#knowing that this may be his last time to do so

[erodasfishtacos]

Wedding Band Cuts

prompt: YN goes into a massage and things go haywire quickly

word count: 8k (oooops)

warnings: this is all filth, i couldn't get this concept out of my mind

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=================

YN may or may not have a slight crush on the owner of the health club that she belongs to.

An boujee, exclusive type of place that there was a waitlist for membership and the prices to join were insane.

The only reason she could attend was because she got a massive discount because of her work.

He wasn’t what someone would imagine the typical gym owner to look like. 

No, he wasn’t a meathead with bulging biceps, thick veins protruding from his forearms, and  a protein shake in hand at all times.

Harry was lean.

Built in a way that was quietly powerful, his strength evident but not flaunted. 

The kind of muscular that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect nonetheless. 

He was intimidating in a different way—not because he towered over people or grunted loudly when lifting weights, but because he moved with an effortless grace that made everything he did look easy. 

The men who spent their time flexing in the mirror and slamming weights to the ground were often left in the dust by him. He bypassed them without so much as a labored breath, but he was never condescending about it.

He didn’t rub it in their faces or attempt to show off.

That, somehow, made him even more attractive.

YN knows that she has never, in her whole life, found someone as attractive as Harry. 

It was almost embarrassing how her stomach flipped whenever she caught sight of him in those tiny workout shorts, the ones that made it impossible not to stare. 

She wanted to drool like a dog when he lifted weights shirtless, every muscle in his torso shifting in perfect harmony. 

But she wasn’t the only one who felt this way—every woman at the gym seemed to have the same not-so-subtle admiration.

The issue was with her (and the other women) she was married.

Despite being the owner, Harry was always around.

 Sometimes he was doing administrative tasks, other times he was covering for employees who had called in sick. 

Hiring college kids meant dealing with last-minute schedule changes, so he often found himself playing the role of front desk attendant, janitor, or—on rare occasions—masseuse.

It was a health club, after all. 

The gym offered more than just workout equipment; there was a spa with facials, manicures, and, of course, massages. While Harry wasn’t an esthetician and couldn’t fill in for those services, he was a certified masseuse.

However, he rarely stepped in for that role because his staff was dependable.

That didn’t stop the women from hoping.

It was common knowledge among the female members that if someone called out, there was a slight—very slight—chance that Harry might step in. 

None of them had been lucky enough for it to happen, though. 

And when news spread that Jerry, a seventy-one-year-old man, had received a massage from Harry when his assigned therapist had to leave due to a stomach bug, the collective jealousy among the women was almost comical.

Jerry, blissfully unaware of the silent resentment directed his way, had wobbled out of the building looking loose-limbed and content, oblivious to the scowls of women who had never before envied an elderly man quite so much.

Tiffany, one of the braver women, decided to test her luck. 

With a sickly sweet smile, she had approached the front desk where Harry was working, tilting her head just so as she asked if he might be able to squeeze her in for a massage.

Harry, ever professional, had simply glanced up from the computer screen, offered her a polite but firm smile, and informed her that since the therapist had left early, they unfortunately wouldn’t be able to accommodate her request. 

He didn’t offer to step in himself, and Tiffany had to swallow her disappointment as she rejoined her friends, shoulders slumping in defeat.

YN was excited for the massage because she kept such tension in her lower back, her thighs, her glutes.

And she definitely didn’t get them regularly enough because life was busy so the strain and stiffness built and built until her body ached enough to have her make an appointment.

It was last minute, they were able to squeeze her in at the last session available, eight in the evening.

The gym was closed at that point but the spa was open until nine.

When YN steps into the dimly lit lobby of the building, she immediately notices how quiet it is. 

The usual low hum of voices or the distant clinking of weights from the gym is missing.

 Instead, the only sound is the faint buzzing of the overhead light and the gentle click of the door settling back into place behind her. She makes her way toward the receptionist’s desk, her steps echoing slightly against the polished tile floor.

The desk is empty. 

No receptionist in sight, no signs of life beyond the unlocked door. 

If the entrance hadn’t been open, she would have assumed the place had already shut down for the night. 

It’s unsettling, the stillness of it all. 

There had been only one other car in the parking lot—a sleek black sedan parked near the entrance. 

She could only hope it belonged to her massage therapist because if she didn’t get the relief she was craving, she might actually scream. 

Her shoulders ached, tension coiled tightly along her spine, and she needed to feel like jelly by the time she walked out of here.

YN lingers at the front desk, her fingertips lightly tapping along the smooth oak surface as she chews on the inside of her lip. 

She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the massage rooms, her nerves prickling when she hears footsteps approaching. 

The rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor grows louder with each step.

She fully expects to see Pedro—her regular massage therapist. Pedro, who always greeted her with a knowing smirk and a shake of his head, chastising her for letting herself get so tense.

But it’s not Pedro who steps around the corner.

No, it’s Harry.

Harry, the owner of the gym.

He’s always been effortlessly charming, the kind of man who draws attention without even trying. 

Women often mistook his friendliness for flirting, but that was just his nature—engaging, attentive, and naturally likable. He had one of those faces that made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. 

Deep-set dimples softened the sharpness of his jawline, giving him an almost boyish appeal, while the light scruff and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his real age.

“Hello, I’m sorry about that,” he says as he moves behind the desk, leaning down to click around on the computer, hiis voice is smooth, deep, the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer, “You must be… YN, right? Here for your massage with Pedro?”

“It’s okay,” YN reassures him with an easy smile, a bit fluttery because he was cute, “Yes, that’s me,”

“Pedro had to leave earlier due to a family emergency,” Harry informs her as he clicks around a bit more before looking up at her, “I should have called to cancel but I got distracted with some paperwork. Are you comfortable with having one with me? Or I can reschedule and give you a free massage on the house for the inconvenience.”

YN hesitates. A free massage sounded tempting—nearly $200 worth of pampering for nothing. 

But then there was the other option: a paid session with Harry, the hot gym owner with broad shoulders and an easy smile. 

She hadn’t expected to find herself in this predicament, but now that she was here, her stomach gave a nervous little flip.

“I really need one. I’m really stiff,” YN’s eyes darted away nervously, something akin to the feeling when you’re about to drop down on a rollercoaster creeping into her stomach, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you at all.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to massage you,” Harry replies, his words slow and this morbid monotone that somehow works for him, his eyes narrow just the slightest, and even though nothing he said was inappropriate.

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. 

It’s not the words themselves—it’s how they linger in the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

 YN presses her thighs together instinctively, pulse quickening as heat creeps up the back of her neck.

YN rolls her lip between her teeth, she doesn’t know when she got so brazen but she gives him a small, unsure smile, “Hopefully you’re as good as Pedro.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, eyes narrowing at the challenge, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”

“Pedro’s hands are amazing though, not just good, you know?” YN keeps her tone casually like she’s not trying to bait him but she’s pretty sure that she’s not misconstruing the sexual tension for him just being nice, he wasn’t like this all the time. 

“I'm sure you’ll be satisfied with my services. Are you hard to please?” Harry asks with a tilt of his head, a slight smirk she's never seen before.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, tapping her fingers against the desk, “Most people would say no. My husband, on the other hand? He might say something different.”

Harry’s eyes flicker down to her left hand, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he finds her ring finger bare. 

His jaw clenches just the slightest bit before his tone turns cool, more businesslike,  “I’ll show you to the room we’ll be using.”

YN wonders if she shouldn't have mentioned she had a husband, maybe she had led him on with the fact that she didn't have her wedding band on.

She knew she would have to take it off anyways, and didn't want to get the lotion rubbed into nooks and crannies that are difficult to clean.

He steps out from behind the desk.

YN’s eyes drop to do a full body scan, she often subtly checked him out when she was here but now with a bit of arousal pooling in her tummy - she had a whole other perspective on him.

How his legs were such a sweet juxtaposition of lean but thick at the same time, she could easily imagine herself sinking her nails into them.

The shorts he wore showed them off entirely too well, he absolutely knew what he was doing when he stepped into those short shorts that morning.

And when he turns to start walking down the hallway, YN can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, and they're accentuated by the way they lead down into narrow hips.

The definition of manly.

As they walk down the hallway, YN peeks into the other offices—empty, confirming that they are, indeed, alone.

 It shouldn’t matter. 

This was a professional massage.

 Nothing more.

“I didn't know you were certified in massages,” YN chimes in as they walk, just to break the silence that had fallen in between them.

YN deemed it awkward but she didn't know if he did.

He doesn't turn around but he does reply, “I got a certification when I got my doctorate in exercise science and kinesiology. It was an elective. I did them more when I started the business but now I have employees for that.”

“So you're rusty, is what you're telling me?” YN teases, she should stop baiting him because he seems easy to react and not always in a good way.

YN has seen Harry yell at grown men over poor form that could have seriously injured their backs or throwing them out for not respecting the gym rules.

He was intimidating to say the least.

“Did I say that?” Harry turns to look over his shoulder, “My wife requests them enough that I don't get to become rusty.”

“Oh,” YN replies lamely, eyes darting down to see that he did in fact have a gold wedding band on his ring finger, hard to miss, and proudly shining.

 It’s hard to miss.

And yet, for a moment, she had.

“Oh?” Harry questions, still glancing back, “Is there an issue?”

YN swallows harshly, his eyes were laxer focused and challenging her to say something that she shouldn't.

She shouldn't because he's married.

She shouldn’t because she’s married.

“N-no,” YN stammers at the sudden question, tightened uncertainty winding in her belly - mixing with the hot, subtle arousal.

“Good,” Harry nods before he's stopping one of the last doors on the left, his hand curls around the knob, “Undress to your comfort. Some people prefer keeping their bra and underwear on, others go nude. Whatever you feel best doing.”

YN hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides.

 Normally, she’d strip off her bra but keep her underwear on—just enough coverage to maintain a sliver of modesty. 

But something inside her stirs, something unfamiliar yet enticing, daring her to step beyond her usual boundaries.

She bites her bottom lip, the decision swirling in her head as she looks at Harry.

 But his expression gives nothing away, his patience unwavering as he waits for her to step inside.

“I'll give you a few minutes to get settled. Please lay face-down under the sheet, pull it up to your lower back. Do you have any questions?” Harry asks as he flips on the light, the beautiful room already set up, and a twinkling zen music filters through the built-in speaker.

“No,” YN says again, quiet as she steps past him into the space, “Thank you.”

Harry dips his chin in a silent nod before stepping back, allowing her to move past him. 

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

++

It takes longer than she expects for him to return.

At least ten minutes pass, maybe more. 

She can tell by the way the medley of soft instrumentals has shifted two or three times, a seamless transition of calming melodies. 

She breathes deeply, inhaling the mix of essential oils perfuming the air, but the stillness is beginning to make her twitch.

The way that she can feel her nipples against the sheet, the way that every part of her skin is touching it actually.

It’s warm in the room, enough that she can feel the perspiration start to prickle at her lower back, and she can’t decipher whether or not it’s from the temperature of the room or the flush of her body.

YN digs her fingernails into her palms momentarily, to ground herself, to get a hold of herself.

She’s not in some fucking fantasy novel.

Harry is a professional. 

He’s probably oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her head.

He’s married.

She told him that she is married.

The last thing he probably wants is a client sexualizing him in the middle of his job.

Before she can scold herself enough to feel guilt of her rather debach thoughts - the door opens and her heart squeezes with anticipation.

He cracks the door before stepping in, “Ready?”

“Yes,” YN swallows as she squeezes her eyes shut, the door clicks closed behind him.

YN had pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, every masseuse had different protocol, and as soons as he steps over - she realizes that she already hadn’t been great at following his very simple instructions.

She hears his measured footsteps approach before feeling his hands on the sheet—his fingers brushing against the warmth of her bare back as he carefully folds the fabric down.

 It settles just above the swell of her bum, exposing the curve of her lower back.

He stills for the briefest moment.

Then, a deep inhale.

It’s almost imperceptible. A barely-there intake of breath that might be nothing—or might be something.

YN convinces herself she’s imagining things.

He’s probably adjusting his stance. 

Or stretching his fingers.

 Or something entirely mundane that has nothing to do with the fact that he just discovered she’s completely bare beneath the sheet.

“I'm going to begin. Please, let me know if anything is sensitive or sore during. Is there anywhere you would like me to focus in particular?” Harry inquired, he sounds formal, professional as he should.

“My glutes and calves,” YN responds after a moment of thought.

The calves part was true - they were tight and sore from her legs days at the gym.

Her glutes, however, did not need any work but she couldn't get the imagine of his hands massaging her there out of her mind.

“Noted,” Harry replies with a gruff, clipped agreement like he was gritting his teeth at her answer.

The beginning of the massage is as normal as anything, his fingers press deep into the knots lining her shoulders, working out the tension that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. 

The pressure is firm, methodical.

But the moment his palms cup around the nape of her neck, a shiver bolts through her spine.

She tries to squeeze her thighs together subtly, a feeble attempt at quelling the heat pulsing low in her belly. 

But it’s impossible, her legs already splayed relaxed on the table.

Harry notices the movement.

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you need to reposition?” Harry asks when he notices her fidgeting, concern in his voice that makes her feel even more guilt at her thoughts.

“No, I'm good,” YN’s reply isn't more than a strained squeak.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but he does press his thumbs deeper into the base of her neck, a silent cue for her to relax.

“Try to relax then. You're tight,” Harry continues to move his fingers and all she can hear is that last sentence on repeat.

He's talking about back muscles, she has to remind herself.

You’re tight.

YN does finally listen, relaxing into the soft, heated cushion of the table, and purposefully clearing her mind.

“There you go, good girl,” Harry murmurs when he notices her shoulders start to loosen, neck letting her head hang more into the face cushion, and her thighs melting into the table too.

Good girl.

YN’s clear mind is now filled once again.

Her muscles should be turning to liquid under his touch, her mind blank with relaxation. 

But all she can focus on is the phantom sensation of his voice curling around those words.

By the time he finishes her back—nothing but completely professional work thus far, she’s half-certain that if she were to open her mouth, she’d be panting like an overheated dog.

“I’m going to start on your calves,” Harry informs her, shifting his stance beside her, “Then I’ll work my way up to your glutes. Since you requested them, I just want to confirm you’re comfortable with my hands there.”

YN knows he’s only being professional, ensuring her comfort.

If only he knew the absolute filth running through her head.

If only he knew just how much she wanted his hands there.

“Yes,” YN replies shallowly, she had been laying down for at least the last twenty minutes and she felt like she’d just ran a marathon, her throat parched and aching.

Harry’s tone sharpens, more assertive than she’s ever heard before. 

There’s a domineering edge to it that sends a shiver down her spine, “Yes, what? Yes, you are comfortable with that, or yes, you do want to change your mind?”

YN feels embarrassment flushing her at the miscommunication, it blends into the heat she already has seeping from her skin so there’s no difference.

“Yes, I am comfortable with your hands there,” YN manages to get out, she wonders if Harry thinks she’s an absolute basketcase or if he even has any awareness of the situation.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

 Instead, he resumes his work, his hands slick with the massage oil he had been using. The scent of sweet almond fills the space between them, subtle yet intoxicating.

 It’s her favorite scent—always has been.

 It reminds her of the raspberry almond cake she and her husband had shared on their wedding day, the same one they’d made a tradition of enjoying every anniversary since. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by an involuntary groan that she lets out when he presses on a tight spot right in the center of her calve.

The pain is sharp and sudden, and instinctively, she tries to yank her leg from his grip, but Harry’s grip is firm, steady.

 He doesn’t even struggle to keep her still. 

His hold is effortless, almost dismissive of her attempt to squirm away.

“You should stretch for longer than five minutes before you work out,” he chides, his tone laced with knowing disapproval,“Especially when you’re doing legs. You need to be warming up your hamstrings, groin, calves.”

He punctuates his point by pressing into the same tender spot again, and she lets out a similar sound—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as the ache flares up once more.

“How do you know I’m not?” YN challenges, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. 

She hadn’t even realized Harry was paying attention to her.

 She hadn’t thought he noticed her at all, let alone enough to critique her habits.

Harry chuckles, the sound low and rough, curling at the edges with amusement, “That reaction, right there.”

YN is about to deflate because it wasn’t because of him noticing her until -

“I’ve seen you stretch. You sit on your mat and scroll on your phone for five minutes while barely trying to touch your toes,” Harry calls her out.

His assessment is shockingly accurate, and she doesn’t have much of a defense.

 Instead, she deflects.

“I’m plenty flexible without stretching,” YN quips, allowing a teasing edge to slip into her tone. 

The innuendo is obvious, intentional.

Harry doesn’t rise to it in the way she expects.

 He doesn’t laugh or smirk or falter.

 Instead, his response is delivered in the same flat, unimpressed drawl. 

“Are you?” His thumb digs into her calf again, pressing into another tight knot of tension, “You’re just as tight as you are flexible.”

Touché.

She doesn’t realize just how tightly she’s been clenching her thighs until Harry’s palms press flat against the backs of them. 

Firm but not forceful.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Fuck.

His voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of hesitation. 

There is no question in his command. 

She obeys without thinking, parting her legs easily, pliantly.

 But as soon as the sheet shifts—just slightly, the reality of her own arousal crashes over her in a suffocating wave. 

Embarrassment sinks its claws into her as she wonders—can he see?

 Can he tell? Is there enough of a telltale sheen on her inner thighs to give her away? 

A visible wet spot on the table?

“Why are you clenching—” Harry starts, but then he stops.

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

It’s as if something clicks into place, something he wasn’t expecting, and it cuts off his line of questioning entirely.

“Wha—” YN begins to ask, shifting slightly to glance behind her, but before she can move too far, a hand comes down to the base of her neck.

His palm cups it, firm yet controlled, pressing her back down into the face cradle. 

The pressure isn’t rough, but it’s purposeful.

 It’s the first real slip—something that isn’t professional, not even close.

The way he grips her isn’t the neutral, detached touch of a masseuse simply guiding their client. 

No. 

This is something else entirely.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is rougher now, deeper.

 There’s something strained in the way he speaks, his accent thickening as if he’s forcing himself to remain composed.

 It takes her an extra beat to process his words, to pick them apart through the weight of his tone.

“Jesus. S’ridiculous. Just trying to do my fucking job.”

The words aren’t meant for her, not really.

 He’s speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

And yet, they hit her like a slap.

Embarrassment rattles through her, her heart climbing up into her throat. 

He sounds frustrated. 

With her. 

The realization makes her shrink, makes her feel small—like a child being scolded.

“I’m s-sorry,” YN stammers, her mouth suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth. 

She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—only that she feels like she should.

 Because whatever he saw, whatever he realized, it was enough to shift the entire dynamic between them in a matter of seconds.

To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull away. 

His hands remain on her, though now they focus on her glutes, kneading into the muscle with a more methodical, calculated touch.

Subconsciously, she starts to clench her thighs again, as if trying to ground herself. 

As if trying to remind herself that this is just a massage. 

That she isn’t some… deviant, reacting to something as simple as his hands on her.

She isn’t.

But then…

His hand moves.

It grips the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing just hard enough that the tips of his fingers press deep into the skin, surely turning it white beneath his grasp.

The gasp that rips from her chest is instant, shocked, sharp.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line.

This isn’t just towing the boundary of professionalism.

This is tearing right through it, shattering it to pieces, leaving nothing behind.

“Stop apologizing and stay still,” Harry orders, his voice rough with unspoken tension.

His fingers remain where they are, digging in just enough to make a point, to drive something unspoken between them.

“Do you understand me?”

YN swallowed hard, her heart was trying to escape her chest at the moment.

Yes.

Yes, she understands.

The massage resumes, thumbs pressing into knots, trading the ache for a different kind.

Should she end the appointment? 

Apologize and never show her face in the gym again?

YN does better, she does, she lasts at least another five minutes as she tries to stay as stock still as possible.

His touches are back to professional and she’s starting to question herself, start to question whether or not he had even squeezed her ass like that.

But then her thoughts start to spiral again, horny and desperate in a way they’ve never been.

It must have been a wiggle of her hips, maybe even a subtle attempt to see if she could find any friction against the table, but whatever it was—Harry had noticed. 

He had noticed, and she knew it the moment the air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his attention.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Harry scolded with no more softness in his voice, that upbeat bubbly man that everyone around the gym knew and loved - nowhere to be found and it was as intimidating, thrilling as it was frightening.

The smack comes fast, hard, landing squarely on her left ass cheek with a force that makes her gasp before she even realizes what’s happened. 

The sharp sting spreads out in waves across her skin, the heat sinking into her already sore  muscles. 

She jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, but she doesn’t get far before his palm is at the base of her neck, pressing her face back into the cushioned cut-out of the massage table.

The stinging sensation lingers, blooming like fire just beneath the surface of her skin

 It’s different, though—not just the typical burn of an open-handed slap. 

It’s sharper, pinpointed.

And then she realizes—

His wedding band.

It had cut her. 

Only slightly, just enough for her to feel the tiny scrape, but still, the knowledge of how it had happened made her stomach clench.

 Her cunt shouldn’t pulse around nothing at that thought, but it does.

 It totally does.

“You’re ruining my sheets,” Harry observes, full of judgement and disapproval, like she was inconvenience more than anything.

YN stays quiet because he had told her to stop apologizing and is she pouting about because she just got smacked? 

Maybe.

Harry leans forward, his body heat radiating against her back. 

The soft cotton of his t-shirt brushes against her skin, and she can feel the cool chain of his necklace ghosting over her shoulder.

 When he speaks next, his voice is quieter, deliberate, “You have four options.”

Her breath catches.

“You can either stay still and get your normal massage. You can keep moving and have an ass that aches for the next week. You can end the massage right now and walk out the door. Or…”

YN waits for him but she realizes that he’s teasing it, edging it, her voice is barely above a whisper,  “Or what?” 

“Or you can tell me exactly what you want me to do to you and I’ll do it,” Harry hums as he stands back up, his hands gripping the back of her thighs, and pushing them apart from where they started to drift together once again.

She could tell him. 

She could put it into words, could give voice to the heat curling low in her belly, but the thought alone makes her want to squirm in embarrassment. 

She’s already acted desperate enough—she refuses to push herself further into that category.

The tension in her stomach, the feeling of his wedding band leaving a mark on her ass.

“I’ll stay still,” YN replies with as much of a steady voice that she can manage.

Harry laughs, deep and mean, amusement tinged with something almost cruel. 

It makes the humiliation simmer hotter beneath the surface of her skin.

“Do you soak Pedro’s table?” he asks conversationally, like he’s discussing nothing more than the weather, “Because he’s never mentioned it. And I think I’d remember something that pathetic.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s trying to break her, to make her react. 

His hand twitches against her skin, like it’s itching to leave more marks. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, forces herself to keep still even as his hands press into her muscles with increasing pressure.

YN doesn’t bite, has to squeeze her eyes shut but she doesn’t, teeth gritting as the pressure of the massage increases.

Then, he revisits the small cut, pressing his thumb against it, rubbing over it in a way that makes her tense involuntarily.

“Does your husband not fuck you?” His voice is scalding, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks, “You’re squirming like you’ve never been touched before.”

The impulse to shoot an insult at him is hard to not take but she’s staying still out of spite.

Harry’s hands start to dip further in between her inner thighs, his fingers swipe against the damp skin of her thighs, and he then rubs it on her asscheek, “Can’t tell when the massage oil ends and your slick starts.”

Her thighs part slightly wider, a silent offering, even though she knows better than to expect mercy. 

She should have anticipated it—the punishment that follows.

The next smack is harder, sharper.

 It radiates through her lower half, a forceful enough hit that her nipples brush against the sheet below her. 

She swallows back a moan, biting her bottom lip until she nearly draws blood.

“You should be thanking me, do you know how many women wish they were in your position right now?”

Even though it was true, he didn’t have to be a cocky prick about it.

YN stays silent, she didn’t know how he still managed to get up the massage at this point.

“I said thank me.”

Another slap. 

Same spot. 

This time, the band on his finger catches her skin just right—or just wrong. 

She feels the sting of it cutting into her, nothing deep, just enough to make her gasp softly. 

Her breath shudders as she exhales.

YN gnaws on her bottom lip to prevent herself from speaking.

Harry’s patience snaps.

His hand knots in her hair, jerking her head up so that her cheek is exposed to him.

 His lips hover on her cheek, just near the corner of her mouth, but he doesn’t close the distance, “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “or I’m stopping.”

She can’t believe she’s in this situation.

With a married man.

As a married woman.

But when she speaks, her voice is even, measured.,“I would like my massage to continue.”.

Harry exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

 He unwinds his fingers from her hair, pushing her head back down onto the table.

“Fair enough.”

He does exactly as she asked.

He massages her like nothing happened, his hands working over her shoulders, the backs of her arms, expertly kneading out tension.

 It’s frustrating. 

Infuriating.

Because he has more energy for edging, doing things out of spite than her.

And fifteen minutes later—she’s the one struggling not to move again.

Harry actually starts to hum, an annoying tune from an old game show, completely out of place in the dimly lit room. 

It breaks into the soft rhythms playing from the speakers.

YN squirms.

Harry smacks her again, sharp and precise, the sound echoing through the space, echoing in the thick air between them.

 It stings.

Of course it fucking does.

 It leaves heat blooming across her skin, a reminder of his control. 

But he does not speak.

 Instead, he returns to the slow, methodical touches that are driving her mad—too firm to be teasing, but nowhere near what she needs.

She breaks.

She fucking breaks.

"Touch me, please," YN throws her pride out the fucking window, off a bridge, down into the deepest black hole where she doesn’t have to face it again. 

Desperation drips from her words, heavy and undeniable.

Harry exhales a long-suffering sigh, unbothered by her distress, "I am touching you," he bleats, his voice laced with indifference. 

His fingers trace aimless patterns along her skin, not nearly enough, "We have about ten minutes left of the hour. Where would you like me to focus the rest of the massage?"

“I need something, please,” YN asks with a pathetic plead starting to work her way into her tone.

Harry, ever unyielding, remains unaffected, "You came in with the complaint of calves and glutes. Are you still not—"

YN wants to cut the shit.

“Please, fuck me. Please,” YN feels like she’s on the line of sobbing for relief at this point, she doesn’t know if she’s even been this worked up, and the inability to see him somehow makes it worse, makes her feel more vulnerable, more desperater, “Please.”

“You could have had it fifteen minutes ago,” Harry chastises but his hands - they slide down her body, teasing the sensitive skin, but they don’t go directly to where she needs them the most.

“Harry, I -”

A smack.

Unraveling her like that wedding band on her sensitive skin.

Then his hands are gone entirely. 

The loss is immediate, unbearable. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension before she realizes—he’s just looking at her.

"Knees," he commands, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick fog of her arousal.

“I-” YN begins to asks but he’s not patient any longer.

“I said get on your fucking knees,” Harry repeats, louder and thankfully, no one else is here.

Before she can fully process, he takes it upon himself to move her, gripping her hips and lifting them effortlessly. 

Her knees slide inward, bringing them closer to her chest, forcing her body into a position that leaves her fully exposed, fully at his mercy.

He winds his fingers into her hair again, fisting the strands tight enough to pull her out of the cradle of the cushion. 

Her cheek is smushed sideways against the table now, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry has no manners, taking what he wants by spreading her cheeks to get a better look at her.

There is no manners left in him. 

No pretense of control.

YN realizes belatedly that there are fat tears rolling down her cheeks, that Harry must now be able to see, and in a break from the thick tension in the room.

He does something oddly sweet, it reminds her of her husband actually, he presses his lips to her cheek.

His voice is soft, more so like she hears around the gym or when he greets her in reception, “Okay?”

“Okay,” YN nods in agreement, her voice cracks, and she can see him smile before slipping back into a scowl.

She appreciated him checking in, warming  her up in a different way.

“Never seen a needier thing in my life. God, your husband must not do shit for you. You're clenching around nothing—both holes,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, his tone a perfect blend of mockery and amusement. 

His words are crude, biting, but they set her nerve endings on fire.

YN barely has time to react before she feels it—his spit landing on her tighter hole, warm and slick, quickly chased by the rough pad of his thumb spreading it around.

Her skin prickles, her breath catches, and then he continues, his voice dripping with sinful amusement.

“Everyone around this gym thinks you're this sweet, kind person. I hear them talk,” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering something. “What would they think if I told them about this? A bored housewife coming into a massage and begging to be fucked decently.”

It's a monologue, she knows he isn't expecting an answer.

“Spread out on this table, showing me everything with no shame.”

Two fingers—his index and middle, drag lazily through her folds, teasing, pressing at her entrance but never quite pushing in.

YN is trembling, trying not to move but everything aches.

“I would have subbed in much soone for Pedro if I knew I'd get such a sweet cunt out of it. I should have known you'd have the prettiest one I've ever seen,” Harry accentuates it with tucking his fingers into her, the slight stretch of his two thick digits were welcome with how ready she already was, “Those little bike shorts you wear hide absolutely nothing.”

YN pushes back, pulling him in even deeper, and luckily, he doesn't scold her.

But he makes her work for it.

“Ride ‘em. My hands are tired from the massage,” Harry curls them forward against her spongy front wall, hitting her spot head on like he had it memorized on a map.

YN was sweating, hair matted to her skin, and visibly droplets of west gathering around her temples as she started to push back on him.

