#i can't even begin to think what the point of it was

[achilles-rage]

Is She Mine?

summary: when buck left pennsylvania, he unknowingly left you there, pregnant with his child. four years later he runs into you and your daughter at the grocery store.

word count: 2.8k

a/n: another buck with a kid fic, another baby name from my baby name list used<3 if you don't like the name argue with the wall. someone gave me this idea months ago, but i can't find the ask, and i know birthmarks like that aren't hereditary or anything, but just pretend lol. anyway, enjoy<3

warnings: barely edited (sorry), reader has a daughter (obviously lol), no use of y/n, fem!reader, plus size!reader, race inclusive!reader

“Delia, come back here right now!” you whisper-yell down the grocery aisle, looking up right as you see your daughter disappear around the corner.

You’ve always been against kids on leashes, but lately, your three-year-old daughter has been single-handedly changing your opinion on them. You can’t take your eyes off of her for more than a couple of seconds before she’s gone; chasing after nothing in particular and probably talking to a random stranger or two along the way, if you know her at all.

You see flickers of her father in her; not merely in her appearance, but in who she is on the inside as well, and she’s never even met him. She’s extremely outgoing and talkative, and stubborn, and has a heart of gold. As much as you hate to see the painful glimmer of her father within her, it also makes you happy to think of your time with him.

You haven’t seen him since shortly after you realized you were pregnant. You were both in college in your home state, and when you took the pregnancy test, you couldn’t figure out how to tell him. You had ended up waiting too long, and when he told you that he was leaving to travel the world, you couldn’t stop him, as much as you wanted to.

You knew how miserable he was with his parents, and you couldn’t bring yourself to ruin his dreams. You knew all he wanted to do was get out of Pennsylvania, and you didn’t want to force him to stay with you just because you had done something stupid. 

You abandon your cart in the middle of the aisle and race after her, haphazardly pulling your purse up your arm as your eyes frantically look around you for a glimpse of her hair, or her light blue shirt. Or was it purple? God, you really need to start taking pictures of her before you go out with her, you think to yourself as your heart hammers in your chest.

Finally, you hear her loud giggle, and you let out a relieved sigh, following the noise and finally setting your sight on her curly hair and her blue shirt. Good to know you were right about that, at least.

“De, what are you doing? You can’t run away from m-” your words catch in your throat as you see that she’s talking to a man who’s bent down to her level and smiling fondly at her. 

When he turns and locks eyes with you, the smile drops from his face, and he stands up straight as his eyes travel down your body. His breath has been ripped from his lungs as he watches you pick up the little girl and set her on your hip, but before either of you can speak, your daughter squeals excitedly in your ear.

“Mommy, he’s got dots, too!” Her tiny hand shoots out toward his eyebrow, pointing at the birthmark above his eye, and you nod slowly, eyes still focused on Buck. Your sweet girl is completely oblivious to the tension between you and Buck; all she can focus on is that this random man at the grocery store has the exact same birthmark as her.

“Buck,” you breathe in disbelief, watching as the realization dawns on him. He knows exactly what he just heard. Mommy. And unless he’s suddenly extremely bad at math, he knows exactly what this means.

His eyes dart between you and your daughter, now seeing the mix of your features on her face. She has your eyes, and her hair is the exact same, but she also has his bright smile, and his nose, and of course, the same birthmark above her eye.

“Is she-” he begins, trailing off as he shakes his head. He’s trying hard to wrap his head around this situation, and the only thought running through his mind is why the hell didn’t she tell me?

“She’s three,” you reply softly, unable to bring yourself to say the real truth. He’s not stupid; you know you shouldn’t need to, and you don’t want to say a thing around Delia, anyway. 

“Why didn’t you-?” he begins again, but you cut him off, keeping a firm grip on your daughter as she wiggles around in your arms.

“You were miserable in Pennsylvania, I couldn’t make you stay,” you explain, your throat feeling tight as you feel all the emotions you’ve been shoving deep down for the past four years fighting their way to the surface again.

“You wouldn’t be making me stay, if I knew, I would’ve wanted to stay. You know that,” he tells you, brows furrowed. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about you since he left. Leaving you in Pennsylvania was the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, but he knew how important it was for you to graduate, and he couldn’t ask you to leave with him and throw away your own dreams for his. 

Now, looking at you, and the little girl in your arms, his heart feels heavy. He feels guilty for not being there for you for four years. He wishes that he never left.

“And I wasn’t miserable. I had you,” he continues, his fists clenching at his sides as he watches his daughter wrap her arms around your neck and rest her little head on your shoulder. He wants more than anything to hold her, but she has no idea who he is, and that causes a pain in his chest.

“I’m sorry. We were young, and I didn’t know what to do,” you explain, guilt filling your belly. In hindsight, you know you should’ve told Buck; he had a right to know, but you didn’t know what to say.

“Well, I can’t just forget about this now. I can’t just go back to not seeing you, not seeing her,” he says, his tone pleading as he looks down at your daughter again, his eyes soft as he takes in her drowsy eyes.

“Delia,” you tell him with a small smile, tilting your head to the side and resting your cheek against the top of her head.

He smiles too, and you think you see tears forming in his eyes as he nods, then clears his throat.

“Delia,” he whispers. “She looks just like you,” he continues, louder this time. 

You laugh softly, shrugging as you squeeze Delia tighter to you. You���re thankful that she’s been quiet while you talk, clearly tired after a long day at the park, and then running errands.

“I think she looks like you,” you reply, and he chuckles softly, feeling a sense of pride fill his chest. He can’t believe he hasn’t been there to see his little girl grow up, and that you’ve had to do this all alone.

“Please let me see you again. Please.” You smile at his words; you knew Buck would want to help out as much as he could if he ever found out. You feel guilt eating at you as you see the longing in his expression, but this feels like a second chance, and you don’t want to cut him off again.

“Okay. But, can I call you later? I should get her home and ready for daycare tomorrow. We shouldn’t really talk about this here, anyway,” you say quietly, gesturing down to Delia. She may only be three, but she understands a lot, even in her sleepy state, and you don’t want to confuse her before you know what this is.

He nods quickly, then gives you his phone to get your number, and when he has it, you say goodbye before you go your separate ways. 

Your daughter waves haphazardly at Buck as you walk away, and you can’t help the grin that makes its way onto your face. She’s asked about her father before, and you never quite knew what to say. Maybe now she’ll actually be able to have the father she’s always asked about. The one that you’ve longed for for the last four years.

Later that night, when Delia’s in bed, you call Buck and set up a day for him to come over to spend the day with you two. You both agree not to tell Delia who he really is, at least not right away. First, you’ll just get her used to him, and then you’ll cross the next bridge when you get to it.

You weren’t at all surprised when the first time Buck showed up on your doorstep, Delia welcomed him in with a bright smile, grabbing his hand and bringing him into the living room where all her toys were scattered around. You weren’t surprised when Buck sat right down with her and played with her all day, either, only stopping for snack breaks.

Anything she would ask for, he would do, whether it was playing hide and seek, or painting with her, or throwing her up in the air as many times as she wanted while playing what she calls “rocket ship.”

Eventually, his afternoon visits ended up ending later and later, and you’d sit on the couch and talk long after Delia went to bed. You missed hanging out with him, and seeing him being so good with Delia had you falling for him all over again. 

It wasn’t hard to see that he felt the same; you could see the way his eyes wandered down your body, or down to your lips when you were speaking, but you never did anything about it. Your number one priority is Delia, and you don’t want to do anything too early and confuse her. 

One day, a few months after you had run into Buck, he’s sitting on the carpet with your daughter, holding two of her Barbie’s in his hands with furrowed brows as she explains to him who they are. You’re sitting with them, watching with a fond smile, when Delia stops, looking up at Buck quizzically.

“Are you my daddy?” she asks softly, her brows knit together in confusion as she eyes him.

Both you and Buck’s eyes widen, and your lips part as you try to figure out what to say. You knew this was coming, but you couldn’t figure out how to go about it.

“Why do you ask, sweetheart?” Buck finally says, tilting his head to the side as you watch them.

“Everyone at school has daddies. And, you love my mommy,” she explains, looking between the two of you. You tilt your head to the side and steal a glance at Buck, seeing the smile growing on his face. He meets your gaze for a second, raising a brow, and you nod once. You don’t know how this is going to go, but you want to try.

“Of course, I love your mommy. And I love you, too,” he assures her with a smile, bringing a hand up and tracing her chubby cheek with his fingers.

She smiles bashfully, tilting her head to the side, then stops for a moment, thinking. You can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she looks at the space between the two of you, spaced out, and then she looks back up at Buck.

“Will you be my daddy?” she asks, and your heart shatters when you see the nervousness in her eyes. Buck can feel tears forming in his eyes as he looks back into her eyes, and his heart somehow feels both full and empty at her words. He’s been hoping to eventually become Delia’s father for real, but hearing the uncertainty in her voice makes him want to hold her close and never leave her again.

“Yeah, baby, I’ll be your daddy,” he says after a moment, not wanting her to wait a second longer. He lets out a huff as Delia suddenly shoots up and launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and settling into his lap with an elated giggle.

“I love you, daddy,” she says breathlessly, nuzzling into his neck and squeezing him hard. You watch with a smile, tears forming in your own eyes as you see a tear slip down Buck’s cheek.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice shaky as he hugs her close to his chest.

He’s always wanted a family, and now that he has this one, he never wants to let it go. He just can’t believe he missed out on the first three years. He’ll have to make it up to his girls, he thinks to himself.

“I’m gonna go talk to your mommy for a second. We’ll be right back, okay?” he tells your daughter when she finally gets off his lap and goes back to playing with her Barbie’s.

When you’re both in the kitchen, and sure Delia’s distracted, Buck closes the space between you two, cupping your cheeks and bringing your lips to his in a passionate kiss. You hold his wrists as you kiss him back, caught slightly off guard but quickly regaining your composure as you move your lips in time with his.

When you finally pull back, you’re both out of breath, and he looks down at you with sparkling eyes, studying your face for a moment before bringing your foreheads together. 

“I want to be a real family. I don’t just want her, I want you, too.” he whispers, letting his thumb trace along your skin as he holds your face in his hands. You laugh in slight disbelief, then nod, letting a tear finally fall down your cheek. The last four years without him have been exhausting, and all you wanted was this, but you never thought you could have it. Except now Buck is standing right in front of you, telling you that he wants exactly what you want.

“I want that, too.” you tell him softly, then bring your lips up to his again, kissing him with newfound fervour. 

Your hands go to his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer as you part your lips and let his tongue slip into your mouth, searching. He keeps one hand on your face as the other goes down to your hip, holding you flush against him as he tilts your head further up into the kiss, and a low groan escapes his throat as he feels your plush middle pressed against him. 

You finally have to pull away when you hear your daughter’s squeal from the other room; yelling a high pitched “daddy!” 

You both race to the living room, letting out sighs of relief when you see her sitting in the same spot on the carpet that you’d left her, with a cheeky smile on her face.

“Can we have ice cream for dinner?” You scoff, laughing softly as you shake your head. You’ve seen that sweet little expression before; she knows exactly how to ask for what she wants, but unlike Buck, you’re more used to having to say no.

“Yeah, we can have ice cream for dinner, baby,” Buck replies before you can, and your head snaps in his direction, your eyes narrowed. He hasn’t noticed your reaction, however, as he’s smiling fondly at Delia as she squeals excitedly and makes her way to him.

When Buck picks your daughter up in his arms and finally turns to face you, you can feel the sliver of anger slip away, seeing how Delia is looking up at Buck with a dazed smile; clearly happy about finally having her daddy. 

“You’re already wrapped around her finger.” you tease, and all he does is shrug, a smile plastered to his face.

“Happily.” he replies, then leans down and gives you a gentle kiss. You both laugh when you hear Delia’s fake sounds of disgust, and when you pull back, Buck throws her up in the air, then catches her.

“Hey, if I’m gonna be your daddy, you’re gonna have to let me kiss your mommy, that’s part of the deal.” he teases as he throws her up in the air, eliciting a high-pitched giggle from her lips. 

“Okay, okay, okay!” she gets out through breathless gasps, and when Buck hums in victory and lowers her back into his arms, he gives her a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek.

You watch with a grin, and you can’t believe that you lived for four years without Buck. But now that he’s back, you never want to leave him again.

notes: likes/comments/reblogs would be much appreciated if you liked this<33

click here for my masterlist!

click here to be added to my taglist!

click here to read my request rules!

taglist: @officiallyalbino @wanniiieeee @dreams-encapsulated-in-glamour @buckandeddiesverison @catkight @tatyhend @emilysuperswag @kulteule @korosevren @nyx3028 @sporadicmakerwerewolf @sherlocksbaby2323 @essienoe @p14th0mps0n @celestixldarling @brooke0297 @zelfanswhenshecan @avengersgirllorianna @bingbongsupremacy @nishinoyahhh @alyssanicole01 @outof-spite @supernatural-bangtanboys @x0xchristine @pear-1206 @swanshells @tpwkstiles @lulubelle14 @cannibalhellhound @odetolocksmiths @rafecameronsloverrrrr @charlie-winchester94 @hollandxxmix @evysian @starbyun92939798 @maxinish @uhmidkmuch @theking-mustdie @daeswash @911varietyposts @superlock-in-the-tardis @lilsquatch7898 @hufflepuff-spidey @starboygf @wnbweasley @damndirtylitch @eva-tts5 @alexxavicry @sammiejane22 @boybandbaby (if you interacted with my taglist post and are not on this list, make sure your blog is visible in searches or i can’t tag you!)

[summertimesadnessirl]

No?

Why would they?

Sometimes people need to spend time on their phone.

Phones are good for lost people in isolated places.

They're good for small periods of boredom and downtime.

They're good for checking in with friends and organizing events.

They're good for disabled people or sick or injured people who can't just go dancing on a beach whenever they want.

They're good for reading without wasting paper or physical space.

They're good for checking out information.

They're good for people who need to fidget in public, to replace smoking a cigarette or drinking or vaping.

Under socialism, demonizing low effort, relatively personal and private activities in favor of expensive high effort ones that make good status symbols that can be sold back to people isn't necessary.

People can go dancing, they can be on their phone.

People will choose.

Under socialism, that's my favorite thing that will change.

Right now, most people's lives are designed. Like...

Did you ever read Brave New World?

The scene at the beginning where they explain how they condition young people from a very young age?

They call it Fordism.

The idea is that they are able to mass produce people- based on the jobs they need and the population size they want, and various other things, they mass produce so many people based on age, gender, biological intelligence level, and then educate those people in such a way that they all have roughly the same upbringing, needs, desires, and responses to stimuli that help maintain order.

You could read a bunch of other books to realize that they still do this, or you could compare the walls of your workplace to the walls of the school you attended. Are they the same color? I don't know about you, but my gifted classes in my poorer schools had walls that looked just like a cubicle in the call centers they make here because people in the Midwest have the "standard American TV accent," and when I was in elementary school, the gifted classes got lots of computer time because we lived in Austin, and the skinny white girls from a certain demographic got lots of money to take sports classes and told they were dumb and couldn't read well, and when I was in remedial classes they took place in an outdoor portable classroom with brick walls that resembled a warehouse, and when I took classes for kids with behavioral issues they held em at big old houses. I could make more examples. I went to lots of different schools. But I bet if you work in an office right now, the building resembles your high school. Why do you think that's useful?

My favorite thing about socialism is that we can get to a point where we have a lot of things that get automated. Fewer hours of work. Maybe less fuss about the people who do the work not getting ideas as long as they do the work efficiently and leave if they want to try different work. All the jobs will mean equal dignity and respect. And all the automated work will be something like a tribal dividend is for people on native land- where it pays out equally to everyone so they can benefit from the value created by machines who can't use that value.

So if people try different jobs or leave a job it won't be a big deal or a problem and it won't mean some people are allowed to have more safety or comfort or less stress or more disability accommodation or Healthcare or whatever based on their job.

That's really cool anyway because it means people won't be trapped.

What's even cooler than that is that it means we get to stop doing Fordism.

We won't need to brainwash people to make them happy with filling a certain social role, or consistently try to force or push them into roles that don't fit. Even demographics like gender or age or whatever won't determine some kind of weird arbitrary life script that the government works to covertly push every person to follow and makes sure to limit options or help or restrict opportunities and resources to do certain things to certain people to incentivize people to do certain other things.

People can do whatever they want.

There isn't a "correct" way to spend your free time without fordism.

If you want to go to the beach or go dancing you do that, if you want to read old man yaoi or look at memes you do that. And it's not an either or proposition. You are not restricted from reading old man yaoi while at the beach. You can learn to do whatever you want. You can decide to just hang out and stare at the wall and think for a day. You can decide to make sparkly gifs on your phone. You can go to a museum and look at paintings.

Being on your damn phone is fine to do.

Ads will probably be more like reminders. "Did you eat that cilantro in the refrigerator? It's about to go bad."

They probably will have people who come up with activities for people to do, but some of the activities will be doomscrolling on their phone.

Mobile games under socialism will still advertise constantly but instead of trying to sell products they'll be like those Soviet ads telling you to learn dancing or go to the beach or really do anything but waste time on your phone

[faeprincess777]

Say Sorry

Synopsis: You speak poorly about yourself again, and Seonghwa is fed up with it.

TW: dom!hwa, sub!reader, spanking, hair pulling, hwa is kind of mean

I'm not that proud of this one but, let me know if I missed anything! (Not proofread, sorry for any typos)

The words slipped out before you even realized, but the damage was done. He heard you.

Lounging on the couch, Seonghwa freezes as the words leave those pretty lips of yours. Slowly, he reaches for the remote, pausing the movie that was currently playing before turning his glare towards you.

"What did you just say?" He asks almost calmly, but you know he is anything but calm right now. Quickly you try to think of anything that could get you out of your current predicament.

"I asked you a question, sweetheart." He says impatiently. He can practically see the gears turning in your head, but he is not about to let this issue slide, not again. Too many times, you've both had this conversation about the things you say about yourself and too many times he let it go. He decides it may be time for a different approach.

"Come here." He says sternly, leaving now room to disobey. You take your time making it over to him, trying to drag out the inevitable and irritating him even more in the process. By the time you reach him, Seonghwa quietly points to the bit of floor between his spread legs. Your submissive side taking over, you obediently kneel on the floor in front of him.

For a moment, he just stares at you, trying to calm down a little before deciding on the best way to get you to finally understand what you see.

He leans forward, grasping your chin and tilting so that you meet his eyes. “What did you say, princess?” he repeats, needing to be sure he heard you right before he continues. You try looking anywhere but him, knowing that you’ll crumble if you make eye contact, but he won't let you. You know drawing this out any longer will only upset him even more. So you decide to just come clean. 

You mumble just loud enough for him to hear you, “I said that I probably look like a whale with how much I ate today.” Silently he leaned back into the couch, deep in thought. After a few moments of silence, Seonghwa’s hand shot out, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you up and across his lap. It all happened so fast, and before you knew it, you were over his lap, skirt flipped up, and ass high in the air. You were completely exposed to him. Seonghwas has never had you like this before, it has arousal churning in your stomach.

“Whale, hm? That has five letters, right?” He asked, gently rubbing you over your panties. You didn’t respond, knowing it was a rhetorical question. You were curious what he had planned, and you found out very quickly. 

A hard slap landed on your ass, and you found yourself yelping in surprise and trying to wiggle away. Though no matter how much you wigged, he held you tightly. 

“Count.” he said, his voice once again carrying that dominant tone. Best not keep him waiting, you begin to count each slap. By the time he delivered the fifth slap, you were a mess of pain and pleasure. You had no idea spanking could be enjoyable, though your ass was definitely going to be sore for a while.

Seonghwa helped you off of his lap and back onto the floor where you were kneeling before, only now you know you’ve probably looked like a flushed, breathless mess. "Look at you, looking all fucked out from getting spanked. So cute. Maybe I just need to keep you so fucked dumb that you can't think to make up such lies about yourself, hm?" He says, caressing your cheeks softly. 

Before you have the chance to respond, he is once again taking your chin between his fingers, but this time pulling you in for a kiss. The flip from his dominant side to his sweet, nurturing side had your head spinning.

Pulling back to catch his breath, he leans his forehead against yours. "No one is allowed to disrespect my woman, not even you. Do you understand me?" He says. Even with his voice being much gentler now, there is still an edge of dominance, letting you know that he's serious.

You simply nod, not trusting your voice. You were a little scared. He has never been this upset with you. But at the same time, you couldn’t deny the new feelings his “punishment” stirred up. It's something much more primal, something that makes you want to stay on your knees for him until he forgives you.

Seemingly satisfied with your answer he smiles at you, his hand coming up to gently stroke your head. "Good girl. Now apologize." Shocked by his request, you still do as you're told. “I’m sorry, Seonghwa, for-” you start before he abruptly cuts you off. “No. Not to me. To yourself.” he replies. 

You take a moment to process what he just asked you and you find yourself internally cringing at his request. Apparently, those thoughts made it to your face as Seonghwa could clearly see your disgust at having to be nice to yourself. 

“Or I can take you over my lap again. And I promise you that you won't be sitting for at least a week if I do.” He says, raising an eyebrow at your disobedience. Though the offer is tempting, you can still feel the stink your previous punishment left behind. Bowing your head you reply, quietly, “I’m sorry I was mean to myself.”

Seonghwa, losing his patients, laces a hand into your hair, pulling you up towards him so there's hardly any space between you. “I can't hear you.” he said through gritted teeth. Startled by his sudden aggression you are quick to correct your mistake, repeating yourself louder than before. But you notice that primal feeling again, and decide to revisit it later. 

Please with your answer, Seonghwa releases you and smoothes your hair down before searching your face for any sign of distress, to make sure that you’re okay. But all he finds is that beautiful blissed out expression that he loves so much.

He, himself, looks and feels much calmer now that he’s got the situation sorted out.

