#forgetful wanderer fog

[forgetful-wanderer-fog]

hi!!!

"its me fog!! i saw friends using this aand i alsp wanna do that! uhnm its a bit haardnto typw with myy ppaws but its okay!!

so! my ssiblign shrorud is helping me rrun this blog they like to help me!! im aalso not very ggood at readding so i migh not know things... ok so they told me tthat i xan stop writing now so bye bye!!"

.

"Hello. This is Shroud, Fog's older sibling. I do not trust this place, but I am willing to give it a chance. I figured out how to use this site before letting Fog on it, just to make sure it was safe. I request that you all will be kind to Fog, otherwise I will deal with you accordingly.

Do not try to hurt Fog. That is your one and only warning."

.

(ooc things under the cut)

hey! sillystrawspin, the mod here!!! this blog is going to be more of a casual and silly blog, but this is still a rp/ask blog! please feel free to ask and start roleplays! absolutely NO suggestive/NSFW comments/asks should be said to either Fog nor Shroud, Fog is a minor (17) and Shroud is canonically a ghost and aroace.

i will be visiting your blogs >:3 the fog attack muehehee i'm also gonna be reblogging posts, which i dont normally do with my other blogs.. aalso rp asks wil.. probably have different typing methods than normal posts/asks... forgive me.. anyway here are some pictures of these guys

fog is the one on the left, they are very clueless and they don't know much.. they act younger than their actual age due to not being very developed mentally.. they're also really short (4'11) so uhm. yeah. their species is just kinda usually short.. aand the uhm species' fur can slowly heal people!!! yeah :D

shroud is the one on the right, very overprotective of fog due to.. hehe.. lore events >:3 so when shroud is being all spooky and whatnot they just.. they're trying to protect buddy, they've gone through enough </3 they're also dead as hell and like a vengeful spirit or something idk they're also 5'7 lmao

also ! fog is also a side character on @tired-worker-bug and that will stay the same! i just wanted to give em a seperate one because they're my Little Guy and i just wanted to so yah

also here's some tags..

fog's stories - posts by fog

shroud's posts - posts by shroud

fog answers - asks answered by fog

shroud answers - asks answered by shroud

rp ask - rp ask

fog reblogs - reblogs

ooc post - self explanitory

[ceramini]

✦ STRONG ENOUGH TO RUIN YOU

pairing 𐐪𐑂 gym instructor!sunghoon x afab!reader

word count 𐐪𐑂 approximately 1.2k words (dw im working on making my fics longer)

genre 𐐪𐑂 smut, slow burn, instructor/client tension, fluff, dom!sunghoon, MDNI 18+

synopsis ───── you sign up for personal training thinking it’ll be a harmless way to finally stay consistent. you didn’t expect sunghoon, your cocky, too-pretty, too-hands-on gym instructor who makes you forget how to breathe mid-stretch. what starts with harmless corrections and tension-filled check-ins quickly unravels into something you can’t control. or hide.

nini’s note 🗒️ this is like INCREDIBLY over due (in terms of posting for sunghoon despite him being my wrecker..), but I just saw those photos of sunghoon in the gym and my mind is running. im actually foaming at the mouth he is so fine and his arms are like so big I want him to choke me hard im not even lying also i like how all the enha writers are just going feral abt those pics, I’ve seen like 3 of these already 😭😭.. remember 2 enjoy responsibly + comments, likes & reblogs are very much appreciated <33

𓋜 if want to read something else, check out the ꕀ LIBRARY

You weren’t even supposed to pick him.

There were three trainers available when you signed up. All perfectly qualified, all recommended. You picked the one who didn’t have 40k followers on Instagram. The one who wasn’t always in the mirror with his shirt off. The one who didn’t look like a boyband idol who accidentally wandered into a squat rack.

So why the hell were you stuck with Park Sunghoon?

“Looks like you’re with me now,” he’d said that first day, smiling just a little too knowingly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

You knew what that meant.

What you didn’t expect was how good he’d be at his job.

Firm, focused, never distracted, even when your breathing stuttered, even when his palm slid to your lower back and your brain short-circuited. He’d press your shoulders down, tap your thighs, adjust your grip with long, capable fingers. Always murmuring soft corrections like:

“Back straight, baby.”

“Stay with me.”

“Just like that. You’re getting better.”

He always said your name like it tasted sweet.

And now here you were, halfway through week five, sitting on the gym floor with your thighs trembling, heart in your throat, and his hand still on your waist.

“Need help stretching it out?” he says, voice low.

You should say no.

Instead, you nod.

You’re on your back. Hips tilted. One leg bent.

Sunghoon is kneeling beside you, gently moving your leg across your body as he leans over.

“Relax,” he murmurs, fingers firm on your outer thigh. “Let me guide you.”

You swear his voice gets lower every time he touches you. A slow, patient growl. You squeeze your eyes shut as the stretch deepens.

“Good girl,” he says suddenly. “Just breathe.”

Oh fuck.

You don’t know what part of your body clenches first.

“You always tense up when I say that,” he muses, amused.

You peek one eye open. He’s grinning. Smirking.

“I do not.”

“You do,” he says, stroking up your leg with his thumb. “But it’s okay. It’s cute.”

You shove his shoulder weakly. He doesn’t move an inch. You feel his grip tighten, just slightly.

“You know,” he says softly, “you’ve been a real good client. You always listen. Always do what I tell you.”

There’s a pause.

“Would you keep listening if I told you to spread your legs for me?”

Silence. Then—

You do.

Without a word. Breath shaking. Core throbbing.

Sunghoon’s eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I thought so.”

You’re up against the mirror.

His fingers are inside you.

Your cheek is pressed to the glass, the fog of your breath smudging your reflection. His body is flush behind you, strong, firm, solid, guiding your hips back into his hand, where he’s curling his fingers in slow, purposeful strokes.

“See how pretty you look?” he whispers, biting your ear. “Can you see how wet you are?”

You whimper. He speeds up.

You try to close your legs but he clicks his tongue.

“Ah—uh uh. Don’t run. Let me stretch you, baby.”

He spreads his fingers. You gasp.

“Already so tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to feel you wrapped around my cock. You gonna take me like a good girl?”

You nod frantically.

“You want me that bad?”

“Sunghoon, please—”

He leans forward, lips against your jaw.

“Beg.”

You’re already halfway gone. Voice cracked. Mind empty.

“Please fuck me. Please—need it so bad—I’ll be good—”

You cry out as his palm lands against your ass, sharp and quick.

He groans behind you.

“Then get on the bench.”

The workout bench is cold on your skin.

You’re bent over it now, cheek pressed to the padding, thighs parted the way he told you. Your leggings are halfway down, soaked through, your body still trembling from his fingers.

Sunghoon stands behind you, breathing heavy, a flush spreading down his chest, biceps flexing as he strokes himself, slow and hard.

“God, look at this fucking ass,” he growls, palming the curve of your hip. “You really let me do this here?”

You nod, whimpering. “Wanted you— wanted this—”

He leans over, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Every time you show up in those tiny shorts, acting shy—”

His cock presses between your folds and you gasp, arching.

He slides it through your slick, groaning.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. All for me?”

You can barely answer. He slaps your ass again— not hard, just enough to make you flinch.

“Answer me, baby.”

“All—fuck—all for you, Hoon.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice. It’s high, messy. You’re already unraveling, and he hasn’t even put it in yet.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now take it.”

He sinks in slowly.

Not teasing, not fast, just… deep.

You both moan when he bottoms out. One hand grips your hip, the other slides under your stomach to press against your clit.

“You’re so tight,” he says against your spine, voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect.”

You cry out as he starts moving, steady thrusts, grinding into that spot that makes your knees buckle. His cock fills you completely, like it was made for you, and his abs brush your back every time he presses forward.

“Shit, you’re taking me so good—” he pants, fucking into you harder. “Let me ruin you, baby. Let me make you forget your own name.”

You do.

You can’t say anything but his name. Over and over again.

“Hoon—Hoon, please—please—”

He grabs your hair, pulling you back so you see your fucked-out reflection in the mirror.

“Look,” he growls. “That’s what I do to you. That’s what you look like when I fuck you dumb.”

You’re already crying a little, not from pain, but from the overwhelm. He notices, slows down just slightly.

“You okay?”

You nod frantically. “More—please don’t stop—need you—”

He wipes your tears with a shaky hand, eyes dark.

“Yeah? You want me to break you, baby?”

You say yes so fast he laughs, but it’s breathless, desperate, like he’s just as gone.

“Say it again.”

“Break me, Sunghoon.”

He grabs your wrists, pins them behind your back, and lets go.

You’re cock drunk by the time he starts whispering praise.

“Taking me so good—god, you were made for this.”

“Such a perfect little body—fuck, I’ve been dreaming of this.”

“Gonna cum for me? Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

You’re gone. You can’t stop shaking.

“Come on, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess.”

You do, hard. Loud. Full-body, leg-shaking, soul-leaving climax. You scream his name, you cry, your body locks up around his cock like it never wants to let go.

Sunghoon loses it.

“Fuck—fuckfuck—gonna fill you up, baby—shit—”

He buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, hips jerking, hands gripping you so tight you’ll probably bruise. You can feel him twitching inside you, groaning against your shoulder, dropping messy kisses onto your back as he rides out the wave.

He pulls out slow, hands still gentle, watching your cunt drip with his cum.

“Shit,” he says softly. “That was—fuck.”

You just lay there, legs spread, brain fried.

Sunghoon grabs a towel, wipes you clean, helps you sit up. He kisses your temple, holds your face in both hands.

“Was that okay?” he asks, genuinely.

You nod, tears still drying on your cheeks.

He kisses you again, soft this time. No smirk. No games.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he murmurs. “Even if this doesn’t mean anything. Even if it’s just once.”

You blink. “You think I’d let you hit raw and not mean it?”

He laughs, then kisses you again, and this one feels like a promise.

TAGLIST ───── @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue <3 you can join my taglist through this doc! —> here

[applecaviar]

How do the LADS men react when they catch you reading smut. 🫣 Part 3

We still had some time to vote but I think my man is going to win this one.

Enjoy!

TW:Smut

Part 1 (Xavier)

Part 2 (Caleb)

Part 4 (Zayne)

Part 5 (Rafayel)

Vote for the next LI at the end of the story ❤️

As you settle into the plush comfort of Sylus' bed, your fingers dance across the screen of your phone, pulling up the controversial book that had been the talk of the office. The one your female coworkers had gushed over in hushed whispers, their cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming with a sparkle. You had to know what all the fuss was about.

As you delve deeper into the digital pages, your eyebrows arch higher with each passing paragraph. The book is even more explicit than you'd been led to believe, the author leaving very little to the imagination. You find yourself squirming slightly on the luxurious bed linens, a warmth taking over your cheeks that has nothing to do with the crackling fireplace nearby.

When you reach chapter ten, the scene unfolding before your eyes is downright scandalous. The protagonist and her lover are locked in the throes of ecstasy atop a roaring motorcycle. The vivid detail and raw, primal nature of their fucking is intense, the author paints a picture so vivid it's almost impossible not to feel the heat of the moment yourself.

As the scene unfolds in vivid detail on your phone screen, a familiar but not unwelcome heat begins to pool low in your belly. The author's graphic descriptions of the lovers' frenzied passion ignites something within you. Before long, you find yourself squirming on the bed, thighs clenching together as a tingling ache builds between them.

Your mind starts to wander, the fictional couple's encounter blurring with memories of your own encounters with Sylus. You picture his strong hands roaming over your curves, his kisses trailing down your neck and chest. In your mind, you replace the faceless man on the motorcycle with Sylus himself.

Unable to resist the urge any longer, your hand drifts down to the waistband of your pajamas, your breath hitches as your fingers brush against the slick folds of your pussy.

You know you shouldn't be doing this, but the ache between your legs demands satisfaction. Lost in the lusty fantasy you touch yourself, your own touch a poor imitation of the passionate lovemaking in the book. 

Your moans fill the spacious bedroom and you drop your phone onto the plush bedsheets, the device still open to the obscene motorcycle scene that sparked your desire. Your fingers dance over your folds, stroking your sensitive clit with increasing urgency as you picture Sylus pinning you beneath him on his own roaring motorcycle.

Two fingers plunge deep inside your core, pumping furiously as you imagine Sylus pounding into you, his powerful hips driving forward with relentless, hungry need. The sound of your breathing mingles with the imagined roar of the motorcycle engine, spurring you on as you chase your rapidly building climax.

Your fingers pump faster, plunging deeper, as you picture Sylus reaching up to secure his sleek black helmet over his head. The dark visor doesn't completely obscure his eyes and you can feel the intensity of his gaze boring into you. He leans in close, his hot breath fogging up the inside of the helmet as he growls, "Hold on tight, kitten. I'm going to fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name."

With a cry of ecstasy, you come undone, your walls clenching rhythmically around your plunging fingers as a wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your body writhes on the bed, the silken sheets tangled around you as you ride out the aftershocks of your climax.

Panting softly, you slowly come back to yourself, a satisfied grin playing about your lips. The ache between your thighs temporarily sated. The phone screen glows, the motorcycle scene frozen in time, a testament to the sinful fantasy that brought you to such a state.

You close your eyes, the events of the day, the provocative novel, and your fantasy of Sylus fade into the background as you surrender to the pull of exhaustion. Your breathing evens out, falling into a soft, steady rhythm as you curl up beneath the plush blankets of Sylus' bed, completely at peace.

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

You stir from your sleep, the beep of the alarm clock piercing through the silence of the bedroom. As you blink you become acutely aware of a firm, warm body pressed against your back. A muscular arm is draped over your waist, holding you close to a broad, bare chest that rises and falls with each soft, steady breath. Glancing over your shoulder, you find yourself face to face with Sylus.

You remain still, not wanting to disturb his peaceful sleep, and take a moment to appreciate his devastating good looks. The grayish white hair, usually so perfectly styled, is now slightly disheveled. His brows, normally arched in a state of contemplation or challenge, are now smooth and undisturbed. Even in sleep, there's a raw, masculine beauty to Sylus that sets your heart racing.

As you study him, you can't help but remember the vivid, intimate fantasy that played out in your mind the night before. The way his strong hands gripped your hips as he took you hard and fast on his motorcycle. You feel a fresh wave of heat pool between your thighs at the recollection.

Suddenly, Sylus stirs, his hold on your waist tightening. His voice, low and gravelly from sleep, rumbles in your ear. "Morning, kitten," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "Sleep well?"

You press a quick, chaste kiss to Sylus' lips, feeling the ghost of your intense fantasy linger in the fleeting touch. A rosy blush stains your cheeks as you pull away.

"Mm, yes, I did," you reply softly, slipping out of his embrace and rising from the bed, the cool air of the bedroom kisses your skin. As you gather your belongings and begin to ready yourself for work, you can't help but sneak glances at Sylus as he stirs and stretches like a panther. The sheets pool around his waist, revealing his toned torso and the tantalizing V that disappears beneath the fabric. You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry, and quickly avert your gaze.

"Well, I should get going," you say, slipping into your shirt and buttoning it up with trembling fingers. "Can't be late for my shift today, I have an important meeting with Jenna"

You hesitate for a moment, feeling Sylus' intense gaze following your every move. You take a deep breath and turn to face him, your blush still evident on your cheeks. "I'll... I'll see you later, Sy" you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You turn to leave and are almost out his bedroom door when you hear him call you.

"Miss hunter"

You freeze mid-step and slowly turn to face him, your eyes widening as you follow the direction of his pointed finger.

You hurry over to the bedside table, snatching up your phone and clutching it to your chest like a guilty secret.

As you turn to make your escape, Sylus' deep, smooth voice stops you in your tracks once more. "Pick you up after work," he states. It's phrased as a question, but the steel in his tone makes it clear that he expects an affirmative answer.

"I... yes, alright," you manage to stammer out. "After work." You can feel Sylus' gaze burning into your back as you hurry towards the bedroom door once again, your phone clutched tightly in your hand.

As you step out into the hallway, you can't shake the feeling that Sylus knows exactly what you got up to last night. The way he looked at you, the knowing glint in his eyes. You shake your head, trying to erase the unsettling thought, and fasten your steps towards the front door.

🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

You step out of the Hunters Association building, your heart already racing at the thought of seeing Sylus again. As you round the corner, your eyes fall upon the very object that had dominated your lustful fantasy the night before, Sylus' sleek, black motorcycle.

And there he stands, leaning casually against the seat with one muscular thigh crossed over the other. He looks every inch the dangerous, alluring man you know him to be. His leather jacket and pants hug his powerful frame.

As if sensing your presence, Sylus turns his head, piercing crimson eyes locking onto yours. A slow, sensual smile spreads across his face, and he straightens up, taking a step towards you. "Ready to go, kitten?"

You nod, your voice catching slightly in your throat as you reply, "Yes, I'm ready." You reach for your helmet, your fingers brushing against the smooth, glossy surface. However, before you can secure it on your head, Sylus' large, warm hands enclose your own, stilling your movements.

He steps closer, his chest nearly grazing your breasts as he leans in, his helmet tucked under one muscular arm. His eyes bore into yours, a glimmer of something dark and hungry flickering in their depths. "Before you do," he murmurs, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine, "would you like to use my visor to apply your lipstick, just like you did the other day?"

The memories of that day come rushing back, the way you had applied your lipstick using his visor as a mirror, your fingers trembling slightly as you did so. The way he had looked at you, his eyes burning into yours, filled with a hunger that made your knees weak.

The vivid fantasies that played out in your mind last night flash before your eyes, and you know you can't bring yourself to do it this time. Shaking your head, you take a step back, putting a little distance between your body and Sylus. "No, not this time," you murmur, your cheeks flushing hotly at the admission. You can't help but glance at the helmet tucked under his arm. "I'd rather not," you add, your voice barely above a whisper as you meet Sylus' intense gaze. The air between you feels charged, electric, as if Sylus can sense the forbidden thoughts swirling in your mind. You swallow hard, tearing your eyes away from him.

Releasing your hands, you reach up and quickly secure your helmet on your head, the plastic shell a barrier between you and Sylus' knowing eyes. The visor fogs up slightly as you take a shaky breath, trying to compose yourself. "We should get going.

Sylus smirks, the expression turning wicked as he watches you squirm under his gaze. He knows, there's no doubt about it. Somehow, some way, he discovered your open phone and read the steamy scene that had left you so hot and bothered. A thrill of excitement and nerves runs through you as Sylus settles his own helmet over his head, the sleek black visor hiding his expression but not the predatory gleam in his eyes. He knows, and now he's playing with you, toying with the knowledge of your secret desire.

A fresh wave of heat rushing to your cheeks as you watch Sylus swing his leg over the motorcycle seat. With a newfound determination, you hitch up your skirt slightly and swing your own leg over the bike, settling yourself behind Sylus.

A slow smile spreads across your face beneath your helmet as you wrap your arms around his waist, your hands splaying over the firm expanse of his abdomen. Two can play this game, you think to yourself, a sense of anticipation coiling in your belly. Sylus may have discovered your secret, but he doesn't know the full extent of the hunger that consumes you.

As the darkness grows and the city lights start to twinkle to life, a sudden boldness takes hold of you. Without warning, you slide your hands lower, your fingers teasing along the waistband of Sylus' leather pants. You feel the firm, muscular flesh beneath the leather, the heat of his skin seeping through the material. Your touch is light, almost feather like, but purposeful in its intent.

His body tenses beneath your wandering hands, and you feel the motorcycle wobble slightly as he tightens his grip on the handlebars. The knowledge that your touch affects him, that you can unsettle the usually unflappable man, sends a thrill of power rushing through you.

Spurred on by this sense of control, you allow your hands to dip lower, your fingers playing with the button of his pants. You trace the line of the zipper, feeling the hard bulge that begins to form beneath your touch. The knowledge that you can arouse him so easily, that your desire for him is reciprocated, makes your head spin with excitement.

Your breath grows shallow, fogging up the interior of your helmet as your hands continue their exploration. The motorcycle rumbles on beneath you, the vibrations adding to the building heat between your thighs. You're playing with fire, but you can't bring yourself to care. You want to burn, to consume Sylus with the same desperate hunger that had you coming undone in his bed.

"How much longer until we get home Sy?"

"Not much longer now, kitten. Just a few more miles to go." The motorcycle speeds up slightly, the wind whipping around you as you race through the darkening streets.

But you are not able to stop yourself and you reach down and slowly unzip his leather pants, the metal teeth parting ways to reveal the straining bulge beneath.

"Y/N" a note of warning laced into the command. But you ignore him, your fingers already delving inside to cup the hard, hot length of him through the fabric of his underwear.

The motorcycle surges forward with a roar, Sylus apparently as eager to get home as you are. The speedometer needle sweeps past the legal limit, the city lights become a stream of glowing lines.

As the motorcycle rolls to a stop at the red light, you waste no time in freeing Sylus from the confines of his underwear. Your fingers dip inside, wrapping around the hot, throbbing length of him, pulling him out into the cool night air. Sylus inhales sharply, his hips jerking slightly as your hand closes around his flesh.

Before the light can change, you're already working on him, your palm pressing his hard cock against the firm plane of his abdomen. Slowly, torturously, you run your thumb over the sensitive head, circling the tip in maddeningly gentle strokes. You keep your touch light, mindful of the delicate skin.

"Kitten" he grits out as the light turns green, and the motorcycle lurches forward again.

“Keep your eyes on the road Sylus, I don’t want us to crash.” 

His grip tightens on the handlebars, knuckles turning white as he tries to focus on the road ahead. "Fuck, Y/N," he grits out through clenched teeth, the curse echoing in the confines of the helmet. "Keep this up and we'll end up in a ditch."

You can feel the bead of precum forming at the tip of his cock, the slick fluid allowing your fingers to glide more easily over the swollen head. You take full advantage, rolling and kneading the sensitive flesh between your fingertips until Sylus is gritting out a low groan.

You smear the precum over your fingers, using it as lubricant as you drag your hand slowly down the thick shaft. You can feel it throb against your palm, Sylus' body responding eagerly to your touch. The motorcycle swerves slightly as Sylus struggles to maintain control, his hips rocking involuntarily into your stroking hand.

As he brings the motorcycle to a halt, you glance around, realizing that you're not parked outside his home. Instead, he's stopped in a secluded, isolated spot on the outskirts of the city. A single lamp post flickers weakly, casting a circle of light that illuminates the deserted parking lot. Beyond that, the only light comes from the pale glow of the moon

You're about to ask Sylus where he's brought you when you feel his hand closing around your wrist. In the dim light, you can see the intense, almost feral look in his eyes as he turns to face you.

"Sylus, where are we?" you ask, a hint of confusion in your voice. The air feels charged with tension, the night pressing in around you, isolating you from the rest of the world.

Sylus doesn't answer right away. Instead, he leans in close and he murmurs, "Somewhere private, where I can finish what you started without any interruptions."

You know you've pushed Sylus to the brink, teased him until he's teetering on the edge of control. And now, in this secluded spot, he's going to make you pay for it.

Sylus pulls back slightly, his hands moving to the straps of your helmet. With deft fingers, he unbuckles it and lifts it off your head, tossing it carelessly to the ground.

"Get off the bike, Y/N," Sylus commands, his voice a low, husky rumble that makes your toes curl in your boots. "Now."

You find yourself moving on autopilot, Sylus watches intently as you swing your leg over the bike seat, the moonlight casting a silver glow across your skin. The moment your feet touch the ground, he's off the motorcycle too, moving with a predatory grace that makes your heart race. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he's standing before you, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his body.

His hands come up to grip your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you against him. You can feel every hard plane and angle of his body, the evidence of his desire, an unmistakable bulge pressing against your belly.

"Did you think teasing me like that would go unpunished? I'm going to make you pay for every inch of skin you touched, for every moan I had to swallow as I tried to keep this bike on the road."

"I won't be able to eat your sweet little cunt like I want to while you sit on my bike, kitten. Not with my helmet on." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he grinds his erection against you. "But don't worry, I'll leave that pleasure for another day. Tonight, I need to be inside you, now."

With that promise, Sylus spins you around and bends you over the motorcycle seat, your breasts pressing against the leather. He kicks your legs apart, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips. Then he hikes up your skirt, exposing you to the cool night air.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, the fabric stretching taut for a moment before giving way. He drags them down slowly, the cool air kissing your heated skin as he bares you completely.

"Lift your feet," Sylus orders, his voice leaving no room for disobedience. You comply, lifting one foot and then the other, allowing him to remove your underwear entirely. He balls up the delicate lace, tucking them into his back pocket as a trophy of sorts.

With your most intimate place now exposed, Sylus leans down, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. You can feel the thick, hard length of him pressing insistently against your ass. Your body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming for his touch, for the feel of him inside you.

He slides his bare cock against your folds, the thick head catching on your clit with each pass. Sparks of pleasure shoot up your spine, your back arching as you press back against him instinctively. The wet sound of his shaft gliding through your arousal fills the air, a melody that makes your toes curl.

"Fuck, you're so wet, kitten," he growls, his voice rough with lust. "So ready for my cock."

You can feel it in the desperate, erratic way he grinds against you, in the harsh, ragged sound of his breathing. It's a battle of wills, a contest to see who will break first. And as Sylus' cock catches on your clit once more, sending a bolt of electric pleasure rocketing through you, you know it won't be long before one of you snaps. The tension is unbearable, the need for release a physical ache that demands satisfaction.

"Fuck, Sylus!" you cry out, unable to hold back any longer. As you feel the thick head of his cock pressing insistently at your entrance, you make your choice. Reaching back, you grab his hips and yank him forward, impaling yourself on his shaft with a desperate scream that echoes through the empty parking lot as Sylus' thick cock stretches your tight walls in one brutal, glorious thrust. The sudden intrusion is a shock of pain and pleasure, your body struggling to accommodate his girth.

"Oh god, you're so fucking big," you keen, your hips buck back against him, desperate for more, always craving that sweet spot where pleasure blurs with pain.

He doesn't give you time to adjust, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace from the start. The motorcycle rocks beneath you with each powerful thrust, the metal creaking in protest at the force of Sylus' movements. You're pinned beneath him, helpless to do anything but take his punishing thrusts as he fucks into you.

