#like that hopelessness is gone as soon as i take them??

[tarithenurse]

Don't hide it

Fandom: MCU Pairing/starring: Loki Odinson x/& fem!reader Word count: 1071 Content: Pining, shyness, too much empathy, fluff. A/N: Waiting for a better idea so here’s this in the meantime. Feel free to reblog if you liked it – it’s always nice with new readers. Comments are fuel for more!

Don’t hide it

Following in your friend’s footsteps, you’re grateful that Loki knows you well enough to draw you away from the feast and all the people there. Few will miss him even though he’s a prince and you...well, you’re no one important save for a rich man’s daughter who is too timid to mingle with the upper echelon of Asgard.

After a quick detour past a storage room and the kitchens, Loki and you have gathered ample supplies to last you the night and have gone where no one will look for you: the hayloft above the stables.

Sitting on the soft blankets and furs, you can look down at the stalls with horses who are half asleep or chewing lazily on their fodder.

“Here,” Loki grins as he hands you a bottle of honeyed mead, “there’s lots.”

You’ve managed to snag fruits and cheeses and meats aside from quite a few bottles of the sweet drink.

Allowing the contents of the bottle to soothe your throat, you sneak a glance at your friend who’s doing the same. You notice how his throat bobs with each pull, how his jaw bone could cut glass...and then you have to look away before your thoughts get carried to unwanted territory.

You’ve known Loki since you were five and you’ve been close friends since then. You’ve also, regrettably, developed a deeper attraction to the prince over the last few years – one that you know will never be a possibility. That’s what makes it so painful to be with him: he is the only one who knows you truly...and still you can’t tell him this one thing for fear of ruining a friendship.

“Mother is starting to host more of these balls, it seems,” Loki muses.

I’ve noticed it too. And you know why.

“Of course...both you and your brother are still not betrothed or even in relations with anyone,” you shrug before you can stop yourself.

Loki falls onto his back with a groan. “I shall let Thor have this without competition.” Another groan. “Betrothed. Relations. No thank you.” Then he props himself up by the elbow. “What about you? Are your parents not inviting suitors over for you?”

You grimace at the thought. “I’m sure it will come soon enough.”

“I can imagine it...you being the hostess and the centre of attention.”

Looking about for strands of hay to braid, you don’t notice the darkness in his eyes and he schools his facial expression before you look up at him again.

“I’d rather die,” you sigh.

It’d be torture having to greet one suitor after the other. You don’t feel comfortable around stranger or in the company of many people. That’s why you’d agreed to sneak out of this night’s feast when Loki suggested it.

Keen to change the subject too, Loki studies your features for a moment. He quite likes how you always keep your hands occupied and he’s said so in the past. He’s the only one who seems to like your odd habits.

“Not that I do not cherish our little escapades away from the crowds...but we must see to cure you of your shyness,” he suddenly announces.

“And how do you suppose we do that?” you shoot back.

He shrugs. “Depends what you fear by being near them.”

“It is not fear it is...” You have to search for the right term but come up with nothing. “It’s as though I sense all they feel, all their sentiments. Anger, joy, sadness.”

“Love?”

“Sometimes, yes...but not always.”

Loki takes a swig from the bottle, clearly considering your words. “Then you must learn to shift your attention to their physical presence instead.”

You can’t hold back the hopeless laugh. “How?”

“Imagine them naked.”

You almost choke on the mead, having all too clearly imagined him naked before you – not for the first time but more clearly now.

“Then I think I would be equally shy albeit for different reasons,” you argue once you can speak again, avoiding to meet his gaze.

Falling back on the furs and blankets, none of you say anything for a while. The only sounds are from the large creatures below and a mouse tip-tapping along a secret path on the other side of the hay.

You know Loki is thinking. He always thinks.

“Perhaps...you must simply trust that you are better than them,” he offers softly.

A scoff escapes your lips. There’s no reason to state the obvious and Loki should know as much.

Hearing the rustle of the hay beneath the furs, you sense more than see Loki scoot closer until you are lying next to each other. Then he reaches to cup your cheek, turning your face to meet his.

“I mean it. Why can’t you see it?” he admonishes softly. There’s something you can’t figure out in his voice and his gaze. Something almost painful. “You read people better than anyone I know...and you know me better than anyone...why won’t you trust me?”

His hand is cool on your skin. For a brief second your eyes stray to his lips and a sudden urge to kiss him fill you...yet you do nothing. You just close your eyes and relish the nearness.

“It’s not that I do not trust you, Loki,” you begin to explain, “but you’re my friend a-”

“Don’t take my word for it as a friend. Hear me as...as a man,” he growls, causing shivers to run down your spine and something to bloom in the pit of your stomach. “I see all the other ladies at the feasts yet none of them are as wonderful as you.”

Opening your eyes, you’re met with blazing sincerity. “What do you mean?”

“For someone as emotionally gifted, you truly are dense right now.”

You would have recoiled at his harsh words. Would have served a rebuttal or asked for a clarification once more, maybe. But all of that is lost to you the moment his dips his head down and kisses you.

Fierce. Lips pressing hard together and noses squishing together slightly. You’re too surprised to do anything but grasp of the collar of his tunic, holding you steady in a world that suddenly seems to dip and rotate around the two of you.

You’re both out of breath by the time he pulls back, watching you intently.

“Do you understand now?” he asks quietly.

You nod. Then pull him down for a kiss more.

[mossy-petrichor]

Does anyone else's ADHD meds (stimulants) make their suicidal thoughts vanish?? It's SUCH a clear thing it drives me insane because I've never seen anyone talk about this??

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: dubcon-ish due to suggestiveness and alcohol, yandere, breakup, depression, schemes, manipulation, office au for some reason

part two in Gojo's pov

fem reader

It’s been two weeks since your breakup—since you got dumped on your sorry ass.

You wished you could say you were fine, wish you could say fuck that guy, anyway, good fucking riddance—that you’d make him regret it, that he didn’t know what he lost, that he’d come crawling back begging your forgiveness soon enough. You really wish you were that girl—the one who gets up and dusts off and gets back out there with her head still held high. You really do.

But no, you’re one of those girls who feel silly getting dressed—worried that you’re trying too hard. Fuck, it’s hopeless. You feel like shit, and you look like shit, and you don’t even want to go out anyway—it’s just some shitty office party at some shitty little bar where everyone’s going to make your breakup their business. It would be best not to go—leave them to talk shit about it behind your back. 

Sure, you could slap on your best tough act and tell them all to go fuck themselves, but why bother? You’re just going to drink too much and end up doing something you regret.

And oh, how right you were.

It’s not even been a good few hours before you’ve got the office slut’s tongue down your throat—all but clinging to him as you press your body up against his. Manicured hands tussled in his pretty white locks, pulling on him while sucking each other’s faces, leeching off the feeling of his hands grabbing your waist—oh god, it feels good to be wanted again.

Yes—yes, this is what you need. Fuck your ex-boyfriend, he’s probably out fucking some skank himself. Well, two can play that game. He’ll see. You’ll make him see. That fucking asshole—

Oh no.

“Wait—stop,” you break off the desperate kissing. 

Hanging your head while steadying your breath, you push both hands flat on his hard chest, keeping him distanced even as he leans after your lips. 

You swallow thickly, then wipe your mouth, taking a step back. “The fuck am I doing…”

You don’t dare look back up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you just want to get out of there as quickly as your feet can carry you—catch the first cab home and forget all about it. Pretend it never happened. 

“Sorry, ‘m gonna go,” you mumble as you start walking away, leaving your confused colleague behind, alone outside the bathroom stalls, still recovering.

You make your way down the hallway with dim neon lights flickering overhead, feeling swallowed up by the graffiti-littered walls.

What a sorry place for mistakes.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I was about to be one of those girls.” You shudder as you wrap yourself in your own hug, feeling silly for wearing a cropped jacket—and why the fuck is your dress so short? You’re not a fucking teenager anymore. “Fucking hell… I’m such a mess.”

“No, wait.” A tug of your jacket holds you in place. Oh, but you really don’t want to look at him. It’s humiliating enough already that you’d sought him out for validation—you don’t need his pity as well. It’s Gojo, for fuck’s sake. A different girl brings him lunch about every day—the whole office knows.

You might just die from the toll of it.

“Com’on. I’m perfect for this, aren’t I?” he asks under his breath while maneuvering you up against the wall again, his dewy breath brushing your scalp as he peers down at you in wait for your answer.

“What are you on about?” You veer away. You should be in a cab already. Better yet, you should have never gone out in the first place. What was your goal here anyway? To not wallow in your own worthlessness? And you really thought seeking Gojo’s seal of approval would make you feel any better about yourself? The office hottie and the century’s ultimate fuckboy?

Fuck, it’s so wrong on so many levels, you feel disgusted with yourself.

“We’re both drunk,” he states, but you don’t really want to hear it—head too filled with your own bullshit to heed any of his. You swear, if he tries any one of his sleazy pick-up lines on you, you’re gonna knee him right in the balls. It would be nice to get fired now anyway—you’d take it as a blessing.

What he says instead is unexpected—brutally and grossly honest, “You need a rebound, right? And I wanna fuck.”

Your thoughts stop shaming you as you look back at him, returning his gaze with an awaiting silence, allowing him to go on.

“So let’s use each other and blame it on the drink.”

It sounds like the lyrics of an angsty heartache song they might have played back inside the bar—the muted thuds seeping in through the walls makes it all but true. And still, there’s something oddly enticing about it, even as it makes you cringe.

“No hard feelings. No strings,” he continues, a small grin playing in the corner of his lips. “Just a good ol’ tit for tat.”

He almost sells it. But you’re just one too many bad nights too tired to buy.

“Don’t be dumb—” you dismiss and try nudging him away again—only, he doesn’t let up.

“C’mon—you’re angry, aren’t you?” he poses with a quirked brow. “What better way to stick it to him than fucking the hottest guy around?”

It stunts you. Suppose that had been exactly your objectives tonight, unknowingly and much to your shame. At least you can find some mediocre solace in your next confession, for as it turns out, “I’m not that kinda girl.”

It’s a depressing outcome. Made even shittier by how you sort of wish you were—that kind of girl. The type who doesn’t let anything get to her, who moves on and doesn’t think twice about it—who fucks the hot guy in front of her and wakes up feeling empowered the next morning. If only you weren’t such a tragic fucking loser…

“Be her for a night?” he suggests, still not having given up. He cups your chin and brushes a thumb over your lips. It’s really intimate, makes you feel pinned beneath that look in his eyes—as if the sky was coming down upon you. His words are low, brushing your face with heat as he says them, “I promise, I’ll make you feel so good you’ll forget all about him.”

Goddamn it—there it is, the fucking pick-up line. Now, it doesn’t really make your knees weak or anything, but you’re sorry to say you can’t deny it’s tempting, either. 

Besides, you really didn’t want to go home and spend the night crying yourself to sleep—again, now paired with regrets about this night on top of it all.

You look at him through the thicket of your mascara, into those big blue puppy-dog eyes looking at you in something so strange such as earnest. Oh God, he really wants to do this for you, doesn’t he? He could go find himself any other girl—everyone had been eyeing him earlier—it’s not too late for him to simply go pick any one of them up. 

Is this his way of being considerate—being a good colleague by offering you a fuck? Ugh… that makes you feel so fucking pathetic. But then again… why does it really matter? You couldn’t really stoop any lower at this point—might as well have some fun while at it, right?

You were out of ice cream anyway…

“C’mon,” he drawls, eyes growing heavier as he leans further in—once again, only a tiny inch separating you. So close you taste his breath and feel his voice on your lips. “Don’t make me beg.” 

You don’t. No, you end up saying not another word. Too busy drowning your sorrows, getting drunk while kissing him breathless.

And oh, you and your bittersweet heartbreak taste so good on his tongue—coercing your boyfriend into dumping you was the greatest ploy for your heart he could ever do.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[pucksandpower]

All Locked Up

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: your boyfriend losing the key to your handcuffs was bad enough … but him calling Max and Lando to help look for them? You may never be able to show your face in public again

Warnings: 18+ content implied, mentions of accidental bruising, wrongful assumptions of violence

“Mon amour, have you seen the key to the handcuffs?” Charles calls out from the bathroom.

You strain against the metal cuffs locking your wrists to the headboard. “No, I thought you had it!”

Charles appears in the doorway, eyebrows knitted together. “I could have sworn I left it on the nightstand, but it’s not there.”

You rattle the chain connecting you to the bed. “Well you need to find it, because I’m starting to lose feeling in my hands here.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” Charles says, running a hand through his hair. He starts opening drawers and peering under furniture.

You watch him scramble around the room searching fruitlessly. After ten minutes you sigh. “Any luck?”

Charles slumps down on the edge of the bed. “No, it’s gone. I don’t know where it could be.”

You give him a pointed look.

“I know, I know, this is my fault,” Charles says. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure this out.”

He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts. After a moment, he puts the phone to his ear. “Max? Hi, I need your help with something ...”

You groan quietly. Calling Max for help with this is guaranteed to be embarrassing.

“So here’s the thing,” Charles says into the phone, “Y/N and I were having some fun with handcuffs, and I seem to have misplaced the key ...”

You let your head fall back against the headboard. This day is just getting better and better.

“Yes, she’s still cuffed to the bed,” Charles continues. “I’ve looked everywhere for the key. Can you come over and help me find it?”

Charles looks over at you sheepishly. “Okay, see you soon.”

He hangs up and gives you an apologetic smile. “Max is on his way.”

You sigh. “Wonderful.”

Soon there’s a knock at the front door. Charles jumps up to answer it. You hear Charles and Max’s muffled voices for a minute before they enter the bedroom.

Max takes one look at you handcuffed naked to the bed and immediately spins around. “Whoa, okay, wasn’t expecting that.”

You feel your face flush. “Hi Max.”

“I told you she was still cuffed to the bed,” Charles says with a smirk.

Max keeps his back turned. “Right, you failed to mention she was naked though!"

“It must have slipped my mind,” Charles laughs.

“Can we focus please?” You cut in. “Find the key so I can get out of these cuffs.”

“Yes ma’am,” Max says. He and Charles start searching the room, checking under the bed and nightstands.

After twenty fruitless minutes, Charles collapses on the bed next to you. “It’s hopeless, the key is gone.”

You rattle the cuffs in frustration. “What are we going to do? I can’t stay chained up like this forever.”

Max thinks for a moment. “Maybe Lando can help? He’s good at finding things.”

Charles perks up. “Good idea! I’ll give him a call.”

You close your eyes in dismay as Charles calls Lando. This day just continues to spiral.

Soon Lando arrives, thankfully a little more tactful about the situation than Max. The three of them scour the apartment, but still no sign of the lost key.

You’ve resorted to making small talk with Lando to pass the time. “So how’s your season going so far?”

Lando leans casually against the dresser. “Oh you know, up and down. But I got a few podiums, so it could have been worse.”

You’re impressed. “That’s awesome, congrats!"

“Thanks! I think if I keep consistently scoring points, I might be able to beat Max in the championship this year,” Lando jokes.

“In your dreams!" Max yells from the living room. You and Lando laugh.

But then, Charles and Max return to the bedroom, both empty-handed.

Charles runs a hand through his hair. “I think we have to face it — the key is gone.”

You rattle the handcuffs in frustration. “So what, you’re just going to leave me chained up here forever?”

“Of course not, mon cœur,” Charles says, sitting down beside you. “We’ll figure something out.”

Max nods. “There’s always plan B.”

You look between the three of them hesitantly. “Do I want to know what plan B is?”

Lando grins and holds up a paper clip. “Lock picking. I found a YouTube video.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “That does not seem ideal.”

“Do you have a better option?” Charles asks, taking your hands in his gently. “I promise we’ll be careful. And if the paper clip doesn’t work, we can always call a locksmith.”

You sigh, relenting. “Okay, fine. Just please be gentle, my wrists are already sore.”

The three of them get to work carefully trying to pick the lock on the cuffs with the paper clip. You try to stay still, watching them fiddle with the tiny metal piece.

After several tense minutes, you finally hear a click. The cuff around your left wrist springs open.

“Yes!” Lando cheers. “Told you I could do it.”

Charles kisses your freed wrist gently. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

With a bit more work, they get the other cuff unlocked too. You bring your arms down with a groan of relief, stretching out the sore muscles.

Charles pulls you into a hug. “I’m so sorry about all this. Next time we’ll be more careful.”

You laugh, hugging him back. “It’s okay, it all worked out in the end. But next time let’s stick to something that doesn’t require a key.”

Charles smiles. “Deal.” He turns to Max and Lando. “Thank you both for your help, I really owe you.”

“Anytime,” Lando says. “This was way more exciting than my usual Sunday plans.”

“Now, I believe you gentlemen should give me and my girlfriend some privacy,” Charles says, slipping an arm around your waist.

Max and Lando quickly start heading for the door.

“Have fun you two,” Lando calls over his shoulder. “But maybe put the key somewhere obvious when you decide on an encore!”

You and Charles collapse into laughter as the apartment door closes behind them. Charles pulls you into his lap and kisses you deeply.

“I really am sorry about all this,” he murmurs against your lips.

You smile, running your fingers through his hair. “It’s okay, it made for quite the adventurous morning! But going forward, let’s keep the handcuffs between just the two of us.”

Charles grins. “No complaints here.”

***

Later that evening, you and Charles are having dinner with his family. You’re seated at a table on the patio of a stunning Italian restaurant with a beautiful view of the water. The conversation flows comfortably as you all eat.

After the main course is cleared, you reach for your wine glass. As you lift your arm, the sleeve of your dress slides back, revealing the light bruising circling your wrists.

Pascale notices immediately, her eyebrows drawing together in concern. “Y/N, what happened to your wrists?”

You quickly tug your sleeves down, cheeks flushing. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a little accident this morning.”

Lorenzo and Arthur lean in to peer at your wrists curiously. You self-consciously tuck your hands under the table.

“Are you sure it’s nothing?” Pascale asks gently. “Those bruises look quite bad.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Charles chooses that moment to get up from the table. “Excuse me, I’m just going to run to the restroom quickly.”