“Good girl. I’m sorry I had to be mean, but you cannot talk about yourself like that. Do you understand me? This behavior ends now.” A gentle smile graces his face, but his tone is almost apologetic. You nod quickly before responding, “Yes, I understand. I’m sorry.” This time, Seonghwa breaks into a full smile, he doesn’t know how he got so lucky with you. Even after he spanked you, though it was for your own good, you are still so sweet. 

“You're forgiven, baby. Let's just go back to the movie, okay?” Seonghwas suggests. This time his voice was much softer, more like the Seonghwa you knew, but you didn’t mind the version of him you just met either.

Without a word, he helps you from the floor and into his lap. You shift slightly, feeling the discomfort of your sore ass rubbing against Seonghwa’s rough jeans. Seonghwa, noticing your discomfort, quickly moves you so that you are lying on your stomach across the couch before running to the bathroom to retrieve the aloe. When he returns, he once again flips your skirt up and begins to massage your sore cheeks. You sigh happily, and before you know it, you're dozing off, movie forgotten.

Tagging: @mimikittysblog

[hinamie]

Sending this as anon bc I'm shyyyy but hi!!! Ive been following you for a while and I LOVE the way you draw Yuji so so so much. Adore him even. He's my baby and I love him. You draw him so GOOD I go emotionally feral every time you draw a new Yuji thats how much I love him I was wondering if you have any tips when it comes to rendering his hair??? I've been drawing him for months now and I still struggle every single time I draw his hair and it's beginning to annoy me so much. I really really love the way you render his so I was sort of wondering how you go about doing it??? If thats not a bother of course. I can't stress this enough but I love your art and you've been a big artistic inspiration for me for the past few months!!! Hope you're doing well :)

hi anon!!! ik your question was about hair specifically but i got carried away and ended up with a timelapse of the whole render ..but i figured it's been a while so consider it a bonus! I'll go into a few specifics under the cut in case i get Also carried away rambling :'> it's a lot easier to Do than to explain but I hope u can still take something away from this <3

i'm on a painting kick so that means i mainly work by taking big swatches of colour blocks and then going in and refining them. u can see in the beginning of the video i start by just throwing down approximate colours and values according to where i want my light source to be before cleaning everything up. I use a combination of a hard angled chisel for flats, a chalky/textured oil brush to blur edges, and a textured tapered brush pen for detail.

rn the way i draw hair uses a lot of Big shapes that i try to separate into somewhat believable layered hairstyles by using small, high contrast shadows to give the illusion of depth. speaking of shadows, smth i play around with when it comes to yuuji specifically is shading his hair with colours that border on either brown or grey--depends on th piece ofc, there are times when i saturate this boy to hell and back, but i find using neutral shadows Grounds the pink a lot

honestly a good rule of thumb when rendering layers is light on top dark underneath fshdsdh a lot of the time hair rendering is just one big convoluted gradient. i break up the monotony with thin sharp lines around the edges where colours meet to imply individual strands, but lately i'm trying to cut back with how many strands i render in detail. i don't think this video is the best example of it (or maybe yuuji's hair in general doesn't lend itself well to what i'm trying to achieve), but ideally I'd like wider swaths of colour with fewer interrupting fine lines. megumi is a lot more forgiving w this i find

in a similar vein , i think in general it's rly hard working with hair like yuuji's which in official art is just . a nondescript spiky puff on top of an undercut... if u want to be more faithful to his design be my guest but i personally try to rectify his hairstyle by picking a few points of origin for the hair chunks in order to make the growth direction and volume make sense. since i draw yuuji's hair a lot longer than it is in canon, for reference i tend to look at a lot of women's undercut/pixie cut styles to get a better idea of how to layer everything. i like making his hair swoopy and fwippy rather than Spiky, if that makes sense

those r just some things i do, but honestly i wouldn't worry abt being terribly precious with it. hair is rly forgiving in that there are a million ways to make it look good , i think that the most important thing is being aware of your light source and adjusting your values accordingly. play around, see what works, have fun with it! and don't resist it if u find yourself being led in a completely different direction lmao ik i just went over my current process but i think i've brought up before how hair is often the most volatile of all the features i draw and i change up how i approach it A Lot .

i'll shut up now bc ive Already been talking too long but thank u so much for your kind words and I hope u found something abt this helpful!!!

[27spoons]

https://www.tumblr.com/27spoons/773801512373780480/what-if-i-said-i-wanted-nat-to-ride-my-strap-while?source=share

Now think about this scenario being high with her😭😭😭 it would be 100x messier, lazier and definitely more intense :( she would be such a whiny, needy mess, babbling about how good it feels and how much she loves you so much<3 Nat who LOVES being complimented and completely melts when you call her a good girl, especially if you do it in that sickeningly sweet voice while you grab her hips to help her keep the rhythm while riding your strap-on and at this point she's not even riding anymore, it's more like she's just grinding herself on your lap and delighting in the way the silicone tip rubs sooo good against her g-spot.

Nat would cum and make a complete mess and would probably fall asleep so quickly afterwards, all curled up and cuddly next to you in bed

I'm sorry I might have gotten a little carried away ;) but I totally understand you and I think about this more often than I should

u did NOT get carried away PLEASEE send me more thoughts like this... me personally when i smoke weed there's a 50/50 chance i end up horny bc of it... so..........

anyways have some writing bc i like this thought very much

but also... i got carried away with this. i was just gonna do headcanons or something butttttttttttttttttttttttt we love smut in this blog

High | Natalie Scatorccio

pairing: natalie scatorccio/gn(afab)!reader

wc: 1420

warnings: porn/what plot, smut (afab!reader), intoxication (marijuana), strap-on referred to as "dick" and "cock", not proofread we die like jackie

"You always look good when you wear that, y'know?" Natalie grins at you, watching your form lay flat on the bed, "Sexy." She giggles to herself, grabbing the joint straight from your lips and placing it between her own, taking a long pull. "And the weed definitely helps." She moves to climb onto the bed, resting one hand on your sternum while she holds the joint in her other. "Open your mouth."

Nat places the joint back between her lips, taking another pull before leaning down and pressing her lips to yours, gently exhaling the smoke into your mouth for the… well, you aren't sure how many times it's happened tonight, but it's happened a lot.

You breathe the smoke back out when she pulls back, and then her lips are on yours, and the joint is discarded. You aren't quite sure what happened to it, but you really don't care. You can always buy new bedsheets if a hole is burnt into them.

Nat's hand slides up from your sternum to gently cup the side of your throat, her hips pressing down slowly against your stomach, almost instinctively. You can feel her warmth, her heat, slowing grinding against you.

When her lips trail down from your mouth to your jaw—then neck, where she bites down on the flesh of your throat more than a few times—your hands rest on her hips and push them back until her bare pussy comes into contact with the piece of silicone rested against your stomach. 

"Mm," Nat hums against the side of your throat, "not even gonna warm me up first?" 

You scoff, one hand moving to grip her thigh, relishing in the feeling of the soft flesh underneath your palm. "We've been smoking all day. You always get so unbelievably wet when you're stoned. I don't even know if we'll need lube."

"Oh, we probably won't." She grins, one of her hands sliding between you, hands wrapping around the shaft of the purple dildo. "But I know you like it when it's extra messy." The breathless giggle that escapes her is downright sinful, and you watch with rapt attention as she rubs the tip through her slick folds. 

You curse under your breath as you watch the wetness begin to collect on the silicone cock, and you swear the way she lines it up with her pussy and slowly teases her entrance with the tip might be one of your favourite sights of all time.

Despite the fact you can't break your eyes from it, you make no move to force her down, letting her explore her own wetness. So, you run your hands up her body, almost in a worshipful manner. You tell her this often, and she calls you stupid every time, but you say it again, "You-you're-you—" You have to take a breath and steady your breathing, already getting worked up just from the imagery you're being provided with. "You-you're—" You force a breath, heart racing as you try to find the words. "Fuck. You're so fucking beautiful."

Nat lets out a low, warm laugh at that, "You're so dumb." But the way her skin flushes at the comment shows you the truth behind her words. 

The blonde moves one of her hands back to rest on your chest, leaning over you slightly as you watch the tip slowly push into her, adjusting around the girth of the strap-on. "Oh, holy fuck." You whisper as your jaw falls slack in pure, unbridled lust. "Holy fuck." You're not very vocal; you never have been, but when it comes to watching Nat slide down on your dick? It's a little hard not to be more than appreciative. 

"Y-yeah?" She lets out a breathy laugh, hips coming to rest fully against yours as the entire length of the toy bottoms out inside of her dripping pussy. "Like the view?"

"You know I do." A hand runs up to cup her chest through that red bra you love so much, thumb running across a hardened nipple through the fabric. "Always look like such a good girl when you take me so well."

The comment causes Nat to twitch her hips unconsciously, her clit grinding deliciously against your pelvis. "Yeah, you like it when I call you a good girl, don't you?" You mumble out, hands on her hips as you start to move them on her behalf, "Well, I like seeing my good girl ride my cock." 

"Oh, fuck yes," Nat murmurs back to you, her eyes falling shut as she slowly begins to move herself up and down the length. 

Now, Nat has never been loud either, but, when she's high? That's a completely different story. Low, breathless sounds spill from her mouth with every undulation of her hips. 

You can't help yourself when you reach onto the nightstand with your free hand, grabbing another joint and placing it between her lips, "The weed's good." A flame sparks to life on the lighter you hold to the tip of the perfectly rolled joint, and Nat takes a few long, slow puffs as she rides you.

"It is good." Nat offers on the exhale of the smoke, taking another long drag before shotgunning the smoke with you once, twice, and a third time before discarding the joint into the empty water bottle that rests on your nightstand. "But this is better."

The weed makes its way to Nat's head, the extra buzz doing wonders on how the strap—you—feel inside of her. These low, breathless moans spill from her mouth as she leans forward, pressing her chest against yours as she continues to rock her hips, urgency slowly increasing with every movement.

When her breathing starts fading into small whimpers, you bend your legs at the knee and press your feet flat on the bed, thrusting up into her.

"Fuck, you're such a good girl." You murmur into her ear, "Always taking my cock so fucking well. Riding me like you need it." You slap her thigh with one hand as you continue to fuck her. "So fucking sexy." A far cry from the flustered stuttering at the beginning, "And the sounds you make? Fuck, baby."

Nat whimpers again, babbling something about how good you feel, her hands pressed into the mattress beside your head, not even bothering to do anything more than grind pathetically down onto your lap, the tip of the toy brushing just perfectly against her g-spot with every roll of her hips.

She's practically drooling against your shoulder at this rate; whimpers and moans are breathed into your skin, every perfect movement causing her pussy to pulse around the silicone in an attempt to draw you in deeper still.

You wrap your arms around her to aid in the effort of holding her where you need her to be to keep hitting that spot that has her seeing white behind her eyelids. 

Her sounds slowly shift into breathless grunts as she gets closer and closer to falling over that edge, but it's not until you whisper, "Such a good girl" into her ear that the dam breaks, and with a strangled, broken cry, she clenches down around your cock and comes.

The movements she makes as you help her ride the waves of her orgasm are lazy and unhurried, but clearly still chasing that pleasure that had her seeing stars and thinking of nothing but you.

Eventually, her movements cease, and it's with a small, displeased whimper that she removes herself from your length and lays down beside you, immediately curling into your chest and seeking the comfort only you seem to provide.

"We should clean up, you know." But you wrap an arm around her shoulders anyway, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Gonna be all sticky if we sleep like this."

Nat hums to herself and rests a hand on your hip as her eyes fall shut, "We can wash up later."

"You're gonna be the one bitching about it, you know."

"Mhm." She makes no move to leave her position on your chest, "And you'll deal with it anyways." She slings a leg over yours, clinging you to a koala would a tree. "Always do."

You roll your eyes but don't dispute the claim, "Whatever. You get clingy when you're high."

"Mhm." Is the last thing she offers before falling asleep, and drool begins to pool almost immediately as she does.

She always did look cute in her sleep.

a/n: i was held at gunpoint to tag @cassioo in this btw AND i got carried away w the word count.

[the-gay-prometheus]

Yeah I think about this a lot. I believe I've mentioned it here before but it's worth saying again I think.

I imagine he would in fact be screaming and cursing of course, punching and clawing at the door, but he would also be sobbing. Like really, genuinely having a full-on breakdown. Yes Bill hates being kept from his goals, that's certainly part of it. And yes, we know he actively feels betrayed by Ford, so that is certainly part of it as well.

But like OP said, their world is dying. No, not just dying, being erased. Whether or not my theory about the nightmare realm being what was left behind of Euclydia/Bill never having left because he holds an attachment to it or might believe he could someday gain the power to bring his home back - whether or not that's actually true, the reality remains that time is running out. The Edge of Reality is closing in. Bill has spent billions of years trying to get this portal opened so he can get out, and he doesn't necessarily have billions of years left to keep trying.

He'll never admit it, but he was terrified. If the portal isn't opened, if the portal is destroyed, there aren't enough eons left to wait for another person to come around that will have the intelligence, the drive, and the resources to actually build and activate another portal. The portal he needs is right there, just waiting to be turned on, and he can't get to it. If he doesn't get to it, he (and his friends) aren't just going to die, they are going to be completely erased - as though they never existed to begin with. And if you believe Bill cares about what happened to Euclydia, he also knows that if he's erased, the entire memory of his home dimension gets erased with him.

You can imagine, he was probably having an actual panic attack in that moment. He wasn't just losing everything he wanted, he was losing everything he needed; his last best chance of making it out alive.

(None of that is even mentioning how much Ford himself had come to mean to Bill at this point. So. If you're a 'Bill genuinely adored Ford' truther like I am, Bill isn't just terrified of being erased and losing his home, but he's scared of losing Ford himself too. So. There's also that.)

When Ford wakes up in the morning, he sees his bloodied hands, his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse, his eyes sting, his entire face is sore, and there's an ache in his chest he can't explain.

But hey, whatever happened the night before, all that matters is - at least Bill didn't get in. Best not to think about the implications of the rest of it.

I've seen a lot of art of bill having beaten the door and bloodying Ford’s knuckles, and I always see him grinning and manic. Which works!

But it's not how I imagined the scene. I saw that and imagined Bill like a caged animal, having a legitimate meltdown. He HATES being kept away from his goals, he has explosive anger issues, this is another barrier keeping him out.

He didn't just ruin Ford’s hands out of carelessness or because he liked pain. He was actually losing it, like a coyote chewing their leg off to escape a trap.

So I imagine him furious, screaming, cursing Ford out, how DARE he. Friends let friends into their lairs! Friends let friends out of their dying party world! Friends help friends help them!!!

[cocogum]

I found an odd scene in the Great Wave. (FIXED)

A few months ago, I was rereading chapter 7 of the Great Wave when I came across the scene where Amalia confronts Aurora and her father.

At first, nothing seemed to be amiss.

But as I kept looking at the panels more closely and squinted my eyes a bit, there was something off about one specific moment.

I was so confused that I even had to point the scene out to someone else just to make sure I wasn't seeing things.

And surely enough, @geekgirles also thought it was odd.

The scene we were talking about was this one:

Just as Amalia was threatening the royal osamodas, the king clearly looked a bit intimidated by her and is even seen backing away a bit as he raises an arm protectively for Aurora.

While his behavior made sense given how he had wrongly been accused of having poisoned Yugo, the same couldn't be said for his daughter.

Because unlike the king, who was worried, Aurora didn't look like that at all.

She was smiling.

I even compared the digital version and the physical copy just to see if one of them would look different than the other.

But surely enough, both scenes equally show her smiling.

*The first image is the physical copy and the second image is the digital version*

It is less obvious when we see it in the digital version due to all the pixels but the physical copy clearly shows it better.

I've literally never heard anyone else mention this before but now that you see it, you can't unsee it.

There can be no real explanation as to why she'd be smiling here. @geekgirles proposed that this could either be a nervous smile or just Aurora's delusional self thinking she has a shot against Amalia at all, but no matter how anyone could try to explain the reasoning, we all should agree that this panel doesn't look right.

No matter the circumstances, she should not be smiling here when she hadn't been smiling a second ago. She looked shocked when Amalia came straight at them, and now she's suddenly smiling???

Just strictly pay attention to only Aurora's facial expressions throughout the beginning and end of Amalia's confrontation with them.

She's shown in this entire scene to look shocked and offended. But the second Amalia screams at them, she automatically smiles???

It's extremely unnerving.

Not only does that smile randomly appear for like a second, but as soon as the chapter ends and the 8th chapter begins, Aurora's facial expression is seen back to normal once again. As if that off-putting smile never even existed.

Like....honey what.

What was up with that smile we saw a second ago?

How has it not been addressed or mentioned? You never see this out-of-place smile ever again.

Either this has intentionally been sprinkled in to make Aurora look even stranger, or this was simply an error.

If this was all mistake, then it's a weird one.

*for those who have the physical copy, go to the chapter and see her smile for yourself. it's literally there in plain sight*

EDIT: Omg turns out it WAS a mistake! Cathiane (the illustrator for the Great Wave) recently explained to me how it was due to the screentone. Since her face was really tiny in that panel, the original line art had been altered by the screentone points.

So before the alteration, she was supposed to look like this:

Now that makes so much more sense lol 😅

[t-t-tau-me]

Sweet Lies, Bitter Truth: Shadow Milk

Minor spoilers for Beast yeast episodes 7

Time for another beast theory/speculation, This time on everyone's favorite clown!

I already speculated heavily on the psychology of Burning Spice Cookie when it comes to his love of Destruction, But what about Shadow Milk Cookie and is obsession with lying? I honestly think the answer is pretty obvious.

If you played Beast-yeast episode 7 with the crumbling cookie scene, or have seen Shadow Milk Cookie's gotcha animation, You might know what I'm going to say. Cookies didn't want to hear the truth. Let's start with the gotcha animation since technically you can see that before you go through the story.

https://youtube.com/shorts/7fF33p3d1o8?si=hqTD0ZtudVh9RAAv

The part that's important is the one scene of Shadow Milk holding up a key while cookies are nearby, with some of them becoming dark and feeding into a black tree that grows a blue apple. It can be assumed that the cookies there we're seeking the knowledge of shadow milk cookie, with some of them being unable to handle it. Later on those same cookies become blue and begin to dance while smiling, obviously under the influence of shadow milk cookie.

I think what this scene is showing us is shadow milk giving knowledge to cookies and the harsh truth being too much for them, causing them to spiral into despair As they simply couldn't handle the information. So as an act of "mercy" Shadow milk chose to give them lies they could handle so they could live in ignorant bliss. The truth isn't always a good thing, anyone who's told a white lie to spare someone's feelings knows this.

Imagine being made for the purpose of giving out knowledge the people, only to realize you've driven those same people insane with You're attempts to help. Now to make that feeling even worse, look no further than the crumbled cookie scene from Beast yeast episode 7. It's a simple but effective one.

After pure vanilla and the gang deal with some critters, they're left with a heavily injured cookie. The injured cookie is so badly damage that not even Pure Vanilla can heal them. In most cases, a lot of people would probably lie to the kid until the very end, making sure that their last moments could at least be a little less scary. Pure Vanilla Cookie can't seem to quite do this so he gets chastised by the dying child.

Could you imagine telling a kid they're going to die? Could you imagine looking Their parents and siblings in the eyes and telling that? How a cookie with practically the powers of a God failed to save the very people they were made for. Now imagine the hate and sorrow on their face when you give them the news, the rumors and lies that spread about your intentions, perhaps claiming that you had let the child die on purpose. After all, You clearly had to power to do something, Why didn't you?

Decade after decade...Centuries after centuries. The malice of the people you've tried to help for so long piles up over generations, Their lies curling around your mind like a constricting snake... Are they really lies though? At the beginning you probably would have denied it, But after being beaten down for so long... You can't help it question your own morality.

This is another reason why the beasts as a whole were sort of doomed to fail. It doesn't matter how powerful a person is, there's only so much you can take mentally over centuries upon centuries of the people you're trying to help actively hurting you in some way. In the end, Shadow milk probably couldn't handle such a reality. So he just made up his own! Everyone loves a good play, right? It always keeps them smiling and even at the most devastating at times they're entertained, who needs harsh truths when we can all just play pretend!

It's probably not as detailed as my last post with burning, But I hope I got my point across.

[ruth-writes]

I finally watched Wicked and I have thoughts (I haven't read anyone else's takes because I didn't want to spoil myself so these are purely my own thoughts right after seeing the movie).

In the beginning, when Glinda and Elphaba were singing about how much they hated each other, I was sure there was gonna be enough queerbaiting for everyone on Tumblr to be rightfully mad. I usually don't end up shipping the queer couple everyone is, I think a lot of the time I feel like relationships in shows seem forced in general? But I immediately thought about it here. I mean, 'What is this feeling I felt the moment I laid eyes on you'? Then, the guy showed up, and I actually thought he was pretty sweet. He treated Elphaba normally right from the start, and he didn't seem to know how ean Glinda was yet when he got with her (the scene during the dance when he says it's not your fault). And then, Glinda's 'redemption arc' was entirely unsatisfactory (which I know was the point, but these are my thoughts in the middle of the movie and I knew very little about the plot). I know Glinda was never supposed to actually be good, but I was still frustrated by how easily Elphaba forgave her and called her her best friend. I guess I can understand that when you have no friends your entire life, your standards can be low (I'm speaking from experience). Still, I wish she's given a little more pushback during the makeover scene. None of that really matters, though, because Elphaba chose being an anti-fascist over going along with Glinda's bullshit (even though there I was also kind of annoyed by how amicably they seemed to part ways, Elfaba still calling Glinda her friend?) Anyway, I guess what I'm getting at is that though I'd also like it if Elphaba simply didn't have a love interest, I like the dudebro more than Elphaba and Glinda. I don't know if that's unpopular, I haven't read any takes yet. I think I'd like it most if he was her knew best friend. A lot of the time dudes that are supposed to be incredible in movies are actually pretty mediore, but he helped her with the animal and went after her.

The movie portrayed bullying so much more accurately than most movies. I don't mean the musical scenes where everyone was disgusted by her, I mean Glinda's subtle things. The hat, constantly saying condescending things packaged in niceness, etc.