She couldn't believe what she was doing right now.

“You hear that?” Harry asks, thrusting his fingers a few times to make the sound even more obscene, slick and lewd in the quiet room, “Should record that and make it the spa soundtrack. S’that sound like a good idea, baby?”

Her head drops forward, a loud moan tearing from her throat when his thumb presses into her tighter hole, sending pleasure ricocheting through her body. 

She’s never been this full before—never felt this close to unraveling without even having her clit touched.

Harry’s laugh cuts through the haze of her pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, watching her. “You like your ass played with too? This is my lucky day, huh? Is that how you’ll tip me? Let me choose?”

“Yes, yes—you can choose,” YN babbles, her voice high and desperate, her stomach tightening, her body coiling tighter and tighter. 

She’s grinding now, less controlled, more frantic, chasing something she’s not sure she could explain, “Please, I just need to come. I need it, please—”

But Harry pulls his fingers out.

The loss is devastating.

Tears sting at her eyes, spilling freely, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the sheer mess of her. 

Her hair is frizzy from where he’s pulled it, her cheeks damp, her mouth parted as she gasps through the absence of him.

Harry grips her hip harshly, not giving her choice as he helps flip her over until she's on her back.

And it's the first time in all of this that she's been able to really see him.

It was nice to see that he was affected too with huffing breaths, nostrils flaring, and sweat on his temple from the heat of the room.

And then he’s peeling his shirt off, tugging it over his head in a way that looks effortless.

His body is all sharp lines and defined muscle, the kind she sees every day in the gym but never gets to touch.

Her legs automatically close, a futile attempt to shield herself, to protect her most vulnerable spot.

 But Harry frowns at that, smacking her thigh sharply, silently telling her to open back up.

He tuts, shaking his head as he looks down at her, “Puppy, if you were this desperate for cock, you could have just asked me. You’re cute enough. I’d fuck you in front of everyone—bend you over a weight bench, let those little biker shorts trap your thigh and watch your squirms.”

YN can tell he’s about to put his mouth on her—but she can’t. 

She can’t take any more teasing.

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers pressing to the side of his neck, thumb pressing beneath his jaw. 

She’s sniffling, trying to speak through her sobs of frustration.

“I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Please, H, please.”

The hour of foreplay was more than enough.

Harry blinks, his gaze locking onto hers, searching. 

And then….

He moves up the table, his hand cradling her jaw as he kisses her, slow and deep, melting away her desperation for just a moment.

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs, the rasp was thick in his tone, “You’re ready?”

She nods frantically, clinging to him. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Harry kisses her quiet before pulling back just enough to push his shorts and briefs off. 

She doesn’t get a chance to look at him before he’s guiding himself to her core, pressing in, inch by thick inch, until their pubic bones meet.

He lets out this euphoric, beautiful low moan when he pushing in until their pubic bones meet, and he's big - really fucking big and she's so fucking full that it's insane.

Don’t need to wait,” she breathes, voice trembling with urgency, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. 

Her legs wind around his narrow hips instinctively, locking him in, heels pressing into the firm curve of his bum as if to keep him right where he belongs,“Please move.”

And Harry fucks like he weightlifts.

Hard. Determined. Precise.

Every powerful thrust sends electric pleasure sparking through her veins, his strokes deliberate and deep, like he’s got something to prove—like he won’t stop until he’s got her unraveling completely beneath him. 

His pace is relentless, the force of his movements pushing her up the table in tiny, helpless jolts before he’s tugging her back down onto his cock without missing a beat. 

The friction is dizzying, intoxicating, and YN feels herself slipping closer and closer to the edge with every merciless snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna—if you rub my-” she pants, but she doesn’t even need to finish.

Harry already knows.

With a low grunt, he shifts, his weight shifting back slightly as his hand snakes between them.

 His fingers find her clit with ease, with skill, and he presses down, rubbing tight, fast circles with a very specific intent in mind.

 His voice is rough and coaxing as he groans, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. C’mon, baby. I deserve it, don’t I? Soak me.”

And that’s all it takes.

A sharp, wrecked cry tears from her throat as her body gives in completely, pleasure overtaking her in a crashing, uncontrollable wave. 

YN’s limbs go boneless, loose like a marionette with its strings cut, as her orgasm seizes her, dragging her under with white-hot intensity. 

The overwhelming sensation floods her lower half, a gush of wetness spilling out between them, coating both of them in the aftermath. 

The slick, obscene sounds of him fucking her through it echo in the room, each thrust impossibly louder, wetter, filthier.

“Holy shit,” Harry growls, his voice thick with awe and arousal, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

His breath hitches, his control slipping,“You just squirted on me—look at you, all swollen and puffy for me.”

His gaze is locked on where they’re connected, utterly mesmerized, before something shifts in his expression—something primal.

 He grips her hips tighter, holding her open as he starts pounding into her even harder, chasing his own release with ruthless determination.

The force of it knocks the breath from her lungs, and before she can even process the sheer intensity of it all, he’s surging forward, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss.

 It’s messy—more teeth and tongue than finesse—but it’s everything. 

A claiming, a surrender, a moment of pure, unfiltered need.

He pulses inside her with a deep, guttural groan, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust, his body going rigid before finally melting against her. 

He stays there, buried deep, chest rising and falling against hers as he slowly comes back down from his high.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their mingled, heavy breathing. 

Then, Harry huffs out a breathless chuckle, forehead pressed to hers, body warm and weighty on top of her.

“Told you,” he murmurs smugly, voice thick with satisfaction, “Told you you wouldn’t be patient enough for foreplay.”

YN scoffs, though there’s no real heat behind it.

 Her fingers find their way into his damp curls, scratching lightly at his scalp as her lips twitch into a lazy smile. 

“The whole massage was foreplay,” she argues, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I think I did okay.” 

A playful smirk tugs at her mouth as she adds, “I don’t have the patience you do.”

“You never have,” Harry murmurs, his thumb brushing her slick hair off her forehead with a tenderness that makes her stomach flip. 

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, voice laced with affection as he murmurs against her lips, “You’re an impatient little thing for orgasms.”

His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his gaze, the soft adoration in his touch - it’s so much love and fondness interwoven between them.

“Don’t like this one bit,” Harry grumped after a moment, pulling her hand up and giving a pointed gaze towards her bare ring finger, “Made me almost break character.”

YN giggles as she allows Harry to pull her up to sit, he slips off the table, “I didn’t want to get massage oil on it. It makes the diamond all foggy and I have to take it to the jeweler to get it cleaned then.”

“Hey,” Harry grips her chin, buttoning their lips together for a long moment, “Happy anniversary. I love you and I hope this met your expectations of the scene you were fantasizing about. I’m just glad your fantasies are with me.”

“I’m in love with you, have been for ages and never plan not to be. It was absolutely perfect but now I’m worried I’ll get greedy for more,” YN laughs as she spreads her loegs once again, letting Harry start to wipe her off with a warm towel he takes from the towel warmer that’s conveniently in the room.

“You’re always greedy,” Harry argues gently, blinking up at her, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this room again without getting a hard-on.”

YN shakes her head with another bout of laughter, “You’re going to be fucked. I have a lot of fantasys about fucking a gym owner.” “Mm,” Harry rumbles as he tosses the towel, his touches getting more full of intent once again, “Lucky you’re married to one, hm?”

+

whew. i hope you enjoyed!

now if you are confused about anything the synoposis - harry and yn are a married couple, they own a gym, and yn wants to roleplay masseuse/client for their anniversary. there is no cheating!

now i recommend going back and reading it and finding all the little hints that they were married couple the whole time.

i would super love to know your feedback on it

[simpjaes]

exhibition ― s. jy

Requested by anonymous via tumblr: cam boy jake. That’s it.Jake is your college roommate and he needs to buy a camera for his online classes. Curiosity gets the better of him, leading to a lot of extra money and, well, finding out that you’ve been a little too curious about what he's doing.  Or the one where your roommate flaunts his secret job at you, not thinking you’d go out and search for him. And definitely not thinking you’d be getting off to him either.

MDNI

WORDCOUNT― 4.9k

PAIRING― cam boy jake x afab reader

CONTENT―  college setting but it’s mosting within the apartment they share, cam boy jake, confused best friend reader, smut WARNINGS― none but brief mention of mommy kink in passing

NOTE―this isn't proof read ;o;

 ・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“Seven hundred.” 

“What?” “That’s how much I made last night,” Jake’s eyes shine brighter and brighter with each word, a crooked smile plastered across his face as he sleepily blinks. “I didn’t even have to do anything weird either.” 

You pause as you sip your morning coffee, wrapped up in a blanket and head pounding at the amount of stress and work you’ve had to get done while he was too busy playing with himself on camera for dozens of people. Or maybe hundreds. Thousands?

“What did you do then?” You raise a brow, not entirely checked in on his boasting this morning, though it is impressive.

Jake always shares how much he makes after each session. What started with fifteen dollars is now reaching seven hundred. Surely your best friend isn’t just jerking off, right?

“Well, it was a little weird, but not that bad.” He avoids the question with a vague answer, suddenly feeling his face heat up. “Just a little here and there, y’know?”

You narrow your eyes instantly. So he does do weird shit for money! You knew it! No way could someone make that much money in such a short span of time by regular jerking off. 

“Just a little what?” You stare him down, now placing your coffee on the table and leaning towards him. He knows better than anyone that you, of all people, can point out if he lies. Meaning, he has to be honest. 

And so, he shrugs, trying to be nonchalant about it. 

“Mommy.” He says it like he’s saying any other word, as if he’s uncaring, as if it was worth the money. “Just had to say it a few times and the money came pouring in.” 

Your eyes narrow at him even more.

“What else?” You question. “There’s no way they’d accept it unless you…”

He raises his brow at you now, tilting his head in cheeky curiosity. 

“Unless I cried? Edged? Let them torture me a little bit?” He smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

You’re a bit shocked, the images of what that must have looked like for his viewers forcing your curiosity to grow. His smug face looking back at you now serves as proof that he very well may be into that kind of thing. Almost like he’s sharing a kink with you, which…is not something the two of you do. 

Despite being roommates, and without any mention of how long you’ve been friends, sex has never been a topic until he started this whole camboy thing. 

You remain calm though. This is Jake you’re talking to. He’s the last person you want to see drooling and cumming all over himself. 

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Okay so, you’re a liar. 

All day, all fucking day you’ve thought about it. It’s not that you’re into the kink, or even that you’re into Jake. You’re just…curious about how smug he is about it. And yeah, it’s probably just a huge confidence boost to have all sorts of people rubbing one out to you while paying your bills, but still. 

You’re only a liar because that so-called confidence makes him more open about it. More loud. More comfortable. More…horny? 

You can tell by now, weeks after he started. You could never hear a peep from his bedroom, not a single moan or sigh at first. Now though, he’s only gotten louder. You hear the moans, the dirty talk into his camera, the usernames, all of it.

“Thank you–mmf– cumslut2000.” 

God, you hate that you didn’t cringe hearing him say that. It was the moan mid-sentence maybe, or the sultry tone you’ve never heard from him until now. You can’t help but squeeze your legs together with an annoyed groan, practically leaping for your headphones shortly after because, absolutely the fuck not.

Not Jake. It’s too weird. 

And the days pass like that, casual with him as he discusses his pay where you no longer question because now you’d just think too hard about the details. The nights pass like that too, where he’s louder, louder, louder, until you can almost hear him through your muffled videos and playlists. 

Until you are forced to feel the arousal just like the rest of his viewers. You can’t escape the attraction despite wishing, hoping, fucking praying for your head to stop wanting to hear more. 

You know better than anyone though, hoping and praying does nothing for you and the only thing that will help this situation between your legs is seeing. Proving to yourself, so to say, that seeing Jake act like that will feel gross. It will turn you off. It will solidify that Jake is your best friend and your roommate, nothing more. 

It’s easy to find him too. All you had to do was abandon your headphones tonight, waiting for him to introduce himself via username to his stream. 

Doggystyle02.

That’s what he picked? He can’t be fucking serious. 

You’re excited as you google the username, enabling NSFW search and finding him within seconds. Excited to lose the interest that’s driving you up a fucking wall, that is. And before you click into his stream, you inspect.

Yeah, that’s definitely his abs oiled up in his profile picture. You choose to ignore his uh…thing under his sweats, heavy, leaving a little spot on the front of them. 

Oh, 23k followers? And he started two, maybe three months ago? People want Jake that badly? And you just…live here with him? You get to see him daily, and hear him playing all these kinky roles in real life? God, you just know if the viewers knew they’d be saying shit like “If i lived with you, I’d be on that cock every day.”  Blah, blah, blah. 

They don’t know Jake like you know him. He’s just a dude, not some sex god. 

Then…something in your gut stirs. It flips, it bubbles, your face warms up. The comments on his profile asking him all sorts of things, saying all sorts of things and he just…responds? Reciprocates? 

Cumslut2000 comments: god i want you to hold me down and make me take it

Doggystyle02: Don’t sweet talk me like that, you know how I get. 

Oh, does she now? How the fuck would she know anything about Jake. Your best friend. Your roommate. 

DPlover: can we plllleeease do another private show? 

Doggystyle02: book me for later, i’ll even give you a discount <3

Another private show?! A fucking discount?!  

Blushy: im too shy to talk when you’re online but i really, really want you.

Doggystyle02: you wanna talk in private? I’ll message you and bring you right out of that shell. let me take care of you baby

You’re speechless. During his private job, where he doesn’t share his name but he shows his fucking face, he publicly talks to people like this? He’s never so much as looked at you for too long after you’ve gotten out of the shower, yet he wants to take care of a fucking loser ass bitch who is too shy to talk to him? 

Sexually?! 

Safe to say, never in your life did you ever think you’d find yourself jealous of people who get Jake’s attention. To you, he’s always just been, well, Jake. The guy who ran up your apartment stairs on all fours the day you moved in, the boy who constantly did your homework for you in highschool because he knew you wouldn’t graduate with him if he didn’t, the absolute best friend who followed you to the same college, saved you from the dorms by becoming your roommate, and now…somehow, seems…more than just what he was before.

Surely you’re just horny though. Curious, in the mood, whatever. Anyone would be when there’s a porn set just a wall over, right?

You shake your thoughts, knowing you’ll just make yourself sick if you keep reading all of his little public comments and start wondering what he says in private to them. You scroll up instead, glancing at his abs again before your eyes land directly on what you were trying so hard to avoid. 

He’s kind of packing, you can’t lie. If he wasn’t Jake, you’d probably be ogling, rubbing out to him just like everyone else. Hah. You chuckle, shaking your head at your own stupidity, ready for these weird feelings to be eradicated the second you click into his stream. 

Except…jesus fucking christ.

The comments roll in faster than you can read. The money is pouring in, and he’s sitting there on camera with that same dopey grin he gives you every morning. There’s something else with his smile though, a little lip bite, some tongue darting action to wet his lips. Hair falling into his eyes…jesus. 

After a minute or two of staring at your best friend’s face, ignoring the movement of his shoulders attached to the hand that’s…doing something, a pop up covers his image entirely.

SIGN UP OR LOG IN TO CONTINUE WATCHING…

Never in your life have you signed up for something so fast, typing in a string of cute letters and numbers to differentiate yourself in the sea of horny viewers. And then his image is back, and your eyes trail straight down. 

Instantly you choke up, watching the way he uses his hands with that expression on his face. It really is just typical jerking off but…something about it. Something about the way he flicks his own nipples with a seething lip bite, bucking his hips up before shining his pouting eyes into the camera, as if wishing any or all viewers were there to do it for him. And god, the way he looks kind of wet? Like, oiled up or lotion, maybe lubed up, you don’t know. His hips slide that thing through his fist so easily, making squelching sounds all the while. 

That’s…that’s really him. And he’s not even ten feet from your bedroom door looking like this. Yet, you can’t bring yourself to get up and interrupt him.

What would you even do? What would you say? 

So, you just watch, completely forgetting that you were doing this to get rid of the curiosity, not feed into the sexuality of a man you’ve known for so long as nothing more than your closest friend. 

Over a thousand dollars made in just one stream by the time he logs off, and those moans echo in your brain. Hearing them so clearly through your headphones just…wow. And, well, you did your best. 

You swore you’d never get off to the image of Jake after all this curiosity started, it’s just, you can’t help it now. At least he wasn't on your screen, moaning and whimpering for all the faceless people watching. You waited. Your belly burned and your clit throbbed through all of it, and only when he made a mess of himself with that same fucking smile before logging off did you finally give yourself what you needed. 

You don’t know why you did that, and you don’t know why the muffled stream of his shower just down the hallways is what sticks in your head when you finally reach your own orgasm.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“Over a thousand this time.” 

“Oh?” You awkwardly avoid his eye contact, stiffening your shoulders at the mere mention of his stream from last night. 

“Yeah, not sure why they gave me so much this time though…” He trails off briefly, inspecting your posture and sudden defensive stance. “I didn’t even do any of the kinks.”

Well…you know why he made that much. He wouldn’t even need to feed the fetish crowd to make a decent living off of this, not with a face like that, a cock like that. It’s only natural he starts making more and more with each lengthy stream.

“Yeah, that’s weird.” You answer shortly, rummaging through cabinets despite your lunch sitting on the table across from him. 

“Yeah…” He notes the shift, feeling tension in the air. “Are you okay?”

“What? Me?” You ground both feet on the floor now, abandoning the cabinet as you turn towards him and look to the floor. 

You can’t do it. You can’t look at him. 

“I’m perfectly fine, what gives you that idea?” 

You hear him stand from the table, taking his usual Jake-esque strides toward you. Then, he leans forward and tilts his head, chasing your eyes with his own and forcing you to look at him. 

“Well, you haven’t even looked at me all morning,” He smiles, tapping your chin. “Was I too loud or something? Did it make you feel awkward?”

Oh, an out! An excuse!

“No, no, I just –” 

Now, why the fuck did you say no? Why are you looking at him now, stopping mid-sentence entirely stunned because, yep, that’s him alright. You saw him cum. You watched him do it, you listened, and you fucking liked it.

And now you’re looking him in the face, and he’s giving you that same smile, and you’re…oh god.

“I–” 

He tilts his head again, blinking twice before narrowing his eyes. 

“Spit it out. What happened? Jay do something?” 

Your words are caught in your throat, cheeks hot, stomach doing flips…Your eyes glance down without intention, right to his groin and he sees it. He even pulls back a bit, looking surprised before softening his expression. 

“Don’t tell me you–” His voice is softer now too, but he calls out your name. “Why are you being so weird?”

You can tell he doesn’t want to make the assumption, and arguably, you’re bad at hiding things from him. 

“I kind of, like, accidentally saw your stream last night.” You say it so fast, avoiding eye contact again by embarrassingly staring right between his legs. “It feels weird now.”

He laughs. He fucking laughs, but it’s kind of like, a smug laugh? A chuckle? 

“Oh now it’s weird?” He rolls his eyes. “Relax, it’s not weird.” 

“It is though! You’re, well, you! I didn’t need to see that!” 

“Then why’d you watch?” He smirks, reaching a hand out to tilt your chin up at him again. And he’s done this many times in the past. Platonic, lovely little touches from someone who will protect and appreciate you. This though, this is…

“Go on. Tell me. Why is it weird now?” He encourages you to admit it. “Because you liked it?”

You remain silent, unwilling to answer. 

“I grossed you out?” 

“No!” An immediate disagreement there, one that only digs your hole deeper. “I just–didn’t expect that.”

“So you did watch it.” He leans back now, crossing his arms and staring you down. “Did you enjoy yourself?

What is he fucking asking right now? The worst part about this is if you don’t answer, it’s still a fucking answer. But you don’t want to like, lie, because already you couldn’t even make it through a fucking morning with him after seeing it. So, with the smallest voice you have, so small you hope he can’t hear it, you whisper. 

“Yes.”

And if you were to look him in the face right now, you’d have seen that smug look go to curiosity. You’d have seen the split second of his adoration for you merging with a new view, a new feeling, and possibly a new need.

“Wait, did you–?” He even feels a bit shy now, his ears practically on fire as he keeps his eye on you, and the way you curl in on yourself with the admittance. “Did you..touch yourself?”

A small nod, you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Then you hear him hold his breath, taking a step back from you. You’ve touched yourself to him, he can’t believe it. After all these years, never once looking at him like that…not even he looked at you like that but now?

He pictures it. The way you must’ve been in your room all alone, knowing what he’s doing, searching him up, then confirming it for yourself. You liked it. You liked what you saw and you got off to it. 

And now he can’t stop smiling. Proud, he feels proud. 

“Well, don’t feel weird.” He finally says, trying to ease your discomfort. “It’s just…a normal thing. I don’t think you’re weird.”

With that, the conversation dies, fades entirely into awkwardness as you both split off. 

You need space to think.

He needs space to think.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You’re doing it again, as if just this morning you didn’t have to bury yourself 6 feet under right in front of him. 

Neither of you spoke after that. Avoiding each other consistently throughout the day with knowing, growing, and exhausting tension. Yet still, he’s started his stream, and here you are, watching it with a dazed look. 

You don’t know how to feel or what to do. Your head doesn’t anyway, your body knows too well what it wants and needs, and you hate yourself for making it so awkward between the two of you. Why did you tell him? You wonder if he’d be uncomfortable knowing you’re watching again, this time knowing your hand will stray as you watch.

You wonder, and wonder, will he think you’re disrespecting your friendship by doing this not once, but twice? 

Then, you hear him. 

“Can we do some roleplay today?” He speaks out to the chat, cock pressing against his briefs, head tilted with his messy hair in the very computer chair you bought for him. 

Last time, he was sprawled out on his bed, and you wonder if he always starts his streams this way.

“I want you to imagine we live together, and you know I’m in my room fucking myself, begging, needy for anything, anyone to touch me.” He looks into the camera. “Let’s say you’d hear it too. I’m loud on purpose…”

“Tell me what you’d do to me.”

You stare forward blankly, frozen on the spot at his words, then your eyes flick to the chat. 

“You wouldn’t see the front door ever again.” 

“I’d be on you within seconds.”

“You wouldn’t even be able to turn your camera on, just come home and I'd be waiting.”

Oh. 

Jake hums at the responses, whispering them to himself. 

“Ah,” Jake reads a specific comment with a nod. “I’d be an idiot to not jump at the opportunity.”

And the rest of his words become muffled as your ears pop. Is he…talking about you right now? Was he expecting you to watch again? 

“If that ever happens to me, just know I’d be grateful for all of you. Running to help me feel good, you’re all so good to me.” He giggles now. Fucking giggles. “Alright, enough of that.” 

Jake stares into the camera again, and you can’t help it. It feels like he’s staring at you. Straight through your fucking soul at this point. 

“I have a lot of stress to relieve.” He ends on that note, skewing his pants down and making haste. 

He’s not slow or cute with it like he was before. He’s aggressive, almost frustrated. His eyebrows furrow, his lips become red from his biting and chewing, and you watch the money flood in.

The comments blurring past, words of, “Oh fuck,”  and “This is new.” before suddenly, you hear an irritated sigh. A string of curse words pour from his lips, his hand squeezing the base of his cock so tightly, and spurts of cum shooting up his chest, only to drip down slowly. 

“What a waste.” He comments shortly at himself, heaving in a breath before he breaks out into his usual smile. “Sorry to end on such a short note, just thought I’d let you guys join me for a quickie!” 

Then he’s gone, the stream lasting about ten minutes in total. 

And apparently so is your fucking sanity because why is it that now you find yourself getting out of your bed, feeling the wet between your legs drip, and you’re heading for your bedroom door just to get to him? 

Why is he standing right outside, as if he was already waiting for you to open it?

And it’s silent now as you stare at each other. Him, with his sweatpants skewed over his waist, cum still on his chest, breath still uneven. Then you, practically vibrating to get on him. 

“You’re looking at me like you want me to eat you out.” He says, already pushing you right back through your bedroom door, letting you flop back on your bed as he instantly pulls at your shorts. “Want me to kiss you first?”

You feel your head spin the second you flop back and feel your shorts being pulled off, and before you can even comprehend his question, he’s already kissing you. Hot, heated. He sounds just as frustrated as he did just minutes ago getting off by himself. You don’t even mind the cum on his chest, nor the way he spreads your legs with his knee to get more comfortable. 

It’s happening. This is what kissing Jake feels like. This is what everyone wants from him, but it’s you that’s getting it. Has he always been like this? Good at kissing? Firm with his movements? Confident as he kisses down, down, down, giving you what he thinks you want?

You do want it. Perhaps you were looking at him like you wanted him to eat you out, and now he’s doing it. Breathing shortly right against your clit without so much as savoring his view before diving in, tongue instantly licking from your hole straight to your clit and sucking.

He hums around the taste, both hands holding your inner thighs and keeping your legs open. And he just…keeps humming, licking and sucking you so good that you can’t help but cry out and tug at that fucked up mess of hair on his head. 

Jake likes that. He likes the way you hold your breath and the way your legs shake around his ears. He likes even more the way he knew you were watching him tonight, and that you looked like you were coming straight to his room to jump him. 

So strange how quickly things can change, so strange how good his best friend must have tasted all these years, and he had never once considered it. And now, he blinks up at you, seeing the way you close your eyes and breathe through it, like you’re calming yourself down, thinking both too much and not at all. 

Easily he runs his hands up and under your shirt, feeling the soft skin of your belly before gently running his palms over your perked nipples. He continues to stare up, watching you, tasting you, loving this a little more than he ever knew he would. 

He did want you, he does want you. His cock has been aching all day for you since the moment he found out you thought of him. Jake thinks you’d be tight, because lord knows you haven’t gotten laid in a hot minute, and that quick jerk off session was absolutely for you. 

He wants to show off to you, wants you to see him more than anyone else can. Yet, it’s you he’s seeing more of right now and he doesn’t mind that so much. 

His eyes flick back down, allowing his fingertips to toy gently with your nipples as he skews his head, essentially making out with your pussy, slurping the slick you offer and not letting a single bit of it go to waste. Then, he dips in, pointing his tongue right against your pulsing hole and pressing in. 

There’s that tug of his hair again, your legs squeezing around him and your hips bucking up. 

Oh, you like that. 

So, he does it harder and with more focus. He squeezes his eyes shut and prepares to not breathe for a bit, licking as far into you as he can, his nose easily pressing your clit in such a beautiful way that all you can do now is moan.

Genuinely moan for him. His name in a little hiccup followed by a curse. 

Fuck, you’re so hot to him right now. Anyone would be fucking lucky to be in your bed at all, and finally it’s him. As if he’s been waiting for years despite never needing a turn previously. 

And this continues until he can’t breathe, his fingers growing more needy against your tits, his tongue reaching deeply before pulling out and allowing him to take a deep breath that is scented entirely in you. Then, he fucking nuzzles it.

You glance down with a heaved breath, legs shaking as you watch him do it. Eyes closed gently, rubbing his nose and lips against your clit in such a gentle, loving way that it has you melting instantly. 

“Jake–” You whisper in a breath, the first word you’ve said to him since you opened your bedroom door. 

All he does is shoot his gaze to you and continues his nuzzles, uncaring of whatever you need to say if it isn’t you asking him to fuck you right now. And arguable, you have nothing to say anyway. 

You just…needed to say his name. Needed to solidify that you just broke a boundary with him willingly, and he doesn’t care. You don’t care. 

You feel the thumping in your chest, your clit throbbing with each little rub he lends before you sit up slightly on your elbows, balancing yourself before reaching a hand down. 

He leans into your palm on his cheek, like a puppy wanting love. Then his hands leave your chest and find their way to your hips. His doe eyes instantly sharpen, and you’re instantly being pushed back down to your bed.

“Want me to be whatever you want? Let you do whatever you want to me?” He finally says, licking his lips as he makes his way up to hover over you, making sure to lift your shirt enough to expose both of your tits. “Just like I ask?” 

You find yourself nodding before taking it back, shaking your head. 

“I don’t want it to be like that–” You trail off, avoiding his intense gaze and suddenly feeling very vulnerable under him. “I just want you. The Jake I’ve always had.” 

Another shocked look reaches his expression. He’s a bit surprised, assuming that all of this was simply because you watched his stream and didn’t expect to be so turned on. He thought this would be a one and done thing. A “let’s forget this ever happened,” thing.

But you want him? Not the acting? Not the kinks, or the cocky grinning? You want the best friend in him, the part of him that was never sexual, never confident, never willing to approach women. 

He looks at you in question. 

“I don’t know how to be that right now.” He finally says, pressing his hips down and against you with a choked moan. “How can I be that when I want to fuck you so badly?”

You find yourself smiling, running your hands through his hair to get it out of his face before shrugging. 

“When have we ever known what we were doing?” You ask quietly, wincing slightly at how hard he’s gotten, knowing that you’re not having to see him through a screen now. 

That’s all he needed to hear before keeping eye contact and reaching down with one hand. You can’t bare to look down, knowing some sort of embarrassing sound will leave your throat. You decide to feel it instead. 

And goddamn, do you fucking feel it. 

He slides in easily, but the size of him stretches you far past anything you could have imagined. This is him, he’s this big. This is what Jake’s cock feels like and it has your chest caving in over it. 

All you can do is hug him, clinging to him through the stretch and hoping the way your cunt squeezes around him isn’t hurting him. 

