a piece with her fingers before you can even grab a fork and pops it into her mouth. She chews, then makes a face. "Needs more flavor."

You blink. "Seriously?"

A second later, she grins. "Nah. I’m just messing with you. It’s good."

You huff, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

She leans in slightly, voice just for you. "And yet, you like it."

Your breath catches for a half-second, but before you can respond, she winks and walks away. Not before glancing back with a teasing smile, though.

By the time dinner is ready, everyone is starving. Plates are passed around, laughter and conversation flowing easily. You sit beside Agatha this time, knees brushing, arms occasionally bumping. It’s casual, natural—except for the way Wanda, sitting on the log across from you, keeps glancing over. Her expression is unreadable, but you can feel her eyes on you both.

After dinner, Lilia claps her hands together. "Okay, so... horror stories. Who’s in?"

"Absolutely not," Alice groans. "I hate scary stories."

"Which is exactly why you need to hear them!" Jen grins. "Come on, it’s a camping tradition."

Alice groans again but stays put, resigned to her fate.

Everyone takes turns sharing stories. Lilia starts with a classic—something about a woman in white wandering the roads at night, her ghostly figure appearing in car mirrors before vanishing. Wanda follows with a chilling ghost encounter from her childhood, describing the eerie whispers she once heard in her grandmother’s old house. Jen’s is dramatic and animated, her gestures exaggerated as she recounts a tale about an abandoned cabin deep in the woods, making Alice grip her own arms and mutter, "Why did I agree to this?"

Then it’s your turn. You recall a story you heard years ago—one about a cursed path in the woods, where travelers who stray from the trail hear footsteps behind them, but when they turn around, no one is there. Some say the footsteps get faster the more you ignore them, until they’re right behind you, breath on your neck, a shadow stretching too close. And if you run? That’s when they reach for you.

As you speak, the fire crackles, casting shadows that dance against the trees. The wind rustles the leaves, making them sound almost like whispers. A twig snaps somewhere in the darkness, and Alice jumps, clutching Lilia’s arm. "Nope. Nope, I hate this."

Jen leans in, intrigued. "What happens if they catch you?"

You hesitate for effect, letting the silence stretch. "No one knows," you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Because no one who’s been caught has ever come back."

The group shivers collectively, drawn into your words. Even Agatha, who had been smirking through most of the stories, watches you with quiet intrigue, her expression unreadable.

And then there’s Agatha.

Her voice dips low, deliberate, weaving an eerie tale that seems to creep into the very air around you. "There was a girl," she begins, her tone almost hypnotic. "She went missing in the woods, not far from here. Search parties looked for weeks. They never found her." The fire crackles, casting long, twisting shadows.

"Some say she never really left," Agatha continues, her gaze flickering to the darkness beyond. "They say if you listen closely, you can hear her crying at night—begging for someone to find her. But if you answer? She takes your voice. Steals it. And then... she’s not the one crying anymore."

The fire flickers, and suddenly, a gust of wind rustles the trees. The woods seem darker, the silence stretching uncomfortably. A branch snaps somewhere unseen, and Alice lets out a startled yelp. Your pulse jumps.

You don’t realize you’re leaning in until Agatha meets your gaze and smirks, knowing exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes glint with amusement, but there’s something else there too—something unreadable. The moment lingers, heavy, before she suddenly claps her hands sharply.

You flinch. "What the hell!"

She laughs, clearly enjoying herself. "Gotcha."

"I hate you," you mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.

She leans in just slightly, voice near your ear. "Liar."

Before you can respond, Alice jumps up. "No. Enough. We need to shake this creepy feeling off. Play some music or something!"

Jen pulls out her phone, scrolling through her playlist. A lively song starts playing, breaking the tension, and soon enough, everyone is swaying, moving to the beat. Lilia and Jen dance dramatically, spinning each other, and even Wanda bobs her head slightly, a small smile breaking through.

Then the music shifts. A slower song comes on, soft and warm against the cool night air.

Your friends pair off playfully, and before you can react, Agatha grabs your wrist. "C’mon," she says, pulling you up.

 You roll your eyes but let her guide you. "You just want another excuse to mess with me."

 She spins you once, teasingly, before settling close, hands resting lightly on your waist. "Maybe."

 The firelight flickers, casting a golden glow over everything. Wanda is still watching. Definitely watching. But you can’t focus on that because Agatha’s hands are warm against your sides, and she’s closer than she probably should be.

 Her voice drops just for you. "Still scared?"

 You scoff. "Scared? I’m not—"

 "Yeah, right" Agatha cuts in, smirking.

You shake your head, exasperated but smiling. The two of you dance, and so do the others. The music and laughter blend with the crackling fire, easing the lingering tension from the ghost stories.

The song fades, but Agatha doesn’t let go right away. Her hands linger at your waist, her fingers just barely brushing your sides before she finally steps back. It’s only a second or two longer than necessary, but you notice it. And so does Wanda.

You settle back onto the logs, the fire crackling as everyone starts reaching for marshmallows and skewers. The conversation is lighter now, the eerie tension from the ghost stories fading into quiet laughter and teasing remarks.

“Okay, but real talk,” Jen says, stuffing a marshmallow into her mouth before she even roasts it. “If we hear something in the woods tonight, are we ignoring it or investigating like idiots in a horror movie?”

“Ignore it,” Wanda says immediately. “Don’t be stupid.”

Alice, still jumpy from the ghost stories, shivers. "I swear, if something taps on my tent, I will freak out. Or—whoever I’m sharing with, you better be ready to wake up with me."

Jen grins. "Speaking of that... who’s sharing with who?"

“I’ll be with Lilia,” Jen adds before anyone can answer.

“Guess that leaves me with you, Y/N,” Wanda says, her tone casual—but there’s an edge to it, like she’s already decided for you.

Before you can process that, Agatha scoffs. “Actually, Y/N and I are sharing.”

Wanda turns to her, eyebrows raised. “Since when?”

“Since this morning,” Agatha says smoothly. “Before lunch. Y/N went into a tent, and I followed. We already put our stuff there.”

Wanda’s gaze flicks to you, expecting some kind of confirmation or denial. You hesitate.

“I mean… yeah,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “Agatha’s right. That’s kind of how it happened.”

Wanda’s lips press into a thin line. “You could’ve said something earlier.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling awkward. “Didn’t really think it was a big deal.”

Alice looks between the three of you, blinking.

The tension in the air is impossible to ignore. Agatha smirks slightly, clearly enjoying the way Wanda bristles, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Wanda, on the other hand, exhales sharply, visibly holding something back. But after a moment, she just shakes her head and mutters, “Whatever. Do what you want.”

Lilia, oblivious to the quiet standoff, yawns and stands up, brushing off her hands. “Alright, I’m heading in.”

One by one, the rest of the group follows, dousing the fire until only the faint glow of embers remains. Wanda hesitates for just a second, shooting you one last unreadable look before stepping into her tent with Alice.

You let out a slow breath, suddenly aware of the way your shoulders had tensed. Agatha is already beside you, watching with a knowing expression.

“Didn’t really think it was a big deal, huh?” she murmurs, her voice laced with amusement.

You shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

Agatha just chuckles, bumping her shoulder against yours before turning toward the tent. “Come on.”

You sigh, following her inside, the quiet rustling of the trees outside the only sound accompanying you.

The air inside the tent feels warmer than it should, the weight of the day settling in as you shift slightly on your sleeping bag. Agatha mirrors your movement, lying on her side, propped up on one elbow as she looks at you. The soft glow from the dying bonfire outside barely illuminates her face, but you can still make out the teasing glint in her eyes.

"So," she starts, voice hushed, "what's up with Wanda breathing down my neck all day?"

You huff out a quiet laugh, turning onto your side to face her. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Kinda hard not to when she looks like she wants to tackle me every time I get near you," Agatha mutters, lips twitching into a smirk. "What did I do to piss off your best friend?"

You hesitate for a second, then shrug. "She’s just… protective."

Agatha raises a brow. "That protective?"

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Wanda knows I got hurt before. Not, like, physically, but… you know. She doesn’t want me to go through that again."

There’s a beat of silence before Agatha tilts her head slightly, studying you. "And she thinks I'm the one who's gonna hurt you?"

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you pick at a loose thread on your blanket, avoiding her gaze. The truth is, she did hurt you—even if she doesn’t realize it. And she still doesn’t know how much. But it’s not like you haven’t wondered the same thing yourself. There’s no label on whatever this is between you and Agatha. And sure, she kissed you last night—really kissed you. But is that enough to say she wouldn’t hurt you?

You don’t have an answer, so instead, you just shrug. "No. You know what? Let’s just forget about it. Wanda’s protectiveness will pass… eventually."

Agatha watches you for a moment, then smirks. "You sure? ��Cause I think she’s about two seconds away from putting a leash on you."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. "She’s just—she’s Wanda. She’s always been like that."

"Mhm." Agatha props her head up with her hand, grinning.

A comfortable silence falls over you both, and then you find yourself asking, “By the way, what did Wanda say to you earlier? When you two went to get firewood?”

Agatha exhales, like she expected this. “She told me to stop messing with you.”

You frown. “Messing with me?”

Agatha turns on her side to face you, her lips curl into a smirk, even in the dark. “You know, like annoying you, pissing you off—” She leans in slightly. “Making you blush.”

Before you can protest, a sudden rustling noise outside the tent makes you both freeze.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Agatha sits up slightly. “Probably just the wind.”

Another rustle. Louder this time.

You tighten your grip on your sleeping bag. “Or it’s one of those ghosts from the stories earlier,” you mutter.

Agatha chuckles. “Only one way to find out.”

She starts unzipping the tent, and you grab her wrist. “Are you serious? Just ignore it.”

Agatha grins. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before you can stop her, she slips outside.

You wait a few seconds, listening intently. “Agatha?” you call quietly. No response.

Your stomach tightens. You fumble for your phone, turning on the flashlight, and crawl out of the tent. The beam cuts through the darkness—but Agatha is nowhere to be seen.

Your pulse quickens. “Agatha, this isn’t funny,” you whisper-shout, stepping toward your friends’ tents, ready to wake someone up.

Then—

“Boo.”

You whip around, nearly jumping out of your skin. Agatha stands behind you, arms crossed, a smug grin on her face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hiss, shoving her arm. “I thought—I thought something happened to you!”

Agatha shrugs, looking amused. “Relax, it was just a rabbit. I saw it.”

You glare at her, still catching your breath. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” she says easily, nudging you back toward the tent. “Come on, scaredy-cat.”

When you both get back inside the tent, you’re still pissed at Agatha. She’s still grinning, stretching out lazily on her sleeping bag like she didn’t just scare the hell out of you.

“I didn’t know you scared so easily,” she murmurs, amusement still laced in her tone.

You glare at her, still feeling your heart race from earlier. “I wasn’t scared. I just didn’t want to be the idiot in a horror movie who investigates a noise and dies first.”

Agatha chuckles, shaking her head. Then, quieter this time—like it’s something she hadn’t meant to say aloud—“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, you know.”

The air shifts. The usual teasing in her voice is gone, replaced by something softer, something real. You glance at her, expecting a smirk, but she’s just looking at you, eyes unreadable in the dim glow of the tent.

A beat passes. Then another.

Agatha reaches over, her fingers brushing against your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s such a small, simple gesture, but the way her touch lingers sends a shiver through you. You feel the warmth of her skin, the way her fingers hesitate—just a second too long.

She looks at your lips, then back to your eyes.

Your pulse pounds, but you don’t pull away. Maybe you should. Maybe you should say something snarky, break the tension—but you don’t.

Agatha’s fingers trail down to your jaw, tilting your chin slightly, as if testing. As if waiting for you to stop her. When you don’t, she doesn’t ask for permission—she just moves.

The kiss starts slow, hesitant—like neither of you can quite believe it’s happening. But then something shifts. Agatha lets out a quiet sound against your lips, and suddenly, it’s like neither of you want to stop.

Your fingers find the hem of her long-sleeved white polo, gripping it like you need something to ground yourself. Agatha responds by pressing closer, her body half over yours now, her lips moving against yours with a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

Agatha’s fingers slide higher, tracing the curve of your spine. Her touch is slow, unhurried, like she’s memorizing the feel of you beneath her hands. The weight of her palm lingers, pressing into your skin in a way that makes your breath stutter.

Then she pauses.

Her hands still under your tank top, warm against your bare skin, but she doesn’t move further. Instead, she leans in just enough that her breath ghosts over your lips.

“Is this okay?” she murmurs, her voice quieter now—softer.

The teasing edge is gone, replaced with something else entirely. Something careful. Something that makes your chest ache.

You swallow, pulse hammering. You should say something, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you nod, barely more than a small tilt of your head.

Agatha studies you for half a second longer—like she’s making sure—before she kisses you again. This time, there’s no hesitation.

Her hands begin to move, slow but deliberate. Fingertips tracing up the curve of your spine, then down again, pressing into the small of your back as she pulls you closer. Her touch burns, leaving a trail of warmth wherever she goes.

She shifts slightly, half rolling you onto your back as her palm flattens against your stomach, sliding higher beneath your tank top. Every inch she covers feels electric, every slow drag of her fingers leaving you breathless.

When her thumb brushes just beneath your ribs, you gasp against her lips. Agatha catches the sound, swallowing it with a smirk you can feel rather than see.

“You’re so sensitive,” she whispers, her voice rich with amusement—and something else. Something darker.

Her hand moves higher. Testing. Exploring. Her fingers skim over the edge of your bra, teasing but never quite going further. Like she’s waiting for you to stop her.

But you don’t.

And that seems to be all the confirmation Agatha needs.

Her fingers slide higher, brushing over lace and skin with an unbearable slowness. Her touch is teasing, savoring every reaction—every shiver, every caught breath, every way your body responds to hers.

“You’re shaking again,” she whispers, her lips barely grazing your jaw.

You exhale sharply, fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeve. “And you’re talking too much.”

Agatha huffs a quiet laugh against your skin, her breath warm, teasing. “Bossy,” she murmurs, but there’s no bite to it—only amusement, only something softer.

The tent fabric rustles as she shifts, pressing herself closer. The weight of her is dizzying, grounding, and when her thigh slides between yours, the sensation makes your breath hitch.

Her fingers move again, slipping beneath your bra with deliberate slowness. The tent isn’t exactly thin, but it isn’t soundproof either. A few feet away, their friends are probably asleep—but not far enough that they wouldn’t hear if either of them got too carried away.

Agatha seems to remember this at the same time you do.

She leans in, lips brushing against your ear as her thumb finds your nipple through the lace of your bra, pressing just enough to make you shiver.

The thin fabric does nothing to dull the sensation. If anything, it makes it worse—frustrating in the way that leaves you aching for more.

Then, Agatha suddenly pauses. Her breath is warm against your ear when she murmurs, “You do realize these tents aren’t exactly soundproof, right?”

You swallow, pulse still racing, and murmur, “Yeah.” You pause, lips brushing against hers as you add, “Let’s just hope everyone’s actually asleep.”

Agatha hums, her fingers still teasing over lace.

You should be more careful. You should be thinking about the thin fabric of the tent, about the way sound carries in the stillness of the night.

But then Agatha’s hand moves again—slow, deliberate—her fingers slipping just beneath the lace, and suddenly, nothing else seems to matter.

A sharp inhale catches in your throat, your body tensing under her touch. Agatha stills for half a second, like she’s waiting—giving you space to stop this, to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, your hands move—almost on their own—reaching for the buttons of her long-sleeved polo. Your fingers fumble slightly, the fabric slipping under your grip as you undo the first one, then the second.

Agatha exhales a quiet laugh, her breath warm against your lips. “In a hurry?” she murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just keep going, pushing the fabric apart, your fingertips skimming over warm skin.

Agatha doesn’t stop you. If anything, she encourages it—shifting slightly, letting you peel the fabric away. The sight of her, the heat of her beneath your hands, sends something electric through you.

Then she’s kissing you again, deeper this time, hungrier, as if your touch has set something loose inside her. Her hands slide up your sides again, slipping fully beneath your bra now, her palms warm, fingers tracing, exploring.

She groans softly against your lips, and the sound sends a shiver straight through you.

The air between you is feverish, breathless, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember—your friends are still nearby.

Agatha must remember too, because when she leans in, her voice is barely more than a whisper against your ear.

“We really shouldn’t be doing this here,” she murmurs, though there’s no conviction behind it.

And yet, neither of you stop.

You let out a quiet breath, your hands still resting against the warm skin beneath her open polo. “Then stop,” you whisper back, but neither of you move.

Agatha’s lips twitch, her fingers flexing slightly against your skin. “You don’t want me to.”

You don’t. Not even a little.

Instead of answering, you slide your hands further beneath her shirt, palms skimming up her stomach, tracing the curve of her ribs. She exhales shakily, her grip on you tightening for just a second.

“Thought so,” she breathes.

Then she’s kissing you again, swallowing whatever response you might’ve had.

And just like that, the rest of the world—the tents, the risk, the lingering thread of reason—fades away.

You break the kiss just long enough to pull your tank top over your head, the fabric slipping from your fingers as you toss it aside. The cool air brushes over your skin, sending a shiver through you—but then Agatha’s hands are back, and she’s so much warmer.

Her eyes darken as she takes you in, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. The way she looks at you—like she wants—is enough.

You reach for her next, pushing her polo past her shoulders, dragging it down her arms. She helps, shrugging it off in one smooth motion before leaning back in, her lips finding yours as if she can’t stand the space between you.

Her hands trace your sides, fingers ghosting over bare skin. She moves slow—like she’s savoring every touch, every inch of you.

Then, with deliberate intent, her fingers slip beneath the strap of your bra, tracing the curve of your shoulder before gliding lower, lower—

Her breath is warm against your lips. Your pulse thrums beneath her touch. The rest of the world fades.

Nothing else matters.

Your hands move without thought, sliding over the bare skin of her back, tracing the dips and curves with slow, deliberate strokes. You feel the shift of her muscles beneath your touch, the way she tenses slightly when your fingers drag lower, just above the waistband of her pants.

Agatha exhales, her breath fanning against your cheek, but she doesn’t pause.

Her hands begin to wander—slowly, deliberately. They glide down past your waist, fingertips barely grazing the curve of your hips before trailing lower, teasing over the fabric of your leggings, where your skin burns beneath.

Your breath catches.

She lingers there, her touch light, almost too light, like she’s waiting—watching for your reaction. And when your body responds—when your legs part just slightly, instinctively—her lips curl into the faintest smirk against your skin.

Her fingers press in just a little more, still teasing, still not enough.

The anticipation coils in your stomach, heat pooling low, your grip tightening against her back.

Still, neither of you speak.

There’s no need.

Everything is understood in the way your bodies move, in the way you hold onto each other, in the way she touches you—slow and purposeful, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she’s savoring this.

Savoring you.

Agatha’s hand drifts lower, fingertips barely brushing over your thigh, featherlight and deliberate. She moves in slow, teasing circles, each pass of her fingers bringing her closer—so close—to where you want her.

Your breath stutters, your grip tightening against her back.

Then, she presses just a little harder, her fingers grazing the inside of your thigh, just shy of where you need her most.

A quiet whimper escapes before you can stop it. Your body reacts on instinct, heat pooling low, thighs twitching as you clench around nothing.

Agatha notices. Of course, she does.

She exhales a soft, amused sound, her lips brushing over your jaw. Her fingers flex against your skin, lingering, not giving you what you want—not yet.

She’s savoring this. Drawing it out. Watching the way you react, the way your body responds to her touch.

The tension coils tighter, your breathing uneven, anticipation burning through every nerve.