He squeezes your shoulder as he walks past, oblivious to his family’s concern. You watch him disappear towards the bathrooms, internally screaming.

Pascale reaches across the table to take your hand. “You know you can tell us anything, right? We just want to help.”

You shift awkwardly. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

Lorenzo frowns. “Did Charles do this to you?” Arthur nods, looking worried.

“What? No!” You say quickly. “Charles would never hurt me.”

Pascale rubs your arm comfortingly. “You don’t have to cover for him, dear. If he’s hurting you-”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that!” You interrupt, face flaming. How do you even begin to explain this?

Just then Charles returns to the table. He immediately senses the tense mood. “Everything okay here?”

“Y/N has some bad bruising on her wrists,” Pascale says seriously. “Do you know anything about that, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes widen almost comically. “Oh, that! No no, it’s not what you think.”

“Can one of you please just explain what happened?” Lorenzo asks in exasperation.

You and Charles share an awkward look. There’s no getting out of this now.

Charles clears his throat. “So, Y/N and I were, uh … having some intimate time this morning. And I may have accidentally … handcuffed her to the bed … and lost the key.”

You cover your flaming face with your hands as Charles’ family stares at you both in stunned silence.

Arthur nearly spits out his drink. “Handcuffs? You kinky bastard.”

“Arthur!” Pascale scolds as Lorenzo tries and fails to hold back laughter.

Charles squeezes your shoulder apologetically. “It was just a silly accident. I promise I didn’t hurt her.”

You peek out from behind your fingers. “I tried to tell you it wasn’t a big deal.”

Pascale pats your hand affectionately. “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions, dear. But thank you for being honest with us. Even if there are some things I wish I didn’t know about my son.”

Charles kisses your temple. “No more handcuffs though, lesson learned. Right, mon amour?”

You chuckle, relaxing now that the awkwardness has passed. “Right. I think we’ll stick to the fluffy ones from now on.”

[seresinhangmanjake]

I love all your Feyd works! Thank you.

My request is regrding a sensitive topic. So if it makes you feel uncomfortable, please feel free not to write it.

Reader has arranged marriage with Feyd. After a few years they all discover (including her) that she has fertility issues and has trouble getting pregnant so the Baron wants them to divorce. Wife is becoming hopeless. But Feyd who’s utterly in love and devoted to his wife will not have it and pledges loyalty to her.

Worth To Him

Notes/Warnings: obviously this is about fertility problems. It is a sensitive topic. If this bothers you, please do not read. Mention of period sex.

Words: 1500

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

Sobs wrack your body. One after another after another that keeps your breaths shallow and ragged. Tears coat your lashes, weighing them down. You gave up trying to see clearly through them an hour ago and let yourself get lost in the haze of blindness.

You can’t stop it. You haven’t been able to stop for days. You clutched your pillow like a lifeline, crying into the plush material in a way you haven’t since you were a child. You’ve really proven yourself useless now. You officially have nothing to offer this planet, and the Baron has made that well-known. But what else can you expect when you are incapable of doing the things that are expected of you? How can you expect not to lose the one thing you care about if you cannot give him what he needs?

“If you cannot provide him an heir, you are worth nothing” is what the Baron declared in front of all that exists of his court.

Nothing—the word bounced around the walls of your skull before it finally sank in. You’ve never been nothing until now. You’ve always held some sort of value in some manner or other, even if that manner is in being a political pawn. But no. Here, now, you’re nothing to these people.

At first, you pleaded with him, nearly fell to your hands and knees and told him you’d only been trying for a few months. A few months barely qualifies as adequate time. On your home planet, medical intervention is not discussed until the couple has gone a year with no success. But you’re not on your home planet; there is no medical intervention, and all the Baron said in response was: A few months is too long. You will divorce in a week's time.

Feyd doesn’t know. For the last five days, he’s been on Arrakis, and it was on the third day of his absence that you once again woke to stained sheets. He’ll be disappointed in you, just like the Baron, just like the people of Giedi Prime, just like your parents who agreed to marry you to Feyd for the sake of an alliance that will soon be broken. 

When he returns, they’ll tell him, and he’ll nod with acceptance because that is what he does under order, and you’ll be shipped off. You’ll never see him again. He’ll remarry. He’ll become a father to a child by a woman who is not you. He’ll raise what the people want. He’ll do them proud.

You wonder if he’ll miss you as you will miss him. Will he ever think of you and wish you were in her place? Will he look at the children she’s borne him and wonder what your children would have looked like had you the chance to have them? Will he see their hair and imagine your locks flowing down to their little shoulders? If he peers into their eyes, will he prefer them a shade to match yours instead of hers? You wonder if he’ll be filled with sorrow at what could have been. 

Selfish to think it. There’s no reason to assume he will not enjoy the pleasure his new wife will offer. Neither are you fair in hoping that when he’s inside of her, making the children the Baron demands, he will be thinking of you. 

You cry harder. Your pillow will take ages to dry. Perhaps you’ll move on to his. Soak in the scent of him before you’re ripped away from him and returned to what will be considered by many the end of your life. No other Lord, or future Lord, will take you, not after being owned by a Harkonnen—tainted meat, as they say. You’ll be a burden on your family, an embarrassment to your House’s people, a waste of valuable blood. 

—

Touch stirs you: a soft brush of fingertips over your tear-stained cheek, a thumb grazing over your parted mouth. 

Then a voice. “Wake up.” Your groan of resistance is cut short by a press of lips against yours. A quick peck and then another. “Wake up,” it says, and then one more kiss, much longer this time, that you return before bothering to open your eyes. Your arms wrap around a familiar neck. A tongue gently glides along yours. And then it’s gone. Stolen from you. You want it back. 

Your eyes snap open. At the sight of him sitting beside you, you gasp, quickly scrambling onto his lap. He holds you without question or word. He holds you close to him. You hold him like you never will again. 

Leaning into his body, you push him down onto the mattress and he lands on his back with a chuckle. Your legs straddle his hips, your weight resting comfortably on top of his, and with his hand in your hair, he pulls you back into a kiss. Gentle at first, a caress, then harder, needier, greedier. He could bruise you if he wanted, leave his mark, and you invite him to. Something to take back home with you—a bruising kiss. You hope it hurts. You hope you internally bleed and purple blooms around your mouth. You hope it never fades and you wear the reminder of him for the rest of your life.

His lips part. His tongue is back in your mouth, asking for yours. You savor the slick warmth, knowing you’ll never again be kissed like this. To be honest, you never thought you would be kissed like this at all. You didn’t know kisses like this existed. If someone had told you a year ago that this man would be kissing you this way, with a passion you wouldn’t have dreamed him capable of releasing, you’d have laughed them out of the room. 

He unlocks your mouths for a breath and gifts you a smile. Rare. Almost out of place on his face. The first one you received was five months into your marriage, and you’ve never gotten used to them. 

“I missed you,” he says, tucking a few loose strands of hair behind your ear. 

You want to tell him how you’ve missed him, how painful it’s been without him by your side, but you don’t know that you can speak the words, not without every emotion you’ve felt over the last few days bubbling to the surface and overpowering your joy at seeing him—the last time you’ll greet him upon his return before you’re gone. 

He frowns. “You didn’t miss me?” he asks, and since you can’t deny him a damn thing, you gather the will to say: “Of course I did,” but your throat catches midway through. You can’t look at him. He allows it for a few seconds, giving you a chance to meet his stare on your own, but when you don’t, his fingers on your chin turn your face back to his so you can no longer avoid the prying blue shade of his irises. 

“What is it?” he says.

“I know he told you.” There’s a brief pause before your husband hums in acknowledgment. Fingertips trace up and down your spine over the thin material of your nightgown. “The doctor was ordered to examine me after I bled. He’s not sure I’m able to give you a baby. And the Baron–”

“My uncle does not make my decisions for me,” he declares, and you’re so stunned by the defiance that it takes you a moment to collect yourself. 

“Feyd, do you not understand? I don’t know if I can do it,” you tell him. “My body is–”

“Perfect,” he interrupts. “You’re perfect, and you’re mine. You will never belong to another man, nor will I belong to another woman.” 

“Neither of us has a choice.”

“You believe so?”

Your brow pinches, mouth setting in a line. If he’s playing a game, you’re not enjoying it. “As if you aren’t aware of who has the power here.”

“I am aware,” he says. “But Rabban is dead. I’m all that’s left of our line. If he wants his heir, then I’m keeping my wife.”

He speaks with such certainty that the charge of excitement you get whenever you watch him take command of his armies seeps into you, giddily wiggling all of your little nerve endings. But the feeling fades as fast as it came. It changes nothing. Whether or not he defies his uncle does not alter your circumstances. 

You sigh. “But what of your heir?”

“We’ll keep trying,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere. I'm too attached. He doesn’t get to marry me to a woman like you and then take you away.”

“A woman like me, who might not be able to give you what you need,” you say. “Why aren’t you bothered?”

“Having my heir is not where your worth lies to me. If we cannot have a baby, we will take someone else's,” he tells you without snicker or grin. His fingers fist into the material of your nightgown. “Now take this off. I want my wife.”

“I am still bleeding.”

He scoffs. “When have I ever cared?”

[scudslut]

Sins and Honey Flavored Sweetness

daryl x fem!reader

wordcount: 4.7k

warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut under the cut, perv!daryl (not really, he just has a lil crush), male masturbation, unprotected p-in-v, oral f!receiving, mutual pining

a/n: i have never written something so descriptive ohmygod. do be warned lol, hugs and kisses byeee <33

Daryl knew there were unspoken boundaries when it came to you.

A thin line of loose salt, that whispered to him. Beckoned him huskily to dust his fingers through and have a taste, but daunting enough for him to keep his soles rooted in the dirt, salivating from a distance.

It wasn’t because you were already spoken for in any way; if anything, you kept your romantic interests simmering farther on the back burner than he did, which spoke volumes in itself. Or because you were younger than him, a couple of years wasn’t anything to turn a nose up over, especially nowadays.

It was, however, the place you held amongst your people. You were like bright, shiny gold within the group, dared not to be corrupted or led astray. The heart that kept everyone’s beating, even in the darkest of times, soothing hope into the atmosphere with your infectious smile.

Oh, and you were Rick's younger sister... which he hated to admit, only tempted him more. And he wasn’t quite sure as to why.

He’d mulled it over too many times to count, noting everything about you that allured him so intensely.

He liked the contrast between you two; like sun rays peeking through the clouds after a mid-summer storm. You were soft, fresh as clean linen and he was dark, brooding. He often fantasized about taking that sweet innocent nature of yours and painting it with his essence. He knew it was wrong and constantly shamed himself for having such perverted thoughts about his best friend's sister. But, god, how could he not?

Not when you pranced around him daily, teasing him with your velvety, feminine voice and kind touches. Touches that sent brisk shivers down his spine, sure to leave him breathless and bothered — another thing he secretly liked. You were addictive in that sense, he’d distance himself the minute he felt the familiar rush coursing through his veins and then crave it immediately once it was gone. A drug he couldn’t help but relapse from.

And it didn’t help that you were always so keen to assist him, doting on his every injury or problem with such gentle attentiveness and sincerity. That might be what he liked the most. It was fascinating how pure you remained in a world so plagued, always ready to nurture. It soothed a deep, restless, and scarred part of him, finding solace in it.

He'd come to learn you were like that with everyone though. So, he found himself grappling with things to deter your attention his way, playing dumb and clumsy just to have your sweet scent fill the nearby air. He felt like a horny teenager with a hopeless crush. It was absolutely ridiculous and yet, here he was once again, feet dangling off your kitchen counter as you searched the cabinets for some aspirin to aid in his 'headache'. 

It wasn't a complete lie per se - his sensitivity to light gave him troubles quite often but, whether it was enough to complain about or not, could be debated.

Nonetheless, he sat for you patiently, listening to your quiet humming as you searched about. He loved when you did that, singing your soft melodies under your breath mindlessly. It was such a girly thing to do, but it was comforting in a way, an airy blanket warming the silence.

"Ah, here it is!" drew him out of his thoughts, and he cast a glance at your bright smile of accomplishment. You popped the cap open swiftly, shaking out 2 little white pills, and handed them over with a glass of water.

“Let me know if you need any more. They should kick in soon, but I know how tough migraines can be,” you soothed, your sympathy never faltering. He bowed his head quickly, not wanting you to see the flash of guilt that surely crossed it. "Thanks," he mumbled as he tossed his head back, swallowing them both with a shivered grimace.

Wiping the water droplets from his chapped lips, his eyes found yours again and noticed a small smirk hidden in your features. “What?”  

You let out a chuckle, reaching for the glass he held to wash, “Oh nothin’... just don’t think I’ve seen you cringe like that before, is all.” 

His brows furrowed at your statement, “So?” he questioned further.

“Walkers, blood, rotting flesh… never. But an itty bitty pill?” Your laugh grew louder, finding the situation even more amusing as you explained it to him. “Whatever,” he scoffed, hopping off the counter with a smirk. He knew you would be expecting him to leave after that, you had helped him with his ‘issue of the day’ and there was no reason to linger any further. But he did.

Daryl scanned your frame as you washed the few dishes that were in the sink, chewing on his thumb habitually. You wore a white, long-sleeve shirt with a faded band logo printed on the front and some beaten-up blue jeans that seemed to cup your ass perfectly.

His mind wandered before he could stop it, imagining how soft and warm your skin must be underneath all those clothes. How soft and warm your hands would be wrapped around him, or better yet, your pretty lips taking him deep with a moan. He felt his own jeans tighten slightly and quickly diverted his gaze to the floor, clearing his throat as if it would erase those thoughts from his brain.

“Something else you need, Daryl?” You glanced over your shoulder, wrists deep in soapy water. 

“Nah, uh, thanks. I’ll see ya later,” he said and beelined for the door praying to god you didn’t see his flushed face and half-hard cock poking through his pants. He was so fucked. Couldn’t even look at you anymore without sprouting boners and picturing you on them, milking him greedily. 

He rushed down the porch and across the lawn, bursting into his shared house with Carol just next door. He didn’t even glance toward the kitchen to see if his friend was home, desperate for a cold shower to level him out. The house was dead quiet anyway, leading him to assume Carol was out for the day.

"Such a fuckin idiot," he cursed himself under his breath as he made his way down the stairs to his room. You probably knew honestly. Could tell how pathetically bothered you got him, and just put on a friendly face to keep from embarrassing him.

He left the bathroom door open in his distress and hastily shed his clothing, stepping into the tepid water. Immediate relief flooded his senses, feeling the cool stream wash away the sweat and grime the day had caked on. Pouring some homemade soap he was given into his hand, he scrubbed at his skin, determined to rid himself of your previous interaction along with the dirty thoughts that plagued his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about you that way, it just wasn’t in the cards.

For starters, you would have to want him too, (which he knew would never happen), and even if you did, how the ever living fuck would he explain that to Rick?

‘Oh hey Rick, I have a massive hard-on for yer sister, you okay with that?’ Fuck no. Just thinking about that conversation had him cringing in awkwardness and he shut the idea down instantly. 

But there you were still, invading his thoughts with your dreamy laugh and perky attitude. Why did you have to be such a goddamn tease?

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the wall trying to regain some composure. He gulped down deep breaths of moist air, willing his body to calm itself down, but it was fruitless. The image of your body, pushed up against the wall under his hands, wet and flushed, bubbled to the surface. He groaned. Daryl knew what he had to do. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten off thinking about you, and he damn well knew it wasn’t gonna be the last, but it still felt wrong each time, pumping his cock when you were just next door. His body craved the relief though, relief only indulgence could satisfy. 

He hissed as he dragged his fingers along his shaft, gripping at the base and beginning to pump slowly. He was painfully hard at this point, each squeeze raking shivers over his damp skin while he choked out quiet moans. With his opposite hand, he flicked the water to a warmer setting, pitifully hoping the heat and steam would resemble something close to your body against his. God, if only you were here.

He sped up, swiping his thumb over his sensitive tip with each pass, sending jolts throughout his body. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned deep and husky, not a care for the noise filling the empty house.

You were there, clear as day in his mind, moaning along with him as he pounded into you, cunt gripping him like a vice. Your breath was hot and pitchy against his ear as you begged him to fuck you harder, to go faster, to cum deep inside you. His cock twitched at that, he was already so close.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he whined, humping erratically into his long-forgotten hand. The muscles in his stomach quivered in bliss as he stroked himself, lost in his detailed imagination. You were cumming, trembling around him in languid spasms with his seed spilling out of you, and Daryl was over the edge, tossing his head back moaning your name as he unloaded, letting the steamy water wash it away. 

It took him a few minutes to recover, catching his breath slowly and trying to avoid the guilt that would soon be settling in. What would you think of him if you knew what he did behind muffled walls? How he thought of you in such dirty ways, when you’d only ever see him as a dear friend. He wondered what you might be doing now. Traipsing around your cozy home, oblivious to his rapid, lustful heart meters away.

The water was beginning to run frigid and he let out a defeated sigh. Absentmindedly, he reached past the curtain for a towel and stepped out, drying his hair off roughly and then wrapping the towel around his waist, turning to the bedroom for fresh clothes and much-needed sleep. His mind ached to be thoughtless, consumed by the abyss of unconsciousness.

He should have known the world stopped playing fair long ago.

In a single moment, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped to the fucking depths of hell.

There you stood, feet frozen to the floor with his crossbow in hand, like he willed you into existence. He stuttered, his mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish. He was sure his eyes were the size of saucers, he could feel them ready to pop out of his skull and run away. There was no fucking way this was happening.

Several beats passed. The silence deafening between you both and for a moment, he honestly debated stepping back into the shower. Pretend you were a figment of his tortured imagination and just hope you’d go away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen ghosts.

“You uh- you forgot your crossbow when you rushed out today,” you finally broke the silence, solidifying your genuine presence. He glanced down to the bow and then back at you, lost for words. Did you hear him? He moaned your goddamn name, quite a few minutes ago though… had you been standing there long? Were you angry?

His racing thoughts were interrupted when you stepped towards him, leaning the bow against the doorframe and moving closer. Instinctively, he took a step back, “Thanks,” he replied shakily, but you kept moving closer. He noticed your gaze then. It wasn’t on his face, but on his abdomen, at the hem of the damp towel hanging off of him. Your eyes had a gleam to them. Something dark and lustful.

