#if I ever come back and edit/polish this it will be a long way off

[itsbeeble]

My Kink Is Karma

Summary: Sunwoo breaking up with you after three happy years was not on your bingo card. It's a good thing you believe in karma.

Genre: smut

Pairing: Kim Sunwoo x fem!reader

WC: 7.2k

THE BOYZ Masterlist MAIN Masterlist

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie @captain-brie

FIC TAGLIST: @sanaxo-o @from-izzy

WARNINGS: not edited at all tbh so please lmk if there's something that needs adjusting, Sunwoo kinda shitty in this, infidelity, credit card fraud (?), theft, oral (m and f receiving), making out, marking, p in v sex, overstimulation, swearing, a little bit of degradation, hair pulling, face sitting, fingering, and of course karma

18+ MDNI AGLESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

A/N: i miss being good at writing smut. Anyway enjoy this! Izzy has waited far too long and i'm sorry pookie :( I hope this is worth the wait

Sunwoo kicking you out on a random Tuesday afternoon hadn’t quite been what you planned for. In fact, you feel like you’ve been completely blindsided. Things had been going strong for almost three years— decent communication, his parents loved you, your parents loved him, and the sex was to die for. You had a shared group of friends, all of whom thought they would see the day you would get married if you could ever scrape together the money for it. You were young, sure, but you knew you loved him and wanted to spend the rest of your life with him, even if it meant spending your life savings on a cheap wedding and living in your parent’s basement for the next ten years. 

It was humiliating for you and him, the way you clutched at his knees with mascara running down your cheeks, begging him not to do this. Not to leave you like this. Things were good, you thought things were perfect. Was it work? Was he stressed from work? Or, maybe, it was a prank. Something that Eric put him up to.

No, it’s just not working out. You had to leave, pack your things and leave the fucking apartment that was in your name just because he wasn’t as in love with you as you were with him.

Alas, here you were six weeks later, refreshed and over that bullshit relationship with your best friend who practically saved your ass with some speech about karma.

The nail salon is practically buzzing with life, techs and customers alike skirting through the small building in a blur of motion. You watch each person carefully, gnawing on your lip and tapping your feet against the tiled ground. Nervous habits that you had never been able to shake. Normally, a steady hand would be on your thigh or across your shoulders to calm you. 

That steady hand, however, is no longer an option.

“You hear what’s going on with Sunwoo?” Hyori’s eyes turn to meet yours, the nail tech in front of her gently grabbing her hand to apply a fresh set of blue polish. You kiss your teeth, biting your tongue to hold back a stinging reply. 

“Why would I care what that piece of shit does?” 

Clearly, that doesn’t work very well. It does, however, bring you quite a bit of pain due to the sharpness of your teeth and the force you use to try and hold back the venom in your tone. The nail tech looks up briefly, breaking her focus on painting your stiletto-shaped nails dark green. You can feel the curiosity, the itch for drama in those eyes. Lucky for her, you’re in a very…dramatic mood, aching for a bit of karma. 

“Well, I mean, he did leave you homeless, took your credit cards and ran you into debt that your parents very graciously paid off, fucked your sister…need I go on?” Hyori’s nail tech snaps her head up, eyes wide.

“That explains why I shouldn’t give a fuck. Why should I?” 

“Well,” Hyori straightens in her chair, smiling so wide that you’re sure her cheeks are stinging. “I hear that he’s fuckin losing it lately. Like, destroyed his apartment so bad that the landlord kicked him out and he had to move back in with his parents.” 

Your jaw drops open, an appalled noise coming out of your mouth. Some sort of half-laugh-half-scoff sort of noise that has heads turning in your direction. 

“No way.”

“Mhm, apparently he was also getting with this girl who was, like, eighteen based on what Yerim told me.” 

“Bitch, you better be joking right now,” you scoff. “What a fucking weirdo.”

“Don’t quote me on that,” Hyori shrugs. “You know that Yerim is notoriously unreliable.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Remember the whole pickle situation?”

“Fuck, don’t remind me,” Hyori groans, leaning her head back on her chair. “I genuinely couldn’t leave my house for weeks after that— I was so embarrassed.”

“You and me both, girl.”

It gets quiet for a moment, both of you thinking about the question but not wanting to be the first to ask it. The nail techs, in this silence, are able to finish both of your nails and usher you off to pay. You can tell, just by looking back at them as you leave the building, that they’re just a bit pissed about not hearing the full story, about not hearing what you’re going to do about this whole thing. 

“So,” Hyori sighs as you slide into her passenger seat, “what are you gonna do?”

“C’mon, Hyori…” you click your tongue, voice trailing off as you mull over your options. “You should know by now that I tend to make sure karma bites people right in the ass.”

“You and your fucking kinks, girl,” Hyori scrunches her nose, laughing quietly to herself. “Let me guess, you’re gonna make damn sure he knows he fucked up by fucking his best friend?”

“Eric? Nah, the kid’s cute but not my type.” 

“I’m shocked, truly,” Hyori remarks. “What’ll you do then?” “You’ll find out soon enough, trust me.”

You never admit to Hyori just how much it turns you on that Sunwoo’s life is falling apart. You never told her how much you loved it when he crumbled and begged and pleaded for something. It was a secret, one that only you and Sunwoo knew about and that you ensured stayed between just the two of you before you left for good. 

You most certainly don’t tell Hyori about how you touched yourself to the thought of him almost every night. How you thought about Sunwoo and only Sunwoo when you slept with a man. How no dates ever lasted that long because you always ended up comparing to how Sunwoo used to be. If she found out how you still wanted him, how you wished he would come crawling back to you even if it was just for one night, she would kill you on the spot.

The next time you hear about Sunwoo is exactly two months after your breakup. However, it’s less you hearing about him than it is hearing from him. You thought you’d blocked his number after the first week when Hyori had caught you drunk calling his phone, begging for him to come back to you and to try and make things work. Pathetic is what she’d called you when you’d burst into tears. Desperate is what you’d called yourself when she crushed it under her stiletto. He’d cheated on you, not the other way around, so why were you so desperate for him to forgive you?

Your good friend, Karma, seems to have hit him. His texts had been nonstop since the night before, and phone calls streaming in soon after that never seemed to end. 

The first stream of texts were clearly drunk messages:

HFy bsby, plekde clal mfe

Im spory

Seh wasnt wothr if

Babyyyyyyyyy

Then came the voicemails, ones that you keep just for the future:

Hiiiiii baby! I miss you sooooo much, please call me back!

I know that I messed up, but I wanna make it work for us. The sex isn’t the same with her and no one could ever reaaaalllyyyy make me feel like you did. God, that tongue trick where you—” 

The audio for that one cuts out, and you can only assume that his friends caught him in time. Something swirls through your gut like a snake—pride, perhaps. Something smug, knowing that you have made him just as desperate as you were. Another emotion curls around you, closer to sorrow knowing that you can’t have him anymore. You won’t have him. Not after what he did to you. 

Your phone dings with another text and you put it on silent. The nail tech across from you, the same woman as last time, eyes it carefully.

“That the boy you broke up with?” She asks, painting your nails cherry red. You decided to keep the stiletto shape, loving the sharpness of it and how it accents each outfit you wear. 

“Yeah,” you sigh and relax your hands a bit. “Hasn’t shut up since last night.”

“Why haven’t you blocked him yet?” She taps your palm and you slide your hand into the UV light. 

“I dunno,” you shrug. Truly you don’t know the answer to that question. Do you miss him? After everything he did, do you really still love him?

“Hm,” The woman huffs and you sink back in your chair. “You should find out.”

“Hello?” Your phone sits on the counter as you cook dinner for yourself. Hyori is gone for the night, something about a date. 

“Y/N!” The cheery voice of your ex-boyfriend catches you off guard and the spatula in your hand drops to the counter. “How are you?”

“What the actual fuck?” You turn off the stove, walk over to where your phone is, and stare down at it with nothing but shock on your face. “Why the fuck are you calling me, Kim Sunwoo?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says as if stating the obvious. “Why else would I call?” The amusement in his voice makes your eyes twitch and your teeth grind against each other. 

“Is this some sort of sick joke? Did Eunbi put you up to this?” The feeling of your sister’s name leaves a bad taste in your mouth and you have to fight back a gag, placing the back of your hand over your lips. 

“Eunbi?” Sunwoo sounds confused now and you can practically see the pout on his plush lips. The same lips that used to—

Down girl.

“Yeah, Eunbi.” You pick at a string on your t-shirt and huff. “My sister. The one you fucked in our bed? Remember her?”

There’s silence on the other end of the line and the the speaker crackles like Sunwoo breathed into it. 

“Right. Eunbi. I forgot about that.”

Rage cracks through your veins, sending sparks through your body and your face begins to burn with it. 

“You forgot that you fucked my sister?” You’re seething, your heart pounding and your breathing rapid. “Are you fucking kidding me, Sunwoo?”

“Listen,” he drags the syllables out like he had made just a simple mistake. “I only fucked her one time and she wasn’t even that good. I want you, Y/N. Just you.”

You scoff. “Well, you should have thought about that before screwing her and fucking up my credit cards, bitch.” 

“Yeah, that I don’t have a defense for,” he sighs again, and there’s a rustling on his end of the line as if he’s adjusting his position or clothing. The burning in your cheeks eases as the silence goes on for a few minutes. 

“Why did you call me, Sunwoo?” 

“I wanted to talk,” he says simply. “Can you open the door now?”

Your body tenses when three knocks sound at your door. No fucking way did he show up here. For a few seconds, you refuse to move, rooted to your spot in the kitchen and reaching slowly to the knife holder next to you.

“Don’t reach for the knives, babe.” Sunwoo scolds and you drop your hand back to your side. “It was just me and I know you get nervous when you’re home alone.” The anger returns to your body in full swing and you slap your finger down on the red button to hang up. Your footsteps are so loud as you walk to the door that you know the downstairs neighbors will be pissed in a few minutes, but you can’t find yourself really caring about what they think about you. 

The lock clicks and you swing the door open, stopping it just before it slams against the wall that you really can’t afford to fix at the moment. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You snap, and Sunwoo grins sheepishly at you. Fuck, he looks good. Too good. Pathetic, maybe, but still good. His jeans hang low on his waist, showing the band of his underwear, and his black shirt has had the sleeves cut off and the hem potentially burned based on how messy it is. His shoes are stained and your nose curls at the mystery colors that could either be crayons or some sort of food he got at a club. You really aren’t sure which; not that you care anyway.

What really gets you is his hair. When you broke up, it had been naturally black and curly. You loved running your hands through it at the end of the night, loved yanking on it to force his lips to move to your clit when he ate you out. It was arguably your favorite feature about him aside from those wide, gorgeous eyes. When you look at him now, his hair is streaked with blond, sloppily done as if he’d done it at home with a grocery bag, cheap bleach, and a few beers on a Monday night. Your stomach churns, but not with anger this time. You recognize the feeling of arousal that pours through your veins and nearly washes away the rage entirely. 

“I told you I wanted to talk,” he digs his stained shoes into the dirty rug at the entryway, not looking you in the eyes. “You were ignoring my calls and messages, so I figured I’d stop by and see you. I miss you.” 

The pout on his lips is what makes you cave, and you step to the side to allow him into the apartment. You watch him carefully as he tugs his shoes off, letting him gaze around at your new (hopefully) temporary home. 

“Cute place you got here—”

“Cut the crap, Sunwoo.” Before I cave and kiss you senseless like a fucking moron. “You wanted to talk. What about?”

He gestures to the couch, pursing his lips as you move past him to take a seat as far from him as possible. It’s tense, the air thick with words that will remain unsaid as long as you can help it. It’s hard to control yourself, though. Hard to keep strong like Hyori taught you when the man you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with is sitting right there looking just so…

Fuckable.

Fuck, maybe you’re just desperate.

“I…” Sunwoo fidgets with his hands, looking down at his lap for a moment. “God this is harder than I thought it would be.” 

You soften just a bit, your body sinking into the couch and your legs tucking underneath you. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally gets out with a tight smile. “For, well, everything. You didn’t deserve how I treated you. I shouldn’t have…slept with Eunbi, and I definitely shouldn’t have run you into debt. It was horrible of me, and I’m sorry.”

You kiss your teeth and he looks at you hopefully. “It was really shitty, Sunwoo. We were together for three years.”

“I know,” he turns fully toward you and reaches forward to take your hands in his. “And I’m sorry.” You search his eyes for a hint of anything that might tell you otherwise.

A smile spreads across your lips when you find exactly what you’re looking for.

Lust. Desperation. The exact emotions that you’d been feeling for the two months it had been since you’d broken up. And, with those emotions found and locked into your brain, you know exactly how to play with him.

“Sunwoo,” you coo and he jumps at the sudden switch of attitude. Your hands pull from his and you let them dance across his thighs. His eyes flick down, watching your hands and trailing up your body ever so slowly and eventually meeting your eyes. “You really mean it, baby?” 

His cheeks darken, his lips parting in awe as you lean toward him, your breath fanning his face and sending shivers down his spine. 

“Baby,” Sunwoo’s palm comes to rest on your hip, his thumb sliding under your shirt and rubbing gentle circles. “I don’t— are you— I mean aren’t you angry?”

“Of course I’m angry,” you shrug but the smile remains on your lips. Slowly, you begin to move your hand from his thigh to his crotch and press down just enough for his breath to hitch. “That’s why I want you to fuck me.”

He doesn’t move, his hand frozen on your hip, unsure of what to do and how to proceed. Your lips are centimeters from his, your eyes half-lidded and waiting for him to move. He continues to stay frozen, his breath uneven and heavy, so you kiss him. Hard. 

You kiss him like you’re drunk—messy and wet, just as you know he likes it. Your tongue pushes into his mouth, pushing at his and forcing him into action. Your heart leaps at the feeling of his hands yanking you into his lap and his chest rumbling with a low groan. His lips move against yours with just as much passion and ferocity, his tongue flicking against yours and shoving past it to try and breach your mouth. He’s holding you so tight, his head shoving forward so you’re forced to lean back, but you’re not one to let him win so you push him back, grabbing his hair in one hand and yanking at the strands until he’s whining your name. 

“What, baby?” You coo, pulling away from his lips and licking at the string of spit that connects your lips. “Don’t you like it when I pull your hair?” 

Experimentally, you pull again and Sunwoo’s jaw drops open with an airy moan. “Mm, that’s what I thought.” 

You connect with him again, biting and sucking and licking at them, enjoying the sounds he makes while he tries to kiss you back. His hands are squeezing your hips so tightly, pulling you down to grind against his jean-clad cock. If he can’t kiss you, he’s gonna make damn sure that you have a hard time focusing. Unfortunately for him, you know all of his tricks. You know exactly what he does and when he does it. For example, if you suck at the skin just beneath his jaw, right next to his Adam’s apple, he lets out such pretty whines.

“Baby,” he gasps out, hips jumping into yours. “Fuck, w-why do you have to k-know me so well?” You just laugh, sucking at the soft skin until it’s practically bruised. Pleased with your work, you bite down just enough for him to yelp before pulling back to admire it. 

“You know me, Woo,” you purr, leaning forward again to lick a stripe up his neck and to his lips. They part, his mouth opening for you to lean over and gently kiss him with your tongue delicately brushing against his. Although maybe delicate isn’t quite the right word seeing as the moment your tongue is in his mouth, he starts to suck at it. One of his hands slides from your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close to him as he sucks at the pink muscle and ruts his hips up into yours. You gasp quietly, just enough for it to get his attention. Sunwoo’s eyes are screwed shut, his hands holding you so tight that you’re afraid you’ll be bruised in the morning.

Who are you kidding, though?

If you aren’t bruised in the morning, you may just kick him out. 

“Sunwoo,” you murmur but your words are muffled. He just groans, pulling you closer if it was even possible. “Sunwoo, baby. We’re not fucking on Hyori’s couch.”

“Then we’ll take the floor,” he grunts, pulling away in annoyance. “I haven’t had good sex in two months, I’m not wasting any fucking time on switching rooms.” 

You scoff. “I’m not fucking you in my living room.” 

He goes to argue with you, but you’re already moving off his lap. “You can’t be serious, baby.” There’s a challenge in your eyes as you reach for the hem of your shirt. Any arguments he may have had are gone the second your shirt hits the ground, your breasts sitting so nicely on your chest with no bra to hide them from his view. 

“I’m very serious, Sunwoo.” Your hands move to the band of your shorts, the corner of your lips pulled into a smirk as you slowly pull them down your legs until you’re able to step out of them. As if in a trance, Sunwoo slowly rises to his feet, dragging forward until he’s merely a foot away from you. He reaches a hand out to grab you, but you take a step back. His brows furrow and he tries again but you’re still backing away from him. His trance seems to hold, much to your amusement, watching your breasts bounce with every step away from him until you reach your bedroom. 

“You knew that would work.” Sunwoo pouts, but it’s quick to turn into a grin when you finally let him touch you. Immediately he pushes you down onto the mattress, crawling over you until you’re caged beneath him, your eyes wide with lust and anticipation while he tries to figure out where to start. “Fuck, been too long since I’ve seen these pretty tits.”

Your thighs rub together and you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as he shifts down your body until he’s face to face with your chest. 

He’s a millimeter away from wrapping his lips around one of your nipples when you suddenly grab his hair and yank him back up, keeping his face in front of yours as you shift onto your knees. 

“What the fuck?” He whines, eyes glassy and confused. “What’d you do that for?”

“You didn’t think I’d make it that easy, did you?” You pout at him, mocking him, and his cheeks flush. “After everything you put me through, did you really think I’d make it so easy to get me again?”

“Well, I mean,” Sunwoo gulps, letting out a grunt when you pull his hair again. “Fucking— If you keep doing that, baby, I swear to god I’ll cum in my pants—” You just laugh at him, your eyes gleaming.

“You think a little begging is gonna stop me, Woo? What if,” you lean down until your lips brush against his ear, “I want you to do it?” 

Another yank at his hair and his whole body shudders, his hips jerking violently into yours and his mouth dropping open. Loud moans leave his mouth, a bit of drool seeping out of the corner of his lips that you’re quick to swoop down and lick up. 

You loved toying with him like this. You loved watching as he desperately tries to hold it together, to keep himself from cumming in his pants like a teenage boy but failing miserably at just one faint touch from you. Your hand falls from his hair, sliding down to his shoulder so you can push him to lie down on your mattress. He lets you, his eyes dazed and confused by what just happened to him but still staring at you with awe. 

“You know what you can do to make it up to me, Sunwoo?” You slide his shirt up his torso and he follows your movements, grabbing the fabric once it gets too high and tugging it over his head. 

“I’ll do anything, baby, please,” Sunwoo squeezes at your hips and pulls you down over his likely overstimulated cock. “Tell me what to do to make it better.”

“Let me sit on your face,” you purr, “eat me out like the good boy you are. If you make me squirt, I’ll even suck you off before I fuck you.”

“I thought I was fucking you?” Sunwoo cocks an eyebrow and you kiss your teeth. 

“Who says both can’t happen?” You retort, shifting your body until your dripping cunt is positioned right over his mouth. “Now get going before I change my mind and you have to fuck a pillow instead.”

Sunwoo wastes no time, his hands coming to grip your hips and pulling you down so you’re fully seated over his mouth. The motion earns him a quiet gasp, one of your hands coming to tangle in his messy hair and the other gripping your headboard. You’re more turned on than you’d let him believe, your cunt practically dripping into his open mouth, and Sunwoo’s body shudders at the familiar taste. You haven’t changed in the eight weeks it’s been since he left you, and neither has he. Truly he missed you, missed the way your body practically molded to his, missed the sounds you made, the way you spoke to him. Fuck, he felt like he was gonna burst in his pants if he wasn’t careful.

Your hips rock into his tongue, forcing the muscle to dip into you just a little more, dipping into your hole before swiping up to your clit. Sunwoo had, when you first started dating, developed this little pattern when he ate you out. He would drag his tongue as far down as he could, slowly work his way up until he found your clit, and would suck and lick and bite at the little nub until you were quivering and begging and soaking his face. He did this over and over, however this time it was different. He worked slowly, letting you work your hips over his face and letting you set the pace. His tongue laves over your clit with no sense of urgency, no hunger. His lips hardly move, but you can feel the way his breathing stutters and you can hear all of his little gasps and whines

Frankly, it pissed you off. 

You wanted him to try to take over. You wanted him to try to dominate you, to drive you wild, to rough you up like he always wanted. Here you were giving him free reign to do whatever he would like, and he’s not taking it. 

It’s not like him, and it pisses you off so you lift your hips off his face, rolling off his body until you’re sat next to him with a scowl permanently etched into your face. Sunwoo looks up at you, lips contorted into a pout and his eyes fully dazed with confusion. 

“Why’d you pull away?” His voice pitches into a whine, his hands reach to grab at your hips and pull you back over him.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that?” You scoff, leaning back against your headboard and watching him rise onto his knees to look at you. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He leans toward you, hand resting on your thigh, and you smack it away.

“Don’t fucking touch me unless you’re gonna make it worth it for me!” You snap, beginning to slide off the bad. 

In that split second, it’s like something clicks in Sunwoo. His pout transforms into a smirk, his eyes glinting with something sly. He follows you off the bed, moving so fast that you could barely blink before you were pinned against your dresser, his hand on the back of your neck and the sound of his belt being undone fills your ears. 

“You’ve always been such a brat, haven’t you?” He leans in close, his lips brushing the skin between your shoulder blades. You struggle against him, pushing your hands against the dresser to force him back, but he’s stronger than you and forces you back down until you let your body become limp and pliant in his hold. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it, baby?”

“Fuck you,” you writhe beneath him, the hand not holding you down sliding down your back and cupping your ass in his palm. “Let me go, Kim Sunwoo.”

He kisses his teeth, and you can practically hear the way he smiles smugly at you. “Is that really how you want to talk to me? After all, I’m practically in control of your pleasure here.”

“I can take care of myself just fine.” You retort and turn your head to attempt a glare in his direction.

“You and I both know that you don’t get nearly enough satisfaction without me,” Sunwoo purrs, squeezing the flesh of your ass in his large hand before slipping his fingers down to your sopping wet heat. “You never have.”

He’s right, but you’d rather take a lifetime of nearly worthless orgasms than admit it to his stupid face. Your eyelids flutter when his fingers dip into you, pushing at your pulsing walls and stretching out your cunt to his liking. It’s as if he knows you like the back of his hand. 

Scratch that.

Sunwoo does, annoyingly, know you like the back of his hand. Emotionally, physically, any way he could possibly learn. He knew that you loved how it felt when he bit down on the junction between your collarbone and your throat. He knew that you loved when he was rough with you— pulling your hair, spanking you, choking you, bruising your hips with his fingers. He practically marked it in his brain every little sweet spot you had. 

So yeah, when he plunges his fingers deep inside you and curls them towards your front wall, just brushing against that sweet spot inside of you and practically forcing a loud moan from your body, you’re a bit peeved. Your whole fucking plan going out the window because your loser of an ex-boyfriend just happens to know you better than you want him to. Why did you have to date him for so long?

“Fuck,” you hiss out and roll your hips back against his hand. “Fuck, Sunwoo, why are you so-o good with your hands?” You stutter, much to your own dismay, and he drops his head against your shoulder. 

“Taught only by the best, sweetheart.” His other hand swoops around your front, his index and middle fingers driving against your clit roughly until you’re squirming and crying for him, your head falling against the dresser and your legs threatening to collapse. Sunwoo pulls moan after moan, sob after sob, any noise he knows you can make. He pulls them all from within you until your throat is raw and threatening to crack. “Gonna cum? Gonna cum for your ex-boyfriend, Y/N? What a sick little girl you are— dripping all over my hands, moaning for the man who fucked your life up. Do you feel dirty? Do you know how filthy you are?”

You arch your back against him, tears springing to your eyes as he drives you closer and closer to an orgasm. 

“G-gonna cum, Sunwoo,” you gasp out, “fuck, gonna cum all over your hands like a dirty little slut!” 

Sunwoo stumbles over his movements for a second, only briefly surprised by your words before he’s picking the pace back up. “That’s right, beautiful. You’re a dirty little slut, huh? You’re my dirty little slut.”

Your walls tense around his fingers, so tight he can barely hold his pace, and your eyes squeeze shut. A sharp bite of pain fills your veins as you bite down on your lip, drawing a bit of blood as you try desperately to hold back the sounds that you know he’s trying to pull out of you. You fail, whining his name and reaching a hand back to tangle in his hair, yanking at the strands as you cum. Your walls flutter around his fingers, your cunt gushing with your slick and dripping down his hand. Sunwoo draws his fingers out of you, leaving you empty but not without the feeling of his other hand rubbing at your clit. The pleasure is overrun with overstimulation, an ache that turns your cries into quiet sobs.

“Sun-Sunwoo,” you plead, trying to pull yourself out of his grip. Unfortunately, you find yourself still trapped between his larger body and the wooden dresser. “Pl-please, ‘s too m-much!” 

“Oh, is it?” he coos in your ear, nipping lightly at the skin beneath it. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t realize you wanted me to stop.” 

When he finishes his sentence he all but rips his hand away from you. Your body immediately falls slack, your arms barely having the strength to catch you as your ex-boyfriend pulls away and works at his belt. Sunwoo watches your trembling body, the smug glint in his eye returning.

“You’re an…an asshole.” Your teeth grit together as you stumble over to him, gripping his jaw in your hand and squeezing tightly. “A true asshole, Kim Sunwoo.” 

His body falls back, his hands going from his belt to your waist as you work at the button of his pants. “You love me, though.” 

You scoff, “you think I still love you?” 

His eyebrow quirks. “Don’t you? Why else would I be here, in your bed, on a random night months after we broke up.” Sunwoo lifts his hips as he speaks, allowing you to pull his clothing down just enough to get his rock-hard cock out. 

“Because I haven’t had a good fuck since we broke up,” you say simply, hissing as you sink down on him. You’d dated him for three years and even after all that time, the sting that came with fucking him never went away. “Shit, forgot how big you were.” 

His grip on your waist tightens, his jaw ticking as your hips meet his. “And I forgot how tight your little pussy was. Guess we’re both taking a little trip down— son of a bitch—” 

Sunwoo cuts himself off with a loud groan as you clench around him, lifting your hips slowly before dropping back down with a loud smack of skin against skin. 

“Were you saying something?” Your words come out breathy, a quiet whine following soon after as you begin to grind yourself down on Sunwoo’s cock. 

