#like perhaps it just. burned him out for a while

[piroulinewafers]

hi hiiiii i’d like to make a zayne requestttt

set in university, he needs to study female anatomy, so reader offers herself up to be studied by him. naturally he needs to get up close and personal afterall, he’s a dedicated student ((:

hope this is okkkk <3

𝐚/𝐧: i wasn't sure if you wanted this to go in a particular direction ie extra smutty, so this is relatively tame. i know nothing about the body i literally had to look any medical terms i used up... so if they're wrong just pretend i'm right :p zayne is so cute i want to bite him...

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: zayne x fem! reader 𝐜𝐰: none. 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: open.

the library had grown almost eerily quiet. it was late— so late that even the most dedicated students had packed up for the night. only a few scattered figures remained, hunched over textbooks and laptops, slaving away at whatever morsel of work seemed to be occupying all of their attention.

she sat nervously across from zayne, picking at the frayed sleeve of her sweater. he looked so serious under the harsh fluorescent lights of the private study room, black hair slightly tousled and silver framed glasses slipping down his nose as he poured over dense medical diagrams.

he was only a few years older than her, but it always felt like there was a gulf between them. zayne had skipped grades, finished his undergrad years before she’d even finished high school, and now, in this strange pocket of time, where their paths had crossed again, he was already leaps and bounds ahead of her, nearly top of his class as a surgeon in the making while she was fumbling her way through her general studies.

she didn’t really get it… all that medical stuff. the complicated words, the long hours. but she understood him— the quiet way he carried his burdens, the care tucked behind his stoic looks.

and she wanted to help.

so when she heard him muttering under his breath about how the textbooks weren’t enough, how he needed a better grasp of female anatomy for surgical accuracy, the words had slipped out of her mouth before she could think better of it,

“i-i could help you. if you want.”

zayne’s head jerked up sharply, hazel-green eyes wide behind his glasses. “what?” he questioned, brows drawn to a furrow. it was clear now that he had merely been muttering to himself.

if anything, zayne hadn’t had any sort of idea in mind on how to get that better understanding he so deeply craved, an insatiable, unbearable desire for knowledge. he’d just have to go looking for another textbook or a better reference, or perhaps a more detailed, recently-dated study. but this…

“that’s not necessary.”

“but i want to,” she said quickly, cheeks burning. “i mean… it if helps you study, i don’t mind.”

she regretted the clumsy way it came out almost instantly. her stomach twisting in embarrassment. 

but zayne just stared at her for a long moment, studying her face like he was searching for any trace of hesitation. after a long pause and an unreadable look, he pushed up his sleeves slowly and quietly set down his pen.

“alright. but you have to tell me if you’re uncomfortable. immediately.”

she nodded, swallowing hard.

to her surprise, zayne didn’t hesitate once he had her permission. he pushed his chair closer, knees brushing hers under the table, his hands— large, scarred, steady— hovered just over her, seeking silent permission to touch her. 

when she gave the faintest nod, he got to work.

first, he pushed up the hem of her sweater with careful fingers, revealing the soft skin of her waist. she shivered partly from the cool air, partly from how serious he looked, completely focused on her like she was the only thing in the world.

she hadn’t really thought about what helping would mean. she thought maybe he would ask a few questions, maybe vaguely point at her stomach or something.

instead, zayne leaned in, so closeshe could see the faint lines of exhaustion under his eyes, the faint flush creeping up the back of his neck.

“this is the costal margin,” he murmured, fingers gliding along the underside of her ribs. his touch was clinical but held a lingering gentleness that made her heartache.

“and here,” he said, fingers skating over her hip bone, “is the iliac crest.”

she bit her lip to stifle a gasp.  he was… really hands on. there was no embarrassment on his face— only the same cool, unwavering concentration he gave his textbooks. as if understanding her body was as serious as learning how to save a life.

her hands fisted in her lap as he mapped the curve of her waist, his palm flattening lightly over her lower stomach. 

he glanced up as she tensed, his face immediately softening, brows furrowing with concern. 

“am i hurting you?”

“n-no,” she stammered out. “just… surprised.”

zayne hesitated. then, almost shyly, he admitted, “i need to feel the structures directly. palpation is critical for diagnosis. but if you wish to stop, i will.”

she shook her head a little too hurriedly, cheeks burning. “i… i said i’d help, zayne.”

a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth— the smallest, softest expression, like sunlight peeking through a crack in winter ice.

he continued, slower now, as if savouring each careful touch. “can you stand up?” 

she obeyed, tugging self-consciously at the hem of her sweater as she rose to her feet, the chair’s legs scratching against the floor. 

zayne adjusted his silver glasses with a careful hand, stepping close— close enough that she could feel the brush of his breath against the top of her head, that she could catch the way his pale ears had turned a faint pink under the fluorescent lights.

“turn around,” he murmured, already moving to position her by her shoulders. his touch was featherlight but firm, guiding her to face away from him. she swallowed thickly, her heart thudding as she stared at the blank wall.

“you said you would assist,” he reminded her, not unkindly at noticing her hesitation.

“yeah,” she whispered.

“flex forward slightly,” he instructed. “at the waist.” his hands were steady as he mapped her back, pressing lightly along her spine after bunching up her sweater.

she obeyed, bending forward awkwardly. 

zayne’ bent behind her a bit now, fingers skimming down the subtle ridge of her vertebrae, murmuring the names under his breath: “thoracic… lumbar…” 

he sounded almost reverent. 

“you have a very… delicate frame,” he said, suddenly, and she heard the slip in his voice— the way it thickened just slightly at the edges, like he was battling himself.

she stayed still, heart hammering, unsure what to say. “thank you…?”

almost abruptly, zayne cleared his throat. “straighten.”

she did as he said again, feeling the warmth of him at her back. he stepped around to face her again, unusually stiff in his movements. 

his fingers brushed against the hem of her sweater, pausing— giving her a chance to back out. when she didn’t move, he pushed it up carefully, baring her stomach to the cool air of the room.

she shivered, both from the temperature and from the sensation of zayne’s careful hands settling firmly against her lower abdomen. 

his palms were broad and steady, thumbs spreading lightly over the soft dip just below her navel.

“relax,” he murmured, his head bowed.

relax? how was she supposed to relax when he was touching her like that? she squeezed her eyes shut, desperately trying to block out the warm, expensive scent of his cologne— something dark and clean and dizzyingly good— and the way she wanted to instinctively lean into him.

zayne pressed gently, his fingers tracing along the natural ridges of her body, napping the planes of her abdomen with slow, thoughtful movements. 

“the rectus abdomens is here,” he said quietly, to himself mostly, thumb brushing a slow line just above her hip.

she whimpered— barely a sound— but it was enough.

zayne’s hands froze instantly, his entire body stiffening.

she kept her eyes shut, mortified, praying he hadn’t notice the pathetic sound that had spilled past her lips— but she could feel the tension in the air, the way his breath hitched slightly against her skin, the way he was staring holes through her.

when he spoke again, his voice was lower, hoarser.

“did i hurt you?” he asked, the bluntness of his words belying the fragile concern within them.

“n-no,” she managed, voice breaking a little. he hesitated, then resumed his slow, methodical exploration, hands moving higher to splay across the shallow curve of her waist. 

“obliques,” he murmured, his fingertips pressed in just slightly, feeling the muscles beneath.

she bit her lips hard, her fists clenching at her sides. it wasn’t just how warm and how steady his touch was— it was the way he handled her, like she was a precious tool to be studied, understood, memorized.

her heart was going to break through her ribs if this kept up.

“you are… “ he said after a moment, voice low and almost grudging, “a very cooperative subject.”

she dared to open her eyes just a sliver, a breathless little laugh leaving her, a bit awkward in response. she didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched— a suppressed smile, maybe— before he forced his expression back to its usual neutral setting.

slowly, almost reluctantly, zayne stepped back, arms falling to his sides.

“you’ve helped enough for tonight,” he said, voice rougher than before. “thank you.”

she nodded mutely, still reeling from the intimate gravity of it all. as she gathered her things with trembling hands, zayne lingered awkward by the door. then, just before they parted ways, glasses askew, he said very quietly:

“if you would be willing… i’d appreciate your help again tomorrow.”

her lips wobbled into a tiny, breathless smile. she couldn't say no to him. 

[luluahxo]

love letters never sent

5k - lee heeseung x reader - 18+ smut

note: didn't proof read this at all, its kind of a selfish work, love u all always

His touch was fire to your skin, burning you alive in feverish bliss. Holding onto the softness of his bambi eyes before he’d leave again like you knew he would, you stared deeply into them as if to ingrain the sight into the back of your eyelids. That way you could close your eyes and admire it in his absence. Living like this was hell, but a hell so sweet you let it rot your teeth and numb your mind. 

Your back hit the wall as he pressed against you with a roughness that made you dizzy. In this spell you muttered his name like a mantra, a plea, a bargain, to just stay a little longer.

“Heeseung.”

His lips brushed against yours, fanning warm breath you inhaled. 

His smile was sweetness itself. He knew you existed wrapped around his pinky. 

He tortured your soul mercilessly.

A cruel lover. 

But Heeseung was yours since the day at the beach house. He was yours through the seasons. He was yours when he played those notes on the grand piano in the living room where the window gazed upon the beach waves. Love’s Sorrow, a piece you heard on the violin only once before, he played for you on the piano from pure memory. He had you trapped since then. 

Perhaps it was before then though. Maybe it was the day your eyes first laid upon each other. 

A week into traveling solo you saw him across the restaurant, both of you sitting on your own. Heeseung was waiting for someone though, you knew he was, he told you later that night. 

The dimness of the restaurant illuminated the light in his eyes, you couldn’t help but look at him throughout the entire evening. Occasionally he’d look up at you too but otherwise he would play with the silverware or gaze at the marina, his chin resting on his hand. 

On your fourth glass of wine and his almost fortieth minute waiting lonesomely, he approached you. 

“Did you get stood up too?”

You never met a stranger so bold,

nor beautiful.

The tie around his collar was pulled loose, his cheeks were rosy, tinted by the sun's heat but still present in the night, and his eyes glossy. 

Humbled you looked up at him, pushing the hair out of your face in an attempt to look more sober.

“No, I’m here on my own”, you laughed softly.

Heeseung’s eyes widened so prettily your mind skipped his words and remained trained on his expression while he invited himself to sit down in front of you. 

“You’re too pretty to be on your own?”

You laughed at his flattery, no hesitation to flutter your heart with cheap words. Were you always this weak for a handsome face?

His elbows were now resting on the table as he leaned in, showing you an intoxicating smile.

“But I should've known, no one would stand you up.”

You swirled your glass of wine, anything to occupy your hands and line of sight.

“Have a drink with me”, you countered. 

Oh, what a mistake. You were beyond tipsy by the end of the night and Heeseung, who only had one drink, was perfectly sober. You remember the fabric of your dress bunched up in his hands as he carried you along the marina, your legs far too gone to walk with. He said he had a beach house nearby he’d been staying in for the past couple days, he came here often when he wanted a getaway and he could take you back with him.

Your heart dropped slightly as you wondered if he only wanted to sleep with you, but his eyes looked down at you with an expression so clear and genuine that you decided to be a fool and believe. You wrapped your arms around his neck tighter and fell into the strangers embrace, 

“Take me back to your beach house.”

God was it a memory you’ll never forget. The beach house had more windows than anything where it faced the ocean. The view faced you that night as Heeseung played old records and you slumped against the couch. 

After a couple minutes he pulled you up by the hands and waist, asking you to dance. The floor was cold against your bare feet, the only warmth was when you’d mess up and step on Heeseung’s shoes. Spinning in circles to Francis Lai, it was slow, the kind of music that evokes a feeling of nostalgia. You swayed in his arms and thought, getting to know him more wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning you were facedown in his bed.

Alone.

The cycle began like that. You spent the days at his beach house, given mirages tinted with love wistfully contained in his nature. And every night, you’d make love. 

You were never the kind of girl who could easily become intimate but his touch rendered you defenseless. It began with a kiss, one to your forehead, the next on your nose, and lastly your lips. It was pure softness when your lips were against one another before his tongue broke the seal, crossing the boundary between a kiss and the desire for more. What started slow and gentle became fervent and needy. His lips all over your collarbones, fingertips bruising your skin through the fabric of your dress with a firm hold, his scent reminiscent of sandalwood, it laid way to your ruin. The intensity in his touch wrinkled your dress to the point it may as well come off, only your stomach was spared any sense of modesty as he turned you over, ass in the air, knees pressed into the sheets of his bedroom. You couldn’t see when he took his pants off but you felt the weight of his cock on the bottom of your back, sliding over your entrance back and forth against the wetness that with each of his movements dripped down the inside of your thighs. It was the only night he ever fucked you without foreplay. The pain of him driving into you contorted into pleasure as he continued to thrust against the most pleasurable spots with ease. You had to rub against your own clit to climax as Heeseung came inside you twice, overfilling you with cum from his pent up libido. His sex was neglectful yet addicting. Your body collapsed into the sheets, his stamina was incomparable to yours. With his mouth he cleaned up the mess between your legs, aching with sensitivity you knew you’d never be as intimate with anyone else. Your cunt was spread with his tongue, lapping against your clit to inside you with an insatiable hunger. It was as if he could never be fully satisfied. A pretty moan vibrated through his throat as he drank you up. You felt your cunt clench despite being fucked out as his mouth built up the arousal in you all over again. Instead of going for another round Heeseung laid next to you, bringing your face that was nestled in the sheets towards him while brushing your hair out of your face and kissing your lips softly with a faint bite. You could taste the mix of your own arousal and his. His heavy lidded eyes bore into you with an expression you prayed could become love. Sex and love lived separately from one another but for you the line between them was blurred. Your heart was open, bleeding onto the sheets dangerously, all he had to do was embrace it just as he embraced your body.

You fell asleep looking into his round eyes, the ones that absolved you of all rationality.

During the daytime you’d watch him walk by the shoreline. His glasses sat low on the slope of his nose and the wind blew the baggy button up exposing his clavicle. From afar he was a peaceful sight. The rising sun made him glow like he was heaven sent. So unattainable but within your reach. 

When he’d come back to the house from his walks he’d play the piano, eat with you, read with you, lay with you, but the escape had to end at some point. Summer wasn’t endless, and Heeseung was the first to go. He said you could keep staying at the beach house until the day of your flight, he left you a spare key, his phone number, and a kiss. 

You didn’t understand what exactly was between you and Heeseung that summer, it was never clearly defined, he never told you he liked you let alone loved you. He never even asked you out on a date or proposed dating.

And when you got back to your apartment he never reached out.

Truth was, neither did you. You only stared at his number, the last few texts between the both of you simple. You spent your days like this, going to work and once home daydreaming, waiting for him. His hold on your mind was debilitating. When you’d walk down the sidewalks under your umbrella you imagined him next to you in the rain. Before picking up any call you pretended it’d be his name on the screen. You saw his face in strangers who walked and moved the same, you wondered if that meant he was unique from the others but soon you realized you sought him out in every person you saw. He was a ghost following you throughout the month. 

It was the middle of the night when he first reached out to you. Only the second time he rang your phone did you wake up and answer without even checking the contact.

“Hello?”

His voice was strained, distant and nostalgic like the music he’d play.

‘Heeseung?”

“Sorry I've been gone for so long, but I wanted to see you.” 

You sat up, too groggy to fully appreciate the sound of his voice that you couldn’t even imagine after how much time had passed between the two of you. 

“Where are you?”

His words were heavy like honey, “I’ll be wherever you are.”

Soon after he was at your door, head to the sky admiring the moonlight while he waited for you to open the door. 

Nobody knew. Nobody knew he was at your door, or about the beach house, nor how pathetically you fell into his arms. All the words you held back bundled up into a knot inside your throat and accumulated into one wish, his love.

In front of you were the eyes you cherished, now looking down at you. Fate sealed with a kiss, you let him into your space. 

"I've missed you”, he whispered into the crook of your neck. His face lifted to face you again, shadowed by the dimness of your apartment. His fingertips slipped between yours, lifting them to his mouth and kissing each knuckle tenderly. 

At his three simple words you felt yourself collapse from the inside. 

You traced his features with your free hand, the sharpness of his nose, faint flutter in his lashes, his adams apple, back up to cradle his jaw. Heeseung watched you in silence as you made him a personal spectacle. He was ephemeral, passing with the wind, you needed him lastingly. 

“How long will you stay?” 

He never answered, you just both sat on the floor by the fridge, cold knees on the hardwood. His own hands were cold as the tips of his fingers slipped beneath your thighs and snaked around your back to carry you like the day you first met. 

The bed was only a few paces away up the loft stairs where he placed you down, now above you. 

“Are you still mine?” He murmured. 

Your nod was meek but Heeseung still noticed.

“Then I’ll stay forever.”

With your arms around his neck you fell into a familiar place, the one between his body and suffocated by the overwhelming nature of his allure. His pretty words, pretty face, there's no escape. His lips are featherlight on your skin, he caresses you. Heeseung adored you throughout the night, the resonance of his heartbeat against your chest like a lullaby, but in the morning as always, he’s gone. 

His presence is wiped clean to the point you wonder if you're going insane, was it a dream while in reality he was never there? But he was, because flowers started to come to your door almost weekly, small bouquets of lilies, a notecard, H dot Lee. The flowers took up the space he left empty without explanation. You flipped the notecard hoping for a message but there was nothing. It was minimal but every bouquet at the door was a reminder that while you lost your mind and dignity over him he still thought of you. So you watered each week's lilies, placed them in the only vase you had and kept the spot in your heart open for him.

Every thought of yours about him was tinged with guilt, when you were out for brunch with your friends you found yourselves connecting the conversation to him. 

“I think it’s obvious you’re not his main girl, he keeps you on the side.”

“You’re telling me I’m the other woman?”

“Well yeah, no one treats a girl they take seriously like that.”

You sipped quietly on your drink while observing the conversation. 

Were you the other woman with Heeseung? Your stomach turned sick with speculation. 

“What do you think?”, your friend asked.

“You deserve better.” 

Three words easy to tell her but hard to give yourself. 

When you got home you twirled the beach house key between your fingers. Heeseung never asked for it back, you could’ve given it yourself but you didn’t. Maybe if he stopped by again you would. You watched the setting sun hit the metal through the window as it spun on the key ring back and forth.

Why couldn’t he just be a bit more loving. 

It was alright.

It was ok.