No. Surely, he was reading you wrong. 

“Daryl,” you spoke, and he audibly gulped, nervousness and absolute embarrassment flooding his system, “is there something you need to tell me?” 

He didn’t answer you, instead deciding to burn a hole into the floor with his shame. He couldn’t look at you. You knew. You had heard him and were teasing him about it and here he was, a coward who couldn’t even admit to it. And you had every single right. He crossed that salty line years ago, with his first sinful thought about you. Feasted on it, deluding himself into thinking all was okay as long as his actions didn’t physically involve you.

He barely registered your advances when he finally raised his head. You were so close he could feel the heat of your breath against his burning skin, the luscious scent of vanilla and pine filling the air.

“Can I see?” you asked quietly.

He nearly choked on his own spit. Your hand was skimming along his stomach lightly, suggestively toying with the towel that covered him up. “Huh?” His mind was blank. 

“Can I see you?” you repeated, and all he could do was give you a curt little nod, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to just yet, but rendered acquiesced. Your hand pulled at the fabric softly, letting it drop to the floor revealing his manhood to your hungry eyes. Nothing was making any sense. Surely, you did not feel this way too. Surely.

There were those whispers again. He shouldn't have let you do that. He should be recoiling, shielding himself from your gaze but he was statuesque, like you had drank the life out of him with one simple look.

"Were you thinking about me touching you?" Like you had to even ask. The answer was written in plain sight, right there on his forehead and in his bashful eyes.

"M'sorry, I-" he had no clue how to even begin this kind of apology, remorse coursing through his veins rapidly. The dots weren’t connecting, not yet. "I know it's wrong, I shouldn't have-,”

And then he felt you, pressing your lips against his softly — timidly as gentle hands feathered across his waist, coaxing him into you. Your kiss was buttery, lips so smooth and sweet he wanted to drown in them. You tasted like fresh honey and vanilla ice cream, hints of minty toothpaste caught on your tongue. It was intoxicating to say the least, swarming his brain with a muted buzz and he whimpered, much to his surprise, melting into your touch quicker than he would like to admit.

“Y/n, y/n, nah we can’t,” he heard himself say as he came to his senses slowly, but he wasn’t pushing you away. Why wasn’t he pushing you away? You couldn’t, right?

“Please,” you whispered against him, low and sultry. Who was he to deny you? God Daryl, get a grip.

“Y/n, no,” he repeated, allowing his tone to take some authority even if that was the last thing he truly wanted. You stepped back from him then, a hurt expression painting your features and he felt his heart squeeze. “Why?”

His brain was scattered. This felt like a nightmare; another cruel joke sent his way to haunt him for the rest of his life. There just always had to be a price, didn't there?

"He doesn't mind, you know?" you whispered and his eyes were on yours instantly. You traced soft shapes across his stomach, sending those shivers down his spine and effectively turning him into putty.

"What’re ya talkin' about?" He needed to regain his composure, he could barely breathe with you this close, eyes raking his naked frame with desire.

"Rick... you and me. He doesn't care," you stated, "thinks it's cute actually... my crush on you."

Your crush on him?

"He trusts you, Daryl, with everything. You're pretty much the only person he would want me to be with." He hadn't thought of it that way, only ever assumed voicing his attraction to you would result in his head on a platter, or his dick… or both.

You began peppering his neck with small kisses, trailing them down his chest and over his puffy nipples. He hissed when you nipped at one, licking over it after, soothing the burn. "Ya sure?"

You nodded.

"Ya sure ya want me?" he asked dubiously. His question was answered when you grabbed his hand gently, guiding it inside your cotton underwear, letting his calloused fingers trace your soaked folds. He could have cum then and there, spreading your slick up and down between his fingers like it was liquid gold. Fuck me.

"This all fer me?" he panted, succumbed to a state of disbelief at your evident arousal. You were so wet around his fingers, pulsing and bucking slightly with each feathered stroke. "Were ya listenin' ta me?"

Hair fell over your face as you nodded sheepishly, gazing down to watch his fingers massaging you. You bit your swollen, cherry-red lip, “Couldn’t help it, you sounded so- so good.”

Now that... that got him going. Imagining your pretty cunt dripping in your panties, listening to his gasps while he fucked himself to the thought of you. Who knew the golden girl would be so naughty?

Daryl felt his confidence build, watching you fall apart for him from such simple touches. The last wire holding him back snapped and he needed more. He had waited for this moment for so fucking long.

You whine as he retracts his hand, only to be completely shut up when he places the thick digit on his tongue, sucking greedily and sloppily. It was better than he ever could have imagined, similar to the honey of your lips but so much more sweet. He went back for seconds. And thirds. Until he was dropping to his knees, deciding to lick the goddamn plate clean.

You enveloped him in the best way possible, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder as he tugged on your tight jeans, pulling them down enough to fit his head. His tongue pressed flat against your clothed pussy, and he sucked, tasting a mixture of your sweetness and residual laundry detergent on his tongue. His moans burned the back of his throat, desperately trying to hide them but you weren’t having it, tugging on his chocolate locks for more. “Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, honey.” Good lord. He silently thanked each lucky star of his that the house was empty before emitting a guttural groan between your thighs. If this was all he got from you, a little taste of the sugar you were made of, he would die a very happy man.

He took your clit between his lips, rolling it with his tongue. Your underwear was so wet with your arousal and his spit that it was practically see-through, just calling for him to pull aside. “Please,” you gasped.

“Hm? Wha’s that?”

He’d heard you just fine. He wanted to hear you again, and again. He was greedy and you were so damn sinful, “Please, need them off, need you.”

So, he complied, as any sane man would, shimmying them down your hips as he sucked and nibbled each inch of newly exposed skin. You watched him intently with half-lidded eyes, rocking slowly to let plush skin engulf his senses like a cloud. He felt you playing with his messy hair, taking small strands between your fingertips and moving them behind his ears to see him better. The gesture struck something deep within him. You were so kind, so focused on this moment and him, he’d be damned if he let it continue on the hard damp floor of his bathroom. No fucking way.

He stood abruptly, catching you off guard. “Bed,” he muttered, capturing your lips again in a haste. He couldn’t get enough. He didn’t want a minute to pass where he wasn’t tasting some part of you. Any part of you. Sweet, sweet honey.

You led your bodies backward till your knees hit the mattress, wasting no time as you crawled up to his pillows, taking him with you.

This moment right here, this feeling… he wanted to bottle it up. Freeze time and just stare, immerse himself into every tiny detail. It felt almost criminal to continue. You were a vision, panting and squirming beneath him; so much electricity and anticipation bouncing between your yearning bodies. Could you really want this just as much as he did? Was he truly that oblivious, all these years? Whatever that answer may be, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up. Not with you.

Your hands on his face coaxed him back to reality, molding into your touch like clay. Eager lips chased his as he pulled your shirt off and as much as he wanted to freeze time and memorize each freckle of you, the more skin each other touched the more obscene the kiss became. An unartistic jumble of spit and hands and moans and thrusts.

In all the time spent pining silently for the other, you both could care less about grace.

No, he needed to hear you. Listen to every octave of moan you had in you, all at once. He needed to know each and every spot that had you whimpering and begging, this second. If time did decide to stop at any given moment he needed to have you, be you, feel everything you had to offer, and soak in it till his skin pruned.

His lips sucked and bruised their way down to your navel, and then past, kissing up your folds with lustful intent. The sounds you made above him had him seeing stars and he wanted more. His tongue slipped past your lips, finally diving into the hive of your sweetness, rolling his tongue languidly over your clit. Your hands were everywhere around him, fisting at the sheets, the pillows, and then his hair as you desperately tried to push him closer. He didn’t mind. He’d gladly suffocate between your thighs, a death he’d welcome compared to the ones he fought from outside every day.

He dove lower, smoothing his tongue over your entrance but not delving past quite yet.

“Daryl,” you gasped above him.

Looking up between your legs, he caught a glimpse of your face tossed back in pleasure and he groaned, having to ground his hips into the mattress below to relieve some pressure. “What d’ya need, sweetheart?”

He’d give you anything. The moon if you asked for it — anything to keep those pretty sounds coming from your lips. “You, you, please you.”

“How so?”

He knew he was teasing you. He’d drawn back from your glistening slit, pressing little pecks everywhere that he could reach. Your hips, your pelvis, the little crease between your thighs and your cunt. That spot drew a deep moan from you, so he focused on it, sucking and licking till it was bright red and your hips were rolling so violently he wasn’t sure how he kept his lips on you.

“In, please,” you choked out, tugging him by his shoulders to move back up. He wasn’t done yet.

“What? Ma fingers?” he toyed further, continuing his kisses everywhere but where you wanted him. “Hm?”

He brought his thumb up to your clit, pressing lightly at first, rubbing lazy, torturous circles. His lips were on the inside of your thigh, so close to your entrance but seemingly so far. He knew you wouldn’t take much more of this, you were practically sobbing above him blubbering nonsensical curses about how much you ached.

“This pretty cunt wanna be filled, that it?”

His thumb pressed firmer.

“Uh huh,” you nodded, begging him. Oh, that sound would surely be the death of him.

He finally brought his lips to your supposedly aching entrance, delving deep with his tongue. The noises he made as he lapped on your honey were flat-out pornographic, and you writhed below him, drinking everything he was giving to you. Honestly, he didn’t know how much more he could take. He wanted to draw this out for hours, make up for every bit of lost time but seeing you like this, so needy for him had his resolve shattering by the second.

With a final peck to your weeping folds, he crawled his way up back to your face. You latched on to him instantly, sensing his give and taking absolute advantage of your moment. His hips rolled into yours slowly as your tongues danced and he hardly had to guide himself with how wet you were, his tip finding your entrance easily and slipping past. You moaned rolling your hips again and he nearly bottomed out, a long deep groan ripping out of him. If he thought your lips were buttery, lord save him.

Perching himself on his forearms, he held still, watching for any signs of discomfort. He assumed you hadn’t been with anyone in a while and he certainly knew he wasn’t small, if he’d grace himself with any sort of compliment.

Sensing nothing but pleasure as your walls pulsed around him, sucking him in further, he gave, snapping his hips harshly into you. Your moans were lewd on his lips, traveling down his throat and feeding the fire that burned in the pit of his stomach.

“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he groaned again, spiraling from the fact he was actually inside you this time. Not in his hand, pretending you were fucking shower water.

No, you were beneath him, latching onto his muscles like your life depended on it. He drove deeper, hitting a spot that had you gasping for air. He hit it again, and again, needing to feel you explode around him. He watched as your face contorted in pleasure as he pounded into you. God, you looked so pretty like this. All cock-drunk and needy.

He brought his thumb back to that spot on your clit. He needed you to cum soon, he wasn’t gonna last much longer seeing you like this and there was no way in hell he was going to finish before you. Your hips stuttered beneath him, walls squeezing around him and he knew you were close.

“Come on, pretty girl, you got it,” he whispered in your ear, sucking the lobe gently between his teeth. That must’ve broken you, because then you were cursing, spasming for him which triggered his own orgasm. Your cunt milked him, his seed spilling down your thighs exactly how he had pictured earlier and it was a fucking sight. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had imagined this whole thing.

He fucked out both through the waves of release, and a bit past, dropping his head into your neck to muffle the obscene groans coming from his lips. He didn’t want it to stop, but your overstimulated senses ached for reprieve.

“Dar?” you whispered once you'd both caught your breath, guiding his stubbled cheek from its hiding spot. When his eyes met yours, they were filled with so much adoration and happiness he had to hold himself back from whimpering. Never in a million years would he thought he’d get you, and here you were, looking at him like the sun shone out of his ass. The same way he looked at you for years, it was jarring to see it reciprocated. How had he missed it?

You leaned forward, tenderly capturing his lips with your own, soothing him as you always did. He knew there was so much you wanted to say, that he wanted to say, but you didn’t need to talk about it tonight. Tonight you would simply soak in each other, a gift you both thought you’d never get and one you would never let go.

He felt you giggle against his lips, and he pulled back with a lazy, fucked-out smile, "What?" he mumbled curiously.

"How's the headache now, big guy?" you teased playfully and he realized then, you'd known he was fibbing today. Saw right through his measly excuse to spend time with you.

He blushed to the tips of his ears, bowing his head to hide it, "Oh, shuddup," he mumbled, attacking your neck in kisses and nips.

Your cheeky ass was gonna pay for that tonight.

[euphemiaamillais]

playing dangerous pt 3 - coriolanus snow 🎀

coriolanus snow has always wanted the perfect woman. he’s searched high and low, among the likes of heiresses and actresses, and even—though he’d never dare admit it—district girls. he’s given up hope, until he finds you. you’re perfect—innocent, beautiful and obedient. he’s been watching you for months, and one night, he just can’t resist taking you home and making you his.

cw: 18+//stockholm syndrome//dub-con//blowjobs//fingering//piv sex//mentions of kidnapping//possessive coryo//hair pulling

pt 1 & 2

he allows you to take dinner with him that evening, but before you can come to the table, he barges into your room, searching through the pile of clothes which you have left strewn across the bed; too watched with exhaustion to have put them away.

‘what are you doing?’ you ask in your softest tone, attempting not to sound like you’re scrutinising him.

‘i’m finding you something to wear, sweetheart,’ he remarks, settling on the black dress before; the one that you quite liked.

‘what for?’ you ask curiously, wondering if he’s going to take you out somewhere. your heart races—if you get out of the house, you’d get a chance to escape. it seemed to good to be true, you were probably getting ahead of yourself.

‘dinner,’ he replies. ‘i can’t have you sitting at the table in nothing but a slip. that’s hardly appropriate.’

‘are we having guests?’ you question, and he laughs, shaking his head. your heart sinks. of course, he’s too clever to put you on display so soon, when you’d make him look like a fool and start accusing him of kidnapping you.

‘no, of course not,’ he drapes the dress over his arms, and digs into the bag of underwear, deciding what ones he wants to see you in. of course, he has every intention of taking them off of you, but he wants to dress you up like his little doll; so you have to look perfect.

you watch him silently selecting the clothes for you, feeling no more than a mannequin. it’s ridiculous, it’s as if you’re being primed for the slaughter. you wonder if he’ll allow you the decency of dressing yourself, but you suspect not. you are exhausted, and surrender yourself to the humiliating experience of having his hands all over you.

coriolanus pulls the slip over your head, your arms limp and weak with hopelessness, and admires your form. if only dinner wasn’t sitting on the table. he’d bend you over right now if he wasn’t worried about the roast going cold—he’d ordered it especially for tonight, wanting to impress you. he figured if you saw how wealthy he was, you’d know he could take care of you, and that there was no need to keep rejecting him.

‘you’re so beautiful,’ he muses, one hand caressing the small of your back, feeling the smooth skin just above your ass.

you blush a little at the compliment, shocked that for once you aren’t rebuking him. his hands are still cold, and tickle as he touches you. he sits you down on the bed, and you comply, a little dizzy from exhaustion, watching as he spreads your legs.

he slides the underwear—black lacy things—up your smooth thighs, and you do admit you feel relieved to be covered. he’s seen so much of you today that you don’t bother to cover your breasts, and he ogles them. they’re so perfect; pert and utterly lovely. your nipples are hard from the cold of the room, not that you notice, you’re too distracted by the piece of flotsam on the bed.

he doesn’t bother with the bra, though he’s bought ones all to match—after all, his little doll must look the best. the dress is loose enough that he simply slips it over your head, and he figures it’s only going to come off soon; not putting your bra on leaves him with less time fussing about before he fucks you.

coriolanus pulls you up, noticing you’ve gone heavy, but when he pinches you a little at the waist you perk up, snapping out of your dissociative reverie. your stomach grumbles hungrily when you catch the scent of the dinner.

he sits you across from him at the table, which is small enough that it feels strangely intimate—perhaps it is. you find the strength in your arms to eat, too enticed by the delicious scent that you practically want to inhale it.

‘this looks delicious,’ you thank him, shoving the food in your mouth a little indelicately.

he watches you, an impish grin tugging at the corners of your lips and you shovel it down. you must’ve been starving, poor thing. he’d make sure you were full by the end of the night—blood rushes to his cock at the thought of him forcing you to swallow his cum. you’d misbehaved so badly today; he hoped you hadn’t forgotten that you had to pay the price.

coriolanus eats in silence, leaving you to feel a little embarrassed that your plate is nearly cleared once he starts his own meal. you decide to take a sip at the large glass by your plate, filled full with wine—you’re certain it’s not posca this time, for it tastes delicious. you’re greedy, and, perhaps hoping the drunkenness will spare you from too many feelings, you gulp it down.

the wine warms your veins, and burns a little as you swallow. he notices that your glass is half empty, a look of surprise crossing his features—you’ve clearly warmed up to his offers a little. and he’s glad of that. if you’re swayed by alcohol, it’ll be easier to get you on your knees. he knows girls are like that, he’s done it enough times, imbibing them with champagne to get them into bed.

‘are you enjoying your dinner?’ he asks, and you nod with a little giggle. you’ve never been able to handle alcohol properly, and your head swims with the consumption of the heady wine.

‘yes, it’s delicious,’ you lick the fork, and he eyes you with interest.

‘good,’ he smiles at you, and you decide to swallow the rest of your wine for good measure.

you’re afraid, you have to admit, foot tapping nervously at the floor. it’s cold in his apartment, and you see a window open, wind flapping at the casement. no wonder you’re freezing.

coriolanus finishes his food, and takes a slow sip of his wine, not taking it greedily like you. you can’t sit still, the previous lethargy you’d felt dissipating entirely, and making way for drunken giddiness. he takes note of this, and refills your glass with the wine.

you drink it obediently, the taste satisfying some urge in your throat. it’s terribly strong though, and your head begins to feel a little heavy, but nevertheless you are removed from the feelings of fury that were boiling in your belly earlier in the day.

‘now,’ he says, abruptly standing up from his seat and making his way over to you. ‘are you going to be a good girl and do as i say?’

a giggle plays at your lips, and you sway a little. you glance back at the now empty wine glass, realising how much you’ve had and how quickly it seems to have taken its effects.