“You’re a fucking menace,” Sunwoo grunts, his eyes squeezing shut and his body going completely slack. His fingers slip from your waist, instead resting on the sides of your thighs. He lets you take control, lets you take as much as you want from him. “I missed you, missed your fucking cunt.” A tight squeeze against your skin before his jaw falls open and loud moans fill the air. You can’t bring yourself to laugh, your focus entirely on holding a steady pace and drawing the knot in your stomach back into place. The sting in your thighs is almost unbearable, almost too much for you, but you’d be damned if you didn’t finish what you started. 

Your hands find purchase on Sunwoo’s chest, your dark green nails digging into his chest and breaking the skin. Slowly, ever so slowly, you raise your hips again and let them fall. His tip punches into the sweetest spot inside of you, pushing against it over and over as you repeat your motions. You let your body sink forward, your chest against his and your faces mere centimeters away from each other. You’re so close that you can see the tiny beads of sweat beginning to form on his face, the way his eyelashes flutter. 

“Such a pretty boy, hm?” You murmur, dipping your head down and licking away a bead of sweat on his jawline. “So pretty, so good for me.” Your walls flutter again and Sunwoo wwhines, taking hold of your ass with both hands. 

“C-can’t—” Sunwoo gasps out, but his words become choked moans. “Fuck, you- you feel t-too good.” 

You laugh, sucking a hickey into his golden skin, biting at the purple mark when you’re finished. “Only the best for you, baby.” 

His hips begin to thrust into yours, his hands holding your body in place as he chases an orgasm that’s so close that he can practically taste it. You watch as his eyes roll back, your own drifting shut as you let pleasure overcome you again. He doesn’t stop, and you don’t want him to, even when liquid spurts out of you and coats his lower body, your sheets, and everything beneath the two of you. Even when his cum drips out of you in thick white globs and smears against your skin. He doesn’t stop until his hips are jerking and not a single drop of cum can be pulled from his cock. 

Your body is shaking, but you find enough strength to pull your body away from his, sinking to your knees in front of him. Sunwoo can barely lift his head to watch you, his hand lacing into your hair as you take his softening cock into your mouth and suck gently at it, moaning at the taste of your cum mixing together, You place your hands on both of his thighs, sucking and licking until there’s nothing left, leaving him half-hard and twitching in your mouth. 

“You’re fucking insatiable, sweetheart,” Sunwoo moans so prettily, trying to tug you off of him. You giggle, letting him pull you off but dropping your head to give his balls the same attention you’d given his cock. “Son of a— baby, baby wait—”

You pull off him when he says that, laying your cheek on his thigh and watch him try to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his grip on your hair tightening and loosening repeatedly in an attempt to ground himself. 

“Had enough?” Your lips press against his warm skin and he scoffs. 

“You’re terrible.”

“Mm…is that so?” you press another kiss and he sits up, sliding his hand from your hair to your chin and grabbing it between his thumb and pointer to pull you toward him. 

“I fucking love you.” The kiss he gives you is hot, wet, and messy. His tongue dips into your mouth pushing further and further until he’s practically in your throat before pulling back and staring down at you. “My little minx.”

You smile, eyes fluttering when he closes the gap between your mouths again. 

“What the fuck? Sunwoo stares at you from the couch cushion, eyes narrowed into a glare. “You’re— what the fuck?”

“I want you out of my apartment.” You shrug, crossing your arms as you sip at your coffee. “Simple as that.”

“But I—” he shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes as he tries to comprehend what you’re saying. “I thought that you— I thought we had a good time. I thought you…that you wanted me back. I don’t— I don’t understand.”

“You thought I wanted you back?” You scoff, lips twitching into a smirk. “What gave you that idea?”

“Maybe the fact that you said you did!”

You kiss your teeth and set your coffee down on the counter behind you. Sunwoo watches your every move, feet tapping against the carpet beneath him. 

“Sunwoo, do you know what my favorite kink is?”

“I don’t fucking know, somnophilia?” 

You can’t help but laugh at his response, tilting your head back and putting a hand on your chest. Sunwoo, however, isn’t laughing. He looks at you with confusion and anger, a mix of emotions you can relate to all too well. 

“You’re so funny, baby.” You’re close enough now that you’re able to sit beside him and let your hand tangle in his hair. You practically straddle him, one leg thrown across his lap and your lips sucking at his neck, adding to the…decorations you had left the night before. “But no, it’s not. Close!”

He leans into your touch, although it may be a bit reluctantly if the look on his face is anything to go off of. 

“What is it, then? Hm? What, do you have some sort of like, secret piss kink?” He pulls your face toward his, kissing you and almost making you doubt your decision. 

“Ew, Sunwoo,” you wrinkle your nose, scratching your nails lightly on the back of his neck and relishing in the goosebumps forming under your skin. “Karma. That’s my favorite kink.” 

“And why is that?” He noses at your jawline. “Why would you wish karma on me, hm? Don’t you like how I touch you?” You tilt your head back, humming as he mouths at your throat. 

“Of course I do,” you admit. “But I also have self-respect. And you fucked my sister.” He tenses, pulling back from you. 

“I thought you were over that?” 

“Why would I get over you fucking my sister?” you smack the back of his head and stand from the couch. “You’re a fucking idiot, Kim Sunwoo, and I truly hope I never see your face again.”

“You can’t be serious.” He’s standing too, reaching a hand toward you in a desperate attempt to get you to talk to him. “C’mon, baby. Isn’t this too much? We would be so happy together!”

“We tried that once before,” you push him back, forcing him closer to the door. “And it didn’t end well.”

“I made a mistake, so what?!” He snaps, almost dropping his shoes as you shove them into his arms. “I admit it! I was wrong! I shouldn’t have cheated on you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I want you to get the fuck out of my apartment and never speak to me again, actually.” You open the door, waving your hand in a shooing motion. “Bye now!” 

He tries to speak again, but the door slamming in his face stops him. You breathe out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the cold metal, and close your eyes. 

“He took that shockingly well,” the door of Hyori’s room clicks shut as she steps into the living room, and you open your eyes to look at her. You smirk a bit, letting your body relax.

“I expected him to try fucking me again.”

“Honestly so did I,” she hands you the mug of coffee you’d set down and takes her seat on the couch. “Was it worth it?”

“Hm?” You tilt your head. 

“You know,” she waves her hand at the door. “That. Was fucking him and kicking him out really worth it?” 

You shrug. “Yeah, I think so. I mean, I at least got some good shit out of it.”

“A good fuck.” Hyori agrees.

“And some money.” You smile, that same smug smile that Sunwoo had been flashing you all night. It was almost uncanny, and you watch Hyori’s nose wrinkle.

“He paid you?”

“Ew, no, I realize that came out wrong.”

“Oh,” she sighs. “Thank god, I thought I would have to smack some sense into you and then take the money for myself.”

“No, never like that.” You shake your head and smile. “More like the money that was in his wallet.” 

Hyori barks out a laugh. “Yeah, right. You had the time to get the money from his wallet between everything that…that was happening…” she trails off, sinking back in her cushion as you pull a massive wad of cash and a credit card out of the drawer in the side table next to you. “Holy shit, how did you…how did he not notice?”

“I’m a very good distraction,” you shrug. 

“Why did you…why the fuck did you do that?” She’s appalled and, for the record, you completely understand why. However, you have a perfectly good reason.

You only shrug in response to her question. 

“Isn’t it obvious? Karma.”

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[tinyshyteacup]

Taglist: @kellynickelsgirl00 @darylandbethfanforever9 @pumpkinkpieandtomato @imadisneyprincessiswear @clementineslawyer @pandaofsilentdeath @dixonsbridexx @imadisneyprincessiswear @staley83

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TW: cussing, Merle is well ... Merle, mild angst, walkers (Zombies), medical procedures, hand removal, thourghts of unaliving, breif attempt to unalive (if you squint, it's like a sentence or two.)

A/N: This is a little less edited then my usual stuff, but the other chapters will be more polished !

This is a Merle x Reader that becomes a Daryl x Reader slowburn

Part 2

Between Brothers - Part 1

The clang of the metal door echoes into the heat.

You stagger into the sunlight, arm thrown up against the glare. The rooftop radiates with baked concrete, burnt tar, and the sharp, metallic scent of old blood.

The city stretched out before you in a haze of smoke and heat shimmer, broken windows glinting like jagged teeth in the late afternoon sun.

Below, the moans of the dead crawled up from alleyways, from between cars, from every shattered doorway.

The staircase behind you felt like it had swallowed all your strength. But you weren’t planning on walking back down.

You didn't cry. You were past crying. Just…empty.

You stepped toward the edge—each footstep crunching concrete, slow and sure.

Your fingers trembled as they gripped the ledge.

Then—

“Aww, hell. Y’ain’t one o’ them geeks, are ya?”

You flinch, startled.

The voice was coarse and southern, soaked in sarcasm and cigarette smoke. You stared forward, silent, frozen somewhere between confusion and dread.

“Gotta ask… you fixin’ to jump, or just enjoyin’ the view?” he smirked, though his eyes didn’t match it. They were sharper, clearer than you'd expect from a man cuffed on a rooftop.

Your eyes flick toward the sound. He’s sprawled by the far railing—a man, shirt soaked in sweat, sunburn peeling along his shoulders, a wrist handcuffed to a pipe. The glint of metal is harsh against his skin.

He shifts—languid, almost like a predator stretching in the sun.

“C'mon Sugar, you real?” he mutters, squinting at you like you might vanish. “Or just a real damn cruel heat mirage?”

You stare, frozen halfway between the door and the edge of the world.

You weren't looking for him. You didn’t even know he existed. But now you're here—and so is he.

“Well don’t just stand there gawkin’, girlie Come say hello to Merle Dixon.”

His grin is crooked. There’s no charm in it.

Just teeth and trouble.

You approach in slow, uncertain steps. Your boots crunch on concrete, dust rising in the sun. Your eyes flick to the cuff, the rust on the pipe, the torn skin on his wrist, raw and angry.

He follows your gaze.

“Yeah. Ain’t exactly Club Med up here.”

You shift your weight, not speaking yet. He sizes you up—boots to fingertips to face. Lingers too long.

“You’re a funny-lookin’ bird,” he says finally. “Not funny bad. Just… different. Got a voice on ya?”

You nod. Quietly.

"I’m not from here.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. What you wander in from Narnia.”

You flinch at the jab—unsure if it was meant to wound.

Merle notices.

And laughs. A rasping sound that could’ve been amusement or something meaner.

“Don’t look so damn delicate. Ain’t got the breath to bite you.”

You kneel, carefully, pulling your canteen from your bag. Wordlessly, you offer it. He watches your hand like it’s a trap. Then takes it.

“What’s a girl like you doin’ on a roof like this?”

You glance at the ledge. “I was looking for… a way out.”

“Well now,” he mutters, tipping back the water, “ain’t we all.”

Time ticks by. You sit a little ways off, knees hugged to your chest. Merle’s trying not to groan, but you can see the pain in his shoulders, in the way he leans toward you without meaning to.

Then he speaks again—voice lower now. Almost quiet.

“You ever killed one?”

You blink. “One…of those ...?”

“A rotter."

He snorts softly at your hesitation.

“Didn’t think so. You still smell like shampoo.”

You almost flinch again.

He doesn’t seem cruel—not really—just observant. But it's unnerving.

"World like this?” he adds, turning to look at you full-on. “You ain’t gonna make it unless someone keeps you safe.”

You meet his eyes, hesitant.

"Someone like you?”

“Damn right.”

His voice dips, just slightly. Something in it sharpens.

“You help Ol' Merle out and I’d keep you real safe, girlie. Real close like. Ain’t none of them bitters touching ya”

You tilt your head, curious, naïve to the layered meaning. All you hear is protection. Safety. Stability. What you crave.

You nod—tentatively.

Merle watches you. The way your lashes drop. The way you just quietly believe him.

Something in him stutters.

He expected fear. Flinching. Hell even anger.

He didn't expect trust.

And it unsettles him more than the sunstroke ever could.

You finally speak.

“We gotta get you free.”

He chuckles darkly.

"Ain’t got the key, honey.”

Your silence as you drop your eyes is answer enough. You don’t need to say it.

Your follow his eyes to the bag of tools, the hatchet, and bile rises to your throat.

His eyes flicker from the tools to your face.

“You know what I'm sayin’ darlin' ?” he murmurs, voice losing some of its swagger.

You nod. “You’ll bleed out if we don’t stop it fast.” You say fishing out a half finished bottle of whiskey and a lighter from your pack.

"Well, ain’t you just full of surprises.”

You take your shirt off—to rip the cleanest piece of cloth from underneath. His eyes dart briefly, but for once, he doesn’t speak. He looks at the blade instead.

"Guess we doin this now.”

You nod. Shoving your shirt back on. Your stomach is in your throat. You can’t look as he starts.

But you hear it.

Meat and rust.

A grunt—half-snarl, half-cry.

Then silence.

He’s shaking, blood pouring, face twisted in something between agony and sheer will.

You press the cloth tight.

“You done this before?” he rasps.

“Nope.”

He laughs through the pain.

“Hell of a first date.”

The flame licks across the fabric. It glows a sick flickering orange. The smell is unbearable.

You look to him.

"Ready?”

“Not even a little, Girlie." Despite the circumstances his grin is wolfish.

He doesn’t scream.

But his eyes roll back for a moment, his boots scuffing against the rooftop. When the wound hisses the sound is animal.

You press. You count. You cry—quietly.

And when it’s done, you wrap the stump with trembling hands. He’s gone pale, eyes unfocused. But he’s breathing. He’s alive.

You help him stand. His good hand slings around your shoulder, heavy with sweat and blood. He leans more than he means to.

As you guide him toward the door, he mutters.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to stick around.”

“Do you ever, shut the hell up?” you whisper.

He chuckles—barely.

“You keep this up, girlie, I might have to marry you.”

You don’t laugh.

The stairwell groans under your weight, every metal step shuddering like it might snap. Merle leans heavily against your side, half-conscious, face pale and damp. You’ve wrapped his cauterized stump as tight as you can, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped completely, and his breath is ragged.

“Ain’t exactly a smooth exit,” he mutters between shallow inhales, voice slurring. "Damn, sugar... you smell like hell’s perfume.”

You glance at him—tight-lipped. The blood on your hands is mostly his. You barely feel it anymore.

The lower levels are dim, windows boarded up or broken, and the scent of rot swells the deeper you go. Somewhere below, a walker growls, low and hungry.

You tense. Merle feels it.

“Don’t freeze up now,” he whispers, words brittle but aware. “Ain’t nothin’ down there that wants you more than I do.”

You think it’s a joke. You hope it is. But there’s no time to ask.

You shoulder open the final door, into the Atlanta heat and chaos.

The streets boil with summer heat and death.

Cars are overturned, the blacktop glittering with shattered glass. A body hangs out the driver’s side of a cab, jaw torn clean off. Somewhere in the distance, a wave of groans—but not close. Not yet.

Merle staggers as you half-drag, half-carry him across the sidewalk.

He's heavy heavier then you expected and your grateful he's still conscious enough to help. He curses under his breath with every step.

“Ain’t how I pictured us walkin’ into the sunset, sweetheart.” He drawls.

You don’t reply.

You’re watching everything. Every alley. Every rooftop. Every sound.

Eventually, you spot it—an old apartment building, stone facade crumbling, but intact. The lobby is quiet. Dead quiet.

You push through the broken glass doors, helping Merle up a half-collapsed stairwell. Second floor. Room 208.

It smells faintly of mildew and wood polish. The bed is made. There are dishes in the sink.

Furniture upturned. Whoever had lived here left in a hurry—but they didn’t die in it.

It’s... quiet.

Safe.

For now.

You lay Merle down on the bed, gently easing him onto his side to protect his wound. His breathing slows. His head rolls toward you, dazed, but trying to focus.

“You stickin’ around?” he mumbles.

You nod. Then—

“Gonna look for food.”

“You ain’t ready.”

You pause at the door.

“Maybe not, but it's not like your in a position to help." You quip.

Merle’s eyes follow you as far as they can before they close. He mutters something you don’t catch. It might have been “stupid girl”, or maybe “be careful.” You’ll never know.

The hallway is narrow. You walk softly, fingertips brushing the wall. You can feel your own heartbeat in your throat.

The door to Apartment 206 is slightly ajar. Inside, silence.

You push in slowly, scanning.

Canned goods on the counter. A half-open pantry. Jackpot.

You gather quickly, stuffing a tote bag with beans, fruit, powdered milk. You turn—relieved.

That’s when you hear the scrape.

You freeze.

The walker stumbles out from the bathroom—a woman, or what used to be one. Her jaw hangs loosely, skin like old paper, eyes white and hungry.

Your body locks up.

You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

Until it groans—and lunges.

Then you scream.

You fall back, the tote spilling, cans clattering. The walker grabs your shirt, teeth snapping inches from your throat.

You grab the only thing near—a cast iron frying pan from the stove—and slam it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Until she stops moving.

Until her skull is cracked open like a dropped melon.

You sit there, panting, spattered in black-red blood, the pan slick in your trembling hands.

And then you cry.

Not loudly.

But enough.

Because you’re not who you were twenty minutes ago.

And you know it.

When you push back into the apartment, the sun’s gone lower. The room is quiet.

You are coated in blood.

Hair matted. Eyes wide and unfocused. Tote bag in one hand. The frying pan still dangling from the other slick with blood.

Merle stirs.

Opens his eyes.

Freezes.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes scanning you. “You look like hell’s housekeeper.”

You don’t speak. You just set the bag of food on the dresser, then stand there. Silent. Shaking.

Merle blinks.

"You didn’t… get bit, did ya?”

You shake your head.

He exhales, muttering something.

Then, slower this time:

"What happened out there?”

Your lip trembles.

Your voice cracks.

"I killed her. She had... she had rollers in her hair.”

Merle looks at you. Really looks.

And for once, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke.

He shifts in the bed, groaning as he props himself slightly.

"C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“C’mon now. Ain’t gonna bite. Just sit.”

You do. At the very edge of the bed.

He looks at you for a long time.

"First time’s the worst,” he says, voice quieter now. “Ain’t no shame in feelin’ it.”

You glance at him, blood drying on your neck.

"Will I stop? Feelin’ it?”

He holds your gaze. "...Yeah. And then one day, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

[m34tthews]

CHAPTER THREE

“in another life, i know we could ride out, boy”

pairing — auston matthews x vet!reader

summary — after another playoff loss, auston disappears from the spotlight and unexpectedly crosses paths with y/n—someone from a past life who feels both distant and familiar. they only have the summer, two people from different worlds colliding at the wrong time, reigniting something they never saw coming.

word count — 8.4k

warnings — minors dni. sexual themes (future chapters)

an — i am so sorry this took me so long. i was sitting on this chapter for a while i just needed to edit it. enjoy <3

masterlist

the sun sat high above them, warm and bright, casting honeyed light over the sidewalks and awnings of their sleepy corner of the city. it was breezy out, the kind of perfect late spring afternoon that made you forget about anything other than the sound of your sneakers against the pavement and the lazy tug of a leash in your hand. the kind of day that felt like it could last forever if you let it.

y/n had been smiling the whole time. since he called that morning—voice scratchy, still thick with sleep—to ask if she wanted to walk felix with him.

“he gets stubborn if i go without you,” he’d said, and she rolled her eyes at the excuse but grabbed her hoodie anyway.

their days had fallen into an easy rhythm. he started dropping off coffee for her before work, the order always right even when she swore she didn’t have a usual. he teased her about her trashy reality shows and still ended up staying through half the episodes, legs tangled with hers on the couch. she showed up for walks with felix more than he ever asked, claimed it was for the dog, but she caught the way he watched them together—like seeing her with felix was his new favorite thing.

felix trotted happily in front of them now, tongue lolling, tail wagging, completely content as they wandered down a quieter block just a few minutes from her apartment.

auston had kept close. he walked a little closer than usual, his arm brushing hers from time to time, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back whenever they crossed the street. he was comfortable. flirtier than before, sure, but grounded. like a version of himself that only she got to see.

and then—

“auston matthews?”

the voice snapped through the quiet like a stone tossed into still water.

they both slowed at the sound, the easy rhythm of the afternoon cracking beneath the surface. they turned together, and y/n felt the shift the moment she saw the girl approaching.

she was tall, blonde, dressed in a matching set of designer athleisure that looked untouched by actual sweat. the kind of girl who could make a walk through the square feel like a photo shoot. oversized sunglasses pushed into her hair, lip gloss catching the sun like she planned it that way.

“wow, i thought that was you,” the girl laughed, already sliding a hand around auston’s arm like she owned the space. y/n’s chest tightened, something sinking low and unwelcome.

auston’s posture changed just slightly—shoulders stiffening, smile faltering.

“hey, uh… riley, right?”

“wow.” riley stepped back, giving a dramatic gasp. “riley, right?” she repeated, all mock offense, then turned toward y/n with a smile that was too wide, too polished. “i guess that’s fair though. he probably doesn’t remember my name with so many girls showing up at that pool of his.”

y/n blinked, watching the exchange, trying to read his face. the distance between them now felt bigger than it had the whole walk.

auston cleared his throat. “we’ve… run into each other before.”

“run into,” riley teased, winking. “we ran into each other a few times last summer. i’m sure your neighbors still remember.”

y/n’s grip on the leash tightened. felix glanced up at her with a little snort, tail still wagging like nothing had changed.

riley leaned in closer, tossing her hair over her shoulder, her voice dropping like she was sharing some secret. “so… what’s the theme this year? that pool party of yours is always wild. are the usual girls invited, or are you going for something more… lowkey?” her glance flicked sideways at y/n, the meaning clear.

the warmth that had carried y/n through the day drained from her limbs, replaced by something cold and unfamiliar. she could still feel the ghost of auston’s hand on her back, the way he’d smiled at her earlier, and now it felt like it belonged to someone else.

before auston could say anything, y/n gave a polite, practiced smile. “we were just heading out, actually.”

he turned to her, immediate, like he felt the shift too. “y/n—”

“no worries,” riley cut in, waving a perfectly manicured hand. “i’ll dm you. again.”

she walked off without waiting for a response, that same smirk tugging at her lips as she disappeared around the corner.

auston let out a slow breath, dragging his hand down his face like he could erase the whole encounter.

“she’s…” he started, searching for the right words.

“you don’t have to explain,” y/n said, light but distant, eyes on felix instead of him. “i mean, it’s… you.”

he hated how small she sounded saying that. like the bubble they’d built together had popped and she was the only one standing in the aftermath.

“me?”

“yeah.” she gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “i just didn’t really realize… how big of a deal you are. i guess.”

he reached out, brushing his hand against hers, catching her pinky like it would make her stay in this moment with him.

“she’s not part of my life,” he said quietly. “not like you are.”

but she didn’t look at him, not right away. her fingers toyed with the leash, and when she spoke, her voice was softer, almost too soft.

“i’m not much of a part of it either. and it’s not like you… live here or anything.”

he stopped walking, like the words physically caught him off guard.

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” she said, with a little shrug, but the distance between them felt like miles now. “just… we’re in different places. that’s all.”

before he could say anything else, felix sneezed and stopped short, the leash tangling around a post. y/n knelt to free it, fussing over the dog like it was the only thing that mattered, like her heart wasn’t twisting up tight inside her chest.

the silence between them stretched too long.

they reached her building just as the streetlights flickered on, the sidewalk bathed in soft amber glow. she unclipped felix’s leash at the steps, fingers brushing through his fur like it grounded her.

auston stayed close, closer than she let him feel. his heart was pounding, too loud in his ears.

“y/n.”

she looked at him then, eyes guarded, like she was bracing for something she didn’t want to hear.

“are you okay?” he asked, voice low, like maybe if he kept it soft enough she wouldn’t pull further away.

because for a little while it had felt like maybe this was real—coffee runs, lazy mornings, kisses that made the world fall away. but then reality caught up. reminded her who he was. reminded her of all the reasons this didn’t make sense.

“yeah,” she said finally. “just a little tired.”

he tried to close the space between them, but as his lips neared hers, she turned her head, slipping away before he could even feel the warmth of her mouth.

“goodnight, auston,” she said gently, eyes lowered, voice soft.

and then she was gone. the door clicked shut behind her, quiet but final.

he stood there, hand half raised, as if he could knock or call her back but knowing he wouldn’t. felix let out a single bark on the other side of the door, like he knew.

auston huffed out a breathless laugh and shook his head.

“goodnight, y/n,” he whispered, to no one at all.

inside, y/n leaned against the door, heart beating fast, lips tingling with the ghost of the kiss that never happened. and felix, blissfully unaware, trotted down the hall, tail wagging like nothing had changed.

it was stupid.it was nothing. but god, why did it feel like everything?

she slipped off her sneakers, running a hand through her hair, and wandered into the living room where naomi was curled up on the couch with a half-eaten bowl of popcorn and reruns of the summer i turned pretty playing in the background.

“you’re back early,” naomi said, glancing over, “he didn’t walk you to your door this time?”

“he did,” y/n mumbled, sinking onto the other side of the couch. “i just… went inside before he could kiss me.”

naomi arched a brow. “you what?”

“i panicked, okay?”

“you’ve literally kissed him before—”

“that was different!” she hissed, reaching for the popcorn. “some girl stopped him on our walk. she clearly knew him. like, biblically. and she asked about some pool party. with models, naomi.”

naomi tilted her head. “okay, and?”

“and i just… i don’t know. i got in my head. i’ve never dated anyone who’s—who’s that.”

naomi looked at her carefully, then picked up her phone. “wait… you still haven’t googled him?”

“i didn’t want to,” y/n muttered, but she leaned over anyway, watching with her chin on her knees as naomi typed in “auston matthews.”

the results loaded fast. articles. headlines. magazine covers. game stats. instagram posts. vacation shots. photos with the team. photos without a shirt. photos with girls. models. actresses. rumors.

there was even a GQ cover. he looked almost unrecognizable. not because he looked bad—no, he looked incredible—but because he looked so far away from the version of him she’d just spent the week laughing with and kissing on her couch.

she stared at one picture of him at a yacht party, a bikini-clad girl pressed to his side like it was second nature.

her stomach twisted.

“okay, don’t spiral,” naomi said, voice gentle. “look, it’s not like he isn’t that guy. but maybe he’s also not just that guy.”

y/n shook her head, pulling a pillow into her chest.