“God, fuck.” He says in a quick whisper, arms shaking to hold himself up as you hug him. “You’re so tight, fuck.”

You smile against his messy chest at the compliment, basking in it really before allowing yourself to freely adjust. Your body clenches him tightly, and he remains still through it until he can’t anymore. 

He drops to the bed, flush against you without warning and the moans start pouring from his chest. He can’t stop even if he wanted to, can’t control his hips, his words, his thoughts.

He just lays here flush against you, letting his hips move freely and rapidly. In, out, in, out. So clumsy, so loud, and goddamn does it feel fucking amazing.

You moan alongside him, petting his hair with each thrust, feeling his cheek against your tits move with each drop of his jaw. Even when his moans are silent, you know he feels good and that makes you happy. 

None of those little bitches in his chat could get him like this, surely. He’s not acting right now. He’s Jake.

And that’s what makes it so good, you think. That’s why he has so much cum to put in you, apologizing through it all because the fear of this act comes with the orgasm. Apologizing for fucking you, for cumming in you, for getting off so quickly, promising you that he’ll make you cum too. 

It’s then that you realize, when he’s got his face back down between your legs, sucking his mess out of you…maybe you have feelings now.

And maybe that’s not such a bad thing either. 

 ・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

remember that you can get early access and/or tip me via patreon! love and comments would be appreciated <3<3<3<3

[dollbrbie]

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ mean girl ft, seishiro nagi

💌 mean!reader, nagi being a little bit of a pushover, smut mdni, just nagi fucking the attitude out of you :p

sighhh just thinking about nagi with a mean girlfriend. like, you can be such a bitch that even his friends will comment on it, asking him why he’s still with you.

he’ll usually just shrug, telling them, “i know how to handle it, it’s not a hassle.”

of course, this always has them so confused. everything is a hassle to this man, but not his bitchy girlfriend?

the way you’d be talking shit about whoever it was, but all he could do was nod as he looked at your pretty expressions as you told the story of whatever it was. he wasn’t listening at all to be honest, sipping on the straw of his drink in the mall.

if he really thought about it, he actually liked the attitude you gave him. the constant eye rolls, your loud huffs and sighs when he says something so unbelievably stupid. not to mention how hard his dick gets when you scold him for how ‘fucking lazy he is’.

he’s not really sure why it makes him feel that way, but holy does he get a kick out of it. he gets an even bigger kick out of fucking the attitude out of you.

“mm, are you gonna say sorry to me now, baby?”, he asks you, so sweetly as he pounds into your pussy with such vigour you can barely form a sentence.

“f-fuck.. sei.”, you whine, barely even able to catch your breath with his quick pace, gripping onto his navy sheets for dear life.

“answer me.”, he demands, still in his sweet tone as he gently tugs on your hair. you know he could never hurt you, but sometimes you wouldn’t mind if he was a bit rougher.

“uh huh, m’sorry sei..”, you manage to get out in broken sobs as nagi keeps up with his insane pace, slightly slowing down for you to keep up after hearing the word he wanted you to say all day.

“yeah? see, you can be sweet, can’t you? so sweet for me..”, he says, mumbling the last bit as he firmly, but gently grabs your neck, lifting you up so your back was against nagi’s bare chest while placing gentle kisses on your neck.

the thing with nagi, he was so gently in every way besides the way he fucked you. the only time he wasn’t ever lazy, and when you just can’t stop mouthing off to him about how fucking lazy he is, he just needs to prove you wrong.

you nod eagerly for him, completely drunk on his cock as you feel the intensity build up in your stomach.

he smirks to himself at the sight of you. he may have the bitchiest, meanest girlfriend despite being one of the calmest and lazy guys around, but he’s also the only one who knows how to keep your bad attitude in check.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[heretolurkbutalasitstaken]

Actually, you just politely correct reporters and other media people. (and Octavius is a trans ally, fun fact) Maybe tweet it out if it's that Spidey.

My view is depends how bad you need the others to know (although hiding it could be good for secret identity.) Honestly I think it's best to tell the villains first, because they all go to the same pub in the Marvel Universe (Peter Parker is also a former patron there; he won a quiz game with his roommate), so they'll all know after like 2-3 fights.

Also, here is my spin on the exchange.

Doctor Octopus is robbing a bank in a morally conflicted manner or whatever he does between body-swapping into Spider-Man nowadays.

He's threatening a guard or already in, either way, he's doing the same routine. Looking for something.

He's about to get into the vault but then- THWIP, his face is webbed.

Otto: AAGHH! Drat, you insipid wall-crawler! Don't you have better things to do? (He is using his tentacles)

Spider-Girl swings in and kicks Otto in the face (gently, last time she did this on the regular, he did get a terminal illness and take over her body)

Otto attempts to strike her with a tentacle but she dodges easily, barely worth a panel.

Spidey: I might be a girl now, but you still hit like one!

Otto: You- ah. Spider-Girl or Spider-Woman?

Spidey: uh, Spider-Girl, I guess. (she shrugs while perched on the floor in an epic pose)

Otto: Very well. (he privately believes that she should be the real Spider-Woman, something I vaguely remember from a Spider-Verse)

Otto: Spider-Girl! We meet again!

Otto: You may be a woman now, but your threat is still negligible! I will use this diamond to regain my standing and form a new SINISTER SIX from the ashes of the old! THE DIE IS CAST!

Spidey is already half-way to winning, because she's got a date to get to or laundry or something.

Spider-Girl: Didn't you do that last week, Doc? Jeez, be original. Maybe I should reuse material...

(Doc Ock has already opened the vault and is disabling the security with a tentacle. To combat this, Spidey is rapidly webbing money out of the vault)

Spider-Girl: Speaking of recycling... (Otto growls as she has sailed through the air and now right in front of him, face to face.)

Otto's tentacles reach for the diamond.

Spider-Girl: I'm gonna recycle THIS web, (She webs one tentacle) By spending it, giving it to someone else (The web is attached to his hand) And they'll do the same!

Otto falls over, trying to grab the diamond with his hand or something.

Otto: CURSE YOU, SPIDER-GIRL! (he thinks in a feminist way, possibly already coming up with new ploys for their next fight that will be slightly more courteous.)

Spider-Girl: Gotta go, Doc! See ya!

(Spider-Girl's internal narration is already focused on relationship troubles with MJ, maybe a brief aside about how maybe he'll leave her body alone next mind-swap)

What's the process if you're a superhero and you come out as trans

Do you tell your villains?

Do you keep it a secret so no one can connect Spider-Man with your secret identity for a while? Or do you pop a pronouns pin on your costume and the next time you web up Doctor Octopus and he goes "I'LL GET YOU NEXT TIME SPIDER-MAN" you go "Spider-Girl actually! I've been figuring out some shit"

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green, Part 27

masterpost This is just a first draft, please no concrit!

Danny wasn’t sure about this.

He should be. Bruce seemed sure about it. His… his siblings seemed sure about it. Babs seemed sure about it. But Danny… Danny couldn’t help but feel like he was forcing himself on another person. The fact that Annalise was dead didn’t help him feel any better at all. In fact, everyone had learned to avoid that point of argument after how upset it had made Danny the first time that Damian had tried it.

They didn’t get it, how could they? Death meant something different to them.

“Danny?” Dick’s concerned voice interrupted Danny’s thoughts. “Do you want something different to eat?”

Danny blinked down at the scrambled eggs that he had been idly pushing around on his plate for the last few minutes. The yellow lumps didn’t look very edible anymore. “Oh. Um, I guess another scone and some fruit?”

It was only Dick, Damian, Duke, and Bruce at breakfast that day. All the D kids. Jason had gone back home yesterday. Dick would leave today, but Tim would be back and maybe Cass. It was hard to have less of them there. It was hard to have them away where Danny couldn’t know they were safe. Danny tried not to make a big deal about it, he had to let them all start getting back to their lives. They had been giving up so much for him.

After swallowing a large bite of the scone Dick had passed him, Danny asked, “Can I see how changing back to my ghost form goes today?”

For just a split second, everyone at the table froze before they forced themselves back into motion.

“Of course. Do you want to do that after breakfast? I’d like myself or Dick to be with you, in case there’s a set back with your injuries,” Bruce said.

“I guess? I don’t know when Dick wants to leave,” Danny said with a glance between the two adults at the table.

“I don’t have to head out until early afternoon,” Dick chirped. “What’s work like for you, B?”

“Just an afternoon meeting that I’ll be attending virtually. Lucius knows there’s a family thing going on and is holding down the fort,” Bruce said.

“Lucius Fox,” Duke explained. “He keeps stuff running and Bruce on track.”

Bruce shrugged. “It’s true. He also knows about the family nightlife, which helps immensely.”

“I guess that after breakfast works,” Danny said as he picked a little at his scone. He was realizing that Bruce hadn’t actually seen his ghost form before. Damian and Duke hadn’t either, he didn’t think. It felt like a reveal even though it wasn’t. Danny met Damian’s searching gaze and gave a little bit of a shrug. “It’s just been a while since I’ve been in it. I guess I’m feeling, like, this itch about it.”

Damian gave a little nod. “A muscle that needs stretching. May I join Father and Grayson in the Cave to watch?”

A chunk of the scone broke off. Danny fumbled it slightly before just setting the pastry down on his plate. “Sure? I don’t know if it’s really going to be anything interesting. I’m guessing that I might still be pretty weak, so I don’t really plan to try much.”

“What sort of things can you normally do?” Duke asked as he mopped up the last of the egg on his plate with a piece of toast.

Danny resisted the urge to fidget with the scone again. “Oh, um, well flight is the most basic thing.”

“Please no flying too high or over open parts of the cave right now,” Bruce said with a slightly strained sounding voice. “I’d rather you not fall when we can’t safely catch you. When you think you’re stable, we can have a family friend over to spot you.”

“Oh. Sure? I mean, I’ve fallen before and I’ve been fine. It’s hard for me to take damaged in the form.”

“Still, Dandelion,” Dick said carefully. “We’d rather not risk you. Just put up with us being overly cautious for a little bit, okay?”

“Okay,” Danny replied on rote. He didn’t really get it. There hadn’t been any being careful before with Sam and Tucker, but he had been hurt around his new family a lot. “Um, other powers I have are to go invisible and intangible. And I can shoot some energy blast elemental things. There’s duplication too, but it’s, um… yeah. Not great and I don’t want to after…”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. This is just what you need,” Bruce assured him. “No one is asking you to use your powers here unless it’s something that you want to do or need to do for your health.”

Danny gave a jerky little nod and looked away. “Right.”

“Come on, Dami,” Dick said as he stood, “let’s go run through some stretches so we can get some practice in before I leave.”

“I’ll let Alfred know you’ll still be here for lunch and that I won’t be. Group project,” Duke said and got up also.

It went from a pretty full table to just Danny and Bruce almost instantly. Danny nibbled on a chunk of the scone.

“Danny, what’s going through your head, chum?”

What was going through his head? “I just… I don’t know. My ghost half has always been for something. Sam wanted me to fight the other ghosts. My… anyways, experiments. I guess I don’t know how to talk about it after everything. I don’t know how to talk about it with all of you. You guys are out there being heroes all the time and… don’t you want to use my powers?”

Bruce moved to the seat next to Danny. He was so large that he loomed a little even when trying to seem smaller. Danny didn’t think he’d get that large. Not anymore, not after dying. Not after the years in a box.

Would Damian get bigger than him? Probably.

“In the Justice League, I’m the strategist,” Bruce said calmly. “There have been times in my life that I’ve been far too much the strategist. There have been other times in my life when I’ve tried to use strategy to cover up my fears and feelings and have hurt people. It’s something that I still have to work on, and I likely will for the rest of my life. I very much do not want to not screw that up with you. After everything you’ve been through, I want it to be as clear as possible that who you are and what you are isn’t something that I plan to use. The only one that gets to say what you use that for is yourself. You’re not an asset, you’re my kid.”

Danny blinked quickly. He didn’t want to cry again. “I don’t know if I know how to be a kid anymore.”

“I was horrible at being a kid,” Bruce said. “As were… well, a number of my children. But the good of that is, you don’t have to be a normal kid here. If for you being a kid is training Ursa and going flying and, I don’t know, building model airplanes then that’s fine. If at some point you do want to be part of the nightlife, then that will be fine too. You have all of us to figure those things out with you. And we’ll disagree sometimes, because we’re us, but that is alright too.”

Danny gave a slightly watery little chuckle. “Going to build model airplanes with me?”

“If that’s what you’re into, absolutely.”

“What if… what if part of what I want is to reach out to Jazz? What if I want her to help me figure out things too?”

“Then I just ask that you let us figure out how to do that safely first so that no one can find you here and come for you,” Bruce said.

“You’d really let me?”

“She’s your sister. You being part of this family doesn’t change that. In fact, Jazz welcome to be part of this family if she would like to be. But she can also not be and still be your sister.”

“Once it’s safe,” Danny said. “I’ll reach out once it’s safe for me and for Dami and Jason too. I won’t let them get hurt because of me.”

Bruce ruffled Danny’s hair. “I know you won’t. Just let us help with it. I don’t think any of us could take you running off like that again.”

Danny winced. “That… wasn’t my best moment.”

“Maybe not, but we all understand how you got to that point. I’m just glad that you were headed to me and that we got you back,” Bruce said with a little shrug. “Well, and that you didn’t get pneumonia from being injured and out in the rain.”

Danny stood when Bruce did, setting his napkin on the table. He tried not to seem like he was scrambling, but the formal meals were still a little much. “I’m glad about that too. I think I’ve been injured enough for a long time.”

“You really have been,” Bruce agreed. “Which is why I’d prefer no full on flying until we have either Superman or Superboy over to visit and spot you.”

“I won’t fall, I don’t think.”

“Still,” Bruce said with a little frown that seemed somehow dark.

“Oh, strategist. You can, like, picture it, can’t you? Me falling.”

“Far too easily.”

“Okay, yeah, no full on flying on my own until you know I won’t fall,” Danny agreed. “Even if I know you’d catch me.”

“We’d try our best to, chum, always.”

[mewguca]

I'll put this here too I guess. this primarily concerns Vanilla

Something I feel like I don't see discussed very often in this fandom is how moon being a woman is integral to her character. The way she conducts herself, the way she speaks... it all screams "female social conditioning" and especially "eldest daughter syndrome" to me. Don't be rude, always be nurturing and kind, be patient, be supportive, be selfless, don't express aggression or negative opinions...

...None of us really miss the times when their cities were populated. Imagine having skin parasites that also ask for advice and have opinions...

I'm sorry, that was disrespectful. They were our parents after all.

- Pale Green Exterior Pearl

I've seen some people take her "skin parasites" comment as uncharacteristic and unfounded hatred instead of something extremely telling about how her "parents" have treated and conditioned her. The use of "parents" is very purposeful here, I feel. Her immediate retraction and apology evoke the image of a daughter who had a poor relationship / was mistreated by her parents and is left with conflicting and complicated emotions she can't process. She resents them, but she also feels indebted to them, and perhaps her acknowledgement of them as "parents" may imply affection, as well. Regardless, since she cannot process these emotions (and feels it is wrong of her to hold them to begin with), she represses them. She retracts her comment and apologizes for being disrespectful.

That's probably all she's ever known how to do. All she's ever been allowed to do. Moon seems very conscientious about behaving "politely." Don't get me wrong, Moon clearly values kindness and hope; those are core to her character. She doesn't like being angry, and it doesn't usually benefit her or help anyone.

...It's useless to be angry at an animal following its instincts. Once, a single neuron meant nothing to me...

...I'm still angry at you, but it is good to have someone to talk to after all this time. The scavengers aren't exactly good listeners. They do bring me things though, occasionally...

- Returning to LTTM who has 4 Neurons left

She displays emotional maturity here by acknowledging and communicating her anger whilst not letting it cloud her judgment. Instead of holding things against the slugcat, she continues talking to them, because she understands that staying mad at them won't help anybody.

I don't think being angrier would help her, and her willingness to forgive and let go of it is a strength. But I believe her emotional repression takes that maturity and strength of character and creates something a little more complicated — a woman who struggles to fully process her negative emotions, especially surrounding people and concepts she is meant to respect. Her core values ride the line between virtue and vice (being willing to forgive and caring for others vs being too passive and repressing her own needs), and her actions are layered and nuanced, just like a real person.

This isn't to say she is against expressions of anger or negative emotions wholesale.

...I could read a bit of Five Pebbles in this neuron before formatting it. His condition has severely deteriorated since last I heard of him. The frustration he feels is profound, and that angst has seeped into every part of him, every neuron.I could read a bit of Five Pebbles in this neuron before formatting it. His condition has severely deteriorated since last I heard of him. The frustration he feels is profound, and that angst has seeped into every part of him, every neuron.

We were supposed to help everyone, you know. Everything. That was our purpose: a great gift to the lesser beings of the world. When facing our inability to do so, we all reacted differently. Many with madness...

even back when we were all more or less connected there were those who reacted to their task with anger. I can only imagine they are angrier now, alone in their cans, left only with their insatiable drive.

- bringing one of FP's neurons to LTTM

She empathizes with the frustration that FP feels in a very literal sense; she's processing his emotions from the neuron. She doesn't judge or rebuke him for this; rather, she explains why he might be frustrated, and that he is likely not alone in feeling this way.

So, it's fine when others express that anger. Just not for Moon. Ironically, the fandom sometimes reinforces this. Moon can get mad at you and refuse to speak to you if you treat her in ways she doesn't want to be treated. (setting and enforcing boundaries) I've seen (some) people say she's being mean or unreasonable here. You're not trying to hurt her, and your actions are quite tame. But these actions cause Moon great distress and make her feel disregarded. Holding her neurons likely inhibits their function, jumping around likely overstimulates her, and interrupting her while she's speaking to you is just plain rude.

But some people still seem shocked by this; they're not used to NPCs setting boundaries with them like they're actual people. And Moon is usually very nice to you! So when she enforces these boundaries, some people get frustrated and confused.

...This ties into the parentification of LTTM, a phenomenon that greatly upsets me.

People expect her to be unconditionally and endlessly loving and patient and supportive, and then when she acts like a normal human being, they get mad. Because they expect her to be their mom.

And yes, she is very caring, supportive, and patient! She's also eloquent and enthusiastic, emotionally repressed, hopeful and kind, someone who struggles to assert herself, someone who enjoys sharing knowledge with others, someone who's careful about the way she conducts herself, someone who speaks fondly of sky-sails in flight during big festivals, etc...

She's very caring towards others. Like a Big Sister. She is Big Sister-coded. Her name is Broadcasts is Big Sis / Big Sister Moon. It could not be more obvious, and yet some people force her into the role of "mother" because on an unconscious level, they can only conceive of women as mothers and wives.

Perhaps that is too biting, but I believe it is true. It does not help that her Counterpart (Five Pebbles) is often infantilized in tandem, but that is a conversation for another time. I should also specify that forcing / expecting eldest daughters to take on a motherly role is a phenomenon widespread across various cultures and not something exclusive to the Rain World Fandom. ((it's a widespread societal issue!))

Regardless, this view of Moon as a mother plays into this idea that she must be unfailingly kind, unconditionally patient, and unfathomably supportive. Moon likely even expects these things of herself. The expectations of a Big Sister are not so different, after all.

And she is trying very, very hard. She is exhausted and irritable, she hardly functions, and she has very few resources to help her. Don't get me wrong, I do think she is an exceptionally kind person, but that is because she wants to be. Her kindness is not the default; it is not owed to you or to be expected of everyone you meet. Looks To The Moon remains kind and hopeful because she is fighting every moment of her life for it to be so.

Unfortunately, her efforts often go unacknowledged and her radical empathy (influenced by her unique circumstances) taken for granted.

People often focus on how it feels to be someone's "Little Brother", to live in their shadow...

But what about how Moon feels? What about the struggles of being responsible for another person? Of being an example for them and held to higher standards? Of unfailingly devoting your support to them? How she struggled to assert herself, to go against her sibling... How she may feel guilt over both her inaction and her subsequent action... Maybe she should've acted sooner. Maybe she shouldn't have acted at all. Maybe, if she had just been a better Big Sister, none of this would've happened to begin with.

We don't really know how she feels about all that, though. (She probably doesn't, either, haha) It's all just speculation at the end of the day. And I don't want to make it seem like her "Big Sister" role is an entirely negative or oppressive thing. Again, she is kind! She likes teaching others! She's very understanding and caring, and she has a lot of patience and maturity! I just think it's fun to point out these subtler details.

I think viewing Moon as someone who has been socialized as a woman and as a big sister specifically gives a lot of meaningful insight into her character. And it's not something I see discussed a ton in general.

Other Notes I didn't know where to put:

Eldest Daughter Syndrome I cannot re-iterate this enough

I feel like sometimes people make moon assertive or more aggressive to compensate for her suffering. Like, because she's FP Local Group Senior, she has to be authoritative. I think these people focus too much on the "Big" and not enough on the "Sister" aspect. Moon isn't a girlboss, and that's okay! It's okay for her to struggle with things. (But, being fair, you're not hurting anyone by doing this, so do what makes you happy etc etc. I just think it can potentially come from a place of devaluing "weakness" often associated with traditionally feminine traits, and it's good to examine that.)

Furthering the aggression point, I think some people see that Five Pebbles hurt her and think that there needs to be some sort of retribution. That Moon should hate him, resent him, and want to hurt him back. But I feel like forgiveness makes much more sense for Rain World. Moon isn't being unrealistically kind or too much of a pushover by forgiving Pebbles and not holding resentment towards him; she's at peace. She doesn't want to hurt him or hate him, and doing so wouldn't bring her any catharsis. (And he doesn't want to hurt her, either! i could make an entirely different ramble about why I think the Vanilla siblings could and should reconcile but I'll save that for another time ig) uhhhh this isn't entirely gendered something something Care Ethics

LTTM and FP serve as foils in a lot of ways. I think there is an enlightening conversation to be had about how FP explores / presents traditionally masculine traits or a masculine socialization.

The bennies / ancients / whatever seem to place a lot of importance on Obligations. I think Roles were probably important to them. Being a Big Sister likely had a lot of Obligations that came with it.

I get that LTTM and FP are not like explicitly specifically siblings in Vanilla. I do think it is implied, though. They have a unique physical connection and live in very close proximity to one another. There's no flashing "THESE TWO ARE SIBLINGS!!" sign, but the subtext is there, and I prefer to interpret them as such. alternative readings could instead be "all local group iterators are related" or "none of these people are related". do what you want ig

Was any of this even intentional? I'm probably reading a liiiittle too much into things, but I do think this was intentional. She's "Big Sister Moon" in the broadcasts. She could've just had her normal name, but they decided to make her "Big Sister Moon." Vanilla is subtle and largely up to interpretation, but it is very purposeful, I feel. I don't think they named her BSM just for fun, lol. (But maybe I'm wrong!)

I do not want to undermine FP's struggles and equally fascinating character-writing here. There's a whole host of issues I have with how people see FP, but I feel like many people have spoken about this at-length, and most are aware of the common complaints that tend to arise. With LTTM, I feel like people generally really like her, but they don't appreciate / talk about the finer nuances of her character as much. People like her because she's really nice, but there's more to her than that. ((also because it's fun to talk about that's kinda the main reason I made this))

I do actually have some thoughts about DP canon and the relationship between LTTM and FP and her role as Big Sister within that canon ((like how people misinterpret FP's construction as being for LTTM rather than primarily to serve her Citizens with LTTM being alleviated as a bonus)) but to be honest there's so much to read with DP that I don't really want to try and tackle it. Furthermore, DP canon will on multiple occasions either contradict itself or muddy the concepts it's trying to communicate and this makes it a lot harder to work with when it comes to interpretations and readings aha.

im just a random person on the internet so please don't take my word as gospel. feel free to disagree with me or provide your own insights, etc.

thanks for reading. sorry if this is hard to read on light mode

[calebrity]

love is a bitch

sylus x female reader

sylus will tolerate your tantrums if you insist on having them- but he’ll have to address them somehow, too.

▻ cw. smut, noncon elements, implied kidnapping, breeding if you squint, sylus is soft but the consent is still very dubious, 18+ characters, dark/yandere content, possessive behavior

▻ notes. no explanation tbh. its around like 6k words i think.. with SEEMINGLY minimum plot but sylus is so whipped for mc. like truly whipped. this dynamic has a very special place in my heart its like canon to me. i wanna make a dragon sylus fic next… maybe another caleb one OR do a siren! raf thing. hope the girlies enjoy this <3

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 (๑´ `๑)♡

You’re stubborn, tonight.

Between two days spent enduring your mean cold shoulder and the precious vase you threw to the ground, sending it sprawling in a million bits across the floor that Sylus fears will end up lodged in your feet, he’s a little emotionally-charged as well.

Sylus has never been one to bend over, no- his two most reliable henchmen are there for that, and they do it gladly. But there is something about you that makes him stick his neck out time and time again… So, without a word, just a resigning glance thrown your way, he lowers himself to a crouch and sweeps the glass shards into a dustpan.

Love will do that to you, he supposes with the ghost of an obliging grin.

It’s not in his nature to roll belly-up, but he’ll meet you halfway somewhere on his side.

It’s not the first time he bent a knee for you, anyway, and certainly won’t be the last. Still, Sylus holds abundant self-awareness and knows this is more than a bad look for him; fortunately, his weak spots only ever reveal themselves in the privacy of his manor’s walls where you hold it down in his absence.

The twins- Luke and Kieran- they won’t enter your bedroom, not tonight, regardless if there’s a mess or not. Onychinus’s leader has plans for you and no intentions of allowing any interuptions. With a watchful eye trampolining between the fragments underfoot and your rounded shoulders as you curl up to the headboard and tremble, Sylus decides he can handle this little issue fine enough himself.

With a set jaw, he trawls through the glittering pieces until his gaze darts to something particularly shiny.

He lets out a breath.

…So you did throw it out; Sylus wondered what you were fidgeting with behind your back moments before your sudden outburst, but it’s with a pang of startle- and hurt- that he unearths the nitid wedding ring buried beneath layers of geometric shards. Discarded no different than trash would be.

It’s not like he needs physical proof to boast your marriage— even strangers can spare one look at the two of you- the arm forever wrapped around your shoulder or middle, the possessive flair in his eyes paired with a doting, bottomless affection- and make the conclusion that some sort of intimacy runs deep there...

So no, some filed-down gemstone, dazzling as it may be, doesn’t determine your relationship. It certainly makes him feel good, though, to see it wrapped around your finger as a perfect match to his- a tangible token of your bond. It’s a beautiful reminder of you that he absently toys with throughout the evenings to the backdrop of a silent stopwatch, mentally counting down the seconds until he can return home to you.

It’s all the more reason to adorn you in pretty things, anyway. Jewelry and twinkling beads that clang loudly together no matter how quietly your feet fall.

And he likes that, to be fair- not to be superficial, but it’s one of his simpler joys, to pamper you like a princess in every sense of the word.

You don’t need to like it, to want for it; Sylus has always stared at you like you were the epitome of royalty. And royalty only deserves the best, doesn’t it?

He dresses you in fine silks that you slip out of as soon as he’ll allow, trading designer brands you can’t even name out in favor of one of his sweaters or shirts. Stood behind you, he’ll insist on threading dainty, flax chains around your neck, smiling softly in the reflection of the full-body mirror.

You never meet him in the eye, then, too put off by the delight that practically oozes off him as he spoils you rotten to look at him right.

Sometime later that night, his hand- large but always careful- will resume that chain’s place around your neck, and thumb over your pulse affectionately.

You never did find much use, or joy, in any of his glitzy expenditures.

If- If you’re being perfectly honest you’d much rather he buy you a ticket home. Maybe that’s the one wish of yours he’ll never bring life to, much less humor in the first place.

But you’re nothing if not persistent. Oh, sweetie, Sylus has been made abundantly aware of that fact. He takes it like water off his back, though: just another little quirk of yours to catalogue to memory and dote over.

His stubborn, precious girl.

Tonight, frustration reaches its zenith in you and you snap. Grow teeth and snarl in his face.

You don’t want to be angry— ugly— God knows you loathe what’s becoming of you, but your captor doesn’t leave many other options on the table.

You shriek when he tries to coax you towards the plush fur draped over the bed and he watches with a resigned sort of sorrow as you throw things off the coffee table and shout.

You scream your throat hoarse. You taste copper on your tongue as if you’ve been running. Maybe, the truth isn’t all that far off. A man like Sylus is something to run from; all sentient beings with a sense of self preservation, no matter how small, would take off on foot immediately.

There’s not many places you can run to, though. Not when there’s constant surveillance on you- iron-wrought gates and a damned bird that soars watchfully overhead if you so much as step into the courtyard.

Your tantrum lasts all of three minutes before you retreat to the nearest corner- Sylus’s lavish bed- and quietly lick your proverbial wounds.

He’s never hit you before, no, not physically, but he’s the kind of man to leave everything within his radius reeling sooner or later. Doesn’t matter where his loyalties lie. It will happen.

And, you know, he’ll treat you like you’re some exception to that rule- to his streak of cruelty and the chaos that he lets unravel around him- but you’re not. You’re really not and you just desperately wish he could see that—

“Talk to me, sweetie,” a low tone draws you from your reverie.