I'm not sure where I stand on her sister. I don't know if her being embarassed by Elphaba's presence in the beginning (before she did the magic, when thet were talking to the teacher) was because she was embarassed of her older sister babysitting her or Elphaba being green. I do hope she and Elphaba find each other again.

A lot of the scenes genuinely fucked me up, they were so accurate to the rise of fascism we're seeing right now. I cried during so many of the creature's scenes, and during the painful transformation of the monkey. I don't want to speak a lot on how welm the racism allegory was done (I do always wonder about the fact that in movie's like this, the racism is only about the literal color of her skin. As the only green person, there's not any culture or other things that minorities are also opressed for in the real world. The animals had more of that, though. I think I'll read more about how people felt about that, because as a white person I obviously can't say if it spone to my experience or not.)

A lot of the time Ariana Grande was singing so high I had trouble understanding the words. To be fair, the theater I was watching it at had german subtitles and watching in one language and reading in another is very confusing when you're fluent in both

[whimsimille]

KEMPS!

Minsung x Fem! reader

Summary: Where Minho uses sex and rough words to forget how shitty his life is. It all works pretty well until he meets two people that can only ruin his game.

alpha x alpha x alpha

Word count: ~ 10000

Warnings: angst with happy ending, ptsd mention, coping mechanisms, sex, smut, +18, toxicity, use of alcohol and drugs, knotting, piv, creampie, roughness, dom and sub undertones, f and m receiving, oral, anal, dp, light bondage, breeding kink mention

-------------

"When will I see you again?"

"There we go again."

Every time, the same scene played out: him tying off the used condom, thumb and forefinger working in sync while his gut churned with familiar self-loathing. His tanned legs slid from between the cheap cotton sheets like a lizard escaping midday heat and his shirt, reeking of cigarettes and bearing the evidence of pink lipstick on its collar, returned to its place along with what remained of his dignity.

"You didn't answer my question," she insisted, sitting up with her breasts exposed to the stale air. Her nose, red-tipped like she was fighting back tears, twitched as she caught his scent beginning to sour. "Why do you always run away like this? Is it because I'm a lower-class omega? Because I work at a convenience store instead of some fancy office?"

He had a headache, the kind that started at the nape where his undercut needed a trim and crawled upward. The kind that made his eyes throb as if someone was performing brain surgery with a rusty hammer. He needed to go home. He needed to go to her. He needed a scalding shower to burn away the shame. He needed to stop fucking thinking.

"Listen carefully because I won't repeat myself," he drawled while adjusting his hair in the mirror. "I'm not interested in seconds. I don't do repeats. I thought I made that crystal fucking clear. Or should I draw you a diagram?"

"But Minho-ssi..." she started, biting her lower lip in a way that probably worked wonders on lesser men.

"Cut the honorifics bullshit, Marina. We just fucked; we're not at a business meeting." He yanked his belt through the loops. "Got any coffee in this shoebox you call an apartment? And aspirin. Definitely need aspirin. My head's fucking killing me, and your omega pheromones aren't helping."

"Kitchen," she responded, finally pulling the sheet up to cover herself as if modesty had suddenly become a priority. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily as her own bitter strawberry pheromones filled the room, mixing with his acidic alpha scent to create something that smelled like regret. "First door on the right. We're out of sugar though. And for the last fucking time, it's Melissa. Not Marina, not Mariana. Me-li-ssa, you entitled knothead."

"Perfect. Sugar's for people who can't handle reality." He fished out the crumpled pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, tapping one against his wrist. "Don't wait up, sweetheart. Or better yet, don't wait at all. Find yourself a nice beta who'll remember your name and buy you flowers or whatever the fuck it is you're looking for."

And he wasn't lying, not even a little. Despite the fact that this omega—Melissa, definitely not Marina or whatever the fuck he'd been calling her—could do things with her tongue that would make a Catholic priest renounce his vows and had a laugh like wind chimes in a summer breeze, Minho simply didn't keep dead weight in his deck. Melissa was nothing but a two of clubs in a hand that needed aces.

It was like a game of Kemps, the same one he played on Sunday afternoons with his friends drunk on soju in Chan's apartment. In the game, four players formed two pairs, each receiving four cards from the French deck. The objective? Get four matching cards before the opponent, discreetly signaling your partner to shout "Kemps!"—a wink, absently scratching your nose. If you were wrong and shouted without your partner having four matching cards? You lost points, just like in real life you lost your sanity. If you missed your partner's signal? More points lost, like the nights of sleep he lost thinking about persistent ex-lovers. It was a game of observation, timing, and strategy.

In the game, as in life, Minho was an expert at this. A pair of toned legs here, full lips there, a cheeky smile elsewhere—he picked up the cards that caught his attention and handed useless ones to the other players. Players like Hyunjin, with his preference for frustrated betas with colored hair, or Felix, who had a thing for alpha literature students who wore thick-framed glasses and quoted Bukowski between one orgasm and another. Minho had been doing this with men and women for years, receiving his cards—their sweaty bodies writhing beneath him, their moans, their phone numbers saved as "NEVER answer"—and discarding those that never made sense with his game. Simple. Quick. Practical. Avoided hysterical screaming at three in the morning, endless crying, ex-lover sex fueled by regret, pathetic relapses fueled by cheap vodka.

But then, on some October night, with the smell of burnt caramel not so characteristic of an alpha and jazz playing softly, there was his jack, the highest card in the deck after the ace. The jack that passed from hand to hand each round like a curse, disrupting the flow of the game until the next round started and the card kept circulating, destroying strategies and ruining plays that seemed perfect on paper. Everyone had to deal with it eventually, but no one wanted to play that card.

That night, as you moved above him with the precision of a hunting feline—hips undulating like waves breaking on the beach, slender fingers tightening around his throat until he saw stars—you had become his jack. The card he held so tightly that the corners were starting to crease, even when he should have discarded it long ago.

Serious relationships and monogamy were never his style. How could he be? His mother taught him that lesson at 8 years old, after swallowing an entire box of Rivotril and writing an apology, not to him, but to her ex. He still remembered the sound her nails made scratching the wooden floor while she convulsed, glazed eyes fixed on the ceiling as he screamed for help. But for you? For you he had tried. Really tried.

"Stay," he whispered, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his fingers traced meaningless patterns on the condensation-slick window. His reflection looked pathetically hopeful. "Just... stay for breakfast this time." A pause. "I make decent scrambled eggs."

You shifted on the bed. "Define 'decent.'"

"Edible enough not to kill you," he replied with a laugh that sounded too raw, too honest. "Maybe even good enough to convince you to come back for seconds."

It turned into months of domestic bliss—or his twisted version of it. Months of biting back territorial growls whenever you walked in carrying traces of other wolves' scents. "Just work," you'd say with that infuriating half-smile, and he'd nod like the lovesick fool he'd become. He ignored Chan's concerned glances over soju shots, Changbin's muttered warnings about alpha-alpha relationships being psychological warfare. Tried playing the reformed playboy even when some omega calling herself @sexygirl22 slid into his DMs with explicit photos and "Remember last week's quickie in the club bathroom?" while you danced barefoot in his kitchen, humming "Somebody to Love" and making condensed milk pudding like some domestic deity.

"This pudding..." His finger traced the edge of the mold, stealing a taste of caramel. The gesture was so childlike, so unguarded, you had to suppress a fond smile. "Tastes exactly like my grandmother's."

"Your grandmother made pudding?" Like a flower in bloom, your legs opened naturally as you leaned over the counter. A few centimeters up, the hem of your shirt—it was actually his, stolen a week ago—rode up, exposing that constellation of freckles on your hip that he loved mapping with his tongue.

"Every Sunday after lunch," he answered, eyes fixed on the exposed bit of skin. "She used to say that sweets made with love tasted different."

It's that in the beginning it was simple: you rode him like you were born for it, scratching his chest and whispering obscenities in his ear that would make even a demon blush. It was about smoking a joint on the balcony at three in the morning, your skilled fingers rolling the joint while he kissed your thighs still trembling from orgasm, waiting for the knot to deflate. "I'm getting addicted," he would murmur against your skin, and you both knew he wasn't talking about the weed. It was about the sacred ritual of watching you dress in the morning: first the black lace panties, then the bra that made your breasts look like works of art, the thigh-high stockings he loved to remove with his teeth, the jeans that hugged your curves like a possessive lover. It was about how you never asked about the scars on his left wrist but kissed them with such reverence that sometimes he found himself crying after you left.

"Why do you do that?" he asked one night, voice thick, his fingers digging into the sheets.

"Do what?"

"Kiss me... like that. Like they're not scars. Like they're not..." he swallowed hard, "ugly."

"Because they're not just scars. They're part of you."

Until it became something different: he stopped you from running out after sex one Sunday morning, pulling you by the waist for another round in the jacuzzi. That's when he discovered you were a teacher at a school in the south zone and taught literature to rebellious teenagers, while he was heir to a chain of five-star hotels spread across Asia. That you loved Seoul with its violence and chaos, the underground bars and narrow streets full of people, while he longed for the peace of Jeju, with its deserted beaches and the smell of tangerines in the air. That you had three rescue cats—Sylvia, Virginia, and Edgar, all named after dead writers—who were your fur children and that, surprisingly, he developed a genuine affection for these creatures, even when Sylvia vomited hairballs on his shoes.

It happened when you stopped being a scheduled fuck and started pulling out, one by one, his fingers from the little bag he always kept next to his heart. You never even said anything, never stopped him from leaving and always left the door ajar, because you hated trapping people and making them feel obligated to stay.

"You can go, if you want," you would always say, wrapped in messy sheets. "You don't have to stay."

And maybe it was exactly that—that frightening freedom, that lack of demands—that made him want to stay. Until he didn't want to anymore.

That's why he bailed.

With your makeup all over the bathroom counter and your underwear discovered beneath the bed like evidence from a crime scene, he couldn't stand you taking up space like a terminal illness. Couldn't stand your caramel perfume and alpha pheromones impregnated in the pillows, your toothbrush next to his, you parading naked through the 300 m² penthouse as if you owned the place. Hated you burying your face in his neck when he woke up screaming at 3:47 in the morning.

"Shh, I'm here," you would murmur, running your fingers through his damp hair, your lips brushing his temple. "It was just a nightmare."

But the real nightmare was the dangerous glimmer of hope he began to see reflected in his own eyes every time he shaved while you played in the bathtub, humming "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles.

One day, his hand froze mid-stroke with the razor, watching your reflection dance in the fogged mirror as soap bubbles crowned your head. With the sun creeping through the window and painting your eyelashes gold, Minho's fingers twitched around the razor handle. His phone buzzed in the counter (probably that cute bellboy from the Peninsula Hotel confirming their afternoon rendezvous, or maybe the yoga instructor sending another photo of her impossibly flexible poses). He should check it. Should definitely not be watching you emerge from the water like some fucking deity, all glistening skin and grace.

His thumb hovered over the screen, already pulling up his contacts list. Delete them all. Ask you to be his. Only his. The thought made his stomach turn even as his pulse quickened and he gave up.

At the sound of his loafers, you lifted your head while he perched on the edge of the tub like some lovesick fool, watching droplets trace paths he'd memorized with his tongue.

"Keep staring like that and I might start charging admission," you drawled, reaching for the shampoo.

"You're going to make me deaf with that caterwauling, little alpha," he shot back. "And since when did you become such a Beatles fanatic? Thought you were more of a 'We Will Rock You' kind of bitch."

"First of all," you said, pointing the shampoo bottle at him like a weapon, "the Beatles are fucking transcendent, you philistine. Second," your lips curved into that infuriating smirk that made him want to bite them bloody, "you were the one moaning 'Yesterday' in your sleep last night. Right after you called me 'baby' and tried to spoon me."

"That's bullshit and you know it," he snarled, but his ears burned red at the tips. "I don't fucking cuddle."

"Oh really?" You stretched languorously, water sloshing against the tub sides. Wet toes brushed his thigh, leaving wet prints on his expensive slacks. "Because I distinctly remember you nuzzling my neck and whimpering when I tried to move away. Face it, Min," you purred, and the nickname sent a jolt straight to his groin, "you're going soft on me."

"Keep dreaming, sweetheart," he managed, even as his throat closed around the lie. "I just needed something warm to stick my knot in."

"Mhmm," you hummed, unconvinced. Your foot slid higher up his thigh. "That's why you sent flowers to my work last week? Because you needed somewhere to stick your knot?"

It was like watching an orange tree growing in the middle of his chest: first just a timid sprout, then branches spreading between his ribs, until the roots began to intertwine with his veins and arteries. And when the first white flowers bloomed, perfuming his entire circulatory system with possibilities, he knew he needed to cut it at the root before the fruits ripened and he found himself addicted to the bittersweet taste of your presence.

"Minho! What the actual fuck? It's four in the fucking morning, and you're here smelling like a distillery had an orgy with a perfume store."

"Still looking like a snack, my little alpha. Even with all these..." His hand made a vague gesture at your new appearance, "changes."

You watched as he staggered slightly, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on a fixed point. Fragmented memories of a yellow taxi and questionable decisions in dark alleys flashed through his mind like a silent film. That you were different—unrecognizable, maybe—was the only thing that was certain. Your hair, now long and sprinkled with platinum highlights, framed your face in a profane halo. The thorny tattoo serpentined down your neck, disappearing beneath the loose collar. Beneath the typical caramel, you had a masculine, woodsy scent that made him sick to his stomach.

"You know what's funnier? I always knew you would do this. Always knew you'd leave me and then show up at my door wanting to stick your knot in some hole. It was just a matter of time, wasn't it, Lee Minho?"

Sylvia, that four-legged traitor who had always preferred him to you, was now rubbing against his ankles while trying to reach her favorite human. You pushed her away with your foot.

"Let's... let's talk properly, love. Smoke a joint, whatever. Like the old days, remember?" His hands were shaking so badly he had to shove them in his jeans pockets. "We always solved everything after..." A laugh escaped his lips. "Fuck, why is it so hard to talk about feelings without being high? Must be... dunno, must be the age, right?" The taste of blood in his mouth intensified. This time, he had bitten his tongue.

You let out a scoff—a sound that seemed to have been torn from the depths of your throat with a rusty hook. "Age?" Your head tilted to the side, and for a moment, Minho saw his mother in that same movement—moments before she swallowed the pills. "You were twenty-fucking-seven when you stood in the middle of Changbin's birthday party, so wasted you couldn't even spell your own name, and announced to everyone that I was, what was it again? Oh right! 'just another desperate hole begging for your premium alpha cock.' All because I had the audacity to ask if we could try being exclusive. Remember that night, Minho? Or did you drink that memory away too?"

As you eventually allowed Sylvia to come closer, he saw the cat rubbing her muzzle against your ankles as though she was aware of the precise location of the pain.

Love should heal, shouldn't it? Should stitch together the parts that were never united, fill the voids that echoed inside the chest like empty rooms from childhood. Minho knew this better than anyone—he had been sexualized his whole life, used and discarded like a broken toy.

"You don't have that right," you continued. "You don't have the right to show up here reeking of whiskey and..." Your hands gestured in the air, searching for words. "And talk about 'old times.'"

Minho swallowed hard, watching how your fingers now trembled against the doorframe—not from nervousness, but from contained rage that made your knuckles turn white.

Until his lungs pleaded for air, he had tried everything to fill the void you left: cigarettes. Strange bodies in his bed that never reached the right places, hands that tried to stitch him back together but always using the wrong thread. Like thieves in the dark, all stealing pieces from each other, but never finding what they were really looking for.

"Just let me in, yeah?"

A sob escaped his throat before he could contain it, words tangling in his mouth. Sylvia was now sitting between the two of you, her tail moving in a hypnotic rhythm.

You had been the only one to see through the cracks, the only one who didn't try to fix him like he was a puzzle to be solved. The only one who understood that sometimes a cat's rough tongue on the heels could mean more than a thousand empty words of comfort.

But he wouldn't, couldn't show you how much he loved you. Sex and dirty words were safer territory, familiar ground where he could pretend this was just another meaningless encounter.

"Do you still have that purple vibrator?" The words slurred out as his alcohol-heavy tongue caught on his canines. "You could use it on me today, yeah? Make me beg like I used to?"

Like a desperate merchant hawking counterfeit goods in some back alley, it was pitiful how he still attempted to use sex as currency. As if his body, marked with the fingerprints and teeth marks of countless strangers, was the only thing of value he had left to barter with. As if you still wanted that particular damaged merchandise. You had long since learned that his empty promises and fleeting affections were not worth the price.

"I guess old habits die hard, huh? Still the same horny kitten as always, Minho-yah."

At the sound of that old endearment, Minho's narrow hips jerked forward involuntarily, his lean body betraying him like a puppet with tangled strings. A bead of sweat traced the sharp line of his jaw as the lavender scent of his arousal began to saturate the air, mixing with the sour notes of whiskey and desperation.

"Just... just one more time," he begged. "I promise I'll disappear after. I swear on my mother's grave..." A sob ripped from his throat, more wolf than man. "I just need to feel you one more time. Need to remember what it felt like when someone actually gave a fuck about me."

It was almost poetic, you thought. The way Lee Minho could transform desire into pathology, how his lust manifested in muscle spasms and empty promises whispered through teeth that probably cost more than your yearly salary. His eyes, usually a warm chocolate brown, had taken on a reddish tinge that reminded you of blood diluted in water.

"Get out of here, Minho." You clutched Sylvia closer, her warm body and steady purring acting as a shield against the tsunami of alpha pheromones he was trying to drown you in. Her claws pricked your skin through your thin shirt. "Before I call the police."

"You'd never. You care too much; that's always been your problem."

"Try me." Your fingers found your phone in your pocket. "The last bus passes in ten minutes. But I think you'd prefer if I called your private driver. What was his name again? The one who always brought you aspirin and clean clothes after your... episodes?"

Minho's hand flew to the collar of his leather jacket, adjusting it with trembling fingers. "I don't need your fucking pity."

"I know you don't, Minho." You sighed, watching his shoulders hunch forward like a wounded animal. "But I also know you probably left another black credit card in the lost and found of whatever overpriced bar you were drowning in tonight. I bet you left without any cash. Again. Just like that time at The Rose, when you tried to pay for your cab with your Rolex."

"How the fuck..."

"Love, everything okay?" A sleepy voice emerged from the shadows of the apartment, warm and rough like honey mixed with gravel. The powerful scent of freshly ground cinnamon and handcrafted coffee filled your apartment and permeated the door, causing Minho's nostrils to uncontrollably twitch.

"Fucking hell," Minho muttered under his breath, watching as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Dyed an impossible shade of midnight blue that seemed to swallow what little light remained in the hallway, the man's hair stuck up in wild tufts, as if he'd been wrestling with insomnia rather than sleeping. A thin, silvery scar bisected his right eyebrow. Despite his cherubic cheeks and full lips, there was something lethal in the way he held himself, the casual violence of a loaded gun left on safety.

"Who the actual fuck are you supposed to be?" Minho's words slurred together.

The stranger's bare feet made no sound as he crossed the distance between them. Silver rings caught the fluorescent light as his hand found your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your hip.

"Han Jisung," the man's voice was deceptively soft. His tongue flicked out to play with the silver ring in his lower lip, a gesture that drew Minho's attention despite himself. "And you must be the infamous Lee Minho. The one who thinks it's acceptable to harass people at four in the morning because his wolf is feeling lonely."

The air grew thick with competing pheromones, your caramel sweetness, Minho's lavender, and Han's cinnamon colliding and transforming into something acrid and metallic, like blood left to oxidize. Minho's temple throbbed visibly, and he chewed the inside of his cheek until copper flooded his mouth.

"Christ, is this what you're into now?" Minho's eyes raked over Han's form--the scattered tattoos visible beneath his thin tank top, the messy blue hair, the multiple piercings. "Trading in a pure-bred for some street mutt with a DIY paint job?"

Han's scent soured, turning sharp enough to make your eyes water. "Babe," he addressed you without taking his eyes off Minho. "Should I call the cops, or would you like to watch me teach this trust fund pup some manners? Because I'm really curious if he's as tough when he's not marinading in scotch."

"Oh, sweetheart," Minho purred, stepping close enough that his breath ghosted over Han's face. His fingers played with the collar of Han's shirt, twisting the fabric like he was testing its breaking point. "You've got quite the mouth on you. Makes me wonder what other tricks you know." His gaze flicked to you over Han's shoulder, lips curling into something cruel. "Always did have a weakness for strays with attitude problems, didn't you, love? Tell me, does this one beg as prettily as I used to?"

Han didn't back down, but you saw how his fingers contorted—not into fists, but like claws ready to tear apart.

"Get. Your. Hands. Off." Gripping Minho's wrist, Jisung twisted it until he heard the gratifying sound of tendons being stretched to their breaking point.

What happened next made your breath catch in your throat. Minho—proud, arrogant, never-submissive Minho, who once told an alpha CEO to go fuck himself with a golden spoon—let out a sound that was pure, instinctual submission. His head tilted, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat where fading hickeys told stories of nights you didn't want to imagine. 

The gesture was so fundamentally wrong, so against everything you knew about him, that for a moment you thought the expensive whisky had finally corroded something essential inside him. But then his eyes found yours across the space between you—wide, confused, and terrified—and you saw it: his alpha, for only the second time since you'd known him, recognising another as superior. It had been with you the first time. Normally curled in that angry smirk, his lips quivered.

"What the actual fuck..." With surprise, Jisung's eyes grew wide, and the scar through his eyebrow stretched taut. His grip loosened fractionally, more from shock than mercy. "Did you just..."

"Ah," Minho's voice cracked, desperation bleeding through as he fought to regain control. As he attempted to balance himself against the wall, his hands trembled. "So the puppy has fangs after all. Want to show me how to use them properly, Han Jisung-ssi?"

It played out like a slow-motion car crash, stunning in its destruction. Jisung slammed Minho against the wall with enough force to make the cheap prints rattle in their frames. Something dark and broken slipped out of Minho's lips as his forearm pressed against his throat.

