#let me know if you’ve read all of these

[reignpage]

Piercer!Geto

Manx Norton: going over the limit

Contents: 18+ mdni, fluff, smut, grinding, making out, blowjob, deepthroating, throat fucking, swallowing, marks the end of their pre-relationship story

“We need to talk,” you say. 

Geto looks up from his journal, slow and steady like he knew you would come here and at this time. He sets his pen down. His hair is tied up completely today and there are dark bags under his eyes that you can’t bear to look at, so you don’t. Instead, you settle into the seat, without being asked, and you cross your legs and your arms. 

You mean business. 

“Good afternoon, pretty. You look gorgeous.” 

Sighing, you ignore that fluttering in your stomach. There’s no point in getting carried away by his charm; it’s his instinct to be sweet, otherwise he wouldn’t have as many clients as he does. But you’re aware, faintly and right at the very back of your mind, that his words have a bite to them — they’re complimentary whilst also accusatory. 

“I need an explanation, Geto,” you state firmly. 

His left eye twitches. It’s not a flicker or a nervous tick, it’s a flinch. You have the power, just like your sister said, when you were throwing her shoes out of the window, and she was offering advice as a means to fight your murderous intent off. It didn’t work.

There’s always something shifting between you, something unstable, and it’s been difficult to manage — you’re new to relationships, so new to venturing outside your comfort zone that you’ve relied so much on him to guide you. But you’ve also had to step up and make decisions for yourself. 

Your friends weren’t very helpful; they insisted you quit or bring a new man to the studio to make him jealous, and as tempting as it is to be petty, you know they wouldn’t solve anything. It’ll just make you feel bad and icky. 

So, you’ve chosen the high road, providing him the opportunity to share his side, to explain why he let you down once again and why everything between you had been built on a lie.

Nodding, he opens a drawer and takes out a familiar sheet of paper. Then, in a conversational tone, he asks, “What do you see?”

“It’s my CV,” you answer. Truthfully, you have no clue what game he’s playing; there’s something in particular he’s looking for but all you see is the whites of the paper and the lines of ink. 

“Look at it from the perspective of an employer looking to fill a hole in their establishment,” is his reply. 

You’ve heard that tone often, every day, in fact. It’s the tone he uses on clients when he needs to go over payment plans, or on suppliers when he needs to negotiate a new contract. But he’s never used it on you. Distant and devoid of attachment, it makes you feel uneasy. 

Fiddling with a loose thread on your sweater, you furrow your brows as you read over the paper. Geto is leaning back on the chair, hands folded on his lap, the pinnacle of confidence. That used to be so attractive. Now, you’re just a little peeved off. You were supposed to be the confident one; you came here on your own volition, even prepared a speech you practised with your sister.

You should have known he’d sweep the rug from under you. 

Frustrated, you groan and smack the sheet. “Just tell me what I’m supposed to see! I have no time for this.”

Smiling reassuringly, Geto doesn’t bat an eye at your outburst and instead, begins a lecture, “What I saw was a CV lacking in relevant work experience. In fact, you had very little experience. Your most recent job was in high school, when you worked as a librarian’s assistant for a day. The other things on there were debate club and a certificate for being a neighbourhood ‘sweetheart’, and I’m not even sure what that means.”

“Oh.”

To your embarrassment, he laughs. A blush is growing on your face and suddenly you’re very aware of how some strands of hair are sticking to your forehead uncomfortably, how the sweater you’re wearing is a little scratchy and that maybe, just maybe, you’ve overreacted terribly.

Maybe you should have confronted him sooner. Perhaps just as soon as you overheard him tell Miguel that your sister owes him a favour for hiring you. However, in your defence, you were feeling a little hurt from having been left at the restaurant — you waited for an hour, watching people pass by and give you sympathetic looks as you sent text after text to a man too busy with a client to realise time passed by. 

A week has gone by since then, and you haven’t come to work at all, you dodged every text and call from Geto and ignored him when he showed up on campus and had the nerve to get upset that you’re hanging out with a classmate. Your sister tried to defend him, and herself, but you weren’t willing to hear her out. On many occasions, you’ve told her to butt out, to leave you to make mistakes and get hurt, because it’s your prerogative. 

She can’t protect you from everything and the more she tries, the harder you all learn that lesson. 

“Okay, fine. So, my CV sucks a little,” you huff, “but you should have never hired me under the pretence that I was good enough when the real reason was because my sister asked you. It’s unfair on me. I wanted to earn this job on my own and you two went behind my back to manipulate this whole situation!”

The man sighs and leans forward. You smell his cologne and it’s muddling your mind a little, so you lean back, away from him. He notices. “I understand you’re upset. And I’m sorry to have colluded with your meddling sister. But it really isn’t what you think, pretty girl.”

You hate how patient he sounds, like you’re the crazy one. And maybe you are. You don’t know anymore. In fact, you’re starting to think you know nothing at all. 

“Yes, it’s true she asked me to give you a job. But all I promised her was that I’ll give you a chance, like everyone else. And when you came for the interview, I thought a lot of things. One was that you are so different from your sister. Different from the people that tend to come through the door, from me. You’re much brighter, much warmer and lighter than everyone I’ve ever seen.”

There’s something in his eyes, a sincerity that makes you breathless. All the air has left the room and you’re leaning in without even realising it. Everything that he says is entrancing, he’s a pied piper playing a tune that fills your soul with a fire you can’t put out, and he’s leading you closer to him, away from everything you’ve ever known, away from safety and reason. 

You’re not afraid. 

“I had a look at your CV and thought, there’s no way I would hire you, not even if she begged or blackmailed me — I take great pride in my studio, I turned it from a little backroom space with flickering lights to what it is now. My clients trust me to provide quality service from beginning to end, and I will not let a woman, no matter how beautiful, get in the way of that.”

Geto reaches for your cheek, like he can’t help himself, and you let him. His hands are slightly calloused but otherwise smooth and soft. And that smile, the polite one he always wears, is gone. In its place is something that reflects how you feel, how you’ve both been feeling for a long time now. A frustration against the distance between you, the boundary that’s erected itself between employer and employee, boss and receptionist, and a man who’s seen it all versus a girl who knows so little. 

You aren’t meant to be. Everything about this relationship is wrong, it’s inadvisable, foolish, like Hades and Persephone, or Eros and Psyche. It’s a tragic love story doomed from the very beginning, the kind people talk about centuries later with a mix sense of awe and pity. You know all about it, have read so many variations of the same story with the same individuals who think they know everything, who believe they’re different, special and that the Fates will smile fondly on them. 

Except neither you nor Suguru are under the impression that you’re different, that this will turn out differently and that the cards you’ve been dealt are from a separate, fresh deck. You both know you’re playing a dangerous game. 

Neither of you care. 

“But then I talked to you. And you were so witty, so undeterred by my unrelenting questions, and so willing to learn as you go. You had the confidence of someone who’s worked a thousand jobs, who’s met a thousand people that, despite knowing better, I wanted to hire you on the spot.”

Carefully, with your eyes fluttering shut at the tentative touch of your skin, you breathe out, “Suguru, we shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

When your eyes open, you see his gorgeous, tortured eyes fall to your lips and you know what you want. 

Your lips meet his.

This kiss is so similar to the one you shared that night, but oh so new. It seems so long ago now, and when you feel his plush lips devour yours it feels like this is new to both of you and it urges you to push in further. His tongue touches yours and you don’t hesitate to intertwine it, to explore all that he’s laying out for you. 

Gasping for breath, you pull away with little success before he’s grasping the back of your neck and urging you over the desk, kneeing the papers there and hearing the pens and stapler fall to the floor with a dull clatter, you sit onto the desk and you hear his chair slam against the wall when he stands to press himself closer to you. He kisses you again. 

“Things work differently with me,” he says in between pecks to your lips. 

Whilst his mouth moves to your jaw, sucking at the skin by your ear, you giggle. “I know. My sister says you like control. Something about Christian Grey.”

Chuckling in your ear before nipping you there, he admits, “I’m not as insane as him. In truth, I don’t really know what I am, but I know it’s more intense than what most men ask for.”

“That’s okay, Suguru. We can work it out together, step by step.”

He kisses your pulse point. You moan. Goosebumps are rising along your arms; your back is arching to press as much of you closer to him. You’re barely capable of creating a single train of thought, you feel so lightheaded you don’t register how your legs are wrapping around his hips. 

“My smart girl,” Suguru muses against your skin. 

Your legs are wrapped around his hip, pulling him close until you can feel the bulge there push against your core. With a roll of your hips, the zipper of his jeans nudges your bundle of nerves. You gasp. And you seek out that pleasure again with slow, gradual grinds. 

Breathlessly, you say, “Suguru…”

He’s scraping his teeth against your pulse point, one hand kneading your thigh and the other holding himself up. Filling your senses, all you can think about is him and how there’s a growing pressure within that’s dying to be released. 

“Go on, pretty girl. Take what you need.” Tightening your legs around his hips, you grind harder, frustrated that there are layers between you. Your arch your back, chest rubbing against his. Like he knows what you want, his hand finds your breast, squeezing and groping. “No bra? Are you sure you came here to talk, angel?”

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, you cry out, body tightening as that coil inside snaps. You spasm, grinding hastily to draw out your pleasure. It’s much better than you any could have given yourself and you’re addicted. Hand flying to his hair, you thread it through, brushing out his hair tie until his silky hair cascades down.

He groans. 

In a blink of an eye, you’re being pulled and pushed down onto your knees. You grip his thighs, blinking fast as you desperately try to regain your bearings. 

“You’re asking for trouble, sweet thing. Can you handle it?” Suguru asks, a challenge glinting in his eyes as he smiles down at you. 

You bite your lip, thighs squeezing to subdue the regrowing aching there. With a sudden bravery, your hands make their way up, revelling in the marble like strength in his muscles before they find his zip. 

Hesitating, you feel something holding you back, an instinct within awakening. Awkwardly, you question, “May I?”

His smile widens, surprise flickering in his eyes, and then he’s threading his hands through your hair. It’s a rewarding pat, one full of warmth, and it’s empowering. 

“Such a good girl. You’re a perfect little angel, aren’t you?” He coos. “Of course you may, my pretty girl. Go on, go at your own pace.”

Nodding, you unzip his jeans, tugging it down with his boxers. And what springs out leaves your mouth watering. It’s huge and intimidating. It’s bad enough that he’s well-endowed, but nothing about him is typical. He’s different to the average man in every way. 

Starting with the metal piercing the underside of his dick, emerging through the head. 

Seeing the horrified look on your face, he chuckles, the hair soothing your head delving down to pinch your chin. Unperturbed by your reaction, likely expecting it, he explains, “I got it done a year ago, mostly as a dare. It took around nine weeks to heal and yes, it did hurt.”

“B-but I-I can’t,” you stammer and shake your head, adding, “there’s just n-no way.”

Suguru sighs, thumb grazing your cheek. “You don’t need to. I understand this is too much too soon, but I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. You’re more than capable.”

You don’t want to disappoint him. And you want to prove you can do whatever you set your mind to. Recalling one of your sister’s drunken admissions, you know the trick is to pinch your thumb, so you don’t gag, to breathe through your nose and take a little at a time. 

“Okay, okay. I can do it.”

He gathers your hair and keeps them out of the way. Slowly, you wrap your hand around the base, gasping at the way your fingers barely touch. With no particular method in mind, you explore his length, thumb following a vein from bottom to top. He’s hot in your hand, almost burning, and the tip is shining with what you know to be pre-cum. 

It’s pearly white and you can’t wait to know what it tastes like; you lean in and scoop up the drop with your tongue. You both groan. 

Salty, you mull the taste over. It isn’t bad. And suddenly, you no longer feel scared. Your tongue fiddles with the bent metal barbell, surprisingly not minding the cold sensation against your hot tongue. 

“That’s it,” he groans, grip on your hair tightening. 

You widen your jaw, suckling the head, tongue pressing against the slit before it circles around, grinding the barbell back and forth. He groans louder, deep breaths vibrating through the room. 

When you push in further, you make the mistake of doing it too fast. You gag, eyes tearing up. 

“Slowly, pretty. Slowly. There’s no rush, okay?”

Coughing, you nod weakly, feeling embarrassed. Recovering your breath, you go back in, slower. Eventually, you work up a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, taking more and more of him but never quite making it further than halfway. 

Both hands on your head, he soothes your tears away with his thumb before he advises, “Relax your throat, sweet thing. I’ll guide you, is that alright?”

You tap his thighs twice in a yes. 

And then he’s pushing in, more and more until he’s filling your throat, muscles stretching to take him in. Tearing up once more, you mentally swallow that panic rising, the claustrophobia within forcing your nails into his bare thighs. 

“You’re doing so well, angel. So good -ngh- for me, hmm?”

Suguru pulls back, the piercing scraping your tongue. And then he pushes back in. Again and again, he builds up to a rhythm, allowing you to get used to it, before he gives you more of him. 

This is so overwhelming, the feeling of his piercing bumping at the back of your throat, the ache in your jaw at the stretch, and the salty taste filling your senses. All you can see and feel and hear and taste is Suguru. You can’t get enough of him. 

So, when he bottoms out, your lips tickling his skin, your eyes roll to the back of your head just as his do. 

“I’m going to cum, pretty. Do you want to pull out?” He asks, pleasure written all over his face, the veins in his arm bulging at his barely constrained urge to fuck your throat freely. Knowing that he’s so in control, so concerned over you, when he could use you how he pleased, could take what he wants makes you so wet. 

You blink rapidly. 

“No? Are you sure you -ha- can take it? I won’t let you spit it out,” he warns. 

Sucking your cheeks in, you suction him closer. His cock head is rubbing the back of your throat, piercing burning, and with a shallow thrust, he’s cumming down your throat. 

Hot liquid fills your mouth. 

Suguru pulls out and you swallow the thick cream he leaves in your mouth. Your head slumps against his thigh, gasping for breath, heaving like you’ve just ridden a rollercoaster. 

Hands tucking themselves under your arms, he lifts you onto his lap just as he sits back on his chair, boxers pulled up before you even realise what position you’re in now. 

He rubs your back, muttering encouraging words about how perfect you were, how amazing you did, and how he knew you’d do well for him. 

“Open,” he orders, bottom lip pulled down by his thumb. He inspects your mouth and smiles at what he sees. “Good girl.”

And then he’s kissing you, tasting both yours and his essence. 

“No wonder Miguel gave me a funny look when I asked how many piercings you have,” you whisper against his lips, a high pulsing through your veins. 

Suguru chuckles. “He’s a good guy, did all my piercings. Eased all my concerns every time and I knew I wanted him in my studio.”

You nod. 

Your eyes are heavy and you’re hiding your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, and pondering the change between you. You’ve accepted that you’re entering an unconventional relationship, that he’s going to introduce you to a world none of your friends had seen a glimpse of, but you won’t be navigating it by yourself. 

He’ll lead you just as he had when you first started working here. 

Softly, gently and with so much patience, you’ll be free to stumble as often as you need until you know who you are, what you want, and what you need to be.

“Get some sleep, my gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”

Is the last thing you hear before you fall deeper into sleep in his arms.

[pacofprunes]

let me help ya’ relax.

thanos / player 230 x reader (squid game)

warnings — noncon, public (voyeurism), tears, kissing, use of the word bitch, use of the word rape, pussy kissing, choking, slight / barely but manhandling,

by clicking read more you consent to reading this content and you are 18+

“hey beautiful.”

“the hell?”

standing right in front of you, or rather over you, player 230. it was night and everyone was asleep or sitting in a corner somewhere. you didn’t know this guy beside seeing him the first two games and seeing him act like a fucking lunatic. you sit up and gather yourself.

“what do you want?”

“oh you know, just wanted to talk to a pretty girl.”

he does a cheeky smile. you stare. what do you even say to that. thank you i guess…?

“uh—”

“no need to thank me, it’s what i do. just such a great fucking guy right?”

he picks at the cross on his neck before pulling a pill out and holds it out to you.

“you use?”

“what?”

“drugs. do you do drugs? or have you done them before?”

how the fuck did he manage to bring his shit in here for one, and for two; why the hell is he more worried about doing drugs rather than living. that’d be the last thing you’d be thinking about.

“no. i dont do them and i dont have any interest in that.”

he does a fake pouty face.

“come on babe, loosen up ya’know? don’t wanna stress your pretty little face out.”

he pops the pill in his own mouth. where was this guy going with this? he clearly wants to stay here, hence the big blue ‘O’ on his jacket. so if he’s bored he should go talk to the people on his side. how the hell could you relax watching people you’ve gotten close to or even have just spoke to once die? meanwhile this dudes been jumping around having the time of his life while he’s been here. if this game ended tomorrow, he’d join it again a million times over. or maybe he wouldn’t but the drugs in his system sure as hell would.

“yeah, no… i appreciate your kindness but i don’t even know you and i think i’m just gonna lay back down.”

he grabs your hand and starts shaking it aggressively.

“my names thanos, it’s great to meet you! now you know who i am.”

he smiles again. you just stare. that’s not how it works at all. you could tell he was waiting for you to introduce yourself but you just brush it off and tell him again you’re going to lay back down. before you get to turn over and lay though, he grabs your face with both of his hands and presses your lips together into a deep kiss. he holds you there for a good while, and it felt like you were suffocating.

“what the fucks wrong with you?”

“baby, you could be my new drug! change that ‘X’ into an ‘O’, we’d be absolutely unstoppable!”

“this is real life you idiot, not some fucking video game!”

you slap his hand away from you and try telling him to get lost, but he just grabs your wrist and pushes you back onto your bed. you yell at him to get the fuck off of you but he just presses a finger up to your mouth hushing you.

“sex is a great way to relieve stress. just let me make you feel good. don’t be too loud though, unless you want the others to see us. but by all means, do it. it’s only making me harder.”

he laughed and winked at you. you suck the air through your teeth and he still holds onto your left wrist with one of his hands while letting the other one push at his chest. you’re more cautious with your voice level now and in a whisper you try again to get him to go.

“i don’t want to have sex with you, can you just go? go jack off in the corner or mess with literally any other girl here!”

he ignores you for the time being and goes to push your pants down, but with your free hand you grab his hand to stop him.

“gee babe, how sweet of you to wanna hold my hand! but uh, i kinda need it to get to the fun part.”

he ignores your hand continuing to grab at his, not proving to be much of use at all besides annoying him. he pushes your pants down, and then your panties to your ankles; acting as sort of some form of restraint. it would prove to be somewhat more difficult to kick at him now as your footing would get caught in the pant legs. he sits up off of your chest finally and starts to pull his pants and boxers off. you wanted to scream at him so badly to get off of you, to scream for some help, but you knew nobody would and all they’d do was watch. it wasn’t anybody’s problem and they weren’t going to make it theirs.

he cups your sex and starts rubbing circles at your tiny little hole to get you all soaked and ready for him. he leans down and he kisses it. he was literally about to start making out with your fucking pussy.

you squeezed your eyes shut and a couple tears come sliding down. god, first you’re in this game that seems normal, then people around you start getting shot, nobody wants to go home, and now you’re getting rapped by some crazy ass drug addict that calls himself fucking thanos. thanos! you’re pulled out of your thoughts when you feel his thumb on your face and him wiping your tears. you slightly open your eyes and he kisses you again. this time with your free hand you push as hard as you can at his face. he moves back and he makes an ‘ow’ face and rubs his forehead. he grabs your used to be free wrist and just pushes it to your side and holds it there.

“it’s always the prettiest bitches that play fucking hard to get.”

he lines up his cock with your somewhat wet hole. he maybe would’ve spent a little more time prepping you but you just ticked him off and he wasn’t going to help you anymore than he already has.

“it’s alright, i’ll have screaming my name and this whole place will know it by the time we’re done baby!”

oh god you were gonna be sick. you feel the sudden intrusion and you immediately tense. biting your lip back from screaming and shaking your head, tears flying left and right. you try to bend and claw your fingers at his hands that are holding yours down but it proves to be futile. you yell at him, while still keeping your voice down to stop and that he’s gotten enough and that he should go.

“agh—please—”

“please? you—fuck’—you want me to please keep going? well you don’t have to tell me that, i was already going to!”

he keeps a fast pace going, and the bed might as well of slid off of the shitty bars it was being held up on. everybody sleeping above you could definitely feel the whole thing moving. you try to fish your legs out of your pants legs to at least have some sort of way of pushing him away but it proves to be slightly harder than you thought.

“fuck babe—you feel so—fuck- so fucking good.”

he sucks the air through his teeth breathing heavy, while you’re doing the opposite and holding your breath.

“god you’re so tight, and you’re so — m’- so hot. i wish i could feel every inch of your — agh - you’re body but you’re too much of a fucking bitch, so i gotta keep ya’ still.”

he stops at an in thrust and moves his face down to yours, causing his cock to go deeper in you and causing you to bite back a moan and squeeze your eyes shut. he press his forehead to yours, your sweat causing them to almost stick together. he whispers to you while keeping perfect eye contact.

“but your my fucking bitch right? you’ll be my dumbed out little whore, baby. should get a tattoo on ya’ that says thanos’s bitch.”

he laughs moves down to your neck, starting to kiss all over it. leaving sweet marks all over as he starts thrusting into you again. you just feel his heavy hot breath against your neck and you just stare up at the bars above you and hold in the choked up sob threatening to come out. you feel his cock tense in you, threatening to shoot his load out and your eyes widen. he starts thrusting harder. he lets go of both your wrists and before you can even breathe out, relieved from the slightest bit of less pressure, he wraps both his hands around your throat and looks you in the eyes the whole entire time.

“come on bab — fuckk’- babe. look at me pleas- come on, watch how good you — you make me feel.”

you start to scratch at his his hands and his arms. he’d most definitely be marked up all over by the morning. finding it increasingly more difficult to breathe. you finally decide to look him in the eyes, sending him a pleading look to stop and to quit choking you, your face slowly starting to turn a shade of blue. upon your eyes looking at him, seeing those teary orbs and pleading face, it sends him over the edge. he sends a curse your way before he surprisingly pulls out his load going all over the bed. he lets go of your neck and pulls up his boxers, falling on top of you. his weight making it hard for you to completely catch your breath. you start to choke and hiccup on your own tears before he looks up at you and strokes his hand across your face, catching a few tears in his hand.

“i told you it wouldn’t be bad at all. don’t you feel a little more at ease now? are you prepared for the games tomorrow?”

not at all. was he fucking delusional? he lays his head back on your chest, looking up at you like a child, and rubs his hands up your sides.

“tomorrow when we vote, you better change to an ‘O’. wouldn’t want my pretty girl to betray me after all.”

he does a fake pout at the end of that. you go to sit up to pull your pants back up but he stops you.

“uhm, allow me. wouldn’t want you to do any hard labor! i’ll take care of it all for ya.’”

he pulls your panties and your pants up and sits up off of you, getting his own pants situated. he grabs your hand and presses a kiss to the top of it, looking at you in your eyes with a smile, your eyes still watering. and you send a glare his way.

“ouch babe! you hurt me here.”

he smacks his chest a couple times where his heart was.

“i’d stay here and sleep with you, but my friends will want a piece of you too if they find out that’s what i did tonight.”

you shudder at the thought of that.

“but dont worry. i’ll see you tomorrow. i’ll see ya at breakfast, yeah?”

he pulls you in for one long kiss and you push him away and he almost falls into the next bed over. he grabs at his heart again dramatically.

“ugh, i don’t wanna leave you. we’ll talk tomorrow though, kay? maybe have some more fun too.”

he winks at you again before turning over his shoulder and literally skipping away, running with his arms in the air and his hands in fists. you just hug your knees, crying into them, and now more than ever you wanted to go home. god this was so fucked. you just wanted to go to the bathroom and wash all over yourself but you knew they wouldn’t let you in. you just keep a tight grip around your knees, trying to find some sort of solace while you’re stuck here.

[extinctlesspains]

Something about how unhinged the Salesman/Recruiter does something to me. What if the reader is also a recruiter for the games? She's gotten used to his insane persona and knows how to handle it since they have to communicate about work. They'll often play games during these chats.

Sorry too many ideas floating!

𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑇𝑤𝑜 [𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑛]

.・。.・゜✭・

.・。.・゜✭・

ʀᴇᴏ̨ᴜᴇsᴛᴇᴅ:ʏᴇs ᴏʀ ɴᴏ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴛʜᴇ sᴀʟᴇsᴍᴀɴ x ғᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:ʜᴇ sᴍɪʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪʟᴇ ғʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʜɪs ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴀʀᴘ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋ ᴏғ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴡᴏᴏᴅ ᴇᴄʜᴏɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀғᴇ́, ʙᴜᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴏɴᴄᴇ, ʜɪs ᴡᴏʀᴅs ʜᴇʟᴅ ɴᴏ ᴛᴇᴀsɪɴɢ ᴇᴅɢᴇ. "ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ɢᴀᴍᴇ, "ʜᴇ sᴀɪᴅ, ʜɪs ɢᴀᴢᴇ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ, "ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴀʟʟ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ."

ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs: ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ, ɢᴀᴍʙʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇　

The café was bustling, but the hum of life around you barely registered. Your focus remained on the chair across from you, still empty despite the time ticking by. He was late, as usual.

You stirred your coffee, letting the bitter scent ground you. Working with him was a test of patience and resilience, but it was also... oddly thrilling. The Salesman, you didn't know his name since he was very isolated, was chaos incarnate, unpredictable in the worst—and sometimes best—ways.

“Miss me?”

You didn’t jump at his voice; you were too used to his dramatic entrances by now. He slid into the chair across from you, his ever-present smirk firmly in place. His dark suit was immaculate, the red tie a glaring slash of color that caught the light.

“You’re late,” you said, lifting your coffee for a sip.

“Fashionably so,” he quipped, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “But I see you’ve kept my seat warm. How thoughtful.”

