#like the irritation ebbs and flows

[princesssarcastia]

going through a period where i find violations of privacy that go unchallenged in fiction REALLY irritating.

[logaenhowlett]

MY BEATIN’ HEART BELONGS TO YOU - L.H.

Summary: Logan believed he was sentenced to a life of solitude until he found you - an unexpected dawn promising the sunrise of a love he always deemed impossible. But then again, destiny never was merciful to fools like him.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Soulmate AU, All aboard the Fluff Train with scheduled stops at Angst Station, Established relationship, Hurt/Comfort, How I Met Your Mother reference (iykyk), Reader can manipulate electricity

A/N: 5.9k - strap in, gang. Would you believe me if I said all this was inspired by a debate I had with a friend about the implications of 'I want you' vs 'I need you'. The mind works in silly, little ways sometimes. Title creds to Green Day. Enjoy, you lovely people!

MASTERLIST

Gone were the days when nightmares would rouse him from the sanctuary of sleep. Logan couldn't remember the last time he'd awoken in a cold sweat, sheets shredded from fighting invisible monsters, alarm clock glaring an angry red amongst the darkness. No, all that disappeared once you'd made a home within his arms.

It had been about three months, verging on four if anyone was keeping count - and he, most definitely, was - since you'd swept him away in a tide of fondness and pure affection. The shadow of a man who once roamed the mansion now nurtured a newfound lightness in his heart. Logan wasn't perfect, far from it, chosen paths that only led to a labyrinth of despair, but he was right about one thing: you.

And that verdict especially rings true every morning. The tangle of limbs, the soft ebb and flow of sleepy murmurs, the stray kisses grazing warm skin, he wonders how he'd survived so long deprived of such tender pleasures. He's never going back, that much he knows.

His lips trace a lazy line along your neck, lingering a second longer beneath your jaw. There's a chuckle aching to break through at the thought of your sleep-induced irritation - it’s too early, you'd whine each time. And each time, his half-hearted apologies would be long-forgotten as you meet his gaze, a tempest of desire swirling within hazel.

It's amidst the following moments of peace when he's most thankful for the thick walls surrounding the room. The aftermath of your intimate exchanges always leaves him mesmerised, heart racing at the reminder of your touch. His mutation didn't allow for the full effects of alcohol to poison his inhibitions, yet as your smile gleams at him, Logan's sure he's never been more drunk.

"Where're you goin'?"

He's shaken from his musings as you roll away from his embrace, huffing in disbelief when you don't seem to stop. But, the string of complaints dies on his tongue as he watches you slip on the shirt he'd discarded the night before, turning around amused, "What? You wanna stay here all day?"

"Got nowhere to be."

"Correction - you have nowhere to be. I, on the other hand, need to grade those assignments or Jean'll actually explode my brain this time."

Logan hmphs. He'd been looking forward to lounging around this weekend, positively thrilled at the idea of letting the hours simply trickle away in the quiet comfort of your company. However, he's also one too familiar with Jean's intolerance for slacking off and lessons were definitely learned.

"Let her try," he counters meekly.

As you circle the bed to part ways with a chaste kiss, Logan seizes the opportunity to pull you down, pinning you beneath him in one effortless move. His lips capture yours with a deliberate, sensual slowness - the urgency from earlier now completely absent. The feeble protests vanish from your mind as he breaks away, a twinkle of mischief playing on his smile.

His fingers trace the curve of your wrist, hovering over the faint crescent moon inked in black. It was the mark of your soulmate. Of him, he hopes. You'd shown him quite early into the relationship, spending many a night whispering theories and speculations about its meaning. At first, he expressed only timid fascination, a question here and there spurred by gentle curiosity while you rambled on and on. But as his heart began to tether itself to yours, the mark took on a new significance. Every time his gaze fell upon it, his thoughts would spiral from longing and self-doubt, wondering if he was the one destined to share a lifetime with you.

Over the decades he'd been alive, Logan had searched every crevice of his body for his own. In his youth, it was a fleeting thought, brushed aside by the assumption that his healing factor wouldn't allow for these scars. Yet as time passed, he was terrified of waking up to a branded promise - a cruel trick that condemned his soulmate to a life with him. After he met you, those fears were soon eclipsed by a yearning, a desperate hope for a sign of his worthiness. Every day, he lingered by the mirror, gaze sweeping across his reflection, praying for an identical crescent moon to mark his skin.

"Logan." Your laugh draws his attention, "I'm never leaving the bed at this rate."

"Darlin', that's the general idea."

He relents anyway, falling onto his back with a soft grunt as you stand up. The dopey grin you're biting has him narrowing his eyes in suspicion, wondering what goddamn joke popped into your mind. Before he can question it, you straighten your posture and salute, "General Idea."

A look of confusion contorts his features, though he doesn't get anything besides a mumbled response as you leave the room, "Never mind, it's from a show."

A mountain of papers sits perched on your desk illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp, the scratching of your pen punctuating the silence of the classroom as you continue grading your students' assignments. It had been a couple of hours since you left Logan amongst the nest of blankets. And that image only seemed more enticing with each word you read.

"Missed ya."

Speak of the devil.

Except this devil was an angel - you could almost see a halo shimmering around his figure, backlit by the sunlight flooding the hallway. Every time you think you've captured the essence of his allure, he defies your expectations, often with just a simple gesture. And despite the countless compliments and declarations of adoration, Logan still seemed surprised by flattery, his lips always seeking yours to hide the blush creeping up his cheeks.

"I just saw you like - "

"In the shower," he interrupts, smirk widening as he approaches. He leans against the chair, nose brushing against your exposed shoulder.

Something in your brain short-circuits at his words and the casual display of affection. You stammer a little, "You… didn't tell me."

"Oh, that would've worked hm?" Logan spins the chair around, chuckling as he catches your flustered expression, "'M sorry, sweetheart... guess I gotta make it up to ya."

You never thought Logan was a romantic. Yet, time and time again you discover the depths of his boundless capacity for love and companionship. It wasn't just the whispered promises and passionate revelations, but the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the tender touches that speak volumes. Neither of you had uttered those three words yet, though they hang heavy in the air, unspoken but deeply felt.

His hand winds up beneath your shirt, bunching the fabric near your waist as he pulls you closer. Heat, courtesy of the shower, wafts off his skin, a tantalizing sensation that makes your breath hitch. His tongue toys with your lower lip, teasing just enough that you find yourself chasing after him, desperate for more. The laugh he produces, though smug, is also contagious, a sound that never fails to swallow your heart.

Again and again, he'd professed his desire to unravel you by his sheer touch, how your craving for him sets his insides ablaze. And judging by the way your eyes darken, mouth parting almost reflexively, he's got you dancing to his tune like a puppet on a string - and you wouldn't have it any other way.

But he backs off all of a sudden.

A crescendo of footsteps echoes down the hallway and the moment is shattered. Three of your students barge in, out of breath and frazzled as they clutch their assignments. A frown creases Logan's brow, annoyance he's certainly putting no effort to hide has them second-guessing their intrusion until you beckon them in with a warm smile. With a hasty apology, they fumble with their papers, eyes darting between the two of you before rushing out, the door swinging shut.

"We gotta find a place," he grumbles, dipping forward into your neck.

"We already live together."

A sharp click of his tongue, a playful nip to your shoulder, seals his disapproval, "Not enough. Lil' brats interrupt every damn time."

He wasn't wrong in the slightest. The kids did seem to have an uncanny ability to sense the most inopportune times to interfere. Sometimes you joked that it was one of their mutant powers and Logan, with an amused roll of his eyes, would just scoff and agree. You can't help but chuckle, "'Least it wasn't Scott... I think we traumatised him last week."

It was indeed last week when the two of you retreated to the Danger Room. Of course, with the sole and noble intention of honing your defensive tactics. However, the moment you strategically knocked him off his feet, the situation had taken a decidedly different turn. Pinned beneath you, Logan held a look of astonishment that soon morphed into something much more eager. He'd uttered all of two words before your lips slammed against his and whatever hopes you had for training immediately became the least of your worries. That was until somebody walked in.

He huffs a laugh, the memory filling him with satisfaction, "Should've used his fuckin' brain with those sounds you were makin'."

"Oh god, poor Scott," you mumble, embarrassed by the thought.

"Quit sayin' his name." The growl that curls his words leaves goosebumps in its wake. Logan grips your chin, tilting your head back slightly, a slow grin unfurling as his gaze bores into yours.

"I said it twice!" you protest, but it's all in vain. His thumb drags across your lip, silencing your words.

"That's two more than I care for."

It's dark outside by the time he's done with you.

Sugar melts on his tongue, the velvety texture of chocolate dancing across his palate. Logan takes a rather indulgent sip, the steaming liquid warming his throat. Nestled on opposite sides of the window seat, the two of you share a quiet moment accompanied by nothing but pale moonlight. A comforting weight settles on your feet, his hand kneading the stress away with care. Outside, a delicate snowfall paints the mansion's grounds, grass slowly fading away, droplets racing down the windowpane.

Dinner had wound down hours ago. The kids gathered around the living room after, wide-eyed with wonder as the first snow of the season began. Charles eventually ushered them off to bed, Logan had planned to follow suit until your gentle tug derailed his desire to sleep altogether. And as always, there's no world where he'd deny you anything.

He sees you stifle a giggle every now and then, your eyes twinkling with amusement each time he lifts his mug. It was nothing fancy - mostly white, adorned with a line of stockings and, cheekily, the words "Well hung".

It was a present from you a few Christmases ago. He remembers you watching him warily unwrap the box, laughing out of giddiness as he blushed when the implication dawned on him. It's just a silly gift, you'd reassured, not pressuring him to even keep it. Yet, since then, it remained a permanent fixture on his bedside table. During restless nights, he'd reach for the familiar mug, seeking solace in the kitchen to drink away the looming shadows of insomnia.

It wasn't until your first night together that you saw it again after all those years, carefully placed and by far, the cleanest thing on his table. Logan ducked his head sheepishly before confessing just how much he treasured the sentiment. In a lifetime of solitude, someone had spared a second to think about him, even for a simple gag gift. And that thought warmed his heart a little on especially hard days.

"You're a child," he chides as you smile, rolling his eyes.

You scoff under your breath, "Oh, just cause you're a hundred years old."

"Hundred and sixty," he corrects, grabbing your foot mid-air before you can nudge his thigh. There's a brief pause as he places the mug aside, a wicked grin splitting his lips. Laughter fills the air as you squirm and wriggle away, quickly understanding the look behind his eyes. But Logan moves faster. His hands trail their way to your sides, drawing squeals of protest as he tickles you.