You put the key in your bedside drawer and let your head rest as you melted into memories of happier days. Heeseung left you one text a day ago, “When can I see you again?”

It felt foolish to answer, you wanted to see him again and he could see you anytime but you knew better. 

If he really cared anyway he’d try harder to contact you. 

The next morning you got ready for work in the lab, walking slowly down the sidewalks towards the bus station. The wind was crisp, beating at your back as October settled in. The summer was just a memory now. 

The faintly sterile smell of the lab filled your nostrils as you arrived and you fell into the rhythm of centrifuging samples, pipetting, running gels, again, and again. By the end of the shift you were exhausted from the repetitiveness and said your goodbyes to your colleagues. Before you could go, Sunghoon, one of your seniors, reached out to you. 

“Since it’s Friday everyones going out for drinks, do you wanna come?”

You usually never said yes to their offers but tonight you might as well need it. 

All their talk at the bar went over your head, you were a lightweight, gone after just two and a half drinks. 

Sunghoon sipped on his beer and turned to you, his thick brows furrowed into an expression of intrigue.

“Are you already drunk?”

You nodded very, very slowly. It felt like your head was ten pounds heavier. His laugh was toothy, sharp canines peaking through.

“Wow, I knew you were a lightweight but the night just started.”

You laughed along at nothing, perhaps yourself. The more drinks were passed around, people talked, and you remained sat as the air became stuffy. Only more people filed in, overcrowding the place.

You tapped Sunghoon who was talking about how his PCR kept failing. He was obviously killing the mood by still bringing up the lab work he couldn’t get off his mind. He turned to look down at you with a questioning look.

“Come with me to get some air.”

Sunghoon obliged, getting up and placing his hand on your back to move you through the bustling atmosphere. The moment you reached outside the air was refreshing, cold soothing your mind. 

He leaned back against the brick and lifted his chin to the sky, looking at the almost full moon.

You looked at his side profile, the way he gazed up reminded you of Heeseung despite them not looking alike. 

You’ve known Sunghoon for a while now though. When you first landed the job after graduation he was already there, always immersed in his work barely uttering a whisper in the lab but going on tangents constantly about work outside. It seemed to be his livelihood meanwhile you were hoping to eventually go back to school. The contrast between the two of you was stark but you still got along well, at team events you stayed close and in a simple way understood one another. Sunghoon bordered on friend and colleague. So much so that he noticed when something was off about you.

“You seem different lately.”

You hummed, “Really, how?”

“Ever since you came back from vacation you just seem more and more out of it when I see you.”

“Ah, am I that much of an open book.”

Sunghoon looked back down at you.

“What’s going on?”

You tilted your head towards your shoulder, scratching slightly against the ridges in the brick.

To explain yourself would be to reveal the humiliating secrets that gnawed at you lately in ways they shouldn’t. Sunghoon wouldn’t understand anyway, he didn’t understand the complexity of the emotional value things had. He viewed everything objectively. 

So you shrugged your shoulders and spoke sobered words, “I guess I’m just tired lately.”

“After vacation?”

“Hey, it's been two months.”

“Ok, ok. As long as you’re okay.”

“I wish I could be like you.”

Sunghoon’s eyes widened at your sudden confession.

“What?”

“You know, grounded, level headed, not easily swayed.”

Sunghoon scoffed with realization, “Ha, so something is wrong? You wouldn’t say all that for no reason.”

“Yeah, you’re a pretty shitty guy”, you laughed.

“Shut up.”

You smacked his back playfully, almost stumbling on the pavement, Sunghoon caught you by the waist before you could embarrass yourself. 

“I forgot you’re actually drunk, I’ll take you home.”

You swung your arms up feeling the cool breeze on your skin, you were done with this outing.

“Let's go.”

Sunghoon waved down a taxi and in the backseat you stared out to the lit up city, lively in the dead of night. You looked over to see Sunghoon doing the same as were, gazing off into the blurred scenery. In silence you leaned over, letting your head rest on his shoulder. Sunghoon let out a small hum in question as you stayed in place.

“Just tell me it’ll be okay,” you whispered faintly “That it's all going to pass.”

His response was slow but genuine.

“It all does”, Sunghoon answered. 

When the cab arrived at your apartment, Sunghoon bid you farewell, you stumbled between grass and pavement until you came to your door. 

There was a man, head in arms, sitting by the entrance, with an oh so familiar face, oh so haunting, heart wrenching really. You knelt down to face him, his big eyes locking with yours.

“Heeseung?”

He took a deep breath, looking you up and down before speaking.

“Who was that man?”

“A colleague, my friend. How long have you been here for?”

“I called you, you know. Even texted but you never answered.”

“You don’t even live around here, why are you here?”

“I wanted to see you.”

It was simple like that for him. He didn’t hesitate when he wanted something like you did. So he was at your door, waiting to get what he wanted. You let him in, and he looked just as beautiful as he did that summer night. The rosiness of his cheeks were gone but his clear features all blended into one stunning mosaic. Your face was hot and tears welled up through your throat, you weren’t sober enough to hold your heart back.  

“Do you see other women?”

Heeseung leaned back on the kitchen counter, confusion washing over his expression. 

“What are you talking about?”

“You only come around when you want.”

His words fell flat.

“I’m busy.”

“But you never say that! You never say anything.”

Heeseung looked down at the floor.

“I sent you flowers.”

You fell onto the couch, tears falling without restraint. You usually weren’t like this, you were able to remain composed no matter what but it seemed everything had to shatter today. Heeseung came toward you, wiping the tears beneath your eyes with his thumbs. He let you pour them out onto his chest as he whispered fragile apologies. What did anything really mean to him? 

Heeseung was charming, tempting, and addictive. He knew what to say and what not to say but what was truly going on inside his mind? When he’d play melodies on the piano what was he thinking, or what made him pick his favorite records? What was the reason he always had to leave? 

“I don’t want your flowers, or your beach house key, I just want you to be with me the way you’re supposed to be.”

Looking up from his tear stained chest you saw the light glimmer within his eyes, reflecting unsaid emotion.

“You don’t love me the way you’re supposed to”, your voice broke.

Heeseung consoled you the only way he knew how, with the softness of his lips.

“There’s no one but you”, he muttered, “No one.”

His touch was gentle to your aggrieved heart, only the lightest of kisses graced your face. He kissed you numb until you both fell asleep there on the couch. 

At dawn your eyes opened to him by your side, the first time you witnessed him asleep. There’s a melancholy in his sleeping face, like everything caught up to him in his dreams and disturbed the peace. Just as the moonlight he’s entrancing in the sun too. Pushing the stray hairs away from his forehead you continued to cherish the sight of him. 

The day passed by slowly, as you clung to his skin with a love that never dulled with distance or time. It was reminiscent of your days spent in the beach house, although there was no piano for Heeseung to play or vinyls to spin, only what was yours in your space. There was a slight hangover from the night before but to get through it was simple with the presence of Heeseung who you longed for devastatingly. 

Heeseung is attentive in nature. He boils the soup for your headache with care, neatly putting every ingredient back and making sure you enjoy the taste. He smiles romantically with his teeth and eyes. The clothes he wears tend to be very baggy but the frame beneath is solid, noticeable through the layers. When the sun comes in it reveals the reddish tint in his hair. All your observations about him pile up as you sink into the couch and watch him move around you. 

The weekend is too short, no amount of time is enough with Heeseung but your spirits are lifted embarrassingly high, so much so that Sunghoon notices. You don’t tell him that Heeseung invited you up to his house in the north, or that you had one of the best weekends you’ve had in a while. You wrap your love up into a secret and place it in the house on a hill. 

The bus towards Heeseung’s house drove through mountainous valleys, covered in greenery, surprisingly lush in the month of October. Each rock and jolt of the bus made you feel alive, a similar sensation to when you began traveling on your own, except this time you had someone to go to. You know that the most formative years you spent were on your own but introducing a new face into your life taught you about sides of yourself you never had to face until the relationship. The romantic parts of you were so underdeveloped because of this, and you fell so hard, loved so passionately, hurt far too deeply. Staring at Heeseung next to you, you wondered if by the end he’d destroy you entirely or give you everything you ever wanted. Either was okay by you. 

The house sits far up the hills, wooden and cozy. The rain is constant and so the two of you remain contained between the walls for what lasts a week. Heeseung enjoys music deeply, he plays the piano practically as soon as you arrive. There’s an emotion in the way Heeseung plays every opus, you hear it no matter the kind of piece. Sometimes it makes you want to cry and you don’t know why. He’ll ask why your eyes have become so red and you’ll have no answer other than it sounded too beautiful. To tear up would be the only proper reaction. Beautiful is a redundant word with Heeseung, it always comes to mind when he’s around. He lives and moves in beauty. It feels mythical the way he perfects everything, like poetry in motion. There’s parts of him revealed in the tunes, depths you can’t yet make sense of. 

But why? Why does it hurt even when you’re happy?

Like a masochist, you drown in it. 

Every moment feels fleeting with Heeseung even though he promises it’ll last. He says you’re his girl and it’s all you wanted to hear but it’s not. Couldn’t he say he loves you? Something official, cemented, real. Instead you float around in dreams he curates specially for you, and they’re lovely. He cooks for you, even though his range is limited, he kisses you, he holds you, plays music for you, watches movies with you, but he doesn’t share himself with you. There’s only the glimpses you see of Heeseung when he falls deeply into the music. It’s a heavy feeling when you start to think you don’t know him like you want to, and it's because he refuses to share those genuine parts that would truly connect the two of you. You hate it. But you love him. It hurts, it hurts so badly. Even if you contort yourself in a million ways, you know you’re pounding at a chained and locked door. Why is it so easy to share his body but not his soul? Are both not valuable? Heeseung holds you, he kisses you, he has eyes that adore you. His eyes adore you, rather the shell that holds you. So for the week you love him like you’re mourning him. Talk about all the things you and him will never do, turn him into a memory. There’s no upper hand here, you’re both such unfortunate losers. The last night at the house you watched his sleeping face. Just as before it carried an aching sorrow, so different from his smiling face in the daylight. Your tears above him looked as if they came from his own eyes, the eyes that when open carried sweetness so much so it’d be palatable on the tip of your tongue forever. 

By the morning you were gone.

How often have you spent mornings all on your own? This bitter cycle has a sense of nostalgia to it. 

They’re adding new facilities to the lab. Sunghoon is excited. Sunghoon’s PCR hasn’t failed. Oh, he’s even more joyous. You walk with a weight. You don’t want to ruin his happiness so you talk with Sunghoon who never lets out a word in the lab about the news. But it seems you’ve created a level of transparency beyond glass when you unfortunately run into your colleague drunk on the sidewalks you’ve wandered for hours you can’t count. You see the happiness you wish never faded go so instantly. He’s worried for you. Whether it was the liquor or a need deep inside of you to reveal your shortcomings you tell Sunghoon everything, how you loved where there is no love, hoped where rationality reigned, and bargained in a closed market. How you didn’t ever come around for yourself but only ran away because you were afraid, afraid to see who you are when the care flickers away from his eyes and you’re left with the pathetic reflection of yourself. Scared to see who you become when the ephemeral lover disappears first. 

Surprisingly Sunghoon is empathetic, and his words are painfully consoling.

“You know feelings aren’t just pretty metaphors. They have meaning, yet somehow you belittle them so well while at the same time trapping yourself in them. It was all real, and everything real passes. So live with the pain, and you’ll wake up one day realizing it’s distant.”

“Do you know from experience?”

Sunghoon laughed, the kind of ‘there’s more than you’ll ever know’ laugh.

“I think it’s inevitable.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“Maybe you are, but really it’s normal.”

You teased and talked while walking along the sidewalk until Sunghoon offered you a taxi home. You took the taxi by yourself, looking at the city while your mind ran through a million thoughts. You hadn’t spoken to Heeseung for weeks at this point, even when he reached out you stared at the screen as if paralyzed. Time went on that way, hauntingly slow, and devastatingly empty without the boy you shouldn’t have loved. The days carried on, almost blurring into one another but you made it through. You got ready, walked to the bus, went to work, came home, ate, slept, the cycle was keeping you on. You got ready, opened the door and saw a bouquet, lilies, H dot Lee. You were about to leave them in your place when you saw a note. Heeseung wasn’t the kind to leave a note, or any sentiment really. Your heart skipped pitiably fast and immediately your hand reached to read the card. 

“I think you hate my flowers but we haven’t spoken for long. I could come to your door but I get the feeling you’re done with me since you left. I won’t ask you why, I know you to be someone who acts with reason. But you know you can come back to me whenever you like, the beach house key is yours. There’s not much I have to offer but all that is me is yours. I’ve loved to be loved by you and I live with love of memories from you. Just don’t forget me, I’d like this one thing.”

Your tears watered the flowers without restraint. It was a feeling so viscerally felt within you. Because if the world was yours he’d forever stay, and you’d have known him like no one else. All your shameful desires flood back and release through your reddened eyes. It resounds within you painfully. Of course you loved him more than he loved you. You’ve never been cared for the way you dreamed of. Your love has been misused, your heart is becoming blue from restlessly beating. He could've stroked your hair, maybe for a while hold you tight, no need to make love. The memories are clear of orange rays illuminating the scene of him releasing his tension within you. None of these pretty things makeup for it all. 

And so, you live with words you’ll never say.

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER NINETEEN

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | 18+ MDNI | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, fluff angst & eventual smut, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment, flashbacks, implied past SA “Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 2ND 2024 MANCHESTER, 1100 HOURS

The heel of Simon's boot taps repetitively against a wooden floor.  

Around him, the coffee shop buzzes with the sound of people.  It's not too crowded, and he's picked a couple of seats by the window, allowing the warm midday sunlight to pour in.  It falls across his hands as they sit on the surface of the table.  Fingers bite into his palms leaving little crescents in their wake.  There’s still dirt and blood under his nails from Mexico, his efforts to scrub them clean futile.  Not that they’d look pretty, anyway; little bruises, marks, and chips still marking a couple of them.

Across from his hands is his empty cup of tea; and further back from that is the cup of coffee that has long past gone cold.  It strikes him, in that moment, that you might not be coming after all.  That perhaps it was out of line for him to text you, or maybe he did it too soon, not giving you enough time to think.  Or maybe he shouldn’t have taken your number from Price at all.  Fuck.  Do you even still like coffee?

He checks his phone for the umpteenth time.  He can't remember the last time he was ever excited to get a text message, but here he is, anxious to bits over someone who probably doesn't want anything more to do with him.  Seeing no new messages, he sighs and sits back in the seat.  It creaks under his weight.

You've been discharged; is what Price told Simon just three days ago.  Awarded a few metals for your work—for saving his sorry ass and yet, he still finds himself hesitant to face you.  He figured you’d put up more of a fight for your title, for your job, but judging by Price’s words it sounds like you were quick to make peace with your retirement.  Quick to recover, to settle, to move on.  In Manchester of all places.  It gives him a little hope.

Getting you better was a long and arduous process.  A ruptured lung, busted ribs and damaged organs—the report feels like looking in a mirror.  His heart breaks all over again every time the thought surfaces that, now, you both have matching scars.  Now, you are up and walking and thriving again, after a month of pneumonia, countless surgeries, and physical therapy. 

He would know; having spent his entire medical leave with you while you were still unconscious in the hospital.  He’d drink until they’d kick him out of bars and then show up at the hospital the next morning just to stare at you; the tubes in your mouth and IV in your arm.  The beep of your vitals, the sweat on your brow, and the machine rise and fall of your chest.  The fluorescent lights always made his headache flare, the curtains on the window pulled shut because he’s watched how the sunlight makes your eyelids twitch in similar discomfort.

Think.  Process. 

He did a lot of that, during those long couple months.

When you woke up, got better, he backed off.  Kept watch from a distance through Price and Soap who still visited you once every week or so.  The Lieutenant was nothing short of relentless: going so far as to linger outside the hospital until one of them returned with an update, but refusing to go inside.

He couldn’t.  Didn’t know how you’d react, seeing him.  Wasn’t sure where he stood.

Look, just give 'er space, was Soap’s advice the first night Simon grilled him about his visits.  After one too many drinks, Simon spilled his guts; from meeting your gaze at Camp Viking to when you stopped breathing in his arms.  Soap, the actual fucking saint that he was, sat and listened the whole way through.  When she's well again, go find her.

He did.

He cleaned himself up and stopped drinking, staying sober long enough to look some-what alive again.  He even stopped smoking.  He sent you a text yesterday upon hearing you were in the city.  You left him on read.

But still, he sits.  

He waits.

He gives in, eventually.  Deciding you’re not coming, he stands from his seat and heads outside.  It’s colder out; the kind of chilly that bites at your nose and ears every time a light breeze sweeps through, and he shifts to an alleyway between buildings.  It's refreshing.  Nostalgic, in a way.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and finds that there’s a few stale, ruffled cigarettes there that had fallen out of his last pack.  He takes the dusty lighter from his pocket.  Your lighter, the one you lent him and he never gave back.  Or maybe he purposefully took it.  He doesn’t remember.  He turns it over in his hand, the cold metal dented and scratched.  Simon hesitates for only moment; he’s nearly a week clean now.

Fuck that.

It lights up the dim area with a few small clicks, shaky hands yanking his balaclava up over his nose and holding the small cigarette to his mouth. 

He smokes.  

He watches people pass.

He’s nearly three deep before he finally catches it.  You, pausing at the mouth of the alleyway, eyes widening a little as you happen to look up from your phone to catch his gaze.  He nearly chokes.

You look healthier, as to be expected.  For once, your skin isn't flushed from the cold or covered in scratches.  There's no mud in your hair and your eyes are bright, lacking the bags he had grown so accustomed to seeing in the time he had known you.  Wrapped in a hoodie and a windbreaker, a beanie over your head.

Simon is so overcome with such a strange concoction of emotions that he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.  Relief, happiness, excitement...  He's overcome with the urge to do something.  Rush forwards and hug you, kiss your face, tell you everything he feels for you and that he is infinitely, debilitatingly, irrevocably fucking sorry for everything.

Instead, he just stands there.  A stare-off commences as both parties regard one another.  The bell above the front door of the coffee shop chimes.  A car honks down the street.

Then, a step forward.  Another.  His legs carry him to you, and before he can gather himself enough to stop his arms are wrapped tight around your shoulders.  You let out a breath of surprise as he buries his face in your shoulder, stumbling back a step or two.

Then, slower, you return the gesture.  Arms wrapping around his chest.  "Ghost."