“Hardly.” You set the cup down with a faint smirk of your own. “If you’d been much later, I’d have left.”

“Ah, but you didn’t.” He leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. “You never do.”

The weight of his words hung between you for a moment, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you gestured to the briefcase he’d placed on the table.

“Are we doing this, or are you just here to waste my time?”

His grin widened as he reached into the case, pulling out a familiar bundle wrapped in cloth. Unfolding it revealed two ddakji tiles—bright squares of red and blue paper, their edges slightly worn from use.

“You know the drill,” he said, setting them on the table. “Winner takes all.”

“And by ‘all,’ you mean…?”

He chuckled. “Coffee, pride, the satisfaction of victory. Take your pick.”

You sighed, already reaching for one of the tiles. “Fine. One round.”

The first smack of the tile hitting the table drew a few curious glances from nearby patrons. The Salesman’s opening move was quick and sharp, flipping your tile with ease.

“Your turn,” he said, lounging back in his chair.

You studied his expression, the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes. He was too confident, as always. But you’d learned how to read him—his subtle tells, the little quirks that betrayed his intentions.

With a precise flick of your wrist, your tile hit his at just the right angle. It flipped cleanly, landing with the blue side up.

“Hmm,” you said, feigning indifference. “Looks like you’re buying the coffee.”

For a moment, he just stared at the upturned tile. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a genuine, full-throated laugh that drew more glances from the other customers.

“Well played,” he said, clapping his hands together. “You’ve been practicing.”

“Or maybe you’re just slipping,” you replied, leaning back with a smirk.

He narrowed his eyes, but the smile on his face didn’t falter. “Careful, recruiter. Pride comes before the fall."

As the game ended, the conversation shifted seamlessly into work. He described his latest target with the enthusiasm of a storyteller spinning a particularly twisted tale.

“Mid-thirties, father of two, drowning in debt,” he said, ticking the details off on his fingers. “His wife just left him, and his parents refuse to help. Classic case. He’ll fold like wet paper.”

You nodded, though something about his tone made you uneasy. “And what happens when he doesn’t make it?”

“That’s not our concern, is it?” He leaned forward, his smile taking on a sharper edge. “We’re just here to open the door. What happens after they walk through it is up to them.”

You hated how easily he dismissed it, but you couldn’t deny the truth in his words. Still, the gnawing discomfort refused to leave.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, watching you closely. “It’s a dangerous habit in this line of work.”

“Someone has to think,” you shot back.

His grin widened. “Touché.”

The tension between you had always been an undercurrent, a quiet hum that neither of you acknowledged outright. But tonight, it felt sharper, closer to the surface.

“You know,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, “you’re the only one who’s ever beaten me at ddakji more than once.”

“Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are,” you replied, keeping your tone light.

“Or maybe,” he said, his gaze steady and uncomfortably intense, “you’re the only one who knows how to play my game.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and electric. For a moment, you wondered if he’d crossed a line, but then he leaned back, the smirk returning to his face as if nothing had happened.

“Another round?” he asked, already reaching for the tiles.

You hesitated, the weight of his earlier words still lingering. But then you nodded, picking up your tile.

“Fine,” you said. “One more round.”

This time, the game wasn’t just about tiles. It was about control, power, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

The tiles hit the table with sharp, precise smacks, the sound echoing louder in your ears with each round. Your focus narrowed, every move calculated, every flick of his wrist analyzed.

Smack!

Your tile flipped his for the second time that night.

He stared at the table, then back at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might be angry, but then he smiled—a real, genuine smile that softened the sharp edges of his face.

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice quieter than before. “Looks like you win again.”

The words felt like more than just an acknowledgment of the game.

And as you sat there, the faint buzz of the café fading into the background, you realized something.

Maybe you weren’t just playing his game. Maybe he was playing yours, too.

[lechrts]

Hiiiii! i was so obsessed with your lando cooking one but i have another idea kinda where’s its a little similar but reader is his private chef or something ??? Plz i love you’re writing so much 🥰

Stay With Me. ✷ Lando Norris

Pairing: Lando Norris x Privatechef!reader

Summary: When he finally musters the courage to talk to his private chef and eventually invite her to stay for dinner.

Word Count: 2.3k

Disclaimer/s: flufffff :3 meet cute ,, ish??? and forced proximity almost (not at all) Just Squint idk

Vera’s Voice! LOVE THIS REQUEST AYYEEE , hope u enjoy!!!! thank u for reading my fics!!! mwaaahhh

Lando never thought he’d end up with a private chef.

The idea sounded unnecessarily extravagant when his management first proposed it. He wasn’t a picky eater, and takeout worked just fine. But after months of rigorous travel, racing every other weekend, and well… his need to somehow always mention the disgusting food pile in his pantry on live streams… his team insisted on the idea.

It wasn’t about luxury, they claimed—it was about nutrition, recovery, and convenience. Lando reluctantly agreed, figuring it would be just another stranger in his house.

And that’s exactly what you were.

The first time you arrived, Lando only caught a glimpse of you—a short, polite nod as you introduced yourself by name.

You didn’t linger. No small talk, no unnecessary pleasantries. You brought bags of fresh groceries, prepared everything with quiet efficiency, and left him with neatly plated meals stored in his fridge.

And this routine went on for weeks.

Lando grew used to hearing the door click open mid-afternoon, a soft shuffle of feet in his kitchen as you unpacked your things.

He kept his distance, a little unsure of how to approach you. You worked so intently that he didn’t want to interrupt, and honestly, he didn’t know what to say.

So, he settled for his usual routine: nodding, mumbling a quick thanks, and letting you go about your work.

But as the weeks passed, he found himself oddly intrigued.

He noticed how precise your movements were—the way you diced vegetables or measured out spices. He caught whiffs of garlic and herbs wafting through the house, making his mouth water.

Once, he saw you pause by the stove to taste a sauce, your face lighting up with the faintest hint of a smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to pique his curiosity.

He wanted to know more about you.

It wasn’t until a quiet Tuesday afternoon that Lando finally mustered the courage to do something about it.

You’d just arrived, placing your bags on the kitchen counter and rolling up your sleeves. Lando was sitting on the couch, his laptop open in front of him, pretending to be preoccupied.

But he wasn’t working.

He was watching you out of the corner of his eye, nervously tapping his fingers against the keyboard.

Finally, he took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over.

“Hey,” He said, voice a little shaky.

You turned, startled. “Oh. Hi.”

Your voice was soft but firm, and your eyes quickly darted back to the chopping board as if you didn’t want to intrude.

Lando scratched the back of his neck, suddenly unsure of himself. “I was, uh, wondering…” He hesitated. “Do you ever get to eat what you make?”

You blinked, genuinely surprised by the question. “Not usually,” You admitted. “I just cook for you.”

“Oh.” He shifted on his feet, feeling a bit awkward. “Well, that doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

You tilted your head slightly, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “I don’t mind.”

Lando cleared his throat. “Still, you’ve been cooking for me for weeks, and I don’t even know if you think it tastes good.”

You laughed at that, a quiet, melodic sound that made Lando’s chest feel a little lighter. “I taste as I go. You haven’t complained, so I assumed all was fine.”

“It’s more than fine,” He said quickly, then winced, realizing how eager he sounded. “I mean, it’s really good. Like… amazing.”

“Thank you.” Your cheeks flushed a faint pink, glancing back down at the cutting board to hide your sudden blush.

Lando watched you for a moment, then blurted, “Can I help?”

You froze, looking up at him with wide eyes. “You want to help?”

“Yeah,” He said, trying to sound casual. “I feel bad just sitting around while you do all the work.”

Your lips twitched, almost as if you were holding back a laugh. “Well that’s technically what I get paid for…so..”

“Well, I don’t mind lending a hand..” He stepped closer.

“Um.. Alright,” You said slowly. “But I don’t think I can trust you near a stove from what your management told me, so how about slicing and dicing?“

“Sounds good.” He flashed a smile, quickly coming to your aid.

And Lando wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to help, but you quickly realized he was hopeless in the kitchen.

He now stood next to you, an apron tied loosely around his waist (as he insisted to feel official), struggling to peel a carrot. His grip was awkward, and the peels kept getting stuck in the blade.

“Like this,” You said, stepping closer and wrapping your hand around his to guide him.

Lando froze at the contact, his pulse quickening. Your hand was warm against his, and for a moment, all he could focus on was the soft scent of your vanilla shampoo and the gentle lilt of your voice as you explained the technique.

“There,” You said, releasing his hand. “Try now.”

He nodded, a little dazed, and attempted to mimic your movements. The carrot peeled more smoothly this time, though not without a few mishaps.

“You’re a pro.” You complimented, earning a wide smile from him as he continued.

Lando watched you, his confidence growing with each little laugh he managed to pull from you.

The atmosphere felt easy now, the awkwardness from before fading into something warmer. He grabbed another carrot and set to work, determined to keep up with you.

As the meal came together, the smells filling the kitchen made his stomach growl audibly.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” He admitted.

You flashed him a smile before you mindlessly tidied around the kitchen, thankfully washing dishes as you cooked. You made sure to plate his food, sliding a portion toward him as usual.

But before you could reach for your bag and finish cleaning up, Lando hesitated, leaning against the counter.

“Wait,” He said suddenly.

You paused, glancing at him. “Hm?”

“Stay with me.” Lando said almost too eagerly, quickly catching himself before stuttering. “Like stay for dinner.”

You felt your eyes widen at the offer, your heart skipping a beat. “Oh, I don’t usually—” Your voice started, but he cut you off, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“I insist.” He smiled before shifting on his feet, suddenly shy. “You’re always here, making these amazing meals, but you never eat them. It feels wrong. Like… you deserve to enjoy this too.”

You hesitated.

The idea of sitting down to dinner with him felt… different. But there was something in the way he looked at you—hopeful, genuine—that made it impossible to say no.

“Um.. Okay,” You said softly, nodding as you set your bag back down.

Lando’s face lit up, and he immediately set about pulling plates from the cabinet, his excitement almost contagious.

And it was… nice.

You sat across from each other at the small dining table, sharing the meal you’d just prepared—a hearty steak, (opposed to the salmon you were incredible at making but you were instructed to never prepare him seafood), roasted vegetables, and a side of creamy mash. It wasn’t anything overly fancy, but it was perfect, and Lando couldn’t stop himself from saying so.

“You’re too kind,” You said, your tone teasing.

“I’m serious!” He insisted. “I don’t know how you make the vegetables taste this good. It’s like magic or something.”

You laughed again, a little less reserved this time. “No magic. Just practice.”

You talked as you ate, the conversation flowing easier than Lando expected. He learned that you’d gone to culinary school, that you loved experimenting with new recipes, and that you preferred baking to cooking.

And to his surprise, you were extremely funny, with a dry sense of humor that caught him off guard.

“I’ll need to try your pastries one day then?” He said with a quirked brow as you shook your head.

“Unfortunately, not on the nutrition plan your management gave me.” You bit down a laugh.

“One cheat day won’t hurt…” He pushed for it.

You sheepishly shrugged. “I’ll consider.” Another laugh escaping your lips as he let out a stupid groan with a roll in his eyes.

And, for the first time, Lando felt like he really saw you—not just as the chef who came and went, but as someone he genuinely wanted to know.

When the meal was finally over, you started to stand, reaching for the dishes, but Lando stopped you.

“I’ll take care of it,” He said.

Your brow furrowed. “But—”

“You cooked. I’ll clean. That’s the deal now.”

You hesitated, then nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Okay… Thanks.”

Soon, you grabbed your bag to leave, Lando walking you to the door, feeling an odd pang of disappointment as you stepped outside.

“Same time tomorrow then?” You asked, glancing back at him.

Lando grinned. “Only if you’re eating with me again.”

Your smile widened, and for the first time, you didn’t look like you were in a hurry to leave.

“Deal,” You tried to hide your excitement.

“Goodnight.” He smiled.

“Goodnight.”

And as you walked off while he closed the door, Lando was already looking forward to tomorrow.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated!! ^_^ and please lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tags list :D

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[p0orbaby]

Request😍: y/n and alessia or leah (you decide! find your tumblr side and aaalll the stories of them. It leads to jealous alessia/leah bc of y/n being with other girls (like getting jealous when your partner cheats in your dream). Reader has to handle the situation and in the end manages to make less/leah focus on all the fluffy/spicy stuff there is about them. If you want to make it smutty (what we all love hehe): they eventually get inspired by tumblr and choose another story (you can decide which of all the good alessia/leah x reader smut on here) to reenact. Thank you!!! (If you dont want to write this feel free to repost for another writer, also you can switch the roles who is jealous, i dont care:)

i amended this a little, pls don’t hate me

it would be harsh to call this a crack fic but i honestly giggled the whole time writing it 🤭

-

You find Alessia on the sofa, her face illuminated by the blue glow of her phone screen. At first, you think she’s watching one of those oddly specific TikToks she loves—something about cats playing table tennis or an American teenager ranking their favourite crisps. But then you notice the furrow in her brow, the way her teeth tug at her bottom lip. Her expression is equal parts confusion, disbelief, and mild offence.

“Everything alright?” you ask, setting your keys on the counter.

She doesn’t answer immediately, which is a bad sign. Alessia always greets you the moment you walk through the door, even if it’s just to ask what you’ve brought for dinner. Instead, she tilts the phone slightly so you can see the screen.

“Do you know about this?” she asks, voice clipped.

You lean over, squinting at the screen. The webpage is clunky, its layout straight out of 2012, and the title reads something absurd like ‘Sunlit Smiles and Shadowed Hearts’. Your name is prominently featured in the summary, alongside a few other recognisable ones.

“It’s fanfiction,” she says, answering the question you haven’t asked yet. “About you”

You blink. “About me?”

“And other people,” she adds, her tone sharp now, like the edge of a too-clean knife.

The penny drops. “Wait—what?”

She sits up straighter, turning the phone to face you fully. “Look. This one has you with… God, Tooney. And this one—oh, this is just brilliant—you’re married to Ona. Married! Like we’re just some passing fling”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, which, given her expression, would be a tactical error. Alessia doesn’t do jealousy often, but when she does, it’s like an overdramatic romcom villain plotting their revenge.

“Well,” you say carefully, “at least they’ve got good taste?”

“Good taste?” she repeats, incredulous. “One of these has you sneaking off with Mary behind my back during a post-match interview!”

“Creative, though,” you offer.

She glares at you, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside her. “This isn’t funny”

“It’s a little funny,” you say, sitting down next to her.

“It’s not,” she insists, crossing her arms. “Do you know how many of these there are? And how many don’t have me in them at all? Like I’m just some side character in your life?”

You try to suppress the grin tugging at your lips, but it’s no use. “Less, you do realise this is all made up, right? None of it’s real”

She huffs, her cheeks pink now. “I know that. But still. It’s insulting”

You reach for her hand, gently uncrossing her arms. “Alright, let’s look at it this way. I’m obviously very popular. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not when you’re popular with everyone except me”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, squeezing her hand. “I’m pretty sure there’s stuff about us too. The fluffy, romantic, borderline inappropriate kind”

Alessia hesitates, her gaze flicking to the phone. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you say confidently. “Because we’re the superior couple. Clearly”

That earns a small smile, though she tries to hide it. “You’re an idiot”

“And yet, here I am, fully committed to proving my devotion,” you say, reaching for her phone. You type in a search, scrolling through pages until you find what you’re looking for. “See? Right here. This one’s about us”

She leans over, peering at the screen. Her eyes scan the words, and slowly, her frown starts to fade.

“This is… cute,” she admits reluctantly.

“Exactly,” you say, draping an arm around her shoulders. “So, no more being jealous of fictional versions of me, okay? They don’t get to go home with you. I do”

She turns to look at you, her expression softening further. “Fine. But I’m still not over the Mary thing”

You laugh, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Noted. I’ll make it up to you”

“You better,” she mumbles, but there’s no real bite to her words anymore.

It’s only later, as you’re cooking dinner together, that you catch her sneaking glances at her phone again, her lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile. If she’s reading more of those stories, you don’t mention it. Some battles are better left unpicked.

[zara-renata]

So I had one holiday prompt that I couldn't include in the big holiday prompt fic I posted last week, and I also have been receiving some really sweet and cute ideas that weren't exactly requests, but the ideas were so nice that I wanted to write something for them. I've gathered them into one story that I hope isn't disappointing. I had intended to do separate, cute little drabbles, but I had a bad day the other day and somehow uh, really dark angst happened, and then I used the ideas people sent for the comfort half of the fic? So please forgive me for just... taking it as dark as you can go before including the sweet, cute ideas that people requested. I hope you like the result anyway, although please read the content warnings. Several of the people who sent requests/ideas apologized for doing so, as if sending the ideas was 'too much', but you don't have to apologize for sending asks. My requests are open, and I like seeing everyone's ideas even if I don't end up being able to write for them, or if I tweak them a little to make them work for the story that comes out of my brain despite my best laid plans to stick to an outline.

The river | ao3 | masterlist

It's Christmas Eve, you're at the end of your rope after an absolutely awful year, and you decide to end it all after pushing everyone in your life away. Sylus pulls you from the brink and convinces you to keep going.

Sylus x fem reader, Sylus x mc, hurt/comfort, angst, grief, banter, fluff. CW: attempted suicide, depressed thoughts, NSFW, Sylus penetrating reader (this is not sex ed, do not follow these idiots' example, no discussion of condom or birth control, this is fantasy and we're not going to worry about that in the fic)

Ask #1 You asked to keep sending silly little ideas for you to write so I thought I'd give my own request! After Caleb and Gran (supposedly) die it's pretty much canon that MC refuses help from their friends and isolates themself in certain ways. I always imagine MC sometimes sees Sylus as "the only one they have left" since he is the only one who goes out of his way to check up on MC. But MC kinda grows to resent this and has a moment when their drunk/really going through it and basically ask Sylus why he doesn't leave them be so they can just rot away in peace. Sorry if this is too lengthy or I'm overstepping! Brain worms are getting to me

Ask #2 Okay, so random thoughts here, but do you know that superstition that’s like, “the places where you have moles on your body show where your lover kissed you in a past life”? But like… can you imagine what it would be like if MC had a mole in the exact spot where Sylus bit her during Abyssal Mark (cus I have one there lol) and then that superstition randomly gets brought up, only for MC to show him that mole and Sylus is just s h o o k??? N e way that’s my random thoughts lol (sorry if this is a lot 💀)

Ask #3 I love the way you write the MC and I find myself relating to them at least 99% of the time. Sometimes I just imagine them giving Sylus one of those "Do you like me? Circle yes or no!" Love letters to Sylus because they are terrified of rejection -> i wrote the MC in this story really, really depressed, so if this didn't hit the spot for you in terms of fear of rejection, let me know, and I can include your prompt in another story idea I had before this one that's a lot lighter and sweeter before I got hit by the angst truck that this fic turned out to be. just let me know!

Ask #4 the last holiday prompt! -> idk if anyone sent it yet but from the xmas prompt list, i would love to see what you do with number 8 -> I'm so sorry that this is what I did with it, I hope you like it anyway😭

Thank you everyone who has sent me ideas! If you've sent me a request and I haven't answered it yet, it's because I'm still intending to do something with it.

Here you are. Again.

At the end of a long day. A long week. A long year. 

A long rope.

It’s the dark, this time of year. 

Maybe. 

You’re restless. You’ve passed through the Deepspace Hunters Association doors for the last time this year. Empty days of leave stretch before you.

Normally, it would still be light out, leaving this early. But not now, this deep into the year—it’s already full night, as you leave work early.

The bright lights of the building pour over your upturned face as you look back, just once. You don’t know what for. You’ve successfully severed most of the ties you had built before.

Before everything.

Tara, Xavier. After Caleb, Josephine—they reached out, over and over, and you bit their outstretched hands with your sharp, sharp teeth. 

You snapped enough times that they keep their distance, now. 

They’re still kind. 

Tara still comes, sits on your desk, shares tidbits of gossip during the workday. But she no longer invites you along to karaoke, to after-work drinks with other coworkers.

You and Xav work in sync, as you eliminate wanderers. He walks you to your door at the end of the day. But he no longer offers to lend you books. No longer invites you to the bookstore, or to try new restaurants.

You watch his broad back as he walks away from you, down your apartment building’s hallway. He feels as far away as a star in the velvet night sky.

It’s not their fault. You did this.

You wanted this.

You turn away from the warm light beaming from the Association as you leave early, the Christmas lights glittering in the windows, the holiday party you’re skipping still in full swing in the open, sleek company restaurant area on the ground floor. A division-wide shindig, to celebrate the end of the year, the holidays.

The night is cold. Fairy lights, nets of bright pinpricks in the dark night, cover the trees lining the sidewalk. Decorative light displays stretch across the busy road at periodic intervals, over the canals that parallel the streets, the gondolas and tour-boats festive under their own lights, red ribbons flapping in the cold winter wind.

You think about how they never recovered a body.

Only Josephine’s ashes fill an urn, sitting in a cold niche of a quiet columbarium. Caleb’s urn is empty.

You start walking, fast, along the busy sidewalk. People are out shopping, scurrying to tie up last minute errands before the city shuts down for the holiday tomorrow.

You want to unzip your coat. Unzip your uniform. Unzip your skin, your ribcage. Leave all these pieces of yourself behind, for others to puzzle over. To sweep up with the rest of the refuse left over from festive party goers on the street. You want to dissipate in the cold winter air like your breath with each cursed inhale, exhale.

You settle for beginning to jog to the metro station, your feet carrying you faster, faster, your boots heavy on the sidewalk. You see it lit in the distance, but you can’t stand the thought of being underground right now. Buried alive, with all the other people. You sprint past it. 

You’re graceful enough to duck and weave, not disturb anyone else, until the crowds thin.

You’re running, running, the city is streaming past, like the tears from your eyes. Wet from the cold, because you haven’t cried since waking up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s silver chain glittering in the firelight on the walk up to your grandmother’s burning house.

Tears won’t bring a body back.

You don’t know how much longer you can stand this.

The days, one after another. Alarm, moving through the dark to get to work. Moving through the dark to get back to your apartment at the end of the day.

The pain—your only constant, now. The only thing you expect, have to look forward to, day after blurred day. 

An echoing emptiness, like an urn without ashes. An emptiness that feels so full that your skin could burst with it.

You think about your apartment. The festive city outside its windows. The half-opened bottle of wine in the fridge, the only thing in it.

You veer from your neighborhood. Keep running. You’re sweating under your winter coat, your heavy Hunter uniform. It doesn’t matter.

You run, and run, and run, until you run out of streets, sidewalk.

Just the river, wide and black. There is a bridge, soaring over the water, in the distance. Its lights reflected in the water, along with the urban nightscape. Stars above, stars below.

You could drown in them.

You look at the bridge.

You could drown in it all.

There’s no one left, after all.

Who will miss you?

You slow. Stop.

Your breath is heavy in the quiet air. Fairy lights sparkle here, too. Pretty swooping light displays top each lamppost along the river path. 

You would have gone to identify the body, as you did with Gran. She didn’t look like herself. Not even a sleeping version of herself. They did their best, reconstructing her face. But it wasn’t the stitches, the bruising. It was that she simply wasn’t there anymore. Like a stranger’s body on display. An empty house after the residents have been forced to flee in a night of unimaginable violence. 

But running your hands through her hair, one last time. It soothed something in you. Enough that you could breathe in the cold mortuary air. Could nod. Could watch as they covered her again. As they escorted you out into the bustling hospital hallways, to stand under cold fluorescent lights. To stare vacantly at the wall, until you felt a strange, familiar feeling. You looked up, saw Zayne watching you, at the end of the long hallway. You stared at him, memorizing his beautiful face. His dark hair. His severe, cold loveliness. You let yourself look one last time, and he let you. Through the people filling the hallway, each walking with purpose, they were a blur and he was  across the world, across time, a part of your past that should never have reappeared in your present. It hurt too much, to look at his beautiful, distant face. He left you behind, once. He should have stayed gone. You can’t stand to experience the loss again, the loss you felt every time he listened to your heart, expressionless, a stranger with a beautiful, familiar face from your past, a past in which Caleb was still alive. 

You looked at Zayne one last time, across a bustling hallway in a place full of life, of death, and he let you. You then turned, headed to the reception desk. You switched doctors, hospitals.

You blocked his number, so you’ll never know if he sent you a text, tried to call and ask why, after. He let you walk out. Which is as it should be.

You wanted this.

The water churns under the whipping wind, the fast current. It looks so cold. Cold enough to numb. Cold enough to finally put out the fire that’s been burning in you, ever since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace shimmering in the flames.

You think of running your hands through his hair. Something the fire robbed you of—it would have been your first time, your last time. He would pat your head. Call you pipsqueak. Ignore your protests to not mess up your hair, to not treat you like a little kid. But he would always duck out of the way anytime you tried to return the favor, tease him, tousle his hair. His pretty brunette hair that always looked so soft. Now you’ll never know how soft it really was.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. The car headlights meteors streaking along their guardrail-gated orbit.

You think about going home. Waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day. The silence. You think about going back to work. Killing wanderer after wanderer. Wondering which one will be the one to finally kill you.

The days blur. The constant emptiness echoing inside your apartment, inside your ribcage.

You look at the water. You look at the bridge. You imagine running your hands through Caleb’s hair for the first, the last time. A tender goodbye you’ll never have, because they never found his body.

There’s no one left to miss you.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. You fish it out.

Rafayel no longer calls, or texts you words. He just sends photos, every once in a while. Mundane details of everyday life, rendered extraordinary through his artist’s eye. Paintings he’s working on. A foreign landscape. Leaves glistening with dew. The moon, waxing full.

You haven’t answered in months. You look at each one, tuck your phone back in your pocket.