"So fucking predictable," Minho rasped around the pressure on his windpipe, his pupils blown so wide the brown was almost swallowed by black. "All you baby alphas..." His fingers found Jisung's bicep, nails, leaving crescent moons in the flesh. "So easy to provoke. So desperate to prove yourselves. Tell me, blueberry, how many others have you pinned like this?"

"I said," Han snarled, pressing harder until Minho's breath came in wheezing gasps, "shut that pretty mouth before I shut it for you. You reek of spoiled lavender and mommy issues, street pup. Did she not hug you enough? Is that why you're here, trying to ruin what isn't yours anymore?"

Following that, there was too much movement to follow—a haze of tattoos and high-end clothing. Suddenly Minho had reversed their positions, pinning Jisung against the wall. Han grunted in surprise at the impact, his teeth clicking together so forcefully that you winced with pity. 

In an attempt to humiliate the wolf who had dared to assert its superiority, Minho's thigh pushed upward between Han's legs and degraded him. Trembling but determined, his fingers tangled themselves into Han's blue strands.

"Who's the street pup now?" Minho tilted his head, letting his lips brush the shell of Jisung's ear. "So docile suddenly. Where's all that protective alpha posturing? Or does it only work when you're trying to impress my leftovers?"

What tore from Jisung's throat wasn't anything you'd heard before—not in your years of teaching children, not in nature documentaries about wolves, not even in your darkest nightmares. Kind of sound that made your bone marrow freeze and your hindbrain scream danger. At a frequency that made your teeth hurt, the cheap metal numbers on your door vibrated. A picture frame crashed to the floor.

Your own alpha stirred beneath your skin like a serpent uncoiling, recognising the precipice of violence you were all balanced on. 

Sylvia pressed herself against your arms. Her tail lashed the air like a whip, pupils blown so wide the green was just a thin ring. You knew, with the bone-deep certainty of prey watching predators circle, that this wouldn't end with just bruised egos and wounded pride. The territory—you, this hallway, perhaps even this entire narrative—had already been marked with invisible blood.

"That's enough! Both of you, stop this-"

But the words died in your throat as Jisung moved. One moment he was pinned against the wall; the next he was pure kinetic energy unleashed. His body curved like a question mark before springing forward, teeth finding the vulnerable juncture where Minho's neck met.

The sound that followed would haunt your dreams for months: wet, obscene, like overripe fruit being crushed under combat boots. Blood, startlingly bright against Minho's shirt, bloomed like a macabre watercolor.

—-----------

As soon as Minho stepped out of the rehabilitation center, his fingers began the routine dance of coffee, lighter, and cigarette. His eyes, still heavy from group therapy, focused on the cracks in the concrete while he tried to juggle the cheap coffee cup and red Marlboro. A curse that reverberated throughout the alley was evoked by the hot liquid that trickled down his hand.

"Fuck's sake, I can't even do this right," he muttered, licking the coffee that dripped between his fingers.

It was a total and utter catastrophe for him. First, Seungmin had shown up at his apartment at 6 AM with some green tea mixed with ginger and honey that looked more like rat poison. "For detoxing," he'd said, pushing the steaming cup into his hands. Then, Bang Chan practically broke down his door, dragging him out of bed while yelling something about "corporate responsibility" and how the shareholders were concerned about his erratic behavior. As if he didn't know the hotel franchise was crumbling under his fingers since you left him.

To top it all off? Jisung was the embodiment of his headache. An irritatingly attractive alpha who had the gift of making his blood boil—and not necessarily in a good way.

Since the incident that led them to the police station (and subsequently to the emergency room, where Minho needed five stitches in his neck and had to pray the bite hadn't been right on his scent gland, linking Jisung to him in a way that gave him chills just thinking about it), the judge had sentenced them to five months of group therapy. Two hours per week sitting in a circle with other "violence-prone individuals," as Dr. Park—a beta who always smelled like old socks—liked to call them.

And now, to make matters worse, whenever he had the chance, Jisung liked to rub his scent gland against yours right in the middle of the room, masking your natural scent. It was as if he wanted Minho to witness firsthand how you had moved on—the way he adjusted his motorcycle helmet every night after the session, his fingers lingering on your nape; how he whispered stupid jokes in your ear that made you laugh in that way that used to be reserved just for Minho; how he made sure to leave visible marks on your neck, transforming everything that once screamed "Minho" into cinnamon and a blue-haired alpha.

"Hey, princess, still haven't learned how to drink coffee without making a mess? Or do you need me to teach you how adults do it?"

Eyelids fluttering, Minho closed his eyes. After four months in this therapeutic hell, his fingers, now bitten down to raw flesh, involuntarily contracted, imprinting his palms with tiny crescents.

"Jisung, I thought we'd agreed to keep our distance outside of sessions. Or is your memory as short as your self-control?"

"Yeah, but then I saw you here alone," Jisung approached. The smell of cinnamon and coffee invaded Minho's personal space like an unwanted heat wave. "And I thought: 'What a waste.' All this drama, all this tension... for what?"

Carelessly, Minho propped one foot on a crushed trash can and leaned against the filthy alley wall. The cigarette hung loose between his chapped lips, smoke dancing in lazy spirals around his face.

"Go fuck yourself, Han."

"Your ex 'little alpha' is doing that quite well," Jisung responded, running his tongue over the piercing in his lower lip provocatively. "Thanks for asking."

Minho clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The taste of cheap coffee still burned his tongue when he raised his eyes to face Jisung. There was something there, hidden in the shadows of those puppy eyes, that almost made Minho choke on the smoke—something hungry, dangerous, electric. Jisung seemed to be planning something behind those long eyelashes, and Minho recognized the familiar crossroads: run or face it.

He should run, of course. Especially after Han had made his alpha behave like a submissive puppy with a simple touch to the wrist. But Minho never had a sense of self-preservation, and if he was going to die today—if Jisung decided to finish what he started that night, now that you weren't here to stop him—well, maybe it would be an appropriate end to all this mess.

"What do you want?"

Old combat boots scuffing the concrete, Han stepped forward. Gently, he reached for the cigarette trapped between Minho's lips. The touch was brief, but it sent electric shocks down his spine, as if someone had connected his nerves to a car battery. Han's eyes, dark as spilled coffee, never left Minho's as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers before crushing it under his sole.

"Sleep with us," Han said simply. "One night."

Time seemed to freeze. Minho felt his toes curl inside his shoes, as if searching for something to grip onto. Like a bird in a cage, his heart pounded against his ribs, and his tongue felt too heavy for his mouth.

"What the fuck?" The laugh that escaped his throat sounded hysterical even to his own ears. "After all that shit at the police station? After the stitches?" Unconsciously, his fingers brushed the scar on his neck.

Han shrugged. "You think I don't notice?" He moved closer. "How your eyes follow her during sessions? And how you stare at me when you think I'm not paying attention? How your pheromones change when I'm around?"

Minho knew your story with Jisung—it was impossible not to know. In the corridors of the rehabilitation center, the whispers reverberated like poisonous snakes. How you, the beloved suburban teacher, had started frequenting Han's studio to cover old scars. How the tattoo sessions turned into confessions, then into coffees shared in paper cups, then into stolen kisses against walls covered in faded flash tattoos. How Han had restored each broken piece of you—not with empty words or grandiose promises, but with small gestures: americanos left in paper cups with your name always intentionally misspelled, colorful post-its hidden with silly cat drawings, nights spent simply holding you while the world collapsed around you. How he spoke of you with a kind of reverent love that made Minho want to vomit—because he only knew how to express affection through bruises and cutting words.

But if Han loves you so much, why is he here offering you up like a piece of meat?

"You're sick."

Han tilted his head. "Maybe. But so are you. And her..." He paused, letting the word hang in the air like smoke. "She wants us. Both of us."

"Spare me this bullshit," Minho spat the words. "You talk like she's your property. Like you can just throw me into your bed like a new toy and expect me to..."

"Don't be naive," Jisung interrupted, taking another step forward. Tattooed fingers found Minho's chin, forcing him to maintain eye contact. "She has more free will than both of us combined. And knows exactly what she wants." His thumb traced Minho's lower lip, collecting a drop of blood where he had bitten too hard before bringing the same finger to his mouth. Minho almost moaned at the sight. "Just like I know exactly what you need. What all three of us need."

"You don't know shit about what I need."

"No?" Han teased, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "Then why are you trembling?" His fingers moved up to Minho's nape, playing with the short strands there. "Why is your heart beating so fast I can feel it from here?"

"Tell me then," Minho challenged. "What does someone as fucked up as you think I need?"

"Mutual destruction," Jisung murmured against his ear. The cold piercing made Minho's earlobe twitch. "The kind that burns everything to the ground and rebuilds something better from the ashes. The kind that only three equally broken people can create."

A sound escaped Minho's throat. His hands found Jisung's chest. He didn't know if he wanted to push or pull, if he wanted to punch that irritating smile or taste it.

"You're poison," Minho whispered, his nails digging into Jisung's chest through the thin shirt. "The kind that kills slowly."

"And you," Han smiled against his skin, "are too thirsty to care about the antidote."

-----------------------------

Your diaphragm fluttered like a moth stuck to your ribs as you let out a deep breath. Main focus? Not choking on the saliva accumulated behind the gag.

There you were, tied and exposed like an avant-garde artwork on Minho's carpet. With the city lights watching your debauchery like voyeuristic stars, the floor-to-ceiling windows provided a panoramic view of Seoul's horizon.

A muscle in your left thigh spasmodically contracted, making the rope sink deeper into your flesh. It was a map of knots—legs folded and bound in a way that made you think of the origami cranes Minho used to fold when he was nervous. The hemp rope bit at two precise points: just above the ankles, where the bone slightly protruded, and at the top of the thighs, where the flesh was softest.

The metal spreader bar kept your legs open. Your pussy was exposed to the cold air of the penthouse and to the hungry gazes of both men.

From this height, you could almost convince yourself that the entire city was watching. Your wrists were bound with soft leather cuffs (Minho's contribution, always valuing luxury when it came to his house and sex toys), connected to the bar in a way that made your shoulders project backward, presenting your chest.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

It all started on one of those nights when the air conditioning failed intermittently, making an irritating noise that competed with the sounds of the city outside. A casual observation escaped your lips while you watched the shadows dance on the ceiling, alcohol uninhibiting your tongue and bringing up memories of Minho in therapy sessions—the way he would shrink in his chair, fingers drumming nervously against his knee, eyes jumping between you and Jisung like an anxious pendulum.

That specific night, you were sprawled on the Italian leather couch that Jisung so hated ("Who the hell spends so much money on furniture that sticks to your skin in summer?"), one leg hanging off the edge while the other rested on the back of the couch. The ice in your whiskey glass had long since melted, diluting the amber liquid into something more palatable.

Sitting on the Persian rug, Jisung's restless fingers were causing the strategically placed tears in his black jeans to further fray. The smell of caramel and cinnamon mixed with the residual aroma of cigarettes he had smoked earlier on the balcony.

"Jesus," you murmured, running your tongue over your dry lips. "Do you remember how he trembled? Standing there against the wall, with your hands on his neck..." Your voice failed for a moment. "Like a damn kitten lost in the rain. God, in all these years, I never saw Minho crawl back to anyone like that. Not once. I always... always gave him space to run when he needed it." A bitter laugh escaped your throat. "Never thought that after a whole year he'd still believe the door would be open, you know? That he'd still find..." You gestured vaguely with your free hand, searching for the right words. "...warm milk waiting."

Jisung tilted his head to the side, and he had that glint behind his eyes—that same look you saw when he was about to do a particularly painful tattoo on someone. "A kitten? What an... interesting choice of words, love."

You propped yourself up on your elbows so quickly that your head spun, alcohol and adrenaline making your heart stumble. Every vertebra in your spine screamed in unison as warning signals crackled through it. Shit. Shit. Shit."Ji, fuck, that's not what I—"

"Is that what you used to call him?" He interrupted while crawling towards you like a predator. "When he was between those thighs of yours?"

When Jisung's fingers found your ankle, your throat became parched. Just enough to remind you that he could, but not enough to cause pain, his thumb pressed the pulse point there.

"I bet it was." His other hand slid up to grab your knee, spreading your legs, "I bet you whispered 'kitten' when he had his tongue buried in that pussy of yours. That you told him what a good boy he was while he tasted you like you were the last drop of water in hell."

Since then, after each group therapy session, Jisung would extract your confessions like venom from a wound. Methodically deconstructed your sanity while fucking you against any available surface—the bathroom wall, the car's backseat, the kitchen table where you were supposedly meant to dine like normal people. He fed that part of you that you tried to keep locked away, the bitter and vindictive part that yearned to see Minho undone by both your hands. The words poured from your mouth unfiltered—how Minho's arrogant alpha became docile under your touch, the way his spine arched when you squeezed his throat ("Harder, please, harder"), how he begged for more when you fucked him with that ridiculously large purple dildo hidden in the second drawer of the dresser. How he moaned your name when you forced him to cum for the third time in a row, his muscular thighs trembling.

"Tell me more. How did he sound? How did he squirm? I want every dirty detail."

You swallowed hard. "He... he trembled. His whole body shook when he was too close. And he bit his lips until they bled, trying to hold back his moans. Sometimes... he cried."

"And when you tied him up?" Jisung played with the elastic of your panties, making small circles that made you squirm. "Did he fight against the ropes?"

"No," you answered, your voice breaking into a moan when he suddenly sank two fingers inside you. His thumb found your clit, making your thighs shake involuntarily. "He... God, Ji... he stayed completely still." Your nails dug into the leather couch when he curled his fingers inside you, easily finding that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Fascinating," Jisung laughed, the low sound reverberating against your skin while he felt you getting even wetter around his fingers. "The great alpha Minho, reduced to a submissive and desperate kitten. I can almost see him now, tied up and begging." His fingers sped up their rhythm, making you arch your back. "Do you think he'd do the same for me?"

"Ji..." You arched against him, your fingers burying in his dark hair, pulling slightly. "Please!"

His smile was pure sin against your skin. "Please what, love? Use your words."

Out of your mouth came the thoughts in a torrent of desperation. "Can we... Can we fuck him? It's just sex! One night!" Your voice trembled, betraying the desperation you tried to hide under a facade of casualness. "Just... just once. Please! I need to feel him again. I need to see you destroying him too."

"Shh..." His fingers continued their merciless assault inside you while his other hand rose to squeeze your neck lightly. "It's okay, baby. I thought you'd never ask. We'll make our kitten meow so pretty for us."

---------------------------------------------------

Minho didn't bother with his belt, fingers trembling slightly as he unzipped his trousers. He reached in, fabric rustling against skin as he freed himself from the confines of his designer boxers.

"You remember how she's good with her mouth, right?" Jisung's voice was honey-thick with anticipation as he sprawled on the sofa, legs spread wide, one hand absently tracing patterns on the armrest.

"God, yes." Minho's throat bobbed as he swallowed, kneeling beside your head. His fingertips ghosted over your temple, barely touching. "She doesn't just do it—she worships. Makes you feel like you're her whole fucking world." The muscles in his thighs twitched as he shifted closer. "You have no idea how I missed seeing such a pretty alpha like this."

"Show him then, darling.” Jisung commanded. "Show him what that mouth can do."

Minho's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the gag. The buckle clinked softly as he worked it loose, his breath catching when your lips parted automatically.

Honestly, Minho wasn't in the right headspace to think. After a terrible day at the hotels, he was thinking about how he would cherish every moment of this one night ever since he got home and was counting down the minutes until you and Jisung arrived. This last relapse. This final chance to have the duke in his hands before handing him over to Jisung definitively.

Due to the ball gag, your lips were red and swollen and glistening with saliva.

"There's that pretty little mouth," Minho breathed, tossing the gag aside. His thumb traced the curve of your bottom lip, spreading the wetness there. "Fuck, I missed this view."

He still kept some photos of you on your knees in front of him, lips stretched around his cock. Most were carefully cropped, faceless and anonymous—they could be anyone's lips, anyone's throat. But nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the reality of you here, now, looking up at him with those eyes that seemed to strip away every layer of his. He slipped his thumb between your parted lips, a soft groan escaping when you immediately began to suck, your tongue swirling around the digit the way you knew drove him mad.

"Open that pretty little mouth for me," Minho purred.

Without thinking, you opened your mouth and offered a silent sacrifice. As Minho pulled his thumb away, the velvet-steel heat of his cock replaced the metallic tang of the freshly removed gag, leaving your taste buds free of its lingering effect. A single drop of precum pearled at the tip, and your tongue darted out to catch it, earning a sharp intake of breath from above.

Minho was longer than memory served, thick enough that your jaw already ached. The familiar weight of him filled your mouth inch by devastating inch, while his hand cradled your cheek with deceptive tenderness. Your eyes watered as he paused halfway, not from discomfort but from the overwhelming sensation of having him here again, real and solid and trembling ever so slightly.

A groan tore free from his throat as his head fell back.

"Fuck..."

Jisung laughed from where he sat, drinking his whiskey. "Yeah, well, wait until you feel her tight cunt again."

The crude words sent a bolt of electricity straight to your core, making you clench helplessly around nothing but want.

When Minho drew back, his cock dragged against your tongue in a slow withdrawal that had your toes curling against the carpet. He thrust forward with the same measure, but you could see the tension coiling in his thighs, the way his abdominal muscles jumped beneath smooth skin. His gaze raked down your body like physical touch, lingering on the slick folds. The sight alone made his cock twitch against your tongue.

He couldn't remember any of the times when he was the one who dominated—it was always you who reduced him to incoherent pleas against the silk sheets. It was always you who destroyed and rebuilt him as you wished, piece by piece, moan by moan, until nothing remained but a broken alpha begging for more. It was always you who made his wolf—the same one that growled at anyone who dared challenge him in the hotel corridors—wag its tail and lower its ears, submissive as a newborn pup. But now, with the ropes biting into your wrists and Jisung commanding your every breath, he couldn't deny that this was more exciting than any fantasy his feverish brain could have conjured during the long nights without you.

As his hips started to move more purposefully and each thrust struck deeper than the last, his fingers became more taut in your hair. The wet sounds of your throat working around him filled the room, punctuated by his increasingly ragged breathing. Your nose brushed against the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel with each forward motion, inhaling the musky scent of arousal and expensive cologne that was uniquely Minho.

"Look at how well she takes it," Jisung observed. The ice in his glass clinked as he took another sip. "Such a good little cocksucker. Always knew exactly how to make you fall apart, didn't she?"

Minho's response was lost in a choked moan as you hollowed your cheeks, tongue pressing firmly against the sensitive underside of his cock.

Words slipped out between clenched teeth as he cursed in Korean due to the slight constriction that caused him to hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, fuck, I can't—" His voice cracked as you swallowed deliberately around him again. "She's still so-nghh... So fucking good."

Just before heat filled your mouth, you felt him pulse against your tongue. With a broken sound that could have been your name, he came with fingers that squirmed in your hair, gripping you almost painfully. Oversensitive and quivering, you forced him through it, draining every last drop from his dick until he had to back off.

"Jesus Christ," he staggered back a little and panted. Between your lips and his softening cock, a thin strand of cum-infused saliva stretched before shattering. "I forgot how fucking good you are at that."

Jisung's low chuckle made Minho’s vertebrae tingle in anticipation. "Oh, we're just getting started, aren't we, kitten?" Approaching from behind Minho, his footsteps reverberated on the hardwood floor. "Now scoot."

Minho obliged with the grace of a chastised cat, crawling a few paces away on hands and knees, his designer slacks dragging slightly against the floor. Only then, through the post-orgasmic haze that clouded his vision like morning mist, did he notice Han had undressed. Perhaps he'd blacked out for a moment and lost track of time.

"You doing okay, baby?”

As Jisung pushed deeper than Minho had ventured, you nodded enthusiastically around his cock, your eyes watering. Hissing through gritted teeth, your throat tightened around him. Minho watched in awe as the music sent chills down his spine.

"Fuck yes, look at her take it." Jisung's voice was rough with pleasure as he gripped your hair tighter, the slight pain making your cunt clench. "Such a good little slut for us, aren't you?"

Minho couldn't tear his eyes away from where Jisung's cock disappeared between your swollen lips. A drop of your arousal slid down your inner thigh, and his own spent cock twitched with curiosity. Your hips moved restlessly, searching for friction that wasn't there, and the diamond plug caught the light.

Unable to resist any longer, Minho crawled between your spread legs. Your scent hit him like a physical force—familiar yet somehow more intoxicating than he remembered. His tongue darted out to catch that glistening drop of wetness, tracing it back to its source.

Both men shuddered at the moan you uttered around Jisung's dick. Jisung looked back over his shoulder, pupils blown wide with lust as he watched Minho worship your dripping cunt. That wasn't the damn plan, but you were making such beautiful sounds that it made him reconsider.

"Well, well," Jisung purred, rolling his hips forward until you gagged slightly. "Looks like someone's eager to taste what's mine." His free hand reached back to tangle in Minho's hair, forcing his face closer to your heat. "Go ahead then, kitten. Show me how badly you've missed this pussy."

Minho needed no further encouragement. His tongue delved deep, gathering your wetness like a man dying of thirst. Above him, Jisung's thrusts grew more erratic as your moans vibrated around his length.

"That's it," Jisung groaned, his grip tightening painfully in both your hair and Minho's. "Make her cum on your tongue while I fuck that pretty throat raw."

You clenched again as you gagged. The sight made both men groan in unison.

While two fingers twisted inside you, locating that secret place that caused lightning to dance behind your eyelids, his expert mouth plunged deeper. Legs shaking as they clamped around his head, your spine arched off the floor like a bow being drawn. The tendons in your neck strained against skin as you fought for breath around Jisung's length.

Minho's free hand traced idle patterns on your hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there as if to anchor you to earth. He remembered how you used to fight this—how your alpha pride would make you bite your lip bloody rather than surrender. But tonight was different. Tonight, you were lost in a haze of sensation, caught between Jisung stretching your throat and Minho's wicked tongue.

"I missed those little sounds you make," Minho whispered against your inner thigh while his fingers never stopped their relentless assault inside you. "Remember how you used to fight it? All that alpha pride... But look at you now, dripping all over my chin like the prettiest little slut."