A shaky breath.  "Angel."

"You okay?"

He lets it out slowly through his nose, loosening his grip as he speaks into your shoulder.  "Yes…yeah.  You just…"

The words catch on a lump in his throat.  He clears it, but it doesn’t help much.  He’s smoked almost half a pack of cigarettes, just now, and it sits heavy in his lungs.  He probably smells like it, too.

He backs off after a moment.  Hands on your shoulders to properly see you.

“The fuck are you doing in Manchester?”

You chuckle, resting your hands over his. “Looking for you, dumbass.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, love,”  he sighs and hugs you again.  "...You look well."

You hum in amusement, reaching up to adjust his mask.

“So do you,”  you say, and he’s not sure if you're just saying that to be polite or not.  “Back to the old one, eh?”

He lets out a breath.  He’s just wearing the balaclava; the one you knew from Camp Viking.  The skull on it has faded to a dull grey from sitting in his footlocker for years, only getting use during rarer moments like these.  Funerals, bars, hospitals…and now, reunions.

“Easier to wear in public,”  he explains, backing away again to tug at the fabric.  “‘Less people looking at me like I’m mad.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head.  He feels the tension in his shoulders ease as you smile at him.

“You are mad, Simon.”

“Maybe,”  he quips, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lip.  “But they don’t need to know that.”

You scoff softly.  A moment of quiet passes and it's not as awkward as Ghost imagined.  Just…contemplative. Like he’s not the only one who doesn’t quite know what to say.  His hands fall from your shoulders as he lets out a breath.

Still, you’re the first to break the silence.

“You were there,”  you murmur.  “At the hospital.”

This surprises him.  He hadn’t realized you were conscious enough to notice.  He clears his throat, hoping the moments you remembered were the ones where he was a bit more put-together.

He dips his head,  “a bit, yeah.”

“Not when I recovered though,”  you murmur, curious.  “Even asked Price.  Said you needed some time.”

You were looking for him.  His words from earlier hit him, then.  Everything he did, and you still asked about him.  He mentally kicks his own ass for not sticking around to see you wake.  Jesus, can he do anything right?

“I did,”  he sighs.  There was no use sugarcoating it; he was a mess the past three months.  “Better now, though.”

You smile again.  There’s something there with it; like you’re proud of him, maybe. “I see that.”

He feels a bit warmer.  The words mean more to him than you realize, truly.  He’s quick to shake the fluster from his mind, though, shifting his weight.

“I owe you an explanation.”

Your expression softens more; that conditioned, learned sternness easing to the softer thing you kept hidden beneath your rank.  The side he accidentally stumbled upon at Camp Viking.  The side he had to crack you open to find again, in Mexico.

“The picture,”  he continues.  “The one you found in my drawer.”

There’s a shift in your eyes, then.  A tick of confusion, another of understanding.  Your hands slide into the pockets of your coat and you clear your throat, nodding to yourself like something just made sense in that busy head of yours.

Then, a gentle reminder.  “You told me already, Simon.”

He blinks, confused.  He’s sure he didn’t—not that night at camp viking.  At that point, he still couldn’t even say their names.  He’s about to ask for clarification, and then he remembers.  He didn’t tell you, not until you were bleeding on the ground.  Not until he thought you couldn’t hear him; half dead and suffocating.

He lets out a long breath and his eyes fall down to where his cigarette is burning down to a butt in his hand.  He flicks it, snuffing it out under his boot. You reach out, brushing against his glove; calloused, scarred, pale fingertips cool against the fabric.  There’s scars, he notices.  Burns on the pads of your fingers where he had patched you up months ago.

He wonders why he ever considered it too hard, talking to you.  Spilling his guts.  It’s not like you’d judge him.

“Not just after I was attacked, but in the back of the truck.  I think you thought I couldn’t hear you, or something,”  you speculate.  “Right?”

He nods once; the memory fuzzy against the pains of hunger, dehydration, and concussion of those long days you were stuck together.  He can’t imagine what he said, how much detail he went into.  Can’t even imagine how it sounded.

He told you the worst parts of him, through a haze of disparity to fill your silence, and he's not sure how he feels about it. 

“Price filled in the details,”  you say, looking at his eyes again.  Simon’s throat feels tight, his insides exposed.  “Considering you were—”

“Delirious, yeah,”  he huffs softly, nodding. “To put it lightly.”

Simon hopes you don’t notice how shaky his hands are.  He’d told you the hard part already.  The parts of him that weren’t so strong.  Uglier ones.  What made him this way, standing in front of you now, a nervous wreck about everything.  Now, he just had to keep talking.

He leans in closer.  Just a little bit, his voice softening to something heavy.  Sincere.  Words meant just for you, always for you.  His voice is just a bit unsteady as he speaks, just a bit hesitant.  He doesn’t know how you’ll react, where he stands with you.  

He’s not used to this.

“It wasn’t just sex, to me,”  he says.  “You know that, right?”

You shoot him a look that means a thousand different things.  Doubt, sadness, a bit of anger.  It’s hidden behind a huff of breath, though, and you glance away before shifting your weight. Something about it hurts him.

“Then why’d you leave?”  You shoot back.

"I was scared.”

You scoff, turn to step away, and your eyes look damp.  “Right.”

“Angel,”  he shifts, stopping you.  Voice stern.  Final.  “It’s not.”

You look at him.  Brow furrowed, eyes pleading like you want to have reason to believe him but find it difficult.  It pulls at his heart, hurts him that he’s ruined you so bad you don’t believe what he says to you.  

He wants to ask.  Wants to know if you’ve been with anyone after him, where you went, what you did…but he’s scared of the answer.  So he doesn't.  Instead, he keeps talking, keeps explaining.  Lowering his voice more, he wants you to understand.  Needs you to understand.

“It’s not,”  he repeats, and it sounds like he’s ripping the words from somewhere deep in his chest.  Like weeds around his ribs, old and tangled and ugly.  “I’m a fucking cunt for leaving, love.  I’m serious.”

Your expression softens again just slightly.  Hands relax at your sides, unfurling to hang limp.  Your stance shifts, tension melting away again as you nod once in agreement.

Your voice is quiet, barely a breath against his face when you speak. “Thought it was my fault.”

“No,”  something cracks in his chest and he leans in to clasp your hand.  “You were the best thing to come out of that assignment.  You…”  

The words he’s mulled over for months now caught in his chest.  “You’re the first person…”

A breath.  How does he do this?  Cram years worth of feelings into a few short sentences?  Decades of rolling self-loathing and regret and longing that rotted at his insides and left him decomposing on his feet?  

He looks up at you.  You hold his attention, running your thumb subtly over his palm.  Supportive, you want him to talk.  Need him to, maybe.

That keeps him going.

“To get…that close…to me in a long time,”  he finishes.  “Guess I didn’t know how to handle it and Price happened to need a sniper, so I took the opportunity.  I ran.”

He swallows, and suddenly the words come tumbling out as he reaches up to rub his forehead.  “I was scared.  Couldn’t get the thought out of my head that you’d end up hurt, with me.”

“Simon…”

“But then you came back and all I could think about was how fucking stupid I’ve been,”  he tells you, and his voice cracks.  “I thought you’d die in that fucking truck before I ever got the guts to say sorry, to say thank you, and then in the hospital…”

Another breath, his eyes shutting at the thought of you in that bed.  Your clammy skin, the tubes, the machines, the nurses…

“Scared me shitless, more than anything else,”  he admits.  “Seeing you like that, I…haven’t been that right fucking shaken in years, Angel.”

You look away to wipe your eyes.  He reaches out, a gloved hand guiding your face back to meet his gaze.  He swipes a thumb under your eyelashes, collecting the moisture for you. 

“I’m not built for…this.  Never was,”  he finishes, softer.  His other hand brushes your arm lightly.  “But I want to try again, if you’ll have me.”

His words hang in the chilly air.  You blink up at him, and Ghost feels anxious under your stare.  You huff.  Eyes a bone-deep kind of tired, sad.

“Prove it,” you order.

He blinks, “what?”

“You said you had proof,”  you dip your head.  “I want you to prove it.”

A moment.  A breath.  A dog barks somewhere down the street, a rather loud motorcycle sounds off in the distance.  You look at him expectantly; brow furrowed and tears collecting in your eyes. Angry in that way that means you’re hurting, if what he had always speculated about you was correct.  Simon’s heart jumps, just a little, but he doesn’t give himself time to think about it.

He grabs your face and kisses you hard.

It’s tense; his eyes shut tight as he does.  You gasp into it, stumbling back a step or two in surprise, hands hovering somewhere near his shoulders.  He half expects you to shove him off, to run off down the street.  Curse him and disappear.  Maybe you should, but you don’t.

You melt into it.  Hands settling on his shoulders, effectively sapping the tension from them.  Everything falls away until it's only you.  Your breath, your lips; but it’s a feeling not as intense as Christmas Day.  Not as desperate.  Just…disorientingly comforting.  Unreal.  He knows he’s wanted this, but it leaves him more breathless than he thought.

Your lips move, drawing it out, coming back for more.  Warm.  Soft, like he’d always imagined.  Minutes go by within seconds before you pull away, and he finds himself trailing after you.  When he finally blinks his eyes open, you’re already looking up at him from between his hands.

A heavy moment passes.

You both breathe.  You both stare.  Neither of you know what to say.

A heavy breath leaves him.  Forehead leaning forward to rest against your own.  When he talks, it's rough.

“I extended my leave.”

You blink,  “what?”

“Got a lot of catching up to do.  Figured we’d make up for lost time.”  A beat passes before he adds: “if you’ll have me, love.”

You sigh and close your eyes for a moment.  Thinking, considering.  You hold his wrists, squeezing them just a little.  Simon’s thumb runs back and forth in a nervous pattern over your cheek.

“It’ll take a lot,”  you open your eyes again.  “To forgive you.”

Simon holds his breath, pulls his hands away hesitantly and yours fall away, too.  He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to push.  He expected this, after all.  He doesn’t trust himself to speak so he stays silent.  Tense.  He swallows hard and nods, just once, giving you room to talk.

Still, you stay close to him.  Close enough that your voice is barely a breath in his face.  When you speak, it's slow.  Measured.

“But we could start with you buying dinner.”

Something warm and uncomfortable cracks open in Simon’s chest.  Hope, he thinks.  “Yeah?”

You nod and a smile threatens to twitch at your lip.  “Yeah.”

He lets out a breath.  Then another.

Then, he reaches for your arm.  Tentative, hesitant.  You’re quick to come to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to you. Returning his hug with abandon.  Squeezing him just as tight as he holds you, warm.  Solid.  Alive.

You’re alive.  You’re here.  With him. 

People pass, chatting in the alleyway.  A dog barks down the street.  The cold breeze brushes red leaves from their branches, dusting them across the concrete sidewalks and stirring your hair.  A thought crosses Simon’s mind, then.  One that lifts a weight from his shoulders so massive it makes him sigh into the warmth of your neck.  Hold you impossibly closer. 

He’ll do better, this time.

He shifts his head and kisses you again.

[the-fic-locker]

The Widow | Part One

Pairing: Min Byungyu x f!reader x Baek Yoonho

Content Warning: character death, grief, mentions of blood, tears, loneliness

Genre: angst, eventual fluff, eventual smut, slow burn

Summary: Yoonho never imagined that his best friend would keep such a monumental secret from him, but after his death, Yoonho is tasked with breaking the news to someone he has never met.

Word Count: 2,685

Author's Note: This has not been proofread, so I will be going back eventually and editing, however, this is also part of a series, so as parts come out, I will be trying to edit. I cannot guarantee how quickly parts will come out, nor how long this series will be exactly. Just bear with me and I hope you enjoy!

next | series info | masterlist

In hindsight, Yoonho supposed he really should have figured it out sooner. Byungyu’s distaste for battle wasn’t new, but the desire to join the contract sector as an average citizen was new, one he didn’t expect. The man’s financial situation was elite. He had participated in enough dungeons that he had a very lucrative bank account. He didn’t have to do anything. Though Yoonho supposed he couldn’t blame the man for wanting to do something with his life, though why he didn’t choose to go into the medical field was, well, confusing. 

When his best friend had denied him the first few times, it was understandable. Jeju Island had already claimed so many lives, including their best friends, but something had suddenly changed his mind. Yoonho didn’t think anything of it; he was just happy to have the talented healer with them. He should have asked more questions. 

“President Baek, exactly how much did you know about Min Byungyu’s situation?” Chairman Go had asked shortly after the fourth and final raid of Jeju Island. 

He should have been paying more attention, but his chest ached with grief, and his muscles were sore. Hunter Sung had managed to heal them somehow, but nothing could take away the stinging in his hands when his claws protruded. All he wanted to do was go home and crack a beer, and sit in the silence of his empty apartment he never had the time to fill with personal effects. He wanted to wallow in pity and self-hatred until a new day dawned and he had to go back to his guild and act like everything was ok; worse, to celebrate the enormous victory. 

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean, sir. He wanted to give up being a hunter all together and go work as a custodian in an office firm,” Yoonho had explained.

The look the Chairman had given him was diplomatic, but there was a twinge of something, perhaps sorrow, hidden behind his eyes. Yoonho had glanced up at Manager Jinchul Woo who was dutifully standing behind the chairman, but as always, the man was more difficult to read than thousand-year-old hieroglyphics written in decayed clay. 

“So you weren’t aware of his private and personal life?” Chairman Go asked, sounding surprised. 

There was another thing to be guilty over. He called himself Byungyu’s best friend, but he apparently didn’t know anything at all about him! He’d only ever been to the man’s apartment once, and he’d since moved. He hadn’t set foot in the new, larger place. He didn’t interact with the man all that much anymore, except for the occasional text, which was usually Byungyu sending him memes he’d respond to three days later. There was the occasional beer, but Yoonho had been so depressed after losing Eunseok in the third raid that he’d let Byungyu slip farther and farther from his mind. 

“Well, regardless,” Chairman Go sighed, seemingly disappointed. Even Jinchul seemed to be uncomfortable now, shifting his weight from one foot to the other restlessly. “We have a… less than comfortable task to handle. Typically, I’d send Jinchul, but he has been… hugged out… for a while and needs a break, plus he isn’t always as delicate as this situation requires.”

Yoonho wished the old man would get to the point so he could go home. He glanced up at Jinchul, who didn’t seem to care that he’d been called indelicate. Yoonho doubted there was anything about him that was delicate at all. And hugged out? What was that supposed to mean? 

As Yoonho was waiting for the chairman to finish his long-winded explanation, Jinchul disappeared, stepping out of the room to grab something off his desk before returning, holding a small, white box. 

“As you know, upon awakening, we take a memento from every Hunter to deliver back to the family of a fallen Hunter. Byungyu’s token was changed two years ago from a patch from his uniform, a typical token for a bachelor, into this.”

As Chairman Go finished, Jinchul opened the white box. Resting inside, on a white cushion, was a silver locket with a silver chain. There was something engraved upon the top, but Yoonho didn’t feel like using his heightened sight to strain to read it. 

“He has asked that this locket be delivered to the widow he’d be leaving behind, and we thought you should be the one to do it.”

The fact that his best friend was married and he had no clue was another punch to the gut, but what’s perhaps worse was thinking about the grieving woman in their apartment, waiting for her husband to come home. She would know that their helicopter had landed. She’d know that they’d won. She probably wouldn’t know about Byungyu’s death yet. The camera had evidently cut out by then. And now…

“Sir… respectfully… I can’t…” he mumbled, already feeling numb. 

Chairman Go pulled something out of his pocket and placed it in Yoonho’s hands. It was a letter, folded a few times on otherwise unremarkable paper. As Yoonho unfolded it, his hands shaking, he gasped as he found Byungyu’s handwriting scribbled as neatly as the man could. 

Yoonho, If you’re reading this letter, I can only assume it is because something happened and I have lost my life. First of all, don’t beat yourself up about it. Whatever happened, I’m sure I went out trying to protect my friends, and there is no better way in my book. However, now that I am gone, I am leaving you with a difficult task. I am sorry this has fallen to you.  I have a wife. Her name is (y/n). She pieced me back together after Eunseok’s death, and we got married a year later. I know this is a bomb to drop, and I tried to tell you, many times, but neither of us were in a good state at the beginning and as you feel deeper and deeper into your guild, using the work to keep you from actually feeling the sorrow, I moved on, and I didn’t think you’d understand.  Yoonho, being a Hunter is hard work and it’s messy. I have never regretted my decision to leave, but if something has pulled me back in, I know I died happily for you. Do not let my death pull you into another depression. This one might kill you. You were reckless enough as it is. I am not mad at you for however you pulled me back into the game. Do not let your mind convince your heart that I am. And don’t throw yourself into your work to punish yourself. That’s not doing anyone any favors. Instead, you can atone for my death (if you still feel like you need to) in two ways.  Take the locket and a letter back to my Jimin. Tell her how I died, she needs to know everything. Comfort her. She worries a lot and has habits similar to your own. Don’t let her kill herself through her work. Be there for each other. Stop trying to take the blame for everyone else's decisions. We all make our own. You have never forced anyone to do anything. We make decisions based on your words sometimes, but they are still our decisions. Stop letting yourself be convinced that you’re a god who mind-controls everyone else into doing your bidding. Everything I have ever done has been of my own volition.  I wish you the best in this life, Yoonho. Don’t be afraid to let yourself live life and find love. Hunters are constantly busy, but you can have it all. You can be a Hunter and a life. It’s time for them to stop being one in the same.  I will see you on the other side, my friend.  Love,  Byungyu

The letter had tears pricking to the corners of his eyes and he finally understood the smile Byungyu had given him as Jinwoo had released his shadow. He clenched the letter tightly as looked up at the chairman, only nodding once. He’d watched as Chairman Go fished out the second letter and then he was dismissed, locket and letter tucked inside the same box in his shaking hands as he made his way to the car and punched in the address he’d been given. 

So here he was, standing in the hallway of the apartment building he’d been directed to, staring at the plain white door that matched all the others, reading the number from Jinchul’s text for the third time to be absolutely sure he was at the right door. 

He could hear movement inside and music. There was the occasional clang of something hard slamming into something else that almost made his skin crawl. He wanted to cut tail and run, to pretend this wasn’t happening, but his arm seemed to act on its own as it raised and knocked firmly. 

The music stopped and he could hear bare feet padding across the floor to the door, his ears picking the sound up easily. He heard the door unlock, and a second later, it was pulled open, revealing his best friend's widow dressed in sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. 