“i don’t know if i can do this, nai. he’s… he’s so much. and i’m just… me. i’m not glamorous. i’ve got cat hair on my scrubs and baby drool on my hoodie. he lives in a world i don’t even recognize. what if this is just some game to him?”

naomi reached over, putting a hand on her arm.

“you know what this sounds like?” she said with a smirk. “a reformed playboy trope.”

“oh my god, stop—”

“no, seriously,” naomi insisted, pulling the popcorn back. “guy leaves behind the noise, comes home, sees the girl he never got over in high school, gets wrecked by her sweet coffee order and the way she rocks a messy bun. it’s classic. you’re the plot of every wattpad book i read at sixteen.”

y/n groaned, shoving her head into the couch cushion.

“i’m being serious,” she mumbled into the fabric.

“i know,” naomi said, a little softer now. “but seriously… the guy’s been following you around like a lost puppy. not just showing up—actually listening. actually seeing you. maybe you should let him.”

y/n lifted her head slightly.

“i don’t know,” she whispered. “i just don’t want to fall into something i can’t keep up with.”

naomi looked at her like she already knew. “y/n,” she said gently. “i think you already have.”

the night spiraled in the way all dangerous nights do: slowly, and with wine.

what started as a simple google search turned into a full-blown internet investigation the moment naomi pulled out the sauvignon blanc from the fridge and handed y/n a glass with a raised brow.

“if we’re gonna stalk,” naomi said, plopping back on the couch and refreshing the search bar, “we’re doing it right.”

y/n didn’t protest.

not when the first glass dulled her panic into a hum. not when naomi found a reddit thread titled “has anyone here slept with auston matthews?? asking for science”

not even when they found out that a lot of girls, apparently, had.

“okay, jesus,” y/n muttered, wine sloshing in her glass as she leaned over the laptop screen. “why is this thread so long? do these girls not have shame?”

“girl,” naomi said, already scrolling through with professional efficiency, “they have receipts.”

she read aloud dramatically.

“‘met him at a party in arizona, wasn’t even trying but the man has gravity. we ended up in his car and let me just say—10/10, would let him ruin my life again.’”

“oh my god—”

“‘he’s sooo hot in person, it’s scary. like, towering and soft-spoken but then will whisper the filthiest things in your ear.’”

“naomi, stop—”

“‘okay so he kissed my neck once and i still think about it in the shower sometimes. don’t judge me.’”

“naomi!”

“i’m sorry!” she cackled, breathless from laughter. “this is gold. internet gold.”

y/n shoved the wine glass onto the coffee table and sat back, face burning.

“okay. okay. i can’t read anymore. this is terrible. why did i let you do this.”

“because you like him,” naomi said, smug.

y/n groaned, letting her head fall against the couch.

“i do not. i just—i think i like the version of him that brings me sweet coffee and holds maria like she’s made of clouds. not the one who has girls thirst-posting about his neck.”

naomi gave her a look. “baby girl, those are the same guy. and you already knew that. he didn’t exactly hide the fact that he’s… you know, him.”

“yeah, well, he didn’t show me his gq spread either,” y/n muttered, reaching for her wine again.

“okay, fair. but still—you knew. Now atet we know he isn’t just auston from highschool. he is auston freaking matthews. the guy’s face has been in youTube ads since you mentioned him.”

“i didn’t watch hockey in high school! still don’t”

“you didn’t watch tv in high school. you were too busy being a good student and dating trent the tire fire.”

y/n groaned louder. “you are is not helping.”

naomi softened then, leaning over and nudging her gently. “look,” she said, voice lower now. “i get it. you’ve only ever been with boyfriends. safe guys. slow. but this? auston? he’s not that.”

y/n nodded miserably.

“he’s not a boyfriend,” she said. “he’s… auston. reddit thread subject. high-profile, NHL-star, everyone-knows-his-name-including-my-neighbors auston.”

“except,” naomi said gently, “he kind of is a boyfriend. at least with you.”

y/n blinked.

“he walked you home. he held your friend’s baby. he texted you to make sure you got inside. he’s taken you on dates. like, actual dates—not dm at 2am kind of stuff. dates.”

y/n chewed the inside of her cheek.

“he brings me disgustingly sweet coffee.”

“exactly. no self-respecting man drinks that crap unless he’s trying to get laid or he’s trying to impress a girl he really likes.”  naomi grinned. 

she continued, while laughing under her breath at y/n. “i think he might be both.”

y/n sighed, sinking back into the couch, the wine now humming under her skin.

she didn’t want to admit it. but the truth curled in her stomach like heat.

he made her feel something. and no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, that something was powerful, magnetic, impossible to resist.

and god help her—after all that reddit research—she was curious.

dangerously so.

the days after felt different. not on the surface — not enough that anyone else would notice. but auston felt it. in the way she answered his texts a little later than usual. in how she always seemed to have somewhere else to be when he offered to stop by with coffee or walk felix. in the little silences that had crept in where easy conversation used to live.

he tried not to overthink it at first. maybe she was just busy. maybe he was imagining it. but the feeling stuck — a quiet weight between his ribs every time she slipped just a little further away.

on a wednesday, after his morning skate, he called her. just to hear her voice, just to ask something simple.

“hey,” he said, casual, warm, like nothing felt off at all. “you want me to swing by after work? we could grab something, or i can just bring felix’s leash if you’re tired.”

there was a pause — just a second too long.

“that’s sweet,” she said finally, and her voice was gentle, careful. “but i think i’m just gonna have a quiet night. it’s been a long day.”

he hesitated, trying to keep his voice light. “you sure? i don’t mind.”

“i’m sure,” she said, soft but firm.

and that was that.

he hung up, the smile fading from his face before the call even ended.

alone in her apartment that night, y/n sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone like it might give her answers she didn’t want to say out loud. she’d done the thing she promised herself she wouldn’t. searched him. really searched him. beyond the stats she already knew. beyond the highlight reels.

pictures from parties. women — perfect women — smiling at his side, draped over him like they belonged there. interviews where he talked about his career, his life in cities she’d never even visited. articles with words like superstar and celebrity and elite.

and now, for the first time in a long time, she felt small. out of place. like she’d stumbled into something that wasn’t meant for her.

the things that made her feel so steady with him — the coffee runs, the walks, the way his fingers brushed hers like it meant something — they felt fragile now. like she’d imagined how close they’d gotten.

she hated that she felt it. hated that she let some stranger’s photo or headline get under her skin. but it was there, sharp and quiet and persistent.

and so, she avoided. not because she didn’t want him near — god, she did. but because she didn’t know how to stand next to him without feeling like she didn’t belong.

auston felt the shift more with every passing day. the warmth she’d let him have — the softness in her smile, the easy way she used to lean into him — it felt further and further away, like trying to catch sunlight through a window.

and the worst part? he didn’t know how to reach her without making her pull back even more.

but he knew this much: she was slipping through his fingers, and he wasn’t ready to let her go.

days passed, but the distance didn’t. if anything, it grew — small at first, so small it could’ve been missed. she’d smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. she’d text back, but it was shorter, safer. when he called, she’d sound tired. when he asked to see her, she had a reason to say no.

auston noticed it all. the way she avoided walking home the long way with him. how she stopped sending him dumb pictures of felix during the day. how she laughed less, looked at him less.

he tried to reason with himself — maybe she was busy. maybe she was overwhelmed. but that quiet gut-punch told him the truth: she was pulling away, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

so one night, after staring at his phone too long and pacing his apartment until he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed his keys and left.

she didn’t expect the knock.

y/n hesitated at the door, heart racing in a way that annoyed her — like she’d already lost control of this before she even opened it. and when she did, and saw him there — all messy hair and restless energy, eyes searching hers like he’d come to find something he’d lost — she almost forgot how to breathe.

she didn’t open the door all the way, but she didn’t close it either. auston could feel the crack widening between them, metaphorically and literally, even if she was still cautious. her hand stayed on the edge of the door like she needed to hold onto something — like letting go meant letting herself fall.

she let the door open a little more, heart still pounding, the fight in her starting to waver beneath how honest he sounded, how much he meant it.

and without thinking, felix padded up behind him, nosing at the gap between them like he sensed the tension, tail wagging as if his presence alone could fix it.

auston glanced down at his dog, then back at her.

“let me in,” he said softly. “just for a little while.”

and this time, she didn’t stop herself. she stepped back, letting the door swing open. letting him in. letting them in.

because as much as she tried to protect herself, the truth was she didn’t want to shut him out. not really. not at all.

he leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching her like he could read the script she was trying not to say out loud.

and he could see it all over her face.

not just tired. not just guarded. she looked like she wanted to let herself believe in something, but every bone in her body was telling her not to.

“i can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice low, raw at the edges. “y/n… please just talk to me. i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re scared. but don’t shut me out without telling me why.”

she blinked at him, throat tight.

“you think i don’t see it?” he continued, stepping just close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence. “you dodge my calls. you smile like you’re fine but you won’t look me in the eye. you don’t send me those dumb dog photos anymore. you didn’t want me to pick you up from work. you don’t even want me standing here right now.”

she tried to say something, but nothing came out.

“just tell me why,” he said, quieter now. vulnerable in a way she’d never seen him. “why are you mad at me? what did i do?”

and that was when she realized — he really didn’t know. he wasn’t playing dumb. he wasn’t trying to cover anything up. he just… didn’t know.

her grip on the door softened, and her heart broke a little at the way he looked at her — like he’d give anything to make this right.

“i’m not mad,” she said finally, voice small. “i’m… i don’t know. i just…”

she hesitated, but he waited, patient, like he’d stay there all night if she needed him to.

“i looked you up,” she admitted, almost embarrassed. “after that day in the square. i saw everything — the articles, the pictures, the women, the parties… i thought i was okay with it, but then i wasn’t. and i felt stupid. and small. and like i didn’t belong anywhere near you.”

his expression softened, everything in him aching to close the space between them.

she hesitated, but he waited, patient, like he’d stay there all night if she needed him to.

“i looked you up,” she admitted, almost embarrassed. “after that day in the square. i saw everything — the articles, the pictures, the women, the parties… i thought i was okay with it, but then i wasn’t. and i felt stupid. and small. and like i didn’t belong anywhere near you.”

his expression softened, his heart breaking a little at how small she sounded.

“god, y/n,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. he stepped closer, slow, careful, until he could see the tears brimming in her eyes that she was too proud to let fall. “you belong. you don’t even see it, do you? none of that — the pictures, the stories, those people — none of it feels real like this does. like you do.”

she swallowed hard, fighting against the lump in her throat.

“felix loves you,” he added, trying to ease the moment, his lips twitching into something soft and true. “you think i’d let my dog fall for someone who doesn’t belong?”

that almost made her laugh — almost.

“auston…”

“don’t pull away from me because of stuff that doesn’t matter,” he said, voice steady but thick with feeling. “please. don’t do that.”

“you live in canada, auston.”

he blinked at her honesty, then nodded slowly.

“i know.”

“and i live here. this—this is my life. i don’t have the luxury of disappearing for weeks or flying around or… doing what you do.”

“i’m not asking you to disappear,” he said gently. “i’m asking you to give me a summer.”

her eyebrows lifted slightly. “a summer?”

he nodded once. “yeah. just… give me this time. we don’t have to figure everything out right now. i don’t expect you to pack up your life. i don’t expect you to turn this into something it’s not ready to be. but i can’t stop thinking about you, and not in some fleeting way. you’ve been in my head since we were kids, y/n. since before either of us knew what any of this would look like.”

she looked at him now. really looked at him. and he looked so earnest—so young, in a way. not in age, but in the way hope looked on him.

“it’s not just the distance, auston. it’s you. you’re… you’re you. you’re a big deal.”

he smiled a little, almost sheepishly. “not to you.”

she didn’t say anything.

“you’re still the girl who made me laugh in your backyard when i was trying to act like trent wasn’t the biggest idiot on earth. you didn’t care about the game, or the hype, or who i might be one day. you asked me if i liked honey barbecue wings and then told me i had weird hands. you roasted me.”

“you do have weird hands.”

“see?” he grinned. “that’s what i mean. you’re not here for any of the bullshit.”

she looked at him, quiet.

“i haven’t felt this… this relieved in a long time,” he said. “like the weight goes away when i’m with you. and it’s not because you’re some escape. it’s because you’re real. and i don’t have to perform or win or be anything other than who i am.”

her face softened, something in her shoulders slowly easing—just barely.

“give me this summer,” he said again, stepping closer. “let’s go to bad diners and walk felix and have lazy sundays. and if, at the end of it, you tell me it’s not right—then fine. i’ll back off. i’ll carry this and leave you be. but if there’s even a part of you that wants to know what this could be… say yes.”

she looked up at him then, and it was the way she blinked—slow and searching—that made his heart skip.

“you’re exhausting,” she muttered, trying to hide the smile that curled at the corner of her mouth.

“i’ve been told.”

“and you talk too much when you’re nervous.”

“also accurate.”

she exhaled, brushing a hand through her hair.

“just the summer?”

“just the summer,” he promised. “no expectations. no pressure.”

she tilted her head, still trying not to smile. “and what happens when the summer ends?”

his voice was soft now, sure.

“then we figure it out together.”

for a moment, neither of them moved. the air felt still, the weight of everything between them hanging in the quiet like fog.

but then she nodded.

once. slow but cautious. and overall, hopeful.

“okay,” she whispered. “just the summer.”

he grinned. like the sun had just come out for the first time all week.

and then he added, voice low and teasing, “does this mean we’re back to kissing again?”

she rolled her eyes.

but she didn’t say no.

the second she nodded—even the slightest movement of her chin in agreement—he surged forward like the entire week of her silence had been a dam and she’d just cracked it open with a single word.

his mouth was on hers in a breathless second.

there was nothing hesitant this time. no teasing edge or first-kiss nervousness. it was heat and hunger and want. it was the kind of kiss that curled toes and made hearts stumble out of rhythm. he held her like he was scared she might vanish again, his hands cradling her face with all the gentleness he could manage while his mouth moved against hers like he’d forgotten how to breathe without her.

and god, she missed him too.

she melted into it, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt as he kissed her like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared ask until now. he kissed her like he meant it, like no amount of time or distance could make this moment anything less than inevitable.

when they finally broke apart—barely, their foreheads resting together as they caught their breath—he grinned.

“that was… overdue.”

she laughed, still slightly dazed. “a little.”

“you’ve been dodging me all week,” he whispered, nose brushing hers. “i was going crazy. i even let my friends talk me into hosting a party to distract myself.”

she smirked, tilting her head. “didn’t you have a party tonight?”

he kissed the corner of her mouth. “i told them to clear out.”

her brows lifted. “just like that?”

he nodded. “family went to alex and bry’s. the house is empty. i just want to see you. even if it’s just for a couple hours. hell, even if you fall asleep again.”

“auston,” she murmured, laughing softly. “i just go in. i haven’t showered yet. i smell like antiseptic and baby wipes.”

he gave her a look—half smug, half please don’t make me beg.

he stepped back slightly, reaching for the small gym bag by the door she had packed days ago but hadn't bothered with it after days of radio silence from her side. “come over, please,” he added, sheepish. “i know you were suppose to come the other night and i don't blame you for wanting space. but respectfully i don't want space. i want you with me.”

she blinked, staring at him. “you sure you want me over?

he shrugged, trying to play it cool but clearly failing by how pink his ears were. “i’ve missed you.”

her heart ached a little at the sincerity.

“you’re clingy,” she whispered fondly.

“you love it,” he shot back, smile wide and shameless.

she rolled her eyes, but she didn’t hide the grin tugging at her lips. “fine. i’ll come over. but only because i want to see felix.”

he laughed, grabbing her hand and intertwining their fingers like it was second nature.

“he’s missed you too. i showed him your picture and he whined.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“and you’re still coming.”

she didn’t even fight it.

truthfully, she wanted to be next to him. missed the warmth, the quiet ease of his presence, the way he looked at her like she hung the moon.

and maybe she needed that tonight.

as they stepped out into the warm arizona night, her hand still in his and her gym bag slung over his shoulder, she glanced over at him.

“you sure your house is empty?”

he smirked. “empty enough.”

“and you’re not just trying to get me in your bed?”

he leaned in, voice low and teasing. “i mean… not tonight.”

she snorted. “charming.”

he kissed her cheek, soft and sweet. “i’ll wait.”

“you better.”

“worth every second.”

and she didn’t say anything, but she squeezed his hand just a little tighter.

he kept true to his word—his house was practically empty, save for a few close friends who waved politely from the kitchen as she walked in. she recognized one or two vaguely from school, but before she could linger on the awkwardness, auston leaned close and whispered, “they’re leaving in like five. you’re the main event.”

and sure enough, within minutes, it was just them.

just her and auston.

he led her into the living room like it was sacred ground. the lights were dimmed low, soft amber glow from the lamp in the corner. the sectional was already laid out like a campsite—blankets piled high, throw pillows everywhere, even an extra comforter folded neatly at the edge. there was a candle burning that smelled like warm vanilla and clean cotton. she blinked, overwhelmed by how intentional it all felt.

“okay,” he said, proudly pulling out his phone. “i ordered tacos, wings, sushi, burgers, and thai food. and mochi. just in case.”

“what the hell, auston?”

he shrugged, smug. “you didn’t text me all week. i wasn’t about to guess wrong. i just got everything you’ve ever even looked at.”

she laughed, watching him kick off his shoes and settle into the couch like he’d been waiting for this night for years. maybe he had. and the strangest part? so had she.

“okay,” he said again, more serious this time. “now that you’re here, i have a confession.”

she raised an eyebrow, curling onto the couch as he tossed a blanket over her lap.

“i didn’t actually want to watch love island before.”

her eyes narrowed. “you lied to me?”

“technically, no. i just… didn’t care about it until you said you liked it. and then i kind of associated it with your voice and your laugh and this one time you texted me a meme at like one in the morning and said it reminded you of me.”

“the guy crying over his type while dating his type?”

“exactly. so now i’ve been saving it. for this.”

she stared at him, warmth rising in her chest. “you’re kind of an idiot.”

he grinned, settling beside her, so close she could feel the heat of him through their hoodies. “an idiot in love island prison.”

“you really waited to watch this?”

he nodded, completely serious. “every season. i’ve seen spoilers on tiktok, and i scroll past them. i suffer.”

she shook her head, laughing as she reached for the remote. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re welcome,” he muttered, cracking open a can of ginger ale and handing it to her like it was champagne. “let the chaos begin.”

as the theme music played and the neon intro started rolling, he shifted closer, their legs brushing under the blanket. she didn’t pull away.

neither did he.

they spent the next hour curled into each other like they were always meant to. food containers slowly opened around them like petals in bloom—sauce-stained napkins, stray rice grains, the smell of garlic and ginger and grease in the air.

they talked between episodes, teased each other about which contestants were the worst, shared bites of things, laughed when she spilled sauce on his shirt. and at some point, she leaned her head on his shoulder. and then, when the screen started to blur and the wine slowed her thoughts, he tilted his head and whispered, “you know you can just stay here, right?”

she mumbled something about toothbrushes and her hair products and clean underwear, but he was already reaching for the gym bag he’d repacked.

“i told you,” he said, voice soft in the glow of the TV. “i’ve been ready.”

and somehow, in the haze of late-night warmth and comfort food and the lull of soft british accents onscreen, she realized something:

so was she.

the hours slipped by like honey—slow, golden, and impossibly sweet. neither of them reached for the remote again after the fourth or fifth episode. it just played on in the background, the show more like ambience than actual entertainment now. he’d tucked her further into his side, absently running his fingers along her arm while she took another bite of pad see ew, groaning dramatically.

“i’m so full,” she mumbled, slumping into him with a heavy sigh. “i don’t think i can breathe.”

auston laughed, low and lazy. “you’re dramatic.”

“no, i mean it. i’m ninety percent noodles right now.”

“then it’s a good thing i’m strong,” he smirked, and before she could protest, he hooked an arm under her legs and lifted her up with ease, the blanket still tangled around her like a cape.

“auston!” she squealed, swatting at his chest as she clung to him. “put me down!”

“never,” he grinned. “you said you couldn’t breathe. i’m being a hero.”

“a dramatic one,” she mumbled into his shoulder, but she didn’t fight it anymore. not really. not when it meant being this close to him.

he carried her up the stairs effortlessly, barefoot and smug, until they reached the hallway and a door slightly ajar. as he pushed it open with his foot, she peeked her head up, glancing around the space.

it was clean. a little too clean. minimal. bed made perfectly, two duffel bags in the corner, one dresser, one nightstand. no real pictures, no clutter, nothing personal. sterile, in a weird way.

she twisted to look at him as he set her gently down on the edge of the bed. “you don’t really live here, huh?”

he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “yeah. it’s… kinda like an airbnb at this point. my sisters make fun of me for it. say i only come home to do laundry and let mom feed me.”

“and avoid your sisters snooping through your stuff.”

“exactly,” he chuckled, watching her stand and stretch.

she gave him a teasing little glance over her shoulder. “well, if it’s an airbnb, you really should leave a better review next time. zero personality in here.”

he grinned, leaning back against the bedframe. “you offering to redecorate?”

“maybe,” she hummed, tugging her hoodie over her head. “after my shower.”

and then, with one last cheeky smile: “unless you’re still thinking of joining me.”

he raised his hands in mock innocence. “i’d never.”

“liar,” she laughed, disappearing into the ensuite.

he groaned softly once the door clicked shut, running a hand over his face as he sank fully into the mattress. what the hell was she doing to him?

he changed quickly in the guest bathroom down the hall, then came back to his room and climbed onto the bed, waiting for her. the sound of the shower running soothed him more than he expected. it reminded him she was here. not through a phone screen. not at work. here.

when she finally emerged, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts she must’ve pulled from his drawer, her hair damp and her skin glowing from the steam, he felt a dull ache in his chest. like something soft and permanent was carving its way in.

“hey,” she murmured, padding toward the bed.

“hey,” he echoed, reaching for her hand.

she slipped in beside him without hesitation, folding into the blankets, their legs tangling naturally under the covers. he shifted onto his side to face her, brushing a stray curl from her cheek.

“you look—”

“don’t say tired.”

“—beautiful.”

she smiled, eyes fluttering. “you’re just saying that ‘cause i’m not wearing your hoodie anymore.”

“no,” he said quietly. “i’m saying it because it’s true.”

her breath caught slightly at the way he said it—no teasing, no smirk. just truth, laid bare between them.

she reached for him then, fingertips brushing the side of his face before pulling him in, slow and sweet. their lips met again, deeper this time, unhurried and full of all the longing they’d held in over the last week.

his hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone, and hers found his waist, anchoring them together. they kissed like they were trying to memorize it—every tilt, every soft sigh, every heartbeat stuttering beneath their skin.

when they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed close, he whispered, “i missed this.”

“me too.”

he pulled her in tighter, her back pressed to his chest as they nestled deeper into the bed, her body soft and warm against his.

“don’t leave tomorrow,” he mumbled into her hair.

“i wasn’t planning on it,” she whispered back.

and for the first time in a long time, neither of them needed to say anything more.

the next day, the afternoon sun shone through the living room blinds, striping the floor in warm amber light. she was on one end of the couch, legs crossed under her, finishing off the last few bites of takeout while auston lounged on the other, head leaned back, his fingers lazily toying with a strand of her hair draped over the cushion between them.

“you really don’t care about hockey at all, huh?” he asked, almost in disbelief, watching her wipe her fingers on a napkin.

she gave him a look. “you sound so offended.”

“i kinda am.” he sat up a little, brows raised. “i mean, not even a little bit? it’s the greatest sport in the world.”

“you keep saying that like it’ll change something,” she smirked, stretching her arms with a content sigh. “i grew up watching football. real football. cardinals all day.”

auston groaned like she’d personally insulted him. “god, i forgot about that. the cardinals?”

“yup.” she popped the ‘p’ with pride. “through the highs and many lows.”

he narrowed his eyes. “so you’d willingly sit through a four-hour football game with five commercial breaks every ten seconds but you won’t give hockey a chance?”

“correct.” she leaned into the cushion smugly. “besides, if i wanted to watch a bunch of men crash into each other at full speed, i’d just go to costco during a sale.”

“okay, ouch,” he said, hand over his heart. “that was below the belt.”

she grinned, reaching for her drink. “what can i say? i don’t really get the appeal. all that padding and angry skating.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. “you’re a critical.”

“i’m a realist.”

he leaned in, his tone dropping to something more genuine. “you know, if you ever gave it a shot—i think you’d love it. the game’s fast. it’s strategic. brutal sometimes, but it’s got heart.”

she blinked at him, slightly surprised at how serious his voice had gotten. “you really love it, huh?”

his gaze held hers. “it’s everything.”

and for a moment, her teasing softened into something quieter. something that reminded her how much the game had built him—the way it lived under his skin, the way his posture always shifted whenever it came up.

but of course, she couldn’t resist just one more jab.

“well,” she drawled slowly, sipping her drink, “i might have to start watching if only to keep up with your team.”

auston smirked. “finally, some sense.”

she tapped her fingers on her glass. “especially if nylander’s playing.”

his entire face froze.

“excuse me?” he deadpanned.

she bit her lip to hide her grin. “what? he’s cute.”

he looked personally betrayed. “willy?”

“mhm. that hair? come on. and those eyes?”

“you’re joking.”

she tilted her head innocently. “am i?”

auston stared at her for a long second before grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her stomach. “i’m actually gonna kick you out.”

she burst into laughter, doubling over as he muttered dramatic curses under his breath.

“what happened to being a realist?” he huffed.

“i’m allowed to appreciate art,” she teased.

“that ‘art’ plans his outfits weeks in advance and takes longer in the mirror than anyone i know.”

“so do i. sound like we are a match” she shot back.

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “i can’t believe i brought you into my house.”

she leaned over, poking his chest. “aw, don’t be jealous. you’re still my favorite hockey player… barely.”

“wow.” he looked over at her, faux-offended. “i take it all back. you’re banned from coming to a game.”

“good. i was gonna root for the other team anyway.”

he lunged toward her like he was going to tackle her into the couch, and she shrieked, laughing as she tried to dodge.

“take it back!” he demanded through his smile.

“never!”

in the middle of their playful chaos, he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him, their laughter slowing, their faces just a breath apart now. the shift in energy was immediate—playful turned tender, a spark catching in the quiet space between them.

“even if you never watch a game,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to her lips, “i think you’re my favorite person who doesn’t care.”

she felt her pulse thrum, her fingers brushing his hoodie.

she remained curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, sipping slowly from a glass of iced tea. the silence was comfortable, filled with those soft in-between moments that only grew sweeter the more time they spent together. eventually, he broke it.