Your only response was a desperate whimper around Jisung the vibrations making him curse and grip your hair tighter. Minho's palm spread across your lower belly, feeling the muscles there coiling tight as a spring. He could read the signs in your body like a familiar book - the flutter of your walls around his fingers, the way your toes curled against the carpet, the endless slick that coated his chin and neck.

It should be impossible, actually. You were an alpha, technically more prepared to lubricate less than omegas and less sensitive, but that was never an obstacle for Lee Minho. He had a talent and he was going to rub it in the blue one's face.

"There we go," he purred, voice rough with want as his fingers found that perfect rhythm. His tongue flicked rapidly against your clit. "Show Jisung what he's been missing. Show him how pretty you look when you fall apart for us. Bet he's never seen an alpha gush like this before."

Unstoppable and overwhelming, the pressure increased like a tsunami. As Minho's tongue pounded viciously against you and his fingers struck that spot with devastating accuracy, your thighs trembled uncontrollably. Above you, Jisung's grip tightened in your hair as he felt your throat contracting around him, your gag reflex working overtime.

"Holy shit," Jisung groaned, watching transfixed as Minho buried his face deeper between your thighs, his nose grinding against your button while his tongue worked magic. "Is she actually going to—?"

“Yeah. Just watch, blue.”

Your muffled scream cut him off as the dam finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the saliva on your chin as you came hard around Minho's fingers. He moaned against your pussy, the vibrations prolonging your pleasure as you gushed over his hand and face. You thrashing beneath him, totally undone and beautiful in your surrender, made his own cock harden once more. He didn't stop, though, working you through each aftershock until you were sobbing around Jisung's length, your whole body trembling.

"Such a good girl," Minho praised, his tongue darting out to catch another drop of your arousal from his bottom lip. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he swallowed, savoring your taste like a man starved. "Always so fucking perfect for us. Still tastes like honey and sin."

"You okay, baby?" Han's voice was velvet-soft as he ran a loving hand down the center of your chest, fingers trailing fire under your tied arms and over the plane of your stomach. "You never let me see you like this before."

"Never saw her absolutely drenched like this before, did you?" Minho wiped his chin with the back of his hand, though his face remained gloriously debauched. A drop of your arousal caught the light as it rolled down the column of his throat, disappearing beneath his collar. "Takes someone who knows exactly what buttons to push."

“Funny how you think you know her better after abandoning her for two fucking years, kitten."

Minho's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, catching the light like a cat's in the darkness.

"I may have left." A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But at least I knew how to make her fall apart properly when I was here. Every." His tongue clicked against his teeth. "Single." Another click. "Time." His head tilted to one side, challenging. "Can you say the same, blue boy?"

Han’s scent turned sharp enough to burn, filling the room like smoke. "Continue running your mouth like that," his fingers traced patterns on your hip, but his eyes were fixed on Minho's throat. "And I'll show you exactly how I can reduce your precious wolf to a whimpering mutt while I spank that pretty ass of yours until it matches your fucking pride."

Your throat burned deliciously as you swallowed, tasting the remnants of both men on your tongue. Both of them turned back to you as you shifted, the ropes biting into your wrists. "For fuck's sake," you managed to rasp. "Shut up, both of you. Less alpha posturing, more fucking. I didn't get on my knees and let you both use my throat just to watch you measure dicks like teenagers."

"Uhm... Sorry, baby." Jisung's chuckle reverberated through his chest. His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, thumb pressing against your swollen bottom lip. "Since it's this dumb alpha's special day," he shot Minho a look that made the older alpha blush, "I'll let him decide if he wants his knot in your tight little ass or that pretty cunt. Okay?"

With eyes darting between your dripping core and the jeweled plug that winked teasingly between your cheeks, Minho's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"I want..." his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one knee to the other. "Both." His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to touch Jisung but not daring. "Please, I need both."

One sharp look from Jisung—just a slight narrowing—and a disapproving click of his tongue was all it took. It was like watching a proud statue fall apart—the change happened instantly. Minho's shoulders curved inward, the proud line of his spine melting into something more pliant. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Almost apparent, the aroma of cinnamon, lavender, and caramel wrapped itself around Minho like silk strands.

"Cunt," he finally whispered. "Please... I choose her pussy. Want to feel her squeeze around my knot like she used to."

A slow smile spread across Jisung's face. "Good kitten," he purred. His fingers tangled in Minho's dark hair, tugging just hard enough to sting. "Pussy it is. What do you say now?”

“T-Thank you.”

“There you go.”

Jisung's hands were surprisingly gentle as he worked at the knots, each brush of his fingers against your sensitized skin making you shiver. With a whisper, the rope slipped away and gathered on the ground like discarded snake skin.

"Up you go, pretty thing," Jisung whispered as he assisted you in standing up, his palm extending over the small of your back.

Your legs trembled like a newborn fawn's, muscles still quivering from the aftershocks. The room swayed and tilted like a ship in a storm, reality blurring at the edges until Jisung's bruising grip on your hip became your only anchor to consciousness.

Leather greeted your heated skin with a shock of cold that drew a hiss from between your teeth. Jisung's knee pressed insistently between your thighs, spreading you wide enough that the muscles burned. Behind you, Minho's breath hitched in his throat—a sound caught between a whimper and a growl that made your inner walls clench with need. The jeweled plug shifted inside you as Jisung toyed with it.

"Such a greedy little thing," Jisung worked the plug in torturous circles. "Look at how she's clenching around it, Minho-yah. Both holes just begging to be stuffed full, aren't they?" The metal caught the dim light as he finally eased it free, your body fluttering helplessly around the sudden emptiness.

Cool liquid dripped between your cheeks in a meandering trail that made you arch and whine. Jisung's fingers followed, spreading it with the patience of a man who knew exactly how to drive you mad. His knuckles brushed against your entrance with each pass, a teasing promise that had your thighs trembling.

"Here." The single word carried enough command to make both you and Minho shiver.

You heard rather than saw Minho scramble to take the offered bottle, his desperate pants filling the room like a prayer.

"Such a good boy for me," Jisung praised, and you could feel the way Minho's entire being seemed to light up at the words, his scent sweetening with pleasure. "Now get that pretty cock ready. Our girl's been so patient, hasn't she? Look how she's dripping for us both."

With a roughness that sent thrills down your spine—because this was still Han Jisung, still your beautiful, commanding alpha—he manhandled you onto the couch. Your back hit his chest with enough force to drive the air from your lungs, his heartbeat a rapid drum against your shoulder blades. Slick and burning hot, he nudged at your entrance with an insistence that bordered on desperation.

"Gonna split you open so pretty," he growled against the shell of your ear, teeth catching the lobe hard enough to sting as he lined up. "Show our little kitty exactly how an alpha takes care of what's his."

A broken sound escaped your throat as he breached you, the stretch bordering on too much. Sweat gathered at your temples, rolling down to pool in the hollow of your throat where your pulse fluttered.

"Holy fuck," Minho whimpered, his fingers twitching against his thigh as he watched you take Jisung to the root.

As Jisung tipped the last of the whiskey to your lips, the amber liquid burned a trail down your throat, and the crystal tumbler clinked against your teeth. "Gorgeous, isn't she?" His hips rolled experimentally, the new angle making your vision blur at the edges. "But we're not done yet, are we, kitten? Show me just how badly you want to wreck her."

Minho's hands shook as they settled on your thighs, fingertips leaving crescent-shaped marks as he spread you impossibly wider. Already slippery and swollen from his previous attention, the head of his dick pressed against your folds, a string of precum binding him to your heated flesh.

"Please," your voice cracked around the word as your fingers dipped between your legs, spreading yourself. "Need you both. Need to be filled completely." You crooked your fingers, showing him exactly where you wanted him, clenching around nothing. "Show me you haven't forgotten how to make me scream, Min."

What was left of his control was destroyed by the use of his nickname.

As if he had run for miles, Minho's chest heaved as his breath came in tattered pants that muddled the air between you. In an attempt to resist the urge to simply pop a knot in midair, the muscles in his forearms tensed up.

"Such a needy little thing.”

Behind you, Jisung's hands slid up your ribcage, leaving trails of fire in their wake before cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked. "Stop teasing her. Unless you want me to take over completely and show you how it's done."

The threat in his voice made Minho's hips snap forward, the head of his cock finally breaching you. The stretch was exquisite—too much and not enough all at once, burning and perfect. Your walls fluttered around both men as they filled you completely, the dual sensation making your toes curl against the leather.

"Fuck," Minho choked out, his forehead dropping to rest against your sternum. "So tight. So perfect. Can feel you both. Can feel how well you take us."

Your fingers found their way into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as you felt him tremble. The touch made him shudder violently, his hips stuttering forward another inch as a broken moan escaped his throat. "Move, kitty," you commanded softly, tugging at his hair just the way you remembered he liked.

Minho's eyes devoured every inch of you with an almost feverish intensity, pupils blown wide as his hips snapped forward with urgency.

"Please," he rasped, voice cracking like autumn leaves underfoot. "Need to—shit, need to mark you. Make you mine again." His canines lengthened visibly, pressing against his bottom lip until tiny droplets of blood welled up. His inner wolf screamed for possession as it thrashed against its chains—you ought to be writhing beneath him in his bedroom, your scent blending with the remnants that, two years later, still clung obstinately to his sheets, taking his knot until the memory of any other touch vanished.

"Such pretty begging," Jisung purred, his breath hot against your ear. His free hand snaked around to grip Minho's throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make the older alpha's breath hitch. "But you forgot something important, didn't you?"

No kissing, no claiming.

The movement caught Minho's attention, drawing his gaze up to where Jisung watched them both with predatory focus. Something molten pooled in Minho's stomach as the younger alpha's lips twisted into that devastating half-smile.

Slowly, Jisung brought the crystal tumbler to his own lips, throat working as he swallowed. A single drop of amber liquid escaped, meandering down the sharp line of his jaw. Minho's tongue darted out unconsciously to wet his lips.

The realization hit him like lightning—Han Jisung, with his ocean-deep hair, lip piercing and cruel kindness, would slot perfectly into the empty spaces in his bedroom too.

What the fuck? No, this shouldn't be happening! The metallic taste of blood invaded his mouth as he bit his lip hard enough to hurt, ignoring how your eyes opened to stare at him when you smelled it.

Fuck! He already has a jack in his hands; he doesn't need another one! The thought burned like acid in his throat. Minho needs to think about other omegas and whores—the girl from Midnight Club with purple hair and tongue piercings, the bartender from Red Light with tribal tattoos running down his tanned neck, the cat-eyed dancer from Velvet Underground. He needs to fuck women and men until the scent of cinnamon and caramel is replaced by sweat and cheap sex, until every memory of you is buried under a pile of nameless bodies, until he erases you from the system, erases Jisung and that damn smile.

He needed to fuck.

"Open that pretty mouth for me, kitten," Jisung commanded, pressing the cool rim of the glass to Minho's lips. His other hand remained firm around the older alpha's throat.

Whiskey flooded Minho's mouth, burning sweetly as it mixed with your lingering taste on his tongue. His eyes fluttered shut, overwhelmed by the dual sensation of your walls clenching around him and Jisung's possessive grip on his throat. The familiar pressure began building at the base of his cock, his knot threatening to swell—breed mate claim mine mine mine.

"Eyes on me," Jisung growled, his fingers tightening until crimson starbursts exploded behind Minho's eyelids. "Show me what a good boy you can be. Match my rhythm—yeah, just like that." His thumb ghosted over Minho's bottom lip, collecting the bitter cocktail of whiskey and copper.

The muscles in Minho's throat worked convulsively beneath Jisung's grip, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against calloused fingers. Sweat-stained skin caused his shoulder blades to shift beneath his curved spine as he struggled to keep up with Jisung's vicious pace.

"I'm sorry, sorry, baby." Minho choked out, his rhythm growing erratic as his knot began to swell, balls hitting your rim with all his might. "Please, Alpha, I can't—need to—"

"Not yet." Jisung's voice was sin incarnate, dark honey and broken glass. His fingers found your clit, drawing tight circles that had your vision blurring at the edges. "Our girl cums first. Show her what those pretty fingers can do and then you are allowed."

When you felt the stretch of both cocks filling you completely, Jisung's teeth at your throat, and Minho's deft fingers joining Jisung's at your clit, the world shrank to pure sensation. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, vision whiting out as pleasure crashed through your system. You could feel yourself clenching rhythmically around them both, drawing them deeper as your body demanded to be bred.

"Holy fuck," Minho choked out, his hips stuttering as your walls milked his cock. "Can't—alpha, please—"

Jisung's growl vibrated through your back, possessive and commanding. "Cum for us, kitten. Breed her nice and deep."

As Minho emptied himself inside of you with a broken cry, the command in Jisung's voice caused his entire body to tremble, his knot to fully swell. You could feel him pulsing, filling you alongside Jisung's still-hard length. Your oversensitive walls fluttered around them both, and the sensation was almost too much, almost painful.

"Such a good boy," Jisung praised, his voice rough as gravel as his hips snapped up harder. His fingers twisted in Minho's hair, yanking his head back to expose the column of his throat. "Look at how well you take my commands, how perfectly you fill our alpha."

Minho whimpered, high and desperate, as Jisung's teeth scraped over his scent gland. His hips jerked helplessly, locked inside you by his knot as aftershocks of pleasure wracked his frame.

"Please," you gasped, writhing between them as Jisung's pace grew brutal. "Too much! I can't! Stop!"

Jisung's laugh was dark honey against your skin. "Yes, you can. One more for us, pretty thing. Show our kitty how good we make you feel."

His fingers found your clit again while Minho latched onto your breast. The dual sensation of his tongue laving over your nipple and Jisung's cock dragging against your g-spot had you almost screaming.

Minho's teeth grazed your nipple as he moaned around the sensitive flesh, his own oversensitivity evident in the way his thighs trembled. You could feel his knot pulsing inside you with each thrust of Jisung's hips, stretching you impossibly wider.

"That's it," Jisung growled, his rhythm growing erratic as his own knot began to swell. "Take it all, every fucking drop."

As pleasure verged on pain, your second orgasm struck like lightning, causing tears to fall down your cheeks. Jisung followed with a snarl, his knot locking inside you alongside Minho's as he marked you from the inside out.

For a moment, Minho allowed himself to collapse against your chest, his forehead pressed against your sternum as his breath came in ragged gasps. The steady thrum of your heartbeat beneath his ear was a siren song, beckoning him towards dangerous waters where dreams of permanence lurked like sharks beneath still waters.

"Fuck," he whispered, the word barely audible as his fingers traced meaningless patterns across your ribs. His tongue darted out to taste the salt of your skin, cataloging the way Jisung's and his scent had mixed with your natural sweetness to create something entirely new.

Behind you, Jisung's fingers carded through Minho's sweat-dampened hair, the gentle touch at odds with the possessive grip he maintained on your hip. "Stay still for me, both of you," he murmured, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your shoulder. "Let me take care of you while we're tied."

Minho's eyelashes fluttered against your skin as he fought back the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to memorize this moment—the weight of you both, the way Jisung's fingers felt against his scalp, the lingering taste of whiskey and blood on his tongue. Wanted to bottle it up and keep it safe, hidden away with all the other pieces of himself he couldn't bear to examine too closely.

But he couldn't. Wouldn't. The rules were clear—no staying, no claiming, no letting himself believe this could be anything more than what it was. Even as his body betrayed him, cock still pulsing inside you as his knot kept you locked together, his mind was already calculating the fastest way to get you out of his house. Already planning his escape.

"Your heart's racing," you observed softly, fingers trailing down his spine in a touch so gentle it made him want to scream. Or sob. Or both.

Minho said nothing, but his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise.

It was like a game of Kemps, Minho thought hazily, watching the way moonlight painted silver stripes across your skin through his half-closed Venetian blinds. Just like those drunken Sunday afternoons in Chan's apartment. But now he had two jacks in his hand. Two cards that could ruin everything he'd built, destroy the fortress around his heart.

He could already imagine it—lazy Sunday mornings with the scent of condensed milk pudding filling his apartment, the sweet aroma mingling with fresh coffee and Jisung's scent. Jisung's steady hands marking his skin with permanent promises in black ink while vinyl records crackled in the background. You in the bathtub singing "Here Comes The Sun" off-key, bubbles clinging to your shoulders while Jisung lounged behind you reading his worn copy of Murakami, occasionally glancing up from the pages to watch him shave. Movie nights with takeout containers scattered across his coffee table, your head in his lap and Jisung's fingers absently playing with both your hair. The three of you tangled together in his Egyptian cotton sheets, no need for rushed goodbyes or careful distance, just the steady rhythm of shared breaths and intertwined heartbeats.

The domesticity of these visions felt like a noose around his neck, tightening with each passing second. Like his mother's pearls scattered across the bathroom floor, like the bitter taste of failure that had lived on his tongue since that day. The thought terrified him more than any business deal or angry investor ever could.

"When will I see you again?"

For the first time, he was the one that asked this question. His fingers trembled as he considered keeping his jacks instead of discarding them, letting them destroy his perfect game.

After all, sometimes the best strategy was letting your walls crumble, brick by carefully constructed brick, until nothing remained but the raw, beating heart beneath.

Kemps!

[valewright67]

YAY!!

So I'm just gonna start writing and hope it's at least like, half coherent. Also, blatant honesty, I am absolutely just copy pasting some bits and pieces from your works, cuz it is LATE, and I do not have the energy to paraphrase EVERYTHING.

Edit: wow, ok, I got very carried away, whoops. Hope you enjoy anyways?

Edit 2: I actually DO have more where this came from, regarding Ximena Talis, the commune, how Viktor is going to shift his focus, how he's going to "disconnect them" while still keeping them healed, but also about the commune react to the fact that The Herald Has A Child??

Some things for context, might be helpful!

Like I mentioned, it's a fusion of "Not Alone Anymore" and "Pull the Blanket Tight Now"

This is what a newborn (ish) baby harbor seal looks like. I believe this one is only a few days old. Quite possibly one of the cutest creatures to exist on the entire planet. (I have a soft spot for seals.)

Here is information on the name I opted for. I almost went with "Ciela" instead, because it's a Spanish name girl's name meaning "Sky" and I thought "Oh hey, Jayce would totally do that to honor Sky, and Viktor would like it too." But then I realized I'd be calling the selkie baby "seal-a" and that was a BIT too heavy handed. So Ilona instead! It's a Czech name!

It doesn't diverge too heavily up until the point baby is born. I opted for daughter, just because, like... Jayce just feels like a Girl Dad, y'know?

It took me a bit to figure out how to get around Mage Viktor realizing that Jayce is a selkie, but I got there eventually! If a selkie gives birth while in human form, their baby will also be in human form. Their Coat is formed instead upon their First Swim, when their parent takes them into the water for the first time, a thick, glowing swath of bubbles (in lieu of seafoam, if not in the ocean) will form around them and sort of compress into a Coat.

And because of Plot Reasons, Mage Viktor isn't looking during this brief moment. Maybe he's checking other realities, maybe he's overwhelmed and having A Moment with his own Jayce, (or what's left of him) who he never got to have a child with.

OK, WE BEGIN:

Jayce clings onto her, dried tear tracks from the hours of pain and fear being quickly overriden by more as he traces dirty fingers over the moles dotted on her cheeks, making a little hiccupping laugh as her tiny hand wraps all the way around his index finger and grips with all her Itty bitty might.

Gods, she's perfect.

He presses a shaky kiss to her forehead, and begins the long, arduous process of hauling himself to the pool at the edge of the cave. The water is uncomfortable chilly, even for him, and he murmurs frantic apologies as her wails begin anew, distressed at the cold. It's a sorry excuse for a First Swim, and he cannot even join her as he should, but it is all he has to offer, and his mother drilled into him the importance of selkie children touching the water within an hour of birth. Otherwise, their Coats will never form, and they'll be left untethered to the world, permanently adrift within their own minds.

The wave of relief he feels when a cradle of bubbles forms around her in iridescent swirls is almost enough to make him pass out, and he only barely manages to hold onto her.

The shimmering condenses into a glowing pelt, then the light fades away. Instinctively, she curls herself up, and he helps, lifting the edges of the tiny pelt to wrap around her tiny body. A moment later, there's a seal pup wiggling half heartedly in his hands, and he chokes on a laugh. She's so very beautiful, a soft gray with white underbelly, and splattered in black spots. She'll look different when she's older, of course. All pups start a bit like this. But he can't help but think she's the best of them all.

She shifts back easily enough soon after, and though he leaves her Coat with her to lie in (it's so cold, he won't take that away from her) he keeps her swaddled against his chest, pelt and all tucked within the torn and retied remains of his coat and hammer that form a sling. Protecting her from the eyes he sees everywhere.

The eyes. Eyes of those lost, those dead. Those angry, who would seek to tear her from him, just to see him hurt. Reality fluxes, and she remains his tether to it, only emerging from the haze of hallucinations to tend to her.

She's hungry, whining for milk constantly. He's hungry too. He eats as much as he can, grateful that against all odds, the amount of lizards (those damned, disgusting lizards) seems to have somehow increased, despite the loud cries of his infant. Still though, resources his body can spare are precious few, and he knows she isn't getting enough. They'll both starve, at this rate.

It's with a new sense of determination he starts trying to find a way out of this cursed hole. She's two weeks old when he finally manages to claw himself over the top ledge, and he collapses with a ragged grunt. She makes a startled, sleepy noise against his chest, and he chuckles softly, stroking over the sling. "Yeah, darling, we made it. Halfway there, right?" She gurgles, tiny fist freeing itself from the fold and waving under his nose, and he presses a kiss to her knuckles before hauling himself upright to continue onwards. UPwards.

Really, he should have known it was Viktor. It's always Viktor. This lonely, regret-plagued man is Viktor. Not his Viktor, but it matters little to Jayce. He cannot bear to see any iteration of his partner suffer.

And... he might know how to help him. His arms tighten ever so slightly around his daughter, and he lifts his chin.

"Do you still have it? My coat?" He interrupts the older man’s speech.