You don’t let your eyelids flutter open right away; you’re re-experiencing a vivid memory in your head- a sunny afternoon in Linkon with a warm hand woven in yours by the shore- and don’t want it to slip away just yet. It’s a comforting piece of your past you want to hold onto.

As pathetic as that may be, despite Sylus having all but birched your hope for rescue to a bloody pulp, you still look back on better days with bittersweet longing and pray someone will come and save you. If not them- your old buddies in the Hunters Association and your closer friends that Sylus has voiced a particular enmity to- then yourself. You want more than anything to save yourself, but it’s not like he gives much opportunity for that.

This is your home, now. It always was. He’s dogged in his attempts to prove it to you, purring in your ear while he fucks you slow and deep that he’ll take as long as it needs to convince you of that simple fact. It’s indisputable: you’re his.

You’ll… come around to it eventually, Sweetie.

Biting your tongue, you hold off on responding to him.

There was nothing to say, really- you’d already just screamed your throat raw and still it wasn’t enough to make him budge or even at least reconsider this awful arrangement he’d launched you into a number of months ago.

If you open your mouth, you tell yourself in a mix of childish bravery and cooling ire, sloped against the headboard defiantly, it’ll be to bite him. Certainly not talk to him. Especially not in any civil manner. You think he’s lost that right ages ago- the priviledge of your softness.

You hear him heave a faint sigh, but for the moment, he leaves it at that. “Okay, then,” he murmurs with a tinge of understanding that you hate, “You cool off, sweetie. Take slow, deep breaths. Lie down if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

You remain sat upright. One half of it is because you don’t quite feel safe going prone right now with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and the other half is for the sole purpose of spiting him.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t. Spite him, you mean. His wounded eyes, which resemble a kicked puppy’s to a shocking degree, are as rare as they are effective. You really shouldn’t harbor any capacity of guilt for the man, but you’re human. Glaringly human. And his forlorn little frowns after you’ve winced under his harmless pets or refuse to face him after he’s fucked you within an inch of your life and wants to curl up to you like some overgrown cat- they tug on a vulnerable part of you.

It’s- It’s not Stockholm Syndrome at all, or even the latent stirrings of it. It’s just— It’s just a basic human trait to feel, and…

You suppose that might be the one veritable thing he hasn’t quite ripped from you. Maybe more so for his benefit than yours.

After Sylus is done sweeping up your mess, he approaches the bed and caresses the blade of your shoulder. The movement is just barely hesitant, like he doesn’t want to send you flying five feet in the air with some violent flinch response. It’s happened before on more than one occasion.

You don’t know whether to count his caution as endearing, oddly sweet, or fucking maddening. Perhaps it’s a fair combination of all of that as well as sickening.

Your consolation that came in the form of a now distant memory peters out into heavy, intermittent throbs of your chest. Sadness thumping a gentle song. The smell of sea salt spraying up from the ocean fully wafts away as he brings a hand up to your forehead, gentle as ever, and guides you to turn to face him.

His own scent- a base amber with notes of vanilla underneath, in two words: warm and rich- replaces that. You draw it in in small, shallow breaths and feel it tingle behind the bridge of your nose.

Sometimes it comes like a precursor to his hands- something that’ll have you bracing for impact in fetal position. Other times, when he’e got your thighs pinned either side of your head and his cock delving in and out of your pussy, hitting so deep in your belly you think nothing will sate your appetite for days, it’s a dizzying smell.

Consuming and concentrated, rubbing off on you like a bad influence as he grabs and gropes and nips.

You hate to admit it (and don’t know how it got to this point) but on occasion, Sylus’s scent is even comforting.

You would never tell him that. In fear of it getting to his head, if nothing else.

His warmth tickles the shell of your ear, his lips peppering a chaste kiss to your shoulder as he settles in beside you. Your frenzied heart, just as it began to slow, begins to thump faster, but you remain otherwise composed. When he moves a hand to lift the blanket over you, fuzzy and stupid-expensive, you make a grunting sound and shove his wrist away.

Stubborn, Sylus thinks, and bold.

But his. His and perfect.

Behind you, his chest rumbles. He lets out a laugh, gentle and light, but you wonder if it’s the remnants of exasperation that’s interwoven in it. He nestles up at your back and curls a possessive hand around your middle, his other brushing some hair off your shoulder.

You’re not quite dumb enough to interfere with it this time. Or, for that matter, the glittering ring he puts on your finger- back to its rightful spot- and reverently slips down to the slim base of your knuckle.

“You’re not cold, kitten?” He mumbles at your ear, taking you in through slow, decadent breaths,”I guess you did work yourself up by a few degrees, huh?” The proximity used to raise the little hairs on the back of your neck, but he has dulled your fight-or-flight response considerably over the past handful of months.

Kudos to him, for that.

He’s not entirely wrong, though. Your cheeks still feel toasty with anger, your fingers twitching and unfurling by your lap as if to test your own mood.

“Are you…” he starts, contemplative, “still frustrated?”

…Are you still frustrated? You don’t know. Maybe just sad.

Everything you want you can’t have. Everything you want- your veritable livelihood- he’s plucked you out of no different than a mother would her errant puppy, by the scruff. With possessive teeth that latch on painlessly and say mine.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, before quickly remedying the part of you that grows anxious at admitting your own vulnerabilities to him- “yes. I’m upset.”

Sylus gives a little sigh.

Long fingers skim the column of your arm. He leaves behind small goosebumps and a warmth that somehow feels cold over your human flesh; a brush that tingles like a static shock.

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, voice becoming oddly heavy. Breathy, rugged. And you wryly suppose the solution he offered is just so helpful, isn’t it?

The palm laced around your middle gradually slips downward, his hooked nose pressing into your jugular like he can smell the hot blood beneath and it’s appetizing, before a feeling of dread overtakes you.

Dread, and another feeling you don’t want to name— a thrill of excitement ghosting down your spine.

When he cups the seat of your panties, you shiver and revolt as if you’ve been burned.

“N-No—“

He’s ready for that, your… hesitance. His other arm, the one that doesn’t end nestled between your bare thighs, keeps you lassoed to him, his breath heavy at your collar. Growing more labored by the second.

He hushes you, using his cheek to stroke against your hair since his hands are otherwise occupied. You don’t give any more fight other than that- the violent flinch- but you remain stiff as a board as he notes your trembling with a genuine, deep frown. Furrowed, sad brows and all as if he actually has the fucking capacity to feel sorry for something—

“It’s okay, kitten,” he breathes out, “Hush.” Four fingers deliver a series of slow, tantalizing rubs to your pussy, marking the beginning of his painless assault as his thumb toys with the waistband of your panties, and you shudder against your will.

You scramble to hold onto his thick forearm, straightening against him as he leisurely works you into a writhing, fiery mess. Your veins warm, but not out of anger- not anymore, at least. Traitorous flames sprout in the pit of your belly, fanning heat across your face— hot-blooded and filled with want over just a few of his touches.

Oh, you hate him.

“Just relax, loosen up. I’ll make you come,” he murmurs against your neck, laving the fleshy space there with amorous kisses.

Man with a mission. Man with a promise. If you know him, then you’ll know he keeps them.

He suckles gently at the sensitive skin before breaking off with a soft pop, a hot tongue lolling out to chase away the redness, rendering you speechless. Speechless and on the brink of forgetting just why exactly you loathe him so much— but a vestige of that repulsion remains, melancholic and weak, and you try one last time to push him away, throwing an ineffective elbow.

He glues his front to your back completely, locking your joints in place, and slips his fingers down your panties. His knuckles peek out from the lacy hem.

Sylus lets out a little groan when you call his name, shivering behind you.

He doesn’t care if you say it like it’s a perjorative or an invocation of some reprehensible, filthy spirit— if he had it his way, it’d sound coated in honey, but he’s learned to take what he can get with you. It still makes his cock throb beneath the white folds of his robe. In any case, it’ll sound real sweet soon enough, ringing out from your lips in pretty, gasping moans as you gouge your nails into his back.

Grudge him all you want, honey. He’ll make you shake and scream, tonight. Squash all the enmity you doggedly hold for him within the span of an hour with worshipful hands and concentrated, ardent thrusts that leave you with little choice but to take it and moan.

When your struggling stops altogether, Sylus takes ahold of your little hand and appreciatively thumbs over your ring finger. “What sort of husband would I be if I left you all hot and bothered, hm? A poor one,” he answers for you.

Gently, he maneuvers you onto your back and insinuates himself between your legs. His eyes are aflame. The look in them steals the last of your shivering breath, your heart doing a perfect backflip in your chest.

Ruby eyes flutter with passion, his pupils so big you can hardly spot the red glint as they dilate unevenly, his lashes dewy. He sucks in oxygen with short, winded intakes, his silvery hair- still slightly damp from his shower- falling over his brow. And to be fair that’s bunched together, too; all the little muscles in his face tight and strained as he lets out a clipped sigh.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers on his perusal. His gaze flits all over the place when he hoists shiny silk up your breast (tonight, a royal-blue negligee) and unwraps a stringy pair of panties from your legs.

“You’ll be good for me tonight, won’t you? Or is there any more… frustration you need to let out?”

The invisible apple of your throat bobs. You retain your silence.

He dryly comments, “I guess I owe you that.”

Sylus unties his robe, eyes glossy and intense.

He does so with an affected patience, knuckles moving ridiculously slow as he feigns autonomy over his own rampant emotions. You eye him with a misty desire as he does so, your hips giving an involuntary shimmy as you prepare for what’s to come.

Sylus grasps for the very last of his self-control like a beggar would the lavish tailcoats of passersby, but it’s all for naught. His fingers are shaking when he finally flips open his robe and shucks it from his broad shoulders. Oozing less confidence and more need than anything, the tips of his ears flushed a bright red that you don’t get to see often and nobody else gets to see at all.

He stoops over, then, laying his naked chest flat to your breasts.

“This,” he says, pinning your hand- the one with a flashy wedding band- onto the silky duvet and intwining your fingers with his. “This belongs, with you. So make a mess. Throw your fits and say those cruel things to try to get back at me, sweetie… But don’t ever take this off your ring finger, do you understand?”

He breaks off from your hickey-dotted neck to get a close look at you, pressing his forehead to yours. And right then you’re almost scared to look at him, an instinct existing deep in your gut saying you’ve just been taken into the maw of a big bad wolf— but his nose brushes with yours and he feels… human. Fleshy, warm. Shockingly vulnerable in the moment.

His hands that hold yours greedily are callous and big, sure- and you’ve seen firsthand the destruction they can raise- but they’re not clawed and malicious as they touch you. No, actually, they tremble with unbridled excitement at the opportunity to make you feel good.

And— And you hate him, y-you do.

Sylus cradles you close and nurses a few indulgent kisses from your lips, eating up every precious gasp you can’t stop from slipping in time.

Reluctantly, you return them all with budding desire.

“Do you understand?” He manages to heave out after a breathless moment. There’s no threat masquerading behind his candied words (no, he’s never been one to hold things over your head, surprisingly) but his timber is firm and meaningful. You have the implicit understanding that you must say yes- or, that’s your best option for the moment.

You look up at him and his eyes are wide, unblinking, not exactly the heavy-lidded picture you were expecting and had just witnessed mere moments prior.

And it’s a million things all in one— reverent and intense, enigmatic in its roots, you think, because you never could wrap your head around just what he saw in you and why, but he’s completely besotted. It brightly reflects in his eyes like chopped moonlight over calm waters- and you never once denied that. If you’re being honest, he made denying that- his very real, and unabashed feelings for you- an impossible task.

“Yes,” you mumble. “I understand.”

He seems contented, at that. Sighing and tempered.

He pants and nudges his brow to yours, one hand unloosening from its knot with yours to make a slow descent. Torturous and controlled like he wants you to shrivel up and die from the grudging need for his touch- for him to pivot deep up inside you and erase all conscious thought from your brain.

Sylus captures your lips in another kiss, more heated this time, raunchy and a bit toothy, as he takes his cock and, without any anticapitory strokes or anything, lines it up with your hole.

“M’ sorry, sweetie. I just don’t think I can stay away tonight. You…” His skull throbs with blunt, scalding want. “You’re worth all your trouble, you know that?”

A ripcurrent of fondness, unbidden but strong, gusts through your chest.

There’s just nothing in this world you can do to ward him off you, is there? No way to spook him?

The epiphany, dulled by a lust broiling between your thighs, is as comforting as it is horrifying. You don’t- You don’t know anything more. You just can’t be sure of what Sylus is to you, how he makes you feel— all his disservices done to you a cruel piece of your reality or not.

Tonight, you’ll blame it all on him.

He nudges apart your folds (growingly wet: an unfortunate discovery of yours that makes his chest puff with pride) with the fat head and begins his entrance. It’s grand but gentle; painstaking, almost, as his pelvis draws closer to yours but only at a snail’s rate.

A lewd squelch sounds out. You suppose you’re not entirely beyond the luxury of shame quite yet, because you toss your head to the side and refuse to meet his piercing gaze, embarrassed.

You… suppose you’re also a bit wetter than you’d thought, or wanted, for that matter.

You wince as he feeds inch after inch into you. Sylus is twitching; maybe you’re just hypersensitive or your fresh bout of anger has you experiencing everything in overabundance, but you can feel his long member writhe inside your gooey walls— every ridge and curve as you struggle to make room. On instinct, you clamp down on him and he hisses like he’s been slapped.

“R-Relax, kitten... Let me in. I’ll be gentle with you, I promise. Are… you scared?” He pants.

You swallow hard. Sylus tracks the movement with alarming precision, cardinal eyes watching your throat bob. Sweat beads there. He licks it up without thought, with half the brain to follow up his question with, “Don’t be. I would never hurt you,” he whispers. And to be perfectly honest, you believe him. In his own weird, roundabout way, he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in any physical regard, at least.

(Although, perhaps bullying his thick cock between your plushy, tooth-marked thighs is the exception to that statement.)

“Y-You’re mad at me,” you caterwaul, but it’s really a question in its own, uncertainty blipping past your wet eyes. “You’ll punish me.”

Something like hurt reshapes the hard lines of arousal in his face, tanned skin unfurling with brief sorrow. He looks sweet and puppyish- all momentary, of course, all his slips of vulnerability compiled into these isolated, intimate moments with you.

He frowns, “I won’t punish you, sweetie.”

“I broke the vase. Threw it, and- and my ring.” You reason in a thin voice, your fingers curling thoughtlessly. He takes them in his own. Kisses all the tips of them.

“So?” He dismisses with a breath, “I can buy a million more, honey. You forget who I am. As for your ring,” he pauses, gaze rapidly flipping across the bridge of your nose, as if trying to discern whether or not you’ll do it again somewhere down the line. Of course, it’s an impossible task to tell the future. Sylus wishes that wasn’t the case, though.

“…You wouldn’t do that again, would you? Throw it away, take it off. You’d cherish it, just as I do my own…” he alludes to the own band on his finger, resplendant and with a price tag you’d prefer not to count the zeroes on.

It glitters in the mellow lamp light when you briefly glance to it.

“I want you to look at it,” he decides after a beat, “and think of me. I want it to… make you happy.”

With that, you blink and he’s withdrawing, straightening his back to loom over you again- resuming that position of dominance without issue. He paints the most traditional idea of authority. Tall and muscled, with stoic eyes that glow with the silent dare to challenge him and hands that can make putty of the most rebellious spirit. He molds you like clay on a potter’s wheel. You reel underneath the unexpectedly soft ministrations of his worn palms.

Funnily enough, there was a time where you were convinced he wanted nothing more than to erase your person and rewrite your identity, but now you’re not so sure… It seems if anything, the only thing he wants to strip you of is your fear. Most notably, of him. He’s so violent but… painless. Sylus has always confused you, in that way.

With men like him, you’ve quietly wondered, maybe it’s just better to close your eyes and let your breathing slow.

“You’re doing so good,” he rewards with his words, “Relax your hips… yes, just like that. Maybe I’ve been away too much, mm? I’m sure the twins have been… more than talkative with you. Bothersome. Fuck,” he shudders.

“…You’re all pent up,” he determines out loud. “But don’t worry. I’ll make it better. I’m only asking that you’ll,” you think he gasps faintly, bringing a hand to touch over your belly, “make some room for me here. Could you do that for me, kitten?”

Without fully understanding the possible implications of his words, caught between the sweltering heat of his body and a confusing, inner blend of desire and fading resistance, you give a nod.

Sylus digs a fang in his bottom lip and forces himself to look away. His too-intense eyes settle on the syrupy juncture of your bodies, where he disappears into you and you, for once, eagerly invite him in.

“Sweet kitten.” His praise is cloying. Genuine, sappy. It sticks like frosting to the roof of your mouth— a feeling you can’t quite squirm away from because it’s lodged inside you. He’s smitten, and you think you hate him. You must. You were only screaming your head off about it moments prior and throwing precious, ornate vases to the floor, confessing your repulsion to the whole entire world (more accurately, Luke and Kieran, overhearing it from somewhere down the hall and the damned bird currently perched in his cage).

His words of encouragement, bitten and breathy, keep you from bucking your hips up and away, but only barely.

Your husband keeps you anchored beneath him with a fervid, loving stare and fingers that constantly remind themselves not to dig too deep into the fat of your hip lest they leave bruises. Save for the petal-like hickeys spiraling the pillar of your neck and your thighs- the ones that made you yelp with pleasure as he left them- Sylus doesn’t want to leave anything behind that exists for the sole purpose of hurting.

Right now, everything does. Your pussy lips mouthing around him and desperately trying to receive him, the prominent vein at the base of his cock throbbing under the tight fit.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s nailed you against the headboard or taken you folded over the marble kitchen counters as the twins hurriedly scuttled out— you’ll never quite get used to the sheer length of him. All thick and pulsating, the upper half of it flushed and curved under its own weight.

Terrifying, the first time you saw it and he pried apart your legs all attentively and soft, tracking each and every expression that passed your face despite the drugs in you making every tiny muscle go almost entirely lax.

And it was terrifying the second and third time, too.

…It’s terrifying even now, but that sense of startle is buried deep down under gritty layers of hopelessness and bitterness and a disloyal arousal- your core throbbing with want as it nudges aside all rational thinking. It says to let him in. Let him inside your panties and heart but you still dream of homeward during every sleepless night, familiar, Linkon paths surrounded in hazy serenity. You dream of the sun, too, the buttery light that waits just outside of the N109 Zone and its boundless darkness—

Outside of him. Your stalker, your captor. With the recent addition of a big sparkling gem on your finger- your apparent husband.

Sylus is neat, down there; fine white hairs tickle above your clit as he bottoms out with a final groan- seconds before he stoops back over you and recoils his hips.

He fucks you good and slow. Expert thrusts that he pairs with tentative, darting looks from your pussy to your eyes to note every zipping emotion.

He coaxes honeyed moans out from you with relative ease. Admittedly, it feels heavenly where his body meets and parts with yours— your head made so dull, devoid of thought, your limbs weighed like bags of sand as he ruts into you like a man possessed.

He makes a pleasured sound, pulled deep from the barrel of his chest. “I love you.” You believe him. He definitely looks the part; in love. He can hardly speak. “Kitten. Tell me how it feels, tell me how you want it,”

“Good,” you cry breathlessly. “Feels good.” He watches you clamp your eyes shut and groans with dissatisfaction, taking your jaw in his whole hand and pressing his nose to yours. If he has one wish right now, it’s that you’ll understand in indisputable clarity that you make up the very atoms of his world, that in a wasteland of slate grey and white— you hold color. Hold it like a fully saturated sponge. With every piston of his hips, he drinks his fill from you.

Bitterly, you think with withering rationale, he drains.

“Then open your eyes. Look at me,” he demands. So close he’s near suffocating- every fibre of your being consumed by five letters and an adoration so heady it feels treacly. It emits from him like radiation, poisonous and insidious.

Sylus puffs out humid, minty breaths, and you take them in, recycling it between each other. Your lungs feel like a hearth. He’s gasping like he’s just concluded a several mile long run, perspiring at his temple.

Belatedly, you flutter open your eyes.

He’s handsome. He’s wolfishly handsome and the way he looks at you is both precious and earth-shattering all at once, crushing you under the sheer weight of it like a flimsy object placed under a hydraulic press: you stood no chance. Not against someone like him.

Obedient, you stare at him and whimper, half-tempted to cup his V-shaped jaw and indulge in the feeling.

Sylus moans and rewards you with a hot tongue pressed flatly to your neck. You slam your head as deep as it can go in the duvet. Your eyes fall back into your skull and you hold him tight- tighter than tight- squeezing his thick forearms like they’re fruit to juice. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Your back makes a crescent-moon. He relishes in the way you cling onto him for dear life, branding him with the tips of your fingers as he imparts mind-numbing pleasure. Euphoria thrums in your veins. It’s hard to breathe, your cheeks bloating before you dazedly remind yourself to breathe.

Your inner voice resembles Sylus’s to an unexpected degree.

“Breathe,” he really says, rasping. “Breathe, kitten.”

Your slick cunt winks around him with satisfaction, a gusty breath pouring down your throat.

Pointed teeth tickle your jugular. For a split second, you experience the very real, but perhaps needless fear that he’ll sink down and tear tendon from bone. That he’ll pull away with red spittle and a predatory smile and say, I’ve won. You’ve given in, sweetie.

It’s all for naught, however; instead, he washes you with sloppy, suckling kisses and you mewl unabashed for each and every one.

Molten pleasure sends a violent jolt through you, his saliva marking you and right then you feel no different than a bone to a dog.

Sylus wonders vaguely if you’ll ever come to the realization that while yes, he is a dog, you are his master— you give him name and purpose and occasional tugs on his leash that tell him where to go and what to do. He’ll trail you endlessly. Follow you to hell even if he smells the char clear ahead.

And you just don’t get that, do you? It’s as humorous as it is exasperating.

“Look me in the eyes, sweetie. Tell me how you feel. I want to know how- far you think I reach.” He shudders.

You whimper, “Far. S-So far, Sylus.”

A visible shiver racks his broad shoulders at the sound. His palm, callous and large, cups your chin tenderly and his damp lips shift against yours with every dull clap of his pelvis to yours. His free hand leaves its perch at your waist in favor of your breast, hovering over the valley of them with splayed fingers.

“And what about here?” He croaks, “Am I reaching this spot here?”

Your neck is straining as you plow it deeper into his fancy, expensive mattress. There’s a small uncertainty in you that raises the silent question of whether or not you’re trying to escape the man looming over you or you’re just overstimulated from his handling. Either way, it goes unanswered, put on the back burner to make room for a rattling pleasure.

Comprehension slips away. It’s taking you several seconds to grasp onto what Sylus is asking of you.

You take ahold of a pillow beside you and grab it so hard you think feathers might erupt from your fingertips. You’re getting close, you can feel it; a foamy wave in the distance growing taller and taller as it nears the shore. He’s not fairing any better, the threads of his composure splitting like dead ends.

Your heart, you finally realize in a blink. Is he reaching your heart? And it’s almost delicate, the response your chest has to it, your lungs drawing in a short breath and keeping it there for a long moment as if you need the extra time to process that morsel of information. That unexpected smidgen of fondness that bowls through you and scrunches your brow as you flit between his eyes. Cherry red and agog, wholly invested in your answer.

Before you can provide a real one— the wave crashes.

Bigger than you’d imagined, more powerful. Tsunami-like in nature: it casts its shadow over you in its entirety and steals the breath from your lungs as it curls and flattens. It rolls over you and sprawls to the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, your whole body convulsing as you’re swept up in its waters.

“Y-Yes,” you gasp without consciousness, fucked into perfect dumbness. “I love you, Sylus- I love you I love you I love you—“

Sylus’s hips stutter and fail.

“Fuck, sweetie!” He growls, “Do you mean it, do you—?” He delivers one last onerous ram into your twitching hole before letting out a roar and stilling completely. Rope after rope of hot cum glutting into you, your spasming walls feeling volcanic as he unloads his fat balls inside them.

You tremble and lose your tether to reality, for one moment. Cut off completely and barred from it.

Eventually, he lets out a deep, sated sigh and collapses over you. Drawing your boneless body to his front, tucking you safely under his muscled wing.

You numbly slant yourself against him and press your cheek to the damp, hard planes of his chest. His heart is hammering wildly beneath your ear and you don’t know whether to feel flattered, startled, or a fair mix of both. Perhaps you’re beyond the point of caring- although, sometimes it’s hard to get over the knowledge that Sylus indeed has a functioning heart capable of sorrow and anger and joy.

It’s… confusing, to say the least.

A long while passes afterward.

In the dewy afterglow, he plants a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and uses his center fingers to move away the hair pasted to your forehead. You can tell he’s holding back on something, just don’t know quite what.

Then, he murmurs, with a vulnerability that will never not look stupefying on him— cocksure, devilishly-handsome face warping into the gentle portrait of doubt—

“Did you?” He blinks, slow as he drifts along your sleepy face and watches your eyes hazily lift to meet his. “Mean what you said? Just now, when you came... Did you mean it, kitten?” He whispers softly.

Your mouth opens and wavers.

A plethora of contradictory feelings make quick work of the last of your common sense: loathing, trading itself out for hesitant affection; deepseated fear ducking out the way for the inexplicable want to unfurl your tight limbs against him and allow yourself just to be held... By him, of all people.

Your captor, who utterly uprooted you from your home and cut off every string connecting you to the people you considered most dear. Your tormentor and kidnapper and husband, whether you liked it or not, the relation only recently scrawled in paper in sloping, flowery letters. You signed yourself to him. (Albeit, you had very little say in the whole ordeal.)

You shut your eyes, hard. Your jaw follows.

You don’t give him an answer. Maybe you don’t truly know it anymore, not for certain. What this man has done to you is all too confusing and he’s made you all too tired, tonight. Nothing can keep its foothold for long in your fogged brain.

With a rapid thump of his heart, devastation falling headlong into the pit of his belly, Sylus thinks your silence, that in itself, is your answer.

…Nonetheless. He’s nothing if not persistent. And you’re warming up to him, he can tell— those fuzzy, latent feelings part of your willing acknowledgement or not.

So he arms you impossibly closer and nuzzles his hooked nose into your hair.

You think it’s a wry little smile that prods your temple. “You’re still playing the long game, hm, kitten? …It’s alright,” he breathes. You note the microscopic hitch in his otherwise even words with an unwanted pang of guilt.

“I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

[lowkeyed1]

real conversation i had last week: me: how can i help you? customer: i need a seal. me: ...and does this seal go on some kind of document? customer: yes me: ...and do you have the document with you? customer: yes me: ...may i see the document? dude stood completely still the whole time with nothing in his hands, finally grudgingly pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket so i could set upon the business of figuring out what the fuck he needed because let me tell you HE did not know

something you notice in food service is that there are customers of all ages and backgrounds who have come on an angelic voyage from a heaven-like planet where nobody has ever had to learn to order food from a restaurant before

[moni-logues]

Pairing: Lee Know x reader (afab, she/her)

Genre: 5x1, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, smut

Summary: You followed Minho home because you had nowhere else to go. Then you kept following... all the way into his heart, but not his bed.

aka five times you and Minho don't fuck and one time you do.

Word count: 13.5k

Content: the gang do some light crime and then some less light crime (nothing specific), references to sex trafficking, reader is 16 in the first section (nothing romantic/sexual happens but there are refs/allusions to it), interrupted foreplay, attempted car sex, fingering, unprotected piv sex, [not actually] unrequited feelings

A/N: reposting this because it's one of the last things i wrote that i actually felt good about i think?? this hasn't been edited since it was originally posted; it seems like AO3 (where I copied this from) may have put in some random extra spaces so... cool..... originally beta'd by @violetsiren90

FIRST  

“Why don’t you fuck off?”  

The voice came from behind you. It was low and cold and threatening. It was directed at Shindong , the man in front of you, whom you were sure was this close to offering to take you home. You whipped around to see who had uttered it.  

Your immediate thought was that he was too short and too slight to be walking up with that level of aggression. Your second thought was interrupted by the spark that shot up your arm when he grabbed your hand. You’d have pulled it back, but his grip was solid and your arm didn’t budge.   

“What the fuck do you want, Minho?” your companion replied, all the charm sliding off his face, replaced with a loathing, arrogant sneer.   

“I want you to fuck off.”  

“She yours? Might want to keep a closer eye on her; she was just about to come home with me.”  

The stranger’s hand squeezed yours, so hard it started to hurt. He offered nothing in response.   

Both men continued to stare at each other. Shindong had inches on Minho – both height and breadth – and you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw him hesitating. He flicked his eyes between you and Minho.   

“What if I want to fight you for her?”  

“What if I told you she’s not legal?”  

Shindong hesitated, moved just a fraction backwards, no longer leaning in, looming over the two of you. He rolled his eyes and gave a heartless chuckle.  

“Not worth the fucking bother,” he muttered as he walked away.   

Minho, still a stranger to you, still holding your hand, who hadn’t even looked your way, pulled you sharply by said hand, storming off and taking you with him. You followed him into one of the warehouse’s many dark corners. He kicked out the couple who were two clothing items shy of a citation for public indecency, and only then did he let you go. Only then did he turn his dark, flaming eyes on you.  

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked.   

Shindong had been your lifeline. What did this guy think he was playing at?  