You look back at the water. Think about taking a photo of the reflected stars, the thin crescent moon in the black waves, think of sending him one last response. But even you’re not that cruel. You don’t want him to realize later, that he was the last one to say anything to you.

You don’t open his text. You block his number. Tuck the phone back into your pocket.

You start to walk toward the bridge. As you walk, you keep your eyes on the path, its edges. Decorative, smooth stones line the walkway along the river embankment. You pick them up, here and there, as you walk. Slip them into your coat pockets.

Eventually you run out of room in your coat pockets, add more to your pants pockets. 

You turn your eyes back to the bridge, looming now.

You think of your empty fridge. Josephine’s empty face. An empty urn.

You’re ready to scoop out what’s left of you, leave it behind on the sidewalk, smoldering as the cold night finally smothers the endless fire, the only thing left inside you. Maybe it will warm someone else, in passing. A last good deed, from you to someone in the world.

A metal staircase, leading up, up, into the black sky, mirroring the dark river, your heavy boots echoing. The cars are loud. If you close your eyes, they could be the rushing waves of an ocean, instead of a river of traffic, above a river of water.

You keep your eyes open. You’re not going to pretend that you’re not doing what you’re doing, now. You’re not at the ocean, its pure salt air drifting through your hair, now whipping around your face. You’re on a busy, exhaust- and oil-stained commuter bridge on the night before Christmas, having cut your ties with everyone you have always known never wanted or needed you in the first place. What’s the difference if a wanderer kills you tomorrow, or if something kills you today? Just empty time, blurry days, photo frames without pictures.

The guardrail isn’t so high as one would guess. It’s an easy step up. An easy step over. You stand, looking back over the city where you were raised. The city that contains all the past versions of yourself, from the moment you were pulled screaming into life from a mother whose face you’ll never know, through to now, an empty shell of a person. If your fellow hunters could see inside you, they’d mistake you for a wanderer and put you down, like the scientists who experimented on you, your own grandmother, did years ago.

Since learning that Gran was one of the people who fucked with your heart, you have often resented that she and her colleagues weren’t successful in finishing the job years ago, when they had the chance.

But now you wonder, standing over a dark, freezing river that reflects what’s inside you now, maybe they did finish it. You just didn’t realize it. Not till tonight, as you look down in the mirror of the rushing water, far below.

Even now, the tears won’t come.

What use are tears, when they can’t bring a body back. When they can’t wash it clean. When they can’t lovingly touch it, one last time, soft strands of hair under your fingers.

Your tears, your heart, your suffering, your existence—useless, for the entirety of a life you can only half remember.

You wonder if it’s the dark, tonight. Why tonight, and not yesterday? Why not six months ago? 

Because it took that long to sever the ties binding you here?

Now you are assured, no one will miss you. It will take days before anyone even notices your absence because of your holiday leave.

You hope that they’ll assume it was a wanderer. Bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place. A modest little plaque on the wall of heroes, even though you know you’re no hero.

In the end, it doesn’t matter why it’s tonight, and not any other night.

No need to be dramatic, pretending there’s meaning in the meaningless.

You put your hands on the guardrail, the metal colder than your freezing hands. You lift a heavy booted foot. Take a deep breath. 

It’s so cold. It will be over before you know it. You’ve read that from this height, it’s the impact, and not the drowning.

You’ve always had dreams of flying. 

You lift your other foot, arms thrown wide for balance, just for a moment. The world feels so big, here at the end. The stars above, the stars below, the doubled crescent moon. You’re ready to drown in it all.

You only have one hope.

I don’t want to be reborn.

You breathe, empty your mind of Tara’s earnest smile, Xavier’s soft laughter, Zayne’s steady hands, Rafayel’s flashing violet eyes. Josephine’s empty face. Caleb’s soft, untouchable hair.

You let yourself fall.

You’re flying. Your heart is soaring. Your heart is seizing. The relief, the terror, mingle. You can’t scream, even if you wanted to.

You’re flying and it’s everything you ever dreamt, until it’s not.

Your body jerks, abruptly. Your hair whips down, lashes your face. You grunt with the impact against… nothing. You’re suspended over the water, drifting in the air. The wind tugs at your stone-weighted coat.

You twist away from the water, craning your neck to look up, up, back at the bridge.

You have withstood the uselessness of tears for almost a year now. But now, you want to cry so badly the pain of the need steals your breath.

You knew he was cruel. You knew he was merciless. You knew that he hated you. You just didn’t realize how much, until now.

You hang suspended over a dark, rushing river, wrapped in scarlet and ink tendrils, looking up into the sneering face of the one person you refused to think about as you made your final decision tonight, at the end of your desolate, half-remembered life.

His evol begins to lift you, away from the merciful impact, the numbing water. You, your past, your heart, the memories and despair and stones filling your pockets seem weightless, wrapped in his power.

His usual mask of bored indifference is gone. He is finally showing you his true face, what he must always feel when he looks at you—fury and disgust.

He says nothing, as he pulls you from the depths, back into the world. As he sets you gently back on your heavy feet on the sidewalk in front of him. His evol evaporates, winter breath in the wind.

He looks at your face with his wine-dark eyes. Looks at the water. Flicks his gaze back to your face.

You will not cry in front of this man. This man who hates you so much he won’t even let you seek the peace of death. Death, which has always been too good for you, but not for the people you loved the most.

You clench your jaw as the fire re-ignites in your chest. The flames you had tried so hard to scoop out, to leave behind.

You don’t want to feel this much anymore.

If you speak, you know you’ll cry. You can’t stand it.

Maybe, with enough repetition, he’ll get bored. He gets bored so easily, after all.

You turn, try to launch yourself over the guardrail again.

This time, it’s not his evol, but his arms that wrap around you, pull you back from the fall.

You struggle, throwing your elbows, kicking, throwing your head back, hoping to catch his perfect nose, break it under the hardness of your stupid, useless skull.

He says nothing, just holds you tighter, wraps one arm around your waist, the other over your chest, his big hand cradling the side of your face, pressing your head back into his own chest, as he hunches over you, an immovable wall of warmth. As you fight to break free of his hold, you are wrapped in his scent—cloves, gun oil. 

Sylus.

Eventually, you tire yourself out��despite all of your strength, it is no match for his. He holds you against himself easily, as you pant, lungs burning with the effort, the sweat warm once again under your Hunter’s uniform. You become aware of a whimpering, the keening of a wounded animal.

It’s coming from your throat. Your eyes burn. You go limp in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. A voice like warm liquor in your veins. You think he’ll let you go. You prepare, hoping you can get to the guardrail again. Maybe this time he won't be so fast. But instead of releasing you, getting away from you as fast as he can, the arm around your waist moves up, cradling your upper back. He scoops his other arm under your legs, holds you against himself like you’re a delicate princess, if you were anyone else. But because it’s you, he’s probably just holding you like a useless sack of shit that would be too annoying to drop. He begins to walk, his stride steady, brisk.

He looks down into your face. “I bought a dress for you. Silk. A design like stars over a flowing river. That’s the only river you’re allowed in tonight, kitten.”

You stare at him. His breath puffs white in the cold air. The face of disgusted fury is replaced by his usual bored mask.

Why is he doing this to you? He wanted to kill you, just a few months ago. Why not let you do the job for him?

He is the only person in your life who didn’t take the hint. Who kept showing up, after you made it clear that you didn’t want their presence anymore. That you couldn’t handle the ties, because ties become nooses, snapping your neck when the other person leaves you behind.

When he showed up where you were, in a ‘coincidental’ meeting on the street, on a jog, you would turn, move in the other direction. He would match your stride, doggedly pestering you with questions, asking you about your evening or weekend plans, telling you silly stories from the N109 Zone, Luke and Kieran’s latest antics. Sometimes he’d just walk in contemplative silence, thumbs hooked through his belt loops, or jog quietly next to you, never losing his breath, never complaining about the pace.

When you would routinely see him at various restaurants you were headed to in order to pick up takeout, you’d leave your food, immediately turning and hurrying away. When the same food was delivered to your door half an hour later, you’d refuse to answer, letting the confused and irritated delivery man leave. A half hour after that, the same man would be back, yell through the door that he had instructions to leave the food even if no one answered, and then he’d make good on his promise. You were faced with the choice of either letting the food go to waste, or eating it guiltily at your kitchen island.

No matter how many times you told the delivery person of the almost daily packages you received with no return address that you didn’t want to accept delivery, they would always insist that their instructions were to deliver regardless of recipient response. You were welcome to bin the items after receipt, but if you didn’t accept, the packages would just pile so high outside of your door that you couldn’t reach your apartment anymore.

You would accept, and then donate whatever exquisite item was inside to women’s shelters, children’s homes, university museums, soup kitchens, fundraiser auctions. No matter how clear it was that you wouldn’t accept anything from him, Sylus never stopped sending you gifts.

When you were sick, he’d show up personally, barge into your apartment when you were too tired to look at the doorbell camera before answering, a duffel bag gripped in his big hand filled with fever reducing medicine, homemade soup from his home chef, painkillers, hot water bottles, cooling pads, muscle pads, vitamins. He’d lounge on your couch, manspreading, insisting that he wouldn’t leave until he saw you swallow the pills and drink a gigantic glass of water.

He’d wait until you lay back down on your messy bed, until you fell asleep. He’d be gone when you woke again, but your apartment would be clean and your fridge and freezer would be stuffed full of healthy pre-prepared food.

You were half-convinced he was just buttering, fattening his prey before getting bored and mercifully ending its life.

Tonight, you are now fully convinced.

“Did your tongue freeze in your mouth?” he asks, descending the stairs you had just walked up, thinking it was your last time ascending them. “Do you need mouth-to-mouth to warm it up again?”

You scowl at him, at how appealing the idea of Sylus’s tongue in your mouth is, even now. You hate yourself, your traitorous body for being drawn to him, even now. “What’s the point of talking, when you never listen?” you grind out, your throat sore. You hadn’t realized how much your animal wailing had wrecked your throat. At least the tears are no longer so close to the surface that they’re threatening to spill.

“I listen to every word out of your beautiful mouth,” he counters serenely, with that same inexplicable kindness that makes your heart hurt. So at odds with how you know he must really feel about you. “I just listen to more than your mouth in order to hear what you’re really saying.”

“What?” You stare at his beautiful face, the way the lamplight illuminates its sharp features for a brief moment, before the night swallows it again as he moves between lampposts on his way… somewhere. Back the way you just came from.

He spares you a glance. “Your mouth says one thing, while the rest of you is screaming something else.”

You feel the blood draining from your face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

One corner of his beautiful mouth lifts. “Don’t play dumb, kitten. You’re too smart for it to be convincing.”

You were just falling into the river. You were just about to be free. How did you get here again? In this man’s arms, his smug, roguish smile filling you with the unease of being seen. 

“I mean, it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more honest about the fact that you want people to fight for you, right?”

You begin to struggle again, shame lancing through you, making your body unbearable to be in. You know it’s weak, to have wanted so desperately that the people you were carving from your life would see what you were doing and stop you, place their hands over yours holding the cleaver, gently push it down, down, until it dropped from your grasp—how desperately you wanted them to step into your space, hold you tightly, just like this man who sees right through you is holding you now. You wanted Tara to keep inviting you out with your ridiculous colleagues, to sing your heart out at shitty karaoke clubs, to forcibly drag you to sleepovers and arcade nights. You wanted Xavier to push himself into your apartment, try to bake something horrible in your oven, sheepishly offer to go to the bakery with you instead when the fire alarm inevitably went off. You wanted Zayne to walk through the crowd to reach you at the other end of the hallway after you identified Josephine’s body, to ask to take your hand, to ask how you were doing, even though you knew you wouldn’t have been able to answer. You wanted Rafayel to keep inventing excuses for you to visit his studio, to keep insisting that he needed you to accompany him to expositions and fancy lunches as his bodyguard. 

But none of them did in the end, and that’s okay. You kept pushing them away, because your terror of their leaving was apparently bigger than your need for their presence in your life, and at least if they were already gone, as they inevitably would be, you’d finally be free. 

But the last person you would want to see this utterly humiliating need inside you, exposing you like this, is the one looking down at you right now with deceptively soft, all-seeing eyes.

You know the feeling, this need, of pulling away and pulling away and then being heartbroken when people finally let you is weak, and pathetic.

You may experience weak and pathetic feelings, but you’re not weak or pathetic. Not at your core. You were prepared to do what was necessary, to save yourself from the pain of your emptiness, the fire raging inside your chest. You weren’t asking anything of anyone. You were doing it all on your own. 

Not a burden. 

Never a fucking burden. 

You clench your teeth, buck in Sylus’s arms.

He just holds you tightly, a straightjacket for the insanity that you’re feeling, the insanity of this man, out of all the people in your life, stripping you of your masks, flaying you so that all of your most tender, shameful parts are exposed to both him and yourself.

“Stop that. You’re just going to tire yourself further, when I need you tonight.”

Of course. The quid pro quo. He helped you with the auction, the Aether Core. Now you owe him. He doesn’t give a fuck if you live or die—he just can’t let one of his assets destroy itself before it fulfills his purpose.

You go limp in his arms. Turn your head away from him.

He continues his train of thought. “No, it wouldn’t kill you to tell the truth to your friends, so you decided to take matters into your own hands, huh? Telling the people in your life that you actually need them wouldn’t kill you, so why bother, right, when you can just jump off of a fucking bridge?” His voice sounds like the night you met him. Controlled anger. Disgust. Accusation.

Then there’s something wrong with her.

You thought you had killed everything inside of you already. The yearning for human connection. The kindness of a friend. Family holding you in their arms. You thought you had scooped out most of it, even as some of it rekindled when he pulled you back from the fall.

But the way you’re hurting now, at the memory of his hate, the reminder that the people you love won’t fight for you even if it would be fighting against you, and that this man, for all of his false generosity, never cared for you from the beginning, that his gifts and his visits were all what you knew them to be, all along—a bored predator toying with its prey before using it and consuming it. 

You let your thoughts drift back to the bridge, push your pain away. Feed it to the fire. When he’s done with you, maybe you won’t even have to jump.

“Just shut up, Sylus. I’ll help you with your problem tonight. Just promise me you’ll toss me over yourself, when you’re done with me,” you tell the night, because you still can’t bring yourself to look at him.

He stops walking. The wind is so cold against your face. You wish he’d snap your neck, right now. You’re so fucking tired.

“Look at me.” His voice is low. Menacing.

You watch the water. Wonder how long it would take if you just walked out into it, without jumping. Just walk in with your stone-weighted coat and let the cold paralyze you, the current pull you under.

“Look at me, my heart,” he whispers. The change in his tone, his bizarre endearment, has you turning your head, looking up into his face. “That is one promise I can never make you.” He looks like he’s in pain. You don’t know why. He leans down, rests his forehead against yours, hunching his big shoulders, lifting your body in his arms so he can meet you. His breath is warm against your lips. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

You want to snort. It’s rich, coming from him—the same man who is telling you not to tell him to shut up, after all the things he said to you as he starved you, strangled you.

“Please don’t tell me to kill you. To hurt you. That hurts me.”

You stare up into his face. See the sincerity in his eyes. The wind whips your hair. He wasn’t upset that you told him to shut up, but that you asked him to kill you? “What does it matter? Aren’t you going to, in the end?”

“Why would I stop you tonight, if I wanted you to die?”

Of course he won’t answer outright. When has Sylus Qin ever answered a direct question?

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Why bother stopping me, unless you just need to use me and then be done with me? I can’t be that irreplaceable. Just get someone else to put on the dress, and let me get on with my fucking life. Someone who you can train to say just the right things, at just the right time, who’ll look good in whatever fancy shit you want to put her in. There’s gotta be easier idiots than me to serve your purpose.”

He closes his eyes, breathes in the cold night air. When he opens them, you have to look away. You can’t handle whatever is in them. “I know I hurt you, when we first met. That I said cruel things to you. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, even as your heart wrenches at this strange apology. Of course he doesn’t explain what offended him so much about your existence at the beginning. Why he treated you exactly how you deserved. Probably just whatever he saw when he used his Aether Core on you. He saw the echoing chambers of your empty, fucked up heart and was enraged that it was you, and not someone worthy, who would absorb the Aether Core. “There’s never been any need to varnish the truth, Sylus. You almost choked me to death the day we met. You should have fucking finished what you started,” you sneer. “Why does no one ever finish what they start?” You think of Josephine, her researcher cronies. Think of Caleb, his promise to return, the last text he ever sent you. Your fucking parents, who you will never know.

You don’t expect an answer.

And yet, you’re surprised when Sylus wordlessly releases his hold on you. Lets you slip from his arms, sets you back on your feet. You settle in your heavy boots, the weight of your coat, the stones in your pockets, grounding you to the earth.

The lamplight shines in his silver-sheened, wind-tousled hair. His cheeks are red from the cold.

Of course. Of course.

No tool is irreplaceable.

You’re not irreplaceable.

You finally said the right thing, to push him away.

This is it. This is it. This is it. 

Your mind returns to the bridge. Your hand is holding the cleaver, dripping with the blood from the last unwelcome tether to your life.

You try to memorize his face, just as you did Zayne’s, but for some reason looking at Sylus’s face hurts you so much more despite having known him for so little time. Just a sigh, in the timeline of your life. The warm glow of his irises. The softness of his lower lip. The pride in his shoulders, his nose. 

Maybe you didn’t want to think of him before jumping because you had fallen in love with him, despite the fact that any affection he offered was counterfeit—the steady way he breathed next to you on a jog, the way he spread out on your couch, his dry humor, his intelligence, his piercing gaze, his kindness that was actually more cruel than if he had just tossed you out and never bothered to look for you again after the auction.

You knew it was fake. You knew it was calculated. You knew that the reality was, because he had told you from the very beginning—

Don’t tell me that you like me. Is this all so you can get my attention?

Clearly you’ve read too many fairytales.

And yet you had believed, in the bright moments of receiving his kind attention, in the fairytale. Just for a heartbeat. A raindrop, splattering on the ground.

You thought that you couldn’t bear to see what it looks like when Sylus finally tires of you pushing him away, and stops reaching out, as everyone else has. 

But with just a few words, you’ve finally managed to do it. He set the burden of you down, and now he’ll walk away, replace you with some other beautiful, breathing tool.

You learn in this moment that you actually can bear it. You can bear anything, as long as you know that very soon, you won’t have to bear anything at all.

“You wanted the truth?” you say, suddenly, the relief flooding through you that the worst has happened, that you’re now actually free. You think of the fabric of the dress, liquid stars over a night river, and wonder whose body it will caress, with Sylus’s big hand on her waist, his gentle fingers drifting across her collarbone, his forehead pressed against hers, for whatever ruse he needs to run tonight, on Christmas Eve.

He grows still. Watches you carefully, as if searching your face for a trick. You look back at him steadily, scooping everything inside you out, letting it splatter onto the sidewalk, here along this dark riverbank.

“Will you give it to me?” he finally asks.

“As a parting thank you gift, for cutting me loose.” You nod. Take a shuddering breath of the frigid air. “Here is me telling you the truth: you should treat the woman who ends up wearing the dress you got with more gentleness than you did me at the beginning. You could have the world eating out of the palm of your hand, if you skip the cruelty at the beginning and just treat people the way you treated me in the last few months. She’ll do anything for you, I think, if you do. Because somehow you made me love you, despite our beginning. I could bear to cut everyone else loose but you.” You laugh, and the sound is like icicles snapping, shattering on the ground. “Thank you for doing it for me, instead. It’s probably the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

You smile at him. 

You don’t know why you’re surprised that he just frowns deeply, brow furrowing. 

Well. That’s okay. You never expected him to be pleased to see your face, smiling or not.

“Good luck, Sylus.”

You turn, begin to walk back the way you came, for the second time tonight. Your thoughts are already at the bridge. You’ve been falling for months now. Soon you’ll finally hit the crystal water and shatter. 

You hope you won’t be reborn.

“You said you love me.” His deep, low voice is carried by the wind.

You stop, turn your head. “Stupid, huh?” you ask, wondering if he wants to pour salt into the wound you just willingly exposed to him.

“Why would you love someone who treated you the way I did?”

You turn fully, face him across the night, one last time. “You’re so fucking funny. I’ve always appreciated men who can make me laugh.” You shrug. “And I’m a pathetic fool. You pretended to be kind, and I lapped it up like the thirsty dog I am.”

He tilts his head, takes a step towards you. “That’s all?”

You take a step back. You don’t need him and his pretty face, his delicious scent any closer to torment you.

You offer him more truth. “Of course not.”

“What else?”

You sigh. “What does it matter? We’ll never see each other again.”

He shakes his head. “Indulge me.”

So salt, it is. You press your fingers into the most tender part of yourself, peel yourself wide open. “Your cleverness. How sweet you can be when you want something—strangely pliant, for such a big, powerful man. The self confidence you have. I could say, do anything and you did so well pretending to never be embarrassed of me. You made me believe, very briefly, that you really wanted to be with me, do anything, go anywhere, just because I was there. It’s quite impressive, really. I can see why you’re so good at business. You’re competent. You’re beautiful to look at.” You pause, shake your head in turn. “But you already know all that. You know why you’re loveable. You made me feel cherished in a way that no one ever has, even as I was pushing you away. But honestly, those are just parts of you. They don’t fully cover what it is about you that makes my heart ache when I look at you. I love you because you’re you. Even hearing your name makes my heart race. Seeing your shoes in my foyer, because they were on your feet. The curve of your wrist, because it belongs to you. I know it’s pathetic, and stupid.” You shrug again. “Can’t help it, though.”

He stares at you. 

You prod him. “Is that enough?”

“How can you ask if that’s enough, when it’s everything?”

You look at him in confusion. “Huh?”

He takes a step towards you, frowning. “Are you only telling me all this because you think I’ve finally given up and allowed you to push me away, because I set you back on your feet?”

You take a step back, as he takes another step forward.“What do you mean ‘I think’ you’ve given up?” You squint at him.

“Did you only tell me all this because you’re going straight back to the bridge to try again?”

You take another step back at the intensity of his face, his question. “What does it matter? You don’t have to worry about what happens to me after this.”

He takes two steps. “You tell me you love everything about me, and then you plan to fuck off and leave me alone again?”

Okay, this was a mistake. You don’t know why he’s mad, but he’s mad again. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. You’ve been sorry your whole life. This is yet another miscalculation. You should have just left. What did you think would happen if you told him how you feel? That he’d be happy about your pathetic heart bleeding pitifully for him?

He strides over to you, his long legs outpacing your own. “If you’re sorry, don’t fucking do it.”

“What?”

He looks down into your face, so close you can smell him again, you can see the fine lines around his eyes as he frowns. “If you’re really sorry for loving me, for ever meeting me—which are the only things you have to be sorry for, then make it up to me by staying. Don’t leave me. Don’t push me away anymore. Just stay, and love me.”

You huff. “Are you really that desperate for help tonight?”

He lifts his hands, places his palms on your cheeks, his long fingers dipping into your hair. “No, I’m desperate for you tonight. It’s Christmas—I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do. I want to spend it with you. You made me watch you jump off of a goddamned bridge. What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?” He sounds so upset. You’ve never seen him like this. The fear is naked on his lovely face.

“What the fuck are you talking about? What does it matter? You said you could get someone else for the dress, for tonight.” You’re so confused. Why is he acting like this?

“I didn’t say any of that. You suggested that I replace you with someone else, I set you on the ground to make sure you were looking at my face, that you were listening to my words when I told you that you’re irreplaceable. That no one else will do. That after watching you almost die, I can’t continue being cautious and trying not to frighten you away anymore.”

“You… what?” 

“You love me. Right? You weren’t lying?” he looks uncertain, like he can’t quite believe it.

You can’t bring yourself to lie. The truth is out. You’re witnessing the fallout. There’s no point in backpedaling. “Yeah.”

He nods, once, decisively. “Okay. That’s enough.”

You sigh in relief. Maybe he’ll let you go, finally, finally.

He checks his chunky watch, the platinum flashing in the lamplight. “There’s still time.”

“Time for what?”

“For my plans tonight. Come.” He closes the distance, sweeps you into his arms again, cradles your body against him like something fragile.

“What plans? Listen—” you start to argue.

“No. Now it’s my turn to speak, and for you to listen.” he squeezes you tightly. “Today was the last day you spend alone. If you can’t live for yourself, then you can live for me, until you remember why you want to live for yourself again. No matter what you say, or what you do to get rid of me, it’s not going to work.”

You can’t even process what is happening. “What are you—?” you begin, but he cuts you off again.

His voice is strained, rough. “You love me. So you have to take responsibility. You have to stay.”

You don’t know what to say. 

I’m desperate for you tonight.

You can’t believe this. He hates you. He has hated you from the beginning. He was so kind to you because he wanted to use you for something he never bothered explaining to you. He needs you for your resonance, your amplification of his powers.

You’re irreplaceable. No one else will do.

Because of your resonance?

I don’t give a shit about the holidays, but I know you do.

He carries you along the wind-swept riverbank, through the frigid night. Stars above, stars below.

You made me watch you jump off a goddamned bridge.

You didn’t think anyone was left to care.

You were so careful, severing ties like arteries, so that you wouldn’t leave the world with more pain than you found it. It was already bleeding so much.

You just were so tired of bleeding with it.

As if sensing the turn of your thoughts, Sylus carries you to the edge of the river’ embankment, where the concrete falls away, drops into the water.

He sets you down again, but doesn’t let you go. His big hands slide down the outside of your coat, dip into your pockets.

He pulls out a smooth stone. Turns it in his hands.

“I’ll never understand how someone so light can weigh so heavily in me,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.”

His ember eyes flick back to yours. He hands you the stone.

“This is your conviction that the world won’t miss you, if you’re gone. You will hold it in your hand, one last time. And then you will throw it in the water.” He wraps your cold fingers around the stone. Somehow, his fingers are still warm.