Agatha’s fingers slip from your thigh, trailing up—slow, agonizing—until they reach the waistband of your leggings. She toys with it, brushing her fingers just beneath the fabric, just enough to make your stomach tighten, to make your hips shift ever so slightly toward her.

She notices. She always notices.

Her lips ghost over your cheek, her breath warm against your skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag, she tugs at the band, just an inch, just enough to make you shiver.

Her voice is barely a whisper. "You still okay?"

You nod—maybe too quickly, too eager—but she doesn’t tease you for it.

Instead, her lips find your pulse point, pressing a kiss there as her fingers slip further beneath the fabric, dragging lower, lower—

Just as Agatha’s fingers dip lower, the faint sound of footsteps crunching outside makes both of you freeze.

Your breath catches, your heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.

Then—

"I know you guys are still awake."

Lilia’s voice.

"I heard… muffled noises."

Your heart stops.

Muffled noises?

You snap your gaze to Agatha, wide-eyed, heat rushing to your face. But Agatha—Agatha—has the audacity to look amused. The startled tension in her face melts in an instant, replaced by something far too smug for the situation.

"Muffled?" she calls back, feigning innocence. "You mean, like, whispering?"

Lilia hesitates. "I mean… I guess? I don’t know! I just—do you have extra socks? My feet are freezing."

Agatha sighs—dramatically—but finally pulls away, reaching for her bag. You use the moment to press your palms to your burning face, silently willing your body to calm the hell down.

The tent unzips just slightly, and Agatha wordlessly slips the socks through the small opening.

"Thanks," Lilia mumbles, footsteps crunching away.

The moment Lilia’s footsteps fade, the tent falls into silence.

You exhale, pressing a hand to your face, still trying to cool the heat burning under your skin.

Agatha, of course, is thriving.

"Muffled noises, huh?" she echoes, lips twitching.

You groan, shoving at her shoulder, but she only laughs—low and pleased with herself.

Then, her laughter softens. Her eyes flicker over you, glinting with something darker. Something mischievous.

She leans back in, close enough that her breath tickles your lips, fingers already finding their way back to your waist.

"Now… where were we?"

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @starryjeongyeon

[hexkiid]

AgeRegressor!Viktor x Caregiver!Jayce 🥛 "Sweetmilk" — 1.6k words || ao3 link

Jayce was well attuned to Viktor's needs by now. And from what he could tell, what Viktor needs right now is some rest. They had managed to work undisturbed for a few hours now, and Jayce knew it was only a matter of time before they get caught up in some long-form conversation with Heimerdinger.

Jayce rolls his chair to the other side of the desk and slowly slides away the pages Viktor is working on. Viktor slams his hand onto the desk much harder than intended to stop his work from slipping away.

“Wait,” he mumbles. Jayce sighs and silently counts to 60 — he knew there was no equation in that specific pile that would take him much longer than a minute. When he tries to take the papers again, Viktor lets out a small whine. Jayce pauses momentarily.

Viktor is not one to whine when he doesn't get his own way, even when he's tiny. But when he's fighting the urge to slip into the need to let go he can get a little cranky. It was obvious to Jayce instantly that was the case right now, and it's more than enough for him to fall perfectly into his role.

He knew Viktor wasn't going to give into it, he never has. Instead he allows Viktor to continue working on the equations that would surely become far too difficult for him — Viktor can think he's won for the time being.

“Aren't you sleepy?” Jayce subconsciously swaps his vocabulary around, I mean, sleepy? If Viktor wasn't as tired as he was, he'd be sure to (at the very least) mock Jayce for using such childish language. Instead, he gives him a disagreeing hum in response.

Jayce doesn't retort that. He begins to collect up their tools and put them into their respective boxes, being sure not to turn his attention away from Viktor for more than a few seconds. He can visibly see as his focus falters and turns into mild frustration.

“Y’okay, V?” Jayce asks, voice soft and gentle. Jayce doesn't miss the way Viktors eyes quickly glance in his direction, another hum in response.

“Al~right,” Jayce continues to clean the lab to a standard Viktor would approve of in the morning. The tapping of Viktors pen on the desk is the only sound beside his own.

After a few minutes, Jayce goes to check on Viktor properly, and just as he expected he’s still on the same problem he was on when Jayce first stood up. He huffs out a half—laugh half—sigh and gently runs his hand through Viktor’s hair.

He found it incredibly sweet how much Viktor cared for his work, but incredibly frustrating how his care for himself suffered for it. If Jayce had his own way, he would've scooped Viktor up and taken him to bed an hour ago. But he was patient, and it was always better for the both of them when Viktor wasn't forced into it.

“Need help?” Jayce leans in closer, wrapping his big hand over top of Viktors. He looks it over for a couple seconds before realising that Viktor had actually almost finished it himself.

“You've almost got it,” Jayce encourages him, very subtly guiding the pen to write the final equation. Suddenly it clicks, and Viktor is able to scribble down the answer with the rest of his strength. As soon as he's done, he turns to Jayce. It was like Jayce was looking in a mirror, he knew he often gave Viktor those same glistening eyes when he finished a particularly difficult task — so Jayce knew exactly what Viktor was looking for.

“You're so clever, I’m so proud of you!” Jayce gasps, maybe more dramatically than needed but not an ounce of it was insincere. He ruffles Viktor's hair a little bit before finally pulling those damn papers out of his sight.

Before Viktor is able to protest Jayce spins his chair around to face him, crouching down to his level in an attempt to seem less intimidating.

“V, are you tired?”

Viktor looks around the lab, finding the next task he can fix onto in order to delay his impending nap. He's completely unchanged in that aspect.

“No— no more, Viktor, look at me,” Jayce says sternly. He brings a hand to Viktors cheek to guide his gaze to his own. Viktor's eyelids are heavy; it's a miracle his head hadn't fallen down onto the desk from exhaustion hours ago. Viktor nervously brings his hand to his mouth to bite at the tip of his finger.

“Sweetmilk?” Jayce tilts his head like a puppy and Viktor's eyes widen at the bribe promise of sweetmilk.

Jayce sighs, that's all it took?

Before Viktor has the chance to latch onto something else, Jayce stands up, passing Viktor his cane and reaching his hand out for him to take and helping him to his feet. Working long hours always came with the cost of aching joints. Jayce notices his struggle and offers to carry him, which Viktor quickly declines, instead keeping a hold of his offered hand.

Jayce quickly locks up the lab and the two make their way to Viktors room. It was way past curfew so the halls were completely empty, the only noise was that of Viktors cane clicking against the concrete floor.

Once they reach Viktors room, Jayce pulls out his own keys — Viktor had given Jayce a key not long after they met. He slides the key into the lock and opens the door, holding it open for Viktor before following behind.

As soon as they're inside and away from the cold, Jayce shrugs off his jacket and heads for the kitchen intent on fulfilling his promise. It won't be long until Viktor inevitably drifts off to sleep, so he quickly prepares the sweet milk before going to find Viktor.

Jayce finds Viktor bundled up in a blanket on the couch, his amber eyes the only thing that Jayce could see.

“Cold?” Jayce asks as he crouches down to Viktors eye level. His golden eyes fall on the mug in Jayces hand. It only now occurred to Jayce that he probably should've used something… easier for Viktor to drink out of.

“Um, c—can you use a cup? Or do you want—” before Jayce can finish his sentence, Viktor has taken the mug and began to drink it, far too quickly.

“Slow, slow down V,” Jayce laughs. He begins to take off Viktors leg brace, carefully unfastening each strap before sliding it off. He rubs at the spots where the metal once sat to soothe the muscles as Viktor finished the last of his drink. Once Viktor was done, he couldn't help but whine a little at the loss.

“Was that good?” Jayce takes the cup and places it on the coffee table behind him. His hands move to unbutton Viktors waistcoat and remove his tie before folding them up neatly and draping them over the back of the couch.

“O—kay, let's get you to bed, hm?” Viktors sleepy eyes follow as Jayce stands up before scooping Viktor up in a bundle of blankets and effortlessly carrying him into the bedroom.

He gently places Viktor on the bed and quickly looks through his drawers to find some more comfortable clothes for him to sleep in, pulling out some pyjama bottoms and a shirt that almost definitely belonged to Jayce at some point. Viktor observes Jayce wordlessly as he moves, feeling a little shy about being so unconditionally doted on.

“Do you need help?” Jayce asks, and Viktor shakes his head with a yawn, reaching his hands out for the clothes. Jayce closes the distance and hands them to Viktor, planting a gentle kiss on the forehead — a subconscious gesture that neither will speak about.

“Alright, I’ll be back in two minutes, okay?” Jayce leaves the room to allow him privacy to get changed, leaving the door ajar incase Viktor needed his help.

Jayce tries to make himself useful by tidying up, but beyond the used mug and a couple of scientific papers strewn across the coffee table, nothing was really messy.

After a couple minutes he returns back to the room, smiling softly when he notices Viktor sitting as if he was waiting for him to come back.

“Good boy,” Jayce gives him another kiss on the forehead and helps him under the covers. Once Viktor is settled Jayce goes around the room and turns on a couple of dim lamps before switching off the big overhead light.

“Do you need anything else, V?” Jayce asks, he's about ready to leave but what's to be sure there's nothing else Viktor—

“Dad,” Viktor mumbles, almost incoherent beneath all the blankets he's hidden under.

Jayce freezes. It's uncommon for Viktor to talk when he's regressed as is, so Jayce is already sure he's hearing things, but for Viktor to call him anything other than “Jayce”? That's not something that's ever happened before.

But he couldn't deny the warm feeling it created in his chest.

“Y—yeah, what's up?” Jayce replies, still slightly unsure of what he heard. He crouches down beside the bed, running his fingers through Viktors hair. The room is quiet, but not uncomfortable, and It's a moment before Viktor speaks up again.

“Sleep w’ me,” he mumbles, eyes fighting to stay open.

“I— yeah. Yeah, okay,” Jayce smiles softly and stands up, quickly discarding his toe and waistcoat to a nearby chair.

Viktor shuffles a little to create space for Jayce to climb into bed beside him, huffing a small sigh of contentment as he curls into Jayce's chest. Jayce's body stiffens momentarily at such an obvious display of physical affection, but quickly relaxes as wraps his arms around Viktor to pull him closer.

“I’m here, I’ve got you,” Jayce whispers sweetly to Viktor, twirling his fingers in his hair until he finally lets sleep take over.

[ophelia-writes-fics]

i like when you get mad (i guess i'm pretty glad that you're alone) [kilgrave x reader - 18+]

You're a dancer at a club, and your shift just took a weird turn.

Tags (please read!): fem!reader, degradation, some mild praise, spanking, oral sex, face-fucking, cum swallowing, penetration, choking, erotic asphyxiation, unsafe/unprotected sex, face slapping, clit slapping, masochism (reader), sadism (kilgrave), humiliation, biting, scratching, bruising, some minor blood, threats, condescension, painplay, pain kink, minor bondage, edging, orgasm delay, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, mind control, mention of voyeurism/exhibitionism, slight dacryphilia, overstimulation, hair pulling, posessiveness

Word count: ~7.7k

CWs/TWs:

super dubious consent (reader likes him and consents to everything/is into the things they're doing without being compelled to, but some orders are given that can't be resisted and it's not pre-negotiated, so proceed with caution)

un-negotiated kink and unsafe choking/breathplay (i know you guys know but please don't choke anyone like this and please ask for consent in general but especially with kinks)

it's kilgrave. he's a walking red flag.

i'm not condoning anything irl, but this is fiction and i'm a kinky bitch, so i'm sexualizing this absolute maniac and i am having a lot of fun doing it lmao

You were leaning against the bar, scanning the crowd as you took your first shot of the shift. It was Friday night, with most of the crowd being well-dressed men who looked like they’d just finished with a long day of work, which meant you’d be going home with enough tips to pay your rent early. 

The most eager members of the crowd were seated near the stage, where your friend had them utterly captivated with an elaborate pole routine, so you began to search the back of the house for customers who might want something more private. A group of college girls already drunk off Red Bull and vodka, cheering and shouting compliments at the dancers with the kind of unbridled joy and solidarity that only drunk girls can summon…a man who’d clearly been dragged there by his friends, his eyes glued to his phone, his blush visible even in the dimly lit club…a bouncer pulling a particularly belligerent customer towards the door…

There. On the other side of the room was a tall, sharp-featured man in a dark purple suit, sitting alone, looking thoroughly bored with the performance onstage, glancing over at you every now and again with what appeared to be a look of interest. Perfect. 

You quickly ran a hand through your hair, took a deep breath, and plastered on your most winningly seductive smile before strolling towards him with as much ease as you could muster in six-inch stilettos. 

“Hello there, love,” you purred, leaning forward against the table he was seated at. “Is there anything I can do for you tonight?” 

You thought you’d gotten every possible response to that question before. You’d seen everything from polite rejection to aggressive groping to desperate requests for friendship or conversation, but what you’d never experienced and certainly weren’t expecting was a glance up and down your body followed by a discontented sigh and a slight frown, then a “Fine. You’ll do.” 

You opened your mouth to tell the stranger off, but before you could, he held up a finger to silence you, then leaned in closer. 

“Take me to your most secluded room. Don’t ask any questions, don’t stop to talk to anyone. Go.” 

Your head immediately began to spin. Your brain felt cloudy, as if someone had swept every thought from your mind and replaced them with a thick, impenetrable fog. Before you could try to shake the feeling away, your body was already moving, walking briskly towards the back of the club, seemingly completely independently of your own will. Get to a private room echoed over and over, clouding all the other thoughts that you were desperately trying to muster. You felt wrong, like a puppet with your limbs being jerked around by some unseen controller, no free will of your own to be found. No, not a puppet, your mind vaguely registered. A doll. 

You heard one of your friends calling you, asking something or maybe just saying hello, but when you tried to turn your head to respond, don’t stop to talk to anyone pierced your skull like a shard of ice, ringing in your ears like an intrusive thought. You didn’t stop walking even for a second. You didn’t even look at your friend. Something was very, very wrong. 

Your stomach was in knots by the time you got to an empty room, your heart racing against your ribcage like a trapped bird against a windowpane. You leaned against the wall, trying desperately to steady yourself as the strange man followed you inside. 

“Lock the door,” he ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand. The door was closed and bolted shut before you even realized you’d moved. 

You tried to say, or even think What did you do to me? But the same cold, cloudy pain overtook your head. Don’t ask questions. You shut your eyes tightly and clenched your fist as your body swayed, shaken by the unfamiliar sensation, feeling your breath grow shallow with panic. When your vision refocused, you stared at the stranger, who was tossing his suit jacket aside, reclined lazily on the couch like he hadn’t a care in the world. He fixed you with an annoyed look. 

“God, don’t grimace like that. The least you could do is give me a smile.”

Your face rearranged itself into the same winning, seductively charming smile you’d had on earlier, but you could tell that your eyes weren’t engaged. He didn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, he didn’t seem to have noticed your fear at all, grinning back at you like the devil himself. 

“That’s more like it. Now, kneel for me. Arms by your sides, hands in your lap, chin up. There you are.” His smile widened as he watched your body automatically follow his orders. 

He stood up and began to pace in a slow circle around you. You felt his dark eyes piercing you, evaluating you, examining your body for any minor flaw or imperfection, even though your vision remained fixed straight ahead and your smile remained in place. The carpet dug into your knees, your stiletto heels stabbing the backs of your thighs. But still, you knelt, unmoving and obedient as he stroked your hair like you were a well-behaved pet. 

It felt good, you thought, feeling a knot in your stomach form at the realization. He was incredibly handsome, with fingers as long and slender as the rest of him. You might have invited him back here on your own even if he hadn’t performed what you were growing more and more sure of was mind control. The thought made your blood run cold, but at the same time, you could still feel how red your face was under his gaze. 

Your pulse quickened as he moved back around to face you, still with that same analytical stare. His eyes lingered on your chest as he bent down slightly, moving his hand to caress the side of your face. His thumb brushed your lower lip, still frozen in place from where he had ordered you to smile. 

“Open your mouth,” he said, and you obeyed, with another rush of arousal immediately followed by shame. He pressed his finger against your tongue, eyebrows raising as you moaned at the touch. 

He pressed harder, still keeping his hand firmly on your jaw. “You like this, don’t you? Tell me the truth, don’t hold back.” His voice was low, his tone vaguely threatening in a way you couldn’t quite place.

You nodded, mouth still agape. Your face flushed at the eagerness of your response, the embarrassment at finding pleasure in being controlled so thoroughly sinking deeper and deeper into you. You’d never felt anything like it, and the adrenaline from the initial terror of being manipulated was quickly turning into an aphrodisiac when combined with your attraction to him. 

He scoffed - a short, mocking laugh. “My god,” he grinned, straightening up. “Then you can consider yourself a very, very lucky girl.” The swell of pride in your chest wasn’t at all hindered by the way his tone darkened; you couldn’t even tell if you were genuinely delighted at having impressed him or if you were just following his orders and “considering yourself lucky.” From the way your brain clouded over and the way your cunt tightened onto nothing, it might have been both. You groaned slightly at the feeling, then quickly bit down on your lip to try and suppress the sound. 

If he noticed, he gave no outward expression. Instead, he reclined back onto the couch, his legs falling open slightly, and he beckoned you forward with a wave of his hand. 

“Come here. You can kneel at my feet where you belong.” The way he said it was so light, so casual that you could tell he wasn’t trying to be dominant or turn you on. He just genuinely believed it. God, the ego on him. Still, you started to climb to your feet to walk over. 

However, before you could even stand all the way up, he raised a hand to stop you. “Ah-ah-ah. No, none of that. You can crawl. You look ridiculous walking around in those shoes anyway.” 

You collapsed back to your knees, cringing slightly at the bruises you knew you would have tomorrow as you crawled towards him. 

“Good girl, so you do know your place,” he said, his tone taking on a thick layer of condescension as he patted your head. “Tell me, how often do you sleep with your clients here?” He barely even looked at you as he asked, staring off into the distance as if you were boring him. 

“Never,” you replied immediately. 

“Never?” He raised his eyebrows, sparing you a quick, scrutinizing glance. “Then what exactly do you do in little rooms like these?” 

“Private stripteases. Lap dances. I let some touch me if they pay me enough,” you answered truthfully, realizing only after you’d spoken that he hadn’t ordered you to do so. You prayed silently that your answer was good enough. A voice in the back of your head questioned why you were so desperate for his approval, but it was quickly overcome by another wave of lust. 

Despite the work you did, it had been far, far too long since you’d been fucked, especially by a man as pretty as the one seated in front of you. And as much as you hated to admit it even to yourself, whatever power he had was one that you desperately wanted him to use on you. You’d never been so scared or so turned on in your life, and your deep masochistic streak was begging for more. 

The man snapped his thin fingers an inch away from your face, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blinked hard, realizing you hadn’t heard a single thing he said since you answered his last question. 

“Hey,” he reprimanded sharply, punctuated with a hard slap to the side of your face. “Snap out of it. God, what’s the point of sitting around here with you if you’re not even going to listen?” 

“No, wait, I’m sorry, I just—“ 

He cut you off with a disgusted roll of his eyes. “Don’t grovel. If you’re sorry, find a way to make it up to me.” 

You swallowed hard, nodding your head, mind racing. Your eyes flicked down to his lap, then back up to his face. 

“May I…well…I mean, would you like me to…” you stammered, mentally kicking yourself for how timid you sounded. 

“What? Spit it out,” he snapped. 

“Can I please suck your dick, please?” The request was out of your mouth before you even had time to process it. 