Seconds later, he backs off, satisfied by your reaction. Shifting his weight, he settles on top of you with a gentle press. As he lays against your chest, humming softly in contentment, the soothing caress of your fingers through his hair lulls him into a state of relaxation. The world simply fades away, replaced by the warmth of your embrace and the quiet flush of domestic bliss. A profound swell of gratitude spreads within his heart. It's during intimate moments like these that he feels especially lucky. A far cry from the man brought into this mansion years ago, times you also reflect on amidst late-night conversations.

The memories remain as vivid as yesterday.

It was late in the afternoon, the setting sun casting long silhouettes across the classroom. You stood by the blackboard, explaining the laws of electromagnetism while scribbling equations in chalk. For months, you'd taken over Charles' role as the physics professor, and what began as a favour soon grew into a passion. However, some days were particularly slow. A palpable sense of boredom washed over your students as their eyes drifted towards the clock in anticipation. Just as you were about to begrudgingly dismiss them, the door flew open - a dishevelled figure clad in gray burst in, wildly panting in fear and confusion.

This must be Logan, you concluded, recalling the latest mission debrief from Scott and Storm. They'd rescued two mutants in Canada, one of whom was particularly banged up and recovering in the med bay. Well, until now. Since their arrival, Charles had emphasised the erratic nature of Logan's mind, even unconscious, a part of him stayed unyielding against the telepath's powers. But as you locked eyes with him, you saw none of that. Instead, he seemed lost and terrified, glancing around the room from one corner to the next as if someone was speaking. Before you could offer a word of reassurance, he was gone, disappearing into the hallway like a fleeting shadow.

Over the following months, he slowly began to emerge from his shell. At first, it was just plain nods of acknowledgement as you passed each other in the mansion. Then, a word here and there, clipped phrases of advice and caution during particularly dangerous missions. Gradually, his presence became more pronounced. Sometimes, after intense training sessions, he'd slip into the back of your classroom, intently listening to your lectures on concepts you presumed were entirely foreign to him.

Except they weren't. It was only later that you discovered his secret: the countless hours spent poring over textbooks he'd discreetly stolen from Charles' bookshelf. The realisation filled your heart with a warm sense of affection. His unspoken interest, the hidden depths, it was all so endearing. Thereafter, Logan consumed your thoughts. And it was during one of those sleepless nights that you found the courage to join him in the kitchen, wordlessly focusing on your own books at either end of the table. Since then, a shared understanding passed between you, a bond forged from mutual appreciation and a hint of something more.

The first time he cracked a smile left you breathless. Jean was furious at Scott, her anger clear as day as she stormed away. And Scott, ever so helpless, turned to anyone for guidance, retracing every misstep, every misplaced word. Logan, watching the scene unfold, sneered to himself, enjoying the man cluelessly suffering. You exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement on the absurdity of the situation. As you excused yourself, a fit of giggles threatening to overtake you, Logan followed close behind, unable to suppress his own laughter.

From that moment on, things changed. You found yourselves seeking each other, conversations flowed effortlessly, at times even seasoned with playful banter. And as Logan became a steady figure in your life, a strange ache settled in your heart. You were falling for him. Yet, his emotions remained a mystery, a puzzle you were desperate to solve.

One year became another, and another and another. And as your feelings for him increased, hesitation crept in rather unwillingly. You pushed everything away, burying them six feet under, afraid of rejection or something worse. But Logan, with his uncanny perceptiveness, sensed the shift in your behaviour. And one day, in a moment of raw honesty, he confronted you. A heated argument ensued, emotions spilling over, words cutting deep. Then, just as suddenly, the tension dissipated. His lips were on yours, conveying every bit of the love he carried in ways words could never bring justice to.

That was a couple of months ago. Everything was perfect and you'd never felt more complete until you noticed the brief flashes of insecurity whenever he saw the mark on your wrist. You knew he didn't have one. In the beginning, it became a sensitive topic, you started wearing a watch or longer sleeves to stop reminding him. But eventually, his unease was too much to ignore.

And so, you bit the bullet.

The conversation was fraught with discomfort, but as you spoke, his expression softened, a slight weight lifting off his shoulders. He shamefully expressed his worries, the fear of not being enough - not being the one for you. It was a small step, but one that brought you closer than ever before.

Logan couldn't have been more grateful.

"Perhaps the two of you should, what do the kids call it, get a room?"

Charles' voice suddenly cuts across the silence. All eyes, including Logan's and yours, snap up from the blueprints scattered on the table. Scott blinks in confusion, meanwhile Jean, holding back a knowing smirk, can barely contain herself.

"I've had my fair share of lewd daydreams in my youth, but that was quite disturbing," he continues, tone laced with disapproval.

Colour drains from your face. Had your thoughts really been that obvious? Sure, you couldn't stop admiring how the tight leather suit molded to Logan's physique - incredibly distracting, to say the least. But you didn't realise you were projecting your attraction so loudly, especially in a room with two telepaths.

"Sorry, Professor." It seems useless to apologise at this point, but he responds with a curt nod directed at Logan. Turning your attention to the blueprints, you feel a familiar weight against your back. Logan, the sly bastard, leans over your shoulder with feigned nonchalance. And it takes every ounce of your willpower to focus on the serious discussion instead.

A recon mission.

Some old abandoned Hydra facility used for mutant experimentation in the 90s, the remnants of failed trials left to rot and forgotten. Charles had caught wind of it through Cerebro, suspecting that there may be valuable information hidden within its walls, secrets that should very well stay away from the wrong hands.

"What's in there?" Scott asks, tensing a little.

Charles pauses, a scowl twisting his expression, "That is a private matter."

"Private Matter," you mumble without thinking, instinctively reaching for a salute before Logan catches your wrist, halting the motion. He shoots a look, a silent reprimand that very clearly implies "Not now". Fortunately, no one else witnesses your mistimed quip, too engaged in drafting a safe plan for extraction.

The mission seems fairly straightforward, a simple infiltration like many you've done before. Nevertheless, Charles concludes with a stern warning to heed caution, "Now, good luck to all of you." As you filter out the room, he casts a pointed glare, "And Logan, please refrain from defiling my desk at any point in the future."

Shock etches across your face, mouth slightly agape. Once you're out of earshot, you shove Logan’s arm in embarrassment, "It wasn't me then." You breathe in relief only to be reminded of the thoughts he seemed to be entertaining earlier. What surprises you is the fact that you're more intrigued than deterred by the idea.

"My bad, sweetheart. Couldn't help myself," he laughs, dipping in close to whisper, "Suit's makin' it real hard to think straight." And with that, he's off, jogging ahead to Scott and Jean already waiting in the hangar.

Once you're airborne, the atmosphere shifts. Jean pilots the jet, her hands steady on the controls, eyes scanning the horizon. The Hydra facility looms in the distance, a dark and ominous presence in the middle of nowhere. As you approach your destination, a sense of apprehension lingers among the four of you. Scott recounts the plan, outlining the most efficient entry and exit points, his voice low and deliberate, "Logan and I will start from top-down and you two from the opposite."

As you leave the jet, a hand slips into your own, stilling you in place. Logan tugs you into his arms, there's a faint smile playing on his lips, his eyes, however, convey something along the lines of "Be careful, please". You squeeze his hand reassuringly, pressing a quick kiss before breaking away. With a reluctant sigh, he catches up with Scott, splitting off from you and Jean.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of decay and neglect. Everything is left exactly as it was, except there are signs of a violent struggle - machines overturned, wires strewn across the floor, glass shards crunching under your boots. It's a scene of chaos and destruction. In the center lies an operating table, its restraints snapped in half, broken syringes and discarded medical equipment scattered around.

Electricity crackles beneath your fingertips. Though your powers aren't advanced, Charles has been a patient mentor, overseeing your progress since the day he found you. However, as you keep surveying the area, you notice an odd sensation, a subtle resistance to your abilities. A similar unease grips Jean too, her gaze meeting yours, a shared look of concern exchanged as you continue your search.

A distorted voice breaks through the comms, "Upper level's clear. No sign of anything." It's Scott, barely recognisable over the static.

"Copy. Still sweeping the lower level," you respond, but it's garbled by the interference.

"Stay on alert," Jean warns, straining her telekinetic energy against the strange force permeating the facility. "Defence systems could still be active."

You venture deeper into the hallway, greeted by an eerie silence broken only by the echo of your own footsteps. A series of cells line the corridor, thick metal barricades, scarred and rusted, stand as a testament to the suffering endured by those held captive years before. Peering through the tiny barred windows, you see sterile, empty rooms, not a single bed or mattress to be found - the cold, hard concrete floor offering no comfort.

"Fuckin' hell," you murmur, chills running down your spine. Jean hums quietly in agreement, looking around in horror. The electricity you can usually detect in the background dwindles to a weak buzz. You descend a narrow staircase, the air growing heavier by the second. At the end of the hallway is another metal hatch, this time with a faded Hydra symbol etched onto its surface. With a concentrated effort, Jean manipulates the lock, the door groaning open with a distinct beep.

It's beyond dimly lit - a dark, cavernous space. You focus your powers, fighting against the invisible pressure dampening your strength, current coursing through your veins. With a snap of your wrist, the room erupts in light, fluorescent bulbs flickering awake. A row of computers surrounded by a bundle of wires and archaic machinery stretch towards the ceiling.

"Must be the control room," Jean reaches out to flip a switch, but as her fingers brush the old metal, energy jolts through your body - a warning that something is amiss.

"No - wait!" you shout, but it's too late. The metal door slams shut with a deafening clang. An agonising vibration rattles through the room, a shockwave that reverberates through your body. The two of you sink to the floor, clutching your ears as a rush of debilitating pain burns every nerve ending in your body. And you're left paralysed for what feels like an eternity.

Logan clicks his tongue as static continues pouring through the comms, he catches the tail-end of your broken reply - something something lower level - a pit of dread forming in his stomach, "Place feels off."

"You're right, I can't get a read on anything," Scott mutters, the red hue of his glasses flashing in the darkness.

Logan's eyes dart around the space, landing on a series of grotesque instruments undoubtedly used for torture. A wave of nausea washes over him, flashbacks of his own past spring forward at the sight, reminders of the days when he too was a mere subject in someone else's twisted experiments. Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. An imperceptible vibration ripples beneath his feet, "The fuck was that?"

Scott immediately tries the comms again, "Jean? Wha - ", but it goes completely dead.