You grasp it, look up into his face. You see yourself in them. It hurts, to be seen so clearly. You’re so ashamed. “How did you know?”

He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. Opens them. “I looked into your soul, the day we met. I know you’re too soft-hearted in this life to kill yourself if you thought it would hurt someone else. You don’t carry that spite, anymore.”

In this life.

Anymore.

You can’t bring yourself to ask him what he means. You only know that once again, Sylus Qin has seen inside you, has seen you, in a way no one else ever has.

“But I don’t think anyone would miss me. I made sure of it.”

He huffs. “You’re a fool, if you actually believe that. The people you’ve pushed away still love you. But if you can’t believe that yet, then you can’t pretend to yourself that you’re disposable anymore, if for no other reason than I’m standing here now, telling you that I would miss you.”

You think of Tara, sitting on your desk, nudging a steaming latte she got for you on her way to work toward you, asking if you’ve heard the latest about Simone and Andrew.

You think of Xavier, walking you to your door at the end of a nasty wanderer encounter, reaching out, brushing a bit of mud off your cheek, then smearing it across his own cheek. See, we match now.

You think of Zayne, waiting across a busy hallway, patient, letting you choose to approach him, and respecting you by letting you walk away.

You think of Raf, the beauty he shares with you with every photo, the funny strings of emoji that don’t demand an answer.

“How do you know, that they would miss me?” you ask Sylus quietly.

“I’ve been watching you for a long time, sweetie. Do you think I haven’t seen your friends’ faces when you walk away from them?”

You clutch the stone in your hand. “I don’t think I can change my thoughts, my conviction, just like that.”

“You love me, so you have to try. Throw it. Every time you try to drag it back up, I’ll remind you that you threw it away, and you can let it stay at the bottom of the river.” He reaches up, caresses your cheek with his fingertips.

You want to cry. You want to cry, because you’re so afraid. If you let yourself believe that people love you, you have to stay, for them. You have to feel, every day, the weight of grief, of existence, the pain of being alive, of being inside yourself, your body. The hollowness will return, even with your friends, even with Sylus filling most of it.

It’s like he can read your thoughts as his eyes devour your face, as his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “I won’t let you pretend, anymore. You love me, and I will not survive if you aren’t here with me. So you have to stay. We don’t have to accept that life is a curse. We can fight back. Make it something better.”

“I’m scared,” you say.

His eyes are so tender, as he watches your mouth form your biggest truth, set it free in the night. “I will protect you, until you can protect yourself again. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if we’re together.”

You want to believe him. Your heart beats painfully behind your ribs. The moon is a sharp crescent in the sky. 

But you’re a weight I’ll carry for as long as you let me.

“You’ll really stay?”

He finally smiles, a faint Sylus smile that feels like a grin. “I told you. Today was the last day you’ll ever be alone. You can’t get rid of me now, no matter what you do, or say.”

You turn, holding the stone in your cold hands. You think of all the lies you’ve been telling yourself, about your friends, your place in their lives, because you were so tired of living with an unnameable grief, one you carried inside you long before Caleb and Josephine died, but whose loss compounded, made unbearable the original sorrow.

And I will not survive if you aren’t here with me.

You don’t know why he feels this way. Does he love you too? He hasn’t said so. Can he even love you, in the way you love him?

Does it matter? 

It’s enough, that he says he’ll stay. That he wants you to stay alive. That he’ll help remind you, when the whispers drift back in your mind, telling you that you’re just a burden, that no one actually loves you, would miss you when you’re gone. When the hollowness echoes so loudly it’s all you can hear.

You lean back, lift the stone, throw it as hard as you can, as far as you can, into the rushing river.

You don’t hear its splash over the wind.

You turn back to Sylus.

He dips into your pocket again. Pulls out another stone. “Your guilt, for having lived. For having been born.”

You take it from him. Let your mind drift. Feel along the contours of your memories, the jagged, missing pieces, all the way back to when it fades to black. You throw the stone.

You don’t see it sink to the riverbed.

He dips into your pocket again. “Your shame, for needing others. For being human, and imperfect. For not being able to do it all alone. For wanting to be loved.”

You take the stone. “Is it really okay?” you ask, helplessly. There’s no point pretending everything he is saying isn’t true. “To want these things, when I haven’t earned them?”

He steps closer to you. Places his hands on your shoulders, draws you in. “There is no okay, or not okay. There is no crime and punishment, no transgression, no sin. How can it be shameful, to want what you were born to want? Why does love have to be earned, instead of just given?”

You lean into him, press your face into his chest, his thick wool coat soft against your skin.

“I don’t know.”

He reaches into your pocket, places a stone in your other hand. “One for your shame, one for the idea that love must be earned. Throw them.”

You lean back again, and it’s already too far away from him. But you throw each stone, and they disappear under the cold water.

“That’s enough, for now. We’ll take the rest home.” He draws you back into his arms. Lifts you without effort, stone-filled pockets and all. The weight of all of you.  “When you have thoughts of shame, of guilt, of not being loved, we’ll come back. You’ll throw them again. Until they’re all gone. We’ll gather other stones, when other feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.”

Sylus carries you along the path back to the road that snakes along the river. His motorcycle gleams under a bright lamppost.

He settles a helmet on your head, checks to make sure it’s secure. Puts his own on. You sit behind him, cling to him. Rest your head against his broad back, close your eyes. The motorcycle is loud, and he drives it carefully through the busy, holiday bustling streets, until he reaches your apartment building. He holds your hand as he leads you through the front doors, as he stands quietly beside you in the elevator, his red, warm eyes never leaving your face in the elevator mirrors. He leads you to your front door, waits patiently while you unlock it with your cold finger.

In the hallway, he kneels at your feet, unlaces your tall boots while you look down at him, the soft fall of his silver hair, his big, nimble fingers working the laces.

He then removes his own boots. His coat. He’s wearing a garishly bright Christmas sweater, with prancing reindeer. He hangs his coat on a peg in the wall. He turns, slowly unzips yours. Eyes flicking between the zipper and your face. He gently lifts it from your body, again like it’s weightless, even though it’s still filled with stones. He pulls it from your arms, hangs it next to his.

He pulls you further into your place.

The first thing you notice is the warmth. It’s so warm, like someone came in while you were gone and turned on the heating.

The next thing you notice is the Christmas tree. The one you didn’t get this year, because the thought of the holidays without Caleb and your grandmother was unbearable.

Beautifully, tastefully decorated. Silver and gold, twinkling lights. Its pine scent fills your place.

Sylus moves to a record player on one of the cabinets along your living room wall. A record player that wasn’t here before you went to work today. He fiddles with the arm, and suddenly Joni Mitchell’s River fills your house.

It’s coming on Christmas

They’re cutting down trees

They're putting up reindeer

And singing songs of joy and peace

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He walks back to you. “Is this okay?”

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Whoa I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The music flows around you, paralyzing you. You stare into his face, into the warm glow of his eyes. How could you have missed this? The way he’s looking at you now? Through all the long months since the auction?

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on

The words wash over you, through you. The scent of pine warms you, memories without form filling you with the sense of home, safety, love.

I made my baby cry

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

Now I've gone and lost the best baby

That I ever had

Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on

He takes your hands in his, thumbs across your skin. “Is it too much?”

You think of how cold it was, standing on the guardrail of the bridge. 

You were running toward the bridge, while Sylus was filling your home with warmth.

What would have happened if I hadn’t already been on my way to you?

You think of him spreading out on your couch, as a fever raged through your body. You think of your freezer, filled with food. You think of the takeout boxes, still steaming, sitting in front of your closed door.

You think of him hanging delicate ornaments on a fragrant tree. 

I made my baby cry

You shake your head, the enormity of what almost happened filling you. The enormity of the choice you made, that you enacted, until Sylus pulled you back from the rushing dark.

You start to shake.

“Kitten?”

“It’s not too much,” you say, teeth chattering. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

He stares down at you, seems to make a decision. “Shower. Now.”

You nod, moving away from him, but he follows. 

Inside your small bathroom, he takes up the entire space. He peels off your hunter’s uniform, tosses it beyond the open bathroom door. His gaze flicks from your undershirt, your underwear, to your face. “Do you want me to leave?”

You think of the dark water, an impact that never came. Sylus plugging in the record player, choosing a record with one of your favorite Christmas songs on it. Placing it delicately on the turntable.

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again.”

He smiles a little. “I mean, leave the bathroom.”

“No. You promised you’d never leave me alone again,” you repeat.

He stares into your eyes. Nods. Lifts your undershirt. He reaches behind you, unhooks your bra with the same agility that he unlaced your boots. He lifts it from your body, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales.

You shiver.

He tosses the bra behind him. Kneels. Pulls your underwear from your hips, down your legs. You step out of them. He stands again.

He leans over, his ridiculous, festive sweater soft against your cheek, as he reaches past you to turn on the shower faucet. As he messes with the knobs until steam begins to fill the small space. He nudges you forward, past the sliding glass door and into the small shower cabin, letting the hot water pour over you. You turn, watch him through the clear glass. He picks up your underwear, watches you as he lifts it to his nose, inhales as he did with your bra. His eyes close for a moment, and then open. He tucks the little slip of fabric into his pants pocket, sits on the closed toilet, rests his elbows on his knees, and continues to watch you.

You let the hot water flow over your tired, cold body. You stare at Sylus’s face, let it fill your vision, blot out the rushing river, the impact that never came, the idea of everything you would have missed, if he hadn’t pulled you out. Everything you would have missed, in such a short amount of time. What else would you miss, if he hadn’t caught you? If he could give you so much within an hour, how much would you have missed in a day? In a week?

What have you been fighting, this whole time? 

Just yourself. 

You think of the stones at the bottom of the riverbed, instead of your body. Your conviction that you’re not loved, your guilt, your shame, instead of you.

You stare at the man who handed you each one, and told you to get rid of them, instead of yourself. The man sitting in your tiny bathroom, filling it with his big body, his even bigger presence, staring at you, staring at him.

You stop shaking.

Reach for the body wash, lather your hands. Run your hands along your body, under your armpits. He frowns, eyes on your hands. You palm your breasts, dip between your legs.

He lowers his head, eyes still on your hands, rests his full lips on his long steepled fingers.

You finish lathering your body, let the water wash it away. He’s too far away, even this close, on the other side of the glass.

As you turn off the water, he stands, lifts one of your towels from the rack. Holds it out for you. You step into it, him, let him wrap it around you. He turns you both, so that you’re looking in the bathroom mirror, which is mostly fogged.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod, soaking in his warmth at your back, the steam of the bathroom. 

You have a question, a question you can’t bring yourself to say out loud yet.

You reach out with one hand. Trace a finger through the fogged mirror.

Sylus watches you, resting his chin on your shoulder. 

Letters, a question.

Do you like me? Circle yes or no

Sylus smiles again, lifts an eyebrow. He reaches out, takes your hand in his. He circles no with your finger.

You frown, heart sinking, but Sylus just whispers, “Patience, kitten,” and flattens your palm across like. Guides your finger again, just above the erased like, drags it through the moisture in an elegant script.

love

He then gently sets your hand down. Lifts his own, circles with one long finger, yes.

He watches your reaction in the mirror.

You had no idea.

This whole time, you had no idea, even though he was showing you, with every ‘chance’ encounter, his pestering you with questions about work, life, his silly stories about the N109 Zone. His packages at your door. Fever medication, a big glass of water shoved into your hands.

You think of the rushing water, what almost happened. What you almost missed.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me believe you still hated me?”

He looks down at you now, away from your reflection in the mirror. His eyes trail your face, down your curved neck. He palms the back of your neck, his thumb drifting along the side, over a mole there.

“Have you heard of the myth that where we have moles is where someone kissed us in a past life?”

Even if so much has changed between you in just the last few hours, you’re reassured that Sylus Qin still can’t answer a straightforward question with a straightforward answer.

You shake your head. “No, I had never heard of that.”

Sylus smiles, and it looks a little sad. He leans down, presses the softest of kisses against your skin, the mole there. “Like most human legends, it’s a pretty lie. Not quite true.”

You laugh. “I could have guessed as much.” You tilt your neck, enjoying the press of his warm lips on your skin for the first time.

He opens his mouth, runs his teeth over where he just kissed you. Bites, gently.

You shiver again. Press your neck into, instead of away from his teeth.

He bites harder.

You gasp.

“I was afraid I’d frighten you with the enormity of my feelings for you, when in your mind, we’d only just met,” he murmurs against your neck, his saliva, the indentation of his teeth hot on your skin.

He bites again, presses himself into your ass through the towel. You realize he’s hard.

You forget about the last part of his sentence. Had you not only just met?

You lift your hands, let the towel unfurl from around your body, let it drop to the floor.

You almost died tonight.

What have you been fighting this whole time?

Just yourself. 

He tried hard to help me

You know, he put me at ease

You turn in his arms. He’s breathing hard, cheeks pink.

“You love me?”

He closes his eyes. Opens them. Shakes his head. “Love isn’t intense enough.”

“Adore me?” You lift your arms, wrap them around his neck. Pull his face closer to your own.

He shakes his head again. “Still not enough.”

“You won’t survive without me?” You lift on your toes, his soft sweater almost unbearable against your sensitive nipples.

He nods. “You’re getting closer. Can’t breathe without you. When I saw you jump…” He swallows, thickly. “You might as well have pulled me down with you, beloved. If it ever gets to be too much again, take me with you. I’ll never leave you alone again. Promise me the same,” he demands, big, calloused hands running up your naked sides, the fabric of his dark jeans rough against your body, where your thighs meet, as he helplessly nudges against you again with his hips, his hard dick behind his zipper.

I'm so hard to handle

I'm selfish and I'm sad

“I wouldn’t have known, unless you told me,” you breathe against his lips. “Promise that you’ll tell me how you’re feeling from now on, and I’ll promise to take you with me if I can’t leave the stones in the riverbed, even with you here.”

His voice is deep, rough like the fabric of his pants against your sensitive skin. “Deal.” He closes the distance, presses his soft lips to yours. Licks into your mouth.

And he loved me so naughty

Made me weak in the knees

His hands drift down your sides as his tongue dips into your throat, as he swallows your noises of pleasure, just from kissing him, his hands on you. He grips your ass, urges your legs around his waist. He carries you out of the tiny, steaming bathroom, manages not to knock you against the doorway, or into any furniture on the way to your bedroom, even as he continues to kiss you, as your hands in his soft hair probably block his peripheral view. He lays you down on your bed, the puff of your duvet. It’s so warm in your place that you’re not even shivering. You watch as he pulls his cheerful sweater and undershirt over his head, tosses them to the floor. As he unzips himself, hastily yanks down his pants and boxers, his socks. He blankets you with his big body.

You wrap your arms around him, pull him tightly to you, arch your breasts into his chest. He leans down, runs his nose along your cheek, inhales the scent of your hair at your temple. You just feel each other, for a long stretch of time. His soft chest hair against your skin, the silken skin of his dick between your thighs where he just leisurely rubs himself against you, as your palms run down the muscles of his back, the line of his spine. You’ve refused to think of him like this, ever since he wrapped his hand around your throat. You couldn’t bear his beauty, through all the long months that followed. You fled, every time your heart raced at the flash of silver as he approached you, met you where you were, over and over and over.

But now he says he has loved you, through it all. That he’ll never leave you alone again.

You let yourself feel him, under your hands, under your tongue, as you lick into his ear, feel him shiver. As you squeeze your thighs together, offering him a tight, snug space for him to keep pleasuring himself, as you feel your own wetness begin to coat your inner thighs, his cock, the longer you feel him on top of you, inhale the scent of his skin, the ever-present gun oil, the cloves, his clean sweat underneath it all.

After a lifetime, or only a few minutes, he leans down, says softly into your ear. “I want you. Tell me you want me too.”

“Can’t you tell?” you ask, bucking a little, squeezing him with your legs again.

He makes a low, pleasured sound in his throat. “I want to hear you say it. You’ve gone through a lot tonight. I need to know you actually want this. That you’re not just—” his breath hitches, as you move your hips again, as his dick slips between your wet, soft places. “That you’re not too tired to say otherwise, not thinking straight.”

“Use your Aether Core on me. Then you’ll know that my body is telling you what my mouth would, if I said the words.” You smile at him, teasing. 

I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

You had wanted to fly. You had settled for flying for a brief moment, before shattering. 

But Sylus is offering you constant flight, under, over, along his crow’s wings.

You think of the rushing water. The tide of cars behind you, the wind whipping your hair. You almost missed this. You don’t want to waste any more time.

He lowers his forehead to yours, breathes, speaks against your saliva-slick lips with his own. “I don’t want to use my Aether Core on you. I want the words in your mouth, in your heart. I want your free will, your freely given consent. I almost lost you because I tried to force you, at the beginning. You believed I hated you, this whole time. Don’t ask me to force you again, my heart.”

You understand. You accept his request, his demand. “I want you, Sylus.”

He exhales, shifts above you, slips his wet cock between your legs, slides into your body with gentle, firm, graceful waves of his hips.

You whine, the feeling of fullness layering into the pleasure of the warmth of his skin, the taste of his tongue. For once, the feelings inside you threatening to burst out of your skin are so good, instead of painful, so pleasurable, that you can barely stand it. 

He kisses you, his velvet tongue big, heavy in your mouth. You suck, whine again as he lifts a hand, palms your breast, begins to thrust into you.

You are filled with him. His warmth. The size of him.

You widen your legs, wrap them around his thick ass. Urge him with your own body to move faster, to fuck you harder. He gives you everything you want. Just the pressure of his body against yours has you coming, the release bright, sudden—you shake with it.

Your pleasure seems to trigger his. He grunts, roots into you, buries his teeth in your neck, bites where he bit you before, over the mole on your neck. The sting makes you clench, and he whimpers, groans, comes with a jerk of his hips.

He slows, still filling you, still pleasuring you, as he lifts his head to look into your eyes.

You stare at each other, breath mingling, warm between you. 

You smile at him. 

He smiles at you. Nudges your nose with his.

“Can we do that again?” you ask.

He laughs, low and surprised. “Yeah,” he says, kissing you softly. “Just tell me, and I’m yours, anytime, anyplace.”

“I’m telling you.” You move your hips, feel his cum drip drown your ass. Feel him gasp at your movement.

“Now?” He’s surprised again.

“Problem?” you grin at him. 

“Fuck no.” He kisses you, hard. Slips out of you. Flips you over, lifts your hips with one big hand, pressing his other between your shoulder blades.

He presses his cock back between your legs, the slide easy and wet, and fucks you until you come again, until he blankets your back with his sweat-slicked, matted-hair chest.

“Was that enough, your highness?” he teases.

“I’m telling you,” you pant, wondering what he’ll do. 

“As you wish,” he murmurs, before flipping you again. Before watching your face as he slowly, leisurely works himself, his cum into you, makes you come again. 

In the morning, the sky through your windows is heavy, dark, gray. You wake slowly. Turn your head, find Sylus’s sleeping face next to yours on the pillow. He’s lying on his stomach. You take in the dark sweep of his lashes, his generous mouth, slightly parted.

You slip out of the bed, use the bathroom. You wander into the living room, gaze at the Christmas tree, its twinkling lights.

It’s Christmas.

Caleb and your grandmother are dead. 

But you’re still alive.

Your body aches from Sylus’s efforts, but it feels good. For once, it feels good to be inside your body. To breathe deeply.

You think of riverstones, sinking deep in the riverbed.

You know that the feelings tied to them will try to rise, clawing to the surface again.

We’ll gather other stones, when your feelings make life unbearable. I’ll come with you, as many times as you need.

Your eyes drift to the top of the Christmas tree. It’s empty.

“I thought we should finish it together.” Sylus’s warm arms wrap around you from behind. He leans over your shoulder, kisses your cheek softly. “Do you want to do the honors?”

You smile, wrapping your hands over his forearms around your waist. “You’re taller.”

“Use me as much as you like, kitten.” He turns, grabs a pretty golden glass tree-topper from your kitchen table, hands it to you. He lifts you up onto one shoulder, easily, and you fit it gently over the highest point of the tree. He holds you against him, as he lowers you. You slide along his body, until he sets you gently on your feet again.

You both stand, admiring it for a moment. It’s beautiful, like the rest of the decorations.

You hug him, look up into his face.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

He smiles down at you, ruby eyes twinkling with reflected light from the tree. 

You would have missed this moment, and all the moments like it, if Sylus hadn’t stopped you last night. You shudder, hug him more tightly. 

You know your feelings will return. That no one person can solve a lifetime of wounds. But you promised him that you’d try. That you’d stay. You can only do your best.

You hear your phone vibrating, reluctantly pull away from him, head to your coat in the hallway where you thought you left it last night, but Sylus stops you. He points at your kitchen island. Your phone is lying on the counter. You look at him in confusion, but go to check it.

You’re shocked at how many missed texts you have.

From Tara.

Xavier.

Your eyes widen.

Zayne, who you thought you had blocked, months ago.

Rafayel, who you’re sure you blocked last night.

Each one is a response from a text you never sent. Telling them Merry Christmas. Telling them you love them. Telling them you hope to spend time with them soon.

None of them shame you, call you out on your behavior of the last year. Even Zayne simply suggests that you try a new bakery, that you’ve been in his thoughts, that he’s relieved you felt comfortable enough to reach out. Rafayel sends a bunch of firework emojis, suggests blowing shit up on the beach for New Year’s.

You turn to Sylus.

He looks steadily back at you, silver hair sleep-tousled, wine-bright eyes glowing.

Your eyes feel hot, and you realize you’re crying, the tears fat on your cheeks, dripping down your neck. 

This is the first time you’ve cried since you woke up, your ears deafening, Caleb’s necklace bright in the reflected fire.

Sylus walks over to you. Leans down, licks the tears from your cheeks with his warm tongue, one after the other. He kisses you, ignoring your suddenly snotty nose, your morning breath.

“If it’s too much, we can take it slow. We can throw more stones in the river. But please answer your friends. You need them. And you’re a fool, if you can’t see that they need you too, if that makes you feel better about your own need.”

You continue to cry as you wrap your arms around Sylus’s neck. As he gently sways with you, to music that isn’t playing. He hums, and you think it’s Joni Mitchell’s The River, but you can’t be sure. You smile against his chest.

A thought occurs to you.

“Last night, you said there was still time. That you had plans for us, a pretty dress for me. What did we miss?”

Sylus sighs, holds you closer against himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stop, look up into his face. “What did you have planned, Sylus? Are you sorry we missed it?”

He smiles at you. “Oh yes, so sorry I got to spend all night fucking you instead of going to a holiday concert featuring the organ.” His voice drips sarcasm. “But we can go tonight, if you’d like to make it up to me.”

You laugh, bury your face back into his chest. “And here I had planned to suck your cock while watching a black and white Christmas film marathon tonight,” you say forlornly. You smile into his chest as he chokes. “Oh well, the concert it is.”

He just laughs, rich and deep, and continues to sway you slowly in your living room.

“Merry Christmas, my heart,” Sylus says against your hair, in your pine scented apartment, as snow begins to fall outside your windows, as your phone continues to vibrate, filled with the love of your friends.

Here you are. Again.

You’re so grateful, to be here, again.

[summervb]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 | lee myung-gi (player 333) × fem!reader

summary | you and player 333, race against the clock to find a door. when all hope seems lost, he risks everything to save you

warnings | violence, implied death, panic, and emotional distress, kissing

word count | 1.5 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me thanks ᡣ𐭩

The echo of footsteps reverberates around you like a drum in the endless labyrinth. Screams, chaos... everything blends together, and your breathing becomes just another noise. You look around, searching for something—someone—to save you, but all you see are distorted faces, moving without stopping.

“Find a partner and a door before time runs out, or you will be eliminated.”

The words buzz in your head like a cruel hum. The timer on the wall, illuminated in intense red, counts down the seconds of your life.

00:58… 00:57… 00:56

You run toward a door, but someone else is already there.

"Please, wait for me!" you shout, your voice desperate and broken.

They don’t even bother to look at you. You feel a shove on your shoulder as someone else rushes past. Despair sinks into your chest, heavy as a stone, and you start to think there might be no way out.

00:45

You trip, and the cold, hard floor meets your knees. Tears burn in your eyes, but you can’t stop to cry. Not here, not now.

"I’m going to die."

The thought cuts into you like a knife. There’s no metaphor in it; it’s the most terrifying truth you’ve ever faced. If you don’t find a door, if you don’t find a partner, you’re done.

00:30

"Quick!"

A voice pulls you out of your trance. You lift your gaze and see him. It’s him: Lee Myung-Gi, player 333. His white shirt with the number is drenched in sweat, his dark hair disheveled, but his eyes… his eyes shine with a determination that throws you off.

"What are you doing down there? Get up!" he yells, extending his hand.

Your body reacts before your mind can process it. You grab his hand, his grip firm and steady, and he pulls you to your feet.

"Run with me!" he orders, and you do.

His hand doesn’t let go of yours as you sprint down the endless hallway. Every door you pass is already closed, its number dark. There are no options left, and you feel your legs about to give out at any moment.

00:15… 00:14… 00:13

"There!" he shouts, pointing to a door at the end of the hallway. It’s the last one.

Your heart speeds up even more, if that’s possible. But then you see it: someone else is running toward that door. A tall man, faster than the two of you, is only steps away from reaching it.

"No…" you whisper, feeling panic tighten your throat.

"Keep running!" Myung-Gi yells, suddenly letting go of your hand.

You watch as he launches himself at the other player, shoving him with all the force he has. The man stumbles and crashes to the ground, yelling in frustration as he tries to get back up.

"I’m sorry!" Myung-Gi shouts before turning back to you and grabbing your hand again.

"Run!"

You don’t have time to think about what he just did. Your feet move on pure instinct, and before you know it, he pushes you through the door and follows right behind you.