“so… you really never been on skates before?”

she tilted her head up to look at him, scrunching her nose. “never. not even once.”

“like… ever?”

“auston,” she laughed, nudging his chest, “i’m from arizona. i grew up in the desert. the only ice i ever saw was in my drink.”

he blinked at her, genuinely stunned. “you’re kidding.”

“nope.” she smiled at the disbelief on his face, kind of loving how personal the whole topic clearly was to him. “you forget—my hobbies were trying not to melt and learning how to drive with oven mitts in the summer.”

he groaned. “i don’t know if i should be impressed or horrified.”

“both,” she teased.

he shifted slightly so he could face her more, his thigh pressed snug against hers now. “so wait… you’ve never seen a hockey game either?”

she paused. “um… do the fights on espn highlights count?”

his hand fell over his chest in mock betrayal. “you’re breaking my heart, y/n.”

she laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “i’m sorry! it’s just never been my thing. and you know i didn’t know who you were when we met.”

“yeah,” he muttered, smirking a little. “i remember. that part kinda stung.”

“oh please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “you liked it.”

he gave a lazy shrug. “maybe. little bit. but c’mon, i gotta fix this. you need to understand hockey.”

“do i, though?”

“yes,” he said, completely serious now, turning his body to face her fully. “you’re hanging out with a guy who’s played since he was two and doesn’t shut up about it. it’s time.”

she set her glass on the coffee table and leaned back, resting her head on his shoulder. “fine. teach me.”

he grinned, the kind of grin that made her stomach flutter in the most inconvenient and addictive way. “okay. so… hockey. six guys on the ice per team. one’s the goalie. the point is to score goals. obvious stuff. but the beauty’s in the plays. the speed. how things change every second.”

“sounds like chaos.”

“controlled chaos,” he said, the way someone does when they’re talking about something sacred. “fastest game in the world. everything’s always moving, everyone’s thinking like ten steps ahead.”

she watched him closely—how his eyes lit up, how his hands moved when he talked, full of that quiet passion that made it impossible not to be drawn in. it wasn’t about explaining a sport. he was letting her into something that built him, shaped him.

“so do you, like, have favorite moments?” she asked, soft now.

he blinked at her, caught off guard by the shift in tone. “yeah. a few.”

“like what?”

“first goal in the league. home opener in ottawa. it was loud—crazy loud. but there was this moment, right after i scored, where i just looked up into the crowd and it felt like… like i made it, you know?”

she smiled, something warm blooming in her chest. “of course you made it. if the first goal didn't say that. the next three definitely solidified your place in the league”

he turned to her shocked, "what? i had to know if i was dealing with a scrub" she winked but his face was already heating at the idea of her keeping tabs on his accolades. he leaned over and kissed her cheek to show his appreciation.

he looked at her then, the way someone does when they’re trying to memorize a face. “you wanna come to a game this fall?”

“i don’t know…” she smirked, reaching for her drink again. “i might get distracted.”

he raised a brow. “by what?”

she hummed dramatically, pretending to think. "your teammates. they're all seriously gorgeous”

his jaw dropped. “are you serious right now?”

“i mean,” she continued with a sly grin, sipping her tea, “i might have to become a leafs fan for him alone.”

“you’re not funny,” he muttered, poking her side while she squealed. “you’re an actual menace.”

“i’m just saying! the competition’s steep!”

“you’re killing me.”

she laughed so hard she nearly knocked over the remote. he grabbed her waist and pulled her closer, half-exasperated, half-smitten.

“fine,” he said. “i guess you’ll just have to watch and decide for yourself.”

“mhm. i’ll come to a game,” she whispered into his shoulder, “but only if you teach me how to skate.”

he stilled for a second. “wait, seriously?”

“yeah. but i want the full experience. you gotta hold my hands and everything.”

“deal,” he said, instantly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “just don’t fall for my teammates when i’m gone.”

she burst into laughter again, burying her face into his chest as his arms wrapped around her.

and in that moment—just the two of them curled into each other on a couch in arizona—he felt more grounded than he had in years. because she didn’t care about the noise. she cared about him. and for the first time, he let her all the way in.

next

taglist — @celestixldarling @steph1106 @siennaluvshcky @macka

© 2025 M34TTHEWS

[simp-ly-writes]

Office Love (pt.1)

What if Vox had an assistant that soon became more than that?

Pairing: Vox x assistant!Reader

Warnings: some suggestive content near the end and canon-typical language.

A/N: something different to what I usually write- hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist (PT.2) (PT.3)

↳ When the application advertisement first flashed against your social media feed- you clicked past it very quickly before one of your friends was ushering you to apply. They had been working with the V's for a number of years now and produced a plethora a fan-favorite shows

↳ When you application got accepted and you were being thrown into a suit for the interview, you were all the more thankful when the overlord themselves were not hosting yet the managers were. A more than few warning here and there- but that was with every job you worked in hell. You didn't work hard enough, you were better off dead- simply put.

↳ You did not often see your boss in person after signing the contract with him day one. Only emailing him his schedule that was often cancelled mid-way through the day and you were running out of excuses for his clients

↳ Velvette and Valentino were often more intimidating that Vox. You had gotten used to his tantrums, PR nightmares, and televised cancellations that were often fixed with a light bit of hypnotization that you could only roll your eyes at before going back to your emails

↳ You would memorize his every need, knowing his favorite meals and coffee preferences, when he needed to recharge and even how to text exactly like him. You kept track of every social media handle that held his name, growing his followers while riffing on Alastor- an action that Vox dearly appreciated

↳ As time would progress, you would become too good at your job. So much so that his other six assistants had all gotten fired for lack of polish as Vox excused it. Clinking his coffee mug to yours sat at your desk. He hardly used his own office these days, often taking calls at your computer as you sat on your desk- off to the side as you rearranged his schedule once again

↳ You were starting to become his shadow and he always noticed when you were gone for a minute too long. He liked the reassurance your presence brought him- he enjoyed knowing that you would always know what to say in order to benefit the company and find ways for him not to interaction with people he disliked

↳ Velvette and Valentino noticed this as well- how close you had gotten to their business partner without a second thought. Sometimes you would even show up in replacement for Vox when one of their branches had gone down once again and often times they wished it was you that addressed the problem rather than the man himself

↳ When a reality show comes out, highlighting the lives of overlords all over the city including the three V's (mostly them though for PR that they desperately needed and had made multiple comments on). It did numbers and your friend from earlier could not have been happier getting that promotion to head producer of the show

↳ You soon became a fan favorite for your witty comebacks at the TV head as he wold only smile in return- liking that you had the heart to knock him down a few pegs. The fans would stalk everyones social media profiles, liking each image that had you just cropped out of it

↳ Vox had insisted that you were not to be seen in any of the media production- something about no wanting to corrupt your mind as well. You could only shake your head at this information- all you ever did was stare at screens all day, this comment made Vox's box go pink as his speech buffered. Taking a second to rethink your wording, your cheeks had appeared red while the cameras rolled and money starting pouring in

↳ The fans demanded more attention put towards you, screaming at you from behind the barricades as you walked the corporate building each morning. "CAN I GET A PICTURE WITH YOU," "I SHIP IT," "WORK FOR ME INSTEAD." They started to shove one another over, trying to get your attention as your feet picked up pace

↳ Vox had made his way through the wires and various security cameras settled around the neighbourhood. He wrapped an arm around your waist, ensuring that when the barricade fell and you were swarmed that you would not be dragged away with the crowd

↳ You voiced your thanks once safely in the building as Vox announced a surprise for your recent good work- this was their most profitable quarter yet and you would have Velvette tailored work to wear each day. Picking up the various blue suits you eyed them suspiciously to those of your boss. Vox only shrugged his shoulders before taking a call

↳ The dating allegation grew every week as blushed heavily at the headlines, Vox who now was only found in your office asked what was making you have such a reaction, even when he was in the middle of a meeting. You quickly hid your screen as he could only chuckle, sparking it back to life and projecting it on the monitor

↳ "Oh, so THIS is what has you all red- me is it?" Vox states with pride, leaning over the table and into your personal space as your blush only grows down your neck. You take a sip of your now cold coffee, hiding a wince as you get back on track with answering Valentino back

↳ When you arrive the next morning, dead flowers are found on your desk that make you chuckle, you read the note with a smile before handing the TV man his coffee for the morning, your chairs right beside one another as you work in tandum

↳ Years into your work now, you barley find yourself going home, choosing to stick for the V's movie nights together that they insist on you being present for alongside finding it easier to let Vox know of scheduling changes last minute from within your shared apaprtment

↳ After much demand, you and Vox have a one on one livestream interview for the public within your apartment, you both make small touches to one another, fixing his tie, he holds your knee, rubbing circles with his thumb- the fans are losing their shit as the other to V's sit back and rake in the cash

↳ A question about your work ethic and sex-worker allegation gets read out by Velvette that has Vox glitching out with rage as you pull on the back of his jacket, urging him to calm down as you loop your arm in his, leaning into his side, "run that by me one more time, Velvette," Vox states with a twitch as you blink your eyes towards her- pleading that she does not.

↳ After a particularly good corporate event, you find yourself in Vox's bed as he urges you not to leave, his voice is merely murmurs in your ear as you do not have the heart to roll away from. Soon these off hand-nights become a more common occurrence that as Valentino the slitest bit jealous at first, but when he surprises you in the mornings with a new package that got sent to the wrong apartment, he cannot help put wink at seeing the marks on your skin

↳ You and Vox never made anything official, you were still his assistant of course- his assistant that he would always have a hand on a bit too low for public attention. A worker who was NOT allowed to be asked on a date by someone else. And the person he jumped to protect against the smallest threat but against your name

(PT.2) (PT.3)

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @amarokofficial

[dreamyelectronicmusic]

Sunday snippet, purple edition

Since I am apparently incapable of actually finishing anything these days, here’s a little snippet that’s tangentially related to today’s theme so I can pretend I have written something for Simon’s month. Slightly nsfw below the cut.

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

Looking unfairly pleased with himself, Wille started doing up the remaining buttons on his shirt, which really had no business being as enticing to watch as it was. Wille had very nice hands and surprisingly nimble and talented fingers, that wasn’t anything new. And the way the stiff double cuffs framed his slender wrists, the silver cufflinks glinting as his hands moved… yeah, okay.

Simon met Wille’s eyes when Wille let his hands fall down to his sides. He smirked smugly and stepped back from Simon, turning to the ornate wardrobe to get his tie. It was one Simon hadn’t seen before. He would have remembered, because it was a deep shade of purple. 

He knew it wasn’t a random choice. Wille thought of purple as Simon’s colour, that was an established fact. Simon would never forget the way his heart had flipped when Wille first told him why he had insisted on wearing purple nail polish for weeks on end back when they lived in different cities and went to different schools. The truth that hadn’t become any less disarming for being long known was that Wille loved marking himself as Simon’s. It was another reason why he would love being married – he would wear the hell out of a wedding ring.

And now he had gone and got himself a purple tie that he was going to wear to a ridiculous royal event. And everyone would think it was just a tie, but Simon would know it was Wille saying “You can make Simon stay behind, but you can’t make me any less his.” That was just the sort of thing Wille did, little casual displays of devotion that Simon was somehow expected to cope with without going weak in the knees. And not so weak in other places. 

He dug his fingernails into his palms to keep himself from reaching for Wille, knowing that if he touched him now, he would not be able to control himself. Instead, he watched as Wille knotted the purple strip of silk around his neck, meeting Simon’s gaze in the full-length mirror. He knew he didn’t need to say anything for Wille to know exactly what he was feeling. He saw colour rise in Wille’s cheeks, his nostrils widening with a shaky intake of breath. He finished tying his tie, smoothing it down his chest with a slightly unsteady hand. It was a heady feeling, knowing that after all this time, Simon could still affect him like this by simply looking at him.

He could almost feel the fabric in his hand as he imagined himself grabbing the tie to pull Wille closer and crush their mouths together. He could push him back against the mirror, drop to his knees, open his fancy trousers and swallow him whole. Have him coming down Simon’s throat within minutes. It would be quick and clean and efficient. Simon knew exactly how to get Wille from zero to sixty in no time, it was so easy. He could send him off to that pointless ceremony with time to spare and without a hair out of place, just a little wobbly-legged and considerably more relaxed. He could –

“Simon,” Wille said in a low voice. “I have to go in a minute.” Despite the hint of warning in his tone, he turned around to face Simon, his gaze as intense as ever.

“I know,” Simon said innocently and licked his lips. Wille’s eyes tracked the movement like a cat watching fish in a tank.

“So don’t look at me like that.” 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” Simon stepped closer, letting his eyes wander down Wille’s body. It was a genuine question, because really, how? Simon was only human. 

Wille’s eyes were wide and dark when Simon met them again, his lips slightly parted and so so close. Simon wasn’t going to kiss him. He was going to do anything, he wasn’t going to be the one to give in to the tension. But if Wille touched him first…

“You’re a menace,” Wille growled and took a step back, putting some very unwelcome but probably necessary distance between them. 

“I thought you liked that,” Simon pouted a little, pushing away the twinge of disappointment. Being responsible adults was really tiring sometimes.

Wille rolled his eyes fondly. Turning back to the wardrobe with obvious reluctance, he took out his suit jacket. As he shrugged it on, he glanced over his shoulder and murmured, “Later.”

Oh yes, definitely later. Once Wille came back, Simon would not let him get away again until he was done with him, and it would not be quick and clean and efficient this time. Not when, as Simon could see now, Wille’s pocket square was purple, too.

[writtenbyjos]

Starlight and Shadows: Gravity Falls Prologue #1

Prologue 1: Vagabond

((ALL FAN-FICTION RELATED CONTENT AND OC'S BELONG TO ME))

Gravity Falls, oh it is good to be back! I am BEYOND excited to share this with you guys, I've put my absolute heart and soul into writing this story, but I'm going to post chapters 1-5 whenever I can finally get them polished, edited and formatted the way I want. But this is the first prologue out of two that's going to set up the story before the story even begins. It'll introduce Eliza and Matilda, (Matilda's Prologue COMING SOON) and gives some context for where we'll pick up later in the story. It's going to be a full fledged story with all the angst, romance, mystery and adventure your heart can handle. To let you know what you'll be getting yourself into, we have a very charming and mysterious male antagonis with unknown intentions named Trick, changlings, vampires, the darker, more sinister side of Gravity Falls, inter-dimensional travel, heartbreak, a character who can see and communicate with ghosts, flashbacks and delving deep into some angsty Pines Twins content. What the people (AND ME) love to see. I've posted some artwork of my OC's, Eliza and Matilda if you wanna go check it out! I am so hyper-fixated on this fanfiction, its actually insane. Like, Gravity Falls has literally taken my mind and heart hostage and I am a WILLING participant. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this little story as much as I have enjoyed writing it! :) <3 Attaching the Spotify playlist I created to read along with the stories. Enjoy!!

(ALL GRAVITY FALLS CONTENT BELONGS TO ALEX HIRSCH AND THAT KING ON EARTH ONLY WE ARE HUMBLE SERVANTS)

Summary:

PROLOGUE PLOT:

The first prologue (Vagabond) revolves around the happenstance meet cute and completely chaotic situation that Stanley and Eliza find themselves in. Eliza is an ex-pageant queen hailing from a wealthy family business, but escaping to big cities to live out her dreams of being on stage while haboring a complex darkness she can't seem to break free of. But right now, performing nightly at a seedy variety club downtown with her two best friends will suffice. After a heist gone very, VERY wrong, Stanley Pines, hunky drifter, takes cover from a cop chase and drug bust into an alley where he stumbles through a back door-- and onto Eliza, in a robe, smoking a cigarette out the door before she goes on for her first set. Their meeting would set off a butterfly effect, and set many events into motion. And the rest, my friends, is history.

MAIN PLOT (IN PROGRESS): After a year of sailing the seven seas and repairing their strained relationship and re-discovering their love and zest for life, Stan and Ford Pines return to Gravity Falls to spend a highly anticipated second summer with Dipper and Mabel, fresh off the track of their first successful year of high school. Dipper and Mabel have been trying to figure out how to be teenagers under the strain of their parent's failing relationship while Ford and Stan have made a fortune from their research. But while still trying to re-adjust to normal life after the traumatic events of defeating Bill and surviving Weirdmageddon, everyone still feels weary of calm waters and still haven't found their footing. But they know as long as they'll have each other, they can make it through anything. After the reunite, it was as if they had never left. The whole gang is back and better than ever. But in Gravity Falls, all is not always as it seems... and when Stan's long time old flame Eliza resurfaces and her estranged, mysteriously charming lover Trick comes looking for her, he brings with him a looming threat that no one could have ever imagined. This would be the summer where everyone's lives changed forever.

It was a hot, soggy-aired late afternoon where the days of august seemed to drag on like a bad movie. In Las Vegas, you needed three things, a tough hide, a sharp mind and a little dumb luck. In 1978, 'Grease' had just been released, and dancing was the capture of everyone's attention, but anew kind. Big cities like these offered the opportunity for young people with big dreams to think they could take the world, where it was almost still possible for people to have hope for the future, everything was so unknown, so mysterious. Stanley Pines was no exception. After a disastrous attempt to pull off a heist that involved certain "illegal" and "counterfeit" goods, exotic animal smuggling and a fake ID ended in being busted by two undercover cops. Stanley was once again evading the arrest and capture as he hurtled himself through the busy streets of one of his favorite cities in the world. He'd become well acquainted with the unpredictability and excitement of las Vegas. In other words, Stan had successfully learned how to be a full time criminal, evading the grasp of the LVPD many times in the past year. But this time… this time he may have taken things just a little too far.

As his heart pounded in his ears, he made sharp turns on street corners, jumped over chain link fences and ducked into a few port-o-poties eventually pushing some sad sack off their tourist bike and making a mad dash for the south side of town, where he knew he could find enough chaos to blend in with or a seedy bar to hide in. He cycled through the sidewalks and lights like a race car on a fast track.

He had become addicted to the feeling of escaping the authorities, it was the same rush he would get when he'd do something to get him sent to detention in high school. There was still no feeling like it. But he was so caught up in the adrenaline of outrunning the police, he nearly crashed into a construction site surrounding a large pot hole gaping in the middle of the sidewalk. He swerved around and barely missed it, laughing as he looked back, pounding a fist proudly into the air.

"Suckers!" He cackled. But what happened next was no laughing matter. He felt a small bump underneath the tires and his heart sank as the wheels began to pedal slower and slower.

"Goddammit, not now, not now! Fuck! Shit!" He cursed to himself, pulling over by a brightly lit club and hopping off into its hidden alleyway. He examined the front wheel: busted. There was a giant nail stuck in the tire, presumably from the construction site he almost fell face first into moments ago. He grabbed his hair in his clutched fists frantically and paced back and forth, in a disheveled suit he had sticky fingered from an old thrift store for this exact occasion. He put his hands on his knees and tried to catch his breath.

"He went that way! We got him now!" He heard voices yelling from the street not too far away and knew he had to think of a plan and fast, if he didn't want to be locked up and sent off to the big house. He looked around frantically for an escape, and spotted a back door that was slightly open, cracked. He didn't think twice, just forward and lunged for the door, opening it and hurting himself inside. He managed to get himself through the door and flattened himself against the wall just as the cop car zoomed past the alleyway in the opposite direction, away from the club. It was one of his more graceful exits. But what wasn't so graceful, was his crash landing. He'd gotten his boot stuck in part of the ply wood that stuck up from the ground and fallen face first onto the dusty floor. Luckily, his giant nose broke his fall. He lay there for a minute, unsure if he could move his anything. He sighed and turned over to lay on his back, grimacing from the pain of falling flat on his forehead.

"Hey, this is a closed smoke session, buddy." A gravely voice startled him almost half to death, and it was coming from a short-torso-ed, long legged, blonde leaning against a door frame with a lit cigarette in her left hand, taking a long drag. Before he could say anything, she stepped over to him where he was sprawled out on the floor like a complete idiot about to make a snow angel with no snow. She was wearing nothing but a pink robe with fluffy cuffs and red platform heels—a specific detail that Stan would remember fondly for years and years to come. With every step closer she got, her heels echoed in the hallway full of metal shafts and a boiler sitting in the corner huffing like a train engine, presumably about to burst open. She seemed to walk in sync with the bursts of hot air, like the world was her stage and it beckoned to her every move.

"I—uh…sorry…" He scrambled to his feet as she towered over him, a look of annoyance plastered on her face as she took another drag and puffed it into the already clouded air. When he got to his feet and brushed his jacket off, he winced at the still open door that spilled into the street that he'd just been chased down. He closed it with two hands and huffed, turning back towards this mysterious stranger. And from this angle, he was almost stricken with how beautiful she was.

"Hey I'm smokin' here! Why'd you close the door?" She whined.

"I think you'll live." Stan muttered, catching his breath, searching around the room for something to barricade the door closed.

"Who the hell are you, anyways?" She asked, more inconvenienced than upset, watching him scramble about.

"No time to explain! Just help me keep this door shut, toots!" She eyed him suspiciously and crossed her arms. He looked at her with a pleading look and sighed, rubbing his eyes together with one fist. "Please?" He asked. The woman groaned and dropped her shoulders.

"Fine, fine." She said huffing. She threw him an old pipe from a pile of metal scraps and broken show signs in the hallway and Stan made a makeshift lock so that no one could barge in without exerting a good amount of effort. She came up right behind him and fastened a small chair and placed it underneath the door handle, making sure it was secure. She took her arm in his and put out her cigarette on a small ash tray by the door and lead him hastily to a small door down the hall. Upon entering, it looked like makeshift dressing room. He ran in and caught his breath, the lady shutting the door abruptly behind her.

"Y'know, most times I don't let strange men into my room until at least the third date." She said putting her hands on her curvy hips. Stan propped his forearm on a beam and wiped the sweat off his forehead panting a little from all the excitement. When his head cleared enough for him to realize she had just back handedly insulted him, he felt his face turn red.

"Hey! I'm not strange! Besides, y-you're the one who pulled me in here!" He said smoothing out his beige leisure suit and shook his head. "Strange men my ass…geez, women are so paranoid." He muttered under his breath, irritably. He'd had just about enough of today.

"How about I throw you back onto the street? Hello? I'm also the one who saved your ass back there!" She said, strutting over to him and poking an accusatory finger into his chest with force. "Where's my thank you?" She said crossing her arms definitely. Stan sighed and decided he needed turn on his charm to smooth his way out of this one, that is, if he wanted to stay hidden from Sergeant Amos and Deputy Jones. He grabbed her chin between his pointer finer and thumb, giving her a warm smile.

"Thank you, princess." He noticed her face flushed with a rose tint.

"I…y-you're welcome." She was trying to act big and tough, but Stan could see a quiver of weakness in her eyes, and he thanked his lucky stars for his natural wit and charm, and that he wasn't his twin nerdy twin brother.

"You got a name, sweetheart?" He asked. She gave him a look and smiled.

"Eliza. Like in 'My Fair Lady'." She held out her hand and Stan took it gently in his, grazing her knuckles with his stubbled lips. "But you can call me Liz." She said, walking her fingers up Stan's torso.

"My fair lady indeed….Liz, I like it. Pretty name for a pretty gal like you. I'm Staley Pines. But…you can call me Stan. Nice to meet ya." He said with an award winning smile.

"So, you man of mystery, I know I'm probably gonna regret asking this and regret letting you into my dressing room but, who or what exactly, did I just save you from?" She took a few steps closer with each word til she was inches away from his face, fiddling with the hem of his coat. He didn't know if she was pickpocketing him or just feeling him up. Either way, he didn't care.

Stan gulped and tugged on his jacket collar.

"See, if I told you, where's the fun in that?" He chuckled nervously.

"Oh look—my dressing room telephone…" She pulled away and grazed her hand over a pink rotary next to her lit up mirror and a few make-up brushes. "Hello? Hello operator? There's a strange man in my dressing room that won't leave me alone…" She pretend to be on the phone and twisted the wire between her little fingers, feigning fright.

"Alright, alright! I'll tell you, just—just put the phone down, shortcake." He held out his hands cautiously, as if he were talking her down from the ledge. "But… how do I know you're not just gonna call the cops for real?" She put her weight on one foot and played with the belt of her robe.

"I guess you'll just have to trust me." She said bopping him on the nose.

"Meh, cut it out!" He chuckled, gently swiping her hand away. "Fine…I was uh, I was sorta being…chased or something." He said sheepishly.

"Or something?" She asked, holding back a chuckle. "Who was chasing you?" She crossed her arms.

"Charley and Hudson Combs, L.V.P.D. Precinct nine." Stan waited for her to make the usual judge-y, freaked out or doped out reaction he'd usually gotten from everyone else, but she never did. She just nodded and raised an eyebrow, pulling a box of cigarettes from the breast pocket on her robe. She lit another cigarette and motioned for him to continue.

"I was… s-supposed to meet a few fellas about getting a few tigers and an alligator down across the boarder. Know what? I shouldn't be telling you this. You need plausible deniability." He winced, but there was still no reaction out of Liz except a slow, exhale of smoke from her drag and a nonchalant shrug of reassurance. Stan sighed. "…But when I met up with the buyers to seal the deal, they turn out to be undercover cops! They tried to arrest me but uh…" He chuckled proudly. "Let's just say these hands can get away from anything, out of any situation. I managed to outsmart 'em and get them off my trail…maybe just long enough to buy me some time to figure out my next move. But twiddle-dee and twiddle dumber put a slash in every one of my tires! Gonna cost an arm and a leg, too.

"So how'd you end up on the floor of my Long story short, I've been trying to outrun these asswipes for half an hour now!" He exclaimed.

"Well, why the hell didn't you just say so?" She asked casually, still holding out her cigarette with a bent wrist.

"What?" He asked, surprised at her accepting nature…or was he skeptical?

"Why didn't you say that earlier? It would've made things a lot easier! There's a secret stairway that goes up to the attic, dummy." She said matter of factly.

"Well, in a city like this, who knows who you can really trust? Or if…if you're a guy like me…" He said shifting uncomfortably. Eliza half smiled, knowingly.

"A hunky drifter with a thrill problem?" She asked giving him a look down. Stan ran his fingers through his hair and shot her a hand gun, winking.

"Haha, yeah!"

"Wait here." She said, turning around briskly and meandering towards the back of her boudoir.