You're teetering on the brink, your body coiled tight and ready to shatter. The pleasure is cresting, your walls fluttering and clenching around his cock as he drives into you with wild, desperate abandon. You're so close, your climax just within reach, when suddenly Sylus curses under his breath.

"Fuck!" he snarls, his voice rough and ragged. Before you can react, he's pulling out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock to your overstimulated body.

You cry out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the motorcycle seat as you feel the cool night air hitting your swollen folds. "Fuck, Sylus!" you wail, your voice a mix of frustration and desperate need. "Don't stop now!"

He's panting harshly, his chest heaving as he fights for control.

"Dammit," he growls, "You feel too fucking good. I'm not going to last if you keep taking my cock like that"

You watch as Sylus sits back on the motorcycle seat, facing the back of his bike, his eyes shining with dark promise as he meets your pleading gaze. With a smirk, he pats his thighs invitingly.

"Climb up here, kitten," he commands "Fuck yourself on my cock until you scream. I want to watch you come apart on my dick.

He grips the base of his shaft, stroking it slowly as he waits for you to obey. The thick length is slick with your juices, the swollen head an angry red and leaking steadily. The sight makes your mouth water, your body screaming at you to take what you need.

You swing a leg over the motorcycle seat, straddling his hips, the thick ridge of his cock nestling against your dripping slit. With a shaky breath, you reach down and grasp his shaft, positioning him at your entrance. His hands find your hips, gripping them hard as he pulls you down. You sink onto his thick length with a low moan, your head falling back as he stretches you wide.

"Fuck, just like that," Sylus grunts, his fingers digging into your hips as he guides you into a steady rhythm.

You start to move, lifting yourself up until just the tip remains inside, before slamming back down. The helmet catches your gaze, the sleek black surface reflecting your flushed face and as you fuck yourself on his cock, you keep your eyes locked on the helmet, the fantasy you've imagined playing out before you.

As you feel your movements start to slow, your thighs trembling with exertion, Sylus takes control. He grips your wrists firmly, pushing your hands to the back of the motorcycle seat. "Hold on tight, sweetie," his voice a low, intense rumble. "Because I'm going to fuck you now."

Then, with a powerful thrust of his hips, he's slamming up into you, burying his cock deep inside you.

"Oh god!" you cry out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on the leather seat. The helmet blurs before your vision as Sylus pounds into you, the force of his thrusts rocking the motorcycle beneath you. He sets a brutal pace, each powerful drive of his hips forcing the air from your lungs in a sharp gasp. The we sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the night air, mingling with the creaking of the motorcycle and your wanton moans.

"Fuck," Sylus snarls, his breath coming in harsh pants fogging the inside of his helmet "You feel and look so fucking good. So perfect around my cock."

His hand tangles in your hair, gripping it tightly forcing you to maintain eye contact with him through the helmet as he fucks you.

Suddenly he changes the angle of his hips, tilting them up as he slams into you, the thick ridge of his pelvis grinds against your sensitive clit with each thrust. Sparks of electric pleasure shoot through you, making your back arch and your toes curl.

"Oh fuck, Sylus!" you scream, "Right there! Don't stop!"

Your nails dig into the leather seat, gripping it for dear life as Sylus pounds into your g-spot. The pleasure is overwhelming, your body shaking and trembling with the force of your impending climax.

As the pleasure crests to an unbearable peak, you force your eyes open. Through the visor of his helmet, you meet Sylus' gaze, and what you see steals your breath away.

His crimson eyes are locked onto yours, blazing with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. In that moment, you see a man utterly consumed by desire, a man who would move heaven and earth to claim you, to possess you completely. It's a look of pure worship. A believer seeing his god, his reason for living. Sylus is lost in you, lost in the feel of your tight heat gripping his shaft, lost in the way your body responds so perfectly to his touch.

Your body seizes, your back arching as your orgasm crashes over you.

"Sylus!" you scream, tears of pleasure streaming down your face as your climax tears through you. Your walls spasm and clench around him as you come harder than you ever have before.

His eyes widen as he feels your walls clamp down around him, "Fuuuuuck!" Sylus screams, his voice echoing through the night as he erupts within you. His hot, thick seed floods your insides, painting your walls with his essence as he grinds against your cervix. You feel each twitch and throb of his cock as he empties himself inside you, your body shaking with the force of your mutual climax.

You both collapse against each other, chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. Sylus' arms wrap around you, holding you close.

After a long moment, Sylus lifts his head, his crimson eyes finding yours through the visor once more. "Was that everything you imagined it would be, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice a low, sensual purr. "Riding my cock on the back of my bike, fucking yourself stupid?" He reaches up, his finger tracing along your jawline before tilting your chin up "Because I can assure you that for me it was even better than I could have possibly imagined."

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest as he watches you laugh. He reaches up and unclasps his helmet, pulling it off to reveal his handsome face, flushed and gorgeous in the moonlight. Leaning in, you press a soft, quick kiss to his lips, savoring the taste of him.

"Let's go home Sy, I still have a few ideas"

Sylus grins as he pulls out of you and helps you off the bike, his hands lingering on your curves. "Next time you go to a bookstore make sure to pick out the nastiest, most depraved books you can find. Spare no expense, kitten. It's my treat."

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his eyes glinting with mischief and dark promise. "I want to know all about the filthiest things you imagine us doing together, before acting them out in ways that will make those authors blush."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "And maybe, if you're a good girl, I'll even let you read them to me while I worship your body, Would you like that, baby?"

He pulls back slightly to gauge your reaction, one eyebrow cocked expectantly as he waits for your laughter to fill the crisp night air once more. The way his eyes shine makes it clear that he's already imagining all the deliciously depraved things he wants to do to you, inspired by the pages of those naughty books.

[muxshwriting]

bruises and a backache

max verstappen x teammate!reader

summary: hiding an injury from your teammate and then proving yourself beyond his overprotective-ness || warnings: bruises, past injury || word count: 1790 || masterlist

Max was pounding at the bathroom door, his blood rushing hot and fast through his body like he’d just stepped out of the cockpit mid-race. His palm slammed flat against the wood again. “Y/N,” he said, voice tight, bordering on frantic. “Open the door.”

The sound of the shower was still running, steam curling out from the cracks in the doorframe, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise he’d heard, the unmistakable sound of you stifling a scream. “I’m fine!” you called out, your voice thin and shaking as you tried to steady it. “It's just… a spider.” You try to make it sound casual but it comes out confused and as an almost question.

“A spider?” he repeated, disbelieving. “You’re not scared of spiders.”

You paused, eyes trained on your reflection in the fogged-up mirror. “It just surprised me,” you added quickly, the lie tasting stale on your tongue.

But Max wasn’t letting it go. You could hear him draw in a slow breath through his nose, trying to rein in the panic in his chest. “Please just… unlock the door,” he said, softer now. “Let me see you. Are you hurt?” Your words did nothing to calm Max's racing heart, only serving to make him more concerned. His body slumps forward, trying to be closer to you as his forehead rests on the door. "Can you unlock the door? Let me check you're alright?"

You stared at the lock, heart thudding. You didn’t want to lie to him. Not really. But you also didn’t want the storm you knew was waiting on the other side of that door. “You can't come in,” you tried again, voice light, teasing, desperate. “I'm changing.”

“It's nothing I haven't seen before. I’ve seen you change,” he shot back. “You've got to lie better. What's happening?”

There was a moment of silence before you gave in with a small sigh, walking over and unlocking the door with a soft click. Max watches the shadow retract and as soon as the lock is turned, he was already pushing it open.

You stood there, in your underwear, staring into the mirror, eyes flicking to his reflection as he entered. His gaze dropped to your skin instantly, like it always did, but instead of wandering hands and a smile, all that crossed his face was alarm. Your back still had the scars of childhood races etched onto it but it was now a mess of blooming bruises, angry purples and fading yellows. But Max could instantly tell which ones were new.

You hadn’t even made it into your shower and you were frozen in place like a deer caught in the beam of his attention. Max didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

Then, quietly; “Where did you get those, schat?”

You closed your eyes for a second and reached for your shirt, fumbling with it as you gave up on pretending you were fine. The ache in your muscles was too much tonight, and your stupid scream had ruined the last of your cover. “They’re from the crash last week,” you said softly. “It’s nothing serious. We checked everything- the medical team checked, everything’s okay. I just knocked them weirdly when I was changing.”

Max’s brows furrowed hard. “We checked?” he echoed. “Who’s we? Does Christian know?”

You hesitated. That was enough of an answer.

“Are you kidding me?” he barked. “Everyone knew except me?”

“I didn’t want to hide it from you-”

“Then why did you?”

“Because you would do exactly this,” you said, voice sharp but tired. “You’d panic. You’d hover. You’d worry and forget how to focus. And I couldn’t do that to you.”

Max exhaled harshly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You should’ve told me.”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t want you to stop seeing me as your teammate first. I didn’t want to become a problem to manage.”

His expression twisted at that, something between frustration and heartbreak. He stepped forward, his hand brushing your arm carefully.

“You’re never a problem,” he said. “But you are my-" His mind jumped for something that didn't compeltely give the game away to his feelings. There were the countless nights of binging tv shows with you, culred up on on sofas and slipping away into each other's motorhomes. "You're my person. Do you get that? If you’re hurt, I need to know.”

Your shoulders dropped, the weight of the truth finally settling between you. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Max pulled you close, one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other ghosting over your bruised skin like he wished he could draw the pain out of it. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured. “Just don’t make me find out like this again. I want to worry with you. Not because you shut me out.”

You nodded against his chest. His heartbeat thudded steadily under your ear.

“Okay,” you said. “I promise.”

The paddock buzzed with its usual pre-race energy, mechanics moving like clockwork, journalists circling like flies, engines humming in the distance. You walked toward the Red Bull garage in your race suit, helmet in hand, eyes focused ahead.

Max, of course, was already there. He spotted you immediately and beelined across the garage like a heat-seeking missile. “Morning,” he said casually, walking beside you. “Sleep okay?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Max. Still fine.”

He nodded once, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Did you take the painkillers Christian gave you?”

You gave him a look. “Max.”

“Just checking.”

He hovered as you moved to your station, watching as you adjusted the strap on your suit and flexed your shoulders, testing the pain quietly, discreetly. It twinged, sure, but nothing that would stop you from racing.

Max narrowed his eyes. “Was that a wince?”

“No,” you lied with the confidence of someone who’d already practiced it twice in the mirror. “Just adjusting.”

He didn’t look convinced. “We can still switch you out for Liam, you know. It’s not too late.”

You scoffed and turned to him fully, jabbing your finger into his chest. “Don’t start with that again. I passed medical. I’m cleared. I'm racing.”

Max lifted his hands in surrender but stepped a little closer. “I know. I know. It’s just… I watched the replay again last night.”

You paused. “Why would you do that to yourself? It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was just a racing incident.”

He looked at you like you’d said the dumbest thing imaginable. “Racing incident or not, I nearly lost you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than the sound of pit tools and shouting engineers. You softened, resting your hand on his forearm. “You didn’t. I’m right here.”

He looked down at your hand, then at you again. “Yeah, but I also wasn’t there. I didn’t know. You were hurting and I didn’t see it.”

“And now you do,” you said. “So let me drive, Max. Please. Don’t let this be the thing that makes you forget who I am.”

He stared at you for a moment, searching your face like he could read every inch of emotion you weren’t saying aloud. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you so much as blink weirdly on the radio, I’m calling it in.”

You rolled your eyes, lips quirking. “Deal.” You're both hiding small laughs as you part.

As you turned to leave, Max called after you, “And don’t worry about carrying your helmet and your pre-race things again. I told the interns to do it.”

You turned over your shoulder, walking backwards with a smirk. “Max, are you trying to seduce me with team orders?”

He smirked right back, eyes gleaming. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

When you cross the line in first place, the throbbing of your back seems to fade away with the joy of the occassion. Max rounds off the podium but when your parked up in parc ferme, his first thought is to crouch by your car, take your helmet in his own hands and his eyes scanning you like he was reading telemetry. He didn't say anything at first, waiting, not with champagne or celebration in mind.

Just walked up, hands hovering until he gently pulled you into his chest. Not a crushing hug, he knew better, but a steady one. Solid. Careful. Like he was trying to hold you together without hurting you.

“You’re walking a little stiff,” he murmured near your ear, voice just for you.

You let out a soft breath, arms around his waist. “It’s fine. I’m just sore.”

Max pulled back to look at you, eyes narrowed, like he could spot every lie beneath your skin. “Sore how?” he asked, tone more measured now. “Like regular ‘I just drove 300 kilometers’ sore, or ‘I haven’t told my teammate my back’s killing me’ sore?”

You sighed, cheeks flushing. “Don’t do that thing where you read my mind.” He didn’t smile. Not this time. He reached out and gently, so gently, brushed his fingers against your side. When you flinched just slightly, his jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t have pushed it that hard,” he said softly, not angry, just concerned.

“I needed to prove-”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” he interrupted. “I don’t care if you finished first or dead last, I just need to know you’re not hurting worse because of it.”

You looked down at your hands, pulling your gloves off gently. “I never need to prove it to you. But it wasn’t that bad, I paced myself, I didn’t take risks. I just… I needed to feel normal.”

Max exhaled slowly, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “You are normal. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean weak.” His voice dropped even lower, quieter now with the noise of the crowd fading in the background. “If you’d told me it was too much, I would’ve been proud of you for stepping out. I need you to remember that, okay?”

You nodded slowly, eyes flicking up to his. “I was careful, Max. I promise. I know I’m not back to 100% yet.”

He searched your face for a long second, then finally gave a small nod of his own. “Alright,” he said. “But you’re icing your back the minute we get to the motorhome. And I’m carrying your suitcase. And I’m not negotiating on either.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, Captain Verstappen.”

He smiled this time, just a little. “You can win the race, but I’m still calling the recovery strategy.”

You lean in and almost want to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for watching out for me.”

“Always.” He tilted his head to your waiting team. “Go get 'em.”

[cameronsbabydoll]

BEFORE YOU NOTICED — CHAPTER ONE

WARNINGS — chronic illness, psychological distress, emotional neglect, power imbalance, themes of isolation, and blood

you wake to the taste of rust. it’s faint, like a penny left too long in your mouth, but it’s there when you swallow. your tongue probes the back of your teeth, searching for a cut, a reason. nothing. you roll over, and the pillowcase crinkles under your cheek. there’s a stain, it’s small and red, almost like a crushed petal. your breath catches. you tug the case off before rafe stirs, his arm heavy across the sheets, his face still slack with sleep. you ball the fabric in your fist and slip from the bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood.

the washing machine hums in the laundry room, a low drone that fills the glass mansion rafe built for you both. you toss the pillowcase in with the towels, pour too much detergent, and watch the water churn. it’s fine. it’s nothing. a nosebleed, maybe. you’ve been stressed, haven’t you? the city’s too loud, the air too dry. you press your knuckles to your lips and tell yourself it’s fine.

in the bathroom, you stand at the sink, the one with the gold faucet rafe insisted on because it looked “timeless.” you brush your teeth, the mint sharp enough to burn. when you spit, the foam is pink. your stomach lurches, but you lean closer to the mirror, inspecting your reflection. your hair’s still perfect, smoothed from last night’s blowout. your skin is dull, but it always is this early. you’re still pretty. you have to be. you rinse the sink until the porcelain gleams, until there’s no trace of red.

you google it on your phone, fingers trembling as you type “blood in spit causes.” the results load slowly, the wi-fi flickering in this high-rise cage. stress. allergies. dehydration. you skim the benign ones, the ones that let you breathe. you don’t click on the others, the ones with words like “chronic” or “terminal.” you close the tabs, delete the search history, and set the phone face-down on the counter. it’s nothing. you’re fine. right?

rafe’s gone by the time you return to the bedroom, his side of the bed already cooling. a note on the nightstand, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: late meeting. don’t wait up. you trace the letters with your fingertip, the paper crisp under your touch. you fold it neatly, tuck it into the drawer with the others. he’s always late now, always chasing something bigger—deals, status, a version of himself he hasn’t caught yet. you don’t mind. at least you tell yourself you don’t mind.

you spend the morning in the garden, the one you planted when you first moved in. it’s tucked against the glass walls of the mansion, a small rebellion against the sterile lines of rafe’s world. the forget-me-nots are wilting, their blue petals curling at the edges. you kneel in the dirt, your silk robe—the one he bought, still tagged—slipping off one shoulder. you water the flowers, your hands steady even as your chest aches. it’s just a cough, you think, when it comes again, sharp and wet. you cover your mouth with your sleeve, and when you pull it away, there’s a speck of red. you fold the fabric over, hide it in the folds of the robe. no one’s here to see. not anymore at least.

you shower after, the water is scalding, as if you your trying to burn the rust from your lungs. you scrub until your skin’s raw, until the mirror fogs and you can’t see yourself anymore. you wrap your hair in a towel, paint your nails coral—the shade rafe mentioned once, three years ago, when you were still new to each other. you sit on the edge of the tub, blowing on your fingertips, watching the polish dry. it’s chipped already, a tiny flaw at the edge of your thumb. you’ll fix it later. you always fix it.

the day stretches, empty and gleaming. you wander the mansion, your footsteps echoing on the marble. the rooms are too big, the furniture too sharp, everything chosen by a designer rafe hired because he wanted it “perfect.” you touch the back of a chair, the leather cool under your palm. you wonder if he’d notice if you moved it, just an inch. but you don’t try.

you cook dinner, something simple—herb-roasted chicken, rafe’s favorite. you set the table for two, the plates, the wine glasses catching the city lights through the floor-to-ceiling windows. you light an old candle, the flame flickering through the light. you sit down and wait. the clock ticks past eight, then nine, and suddenly your stomach twists, but you don’t eat. you just sip on water, your throat tight, and tell yourself it’s fine. he’s busy. he’s always busy.

at ten, you cough again, harder this time. you stumble to the sink, gripping the counter as your body shakes. the blood’s thicker now, a clot that stains your palm. you stare at it, your breath shallow, your pulse loud in your ears. you turn on the faucet, watch the red swirl down the drain. you scrub your hands until they’re pink, until the water runs clear. you dry them on a towel, fold it carefully, and tuck it into the laundry basket. no one will know.

you sit by the window, the city sprawling below, a glittering maze of lights and noise. you’re high above it all, untouchable, the wife everyone envies. your hair’s still perfect, your nails are done, your smile quiet when you practice it in the reflection. you’re still pretty, even when you bleed. you have to be.

rafe comes home at 11:47 pm. you hear the door, the jangle of his keys, the heavy tread of his shoes. you stand, smoothing your dress, the one you wore for him last month when he said you looked “nice.” he’s in the kitchen, loosening his tie, his jaw tight from whatever meeting kept him. you step into the light, your heart stuttering as he glances up.

“you’re still up,” he says, not a question. his eyes skim over you, quick, like he’s checking a box. “you look tired.”

you smile, the one you’ve practiced, the one that doesn’t waver. “just a long day,” you say, your voice soft, the way he likes it.

he kisses your cheek, quick, mechanical, like he’s clocking in. his lips are cold, and you smell the city on him—smoke, cologne, something sharper you can’t name. he moves past you, already pulling out his phone, scrolling through messages you’ll never see. “food’s cold,” he says, glancing at the table. he doesn’t sit.

“i can heat it,” you offer, but he’s already shaking his head, heading for the stairs.

“not hungry. long day.” he pauses, half-turns, his profile sharp against the city glow. “you should sleep. you don’t look good.”

you nod, your throat tight, your hands clasped to hide the tremor. “okay.”

he’s gone before you can say more, his footsteps fading up the stairs. you stand there, the candle still burning, the chicken untouched, the wine glasses empty. you blow out the flame, the smoke curling like a ghost. you clear the table, wrap the food, wipe the counter until it shines. you cough once, softly, and check your palm. it’s clean. for now.

you climb the stairs, the mansion too quiet, the air too heavy. you pass the bedroom door, rafe’s already asleep, his phone glowing on the nightstand. you slip into the bathroom, open your makeup drawer, and pull out the bottle of pills you hid last week. you don’t take one. you just hold it, the plastic cool against your skin. you’ll call the doctor tomorrow. or the day after. there’s time. there has to be.

you slide into bed, the sheets crisp and cold. you curl onto your side, away from rafe, your knees tucked to your chest. you think of the garden, the forget-me-nots, the way they droop under the weight of their own petals. you think of the silk robe, folded in the closet, waiting for a day he’ll notice. you think of the blood, hidden in sinks and sleeves and pillowcases.

you close your eyes, your breath shallow, your heart a quiet drum. you’re still pretty, you tell yourself. you’re still the wife worth coming home to.

you dream of red petals, falling.

[taegularities]

upcoming… | (m)

Summary: Jungkook once planted a garden in your chest that he watered when he smiled and you killed when he left. But flowers withering isn't enough; that doesn't mend the ache. No – you want this entire story to die.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: exes to ?, college!au; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: heartache, past breakup, flashbacks, memories, memory erasure (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind vibe), tears, angst angst angstttt, fights but also such tender moments, college sweethearts 🥺, smut (details to be added when the fic drops)… the ending 👁 ➵ est. word count: around 25k ➵ a/n: another angsty taegularities special :D coming next, so stay tuned!! 👁

–

"I do fear… what if one day, it's just me and my thoughts, and you're nowhere to be found?"

Jungkook laughed; not at your worries, but about how improbable the words sounded. It flooded a sense of relief through you when he promised, "To leave… I'd have to un-meet and forget about you entirely, you know?"

Summary: Somewhere out there, a sinister castle roams the hills behind the dense fog. And somewhere hidden inside, there is a man you need to find; to charm; to wreck. Provided… he doesn't destroy you first.

➵ pairing: Taehyung x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: howl's moving castle au, fantasy au, s2l / e2l; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: magic and stuff, spy stuff, frenemies?, bickering and initial dislike, fights, sexual tension, based on the movie version of HMC, multiple (2) smut scenes (details to be added but expect… quite smth :p) ➵ est. word count: 20k ➵ a/n: this has been a wip for literal years now, and i think it's time i sent it out into the world :') since i'm rereading the book (but the fic is based on the ghibli movie!), i've been feeling some sort of way, soooo… howl oneshot soon?

–

“Do you feel anything?”

You can't. There is no heartbeat, no steady rhythm, nothing. Yet he breathes, walks, smiles as if he's missing nothing.

You shake your head, and he chuckles, a crooked smirk that confuses you in the best way possible. He loosens his firm grip around your hand, but you still leave your touch right there, rubbing over his chest until he adds,

“A heart's a heavy burden.” The warmth of your fingers sprawls across his torso, his eyes closing. “Especially if you’re me.”

Summary: Jungkook and you try something very, very new.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: fwb/fake dating/established relationship; fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: smut smut smut (everything else is redacted bc that'd just spoil the whole thing ha ha :D) ➵ est. word count: 10-12k ➵ a/n: this is part of my colour me in series – for those who don't know! the series is still paused, but i might continue it sometime this year if things work out. this drabble would come next <3

–

"I've been promising it for so long now," he whispers, fingertips wandering along your bare sides, beneath your crop top. "Haven't I?"

Summary: Jeon Jungkook barges into your unproblematic life unexpectedly. He's supposed to stay for the summer; but it doesn't take long for the bright days to turn grey, stirring, bittersweet; a trigger for bleak memories and a reminder that sometimes, closeness shatters more than it heals.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: s2l, summer/college au, dancer!jk; angst, fluff, smut; oneshot ➵ warnings: love triangle!!, yearning, thin walls lol, tears, fighting, old memories/childhood stuff, (mention of) drugs, abandonment, camping, multiple smut scenes (details will be added when the fic drops), plot twists, heartbreak, THE ENDING PLS ➵ est. word count: 40k lol; might split it in 2-3 parts if it gets too long ➵ a/n: i am most excited for this oneshot (?), and i have been for so long. it's a scary amount to write and i don't know when it'll be done. if i could, i'd write and post it rn… it's hella intimidating, but i love this story and i'm also hella excited, so… stay tuned and bring tissues <3

–

“Maybe… I don't know,” he pauses, blinking, and then starts anew, “maybe I'm this much with her, so I don't end up knocking at your door.”

A sting of guilt pierces your heart; you ask, “You… you guys hook up all the time. Doesn’t she feel… that way for you?”

“She doesn't.”

“And you? Do you feel anything for her?”

“I don't.” He hesitates again, shrugging a shoulder. “Well, friendship.”

“...Don't end up breaking hearts, Jungkook.”

Summary: In a world fractured by hatred, Yoongi seems your quiet salvation. But when a boy from your past returns, cloaked in secrets and unfinished memories, battle lines blur and you find yourself faced with a choice between the peace you built and the fire you never truly forgot.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader, Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: royal au, s2l, childhood bf2l, love triangle; angst, fluff, smut; series ➵ warnings: there's a battle/war thing going on, love triangleeeee of the best sort, tender yoongi and fierce jungkook, some scenes are extremely tense – again in the best way possible, sexual tension, heartbreak, hate, betrayal (and nope, no cheating), multiple sex scenes (with both yoongi and jk (but not with both of them together lol)), falling in love hard, jealousy; the… the ending…… ➵ est. word count: 150-200k (around 10 chapters) ➵ a/n: THIS WILL LITERALLY RUIN US LMAO no seriously, i'm going to pour my everything into this. it's a story with quite some angst and heavy tension that even gave me trouble breathing when i was just outlining it :') yoongi in this is achingly sweet and jk is absolutely delicious. i think it'll be a piece i'm most proud of… and someday, i want to turn it into a novel. i hope you all love this 🤍

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"I am in love with you," Yoongi whispers; your eyes water. "Even if you aren’t only in love with me. I know how this might go. And I am not saying we should make this official because – I am scared you might realise you need him more."

"It’s not about needing anybody…"

"But it’s about who sits in your heart so deeply that it feels like you need him to survive. I don’t know if I am that for you. But you’re that for me."

–

"Why are you still here, Jungkook? Why are you always around me? It’s not me you came back for."

"Sweetheart–"

"Would you have? If not for this?"

"If not for this… I would have come sooner."

Summary: A casual hook up morphs into a fierce fever dream when roommates slash best friends Min Yoongi and Jeon Jungkook bring heaven and hell to you – all at once, in one single night.