00:03… 00:02… 00:01… 00:00

The sound of the door closing is followed by deafening silence. Then, screams, gunshots… and silence again.

You collapse onto the floor, unable to stay on your feet. You’re trembling, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to catch your breath.

"I’m sorry about that…" Myung-Gi says, leaning against the wall as he breathes heavily. "I didn’t want to do it, but there was no other way."

His voice is calm, but all you can think about is the man he left outside. The tears you’ve been holding back pour out in a hot, bitter stream.

"I can’t… I can’t do this anymore…" you whisper, feeling your entire body shatter inside.

He crosses the small space in a couple of steps and kneels in front of you.

"Hey… look at me. We’re alive. We’re here." His hand rests on your shoulder, firm but comforting.

You can’t help but look at him, even though your eyes are blurred with tears.

"Breathe with me, okay? Inhale… exhale… like this."

You try to follow him. His voice has something in it that soothes you, something that gives you a faint glimmer of hope.

"Thank you…" you manage to murmur. "For not leaving me."

He shakes his head, as if your words weren’t necessary.

"I wasn’t going to let you die. Not you.

His words hit you harder than any shove or fall. You look into his eyes, searching for something—maybe a reason, maybe comfort—and you find a warmth you didn’t expect.

"I don’t know what I would’ve done without you…"

"You don’t need to know. I’m here, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you."

Before you can think of a response, you lean into him, desperate for something to hold on to. He doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you, warm and protective, and you rest your head against his chest.

The sound of his heart, strong and steady, is the only thing keeping you grounded.

"I’m here," he whispers, his voice soft against your hair. "You’re not alone."

When you finally lift your head, you realize how close your faces are. His warm breath brushes against your skin, and suddenly, the noise of the game seems to vanish.

He lifts a hand and caresses your cheek, his fingers tracing a delicate path.

"You have to be strong. For us."

And then, his lips meet yours.

It’s a kiss filled with everything you can’t put into words. Desperate, yet comforting, as if he’s trying to imprint on your skin the fact that you’re still alive.

When you pull away, your eyes meet his, and though tears still streak your face, they’re no longer from fear.

"We’ll get out of this together," he says, a small but firm smile on his face. "I promise."

[starfilmz]

THOROUGHFARE | UNSURE FEELINGS, DRUNKEN CALLS

⤷ A JJ MAYBANK SOCMED AU .ᐟ

──── you never expected that swapping socials with your call of duty duo would change your life — whether for better or worse, you're still not sure. friendships are made and something much more begins.

thoroughfare masterlist ──── 05 | 06 | 07

a/n: chap 6 has been a bitch to post bc tumblr couldn’t handle it but VIOLA it has arrived. this chap became a mix of smau and written fic so we doin something here 🤔 ofc it’ll still be social media based do not fret, but i feel like these written ones are needed for this. not betaread obvs so mistakes are everywhere!! lmk your thoughts, expectations, or how u see this fic ending cuz it is soon 😝

john b stood up as soon as he heard the whirring sound of his best friend’s motorcycle. it came to a stop when he stepped out on the château’s porch, leaning against one of the posts with his arms crossed. jj looked disheveled and as much as he wanted to say “as per usual”, the boy walked towards the house as if he ran into several bushes on the way.

he had a frown on his face as he faced john b. “i don’t know what do,” he finally spoke, his expression morphing that tells john b he didn’t want to admit to that. “long distance relationships are weird and, i’ve experienced worst that weird, man, you and i both know that and i—“

“alright, calm down,” john b grabbed the boy’s shoulder before he could go on another self-destructive tangent. “let’s talk about this, okay? pope said he’s on his way with beers.”

jj sighed, running a hand through his blonde hair. “it feels unfair for her that i’m making a big deal about this. it’s the whole rafe thing again! honestly, i genuinely think i overreacted.” he sat on the closest couch on the porch with furrowed eyebrows.

john b followed him, an amused expression on his face. jj noticed this, raising his eyebrows at the boy. “what’s so funny?”

he shook his head, his curls falling slightly to his side as he looked at jj. “when’s the last time you acted this way towards a girl?”

“oh, don’t start, jb.”

“i’m sorry, okay? look, you don’t need to be thinking this hard, man, alright?” the boy chuckled, patting his friend firmly on the back. “yn’s a good person, i can tell, and…” john b looked around as if anyone else but the two of them were around. he leaned closer towards jj, who didn’t think twice to do the same.

“from what i’ve read from sar’s phone, yn’s just crazy for you.”

this changed jj’s solemn expression into a mixture of lovesick, curiosity, and excitement. “i mean, that’s natural, right? she agreed to be my girlfriend so it’s natural for her to like me.” his words sounded defensive which made john b’s eyebrows rose.

“what i’m trying to say, jj, you don’t have to freak out just because you don’t know who’s around her. long distance is weird, i agree, but are you going to be like this every time she hangs out with people you don’t know?”

jj lowered his eyes, a tiny wave of shame washing over him. “no.”

“right, and i’m not trying to say don’t be jealous— you can’t help it, you like the girl,” john b held one of the blonde’s shoulder. “and if i were to give you an advice, man to man, thinking in your shoes, if you find long distance so much, why don’t you do something about it?”

jj looked up at john b, confusion etched all over his face. “what are you—“ and as if something clicked in his mind, john b nodded, confirming his thoughts. “isn’t it too soon?”

“what’s too soon?” both boys visibly flinched as pope made his presence known, beer bottles in hand. “i had to swipe this from my dad’s stack so you guys better fill me in.”

you couldn’t help the smile at john b’s story, giving it a heart as scrolled off the app. you would send a response, something about not leaving him in the streets because you guys still have a game session planned tomorrow, but you decided not to.

they were probably still at the boneyard, a place where they usually throw their parties as you’ve learned previously from jj, and they’ve shared enough stories about those to let you know those parties don’t end easily.

you sighed, sliding further into your bed as you hugged your pillow. was it silly to feel the way you do now?

you aren’t ready to fly out to see the boy you’ve been dying to see, but you want to, and you tell yourself you’re okay seeing them have fun, but as you stare deeper into your bedroom wall, you’re beginning to doubt that.

you took a deep breath, closing your eyes in an attempt to sleep and brush off your thoughts, but as soon as you do, your phone rang beside you. you moved the pillow and raised your phone, seeing jj’s profile picture and username across your screen.

jj was calling you.

you sat up, answering the phone, and placed it on your ear. loud music greeted your first, along with voices you’re not familiar with.

“—you can’t just leave her like that, jayj!” a girl harshly whispered against the speaker and it made you think she was either kiara, cleo, or sarah.

“hello?” you finally spoke, and when you did, everyone on the other side seemed to quiet down. you heard some kind of harsh slap, along with a small ‘ow!’. you didn’t recognize the rest of the voice before, but you were definitely aware someone had slapped jj.

“jj? you there?” you called once more, tone lighter in amusement. “i’m gonna hang up on you if you don’t talk.”

that seemed to catch the boy’s attention as he began sputtering away. “no, no, don’t, hello! look, i’m sorry, i’m being peer pressed right now—“

“don’t say that!” a deeper voice interrupted him.

“—and i just wanted to hear your voice…” from the way jj was talking, you could tell he was drunk, though you did believe that slap before sobered him up a bit. “i missed you, yn.”

“it’s only been a day a whole, jj,” you chuckled, leaning against your pillows. despite your answer, you couldn’t help but feel the same way. “but i missed you too, jay.”

“i’ve been building up the courage to call you all night and, i don’t know, i just wanted to hear from you before my lights go out,” jj laughed at his own words, a drunken expression all over his face you imagined.

“build up the courage? i’m your girlfriend, jay, you could call me whenever you want.” you answered, a small smile on your face.

there was a beat of silence from him and you thought it was a sign that he’s close to getting conked out, but his next words proved otherwise.

“can you say that again?” he whispered, almost like he’s hiding, which was most likely from his eavesdropping friends. “about the girlfriend thing, please?”

you hummed a playful tone, the instinct to tease jj was strong and it almost won if it weren’t the way your cheeks heated up at his voice, the way he sounded so soft and near the phone as if he was saying it directly in your ear.

“i’m your girlfriend, jj maybank. you happy?” you had to roll your eyes despite no one being with you hearing your sappy voice and attitude, anything to keep the butterflies in your stomach at bay.

“so happy, you don’t even know, baby,” the nickname came to you as a shock, but it didn’t felt wring hearing it from jj. if anything, you wanted to make him say it again. “i’m just so— oh my god, so happy. i’m your boyfriend, you’re my girlfriend— oh, bliss!”

you couldn’t help the laugh that bursted from you as jj’s voice doubled in volume. “i have a girlfriend! and she really likes me!” jj’s speaker managed to get the sound of what sounded like a crowd cheering at his embarrassing announcement, making you chuckle even further.

“alright, hands off the phone, okay— john b, take him, please? before he announces more details about yn?” another voice took over the call, and by the way the boy, who you now know is john b, responded with a ‘yes, ma’am’, you assumed it was sarah who came to the rescue.

“hey, sarah,” you greeted her. “having fun?”

“oh, we are, but no so much for jj tomorrow.”

“i can imagine, you’d think he’ll be able to live with that?” you joked.

“babe, he has no choice,” sarah responded with a laugh. “but for now, john b’s taking him back to the château to properly conk out.”

“that’s good to hear.”

“so,” she started and you already picked up the teasing tone in her voice.

“so?” you chuckled, amused at her.

“still unsure of visiting your hopeless boyfriend? was his very public and loud declaration of love for you enough?”

you hugged the nearest pillow, a warm smile spreading across your face. you felt a lot more at ease and mind solely focused on jj. “it’s enough.”

thoroughfare taglist: @yumwhy @beeskisses @callieyanderechan @udpoota @vivian-555 @popesbby @whatisoutside @roryology @readinghoes @mytimeiswaiting @marleymarleymarleymarley @urmotherlvr @fruitcakerafe @bobobellabo @max23b @mirellef2001 @bearbear21 @cassiewritessalot @baocean @ayy1234567 @lmaowhatt @scaroooos @mbella607 @dylsdaily @1mcrazybutcute

big apologies to the peeps that wanted to be tagged but aren’t here cuz i might’ve missed yall bc and for the people that are written on here but weren’t notified pls refer to this post :)

[authorbriannarae13]

Mind of Mine // i just want to watch you take it off - joel miller

Joel Miller x female! reader

read on AO3 here.

summary; "You got 'nother one, sugar?"

Joel knows exactly how to get you wetter than ever. or this is the work you get when the author listens to the song 'TiO' off of the album 'Mind Of Mine' on repeat. for five hours.

warnings; smut (MDNI); unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); mostly soft!joel; actually all soft!joel, so much praise

word count; 1.3k (it's my first joel fic, ok?)

-

You’re swaying to the music while Joel’s behind you, cooking as always.

He usually ignores you – not because you’re necessarily a distraction – but instead, because giving you the attention you crave doesn’t end well. For either of you. Last time he gave you attention, your wrists were secured to the headboard as he fucked your brains out, giving you too many orgasms to count and forgetting about the food.

Oops.

You live to be a tease, though.

It excites you too much to stop.

Mainly because it lets him plan how he’s going to punish you. Or praise you.

Whichever he’s in the mood for.

Based on his current mood – which is subject to change – he’s most definitely going to praise you.

And after the day you’ve had, it’s definitely what you need. Working for a publishing house can be stressful. And today was one of those days.

Good thing Joel loves to make you feel light – weightless, actually.

Not to mention how safe you feel. And when you feel safe, the softer side comes out.

Like all relationships, you just need to feel safe to show it.

“Darlin’,” his rough, Southern drawl interrupts your music, and you turn it off.

“Yes?” you ask, teasingly. Trying to rile him up.

But you never succeed. He knows you too well for that.

Turning away and holding a hand out, he murmurs a simple, “C’mere.”

So, you take it, letting him drag you and lift you up – right into his arms. Bridal style, of course.

You groan as your thighs clench, trying to hide your soaked cunt.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead.

“Fuck off,” you mutter while he carries you to the bedroom. Since he insists, he needs his fill of you before he can think about anything else – or dessert, as he likes to call it.

He kicks the door open and lays you down, playing with the hem of your skirt.

Your hips buck into his touch. He’s teasing you – you realize.

“Joel,” you moan as he hooks his fingers into your waistband, pulling your skirt down, and revealing the soaked black lace covering your cunt.

He pulls the lace aside, running his fingers against your swollen pussy, and he groans deep in his throat. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, pretty girl.”

Your brain goes blank as his index and middle finger both sink inside you, curling towards your g-spot.

“Fuck, sir.”

“N’ne of that sir shit tonight, baby.” He grabs your ankles, placing them on his shoulders as he sinks to his knees and licks a stripe up to your swollen - and aching - clit.

Your head falls back as your eyes roll into the back out your head. “Fuckk.”

You’re so close. If he would just curl his fingers against your g-spot just one more time, you’d be there.

He lets out a gruff chuckle that reverberates though your body as his other hand finds you shirt, pushing it up to find your nipple, pinching it.

That sends you over the edge. “Fuck, Joel,” you moan as the orgasm hits, crashing you into waves with each one more intense than the one before it.

His tongue doesn’t stop lapping at your clit even as you try to buck him off. “I can’t. I can’t- “

He cuts you off before you can repeat it again, “You can and will give me ‘nother one, sweetheart.”

“Fuck,” you groan as he pulls his fingers out, thrusting them back in while your back arches.

In. Out. In. Out. Your fingers curl into the sheets.

His fingers thrust faster as your thighs start to wrap around his head, trying to keep him there.

The second orgasm is faster than the first. You let out a silent scream as the waves rush into you for the second time in less than ten minutes.

“Good – fuck – good fuckin’ girl,” he groans, his tongue still swirling around your clit as the waves subside.

The strength from earlier leaves you almost immediately, making your legs fall. You’re boneless, but you also know he fucks you regardless of just how boneless you feel.

“You got ‘nother one for me, sugar?”

He slowly pulls his fingers out of you and brings them up to your mouth, “Taste yourself.”

You happily oblige, opening your mouth to take his fingers and tasting your cum mixed with his skin in a fucked up symphony.

His groan reverberates off the walls as you suck on his fingers – the same way you always have his cock. That’s when he starts to pull your panties down your legs, giving him better access.

Since that’s what this is all about, of course. And better access usually means better orgasms.

Speak of the devil – that shit must hurt. He looks painfully hard.

He interrupts your staring. “You like what you see?”

You slowly start to nod, but he slowly pulls his hand away, fingers leaving with a pop.

He leans down towards you, as you lean up and play with the hem of his shirt before you decide to pull it off.

Next is his belt as you hurry and rip it off, trying to get to his jeans.

“Woah,” he lets out a low chuckle, “’u’re a feisty one tonight, aren’t ya, beautiful?”

“No,” you whine as he starts to stop your frantic hands. “Just need you,”

“Where ya need me?”

“You know where,” you sass with everything you can muster.

“Need to hear ya say it, baby.”

“Fuck,” you moan as his jeans lightly graze your cunt. “Need you in me – fuck – now.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, pulling his jeans and boxers down – as fast as he can. “’U’re g’nna be the death of me, pretty girl.”

“I – fuck –“ His thrust cuts you off as he bottoms out. “I live to please.”

“So I can tell,” is the hiss you get back while he waits for you to adjust.

“Move already,” you whine before you can stop yourself. “Break me for all I – fuck –care.”

He slowly finds the pace you’re accustomed to – hard and fast.

“Look at ‘cha. You’re takin’ me so well.���

Your cunt clenches around him as he continues. “Aw, does my good girl need to be reminded of how good she feels?”

“You-“ you start, “you keep doing that and I’ll finish faster than I ever have.”

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Is that a promise?”

“B-better be,” you stutter as his thumb finds your clit. Again.

“Fuck.” Your head falls back again. Everything is sensitive.

You’re not even expecting the orgasm when it washes over you.

“Good – fuck. You’re such a good girl f’r me, sugar,” he praises, not taking his thumb away.

“Fuck.” It’s somewhere between a moan and groan. “Fuck, everything’s so sensitive.” Now that’s definitely a groan.

He ignores you, continuing his praise. “Fuck. Good girl. God, Good fuckin’ girl.”

You softly whine as he slowly speeds his pace up, trying to find his own orgasm.

After more futile moans, whimpers, and whatever else he can pull out of you.

“Fuck, you’re g’nna make me cum so fuckin’ fast, pretty girl. Goddamn-“ And that’s when you feel his orgasm crash into him – violent and unforgiving.

The orgasm lasts so long that neither one of you can keep up with how much time has passed. It isn’t until he flips you two over, so you’re on top and he’s not crushing you, that you know it’s done.

“Fuck,” you softly laugh, pressing your ear to his chest and listening to his heartbeat as he holds you tightly. You kiss his chest while he hums.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs kissing your forehead, “u’re all fucked out, aren’t ya?”

“Maybe,” you tease while he gives you a look.

“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”

Eventually, after Joel made sure you were okay in every aspect, you two make your way back into the kitchen, attempting to get your appetite back after all that.

You’re standing behind him with your head laying on his back when you murmur, “I love you forever and always, baby.”

You can hear the soft smile in his voice when he says, “I love you more than anything else, darlin’.”

[evandsolo]

𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Bang Chan

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Bang Chan x f!reader 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : royalcore!Bang Chan. Flirt. Smut (more suggestive than fully described but still.) MDNI 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.426 𝐏𝐥𝐨𝐭 : Amid whispers of silk and shadows, a lady-in-waiting and the kingdom's fiercest general find themselves entangled in a dance of flirtation and unspoken promises. WARNING UNDER THE CUT ! UNDERAGED PEOPLE PLEASE DO NOT READ! 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : This was actually written for one of my friend whose a Stay ! But i thought it should not stay in my computer, so enjoy ! ✿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, unprotected sex, fingering, aftercare. Please let me know if i've forgotten any.

The room was packed. The orchestra had played non-stop for hours. The rustling of silk and taffeta had filled the room all evening. It was a magnificent reception. One that no one will forget. One of those evenings that celebrate love and union. The ballroom was decorated with flowers, from floor to ceiling, the buffets overflowing with food. I had never seen such beautiful decorations before. Everything was simply sublime. Generals, soldiers, highnesses from all the surrounding kingdoms, everyone breathed joy and jubilation.

I could never have dreamed of a more beautiful event for the princess I had accompanied my entire life. Alina deserved the union of love she had experienced today, so much did her heart overflow with love and kindness. Everyone knew it, she would be a wonderful sovereign.

The crowd had ended up scattering, dissipating, as the night wore on. The bride and groom had received many congratulations until the last minute. They too had ended up slipping away, to enjoy this new union together. Only a few people remained in the room, who were still accompanying the orchestra. Some were still waltzing and would surely do so until dawn.

“You’re not dancing?” A voice called out from behind me, over the flying notes of the violins. “You’ve been here all night, making merry for everyone, but you haven’t stepped on the dance floor once.”

I turned around to look at the person who had surprised me, tearing a heartbeat from my chest. I come face to face with broad shoulders, covered in a velvet soldier's jacket. My breath chokes in my throat. I would recognize these shoulders among many others. General Bahng, head of the kingdom's armies. 

“How do you know I did not dance, sir ?” I answered, catching his huge brown eyes. 

It wasn't the first time we met. He was always there, around, since Alina's engagement. Watching over her, over the kingdom. I was always lucky enough to be able to admire him. He wasn't very tall, but he knew perfectly how to handle swords, which didn't take away from the natural charisma he gave off. In the outfit he wore tonight, in the colors of the kingdom, he shone all the more. A few strands of rebellious hair fell over his forehead and his smile could have melted any of the ladies present tonight.

“I’ve been watching you. You’re glowing, how could I look away?” He said with an amused smile. The sparkle in his eyes had never seemed so bright to me as it did at that very moment.

“So you didn’t have an eye on the bride and groom? You’re failing in your duty, General.” My tone echoed his. I clasp my hands behind my back, looking completely innocent. “Thank you for the compliment.”

“Come dance with me. That way I can keep an eye on the apple of the kingdom.” He then extends his gloved hand towards me and I observe him for a few seconds before slipping my hand into his. “I hope you are a good dancer, General. I wouldn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of this huge crowd.” I joked before following him a few steps further, onto the dance floor.

The last couple still present leaves the dance floor and we find ourselves alone, with just the orchestra. The violins begin to resonate, then all the sweetest notes of the wind instruments follow and finally, the piano rises in turn. 

I feel his hand come to close on my waist while the other one tangles around my fingers. We were so close that I could feel his breath, crashing on my face. I come to place my hand on his shoulder and in rhythm, we begin to waltz. His eyes catch mine and I think that at that precise moment, I forget reality. I dive into his gaze and there is nothing more than him and me. Everything disappears in the room, as if a bubble had formed around us. 

The music takes me somewhere else. I forget everything, I think of nothing more, except the warmth he diffuses in the hollow of my waist. The ease with which we understood each other in gestures. Everything seemed terribly natural. As if we had always danced together. Then, his hand leaves mine, to come and grab my waist, letting me gently go backwards, before coming back to hold me against him. His smile does not dissipate and in his gaze, I see only joy and a certain form of tenderness, which I had never seen in him. My smile became wider as my cheeks turned a little bit rosier. 

“Why're you blushing ?” He said. “Are you that surprised to see that I can dance ?” 

“Actually, I am ! I never thought you were so talented. I have to admit that the surprise is rather pleasant.” I admitted, with a slight smile. “Did you practiced for this evening?”

“Not for tonight in particular. But any self-respecting man must know how to turn his date’s head. And I was hoping one day to have the chance to make you twirl.” 

Those words took my breath away. For a few seconds, I found myself staring at him without really understanding. Our steps stopped abruptly and I almost fell, tripping over his feet. Have I heard correctly? Or even understood what he meant?

“Be careful my Lady.” He said, catching you. “ Never thought that admitting I've been thinking about you day and night, would have that effect on you.” I see the mischievous glow in her eyes and the small smile that adorned her lips. All signs that did not deceive. I had understood well the first time.

“ You can't say that, General.” I mumbled, blinking a few times trying to stop the rush in my chest. 

I could not deny the fact that the General was probably the most handsome man I had ever seen, nor even the attraction that might exist between him and me. It was not the first ball we shared, there had always been this particular feeling in the hollow of my belly when he was close. Like a cloud of butterflies, which suddenly fly away. My gaze was undeniably drawn to him. 8So hard that it was difficult to look away. There had always been this tension between him and me. That kind of invisible link, against which I could not go. 

“Why? I have said nothing...” he breathes with a smile of amusement, making me whirl again, before stopping on my wrist. His thumb traces the edge of the ribbon that was tied on it. A garnet red satin ribbon. A gift he made me at the last ball we attended. We had been talking until late at night, by the fountain in the winter garden of a neighboring kingdom’s castle. Around a huge bouquet, I found a ribbon, which he had untied, before coming to tie it around my wrist. He kept some in his jacket pocket. Since then, this piece of cloth has never left my skin. It was dear to me.

“You kept it...” he said in a whisper, the eyes shining with a new light. “It beautifully brings out your porcelain skin. Red suits you so well.”

“Why should I not keep it? You don’t throw away a present. I like it. It reminds me of that wonderful evening we shared.” Say I in a breath, while his thumb continues to electrify my skin, as he holds me so close, that I feel his breath on my cheek. In a graceful movement he makes me spin again on several turns, before abandoning me in the middle of the track, alone. His laughter echoes through the room as I look for him. I find him further away waving something red between his fingers. It is fine and above all, it reflects the light. I quickly understand what it is, when I look down on my wrist, now naked. 

“If you want it.... Come and get it, My Lady.” He said before running away into the halls of the castle in a playful laugh. 

“General ! Come back !” I shouted, before I set out to chase him. 

I do not know how many corridors or intersections I take, just by following the echo of his laughter. It sounded like a little bell, which pointed the way. I felt my breath burning in my chest as I walked across the open patio to look for him. Suddenly, his laughter fades and I stop, my chest rising at a frantic pace, as I try to catch my breath. 

“General, where are you hiding?” I throw, breathlessly. I hear noise on the stone behind me, but when I turn around there is no one. Frustration fills my entire being as I call again. "General? Give it back to me!” 

“Don’t you like to play, my Lady ?” I heard, as a distant voice that reached me like an echo. I turned again to move forward, but I had the impression of chasing a ghost, under the lights of the torches that adorned the walls and the moon, which entered through the openings. I knew how much he loved to play. It was his thing. Charm and play. But tonight it was getting cold and especially it was late. Yet I wanted to get back what was mine. 

As I turned into another corridor, wishing he was there on the other side waiting for me, a hand grabbed mine and I suddenly hit the cold wall. I found myself surrounded by his perfume, the scent of mint, mixed with apple, geranium and vanilla, intoxicating me. His breath is stranded in the hollow of my neck, all against my skin and it’s a huge shiver that runs through me. 

“Do you plan on giving me my ribbon back now?” I throw while trying to keep up. He runs my skin with light kisses for a simple answer before facing me. “Don’t be so hasty... Why not make the evening last a little longer?” He said, drawing a line of kisses along my jaw.

“We’re in the middle of a corridor.... That’s not right. Someone might see us.” I whisper, eyes half closed, while one of my hands comes to slide around his neck, to go caress his hairline. 

“Who cares ? Don’t you think we should finish what we started… that other night?” He stands up and looks into my eyes. I can read a lot of emotions in it. The glow that shines is no longer just playful. The flame that now inhabits his eyes, makes me shiver. 

“Here? Now?” I ask, in a small voice. I had no apprehension, I was perfectly confident. “General. Your impatience will lose you...” I breathe, letting my hands slide on his shoulders. 

“Here, now. I can no longer contain the envy that devours me. Is it worthwhile to wait? I want you.”

I want you. 