‘i’m not sure i’ll be any good,’ you pout, hand reaching out to brush a piece of flotsam from his trousers.

he grips your wrist with his hand, fingers encircling the delicate thing as you gasp. he looks so foreboding standing above you, eyes blazing with anger, brows furrowed in frustration.

‘you’re going to go to your room, and i’ll be there in a minute,’ he commands, dragging you to the door. ‘i want you to think for a minute, about what i’ve asked, and then decide what to do with yourself. you can do that, can’t you?’

his mouth twists into a frown, and you nod, stifling the drunken guffaw that was threatening to spill from your lips. it was all so ridiculous, the way he told you what to do; like you belonged to him.

‘mhm,’ you mumble, trying to stand properly, relying too much on him to prop you up. you hadn’t realised how toned he was until now, and you felt your core burn a little with desire. had he always been so attractive?

you hated how he acted as if he owned you, but the alcohol had made you feel so heady that all you could think about was him touching you—you wondered what his hands would feel like up your dress; caressing your breasts, perhaps fingering your cunt. you clench your thighs together to quell the feeling, and give him a sleepy nod before stumbling into the bedroom.

—

you’re splayed out like a fool when he enters, wondering why he’s sent you to your room. if he wanted you so badly, why didn’t he just take you on the sofa? it was much more convenient, being two feet from the dining table.

you attempt to prop yourself up with your elbows, and watch as he comes to stand above you again. you stick one foot out, playing with his trousers. when you glance up at him, he isn’t pleased. you’re acting like an idiot; a blubbering fool in fact. he wishes he hadn’t poured you so much wine, but at least you weren’t whining about how you didn’t want him to touch you.

‘have you come to rape me?’ you tease, and he slaps you across the face. his hand leaves a searing mark, and tears spring to your eyes. your skin tingles from the strike, cheek red and blotchy.

‘you’re not funny,’ he scolds, bending down a little to meet you at eye level. ‘you’re going to do exactly as i say, or else i’ll bend you over right now and fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.’

you sink back in fear, feeling his hot breath on your cheek, icy eyes spurning you as they flicker across your face, attempting to register your emotions.

‘okay,’ you mutter, surrendering to him. he’s terrifying like this; broad shouldered and so tall. you feel like if he squeezed you hard enough that he’d break you. it probably wouldn’t take much more to kill you… you wonder if he’s fantasised about that.

‘good girl,’ he smiles, anger disappearing with the first signs of your obedience. he knew it would prove difficult at first, getting a girl he’d kidnapped to obey him, but he didn’t realise you were such a little brat. obedience could always be taught, and you were complying more than you had this morning.

‘now,’ he begins, stroking your hair. ‘i want you to be a good girl and get on your knees. can you do that for me?’

you nod lazily, and slip off the bed, sinking to your knees. the position is uncomfortable, but the clenching of one of his fists is enough to keep you in place.

‘so pretty,’ he coos, thumb ghosting your lips. it’s the first time he’s touched them, and he marvels at how soft they are. he can’t wait until they’re wrapped around his cock, sucking as he fucks your pretty throat.

he slides his thumb inside your mouth, and you open just enough to let your tongue slip over his finger. he groans a little, the softness of your tongue as it coats his thumb in sticky saliva. you’re gazing up at him with wide eyes, wondering what he’ll do next. he’s taking his time, which surprises you. he seemed so adamant before, that you thought he’d have tossed you on the bed and begun his assault immediately.

your knees creak against the floorboard, aching as you attempt to remain in your position. he slips his thumb back out of your mouth, and wipes your sticky saliva all over your lips, smiling as he does so.

‘see, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?’ he inquires, and you shake your head, thumbs twiddling in anticipation.

you watch as he undoes his belt, and then the zipper on his trousers, pulling them down to his ankles with one swift tug. his cock is bulging in his boxers, and your eyes go wide in shock—how big is he? you know so little about men, but you’re not so stupid that you can’t imagine that might hurt if he decide to put it in you.

‘look, you’ve made me so fuckin’ hard’ he gestures, palming his cock through his boxers. you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to swallow the fear that brims in your stomach.

he groans from his own touch, but doesn’t let his hands linger too much longer. that’s your job now, after all. his little doll to corrupt—he couldn’t wait to bury himself inside your tight little cunt, watching as you squirm under him, acting as if you weren’t enjoying every second of it.

coriolanus pulls his cock out of his boxers, gripping it at the base. you can feel bruises forming in your knees, and you want nothing more than to get up and stumble into bed, letting sleep take you. the wine has an almost hypnotic effect on you.

his cock is staring you right in the face. you’ve never seen one before—it’s large, so big you wince at the thought of him stretching you out. he’s so hard, you can see his tip is red and throbbing, veins pulsing a little angrily.

‘open your mouth,’ he commands, you shake slightly but oblige, and he slides the tip past your lips.

you’re not sure what to do, and so let it sit there while you stare dumbly back up at him. a scowl tugs at his lips, but you wait, wondering what his next instruction will be. you’re so uncertain, and afraid of what he’ll do if you don’t oblige.

‘suck it,’ he instructs, pushing it further in your mouth.

you stretch your lips around it, struggling a little to take him in. he’s not even halfway, but you can feel it push towards the back of your throat. he grunts, feeling your teeth scrape the top of the shaft.

‘teeth,’ coriolanus says with displeasure, and you feel your face turn bright red in shame.

you attempt your best to round out your lips and hollow out your cheeks, finding it easier to take him in. he groans, feeling your saliva coat his cock. you look so pretty on your knees, staring at him; dumbfounded.

‘fuck,’ he cups your chin, giving your cheek a soft stroke as he bucks his hips. ‘you’re so good, taking me in your mouth. you like it, don’t you? being a little whore for me?’

you nod, knowing not what else to do. he thrusts his cock further down your throat, and you choke, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. your mouth waters, tongue running up and down his veiny shaft.

‘use your hands if you can’t take the rest of me in,’ he says, and do you grip him, running one hand up at down. he’s just so big. ‘soon enough you’ll be able to take all of me, i’ll be sure of that.’

your eyes widen with fear, but you do your best to keep sucking, bobbing your head up and down. a few tears trickle down your cheeks, and saliva dribbles as you move your mouth up to the tip.

‘mhm,’ you grunt, sliding it out of your mouth to take a breath. you’re gasping, and he can’t help but laugh; you like like slut, knees shaking, lips puffy from the abrasion.

you press him back against your lips, tongue swirling around the head, watching as he nods in satisfaction. you’re a fast learner—he knew you weren’t entirely stupid. he can feel himself edging closer to his release, what with your tongue teasing the tip of his cock you dip your head back down, and take him back into your throat, gagging again as you attempt to take him down.

in this moment, you find, you want nothing more than to please him. please him because he’s commanding it, and you’re afraid of what he’ll do if you say no. but at the same time, you have to admit to yourself, something sends a shiver down your spine as you take his cock in your mouth, stretching your lips around the sheer size of it, gagging and salivating as he bucks his hips faster.

coriolanus lets out a ragged groan, and you feel something wet and hot spurt onto your tongue. you slide his cock out of your mouth, sticky with saliva, and find that it’s dribbling with spend.

‘swallow,’ he says, grabbing the base of his cock as cum dribbles from the tip.

you swallow the cum that is sitting on your tongue, it’s slightly salty, but you follow his orders. surmising what he’s going to do next, you open your lips again to accept his cock again, and he smiles. you’re learning very fast.

‘good girl,’ he praises, stroking your hair as you lick the rest of the spend up with your tongue, and again, swallow it. ‘you like that, don’t you?’

‘uh huh,’ you murmur, reaching one hand back against the bed to balance yourself. your knees are so sore.

‘you can stand up now,’ he remarks, tucking his cock back into his boxers.

using the bed, you stand up with shaking legs. your knees are tender; some of the skin is sunken in; purple with bruises.

‘look at you,’ he teases, watching as you stumble a little, legs so sore and achy. ‘your knees are so bruised. my poor little doll.’

you are hazy, but feel him push you down against the bed, locking your legs between his. he’s on top of you, biceps flexing as he holds himself up. you look angelic, just waiting for him to fuck you, the way your eyes are wide with want, and the way your lips tremble. you’ve still got cum at the corner of your mouth; and he adores how it looks, how he’s marked you as his own.

coriolanus slides your dress up your thighs, pushing it up to to your waist. the smooth skin is again dancing with goosebumps, his cold hands causing the skin to tingle. he can’t believe how pliant you are in his hands, how you aren’t even protesting. you’re too exhausted to push him off of you, and the aching between your legs is growing stronger as he brushes against your skin.

‘such a good girl,’ he murmurs, rubbing a finger over your clothed cunt. he can’t believe how pretty you look in those panties, the ones he chose and dressed his little doll in.

you gasp, feeling a surge of warmth through your body as he brushes against your clit. it satisfies that urge deep in your belly, and when he pulls his hand away, you find yourself mewling, longing for more.

‘please,’ you gasp out, a strange urgency in your voice.

‘did you like that, hm?’ he asks, ghosting his fingers teasingly over your panties. you’re so wet, you’ve soaked through the lace.

‘yes…’ your voice quivers, and you rut your hips, wanting more.

‘god, you’re so fucking wet,’ he groans, slipping a finger past the hem of your panties and sliding into your slick folds.

you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t believe it. he can barely get one finger inside of you. he knew you’d be innocent, but the way you’d sucked his cock so well made him wonder how many times you’d touched yourself. but he adored the fact that you were all his—that he was the one to corrupt you, branding you as his own.

you whimper from the feeling; it’s deliciously enticing. the way he pushes against your walls, finger arching, reaching for something. he presses a thumb back to your clitoris, causing you to cry out. it’s so sensitive, and he rubs it in circles, watching you writhe about in ecstasy.

his cock is hard again, and he decides he cannot wait much longer. he has to have you. and besides, you haven’t earned your own pleasure yet. it was about what he wanted, after all.

he tugs your panties down, watching as your slick cunt is revealed to him. seeing it up close, beautiful and glistening, makes him catch his breath. he can hardly believe it’s all his.

‘god,’ he breathes, freeing his cock once again, and taking it in his grip.

you watch in anticipation, missing the feeling of his fingers bringing you to your pleasure. you felt like something was unfurling, but as he removed his touch, you were left wanting, cunt clenching around nothing.

you squeeze your eyes shut, and feel him run the tip of his cock in your wet folds; it doesn’t hurt, but you are waiting, gnawing at your lip as you wait for him to slip inside of you. coriolanus presses the head of his cock into your cunt, catching his breath as he slides in.

you’re even tighter around his cock, and he feels your walls trying to compensate for his girth, stretching out around him. your breath is heavy, and you grasp at the sheets. you won’t lie, it hurts. if you weren’t so drunk you probably would have attempted to make him pull out, but he doesn’t seem to likely to be persuaded.

his fingers had been pleasant, and perhaps if you’d met in another way, you might have let him fuck you eventually. at least you could console yourself that he was gorgeous, even if he was probably a psychopath.

he pushes himself further inside, groaning as you take him in. your slickness coats his cock, and when he moves, sliding out a little, his cock is covered in a white ring. he knows you want him; you can’t deny it, the way you have bucked your hips against him, rutting like a desperate animal in heat. it was pathetic, and yet signified to him that you were all his. his perfect girl.

‘so fuckin’ tight,’ he huffs, beginning to fasten his pace. it’s taking in everything not to pound you right away—you’re so delicate, but he needs satisfaction.

you bite your lip, crying out as he thrusts. ‘it hurts,’ you can’t help but say, tears pricking in your eyes.

coriolanus scowls, finding it an insult to him that you’re being so vocal about it hurting. he grabs a fistful of your hair, and tugs you up to meet his gaze. your head tingles, hair strands clinging on for dear life.

‘did i tell you you could complain?’ he taunts, and you shake your head, attempting to pry him away from you. he only pulls at your hair harder, and you feel your chest racking with sobs.

‘please… you’re really hurting me,’ you whimper, but he ignores you.

‘be quiet or i’ll really give you something to scream about!’ he loosens his grip on your hair, your scalp thankful, but his cock is still stretching you out.

you bite your tongue, laying back as he fucks you. god, you really are so tight. his cock is throbbing, and he wonders how many pumps are left before he’ll come, spilling himself inside of you. watching you squirm beneath him, begging him to stop—but really he knew you’d be thanking him soon enough.

you looked so pretty, eyes glistening with tears, lips trembling. he feels you clench around him, your own body involuntarily ceding itself to him. you feel a gush of warmth trickling out of your cunt—not that there’s much room with how big he is.

‘gonna fill you up,’ he grunts; hips bucking with need.

he can’t take it much longer, his thrusts grow lazy, and he lets out a breathy groan. you feel him release inside of you, hot cum spurting against your tight walls. coriolanus wants to keep it inside of you though, reminding you that you’re his, and he’ll do what he wants with you. he ruts lazily into you, cum coating his own cock as he pushes it further inside of you.

‘mhm, you’re so good to me baby,’ he presses a kiss to your cheek.

he notices the tears on your cheeks, and laughs a little. coriolanus wipes them with his fingers, gazing at you with his cruel, icy eyes. he can’t believe you’re crying. what a stupid little slut. you’re so innocent that you can barely take his cock.

‘did i hurt you?’ he taunts, and you nod dumbly.

‘poor thing,’ coriolanus coos. ‘you were just so tight; i couldn’t resist. but you took me so well.’

you feel more tears rolling down your cheek—you’re aching, and as he pulls out of you, you feel his cum dripping down your thigh. it’s so sticky; you want it off of you, but he’s still got you in his hold, thighs trapped between his large legs.

‘are you going to thank me?’ he asks, gripping your chin as you attempt to look away. you’re so ashamed, and your head is pounding from the wine. the overstimulation is washing over you.

‘thank you, sir.’ you offer meekly, voice choked up from all the crying.

a sick grin curls at the corner of his lips, and he carefully thumbs at the dark bruises on your neck; where he had marked you earlier.

‘you’re all mine,’ coriolanus tugs at your bottom lip, coercing your mouth to open.

he spits inside, and you feel it hit the back of your throat. there’s something so animalistic, so primal about the way he does it. you know you don’t belong to yourself anymore. you live to please him.

‘now swallow it; show me that you can obey me,’ he commands.

you do so, feeling the hot spit trickle down your throat. the tiredness nags at your eyes, and you find yourself blinking rapidly.

coriolanus smiles, watching as you learn to become more obedient. soon he won’t even have to coax you. you’ll just do as he says. get on your knees when you see he’s had a long day at work, spread your legs when his cock is hard. you’ll be at his beck and call—the perfect woman for him.

‘good girl.’ he says, and all you can do is smile, knowing there’s no way out of this. you belong to him now.

—

taglist: @personalque @justacaliforniandreamer @jacesvelaryons @weirdothatwritess @theallknown213 @becauseseaotters @nowitsmissing @wearemadeofstardust0 @tulips2715 @faephoria @juuuvis @dracoflaco @sorry-mrs-jacobs

[hedonists-den]

POV: Your eating habits and your weight have gotten so unbelievably out of control lately that I think it's about time I give you a wake-up call in the form of some teasing and shaming.

⚠️ It gets a little mean, so... ⚠️

Hope you enjoy! 😇

TRANSCRIPT:

What is it? Is there something you need to tell me? You overate again... Well, I'm not surprised. Is it really overeating if you do it every time you sit down and glut yourself like you’re trying to win some prize? No, it's just the norm for fatasses like you. Shameless, self-indulgent gluttony is just the way it is for you. You should be ashamed. You should be desperately searching for a way to stop yourself. What kind of person shovels food in their face the way you do? What kind of person lets themselves get so obese that they can’t do basic things without getting winded?

I don’t imagine you even have any excuse for what you're doing to yourself. Imagine what you could look like if you weren't so busy gorging yourself with greasy food and carbs every chance you get. It's fucking obscene. And do I really need to bring up your sweets addiction? I swear, at this point, you might as well just have me hook a funnel up to your greedy mouth and pour syrup down your throat. 

Wait…please don’t tell me…do you actually think about that? What, are you just going to eat and eat and eat until you can barely waddle from room to room? Have me stuff you until all that weight that you keep piling on ripples with every lumbering step that you take? Is that what you want, fatty? This huge, heavy-breathing, mound of embarrassing flab that can barely maneuver around your own home? If you keep this shit up, you’ll be there faster than all those DoorDash deliveries you keep getting every fucking day.

At this point, I’m just morbidly curious about what goes on inside your head that justifies letting yourself become so shockingly, grotesquely obese. I mean, look at what a shameless blob you are…rolls stacked on top of each other like pancakes, each one covered in stretch marks, with a hanging gut that takes over your lap, the flab on your arms keeping them pinned to your sides. God, every inch of your body is overflowing with fat. You eat so many goddamn calories, it looks like you're in a near-constant state of stretching and expanding. How can you not notice that your body is screaming at you to stop being such a fucking pig?

Is there even a point in trying to shame you for all of this? You’re obviously not going to change one thing about the way you’re ruining yourself. All you’re going to do, as soon as you can, is find the next thing to stuff your face with. So, what is it going to be this time, tubby? Burgers? Pizza? Few boxes of snack cakes? Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past you to get all three, the way that I’ve seen you eat. You clearly don’t have any self-control, so, fuck it, why not? Just hork down more calories until your body can barely handle it. Stuff your bottomless pit of a stomach every chance that you get. Even after every other sign is telling you to stop. 

You know what? I don’t think anything can help you now. You are too far gone, and there’s no way you’re coming back from this. You’re going to be half a metric ton of pure blubber soon enough. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourself for what a hopeless, greedy, wobbling tub of lard that you are. So just lay back and grab another snack, why don’t you?

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VIII

— i love you, it’s ruining my life

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.3k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and depression. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello besties, here's the next part!! happy reading <3

masterlist!

Pedro hadn’t expected his career to take another sharp turn so soon after The Mandalorian. The call he received that night in January, while lying in a dimly lit hotel room in London, still felt unreal. Hazy, thanks to the Ambien coursing through him, but real enough to make him sit up in bed after the line went dead.