"Look, Eliza… I appreciate you and all of this but I don't exactly have time to wait. I need to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do! What if they come looking for me here? I left the bike outside, I mean…I'm toast! Christ on a saltine cracker…" He took a flask from his pocket and guzzled down a large swig of whiskey.

"Calm down, mon cher," she had disappeared behind a drape and he heard her fiddling through what sounded like a dresser or drawer of some kind. "You're bumming my good mood. Besides, all you need, is a little wardrobe change!" She sang.

"What the fuck?" Stan muttered to himself. "What the hell does a wardrobe change have to do with getting me off the hook? So I can take a prettier mugshot?"

"God. Men are so lucky to have women. You're all hopeless. Without us, you'd be chasing your tails, itching your fleas and off starting wars." She called. "Oh wait, too late."

"That's debatable." Stan muttered, taking another swig of his drink.

"Hey pal, I have a strict alcohol policy here." She said coming around the corner with a new suit, some make up and a bag of mystery supplies. Stan put his flask away quickly and blushed trying to play it off cool. She set down her haul on her make up table and put her hands on her hips.

"No alcohol allowed." She frowned.

"Damn, you really know how to have fun, don't you?" He asked, putting it away.

"I said, no alcohol…Unless you're willing to share." Eliza extended her hand expectedly and Stan felt a sly grin grip at the corner of his lips. He shook his head and sighed.

"Guess I misjudged you, kid." He said handing her the flask. She twisted one the top.

"Guess you did." She said taking a giant swig, both alarming and impressing Stan at the same time.

"You nervous or something? What's got you so thirsty?" He chuckled, amused as she wiped her mouth with her arm and handed him his flask back.

"Pre-show nerves. And there's a very devilishly handsome stranger in my boudoir." She hummed.

"Devilishly handsome, eh?" Stan tried to appear more confident and put together than he really was and leaned on the side of her mirror, like he'd seen James Dean do many a time in the movies."Hey, what's the plan with those? This devilishly handsome stranger needs to make like a bird and fly out of here, y'know…unseen." He stroked his chin, looking at the pile of stuff on her table.

"Cops can't arrest you if they don't recognize you." She said smiling, holding out the suit for him. It was flashy alright, it was black with electric blue lighting strikes and a silky pant to match. She had picked out a wig with long brown hair, and a fake mustache to tie it all together. It was a stretch, but better than anything he had on hand.

"Huh. You really think this disguise can hide me from the cops? Don't you think it's a little too…sparkly? What if I just draw attention to myself?"

"Thats the point! If you were trying to outrun the law, the last thing you'd be doing is going to a sketchy variety show at a dingy night club. You'll be hidden in plain sight! Besides, I've never met anyone who can grow a mustache in under half an hour, Stanley." She raised her eyebrows and Stan felt his stomach settle for the first time all day. This might actually work.

"I like your style, kid. That's impressive. Crazy, but we might be able to pull this off." He said taking the costume and draping it over one arm.

"Are you crazy? Of course we will. I didn't grow up learning how to make myself eight years older with my pageant make up for the fun of it…" She paused and winked. "I did it to help disguise shady figures and get them into the witness protection program."

"Pageants, huh?" Stan asked, masking a snort. Eliza was amused that he didn't even question her comment about the witness protect program.

"Yes." She gritted her teeth and pushed her hair behind her ears.

"Isn't Miss America supposed to be a role model or something? Like a goody two shoes in an expensive dress?" Eliza rolled her eyes.

"You have no idea." She shivered slightly and rubbed her arms quickly.

"You know doll, I did have this under control. But I appreciate the help anyways."

Eliza smirked.

"Right. Until you came stumbling in here with a broken bike and into the arms of a half naked stranger in a leotard? Yeah. Sounds like you have everything under control." She looked amused and Stan blushed. "It's a good thing you're cute." Stan puffed out his chest and cracked his knuckles.

"What can I say? I'm adorable! People can't get enough of me, even the cops keep ridin' my ass from here to New Jersey." Eliza giggled into her hand and adjusted her robe. Stan couldn't help his wandering eyes as they surveyed this lovely stranger he'd stumbled upon, literally, and the slip in her robe near her chest that was opening up just enough to get a better look. She was a good foot and a half shorter than he, with high cheekbones, long blonde hair and big, blue eyes. She had a small trail of freckles lining her nose, and they way her small waist and big hips swayed with every word she said, beckoned Stan to come closer.

"That's debatable." She smirked, turning around, hair hitting Stan square in the face. But he didn't care—it smelled like vanilla ice cream and babies' laughter.

He watched as she made her way behind a curtain and motioned him to look away. "Do you mind? I have to get ready… And you need to get into that suit, pronto."

"R-right, sorry…" Eliza slipped behind a pink curtain by the velvet couch and disappeared. He instinctively turned around and crossed his arms, hearing a zip and a tug here and there. Stan's face flushed and began to shed his layers and put on the blue suit while Eliza was still getting her dress on.

"Where did you say you were from?" She called.

"Uh…that depends. I've been banned in seven states including my hometown…"

"Seven states? No way." She said impressed "And you're hometown…Which is…?" She asked.

"Glass Shard, New Jersey. Born and raised. But like I said, I'm not exactly…allowed back. Got a lot of angry people with fake pitch forks waiting for me if I ever do." He chuckled.

Eliza peered around the satin drape and looked pleasantly surprised when she got a good look at Stan. And vice versa. Her robe had disappeared and she was now wearing a sparkly a two piece set, with a white, bedazzled, form fitting tank top and matching pants with bell bottoms and platform heels that almost brought her up to Stan's chest. She had on big, circle, blue tinted glasses and her hair was teased.

"Very nice. Very Bowie." She said signing Stan to do a turn around with her twirling finger.

"Not so bad yourself, toots. Damn. You're a sight for sore eyes. What I wouldn't give to be walking around the streets of Vegas with a gal like you on my arm." He took her hand and twirled her around slowly, ending her in a dip, locked in his arms. They stayed like this, locked in time for a minute and Stan's eyes wandered to her pink lips, so soft and so thick.

"I mean…if you play your cards right…" She said, the breath taken away from her by their embrace. There was a moment—just a fleeting moment—where he thought she might want to kiss him back, but before she could there was a knock at the door and Stan nearly dropped her on her head before catching her mid fall. She hit his arm and dusted herself off, scoffing. She put a finger to her lips and motioned for him to be quiet.

"Eliza? Your little girl group is on in fifteen. Sage Green is finishing up her last set." A male voice called from the other side of her door.

"Thanks Julio." She called, turning back to Stan, she sighed and went to get the fake mustache and matching wig. "Now then, after you put this on, you're on your own. I have a show to do." She took the mustache and applied a thin line of glue on its sticky side, and stood of her tip toes to reach Stan's upper lip. She stuck it under his nose and smoothed the edges, her fingertips brushing against his lips every now and then. Next, she fitted the wig over his head. Her hands pulling and tugging at his hair was doing more than he'd care to admit. But the look was pretty convincing…and Stan couldn't deny her obvious expertise.

"One more thing…" She reached for her makeup palette and grabbed a brush readying herself to work on Stan's face.

"Woah, woah, woah…that is not touching my face, doll face." He said defensively. "Guy's don't wear makeup! I'm not some kind of sissy." Eliza raised an eyebrow and snickered to herself, dipping the brush in a red color, then a blue, then a black.

"There is so little you understand about the world, Stan. Get your head out of your ass. Do you want to look convincing for the cops or not?" She asked. Stan looked at her, then the make up brush with powder on the end and sighed.

"Fine. But you better not make me look bad." He said. After a few moments of breathing in Eliza's perfume which was a heavenly blend of amber and childhood wonder, he began to grow tired of the poking and prodding of the prickly brush and wondered how the hell women could sit still and do this for hours when he could barely sit still for five minutes. He had a newfound respect. He liked having Eliza stand so close to him, he could hear all the small catches in her breath as she honed in her focus, their lips barely inches away from each other. "I still don't understand how this is gonna help."

"Of course you don't," she sang. "C'mon, admit it, you secretly love this. I know you do." She found his discomfort quite hilarious but Stan just groaned in annoyance.

"Oh yeah, I love getting stabbed in the eye. Feels like I'm kissin' a porcupine. Hey!" He flinched. "Be careful with that thing—you're—you're getting powder in my cornea!" He blinked, scrunched his face up and tried to rub the make up out. Before he could start messing up all her hard work, Eliza scolded him and slapped his hand away. "Great, just great!"

"You big baby. Hold still…" She hissed. "Aaaaand…all done." She stood back and tilted her head. She looked pleased with herself. "Take a look." She stood behind him as he checked himself out in the mirror. And he had to admit it, she make him look like an entirely different person. The wig and mustache combo made him look like a young and hip club goer, and the suit didn't look half bad. What really threw him was the fake black eye she had given him, he assumed with the red and blue make up.

Somehow, she had managed to re-sculpt his face with what little make up she used and he was amazed. He put his hands on his hips and beamed. "And thus, Stanwick Pinestone was born." She winked at him through her reflection.

"You can really do all this with make up?" He looked intrigued, admiring his newly sculpted jaw line.

"Duh! I told you! Make up is the most magical tool in the world. It can turn you into anyone you want to be; on stage and off. Now that's my kind of thrill. It probably doesn't beat illegally smuggling exotic across the Mexican border or being on the FBI's most wanted list, though." She eyed Stan who was rubbing the back of his neck."One thing I do know, is that those guys aren't looking for someone with a black eye and a mustache." She crossed her arms and cocked her hip to one side with pride.

"Lizzy, you're a genius! But the good kind!" He picked her up by her waist without thinking and spun her around in the air. She laughed and gripped tightly onto his forearms, throwing her head back with pride. The thin, blue veiled skirt attached to her was it billowed around and twirled as she did. When he put her down they both took a beat and chuckled uncomfortably.

"I just meant—you—well…thanks. For this." Stan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "You really are somethin' else." This time, he found it in himself to give her a real, genuine smile.

"Just don't get arrested, I will need that disguise back." She laughed. "And you know what? The mustache combo isn't a bad look for you, in fact, I think it's kind of sexy."

"Yeah, not bad, huh? Let's just hope its enough to keep me out of trouble…for now." He checked himself out in the mirror a few more times, smoothing his fake hair back and stroking his brand new stache.

"Not that I'm not enjoying our little pow-wow, but I do have to get to stage before they cut our act altogether. Are you good from here?" She asked, grabbing a little tiara from a shelf by the door and placing it on her head.

"I'm good from here…" Stan paused when he turned around and noticed the glimmering crown placed carefully on her head. "…Princess." He flashed her a smile.

"You can stay and watch y'know…if you want…" She said.

"Hey, I gotta act the part anyways, right? Can't give it away too soon." Stan said cooly. "Might as well stick around and pretend like I'm having fun. Y'know, sell the look."

"I swear to god, if my girls don't show up soon, I'm going to throw up." She said adjusting her hair and costume.

"Your girls?" Stan air quoted, squinting.

"Ellie and Betty…they're my partners. We sing together? In the variety show."

"What's your act?" Stan asked.

"We're all named Elizabeth…does that count?" She shrugged making Stan chuckle. "The Three El's…it's—it's a work in progress." He could see her blush in the mirror as she powdered her face.

"Oh joy. There's three of you?"

"Hey, I'll have you know we're very popular! Any day now and we'll have a real residency here in the city. Just you wait." She squinted and pointed, getting right up in his face.

"I have no doubt about that. Who wouldn't love you?" He said, coming off as way more confident than he felt, and it was secretly making Eliza's knees weak. She blinked and shrunk off her tip toes.

"If they show up…I hope they're okay. They know how important this show is for us! It's exposure!"

"Hey doll, cheer up! Even if they don't…who need's em? You've got that crowd in the palm of your hands. Knock 'em dead! Break an ankle! Isn't—isn't that what they say in theatre or whatever?" He asked, rolling his wrist.

"Something like that…You're not totally wrong." She said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"Course I'm not! I'm always right!" He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

"And hey…" He lifted her chin. "If you need someone to play off of, I'm already dressed for the part, huh?" He stretched out his arms and did a turn around.

"You know, you're pretty alright. For a criminal." She winked.

"You're not so bad yourself, y'know… for a pageant queen." He replied. She looked side to side, taken a back slightly.

"How did you…my title?" She shook her head, scanning his face.

"I used to live in Jersey! A.k.a, pageant capital of the East. I know a first place tiara when I see one, kid." He looked up at the little, silver crown on her shelf right above them, picked it up and fitted it on the top of her head gently and she blushed furiously, stunted for words. He mustered all of the courage he didn't have and bent down to kiss her quickly on the cheek. Her face was completely red now, she absent mindedly touched the place he had kissed with her fingertips and smiled, immediately snapping out of it and the color from her face draining at the reminder that she had to go on without her two counter perfomrers.

"Well—partners or no partners! The show must go on! I've gotta get going! Shoo!" She ushered him out the door and she waved as she fled through the hall, but not before turning around, running up to Stan and giving him a quick, hesitant peck on the lips, returning the favor and leaving him stunned and frozen in place. It was…electric. It made him wonder what her lips might've really tasted like.

"Thanks for the drink, Stanwick. See you out there! At least try to act like you're having fun." She saluted him and disappeared into throw two big, double doors, leaving Stan to his own agenda. He already missed her, and wondered how could so much change in the span of half an hour, after having lived without her his entire life.

He entered the main stage area complete with a piano, a bar, a microphone and sea of weirdos clinking glasses and dancing with the disco music blaring from the speakers. He did exactly as him and Eliza had planned, he grabbed a drink, mixed and mingled and tried to stay as calm as he could. He was actually starting to feel like things were going to be okay, until he saw the two cops that were chasing him, slip through the back way and spill into the room. All sense of confidence abandoned him and he began to worry that their entire idea was a bad one that would put him directly in arms reach of the people he was running from. Stan anxiously began to shuffle through the crowd, dodging investigative eyes.

He started to panic, to fear, to imagine himself locked behind bars with no family that cared enough to come and find him. His thoughts were racing, till he felt pressure on his wrist. For a split second, he wondered if his time had finally come. But when he turned his head, he saw Eliza, practically glowing underneath the disco lights, grabbing a hold of his wrist.

"Eliza?" He pulled her in close, sure she could hear the pounding of his heart. She pulled away with a panicked look as well—had she seen something she didn't want to?

"Stanwick, I need your help!" She looked at him with pleading eyes, and Stan melted under the veil of sweet relief that he hadn't been caught yet. Her disguise was working. She pulled him to a back room behind the stage and caught her breath, fanning herself. "I'm going to kill them, I'm going to kill them!" She said frantically.

"Careful, sweet thing. You're still in ear shot of the cops, they came through the front like fifteen minutes ago!"

"Well, they haven't found you yet!" She said dismissively. "Look. You gotta help me. El and Betty—my scene partners, bailed on me! They were supposed to be in costume with their heinies on stage fifteen minutes ago, and no one has seen them! And I need someone to fill in for them and make this a duet. And that someone is gonna be you!" She took his shoulders and shook him.

"Woah, woah, woah there is no way that I'm getting up there with this—"

"You said you'd help me!" She frowned and it was adorable. "Consider it pay back for saving you life!" She put emphasis on the end expectedly.

"Doll, I can promise you, nobody, and I mean nobody—including you—wants to hear me get on that stage and sing. It ain't happenin'. Being a silent stage prop, now that's more up my alley." He said defiantly. Eliza huffed and looked around, as if to find an answer to her situation. "Besides, I thought you said you could handle it by yourself?" Stan said.

"Thinking about doing it yourself is a hell of a lot different than actually doing it by yourself, you know! I didn't think they'd really bail on me!"

"Not…happenin'." He said firmly.

"Look, if you help me with this, I—I'll get you a ride. Anywhere you need to go. I know a guy that works here at the club with a limo we can borrow." She said. Stan looked apprehensively at the stage doors, and then back to Eliza's pleading face. He must've been absolutely out of his damn mind. "Seriously, he can get you anywhere you need to go, but I can't go up there alone and sing a song meant for two or three people by myself!" She pleaded, clasping her hands together. Stan sighed and his shoulders dropped.

"Fine. Since you're practically humping my leg…I'll…I'll do it." He said begrudgingly. Eliza squealed, throwing her arms in the air and then wrapping them around Stan's neck happily.

"Thank you, Stan! I'll make it up to you, I promise!" She hung around his neck like a necktie.

"Kid, this ain't gonna be pretty. I'm warning you now." Eliza dropped down to her feet and grabbed his wrist, pulling him through the bustling dancers and to backstage.

"Just follow me, I'll lead. And…don't worry about those cop guys. They won't bother you." She said slowly.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, kid."

The next few minutes were spent getting the stage equipment ready for singing, and touching up their hair and costumes. It was a smaller club, but everyone involved seemed to be eager to put on a quality show for their patrons. The stage lights shifted and Eliza and Stan stood with hand held microphones with anticipation, his bad and her's good. She took his hand in hers and gave it a little squeeze as the club owner, a tall man with about fifty gold chains around his neck and a mouth full of silver grills announced them.

"Give our little girl a round of applause. To continue our night of nostalgia variety show, Eliza and her—friend will lure us into a night of romance with their rendition of a timeless classic." He said, turning around to face them. He whispered to both them within ear shot:

"If I see those two, it's their heads and your ass. Don't fuck this up." They both nodded.

As the curtains pulled back, the heat and harsh light from the stage lights nearly blinded him, throwing a hand over to shade his eyes out of instinct. Eliza was already posing, holding the microphone like she'd rehearsed what spot to be in. She was absolutely beautiful under the glow of the overheads. But it didn't distract Stan from the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach. The last time he'd gotten up on stage was when he was faced with the decision to be in a high school production for community service hours or face suspension because he had busted into the gym and stolen equipment and left a half smoked joint behind. He was usually prepared for anything, but this wasn't something he was ready to jump head first into.

Stan immediately recognized the song being played on the piano as 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough'. This was gonna be rich.

Stan put on his ultimate con-man facade, to pull off one of the greatest scams ever, tricking this crowd into thinking he could sing. He followed Eliza's lead clumsily but kept up pace. He noticed the uproar in the crowed when Eliza's verse came on and her smooth as silk voice echoed through the microphone. She had the audience completely captivated, and as they came together in harmony, they soon both had them eating out of the palms of their hands, cheering and moving to the rhythm blindly. Eliza's stage presence was unlike anything Stan had ever seen in his life, she was graceful, smooth, confident and…shining. Literally, she was glowing like a star in the night sky. The way her hips moved, and how to crowd moved with her, was intoxicating. It almost made Stan enter late on the second chorus.

As they sang, Stan noticed the two cops swaying in the audience too, as if they had been dismissed from duty like nothing had happened. They even made eye contact once or twice and…nothing. It was like they'd been caught into a trance of some kind…weird. It got him excited enough to really let loose on stage and get caught up in the rhythm of his singing partner and of the song. He and Eliza made a very convincing duet, their chemistry was electrifying the whole room, wether they intended for it to happen or not. Without the fear of being caught, Stan finally let his fun side run wild. He busted a move and tangled Eliza into his arms at every chance he got, conjuring a few excited screams from the ladies in the crowd. After shedding his jacket and letting his gold medallion shimmer in the disco ball's reflection, a pair of underwear was thrown at him and he smiled egregiously. He hadn't had this much fun in years.

Then just as the song ended, the crowd went wild and cheered for the new not-so-power couple. He saw the two cops high five and leave through the front entrance. He had never felt so alive. It was a rush like he had cheated death or gotten away with murder. He and Eliza joined hands and took a bow together, exiting stage left to make room for the other performers. As soon as they were back stage, they burst out into laughter and embraced passionately.

"That was so fucking awesome!" Stan let out a belly laugh, spinning Eliza around in his big arms. "Did you see those moves? I was on fire!" He cheered.

"And to think you tried to tell me that you couldn't sing! You lair! That was amazing!" She pushed a pointer finger into his chest. "I don't think I've ever seen someone throw underwear at a variety show!"

"I've never done anything like that before…I felt so alive. Being there with you—kid—that was…thanks. And…the way you saved me from jail tonight, nobody's ever stuck out their neck like that for me before."

She gave him a warm smile and looked at her feet.

"Don't mention it. You saw them leave too, right?"

"Walked right out that door after looking right at me right in the face! Idiots! Don't know how the hell that happened but who am I to argue with fate?" He ran his hand through his hair, still shaken up by that entire performance.

"Do you…still need that ride?" She looked up at him, a twinge of sadness in her big, pale, blue eyes.

"Well, I mean…if I got those guys off my back, maybe I could…stick around town a little longer. Y'know if the mood strikes me. I've got places to be and suckers to scam. Y'know how it goes." He tried to play it off as aloof, but wished he could just take her in his arms and never let her go again. Because the thought of walking away from someone like her was almost unbearable to think about. Funny how fast things can change on a dime.

"Well, you're always welcome on my dressing room couch. I could use a partner like you…maybe I'd actually be able to get out of this city, make a name for myself." She glanced over to the stage doors.

"Look, I know I con people for a living, so take what I say with a grain of salt but kid. I'm being honest when I tell you I've never heard a voice like yours before. And I've even been to Minnesota!" He barked.

"Thank you, I think?" She half smiled, unsure wether to take it as a compliment or not, considering who she was talking to. Nevertheless, she couldn't ignore the feeling in her chest, that felt like the warm glow of a sunset on an august evening like this one, where everything seemed absolutely perfect. They paused, unsure of what to say but very sure that neither of them wanted to part ways yet.

"Do you…I was supposed to get dinner with the girls but…they aren't here so…" She said twirling her hair anxiously.

"Girls shmirls…They didn't even bother to show up! I mean, you'd have to be pretty dumb to pass up an opportunity like that." He said.

"I just hope they're alright…It's not like them to miss a performance." She rubbed her arms, shivering slightly. Stan realized how cold it was back stage now that they were out from under the heat of the moment and of the crowded, musty stage room. He paused, then draped his suit jacket around her arms.

"I'm sure they just just got caught up in traffic or they're doing lines somewhere. Isn't everyone these days?" Stan smiled at her. "But hey, I gotta admit…kinda glad they didn't show up." Eliza blushed and pushed a strand of loose hair out of her face, almost completely engulfed in how big the jacket was, and how small she was.

"Yeah, who needs 'em anyway?" She said. It was then that Stan noticed a little dimple in the left corner of her mouth and a small gap between her front teeth. She was about as adorable as they come.

"So, you were inviting me to dinner?" Stan chuckled.

"It's funny…I seem to remember you offering to pay." She said sneakily.

"Hey, hey, woah…Let's not get ahead of ourselves here, what kind of man would I be if I enforced those toxic stereotypes? This ain't the nineteen-fifties anymore, baby. But if you're nice to me, maybe I'll buy you a shake."

"What a gentlemen." She said sarcastically.

"Come on, let's get out of these clothes. The sequins on this damn top are making my tits itch." She pouted.

"What happened to the 'third date' rule?" Stan put his arm around her and pinched her cheek. "Did'ya finally find your exception?" He grinned from ear to ear.

"Not a chance." She said putting her head on his shoulder as they walked to her dressing room. "I just don't wanna be worried about getting burger grease on this outfit."

They got back to her room, just as they had left it. Stan felt as though his life was now divided into two parts, before he met Eliza…and then everything that comes after. She freed herself of his grip, and disappeared again behind her changing curtain. Stan looked long and hard in the mirror before he took off his disguise. Was this some divine intervention to get him off the streets for good? Was Eliza some kind of heaven sent protector? He glanced over to a pair of arms that were held up and visible above the curtain rod. Her top was coming off and she stretched, letting out an adorable little grunt.

He changed back into his old clothes, that felt sweaty and smelled like cigarettes. His reflection turned from hunky drifter back to a lost, disheveled, low-life, con-man. Far from the world of glitz and glamour that he'd just been exposed to. He slumped his shoulders and sighed. Where had everything gone so wrong?

"Stan?" Eliza appeared in the mirror next to him, brushing his arm. She had removed her make up and her hair was now up in a messy ponytail, her small stature being devoured under the fabric of a baggy hoodie. The dark circles under her eyes were more evident now, she looked tired. Normal. Angelic.

"Nice to know you're still there under all that make up." Stan teased. She shoved him lightly in the arm and gazed at herself, standing next to him. Maybe she wouldn't let him in on it yet, but seeing them stand side by side brought her a great deal of comfort to her.

"Nice to know you're still an asshole under that wig." She reciprocated.

"Touche." He muttered. "So this is you? The girl behind the pop star?"

"I can be both…" She fixed her hair slightly and sighed.

"I don't know about you, but you better be careful, baby. I could get used to this." He chuckled and turned to face her, running a hand through her hair. She let her face rest in his giant palm and before either of them could think, they both leaned in, their lips touching at last. It was the perfect kiss, tender with purpose and meaning. Stan cupped her small face into his hand and ran his thumb along her ear. After what felt like an eternity of bliss, they pulled apart and looked at one another. Neither of them would admit it, but this was the first time in either of their lives that they felt they had been truly seen by someone else.

"Well, I could get used to that." Eliza said smiling. She was about to lean in for another kiss when she purposefully missed his mouth and whispered something in his ear instead. "Shakes first, kissing later." Stan shivered at her voice in his ear.

"You're making this so hard." He teased. Eliza looked down at his pants and then back up at him with a raised eyebrow and a smug look.

"No… just you." She bopped his nose and took his arm, leading him out the back door into the alleyway where he had entered from. He followed up with a loud, 'HA' and pointed a finger gun at her quick-witted remark.

"You're trouble alright…I like trouble….Maybe if you're sweet to me who knows where the night'll take us?" He escorted her down the street and into the bustling Vegas street.

"Who knows? If you buy me dinner, I might be nice to you." Stan stopped in his tracks and gave her a long knowing look. She was the one. He was done searching, but he'd never admit it to her, not till he was sure she felt the same way.

"What?" She asked, still holding his hand.

"Nothin'. Just thinking about how good that shake is gonna be when you pay for it." He chuckled and tickled her waist, bringing her back into a warm, tight embrace. They walked together, side by side, hand in hand to a greasy old diner underneath a train track that looked like the toilet water would give you sepsis, but as far as they were concerned, it was absolutely magical.