➵ pairing: Yoongi x female reader x Jungkook ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: kind of fwb, threesome, college au; fluff, hella smut ➵ warnings: yoongi and oc are fwb, teasing, flirting, kissing booth stuff, jk wears glasses and has long hair (manbun beloved), sexual tension, mid-sex convos, threesome, smut (e.g., double penetration, degradation, spit stuff, manhandling,.. (will expand on this once the full thing drops), aftercare, valentino yoongi and ck jk!! ➵ est. word count: 12-15k ➵ a/n: back to the ruin you days, i guess. am super excited for this to finally drop. gonna give y'all the best version of it possible, love you <3

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“I’m just saying. Tonight might be a little too much for you with the two of us, you know? I’m not as easy to handle as you think.”

“I don’t think you are,” you confess. “But I don’t want to handle you. I want the opposite.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes. A hint of desire, hunger growing in the predator’s big gaze. If he wants to reject you now, you’ll walk away.

But you don’t think he will.

And once more, courageous, you say, “Handle me, Jeon Jungkook.”

full teaser that i once posted!

Summary: You carve your name into Jungkook's mind with constant affection and care, and he keeps hoping that both your hearts beat in unison, synchronised and wild. But in reality, it’s only ever him who falls – you're as still as time... until, you're not.

➵ pairing: Jungkook x female reader ➵ rating: 18+ ➵ genre: singer!jungkook, bf2l but also brother's best friend; angst, fluff, smut; trilogy ➵ warnings: jealousy, another love triangle lmao, namjoon is her brother and his best friend, oc playing wingwoman, confessions, pain, tears, moving away, yearning, idiots to lovers too tbh, smut <3 ➵ est. word count: around 60-70k in total ➵ a/n: this is part of my evermore series which was supposed to have a oneshot/twoshot/trilogy per member with unrelated stories; but since life has gotten so crazy, i might not be able to write all of them. but i still have tae's fic 'cotton candy' written and want to work on timbre; so these will drop at least and i am so thrilled to share them. especially this lil mini series 🤍

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Jeon Jungkook has been in love with you since the very first time he met you.

At least that's what he'd tell you if you ever asked.

He won’t tell you that whatever respect he housed for you since you were teenagers evolved into something far more advanced along the way.

That it was over time that your friendship started blooming like the tiger lillies he liked so much. You must have been sixteen then.

Now, around eight years have passed, and the thriving musician and your best friend Jeon Jungkook is still in love with you. Boundlessly, irreversibly.

–

a/n: hey hey!! this is a small overview of all the things i shall start preparing very, very soon. i will work on these wips whenever i can, and i am excited about every single one of them. i will ofc also drop longer teasers to each story when we reach that point!

i do also think you guys will love each story! so i can't wait to drop them one by one :') this post is also sort of to motivate and inspire me, so if you want to talk about any of these or hype them up… let's talk :p

–

also, here's the taglist! <3

[pretty-royals]

Missing something

| Summary : Once upon a quiet morning a small thing was forgotten—just a ring, simple and gold, left behind without a thought. And yet, for the rest of the day, Sanji grew quiet, distant, and strangely flustered. You watched him dodge your gaze, sidestep your touch, wrapped up in a secret he wouldn’t speak aloud.

Type : Fluff

Warnings : Slight angst on Sanji’s side,very soft hurt/comfort, Married™

The morning sun poured through the porthole of the shared bedroom, casting golden light over the curve of your shoulder. You stirred with a soft sigh, warm and wrapped in the lingering scent of Sanji’s cologne and the faintest trace of last night’s perfume—an blend of lavender and black tea that always clung to him after a late-night cleaning spree in the kitchen.

He was already gone, of course. Sanji always rose before everyone else, like the sun itself couldn’t function without him in the galley. You smiled sleepily, fingers trailing over the sheets where he’d lain beside you. But as your hand wandered, it caught on something small and cold resting on the edge of the nightstand.

Your brow furrowed.

You sat up, blinking away the fog of sleep, and picked it up.

A wedding ring.

His wedding ring.

The same gold band you had both exchanged months ago. You’d both promised to never take them off unless absolutely necessary.

Your lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Really, Sanji?”

He must’ve left it behind during his morning routine. That man could be precise in a fight and in the kitchen, but he was an absolute mess when it came to organizing his own life. How he managed to forget his ring of all things, though, was beyond you.

Still holding the ring between your fingers, you padded out of the room barefoot, intent on returning it.

—|

Sanji was in hell.

Not actual hell. No, not the fiery, brimstone kind.

This was a personal hell—a very specific nightmare built for only one man:

He had lost his wedding ring.

It started like any other morning. He’d gotten up early, brushed his teeth, showered, prepped breakfast, and was halfway through chopping vegetables before he looked down at his hand and realized the unmistakable absence of cool metal against his skin.

Panic had gripped him like a vice.

His first instinct had been to retrace his steps. He’d run back to the bathroom, rifled through towels, checked the sink drain like a madman, then sprinted back to the bedroom to toss the sheets like a burglar.

Nothing.

He hadn’t told you. How could he?

He couldn’t face you without it. You meant everything to him. That ring was more than a symbol—it was you. Losing it felt like he’d just dropped his entire world down a drainpipe.

So, he avoided you.

Which was hard, because you kept trying to talk to him.

You’d poked your head into the galley once that morning, the ring held behind your back. “Hey love, you okay? You seem a little distracted today.”

He hadn’t even looked up from the cutting board. “Oui, ma chérie, everything is perfect. Just focused on breakfast. Run along, okay?”

The confused look on your face had almost broken him.

Then there was lunch. You’d come by again, ring in hand.

“Sanji, can we talk?”

“Sorry, lunch rush! Later, my sweet! Mwah!”

He’d all but shoved a tray of soba into Usopp’s hands and practically dove into the pantry to avoid you. Each time he saw you, guilt tore another hole in his gut.

⸻

By the time dinner came around, you were fuming.

You’d tried giving him the ring three more times. Each time, he brushed you off. The most recent attempt, he’d actually ducked under the table when he saw you walking in.

You stood outside the galley, arms crossed, the ring clutched tightly in your palm. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t want to wear it anymore?

No. That didn’t make sense.

Sanji adored you. Worshiped the ground you walked on, to the point of idiocy. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about not wanting to wear the ring.

But damn if it wasn’t hurting.

⸻

It was late.

Most of the crew had turned in for the night. The lights on the Sunny’s deck were low, the sound of the waves soft against the hull. You sat on the bed, legs tucked beneath you, the ring sitting on the pillow beside you like a small, accusing ghost.

The door creaked.

You looked up.

Sanji stood in the doorway, half in shadow, half cast in the soft golden light from the hall. He looked exhausted. Hair disheveled. Tie undone. Shoulders slumped.

But worst of all—he looked ashamed.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You didn’t respond. You just looked at him.

He walked in slowly, as if approaching a minefield, and sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands twisted together.

“I…” he began, then stopped, cleared his throat, and started again. “I have something to tell you, mon amour.”

You waited.

“I lost it,” he whispered. “I lost my ring. I noticed this morning and I… I’ve been looking for it all day. I tore apart the ship. I searched the kitchen, the vents, even the damn seagull nests. I was too embarrassed to tell you. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t care. That I wasn’t careful. I’m so sorry.”

He still didn’t look at you.

You picked up the ring and held it out to him, your voice calm.

“You mean this wedding ring?”

Sanji froze.

His head whipped toward you, eyes wide, jaw slightly open.

You arched a brow, voice carefully even. “The one I tried to give you since the start of the day? The same one you forgot in the bedroom this morning?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I—I left it in the bedroom ?” he croaked, horrified.

You nodded slowly.

“I found it on the edge of the nightstand. I figured you took it off to wash your face or something and forgot. I tried to give it back. Multiple times. You even ducked behind Luffy once.”

“I thought you were mad at me,” he said, eyes still wide. “I thought you—”

“Sanji,” you interrupted, voice softening, “I’m not mad that you forgot it. I’m mad you ignored me all day. You could’ve just told me.”

He took the ring from your hand like it was sacred, eyes shimmering. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

You sighed and shifted forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your forehead to the side of his neck.

“Sanji, I married you because I love you, not because of a ring. That’s just a piece of metal. A beautiful one, yes, but you are the reason it matters.”

He turned his head slightly, his nose brushing yours.

“I’ve been a fool,” he murmured. “A lovesick, panicking, fool.”

You kissed his cheek. “Yes, but you’re my fool.”

He slipped the ring back onto his finger slowly, reverently, as though he were putting it on for the first time.

Then he turned to face you fully, cupping your face in his hands.

“Je t’aime” he whispered.

You smiled. “Je t’aime aussi. Now, no more hiding from me behind dining tables.”

He laughed, breathless and warm, pulling you into a real kiss this time—soft, deep, full of the silent apologies and gratitude he couldn’t quite say aloud.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“I swear, I’ll never take it off again.”

“Good,” you teased. “Because next time, I might just make you earn it back.”

His eyes lit up, lips curving. “Does that mean you’ll punish me, Mrs. Vinsmoke?”

You smacked his shoulder lightly. “It means I’ll make you sleep in the kitchen.”

He laughed again, and this time it was full, bright, and wholly relieved.

And just like that, the weight lifted, replaced with something infinitely warmer—something that sparkled even brighter than a silver ring under moonlight.

Love, as chaotic and imperfect as it was, had never tasted sweeter.

By the command and exclusive favor of Her Most Radiant and Serene Highness, the Princess.You are hereby named the Special Guest of the Court : @clare-875

The Princess thanks you dearly—for your wit, your charm, and most importantly, your service to the crown.

The Court :

@dazaiwifey @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @sle3pymarimo @sweet-3-whispers

[pranabefall]

⠀⠀QINGXIN IN THE MOUNTAIN.⠀⠀⸺ ⠀⠀zhongli.

syn. while the divine war rages on, you find yourself entangled in the company of a wounded god and reservations or not, you don't have the heart to let someone die on your watch.

TW. ⸺ beta read, long oneshot like seriously it's over 14k, mentions of war and past death, seclusion and wounds. this work contains 18+ contents so minors, you know the drill, unprotected sex, half-dragon zhongli, reader has no gendered pronouns but has female parts, 4k words worth of smut guys get ready.

LOG. ⸺ this is another repost of this fic after my old account got deleted on accident. taken from my old blog lol, a buffer as i work on my current wip XD. this work has been marked mature for containing smut. readers below the age of 18 / ageless blogs and antis, do not interact.

“i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

— PABLO NERUDA.

Curiosity , you learned, was a reckless maverick in every right. Your mother told you of its consequences, of the people who wandered too far from the safety of your village and the watchful eye of your deity, and she told you of their death and the disaster they reaped alongside it.

Curiosity was what cost you — and you knew , you knew better than to indulge in its traitorous little tug when you wake, the scent of petrichor in abundance and the chill of a rainstorm’s aftermath prickling your skin. 

“Forget about it.” you tell yourself when you rub the sleep out of your eyes. 

“Forget about it.” you tell the reflection staring up at you, her brows furrowed with a familiar sternness. It scatters when you dip your hands into the basin, the icy water stinging your fingertips.

“Forget about it.” you breathe out as you lean against the doorframe of your small home, staring out at the expanse of green and the fog that had settled a few feet below.

Yet here you were , scaling down a mossy slope, your bare feet damp from the dew it trod over and your hair still messy from your sleep. You could dimly recall something the previous night between the rains, between the crash of thunder and the crackle of lightning. It was a sound too distinct and out of place in a storm, something akin to the beginnings of an earthquake before an unknown force cuts its life short.

Your head swivels to the side. You couldn’t see much past the mist save for what was in front of you and you clamber down with a little more prudence till the ground evens out a bit more and the screen before you dissipates. You could see nothing out of place, save for a few upturned trees and your shoulders slump. It was all for nothing , you realize and a tinier voice dares to whisper a spiteful little ‘dammit’ .

You turn, casting one last glance over the clearing, then make your way back uphill. It was a wasted attempt and as you stew in your own self-berating and disappointment, you almost miss the faint crackle behind you. It was just the wind , you reason. There was little cause for it to be anything else. What could possibly make its way up here ?

When you hear it a second time, you freeze, something cold jolting at your bones.

Well shit .

It doesn’t take too long to find the source, save for trudging through the mud and a few of the murkier parts past the tree line — but you find it by the time the sun shifts the barest fraction to the west..

“ Ah — ” was the most your throat could choke out as shock swallowed you whole, like ice water.

There is a trail of gold on the earth, and it leads up to the slumped form of a man, his robes stained with the same gilted shade and his breath leaving shallow puffs of air where he lay, motionless and seemingly dead.

Well — fucking — shit . You mind shudders, your thoughts screaming and splitting up against your head like some panicked beast. It was chaos at its core, it was the frenzied scrape of control.

You were no fool. The man before you, both massive in frame and presence, was one amongst the hundreds of those touched by divinity — god or not — whose names were uttered and praised amidst this war. There was nothing distinctly human about him; not his clothes, not the horns that curled atop his skull and the brown scales smattered across, not the ichor he bled out — nothing .

For a moment, or maybe more, you stare down at him, long and hard as you try to wrangle your rationality back and think of what move to make. You could not afford the trouble that comes with aiding a foreign being and the land you settled on could house any force hostile to the man at your feet. A shaky breath escapes, then another. You were trembling now, just a little, daring to take a step back, then one more.

Kill him , another voice snaps. It was twisted and its words breathed acrid revulsion. Get it over with, he’s not worth the pain.

You consider it, for the tiniest bit of a second till he lets out a shudder and shifts with tense shoulders, his grunts labored and streaked with muted agony — those darker thoughts quickly flatline to scattered anxiety and the hand that brushes the blade at your hip falls limp. Not now, perhaps . You could just leave him here, let nature run its course.

You could do that , you decide with a semblance of confidence.

Of course you could.

Of course .

Your shuffling comes to a stop and you're backtracking immediately, your pace holding an urgent bounce with every step. There is a feverish jerk to your movements when you settle beside him, and a storm of emotions raging in your chest. It does little to ease you — little does, these days — and you press up on his shoulders in an attempt to roll him over onto his back.

It happens so swiftly, a blur of gold and black that shadowed your periphery before you were slammed down with eyes like uncut cor lapis glaring down at you. You scramble, clawing at your neck, at the digits pressed up against your windpipe and your pulse and it beats faster and faster and faster . One tiny move and you’d be left for dead.

( A part of you is stunned — for even wounded and weakened from some unknown, unspoken battle, the quavering power within him seemed to beat strong. You feel a mix of thrilled awe and terror turn in your stomach. )

His gaze hardly falters, roving at your form before his grasp on you releases and he mutters something akin to an apology, collapsing again. His eyes were still open, watching you beneath a haze of pain and deliriousness, stiffening now and then when you so much as move. The strength he showed, no matter how small it was, is gone and there is the slightest hint of vulnerability beneath the stripped layers of stone.

Your instincts scream at you to run yet you stay rooted in place, coming to sit up and hover by his side. In the end, your own concern and pity won out. “Y-you’re wounded.” you try to reason, only to be met with a grunt. You find yourself wincing as you stutter over your words, your voice hoarse from months of disuse. “Please, l-let me help. My h-home is c-close b-by.” 

Feeble , you chide yourself amidst it all, old, old regrets tearing at your mind and clawing at your thoughts. You shut your eyes, letting your muscles relax and you try again.

Tugging at his arm serves to be fruitless. He was too large for you to carry over and your first attempt gives that away well enough. The gold in his veins seems to dim with the passage of time and you fear his life slipping away under your watch. “I n-need you to w-walk…” your plea is almost caught in your throat and you have to wrench it out to let it be heard. He tilts his head your way. “You’re too h-heavy…” you try to reason.

Another grunt sounds out and thankfully , his form rises. You’re quick to move to his side, supporting him against your shoulder, the thrum of elemental energy strong beneath your hold. He practically oozed it and it feels like what the storm felt like — the trembling earth itself.

You don’t say much after that, leading him back to your home, your hand and clothes staining a bright gold.

Perhaps your house would have been a little cleaner had you known you’d have a guest over. When you lead the the being inside, you scan the small space with a sense of perplexity, hoping he wouldn’t scrutinize the sight too much ( your mother always seemed to emphasize the need for a well kept living space — should she see you now, you know she’d be rolling in her grave with indignity ).

He stumbles a little, letting out a guttural snarl and you flinch, almost dropping his weight onto the floor when you feel claws close down on your arm and press against your scarred skin. You hiss softly and he gives a little jolt, his hold on you releasing, leaving little but the crumpled sleeve of your tunic behind. 

“How much — ” he cannot finish the sentence, his nose wrinkling up and he almost looks a little feral underneath the light. 

“Just a l-little more.” you assure, cracking the barest of smiles as you cross the room and lay him down on your bedroll. He was tall enough as is, and you think his horns would scrape up against the ceiling of this house should he stand upright. 

The bedroll itself was pathetically small beneath him, but you couldn’t throw a fuss about it, working away at his clothes in relative silence, steeling yourself up in preparation for the worst. 

The clasps and the belts and sashes are undone by nimble fingers and as the layers peel away, you come to a stop. It was not a pretty sight, his wounds, the clawed lacerations criss crossing across his torso like patchwork. You doubt you could salvage much and you almost give up at the spot, pulling away the rest of his clothing. The worst one splits across his chest and you look to the side, battling out the vertigo and the nausea threatening to creep up. 

He’d have been dead at this point, had the blood in his veins be that of a mortal’s and not something inhuman. In some convoluted sense, he was lucky.

Stop cowering , you hiss internally. Pull yourself together .

The sound of rustling clothes is all you could hear after, followed by the clinking of metal and the sharp tang of alcohol. Your movements are almost robotic — and you had done this plenty of times before, cleaning the wounds of children and soldiers. But this wasn’t home and you doubt any soothing words would stoke at the feelings of a god. 

When you return to his side, his forehead is damp with sweat.

“ Shit — ”

His skin was warm . Could an immortal being fall ill? Was that even a possibility?

“I will be fine.” he rasps out and you jump, snapping his way as you hold the clothes closer to your chest in defense. He turns his head, peering at you and you think you see a stubborn glimmer beneath the usual masked strain and impassivity. “My wounds will heal in time…I…only seek shelter till they do…”

“Absolutely n-not.” you reply, splaying your palm out on his stomach to keep him still as you clean away the dirt and dried blood. The shallower wounds were slowly closing up again. “You’re in no state to argue right now.”

His mouth twitches and there is a momentary flash of teeth. You try not to let it frazzle you as much despite his initial protest, your movements slowing to a more delicate pace as you bathe the worst of his lesions till you were satisfied with the lack of dirt caking his body. “It seems choice no longer holds to be a luxury.” he utters under his breath.

“No.” you agree. “It does not.”

He falls silent, a petulant turn on his lips. “Are you a healer?” he asks. You bow down, unwinding the linen wraps you had stored away.

“My mother was.” you finally admit, your posture straightening. “I learned what I could from her to aid the people in my village. I never studied medicine formally, however…” you trail off. Talking seems to grow a little easier the more you speak. The hoarseness was slowly giving way and your stuttering grew less frequent.

“And I take it you shall try to help me as you do with any other human?” there was a sardonic sort of amusement in his tone that has you bristling. “Your medicines and methods will not work on an Adeptus. Put your tools away, you only waste your time.

“Adeptus…so you hail from the settlement south of Mt. Tianheng?”

“You’re ignoring my words,” he accuses. You bat your lashes at him innocently.

“Small talk.” you shrug. “You can tell me everything you want after I’m done tending to you.” you meet his gaze, tumultuous gold melded with an orange-red. He narrows his eyes, his unfocused vision scanning you, then the house, then at the bandages you held before he leans his head back with a defeated sigh.

By the time you conclude your task, he has fallen unconscious, his breathing deep and his heartbeat unnaturally slow for a human. You look down at your ruined clothing, at the stains at the hem of your tunic and at the sleeves and you hope you can salvage what you can from this, moving on to change out of them and fish out a cleaner pair of clothes. 

The smell of petrichor still persists through the day, the sky brewing with the makings of a new storm. Perhaps you had lost track of time and the monsoons were sitting in sooner than expected and you move on to salvage whatever you’d left outside to dry and board your windows up for the incoming onslaught.

The man wakes when night falls, form set aglow against the dim lamp light. 

“Let’s change your bandages.” you offer. He doesn’t protest this time, painfully sitting himself up with gritted teeth as you get back to work. His skin still radiates that uncomfortable temperature as you press up against it. You might need to get a wet rag ready lest he overheats

He speaks after the silence persists. “You shouldn’t see me like this.” it comes out as a whisper so soft, you almost miss it. His face however holds a distant look, with a hint of disappointment lurking within and you tug at the linen a little harder. You’ve heard that before, from the lips of men and women who had too much to hold and little weakness to show. You wonder what it would entail for a warrior, or a being whose years spanned farther than yours, to sink as low before a stranger.

It must be hard.

“We all get hurt sometimes.” you smile, hoping to lighten the air with a bit of humor ( it was getting too heavy, the air in the room ). “I’ve lost count of the number of times I've hit my head…and you think I'd be a little more cautious given my studies…”

A poor joke stays a poor joke no matter the delivery ( and yours was weak to begin with ). He does not say or do much, save for a slight twitch in his jaw and an unamused tilt in his head. You shrink back, skittishly throwing his used bandages aside in favor of new ones with a hasty “Nevermind.” on your tongue. 

“Do you truely not know who I am?” he asks, his touch skimming the sheets absently. You shake your head, confusion and that damned curiosity slowly lurking and clawing its way to the light. You want to stamp the ugly feeling down and out of sight. You try to. It does not disappear. He continues, “What of the civilization south of Tianheng?”

A shrug was the most you could manage. You guess that was where he hails from. “I know it’s the domain of a geo god, and that beings touched by longevity, ally beside him. “My old home is far, however, and our god hid us away from the world…my knowledge on this is sparse.” 

You’re almost ashamed to admit it, to acknowledge the bubble you had grown within, accepting the suffering of the men and women who ventured out and returned with broken bodies you and your mother had to fix. You weren’t sure what sort of terrible dichotomy it was, to live in ignorance amidst blatant horror and blood, and you don’t wish to return to it.

He seems to take this in, his eyes training up at the ceiling, then upon you with a lidded stare. “Who was your god?”

The icy set to your jaw was a hint he picks up on and he does not further the topic.

“...I am from there…from Liyue.” he says instead, in recollection of your previous question. The settlement was a distance from here, a few days worth of journeying by cart and hardly worth the risk of the travel with the demons that lurk and the gods that warred.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

His lips curl again, but it’s less of a grimace and more of a smile, his fangs tucked away to show a visage less feral, less dangerous. You find yourself relaxing a bit more unconsciously, seemingly charmed by this simple action ( and the thought almost scares you ). “What is your name, mortal?”

Ah, he wasn’t going to make this easy. You’re tempted to tug on his bandages a little harder if only to spite him.

You don’t reply till you are done with your chore and you lean back, massaging your stiff fingers. Your name slips out of your lips then, the action feeling natural in defiance of the years spent hardly having a friendly face within your home, save the occasional traveler. The adeptus seems satisfied. “You may call me Zhongli.” he replies, his voice softer, raspier.

“Zhongli.” you repeat. Zhongli .

There is a rustle of fabric and his fingertips brush against yours, the touch nearly having your arm lurch back in muted shock. He seems unphased but you — you watch a soft light shimmer through the dimness of your walls. When it fades, a single visage of gold stares back.

“It’s your reward. For aiding me.” there is a medley of pride and contentment and you liken it to that of a child offering a messily put together gift. Gold is coveted by most, but has little use here, and you have little use for it. But the gift is still cupped within your hands and you hold it as if it is something precious.

( Oh, your heart trembled just a bit and you feel a lump grow in your throat, bigger and bigger till you dip your head down out of his line of sight. )

His eyes bear down on you harder, set aglow and unyielding.

You smile to hide your trembling frame, thoughts revolting within your mind like the beat of war drums with a mix of unease and appreciation. Yet, who were you to question Zhongli’s secrets?

Maybe hypocrisy runs deeper in your blood than you initially assumed.

Mist dances at your fingertips.

It weaves and spreads and obscures the light and the woods around you and you run through blindly as the skin beneath your feet tears and the chill of the night clings to your skin and leaves behind dew and sweat.

You could see nothing; nothing save the pale glow of the moon above you as it tries to break through the barrier and light your way. It cannot, for Balam’s magic conjures obscurity, and obscurity was worshiped.

But you were human and you were curious and the voice that called your name was so familiar and warm and you wanted to weep and run towards it. The mist will not stop your folly and you will keep running to appease that growing thirst. In the end it will cost you.

The sound of your footsteps cease. The mist thins out and at the end of the veil, you poke your head out for the first time to witness the world outside. A set of teeth, white and sharp greet you. Then another and another, till the darkness itself glows as it does beneath the moonlight.

You hear her voice. It comes from the open maw.

The demons spot you and you run again, feeling their jaws clamp down and tear through muscle and bone and you scream and scream and scream at the white hot agony and the very feeling of your nerves set aflame before they numb.

Your curiosity cost you.

You wake to your fingers clawing at your shoulder with labored gasps and Zhongli panting, his fingers gripping at the sheets of the bedroll and his brow furrowed. You blink away the sleep in your eyes and tug the blanket off of your shoulders, shakily making your way to his side. His skin was hot again and panic lights in your chest, like the incoming winter.

“Fuck — it’s gotten worse.” you mumble a few more expletives as you stumble out to collect some more water and the few mistflower corollas you had stored away within your cabinets, hoping the elemental energy in them hadn’t dissipated completely. Setting the bucket down by his bedside with the corollas nestled within, you hiss at the cold pricking your palms and the frostbite coming to form.

Never mind that! The fucking adeptus is going to melt .

Oh my, thank you for pointing out the obvious! 

The cloth bath was set to a near feverish pace as you feel him twitch and convulse through the chills wracking his body. “Hot — ” he groans.

“It’s the fever.” you mutter, tugging his pants down, your eyes unconsciously trailing down the slope of his waist and dip of pelvis, then avert your eyes before you could see any more, face flushed whilst a cloth was thrown onto his hips to spare him some decency. “You need to cool down…please, stay still.”