“Baek Yoonho?” your voice was full of confusion. He couldn’t blame you. 

“You know who I am?” he asked. 

“Of course,” you said, wiping your soapy hands on your pants. “Gyu has so many pictures of you and Eunseok all over this place. It sometimes feels like a shrine,” you chuckle softly. 

“How can I help you? Is Gyu ok? He hasn’t come home yet and by the look of you, you all just got back.”

“Can I come inside?” Yoonho spoke, voice soft. 

“Uh yeah sure,” you hold the door open wider. 

He stepped through, admiring the place. The door opened into the front room, living room, where there was a paused Spotify playlist casting from the television. There were slightly mismatched couches pointed at the television, the longer of the two was a thick, plush burnt orange, and the other, smaller one gray with a blanket thrown over the back of it. There was a coffee table with books stacked up on one side and a vase with a handful of roses on the other side. As you led him to the couches, he could see the kitchen from a serving counter window with three bar stools on the end. Inside the kitchen, he could see a strainer full of wet dishes and the sink full of soapy water with a washcloth perched on the side, likely discarded when he’d knocked. 

You motioned for him to sit on the orange couch while you sat down on the gray one, folding your hands into your lap and looking at him expectantly. 

Yoonho’s hands began to shake, and the box in his pocket suddenly felt like it was scorching his skin. He clasped his hands together, trying to hide the way they quavered. 

“Mr. Baek… Where is my husband?” Your voice was quiet, but his accelerated hearing could pick up on the way it cracked on the final word. 

“He…” Yonho had to clear his throat and blink away the tears that threatened to gather. “He didn’t make it… He died… trying to protect me,” his voice came out hoarse and broken in a half-choked sob. 

You were quiet momentarily, processing what he’d just said. When you finally spoke, your voice was strong but uneven. 

“Did he suffer?”

Yoonho tried to think back. Had he? When he saw that things arm go through him… all he could see was blind rage. 

“Not for long. It was over quickly. But he managed…” he swallowed. Should he tell you that his soul saved someone? No. Probably not. And he promised Jinwoo to keep that confidential anyway. “He managed to save one more life before… he was truly gone.”

He looked up into your face. You had silent tears streaming down your cheeks and made no move to brush them away. Your bottom lip trembled, and your chest heaved with labored breathing. 

“I’m not sure if you’re aware… but when becoming a Hunter under the Association, they provide the Association a token in the event they don’t make it back from a raid. This was his,” reaching into his pocket, Yoonho pulled out the box and opened it, placing it on the coffee table. 

You took out the letter on top first and, using his abilities, if against his will, he was able to read the message her husband had left for her. 

My Love,  If you are reading this, I have left you alone in this life and in this world and for that, I am truly sorry. Please understand that if I died in a raid, it was because I will always be there to back up Yoonho and to protect him from himself. He isn’t the best at patiently waiting for the right time to strike, and if no one else is there to back him up when he pounces, I will always be there.  Yoonho scoffed at that. ‘Pounces.’ He wasn’t a cat! He didn’t pounce! Please understand and don’t hate him for it. It was not his fault.  Let him be there for you. You’re going to need to lean on each other. Don’t let the grief drag you down. And don’t let him blame himself.  You both meant so much to me. Know that though I died protecting him in battle, I died protecting you back home. I could not go on living without you and I know that is unfair since that is exactly what I am asking of you. Be strong and move on. Don’t let my death hold you back from living your life.  We will-

You put the letter down before Yoonho could finish reading and buried your face in your hands to cover the wails that left your lips. Yoonho wasn’t sure what came over him. Maybe it was Byungyu’s letter to him, maybe it was the fact that he’d always hated seeing women cry. Whatever the reason, he found himself moving onto the gray couch beside you and placing his hand on your back, stroking it soothingly. He wasn’t expecting you to lean into him, burying your face in his side. It took him a second to respond, but when he did, he held you against his side securely and continued to rub your back. 

You sat like that for a while. You sobbing and Yoonho comforting you in any way he knew how. When your shoulders finally stopped shaking, and you shifted against him, he loosened his hold, allowing you to sit back up. Your eyes were red and bloodshot, but you looked back to the table where the box with the locket still sat. 

Picking up the box, you examined it before lifting it out of the box and opening the locket. There, resting in the two tiny frames, was a picture of  Byungyu giving his most dazzling smile, dressed in his Hunter’s uniform with dirt stained on his cheek. It was an image taken shortly after the first raid under the White Tiger’s guild. The second was you and Byungyu holding onto one another on your wedding day, looking at each other with gazes full of love. 

A sob left your throat as you closed the locket and passed the necklace to Yoonho. 

“Help me put it on,” you said.

Taking it, you turned your back to him and lifted your hair. Yoonho slid the locket around your neck and carefully clasped it in the back. When it was secure, you let your hair fall over the chain and looked down at the jewelry resting on your shirt. 

“Now I guess I have two tokens from him,” you whispered. 

Yoonho was going to ask what you meant until he watched you place your hand on your belly, a sad smile spreading across your face. Yoonho had never felt so sick. 

[pollkien]

Finwë propaganda (art by @starshadeemilyart):

So sexy he scored two wives and fathered the hottest Noldo ever, literally and figuratively. A testament to Finwë’s sexiness

One of the elven ambassadors and among the first to see the light of the trees

He alone did not flee from Morgoth!! He’s a bad bitch!!

EXTREMELY slutty heraldic device. Look at it

Cries so much and is so miserable. Everyone talks about Maglor being the sad wet noodle but man look at Finwë

First depressed elf in Aman I love that for him

He is such a trophy husband too. Do you see my vision

“Then Finwë lived in sorrow; and he went often to the gardens of Lórien, and sitting beneath the silver willows beside the body of his wife he called her by her names. But it was unavailing; and alone in all the Blessed Realm he was deprived of joy. After a while he went to Lórien no more.” Say what you will about him but you cannot deny he is the biggst wife guy ever. He devoted all of his mind and energy to loving his wife

Such a loving guy!! Got depressed bc his wife died. Got sad bc he couldn’t see elwe again. Got sad again when the Teleri were away from them. Loved Fëanor so much. He just has so much love in his heart and they killed him for it

“His body was burned and destroyed as though by lightning and his head was crushed as with a great mace of iron. His sword lay beside him, twisted and untempered as if by lightning-stroke” holy shit

“Later, when the Valar agreed that Finwë should be brought back to life, he instead decided not to, thus giving Míriel a chance to be reincarnated” this happened too I guess whatever. I don’t like this draft tbh.

Eönwë propaganda:

Beat the crap out of Sauron

He’s the chief of the Maiar which is pretty cool

“Eönwë, the banner-bearer and herald of Manwë, whose might in arms is surpassed by none in Arda.” might in arms and other places perhaps…? ;)

He has Manwë’s sword! I didn’t know that

Spared M&M’s lives. Thank you Mr. Eönwë

“In both early and later versions of the Akallabêth it is revealed that it was Fionwë/Eönwë who overthrew Morgoth at the end of the War of Wrath, but Christopher Tolkien removed this reference in the published Silmarillion, believing that his father intended to diminish his role; however, Christopher Tolkien later felt the omission may have been an error on his part” very interesting

[vividiana]

WIP whenever 📝

thank you to @irondeficienttav @verbenaa @funniestbitchinfaerun and @xxnashiraxx for the tags over the past week!

here is a snippet from chapter 8 a.k.a. "the ABBA party" a.k.a. "the one where Astarion wears bell bottoms and Eve gets Mad Horny." I am posting this in the hopes that we can all freak out about it together and that that will get me motivated to write. hope you enjoy 😘

“It might be easier if you open your legs.” “What?” Eve blurts out, dumbfounded, as she follows his gaze down to their knees, almost touching. “So I can move my chair closer–” he starts to explain but seems almost flustered as he abandons the idea. “Nevermind, I can just–” “No, that’s fine,” she says and parts her thighs for him. Astarion pulls his chair towards her, knees slotting into the space she’s made for him between her legs. He is close now, so close she can trace the crinkles of his smile lines. Eve has no idea what to do with her hands, eventually settling them on top of her thighs. There is an odd ache in her fingers, a need to reach out that she tries to ignore. “Close your eyes,” he says softly and Eve obeys and perhaps that was a bad idea, because now all other sensations are amplified. The makeup brush pressing against her eyelid, Astarion’s hand grazing her cheek in the process—a touch so innocuous and yet it still sets her skin on fire. Eve half expects him to yank his hand away from the burn. She wills her attention away from her face, which seems to be another bad idea, because now all she can think about are the two points at which his knees make contact with her inner thighs. She wonders what it would feel like if he used his knee to spread her open before him. Or if he pushed it even further, all the way to her center, making her grind against it in search of relief. She wonders how many muscles it would take to push off her chair and straddle him right this second. The music fades into the distance and all that remains is the scent of him, herbal and citrusy, with a darker edge underneath it. The body heat she swears she can feel radiating off his chest. The mental images of their chests pressed together, skin against skin, limbs intertwined. Alright, maybe let’s not think about that while he is studying her face so closely, when he can see the blush on her cheeks, presented before him on a silver platter. Eve’s heartbeat thrums deafeningly in her skull and she wonders if Astarion hears it too, if he knows he is the cause of it. “So…” she starts and it seems too loud, too invasive, but she needs to fill this silence before she goes up in flames. “Are you also getting your makeup done?” “That’s the plan,” he responds, in that same soft tone, focused on his task. “I also bought some body glitter. Care to partake?” “Well, do I want to wear body glitter for the party? Sure. Do I want to keep finding bits of glitter on my clothes and skin for the next two weeks? Absolutely not.” “Fair enough.” He chuckles and she can feel his breath fanning against her skin, a phantom caress that prompts her heart to beat faster. “I suppose that’s a risk I’m willing to take, for the aesthetic.”

tagging everyone who tagged me back and also: @roguishcat @khywren @dramatiquechipmunk @hellethil @olivedrop ✨

[edward-st-george]

Edward gave a short, breathy laugh—the kind that was barely a sound, more a scoff exhaled behind the ghost of a smirk. He looked at Madeleine as if she were a particularly intriguing riddle scratched onto a tavern wall: naïve, yes, but with such bold handwriting one couldn’t help but stop and read it. Her words were so sincere they might have been written in velvet. She was earnestness wrapped in silk and soft smiles, a portrait of conviction that love conquered all. And to Edward, it was both amusing... and mildly infuriating. “Eight children,” he said at last, lifting his brows as if counting them on his fingers. “That poor man. You’ll bury him before the fifth just out of sheer exhaustion.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to cause unease or thrill—he wasn’t particular. “Your world is made of painted glass, Miss Madeleine. And I’ve seen what happens when sunlight shifts—crack,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Just like that. And then what? You tell yourself the break is elegant, part of the design?” He did not share her faith, and made no effort to pretend otherwise. Hope like hers made him restless. It was too clean, too untouched by the grime he’d seen clinging to every so-called love story once the music stopped and the doors closed. Where she saw forever, he saw performance. Where she trusted warmth, he anticipated rot. He'd watched too many smiling couples in his inn trade glances like cold currency, heard too many confessions muttered into liquor about duty, obligation, quiet miseries passed off as loyalty. His eyes found hers again, amused, unyielding. “You believe the Queen is benevolent. I believe she’s bored. You think love will save you. I think love tests you until you snap. You trust your parents' tale. I wonder what they tell themselves at night to keep it polished.” There was no venom in his tone—just a dry, bitter clarity that came from watching too many illusions burn and realizing the fire hadn’t made anything warm, only ash. She spoke of her parents’ love like scripture, but Edward only saw the desperation people hid behind tradition. Love, in his world, was a gamble. Rarely worth the coin. It was a game rigged from the start, dressed in lace and lilies to fool the ones too young or too soft to know better. Madeleine was exactly that kind of fool. Lovely, but blind.

“And yet,” he added, voice turning softer, mockingly gentle, “you’re right about one thing: I’m not a man who wishes to be kept. Because being ‘kept,’ my dear, is just another word for being tamed—and I've yet to see a cage lined with silk that didn’t still have bars.” He could tell she wanted him to believe—just a little. She wanted him to admit that perhaps there was something sacred about all this. But Edward had no patience for sacred. And he wasn’t in the business of letting illusions breathe longer than they had to. He stepped closer, just enough for her to feel the heat of his recklessness. “We would ruin each other,” he said, bluntly now, without any theatrics. “Because I’d pull the curtain on your fairytale, and you’d try to chain me to a dream I’d never believe in. It wouldn’t be fire—it would be war.” And yet the smirk curled again. “But what a lovely war that would be.”

He leaned away, eyes still fixed on her, a half-grin twitching at his mouth. “No, I’m not entirely wicked, Madeleine. Just wicked enough to know how these stories end.” Edward smiled, not kindly, not cruelly—just knowingly—and let her keep her fairytale a little longer. Let her dream of cherry blossoms while he imagined the storm that would tear them down.

No one had ever asked her if it had been exhausting to be ever so hopeful. Madeleine simply had no choice. She was a girl who dreamt of fairy tales, ever since she could remember, dragging her brothers into her make believe worlds of princes, princesses, pirates and fair maidens in distant lands that she had created. She had only ever dreamt of a perfect life with a perfect man, a prince, and the rest, she knew, if she stayed quite hopeful, would come to her. "You mistake me then, Sir Edward - it is not exhausting at all to be hopeful. The Queen is a most kind, obliging soul - and she is devout in all of our success. I treat her implicitly - do you not?" Madeleine asked, it being unfathomable to not trust the very ruler of their country, but then again - perhaps it led to her own curiosity and why she was there in the first place. "Should I be silent, taciturn and cruel for all to see? I do not subscribe to that, Sir Edward. I believe in such hope, I believe in real fairytales happening amongst us, for I see it with my own parents, my own family. Do you not have that in yours?" She asked, quite a forward thing to ask for.

She stayed close to the man, as others looked upon the noble young woman with hungry, and greedy eyes - and others with disdainful eyes, as if to question why she was in such to begin with. "I am far more intelligent than you think, Mister Edward - and my intelligence does tell me to never truly fall in love with any man that does not wish to be kept. You, I can imagine, are a man that does not wish to be kept - or perhaps it would take a very special woman to keep you."

Madeleine listened to his words, quite intently, her smile fading a bit to hear his own words, his own beliefs that so differed from hers. Die before we notice the cracks. "You are wrong." Madeleine argued, her brows furrowed. "I still see the soulmate love my parents share - for they've had five children together, and live quite happily. My mother still speaks of my father with such fondness, after all of these years. Surely they found one another - they are soulmates! I see it - I see it everyday, Sir Edward." She told him, still a hint of a smile on her face. "Perhaps you have not been fortunate to see the way a soulmate connection has worked - but it does happen and we should marry for love, not for anything else. There are no cracks to speak of within the marriages that I have witnessed." She spoke, like a child wishing to be taken seriously, with all of their might.

She covered her mouth with a melodic sound of laughter as he spoke about the bath and shook her head, smirking. "You are entirely evil in your humor, Sir Edward, has anyone ever told you that?" Madeleine shook her head, and sighed at him, at his declaration for her. "No. I will marry someone I dearly love, and he will be a worthy, kind, valiant gentleman and we will have eight children. I've already decided that - and our wedding will be amongst the April cherry blossoms. Does that not sound like a fairytale to you?" She smirked and when he mentioned if he were her match, her skin turned even more red.

"You are not so entirely wicked." Madeleine spoke, shaking her head. "You think we would ruin each other, hmm? How do you determine that?"

[mournflame]

Sometimes you have sad thoughts about characters you don’t even write

[stars-obsession-pit]

(Another) Ghost in the Machine

DP x Hellblazer (the original John Constantine comic)

Ritchie Simpson continued to search frantically for the connection out of the computer and back to his body as he begged John to explain what he meant by saying “Goodbye.”

Had John disconnected him? He knew John’s sense of humor wasn’t the lightest, especially after Newcastle drove them all a bit insane, but that felt too far even for him. Nah, he’d probably just gotten himself a bit lost in the wave of energy he’d experienced in the Tongues of Fire network and was accidentally looking for his body in the wrong spot.

He pulled himself back and let his mental connection to the digital world expand outward, probing the rest of the machine for the connection. He knew he was in the right system, so as long as he looked thoroughly he’d definitely fi—

Everything flashed a surge of blinding white and then was replaced by pure darkness. He thought he screamed, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Couldn’t even feel his own thoughts. Trapped in one single instant that stretched for indeterminable eons. Then, eventually (or was it immediately?), awareness began to trickle back.

He was still in the computer, though it felt… different, somehow. His thoughts still weren’t entirely in order. The first possible hints towards his location he found were the sound voices trickling through from the outside world. Voices he didn’t recognize. Young voices.

“I’m happy to help, Tuck, but I’m not really sure what you expect me to do here. You’re way better than me at this computer stuff than me.”

“By all means, feel free to keep complimenting me, but this has been frying my brain, man. I got this thing secondhand, and the system should be quite powerful, but there’s something using up a ton of its processing and I can’t figure out what. I was hoping you could do your ‘enter into the computer’ thing and see if you see anything.”

[shallowseeker]

Zachariah torturing Dean:

5x03

///

Zachariah torturing Jack:

13x14

(Script 13x14 via @spnscripthunt-inactive)

[readwritealldayallnight]

Part 2 of ‘Bird Watching’ aka hot construction worker Simon x single mom

In truth, lying was something that came second nature to Simon Riley

He’d lied to his teachers in school about where he got his bruises and burn marks from, if they bothered to ask

He’d lied to his brother while their parents argued on the other side of the wall, telling him that everything would be okay

He’d lied to his dad about where he’d been all night, telling him he was making less money at the butcher job than he really was

Whatever lie he had to give to get through the day, get through the night, get through his childhood, he would offer up without so much as batting an eye

And as he got older, he started stretching the truth for different reasons

Whatever his CO’s needed to hear from him in order to let him do his job, then he’d let them hear it, true or not

Whenever people started asking too many questions, well-equipped sarcasm became his right hand man in avoiding the truth

Lying had always come in handy for Simon, whether it was a life or death situation or goading Soap into believing an obviously fictitious story, carefully chosen words and slight exaggerations had never steered him wrong before

This one, however?

