#i forgot that You Go First even existed there for a second

[lvnleah]

sneaking around | no more secrets.

find the no more secrets masterlist here!

warnings - 18+, contains a little smut!

April 17th | 26 weeks pregnant. 

You and Kyra had been sneaking around for weeks now.

Ever since your trip to Australia, since the first kiss on the beach, something between you had shifted and neither of you had been able to leave it alone.

You shared stolen kisses when no one was looking, many lazy mornings tangled up in your or Kyra’s sheets, living in your own little bubble like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

This morning was no different.

You should have been up and getting ready for training, but instead, you were wrapped around each other in your bed, the sun slipping lazily through the curtains. Kyra’s fingers traced slow, thoughtless patterns over your bump, her face buried against your neck as you played with the ends of her messy hair.

“Five more minutes,” she mumbled, her lips brushing your skin.

“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” you whispered, even as you tilted your head to give her more space. “We need to get up, Ky. Beth will be coming in soon.”

Kyra just hummed and kissed a path up to your jaw, her hand tightening around your waist. She kissed you properly then, slow and deep, and you forgot, just for a second, about the real world waiting for you.

Eventually, you groaned and pulled away. “Training, Ky. We’re gonna get murdered if we’re late again.”

Kyra whined but rolled out of bed, helping you up without thinking, her hands always careful around your middle. “Why do we have to go.” She groaned. 

“Erm, maybe because it’s our job?” You chuckled, standing in front of her as your arms slipped around her neck. “It’s only for a few hours.”

Her hands moved down to you lower back, the pair of you standing as close together as you could with your bump, “We could just stay home…have a lazy day.”

You sighed as she pecked your lips once again, “You really think Leah’s gonna look past us having a day off together? She’d know Kyra, she’s already suspicious about something going on between us.”

“Yeah but that’s only because she thinks everyone’s shagging,” 

You laughed, burying your face in Kyra’s shoulder for a moment. “True. But if we both mysteriously call in sick the same day? She’ll never let it go.”

Kyra groaned dramatically and nuzzled her nose into your hair. “Fine. But after training, you’re mine for the rest of the day.”

You smiled against her skin. “Deal.”

You somehow managed to get yourselves moving, lazily throwing on some training gear before heading downstairs to grab a quick breakfast. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, half-asleep, while Kyra stood behind you, her arms wrapped loosely around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as you nibbled on a piece of toast.

She began to plant kisses up your shoulder until she eventually reached your neck and then she began to pepper small kisses along your jawline. 

“Kyra,” you laughed as she hit a ticklish spot before spinning you around to face her, “Ky, stop Beth will be back from her walk soon.”

“I…” she smirked as she pecked your lips, “don’t…” another kiss, “care…” and another kiss which lasted longer this time. 

The two of you melted into each other, everything for a moment was forgotten. Kyra’s hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, pulling you a little bit closer. It was too easy with her, she made you forget the entire world existed outside the two of you.

The slam of the front door had you jumping apart like teenagers caught by a parent.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

Kyra stepped back quickly, trying and failing to look innocent as you wiped at your mouth, your cheeks burning. You could feel the panic radiating off her as Beth strolled into the kitchen. Myle ran over to you both as Beth unclipped her lead. 

Kyra let out a tiny, strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a squeak, and practically jumped back from you like she’d been electrocuted.

“I–I’m just gonna…uh…grab my boots,” she mumbled, walking out of the kitchen at a record speed.

Beth watched her go with a wicked little smile before turning her attention fully to you.

You stood frozen, half a piece of toast still hanging awkwardly from your hand, cheeks burning.

“Close friends, huh?” she smirked. “Because that definitely looked like you two were just kissing.”

“She stayed the night, didn’t she?” Beth teased, pouring out a glass of apple juice before sitting at the kitchen counter. 

“She stayed to make sure I slept, that’s all,” you said, way too quickly.

Beth laughed, not buying it for a second.

“Oh yeah, bet she was very helpful with that,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows.

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Please stop.”

“Hey, I’m not judging! It’s cute. Makes me want to throw up a bit, but it’s cute.”

You peeked at her through your fingers and saw her smirking like the devil.

“Beth.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute together!”

You peeked up at her through your fingers. “You’re gonna tell Leah, aren’t you?” you mumbled.

Beth’s grin turned downright evil. “Oh no, I wanna see how long Kyra can last sneaking around.”

“We’re not even anything yet…” you mumbled once again into your hands. “We stupidly kissed once in Australia and well…”

“You haven’t stopped since then?” Beth smirked, finishing your sentence for you. “Oh how it just feels like yesterday me and Viv were sneaking around!”

You let out another groan just as Kyra reappeared, looking suspiciously like she’d been giving herself a pep talk in the hallway.

Beth winked at you both, “Come on, lovebirds. If we’re late, Leah’s wrath is on you and not even your pregnant ass is gonna save you.”

The drive to training with Beth was normal, at least it looked that way from the outside. You sat in the passenger seat like any other teammate getting a lift, trying to keep your cool. But Beth’s raised brow every time she caught you checking your phone or smiling at a text from Kyra? Not helpful.

You pulled into the lot at the training ground and Beth hopped out, already yelling something about someone owing her a coffee. But you lingered.

Kyra had driven herself, parking just a few spots away. And when she stepped out of her car, her eyes immediately found yours. One look was all it took and before you knew it you were standing together, pecking each other's lips. 

It was stupid and reckless and a little bit addictive. Kyra grinned as she cupped your jaw and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.

“Quick one,” she whispered, leaning in again. “For luck.”

You kissed her back, just as quick, even though you both knew “quick” was a lie. Her hand splayed gently across your bump and her thumb brushed back and forth like she couldn’t stop touching you.

Then Beth’s voice carried across the car park. “You two coming or should I book you the honeymoon suite?”

Kyra jumped, stumbling backwards into a random car. You bit back a laugh as you followed her out a moment later, cheeks warm.

The moment you and Kyra walked through the doors of the training ground, definitely not as far apart as you should have been, you were met with a chorus of voices and a few very smug looks.

Katie was already stretching with Caitlin near the benches, and she didn’t even try to hide the way her eyes swept over the both of you. “Oh, look who magically arrived at the same time,” she sang.

Vic tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Weren’t you driving in separately?”

Steph didn’t even look up from retaping her wrist. “They were. Until they weren’t.”

Kyra tried to play it cool, shrugging. “Coincidence.”

You nodded far too enthusiastically. “We just parked near each other.”

“Uh-huh.” Caitlin exchanged a grin with Katie. “And you just happened to be standing suspiciously close to each other in the car park?”

“Just chatting!” Kyra said a little too fast, throwing her hands up. “People chat!”

Leah raised an eyebrow but let it go, muttering something suspiciously like “you’re all weird today” as she turned away.

When the team finally headed out onto the pitch, you hung back as planned, heading into the gym for some light work. You were 26 weeks pregnant which meant no full training sessions for you, just strength and mobility. Honestly, you were grateful. It gave you a moment to breathe.

Ten minutes later, just as you were adjusting the settings on the treadmill, you heard the door open.

You turned, and there was Kyra.

She glanced over her shoulder like she was checking for witnesses before darting across the gym and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Forgot my water,” she whispered.

You grinned. “Oh really?”

She kissed you again, this time on the lips, a little slower. “Definitely...”

She hummed against your lips. “I should forget it more often.”

But you pulled back, whispering, “We’re gonna get caught.”

Kyra shrugged innocently. “Only if we’re not quick.”

You groaned softly but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re dangerous.”

“Flattered.” She gave your bump a gentle rub before backing away. “I’ll see you later.”

As the door swung shut behind her, you leaned back against the treadmill and took a moment to steady yourself. You were sure your cheeks were permanently flushed these days from pregnancy, hormones, or Kyra, it was anyone’s guess.

You eventually got into your routine. Some gentle stretches, a bit of resistance band work and working on your pelvic floor. You had your headphones in but weren’t playing anything, just using them as a universal “do not disturb” signal. 

By the time the session outside wrapped up, you were sitting on a yoga mat, gently stretching your legs out in front of you. The door burst open again, loudly this time, and the full team started filing in, all red-cheeked and sweaty from the pitch.

Kyra was among the first through the door, complaining to Kim about something. She barely looked up as she passed, muttering a distracted “Alright?” before dropping onto the floor beside the weights bench to start stretching.

Beth and Katie wandered in next, still mid-argument over whether or not Katie had deliberately taken Mariona out during a drill.

“I barely touched her!”

“You flattened her like a pancake!”

“It was tactical!”

“Tactical murder maybe,” Caitlin called as she trailed in behind them. 

Kyra was sprawled out beside you on a mat, lazily stretching her hamstrings. You were sitting with your legs out in front of you, gently rolling your ankles and leaning back on your hands, hoodie pulled up just enough to let your bump breathe.

“She moving around much today?” Kyra asked casually, glancing at your stomach.

You shrugged, brushing your hand over it. “She was quiet earlier, but she’s been wriggling a bit since I sat down.”

Kyra gave a thoughtful little nod, then suddenly perked up. “Hang on.”

She sat up straighter, unlocked her phone again, and started scrolling through her music. 

You eyed her suspiciously, “What are you doing?”

“She’s gotta learn early,” Kyra grinned, already tapping the speaker on. “Test her loyalty.”

The opening chords of North London Forever started playing quietly, and your eyebrows shot up.

“Oh my god, Kyra.”

Kyra ignored you completely and grinned like a madwoman, crawling over until she was right next to you. She gently lifted the hem of your hoodie a little more and placed her phone, speaker facing in, beside your bump like she was performing some kind of sacred ritual.

“She’s not even born yet.”

“She’s still a gooner,” Kyra said seriously. “This is cultural education.”

You opened your mouth to protest again, but then you felt a little thump. 

And another.

You sucked in a breath, hand shooting to your bump. Kyra froze beside you.

“Wait… was that—”

“She kicked.” You blinked. “I can’t believe she actually just kicked because you played nor—”

Kyra’s face lit up like she’d won the league. “YES!”

“What’s going on?” Katie called from a few feet away. 

“She kicked!” Kyra shouted, grinning wildly. “Right on the chorus!”

Caitlin scrambled up and jogged over, closely followed by Katie, Beth, and a few of the others. Suddenly there was a small crowd around you, everyone peering down at your bump with wide, excited eyes.

“Do it again!” Caitlin said, eyes bright.

“She’s not a circus act,” you laughed, cheeks flushed.

“Just one more time,” Kyra said, already rewinding the track and holding her phone gently back against your stomach. “Come on, baby Gooner. Do it again for us.”

The chorus came back around and, right on cue, a soft kick.

And then a real, solid, proper kick.

You laughed in disbelief. “Okay, what the hell my child is brain washed.”

“She knows her stuff!” Beth grinned, crouching beside you to place her hand over your bump. 

“She’s already a better fan than Kyra,” Katie added with a smirk.

“Hey that scarf was one time!” Kyra huffed, standing next to Katie. 

“She’s gonna be singing that in no time,” Caitlin said with a grin.

“She’ll be swearing at refs by three,” Katie added.

“Oi!” you laughed.

Leah nudged your shoulder. “You’re raising a proper little Gooner.”

You smiled and nodded, laying a hand protectively over the bump. Your teammates played around for a little longer trying to get the baby to kick before all going to take showers and get ready to head home. 

You soon followed after them, taking a shower yourself and packing your own things up. You were tugging on your hoodie, carefully pulling it down over your bump as Kyra sat on the bench beside you, bent over and tying her shoelaces. 

Beth dropped down onto the bench opposite, bag slung over her shoulders, hair still wet from her shower. 

“You coming home with me?” she asked, glancing between you and Kyra like she already knew the answer. “Steph’s cooking, and apparently she bought three different kinds of pasta and no actual sauce, so that should be entertaining.”

“Actually,” you said, voice casual, “I’m going back to Kyra’s.”

Beth raised an eyebrow. “Again?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We, erm… we’re having a movie night together.”

Beth smirked. “Mmm. So you’re basically moved in then?”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“She has a drawer,” Kyra mumbled, failing completely to hide the grin on her lips.

“Kyra!” you warned, your eyes wide.

Beth choked on her laugh. “She has a drawer?!”

“Oh fuck sake! It’s one drawer!”

“Uh-huh,” Beth said, grinning. “And how many nights this week?”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”

Beth laughed. “Look, I’m not judging, kid. If it makes you feel better, I think it’s kind of cute. Sickeningly cute, but still.”

Kyra bumped your shoulder gently. “Told you she wouldn’t mind.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, peeking out from behind your hands. “She’s gonna tell Leah now.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Beth said with no shame. “But only because I want to see Kyra spiral.”

Kyra gasped. “That’s so mean! I’m the best at keeping secrets.”

“Sure,” Beth shrugged. “I give it two more days before one of you breaks and lets it slip.”

You and Kyra exchanged a glance, your smiles soft and full of something neither of you had quite said out loud yet.

Beth caught it and rolled her eyes. “Gross. Alright, lovebirds. Go play house. I’ll enjoy the pasta disaster alone and hope Steph doesn’t kill me!”

You stood up slowly, Kyra rising beside you to help with your bag like she always did. As you both made your way to the door, Beth called after you.

“Hey!”

You turned.

“Drawer or not, if she doesn’t bring you back glowing and fed, I’m kidnapping you back to mine.”

You smiled over your shoulder. “Deal.”

The drive to Kyra’s flat wasn’t long. You kicked off your shoes as soon as you stepped inside, sighing in relief as Kyra took your bag and set it by the door. Her flat was cozy and quiet, the kind of space that always felt like it existed in its own little world. 

“You okay?” she asked softly, her hand already settling on your lower back in that gentle way she always touched you now, like she couldn’t help it, like she needed to touch you at all times. 

You nodded, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Better now.”

Her smile tugged at the corners of her lips, “You want food first? Or cuddles?”

You gave her a look. “Mmmm…I think cuddles first.”

Kyra grinned, took your hand, and led you to the couch.

You curled into her immediately, her arm around your back, your head tucked against her chest. She pulled the blanket from the armrest over you both without a word, her fingers trailing absently up and down your spine.

For a while, it was quiet. The hum of the heating, the distant sound of traffic outside, the steady rhythm of Kyra’s breathing beneath your cheek.

Then she tilted her head down, brushing her lips against your forehead. “You’re glowing, you know.”

You laughed quietly. “Pregnancy hormones.”

“No,” she whispered, her fingers brushing your jaw. “It’s you.”

You looked up at her, eyes meeting hers and something shifted.

Your hands moved first, tracing up her sides as you shifted carefully, easing yourself into her lap. Kyra’s breath hitched, her hands automatically bracing your hips as you settled above her, straddling her carefully, your small bump creating a gap between you.

Her eyes searched yours like she was checking a thousand times if you were sure.

And you were.

You kissed her, slow and deep and certain. Her hands gripped your thighs, fingertips pressing in just enough to remind you she was still trying not to lose control. But you didn’t want her to hold back.

Your fingers slid into her hair, tugging gently as your lips parted for hers again. You rolled your hips against hers as the kiss deepened. 

She pulled back slightly, “Tell me what you need,” she whispered.

You smiled, breathless and aching in a way that wasn’t just physical. “Just you. Kyra please…please just t-touch me.”

Kyra’s breath caught as she nodded, brushing her thumb gently across your cheek. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

She kissed you once more, soft and lingering, before slipping her arms around you and rising, holding you close as she guided you toward the bedroom. 

She helped you undress, leaving you in just your underwear before undressing herself. She paused at the edge of the bed, her hands finding your hips. “Lie back for me?” she asked, voice soft.

You nodded, cheeks warm, and eased yourself down onto the mattress. She watched every movement carefully, her eyes soft and attentive. Then, gently, she knelt beside you and reached for a pillow, lifting your hips and sliding it beneath you.

You blinked at her, “Kyra…”

“It helps, baby,” she said quietly, brushing her fingers across your bump and then lower, her gaze flicking back to yours. “Takes the pressure off your back. I read about it.”

Your chest ached in the best way. “You’ve been reading?”

She gave a small, shy smile. “Of course I have. I want to take care of you, babe.”

“Do you want this?” Kyra added. 

“Yes Kyra,” you moaned, scooping her hair up into a makeshift ponytail as she slipped between your legs, “Please just fuck me.”

She smirked before placing a kiss on your lips before working her way down your jaw, neck and eventually your breasts. Her hand palmed at them as she placed gentle kisses all around. She whispered sweet words between the kisses.

Kyra tutted, “Such a needy girl,” she whispered, slipping her hand in your underwear. Your breath hitched as she flicked her thumb over your clit, “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

She began to rub gentle circles over your clit, strings of pleads and moans slipping from your mouth. She parted your legs and slipped between them, you whined at the loss of contact on your clit as she pulled your bottoms and underwear down your legs and threw them somewhere across the room to later be found.

Kyra’s soft lips placed gentle kisses against up and down your thighs, each time she edged closer and closer to your throbbing clit. You ran your hand through her hair, scooping it up once again into a ponytail.

Arching your back, moans continued to slip from your mouth, “Kyra please do something, I’m begging you!”

A whine slipped from your mouth as Kyra blew cool air onto your swollen clit before taking it into her mouth. With her arm wrapped over your hips, she began to suck and run her tongue over your clit. Your moans became louder and louder as Kyra worked her tongue on your clit. 

“K-Kyra, oh fuck!” You gripped onto her hair, lightly pulling at it, “I’m so c-close, fuck. Baby, I-I’m so close.”

Just as you came close to cumming, Kyra detached her mouth from your sensitive bud. A laugh escaped her, “Not cuming that quickly, baby.”

Your breath hitched once again and your body squirmed as Kyra ran her finger through your drenched folds. With no warning, her mouth latched back onto your pussy. Your hips began to slowly grind against her face as she switched between sucking and flicking her tongue against your clit.

A gasp left your mouth as Kyra slipped two fingers into your entrance, she sucked at your clit while her fingers slipped in and out. Strings of moans continued to leave your mouth as you pulled Kyra’s head closer to your pussy, begging for more. Her fingers hit all the right places, edging you closer and closer.

“Kyra fuck,” your legs wrapped around Kyra’s head, gripping her in place, “Fuck, yes! Right there.” You moaned as Kyra hit your sweet spot.

“Cum for me baby.” Kyra mumbled against your skin. “I love hearing those pretty moans of yours.”

Your legs began to shake, your muscles tightened and an overwhelming sensation overcame you as you reached your high. You clenched around Kyra’s fingers before spilling your juices all over her fingers.

She continued to explore you carefully, tracing over every curve and stretch of skin like you were something holy. She kissed the tears that had gathered at the corners of your eyes and whispered how proud she was of you, how beautiful you were, how much she loved you, even if she hadn’t said those words yet.

Later, you were curled into her chest, and the room had gone quiet again. The only sounds were the soft hum of the radiator and the steady rhythm of Kyra’s breathing beneath your ear.

Your fingers traced absent shapes on her skin, your body still warm from the afterglow, but your mind slowly catching up—tugging at the part of you that had stayed guarded, even now.

“Kyra?” you asked softly, barely above a whisper.

She hummed, eyes closed, her hand still stroking gentle circles over your hip. “Mm?”

You hesitated, pressing your cheek more firmly against her chest like it would give you courage. “What are we?”

Kyra stilled.

You felt the silence settle between you, your own breath suddenly too loud. You pulled back slightly so you could see her face. “I’m not trying to ruin anything, I just… I need to know. What this is. What we are.”

Her brows furrowed, confusion softening into something more tender. “You’re mine,” she said, voice soft. “At least, I hope you are.”

You bit your lip, your heart thudding. “I just… I can’t mess around, Kyra. Not with this. Not when I’ve got her to think about.”

Your hand dropped to your small bump, and Kyra’s followed without hesitation, resting over yours protectively.

“I know that,” she said, eyes locked on yours now, serious and steady. “And I’d never treat this like a game. Or you.”

You swallowed. “So what are we doing?”

Kyra took a breath like she needed to center herself. “I want to be with you. Fully. Properly. I want to be in your life. And if you’ll let me, I want to be in hers too.”

You blinked, throat tightening. “You mean that?”

She nodded, voice trembling slightly now. “I know she’s not here yet but she already matters to me. You both do.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. You sat up a little more, brushing your fingers over her collarbone. “It’s not just dating, Kyra. If you’re in, you’re in. She’s everything to me. I won’t have people coming and going. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, instantly. “I want to be there for the sleepless nights and the first steps and the tantrums and everything in between. I know I haven’t said it yet, but…”

She reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, her fingers shaking just a little. “I’m already in love with you. And I think I started falling the second you trusted me enough to let me close.”

Your breath caught.

And for once, the words didn’t scare you. They made you feel steady. Like maybe this wasn’t so terrifying after all.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to hers. “Okay,” you whispered. “Then I’m yours. And she is too, if you want her.”

Kyra blinked back tears, nodding. “I do. I really do.”

You kissed her then, not slow or rushed, but soft and certain. Like something new beginning.

Something real.

[nonbinary-bitch]

So some time after Still wakes the deep came out, I made a little AU. I was going to make little doodles and post about it, but I forgot.

BUT now that the dlc came out, and I remembered this game exists, I decided to post about it. I never made all the doodles and I changed some things about the AU but whatever, I'll show them anyway.

In short, it's a time travel AU, at least it seems like one at first if not for one thing - All the infected are STILL infected and mutated.

They're not as messed up as before- or, in the future I guess? They're all human for the most part, and while many of their parts have changed, they're in full control, aware of what they're doing and it doesn't seem like they can infect anyone on the rig anymore. Sound good? Wrong.

They might be in control now, but they have all the memories, the pain, and worse of all, they have no fucking clue how to control their 'powers'. Not to mention that since 'nothing happened', they still have to work!

That's where Rennick steps in.

Out of all the infected, he has the most control over his powers, which ended up with him being their 'leader'. None of the others like that but they have no choice, figuring out their powers by themselves is too risky.

So now they all have to hide their powers, try to figure out what to do when they get back to the mainland, not to mention Caz has to figure out his situation with the police.

Doesn't that just sound fun!

Now for the characters:

Finlay: is the least infected, and one of the last infected people. Unlike others she didn't get much, and her 'powers' aren't all that special. Since she was the first one to see what actually needed to be done about The Shape, she was given great eyesight, to the point that it gave her headaches at first. Because she died by being crushed, her skin harden and now can handle more impact (not to mention her punch got stronger, Caz was very happy to see that). She mostly keeps her distance from others, since her powers don't really need controling or anything like that, but when she does spend time with people it's mostly Caz and Brodie. She seems to be handling everything better than others, but the look Rennick gives her tells a different story.

Caz: is pretty much the ultimate survivor, especially with his given powers. Originally he had more powers as you can see here:

But after some thinking I decided his powers didn't make sense, especially since he wasn't that infected. So I toned it down a bit. Now, Caz's balance got absurd, to the point that he can have a stroll on a wet metal pipe like it's a normal tuesday, hands in pockets and everything. Because of all the jumping, climing and swimming he did, he pretty much became the master of parkour, not to mention he can jump further now. His hands also became more sticky, kinda like suction cups, which makes it easier to climb and hold on to stuff (they don't work very well with wet surfaces but he will not admit that). The downside is that he needs to warm up A LOT, you can see him near heaters with a cup of tea from Roy and a blanket he probably got from Finlay or Brodie. Caz tries to spend a lot of time with others, especially with Roy, always thinking he might lose them at any second. His ptsd is pretty bad, to the point that he wakes up in the middle of the night and patrols the rig, jumping around and walking on pipes just to make sure The Shape didn't come back. Rennick finds him every night and drags him down to his office by the hair, calling him a moron. It annoys him a lot but he eventually started to be thankful, knowing what might happend if someone sees him. So every night, at the same hour, they sit in Rennick's office, drink coffee and then part ways.

Rennick: doesn't seem very mutated, in fact he seems really normal, but then he takes off his hood and you see what happened to his head and neck. While making his powers, I mixed his big head mutation with his words about 'being the fucking king'. You can even kinda see that in my old doodle about him:

He got his wish about being the king. When he attaches his mutation to pretty much anything, he can see and hear the entire rig. He can always just touch the walls with his skin and get a familiar result but with a smaller range, not to mention he developed a habit of using his mutation instead. He also has the most control over his powers, mostly using them for work (or to make sure no one talks shit about him but he will never admit that). His hearing is amazing but his eyes are shit (especially the left one), it's so bad that he can barely write even with glasses on. But his powers have downsides as well, and holy shit there are many of them. The mutation he uses to look around the rig comes out of the growth on the back of his head and neck, and explodes when he uses it. It does heal in the matter of minutes but it's still very painful, not to mention the strange spike that comes out from the back of his neck. If that wasn't bad enough, his head grows every time he's angry, and shrinks only when he calms down. At first it doesn't seem that bad until you realise he can still break his neck. Mind you, were talking about a guy with anger issues that runs a rig with a skeleton crew AND has to watch over the other infected so they won't harm anyone or themselves. Did I mention they're all traumatized? Or that he's overstimulated almost all the time BECAUSE he's watching the rig with his mutation? And can't stop because of his paranoia? Yeah, he's not having a good time. (a little fun fact, because of the helicopter crash, he's now scared of the helicopter and elevators and only uses stairs despite, you know, being an old man. Yes he complains a lot.)

Trots: doesn't have fucking legs. Well, no, that's not the right way to put it, let me explain. After waking up, his legs stopped working. It's not a physical thing but a mental one, the trauma of what happened to his legs was too much and they just stopped working, he can still feel them but can't really do anything with them. That's where the infection steps in. His power is turning back to his mutated form, but less graphic and not as messed up. He mostly travels by vents and other spaces like that (which scares the shit out of Finlay), but when he can't the others carry him around, the rig is not very wheelchair friendly after all. He tends to listen in on conversations and then pass the information to others. He mostly spends his time helping Rennick with work, since his eyes don't exactly do the job anymore. He just kinda hangs around, screams at books when he doesn't understand a word or something idk. He's amazing at crawling tho! It honestly scares the shit out of others, seriously, why is he so fast?!

Muir: is the ultimate super glue. He's able to climb any surface as long as his skin touches it, it doesn't matter if it's wet or not. Sure, he might sometimes get stuck and needs help to unattach his hands from the floor, but beside that his power is pretty awesome! Not to mention he gets to jump very high and far! He's like a goat made from glue! His relationship with others is complicated, sometimes he avoids everyone (especially Innes), sometimes he's attached to everyones hip (especially Innes's), it's hard to tell with him. Thankfully, or maybe not thankfully, Innes quickly found out about his mutation and despite being freaked out he promised to keep it a secret, often going out of his way to help him as much as he could, emotionally or otherwise. (Caz jokes that Rennick is jealous of them to some degree but he might be on to something)

Addair: was very disappointed with his power. He didn't get anything cool (in his opinion). He can handle heat to the point that it's just riddiculous, you can set this guy on fire and he will STILL barely take any damage (Finlay glared at Caz when she found out, we all know why). His other power is being able to taken fall damage, how you ask? By inflating his flesh (at least it seems to be the case, none of them is really sure). Not only he can take a lot of fall damage, but in case he falls into the ocean, he will literally float on water. (Caz is a bit jealous of it but he will never admit to it) This guy is kinda a human shield. (his powers were inspired by his death and this one moment in the game where he slammed his body into the window lmao)

Roper: ironically has familiar powers to Rennick but for different reasons. While Rennick's powers tie to his desire for control and paranoia, Roper's powers have more to do with his fear of Rennick and desire to not hurt anyone but also protect himself. Just like Rennick, he can use his mutation to look around the rig, but his power is more limited. He tends to incidentally to that, looking for pentacial threats (mostly Rennick). It's like an alarm sistem for him. His other power is a last result, activating when he's in danger he can't avoid or ptsd hits too hard. What's his other power? It's a flesh shield that explodes from his back and hides him from the world, it hurts but it protects him susprisingly well. Funny enough, because of their powers, Rennick and Roper sense each other a lot. It annoys Rennick and scares Roper, what makes this worse is that they KNOW because they sense it, they literally feel each other's emotions. Strangely, despite not talking a lot to each other, they bond over their rig connection, unintentionally sending each other the emotions they're feeling. At some point they even started eating together but only at night, because it's the only time they don't get overstimulated. They don't talk, they just sit and eat their sandwiches. It's actually kind of nice.

O'Connor: is hard to talk to and his powers are a bit of a mistery, mostly because all the trauma caused him to block out a lot of stuff, causing some minor memory problems. He's not exactly sure what his powers are, or maybe he is but doesn't want to tell? Who the hell knows! What IS known however is that he can make tentacles, the same ones that were often used to attack Caz. While he has a hard time controling his powers, he can very easly hide them. He limps a bit because of his 'injured' leg (it's not injured anymore but he claims it is, even though it's obviously just phantom pain) but besides that he seems really normal! Until you talk to him for too long that it.

Raffs: was always pretty quiet, but after 'going back in time' he pretty much became mute. He can still talk, but he's too traumatized to do so, even confessing to Caz that he's scared that 'this thing will enter his throat again'. Despite being one of the more infected, and one of the first infected too, he doesn't seem to have that many powers. He gained the ability to breathe under water and swim like a pro, but he's so scared of the water that his powers don't get used much. It's really ironic, especially since he has some strange longing to be in the water. He also seems to have developed immunity to extreme cold, not even shivering when he came outside with just a shirt on. What's interesting is that Brodie became very protective over Raffs, despite having no idea why (Rennick and Finlay suspect that maybe he was infected to some degree).

For now that's all I have. I might make another post about this AU cuz I like it a lot lol.

[todayisafridaynight]

brother was talking to me about how if you almost die from an extreme-temperature-related incident then your body is just forever fucked towards that temperature and that's why i think kiryu and saejima are weak to ice. i dont know why aoki isn't like that too but ignore that statistic everything else tracks.

[lesbianphan]

if I may be honest for a minute, this christmas is gonna be entirely weird to me (I already cried once) cause I basically have no family left (the ones I do don't spend time with me lol) and for the first time I can remember in life, I'm not making a christmas meal for my family and lots of desserts and doing my best to keep everyone entertained and even though it was super stressful, I already miss it. I'll be strong cause it's all that's left for me.

[suksatoru]

"if you can hear me, chosen one, give me your strongest kick."

you lift your gaze from the book page pinched between your fingers and offer satoru an unimpressed glare. as scolding as you try to appear, there's a hint of a smile tugging your lips upward at his ridiculously adorable antics.

"i think our princess might be napping," he hums, pressing a flurry of kisses over the swell of your stomach as you squirm under his touch, wiggling your toes.

"you're going to be late, satoru! weren't you supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago?"

"hahh?"

he drops his face back onto your stomach gently, sighing happily as his hand glides over the soft bump. you decide to let him lie with you for a little while longer—the soft smile etched onto his face was far too precious to disturb.