His hand comes to grip your arm and the dormant strength within it, one etched into his very being, was frightening. The adeptus’ sights were set upon you, the fever-addled state of his blowing his pupils out till only a thin ring of gold remains, shining through the light of the oil lamp, brighter and brighter. You pull away and rest your free hand on his with a soothing squeeze. 

“You will be okay.” you assure. “It will come to pass soon enough. Let me take care of you for now.” You coax him to stay still as you continue the cloth bath, wiping away at his clammy skin while fatigue continues to weigh down on your shoulders and tug at your eyes. “I know you’re hiding something…and if you…if you’re one of the gods, then you must live. You’ll have people waiting for you…they need you, at a time like this.”

He lets out a weak exhale, shakily sitting himself up with sudden urgency. “ Liyue… ” he whispers, gait faltering and you steady him as he leans into you, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You struggle to push him back down atop the bedroll, his breaths growing pained with the passing seconds. 

“Liyue.” you nod and repeat. “You need to go back soon, don’t you? You’ll have to heal first, and for that, you must rest.” The cloth is pressed against his temple now, wiping away sweat all while the smell of petrichor grows stronger. The searing temperature hasn’t subsided and hopelessness stirs inside, an ugly feeling, a familiar feeling ( it was worse than your curiosity — it always was ).

Zhongli leans into your touch, his fingers tangling against yours. “ Stay… ” he whispers. You cease your movement as his body shifts and presses against your lap. “Stay….” he repeats.

“I…I’ll stay.” you slump in defeat, resting his head on your lap. Lightning flashes outside your window and the walls seem to shake as the rain comes pelting down. You continue the bath, listening to a leaky spot in your roof and the incessant downpour rattling against the tiles. Zhongli seems to still, his breaths still weighed down by that terrible heaviness.

The rain continues. His fever grows worse.

Then the pattering slows down, and the flush on his skin comes to cool. By the time the rains stop, his fever breaks and you lean against the wall of your home, shutting your eyes as you nearly weep, your worries allayed.

Morax was the first to wake in the early hours of the morning, the scent of petrichor pervading his senses followed by the faint lull of jasmine. Then comes the warmth and the softness, one his claws unconsciously dig into with a groan shuddering out of his chest.

It was you , slumped against the wall, lost in your own dreams and too tired to notice and the sight makes him swell with a conflicting mess of emotion. Then comes the pain, the aftermath of his fever coming to tear at him, at his limbs and his tendons till he ceases his stubborn movement and lets his body fall slack.

He does not understand your intent, but the faint memory of that familiar care against a muddled haze stills his tongue and his suspicion. Your muffled words, your hand in his, everything, blurred away yet so clear.

Humans were strange, so fragile, so determined…

“Fool…” he murmurs. The last of his strength is used to draw the blanket over your shoulders. “But thank you, nonetheless.” Sleep calls him again, and Morax shuts his eyes.

The jasmine lingers, stronger than most. He lets it swallow him whole.

You come to realize how much you hated it, the loneliness.

Your home was far removed from civilization, settled between regions  and away from main travel ways that weren’t blocked or destroyed. The quiet of your house was nothing like the bustle of the town you hailed from and the chaos that accompanies the stalls in the early mornings. The most noise that encloses your small plot of land were the local wildlife, the creaks and groans of wood born against strong winds and the weight of snow and the distant battles fought over the horizon.

During arbitrary moments of your routine, you question why Zhongli landed here of all places, in the midst of nowhere. You wonder if this is some grand scheme or punishment for your past mistakes and when you feel your curiosity dare to skitter forth and poke more holes into your blind acceptance, you drive it away with an angry hiss.

He is not an unwelcome guest, even if he holds a sense of urgency at times and a well kept secret whose nature you suspect . It’s almost comforting, no matter how contrived it seems, listening to him speak of an obscure plant or hearing his heavy footfalls a few days after his arrival. 

How desperate are you? The bitter pride in your heart speaks up, and it’s seedy and unhappy as you straighten out the drying sheets over the heated slab. Where is your self preservation? Your brain cells? You’re smarter than this you fool —

“Is something wrong?”

Zhongli’s voice snaps you out of your reverie and you start, nearly dropping your laundry on the grass.

“Nothing!” and it is a weak save on your part as you straighten the worn down basket to move to an empty patch of stone, ducking under to check the state of the flaming flowers underneath. His hands come to rest on the surface and he lets out a soft exhale, his eyes slipping shut in a seeming moment of peace. “You should be resting.” you remind him.

“I believe I'm past the need for excessive bedrest.” he intones with an amused lilt. “Do you need help? It is partly my fault you have far more work to sort through.” He wasn’t lying. What little linen you had was used up to change the sheets on your bedroll before his fever broke. You had little clue how illness amongst higher beings were treated, but simply washing the contaminated cloth was the best option you had on your for now.

Ah, sometimes you regret not moving closer to a town.

Your reply was short, when you notice the silence being drawn out for a little too long. “That does not mean you should strain yourself. The less of a load you place on yourself, the faster you will heal. I’m sure you are needed back at your colony. The war is far from over.”

The comment seems to tug at his emotions, a stern moroseness settling on his face. “That is true…but I trust my fellow adepti to hold the lines in my absence.” you bend over to collect another sheet from the basket, the hair at the back of your neck prickling when he moves behind you. “Even so, I should hasten my return.”

“Then — ” The sheet is snatched from your hands and you watch Zhongli step beside an unused slab to lay it across the surface, a mischievous smile touching his lips. “Oi!” you snap, reaching out to grab it.

“However,” he continues, ignoring your protest with a look of innocent serenity. You want to squawk, to stamp your foot down childishly and you almost do, your movements stilled by you clenching your fist to curb it. “I’ve fought battles with wounds far worse and won. Menial chores are hardly a labor and if it means aiding you then I shall take it.”

You let out a groan in defeat and push the basket between the two of you. Zhongli was preening in his small victory, setting the clothes out to dry with relative ease. “Guests shouldn’t partake in chores like these.” you repeat the line your mother had uttered so many times, one amongst many of her favorite maxims. 

He watches you from his spot behind the stone slab, a contemplative haze clouding his hues. “I simply return the favor. It is the nature of a contract, to balance out what is given with due compensation.” 

He isn’t going to let up, is he?

“Fine, fine…you can help me collect a few mist flowers later.” you concede.

“What do you need them for?” he asks, collecting your laundry basket as you kneel upon the grass, blowing some air into a patch. One of the flowers is set alight and you sigh, letting them burn awhile as you feel your fingers retain a little more warmth in them. 

“Preservation…I use them to make my herbs and food last a little longer…it’s not easy, coming across certain ingredients for a decent meal…” You let out a dry chuckle at that, which melts away into a mildly sheepish one. Even if you bear a slight annoyance to your choice of settlement, and even with the debilitating isolation that came with it — it was still home and it was still safer than most.

Zhongli takes this in, a hand resting against his chin. “I see…cooking is not a part of my skill set…unfortunately. But a friend of mine intends on relaying an old recipe of his should the war end soon. Perhaps I could pass it on to you, if you don’t mind it.”

It was an oddly sweet gesture coming from him and you hum, a genuine smile spreading across your face as you consider it. That also meant opening a tiny window of opportunity; a chance that you may see Zhongli again. The thought stirs a clash of emotion, of fear and of excitement and dare you say it, hope and it feels warm and cold and all sorts of things at once. “I’d like that…granted you don’t accidentally poison me.” 

He feigns annoyance as his head tilts to the side, quietly regarding you. “You overestimate my inadequacy. The last time I did partake in the culinary arts, the worst outcome was an offhand crystallize reaction and a burnt stove.” he pauses. “Besides, my skill in brewing tea is decent.”

Oh Gods —

“I’m just being cautious.” you laugh a little louder at that, holding up your hands in defense. “Dear Lords though…I hope that friend of yours is prepared then. You might turn out to be a genius in cuisine or a hopeless case.”

“Then I hope for the former.”

You grin, hanging up the last of your clothes. “If you turn out decent…then I wouldn’t mind sharing some of the recipes passed down to me. I couldn’t indulge myself in them as much, but i hope you may come to like them.”

Something in Zhongli’s eyes softens and he nods. “And I would like that in turn…” he utters slowly, watching you clear away any dry branches and grass close by. His fingers absently brush over his torso, where the bandages stay wrapped around him. You catch the subtle purse of his lips and the twinge in his jaw. “Do not be concerned…” he snaps up to meet your worried face. “I am fine.”

“...Right.” you knew it wasn’t wholly a lie. Zhongli proved to be a quick healer, perhaps a trait passed down by his inhuman lineage. But these displays of vulnerability only played into the damning knowledge you knew before; of the hidden fragility the gods held. “Come on…I think it’s time we get those bandages changed.”

Zhongli smiles but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Another secret , you think sadly, taking his hand as you lead him inside, taking in the momentary warmth he held even if his skin didn’t quite feel like skin or that they glowed a bit too bright between the cracks of your fingers.

You don’t ask him to collect the mist flower corollas again, staying at home with him with some tea set at the table for him to sip on while you inspect his lacerations. There was some idle chatter over dinner and Zhongli spoke a little more about his home.

“You’re going to leave tonight, aren’t you?” you ask suddenly, your voice soft. His words die out and you try to still the sharp edged pain in your chest. It refuses to fade and you accept the growing weight with an unwilling gait.

“Yes.” he whispers, setting his cup down and he looks ashamed.

“Then go.” you mumble. He opens his mouth again but you hold up a hand. “I…I know your name is not really Zhongli…it’s not is it?” His silence was damning and you finally piece it together, the knowledge you learned from your village and from your travels, no matter how meager, painting a slow picture in broad strokes.

The stories depict Morax to be more of a beast and less of a man. You would have glossed over it as well,expecting a dragon instead of the visage of a handsome stranger.

“I take it you’ve come to a conclusion.” he muses, looking a little apologetic, a little ashamed. “I never intended on deceit but the nature of our meeting called for it.”

“You were afraid I was going to kill you?” you guess. Zhongli — Morax laughs and shakes his head.

“Even in my weakened state, you would have been incapable of it.” well damn . “I feared someone of greater power would catch wind of talk of a wounded god…but given your lifestyle, they held no merit. I apologize though…I know you may have suspected a while.”

Morax smiles and you try not to battle the disbelief that a good sat across you, eating your food and drinking your tea. “However, I have a question to ask you.” 

A pause

“What became of your deity?”

Your breath seizes and you meet his gaze. His stare seems to hold so much more weight to it and you look down. Your old god was a memory you sought to bury away well out of sight. Recollecting them only brought in a bitter taste and a dull ache and Morax notices it. “That’s a story for another day.” you finally manage out after some deliberation. Your tea has gone cold by the time you take another sip out of it, the air feeling heavier again. You wrinkle your nose at the taste.

He nods. “Then I will return and pay my debt in whole as well.” he decides. “Your kindness is one I shall remember, little one.” You hate how a part of you melts into this buttery, weak mess and when he smiles, you hate how it’s so easy to feel yourself tear at the seams, to beg him to stay a little longer. “Thank you.”

He was gone the next morning, a fresh batch of mist flower corollas left behind in an earthen pot alongside a delicate flower preserved in amber.  

“Good riddance.” you tell yourself, the words feeling forced.

You will miss him, you think.

He returns three months later, or maybe it was more. Time was easy to lose track of and the seasons were all you had to know of a passing year. By the time he arrived, the last remnants of winter had receded and you found yourself in the midst of spring, restocking your stores and setting soup to boil in the hearth. 

Should I bow? You think when he appears at your doorstep. Extend a greeting? Address him by his title? Your great eminence…no that sounds pretentious… You reminisce about your old customs, of the times you spent watching your mother lay out scented flowers and fruits at the feet of your deity during festivals or during victory feasts. Morax however, steps inside with a smile in greeting, his hand coming to tuck some stray hair out of your face.

Then comes the deja vu. 

You question why his arrivals were always timed on days when your home was a mess.

“Wait! We can talk outside.” saving the last few traces of your dignity is all you had in mind as you blockade the entrance. It would hardly do any good, you realize then; he was tall and he was far bigger and when he stops with a puzzled look and scans the room and the traces of stalks and unswept and unused parts of the herbs you were sifting through, a glint of understanding flashes in his eyes and he steps back.

You want to sink into the ground with the traces and remainders of you. Oblivion seemed a tempting option with the way your face burned and your heart hammers at a pace nearly hard to keep up with.

“My apologies.” he utters, letting you lead him outside. He does not seem as bothered or flustered, thankfully; nor does he pry as he erects a few makeshift seats sculpted from geo and sits himself down alongside you with a soft sigh on his lips. “I wish we could have met sooner,” he admits.

“Is that so? It’s hard to believe you’d bother…” you hum with a shy dip of your head. Morax considers this.

“Did you not ask for it?”

“I did…but I accepted the possibility of you not returning.” you cease for a second, recalling your promise to give him the answer he sought. It felt like a cheap trick, back then and it still does now, of you running away as you always did. “I'm glad you came back though…it was nice having someone around to speak to.”

Moax looks pleased with this. “I simply find your company enjoyable.” you feel a stirring in your stomach when he says that, and it feels like a wonderful sort of sweetness, like honey. “Even if our first few days spent together lacked any delicacy in approach.”

“You were quite stubborn.” you admit.

“I was, wasn’t I?” he agrees. You snicker.

“I wouldn’t blame you though. Even I had a hard time staying still when bedrest was forced upon me…how have you been?” your fingers slot together as you pull your knees closer to your chest, your cheek resting against your thigh as you watch the scenery in the distance. The mist had abated, just a bit and you could see the copse of trees expanding then scattering as the plains began. 

Morax exhales. “As I’ve always been.”

“Stubborn?”

“ Busy .” he corrects, flashing you a look of warning. You grin innocently. “The war has come to a temporary standstill. Only smaller battles seem to keep up…with the weaker gods mostly weeded out, planning our next move is of importance. I only have a few hours to spare now before I leave for Liyue.”

“Oh…” you take this in. Perhaps this was a sign of the war slowly coming to a close. Maybe during your time, if you were lucky enough, or in another hundred years or so. “Then…tell me about Liyue.”

Morax raises a brow but he smiles, humoring your question. “What would you like to know?”

“Plant life? What’s it like there?” you supply, leaning forward in quiet anticipation.

He chuckles. “Not of the people? Or its history?” he asks.

“You can tell me that too!”

He hums, his gaze softening. “It’s not uncommon to see mountains in Liyue,” he admits. “To say our weather has a stark contrast in the plains and the peaks would be an understatement. Juehyun Karst, the realm of the adepti is pleasantly cool most of the time, but the plains are hot and humid. That being said, our flora seems to take on this diversity as well…”

He tells you about the yellow sand bearer and the gold ginkgo trees that spot Liyue’s landscape, of the horsetail that covets the marshes and the reclusive glaze lilies that grow within the terraces. He tells you about the silk flowers nestled amidst the red bushes, always found in pairs and the violet grass sprouting forth off of cliffs. And he tells you of the qingxins that turned away from the warmth of the plains and grew in the distant peaks, looking down upon Liyue as a whole.

There was a sort of magic, listening to Morax speak of his nation with a layer of fondness and sadness. 

“Maybe when the war ends, I’ll visit. I think I'd like to start a garden some time.” you hum, surveying the empty patches of land in front of you. It would be nice to have a few more flowers around to brighten up the monotony you have grown accustomed to. His expression shifts, a brighter shine lighting up his eyes.

“You could stay there if you wish.” Disbelief rattles through your ribs and it steals your breath and pushes against your lungs. You fall silent, ceasing the anxious play with your clothes. “I could find a place for you amidst my people…would you like that?”

There was disbelief, yes, and a stutter in your words, but there is also the pang of appreciation and the tingle at your fingertips. However cold dread settles down ( for it is an old bedmate ) and Morax seems to catch on. “Have I misspoken in any way?” he questions, his hooded gaze appraising. 

You jerk your head. He had it all wrong and the last thing you need is a messy misunderstanding to fall into your pile of terrible mistakes. “No, no…I don’t think I'm ready to return to a land ruled by a god…or even around so many people…not yet…” you couldn’t bring yourself to word it out and it shames you. You are an adult. You needed to speak like one.

There is a faint brush on your cheek, the barest hint of a touch and when you look up, you see the suspicion he holds paired with concern. You want to shrink back, make yourself smaller, unknowable, something you were before he came along and made you care and vie after company and something as simple as touch.

“I assume it has something to do with your old settlement?” he asks.

You nod.

“We were hidden behind our god’s mist and illusions…our people were cut off from the rest of the world save a few soldiers and those who joined our god in battle. My mother would accompany them sometimes…she’d tell me about the world outside and we promised to visit a lake just a short walk from the barrier…” you hold out your hands, trying to grasp the words she had tattered. “She called it starlight on earth…or…something like a mirror clearer than any metal she’d seen. I wanted to go, but we were not allowed to leave.”

“You were not?” Morax asks. He leans in, listening closer.

“We were not.” you affirm softly. “Or god never spoke it…but we knew. They talked about demons lurking out and we were scared. One day…I couldn’t find her amidst the returning line of soldiers she left with…I did later…and I couldn’t even stand to look at the state she was in.” you stare ahead, the weight of his gaze resting even harder now. “I don’t know why…if it was grief or curiosity or a mix of both…but I thought I heard her voice one day…calling out to me. And I knew it was a trap, but I ran towards it, out of the forest, and the mist…”

You swallow hard. You felt cold. Cold all over, like that night, where the silence was unsettling and the sound of your name was a taunting whisper. Your mother, it was your mother, rigid at some times with her own rough edges and flaws, but loving for the most part. Your mother — and it was an old hurt you had locked in a box a long time ago, that time had weathered down till it was the embers scraped to the side of the charcoal pit.

“They were right…my deity warded off those things that attacked me…but they were bleeding everywhere . Balam was strong , but as a god…I doubt they held much in par to some of the others who warred out there…” Like you , you almost add. “They were weakened…unfit to fight in a state like that and we tried what we could. The wounds didn’t heal as we thought they should. I was banished for endangering their life and as I traveled…I heard of Balam’s passing in the hands of an invading god.”

“...and now, I'm here.” you finish, wryness coating every syllable. You wished your apathy was more than a weak front to bury away the stab in your heart; you wish you could be stronger than the coward you are. Morax shuts his eyes, his arms crossing over his chest.

He looks a little more like the god you were told about; sharp, pragmatic, with a presence that looms over most. “If there was a law that stated so, that forbade stepping out of your deity’s territory, then yes, you have committed a wrong. I have heard tell of Balam, whispers of their whereabouts and they did try to protect your people from a harsher way of life…” 

Ah, so that was his response. You wilt a little, feeling a mix of fury and defeat, at Morax, at the gods, at this war and at your own childish stupidity and audacity to even dare to feel this way. “I see…” you mumble. Morax holds up a hand, cutting you off. The words die in your throat faster than embers in snow.

“But,” he behind and his expression pulls into something gentler, lacking the initial rigid sternness it held. “Demons are still a force to be reckoned with. Even my adepti struggle with stifling down their noxious presence, whether it be the weight of karma or a disparity in power itself.”

Coherency is now a lost subject.

“I doubt you could have resisted its influence and Balam knew of the battle they would throw themselves into. Your god was willing to make that sacrifice, something of a rare sight amongst a few of the divine. Remember this well.”

A lump grows in your throat. It’s not an unwelcome one, quietly easing the nerves that crackled and frazzled beyond possible repair. You look down at your hands and your eyes slip shut as you take his words in, bit by bit. Balam was a god who, while distant within the front lines of battle, still loved their people.

It’s ironic how the gods can be capable of human sentiment and human error. 

“Thank you, Morax.” you mutter. “I needed that.”

“The bitter truth, or the comfort?” he jests softly. “Because while I deal well with the former, my skill with the latter falls abysmally short.” 

You laugh softly.

“For both .”

( His eyes light with surprise. Then you spot it, the faint flush on his cheeks and a dangerous thought enters your mind. You shake your head. It was best you didn’t raise your paltry hopes . ) 

He does not visit for a few weeks, but you spot a few saplings left behind at your doorstep, of plants and flowers you had never seen before.

You pick one up and a single word echoes in your mind — qingxins .

A smile tugs at your lips.

The distant noise of battle has grown reticent.

You tell it to Morax on one of his visits and he dares to flash a knowing smile in response. “The war is coming to its close. Only a few handfuls remain.” he states, tracing your bandaged hands; a new set of souvenirs from a stray whopperflower. You shiver involuntarily, leaning into him a bit more while longing tears your insides raw. “Hopefully you will come to enjoy an era of peace soon.”

“Will it end soon? The war?” you ask, wincing a little when he presses his fingertips down on the afflicted skin, bathing it in honeyed gold. “Ah! Gently!” you hiss, pulling back on reflex. Morax holds you fast, drawing you back to him with a playful tut and a sheepish glance your way.

“Apologies. Is this alright?” The pressure on your wrist still brings forth a sting, but it’s far more bearable. You nod. “Alright. Now hold still …” The glow returns, as does the tingling warmth and the tense nervousness gives way to a content sigh as the pain ebbs to obscurity. You watch your bandages fall away to skin mostly unblemished, save the faint traces of a scar left behind. “Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Much better…I wonder why you didn’t try healing yourself earlier. You’re not too bad at it.” he wasn't. Only a few humans were ever imbibed with the grace of divine power. You always longed to be gifted with the strength to heal, and you feet the slightest hint of envy as you take in the sight.

Morax blinks. “I was in too weak a state to do so. Healing is not my greatest strength either…I simply learned it, should it come to use amidst battle.” he flexes his fingers, the last flickers of gold falling away. His gaze meets yours with its usual intensity before he reaches for your other hand. 

“Hm…I suppose this means you’ve paid your part of the debt?” you tease. “You’ve healed me as I've healed you, right?” 

“True…” his lips quirk up as he mends the last of the burns, then presses a delicate kiss on your knuckles. “Does this mark the end of our contract?” The gesture only serves to fluster you further, bringing forth the feeling of fluttering warmth and the near lightness in your chest. Morax chuckles, his voice dipped to a teasing whisper as he calls out your name in a low, purring timbre.

“H-hold up!” you choke out, terrified of potentially overheating as you push his face away, stifling away the shy laughter that threatens to burst out. Morax shifts closer, closer still, his close presence having grown familiar through the meetings and the shared conversations and meals ( you missed the gentleness in his touch, you missed so much of him ).

“Hm? Stop what?” he teases, a cheeky glint lighting up in his gaze. “My, your face feels warm.” he adds with a soft simper, tilting your chin his way as he scans your features.

A desperate attempt to shift his attention comes to form. “Look at the qingxins you gifted me! They’re growing nicely, right?” you try to smile, looking at the flowers growing just a small ways from your home. Morax hums.

“They are. Give them a few months and they will come to bloom.” he replies, his wandering touch tracing up your arm, grazing at fragile skin and faint scars and the sensation has you shuddering. The glow in his eyes brightens and he huffs out something unintelligible, then asks you, “Would you like me to stop?”

You fall silent. “No it’s fine…” you sigh, reaching up to grasp his hand gently, ignoring the phantom stings as your finger splays out over Morax’s palm, at the dazzling gold dipped at the edges fading away to a spider web of veins and dark scales. “I like this.” you hum. Morax blinks, his cheeks coloring pink.

The intensity burns brighter in his gaze. It scorches at his touch and in the way he looks upon you now and as acute as it was, you felt blanketed beneath a safe warmth.

Morax speaks up, “I will make sure this war ends soon.” It was a promise, holding the weight of his blood. You feel it in every syllable, every rise and drop in his cadence. He leans in and the spice in his scent pervades your senses.

His lips are softer than you expected, mildly chapped from the heat and the battlefield, and between the buzz slowly beginning to sound off in your head and the feel of his touch brush away at your hair and rest on your cheek, your heart hammers hard in your ribcage. You feel the earth shift and watch the sky sweep away as you fall back on the grass and Morax palms at your hips and kisses you some more.

It feels like a distant dream, something you’d rather not wake from and when he pulls away to look you in the eye, you watch the smirk in his face grow as he dips down and buries his face into your neck, his pace languid, his claws gentle against the softness of your skin. You bite back a stray mewl when his teeth prickle down on sensitive flesh, slowly and deliberately making his way down down down, and his hand pressing flat on your thigh.

A glow flickers within his chest. He stops and tugs away with clear frustration, heaving as he watches you try to recover from the fog clogging up your thoughts, the memory of his touch warming every inch of you. Morax chews at his bottom lip. “I am needed again.”

“...oh…” you croak out, even if you wish to scream at the unfairness, to pull him back down atop of you and finish what he started. You shut your eyes, easing at your frayed nerves at the trembling and the traitorous dampness that was gradually settling in. The god in front of you holds a shadow of amusement and he kisses you again, gentler, with less teeth and tongue and more tenderness.

“I’ll come back,” he whispers. It holds another promise masked beneath the assurance, it’s cheekiness lighting his gaze.

When Morax’s form departs, you let out a shaky sigh, one hand delving into your heat while the other clamps over your mouth. The moment your slick coats your fingers, you moan into the silence, the promise persisting.

Morax thinks about you when the rains fall once more.

He thinks about you on the battlefield, waiting with that patient smile.

He thinks about you when his adepti fall and the last god is slain — when he finds his numbers dwindle, their blood staining his victory. He holds that memory of you close, that cherished warmth. His little flower.

Morax thinks about you. And he longs .

You came to know of patience’s workings through the days and months in between Morax’s visits, and this one is his longest thus far. The war persists still, the sound of the heavens screaming slowly growing quieter as deities were felled and the lands were stitched together by victories and defeats. You wonder where your old home lies now beneath the seven seats, what it would grow into in the near future.

Then one day, you wake to complete and utter silence.

The war is over. The roads had cleared. One day, when the world stills just a little more and the last few scars left behind have healed, you could try to visit the towns and cities beyond your isolated home.

Morax stays absent. You go on with your life. The qingxins he gifted you bloom in your garden. You wait, shedding away the accusatory remarks, the words that dare you to doubt his victory, that take your mind to darker spaces with the image of his still form and cold hands. No, absolutely not, you could not doubt him .

You repeat it over and over, beating down at the cynical whispering. Do not doubt him .