Well, as he sat in an all too colourful daycare office with murals of ducks and bunnies watching over his every move, Simon began to wonder if this was one lie he shouldn’t have told

But then again, he wasn’t telling this lie out of malice, or greed, or ill-intent… he was doing this for you

Because at the end of the day, he’d be lying to no one apart from himself if he were deny how often you popped into his head

Ever since he’d first squinted through the glaring sun and spotted you through that flimsy chain link fence, since he’d heard your voice over the rumble and roar of construction behind him, since he’d spent less than ten whole minutes talking to you, it was as though something within him had started brewing, started changing

Similar to two live wires coincidentally meeting until an inevitable spark shoots through the air, akin to a wind chime that hadn’t rang out in years suddenly beginning to sway to and fro with the promise of strong winds on the horizon, or closer yet to that moment Franklin’s key and kite were struck by lightning and history was forever changed, meeting you had stirred something loose within Simon

For too long now, Simon felt as though he were nothing more than a man stuck behind the wheel, lost in the storm on an infinite stretch of road that would never lead him towards home, no matter how many maps or compasses or tools he may have, he was on a steady cruise control headed nowhere

But since he’d met you, since he’d learned about the situation you were in, you and your sweet little baby bird just as alone as him and up against the world, since he’d made up his mind and decided he’d help you in whatever capacity you’d allow, it was almost as if the fog had cleared from his tired eyes, as though he was finally glancing up from the maps and realizing that ‘home’ could be down any stretch of road he took, if he was willing to take it

You’d stumbled into his life on an afternoon like any other, instantly making a home for yourself in the recesses of his brain by that very same evening

His eyes now were constantly glancing at the phone number now tacked onto his fridge as he went about his routine, your smile appearing behind his eyelids as he tried in vain to fall asleep at night, or the image of the soft swell of your cleavage bouncing as you’d walked away playing on a loop in his mind until he’d accept he wasn’t going to be getting any shut eye until he allowed his hands to slip beneath the blankets

His early mornings were no longer spent cursing having to be up before the sun, instead he found himself staring at the empty spot across from him at the table, wondering if you were awake too, perhaps trying to soothe a fussy baby back to sleep, or feeding her from the same swollen breasts Simon selfishly wished he could suckle from as well

Or were you still laying in bed, staring up at the ceiling as you too struggled to fall asleep? Too worried about finding your baby bird a spot somewhere before the money ran out? Stressing yourself over things that Simon wished he could fix for you? That he knew he could fix for you?

Less than 24 hours after your first conversation, Simon had hounded just about every living and breathing soul working on the construction site, determined to come up with at least some bit of information, someone to contact, something that would lead him in the right direction, but everyone seemed to be just as in the dark as he was

He wasn’t easily deterred however, nor was he lacking in imagination, when he decided he was unwilling to return to his flat that night without being at least one step closer to having a valid excuse for calling the number that called out to him each time he walked through his kitchen, and so if no one apart from Simon happened to notice that every single blueprint disappeared from the site that night, well that was just unfortunate wasn’t it?

He’d nearly missed the phone call he’d been hoping to get the next morning, preoccupied with having to change his bed sheets after having dreamt of you again all night as visions of your soft body had him feeling like a teenaged boy again, he managed to snag his phone just before the ringer ended

As expected, the site manager had been on the other line, practically beside himself as he told Simon how he’d arrived at the site and discovered that some troublesome teenagers must have snuck in during the night and done away with their building plans, asking Simon if he wouldn’t mind driving to the supervisor’s office and snagging some copies

Simon had already been halfway out the door before he’d hung up

The foreman’s office was cluttered beyond belief, disorganized chaos he sifted through carefully to find the one piece of information he needed, and there amongst the loose papers and pencils and measuring tapes, was the next piece to the puzzle he was slowly solving; the buyers contact information

The blueprints were delivered back to the site in no time, having been kept safe in the back of Simon’s truck the entire time, and a carefully concocted story about needing to run to grab supplies for the job was believed by everyone as the tall man climbed back in behind the wheel and weighed his options

He could reach out to you now, he’d been able to find you the owner’s name, along with an email and phone number to contact, the promise he’d made to you was done, his duty fulfilled

He knew he could call, and you’d be overjoyed to hear from him, that you would be eternally grateful for his help, thanking him endlessly… but that would be the end of it, wouldn’t it? His role would be fulfilled, his duty done and over with, no other valid excuses for you to keep him within your orbit, he’d just be a kind stranger who’d done you an incredibly kind favour

But as Simon pondered that choice, he wondered, why stop here?

You were alone with a newborn, stressed enough as it was, you didn’t need more work being added onto your already full plate, he may as well go the extra mile and help you out even more, right?

At least, that’s what Simon kept telling himself now, as he sat in a too small chair inside of a much too colourful office, avoiding the judgemental eyes of the painted woodland creatures staring at him, as though they knew what his intentions were, waiting for none other than the owner herself

“Hi there, sorry to have kept you waiting.” The woman says as she walks in, reaching a hand out to greet him as he stands to meet her halfway. “My assistant director says you’re here from our newest expansion? The East end location?”

“Yes ma’am, that’d be the one.” Simon offers politely, lowering himself back into the chair he hardly fits in once she rounds the desk and sits down as well. It would make sense that that was what her assistant has told her, as that was the story Simon had offered, reasoning that he had to speak with the owner about the project, not giving them much choice when he showed up to the office unannounced

“There aren’t any issues with construction so far, are there? We shouldn’t be expecting any delays?” She questions, getting straight to the point. Simon appreciates that she isn’t wasting any time with small talk, he also wants this done quick, he’s got a pretty bird waiting on him after all

“No ma’am. Everythin’s on track so far.” He replies easily, omitting the small hiccups she doesn’t need to know about. “M’afraid that’s not why I’m ‘ere today.”

“Well, what can I help you with then?” She questions, an over plucked brow raising as she tilts her head

“Had a few questions ‘bout the nursery we’re buildin’ for ya.”

“Oh, well- I believe the specifications were in the plans for-”

“Not so much ‘bout the building itself, ma’am.” He cuts her off, not unkindly, but clarifying his point. “Was more so wondering ‘bout- well, it’s a decently big plot o’ land we’re working on. How many lil’ ones are meant be in there?” He asks, trying his best to ease his way into this conversation

“Currently, plans are set to have two preschool classes, two toddlers classes, as well as an infant class. With full capacity we could have up to 88 children in the centre. Why are-”

“How many of those spots are for the babes?”

“We can have up to 10 infants at most.”

“Alrigh’, and how many o’ those spots are available?” He finally asks, cutting to the chase, ripping the bandaid off. Simon watches understanding cross her face and she lets out a small scoff, not rude, but more so like she knew she should have expected as much

“Ah, I see now.” She says with a knowing smile sent his way. “I appreciate your interest in our centre, and I understand nursery spots have been scarce in the city, but I have to be honest sir, we do have a wait list policy. There are numerous families already signed up wi-”

“It’s a little girl.” Simon cuts her off firmly this time, not wanting to entertain whatever rejection she was preparing to give him. No, he wouldn’t be leaving here without good news for you, he couldn’t do that. He ignores the painted birds mocking eyes as he steels himself as presses on. “She’s just a tiny thing. Eight weeks old, almost nine now I suppose. Her mum’s got to be back to work, hasn’t got much of a choice. There’s no family ‘round to help or nothin’. She needs this spot for her.”

The woman’s lips thin as she looks at him with understanding, with sympathy, none of the things Simon cares to see unless she’s nodding her head in agreement. He knew it might take a little push to convince whoever was behind the desk to do the right thing, to help him do right by his birdie and her baby bird, and so he’s not ashamed, nor above saying:

“I’ll make sure the job’s done early.”

At this, both her brows now shoot up, obvious intrigue now painted across her features as she blinks at him.

“Pardon?”

“I will see to it that everything is ready ahead of schedule. Personally. The sooner the place is open, the sooner you start making money, the sooner kids are in and sooner parents are happy. Everyone wins.”

Simon watches her ponders his words, gears turning in her head as she thinks it over. She could easily refute him, call him out for being out of line and send him on his way, tail tucked between his legs. But Simon knows a desperate person when he sees one, knows just what people want to hear, and so he isn’t surprised when she’s suddenly standing from her desk, crossing the room to shut the slightly ajar door, and he smiles to himself slightly, knowing he’s won.

“Now when you say ahead of schedule-”

“Could have ‘er ready by the end of the month. I’ll pull the strings, make it happen. You leave it to me and it’ll be done.” He answers easily, confidently, like there is no question in his mind he can offer up such promises and see them through to fruition. Hell, he’d build the entire goddamn thing by himself day and night if that’s what she wanted to hear, whatever would convince her

“I mean-” she says, letting out a long sigh as she leans back in her chair, opening up a drawer and rummaging through for something or another. “I can’t lie, this wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made exceptions for someone, especially one of our own builders.”

Simon nods along, pleased with the way this is going thus far, though things take an abrupt turn when she next says:

“I would still like to meet with your wife and daughter first, just to iron out the enrolment details and confirm whether this would be a good fit, but I can- I could potentially find a way to make this work.”

And Simon knows this is the moment where he’s supposed to correct her, where he’s supposed to speak up and clarify that no, you aren’t his wife and she isn’t his daughter, that she’s misunderstood him and that the two of you are strangers he met earlier this week- fuck he doesn’t even know your baby’s name yet for crying out loud- all of this could fall apart tremendously as soon as she asks even a single question that he won’t have the answer to, potentially jeopardizing this entire thing for you and her, and yet-

“Brilliant. The missus will be thrilled.”

Alrighty first off, apologies for the delay between posts, writers block and life in general are so ew, but we’re so back babe

All the love on the first part was so unexpected and so so appreciated!!! Y’all have me looking like this with every comment and reblog and tag-

Gonna strive to have part 3 out before the end of the weekend hopefully, don’t want to keep you all waiting so long again

- M 🫶🏻

[cloudwisp]

✮ sylus x wife!reader

contents: fluff, suggestive. arranged marriage au. hints of slow burn. you like playing hard to get and he loves calling you his wife. 1.4k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ I had to deposit my messy thoughts somewhere and this headcanon post was the result.

part two here. ꒱

⭒ Arranged marriage with Sylus where he prefers to call it a “strategic partnership” as a means of appearances to flaunt that he has it all—an empire, riches, strength, influence and now a darling wife who waits for him at home. You’re not so much as a random choice, Sylus had been watching you from afar for a while and in exchange for his protection in the N109 zone he strikes a deal with you to play a simple role. You have every reason to be wary of him and know to keep your wits about yourself, but even you acknowledge that your chances are better with him. Though, if you asked him how he was so certain you’d agree to his proposal he’d admit that he wasn’t but he knew you’d consider it if he had an advantage over you.

⭒ He sets his terms and conditions—you reside in his humble abode, wedding ring always worn on your finger, and attend events with him as a pretty accessory on his arm to contribute to his image. But he’ll never admit that he actually enjoys your company at business functions that often feel dull to him. You are more than welcome to spend your days as you please so long you don’t cause him trouble, and that also means you have his black card privileges to spoil yourself rotten. Of course, he accommodates most requests you may have like sleeping in separate rooms if that’s what you wish (and redecorating because his furnishing decisions are quite bleak).

⭒ Luke and Kieran can sense that their boss feels something for you despite his nonchalance toward this little arrangement. It starts off small, it always does—Sylus takes note of your morning and night routine, your picky eating habits and has the chef make adjustments to your preference, how he sees you out in the gardens and come back with spring tulips to brighten the space and the next week he already replaced the slowly withering flowers with fresh ones. The twins whisper among themselves that he’s often less annoyed and irritated when you’re around, and their boss wouldn’t go through the trouble of being considerate unless he cares for you. It’s almost exciting for them both to witness a budding romance unfold before their very eyes and they do offer a helping hand here and there to keep things interesting.

⭒ Sylus thinks it’s adorable how you keep trying to resist him and that’s precisely the reason he loves seeking you out just to watch your resolve crumble under his touch. He finds you in the kitchen preparing a snack and cages you from behind with his hands planted on either side of you against the counter. “Hey kitten, I thought I’d find you in here.” You feel his hot breath down your neck as he pushes your hair aside just enough to lay a soft kiss on your shoulder. He chuckles when you comment that he’s being awfully touchy with you, and he purposely moves closer so that his chest is pressing against your back. “Perhaps I just can’t keep my hands to myself where you’re involved. Besides, you’re my wife now. I think I have the right to touch you whenever I like.”

⭒ You remind him that you’re his wife in title only, but that doesn’t discourage his flirtation and teasing as he allows you to nudge past him. He follows you into the common area and takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide and taking up a lot of space. His gaze is settled on you as he pats his thigh and his lips curl into a smirk. “Come here, wife.” You naturally scoff meanwhile you place the plate of seasonal fruits on the side table and situate yourself closest to the armrest, taking a bite into a juicy red strawberry as you ignore his piercing stare.

⭒ For someone who always gets what he wants, Sylus isn’t used to being defied like this. And had it been anyone else his patience would wear dangerously thin, but he supposes that you’re a special exception because he seems to enjoy the chase and claiming its reward. With one small gesture, he drags you across the couch by a gravitational pull and you squeal when the swirling red easily turn and maneuver you so you’re forced to straddle him and your hands prop on his shoulders for support. “There, much better. Comfy? This is the best seat in the house.” His gaze locks with yours, and he thinks you huffing and frowning at him is simply cute. He firmly grabs your wrist with the bitten strawberry in your hand and lifts it to his mouth for a sweet taste.

⭒ “No fair… using your Evol against me like this.” You grumble under your breath as you gently trail your thumb from his chin to the corner of his mouth where the strawberry juices began to spill. Then an impulsive thought takes over and you pinch his cheek between your fingers, creating a sticky mess on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. That’s for treating me like a sack of potatoes.” He chuckles once more, his hand falling on your hip and he gives you a light squeeze. “Oh, I do have every intention of fully enjoying my wife tonight.” And by that, he means taking you out for a joyride on his motorbike and feeling your arms wrapped around him tightly as the engine roars through the streets under the night sky and sinking moon. Sylus would never engage in any intimate acts you weren’t ready for, but he loves seeing you fluster at his suggestive remarks.

⭒ As the weeks cross over into months, you never imagined that you’d be spending so much time with Sylus outside of your agreed terms. He’s everywhere in every waking moment of your life even when he’s not there physically. You’re learning new things about him each day and you (begrudgingly) like being around him—even when he can sometimes be a playful bully toward you. When he’s gone for long stretches of time to deal with negotiations and other important matters in the N109 zone, you can feel your heart yearning for him but you’d never say that you miss him out loud when you think he's still toying with you. But with the way he cares for you like you’re both in a real and genuine relationship, it’s hard to know his true intentions and keep your feelings buried deep inside your chest for long.

⭒ You accidentally confirm that Sylus does harbor romantic feelings for you when you carelessly bring up your replacement in a lighthearted joke. You’ve never seen his face falter so quickly at your words as he averts his gaze for a moment to collect himself—a hint of vulnerability in his crimson hues. “I wouldn’t have found a new wife.” He shakes his head and tells you, his voice a little rougher than before. You don’t know what to say, but you manage a soft “No?” that reaches his ears. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to replace you, kitten. You’re it for me. The only one. No one could fill the void you’d leave behind.”

⭒ You and Sylus have kissed before, but this is the first time you’re initiating it. As you brush your lips against his, there’s a softness you never noticed. His hand slips around the small of your back and he pulls you close against him, returning your kiss with the same tenderness as though savoring the taste of you. You lean back after a moment, your palm meeting his cheek in a sweet embrace. “You know, I'm still getting used to the idea that I’ve fallen for you.” You can see him returning back to normal when he offers you a cocky smirk. “And yet here you are. In my arms, with your lips on mine. I think you’re not being entirely honest, my beautiful wife.” Sylus has waited a long time to hear those words from you but you don’t need to know that right now.

[screampied]

ʚ BUBBLE, POP, ELECTRIC ?! ɞ

ᡴꪫ‎ sum. it’s your birthday and your sugar daddy takes you on a spree to the mall. perhaps buying a new set of panties with his initials engraved on it to tease him wasn’t the brightest idea. get in loser, you’re going shopping.

wc. 5.5k

warnings. fem! reader, sugar daddy!gojo au, age gap (early twenties/early thirties), unprotected, semi-public risky themes, dry humping, implied multiple rounds, lots of praise, squırting, fıngering, dumbification, ōral (f! receiving), dirty talk, brēeding, petnames.

➤ sd!gojo masterlist

“a- anything?”

“anything, darlin,” satoru hums with a teasing smile, burying both hands into his pockets. your face lit up as he happily slides his black card into your palm. it had a glinting shine to it, your eyes gape at the sixteen digit code plastered on the front with his full name in bold, ‘satoru gojo.’ the both of you stood near the center of a busy, packed mall. it was an ordinary hot friday, and since it was also your birthday, he decided why not let you pick your special gift. the older man leans down, planting a kiss against your forehead. “go crazy, yeah? ‘s your day, gorgeous. the pricier, the better. buy something that’ll be easy ‘ta tear off. oh, i mean uh— buy something pretty, heh.”

you felt a wave of heat burn over you. you could never, never get enough his praises. satoru’s eyes remain on you as you clutch on one of the many purses he bought you. “toru, you don’t have to.”

“shh, you’re my baby,” he reassures you, pulling you close. you lean into his embrace, feeling the palm of his hand caress circles against your back. he feels the thin straps of your top glue against your skin. his cologne, it was forevermore intoxicating. in a husky low tone, satoru whispers. “i wanna spoil you extra hard today,” and you gasp, feeling him nuzzle into your neck. “what do ya say, sweets? i heard victoria’s secret has a few new deals goin’ on right now, heh.”

you spent the next good hour shopping, going to any store that just so happened to pique your fancy. you told gojo that you’d save victoria’s secret for last, and he nodded.

of course, he tagged along with you. like the gentleman he was, he carried your weighty bags for you like they were nothing.

“gonna run me for my money, huh sweets?” he snickers, an arm slinging around your shoulder as you stood beside him on the escalator. as it slowly took you both upstairs—you let off a tiny exhale. you were preparing to go toward the second floor of the mall.

with a coy smile, you brush a thumb against the edges of your skirt. “o- oh, sorry ‘toru,” and you knew he was teasing, he’d buy you the world if he could. he was stood so close next to you that you could almost always get a good whiff of his loud scent. “didn’t mean to get so much stuff.”