Logan's already barrelling through the corridors, his instincts taking over without a conscious thought. He calls for you again and again, reckless abandon fueling his every move. Screw the mission, all he wants is for you to be safe. His heart leaps into his throat as static hisses through the comms, Jean's voice muffled through the noise, "We've got... a major problem."

One second passes.

Two.

Three.

"C'mon, darlin'." The silence drags on, panic begins to seize his mind, sweat beading on his forehead. He needs to find you, now. The faint vibrations gradually become intense as he races down the staircase, "Major problem? C'mon, say your stupid joke, sweetheart. Please. Anything." His pleas, wracked with desperation, fall on deaf ears. Fear gnaws at him. He’s itching to hear your voice, even for that little running gag he doesn’t fully understand. Just any goddamn sign that you're still alive.

His senses direct him towards the metal hatch. Lunging forward, his fist connects with the barrier, claws extending at any attempt to tear through the door. Yet it holds firm, its surface barely dented or scratched by his force. Frantic, Logan rams his claws into the small security panel on the side, trying to short-circuit the lock. But the moment it's breached, a chain reaction is triggered, explosives hidden within the walls detonate with a tremendous roar. A torrent of debris and radiation thrusts him backwards, knocking him hard against the concrete.

The world around him seemingly implodes into a bedlam of sound and light, white flashes obscuring his vision. Pain, a searing, all-consuming pain diffuses through every inch of his body. His consciousness wanes, slipping away from his grasp. In the fading moments of awareness, he hears a distant crackle of electricity.

Then, nothing.

The memory of the chaos, the blinding light, the aftermath of the explosion, replay over and over. And then, there was Logan, his body limp and unresponsive, a sight that haunts your every waking moment. You remember the desperate scramble to escape the facility, the weight of his unconscious form in all your arms, the tense journey back to the mansion, Charles and Jean ushering you out of the med bay - their focus solely on stabilising him.

The night stretches on, a relentless march of time that seems to punctuate your helplessness as you pace back and forth. The lack of response from anyone doesn't quell the whirlwind of anxieties in the slightest. Every minute sound, every faint whisper, sends your heart racing. But when they finally emerge hours later, faces etched with exhaustion and relief, you can finally breathe.

For days, you sit by Logan's bedside, hands intertwined with his. The monotonous rhythm signalling his vitals is the only thing grounding you to reality. Though he remains unconscious, Jean had offered words of comfort, pointing to subtle improvements in his healing with her scans. Eventually, warmth returns to his body. His breathing, once laboured, is now full and steady. Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss to his forehead and hope ignites within you again, just enough to draw a small, weary smile.

But then, you see it.

Glaring at you, painfully so, is a little mark on the back of his shoulder. Except, it isn't the same crescent moon that adorns your wrist. No.

Your heart sinks, breath catching in your throat, paralysis sets in once again. A single, shattering revelation echoes in your mind: Logan is not your soulmate.

He stirs awake, eyelids fluttering open. Everything slowly returns to his senses as the haze of confusion begins to clear. The first thing he notices is the familiar scent of you lingering on his skin, in the air, on the chair pulled by his side. As his vision unblurs, the blue walls of the med bay coming into view, a flood of concern smacks him in the face. Where are you? What happened? He tries to sit up, his body protesting with every movement.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

The mechanical hum of a wheelchair grows louder as it approaches. Charles, brimming with sympathy, rolls closer.

Logan groans, his muscles throbbing like never before, "What the hell happened? Is she - "

"She's alright, as are Scott and Jean," he interjects, though a shadow of pity clouds his expression. The unspoken weight behind his words triggers alarms in Logan's head, but before he can question him, a sharp burn shoots up his back. He winces, reaching for the source of the stinging. Beneath his fingertips, a strange, rough texture grates against his skin. He angles back to inspect it, blood running cold.

"It surfaced a week ago," Charles says grimly, "We suspect the radiation from the explosion temporarily impacted your healing, hence, the mark."

Logan can't think straight, a maelstrom of emotions engulfs every single fiber of his being - disbelief, agony and rage. How could this be real? He'd spent night after night, praying for some sort of sign, a reason for his existence. And when he found that in you, it felt like everything finally aligned. But now, destiny had struck him down with a ruthless blow, a cosmic twist of fate far worse than death.

Seven days.

That's how long it's been since you last saw him. The weight of the world bore down on you, every breath a struggle. Hours bled into one another as you stayed locked in your room, sobbing uncontrollably, your heart fracturing with each passing moment. Jean's persistent knocking eventually broke through your despair, her calm voice soothing your frayed mental state.

It took all of her gentle persuasion for you to finally eat something, to force you out of the anguish that consumed you. The news that Logan was awake and begging to see you almost crumbled the impenetrable walls you'd built up. But the thought of facing him, of confronting the fragile pieces of your harsh reality, filled you with dread.

And so, you avoided him. Retreating into yourself, a ghost of your own life, you clung to the illusion of distance. Maybe it'll somehow ease the pain, the heartbreak. You couldn't even bear to look at your own wrist, the mark - a cruel reminder of a love that was and a future that can never be. Every second of every day, mocking whispers floated around your mind, "You don't deserve him. You never did."

The moment Logan fully recovers, he immediately rushes through the mansion. Anticipation swells in his chest, there's nothing he wants more than your touch, your laughter - just you. He reaches your room, sensing the warmth from within. Hand hovering in the air, he takes a deep breath before knocking.

"Sweetheart?"

There's no response. He drops his head against the door, breathing ragged. Tears sting his eyes, threatening to spill over, the oxygen in his lungs thinning as he tries to speak, "Please. I know you're in there. Talk to me." The silence, the emptiness, it all becomes too much. He's losing you, and he can't do anything to stop it. "I know you're upset. But, please, just let me in."

Your voice comes muffled, charged with grief and sorrow, "That mark means there's someone out there for you - your real soulmate. Someone who isn't me." The words are piercing, he longs to pull you into his arms, to comfort you, to reassure you. "I am not meant for you, Logan," you choke out.

"Fuck that," he spits back. He can't accept this, that you're conceding to some inexplicable truth, "'M not givin' you up cause of some shit on my body. I choose you. And I will choose you. Every single time." It's all strangled, raw with emotion, cheeks stained with a wetness. He's wound up, a caged animal clawing at the bars. He'll fight for you, even if all the cards are against him, "Darlin', I don't care if there's someone else - they're not you. You're perfect to me. For me. The universe can go fuck itself cause I love you."

Logan goes still. He's never expressed that to you, not in this way, not with such soul-baring honesty. But, nothing has ever been more true, "I love you."

Heavy hangs the air. Then, a soft padding of footsteps, the door clicks open. Before he can react, your hands cup his face, drawing him down to your level, lips meeting in a passionate caress. Logan cradles the back of your head, deepening the kiss. The space between you, both physically and emotionally, fades away. This is all that matters, for now and forever.

His arms tighten as you pull back and tuck into the crook of his neck. The weight of your exhaustion is obvious with the shuddering sigh you let out, his heart aching for you. As you whisper apologies, he trails kisses down your face. "No, no, don't be sorry, darlin'," he says, all soft and gentle. Neither of you move, surrendering to each other, the moment suspended in time. Slowly, your trembling subsides and he smiles, the lines of misery now dimming. With delicate fingers, he brushes your tears away.

"I have a major headache," you murmur, eyes falling shut.

He huffs a laugh, saluting you with a playful grin, "Major Headache." The look of astonishment across your face brings him so much joy. "I asked Kitty, told me to watch the damn show." And Logan did watch the show - all for you - to understand the little references you kept making here and there.

"You know how to use the Internet?" you ask, incredulously.

"Don't push it, sweetheart." There's no malice behind his tone whatsoever. With a smirk, he leans forward, scooping you up in his arms and carries you to the bed. It's a familiar motion, a routine he's done hundreds of times before. But now, it's different, one that’s even more precious.

"Logan?"

"Hm?"

"I love you too."

He knows. He knows because it's written all over you. Every word, every breath, every touch - a testament to your love for him. A love so quiet and profound, a love that has weathered storms, a love that will last until the end of time. And he's eternally grateful for it. For you.

[ssweetleaf]

roll like thunder.

carmen ‘carmy’ berzatto x fem!reader

summary: you piss carmy off, he decides to teach you a lesson.

includes: 18+, dub con, angst, mean!carmy, belting, wedgying?? is that a word?, degradation, too many uses of the word ‘fuck’, sorry, no actual smut in this, but i’m thinking of making a part 2…let me know if you’d likeeee :D

divider credit goes to @cafekitsune

Being in Carmy’s bad books was not a usual occurrence for you.

You were used to being good— having him coo and dote over you, petting your hair and kissing at your forehead, telling you what a good girl you were.

You were used to being underneath him, all pliant and submissive, eager to please— and he’d treat you so good, give you anything you’d ask for and you didn’t even have to use your words.

So when he sat in the driver’s seat of his car, his hands were clenched upon the wheel, the leather squeaking under his grasp— you sorely missed the usual hand that squeezed at the fat of your thigh, or warm palm that enveloped your knee.

In fact, he barely looked at you, nostrils flaring as he stared straight at the road ahead, chewing irritably at the skin of his bottom lip— already red raw.

You awkwardly shifted in your seat whilst he drove in silence, fiddling with your fingers and wringing your hands in your lap. Your mouth stuttered for words, wondering how to approach him and what to say.

“Carm, I—,” you began, only to be cut off rather abruptly by the man himself, the first words he had uttered since you’d left the restaurant, since you said your goodbyes to the rest of the kitchen, since Carmen piped up on how disappointed he was with you.

“Shut up.” He muttered, utterly fuming, smoke practically bellowed from his ears and you sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep your tears at bay.

You didn’t like when Carmen thought you were bad.

“But I just—” you tried, reaching out to grasp his hand that lay limp on his lap, only for him to bat it away.

“I won’t tell you again.” He spoke firm and lowly, a kind of voice he had never really needed to use with you before.

A part of you hated it— the tears that begged to ebb over your lash line were proof, however there was someplace deep inside you that enjoyed his tone, an itch that needed to be scratched, a desire to be put in your place, to know your place.

But you nodded shakily anyway, cowering down into your seat and keeping your gaze set on the hedgerows that zoomed past your window— you were nearly home, just a few more minutes and you’d be ridden of this awkward tension, at least you’d hoped.

…

Once you had both made it home, Carmy turned off the ignition, and got out of the car, letting the door slam shut before making his way inside your apartment.