A storm rises again, blustering through the lands with the threat of tearing your home down from its stubborn foundations. You stay inside, the change in weather setting forth a persistent chill that your meager hearth could hardly hold against. Finally, after a few hours of running about, your body hunches over the blocks, feeding the fire with the last of your firewood.

“How much longer…” you mutter, storing away the last of your herbs when the rain refuses to cease and it grows harder to differentiate between night and day. The lightning thunders in response, asserting it’s long stay and you curl up by the warmth you fed, numb fingers gripping at old blankets and watching the rain beat down incessantly on your roof. It would be a long wait, you realize. It’s best if you find a way to pass the time.

There was another clap of thunder, then a crash that felt all too intimate with your memories. Then came the knocking and you scuttle up to let a drenched Morax in, his pupils blown wide and his body hot to the touch as he stumbles in. You’re almost afraid he’s fallen ill once more, but the insistent tug at your wrists has you follow him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, seating him down by the fire, moving to dry his hair after draping a sheet on his shoulder. “Morax, what’s wrong.” Despite the sudden appearance, you feel relief crash down and tug out a lump in your throat. You hold back the tears for his sake. You did not want to startle him in this state.

“A visit.” he shrugs.

“In this weather?” you question every ounce of wisdom he holds. He looks unbothered, pulling you closer to him while you squeeze the water out of his tresses, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. Warm breath pools out and hits your neck and a shiver racks at your body. “Morax — ”

“I missed you…” The hoarseness of his voice steals the words in your mouth. You latch onto him tightly, fisting at his robes, uncaring of the silk wrinkling beneath your rough hands. Morax does not stay silent or stay still, his hands sliding down your sides, pulling you closer up against him. “I missed you…” he repeats feverishly. The hunger in his stare is an answer enough.

The fire crackles and lets out a sputter.

Morax lays you on your back with a gentle thump and hooks a hand beneath your knee, pushing it up against your chest as he steals a kiss from you, heated and impatient after weeks of mulling over his affection and lust. “Stay still.” he orders as you squirm a little, wanting more, needing more, trying to bury yourself into him as much as humanly possible. 

Your open mouthed breaths did not help in the slightest as he steals another kiss, then another, the wetness of his tongue delving deep down your throat as he muffles out any sounds of shock from you —

— was it forked ?

You could not ponder over it for long, choking against the invading muscle while his lips caress yours with growing need and intensity. It made sense, for one like Morax — who adored talking about the origins of an obscure tea leaf to the festivities that littered the streets of his city — to fancy the act of kissing you. And he still keeps kissing you, over and over till your head spins and his body is pressed up flush against yours.

He noses at your neck with a noticeable huff, fingers dragging up the side of your hips, slowly, deliberately, till they tug at the hem of your clothes. Molten gold catches the anxious excitement bubbling within you and your eyes and you catch the smirk on Morax’s face.

“I’d like to continue.” he sounds breathless.

“ Go on then .” that threadbare line that held you together had snapped now. You do not think you could wait any longer than you have for him. Morax chuckles, bending down with a narrowed gaze till his nose brushes against yours.

“I haven’t finished my statement.” he chides and you don’t know what is worse, him dragging this out to a near painful pace, or the hand that caresses the inside of your thigh teasingly, drawing out a stray moan from your lips. “If you feel overwhelmed, or you wish to stop, we must establish a safe word.”

He waits expectantly and you scour your mind for the first word that pops into your head. “Squid.” you decide, shifting your hips closer to him. Morax lets out something between a wince and an amused chuckle, his hand leaving your thigh. You wine in protest, grabbing at his wrists to pull him closer.

“So needy.” he lilts. “Are you sure you want this?”

How cruel , you think unhappily, unsure of how to take his consideration; a loosely veiled attempt to drive you further into wanting or a call of sincere concern. You think you know Morax. You think it’s both.

“ Yes !” you cannot wait any more and neither could Morax, his claws curling round to clutch and tangle at the back of your head while he captures you in a devouring kiss. Your own experience hardly held a candle to his own practiced ease, but you do what you can, groaning into the clacking of teeth and the teasing little nips he leaves on your lower lip. 

His thumb traces down the side of your neck and hooks at your clothes, tugging away at the fabric to stroke your now bare shoulder. Morax leaves no trace of skin untouched by his lips and he brushes down the line of your collar bone, his teeth flashing in the candle light till you feel him bite down at the spot with a muffled growl.

The rush of pain and pleasure has you pressing your face down into the mattress with reeling shock, any moan held back in the midst of the hazy shock lighting up inside you. The action was mostly unintentional, but you were glad it could have saved you any further embarrassment in Morax’s eyes.

“Not a sound?” he asks, licking his lips with a predatory tilt to his head, regarding every inch of you with voracity. You stubbornly refuse to respond, lips sealed tight with a set of eyelashes batting up at him. Morax likes a chase and you give it to him, no matter how small it may be. “No matter. We’ll see how silent you are by the end of the night.”

The words hang in the air like an impending omen. You do not doubt him.

His voice dips to a sultry whisper as he undoes your top and lets it slide past your shoulders and down your waist till it was bunched to the side and lay there forgotten. The storm rumbles outside your window, and the wind prickles at your skin. Between Morax eyeing you down, mapping out every detail with his fingertips and the chill in the air, your arms instinctively move to hug yourself. 

“No.” His word was stern, absolute as he tugs at whatever covers your entirety from his gaze. “I’ve never seen you this shy before… adorable .” he purrs, stroking your cheek. 

“ Tease .” you test out.

Morax’s expression lapses to a playful smile in the midst of your indignation, leaning back to watch you with clear intent. He guides your legs around his waist and shifts you partly atop his lap, gently moving your hips to a slow grind against his torso. The sudden stimulation draws out a squeak, your cheeks set aflush.

“ Beautiful… ” his claws linger over your chest before it trails down to stroke your stomach. “You’re so soft , little love…” they stop at your shoulder, raking around the scar settled there, gnarled marks and torn flesh left behind by talons and teeth. You feel the flare of doubt and self consciousness flare back up, but it fizzles out when he bends to leave a kiss atop it.

It was hard to find a spot that he did not touch. Morax was precise, diligent, learning what spots made your squirm and whimper and shake beneath him with white hot pleasure. The rain’s roar was a distant muffle between the pleasant buzz in your head and Morax’s ragged breaths sounding in the otherwise quiet room. He hunches over you, nosing at your neck with near obsessive need, nipping, kissing — anything to cast on some semblance of his scent and essence.

Your chin nestles atop his shoulder, your sight trained upwards, oblivious to where Morax may choose to touch you next. The clinking of metal does draw in a few questions, most quickly answered when you feel his clothes give way and settle on your stomach. Then comes his teeth, sharp fangs sinking into you. You hardly register the moan you let out, or the heat that you sink into, desperate for more, for more skinship, for more of Morax.

“ Beautiful .” he repeats, a growl bleeding into every syllable, down to the rumble in his chest. He still donned his pants, but most of his clothes now lay scattered across the mattress, pushed aside a moment later with an impatient huff. 

You have seen Morax bare chested plenty of times before, when he first arrived wounded on the slope of your little mountain home. There was no denying he was a beautiful man, sharply lined with the faintest of silvered scars scattered beneath stark gold tattoos. “ Morax .” you mutter, lacing your fingers into his, tugging at him instantly. “Keep going.”

He smiles. 

“Patience.” he croons. You squeeze your eyes shut and hold back the swear resting on your tongue. “I have waited for so long…” his teeth don’t hold the old hesitance it did, now wholly marking you with delicious bruises and love bites. “...and I intend on savoring… ” his lips linger on the line of your jaw, tickling your ear. “... each… ” they brush down, down, down. “... bite… ” and true to his words, he sinks his teeth down again.

Your hands tangle at his hair, his hair tie snapping to your insistent tugging till burnt brown strands pool around him. He looked a little wilder, with how his eyes glow beneath the shadow cast on his face. You comb through them with a soft “So pretty.” earning a flattered hum whilst he cups your breasts, chanting your name lovingly.

You gasp at the feel of a soft pinch on your nipples. Morax lights up, a dangerous splay of his fangs flashing in your field of vision before he engulfs one breast within his mouth, suckling, biting, devouring greedily and the other grows sensitive to his slow strokes. “M-Mor–AX!” Your mewls peak and your hands grab at his shoulders, his back, at the sheets — somewhere , trying to ground you to the sensation. 

( He could hear your racing heart beneath his grasp and the sound of it makes Morax purr with an emotion so old and primal and possessive. )

He pulls away with a wet pop. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“H-hot.” you barely manage to blurt out. “Hot everywhere.”

That smile was back again, the one with the barest flash of primality. “Hot?” he repeats. You nod. It was hot, in your cheeks, your chest and your stomach and core — and you could hardly bring yourself to wait. With Morax’s resolve to take his slower pace. You curse his patience. You wish he was just as desperate. 

“I am.” he muses nonchalantly, ducking down to take your other breast in his mouth. “I crave every inch of you. I want to hear you sing, wǒ qīn'ài de .” his hand drags down, teasing the inside of your thighs with circular strokes. You buck your hips into him with a pathetic whimper, and Morax pounces at the lapse, tugging your underwear down with a single fluid motion then pushing his fingers into your drenched heat.

“Oh how obscene.” he lilts, a delighted shine in his eyes, momentarily bringing his slickened digits for you to see. “You’re drenched.”

“ Shut .” you snap, a depraved cry cutting you off as he teases at your entrance with one finger, thumbing up your core till he settles on your clit with a peased grunt. Your hips snap and shudder, tears slowly pricking at your eyes. It was an odd sensation, a buildup of pressure far greater than what you could coax out that tightens in your gut. 

Morax slides a finger in, slowly, gently. “ Ah — ” you bury your face into your mattress, spreading your legs further for him. He continues his slow thrusts, in and out and you revel in the sweet sensation. “Feels — f-feels good — ” 

His scrutiny comes with its merits, stroking your walls with an out of place gentleness as he watches every shift, keen and whine with a deep found appreciation and yearning. “You’re quite tight , little one.” he rumbles. You warble in response, bucking your hips into him as the pressure steadily builds and builds and builds.  

“I’ll be adding another.” he decides and he does, a second finger slipping in. the stretch stung and you fist at the sheets with a groan.

“N-no…t-too much — ah!” The broken whimper does elicit a sympathetic look from him and he kisses away the tears, thankfully easing his movements.

“I know, little love. I know.” you sink into his warmth, melting at the delicacy in how he holds you close. “But we’ll need to prepare you, don’t we? And you’re taking me so well too…” you think you are when the pain slowly subsides and the pleasure returns, your very being trembling when he scissors you. “Ah, witnessing the state you're in…it makes me wonder how well you’ll take something else of mine, hm?”

“M-morax!” you squeak, cheeks flushed. The embarrassing squelch from your core shuts you up immediately. You decide you’re better off muffling out your moans out of petty spite at this point and you seek your refuge in the covers, burying your face into your mattress.

Ha! You think, naively, foolishly, daring to assume that Morax would fold at the face of a challenge. A third finger slips through and the moan is smothered. You think you hear him chuckle and you think you see the excited flash in his eyes as he shifts and twists your body, laying you down on your stomach.

“So stubborn.” The delight is apparent in his cadence. His hand presses down at the small of your back, then his torso presses up against you, continuing his slow and agonizing thrusts with practiced pace. “The vitriol in your silence hardly diminishes how soaked you are. Your body is far more honest, it seems.”

“ MMPH !”

You gasp, feeling his fingertips stroke your g-spot, pulling you apart at the seams and chipping away at your mind. Everything feels distant and muddled and the pleasure was almost too much to bear. “Does it feel good when I touch you here?” you shut your eyes and curl up, bucking up into him uselessly. His weight restricted your movements and you doubt you could wiggle away for a temporary respite ( even if some masochistic part of you liked the deluge of sensations pile up steadily ). “I need words.”

Another thrust. You wail into your hands, whatever dogged decision to stay silent, now shattered. “Yes. Yes — P- please!” you haven’t the foggiest clue what you’re begging for at this point, but the fullness you feel from his fingers alone is enough. “L-like that. Morax please keep going.”

He adds a fourth finger.

“You keep tightening up…” he whispers, as if trapped in a trance of his own, your head lifting to press against his bicep while his movements momentarily slow to ease you in before his pace picks up and that slow, brutal torture begins again. 

You squirm, squeal, bite into his arm with vigor. Morax laughs, kissing your temple with comforting croons. “Good.” he coos, dipping his nose into your hair with a victorious purr. Your thighs squeeze around him and your hips jolt forth. The pressure steadily building up in your stomach seems to crest while you chime out his name. Your orgasm seeps closer and closer and closer —

He pulls his fingers out and you bite back a cry, a protest, tears pooling out as dismay settles fast. Was it something you said? Was it something you’ve done? Why did he stop?

“Why…” you manage out, stroking his hair. Morax raises a brow then slides down, his lips latching onto your inner thigh with a groan. You fist at the sheets again, a vague idea coming to form between the haze and the jumbled confusion and disappointment and it sets a spark of excitement. 

A pause.

Morax meets your gaze.

He smirks.

You stifle back a scream when he bows his head down and laves at your heat, catching the receding traces of your buildup and letting it reel in steadily. His tongue was greedy, warm, devouring you whole as he slicks it through your drenched folds, and — oh gods —

Whatever praise that you cry out turns into a feverish mantra being babbled out over and over, the sharp mountainous air taking on a headier scent. Your validation was enough to spur him on, it seems, every bit of Morax, from the practiced gentleness to his eagerness to undo you coming to shine with the fervor of a starved animal. 

“ Good .” he growls out, claws digging down a little harder into the softness of your thigh, his teeth and tongue grazing and toying at your clit. You clap your hands over your mouth once more, a squeak cut short, only to have them pinned down by him. He flashes you a warning glare before gold light illuminates your wrists and you feel the weight of geo press them down to your chest.

The cuffs were heavy, and they did their job well as you could only grab at air while his licks grow more languid. Your thighs were pushed back with a single fluid movement and a flustered cry escaped with your sudden exposure. 

“Ah — ”

You tug at his hair, drawing out another delicious moan from his throat. Liquid gold appraises you, taking every detail in, between your fucked out expression and your twitching body. Morax presses against your sweet spots, and you could have sworn some strange magic were at play, with every careful thrust and every slow vibration. You could hard;y word out the state you were in, your mind all cotton wool with little thought.

Overwhelming…indescribable…that was a way to put it.

Morax does not complain about your growing insistence, your moans growing louder, your thighs squeezing round his shoulders, your attempts to free yourself from the stone shackles he placed on you.he must be just as far gone with your arousal in his mouth ( and that was true ). You hope he won’t turn to cruelty like the last time and deny you of your orgasm. It was a delirious pitch in the back of your mind, a soft cry.

“I-I think i’m close — ” you gasp, feeling that knot grow tight as the tell tale spill of an incoming release shudders up your spine and fingertips. Morax looks at you, the gold of his eyes wide and his pupils blown out with suppressed mischief. A well-timed thrust from his fingers served your undoing.

“Go on then.” he relents.

You sob into the sheets gratefully, pleasure rippling through as the coil snaps and you crumple and sink into a state of unawareness. You could only just register Morax sitting up, thumb swiping at his lips, licking away at the mess you made, smeared between his thighs and on him. “S-sorry!”

He shuts his eyes, quiet bliss washing over him. “I could devour you here and now…” he mutters in indulgence. He rubs your sore wrists down, pressing kisses against the expanse of skin with an apologetic smile. “You look tired. Shall we stop here?”

Alarm lines your features. “What about you?” you blurt out, bug eyed and still fatigued from your orgasm. Morax doesn’t respond, laying down next to you. You feel a bitterness line your mouth and you find yourself pushing your body up and crawling atop him. Morax opens one eye, amusement quirking at his lips.

“Oh?” he doesnt bother feigning surprise as his clawed grip settles on your hips. You try to hide yourself, embarrassment from your bold move hardly aiding in your focus as you slide his pants down and stare, he bore two of them, standing erect against your stomach. You helplessly glance at him. 

“You’re…you’re big..” you tell him dumbly. “I-I don’t…I don’t think I can take both of them…” Morax chuckles.

“We’ll take it slow then. You only need one.” he decides, helping you up. You steady yourself on his shoulders, carefully laving your entrance with him before you lower yourself onto him, feeling the first telltale sting that has you stop with a whine. “Careful.” he speaks up, rubbing at your sides and you try to be, taking him bit by bit. Morax stretched you out in a way his fingers couldn’t and his second shaft rubs at your sore clit, leaving you jolting with sparks of pleasure.

He was roving every inch of you, biting down at his bottom lip when you clench around him. Every bit of him screamed of his self control hovering a step away from a more viscous beast. You don’t think you’re ready for what Morax tucks away in the corners of his mind, but you hope, hope that you could indulge him some day.

You were soaked enough for him to slip in with ease, a collective of your and his arousal trailing down with an audible squelch every time he dared to grind up a little more against you. “Fuck….” he whispers out, a rare lapse in demeanor. “D-does it hurt?”

“No.” you shake your head, a half lie. It stings, yes, but the slow haze of euphoria was pressing up and you knew he would stop if you showed the slightest sign of discomfort — and you did not want him to stop. Not with this lovely warmth, and with him holding you like you were the most delicate of flowers.

The sound he makes is animalistic and he thrusts, just a little, into you. He could hardly help himself, seemingly just as lost as you were ( and he was, with his parted lips and fluttering lashes ). You curl into him, pressing your face into his neck. “That’s it.” he whispers mindlessly. “Wonderful, y-you’re taking me so well…don’t rush now…”

You take the rest of him, seated snugly on his lap with a shaky mewl, tears pricking at your eyes. Morax bares his teeth, groaning freely as the air itself seems to crackle against you. You open your mouth, trying to say something, anything, but he pins you down with a single look. “Little minx .” he rasps.

A laugh bubbles up. You wonder if it’s from amusement, or from the overwhelming rush of dopamine or both. 

He kisses the corner of your lips, gathering his bearings. “You’ve had your moment of fun, little love. Now move .”

“Yes sir…” you sigh, and do just that, lifting your hips just a bit before you rock back down onto him. “S-shit…s-so good…” 

Morax hums, pursing his lips. His face was flushed and the tattoos on his arms were cast in gold and light. He takes matters into his own hands, pounding up into him with sudden force and your teeth chatter and your eyes roll back with a pathetic whimper.

A few marks of your own were delivered, from your nibbling as Morax continues to thrust up into your drenched cunt, and from your nails scratching at his back. His approval was punctuated by a particularly hard one, that made your head spin and had you see stars. You vaguely register the scent of petrichor through everything else.

“ Morax — ” 

The state you were in only behind to sink in. That he was inside you, that he was taking every chance to draw out these obscene sounds from your lips. Even gods could not escape the perversion of mortal desires. Was this even considered blasphemy at this point, when he seemed to be stuck on the same boat as you were, sinking so fast into his lust?

“ — so good for me .” he guides your legs around his abdomen, whispering your name with a weak whine. He bites at your neck, at the marks he inflicted, then soothes them with kisses. He rubs your back and strokes your hair, his tender touch contrasting against his rough movements, grinding into your sweet spots and paired with his second cock rubbing at your clit, you could only lose yourself a second time.

That knot tightens and you feel the onset of your release. It was close, fast coming and you tug at his hair to warn him. Morax growls, his tail winding round your ankle. You try to keep up, try to ride him, but his pace far outmatches yours, stretching you out, pulling you flush against him. You let him use you, your monks reaching a feverish peak, grasping a taste of heaven on your tongue.

“Morax — ah!”

He curls into you, around you with an engulfing embrace with whispered words being uttered into your ear, “Do you want to cum?” You jolt your head. “Then cum… ”

And the bliss washes over you as you finally find it, slumping up into Morax;s patient arms with a near boneless stance. Your eyes met his, the hunger that still rages as he watches with awed fascination at how you come apart and piece back together again with teary eyes and a debauched smile.

“Beautiful.” he mumbles, then presses you face first into the sheets, still sheathed deep inside you. You only just realize he still has reached his own peak yet when he moves, absently reaching out for a pillow for you to grasp.

“God…M- morax — ” you were tired but with overstimulation settling fast and your own desires to see his pleasures being met, you bite into the pillow with a helpless whine. There was a rush in the pain you felt, from feeling all that pleasure wrap into a tight knot while he slicks back and forth into you, hitting your g-spot again with insistent grunts. His pupils were blown wide, like he was trying to take in as much of you as he could.

“M-more!” you blurt out then wince, feeling a hint of shame prick at you for being so greedy. It was about him now; sure you could put your own needs aside.

Morax however, smiles. “ More ?” he coos. “You want more?”

A gasp. You feel his hand settle on your clit, his untouched cock brush against your thigh. “Now who am I to deny you?” He continues his rough thrusts, godly stamina barely denting at his reserves and his pace. Perhaps that came with being an adeptus, this unending virility and endurance. Morax kisses at the back of your neck, laying down more marks to serve as a reminder for the next few days ( that you were, undoubtedly and irrevocably his now ).

Wanton moans pour out easily. Morax delights in them, carefully stimulating spots that were sure to bring the most out of you. The initial phase of searching and mapping out and learning was long gone — he was always quick to pick up on things, and things that make you fall apart into a quivering mess so easily were no exception.

It feels so good. So good —

“Do you want to keep going?” he asks. You feel sore in the best of ways and you nod. You don’t want him to stop. You don't ever want him to stop, drunk on the overstimulation, the euphoria, his cock, him —

Morax lets out a shaky exhale and slams even harder into you. “You’ll be my undoing...” he whispers and you turn your head, catching a glimpse of him. His straight faced composure was long gone, what careful parts of him he keeps hidden from sight having fallen over. Claws prickle at your ass, his eyes are trained on you, you you and when he meets your gaze, he captures your lips in a heated kiss.

“What kind of spell have you ensnared me with, little love?”

You could say the same thing. You try to, cut off by a rough grind on your clit. A lump builds up in your throat, vaguely recalling his small gestures of affection, his admissions, through your heat hazed mind and you arch your back into him to catch another kiss. Morax never needed to say the words and you were fine with it. 

“I love you.” you tell him instead, taking everything you had to get your tongue to move. Morax freezes up. He shuts his eyes and strokes your cheeks and buries his face into your neck.

“My Qingxin.” he whispers, tenderly, lovingly. The faltering in his pace, the sloppier jerks of his hips, then undertones of strained control beneath his moans signal his release. You grasp at his free shaft, and the gasp that echoes out was a rewarding one as you stroke him along into his release. “In or out?” he grits out, stuttering for a second. You feel the drag of his cock against your walls. “In.” you blubber.

You blank out after, feeling the rush, the fullness, him spilling out of you, between your legs, onto the mattress, over your stomach. Morax lets out a shudder, his marks glowing a faint gold before he pulls out. His hand does not leave your clit. Coaxing your third peak out with gentle kisses and insistent mumbles. The pain was sharp but you drink it in, pride lining every crevice of you till you jolt, that pressure finally releasing.

“Thank you.” you mumble. Intimacy was always so foreign, and a kind touch was a far away thought. Morax settles down, pulling you to him as he kisses away the drying tears and the sated touch starvation. He kisses you on the lips. Then the tip of your nose. Then at the bites he inflicted. 

“Rest.” he whispers. 

The cadence of his voice made it hard to disagree with and you feel unconsciousness wash over you fast. You could vaguely make out the sheets being changed and a damp cloth washing you down.

Morax’s weight next to you was the last thing you register.

“Are you well?”

Morax could count the number of times you sought refuge beneath his arm, eyes roving the stalls in the harbor with caution and nervousness. Your jumpiness was an expected clause, and a slightly endearing one as he walks you along the streets as a mortal man and his lover. There were no gods in Liyue Harbor today, at least none the people were aware of.

“Zhongli.”

He turns his head. “Yes, love?”

You fall into earnest silence. “I think I'm going to freak out.” you say. As taught as a bowstring against him. You grip at his hanfu tighter. “They’re staring. Why are they staring?”

“I suppose a new face does bring raised brows. That…” he dips his head down, nose brushing against your cheek with a loving chuckle. “...and you look exceptionally beautiful today, love.” You tug at his sleeve. “Ah, would some food ease my flower’s nerves then?” another tug. He takes that as a yes.

Even so, Morax knew you. Qingxins were flowers that know the intimate dangers of the mountain side and the bustle of the harbor below. You will grow, as you do and you will adapt as you do, maybe slowly, maybe quickly. He knows not to rush it along and he contents himself with your company and your curious question and the bliss on your face when you try a skewer.

“Liyue is beautiful.” you admit after a while. “Crowded, but beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not used to this.” you tell him for the umpteenth time, quick, apologetic and Morax has none of that ( why would he ever see it fit to fault you? ). He takes your hand, pressing a fluttering kiss on your palm. 

You shoot him a flustered glare. He smiles. “We’ll take our time. This old man has much to spare.” and he does.

He’ll wait millennia if it is for you. 

📼 — AUTHORS NOTES

reposting done XD.

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[ticifics]

What We Never Said

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: James, your best friend forever, always the one who laughed with you and protected you from everything, now the center of the chaos your heart had become. That night had been sweet and devastating, his touches seeming to etch themselves into your skin. But the morning after had been confusing, full of silences and diverted glances. And now, what were you? You didn’t know anymore.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, muggle au, no use of y/n, pre relationship, pregnancy, a little misunderstanding

A/N: It had been so soooo long since I had done anything with James, so I was inspired after reading endorphin-morphine by my beloved @gingerteafairy <33

The night was oppressively silent, except for the constant sound of the fine rain tapping against the windows. The apartment was bathed in a cozy dimness, lit only by a faint light in the living room. You had been there for hours, sitting on the sofa with your knees drawn up to your chest, your eyes fixed on an undefined point on the wall. But your mind wasn’t present. It wandered, stuck on the same painful memory—the one from that night.

It was like an open wound you didn’t know how to heal. James, your best friend forever, always the one who laughed with you and protected you from everything, now the center of the chaos your heart had become. That night had been sweet and devastating, his touches seeming to etch themselves into your skin. There was a tenderness there you would never forget, an intensity that overflowed with both desire and affection. But the morning after had been confusing, full of silences and diverted glances. And now, what were you? You didn’t know anymore.