Something big was coming, and he could feel it in his bones. It would change everything—if things weren’t already good enough as they were.

A few weeks later, he was back in London to film The Bubble. Everything seemed to blur by—filming, meetings, and the quiet rhythm of his life with Julia. He hadn't expected to fall into a relationship so effortlessly, but here he was.

She was a producer he’d met during a project in Budapest, though nothing had happened between them until months later.

Late November, to be exact. By then, things had shifted.

Pedro was never good at deciphering if someone liked him or not, and maybe that was why, when she suggested coffee, he didn’t think twice. She was lovely—kind in a way that didn't feel overwhelming, and he liked the way it felt safe, uncomplicated. When she reached for his hand, the world didn’t spin beneath his feet, and that was comforting. It was normal, and maybe that’s exactly what he needed.

After that first coffee, there were more—turning into casual dinners, casual sex, easy conversations, and eventually, a steady progression toward something more.

By December, things had gotten serious, though Pedro still sometimes woke up disoriented, feeling as if he was living in someone else’s life. Julia kept him grounded. And though it wasn’t the kind of love that made him lose his breath, it was steady.

One morning, in early December, he woke to find a message from you. You’d mentioned him in an upcoming Vogue interview, a brief nod to his help in keeping you sane during those first chaotic months of the pandemic. Your publicist thought it might make a fuss for a while, and you didn’t want him to wake up and think someone had died or something.

Nothing too big, P, just the usual storm. Call when you’re back in the States. Miss you.

Pedro stared at the message for a long time, debating. You’d always known everything about him. Every high, every low. But now? There was Julia to consider. He sat on the edge of the bed, Julia still asleep next to him, the London sky a dull gray through the curtains. He’d thought about telling you about her for weeks—maybe he should’ve before New Year’s—but it was easier to let the conversation slip away.

Until it didn’t.

That night, at Oscar’s New Year’s party, when you found out about Julia, he could see it in your eyes—the hurt, the shock, the confusion. You didn’t say much after that. Just told him you hoped he was happy, and if he was, that would be enough.

But it didn’t feel enough.

Not then, not now.

•••

Back in London, the routine of it all began to suffocate him. He spent his mornings reading lines, drinking bitter coffee, and answering the inevitable buzz of questions about his relationship status. He didn’t care to comment. He didn’t want to make it official in a way that felt like another announcement to the world. His job was to act, not live his life on a stage. Still, the headlines rolled out, and his relationship with Julia became another topic of conversation.

The days passed in a blur, but something bothered him. You had gone silent. Completely. Not only from his life but from social media, from the public eye, from everywhere. He called on your birthday. Oscar had mentioned you hadn't planned anything for the day, not that he knew off, and Pedro found himself standing on the cold balcony of his hotel room, dialing your number with a strange urgency.

You picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

Your voice sounded far away, thin and almost unfamiliar, like a melody he had forgotten.

“Hey.”

There was a beat of silence, a pause where recognition should have clicked into place. Instead, you sounded distant, hesitant.

“Oh. It’s you.”

His lips twitched into a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, it’s me. Did you delete my number?”

A soft shuffle on the other end, like you were shifting in place, caught off guard. “No, uh, I just picked it up without looking who it was.”

He leaned against the railing, gripping the phone tighter as if it could bridge the distance between you. The cold metal beneath his fingers bit into his skin, grounding him, though your absence felt like it was growing by the second. "Happy birthday, mi amor."

“Thank you, Pedro.”

The way you said his name, the clipped tone, made something stir in his gut, but he shook it off.

“You doing anything? I heard you didn’t have plans.”

“Nothing really, maybe over the weekend,” you replied, but there was a softness in your voice that didn't match the words, like you were choosing them carefully, holding something back. “I know you’re in London; that’s why I didn’t—”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t call,” he interrupted, leaning against the cold railing. His free hand found his hair, fingers tugging at the strands, trying to steady the unease creeping in. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been... You know how it is.”

Another long pause. For a moment, all he heard was the faint rustling on the other end, like you were curled up somewhere small, the space between you both stretching impossibly wide. He didn’t notice the silence for what it was—didn’t notice the way it wrapped around your words, cloaking the pain underneath.

“I do,” you whispered. It wasn’t an agreement; it was resignation. "Listen, I have to go. Say hi to Julia for me."

You hung up quickly, the words leaving him cold. The last part stung in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Days turned into weeks, and though you stayed in touch here and there, your conversations felt different. Lighter. Less personal. He tried not to let it bother him, but it did. The less he tried to think about you, the more you occupied his thoughts, living in the corners of his mind where you had always been. It felt like torture, the way your presence always lingered even in your absence.

When Pedro finally posted about landing the role of Joel Miller, the flood of congratulations came pouring in, but only one comment left him reeling.

So happy for you!!! You’re gonna kill it.

It was from you. Simple, encouraging, and yet it twisted something inside him.

His birthday arrived not long after, and he found himself back in LA, where his friends greeted him with a backyard party under the stars. Sarah held a cake with a single candle, and as everyone cheered, Pedro smiled, but there was an immovable weight in his chest.

Later that night, after the crowd had dispersed, he and Julia escaped upstairs to his room. They ended up half-dressed, tangled on his unmade bed. She smiled at him afterward, her gaze hazy with affection. “Happy birthday,” she murmured, running a hand down his chest.

Pedro wanted to stay in that moment, to let it be enough, but his mind wandered. He had that feeling of wanting to be trapped in one place, wanting to dig his heels in. It didn’t need to matter that that reality was waiting for him outside the door. It didn’t need to matter that you hadn’t called.

April 11, 2021

London, England

Pedro’s mood had been darkening for weeks now, but if Julia had noticed, she didn’t say a word.

She’d taken on a slew of new projects, coming home late most nights, leaving him to his thoughts and the silence that clung to their flat like fog. Pedro found himself pacing the empty rooms when she was gone, unsure where to place himself in her absence. He felt the weight of insomnia closing in again, the recognizable ache behind his eyes making the hours stretch painfully long.

That day, however, his focus had shifted. He was set to present Best Foreign Film at the BAFTAs, and his stylist had dressed him in a Prada tuxedo coat, a crisp white shirt, and skinny-fitting suit trousers. He looked sharp, elegant even, and for the first time in days, Pedro felt something close to confidence.

He and Julia arrived at the event together, but they didn’t pose for pictures side by side. Still, photographers captured fleeting moments—Julia holding his hand as they stepped out of the car, a quiet laugh between them under the canopy of flashing cameras. By the next morning, their images were all over social media, sparking the inevitable buzz about their relationship.

Pedro ignored most of it.

Two days later, while sharing a quiet breakfast in a cafe with Julia, he opened Instagram out of habit, and your face appeared.

There you were, standing in the middle of some forest, your expression serene. The caption read: Surprise. A new album drops at midnight. In isolation, my imagination ran wild, and this is the result—stories and songs that flowed like rivers. I hope you love it.

The post had already gathered thousands of likes and comments, and Pedro’s chest tightened as he stared at the screen. The timing of it all was almost cruel, but it was the impact of your sudden reappearance that left him reeling. You had vanished from the public eye for so long, and now, with no warning, you were back.

That night, Pedro lay awake next to Julia, the persistent itch of insomnia dragging him out of bed. He moved quietly so as not to disturb her, slipping his earbuds in as he stepped onto the hotel balcony. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled up your new album. He hesitated for a moment, but he pressed play anyway.

For ten songs, Pedro was transfixed. Your voice wrapped around him, haunting and familiar, weaving tales of heartache and isolation. There was a rawness to your words, an unflinching honesty that pierced through the midnight air. He listened intently, picking apart the lyrics, wondering if they were about him, if the pain you sang about was shared between you. It felt like an open wound, and yet he couldn’t stop listening.

Each song was a confession. Each melody a letter never sent.

When it ended, Pedro sat in the dark, overwhelmed. The emptiness gnawed at him, and all he wanted was to call you, to talk, to hear your voice. But he didn’t.

A couple of weeks later, he found himself shamelessly googling you again, hoping for something—an interview, a post, anything—but there was nothing. You had gone silent after the album drop.

No promo, no press. Just the music and then nothing. He congratulated you once, a brief message saying how beautiful the album was. You replied with a simple, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

That was it.

July 10, 2021

Alberta, Canada

Pedro arrived in Alberta at dawn, the skies painted in soft hues of pink and orange. The cab ride to the hotel was quiet, his agent and hairstylist riding with him as they prepared for the long months ahead. Filming for The Last of Us was finally starting, and though Pedro was eager to begin, a deep nervousness tugged at him.

Julia hadn’t come with him this time, staying back in London for her own work. She promised to visit, but Pedro wasn’t sure how often. In her absence, he felt that familiar loneliness creeping in, the kind that terrified him, mostly because it left him alone with thoughts of you.

He checked into his room and sat heavily on the sofa, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes until his vision blurred. He needed to eat, to call his family, to ground himself in something, but instead, he grabbed a beer from the mini fridge and settled back into the couch. His fingers hovered over his phone again, the compulsion to check your Instagram pulling at him like a bad habit.

But, like always, there was nothing.

Your only other post had been a month ago, thanking your fans for the love on the album. He had messaged you a couple of times—small, inconsequential exchanges that left him unsatisfied. He didn’t know what he was searching for in those brief interactions, but whatever it was, it felt futile.

Then, ten minutes later, like a sign from the universe, you shared an interview. A video with you talking about your creative process. Pedro couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed his laptop, another beer, and settled in.

As he watched, he couldn’t help but stare at you. You looked radiant, sitting across from the interviewer in the backyard of your California home. The conversation was easy at first, touching on the album’s success, but then it turned more personal.

"The pandemic was really rough, and also life in general, I guess," you said, your voice quiet. "I found myself post-breakup, isolated in a cabin in Calgary, and writing was all I had. But the inspiration wasn’t just from that breakup. It came from years of… things."

The interviewer asked gently, "You mean the breakup with your most recent ex specifically?"

"Yeah," you replied, your eyes dropping for a second. "It wasn’t entirely about that. I pulled a lot from my imagination, I guess. The lines between fantasy and reality blurred, and I found myself writing from perspectives that weren’t always mine."

Pedro’s heart clenched.

"There’s a song on the album," he continued, "the final track. It’s haunting. You sing about being hurt by someone you love but being unable to let them go. Can you talk about that?"

You paused, taking a breath before you spoke. "It’s a quiet resignation," you said. "That person and I, we hurt each other, but I love them. So, I guess that’s it. It felt like the right way to end the album."

Pedro’s world stilled. He realized, in that moment, what he had been searching for all this time. He had wanted confirmation, a sign that you still loved him. And with every word you spoke, you gave it to him.

Filming for The Last of Us began a couple of days later, and though Pedro threw himself into the work, your voice lingered, ghost-like, at the back of his mind. Days turned to weeks, and as production moved into September, the physical toll started to wear on him. He spent long hours on set; the Canadian cold started biting into his bones. Bella, his co-star, became a bright spot, their energy infectious, and though they bonded quickly, Pedro felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

In the early mornings, when the world was still asleep, he would take walks to clear his head, the cold sunlight grounding him. Julia came to visit now and then, joining him on these walks, but they often ran out of things to say. He could feel the quiet disintegration of their relationship, like watching ice slowly melt into water. He didn’t know what they were holding onto anymore.

•••

When October rolled around, Pedro’s schedule clashed with the start of The Mandalorian’s third season, and it became clear that he wouldn’t be able to join the production on time. His agents scrambled to find a solution, but when Pedro’s stunt double was suggested as a replacement for the early scenes, he was left with an odd sense of detachment. And when his agent told him it had been your suggestion, something in him cracked.

The anger simmered for weeks. He felt foolish and abandoned, wondering if you had pushed him away to keep your distance. But then, just as the resentment began to harden, you showed up on set with two coffees in hand, flashing him a smile. "One iced caramel macchiato for me and one large quad over ice for you," you teased.

Pedro blinked, startled. He hadn’t expected your warmth. "Thanks," he managed, taking the coffee.

"You’re welcome," you replied brightly. "We missed you here."

"Did you?" he said, a hint of sarcasm slipping into his tone. "Because I heard it was your idea to keep me away."

Your expression twisted into confusion before you laughed. "I was just trying to make things easier. You were still filming, and I figured rushing back here would be a nightmare for you. I wasn’t plotting anything."

Pedro felt a wave of relief wash over him, mixed with the faintest trace of regret. "Well, in that case, I missed you too."

•••

For two seasons, your character hadn't seen his without the helmet. Today you were shooting the scene where, out of necessity, he reveals his face to you. It was written as a pivotal moment in your characters' relationship.

The moment the director called action, the air on set felt different. It wasn’t the usual hum of crew members shuffling in the background or the low murmur of cameras whirring. Instead, a heavy, almost sacred quiet descended, blanketing everyone as the scene unfolded. Pedro’s mind mirrored that stillness, a sudden and unnerving hush. It felt like everything outside of this moment ceased to exist, like time itself had bent inward.

And then—nothing. No words. No script. Just you, standing so close to him, your face inches from his, hands cradling his jaw.

You widened your eyes, a silent prompt, urging him to speak, to remember his lines. But all he could do was stare. He hadn’t been this close to you in months, hadn’t felt the warmth of your touch or the soft presence of your breath in what felt like a lifetime. His throat tightened, his words trapped somewhere deep inside. He knew the scene needed to move forward, but for one fragile moment, all he wanted was to keep you there, locked in this pocket of stillness, as if holding onto you would stop everything else from slipping away.

You read him, like you always did. You settled in, your hands still on his face, fingers pressing gently into his skin as if anchoring him. Then, softly, you filled the silence with a line—one that Pedro was sure wasn’t in the script, but it was perfect. You carried the scene, leading him back into it, your voice becoming the tether that pulled him out of the stillness and into motion. Pedro blinked, refocusing, forcing his body and mind to follow your lead as he finally delivered his line.

The scene moved on, but something lingered, thick and unsaid.

When filming wrapped for the day, the tension still simmered. You caught him at the edge of the lot, your expression unreadable as you approached him. Maybe you'll ask him why he froze like an idiot during that scene, or maybe you'll just walk past him without a word.

Instead, you simply asked, "Dinner?"

Pedro couldn’t say no. He never could when it came to you.

You ended up at a small sushi restaurant tucked away from the chaos of the city. The space was warm, softly lit, a sanctuary from the noise of the outside world. Pedro sat across from you, picking at a piece of sashimi, trying to focus on the conversation but finding it hard. You talked about the year you’d spent away from the spotlight and how you’d pulled back from everything.

"I mean, I’m doing this because I signed a contract," you said, lightly joking, but your eyes flickered with something that gave you away. "Disney has snipers; you know how it is."

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes.

Pedro chuckled, though he could hear the sadness in your voice, the weight behind your words.

"If I could’ve gotten out of it too, I would have," you added, your tone quieter, more reflective. "I guess I just needed to slow down. I’m tired of it all."

"You even skipped the Oscars," Pedro replied, taking a sip of his drink. "That's how you know it's serious."

"Yeah, I love the Oscars. Excellent champagne."

Pedro watched you closely, wanting to dig into your words to pull apart the layers of exhaustion and sadness you were burying beneath the surface. He wanted to offer you some kind of comfort, to tell you that he understood—that he, too, had been feeling the weight of it all. But the words caught in his throat. Instead, the two of you ate in silence, the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable but spoke volumes.

There was something about being with you, even without words, that felt…right.

Later, as he lay in bed, his mind kept returning to you, to your confession. He wondered what you weren’t telling him, what you were holding back. But as much as he wanted to reach out to ask, he couldn't.

The next morning, Pedro was on a flight back to Canada. The weeks that followed blurred into a rhythm of cold, grueling days on set and long, sleepless nights. He threw himself into The Last of Us, trying to lose himself in the work, but no matter how hard he tried, thoughts of you crept back in. You were there, always, lingering in the corners of his mind, and Julia could sense it.

She didn’t say anything at first, but Pedro could feel it—the slow unraveling of their relationship. It wasn’t sudden, like a crash or an explosion; it was quiet, a gradual dissolution. Every day, a little more slipped away. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from this relationship, from this life they had built together. Did he think they would buy a house, start a family? Had he ever really seen himself in this life with her, or was it just easier to disappear into hers?

Finally, Julia said it. Brightly, almost too casually. "I think maybe we’re done."

Pedro didn’t fight it. He didn’t have the energy. "Yeah," he murmured. "I think that was my fault."

•••

Christmas and New Year’s came and went in a blur. Pedro went to Chile for a few weeks, seeking the comfort of home, of family. There, surrounded by his siblings and nephews, he found a brief pause, a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in a while. But even in the warmth of his childhood home, memories of you still haunted him. He saw you in every corner, heard your laughter in the echo of the hallways.

One night, after too many glasses of wine, he called you on a whim. It wasn’t about anything important—just small talk, catching up. You sounded good, better than the last time you spoke, but there was a distance in your voice, a kind of finality that made Pedro’s heart sink. For some reason, he didn’t tell you about his breakup. He kept that part of his life hidden, not out of secrecy but because it felt irrelevant at that moment.

What would it change? What did it matter?

You didn’t talk much after that. Your silence felt deliberate, not like a missed connection but a closed door. It was as if you were telling him, without saying it outright, that this was where it ended.

In the days that followed, Pedro did his best to push you out of his mind, but it didn’t take long for the thoughts to creep back in. They always did. Anger. Sadness. Regret. They whispered in his ear, insidious and unrelenting, reminding him of what he had lost, of what he could never quite hold on to.

February 7, 2022

Los Angeles, California

The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed, with clothes spilling over the edges like an unspoken reflection of your mind. Each item you folded and placed inside felt heavy, as if carrying pieces of the last year with you. Taylor sat cross-legged in the chair by the window, scrolling through her phone while talking, but her words barely reached you over the noise in your head.

“I’m surprised you said yes, that’s all,” she said, her voice light with curiosity. “You’ve basically been a hermit for a year now.”

You laughed softly, your hands smoothing over the fabric of a sweater. “I needed the break, you know that. ”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t push yet. You were grateful for the acceptance, even if you knew she was waiting to bring it up again, the same way she always did.