"i'll text nanami and let him know you'll be a bit late to the mission, okay?" you say softly, carding a hand through his platinum locks as he hums softly, lashes fluttering close.

satoru talked to the baby in your belly quite often—even going as far as having full-on conversations with her. there had been countless nights where you stirred awake only to hear his silky sweet voice muffled against your stomach, all while he gazed starry eyed at the gentle curve of your stomach in front of him.

satoru's dearest dream had always been to have a family. it was a quiet truth he wouldn't ever dare to speak into existence because it didn't seem possible in any universe—but somehow, he stumbled upon a way. and now he gets to spend his evenings like this with you.

satoru's boundless affection during your pregnancy will forever be something you would be grateful for. the fondest thing you would look back on would have to be the endless amount of baby clothes he got—satoru had even purchased a matching set of onesies for all three of you to wear. typical satoru. he was adamant about making sure the three of you would have a bunch of pictures together as a family so he'd be able to send everyone he knew those corny holiday cards he always saw on tv—the only reason you remember that moment from so long ago right now is because of the phone call you received.

"hello?" you speak in a hushed tone, rocking the ivory haired baby in the crib next to you gently as you hold your phone between your cheek and shoulder.

"hello! is this mrs. gojo? i'm calling to confirm your family photoshoot scheduled for next week. it's the two hour session. it looks like you scheduled it a little over a year ago?" her voice comes to life through the phone, and your rocking slows to a stop.

"oh," is all you can manage at first.

you hear the sound of her typing come to a slow stop as she waits for your response. you resume rocking your daughter's crib before answering.

"i'm sorry, but it seems like my husband forgot to cancel the appointment."

she goes on a bit of a tangent, gently scolding you because the company was extremely busy with numerous photoshoots and you had canceled so last minute—but she promised to get it fixed and have the money refunded as soon as possible.

the line beeps quietly when you drop the call, and your hand feels perpetually numb as you drop your phone into your lap.

you rub at the sting that blinds your eyes a second later before rising on wobbly legs, not checking if your baby is asleep as you stumble towards your bedroom's balcony door and slide it open. you tuck your knees under you on the ground and rest your head against the railing, allowing the cool metal to be pressed against your cheek as you take a steadying breath.

you were nearing the one year anniversary of satoru's death and, quite stupidly at that, thought you'd be in a better condition by now. but his presence was irreplaceable—and it was moments like this where you were reminded how painful it was to lose your soulmate in the blink of an eye.

the night air kisses your cheek, whipping your hair around gently as it falls over your eyes—and the sensation is uncannily familiar to the way satoru's slender fingers would play with your hair and tickle your cheek whenever he was in a particularly playful mood.

the night traffic flowing beneath you fades to nothing as the wind whirls around you—but, it felt like if you closed your eyes hard enough, strained your ears as much as possible—then maybe you could make yourself believe that the whistling wind whizzing past your ear was satoru's voice lulling the ache in your chest away instead.

[gor3sigil]

Before starting T, when I socially transitionned, I was surrounded by radical feminists who saw masculinity as gross and inherently evil, something to avoid, something to make fun of, something to destroy. The other transmascs in my friend group, sometimes, told me that they didn’t knew if they really were non-binary or if they just were scared shitless of saying “I am a man”. Because they saw this as a betrayal to their younger self who had been SAd and abused.

I saw many of my masc friends and trans men around me hate themselves, not outing themselves as men because it would imply so so much, it was like opening the Pandora Box. Even when we were just together, talking about our masculinity was always coated with bits like “I know we’re the privileged ones but…”, “I don’t want to sound like I have it bad but…”, “Women obviously have it worse, but last time…” and we were talking about terrible traumas we experienced while taking all the precautions in the world in the case the walls were a crowd of people in disguise waiting to get us if we didn’t downplay the violence we faced, or like crying and being upset and being traumatized and afraid and scared and to say it out loud would make us throw up the needles we were forced to swallow every second of every day living in our skin.

Most of us weren’t on T yet, some of us were catcalled every day and harassed in the streets or in abusive relationships nobody seemed to care to help them get out of because they were “strong enough” to do it by themselves.

I was using the gender swap face app and cried for ours when I saw my father looking back at me through the screen. The idea of transforming, of shedding into a body that would deprive me of love, tenderness, and safety, was absolutely terrifying. I knew I couldn’t stay in this body any longer because it wasn’t mine, but I also knew that if I was going to look like my dad, my brother, my abusers, it would be so much worse.

5 years later and I’m almost 2 years on T, and almost 2 months post top surgery.

I ditched my previous group of friends. I was bullied out of my local trans community. But let me tell you how free I am.

I was scared that T would break my singing voice: it made it sound more alive than ever.

I was scared that T would make me less attractive: it made me find myself hot for the first time in my life.

I was scared that T would make me gain weight: it did. But the weight I put on is not the weight I used to put on by binging and eating my body until I forgot that it even existed. It’s the weight of my body belonging to me, little by little. The wolf hunger for life.

I won’t tell you the same story I see everywhere, the one that goes “I started going to the gym 8 times a week, I put on some muscles, I started a diet and now I look like an action film actor”, in fact if you took pictures of me from 5 years ago vs now I’d just have more acne, I’d have longer hair and still look like I don’t know what to do with myself when I take selfies.

But the sparkle in my eyes, my smile, tell the whole story way better than this long ass stream of words could ever.

I want to say some things that I wish someone told me before starting medically transitionning.

It’s okay to take your time. It’s your body, it’s your journey, if you don’t feel comfortable taking full doses and want to go slow, the only voice you need to listen to is your own. Do what feels right.

If you feel overwhelmed, it’s okay to take a break, it’s okay to ask for support.

Trans people are holy. Everyone is. You didn’t lose your angel wings when you came out because you want to be masculine. You are not excluded from the joy of existence, from being proud of yourself, from being sad, from being scared, from being angry. The emotions and feelings you allowed yourself to feel while processing what you experienced when you grew up as a girl and was seen as a woman are still as valid as before. Nobody can take that from you. If someone tries to, don’t let them.

It’s perfectly normal to grieve some things you were and had before you started to transition, like your high soprano voice or even your chest. Hatching is painful. You can find comfort in things that don’t feel right, so making the decision to change can be incredibly scary and weird and you deserve to be heard and supported through this. Wanting top surgery doesn’t make the surgery less intense, less terrifying, less painful to recover from. When it becomes too much you have the right to take a break and take some deep breaths before going on.

You don’t have to have a radical, 180° change for your transition to be acceptable or valid or worthy of praise. Look at how far you’ve come already. It doesn’t have to show, you’re not made to be a spectacle, you’re human and it is your journey.

Oh, and last thing, you know when some people say “Oh this trans person has to grow out of the cringy phase where you think that you can write essays about being trans or transitionning or just their experience because it’s weird” ? If you ever hear this or see this online, remember all the people whose writing you read and, even if they were not professional writers, helped you more than any theorists did ? If you want to write, do it. It won’t be a waste. It can help people. Or it won’t, and even then, if it helped you, that’s enough.

Love every of my trans siblings, take care of yourselves. You deserve the world.

[iris-qt]

Are we getting more of theo whom has a staring problem

The Boy Who Folded First

-> Part Ⅰ - The Boy Who Stares

You’re halfway through outlining your Arithmancy essay, peacefully nestled into your usual spot in the library (the cozy alcove by the window that smells faintly of dust and lavender polish) when you hear the faintest sound of someone… hesitating.

It’s the sound of feet shuffling. A bag being adjusted. A breath being held.

You glance up, expecting Madam Pince or maybe a first-year in crisis.

Instead, you get Theodore Nott, frozen like a deer caught mid-scheme, holding a stack of books and trying very hard not to look like he’s here for you.

He is.

You blink. He nods. It’s weirdly formal, like you’re about to conduct business negotiations.

Then, very carefully, he slides into the chair across from you. He places his books on the table with reverent precision. Doesn’t say a word.

You go back to your essay. Or try to.

It’s been twenty seconds. He has not opened a single book. He has, however, started watching you with the expression of someone seeing a rainbow for the first time.

You glance up.

He quickly looks away. Opens the wrong end of a book. Realizes it. Flips it. Doesn’t read it.

You pretend to focus, but your quill slips. “Theo.”

His eyes flick up, startled. “Yes?”

“You’re not even pretending to study.”

He freezes. Then, slowly he flips a page in the upside-down book and says, “I am.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Your book is in Latin.”

“It’s a universal language,” he replies, far too quickly.

You try not to smile. “Are you here to read or stare?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he rests his chin on his hand, looks at you, and says, very softly, but with complete sincerity

“Both.”

Cue the butterflies. Stupid, ridiculous, flapping butterflies.

Your face warms before you can stop it. “That’s not very productive.”

He leans in slightly, his voice just a whisper above the quiet: “It is for me.”

Silence. Except for your heartbeat, which is now doing some kind of interpretive dance in your ribcage.

You look away, biting the inside of your cheek. “You’re very weird, Theodore Nott.”

He gives you the softest, smallest smile, one that tugs at just one corner of his mouth like it’s shy about being there.

“I know,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “You make me that way.”

You drop your quill.

And for once, he doesn’t panic. He just picks it up, sets it gently in front of you, and goes back to flipping pages in his very, very upside-down Latin book.

And you, utterly doomed, go back to pretending you’re not falling for the boy who stares.

…

You don’t expect to find anything strange in your Arithmancy notes the next day.

You really don’t.

You sit down in the library like always, armed with a steaming cup of tea and the vague hope that numbers will one day make sense.

You flip open your notebook.

And there it is.

A folded piece of parchment tucked right between your notes on logarithmic spell sequencing and wand length correlations. Neat. Crisp. Very much not yours.

You pause. Pick it up. Look around suspiciously, like the paper might explode or insult your handwriting. No one seems to notice.

Your name is written on the front in tight, slanted script. Theodore’s script. Oh dear.

You unfold it carefully.

And you gasp.

Because it’s not a note. It’s a letter. A dramatic, charming, deeply earnest letter, written with the kind of emotional intensity that could only come from someone who once stared at you in class for thirteen entire minutes and forgot how to blink.

To the girl who doesn’t know she’s being watched, I should clarify: not in a terrifying way. Hopefully. Just… in a “you exist like sunlight through old stained glass and it’s very distracting” way. You sit there, every day, with your quiet focus and your ridiculous pens and your little crease between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard. I’ve watched the way you annotate like you're solving a mystery. I’ve watched the way you smile to yourself when you get something right. I’ve watched the way you make silence feel like a conversation. And I’m utterly, irrevocably— (Ridiculously, foolishly, sincerely) —smitten. You make it very hard to concentrate. You make it very easy to feel seventeen and doomed and soft all at once. I’ve rewritten this five times. Probably because I’m terrified. You’re very smart. I’m mostly composed of sarcasm and dramatic eye contact. But if you’ll have me, even just for a walk by the lake, or a shared study table, or something unspeakably wild like holding hands, I’d very much like that. —Theo (P.S. I know you saw me walk into a door. I’m trying to block that memory out. Please let me have this.)

You stare at the letter for a full minute, brain short-circuiting, heart doing small backflips.

And just as you’re about to burst into tiny flustered sparkles, you hear the soft scrape of a chair.

You look up.

Theodore Nott is standing there.

He looks like he wants to flee the country.

“Hi,” he says, voice unusually hoarse. “So. You found it.”

You hold up the letter with both hands like it’s Exhibit A in a very dramatic trial. “You left me a love confession in my Arithmancy notebook.”

His ears go red. “You weren’t supposed to find it until after exams. I was buying time to work on…bravery.”

You raise an eyebrow, suppressing a giddy smile. “You rewrote it five times.”

“I panicked,” he says solemnly. “And I was out of parchment.”

You try to hold back your smile, but it breaks through anyway, soft, real.

“I’d very much like that walk by the lake,” you say.

Theodore’s eyes go wide. Then soft. Then stunned.

“You would?”

You nod. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

You grin. “You have to stop pretending your upside-down French book is useful.”

He groans. “I knew you noticed.”

And just like that, the boy who stares officially becomes the boy who blushes, babbles, and very gently takes your hand like it might be the most important thing he’s ever held.

Spoiler: it is.

A/N: manifesting this, big thank you to everyone for all the love :)

[1nthedarknessofthenight]

﴾ haunt me

pairing: demon!lee minho x f!reader

genre: one-shot, horror au, smut

word count: 11,2K

warnings: small!stalking ⋆ obsessive behavior ⋆ blood ⋆ hair!pulling ⋆ ass!slapping ⋆ biting! ⋆ pain!kink⋆ choking! ⋆ small!fear play⋆ dom!leeknow & sub!reader ⋆ rough!sex ⋆ ass up face down!position ⋆ fingering (f.receiving) ⋆ oral (f.receiving) ⋆ cunnilingus ⋆ unprotected!sex ⋆ creampie!

summary: on Halloween night, you and your friends gather for a classic spirit summoning, eager to make the most of this tradition, unaware that you will be the one to face the consequences…

author’s note: this is actually the first ever thing I wrote here, but I forgot about it but now it’s finally seeing the light of the day

main masterlist

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The blanket around you did nothing for the coldness that seeped into your skin. Your teeth are still chattering, lips dry and nose runny. You should’ve known better, all of you. Your muscles are straining with every small move you make to get yourself a little more comfortable on the hard floor. Your eyes go over the room, finding only disappointment. The costumes, makeup and left over mess reminded everyone of how horrible the party was. You remember how excited you and your friends were. You all spend so much time getting ready, almost freezing to death while walking to the so called party. You looked forward to it so much and maybe you did have way too high of expectations. Everything was awful and mostly — it lacked the Halloween spirit.

Your attention goes back to the television, just as the lead character is being chased by the killer. Her screams pierce your ears, while you take a small sip of the wine in your hands. You and your friends decided to just rather go home and have a small party of your own. The disappointment was so great that none of you had an appetite for searching for another party. However the costume still wrapped around your body was telling you something different. Just watching horror movies and sitting in a costume didn’t fill the need of thrill you so needed.

Soft footsteps are heard, making you all turn, some in fright, thinking that something evil is coming right towards you all, but is just your friend Katherine. The soft light, illuminates her figure clad in dark, long dress, her nails glimmering as she lifts up something to show you. Firstly you only see what seems like a plate, but as another one of your friends goes to switch on a lamp beside you, all of you immediately realize what she was holding.

“Look what I got!” Her voice is chippery, but it holds a small mocking at the end. A series of groans and small sounds echo around you, while your eyes are still on the Ouija board in her hands. Your eyes go quickly over the letters and the planchette. Even with alcohol in your system, you are getting a really weird feeling from the piece of wood. It makes the hair at the back of your head stand up, shivers going down your spine. You are definitely not alone, because your friend Jade is almost trembling from even the thought of using such thing. Your hand falls on top of her messy hair to soothen her, but your eyes are still on the witch who rolls her eyes at her other friend’s noises. “Oh, common, it’s mandatory.”

The girl next to you shakes her head immediately, hand pointing to the board, making the others for a second silent. “You know what happens after using that thing, right?” You have to agree a little with her weariness. You have ever actually thought about talking to the death. Nothing made you believe something evil existed, but also you were not a sceptic. just nothing made you believe there was something more so far. Jade was scared of everything, so your friends didn’t take her warning so seriously and you have to huff softly at that.

“Well, yeah—“ Katherine shrugs, looking down at the Ouija board. “But also no, because I’ve never tried it.”

You watch her as she sits down on the floor before you, your other two friends circling around her to look closely at the wooden tablet. You too can’t help, but tilt your head at it. There were few scratches, dark smudges, but maybe it was that design. “Where did you get this?” You wonder, because you don’t think she has these kinds of things just laying around in her apartment.

She looks up at you, dark eyes peeking out from behind her neon yellow contact lenses. “The thrift store.” Some of you have to laugh shortly at her dry response, some too occupied by the board laying before you all.

“Are there at least instructions?” Wonders out loud your friend Hannah who sits across from you in her scary clown costume.

“Who needs them?”

It has to be the alcohol or maybe you were already getting tired, but as the television is shut off, lights switched off, you have this weird feeling on the back of your head. You scratch at the burning spot, distracting yourself for just a second by liting up some few candles. The flame gives you the small amount of warmth you so desperately need. You can still feel the coldness licking at your skin, but there was also this awful heat gathering in your chest. Were you nervous? Scared? A frown is plastered on your face, eyes never leaving the Ouija board, like the planchette would move at any second.

This uneasy feeling is not shared however, but still your friends seem to get a little quieter. All of you sit on the floor, the only light being the few lit candles around you and the Moon peeking behind the curtains. Was it the thought of doing something you shouldn’t that was scaring you? You refuse to believe that something in the shadows was peaking at you. The paranoia was eating you alive. Your frozen finger digs into your skin, pulse jumping rapidly and you have to remind yourself that it is all just in your head. None of you were touching it so far, however the sight of those scratches, dips and cravings on the board seem to pierce your soul.

You blink rapidly, smudging your makeup, because you have to sigh in exhaustion. You can’t remember the last time you were so paranoid and — scared. Maybe it is only because you have never tried it, but looking at your other friends they didn’t seem too into it. They still chatted between each other shortly, swallowing down the cheep wine. You look down into your own cup, swirling the liquid around as you can’t find the appetite to take a sip right now.

You are startled a little when someone claps their hands together, making your attention move to Katherine who rubs her palms together. “Are we going to do this?” Your eyes flicker to your scared friend, a little tipsier than before, so you are not too surprised by seeing her just nod in agreement. You do not protest either, putting down your cup next to you and outstretching your hands to the planchette that sits in the middle of the floor.

The silence is heavy, completely aware of the darkness wrapping around you, piercing your back. You try to ignore it as best as you can, shaking your head at yourself, pressing your finger lightly on the planchette. Nothing is heard for a second, all of you looking at each other briefly, before Amanda speaks up. “Is anybody here?” She calls out and her voice seem to echo around you almost.

Silence again, but you can’t help, but look around. Though you have to sigh a little when the same question is repeated. “It doesn’t work like that.” You say, cutting through the quiet.

Everyone turns to look at you and your friend can’t help, but raise a challenging eyebrow. “Okay, you try then.” Says Hannah.

You clear your throat a little, swallowing the invisible lump in your throat. The way you are becoming nervous is making you anxious. The blanket around you slips from your shoulders, the cold immediately kissing you. It felt like there was no layer left between you and the darkness. When you straighten your back, shuffling a little closer to the board, your fingers start to tremble. The small frown of confusion by your body reacting like this is visible, but you try to keep it together. Licking your lips, your eyes go around the room, before plastering your eyes back down. “We welcome everyone who wants to join us and if anyone is here, we would like you to make a sign.” You take a deep breaths between each word, not knowing exactly what is suitable to say in this kind of situation.

Your voice seems almost loud in the quiet room, but everyone seems to listen carefully to you. You do too, a little too hard, because the only thing you can hear for a while is your blood rushing in your ears. Your eyes are wide open, searching in the dark behind your friends. You don’t even know for what you are searching, but you feel like the answer is close. You have never talk to the dead, but you can’t say that people who do this are exaggerating. The waiting for something to happen is frightening and you think you have never been so on high alert over something that wasn’t even there.

“Could you maybe knock on something?” Asks Jade, her voice quiet, but in the room even a pin drooping could be heard.

“Or make that candle blow out?”

Questions fly across the room, though nothing happens for a moment. All of you look at each side of the room, your eyes however fall into the hallway where you were sitting next to. Nothing is seen, only those specks of light made by your eyes. However you swear you feel warmth coming from the end of the hallway. It was almost suffocating in a way, already thinking it’s just you, but then something does happen and you feel it yourself as very one else in the room.

“It’s moving….” Exclaims Amanda in shock, staring down at the planchette. Your own breath gets stuck in your throat, because you swear you feel the planchette vibrating under your fingers. Your eyes immediately trail over to your friends in disbelief. It moves subtly in short stops and you have to shake your head at it.

“Who is moving it?”

“It’s not me! You’re doing it!”

The voices of your friends fall to deaf ears. You don’t want to believe it, but looking at the frightened faces of your friends, you can tell that their reactions are completely genuine. Nervous feeling creeps up on you, watching the planchette travel over the board, before it stops at a corner. “Yes?” You say softy the word and you swallow roughly, eyes trailing over the room. You don’t want to believe it, but you are now left with no choice. “Is it yes that someone is here with us?” You ask again, listening carefully.

For a moment you only hear your friends’ whimpers of fear and your own heart in your ears, but then a small tap is heard behind you. Your head whips around quickly, your own gasp matching with the others as you stare with wide eyes at the window behind you. Only the Moon and swinging trees can be seen, nothing other than that. You turn back around to look at your friends, but your eyes fall onto something different.

The candles around you seem to rise, flame flickering and bending like something is blowing at them. Your own face of your fear, makes them look into the direction and few hushed curses are being shared across the room. “Holy shit–“ Says Hannah.

“Maybe you left the window open?”

“You know damn well that I didn’t, Jade”

You are not following their conversation again, lost in thought or to be honest you can’t even think straight right at this moment. Your face scrunches up, shivers going down your spine. You eyes widened again, freezing in your spot. The side of your body burns, it left like something was poking you, telling you to turn around. You can’t move however for a second, from the corner of your eye watching your friends panic over the planchette moving again, but you are not even touching it anymore. The thing that frightens the most is the feeling of someone’s eyes staring at your back.

Your head turns slowly around, body screaming at you not to, but something is controlling you, pushing you to look back into the hallway. The hot air rushes to your face and it wasn’t from the candles. When you finally turn to glance into the darkness, your blurry eyes from not blinking at all don’t see anything for a moment, but soon from the darkness appears a sphere, then it forms and forms till it turns into a silhouette of a person.

You gasp, breath getting stuck in your chest. It is eery, horrifying sight and even if you finally blink rapidly, like it was just your own eyes playing tricks on you, it only seems to get closer. It reaches for you and you want to pull back, but can’t. You watch the mass of darkness become fuller slowly, before you see pair of red beaming eyes forming out of it. You lips fall apart, a loud scream at the back of your tongue, but before it can fall out of you, the candles that you just now realized became even higher dim back down by blink of an eye.

The sound of the board being thrown across the room, makes you snap out of the trance, scrambling away, just like your friends. You are breathing hard, head turning to look at others who only have their eyes on the board in the corner of the room. And you at the moment realize in your frightened state that you have been the only one who saw the truth.

────

With every step, with every breath you took, your head would turn around. Paranoia seemed to follow you the moment you left your friend’s apartment and you hoped that was the only thing truly following you. You lived quite far, too late to catch the last bus, leaving you to walk your way home. However you were at least walking through the city and maybe you were just imagining the burning eyes at the back of your head. And if you weren’t, a look from a stranger couldn’t make you feel like this. Someone — something was sizing you up, following you, perfectly mimicking your movements like your own shadow and just as you though you caught it, turning around swiftly — nothing, only a crowd of people who didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

You didn’t either, there seem to be invisible to you and the thing following you that couldn’t be seen either however, had a strong sense of presence. Was there really safety in numbers? After a while, every little noise made you jump, laughter and occasional screams of terror when the unreal monsters jumped at someone, made your head spin. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe, like you already you have already considered, it was only in your head. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to try and talk to the dead and on this night specifically as everyone around you made your delusions even stronger.

You couldn’t breathe. Every time your feet moved faster, it seemed to be even closer to you. So close you that you could feel it reaching the back of your neck or was it just the wind? Your eyes trailed over the people. No one was looking at you, everyone minded their own, drinking the night away and crowding the small square. What if you and your friends decided to go here instead and not the party? What if you wouldn’t play with the board?

Your stroll slowed down to a full stop. It felt like whatever that was following you disappeared, but also at the same time seemed even closer to you. Just out of sight. You didn’t want to search for it, but something was telling you to do so. You stopped at the middle of the crowd, eyes almost like being pulled by a magnet stopping on a one specific place. The people walked through your line of vision before it become clear to you why you were so drawn to that spot.

There — right there, under the roof of a stand stood what it looked like a man by his slightly broad shoulders and short hair, but by the shadow which the roof casted on him, you couldn’t even get a glimpse of his face. However that wasn’t necessary. The way he stood…from his whole body radiated this menacing, evil aura that made your whole body freeze. Your breath was taken away from you, eyes wide, staring at the unknown figure. The same, almost even more intense wave of fear washed over you, it felt the same when you looked down the dark hallway. He didn’t feel like a real person, he felt like something way more than that. Something dark and hungry and it was staring right back at you. You didn’t see his eyes, but you just know. This couldn’t be real…

This couldn’t be real. Things like this don’t exist and if they did you feel like they would be more documented. You weren’t a true believer nor a sceptic, but you really didn’t feel like wanting to know the truth right now. He, it didn’t move and even by blinking, it didn’t vanish like you wished it would. It was probably just a person, a person with a really scary costume.

A gasp leaves you as suddenly someone elbows you. You turn to the person, catching there sneer and you realize that maybe standing in the middle of the street wasn’t a good idea. You looked stupid, but that was the least of your worries as you glance back at the man, only him being nowhere to be found. Were you just imagining things at this point? Maybe your fear was only playing with you. You ignore the weird occurrence as best as you could, deciding to continue heading back home. Your apartment was just few blocks away and at the thought of finally being inside your safe space makes you pick your pace.

The feeling of being followed doesn’t leave you however, but you keep your head high in a mock confidence, showing whatever this thing was that you are brave. You really weren’t much of an actress, because as soon as you reach the entrance door to your building, you rush to unlocked it, slipping in quickly, like the thing would just squeeze right through you. The doors slam shut loudly and you hope that none of the other residents won’t come to scold you. The more you walk your way up the stairs to your apartment, the more you don’t acknowledge the creepy feeling that someone is watching you.

Your apartment door shines brightly at you and you out of breath fumble with your keys. The satisfying click and smell of your home made you sight out in relief. You were so happy to be finally inside, greeting your cat who waited for you just as you opened the door. Your hands smoothen down her fluffy hair, sighing at her calming purring. Everything that happened flew over your head as you finally started to feel at ease. Like you thought — it was just your imagination, nothing more…

You weren’t one for drinking till you passed out, but you find yourself stumbling just a little as you pull off your shoes, already ruined just by a one night of walking. Making your way into your kitchen, you go to give some food to your fluffball who meowed at your every move and that sound really ease your racing heart.

Putting down the bowl on the floor, you watch your cat eating away for a second. You are lost in thought, though nothing specific was running through your head, just blankly staring into space. But just as you move to make your way to your bedroom, you saw something shift from the corner of your eye. Looking up, you however find nothing, but the dark corner of your unlight living room and at that your patience runs low. For yourself, because you can’t believe that you are making yourself see things in your own home where you are supposed to feel the safest.

You flip the light switch next to you, illuminating the room in subtle orange hue, your eyes still unmoving from the spot and still nothing was there. A sigh leaves you, but you refuse to say it was out of relief. At that you went to take your upper layer off, also fixing yourself something knowing that if you won’t eat or drink something, it will kill you in the morning.

You are exhausted, a heavy weight on top of your shoulders telling you to just lay down. In some way however you are still on high alert, maybe the aftermath of your own self scaring you. You thought about showering, but to be honest you didn’t have the energy to do all of your routine at this hour and also there is nothing for you to wash off.

You stumble again, but now over the bottom of your dress, catching yourself just in time with your hand on the doorway to your bedroom. The sheer, soft fabric is thrown on your bed, ignoring the mess all over the room. The corset around you didn’t suffocate you and you wonder what exactly is it that is making you lose your breath. Your hands fumble over your back, fingers just at the lacing of your top, but just before you can pull at it, you hear a noise.

It was loud and it momentarily makes you look back into the direction of your living room. You sigh shortly after, shaking your head at your own delusions. It was just your cat probably. However when you again go to pull at the string of your corset, you hear a meow right beside you, before you see your cat jumping into your field of vision on your bed. You freeze slightly, hands stilling. It is an old building, it makes noises all the time — it was nothing. You try to gaslight yourself by thinking it didn’t even happened, but then there’s even a louder bang! coming from behind you.

Your head whips around wildly, hair falling into your wide eyes that stare into your dark hallway. You feel your heart pounding against your chest and in your state of shock you are not quick enough to stop your cat from running to the direction of the noise. Your hands outstretch before you, in hushed whisper pleading your cat to come back, but her fuffy, long tail is soon gone from your vision. You hate the lump forming in your throat and the way your bottom lip quivers. That noise almost again makes you wonder if you imagine it, but then you hear it again, now in series of three bangs that echoed in your apartment. It sounded like knocking, mocking you to let whoever — whatever it was in, but what if it was already here with you? It sounded like the noises were meant for you to come in, get closer.

The noises weren’t the only thing making you frighten, it was also the way the air around you seems to drop in temperature. You immediately shiver, goosebumps appearing all over your body. But there was this odd warmness, starting right at the entrance of your open bedroom door. It was so appealing…

You finally take a step closer to the hallway when you hear another loud noise. The sudden realization that your cat might be in danger makes you take few steps further even with the fear you held in yourself. You hate her for it, but you are now only scared for her. You quickly look around your room for any kind of weapon, but you find nothing, realizing that your pepper spray was in your purse that you left on your kitchen counter. You just have to be brave…That’s what you try to tell yourself, while slowly making your way out of the room.

The darkness seemed deeper that when you went in your bedroom. It is intoxicating, heavy, it pierces your skin and stings at your eyes. Your lungs scream for air as you try not to breath at all, scared to even make a sound. Your light costume leaves you in very vulnerable state and it makes you wrap your arms around your stomach that grumbles uncomfortably. What if the thing you thought followed you was a man and he somehow got into your apartment? You don’t know if a man is better than an entity, but it certainly would make you feel less crazy. You hope that the knocking was mistaken, that it was only someone at your door. You have to tell yourself that there’s no way for someone to break in, because you locked the door immediately when you came in. However something at the back of your mind is telling you that you have the right to be frightened.

And you were to death, when you stop at the corner, living room just right behind a wall. Your eyes didn’t get use to the darknesss and looking at the threshold leading to your living room, you realized you weren’t going after light. You were only going down the path that seeped warmness, blazing hot, coming right from your living room. There was no light, the one you switched on was left that way, but now there’s not a single flicker of it peeking out. You listen carefully, for your cat or your intruder, but the sound of your heart makes your ears ring, so you had nothing, but your sight right now.

Your hand almost tears the fabric of your skirt as you lean forward a little, squinting into the room. A whiff of the same feeling washes over you again, making you pull yourself back with a choked sigh. It is the same one — like the one you felt while looking into the hallway, like the one when you saw the silhouette of the man and the same one that has been following you. Your eyes become blurry with tears, panicking, mind racing. You have no clue what to do. You have no weapon, your phone is in your kitchen and your keys…right beside the door to your apartment.

It is a bad idea, but if you would run through the living room quickly enough, you can get out. There’s still a chance that the intruder had your keys, so you ask yourself — are you willing to take the chances? Of getting caught by this…thing. You don’t want to leave your cat alone or worse with it, but if you would just make it next door to your neighbor, you can safe her and yourself. Your hand tightens around your skirt, picking it up and sprinting out of your hiding spot, but as soon as you do — you see him.

You choke, the sound bumbling in your throat, your eye staring straight at the silhouette in the corner of your room. Even in the dark, you can see it. The mass of darkness coming from him alone and the hot air suffocates you, just by looking into his direction. Tears stream down your face as you turn back to the direction of the door and back at the man, but then you hear a soft purring sound. Your cat is rubbing herself against the man’s feet and even if you are thankful nothing happened to her, you are terrified from seeing her so close to that man. Her white fur is bright and you almost come rushing to her, but as your eyes go back to the door, you run to that direction instead.