You frowned, any other day he’d come around to the passenger side, insisting on opening the door for you, helping you unbuckle your seatbelt and aiding you in stepping out with an open palm. Instead today, you had to walk inside on your own, smoothing your dress down (one of Carmy’s favourites, though you were sure it didn’t really matter, not with the mood he was in) and watching hesitantly as he gripped the kitchen counter, his head hanging between his shoulders and mouth in a thin, firm line.

He was very clearly pissed.

“Carmy,” you whispered, shifting on your feet, watching when his shoulders tensed at your words. “talk to me.”

You could see the way his jaw ticked, flexing and grinding his teeth, a habit of his when he was angry— though it had never really been directed towards you before.

He chuckled, a humourless and dry laugh that had you chewing at your lip, trying to keep your frown at bay.

“What’s there to say, honey?” His usual pet name didn’t flow off his tongue as sweetly as it usually did, instead it was spat out like venom— mocking you. “You embarrassed me. In front of my fucking employees, no less.”

Your gaze was fixed to the floor, toeing your sock clad feet against the kitchen tiles and chewing anxiously on your lip.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” you uttered, feeling the lump in your throat starting to form and thick tears building from beneath your waterline.

It didn’t help your oncoming emotions when he decided to mock you further— to imitate your helpless stuttering with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh, you didn’t mean to, huh?” He said, and you shook your head, looking at him now, eyes boring into his, just hoping to see a semblance of your usual Carmy inside them. Instead they were dark and swarming, his cerulean irises glazed over and almost black.

Carmen was quiet for a while— moody and brooding, chest heaving and shoulders impossibly tensed. You felt like running to him, pressing your cheek to his chest and saying how sorry you were, that it’d never happen again, that all you wanted was to be good. But some part of you decided to leave it, to wait and see what he’d do— to see how far he’d take his anger.

“Bear—”

“Bend over the counter.” Carmy spoke, hands on his hips, completely fuming and not in the mood for anything other than obedience.

“W-what?”

“Bend over the fucking counter, m’not gonna repeat myself again.”

You swallowed thickly, wetting your dry lips with a swipe of your tongue before nodding. Moving to the island, you pressed your tummy against the cool marble, leaning forward so your ass jutted out, your chest completely flat and cheek squished.

You could hear the clinking of his belt buckle, the quick swoosh of the leather pulling from the loops on his slacks.

You craned your neck, lips in a pout from the hard surface upon the fat of your cheek, taking a peek at Carmen and watching him fold his belt in half, leather squeaking in your ears and buckle jangling with each slight movement.

His eyes found yours and you saw his jaw tick.

“Gonna show you how to fucking behave.”

You grew tense at his clipped words, cheeks warming and chest heaving against the cold marble, waiting in jumpy anticipation for what was to come.

Carmy tugged at the hem of your pretty dress before flipping it up, tucking it up under the band of your bra to keep it in place— he pulled at your panties too, tugging them up up up, your pussy lips swallowing the gusset of your underwear, the fabric tight and uncomfortable against the seam of your ass and you whimpered when you heard the short cracks of the elastic snapping.

“Carmen—”

“Shut. Up.” He muttered it through gritted teeth, pulling and tugging even harder, bouncing you a little when you were brought to the tips of your toes, having nothing to hold onto apart from keeping your chest flat against the kitchen counter.

“The trouble is I spoil you too much,” he huffed, twisting at the soft pastel of your panties, watching with a little smirk when they slowly started to rip, the elastic hem snapping at the seams, just moments away from falling apart. “give you anything you ask for, treat you like a fuckin’ daddy’s girl.”

“But,” you hiccuped, sobbing at the way the fabric dug into you, leaving your skin raw. “but I am daddy’s girl.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw the way he shook his head, grunting lowly, almost scoffing at the way you decided to pipe up.

“No,” he sighed, you could hear the disappointment and you whined audibly at it, “you ain’t daddy’s girl— ain’t nothing but a fuckin’ bratty whore.”

You continued to sob, tears running freely now, thrashing your legs about to try and get free of his torture— that is, until your panties had finally decided to rip, leaving you bare and sore, feet back to being flat against the tiles, your thighs rubbing mindlessly together, trying to quell the ache between them.

Carmy let the scraps of fabric fall to the floor, pushing at the small of your back and having you arch even deeper— he adjusted the leather belt in his palm, doing a couple practice swings, readying himself.

“P-please, Carmy, not the belt— I’ll be good, I swea—” your babbling was quickly cut off by the flick of the leather, a sharp, searing smack that had you gasping out. “Ow!”

Another one came, inflicted towards your other cheek this time, quick and to the point, no nonsense, just like Carmy and you squealed at the pain, reaching back with your hands, desperate to quell the sting and ache by smoothing the softness of your palms over the welted flesh.

The welts bloomed thick over your skin, throbbing, as if they had their own heartbeat, never seeming to dull— tears already started to flick over your lash line at a mere two spanks and you were afraid to ask how many more he had planned.

“Get your hands outta the fuckin’ way or I swear to fuckin’ god.” Carmy smacked at your wrists repeatedly, gathering them up in a single hand and pressing them firmly against the small of your back, keeping them there, daring you to even twitch a finger.

He started again, raining smacks down on your ass in a quick fashion, grunting at your little squeals and sobs when he caught the space where your ass and thighs met— a sensitive spot, you were sure you’d be able to feel it for days after.

“C-carm, it hurts,” you whined, sobbing into the cool marble, drool dripping down your chin, eyes all swirly and glistening with tears that slowly traipsed down your searing cheeks, messing up your makeup that you so prettily put on for him, for carmy.

“Good,” he huffed, reaching up to push your head down and further into the counter. “S’fuckin supposed to.”

You were full on crying now, throat hitching with each inward take of breath, stuttering and sobbing with watery eyes and a runny nose. It felt like torture, the constant flicks of his wrist feeling like forever, you were glad he didn’t make you count them, because you genuinely had no clue, mind a hazy, fuzzy mess.

Carmy watched with a raised brow when little drips of arousal slipped down your inner thighs— he spread your legs, your cunt glistened in the low light of the kitchen, the constant surge of arousal slicking you up, turning you into a sopping mess.

He paused his spankings, reaching his belted hand down to your pussy, running his raised knuckles along your slit, collecting your sweet slick on his skin, a long sticky, silvery line of arousal connecting his hand to your cunt before snapping away.

“You gettin’ off on this?” He scoffed, embarrassing you further, wiping your wetness off his knuckles and onto the skin of your thigh as if it was some hindrance. “So fuckin’ filthy— tryna teach you a lesson and you’re fuckin’ wet?”

“C-can’t help it,” you sniffled, squeezing your thighs together to try and quell the ache in your clit and to stop dripping all over the tiles. “bein’ so mean.”

He chuckled humourlessly, sucking his teeth with his tongue.

“Oh, I’m bein mean, huh?” he cooed, false and sickly sweet, hands palming over your poor, welted globes, soothing them slightly and you melted into his touch, leaning into him— into your carmy, hoping now he’d let up and go easy on you.

Far too gullible, he thought— he wasn’t gonna let you off that easy.

Carm pinched at your sitting spots, the places that hurt the most when he used his belt on them, just above your thighs— the soft, pliable skin blooming with more heat and nothing to soothe the sting.

“I’ll show you fuckin mean,” he spat, loosening his grip and letting the belt clatter to the floor, hands quick with unzipping his fly and pulling his cock out, jeans barely past his thighs. “told you I’d teach you a fuckin’ lesson.”

[papiliotao]

꒰ 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔 ✩࿐

pairings: alhaitham, kaveh, kazuha, lyney, scaramouche, and xiao x gn!reader (separate)

content: fluff, modern au, college au, the reader is a sleep-deprived student, correction: everyone in this fic is a sleep-deprived student, cuddling, reader is sick in scara’s, venti makes a cameo in kazuha’s part, reverse comfort in kaveh’s

summary: small scenarios with the genshin boys as your roommates! ♡

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, so i decided to finally finish it up. i hope you enjoy!

₊˚ପ ALHAITHAM

Tonight, it feels like endless night ebbs and flows into the very core of your being, chilling you with fragments of a glacial atmosphere.

It’s cold.

Even with multiple blankets wrapped around you, you can’t help but shiver, shake like a vibrant autumn leaf in a passing zephyr. Winter is approaching, and unfortunately for you, you may have relished a little too much in the gilded threads of summer warmth that had graced the world a few months prior. For now, you’re unable to stand the gradual freeze that’s beginning to spread throughout your city.

Slumber is tempting. It lures you in, wrapping you in a blanket weaved of starlight and dreams. However, it’s all an illusion. In reality, you’re far from sleep. You know that there’s no way you’ll be able to pass the gateway into the oneiric realm. Not with the sensation of frostbite threatening to consume you whole.

Eventually, you decide to get up. You’re certain that you won’t be able to fall asleep, at least, not without more blankets, so you decide to make your way to Alhaitham’s room to ask if he has any spares.

Although you’d normally feel guilty for rousing someone from slumber, it’s not that late as of right now. Either way, you’re quite certain that your roommate is still wide awake, most likely losing himself amongst the yellowed pages of a verbose book. After all, he always seems to have his nose buried in a complex tome, filled with words that make your brain hurt.

Slowly, you drag yourself out from under the plush covers of your bed. The floorboards groan slightly as you stand, exhaling under the pressure of your footsteps. You make your way down a hallway drowned in shades of midnight, making your way towards the golden light seeping out into the corridor from under the cracks of a closed door.

The door to Alhaitham’s room.

You knock, the sound seemingly echoing down the walls of the hall, repeating in a chorus of onomatopoeia.

A few seconds pass before the door opens to reveal Alhaitham. Strands of silver hair messily frame his face, and yet as the aquamarine hues of his irises meet your gaze, you find that he’s just as dazzling as ever.

“Do you need something?” he asks, his voice as flat and monotonous as always. As usual, your roommate’s front doesn’t betray a single hint of emotion. Not even irritation.

You pause for a moment, still a little intimidated by Alhaitham. Although you’ve been living together for a while now, his apathetic demeanour can be slightly off-putting at times. Nonetheless, you eventually manage to steel your nerves.

“Yeah,” you say. The word comes tumbling out of your mouth clumsily. “Do you happen to have any extra blankets?”

Alhaitham pauses for a moment, seemingly deep in thought.

You hold your breath, hoping that he’ll say yes, and you’ll be able to get this over with.

However, he shakes his head, and you feel your heart drop, shattering into a thousand shards of fragmented ruby.

“Oh,” you sigh, trying your best to hide the dejected expression overtaking your features. “That’s okay. Sorry for bothering you.” 