“One day, you’ll tell me what really happened,” Taylor continued, her voice taking on a familiar teasing edge. “You'll tell me what had you sulking at home like a sad Victorian poet for a whole year.”

You folded another shirt and placed it in the suitcase before responding, “I’ve told you countless times. Nothing happened other than…he got a girlfriend, and I stayed out of the way. That’s it.”

Taylor squinted at you as if she didn’t quite believe it, her eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion only a close friend could afford to show. “Aha,” she said slowly, drawing out the sound.

You rolled your eyes but smiled.

“I wasn't sulking,” you admitted, trying to keep your tone light. “I was…relaxing. It was my year of rest and relaxation.”

She chuckled at that. “Good one, smarty pants."

Outside, a breeze rustled through the palm trees, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of LA traffic. You imagined the street below, the shuffling of photographers leaning against their cars, lighting cigarettes, and murmuring to each other. They had become a permanent fixture, appearing gradually over the months, staking out your house like ghosts waiting for you to return to life.

It never ceased to surprise you how much people cared about what you did off-screen. You couldn’t just let your work stand for itself. No, you had to prove yourself over and over again, reminding the world that you were still an asset, still someone worth admiring.

You shrugged, half-smiling, but there was something sad in it. “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m only doing this because I've been dying to work with this director, and it’s a closed set. Once those eight weeks are up, it’s back to my hermit status.”

Taylor shook her head with a dramatic sigh. “So we’re missing the Oscars again this year?”

You threw a pair of socks at her, chuckling. “Seems like it.”

But inside, everything wasn’t as lighthearted as your words. Last year, you’d taken a step back from the spotlight, and while you didn’t want to attribute it to the hurt you were feeling over Pedro, the truth was, it had everything to do with him. Well, at least a huge chunk of it. It hurt not to have him. It hurt to see someone else kiss him, hold his hand so freely, so easily. The pain wrapped itself around you like a second skin.

The world expected you to bounce back, to emerge from this self-imposed exile with a smile and a perfect soundbite. But the truth was messier. You had spent a year nursing a heart that hadn’t fully healed. You loved Pedro in a way that still hurt, in a way that sometimes made you feel like a child who didn’t understand why they couldn’t have the one thing they wanted most. You wanted to be the bigger person, the one who could let him go gracefully, but instead, you had hidden.

You were blue all the time. Some days were okay; some days you barely got out of bed.

There were moments it felt paralyzing. The weight of the world outside your window, the expectations, the love you still felt for him—all of it crushed you. Some days, you simply couldn’t move. You stayed curled up in the safety of your blankets, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It wasn’t long before someone intervened. Your PA was that someone.

She didn’t push you at first. She’d just knock on your door, leave food outside, and ask if you needed anything. You’d spent three weeks in your room, moving only to get water or occasionally sit by the window.

One afternoon, Renata came in and found you in the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. She placed a sandwich she brought on the counter and looked at you, her voice careful, but firm. “You need to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you,” you replied simply, taking a sip of water.

“No, you know what I mean. A professional. It’s okay if you don’t feel…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

“I’m fine,” you said, starting to walk toward the stairs.

“You’re not going to eat?” she called after you.

“Not hungry, but thanks,” you mumbled, disappearing into your room again.

But Renata didn’t let it go. She pushed gently, week after week, until finally, you let her schedule an appointment. She promised not to say anything to anyone, especially Taylor. You didn’t want to worry her.

The word depression had seemed too big to say aloud, too heavy, but that’s exactly the word your psychiatrist had used.

“You’ll need to take these every morning,” he said, handing you a small prescription bottle. “And it would be good to write how you feel. Keep track of things.”

You sat there, legs crossed in an oversized chair, staring at the prescription bottle in your hand.

•••

You watched from the sidelines as Pedro continued to rise, landing roles in The Last of Us, becoming the face everyone adored. You were thrilled for him, of course, but the distance between you felt insurmountable.

The only interaction you had was through a comment on his Instagram post, and even then, you weren’t sure if it meant anything. You didn't dare to call him on his birthday; you didn't want to stain his day with sadness. Every time you looked at your phone, tears threatened to spill. You felt as if the moment he spoke into the phone, you might collapse.

He's better off; he might not even notice.

The album you dropped in the spring had been a release of every emotion you hadn’t been able to speak aloud. Each song was laced with love and loss, heartbreak and longing; every note was a confession you’d never let yourself voice. You wondered if he listened to it—if the lyrics registered with him, if he knew they were about him.

That same week, you saw photos of him in London, holding her hand. You cried yourself to sleep that night.

The months passed in a blur of avoidance. You busied yourself at home with anything you could find that didn’t involve thinking about him. You did the one interview your publicist insisted on. It was with Zane Lowe; you liked him, so it was mostly okay. You found yourself talking about the songs you wrote during that time. As you listened to your own words, you realized that the music had given you a voice when you felt silenced by heartache.

It was a bittersweet realization.

By October, filming for The Mandalorian had loomed on the horizon, and when you found out Pedro was still tied up in Canada, you suggested beginning production without him. It felt easier that way, like a reprieve. But when he finally arrived on set, the connection between you two still crackled beneath the surface. There was an unspoken understanding in the way he looked at you during that intense scene—the one where your character saw his face for the first time. He froze, and you wondered what was running through his mind—what thoughts had stopped him from continuing.

You hesitated, but after the scene wrapped, you found yourself asking him to dinner. It was a slippery slope. You could pretend you were okay all you wanted in the brief moments between takes, offering coffee and smiles, but no one saw right through you like him.

Still, you asked. It was a small gesture, just a way to extend the fragile thread of connection between you, to hold onto him for a little longer before he left again.

But you’d learned how to stay in your lane. You’d learned how to love him from a distance, how to let him be happy with someone else. It was an act of love, really—letting him go, stepping aside to give him the space to live a life that didn’t include you. At least that’s what you told yourself.

Taylor’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “Do you think you could be a hermit in Greece next? I could use a vacation.”

May 29, 2022

Los Angeles, California

Between promoting The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent and wrapping up the final scenes of The Last of Us in Canada, he had little time to do, well, anything else really.

It was late May, just after the Star Wars Celebration. He’d worn a blue two-piece set that felt more like pajamas than anything formal, which was fine by him. Comfort was the priority these days.

But something was missing. You. You hadn’t been there. Out of everyone from the cast, you were the only one absent, and that absence settled like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"She’s just taking time off," he’d tell himself, repeating the words like a mantra. “She’s probably busy; she's okay.” But the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave him alone.

Pedro had even caved one evening, calling Taylor. It had been late, after a full day of press, his voice rough from interviews and late-night whiskey. He had only meant for it to be one drink. But then he thinks back to the fact that you've plagued his dreams every night this week and that there was a song he kept hearing repeatedly that reminded him of you, and one drink had turned to three, and now here he is.

“Taylor?” He had sounded more vulnerable than he intended. “Is she... I mean, everything’s okay, right?”

Taylor had reassured him, of course, her voice patient, telling him you were fine, that you just were busy. Pedro wanted to believe her, but it gnawed at him. Something felt off.

He still woke up some mornings with the urge to tell you something, a joke he heard or a weird dream he had.

•••

By August he found himself in Spain, the arid heat of the desert sinking into his skin as filming for Strange Way of Life began. The project felt like a strange departure—something raw and gritty, something that required his full attention—but even then, in quiet moments between takes, his mind wandered. He’d sit in his trailer, his phone in hand, thumb hovering over your contact name, but the messages stayed unsent.

The days passed in a blur of rehearsals, early morning call times, and late-night script revisions. He spent his downtime with Ethan, exchanging stories over beers. But there was a quietness to Pedro that hadn’t been there before—a missing piece of him he couldn’t quite place.

•••

November 22, 2022

Miami, Florida

The night was sweltering; even by late fall standards, the air was thick and humid. Pedro was grinning, wearing a loose-fitting animal print shirt that made him feel playful, like he was stepping into some exaggerated version of himself for the evening. Lux was by his side, vibrant as always, their laughter mingling with the clink of glasses as they arrived at a wine event.

But it didn’t take long for Lux to notice the shadow that hung over him.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said, side-eyeing him as they sipped their drinks by the bar.

“I’ve been busy,” Pedro answered vaguely, swirling his glass and watching the amber liquid catch the light.

“Sure,” Lux replied, smirking. “And when are you both going to stop being idiots? It’s getting tiresome, hermanito.”

Pedro nearly choked on his drink, laughing in surprise. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Lux’s voice was matter-of-fact, cutting through his defenses with that typical bluntness only siblings could pull off. “You and her. It’s obvious. To everyone.”

Pedro sighed, leaning back against the bar, the Miami night buzzing around them. “It’s not that simple.”

Lux raised an eyebrow. “Really? You’re both so afraid of what might happen that you’re stuck in this limbo. It’s ridiculous. Why let it get this bad?”

Pedro stared into his glass, her words echoing in his head.

"Because I love her," Pedro finally admitted, his voice quieter, weighed down by the truth. He stared down at his drink, swirling the ice around the glass. "I love her so much I’m willing to let her go."

Lux didn’t say anything.

Pedro shook his head, a bitter smile playing at his lips. "I would only hold her back. I know her so well. She’d sacrifice things just to be with me, and I can’t let her do that. I would only hold her back. She deserves so much better."

Lux tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “And what if what she wants is you? What if she’s out there feeling the same way, thinking she’s the one who isn’t good enough for you? Do you ever think about that?”

Pedro let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it all. "Of course I’ve thought about it. Every day. But what if I’m wrong? What if she gives up things she shouldn’t for me? I can’t let her do that, Lux."

Lux leaned in closer, her voice gentle but firm. "Maybe it’s not your decision to make. Maybe she deserves the choice. Don’t you think it’s a bit arrogant to assume what’s best for her without even asking?"

Pedro met her gaze, feeling exposed. “I just... I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to ruin her life.”

Lux smiled, but it wasn’t pitying. It was knowing, soft around the edges. "You’re not ruining anything by loving her. But keeping it to yourself? That’s where the damage is, hermanito. You think you’re protecting her, but all you’re doing is pushing her away. And trust me, that hurts more than anything else."

He had always been so afraid of losing you, so terrified of not being enough, that he hadn’t even realized how much distance he had created.

Lux’s voice softened again, the words cutting through the noise in his mind. "She deserves better, Pedro? Maybe. But who says you don’t deserve her, too?"

a/n: please like, reblog and comment! i love reading your thoughts!! next part will be posted in a bit ;) aaaand something might be happening ;)

[mortalkombatdeeznutz]

mk1 characters when you die in their arms.

ft. Kitana, Johnny Cage, Syzoth & Smoke/Tomas Vrbada

Warning : character death, implied panic attack in Syzoth's part

Happy new year guys!

Reblogs/comments are appreciated!

KITANA looked away immediately the moment your body goes slack in her arms. Where did she fail in saving you? Why did she fail to protect you?She couldn't...she wasn't alone right now. Taking deep breaths, she closed her eyes as she ordered, "Take them away and prepare for the last rituals." She had to act like this, she couldn't afford to look weak in front of her subordinates at this time. Until she went back to her bedchambers, where Kitana buried herself in a bundle of sheets and cried until sleep overtook her. She will never be the same without you.

JOHNNY CAGE was strong. Although he acted cheerful and sauvy on-screen, he was a fighter through-and-through, reveling in the feeling of a good fight. Yet he's also the person who would go to any lengths to protect his loved ones. But he ended up failing, his eyes widening as he spotted your bloodied body on the battlefield. "No.. no, no, no" he whispers, and immediately runs to your body, sitting down and pulling you close. " Shit-shit, baby, please no" he felt his heart drop as he looked at your blank gaze, realizing you were already long gone. It was at that he lets his tears spill and he hugs you close, shakily sobbing into your shoulder.

SYZOTH always feared losing his loved ones after it happened once, that anxiety never leaving him when he was with you. You were the light of his life, and he thought the both of you could build a future together, a family that he craved. Now he wished that the two of you never met. Feeling his breathing quicken rapidly as he looked at your body on the cold ground, among other lifeless bodies. He couldn't think, he felt dizzy, heart thudding unnaturally loud in his chest. This wasn't supposed to be like this. What should he do now? You were supposed to stay with him till the end. So why...why were you so silent as he begged you to wake up?

TOMAS has always been sweet to you. You were the person he cherished most of all, of course. He had the same gentle expression, albeit mixed with panic and desperation, as he scanned over your face and wounds, trying to deny how hopeless the situation was. "Open your eyes, love, please", he whispered, trying his best to sound as gentle as possible. You were alive, and he wasn't gonna get mad at you. You'll be up again, he knows it. "I know you can hear me" he clutches your hand in his, ignoring the dull pang of pain in his chest as his tears run down his face. It's fine, it's fine, you're waking up soon. "Love please, wake up for me, I know you can do this.. "

[holylulusworld]

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (3)

Summary: Your marriage starts rocky.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, shy reader, fluff, getting to know each other, implied innocent reader, protective/possessive Sherlock, mentions of getting robbed

A/N: A collection of drabbles on how you became Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes (2)

Mrs. Sherlock Holmes masterlist

You wake warm and cozy, Sherlock’s arms locked tight around your middle. He nuzzles his face in your hair, whispering your name. “Sir, I mean Sherlock.”

“Good morning, Precious,” he husks in your ear. “How did you sleep? Does your face still hurt? I can call for the doctor again.”

“I feel better,” you say. It’s a little too much this morning. Sherlock being so close. His change of behavior. Sherlock seems to be everywhere you are to shower you with affection. “It barely hurts anymore.”

“Good, that’s good,” he softly kisses your hair. “I’ll be away this morning for a few hours. But I promise to come back soon. Mycroft and Enola will arrive tonight. We need to discuss her future.”

“Do you want me to prepare something special for them? Maybe I can help in the kitchen.”

“Y/N, you are the lady of the house. You don’t need to take care of the food. I already prepared everything,” he kisses your temple. “And I’ll take care of the problem with Mrs. Demeter too. She will never treat you the way she did.”

You snuggle in your pillow to get a little more sleep as Sherlock slips out of bed. He watches you fall asleep before turning to get ready for the day.

“Sleep well, my precious angel. I’ll see you soon.”

“Mrs. Demeter, we are expecting guests tonight. We need more flowers, don’t you think?” She sneers at your words. You only wanted the dining room to look more welcoming, and all she did was ignore your every word.

“I don’t think so,” she finally says. “Mr. Holmes asked me to prepare everything for tonight. I think his brother and sister expect more than flowers from dinner with Mr. Holmes.”

She rushes out of the room, barking orders at the staff while you stand in the dining room, close to tears. Nothing has changed. 

Sherlock is gone once again and Mrs. Demeter acts like she’s his wife, not you.

You wipe your wet eyes and flee out of the dining room. If your husband is more interested in listening to what this woman has to say, he can spend the evening with her and his guests.

“Precious open the door,” Sherlock hammers against the door to your bedroom. “What has gotten into you? Mycroft and Enola will be here any minute!”

“Why don’t you ask Mrs. Demeter to join you for dinner? Obviously, she’s the woman you trust the most. I’m having a terrible headache!”

He sighs and knocks again. “Please open the door. Whatever happened while I was away wasn’t my fault. I told her to respect you.”

“She will never respect me, Mr. Holmes. I think we should consider this marriage as what it is. Loveless and hopeless. You are married to your cases. And while you are away your precious Mrs. Demeter makes my life even harder. I will never leave this room again.”

“Brother, what is this about?” Mycroft hurriedly walks toward your room. “Where is your lovely wife? Why doesn’t she join us? Is she sick, or still scared because of the incident?”

“She’s angry at me,” Sherlock sighs and runs his fingers through his locks. “Mrs. Demeter…she…”

“You should talk to that woman while I try to make your wife feel safe and welcome in this family again,” Mycroft snaps at his brother. 

“She’s my wife, not yours,” your husband glares at his brother. “I know how to make her feel safe.”

“No. You don’t,” his brother exclaims. “If you did, she wouldn’t have locked herself away from you, and the world.”

Sherlock grits his teeth when Mrs. Demeter dares to walk his way. “Mr. Holmes, Sir.” She coos his name and tries to make him believe you are suffering from female hysteria.

“Mrs. Demeter,” Sherlock raises his voice, making even his brother flinch. “I must mishear! Did you accuse my wife of being hysterical? This diagnosis is nonsense. Every person with a sharp mind knows it.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tries to calm his brother, but Sherlock moves closer to Mrs. Demeter. He towers over her, panting heavily. “You are dismissed. I want you to pack your things and leave my home.”

“Mr. Holmes, you can do this! Not over this hysteric girl and her lies,” she cries and begs but Sherlock won’t have it.

“Mrs. Demeter, you should leave now. My brother is close to losing his composure. Believe me, you don’t want to feel his wrath.”

Mycroft leads Mrs. Demeter down the stairs to give your husband time to talk to you.

“Please open the door. I believe she’ll treat you with respect. I wanted to give her one last chance. I owed her that much.” He presses his ear to the door. “Precious, open the door.”

“Only when she’s gone,” you unlock the door and step away. “If you lied, I’ll stay here.”

Sherlock opens the door, almost ripping it open to get to you. He wraps you in his arms and peppers kisses all over your forehead. “I’ll never disappoint you again, wife. From now on, I’m your loyal servant…”

Part 4

Tags in reblog.

[mrsnancywheeler]

midnight rain part 2 // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: finnick had pulled the plug on your relationship long ago, when he could no longer keep from you what he'd been forced into. but after you've returned victorious from your games, he knows you need him as the nightmares come for you each time you close your eyes.

previous chapter

the sequel

warnings: descriptions of gore, violence, death, including an eye, blood, manipulation of someone's feelings to survive, betrayal, unrequited love to resentment, mentions of a break up, relationship with lack of communication, anxiety with symptoms of nausea, allusions to trafficking but no explicit detail, ANGST, hurt/comfort, fluff, nightmares and flashbacks, if there were more I didn't get I'm sorry

unedited and not beta read

2.7k words

“Only two more stops, angel. Then we'll be back home." Finnick was clasping together your necklace for you as you stared blankly into the mirror. He was trying to be comforting, but it was difficult when two more stops meant he'd have to tell you soon. First you'd get through District 4, through talking about Conway, and he'd let you down when you were headed to wrap it all up in the Capitol. 