Viktor eyes the ruined tailcoat Jayce is wearing as a sling, confused.

"Your… coat?"

"The blanket, I mean. The one I gave you when you woke up fused to the Hexcore."

This time, Viktor's eyes light up with understanding and sadness.

"…I do, actually. I have never parted from it."

There is a deep longing in his voice, one that makes Jayce’s heart ache, as he slowly opens up his cloak to reveal what’s underneath.

There it is, his pelt, neatly wrapped in a tunic around Viktor’s body. It has become worn and tattered with time, surely due to the derelict state of this world’s Jayce, but the ribbons and little metal accessories Viktor has added to it show that the garment has been deeply loved and cared for.

This constatation leaves Jayce breathless. Years, maybe decades have passed since this Viktor received his coat, and not only has he kept it, but he is clearly treating it like his most prized possession. He can even sense some reluctance in the mage’s movements, as if he is hesitant to disclose what is obviously a mirror to his soul, even to Jayce himself.

And the blanket he is wearing thrums with Selkie magic still. Just like Jayce’s own.

Which means there might be hope.

“Put it over his shoulders. It might not work, but… it’s worth a try.”

Viktor nods, without asking for any further explanation. The absolute trust he puts in him has Jayce’s heart racing once again.

With trembling fingers, Viktor refastens his cloak, then he calls forth his powers to have the blanket materialize into his hand. Jayce cannot help but watch in awe as he bends the Arcane to his will so easily. Although he knows it is not a desirable outcome, the prospect that his Viktor could master such an intricate art has him weak at the knees.

It is with infinite gentleness that Viktor puts the blanket over his petrified companion. For a second, nothing happens, and Jayce fears to have been mistaken, to have only caused Viktor further distress, but then the stone starts cracking as the transformation takes effect. And just like that, the lifeless statue gives place to a shaking, breathing man.

“Now take it off,” Jayce instructs before his counterpart’s selkie nature can be revealed.

Viktor doesn’t have to be told twice. He follows his advice to the letter, then rushes to hug his revived partner. Jayce’s alter ego lets his corrupted hammer fall to the ground to better welcome him in his arms.

Years of complete immobility have shrunken his muscles down and his body has become emaciated with hunger, leaving him in a pitiful state, but whatever strength he has left, he uses to cling to Viktor. Worrying as his condition might be, Jayce has no doubt he will soon flourish again under Viktor’s care.

They stay intertwined for a long while, both of them sobbing quietly in immeasurable relief, and Jayce knows better than to disturb them.

Then Viktor lifts his eyes towards him again.

“How?”

Jayce smiles and shakes his head, then points toward his counterpart with his chin.

“It’s for him to tell, not me. Do you... Do you want to meet her? Hold her?"

There's a sharp intake of breath, wide eyes darting from his face to the bundle on his chest. His counterpart, too, looks up in startled awe.

Slowly, the Mage nods, and Jayce doesn't hesitate to undo the sling, to transfer her over into the waiting arms before him.

The Mage - Viktor - releases a trembling breath as he carefully glides a thumb over her cheek, silvery tears trickling down his own. His Jayce presses the sides of their beards together, trying to wiggle impossibly closer to get a better look. She whines a little as she wakes, scrunching up her whole face and then blinking up at them with brilliant amber eyes. Viktor husks a laugh. "Hello, beautiful one. What- What is her name, Jayce?"

"...She doesn't have one, yet." He murmurs guiltily. "I... I could not THINK well enough to give her one worthy of her. Would... YOU name her. For me?"

Those startled wide eyes are back again, looking up at him in shock even as silvery tears continue to escape. "Wha-? You want me to-?"

Jayce shrugs. "Who better? You are her father, after all."

Viktor looks back down at her, brow scrunched in that way Jayce had always adored, that meant he was trying to think through every possibility of a problem all at once.

"Ilona... For I have never seen a light in the dark as bright as she," He manages at last, and his Jayce runs a shaking hand over her downy soft hair. "That's lovely, V."

"Hm..." He traces the mole on her forehead, "C-Can I-?"

"Go ahead," Jayce whispers, trusting him fully, and the ache in his chest swells when he brushes a lingering kiss to that spot, laughing quietly when those tiny fingers grasp onto his graying beard. A moment later she slips back into sleep, and Viktor almost reluctantly passes her back over.

"She'll sleep through the teleportarion now, and know no pain from it. I'm sorry that I can't offer you the same, but..." his hand sinks down fully, fingers twining with his Jayce's, squeezing apologetically, "there is no world in which I would choose the Glorious Evolution - in which I'd choose my own pride and ambition - over the two of you. Over... over her. You won't need to resort to violence to convince me, not once I see her."

"Really? You mean that's all it would have taken?" His Jayce teases with a raspy voice, "I just needed to let you knock me up? That's it?"

"Wha- Jayce!" Viktor blurts with a sputtered laugh and both Jayce's managed twin snorts at his horrified amusement.

Jayce nodded once, then nodded again as he strapped her securely back to his torso. "Right. Send me back," he declares, tone ringing with determination as he wraps his arms around the bundle on his chest, "I'll get through to him. We both will, won't we, Ilona?"

Then the world flares with pain and color, and reality breaks. When his senses return, he's in the chamber room of the hexgates, groaning as he hauls himself back to his feet. Fucking FUCK, but that hurts, like every cell in his body turned to firey static.

The first thing he registers is... "Salo? What are you doing here?"

"...One could ask the same question." His voice sounds... distorted, almost, and Jayce grits his teeth as he tries to determine if that affect is a hallucination or not.

"How are you walking?" He demands, arms still wrapped protectively around his chest.

"Who do you think could mend such a broke creature?" Salo replies easily. "Would you want... to speak with him?"

A moment of tense silence passes, and every hair on his neck rises in alarm as Salo's body is- is taken over, somehow.

"Jayce," Viktor's voice rings through Salo, as soothing as it is disturbing, "I feared I wouldn't get the chance to speak with you."

"Viktor?" He breathes, slowly moving forwards, grasp around Ilona loosening ever so slightly.

"I would prefer to converse in person," he starts, raising Salo's hands out between them, "but there is so... so... what is that?" He cuts himself off, staring wide eyed at the bundle against his chest. "Jayce, is that-? Is that a ba-?"

"Stop!" He barks out, talking a couple limping steps backwards, hands shifting to cradle her firmly, to CONCEAL her. "You- I do not want the first time you see our daughter to be through any eyes but your own. I do not want the first time you hear her to be with any other ears. And I demand that the first time you touch her be with your own hands, metal or not, just YOURS!"

Viktor/Salo is still staring with his mouth agape, not having moved a muscle. Jayce breathes heavily. "I... I have to... Fuck!" He snarls, and staggers as another hallucination strikes him, a pained moan slipping out as leg wobbles. "I have to find her milk, I'm- I'm starving, my body won't produce, she's hungry, I have to- I need to make sure she's ok. She's- She's my priority now, Viktor, not you, I need to-"

"We have milk here," Viktor blurts, interrupting him, "There's a couple nursing mothers, I'm sure they'll help. Piltover is- it's dangerous, right now. Please, Jayce, there is a place for you, with me, for-for both of you!"

Jayce couldn't help a weak smirk at the reversal. "Piltover is dangerous, huh? Does that make me scary?"

"A little," Viktor admits in a whisper, "You're scaring me a little. Mostly, I'm scared for you. I don't understand- but you can explain, when you get here? I'll meet you on your way, as soon as I leave Salo, I'll start running. I can run now."

"I need a promise from you first."

"Anything, Jayce."

"Listen to what I say. Believe me. Use your kinda freaky mind powers to see what I saw. Then and only then will I let you hold her."

"Done."

"Then I'll see you soon."

Salo shuddered, and when his eyes rolled back, they too trained onto the bundle. "...Damn, Talis. Get it, I guess."

Jayce snorted inelegantly, and started limping past him towards the exit. "C'mon then. You're my guide, aren't you? I hope so, because I have no idea where I'm going other than 'down.'"

Their pace is slow, but they're still well into Zaun when he hears rapid footsteps coming from ahead of them. Jayce tenses, lips twisting into a snarl as he prepares to defend against whatever is-

"Jayce!!"

Oh.

It's Viktor, a bit of a frazzled mess, and chest rising and falling as he forces his body to regulate to the exertion. His hair is longer, and-

And he's wearing his coat in a manner that's frankly FAR too attractive for his current state of mind. As a matter of fact, he's pretty sure that it's the ONLY thing he's wearing, minus some straps holding it in place. Jayce only barely manages not to collapse to his knees then and there, but he does muster a wobbly smile.

"Hi, Viktor. I missed you."

Viktor has his hands over his mouth as he looks him over and takes in all the little details Salo's eyes didn't know to pick up. "Jayce... You look like you've been dragged backwards through Hell, what's happened?? What, you, baby?? And?? Is that Arcane Scarring??"

He honestly doesn't think he can say he's EVER seen Viktor THIS flustered, and its a bit entertaining. "You're not actually entirely wrong. I'll tell you everything when we've got some more privacy. REAL privacy. Your ears only." He takes another step forward, and Viktor's eyes train down onto the brace that creaks around his crooked leg.

"Is that... your hammer?"

"What's left of it, yes. Vik-"

"Yes?" Viktor almost cuts him off in his urgency to attend his needs, and Jayce firmly resists the urge to laugh.

"I'm- tired. Really really tired. And I haven't had a proper bath in months, nevermind a shower. The sooner we get down to wherever it is we're going, the sooner I can rest. Can we-?"

"Of course, of course, I'm sorry! Here- it'll make it easier to walk," he holds out his staff, which Jayce wraps a roughened hand around shakily, and smiles.

They continue further into the depths of the undercity, which would make him nervous were it not for Viktor's kind of frantic hovering offering a thorough distraction. Normally, it might have annoyed him slightly. But honestly, after all those months with only his own hallucinations and a mysterious swelling bump for company, it's... kind of nice.

He stops in his tracks when the commune comes into view. "Wow," he mutters, and Viktor's worried glance shifts slightly to one of pride.

"There's a forge too! It's useful to have, of course, but well. I mostly made it for you, if you ever joined me."

"Viktor..."

"And a greenhouse! Do you remember that first plant we grew with the hexcore? It thrives down here! And I had a lab made as well, and There's chambers for you already! They're attached to mine- oh! I didn't mean to be presumptuous, I just, I thought- well, if you want ones with some distance, that can be arranged-"

"Vik-"

"There's not a nursery beyond the communal one, I'm afraid. I wasn't... exactly expecting... but no matter! We can design one, however you'd like it!"

"Viktor!"

"Do you like it?" He breathes, and Jayce stares at him, then huffs out a little laugh.

"You've never done things by halves, that's for sure. It's... incredible, Viktor. But first-"

"Oh! Oh yes, of course, thats right, ah, Salo, please show Jayce to his chamber, I'll go grab some things!"

Salo gives him a shallow bow, and Jayce watches as Viktor hurries off, before turning away to follow his guide.

Time passes strangely once he collapses onto the small couch, in an odd, distorted blipping. Vaguely, he registers that his chambers - that Viktor had no guarantee would ever be used - were, frankly, resplendent in comparison to some of the others he'd glimpsed. A large mattress is tucked into a corner, no frame, but it's covered in soft blankets and pillows, and there's a wide desk and chair against another wall, complete with a shelf full of notebooks and tomes. A large, plush rug covers half the floor, and he curls his toes into it curiously, delighting in the soft texture. Plus the couch, which even he can admit is luxurious. Though, even the toughest couch would be achingly soft right now, after months of nothing but stone, so maybe he's biased, but he's hardly complaining about that.

"Sorry I took so long," he hears Viktor murmur, and he lolls his head to look at him as he enters, carrying a small wooden crib under one arm, and holding a bottle in the other. "I had to warm up the milk, I wasn't sure how- one of the nursing mothers stores her extra, I guess she produces a lot. Comes in handy at least. She helped me, and someone else had a spare crib their little one is too big for now-"

"Viktor,"

"Yes?"

"Come sit."

Viktor does, obedient as a dog, wide eyed and eager to please, and Jayce feels a surge of amusement. Who's the puppy now, huh? The reminder of their days before, bantering in the lab, pulls an ache into his chest. He shakes it off as he finally, at last, undoes the sling and settles her into his arms instead, letting the ruined tailcoat fall to the ground with a quiet thump. She's still sleeping, though her fist clenches and unclenches a little as she's moved.

"Oh..." Viktor breathes, eyes trained solely onto her, and Jayce smiles. "Go ahead," he whispers, "She's your daughter too. You can touch her."

Viktor bites down on the inside of his lip, and raises a finger to trace delicately over the moles on her face, unknowingly following the same pattern his post apocalyptic counterpart had. And- "Hello, beautiful one. What- What is her name, Jayce?" -his words, too, uttered in that same whispy reverence.

"Ilona," he tells him, and she scrunches her entire little face in a yawn, blinking her eyes open at last, "her name is Ilona."

A silvery tear coursed a quick track down his cheek, and he pulled his hand back when Jayce readjusted her. "Bottle, please?"

"Oh, yes, right, here! She showed me how to test the temperature, It should be good."

"Dab a little on my wrist then," Jayce requested, one arm still cradling his daughter, "I've seen my mother do it enough times when she used to babysit for extra money."

Viktor did, and Jayce flexed his wrist a little as he gauged it. "That'll do," he took the bottle and held it to her lips. "C'mon, sweetheart, please latch, please- Oh, thank you," he whispers in relief as she tentatively wraps her mouth around it, then starts suckling, "that's good, hm? Sorry darling, I know you've been hungry, I tried my best, but you won't go without anymore, I'll make sure of it." She whines when he takes it away from her, still about half full, and he murmurs apologies as he passes it back to Viktor, shifting her to bounce a little against his shoulder. "Sorry, love, sorry, but we gotta start small, I don't want you to get sick, there, go ahead and burp for me, yeah? Not like this shirt can get more ruined than it already is, that's a good girl."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Viktor looking at them with an adoring, dare he say Reverent expression. He's almost impressed that his face doesn't so much as waver when she spits up down his front, beyond reaching down to grab the tattered tail coat and pass it over to be used as a wipe.

Ilona yawns, and then shows off her brilliant gummy smile, and Viktor just melts. "Hi, Ilona," he greets her, sinking down into the couch to be eye level with her. "She's got your eyes, Jayce."

"Oh please, she's you in miniature. Look, the moles, the nose, the shape of her eyes. Even her hair is more your shade of brown, I bet you anything it'll be fluffy like yours too, once it grows out some more." He shifts to address her, nose rubbing against hers gently. "Nine months, nine months you spent inside my womb, and all you inherited was my tan? Outrageous," he declares in good humor, and Viktor shakes with laughter. Jayce let's it go on for an indulgent moment, and then sighs, lowering her gently onto the couch between them, her little Coat plush underneath her. "We have to talk now, Viktor," he says quietly, "and we'll decide what to do from there."

Viktor's smile dropped slowly, and he nodded. "Yes, I... can we start with where you were? You just- vanished, Jayce. Right off the face of Runeterra. No one could find you anywhere, *I* couldn't find you anywhere, no matter how hard I looked. Everyone thought you were dead. You had a funeral!"

"Well. I kinda DID vanish off the face of Runeterra. THIS Runeterra, at least."

"What do you mean."

"I'm sure you've noticed the Arcane anomaly under the hexgates by now?" At Viktor's confirming nod, he continued. "Long story short, I got stuck inside of it. And it took me to a future. A... A really really bad one. It's difficult to explain, but... ah..."

"I can- Look? At your memories? If that's easier."

"Yes, but! But I have a condition."

"Name it."

"As soon as you touch me, you're going to notice the damage to my body. My leg, the Arcane corruption rotting in my wounds, the way... the way I know my mind has fractured from my time there, I can tell it has, and-"

"I can heal all of that! I'll heal you, Jayce, I'll take away your pain-"

"No! No, you will not. That is my condition, Viktor."

"What?"

"Don't heal me. Not even a little bit."

"But- you're in pain, and I can fix it-"

"No, that's final. This will just have to heal the old fashioned way. Do NOTHING but look at my memories. And when you see what I have seen, you'll understand WHY. Am I understood?"

"....."

"I don't like giving ultimatums, Viktor, you know I hate it. But I'm not budging on this, it's agree, or I leave right now, and I take Ilona with me."

"Very well," Viktor finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. "I swear I'll only look."

Jayce smiled a little as he relaxed, and when Viktor's hands raised, he held onto his wrists and pressed them to his cheeks. Their foreheads pressed together, and they fell into his mind.

He's glad now for his foresight in setting down Ilona, because his grip squeezes tightly enough around Viktor's wrists to leave dark bruises, had he been anyone else, as they relive everything.

His arrival into that apocalyptic wasteland, the hollowed remains of the Evolved Ones, the petrified corpses stuck in a permanent state of terror, his fall into the chasm, the sharp, overwhelming pain of his leg being shattered, his descent into madness and his confused paranoia as his belly began to swell with something unknown.

Her birth, his first bit of happiness in months and months, her First Swim, and his climb to the very highest point in Piltover.

Seeing their counterparts in this world gone wrong.

Viktor is breathing raggedly by the end of it, and tears himself away with a sharp gasp, falling off the couch and onto the ground as he shakes with all this new knowledge.

Jayce is panting too, and he knows he's crying. "Do you see now? Do you see why I can't let you continue on the path you're on?" His partner manages a little nod, and then a sob tears from his chest, and he covers his face.

"What have I done? What have I done, Jayce?"

"Nothing we can't fix," he slides a bit clumsily down to the ground with him, and lifts his head between his hands, thumbs wiping away silvered tears. "Partners, right? You don't have to do this alone."

"But I left you alone first-!"

"I forgive you,"

"You should hate me-"

"Well, I don't."

"I caused that apocalypse-"

"So did I."

"Why- Why do you persist? After everything I've done?"

Jayce bumped their foreheads together. "Because I promised you. Because I missed you. Because I don't want our daughter to grow up without you. Because I trust you. Because I know you can do so much good in this world, even without this Glorious Evolution business," he pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips, tasting the salty, metallic tears gathered there, "and because I love you, Viktor."

Viktor's whole face scrunched up, in a way that greatly resembled Ilona's when she was about to start wailing, and Jayce felt a surge of fondness as he realized where she'd gotten that expression from. Then Viktor's arms are around his neck, and he's clinging with everything he has, and Jayce let's them fall back onto the carpet to cling back, fingers twisting into his Coat.

It takes a bit for Viktor to loosen his grip a little, and Jayce starts running a hand up and down his back soothingly.

"...Ilona's a selkie," he whispers at last.

"Yes." Jayce confirms quietly.

"That means... you're a selkie, as well."

"...Yes."

Viktor draws in a shaky breath. "Where's your Coat, Jayce?"

"...I think you already know the answer to that, V."

"Confirm it for me. Please."

Jayce's fingers flexed into the blanket, into his Coat. "You're wearing it."

He let out a wounded noise. "I-I took your Coat away from you-"

"No," He shook his head, rolling them onto their sides so they could be eye to eye, "no, Viktor. I gave it to you, because I wanted you to be safe and warm, more than anything else. And I never went after it, because I knew... I knew it'd be safe with you, and it'd keep you safe in turn. There's a big difference between that and stealing it."

"But-"

"How long are you going to try and argue that you're a monster before you realize that I'm not going to let you?" Jayce asks light heartedly, and Viktor scowls. He snorts. "Alright, come on, help me up again. Please tell me there's a warm bath somewhere in this place? I think I'd murder for one right now."

"There's baths, yes," he assures him, helping him rise back up and settle onto the couch next to Ilona, "Just through that door over there, I'll go run it for you-"

"In chamber bathrooms? Now I know those weren't in most other people's spaces, I saw the communal baths."

"Yes, well," Viktor scowled a little, then sighed, lifting Jayce's hand's to pepper kisses to his splitting knuckles, "you're my partner, Lásko. My other half, my equal. It's only fair you get a bit of extra luxury. Especially- especially after all you've been through. Alone." His eyes drifted down to Ilona, who gurgles at him, and his face softens a little more. "I'll be back."

He vanishes into the side door, and a moment later, Jayce hears the creaking of pipes as water rushes in. He looks at his daughter and smiles, brushing her cheek. "Your father seems determined to spoil us, Mi Vida. I'll have to keep an eye on him as you grow up, won't I? Make sure he doesn't spoil you rotten."

"Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" Viktor asks, poking his head out, and Jayce shakes his head, scooping up Ilona and rising to his feet. "Nah, if I can climb out of a chasm, I can walk across a room. Might need some help getting things off, though."

He does end up needing that help, unfortunately. It takes everything in him not to scream - though he doesn't quite manage to stifle the pained groans completely - as Viktor helps pry the fabric of his clothes off of his festering wounds. Multicolored pus oozes from it, and strings of the same sickly tints connect and snap and drop back against his skin. It's disgusting, frankly, and they have to resort to cutting his clothes off of him and pulling it off piece by piece.

By the time Viktor helps him climb into the tub, he's shaking all over, and barely manages to cling to him as he's lowered carefully into the water. Ilona is laying on her pelt in a basket that had held the vials of soap and shampoo and oils, which are now lined up on the ground by the tub. She seems happy enough to be there, cooing and gurgling and waving her tiny arms.

He blinks as his attention is drawn from her back to Viktor. "What?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Oh- Vik, you don't have to, I can-"

"I want to, Jayce. Please, I can't heal you, so please. Let me at least take care of you?"

He sighed, sagging back into the tub. "Yeah, alright. If you want to pamper me so badly, I won't kick up a fuss. My hair? And the beard, gods, It's itches, just shave the damn thing off if you've got a razor."

Viktor almost pouted at that, before quickly schooling his face. Not quick enough for Jayce to have missed it though, and he raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Well, it's just... can't we try cleaning and trimming it first?"

"What? Why?"

"It-It suits you, that's all."

Jayce stared at him for a long moment, then tossed his head back and laughed. "You think my beard is hot?? YOU??"

"What's that supposed to mean??"

"I once asked you if thought I'd look good with a beard, and you didn't even say WORDS, you just looked so utterly DISGUSTED at the thought! It kinda hurt!"