Your hand outstretches, reaches for the doorknob, even if you can see the keys glimmering before your teary eyes there was no salvation for you. You are turned around, roughly pushed to the door and a whimper of pain leaves you as your back meets the wood. Your mouth opens, ready to scream, but like he knew, his hand falls over your lips, silencing your cry for help.

Your teary eyes stare at the faceless person, eyes streaming down your face and pooling at his hand. You are held against the door, but not with his body, it was like your whole body had frozen over. You want to scream in fear, instincts telling you to just run, but you can’t move an inch. Though your body trembles, eyes searching, trying to get a view of this man. He didn’t feel real, his skin is hot, breath fanning over your face. You are starting to sweat from all the different temperatures, sobbing in fear as you hear his lips fall apart.

“Don’t scream.”

His voice is low, quiet yet strong. You don’t want to fulfill his demand, but the tone of voice — it echoed in your mind, repeating and repeating. His hand falls from your lips and you take in deep breaths, choking. You can’t even muster to scream, you can’t and you don’t want to, because he maybe will hurt you. “Please, don’t hurt me — don’t kill me.” You are shuttering over your words, choking again in your tears.

You can see him tilt his head at your pleas, standing right before your shaking body so casually it made you sick. He didn’t even try to do something to you yet and that definitely heightens the terror in you. You sob, crying and you gasping at the sound of him sushing you. You back pressed harder against the door, finally finding enough strength to move just a little away from him, when he leans just a little closer to you. “Where’s the fun in that?” He whispers to you, teasing you almost, amused tone in his voice. You look at him slightly confused, eyes blurry, still not knowing what this man looks like. You don’t feel at ease at his tone nor his words of small assurance. It is like he could see you, because you can hear the click of his shoes, stepping a little away from you. “I thought you wanted me to make myself known?”

You are left even more confused, before it quickly comes clear to you. You can’t — you won’t believe it. Those words pierce you painfully and with seeing him this much away from you, makes you immediately think of the silhouette you have seen following. This man could be just a man, but his words…back at the small seance you spoke them. A sharp intake is heard, shaking your head at the thought of this man being something more. The thought crossed your mind, but you actually never would think that it might be the truth. If it is — if this man is something from the other realm, haunting you, making you tremble in fear that it probably thrives in…you can’t – “No…” Your disagreement is quiet, heart beating wildly in horror as you look over the mass of darkness around him, evil. “This is some sick joke — you are just playing with me. Who’s behind his?” Your words are not making sense anymore to you, too many thoughts of how it could be possible leaves you thinking that it might be just a stupid prank, but no human could make you this sort of fear.

The man sneers, hissing like a snake at your words. It sounded like you just insulted him, gasping loudly when he makes a one big step closer to you and you swear your noses almost bump together. “Do you think your friends can do this?” He says, raising his hand, putting it right before your eyes. Your wide eyes stare at his hand forming into fist and by the act you see the light in your kitchen flickering with every subtle move of his. You look at him, finally seeing in the small flickers of light his face. You didn’t know what to expect, maybe a gross man or the devil himself with horns and a face of death, but you are certainly left speechless.

His dark, brown hair is slightly in his eyes. They shine, deep red at the corners that flicker with the light. Long and sculpted nose leads you to trail your eyes over his high cheekbones to his cupids bow and then his bitten, plump lips. This wasn’t a face of evil, he looked like an angel, no face that should make you feel terrified, but you can see it in his eyes. Sinister, holding evil as well as wisdom that you could never imagine or reach. Even in this small moment you had enough time to look him over, but as his hand closes into tight fist, the sound of the lightbulb shattering makes you fall back into the stage of horror. You can hear your cat running away from the scene and your tears recur, because you finally start to believe. “Do you think your friends could ever make you feel so frightened?” You shake your head, head spinning at what just happened.

He turned on the light with just his hand in the air, with just putting his hand into a fist he crushed it and you don’t want to know what else he can do. “I don’t understand…w-who are you?” You are hyperventilating, praying that is just your imagination again, but you can’t close your eyes and let him vanish from your sight. You need to see him.

“The better question is… what am I?” You are again shaking your head and it’s like he can see your thoughts, because he is making you say out loud what you have been thinking all along. You don’t seem him, but his lips lift up slightly for a moment at his own memory. “When you were playing with that Ouija board, do you know, that you opened the gates for anyone to go through?” A cry leaves you, just as the light in the corner of the room is light up with a flick of his finger. Your eyes stare into his amused ones and somehow you wished you didn’t have to see him. “You didn’t even closed it...”

Realization strikes you, your trembling stopping when you thought of your friends. What if they are also in danger just because of you? You would definitely wouldn’t be able to live with that guilt. ‘What am I?’ His words are the one thing on your mind right now. How much is he dangerous? He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t even breathe it seems, your eyes staring blankly at his face. “Oh, my—“ You can’t even finish the word as his hand quickly by a blink of an eye wraps around your throat.

You feel him squeeze his fingers in a warning, not quite choking you, but it still makes you gasp for air. “Don’t say his name, he can’t help you. You did this to yourself—“

“Are you the devil?” You wonder out loud and his whole demeanor changes, laughing drily at your question.

“I preciete the compliment, but no.” Your eyebrows furrowed at his weird behavior. You still fear him, but he doesn’t seem like he wants to hurt you at all. Maybe he already has you right where he wants, under him with his hand on your throat, playing with your life.

He maybe might not be the devil himself, but he still had those rings of fire around his irises. He is evil, you know it and evil always wants something. Like he said, you have done this to yourself and you have to pay. You know he won’t let you go, he didn’t stop following you from the apartment and even if you know who or maybe what he looks like, it doesn’t calm you down. You still know so little and you wish you didn’t have to know further. You are completely at his mercy and you are pulled back into the present when his hand tightens again, pulse jumping against his fingers.

“Just take what you want—“

He tsked at you, he now being the one shaking his head and you can’t move away from him or even fight against his strong hold as he makes you lean closer to his face. “Be careful with your words.” His upper teeth are revealed with how much he is sneering and it makes you look down at his mouth. His upper front teeth are bigger slightly, but they weren’t the thing that makes your heart skip a beat — his canine teeth were sharp as a razor and you wonder if his sneering is prediction of him maybe biting you, eating at your flesh. “I’m not the type of evil you’re imaging right now…” His voice is a little softer than before and you wonder if he can read your mind.

Then what is he? “T-then what are you?” You ask him, genuinely curious about his answer.

He lowers his head, your breathing stilling, leaving you speechless as he comes close enough to you that your lips are almost touching. “Do you want me to tell you, or do you want to find out yourself, like the big girl you are?” His breath words bounce off your parted lips, taking in his raw scent.

Heat pools over you, watching him pull away from you just to look back at your face. His words sounded suggestive and you hope your own mind isn’t messing with you. “You won’t hurt me?” Was he just playing with you all along? Just taking in the pleasure of seeing you scared?

“Not if you don’t want me to…I still have to take something.” His dark eyes fall over your body and you want nothing more than to cover yourself, because you realize at the moment how much your costume is provocative.

“Why? I didn’t ask for you — this.”

He tilts his head again, his eyes not holding amusement and you can feel the air thickening around you. “Did you now? Or were your drunk thoughts just speaking for you?” You breathe out, embarrassment making your skin hot at touch and you know he can feel it under his hand.

You are not sure if you wished for it, but it quickly reaches the surface. Your darkest desire of being taken over, filled with heat and pleasure…”Are you—“ You don’t even have to say it as he releases his hold on your throat, just to press his thumb on your bottom lip.

His touch is electrifying, addictive almost and your whole mind and body swirls for a moment. “A demon, that’s all what you need to know.” You almost nod your head in agreement, letting him trail his thumb across your lips, dangerously close to slipping in your warm mouth. You are puzzled by your own behavior, but you can’t fight it. The urge of him just coming a little closer to you, so you can feel more of him is strong. He can see it on your face and then there’s the subtle smile on his lips again, pouting and nodding at how much your body stops to shake. It certainly had an effect on him as wel, but the look on your tear stained face makes the hunger in him even bigger. “Or I could visit one of your friends…” He teases, though also too occupied by the feeling of his skin on yours.

“Just take me.”

You try to justify yourself, that you are doing this for them, but both of you know you want it — need it more. The fear is at the back of your head, forgotten almost replaced by the fuzzy feeling your mind is in. “Careful what you say.” He warns you again, maybe not to provoke him into doing something you didn’t want, but it flies over your head rather quickly.

His touch leaves you, but you don’t search for it as you are again left in small confusion. You know that you somehow wish for something specific, but you never thought it would come in this way. It makes you feel dirty, used already, but also it makes your nerve endings tingle. Desire for pleasure is normal for humans and you wonder how much he has seen them before. “Why me?” You ask him, surely you can’t be the only one on this night wishing.

“You intrigued me — your soul.” He says and his words hit you deeper than they should. “Calling for something to fill this hole in your chest. I can see into places that people so desperately try to keep hidden…tell me, are you hiding something Y/N?” You are taken back by the sound of your name, but you are aware that he must know you better than you know yourself.

“No…”

“Really…interesting.” The soft light creates shadows across his chiseled face, when he leans over you. “The moment I appeared…you didn’t seem so scared anymore. Does this idea of being used by a blood thirsty demon excites you?”

“No…”

The smile is tugging at your heart, a little eery in some way. “Then why can I smell your arousal from here?” You swallow roughly and you soon realize how much you have been pressing your thighs together. You can feel your slick coating your inner thighs, but the embarrassment doesn’t even reach you, because he looks like he drinks it all up. “I’m a demon of pleasure and desire, there’s no need to feel even an ounce of shame…” He is now reassuring you and his soothing voice is so different from the one you heard moments ago.

“But you’re a demon.” You state the now obvious and the statement should make you laugh in disbelief, but it only strikes you with a feeling you definitely feel shame about.

You feel the heat of his skin way before you feel the subtle touch of his hand on your exposed thigh. Goosebumps spread all over your body, swallowing your gasp at how pleasurable just this felt. “And a man still…” His fingers trail over the outer part of your thigh and your leg does jump away a little, but he was too addictive. “Doesn’t this idea of someone inhumanly powerful taking over your body and soul not excite you?” His voice is hushed and it feels so sweet in your ears.

You shake your head, though not doing anything to move away from him. “I won’t let you take my soul.” You can’t let him take the thing that makes you who you are.

“Maybe not…” Your eyes blink at him, head rolling back against the door as he straightens his back to tower over you. “But your body will be mine—“

You have now words, not even a sound leaves you, because you are left paralyzed when his hand squeezes roughly at the soft skin of thigh. Your wide eyes are staring into his, taken back by the bold move. He doesn’t have to hear any permission to touch you, it was all written right in front of him — all over you face, body and even your soul that you seem to be very sure that it will never be his. He has to wonder himself about how much this might be true, because you are responding to his touch like you have never been touched before. Just by his hand, playing with the string of your garter belt that held your white stockings leaves you gasping.

You are in trouble, you know, because you shouldn’t feel this much pleasure from the touch of a demon. However you already feel your body succumbing to him, just like he wanted. His hand travels under the thin layer of your skirt, dipping right into the mess you made of yourself. A sound leaves you unknowingly, head empty as he moves your thighs apart. The skin of your inner thighs is raw from how much you have been pressing your legs together, but you find yourself not caring anymore. With every breath you take, his hand trails higher and he bites his lip at how hot you feel against him.

His eyes travel across your face. Your eyes are barely open and he thinks he has never seen someone so away from their own mind by his moves. And obsessive, disgusting feeling washes over him, watching you sigh out in bliss as the tips of his fingers finally press over your covered clit. Your back arches a little, breasts pushing against your tight corset and he marvels over your barely covered body. “Who are you?” He asks you. You are dirty, thinking that wearing something like this in public is proper. His nature rages at the thought of anyone else seeing you like this.

You are slightly puzzled by his question, because the feeling of his hand right between your thighs is already too much for you to handle. “Christine…from Phantom of the Opera.” You response, eyes blinking open at him, just as he starts to form circles over your twitching clit.

“Adorable.”

Sharp moan flies out of your mouth, when he suddenly pulls the material of your underwear to the side. The air kisses your cunt, but it soon is warmed up by his fingers again. You are horrified of yourself right now. Why are you enjoying this? You have to remind yourself who and what is touching you, but you think nothing ever felt better. You have never made yourself and definitely not anyone else almost fall apart just by running your fingers through your folds. He is looking at you so intensely, you want to quiver. “Already this wet?” You can’t feel any shame in you and it is definite that he is making you feel like that. Should you be thankful? He is giving you sheer pleasure, circling your clit directly, after pushing the hood away from it. “Just like that, huh?” You don’t have any response for him, only whimpers of euphoria. “How long has it been?”

Your head rolls back, gasping at his touch. He knew your body better than you. Rubbing just at the perfect pace to make you crazy, pressing hard enough for your hips to buckle. Saliva gathers in your mouth, listening to the noises of your dripping center. You are so lost already that the only thing that makes you wake up is when his movements come to a stop. “What?” You say more because you didn’t want him to stop, looking back at him with big eyes and you realize he just asked you a question.

He leans closer to you, head falling on top of your shoulder so his lips are right beside your ear. He doesn’t really like to repeat himself, but being so responsive to him, he will let you do it once. “How long has it been since someone touched you?” With his question, his fingers travel down, right to your hole.

His breaths hit the sensitive skin of your neck and you have to swallow back a moan when his pointer finger just barely dips inside of you. “Long.” You confess in a whisper.

He smacks his lips, pressing them against your neck so you feel every word that comes from his mouth. “You poor thing, such a pity, but don’t worry—“ He is looking at you again, hand leaving you, making you whine a little and he can’t help but smirk a little. “I will make you feel things you have never felt before.”

With his promise, his hands find the back of your thighs, before he lifts you off your feet. You yelp from how smoothly he does it, pulling you up into his arms and you have no choice, but to wrap your legs around his waist. You are shocked by his strength, not used to being picked up so easily, staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t look away from you, even if he walks with you to your couch, not even when he lays you down on it. You feel special in this moment, drowning in the thought of him wanting you, but still his nature is not forgotten. He is made like this, he lives from the pleasure of the other.

Your head falls on the armrest, looking up at him looming over your body. He is already consuming you with his eyes alone and it feels delicious, but it sends a small sense of danger. His eyes flash red under the soft light, body clad in dark clothing perfectly contrasting with yours. Your hands are still in the air, fingers just barely grazing over his broad shoulder, but he soon leans closer to you, letting you hug him again. You feel small, vulnerable and weak, but you don’t want him to know he was right about you liking this. But, oh, trust me that he knows…

His hands grip the fabric of the couch, coming closer to you, placing his lower body right between your parted legs. Your hands seem to push him away from how bashful you have become and he surprises by not entirely rushing you. His head falls next to your neck again, slowly trailing his lips over the skin. Your breathing is formed into short gasps at his wet, soft kisses, eyes falling shut for a moment to savor the feeling. He can smell your perfume, sweat and even blood and it makes him groan quietly, kisses turning rougher, just to get closer to you. “Is this it? Is this all that you want?” You say, shivering still from his own sound.

His lips still for a second, but he doesn’t move away. “Is this what you want?” He now asks you.

You know, you don’t have to think much about your answer, but you still pause for a second. Your fingers twitch on his shoulders, legs closing around his and is it even necessary to give him an answer? The only thing you do is pull is head back down your neck, rolling your head back to give him more room, you are too embarrassed to say it out loud. He lets you, he is letting you have your way a little too much he thinks, but he can’t refuse the offer of your delicious neck.

His tongue licks a long stripe up your pulse, making you moan loudly when he starts to suck all over your neck. His bunny teeth nip lightly at your skin, fighting the argue to just bite down. He feels your nails digging into him, while he moans with you, enjoying just the taste of your skin like this. However the strong scent of your arousal is playing with his head, growling at the thought of eating your cunt. He can picture your face of ecstasy and shock all together. He would suck you all up, fuck you with his tongue and you coating his face in your pleasure.

You are shaking at how rough he nibs and sucks at your neck, the small fear of his sharp teeth piercing your quickly forming into pleasure. But before you can feel it, he releases himself from your neck to slide all the way down on the ground to kneel before you. His sharp movements always leave you in disbelief, your senses not quick enough to keep up with him. You pull yourself up to your elbows, watching him put his hands on your thighs, making your skirt pool at your waist.

Your legs are already trembling, knowing your pussy is left uncovered by his touches, but his attention is still fully on you. “White looks good on you, you almost make me feel bad that I will ruin it—“ The ‘you’ is silent, but the smirk is just a small reminder of what he is capable of.

When his eyes fall down to your cunt, he can’t help, but groan. He maybe is the one living of pleasure of the other, but what he is about to do to you is mostly for him. He doesn’t waste any time, he is inpatient and you as well as he can see from your fluttering hole. He doesn’t trail kisses over your thighs, nothing soft, nothing that you don’t want and when he pulls on your underwear, tearing the fabric he is sure that this is what you really want. It stings a little, the fabric snapping against you, before it is thrown away. His head fall between your legs so quickly your hips jump, clit hitting his nose and hard. Though even if you wanted to apologize, he didn’t seem to mind it at all, only letting his mouth fall open to suck at your folds.

“Oh…” Comes out of you, hand flying over your mouth from the feeling of his blazing, hot tongue running all over you. He spits and drools, saliva mixing with your slick and pooling right under your ass. Your hips keep jumping from the sheer and sharp pleasure. Your clit burns as it is caught between his lips. You are shocked by how quickly you feel yourself on the edge.

His head tilts back, releasing your bundle of nerves with a pop to run his tongue over your labia. Your clit twitches in need, mewing, just as he opens his eyes to stare right back at you. You can’t look away from him, from his red irises, his mouth wide open to catch every drop you give him. The pleasure and pain from his grip on your thighs forms into something else — something you haven’t felt before. You didn’t even know that just by someone going over your lips with their tongue felt so good. You swear you have never been this sensitive and he looks like that he knows exactly how to push you. He doesn’t need any guiding, nothing — he is a true man.

You can’t stop your sounds, the pleasure so good, you think you need to run away from it just to catch your breath. He doesn’t let you, his one hand pressing down against your lower stomach, preventing you from trashing around as his other goes to your hole. When his two fingers breaches you, a silent scream leaves you, your own hand flying to his to stop him, but you are already falling apart. Heat, waves of nonstop pleasure wash over you and your ears ring. Your mouth becomes dry, whimpers turning into cries, because you are sure you are going mad. You didn’t want it to end so soon, you wanted him to stop, to feel more.

Your whole body shakes wildly, the skin of your thighs jiggling around his head. You try to catch your breath while your orgasm is still washing over you, siting up to grasp at his hand. Your mouth is open, eyes now filled with tears, pleading and he watches you in your full glory. “I’m not stopping.” He says, words you so desperately needed to hear vibrating against you, fingers scissoring in you.

You immediately fall back down in relief and you can feel his crazed smile against you. The orgasm is none stopping. You don’t know if it’s because he isn’t stopping or if it was just him, but it is a out of body experience. Your hands press against your eyes, moaning wildly as his fingers pick up speed, tongue not stopping to move your clit up and down. He suck just perfectly, curl his fingers just right and doesn’t stop to take a breath nor to change position — he knows what he is doing. You push your legs up to your chest slightly, wrapping them around his head and the sight is to die for.

His eyebrows are furrowed, hand on your stomach searching for yours to put it in his hair. You instantly run your fingers through his soft hair, before tugging roughly and the deep growl that seems to make the whole room shake, sends you over the edge again. It is stronger, more burning and even painful and he eat it right up. You go silent again, eyes rolling into the back of your head and you pull his head with you also. You do hear him release himself from your messy, puffy cunt, just to watch you fall apart again. You don’t need him to help you ride out your orgasm, it was too good to not let it take over your whole being again.

The taste of you is on his tastebuds, licking at his lips hungrily, before crawling over your body. Your skin is hotter, almost like his and his cock pushes painfully against his pants at your drunk state. You looked beautiful…he needs to have you now. His hand moves your hair away from your sweaty face, making you finally open your blurry eyes. “Kiss me.” You say, hands pulling at the hairs on the back of his neck.

You haven’t seen much emotion on his face before, but this felt unnatural. It was just a split second, but you saw it — disappointment. “I can’t.” He says, shaking his head. His eyes held longing, but he makes you forget about this whole moment by kissing you on your collarbone.

You sigh, pressing your chest closer to him, just as he begins to trail down the valley of your breasts. “Can I at least have your name?” His lips wrap around the soft skin of your breast, sucking it in his mouth.

You hiss, pushing at his head. He sucked a little too hard, maybe telling you something by his action, but before you can question it he glances at you back again. “Minho.” He tells you his name, looking into your eyes as you repeat it softly back. You stare at each other for a moment, you moving around a little and just by it you graze over his bulge. Your leg stops in middle of his legs, gaze still unmoving, even if you press your thigh against him. It makes him hiss and you gasp a the sheer size of it. You can see your own desire reflecting in his eyes and he just couldn’t wait anymore.

His hands fly over to his belt, watching you watching his hands as he works to unbuckle his pants. You are holding your breath as he stands up to push down his pants. Your legs immediately press back together as you finally see him. Your lips parted, drooling almost at the size of his cock. Thick, long, veiny, a little curved just to hit those spots deep inside of you with an angry red mushroom tip covered in cum. You are breathing heavier from just the thought of him splitting you open and ruining you for everyone after him.

Minho is breathing through his nose to take in the smell of your emotions, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and when you sit up, pulling down your skirt, he marvels over the sight of your body covered just in corset and stockings. You looked heavenly funnily enough. When he pushes his shirt from his shoulders you sigh at his muscular body — he was simply perfect. “Turn around.” He demands, voice so low you almost do a double take and when you don’t do immediately as he says, he just does it for you.

He moves you down the couch, turning your body around so your face is pressed into the cushion. Your ass raises in instinct and it grates you a smack across your right cheek. You cry into the couch, the soft skin rippling under his eyes. Then it’s his cock, slapping against you, before laying it flat between your asscheeks. “Fuck, look at that, I’m gonna split this little pussy apart.” You moan back at him, already hazy from just him humping against you teasingly. “Think you can handle it? Oh, you will, all of it—“ He is basically talking to himself right now, already drunk on you.

You are a little concerned, you have never taken something so big, but the thought of him not fucking you dumb is making you whimper like a bitch in heat. You don’t even recognize yourself. You press your ass back at him and Minho only slaps you again, but he finally at that guides his cock to your entrance. The sight of his precum mixing with yours is sending him over the edge, not believing that you are letting him fuck you raw, even if he sees it in the back of your mind. It makes him pull your head back roughly, wanting to watch you crumble on his cock.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, seeing the wild look in his eyes, pretty lips forming into ‘O’ as he finally pushes his tip inside of you. Just that is already too much, but you subconsciously push your hips back at him, swallowing another inch. He lets you adjust, because the way he will fuck you — you will need it. With only hallway through you already feel full to the brim, him already pressing against your cervix, but he is determined to fit all in. He knows you can do it and just after few moments, your ass is finally perfectly flush with his pubic bone.

Your walls suck him right in, wet, warm and soft. He wonders if he is the one being enchanted right now. His hand trails over the string of your garter belt again, loving the way it digs into your ass from how much you arch for him. Minho leans over you again, making him press into you even deeper and he sharply exhale at his tip basically breaks your cervix. “Feel that?” His hand falls down to press at the bulge on your lower tummy. “I’m in your fucking stomach that’s how fucking deep I am—“

“M-Minho—“ He enjoys his name falling from your mouth so much that he accidentally pushes a little too hard against your stomach. To his surprise you only moan louder, hips pushing against him. An open wide smile stretches across his face, watching you move your ass against him.

Your movements are put into stop rather quickly as he pulls out, before pushing into you again with a deep, long thrust. Your mouth is wide open, drooling on the couch already. You feel an abnormal tingling sensation, with his every move of his and with everything that happened that led to this moment it felt worth it. Your pussy molds into a form of his cock, making him smoothly pick up his pace. His one leg on the couch and the other on the ground gives him leverage and with the first sharp thrust of his, you both moan, the sound perfectly mixing with the wet slaps of your skins.

It’s not soft or loving, it’s hard. cock pushing with every move even deeper into you if it’s possible. You are too far gone to do anything other than to take him, your own hand pressing against the bulge in your stomach. It’s sickening how much you enjoy feeling his cock run into you under your hand. Minho has to hiss with every trust in your swollen cunt, hands pinching at your ass and pulling at the strings digging into you. “So g-good— ah!” Your face buries back into the couch, when he snaps at the string, skin burning.

Minho is literally going mad, thrust so harsh, that the couch rocks a little under you both. You can’t believe how much you enjoy feeling pain mixed with pleasure just like he enjoys doing it. The sight of your ass bouncing, hands tearing the material under you and mostly your sounds — he knows that he has to have you someday again. His hand pulls at your hair again, not even missing a beat as he pulls you to his chest. You can’t hold yourself on your own and he helps you rather kindly, with his hand on your neck again, but now he is not being gentle. “Fucking look at you—“ He laughs at your fucked out face staring up at him and he knows he is not looking any better. “Ever thought you would enjoy a demon cock this much?” You choke around the hand on your throat, legs shaking under you. He needs to see more of you, all of you. So he quickly pull out of you, not missing a beat and turning you around to lay you on your back again. You can’t even grumble, because he is inside you back again and the view you have is better than you could’ve asked for.

You don’t say anything, when he rips through the front of your corset, tits spilling out and bouncing immediately with his none stop movements. He spits down right at your nipple, making you gasp at how sensitive it is, feeling his thumb smear the liquid all over you, marking you. Your own hands dig into his hard chest, droopy eyes catching his, before he goes down to your neck, now biting roughly. It makes you arch your back, his sharp teeth piercing you and it doesn’t even hurt half as much as you thought it would.

Moaning, Minho licks at the small drops of blood, eyes rolling back into his head at your sweet taste. Everything about you was so fucking sweet, he can’t believe his own luck right now. Your nipples catch on his, letting you hug him close to you and with the trembling in your legs, he knows you are nearing your orgasm again. “I-I am close—“ You can’t even voice out your words with his rapid moves, feeling yourself drip down on the couch. Your clit rubs deliciously over his pubic bone and with you walls spasming you can feel him twitching inside of you, knowing that he’s getting close too. You just need so desperately something to get you over the edge, something that would make this experience even better and soon those words are spilling out of you. “P-please….kiss me.” You whimper in his ear.

Minho pulls away from your neck, seeing small smear of your blood on those plump lips. “I-I can’t.” He repeats the same words to you and you can’t help, but cry.

“Why?”

“It will tie us together, a kiss will ties us together and you will have to be mine forever.”

He is loosing himself, never he had thought about kissing someone, but yours lips — so perfectly bitten and definitely sweet as every part of you are calling his name. You hear his words, you realize what he is saying, but why would any of you want to end this so soon?

“I want it, I truly want it, Minho—“ Your hands press against each side of his flushed face, his eyes wide, going between your eyes and lips, before he finally leans in.

The whole room around you seems to be set on fire around you, tongues tangling around each other. You taste yourself on his lips and mostly him. You are moaning into him, biting down on his lip, like he did to your neck and he groans lowly when your own teeth breach his skin, mixing your blood now with his. “I’m yours—“ You mumble between kisses, just as you fall apart on him, squeezing him. Minho can’t help, but smile into the kiss, hips stilling as his cock swells, twitching inside of you. He fills with his warm cum, not stopping at kissing you. He will be here every day and every night like this for you and for himself, for eternity, because he found something more pleasure than anything else he ever knew.

And that was you.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: How to Escape a Kingdom || Silver Vanrouge

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a bad novel. The prince is awful. The villainess is worse. The only thing keeping you going is your gorgeous, tired fiancé, Silver Vanrouge.

Series Masterlist

You prided yourself on being a good friend. A great friend, even. The kind of friend who remembered birthdays, hyped up questionable outfit choices, and provided alibis without asking too many questions. But as you stared at the abomination that was your best friend’s first novel, you began to reconsider your life choices.

The book sat in your lap like a lead weight, its aggressively pastel cover mocking you with every passing second. You had read it. You had survived it. But at what cost?

It had started as a simple enough premise: Silver, Duke of the North, was engaged to the heroine. A heroine so naively pure that if someone told her oxygen was a scam, she’d hold her breath until she passed out. The main villains were the neglected fifth prince and his fiancée, the villainess.

The villainess wanted Silver, but Silver wanted nothing to do with her. The fifth prince wanted the heroine, but the heroine, lacking two functional brain cells to rub together, had no idea what was going on.

And then things went completely off the rails.

Somehow, in a sequence of events that you were still trying to understand, Silver got shipped off to an unwinnable war and promptly died. The villainess mysteriously vanished (???), and then—without explanation—the heroine and the prince got married. The end.

You closed the book with the slow, deliberate movements of someone trying not to hurl it through a window. You inhaled deeply. You exhaled through your nose like a dragon trying not to incinerate a village.

You placed the book on the table.

Then you pressed your forehead against the table and contemplated your existence.

Tomorrow, you had to meet your best friend. You had to look them in the eye and tell them what you thought. You had to lie. Or worse—tell the truth.

You did not want to do this.

You needed divine intervention. A bolt of lightning, a sudden coma, a wormhole opening up beneath your feet.

As you walked to their house the next day, still praying for salvation, the universe finally answered.

Unfortunately, it did so in the form of a feral, airborne raccoon.

You were minding your own business, walking past a trashcan, when—BAM. A raccoon launched itself at you with the force of a caffeinated cryptid. There was no warning. No time to react. Just a blur of fur and the sheer weight of your sins crashing into your face.

Startled, you screamed, stumbled, and in a tragic display of physics and poor life choices, tumbled backwards—directly into the trashcan.

The lid snapped shut.

You flailed. You kicked. You thought, Wow, this is really happening, huh?

Then, to add insult to injury, the trashcan began to roll.

With you inside it.

You careened down the street, a human burrito of garbage and regret, before hitting a curb at just the right angle to be yeeted violently into the air.

There was a moment—just a moment—where time slowed, and you thought, Well. At least I don’t have to tell them anymore.

You woke up with that distinct, gnawing feeling that something was off.

It wasn’t the usual I forgot to send an email kind of off. No, this was the I am in the wrong dimension kind of off.

First of all, the bed was too big. Not just luxurious hotel big, but dear God, am I a Victorian orphan who got adopted by a morally gray billionaire? big.

Second, the air smelled clean. Not the comforting, familiar scent of your slightly questionable apartment, where the air carried the faint traces of instant ramen and the existential despair of adulthood.

Third—why was there noise?

You lived alone. The only other living creature that occasionally graced your presence was that one cockroach you had an unspoken truce with. So unless Mr. Roach had recently acquired sentience and thrown himself a rager, someone else was here.

Panic kicked in. You bolted upright, turned your head—this was absolutely not your home.

The walls were pristine. The curtains looked expensive. There was a vanity table. The entire place screamed old money, like the kind of place where people casually owned oil paintings of their ancestors who may or may not have committed tax fraud.

You shot out of bed so fast you nearly concussed yourself on the nearest piece of furniture. Your feet hit the floor. You sprinted to the mirror, skidded to a stop, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Staring back at you was a person. A person you knew. A person whose entire personality consisted of:

Being impossibly, devastatingly naïve.