Your vehemence took him off-guard, surprise flashing across his face, until his scowl returned, worse than before. You understood now why he made Shindong hesitate. His gaze was fierce, penetrating, his jaw set, his mouth a taut, grim line. You would never show your hand to anyone, but a cold droplet of fear slithered down your spine. You straightened it, rolled your shoulders back, lifted your head. You wouldn’t let him intimidate you.  

“Do you know him?” he asked, voice still low, still threatening.  

Not personally. Not until that evening. But people like him came with a reputation that preceded them. A reputation that you were relying upon being based in fact. A reputation that had spread all around your school and beyond, but that you had heard from a source close to the truth. It was close enough that you were able to find him here, in a part of town you’d never been to. It was close enough that you were able to pick Shindong out from this crowd. Close enough that when you approached him and he laughed at you – young, naïve, foolish, all of those things you were sure he thought – you were able to drop his cousin’s name and he suddenly took you seriously. That was what you had been hoping for. A connection was all you needed to keep you covered for a night, at least. Just one would be something.  

And then this guy showed up.  

“I was about to.”  

Minho’s top lip curled, just a fraction, his nose barely wrinkling with the movement, but you got his meaning. Disgust. He could be as disgusted as he liked; that wasn’t your problem. Your problem was that his disgust had led him to chase away your only lead.   

Or was he? Was Shindong your only option?  

You changed tack. Realised that maybe you had another now. Minho, whoever the fuck he was, had approached you as if he knew you and scared off the competition. That must have been it. Despite the way he glowered at you, absolutely no interest or desire lurking behind his dark eyes, you figured you had nothing left to lose.   

You relaxed a little, pouted your lips, played up to the damsel in distress he might have thought you were.  

“But if he’s so awful, I guess I can only thank you,” you said, making your voice soft, your eyes a little wider. You lifted your lips in a tiny, shy smile and then put a hand to them, your thumb and index finger tugging a little on your bottom lip, hoping it made you look small, nervous, sweet.   

He gave you no reaction. He continued to glare, his stance unchanged, unmoving. So you moved. You stepped towards him: shy, little bird steps, until you were so close that he moved backwards.  

“Thanks for looking out for me. Your name’s Minho, right?”  

His eyes tightened minutely. He didn’t reply.   

“I’d like to thank you properly,” you said, sliding your body into his, pressing just one finger against his chest. You fluttered your lashes up at him.  

His face changed immediately. Eyes wide, mouth dropping, and he was stumbling backwards, pressing himself against the wall.  

“What the fuck are you doing? What are you, fifteen?”  

Embarrassment licked your cheeks like flames and your scowl returned.  

“I’m sixteen !”  

“Wow, big age. My mistake. By all means, let’s fuck, Sixteen .”  

His sarcasm was biting but you hadn’t given yourself up yet.  

“Don’t you want to?” you asked, innocently. “You must have sent Shindong away for a reason. If not this, then what?”  

He let out a sigh so aggrieved it was almost a shout. He rolled his eyes.   

“Jesus Christ, where are your parents?” he asked, but it was muttered, almost under his breath and you didn’t know if you were supposed to answer. You did anyway.  

“Dead.”  

His lack of reaction grated. He didn’t flinch. There was no surprise, no guilt on his face. He had robbed you of Shindong and now he had robbed you of your fun: getting a reaction out of people as a poor, orphaned, little Annie was as close as you got these days. Then again, he wasn’t a well-meaning aunt or nosy teacher. He knew what this place was; he knew, or at least knew of, Shindong. Maybe your hand-grenade was, here, little more than a snap.  

“And this is your great life plan? Offering sexual favours to predators?”   

He gestured widely to the room behind you, and you could only assume he did not mean to include himself in that group.   

Actually, it was your plan. Kind of… Insofar as you had any sort of plan at all. You would not be telling him that. You kept your mouth shut tight and jaw clenched, refusing to look down, to be the one to break the eye contact.   

“You know he’s a fucking bad guy,” he said, more softly than he had said anything so far but the hard edge remained.   

“And what are you, my hero ?”  

“Absolutely fucking not. I do not want to have anything to do with whatever mess you are making of your life, but I’m not about to let that cunt take off with a child .”  

“I am not a child!” you shouted, right in his face.   

He took it, impassive, unimpressed even.   

“That’s exactly what a child would say.”  

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to smash him in his beautifully sharp jaw, or break that perfect, delicate nose of his. You were just about not stupid enough to try. How did he even know you were young? You knew you didn’t look it; you were always getting told you looked older than you were. How did he know? Why did he care?  

“Go on then,” you said, darkly. “Leave. If I’m not your fucking problem, why don’t you fuck off?”  

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move.   

“Worried I’ll get murdered?”   

You lifted your hands to your open mouth, eyes widened, a mockery of fear.   

His face and tone were flat when he responded.   

“There are things worse than death.”  

Then he pushed past you and out of the door.   

You took one shaky breath and walked after him before you could talk yourself out of it. You decided that, one way or another, this guy owed you and it was time to collect.  

You followed him, not too closely, but not exactly hiding it, for over a mile. You wondered, at one point, if he was trying to lose you, if he was actually heading to his destination or just trying to outlast you. You’d show him. You were a long-distance runner at school; you were extremely confident you could keep up.  

So confident, in fact, so determined were you not to lose him, that you were too slow to notice him slowing, to notice him stopping, to very nearly not stop yourself walking into him.   

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, not turning to look at you.  

“I’m walking here.”  

“Stop following me.”  

“I’m not following you.”  

He raised his eyes skyward. He stood for a moment and you stood, too, waiting for him to continue – walking or talking, you didn’t know which. He finally turned around and looked at you, everything about him a little softer than before. Not soft , but soft er .   

“You can’t follow me,” he told you slowly, emphatically. “I am not looking after you. I am not your fath-“  

“I don’t have a fucking father.”  

He scoffed.  

“Yeah, that much is very clear, Sixteen .”  

“I’m not sixteen!”  

He frowned.  

“That’s what you told me.”  

“That’s not my fucking name ! Stop saying it like I’m a child. How old are you anyway?”  

“Old enough to know better.”   

“What does that mean?”  

“Go home, Sixteen.”  

“I don’t have a home.”  

“Well you can’t have mine.”  

He turned on his heel and continued walking, a little faster this time, increasing his pace to a jog as he crossed the road. You knew he hoped you wouldn’t be able to follow, that the flashing green man would disappear before you could make it, but you’d been underestimated before.   

After another mile or so, you saw him take his phone from his pocket and put it to his ear. You couldn’t quite hear what he was saying but you thought it sounded like Japanese. Was he Japanese ?   

It hadn’t missed you, the knowledge that you had no knowledge of this man. You understood that you were, as far as you knew, in as much danger following him home as you had been going with Shindong. But you literally had no other options. It was follow this guy somewhere or wander around on the street all night; it was too cold to stay out. You hadn’t thought beyond that when you’d left your house earlier that day. Hadn’t thought much at all, except about getting out.   

Now you were out. Mission accomplished. And you had no idea what to do next.   

You almost missed him ducking into a narrow side street, but you caught the door he rushed through just before it shut. He disappeared from view through another door, off to the left of the dingy, dimly lit corridor you found yourself in. You stalked up to it – it wasn’t even fully closed – but something made you hesitate.   

Suddenly the fear that you had been suppressing all night raised its head. Was this a lion’s den? A serpents’ nest? Was Minho playing some kind of long game, saving you from Shindong so you would trust him, so you would follow him here, so he could…?  

“Are you going to fucking stand out there all night?” you heard a voice call from inside. It had to be Minho’s but you wouldn’t have bet on it.   

You fixed your face, your scowl reappearing, and kicked the door open with excessive force.  

It was just a bar. Just him, sitting on a stool with a beer in his hand, and one other guy, standing opposite, looking at you with his eyebrows raised in the way a parent does when they catch their child doing something naughty.  

“You break that door, I’m going to make you pay for it,” he said, in an accent that you knew wasn’t local.   

And, just like a defiant child, you slammed it shut without breaking eye contact. He turned to Minho.  

“Thanks, man. You had to bring home a fucking streetrat.”  

“I am not a streetrat,” you spat.  

“No?” Minho chimed in. “Then where’s your home?”  

“Fuck off.”  

“I really wish you would.”  

You sat down in a booth just off to your left and stared him down.   

“She can’t stay here,” the stranger said to Minho, as if you were no longer there.   

“I didn’t bring her; she just came .”  

He, the newest stranger, looked between you and Minho for several seconds. He was looking at Minho when he spoke again.  

“One night. That’s it. And she’s your responsibility.”   

He heaved a box full of empty glass bottles into his arms and wandered away, through a different door, mumbling something about ‘strays’.   

“Who was that?” you demanded as Minho continued to sip at his beer.   

You realised that you hadn’t actually been introduced to him either. And he hadn’t asked for your name. You wondered if he would now.  

“None of your fucking business,” he answered, finally moving from the stool to walk behind the bar.   

He opened the cash register and took bags from a cubby just below it. He produced a tiny pencil from his pocket and tore off a strip of the receipt roll. He took out the cash and started to count. You watched his lips move silently as he flicked quickly through the notes, pausing to drop a stack onto the bar and write a number down. He picked up the next stack and repeated.   

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned, not looking up, not even, apparently, pausing in his counting. “Even if you got your urchin mitts on it, you wouldn’t make it to the door.”  

You believed him, but you weren’t planning some kind of move. You didn’t need his money. You were just watching.   

You watched until all the notes and all the coins were accounted for, until they had been put into bags and those bags into a box and Minho turned to follow his friend. You stood from your seat and went after him.    

There were two doors, you realised. Minho took the left. It led to an office. The other guy must’ve taken the right because the room was empty except for furniture and, in the corner, a safe. Minho dumped the box before it and turned to you.  

“Turn around.”  

“Worried I’ll crack the code?” you asked with your eyes rolling back in your head.  

“Just turn around.”  

You did as you were told without a fight because, at that point, there was nowhere else to go. You couldn’t admit defeat and walk out of there; you weren’t sure that Minho wouldn’t make you do just that. It was a knife-edge, being the obnoxious, vile brat that you were. You’d stormed past boundaries before but, well, look where it got you. You were tired and worried enough now to decide you would stop pushing your luck. It had been stretched far enough already.  

There was a second of silence before you heard the beeping of the buttons pressed and the shuffling of bags, the clink of coins, the thunk of a bigger, metallic something against the walls of the safe. He didn’t tell you when he was finished, didn’t say you could turn back around. He just walked past you, out of the office, turning the light off as he went. As soon as you were out of the door, he shut and locked it.   

You followed him back to the bar and he did the same thing: turned off the lights and held a door for you (not politely, not because he was being nice ), following you through it and locking this one behind him, too. You walked to the end of the corridor and he gestured you down some wooden stairs that creaked as if they would break under your weight. He turned the corridor light off, too, and locked the door at the top of the steps.   

This was it. You were locked in. There were at least two locks between you and escape. When Minho shoved past you to the left and opened yet another door, your stomach sank a little further. Three locked doors. He didn’t hold this one for you but he didn’t slam it in your face either, so you rolled your shoulders back, put on your game face and walked through.   

You almost regretted it when you saw where it led. It was possibly the worst place you had ever seen. It wasn’t messy, but there was something dirty about the room anyway. Outdoor furniture inside; everything vaguely brown in a way that you didn’t think it had been fresh out of the box; everything tired and worn and sagging; the naked lightbulb dim and humming as it shone; the fridge, scratched and dented and shoved into a corner, also hummed, managing to sound as well as look tired. It was bleak. It was grey. It made you feel like things were crawling on you and you’d only just stepped foot in it.   

You half expected your feet to stick to the floor when you took a few steps forward. They didn’t but the carpet was so old and worn that you had no idea what colour it was originally; in places, you could see the floorboards clearly through the threads.  

Minho pointed to the sofa.   

“There,” was all he said.   

Then he disappeared out of the room. You gingerly sat on the edge, wondering if you should be more concerned about your health or your safety. Maybe you were sheltered here, but you pictured a thousand and one diseases squirming on the cushions. It wasn’t fair to, because you could see that it was cleaned . The room wasn’t filthy; there were no crumbs or water rings on the coffee table; there was no rubbish littering the floor; the sink was empty and a stack of plates and bowls stood beside it, washed if not yet dried. Minho was clearly diligent.   

Minho and whoever else lived here. There were too many doors leading off this room for him to be here alone.   

Your curiosity was stopped in its tracks when he reappeared with a pillow and a towel. He threw the pillow wordlessly at one end of the sofa and then he raised the towel a little.  

“I don’t have any blankets. Don’t get cold.”  

You scoffed a laugh and were grateful that he ignored it. You weren’t indignant; you weren’t being a brat this time. You were dismayed. You couldn’t believe it. A house with no spare blankets. You were going to sleep under a towel . You glanced around you for a final time, tears pricking in your eyes, fingers at your lips, picking nervously. You weren’t going to die here, you told yourself. Probably. You were probably not going to die here and that was all you needed.   

You stood up, turned off the light, tested the door handle (not sure if you wanted it to be locked or unlocked), then returned to the sofa. You took off your shoes, took your bag from your back and hugged it tightly to your chest. You lay in the dark, in a stranger’s horrible house, alone, tired, more vulnerable than you would ever admit. You cried silently, reluctantly grateful for the towel, until you fell asleep.    

SECOND  

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to everyone! Happy birthday to you!”  

You only got one birthday a year. The whole group of you. There wasn’t enough to stretch to everyone getting an individual birthday, an individual cake, a day off. So the middle day of the year, 2 nd July, was chosen and you all had a birthday together.   

One cake, one candle each, six people blowing them out. Most unsanitary, but, by now, there wasn’t much you hadn’t shared so a little spit didn’t even register.   

You were too drunk by far, which was stupid really. It wasn’t even your first time drinking legally (because your real birthday wasn’t until later in the year), so there was no reason for you to behave as if you had never had a drink before. You should have learnt a little self-control.   

But it was your birthdays. So you kept having one more and one more and one more. As did everyone else.   

“Nineteen!” Minho called as he fell into the booth next to you.   

“I thought I was Sixteen?”  

He shrugged.  

“You do still act like it.”  

You shoved him, almost hard enough to push him off his seat completely. He shoved you back.  

“Shut up, Minnie.”  

He narrowed his eyes at you, plotting death for using the nickname he loathed above all others, and you sent a simpering smile back at him.   

“You’re a little squirt, anyone ever tell you that?”  

You rolled your eyes.  

“You, literally all the time, because you are for some reason desperate to sound like the oldest grandpa in the room.”  

He let out a growling sort of cry, dramatic because he’d also had too much to drink. Then he stood.  

“BYE, Sixteen !”  

If someone didn’t know the two of you, it would seem as if nothing had changed in the time since you met: both antagonistic, unlikable, as hard as you could make yourselves, forced together and barely tolerating it.   

Those who did know you, however, knew that things were very different now. Minho had, reluctantly, taken responsibility for you and, when you had grown up just enough to realise what that had meant, you felt all your hard resolve melt.   

They had very little, this ragtag bunch of kids (barely older than you) but they shared everything between them. Never quite enough to go around, money from legitimate enterprises never stretching far enough and having to be supported by money from less than legitimate means. You were a liability. In every sense. The only girl, a stranger, certainly not (at that time) a criminal. But Minho took responsibility and the others let you in.   

When you had learnt to see past your own nose, you saw the myriad ways in which they took care of each other. The silent, invisible way Minho cared for his friends. For you. You hadn’t forgotten the sting of electricity you’d felt when he held your hand way back when. Before you’d even seen him, before you knew his name, before any of this. You felt it all the time now. You were a live wire for him.   

No one in the group was stupid enough to refer to you as siblings or even joke that you acted like them. Your feelings for Minho were your most closely guarded secret but that didn’t mean everyone didn’t know. You were pretty sure even Minho himself knew. Not that he would ever act on it. He pretended not to notice, you thought. You had pushed close to the edge of being kicked out enough times to know that some things were still precarious. To know that he would never risk his weird family by acknowledging there was anything more than friendship between you. If it even was between you. He had given you very little reason to believe your feelings were reciprocated. So you did your best to ignore them.   

They became a fact of life. Like the fact that Minho was the only one Chan trusted to count the cash (not because the others weren’t trustworthy; they just weren’t accurate). Like the fact that Chan had the final say on everything. Like the fact that he would never abuse that authority and act for anything other than the wellbeing of the entire group. It just was.   

And it wasn’t like you were stupid enough to pine. You had some pride. Plenty, in fact.   

You stood from the booth and sauntered to the bar where your sometime-boyfriend, Johnny, was getting another drink.   

“Babe,” you whined, draping yourself over his back, hooking your chin over his shoulder.   

“Babe,” he whined back, copying, mocking.   

“Entertain me, I’m bored.”  

“It’s your party.”   

You pouted and forced him to join you on the makeshift dancefloor. You refused to notice that Minho left it as soon as you joined, his face dropping, looking only at Johnny and never once pleased about it.   

*  

Chan had cut off the booze supply hours ago and the sun was thinking about raising its head above the horizon, which meant that, far from being wasted and happy and giddy and passing out in your bed, your hangover was already crawling in and you were tired and irritable. Johnny had pissed you off sometime before the booze dried up and then pissed off entirely before you’d begun to sober up, so you’d spent the smallest hours of the morning making your bad mood everyone else’s problem.   

Everyone except Minho. Because whilst you were always determined, at these moments, to needle him, to want to get under his skin, to want to scrape it back and spit on it, he was never there. He managed to avoid your venom and, even when he didn’t, seemed immune. He would just slow-blink at you as if he were looking through you and turn away. It boiled your blood and he knew it.   

You stomped downstairs to the same shithole basement you’d walked into two years ago. Everyone else had either left or gone to bed already, you thought. You expected it to be empty. It wasn’t.  

“Fuck sake, Mouse,” you spat, using your usual nickname, his preferred one (… preferred being too strong a term; it was the one he allowed you to use without retaliation). “Why are you sitting on your own like a fucking loser?”  

“You know he treats you like a fucking loser?”  

He turned to lean over the back of the sofa, looking tired under his eyes but energetic within them.   

“Fuck off,” you returned. “As if you give a shit who I date.”  

“Date? That’s what you call it?” He scoffed, deliberately, exaggeratedly, as if you wouldn’t otherwise have recognised his scorn. “He treats you like dirt.”  

“You would know.”   

He was on his feet and in front of you before you could blink.   

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”   

You’d had about enough of it, you decided at that moment. Not enough sleep, too much alcohol, and just enough of this bullshit. You grabbed the front of his T-shirt and pulled him with force towards you. You took him by the back of the neck and kissed him, hard and like you meant it. Because you did. It only took him a second to push you back, hands firm on your shoulders, holding you away from him. His face had lost his usual mask – the blank, passive, flat-eyed one that he used to stare people out with unnatural stillness – but he was still keeping you out; it was guarded, flashes in his eyes being stamped out with every blink, his jaw held tight and his mouth shut.   

“ That’s what I fucking mean, Minho ,” you hissed.   

“How dare you?” he hissed back, voice so low in his throat you almost couldn’t hear it. “You have no fucking idea.”   

His blinks weren’t quick enough this time to hide all the anger burning in his eyes.   

“No idea of what? What ?!”  

His lip curled and he let you go. He let his guard down around you more than he should have: shrugged you off and turned his back on you. You took both palms and pushed him. He tumbled forward, catching his foot on a side table, pulling it down with him as he hit the floor. Cat-like in his reflexes, he was on his feet before the table had stopped rocking. He charged straight at you and continued until you were pressed up against the door, until he was pressed up against you.   

“You want a kiss?” he asked and every part of you should have been screaming yes, because you did.   

You did want a kiss, but nothing about this was how you wanted it. It was a threat, not an offer. You’d been threatened with worse. You jutted your chin out a little, always standing up, never backing down.  

“You going to give me one?”  

His eyes flicked towards your lips, hovered there a second, like he was really thinking about it. They stayed there a little longer and doubt was picking up speed on its race to your consciousness. You thought he wouldn’t. You thought he would. You still couldn’t predict his behaviour. You thought you had him pinned and then he flipped you. You always thought you had him on the ropes, but you never really did.   

You were impatient, tiring of this, doubt and insecurity and embarrassment swelling up inside you and you opened your mouth to tell him to go away, to fuck off and die, to do something vile to himself. It was at that moment that his eyes met yours again, for a split second that sent a streak of ice through your blood, and then his mouth was on yours.   

You had never once looked a gift horse in the mouth, but even if you had wanted to, even if you had decided before he did it that you would push him off, return his rejection, you couldn’t possibly have done it now. His lips were soft, his hands still tight around your arms. He crowded you further against the door, your bodies pressing together as he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, asking for entry. You gave it to him. Your hands snaked up his chest and into his hair; it was softer than you’d expected, silky. For a moment, you were disarmed by it. Soft. He never let his softness show if he could help it. Only rarely. Only when he felt safe enough to let his guard down did it ever come creeping out from its hiding place. But here it was, sprouting from the top of his head. Here it was, pressed against your lips, brushing your tongue. You felt weak at the knees.  

As far as kisses go, it was the best you’d had. Fire and ice fighting: goosebumps erupting on your skin as it flushed hot, making you shiver. His mouth was warm and wet and sweet and you were desperate for more, knowing that he was kissing you just right and that you weren’t doing the same. You were too eager, too greedy, too needy. This wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. Just his lips on yours, his tongue rolling with yours, his hands still pinning your sides. You couldn’t stop here. You had to have him. All.   

You whined when he pulled back, when his grip on you loosened, and you opened your eyes expecting his to be soft and liquid, to be those sweet, round boba eyes he didn’t show enough of.   

They were hard and flat. He moved away from you in one, long step and back was that impassive blankness he loved so much.  

“Happy fucking birthday,” he said.  

He stalked off to his bedroom and shut the door.   

You stayed, glued to the front door, shaking. With anger, probably. With embarrassment, maybe. With something akin to heartbreak, but you would never admit it. The roaring in your ears, the screaming of invective at both yourself and Minho in your head so loud that you didn’t hear the sound of a key in the lock, weren’t aware that someone was trying to get in until they were shoving at the door, pushing you with it.  

“What the fuck?” came a quiet whine from the other side of it as he slowly pushed you away and got the door open. “Why were you trying to keep me out?”  

Jisung’s hamster cheeks were full of kimbap, the other half of the roll still in his hand, and his eyes were wide with that cute, pitiful look he carried off so perfectly.  

You ignored him. You stomped into your bedroom and slammed the door as hard as you could.  

THIRD  

Despite having your own bedroom (graciously offered up by Changbin and very ungraciously accepted by you), privacy in the small basement flat was an issue. Which is why you were huddled in the farthest corner of it, fists stuffed in your mouth, crying as quietly as you could in the dead of night.   

You lived with five men, but you had not yet found someone to date who would take the threat of them seriously. They did make threats, on occasion, when they had to. Because you had not yet found a man who could treat you as anything more than shit but you had, apparently, found the least bothered and most unfazed men in the city. The one before last had barely flinched when all five of them had battered down his door to come for you, when you had finally managed to get a message out that he was keeping you there.   

You never found out what happened to him. You didn’t ask and no one told you.   

This one hadn’t been that bad. That was the problem. You had thought he was nice. You had thought (as you had so many times before) that he might actually be the first to treat you right.   

You were wrong. So, you were crying in the corner of your room. You didn’t always cry. In fact, you didn’t often cry. Rarely, even. It meant that, when you did, the floodgates opened and you found it hard to stop. You found it almost impossible to breathe, desperately snatching air between sobs. Your head was already pounding, your face aching. It was total and complete the way it overtook you. So much so that you didn’t notice the presence of another person until they sat down beside you.  

You gasped, as much as you could amongst your shaking, shallow breaths, and were only slightly comforted that it was him . He said nothing. He pulled you towards him and held you like that until the storm had passed.  

You continued to sit in silence as your tears dried on your face, as your heartrate settled and your breathing became even. He didn’t make a move to let you go and you didn’t make one either. You were tired. You were sad. You were, though you wouldn’t admit it, a little bit heartbroken. This bit of comfort was exactly what you wanted.   

You didn’t want him to say anything. You didn’t want to hear it. That you’d done it again. That you’d never learn. That, somehow, you were gullible and easy to fool despite the fact that you had been hardening yourself against vulnerability of every kind since you were a child. That men just found a way to get beyond your defences—that bad men found a way. The good ones didn’t find you at all.   

“His loss,” was what he said.  

You lifted your head, tears still clinging to your lashes, drying on your cheeks. He had that look on his face that he saved for you: the soft, sweet one he gave you when you’d earnt it or when you needed it. The one that made your insides curdle, that even now made your heart skip a beat, that you wanted to fall into forever, that had sealed your fate so many years ago now. He blinked slowly at you, cat-like as always, and brushed your hair from your face.   

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Your voice was trapped in your throat because he was still looking at you like that but his eyes kept flicking down, then back up, then down again at longer and longer intervals until he closed them completely and brought his lips to yours.   

You didn’t have to think twice. Didn’t have to think at all. Your body did the thinking for you. Your hands pushed into his hair and your legs pushed you up so you could slot them down either side of his hips. His hands found your waist and then the soft skin on the other side of your t-shirt.  

This was nothing like the first time. You remembered it all too well: the electricity, the anger, the volcano of feelings you’d tried to suppress rumbling and threatening to erupt, to blow the lid off the equilibrium you’d found. The hunger, the desperation, your own neediness spoiling it all.   

You weren’t desperate anymore, for his approval, for his love, for whatever he would give you. You wanted it all, would lay yourself on the floor and kiss his feet if he asked, with no hesitation, but you always knew he wouldn’t ask. You’d got used to that.   

Except now he was kissing you – he had kissed you – and his hands were squeezing at your waist and it was slow. Controlled. Deliberate. There was nothing accidental about the way his tongue rolled over yours, the way his teeth bit at your bottom lip, the way his hands pulled you lower on his lap, pulled you closer to him until there wasn’t so much as a breath of air between you.   

“Mouse,” you murmured, quietly into his mouth.  

He shook his head minutely, a tiny hum swallowed by you when he pressed your lips together again. No talking. Fine. You didn’t need to talk. If he kept kissing you, kept touching you, you wouldn’t need to utter another word again. But you couldn’t stop the little gasp when he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your neck, the moan rising in your throat when he ran his tongue over the same spot, hurting then soothing. Like always.  

It made your brain turn fuzzy, static wavering in your mind, as all your conscious thoughts turned to liquid, melting into Minho’s mouth, swallowed down by him, eaten whole.   

Then the front door slammed hard.  

“Guys!” Chan shouted, in a way that he never did.   

You heard him pounding on doors, opening them, starting with Changbin and Hyunjin’s on the right.   

You sprang apart like two north magnets, instinctively repelled by one another, just in time for Chan to burst through the door and scan the room for you, too wired, too stressed to register that it might have been weird for you to be sitting on the floor like you were, certainly not noticing your kiss-bitten lips or heavy breathing or the way Minho’s hair was ruffled like it had just had a fist in it.   

“We’ve got to go,” Chan announced. “Like, right fucking now.”  

FOURTH  

No one wanted to up the ante. No one wanted to start getting involved with the organised crime lot. Your crime was… disorganised. It was local. It was just you doing the things you needed to, skirting around the law to survive. It wasn’t really crime, not if you squinted hard enough. Then the police raided the bar (which was illegal in pretty much every way that mattered) and you had nowhere left to go.   

There was just enough of the trust your parents left you (which you got access to at 21) to secure a new apartment (one that was not underground) and a small buy-in with a group of much larger, older, more experienced criminals. There was very little else you could’ve done at that point. Or so you all told yourselves.   

The apartment was an upgrade in every way but size. It was newer and above-ground which meant it stayed warm and didn’t get damp. It had windows which let the sun in. It had enough room for two sofas so everyone could sit comfortably. It had a gas hob which really only Chan and Minho cared about, but they cared a lot. It had two bathrooms with reliably hot water and good pressure. It did not get power cuts. It did not always smell musty. It was not brown and beige and grey. But it did have fewer rooms to be parcelled out between you all.   

The last one had four rooms that served as bedrooms. This had three. Between six. There had been furious arguments and endless straw-pulling and no one was happy with the results. It took a few weeks but eventually things shook out as they always should have.   

You shared with Minho because he was the only one who was willing. You both had reputations for being scary (in totally opposite ways: you the raging bull to his still, fathomless water); you loved to take your bad moods out on one another; he was the only one you ever willingly let see you when you were sad and small and vulnerable. Besides which, no one else would dare try to take the space at your side from him. So you shared a bedroom: two twin beds on opposite sides of the room, because Minho refused to sleep in a bunk bed and you refused to sleep together in a double. There was little room for anything else.   

You complained about the sleeping arrangements almost daily. You loved the hot water and the sunlight and the not-mouldiness of the apartment, but some days, you couldn’t bear the way you couldn’t get away from Minho.   

You’d thought you had it bad. This was even worse.  

Four days. Four days, so far, staying ( squatting ) in a vile, empty, dilapidated villa apartment, staring out of a window, waiting for something to happen. Just you and Minho and one room. For four days and counting.   

It was Minho’s turn to watch and he sat at the monitor, diligent, hard-working, as always, whilst you were supposed to be catching up on sleep. Instead, you were lying on what passed for a bed, tossing an apple into the air and catching it, over and over and-  

“You going to stop that?” Minho asked, with his trademark tone: both light and threatening.   