"Well, clearly I was wrong about some things! Do you have any idea how much I want that beard against my a-"

"Viktor!!"

They both laughing as he sputters out a scolding about Little Ears, and Viktor picks up some shampoo, raising a brow. "So?"

"Fine, fine. We'll give it a chance."

Viktor set to work, and frankly, Jayce lost some time in the haze that settled over his mind. It felt so good to be touched again, to be held, to be cared over. Even when those touches hurt as his wounds were cleaned, it was still blissful. The bath had to be drained and refilled twice before Viktor was satisfied, and drained it a final time, helping him climb back out and support himself against a wall while he patted him down with a fluffy towel.

"I'll clean out the tub real quick, and then we can give Ilona a bath too. She's cleaner than you were, but... that's not a high bar."

"Thanks," he mutters sarcastically, but he doesn't think it quite makes it through that way, not with how fond he looks.

It's only a few minutes of Viktor scrubbing the tub with the rag he'd used to wash his body, rinsing away the grit and infection that lingered against the walls, when there's a knock on the door.

"My Herald? I've brought the supplies you requested."

"Come in!" Viktor calls, and footsteps sound through the chamber before a man opens the door a touch and peaks through, holding up a box with a red plus on it. "Thanks you, Hutch," he smiles, waving to the counter, "just put it there, please."

"Of course." He bows, and leaves again as quickly as he'd arrived. Viktor shoots Jayce a nervous smile. "Bandages and ointments. Sutures, though I don't think we'll need them. For your wounds. I sent out the request after you'd told me not to heal you, but... before I saw what you saw. May I-?"

Jayce nods, and he rinses off his hands, shuffling towards him with the box. He hisses through his teeth as various poultices are spread over his wounds, and ointments rubbed into his stretch marks, then sighs as cool relief blesses the burning skin. By the time Viktor is done wrapping him in clean bandages, he looks half mummy.

"Thank you," Jayce murmurs, eyes half lidded as he sits back against the wall. Viktor combs his fingers through his hair once, and turns back to the tub. Satisfied with it, he fills it up a few inches with clean, lukewarm water. When it's ready, he glances back over his shoulder. "...Do you want to-? Or should I?"

"Go ahead. I'll help if you need it, but... I don't think I can kneel that long right now. I'm barely awake as is."

Viktor nodded and, almost hesitantly, lifts Ilona from the basket. "You can put her Coat in, too. Just wait until after you wash both separately to let her shift." He hummed his understanding, and then... did nothing. Just kneeled by the tub and held her for a long moment.

Oh, right. Right right, that- it's his first time holding her.

"She's-" his voice breaks, and Jayce nods encouragingly, "She's so perfect, Jayce."

"Yes. She is. Go ahead and give her a bath now, Amado. She's not old enough to bite you yet, I promise."

He hiccups a laugh, but obediently lowers her into the warm water. She squirms, startled and fussy, but decides she likes it enough to allow it with minimal whining and settles. Viktor keeps one hand cupped around her head, murmuring sweet things to her as he runs a soft, soapy cloth over the rest of her body, washing away the grime. Jayce loses time again as he fights the urge to sleep, only drifting back into Wakefulness when Viktor comes to pass him his baby, clean and bundled up into a fluffy towel. He takes her, pressing kisses to her face as his partner turns back around to pull her Coat into the water as well, carefully washing it with gentle reverence.

When it's clean, and the worst of the moisture has been wicked from it, leaving it only slightly damp, Jayce starts pulling himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the walk without his brace. Viktor is there a second later, lifting one of his Jayce's arms over his shoulders and sliding his own around his waist. They don't exchange any words as he helps him hobble to the mattress, and Jayce sighs almost dreamily as he sinks into the plush pile of soft things. Even Ilona makes a tiny content sound, and he smiles at her as she drifts back off to sleep against his chest, soothed by the rise and fall of his breath and exhausted from all the excitement.

Finally, he glances up to Viktor, who is still hovering, unsure, and he holds out an arm. "Well? I'm waiting."

Viktor jolts, and crawls in next to him. He's heavier than expected, though Jayce supposes that makes sense with the metal augmentations, but they soon adjust to a position that's comfortable. Ilona doesn't stir once as Viktor pulls blankets up around them and glues himself to his side, one hand resting over his stomach. The metal of his body is cooler than normal skin, yes, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. Rather, he feels like a wonderful relief, like a cool cloth pressed into a feverish brow. He sighs happily again, and turns his head to nuzzle into his hair.

"...You're really not mad at me? For everything? Anything?"

"Mmm... My mother will be mad enough at you for the both of us, when she finds out," Viktor winces, remembering the glimpses he'd seen of her wrath, and Jayce chuckles, pressing a kiss to his temple. "But no. All I wanted? Was to have my partner back. And now I have you, right?"

"You have me. All of me, however much of me you want," He lifts his hand to brush over Ilona's head briefly, "You both do."

"Then that's all that matters. We can discuss all the rest later, ok?"

"Alright. Jayce?"

"...Hm?" He managed, already starting to drift off, one hand twisted into the Coat that Viktor still wears, the other covering his daughter.

"I love you."

He smiled.

I know I already wrote a whole fic about it, but I am once again having lots of thoughts about selkie Jayce giving his coat to Viktor, unafraid to put his life in his hands because he just trusts him that much.

Or, alternatively, Viktor picking up Jayce's selkie coat along with the rune bracelet when he talks him out of jumping in s1, entirely oblivious to what it means, which results in Jayce internally freaking out over getting accidentally engaged.

[ipusingularitae]

Man I hated the "Mina is bound by Destiny to Dracula" shit in the movie and I hate the Coppolapilled people using this for Ellen. Because screw women having choices and agency, let's think about what a man wants and her destiny to him.

(again, it's big, sorry i can't contain my thoughts)

look, on a plain movie/story level, in the coppola movie, i could see that because the coppola movie is a romance movie, it's a love story, it's supposed to be even more erotic. even the scary parts have a different tone. I don't dislike it totally because it's a "she died because she thought he died, and then he renounced catholic god and kept his soul to find her" narrative, romeo and juliet if romeo did a pact with the devil, or another god, etc. i think it's fair to meet the movie where it is and it doesn't claim to be more than that. but as you've said, yeah, inserting this in Ellen's case is very much nonsense and takes away what she wants, if she wants and the complexity levels it presents. it basically strips down the narrative of a lot of the ambivalence.

but Eggers' movie isn't that. based on the movie itself, posts I've read, the things he said inspired his movie in interviews, things they said in interviews, that's not what they were doing with this Nosferatu. and as I've said, my dislike for "oh my god he has awaken only for her bc they're bound" is because it doesn't seem to be that plain simple. if he rises for her and they're bound, there's an ulterior motive that doesn't necessarily include him renouncing catholicism bc they were lovers before. if he rises for her, if somehow she's the one intending this, then there's elements pointing that out that involve what she wants and what she does even when she doesn't consciously know that because she has no apparatus to process the powers, abilities and desires she has. which is much more interesting.

if they said "they're bound because Ellen is a priestess of Isis and she doesn't know that consciously but on a spiritual level (which manifests in her sleepwalking and her episodes) she have woken him specifically" I'm eating that shit up. but not pointing out the ambivalence she goes through, the angst she deals with because she's happy for people dying, the whole arc of her accepting the dark side of her, just to pretend she's happy with this from the beginning, that's reductive and one sided.

that's why for 2/3 of this movie what Orlok says makes no sense to her and she tells to his face she's suffering because she didn't want any of this. because consciously, this is what she knows to be true. because consciously she's going through desperate moments and sadness and anxiety, that's the basis the gothic moments. is the desperate call of her soul for the dark things that clash with her present knowledge of the world and of the life she tried to built within the limitations a very repressed society puts upon her. that's scary as fucking hell. this isn't fun or nice for Ellen, it's despairing. and in the end she realizes a fraction of her spiritual situation, she embraces what she has and allows herself to be grand and get what she wants in a level that doesn't involve conscious, present society. but the process isn't easy or obvious, and that's why "they're bound and meant for each other" doesn't stick here for me. it's not a star-crossed lovers narrative. it's the call of an energy for more within a body and a mind that has been conditioned to doubt and fear and run away from this. these elements are integral for the horror, because even though we're not dealing with a present world narrative, for Ellen and her period, this is one of the worst things that could happen on a spiritual level.

and the movie wouldn't work if Orlok appeared to her like Dracula appears to Mina in Coppola's. Dracula is sensual, attractive, erotic, romantic. it wouldn't be scary to her if this was a matter of "this very attractive and distinguished gentleman is hitting on me, and i have doubts about the institution of marriage against adultery because I've always been bound to this man, it seems". Orlok is decrepit, uses old world manners, devilish practices, kills adults and children in a violent way, calls for desires she doesn't even know how to process in a way that wouldn't make her have episodes deemed as hysterical, mad, unthinkable. that's the horror and the beauty. that's the gothic burning in the narrative because for her reality this is terrible. it's "this is the worst [Michael Scott's voice]"

i like Eggers' movies because they can grant me hours and hours of research about things i had no idea existed and that sometimes i have no way of knowing bc it's not part of the culture i grew up in. i know so little and that's amazing because i can look up. there's a 7 hour long video about The VVitch I'm still watching, with some things i never heard of because I'm not from New England, from USA, don't have farm knowledge, so on and so on. Nosferatu is glowing like a gold mine with elements and details i know nothing about that can make me change opinions on its narrative several time and that's what i enjoy about Ellen's story!!!

[lafseanchai]

AITA for asking my roommate to get her shit together and put her dirty dishes away??

Okay. This is what I text her today, cuz at the begining of the week, I told her, AGAIN, that leaving dirty dishes out overnight is a big ick I have, as we have a dishwasher. And it was the only big house rule I asked for since day one. But this morning...

"(Name.) I just asked you the other day not to leave dishes in the sink overnight. And yet there was a bunch of dirty dishes in the sink this morning.

And then there was dirty pan on the stove. And the stove dirty with overboiled pasta water. And the pasta wrapper left on the counter. And you had clearly gone into the clean dishwasher but did not unload it and reload it.

I am just frustrated and a bit disappointed. I am not asking you to do even 50% of the housework. I will even take the trash and clean the main floor bathroom if you can get your dirty dishes put away.

I know that ADHD makes it hard and I totally understand bad brain days, when you have bad brain days at least tell me or mention something. Cuz at this point is feels like you're being careless and disrespectful of the shared space and about the only house rule I have, and I have expressed from day one. Dirty dishes go in the dishwasher and do not sit in the sink overnight.

I bought a little whiteboard that I can put up with a bit of a chore chart again, as it would be more visible than the printed chore chart I made initially.

But at this point, I do not trust that to help a lot, though I am willing to try it if you are.

The last time I talked to you about this, you said you'd talk to your therapist about tools and ways to help you remember, but I am still having to remind you about taking the trash out; if I don't, it doesn't get done. Same with the dishes.

I don't want to have to nag to you do these tasks, as you are an adult, but if I do not give you reminders, it just doesn't get done. Or I dk remind you, and it still doesn't.

I don't want to be mean or harsh, but I am just very frustrated by the dishes thing especially. I have said from day one that is all I asked of my roommates to do, and it is something that does not get respected.

And honestly, I am working a lot of hours and am physically tired, and I know you have limitations, but the fact that you are at the house so many more hours a day than me and even the basic tasks can't get taken care of is so exhausting and frustrating.

I don't know what else to do or say.

Unfortunately, I will be at work literally all day today, a d won't be home until 10pm and I will not have the energy to do a face to face talk tonight.

I am willing to have the conversation here, or plan for it on Saturday. Let me know what you want to do."

Like, I know she's AuDHD, and young, but 22 is certainly old enough to be able to put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher yes? She's been living at the house for like 6 months now, which you think would have been long enough to at least start figuring out some systems and tools to help.

Am I being a bitch? Expecting too much? Being too Neuro typical/ableist?

Any advice? Cuz the next step is telling her she's paying $20-$50 more a month in rent to make up for the fact I am cleaning up after her.

[jessiemeows]

Lost & Found

Chapter 2: Companionship and Sunsets

A/N: Hello! I wanted to say the first 2-3 chapters are a little slow and are basically retellings of what happens amongst the Amaya/Astarion universe that I created. The next chapter though is when their story begins to officially start :) Pls go easy on me, I don't have any proofreaders and I tried reading this a thousand times to make sure the grammar and spelling are good lmfao. ALSO! Love and smut won't be introduced till later chapters, right now its going to be painfully obvious that Amaya and Astarion are crushing on one another. So in other words it's a slow burn. OH, one more thing, I haven't posted much but I am pretty much done with the next chapter, I have to add in a few things that I forgot I wanted added in so maybe(hopefully) I'll post it by the end of the week? I plan on reading it and adding in more stuff tomorrow night, and then I have to get over my fears of posting it for a few days by rereading it 500 times lol.

Pairing: F!Durge, OC (Amaya), Tiefling, Selunite Cleric X Spawn Astarion

Rating: 18+!!! mentions of violence, blood, corpses, death, basically durge things if you know how that character is

WC: About 2300

Previous chapters: Prologue | Ch 1

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Story:

The wreckage of the nautiloid stretched behind them as Astarion trailed a few steps behind Amaya. He watched as his new companion led him in what seemed to be an increasingly familiar pattern.

"Any idea where you're going, darling?" He said with his voice filled with amusement. "Because it seems to me we're walking in circles."

Amaya's shoulders tensed. "Yes, I know where I'm going." The words came out clipped, and Astarion suppressed a smile. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so harsh earlier—the knife to her throat, shoving her into the dirt but, what was done was done. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn't particularly care.

"I'm looking for someone," she continued, her voice softening. "She can't be too far from the beach. Unless she's dead, but I..." Her words trailed off into the now cooling evening air.

"And who might this mystery person be?"

Amaya twirled to face him, walking backward with surprising grace. "A half-elf who helped me on the ship. I don't remember her name, but I think she's a cleric, like me."

"Ah, clerics." Astarion clicked his tongue. "I've never much cared for the gods. Rather exhausting business, all that worship and devotion."

Her expression turned thoughtful. "True but, I don't know why I worship Selûne, to be honest. When I woke up on the nautiloid, I had only faint memories of her, but I could feel her presence, feel my magic flowing from her." She turned to walk beside him, their steps falling into sync. "Her presence felt light and hopeful, which was nice compared to..." Her voice faded, and Astarion caught the shadow that passed across her face. He chose not to press.

Instead, he studied her with new interest. "You don't remember anything?"

"Just my name—Amaya Othzál—and fragments that keep surfacing. The details are..." She shrugged, offering a faint smile. "Hazy."

"Must be the tadpole's doing."

"Or I hit my head really hard." Her giggle was soft and musical, and Astarion found himself oddly charmed by the sound.

"Yes, that would certainly explain a few things about you," he scoffed playfully, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a low chuckle.

Amaya then halted suddenly, causing Astarion to collide with her, nearly losing his footing to almost knock her over. "Do you think by any chance you could not stop so abruptly," he hissed.

"There's a wounded mindflayer," she whispered, pointing ahead.

"Better it than us," he remarked coldly. "But do be careful near that thing."

Amaya then approached slowly, her divine magic radiating a blinding light at her fingertips. Astarion watched as she hesitated to kill the abomination, kneeling before the creature within seconds.

"What in the hells—what are you doing? Get away from that thing!" Astarion then yanked her backward by the arm, breaking the creature's hold.

Reality crashed back, and almost immediately Amaya brought her boot down on the monster with crushing force. "Death is too good for it," she then turned to Astarion with apologetic eyes. "Thank you."

"Just don't do that again," he muttered. Amaya nodded.

The two had walked on for several more minutes completing a full circle back onto the beach when suddenly, Amaya bolted forward. "Wait! I think that's her!" She sprinted toward a prone figure in the sand. "How did I not see her? She was so close." Dropping to her knees, she checked for signs of life. "She's breathing- just unconscious."

The half-elf stirred at Amaya's gentle touch. "Y-you're alive," she mumbled, blinking in confusion. "I'm alive. How is this possible?"

As the women spoke, Astarion hung back, only half-listening until he heard his name mentioned. Amaya was recounting their earlier encounter while the half-elf—Shadowheart, she called herself—cast a healing spell. Shadowy magic knitted Amaya's wound closed, though the skin remained angry and red.

"You kept him around after he tried to kill you?" Shadowheart's green eyes bored into Astarion.

"He's infected, just like us." Amaya glanced at him with those big and round yet unusual eyes of hers—deep red and glowing, but it was as if the color itself was wrong somehow. The bridge of her nose had started to burn in the sun, making her constellation of freckles stand out even more. "I would've done the same, I think."

"Well, it's all in the past now, isn't it?" Astarion drawled. "We should be moving forward, shouldn't we..." Astarion awaited for the half-elf to give him her name.

The half-elf's response was as cold as winter. "It’s Shadowheart."

“Shadowheart. Let's go now.”Astarion scoffed at the half-elf giving her an equally challenging stare back. Rolling her eyes at Astarion, Shadowheart then carefully wrapped Amaya's wound. "Thank you so much," Amaya said.

“Anything for the person who saved my life.” Shadowheart said, smiling at Amaya her eyes lighting up. “Now let's get moving, lead the way.”

After looting a couple of dead goblins, their path led them to roadside cliffs overlooking what appeared to be temple ruins. As the party approached, a strange rune carved into the ancient stones caught her attention. Amaya paused, "There's something unusual about that rune," she murmured, cautiously moving closer to investigate.

“Amaya, do be careful,” Astarion warned. He had no desire to rescue her from another predicament as he had with the mindflayer. Ignoring the warning from him, Amaya reached out and faintly touched the rune with her fingers, causing her to recoil in pain. Amidst the eerie glow of the rune, a hand abruptly materialized, causing the trio to jump.

“A hand? Anyone?” cried a disembodied voice from the sigil.

Astarion's eyes remained fixed on Amaya, whose complexion grew pale as she stared transfixed at the spectral limb before her. Without any warning, she swiftly slapped the hand.

"Ow!" the voice exclaimed. "Perhaps I should have clarified—a helping hand? Anyone?"

Astarion couldn't contain his laughter. In their brief time together, he'd sensed a kindred spirit in Amaya's mischievous nature. After Amaya interrogated the sigil, she managed to use what was left of her divine magic and successfully pulled out a man. The sudden recoil from the conjuration caused the tiefling to stumble and fall, crashing directly into Astarion, he quickly reached out and grabbed ahold of her waist before she could hit the ground. 

“Hello, I’m Gale of Waterdeep!” the strange man said while dusting off his deep purple robes as the trio surrounded him.

In the corner of Astarion's eyes, the setting sun caught his attention. The sky blazed in a brilliant transformation, shifting from molten gold to soft coral to dusky rose—colors he had not truly seen in nearly two centuries. The fading light painted the landscape in an ethereal glow, turning the mundane into something magical. 

Only half-listening to the conversation behind him, Amaya boasted to the wizard, "I took control of the ship, landed it safely, and saved the day." Astarion couldn't help but snort at her words.

"That vast, burning wreckage behind you somewhat contradicts your story, but here you stand, so who am I to argue?"  the wizard responded sarcastically back at her with amusement.

Lost again in the sunset, a gentle touch on his shoulder startled him from his reverie. Amaya stood beside him, her unusual red eyes reflecting the sunset's dying embers. "Are you coming? We're setting up camp here for the night." She studied his face with quiet curiosity. "Do you like the sunset?"

"I'm used to the busy city," he lied smoothly, "so it's rare to see it like this." The truth—that he hadn't properly watched a sunset in two hundred years, caught in his throat.

"It is beautiful," Amaya murmured, her words trailing off as she gazed at the painted sky. Then, practical as ever: "But you should set up your tent before darkness falls, unless you fancy fumbling with poles in the pitch black." She turned away with a small smile, heading toward a flat patch of ground. Astarion sighed and followed, his feet dragging slightly in the dirt.

Gale, who seemed to be the ever the show-off, had his tent erected in minutes through a series of precise magical gestures. With another flourish of his hands, he conjured a blazing fire in the center of their makeshift camp. The flames cast dancing shadows across the clearing as twilight deepened around them.

"I hate to be bossy," Gale announced, though his tone suggested otherwise, "but I'm designating myself camp cook. Our supplies may be limited, but I promise to make something satisfying for us all."

Shadowheart's response was laced with sarcasm. "Fine, Gale."

Amaya chuckled at their bickering as she scanned the campsite, her smile fading when she noticed Astarion's empty tent. "Hm," she murmured, concern creasing her brow before she pushed the thought aside.

Inside her own tent, Amaya carefully arranged her few possessions. One particular possession made her smile, an old stuffed bunny—somehow preserved in her bag of holding took pride of place on her thin mattress. She found herself imagining ways to make the space more homely: perhaps some hanging plants, or a few cozy blankets. 

Changing quickly from her tattered armor, she borrowed a pair of black trousers from Shadowheart, cinching them with rope to fit her smaller frame. Her dark red underclothes would have to suffice as sleeping attire for the night. As she folded her armor, several gold-plated medallions caught her eye. Most were too damaged to read, their engravings worn smooth or broken, but one bore a partial image—half a skull surrounded by droplets. The symbol tugged at her memory, but like so much else, remained frustratingly out of reach.

Night had fully settled when Amaya joined the others by the fire. Crickets sang their evening chorus as torchlight flickered between their four tents. Gale offered her a bowl of dried fruits and meat with a gentle smile, which she returned gratefully.

"Where's your pale friend?" Shadowheart's question cut through the peaceful silence.

Amaya toyed with a piece of dried meat between her fingers. "Oh, he set up his tent and wandered off somewhere."

"I'd be careful with him." Shadowheart's green eyes bore into her with intensity.

"You don't trust Astarion?"

"Trust is a rare currency, Amaya. I'm not sure I would spend it on someone who drew a knife on me moments after we met." The words fell between them like ice.

Gale choked on his food. "He did what?"