The sound of knocks on the door shattered your thoughts into pieces. They came fast and urgent, a sequence that left no room for doubt. You froze, your heart pounding too hard. Then another series of knocks. More insistent. “Please,” his voice, a bit breathless, came from the other side. “Please, open.”

James.

Your whole body reacted before your mind could think. You went to the door and opened it. There he was—soaked to the bone, his black hair sticking to his forehead, his glasses fogged with rain. He looked both exhausted and agitated, his shoulders slumped under the weight of something he couldn’t say. But what broke you was the look he gave you. As if he were looking for something to confirm what he feared.

“Can I come in?” The question came out almost hesitantly, different from any James you knew.

You just nodded and stepped aside. He entered, and the sound of his wet shoes against the floor echoed through the room. The silence was suffocating, but you could feel his eyes on you, observing every detail. When he closed the door and turned, he was standing in the middle of the room, drenched and restless.

He tried to say something, but his voice faltered on the first attempt. “Are you okay?” he asked, and there was something almost desperate in the words.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to smile, pretend everything was fine. But there was a weight in your chest that wouldn’t allow lies. “I’m... trying,” you answered in a soft tone. And it was the truest thing you could offer.

James’s gaze didn’t waver. His blue eyes behind the glasses seemed desperate to understand something you weren’t sure how to explain. He studied you with an intensity that made everything even harder—not just as the friend he had always been, but with a new, unsettling attention.

You looked away, unable to bear the weight of it for another second. The tension between you two was suffocating, as if you were both trying to play at normalcy that didn’t belong in this moment. James, the same James who had always been a storm of energy and teasing, was there, silent, almost hesitant.

“I... I could make tea,” you said, your voice fragile. “You should warm up before you catch a cold.”

He nodded slowly, as if he wanted to say something else but respected the space you were desperate to create. “Okay.”

You hesitated for a moment, your eyes landing on his wet shoulders and the way his drenched hair clung to his forehead. “You should change too. There’s a change of clothes here…”

James blinked, surprised. “From the last time I—”

“Yes.” You hurried to turn your back on him, unable to handle the memory of that night, so full of laughter and camaraderie before everything had changed. You went to the kitchen, your hands trembling as you grabbed the kettle.

James didn’t say anything else. He knew where your clothes were and went to get them from the bedroom while you prepared the tea. The water boiled, and you focused all your attention on small movements—the sound of the porcelain, the soft lavender scent in the air. But even then, there was no real escape. The memory of that night kept coming back. The way his fingers seemed to know exactly where to touch, the warmth of his lips against your skin. It had been tender and painfully intimate, and thinking about it now was agonizing enough to steal your breath away.

James came back to the kitchen, wearing a clean t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still messy but no longer dripping. He seemed more physically at ease, but the tension in his eyes hadn’t lessened in the slightest.

You placed the cups on the table and sat down in front of him. The table seemed too big for the silence between you, as if it were impossible to cross it. He held the cup, but didn’t drink immediately. He just looked at you, as if searching for the right words.

“Are you... eating properly?” The question came out hesitantly, and he seemed to hate his own voice for saying it.

Your stomach churned. “Yes. I’m fine.” But the truth was different. There was a part of you in a constant state of panic, fighting to ignore the little signs your mind created. You forced yourself not to look at your own stomach, as if the simple gesture could betray your thoughts.

“You don’t look well,” James replied, and there was such raw anguish in his voice that you felt an urge to run away.

“James, let’s not do this now.”

“Lily told me.”

His words sliced through the air like a blade, and you froze. Everything around you seemed to dissolve into white noise—the sound of the wind outside, the steam rising from the tea cups. Only those few words echoed in your mind, unbearably loud.

Lily had promised. But of course, this was bigger than any promise. Because she cared about James just as much as she cared about you, and at some point, her concern must have overflowed.

You tried to push the memory away, but it came anyway. The night you went to Lily’s house, your eyes swollen from crying. The way your hands trembled as you told her, through tears and sobs, that you might be pregnant. How you had been caught off guard, the overwhelming fear that took over you.

“Hey.” James’ voice was closer now, gentle and full of urgency. You didn’t even notice when he kneeled in front of you, his hands searching for yours. But you kept your fingers tightly clasped in your lap, stiff. You didn’t trust yourself to touch him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his blue eyes searching yours. There was no anger there—just fear and a deep pain that seemed to mirror yours.

“Because… because I didn’t know what to do.” Your voice was hoarse, as if each word were a battle. “I still don’t know.”

James lowered his head for a moment, breathing deeply as if gathering all the courage he had. Then, when he looked up at you, there was something in his eyes you couldn’t immediately identify—determination, yes, but also a desperate vulnerability that made him almost unrecognizable.

“Then let me do something,” he said softly.

Before you could answer, he slid his hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt and, with a hesitant gesture, pulled out a small blue velvet box. Your heart stopped for a moment. Because you knew that box. He had mentioned it before—a family heirloom that belonged to his mother. And now, it was there, in his hands, open before you.

Inside, there was a simple, but flawless ring. A delicate, timeless gold band.

“Marry me,” James asked, with an almost painful softness. He was still on his knees, only inches from you, but it felt like there was an abyss between you two.

You couldn’t breathe. The same phrase you had imagined countless times, in so many dreams, in so many different scenarios—and now, finally spoken aloud.

But nothing was as it should have been.

You felt a tearing pain rip through your chest. Because, in your dreams, he asked because he loved you. Because you were best friends who had found each other in the midst of everything. Not like this. Not with an unexpected pregnancy as the backdrop, not with the weight of duty suffocating the moment.

“James... no.” Your voice broke, barely audible.

He blinked, confusion turning his face into something devastated. “What?”

“I can’t,” you replied, not daring to look at him. “I can’t do this.”

“Why?” The word came out laden with pain, almost disbelieving. “If it’s because of the baby, I want to be here. I want—”

“It’s not that.” Your throat tightened so much it felt impossible to continue. “I don’t want you to do this out of obligation.”

James stood still, as though you had taken the ground from under him. He slowly closed the box, but didn’t stand. He stayed kneeling there, staring at you with eyes now filled with pain he couldn’t hide.

“Is that what you think of me?” He murmured, his voice rough.

You stood up, the instinct to flee overtaking you. “Please, James. Let’s just... forget this, okay?”

But before you could take another step, you felt his hands around your arms, gentle but firm enough to prevent your escape. “Forget? You want me to pretend I don’t love you?”

The whole world stopped.

“Don’t say that,” you begged, your voice barely a whisper.

“Why not?” He moved closer, and when you tried to turn your face away, James gently held your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Say you don’t feel anything for me. Look into my eyes and tell me I’m wrong.”

You tried. You really tried. But there was something in his gaze—so much truth, so much love that seemed unbearable—and the words got stuck in your throat.

“Say it, and I’ll leave,” James promised, his fingers gliding gently over your skin, as if he could ease the pain hanging in the air between you two. “But if it’s not true... let me fight for us.”

A tear fell down your cheek, followed by another. You were trembling now, and his touch felt both comforting and unbearable.

James saw the pain in your eyes and, without hesitation, pulled you into his arms. The strength of his embrace was both firm and protective, as though he was trying to hold all the broken parts of you together and prevent them from shattering. And there, with his warmth enveloping every part of your being, you collapsed.

The tears came like a flood, sobs you could no longer contain ripping through your throat. Your face was buried in his chest, your fingers clutching his shirt as if you feared he would disappear if you let go. He didn’t say anything immediately—just held you tighter, his hands gently sliding over your back, his lips pressing against your forehead in a silent kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, his voice so full of regret that it made your heart ache even more. “I’m sorry for everything, for not coming after you sooner. For not saying...”

He paused for a moment, his breath uneven as if he were struggling to maintain his composure.

“For not saying that I love you.”

You froze, your sobs quieting, but the weight of his words still hung in the air.

“I’ve always loved you,” James continued, his tone firm despite the tremor in his voice. “From the beginning. And I was an idiot for never making that clear. For hurting you, for not realizing what you were going through. I should’ve been with you all along.”

His hands loosened their grip on his shirt, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because every word he spoke seemed to slowly dissolve the fear and pain you had carried over the past days—but it also brought a vulnerability you hadn’t expected.

James leaned back just slightly, enough to look at you. His eyes were full of unshed tears, concern and love clear as day.

“You are everything to me,” he said softly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “And no matter what happens, I want to be by your side. In every moment, through every difficulty. Even if there wasn’t a baby. I just want... you.”

More tears filled your eyes, but now, they were different. They were tears of relief. Of hope. You couldn’t speak, but James seemed to understand anyway. He tilted his forehead to gently touch yours, his eyes closed as his noses brushed in an intimate, tender gesture.

“Let me stay,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you the way I should’ve all along.”

For a long moment, you just stood there, absorbing every word, every touch, every beat of his heart against yours. And then, slowly, you nodded.

“Yes.” Your voice came out weak, but full of an emotion that felt almost impossible to contain. “Yes, James.”

The smile that formed on his lips was a mixture of relief and pure love, and before you could say anything more, James pulled you into a soft kiss. It wasn’t desperate or impulsive—it was a kiss full of promises, of everything he hadn’t been able to say before.

And when his lips left yours, he hugged you again, tighter than before. As if he never intended to let go.

[the-hidden-pages]

Kinktober Day 1 - 'Love' Bites | Overstimulation - Astarion x Fem!Reader

Love bites | Overstimulation | Impact play

Coming out the gates strong with 3500+ words for this man. It has not been edited, I have work in the morning, I'm going to bed.

Summary: With the promise of taking you to a quiet little piece of nowhere to forget all the madness of the adventure, Astarion pulls out all the stops to ensure you forget everything, except the pleasure he gives you.

Warnings: NSFW, Blood, Vampire Kink, Overstimulation, Crying, Light Choking, Dirty Talk

You and Astarion had always had an arrangement.

To say you bonded quickly with your party would be an understatement - having the tadpole within your mind and surviving the same crash tends to form that immediate trauma bond. But you and the vampire had formed a deeper understanding of each other much sooner than the others.

That night, so early on in your adventure, when you awoke to the man perched over you, fangs bared and your throat exposed for the taking, things simply couldn’t go back to the status quo.

It fogged your mind the entirety of the next day, the proximity, the adrenaline, the pure, undiluted hunger.

You’ve allowed him to feed from you every night since.

You played it off as trust, at first. Trust in him, a want to have him fully strengthened for battle. Nothing but business.

But it didn’t take long for him to understand your underlying motivation, the reason you allowed yourself to feel drained, exhausted, and weak for each battle moving forward, perpetually distracted by the memory of his lips and teeth at your neck. The memory welcomed the fantasies with open arms, fantasies of his hands wandering as he drank, kissing your lips with your own blood on his own, his fangs sinking into your thighs, before wandering higher…

Still, you were never going to force it. 

So, you allowed him to continue to drink, both aware of the growing tension, both refusing to move further.

Until that changed.

When Astarion came to you, offering for you both to find a “little piece of nowhere”, somewhere to “forget all this madness”, you sure as hell weren’t about to decline.

A chance to get him out of your head was exactly what you needed to think clearly.

Night had long since fallen, as you sat pretending to read one of many absurd tomes Gale had collected throughout the journey. A life of adventuring doesn’t make for the most consistent sleep schedule, and as such awaiting for the entire party to call it a night was practically torment as you tried to ignore the growing heat between your legs.

But no amount of pretending to study the Oral Histories of Faerun could distract you from wondering what pleasures tonight would bring.

When finally, finally, Karlach decided to call it a night, you waited a few moments more before creeping off to where Astarion had told you to meet him.

Any other night it may have been eerie, creeping through the woods unarmed  as the moon rose high in the sky. But all you could feel was the anticipation growing, humming in every nerve of your body like someone had struck you with a Witch Bolt.

Your heart nearly stopped as movement caught your eye.

There, emerging from the trees, already shirtless, was the vampire.

You had seen him in various states of undress before - curing wounds of various weapons and spells will do that. But there was something different about it in this circumstance, seeing him perfectly unscathed, strong and confident from the weeks of draining your life from your veins, silver hair and pale skin hauntingly beautiful in the moonlight.

“There you are,” he spoke lowly, striding slowly towards you. “I’ve been waiting. Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

While the words themselves made you blush, you couldn’t help comment.

“The moment you set eyes on me you had a knife to my throat.”

“Ah,” he sighed, walking slowly around you, bringing his fingers to lightly trail up your arm. “But if you remember, I did notice then and there what a darling neck you had, I just knew it would be heavenly.”

He closed the distance between you, and you could promptly feel his strong form cold against your back, a prominent bulge pressing into you, and his breath on your neck making you lightheaded.

His hand trailed down your neck to trace the marks he had been leaving nightly. “And I was right.”

Despite how little he had done, you had grown so wound up from the endless fantasies from his nights of feeding that you were already weak in the knees.

His left hand lightly began to caress your thigh, as his right takes to untying the strings of your loose shirt, his mouth never stopping.

“You’ve been so helpful these last few weeks darling, allowing me for the first time to indulge in the blood of a human, giving me strength at your expense. You’ve been so good for me too, holding back all those little sounds you’ve been wanting to make, pretending like you don’t get wet just at the thought of me drinking from you, like you don’t get soaked from the moment my lips touch your neck. Hmm?”

Your breathing was already heavy, your thighs already squeezing together in some attempt for stimulation - it was already too much. All you could do was nod, a breathy “yes” escaping you as your shirt is undone, falling to the forest floor.

His hands begin to explore, lightly tracing up your arms, down your stomach, across your collarbone. “And you’ve been working so hard, haven’t you my love? To keep us alive, to keep us all going. You’ve been so helpful to all of us, to me, I think it’s time I take some weight off of those pretty little shoulders.”

Suddenly, forcefully, he spins you around, steadying you by grabbing your hips. You look into the red eyes that gaze at you intently, with an emotion that is so close to something like love, devotion, but feeling just slightly too forced, slightly too uncanny.

That gaze is a problem for another day, you determine, as he sinks to his knees and gazes up at you, untying your trousers.

After all, the love may not be real, but the lust in his eyes sure as hell is.

He makes slow work of the fabric, speaking up at you the entire time.

“Dearest, I intend to do exactly as I promised. I want to repay you for the kindness you’ve given me, the trust you’ve placed in me. Allow me to please you, to make you forget about everything, if only for a night. Will you allow me this?”

You nodded, mutely, as you stepped out of your pants.

He gazed up at you again, eyes drinking you in, darkening as they travel up your body, stopping at between your legs, your chest, your neck.

When his eyes met yours again, he stood up quickly, cupping your cheek and pulling you into a deep kiss.

You had thought about this moment too often.

What he would taste like, how his fangs would feel against your tongue, how his lips would feel against yours. He pulled you into him desperately, and the sensation of your bare chest against his made your head spin, gasping into the kiss as he took full control, kissing you with such a passion that you might have thought there was more to it than a simple need for release, repayment.

He pulled away all too soon, thumb caressing your lower lip as he gazed at you in that absurdly sultry way of his.

“Before I take your breath away,” he breathed out, pausing to kiss your cheek. “I need to know what you want from me darling.” Another pause, a kiss to the jaw now. “Tell me how to please you.” A kiss behind the ear. “Tell me how to make you scream.”

You were barely keeping it together, eyes already fluttering closed.

A sharp bite to the neck, not enough to bleed, but enough to make you gasp, brought you out of it. His red eyes gazed at you intently, awaiting your response.

“I want you to take control,” you speak, feeling as though you’re giving a confession. “I don’t want to think. I want you to drain me of my blood, of my thoughts. Make me cum, make me scream, make me feel so good it hurts, until I’m begging you to stop, Astarion.”

“Oh, darling,” he nearly growled, his hand caressing your cheek. “I'll do just that.”

He spun you again, once again catching you off guard. Within moments, you feel him press up against you again, this time the hardness of his cock being released from his pants, discarded far into the forest you assumed. 

“You mustn’t keep a sound from me, by the way,” he spoke lightly. “I’ll know if you do.”

You aren’t allowed much time to consider that as you feel his lips on your neck, pecking and lightly biting and sucking. His hands trail upwards to cup your breasts, slowly, softly, deeply massaging, as though he’s trying to feel every inch of your skin. His fingers lightly pinch and tug against your peaks, and he leaves soft bites on your neck, never enough to break the skin.

It had only been moments, but you’re whining, and you can feel your wetness dripping down your thigh.

“Astarion, please,” you breathe, hand coming up to lace in his hair in an attempt to force him deeper into your neck.

He just laughed. “Darling I’ve barely touched you and you’re begging. Allow me to take my time with you.”

His left hand stays at your breast as his right once again wanders downward, slowly reaching your inner thigh.

“I can smell it, you know,” he muttered lowly in your ear, and you almost squeak, flushed with embarrassment. “Every time you’re so wet you can barely think, stuck in your little fantasies as I drink from you. You do so well, hiding your wants from me, but I’ve always known, and I’ve always wanted to push it further, to let my hand wander between your pretty little legs and feel just how wet for me you are…”

As he takes a pause, his fingers reach your folds, lightly caressing up and down, circling your clit, and you both sigh.

“Astarion…”

“Hells, you want me so badly don’t you?”

“Please.”

“Oh, I’m not here to deny you, angel. I’ll give you everything you want…”

Without warning, two of his slender, delightfully long digits enter you, and you release a moan louder than you expected.

“Very good,” he praised, fingers thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace, as he resumed his work on your neck. He continued to suck and bite, no doubt leaving a myriad of bruises and marks that you would have to explain away tomorrow.

He growls again, biting a little harder, though still not hard enough to draw any blood, you notice. His fingers within you speed up, spreading in a way that has you choking out another moan.

“I can hear you thinking, darling. That’s not what we want now, is it?”

“No - fuck, there,” you moan deeper, head tilting back as his fingers reach a place in you that is forever out of your reach.

“Oh, good girl,” he purrs, focusing on that one spot. “Good girl, telling me what you want. Focus on your body, darling, not your thoughts. Feel me against you, feel me in you, feel how badly you need that release.”

“Astarion please.”

“Please what, darling?”

“Bite me harder.”

“Oh, not yet my sweet. We have all night for that, and I would quite like to sample the nectar between your thighs before tasting your heavenly blood. But I’ve left such a wonderful piece of work on your neck, now everyone at the camp will know now more than ever that you’re mine.”

“Fuck,” you gasp out, feeling the waves of heat overcome you and your thighs begin to collapse, your release hitting hard and fast at his use of possessive language.

“Very good, darling,” he praised, holding you up as your vision spun. His fingers didn’t cease as you came, immediately riling you back up, moans spilling out of you louder than before. You hadn’t noticed when he had added a third finger, but you felt the stretch as he pushed in, the emptiness when he pulled out.

You needed more, and he was clearly eager to give it to you.

“Lie down, my darling,” he whispered in your ear. “Allow me to worship you further.”

You did so without hesitation, resting back on a relatively flat portion of the forest floor, spreading your legs as Astarion knelt down, bringing your legs up on to his shoulders and staring down hungrily at you.

Despite the ferocity in his eyes, he took his time, kissing from your ankle to your thigh on your left leg, and then your right. The moment you felt your frustration grow to a peak, he bit down, once again leaving marks but never breaking the skin, marking the soft flesh of your thigh.

He teased you for a few moments before the impatience struck him as well, and leaned forward further, licking a long stripe up your folds.

“Oh darling, and I thought your blood was heavenly,” he breathed, and before you could respond, he went to work.

Immediately your hands were in his hair, pulling and pushing in some attempt to regain any sort of sanity in this moment. His tongue worked wonders, knowing exactly how to work inside you before retreating, teasing at your clit, before the vicious cycle repeated. His hands clenched your thighs as though they were a life line, and the moans that left him traveled into the depths of your core.

It didn’t take long, you were already falling over the edge again, now shouting as the pleasure grew blinding.

“I could stay here forever,” you could barely hear him lament, mind fogged. You blinked blearily as you focused on his face that was now above yours, glistening with your release as he grinned ferally, hand briefly coming up to clench at your throat. “But I have more planned for you.”

Despite your exhaustion, you feel the warmth in your core grow, another release of slick as his cock presses up against your folds.

“May I, pet?”

All you can do is moan pathetically, something between “yes” and “please” falling out of you as you weakly nod.

“Darling, you’re a vision,” once again, he strokes your cheek, uncharacteristically loving for the cold vampire. “Completely fucked out, and we haven’t even arrived at the main course.”

With that, you feel him enter you, no resistance give how worked up you are.

You take a moment, joined, as he breathes heavily into your neck and you let out quiet moans, words completely failing you.

“Divine,” he breathes, returning to kiss your neck, the sensitivity of it making you clench around him immediately. “Oh, so divine, darling I could have you for eternity, such a better use of our time than fighting all of these tiresome battles.”

He began to pump in and out of you slowly, your mind spinning from the weight of him on top of you, the sensation of being fucked so deeply, overwhelmed by the afterglow of all that had happened.

And still his words didn’t cease.

“I could keep you forever, a precious little pet, tied to the bed to fuck whenever I wanted. Or perhaps the other way around, I would wait an eternity just for another chance to taste you, to please you. Whatever fantasy you wish darling, we can fulfill it tonight, I swear to you - fuck.”

He picks up the pace as you clench around him yet again, your release not even having a build up, but instead crashing against you like a tsunami. You feel the wetness seep down your thighs, coating where the pair of you connect.

“Ast-ar…” you can barely breathe, and he laughs almost maniacally.

“Very good, darling, just like that. Give in to me. You don’t need a single thought in that head now, focus only on me and let go. You can cum again, you can, for me.”

“Can’t - I can’t…”

“Oh, you can and you will, if you want me to drink from you tonight,” he muttered darkly, and you feel tears prick in the corner of your eyes.

“Astarion.”

“You have to cum again, to get what you want. Just one more time, my darling. One more and you’ll please me so well. You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

You muster up the last of the strength you have, words falling from you without control. 

“Yes, fuck, yes please, Astarion, please I want to come, I want you to bite me, I need to be yours, I need you ~”

It was almost as though your last orgasm hadn’t ended, with how quickly this one had began. An endless torrent that had the tears breaking, pouring down your face and into the dirt. You nearly choked out a scream, clenching around him so tightly that you feel Astarion tense, cursing wildly as you feel a warmth flood you.

You take a moment, trying with all your might to remember how to breathe, mouth gaping, expecting Astarion to move from you any moment.

Instead you shriek as he thrusts again, hand once again curled around your neck, stopping any chance you had at catching your breath.

“We aren’t done,” he growled, your own slick and his cum leaking out of you as he continued to fuck you, harder now, less restrained that before, nothing but pathetic whimpers leaving you. “We are so far from done, my love. You’re mine, you’re mine.”

Finally, what you had been begging for all night came to pass, and his fangs sunk deep into that claimed spot of your neck. You felt the familiar warmth and euphoria as your blood drained into his hungry mouth, his moans reaching a crescendo and hips moving at an inhumane pace.

And he was right.

You were his, blood and body and mind, it was all his. He had consumed every inch of you.

It was incredible, it was numbing, all you could think about was Astarion. Every molecule of you was on fire, and screamed to be connected to him, to never leave this moment, to stay in an eternity of this torment, but after four orgasms and on the verge of a fifth, with the ecstasy of his fangs in your neck, you simply couldn’t continue.

“Too much,” you manage to croak out, tears streaming down your cheeks and your entire body screaming. Your hands grip the vampire's arms tightly when he doesn’t immediately stop, nails biting into his skin. “Too much, stop!”

Immediately the fangs retract and he’s gently pulling out of you, red eyes wide with a hint of a rare expression on his face.

Fear.

“Darling I’m so sorry, did I take too much? I felt you going limp but, hells you’re so delicious I must have been lost in it-”

You shook your head quickly, placing a hand on his chest as you tried to collect your thoughts, tears still streaming.

“No, no, no,” you breathe out, still gasping. “Not the blood, you’re alright. It was too much, I really can’t cum again, it's too much. Too much good, I promise.”

The fear melted away to a more familiar expression, a smug smirk. 

“Oh darling,” he purred, hand trailing up and down your inner thigh in a soothing but teasing manner. “I don’t know about that, you can still manage full sentences. Clearly too much brain power left…and I could go all night.”

“Astarion.”

A rare, genuine chuckle left the man as he began softly stroking your arm and playing with your hair, easing you down from your intense high.

When your breathing leveled out, he began to stand up, and you nearly whined.

Sensing your distress, he waved lightly. “I’ll be but a moment.”

He sauntered away, and you laid back, taking the moment to look up at the stars, basking in the glow of the orgasms and the moon.

He really had done his job, you had to admit to yourself. You were struggling to form a coherent thought.

When he returned, he had clothed himself, and had a small cloth in his hand. Striding over to you he gently knelt down yet again, running it over the blood stains on your neck, the mess between your thighs.

You stared at him, and he caught your look of surprise.

“What?” he asked, an affronted tone. “I know how to treat my lovers, darling.”

“Hmm,” you chuckle, closing your eyes. “Just a softie, I knew it.”

“Hardly,” he huffed, chucking the cloth off to who knows where and pulling you up against his chest. 

He began to play with your fingers, lightly tracing the veins in your hands and up your arms. The pair of you sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, no words passing between you, but a silent understanding growing.

“We ought to go back to the camp,” Astarion eventually broke the peace, smirking at your disappointed expression. His arms encircled you once again, and you tried not to dwell on how good it felt. “Despite your rather loud vocals, I believe the others didn’t hear us, and unless you’d like to explain to them why you aren’t walking properly tomorrow…”

You snort, pushing him off of you. “Goodnight, Astarion.”

“Goodnight, my darling.”

One thing was certain, you noted as you returned to your bedroll, the sun beginning to peak over the horizon. 

You’ll need extra healing from Shadowheart in the morning.

Thank you to @flightlessangelwings for their Kinktober list this year!

[beloveds-embrace]

okay but what about memory loss with fae john where when you keep trying to escape he feeds you some fae wine to get you nice and settled again?

Dark fae themes, memory manipulation, and drugging (fae wine).

The forest breathes.

Not in the way living things normally do, but in that strange, trembling hush only fae woodlands can manage- where the light slants just so, like it’s filtering through thick, golden honey. The trees watch you, the wind is listening, and you know better. You do.