“Nope!”  

“Want me to make you?”  

You flicked your eyes over to him: he was studying the monitor seriously, but you were sure he had been looking at you.   

You hadn’t spoken about that night. Partly because you hadn’t had the time. You’d jumped up from the floor of your bedroom, grabbed as much stuff as you could fit in the first bag you could find and the six of you had legged it, making it out just in time to watch the police cars roll up and trash the place.   

“There was so much fucking money in that safe,” Chan had said, plaintively, staring at the sky. That was when you’d offered up yours. 

*

You had had to find somewhere to live, and fast. You’d all had to find jobs, something to do, some way to make money that wasn’t connected to the bar. You had been passing like ships in the night, meeting only to argue about shower time and sleeping arrangements. Then Changbin had come home with a suggestion. You’d argued about that, too, but in the end, it was unanimous. Go in with the bigger boys or – well, there was no ‘or’. That was the point.  

So you and Minho were working recon. You’d pulled the short straw in more ways than one. It was the longest you had spent together. Ever. Confined for days in this space.  

On the first day, he refused to talk to you at all.   

On the second, you made everything into an argument because at least you could get a rise out of him.   

On the third, he had seemed to thaw. Something had softened and you talked, like friends, like you used to. You laughed and joked and it wasn’t so bad.  

Now it was the fourth day and that ice had returned. He had frozen over, doubled-down on silence. No sooner had you had warmed up than he was giving you frostbite, chilblains. Whiplash. Those ten words were the first he’d spoken to you all day.   

“No,” you answered. “I don’t want you to make me.”   

You paused, wondering if the words you were considering were a sign that you were going mad, that being cooped up in this space had sent you a little doolally. The unbearable nothingness of your days passing like sludge forcing all those hidden thoughts forward, with nothing to distract you from them. The words were certainly risky, but Minho had shown his hand. He had kissed you. Like he meant it. And you knew he would’ve continued to kiss you had Chan not interrupted. He’d have continued to do a whole lot more than just kiss you.  

And you were bored.   

“I want you to fuck me,” you said plainly, catching the apple in front of your face and turning to look at him.   

He was still studying the monitor. Nothing on his face gave anything away: surprise, disgust, lust, laughter. Nothing. You were used to that.  

“We’re on a job.”   

“Yeah, and it’s boring and nothing is happening and who fucking cares? I would rather have sex.”  

He sighed and rolled his head to look at you.  

“Really, Sixteen? Now is the time you want to bring this up?”  

“Stop calling me Sixteen.”  

“I always call you Sixteen.”  

“You always call me Sixteen when you want to put me in my place or make me feel like a child. I’m not a fucking child anymore.”  

“I know you aren’t.”  

“Then why won’t you fuck me?”  

He laughed and your blood began to simmer.   

“There’s more that I look for than just ‘is not a child’.”  

“Don’t try to act like you don’t want to.”  

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”  

“Well then, shall we?”  

He smirked and the glint in his eye was new to you.   

“We’re on a job.”  

“Stop saying that!” you cried, stalking the three steps from your side of the room to his.   

You manoeuvred yourself into his lap, blocking the monitor from his view, and took his face in your hands.  

“We’re on a job and nothing is happening and nothing will continue to happen for ages yet, so why don’t we make it a little less fucking boring?”  

You knew he wanted to. Could see his pupils dilate. Watched his eyes flick to your lips and your chest and back up. This might have been all he wanted: sex and nothing more. You didn’t know. Weren’t interested in having that conversation. Were convinced that it didn’t matter either way. If he only wanted sex, you would give it. Give it until it was too late and he was in too deep to come back out. Hadn’t worked before but there was a first time for everything.  

But even that was beside the point. You were desperately bored and bored of being desperate for him and there was one stone that would kill both those birds.   

“Mouse,” you said quietly, keeping your voice low, as you placed a kiss on his jaw, as you spread your knees a little wider, sinking lower into his lap. “Come on.”  

His hands were on your thighs, neither encouraging nor discouraging, just holding tight. He didn’t respond as you continued to press kisses to his face, to his neck, grinding your hips over him slowly. You could feel his pulse beat fast, noticed the way his breathing was getting heavier, his fingers dipping deeper into your skin, until it hurt. Until he stopped pretending he was going to continue to work, stopped pretending that he could resist you.   

“Fuck,” he gasped, his voice hoarse.  

He gripped the hair at the back of your head and pulled you from his neck, tumbling you both to the floor. You didn’t want it to be fast, but you’d take it any way he’d give it. So when his hands pulled at your t-shirt, you let him take it off as you unclasped your bra. He didn’t give you time to fumble with the hem of his top, to discard it for him; he dipped his head straight down, swirling your nipple with his tongue, sucking it into his mouth; he rested his weight on one elbow and his other hand descended. You were grateful you had no buttons, no zips to contend with, just the loose, elasticated band of a pair of leggings that had seen better days. Minho’s fingers slipped beneath it and he circled his fingers around your clit, the fabric of your underwear dulling the sensation only slightly.   

This was moving even faster than you’d expected but you’d been waiting so long already. Blood rushed to the surface of your skin and your breath began to shudder. Underwear now pushed to the side, you gasped when Minho ran a finger through your folds, shivered when he moaned at what he found there. He brought his lips back to yours but you turned away to let his name drop from your open mouth.  

“Mouse...”  

“Shut up,” he said firmly as he sank two fingers into your slick cunt and stole your breath with another kiss.   

You couldn’t talk but you could moan. Could whine. Could whimper as his fingers moved inside you, as he ground his palm against your clit, as he made your thighs twitch and walls spasm. You tried not to lose your mind completely, to stay grounded, to stay present now that this was finally, really, actually happening. You reached your own hands down to Minho’s trousers; he hadn’t got the no-buttons, no-zips memo and your fingers fumbled with both. They shook with adrenalin as you popped the button through the hole and dragged the metal zip down. You pushed them away from you, off his hips, and had one hand in his boxers when the crackle of the walkie-talkie cut through Minho’s moan.  

You both froze.   

“Minho? What’s happening? Chan said they’re on the move?”  

You glanced at each other, for one more frozen second, and then the world lurched into overdrive. Minho clambered to the monitor with his trousers around his ankles and, as soon as he saw the screen, started swearing viciously, tugging at his clothes and throwing your t-shirt back at you.   

“What’s happening?” you asked, breathless for all the wrong reasons now.   

“They’re clearing out,” Minho reported into the walkie-talkie, ignoring you but answering your question anyway. “Two loads have left, a third on its way.”  

“Shit! How did you miss it? What the fuck were you doing?”   

“Nothing! We lost the feed for a minute but it came back quickly and then they were already moving.”  

He shot you a glance, something between panicked plea and angry admonishment. It wasn’t often he was caught on the hop, wasn’t ever. You, however, were used to being on the wrong side of things, so you re-dressed quickly and had already started packing your shit up. No matter how sideways this went, you could take two positives from it. One, you wouldn’t have to stay locked up here with Minho any longer. Two, he definitely, definitely wanted to fuck you.  

FIFTH  

You still hadn’t talked about it. You continued to share a bedroom, sleep there every night, wake there every morning but you had not once discussed the twice now that you had almost had sex. You were waiting for him to bring it up, even though you knew he never would. He wasn’t a coward, not ever, but if there was one word to describe him it was loyal and you knew he would protect your group with his life. And that also meant not pursuing whatever it was that was between you. Because it was a risk. It could jeopardise the stability of what you had established—what Chan had established long before you ever came into the picture.   

But you were digging your heels in this time. You’d already come on too strong. Your pride was being wounded with each day that passed, with each day that he continued to pass you up. You’d crack first. You knew you would. You always did. Minho was unbreakable. You weren’t. But you wanted to pretend, for at least a little while, that you could be. That you could be impenetrable, too.   

*  

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Junho repeated as he slammed into the car, instructing Minho to drive before the door was even shut.   

Minho didn’t need telling twice.   

“Where to?”  

“Safe house,” he gasped, ragged breathing setting your teeth on edge.  

You didn’t ask what had happened. What had gone wrong. That didn’t matter as much as getting out. Getting Junho out. You were disposable, still. You knew that. Even Minho. You were runts; you also still had something to make up for given what happened on your last assignment. So you travelled in silence. Junho in the back, breathing heavily; you didn’t turn around to see if he was ok. You didn’t want to know. You assumed he wasn’t but as long as you could hear him breathing, you knew he was alive.   

Minho was facing forward, eyes scanning the roads ahead, reflexes allowing him to run red lights without accident – in this part of the city, no one would stop a flashy car like this for speeding, for driving recklessly. That was what they all did. His jaw was tense, eyes tight. He looked calm but you could see his little legs kicking under the water. You knew him well enough by now.   

You didn’t keep your eyes on the road. You kept them on him. Felt like someone needed to be watching out for him, too – not that there was anything you could have done to be helpful anyway. There were always two in the getaway car. That was the rule and you didn’t ask why because you didn’t want to know the answer.   

As a teen, you had thought you knew everything. You were old enough now to know not only that you knew nothing but also that you preferred it that way. Need to know basis. For everything. All the time.   

Minho slowed, driving more carefully as the car left the city, winding across hills, negotiating turns that you’d have driven straight over, plummeting you all to a miserable death. He turned the headlights off at the mile marker he’d been told about, one that you’d already forgotten, and crawled, slower still, up to the house, blanketed in darkness, hidden by an overgrown and untended garden.   

Junho grunted.  

“Thanks. Wait until I give the signal then get the fuck out of here. Do not go anywhere you’ve ever met with us. Ditch the car when you can; destroy the plates.”  

He didn’t wait for a response. You watched him stagger away and then waited until the light in the top right room flicked on and off and on and off again.   

Minho put the car in reverse and slowly backed out. At a further mile marker, he turned the lights on. He continued to climb, driving away from the city still, until the car reached the top of the hill. The lights from the city were so bright you almost didn’t need the headlights at all. It didn’t feel a safe place to stop. Too visible.   

Then Minho slowly and quietly backed the car into nook on the hillside. No doubt worn away from years of cars trying to pass each other on the narrow road, it barely contained the car, but it put it in some shadow and no one would hit you.   

He turned the engine off and let his hands fall to his lap. His head tipped back against the headrest and he sighed.   

“You ok?”  

You asked him all the time and he never gave a serious answer because he always was. And if he wasn’t, he certainly wasn’t going to talk about it. But you asked all the same.   

He nodded then turned to you.  

“You?”  

You laughed nervously, suddenly feeling the last twenty minutes as the adrenalin began to drain.  

“Kind of feel like I could hurl.”  

He laughed too and nodded again.   

“I feel like I want to sleep for a thousand years but also like I could run a marathon,” you continued.   

“I feel half-dead already but also fucking invincible.”  

He held his hand out and it trembled. You clasped it between yours and held it tight. He smiled; from where you were sitting, it looked like a smirk, but then he turned more fully towards you and it wasn’t. It was sweet. His eyes were gleaming. Your mouth dried.   

“Half-dead, huh?” And you knew you were going to say it. You always knew you would be the one with which it would raise its head. “How about a little dead? A little death , even?”  

“Sixteen…”  

His voice had that warning tone to it but the gleam in his eyes remained and you’d broken the seal now. Were going to push this as far as he’d let you.   

“Mouse…”  

You saw him waver. Absolutely, definitely, were certain that he was considering it. Until a car came over the crest of the hill and its headlights flashed in at you; at the same moment, Minho’s phone buzzed from the cup holder it had been thrown in. You jumped. He jumped. Whatever moment there had been was gone now.   

Minho took his hand from your grasp and checked his phone. Then he put the car in gear.   

“We’ve got to get out of here.”  

*  

You expected it to be quick. Expected it to be simple. It turned out to be neither. You had managed to destroy the plates and were very near clear of the car you’d now abandoned when you, once again, found trouble (‘why did it always have to be you?’ you had asked yourself fleetingly as Minho shoved you towards your own piece of shit car that had been waiting for your getaway; he had not waited for you to be fully seated or your door to be closed before he slammed a foot on the accelerator and squealed off). The two of you were screaming around corners, tearing out of the city in whichever direction provided the easiest escape. With the headlights off and the city lights streaming into the distance, you could barely see the road in front of you, had no idea how Minho was still driving straight. You trusted him with your life and it was just as well, because it was in his hands. His, yours, and potentially everyone else’s, too.  

The summer sun was minutes away from popping its head above the horizon when you were finally able to return home.  

You sat in silence for a few moments. You had moved beyond exhaustion into this kind of frayed, wired alertness. You felt your eyelids dropping even as your heart still hammered. Minho’s hand found yours.   

“Mouse,” you said, letting the rest of it fall away unspoken.   

“Yeah,” he replied but you didn’t know if that was his answer . “Just give me a minute.”  

You were too tired to argue so you let silence fall again. You were almost dropping off, head just beginning to nod, when he tugged on your hand.   

“Come here.”   

You turned. You leant. His other hand cupped the back of your head and pulled you closer. He kissed you. Electricity crackled and a surge of energy rushed through you. It was happening again. He was kissing you. You couldn’t let this time pass by.   

You scrambled in your chair, forgetting to undo your seatbelt, being pulled back by it and swearing coarsely when your lips broke from his. You clambered over the gearstick and the handbrake and fell with one foot heavily in the footwell as Minho slid his seat all the way back. You didn’t have time to care about the jarring in your knee or the bump on your head as it hit the roof. Could barely feel it. Didn’t matter.   

Well, it didn’t matter until it did. Until there wasn’t really room enough for you to straddle him. Until you were pressing yourself up against the roof so there would be room for him to get his hands to his belt. Until you lost your balance and fell backwards, landing with bump on the steering wheel, which blared out into the dark dawn street.   

“Fucking hell,” Minho muttered. “Get in the back.”  

More willingly than you ever had, you did as you were told. He moved his seat forward again, all the way, and you watched him climb through to you, hands reaching for him. It was no less awkward. Not enough room to lie down. Still not enough height to sit. Not space enough between the back and front to kneel. It was messy and uncoordinated, grabbing for anything, taking what you could get, knocking into the window and falling off the seat, kicking and elbowing each other in a tangle.   

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Minho roared, in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “No use. Not happening.”  

He sat back and sighed, trousers undone but still around his hips. He pushed his hands through his hair and you tried to settle demurely next to him, smoothing your own hair, zipping up your jeans, swallowing hard as you fought to accept that he was right. It was not happening. Not here. Not now.   

You stared through the car window and were sure you could’ve punched straight through it. You wanted to. It was the window, Minho, or yourself. Couldn’t effectively punch yourself. Knew you wouldn’t dare hit your mouse. Your fingernails pressed sharply into your palm as you squeezed your fists tightly.   

A hand covered yours. Gentle. You looked at Minho and there he was: your secret, soft guy. You unfurled your fingers and he linked them with his own.  

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s just go home.”  

FIRST  

You tramped into the apartment, bringing your bad mood with you. Everyone was sick of it by now – you were sick of it, but you couldn’t shake it.   

Minho was avoiding you. That much was clear. He had been avoiding you since you tried and failed to fuck in the car. You didn’t know why because you didn’t care. You had reached the end of your tether with the universe. Three times now. But still no cigar. You wondered – asked yourself a hundred times a day – what it was going to take to make this happen.   

Frustrated didn’t even begin to cover it. You could go out and hook up with whoever you liked. You could get yourself off just fine. But it ran so much deeper than that. If you pulled at the thread, it tugged on your heartstrings, all tangled up in knots. It hurt. It pulled at something so deeply interwoven with your very being; all anyone had to do was follow it to its source and they could destroy you. All anyone had to do was cut it and they’d cut you, too.   

You didn’t like that. Hated it, in fact. Hated that all this tugging and wiggling had opened up a hole and you could feel your vulnerability exposed. You could feel weakness leaking out of you, seeping from your pores, visible to the naked eye, for anyone to see.   

It made you bitter. Made you angry. Made you lash out even when you shouldn’t have. Because you were always on the defensive. Even now. Especially now.  

You knew the others were talking about you. About Minho. About the two of you. Knew it from the awkward silences when you walked in a room and the furtive glances and the group chat that had grown curiously quiet, leaving you to assume that there was a separate one you weren’t a part of.   

You were beginning to lose your patience and you were not starting with a plentiful supply.   

You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm your rage. You had woken with it, just like every other day this week, and it would not leave you. You breathed slowly and carefully and tried to think of difficult and boring things.   

You thought only of Minho.   

Then he opened the door. He hesitated – you could feel him standing there, assessing – and then shut it, leaving you alone. As the door clicked, you felt that tug. You felt the knots tighten, so impossibly tight now that the joins weren’t even visible. You jumped up and threw yourself through the door.  

“Stop fucking ignoring me!”  

You hadn’t meant to shout.   

Minho turned and looked at you. His stillness enraged you further. He didn’t say anything.  

“Are you going to fucking say anything?!”  

“What do you want me to say?”  

“ANYTHING! You haven’t spoken to me for weeks! You literally walk out of rooms if I’m in them! What the fuck is wrong with you?”   

“You think this is easy?”   

His voice was cold and sharp as steel. His head cocked lightly to the side and his eyes narrowed, peering at you, looking inside you.   

“You think I want it to be like this?-”  

“I don’t know what you fucking want!”  

His nostrils flared. This delighted you. He was annoyed and you loved it.  

“Not once,” you continued, still shouting because you couldn’t rein it in, “have you ever fucking told me. Not once have you ever actually said what you want! That you want me. Do you? Fucking do you? Because I don’t fucking know anymore! Every time we get close, you get further away from me! I’m not a fucking yo-yo, Minho. You can’t play with me-”  

“Play with you? You think I’m playing? What part of this is a game?”

His voice was rising now, too, his perfectly blank mask slipping.  

“It’s never been a game, Sixteen! Not once in the entire time since we met has it been a game! How are you still not getting it? Junho almost fucking died and if he had, it would have been our fault! We all almost ended up in prison because of the fucking bar. The night we met you almost got yourself trafficked! It’s not a game! You act like life is so fucking simple! It’s not!”  

“IT IS! It can be that fucking simple! Stop overthinking! Stop taking everything so fucking seriously!-”  

“It is serious! That’s what you don’t get!”  

He was close now, had been inching closer and closer, and he was looking down at you, his eyes black as pitch, his jaw tight, his breath struggling through clenched teeth.   

“You don’t get it and you never have.”   

His voice was quiet, back to that steel that sent a chill down your spine.   

“Everywhere you go, I look out for you. Everywhere you are, I am responsible for you. It’s been nine fucking years, Sixteen, and you are everywhere I go.”  

Your vision tunnelled, stomach fell to your feet. You had to look away and hated yourself for it. You never flinched. You never backed down. You were never the first to retreat. Except for him. You couldn’t bear to look in his eyes, to see what loathing and disdain they held for you. Your embarrassment was on your cheeks already and pricking in your eyes.   

Then his nose nudged yours and he took more steps forward. He pushed you slowly against the wall and you cursed yourself for retreating to it.  

“You are in my life and in my bedroom and in my fucking head,” he whispered. “All the time. All the fucking time. And I haven’t been able to do shit about it because you are my job . You are mine to protect. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows I would burn this place to the ground for you. I would scorch the earth. I would drain the sea. For you . Don’t you get it? When it comes to you, I’m a fucking liability.”   

You risked it. A glance. Lifted your eyes for less than a second but you had to do it again. Had to stop there, be sure you were really seeing what you thought you were.   

Soft, round, liquid eyes. An openness in his face that he hadn’t let you into before. His mouth was still a grim line, turned down at the corners so slightly, had it been anyone but you, it would have gone unnoticed.   

“Mouse...”   

You tried to whisper but could barely manage that, his name creeping out on a hoarse gasp.   

He moved his face closer to yours, lips almost touching.   

“Don’t you get it?” he repeated.   

You got it. Because everything he said was true for you, too. You’d started out as a liability, for sure, but you had continued to be one because Minho was your north star. Not Chan. Not the group. Not whatever sense of purpose you might have derived from the life you had cobbled together. If he said jump, you wouldn’t ask a thing. You would jump. You’d been following him since day one and, then, it might have been desperation, a lack of options. Now... well, there was still desperation: a desperate need for him, a desperate desire to be wanted by him, kissed by him, touched by him. You had other options. Options you would never take, not as long as he existed. You would stop existing before you ever thought of leaving him.   

You nodded, feeling more like a foolish, vulnerable 16-year-old than you had when you were foolish and vulnerable and 16.   

He sighed, breath sweet with the pudding he could never resist, and you were closing your eyes, tilting your chin up, expecting him to give in.   

He turned away. You watched him, mouth agape in disbelief, as he pushed his hands through his hair.   

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE!” you screamed, bringing your hands down on his back in something that was half-shove, half-slap.   

He had whipped around before you could lower your arms and you found your wrists caught in his hands.   

“You don’t fucking stop, do you?” he hissed.   

“Why would I stop?! I don’t want to stop, Minho! And nor do you! You can’t say you don’t! Because I KNOW. I KNOW you want it. I know you want me. And I’m fucking throwing myself at you. Take me! TAKE ME!”  

His eyes were hard and dark. His fingers pushed so tightly into your wrists that you could feel your pulse against them. He was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring but lips shut tight, pressed together in a thin line.   

“Take. Me,” you repeated, level and firm, not sure if he would, but sure that, if he didn’t, things would never be the same again.   

You couldn’t do this a fourth time. Couldn’t put yourself in his hands, have him take you, and then... Not. And then stop. And then act as if you didn’t exist. That thread between you, tied up in your heartstrings, was taut, stretched, at its limit. And so were you.  

The pause was painful. Excruciatingly long. Adrenalin coursed through you, making you hot, making you shake, making your heart beat so hard against your ribs you thought they might break. Thought your heart might break. Hadn’t been willing to admit how fragile it was but it felt like venetian glass now. You could already feel the cracks forming, the web extending, the shards-  

He kissed you. Pulled you roughly towards him by your wrists and kissed you. Put his hands on your hips, then slid them under your top, and still kissed you. He was kissing you. It took a few seconds to slip back into your body, to feel it, the soft petal of his lips against yours, the sharp bite of his teeth, the wet warmth of his tongue. You forgot your shattering heart and grabbed his T-shirt, using it to pull him closer, to drag him into your shared bedroom.  

Not that he needed dragging. You stumbled over each other’s feet as you tried to kiss and walk and grope all at once. You tumbled backwards onto his bed and took the brief separation as an opportunity to lose your top, to unclasp your bra. Your hands were in the waistband of your joggers when Minho climbed over you, topless now too, breathless as he mirrored your actions, pushing his trousers and his boxers over his hips. He huffed a frustrated sigh as you giggled, as he stood back up to take them all the way off, to kick them off his ankles and take yours away, too.   

He didn’t give you time for admiration, for appraisal. He lay his body over you and his lips pressed against yours, quickly, firmly, before trailing them across your jaw and down your neck. He was every bit as vicious as you thought he would be, teeth nipping at your sensitive skin, sinking into your soft flesh. You wanted him to mark you, wanted the proof of it to last. You scraped your nails down his back and he hissed when you broke the skin. Hissed but didn’t complain. Hissed and moved his mouth lower, swirling his tongue around your nipple, sinking his teeth into that, too.   

When you tugged on his hair, he pulled off, looked at you, his face an open question. You shook your head.  

“It’s fine,” you panted. “I like it. I just want to pull your hair.”  

He laughed and clamped his teeth over your breast again, harder this time, so you keened and your back arched into him. You twisted his roots in your fist and he moaned, eyes flicking up to yours as he kissed across the valley of your chest.   

“Do that again.”  

“Fuck,” you gasped, tipping your head back, doing as he had asked and tugging hard.   

The ache you felt for him had ballooned inside you, taken up all your hollow spaces. There was your flushed skin and your fluttering heart, your rushing blood and your deep, persistent ache for Minho. Nothing more. Nothing less.   

“Mouse,” you whispered, voice tight with desire. “Touch me, please.”

You never asked. You didn’t beg. If you liked a guy, you let them do what they wanted with you, and if you didn’t, you took what you wanted. It was always one-sided.   

But this wasn’t. It was Minho. It was the fathomless depth in his eyes as he lay his mouth all over you. It was the slip of his fingers through your soaked folds as he sucked sweet bruises against your neck. It was the sound of a moan caught in his throat when you wrapped your fingers around his hard, leaking length. It was mutual. It was reciprocated.   

It was burning you up, hotter and sweeter than you’d ever felt before. His fingers sinking into your core made you shudder with delight. The twitch in his cock as you brushed your thumb over his head made your mouth water. The sound of his mumbled sweet nothings pressed against your skin, whispered in your ear, licked straight into your mouth, made you dizzy.   

“So soft,” he said. “So wet... Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful... I’ve wanted this for so long... Wanted you...”   

He used your name, your real one, the one he didn’t learn (didn’t ask for) for months after you met. You returned the favour, ‘Minho’ tripping from your lips, until he shook his head.  

“Mouse,” he murmured, mouth still pressed against yours. “‘Mouse’ is yours.”   

“Mouse,” you echoed and he nodded before kissing you so that you could say nothing at all.  

*  

You barely spoke, couldn’t catch your breath enough to form the words, couldn’t engage your faculties to find any to say. Minho spoke, though, more than you had ever heard him speak: praise and exclamation and remembrance and, yes, even admonition, but it was all so sweet, syrupy, dripping from his tongue like honey. You’d never heard him speak like this before, never had him melt in your hands or in your mouth, never felt him as easy and pliable as this.   

It wasn’t just his body. It wasn’t just the perfect smoothness of his warm, soft skin. It wasn’t just the stretch, the fullness, he made inside you, the insistent rhythm of his hips thrusting his cock tightly into your slick, waiting warmth. It wasn’t just his wet, sugary mouth, at your lips, at your jaw, at your clavicle. It wasn’t just all these things he was doing to you, all the things you were doing to him.  

It was his open eyes, round and shining and fluttering closed as your walls clenched around him. It was the tenderness in them, the depth he was letting you see, for more than just seconds at a time. It was the gentle tracing of your face with his fingers, even as he fucked into you, even as his teeth drew blood beneath your skin. It was Minho, the entirety of him. Yours. Finally yours. Finally giving in to you, giving himself to you.   

You got it. You had said you did and you had, but now, beneath him in his bed as he loved you, you actually understood the magnitude of it. His feelings for you. Yours for him. Held back behind a dam for so many years and now, the dam had broken. Now came the deluge that would flood the world, could drown everyone in it.   

To hell with them, you thought. To hell with anyone else. You found what you needed almost a decade ago. He found you. You found each other, somehow, by some miracle.   

When the pleasure swelled up in your core, toes curling, back breaking, you cried out with all the breath you had in your lungs, felt tears sting in your eyes, and the following inhale wobbled and shook. Minho paused, pressed his forehead against yours, kissed you lightly, didn’t have to ask the question out loud.   

You nodded and kissed him again, then again, each time hungrier than the last. You didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to feel anything but this, but him. He moved slower now, though, hips rolling smoothly, lips not leaving yours, even when he spoke, even when he murmured how fucking good you felt, how much better than he’d imagined, how hard he was trying not to come, how he didn’t want this to end.   

You couldn’t take it. Thought you really would cry, thought you would collapse entirely under his weight, under the weight of everything you’d been carrying around, all these feelings: all this love and fear and frustration. He pushed you to the edge again without even trying, your red thread thoroughly tangled, inseparable now, and pulling a greater ecstasy from you than you had ever known.   

He couldn’t hold out either, his final, sharp thrusts filling you with his sticky release. You held him there, as close as he could be. He kissed you, so light it was barely there, his fingers grazing your face as he pushed the hair from your brow.  

“Mouse,” you choked, tears threatening your waterline.   

He kissed you again, that little butterfly kiss; you’d never seen him be this gentle.   

“Sixteen,” he whispered and, for possibly the first time, it didn’t sound like disdain, didn’t come accompanied by a smirk or an eye-roll; it was hushed and secret and just for you.   

As it had always been.   

*  

You lay on his chest, bodies pressed together in the small, single bed, as they would have been even if the bed were bigger.   

“I want some water,” he said, lips against your forehead before he manoeuvred himself out from underneath you. “Want a drink?”  

You nodded and he smiled down at you as he fetched clean underwear and pulled a T-shirt over his head.   

You watched him go, watched him open the door, and then heard the sound of party poppers, whoops, and applause.   

The apartment was empty. Had been empty when you entered your bedroom. In the midst of everything, you had failed to notice the gang return home. They had not failed to notice you and Minho.   

“Fucking finally!”   

“You mean, they finally fucked?”  

Laughter resounded from the living room. Minho turned around, closed the door, and climbed back into bed without a word.  

[kleptokure]

If it's possible, part two of Silent Affection?

Silent Affection P.2 (P.1) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

Truthless Recluse x GN!Reader

.⊹˖ᯓ★. ݁₊

The room is still, and you wish for nothing more than a distraction to pull away the watchful eye on your figure. Not to mention, the grip that holds tight around your hand, refusing to let you step away from your seat.

Within the timeframe, something has obviously snapped inside of Truthless Recluse's mind; something you played a part in, which you come to regret. Now, a stern glare is received whenever you even entertain the thought of leaving his side.