The rest of the night went off without a hitch, she laughed at all his jokes at the right time, and he listened when she told him about her dark and twisted past with American beauty pageants, her strained relationship with her mother and step father and how she planned to take over broadway one day. It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times. It was no secret both of them had had it hard the past few years trying to make it on their own, but they agreed that finding other people to sit in the shit-storm with you, made it considerably less horrible. It was the start to the beginning of a new chapter for both of them and they could feel it. It couldn't have been a more perfect night, and Stan even paid for the shakes.

[byoldervine]

Been seeing a lot of ‘don’t tell people that their first draft is supposed to suck’ posts lately and I want to make it extra clear for anyone with literal thinking or who may otherwise have been lead under any impression otherwise;

What any advice-giver worth their salt should mean when they say this is “Don’t worry about getting it perfect on the first draft, it’s not obligated to be the best work you could ever make it right off the bat”

For a lot of people the first draft is often the worst draft, and as such we tend to jump to reassuring people that their first draft is meant to be that way, to assure them that it’s not a true reflection of the quality of their writing skills - but that doesn’t mean that it’s the same for everyone, and many people absolutely adore their first drafts, myself included

Because let’s be honest; the first draft isn’t inherently bad. Many are actually incredible, in fact! Sometimes editing isn’t to fix something, it’s just to refine it; sand off the edges and paint on a last coat of polish. It doesn’t mean that what you have isn’t good, and I’d bet money that even the writers who think their first drafts are abominations have written some amazing first drafts

And the idea that your first draft has to be bad because you didn’t suffer the whole time you worked on it? I want to promise you something; the more you enjoy creating it, the better the story will be. You’ll be more creative and imaginative and your readers will feel the love and care pouring out of every word. Nobody wants to read something that nobody wanted to write. There are very, very few ways to write wrong, and the biggest one is to not overall enjoy it

The term ‘suffer for your art’ gets thrown around a lot, and the way I interpret it is that you should be willing to persevere with your passions even when it becomes difficult, as well as learning from your experiences and allowing them to shine through in your work. This means knowing when to take a break when it’s no longer fun, then coming back to it when you’re next in the right headspace to do so, not that you need to push through burnout or god forbid hate the entire process of writing

The number one rule of creative writing, or any form of art, is to have fun. The process can be long and challenging and stressful, and you’re bound to hit a rough patch at least once, if not many more times, just like with any long-term project. But if you’re not ultimately enjoying the process, what’s the point? Suffering for your art does not mean that art is suffering

Write for fun. Enjoy the process, even if you don’t enjoy every step of it. Suffering for your art doesn’t mean hating it. You’re allowed to like your first draft, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. Your first draft may very well be your worst draft, as the nature of drafting goes, but your worst is still good and worth loving and enjoying. Anyone who tells you that any first draft is inherently bad either has a different take on the meaning of the phrase or is sadly misinformed. And even if something is inherently bad doesn’t make it unenjoyable or unlovable, or vice versa

[anders-chr]

“Good for you.” (EDITED!)

A short little excerpt I wrote for The Winter Soldier, or a moment I think could’ve happened in the movie he was first introduced.

— warnings: manipulation, brainwashing, panic attacks. if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please don’t click on this!

The chair was cold. It always was. It bit into his back like steel fangs, locking him into place as the harsh, sterile light illuminated his face. His breaths were shallow, uneven. The edges of his vision blurred with pain, but the memory was there—faint, fleeting, like smoke slipping through his fingers.

A face. Blonde hair. A shield. Steve.

Bucky—no, The Winter Soldier, he corrected himself—stared at the floor as Dreykov’s polished shoes clicked against the concrete. The sound was sharp, purposeful. It filled the suffocating silence between his labored breaths. His hands were right behind his back, face devoid of warmth completely.

“Good. You’re awake,” Dreykov said, his tone crisp and clinical. “Do you remember you place?” Not even a moment after, he’s already telling the scientists to prep him. Wipe. To get him ready for the pain, the electricity, the loss of a conscious.

That was the cruelty of those above you. Do you remember your place? For a second, the soldier didn’t respond. He knew the answer they wanted: I am the Winter Soldier. I am also called The Asset. I have no place outside of a mission.

He blinked against the haze in his mind, searching for something, anything, to anchor himself. That name, it sounded like nickname. The tone. But, it could be an actual name. The Winter Soldier would take it gladly, opposed to the title he has been given. But, he hasn’t known anything else. Taking that name, not knowing what it’s associated with — it’s scary. And it had to show on his face because the soldier felt the atmosphere shift and saw the cruel eyes of everyone around him sharpen like hawks.

“Did you hear me?” Dreykov asks again, taking a step closer. His voice harsher. “You are The Winter Soldier. Your place is nothing else but that. Do you understand?”

The Asset lifted his head, his jaw tight. His voice was hoarse from misuse, but that was the least of his problems and it came out low and raspy. “What if I don’t want that place?” He asked, genuinely. Like a kid asking a parent why they have to clean. “What if…I’m just me?”

Dreykov’s eyes glinted with amusement but his expression remained stern and cold as ice. He tilted his head slightly. “Just you? A man doesn’t have more than 50 kills on his head. But,” The Russian general began, “A soldier knows their mission, and they complete it. A soldier can kill in a war. If someone’s in your way, you crush them. Leave them to die. That is your place, your duty.”

The Winter Soldier’s eyes darkened. His voice dropped, laced with a bitter edge. “Well, I guess if I hesitate more, I won’t be of use. What’s stopping you from crushing me too? Go ahead.” He leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow, his gaze piercing through Dreykov like a blade. “I really wouldn’t mind.”

For a moment, there was complete silence and The Asset registered what he just did. The expression on Dreykov’s face didn’t falter, but the hands behind his back tightened ever so slightly. His gaze turned to steel, and for a moment, a small part of The Winter’s Soldier was worried Dreykov might hit him. He could take it. It probably wouldn’t hurt that much. He’s been shocked, stabbed, shot, waterboarded, and learned quickly people can do far worst things than hurt you physically. It didn’t stop that irrational fear though.

But then he let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Fine.” Dreykov said, signaling to scientists to with a wave of his hand. “Release him.”

The Asset blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. The scientist hesitated but obeyed nonetheless. The restraints hissed as they unlocked, the weight lifting from The Winter Soldier’s wrists and arms. He didn’t move immediately, warily looking at the restraints come unloose like a caveman who discovered fire. With equal fascination and fear.

“I’ll shut my mouth. I’ll stop protecting you and I’ll let you go,” Dreykov continued, his voice filled with mock benevolence. “Is that good enough for you? Would that be good for you?”

Before the soldier could respond, Dreykov’s hand shot out, gripping The Asset’s chin with cruel precision, forcing him to meet his gaze. The Winter Soldier’s fists clenched, the knuckles of his human arm whitening, but he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

"I’ll personally deliver you to your precious Captain America." Dreykov glare was dark and cutting as he sneered. "Do you honestly believe he cares for you? The courts, the government—they would tear you to shreds.“

The Asset barely flinched, but the Russian general could see that flicker of fear in his eyes at that possibility. His jaw clenching, and both firsts that trembled so subtly.

He released The Winter Soldier’s chin with a shove, his movements growing more aggressive as he took a step back and spread his arms in mock generosity. "Would that please you, soldier? Because anything The Winter Soldier wants." He offered a mock bow, his tone dripping with disdain and sarcasm.

The soldier’s head began to spin, each word sinking deeper and deeper. They were letting him leave. Dreykov was nowhere near the door, he could just walk out. Without his restraints, he could tear this entire building apart if he wanted. Burn it all to hell, never look back.

But what if — what if they were right? If he left, what then? Who does he have to turn to? Was he just a weapon — an extension of Hydra, incapable of surviving without them? It wasn’t an order he was given, it was a choice. An open door, unarmed guards and a promise of freedom. And that scared The Asset more than anything.

The scientists and the guards voices joined, adding their own comments, agreeing with each other.

“He wouldn’t last a day out there. Does he even know how to function without orders?”

“Who would take you in? The Avengers? They’d see you as a monster, nothing more.”

“No one will love you like we have. No one will put up with your mistakes like we have. You’re a lot of work, you know.”

“You’re clumsy and impulsive. You can’t even get through a mission without guidance. Out there, on your own? You’d never survive.”

“We gave you purposely and stability? Who else would do that? Who else even wants to?”

They’re right. As much as he hated to say, they were right. Who else could care about him? Who else would? He was too much work, he couldn’t even do the simplest task of killing two Avengers. What was he, if not The Winter Soldier? The Asset? At least his work is appreciated here, at least he gets a “well done, soldier.” when someone’s blood is on his hands? Shouldn’t that be enough? Everything grew louder, like an unrelenting storm.

“You’re nothing without us.”

“He’s weak and dependent.”

“You’ll never be anything more than a soldier.”

“All you know is how to destroy.”

“I give him three days. Tops.”

Dreykov leaned over into his space, hands resting on the armrests of the chair. His eyes bore into him behind those glasses, as he said “You don’t have a place in the world. Even if you ever did, you’d never be able to go back.”

The weight of their voices pressed down on him, each word cutting deeper, each accusation twisting like a knife. The Asset’s breaths quickened, his chest heaving as the walls seemed to close in around him. Tears brimmed in his eyes, his throat seemed to close up as everything seemed louder and louder.

No one could care. No one would care.

The faces of his targets flashed before his eyes—so many lives, so much blood on his hands. And then, one face. Blue eyes, soft and full of something he couldn’t name. Bucky. That’s what the man had called him. Was that who he used to be? Was that even real? What if there was nothing for him out there? What if this was all he was?

He shook his head violently, trying to drown out the noise, the memories, the doubts. “STOP!” he screamed, his voice raw, breaking. His head dropped, his shoulders shaking. "Just — just wipe me already.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the echo of his plea hanging in the air. A cruel smile came across Dreykov’s face, faint and triumphant. He signaled to the scientists, who hurried to restrain Bucky again.

As the chair’s restraints locked into place once more — two on his human arm, one of the bionic one, the familiar hiss of machinery filled the room. The Winter Soldier slumped, his energy drained, his spirit crushed. He opened his mouth to receive the mouth guard, the familiar taste of rubber and plastic sickeningly seemed comforting.

Maybe this time, he thought, they’d erase everything. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t remember. Maybe this time, he’d finally be the Winter Soldier they wanted.

“You’ll understand this very soon.” Dreykov said, and the pain started, the screams were ripped out of his throat before he could stop them but it felt familiar. It had to be better, compared to whatever could happen out there. It’s too late to go back, he knows that. So why even bother?

And mercifully, when it felt like he wasn’t being eaten by electricity anymore — it all went to black.

—

I was listening to “Good For You” in the Dear Evan Hansan musical while I wrote this. I may be too sad, but hey, I love any opportunity to write manipulation and project on a character. Anyways, if you want more of this content, just lemme know!

— andy.

[ivoryghostyy]

— meet Cirius

「 image is not mine. it's sourced from pinterest. 」

「 note: look who's back after not posting for idfk how long. but hey, here's a fic, plus a new layout! haha... i have so much to edit, but anyways, i hope y'all enjoy this little idea i've pulled straight out of my ass. man, i could not get it out of my head. so, uh, have fun ig. 'til next time. buh-bye! 」

「 tw: swearing, mentions/implications of violence, threatening, obsession, manipulation, etc. 」

—————————————————————————————————

human emotions are fickle, but for Cirius, they're practically a foreign concept. dull faces accompanied him wherever he went. they would bother him, talk to him, and feign interest. no mask, however, could completely cover the rotting desires humans hide.

it confuses him, really, but what can he do? if they entertain him, then playing along wouldn't hurt anyone. otherwise, he'd probably die of boredom. besides, he has a reputation to keep. lashing out would only destroy his own facade.

university wasn't doing him any good either, despite his well-maintained rank. he's perfect, and every single one of them could see that. they praise him, and they raise him onto a pedestal. it's nothing new, not interesting at all. his eyes don't spare any of them a glance.

so imagine his surprise when he comes across you. it was onky a brief moment—barely even a second—but he saw it. you weren't hidden in a shroud of grey clouds, you were the embodiment of the sun. your eyes sparkled brighter than any gem he had ever seen. and he's seen a lot of gems, so that says a lot.

you're.. different. and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued. how did he miss someone like you? he hummed, a finger tapping the fabric of his sleeve. a new student, perhaps? but why would anyone transfer so late into the year?

you scurried away before he could say anything. ah, he should have atleast gotten your name... but it's alright. his fingers weave through the soft knots of his light pink hair, a cold smile creeping onto his plush lips.

it doesn't take much to find you and your entire history. goodness, he should've found you sooner. you've been living like this for your entire life? you're barely able to keep yourselves afloat. he's exaggerating. the more he learns about you, and the more he watches you, the deeper he falls into the dark pit of obsession.

don't worry, he'll take care of everything. his darling wife deserves the best and only the best, after all. he'll talk to his parents and arrange a dinner with his future family-in-law your parents, throw in a few lies here, a few threats there, and it's smooth sailing towards your engagement.

surely, you'll agree, right? even if you don't, do you really have a choice? anything he wants, he will have. and you? you're no exception.

you pace through the bustling halls, weaving through the chattering human barricades as they march into another boring lecture. contrary to the relaxed pace of these students, however, you're scrambling to reach your own destination: the library.

since you're free for this period, you thought you'd take the time to look around the grand library. really, this is the only reason you tried so hard to get into such a prestigious school. your family wasn't well-off, but earn enough to keep a delicious meal on your plate and a sturdy roof above your head.

the polished doubledoors creak open, and without wasting another second, you're already scanning book-lined shelves. the forgotten book of herbal remedies, the book of lies, 101 ways to hide a body... wait, what?

deciding not to question it, you finally find a good novel to read. to nobody's surprise, it's dark romance because of course it is. happily, you sink into a comfy bean bag this makes me kinda jealous and lose yourself within the pages, ignorant to brown eyes watching your every move.

a shadow looms over you, and you barely have any time to react before you're pulled into a lean chest, arms wrapped securely around your waist.

"wh-"

"there you are, my precious wife!"

your brain is barely processing the situation. what is he talking about? who is he talking about? it takes a around a minute before you've pulled yourself back, landing not-so gracefully onto the bean bag that you were just sitting on a moment before.

"sorry, i think you may have the wrong person," you say, firmly.

you've never seen this man in your life, who the hell does he think he is? what did he call you? his wife? he better be joking. he's either mistaken or insane. probably the latter, hun. he's insanely in love with you.

"how could i mistake you for anyone else?"

and now he's pulling you along to his fancy car, talking about how he'll introduce you to his parents because apparantly, he's already talked to them about the wedding and-

what do you mean he's talked to your parents!? and they didn't tell you anything!? that's because he threatened them with your safety, but you don't have to know that.

the worst part? you left your book at the library!

could it be any worse? yes, it could. after dinner with your supposed parents-in-law, you pull him aside. he's happy to follow you, anticipating anything you have to say. are you excited too? he's already imagining all the fun you'll have together. cuddling with you, holding your hand, going on dates, spending the rest of his life with you-

"i'm sorry, but i'm not marrying you."

"..good joke, honey."

you're not joking? he falls silent. you've already left by the time he came back to his senses, and he's never felt emptier in his life. how do you think this man—someone who had been given everything he could ever need; who could have the whole world served on a silver platter if he asked—will face the rejection of the single person he's genuinely fallen head over heels for?

it's safe to say that his ego is absolutely bruised. don't even get me started on his heart. words cannot describe the world-shattering devestation he felt. no, he wouldn't stand for this. he's never taken no for an answer, and he certainly isn't starting now.

you will be with him, and he doesn't care if he has to shatter your legs just to make sure you never leave. let's hope it never comes to that, though. he quite likes it when you smile, but he supposedly wouldn't mind seeing you cry, either.

within the next few months, it's like the world is crumbling. your parents lose their jobs, your grades are suddenly dropping, you can barely earn enough from your part-time job to keep food on your plates—it's a mess.

you're struggling, and he knows it.

when you're at your lowest point, he'll pay you a visit. pitiful darling, you know he can make it all go away, right? he'll help you. like a demon tempting to grant your deepest, darkest desire.

"shh, don't cry, sweetheart," he'll take care of you.

don't worry, honey, he can make it all go away. it's not difficult to give you back all that he took away. everything you've lost can be placed right back onto your gorgeous little palm.

but at what cost?

your body.

your soul.

your mind.

your everything.

don't you see, honey? he would do anything for you. new clothes? he'll buy the entire mall. need a better house? how about a mansion? want the moon? he'll do his best to get it for you, no questions asked. you could have everything you could ever want and more.

it's a generous offer, lovely. all he asks for, in return, is that you give up. you were his the moment he saw you, and that might have been the biggest mistake of your life.

say yes, honey. it's the only option you have.

[major-toast]

Wolfstar Microfic - Hellbent

@wolfstarkinktober2024 // day 31: hate sex // 2121 words // mdni

Yes, I know. This one ended up a tad too long. But I don't want to upload anything that is under 4k words to ao3. My weird mind simply works that way. Nonetheless, I'm sure as hell not missing out on a opportunity to post some casual hate sex microfic. Also, don't mind me reuploading this. There was an editing error. My apologies xx

SHORT DISCLAIMER (before anyone comes for my ass): This is part of toxic wolfstar™. The entire purpose of these characters is to be the worst possible versions of themselves. I'd never write either of them the way they are presented here unless it is explicitly in the context of toxic wolfstar™. Furthermore, I do not condone any of these actions. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Remus is on a rampage. Boiling, seething, and ready to tear everything to shreds. All it needs to do is stand in his way. With the paper a pathetic crumple inside his clenched fist, he is working his jaw, burning holes into everyone crossing his path. It’s enough to scare the desk lady into letting him pass with a simple raise of his ID. The elevator ride feels like torture with every passing second.

Two fast strides – more it doesn’t take for him to reach the door with the shining letters ‘659’. Not even hesitating, he starts banging against the polished wood; demanding, hungry.

Remus Lupin is on a mission and he is not ready to back down.

“Jesus fucking Christ. I already told you-“

The words get stuck inside Sirius’ throat as he realises who is standing before him. Remus almost breaks out in triumphant laughter as he sees the unfiltered shock and confusion flashing in those sparkling silver diamonds. But, as of now, he is not in the mood for laughter. No, Sirius made sure of that. He and his gorgeous hair, devilish smile and soft, smooth skin that Remus wants to sink his fucking teeth in.

“Did not expect me, did you?” he growls, only gripping the paper tighter until his veins start to budge. With great satisfaction, he witnesses Sirius grow a little paler. His eyes wander down to Remus’ hands and up again. He swallows.

“How did you get in here? What the actual fuck do you think you’re doing? Get out before I start calling security.”

Surprisingly, there is still the ever-present defiance inside Sirius’ tone, calm and stubborn. It only riles Remus up more.

“Oh, you’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” Remus taunts, lodging his foot between the door and frame as Sirius tries to slam it shut in front of his face. Using bare strength alone, he wrenches the entrance open wide enough to slip in. Immediately, Sirius takes a couple of steps back, only growing paler with fear.

How beautiful he is. Messy black hair is falling down his back and into his eyes, which are a beacon of silver adorning this oh-so-delicate face. Rosy, parted lips are scrambling for words and Remus would have loved to watch them move for all eternity, making all those angelic noises, if he hadn’t been so caught up on the robe draped over Sirius’ exquisite frame, tied sacrilegiously at the waist, and highlighting his sharp hip bones.

It’s a lovely shade of red, deep and velvet, like pomegranates in the Middle Eastern sun. The thin fabric reveals enough to spark even the wildest imaginations, yet not enough to keep one satisfied.

Soon enough, Remus will rip that fabric off with his teeth. Oh, he is sure. But not now. Now, he is still too angry.

“What do you think you’re playing at, huh?” he snarls, the door falling shut behind him with a loud thud as he waves the paper in front of Sirius’ face.

‘Supernova Sirius Black Spotted with New Lover’ the headline reads. ‘Who Is the Mysterious Man Behind the Dazzling Smile?’

Remus hadn’t been able to think straight ever since Peter flopped the paper down in front of him at the breakfast table, grinning that Peter grin that only ever means trouble.

“Is this why you’re all so dressed up, Black? For him? I bet you’re not even wearing anything underneath these expensive robes, little slut that you are. It’s really fucking pathetic.”

For the first time since Remus’ sudden appearance, Sirius looks him in the eye. A mocking smile curls his pretty lips.

“Or”, he says with a haughty raise of his chin, “you’re just pissed you never got the sight that he is getting. What? Never heard of actions having consequences, Lupin?”

“Damn right, I have.”

And with that, Remus starts moving forward, determined once more. Sirius is left with nothing aside from taking more steps back. His back hits the wall once they reach the other side of the room. Remus is on him in an instant, crowding him in.

“Don’t you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Taunting me? Riling me all up?”, he murmurs lowly, reaching out to gently caress Sirius’ cheek. Having run out of smart words, Sirius can only stare up at him. Smiling, Remus trails his thumb over the other man’s lips, wondering what they taste like. Cigarettes maybe. Or wine.

“But you don’t have to, sweetheart. You know I am all yours. Always. And I know that you’re always mine. No matter what the press says.”

“You’re delusional”, Sirius scoffs, finally bringing up the courage to push back against him. It doesn’t do much as Remus remains unmovable, simply grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head. The time for games is over.

“I know you want me”, Remus continues, lodging his knee between Sirius’ legs, gently pressing against his crotch. A low hiss escapes Sirius. It awakens something inside of Remus. Something desperate for more. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. How you’re making sure I follow your every move whenever you perform. I know the magazine cover was just another of your honey-sweet taunts. So was the trick with the perfume. But what for? If you wanted my attention so badly, all you needed to do was ask. You know you’ve never been out of my mind. Not once.”

“Remus, I-“

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay. I want you too. God, I want you so much.”

Leaning down until his lips find the sensitive juncture of Sirius’ neck and shoulder, he uses all his weight to keep Sirius in place. Hungrily, he starts nipping at his warm skin, not stopping until the first bruise starts forming underneath his lips. Unable to move, laboured breaths turn into bitten-back moans, and Remus revels in the way how needy it makes Sirius sound.

“Look at you”, Remus sighs into the crook of his neck, pressing adoring kisses up to the shell of his ear. “So lovely, so beautiful. Every man who wouldn’t fall for you is a fool. But you won’t belong to any of them. No. You’ll always be mine.”

Turning his head, he captures Sirus’ lips with his own before the other man can answer anything he has said. And Remus doesn’t need him to. The way his body responds, with his hips grinding ever so slightly against Remus’ knee, the choked-up moans, and tongue sliding past teeth, Remus has the answer, that he was looking for. It delights him.

Carefully, he releases one hand, curiously wandering down the warm flesh pressed against him. Loosening the tie on the robe, he slips it past the fabric, pushing it aside. A small whimper can be heard from Sirius, and Remus cannot help but take it as an invitation. Tracing taunting circles across the inner side of his thigh and panting into Sirius’ opened, desperate mouth, he lifts his lover’s leg and hooks it across his waist. He wants to feel him better, see him better.

And what a sight Sirius truly is.

His face is flushed and his hair is dishevelled. Ivory skin glints with pearls of sweat, accentuated by the shimmering red of the silk robe. Dreamy, half-lidded eyes watch Remus move about while his chest heaves breathlessly. Gripping Sirius’ upper thigh firmly to keep him where he wants him, Remus lets go of his hands, surging forward for another hungry kiss.

Sirius’ fingers immediately wind into his hair, clawing at the curls, pulling him in. Enamoured, Remus lifts him up until both his legs are wrapped securely around his waist. Then, he carries him off, tumbling towards the couch in the middle of the living room.

Flopping Sirius down, Remus is quick to climb on top of him, drinking in the sight of the robe slowly falling off his shoulders, offering his body up to him, while he takes off his shirt. Kissing him some more, he circles one arm around Sirius’ waist, pressing their bodies closer together, and moves his hips against Sirius’ in feverish motions. Moaning and whimpering, their dance soon turns into a waltz of clawing nails, angry snarls and biting teeth. Yet, Remus doesn’t let him go. He wants all of this. He wanted it for far too long.

Hot and breathless, he reaches down once more, gripping Sirius’ cock and slowly starting to stroke it just the way he knows he likes it; moving up to the tip only to stop right before he reaches it and back again, teasing. Growing pliant underneath him with his back arching, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back only a bit, Sirius lets him have his way. Remus cannot stop himself from grinning.

“You like that, huh? I knew it.”

“Fuck… you.”

“Oh, baby. You are reading my mind.”

Pulling down both his trousers and underwear to the back of his knees, Remus starts wanking off to the show Sirius is now performing for him. And, unlike all these where times where he kept taunting him on stage – dressed in the tightest of fits, moving his body across the floor like a desperate whore, hitting those delicious high notes still burnt into the most hidden parts of Remus’ brain -, this time it’s solely for him.

Bringing himself almost to a clean finish with a needy groan wrenching its way out of his lungs, he reaches for the bowl of condoms conveniently placed on the table atop the couch, rolling one over himself without much hesitation. Once he looks back, he can find Sirius watching him with the deadly and hungry precision of a starved dog. Remus’ chest swells with pride and burns with desire just the same.

“You know”, he tells Sirius, lifting him by his waist and pulling him closer to his hips, “I have dreamt about this moment ever since you first came back on stage, wearing this black garment. Multiple times, I have seen you in my sleep, just like you are now. And you know what, Sirius?”

“What?” Sirius breathes back, voice shaky with anticipation.

“Even if you tell me to fuck off once we’re done, you’ll not be rid of me yet. I will only have tasted blood. I’ll want more. And I will not stop until I have you back at my side.”

Laughing, Sirius shakes his head. “That’s not going to-“

Remus never gets to hear Sirius’ words as he’s pushing inside of him right this moment, successfully cutting him off. And to say that it feels good is a fucking understatement. Even a missile launcher wouldn’t have been able to shoot Remus off this cloud that he ultimately finds himself on. Curses roll off his lips as his hips start to move, fucking Sirius with every bit of burning passion and hateful desire pent up over all this teasing and taunting. Even as Sirius, moaning and squirming, lets his hands claw into Remus’ back, scratching it angry and raw, he doesn’t stop. Even as the orgasm ripples through Sirius, forcing him to let his head fall in a pathetic groan, Remus does not let go. He fucks him until the moaning and whimpering turns into blabbered nonsense and tear-stained cheeks. He fucks him until Remus himself is exhausted and spent, falling on top of Sirius’ paralysed and bruised body with a shaky sigh.