“Promise?" You desperately wanted to be home, to deal with the haunting of your nightmares without having more to face every day.

Finnick couldn't really promise you'd get to go straight home after the Capitol, maybe Snow had something waiting or maybe you'd have longer to wait. So he said nothing, he offered you a small smile and kissed the top of your head. Now your innocent question left your chest pounding, why didn't he just say, yes? 

“Let's go get you something to eat, angel." He offered his hand out to you which you paused before taking. There were too many secrets, you'd tried to allow him them after all he'd gone through of course he had things he still needed to process. However, this was now your life too and if they involved you then you deserved to be told. Yet you knew nothing you could say or do would convince Finnick to reveal things except his own inner clock.

“Okay." Tearing your eyes away from him as you rose from the vanity’s stool. Exhaustion was only slightly hidden in your tone. 

Of course he knew why this was, besides the little sleep you'd been able to obtain between nightmares that left you sobbing into his arms, but he reasoned that currently he was doing you a favor. So he said nothing further on the subject as you walked out of the train car only awaiting the difficult day ahead. 

              𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

When your name was called in the reaping you could have sworn your heart was going to fall right out of your body. All the blood was rushing straight to your head and your body begged you to just collapse then and there. But the performance had already begun, everyone would be watching to see how District 4’s female tribute acted. Would she be cocky and strong? What about scared and fleeting? You already had to start forming an image as you walked up the stage on shaky legs.

When you saw his face as you approached the steps you could no longer push away the incoming tears from at least briefly shedding. Finnick. All he'd said he would to protect you, the poor boy who pushes you away claiming it was to keep you safe from a looming danger that he would not reveal. Eyes are windows to the soul and his showed how his heart was being violently crushed on top of the hastily thrown on bandages for its past cracks and bruises. 

Maybe your eyes showed the same thing to whomever was paying attention to them, whoever was really trying to get inside this tribute’s head. Perhaps it would benefit you if they did, to be seen as a hopeless romantic needing to get home for an unseen love. Thoughts of how you would perform filled every crevice of your brain and the Capitol escort reached inside the bowl to pull out a male tribute's name. 

Her voice was like a sickly, sweet syrup, cotton candy that was melting down the stick on a hot day as she let out a heavy breath into the microphone.

“Conway Delmare!” Your heart pounced up, maybe the odds were in your favor after all. Part of you wanted to shake the forming idea off, it was cruel, mean, unfair, but so is everything else, this is life and death.

He walked onto the stage with confidence and he gazed at you with pity. Pity. Is that what sealed his fate? An ‘I don't need your pity, I pity you for what I'm about to do.’ The two of you shook hands, his was firm and calloused, yours soft and fleeting. That feeling he'd always found so entrancing about you, how delicate you were with your looks, your smiles, your touch, your voice, but unbeknownst to him the same thing could not be said of the part of your soul plotting his demise.

Looks could be faked and you mustered every feeling that represented your heart's visceral reaction to Finnick straight into Conway’s deep, midnight eyes and the look he gave back to you showed that he fell for it hook, line, and sinker. So as you were led to say your familial goodbyes you began mentoring yourself on exactly how you'd already begun playing this game and your hard work would not be put to waste.

             𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

There was only a matter of minutes before you made your grand appearance in front of District 4, in front of Conway's family and your stomach was in knots. At the time you began hatching your tactics to win you didn't have time to think about how everyone would view you for it. If the Capitol thought you were a Princess, a damsel in distress who had to fight for herself like she was in some sort of twisted fairy tale then the districts, your district saw a manipulator, a sly girl who couldn't just harm the usual way but made cuts into people's hearts. You played the game too hard and too well to be forgiven. 

Heckling was something you were prepared for, you doubted the Peacekeepers would let it happen for long, but if it did you'd deserve it you reasoned. What would hurt the most would be staring at Conway’s mother who'd once made you snacks after school, his father who'd tell you fantastical stories about his job, his younger sister who wanted to mimic everything about you, and his older sister who comforted you when Finnick had broken your heart, knowing that you had exploited these relations to leave him dead in the muddy marshlands of the arena. They would resent you just as much as you resented yourself for it. There was no space in your heart to blame them for this, just mind hollowing guilt.

“You gotta stay with me, sweet girl " Finnick’s arm around your waist brought you back to the present, out of counting down the seconds until you faced the consequences of your actions. 

“I'm gonna be sick." Anxiety always had you dry heaving, desperate to be free of the gnawing inside.

“No you won't. C’mon, angel, you step out there, say the speech on the card, smile, avert your eyes no matter how difficult, and then you come right back to me." His reassuring smile was usually infectious like the sunshine, like Conway’s had once been.

“He should be going right back to them, Finnick. I'm such a terrible person." You didn't realize how cold your face was until he was wiping away the tears falling.

“No you're not, that's what they want you to feel. But you're not, you did what you needed to do. It's not your fault if you decided to play smarter." Someone was shouting something and you knew it was time for you to go, to do exactly as Finnick had instructed no matter how difficult. You reluctantly pulled away from his comforting hands, “I'm not going to wipe all the tears, it'll help. Not because you're manipulative, but it shows you are how you present yourself, remorseful." 

You nodded and sniffled, hands tightly gripping the card with the speech. He gave you a reassuring nod as you took slow steps to the doors, preparing to dissociate completely from the people who lie ahead. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.

             𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“We should keep heading east, put enough distance between us that we can think of a plan to ambush their camp before they ambush us." Conway was leaned up against a tree as he wiped the sweat off his brow, the mugginess was making you both claustrophobic.

“I'm not sure why we split anyways, it would have been easier to take them by surprise immediately, if that was your plan." Exactly, his plan didn't make sense. It made you tense, put you on edge, which was a terrific achievement considering the current predicament.

“I told you, I heard Birch talking.” His voice was brisk, usually it was more playful. Conway usually had a tone of cold strawberries on a hot summer day, but now it was like they were just as hot and mushy as the weather.

You nodded cautiously, the tides were changing. Every vein pumping blood echoed through your head, he was off, this was all wrong. He'd checked off nearly every box you'd expected, so why was he diverging from the script now? Adrenaline was pushing through your legs, you were ready to run, it shook through your arms, he had the spear and the knives in the bag. Stupid. Too much trust and you were basically defenseless, you should have prepared for this outcome as well.

“So what's the plan until then?" Your voice exuded relief and trust, but he'd known you for too long to not notice the tapping of your foot. Signaling how ready you were to bolt if things went awry.

Conway looked down a second and scoffed, “I think you've caught onto that by now."

Just like that you were hurtling through the marsh, darting around the trees, and as the breeze screamed wildly through your hair, your jacket, everything was too loud. You weren't sure what was his pounding footsteps and what was your heart in your ears with all the overstimulation. Him screaming your name was; however, loud enough to distinguish.

He'd always been an unbalanced climber so your instincts decided to send you barreling up the nearest tree. You were too slow and his hands clawed into your legs, so you screamed and kicked, but he pulled you down regardless. Hitting your head with a thud that made all noice cease for a second. Tears filled your vision, you were desperately trying to push yourself away with your legs and forearms, but he had you pinned down.

“Did you really think I would believe you would just suddenly stop loving him? After years of me pining for you, suddenly now was a good time for you to realize you'd felt the same?" His laugh was biting and you shook your head as burning tears covered your face in desperation. He should have hit you with the spear but somewhere he'd abandoned it, you shouldn't have let the adrenaline take over because sometimes between then and now he'd grabbed the knife too. It was all so personal.

" Conway, please, it's not like that.” You thrashed wildly, digging your fingernails into his hands trying to get him to drop the weapon that with one sure slide could put an end to your backbending efforts.

" It's not like you thought I would do anything for you, even though you turned me aside for years, for him? He doesn't even want you, but you only really see me when it saves you. But it's not gonna save you this time, princess.” He jammed the knife down as you pulled your body every which way, screaming as he missed his target and landed on your side. “What did I beat you at your own game? Did you think I was dumb enough-" 

Before he could finish his own screams filled the wind when you let your instincts take over, jamming your thumb into his eye. Blood poured from it as he instinctually went to cover it, you kicked him further off of you. Your eyes greedily searched for the spear as you propelled yourself off of the ground.

“Damn you!" He yelled as he tried to see through the river of blood pouring over one of them. Finally you saw the weapon he'd discarded and hastily scrambled for it. Using every concentrated muscle possible to aim it straight into his chest without pause. The impact caused his already stumbling self to crash onto his back. His cries overtook the arena and your senses were once again flooded. There was no time for sympathy when he was still breathing and eager for your cannon to go off before his, so you approached his body and pushed the spear further in. The cannon rang out and you gave an exhaustive sigh of relief, wiping your face of its grime.

There was no time to rest when you'd heard a branch snap and whirled around only to see Birch. A perfect loop for what would haunt you.

              𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

This time when you woke up it was the numbness that hit. Thinking about how the sunshine ray of a boy who'd always supported you had been snuffed away because of you. You damaged him, Conway would've been happy to live a quiet seaside life with your families, kids and candy, he was so kind until you tore it all up with that urge to win. Maybe if you hadn't been so dark and dreary to his rays of sunlight he would have happily sacrificed himself for you and sent you back with a wish to take care of his family.

All to be with the man keeping you warm and safe now, from the ghosts of your own memories. You could feel his ocean eyes boring into you as you stared at the ceiling, he probably hadn't slept at all.

“Finnick?" Your voice sounded foreign to you, it was as if you were above yourself.

“Yes, angel?" His breath fanned into your neck, his nose nuzzling into the side. It relaxed you so well that it made you feel worse. Why did you deserve that comfort?

“If this had never happened, if it hadn't been my name, would you have come back to me?" Your body was stiff and freezing. If you had broken Conway's kind, overflowing heart for this kind of love you at least needed to know the truth.

“I'm sorry, I want to keep you so safe, so above it all, but I can't anymore." Finnick shook his head into your shoulder as he sat up, taking a deep breath. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and the fact he was holding back waterworks he didn't want to show anyone. “President Snow, ever since I won-" He was getting choked up on his words and you rubbed his shoulders, trying to relax his tensed muscles. “I'm popular, my love, the Capitol darling and so he lets people buy me." Finnick's voice was so quiet it could have been snapped in half with scissors.

The courage it took for him to open up about that was unfathomable to you so you just wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could. He'd left because he was ashamed, you felt bile rising in your throat, how could you have ever felt let down by him when he was battling so many demons everyday in isolation?

“Angel, I don't know what this means for you. That's the worst part, that's the selfish part. I should have given you more time to prepare, but I wanted to help you deal, but I can't.” He was crying and it was tearing your soul apart. " You deserve to know what could happen, they've already dubbed you with a nickname, you're so popular, it almost feels inevitable. Yet my heart drops in my chest every time it crosses my mind because you deserve so much better.”

You pulled your body away from his, catching his warm face in your cold hands." So do you.” It felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest as you whispered this out and he embraced you once again. Pulling you back down to lie within the confines of the pillows. He would still struggle to vocalize all of his inner traumas with you, but you were a saving grace. So understanding, someone who at the end of the day he could wrap his arms around feel like he was at home with. Where he would think about collecting sea shells rather than the cruelty of the Capitol. 

“I love you." He let his honeycomb voice sit in the stagnant air, but wouldn't let you respond. “I know, my love. I know, you show me all the time."

You had no clue what lay ahead for either of you, but you had each other to help, to understand, to stare at the waters of District 4 with and know in at least that sense you were safer than most.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

thank you so much for reading, comments, reblogs, likes, and feedback is all super appreciated. I have so many more ideas for Finnick but I'd been thinking about the games themselves and needed to get my thoughts out. so if you want to see more of my writing let me know!

@imaegonstargaryenswife0

[letmeoutofthebasementt]

Hyunjin NSFW A-Z

Posting this one first because this one was...Actually requested. Was a full on NSFW reading what was requested? Yes. Did I feel like doing that right now? No. I'll probably do what was actually asked for soon though. ALSO, I don't know why this surprised me when Hyunjin choreographed red lights and admitted to writing everything but the English verses. He was in fact speaking from personal experience.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Definitely the type who likes cuddling and just generally pampering each other. I’m talking taking nice baths after, massaging each other, the whole shabang. Very tender and loving. Definitely the type who leaves marks DURING sex, so after he’s half admiring them half worried and making sure he didn’t actually hurt his partner.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part is his head? It’s an erogenous zone for him. He’s honestly not too sure what part is his favorite aesthetically. (Hyunjin being the hopeless romantic he is did indicate his heart with these cards. Love you Hyunjin but that’s not the point)

On his partner he likes hands. (Specifically around his throat)

He also just generally likes all of his partner’s body and their feet

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

His orgasms are definitely a euphoric and intense experience. Probably the type who cums a lot, and trembles when he does. Like I’m talking head empty no thoughts mind blank ears ringing. Did I mention he cums a lot? Because it’s a lot. I got a bountiful indicator here. So. Probably fertile? He honestly probably enjoys��Releasing inside of his partners whenever he can.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Uhhh…He really likes excitement and adrenaline in the bedroom. So angry sex, hate sex, sad sex, emotional sex, risky sex…Anyrhing that’d induce adrenaline. He’s also probably very kinky because of this, and he may even get kinkier and kinkier as time goes on because things quickly lose their thrill. He’s into vulnerability. The type that can’t have no strings attached sex. He likes surprise in the bedroom too. He has a lot of secret kinks and desires he doesn’t even want to share with me so that’s…Fun. Hyunjin is sex. He eats sleeps and breathes sex. He thinks about sex more than he probably should. (Not in a sleazy pervert way but in a very sexual person who gets horny easily way). Big corruption kink (both corrupting and being corrupted). Definitely has a consensual non-con kink.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Doesn’t have a lot because he needs that emotional connection, but still has experience regardless. But he’s very much a natural at sex

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Standing doggy style, 69, reverse cowgirl/cowgirl, missionary, spooning, lotus…You get the point.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Definitely can have light hearted banter and teasing in the bedroom. He doesn’t take himself too seriously during sex. WITH THAT BEING SAID, not much time to be goofy when having sex with Hyunjin because that’s IN.TENSE.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He likes both him and his partner’s to be neatly trimmed but they don’t necessarily have to be gone

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’s a romantic at heart. WITH THAT BEING SAID, he also is very intense and in the moment. When he’s fucking, he’s not thinking about Romance, just the act of fucking. He’s more focused on the act than the romantic aspect. But at the same time because he’s a romantic to his core it’s still fairly romantic since it seeps out.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Probably jacks off a lot. He has a high libido after all, and he’s always rearing to go. Definitely into mutual masturbation and watching his partner masturbate/being watched while he’s doing so.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

This is already a lot...But he's into like...Tabboo things? And how do I put this...He has a corruption kink, right? The more...Intense side of it is essentially he himself wants to be...Corrupted. Like i'm talking used abused and defiled. Maybe even like...Okay, not a grape fantasy but a grape fantasy towards himself. He'd never necessarily think of doing that to someone else, but there's like...Something oddly hot to him about it happening to him? I don't think he necessarily wants it to happen, but the idea of it. He's also into power play, likes being very adventurous and is very kinky in general, choking, hair pulling, bondage, the idea of him and his partner...'Ruining' each other...May possibly be into like...Knife play? Maybe possibly? Into impact pla as well. (This entire section has sent me through an emotional rollercoaster but i'm down if you're down Hyunjin? (NOT the grape fantasy just realized that may sound wrong))

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He likes having sex in familiar places but also likes adventurousness and risks. So like...Would in fact maybe possibly fuck in the practice room or something like that. Though he probably still fantasizes about doing it in like...Semi public places? But not public.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Feet. Anything emotional or intimate. Anything he loves. Anything he's connected to. Anything he's bonded to. Tits.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Random flings with people he's not attached to, himself getting put in... Jeopardy? He's very self-focused in sex even if he kind of prioritizes the other party. Kinda. Maybe. Anything involving bodily fluids other than like...(I dunno what term to use for this) natural...Lubrication or cum. Or tears did I mention he likes when his partners cry during sex?

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He doesn't have a preference for giving or receiving. He just fucking loves oral. Probably extremely good at it, too.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Definitely fast and rough. Point blank period. Absolutely FERAL. Granted, he may be more slow and sensual on certain occasions or like...At the start of sex if it's his partner's first time. At the start.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Love a good quickie

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Loves a good risk

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has a lot of stamina. Though sometimes he gets very enthusiastic and may finish...Kind of quickly? But he can probably go for like a lot of rounds to make up for that. His recovery also may be fairly fast? Not abnormally so, but fairly fast.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

I don't think he's tried because he's scared it may be too much? But if he did...Toys. Toy connoiseur.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

THE tease but also too impatient to keep it up. Like he'll be trying to tease his partner, but he won't be able to keep it up after they get all needy and whiney and desperate because he's only human (And an impatient one at that).

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

EXTREMELY vocal. King of dirty talk, a mix of degradation and praise probably. Physically incapable of shutting the fuck up during sex. He'll let you know exactly how you're doing and how good you make him feel. He'll pretty much do whatever? He'll moan and sigh and gasp and whine and whatever he feels like doing.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He fantasizes about having sex with multiple people at once. He never would because he has jealousy and possessiveness issues, but it's definitely a fantasy.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Definitely large and aesthetically pleasing. (I could write prose on how ugly most peni are, and the strict qualifications an aesthetically pleasing penis would have to have but i'm not going to because this is an odd thing to be so passionate about.)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Higher than people at a reggae concert. Which is HIGH. Extremely. Very.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

After aftercare he likes to cuddle with his partner and then fall asleep because it's intimate.