"It isn't safe out there," he goes to claim each time you question when you may leave, like a robot with a single voiceline. In all truth, you begin to wonder if being in here is any better than taking place outside.

With even your smallest movements, Truthless Recluse follows along. Tick by tick, your sanity sinks further and further. You hoped to find a way out by now, yet Truthless Recluse proves to be a hindrance every time you make an effort.

You find it hard to believe one could really desire a life so dreary, sitting on the edge of a bed for hours on end.

Well, the time that has elapsed by now is a few 10 minutes if one were to seek out accuracy, but you believe your hyperbole cannot be so far from the reality in the future.

"Pure Vanilla Cookie," you huff out, shifting your head to peer at him. "If you love me so much, then you must let me go." That sounds silly, but you have nothing left, so you hold no blame against yourself for your weak efforts.

"If you love me so much, then why try to abandon me?" Truthless Recluse counters. He has always possessed a sharp tongue, a quality that doesn't seem all that enjoyable in situations like this.

You’re unaware of how to answer him, so you do not. Rather, you allow another topic a chance to arise.

"I’m hungry," you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear. Part of you spoke the truth, as the trip here gained you an appetite. The other half of you is just desperate to find a way to distract him.

Now you wait to determine if he's cruel enough to deny you food. Though with the current fixation he displays, you feel you can take a guess.

Startled, you watch as Truthless Recluse stands to his feet. This time, he opposes taking you along, it appears.

Without words, Truthless Recluse strides through the room and towards the exit. Just like that, he disappears behind the door.

Well, he looked to be getting you a meal? A question of higher importance, where would one find refreshments here? You send him your luck, which is faint as it is.

In your solitude, you realize there's a shot your dearest husband will be gone for a bit of time. With the overbearing cookie on short leave, this provides you an opportunity to strategize an escape!

Though with the appearance the Spire takes, you have to be sure to tread lightly. One mistake and you can find yourself stumbling on a staircase lacking any railing.

Hopping off of the bed you were glued to, you edge your way over to the single window in the room. Peering out of the shiny glass, you eliminate the window as a route out. The considerable drop down tells you all you need to know of how that trip will conclude.

That leaves one alternative to choose: the very door that Truthless Recluse walked out of. You doubt he'd take a lengthy time to retrieve anything for you. As sweet as that statement is, you spare little time to dwell on it.

You hurry yourself out of the doorway, but you ensure to close the opening with silence, as to not interrupt the stillness of the tower. It would merely disclose your current actions, which is the last thing necessary.

So, out of your cell and free, you run. Where? You're unknowing of the answer yourself, as attempting to fight for your captured friends would be a losing battle on your end. But you do believe it has to be anywhere distances away from that cream colored expanse. In addition to staying out of sight from a specific cookie with cream colored hair.

You underestimated just how disoriented one could get when inside of a tower like this. At this point, lost would not be the word you would title yourself at the moment, as you are far beyond it.

The start of your adventure, you recall spotting a winding staircase that you assumed led to a lower destination. Yet after that, you somehow wandered your way onto a higher floor.

You would prefer staying in the room you were once in, rather than walking up and down multiple flights of stairs leading you in circles. It failed to help that you were running on an empty stomach.

Calling out for Pure Vanilla Cookie doesn't seem like the worst idea. He can come to forgive you, can he not? Truthless Recluse has to believe you when you claim you were "simply on a search for him, due to how you missed him so."

Amidst your journey, you finally reach a place to offer relaxation. The furniture in this particular space is not so abnormal. Although a bit large, a chair takes place behind a desk.

With desperation, you head to perch yourself onto the padding. However, it appears another being took ownership over the comfort you long for.

You shriek, almost settling atop a snake, a blue and black pattern adorning its skin. Well, now you have alerted anyone around of your location, as the snake shows to have been disturbed by your fright.

Tumbling backwards, you knock over a floating waffle cone. You curse the disruption that decided to follow you now of all times.

You prepared to land on the hard, cold floor, but then bump into another object. This time, the item is reluctant to fall over.

But then the whiff of sweet vanilla hits you. Huh, wonder what that could be.

You don’t need to be a genius to figure out what—or who you collided with. The singular surprising matter is how hasty he was to get here. You almost feel flattered.

Whirling your head around, you come to meet the cold glare given by Truthless Recluse. Once again, you seem to have angered him. You wonder how many times such will repeat.

"Funny seeing you here..." Not the best choice of words, as his irked stare shows he believes nothing to be humorous.

"What are you doing out of our room," he questions, his lips held tight in a frown.

"Well, I was, um, so lonely. I mean, I couldn't stay away from you for such a long time," you spoke in a lie, as if you also labeled yourself a deceiver.

Oh, but Truthless Recluse has shed his gullibility, ahis facial expression gives no indication that you managed to convince him. All you can wish for is a shred of leniency.

"Why do you attempt to leave me? You said you loved me," Truthless Recluse spoke, voice filled with bitterness. His grief comes off as truthful, his brows knitted together as a hint. It is surprising to witness him so fragile, making your face still in regret.

Truthless Recluse rathers you remain quiet. Regardless of whatever your reasoning may be, you will reside in the wrong from his perspective. Does he have to teach you how to listen?

Rising his hand towards yours, Truthless Recluse holds a gentle yet firm grip on your wrist.

"Come. Your food will get cold." The slight shame you feel when met with his vulnerability, along with the addition of food, inclines you to do as told.

Truthless Recluse somehow knows his way around the Spire, which you’re thankful for. The sight of the room, the setting you stall the most in, looks more comforting the second time around.

Near a flower vase, you spot a Jellybean meal. How nice of him to provide a lunch so luxurious. You are too starved to care where he attained it.

While sitting in a chair is your first choice, Truthless Recluse disagrees, guiding you back to his bed. A likely motive is he wishes to sit to your left, and that's that.

It feels strange to eat alone, Truthless Recluse watching with no plate of his own. Prone to sharing, you offer a portion.

"Do you want any?" He refuses a response. A probable answer as to why is there might be some lingering agitation from your pursue away from him.

If Truthless Recluse only puts up a front, manipulating you from behind the scenes, then he has you fooled. Now you feel the need to apologize.

"I’m sorry," you mumble out, even though you are not entirely sure if you should be the one asking for forgiveness.

Food is always a good apology gift, that much is true, but that is not the case right now.

Pure Vanilla Cookie always had a trouble of keeping up with his daily meals. That part of him has not been altered. Someone has to remind him here and there, so you will take up that role, just as you have before.

Holding up the fork with your free hand, you push the piece of jelly near his mouth.

"Eat, Pure Vanilla Cookie. Are you still upset?" With a mere glance, you can tell he is.

"I'll kiss you again if you do," you offer, voice tinted with curiosity. You hope that one more side of him remained the same, so that your approach seems somewhat tempting.

Truthless Recluse hates that he loves those certain proposals you tend to hand out. He will accept them when they do not relate to your exiting, of course, yet he is still allowed to be frustrated about it. Nonetheless, the warmth you give out is too valuable to give up. There is not a thing in the Spire that can replicate.

With reluctance, Truthless Recluse opens his mouth and bites your given food. He saw no reason to chew, so he swallowed without doing so. His singular bite gone and finished, Truthless Recluse awaits his promised reward.

Well, much to your expectations, kissing can be his weak spot in a few occasions. That sits fine with you, since now there resides nourishment in his stomach.

Raising your head, you connect your lips with his own, giving him a sweet kiss. Short enough to be considered chaste, but just right to live up to the reward he desired.

You cannot say it was an act you were against. The factor of his smooth lips, paired with the flavor that you welcome all too well, deems the moment a win for you both. You pray the endearment can soothe the ire you built in his heart.

Truthless Recluse allowed his face to fall slack, but otherwise, his expression was kept aloof. No matter his fronts, you look behind them, meaning you're conscious of his hidden delight.

On the other hand, you fail to feel as satisfied as he does. With prior information, his laxed character conveys more hours(minutes) of sitting on this jinxed bed.

While you love him, you would prefer anything else than this deafening serenity.

Your wishes were gifted, albeit a few minutes later. A sudden knock is heard against the door. It could be Shadow Milk Cookie on the other side, and you would still be happy. Anything to drag Truthless Recluse's stare elsewhere.

But, a more familiar, and pleasant, voice is audible enough to reach your ears.

With ease, you can tell Gingerbrave owns said voice. He has managed to traverse his way towards a higher level inside of the tower, now in front of the entrance to your dungeon.

Pure Vanilla Cookie seems to be focused on the unexpected guests as well, now making their way inside of his humble room.

The three children are no longer tarot cards, another benefit to the current situation. They own the same mindset as yours, coming in with a strong argument against Pure Vanilla Cookie's in an attempt to escape by his side.

You would hope that with more cookies telling him, Truthless Recluse would see reason. Yet, as strong as Gingerbrave's grounds are, the apathetic cookie gives retorts to each opinion opposite to his own.

As much as you would love to justify your friends, it seems like your words fail to reach Truthless Recluse, even with your distance being the shortest compared to others around.

Is he seriously ignoring you? The most he cares to spare you is a glance, one that shows he believes you to be delusional, more so than the others. Nevertheless, his stupidly mighty hand is kept close to yours, keeping your shoulders in contact.

The bickering between the cookies is cut short, as their captor, Black Sapphire Cookie, has come to reclaim his cards, much to everyone's dismay.

Excluding Truthless Recluse, as you would anticipate. If one were to seek out his outlook? Perhaps it was deserved. After all, who barges into a room without permission? Now the peaceful moment he indulged with you is lost.

All you can do is watch as Black Sapphire shoves the fearful cards into a bag, since Pure Vanilla Cookie held no care to rescue them. He went as far as handing them over without a second thought, making your heartache grow stronger. Where has the man engraved with kindness into his dough ran off to? Granted, yearning for that any longer feels useless.

Your mouth is left ajar, yet no words are able to leave your tongue. Truthless Recluse, while also unspeaking, looks over at your incredulous expression. Though you envisioned a dead stare, you're able to see an emotion behind the one he fronts.

Love, your initial assumption, or obsession? Answering questions related to the cookie before yow now seem challenging. Whether it is either one, knowing such would fold to placate your unease. No matter how hard you aim to seek out remorse held in his heart, there founders to be any.

Black Sapphire Cookie's subsequent words, a passed on request for Truthless Recluse to follow along, do not saddened you as much. This way, you can keep the ability to hold an eye over the younger cookies.

Mismatched eyes looking forward, Truthless Recluse is immediate to lift you up with him. It should go without saying that you would be accompanying him. He goes as far as adjusting his pace to align with yours, proceeding towards the designated location. Talk about clingy...

As of now, the surroundings appear more normal than usual, even though the cookies here are a bit manic.

Two chairs occupied by you and your lover on one side of a table, with another seat opposed to you also taken. A game, which you don't know the rules to, takes place on the surface in front.

Although you dreaded your next meeting with Shadow Milk Cookie, it was known to be arriving. Even with that known, you yield to pause the feeling of jitters belonging to you and your crumbs.

Focusing on the board game, you jolt with each attack the three lively pieces receive.

While your concentration tries to fixate on the miniature battle near, you cannot ignore the pair of eyes fixed at your form. Multiple, at that. Not an exact estimate, since counting each eye in Shadow Milk Cookie's unruly hair is an unwanted activity.

"Soooo, is this your little assistant, Vanilly?" You saw no reason in being the topic of conversation, yet it looks like the scuffle on the tabletop lacks enough entertainment, that being said for both Pure Vanilla and Shadow Milk.

It wouldn't be bad to say they fit into the saying, "different sides of the same coin."

Pure Vanilla Cookie is unwilling to reply, shown by his thin lined lips. Even so, there looks to be a wrinkle of annoyance on his face.

The deceitful cookie chuckles nonetheless, uncaring of the one-sided conversation and continuing on with his words.

"Well, aren't they a looker..." Shadow Milk Cookie admitted, skimming over your face. You almost desire a crumbling from his utterance alone. He might be the former holder of one of the five Soul Jams, yet that fails to make much better.

"Would ya mind if I borrow them for a show or two of mine?" Shadow Milk Cookie quizzes with his head cocked.

"No, you may not." Thankfully, you can come to agree with a statement spoken by the impassive cookie.

Albeit your seat was separate from Truthless Recluse's, he tugs you more proximal, signaling a sign of protection. That, you are grateful for.

"Psh, whatevs." Shadow milk rolls his eyes. You believe that should conclude any more talk concerning you.

"Buuuut!" he goes on, refusing to drop the topic.

"Would it be such a big bother to ask if you pair are mooore than frrriends?" Shadow Milk Cookie inquiries on what he's long known.

This is his last resort on vexing Pure Vanilla Cookie, since the beginner deceiver wants to play uninterested to every word said to him. You show to be a flaw, which Shadow Milk appreciates quite much.

Towards another question, your betrothed is silent, though you can sense his disgruntlement from the measly query.

Truthless Recluse might have acknowledged his profound love held exclusively for you, however, he spoke such to himself.

He would prefer to withhold that information in private. In fact, he feels inclined to lock you away in his room, hidden from any prying eyes. That way, he could keep you to himself, forever guarded by him. Truthless Recluse is rather fond of making his daydreams fall into reality.

"Am I right, or am I right?" Shadow Milk Cookie taunts, mockery not so hidden in his attitude.

"Shut up," Truthless Recluse demanded, harsh enough to catch you off guard.

"Oh, c'mon! I’m only—"

Without notice, a happening cuts the talkative beast off. The friend group of three cookies, once demoted into measly game pieces, burst out of the board after successfully defeating each foe sent their way. Mentally, you thank them for dragging the spotlight off of your cookie.

Shadow Milk Cookie congratulations them, his two-faced personality slipping through his praise. Clearly, this will not be the end of his tricks.

The atmosphere grows tense. A conversation between the beast and ancient arises, relating to the Soul Jam, which is also the beginning of every issue among them.

A choice is given to Pure Vanilla: to silence his friends forever, or to hand over the holder of his power. If you were to know the benevolent cookie, you can guess the his decision with ease.

Additionally, if you were aware of his counterpart, you can predict neither of his options granted a good ending. Conscious of both cookies' personalities, the outcome will be nothing more than woe.

Abruptly, you, along with your friends, get shoved off the kooky Spire by an unknown force. Falling amidst the darkened sky, you see the glimmering golden stars passing by.

Pure Vanilla Cookie, deceived by Shadow Milk Cookie, shrieks at the sight of his friends, and his most beloved, nearing a fatal crumbling. Locking eyes with you, Truthless Recluse reveals such an emotion you have never laid eyes upon.

Even with the drastic circumstances, you muster up a smile to gift him, before he goes out of sight.

You focus on the long drop ahead of you, getting a good look of every terror encountered in this bizarre region. From the large snakes, to the disturbing eyes near the clouds. Anywhere else would be a preferable burial.

Standing on the ground, a cookie is seen in your sights. A hooded cookie, to be exact. One you can recall meeting earlier on. Though your vision from afar is not the best, you can see well enough to believe there might be a certain Fortune Teller coming to play hero.

You descend from the air, the figure of Fortune Teller Cookie growing more and more near. Would it be wrong to think he iis going to save the four of you? You doubt that such is out of his power, despite knowing little of his background. It may be the fear in you speaking, attempting to make death seem farther than it was.

Then, you do not feel as if you are plummeting any longer. Instead, it is as if you experience flight, a simple hovering over the ground, like a faerie cookie, until your feet touch the pavement.

As thankful as you are for whatever magic was used, you cannot express it when your dough feels so weary. The events from today hit you like a Bear Jelly Train, your legs unable to support you for much longer. Switching from air to land in a matter of seconds does not sit well with you.

Not to worry, as Fortune Teller Cookie was quick to hold you, retaining you into his arms. You appreciate the stability he offers, though his hold is a tinge tighter than it should be for a mere acquaintance.

For a split second, his small hug reminds you of another's potent affection. Identical, if you were to pay more attention to it, but you choose to worry over Pure Vanilla Cookie.

You fail to see much of the pair of truth and deceit. There is everlasting conflict taking place, and you pray Pure Vanilla Cookie can halt the tension until you find your way above, to be able to fight alongside him.

Although you harbor strong adoration for him, the last thing you wish to see is the sass belonging to the face of Truthless Recluse because Pure Vanilla could not handle the strength of Shadow Milk.

.⊹˖ᯓ★. ݁₊

A/N: if there were to be a part three of this, it wouldnt exactly be Truthless Recluse, but rather awakened Pure Vanilla Cookie. that might be good news to some, but not so much to others ( ･ั﹏･ั)

[kissylec]

TO THE PLACES WE'VE BEEN AND THE NIGHTS WE'VE HAD.

directed by love you goodbye...

pairing . . . rafe cameon x pogue!reader in which . . . the bonfire always has surprises, but you never thought that one of those surprises would be ending up in tannyhill with the kook prince warning .ᐟ . . . (18+) smut, alcohol consumption, curse words, enemies to lovers, tension, dirty talk, praise kink, making out, oral (f), unprotected sex (wrap it up), p in v, first time writing smut and english is not my first language, so please, bear with me w count . . . 1.5k kissylec says . . . write this in 3 days and i dont really know if i like it or not. my frist time writing smut! im tweaking! thanks to @rafesheaven for the tips you gave me, i hope this is okay i love u. and thanks to @rafeysbabydoll for the idea of this first extra! i also love u. hope you guys like this 😭

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YOU WERE DOING THIS FOR JJ, and you repeated that to yourself over and over again. the bonfire was the last thing on your mind after the day you'd had, having to put on makeup and get dressed made your head hurt and your feet felt tired just walking to the vanity. but everything went to shit in a short time, which you expected, but at least you had that slight glimmer of hope that it won't happen.

it all started when topper – because of course it was topper – started bothering sarah. your and your friends' irritation was instantly aired, creating a tense atmosphere that was not lost on anyone. and between john b complaining, jj trying to fight, and kiara trying to calm down everyone who came near, you couldn't take it anymore.

the overstimulation ate away at you to the point that you left without warning, a habit that was ingrained in you. the sound of voices grew farther away with each step you took, and the cold and salty breeze became more and more present. that's when you thought about the beach, and that maybe it would be a good idea to stop by there.

the sand on your feet felt colder than usual and the wind was a caress on your exposed skin. you took long, deep breaths, making circles in the palm of your left hand as you tried to maintain a calm that you were afraid would slip away. the sound of the sea was in the background, and a relaxation alien to you had found you. until.

you okay?

the thick, familiar voice startles you, causing you to bring a hand to your chest and open your eyes, your gaze traveling to the direction the voice came from.

rafe cameron.

"you scared the shit outta me," you say, your gaze traveling all over rafe's body. a bottle of alcohol in his hand, his brow furrowed. His curtain bangs were gone, replaced by a neat buzz cut, which made him look more... mature, older.

rafe continues to scowl, looking away from you. "yeah well, it's creepier when a girl stands next to you and closes her eyes and all that shit you were doing just now." his lips take a sip from what appears to be a bottle of whiskey, his eyes fixed on the water.

you just rolled your eyes, mimicking his action of looking away. you never gave rafe much importance, but your annoyance for him was no small thing. he was nothing sacred among pogues, as if his name were a curse. "i may be creepy but you're sad" you started saying. "drinking by yourself on the beach? not really a very fun activity."

rafe takes another long sip from the bottle, his muscles flexing as he raises his arm. “shouldn’t you be there?” he asks, still not looking at you.

rafe knew about you, not much, but he knew enough. he always insisted that you stood out from any friend sarah might have had, you were not overlooked, you always left a mark. you had that something that takes a person a while to figure out. you were different, and it sounds corny and repetitive, but you were, and rafe liked that.

for a split second you considered telling him why you left the bonfire, but you didn't. "i got bored," you said simply, feeling rafe turn his head and his eyes burn into your cheek. "what's your excuse?"

rafe swore his heart stopped for a second when you turned your head to make your first eye contact of the night, his lips felt dry but he didn't have the balls to lick them in front of you.

he just shrugged. "i don't want to be there" he says.

you slowly nod your head, your eyes locked on rafe's blue ones, who didn't seem to want to take his eyes off you. the sound of clothes rustling and him handing you the bottle of whiskey caught your attention, raising your eyebrows.

parting your lips you take the bottle, the contact with rafe’s fingers leaving a rough feeling on your skin. still looking into his eyes, you took an unexpectedly long sip, your throat burning instantly, making you grimace in disgust and drop the bottle. he couldn’t help but laugh.

“what was that?” he asks, following with his gaze as you spit the amber liquid into the sand.

“that shit is disgusting” you say, wiping your chin, which had dropped drops of the drink.

you shake your head, your eyes falling on his face. you allow yourself to analyze the small details, how his eyes close when he smiles, the occasional mark on his skin, his hand wrapped around most of the bottle as soon as you handed it back to him.

rafe parts his lips, you could see his eyes drop to his lap, as if he was hesitant. “i have more bottles in tannyhill, of… other things,” he says, hesitantly. "if you want."

your eyes widened, letting out a laugh you couldn’t control. “are you serious?” you said, your smile taken as mockery by rafe.

rafe frowns, his gaze going to you, making you erase your smile. a tension began to be felt between you two, that tension which anyone who was there could feel, that tension that makes your stomach hurt and your heart race.

"did you really just ask me what you just ask me?" you asked, your eyebrows raising as you looked at him.

“what’s wrong with what i said?” rafe asks, his tone of voice harsher than he intended.

you frown, careful not to fumble with your words. “no, absolutely not.”

“why not?"

“because it’s you,” you simply reply, looking at him. “and i would never do anything with you.”

your words seemed to trigger something in rafe, who raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, as if he were studying you. you felt your pulse quicken, his jaw suddenly looked attractive, and his challenging eyes made your lower stomach feel warm.

"never, huh?"

those were the last words you could remember coming out of your mouth, because all you were focused on was him. on his tongue expertly moving between your wet folds, on how he flicked it against your clit. his fingers gripped your thighs to keep you from moving, the pressure was so strong that you knew there would be marks, but you didn't care.

you had tears starting to form at the corners of your eyes, your o-shaped lips letting out moan after moan, babbling every now and then as you felt his tongue fucking you as if it were the only thing he was useful for.

"prettiest cunt" he grunts against your center, placing open-mouthed kisses over your clit.

"fuck–rafe" was the only thing that could come out of your mouth.

you start to rub your pussy against him when you feel him get close, that delicious pressure in your pelvis growing as does the burning in your clit, your moans turning into soft cries, desperate to cum, and rafe notices it, but that wasn't going to happen.

his mouth leaving you, automatically going to the level of your face. his lips, chin and nose glistening with your arousal, his pupils dilated with pleasure, his breathing accelerated, all so sexy that you could have cum just from him.

before you could even protest he crashed your lips against his, moaning as you tasted yourself. your tongues danced deliciously, making everything more disgusting and grotesque.

"wan' you to cum on my cock" rafe manages to say between kisses, and you never wondered when he took off his pants, but he did. "you're capable of doing that? huh?"

he wrapped his hand around his heavy cock, pumping it slowly, guiding his tip to your puffy and achy clit, teasing it, coating his length with your slick. "fuck–could you be any more fucking wet?"

the tip traveled to your center, gasping as it entered inch by inch to the brim, forcing you to take him all. your eyes rolled back in your head, feeling his cock caress your insides. you could swear you felt him kiss your cervix.

"so tight, all f'me, isn't that right?" rafe purrs against your ear, his hips moving almost instantly after filling you.

your brain blanked out, letting him handle you as he pleased, your legs on his shoulders as his pace quickened. “rafe,” you stammered, your eyes squeezing shut.

"grippin' me so tight, you gonna cum?" rafe murmurs condescendingly. "this sweet pussy gonna cum? huh?"

it was ridiculous, almost pathetic, but his words and the way your sweet spot was hit over and over again had you cumming on his cock, your back arching and a small cry coming out. rafe groans, his face hiding in your neck, his cock twitching and painting your insides with his cum.

you felt kisses on your neck, the thrusts fading in rhythm, his hands caressing your sides. your eyes slowly opened, your lips dry as the light from the nightstand made its presence felt beside you.

then, and just then, it clicked.

"we can't do this again" was the first thing that left your lips.

but rafe had already taken you over. and there was no escape from that.

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© kissylec. please do not plagiarize, repost, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

[heart-of-light-and-darkness]

"I should have listened to you." I admit to War as I down another glass of sweet tea that Famine had poured for me. I smile in thanks to the elderly looking entity as she adds another stack of tamales to my plate. I had already eaten three plate fulls, but her cooking was so good it always left me hungry for more. Every time I saw her, it was like looking at someone's grandma.

"I told you so," war replied with a gruff scoff as he rolled his eyes. "I told you not to listen to my older brother. But does anyone ever listen to me? NoOoOo! I'm just war, the muscle head jock that only knows how to fight." He growls in frustration as he slams a fist on the table, causing the drinks and chip dip to wobble and the audible cruch of chips being crushed.

"Hey, hey! Watch the snacks meathead!" Famines voice rasps as she quickly moves the dip to safety. "That's was pur last bag of chips! Keep this up, and you won't be getting any desert after dinner, young Sprite!"

"It's always the last bag of chips," war retorted. "Just go to the pantry and get more.... and quit with the old lady act. We are all the same age!" Famine grumbles as she gets up, stomping off to the kitchen. War turns his eyes back onto me, the fire in them narrowing. "And don't think I didn't notice you putting the moves on my big sister, angle." He warned as he reached for his belt and slapped something on the table. It was hard to look at as its form kept changing. The only thing certain about it was it was a weapon of war. From guns to spears to swards to even a miniture helicopter, the weapon kept shifting. I think at one point I saw a mushroom cloud.

Quickly shaking the sunspots out of my vission i find my voice. "I assure you war, I was being sincere when I said Death had great cheekbones. And her smile is very calming and kind."

"Really now, lil' bro? Threatening our guests before the game even begins?" Came a jovial voice from the doorway. Walking in came a man that was near identical to War, except for one key difference. Whereas war was dressed in a tight fitting green shirt that showed off his muscles and camo pants, this guy was wearing the world's ugliest Hawaiian shirt and boardshorts. He ruffled wars hair with a smile. "You need to relax, man. Otherwise, you'll have the cramps when it finally comes time to ride. Besides, dont the mortals have a say: all is fair in love and war?"

"Stop touching me Conquest!" War whined, slapping his hand away as conquest sits next to him. "And your not love dumbass!"

"Are you sure about that?" Conquest teased. "Don't done people call it conquering the heart? I'm just saying, I think I would do a better job then cupid." Conquest says will giving the biggest shit eating grin to me. The grin was unsettling, being all teeth and no warmth. "Or of course you could always do a different kind of conquering in the bed ro-"

Conquest was interrupted by a slipper hitting him in the head. "While I am all for satiatings ones cravings, could you ot be so crass when talking about potential love lifes that may include our sister? Besides, you're freaking out the angle." Famine said, carrying out more chips and other asortsments of food, noticeably missing a slipper on one of her feet. "Now hurry up and help me set the table. Death said she would be late because of working late. So eat up and them we can head out and meet her at that nee club Odin just opend." As we set the table Famine leans over and wispers, "Oh and angel? Maybe this time, you should let Loki be your wing man. She is much more sensible then my himbo of a brother."

So far you have had a date with Destiny, flirted with Death, and danced with the Devil. You're going to have a serious chat with your wingman next time you go clubbing.

[cherryheairt]

Hi, could I please request jealous and possessive Chishiya? Thanks

Out of Bounds

fem!reader x Chishiya one-shot

The foul combination of alcohol, vomit, sweat, and chlorine was the trademark of The Beach. There were designated cleaners, the people who had bracelet numbers deciding their spots at the very bottom of the ranks, but no matter how much the floors were mopped or the pool was cleaned, the scent lingered. When you complained about the looseness of the way the residents treated the resort spot like their personal trash cans, Hatter only laughed and patted your shoulder.

"They enjoy their days between games the right way. Why waste time when you know any day could be your last, hm?" His playful voice tinged through your ears, eyes gleaming down past his sunglasses and stretching his arms out as he walked past you. "You should, too. I hate to see you huddled up with number nine so much when you could be out with the rest of us having fun."

"Hard to have fun when all I can think about is my last games." You mumbled, pulling your coverup closer over your shoulders and shivering at the chill that the windows brought into the executive room.

He shrugged. "Your loss. I guess Chishiya would hate to see you have fun with the rest of us."

His words rang through your mind over and over even after he left the room to join the party downstairs.

You often stayed glued to Chishiya, the blonde man you'd met during your second game, a six of diamonds, and decided that he was your main source of companionship after you were the two sole survivors. He didn't mind and, in fact, sought you out, too, before and after your separate games. He never said 'good luck' or an 'I'm happy to see you safe,' but his actions spoke louder. You hung around your room most of the time, lounging around on your queen size hotel bed while he tinkered away at your desk. Something about his room being too monitored by the militants, not that you gave a crap whose room you lingered in.

You drank occasionally, bringing some fruity drinks from the bar up to your room for you and Chishiya to sip on throughout the evenings and nights, but you never included yourself in The Beach's nightlife like the majority had.