These words resonate in me like an echo. They trigger like a cataclysm. Suddenly, I feel dizzy again, as if some barriers had fallen. I watch him lean down, getting closer and closer to kiss my cheek, then the corner of my lips. I lose breath.

“I want every inch of you.” He whispered against my skin, before locking his words in a kiss. It is hot, desperate. I savor the depth of it. I give it back with much more aplomb. Nothing holds me back. It was as if, all the desire I tried to restrain, had escaped to take possession of every cell in my body. One of his hands leaves my waist to go up along my bust and run down on my chest. The contrast between the warmth of his skin against the fabric and the freshness of the marble against my back, gives me the feeling of consuming myself on the spot. 

I could feel this knot take possession of my belly, as our skins rub against each other, intertwine. I end by breaking the kiss, to let my lips run aground on his jaw. I feel his hands, on every inch of my skin, like a thirsty man looking for an oasis in the desert. Quickly I feel it in my back, come to grind the fabric of my corset. The latter is undone more quickly than it should be, piteously lying on the ground. 

“I wanted you for so long… You cannot imagine how long my soul has been calling to you.” He utters between two kisses laid down along my skin, pulling me almost a whimper. I feel it coming to mark my skin along my bust, on the curve of my chest, up to my belly, covered with lace. His hands, meanwhile, were already exploring my legs, under the silk of my skirt. “Let me love you as no man will ever love you.”

“Love me. Make me yours.” I whisper slightly tilting my head back as I feel the pulp of his fingers go up along my thigh. It’s so close and my whole body is burning to know it even closer as it goes up. It’s slow. Almost too slow. It gives birth to desire in me, it animates, and gives me the impression of burning from within, so much the envy seems to consume me. I had never felt anything so strong, but never had I wanted it so much. I was his, in the shadow of the moon, only spectator of what was happening. 

A moan escapes me as it makes its way under the fabric to seek what was most intimate in my core. I cling painfully to him, my hands seeking support where they found it to keep me in balance, while waves of pleasure are making their way into the hollow of my belly. His kisses rise up to come and run down my neck. His fingers were playing with me, as if he already knew me by heart. I could feel it everywhere and nowhere at once. On me, in me, it felt like it was in every inch of my core. 

I come to tighten my grip on it, as I feel this bubble growing in the bottom of my stomach. It is threatening like a wave that grows again and again as it comes to stoke the fire. I drop my head on his shoulder in a moan. It is omnipresent, I feel like I have only him, all around me. To be surrounded only by his being, his perfume, his skin. 

“Not so fast, my Lady.” he whispered in the hollow of my ear, coming to take off his hand, and I suddenly felt like an orphan. I wanted more. I whine in protest. I almost begged him with my gaze. I wanted it, without waiting. What was he playing at? 

In a burst of frustration at having been cut off in my flight, I reversed our positions, to come in turn steal countless desperate kisses. I come to mark his neck, while I am busy on his jacket, which falls to the ground in a deaf noise. Quickly and clumsily, I come to untie his shirt to infiltrate my hands under the fabric. I needed his warmth, his touch, to feel his skin under my fingers. I feel him tremble at my passage, as I leave a line of wet kisses on his skin. I savor the lines drawn of his musculature under my fingers, tracing it without forgetting a tiny patch. 

“Why make me wait if you wanted it so much?” I ask against his skin, as I now snatch up to the buckle of his belt. I trace it with my fingertips. “I don’t want to play anymore.” I mused as I now stared at his hungry look. “You knew I would die of envy. Why leave me there, consumed by desire?” 

“It will only be more delicious.” He says in turn, as I slide my hand under his belt to feel all his desire, marked by the lack of space and the stretching of the fabric under my fingers. “It’s better to reach the summits together, my sweet.”

I finally untied the buckle of his belt, then the opening of his pants and let my hands venture to the edge of his underwear and finally under the elastic. I grasp the full measure of his desire, trapping a little bit of my lip between my teeth, without ever ceasing to stare at him. I could almost see the flame dancing in his eyes. There is lust, love, passion in the way he looks at me, while my hand plays with him, surrounds him, tastes him. As a fair return, of the game his hands had played a few moments earlier. A moan escapes his throat, and it’s my turn to leave his skin. I take my hand back, with a slight smile on my face. “Not so fast, Christopher...” I threw, amused, teasing him with his name muttered. 

“I didn’t know you were such a player...” He said, as I came to prick my mouth with countless kisses, while I found myself again, cornered against the stone wall. His hands quickly come to grab the fabric of my dress to pull it up to my waist. The pulp of his fingers against my skin electrifies me and I gurgle with impatience against his lips. “P-Please…” I beg him with a breath, as his thumb touches me. I wanted it all. I wanted no more barriers between us. I’m busy sliding his pants down his thighs, while quickly, I feel the lace grounding at my feet. 

Then, finally, he comes to grab one of my thighs and lifts it up against his hip, so that our bodies can align perfectly, and in a passionate kiss, our bodies unite, with a slowness, but a passion that knows no equal. He waits a few moments, before I look at him and beg him to continue. I feel it everywhere, in the slightest movement. Each thrust takes me into a world where there is no more than us. 

I come to put my head in the hollow of his neck, to try to smother pitifully the moans that escape me, while he fills me with the most natural way. I feel it collides with the center of my pleasure and I cling not to lose my anchor with reality. But I feel the waves take possession of my lower abdomen. The knot is febrile, it threatens at any moment to explode and overwhelm me completely. 

“More.. please…” I groaned against his skin, I needed more. I wanted to touch the heavens under his touch. He tightens his grip on my hips, before coming to slide his hands under my buttocks to lift me completely and I close my trembling legs around his waist. I feel it further away at each thrust and none of us is able to hold the slightest sound that escapes our bodies while our eyes cross again.

“You’re perfect.” He said, while thrusting harder, deeper, until I felt the knot exploding. My vision fills with stars, and for a few moments nothing is clear around me. My breath is short, jerky. I feel my core clenching around him as he reaches his high. He then let his head fall back on my shoulder, while he moaned my name in a last stroke. 

Our bodies separate after a few seconds and I rest my feet on the ground, without really letting go. I still needed an anchor to make sure that I had not dreamt what had just happened.

“Are you okay, my Lady?” He blows, lifting the cloth up on his body to cover himself again. I nod my head, while taking a breath. “I am fine, marvellously fine.” I finally confirm without turning my eyes. “We should take care of you tonight.” He adds, while lifting me in his arms, making me laugh as I grab his neck. “ What a playful gentleman you are.” I chuckle, as my heart gently thumps in my chest. “Where are you taking me?” I finally ask, as he climbs the castle stairs. 

“Where my love for you has no limits,” he said, with a smile full of riddles. 

After making sure that everything was fine, the night ended between the delicate sheets of his apartments and I felt at last complete, surrounded by his tenderness, his laughter and his warmth. I felt more loved than ever.

I really hope you appreciated it, do not hesitate to reblog or to leave a note i’d love to read all about your thoughts. ✿ Evandsolo, 2025 ✿

[liveyun]

no escape | k.th

title. no escape

pairing. kim taehyung x fem reader/oc

genre. squid game au, thriller, pwp, smut

warnings. 😵‍💫. guard!taehyung, player!oc, consensual sexual acts in forms of power play, bandage, orgasm denial, face fucking, spanking, taehyung is. . . arrogant and cocky (pun intended) , his hands, taeconda wbk lmao, edging, finger sucking, some softness

wc. ~3k

a/n : i haven’t watched the drama yet, so please forgive me if there are any factual mistakes (shouldn’t be lol, there’s barely any plot) and this is my second time writing smut/first time writing fellatio so please let it slide if it sounds bad because i was way too impatient to wait and the rumors and or the theories (unlikely) of him appearing in the third season are making me delusional fr 😈

The corridor is suffocatingly quiet, save for the faint whir of crusty old machinery.

Dim overhead lights flicker intermittently, casting dark shadows that stretch and contract like phantom limbs.

You shouldn’t be here. The thought screams louder with every step you take, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of your heart. A part of you relishes because of your rebellion; full of zeal, while the other part is shrinking with fear. Yet, you don’t know which one is responsible for your heart to go hayware.

Either way, you keep on walking.

You grip the edge of the wall tighter, your fingertips brushing against the cold metal, as if the steel could tether you to sanity.

The restricted zone feels different — emptier, darker. As if even the quiet of this lobby is asking you, no, demanding you to leave — but rebellion is so sweet to taste, that perhaps even death cannot make you step back. The air smells off, tinged with the faint metallic tang of something you don’t want to name. The kind of place where secrets go to die.

You force your breath to slow, ears straining for any sign of movement, any hint that someone else might be lurking. But there’s nothing. Just the silence pressing in on you from all sides.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You flinch.

The voice is low. Dulcet — so smooth it feels like liquid heat is being poured into your ears. You’ve never heard this voice before, and yet it crashes into you with the force of a thunderclap. That calm, quiet power, threaded with something dangerous, coils down your spine and settles deep in your stomach.

The serenity of the voice scares you.

Your entire body goes rigid, blood freezing. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn your head. He’s standing at the other end of the corridor, blocking the entrance, and perhaps, the only escape.

Red jumpsuit, square mask. The highest rank among the guards. The ones who don’t ask questions.

For a moment, neither of you move. The fluorescent light above him buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over his figure. The mask stares back at you, empty and unyielding, a void you can’t read.

But you feel his eyes. You feel them trailing over you, assessing, dissecting, pinning you where you stand. You feel naked under his gaze despite being fully dressed, and you feel an odd feeling in your insides..

“Lost?” he asks, and the way his voice dips at the end makes your breath hitch. Fuck, oh god.

It’s not just the sound of it—it’s the way it slides under your skin, makes your insides tingle. And he knows. This bastard knows. You can’t see his face, but the slight tilt of his head, the way he lingers just long enough to watch your reaction—it’s deliberate, calculated.

You swallow hard, but your throat feels like sandpaper. “I… I—”

He takes a step forward. You take one back. The air shifts, heavier now, charged with something you can’t quite name.

Your pulse races, each beat like a drum in your ears.

You don’t know if you’re exicted or scared.

“You know what happens to rule breakers, don’t you?” His gloved hand flexes at his side, the movement deliberate, almost lazy. A predator sizing up its prey.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Save it.” Another step, and he’s close enough for you to catch the faintest trace of his cologne beneath the sterile scent of the suit. It’s woodsy, faintly spiced, and it lingers in the back of your throat like a memory you didn’t know you had. “You don’t belong here. And yet…” He tilts his head slightly, the square on his mask glinting in the dim light.

“Here you are.”

You hate the way your knees threaten to buckle, the way your breathing hitches despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You feel absolutely mortified to feel heat pooling in your lower abdomen like slow fire. There’s no telling what he’ll do. Report you? Drag you back? Or worse — handle the punishment himself.

And God help you, but a part of you is equally as thrilled as terrified to find out.

He’s close now — so close that the full, metallic scent of the corridor is drowned out by something else entirely. Something warm, woodsy, and faintly spiced, like cedarwood and smoke. It lingers in the air between you, curling around your senses, filling your brain up with fog.

The mask tilts, as though he’s watching you with a predator’s curiosity, drinking in every nervous shift of your weight, every shallow breath. You feel overwhelmed and squirmish, hyper aware of him observing your each move.

“What’s the matter?” he murmurs, voice low and unhurried. “Cat got your tongue?”

Your throat feels dry, words caught somewhere between your lungs and lips. You shift back, but the wall at your spine reminds you there’s nowhere left to go.

It’s just you and him.

He leans in just enough to make the hairs on your neck rise, his gloved hand brushing the wall beside your head — close, too close. It’s then you notice his hands: large, impossibly large, even beneath the thin sheen of the gloves. His fingers are long and deft, curling lazily into a fist before releasing, a movement so absentminded it shouldn’t make your stomach flip.

Shouldn’t fill your head with images which practically threatens to take away the little sanity left in you.

“You’re scared,” he muses, more to himself than to you. “But not of what you should be.”

His head tilts again, the mask’s material catching the overhead light. Slowly, his hand rises, not toward you—but toward his own face. His gloved hand rises to the edge of his mask, fingers brushing the seam. He hooks a single finger beneath the edge of his mask.

You barely notice that you’ve stopped breathing.

“You want to see who’s really watching you?”

You can’t stop your eyes from widening. “You want to see who you’re really dealing with?” The words are laced with danger, meant to come about as a taunt. But they dont, they instead spread a fire inside you, like how the veins of a leaf spreads across its surface area.

Slowly, almost languidly, he pulls the mask away, revealing the face beneath.

Oh.

Oh.

Dark, sweat-dampened hair clings to his temples, framing a face that seems carved from shadow and starlight. His eyes are sharp, but, but they hold a soft glimmer — hooded, which gleam with cruel amusement framed underneath thick, strong brows. His lips are slightly parted, as if he knows you’re looking and wants you to keep doing just that.

He is breathtaking. He is gorgeous. And he knows that.

It’s the small things that undo you. The faint sheen of sweat along his sharp jawline. The curve of his smirk, too soft to be mocking but too dangerous to be kind. And that scent —closer now, filling your lungs and making you lightheaded.

“Well?” he asks, voice silkier than before. “Do I live up to the mystery?”

Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Your gaze drops despite yourself—past his throat, past the open collar of his jumpsuit, to the slender column of his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

Fuck this man.

But it’s his hands that do you in. Bare now, he tugs the gloves free, one finger at a time. His skin is warm-toned, his fingers long and lean, the kind of hands that could either cradle or crush without hesitation. He flexes them casually, like he knows you’re watching.

They are clean. Beautiful. Neatly manicured. . .

“Lost for words?” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are sharp, drinking in every flush of heat that creeps up your neck.

You can’t look at him, but you can’t look away, either.

An image flashes up in your mind. His fingers, the same fingers, rubbing your clit with smooth, slow circles as his other hand restricts the airflow from your throat.

Oh fuck.

You grit your teeth, not trusting yourself enough to conceal any noises that may spill out. However, you fail to supress yourself from squirming, your thighs rubbing themselves together unconsciously as the erotic image flares up your brain.

And he notices that too.

His eyes narrow, and a dry laugh escapes his lips — something similar to a mock, but closer to amusement. You feel your throat dry on the realisation as you try looking away, but the next thing you feel are his hands on your chin.

“You dirty little thing,” his hands are warm — but the tips of his digits cold as they squeeze your cheeks, puckering your lips out, his face inching closer till you can see your own reflection in his pupils.

You feel like closing your eyes, but you can’t.

His breath is warm. Minty. Sweet on your cheeks as he draws each word out like rich honey. “You could be killed here for breaking the rules, but you are thinking of something else. Isn’t that right, doll?”

You feel your clit throb at the nickname.

You shake your head, or atleast you try to. Could there be anything more humiliating than fantasizing about someone as him? Probably. But right now, you feel like not giving him the satisfaction of submission.

His tongue darts out to lick his lips, the plush muscle coating his lips in a sheen layer of saliva.

He shakes his head, and a dry, unamused laugh leaves his throat.

“Filthy little liar,” he coaxes. “Do you know what do liars deserve?”

Your eyes widen, but somehow you feel that it’s not going to be the end of you.

Your eyes burn with tears.

And so do your wrists — they are tied behind you with a rag, and your knees actually feel like they’ve been scraped. But oh, sweet heavens, you feel like you could die after this. His cock rams into your mouth — not even half-way through, and hits the back of your throat. Your instincts have your throat constricting, eyes watering, and body squirming.

It’s nearly been 20 minutes, or so you think, since you’ve been kneeling down, getting fucked in your mouth by none other than the arrogant, handsome guard whose cock is so impossibly thick, you feel your jaws hurt. Suit hunched down to thick thighs and cock fished out of black boxers, you feel like this man actually is going to be the death of you.

Your pussy convulses, gushing out another stream of viscous fluid as his hips snap towards your face once more. He moans, a sweet, honeyed sound which makes your insides churn, a smooth beat which has your ego inflating. Your arms feel numb and your wrists hurt at the loss of circulation, but you remember how cruelly he’d tied your arms after your own fingers had reached down to releive the ache of your weeping pussy after the first thrusts of his cock into the wet cavern of your mouth.

He sneers, and grabs your hair — but his touch is surprisingly gentle, unlike his thrusts. Twists your hair into a makeshift ponytail, and forces your head on his length.

“Your mouth feels so good, ahh~”

He likes edging himself — or you. He’s been impossibly close thrice, throbbing and pulsing in your mouth, hissing at your tongue licking a particular angry vein on his cock, but he pulled away each time with a harsh grunt.

His eyes are sharp — glimmering under the dull lights of the lobby. He holds the back of my head and pushes himself down your throat, and you feel yourself gag, your mouth dripping with drool, his cock impossibly closer to your throat, still not down the base. “Y-yeah, you dirty liar, choke.”

It wasn’t definitely your first time with a man — but this man? You had no words. You felt your cheeks warm up, your cunt clench and gush out. You moan, the sound muffled by his cock, and looked up into his dark eyes, wordlessly begging for more. . .

What had gotten into you?

Your senses were overwhelmed ; the taste of his cock, its hardness prying your throat open, the smell of his sweat, the glimpses of his golden skin under his suit and impossibly silky hair sticking to his forehead — and each thrust sending you to a gateway of primal lust.

His hands leave your hair.

And what he does catches you off guard. You were busy eyeing his form, and he takes the advantage of that. His hips buck back to your mouth, freely thrusting as if you were a toy — nudging your throat open as he moaned in victory, his hands on his hips, teeth tugging his lower lips as he presses his cock closer.

“Look at you,” he lets out a small laugh. “Such a good girl. Taking cock so well.”

Your insides feel mushy with the praise. He fucks you through as you willed your throat to relax, knowing that each spasm tightened your throat around his cock, turned him on even more — you could already feel his cock throb back again.

He grits his teeth, and then your mouth is empty.

He’s pulled back — his wrapping around his length, and good heavens, even his enormous hands dont make up to the size of his cock as he lazily strokes his shaft. Red, so red it’s nearly a shade of purple — enlarged and throbbing. Your tongue flicks out as you whine at the loss of cock and he smirks ; as his thumb swipes the pearling pre come over his sapping tip, twisting his strokes as they get frantic, rushed, and more desparate.

“So eager for cum, are you?”

He tries sounding tough, but his voice wavers, ending off in an airy note. Fuck, he is close. His lips part and his head is tossed back as he fucks his fist, jerking off you resist the urge to squirm. The sight is so unbelievably hot — the arrogant guard is about to come.

He looks down at you as the first rope of his seed hits your agape mouth.

Warm, salty, and slightly bitter.

He fills up most of your mouth with his come as he keeps on jerking, and you must say that his aim is pretty accurate. Although some of it dribbles to your cheeks and chin as he groans, a sound so primal you feel your cunt clench and throb, knowing that you made him come so hard that you can see his eyes rolled to the back of his head as the last splurt of come hits your tongue.

You eagerly gulp down his release, surprised at how pleasant he tastes, and how easily you agreed to shallow down.

He, however, doesnt stop.

He leans down to you, close, impossibly close till you can feel the warmth of his face radiating to you. His hand cradles your face as one of his fingers swipe at the come on your cheeks and brings it to your lips.

“You don’t wanna waste it, do you?”

You happily oblige.

But you don’t stop either — you swirl your tongue around the digit, long and slender, similiar to how you’d done to his cock. You see his nostrils flare, and another arrogant smirk tugging up his lips as he narrows his eyes at you, pulling his finger away with a pop.

His hands reaches down to straighten up your shoulders — as your tits perk up, still clothed, but the outline of your pebbled nipples are prominent.

Your cheeks burn at the intensity of his gaze on your chest.

He squats down to your height — and before you realise, your arms are bound free. They feel numb and cold, and you flex them around a bit as blood rushes back to your wrists. You feel slightly awkward and blue balled, still feeling your wetness cling to your folds and your abdomen swirl with heat, but —

His arms slide underneath your thighs as he throws you over his shoulders.

“Wha. . . !! ” your throat feels sore, but you hope he gets the surprise you feel being over his shoulders, limbs held down by him, ass in the air and arms holding onto their dear life on his suit as he carries you both forward. Anyone could see you like this — your bare cunt and ass on display, but you don’t think it bothers him.

Or you. If anything, you feel your heart pick its rate at the idea of being caught.

One of his hands lands a slap on your cheeks and your body jolts forward as you yelp, feeling the sting on the muscle as his huge arm caresses the area, your body carried away by him with long, huge and hurried strides. To somewhere you possibly don’t know. . . .

But you aren’t scared, as ironic as that sounds.

“Did you think we were done already, doll?”

a/n : how did we like it? 😈 your feedback is always appreciated! thanks for reading 💜

[meazalykov]

don't bleed where you cannot heal

lena oberdorf x reader requested

summary: there is a thin line between love and hate

warnings: angst, acl injuries, swearing

the stadium is getting you excited. it’s a friendly match, but for you, it’s anything but. 

this is all preparation for the upcoming world cup, your second. this is what you’ve dreamed of since you were a kid. the world stage, the chance to prove yourself once again as one of the best players in the world with the best country in the world.

the first whistle cuts through the air, and the game begins. germany presses hard from the start, their relentless high line suffocating, but your team is known for your aggression and tactical brilliance. 

you know how to play under pressure. as the minutes tick by, you quickly realize that your primary challenge tonight isn’t the team as a whole. it’s their number six, lena oberdorf.

she’s everywhere. the woman’s presence is like a shadow, constantly dogging your steps. the way she reads the game is impressive, and she’s physical—too physical. the first time she shoves you off the ball, it’s unnecessary. 

you had already passed it away, the play was moving forward, and yet her shoulder slams into you with enough force to make you stumble.

“get the fuck off me!” you snap, spinning to glare at her.

she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even blink. lena just shakes her head and walks away, her expression calm, almost cold. it infuriates you, but you swallow the anger, forcing yourself to focus. she wants a reaction, and you won’t give her the satisfaction, even though you almost did.

the next twenty minutes are a battle of wills. she pushes, you evade. she lunges, you anticipate. it’s a dance, one where you refuse to let her lead. then, just before halftime, you seize your moment. the ball finds you outside the box, and you see her diving in for another tackle. 

you leap over her outstretched leg, the studs of her boot missing you by inches. planting your foot, you unleash a strike that sails cleanly into the top corner of the net.

the roar of the crowd is deafening, your teammates rushing to you in celebration. your captain grabs you in a tight hug, laughing as she says, 

“lets fucking go!!!!!”

as you jog back to midfield, you glance at lena, her frustration barely concealed, but she doesn’t say a word. you smirk, letting the satisfaction of the moment fuel you as the halftime whistle blows.

the locker room is buzzing during the break, your team riding the high of the lead. your coach gathers everyone, clipboard in hand, her expression serious despite the score.

“good half,” she begins, her voice cutting through the chatter. “don’t get comfortable though. their number six—” she doesn’t need to say lena’s name for everyone to know who she’s talking about—“is the anchor of the german team. she going to come out swinging. they don’t want to lose this, and she’s not the type to back down looking at what y/n is enduring.”

you nod, already expecting it. “i can handle it,” you say, your voice steady. you mean it. you’ve faced players like her before, and you’re not about to let her throw you off your game.

your captain gives you a reassuring pat on the back. 

“don’t let her get in your head.”

the second half begins, and lena’s intensity ramps up as expected. she’s glued to you, her physicality increasing with every passing minute. you can feel her presence even when she’s not touching you, the way she presses close, cutting off your options, forcing you to think faster, move smarter. 

in the 72nd minute, you’re sprinting down the left wing, the ball at your feet. your eyes scan the field, spotting your left winger making a run. just as you’re about to release the pass, a sudden force slams into you from behind.

the orange colored boot clips your ankle, and you go flying toward your team’s bench. the world tilts, and you hit the grass hard, skidding along the ground.

the whistle blows sharply, the referee immediately reaching for her pocket. you hear the crowd react—boos and gasps, some shouting for a red card. lena stands by one one of her teammates, their captain alex, her expression unreadable as the yellow is shown. 

she doesn’t argue, doesn’t apologize. she just turns and walks away, leaving you fuming.

“are you serious right now?” you mumble under your breath, pushing yourself up. pain radiates from your ankle, but you grit your teeth and wave off the medical staff. you’re not letting her see you weak.

your coach yells from the sideline, “need a sub?”

you nod, forcing yourself to stand. “i’m fine,” you call back, though the sting in your ankle says otherwise.

the game restarts, and you barely have time to settle before lena comes at you again. this time, it’s worse. you’ve just turned with the ball when she crashes into you, her body slamming against yours. your right leg gets caught awkwardly between hers, and you feel it—a sickening pop that shoots through your knee like lightning.

the scream tears from your throat before you can stop it. you collapse to the ground, clutching your knee, the pain blinding. it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, a sharp, unbearable agony that leaves you gasping for air. 

your teammates are there in seconds. one of them kneels beside you, her hand on your shoulder. unfortunately, it's a teammate who is coming back from their own acl injury. 

“stay down, stay down,” she says, her voice panicked. 

“don’t move.”

your captain storms toward lena, fury etched into her face. “are you trying to kill her? what the hell is wrong with you, you psychopath?!” she yells, jabbing a finger in lena’s direction.

lena stands her ground, her arms crossed, her face stoic as alex comes to her aid. she doesn’t respond, but the tension is palpable.

you can barely focus on the exchange, the pain consuming every ounce of your attention. your hands shake as you clutch your knee, your breathing ragged. tears stream down your face, though you try to hide them, burying your face in the grass.

“fuck,” you whisper, the word barely audible. deep down, you know what this is. you don’t want to admit it, but the telltale pop, the way your knee feels unstable—it’s your acl. 

“don’t say that,” one of your teammates says quickly, her voice trembling. 