“sweetheart, i’m joking you know that,” he hums, stepping back to let you get off the moving escalator first. it was so packed, dozens of people walking around each part of the centre. it was full of chatter and laughter. a whirring breeze sets against your skin as he steps beside you, leaning down to plant a kiss near your forehead. “tired out yet? or do ya have more pretty stuff ‘ta buy?”

speaking of pretty, satoru gojo was the prettiest.

he stood out in the mall—he was an elite businessman but people were smart enough to not disturb him while he’s spending time with you.

so classy, he was always wearing the finest richest suits, preferably black or white ones. long, stretched out slacks to show off his legs and his hair. gojo’s hair was always neatly done, as he aged he usually settled with a parted style, a visible undercut to run his fingers through to pass time.

thin white bangs would run down his eyes a few times—occluding his vision. gojo would often find himself digging his hands into his pockets as he happily watches you drain his wallet.

“we can go get some lingerie now,” you murmur out, hearing some random pop song blare through the mall’s speakers.

“we? aw, am i gettin’ dolled up too?”

he peers at you as your expression twists to abashed embarrassment. gojo chuckles, a soft thumb brushing against your cheek lovingly. “you’re so cute, i’m teasing. let’s go then, lead the way princess.”

you ended up getting at least three new sets, including the brand new panties gojo’s been rambling to you about nonstop.

he told you how he’s recently got a partnership with the store.

a million dollar partnership at that — his new ‘satoru gojo’ limited edition panties were finally launched, and at first the idea of his name on underwear made him grouse. thanks to gojo’s hefty contribution to the company, they’ve gained a lot of new customers over the past summer. but, the moment you pick them out with a cute curious smile, he only cared about how you’d like them. so far, he’s heard from the reviews of buyers that it was quite soft, cottony and synthetic.

waterproof also, and gojo being gojo brought that specific fact up to you about a dozen times.

“can i open my eyes now, darlin'?” a low, husky yet playful voice calls out. gojo sat manspread in the dressing room, awaiting for you to show the final results of the product. “mhh, ‘s kinda dangerous to jus’ let my imagination roam, you know.”

“hold on, satoru.” you roll your eyes, slipping on the panties. they were really pretty, they fit perfectly and had tiny blue bows on the side.

you spun around near the nearby mirror, taking in your figure. it had a thong yet bikini type shape to them. stretchy and all, not to mention it was very comfortable—not too tight whatsoever. right on the back, you spot the infamous letters that were sewn in bedazzled rhinestones, front ‘n center.

‘ satoru gojo, ’

you felt a brew of heat tickle its way down your thighs before you strut toward the white haired man. even sitting down, he’s so attractive. long legs stretch themselves out as he’s laid back against the concrete wall. he’s surrounded by colorful bent hangers, the dressing room was spacey enough. as he sat on the bench, he taps his foot. “baby, i can feel you lookin’ at me. are ya done?”

“yeah,” you utter, slowly removing his hands away from his eyes. “you can look now.”

it takes him a moment to register the sight — you stand still, feeling his cerulean blue eyes awe at your beauty.

oh, your curves, his blown irises linger everywhere so intently that it makes you feel small in the best way. your heart’s thumps accelerate as he’s got a growing smug smile curling against his pink lips.

“oh my,” he purrs out, a hand cupping under his chin. his expensive g-shock shimmers against the luminescent ceiling light as also he gently pulls his bottom lip down. his stare makes you nervous and you don’t even know why. “spin around for me.”

you do, twirling your body slowly and his eyes get a front view of your ass. you still wore your blouse, feeling his gaze burn into your rear.

“goddamn,” and you let off a soft breath, feeling his hands gingerly creep up against your thighs. “you look gorgeous in anything,” he whispers, inching his lips toward your backside. gojo then drags his twitching, crooked lips toward the left cheek of your ass. it smooches against the lace fabric, a thumb stroking the letters of his own name. “i’ll buy this entire brand just to see you walk around ‘n these for me, sweetheart.”

“satoru don’t do that,” you protest, gasping once he parts your legs open a bit. with you, his touch was always gentle. he couldn’t ever keep his hands off of you though. his strokes continue to roam, and that’s when he playfully bites your ass cheek. “h- hey!”

“sorry, baby,” he chuckles, giving it a soft teasing smack. gojo hears you whine out in need before he turns you back around. “mhh, don’t give me that pout. come give ‘toru some sugar instead.”

your heart always flutters whenever he says that, those sweet words never fail to strike right into your heart. churning the pit insides of your stomach that’s already packed with butterflies swarming everywhere.

as you slowly make your way toward him, tantalizingly, he cocks his head to the right.

“don’t be shy, i won’t bite today,” he flashes you a soft toothy grin, patting his lap for you to take your favorite seat. wasting no time, you sit on his lap, your bare skin brushing up against his loose fitted slacks. “good girl,” and his hands meet your waist. zeroing his eyes down your sweet physique, he strokes your bottom lip. “closer.”

the moment you finally close the distance, your lips press against his. a cheeky smile curls against his mouth — a groan shortly following out of his throat, betraying his playful demeanor. you moan, finding it impossible to not move a bit against him. as you gradually grind against his lap, delving your tongue between his, he lets off a sharp breath. “mhm,” pretty snowy lashes of his shut tight, fluttering as he’s poking a single thumb against your hip. gojo tastes sweet, sweeter than he’s ever been. peppermint lives on his tongue, running against your tastebuds and with utmost grace, you relish in it. the flavor, its additive and his touch wasn’t helping. a raspy groan slithers into your mouth once your grinding speeds up, the bottom part of your panties grazes against his secret growing boner and he huffs.

“f- fuck, baby,” he snarls, breaking away from the kiss to look down. there, he spots it. he was indeed hard, he’s been hard this entire time you’ve been splurging hefty amounts on his black card. the moment you gave him a little show of the sediment panties, that was the final straw. “you’re such a tease, y’know,” and you gasp once he slides a lengthy finger toward the cottony fabric. “ooh, is someone already a mess? lemme see ya.”

and as you’re just barely hovering over his lap, legs sprawled apart for him, he swipes the fat print of his thumb inside. “s- satoruuu.” you hiss out, the last syllable of his name elongated and cutely dramatic. a bit loud, you had to remind yourself the two of you were in a store. indeed, you were soaked already. part of you thinks it was because of his showering praises.

every time he calls you a ‘good girl’ or his ‘pretty girl’ you felt the stickiness between your thighs dampen. it was just embarrassing.

“can’t believe you’ve been hidin’ this mess this entire time,” the white haired man almost pouts, a tone of playfulness humming underneath his tone. two of his fingers poke their way between the middle part of your panties, prodding against your soppy pussy. “oh, look at that. so fuckin’ nasty,” and cunning blue eyes flicker straight at you, making you gulp in ignominy. “sweetheart, you do know i gotta pay for this. did ya forget?”

“o- oh.” and reality hits you again. he was right, you were soaking panties that weren’t even bought yet.

you could feel yourself dripping, a little damp spot forming its way against the woolen linen.

“yeah, oh,” he mocks your cute surprised word, easing a single thumb past your slit. it’s swollen, he feels the eager twitch of it and your legs rock back in lewd rapture. “awh, how cute. you want my thumb, princess?”

“y- yes,” you whine, tossing your arms over his broad shoulders. the man eyes you with a haughty expression, continuing to flick the edge of his thumb in and out of your puffed clit. the panties were still on and you clenched your jaw before letting off a needy sigh. “take them off, ‘toru. please.”

he gives you a long stare before humming. “nah,” and a pout twines against your glossed lips. with his right hand, it grips your ass, his thumb resuming to fondle your skin before it tenderly starts to go in. “silly girl. panties are for wearing,” he teases, and your lips part themselves open once he successfully eases his way inside. you’re already so sloppy, spiraling all underneath his fingers. a white brow of gojo’s crimps into an intrigued furrow before he buries his nose into your neck. “ah, ah. don’t hold back those moans, let me hear that pretty voice.”

“but- we’re in public.”

“i won’t be crazy this time, i promise sweets, heh.”

total lie,

he says he won’t be crazy yet here you were bent over, face shoved into the wall, legs all parted. you moan, feeling his tongue dip straight into your cunt, slurping a loooong suck of your honeyed sweet. your thighs weakly tremble a bit at the teasing sensation of his stubble gracefully bristling against your skin. your cheek presses up on the glass of the other mirror that sits up against the wall. “f- fuuuuck.” you whimper out, toes curling up in utter ecstasy. his tongue, it was always so messy. messy and long, you whimper out once he dives straight in.

dipping in and out, no manners whatsoever. he’s nose deep, lolling it out all the way until he’s shamelessly drooling down your drizzling folds.

even still,

your panties were still on the entire time — they were lazily pulled to the side. with his eyes closed, he’s letting his tongue wander everywhere. you whine, digging the edges of your teeth into your bawled up fist. “arch more baby,” he whispers, hot breath ghosting right against your cunt. the store was blasting obnoxiously loud music, you hoped no one would walk in, hoped no one would see. the door was closed but still. once he watches your back obediently raise up at his command, he hums, nibbling right against your cunt. “atta girl, gimme that arch, uh huh.”

gojo groans, eating you out from behind, using a single hand to make your legs spread just a bit further. the continuous squeaks that pours out your lips makes him ten times harder than he already was. “ngh, t- toru,” you start to huff, feeling a crushing pull yank its way at your lungs. your breathing only started to get more crazed. as he’s spelling out the ten different letters of his name. you whine out a sobbing mewl, feeling the way his tongue curls once he flicks a sweet ‘s’ in your pussy. the swirl — your back only arches more, the skin of your cheek practically glued against the mirror. “ohmygodd.”

“y’r so fuckin’ hot,” he purrs out, and you’re so busy focused on his tongue that you didn’t even realize he had two fingers shoved inside you already. they’re so long, they reach into the very caves of your walls, specific spots that you didn’t even know could be located. with a swift motion, his fingertips curl around your cunt, feeling the gripping squeeze. “mhm, that’s it. bare around ‘em just like that,” and he’s making out with your cunt, giving it multiple french kisses. your legs were so close to giving up, you could feel that same annoying smile rub against your pussy. as your lip shivers, you start to breath heavier.

puffing and huffing . . heaving as you let off the same pathetic whimpers for more, more of his sloppy tongue.

he slurps everywhere, making sure to not miss a single spot. gojo sucks against your clitoral hood, knowing just how sensitive that spot made you. as you’re coating not only his fingers but his chin at the same time with your sheeny juices, you couldn’t help but swallow your pity. “i- i’m gonna cum,” you moan, a hand of yours reaching behind to grab onto his head. it lands near the top, gripping onto his strands and shoving him further into your pussy. “satoru, agh,” and you had to cup a hand over your mouth, growing paranoid once your heard a few people right outside your stall.

shit, shit, shit,

all you heard from gojo was that same raspy chuckle as he pumps in his two fingers inside your pussy with the most presumptuous grin on his face. as he’s bent on his knees, his chin was soaked with your slick.

every few seconds, he pries himself off to breathe and clean the lower part of his chiseled face with his tongue. “c’mon, baby. wait a little f’r me,” and his tepid breath repeatedly fans against your fevered skin. the pleasure — the pulsation, you were found with your legs spread and jaw dropped. so close, you could merely taste a salty tang that’s forming on your sugared tastebuds.

satoru gojo was a eater, and he could eat you all day if he really really wanted. your pout from his words makes him laugh. he spots your dumb expressions through the mirror propped up directly in front of you before he starts to spit on your cunt. “ugh, look at her. always so shiny ‘n slick,” and with bright eyes, he stares at the way his saliva trickles down your puckering hole. “ooh,” gojo breaks his mouth away again, lustrous cobwebs of spit dripping down his lips. frantically, you were shaking once he suddenly stopped. as his two fingers still plugged inside of your pussy, he gives the outer part of your entrance teasing pecks. “such a wet girl. listen to her with me, sweetheart.”

“s— fuckk, ‘toru,” you babble out, a sharp swat of his free palm hitting against your ass. suddenly, the cramped up dressing room felt hot. blazing, and yet, your thighs were even hotter. with your lips betraying themselves, curling into a circular shape in pleasure, you barely could make yourself stand still. “pleaseplease.”

“no, baby,” he gifts your cunt it’s final kiss, one of his hands running down your thighs. you had glossy slick racing down and he takes the opportunity to lap it right up with his tongue. “only sound i wanna hear is this pretty pussy talkin’ back to me. let’s hear what she’s got ‘ta say.”

the sounds of your own cunt was so lewd. it’s crying squelching rings and reverberates off the walls.

abruptly, you grow quiet and he hums, slowly dragging out his two long fingers before you gush out straight away.

your eyes were as wide as saucers, electric shocking currents travel through every part of your body as you come undone on his tongue. as you whine into your palm, your eyebrows come together into a furrow.

“mph,” you whimper, feeling your thighs shake. it’s so much that within seconds, you feel yourself spraying against his tongue until you couldn’t anymore. it felt like your life flashed before your eyes. the tenderness of it all was almost too much to bare. as you’re still violently shaking on his pink twitching muscle, gojo spreads your ass apart, growing drunk at your taste before he chuckles against your clit - teeth nibbling against your sensitive, puffed folds.

“my baby’s velocity just gets better ‘n better,” he snickers, giving your right ass cheek a frisky kiss.

as he stands up again, he faces you — watching as your eyes were all droopy ‘n hooded.

“c’mere,” and you felt your cunt throb as you fall into his touch, pressing your lips right back against him. right away, your tongue gets met with the taste of yourself on him. you tasted sweet, he’s always described you as sweet anyway. gojo groans, lifting up your thigh before making you lie back. “good girl. ‘s just you ‘n me. let me spoil you today, princess.”

glancing down, you spot his slacks that were just barely hanging on. they were half on, dark blue boxers clinging onto his perfectly sculptured waistline. you spot a bit of a peeking white happy trail that’s curly — sticking against his skin.

“s- satoru,” you pant, pawing your hands at his already open fly. he ogles at you, popping the two wet fingers that were stuffed into your cunt literally just a few seconds ago right into his mouth. you watch, growing more aroused as he sucks on his digits right in front of you.

“satoru what, baby?” he leans down, springing out his cock. it was quick, he fishes through his boxers before whipping it out, wrapping a single bare hand around his fat length. giving it a few pumps, a thumb of his swipes against his pulsing vein and he groans. with a snarl, he bites into your neck. “you don’t wanna wait ‘till we get home, huh?”

“no,” you whimper, and he lets you take control a bit.

with shaky hands, you make him sit flat against his back, a cute shove goes against his chest and he huffs. “want you, ‘toru,” and he smiles at how out of breath you were, still trying to overcome your more recent, nirvana filled high. as you get on his lap, straddling him, you lean right up to the older man’s face. “please.”

he returns your lust-filled gaze, a hand of his creeping toward the curvature of your ass. “such a sweet girl. with manners like that, i could never say no,” he coos to you, helping you align your entrance against his reddened tip. with your panties still on, string passively pulled toward the crevices of your thighs, you whine. “there’s that sweet ‘lil moan,” he brings you closer toward his neck. the veins that ran down his cock pulse even quicker. “mhm, c’mon sweets,” he playfully pulls your hands away from your face. “i wanna see those eyes roll back. don’t be shy, ride me girl.”

and as he’s careful to sink you down on his cock, your legs wrap around his slim waist like a vice.

a hand of yours tugs onto his tie, giving it a little forceful pull. gojo’s hair was all ruffled — white strands everywhere, you had him a mess and right where you wanted.

whenever you straddled him like this, you always took his breath away and that hungry gaze you always give him, fuck you were dangerous.

intaking a sharp, deep breath, he’s halfway in now. gojo’s so thick and bulky that it feels like he’s fully in.

balls fucking deep,

a whimper pulls out of your vocal cords as his tip kisses your sweet swollen insides. his own eyelashes were half-lidded and he’s panting right with you, frigid cold band of his watch rubbing off against your skin. the saturated squelches of your pussy were so loud, he holds onto your hips before a pussy drink grin tugs against both corners of his lips. “attaaaa girl. move those hips, ride me good, birthday girl.”

the friction was so delicious, so appetizing..

you were barely moving but you felt like you were gonna screw up and cream all down his shaft. with your face still burying itself into the crook of his neck, your hips finally start to adapt to some sort of steady rhythm. gojo huskily grunts, feeling the welcoming grip your cunt gifts him every time he goes inside. the elastic stretch always makes him short circuit. as his blushing tip thrashes its way inside, your hips roll and it’s only then that you start to sloppily lurch against his lap.

“t- toruuu,” you sob out in a sweet broken syllable, your own words sticking against your tongue. strong, built arms hold you upright as you’re making steady haste. the music of the store seems to get louder and you don’t even care if you get caught anymore.

with the way his cockhead’s smooching up against your sweet spot, you’re already dumb, stupid ‘n hungry for more of your beloved sugar daddy. your whines always ghost right up against his earlobe, falling on deaf ears every time. your sweet, carnal sounds makes his dick twitch. the electric pulse surges through your cunt and you feel it — shivering, glancing at him and he shoots you a flashy, sheepish grin. “yeah, ‘s okay baby. doin’ so good for me.”

even still, you’re adjusting to his size. the big stretch has your lips parted and circular, moans spilling out of your lips again and again until you were a broken record.

every single time, gojo’s cock extends inside of you through and through. it’s like it comes natural to him. no matter how many times he’d please you, you’d always end up getting a bit more stretched out than the last time.

a constant lewd loop,

“s— satoru,” you start to whine again, swiveling your hips against him. he’s seated down on the bench, taking in your body and the way your breasts bounce. he can’t help but snatch a feel, bringing a hand toward your left mound, squeezing two fingers against your nipples. with your frilly blouse still on, he’s just tugging against fabric but you start feel the familiar incoming shockwaves of pleasure. you let off a tiny squeal, head tossing back and your teeth digging into your bottom lip. “ngh, ‘toru. ‘m sensitive.”