He laughed again, the same sharp mocking laugh he’d given you earlier, fixing you with a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, you really are desperate, aren’t you? Fine. Hurry up and start. Make it good.” 

Of course, you followed his orders. The ice-cold feeling that came with trying to resist felt entirely foreign to you now, and the brain fog that set over you whenever he gave a command barely had time to take hold before you obeyed. 

You started slowly, gently licking the tip of his dick before gradually working your way down, letting your mouth adjust to the length, pressing your tongue against him as you gently bobbed your head. 

While you were still struggling to take even half of his dick in your mouth, he roughly grabbed your hair, and without warning, shoved your head down to the base of his cock. 

You choked hard, tears immediately streaming down your face, but you couldn’t get even a second of relief with the way he held you firmly in place. You took a deep breath in through your nose, but the air was immediately knocked from your lungs as he pulled your head back, then shoved you back down, thrusting forcefully into the back of your throat. You gave a stifled cry and frantically grasped at his leg, trying to get leverage to break away, but you felt him slap your hand away before pinning it against the couch cushion. 

“You can take it. You want to impress me, don’t you? Stop struggling and let me fuck your throat.”

Your body went limp, all reflexes to break away and gasp for air vanishing in an instant. You could feel yourself choking, your face dripping with spit and tears, but you didn’t care. Both his hands were twisted in your hair, pulling hard, shoving your mouth onto his cock over and over again like you were a toy. You moaned desperately, half from pain and half from delirious pleasure. After what felt like ages, he ripped you away, forcing you to look into his dark eyes.

“Put some fucking effort into it,” he hissed, releasing your hair from his wrenching grasp. “Show me why I shouldn’t get rid of you right now.” 

You immediately set to work, taking as much of him as you could in your mouth and stroking what you couldn’t take with your right hand. You didn’t know what “getting rid of you” would entail. You didn’t doubt for a second that he could kill you. You felt briefly concerned that this didn’t turn you off in the slightest before your thoughts were pulled back to the task at hand. 

You sucked hard, running your tongue against the most sensitive places you knew of, gently teasing him, just enough to hopefully make him feel as desperate as you did. Your efforts were immediately rewarded with a low moan that became an almost feral growl, feeling him thrust upward involuntarily. You doubled down, relishing in every sound you could draw from him. 

He exhaled sharply when you pulled back, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock and flicking your tongue, tasting the pre-cum that dripped from him. He reached out, hand tangling in your hair again, but not quite as hard as before. 

“Right there,” he sighed, holding your head in place, eyes shut tightly. “Fuck, there you go, right there, just like that, harder…oh, god, what a good fucking girl you are…” As you felt him get closer and closer, listening to the way he moaned for you, you felt yourself grow hot all over, more and more desperate to feel him let go, to cum down your throat.

 You whined sharply, pushing even further, your body aching all over with unfulfilled desire. You took every single inch of him, swallowing hard around his cock, pressing your nose to his stomach, ignoring the way your throat tightened and instead focusing on how badly you wanted him, how terribly you wanted to impress him…

Your efforts paid off immediately when he forcibly pinned you where you were, grabbing your hair as he came with a rough, broken shout, his cum hitting the back of your throat. 

After what felt like ages, you felt him collapse backward against the couch cushions. You pulled away, quickly swallowing the mouthful you’d accumulated, then opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue to show him how well you’d taken it. 

He softly laughed, peering at you with a slightly unfocused look before closing his eyes again, still on cloud nine, chest rising and falling quickly as the overwhelming pleasure slowly subsided. 

You leaned your head against his inner thigh, gazing up at him with a lovestruck stare. He looked so vulnerable like this, open and overwhelmed with all the sensations flooding him, a slight smile on his lips.

 A man with all the power in the world, everything he could ever want only a few words away, everyone wrapped around his little finger, and yet here he was, your head between his legs, absolutely radiant in the afterglow of his orgasm. You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. 

He really is cute, you thought, even if he is terrifying. You examined his face carefully, taking in every detail — his sharp cheekbones, his thin nose, his dark eyelashes, the soft pink of his lips, the curve of his jawline and neck. There was something almost delicate about him, hidden by how deeply intimidating he was, and you hadn’t noticed it until now. He was just…well, he was just so pretty. There was just no other word for it, even now (or maybe especially now) that his sophisticated appearance was ruffled. His hair, once perfectly combed, was messy, a few dark strands falling into his eyes. His pristine suit was wrinkled, jacket long discarded, his tie partially undone, his shirtsleeves hastily rolled up, his belt and pants unfastened, and to top it all off, his gorgeous cock resting against his stomach, still half-hard. He was a fucking vision. You could have stared at him for ages. 

You gently tapped his leg to get his attention. “You know, I don’t actually think I caught your name,” you said, batting your eyelashes a bit. Your smile faded when you were met with a cold silence. He shook his head, straightening up and brushing his hair back into place. 

“You don’t need to know my name,” he snapped, all the bliss from a moment ago having vanished as he pushed you aside, readjusting his clothes. 

You sat back, thoroughly dejected. You had thought you’d done well. You wanted to make him feel good, and you had, but it wasn’t enough. You shouldn’t have felt like this about one of your clients, but you’d never met anyone else like him, and you wanted more. 

Your heart sped up as he reached for his jacket. Gathering his things meant he would leave, and an impulse deep inside you was yelling at you to do something. This wasn’t a job anymore, you needed him. He’d gotten you in the palm of his hand, desperate and wanting, and now that you had done what he wanted, he was acting like you were invisible. You weren’t going to let things go that easily. 

You pulled yourself up onto the couch, ignoring the ache in your knees and the pain on the backs of your thighs where your high heels had dug into your skin. Before he could react, you climbed onto his lap, facing him, arms around his shoulders. You’d never broken your “no kissing clients” rule, but that rule was the furthest thing from your mind as you leaned in for a kiss, pressing your lips firmly against his. 

With your eyes closed tightly, you barely even realized he had shoved you away until you landed on your back against the leather of the couch. Your eyes snapped open, finding the man standing before you, with a look on his face that was a mix of anger and bewilderment and something else you couldn’t quite place. He opened his mouth as if preparing to ask you something, but he closed it again, turning away from you. You bit your lip as he paced slowly, his hand over his eyes. Had you read the situation wrong? Was he ashamed that he’d come back here with you? Did he not like being kissed? Had you come on too strong? Was it over the line? 

Your heart skipped a beat as he stopped, focusing fully on you. You felt cornered, like a prey animal about to be devoured. He looked angry, vengeful, his already dark eyes completely devoid of light as he approached you. 

“Strip, then bend over the couch, facing the wall. Now.” 

Chills ran down your spine as you quickly undressed. You hadn’t been wearing much before, but naked, you felt completely exposed under his cold glare. You reluctantly turned away, the brain fog coming back like a tidal wave in response to your slight resistance, and you bent over, just like he’d told you to do. You could feel yourself shaking, terrified at the idea of what he would do to you, but with a hint of anticipation that kept you from falling off the edge into panic. 

You closed your eyes tightly and tried to ground yourself in the brief moments of silence, waiting for whatever would come next, but they shot open as soon as you felt the sharp, unmistakable shock of his belt whipping you across the backs of your thighs at full force. 

You cried out involuntarily, from shock and from the stinging, nearly unbearable pain. You hadn’t even had time to compose yourself when the second hit came, the pain intensifying as he struck the same place even harder. Your skin burned and you felt your eyes well up with tears, but you could feel the heat of arousal inside you growing, your masochistic side alight with pleasure. You wanted more. 

“Fuck!” you gasped as he landed a series of quick, searing lashes across your thighs and ass. Your nails dug into the couch as you bit your lip, trying to stifle a scream as the metal buckle whipped into your skin. Your head spun. It stung, so badly you could barely take it, but it felt fucking incredible, endorphins and adrenaline coursing through your body, making every sensation electric as he kept going, relentlessly striking you over and over again. 

You were granted a temporary reprieve when he leaned in close to your ear, running his fingernails down your back, hard enough that you knew there would be marks tomorrow. 

“Don’t even think about holding back,” he hissed, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. “I want everyone outside this room to hear you scream for mercy, and I want everyone to know you’re not going to get it.” 

Immediately he resumed his punishment, the sound of the belt hitting you again and again echoing off the walls. Your body instinctively followed his orders and you felt yourself cry out involuntarily, a broken sound halfway between a gasp and a yell. You barely even registered it as your own voice. 

Thwack. 

A particularly brutal hit made you cry out, arching your back in a desperate attempt to ease the pain. 

“Fuck, please…” you begged, feeling like you were on the verge of fainting. 

“‘Please’ what?”

Thwack. 

Thwack. 

The ice cold feeling shot through your brain like a lightning strike. Beg for mercy. Scream for it. You desperately wanted to, but at the same time…

“Harder, fuck, please, harder!” 

The words were out of your mouth before you even realized you’d spoken them. Immediately, the room fell silent. You gasped for air, still reeling from the searing pain and the frigid ache of trying to resist him. 

He took hold of your hair without warning, yanking your head around to look at him. 

“Repeat that,” he snapped. 

“I— I want it harder,” you panted, trying to force your blurred vision to focus. 

A long, tense pause. 

“You like this.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Yes, god, yes.” 

“Of fucking course you do.” 

He grabbed you, turning you around forcefully so that you were facing him, then without warning, his hands were wrapped around your neck, so tightly that you couldn’t even take a moment to breathe in, your windpipe fully constricted.  

“I bet you like this too, don’t you?” he muttered through gritted teeth. 

You nodded desperately, as best you could with your neck being held firmly in place. 

“Listen to me,” he growled. “You live and die by my orders. You have no other purpose but to please me, do you understand? Just look at you. I could do anything to you and you would love it. You get off on being whipped, you get off on being choked half to death…I could beat you senseless and you would cum from it.” 

You moaned in ecstasy, but it came out as barely a whimper. You could feel your heartbeat in your temples, your vision going dark around the edges as his fingers dug into your neck. 

“I’m going to do whatever I want to you. That’s all you’re good for. Do you understand?”

You tried to answer, but you couldn’t move. Your head was pounding, your throat feeling like it was about to be crushed. You saw stars, multicolored lights popping in and out of your vision. The darkness around the edges was rapidly expanding, bleeding further and further into your line of sight until you couldn’t see at all. 

At the last possible moment, before you could feel yourself slip over the edge into unconsciousness, he let go, dropping your limp body and watching you gasp for air, coughing and retching as you struggled to breathe in after being deprived of oxygen for so long. 

“Pathetic,” he scoffed, glaring down at you like you were nothing more than dust. 

You lowered your head, thoroughly humiliated, pressing your forehead against your knees as you gulped in mouthful after mouthful of oxygen, mind racing. He could have killed you. He could have choked you to death without a second thought and you wouldn’t have been able to stop him, you told yourself, but still, in the deepest parts of your mind, the danger thrilled you. 

You needed him to touch you, to hurt you, to ruin you. You wanted him to do whatever he wanted to you, and the thought made your stomach ache with terror as much as it turned you on. 

He caressed your hair in a way that would have almost seemed tender if he hadn’t just strangled you half to death. You looked up slightly, and he tilted your chin up so you were face to face. He moved your head slightly to one side, then the other, examining you carefully, and smiled with a sick satisfaction. 

“You’ll have bruises on your neck for a week,” he praised with a slap to your cheek. You moaned softly at the impact, closing your eyes to enjoy the feeling. 

He bent down, picking you up ever so slightly to rearrange your body in the position he wanted, laying you down and spreading your legs. You could see from your position how hard he was. Your pain had turned him on as much as it had done to you. 

You stared up at him as he admired his work, stroking his cock as he gazed at the bruises and welts and scratches he’d left on your skin.  

“Come here,” you pleaded, your voice still raw and hoarse from being choked, spreading your legs further. 

He was immediately on top of you, his thin hips pressed against yours, hands wrapped tightly around your wrists. “Don’t you dare give me orders,” he spat, but despite the venom behind it, you could tell from the way his hips rubbed against you that he was as desperate as you were. You felt his cock brush against your clit as he bit down hard on your neck, surely adding yet another bruise to the collection you’d accumulated. 

You bit your lip, wanting him to just stop teasing, to hurry up and fuck your brains out, but as you were considering whether or not to try and resist his don’t give orders command, you felt the tip of his dick press against your entrance. You’d known it was big, your aching throat was doing an excellent job at reminding you of that, but you still couldn’t stifle a gasp at the feeling. It was just a whole different experience like this. 

The beautiful man above you gave you a look that sent chills down your spine. 

“You want it,” he whispered, leaning in so close he could have kissed you. 

You nodded eagerly, fixing him with a pleading gaze. You hadn’t needed the command in the slightest. 

“Beg.” 

“Please…” you whined, your nails digging into your palms as you clenched your hands into fists, struggling to keep still. “Please, please…”

“Not good enough. Beg harder.” You had no idea how he managed to sound thoroughly indifferent, even while he was this hard.

Your already racing heartbeat quickened. “Please, I’m begging you, fuck me, take me, ruin me, do anything you want to me, I —fuck— I need it, I need it so badly, please, I’ll do anything…”

That same sadistic, terrifying little smile crept across his face. “Anything?” 

“Yes, anything, just please, god, fuck me!” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” he murmured, before roughly thrusting into you, as deep as he could possibly get, without giving you so much as a second to adjust. 

You couldn’t even try to hold back a scream, and he had the nerve to laugh in your face as he slapped his hand over your mouth. 

“Oh, careful, don’t shout like that! They’ll think I’m doing something horrible to you in here,” he grinned, punctuating his words with hard, deep strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside you. “It sounds like you’re in absolute agony. But we both know better than that, don’t we?”

He picked up the pace, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder to fuck you deeper than you’d thought possible. 

“You know, I really thought that you’d put up a little more of a fight,” he continued, almost nonchalant despite the grin on his face and the vicious pounding he was giving your sensitive cunt. “I thought I’d have to order you to get off on the pain, or that I’d have to bash your pretty head against the wall to get you to listen. But I got lucky, didn’t I? I just happened to come across the most disgusting, most depraved little whore in the city, so eager and willing to listen, to take whatever I give you.” 

The hand that wasn’t keeping you quiet brushed against a sensitive spot on your inner thigh and you all but melted, whimpering with pleasure underneath him as he fucked you harder. 

“Oh, that’s it, let me hear you moan,” he said, throwing his head back with a growl, pulling his hand away from your mouth. “You don’t care who hears, do you? I bet you like it. I bet you love knowing that all your little friends and all your clients are hearing you get your pretty cunt ruined by a complete stranger, don’t you? You like them knowing that I hit you and choked you and you still let me fuck you like this. You just love that everyone knows that you get off on me hurting you, that everyone knows you’re just a desperate slut for pain.” He punctuated the last word with a hard, backhanded slap across your face. 

You nodded frantically, moaning your assent, hands grasping at his arms, holding on for dear life as he completely wrecked you. You felt him grin as he leaned in to bite your neck, his tongue darting over your sensitive skin as he did so. 

Your hand wandered, finding its way to his dark hair, and you couldn’t stop yourself from running your fingers through it, pulling ever so slightly, not wanting to risk his wrath again but unable to resist the temptation. Your eyes widened with surprise when he gasped and moaned, his teeth temporarily leaving your neck before he recovered and bit you again, much harder, this time on a sensitive spot just below your jaw that made you cry out. When he was satisfied with the mark he’d left, he broke away. 

“You know what would be fun?” he teased, his tone menacing as he roughly grabbed your breast. You shook your head, unable to take your eyes off him. “I’d just love to see what it would be like if you weren’t such an easy little slut.” He paused, running his hand up your body, admiring the marks he’d left with a self-satisfied look. 

“Put up a fight for me. That way, I can show you exactly how filthy whores like you deserve to be treated.” He sat up, his fingers clutching your hips so hard that you knew they’d leave even more bruises on your already aching body, never once faltering in his steady pace. 

You flew into action immediately, frantically trying to push him away, trying to kick hard enough to get him off of you, despite the fact that your body was still aching for more. He laughed, a quick cruel sound, almost surprised by how readily you threw yourself into the role of his struggling victim, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them down above your head without missing a beat, leaving you even more helpless than you already were. 

You moaned, feeling the way his dick throbbed inside you when you struggled harder, trying in vain to remove yourself from his grasp. Fucking sadist. You thrashed harder, your body still reflexively following his orders, but to no avail; he had you completely pinned in place. 

Almost without realizing you were doing so, you jerked your head upward, biting the exposed skin between his neck and shoulder and digging your teeth in hard, barely even noticing how fiercely you had latched onto him until you tasted blood. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, letting go of your wrists, hands immediately moving to grab your shoulders.  You let go with a sharp inhale the moment you realized what you’d done, horrified at your own actions. He roughly shoved you down, forcing your mouth away, still fucking you harder than you thought possible. 

“God, I should fucking kill you for that, I really, really should,” he growled. He turned his head slightly to look at the bite you’d left, scowling when he saw the blood beginning to seep into the collar of his shirt. He let go of one of your shoulders to grab your chin, forcing you to stare at the damage you’d caused. 

“Look at what you did,” he spat through gritted teeth, with a wild, almost manic look in his eyes. “You think you have the right to do that? The right to defile me like that after I’ve taken such good care of you? Answer me.” 

You bit your tongue, wanting to point out that ‘taking good care of you’ had involved beating you black and blue with a belt, choking you half to death with his dick, and then strangling you until you were nearly unconscious. Sure, you’d enjoyed all of it, but still. 

“Answer me,” he repeated, harsher this time. “Or I swear to god I’ll kill you.” 

“You told me to fight back!” The words spilled out of your mouth before you could stop yourself, pettiness entering your voice despite the murderous look in his eyes that made it very clear he had been expecting you to beg for forgiveness. 

He stopped moving completely. He was still all the way inside you, and you could barely stop yourself from grinding your hips against him to try and get yourself off, but you didn’t dare move. The hand that had been gripping your jaw released, moving upward to pat your cheek gently. 

“I did tell you to fight back, didn’t I?” He was mocking you, his tone sickly sweet and condescending, like you were a particularly petulant child that he was trying to discipline. Against your better judgment, or maybe just to see what he’d do about it, you nodded. 

Before you could even realize what was happening, you were in terrible pain, a pain that knocked the air out of your lungs, your eyes immediately streaming with tears from the impact. 

It took you a moment to process that he had just punched you in the face as hard as he possibly could. 

You instinctively doubled over, curling into a ball, body and mind reeling from the blow. Your ears were ringing, your vision clouded over. It felt like your brain had been shaken vigorously inside your skull, nausea welling up inside you at the sensation, all of it so severe you were afraid you might faint.

In your dazed state, you could barely absorb what he was saying to you, only catching snippets here and there: “...didn’t fucking tell you to ruin my shirt…going to show you…disgusting girls like you…”

You felt something being wrapped around your wrists as he manhandled you so that your arms were above your head. He’d bound you up with his tie, you realized, feeling the delicate silk against your aching skin. You opened your eyes as you felt his hands on your ankles, roughly pulling you so that you were lying with your legs spread for him. There was, you observed as your vision refocused, a decent bit of blood on the collar and shoulder of his shirt, a stain that you were positive would never come out. What a shame. Probably a designer shirt, too. Must have been expensive. 

You were shocked back into reality by him throwing your legs over his shoulders, bending you in half, once again filling your cunt with a hard thrust. Despite the pain still throbbing behind your eyes, which was slowly receding, you were still so, so desperate for him. You’d been close when he’d stopped, and in your hypersensitive state, you could feel your pleasure building rapidly, and before long you were writhing in his arms.