Trusting people so fast she’d probably accept a drink labeled 'Not Poison' because "surely no one would lie about that."

Having the observational skills of a decorative cactus.

You were the heroine.

A low, horrified whimper escaped your throat. You sank to the floor, trembling hands pressing into your face.

This was a nightmare. A cruel joke. A divine punishment for every time you had talked smack about the heroine’s IQ in your past life.

The girl who had the critical thinking skills of a potato. The girl whose brain you had long suspected was running exclusively on the Baby Shark song on loop.

And now you were her.

You exhaled shakily, pressing your forehead against the cool floor.

You had survived death. You had defied the natural order.

And for what?

To be reincarnated as a human goldfish with no object permanence?

You were going to die.

Again.

Before you could shake your fist at the heavens and demand an explanation for your untimely demise (courtesy of an overly aggressive raccoon and an unfortunately placed trash can), you needed to do what all great strategists did when thrown into an unwinnable situation: panic internally while pretending you had a plan.

You knew this story. You knew its plot holes were deeper than a budget dungeon crawl, and its character motivations made less sense than a pigeon with a degree in economics. But you had an advantage—foreknowledge. And by the gods, you were going to use it.

The first step? Establishing yourself as Not an Idiot™.

The second step? Ensuring you did not, under any circumstances, end up falling for the fifth prince’s brand of bootleg romantic villainy.

The third step? Avoiding an untimely death like the last protagonist (RIP Silver, Duke of the North, gone but never forgotten).

With this sacred checklist in mind, you marched outside, determined to assert control over your fate—

—only to be immediately ambushed by a squadron of highly trained maids who descended upon you like a swarm of fabric-wielding locusts.

You barely had time to register their presence before you were stripped, perfumed, corseted, and shoved into an outfit so elaborate that it probably required its own construction permit. There were lace trimmings, unnecessary bows, and a pair of shoes so polished you could see your rapidly growing sense of existential dread reflected in them.

You were officially trapped in Victorian Dress-Up Hell.

And then, as if things couldn’t get worse, you were dragged straight to breakfast with your fiancé.

Now, normally, this would be the part where you started screaming. But then you remembered who your fiancé was.

Silver. Duke of the North. The only well-written character in the entire dumpster fire of a novel. A man of honor, competence, and stunning good looks.

Stunning good looks?

That was putting it lightly.

The moment you walked into the dining room, you had to physically stop yourself from gasping like some sort of Victorian maiden experiencing her first bout of hysteria.

Because dear gods above and below—how was he even prettier than his book illustration?!

This was unfair. Illegal. You wanted to file a formal complaint to whatever divine entity was responsible for sculpting this man.

His eyes were closed, silver lashes resting against his cheeks, and you thought—if Sleeping Beauty ever existed, this would be him. A prince of ethereal beauty, untouched by the sins of the world.

And then his eyes fluttered open, revealing a shade that can only be described as 'auroral', and you had to actively bite the inside of your cheek to avoid making a noise so embarrassing that you would have to immediately fake your own death to escape the consequences.

Silver, unaware of your minor cardiac event, blinked at you in mild surprise before rising to pull out your chair. Like a gentleman. Like a man raised with actual etiquette.

Oh. Oh, you were in danger.

Swallowing down the entirely inappropriate reaction threatening to burst forth, you sat down and focused on eating. Silver, as always, was polite and composed, and just when you thought you could make it through breakfast without incident—

He mentioned the prince and the villainess were visiting today.

You must have made a face because he immediately looked concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You usually enjoy their visits.”

Ah. Right. The original heroine was an idiot who thought being terrorized by a manipulative prince with daddy issues and a deranged villainess was fun.

You plastered on your best "I am absolutely thrilled" smile and forced out a chipper, “I can’t wait.”

Silver, bless his soul, nodded.

Internally, you were already constructing an elaborate plan to ensure that the prince got the message loud and clear: you were NOT interested.

And if that involved metaphorically throwing him off a metaphorical cliff?

Well. You had no objections.

The moment the Fifth Prince and the Villainess walked into the room, you instinctively tightened your grip on Silver’s sleeve like a soldier preparing for war. Because that’s exactly what this was—a battle. A battle of wits, patience, and trying very hard not to start swinging the nearest porcelain teapot.

The prince, in all his bootleg Casanova glory, approached first, his slick hair practically radiating the arrogance of a man who had never been told “no” in his entire life. His regal posture was flawless, his smirk expertly practiced in front of a mirror for at least five hours a day, and his eyes held the glint of a man who truly believed women were won like prizes at a rigged carnival game.

He reached for your hand, expecting you to giggle like a brainless debutante and let him hold it for an amount of time that was definitely pushing social norms.

Instead, you gripped his hand like a corporate executive about to close a high-stakes business deal. One firm shake. Then, for good measure, you slapped him on the back with the solid force of a man congratulating his buddy on a promotion.

“Good to see you, pal,” you said, voice brimming with friendly aggression.

The prince, visibly malfunctioning, blinked. “I—”

But you were already moving, looping your arm through Silver’s and pressing close to his side like you were the world’s most affectionate barnacle.

Silver, bless his chivalrous heart, barely hesitated before holding your hand firmly in return, his grip warm and steady. You had to physically restrain yourself from letting out a deranged, victorious giggle at the look on the prince’s face. He was staring at your interlocked hands like someone had just stolen his dessert plate right in front of him.

Oh, what a shame. What a tragedy. You almost felt bad.

Almost.

Then came the villainess.

She strutted forward, all sharp smiles and predatory grace, her heavily perfumed presence announcing itself like a nuclear bomb made of floral overkill. Without hesitation, she reached for Silver’s arm, her movements slow, deliberate—

Silver, in response, immediately took a step back like she had just pulled out a vial labeled “Highly Contagious Disease—Do Not Touch.”

You had never respected a man more in your life.

With the efficiency of someone handling a customer complaint, you smoothly stepped between them and took her hand instead. One quick shake—firm, professional, just detached enough to say I acknowledge you exist but not in any way that brings me joy.

She stared at you, visibly seething, like a cat that had just been denied access to the good couch.

Behind you, Silver sighed in such obvious relief that you were pretty sure you just secured a place in his will.

Tea time was, predictably, a disaster.

The prince kept attempting to flirt with you, hitting you with lines so cringeworthy that they could legally be classified as psychological warfare. Every time he tried, you shot him down with the efficiency of a seasoned HR manager rejecting an office romance scandal.

Meanwhile, the villainess was shamelessly trying to touch Silver, leaning in with the dramatic flair of a woman in a period drama who had just found out she had two months to live. Silver, for his part, looked two seconds away from either falling asleep or astral projecting out of sheer discomfort.

By the time they finally left, you had experienced the emotional equivalent of running a full marathon while being chased by geese.

Silver, apparently just as exhausted, slumped onto you like a marionette whose strings had just been brutally severed.

You sat there, unmoving, staring at the top of his head like you had just been gifted an extremely delicate and beautiful artifact. His silver hair was soft, his breathing slow and steady, and—

Oh. You were in danger again.

Future plans. Right. Focus.

You sat there, contemplating your next move like a war general preparing for battle. Clearly, Operation I Am Not Interested, Your Highness was off to a strong start. But you needed a long-term strategy. A game plan. A—

Silver stirred.

You glanced down, just in time to see his eyes flutter open, confusion evident in the soft furrow of his brow. Then he blinked. Looked around. Realized he was half-sprawled across your lap.

A deep red blush spread across his face like ink soaking into parchment. “I—I’m so sorry—”

You, feeling absolutely no shame about using this opportunity to appreciate just how stunning this man was, smiled. “It’s okay.”

Silver looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and never return.

And as you gazed at him—this rare creature of beauty and genuine kindness, blushing like he was the maiden in distress—you thought, It has to be illegal to be this pretty AND nice.

And then, in true romantic fashion, you immediately started plotting ways to keep him as far away from the main plot as possible

You had, to put it simply, absolutely nothing to do.

After successfully fending off the Fifth Prince’s attempts at romance and blocking the Villainess like a medieval goalie, your schedule was depressingly empty. No political meetings. No noble drama. Just you, a very comfortable chair, and the creeping existential dread of living inside a book with a plot so brain-cell-depleting that it should come with a warning label.

So, naturally, you decided to go watch Silver train.

And damn.

You thought you were prepared. You really did. But watching Silver train was a completely different beast from reading about it in the novel.

The way his sword cut through the air? Poetry.

The way his muscles flexed as he parried and countered? Divine artistry.

The way he casually knocked his opponents to the ground while offering them helpful advice like, “You left your right side open. Try shifting your stance” as if he hadn’t just folded them like cheap laundry? Criminal.

You found yourself wishing for one of those tiny opera glasses so you could watch this in HD. Maybe even a chaise lounge so you could dramatically swoon at the appropriate moments.

But you settled for the next best thing—sitting with a cold bottle of water, pretending you weren’t staring at him like an awestruck peasant witnessing a deity descend from the heavens.

Silver eventually noticed your presence and, being the kind soul that he was, immediately came over. Probably to check if you were in distress because, let’s be honest, the original heroine never did anything without needing someone’s help five minutes later.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, eyes filled with genuine concern.

You blinked. “Nope. Just brought you this.”

You handed him the water, and— oh. Oh, wow. Was he blushing?

“I—thank you,” Silver said, taking the bottle with a kind of stunned hesitation, as if no one had ever done something nice for him before. Which, honestly, in this novel? Entirely possible.

“Well, since you’re bored,” he continued, after taking a drink, “would you like to take a walk around town?”

You nodded. Because, really, what else were you going to do? Stare at a wall? Accidentally trigger a romance flag with the prince by breathing in his general direction? No, thank you.

The town was bustling. People were selling overpriced trinkets, children were running around with the manic energy of creatures that had never paid taxes, and the smell of fresh bread filled the air.

You were browsing a suspiciously glittery hat stall when you saw it—a tiny fortune-telling booth, tucked between a bakery and a store selling the kind of weapons that definitely weren’t legally registered.

“Want to check that out?” you asked Silver, jerking your head toward the booth.

Silver, because he was down for anything as long as it didn’t involve unnecessary drama, nodded.

The fortune teller was exactly what you expected. Mysterious robes? Check. Hood obscuring half their face? Check. A table full of random, ominous objects? Check. A single, gnarled hand that slowly reached out the moment you sat down? Horrifying, but also check.

“Your fate is… twisting.” The fortune teller’s voice was dramatic, like they got paid per cryptic sentence. “You must learn to change your destiny. And… most importantly… you must learn how to say no.”

You and Silver exchanged looks.

“…Huh?”

The fortune teller did not elaborate. They simply leaned back, looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

Well. That was unhelpful.

You both stood up, ready to leave when—

“Oh,” the fortune teller added, just as you were stepping out. “Good luck with your romance.”

You and Silver froze.

The air became so thick with tension that you could probably cut it with one of the overpriced swords from earlier.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you made eye contact.

Silver, visibly flustered, stared very hard at a distant fruit stand.

You, on the other hand, suddenly found a deep, profound interest in the cobblestone street, as if it held the answers to life’s mysteries.

The entire walk home was excruciating. Not because of anything bad—no, because your brains were both melting from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

Every time your hands almost brushed, one of you would jolt like you’d been electrocuted.

At one point, Silver cleared his throat awkwardly.

At another, you tripped on absolutely nothing and had to pretend it didn’t happen.

By the time you got back, you were convinced that the fortune teller wasn’t actually magical, just a professional-level troll who lived for drama.

And you, unfortunately, had walked straight into it.

It was a perfectly peaceful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and for once, you weren’t being subjected to the medieval drama equivalent of a telenovela.

So, naturally, fate decided to drop-kick that peace into the sun.

One moment, you were lounging in the garden, enjoying the fleeting calm, and the next—

A shadow descended upon you. Something small, fast, and full of chaotic energy launched itself from the goddamn sky.

You barely had time to react before you were two inches away from seeing God again.

By some miracle (or the sheer will of your survival instincts), you managed to not die as a tiny, incredibly energetic man landed in front of you, grinning like he hadn’t just almost assassinated you with his entrance.

“Oops!” he chirped, not looking apologetic at all. “Did I scare you?”

Scare you? Sir, you had aged ten years and seen your life flash before your eyes like a badly edited PowerPoint presentation.

“Who—” you gasped, still processing your near-death experience, “—who are you?”

The menace placed a hand on his chest, dramatic as hell. “Nice to meet you, future daughter-in-law!”

Oh. Oh.

So this was Silver’s dad.

You had to take a moment. Because one—this man did not look like anyone’s dad. He looked like someone’s mischievous younger brother who steals your socks and sets them on fire for fun. And two—Silver was so calm and gentle and responsible.

How?

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN??

Genetics had to be playing 4D chess.

But you quickly discovered that while Lilia was absolutely, certifiably insane, he was also hilarious.

So, like any normal people, you both immediately started talking mad shit about the Fifth Prince and the Villainess.

“Can you believe,” you huffed, sipping your tea like an 18th-century noble gossiping at a ball, “that the Prince keeps trying to flirt with me in front of Silver? In public? With witnesses?”

Lilia cackled. “That boy has no shame. And his fiancée—gods above, she has the personality of a spoon.”

You nearly choked on your tea. “RIGHT?? And she keeps trying to touch Silver like he’s a limited-edition collectible.”

Lilia grinned. “Well, he is handsome.”

“Yeah, but he’s not touchable handsome. He’s look from afar and cry a little handsome.”

“Ah, so you cry when you look at him?”

“…I— I feel like I’m being entrapped by my own words.”

“What are you two talking about?”

You both turned to see Silver standing there, looking… confused.

You, ever the graceful conversationalist, froze like you had been caught committing treason.

Lilia, on the other hand, looked positively delighted.

“Oh, just talking about our beloved Crown Prince,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm so thick you could butter toast with it.

Silver blinked. His eyes slowly drifted to you.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Your dad and I were just bonding over our deep, mutual hatred.”

There was a pause. And then—

Silver smiled.

Not just any smile. A pleased smile. The kind of smile you’d expect from a man who just found out his worst enemy stepped on a rake.

Which. Well.

Considering the Crown Prince was his worst enemy, that checked out.

Unfortunately, the moment of camaraderie didn’t last.

Because Lilia, with the delight of someone about to ruin your entire month, dropped a bombshell.

“Oh, by the way,” he said casually, like he wasn’t about to wreck your day, “war is brewing. The Prince wants Silver to go to the front lines.”

You stopped breathing.

Your blood turned to ice.

The original heroine had been all for it—saying some nonsense about how it was the right thing to do and how Silver should go save lives.

You?

You were NOT that kind of saint.

You were going to beg.

You were going to grovel.

You were going to throw yourself onto the ground like a soccer player faking an injury if you had to.

Silver was NOT going to war.

Lilia was watching you now, a knowing smile on his face.

You were too busy plotting your fiancé’s survival to care.

You had barely finished your morning tea when trouble arrived at your doorstep, wrapped in a cloak of audacity and bad financial decisions.

See, apparently, the previous owner of your body had the charitable sense of a malfunctioning Roomba. She’d give money to anything that sounded remotely good. Orphanage? Sure! Rehabilitation center? Fantastic! An organization claiming to rescue drowning fish? Take all of it.

And now, since you had not been throwing bags of gold at questionable "charities" like a medieval Jeff Bezos with a conscience, someone had come personally to shake you down.

The man standing in front of you was the exact type of person who looked like he belonged in a back alley deal gone wrong. He had the thin mustache of a man who thought twirling it made him look menacing and the beady eyes of someone who’d absolutely try to sell you "magic beans" at a 500% markup.

"You!" he sneered, pointing a bony finger at you like he was about to curse your entire bloodline. "Why have you ceased your donations to the Sacred Order of the Benevolent Fish Saviors? Do you not care for the plight of the aquatic brethren?"

You stared at him, unblinking.

“…Are you seriously trying to convince me that fish can drown?”

"The oceans are a dangerous place!" he snapped, voice thick with righteous fury. "Only the kindhearted can understand the delicate balance of aquatic life—”

"Alright, shut up." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "No more money. Get a real job. Touch some grass. Read a book that isn’t written by con artists."

You thought that would be the end of it. Oh, how wrong you were.

Because instead of groveling like any normal scam artist when their grift gets cut off, this man decided to take the most insane course of action possible—he lunged at you.

Now, let’s get one thing straight. You were ready to commit a crime. Your 4-inch heels were locked, loaded, and prepared to introduce themselves to his ribcage. But you didn’t even get the chance.

Because before you could react, something blurred at the edge of your vision—

CRACK.

The next thing you knew, the man was frozen in place, his wrist locked in an iron grip, and standing beside you was Silver.

Silver, who you hadn’t even noticed entering the room.

Silver, whose grip looked firm enough to end generations.

Silver, who just made a grown man sound like a dying accordion.

The scammer wheezed, his face rapidly losing color as he tried and failed to wrench himself free.

Silver’s expression? Calm. Unbothered. Serene, even. Like he hadn’t just manhandled this guy into an early retirement.

“…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack my fiancée,” Silver said, voice so polite that it somehow made everything ten times more terrifying.

You blinked. You could physically hear the bones in the scammer’s arm considering a career change.

Silver finally let go—shoving him toward the door like he was disposing of a particularly annoying mosquito. The man stumbled out, barely managing to stay upright, and within seconds, he was sprinting off the property like the devil himself was on his heels.

When Silver turned back to you, he looked almost sheepish. "…Sorry you had to see that," he murmured. "I don’t usually act like that in front of others."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Because what were you supposed to say to that?

“Oh no, Silver, that was awful. Truly terrible. In fact, I definitely did not find it insanely attractive when you nearly broke a man’s wrist for me.”

Yeah, no way in hell were you admitting that.

Instead, you just smiled, folding your hands neatly in front of you. "No, no, it’s fine. No need to apologize."

Silver still looked vaguely guilty. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard to resist the urge to start giggling like a schoolgirl.

Because holy shit.

Was it legal to be this attractive AND chivalrous?

If Silver kept this up, you were going to have a serious problem.

The ball was grand, elegant, and, most importantly, the single biggest waste of your time since you once spent two hours watching a documentary about the history of forks.

You had already resigned yourself to being bored out of your mind when Lilia swooped in like the guardian angel you never asked for and dragged you to a shadowy corner of the ballroom. This was, according to him, the best place to engage in the most sacred of all noble pastimes—people-watching and ruthless judgment.

And what a show it was.

"Oh, oh, look at that one!" Lilia cackled, nearly doubling over as he pointed at a woman who had, in a bold and truly ill-advised move, decided to wear a dress that looked like a monochrome cake. "She looks like she repurposed a funeral veil!"

You took a sip of your drink and nearly spit it out. "Lilia, that dress has committed war crimes against fashion."

"The ruffles! The sleeves! It’s like someone asked themselves, ‘How do I make this look as unflattering as possible?’ and then succeeded beyond their wildest dreams," he added.

You continued this noble pursuit for a solid fifteen minutes, giggling over outfits that defied both reason and taste. The two of you had just started critiquing a man who looked like he had raided a circus wardrobe when your night took a dramatic turn for the worse. The prince—His Royal Unwantedness—had spotted you.

You watched in horror as he began striding over, each step dripping with the unearned confidence of a man who had never been told "absolutely not" in his entire life except by his father. This was a man who probably thought women fainted at the mere sight of him when, in reality, they were most likely collapsing from secondhand embarrassment.

Lilia’s expression shifted instantly. The usual mischievous twinkle in his eyes vanished, replaced by something cold and sharp. He looked ready to commit several crimes, and you were tempted to let him.

But no. You were mature. You were reasonable. You were absolutely about to handle this like a professional.

So you winked at Lilia and whispered, "Relax. I got this."

The prince didn’t bother with pleasantries when he arrived, because of course he didn’t. "Dance with me," he said, because why waste time on politeness when you can just issue demands like a badly written romance villain?

You took his hand with a practiced, polite smile. "Of course, Your Highness," you said sweetly, the verbal equivalent of setting a trap and waiting for him to fall right in.

The dance started off normally enough. The prince led you across the ballroom, his movements controlled and graceful. Unfortunately, any illusion of elegance was immediately ruined by the fact that he would not stop staring at you. Not in the way Silver did, all soft and careful, but like he was trying to figure out if you were edible.

"You seem different tonight," he said, voice oozing with forced charm. "More… confident."

You forced out a laugh that you hoped conveyed the exact right amount of fake amusement. "And you seem exactly the same, Your Highness."

If he noticed the insult, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he pulled you just a little closer. That was his first mistake.

His second mistake came when his hand decided to wander lower than what was remotely appropriate.

Your reaction was immediate. You didn’t even think—your knee just shot up with the force of divine judgment.

And oh, what a glorious moment it was.

The prince let out a strangled sound somewhere between a dying peacock and a man realizing all his hopes and dreams had just been shattered. He crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, collapsing into himself as the entire ballroom fell into stunned silence.

For one perfect, breathtaking moment, nobody spoke.

Then you gasped dramatically, placing a delicate hand over your mouth like the very picture of innocent devastation. "Oh my goodness!" you exclaimed, voice laced with the perfect amount of fake concern. "I was simply startled when you touched me there! I had no idea you were so close!"

The Empress, who had been watching this whole scene unfold with the same expression one might wear when realizing their soup had a cockroach in it, took a single look at her son, let out a long, exhausted sigh, and then turned on her heel and left the ballroom. She didn’t even glance back.

Somewhere behind you, Lilia was laughing so hard he had to physically clutch a pillar for support.

Before you could bask in your triumph, a warm, familiar presence appeared at your side.

Silver.

"Are you alright?" he asked, voice quiet but firm.

You nodded, still recovering from the sheer joy of watching the prince—His Royal Lowness— collapse like a sandcastle at high tide. "I’m fine," you assured him.

Silver, ever thorough, scanned you with a careful gaze, double-checking for any signs of distress. Apparently satisfied, he slowly turned his attention to the prince, who was still on the floor making noises that sounded vaguely like whimpering.

Silver’s face remained neutral, but the sheer force of his glare was something otherworldly. You were surprised the prince hadn’t just spontaneously combusted on the spot.

Lilia sauntered up beside you and, with the most casual nonchalance in the world, lifted his hand and gave you a perfectly subtle high-five.

Falling in love with Silver was not something you had planned for. It wasn’t even something you had remotely considered, because falling for a fictional character—even one brought to life by the absurdity of your existence—was stupid.

And yet, here you were. Doomed.

It had started subtly, like a slow-acting poison. You’d watch him train and catch yourself admiring the way he moved, graceful and disciplined, like a warrior from some epic tale.

Then it got worse. A white bunny hopping through the garden? That looks like Silver. A particularly stunning sunset, lilac and soft? Those are Silver’s eyes. A suspiciously sharp knife on the dinner table? Silver has a sharp sword.

There was no escape. The entire world had transformed into a living scrapbook of Silver-Themed Hallucinations, and it was ruining you.

You couldn’t sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, there he was—standing under the moonlight, holding your hand, looking at you like you were something precious. It was unbearable.

Which brought you to now.

You were sitting at a tea party, drowning in a state of sleep deprivation so severe that you were genuinely considering just face-planting into your teacup and accepting whatever fate awaited you. The sunlight was too bright, the air was too floral, and the pastries tasted like nothing. Everything sucked.

And then, because the universe hated you, the villainess approached.

She had the smug, self-satisfied look of someone who had never had a single original thought in her life. "Oh dear," she said, voice dripping with saccharine mockery, "you look absolutely dreadful today. Has your precious Duke been keeping you up all night?"

Usually, you would have handled this with grace. A snide remark, a well-placed jab, maybe even an eyeroll so dramatic it would have sent you into another timeline.

But not today.

Today, you were tired.

Today, you were grappling with a full-scale emotional crisis.

Today, you had reached your limit.

So, instead of responding like a rational, civilized person, you calmly reached for the nearest cup of juice, lifted it with all the dignity of a noblewoman, and threw it directly at her face.

The liquid splashed over her dress, staining the expensive fabric a deep, unforgiving red.

Silence. Absolute silence.

Her mouth opened, presumably to shriek, but you were not done.

Before she could get a word out, you grabbed her by the collar, yanking her forward so she could fully comprehend the depths of your unholy exhaustion.

"The next time you run your mouth," you said, voice dangerously low, "you might just end up meeting God."

Her eyes widened in pure, unfiltered terror.

Oh, but you weren’t finished. You gave her collar a final, dramatic tug. "And keep your hands off my fiancé."

Then, with the grandeur of a war general who had just claimed victory, you released her, turned on your heel, and stormed out.

Silver, who had witnessed everything, stared at you as though you had just set the entire kingdom on fire.

You grabbed his wrist, ignoring the way he flinched in bewilderment, and dragged him out with you.

You didn’t stop until you were safely inside the carriage, away from prying eyes, and only then did you collapse onto the seat, pressing your hands against your face.

Silver sat beside you, still looking utterly shell-shocked. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, clearly struggling to form a single coherent thought.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slowly reached for your hand. His touch was warm, steady—like an anchor. "What’s wrong?" he asked softly.

And that was it. The last thread of your restraint snapped.

Before you could even think about stopping yourself, you turned to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

It was immediate. There was no hesitation, no moment of confusion. Silver kissed you back like he had been waiting for this his whole life. His hands moved to cradle your face, gentle but firm, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

You didn’t know how long it lasted—time had ceased to exist—but when you finally pulled away, your heart was a mess.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment crush you. "I love you," you admitted, voice raw. "And I have been suffering."

Silver’s eyes widened, but only for a moment. Then, with a sudden, almost breathless laugh, he leaned in again. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips, "so much."

And then he kissed you again.

Take that, villainess.

There were many things you did not want to deal with first thing in the morning.

A war? Absolutely not.

A war involving Silver? Somebody was going to die.

You groaned as you dragged yourself out of bed at the noise downstairs, feeling like a corpse being forced to participate in capitalism. You stomped downstairs, barely managing to keep yourself upright, and immediately regretted existing.

Silver was already in the living room, arms crossed, looking about two seconds away from snapping someone’s spine in half like a stale breadstick. Lilia, usually a walking cryptid with an unshakable grin, looked like he was holding back every unholy thought in his mind just for the sake of his son’s sanity.

And then. Them.

The Prince. The Villainess. The living embodiments of tax fraud and emotional instability.

Oh, hell no.

You grabbed the nearest maid, who was visibly vibrating with fear, and whispered, "What’s happening?"

She gulped. "T-The Prince is trying to send His Grace to lead the war."

Your soul ascended.

Your patience evaporated.

You had not suffered through an isekai, navigated 18th-century nonsense, and fallen head over heels for your incredibly hot and kind fiancé just for him to be thrown into a battlefield meat grinder because some discount royal didn’t want to risk his own cowardly neck.

You stormed across the room like a woman possessed, and the moment the Prince saw you, his whole face lit up—because he thought you were still the naive airhead he could manipulate into convincing Silver to go die for him.

The Villainess, however? She shrank back immediately.

Maybe it was the murderous glare you were directing at them. Maybe it was because she had witnessed your unhinged wrath firsthand. Maybe it was because deep down, she understood that she was in the presence of a feral raccoon of a person who had already died once and had nothing left to lose.

The Prince reached out to touch your shoulder as if he could physically weasel you onto his side.

Big mistake.

You swatted his hand away so hard you nearly dislocated his wrist.

"No," you said, voice dripping with finality.

The Prince blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"Silver’s not going to war." You looked him dead in the eyes. "Try someone else."

Silence.

The Prince’s face twisted into a diplomatic smile. "But, my dear—"

"Do I look like your dear?" You took a step forward, forcing him back. "Silver already said no. The Emperor didn't send a decree, which means you’re just trying to shove him in front of your responsibilities, aren’t you?"

His jaw clenched. "That’s not—"

"Oh, but it is," you cut in, grinning like a predator who just found dinner. "If you need a sacrifice so badly, why not lead the war yourself? Oh, wait—you’re scared." You tilted your head. "Why should Silver go fight and die in your place? What do you contribute to this kingdom besides being the reason the Empress probably drinks herself to sleep?"

Lilia let out a choked laugh. Silver covered his mouth to hide his amusement. The Villainess looked like she wanted to phase out of existence.

"How dare you!" The Prince seethed, looking like a child whose toy had been taken away.

"How dare you?" you mimicked back, voice laced with venomous mockery. "Seriously, just die already. It’s called natural selection. Worms like you don’t deserve to keep reproducing and terrorizing the female population."

The Prince, red with humiliation and rage, looked like he wanted to lunge at you, but before he could humiliate himself further, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

The Villainess trailed after him, but not before giving you a look that was equal parts impressed and terrified.

As soon as they were gone, you turned to Silver and clapped your hands together.

"So," you said, still brimming with unholy energy. "Let’s get married."

Silver, who was still processing the apocalyptic verbal execution you had just delivered, blinked at you. "What?"

You nodded sagely. "Yeah. Immediately. Preferably before they try something else. Then we can go on a honeymoon somewhere far away from all this war nonsense."

Silver stared at you, beautifully confused. "...Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," you replied. "Pack your bags, babe, we’re getting hitched."

Silver, against all odds, smiled. And then, he agreed.

Lilia threw a celebratory punch in the air.

Congratulations. You’re planning a wedding now, baby!

Planning a wedding was supposed to be a stressful but joyous occasion.

Your reality? It was mostly just stress.

Between dodging passive-aggressive nobles, fending off suspiciously enthusiastic tailors, and ensuring that the wedding menu didn’t include anything remotely related to the Prince’s favorite foods out of sheer spite, you were running on fumes.

And that’s when Silver came to you, looking strangely hesitant.

Immediately, your brain went to worst-case scenarios.

Was he having doubts? Did he get conscripted behind your back? Was he about to pull a tragic self-sacrifice move that you’d have to thwart with unhinged levels of devotion and threats of arson?

"Can we talk?" he asked, his voice unsure.

You, in full fight-or-flight mode, clutched your chest. "Silver, if you’re about to say something stupid, I’m legally obligated to stop you."

His expression twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or endeared. "It’s not stupid," he assured you. Then, after a pause, "I wanted to ask… do you like this country?"

You stared at him. Stared.

"Silver." You grabbed both his hands. "Are you joking?"

His gaze softened, but he stayed serious. "If you had the choice, would you leave?"

You blinked. "Why?"

Silver exhaled, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly. "Lilia and I… We lived somewhere else before we came here. I was thinking—if we left, we could live peacefully. Away from all this. We wouldn’t be nobility, but we wouldn’t have to deal with—" He gestured vaguely, as if trying to encompass the entire kingdom’s collective insanity.

And that’s when it hit you.

You could leave. You could actually escape.

You didn’t have to waste your life playing politics in a country where half the nobility was allergic to common sense. You didn’t have to pretend to care about court scandals that made your brain rot. You didn’t have to deal with war-hungry royals who had the intelligence of a damp sock.

You could take your hot, kind, sword-wielding fiancé and dip.

You could live a peaceful, quiet, cottagecore dream where your biggest concerns would be whether the goats ate your laundry or if Silver accidentally adopted another wild animal.

You gripped Silver’s hands so hard you nearly cut off circulation.

"Silver." Your voice shook with emotion. "I love you so much right now."

He blinked, startled by your intensity.