“it could be something else. just… just breathe, okay?”

the medics arrive, carefully stabilizing your leg. every movement sends a fresh wave of pain through you, and you bite down hard on your lip to keep from screaming again. the world cup is only a month away. the thought makes your stomach churn. this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

your coach is by your side now, her face pale with concern. 

“we’re here, okay? just hold on. you’re going to be fine.”

fine. the word feels like a cruel joke. as they lift you onto the stretcher, your eyes meet lena’s one last time. there’s something in her expression now—a flicker of guilt, maybe regret—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

 all you can think about is the unbearable pain in your knee and the dream that’s slipping away.

the year since your acl injury was rough. you’ve been with bayern munich since transferring from chelsea in june 2023, but the timing of your injury had kept you sidelined, robbing you of the chance to have a true debut with bayern that year. 

now, with the olympics looming and a string of friendlies leading up to the tournament, you’ve finally made it back. the game against poland is your first international appearance since the injury, and while you’re excited, you’re cautious. 

you’ve come too far to risk it all now. 

the friendly goes smoothly. you keep your movements measured, easing into the rhythm of the game without overexerting yourself. your teammates rally around you, celebrating when you register an assist in the second half.

the final whistle brings relief, not just for the victory, but for the reassurance that your knee feels strong. you’ve made it this far.

back at bayern, the news of lena joining the team had been a bitter pill to swallow. the same lena who caused your acl tear. the same lena who showed no remorse, at least not that you saw. 

every time her name is mentioned, your stomach churns, and your teammates know it.

“she’s not as bad as you think,” lea had said one day in the training room, her voice cautious. 

“obi is my best friend. she didn’t hurt you on purpose.”

you scoffed, stretching your hamstring. 

“lea, i know she’s your best friend, but you don’t know what it’s like to be taken out like that. to lose everything for a year because someone couldn’t control themselves on the pitch.”

lea had frowned, her usual brightness dimmed. 

“she does feel bad, you know. she’s just not great at showing it. she wanted to talk to you when she visited here.”

“then she should’ve done it,” you’d snapped, your frustration bubbling over. 

“instead of waiting for me to approach her. that’s not how this works.”

lena’s acl injury in a friendly against austria happened before the olympics. after hering about it, you believed that it was karma. yes, a part of you felt vindicated, another part of you—buried deep—felt something else. pity, maybe. understanding, even. you’d been there, after all. the recovery, the mental toll, the feeling of being left behind while the world moved on without you. 

you quickly pushed those thoughts aside. she was the reason for your pain, and any sympathy you had was fleeting.

the olympic semifinal against germany is intense. both teams leave everything on the pitch, the game eventually decided by a single goal in extra time. your country wins, securing a spot in the final. 

as the celebrations begin, you take a moment to greet your bayern teammates—sydney, lea, giulia, and klara—who’ve come over to congratulate you.

“great game,” sydney says, pulling you into a quick hug before stepping back. 

“your knee is looking sharp.”

“thanks,” you reply, smiling. 

“you guys were solid too. it could’ve gone either way.”

you swap jerseys with sydney, holding hers in your hand as you turn to lea. 

“you okay? that tackle toward the end looked rough.”

you’re referring to a tackle one of your teammates did on lea, where it seemed like lea’s ankle was kicked in. 

lea waves you off. 

“i’m fine. it’s nothing.”

the conversation flows easily, lighthearted. you’re laughing at something giulia says when you catch sight of lena approaching out of the corner of your eye.

she’s on crutches, her pace slow but determined. your stomach tightens.

she’s heading straight for the group.

“uh, i’m sorry i think i hear my teammate calling for me–i– i’ve gotta get back to my team,” you say abruptly, cutting sydney off mid-sentence. you offer a tight smile before jogging away, your pulse quickening. 

you don’t look back, but you know she’s watching you.

behind you, the group falls silent for a moment before sydney breaks it. “she’s avoiding you again,” she says bluntly, her eyes on lena.

“yeah,” lena replies, her voice low. there’s a faint crease between her brows, the closest thing to a frown she’s shown all evening.

“are you ever going to apologize to her?” sydney asks, crossing her arms.

“i tried,” lena says, shifting her weight slightly on her crutches. 

“the first day at bayern, i walked up to her during warmups, but as soon as she saw me coming, she bolted. it’s been like that ever since. she won’t even stay in the same room as me if she can help it.”

klara sighs, glancing at lena. 

“have you tried writing to her? or asking someone else to talk to her for you?”

“what would i even say?” lena asks, her frustration evident. 

“sorry i ruined your career for a year? sorry i made you miss the world cup where you had to be left out of your team making it to the final?”

“yes,” klara replies firmly. “that’s exactly what you should say.”

lea shakes her head, her expression sympathetic. 

“i’ve tried talking to her,” the blonde says. 

“but it’s tough. she’s… she’s still dealing with it. at least the mental part.”

“she hates me,” lena mutters, her voice barely audible.

“she doesn’t hate you,” lea insists, though her tone suggests even she’s not entirely convinced. 

“she’s just angry. and hurt. give her time.”

“time,” lena echoes bitterly. 

“it’s been a year. how much more time does she need?”

sydney shrugs. 

“look, you’ve got a lot of ground to make up. you can’t just expect her to forgive you overnight.”

lena exhales sharply, her grip tightening on her crutches. “i never meant to hurt her,” she says quietly. 

“it wasn’t intentional.”

“we know,” lea says gently. 

“but you have to make her believe that.”

as you jog back to your team, you feel the weight of their eyes on your back. you know you’re avoiding her. it’s not subtle, and everyone has noticed. you can’t bring yourself to face her. not yet. the wound is still too raw, the memories too vivid.

you’re back from your acl injury, but you’re scared of it happening again. the first few weeks of recovery, while seeing your country making it to the world cup final without you, was one of the darkest points in your life. you believe that your country could’ve won the final if you were present. instead, lena had to be overly aggressive in a friendly game. 

you try to focus on the celebration, on your teammates and the victory for going to the final of the olympics. however, lena’s presence lingers. 

you don’t want to think about her, about the injury, about the months of recovery that followed. no matter how hard you try, she’s there, a reminder of everything you’ve endured. she is going to be your teammate during the club season, which you have no idea how you will avoid her then.

as you stand on the sideline, watching your team huddle around your coach, you catch a glimpse of lena out of the corner of your eye. she’s still with sydney and the others, her expression distant.

for a moment, you wonder what she’s thinking. but you quickly push the thought away. it doesn’t matter.

you’ve got a final to prepare for, and she’s the last thing you need on your mind.

three weeks later, the golden medal resting in your room is a reminder of everything you’ve overcome. winning the olympic gold with your country felt like redemption, a tangible reward after the hell of the past year. 

everyone at bayern has been nothing but supportive since your return, congratulating you with hugs and pats on the back when you walked into training the first day back. even the german girls, who’d taken bronze, had been gracious. most of them, anyway.

now, with training over, you’re sitting in the lounge, nursing a sports drink and watching tuva and alana messing around on the pitch outside. their laughter carries faintly through the glass, light and carefree, as they attempt some flashy dribbling moves. 

you smile to yourself, their joy contagious even from afar.

the door behind you opens and closes softly, and you think it’s georgia. she’d left a few minutes ago, maybe forgetting her jacket or something. turning around with a small smile, you open your mouth to greet her—but your smile instantly fades.

it’s not georgia. it’s lena.

you freeze, your body stiffening like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. lena’s crutches are gone now, and though she still has a slight limp, she moves with ease. 

the expression on her face is serious, but her eyes hold something softer, something almost vulnerable. 

“can we talk?” she asks, her voice steady but quieter than you’ve ever heard it. 

you shake your head immediately, panic rising in your chest. “no,” you say firmly, already standing. 

you grab your drink and try to walk past her, but she moves to block the door.

“please,” she says, her tone bordering on desperate now. 

“just… five minutes. that’s all I’m asking.”

you hesitate, your jaw clenching. 

“why? so you can say sorry in five minutes and think everything will magically be fine like the last year did not happen? no thanks.”

she exhales sharply, frustration flashing across her face. 

“it’s not like that.”

“then what is it, lena?” you snap, your voice rising. 

“what do you want from me? because I really can’t do this right now.”

“i want to fix this,” she says, her voice firm. 

“i can’t stand how things are between us. i hate it.”

“oh, you hate it?” you laugh bitterly, setting your drink down on a nearby table. 

“well, welcome to the fucking club. do you know how much i hated not being able to play for a year? watching everyone else live my dream while i was stuck rehabbing? you did that to me, lena. you.”

her face pales, but she doesn’t back down. “i know,” she says quietly. 

“and i’ve tried to tell you—”

“when?” you cut her off, your anger bubbling over. 

“when did you try, huh? because i don’t remember you saying a single word to me after it happened. not on the field, not in the locker room, not at bayern. nothing. you just… moved on like it didn’t matter.”

“that’s not true,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. 

“i’ve felt awful about it every day since it happened. but every time i tried to talk to you, you wouldn’t let me.”

“can you blame me?” you shoot back. 

“every time i see you, i just… i can’t stop thinking about it. the pain, the surgery, the months of recovery. and then you come to bayern like nothing ever happened, and i’m supposed to just… what? smile and be your teammate?”

she flinches at your words but keeps her gaze locked on yours. “it wasn’t like that for me,” she says.

 “i’ve been trying to figure out how to fix this since the day it happened, but you shut me out before i even had the chance.”

you cross your arms, glaring at her.

“maybe because you didn’t show any remorse until you tore your own acl. maybe you needed to feel that pain to understand what you did to me.”

lena’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you think she might cry. but she takes a deep breath, steadying herself. 

“that’s not fair, and you know it,” she says quietly. 

“i didn’t need to tear my acl to feel remorse. i felt it the second you hit the ground screaming. i felt it every time i saw you in rehab, every time i saw your name on the injury list. yes, i was too much of a coward to say anything then, but it doesn’t mean i didn’t care.”

your anger falters slightly, the raw honesty in her voice catching you off guard. you look away, your chest tightening. “then why didn’t you say anything?” you ask, your voice softer now. 

“why didn’t you just… apologize?”

“because i was scared,” she admits, and the vulnerability in her tone surprises you. 

“i was scared you’d hate me even more, that it wouldn’t make a difference. and then you came back, and i saw how much you hated me, and it just… it felt like there was no point.”

you sit down heavily on the couch, running a hand through your hair. the tension in your chest doesn’t ease, but the anger begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache. “you don’t get it,” you say quietly. 

“it wasn’t just the injury. it was everything after. the doubt, the fear, the feeling that i’d never be the same player again. i blamed you for all of it because it was easier than blaming myself.”

“you shouldn’t have to blame yourself for any of it,” lena says, sitting down across from you. her voice is gentle now, almost pleading. 

“it was my fault. i was reckless, and i’m sorry. i know that doesn’t fix anything, but it’s the truth.”

you look at her, searching her face for any sign of insincerity, but all you see is regret. for the first time, you notice how tired she looks, how the weight of the past year has clearly worn on her too.

“i don’t know if i can just forgive you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

“i’m not asking you to,” she says quickly. 

“i just… i don’t want you to hate me anymore. i can’t stand it.”

you exhale shakily, the vulnerability in her words breaking down the last of your defenses. 

“i don’t hate you,” you say finally. 

“i thought i did, but… i think i was just angry. at you, at myself, at everything.”

she nods slowly, relief softening her features. “that’s a start,” she says, a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips.

you shake your head, a faint laugh escaping despite the heaviness in the room. 

“you’re really persistent, you know that?”

“i’ve been told,” she says, her smile growing. 

“but for what it’s worth… you’re worth it.”

the months following your tense conversation with lena go smoother than you ever thought possible. she’s still lena but she’s also softer now, more willing to meet you halfway. you’re not best friends, but the animosity is gone, replaced with something… lighter. 

every time she hits a milestone in her recovery, you find yourself smiling. not the forced, polite smile you’d given her before, a genuine one. when she starts jumping on her injured leg, you can’t help but feel proud. 

when she takes her first jog, the grin on her face is contagious, and you find yourself clapping along with the team. it reminds you of yourself.

when lena announces to the locker room one day that she might be back to training by march 1st, the excitement is palpable. even you can’t help but cheer, giving her a small nod when her eyes meet yours. 

lena’s face lights up. for a moment, you wonder how you ever managed to hate her.

the team notices the shift between you two. 

“you and lena might actually be friends now,” lea teases one afternoon, nudging you with her elbow. you roll your eyes but don’t deny it. truthfully, the idea doesn’t bother you as much as it would have a few months ago.

fate, as always, has other plans.

it starts small, almost imperceptible. you catch yourself watching lena more often, your eyes drawn to her when she’s on the sidelines. during a match against frankfurt, you score a goal, the kind of strike that makes the crowd erupt. 

as you jog back to your position, your eyes instinctively find her in the stands. she’s watching you, her face glowing with pride, and you smirk up at her. no hand symbol, no exaggerated gesture—just a simple smirk and head nod. 

the way her smile widens in response sends a strange flutter through your chest.

then there’s the time in the lounge when lena tries to lift something too heavy for her recovering leg. you’re across the room when you see her struggling, and without thinking, you rush over.

“let me help,” you say, taking the weight from her hands.

your fingers brush hers as you adjust your grip, and for a moment, neither of you moves. her hand is warm beneath yours, and the realization that you don’t want to let go hits you like a freight train. 

before you can process it, lea walks in, and you rip your hand away like you’ve been burned. lena doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of disappointment in her eyes stays with you for the rest of the day.

it’s lena who makes the first move. subtle at first—lingering glances, the occasional brush of her arm against yours—but then bolder. during a team dinner, she catches your eye from across the table and winks. your cheeks flush, and she smirks knowingly but that was not enough for the german woman.

she sits beside you at the team dinner, and doesn’t mind the fact that she links her hand with yours, pulling both of your hands to hold together on top of your left thigh. it’s maddening, really, how easily she gets under your skin now in a different and better way, but you can’t deny the way your heart races every time she’s near.

one evening after training, you’re alone in the lounge again, sipping on a protein shake and scrolling through your phone. outside the window, you can see tuva and alana messing around on the pitch, their laughter faint but audible. 

the door opens, and you glance up, expecting georgia or lea. instead, it’s lena.

your heart skips a beat, but you quickly school your expression, trying to seem nonchalant. 

“hey,” you say, your voice more neutral than warm.

“hey,” she replies, closing the door behind her. she hesitates for a moment, then crosses the room, sitting on the couch opposite you. 

“can i ask you something?”

you nod, setting your drink down. 

“sure.”

she looks nervous, a rare sight that catches you off guard. “do you… consider me a friend?” she asks, her voice quieter than usual.

you blink, caught off guard by the question. “uh… kinda?” you say, the word slipping out before you can think it through.

obi’s face falls slightly, and you immediately feel a pang of guilt. “kinda?” she repeats, her tone laced with disappointment. 

“so you still hate me?”

“no, no,” you say quickly, sitting up straighter. 

“it’s not that. it’s just… complicated.”

“then explain it to me,” she says, her voice firmer now. 

“please.”

you exhale, running a hand through your hair. 

“it’s hard, okay? for so long, all i could feel when i looked at you was anger. and then you got hurt, and it was like… i didn’t know what to feel anymore. i wanted to hate you, but i couldn’t. and now… now i don’t even know what this is.”

“what this is?” she echoes, her eyes searching yours.

you nod, swallowing hard. 

“yeah. us. whatever we are.”

she’s silent for a moment, then leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees. 

“what if i told you i don’t want to be just friends?”

your breath catches, your eyes snapping to hers. 

“what?”

“i like you,” she says simply, her voice steady despite the vulnerability in her eyes. 

“i’ve liked you for a while now. and i know i screwed up, and i know i don’t deserve anything from you, but i can’t keep pretending i don’t feel this way.”

your heart is pounding so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. “lena…” you start, but your voice falters.

“you don’t have to say anything,” she says quickly. 

“i just needed you to know.”

you take a shaky breath, the weight of her words settling over you. “i didn’t want to call you a friend,” you say slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, “because i don’t want to be just friends either.”

her eyes widen slightly, hope flickering across her face. 

“i don’t know when it happened, but… it’s there. i feel it too.”

she doesn’t hesitate. in one smooth motion, she moves closer, her hand reaching out to cup your cheek. “can i?” she asks softly, her eyes locked on yours.

you nod again, unable to find the words. her lips meet yours, gentle at first, testing the waters. your heart races, your hands instinctively finding their way to her waist. the kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, as if you’re both trying to make up for all the time you spent apart. 

her lips are soft, warm, and they taste faintly of spearmint gum.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathing heavily, her forehead resting against yours. “how does it feel to kiss the girl you hated a year ago?” she teases, a playful smile tugging at her lips.

you laugh softly, swatting her arm. 

“don’t ruin the moment.”

“what moment?” she asks, grinning now.

“this moment.”

this time, it’s you who leans in, capturing her lips in another kiss. as if you didn’t hate her one year ago.

masterlist

[tastefuleternallove]

hey! i hope you’re having a good new year! i didn’t have the best holiday season, so i was just wondering if you could do joe quinn x reader on christmas or new years? or if possible reader with seasonal depression?

Loved

Joe Quinn x Reader

Summary: your boyfriend has immense amount of love for you

Warnings: fluff / angst, mentions of depression, does not say what holiday is being celebrated or the gender of reader.

Note: i’m so sorry to you and to anyone who had a rough holiday season, i did aswell and i would’ve killed for someone to say these things to me over the past few weeks. Hope the rest of everyone’s year is filled with love ❤️

NONE OF THIS IS PROOF READ IM LAZY

The holiday season was always hard for you, every year you find yourself sitting in your bed scrolling on your phone looking at everyone’s holiday pictures. Reminding you that your behind everyone in life, but also too ahead in the same way. However this year was different, you had joe. He’s the light of your life and the best thing that’s ever happend to you.

But over the holiday season you couldn’t scratch the feeling that you’ve been ruining it for him. The holidays were his favourite time of year and you haven’t exactly had time to share with him how you feel about this time of year. It wasn’t his fault, you just care for him so much. Going to every event, every dinner, every party with a smile plastered on your face hoping to not ruin this moment for your boyfirend

You felt like you were hiding it nicely, never stopping a smile, starting conversations with people, and playing the perfect part. But your boyfriend could see straight through your facade, every time you would slowly dissociate yourself when people would start talking about certain things. his heart ached at the sight of this but he wasint exactly sure how to have this conversation, he didint want you to fully shut him out but he also wanted you to know he cared for you and wanted to help you.

it was new year’s eve and you were getting ready to go to one of joe’s friends party. ask you looked at yourself in the mirror you feslt the exhaustion that crept up onto you from the season, feeling drained and in need of laying down. But on queue Joseph walked into the room, you straightened your posture out and went back to clasping your necklace. Joe knew right when he walked in you weren’t okay, and today was the day he would say something.

“Sweetheart, can you come sit on the bed with me” he said softly, you took note of how he hadn’t started getting ready. “i need you to know that i care about you and that you are in such a safe space when your with me right?” he said with almost a worried look. “yeah of course babe”. you said with a smile, but he couldint shake the feeling thag more was going on. “How about me and you just spend new years together, we can relax, do anything you want and just spend time with eachother, no one else no distractions”. “what! no” you said with almost a fear in your eyes. joseph gave a confused look trying to see i side your mind.

this is something your boyfriend wanted something important to him, but now that you aren’t going to his friends party their all gonna think that it’s your fault because if it wasint for you joseph wouldint come. Your chin quivered quick as you shit your head down releasing everything in a huge eruption. tears streaming down your face as you let every emotion from the past couple of weeks consume you. Your boyfriends heart shattered at the sight of this, because he didint know what was happening or how to get you to tell him. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest, trying to make you feel grounded so you knew he wasint going anywhere

He rubbed your back in small patterns and tried to steady your breathing. “look at me” you glanced up at his freshly shaven smooth face. “It’s not your fault, you can’t control how you feel during this time of year and it’s selfish of me that i didn’t say anything sooner about how you’ve been feeling. That’s why i suggested about tonight, spending the new year with my amazing partner, i couldn’t ask for a more amazing person that i get to share my life with, your always there every step of the way and you must know that you are what leads me to every step of my life. Everything is for you and i love you with everything in me”.

You looked at him in awe, he cared, he listened , your worries of showing your true emotions melted away as you truly realized how important and loved this man made you feel. He placed his tender hands on your cheek and gave you a soft kiss on your forehead and continued to keep rocking you back and forth, easing you out from your stress.

[balrogballs]

Of One Blood

A @whiteoliphaunt white calf fill for @maglor-my-beloved, featuring Fëanor, his grandson Elrond, The Jungle Book, storytelling, and a quiet moment in Fourth Age Valinor.

My heart is heavy with the things I do not understand.

Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book

The rain came down relentlessly, soaking Elrond’s cloak until it clung to his neck like a toddler. Around him, the earth softened, forgot itself little by little and gave way — sand rising to claim his boots, puddles pooling in every step. The trees bent, their leaves glistening and turning this way and that as though caught crying. Elrond could feel the water slipping under his collar, tracing cold lines down his back, and for a moment, he considered just standing there, letting the rain wash him into something smaller, quieter, easier to carry around. Instead, he knocked on Fëanor’s door.

“Peredhel?” he frowned, eyes widening at the state the former lord was in, hair clinging to his cheeks, frost making white lines on his brows. Fëanor pulled him into the hallway, clicking his teeth and hissing. “What in… Elrond, it is pissing it down!”

“Biggest rainstorm Tirion’s seen in decades,” Elrond gave a wavering laugh, genuine if frothy, shaken between his rattling teeth. “They’re battening down the hatches at home.”

“And you are here, instead of battening down the hatches alongside them because?” Fëanor huffed, pulling across a towel, clicking his teeth in mild disapproval (not because he didn’t want Elrond there, but because Elrond clearly walked all the way from Tirion to the sea in this downpour, which is not something the average Normal Elf would do). He shoved Elrond down into an armchair and began towelling his hair vigorously.

“Ouch — Daerada!” came the muffled voice. “Leave it! I can — ouch! You’ve just pulled out a —“

“Get a grip, Elrond. I had seven sons and none of them went bald,” said Fëanor shortly, ignoring Elrond’s protests with the practiced air of, well, someone who had seven sons. “Now, tell me why you’re here.”

“Because your house is salty.”

Fëanor blinked, ceasing his ministrations with the towel in his confusion: “apologies, but what did you call my house?”

Elrond considered explaining that it wasn’t because the beach house on the shores of Aman Fëanor and Nerdanel had taken up in order to avoid said seven sons (well, the three youngest and quickest to re-embodiment), their progeny, and their irritating little problems, was salty. Not directly at least. It was only that the saltiness of it reminded him of Maglor’s cottage by the Havens in Middle Earth, where he still lived.

Everything in that house had been sharp, brined by the air itself. Salt crusted along windowpanes, dusted the floors like an uneasy frost, and clung to the cracks in the wooden beams. Anything left too long — shoes, tools, books, Elrond — was kissed by it, worn and bitten as if the sea had reached in to mark its territory. The air stung with it, tasting of sweat and tears, and the walls seemed to sweat as the house endured the Ages. Nothing in the house by the sea was soft; even silence had an edge there. And that was why Maglor had read him stories on the stillest nights even on visits when Elrond was six thousand years old — to take the edge off that silence, dull it enough to lull him to sleep.

He didn’t know how to explain that was what he craved: that he hadn’t slept in days, and he wanted to hear one of Maglor’s stories. Even though he was seven thousand now — young and spry enough to walk from Tirion, but too old to long for beaches and bedtime stories. No, not just any bedtime story but that one. The one with the best line which crept in towards the end, when he and Elros were closer to sleep than wakefulness. He didn’t know how to explain this to Fëanor, mainly because it wasn’t exactly the done thing to suddenly grow a grandfather after six thousand five hundred years, let alone ask him to tell you a story. Still, it would be better than Fëanor assuming that Elrond walked for a day and a half to lick his walls, like a very persistent goat.

“I only wished to know…” Elrond began, flushing as Fëanor finally put down the towel and shoved a piping hot mug of cider into his hands, almost growling at how cold the half-elf’s fingers were. “Whether you knew that story. About the animals. The children’s story. Maglor used to say you knew it, that — that it was you who first told it to him.”

Fëanor shook his head, somehow even more confused by the explanation than the situation. He sank down next to his get-one-free grandson, wondering whether insufferable eccentricity ran in Thingol’s line or whether it was a learned trait. He decided to humour him.

“What story?”

Elrond smiled across at him, and put on a deep, maleficent voice, like what a tiger might sound like had tigers possessed the power of speech:

“Ye choose, and ye do not choose!” he cried, causing Nerdanel to poke her head in from the next door, roll her eyes, and slink back. “What talk is this of choosing? By the bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dog’s den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speaks!”

A sudden lump rose in Feänor’s throat. Oh, Elrond.

He didn’t say anything of it. Fëanor sat in silence, looking at the slow disappointment crawl across Elrond’s face, until it got too much for him to bear. Fëanor jumped up from the couch, spread his arms before the fire, casting a long, dark shadow across the room (Nerdanel, watching from the doorway, stifled a snort).

“And it is I, Raksha The Demon, who answers!” he all but roars, striding back and forth, all six-foot-three of him turned into a snarling she-wolf. He bared his teeth, snapped them. “The man’s cub is mine now — mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs — frog-eater — fish-killer — he shall hunt thee!”

Elrond’s eyes widened. Lips trembling all of a sudden, he buried his head in his hands as his grandfather, panting and laughing a little, sat back down beside him. Fëanor waited patiently as Elrond sat very still, waited and watched the fire roar ever higher until he finally sat up, wiping his face on his sleeve, clearing his throat.

“What sin have I committed, Eru, that not one person in my very large family has heard of a handkerchief,” sighed Fëanor, dispelling the tension by dropping one in Elrond’s lap. “Please blow your nose before I cut it off your face.”