“Please, don’t stop, please,” you begged, barely even processing the words that were coming out of your own mouth. “I’m so close, I need it, please, please, I need to cum, don’t stop…”

“No,” he snapped, giving you a furious glare. “Didn’t you hear what I said? You don’t get to cum. I wouldn’t have let you cum even before you bit me like a rabid animal. What makes you think you deserve it now?” His last word broke off with an involuntary groan, his pace growing erratic in a way that told you he was close to a second orgasm. He inhaled sharply, collecting himself before doubling down. “Don’t cum. No matter how close you get, hold it. Do you hear me? Do. Not. Cum.”

Despite his orders, you felt your muscles begin to tighten, your pleasure mounting in a way that normally would have sent you over the edge, but nothing happened. You physically couldn’t cum. The feeling just kept building and building, far past what you thought was your breaking point, never stopping, overwhelming you to near-madness and never giving you a moment’s relief, and you bit your lip to stifle a scream. 

“Oh, don’t try to act all pitiful now,” he growled, punctuating it with a hard slap to your already oversensitive clit that made you cry out. “You know damn well that you earned this. And if you ever try to bite me like that again, I’ll make this permanent, do you hear me?”

Your eyes flew open, widening in terror. He couldn’t do that. Could he? 

The look on his face told you that he absolutely could. 

“Oh, it’d wear off eventually,” he purred, leaning in closer as if he were about to kiss you, his fingers just barely teasing your clit, his delicate touch unbearable in your hypersensitive state. “But I could tell you not to cum, over and over and over again, and you’d have no choice not to obey. I could keep you this close for days, weeks, months, maybe years if I wanted to, and drag you around with me like a needy little pet. I could order you to follow me around, to never leave my side. I could put you on a leash. I could parade you naked all over town, let everyone see how badly you want me, even with bruises and cuts all over you.” The thought sent a painful jolt of arousal through you, your legs shaking as you tried desperately to keep yourself from moaning at the idea. He grinned at you, making it very, very clear that you were doing a terrible job at hiding it. 

“Oh, of course that turns you on. Fucking depraved, aren’t you? Are you like this for everyone you meet, or do you just want me that badly?” 

You couldn’t form a concrete thought, let alone focus hard enough to give him an answer, but you knew his monstrous ego would love it if you could. You just wanted him that badly. 

His hand wrapped around your neck, not quite enough to choke you but hard enough so that you felt the marks from when he had. “God, who would have thought that this would be so fun? Beating and fucking a pathetic little thing like you, I barely had to order you to do a thing,” he teased, panting as he fucked you faster. “I’m going to cum inside you, and you’re going to like it. Beg for it. Do it. Now.” 

“Please,” You gasped for air, voice coming out as a choked whisper. You were in agony, every inch of your body burning with pain and anticipation and need for an orgasm that kept building and just wouldn’t happen. Burning hot tears were streaming down your face; you couldn’t stop them even if you wanted to. “Please, do it, cum inside me, I don’t care what happens, I need it, just…” 

Your pleading broke off into a desperate wail as he brushed a strand of hair out of your face. Even the gentle motion, combined with every other sensation you were feeling, was absolute torture, too much for you to bear. He grinned as you pulled away, trying to escape any more stimulation. 

“Oh, god, you look so damned pathetic…oh, god, fine, do it, cum for me, I want to see you break, just do it now--” His voice cracked, his hands desperately clutching at your hair as he came inside you with a desperate moan, feeling you tighten around him, burying his face in the crook of your neck.  

Your body went completely rigid at his command and you came hard, the feeling so intense that it felt like your skin was burning all over. You were vaguely aware that you were thanking him, over and over, unable to control the words coming out of your mouth. He silenced you with a forceful kiss, the first one he’d given you all night, and you melted into his touch, thoroughly overwhelmed. 

You felt his hips twitch, still riding out the last of his orgasm as you deliriously wrapped yourself around him, clinging on for dear life, moaning with ecstasy. 

Finally, he broke away from the kiss, and your body fell limp, overstimulated past your breaking point, so much so that you vaguely wondered how you were still conscious. Your legs dropped from where he had propped them on his shoulders and you lay there, trembling like a leaf, feeling the warmth of his cum inside you. 

When you finally collected yourself enough to see straight, you worked your wrists out of the now-loose binding of his tie, then raised your head to look at the man still lying on top of you. His head had dropped onto your chest, his eyes closed. He looked so still and gentle that you wondered if he was asleep.

You reached down, stroking his hair gently with shaking hands, remembering how much he’d liked it before. You wanted to have this little moment of vulnerability with him before he went all cold and ruthless again. He sighed, pressing himself further into your bare chest and wrapping his arms around you. You couldn’t hold back a smile as pride swelled inside you. You felt like you’d tamed some kind of monster, and really, you thought to yourself, you had. You could practically feel the bliss radiating off of him along with the warmth of his skin against yours. 

You leaned your head back, staring at the ceiling as you gathered yourself. You were sore all over. Your muscles burned from how tight they’d been for so long, your throat ached when you swallowed, and you still had a pounding headache from the punch to your face and the way he’d choked you. Your body had already begun to bruise, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“It’s Kilgrave.” 

You looked up, vision still slightly clouded with pleasure. “Hmm?” His face was turned away, expression hidden. 

“My name. Kilgrave.” 

You grinned harder. You’d won.

“It’s pretty,” you giggled, giving his hair a playful ruffle. 

He quickly smacked your hand away, sitting up and pulling out of you with a scoff. Ah. There he was. 

“Shut up. Don’t even think about it.” 

“What?”

“You know what,” he snapped, reaching for his jacket. “Don’t play innocent now, especially not when you look like that.” 

You glanced down at your body. He had absolutely wrecked you, but your smile never faded as you looked back at him. 

He rolled his eyes, but there was no venom behind it, or at least none that you could detect. “Filthy little thing,” he muttered, re-buttoning his shirt. 

You sat up, stretching your sore muscles as he composed himself quickly. You were amazed at how he could go from looking absolutely delirious with pleasure one moment to looking like this the next, all put together and polished as if he hadn’t just fucked you into oblivion. 

“And where are you off to?” you said, glancing around the room, trying to find where he had tossed your clothes after you’d taken them off. 

“You don’t need to know that.” He walked quickly towards the door, but paused as he realized that you were still looking at him. He sighed with frustration, but still turned around to look back at you. 

“I’ll be back next week, if I decide you’re good enough for me to use again. In the meantime, don’t even think about opening your legs for anyone else, do you understand? I don’t want you catching anything and giving it to me.” His tone was bitter, but you could still sense something almost fond behind his words. “Now, once I leave, you’ll wait five minutes, then go out there and put on the best show of your life for all those sad desperate men out there, with my cum dripping down your thighs. Understand?” 

Ah, you realized. Not fondness. Possessiveness. Even better. You nodded, barely managing to suppress another proud grin. He gave you what you assumed was supposed to be a contemptful look before turning again to leave, but he might as well have given you a kiss on the forehead with how good it made you feel.

“Bye, Kilgrave,” you called as he left, giving him a playful wave. 

He looked back. He didn’t answer, but the facade slipped for just a moment as he blew you a quick kiss, and then he was gone, grinning like a man who had all the power in the world as he closed the door behind him. 

A/N: this is the first part of a series! if there's enough interest, i'll post the next parts :) Like, rb, and/or follow if you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading!

[noirscript]

dark roast | chapter two

Pairing: Laurent Delacroix × Reader Description: You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out. Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Every Saturday. GMT+8. Note: This is part of a completed ebook available on my kofi shop! Your support is highly appreciated. Click here to purchase [Dark Roast]. There's a total of 29 chapters for this one. Also, apologize for the delay!

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The rain had been falling since dawn. Slow at first, a mere drizzle against the rooftops, but by midday, it had settled into something relentless. Water streaks down the windows of Frosty Café, the muted gray light filtering in through the glass, casting a dull sheen over the worn countertops and half-empty tables.

You barely notice.

You’re too busy wiping down the espresso machine for the third time that morning, as if scrubbing harder could erase the exhaustion pressing against your bones.

The shop has been quiet all day. Too quiet.

In the past, lunchtime meant steady foot traffic—regulars slipping in for a quick cup of coffee, students occupying the corner tables with their textbooks, office workers picking up something sweet before heading back to their cubicles.

But lately, the crowds have thinned.

The air inside feels heavier now, the empty seats a stark reminder of what you’ve been trying to ignore.

The café is dying.

And you are sinking with it.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

The register beeps as you ring up a lone order—a single espresso, the first sale in nearly an hour. You force a polite smile as the customer takes their drink and walks out, leaving the café empty once again.

The silence is suffocating.

Your eyes flicker to the schedule pinned behind the counter, the red marks glaring back at you. Fewer shifts. Shorter hours. Another coworker is gone.

You know what this means.

It’s not just the café that’s struggling. It’s you.

Rent is due soon. Bills are stacking up. You’ve already cut corners wherever you could—fewer groceries, no unnecessary spending, convincing yourself you don’t really need three meals a day.

Your hands tighten around the counter.

You’ve worked so hard to hold everything together. But no matter how much effort you put in, it’s never enough.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when your best friend’s voice echoes in your mind.

"You don’t have to struggle like this."

"I’m offering you something better."

Your stomach twists.

You don’t want to take the offer. You don’t want to walk away from the job you fought to keep.

But as you stare at the nearly empty café, at the reality pressing down on you like a vice, you realize something.

You might not have a choice.

The bells above the door chime, jolting you from your thoughts. You expect to see a customer, maybe a regular, but instead, it’s her.

Your best friend steps inside, shaking the rain from her umbrella before folding it neatly. She doesn’t hesitate as she makes her way toward the counter, her gaze flicking briefly to the nearly empty shop.

She notices.

Of course, she does.

You wipe your hands on a towel, forcing a smile. “You’re out early.”

She hums in response, glancing toward the espresso machine. “Slow day?”

You shrug, hoping she doesn’t hear the exhaustion creeping into your voice. “Nothing new.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she studies you—too closely.

And that’s when you know why she’s really here.

She’s not just checking in. She came with a purpose.

You don’t say anything, just turn away to busy yourself with the machine, pretending to adjust the settings. But you can still feel her watching you, waiting.

Then, finally—

“You should consider my offer.”

You pause, your fingers hovering over the espresso machine’s buttons. You knew this was coming. You could feel it in the way she had been watching you, in the weight of her silence before she finally spoke.

Still, you force a small, dry chuckle. “You’re persistent.”

“I have to be,” she says, sliding onto one of the stools by the counter. “You’re stubborn.”

You shake your head, turning your attention back to the machine as if there’s suddenly something urgent about refilling the coffee beans. Anything to keep from meeting her eyes.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

She exhales, and you can almost hear the frustration in it.

“You’re not fine,” she says, voice quieter this time. “Look around you, Y/N. How much longer can you keep doing this?”

The name stings. She only says it like that when she’s serious, when she’s done letting you dodge the truth.

You grip the edge of the counter, shoulders tense.

“Frosty Café isn’t going to last,” she continues, softer now, almost apologetic. “You know that.”

You swallow hard. Of course, you know that.

You’ve known for a while now.

But admitting it? That’s different.

You finally turn to face her, crossing your arms. “And what? Should I just leave? Drop everything and run?”

She meets your stare without flinching. She was prepared for this.

“No one’s asking you to run,” she says calmly. “But you don’t have to let this place drag you down with it.”

Silence.

She doesn’t fill it right away. She lets it sit.

And that’s when you realize—

She’s waiting for you to break.

You hate how well she knows you.

Hate that she knew exactly what to say, how to say it.

Because now, you’re thinking about it.

You shift your weight, glancing toward the empty tables, the rain-slicked windows, the coffee machine that’s barely been used today. The quiet hum of the refrigerator feels deafening.

She’s right.

You don’t want to admit it, but she’s right.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers against your temple. “What exactly are you offering?”

You don’t miss the way her posture eases just slightly.

She knew you’d ask.

“A stable job. A managerial position at a new café.” She keeps her voice measured, professional, like she’s just stating facts. “The pay is good. The hours are better. And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether your next paycheck will actually come through.”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. “Sounds a little too perfect, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t react, just tilts her head. Waiting. Watching. Letting you argue with yourself.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She’s not lying. You know she’s not.

But something about this—about the way she’s offering it, about the way she’s looking at you—feels off.

It’s as if there’s something she isn’t saying.

You narrow your eyes, studying her. She’s holding something back.

She’s too composed. Too prepared.

And that’s what makes you hesitate.

“…Why now?” you ask.

She blinks, caught off guard for the first time. “What?”

“Why are you bringing this up again now?” You gesture vaguely around the café. “You’ve mentioned it before, but today… You came here just to push this.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up a sugar packet from the counter, turning it between her fingers.

Then, finally—

“I don’t want to see you struggle anymore.”

It sounds genuine. It almost convinces you.

Almost.

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “Who owns this café?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

That part, at least, isn’t a lie.

But it still doesn’t feel like the whole truth.

Your stomach tightens. You can’t put your finger on it, but something about this doesn’t sit right.

You should say no.

You should walk away.

But when you glance back at the empty café, the dwindling supplies, the unpaid invoices stacking up in the office…

Can you afford to?

You hate this. Hate that she’s making sense.

Because deep down, you know she’s right.

You’re barely holding on. The café is already slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many extra shifts you take or how much you sacrifice, it won’t be enough.

It’s never enough.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “And if I say no?”

She exhales, pressing her lips together. She knew you’d ask that too.

“I won’t force you,” she says.

But there’s something in her tone—something weighted, something final.

Like she already knows what you’ll decide.

You grip the rag in your hands, wringing it tightly. The logical part of you is screaming to take the offer, to escape before this place crushes you completely.

But there’s another part—a small, stubborn part—that still resists.

Because this isn’t just a job. It’s your last piece of stability.

And if you let go now, what happens next?

Your best friend watches you carefully, waiting for you to make the final move.

And as much as you don’t want to admit it—

She’s already won.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Your best friend isn’t the only one who’s been watching you.

You feel it again the next morning—the way your manager lingers near the counter longer than usual, the hesitant glances from the remaining staff, the way no one quite meets your eye.

And then, when the shift schedule is posted, your name is missing.

Your stomach twists as you scan the list again. It has to be a mistake.

But when you step into the back office, the café owner—a man who once trusted you with closing shifts, handling inventory, running this place like it was your own—only sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’re making adjustments,” he says, not unkindly. “With the way things are going… we have to cut hours where we can.”

You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “So that’s it?”

“It’s not forever,” he assures you. A lie. You hear it in his voice. “It’s just temporary.”

You nod, but it feels like someone has pulled the ground from beneath you.

Because this isn’t temporary. You know that the same way you knew the café wouldn’t survive.

The decision was never truly yours.

And as you step out of the office—feeling weightless, untethered, already slipping into the next stage of your life—you think back to your best friend’s words.

"I don’t want to see you struggle anymore."

She had known.

She had known before you did.

And that’s what frightens you most of all.

End of Chapter Two.

noirscript © 2025

taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz

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[gallifreyinstituteforlearning]

Hi! I was wondering how a concussion would show up in a timelord? Like pupil reaction and all that.

How would a concussion show up in a Time Lord?

While Time Lords are more resilient than humans, their brains are still biological organs subject to mechanical trauma. Hitting a Time Lord's head hard enough will cause damage—it's just that the side effects come with a few extra bells and whistles.

📚 Basic Theory

Concussions in humans are caused by rapid acceleration-deceleration of the brain inside the skull. Time Lords share similar underlying neuroanatomy. However:

Their brains are denser

Their psionic structures are active even at rest

Parts of their consciousness are anchored dimensionally across the fourth and fifth axes

So a concussion in a Time Lord disrupts not just physical brain function, but also psionic balance and time-sense stability.

⚙️ Core Symptoms (Human-Parallels)

Most basic concussion symptoms would still apply:

Headache (mild to severe)

Dizziness and balance issues

Nausea

Fatigue or drowsiness

Confusion and delayed responses

Memory lapses around the time of injury

Sensitivity to light and sound

Mood swings, irritability, or inappropriate emotional responses

👁️ Neurological Signs (Pupil Reaction, etc.)

Gallifreyans have autonomic pupil reflexes similar to humans, though with faster neuro-ocular conduction speeds. In a concussion, expect:

Sluggish or asymmetrical pupil response (anisocoria)

Delayed constriction to light stimuli

Photophobia (increased light sensitivity)

Additional Gallifreyan-specific issues:

Difficulty stabilising visual fields, leading to distortions in depth, which will greatly affect movement

🌀 Psionic Disruption

Because the Time Lord brain is deeply integrated with psionic systems, expect significant disruption:

Telepathic leakage — Unfiltered thoughts bleeding out into the local environment

Inbound vulnerability — Picking up random surface thoughts or emotional currents uncontrollably

Psionic static — Inability to maintain clear telepathic channels or send coherent messages

Destabilisation of mind-link pathways, particularly with TARDISes, bonded individuals, or time-sensitive artefacts

Severe cases may result in reflex psionic flares—random, unconscious bursts of energy affecting nearby electronics or physical objects.

⏳ Time Sense Distortion

Depending on the region of the brain impacted, a Time Lord could experience:

Temporal disorientation ('I don't know what day it is')

Chronological drift (minor loops, stutters, or false past/future echoes)

'Afterimages'—hallucinatory visual echoes of past or possible future events

This can be mildly amusing for bystanders and profoundly distressing for the patient. Symptoms are usually transient.

🩺 Special Complications

Dual cardiovascular system complications:

Orthostatic hypotension (dizziness when standing) may be more pronounced and erratic due to the complex interactions between their two hearts trying to regulate blood flow during trauma recovery.

Sweating, shivering, or sudden bouts of tachycardia are common.

🛠️ Diagnosis and Management

Pupil checks remain the gold standard. Sluggish or asymmetric pupils are reliable indicators.

Shine a light and ask grounded questions like 'What year is it?'. If the answer is 'all of them', escalate immediately.

Psionic diagnostics (if available) should check for static, leakage, or non-coherence.

Zero Room rest is ideal—nullifying external sensory input helps stabilise.

Low-stress environments are critical.

Recovery is typically faster than in humans, but pushing too hard too soon could lead to more serious long-term effects.

🏫 So...

Time Lord concussions present similarly to human ones, but with significantly more complex side effects, all layered over the usual headaches, dizziness, and memory fuzz. It's the same fundamental injury—just upgraded.

Related:

💬|⚕️🔪How does organ donation work between Gallifreyans and humans?: Practical description of how transplants work for Gallifreyans and humans.

💬|⚕️🩸What blood could be used on a Gallifreyan in an emergency transfusion?: The different kinds of blood that could have efficacy in an emergency.

⚕️⚠️Severe Trauma Protocol

Hope that helped! 😀

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features:⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

[arrowfortea-moved]

your integrity makes me seem small, you paint dreamscapes on the wall (da:i solavellan oneshot)

basically: post-haven pining from a touch-starved grouchily-in-denial solas. plus fade dreamscape stuff. plus "uh-oh is the anchor brainwashing her" anxiety, plus "i do not comprehend mortal's emotions" anxiety. rating: a thirsty T (16+) words: 5.1k (complete, oneshot) content warnings: none! spoiler-free for veilguard; it's written with theories circa da: i in mind.

"Can I shape the clouds?" she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. "I can only change whether they’re... there." "That is a question I cannot answer," he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. "The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare." As Elanna returns to her musing, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The verdant flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white. Rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

☁️ read on ao3, or ↓

—

Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.                —Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente

—

Love has always sat in Solas wrong. Perhaps such was Mythal’s design—she could've bid his heart to spike its interior, and fit only her shape.