You turn away, ready to head back to your room, but Alhaitham’s voice stops you.

“I think it’s safe to presume you wanted a blanket because you were cold, right?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so you don’t bother to answer it. Instead, you freeze, becoming akin to a statue carved of pale blue ice.

“Then allow me to propose an alternate solution.”

You turn around, meeting Alhaitham’s eyes once more. Lakes of turquoise, typically devoid of emotion, are now filled with a particular spark. You can’t quite determine what it is, but there’s a subtle glimmer — barely visible, but it’s there.

“Why don’t you stay in my room for the night?”

Your eyes widen, and you feel your jaw drop. For a moment, you just stand there, absolutely still and dumbfounded.

Perhaps you had heard Alhaitham wrong. Or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you, making mirages materialize out of nothing. The blank expression painted over your roommate’s features certainly makes you think so.

“Excuse me?” you blink languidly, staring at Alhaitham as if he’ll disappear into thin air if you take your eyes off him.

“I said why don’t you stay in my room for the night?” he repeats nonchalantly, the evening chill seemingly intertwining itself into his tone. His gaze remains fixated on you.

Your mind blanks for a second, each intricate acrylic line of a composition painted over, leaving you with nothing but an empty canvas. As you stand still, a thousand scenarios seem to flash through your head, filling up the blank space with a myriad of thoughts — some pleasant and some unpleasant. However, you soon realize that you don’t have time to weigh all the pros and cons of your decision, as Alhaitham is staring at you intently, awaiting your answer.

“Sure,” you blurt out.

You’re not sure what compels you to accept his proposal. Perhaps it’s your longing for the comfort of shared warmth. Perhaps it’s a result of your inability to say no to others due to a fear of disappointing them. Or perhaps it’s because you’ve grown a lot closer to Alhaitham than you’d care to admit.

Although you’re still slightly intimidated by him, you’re certain that he’d never do anything to harm you. And there are even times where he shows he has your best interests in mind (despite the fact that you were initially under the impression that he cared little for others).

You’re snapped out of your trance of reminiscence as Alhaitham speaks once more.

“Alright,” he says, taking your hand and leading you over to his bed. His grip is firm — not suffocating, but at the same time, not so soft that the connection between the two of you would be easily severed.

Alhaitham’s touch sends butterflies, tinted a colour reminiscent of spring blossoms, dancing within the pit of your stomach. It’s enchanting, and at this rate, you’re not sure how you’ll be able to handle sleeping in the same bed as him.

He allows you to climb into bed first, tucking you in with an unexpected amount of care. You know Alhaitham’s not exactly the cold-hearted jerk many make him out to be, but you didn’t anticipate that he’d be this gentle, his touch akin to the caress of sunlight on a spring day.

After the man ensures that you’re cozy, he lies down beside you, embracing you. As he does so, you feel a wave of heat overwhelm you. To your relief, the frigidness that had once gnawed at your very soul is now gone, but unfortunately, you’re faced with a new problem.

Alhaitham’s actions have flustered you, and to your misfortune, it feels as though crimson embers of embarrassment are bursting into flames far too quickly for your liking.

You’ve solved one issue, but in turn, you’ve accidentally created another.

This is going to be a long night.

₊˚ପ KAVEH

It’s no secret that your roommate is a perfectionist.

Whenever his eyebrows knit up in a jumble of discontent and pools of liquid ruby tinged with sunsets glint with hints of frustration, it becomes obvious what’s going on. He’s spent too long trying to perfect yet another assignment. The bags that seem to perpetually line the undersides of his eyes are dark shadows — serving as an eternal reminder of the man’s exhaustion.

There are times where you find him hunched over his desk, teetering on a thin tightrope, walking a line between the waking world and a wonderland of dreams. Of course, he refuses to succumb to the temptations of a golden slumber time and time again, forcing himself to fixate on his projects until he’s finished and happy with the final product.

Today is one of those days. The cold light that leaks through the cracks beneath the door to Kaveh’s room seeps into the hallway, serving as a warning written in a display of molten opalescence.

Stark white. Cutting through the darkness of deep midnights with ease.

It’s jarring, and when you press your ear to the door and listen carefully, you manage to make out the sound of Kaveh muttering underneath his breath.

You know you have to do something. Now. Before your roommate decides to work himself into a stupor again.

You take a deep breath, inhaling night air reminiscent of the crystalline waters. It’s refreshing, and as you breathe out, a sense of tranquility washes over you.

Steeling yourself, you knock on Kaveh’s door, the sound seemingly reverberating through the corridor in a myriad of echoes.

“[Name]? Is that you?” he asks, his voice ringing out loudly, fragmenting and shattering the quiet ambience. 

You hear the sounds of drawers opening and closing, papers rustling, and footsteps falling.

“There’s no point in hiding anything,” you tell your roommate, picturing the distress swirling like nebulae in his vibrant crimson eyes. “I know you’ve been working late again.”

The noises come to a halt, and peace returns to the late night atmosphere once more. Soon, the sound of soft footsteps fills your senses, gradually growing louder in a crescendo until you’re sure that Kaveh is right in front of the door.

Not a second later, it swings open to reveal a sleep-deprived Kaveh clad in pyjamas.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” he sighs. “You caught me red-handed.”

Silence permeates your senses for a few seconds, but the illusion of stillness is quickly shattered as Kaveh breathes out a sigh.

“I just can’t seem to figure out this one last thing,” he groans, burying his head in his hands. “I seriously can’t take it anymore. It’s driving me insane.”

For a few seconds, his gaze remains averted, staring down at the wooden finish of his desk, tinted a subtle peach under the topaz shades of light spilling from Kaveh’s lamp. If you didn’t know any better, you would have sworn that he had fallen asleep. However, your eyes eventually meet hues of dulled rose, glittering with a faint spark concealed by exhaustion.

“You should rest,” you tell your roommate, cautiously placing a hand on his shoulder. To your relief, he doesn’t flinch or pull away when you touch him. He simply slumps and begins to stand up.

“I suppose you’re right,” he speaks slowly, his voice laced with resignation. “Maybe a short break will help me clear my mind.”

Kaveh walks over to his bed, brushing locks of sunshine away from his eyes. The mattress sinks like quicksand as he lies down and tucks himself under the covers, enveloping him in layers upon layers of plush comfort.

You turn away, switching Kaveh’s lamp off before you head back to the door. However, just as you’re about to leave, Kaveh calls your name.

“[Name],” Kaveh starts, his voice seemingly amplified by the abyssal midnight overtaking your surroundings.

You spin around, only to be met with the sight of Kaveh’s silhouette outlined against backdrops of navy and black, enveloping the world in curtains of phantasmagoric silk.

“Can you stay with me?” he asks. His voice trembles slightly, and he sounds sheepish — almost shy. “It’s just that, if I don’t have you around, I might convince myself to start working again.”

You freeze.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

It takes three seconds for you to fully process Kaveh’s request, and when you do, you feel your heart skip a beat.

“I would be happy to.”

And with Kaveh’s permission, you climb under the covers of his bed with him. He wraps an arm around you. The position feels far too intimate for two roommates who harbour nothing more than platonic feelings for each other, but you decide that that’s a problem for future you to address.

For now, you decide to close your eyes and seek solace in a realm of breathtaking dreamscapes. Finding joy in each cotton candy cloud, each droplet of crystal rain, and each gilded leaf within a fantastical world found far away from reality.

And yet as you drift off to sleep, you find that there’s one thing in the waking world that has become far more tantalizing than anything your imagination could ever conjure: the warmth of Kaveh’s embrace.

₊˚ପ KAZUHA

Golden ribbons of warmth caress your face as you open your eyes to find yourself awake again. A wave of tranquility washes over you, weighing down your eyelids with a serene lullaby — an ode to quiet mornings spent in the solace of your home. You want nothing more than to stay in bed for a few more minutes, but you have classes.

Groggily, you stretch and then pick your phone up from where it’s sitting on your nightstand in order to check the time. The screen lights up with a cold radiance, a stark contrast to the gilded rays of the sun, as you turn it on.

And that’s when all hell breaks loose.

It’s 9:30 a.m., and you’ve already missed the start of your first class. You grimace internally, but you can’t dwell on your feelings for too long. After all, the longer you delay, the more you’ll miss.

You change in record time, pulling on a comfortable hoodie and jeans, grab a few of your belongings, and rush out the door.

The chilly autumn air brushes against your skin as you make your way to class, and the enticing fragrance of sap hits your nose, tantalizing you with a perfume that carries nostalgic memories. In the corners of your vision, you watch as leaves coloured shades of vivid crimson, marigold, and amber swirl in a waltz signaling the end of summer and the beginnings of harsher days. The scenery is beautiful, and if you weren’t in a panic, you would have stopped to admire it. However, you force yourself to ignore the scenes around you, continuing to focus on your primary objective.

When you arrive at the lecture hall, you’re panting. Simple oxygen feels like ambrosia to you, sweet and satisfying, refreshing in a way that it’s never been before. For a few moments, you stand outside the room and catch your breath. With each inhale and exhale, you get closer and closer to finding a rhythm until finally, you’re no longer gasping for air.

Quietly, you walk into class, trying your best to avoid disturbing anyone. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice as you take a seat near the back of the hall, settling down in your seat. Time passes slowly as class continues on, and it almost feels like universal laws operate differently within the small bubble of the room you’re currently sitting in. Everything seems to take an eternity, and you can’t do anything except watch the minutes tick by, each addition of one moving you closer and closer to the end of a mundane lecture.

It feels like the moment will never arrive, but eventually, you’re dismissed. Thankfully, there’s quite a while until you have to go to your next class, so you decide to wander around for a while.

For a while, you stroll aimlessly, eventually finding yourself back outdoors once more. Now, you can truly savour the beauty of your surroundings, relish in the splendor of each flaming leaf that drifts by and each rivulet of tepid light that pierces through the crystalline coolness of the autumn air.

You stand there for a while, simply enjoying a break after a hectic morning.

Until something else — or rather, someone else — catches your eye.

Under the shade of a maple tree stands your roommate, basking in the glory of a crimson waterfall composed entirely of maple leaves dancing gracefully until they hit the ground. His platinum hair is tied back in its usual ponytail, each strand of silken moonlight swaying as a gentle zephyr blows by, and his eyes are a shade of ruby that flawlessly mimics the autumnal landscape.

He’s as breathtaking as ever.

But before you can admire him for long, hues of starglitter and rose petals meet your gaze, and a small smile dances across his lips. Without a word, he walks over to you.

“Running into you here is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he says, his grin widening.