“baby you’re always sensitive,” he teases.

lowering his head down between your neglected tits, gojo pulls up your blouse and leisurely slides his tongue down the sheeny crack of your chest. you’ve got a bit of a glow, probably from your recent teeth shattering orgasm. “mhm, look at my girls. they get prettier every time i see ‘em,” and as you’re still swaying your hips against him, he pops out one of your tits from your bra, sucking against the tender skin. you whimper over and over, he can barely get a good solid suck from the constant movement of your hips. you’re jittery, repeatedly moving back and forth against him, about to erupt as if your cunt was a volcano. “thaaat’s my girl, always taste so sweet.”

you ruffle his hair a bit as he’s latching his mouth against one of your sore nipples. the mobility of your hips so sloppy and unstable. he tends to each nipple, latching his wet lips against the sore mounds before slobbering all over it. as you’re grinding against him in an alluring manner, your eyes start to roll back. “toru, ngh. ‘s fuckin’ big,” you squeak out in a tiny mewl, your voice entirely small.

you’re moving so much that he could barely keep up, burying his face into your chest. his hot breath tickles against your skin — it’s feverish, sending a multitude of shivers to race down your spine.

he grunts in annoyance at your bra in the way, snatching it down to properly attach his plump lips against your neglected nipples. gojo sucked until they were all sore ‘n swollen, madly pulsating from the salacious stimulation. he eyes you with a teasing simper, a crinkle informing underneath his eye as he licks up his saliva dripping down the bare valley of your chest.

“y’r always a perfect fit though,” he whispers, another groan leaving out of his throat. as he’s leaning back again, allowing you to continue riding him, you’re just completely dumbfounded.

irises were dilated, lungs were full, toes curled.

you moan once he spanks your ass at the feeling of your hips slowing down, his way of encouraging you to keep at it. with your frilly blouse pulled up, he gawks at your body and admires how you match his crazed tempo, rolling and mirroring the same amounts of rickety.

“my fuckin’ girl,” he grunts, a hand sliding down your ass again, spanking it again. “uh huuuh,” his tongue slides against his lips, averting his gaze at your seductive looking hips. “just like that, sweetheart. niiiice ‘n slow, ‘toru’s not going anywhere.”

as you’re jerking forward against him, constantly bouncing against his thickset, bulky base — your jaw hangs wide open. he’s reached your sweet spot, it’s out of nowhere and you feel a bundle of nerves scream all through out you. your limbs were getting weary, and as your arms wrap around his shoulders, you nibble on his chin. “satoru, satoru, f— fuuuuck.”

he chuckles, watching as both of your eyes close tight, feeling one of your hands slither its way inside of his dress shirt. “hm,” he looks down, and your fingertips feel against his chiseled washboard abs. your pace was relentless, and with the feeling of just how ripped he was, you felt that same twitch arise in your cunt again. “fuck yeah, baby. touch me anywhere you like. this body ‘s all yours,” and you moan from his provocative words, still moving back and forth. gojo’s scent made itself well known throughout the entire dressing room. his abs instinctively clench from your gentle yet tender touch. “make me feel so good.”

“i- i do?” you moan, his words alone sending you a plethora of spine-chilling chills everywhere. they linger for a long time before you feel yourself starting to tighten. you were hungry for his approval, his praise — anything.

“yes, sweetheart,” he grunts, cupping your face as your hips continue to rock against him. he was reaching his inevitable limit and so were you, gojo’s face turns flustered and his pretty blue eyes flicker backward for a moment. that action alone was sexy, only you made him like this. “you like hearin’ what you do to me, huh?”

his voice was always so low — deep ‘n pitchy, it had the right amount of rasp hiding underneath it.

the timbre, it was a huskiness that always got you soaked. gojo moved his hands back down toward your waist, helping you keep up your frantic rhythm. every few seconds, you felt his throbbing dick plunge in and out of your drooling cunt. it’s so thorough, and every once and a while, it slips out. “fuuuck,” he groans, lifting you up before aligning himself back in. “got me workin’ over time, baby. stay still, yeah.”

your sweet nub was constantly being kissed up against, and you’re already so so stupid.

metaphoric heart eyes form through your pupils as you twitched ‘n fluttered on his cock. the moment you came again, and again, and again, there was barely a thought in your mind. you were always left being a puddled mess, swollen walls perfectly ravaged and stretched out.

it’s probably been about a good hour or two.

the dressing room had a sweet smell of tangy sweat and cologne—you whimper, babbling repeatedly as you’re now bent back over again.

but this time, gojo’s fucking you from behind.

he’s probably had you do various positions, and he was just about to finish again, anticipating to see another load pour right into your puffy pussy.

“s- shit,” he swallows a lump residing in his throat, catching your secretive hand trying to reach down and touch yourself. “princess..”

you pause, your hand staying still and he chuckles — pressing right up against your ass. he’s still pumping you full mid-thrust, a free hand wrapping its way around the back of your throat. his tone sounded like you’d just been caught redhanded. “aw, someone’s eager. but you always ask before touchin’ this sloppy pussy, right?”

with your breath hitching, he’s continuing to reel you back into his sharp hips within each piston of a thrust. with your mouth opened wide, you moan. “y- yes,” and as he’s jutting his cock into your gripping walls, you whimper out a sweet question of want. “can i touch myself, ‘toru?”

“let me think, baby.”

and you whine, a pouty expression marinating against your features as he’s got you pressed up against the mirror once more. gojo chuckles, clammy hands squeezing against your ass. “oh, you big baby. ‘m joking, go ‘head princess.”

as your fingers skid down your sopping pussy, it’s immediately coated with your slick. you whine, feeling his pace go faster before he groans. after a while, he’s just about there. gojo’s eyes remain fixated on your pretty rear — skin against skin clashing onto each other in such sync ‘n harmony.

his orgasm hits him like a truck. as a pretty translucent ring forms around his heavy cock, lust foils at his brain. “hah, fuck, pretty. such a mess, arch more for me, good girl. good fuckin’ girl.”

with the way he’s praising you continuously, you felt the constant twitches of your pussy cling onto his length. as your limbs were shaky ‘n on their final concluding hinges, you grow quiet at the feeling of him dumping in yet another sweet sticky load of cum. in the process — he coats the fabric of your panties with his mess, luxuriating in how sloppy you looked.

everything feels so slow - it’s probably been hours.

the current song that’s playing on the speakers, you’ve heard that same chorus for at least three times now.

it’s so warm inside, the flushed left temple of your cheek sticks against the mirror as you’re pressed right up against it. “f- fuck.” you wheeze out, allowing him to pump you full of creamy, velvety loads. he groans, throwing his head back and letting off a deep exhale. pretty lashes of his flutter shut as he’s staring openly at the way your cunt swallows its favorite bittersweet meal. with his mushroom tip still thrashing against the bulb of your sensitive clit, he gradually pulls out.

gojo’s eyes remain at your backside — gazing at the way he’s overflowed you with ropes ‘n ropes of hot wads of cum.

he licks his lips, staring in awe at how it dribbles down your thighs so effortlessly. it’s so messy,

a thumb of his swipes down the inner crevices of your thighs, getting a taste of it himself. “such a pretty girl,” he huffs, bringing the same thumb up to his lips to get a good enough taste. with the honeyed concoction of both flavors, he hums in contentment. “awww,” he stands up, taking in your dumbed down state. you were still panting, cum dripping out of your swollen hole.

you’ve still got a brief portion of your fist in your mouth - trying to suppress your sweet noises, split knuckles tickling against your tongue. “cute. c’mere, princess.”

you shudder, feeling him reposition your panties whilst pulling up your frilled skirt. with a teasing smile, he kisses your forehead, giving the fat of your ass one more squeeze. “you did so good,” and once he’s making sure you’re okay, with glossed eyes—you leer as he drags his slacks back up, zipping up his fly. as you gawk, gojo looks so handsome. ruffled white strands all over the place and his once professional dress shirt was now all unbuttoned ‘n scruffy. “hm,” he catches you staring, and he strokes the bottom of your chin. “you look hungry for more,” and his voice gets a bit low, he pressed a soft kiss against your lips, watching as you pout once he devastatingly pulls away. “happy birthday baby.”

“t- thank you, ‘toru,” you speak, trying to catch your breath. abruptly, you’re suddenly being lifted up by him, bridal style. a gasp wrenches out of you before you involuntary hurl your feeble, numb arms over his tense shoulders. he smells so good, you sink your face into the collar of his tux, feeling his body rumble from a chuckle.

“welcome,” and he unlocks the dressing room, walking out with you in nowhere but his warms. glancing at you, he whispers in a sweet low tone. “let’s get you outta here, hm? a nice warm bath ‘s waitin’ for ya at home. don’t want my baby’s limbs to be all sore.”

and as gojo’s carrying you and your bags with one arm supporting underneath you—he continues to make his way toward the front of the store.

he’s met with a few eyes yet he could care less. all he cared about was you, his pretty princess.

you shift a bit in his arms, still feeling creamy remnants of his cum plug you full even while being protected by your panties and skirt. it sticks against the fabric and you couldn’t help but grow flustered, feeling your thighs glue ‘n stick together. as he’s just about to leave out the door, he’s interrupted by the loud sound of a beep.

it’s the anti-theft security alarm, and gojo groans once he’s stopped by one of the employees.

“sir, i think you forgot to pay.”

“oh right,” the white haired man rubs the back of his neck, gently placing you back down on your feet. you glance up at him and your forehead’s met with another one of his tender, sweet kisses. “stay put, baby.”

you nod, watching as his back turns. he trods toward the cashier, whipping out his black card that he had you use for the majority of the day. as he’s paying for your items, he apologizes for the inconvenience with the most faux unknowing expression. gojo leaves a big tip in advance before making his way back toward you.

his staggering height stands tall and he slings an arm over your shoulder. he grabs your bags, having you lean against him as you both finally make your way out of the store.

“c’mon, darlin,” gojo mutters in a low tone, guiding you out of the mall. he’s still holding you close, but he stops briefly to plant a kiss near the inside of your neck. “still not done makin’ a mess out of my messy baby girl.”

[muntitled]

Force-Fed

Pairings: The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: You didn't need a job. Not when you only needed him.

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Language, Coercion, Standards Relationship, Abuse, Isolation, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Jealousy, Codependency, Stalking, Yandere!Salesman, Smut (+18) mdni, DDLG, Taboo Sex (she literally calls him dad), Freudian Slip, Daddy Kink, Dom!Salesman, Sub!Reader, Subspace, Slight!Age Regression, Choking, Degradation Kink, Praise Kink, Dacryphillia, Breeding Kink

A/n: If this isn't your vibe, leave the fic alone. Read something else. Like always I'm not responsible for the media you consume.

Installing a mobile tracker on your phone might not have been the most morally good thing to do, that he could admit. Perhaps even more incriminating is that the idea struck him while you were passed out on the floor, your body thoroughly spent from all his ravaging. He was nothing if not an inquisitive man and he needed to see what you got up to during the week, when you were without him. (Note: this started out as a precaution. For your own good. You ought to be thankful to have someone like him in your life).

Who knew that the tracker would bring him here?

His jaw is screwed shut as he leans down under the awning of a building, spotting you through the window of a tired coffee shop, donning a uniform he hadn't even known you owned- it set him alight with a certain level of possessiveness that was foreign to him.

He admits that before you, he'd never had much use for any pointless emotions like love or care. They were, at their very core function, just hormones injected into the brain in order to trick humans into reproduction. That's what he saw you as for the longest time: A means of reproduction. A conduit through which he could fulfill all his most absurd fantasies- fantasies that scared even himself.

When he hit you, fondled you, groped you or stretched your body beyond its tantalizing capabilities, he truly believed he was making you useful, and in return for your services you got to coast through university without having to worry about bills.

That's what it was supposed to be. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.

So what the hell is this?

Today is a Tuesday and your 'sessions' together are scheduled on Wednesday. He ought to just keep on walking and go about the rest of his day forgetting having ever seen you.

As far as your agreement was concerned, you were strictly expected to leave him to his devices throughout the week- it never occurred to him that he would also be expected to leave you to yours.

It makes him tsk, seeing you scrub the counters of a cafe... as if you didn't have him to provide for you.

Had he not provided you with enough?

Had you not gotten everything you wanted?

You were like a dog without a leash.

And his hand was itching to pull you right back to him.

He walks into the coffee shop before his brain is finished processing his movements.

"Good afternoon-" greeted the young man behind the counter. The place smelt like roasted coffee beans and debt. It's obvious in the very few patrons milling about that this business was doomed to fail. Your Salesman had a knack for spotting abject poverty and the owner- your boss, one Lee Junmin was teetering on the edge of financial ruin. It's a very good thing that your Salesman is here to save you from this sinking ship.

"Good afternoon," your salesman says stiffly, almost amicably.

He finds you mid-conversation with your coworker. There's a smile on your face as you crane your neck back, holding a cup under the burning faucet of a coffee machine. You're speaking amicably and you're still smiling. Genuinely. Not at all the robotic smile you reserved for the Salesman during your 'sessions'.

He realises now, watching you with a real smile plastered on your face, that you had been lying to him. You don't seem as broken as you claim to be. Seeing you here, assimilated into society. Sporting a part time job?

His knuckles clench around the handle of his briefcase. He was brimming with the need to punish you for it.

It's absurd.

To punish someone for being a fully functional human being. Not even his own psychological issues could adequately reason that.

The younger boy behind the counter rests a hand on your shoulder, finally letting your eyes settle on the tall Salesman behind the counter.

He can see the moment your breath catches in your throat.

How he wishes he had his heavy hands wrapped tight around that throat. He'd choke you for trying to get rid of him. For trying to... not need him.

"Could you take care of this customer? I need to go out for a break-" Your co-worker mumbles quietly and your heart drops like a bag of dipped in molten lava at the sight of him standing there on the opposite end of the counter. There's a smug sort of smirk playing across his features. I've caught the traitor, now it's off with your head.

You begrudgingly steel your nerves before turning to face your co-worker again, trying to even your breathing as you assimilate back into your easy banter, "And how many times have I told you smoking is bad for you-"

Your co-worker raises his tattooed hands, sporting a boyish grin. It's oddly refreshing to interact with a boy your age- someone normal who wasn't drowning in psychopathic tendencies or bullying homeless people for fun.

"Who said I'm going for a smoke break?" He asks, as you slide up to the counter. You situated yourself behind the barrier as if it was going to keep you safe. You knew nothing could keep you safe from the tense shadow hovering over your benefactor's eyes. The Salesman is livid as your co-worker finally makes himself scarce and after a few tense seconds, he finally speaks.

"I didn't know you did this." He says, staring you down the bridge of his nose.

Play it calm. Play it cheeky. Play it coy.

"You didn't know I make coffee?" That snooty remark doesn't earn you a single gratifying chuckle. It doesn't even earn you a soft, meaningless smile. In contrast, all it gets you is monotony. He's pissed.

"Worked." He spits out, "I didn't know you worked."

You only manage to stare up at him, silently before turning your attention to the screen in front of you.

There were a great many things he had already stolen from you- full autonomy over your body being the greatest loss. You'd raise up hell itself before you truly let him strip you of your independence.

"What can I get you for today?" Swift. Curt. Professional. As if you hadn't felt this man inside you. As if he hadn't choked you out until your vision was sparkling with stars. As if you didn't have his cock down your throat. No one here knew about your arrangement. In this coffee shop, you were safe from your history with the Salesman.

"Americano," You sigh softly, thinking he'll respect you enough to keep things professional. Poor, naive you.

“Tell them you quit." He says, forcing you to look up at his cold, dead orbs. "Do it now."

Your finger pause over the screen and your breathing picks up.

He couldn't do this. Not here. Not when you've finally found refuge away from him, his sadism, his demands and his reminders that he held the keys to you obtaining your degree. This coffee shop was the one place he couldn't reach you...

So why were you already on the cusp of giving in?

Your eyes flit over to the few patrons milling about before staring up at the man on the other side of the counter. Daylight was dwindling and beyond the windows, the city was drenched in an orange, almost pink late afternoon glow.

"Your order's coming right up."

"This place is going bankrupt soon. They'll fire you. It's better you quit now before they do." Your hands falter as you struggle to swallow that deeply authoritative veneer in his voice. That fatherly sort of guidance. Be careful, it said.

"Oh, this is you protecting me?" You hated that this was taking place at work, but business is indeed slow and the only other worker here is in the back of the building, smoking away his problems.

"Not protecting you." He says with a shake of his head, as a slow smile curls the ends of his lips, "Warning you."

You rolled your eyes then. It made his hand twitch with the need to correct you. To force you to submit to him. If there's one thing he couldn't stand, it's a rabid little girl.

"You can have a seat while you wait for your Americano-"

"Fuck the Americano." It comes out louder than he intended. It's a surprise, just like the vein popping out of his forehead. His mask was slipping.

"Tell them you wanna quit." He says in a much softer, more in-control tone of voice. He leans against the counter so that the words exchanged are heard only by the two of you.

There is deep anger and menace in his eyes. You can see the warning in them. Its blood-red and calling for you to just submit.

But you're feeling particularly brave. And so you immediately respond.

"Or what?"

"Or I’ll fucking kill you. You or that co-worker." His gaze fits to the door through which the boy disappeared as he sighed and said, "Remember the roommate's boyfriend?"

How could you ever forget?

There was blood.

So much blood.

Who knew humans were walking around with that much blood inside them?

"You want to threaten me out of having a job?" You were losing this battle and quickly. Desperation is the only thing you cling to as your eyes peer up at him.

"Want to?" He shakes, “Little Girl, I am threatening you. Quit now. Your co-worker would greatly appreciate it.”

He taps that counter once before taking a seat. "I'll get that Americano to go."

𓂃

Devastation.

A hyperbole of sadness and a pure manifestation of self pity that overwhelmed you in the taxi ride back to your apartment. Your mind replayed the confusion that graced your co-workers friendly face when you told him you 'just couldn't work here anymore'. The genuine sadness in his eyes had stopped you dead in your tracks. It triggered tears that you didn't even know you had because he actually made you feel loved.

Real love, not the fake stuff given to you by this hulking man seated silently in the taxi beside you.

The interior is flooded with neon lights and myriad little stars are plastered in the black sky.

"Fix your face," he grumbles without looking at you, "You're ruining everyone's mood."

You went the rest of taxi ride, sulking up a storm, until you arrived at your apartment building where you didn't look at him once, as you rode the elevator up, up, and up.

While you were contemplating genuine suicide, he, on the other hand, was one of the happiest- if not the happiest man on the planet.

He told you to correct your mood but the truth is he loved it. He loved seeing you so juvenile, as if you were teetering on the edge of a tantrum he so badly wanted to correct. He loved seeing you sulk like a child. It set his bones alight with a deep, uncomparable need.

He thought pain was the only thing that got his dick hard.

Perhaps he stands corrected.

"Take off your shoes," he hollers in that same tone of authority once you've entered your apartment building. You're like a ghost as you turn to kick your shoes off at the door before lugging your body deeper into the house. He watches you drop your handbag right there on the floor, before you're throwing yourself on the couch, face first like a sack of potatoes.