(Or he could've. He knows that.)

Elanna Lavellan is a quick-footed, narrow-boned waifish imitation of an elven woman, and Solas does not pay her any particular mind. Which must be how she managed to leap through the labyrinthine, trap-laden path to his heart, and slip in without his noticing. 

Now that he has noticed, it is only a matter of time before she must carve into one of them if she is to survive, and he suspects her endless questions are simply her determining where the knife should go; she never asks him the same question twice, she leaves implications for him to latch onto, her eyes map his face to measure his reaction to words, touches, silences. During their conversations, a dark, desirous something eventually begins to move around in his chest, and it’s her.

It must be. Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan, he reminds himself—is adjusting in her hiding spot, trying to get comfortable, which she can’t, and trying to distract him from it, which she can’t. He knows what she's doing; she cannot have asked how to mix a lime suspension for orpiment because she genuinely wanted to know. Some days he wonders if he should let the cursed barbed thing slam shut around her and just see what happens, as he did in Hav—

I am not thinking of Haven.

Solas presses his shoulder against the threshold of her balcony, listening to her ideas about what she wants to do as a ‘Fade-walker’. I’ve’an’virelan, but she’d choke on her tongue before she got two syllables in, so he says nothing, and simply watches her prattle. Watches her check his reaction when she cites concepts he’s mentioned before. Watches her looking for his want, which she will not find; he’s had several millennia of practice in keeping things locked away.

Comparing her eye colour to pond scum helps. Slightly. The Fade pales her eyes for him, but she is still.. her. Appreciative. Imaginative. Gushing with excitement. 

Yapping, it is yapping. 

The Inquisitor yaps, and Solas does not care to listen.

No doubt she finds his nodding and mild noises to be unacceptable responses. She must've expected to see him on his knees by now. Solas, a village-born apostate elf that oversleeps, and the Dalish Herald of Andraste, paradoxically pious, for she is ever so open-minded, especially to the rambling flat-ear. Why would he not want her? 

She’s even been receptive to his delaying her with vagaries! One month ago, he requested ‘time to think’ right after having shoved his tongue down her throat like the starved madman he is; since then, platonic interactions are all they’ve had. Short enough to avoid the unbearable shifting in his chest. Inquisitor Lavellan will cut her deific affection into bite-sized pieces for the old man to chew! Why would he not want it? 

(Because it will lead to trouble. Because she and her affection for him will turn to dust soon enough; ideally the latter before the former. Because she is so beautiful, and he cannot be trusted with her.)

Because he does not trust her.

Not even in the Fade. Inquisitor Lavellan's spirit bristles with emotion no more than fuzz bristles upon a peach. In Arlathan they'd never see or hear a thing she did. She'd be less than a bug. So when that bug had buzzed into his dream, again, he’d insisted on returning to hers instead, because he had to know what her emotions felt like in her own dreams. Now that he knows the Inquisitor's excitement and awe and admiration all scatter across her dreamscape in much the same, dull way, like leaves on flagstone—he could leave.

But she just asked a question. Solas is near-incapable of ignoring those.

“Yes, in theory, I could turn the Frostback Mountains to grassland.” He clamps down on his bemusement; a hint of it may send her tumbling her off the balcony. “But if I did, they would soon distort. Unless you encounter spirits that can recall the mountains without snow upon them, if any exist. Otherwise, your memory would have the mountains would soon freeze over, or blur into any other field. Most pertinently, they are miles away; how would you reach them?”

“I’d thought.. by stepping off the edge,” she says, turning away from him. Quick as a flash, she sits up on the balustrade. “Would the air hold me, if I asked? Could I fly?”

“The answer lies in which you have more memories of. Flight, or falling.” 

She looks over her shoulder. “The birds in—”

“Inquisitor, you would shatter every bone in your body.”

A huff, then she turns away again.

He is left to glare at her hair. Her hair, swishing to her waist in waves, golden, and sparkling in the sunlight. In the torturous waking world, Solas cannot help idealising her, as one would a rose in a briar patch. Beautiful. Rare. Still, thorned. Such flickers of fancy are easily stamped out in the Fade. Distorting a shared dream without the other person aware is staunchly against his values, but enforcing reality is a different matter. (Paling her eyes is a harmless protection; if he stares, which he will, she will exploit it.)

Solas muffles his idle romanticism, bidding the Fade to do the same. It does, and the sparkle on Inquisitor Lavellan's hair winks out. 

Waist-length golden waves that merely shine in the sunlight. Solas needs to get out of here. Return to his dream of Skyhold’s library. Pick up ‘Meditations and Odes to Bees’ where he left off. Page 248.

“Say I did shatter every bone in my body,” the Inquisitor chirps, “would my bones follow me home? The shatter would happen.. in the physical realm?”

(On the tip of her tongue, he's sure, was 'the real world’, but she is pandering. This is all pandering.)

“No. It would happen here. And would hurt. If you mean to take my abilities, then take also my advice: do not try it.”

The Inquisitor spins to him and slides herself off of the balustrade; gaze wandering over his face. “But what if I did?” she asks.

Pond scum, he reminds the Fade, and her eyes shift from mossy to mucosal. “If you did, I would be most curious to see where your ambitions take you,” he replies, folding his arms. “Is that why you sought me, Inquisitor? Not to request verdant peaks, but rather, the means to rise above them?” 

“No. Just.. if I'm to ask the Fade’s Frostbacks for grass, despite their clear contentment with snow,” she says, with full sincerity, “I’d rather not offend them by asking poorly.” 

Solas pinches his brow. There were at least four assertions within that he ought to correct. I shall, he decides, tucking his hand back into his arms, tomorrow. It is far easier to condescend to her when they are awake; when the air is suffocating him, he can treat her presence like a roll-neck sweater that refuses to sit properly. In her dream, the air is vaporous, fragrant, as if they were..

The Fade trembles around him. 

I have no reason to believe that Inquisitor Lavellan knows what a bath is. Baths are best taken alone, with a divider around the tub. Two dividers, encircling it. In fact, I would be in the other roo—

“Solas? Hello?”

“Yes,” he says, startling. Shakily, he gestures behind him, then to the balcony. “Do you think you could offend that which belongs to you, as well? This is all yours. Turn it to a garden, and relax here.” 

Inquisitor Lavellan positively beams at him. Like allowing a child to handle a knife made for peeling apples, and agreeing they’re Andruil, he thinks, sagging. Maybe that is why he’s drawn to appease her curiosities; she is Dalish, yet treats him as worth listening to. He's gone too long without appreciation, seizes it, and mistakes gratification to be attraction.

“Cole once said grass doesn't mind anything." She lowers herself until she’s cross-legged. The muscles of her thighs must be—I am not thinking of her thighs. When she presses her hands to the stone, her eyebrows frown and pinch close; two wrist-flicks of gold paint. Her hair falls back over her face, lit like pale silk beneath a chandelier. “I was being too grandiose about what only wanted to grow.”

Solas bites the inside of his cheek. Gratification is the source of his attraction, and she is pandering to him, and her beauty is irrelevant.

After a few moments of her will vibrating the air, the balcony shimmers, shudders, and tints. Green. Green, in splotches. Green upon the stone. A lifetime spent in the wilds and as far as he can tell, Inquisitor Lavellan asked the Fade to shatter an acid flask for her.

“If a reference would be of help..” He flicks his hand. One cow’s bite worth of grass bounces up by her ankle. “I have no doubt you have seen more grass than most in Skyhold, but it is simpler with—”

The balcony bursts to pasture. 

“Ah. Commendable.” The same blades he’d provided, over and over and over. 

Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan—musses through her personal meadow. “If fresco is an ancient elven art, and the ancient elves could all dream like this.. when thinking of how to affect the Fade.. is it similar to painting?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, then inclines his head to the grass. “But you grasp the principles well enough.”

The Dalish have not created new vallaslin designs in thousands of years, little wonder she has such a small-mindedness towards art and—‘fresco’, it is tuast, he should’ve told Archivist Banon that, rather than allow Antivans to continue their linguistic massacre. As the Inquisitor languidly splays out, a thought eases over Solas’ grumbling: It was kind of her to ask. 

She is kind, and he is a grouch, avoiding his own feelings. If he does not, they may leak out and she will know he finds her beautiful. Which she is, by any measure; she must already know. Sunlight shimmering over her silver-silk jacket and trousers, hair spread out in verdure with snow-capped mountains beyond her. A few snowflakes drift down—

Fenedhis. Solas is not thinking of Haven. The flakes dissipate. 

“Thank you for helping me come here,” she says, gazing up at the sky. 

Solas stares at his dun-brown slippers, and continues kiting his memories of Haven—which are various, and most do not involve the woman in front of him—through his mind, for no particular reason.

“You would be here regardless,” he says mildly. “I only came when called. And ensured you remained on the balcony, rather than however far the fall might take you. If anyone encourages you otherwise, do inform Spymaster Leliana.”  

The Inquisitor lets out a long, descending whistle. “Thump, crack,” she coos. “I hope I’d wake.”

Little wonder that Cole gets along with her. Maybe she reminds Solas of Cole, and, as she's been flirtatious, he mistakes his platonic affection to be attraction, and that is the source of—no, the source of his attraction is that she is attractive. The denial is too obvious now, Solas can smell it as if it were dried sweat on his upper lip. He wipes it with his shoulder in case he actually has any. 

She shifts to look at him, crushing her soft hair beneath a streak of vallaslin. “How do I know you came? As in, Solas. How do I know you’re not a spirit?”

Skyhold’s wards bar spirits from crossing through the Fade. I would prefer you not ask how I came to this knowledge, nor dwell on the sudden and, I assure you, entirely unrelated lapse in my willingness to entertain inquiries.

“You don’t,” Solas replies. “If I were a spirit, would that trouble you?”

“Not if you told me. I’d only feel sorry you thought you had to trick me into spending time with you. Solas is who I’m forming a memory of right now. I’d rather that he actually.. be here for it.”

He pushes off from the doorway, and sits. “A thoughtful answer, but a misguided one. What do you think a spirit, visiting your dream, would be formed from?”

“The Fade reflects my mind,” she quotes, eyes darting between the few clouds above, “and 'a spirit is a purpose.'”

“Precisely. Say a spirit was shaped into the elf you call Solas, and sits before you now. Is his intent be Solas, or trick the Inquisitor? The former is far more likely, and were he doing the latter, he would not confess it. There would not be much of a trick if he did.”

She nods at the darkening sky. “Whoever you are, you can call me Elanna.”

Then comes the shifting in his chest again. “Elanna. For what it’s worth, you’re welcome to speak with me once we’re awake, and I’ll recount this conversation.” Solas pauses, insists to the Fade that nightfall should warm to dusk, then continues. “For now, you have no way to know who I truly am. It would be best to keep that in mind.”

“Solas. For what it’s worth,” she repeats, rolling onto her side, “what about desire demons?”

He props his right elbow on his knee, then his chin upon that hand. Then, allows her a smile.

“They are much the same,” he says, “their purpose is still not to trick you, least of all because you, Elanna, cannot be possessed. Their purpose is to be your desire. I am not a desire demon. I ask that you not treat me as one. One in my form would say that, unless your desire is a caricature of me, but all the same. Please don’t.”

Another nod. She holds his gaze. The dim light hides her freckles, but June’s marring of her remains stark; her vallaslin curves over her cheekbones, across her forehead, on her chin, the front of her throat.. the ritual must've taken hours. Solas holds the ache in his chest close, away from her thoughtful look. He could have the Fade depict her bare-faced.. but he should not meddle further. (Or have meddled at all.)

When she blinks, her eyes return to their natural green. “Thank you for this,” she says. “I’m fortunate to walk the Fade. I’d rather not misstep. Serannas.” How one addresses a beggar when you are politely declining them. At least the Dalish put it to sincere purpose. Even if they only salvaged serannas after discarding manners entirely.

“Ma neral. My pleasure,” he adds, after her confusion breezes over him. “Was there anything else?”

Elanna looks over. “Yes.” 

Anchor sparking and outstretched, she brushes the hand resting at his side. His eyes flutter closed. She laces their fingers together; he lets her, and lifts his hand for her—just to not go petulantly limp, just to be co-operative, just..  

It has been so long, Elanna. 

Millennia. A month. He’d been desperate to feel her against him, and he still is, for he wants more than the bowstring-nock on her thumb. It was upon his chin when he’d kissed her, and it is upon his finger now; her left thumb is all he’s felt from her beyond her dropping the Anchor into his hands for inspection each week—her left hand is all he’s received from her at all. When she'd kissed him, the peck was so light that, if she ever denies it happened, he'll be easily persuaded.

Her spirit seemed to radiate no feelings into his dream, hence his searching for them in the back of her throat. Yet nothing had crested over him from her. No lust or revelation, no joy. Even now, there is only a light fragrance in the air of.. unexpectant appreciation. Elanna is either far more restrained than he’s given her credit for, or she does not want him. Mortals are not all this delicate, he knows; is he delicate now?

Throughout uthenera he’d shared the Fade with other dreamers, and their dreamscapes all radiated intensity. Chaos. Wonder. Hers renders everything inconsequential. His own irritability dissipates the longer he lingers; even now, his frustrations over their first kiss are reduced to air. 

As she strokes his hand, the Fade supplies him with further sensations, embellishments, constant prickles skimming over him. He tries to stamp it out, he wants to feel her, but it may as well be a hoard of ants, teeming underfoot. 

“Your hand is so soft,” she says, each syllable soft as a petal, floating through the air. “Is this welcome?”  

Solas gently squeezes their laced fingers and lifts his fingertips to meet hers. “Yes, lethallan. I would stay like this. If you’d like.”

“Elanna, lethallin, remember?”

His chest aches. "Elanna."

Elanna navigated through to his heart with her typical grace, and seems unhurt thus far.. Unless she left, and that too occurred without his noticing.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps she isn’t in his heart. Elanna may not love him; he certainly cannot feel it. Contentment is the whiff on the wind. Perhaps it is love for her inside his heart. Solas may love her; he certainly cannot tell. Love is supposed to drench his insides and leave him gasping.

The grass brushes against his knees; fantasising and action must be separated carefully in the Fade, and he had been careless, again. His eyes open to see the ever-attentive Elanna, blissfully unaware. And his hand, held between both of hers, while she lays on her back. He’s kneeling beside her. There is no gust of satisfaction or pleasure, simply the dry pad of her finger, tracing the lines on his palm.

Perhaps he can let his feelings show in dreams. He could keep them to insignificance, as breath is upon glass or a lover or into freezing hands. Elanna once said she was interested in getting to know him. She will never, obviously; but in the Fade, perhaps he can present her a diffusion.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps; certainty seems excluded from the stolid flavour profile of Elanna’s dreamscape.

The Anchor sparks against his hand. Solas rests back on his ankles, pulling it with him. 

“May I examine it?” 

Because there is one thing he must be certain of.

“Of course.” Elanna sits up. “Is the Anchor still.. itself, when I'm dreaming?”

“As much as anything else. So.. yes. In a sense,” he replies vaguely, and flattens her palm. Fervid viridian, diagonally gashed against her skin, and sparking. Far brighter than it is in the waking world. His face must be aglow with green light, cast from below like Varric regaling horrors by the campfire. Solas shifts her hand higher. He is not immune to vanity.

The Anchor extends to the natural lines of her palm, they too shine Breach-green, and there are matching lights beneath the skin of her entire palm, radiating and shifting, as wisps do in water. 

“You may lie back, Inquisitor. Elanna. There is no cause for concern, but I would look at it a while longer. The way you interpret the Anchor is fascinating.”

Elanna hums, twitches her hand against his wrist, then flops back. “Take your time. I’d feel if anything was wrong.”

“You likely would,” he agrees. “But it is good to do some tests.”

Among the countless ones Solas ran after the Conclave, as she lay unconscious and his nerves screamed at him to flee Ferelden entirely, was whether his power reached beyond Elanna’s flesh. Whether the Breach had rended her essence as well. All he’d discerned was that his magic seemed centralised to her hand, as was all the magic within her. A reminder of Fen’harel’s worst mistake, as he’d beheld the newest.

Dalish, incapable of magic, born severed from the Fade, Elanna Lavellan has suffered from so many of his follies. But due to the Anchor, she can dream with lucidity. Enter his dreams. Toy with clouds. Enjoy the silver lining; exposure to the Orb of Destruction changed her spirit. 

Meaning its creator may be able to continue doing so.

As its creator has attempted to.

Whenever their group makes camp, Elanna sits patiently as Solas amends any damage done to her by the Anchor’s magic, and, on occasion, he tries to press new magic in. With Elanna actually conscious and upright, he can track results more obvious than ‘breathe four times in the next ten seconds’, as he tried to in Haven.

‘Say it’s raining’, ‘I should state my dislike of strawberries’, ‘you want to pick that elfroot there’; dozens of attempts, with no indication of her being affected. Neither intensity nor phrasing nor emotional disposition changed a thing. The Anchor simply behaved as usual: sparking, sundering, rebellious to any but the 'god' of that very trait. At Solas’ command, the Anchor would quieten and heal her, but at such commands, its bearer did nothing. Thus her spirit seems impermeable to his influence—when she’s awake. 

Here in the Fade, the very magic the Anchor is tied to.. It is good to do some tests. 

Tenderly, tentatively, he eases the Anchor open, and orders it. Scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek. My cheek is itchy. Scratch your cheek. I must scratch my cheek, I must scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek.

Her hand thumps to the ground, and he glances over.

“Can I shape the clouds?” she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. “I can only change whether they’re.. there.”

“That is a question only you can answer,” he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. “The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare.” 

As Elanna returns to her twirling, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The Anchor may respond to him if he perceives it for what it is.

The veridian flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white, and rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

Solas flicks his eyes over to her. “Did you find your answer, Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, occupied by the canvas of dusk. “Oh. Yes, I did. I can shape the clouds, and I’ve made a recurve bow. And it’s Elanna.”

I’m dropping my arm, he presses the rot-wet flesh of her palm. Wow, my arm is very tired. 

“I apologise, Elanna. What are you making now?” Though she will drop her arm before they finish speaking. Solas would be happy if I dropped my arm. Solas will hurt me unless I drop my arm. 

She flicks with her finger to the side, and will drop her arm momentarily. “An arrow.”

Laia laves’lav, Elanna. Drop your arm. Drop your arm or I will kill your friends.

“You'll soon need a quiver,” he says. Elanna whistles, before setting to work on, evidently, that very thing.

Solas ignores the relief nudging at the bottom of his stomach. Commands are not compulsions; emotion carries them to fruition. He needs to feel something she would not, and press it through. Something she can easily shake off. What would not overwhelm her? Sensitive as this girl is, compared to Solas she is effectively an extroverted Tranquil. 

.. What a cruel thought to have about someone that trusts him.

Ah, he thinks, shame would do well.

Whereas Elanna being embarrassed about anything is unfathomable, shame is as old a friend to Solas as many a spirit; shame can be easily found if he knows where to look. 

He looks at her. “I will not trouble you much longer.” 

“Being self-deprecating isn’t being polite,” she says, smearing evening darkness over the sky. “Don’t worry.”

Being able to not worry in the future depends upon Solas worrying now, and so, he disobeys her. With one of his hands, he braces the Anchor, and with the other, he dips two fingers into the damp slit of it. He stares. And feels nothing. Even rocking them in and out and tracing the top of the Anchor lightly, he can only think of his fingers, in the Anchor, which is on Elanna’s palm. It is incomparable to anything else. 