“You say that as if we don’t already live together,” you remark, laughing a little.

He chuckles, the sound as light and airy as autumn winds swirling leaves around in a finale of farewells. The lighthearted atmosphere is truly euphoric, especially after such a stressful morning.

Of course, good things never last for long.

“Good morning, Kazuha. Good morning, [name]. How’s my favourite couple?” a cheery voice asks. In the edges of your vision, you see a figure donning twin braids of sapphire and turquoise approaching. It’s Venti — one of Kazuha’s friends.

Both you and Kazuha freeze, a frigidity crystallizing the ambience into icy fractals. And yet at the same time, you can feel your face beginning to heat up.

Couple?

Before you can clear up the misunderstanding, Kazuha speaks.

“Good morning to you too, Venti,” he says. “We’re doing well, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Kazuha subtly averts his gaze, staring at the ground, but you swear you can see a blush dawning on his cheeks in shades of sunset. “[Name] and I aren’t a couple.”

“Oh really?” Venti asks teasingly, giggling in a manner that sounds almost maniacal, “then why are they wearing your hoodie?”

You look down, and sure enough, the top you chose to wear today was Kazuha’s. He had allowed you to borrow it a few days ago when you complained about the chilly autumn weather, and you had forgotten to return it. Apparently you were in such a rush this morning that you pulled it on without a second thought.

“It was an accident,” you blurt out, wanting to clear up the misconception as soon as possible. “I woke up late, and I was in a hurry.”

“Uh huh,” Venti nods, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Sure. I believe you.”

“No, seriously. We’re not a couple,” you reiterate, sighing as Venti laughs quietly.

“Whatever you say,” he says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

Without another word, Venti skips off, jubilantly humming to himself. And now, you’re alone with Kazuha, left to deal with the awkward aftermath of Venti’s assumptions.

“That was… interesting,” you remark.

Kazuha nods.

“I hope you didn’t feel too uncomfortable,” he says, smiling at you gently, a light blush still coating his cheeks. Although you’ll never admit it out loud, you find him quite cute when he’s flustered. Venti would have a field day if he knew you found your roommate so adorable.

“I’m fine,” you reassure Kazuha, “and I’ll return your hoodie to you as soon as possible,” you add.

However, to your surprise, Kazuha shakes his head.

“You can keep it if you want,” he tells you.

“Really?”

Kazuha chuckles.

“Really,” he assures you. “As long as you don’t mind being mistaken for a couple, that is. I know I certainly don’t.”

₊˚ପ LYNEY

“Lyney, if I remember correctly, you told me you perform magic as a sort of side hustle, right?” you ask your roommate.

The question comes from out of the blue, but you want nothing more than to learn about the man you’ve recently grown to be infatuated with. Besides, he’ll probably think nothing of it; it’s only natural for someone to want to get to know their roommate.

“Yeah, I guess you’d be right,” he responds, averting his gaze from his phone and glancing at you. “Although I’d say it’s more about putting on a good show than the money.”

Lilac hues make your mind go blank as you make eye contact, enchanting you with oceans full of stardust and sunshine alike. Lilac. It’s a colour you’ve come to adore. Before meeting Lyney, it was a shade known to you as the border between night and day, mixed into compositions of dawning sunrises and fading sunsets. But now, it’s synonymous with magic and mystery, and it’s all thanks to your charming roommate.

“Oh, I see,” you mutter.

You’re surprised that your voice doesn’t end up shaking. Simply looking into Lyney’s eyes is causing your heart to beat rapidly, igniting crimson sparks of giddiness and glee with each thump.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to be in love.

“Why do you ask?” Lyney inquires, tilting his head slightly. “Are you interested in seeing a trick?”

Lyney flashes a charming smile at you — a smile embodying the enigmatic charms of various twilight hues. He reaches his hand up to brush the few strands of dusky hair that had fallen in front of his eyes away, and somehow, the subtle action makes you find him all the more attractive.

“I would love to,” you say, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

You wait with bated breath, feeling the whole world still as you await Lyney’s response. The carefree atmosphere solidifies into something denser, heavier, as tension begins to build.

“Well, I usually don’t do private shows like this, especially not out of the blue,” he remarks.

For a second, you feel your smile fall.

“But since it’s you, I can try,” Lyney says.

A grins dances upon your lips once more, and the elation from before comes back in full force. Unbridled adoration swirls through your heart, taking down each and every glacial barrier in a roaring tempest of rose and vermillion. With every day that passes, you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into the clutches of romantic fantasies.

“Thank you.”

With that, Lyney rushes to his room. A few seconds later, he returns with some props and a top hat, midnight black adorned with velvety scarlet and magenta detailing, perched upon his head.

He performs for you, and it’s absolutely enamouring. His prowess is incredible, and it’s clear he’s enjoying putting on a show for you. The entire performance is interesting, captivating. However, it’s Lyney’s last act that stands out to you most of all.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what my grand finale will be,” Lyney announces with a fiery sort of flamboyance. It’s amusing because you’re the only audience member, but at the same time, slightly endearing.

He takes his hat off, reaching his hand into the void within. Slowly, he pulls something out.

The verdant green of a stem lined with thorns appears first. Then you catch sight of luscious leaves. And lastly, the delicate petals of a rose enter your line of vision. They’re tinted a vibrant purple, reminiscent of sparkling amethysts.

“For you,” Lyney says, handing you the flower.

Upon closer examination, you note that the rose is unblemished. It’s perfect. You wonder if Lyney put any thought into picking out this particular flower, but you brush the thought off. Embers of newly-kindled feelings of romance brush against your skin.

You’re flustered.

Flustered beyond measure.

Awkwardly, you take the rose from Lyney, your heart fluttering as your fingers accidentally bump against his. His skin is soft, and his touch is tantalizing. You wouldn’t mind feeling his hand in yours.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, averting your gaze and looking anywhere but into the very lavender irises that will never fail to enchant you. “It’s stunning.”

“A stunning flower for a stunning person,” Lyney says. The sincerity lacing his tone doesn’t go unnoticed, and you have to stop yourself from melting on the spot. “Do you know what the purple rose represents?”

You shake your head as sudden curiosity and cupid’s final arrow strike simultaneously.

He leans in, moving so close that you can feel strands of silken platinum tickle your skin. A soft breath lightly brushes against your ear as he opens his mouth to speak.

“Love at first sight.”

₊˚ପ SCARAMOUCHE

Weak beams of winter light filter through the curtains of the window beside your bed, illuminating your room with a radiance tinted pale blue. With a foggy mind, you make your way over to the window, leaving the warmth and comfort of your covers to do so. The chill pokes at your skin like a thousand miniature needles of ice, and yet you continue on.

As soon as velvety veils of fabric fall away from glass panes, glacial sunshine spills through. The panoramic scenery that welcomes you is a glazed-over landscape, thick blankets of pure white sprinkled with glimmers of stardust. Even the branches of the tall evergreen trees surrounding your home are dusted with powdered opal. Nothing is free from the frigid caress of winter, and you’re suddenly reminded of this fact as you start coughing.

Oh. You’re sick.

You blink slowly, an unbearable headache making itself known by jumbling your thoughts into nothing more than incoherence. Begrudgingly, you decide to lie back down, pulling a few blankets over you in order to stay warm. However, the layer of plush protection isn’t enough to shield you, as shivers continue to wrack your body.

For a while, you just lie there, huddled and trying to cling onto any remaining heat, any remaining comfort. You close your eyes, feeling absolutely helpless against the coolness that threatens to permeate the very essence of your being. The world around you begins to become distant as grogginess and discomfort plague you, but soon enough, you’re snapped out of your haze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The last thing you want to do is answer the door.

“[Name]? Are you in there?” your roommate, Scaramouche, calls. As usual, irritation laces his tone, but there’s something new this time. Maybe you’re delusional, but it almost sounds like concern.

“Yeah. Come in,” you manage to respond.

Your voice is unsurprisingly hoarse, and you have to strain in order to be heard. However, in the end, it seems that you were just loud enough because seconds later, the door opens with a click. In its wake, a man with hair reminiscent of desolate midnights walks in. Soon enough, you find your gaze meeting hues of deep twilight fading into a paler shade of periwinkle akin to the colour of forget-me-nots.

“Wow, you look awful,” Scaramouche remarks bluntly, examining you.

You feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

“Can you not?” you shoot back, mustering the strength to glare at him between coughs and sniffles. “I'm kind of dying here.”

Scaramouche scoffs.

“Fine. I’ll leave you alone,” he says, turning away and walking out the door.

Once again, silence envelops the atmosphere, ebbing and flowing throughout the greys and blues of an early winter morning in soundless waves. Although you’re thankful for the serene ambience, you also feel awfully lonely now that your roommate is gone. All you can do now is stare blankly at the wall in front of you and entertain yourself with your own thoughts.

Time becomes a blur, and yet it stretches on as well. It feels like you’re trapped in a sort of limbo — suspended in a mundane reality without any sort of respite or the slightest idea of when you’ll finally find your refuge.

That is, until you hear the hinges of the door creak once more.

Scaramouche is back.

You look up. To your surprise, the glints of starlight that dance within his indigo eyes show a rare sort of softness, and he’s carrying a bowl of soup.

Without a word, he sets the bowl on your bedside table, staring at you expectantly.

“Is that for me?” you ask.

Scaramouche groans, rolling his eyes.

“Who did you think it was for?” he says, averting his gaze.

A small smile dances across your lips. Although your roommate doesn’t want to show that he cares for you, you’re beginning to realize that he’s looking out for you in his own way.

“Thank you,” you respond. However, just as you’re about to reach for the soup, you’re attacked by another fit of coughs.

Scaramouche’s eyes fixate on you once more, and he sighs.

“Do you need me to spoon feed you or something?” Although it sounds like he’s mocking you, you can tell he’s serious to some extent.

“Do you want to feed me?” you say, trying to muster a playful tone. Even though you’re sick, teasing Scaramouche is as fun as ever.

“I will if it means you’ll shut up,” he mutters, taking the bowl carefully and scooping up a spoon of the soup.

With caution and a shocking amount of attentiveness, he lifts the spoon to your lips, and you open your mouth. To your surprise, the soup is actually quite tasty. You didn't expect your roommate to be such a good cook.

“How was it?” Scaramouche asks after you swallow. Not a hint of emotion shows through the veils of apathy he’s crafted as he awaits your response.

“It was amazing,” you remark genuinely. “I’d love to try some more of your cooking, and… thanks for taking care of me.”