“Sorry,” Elrond said thickly, laughing as well. It’s funny — he knows Fëanor has been called every adjective under the sun, accused of everything from arrogance to zealotry, but few touch on his biggest descriptor: a perpetual father of seven. “Sorry, I was only… impressed. That you remembered that by-heart.”

“Of course I know it,” Fëanor shook his head. “I know every damn bedtime story there is to know, and a thousand others that haven’t been written yet. It’s not impressive, it’s an occupational hazard of having seven sons.”

“Still, it’s impressive,” Elrond said, and then paused for a long moment. “Though I cannot believe you know all of this. Absolutely not.”

“No?” Fëanor frowned sharply at Elrond, before his face softened in understanding. “Is that what you think, then? What if I… demonstrate? Though no prowling around the room again, my bones are too old for such nonsense.”

“Do I look five?” Elrond looked mortified. “Did I ask you to prowl anywhere? But… yes. A demonstration, perhaps. I’d like that.”

“Just to make sure I know it, hm?”

“You can never be sure.”

Fëanor settled back on the long couch, watching Elrond sip his cider. And then he closed his eyes, and began reciting the story he had told seven thousand times to seven boys, one of whom clearly told the same story to his two boys: now Rann the kite brings home the night, that Mang the bat sets free!

Elrond listened to the story for the first time in, oh, how long has it been? Since he sailed, yes. Since Maglor. Fëanor’s voice surrounded him like warmth rising from a hearth. It wasn’t the story he heard really, but the cadence, that familiar lift and fall, wrapping around him in a way no fire could quite manage. The rain lingered on his skin, insistent, but his grandfather’s voice smoothed it away, filling the space with bears, wolves, tigers, alive, alive, alive. It was almost like it was with Maglor, in the cottage by the sea. How even between the words, the silence held its breath, no longer oppressive but tender, until Elrond himself melded into it, another animal crouching low to watch the jungle tell its story. He sat still, unmoving.

It was not a stillness that waited for a shattering, but one that lulled him to the half-asleep state he was in when Fëanor got to the part he and Elros used to wait eagerly for Maglor to get to. The part where Fëanor pressed his hand to his own chest, and then Elrond’s, and said very softly and intently: we be of one blood, ye and I.

And as Fëanor’s voice went on and on, Elrond fell asleep right there on the couch, safe in the knowledge that even if the story stopped, the echo of his Daerada’s voice would remain. Of course it would, woven as it was into the walls, into the cottage in the Havens, into the air, into Elrond himself, into the stories he told his own children, and into the stories they told theirs.

Fin.

I don’t love Kipling, but have a pervasive headcanon that Maglor used to tell (an in-universe version of it, that is) The Jungle Book stories to Elrond and Elros, and have mentioned it in other stories. This was a fun opportunity to explore that, and think about stories that carry on through generations. Hope you enjoy the fill, happy new year, and of course, thank you @minubell for running this!

[moonlightdreamzz]

goodnight n go — yang jungwon.

🎧 ➤ goodnight n go by ariana grande

GENRE. FLUFF. down bad for eachother but can’t say it out loud. only with actions.

SUMMARY. you tell Jungwon you’ve always wondered what it’s like to do couple things during the holidays—and without hesitation, he makes it happen.

AUTHORS NOTE. this absolutely warmed my cold heart. This man evokes things out of me I wasn’t aware was still there. I’ll add a keep reading later.

“jungwon, i’m not playing with you!” you squeal loudly, nearly tripping over your own feet as you chase him around the couch. he’s laughing so hard it’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped your phone yet. “damnit, jungwon!”

“you must have been—” he dodges left, then right, “looking at something—” he darts into the kitchen, “real embarrassing to be chasing me like this!”

he finally stops near the counter, grinning from ear to ear and completely unfazed by the fact that you’re out of breath and glaring daggers at him. “i wonder what it could be.” he questions in dramatic fashion, his finger poking his chin repeatedly as he looks into nothingness.

“jungwon,” you warn, hands on your hips, but it’s too late. his eyes land on the screen, and a mix of confusion and amusement washes over his face.

“gingerbread houses?” he says, reading the search history aloud. “how much does a gingerbread house cost?”

you freeze, your face instantly heating up. “give that back!”

he ignores you, his expression shifting into something so genuinely curious it’s almost infuriating. “why were you looking this up? are you suddenly into architecture? or… are you planning to eat an entire gingerbread house by yourself?”

you snatch the phone from his hand, groaning as you clutch it to your chest. “no, it’s not like that.”

“then what’s it like?” he asks, leaning casually against the counter. you so badly want to be upset with him, but his dimpled smile beaming in your face is making it impossible.

you let out a sigh, deciding it’s better to just explain than deal with his endless teasing. “it’s something couples do during christmas,” you mumble.

his brow furrows slightly, and he tilts his head. “couples?”

“yeah,” you say, shifting awkwardly under his gaze. “you know, building gingerbread houses together, wearing matching pajamas, taking cringy pictures… that kind of stuff.”

he’s staring at you now, his amusement fading into something softer, something more thoughtful. “and you wanted to do that?”

“i mean…” you shrug, trying to play it off. “i thought about it. but since i don’t exactly have the other half of the couple, i figured maybe i’d just do it by myself. pajamas and all.”

jungwon doesn’t respond right away. he’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.

if you’re being honest, you don’t know what you and jungwon truly have going on. but it’s not for lack of clarity—it’s for lack of courage. because deep down, you both know. you know it in the way his eyes linger on you a little too long, in the way he remembers every offhanded comment you make, in the way your heart races whenever he smiles at you like you’re the only person in the room.

you weren’t entirely sure at first. jungwon’s the kind of guy who’s sweet to everyone, with a charm that feels effortless. it was easy to convince yourself that the way he treated you was just…him being him. until one day, you casually mentioned hanging out with another guy—a friend from work who’d been pestering you about grabbing coffee. you hadn’t thought much of it, but jungwon froze mid-bite of his ramen, chopsticks hovering in the air like the universe had suddenly paused.

“who?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual, but the furrow in his brows betrayed him.

you laughed, not understanding why he looked so confused. “just a friend,” you said, shrugging it off.

“a friend?” he repeated, his voice pitching slightly higher. he placed his chopsticks down, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. “what kind of friend?”

you blinked at him, unsure why he was grilling you like this. “the normal kind? what other kind is there?”

he narrowed his eyes. “the kind that wants something more.”

your stomach flipped at the implication, but you played it cool. “what does it matter to you?”

jungwon’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something. but then he just sighed, shaking his head. “it doesn’t,” he muttered, picking up his chopsticks again.

except it did. you could see it in the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes for the rest of the meal, the way he suddenly got quieter. it was like he couldn’t bring himself to say it, but the weight of what he felt was written all over his face.

and that’s when you knew.

but knowing and saying it out loud are two very different things.

so you kept hanging out, like you always did. no labels, no confessions—just spending time together, letting the unspoken feelings linger in the air between you. and maybe that’s why it works. because neither of you feels the need to rush. you’re slowly falling for each other, piece by piece, day by day.

“what?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“nothing,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips as he shakes his head. “you’re just… funny.”

you frown. “funny how?”

“i don’t know,” he says, pushing off the counter and walking past you to the living room. “you just are.”

you follow him, phone still clutched in your hand, watching as he flops onto the couch like he didn’t just say something cryptic.

“so, what do you want to eat?” he asks, grabbing the remote and flipping through channels like the conversation you just had didn’t happen.

your brows knit together. “that’s it? you’re not gonna say anything else about the gingerbread houses?”

he glances at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “what else is there to say? if you want to build a gingerbread house, build one. who cares if it’s cringey?”

all you can do is flip him off before plopping down beside him.

a lazy grin rests on his face. “so, food? yes? no?”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that creeps onto yours. “yes. but we’re getting my favorite after the distress you just put me though, twin.”

a couple of days pass, and life goes on in its usual rhythm. jungwon texts you here and there, nothing out of the ordinary. it’s a mix of random memes, updates on whatever he’s doing, and the occasional “you up?” when he’s bored at night. but tonight, his message feels different.

jungwon: what are you doing tonight?

your heart skips a beat, even though you’re not entirely sure why. it’s not like it’s weird for him to ask. still, the question makes your stomach do this weird, excited flip.

you: nothing really. why?

his reply comes almost immediately.

jungwon: i’m coming over. be ready in an hour.

you: should I be afraid?????

he doesn’t answer. instead, you’re left staring at your phone, trying to figure out what he’s up to.

an hour later, there’s a knock at your door, and when you open it, jungwon is standing there with a ridiculously large bag in one hand and a takeout bag in the other. he’s grinning, that dimpled smile lighting up his face, and you feel your heart do that thing again.

“what’s all this?” you ask, stepping aside to let him in.

“you’ll see,” he says, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to your living room like he owns the place.

you follow him, watching as he sets everything down on the coffee table. first, he pulls out two gingerbread house kits, complete with icing, candy, and all the little decorations. then, he pulls out a set of matching pajamas—red and white with little snowflakes printed all over them.

“jungwon…” you say, your voice trailing off as you take it all in.

“and your favorite,” he adds, holding up the takeout bag with a triumphant smile.

you blink at him, completely caught off guard. “what… what is all this?”

he shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s a hint of nervousness in the way he avoids your eyes. “you said you wanted to do all that cringey couple stuff for christmas, right? so… let’s do it.”

your chest tightens, a mix of disbelief and something softer, warmer. “you actually remembered that?”

“of course, i remembered,” he says, finally looking at you. “i remember everything you say.”

for a moment, you don’t know what to say. it’s such a small gesture, but it feels like so much more. like he’s showing you, in his own quiet way, how much he cares.

“you’re so weird,” you say, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“says the girl who was going to eat a whole gingerbread house by herself…” he trails, his face making an expression that says sureeeee. he sits down on the floor and pats the spot next to him.

“kiss it.” you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully.

“kiss what?” his eyes widen.

“my ass.” you slap your behind for dramatic effect—the sound echoing off your walls. did it hurt? yes. would you let him see that? no. jungwon’s eyes widen, and for the first time, he’s the one that’s frozen and unable to form a sentence. it’s only for a mere second though before he realizes his usually cool demeanor vanished. he shakes his head, as if he’s trying to remove the effect of your words and rubs the tips of his ears that are tinted pink.

anyone else wouldn’t have caught it. but it was you, so you did.

the jungwon, that jungwon wants everyone else to see, starts unpacking the gingerbread kits. you can’t help but steal a glance at him. there’s something about the way he’s so nonchalant about all of this, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to show up at your place with matching pajamas and your favorite food.

“so,” he says, breaking the silence. “are you ready to lose? because my gingerbread house is going to be way better than yours.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “we’ll see about that.”

jungwon carefully tears open the packet of icing, his brows furrowing in concentration. “you have to massage the icing bag first, you know. to warm it up,” he says, squeezing it between his hands like a professional baker.

you raise an eyebrow. “oh, so you’re a gingerbread house expert now?”

he looks up at you with mock seriousness. “obviously. you’re looking at the reigning champion of the 6th grade holiday fair. i crushed the competition.

“wow, i’m so intimidated,” you deadpan, ripping open your own icing packet with way less finesse than him.

he leans over slightly, just close enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne—subtle, clean, and entirely too distracting. “you should be,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt in his voice.

you roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth spreading in your chest. this is how it always is with jungwon—light, playful, easy. but underneath all the teasing, there’s something softer.

“okay, watch and learn,” he announces, picking up one of the gingerbread walls and carefully piping a line of icing along the edge. “this is how you lay a solid foundation.”

“foundation?” you scoff. “it’s a gingerbread house, not a skyscraper.”

“and that’s why you’re going to lose,” he replies smugly, pressing the pieces together with meticulous precision.

you pretend to be unimpressed, but you’re secretly charmed by how seriously he’s taking this. as you attempt to glue your own walls together, one of them immediately collapses, the icing smearing all over your hands.

“oh, no,” you groan, holding up your sticky fingers.

jungwon looks over and snickers. “what happened to ‘it’s just a gingerbread house’?”

“shut up and help me,” you grumble, trying to balance the pieces with one hand while reaching for the icing with the other.

he scoots closer, his knee brushing against yours as he steadies the walls for you. “you have to hold it like this,” he says, his voice low as his hands gently guide yours.

the proximity makes your heart stutter, but you do your best to play it cool. “you’re just trying to sabotage me so yours looks better,” you accuse, glancing up at him.

his eyes meet yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his gaze, something that makes your breath catch.

“maybe,” he says softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

you clear your throat, breaking the moment. “well, it’s working. i can’t focus with you this close.”

“then i guess i’ll stay right here,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes lingering on you a little too long.

you huff, turning your attention back to your gingerbread house. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, here i am,” he quips, settling back into his spot but staying close enough that your shoulders still brush occasionally.

as the night goes on, the competition turns into chaos. jungwon gets icing on his nose at some point, and you laugh so hard you accidentally knock over one of his walls. he retaliates by flicking a piece of candy at you, which starts an all-out candy war.

“truce!” you finally gasp, holding up your hands in surrender.

“only if you admit my house is better,” he says, his dimples on full display.

you roll your eyes but lean in closer, inspecting his work. “it’s not bad,” you admit, reaching out to straighten one of the candy canes on the roof.

your hand lingers a moment too long, and you realize just how close you are to him. he’s watching you, his expression soft, like he’s seeing something he can’t quite put into words.

“what?” you ask, your voice quieter now.

“nothing,” he says, but the way he looks at you says everything.

the moment stretches, filled with a warmth that feels almost tangible. and though neither of you says it out loud, it’s there in the way he gently nudges your shoulder, in the way you lean into him without even thinking.

“so,” you say, breaking the silence with a grin. “are you going to admit that i won?”

“pictures or it didn’t happen,” jungwon declares, pulling out his phone and snapping a dramatic photo of his gingerbread house. “look at this masterpiece. the symmetry, the structure—pure genius. i think i could sell this design.”

you lean over, squinting at the screen. “symmetry? jungwon, one of your candy canes is literally sliding off the roof. are you going for a modern look or just chaos?”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just mortally wounded him. “chaos? this is art, y/n. you just don’t get it.”

“right,” you drawl, crossing your arms but fighting back a smile. “you keep telling yourself that.”

jungwon shakes his head, clearly unimpressed with your critique. “okay, then let’s get the artist and the critic in one shot. come on.”

“what? no.” you lean back, shaking your head as he switches his phone to selfie mode.

“yes,” he insists, already angling the phone to get both of you and your gingerbread houses in frame. “this is for the archives. future generations need to know who built these masterpieces.”

“future generations are going to laugh at yours,” you shoot back, but you lean in anyway.

jungwon tilts the phone slightly, and you realize how close you are when your cheek almost brushes his. your laughter dies down, replaced by a warmth that makes your stomach flutter.

“okay, smile,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself.

you glance at him instead of the camera, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s feeling the same thing you are.

then he snaps the picture and grins, pulling you out of your thoughts. “perfect,” he says, showing you the photo.

it’s cute. annoyingly cute. and the way his arm is casually slung around your shoulders doesn’t help the situation.

“all right, we’re done,” you announce, trying to shake off the tension.

jungwon raises an eyebrow. “done? we’re just getting started.” he uploads the picture to his finsta without hesitation, captioning it: couples who build together stay together.

your jaw drops, and you swat at him. “jungwon, what the hell?!”

he laughs, easily dodging you. “relax, y/n. it’s just my finsta. nobody cares.”

“oh, nobody cares? what about the word couples, huh?!” your voice pitches slightly, your face warming.

“what about it?” he counters, his expression too calm for your liking.

you pause, trying to think of a response, but the weight of the moment settles between you again.

“i—whatever,” you mutter, turning your attention back to the gingerbread kits to avoid looking at him.

jungwon watches you for a moment before grabbing his phone again. “okay, now let’s do this properly,” he says, standing up and heading toward the makeshift tripod he set up.

“do what properly?”

“matching pajamas, full couple vibes,” he explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “you wanted the experience, right?”

you huff but head to your room to change. when you come back, jungwon is already posing dramatically, pretending to lean on his gingerbread house like it’s a prize-winning sculpture.

“wow, someone’s really feeling himself,” you tease, but you can’t help smiling.

he flashes you his dimpled grin. “well, someone has to make this night memorable. now, get over here.”

you join him, and as the camera clicks away, you feel yourself relaxing again.

“these pictures better not end up anywhere else,” you warn as he scrolls through the shots.

jungwon just hums, clearly not listening, before setting his phone down. “hey,” he says suddenly, his voice softer now.

“what?” you ask, turning to look at him.

“thanks for letting me crash your night,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “i know this was kind of random.”

“are you kidding?” you laugh lightly. “you showed up with food, matching pajamas, and gingerbread houses. i should be thanking you.”

he meets your eyes then, and for a moment, it feels like the air is too thick to breathe. the playful banter fades, leaving only the unspoken tension that’s been building for weeks.

you open your mouth to say something, anything, but jungwon beats you to it.

“do you want to watch a movie or something?” he asks, his voice casual, like he’s trying to defuse the moment.

you nod, swallowing hard. “yeah. a movie sounds good.”

jungwon settles onto the couch first, stretching out like like a baby . “come here,” he says, opening his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

your breath catches. you’ve sat close to him before—legs over his lap, arms brushing, sharing blankets during movie nights. but this? this is new.

“you sure?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

he gives you a look, half amused, half serious. “i wouldn’t have asked if i wasn’t.”

with a small nod, you sit beside him, easing into his arms like you’ve been doing this your whole life. his chest is warm and steady beneath your cheek, and you can feel his heartbeat—a calm, unhurried rhythm that contrasts the storm swirling in your own.

you don’t realize how tired you’ve been until you let yourself relax against him. maybe it’s the rush of the evening catching up to you, or maybe it’s just jungwon. he has this way of making you feel safe, like nothing else in the world matters when you’re with him.

his fingers trace absent patterns along your arm, sending a quiet hum of comfort through your body. you yawn, trying to hide it, but jungwon chuckles softly.

“sleepy already?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

“shut up,” you mumble into his hoodie, your words muffled but not entirely untrue.

he doesn’t respond, just pulls you closer, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

the world narrows to this—his warmth, his scent, the way his chest rises and falls beneath you. you don’t even notice when your eyes flutter shut, the exhaustion winning over.

a moment passes, or maybe more. you’re not sure how long you’ve been drifting when you feel it—a gentle, almost hesitant pressure against your forehead.

you stir slightly, but you don’t open your eyes.

then, the kiss comes again. firmer this time, confident. jungwon’s lips linger just long enough to make your heart skip.

your eyes flutter open, and the world feels softer somehow, like everything has shifted in the quietest, most significant way. jungwon’s face is close, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you. but the space between you disappears, and suddenly, his lips are on yours.

it’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but when you kiss him back, the hesitance melts away. the kiss deepens, slow and sweet, carrying the weight of every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every moment that’s led to this.

when you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing a little harder, a little shakier.

“so,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “does this mean i won the gingerbread competition?”

jungwon chuckles softly, his fingers brushing against yours. “yeah,” he says, his voice warm and steady. “but i think i won something better.”

your heart stutters, his words washing over you like a confession wrapped in simplicity. you meet his gaze, and the way he’s looking at you—soft, steady, and so sure—makes it hard to breathe.

you don’t reply, because what could you possibly say? instead, you lean in, closing the space between you, your lips finding his again. it’s unhurried, sweet, and everything you’ve been too afraid to admit until now.

[sanjisleggy]

let your husband help you (shanks x reader)

eq: HELLO HELLO, GOD I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD YOUR REQUESTS OPEN, I LOVE YOUR WRITING OF SHANKS, I LOVE WHEN THEY PUT READER AS SHANKS' WIFE AHHH‼️‼️‼️‼️ something about shanks, with a fem!reader (if possible) that has wings and sometimes the wings with feathers require molting and there are areas that cannot be reached closer to the back and requires help to remove the loose feathers

a/n: (i am playing valorant as i write this help) ty for the request anon! :D the enthusiasm is very endearing ;;0;; hope you enjoy reading! also man i love writing for Shanks :3c

contents: a bit of angst (fem!reader is having a hard time), descriptions of itchiness and pain, comfort, fluff :D, a tad bit suggestive bc it’s Shanks

wc. 1.2k

wanna be on my taglist?

i.

these past few weeks have been torture. today especially so.

alone in your bedroom aboard the Red Force you writhe in itchiness and pain as your back aches in a way it hasn’t in a long time. lying face-down on your bed, you feel your wings twitch and tremble as you contort your arms to reach behind you as far as humanly possible; only to groan in defeat when the most you can do is brush the offending feathers with your fingertips.

for days now a small part of your brain has been nagging at you to go get Shanks for the sake of your poor back and wings but you’ve heard from your crewmates how busy he’s been so you’ve pushed the urge aside. now, though, the idea has forced its way to the forefront of your mind out of desperation, no doubt.

holding back a sob of frustration that threatens to make its way out of your throat, you nuzzle your face into your husband’s pillow, hoping that his scent can serve as a distraction of some kind. more than anything though, it simply acts as a poor placeholder for the real thing and only makes your aching heart (and wings) yearn for him even more.

“c’mon, (Y/N), don’t be shy,” his gentle voice called from outside the utility closet in which you’d chosen to hide–away from him. you felt your face heat up at Shanks’ persistence to help with something he wasn’t even totally aware of; he just knew you were in pain so he had to help.

“it’s okay, i can deal with it myself,” you lied, wincing when one of your wings brushed against a shelf behind you. most of the molting feathers had already been dealt with but your wings had grown a lot since the last time you molted and now they were far too big for your hands to reach. “just leave me alone.”

“if you don’t tell me what’s up, i’ll tell Rayleigh.”

“no!” you protested instantly. as much as you trusted the first mate of your crew with your life, this was far too embarrassing to get him involved. “if you tell anyone i’ll leave the crew, you asshole.”

you had meant it only as a false threat but the sudden silence told you Shanks took it a bit more seriously than you thought he would.

“okay, fine,” he replied and you could hear the pout on his face. “i just wanna help. there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. you know you can trust me to take care of you.”

a particularly sharp pain shoots through your spine from your right wing and the whine of discomfort slips past your lips before you can help yourself. too far gone to care about anyone hearing from outside your quarters, you let yourself sob aloud, the relief from crying doing little to ease your discomfort. 

the immense helplessness of your situation makes you realise how pampered you’ve been all these years. how lucky you are to have had such a loving friend-turned-lover who always took it upon himself to care for you. now here you are: alone in your bedroom, struggling with a task that you long should’ve learned how to deal with yourself.

you nearly give in to the urge to seek out the one person you trust to alleviate your pain but at this point, you’re too tired to even get off the bed. maybe it’s for the best, you wonder to yourself. your eyes flutter closed as you pull Shanks’ pillow a bit closer and bury your face deeper into it as you allow yourself to be lulled to sleep by your exhaustion, hoping that at least you can sleep away the next few hours of aches and itching.

ii.

letting out a sigh of relief, the one-armed Emperor takes his time returning to his ship after a grueling few weeks of settling disputes between several smaller pirate crews. normally such tasks would never take this long–hell, most of the time he didn’t even have to step in–but civilians’ lives were at stake so he had no choice.

now, as Shanks nears the dock and sees the Red Force coming into view, all he can think about is taking a nap with you. not only have his duties kept him away from you all day every day, he’d also been going to bed at ungodly hours, crawling under the sheets beside you long after you’ve fallen asleep. though he can’t wait to spend some quality time with you, he wants nothing more than to rest by your side with the knowledge that he’ll finally be able to wake up after you for once.

“hey Captain,” Benn calls out from aboard the deck once Shanks reaches speaking-distance. “i think (Y/N) needs your help.”

“see, what’d i say?” you could practically hear him smiling as he sat behind you, tenderly plucking out the final few loose feathers. “there’s no need to be shy around me.” Shanks tugged at a particularly stubborn feather and when it finally came loose, you couldn’t help the moan of relief that came out of your mouth.

you felt your cheeks rapidly heat up in shame as you buried your face in your hands, fully prepared for the boy to make fun of you. but it never came. instead, Shanks stayed quiet as he soothed the particular spot of skin with his fingers in a manner so tender you couldn’t believe it was him.

“there, all done,” he said. you were grateful but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around and face him even though you knew you had to in order to thank him properly. 

as though sensing your dilemma, Shanks leaned forward to press his lips against your shoulder blade, right above where your wings sprouted from your back. it sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps appeared all over but you didn’t tell him to stop, if anything, you wanted him to continue.

you’re ripped out abruptly from your dream when the door of your quarters slams shut. from your face-down position in bed, you’re unable to see who it is but only one person in this world would be brave enough to make such an entrance.

“welcome back,” you groan, using your arms to push the upper half of your body off the mattress as you turn your head to glance over your shoulder.

“why didn’t you call for me?” your husband responds, tossing his cape onto the floor before rushing over to guide you back down into a resting position. Shanks pulls over two other more pillows and places them in a way he knows, from years of experience, makes you the most comfortable. “how long have your wings been molting?” 

there’s a slight hint of frustration in his voice but you know it’s not directed at you. it doesn’t make you feel any less guilty, though.

“it started… two weeks ago…” you mumble into Shanks’ pillow.

“you–” he cuts himself off with a deep sigh before he says anything impulsive. the Emperor understands you just didn’t want to disrupt his work and he appreciates the sentiment greatly, he’d just hoped that after all these years of marriage, you’d know how he’d do quite literally anything for you. this, he decides as his eyes scan your twitching wings and tangled feathers, is a conversation for another day though.

“poor thing,” Shanks coos instead, leaning down to press kisses all over the back of your neck and around your shoulder blades as he runs his hand down your side. you can feel his lips smile against your skin when your body shivers in response. “you must’ve been in so much pain, hmm? let your husband help you out.” 

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