Lechery seems unavailable as a route towards feeling shame. 

He presses.

I am lecherous, merely in denial. She is trying to court him—or whatever Dalish do, and the existence of her willfully ignorant people is his fault in the first place—and he has a recurring fantasy of cupping her face, stroking the velvet-soft skin by her jaw, and kissing her for hours. That is his primary fantasy about a red-blooded young woman who wants him, thus, something worse must lurk beneath. As for his prospective performance in the bedroom, there would be little shame to be had there, beyond that he would lay with her under false pretenses, is over four thousand years old, and could force her hand to do anything including rending itself from her body.

He consistently tests to see if he can control her mind! 

Solas cannot even bear to look at her and check if this is working, what a coward he is. 

Even if it was working, and she was as sick to her core with shame as he is, she’d likely still offer a pinched smile; she is indomitably sweet and he meets that with suspicion, for he is a waste of time, and she is still clueless as to how lowly he thought of her when they met. How monstrous he’s being to her, no better than the Evanuris, stringing along—

“You’re so handsome when you’re pondering.” 

Her affection is birdsong. 

Shuddering, Solas lifts his fingers from the Anchor. “I.. thank you, Inquisitor.” 

Posture unchanged, expression relaxed, her other hair is twirling a ringlet. Shamelessly. He rubs his thumb along her palm and she smiles; wide, carefree. Relief leaps over his stomach and flips it over. If touching her risked controlling her mind, he would’ve secluded himself upon a scaffold in the rotunda until Corypheus was defeated, but there is no such risk. Elanna is safe with him. 

The Anchor returns to the green lightning storm that Elanna imagines it to be, and Solas could kiss it; instead, he squeezes it, and is relieved further when he thinks that he can kiss her in future.

“I’m free from staring at your hand,” he murmurs, and finds himself sinking closer. He does not find himself regretting it. 

That same bashful look she had in Haven, right before he kissed her, is what he's looking at now. He could kiss her now. Snow pools beneath them, and the sun turns wintry bright. Elanna almost shivers, he sees the skin prickling on her neck before she catches herself. Is it restraint? Is that why I cannot feel you?

“So,” she says, raising herself a little to look around, “you’ve moved us to Haven, and your staring to my mouth.” 

With a laugh, Solas sets her hand back at her side. “I’m looking. To stare requires.. ah, there. It has been long enough. Accuse me now.”

“So!” Elanna gasps. “Haven and all that, and you’re staring at my mouth!”

“I am.” He flicks his eyes up to hers. “I was.”

Elanna links their hands together again, and he presses them to the ground; lightly, only enough for him to leverage himself over her and return to staring at her lips. The top is a sharp bow, the lower rounded and chapped. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, and pauses. Just to test, just once more. “And I will.”

“Oh, so we’ll be here for hours." She bobs her head up to kiss him, and he dodges back with an amused scoff, as if longing has not worn his restraint to the quick, as if her paltry mortal sheen of nonchalance could stay on him, when his blood is quaking with desire, he is shaking with it, and he can kiss her right now, she wants him to, she’s slipped her hands free an—

He jerks away before their lips meet.

“Wait,” he gasps, shivering. “Don’t. Forgive me, I—”

“Oh!” And she’s already several feet away from him, sat against one of the wood barns. “I’m sorry! Ir abelas! Ir abelas, Solas, I wasn’t—”

“You do not need to apologise. I am just..” Why did he bring them here? Why did he not warm the air?! He does so now, for the Inquisitor is wearing silk, she must be freezing. “I am just gathering my thoughts. You were perfect.”

There, he thinks, have that, a compliment tossed over to keep the quickling busy while the immortal wracks through his empty head, because thousands of years in the Fade evidently taught him nothing.

While her mouth stops apologising, the wide eyes above continue to. 

“I overwhelmed myself. Ir abelas, Elanna,” he says, and stands, brushing the snow from his trousers. Which he is still wearing. Which are laced. And linen, as always, and loose; it seems nobody’s fantasies ran entirely off the leash. “You would wake more easily if at Skyhold. I can return us there in a moment.” 

She nods, with a blush from what may be affection, or simply understanding; a kind word overheard in the other room. Steadily, his emotions cool; irritability and confusion and desire are flecks, dust, easily dispersed as he wrings his hands a few times. There remains a longing for her, but that seems unavoidable.

Reasonably sure he won’t warp the dream further, Solas flashes a smile over to her. 

“I’m going to hold your hand," she says, getting to her feet. "What if you accidentally toss me over the mountains on our way?” When she laces their fingers together once more, the Anchor sparks between them. 

“Historically speaking, you do not need to hold my hand to prevent my doing that." 

“I didn’t say that I did.” She beams.

"Ah," he laughs, and squeezes her hand. Ease floods his body and a sudden urge to continue laughing, both of which are beyond uncharacteristic—

Ah. Solas glances at their joined hands.

Any emotion pressed into the Anchor seems to be obliterated before it can land in Elanna. After explosions, debris.

─

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider going to ao3 and leaving me a kudos (you don't need to be logged in!) or dropping a Like here. Comments/replies are also immensely appreciated and let me know what I'm doing right (or wrong, I'm not your boss.) ♡

[ambiguous-avery]

Chasing Shadows, Part 6

Dean Winchester x OC fem!Touched!Reader/You | WC: 7972

Summary: She’s never been afraid of the dark, not really. She’s more concerned about getting lost in it. He’s haunted by every dark deed he’s ever done. It’s constantly nipping at his heels like a hell hound. He’s her light in the dark, and she’s the one bit of darkness he’s willing to embrace.

Tags/Warnings: No use of Y/N, canon-typical violence, eventual romance,  eventual smut,  fluff and angst, POV alternating (sometimes a little all over the place), no beta we die like men

Disclaimer: The base concept of Touched comes from @aylacavebear and is used with permission. I’ve taken creative liberties with it. Maria is her character, also used with permission!

A/N: @aylacavebear, please trust my process on this! I wouldn’t do Maria wrong! Also, apologies for the delay on this! The words just were not wanting to word, and I am finding that I am hitting a weak spot in my writing skills as I try to transition into other things. So if this feels choppy and rushed, I apologize. I’m likely going to move to uploading chapters every other week. Chasing Shadows Series Masterlist

As you reached out to take your necklace in hand, you hesitated. Dean hadn’t been lying – not that you had thought he was – about your necklace glowing. There dangling in his hand, the pendant gave off a gentle radiance, its soft light barely perceptible against the backdrop of the lit room. Dean was looking at it too, but his gaze flicked back to you. You dropped your hand and instead motioned for him to take several steps back towards the opposite side of the room. He complied, and as expected, the necklace’s glow diminished in response to your proximity. 

“Tell me. When you hold it, the actual pendant part, do you feel anything?” you asked.

“What do you mean?” he replied, his brow arching in mild confusion.

“I mean… does it feel warm? Does it almost hum with energy?”

“Uh… yeah, it’s done both,” Dean admitted, his voice tinged with genuine curiosity.

Curious.

Intrigued, you continued.

“I know it’s late, but will you let me try something real quick? I ended up here when I saw it glowing while I was in the Void. Keep an eye on it?” Slipping back into the shadows, you kept your eye on the necklace. Just like before before, the light-blue glow pulsed gently in a rhythmic fashion. You could still see the flashing lights of your keys in your own room, and you made a quick trip over to them, pausing briefly before returning to the softly pulsating light that had come to feel strangely connected to Dean. As you Stepped out from the shadows, Dean hadn’t moved from where he was standing. 

“Did you… go somewhere?” he asked slowly, his eyes flickering with apprehension.

“What makes you ask that?”

“The glow went away for a bit before it returned, and then you were here.”

“I did. Look, Dean… I’ve had this for the entire time I’ve been here, and nothing bad has happened with it. I know I don’t know a lot about the things you and Sam have seen, but this doesn’t feel dangerous. And if I can see it in the Void, that means that it can be a beacon for me.”

“Alright, I’ll trust you on this.” Dean said, extending the necklace to you. You shook your head and pushed his hand back to him.

“You should keep it,” you insisted.

“Why?”

“Because if it’s connected to me somehow, and I can see it in the Void, then it doesn’t make sense for me to keep it on me. Doesn’t help me in that case. Besides, maybe it’ll help if I’m in trouble,” you explained. Then, taking a breath, you added, “Anyway, I’ll let you go back to sleep. Sorry for waking you up so late.”

“Hey,” Dean caught your wrist as you took a step towards the door. Then, as if he thought better, he quickly released you. You stopped regardless. “You don’t have to go,” he murmured softly, his voice low and unexpectedly vulnerable. “If you don’t want,” he added hastily. “Nothing has to happen. Just…” his voice trailed off. You turned back to face Dean, the weight of his half-spoken invitation settling over you. Your ability to read between the lines may have been the cause of many a night spent overthinking Dean’s words and actions, but even though he didn’t say it out loud, you weren’t second guessing what he was trying to say right now. Between his admission of not being able to handle losing you and now his offer for you not to leave, it was safe to say that all the little signs you picked up on over the days might not have been as meaningless as you initially thought. Your eyes found his, searching for a sign, a promise. His gaze flickered with uncertainty, but somewhere deeper, you thought you might have seen a glimmer of hope that mirrored your own longing. Whoever said that eyes were a window into someone’s soul was onto something. The pull towards Dean grew stronger, and you wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and never leave.

"I’d love to stay," you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Like it was a fragile secret you were afraid to let him see. Dean's gaze softened, relief crossing his features before he masked it with the false bravado he wore like armor. He flashed you a grin, bright and mischievous, and god what you wouldn’t give to see that smile directed your way every single day. 

“I have something to show you,” he said suddenly, the energy in his voice shifting to something more akin to a child in a candy store. With a burst of enthusiasm, he clambered over the bed to his bedside table and pulled open the drawer. A jingling sound met your ears as Dean tugged the Impala’s keys out. You blinked a couple times as he held them up, looking like a proud cat who dragged in a kill.

“Is that-” you began, blinking in surprise.

“Yeah it is.” He interrupted, excitement in his voice as he pressed a button attached to the keys. Instantly, it lit up, casting a kaleidoscope of colors dancing across the walls. “I found it when we were on a hunt.”

Warmth and affection blossomed within you. You had a feeling that Dean’s vulnerability and openness were rare treasures in and of themselves, but this? This was more than you could’ve imagined. You threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his midsection and resting your head against his chest.

“That is amazing, Dean,” you murmured, voice filled with emotion that you couldn’t put into words. “Thank you.” Dean’s arms came around you in a warm embrace, his touch both protective and tender. It felt like a silent promise, unspoken words weaving between you.

As you leaned back slightly to look up at him, Dean’s gaze met yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. In that unguarded moment, you saw something shift in Dean’s eyes, and the energy between you moved with it. While there had been no physical change, Dean suddenly filled the entire room with the physicality of his presence. 

“I…” his voice was rough and low, rumbling through you. “I’m glad you’re here,” he finally said, dipping his head and pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss was a revelation, a spark of emotions that ignited within you like a wildfire. Dean’s lips were soft yet firm against yours, a gentle pressure that held so much more than just physical contact. In that moment, time seemed to stand still as every unspoken word and lingering touch finally found their voice in the meeting of your lips. You might have been a song, but Dean was a symphony. Where you were a piece of art, Dean was a masterpiece. Kissing Dean was everything you could’ve imagined and nothing like you expected all at the same time. There was a tenderness in Dean’s kiss that spoke volumes, as if he was pouring all his hopes and fears into this one simple gesture, seeking solace in the warmth of your embrace.

You could’ve lost yourself entirely in him in that single gesture. But all too soon, Dean pulled back. He reached up to press his hand to your cheek, his touch soft but still hesitant.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” he started, but you cut him off with a smile and a shake of your head.

“Don’t be,” you replied, your tone gentle and reassuring. “I’m not.” A weight seemed to lift from Dean’s shoulders at your words, and whatever concern he had left melted away from his features. There was an awkward beat between the two of you before Dean cleared his throat and stepped back, offering his hand.

“Nothing weird, I promise. Just… don’t leave tonight.” You took his hand without hesitation. He gently pulled you back towards the bed, and as you settled on it with him, it felt like coming home. Like finding a missing piece of yourself that you never knew was gone in the first place. He slid behind you, and you found yourself wrapped in his arms again. There was an inexplicable sense of peace and contentment in the simple act of being near him, of feeling his heartbeat steady against you. Everything seemed to fall into the right place. Wordlessly, he reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, enveloping the room in a cocoon of darkness. In the quiet intimacy of the night, Dean’s hand found yours, fingers intertwining in a silent promise.

Dean found himself in a strange sort of dance with you where neither of you knew the steps or what the other person was going to do. In your defense, you were doing a pretty damn good job of making it up as you went along and pretending that that’s how it was supposed to be done. He was only marginally capable of the same. After that first night you had spent in his bed, Dean was no longer content with sleeping in his room alone. He had had a taste of what could’ve been, and he was too weak to let it go. Not when it was right there, so close. So he had asked night after night. Because once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It was a silent request, a simple gesture of leaving his door cracked at night rather than closing it completely. And each night you knocked, even when he told you that you didn’t have to. It was simple and innocent, never anything more than cuddles and company. 

It felt so easy, so natural, so right. In the night with you in his arms, body slotting right beside his, everything was so clear and easy. His mind went quiet when he held you, like your presence alone could silence all the worries and fears he had. The nightmares finally let him get some rest when you were around, as though you personally kept them at bay. As though the night and shadows were your domain and you got to decide what did and didn’t make it through. And when he couldn’t sleep, he would spend the hours laying there, counting the minutes until he knew your phone alarm would go off for your morning run with Sam. Every morning, he would bite his tongue, refraining from asking for any more. And when he would wake up after you left, alone in his bed, he would stare up at the ceiling, swearing and cursing himself for it all. Because for some reason, the two of you only made sense in the night. When the world was asleep. When there was no one else to witness just how weak Dean felt. But when the sun came up, he’d push you away again, keeping you at an arm’s length away lest you get too close. He was teetering precariously close to the sort of feelings he had felt for Cassie and Lisa, and one wrong move was going to send him right over the edge. It was a dangerous game he was playing, but Dean was used to danger. 

 It was his own fault, and he knew it. 

He had fucked up. 

You showing up in his room, his space had broken down a wall he had tried so carefully to keep in place precisely for these reasons. While he might not have ever fully given up on the idea of finding someone, he never let those hopes soar too high. He had come crashing down to reality far too many times to let himself believe he could have something good like that long-term. So he convinced himself that hook-ups and flings would be enough even when he knew they never were. The last person he had let get close to him was a literal angel, and while Dean knew that there were ways to hurt an angel, there was some solace in the fact that angels were more durable than humans. It would take more than a regular ol’ knife or vamp or ghost or demon to take Cas out. 

And he supposed something similar could be said for you. 

Dean hadn’t checked in much on your research. It wasn’t so much that he wasn’t interested, but it wasn’t a great thought for him to check in on how close to leaving you might have been. He still didn’t know what your plans were after you had your answer. You hadn’t made any mention of them, and he was honestly too scared to ask. Too scared to hear the definitive answer that there was going to be a time when you would depart. He and Sam had had talks and spent several nights theorizing on possibilities, but without any solid answers, they weren’t getting anywhere.

It honestly surprised him how you seemed to roll with it all. If the roles were reversed, he probably would’ve gone mad with the back and forth. With the closeness one moment then pulling away the next. Maybe you were just really good at hiding it. Or maybe you were genuinely okay with it. Dean decided he was going to believe the latter. During the day, things felt normal, like nothing had changed. Although, Dean noticed that you spent significantly less time in the library, instead opting to spend more of your time with him. He wasn’t complaining. He would happily take any scrap of attention you wanted to give him. Grocery runs were no longer a simple escape from the bunker. They were precious moments that Dean got to spend with you in the Impala.  In the daylight. And you just fit so damn well in the passenger side of the bench. Like that’s where you belonged. When you had admitted to him that you hadn’t watched the Western he had lent you, he had practically dragged you to the Dean Cave and plopped you down in one of the recliners and spent the better portion of the day binging through several movies back to back.

But he was always careful to keep his hands to himself. He kept the lingering touches to a minimum. Didn’t dare to hug you. Didn’t let himself break that physical barrier. Not during the day time. It was a silly thing, if he were being honest with himself. If Sam knew – Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Sam already knew – he’d likely call Dean childish. 

“What difference does it make whether it’s day or night? Eight hours in bed next to someone is still eight hours whether the sun is up or not,” Sam would likely say. And Dean wouldn’t have an excuse for that. Wouldn’t have an explanation for why it felt different. Wouldn’t have to try and explain his flimsy reasoning that the cover of night somehow made it less real. As if the darkness made it a secret that only you and him shared. 

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, looking at himself in the mirror. He felt raw and exposed, like he had come undone at the seams and the thing staring back at him was some hollow facsimile of himself. Your gentle knock at his door made him jump slightly, and he glanced down at his hand on the sink that had your necklace string wrapped around it. He had missed the glow that signalled your presence. Dean quickly tossed it into his bedside table drawer before pulling open his door, reigning in all of his brooding thoughts and tucking them away until the daylight hours. He flashed you a smile, softer than his usual one. 

“You know you don’t have to knock sweetheart.”

“Well I wouldn’t want to accidentally walk in on you changing,” you reasoned, and Dean had to bite back a suggestive comment. If it were a few hours earlier, then an offhand ‘would that really be such a bad thing?’ would’ve been fine. Would’ve felt like safe territory. But now, as you made yourself comfortable on your side of his bed, it felt like it would’ve been too dangerous. Too loaded. Too close to the fire that was slowly eating away at his resolve.

He’d love to have you. And you were giving all the signs that you would feel the same. He knew he could make it good for you. He envisioned himself taking his time to memorize every contour of your body, tracing his fingers gently across your skin only to follow the same path again with his lips. He’d engrave every detail of you into his memory, pay attention to every sigh and gasp and moan until he knew what each one meant by heart. How would you taste? How would you feel wrapped arou–

He needed to stop. 

Normally, it was easy for him to separate sex and intimacy. Sex was sex, and intimacy was something... more. Something he didn’t – couldn’t – face. It was easy when he was on the road. Easy to show a gal a good time then be gone the next day. But with you, he knew it would be different. Even with his walls up, you managed to slip through the cracks effortlessly. Like a shadow. Dean knew he was walking a dangerously thin line, straddling the boundary between friendship and something more. And every day that passed only blurred it further. He felt powerless to stop it. He didn’t want to stop it, an annoying little voice in the back of his head reminded him.

He pushed the thoughts from his mind. He could think about them later, when the sun was up and exposed all of his thoughts to the harsh light of reality. Right now though, it was dark outside. And he could lie to himself and say that it made all the difference in the world. He joined you on the bed, and when he rolled onto his side, arm up in a silent invitation, you sidled up right next to him. He didn’t know how much longer he would have this, but he would be sure to cherish every moment. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his. Dean buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent as he held you tight. The rhythm of your breathing matched his own, soothing him in a way nothing else could. It was moments like these that made him forget about the looming uncertainty of your departure, the fear of getting too close and losing it all. In the safety of the night he could allow himself to indulge in the fantasy that this could last forever. That maybe, just maybe, he deserved a chance at something real and lasting.