Scaramouche looks away, but as he does, you notice a colour reminiscent of delicate rose petals rising to his cheeks, tinting porcelain akin to the snow outside a vivid shade.

“Don’t mention it.”

₊˚ପ XIAO

Procrastination is every student’s worst enemy, and you’re no different.

You had spent the past few days putting off your latest assignments and neglecting your studies more than you’d care to admit. It’s not that you didn’t want to work and study, but every time you tried to start on something, you’d feel put off by the copious amounts of labour you’d have to put in. And unfortunately, now you’re reaping the consequences of the seeds you had previously sowed.

It’s currently 1 a.m., and all you can see outside the window is ebony fragmented by the occasional streetlight or polychromatic star. Your eyelids are beginning to droop of their own volition, but you force yourself to stay awake. You have something important due later today, and unfortunately, you’ve barely even started on it.

So you have no choice but to continue on, allowing yourself to fall into the treacherous grasp of sleep-deprivation all because of your poor decision-making skills.

The minutes seem to count down all too quickly as you toil, yet at the same time, the mundane assignment makes every second feel like an eon. It’s a paradoxical distortion of the universe’s concepts, but it’s something you’ve grown far too accustomed to in your time as a student. Panic and hopelessness set in more and more with every tick of the clock, and eventually, you lose all sense of time, burying yourself in a pile of work.

The next time you look up, you notice that it’s well past your first scheduled break time, and you’re absolutely exhausted.

You stand up, stretching and relishing the sensation of being able to move your aching limbs after hours of sitting in the same position, mulling over boring assignments. However, your momentary respite is ruined, as it isn’t long before the creaking of a door pulls you out from the temporary euphoria that had taken over your mind.

“Hey,” a calm voice utters. It’s melodic like a beautiful song you wouldn’t mind hearing on repeat. “Are you alright?”

You turn around, and as expected you’re met with the sight of your roommate. Honeyed eyes filled with a dandelion warmth shimmer when met with the dim incandescent glow of your desk lamp, and locks of seafoam frame his pale face. Even though his hair is messy, and there are visible bags under his eyes, Xiao looks as stunning as ever.

“I’m fine,” you say, miraculously stringing together a couple of words despite your exhaustion.

“You’ve been up all night,” Xiao observes, glancing at your messy desk — a testament to the few hours you had been chipping away at your work. Somehow in that time, you’ve managed to make it look as though some sort of wild tempest had ravaged your room.

“You’re saying that as if you don’t stay up all the time,” you shoot back.

You flinch. Your tone is harsh and dripping with venom, but you hadn’t meant your words in that way. They were from a place of concern, but it seems that Xiao understands.

“That’s true,” he remarks, “but I’m not as keen on working myself to death as you are.”

A second passes.

Then you realized that you may have gotten a little bit carried away due to your momentary burst of energy — a rush of exhilaration prompted by a sense of urgency.

“Oh.”

Xiao sighs.

“You need a break,” he says, hesitantly walking over to you and intertwining your fingers with his.

His actions surprise you. Most of the time, Xiao avoids touch, but now, he’s holding your hand. The tepidness of Xiao’s skin on yours causes lucidity to wash over you. Suddenly, you feel more aware of your surroundings.

Your roommate pulls you out the door, exiting your dorm swiftly before you can refuse. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have denied him his demand anyway. Although Xiao seems like a tough person on the outside, his heart is forged of silvery moonbeams — glittering lights that illuminate the world with a subtle phosphorescence, not quite as glaring as rays of sunlight, but equally as bright, nonetheless. As a result, you’ve grown to develop a soft spot for him.

When you exit the building, the first thing you notice is the crisp, fresh air. After staying cooped up in your room for so long, it’s relieving to breathe in the liquified stardrops dissolved within the night atmosphere. Your head clears up nearly instantaneously, and finally, you feel a sense of peace wash over you.

“Feeling better?” Xiao asks, noticing the change in your expression immediately.

He’s usually not the brightest when it comes to interpreting emotions, so your prior distress must have been extremely obvious. Nonetheless, you brush off your embarrassment and swallow your pride, nodding to reassure Xiao that yes, this is helping, and yes, you’d like to stay here with him for a while longer.

Xiao seems to get what you’re trying to convey, so he continues walking, leading you under the gold-lacquered light of the lamps lining the path before you. Right now, it feels as though your hearts are connected, and for once, you’re under the impression that Xiao’s let down his walls.

You know that once your midnight escapades cease, you’ll have to face a world of pain, but perhaps it’s worth it.

After all, exhaustion is temporary, but maybe, just maybe, this lavender haze will endure forevermore.

thank you for reading!! if you liked this, i’d really appreciate it if you reblogged this fic.

[jasminumdew]

Rafayel (merman x siren reader)

Notes: This was written based on Rafayel’s rut which was presented in the Ebb and Flow card

Summary: You went out hunting to feed your sick merman lover, but he doesn’t seem to be hungry, at least not in that way.

Event host: this fic was written for Monster Mash Event, hosted by lovely @nanamiscocksleeve

Warnings: MDNI, gore, manslaughter, merman goes into rut, public sex

W/c: 1.2k

“Captain, we’re very close to that area now”

“Prepare the spears, net, every crew member gets to the harpoon gun now. We only get one chance, either we catch it or it’s the last day for all of us”

With the captain’s order, everyone quickly rushes to the ship's sides. All eyes were focused on the sudden movement of the waves, so no one paid attention to the piercing eyes locking on their backs. It’s not until the first note sang out that they realized their mistake. 

“Everyone, plug your ears. NOW!!” The captain's screams couldn’t reach their ears anymore, since it was filled with the most heavenly voice they’d ever heard. Can this be considered a peaceful death - when your heart was fluttering, mind clouded and blurry by a symphony? You wouldn’t say that, because only 10 seconds after hearing your song, the hallucination starts. One by one, the crew members collapsed onto the floor, some jumped and fed themselves to the hungry monster under the deep sea. Their hands reach to the nearest weapons, frantic red eyes looking like it’s gonna be popped out by how irritated the blood vessels got, having to witness their own death caused by their own hands. 

You don’t feel any grief for being that cruel to them. Humans share many similar features with sirens, even more than they have with mermaids. But they are all so weak, no really, they don’t have a pair of wings behind their backs or feathers on their thighs to protect them from the harsh weather like your kind do, nor do they have tails to move fast underwater like mermaids. That’s why they are only lower species who are destined to be feasted on. You keep rambling while tearing their breast out with your sharp claws, their constant begging falls on deaf ears. You’re not familiar with skinning humans so some organs were mixed with meat and fat, normally there’s another one that would deal with this task and you just gonna let them feed you the best bits. You couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear, thinking how proud of you he’s gonna be when you bring him this fresh heart that’s still beating slowly on your bloody palm. 

As you fly back home, you find his silhouette resting on the entrance, where the waves can reach his merman’s tail. 

“Babyyy I’m back. Look what I got!”

He huffs, narrowing his eyes.

“Couldn’t you tell me already? Gosh, the smell is awful. Human meat?”

You’re taken aback by his cold and sarcastic demeanor but quickly brush it off, considering he’s not in his best condition. 

“It’s a human heart. I hope it can cheer you up or at least make you less grumpy”

You reach out to pat his hair, it always does a great job to calm him down. Before you even touched his blue strand, your wrist was grabbed firmly by his hand. 

“You went hunting alone? Do you know how dangerous it is? They have weapons that can kill us in a heartbeat. Why didn’t you tell me first?” 

The heat spreading from his palm feels like it can burn your delicate skin, you try to struggle out of his hold but to no avail. 

“But you needed to rest. I’m fully capable of killing them alone, there weren’t even a scratch”

“You’re covered in blood. Next time don’t do unnecessary things like this. You smell like dead people.” He continues his nagging, there’s no point in getting hurt over his words, you know he would never say things like this in the right headspace. You put the bloody heart aside and clean all the nasty blood on your feathers, it seems to be clear that he doesn’t want any snack right now. 

As you finish cleaning up, you take a seat on his big tail, careful not to scratch him accidentally with your sharp claws. His body stiffens when you sit on his lap, grunting in his throat as your hand touches his forehead to check his body heat.

“Raf? This body temperature is not normal at all! What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine” his hands gripping on your waist to stop you from squirming on his lap, “It happens once a year. I just sleep it off” 

Once a year? Suddenly everything clicks in your mind.

“You’re in a rut, aren’t you?” Every signal is checked: abnormal body heat, labored breathing, dilated pupils, unexplainable mood swings…He doesn’t reply but his eyes shift to his lower abdomen. Your gaze follows him to find his thin fabric was drenched in precum. Blood rushes to your cheek and your heart beats with excitement when you pull it down, revealing his enormous erection. Merman’s manhood in general is way bigger than that of sirens, but it’s especially huge today, the heavy red tip rests on his belly, waiting to pump his seed all over your fertile flower. 

Your heavy wings spread out, covering your bodies from the outside world to get some privacy. 

“Don’t” 

“What?” your eyes looking up all confused.

“Don’t spread your wings. I want everyone to see that you’re mine to claim.”

You do just as you were told to, not without looking around to check for anyone around first. You don’t dare to confess, but the thought of someone watching you being such a slut for your lover caused waves of arousal inside you. Just from the smirk on his lips, you can tell he knows it already. 

He nearly choked on his breath when you ran your hand down his erected shaft, his tail splashes the waves impatiently. You kiss your way down his abdomen, licking and biting on his skin. Your mouth can only take half of his length, the rest have your hands do the work. Within minutes of you sucking his sensitive tip, he pushes your head away. His cock twitches angrily, begging for friction. 

“I need to feel you, please. I’ll make up for you later, but I really have to cum inside you”

With a nod from you, he aligns his tip clumsily and thrusts all the way in, reaching your womb. It doesn’t go any softer after he finishes, but the semen acts as an aphrodisiac to you. Your inside burns with the slow thrusts and lazy strokes on your bundle of nerves, so much that you sob into his chest, begging him to pick up the pace. At night, when your womb has no space for his cum anymore, that’s when he comes back to normal and peppers you with kisses. You’re sure that your eggs are all fertilized now, and he’ll need to find a bigger cave for your crowded family tomorrow. 

There’s so many things to prepare, but now, you just sleep in each other’s embrace without any care and leave it for tomorrow. Such an odd thing that two species who have nothing in common fell in love with each other. It’s truly beautiful, how you two can find out a whole new world that you’ve never known of, he’s the deep dangerous sea that you craved for one time to dive in, and you’re the cloud, the moon, the sun he couldn’t reach. Everything just feels right being with the right person, no matter the differences.