"I’m taking as much wealth as I can from this godforsaken kingdom," you declared, fully committed. "And then we’re running. We’ll live a cozy life, I’ll grow a garden, you can train without political idiots breathing down your neck, and we’ll be so disgustingly in love that Lilia will probably want to leave out of secondhand embarrassment."

Silver stared at you for a beat, lips parting slightly—before he suddenly let out a breathy laugh.

God, he was so beautiful when he smiled.

He cupped your cheek, gaze warm, and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips. It was soft, reverent, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You melted, gripping his sleeve to keep yourself from combusting.

When he pulled away, he whispered, "Then that’s it. We’ll get married, and we’ll be free."

And that was that.

You were getting married and escaping these lunatics before they had the chance to retaliate.

Honestly? Best wedding gift ever.

Mornings in your new life were warm, lazy, and sweet— the kind of peace you never thought you’d get after surviving the absolute circus that was your past life.

You stretched with a yawn, shuffled into the kitchen, and started making breakfast. The house smelled of fresh bread, eggs, and domestic bliss.

And then, like clockwork, Silver appeared.

You weren’t sure if he was half-awake or just naturally this clingy, but the second he found you, he wrapped himself around you from behind. His arms encircled your waist, and he rested his chin on your shoulder, pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your neck.

“Good morning,” he murmured against your skin, voice still husky with sleep.

Weak. You were weak.

“Silver,” you tried to scold, but it came out softer than intended.

He hummed, not moving, not even pretending to be helpful. His weight was solid, grounding, a warm anchor against your back.

"You are actively making this difficult," you sighed, flipping a pancake.

“Difficult to cook?” he asked, his lips brushing over your jaw.

“Difficult to live, Silver. How am I supposed to focus when you’re like this?”

He chuckled, pulling you impossibly closer. “I don’t see the problem.”

And this was your life now.

In the afternoons, Silver trained with Sebek, and you watched, entertained by their very specific brand of friendship.

Sebek was loud, passionate, and dedicated. Silver was calm, level-headed, and tired. Together, they created the strangest dynamic known to man.

“Silver, your form is slipping!” Sebek barked, nearly vibrating with intensity.

Silver deflected Sebek’s attack without even looking. “It’s fine.”

“It is NOT fine!” Sebek yelled, throwing himself forward with the fury of a man who took personal offense to subpar swordsmanship.

You sipped your drink, watching this unfold like it was a very dramatic stage play.

Eventually, Silver knocked Sebek’s sword from his hands with an effortless twist, and Sebek fell to his knees, gasping.

You clapped. “Wow. What a performance. I’d rate it a solid 8/10.”

Sebek looked offended. “8?! What was missing?!”

“More drama,” you said. “Maybe fake your death next time. Really sell the loss.”

Sebek narrowed his eyes, as if actually considering it. Oh no. What have you done?

Lilia showed up almost every day, either to offer unsolicited advice or to cause chaos. Sometimes, he brought Malleus.

You still hadn’t fully recovered from realizing that Malleus was the fae prince.

Today was no different. He arrived grinning, eyes full of mischief, which was already a sign of danger.

“So,” he started, dramatically leaning in. “Have you two considered… adopting a dragon?”

Silver blinked. You stared.

Malleus, sipping his tea beside him, nodded sagely. “It would be an honorable task.”

You set your cup down very, very slowly.

“I—what?” you asked, convinced you misheard.

“A dragon,” Lilia said, as if that explained everything. “You’re living in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nature, why not raise a baby dragon? Imagine the bond! The companionship! The chaos!”

Malleus actually looked excited. “I could grant you one from my own lineage.”

Silver looked at you, waiting for you to react.

You looked at Silver.

Then back at Malleus, a literal fae prince, who had just casually offered to gift you a baby dragon.

Sebek, in the corner, looked like he was about to faint.

“...You’re joking,” you said, voice dangerously neutral.

Lilia and Malleus just smiled.

You dragged your hands down your face. “I barely survived dealing with a corrupt kingdom, now you want me to raise a fire-breathing menace?”

“It wouldn’t breathe fire immediately,” Malleus assured.

“That is not the part I am concerned about.”

Silver, who had been quiet this whole time, actually seemed to be considering it.

You kicked his shin under the table.

He cleared his throat. “I think we should wait.”

Malleus sighed. Lilia just patted your back. “You’ll change your mind.”

Not likely.

But at night? It was just you and Silver.

After a long day of chaos and laughter, you’d collapse onto your shared bed, immediately melting into Silver’s embrace.

He kissed your forehead, soft, lingering. “Tired?”

You sighed happily, nuzzling into his warmth. “Mm. Just happy.”

His arms tightened around you, like he never wanted to let go.

And this was your life now.

Your old country was probably in flames, but who cared? You had love, friendship, and peace.

Silver smiled at you, soft and content. And you thought, Yup. This is it.

Thank my best friend for writing this ridiculous, insane novel.

Who do you wanna see next?

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[aperrywilliams]

A Bit Rougher (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader.

Summary: You and Spencer have been in a relationship for a little bit more than four months now, and the team doesn't know. One day, the BAU girls ask you by your mystery partner they know you have - even if they don't know who it is - and bring up a topic you are not so sure to share with Spencer yet: your kinky side in sex. What happens when the same Spencer puts a test on you on that matter?

Word Count: 6.5k (I'm not sorry)

Warnings: SMUT/18+/MDNI. Where do I start? Reader sleeps with Spencer (obviously). Talks about sex life. Mentions of tantric sex and rough sex. Mentions of some kinks like choking, spanking, and dom-sub dynamics. Clothes get ripped, Spencer calling you 'my girl' (oh God), masturbation (f receiving), fingering, kind of choking, dirty talk. Spencer does his best as a dom (soft!dom because it can't be any other way), penetrative sex, spanking, begging, more dirty talk, creampie (it really doesn't exist another word for this?), and aftercare. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world. If I forgot something, please let me know.

A/N: This one was a request. I can't find the original message, and I don't know if the person who asked wanted their name here (I can quickly add it if they want to).

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The moment rays of sunlight peek through the curtain and hit my face, I turn to my back to avoid them, not ready to fully start the day yet.

Still half awake, half sleepy, I can feel a pair of hazel looking at me. I peek one eye open, and I see Spencer smiling at me.

"Good morning, beautiful," he rasps. And I don't know why such simple words have me blushing like a schoolgirl. Beaming, I return the greeting.

"Morning, handsome."

I get my reply with a lingering kiss on my lips, which I fully savored until a sudden thought came to me.

"What time is it? We need to get up."

Spencer, with his calm voice, shakes his head.

"It's a bit early yet. We have time. Also, you have some clothes here, so you don't need to go to your apartment before driving to work."

Smart me for bringing clothes to his apartment. It's an obvious decision, though, considering I have spent more nights here in the past weeks than in my place.

A devilish smirk makes an appearance on my face.

"So, we do have time, don't we?"

"Yes, sweetheart. We do," Spencer mumbles, scooting closer and peppering kisses on my face and then down to my collarbone.

Oh boy, this is what I call a good way to start the day.

-

How much time can you fool a bunch of the best profilers in the country, hiding your relationship with one of your coworkers? Spencer and I keep the count. The mark is set now in four months and two weeks.

It's not that we are embarrassed by what we have or anything close to that. It's just that things started so casually and naturally, and they're running so smoothly, so we want to keep it to ourselves as long as we can.

And by now? It's working.

We have also been careful about it. On our first nights together, we woke up early and went home for a shower and a change of clothes. After some weeks, we started to pack extra in our go-bag. Now, we have at least a change of clothes in each other's places. The second rule is never to get to work at the same time or on the same transportation. Spencer usually takes the metro even if I can drive and make time in the parking lot. Just one day, we did it, and we were so worked up in our making out session that we almost got caught by Morgan, who parked two cars away from mine.

Naturally, any form of PDA at work is completely off-limits. That's the toughest rule to follow. After all, we spend more time at the office and on the road than we do at home, so avoiding any kind of touch is definitely a challenge.

Despite all that, I can't help but feel happier every day as I fall deeper for Spencer. I often feel like a schoolgirl with a crush, constantly distracted by thoughts of him. Clearly, my behavior hasn't gone unnoticed, at least not by the three girls cornering me right now in the BAU kitchen.

"So, are you going to deny you're having fun these days?" Emily teases me while JJ and Penelope giggle in agreement.

"Where did that come from?" I say, intentionally diverting my gaze to the mug I'm filling with coffee.

"It's just basic observation, my dear," Penelope chimes in.

"Basic observation? I honestly don't follow you guys at all," I reply, feeling a bit overwhelmed by this unexpected Tuesday morning interrogation. This time, JJ steps forward with her evidence laid out right before me.

"We have all noticed the changes in you over the past few months—the giddy smile that lights up your face when you read a text on your phone, the new pep in your step, and how you hurry home every time we finish a case. Do I need to say more?"

"Busted!" Garcia points a mocking finger at me. I roll my eyes in fake annoyance. After all, they are completely right.

"Okay, okay. Yeah. I'm seeing a guy. Happy?" I confess, and Garcia squeals.

"Yay! We need to know everything about him."

Oh. That's dangerous territory.

JJ notices my discomfort and tries to ease it a bit.

"Penelope, I'm sure we'll know more with time. Right?" JJ looks at me, and I nod appreciatively.

"Okay. But the basics. Is the guy good?" Emily asks. A silly smile appears on my face.

"Of course he is. He's caring, fun, always attentive-" I'm about to start a rant about how my mystery man is perfect. But Emily's snort stops me at mid-sentence.

"What?"

"Emily is asking if he is good in bed!" Penelope clarifies, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Oh, Lord. What have I got into?

"Are you really expecting me to tell you about my sex life?"

The three girls nod in unison with no shame. Well, I guess I got my answer.

"Like if you haven't done it before. And for what it is worth, we all have said something about it more than once. That's why we created girls's night in the first place," Emily points eloquently, as always.

Touchè. They are right. I have said more than I would like to admit about my sex life. But now it's not that simple. We are talking about Spencer, even if they don't know it yet.

"Then? Is he good or not?"

I contemplate my answer not because I don't know what to say but not revealing more than necessary.

"I don't think good is enough to describe sex with him. The first time we slept together was amazing. The whole night was if you know what I mean. Since then, we have taken our time, savoring the moment, giving, and receiving a new part of ourselves when we do it. So, yes, sex with him is more than good."

"But it could be better," Garcia interjects, and I look at her baffled.

"How's so? Didn't I just say the sex is great?"

The three women nod in agreement, but I think I'm missing something here.

"Don't take it the wrong way, my lovely. We are really happy you are having fun and enjoying yourself," Garcia says, patting my shoulder. "But it sounds pretty vanilla to me. And it's not bad! Not at all!"

I frown, and Emily rolls her eyes, continuing Garcia's idea.

"What Penelope tries to bring here is what we talked back then about your last partner. Remember? The one who liked tantric sex?"

Oh. Yeah. I remember that one. It's not one of my finest choices, if I have to be honest. But it wasn't the guy's fault.

"Yeah. What about him?"

"You forgot how you complained about him being basically a statue? That you wanted it rough, and the guy never got the memo?" Penelope fills in, arching an eyebrow. My cheeks are flush crimson right now.

"I can't believe we are talking about this in the office kitchen," I mumble, embarrassed. "But that was different."

Emily scoffs. "What? Did you change your kinks now? What happened with the choking, the spanking, the begging, and all those things?"

"Emily Prentiss, can you please shut up? This conversation is too much for a morning in the office," I complain, shaking my head to try to cool my red face.

"Okay, okay. I'll stop. But if you are still into it - and I'm sure you are - maybe it's a good idea to share it with your partner. Healthy sex life and all that, so it doesn't happen what it did with the tantric guy."

"Well, thank you all for your concern. But I think I'm good. Now, can we please drop the subject?"

Luckily for me, the girls listened and changed the topic. By the time we leave the kitchen, I feel less embarrassed and ready to continue my paperwork.

But the conversation kept popping into my head from time to time during the day. My sexual preferences haven't changed 180 degrees, that's true, but with Spencer, it's different. I wouldn't want to bring something like that up if it's going to make him uncomfortable. Our relationship is still fresh, and I'm happy with our current sex life.

And talking about Spencer, I haven't seen him the whole morning. By the time lunchtime arrives, he doesn't come back to his desk, so I go with the girls and Morgan.

When we come back from lunch, I finally see him at his desk, concentrating on a pile of files. A smile creeps in my face. He looks so damn good with the crocked tie, messy hair, and shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms. This man has ruined me just sitting there. I'm doomed.

"Hey," I call his attention, and he turns his head to look up at me.

"Hi," he returns a smile.

"I haven't seen you around in hours. Are you okay?"

A frown appears on his face, but he brushes it off quickly.

"Me? Oh, yeah. Fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's just Hotch that had me checking and analyzing a pile of boxes with folders from old cases in the store office. That's all."

It makes sense. Spencer's fast reading is a blessing and a curse, and obviously, people tend to use it often in the office.

"I'm sorry, sure it wasn't a very entertaining task."

A shy smile creeps on his lips, and I have to use all my self-control not to pounce on him right now and pepper his face with kisses.

"It's okay. I'm already done, anyway. How has been your morning?"

"Oh. Mostly paperwork. As everyone. But I think I'll be done soon, too." Before continuing, I check my surroundings to ensure nobody else is listening. "Maybe we can go home early?" I suggest seductively.

The flush in Spencer's cheeks is endearing. It's like the ones I sported this morning when the girls were interrogating me. And they want me to tell this boy about my kinks? No way. I won't do that if it means he won't feel comfortable with me again.

"We could. But I'm afraid plans will have to wait," Spencer says as his gaze shifts from me to Garcia and the quick tip-tap of her heels, heading to the conference room.

Fuck. A new case.

-

Don't get me wrong. I love my job. But being stuck in the middle of the desert, looking for an unsub that seems to be a ghost? And I say 'ghost' literally because we are looking for a guy who is dead for the town records. No, this is not my idea of a 'normal work day.'

It's frustrating, and not only for the lack of progress. The heat here is like hell. The AC barely works, and everyone's mood is bitchy.

We are not making any progress by now, so Hotch sends us to the hotel for the night. Once in my room, I text Spencer, not with an explicit purpose but to talk to him for a while. But he doesn't answer my texts. Is he sleeping by now? Considering he's a night owl, I found it very rare. But maybe he's drained like everyone else, so I let it slide.

In the morning, after my shower, I'm checking my phone, and I don't have any messages. Has Spencer received my texts?

I don't want to sound paranoid, but it's like something is going on. At the precinct, I barely get a hello from Spencer. Okay. Maybe it's the stress. I don't give it too much thought, either. Not when we have work to do.

And boy, we have been working hard on this one. Some clues give us hope, but we're far from catching the unsub.

In the little spare time we have between interrogations and visiting dumping sites, I try to share moments with Spencer, but it definitely seems like he doesn't want to be alone with me in the same room, even if he doesn't say it or shows signs of annoyance or animosity towards me.

I can't tell why he is so distant, but it's starting to worry me. Did I do something? And it's killing me because the more I think about it, the more I miss him. A kiss, a hug, anything from him would ease the ache I'm starting to feel.

It doesn't help that he has been choosing to wear the sexiest clothes he has in his go-bag. Those tight grey pants that accentuate his ass, those button-ups with sleeves rolled up.

We have been here for six days, and I think I'm going crazy. I have been trying to be subtle and professional. But I swear that if one more day goes by without being able to feel Spencer's touch, I don't know what I'll be able to do.

It seems heaven has listened to me because we finally managed to catch the unsub, and we're on the jet on our way home. But I'm nervous. I didn't even want to sit next to Spencer like I usually do. I don't know why. What if he wants to break up with me, and I'm just dragging things out?

What the hell am I talking about? I don't believe I'm thinking clearly here. But this week has been so odd that I don't know what to think.

Maybe when we land, I can finally talk to Spencer and put an end to my overthinking. With that in mind, I doze off for the rest of the trip.

Once the jet is down, I'm starting to gather my things when I hear Spencer rushing out, saying goodbye to everyone.

Disappointed and frustrated, I leave the tarmac.

Maybe a full night of sleep in my bed isn't a bad plan after all.

But be that as it may, fuck you, Spencer Reid.

-

As if all that had happened wasn't enough, when I got to the parking lot, my car fucking didn't start. I knew I had to get it checked before.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

That delayed my arrival home for another 45 minutes.

Now, disappointed, frustrated, and with no car, I slam the door shut. The apartment is pitch black, and I have no energy to flick the lights on, so I drag myself to the bedroom. When I open the door, a yelp escapes my mouth when I see a silhouette of a man sitting in the chair I have in one corner.

I'm about to reach for my gun when the bedside lamp flicks on, and the scare turns to confusion when I see Spencer sitting there.

"What the fuck!"

"Hi," he says as if he hadn't almost scared me to death two seconds ago.

"Spencer! What are you doing here?" My voice sounds harsher than I intended, but Spencer brushes it off quickly.

"Waiting for you," he says matter-of-factly.

I'm officially confused. We were together an hour ago? He left without saying anything.

"I don't understand. The way you left the jet in such a hurry, I thought I was the last person you wanted to be with."

My words come out resentful, but I can't help it. Spencer's eyes soften. I averted his gaze as I dropped my go-bag, unholst my gun to set it on the safe, and sat at the end of the bed to remove my boots.

"Hey, don't say that. Of course, I want to be with you," Spencer says, standing from the seat and kneeling to help me remove my boots.

"I'm sorry, but it didn't show that way. You avoided me all week!"

Great, now I sound like I'm making a tantrum.

From his place where he knelt on the floor, his eyes met mine, and I don't know why suddenly I felt a shudder running down my spine.

"Sweetheart, you know we were working, weren't we?"

That condescending tone escaping Spencer's lips? It is something unexpected. But why does it make me kind of nervous? It's a type of nervousness that gives me butterflies in my stomach.

"I know! But- but then in the jet. And you left."

Why am I babbling? Since when did Spencer have looked at me with those piercing eyes?

He stands and offers me a hand to help me to do the same.

"Is my girl upset?" He asks when we are both upright.

'My girl'? That's new. Spencer always calls me by my name, a short version of it, or beautiful, or sweetheart. But thinking about it, 'my girl' doesn't sound bad at all.

"No! I'm not-"

"Oh yes, you are. Look, I wanted to prepare a surprise for you tonight, so I left in a hurry. I was thinking about a bubble bath, dinner, wine, and a movie. I even had the table done with candles ready to lit," he says nonchalantly, and I feel silly for thinking the worst scenarios all week.

"Oh," is the only thing escaping my lips.

"But now, thinking about it, maybe you don't deserve it. Not if you're questioning me like this," Spencer shakes his head in fake - I hope - disappointment.

Okay. Stop right there. What the hell is going on here? Why is Spencer talking like that? About me as 'not deserving' something? What's next? That I'm a naughty girl? - Uhm, I wonder how it could be hearing those words from his lips.-

"What? Why I-"

"Come here," he requests as now he is the one who sits at the edge of the bed and pats the spot in his lap. It doesn't sound too commanding, but sure as hell, I don't need anything more to comply. I need to know where this is heading.

As I'm at Spencer's reach, he pulls me by my wrist to land on his lap while his other hand cradles my face.

"Tell me, uh? Why are you upset?"

His voice drips like honey, and I start to feel hot here.

"I- I don't know. I just missed you, I guess."

"You guess?" He arches a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes. I mean, I do know. I have missed you," I confess, defeated. Oh yeah, now I'm the needy one.

"It helps if I say I have missed you, too?" he says, caressing my cheek tenderly with his knuckles. "I have seen you tense all week; that's why I thought I could do something special for you tonight."

I close my eyes, and for the first time tonight, I let myself enjoy Spencer's embrace.

I exhale a heavy breath as I get lost in his arms.

When I open my eyes, Spencer's are fixed on mine. But his look is not as sweet or reverent as it usually is when we are like this. No, this one is dark and raw. His pupils are fully dilated, and I feel like the breath leaves my lungs.

"Spencer-" I barely mumble.

"I know," he whispers, moving one hand to cradle my neck and bring my lips to his.

Oh God, what I have been craving for days is finally happening, and I can't stress enough how happy I am.

The kiss starts slow and sensual. But not far from that, it gets needy and messy, charged with all the pent-up emotions from the past days. If I had any doubt about Spencer's distance in the last week, this kiss quickly eased my anxiety.

My fingers go to undo the buttons of his button-up, but Spencer stops me with one of his hands, grabbing both of my wrists.

Why didn't I notice before how big and strong his hands are compared to mine? I mean, I always admired his long and deftly fingers, but this? Wow. It's new territory.

"But I want to touch you," I pout when he keeps hold of my wrists in his hand. The cocky bastard raises an eyebrow, contemplating my request.

"You will have to be patient this time and earn it, darling," he says casually, and as my eyes go wide, my jaw goes slack. These words have never come out of Spencer's mouth before. But why am I suddenly starting to feel hotter and more worked up? I blame it on sex abstinence.

"Please, I have missed you so much," I insist, trying to escape his grip to get what I want: undress him. But he doesn't budge, tsking his tongue.

"I already told you. You need to earn it. To my knowledge, only good girls get what they want, and I don't think I'm wrong, do I?"

Jesus Christ! I had never heard Spencer say 'good girl' before, and I'm sure now I'll be addicted to hearing it every chance I get.

"Spencer, please. I'll do anything. I promise. I want to be a good girl. I want to be your good girl."

Spencer's smirk tells me he likes my response, and I'm not at any ounce ashamed of sounding desperate.

He maneuvers me so that I am now on my back on the mattress. I watch his every move intently, and I get lost in his gaze, which screams lust and desire.

He kneels between my spread legs, staring at me intently as his hands move to the edges of my blouse. Just when I think he's going to work on unbuttoning it, he grabs it and rips it open.

A yelp escapes my lips at the raw sound and the view of buttons flying. Spencer doesn't seem fazed by his display of caveman style. And me? I won't mind if he rips all my clothes right now. His hands go to caress my breasts over the fabric of my bra. And then pull it down to free the skin. The cool air quickly stiffens my nipples.

Spencer leans down to suck one of them, twirling the other one with his fingers. A moan escapes my lips at the pleasure his touch is giving me.

"You like that, uh?" he mumbles, still with his mouth sucking and lapping.

"Yes!" I say, as my hands fly to his hair so I can ground myself in something.

After giving enough attention to both of my nipples, he helps me to get rid of the fabric of the ruined blouse and my bra. Now his mouth is sucking a hickey under my jaw, and I feel like I can faint of how aroused I am. One of his hands goes south and stills at the button of my work pants. His breath is hot in my ear.

"I'm going to take care of you. If I do something you don't like, just say it, okay?"

That's a sliver of the Spencer I know, and I can't even think of something this man can do to me that I wouldn't like.

"Okay," I manage to blurt when his fingers work on my pants, leaving me clad only in my panties in a matter of seconds.

Under his intense gaze, I feel exposed, but I also feel safe. There is no place where I would rather be right now.

"You're gorgeous. You know that?" Spencer says, trailing feather touches on my skin aflame with desire. "You don't know what you do to me, do you? I barely can control myself," he continues his praises, thumbs toying with the waistband of my panties.

I'm about to combust.

"Spencer, please."

"What is it, my girl?" he asks, kissing my neck as his fingers slide down my legs, removing the soaked fabric that used to cover my most intimate part.

"I - I need more."

"Are you already desperate for me?"

I can feel how his fingers trace soft patterns in the skin between my thighs, explicitly avoiding the spot where I need him the most.

"Yes! I am. I - I can't-"

I don't even care if I sound coherent at this point. I'm already so turned on and desperate that I can't be bothered by my lack of speech. Spencer still doesn't budge, though.

"I know you want to beg. And I know you can do better than that."

Oh God. I don't know how Spencer's words manage to make me more aroused, but they do.

"I need you," I croak, eyes pleading him to take me. I can feel his fingers ghosting my throbbing clit.

"I need you, sir. Please. You can use me whatever you want, but please, touch me!"

What the fuck? I just called Spencer' sir' and offered my body explicitly to him to use. And the bastard doesn't even flinch? Who is this guy in full control, and who am I acting like a pathetic submissive?

I don't have the answers, but honestly, I don't care. Did he want me to beg? If this isn't begging, I don't know what it is.

"I know you do, baby. Do you think I didn't notice how needy you have been all week? How have you tried to get my attention all these days?" Spencer's voice drops almost two octaves as his finger finally starts rubbing circles on my clit.

Just feeling his touch makes me whimper pathetically.

His lips ghost in my ear, and I can feel his breath heating the spot before his teeth nibble my earlobe.

A mewl leaves my mouth, and if I wasn't soaked before - which I was - now I'm dripping.

"Tell me, this is what you wanted?" His voice is commanding but feels like honey leaking on my body.

"Yes! Please, don't stop."

His movements are deliberate and precise, and when he buries a finger into my core, I can feel the coil in the pit of my lower belly beginning to form. My moans increase in number and volume.

"So needy, my sweet girl. Like that? That's how you want me to touch you?" Spencer coo as he watches me tremble under his touch, adding a new finger to fuck me.

His ministrations continue, but his free hand moves slowly from my cheek down to my neck, caressing the exposed skin with his thumb.

"Or maybe you want me to touch you like this?"

A mewl escapes my lips when he poses his open palm over my throat, not squeezing but seizing how much of my neck he would be able to cover with his huge hand.

"Yes! Please, do it. Please Spencer," I babble, feeling my orgasm closer and closer. And he complies. Applying the minimal pressure in my throat is enough to highlight all of my senses. That, plus the way his ring and middle finger pound in and out of me and his thumb toy with my clit at the same time, sends me to the edge.

"Spencer!" I scream as my climax washes over me.

I don't remember having an orgasm like this in a long time. My vision blurs and I feel like I'm floating on a cloud of pleasure that I don't want to come down from. I can hear Spencer's encouraging words in the distance as he helps me ride my orgasm.

"That's it, my girl. You did so good for me. See how good I can make you feel?"

With hooded eyes, I see Spencer sucking clean the fingers that were fucking me seconds ago.

"You taste amazing. I'll never get tired of it," Spencer says, with a satisfied grin on his face.

Still dizzy, I gesture for him to come closer. When he does, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him in for the most passionate kiss my current post-orgasmic state will allow. I can taste myself on his tongue, and it is like my sex drive reminds me I want more. I need more.

"Please, fuck me," I mumble between kisses, and I can feel the smirk forming on his lips.

"I just did that," he states when we part from the kiss. "Are you being ungrateful?" Is he joking? I hope he does, but I won't take the chance of not having his dick in me tonight.

"No, baby. I'm thankful for the way you have touched me tonight, but I want you to feel good, too."

Spencer looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Is that so? Are you willing to do what I want to make me feel good? It's not only for your benefict?"

"Yes! Whatever you want. I'm yours. Take me the way you want to do it. Whatever you want to give me."

I don't know at what moment I became this kind of submissive, but if I have to beg again to have Spencer inside me, I will do it without complaining. And considering he's still fully clothed, I don't know what kind of plan he has right now.

"On your elbows and knees."

It's simple, and the moment the words leave his mouth, I move quickly to obey.

Unfortunately, from this position, I can't see Spencer, but I can hear him undressing. When I listen to him undoing his belt buckle, I have to do everything in my power not to rub my thighs together in search of some friction. And Spencer notices.

"I can bet you're dripping again. Don't you?"

The anticipation is killing me. When I feel the mattress dip with Spencer's weight, I can't stop the mewl that leaves my lips. It doesn't help when he presses his body to mine, and I can feel his hard cock pressing my ass.

"Can you feel what you do to me? I want to fuck you so bad. I want to ruin this pussy." Spencer's voice is husky and low, almost predatory, and I can't wait to feel him.

While we've used dirty talk before, I think this is the first time I can feel it coming naturally from Spencer. I'm usually the one with the filthy mouth.

When I feel his tip teasing my entrance, I instinctively push my ass back, gaining a laugh from Spencer.

"Be patient, once inside there is no coming back." Before I can say anything in reply, I feel him push his cock between my folds, and the stretching is painfully delicious.

"Oh, fuck!" I yelp as I hear Spencer hissing when he bottoms it out. He is still there, grabbing my hips to keep me from moving.

"So warm. So tight. Made for me," he mumbles, leaning to kiss my shoulder blades.

"Just for you, it was made for you," I agree, in a new state of pleasure and urging him to move. Spencer pulls back almost completely, only to thrust hard again, setting a slow but deep pace.

"That's my girl, taking everything I give her. You wanted this, didn't you? I know you do. Fuck! So good for me."

Another thing I'm not used to is Spencer being a talker during sex. I mean, yeah, he's very vocal, moaning, whining, cursing, and so am I, but his words are now taking me there faster than I expected.

"Spencer, yes! Don't stop, please!"

"I won't, baby, I won't. Not when this pussy tighen me like this."

His pace quickens, and in the room, you can only hear the sinful sounds of skin hitting skin, our moans, and the dirty words escaping Spencer's mouth.

"Spencer, please, harder," I beg to him. I don't know why, but I want to go to my limit, and I trust Spencer. I need it. He's quick to deliver, and with every thrust, I'm entering into a new space of ecstasy.

He is pounding me harder, and my broken moans are testimony to the brutal pace he leads. I can feel him hitting in all the right places.

"Like that?" He asks, panting in my ear.

"Y-yes."

"I can't hear you, darling," the bastard demands, not faltering his thrusts.

"Yes! Fuck, yes! Like that! Oh, fuck-"

My voice cracks when I feel a sharp smack in my ass.

And I can't stress enough how good it feels and how it helps the ball forming in my lower belly to grow.

"What a sight. You should see how my fingers are red imprinted on your skin," Spencer says, amazed with his doing, not ever slowing his thrusts, and I can feel closer to a new earth-shattering orgasm.

"We need to even the score, right baby?" I can't even catch what he's talking about when I feel a new smack in my other ass-cheek. And then I lose it. I'm teetering to my end, and I need Spencer to fall with me.

"Spencer, I'm so close. Please, I need-"

"Are you going to come? That's what you're trying to tell me?"

"Yes! I need to cum, please-"

"I'm right there with you, my girl. Come on, cum on my cock. Show me how you fall apart because of me."

And I did. My orgasm crashes me like a freight train, screaming Spencer's name once and again until my throat goes dry. He keeps his pace, chasing his own end, and after three deep thrusts, he stills, and I feel him spilling inside of me, grunting as he does so. The feeling almost makes me cum again.

We stay in that position for a few moments, him inside me and trying to catch our breath. I feel like I'm out of this world, savoring the post-orgasmic euphoria of the best sex of my life.

Spencer pulls out, and I hiss at the loss of him. Carefully, he helps me turn over and lie down to rest my back on the mattress. I close my eyes, regulating my breathing, content and completely satisfied.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks me, but I'm still lost in the haze of pleasure. I can barely acknowledge the moment he goes to the bathroom to bring a warm cloth to clean me up.

"Uh? Yeah. Amazing." My words escape before I can process them, but I'm not lying. And I can feel the tons of endorphins running in my brain right now.

"Are you sure?" Spencer checks again. And because I'm more alert now, I can see his worried eyes.

A tired smile forms on my lips as I turn to the side and bring a hand to his cheek.

This man just has fucked me senseless, and now he sees me with those panicked eyes as if he had broken me. And maybe he did, but in the best way possible.