[lotanxiety]

Ballsy

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem reader

Summary: Your alter ego does something you always dreamed of but never had the balls to do. Let’s just say it leads to something great😈

Warnings: Shower sex, SMUT, NSFW 18+, slight breading, oral (female receiving), praise

____________________________________________

You grew up a hunter and crossed paths with Sam and Dean ages ago. Since you were around their age, you guys hit it off well and stayed in touch over the years. Soon after the boys had moved into the bunker, you did another hunt with them and mentioned you didn’t have a permanent home either and they graciously offered for you to stay with them! It’s now been 8 months of living with Sam and Dean. For the most part, it’s all great despite your hopeless crush on the eldest brother. You and Sam were best friends, and you and Dean had a weird, complicated friendship. You could never read him. Sometimes he would be flirty with you, giving you hope that something could happen, but then he would bring a girl home from the bar, breaking your heart a little more each time.

For the past two weeks, however, Dean has been extra flirty with you. He enjoyed making you blush and making inappropriate jokes at the worst times to embarrass you. This morning at breakfast, you sat across from Dean. While you both ate bacon, he kept watchful eyes on your every movement and when you’d make eye contact, he would wink at you or raise his eyebrows up and down. It made you giggle. You particularly loved when Dean was in a flirty mood, soaking up any and all attention from him before it would be gone.

You were pacing the floor in your room, thinking about the advice Charlie had given you.

“Just pretend you’re someone else and make a move.” Charlie said earlier in the week.

“I can’t do that, what if he doesn’t feel the same. It would ruin the whole dynamic. I’d have to move out and then go back to crappy motels and eat diner food all the time and-“ you rambled on.

“Y/N, please. Dean has had eyes for you for like… ever. Why else would he flirt with you like that? You can do it, just create an alternate version of yourself. She can have a new name and all the personality traits you want to have.” Charlie said.

“I don’t know, this feels kind of dumb”

“Just do it. Introduce yourself to me as the new you.”

“…um hi my name is-“

“Oh absolutely not, more confidence. Say it like you’re the queen of LARPing” Charlie states.

You clear your throat and try to push away any resistance that you normally would have. Right now you’re not Y/N, you’re Tessa; a smart, sexy, confident chick who goes and gets what she wants. You switch into this alter ego as best as you can and confidently say with some sultry in your voice, “Hi Charlie, I’m Tessa.”

“Much better. You got this, just go for it!”

I can do this. I just have to go for it. No fear. Well lots of fear, but fake it til you make it, right? Walking out of your room, you head for Dean’s bedroom. As you near the door, your heart races. The sound of the shower comes to your attention. “Oh shoot, of course once I muster up the courage to do this, he’s in the shower” you whisper to yourself, rolling your eyes. Then a thought crosses your mind. What would Tessa do? Walk right in there and take what she wants. Am I actually going to do this?

You open the door and enter Dean’s room, heart beating so loudly you were sure it was audible for the whole bunker to hear. You come to the bathroom door and knock so quietly that Dean doesn’t hear you. You take the opportunity to pause and get into character. You knock a second time, this time he hears you.

“Who is it?” Dean calls out behind the sound of water hitting the floor.

“It’s me” you shout back.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Dean asks from behind the door.

“Can I come in?” You ask. Despite wanting to walk in there, you obviously want to ask for consent.

“I- I’m kind of showering” Dean says thrown off by your question.

“I know” You retort back, lacing your voice with undertones.

Dean blinks under the running water, realizing what’s going on. “Come on in, sweetheart” he says. You open the door, trying to not let your fear show on your face, but the second you see his naked body dripping wet under the water, you’re sure your face falters. Without saying a word, you start stripping off your clothes. Dean watches in shock of the sight in front of him. Once your clothes are nothing but a pile in the floor, you stand in front of each other, both breathing kind of heavy but not saying a word.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Dean asks cautiously.

“Making a move” you say more confident that you thought possible with a smirk on your face. You slowly close the gap between the two of you. Deans eyes are dark with lust.

“Are you sure this is something you want?” He says, his voice much deeper than before. You nod your head as you look at him with your doe eyes.

“Words, sweetheart” he urges.

“Yes” you say breathless, now an inch away from him. With that confirmation, he quickly closes the gap between you two. The kiss was needy, but soft however quickly grew hungry for more. Stepping more into the shower, the warm water runs down your back and Dean starts to push you back against the wall, lifting your leg to his hip with his hand.

Breaking apart only for air he says, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment”. He lips make contact with your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he tentatively paws at your boob. It’s all passion between you. 8 months of sexual tension all being released at once. His kisses move lower, as he starts sucking on one of your nipples, slowly lowering himself to his knees. His mouth follows this southbound patter until he lands on his knees in front of you.

Grabbing your hips with his hands he looks up at you. “God- you are so fucking sexy” he says as he starts to kiss and nibble at your thighs, urging them apart. Your core is aching for any kind of contact. Dean pokes out his tongue between your wet folds, causing you to gasp at the contact. He gives you one last devilish smirk before he laps away at your sex. It throws you off guard, almost causing you to lose balance, but Dean steadies you with his hands never stopping his pace. His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking and biting. It doesn’t take very long before that coil winds up so tight and you release all over his face. He rides out your orgasm and then you pull him up to kiss him again. The kiss is different this time, almost more meaningful but still steamy. You open your mouth, allowing his tongue to graze over yours tasting yourself on him. You reach a hand in between you to palm his hard cock, causing the most pornographic groan from Dean into your mouth. Despite having just came, your core was practically crying for more. Wanting to return the favor for him, you started lowering yourself to your knees, as you still palmed him.

He quickly grabbed your arms. “Not this time, darlin. I want to feel you. Can I do that?” Dean asks.

“Yes please Dean, I need you.” You say standing upright again. Dean lined himself up with you and slowly pushed in, allowing you to adjust. You squeeze your eyes tight as the pain melts into pleasure.

“You can move now” you tell Dean and he does at a gruelingly slow pace. He starts speeding up as he kisses your lips again and rests his forehead against yours. The only sounds are of the water hitting the floor, the contact of your skin, and the heavy breaths and moans coming from the both of you. Dean reaches his hand down in between the two of you putting his thumb against your clit and making small circles. You’re sensitive from your last orgasm so you suck a breath in through your teeth and close your eyes.

“Please look at me, I want to watch you unravel on my cock. You look so beautiful like this” Dean praises. That familiar sensation builds and builds.

“That’s it. Cum for me. You can do it, uh huh. Good girl” Praise repeatedly falls from Deans lips as you orgasm for the second time, so much harder than before. The tightening of your cunt around Deans cock causes him to cum as well, spilling his juices into you. You both stay in that position for a moment, foreheads pressed together, taking deep breaths. Dean slowly pulls out of you and leans in for another kiss.

“We should’ve done that a long time ago” he says and you just chuckled. You two clean up by finishing up the shower together, Dean sweetly cleaning up your sex and washing your hair for you. Once you two get out, you both cuddle up on his bed.

“So, um… what caused you to be so bold?” Dean asked as you nuzzled your head into his shoulder.

“I don’t know, I guess I was just tired of you flirting with me but not making any real moves” You teased.

“Hey, those are my moves” Dean said defensively.

You two chatted some more, then fell asleep in each others arms watching old tv show re-runs.

The End.

[icysnails]

The Blade's Daughter story was so good ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ Can I request a continuation, either directly or years after the incident, where reader meets and befriends Yanqing? No romance, just two tired kids ranting about their respective father figures.

A New Friend.

A/n: Hello!! Thank you so much, I’m so happy you liked it! (>v<) I decided to do bullet points for this one- I hope you enjoy, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

Warnings: reader is a teen/around yanqing's age, mentions of anxiety/grief, mentions of family struggles/arguments, takes place directly after the Blade fic

Word count: 1.3k

Genre: fluff, a tiny bit of angst

Pairing: Yanqing x gn!reader (PLATONIC)

After fleeing the Stellaron Hunters’ ship, you began your old travel routines and quickly got transportation to a separate planet. You found a train that would take you directly off your current planet, which was a relief. But you were an anxious, fidgety mess for the entire ride, so much so that one of the other passengers in your car stopped by to ensure you were alright. You quickly nodded and looked back down at your lap, feeling too stressed out to try and make small talk. All that had happened over the last few months was playing again and again in your head, and you found yourself having second thoughts. Had you really made the right decision? Would you ever see your old family again? But even more, you wondered, were they ever really family to you in the first place? 

You hadn’t gotten any news about the Stellaron Hunters, and no signs of them searching for you either. Maybe this was it. Maybe they truly wanted you gone. You sighed and suffered in silence, the rumbling of the train you were on making the pang of grief in your stomach far worse. However, you were headed for the Xianzhou Luofu, a planet that was generally regarded as peaceful. Perhaps staying there for a while would calm your nerves. A relaxed schedule might be a nice change of pace, as well as a perfect way to plan your next moves. And, there would be a ton of new food for you to try- not a bad way to close off a horrifically stressful week.

Once the train had stopped, you grabbed your few belongings and trudged onto the platform. Using your expertise in navigation, you deciphered a tourist map on a nearby wall and made your way to the closest hotel you could find. You practically ran to your room once you paid for it, falling asleep on the bed almost immediately upon arrival. Unfortunately, your mind couldn’t rest even as sleep overtook you. Nightmares plagued your unconscious mind, shaking you awake no more than an hour after you had dozed off.

It all seemed hopeless, and all you wanted to do was cry. But you couldn’t do that either. You were too exhausted to tap into your own emotions, but too distraught to sleep. So, you concluded that there was only one thing left to do- eat. 

Soon enough, you found yourself at a nearby food stall, gulping down a few Berrypheasant skewers. Once you had finished, you went back to order a tea, but you realized that you didn’t have enough credits. You knew you had grown rusty when it came to traveling and budgeting, but you didn’t think you’d need to start taking commissions again so soon. However, before you could turn away from the stall, a blonde boy dressed in intricate blue and white robes handed you a bottle of the tea you wanted. Your eyes widened in confusion, and you tried to protest, but it was no use. The boy beat you to it entirely.

You offered him a seat at your table as thanks, stating that you could absolutely pay him back in a day or so. He just smiled softly and refused payment, but accepted the seat you offered him. 

You learned that his name was Yanqing, the prodigal swordsman who was training under Jing Yuan, the general for the entire planet. Your mouth fell open at his confession, apologies spilling from your mouth for treating him so casually, causing Yanqing to shake his head sheepishly and deny your apologies. He was only the General’s student after all. He had no greater status, and all he really wanted to do was learn and fight. 

Though you weren’t inclined to get attached to anyone anytime soon, you had to admit that he seemed kind, while still being honest and a little blunt. He was around your age as well, which was a plus. It was rare that you ran into anyone your age who was this composed and kind. You sort of admired him for that, even having just met him.

As you spoke, you revealed more about yourself to him. You mentioned that you had a hard time with family, even going as far as telling him a vague description of what had just taken place between you and Blade. It was out of character for you, but you were just so overwhelmed. This was the one time anyone had stopped to listen to you, and everything that had taken place just ended up rushing out. You never mentioned Blade’s true identity though- you didn’t want to get yourself into more trouble, and for some reason, you didn’t want to harm the Stellaron Hunters.

Yanqing’s gaze softened as you spoke. His situation wasn’t exactly the same, but he knew what it felt like to fight with family members. The closest family he had was Jing Yuan, who had been like a father to him ever since he was little. But the fact that the General was technically his boss complicated things quite a bit. Jing Yuan got protective over him often and was irritably calm most of the time. Yanqing wanted to learn, but Jing Yuan tried to keep him out of trouble as much as possible. As a young swordsman, Yanqing often felt inadequate or useless when idle, which led to him getting upset with the General for keeping him out of harm’s way. He wanted to be just like his father figure, to be of use to him. But the General wanted him to stay safe, even if he knew that was an impossible wish. It was inevitable, and the only way for Yanqing to grow and improve his skills.

You smiled for the first time that night, your own pleasant memories of Blade misting over your mind. Blade used to treat you that way too, in his typical discrete fashion. You used to look up to him so deeply and worked as hard as possible for his approval. Your situation practically mirrored Yanqing’s, save for a few circumstantial differences. Blade treated you like his own kin before everything fell apart. As closed off and brooding as he was, he still took care of you for a while. He still acted like he wanted to protect you. He was a crucial part of your life, and even if you hated him now, you couldn’t deny that he helped you grow into the person you were in the present.

Golden memories drifted from your lips in response to Yanqing’s bittersweet words, each syllable painting pictures of happier times. Times when you would train alongside Blade, or when you and the Stellaron Hunters would gather and go out to do something fun together. An unfamiliar light returned to your eyes as you spoke, and Yanqing found himself smiling as well. Though your old family went unnamed in the conversation, he could immediately tell how much they meant to you. Despite just meeting you, he couldn’t help but feel happy that you had such memories to look back on, even if it all ended in tragedy. He continued to listen attentively to you, sharing his own stories in between. Turns out both Blade and Jing Yuan were just as serious when it came to protecting their family, almost comically so, which made for some interesting stories.

But it was over now. None of it was real in the end. The light seemed to die in your eyes as you trailed off, your chest tensing up in anguish. Yanqing smiled sympathetically, letting the atmosphere fall awkwardly silent for a moment. But only a few minutes passed before a sudden chime came from Yanqing’s phone, breaking the heavy atmosphere that had fallen over you two. Yanqing’s wilted expression changed into one of frantic determination as he read over the text he got. He stood up and rambled apologetically, stating that he had to go because the General needed his help. 

However, before he rushed off to go help with his duties, he scribbled his number on the receipt for your tea, along with a little note.

Number: (xxx) xxx - xxxx 

Please reach out soon!! I’m sorry to cut things short- I’m not always occupied, so please don’t hesitate to call me if you're in need of a companion. I enjoyed speaking with you, and I really want to hear more about your travels! Good night!

- Yanqing

[erendur]

Maedhros needs a hug.

I think we all agree (well, most of us at least), that Maedhros needs a hug, at the very least.

So I was thinking, what if he was adopted by a group of lesser fire spirits after he threw himself in the chasm (I could bet good money on the fact that a fanfic has already been written based on that idea, but am too lazy to check).

The chasm he threw himself in is probably a major, big-ass one - he’s a Fëanorian after all, I think he would leave in style. So there were bound to be at least a few lesser fire spirits hanging out there, with not much to do. Corrupted evil spirits have plenty to do, what with torturing people, murdering them or creating monsters, but the non-corrupted ones probably have plenty of time on their hands.

So suddenly, there's this gorgeous Elf throwing himself in their chasm. And they’re super thrilled, because the Ainu of Valinor get plenty of pretty elves hanging around them, but the lesser spirits of Middle-Earth, not so much. Plus, when they get closer, they notice that it’s not just any Elf, but a Fëanorian, a super-fiery one, one they’ve probably sneakily had a look at when he was in his Father’s forge at some point (I’m convinced fire spirits regularly sneaked into Fëanor’s forge fire to have a good look at him and his family of fiery hotties).

I’m imagining a kind of Monthy Python’s Holy Grail’s Castle Anthrax situation there : they all jump on his fëa as fast as they can, to make sure he doesn’t escape towards Mandos’s halls or any funny business like that, and of course Maedhros doesn’t put up much of a fight given that :

He’s super tired, even in disembodied fëa form ;

He very much does NOT want to go to Mandos and, as far as he had planned ahead, was determined to give him the slip. He’s already been imprisoned once, thank you very much, he’s not doing it again.

So when Mandos finally comes looking for him, the fire spirits hide him in under a fire blanket and pile of throw pillows or whatever the equivalent would be in a fiery chasm, put on their most innocent look, and say they’ve seen nothing.

“An Elf ? Why would there be an Elf in a fiery chasm ? We haven’t seen any Elves around here. And even if we had, they’d been gone by now. In this direction, yes, over there. Nothing to see here, no Sir, certainly no murderous fiery Elf.”

Mandos doesn’t press the matter too much, because he’s got a group of Avari Elves that have eaten poison berries to take care of, and he already feels the start of a headache coming.

Maedhros spends the next age or so being absolutely pampered by the fire spirits, who can’t believe their luck. They braid his fëa hair and make him fiery buttered crumpets. They chill on the fiery sofa and they make him laugh by telling mean jokes about the water spirits and making funny impersonations of Ulmö. I’m picturing an Odysseus/Calypso situation there. He’s having a nice time. He’s got no one to manage, he’s not in charge of any siblings, he’s got no hopeless war to fight and no Oath to fulfil. He can finally relax with his fire spirit pals.

Eventually, someone spills the beans to Mandos. Of course, it’s a water spirit. They’ve been eyeing Maglor for an age, holding their breath as he gets closer and closer to the water, hoping - surely, this time he’ll go in !- but he never does, so since they can’t get their hot pet Elf, it’s unfair that the other ones do.

Mandos decides to kill two birds with one stone on this one, and sends Fingon to get him. He’s been trying to get rid of Fingon for almost as soon as he’d arrived - “You did a magical rescue ! Manwë sent you his eagle ! You waged a war against Evil ! You died a heroe’s death ! You have nothing to do here !” - but Fingon has always stubbornly refused to be reembodied until Maedhros had at least arrived. He’s got five other Fëanorians plus a bunch of their followers who also refuse to leave for the same reason. He thinks he’s finally got a solution.

So by the time Fingon arrives in the fiery chasm, Maedhros has chilled and relaxed enough that he is able to consider the whole atone for his sins in Mandos thing in a more sanguine way. It will be mostly fine. He did some terrible things. He won’t be tortured. He’ll be ok. Fingon will be there. So he only puts up the bare minimum of a fuss before following Finno.

“I can’t go back, I’m an accursed kinslayer. Everybody there reviles me. There is no hell so profound that is sufficient to punish the tenth part of my sins…” (He has spent hundred of years hanging out with Maglor, who has some serious Drama-Queen tendencies, and also came up with that last line before Marguerite de Navarre).

“Come on, Mae, not everyone reviles you, there are many people who are waiting for you there, and you’ll get reembodied eventually…”

“Do not insist, dear friend, I am the most accursed of the accursed, I’ll never finish atoning for my sins, I'll be cast aside, universally hated, like I deserve…”

“Maitimo Nelyafinwë ! Stop it this instant ! You’re going to Mandos now, and you’re going to be reembodied, and you’ll give a kiss to your Mom you’ve been waiting for you all this time !”

So he leaves, much to the chagrin of the fire spirits. Well, at least, they all had a good time.