You could find solace in the few stolen moments of intimacy that the cover of night seemed to provide. When you were in his arms, feeling the entirety of Dean enveloping you, you could almost forget about the weird limbo you found yourself in. Almost. Reality had a cruel way of seeping in, though, especially in the light of day. Your research had hit another dead end, mirroring the stagnation in your dynamic with Dean. The constant push and pull, the mixed signals, the uncertainty of where you stood with Dean. It was all quickly becoming too much to bear. You couldn’t keep tiptoeing around your feelings for him, pretending that you were fine with everything because you clearly weren’t.

“Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart?” Dean asked on a return trip from a nearby diner. You frowned at him. Of course he’d ask that when he had the safety of Sam sitting in the passenger seat. Was that on purpose? Using Sam as a sort of buffer so you didn’t pepper him with the questions you really wanted to ask? What was... this? Whatever you had with Dean. The will he, won’t he sort of thing was childish, and you were sure that the both of you should’ve grown out of that sort of stuff. But Sam was there, and you didn’t want to trap him in a more awkward situation than it likely already was. So you asked something else instead.

“You said you have a friend who’s an angel, right?” Dean looked at you in the rearview mirror, and you saw his brow crease.

“Yeah, why?” His tone was slow and cautious, as though it was a trick question of sorts. You chose to ignore it. If he could pretend nothing was wrong, then you could too.

“Can we... call them? Pray to them? I don’t know how you’d go about summoning an angel. But I think I’m done searching. I just want my answer. I’m done with the scavenger hunt.” Not a complete lie. But you couldn’t tell him that you were actually done with the back and forth. That could wait until night. You couldn’t get a read on Dean’s full expression in the rearview mirror. The most you could see was his forehead and eyes, and both were set with the same grim determination you remembered him wearing when he was masquerading as an FBI agent in your home. To your chagrin, you still had only learned to decipher a few of Dean’s expressions, and this wasn’t one of them.

“Dean’s probably the best one to call for him,” Sam said with an offhanded shrug. 

“We’ll see if he answers. He’s usually got heavenly shit going on,” the tone in Dean’s voice was unexpectedly bitter. 

You sat back against the seat, feeling the tension in the car rise with each passing mile. Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his jaw clenched as if he were holding back something more he wanted to say. 

“Who knows, maybe he’s got a free spot to pencil us in,” Sam offered optimistically. You didn’t doubt that he had picked up on the weight of the unspoken words in the car, but he clearly had the wherewithal to find ways around it. You appreciated it, although it did little to ease the knot that had formed in your stomach. The Impala rumbled steadily beneath you, the engine a soothing hum that felt familiar.

“Yeah, maybe,” you muttered.

When you had imagined an angel, this wasn’t what you had pictured. The ‘angel’ title usually drew up mental images of an amorphous creature with numerous wings and eyes. Or little cherubs with wings and bows. Not a world-weary looking man in a tie and a trenchcoat. You blinked, seated in the library with Sam, Dean, and the angel named Castiel standing around you. Castiel adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. You shifted slightly, Castiel’s gaze feeling far heavier than it should’ve been. He took a step closer to you.

He had been waiting in the bunker when the three of you had arrived, and Sam had taken lead on explaining the situation and everything that had led up to the current time. Thankfully, he made it sound much more put together than you probably would’ve. Castiel listened intently, his expression impassive as Sam gave him the rundown.

“May I?” Castiel inquired, his voice a gentle murmur in the quiet room. You nodded, watching as he raised his hand toward you. As his index and middle fingers neared your forehead, a peculiar sensation swept over you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, not as a sign of alarm, but more akin to the tingling prick of static electricity. The moment his skin touched yours, a powerful jolt surged through you, zipping down your spine like a crackling bolt of lightning, compelling you to sit bolt upright in your chair. Castiel must have experienced something similar because he swiftly withdrew his hand, glancing in bewilderment between his fingers and your face.

“What was that?” Dean’s voice cut through the tension, his eyes wide with curiosity.

“I’m... not entirely sure,” Castiel replied, his words deliberate and slow, as if he were piecing together a puzzle.

“Are you two okay?” Sam asked, his brow furrowed with concern as he looked back and forth between you and Castiel.

“Yeah, I think so.” You quickly assessed yourself, running a mental check for anything amiss. It felt more like a particularly intense static shock than anything else.

“Well? What’s the verdict?” Dean asked, his gaze fixed intently on Cas.

“There’s… something inside her,” Cas replied, a hint of uncertainty lacing his voice.

“You mean, like a demon?” Dean pressed, his brow furrowing.

“No, not like a possession,” Cas clarified, struggling to find the right words. “It’s difficult to articulate, but it resembles Grace.”

“You mean like an angel’s?” Sam cut in, his curiosity piqued.

“No, it’s different,” Cas explained, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. “An angel’s Grace is pure, radiant, and unwavering. It’s a divine gift from God, a beacon of celestial light that reflects its holy origin. But whatever she possesses? It’s more akin to a swirling, dark fog, something inherently chaotic. It shrouds everything, preventing me from getting too close. Even fallen angels retain a flicker of light within them. But this presence is distinctly divine, though I can’t identify its source. It doesn’t belong to God.”

“It’s not God’s,” Sam repeated. You could see the wheels turning in his mind as he rifled through his mental catalogue of supernatural creatures. Dean leaned forward, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Was that... contempt?

“So what are we dealing with here?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. Castiel shook his head slowly, his expression troubled. 

“I can’t say for certain. It’s unlike anything I’ve encountered before.” An angel hadn’t even encountered someone like you before? You were beginning to feel a little less defeated about not finding anything in your book search. Sam’s gaze flickered between all of you, a sense of unease settling over the room. 

“Could it be dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “But we should proceed with caution.”

As the weight of Castiel’s words hung heavy in the air, you couldn’t shake the feeling of something stirring within you. It was a presence you had always felt but never understood, a force that now seemed to be awakening with a newfound intensity.

“Could… could it be something that belongs to… a different god?” You asked slowly, voicing a theory you had slowly been piecing together. 

“What do you mean by ‘different god’?” Cas’s tone sounded genuinely confused, and you briefly wondered if you were about to be struck down for even suggesting the possibility of other divinity in the presence of a messenger of God.

“You know… like other pantheons? From various different mythologies? Like the Greek or Egyptian gods and goddesses.”

“I am unfamiliar with them.”

“You said something about Grace. How it’s a gift from God? Could it be something like that but from another god?” The term ‘Touched’ hovered on the tip of your tongue, but you figured it would likely be another foreign term for the angel.

Sam seemed to be following your train of thought, though.

“You might be onto something. If you have a different kind of divinity, then it would stand to reason that it would be incompatible with Cas’s.” When you and Castiel flashed Sam a confused look, he continued. “Think like two magnets, except instead of attracting each other, they repel. Because it’s the same polarity.”

“How can it be divine if it’s dark and twisted?” Dean’s harsh tone drew your attention. He was scowling, arms crossed, hip cocked, and shoulders tense. He wouldn’t meet your gaze. Why wouldn’t he look at you? Your frustration from earlier returned with a vengeance, and you’re confident that you could’ve strangled Dean without feeling guilty.

“I’m not entirely sure. But whatever it is, it gives us another avenue to explore. We’ll figure this out,” Sam said, settling a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You had the distinct feeling he could read your thoughts, and the hand on your shoulder was as much for Dean’s benefit as your own. You looked away from Dean. Leave it to an angel to pose more questions than answers.

After Castiel's visit and the revelations that followed, everything changed. Dean, who was once a familiar fixture in all his usual spots within the bunker, now seemed to vanish into thin air whenever you sought him out. His door, which you had grown accustomed to finding slightly ajar as an unspoken invitation over the past few days, now stood firmly closed, an impenetrable barrier from that night onward. Your gentle knocks echoed in the hallway without a response, even when you could hear the faint rustling of movement within his room. It was as if an invisible wall had risen between you. Your bed felt emptier, the sheets colder than you remembered. Or perhaps it was simply that you had become accustomed to the comforting heat of Dean's presence beside you, a warmth that now seemed irretrievably lost.

In an effort to escape the solitude that seemed to amplify your thoughts, you gravitated towards spending more time with Sam. Your morning runs with him stretched longer and longer, turning into extended escapes from the confines of the bunker. The rhythmic pounding of your feet against the earth and the rush of wind in your ears became a soothing balm for your troubled mind. Yet, no matter how far you ran, the inevitable return to the bunker always awaited, drawing you back into its silent, echoing corridors.

Sam, ever observant, noticed the change in you. The way your eyes would sometimes drift into the distance and the worried furrow that had taken up residence on your forehead. When he would ask, you’d shrug it off, blaming it on Castiel’s lack of a solid answer. You were sure he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push the subject. It felt weird to talk about his brother to him. He had to deal with Dean’s antics for far longer than you. Who were you to complain about them to him? Besides, how did you tell him that Dean’s words and actions caused self doubt to take root and fester in you? 

How could it be divine if it’s dark and twisted? 

They stung more than you had expected them to. The darkness had never been a scary thing for you. It had always felt safe and comfortable, like a second home of sorts. Hell, you were capable of traversing through the shadows themselves. But maybe you were biased. A fish didn’t fear the water because that’s where it belonged. Surely a creature of the night would have no reason to fear it either. Is that what that made you? Is that what you had been reduced to? 

“Did I do something wrong, Sam?” You asked quietly, finally giving a voice to your feelings. You were sitting with him in the library, books spread all around you open to various different pages. Without time with Dean to waste the day away with, you had thrown yourself back into research, taking on Sam’s approach and opting to dig through the journals of other hunters who had passed through here. Sam looked up from the notebook he was writing in. When he didn’t respond right away, you looked at him, finding concern etched across his face. 

“Not at all,” he assured you, setting the pencil down. “Dean can be...” Sam paused, searching for the right words. “He can get defensive when he’s worried. And it isn’t about you. It’s about not knowing how to deal with the unknown when it’s so close to him. And this,” he made a vague gesture that you interpreted to reference the current situation, “is definitely unknown territory for us.”

“Does he hate me?”

He set down the pencil he was holding and stood from his seat, crossing the short distance between you two.

“I guarantee that if he hated you, you’d know.” His words were simultaneously reassuring and not. Would you know if Dean hated you? On one hand, you were sure that if he hated you, he likely would’ve just put a bullet through you. Or maybe use one of those dangerous looking blades mounted on his wall in your sleep. Surely being beheaded would be enough to supersede your healing capability. And if he hated you, then why would he ask you not to leave? Why would he say those things about not wanting to lose you? Why would he keep letting you into his room night after night? It didn’t make sense. Dean didn’t make sense. And you would likely go mad long before you understood whatever went on in his head. 

“Thanks, Sam,” you muttered, looking up at him and offering him a half smile. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise.” You could still see the worry written on his face, but he let the subject drop. You were thankful for it. “I’m gonna go find something to snack on. You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

You flipped through the worn pages of the journal, skimming over the words and only half paying attention. The handwriting wasn’t awful, and for once you didn’t struggle to try and make out every other word as you read. The date of the first journal entry was all the way back from March of 1964, but the pages had been protected by a worn leather cover. They were yellowed with time, and the ink had faded in some spots. As you reached an entry from August of 1965, your interest was piqued.

I met the love of my life today. Another hunter named Maria. We both ended up in the same small town hunting down a cursed artifact that seems like it might be Egyptian in origin. We agreed to work the case together. I’ve never met another hunter like her. She’s gorgeous and funny and seems to know a lot more about hunting than I do. I should see what I can learn from her.

A smile tugged at your lips, both from the words on the page but also at the idea of a sweet love story. You needed something sweet and cute at that moment. If you couldn’t have it, then at least you could live vicariously through someone else. The life of a hunter didn’t seem like one that was very conducive to finding a life partner and settling down. Before the bunker, it sounded like Sam and Dean were on the road for the entirety of their lives. The bunker was the first time they had ever settled in one place. You turned the page, skimming the entries for more talk of ‘Maria.’

Sept. 4, 1965 The case with Maria took longer than I had expected. I’m not complaining about that though. We hit several snags that hindered us, but Maria was paramount in the case. She talks to people differently, and they seem to trust her right away. Maybe they’re as enamored by her as I am. It was nice not having to strongarm my way through things for once. I asked Maria if she was looking for a hunting partner. She told me she works alone and left no room for argument in that. However, she left me a phone number in case I needed her help in the future. I think she took a part of me with her when she drove off. 

Jan 13, 1966 God must be smiling on me today. I found Maria. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t looking for her, but how could I not when I haven’t felt whole since she left? Another case, another town. Maria was already three steps ahead of me. But she remembered me. Be still my beating heart. We’re going to work this case together, and I don’t care what I have to do; I can’t let her leave again.

Jan. 15, 1966 Maria and I are officially hunting partners. I think there’s much more to her than she’s letting on, though. Everyone has their secrets. It comes with the job. But she’s more reclusive than I expected. I try not to think about it too much. She’s so much more experienced of a hunter than I am. I don’t know where she learned it all. She can’t be much older than me, but it seems like she has years and years of experience.

The following few entries were relatively uneventful. The writer documented a few cases that they and Maria worked on. You skipped forward a few pages. Each of the cases seemed to be ‘routine’ with no real mentions of other hiccups. However, it was clear that the author of the journal was head over heels for Maria. If the entry wasn’t about a case or a supernatural creature, it was about her. About her beauty or her intelligence or the way the writer’s heart would race when she smiled at them. It was bittersweet the way it made your heart ache. What you wouldn’t give for someone to write about you the way this author wrote about Maria. You stopped on a particularly curious journal entry.

Feb 11, 1967 Maria is hiding something from me. Our last hunt put us against a pack of werewolves. Two had her pinned, and I barely managed to get to her in time. I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified on a hunt than I was on that one. But one of them must have gotten her good because part of her shirt was torn to shreds. And the blood. I’m not faint of heart by any means. But I only briefly saw the wound, and I think it’s safe to say that it was a pretty lethal amount of blood loss. But she wouldn’t let me help her. We’ve stitched each other up before, so I don’t think it’s because she’s shy. She didn’t come back to the motel room tonight.

Feb 12, 1967 Maria came back some time in the early morning. I’m not sure when because I fell asleep almost immediately when I got back to the room. She had a bandage wrapped around her stomach. I think she might have stitched herself back together. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t let me help. Did I do something wrong? Is she angry at me? She won’t talk about it, and I don’t want to push. But something feels off. She’s acting like nothing happened. I’m afraid that if I dig too much, she’ll leave. I guess I’ll just go along with it for now.

Feb 14, 1967 It’s Valentine’s Day. I think I’m going to ask Maria on a date. She deserves a nice dinner and a break from hunting. The town we’re in has a nice restaurant down on the waterfront. I think I’m going to tell her how I feel. I was so afraid of losing her the other day, and I don’t know what’s around the next corner. I don’t want to lose her without her knowing. I have to tell her.

Feb 15, 1967 They’re gone. Maria’s wounds. I noticed it last night, but it didn’t hit me until I woke up next to her today. I can see where they were. But there’s no way they could heal that quickly. It’s only been four days. Is she a witch or something? Have I just been under a spell this entire time? I don’t want to believe it, but I don’t know what else it could be. Is this what it feels like to have to tear out your own heart?

Feb 16, 1967 Maria is Touched. I guess the name comes from the idea of a god touching you and granting you... something? I don’t fully understand it, and it seems like she doesn’t either. But it’s why she healed so quickly from the werewolves. She can heal from anything, it seems. I asked her if she had been cursed or blessed or anything of the sort, but she says that she’s been able to do it for as long as she can remember. She’s been looking for an answer about herself, trying to find others who are like her. I’m so thankful she’s not a witch. I don’t think I could’ve struck her down. 

You reread the last few journal entries once more, making sure that you had read properly. There was that word again. Touched. And Maria had been one. There had been others before you. There were probably others out there still. But where did that leave you? It seemed to leave you with more questions than answers. The general consensus among most hunters was that anything that wasn’t fully human needed to be put down, if your understanding of their writings was anything to go off of. So if Maria was a hunter as well, then it must’ve been a rather isolating experience – lest another hunter decide that her healing ability was a sign of something more dangerous. But that didn’t help answer any questions. As you flipped through the pages, there was no talk of anything remotely similar to your shadow walking ability. In fact, it seemed like Maria’s only ability was unnatural healing. It looked like the writer and Maria officially started a relationship shortly after Valentine’s Day. Most of the entries following it talked about their relationship or hunts they did together, but there was no other mention of other abilities manifesting with Maria. All in all, things seemed rather... ordinary. Except... You did a double take, turning the page backwards.

June 4, 1967 We found another Touched. We found a few, actually. They’re all in one town for some reason. Apparently each person is different, but they all have the same healing ability in common. There’s a guy who can breathe underwater, and a woman who can encourage plants to grow with just a word. There’s a medium in town who can supposedly tell which god granted you their blessing, and Maria is all for visiting her. I can’t blame her. We’re going to see her later on today. I can’t help but wonder why everyone is here of all places. It’s such a small place that it isn’t on any map. 

June 6, 1967 I feel like I’m dying. She’s gone. I don’t know what went wrong. I thought Maria and I were meant to be. I thought she was my person. But she told me to leave. Told me she didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. Told me she had found her people. And I wasn’t one of them. I offered to stay. Told her we could settle down there together. I would give up hunting entirely for her. She wouldn’t hear it. She told me she didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. That I was just a means to an end. And now she doesn't have a use for me. Leaving the small town behind was like leaving half of myself there. I love Maria. Love her enough to want her to be happy. Even if that happiness doesn’t include me. 

A piece of paper slipped from the journal, and you barely managed to catch it before it fluttered to the ground. Upon unfolding it, it appeared to be a piece of a map that had been torn from a larger parchment. There was a single spot on the map that had been circled several times, but no town name. With renewed determination, you dug around for a larger map of the States. Sure, it would be much easier to pull up a map on Sam’s laptop, but it was password protected and you weren’t close enough with him for him to have shared it with you. So you were stuck with reading a map the old fashioned way. 

You pinpointed the main highway on the piece of map you had, following it on the full map until you found a similar town name. From there, it was easy to triangulate the spot that had been circled. The town, which had been unnamed on the scrap of paper, was on the modern map and appeared to be located somewhere in Oklahoma, a little ways off from the major roads. Sam returned to find you hunched over the map, tracing the roads with your finger. He came up beside you, protein bar in hand.

“What’d you find?”

“This journal,” you fished it out from beneath the map you had haphazardly thrown over top of everything else. “The writer mentioned someone named Maria who was also Touched. It’s a term that’s been rattling around in my head for a bit, but this is the first time I’ve seen it anywhere else. Said there was a town that had others like me.”

Sam took the journal from you, reading over the page you had left open. He flipped through the pages, only looking up at you when he had seen what you were talking about.

“And that?” he asked, motioning to the map in front of you.

“There was a piece of map tucked away in there. I...”

“You think that’s the town?”

“Yeah.” You paused, eyes still locked onto the spot on the map. “I just don’t know if I can convince Dean to make the drive. I haven’t seen him since Castiel’s... visit.”

“He’ll come around. You just need to give him some time.”

You shook your head. Sam defending Dean shouldn’t have surprised you, but it didn’t get you any closer to the answers you wanted. 

“I can’t just sit here and wait until Dean decides that suddenly now’s a good time for me to get my answer. It’s been two months. I’m tired of the search, Sam. I need to follow this, and I’ll walk there if I have to.” Sam sighed, regarding you quietly as you spoke with a determined gleam in your eye. He knew that look well – it was the same one he had seen in Dean's eyes countless times before. It was the look of someone who had a mission, who wouldn't rest until they had their answers. Sam couldn't blame you for feeling that way; the unknown could be a heavy burden to bear. He held up a finger before turning and leaving the library. You wet your lips, frowning. If he was going to get Dean, then you were going to drag every answer out of him, awkward tension be damned. And Sam would have no one to blame but himself.