"I'm fine, Spencer. I'm more than fine, actually. That was something else," I confess, caressing his jaw. He lets out a breath of relief, and his cheeks turn a shade of pink.

"So you liked it?"

"Liked it? Did you just forget how I was screaming your name just minutes ago?" A satisfied chuckle escapes Spencer's lips. "But I need to know something," I prompt, propping myself on one elbow to have a better view of Spencer's face.

"What is it?"

"Where did this idea come from? It's not like you woke up one day and said, 'Next time, I'm going to choke her and spank her,' right?"

"Well, yeah. It wasn't that kind of spontaneous idea, even though I have thought about it before," Spencer looks at me sheepishly.

"Yeah? Well, then?"

"I heard you. Talking with the girls the other day at the BAU's kitchen." I narrow my eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact moment, and when recognition washes over me, my entire face flushes.

"Oh, God."

"I know I did wrong. It wasn't a conversation for me to hear, but you were talking about your mystery man, and I - I don't know, curiosity got the best of me."

Spencer looks apologetic, and I feel kind of embarrassed right now. It's funny for two people that minutes ago were fucking like there is no tomorrow.

"Don't apologize. It's my fault for spilling those kind of things in the office kitchen." Wait a minute. "From what part you heard?" Spencer purses his lips in thought.

"The part when you admitted seeing someone."

"So you heard when I said I was happy with our sex life, right?" He nods. "Why did you feel compelled to try something different, then? I'm not complaining at all, but I don't want you to feel obligated to do something because of me."

Spencer shakes his head. "I don't feel obligated. I wanted to. But can I ask why you didn't tell me what you liked before?"

That's a valid question, and I don't want to make him feel like I don't trust him because it is not like that.

"It's just- I mean, I love what we have. And I'm falling for you even more each day. I don't want to lose that, and I thought maybe I would have made you uncomfortable saying those things. I didn't want that."

Spencer's eyes glisten with warm understanding. How could I have doubted that he would comprehend? One of his hands goes to push back a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"I love what we have, too. And you won't lose this or me if you share those things with me. I know I'm not the best example of a sharing person, but I'm learning to do that with you. And I want you to be happy and satisfied in this relationship."

"I really am. Seriously!" I quickly reply. God forbid Spencer from thinking I'm not happy and satisfied because it's far from the truth.

"And I'm happy to hear that. But there is no harm in experiencing new things, right?" He says, caressing my cheek.

"You really mean it?" Spencer nods and chuckles.

"It's not an altruistic offer, you know? I pretty much enjoyed what we did tonight." Only remembering what we did minutes ago brings a wide grin to my face.

"Sure you did. Okay. We can keep trying things. One condition, though."

"Name it," Spencer states, opening his arm for me to scoot closer to his side, which I happily do.

"I want you to choose the next kink to explore," I request, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction.

With narrowed eyes, Spencer is contemplating his answer. After a few seconds, his lips turn into a mischievous smirk, and he looks back at me.

"Have you heard about temperature play?" he asks, and I immediately bit my lower lip in excitement.

What can I say? This man is full of surprises, and I'm the lucky one who will experience all of them. I can't wait.

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

Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers

[gguk-n]

Silent Connections (Oscar Piastri x Reader)

Summary- In a world where soulmates exist. Some people can hear their soulmates thoughts, but only when they think. Oscar isn't sure he has a soulmate.

Oscar Piastri wasn't even sure he had a soulmate. His mum would talk about how she could hear his dad's thoughts and how they met for the first time but Oscar had yet to hear a single thought from his soulmate. He even voiced his concern once; "I don't think I have a soulmate" he told his mum when he was 5. His mother consoled him and tried to cheer him up.

Oscar was shocked, he skid his kart in the middle of the race and almost crashed out when he heard it. A giggly voice, he wasn't even sure what she said but he was sure, it was her. Maybe he didn't finish that race but he knew now that he had a soulmate. He told his dad as soon as he hopped out of the kart. But he didn't really hear her after that, not for a while. He doubted himself again, maybe he hallucinated that. But as if on cue, he heard it loud and clear; she's a meany. I hate her. It made Oscar laugh out loud; he was 9 and meany was a pretty bad thing to call anyone.

With time, Oscar would hear some parts of his soulmate's thoughts. That's how he learned what she sounded like since his mum said he would hear her thoughts in her voice. Oscar loved his soulmate's voice, he was sure he would love her too; the moment they met. He couldn't wait to meet the love of his life.

Y/N knew she had a soulmate. She knew since she could form thoughts. She could hear him, in her head. It would get chaotic and annoying at times. She couldn't think properly. She could recognise her soulmate's voice even in her sleep since that boy didn't stop thinking. The first thoughts of his that she remembers are about some cars. She wasn't sure what they meant but she did learn a lot about cars from him. She was practically a natural when it came to driving and she only had her soulmate to thank for it.

Even if her soulmate's thoughts were chaotic and annoying sometimes, there were time when she was happy to have his voice in her head, especially on shitty day's like today. She failed her test, her car broke down and she had an assignment to submit in 12 hours with a blue screened laptop. She had started bawling when his smooth voice cut through her. It's fine. I can do it. I've come this far. I'll achieve my dream. I have to keep going. Y/N was glad for his constant reassurance even if it was not for her. Thank you soulmate. I hope you get whatever you want because your thoughts comfort me everyday. Oscar heard it. His brain stopped working, this was the first time they had had a conversation of any sort.

Y/N had pursued a career in cars, she wasn't sure what she would do but she did automobile engineering since her soulmate rubbed off on her. She knew she should've done some research on the company she was joining but she forgot and right now she was standing in a room full of her new colleagues when her eyes landed on a man in a orange shirt and black shorts. He's fucking hot. She thought but Oscar heard it loud and clear. Who's hot? He thought, face visibly annoyed. He's so cute annoyed. She couldn't help but swoon over the orange shirt man. Hey! you have a soulmate you know Oscar huffed. Y/N giggled Sorry Mr Soulmate, I'm sure you're hotter she reassured. Oscar smiled. I wanna make him smile like that. Y/N thought looking at the orange shirt guy smile. Oscar was getting annoyed by the second with who ever his soulmate found attractive.

Y/N was called by her team to introduce herself to the drivers who they would be building the cars for. The first man introduced himself as Lando Norris with a smile. Y/N smiled back and then the other spoke, "I'm Oscar Piastri" making Y/N's eyes bulge out. That voice, she could recognise it anywhere and he was an athlete. How long ago would they have met had she known? My Soulmate's fucking pale. was the first thing Oscar heard making him quickly scan the room. Y/N smiled at Oscar looking for her, his soulmate. "Hi, I'm Y/N Y/L/N" she introduced herself. Oscar's eyes landed on her before muttering, "soulmate" a small smile playing on his lips.

The two of them were able to slip away from the team; "I can't believe this is how I meet you. If I knew you were famous, I would've stalked you years ago" Y/N rambled. "No wonder I couldn't hear your thoughts. You don't think" Oscar laughed. Y/N caught herself blushing, embarrassed. "You're cute though" Oscar stated. "If it's any consolation, the guy I thought was fucking hot was you" she bit her lips. It was Oscar's turn to blush. "As long as I'm the only man you find hot, I have no problem" he said. "Maybe, we should exchange numbers?" she suggested. "Yeah" Oscar smiled. This was the start of a forever the two of them had been waiting for, for a long long time.

[kxsagi]

Hii can I request a reader that is always loud, laughing, joking (darkest and driest jokes) but actually serious and responsible in work, like she’s always being silly, but suddenly getting serious when it’s come to her assignment, feel free to do with any BLLK characters but can you include Karasu and Yukimiya?

Thank you so much ily 🥰🔥

“𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬, 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬”

a/n: OKAY THIS READER DESCRIPTION IS SPOT-ON ME, LIKE THIS IS LITERALLY ME

anon are you on my alt??? 

ft. karasu tabito, yukimiya kenyu, isagi yoichi, kaiser michael, mikage reo, itoshi rin, itoshi sae

karasu tabito

the first time he met you, he genuinely thought you were a walking meme compilation. you were doing a deadpan reenactment of your funeral, complete with “my last words will be ‘sybau’ while laying on the floor like you were auditioning for a broadway tragedy. karasu’s like “yo... what is wrong with her 💀” “nothing, what’s wrong with you for being alive during my performance?” his soul left his body. instant love. 

but the day he saw you working for the first time? jaw-dropped. you were elbows-deep in paperwork, planner color-coded, firing off deadlines, and actually emailing people back like a normal adult? you even hit him with a “can’t talk right now. i’m working.” in the most monotone, CEO voice ever. karasu just blinked like, “… where did my unhinged girlfriend go???” 

he finds the contrast sexy as hell. like yes, joke about your own funeral, but also please help him organize his taxes because he hasn’t done that in three years. 

he will literally follow you around going, “say something messed up” like a fanboy just to hear you hit him with another “if i got run over, would you keep the pieces as a souvenir?” 

sometimes he gets whiplash. you’ll be laughing at a meme, and then suddenly turn to him with “babe, did you turn in your PR proposal? the deadline’s 3PM JST.” and he’s like, “how did you– bro i forgot that even existed…” 

yukimiya kenyu

he thought you were deranged at first. you met at a charity gala, and you made a joke about "selling your soul to capitalism, but at least doing it ethically.” he laughed, but cautiously. like you were a tiger in clown makeup. but then you were laughing so hard at your own joke, and the way you wheezed like an old radiator made him soft. 

what really made him fall, though, was seeing how responsible you were behind all the dry jokes. you handled all the event logistics like it was second nature, emailing sponsors, correcting billing issues, and still cracking the occasional “if i die from stress, make sure my ghost finishes the job” in your corpse-dry voice. yukimiya was like, “wait… so she’s the brains and the chaos???” 

he’s a bit of a perfectionist, so he really respects your ability to flip the switch. when he’s spiraling about a brand deal or a photoshoot, you’re the one who calmly reminds him that “you’ve already survived worse. remember when your hair got fried in that one ad? and you still slayed.” 

he listens. because underneath the sarcasm and your “i hope the earth explodes” humor, you always get things done. 

the two of you are basically opposites: he’s elegant, poised, and a little dramatic; you’re loud, meme-obsessed, and unfiltered until it matters. he thinks you’re the perfect balance of chaotic good and responsible queen. “i love that you’re insane, but i also love that you scare HR with how efficient you are.” 

isagi yoichi

his first impression: “she’s hilarious, but needs to be monitored at all times.” you were making jokes about tax evasion and pretending to haunt people through google docs. “i wrote ‘i’m behind you’ in size 2 font at the bottom of every spreadsheet.” “WHY.” 

but when the blue lock PR team asked someone to help manage the team’s community outreach campaign, you went full commander mode. suddenly spreadsheets, schedules, polite corporate emails, and you booked everyone’s appointments like a pro. isagi was SHOCKED. “wait, you’re actually a professional???” “i am literally linkedin-certified. don’t play with me.” 

isagi now just lets you talk your insane talk as long as you walk the walk (which you always do). but he does sometimes worry when you casually say things like “if this deadline kills me, cremate my body and mix it into office coffee.” “love. are you okay?” “no, but i’m still doing my job better than everyone else.” 

kaiser michael

at first, he thought you were annoying. too loud. too sarcastic. too many disturbing jokes. until one day he caught you managing your own press schedule, negotiating deals over the phone like a shark, and drafting a marketing deck for your brand in the same breath as “haha if i get hit by a bus at least make sure it’s a mercedes.” 

kaiser’s respect for you skyrocketed. because that’s his energy – joking around, acting like he doesn’t care – but being a monster at your craft? that’s how you earn his interest. now he just follows you around like a smug little bodyguard. “you’re a menace. and you’d probably make a million dollars scamming me in a powerpoint.” 

when you two work together on anything serious, it’s absolute power couple energy. he’ll be leaning against your desk like, “are you done being hot and responsible?” and you’ll deadpan, “no. but your face is delaying my work productivity.” 

mikage reo

honestly? he was enchanted from day one. you were cracking jokes like “if i win the lottery, i’m investing it in haunted dolls,” while organizing a full event on your phone and replying to work emails with scary speed. reo watched with his jaw dropped like “are you even real???” 

he’s used to people who joke around, but flake out. you are the rare breed that jokes harder and works harder. he finds your duality fascinating. you’ll clown someone to their face and then finish your budget projections by 3 AM. “how do you have so much chaotic energy and still have a retirement plan?” 

reo is obsessed with your balance. he calls you “joker boss” because you’re both unhinged and terrifyingly capable. he’ll 100% show you off at events like, “yeah, she made our whole business plan… while doing a bit about eating drywall.” 

itoshi rin

you physically hurt him. not because you hit him, but because the first time you met, you made a joke so vile and deadpan, he choked on air and stared at you like you were a walking red flag in human form. something like: “i hope the company burns down, but like... on a friday so we don’t have to work monday either.” “what the actual f–” 

he genuinely thought you were an unserious clown. like the kind he’d never tolerate. until one day during a group project, everyone was slacking off and joking around… and suddenly, you flipped into hyper-efficient, eyes-glinting, do-it-or-die mode. you whipped out a laptop, started outlining deliverables, assigning tasks, and saying terrifying things like “i’ve already emailed the supervisor your excuses. now pick up the slack.” rin was stunned. aroused. slightly afraid. 

now he just watches you in silence whenever you’re in your serious mode, trying so hard not to look impressed. but then you break the tension by going, “anyway. if i die tomorrow, bury me in a blazer and tell god i was productive.” and rin's brain just short circuits again. he thinks you're mentally unwell. he's also never been in love like this. 

you actually motivate him. he’s already serious about his career, but you’re the only one who outworks him and makes him laugh like a man losing brain cells. 

sometimes he hears you laughing at your own jokes at night and just sighs into the pillow like, “she’s so weird.” then goes back to cuddling you tighter because you’re his weird. 

itoshi sae

sae heard your laugh before he ever saw you. loud. wild. from the gut. he turned around like “who let a maniac in here?” then you walked past him saying something like, “if i disappear, tell my manager i ascended. into the void.” he watched you leave and muttered, “what the fuck...” 

but the next time he saw you, you were on a work call, serious voice on, notebook open, calling shots and speaking like the CEO of a fortune 500 company. and when the call ended? you dropped your pen, leaned back, and went: “anyway, if this job doesn’t kill me, i will.” sae almost choked on his drink. 

this man is dry. so dry. but you? your humor is even drier, darker, and more sarcastic than his, and it physically pains him to laugh at your jokes. like the one time you said, “my toxic trait is being really responsible while secretly hoping society collapses.” “... that’s so stupid.” but then he’s laughing five hours later on the team bus because of what you said. 

he secretly loves watching you flip from “chronically online chaos gremlin” to “scary competent adult.” he’ll watch from a corner, drink in hand, smirking while muttering, “they’re not ready for her. poor bastards.” 

you stress him out when you’re too funny during serious moments though. “sae, if you die mid-game, can i have your bugatti?” “no, and i’m blocking you when i haunt you.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[wooyoungiewritings]

Borrowed Time - Seonghwa x Reader (Last part)

Summary: Time passes since everything fell apart. Did you make the right choice? Are you even happy? But something happens one day. Something isn't quite right. And in the blink of an eye, it all erupts. Chaos. Fear. Blood pounding in your ears. And just like that, you're thrown into a moment so violent, so irreversible, it shatters everything, and nothing will ever be the same.

Word count: 10.8K

Genre: Fluff, Rich Seonghwa, angst, DRAMAAAA, slow burn, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), knife, physical fight, blood, stitches, dom Seonghwa, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking, spitting, LOTS of dirtytalk, creampie, aftercare (<3), lmk if I missed anything!

PART3

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Seonghwa in any way.

It’s been three days since you left.

Three days, and Seonghwa still hasn’t gone back to work. He can’t. He told his assistant he needed time off, didn’t explain why, didn’t need to. He’s not sick. Not in any way that matters to anyone else. He just… can’t be that version of himself yet. The polished one. The capable one. 

The apartment is too quiet. Not peaceful quiet, suffocating quiet, the kind that wraps around his ribs and makes it hard to breathe. Everything reminds him of you. The spot on the couch where your head rested. The coffee mug you always reached for. The bag of cookies you forgot on the kitchen counter.

He hasn’t touched any of it.

The first day, he just sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Hours pass. He doesn’t notice. He’s trying to process the weight sitting on his chest. 

The second day, he tries to work. Opens his laptop, stares at the screen. Nothing comes. After an hour, he shuts it, harder than he means to. Doesn’t eat. Can’t taste anything. The loneliness is louder than his hunger.

By the third day, today, he forces himself to shower. Just to feel like he still exists. It doesn’t help. He moves through the apartment like he’s underwater, everything slow, hazy, distant. Like he’s not fully here.

And tomorrow, he has to go in.

Back to the office. Back to pretending.

The thought makes his stomach twist.

He hasn’t let himself think about it. Not properly. But now, with the hours running out and Friday looming like a guillotine, he can’t avoid it anymore.

He’s going to have to sit across from the man who still has you. Talk to him. Look him in the eye. Lead meetings like nothing inside him is broken.

The man who got to keep you.

The man who doesn’t even know what he has.

That’s what kills him. Not just that he lost you, but that he lost you to someone who let you go in the first place. Someone who didn’t hold you like Seonghwa did. With care, with reverence, like you were something rare and fragile and breathtaking.

But he’s the one who let go, isn’t he?

He knew what this was. Knew it had an end. And still, he let himself hope. Still, he imagined a future he had no right to. A life with you. 

But tomorrow, he’ll pull himself together. Dress like nothing’s wrong. Smile when necessary. Numb himself enough to get through the day.

Even if every moment feels like bleeding in silence while the world moves on.

Because what choice does he have?

You’re already gone.

And he’s the one who told you to go.

***

Friday.

The city feels louder today.

Seonghwa slips into his suit with a stillness that doesn’t match the storm behind his ribs.

He hasn’t set foot in the office since the day you walked out of his life. Since you came to visit him at work, coffees in hand, smile on your face. But everything changed within a few hours, and instead of dinner over candlelights, you said your final goodbyes.

He doesn’t flinch when he steps out of the elevator.

The staff smiles like they always do. “Good morning, Mr. Park.”

He nods. Barely.

The room is full by the time Seonghwa walks in. He takes his seat at the end of the table, the cool, polished wood beneath his fingers grounding him as he smooths out the papers in front of him. The meeting is about to start. 

The door opens. A shift in the air. Seonghwa doesn't look up at first, but he feels it, the familiar presence, the sharp energy of your husband walking into the room.

Your husband’s eyes sweep over the table, a quick scan of the room. His gaze lands on Seonghwa. He takes a seat far down the table, as if the distance could shield him from whatever’s simmering beneath the surface. Seonghwa doesn’t look at him. He focuses on the papers in front of him, trying to pretend that nothing’s wrong.

But everything’s wrong.

The meeting starts. The back-and-forth of business talks continues, but Seonghwa can barely concentrate. Every time he looks up, he catches your husband’s gaze. There’s no mistaking it. The anger. The resentment. And a sharp, guttural sting of jealousy.

Seonghwa knows it’s because of you, because he had you. Because he kissed you. Tasted you. Loved you.

He wonders how your husband feels, knowing that Seonghwa touched the woman he thought he had all to himself, unaware that she could find a new love as well. The thought nearly makes his teeth grind, but Seonghwa doesn’t react. He’s better than that.

But the truth is, Seonghwa hates that your husband gets to call himself your husband. The title Seonghwa will never have. 

The meeting ends and Seonghwa gathers his papers, packing them slowly into his briefcase. He doesn’t look at your husband. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. 

The door clicks shut, and it’s just the two of them.

Your husband doesn’t move. He stays seated, his gaze hard on Seonghwa, watching, waiting. 

Then, your husband’s voice breaks through the silence, low and filled with an unmistakable edge: “Forget about her.”

Seonghwa pauses, just for a second. 

Your husband's voice is lower now, venomous, as if trying to force a rise out of him: “You don’t get to act like this didn’t happen,” your husband hisses. “Like you didn’t take what was mine. You knew. You knew what you were doing.”

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens. He finally turns to face him, his eyes cold, impassive. But the fire behind them burns bright, and it’s the kind of fire that cuts through the air.

“I didn’t take anything from you,” Seonghwa says, voice calm, smooth, but razor-sharp. His gaze never falters, never wavers. He’s not the one about to crumble here. “You gave her away.”

Your husband takes a breath, his hand gripping the back of a chair, knuckles white.

“Don't,” he warns, low and threatening. “Don’t fucking tell me what I gave away.”

“You made your choices. You chose to pretend this was fine when it was anything but. And when she needed something, someone, I was there.”

But then your husband stands from his chair, like he’s trying to force his power back into the room. “You stole her from me, you bastard!” 

Seonghwa’s jaw tightens, and he can feel that familiar surge of rage coursing through him. The cool, collected boss that everyone knows slips away for a moment, replaced by something more raw, more dangerous.

“You really think you can blame me for your failure as a husband?” Seonghwa says, his voice turning darker, edged with venom. He steps closer, narrowing the space between them until your husband can feel the heat of Seonghwa’s anger. “You’re pathetic.”

Seonghwa feels his heart pound in his chest, but this time, it’s not with the rush of passion for you. It’s pure, unadulterated rage. Rage that he can’t be with you.

“You had her. You had everything. And you threw it all away for what? A little freedom?” He steps closer, and your husband instinctively takes a step back. “You thought you could live in that little world of yours and keep her locked up in the role you built for her, but she’s not a fucking object to be claimed.”

A long, charged silence passes between them. The air crackles with tension, heavy with all the unsaid words, the hurt, the anger.

“I’m not scared of you,” Seonghwa continues, his voice low but powerful, each word landing with deliberate force. “I’m not scared of your pathetic jealousy. I did what you couldn’t. I loved her when you couldn't even see her.”

For a long moment, the room is still. Neither man moves. Seonghwa can feel the heat of his anger, but there’s nothing left to say. The powerplay between them is over. Seonghwa has won. And your husband, he’s just a man who can’t even fight for the one thing that mattered most.

With one final, long stare, Seonghwa turns toward the door, walking away without a single glance back. But just before he opens it, a voice calls out behind him.

“Don’t fool yourself, Seonghwa,” your husband sneers, the words dripping with satisfaction. “You had her... for a while. But I get to keep her. I get everything you can’t.”

Seonghwa freezes, his grip tightening on the door handle. 

Seonghwa’s heart skips a beat. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t let it show, he won’t give him the satisfaction. He won’t break. He’s not going to let this pathetic excuse of a man have that power over him.

But the words are still there. Stinging. Burning. They cut deeper than he ever expected.

Your husband steps a little closer now, the smirk still playing on his lips. “So go ahead. Get all worked up. I can see it in your eyes. You wanted her. But now?” He leans in, voice dropping to a whisper, the air thick with the tension. “She belongs to me. And she always will.”

The words hang in the air like poison.

Seonghwa feels like he’s suffocating. Like his chest is too tight, like he can’t breathe. But he doesn't break. He won’t.

“Keep doing what you’ve done for the past 8 years with her, and watch,” He leans in slightly, voice barely above a whisper. “you’ll lose her all over again. And next time, I won’t stop her.”

***

It’s been a month.

You count them not by days but by the quiet, stretched-out hours between moments of pretending. The mornings are quieter now. Not peaceful, just quiet, in that hollow kind of way. The clink of a coffee mug, the hum of the dishwasher. Your husband stands across the kitchen, making breakfast like he’s following instructions from a book written about someone else’s life.

He puts blueberries in your oatmeal. You hate blueberries in oatmeal. He used to know that.

He’s smiling when he sets it down in front of you. You say thank you because you’re supposed to, and he nods like that means something. Like that fixes something.

But he doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Doesn’t ask what you’re thinking when you drift off during his stories. Doesn’t see the way you flinch when he reaches for your hand at night like it’s a reflex, not a want.

The bed is colder now, even when he’s in it. He falls asleep quickly. You don’t. You stare at the ceiling and think about the version of you that felt alive, wanted, seen.

You think about honey tea and cold windows. About fingertips on your jaw and whispers that sounded like prayers.

You don’t cry. Not as much anymore, at least. And when your husband holds you, he holds you wrong. Like he’s memorized the shape of someone who isn’t there anymore.

***

Three weeks pass again.

No matter how much you try to quiet it, one name keeps surfacing in the silence.

Seonghwa.

You haven’t spoken since you left his apartment. Since he held you one last time and told you to go. Since you cried into his chest and told him you didn’t want to lose him. And he still let you go, because he knew he had to.

You miss him so much it hurts.

Time keeps dragging.

You don’t plan to go out, but the fridge is empty and your husband mentioned dinner twice before leaving this morning. So you grab your coat, your keys, and drive to the store in silence, the radio too loud and still not loud enough to quiet your thoughts.

You move through the aisles on autopilot. Milk, eggs, pasta, something for dinner. 

You’re standing in front of the tea section, staring at the shelf without seeing any of it, when it happens.

You freeze.

You see him.

Not fully, just the back of his head, the tilt of his shoulders beneath a black coat, the careful way he reaches for something on the shelf like he’s always aware of how much space he takes up. It’s stupid. Impossible. But your heart stumbles anyway.

Because it looks like him.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel air fill your lungs. Real air. You hadn’t even realized how shallowly you’ve been breathing until now. You abandon the cart. You move slowly, like you’re afraid to startle the moment, like it might disappear if you’re too loud, too desperate.

He turns the corner. You follow.

He walks with that same quiet grace. The same calm.

You trail behind him through the produce section, around the corner to the bakery, your heart in your throat, limbs trembling. Not out of fear, but relief. Relief so thick it makes your knees weak.

You’re just about to say his name.

And then he turns.

And it’s not him.

Not even close.

He’s younger. Taller. Softer around the edges. A stranger blinking at you in quiet confusion while you stand frozen in front of a tray of croissants, clutching nothing, looking like a fool.

Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. You force a tight smile, nod, and duck your head before walking away like the ground might split open and take you with it.

The breath you just got back? Gone. Ripped out of your lungs in one cruel twist.

Because for one glorious second, you really thought it was him.

***

You’re fully into the dead routine of your life, when one morning, the air changes.

Your husband is quiet, more than usual. Distracted. You ask if something’s wrong and he says no, but the word feels hollow. There’s a stiffness to the way he ties his tie, a hesitation in the way he kisses you goodbye. You stand in the kitchen after the door closes, staring at your reflection in the microwave, heart tightening with unease. 

Your eyes scan the kitchen. Something sees off. Like something is trying to grab your attention without saying anything.

You clean. You try to shake the feeling. Then, while folding laundry, you notice the drawer to your nightstand isn’t sitting quite right.

Your hands move on their own.

You open it slowly. At first, nothing seems out of place. Then you see it: a single Polaroid, lying flat against the bottom, like it had been dropped there in haste.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It's a photo of you and Seonghwa. Taken months ago, in his apartment. You're smiling, tucked under his arm, and he's pressing a kiss to your temple. You remember laughing when he clicked the shutter, how he said he wanted a piece of you he could hold onto.

You saved this picture close to you, just as a reminder. A reminder of what love feels like. But you never meant for this to surface. You thought it was hidden, safe. But somehow, your husband found it.

Your stomach turns.

He didn’t say anything this morning. Not a word. He just... left.

And now you're standing here, holding proof of everything you'd tried to bury.

Something isn’t right.

With shaky hands, you grab your coat and keys. There’s only one place you can go. You need to talk to him. You need to clear the air. Because something feels wrong, like this conversation can't wait. 

You head to his job, your husband's office building, ignoring the storm inside your chest.

You know the odds of possibly seeing Seonghwa again are high.

And that terrifies you just as much as it comforts you.

You walk through the halls of the office building like a ghost, the nerves thrumming in your chest almost louder than your heels tapping against the polished floor. You know this place. But everything feels colder now, more sterile. Like it’s turned into something unrecognizable, just like your marriage.

His office is empty.

You check the time. Maybe he’s in a meeting. Maybe he left for coffee. Maybe he knew you were coming and didn’t want to see you. You start to turn away, unsure what to do next-

And then you see him.

At the end of the hallway, near the corner office with tall glass windows, stands Seonghwa.

Time halts.

He’s dressed in a sleek black button-down, sleeves rolled up, hair falling slightly into his eyes. He hasn’t seen you yet. He’s talking to someone, nodding, polite, composed. Beautiful.

Then he turns.

Your eyes meet.

It slams into you, that ache you’ve been keeping buried. There’s a flicker across his face. His shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for impact. His expression stays neutral, professional, but his eyes… his eyes shatter you.

He knows. He feels it too.

He excuses himself from the person beside him. It’s barely a word, barely a motion, just a hand raised in apology before he’s moving.

Toward you.

Every step is slow, measured. Like he’s walking through something fragile. Like he doesn’t trust what will happen when he gets too close.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

“Hey,” he says when he’s finally in front of you. His voice is low. Strained. Kind. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You clutch your coat tighter, trying to find your voice. “I needed to talk to him. I-” You glance toward the hall. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “This is my office.”

You let out a breathless laugh, but it catches in your throat. He looks tired. He looks like he hasn’t stopped thinking about you. And you want, God, you want to reach for him.

You clear your throat, trying to shake off the weight of the moment, but it’s like trying to clear fog with your hands.

“So,” you start, forcing a smile that feels stiff on your lips, “You’re still, uh, working hard, I see?”

Seonghwa’s lips twitch, a barely-there smile pulling at the corners. “Boss things,” he says, trying to sound casual, but there’s an edge of something soft beneath it. “You know me.”

You nod, suddenly feeling the distance between you two, even though you’re standing so close. The silence that stretches between you is like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

“So... um...” you try again, your hands fidgeting with the hem of your coat. “How’s everything been?”

Seonghwa glances at you for a split second, and you swear you catch the flicker of something (maybe hope?) before he turns his gaze to the floor, adjusting the collar of his shirt as if to focus on anything other than the words he wants to say but won’t.

“Fine,” he says, and the word feels like it’s both too much and not enough. “Same old stuff. You?”

You try to hold his gaze but it’s like there’s an invisible barrier now, even though you’re just inches away.

“Yeah, fine. You know...” you gesture vaguely, not sure why the words feel so hollow. “Same.”

It’s almost like a competition, who can pretend the best, who can mask the longing just a little bit longer. Neither of you seems willing to admit what’s really burning in the air between you.

A long moment stretches on. You could leave. You should leave.

But he looks at you again, and the world tilts just a little.

But then you hear a voice.

“Are you serious right now?”

You whip around just in time to see your husband storming down the hallway, his pace quick, his eyes locked on you and Seonghwa. His jaw is clenched, fists tight at his sides, and the fury in his gaze burns right through you.

“Really?” he spits, his voice rising with each word. “You couldn’t fucking wait longer before running back to him?”

Seonghwa instinctively steps in front of you, a protective instinct, his posture rigid but calm. “Don’t talk to her like that,” he says, voice controlled, but there’s an undeniable edge to it.

Your husband doesn’t hear him, doesn’t care. His eyes stay on you, full of accusation.

Without warning, he lunges at Seonghwa, throwing the first punch. You gasp as it lands with a sickening thud right against Seonghwa’s jaw. He staggers back but catches himself, looking up at your husband with a mixture of disbelief and frustration.