But still, you run.

Your bare feet slap against moss and roots and dew-slicked stones, the thin nightgown clinging to your skin as you dart through the silver-starred fog. Your breath comes out in sharp little gasps, panic hammering in your chest like a frantic hummingbird.

You don’t remember why you need to run, not really. Just the taste of something wrong curled like the smoke of a burning house in the back of your throat; a sureness. A thrum in your bones that this place- this glimmering palace of vine-draped archways and softly smiling men and gentle servants- is not where you belong.

You were trapped.

You are trapped.

“There she is.” A gentle voice calls to your right, and your stomach drops before you even see her.

One of the servants, with pink,!rose-petal skin and eyes like polished amber, stepping out from between the trees. She doesn’t grab you- because she doesn’t have to. She just smiles, apologetically, like she’s explaining something very simple to a confused child.

“You’re not supposed to be out here, sweet thing,” she says kindly, hands clasped. “His Majesty’s been worried. Why don’t you come back before you catch another fever?”

You shake your head, stumbling back. “I’m not sick. I’m not sick, you’re all lying- !”

The world tilts and your knees go soft, breath catching in your throat. You stagger sideways, clutching a tree for balance as that strange fog rolls over your mind again- hot, syrupy, cloying.

“I’m not…” Your voice breaks.

But then there are hands on you. Not rough, and not cruel- but familiar. A scent like smoke and deep forest and wild storms coils around you, and then-

“Love,” comes a voice behind your ear, soft and low and warm as summer thunder, the rumbling of the earth. “What I’ve I told you about wandering off?”

You freeze; you know that voice. You always know it.

John’s arms curl around you, strong and careful, as if you’re something breakable. His fingers stroke your hair like he’s soothing a frightened animal and not the poor human queen he keeps like a bird in a gilded cage. “Look at you,” he murmurs, tsking. “No shoes again. That delicate little head of yours must be burning up.”

“I’m not sick, John,” you whisper, and your throat hurts from how hoarse you voice is, trembling in his hold. “You’re doing this. You’re-“

“Hush now,” John croons, the weight of his magic curling around your spine like a fist plucking flowers and weeds. “You’re only saying that because you forgot your tonic again. You always forget, but that’s alright.”

You try to pull away, but he turns your face gently toward him, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Come,” he says. “Let’s get you something to help you settle down.”

You don’t agree, and yoy don’t resist. You just walk beside him, feet numb, heart screaming, another chance at freedom ripped right out from under you. The servant girl from before only giggles, bowing her head when you and John pass by.

Back in the palace, soft laughter echoes through the winding halls; echoes of Johnny and Kyle, flitting through the ivy-draped balconies like warm wind, always watching. Kyle, ever sickly-sweet, greets you with a worried little frown, brushing his fingers across your forehead like a doting lover.

“Still feverish,” he says softly to John. “Poor thing. She was trying to climb the garden wall again.”

Johnny smiles from where he’s perched on the stone banister, golden eyes glinting. “Might have tae add more guards,” he teases gently. “Can’t have our bonnie lass thinkin’ she can fly.”

But it’s not teasing, not really. It’s a warning; a reminder.

You’re theirs.

The throne room is a dreamscape of tangled vines and hanging lanterns. A soft seat is waiting for you- too plush, too comfortable- and John settles you into it like a man setting down a beloved doll.

Then comes the goblet, brought by Simon. Simon, who remains silent, yet brushes cold fingers across the damp skin of your cheeks.

Delicate crystal. Liquid the color of garnet, glittering like crushed stars.

“No-“ you try, but he hushes you, tilting the rim to your lips.

“Just a sip,” he murmurs, “for your nerves, beloved. Listen to us.”

It tastes like velvet; like sunlight; like crushed fruit and something rotten and wicked underneath. You swallow without meaning to, and feel how the warmth spreads fast. Too fast.

Your head tips back against the cushions, eyes fluttering. You feel floaty, slow and dreamy. The weight of fear slips from your shoulders like silk, and something in your chest unclenches.

“There she is,” Johnny coos, kneeling beside you now, his hand stroking your thigh. “Our good girl.”

“Just needed her drink, yeah?” Kyle murmurs, brushing strands of your hair from your forehead. “Bit of calm to keep her from hurting herself.”

John watches you, eyes dark with triumph and adoration both. He leans down, brushing a kiss to your temple.

“See?” he murmurs. “You always feel better when you stay close.”

You blink slowly, the fog thick in your mind now. Maybe… Maybe they’re right. You do always forget things. Your thoughts feel like wet paper, fragile and torn. Maybe you are sick.

Maybe you never left.

And the forest exhales again, soft and slow and satisfied.

And outside the palace walls, no one asks questions. Everyone knows the poor human queen is ill, always confused, always trying to wander off. But it’s all right.

The king and his men takes such good care of her.

[melercies]

One Bed Trope [Survivalists]

Pairing(s): Noob & 007n7

Author's Note: Please let me know if I mischaracterized anyone. WHEN I TELL YOU THAT I WENT ON BOTH OF THEIR WIKIS AND TRIED TO WRITE MY BEST FOR THEM. OUT OF ALL THE CHARACTERS, I STRUGGLED WITH THESE TWO. Likes, reposts, and comments are highly appreciated! <3

For some unknown reason, after a brutal round, you find yourself standing in front of your cabin. Gone and demolished for what reason? You don’t know, and frankly, I don’t either, but here we are! Thanks a lot, Spectre. All that was left was the pathetic remains of the foundation, some twisted wood still crackling with dying embers. Just great. You’re utterly exhausted, drained physically and mentally, as you wonder where you’re going to sleep. Out in the cold? Absolutely not, especially not with the repetitive cycle of hell that you have to go through daily. At least at the end of the day, you need to find yourself in comfort. So, with really no other option, you turn and walk yourself over to a fellow neighbor’s cabin. Sure, it was embarrassing, but it’s better than sleeping outside in the cold. 

You couldn’t care less as to who you were knocking, feeling too tired to even think properly. You just needed a place that isn’t destroyed to get some sleep, especially for tomorrow. It takes a moment or two until the door opens, revealing the individual.

Noob:

You’re freezing. The state of your cabin? Gone. Absolutely flattened and splintered, smoke still coiling off the remains, and the smell was already a nuisance to your senses, it was almost as if Spectre left a personal signature just for you. There goes the only place of comfort that you had in this forsaken place. All that was left behind was a melted door hinge and a trail of blackened crumbs.

You’re too tired to mourn it properly. Instead, you drag your feet through the dark toward the only cabin with light still inside—soft, flickering orange, and alive—a warm glow behind thick, grimy windows—a complete contrast to your breath that fogs the air and the night chill that bites deep. You don’t want to be a bother, but your feet start wandering anyway towards the closest place that brings shelter.

The cabin itself was wonky from the outside. The roof leans. The doorknob looks like a spoon, but it’s still standing, somehow. 

You knock gently. There’s a sudden scuffle, then something thuds behind the door— like someone tripped over their own feet. A second later, the door creaks open, just ajar as the individual peeks out.

It’s Noob. They stand there — small, blocky, nervous. Their bright green legs shuffle awkwardly, and their big, round eyes widen with concern.

“H–Hello…?” They blink at the sight of your figure, the tired expression that was written across your face like you just babysat 15 kids all at once. 

You speak plainly. You’re exhausted. “Spectre destroyed my cabin.”

Noob gasps—hand flying up to their face. “Oh no!! That’s— That’s— that’s awful!! Oh gosh, uh— wait, wait, come in, come in!!”

They scurry backward, stepping over snack wrappers and a pillow fort half-collapsed in the corner. You step inside, taking in the interior. The cabin is cozy in its own disorganized way — snack wrappers, cans of Bloxy Colas, and a lopsided picture frame showing a drawing of all the survivors. There’s a desk nearby where a couple of papers are scattered, scribbled words on each one that seem to resemble a letter to someone, but were never delivered. How curious. 

Oh, and how can I forget? There’s only one bed, of course—a nest of blankets, some mismatched pillows, and a couple of plushies here and there.

You don’t even need to ask as Noob is already flapping their arms nervously.

“Ohh no. Oh no. I only have one bed. It’s—it’s okay though!! I-I can take the floor! Or… or the window ledge! I-I’ve done it before, i-it’s not so bad—!”

“Noob.”

They freeze mid-flail.

“We can share,” you say, deadpan. “You’re not sleeping on the ground. Let alone, in your own cabin. It’s not like I’m gonna kick you off your bed.”

They freeze like you just suggested a boss fight. “…R-Really?”

You nod again, already sliding your shoes off. “Really. Just no crumbs in the bed.”

They give a tiny, sheepish laugh as his cheeks flush just subtly. “Heh… no promises.”

They practically dive under the covers first and glue themselves to the far side, making a perfect 2-inch margin between you like a polite wall. They don’t make eye contact as you lie back under the soft pile of blankets. You feel Noob stiffly lie beside you — completely still at first, like they’re scared to move or breathe. 

There’s a long silence, their small, warm presence curling up like a puppy trying not to be a bother. But eventually, they turn and whisper:

“Uhm… I’m g-glad you’re okay.”

You glance sideways. Noob’s already clutching a plushie shaped like a slice of pizza, eyes blinking slowly as sleep takes hold.

“…Me too,” you mutter, finally letting the comfort of warmth and safety wash over you.

You fall asleep to the sound of a small bag of chips being opened quietly under the covers.

007n7:

Spectre burned your home to cinders.

You don’t even flinch anymore at the sight of your destroyed cabin — the cracked remnants and Spectre-burned beams just another casualty in the daily hell loop. The embers still glow in your memory, warmth replaced by numb wind on your neck. The fire didn’t take you, but it took everything else.

Your legs are jelly, lungs sore from sprinting, and your brain too fried to feel embarrassed. You need sleep. Somewhere.

Your knuckles rap against the nearest cabin door, barely conscious of whose cabin it is. The cold nips at your skin, your breath fogging in the night air as you stand and wait. You turn to glance at your cabin, where it once stood. Still smoking. Still hot to the touch. Spectre must’ve been feeling theatrical tonight.

You’re done. Physically drained. Mentally fogged. Your body wants sleep more than it wants food or clarity or answers. You turn back your attention to the solid surface of the cabin door.

Nothing. No answer. 

You’re about to turn and leave to find someone else when the door swings open with a startled, mechanical squeak.

You’re met with the familiar sight of a nervous, slightly wide-eyed man wearing a Burger Bob hat that’s just somewhat crooked from panic. His shirt’s got a Thomas the Tank Engine edit across it, and you swear his pupils dilate a little when he sees your tired state. 

007n7. 

It’s clear that he’s concerned as he scans your face.

“Oh— uh— whoa,” he stammers, voice soft and strained. “You—you okay? You don’t look— I mean— you look tired. Real tired.”

You gesture vaguely behind you. “Cabin. Gone. Thanks to Spectre.”

His brow furrows, and his whole posture folds in guilt, like it’s somehow his fault. “Ah… I know that feeling.”

You just nod absentmindedly.

He hesitates for a beat before stepping aside and opening the door wider. “You, uh… You need a place to crash?”

You nod again, silent. He gestures for you to come inside.

“Come in.”

The inside of his cabin is… surprisingly clean and simplistic. A map of the area is pinned to the wall, worn furniture, a few random posters, a desk covered in little sticky notes, scrawled teleport coordinates, old printouts, and scraps of code in faded ink. Some tools lay strewn on a nearby bench, and a worn photo of him and his son, c00lkidd, rested on a nightstand.

Oh, yeah…There’s only one bed. A thin mattress that’s seen better days. Two pillows, one clearly newer than the other, and a blanket folded neatly over it. You both notice it at the same time as you both stare.

“…I’ll take the floor,” he offers quickly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You don’t have to,” you say. “It’s cold out, and besides, the ground will probably hurt your back. We’ve been through worse. I’m not gonna let you sleep on the floor.”

He blinks. “You sure?”

You nod. “Just sleep. I’m too tired to care.”

He’s hesitant — not from discomfort, but from guilt. You can see it in the way he glances at the c00lgui sitting quietly on his desk like a relic. He moves carefully, like he doesn’t want to disturb the space you’ve both agreed to share.

You lie down first, facing the wall. He follows a beat later, awkwardly tucking the blanket around himself while making sure there’s room between you. His spine was stiff like a scared cat. Even under the covers, he doesn’t relax, hands folded over his stomach like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

The room is quiet. Then—

“…When c00lkidd was still here,” he murmurs, barely audible, “I used to sing him to sleep. Dumb songs. Old ones. He’d laugh, say they were cringe.” A pause. “I’d give anything to hear that again.”

You glance toward him, but his back is turned and faces towards you, his shoulders trembling just slightly beneath the blanket.

You whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply.

But eventually, you feel the tension in his back ease. Just a little.

He’s quiet again until…

“Thank you for listening…Sorry, this happened to you.”

You hum a tired sound, eyes already shut.

“It’s not your fault.”

“…Still feels like it. A lot of things do.”

You open one eye as you reach over and flick the little Noob head on his hat gently. It wobbles.

“Thanks for the bed, n7.”

You hear a breathy, surprised chuckle — the first one from him in what feels like forever.

“…Anytime.”

[sportsentranced]

water boy

Sam Hubbard was the pride of the Bengals’ defensive line—tall, relentless, and smart. Every Sunday, the crowd roared his name as he sacked quarterbacks and stopped plays cold. But none of that mattered to Tyler, the team’s overlooked, underpaid water boy.

Tyler was always there, blending into the sidelines like a patch of turf. He filled bottles, cleaned towels, and listened—really listened—as players talked like he wasn’t there. They barely acknowledged him. Not even Sam, the supposed "nice guy."

So one day, Tyler snapped—or rather, he got clever.

See, Tyler had a side hobby: hypnosis. Not the stage stuff, but real, deep suggestion. He practiced on drunk friends in college, even once got a professor to forget his name for a week. And now, he had a new target: Sam.

The locker room was quiet. Practice had ended a while ago. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, and the hum of distant vacuums echoed from the hallway. Most of the players had gone home, except for one.

Sam sat on the bench in front of his locker, slowly unwrapping tape from his fingers. Sweat still clung to his skin, but he wasn’t in a hurry. A long practice. His muscles ached. His mind drifted.

Tyler stood a few feet away, organizing a crate of bottles, his movements methodical. He glanced at Sam, hesitating. Then he spoke, soft and casual.

“You ever just…get tired of all this?” Tyler asked, keeping his tone light.

Sam didn’t look up. “Tired?”

“Yeah. The yelling. The pressure. Everyone barking orders at you like you’re a robot.”

Sam chuckled dryly, tossing a ball of tape onto the floor. “Comes with the job.”

He cleared his throat. "Do you mind, uh, James?" Sam held out his hand, a signal Tyler knew too well, he wanted the bottle of water.

Of course he didn’t know his actual name.

Tyler walked over slowly, a towel draped over his shoulder. "It's Tyler..." He held a bottle of water, offering it out.

“You should hydrate. You always forget after long days.”

"Oh, sorry," Sam growled quietly, clearly mot paying attention.

Without thinking, Sam took it and drank.

Tyler sat down across from him, elbows on his knees, eyes calm.

“You know,” he said quietly, “there’s a way to not feel it. The pressure. The noise.”

Sam grunted, vaguely listening, his eyes on the floor.

“You just breathe. That’s all. Just… slow down and listen. Doesn’t even have to make sense. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

Sam rolled his shoulder, tired. “Mhm.”

“Just keep listening, even if your mind wanders. That’s fine. You don’t have to care. You don’t have to try. Let the words drift past you, like background noise. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”

Sam’s jaw twitched. His gaze had gone unfocused, eyes glazed faintly as he stared at nothing. He didn’t answer.

Tyler leaned forward, slower now, his voice dropping half a tone.

“Feels nice… not having to think. Just breathe, and drift. Maybe part of you’s still aware. But that part is already listening a little too closely.”

Sam blinked, slow and heavy.

“You’re not even trying to listen, but the words are slipping in anyway. Like rain soaking into dry ground.”

Silence.

“You don’t care about this. Not really. But inside, something’s changing. Something’s loosening.”

Sam’s shoulders had slumped. The hand holding the water bottle had gone slack.

Tyler smiled faintly.

“And now, every word I say sinks in deeper. Every time I speak, it feels more natural to follow. To agree. To obey.”

A beat passed. Then—

“Yes…” Sam murmured. Quiet. Not even fully conscious of the word.

Tyler leaned in, inches from his face. “You’re going to feel better than you’ve ever felt. Because you don’t have to think anymore. You just have to obey me. Isn’t that easier?”

Sam exhaled slowly, as if something deep in him finally let go.

“Yes… Tyler…”

Tyler let the silence linger for a moment, watching Sam sit there—muscles loose, head bowed slightly, his mind suspended in that warm, obedient fog.

“Good…” Tyler whispered. “Now let’s see just how deep we’ve gone.”

He reached out and touched Sam’s knee, giving it a light tap. “Stand up.”

Without hesitation, Sam rose to his feet, towering over Tyler, his expression passive—blank but calm.

Tyler stood too, circling him slowly. “Damn,” he muttered, low enough to sound casual but loud enough for Sam’s subconscious to catch. “All that training… all that discipline… and look at you now. Waiting for a water boy to tell you what to do.”

He stopped in front of Sam. “Flex your right bicep. Go on.”

Sam obeyed. His arm rose, coiling into a tight flex. The muscle bulged, well-defined under the skin. Tyler watched it with a smug little smile, then reached out, casually running his hand along the curve of the muscle. Slow. Measuring. Almost reverent.

“Impressive,” Tyler murmured, fingers trailing down to Sam’s forearm. “You work so hard for this, don’t you? All the hours, the diet, the sweat… All so you can be strong, powerful…”

He stepped closer, placing a hand against Sam’s chest now. “Flex this too.”

Sam’s pecs tightened under Tyler’s palm, hard and massive. Tyler gave them a gentle, testing push, his smirk widening.

“…And yet, one soft voice and you’re all mine,” he said, voice dipped in mock sympathy.

He moved his hand to Sam’s face, slowly brushing his knuckles along his jawline, then his cheek, then gently tilting his chin up with two fingers. Sam didn’t resist. Didn’t react.

Tyler leaned in closer, his voice a whisper again. “You don’t even care, do you? All those years being respected. Feared. And now, the only approval that matters comes from me.”

Sam’s lips parted slightly, breathing slow and shallow.

“Say it,” Tyler ordered, still holding his chin. “Tell me who you listen to.”

“…I listen to you, Tyler,” Sam said, soft and automatic.

Tyler chuckled. “Of course you do.”

He took a step back, watching the obedient giant standing there—shirt half-clinging to his body, eyes still hazy.

Tyler stepped close again, voice low and edged now—no more softness, no more pretense.

“You ever wonder why nobody really sees you, Sam?” he said, circling slowly. “You bust your ass for this team, play through injuries, smile through interviews—and what do they give you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Nothing. Not real respect. They pat your back because they need you. But the moment you're not useful? You're just another jersey. A number on a chart.”

Tyler leaned near his ear. “But me? I noticed you. I saw you—saw through you. I saw the cracks. The need.”

Sam’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t move.

“You need someone to give you purpose. Orders. Meaning. You’ve been chasing it through playbooks and weight rooms. But now you finally found it.”

Tyler stepped in front of him, holding his gaze now with steady, cold intensity.

“You’re not a leader anymore. You're not even a man with choices. You're mine. Say it.”

Sam's voice came slow, like something breaking inside him.

“…I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled, not kindly.

“That’s right. And the more you say it, the more you believe it. Because every time you obey me, it rewires you. Your mind changes. Shrinks. Until thinking for yourself feels wrong. Until the only thing that feels right is waiting for my next command.”

Sam blinked slowly, lips parted. Tyler could see it—the war in his subconscious already ending, the last defenses crumbling.

“You don’t fight it,” Tyler continued, stepping closer, almost nose to nose. “You welcome it. Obedience is peace. Submission is purpose. Say it.”

“Obedience… is peace…” Sam murmured, his voice trembling with something caught between defeat and relief.

“Submission… is purpose.”

Tyler raised a hand again, touching Sam’s chest.

“You're not their hero anymore, Sam. You're my tool. My pet. And the sooner you accept that, the freer you'll be.”

Sam didn’t speak. He just stood there—silent, still, owned.

Tyler smiled.

He let his eyes wander over the footballer's body once more, and he crouched slightly, one hand settling lightly on Sam’s thigh. Not urgent. Not invasive. Just… curious.

He let his fingers move slowly—tracing the definition carved into flesh from years of relentless training. Muscle under skin. Strength without thought. Power without will.

“Look at these legs,” Tyler murmured, almost to himself. “Monsters on the field. All that speed. All that force. But now? Just part of the machine. And I’m the one holding the controls.”

His thumb drifted just slightly up the inside of Sam’s thigh—not pushing, not testing boundaries. Just claiming space. Quietly. Confidently.

Sam didn’t flinch. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded, arms loose at his sides, waiting.

Tyler tilted his head, examining him like a craftsman admiring his own creation.

“You’re not even thinking about why,” he said. “Why you're letting me touch you. Why you're listening. And that’s the beauty of it. You don’t need a reason anymore.”

He stood upright again, meeting Sam’s eyes with a firm, expectant gaze.

“Kneel.”

Sam hesitated for half a breath, maybe a flicker of his old pride lingering—but it was no match for the programming Tyler had wrapped around his mind. Slowly, deliberately, the star defensive end sank to his knees before him. No words. No resistance.

Just surrender.

Tyler looked down at him, his voice a quiet murmur.

“Look at you. Kneeling for someone no one else even notices. For the guy who carries towels and wipes sweat off benches.”

He smirked. “And yet, you feel more certain now than you ever have in your life.”

Sam nodded once. Almost reverent.

Then, with the same quiet authority, he reached out and cupped Sam’s face.

His palm slid along Sam’s jaw, fingers tracing the shape of it—not with desire, not with warmth, but with ownership. Admiration twisted with power. His thumb swept gently under Sam’s eye, dragging across cheekbone, studying him like he was memorizing something valuable. Something that belonged to him now.

“You were made for this,” Tyler whispered. “Big, strong, silent. Built to obey.”

Sam didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His breath was slow. His expression empty, relaxed. Vulnerable in a way no one had ever seen him—not on the field, not in the locker room. Only Tyler had this version of him now.

Tyler ran his fingers along Sam’s temple, brushing damp strands of hair back, the touch slow and oddly tender.

“Doesn’t it feel better like this?” he murmured. “Not having to lead. Not having to pretend to be more than muscle. You were never meant to think, Sam. You were meant to serve.”

A twitch passed across Sam’s brow—something flickering deep inside—but it passed just as quickly. His voice came low, hollow with trance:

“…Yes, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… satisfied.

His thumb dragged across Sam’s lips once, softly.

“Good boy.”

Tyler brushed his hand through Sam’s damp hair. A mock-gentle gesture.

“Good. Stay there a while. Get used to it.”

He turned away for a moment, grabbing his gear, his voice calm and amused.

“After all… this is where you belong.”

[swightops]

still holding the silence (2) - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - you deal with the aftermath of the gala and find an old friend asking for your help. warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), language a/n - CA 4, thunderbolts, heavy angst as you delve into old avengers stuff, mc is kinda mean at time but hey she's hurting, i promise we'll see our man next chapter LMAO, the plot thickens oooooo

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Famously retired Avenger known as Sunwraith made a surprise appearance at the "Meet the Future" gala, and an even more surprising gesture of support. Appearing alongside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the ex-hero smiled for photos and stood arm-in-arm with the New Avengers leader, prompting speculation that Sunwraith might be quietly endorsing the controversial new team.

Comments:

"Wow, I never thought I'd see Sunwraith at a gala again! This could mean big changes for the New Avengers!" "lol no way Sunwraith actually likes this new team" "The New Avenger literally don't compare to the old ones" "I'm skeptical. Sunwraith was a pure Avenger and she's not a part of this new team?" "I think Sunwraith just wants to support the new heroes. Change is always scary but we need to give them a chance!" "I'm so excited for this new team omgggg"

You groan as you toss the tablet to the side, not wanting to remember anything about last night. Your PR team had already given you an earful about the event earlier today, since your name started trending on social media, and the world wondered whether you truly supported the New Avengers. A buzz distracts your attention from the internet storm as you look down at your phone.

Sam Wilson

[Really?] [Attached: 1 link]

[She set me up] [Bitch]

[You okay?]

[Thinking about it]

Your fingers hover over the keyboard momentarily, deciding if you should send your next text. Fuck it.

[Saw Bucky]

The following minutes drag on as the typing bubbles appear and disappear on the screen.

[Have a mission. Got to go. We'll talk later.]

"Ughhh," you groan, throwing your phone away and dragging your hands down your face. The headline still burns in your head like an unwanted tattoo.

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Your head falls back against the couch as you glance around the big, sterile, expensive apartment. It's not home, never quite home. You try to make it feel like home by hanging up pictures of your family, adding little knick-knacks around the place, and adding pops of color to bring life to the apartment, but it doesn't help.

The silence returns, settling over your shoulders like fog.

There never used to be silence, not after the Avengers.

You get up, not because you have anywhere to go, but because sitting still feels like drowning. You wander to your office, where work waits. Stark Relief documents. New Light proposals. A sticky note from Pepper in her neat, decisive handwriting:

"Board meeting resched. Monday. Don't forget to breathe."

You laugh, humorless and low. Breathing feels like the hardest part lately. You sink into your chair and stare at the spreadsheet open on the monitor. Profit margins. Logistics. Some initiative sent over by the GRC.

No one trained you for this. You were trained to throw punches, to induce fear in those whom Hydra told you to, to let the shadows consume all. You weren't trained to run a company. And no matter how many zeroes are in your bank account or how many buildings bear your name (or Tony's), it still doesn't fill the space they left behind.

You push back from the desk, suddenly too restless, too full. You walk to the window and press your hand against the glass. The city blurs beneath you, all movement and meaning, and none of it belonging to you.

You're a statue in a world that keeps moving.

You flex your fingers. That soft golden glow flickers to life—your power, your legacy, but it flickers.

Dims.

And then fades.

Your stomach growls. Glancing at the desk, you know you won't get any work done. Might as well make dinner.