For a minute, maybe ten, they lie next to each other, struggling for breath. However, stubborn as he is, Sirius is the first to bear his wits. Slipping out of Remus’ arms, he pulls out the robe from underneath him and dresses himself back on.

“Are you happy now?” he asks through gritted teeth, not looking at Remus as he has his back turned towards him. Remus can only smile up at him adoringly.

“I could have not asked for more.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

The smile turning smug, Remus does as he’s asked, putting his clothes back on. However, Sirius remains stoic, not giving him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye. Not once, and not even as Remus is heading for the door. Satisfied, he throws his shirt casually over his shoulder, showing off the bleeding scratch marks like a badge of honour. The whole world shall see what Sirius Black can do when edged on long enough.

“I know you’ll call me anyway”, he admits into the silence of the room, the triumphant feeling not leaving his body. “No matter how good your mystery lover is, he’ll never be able to make you moan like I can. Of that, I am certain.”

Sirius doesn’t answer, doesn’t have to.

This time, Remus knows he has won.

[wakebymoonsleepbysun]

Untitled Roxy x Reader fic (hurt/comfort)

EDIT: A more polished version is now up on ao3. If you're re-reading it or sending it to someone, then the ao3 version is preferred, but it's not changed enough that I would necessarily suggest re-reading it again if you weren't already going to. <3

For some reason, last night, I decided that it was imperative I write and release a Roxy x Reader oneshot before Ruin. (ETA: To be clear I mean I wrote this before Ruin released, therefore it contains NO SPOILERS. <3) It's an idea I've had for awhile and was going to do as a comic but decided to expand it and write it out instead. I may post a more polished version to ao3 at a later date.

Fun fact: Roxy was my first FNAF crush, before SB even came out. So Ruin will have many chances to break my heart.

Word count: ~3200

----

When the Pizzaplex burned down, none of your colleagues had seemed particularly interested in returning to the ruins. You could understand…some of the techs arriving for the morning shift had been caught in the blaze, and while there were no casualties, there had been some injuries. Yourself included.

After a few weeks in the hospital, the burn mark across your face was just an angry red scar, and the singed hair you’d had to cut off had regrown enough for you to wear a slightly uneven pixie cut.

The other techs said you were crazy to want to go back. The future of Fazbear Inc was uncertain, and the animatronics themselves were just that. Animatronics. Machines. Not worth putting yourself in danger for.

But you’d come to consider Roxy a friend. Sometimes you thought she considered you one, too. She didn’t seem like she would readily admit such a thing even if it were true.

She had at least liked you as a tech, if not as a person. You were the only one who could do her pre-show checks and weekly maintenance without ruining her hair, at least according to her. According to the other techs, Roxanne’s hair was always fine.

You quickly learned that to Roxy, “fine” was equivalent to a reprehensible failure. A disaster. A complete horrific mess. 

You didn’t think your experience with costuming (specifically wigs) in your college’s theater club would ever be something you used after you graduated, but life is full of surprises.

You wander through the corridors of your ruined, burned out workplace, flashlight in hand. You have a few guesses as to where Roxy might be. You desperately hope she’s okay. The structure is mostly intact, but there are a few collapsed portions and fallen bits of decor. You think as long as Roxy had been able to avoid the worst of the heat, she’d be mostly alright.

You make your way to Rockstar Row, your workboots crunching on the debris as you walk.

As you approach Roxy’s room, you hear something that makes you freeze.

Crying.

For a moment you wonder if another tech, or perhaps some urban explorer or rubbernecker is in here with you. Then you recognize the voice behind the sobs.

Roxanne is crying? You’re more surprised than you probably should be. But you’d seen behind her mask a couple times. Behind the vanity, haughtiness, and borderline entitlement, you had occasionally glimpsed a profound insecurity. Beneath it all, you don’t think Roxy actually likes herself very much.

You swipe your badge on the door, and it actually dings and slides open. Or tries to. Something jams it halfway and you have to wedge yourself into the doorframe and push the door open the rest of the way.

Roxy, who had been sitting at her vanity, head in her hands, perks up. Her ears twitch as she glances around. “Who’s there?” she calls out.

You open your mouth to speak, only to leave it hanging open in surprise as you see how badly she’s damaged. So much of her exoskeleton is missing, exposing the endoskeleton underneath. Her hair is a tangled, singed mess and her tail isn’t much better. But most horrifying, her eyes are completely gone.

“Who’s there?!” Roxy repeats, a growl in her voice as she stands up and starts stalking towards you. You can hear the servos and joints in her body creak in protest as she moves.

“R-Roxy, it’s me!” you say before hastily blurting out your name.

She stops, her ears twitching and her claws grasping at the air. At first you think she’s baring her teeth at you, but you quickly realize her broken faceplate has put one side of her mouth in a permanent snarl.

She huffs, turning away. She skulks back to her vanity, plopping down in her chair and burning her broken face in her shattered hands. “What do you want?” she mutters.

You tense, taken aback. “Wh-What do you think I want, Roxy?” you ask incredulously, slowly moving towards her. “I-I wanted to know you were okay. I wanted to help you. I was…terrified you’d…been destroyed,” you say quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She pulls away with a growl. “I have been destroyed! Just--Just look at me!” The rage in her voice doesn’t fully mask her despair, nor does it completely hide her fear. Fear of what? Of what could have happened? Of how close she came to being permanently deactivated?

Her command was clearly rhetorical, for she lowers her head further, digging her claws into what remains of her scalp.

“Roxy…all this can be fixed…” you say gently.

“No it can’t!” she snaps. “I already checked. Parts and Services is a pile of rubble now.”

“Well…what about the loading docks? Maybe we can at least find some new eyes for you…”

She scoffs. “Oh good. Then I can see myself. Because feeling all this isn’t bad enough,” she sneers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Roxy--”

“FINE!” she growls, pushing back from her vanity abruptly. If the chair weren’t screwed into the floor she surely would have toppled it over. “Fine. Let’s just go.”

You flinch nervously, nodding. Remembering her blindness, you quickly say, “Okay. Here,” you say gently putting a hand on her arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she snaps, though she sounds somewhat less defensive and a bit…nervous? Embarrassed? With a huff, she adds, “I’ll just follow your footsteps.”

You bite back a sigh. “Alright,” you say patiently.

You lead the way out of her green room towards the long stairway down to the loading docks. You’re not about to risk trying to take the elevator.

“Here, careful on the stairs,” you say, gently taking her arm again. This time she allows it, albeit with some reluctance as she gives you what probably would have been a withering look if her faceplate had been intact.

It’s a long way down and neither of you want to rush. The sound of your softer footfalls and her heavier ones as you both pick your way down the stairs echoes through the stairwell.

Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk. Thud. Clunk.

You watch her carefully. She seems too focused on making it down the stairs to be too sulky for the moment. Small blessings, you suppose. Still, the silence is only stretching out your descent.

“It sounds like one of your knees is out of alignment,” you say eventually.

“The left one,” she confirms a bit gruffly. “I can manage.”

“I can see that,” you say gently. “It took me awhile to notice something was even wrong. You carry yourself well,” you say, smiling a bit.

Roxy grunts in acknowledgement, but doesn’t preen even a little at the praise. That’s unusual for her…compliments usually cheer her up.

“Maybe I can find a new hinge while we’re--”

“Why are you doing this?” she cuts you off.

“W-What do you mean?” you ask, stopping in the middle of the flight of stairs.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean,” she says. Before you can speak, she continues, “This whole place is finished. Nobody’s coming back to rebuild. What’s the point of you patching me up?”

“I told you, Roxy…I was worried…” you start as you resume your climb down the stairs.

“Why?”

“Because I care about you!” you say, exasperated as you reach the bottom of the stairs. You keep your hand on her arm as you make your way down the corridor, and she doesn’t protest.

She snorts. “You care about a pile of scrap?”

You wish she could see the glare you give her at that. “You are NOT a pile of scrap! You’re just a little scuffed.”

“More than a little,” she huffs.

You sigh. “Okay, maybe a little more than a little,” you admit. You force a smile. “But hey…I’m the perfect tech, remember? If anyone can get you fixed up, it’s me, isn’t it?”

You weren’t normally any kind of braggart. Roxy had been the only one to ever call you the perfect tech, though you feel like that was almost more a point of pride for herself rather than for you. As if she were praising herself for being deserving of the best tech more than she’s praising you for being the best tech. But you still liked hearing it…and sometimes it really did seem like she was directing the praise at you.

Roxy turns her head towards you, her ears swiveling forward. It’s hard to read her expression with her broken faceplate, but eventually one side of her mouth ticks up into a small smile. “...Yeah…” she admits softly.

You squeeze her arm gently, careful to not touch any of the sharper broken off bits.

Once you get to the loading dock, you guide her to sit down on a crate while you look through some of the recent part shipments.

The fire had somehow spared much of this place, but the collapse of P & S had rippled partially through the area and several patches of ceiling had fallen, knocking over piles of crates and leaving the whole place in disarray.

Eventually you find a crate that has the P & S stamp on the wooden slats, and figure that’s a promising place to start. You grab a crowbar and begin trying to pry it open in any way you can.

Roxy’s ears perk and she turns towards you. “What are you doing?”

“Trying--urg--to get this crate open,” you grunt.

She stands and walks towards you. “Let me,” she says. She reaches towards you, trying to determine your position.

You take her hand, your fingers weaving in hers for a moment before you guide her hand to the crate.

“Thanks,” you say, stepping aside.

“Well…pretty silly to make a human do all the heavy lifting,” she says, digging her claws into one of the planks. The wood splinters and creaks and is readily ripped free.

You smile weakly. “You’re right…these arms would never have a fraction of your strength,” you say. Jokingly, you lift your arm and flex…only to realize Roxy won’t be able to see it.

Probably for the best. It was a dumb joke anyway.

She snorts, actually preening a bit as she pulls another board free. “Even busted…” she agrees softly. Her tone is slightly melancholy…as if she doesn’t fully believe it.

She pulls another board free, and you put a hand on her shoulder. “I think that’s enough for now,” you say, guiding her back to the crate she had been sitting on before.

You begin pulling the smaller boxes from the shipping crate, cutting them open and rummaging through them, looking for anything usable. 

Once again, the silence stretches on.

After finding nothing useful in the first two boxes, you glance back at Roxanne. Her hand is over her face, her middle finger slowly tracing the cracks near where her eyes had been. The quiet isn’t doing her any favors.

You shove the box you were looking through aside and pull out another, cutting it open. “Roxy?” you break the silence.

“Mm?” she grunts, still more focused on her faceplate than you.

“You…d’you um…remember that time we ran out of driver bots and that angry dad yelled at me?”

She pauses briefly, turning her head towards you. “What about it?” she asks before going back to feeling her faceplate.

“You remember what you said to me?”

“I called you an idiot.” Was that a touch of guilt you detect in her tone?

You laugh weakly, nodding. “Yes. But you remember why?”

“For letting a loser like that get under your skin,” she says plainly.

“Right,” you say, smiling. “I think about that a lot, you know.”

Roxy scoffs. “Really? Freddy said I was too rude,” she says. If she had eyes she would have rolled them.

You let out a gentle chuckle. “Well…maybe a bit,” you admit, earning a slightly sulky huff from her. “But there was truth to it, y’know? And I think about it a lot. It uh…it’s…helped me. Deal with people like him.”

She cants her head, one ear flicking curiously. It’s a cute expression even with her broken faceplate. “It…did?”

“Yeah,” you say, pulling out another box and opening it. “I-I mean…you were right. I knew he was a loser but I still told myself his opinion meant something. But it doesn’t, y’know?”

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly.

The conversation lapses again, and you try to resist the urge to slow your search in order to come up with a new topic. Luckily, it is Roxy who picks the next topic.

“You remember that time a birthday party ran long, and I was late getting back to the recharge station?”

You freeze. Oh you do remember. You remember that evening well. The animatronics tend to get a little quirky when their battery dips below five percent. Something about a power save mode cutting power to random systems. Usually mobility, but somehow, their…inhibitions, for lack of a better term, also seemed to go by the wayside. As far as you know nobody ever quite understood why, but it was a little like getting loopy from lack of sleep, or even a bit tipsy.

Roxy smirks, hearing your stunned silence. “You do.”

“Y-Yeah…I…I wasn’t sure if you did, though.”

“I remember the important parts.” Before you can start to wonder what the “important parts” are in her mind, she continues, “You’d finally used that salon voucher I gave you for your birthday. Gotten your hair done. Actually wore it down. I never understand why you hide such long pretty hair up that bun.”

You fluster a bit. “Th-The dress code--”

“Oh, you do it without the dress code,” she scoffs, flicking a hand dismissively.

You clear your throat awkwardly, pausing to rub at your cheeks as if you can wipe the blush away. “W-What’s your battery at, by the way?”

She snorts. “Just an idle wondering?” she smirks. “It’s twenty-two percent.”

So it’s not her low battery talking…

Roxy continues, “You know…if you can find a set of replacement eyes…I wouldn’t mind seeing your hair down again,” she says, actually sounding wistful, of all things. You don’t know if you’ve ever heard her sound wistful.

You sigh softly, running a hand over your chopped off hair. “Y-Yeah…” you say, noncommittally.

She glances at you questioningly, sensing something in your tone. But before she can comment, you cut open another box, and find it has the spare eyes you’ve been looking for.

“Found the eyes!” you say. Some of the happiness in your tone is genuine. You grab two amber ones, going over to her. “They’re just standard optics, so you won’t see as well as you’re used to, but…it’ll do for now,” you say, guiding her to lay on the floor.

Her smile fades slightly and she nods, reality setting back in. Despite your claims that you could repair her, she wasn’t convinced she’d ever be as good as she was before. “Guess it’ll have to,” she mumbles.

You put a flashlight in her hand and position her arm to shine it down on her faceplate, giving you light to work with. Your toolkit is beside you, with some extra lengths of wire and soldering iron to work with. As you cut away the burned wires, murmuring apologies whenever Roxy flinches, your mind drifts back to that evening.

Her power had been at one percent when you finally coaxed her into her recharge station. Before you did, though, she had leaned down and pressed her lips to yours. You think she had been trying to nuzzle your cheek. Even “drunk” you don’t think she wanted to kiss you like that.

Neither of you had ever spoken of that night again, until today. She must not remember the kiss, you decide. She wouldn’t bring up that night at all if she did.

The truth is you’ve carried a small flame for her ever since then. Or perhaps a little longer, if you were more honest with yourself. Nothing you couldn’t ignore most of the time, of course…but something that had occasionally managed to put a bit of warmth in your heart when you allowed it to.

But none of those silly little what-ifs you’d allowed yourself to daydream of would ever come to pass now.

You wire in the eyes, then carefully fit them into their sockets. As they come online, the attached eyelids blink shut against the light.

You quickly turn away, keeping your back to her as you pack up your toolkit. “Th-They working okay?” you ask. It’s silly to turn away like this. You can’t possibly delay her seeing your scar for more than a couple minutes. Why even bother trying?

She moves the flashlight out of her eyes and sits up, looking around. “Yes,” she says. She pauses. “...Better than I thought. I forgot the standard optics still have night vision.”

You laugh weakly. “Another thing you have over me, then,” you say in what you had meant to be a good natured tone, but you couldn’t quite keep the melancholy from your voice.

Roxy catches it and glances at you curiously. She stands up, then reaches down a hand to help you up.

Well. No more putting it off.

You bow your head slightly as you turn to take her hand, letting her pull you to your feet. When you stand before her, you finally lift your head to look into her eyes, giving a small, tentative smile that borders on apologetic.

Roxy stares down at you, her mouth opening slightly in surprise. “Wh-What…happened…?”

You sigh, glancing away slightly. “I-I…got to work early, and…I was upstairs when the fire started. It…spread so fast I…had to cut through some pretty bad areas. I-I mean. I guess, something like that…I-I don’t really remember…” you say, your voice starting to shake.

Roxy’s hand is on your cheek, turning your face back towards her as she examines your scar.

You feel your face growing warm. “I-I don’t know how I got the scar, really…The EMTs found me passed out in the employee parking lot.”

Roxy smiles sadly. “You were strong enough to save yourself.”

You blush deeply at the compliment, lowering your gaze. “I-I guess so…”

She runs her thumb over the scar, tracing the ridges of the shiny, discolored skin. “Can it be repaired?” she asks, her tone more gentle than you’ve ever heard from her.

You shake your head, resisting the urge to nuzzle into her palm as you do. “Not…really. My hair will grow back and the scar will probably fade a bit, eventually, but…it’ll…probably be pretty noticeable for the rest of my life…” You feel tears brimming at your eyes and force out a weak laugh. “C-Can’t really…uh…s-switch faceplates on a human…y-y’know?” you say in a wavering tone.

Roxy hums quietly, bringing her other hand up to cup your other cheek. “No need,” she says, lowering her head and gently nosing at your scar.

Your breath stills at her words, your eyes widening in surprise. You’re almost not sure you heard right.

She pulls back, smiling down at you tenderly. “You’re still beautiful,” she murmurs, leaning down and pressing her lips to yours.

[voxofthevoid]

Mundane Unclekuna Wednesday #2 ✨

I'm 25k and 4+ chapters into the fic, and it's been...a fun adventure. The PoV structure is Yuuji - Gojou - Sukuna - Sukuna - Gojou - Yuuji for the main six chapters, with a Megumi PoV chapter to conclude the story.

And Chapters 3 and 4, the Sukuna PoV chapters, come to a total of 12.4k. This is the first time I'm tackling his PoV. I thought writing Grimmjow PoV (which is one of the most fun character voices I've ever written) for Bleach would give me some guidance; it did and it didn't. There are similarities, but Sukuna is a very different flavor overall.

Something I realized a few passages in is that I just...could not write Yuuji's name in Sukuna's interior monologue. It wasn't happening. Despite the modern context, the fucker just would not acknowledge Yuuji by name. So we have over 12k of "brat" and "boy" and assorted insults. Won't lie, I enjoyed it, though I'll have a time polishing the phrasing during edits. Contextually apt, relevant epithet usage is always a fun challenge.

Click through for some uncle-nephew incest: Sukuna is his own warning, but Yuuji matches him well enough.

“Strip.”

The brat freezes. “What?”

“I said,” Sukuna enunciates slowly, “strip.”

“But—why?”

“I want to see your damage. If some two-bit sons of a whore fucked you up any, there will be hell to pay, brat.”

“They didn’t,” the kid snaps, eyes all fire. “I told you, they only got Fushiguro, and even that was—”

“I do not care,” Sukuna cuts in, “about Fushiguro Megumi.”

“I do.” It’s a snarl, the mouth matching the eyes. “He’s my friend, and he got caught up in that shit because of me.”

“Did I ask?” Sukuna’s on the kid before he can speak again, grabbing his collar and throwing him to the center of the room. He doesn’t stumble, turning around midway and controlling his momentum so he doesn’t so sprawling on the mat. “Now take off your fucking clothes before I rip them off you. And don’t let your twisted little head fool you, brat—you won’t enjoy it.”

Furious red streaks the brat’s cheek—anger or arousal, even Sukuna can’t tell.

Both, knowing this freak.

“How much?”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow.

The brat raises bold hands to his collar, undoing the top two buttons of his jacket with quick, flicking motions. “How much do you want to see? The top? All of it?”

Despite everything, including all the nights this same boy lied his way into Sukuna’s bed just to molest him in his pretend-sleep, Sukuna finds himself surprised.

“I’ve found dirt-cheap whores with more shame than you,” he says, marveling.

The brat just holds his head higher. “Says more about you than them.”

“You little—”

The rest of the jacket is unbuttoned with startling speed. The brat shrugs it off unceremoniously. By the time it hits the floor, he’s already halfway done with the thin white shirt underneath.

It’s almost like he’s eager to get naked.

The shirt joins the jacket on the floor.

Topless, the brat raises his head, meeting Sukuna’s eyes with a challenge splattered all over his face.

Never had the sense god gave a worm, this one.

Sukuna steps closer—and closer and closer.

The brat doesn’t waver, eyes to toes.

Sukuna drops his gaze to the sweat-slick column of a neck and further down, sneering at the hard curves of muscle. The brat had thinned out a little after that growth spurt last year, like fat and muscle just couldn’t keep up with changing body they clung to, but that didn’t last long. The brat filled right back out, bulging out from biceps to thighs. The uniform shows it better than his casual clothes, straining against shoulders and arms and legs like seams will rip and buttons will pop any moment.

It’s a powerful body—Sukuna’s body, in every way that counts. This boy would never have become what he is today if not for Sukuna.

The brat wasn’t lying, at least. There’s not a mark on him, not even a bruise.

Sukuna’s thorough with the check, circling around the brat once, twice, then again and again, and the little shit relaxes into parade rest, playing at nonchalance, as if Sukuna can’t see his breath quickening and skin dewing.

He comes to a stop directly behind the brat, close enough that he can feel the warmth of his body—a half-phantom haze in the air.

“I should make you take off the rest too,” Sukuna murmurs, watching those shoulders tense up in response. “But you’d enjoy it too much, wouldn’t you?”

The brat’s clasped hands grow tight around each other, those bruised knuckles spotting blood.

But his voice is steady when he says, “Don’t pin this on me. You’re the pervert here.”

Oh, the fucking audacity.

“I’ll tell you a secret, brat,” Sukuna tells him, grinning till his lips sting at how every inch of the brat grows stiff. “You truly are your mother’s child.”

The deflation is almost as amusing as that taut-wire tension.

“That’s not the insult you think it is. I like Mum fine.”

“I wonder about that.”

“The hell does that mean?”

“Turn around.”

The brat practically whips around, taking a step closer till he’s glaring up at Sukuna from less than a foot away.

Sukuna meets his eyes, and the brat doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.

Some fools never learn.

“Are you going to ask?”

Sukuna blinks, trying and failing to make sense of the question. “Ask what? Whether you were dropped on your head as a kid? I already know.”

“Funny,” comes the flat response. “The fight—why I did it, why they started it.”

“Am I supposed to care?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna snorts in spite of himself. “Alright, let’s hear it. Might as well know what I’m wasting my time for.”

“I was talking to Fushiguro.”

“That all it takes to stir up you kids these days? Things must be goddamn boring there.”

The brat growls. “Just listen.”

“Get to the point then.”

“I was talking to Fushiguro,” the brat repeats pointedly, the sheer intensity of it all not matching his words—not yet. “I was telling him something. Something I realized recently. Those guys overheard—and didn’t like what they heard. I wasn’t planning on a fight, but the shit they said…” The kid shrugs, not breaking eye contact. “I don’t regret it.”

“Good for you,” Sukuna drawls. “This is still the most boring fucking—”

“I like men,” the brat cuts in. “I was telling Fushiguro about my type of guy. That’s what pissed off those assholes.”

Sukuna’s mind blanks for a moment, before whirling to life with a vengeance.

Something I realized recently, the brat said. But there’s no way in hell even this idiot would’ve been so oblivious. Yeah, he fucking likes men. He’s been eye-fucking Sukuna since puberty, and the last year or so, he’s also been trying his perverted best to turn that into reality.

“I must’ve kicked you in the head one too many times,” he says, clicking his tongue and grinning when the brat’s expression twists up. “Congratulations, you fucking idiot. You finally figured out what everyone and their mother—yours included—knew since before you knew what to do with your dick.”

“Oh, shut up—”

“So, what, were you talking about opening up one of those kids? Singing loving odes to his shit-crusted backside? Word of advice, brat, if you’re perving on people where they can hear, be ready to commit, one way or the other.” Sukuna glances down at one of the brat’s bloodied knuckles. “And this way tends to get you arrested.”

The brat’s gaping at him.

“What kind of a creep do you think I am?” he asks with all the self-awareness of a piece of rock. “Of course I wasn’t doing that! I didn’t even know them. And you know damn well why they picked a fight.”

He does. Sukuna’s broken his fair share of bastards who couldn’t keep their mouths shut about who and how he fucked. And the world’s changed but not that much.

He’s not worried for the kid. He never will be. Either he’ll survive or he won’t, and if he gives the world more reasons to hate him, he better be ready to chew up every resulting misery till it shows its belly.

“Enlighten me then,” Sukuna says despite his better judgement, “on your type.”

The brat freezes—only for a moment, but it’s telling enough. The air between them thickens.

Blood in the water.

“You shy now?” Sukuna asks softly. “Come on, brat, spill. It better have been something else to get those shitstains so worked up.”

The brat’s jaw sets. “Big, tall men with a good ass.”

Sukuna blinks, somehow caught off guard by the sheer, shameless bluntness.  

“Helps if they’re older,” the brat continues, a corner of his mouth curling meanly—an expression Sukuna recognizes from the goddamn mirror. “But I’m not sure about that yet. Girls are easier. I like how they’re soft and warm everywhere. Guys… I guess they can be soft and cute too. Like Fushiguro. He’s pretty. And I guess it’d be easier if he’s the sort I wanted. And I wouldn’t mind, I think, but he doesn’t make my brain light up like that. Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t tell him this part. He’s my friend.”

Whatever the expression on Sukuna’s face, it’s not judging what the brat thinks he’s judging.

“Your friend,” Sukuna echoes, hearing his voice with a hollow, ringing echo that trembles down every one of his veins, “but not your type—unlike that teacher of yours, the Gojou brat.”

There’s a minute flinch, mostly there in the mouth. “Gojou-sensei is way too old for you to call him a brat.”

“And that’s just how you like ‘em, isn’t it?” Sukuna watches his hand move, curling around a throat that moves under it with a harsh swallow. The brat’s eyes are wider, wilder. “That man will eat you alive, you stupid fucking child.”

The brat curls his hand around Sukuna’s wrist, the pressure of it blisteringly familiar.

“As if you won’t,” he says quietly.

Sukuna tightens his grip. “Speak up, brat. Show some balls for once in your pathetic life.”

The boy snarls, surging like a storm.

Sukuna thinks it’s a punch at first, the force and fury of it like nothing else, and then teeth cut into his lip, drawing blood, and he realizes it’s meant to be a kiss. The brat’s throat is pulled taut, the bulge there digging into Sukuna’s palm as it works around air and spit and swallowed sense. The mouth is a mess, more teeth than lips. He’s kissing Sukuna like he wants to bite off his jaw, the heat of it like nothing else.

Sukuna hasn’t frozen for anything in well over a decade, but now, he does, if only for a moment.

He makes the brat pay for it.

[erenspussy420]

TWST Android Ch 5

Title: Mr Crowley come take us away....