"It's fine," Amaya insisted, though her head began to pound. Dark, unsettling thoughts from earlier crept back, visions of severing Gale's hand and slitting Astarion’s throat caused her to shudder. Amaya then pushed the thoughts away, fighting a wave of nausea.

"Fine," Shadowheart conceded, her gaze fixed on the flames. "But I'm watching him."

----

An hour had passed, and there was still no sign of Astarion. Shadowheart had already retreated to her tent while Amaya tried to focus on Gale's lecture about ceremorphosis, but her headache made it difficult to concentrate. His words blurred together as she stared into the fire.

"Now we have tadpoles slithering through our heads like carnivorous foeti. That's not abstract."

"I'm not too worried," Amaya offered weakly. "We'll find someone who can help."

"That's the spirit! Let's be up with the lark—find a healer before the wee one gets hungry. Oh, hello Astarion!"

Amaya turned around to find the elf had changed into simpler attire: a light blue shirt with ruffled collar and low neckline, paired with well-worn brown trousers and ornate shoes. The clothing showed signs of careful mending, a stark contrast to his earlier pristine outfit.

"Ah, yes. Thank you," he said as Gale thrust a bowl at him, his lip curling slightly at its contents. "Sorry for disappearing. I needed a walk."

"Nonsense!" Gale waved off the apology. "It's been a difficult day. But this wizard needs his beauty sleep, or I'll be absolutely insufferable tomorrow. Goodnight to you both. I should check if Shadowheart's still awake..."

As Gale departed, Astarion settled beside Amaya, setting his untouched food aside.

"Not hungry?"

"Not particularly," he replied tersely.

"I only ate half of mine because I felt sick," she offered. "So you're not alone." Despite his prickly exterior, she found conversation with him came naturally. While she felt a connection with Shadowheart too, something about Astarion's presence put her at ease.

They both started speaking at once, then stopped. "Oh, sorry—you go first," Amaya insisted.

Astarion paused, choosing his words carefully. "So, we're resting here? Turning in for the night?"

"It's no feather bed, but it'll do." She hugged her knees to her chest, pushing dark curls from her face.

"I suppose." His crimson eyes darted around the clearing. "I'm not sure what I expected, really. This is all rather new for me. My nights usually involve bustling streets and bursting taverns. Curling up in the dirt is... a little novel."

"I could make you some tea with calming herbs," she offered. "Help you relax."

"Ah, no—tea isn't really my drink." He tapped his temple. "I'll be awake anyway, processing all this. You sleep, I'll keep watch."

"Thank you, that helps. But first—what do you think of our new companions?"

A wicked grin spread across his face. "Ha! Well, we've picked up a wizard who managed to get stuck in his own portal—hardly a promising introduction. And then there's someone whose parents hopefully meant well by naming their child Shadowheart. Rather ominous, don't you think? Unless she chose it herself, which would be even more concerning."

Amaya couldn't help but laugh. "I suppose you’re right but they are all we have currently," She stood, brushing off her borrowed clothes. “You’ll have to excuse me now, I should pray before bed. Have a good night and try to get some rest yourself.”

"The pleasure is all mine. Sweet dreams," he murmured, watching her silhouette move through the moonlight toward her tent.

[armpirate]

Until You're Mine || Choi San | Ch. 7

MASTERLIST Previous || Next

Pairings: Mafia!San x fem!reader

Genre: smut, angst, fluff, obsession, mafia love

Warnings: dom!San, sub!reader, explicit language, mention of drug and guns, violence, rough sex.

Summary: San, a notorious and feared mafia boss, has always lived in the shadows of power and violence. When an ambush leaves him wounded and on the run, he finds refuge in an empty event hall. Inside, Y/n, a rising star in the world of event planning, is nursing her own wounds -a career on the line after a confrontation with a powerful client. The last thing she expects is for her night to take a dark turn when San stumbles into her life, bloodied and dangerous.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, Y/n can't turn away. She helps him clean up, binding more than just his wounds in the process. What begins as an intense, chance encounter spirals into a dangerous obsession. San, used to being the hunter, becomes fixated on the one woman who dared to help him, even in his darkest moment. Meanwhile, Y/n, caught in the mystery of that powerful man, finds herself tracking his every move, unable to shake the dangerous allure of his world.

Neither knows that their fascination with each other is mutual. In a city teeming with danger, power, and deceit, their secret obsessions will pull them deeper into a deadly game -one where love, power, and obsession intertwine, and nothing is as it seems.

Chapter duration: 17 minutes

The faint rumble of Derek's car engine echoed down the quiet street as Y/n crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. He leaned against the car door, his posture casual but his expression tense. She didn't bother hiding her irritation as she stepped closer.

—Derek —she began, her tone clipped—, what are you doing here?

—I needed to speak to you —he informed her, his eyes falling on the black car she stepped out from.

—Look, I'm too tired right now, so...

—Just five minutes —he insisted—. I'll leave you alone after.

She sighed, knowing she wouldn't be able to get rid of him unless she agreed on speaking to him. With a gentle nod, she gestured to him to turn off the engine and follow her to the entrance. Y/n didn't try to guess why he was there, she didn't try to go two steps before him in their upcoming conversation, because she didn't think she would need to.

She opened the door to her apartment, letting him walk in first, before she followed him and closed the door behind her. Eager to go straight to the point, she didn't offer anything to drink, she didn't fake hospitality. Instead, her arms were crossed over her chest, her eyebrows slightly arched as she waited for him to speak.

—Are you working with Obsidian Ventures?

She frowned, taken aback by that question, but even more at how he even got that bit of information.

—How do you even know that in the first place?

—That doesn't matter...

—It does matter —she insisted—. How do you know?

—I... I've been investigating the link you might've with that company ever since you asked about that license plate.

She scoffed, amused by the audacity, her smile turning bitter at that confession.

—Who do you think you are to do something like that?

—Look... I was worried —he tried to take a step closer, but as soon as he was aware of her aura, he stopped—. I know we aren't close, but I'm close to your parents, I owe it to them.

—Owe what? Invade my privacy? —she arched one of her eyebrows— Because that's exactly what you did.

—I'm trying to help you, Y/n —he said firmly—. You're getting involved with someone dangerous. You need to know what you're walking into before it's too late.

—Involved only because I'm working on an event? —she huffed a laugh.

—So tonight's late dinner was also part of your work?

She clenched her jaw, convinced she didn't owe him any explanation. She tilted her head, her patience already wearing thin.

—And what exactly makes you think you know what I'm walking into?

Derek ran a hand through his hair, exasperation etched into his face. If only she knew the danger she was in, he knew she'd run away in the opposite direction.

—I've been looking into him. The owner, Choi San. You already know him well, don't you? —she pressed her lips at the accusation in his tone— He's not just some businessman. There are whispers, Y/n. Connections to things you don't want to be anywhere near.

—You've been looking into him? —she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief—. And why exactly are you so interested in him? He's just another client, who could actually boost my career. So why the hell are you sticking your nose in whatever business I might have going on with him?

—This isn't about your career or the event you're organizing for him, and you know it —he shot back, frustration bleeding into his words—. It's about you not knowing what kind of man he is. Do you know how many people just disappear when they get too close to men like him?

Y/n took a step closer, her arms dropping to her sides.

—Men like him? How do you know the type of man he is, Derek? What are you really trying to prove here?

His jaw tightened and, for a moment, his confidence wavered.

—I've seen things, heard things. You need to trust me on this.

—Do you have any evidence? —she asked back, defensive— Because if you do and you only came to me, you just proved there's something else at play here that isn't my safety —she stepped closer to him—. I don't need you digging into my life, I don't care what you promised to my parents when I moved to Detroit —she snapped—. Don't dig into his life either. Whatever you think you've found, keep it to yourself. I don't need saving, and I definitely don't need you playing detective.

Derek's brows furrowed as he tried to gauge her meaning.

—Y/n, this isn't about interfering. It's about making sure you're safe.

Her chuckle was sharp, devoid of humor.

—Safe? By putting your nose where it doesn't belong? —she tilted her head— If he's as dangerous as you claim, don't you realize what you're doing could put me in danger? Clearly you aren't doing it because you're worried about me.

—That's... Y/n, that's not... —he sighed— Just do what I'm telling you —he fired back, his voice rising—. Why are you protecting him, huh? You're already in too deep. If your parents knew...

—I'd still do whatever the fuck I want —she barked back—. Don't try to threaten me as if I were the town girl I was years ago —she warned him.

Y/n masked her unease with a cold glare, taking a deep breath that seemed to go unnoticed by Derek.

—You need to leave. And if you care about me at all, you'll stop whatever it is you're doing before you regret it.

Her words sounded like a threat, not a warning. She was directly threatening him with acting herself if he crossed any lines, yet he didn't see through them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with tension, their conflicting emotions battling in the silence. Finally, Derek sighed, his shoulders slumping.

—Fine —he said, his voice softer—. But if you need me...

—I won't —Y/n cut him off, her voice steel.

She turned and walked back toward her living room without another glance, her mind swirling. Derek's words lingered, but not in the way he'd intended. Instead of fear, she felt a strange defensiveness, a need to shield San, from the accusations, from Derek's prying eyes... from any wrong that the conversation could mean for him.

As she reached her window, she paused, looking at the street briefly. Derek was walking to his car, taking one last glance at the building before hopping inside. A pang of guilt flickered in her chest, but she pushed it aside. There were bigger things at stake now, and Derek didn't understand the game she was playing, or the man she was playing it against.

She moved away from the window as he drove the car away, but Y/n knew this wasn't the last she'd see of Derek, or the last time she'd have to protect San.

The office was quiet except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. San sat at his desk, his fingers loosely clasped, his expression unreadable as Mingi and Wooyoung stood in front of him. The dim lighting of the room cast long shadows, accentuating the sharp lines of San's jaw as he listened.

Mingi spoke first, his tone neutral but deliberate.

—We left her at home, safe and sound. But...

San's ears perked at that, his attention quickly focusing on him.

—There was a man waiting for her outside —he let him know.

—Who was it?

—Derek Richards —Wooyoung spoke—. I've seen that asshole a few times. He's a detective in the Detroit Police Department - Special Investigations Unit —he continued, his tone casual but focused—. He's been with the force for about eight years. Started as a beat cop in the Third Precinct, worked his way up. Got promoted to detective two years ago after closing a high-profile narcotics case. He's got a reputation for being thorough, maybe a little too clean for the city he works in. No signs of corruption, no ties to anything shady, at least not on the surface. Doesn't play the politics game.

San's chin rested on his knuckles, his eyes still attentive on what was being said to him.

—His record is solid, commendations for service, but he's had his share of warnings too. A couple of reprimands for insubordination. Nothing major, though. Just a guy who doesn't always follow the chain of command when he thinks he's in the right.

San's fingers drummed against the desk, his expression impassive.

—He's stationed at the Ninth Precinct, and covers mostly organized crime cases now. That's where it gets interesting —Wooyoung continued—. He's been poking around in areas that overlap with Obsidian Ventures. Not directly, but close enough to make you wonder. Looks like he's been sniffing around a few fronts tied to Echelon, too.

San's fingers stilled, and he finally turned to face Wooyoung.

—And his connection to her? —San asked, his voice low and measured.

—Old family friend —Wooyoung said, closing the file—. Close to her parents. Might've even played the big brother role when she was younger. Probably the typical church boy hooked on the good girl that didn't aim a glance in his direction.

San couldn't help but smirk at that comment, satisfied with the way it was when it came to Y/n.

—He showed up at her house tonight —Mingi explained—. We couldn't hear what was said, she let him inside, so we couldn't do anything but wait outside. He stayed for about half an hour, then left looking... agitated.

Wooyoung, leaning casually against the desk, added,

—From what we observed, she didn't seem too pleased with him either, at least what it looked like when she hopped off our car. When he walked out, he looked annoyed, like he'd lost an argument.

San's gaze flickered to Wooyoung, who immediately straightened under the weight of his stare.

—We're left with information missing —San commented under his breath, his jaw clenching at the idea of losing control of some strings—. You say he's been sticking his nose in the company and Echelon? —he asked Wooyoung, who immediately nodded.

—He doesn't have any obvious ties to anything that would pose a threat. But we can dig deeper if you want.

San's lips pressed into a thin line as he processed the information. The fact that Derek had managed to insert himself into her space, however briefly, ignited a spark of irritation. More than that, it stirred something darker, an insistent need to pull Y/n further into his orbit, away from outside interference.

—Do that —San said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade—. I want to know everything about him. Who he's working with, what he's doing when he's not badgering her, and why he thinks he has the right to involve himself.

Wooyoung smirked, sensing the subtle shift in San's tone.

—Jealous, boss?

San shot him a cold glance, and the smirk disappeared instantly.

—I don't get jealous —San said evenly, though the intensity in his eyes betrayed the truth.

But deep down, in that moment, he knew that affirmation was a lie.

Leaning back in his chair, San exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the armrest.

—Derek isn't the issue. He's a symptom. What matters is how she reacts. If she starts questioning things, he could be a problem.

Mingi hesitated before speaking.

—You think she'd listen to him?

—No —San said, almost to himself—. But I don't like anyone trying to influence her. That's my role.

There was a moment of silence before San leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk.

—Keep an eye on him. Don't make any moves unless I say so. And... —he paused, his voice dipping lower— increase surveillance on her. I want to know her every move. We need to set cameras in her place as well, so we'll have to think of something that could make her paranoid. Something that doesn't scream it's my doing to get her actually scared.

Wooyoung arched an eyebrow.

—You're doubling down?

San's lips curled into a faint, almost predatory smile.

—She's mine to deal with. And if Derek thinks he can interfere, he'll learn the hard way what that means.

The men nodded, understanding their orders. As they left the room, San leaned back on his chair, throwing his head back as he took a deep breath.

His dark eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the few pictures Yunho managed to take of her from afar.. She looked calm, so innocent in comparison to the world he belonged in... but he knew better.

San was sure something about Derek's visit had unsettled her, and not in the way Derek might have intended.

—You're already walking the line —San murmured to himself, his eyes fixed on her smile—. And whether you realize it or not, I'm the one holding the leash.

The next afternoon, his head already came up with a way to get her out of her place and, why not, use it as an excuse to see her again. He smirked as he saw the way she slightly jumped on her chair, before she turned to the phone.

The buzzing sound against her desk broke Y/n's concentration. She glanced at the screen, her heart skipping when she saw the name. San.

Answering, she kept her voice steady.

—Hello, San.

—Y/n —his voice carried the usual calm authority—, I hope I'm not interrupting.

—Not at all —she replied, though her pulse quickened—. What can I do for you?

—I've been reviewing the auction plans —he began smoothly—, and I think we need to discuss a few key details, particularly the presentation sequence. It's critical everything aligns perfectly, and I'd rather do it as soon as possible, since the event will take place next weekend.

—Of course —Y/n straightened in her chair—. I can prepare a detailed summary and send it over by tomorrow.

—I'd prefer we discuss it in person —San interjected, his tone leaving no room for negotiation—. There are things that a report simply can't capture. How about dinner tonight? It'll be a more conducive environment to brainstorm.

Dinner.

Y/n hesitated, but not long enough for him to notice.

—That sounds reasonable. Where should I meet you?

—I'll send a car —he replied, his tone final—. Seven o'clock.

Before she could answer, he hung up on the call, enjoying her shocked expression a little bit too much.

The restaurant was elegant and understated, its muted lighting casting a warm glow over the minimalist décor. Y/n was led to a private table near the back, where San was already seated, a glass of red wine in his hand.

He rose as she approached, his sharp suit perfectly tailored, his presence magnetic. She was already getting used to finding him like that.

—Y/n —he greeted, his voice low—. You're right on time.

She offered a polite smile, sitting as he gestured to her chair.

—I didn't want to keep you waiting.

—I appreciate that —he replied, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary.

The waiter appeared, and San expertly ordered for both of them, a gesture Y/n found both presumptuous and oddly flattering.

As the first course arrived, San leaned slightly forward, his tone professional yet intimate.

—About the auction. I was thinking of starting with a high-impact piece to set the tone. Something unexpected.

Y/n nodded, her mind shifting to business.

—That makes sense. I can adjust the flow of the event to highlight the centerpiece early. Do you have a specific item in mind?

—A few possibilities —San smiled faintly, taking a sip of his wine—, but I trust your instincts. You have a way of understanding what draws attention.

Her cheeks warmed slightly under his praise, but she masked it with a sip of her own drink.

—It's my job to anticipate what captivates people.

—And you do it well —he said, his gaze intent.

The conversation wove between professional topics and lighter banter, the undercurrent of chemistry between them impossible to ignore. At one point, San asked about her creative process, leaning closer as she explained, his interest feeling far more personal than professional.

—Your approach is unique —he said, his voice low—. It's not just about strategy for you. You bring something... instinctive to the table.

Y/n met his gaze, her own confidence sharpening.

—I could say the same about you. Obsidian Ventures is impressive, but it's clear you're the one driving its success.

San's lips curved into a slow smile.

—Flattery, Y/n? I didn't think that was your style.

—It's not —she replied, tilting her head slightly—. Just an observation, it's undeniable the way it grew ever since your father handed you the lead.

Their exchange was interrupted as the waiter cleared their plates, leaving them alone in the quiet, intimate corner of the restaurant.

San broke the silence first, his voice taking on a measured tone.

—The auction is a week away, and it's crucial everything goes seamlessly. If there's anything you need -resources, staff- don't hesitate to let me know.

—I appreciate that —Y/n said, her tone equally measured—, but I have it under control.

—Control is important —San replied, his eyes locked on hers—. It keeps things predictable.

There was something in his tone, an edge that hinted at a deeper meaning, but Y/n didn't press. Instead, she smiled faintly, keeping her response deliberately neutral.

—Predictability is good —she said—, but sometimes, it's the unexpected that makes the biggest impact. You gotta learn to work with both.

San's gaze lingered, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. The air between them was electric, but before either could say more, a tall, elegant woman approached their table. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her figure draped in a designer gown that clung to her every curve, and she was strangely familiar to Y/n.

—San —she said, her voice warm and familiar, as if she belonged in his world.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, a gesture far too intimate for Y/n's liking.

—Mila —San leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable—. I wasn't expecting you tonight. I thought you were in Hong Kong.

—I returned like a day ago. I thought I'd stop by and say hello as soon as I saw you from afar —Mila said, her eyes flicking to Y/n with polite curiosity before returning to San—. You don't mind, do you?

—Of course not —he said, gesturing toward her—. Mila, this is Y/n Y/s. Y/n, Mila Olsen.

And after hearing her surname, it clicked. Her face fitted like a puzzle in a picture she couldn't quite complete. That woman, more known to Y/n as OlsenAvenue, was the woman's account she looked into to find information about San.

Y/n managed a polite smile, though her chest tightened. She told herself it didn't matter, that she had no reason to feel the pang of jealousy creeping in. But as Mila lingered, her presence like an unspoken challenge, Y/n found herself gripping her glass a little too tightly.

San's gaze shifted back to Y/n, his lips curling slightly as if he could sense her discomfort.

—Mila —he said smoothly—, I'll catch up with you later. Y/n and I have some important matters to discuss.

Mila hesitated, but after a moment, she nodded, her gaze lingering on San before she left.

—Old friend? —Y/n asked casually, though her tone betrayed her irritation.

San chuckled, the sound low and rich.

—You could say that.

As the dinner drew to a close, San walked her to the waiting car, his hand lightly brushing her lower back. She kept expecting something else, something more than a polite smile, but it never came.

—Tonight was productive —he said, his voice soft.

—It was —Y/n agreed, her heart racing at the subtle tension in his tone.

—Let's make sure the auction is just as memorable —San said, his words carrying an unmistakable weight.

As she stepped into the car, Y/n couldn't help but feel that the dinner had been about far more than the auction, yet, at the same time, she felt disappointed she felt it was only about the auction. And as the car pulled away, her thoughts were a chaotic mix of intrigue, suspicion, and the undeniable pull San had over her.

Her eyes kept tracing every line that formed his face, the sneaky pictures she had taken during the dinner making honor to his attractive, and at the same time not being fair enough to it. As she looked at one of the pictures, she couldn't help but remember the way his lips felt on a kiss that was more a brush instead, feeling like she was already forgetting the way he tasted, the way he felt.

She was brought back to reality as the car stopped, and one of the men with longer hair turned to her to let her know they had arrived. As she hopped off with a gentle smile and walked to her building, she could only think how grateful she was to be back at the peace of her apartment. Only to be snapped back by reality when she reached her floor and found her door forced and slightly opened.

Her apartment was a wreck. Drawers pulled out, their contents spilled onto the floor. Cushions slashed open, their stuffing scattered. Her personal belongings -photos, books, clothes- strewn haphazardly across every surface.

Panic bubbled in her chest as she took a step forward, her eyes scanning the chaos, but her panic was too high for her to be able to focus on something else that wasn't about feeling her intimacy being broken.

Her hands trembled as she pulled her phone from her pocket, her mind racing. The questions swirled, but no answers came. All she knew was that she wasn't safe.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, ready to call the police so they would investigate what happened, so she could feel safe. 

Taglist: @a-tiny-thing @brown88

[t-lostinworlds]

yeah...... seriously thinking about suing craig, neil and hbo or at least make them pay for my therapy. you joining me or what? 🥲

where do i sign?? there's not one episode so far that i haven't fucking sobbed jfc skskkss that was Trauma Central™ in under 3 minutes....like there really was no need for that apart from inflicting pain toward the viewers i fucking SWEAR. they just introduce you to these lovely and sweet characters and dangle that found family trope above your head ONLY TO TAKE IT AWAY FROM YOU AT THE LAST FUCKING MINUTE OF THE EPISODE and maybe i'm just naive thinking that ellie and sam will not be ALONE (crying sobbing i hate it here when ellie shared her fear I'M JUST) and then henry can annoy mister grumpy ol' joel for the fun of it and there's laughs and jokes even during trying times and it'll be like a fun found family road trip and everyone will be happy BUT I WAS A FUCKING FOOL TO BELIEVE THAT FOR A SECOND. anyways is it obvious i'm feeling a lot of feelings alskalks