“Don’t!” you shout, taking a step forward, but before you can stop it, your husband throws another punch. This one hits Seonghwa square in the side, and you wince as you watch him take it, barely flinching, but you can see the pain flicker in his eyes.

“Stop it!” You’re screaming now, trying to push through the chaos, but your husband shoves you aside, not even sparing you a glance.

You stumble back, heart pounding as you watch Seonghwa take another hit. This one has Seonghwa’s lip splitting open, a small trickle of blood seeping out. It stings, but Seonghwa doesn’t retaliate. He’s too focused on keeping you out of harm’s way. He moves slowly, cautiously, but still, your husband’s anger is relentless.

“Enough!” A voice shouts from behind.

A few of your husband’s colleagues rush in, grabbing hold of him, pulling him back with a force that makes him stumble. Papers fly, a coffee cup crashes to the ground, and the air is thick with tension. 

The hallway is chaos. Seonghwa’s lip is split. Your husband’s collar is torn. 

You’re frozen in the middle.

Torn between the man you promised your life to, and the one who made you feel alive again. But something shifts. Something dark flashes in your husband’s eyes. His hand disappears into the inside of his coat.

And time slows.

You don’t even register what’s happening until you hear someone yell;  “He has a knife!”

The world goes silent.

Your husband pulls it free in a blink. Sleek. Cold. A narrow blade that glints beneath the hallway lights. Same knife you have at home. You stare at it, frozen, a second too late to do anything at all.

He had it on him. This wasn’t a spontaneous outburst. He came here with that knife.

And he raises it, arm drawn back, aimed straight for Seonghwa’s chest.

Everything inside you screams.

But someone tackles him from behind. Another grabs his arm. The knife clatters to the floor with a metallic rattle that seems to ring in your ears long after it’s landed. Seonghwa is pulled back by someone else, out of reach.

You can’t breathe.

Security rushes in. Voices blur. A dozen hands are on your husband now, restraining him. He doesn’t resist at first, just stands there, wild-eyed and panting, like he’s only now realizing what he almost did.

He was going to use it.

He brought it for Seonghwa.

Your stomach twists into something ugly and knotted. Seonghwa’s blood is on his lip, his shirt wrinkled, the faintest bruise already forming on his cheek. And still, his eyes are on you.

And then you’re beside him again, grabbing his hand, checking his jaw, trembling.

He winces but smiles gently through it. “I’m fine. It looks worse than it is.”

But beneath all of it, something terrified flickers behind his calm exterior, like he knows just how close he came to being seriously hurt.

Even as a police officer pulls you aside to take your statement, your eyes keep flicking toward Seonghwa.

He’s seated in a plastic chair at the far end of the corridor, shoulders hunched slightly, one hand bracing the ice pack held to his jaw. Someone wrapped paper towels around it, already stained faintly pink from the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth. His shirt is rumpled. His brow is split. But he’s calm. Or pretending to be.

He keeps glancing at you, too.

Eventually, you both end up at the hospital.

The ER is buzzing with fluorescent lights and distant murmurs. Beeping monitors. A child crying softly somewhere down the hall. The adrenaline has long since burned out of your system, but your hands still won’t stop shaking. 

You sit beside Seonghwa in a curtained-off room, perched on a hard plastic chair, watching the way he winces as a nurse presses gauze gently to the cut above his brow.

He’s quiet. Has been for most of the car ride. It wasn’t an awkward silence, it was just… full. Weighted with everything you both couldn’t say in front of the paramedics, the police, the nurses, the clipboard-wielding strangers who kept asking for his information, your information, what happened, how long it’s been going on.

You’re still answering that question yourself.

“I’m going to grab the adhesive strips,” the nurse says softly, stepping out.

And then it’s just you and him.

Seonghwa turns to look at you, eyes a little tired, but still gentle. Still him. “You don’t have to be here,” he says quietly. “I know this… probably just made everything harder for you.”

His voice is rough around the edges, like the pain is finally settling in. Like now that he’s no longer protecting you from someone else, he can feel what happened to him.

You meet his gaze and hold it. There’s that same sweetness in his eyes. That same patience. That quiet, unshakable way he always puts you first. Even after being attacked.

“I’m not leaving,” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He swallows. His shoulders relax just slightly, like your answer lets him breathe again. One slow nod. And then he looks down, blinks hard.

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if he-” You don't finish. You don't want to.

Because you both know what happened. Seonghwa didn’t stumble into danger. The knife wasn’t meant for anyone else. It was brought to him. A weapon, delivered with intent. Your husband had shown up at his workplace, unhinged and already spiraling, perhaps waiting for the "right" moment. If someone hadn’t stepped in, if Seonghwa hadn’t kept his distance, hadn’t moved when he did... he might not be sitting here now.

Your throat tightens. And now you can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop thinking how close it came to tearing him away from you forever.

His expression softens with something deeper. “Let’s not think about that,” He murmur's.

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

And that’s when you see it.

The fear he won’t admit. The way his fingers curl against his thigh like he’s still trying to ground himself. He’s just as shaken, but holding it in for you. Carrying the worst of it so you don’t have to.

“I’m okay,” he adds, softer now. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand moves toward you slowly, open, inviting, but cautious. Like he’s giving you the chance to say no. You don’t. You take it instantly, and he threads his fingers with yours.

But you feel the hesitation in him. The quiet conflict behind his stillness. He’s trying to be careful. Respectful. Maybe even distant. Because he still doesn’t know what this means, what you mean, now that everything’s changed. Even though there’s no doubt anymore that it was real danger. Even after all that… Seonghwa is still giving you room.

So you hold his hand a little tighter. Let your thumb glide over the back of his knuckles. Show him that it’s okay. That you’re not going anywhere.

The nurse returns a few minutes later, bandages and discharge papers in hand. She moves quietly, professionally, giving Seonghwa a small, encouraging smile as she applies the final butterfly strip to his brow and replaces the gauze on his lip.

“You’ll bruise pretty badly,” she says, tone gentle, “but there’s no sign of a fracture. Keep icing it. And take something for the swelling before bed.”

He nods, polite, his hand still wrapped around yours.

You don’t let go, even as the nurse explains the aftercare steps. Even as she hands him a neatly folded packet of instructions and wishes him a speedy recovery.

The moment the curtain pulls shut behind her, the tension in the room softens. Seonghwa exhales slowly, sitting back on the hospital bed like his body is finally starting to feel the weight of the night.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says after a beat, his voice a little hoarse but steadier now.

You nod, already rising. He moves more carefully than usual, wincing as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t complain. You reach for his hand once he’s standing, and he lets you. You lace your fingers through his automatically, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The walk out is quiet.

You walk the rest of the way in silence, hand in hand.

His apartment isn’t far, just a few blocks. When you reach the building, he opens the door for you without a word, fingers brushing your back lightly as you step through, almost out of habit. The familiarity of it almost undoes you.

You’ve been here before. Slept here. Cried here. Left a piece of yourself in these walls.

And now you’re back.

The door to Seonghwa’s apartment shuts behind you with a soft click, and for a moment, the world finally exhales. No police. No hospital noise. No blood.

Just the two of you. And silence.

He’s clearly exhausted. His shirt wrinkled, a bruise blooming on his jaw, lip still slightly swollen, a thin cut on his temple, bandaged now. Still beautiful, still so him. But it hurts to look at him like this.

“Couch. Now,” you say firmly, setting down your bag and taking his jacket from his shoulders before he can protest.

“Bossy,” he mutters, teasing, because he wants to lighten the mood, wants to make this feel normal, but he obeys. Of course he does.

You guide him to the couch, hands gentle but no-nonsense, and he sinks down with a soft sigh. You disappear into his kitchen and return with a glass of water, then find the little first-aid kit you’d seen here before, tucked under the bathroom sink. You sink down in front of him, and he watches you the whole time like he doesn’t believe you’re really here.

Like if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish.

He sits up straight but escapes a quiet groan, one hand braced against his ribs. “Okay,” he mutters. “That’s definitely going to bruise.”

“Bruise is putting it mildly,” you say, inspecting the edge of his jaw where the skin is already darkening. “I’m sorry to say it, but it looks like you lost the fight.”

“I didn’t lose,” he says, lips twitching. “I just… chose not to win.”

You roll your eyes. “Heroic.”

“I try.” His smile curves gently, even with the split lip. “But for the record, I’d like it noted that your husband is definitely fired.”

You pause, cloth halfway to his temple, then murmur, “Ex-husband.”

His eyes flick to yours. It’s subtle, but something shifts.

You lower the cloth, resting your hands in your lap. Your hands that aren’t carrying a wedding ring anymore. You took it off while Seonghwa was getting checked at the hospital. “It’s over. I just… need to make it official now.”

Seonghwa doesn’t speak immediately. He just watches you with that quiet attentiveness of his, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast, you’ll take it back.

But you don’t.

You finish cleaning him up in silence as his eyes are closed, enjoying your subtle, missed touch. “How’s the pain?” you ask softly, brushing a thumb under the edge of the bandage on his cheek.

He opens his eyes to look at you, and gives a weak smile. “Manageable. I’ve had worse.”

You give him a look. “Don’t be macho.”

“I’m not,” he replies. “It just… doesn’t matter. I’d take worse if it meant seeing you again.”

Your breath catches. You want to respond to that, but the words get tangled in your throat. 

He catches the flicker in your expression, and tries to sit up straighter. “Sorry. That was-"

“No,” you cut him off. “Don’t take it back.”

He watches you with those impossibly soft, unreadable eyes, and you feel something stir in your chest. It’s too much. His bruised cheek, the swelling on his lip, the way he’s still trying to be calm and gentle around you even after everything that’s happened.

“How have you been? Really?” you ask. Your voice trembles more than you want it to.

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to his hands, fidgeting now, fingers twitching slightly like they don’t know what to do without yours in them. When he speaks, it’s quiet. Flat, almost.

“I’ve been… existing.”

That single word cracks something in your chest.

He doesn’t look at you. He stares at the floor, like the truth is too heavy to say while meeting your eyes.

“I get up. I eat. I work. I talk to people. I smile when I’m supposed to.” His voice is calm, too calm, like the only way to speak the truth is to say it like it’s not about him. “But the second I’m alone, it hits me again. That you’re not there. That I can’t call. That I don’t know when I’ll see you next... if I’ll see you next.”

You stay quiet, afraid even a breath might shatter him.

“In the beginning I still set two mugs out in the morning. Every damn day.” He huffs a sad little laugh that dies quickly. “I’d open the cabinet and just… forget. And then I’d stand there like an idiot, staring at your favorite mug."

Your eyes blur, vision swimming, but he keeps going.

“I kept your book on the coffee table,” he whispers. “I can't move it. It still has your bookmark. Page 183. I kept thinking… maybe if I leave it there, you’ll come back to finish it.”

You swallow hard, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sometimes I hear the front door creak and think it's you. I actually get up and check. I know better, but… I still look.”

He rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, jaw clenched.

“There are nights I lie in bed and just stare at the ceiling, trying to remember how you sounded when you laugh. I was scared I was starting to forget it.”

He finally lifts his head , and when your eyes meet, it nearly levels you.

“I missed you so much,” he says, softer now. “It started to feel like grief.”

That breaks you.

It happens before you even realize it, your face crumpling, your body folding forward as tears rush to your eyes, too fast to stop. You cover your face with both hands, but he’s already reaching for you, already pulling you into him.

“Hey, hey…” His voice is pure worry now. He holds you so carefully, like you might break. “Talk to me.”

You clutch his shirt, forehead against his shoulder, and you just sob for a moment. “I shouldn’t have gone back,” you cry. “I thought I owed it to him, I thought it was the right thing, but it wasn’t. I’ve been lying to myself every single day, and I just-”

You press your face against his collarbone, breathing in the faintest trace of him, the smell of clean cotton, the warmth of his skin, the quiet steadiness that only he ever gave you.

He strokes your hair, soothing circles over your back. His touch is still gentle, but there’s something broken in the way he exhales. Like your pain is hurting him too.

You gasp, a hiccup of a sob in your throat. “I missed your voice,” you manage, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt tighter. “Not just what you said. I missed how you’d say good morning. How you’d hum sometimes without realizing."

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your vision’s blurry, your cheeks soaked, but you need to see him. “I missed the way you looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I was more than enough. I’ve been trying to find that feeling again, but it’s gone. It was always just you.”

You pause, trying to breathe, trying to find words big enough for the ache in your chest. “I missed your hands. The way they’d hold mine without needing a reason. I missed your stupid jokes. I missed falling asleep knowing you were there. I even missed how you worry too much. I missed you so much it physically hurt.”

Your voice drops to a whisper.

“I love you,” you say, and this time it breaks something open. “I love you so much it kept me up at night. I’d wake up reaching for you. I’d sit on the floor of my shower just to cry without anyone hearing. I wanted to call you a thousand times. But I didn’t. I thought it’d be cruel. I thought I was doing the right thing. And now all I’ve done is hurt both of us.”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling.

“I don’t know how I ever convinced myself I could survive without you.”

And he’s not breathing. His chest is rising, shallow and uneven, but his mouth is frozen open like he’s trying not to fall apart.

His hands come up to cup your face. Gently. Tender. His thumb brushes your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your sadness.

He leans forward, rests his forehead against yours.

“I waited so long to hear you say that,” he says at last, his voice rough with emotion. “And I would’ve waited longer. I would’ve waited forever, even if it killed me. Because loving you… even from a distance, even when it broke me… was still better than not loving you at all.”

Your fingers sliding up into his hair. And you kiss him, softly, slowly, because there’s no more pretending, no more space to hide. 

He groans into the kiss, hands sliding down your back, pulling you impossibly close. “I love you,” he breathes, voice desperate.

Your kiss deepens before either of you can stop it, months of tension and two agonizing months apart erupting all at once. His hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and you climb into his lap like it’s instinct, like it’s where you belong.

You straddle him, trembling, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you,” you whisper, breath hitching, the words melting into your kiss.

You’ve missed this. Missed him. The way his mouth claims yours like a promise, the way he touches you like he’s never going to stop. Like he’s worshipping every second.

“I love you,” you murmur again, breath hot against his skin, voice shaking. “I love you.”

He tilts your chin up, eyes dark, gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. “Say it again,” he rasps, like he needs it to live.

“I love you,” you say, kissing his jaw. “I love you,” as your hands press to his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath your palms. “I love you,” again, again, until it’s all either of you can hear.

His hands grip your waist, holding you to him as your hips shift. He gasps, deep and aching. “God, I forgot how warm you are,” he mumbles, dragging his lips down your jaw. “You’re not fair, you know that?”

“You’re the one kissing me like that,” you murmur, breath catching as your fingers tug at his hair. “Don’t blame me for-”

A sharp wince stops everything.

You freeze. “Seonghwa?”

“I’m okay,” he groans, head flopping back dramatically against the cushion. “Just-, my ribs. And my shoulder. And basically every part of me that’s not currently touching you.”

You blink, concern rushing to your face, but then, his mouth quirks up. That smirk. The one you’d missed almost as much as his kiss.

“I want you,” he groans. “God, do I want you. But if I try to move again, I might pass out or die. Either way, not sexy.”

You try to stifle your laugh, even through your tears, but it bubbles out anyway, relief and affection all tangled together. “Fine,” you sigh, settling against him with exaggerated care. “We’ll wait until you’re less… dying.”

“Tragic,” he whispers, throwing his head back in the cushions, wrapping his arms around you despite the pain. “You could be half-naked in my lap right now and I’m stuck being wholesome.”

You snort, burying your face in his neck. “Poor baby.”

His hips shift up instinctively, dragging a gasp out of you. You can feel him, hard and desperate beneath you, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to give in.

“I love you,” you whisper, and it breaks something in both of you.

He groans, like the words unravel him completely. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you say, softer. Slower. You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love you.” Along his jaw. “I love you.” Down his neck.

His hands slide up your sides, trembling with restraint. “Never mind, please,” he whispers, half-prayer, half-curse. “Let me have you. Just for a second. I swear I’ll survive.”

You cup his face, kiss him again, deep and slow and devastating. “You’ll survive longer if we wait.”

He groans like that physically hurts more than the bruises. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m keeping you alive,” you counter, grinning as you settle against him with care.

“Alive and painfully hard,” he mutters, voice strained.

“And you love it,” you tease, snuggling closer. “Now rest up, mister. When you’re better, I’ll make sure you forget all about this waiting.”

He sighs happily, wrapping his arms around you. “Deal. But I’m holding you to that.”

You smile, heart warm and full as you hold him close, knowing that this waiting will only make everything sweeter.

But neither of you move to leave the embrace. His hand runs slowly up and down your back, yours curled into the front of his shirt, and the world just… fades. There’s no husband, no chaos, no past.

***

You’re not even sure what day it is.

The only time that seems to exist lately is marked by the way the sunlight filters differently into Seonghwa’s apartment, soft and golden in the morning, heavy and warm by late afternoon, dusky and slow when it finally slips behind the skyline.

Three days.

Three days of not leaving the apartment. Of takeout containers on the kitchen counter. Of you and Seonghwa padding barefoot through the living room in sweats and oversized t-shirts. Of your toothbrush next to his. Your phone mostly untouched. Your head always somewhere on him. On his shoulder, on his chest, in the crook of his neck while he scrolls through his phone and absentmindedly plays with your fingers.

You’re basically glued to each other. Not in a clingy way, more like… gravity. The kind that feels inevitable. Natural.

This morning, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket. Seonghwa has his laptop open on his thighs, pretending to sort through emails, though he hasn’t typed anything in twenty minutes. You’re lazily drawing circles on his stomach with your fingertip, wearing his hoodie like it's second skin.

“Do you think the world knows we’ve disappeared?” you murmur.

He hums. “Let them wonder.”

You look up at him, watching how the light hits his face. His bruises are almost gone now, just shadows of purple at the edges of his jaw.

“You look less like a crime scene,” you tease, gently nudging his ribs.

He huffs a laugh, catching your hand and kissing your knuckles. “I heal faster when you're home with me.”

You freeze for a second.

Home.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, just presses another kiss to your hand and closes his laptop, placing it aside like nothing else matters. Like this is all he needs.

You shift, scooting closer, and rest your head on his chest.

“I don’t think I want to go back yet,” you whisper. You have no idea how your shared house with your (ex)husband looks like. You still have to go through everything, separate your things from his, leave it and never look back.

“You don’t have to.”

“What if I stayed here a little longer?” You lift your head to look at him.

He brushes your hair back, his touch feather-light. “You mean a few more days, or… forever?”

Your breath catches.

“…Is forever an option?”

His smile is soft, a little sad around the edges, but real. “It always was. I was just waiting for you to see it.”

You kiss him. Slow and warm. Familiar now. His hands curl around your waist, pulling you fully into his lap.

You're straddling Seonghwa on the couch, like you've done a million times, tucked into his lap like you’ve lived there forever, his hoodie drowning your frame, your fingers lazily tracing the bruises on his chest beneath it. He’s warm. Safe. Yours.

“I need a shower,” you murmur, almost regretfully.

His hand slows on your thigh. “Alone?”

You raise a brow. “You can barely sit up without wincing.”

“I can lean,” he argues, hopeful, voice already husky. “Or hold the wall dramatically. Very sexy.”

You bite back a laugh, brushing his hair from his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

He groans as you rise from his lap, his hands falling reluctantly from your hips. “And you’re mean.”

“Come suffer in the steam with me then,”

He gets up slowly, following you down the hallway without another word. The apartment is dim and soft around you both. Three days of hiding from the world wrapped in low lighting and silence.

In the bathroom, you start the water. Seonghwa leans against the sink, watching you like he’s memorizing everything. Your reflection catches in the mirror, his eyes already on you.

You peel off the oversized hoodie and toss it to the side. He steps forward as your fingers go to the strap of your bra, his hand brushing yours gently, stopping you.

“Let me?”

You nod.

He undoes it slowly, carefully, like it means something. Like you mean something. And you do. To him, you always have.

You turn around and do the same for him, lifting his shirt gently over his head, being mindful of his injuries. There’s nothing playful about it, just tenderness, and the soft hum of water hitting tile.

You both stand there for a moment before dropping your underwear, breathing quietly. The air thickens. You reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“Come in with me.”

He nods. Follows you in.

The water is warm when it hits your skin, comforting, steady. You step under it first, letting the heat soak into your shoulders, your breath easing. Seonghwa joins you a second later, slow and careful as the spray cascades over both of you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

You’re facing each other in the soft steam, your bodies close but not pressed together, your fingers tracing the lines of his arms, his waist, gentle over every bruise. You’re still so careful with him. And he’s just as careful with you.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin like it’s something sacred. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, barely there.

“I missed you,” he murmurs into your skin.

You breathe in slowly. “I missed you too.”

It’s not dramatic. It doesn’t have to be. You’ve said the big things already. This is quieter. Closer.

His lips travel up your shoulder, then your neck, and when you tilt your head to give him more space, his mouth lingers longer. His fingers spread wider over your sides, pulling you just a little closer.

And then your hands are on him too, palms flat on his chest, slowly sliding around to his back. You lean forward, your lips brushing his jaw, then his mouth. A soft kiss at first, and then another.

“Fuck… How can you expect me to be careful when you do that?” he sighs, looking down at you in front of him.

You reach for the body wash, but his hand stops yours.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. And when you meet his gaze, you see it. The shift.

That softness is still there, but it’s buried under something darker. Hungrier.

He pumps a little of the soap into his hand and steps closer, his palms finding your skin like he’s done this a thousand times in his head during those long months apart. He starts with your shoulders, strong hands massaging, gliding across your skin with reverence. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, at the curve of your neck, the dip of your spine, the sides of your breasts. Your breath catches when his thumbs brush just under them, deliberately slow, eyes locked to yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t think I ever recovered from the first time I saw you like this.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your body is already leaning into him, needing more.

He moves lower, to your hips, your thighs, and when he kneels down in the shower, hands splayed across the backs of your legs, he looks up at you like you’re something sacred. His voice is low. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head instantly. “I don’t.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly working his way up. Your knees threaten to buckle, one hand reaching for the tile wall, the other buried in his soaked hair. His tongue flicks out, barely a taste, and you gasp.

“I feel better already,” he says, voice wrecked, lips slick with you.

Then, finally, he tastes you. His tongue presses against you, slow and deliberate, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. He hums against you, pleased by your reaction, before diving deeper, his mouth working in a rhythm that makes your knees weak.

Every flick of his tongue is precise, every movement controlled. He knows exactly what you need, and he’s determined to give it to you. He doesn’t rush, taking his time to explore, savoring every second he’s been denied.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tugging gently, your body responding to him as if it’s its own entity, desperate for more, desperate for him to push you over the edge.

“You taste so good,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through your body, his hands holding you steady as his mouth moves with purpose, taking what he’s wanted, savoring the way you melt for him.

It’s all so overwhelming. The heat, the pleasure, the way he’s making you feel like you’re the only thing that matters in the world right now.

But then he stands again, towering over you, water sliding down every inch of his chest. His lips find yours, and this time it’s different. Messier. Desperate.

“Hold on to me,” he whispers, and you do, your back pressing to the wall as he lifts one of your legs and wraps it around his waist. His hands trail lower between you, his fingers finding the soft skin between your thighs. His thumb brushes over you, slow at first, the touch light but teasing, just enough to make you gasp. “Don’t hold back, sweetheart. I want to hear you.”

When his fingers finally slip between your folds, you gasp. His touch so sure, so confident that it makes your body shudder with need. He works you slowly, his fingers gliding over you with just the right amount of pressure, pushing you closer to the edge. The sensation is overwhelming, but Seonghwa never lets you fall. He’s in control, making sure you’re always on the brink, keeping you just where he wants you.

“Do you like that?” Seonghwa’s voice is soft but firm, like a command and a question all at once.

You nod, barely able to form words as he pushes you closer to the edge. His fingers slip inside you then, not just one, but two, stretching you, filling you. The stretch is delicious, and you gasp, biting down on your lip to keep from crying out. His hand is steady, his fingers curling, searching for that spot inside you that makes everything else fade away. When he finds it, you nearly lose control.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Seonghwa murmurs, the words leaving his mouth like a blessing, almost reverent. 

His free hand moves to your waist, holding you steady as he speeds up, his fingers thrusting harder now, each movement drawing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure building, the slow, steady coil tightening deep inside you, and all you can do is hold onto him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body trembling beneath his touch.

“You’re doing so well for me,” Seonghwa says softly, but his words carry the weight of his dominance, his control. “I’m going to make you feel everything. Let go for me. I want you to come apart in my hands.”

The tension in your core is unbearable, and your legs tremble as your body starts to respond to him, your breaths coming in ragged bursts.

When you finally fall over the edge, the orgasm crashes over you in waves. Your body clenches around his fingers, your head thrown back as the pleasure takes over, your vision blurring with the intensity of it. You can barely register the words he murmurs as you shake in his arms, his fingers still moving, coaxing the last bits of pleasure from you.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your ear, his voice rough with satisfaction as his hand slows, his thumb continuing to circle your clit even as your body trembles from the aftershocks. “So fucking beautiful when you lose control like that.”

The water still cascades over both of you, the steam rising around you, but everything fades away as Seonghwa’s hands move to your back, urging you forward with gentle insistence. His lips graze your shoulder as his voice, rough with desire, murmurs low against your ear.

“Turn around. I want you like this,” he commands, the authority in his voice making your breath catch, your body responding instinctively.

You nod, turning slowly, your back now pressed against his chest. The movement feels intimate, the proximity of your bodies overwhelming as you feel the heat of his skin against your own. 

His voice is low, almost teasing, as he murmurs in your ear. “I’m going to take care of you. Just relax and let me lead.”

With that, he positions you just right, his cock brushing against your ass as he adjusts his stance. The anticipation is maddening, your body already trembling with need as you press back against him instinctively, desperate for him to fill you.

“Shh, baby,” he murmurs softly, one hand coming to rest on your stomach, the other slipping between your legs to tease at your entrance. His fingers find their mark, gently caressing you, the pressure building before he suddenly pulls away, replacing his fingers with the head of his cock.

You gasp, your body instinctively trying to push back onto him, but he holds you still, his hands gripping your waist as he teases, just barely brushing against your core.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growls, his voice rough as he slowly presses into you, filling you inch by inch. The stretch is intense, but the way he moves with you, guiding you, makes it feel almost effortless. You gasp, your breath quickening as the sensation of him inside you fills you completely.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you so much.” Seonghwa whispers against your skin, his breath hot, his lips brushing your neck as he begins to move, his thrusts slow and controlled at first. His hips snap forward, the force of his movements making you gasp, the sound of his body meeting yours filling the space between you.

Each thrust is deep, purposeful, as he starts to build a rhythm, his hands gripping your waist tighter, guiding you to meet him. The water continues to rain down, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his body pressing against yours. Your breath hitches as he drives into you again, harder this time, and you can’t help but push back, urging him to move faster, deeper.

He leans in, mouth at your shoulder, teeth dragging gently against your skin before he kisses it. “Look at you,” he breathes, hand sliding down your stomach to between your thighs. “Taking me so well. You’re made for me.”

His fingers find your swollen clit, circling with precision as his thrusts start to falter, like he’s holding himself back until you come undone first. Your head falls back against his shoulder, a breathless cry escaping you.

“That’s it, my love” he whispers, encouraging. “Let go for me. Come with me, baby.”

And when you do, when the tension finally snaps and your body clenches around him, Seonghwa groans low and rough, wrapping his arm tightly around you as he follows right after, spilling into you with a soft, broken curse. He stays buried deep, panting against your neck, the both of you swaying slightly under the water like your bodies can’t bear to separate yet.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, still breathless, his hand flattening protectively over your lower stomach like he wants to brand you there. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out and turns you around in his arms, guiding you to lean against his chest. You’re still trembling, but he’s already reaching for the body wash again, lathering it gently in his hands.

“Let me take care of you now,” he says softly, his tone shifting into something even more tender. “You’ve done enough, my love. Just let me love you.”

He washes you with slow, thoughtful movements, kissing your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, in between, his hands never straying, never teasing again, just comforting. When he’s done, he rinses you off carefully, shielding your face from the water with his palm as if you’re something delicate, precious.

“You okay?” he asks once more, brushing his thumb along your jaw.

You nod, nuzzling into his chest. “More than okay.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his arms still wrapped securely around you as the water continues to pour down, now lukewarm and forgotten.

The rest of the shower is soft, intimate but not in a sexual way. Just you and Seonghwa finally together. The water’s been off for a while now, but the steam still lingers in the bathroom. You’re wrapped in one of Seonghwa’s towels and your skin is still warm from more than just the shower. While you finish up in the bathroom, he’s somewhere in the apartment, humming under his breath as he moves around.

You take your time after stepping out. The floor’s cool against your bare feet, but the air is gentle, and the whole apartment feels like him. Woodsy candles, the faint scent of laundry, low music playing from the living room speaker.

He hears the soft pad of your feet before he sees you.

You're somewhere behind him, moving through his apartment like you've always belonged here. And when you finally step into view, wearing nothing but his oversized long sleeve t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, skin clean and glowing, Seonghwa forgets how to breathe.

You don’t see him at first. You’re tugging the sleeves over your hands, looking around the kitchen like it’s yours. Like it’s normal. Like you haven’t been gone for two goddamn months. Like he didn’t spend every night aching with the thought that he’d never get to see you like this again.

And now here you are.

So real. So heartbreakingly beautiful he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

His shirt drapes off your frame like it was made for you. Your hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends. You look warm. Comfortable. At home. And somehow, that’s what undoes him most, how naturally you fit into his space, like the missing piece of a life he’d been pretending was fine without you.

You look up and finally catch him staring.

Your lips twitch into a smile. “Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, a little shy, like you can feel it radiating off of him.

“I don’t know,” he breathes, his voice light, awestruck. “I guess I’m just… lucky.”

You duck your head, laughing under your breath as you pad toward him. “You’re a little cliché, you know that?”

“I’m proud of it.”

You curl into his chest, cheek pressed against him, and his arms wrap around your waist like they never want to let go again. You feel small and safe, and he feels whole for the first time in what feels like forever.

You look up at him, and the kiss that follows is slow and soft. Lazy in the best way, lips moving like neither of you are in a rush for the moment to end. 

He smiles against your mouth. “I fucking love you”

“Don’t swear.”

That makes him laugh, a sweet, boyish sound that fills the whole room.

But then he pulls away a little, still smiling. “Okay… wait here a second. I need to find something.”

You frown. “What?”

He’s already walking out. “Just give me a minute.”

You hear him rummaging through something. A drawer slams. A box opens. Then silence.

He’s gone a little longer than you expect, long enough that curiosity starts to creep in, until finally, he reappears in the doorway again, something small clutched in his hand.

But he looks nervous. Like he’s not sure if this is still the right time. But then he sees you again. His t-shirt hanging off your shoulders, your fingers fidgeting with the sleeves, eyes curious and open and full of love, and he knows.

There’s never been a better time than right now.

You tilt your head. “What is that?”

He walks toward you, a little hesitant, but his eyes are steady. He doesn’t speak until he’s standing right in front of you again.

“I bought this a few months ago,” he says quietly. “Back when things were… good. Before everything happened.”

You look down, and that’s when you see it. Silver, simple, elegant. A ring. Your breath catches.