Fem reader

Warning: I am a blog that has Nsfw stuff so please tread with caution in my blog.

Charaters: Reader, Crowley

Chapter 5: 

“--As you know here in Raven works there is no one other than us that  can compete with our androids!” Crowley boasted twirling his cane as he struts—with his long legs you struggled a bit to chase after the flamboyant owner. He led you out of the bright halls of Scarabia, leaving behind the poor Manager unit behind. While you were blindsided from the reveal, you wished he would at least turn her back on. She was so life-like, it was rather saddening to leave her turned off.

 True to his bird-like nature, Crowley caws," Not even Royal Sword Automation can hold a candle to our best androids! Why of course you must have heard of our Vil unit!"

And as always Neige Units name follows not too far off. 

“Yeah, a real…real heart stopper,” you say, face feeling hot remembering how you almost made out with the glass case. Thank Merlin, Manager Unit stopped you, remarking this happens in the most depressing way ever. Inwardly you panic wondering as you realize there would be cameras here! What if he saw? Sweating bullets, you clear your throat,” So like, what other units do you guys have? Is it just humans and merfolk or-?”

“Oh dear customer! You’ll be in for a treat!” He turns his head in your direction but not really looking at you, the swagger in his steps as the heels of his shoes click on the floor. You follow him back to the middle of the intersection of the hall, he turns to you with a grin that curls,” We proudly represent every group, however many are limited edition and others rarer than their fellow androids. Why no one is as mindful as us, to make such a palette for every vice!” With a bright smile, his cane hits the ground and with a grand sweeping gesture he mentions to the wall,”Behold!

”....A wall?”

“Very observant, but not quite!” He tuts, lifts his cane and holds it between his hands, and just as easily did the cane melt into his palms and is no longer there. With a flicker of his hands, the elegant way he spun his fingers did come from his palm, a key similar to the one Manager Unit had earlier, appeared. He held it up to you, the flicker of your reflection looked back at you and once again it was gone with a twist of his wrist.

 “Ready my dear customer?” He asks, his eyes glow from behind his mask,” Now don’t be afraid, where we go many new faces await for us so…”

He offers that gloved hand, the faint scent of leather waft, the golden talons of his fingers click as they wait for you,”-- Take my hand and do not let go.”

His voice low and lulling, washing over you like the first spring rains that come at night. The tips of those lips that carve into your mind.

You step forward, and against any better judgment take his hand.  The cool touch of gold over your fingers felt oddly nice. With a key in his hand, he unlocks the wall, and it ripples— till it smoothes and shines like polished stone. The mysterious Crowley slowly begins to step back, enticing you into the mirror. It's dark glass consuming him, the small pin point of his eyes coax you to join him as he sinks in…

“Dear flower of evil, come into our mirror and see our wonders.”

.

.

.

It felt weird, almost like stepping into a wall of water rather than metal or even goo. Once through you smell the faintness of metal, the whirl of fans and flicker of fire. Your eyes snap open and you look around, your voice hitched in your throat. Whatever the budget they had, it's been well spent. The ground wasn’t carpet, its polished black tiles, and smooth stone walls. White skeletons who kneeled but their heads gaze up at the tall ceiling that curves into a softer type of stone. Pillars of marble, smoothed over and so carefully carved into rolls of clouds that were sealed with— what you hope weren’t the blood of your fellow commoners– gold. 

Once more, like the second floor there was another split into two halls. Where the skeletons lined up, was a hall of marble pillars polished and blinding. Lighting the room seems to be a mix of traditional veilfire of bright blue, and the holograms that popped up with cheery facts of this hall. 

Ignihyde— current androids on display: 2. Representation of the Island of Woes, King of the Underworld–Hades.

There was more information, but that didn’t matter right now. You can’t read it fast enough as the words go up in smoke and rewind. Turning around you see no one, Crowley had practically disappeared. Turning back, you see the other hall lined with torches of green veilfire, walls lined with thick branches of thorns, unlike this hall you can’t see anything else around the bend of its hall. A faint pulse of green light glows, soft and pretty…

Green like emerald, pulsing as a heartbeat would….

The light of the fire curls around the thorns, creating faces and dancing wings that flutter between the flickers of veilfire…

You take a step towards the hall but before you can go any further, the beat of feathers accompanied by the click of heels. 

“Dear Customer! Where are you heading off too?” Crowley’s voice brings you out of your stupor. He continues, now looming over your side as he herds you back to the spot where you entered,” Now before we head off, I must ask you my dear, what does our world value most? Tradition or Progression?”

It's a strange question, asked by a strange man but before you can answer he ignores you as continues to speak,”Why it's both! As traditions have become our stability, an identity and our roots, progression has led us far with its innovations to surpass what was thought to be impossible.  Far have we come from our Golden Era of magic, where legends had risen from the ashes and hero’s have come from humble beginnings.” He twirls you around, making you stumble after him as he does, suddenly you wish the Manager Unit was here instead as you’re pretty sure the more sassy unit would at least get to the point.

“Like the Great Seven,” You add in, catching yourself from the temptation of stepping on his cloak,” They were the foundation of how magic grew over time—- the grand Vizor was able to make advanced machines during the Scalding Sands development.”

Crowley claps his hands rapidly,” Bravo! Bravo! It seems you can be clever when you wish!”

You felt your blood rise but keep it down. “Gee thanks.”

“Now don’t be so humble!” Crowley tuts,” Take your praise in stride! Where progression creates, it must have a foundation in its roots. To our future, we have brought you magic that can come to even the smallest of its holders. To magic users, technology that created companions. Now, my dear customer….which will you choose to venture in first?”

He leans back up, straight and chest out as he raises an arm to the Grecian like hall,”Progress…”

He raised his other hand, cane in hand, to where the dances of shadow in veilfire await.” Or Tradition…”

He smiles widely beneath that mask, his eyes flicker… “Choose, flower of evil….”

[aphroditestummyrolls]

I couldn’t choose so have 2, 16 and 32

HELLO! Such interesting choices you have here 👀 it’s definitely a step back into a type of writing I haven’t done for wesper before. It was a lot of fun, and definitely a muscle I’ll be flexing more often in the future (not taking your niche, though, promise! 😂 Colm Fahey Enjoyer is still very much my niche, but this? This was fun!)

I meant to get this posted last night, but then decided I hated what I’d written and that I wanted to do an edit with fresh eyes. So I waited till this morning. I like it a lot more now, and hope you like it too ☺️

Enjoy these ~2k words of semi-public frotting! I even put it in the engagement series for you!

His breath unfurled into the icy air, frosty and silver in the moonlight.

In the parlour behind him, he could hear the muted din of the party— champagne bottles popped, fine crystal glasses clinked; the hearths were crackling and warm, almost too warm for Wylan’s wine-flushed cheeks; the room was dazzlingly arrayed with decorations, polished to a shine. And their guests! Each gown was more intricate than the last, each suit tailored and pressed like paper doll penguins.

All was well. But Wylan was quite certain he hadn’t taken a deep breath since dinner.

More like for a few weeks, he groused, since preparations began.

It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it— Inej and her crew had come in for the festivities, even picking up Colm from Noyvi Zem on their way. The house was full, the nights were long and full of company, and Wylan was still pinching himself. How he’d gotten so lucky, he’d never understand. For most of his life, he couldn’t imagine having a party like this— an engagement party, no less— being thrown for him. To have such a family of people to celebrate this with them.

But, it… it was all so formal. There was so much to be done, and so much pious posturing that needed to be observed for The Church of Barter to marry them— they had to at least make a public show of following the courtship rules of an engaged geldstraat couple.

All that to say that, between the chaos of hosting his friends, and the ever-watchful eyes of the council, Wylan felt like he had scarcely seen Jes in weeks.

Even while sleeping in the same bed with him, Wylan caught himself missing Jesper. He missed him tonight, while sitting across the table from him. When had he last been held by him? When had they last been alone together?

The cold winter’s night cut through his elegant suit jacket like it was nothing, and the young merchling leaned in gladly. It reinvigorated him, like fresh blood was pumping through his veins again. He blinked out at the gardens from the edge of the terrace.

The moon was waxing, nearly full as it cast the night in a wash of silvery blue. Stars twinkled in the velvet sky. He set his hands on the cold stone of the terrace railing, and let the prickling sensation of overstimulation fade.

It took less than a couple minutes for him to go from exhilarated by the chill to fighting the first shivers, but he resisted. He didn’t want to go just yet.

He didn’t hear the muted open and shut of the fogged up parlour door, or the call of his name until there were footsteps trotting up beside him. Jesper was grinning, loose-limbed with wine and happiness, slipping a hand around his waist as he came to stand beside him— if Veld or Boer saw them so close, they’d be scolded like horny teenagers.

Wylan pressed closer.

“Skipping out on your own party? Bad form, merchling.”

“Our party. I’m not marrying myself.”

“If it was our party, you’d be helping me fend off the miserable old prunes you call councilmen— Gekkehuis just tried to corner me by the punchbowl. I nearly drowned myself in it just to make a quick escape.”

Wylan couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in his chest. There was something quippy and bright on the tip of his tongue, but he never got the chance to say it. He looked up and over to see his betrothed, and saw him bathed in moonlight. His curls were moisturised and styled, falling over his forehead with the shine of a silver blue halo. There was a smudge of kohl lining his luminous eyes, and the winter air had already bitten a little colour into his cheeks.

Jes blinked down at him with the twinkle of a laugh still in his eyes, but it faded quickly to something more subdued. “It’s bitter out here, Wy— you’ll be turning blue soon. Let’s get you back inside, warm you up—“

But Wylan couldn’t make his feet move. Maybe it was the spell of the moonlight, and the way it hugged along Jesper’s lanky, lovely frame. Or maybe it was the curl of desperation he felt to finally be alone with his betrothed after all night under so many watchful eyes. His body was so warm and alive pressed along his, and even just the one step he’d taken away from him was too much.

He wanted to be with Jesper. Just Jesper. He didn’t want to go inside and go back to keeping up the tender distance of a proper, not-yet-married couple. So, he caught Jes by the wrist before he could make a move to the door, and reeled him back in until they couldn’t get closer. The lapels of his fine suit jacket— a stunning green fabric Colm had brought in from Noyvi Zem just for the occasion— slipped softly under Wylan’s fingers. Underneath, his heart beat steadily. The warmth of his chest suffused into Wylan’s palms, and he was greedy for it.

Whatever expression was on his face, Jes took one look at him and he knew.

“Don’t want to go back yet.” He said anyway.

It earned him a rakish smile that kindled low in his belly. Wylan wanted the heat in his eyes, he wanted the heat of his lover.

“No?”

He shook his head, giggling a little deliriously as Jesper crowded him up against the stone terrace railing. “Can’t go back to all that… just yet. Warm me up.”

Jesper knew what he meant.

He brushed the tip of his nose to Wylan’s. “And what about Ghezen’s rules of propriety for unwed couples?”

“Some rules are meant to be broken.” It wasn’t as if they weren’t breaking them in their private life every day, but it sent a thrill along his spine just the same. “No one on the council will be looking for us out here tonight— not for a while, at least. Too cold for them.”

“We have a minute or two.” Jesper nodded conspiratorially. His hands were wandering, squeezing at Wylan’s hips and brushing along his thighs. It was like he couldn’t help himself— and Wylan wouldn’t dare stop him. “Missed you, merchling.”

Oh Ghezen, it was such a drug to have a moment to themselves. He tilted himself up, leaning back in those strong arms, waiting for a kiss that hovered just out of reach.

“Show me how much.” He whispered back.

The first brush of those perfect lips was barely more than warm breath on his cheek. It made Wylan shiver. The second kiss was that little bit more solid, pressed to the corner of his smiling mouth. When the touch made him sigh, Wylan’s exhale once again curled out in a frosty plume.

Jes had slipped his hands under Wylan’s open suit jacket, pulling him flush by his hips. He was so warm.

“Saints, you’re so cold, Love— the elements are against us.” Jesper chuckled, his hands roving across his back, sneaking up between his shoulder blades while the other stroked along the dip of his spine. Saints.

Wylan looked up at his betrothed playfully from under his lashes. “Never knew you to back down from a challenge.”

And then, Jesper wasn’t just kissing him, he was plundering him. He freed a hand to sink it into the curls at the back of his head. His palm was so warm, his body hot and insistent against his own. He scrambled for just a moment before getting his cold, clumsy hands wrapped around his lover’s shoulders, refusing to let him go further than a breath away from his lips while Jesper said challenge accepted.

Time seemed to go syrupy slow in their little bubble of the world— the moon, the frost, the cold stone at Wylan’s back and the hot, hot body wrapped up around him. He felt utterly enveloped by his lover. The kisses were deep and drugging, his hands were roughly squeezing, trying to get Wylan impossibly closer and closer. He was no longer shivering with cold, but he was trembling with want.

Heat throbbed through Wylan, the rush of it making his knees buckle. Jesper’s thigh pressed in, slotted with Wylan’s own— there were sparks flying behind his blissfully closed eyes, his hands fisting in that beautiful green suit. There was a deep blush blooming in his cheeks. He could feel it rushing down his neck as those lips pressed searing, openmouthed kisses down the column of his throat. His ass was half leaned against the stone behind him, and half hiked up into Jesper’s hand. A choked off gasp split the night, and Wylan let Jesper kiss it out of his mouth.

There was a familiar curl of desperate heat, coiling and unspooling itself in the cradle of Wylan’s hips. As the want mounted higher and higher inside him, he couldn’t help but rock into Jesper like a tide, and Jes only urged him on with his own rolling hips. The hot, hard length of him was pressing insistently against his own, the friction of their clothes feeling maddeningly good and nowhere near enough, not enough—

Somewhere in the back of his addled mind, he knew they needed to stop soon. Wylan needed to straighten out the wrinkles in his suit and try to fix the mess Jesper was certainly making of his hair. They were the guests of honour— they couldn’t disappear from their own party indefinitely just to make out like horny teenagers and give themselves hypothermia.

That was until his betrothed fisted that hand in his curls, sending a satisfying sting zinging down his spine. With his throat bared to the cold night, Jesper licked a hot stripe to his jaw, and bit.

The sound Wylan let out was a long, keening thing, firecrackers popping behind his eyes and blunt fingernails scrabbling along Jesper’s back. In that moment, he would swear he’d never felt so greedy. He needed more, he needed everything—

As if on cue, a throat cleared roughly behind them.

“At your own party? You’re lucky the windows have drapes.”

Wylan nearly toppled backwards into the garden, biting back the shocked yelp as reality came slamming back into them. Jesper jumped back a full step, all the body heat between them going cold and empty again. The terrace was still frosty blue, and the hubbub of the party continued in the amber light of the parlour, a constant murmur behind the curtains and foggy windows.

Kaz looked bored.

At least it was just Kaz. Wylan gingerly set his feet back on solid ground, slipping down from the stone railing. Jes seemed to be thinking the same thing, deflating his shoulders with a relieved sigh. He hooked his arm around Wylan’s waist and grinned at their friend like the cat that got the cream.

“Wylan was cold.”

“Oh, I’m sure he was.” Kaz rolled his eyes. “What if someone had seen you? Are you trying to kill Gekkehuis? Because there are easier ways to do it.”

“Not more fun ways, though.” Wylan chimed in. His voice was so wrecked, he hardly even recognised himself, breathless and raspy.

The huff of Jesper’s laugh made a frosty cloud unfurl from his lips. Wylan missed him again— the heat, the easy way he touched him, the closeness.

Their friend didn’t seem pleased about it, but he at least conceded to their point. “Just get inside before somebody else sees you. And fix your hair— you look like you’ve been mauled, Wylan.”

He could swear that his blush didn’t fade for the rest of the night.

[idiotwithanipad]

Fated Meeting

The first time Amy (my OC) had a real moment alone with intact Humphrey before their father-daughter bonding occurred🖤⚔️

(Also a fic based on this drawing I did weeks back🥹)

(TW: Cursive language, Mention of choking to death, Fear, Slight Angst/Self Blame)

“She’s GOT to come out of that blasted room eventually. It’s been a week!” The Captain blurted, his patience wearing thin by the day. A week had in fact passed since the new ghost died. A young woman, dressed head to toe in strange attire and strange makeup, choked to death on a canned drink. The predicament frightened her, confused her and left her second guessing what any of this meant.

Their introduction to her had been abrupt, to say the least. The ecstatic caveman bounded towards the group hounding and barking about a new edition to the group. She was frightened by them, all of them apart from half of one; Humphrey's severed head had been the least intimidating, a huge surprise to the Tudor man given his appearance. 

Yet, despite regular, albeit, unconventional introductions, the new girl coward away every time they entered her room. She'd taken to seeking refuge in a polished wardrobe by the wall, passing through the panes and ducking underneath some complimentary rain jackets and dressing gowns. She sat there for days, never even poking her head out through the wood. 

The caveman had tried to surprise the girl one morning, rushing through the wall and shouting a jovial 'MORNIES!'. Though, given her scream and her tinted cheeks fading to a deathly white, he opted to stop; he often forgot how intimidating he could look to the modern person, especially at full volume and with just about three inches of space between them. 

Today, she risked a peek, swallowing back her courage and biting the bullet. Her head drifted through the wardrobe door and peered out into the empty room. Her lungs practically deflated with relief, the ever lingering taste of the drink that she choked on caught against her tastebuds. 

She rose from inside the wardrobe and got to her feet, she dusted of the back of her skirt, not yet aware that dirt and dust could no longer get stuck to her. The door still remained shut and locked, yet she wasn't sure how much stability that could offer anymore since the new strangers could barge in at any given second. 

The girl, Amy, peered out through the door and down the corridor. Nobody in sight. Maybe she could stretch her legs for a while without being spotted? If she stepped carefully enough, maybe those old floorboards wouldn't give under the weight of her thick soles of her boots? 

Amy found herself approaching a staircase, she went to grasp onto the banister but stumbled slightly when it failed to support her weight, her hand drifting down through the wood in an instant. She bit her lip, hoping that her shrill gasp hadn't alerted any of the strangers. She waited a complete ten seconds before descending the rest of the stairs. 

Half the way down she began to hear voices, a group of voices, which came from a room at the bottom right of the stairs. 

"Well, the poor little thing DID have a sudden death. Not a very nice way to go I imagine" A Yorkshire accent protested from the room. 

"Never took ME this long to come to terms with it and I saw myself being resuscitated with no TROUSERS on. That was traumatic enough; a bunch of blokes gathered around you in that state... " A sharp and well spoken voice combated. 

"Perhaps she's just shy? If I can show her my Canoe trick it might make her feel better" A spritley woman's voice beamed. 

"Look, let's all just wait it out. She'll come down when she's ready. Or perhaps she can't talk? Or she's deaf?" The man with the Yorkshire accent added, he ironically seemed to be itching to find a reason why the new girl didn't want to socialize. 

A strange, gruff voice cut the other man off. 

"Oh no. She talk, me know it. I go see her other day and she tell me to fu-"

"Yes, thank you, Robin!" The older and more assertive male voice barked. 

Amy froze on the last step, her figure hidden behind a wall, her eavesdropping prolonged by flooding questions. Why were they so desperate for her to show herself? They had plenty of company, why did they all care so much? As their conversation faded into murmurs and ringing in Amy's ears, she retreated back up a few steps and sat down, her eyes frozen on the door ahead of her, wishing she could just hurl it open and run away, get home as soon as possible and forget this whole nightmare. 

All sound that surrounded her seemed to have faded completely. Except from behind her. Footsteps. 

Amy whipped her head around faster than a Cobra strikes at a Mouse. The man, he used to be just a head, but now he stood at the top of the stairs behind her. He hadn't registered her there yet and began to descend. His eyes darted down and popped wide open, he paused from any movement and gawked in shock; he looked just as scared and out of his depth as she was. 

His hands slowly rose from beneath his fur lined cloak and his mouth cracked open. 

"No, no no please don't-" Amy whispered, already trying to rise to her feet and back away from the Tudor man. 

" .. 'S alright. You're alright" He whispered back to her, taking another step down towards her, only for her to shamble down a step and stare up at him in dread. 

"Go away, please just- leave me alone-"

"Shh, it's alright. Calm down, Poppet, I won't tell 'em you're 'ere" The Tudor soothed, keeping his hands risen and in plain sight, a supposed gesture that he meant her no harm. 

"E-Everything's fine. All fine, uhh- hunky dory- jolly jodhpurs... Umm, all-good?.." The Tudor mused, his knowledge of modern slang, albeit a little dated, needed to come in handy in order to soothe the frightened girl. 

Amy glanced back over her shoulder towards the doorway to the occupied room, it seemed to drift closer and threaten to expose her to a cacophony of chaos and hounding. The man had wandered down a few more steps and regarded her with a subtlety that the other ghosts hadn't quite mustered yet. 

He lowered himself down onto the stairs with a soft grunt and folded his arms. 

"Sorry to have scared you, I WAS detached earlier, saw you leave your room from where I was on a cabinet in the hall, thought it best not to call out to you since, well, nervous little thing, aren't you, Poppet?" The man trailed off with a soft chuckle. 

Amy stood, cemented to the spot, gawking up at the man, more in surprise rather than fear. 

"Then luckily enough, my body wandered by and picked me up. A shock, even to me, doesn't happen too often and I've been dead for 'underends of years" The Tudor broke off that sentence with a beaming grin and a shrug. 

Amy shuffled in her spot, the toes of her boots tapping together. 

"Well... If you're not here to drag me in there with that lot- what DO you want?" Amy spat. The man glanced around defensively and held up a hand again. 

"Nothing. Nothing at all, again, I had no idea you were 'ere. Just- happened upon you, I guess. Although, I wouldn't mind a good thick slice of smoked pork" He hummed, his lip smacking at the delicious memory of the taste. 

Amy's brow furrowed in confusion; when did this conversation switch to food? 

"Huh?" Amy stood puzzled. The man's eyes then darted back to her, the absentminded grin on his face vanishing in a second. 

"Ey? Oh, I thought that was a general question when you said- what I wanted. But umm, what umm- what would YOU like? If you could 'ave anything?" He asked as he leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands together. 

Amy looked back towards the door, she practically itched to dive towards it and flee. 

"Honestly? I wanna go home. I just wanna forget about them. About all of this" Amy gabbled, giving a dismissive flourish of her hand towards the room the rest of the ghosts resided in, still unaware of her presence. 

"I never should've come back inside, I should've just- fucking stayed outside!" Amy blurted, her arm slapping back down at her side while her other hand came up to wipe at her eyes. 

The Tudor man's gaze dropped down, pity washing over him. 

"I know, Poppet. I can't say I know how you feel really; this place was my home before my death, so really, I never left my home. But I can only imagine how- painful it is to be away from your old home" He spoke gently, his eyes struggling to focus on her. 

Amy released a sharp sigh and itched at the back of her head in frustration. 

"Such a fucking idiot... " She muttered to herself. 

The man fiddled with his frilled cuff briefly, unable to find the words to console her, but he noticed she began drifting closer to him in her fit of annoyance towards herself. 

"Moron... Such an idiot-" Amy cut herself off as she dropped down into the same step at the Tudor, resting her face in her hands. The man froze and stared at her; he never would've expected her to approach him, let alone sit next to him. 

"Wasn't your fault, really. It was- just an accident-" He tried to reason. 

"Well, it was a LETHAL accident and now I'm stuck in this giant shithole for God knows how long, Harold!"

"Humphrey.. "

"Ye- whatever!" 

Humphrey retorted. 

"I know a thing or two about 'lethal accidents', believe you me..." He mused, pointing towards his neck with a raised eyebrow. Amy caught eye of his gesture and fell silent; she couldn't fight him on this, he DEFINITELY knew how it felt. 

She rested her elbow against her knee, then rested her chin into the palm of her hand, letting out a drawn out and defeated sigh. 

"Still- I'm surprised you never died of a broken ankle with those shoes of yours. How thick are those soles?" Humphrey added, peering down passed Amy's knee and towards the infamously thick soled boots, partially hidden beneath her woolen leg warmers. 

Without looking up at him, Amy returned. 

"... Four inches"

[inkblackorchid]

With the next one of Aki’s stories being a long one, is it something you are planning on finishing before you start publishing chapters, or publishing as you go along? Just curious what your approach is for the longer fics

Ok so as I've said on tumblr (and I think maybe also in the author's notes on ao3?? I forget) before, I at the very least want to finish the first portion of this fic before I start uploading anything. (That portion's end being marked by a particular duel.) From the way my outline is looking right now, that means I'd probably write until chapter 5 or more before I might consider publishing a chapter (there are currently a total of 14 chapters planned). And as of right now, I'm about to finish the first draft of chapter 3.

...But. But. See, the thing is, this fic, due to being extremely plot-heavy, needs to be super tightly written. Like, this thing needs to work. And all the duels in it (yes, multiple) really need to hit the mark, or else this story loses some of its emotional impact. In other words, I'll definitely be extra thorough when it comes to editing this one, too. So at least where this particular fic is concerned, I'm kinda shying away from the "publish as I go along"-approach, because there are too many moving parts here and I want this to be as coherent as possible. So it's a bit of a tossup atm. If I feel confident enough in how fast I'm progressing with the story by the time that first portion is written out, I may start publishing before all the chapters are done. But if there's a chance that I might deviate from the outline later in a way that would require me to go back to a previous chapter to add some setup there? I'll hold off and wait until at the very least the first draft of the whole story is done.

As far as longer fics in general go, though, I'm always more the type who likes to write a bit in advance before publishing. Even with To Be of Use, which had little to no plot and was the only work I've genuinely published as the chapters got done so far, I didn't feel entirely happy throwing the chapters out as I had them. I'm a huge fan of setup and payoff, and callbacks, and foreshadowing, etc. and the thing is, even if you're a very practiced writer, as soon as you're writing a plot-heavy story, you'll encounter moments where you come up with an important thing you want to happen a little later in the story than you meant to, and suddenly need to go back to actually set that up, because you didn't in the first draft of an earlier chapter. (At least this is my experience, your mileage may vary, writing styles differ, etc.) So to write the best thing I can, I usually like to give myself the time to write the entire first draft, then revise that first draft, then do the final edit of each chapter just before publishing it. (This was also my modus operandi for basically all my 5Ds fics prior to Fields of Arcadia. Even if I didn't have the entire story edited and polished yet, the first draft was always complete before I ever started publishing. It's only now that my backlog of pre-written first drafts has caught up to me and I'm forced to keep y'all waiting as I prepare the next big thing completely from scratch in real time.)