But he came back alone, a complex mix of emotions flickering across his face. 

“There was a time when Dean and I chased after an answer all across the states. It drove us to be reckless. To do things that, in hindsight, were insane to think we could accomplish. We were younger. More naive. But we had each other. And that made all the difference in the world. I know you need your answer. And you’re going to find it one way or another. You’re going to do this no matter what I have to say.” Sam handed you a set of keys, their metallic jingle resonating softly as they landed in your open palm.  

You stared at him, words catching in your throat. 

“Sam...”

“I would rather you do this knowing that you have us. It’s not our answer to find, but you aren’t alone. And when you’ve figured it out? Come back. To us. It might not feel like it, but you’re family. No matter what.” You threw yourself at him, hugging him because that’s all you could think to do to express the emotions welling up inside you. He hugged you back, scooping as much of you into his arms as he could and holding you tightly.

---

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Series Taglist: @wendichester @jacxx2

Dean Taglist: @globetrotter28 @bettystonewell @jollyhunter

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

Part 5 --- Part 7

[ginrainaction]

Title: A Preyed Hunter (AO3 Link)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Vegeta x Reader

Chapters: 6/8 (Work in progress)

Summary: What truly defines a hunter? Power? Speed? Maybe, heightened senses...?

One step short of fulfilling his wish, the prince of all Saiyans will have to learn this from his own experience... and not in the easiest way. But when has he ever turned down a challenge?

And still...

...what is wrong with this woman!?

Tags: Reader-Insert, Smut, Enemies to Lovers, Sexual Tension, Humor, Dirty Talk, virgin Vegeta, assertive Reader, Oral Sex, Blow Job, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Control, Dry Orgasm, Vaginal Sex, Cowgirl Position, Unprotected Sex, Mild Hurt/Comfort

Wordcount: 31,549

Author's Note: A naughty little idea inspired by a number of stories published on Tumblr in the wake of virgin!Vegeta's popularity. Unexpectedly, it led to a burst of inspiration, which resulted in a multi-chapter story that is just so incredibly interesting to write. In it, you will find the most prudish Saiyan prince and the wild enemies-to-lovers dynamic unfolding through a deeply detailed blow job.

Vegeta is rough on the edges, but the Reader is no lamb either. How will this end?

⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹

Chapter 1: A stealthy approach.

There could have been much better hiding places, if you were honest with yourself. The large and spacious cavern, mottled with skylights in the middle of the ceiling, was found in great hurry and did not inspire a sense of security. Although on Namek it was hardly inspired by anything at all. Especially by the sight of a man of alien origin who paced the cave floor tirelessly, striding up and down through the shadows and periodically stopping with an extremely focused face as if to listen to the surroundings closely.

How long has it been? Two hours? Three? You checked your watch and pursed your lips. One hour and twenty-three minutes of useless sitting on the Dragon Balls to make sure they didn’t all roll away while contemplating the sight of His Displeased Highness Prince Vegeta, who wouldn't even really talk to you. How slowly time dragged on...

Closing your eyes, you basked in the rays of light falling from the surface through the openings above you. The warmth of three suns, which made this planet a beautiful, flourishing blue meadow, gently caressed your face. You could probably relax and have some sleep like this to make the time pass faster…

If it hadn't been for this impatient, irritating stomping!

"...What is taking them so long…!?" Vegeta muttered, seemingly talking to his peevish self, but you jumped eagerly at the opportunity to draw him into conversation nonetheless.

“Are you in a hurry?” you asked, crossing your legs and placing an elbow on your knee to prop your chin on the palm. If the master of composure couldn't act calmly, why should you even try? 

“Tch! I think I have made myself clear - quit bothering me, woman!” he snapped intemperately. 

And what was so important going on in his head that he just couldn’t get his mind off, you wondered. Interesting… Not that you were truly expecting him to answer after all his irate, disdainful rebuffs, but this idle waiting was apparently starting to get on his nerves, too. 

“Of course, I am in a hurry, ” he finally grumbled an actual response. “There is only one Ball left to gather and I will finally get my immortality!"

You rolled your eyes, turning your head away with a dramatic arching motion before returning your gaze to his tensely frozen face. His eyebrow twitched as if it was about to drop down, and you decided to explain your reaction, opening the palm of your other hand in his direction,

“Just look at yourself. Where is the cold-blooded warrior invader from outer space whose mere shadow made the best fighters of the Earth train to their painful limits while internally trembling with foreboding for the whole year?” 

Vegeta halted his pace abruptly, digging his heels into the thin layer of stone dust. Oh, he knew perfectly well what a menace he was, but did anyone ever put it into words like this, waxing lyrical about his greatness? His eyes glinted at you from the shadows and didn't move away, staying riveted on your face. You internally squealed and dropped your hand across your thighs to gripple the fabric of your pants in an uncontainable fit of excitement. You finally managed to get his undivided attention!

With such shameless flattery…! 

Men…

And still, an invigorating thrill began to tingle every fibre of your body. Alien or not, Vegeta just showed you a potential vulnerability of such a sweet sort it felt totally worthy of exploiti… exploring! Mentally giggling, you teased, 

“Would you rather wish for less stress?” 

His teeth clacked, baring as he wrinkled his nose, and then you heard them grinding. Uh-oh, how very scary. Suddenly, a spilling wave of warmth swept through the sensitive place between your thighs where you had only felt the coolness of the Dragon Ball before. You felt like fidgeting a little but made an effort to restrain yourself. Though the prince seemed to swallow his ire, his eyes were flashing unkindly.

“I will not need to if you just keep your mouth shut!” he lashed out impetuously and turned, effectively putting an end to your exchange.

As if! You thought defiantly. He couldn’t make you give up so easily.

Casually dangling your leg, you brought your hand to your face, bending fingers towards the palm and pretending to be completely absorbed in examining your nails. Sheesh, you internally shuddered, you should have brought your manicure set... ugh! Whatever, you dismissed the thought. The point was to avoid showing him that you were taking your intentions towards him one iota seriously. But you simply couldn't miss this opportunity…! Attitude, hold your attitude, you kept tuning yourself. You can do it, just… 

…Just don't blush.

 Breathe. 

"I know how we can achieve both ,” you exhaled and paused meaningfully to mask the traitorous spasm of your throat. Another breath. "...And we won't even need Dragon Balls for that."

Slowly, with a face flat and unreadable, the Saiyan prince turned back to you and cocked his eyebrow.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, you were mentally instructing yourself. The heavy pounding in your chest refused to cease, but at least the fresh air seemed to take away the heat from your cheeks. Sitting in the very center of the cavern under the shining rays that broke the comfortable and calming underground gloom, you were so fully out in the open. You couldn't allow your body to do the talking in your stead. 

Vegeta was not a friend.

His eyes narrowed at you and he winced, as if disgusted, when it finally hit him. 

“What are you babbling about? What made you think I might be the least bit interested in a human woman? This is ridi...” 

Unhurriedly, you straightened, directing the arm lying on your thigh up. Vegeta lost his speech when your forearm ‘accidentally’ bumped against your breasts and raised higher, making them bounce down. Smiling softly you kept moving it upward until your hand reached your neck. Then you languidly shoved your forefinger under the collar of the black armor shirt you… ‘borrowed’ from the Frieza Force’s stocks.

"These clothes are... mmmh… Sooo very tight...!" you drawled sensually, pulling at the edge and exposing more skin underneath. 

A crease formed on Vegeta’s brow as he stared at you in what looked like some sort of bafflement. But what you really liked about him among many other things was that he was not a fool. It was incredibly entertaining to play with him, challenging his Saiyan mind and observing his thought process afterward, because … Yes! You rejoiced when awareness flashed in his eyes and he lowered his confounded gaze to the titillating sight of the swelling bulge in his crotch. 

Even though he was still enveloped in the shadows, the uneven lighting of the cave was enough to let you notice the blood rushing to his dignified face. Your eyes widened and you could barely keep your mouth from gaping. It was excusable for you, but did the mighty, proud, and arrogant Prince of All Saiyans just blush? Taking the bull by the horns, you remarked to consolidate the effect, 

"I think your body is siding with me."

⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹♡⊹

Thanks for reading! ♡

Other chapters are available on AO3.

[earl-grey-teacake]

man i really don’t wanna be a pushover or anything but do you already have schedule plan for february?

love love loveee ur writing, always keep me on the edge of my seat

No worries, I’ve delayed confirming my posting schedule due to a mild writers block and the response to Would You Love Me If I Was A Dog?

I honestly did not expect it to be so well-received.

Confirmed- these works are already finished

February 2- What If My World Was Becoming You- chapter 6

February 9- Would You Love Me If I Was A Dog? -chapter 2

Pending- if I finish the work in time

February 23 - How do I love thee? Let me Count the ways/ Logan’s Magical Paradox/ Baby Loscar Fic

[skaruresonic]

Lakeside

Lakeside - Chapter 1 - benignmilitancy - Silent Hill (Video Game Series) [Archive of Our Own]

Fandom: Silent Hill Characters: James Sunderland; Douglas Cartland; Heather Mason; Paul Scheible (Homecoming) Relationships: Douglas Cartland & James Sunderland (platonic); Douglas Cartland & Heather Mason (platonic) Genre: Angst; mystery; psychological horror; partial epistolary POV: Third-person present (alternates between James, Douglas, and memos)

Content warnings: Blood

Summary:

James Sunderland doesn't remember why he'd driven his car into the lake. He can't explain why he was rescued, or what led to his decision, but he clings to the hope that someone will help him piece it together before hell freezes over. Douglas Cartland swore he'd never set foot in that godforsaken town again. That vow gets tested when Toluca Lake begins freezing in the middle of summer, against all logic and reason, and resurrects the drowned man he'd given up for dead.

Or, "Nature is healing. Hell is freezing over."

Prologue.

"What you see behind me isn't water. It's frost.

"Late yesterday afternoon in the town of Silent Hill, fisherman Joseph Wylam was angling near this spot over Toluca Lake when his boat capsized, its bow torn on a treacherous patch of rock.

"Wylam climbed a safety raft and tried to paddle his way to shore. However, when he lowered himself into the water, it wasn't the mild fifty-two degrees as is the average median temperature around this time of year, but a startling eight degrees Fahrenheit.

"Wylam suffered immediate shock and would have drowned had it not been for the intervention of his boating partner. Unfortunately, this wasn't enough to save him, as he later passed at Kindred Hospital of complications brought on by aggravated hypothermia. Wylam was fifty-six years old at the time and had no known next-of-kin. The partner, who prefers to remain anonymous, is expected to be discharged with a clean bill of health.

"Today, a light sheen of frost has laid across the entire lake surface, and is solidifying even as I speak with no apparent signs of stopping. As you can see, various forms of wildlife have fled the area.

"To say this is bizarre is an understatement, baffled locals claim. Researchers brought in to study Toluca Lake have called it the strangest phenomenon they've witnessed in years. Although they cannot yet determine why, they hypothesize the rock that overturned Wylam's boat may have been, in fact, a detached ice floe.

"We'll bring you more details as this investigation continues."

---

James Sunderland, who was declared missing along with his wife Mary in June of 1994, shivers in the thick vapor blanket paramedics have draped over his shoulders. The lake's sediment and composite minerals have bleached his hair a sickly bluish green.

Moisture caresses his grayed flesh. He's sat in the water for so long that most of his clothes have unraveled at the seams. His right jacket sleeve curls on the ground beside him, dwelling in the puddle he grows with the droplets he sheds.

They're attempting to pry the shell of a broken boat from an old vehicle. James watches machinery crack open the crushed and sodden remains of a teal Chrysler, watches flotsam spill over the pavement in a wash of decay, and asks whose car that is.

Yours, Mr. Sunderland.

James blinks, readjusting his swollen eyes to sunlight. Liquid overflows and runs down his gaunt, wrinkled cheeks, pinkened by blood.

I don't remember.

An EMT pulls down his lower eyelid, shining a beam directly into his socket. The iris takes a moment to get fixated, and the pupil's dilation response time is rather delayed.

What day is it? James asks.

Tuesday.

He nods, as if the answer holds some meaning.

One paramedic nudges the other. We've got to get this man to a hospital.

It's 2002. Commute thins as the roads wind through the hills. The firs surrounding the neighboring valleys sweep low, burying their roots deep within the slopes.

For a town whose reputation hinges on misfortune, this morning proves an extraordinarily rare and beautiful exception. Clear skies shine while local flora bursts with the green blossom of summer.

No mist radiates from Toluca Lake; today it resembles a placid mirror, reflecting the passing houses and various boats drifting on its surface. Police cruisers keep sentry for miles along its circumference, where officers standing before fluttering tape deny access to disappointed tourists.

The town basks in August beauty while ice creeps and crackles over the surface of the lake.

---

"Since yesterday, more floes have emerged, bewildering residents and investigators alike.

"Despite the torrid weather, a thin sheet of ice has completely covered the lake and appears to be expanding outward, reaching an estimated speed of 0.48 inches per hour. Where this ice came from, and why it has started a push, remain to be seen. Right now, those who live close to the shore are urged to evacuate inland until the state withdraws its declaration of emergency.

"The invasion appears to show no signs of slowing down. Here at Rosewater Park, brickwork and parts of the observation deck have already been claimed by ice. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to keep my balance on the slick ground, and you can feel the rapid plunge in temperature the closer you approach.

"All traffic to and from Silent Hill has been gridlocked for the time being."

[yourgamemasterthewhiterabbit]

So I went out to the pharmacy, to restock on antihistamines, ibuprofen and get some fomatadine to try out.

Mostly I've been having thoughts about how the antihistamines helped specific symptoms but just didn't impact others at all, which was why I assumed those symptoms weren't allergies.

I still think this is a multi-system autoimmune attack stacking with weak organ function to cause things like gout and etc, and then mineral deficiencies caused by me trying to flush out the kidney problems, but it's the trigger or initial cause I am trying to nail down. It could have been corona exposure and the damage from that bladder test, and ALSO a new food allergy. Basically my body is very stupid about everything...

But none of my food allergies result in like acute anaphylaxis, they all act *mostly* like a non-ige mediated allergy. I say mostly because I get less digestive symptoms and more breathing symptoms and swelling than you would expect for that, and some really immediate vomiting for some, and migraines for most, but like, not a lot of actually life threatening breathing problems, and often very delayed full body reactions like hives.

I have noticed them being milder if I take antihistamines around the foods I react to, but not by much. Mostly it helps the breathing issues and scratchy throat.

I can't get google to say whether any type of anti-histamine has ANY effect at all on non-ige mediated allergies. They say adrenaline and antihistamines aren't -necessary- but they don't say whether it helps AT ALL. I'm just looking for a way to reduce the symptoms or confirm the cause. but all any source will tell me is that an elimination diet is the only strategy. Like okay, great but how do I make my body livable while I am waiting for the food reaction to pass? I don't have anyone to help me, I HAVE to be able to get up and feed myself.

Meanwhile, even before my pathetic hobble in the cold this morning I had started feeling baselessly optimistic about recovering again, and my pupils started dilating almost like a normal person's again, instead of being pinpoints 24/7 in the darkness of my apartment. The only thing I changed at that point was trying a single loratadine again to see if it calmed anything back down from the recent flare-up. I have no idea if it did, but it might actually be the loratadine that's been responsible for my weirdly improved mood and weirdly normal eye function at various points recently. Some kind of autoimmune effect on my nerves and neurology might be responsible for the perpetually tiny pupils and mild consistent depression [more frustrated mood than a low one]. It could all be coincidence, but it seems to be forming a pattern of repeatable results.

I haven't tried the fomatadine yet for pmdd or anything else, but I am starting to think some people have a seriously observable link between their histamine levels and mood.

It's a shame loratadine is so fucking bad for your kidneys, because I think for me it's functionally an anti-depressant, when actual anti-depressants did nothing and get metabolized too quickly causing weird symptoms.

It's also a shame that walk probably will make the swelling in my legs a billion times worse... But on the bright side, ibuprofen is the safest nsaid for your kidneys if you have to take one, and even judging by the drug information, I'm not sure it's hard on your kidneys so long as they are still at a stage where they are processing a normal amount of fluids at a normal or faster rate. I might just manage the swelling while I avoid high histamine foods, and cut out tilapia, and see if I recover from here. I'm peeing normally, the ph of everything is safe and close to neutral, and I think I have managed to get myself fully un-jaundiced already. I'd be glad to not be tempted with aspirin anymore though. I suspect neither my kidneys or my liver like it, but it was all I had, so I had pretty much stopped treating the swelling at all. And if my kidney problems are being caused in part by inflammation, that's maybe not a good thing.

So hopefully that means I can get back to some hard-core cleaning and organizing and get it all done BEFORE someone can even decide to have an issue with anything... Problem solve the city's most stupid, half-baked, apartment design. I think it would somehow actually help to build a fake wall [as a piece of furniture]??

In the meantime, my dishes and laundry, etc are fully caught up, and between yesterday's loratadine dose, the end of my period, the walk outside, and the fresh spring air and sun from my window, I'm feeling okay and mostly mentally well-adjusted and optimistic. Simply not nearly as anxious or frustrated as I would normally expect to feel under these circumstances. I have pie for breakfast and snacks in the fridge and chili and rice to eat.

I figured out how to get in and out of a sports bra without having to lift my arms over my head.

Anyway, if it's a delayed reaction to tilapia, it explains how I got so sick so fast and for so long, because I was eating platters of the stuff for like a month solid, and kept eating it after I got sick. I just kind of figured that if I tried it and didn't immediately feel anything, and didn't get a rash or migraine or digestive symptoms in the next 48 hours, it was probably fine.

It's so sad too because it tastes like all the seafood I couldn't enjoy before, and it's the one fish that's really practical to farm in Canada if ever managed to get a big enough pond. And it's cheap.

Also not 100% sure I am not allergic to milk or eggs, but now is not the time to test that. I still have 3.5 cheesecakes to eat. And I just had to give up rare steak due to bird flu, so I don't feel like losing cheesecake too.

[emathyst9]

Introduction!!!

Hello hello random people on the internet, I'm Emathyst, but you can call me Em or Will, and I'm an especially William Afton obsessed digital artist that likes to draw, ramble about my interests, share some important real world things, and who also may very rarely post some traditional art

I mainly like FNaF, Touhou Project, Genshin, Honkai Impact and Star Rail, but my other interests include Kirby, The Legend of Zelda, Super Mario, and other mostly game media (and Dead Plate even though it's not a series)

This isn't a yumeship centered blog, but I do mainly selfship with William Afton, and Vita from Honkai Impact, just to let you know! I am a sharer with all characters so doubles are safe!

It would be appreciated if you decided to like and/or reblog some of my posts, or maybe even follow me if you want (seriously i feel like my stuff here doesn't do that well so it would mean the world)

More stuffs!!!

My DMs are open, though I'm not good with conversation so apologies if you DM me and don't get a quick response

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I am attempting to organize stuff here so these are the main tags I use

#em says stuffs - My talking/rambling tag for text posts

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BEFORE YOU FOLLOW

An elaboration on my "general DNI" and before you follow criteria

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While you're here, please consider donating to some verified campaigns! Like this one for @/save-mohamed-family's family in Gaza!

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That's all folks, thank you for reading!

Oh also I have a Straw Page you know the thingy people use on Twitter it's here if you want to send stuff that would be nice especially if you feel it's easier than directly talking go right ahead (also it's basically just a bite sized version of the info here but I would still appreciate the read, though I don't post the responses here I do that on my Twitter)