His voice is gentle. “I was going to give it to you when the time felt right. As a promise. For your other hand.” He glances down at your left one, now bare. “Back then, you were still wearing your wedding ring. I just wanted you to have something from me. Something that said, even if you couldn’t choose me… I was still choosing you.”

Your heart swells in your chest. “Seonghwa…”

“I never gave it to you,” he says, softer now, gaze dropping to the ring in his fingers. “Everything fell apart before I could. I kept telling myself I’d wait for the perfect moment to try. Something grand. Something that felt important.” He looks up at you. “But now… seeing you here like this, walking into my kitchen like it’s yours, hair wet, stealing my t-shirt, this is it. Every moment with you feels like the most perfect one. So…”

He gently takes your hand and slips the ring onto your right finger. It fits.

“This isn’t a proposal,” he murmurs, smiling shyly. “When that time comes, you’re getting a bigger ring. A whole ridiculous speech. Maybe fireworks.”

You laugh through the tears brimming in your eyes.

“This is just a promise. That I’ll love you. That I’m not going anywhere. That no matter what, I’ll keep choosing you.”

You look down at the ring, then back at him, speechless.

He reaches up and cups your cheek again. “I love you so much I’d choose you in every lifetime, even if I had to find you from scratch each time.”

“I’d spend every lifetime waiting for you.” you whisper. “This…” You glance at the ring again, hand trembling slightly. “This means everything to me.”

You throw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck.

He holds you tight, swaying slightly, both of you warm and quiet in the kitchen glow, two people who’ve walked through fire just to find their way back home.

Then he leans closer, voice low and thick with emotion, his lips brushing your ear.

“This is where you belong. Right here, with me.”

The end.

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[stargirlygirl]

you walk out on him

zayne x fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ part two

summary: it's been one week since you walked out on zayne. both of you have been silent. cue your surprise when you get a knock at the door late at night from your ex-boyfriend.

contains: hurt comfort, angst, suggestive in text messages, zayne apologises and professes his love for you, 2.1k words

pt.1

One week.

It’s been one week since Zayne laid those sharp, hazel eyes on you, and he’s going insane. At first, he was feeling pretty confident. You were upset and needed some space. Surely, you would message him sometime that day, asking to discuss things.

Wrong.

The second day, Zayne was still feeling confident, albeit less confident than yesterday. Leaving the apartment that morning, he notices you forgot your favourite necklace— the necklace he bought you for your one-year anniversary. Surely, you would be around to pick it up, and he would somehow catch you in the act.

Also wrong.

When he came home around 11pm that night, your necklace was still sitting on the dresser. To Zayne, the diamond looks slightly dull, or maybe that’s his teary foggy eyes. He resolves to have it cleaned tomorrow.

By day three, Zayne’s confidence in you returning is non-existent. Still no word from you, his mind races over all of the mistakes he’s made these past few months leading to this hiccup in your relationship. Looking back, it’s so fucking obvious. Not texting you daily, not taking days off, never telling you when he would be home, and not giving you his full attention even when he was at home. And it wasn’t solely because he was busy or tired. It was because he thought you could bear it.

Being a cardiac surgeon isn’t for the weak. Choosing this profession, he’s had to put much of his personal life on the back burner, especially when his work schedule got even busier than usual. But over the years, he’s learnt to grit his teeth and bear it. He enjoys it even. But why did he expect the same of you?

For the first time in Zayne’s life, he succumbs to temptation and tries his first energy drink. It tastes like medicine, grating and sour to the tongue. But nothing can compare to the flavour of your absence. Unable to sleep for the past several nights, he treks down to his local gas station and buys the canned arsenic.

Once the cardiologist gets home, he pops the tag and takes a sip. Recoiling with disgust, he finds the willpower to finish the 200 mL of poison. And now, he can’t sleep. The caffeine keeps him up well into the early hours of the morning, fuelling his attempts to type out an apology message.

I’m so sorry, darling. I want to make things right between us—

“No,” he groans, pressing ‘backspace’ with his pointer finger so hard he could crack the phone screen.

I’m so sorry, darling. I miss you terr—

My sincerest apolog—

I know that I’ve hurt you very deeply, my love. But if you’d be willing to give me another chance, I’d like to make things right between us.

Huffing, he deletes the message and throws his phone on his bed before heading to the bathroom to get ready for work.

As it hits Friday, one week after you left, Zayne is feeling confident. Confident that he can’t go on without you anymore. The energy drink catches up to him, and he almost falls asleep mid-consult. Finishing off with the patient, he has the rest of his appointments cancelled and dozes off in his office.

When he wakes, night has fallen. Gathering his bag and coat, he books it to his car and clicks ‘Start Route’ on his Audi’s GPS to Tara’s apartment complex. Once parked, he takes the elevator up to her apartment, mentally rehearsing everything he’s been meaning to say to you this past week.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

You’re halfway through the new episode of your show when there’s a knock at the front door. It’s just you tonight, seeing as Tara’s out on a mission for the next couple of days. Throwing off your blanket, you stalk to the front door and stand on your tippy-toes to glance through the peephole.

“Go away, Zayne,” you grumble through the door.

He shifts closer, one hand on the wood as he declares, “No. I’m not going anywhere.” Groaning, you flip the lock and swing the door half open. He’s close, towering over you with dopey, wide eyes, which rake over your figure. You’re in his shirt, the sleeves rolled back and v-neck hanging off one shoulder. His gaze darts up to yours.

You sigh, “What is it?” Zayne steps back, putting some distance between you as he clears his throat.

“I’d like to talk,” he says clinically.

“Talk?” You bite back. “About what?”

“About us.”

You scoff, “I’m surprised you have the time. Don’t you have some emergency surgery to attend to?”

He shakes his head, saying firmly, “I took the night off.”

“Wow,” you say sarcastically. “Your first night off in months, and you choose to spend it with me. How thoughtful.” You roll your eyes, the pettiness bubbling up to the surface.

“Y/n.” Looking back at your boyfriend(? ex-boyfriend?), you take note of the knot in his brow. His scent wafts over to you, a mix of sweets, sweat, and… was that a Red Bull?

He sighs, “You have every right to still be angry with me after how I neglected you. But please, will you give me the chance to fix things between us?” You stare at him, thinking over his words. You’re about to respond when you notice the resident gym rat trying to sneak past. Reaching out, you grab Zayne’s forearm and tug him closer to you.

“Sorry,” you call past him.

Your neighbour mutters, “It’s fine,” as they dash off to their apartment. Hearing the click of their door, you release Zayne’s arm.

Gazing up, you huff, “Come in.” You push the door open wider with your back, standing against it and trying to make yourself smaller as the surgeon slips past you. It’s cosy inside: soft halogens, a warm vanilla candle going, and the low hum of your tv show.

“Take a seat,” you instruct, pointing to the couch. Leaving his shoes by the door, Zayne does as he’s told. His sleepy eyes are glued to you as you sit across from him, the too-big shirt sliding further down your shoulder. You must have recently showered, he thinks. Your skin is positively radiant and looks so smooth. The urge to touch you is unbearable, but he bears it. As long as he gets to speak to you, he’ll do anything.

“My eyes are up here,” you snap.

“Right,” he says quietly, heat rising to the tips of his ears. His heart rate accelerates as you two sit in almost silence for a minute.

Finally, Zayne apologises, “I’m sorry for ignoring you, darling.” Ooo, strike one. Your brow raises, and your eyes dart up and down his frame from the pet name. Fuck, no more pet names, he reprimands himself.

“You mean everything to me, and I was— I am— an awful partner for not reminding you of that every day,” he continues. Strike two. Bold of him to assume you’re still together. Not that you aren’t. You didn’t consider the sticky situation you would create for future you by walking out on him. But you appreciate his sentiment.

“I wish that I had taken the initiative to contact you earlier, and reassure you of your importance to me despite my busy schedule.” You nod, starting to like what you’re hearing. But by no means is he off the hook.

He sighs, “I took you for granted. Not because you’re not important. But I thought we could handle it. I thought you could handle my absence.” Strike three.

“What’re you saying?” You ask, your forehead creased and mouth twisted into a pout.

Zayne mumbles beneath his breath, “Fuck.” Pushing up his glasses, he clarifies, “What I mean to say is that I was ignorant of your needs, and my duties as your partner to fulfil those needs. I was unaware that you needed me to be more present in our relationship. And I was unaware of the toll my neglect took on you.” Better.

You prompt, “And so what’re you going to do about it? When it gets really busy, how are you going to make time for us?”

“Well,” he starts. “I’m going to communicate to you around what time I’ll be getting home, and make sure that if that changes, then I let you know. I’ll take a day off once a week, and we can spend it together. When you visit me at the hospital, I’ll be attentive to you. And if I can’t be, then I’ll tell you.” You hum, approving of his answer.

Zayne sighs, “But, I need you to communicate to me when you’re feeling dissatisfied in our relationship. If I’m very busy, then I want you to do whatever it takes to make me listen to you.” You chuckle. It’s short and soft, but it reinvigorates him the way an energy drink can’t.

“Whatever it takes?” You muse, your arms crossed underneath your chest, loosening.

He nods, “Yes. Grab me by the collar and give me an earful if you have to. Whatever you have to say to me, I want to hear it.” You gaze at him for a long moment, weighing up his apology and your pain. Your heart thumps in your chest, and your hands are becoming sweaty.

You pose the final question: “Why didn’t you come after me sooner? It’s been a whole week.”

Zayne avoids your eyes as he murmurs, “I… needed time to collect my thoughts as I’m sure you did.” He pauses before meeting your gaze.

“I love you, Y/n. I will always love you,” he states like it’s a fact and not a feeling. Like the only thing he’s sure of in this lifetime is his love for you.

Sighing, you slowly rise from the sofa opposite him. Stepping around the coffee table, you stand in front of him. He stares up at you, analysing all of the emotions in your eyes. They’re much gentler now.

He breathes out shakily, “Did I pass?” You smirk and run your hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and eliciting a soft sigh from him.

Zayne raises his hands slowly and reaches out for you tentatively. You give a small nod, urging him to touch you. When his cold fingers caress the back of your thigh, you shiver. They tremble as he palms your warm flesh and presses you into the space between his legs.

You giggle, “You scraped it by only one point.” His eyes almost pop out of his skull, and his jaw slackens— utterly mortified.

“O-one point?” He stutters.

You chuckle, unable to contain yourself, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. By two points at least.” His head dips as he nuzzles your tummy.

He murmurs into his your shirt, “That’s my worst grade yet. Don’t you think you mark too harshly?”

Ruffling his hair, you quip, “No.” Your hands slide down to his shoulders and wrap around the back of his neck. His toned arms encircle your legs as he sighs into your warmth. All of the tension accumulating this past week dissolves beneath your fingertips, and Zayne finds himself rather tired. Yawning, he tenderly kisses your navel through the cotton fabric.

“Where’s Tara?” He asks lazily.

You chirp, “She’s on a mission. Won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Mhmm,” he hums. You two remain like that for a few minutes, content to enjoy these tender touches and each other’s presence.

Eventually, Zayne yanks you down onto his lap and cuddles with you. He murmurs sweet apologies in your ear as he strokes your thigh, twirling the hem of your shirt between his fingers. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, your hand on his heart. It beats steadily beneath your palm, a constant reminder that everything will be okay.

At some point, you doze off because when you open your eyes, you’re in Tara’s guest room. Morning sunlight streams through the curtains, and birds chirp in the distance. You stretch and turn your head to the side, eyes searching for a swathe of black hair and pale skin.

There’s no sign of Zayne. Not as you get out of bed and clean yourself up. Not even as you head to the kitchen and boil the kettle. Not until your phone pings.

You grab it, hoping that it’s him. And you grin as you pour boiling water into a mug with a tea bag in it, clicking on his message.

masterlist

a/n: here's part two as requested! hope all of you liked it. i was gonna make him like beg, but i feel like zayne doesn't grovel. i think if it was raf or caleb, they would be on their knees pleading for a second chance, but not zayne.

(almost) every one who asked for a pt.2 - @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888, @schnittled, @ciaradream8, @mystqyy, @syluslittlecrows, @mcdepressed290, @regalillegal, @crimsonsylus, @slimearchon

[radiance1]

"I need to find my darling husband!" Said Danny, dressed to the nines in a very elaborate royal dress with a lot of jewelry running through the ballroom after having been on the opposite end of a very worrying phone call.

"Seriously, what do you even see in that mortal!?" Screamed an observant and Danny stopped and leveled them with a glare cold enough to freeze over an active volcano and sharp enough to cut through obsidian.

"He makes me laugh."

Unlike those dead suitors went unsaid, but everyone at the ball (read: search for a bride/groom for the royal ghostling) practically heard it anyways.

Meanwhile over in the land of the living

Okay so Jason may have messed up. Now you see, he hasn't seen his platonic husband for tax benefits in a while, and he's been very careful to not let his identity as the Red Hood slip up before . Not even once in their relationship.

(He's not counting the time his in-laws sniffed him out as a Crime Lord, because Danny never believed them.)

Now, it wasn't exactly his fault he slipped up. You try to fight off an entire group after being pulled up on out of nowhere on the phone while trying to hide said noises of fighting.

Who was he calling? Danny of course since he said he was away for business. What business? Never specified and Jason wasn't going to pry.

So now here he was, bound 'helplessly' as Jason Todd along with a few other random civilians. Which, like, rude.

Wasn't he already good enough for this ancient ritual or whatever?

You know, he really should have walked with that "Anti-kidnapping device" he got that one time. Which honestly he feels like he should be surprised that such a thing exists but considering it was from Bruce. Well.

He's not surprised.

Oh, there's the Justice League now. Shame, he wanted to knock out a few guys himself- Oh, now he's being used to summon a ghost from the Infinite Realms of Royal Lineage.

Yea he probably should have walked with that "Anti-kidnapping device."

Wait a goddamn-

Is that-

"My darling husband!" Danny shouted, scooping him off the circle and away from the head cultist and swinging him around. "You had me worried sick!"

Now, he should ask the question anyone would in this situation when finding out your best friend and platonic husband for tax benefits was apparently a ghost of royal lineage.

"Why're you in a dress?"

"Okay, first of all I rock this thing." Danny huffed.

"That you do." Jason agreed rather easily.

"Second of all, blame those guys over there." He jerked his head in the direction of two very green floating eyeball people.

Not the weirdest he's seen, honestly.

The Observants were whispering to each other and leveling them-Jason in particular-a look.

"Now as you can see, I already have a spouse and I don't need another!" Danny hugged Jason closer for emphasis and he took the time to whisper in Danny's ear. "Did you really marry me to play the husband card?"

"Well, yes." Danny agreed. "But also because of taxes, because I love you and you're my best friend."

"So, we're still done for watching that movie right."

"Obviously."

A pained grunt came from below them and they both looked down to see Batman standing over a very unconscious cultist and looking up at them.

Hm.

He forgot they were there.

"So," Jason began, staring Bruce straight in the eyes. Batman's eyes narrowed. "Don't suppose we can push that forward to right now?"

"Yea, sure why not I'm not doing anything important." Danny leveled the Observants a look, and before either they, Batman, or the Justice League could do anything they both disappeared.

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR V

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 3k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: This might’ve been one of my favorite chapters to write so far—I had way too much fun with it  Also, not sure if everyone caught my earlier heads-up, but I’m currently on vacation! This is a scheduled post, and I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to interact while I’m away. I will catch up once I’m back though! You can check out my little announcement here, for more info on when posts are scheduled and how long they’ll keep coming. The taglist will most likely be on pause until I return, but feel free to let me know if you’d still like to be added—I’ll make sure to include you in later chapters once I’m back!

OUTSIDE THE GOLDEN CUP

You were fully ready to go home and forget Jason Todd ever existed—maybe even bitch about him to Milo and Anthony over some wine, when you caught sight of the last two people you wanted to see.

They were strolling your way, all smiles and casual affection, like some goddamn ad for moving on. Jake laughed at something she said, and you watched—horrified, frozen—as he brushed her hair back with the same hand that used to trace your jaw.

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath. “This is not happening right now.”

They hadn’t seen you yet, but it was only a matter of time. And you couldn’t do it again—you couldn’t be the girl standing alone while your ex showed off his new life like it was a goddamn prize he won by throwing you away.

You refused to give him that satisfaction.

So you did the first thing that came to mind.

You turned around and bolted after Jason.

“Wait—come back here!”

He turned, confusion flickering across his face as you reached out and grabbed his arm. “What the hell—?”

You barely let him finish.

“I need you to kiss me,” you hissed.

Jason stared at you like you’d sprouted a second head. “What? No!”

“Just kiss me!”

His brow furrowed in complete disbelief. “Why would I kiss you? Are you—are you insane?”

You glanced over your shoulder—Jake was looking this way now—and panic flared hotter.

“I’m serious!”

He leaned back slightly, like he was trying to decide if you were testing him or genuinely unwell. “Absolutely not. You’re completely bipolar.”

You let out a desperate, frustrated sound and grabbed him by the collar before he could protest further—then yanked him down and slamming your lips against his.

You kissed him.

Hard.

He froze.

But only for a moment.

His grip slid instinctively to your waist, and he kissed you back with a heat that knocked the breath out of you. His mouth was warm, confident, a little possessive. Infuriating as he was, Jason Todd could kiss. 

Your fingers curled tighter in his jacket as the world fell away. For one dizzying second, you forgot Jake existed. Forgot why you were doing this. Forgot everything except the heat of Jason’s mouth on yours and the steady grip of his hands anchoring you in place.

Then—

“Y/N?”

Your name cut through the haze like a slap of cold air.

You pulled back, breath catching in your throat, lips tingling. Jason didn’t move. His mouth was still inches from yours. His gaze flicked to your lips, then up to your eyes, like he was debating whether he should kiss you again—reasons be damned.

Jake’s voice came clearer now, closer. “Y/N.”

You turned toward him, feigning surprise like you’d only just noticed. “Oh!” you gasped—more breathless than you meant to be, though that only worked in your favor. “Jake! Wow, what are the odds of running into you again?”

He smiled, but it was thin, the kind that hovered somewhere between forced and insincere. “Yeah. Funny coincidence. Who’s this?”

You forced a bright smile, even as you felt Jason’s stare drilling into the side of your face, sharp enough to make your skin prickle.

“Jason—my boyfriend,” you said, pitching your voice higher than usual. “You remember, right? The doctor I told you about? We met at that neuroscience conference.”

Jason still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t stopped glaring. Your nerves were fraying with every second of silence, mentally begging him not to ruin this. Not to humiliate you.

Then, finally, he shifted.

Jason turned toward Jake and Hannah with a grin that was all charm on the surface—and nothing but sharp edges underneath. “Jason Todd,” he said, extending his hand.

Jake hesitated, then reached out. The second their palms met, Jason’s grip tightened just enough to make a point.

Jake winced.

“Jake,” he replied, trying not to sound rattled. “You’ve got a strong grip. So… you’re a neurosurgeon?”

You resisted the urge to groan. Three years of dating, and Jake still hadn’t figured out the difference between a neurosurgeon and a neuroscientist.

“Scientist,” Jason corrected smoothly, not missing a beat. “Same as Y/N. We work together—and I have to say, she’s a brilliant woman.”

Jake’s smile twitched, strained at the edges. “Yeah she is.” he agreed more out of the sake of agreeing rather than actually believing it.

“Oh wow, that’s so amazing,” Hannah gushed, completely sincere. “A couple that’s both gorgeous and smart? Total power duo.”

You didn’t miss the way Jake’s jaw ticked at that. His smile faltered.

Jason, of course, leaned into it with practiced ease.

“Ah, Y/N’s the amazing one,” he said, glancing down at you with a look so convincingly tender your stomach flipped. “I don’t know what I love more—getting to work beside her or waking up every morning knowing she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat blooming beneath your skin.

God. He was good at this.

“He’s such a charmer,” you laughed, sharing a quick smile with Hannah before turning to Jason with a soft shake of your head. “If anything, I’m the lucky one.”

He crinkled his nose. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” you giggled—at the exact same time.

Jake blinked, clearly caught off-guard, his expression faltering. His mouth opened like he might say something—then shut again, silent for once.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly his lips were on yours again, gentler this time. Your fingers curled around his jacket instinctively as your body leaned into his without thinking. When you finally pulled back, you let out a breathless laugh, resting your head against his chest.

“We’re really happy,” you told Jake and Hannah, your voice light, breezy, too casual for how hard your heart was pounding.

Jason nodded, keeping you close with a hand settled snugly at your waist. “We are. But then again—who wouldn’t be happy with her? She’s got the brains, the beauty… even the brawn. Did you know she was a gymnast in high school?”

Jake stiffened. His frown appeared, vanished, then locked into place. “No. I didn’t.”

Jason’s grin turned wicked. “Didn’t think so.”

You gave a slightly awkward smile, not having expected him to bring that little detail up. “Yeah… he likes to brag,” you said with a giggle, reaching up to lightly slap his cheek in a silent shut up.

Jason just laughed, eyes dancing with mischief. “Ooh, feisty—I love it. My girl’s such a wildcat.”

And then, to your horror, he emphasized the point by bringing his large palm down on your ass in a quick, confident smack.

You let out a startled squeak. “Jason!”

He grinned, entirely unrepentant. “Sorry. I just can’t get enough of you.” Then he turned to the other two with a grin that was anything but apologetic.

Jake looked like he was rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment.

But Hannah?

Hannah sighed like she’d just watched the final scene of a rom-com. “That’s so romantic,” she breathed, practically glowing. Her eyes were glued to Jason, dreamy and starstruck, like she’d just mentally cast him as the lead in every fantasy she’d ever had.

You blinked.

Jason smirked.

And Jake looked one second away from combusting.

He shifted awkwardly, clearly itching to escape. “Well. It was nice seeing you, Y/N. And… meeting you, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “You too, Josh. We gotta run.”

Jake blinked. “It’s… Jake.”

“Oh.” Jason tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Right. Jake. Sorry, man. So many J names floating around in my life lately.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard, doing everything you could not to burst out laughing.

“It was really nice meeting you,” Hannah said sweetly, clearly trying to smooth things over.

Jason turned to her like she was the only person in the world. “The pleasure was all mine,” he said, catching her hand with gallant ease.

Then—of course—he bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand like he was stepping straight out of a period drama.

Hannah flushed instantly, caught somewhere between flattered and utterly frazzled.

Jake’s frown sharpened, but he forced a brittle smile. “Oh look at that. A kiss on the hand. Classy.”

“You are so lucky,” Hannah whispered to you with starry eyes. And she meant it. The poor girl was enchanted.

You gave a polite, noncommittal smile. “I know.”

Jake clearly had enough. He tugged Hannah’s hand a little too firmly. “Enjoy your night.”

“Oh, we will,” Jason replied, already wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you snug against him like he’d been waiting all night for an excuse. As the couple turned to walk away, Jason called out, sweet as syrup, “See ya, Justin!”

“It’s Jake!” came the snapped reply from halfway down the block.

Jason grinned, satisfied. Like a cat full of cream and mischief. His eyes still sparkled as he watched them disappear around the corner.

Then Jason turned to you, expression flat, voice bone-dry. “So. Want to tell me what the hell that was?”

You let out a slow breath, brushing your hair out of your face as the adrenaline finally started to fade. “An emergency.”

He arched a brow. “That’s not how normal people handle emergencies.”

You snorted, the tension finally beginning to unravel from your spine. “I’m not normal. You of all people should know that.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s one word for it.”

Your mouth twitched, and you looked up at him, expression softening. “Thanks, by the way. Really.”

A sly smile curved across his lips as he cupped a hand behind his ear. “Sorry—what was that? This ear’s a little deaf.”

You huffed, but it came with a reluctant smile. “I said thank you. Thank you. You don’t have to be annoying about it.”

He grinned, but this time there was something softer behind it. Something genuine. “You want to try this again? Start over. We could grab a bite—your pick.”

You hesitated, teeth tugging at your bottom lip.

Then he added, “You do owe me an explanation for… whatever that was.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. He wasn’t wrong. You had, technically, assaulted him with a surprise kiss and roped him into a soap opera without warning. The fact that he went along with it—without throwing you to the wolves—definitely earned him a second chance. And probably dessert.

“Come on—I know a café just down the street. Cozy, quiet, not too many people. Coffee that’s actually good,” you added, shooting him a teasing look over your shoulder, “and the pastries are amazing.”

CAFÉ NERO

“…and I packed up everything,” you said, fingers tracing the rim of your iced coffee. “Turned down a position at STAR Labs. All to move back here with him.”

You took a sip, using the taste of the cold overly sweet liquid to ground you for a second.

“Few months later, I found him in our bed with his yoga instructor.”

Jason winced. “Damn.”

You gave him a rueful grin. “You can say it. I’m an idiot. Three PhDs, I literally study the brain—and I still didn’t see how much of a tool he was.”

Jason shook his head. “You’re not an idiot. You were in love. Love’s great at messing with the parts of the brain that normally warn us about red flags. Doesn’t make you dumb. Just makes you human.”

Your gaze softened at his surprisingly insightful words. “He just wasn’t the guy I thought he was. It feels like… a mistake.”

Jason leaned back, his tone more certain. “I don’t believe in mistakes.”

You gave him a look, amused. “That’s a very convenient philosophy for someone like you.”

He smirked. “Maybe. But it’s the mistakes that shape us. Break us down, sure. But they also build us. They brought you back here, didn’t they?”

You blinked, considering. “Would you rather be back in Central City?” he asked.

“Surprisingly… no.” You glanced out the café window, watching the Gotham streets pulse with life. “For all its chaos, Gotham was—is my home. I love my place and my best friends live across the hall.”

“And you like your job,” Jason added.

“I love my job,” you agree, thinking about all the brilliant sleep deprived lunatics you taught and worked with.

He shrugged. “So there you go.” Then, watching you mull it over, his smirk softened. “Just saying.”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That’s dangerously close to sounding wise.”

“I have my moments,” he smirked, then quoted, almost under his breath,“‘We all have a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.’”

You blinked. “Wait—what was that?”

Jason took a slow sip of his drink, expression suspiciously innocent.

“No way!” You gasped “That’s Pride and Prejudice.” You pointed a finger at him, eyes lit with amusement. “That’s a direct quote.”

He didn’t deny it. Just smiled. “You sure?”

“Yes!” you laughed, practically bouncing in your seat. “That’s Elizabeth. Talking about trusting your own judgment. I wrote a whole damn paper on it in high school!” You leaned forward, studying him like he was a puzzle you’d only just realized you wanted to solve. “How do you know that quote?”

“Maybe I just appreciate the classics,” he said, trying for nonchalance—but the faint flush rising in his cheeks betrayed him.

You squinted at him. “How many times have you read it?”

He shrugged. “I’ve lost track.”

His flush deepened, blooming up his cheeks now, and you couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your lips.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You so are.”

“It’s good,” he defended, a little sheepishly. “Austen didn’t just write about romance. She wrote about perception. Power. How we lie to ourselves and convince ourselves we’re right—until someone challenges us.”

You tilted your head, watching him with new eyes—seeing a side of him that didn’t quite fit the arrogant bad boy persona you’d so easily pinned him with. Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been too quick to assume. He hadn’t exactly made the best first impression, sure—but you hadn’t given him much of a chance to prove otherwise, either. The truth was, you’d both misjudged each other. Different shades of the same mistake.

“It’s not just Darcy and Elizabeth dancing around their feelings,” he went on. “It’s how pride isolates you. How prejudice can ruin things before they even begin. It’s about waking up to your own flaws and doing something about them.”

“Wow,” you murmured, genuinely impressed. A smile tugged at your lips. “Okay. That was… borderline profound.”

He chuckled, looking a little self-conscious. “I read it when I was younger. Thought I was a Darcy type.” He paused, then added dryly, “Turns out I was more of a Lydia.”

You choked on your drink. “Lydia?!”

“Metaphorically,” he said, raising his hands. “Reckless. Stubborn. Thought I knew everything and didn’t need anyone.” He shrugged, eyes twinkling. “But don’t worry, I’ll still be the Darcy to your Elizabeth.”

“That is so cheesy.” You giggled. “I still can’t wrap my head around the face that you’re a closet Austen fan.”

“Don’t go telling people,” he said with a crooked grin. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“Too late,” you teased. “I’m never letting this go.” A smile lingered on your lips as you shook your head in disbelief. “And here I thought you were all leather jackets and terrible flirting.”

Jason leaned in, forearms braced on the table, eyes glinting. “Maybe I just needed the right Elizabeth Bennet to call me out.”

You raised your cup, matching the spark in his gaze. “You’ve got a long way to go, Mr. Darcy.”

His smirk deepened. “Challenge accepted.”

Now that you weren’t arguing or making assumptions about each other, the date had gone… surprisingly well.

More than well, actually.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying Jason’s company—his sharp wit, his unexpected depth, and the fact that, beneath the leather and bravado, he was a total literary nerd. Not only could he keep up when you started debating themes and structure, he actually challenged you. Matched your pace with insight and humor.

It reminded you—just a little—of how Dick had been able to keep up when you started rambling about science. The way he hadn’t just nodded along, but asked questions. Listened.

You tried not to think about that. Tried not to dwell on the small, unwelcome flutter of disappointment still lingering in your chest over the fact that he hadn’t texted you back. Maybe he got busy. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. You brushed it off and pulled your focus back to Jason, who, to his credit, hadn’t given you a single reason to walk away again.

What were the odds, anyway? Two gorgeous, intelligent men—both with sharp minds and devastating smiles—taking you out in the span of a few days. 

You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed until you glanced outside. The streetlights had flickered on. Gotham was slipping into night—where the real chaos lived. The two of you had been talking for far longer than an hour, and while your brain wanted to stay planted in that booth, you’d learned your lesson.

You stood reluctantly, gathering your things as the last traces of sunlight slipped out of Gotham’s skyline. Juan glanced up from where he was wiping down the counter and sent you a knowing grin.

“Can I expect no more order for one?”

You glanced toward the door, where Jason was already there, holding it open with one hand, waiting. Then back to Juan, smirking. “We’ll see.”

Juan chuckled softly. “He’s good man, Doctora.”

You smiled, warmth creeping into your chest. “Yeah,” you said, eyes drifting back to the door. “I think he really is.”

Outside, the air was cooler now but neither of you seemed to mind, wanting to drag out the moment for just a few more minutes.

Jason paused beside you on the sidewalk, hands in his jacket pockets. “So,” he asked, voice casual but eyes watching you closely, “what’s the verdict?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a smile. “The verdict is… I actually had a lot of fun. And I wouldn’t mind doing this again.”

Something that looked suspiciously like relief flickered across his face before settling into a crooked, satisfied grin. “And here I thought I might have to crash another one of your lectures.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You were insane for doing that.”

He shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “Worked, didn’t it? Got me a date with you.”

You grinned, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself.

The two of you exchanged numbers and say your goodbyes. Jason offered one last wink before turning and disappearing into the crowd like he belonged to the night.

You made it home in one piece—miraculously not mugged or emotionally spiraling—kicked off your shoes, and flopped onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. Then you checked your phone.

One unread message.

Your eyes widened as you saw the name on the screen.

Dick Grayson

Hey, sorry I haven’t texted sooner. Got caught up with an emergency. Let me know when you’re free for that second date.

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. Shit. You were so screwed.

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