He attempts to hide his smile as he walks in along after you. He undoes the buttons of his blazer as he stands above you, eyeing you under a quirked brow as your shoulders begin to wrack with your tears.

He shrugs off the blazer before folding it on the nearest armchair.

You flinch when you feel his hand on your foot, lifting it up to make space for his large frame lowering onto the couch.

That infuriatingly warm voice is back as he quietly asks "Why are you crying?"

He extends his hands to the small of your back, rubbing dizzying circles while you cry and cry. He's comforting you after being the very reason you need comfort in the first place. Everything about this man is one big contradiction.

"I thought you'd be happy about this." Your voice is muffled by the cushion. You don't look up at him.

"What on earth would give you the impression that I want you to work?" He asks.

"W-Well," you attempt to rain in your sniffles and he attempts to not visibly grow a boner as your bloodshot eyes finally come into view. You're a beautiful mess for him. Your lashes are wet and your nose is runny and he wants to do so many vile things to you, its eating away at his soul.

He wants to play this game for as long as he can though, this sulking game that he didn't know hed enjoy so much. He settles for setting his hand at the back of your head as you talk.

"If I have a job that means there's less stuff you have to buy for me and-" You answer, sniffling cutely as you sit beside him. You're staring down at your hands fidgeting in your lap while his eyes can't leave the pathetic tears running down your face.

He doesn't think when he says it. He's not thinking about anything other than your body. How little you become for him. How sombre and sullen and sulky you are.

"And what if I prefer it?" He asks softly, "Taking care of you?"

You shake your head, trying to remove his hand ghosting behind you but he only weaves his fingers into your braids, keeping a wonderful grip on your scalp.

"You had no right to do that- you had no right to make me quit."

He leans over, sufficiently done with all these terrible games you've played and forced him to play. He was so dangerously close to combustion, his hands were trembling as he reached over to undo the buttons of your work polo shirt. You let him.

Of course you let him.

"Who was that then? You kissed him before?" His eyes find you before moving back down to the t-shirt. His fingers hook under the ends of the shirt as he lifts it up.

"Who was who? My co-worker?" You sound tired and dejected and you immediately hug yourself when nothing but cool air drifts over your naked torso. He moves a large hand over your breasts, marveling at the sheer size of it, comparing it in his hands. Your body truly was magnificent, he realizes. And all he has done this whole time is try to kill it.

"That... child," he breathes before dropping his hands down to your work pants. He undoes the buttons and you watch him with an intense look in your eye.

"You have a knack for calling every boy my age a child," you say shortly.

"That's because you're young," he admits before tapping your thigh slightly. You lift your hip and let him maneuver you out of the khaki pants, never to be worn again. The smell of coffee still hangs heavily over your skin but it's significantly less intense. Right now all he smells is you.

"And yet," you showcase to him the latest bruise along your collarbone. It's big and angry and hid very easily under the polo shirt. However, here under the overhead lights of your apartment, he could see them, "Look at everything you've ever done to me-"

He groans then. He actually groans.

His eyes flutter shut as his legs spread a little wider and he sinks a little lower into the couch. "Fuck," he whispers, head swinging towards you as he flutters his eyes back open.

"Come sit on my lap?"

His request only catches you remarkably off-guard. “Excuse me?”

"I said come sit on my lap," he replies so defiantly it nearly has your brain short circuiting. You narrow your eyes, not trusting it.

"Why?"

"What do you mean 'why'? Because I'm hard and I'd like you to sit on my lap."

"Is this another game?" You ask, still remarkably on the fence about the man who had been the pinnacle of sadism, suddenly force-feeding you his affections.

"If you don't sit on my lap I will bring out the cane again, don't tempt me-" before your able to make a decision, he makes one for you- attacking you with his large hands before you're able to protest any further. He wrestles you onto him, forcing you to take what he gave.

You're made to straddle his left thigh as he pulls you in close until your tits are pressed up against his shirt. He buries his head in-between the crook of your neck and you croak out a moan as he inhales you sharply. He hugs you towards him, bouncing you slightly on his knees. The feeling shoots straight to your cunt and you immediately begin to groan on top of him.

With his head over your shoulder, you can feel his fingers grace over the marks he'd left before. The marks from the cane. It scarred your back. Moulding the flesh in his image. Branding you as his

"You're young but you can handle it." He whispers, swiping his thumb over your scars before drifting his hands down to your hip. He slowly begins to drag your hips forward and you gasp, immediately searching for something to grab onto. You settle for his shirt. Your fingers curl around the fabric and he lets you ruin it as he pushes you back slowly on his thigh. He continues these torturous movements until your cunt gets the message and starts acting accordingly.

He watches with a slow nod as you begin to ride his thigh like he's conditioned you to.

"Jeez-" It was the sheer intimacy of the actual act that had your arousal dripping out of you and onto his thigh. You'd never had sex with him- purely for sex. It had always been an act of torture or punishment that had always led to sex. But never something so sexual being done so blatantly .

"Fuck yourself on my thigh-" he whispers hoarsely, almost pained as he urges you along. "You can do it, can't you? You can be a good slut for me?"

An equally pained whimper seeps out of your closed lips as you begin to ride his thigh like your life depends on it- spurred on by darkness in his glare and the bulge tenting his pants.

When you notice him undoing the buttons of those pants you realize you are utterly done for.

"Good little slut," he mumbles as he mindlessly reaches inside his boxers to uncover his cock already dripping precum.

"Open your mouth-" he's already shoving his fingers inside, flattening your tongue in order to collect as much saliva as possible before spreading it all over his cock. You watch in complete wonder as he begins to fuck his fist to the same rhythm you ride his thigh- it's so mesmerizing.

"D-Does this count as a session or-"

"Shh-" he says, squeezing his eyes shut as his hand squeezes the base of his cock.

He fluffers his eyes open again, only to state deeply into your lust-filled gaze.

"I don't think I've ever cum inside you with the actual objective of getting you pregnant." His words completely knock you off-kilter and he needs to bring his hand up to your side to stop you from slipping off his thigh.

He continues to stroke his cock, picking up speed.

"I've only ever just... did it.”

“Pl-Please stop talking-” you mumble, “I’ll cum,”

He doesn't listen.

“I cum inside you 'cus it's what I feel like doing in the moment," you try to stitch every piece of this moment to memory. The wrinkles lining his manic eyes, smile wiped clean from his face, leaving only a serious, aroused look of an incredibly grown, strong man.

"F-Fuck," your hips stutter on top of him as you softly whimper. "D-Dad-"

It cracks out of you.

And almost immediately you wish you could take it back but you're already cumming. And your words have his eyes widened as he lifts his hips from the couch fucking his fist deeper.

"F-Fuck I'm cumming-" he admits oh so gravely as his eyes squeeze shut.

"Me too-" you whimper as your own orgasm splits through you, soaking his thigh and ruining the fabric further.

Beyond a few shallow words, guaranteeing you that you won't be annihilated, he almost never initiates affection. In fact, you weren't even really sure if he was capable of it yet here he was, confessing the only way he knew how.

You're cumming on top of him as spurts of his cum land on his chest, making a mess on his shirt. You're both breathing heavily in the afterglow. The fog has yet to clear.

You sit up slowly, body wracking with aftershocks.

"This was nice but um- I need you to be rougher-" the words barely leave your mouth before he's clamping your throat shut with his fist. He's breathing heavily with his eyes still squeezed shut.

"You don't need anything-" he reminds you quietly, "You don't make demands, you take what I give you."

He squeezes and squeezes your throat like he did his cock.

"You're like a baby being forced fed.” He says, “My baby. My thing to take care of.”

[sunni-stuff]

fwb!Simon, who grunts out, I love you mid thrust, leaving you rightfully lost for words and unable to question him, not while he was hitting a spot that had your toes curling and stars dancing in your eyes.

It's only afterward that you confront him, sheets pulled up to your chest, trying to assemble some semblance of decency while he gets dressed with deliberate purpose, his back to you as if eager to escape your presence. Scars crisscross his back like a road map of past battles, mingling with the fresh evidence of your fruitless moment of passion—angry red streaks left by your nails, which had clung to him in desperation and abandon.

"Did you mean it?" The meek whisper escapes you as you watch him tug on his shirt, concealing the marks of your shared tryst as though they were nothing more than another wound to bear.

He doesn’t face you, his head slightly turned but unreadable, the balaclava masking any trace of vulnerability or regret. Simon sits on the edge of the bed to put on his boots, the silence stretching between you like a chasm. The weight of your question hangs heavy in the air, rendering him unable—or perhaps unwilling—to answer, though his stoic demeanor betrays nothing.

"Simon, I'm talking to you." Your voice trembles, frustration spilling into your tone.

"I heard you," He mutters, his voice low and clipped, refusing to meet your gaze as he tightens the laces of his boots.

Simon always does this. He always does this—offering you fragments of affection, fleeting and fragile, leaving you grasping at it like sand slipping through your fingers. No matter how tightly you hold on, it escapes, grainy and rough, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake. How much more could you take? How much longer could he toy with your heart before it finally broke?

"Then say something!" You finally scream, the words sharp and raw, slicing through the oppressive silence like a blade, desperate to shatter the wall he always hides behind.

He stills, shoulders stiffening, and for a moment, you think he might ignore you. But then, he snaps—his voice booming in the small room, rougher than you’ve ever heard it.

"What am I supposed to say?" The words come out like a growl, his frustration spilling over in a way that’s uncharacteristic of his usual control. His head whips around, and though his face is hidden by the balaclava, the intensity in his eyes burns through you.

You flinch, never having seen him angry before, let alone enough to yell at you. The sharpness of his outburst leaves you unnerved—just for a moment. But then your own anger surges forward, overwhelming the tremor of fear. He’s been toying with your heart, leading you along like a puppet, pulling the strings, the conductor of a train you never asked to board.

"Did you mean it?" You ask again, your voice steady now, even as your chest tightens. You meet his brown eyes head-on, the fire in them slowly dimming your own, leaving you to wonder if there’s anything real beneath the cold facade he so carefully constructs.

Again, he doesn’t answer. Typical Simon. Instead, he reaches out, roughened hands cupping your cheeks, his thumb gently rubbing your soft skin. There it was again, that flicker of affection, brief and fleeting, poured into your palms like a delicate offering, expecting you to cherish it, to hold onto the scraps he gives.

But much to his surprise, you pull away, your gaze hardening. For once, you let the sand slip through your fingers, choosing not to cling to something so unreliable, something that always fades just when you think you’ve grasped it.

Simon stares at you in utter shock, his gaze frozen as you move away, laying back down, refusing to face him. He watches in silence as you refuse to look at him anymore with those eyes—those eyes that always regarded him as your guiding sun, the one constant in a world full of uncertainty.

Now, your back is turned to him, the sheets pulled up to your shoulders, leaving him in the dark, unable to see your eyes, the eyes that once held all the softness, the trust, the devotion he’d never truly earned.

There was nothing else that needed or could be said. No oasis in this desert, no water to quench the sand he's suffocated you with. Simon rises, grabbing his jacket and keys from your dresser, his movements mechanical. He wants to look back, wants to see if you're watching him leave, wondering if you’ll be crying like all the times before. The sullen look in your eyes, the one that always made his heart strain, that soft ache whenever he walked away.

But this time, he doesn't look. Not this time. Because he knows there will be no hopeful eyes waiting for him, no quiet plea left in your gaze. Instead, he sees only the remnants of what he’s broken, the red thread that once held you together now frayed beyond repair. He’s a coward, unable to face what he’s done, unwilling to see the damage he’s caused.

[boobearymuch]

Their Favorite Underwear (On You) —♡ LADS Headcanons

—♡Summary: They certainly have interesting preferences, that's for sure. —♡Tags: NSFW, suggestive, sex implied, afab!reader, no pronouns used, fingering, panty sniffing/licking —♡A/N: done staring at this I'm throwing it out into the wild —♡ masterlist

—♡ Caleb

Caleb’s favorite pair of underwear on you is somewhat an innocent pick. A worn out pair of cotton panties you’ve had since high school. 

They have some kind of pattern—either horizontal stripes, flowers, a repeating print of the cookie monster—doesn’t matter, he loves it all. 

They remind him of simpler times—laundry day when you were younger—and how they’d get caught up in his own load by accident. You’d flush bright red when he stopped by your door to drop them off, but he’d just throw his head back with a laugh and tell you it's fine.

He’s never told you how close he came to pocketing them instead.

In the present, he’s found himself on laundry duty again. The colonel is dumping your basket of dirty clothes into the washer when a familiar pair of cotton panties fall in. 

He doesn’t even bother looking around; Caleb reaches for them, breath hitching when he realizes they’re the same pair from before. He can’t believe you still have them. You really ought to buy some new clothes…

Something dark—hot—coils in his belly when he turns the gusset inside out and lifts the fabric to his trembling lips. 

It smells divine—a little on the tangy side, but he’ll make sure you drink more water from here on out. 

Then his tongue finally laps at the inner lining, and Caleb’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. 

His hips jerk against the washing machine just thinking about sinking his tongue into your actual—

Your voice abruptly floats down the hall, some question he can barely hear, and Caleb tells you he’ll be right there.

Perhaps he will pocket these for later, after all…

—♡ Xavier

Xavier’s favorite pair of underwear on you…is actually his own.

His boxer briefs are basically yours at this point. 

When you sleep over and need a change of clothes, he just lets you borrow his; which is how you end up in an oversized shirt and boxer briefs in the first place.

Seeing you in his clothes is a thrill of its own, but seeing you in his underwear?

It’s an entirely new level of intimacy that has his ears burning red and his slow heart skipping a beat.

You wouldn’t wear just anyone’s underwear to bed, you’re wearing his.

He gets oddly clingy when you do, sliding in behind you in bed and nuzzling your shoulder as you scroll through your phone. 

You make some comment about a post you saw, but he’s hardly listening. Instead, his hand is sliding down your hip, stroking the fabric of his underwear and the heat of your skin. It brings a soft smile to his lips.

Xavier can’t help but think the slit of his boxer briefs is silly on you, sliding his fingers inside to gently stroke your pubes. It’s usually innocent, he just likes the texture.

But the hitch of your breath darkens his gaze, and Xavier gently coaxes you to continue scrolling as his hand sinks lower…

He hums in response to your little moan, fingers curling up into your slick heat. His other hand reaches around to take the phone out of your faltering grip and slams it against the nightstand. 

Xavier’s selfish, he admits—he doesn’t want you distracted by anything else while you’re wearing his clothes, his underwear…

You need to borrow another pair of boxer briefs by the time he’s done with you.

—♡ Zayne

Zayne’s favorite pair of underwear on you is not one you expected—thongs. He’s secretly crazy for them. Well, that might be an overstatement—but he enjoys the sight of you in them very much.

You’re surprised to learn about Zayne’s preference, though he doesn’t readily disclose it at first. You have to feign trouble picking between two sets of underwear first, and shove your phone into his face for an opinion. 

“...The one on the right.” The cool response is only betrayed by a fervent blush on his cheeks.

He likes slipping his fingers under the thin string, teasing and tugging. It leaves very little to the imagination; straight to the point.

Your order comes in, and Zayne secretly watches you slide them up your legs as you both get ready for a banquet. It’s all his mind keeps wandering back to throughout the night. 

Not only are you wearing underwear he picked out, but you’re wearing them to mingle with his colleagues. A rather distracting thought, isn’t it?

At one point during the night, you bend over to grab something, and the lack of a panty line reminds Zayne all over again what you’re sporting underneath.

He approaches calmly, interrupting a conversation with his colleagues by wrapping an arm around your waist. 

His excuse to leave early is well thought out—you suspect he’s had it in mind since arriving—but you’re barely listening when his hand wanders low.

It slides down your backside, and he absently thumbs the string of your thong through the fabric of your dress. 

…The car ride home is a short one, to say the least.

—♡ Sylus

If you asked Sylus, he’d say he prefers you in no underwear at all. 

But, if he had to choose, he’s rather fond of a simple red lace. Comfortable, practical, sexy. 

Not to mention, red is absolutely your color. The fact that it’s his too is merely a…happy coincidence. 

When he’s stocking up your closet in the N109 zone, Sylus makes sure to order only the best luxury brands exclusively in various shades of red.

The idea of you sauntering around base in his color is enough to make him purr at the sight of you, even when your underwear isn’t visible.

He makes a game out of guessing what pair you have on; is it the scarlet one with bows? Or perhaps the strappy maroon? 

Sylus finds out at dinner; you’re laughing at some ridiculous story when you uncross your legs, and there’s a flash of vermilion underneath your skirt. 

The one with heart cutouts? My my, you only wear that one when you want something…

His eyes roam you up and down as you continue your story, but you stumble over your words when a swirling red mist drags your chair closer to his.

You were quite bold for wearing such a bright color in public, and if anyone other than him was to catch sight of it…

Well, we can’t have that, can we?

Your breath hitches when his hand roams your thigh, smug eyes never leaving yours. His calloused fingers ghost the hem of your skirt, and your words trail off in anticipation of what’s to come next.

Sylus grips the fabric and tugs your skirt…down. 

Your face burns as he leans back with a chuckle, “You were saying?

—♡ Rafayel

Rafayel’s favorite pair of underwear? Brazilian panties, next question.

They sit high above your hip bones while accentuating the curve of your tummy; absolutely divine.

Of course, you look divine in everything; hell, you’d look perfect in only a seashell to cover your modesty. But something about the aesthetic of these panties, specifically, gets him insanely hot and bothered.

He brings you back gifts from his trip overseas, but he flushes and fervently denies having anything to do with the three pairs of panties tucked behind the body lotions and skincare.

Rafayel quickly changes his tune when you suggest modelling them for him, though.

That’s how you end up changing into them right then and there, a minty lace pair with a little satin rose sewn to the front. You rejoin Rafayel, who’s been waiting patiently on his bed.

Rafayel can’t speak, only tugs the back of your thigh closer as he swallows thickly. 

Your pubes peek out the sides due to the nature of the design, and you make an offhand comment about shaving the next time you wear them. Rafayel immediately shakes his head—as if offended—and grips the sides of your hips, thumbs hiking the side wings further up. 

He flushes, and his nostrils flare right before he lowers his head to lick a stripe up your lace front.

His tongue burns through the fabric, and the Lemurian lets out a shuddering breath against your stomach. You barely register the chill down your spine when he licks you again, this time his teeth catching on the waistband.

You never get to try the other two pairs on for him…