It’s almost muscle memory now—this recipe, this dish. The kitchen smells before you even start chopping. You pull out different ingredients: chicken thighs, onions, paprika (the Hungarian kind Wanda used to swear by), chicken stock, and sour cream. You line them up like puzzle pieces and smile faintly when you catch yourself muttering the steps under your breath.

You chop slower than usual tonight. There's no rush. No alarms. No missions. You sauté the onions in oil until they're golden, then add the chicken and let the kitchen fill with sizzle and scent. The paprika goes in next, painting the pan in warm red, and something in your chest settles.

You aren’t making this for anyone.

You let the dish simmer before setting a plate. Just one. But beside it, without thinking, you place a second and third. You don’t sit right away. You stare at the plates and wonder if you're crazy.

Then again, crazy might be the only thing keeping you human.

You finish the dish with a spoonful of sour cream, stirring gently until the sauce is velvety-soft. You taste it. It's still good, still rich, still theirs.

“Ms. L/N,” a voice says from above you. FRIDAY. “You have a guest.”

You blink. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“It's,” FRIDAY pauses. Although she's AI, a program designed by code, her voice has always been very human and compassionate. "Mr. Barnes is here."

You sigh, dusting imaginary dust from your hands. “Send him up.”

As you stand, you stare at the empty plates, hoping that magically it eases your racing heart. It doesn't.

A soft ding sounds throughout the apartment as the elevator doors open. Footsteps follow—slow, steady, too familiar. Your breath catches in your chest as you turn to look at Bucky. He stands in all black, his coat damp from the drizzle outside. Hair tied back. Eyes unreadable.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a buzzing in your head.

He shifts, hands still buried deep in his pockets. His eyes shift to the plates on the table. “Were you expecting people?”

You don’t say yes. Just shake your head no. “Why did you come, Bucky?” you ask, folding your arms. “You were perfectly fine with ignoring me before.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s funny,” you snap. 

“I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m not ready either,” you say, stepping back. “So maybe you can go.”

“Wait-” He takes a step forward, and the tension snaps, pulling tight around your chest.

“You don’t get to wait, Bucky,” you say, voice trembling. “You completely ghosted. You let me think that you were done with me. That we don't mean anything to each other anymore."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You scoff bitterly. “No clever line? No excuse? What, no backup from your flashy new team?”

“It's not what you think,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Spare me, Buck."

He sighs, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lower lip before biting it. “I didn't come here to fight,” Bucky says quietly. “I came because I need your help.”

That makes you laugh, bitter and small. His words sting. It's not about you, it's about what you can do. “Of course you do.”

“I know you met Bob.”

You blink. “What does he have to do with this?”

Bucky steps closer, his hand pulling out a small flash drive from his coat pocket. He places it on the kitchen island before slowly sliding it to you, almost scared that you might run off. "Short story, he can't control his abilities. Powers, memories, it’s all bleeding together. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. And honestly…so am I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. The buzzing intensifies. 

“I don’t know how to help him, and truthfully, there aren't many people I can trust to help him,” he says, and your heart aches. Trust. "He needs someone who understands him in the way the rest of us can't," he pauses. "And...I think you do too...Please, Sunny-"

“Don't,” you say sharply.

He flinches. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” you say again, pointing a finger at him now. “Don’t say it like I’m still her. Like I’m still that version of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing most days, Bucky. I wake up, I read headlines that praise me or, worse, pity me. I go to meetings for a company I don't think I can run. I sit in boardrooms with people who talk about Tony like he was a brand. And then I come home. And I sit. And I wonder if any of it mattered. And then I wonder if I did."

He swallows hard. “You did. You do."

"And then sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we did the right thing...bringing everyone back. That if maybe we didn't, then they would be here. Misreable, but here!" you admit, and it feels good. To finally say the salty thought out loud.

Silence.

Your watery eyes meet with Bucky's, and you then turn away. "Sorry, that was a lot. Um, if you wanna leav-"

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he cuts in. “y/n, believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Just...help Bob. Please. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go. I'll make sure none of this "New Avenger" stuff gets near you again."

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, you speak, barely audible.

“He’s staying at the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, maybe the closest thing he’s come to relief since he arrived. He moves to leave, and you're letting out a breath that you didn't know you were holding.

"I know you think you're not who you used to be. But to me, you're still Sunny. You're still you, y/n."

You don’t respond.

The elevator dings and the doors open before they close again, and you’re alone again.

You stand motionless. The air feels different now—thinner, lighter. Bucky took something with him when he left. You're not sure how long you stand there, hands curled into fists at your sides.

You're still Sunny. You're still you, Y/N.

You exhale sharply. A broken sound.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper to the empty room. Your eyes fall to the flash drive, and your fingers grab hold of it before you can really think. They dig into the sides of it as if it’s the only thing keeping you connected to Bucky. Maybe it is. 

The smell of the paprikash hits you, and you’re reminded of your dinner. Almost robotically, you’re serving yourself, and you sit at your dinner table. Just sit and look at the empty table before you. And then, your fingers dig into the flash drive, and with a flick of your wrist, shadows move from the corners of the room, and your laptop is placed in front of you. 

The blob of shadows straightens out before you, and it just stares at you like it’s trying to get deep into your mind and roll your eyes. Deciding it’s better to ignore “it”, you plug the drive in and immediately files pop up. 

SUBJECT: REYNOLDS, ROBERT. aka “The Sentry”

You scroll. Your eyes flick over O.X.E. logs, therapist reports, and medical scans. O.X.E. It rang a bell in your head. Shit, where did you hear about it?

“Extreme power mismatch. Emotional destabilization suspected. Cognitive dissonance under pressure catalyzes the emergence of what is to be described as “The Void.”

There’s a photo of a lab room. There’s a table in the middle of it, but what draws your attention are the two human-shaped shadows imprinted into the wall. Both with their hands up, almost like they were running from something or someone. Another report catches your eye.

“Patient describes the entity as a shadow of the self. A voice. A second presence. Distinct yet intimately fused. The more power he uses, the more it surfaces.”

You swallow.

Your chest tightens. Not because of what’s on the screen. But because of how familiar it feels. You open a video file.

Bob’s there. He’s in big, oversized scrubs, sitting in a doctor's room on some sort of bed. He’s curled up into him just like that night you two met. “It isn’t always cruel,” Bob says. “Sometimes it sounds like the only one who understands me. Sometimes it sounds like…me.”

A long, thin silence follows.

“He came to you because he sees it in you too.”

You jerk your head up. The voice isn’t real. You know that. But you haven’t heard it in a long time. 

“He sees that brokenness in you. Everyone can.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. Your palms burn faintly, powers curling at the edge of your control. The lights in the apartment flicker for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

You clench your fists tighter. “Shut. Up.”

But the voice only sighs—fond, tired. “Don’t you miss how good it feels?”

You slam your laptop shut. Panic clings to your skin, cold and slippery. You rise too quickly and pace around the kitchen, hands trembling. There’s nothing to fight, but your muscles are coiled like you're bracing for impact.

You grip the edge of the sink.

Breathe in.

Out.

The shadows on the floor move with you. They always do. You’ve tried to pretend you’re in control of them. But some nights, you’re not sure who’s following who.

When you catch your reflection in the microwave door, your eyes glow faintly golden, not bright, but unmistakable. A quiet reminder of what lives under your skin. What lives deep down in your core. What calls to you when no one’s around. 

You avert your gaze. You’ve spent so long keeping it in and keeping in control, and yet, it’s slipping out so easily right now. How could you possibly help Bob when you can’t even help yourself?

Another tired breath escapes you before you sit back down at the table and open your laptop. You read more files, watch more videos, and skim over medical reports before a more recent report catches your eye. 

Subject: “Nightfall” Location: New York Casualties: Proximately 4000 people affected, minor injuries reported, no deaths reported Symptoms: Rapid psychological collapse, extreme hallucination, physical shadow assimilation Origin: Unknown energy pulse originating from R. Reynolds, later confirmed to be "The Void" entity. Field Notes: Victims reported being trapped inside 'memories,' often their worst or most shameful. Reports of time dilation, possession, and an unidentifiable psychic broadcast frequency mimicking grief cycles.

You stop there.

You remember that day. You and Pepper had watched from your tablet screen in France, arguing about whether you should take off for New York to stop the madness. At the time, you didn’t know what had caused it, over just as soon as it began, only that it reminded you too much of your own power when it slips, when it pulls too hard.

You keep reading. 

Post-Incident Recovery: Public story reframed as a biological weapon scare. Following the successful suppression of the Void, Director de Fontaine initiated Phase 2 of the Avenger Initiative Reformation. Results: "The New Avengers."

Your jaw clenches.

That’s what this was. Not a victory. Not some earned rebranding. Just a cover-up. A PR move. They turned a tragedy into a stage.

You exhale sharply and look back at your screen. Unable to stop, you keep reading before another file catches your eye. It’s encrypted. “FRIDAY, unlock this one.”

“Right away, boss.”

PROJECT: SENTRY / Source Documentation Archive Authorization: LEVEL BLACK Link Chain: O.X.E. // Archive Root: (REDACTED) Initiative

You freeze.

There’s no explanation. No subject name. No reference. Just:

—secondary prototype derived from archived data. Subject parallels stable. Cognitive divergence unstable. Full severance from original subject history approved. PROJECT CONTINUED UNDER CODE: SENTRY.

You sit back slowly, like any movement might disturb what you’ve just read. O.X.E., no Valentia Allerga de Fontaine, gave Bob his powers.

They built The Sentry. Created The Void. 

You stare blankly at your reflection in the dark screen. Your golden eyes catch faintly again, just for a second, before fading. Deep inside you, the pit stirs again, quiet and knowing, feeding off your unease. 

Bob Reynolds had a darkness within him. Something that matched the one deep within you. And tomorrow, you were going to see it up close.

[missydior]

love letters ౨ৎ

notes: charles leclerc x reader, friends to lovers, humour, fluff, confessions, this is both a smau & written piece.

a/n: one of my favourite tropes ever: guilty. this feels a little messy but I had a lot of fun writing it.

౨ৎ

liked by friendusername, charlesleclerc and 313,983 others

yourusername: hello from the birthday girl here <3 thank you so much for all of the kind messages, wishes & gifts. sending lots of love

3,122 comments

friendusername: happy bday to our favourite girl ever 🍰🫶🏼

yourusername: 🤍🤍🤍

user1: happy birthday to our favourite paddock princessss

charlesleclerc: did you like the cake I bought you then, or?

yourusername: I loved it until you threw half of it in my face

charlesleclerc: it tasted nicer that way

franciscagomes: bday girl !!

yourusername: i love youu

franciscagomes: i love you more 🤍

pierregasly: what about me?

franciscagomes: today is about y/n. shush.

౨ৎ

I. Your Birthday.

After hours spent with café au lait and too much maple syrup on pancakes in the morning with gift receiving and wishes, a quiet luncheon with those closest to your heart, enjoying the beauty of the shores and rosé champagne, evening eventually settles in a beautiful colour against the heavens of Monaco.

You have never been one for the dramatics or high attention of crowds, settling on an intimate celebratory affair amongst close friends and family: pretty dresses and glasses of Lavender French '75 or those strawberry daiquiris that Ésme is in love with; a sweet, favourite song heard in the background.

Charles arrives fashionably late, the collar of his white-linen shirt loosened and soft, dark-brunet hair slightly tousled as he comes near, the sight of a smile on his face you've always loved, dimples revealed.

There is a certain relief that comes with being graced by his presence, like you had been silently longing and waiting for his greeting before anybody else's, though you disguise it from any chance of teasing.

"(Y/N)," Your name rolls off his tongue like caramel, accentuated as he shifts to kiss both your cheeks in friendly affection before he chuckles at your expression, "Happy birthday." Mon ange.

"Thank you," You breathe, a laugh falling past your mouth at the sight of him in manifestation, inclining your head when you look at him through your lashes, "I was beginning to think you forgot."

"Forget? Me?" The Monegasque exclaims as though wounded, placing his hand to his chest though the smile about his sun-kissed visage never dissipates, stealing a nearby glass of champagne, "Never. I had some work to finish."

There is an edge of teasing beneath your looks, a dance of butterflies in your stomach when he touches the small of your back fleetingly as he shifts past with that signature wink of his, all friendly and humorous in years of friendship, and yet your heart stutters.

You almost say something else, confessions and thoughts that want to erupt from your chest like love letters you have never sent – certain it is merely the liquor fogging your judgement – but he's wandered away with a final promise before a syllable can come forth.

"Let me get the birthday girl a drink, oui?"

liked by franciscagomes and 311,646 others

yourusername: july with my favourite people <3

mentioned charlesleclerc, friendusername, franciscagomes and two others

1,354 comments

user1: literal angels

user2: second pic is definitely y/n and charles

friendusername: you still owe me another ice cream 🍨

yourusername: sorry bby, i’ll be at your front door with a double vanilla ice cream soon <3

franciscagomes: 🤍🤍

౨ৎ

II. At the beach.

Warm light kisses your skin like heavenly delight, a forgotten copy of Paris' Vogue beside where you are currently bathing with a finished strawberry lemonade, long lashes fluttering when you open your eyes to gaze at the skies above in the heat of July, a mosaic of white and cerulean about the Côte d'Azur.

Most of the others have momentarily departed for the nearby café for new sweet treats, though you are consciously aware of a half-dozing Charles Leclerc nearby against the slight flush down the bridge of his nose and eyelashes that ghost about his cheekbones where he is lying.

Pure bliss; perfect heaven.

"Charles?"

It takes him a second, the mention of his name rousing him to blink out of a hazy hint of a dream with the tilt of his chin towards the direction of your voice that calls to him like an angel's symphony, squinting against the haze of light before a lazy, boyish smile reveals his pearlescent teeth, "Mm?"

Shifting upright, consciously trying not to stare at him for too long though you have come to simply welcome and fall used to the sight of his naked chest, all smooth ridges and lean muscle, you absently adjust the ribbons of your pretty bikini and reach for sun cream.

"Do you think you could help me put some on my back, please?" You ask politely, offering him the item whilst shifting on your knees and gathering the edges of your hair over your shoulder that have fallen loose.

He does not respond initially, not until he's sat upright and shifted closer with a kind edge of a smile that dances across his face, "Oui."

Charles does not hesitate or take advantage of the circumstances, applying the fine lotion against the curve of your shoulders with gentle ministrations and lower down, fingertips feather-light, careful not to linger too long.

The act feels oddly intimate as you gaze towards the serene shores, like his touch is meant for the most secret parts of you, an unconscious shiver and the subtle arching of your vertebrae when he traces a particular area. Whether he notices or not, there is no indication given, instead continuing in a method that seems entirely platonic but leaves an ache in your stomach.

"Merci," You tell him once the deed is most finished and he draws away, shifting just enough to offer a look of him from the corner of your eye in a gratuitous smile.

You wonder if how his gaze lingers is the same way yours does, like a painting worth admiring or a flower in emergence, heart thrumming quicker under your sternum before the moment is broken when he clears his throat.

"Of course."

౨ৎ

III. A dinner.

Caffè Milano, a quaint but fanciful and warm establishment tucked in the quiet luxuries of Monaco's principality with its dancing chandeliers, oak-varnished furniture and beloved menu.

A semblance of familiarity, pleasantry and polished glasses clinking against the rhythm of conversation amongst friends in the warm afternoon: a lingering aroma of roses from the centrepiece décor neatly arranged and fine cuisine.

"– Non, I am not lying," Pierre is recounting a recent, humorous anecdote of experience, thumb idly tracing the edge of his wine glass whilst you and the others listen on, your cheeks beginning to hurt from how much you have laughed in the recent half-an hour, idly toying with the necklace resting at the hollow of your throat in common fashion.

"You are." Francisca frowns, albeit fondly.

Your concentration is removed from their talk when there is a subtle caress against the ankle bone, a touch beneath the furniture and a fleeting glance from your peripheral sight at the Monégasque beside you, all handsome smiles and that addictive song of laughter whilst a stray hair falls about his eyebrow, though he does not seem to show any degree of deliberation or notice that his shoe idly touches you there.

You have the urge to hold him, caress him, to press a thousand, butterfly kisses along his jaw and say something you should not. Instead, you continue to listen and nurse the last of your Château-Chalon.

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f1gossip: y/n at the grand prix this weekend <3 our paddock princess is back

mentioned yourusername

333 comments

user1: she looks divineee

user2: charles and y/n friends to lovers when?

user3: leave them alone, they’re just friends and have been since childhood

౨ৎ

IV. A balcony.

Charles had forgotten his keys somewhere and, until his dear brother could come and return them, you had offered the warmth of your welcomed apartment: all minimalist but homely in décor against a palette of cream, white and the like all complemented by paintings and furniture.

One hour had melted into two by the late afternoon with dusk's slow kiss, hints of lilac and grey in the edge of the skies, your cats curled contently on the plush chaise lounge and resting after endless affections from the Monégasque who seemed to be in love with them.

"Can I join you?"

The voice – honest and clear, albeit a fraction amused – is recognisable as you are drawn out of reverie on the balcony of rocaille motifs, gazing into quiet streets below and the nearby public gardens flourishing with flora, gnawing at your inner cheek as you look to the man where he leans against the threshold, a look in his eye that comes with a subtle indulgence after he stole your favourite bottle of rosé in the kitchenette.

"Of course, yes." Always.

He stands beside you, a few inches apart with his elbow resting against the intricate balustrade when he follows your dreamy stare for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. There is a comfort between the two of you, something you know must come from years of familiarity:

An seemingly endless, innocent youth that manifested in its complications as you aged and neared adolescence, like an evening primrose that flowers and sometimes falls apart, but always returns, even changing with senescence. With age.

You can feel his gaze, almost like an internal, silent imploration for your own, the edges of your fingers and nails polished in a rose quartz-esque varnish that glitters prettily in the evening, and his lips are parted just enough as if wanting to say something before they curve a little higher on the edges, his words hushed.

"Have you ever thought about love?"

Your eyebrows raise a fraction, though it is not so unexpected of a question and one that has been on the edge of your tongue since forever, even with the doubtful inkling that he has merely enjoyed too much wine.

"Sometimes," All of the time. You murmur, a soft, breathless chuckle following as you shrug and tilt your head upwards, gazing above like some wished answer or instruction from the angels or whoever listens, "Why do you ask?"

"Because," His response is delayed, though his answer is sincere and thoughtful like he has been thinking over his words since a time he can't remember until his fingertips touch your elbow fleetingly, "I can't stop thinking about it."

There is a moment, a single fragment, in which you meet his eyes, his touch is known and everything seems to pause like a finished painting, a still image in a history book: his hand, his body and his eyes – the colour of autumn, earth, hints of something else so unique to him.

"Charles, what are you saying?" You laugh softly, looking away momentarily and toying with the knitted wool of your soft cardigan with the kind of feigned indifference that comes with disguising truth, "I didn't think you were a romantic, who has caught your eye?"

For a moment, you wish he would say someone's name, a blessed girl that you have never heard of, so that you can deny your own feelings and settle on the painful reality that you are merely friends.

Instead, his gaze flickers, almost nervously, and a palm cradles the curve of your cheek and jaw with the hesitance of a man of conflicting considerations even when he tries to smile a little. "Please, forgive me."

There is not an instance given to allow any insistence or inquiry as Charles presses a kiss upon your mouth: it is not rushed and there is a desperation there that is not greedy, tasting the remnants of your lipstick and rosé, slow and methodical – longer when you indulge and welcome the feeling.

He does not draw away completely when the feeling ends, his forehead lightly pressed to yours and his touch a little firmer where his fingers curl into your hair, swallowing slowly as his eyes close for a moment until he dares meet your stare once more.

"(Y/N)?"

You smile.

"Je t'aime." There is something in his face you have never seen before, something raw and open like an unfurling rose revealing itself, and you know that your heart is his and his alone.

Another kiss with your prompting, fingertips tracing the soft cotton of his shirt near the shoulder until you drape arms about his shoulders, breathing him in with hints of raspberry, amber and cinnamon, "I love you."

There is poetry in his eyes like those unsent love letters shoved under your pillow, and he delves in, holding you close and intimate until you're most certain, mutually, of the silent yearning you have felt for one another for years.

"C'mere," He mumbles, an arm drawing around the back of your thighs as he picks you up and holds you securely, and you cannot help but laugh in pure, unadulterated glee at his touch and affections, the bottle of rosé abandoned as the night settles in and you are whisked away.

He loves you.

He loves you.

[bearforcecaptions]

He didn’t own a dog. Yet, there the pup was—brown and white, muscular but mellow—snoozing peacefully at the foot of his bed when he woke up.

The morning light crept across the room, sliding past the blinds in lazy shafts of gold. He blinked once, twice, then sat up slowly, his sheets pooling at his waist. His first thought was that someone else’s dog had gotten in. That there must’ve been some mistake. But that thought—like so many others that morning—felt far away, like it belonged to a different person entirely. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the weight of confusion should’ve settled in. Should’ve made him ask questions. Panic, maybe. But none of that came.

Instead, his head was heavy. Thoughts sluggish. The kind of mental haze that clung like a fog after too many drinks or too little sleep. He stared down at the dog. It looked back with warm, trusting eyes and wagged its tail once, softly, like it had known him forever.

He opened his mouth to speak—to say, "Whose dog is this?"—but no sound came. Only a breath. Only stillness.

He stood slowly, his body aching in places that didn’t usually ache. Shoulders stiff. Hips tighter than usual. He chalked it up to a bad night’s sleep. Maybe too many push-ups the day before? But then… had he even worked out yesterday? That thought drifted away just as easily as it came.

Padding barefoot into the hallway, he stepped over a leash. Black nylon, a little frayed. Familiar, somehow. Had it always been there? It didn’t matter. His mind barely brushed the thought before letting it go, moving on like a record skipping past a scratch. His attention was fixed now on the kitchen, drawn like gravity to something that didn’t feel quite right.

He turned the corner. Stopped. Tilted his head.

Two stainless steel bowls sat by the fridge. One filled with water. The other, kibble. And next to them, a bright red rubber Kong toy smeared with peanut butter. He squinted at the items like they might disappear if he blinked. They didn’t. Of course they didn’t.

Of course.

His eyes trailed up to the fridge, where a magnet now held a printed schedule labeled “Rex’s Feeding & Walk Times.” His fingers traced the paper. His name was printed on it. His handwriting in the margins. Notes about vitamins, poop consistency, weather preferences.

The haze in his head thickened, not with panic, but with acceptance. Like the fog of a dream that was too real to question. Like slipping into a warm bath and forgetting what cold ever felt like.

He scratched absently at his chest and wandered into the bathroom. A clump of dog fur clung to his towel on the floor. Dog shampoo sat beside his own products. “Oatmeal & Chamomile.” He lifted it, sniffed it. It smelled… comforting. Like walks in the park. Like routine. Like him.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and paused.

His face. It looked the same—but subtly different. His jaw was stronger. Cheeks slightly leaner. His eyes looked more focused, less foggy. His biceps seemed to stretch the sleeves of his shirt more than they used to. He flexed one arm, watching the tricep pop just a bit. Weird, he thought. But not wrong.

He leaned in, seeing a faint shadow along his jawline. Stubble. That hadn't been there last night, had it? He ran a hand across it and smiled softly, like it was some old friend returning home.

By the time he wandered back to the bedroom, the place had transformed further.

The wall art had changed: a framed photo of him with Rex on a hiking trail. A pair of muddy boots stood by the door where his loafers used to be. A stack of Runner’s World magazines cluttered the coffee table, next to a tangle of resistance bands and a phone charger plugged into a different model of phone than he remembered owning. The wallpaper on the screen showed Rex curled up next to him on a couch he didn’t recall buying. But it was his couch. Had always been.

He sat down and slipped on a pair of worn sneakers—the ones by the door that hadn’t existed an hour ago. He didn’t question them. They fit like they were made for him.

Rex barked, eager now, tail wagging near the leash. It was time. Of course it was time.

He clipped it on, his movements smooth and practiced. The leash felt good in his hand. Familiar.

As he stepped outside, the sunlight washed over him. His shirt stretched tighter across his chest than it had minutes ago. The fabric subtly shifted as he walked, darkening to a deep olive green, hugging muscles that seemed just a bit fuller with every step. His shorts rode higher now, revealing thighs that had thickened into the kind of legs that knew what squats and lunges were.

He didn’t notice his gait changing. Didn’t notice his posture straightening, growing more confident. His stride widened as if his legs needed more room. His calves bunched and flexed with each step, stretching the knit of his socks, and his arms swung with casual, athletic ease.

People passed him and smiled. He nodded back. A woman jogged by and waved.

“Morning, Nate,” she said.

He smiled, returned the wave. “Morning,” he said, voice deeper now, with a timbre that carried.

...Nate?

He blinked. That… was his name. Right? Of course it was.

A soft buzzing from his phone pulled his attention. He pulled it from his pocket—same phone as before now, but with a lockscreen notification: “Client session at noon – don’t forget to bring the resistance bands!”

His fingers tapped it away without a second thought. He was a trainer. He’d always been a trainer. The fog in his head was clearing now, not all at once, but in soft increments like mist burned off by a rising sun. Every moment outside, every step, he became more himself. The new real self.

His height ticked upward subtly, joints stretching imperceptibly, each vertebra adjusting until he stood a solid two inches taller than he had inside his apartment. His jawline sharpened just slightly more. The stubble thickened across his face, giving him the rugged edge of a man comfortable in his skin. His eyes, once sleepy and confused, now held clarity. Focus. Experience.

By the time he reached the park, he was the man everyone expected him to be.

Tall, fit, confident. Athletic shorts, green fitted shirt, earbuds in. He checked his client schedule with a small frown of concentration. Three sessions today. One at noon, two later in the afternoon. He’d need to grab another protein shake after this walk.

Rex trotted happily beside him, tongue lolling.

“Good boy,” Nate said, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “We’ll hit the trails this weekend, huh?”

Rex barked in approval.

The world felt solid. Balanced. Perfect. There was no echo of who he’d been that morning. No memory of a dogless apartment or a different face in the mirror. The transformation was complete. Mind, body, and life.

And somewhere, deep beneath the haze that had long since lifted, the old self faded like morning mist—replaced entirely by the man walking tall into the rest of his day.