Others may consider you boring or perhaps a wallflower, but the company you chose was enough for you. Kuina, Chishiya, occasionally Hatter and Tatta when you explored during the day. No one else caught your eye—certainly not the prospect of running into drunk and trigger-happy militants. Aguni and Niragi intimidated you since the day you first arrived with Chishiya, and Niragi especially made it clear his annoyance for the smart-ass blonde. You didn't want their feud to affect you, so steering clear was the best option. You were probably the safest and most reasonable person who lived in the hotel resort.

And probably the most boring.

After some lonely contemplation stuck in your room just waiting for Kuina or Chishiya to arrive and keep you company, you decided to give into the Beach's atmosphere and crowd. When in Rome, do as Romans do, right?

Wasting no more time, you dressed from your comfortable lounge clothes into a newer black two-piece that Ann had provided you weeks back when you first arrived. Without a reason to wear a more revealing piece, you had usually stuck to jean-shorts and light cover-ups over your simpler bikini tops. Tonight, you styled your hair with the heat tools Kuina had abandoned in your bathroom and headed out to the pool and bar to begin your night.

Downstairs, the crowd was already bursting with life. Music assaulted your senses, and you struggled to climb through the dancing people to get to the bar. Finally finding a good spot to idle, you attracted the attention of Tatta.

"Just ah—whatever is most popular." You decided on, not able to recall the names of most drinks with such a busy atmosphere. A few drinks wouldn't hurt, and who knew if you would even stay here long. At the poolside, most Beachers were already coupled up with their fling of the night and making the most of their limited time. You felt a tinge of envy, unable to empathize with their carefree natures.

When Tatta finally finished and slid your drink over, you gratefully nodded and brought it out of the thickest portion of the crowd to be able to breathe.

Finally able to think straight, you situated yourself on one of the few available pool chairs and nursed your fruity (and surprisingly strong) drink while simply observing the people.

It was almost peaceful until a certain inky-haired man took it upon himself to sit with you. Not next to you on another chair, no, but right at your feet, forcing you to bend your legs at the knee to make room for him. "Niragi." You greeted with a forced enthusiasm. "I thought you were out tonight." Hoped, more like. Everyone avoided Niragi like the plague, but he always seemed to find targets to amuse himself with. If you'd known he wasn't out, you would've holed yourself up in your room again.

"How could I miss little missus lock and key?" He started, leaning in close as you shuffled in your seat. "I'm surprised that Chishiya doesn't have you locked up again."

"Chishiya?" You asked, surprised that he even knew you two were friends. "He doesn't keep me locked up?"

He laughed, the scent of alcohol clear on his warm breath. "Hanging out in your room all day and night isn't 'locked up' to you? He practically cages you like a dog."

"He doesn't.' You defended Chishiya, despite knowing that he doesn't give one crap about people's opinion. "I just like the quiet."

"But not tonight, hm?" Niragi asked, eyeing your exposed legs and reaching out to caress an ankle. You winced inwardly, gulping down the rest of your drink and springing up.

"I wanted to have some fun tonight, is all." You said cheerfully. "I'm gonna get another—" You slipped past him, speedily walking into the thick of the crowd.

Hearing his shout, you sat yourself at the bar yet again and placed your glass in front of Tatta yet again. "Could I get another?" You leaned in, slightly hushed. "Mind if I sit here a while?"

He waved you off, nodding while shaking another group's shots and pouring a line of them. "'Course. Don't gotta ask."

The rainbow shot line intrigued you, and after a brief glance over your shoulder, you saw no sign of Niragi. "A round of those, too." You decided.

In only a few minutes, you had downed more shots than you had in the past few months combined. Dancing with random girls you didn't know the names of and didn't care to, The Beach's outside area was blasting with loud music and even louder people. Yourself included, for the first time. You couldn't hear your laughs or cheers over the others', but the alcohol had taken effect quickly and did its job just right. Hatter couldn't say that you were wasting your remaining days on Earth anymore. Suddenly, you understood the temptations that most of the others fell to every day. It was pure, thoughtless bliss.

You didn't even flinch at the hands running up and down your waist and hips, simply swaying to the beat and clutching your drink to your chest to prevent it from spilling. The deep voice as whoever was dancing with you spoke directly into your ear, causing you to shiver. "Having fun yet?" He asked, purring.

You nodded, giggling despite yourself. Sober, you would shrug a random guy off in a heartbeat or simply walk away. Tonight, the attention seemed to feed your dusty ego as you leaned into his touch.

"Why don't we go upstairs then?" He continued.

"I wanna keep dancing!" You spoke over the music, gulping your last sip of the drink down and already eyeing the bar again.

"Come on, it's a bit crowded down here, isn't it?" At this point, you were growing irritated at his insistance. You wanted to get drunk and enjoy your night out, not pretend that you came after a two minute pump-and-go guy thought he was all that and more.

"I'm good." You said, slipping out of his hands and towards the bar.

A hand at your elbow stopped you, and you had a sudden urge to just whip the glass over this dipshit's head. Turning to face him, you felt the blood drain from your face, "Niragi?" You asked, voice smaller.

His smug grin seemed to grow as you finally noticed who he was. Not bothering to be subtle anymore, he kept his grip on your arm and leaned in closer, his hot breath brushing over your face as he spoke. "Why don't we continue this in my room?"

His eyes were already dark as is, but you could clearly see the effects of alcohol or whatever other substance he had taken blow his pupils wide. He looked like a predator, a dangerous hunter cornering his latest prey and wasting no time to pounce.

"I said I'm good," you repeated, taking a cautionary step back and feeling yourself sober up immediately.

He threw his head back, groaning dramatically. "Come on, don't pretend like you weren't enjoying yourself a minute ago."

"I'm gonna go to the ladies' room." You said, brushing him off and squeezing past a particularly grotesque trio of adults in the crowd. No one seemed to pay you and Niragi any mind, but you couldn't decide whether you were glad for the lack of humiliation or worried for your next five minutes of safety.

It's not like there were any locks on your door. Waiting him out downstairs in the safety of a crowd was your best chance. You hummed to yourself as you leaned against the bar, observing the crowd of dancers once more as a bystander rather than a participant. He would find another girl to take back up to his room in no time.

Tatta seemed to be glad to see you again, but his perky smile quickly turned to pursed lips and a paled face as he glanced over your shoulder. Turning his head away to the next waiting 'customer', you didn't have to be Einstein to know that Niragi followed you to the bar, obviously catching on to your lie or even intending to follow you there as if you invited him.

His hands found your hips again like velcro on shoes. "You never finished that dance with me." Your name from his mouth sounded like gritting sandpaper to your ears as you shifted on your feet and glanced around nervously.

Laughing, you placed your hands on his chest to create distance between you both. "I'm not feeling too good." Maybe if he thought you might puke your guts out, he'd be too grossed out.

"So you go to the bar instead of the bathroom?" He asked with a snicker.

As he opened his mouth to speak again, a deep voice cut him off. "This is depressing to watch." It was Chishiya, leaning against the wall of the bar area where the counter lifted up and down for the bartender to come and go. "You that desperate for some action, Niragi? Is everyone else sick of you, too?"

Relief spead through your body, and you instinctively tried to pry Niragi's hands from your skin to join Chishiya's side instead. He tightened his grip, if anything, and swinging his arm over your shoulder like he was your boyfriend and Chishiya was the one harassing his girl.

The blonde merely raised a brow, glancing to you below the strobes and looking you up and down. You swayed slightly, the previously feigned nausea coming back to bite you in the ass as completely real effects.

"Stay out of it, Chishiya." Niragi growled. "She's not yours."

"She's not." Chishiya agreed. "But unless you want vomit down your throat, I would move on to someone else." He seemed amused by Niragi's immediate aggression, playing into it as if the taller guy would hesitate to shoot him then and there. He absolutely would not (if only Aguni would allow that).

Niragi glared daggers at Chishiya, glancing down at you to finally notice your swaying and colorless features. He clicked his pierced tongue, letting you go with a slight push toward Chishiya. "Whatever." He scoffed.

Stumbling, you were surprised to find that Chishiya had the decency to reach out and steady you by your shoulders. He didn't directly ask anything, but you swore you saw concern in his dark eyes as he looked you up and down yet again. "Come on. We're staying in my room tonight "

You didn't fight it, giggling lightly as you took the initiative to pull him into a tight hug. He tensed, arms hovering over your exposed skin like he'd never been embraced so warmly before. "Thank you, Chishiya." You murmured into his neck.

"Mmhm." He huffed. "Don't throw up all over me, either. I'll never speak to you again."

You laughed harder, pulling away from him but interlocking your arms to let him guide you up the many stairs that led to his room. "Liar. You'd take care of me still."

He rolled his eyes but didn't bother to argue. You were always right, after all.

Not responsible for any inconsistencies, I wrote this in two sittings of like 20 minutes in the middle of the night 🫡

[lostinlovingrevery]

Old man Logan (sorry I love him) making readers birthday a big deal because he knows she grew up in a house where money was tight and everyone was just to stressed to at least make her a cake, so he makes it special and spoils her 🥺

Birthday Spoils

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

You confide in Logan about something in your childhood, and he decides to do something nice for you

A/N: The way I already used this gif. I need to start making creative headers lmao. I really had fun with this but I also had trouble deciding which direction to go for this. I decided to go for the Logan being EXTRA direction, and may write the other idea I had at some point... Also for anyone who reads this on their B-day, Happy Birthday!

Warnings: Fluff <3, implied drinking, slight suggestive ending, Logan being extremely extra and romantic but that's bc he's heads over heel for you <3, Charles being grumpy lol bc that's its own warning

"I don't hold it against them but it's just...y'know, made the day a little bittersweet."

Logans calloused hand brushed up and down your arm in soothing manner, as he listened to you talk about your childhood.

"I really try to not let it get me down, it's just a birthday. They were just trying to keep us sheltered and fed and I could at least be thankful for that..."

"Hey, it's not just a birthday." Logan says, his tone lighthearted as he squeezed your arm. You were by his side, cheek pressed against his pec, your leg over his hips.

"Easy for you to say. You've had like... 500 birthdays."

Logan chuckled warmly. "a little less than 200 actually. I'm old darling, but not that old."

You giggled, your hand sliding over his chest, wrapping your arm around him. "Like I said, it's not really a big deal. I just sometimes feel like I missed out on something."

He let out a grunt, pulling you a little closer as his mind wandered off. He never really put much stock in his birthday personally. You hit a certain number and the meaning of it goes away. For him, it just became another day.

Then he joined the X-men, and someone, somehow, figured out his birthday and every year he got a surprise party but-not-actually a surprise because his senses were heightened and he could hear Marie planning it with everyone in the next room.

He had the decency to pretend though.

Then everything happened, and his birthday just became a ticking clock to his inevitable doom. Each year marked was another foot dug in his grave.

Then he met you

And suddenly he wasn't waiting for the end no more. No, you felt more like the beginning.

He didn't like the sound of complacent acceptance in your voice. You were always so wonderful, making everyone around you feel loved and special - him included. He never put stock in himself until he met you and somehow and someway you had forced him to see the parts of himself that were good. You were a fresh breath of air for him.

You gave him a reason to keep going.

He wanted to return that favor.

Your birthday wasn't for a few more weeks. Gave him time to think of something, to plan. God knows, everyone knows that he was absolutely terrible at stuff like this but... He'll give it a try. For you.

He wanted you to know you were important. Especially to him. That nothing was too much for his girl.

It was torturous for him. He couldn't figure out what the hell to do at first. He couldn't tell you the last time he planned a birthday party and honestly he didn't really do any planning, he just got ordered around to pick up the food, put up the decorations.

He'd act like a grumpy asshole over it, hiding the fact that it warmed his heart to be included in something so...domestic.

Standing in a bakery staring at different cakes. None of them looked appetizing, and he's pretty sure dark blue frosting on one of them is mold.

Not getting anything here...

Scrolling through reviews of local restaurant in the area. Some of them places he'd been to before, not to eat, but picking up couples, bachelors and bachelorette parties. Probably places you like - like this one steak place, seemed nice and -

"Not there. They make an absolutely terrible chicken stir-fry, and they do not season anything." Charles speaks up from across the room, as he focuses on pruning his Bonsai. A little gift you brought Charles a few months ago. Something that could keep Charles busy, due to the meticulous care they needed in order to grow.

"Don't be peeking around Chuck." Logan looks at him past his glasses. "Besides, when the hell did you eat from this place?"

"I don't need to Logan. You're thinking too loud anyway, it's disturbing my peace."

Logan let out a small sigh, as he clicked his phone off. "What do you suggest then?" He asks in irritation as he leaned back in his chair.

"Just do it from the heart Logan. That's all she would want." Charles tipped his head up, squinting as he brought a shaky hand attempting to trim a branch. Logan got up and walked across the room; he grabbed Charles wrist, helping him steady before he trimmed the branch. "And to answer your earlier question; me and Erik ate there 20 years ago while on a mission. Absolutely awful cuisine."

"20 years ago. You don't think they would've changed their recipes, chefs, whatever by now?"

"Well if you're so determined go ahead." Charles shoots him a scowl. Logan sighs exasperated. "Just don't blame me when she dumps you for the awful birthday dinner."

"You're in a bad mood today aren't you?"

"Only when I'm in present company."

Your birthday approached more quickly than Logan expected. Filling him with anxiety as he wondered what your expectations were, and hoping that what he has planned would...Well, make you smile.

You- You didn't have any expectations, having grown used to your birthday passing by every year. It became a melancholy event, as you did have friends and family wish you a happy birthday, maybe even give you a few gifts, but nothing was planned.

You were happy to have Logan to be with this year though. Even if you guys didn't do anything special, just being with him, is enough for you.

The morning of your birthday, you're awaken by a gentle kiss to your forehead.

A soft groan, and you stretched your arms out, humming at the feeling of Logan's presence nearby. The scent of bacon and blueberry pancakes wafted to your nose and you sleepily opened your eyes, to Logan, his face worn, but filled with a loving look at you.

"Happy birthday darling." He says softly, as he holds up the plate of breakfast he cooked for you. You smiled, sitting up on your shared bed, gently taking the plate from his hand and putting it on your bedside table.

You cupped his face, pulling him down for a real kiss. He grinned against your lips, a small mirth escaping him as he brings his hand up into your hair, pulling you closer.

"C'mon now, it's gonna get cold." He says, hesitantly parting from you.

"Well if you let me buy a microwave we wouldn't have to worry about that would we?" You tease.

He rolled his eyes. "You know how I feel about those damn things."

"It's literally not that serious-" You giggle shaking your head. He grabbed the plate, putting it back onto your lap. He moved to sit on the edge of the mattress facing you, he grabbed the fork, cutting a piece of the syrup covered waffles, and holding it up to your lips.

"Open up sweetheart."

After he fed you your birthday breakfast, you got ready to go to work.

"You sure?" He asks meeting you at the door. "Take the day off. You and me. Hm?"

You giggled and nodded. "Lo, I know what I said before, but you don't need to go all crazy for me. I'm happy just having a night in." You say.

"You deserve more than that darling." He hums. You put a hand on his chest, leaning up to peck him on the lips.

"I think I remember saying that same thing to you when it was your birthday." You smile into his lips. He let out a small harrumph.

You didn't know that his plan needed you to go to work- at least for a little bit; but he had to throw you off somehow.

"How bout I drive you today then? I'll pick you up after."

"What about your work?"

"I took tonight off."

You grinned. "Really?! So we will get to have a night in together?"

"Whatever you want doll," He moves to open the door for you, a gentle smile on his face as he leads you out.

Once you were safely dropped off at work- where several of your coworkers were outside waiting to tell you happy birthday - Something Logan claims to have nothing to do with - his plan was set in motion.

The day went by, and he was there to pick you up as promised.

Leaning against the limo, with a large bag in hand. He was wearing a suit and tie, hand in pocket as he puffed on a cigar.

You smiled at the sight of him all dressed up, a sneaking suspicion that he had something up his sleeve. You approached slowly, your head cocked in a suspicious manner. He brought his free hand to pluck the cigar from his lips, holding out the bag- a protective cover for the dress inside.

"Lo?" You say his name with a questioning tone.

"Hm?" He pushed himself from the car casually, stepping towards you, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek. He held out the dress. "Here."

You take it, unzipping the cloth and peering at the dress inside and laughed. "You even got my size right!" You beamed at him.

"Course I did love. You wanna change here, or in the car?"

"We aren't going back home?"

"Had some other ideas in mind. C'mon."

You opted to change in the back of the car, the windows being tinted dark enough you didn't have to worry about being seen indecent.

Logan had also grabbed you other stuff, makeup, hairbrush, jewelry, whatever he thought you'd want to wear for tonight.

Once you were settled, he drove you both to a location he refused to tell you. His hand resting on your thigh; you told him about your day at work, as you looked for clues that would tell you where you were going. The sun was setting, and the sky was turning dark.

You recognized signs of the city. Trees decorated with string lights, and couples and friends walking down shop-lined streets. Tall buildings began to surround you, and you looked at Logan questioningly as he pulled up to a parking spot and turned the car off.

"What are we doing?"

He looked at you with a quirked brow, then his lips grew into a soft smile, and he winked at you as he climbed out of the car with a small groan and shut the door behind him. You watched him walk around the car and open the door for you, holding his hand out to help you climb out.

"Logan?" You looked at him questioningly again, and he grabbed your hand, as he led you into a plaza. A place normally crowded especially on a night like this- yet there was very few people around.

The trees of the plaza held the same white string lights inside them, wrapped through the branches and down the trunks. Decorative marbles statues of angels, and lovers rested throughout the park. In the center, a large fountain with cherubs shooting arrows and posed in song. Gold lights high-lighted the fountain.

In front of the fountain sat folded table and chairs, with balloons that spelled out "Happy Birthday!" in the background.

You stopped, and Logan looked at you questioningly.

"Logan?" You say his name again, a nervous smile plastered on your face. "What..What is this?"

He stepped forward, wrapping an arm around your waist. A soft look on his usually tired and gruff face. "It's your birthday darling, I wanted to do something nice."

"Nice?" You say in disbelief. "This is- This- I-" You stammered. He let out a small chuckle, as he urged you forward to the table and chair. He pulled the chair out, allowing you to sit before pushing it in.

A gentleman dressed in waiters clothes approached you, he held up a bottle of your favorite drink. "Would you like a glass ma'am?"

You stared at the man, shock, disbelief, and a tad bit of confusion of who this guy was, had paralyzed you.

"Uh, this is an old friend of mine." Logan motions to him. "Cashed in a favor with him."

You looked back at the "waiter", closing your parted lips, you smiled and nodded. "That...Would be nice."

You stare incredously as he poured you a glass, and then Logan. He sat from you, watching with raised brows and waited for your words.

"I uh..." You blinked, looking around the beautiful setting. "Lo this is....This-"

"I know you weren't expecting anything." He says gently. "But I ain't gonna have my girl not feeling loved on her birthday can I?"

You closed your eyes, a tight lipped smile as you looked at the man you had come to adore in the last year.

Never did you think when you met the gruff looking driver during your friends birthday bash, did you believe you end up here. You thought they way he glanced at you in the mirror multiple times a night was just a trick of your eyes. Until finally when he dropped your group off at the hotel - he stopped you, and with shaky hands asked you for a drink one night.

Of course you said yes, how could you say no to man like him, seeming so nervous to even talk to you. That night you went out for drinks, you connected in ways you hadn't connected with anyone before- and he evidently felt the same. You both walked the city long after the bar closed, sharing story after story, thoughts, opinions, on the most silliest of things - he had surprised you with a lot of his thoughts, his demeanor seeming so serious all the time.

You had grown to know him and know what to expect from him. He became a predictable.

This, though?

You had to bit your lip, blinking away the tears that were welling up in your eyes. He held his glass up, a toast.

"Happy birthday love," He says with softness you found he only had for you.

That wasn't the only surprise Logan had in mind for you. Your favorite home-cooked dinner that he kept into bags so they stay warm. The waiter served them to you both, and you ended up eating the best meal of your life.

"Cooked without the help of a microwave-" He just had to point that out. Making you laugh and nearly spit out your drink.

When your plates were cleared, he stood up, taking your hand and pulling you to him. Gently, he began rocking you both back and forth, slow dancing with you along the walkway of the plaza.

Your arms rested on his shoulders, hands intertwined behind his neck, you tilted your head, an amused smile stretched across your face.

"Y'know...You didn't have to do all this Lo..." You say softly. "I would have been fine with just you."

"I know." He says. He pulled you in, kissing you with a passionate possessiveness. "I ain't good at this kind of stuff darling; but I don't want you to think you ain't worth the effort. Not with me, especially."

You hummed, "Clearly-" You say with a teasing voice.

"C'mon." He pulled you back to the table, before kneeling down and grabbing something under his chair.

He pulled out a covered pan, standing back up with a hard groan, you put your hand on his back to support him. He let out a tired breath, before setting the pan down, removing the lid.

"I uh...Couldn't tell you when the last time I ever made a cake was, so..." He scratched the back of his neck bashfully.

You looked down at the homemade cake, made with your favorite flavors, and icing piped with a "Happy Birthday Love" across it- in very messy manner, and a few candles poked in between the letters. He pulled out his lighter, flipping the lid and creating a flame where he lit each candle.

"You want me to sing happy birthday?" He asks, a tad sarcasm in his voice. You, already holding back tears, burst into a laugh-sob and shake your head as tears began to flow down your cheek. "I'll do it-" He took a deep breath, before in his best, gruff singing voice, he began "Happy birthday-"

You went to cover his mouth, giggling through the tears, before pulling him down by the collar to kiss him and make him stop his terrible singing, making him chuckle warmly against your lips as his hands settled on your waist.

"Well, c'mon now. You gotta make a wish." He mumbles as he moves to press his forehead to yours. He reached up to wipe your tears away, you looked up at him, and nodded.

Turning back to the cake, you bent down, closing your eyes, waiting a moment, before blowing out the candles. Logan's hand rested on your back as you stood up and beamed at him.

"I know that look. Don't tell me." He quirked a brow. "You wished for a damn microwave, right?"

You bit your lip as you looked up at him and he sighed.

"Well, that's one of your presents..." He muttered looking away. You raised your brows.

"Really?!" You smiled excitedly. "You- This isn't the present?"

"Course not. I'm spoiling my girl tonight-" He pulled you close again, a low rumble in his throat as he looked down at you. "Especially when we get back home...."

[spillthepuckingtea]

Ok! So these are kind of the big pieces, mostly from ex anon (my angel). There is also 🌺 anon, who spoke about similar things as ex anon and has been vetted as credible, it's just where I was I mostly saw ex anon; just to let you know in case you see 🌺 anon mentioned. Also, these are as I remember.

Luke: Ex anon confirmed that Sammy was dead set on Luke at UMich. Apparently she has long wanted to be a hockey wag (not unique to her, many sorority girls at UMich do) and Luke rejected her. She wouldn't leave him alone, asking if he was going to be at certain outings and always showing up to make another pass. Ex anon recounted that he rejected her at a house party and she was so sloppy drunk she threw herself on the ground screaming and crying about it (this may sound unbelievable so sip or spit. Fwiw I interned at a high school in an upper class area and witnessed 18 year old girls throw themselves on the ground kicking and crying over grades, not being casted in a play. Spoiled girls behaving like this is not as unfathomable irl as I thought. Also ex anon told a story that Sammy and her friends got so rowdy and sloppy drunk they were kicked out of a country club restaurant.) When Sammy gets rejected she'll "be a bad bitch" and fuck someone close to that guy to spite him. She was at the same bar as Jack in late 2023 and approached knowing he was Luke's brother, and clearly now has Jack as her key to wag life. Jack heard that Sammy had a thing for Luke and asked him if he was ok, Luke said yes (sweet bby), it was all in the past, because he wanted Jack happy especially with the rough time he was having (more on that later). Luke is remains uncomfortable around her. Many have remarked- myself included- that during the interview Jack and Luke gave at family skate, when Jim and Sammy skate by Luke grimaces (he always looks uncomfortable in public but this was next level.)

Ellen: Miss SpillThePuckingTea was absolutely right on the money with Sammy. Sammy, now entering a relationship with superstar Jack Hughes- a way to not only become a NHL wag but one that will be popular, polished things up. Cleaned her VSCO of the many photos of her smoking weed, and went with the private girl of rich standing. Then her following the IDF Instagram account and some zionist posts she liked came out. Ex anon said that Ellen questioned her over being a zionist (very likely the optics of publicly being one) and Sammy removed those too. It was either DeuxMoi or there briefly was a hockey specific DeuxMoi like platform, shared a story that ex anon confirmed to be about Sammy. Early on in their relationship Sammy reached out to media outlets to give info on their relationship (again, bang on that the reluctant wag thing is a facade), Ellen found out when these outlets reached out to the Hughes' manager for comment/confirmationn. Ellen apparently called Sammy and they had quite the argument. That's why I remain skeptical at the "look how much she gets along with his family, clearly their so in love" because reliable ex anon discussed the tension undercutting everyone but Jack has with Sammy (Jack has his own beef with her but that was explained in the last ask) but remain polite for Jack. I have more personal interpretations on footage we've seen, but I'll withold.

Sending one last ask after this to wrap it up.

On behalf of all of us, I would like to say thank you thank you thank you also Damn, you really do have a good memory I wish.  it’s so gross to date the brother of the guy who’s dick u were trying ride 

[kedreeva]

So, bit of a long story but, the mutation has only been around less than 10 years. The birds take around 3 years to hit breeding age, so there's only been a couple generations of them, period. And EVERY mutation so far has worked like a recessive- one copy doesn't show (or shows minimally, like pied/white), two copies means the birds looks different. It's been that way for thousands of years, they've never had a dominant gene, so a LOT of people working with peafowl have no idea genes even CAN work differently than a plain recessive gene. The assumption off the bat was that this was a recessive gene and should work like any other recessive gene.

The OG breeder, Els, is in the Netherlands (or was at the time, I think she moved since) and didn't tell anyone about them for a few years after she got the first one; then, after AI nearly got to her flock and foxes nearly finished the job, she finally in 2021 sold a breeding pair to Jens in Denmark and later to Isabella in.... I think Italy, but don't quote me. Jens took DNA to actual geneticists to try to suss out what it was, something I can't do (he still doesn't have an answer last I heard). All of that was going down in countries I don't have much contact with. The UPA (United peafowl association, the folks in charge of peafowl mutation validation and news in the USA) only publicly announced YM in 2022. The birds only arrived here to the USA in 2023, and Bill DID immediately come to me then, when things didn't add up.

Brad won't ever come to me about anything for any reason; as seen above, he thinks he knows everything and wouldn't lower himself to speak to a girl about his specialty, and I've had to block at least one of his kids for being a complete dickwad, too. And, y'know, I'm pretty okay with not ever engaging with a guy who runs a puppy mill for peafowl. He is also.... kind of the problem. Before I put out my genetics guide in 2018, Brad was the person people would go to, to ask genetics questions (and I'm sure that someone in this chain did) and Brad... well. He gatekeeps info. People go to him to ask questions and if he ever responds - and he doesn't always - he may or may not give anyone the info they want. He behaves as if it is a great burden to explain anything to anyone, and doesn't usually treat it as worthwhile unless they're fawning over him in public. The problem is..... he doesn't know. I say he gatekeeps info but the reality, as near as I can tell, is that he doesn't have it. He has practical knowledge. If you ask him "if I breed x to y what will I get" he can tell you, because he has seen the results enough times to roughly understand how a recessive transfers in practice. But he doesn't actually understand the genetics that go along with that, and so tells people to look it up themselves. He's the embodiment of "if you give a man a fish he'll eat for a day" because he can tell you over and over and over what any pairing will make, but not how to get there on your own because he doesn't actually know, and he gets frustrated answering each individual pairing because he can't teach anyone to fish. And that kind of attitude has spread the idea that if you know stuff, you don't share it. Which makes it harder for people to go to those who DO have knowledge and want to share it (like me and Lori, the other lady who has a lot of genetics knowledge), because they think they won't get it anyway (or that someone will make them pay money for it, like Josh does).

Anyway, for birds that take 3 years to mature, and having only been around a few years, this pretty much DID come to me as quickly as possible.

So of the two people in the entire USA that are currently breeding Ultramarine (think, peacock with the blue cranked to 13), the one I'm not friends with has just listed up a 2024 cock for auction. It's going to be interesting to see the end price, as this will determine the 2025 price of the mutation (and its rate of decline, as last year was the first year any were available ever).

Last year the auction ended at $6,800 for one male. In a really funny (to me) twist, he sent a blue to the winner instead of an ultramarine, because despite gloating that he was able to tell and my friend wasn't, he couldn't tell the difference in yearlings, either. It'll be EXTREMELY FUNNY if he does the same fuckin' thing this year. (and he did replace the bird, so the winner got the right bird eventually, it was just. very embarrassing for the self-proclaimed leader of peafowl breeding to be so wrong after bragging so much).

If you, like me, are nosy and want to keep an eye on the auction (and the others with het birds) and see where it ends, here is a link!

For reference, this is an ultramarine feather:

And this is an ultramarine bird from my friend's stock:

But they look almost exactly the same as blues when they're babies, and only start to really look different as 2yo birds.

So, it'll be interesting to watch go down again.

There's also a listing on here for UM feathers, I believe he's selling a dropped train, but I'm not sure of the number of feathers included in the lot, so maybe ask before spending a lot.