[zorosdimples]

AFLOAT

pairing ༄ zoro x gn!reader

warnings ༄ this fic is slightly suggestive, but it’s more fluffy than anything else. reader has an unspecified devil fruit power, and thus cannot swim. reader wears a bra and underwear, and is implied to be shorter than zoro, but no gendered terms are used.

word count ༄ 1365

notes ༄ my birthday fic for zoro! this has been in my drafts since july. it’s disgustingly self-indulgent and filled with emotion; i hope you all enjoy regardless <3 tagging my beloved wife @redskyvenus!

sitting on the edge of a rickety, weather-worn dock, you dip your legs in crystalline water and try to keep your focus on the depths: on the flora that roots at the bottom and reaches to the sun, on the schools of tiny fish that flit around the underwater jungle.

but your gaze keeps drifting to the man swimming laps around the spring, admiring how gracefully his strong body cuts through the water. the midafternoon sun hotly caresses your skin and presses into you like a greedy lover. you lean back on your palms and tilt your head up to soak in the barefaced sky; its cerulean is only obscured by the dense foliage that surrounds the secluded watering hole.

you’re startled from your thoughts when you feel something tickle your toes. with a strangled yelp you scramble back from the edge of the dock. as you steady your breathing and wonder what the hell just touched you, a familiar mint green head bobs up to the surface.

“asshole!” you shout, slamming your hands down on the wooden planks for emphasis.

zoro laughs heartily as he hoists himself out of the water and plops down next to you. he ruffles his hair, sending sparkling droplets flying in the sunlight, landing on your sweat-damp flesh. your eyes flicker to the rivulets that ebb and flow down his naked torso into a little pool beneath him.

remembering your irritation, you half-heartedly punch his tricep and scold him. “you scared me so badly i could’ve fallen into the spring and drowned. and then you have the audacity to laugh at me?”

zoro snorts at your dramatics, but glosses over them, nudging you with his elbow. “i’d never let you drown and y’know it.”

he’s right, of course. zoro is certainly strong enough to haul you out of the water. you’ve watched him save countless people—friend and foe alike—from a premature grave. you put your feet back in the spring, playfully kicking the swordsman’s leg in the process. the chilled water cools your body but isn’t enough to stop the perspiration that beads at your hairline.

“i miss swimming,” you state, thinking aloud more than speaking to the man beside you. you can’t see the way his lone eye maps your profile as though he will forget the cant of your nose and the curve of your lip once this moment passes.

silence hangs comfortably for several breaths before zoro turns to you with a sly—or is it sinister?—smile. “let me take you swimming.”

you blink at him a few times, face scrunching into the signature scowl he secretly adores.

“did you hit your head on a rock or something? i’m a devil fruit user. it’s physically impossible for me to stay afloat in water, let alone swim in it.”

his grey eye shines with mirth. “just listen for a sec, will ya? no need for insults,” he chuckles as he rises to his feet and offers you a hand.

you appraise him with a quirked brow. you will yourself to push away thoughts of how beautiful he looks bathed in sunbeams and how you wish you could chart the planes of his body the same way you are charting the grand line. how you would see and count and kiss every scar etched in his flesh and tell him how happy you are that he’s alive.

zoro keeps his expectant stance, and you focus on his outstretched hand, just as sinewy and scarred as the rest of his body.

“d’you trust me?” he inquires. his eye searches yours for truth.

“more than i trust myself,” you answer without thinking. the admission is perhaps too honest, but you catch his dimpled smile and feel a little lightheaded as you grasp his rough palm and stand up beside him.

zoro leads you off the dock and around the rocky curves and edges of the spring to an ideal point of entry. you reach a stretch that resembles a beach: a sandy shore that slopes into the water. he starts walking into the spring expecting you to follow, but when you hesitate, he pauses and spins to face you.

“somethin’ the matter?” he asks.

you wordlessly glance down at your jean shorts and white top. “ah,” he says with a curt nod. “you should just wear your swimsuit. don’t wanna get all bogged down with wet clothes.”

you absentmindedly fiddle with the edge of your shirt and clear your throat. “i don’t have a swimsuit, zoro.”

“huh? nami’s always got one on. you’re tellin’ me you don’t?”

you rub your temples. “oh my god, zoro. nami can swim—i can’t. why would i ever wear a swimsuit when i have no intention of swimming?”

after a few tense beats, he tries again. “so—”

you interrupt him with a huff. “just turn around and wait a second. please?”

he obeys without question and you sigh. before you second guess yourself, you undress, leaving your shirt and shorts in a tidy pile on the sand. you’re left in your bra and underwear. they’re nothing special: just a matching cotton set that has seen better days. they are well-worn and comfortable—perfect for the sticky summer heat. you muster all your courage and start walking toward the shoreline.

it’s not a big deal.

it’s just like a swimsuit.

he won’t care.

it’s not as though he likes me.

zoro can hear your tentative steps, faint splashes in the water behind him. he doesn’t turn to you since you never told him he could. once you reach his side, he angles his head so he can look you directly in the eyes, saying, “we’re gonna walk until the water is up to your shoulders. is that okay?” if you saw a rosy flush on his cheeks, you could have easily mistaken it for the heat or too much sun.

“yeah,” you breathe.

the two of you walk in silence. you feel fine until the water hits your waist, then reality sets in. you haven’t been in a body of water since you were a young child. icy panic surges through your veins when you feel a fish graze one of your legs; you instinctively grab zoro’s tanned forearm to steady yourself.

“easy there, s’okay,” he soothes, stopping so you can get your bearings. when you don’t let go of him, he adds a simple “c’mere,” securing a strong arm around your waist. the water is cold, but his touch burns you.

it’s a strange sensation, delving deeper in the clear water, the surface lapping at your shoulders. it’s both nostalgic and new, familiar and foreign, frightening and exciting—even more so with the man holding you.

“see? you’re a pro,” zoro teases, calloused fingers gentle as he squeezes your waist.

usually, you would bite back, but you’re transfixed by the feeling. you attempt to turn and face zoro, but stumble in the process, unused to how clunky your legs feel underwater. he wraps both his arms around your waist, anchoring you to him.

it dawns on you how close you two are: your bodies pressed together, a thin layer of sodden fabric separating your flesh from his. the swordsman hopes you can’t feel how fast his heart is beating. (you would if you weren’t so focused on your own heartbeat.)

you peer up at zoro, hands splayed on his firm pecs, and for the first time, you see unguarded longing in his steel gaze. it’s awkward, the way neither of you can bring yourselves to speak. but leaning into one another feels right.

uncharacteristically, zoro breaks the quiet. his voice is rich—husky—as he asks, “you okay?”

boldly, you link your hands around his sun-warmed neck, thrilled when he doesn’t pull away, but instead sinks into your touch. you stand on your tiptoes, inching closer to him. zoro’s head hangs low, chapped lips parted, breath heavy. he’s so close that you can see him and smell him and hear him and feel him, but you want to taste him, too.

“let’s just stay like this,” you murmur.

and in the middle of the chilly spring, two burning souls stay afloat, zoro’s lips moving, melting, blurring against your own.

[kuronekobaji]

literally gonna torch this place I GOT A REQUESTTT FROM BAJISDARLING I THINK BUT I CANT FIND THE BLOG ?? ANYWAY. TYYY FOR REQUESTING I LOVE U SO MUCH

warnings: smut from the middle to the end [kind of, it’s left on a cliffhanger he gets ready to eat you out], mentions of foolish animal abuse [feeding chocolates to dogs, outdoor cats], not proofread, sorrryyyyyyyy

synopsis: your husband, keisuke, comes home after a frustrating day at work. what better way to relieve his stress than lose himself in you?

note: this is so fucking short like 700 words MAX i thinkkk idk i didn’t do a wc but yeah… he’s a vet in this because eh . i highkey forgot how to write so this is complete and utter ass but i hope it’s half decent,, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SEND ME REQUESTS PLEASE I’LL BEG ON MY KNEES PLE

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT !!!

-𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩

keisuke practically slams the door open, anger simmering underneath the surface of his not-so-stoic expression. he had an absolute clusterfuck of a day, and he really wanted nothing more than to melt into you completely; forget about the assholes he had the displeasure of encountering earlier and simply hold you like his own personal teddy bear. in lots of ways, you were.

he hurriedly locks the door and takes a brief moment to just… admire you. naturally, his expression softens at your presence, the sight of you laid up and sitting on the couch doing a bit to calm his boiling blood.

your eyes snap to the sounds at the door, and you brighten at the sight of your husband. although you can tell he’s not in a good mood, you know he’s not going to take it out on you — not violently or verbally, atleast — and you’re aware that he just needs you right now.

“sweetheart,” you murmur as he practically turns into a dreary puddle and stumbles over to you. he’d never get enough of the way your voice sounds, especially when you call out so lovingly to him.

“doll…” he groans, falling into your open arms and suddenly hoisting you up by the hips and outer thigh to pull you into a position where he could comfortably rest on you.

“bad day?”

“tch. understatement of the goddamn century,” he rasps, deep voice muffled by your chest as he lays atop you and in between your legs. “these goddamn owners don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

you hum inquisitively, fingers reaching up to gently stroke his dark locks. he sighs, burrowing further into your warm embrace and taking it as a sign to elaborate.

“some goddamn moron decided to feed their dog chocolate cake and wondered why it fell sick,” he deadpans, irritation already finding its way back to him — until the sensation of you surrounds him once more. “next, an ‘outdoor cat owner’ complained to me ‘cause their cat contracted some diseases. swear to god, there should be some legal form to sign for anyone who decides to adopt these animals. i’m so fuckin’ tired of this bullshit, couldn’t wait to get home to ya.”

an understanding noise comes from your throat. he nuzzles your chest, gratitude bubbling inside his own. there would never be enough words to express how much he loved you, how much you mattered to him — but you, being the damn angel you were, already knew.

“all of it’s pissing me off. woulda socked those motherfuckers in the face but i got the sweetest wife in the world to come to, so…”

you laugh softly, heat rising to your cheeks just like it did when he’d compliment you all those years ago. the sound of your seraphic giggles ebb away at the dread in him, fondness stirring in his russet hues.

“oi. it ain’t damn funny,” he playfully calls out, wanting to hear more of your laughter.

“sorry, sorry, i— ahah— you’re too… good to me. i love you.” your tone flows over with tenderness, making his heart skip a beat for a moment.

“i love you,” he sincerely remarks, kissing the closest part of you he could reach. “more than you realise.”

a loving smile is exchanged between you two, and your digits gently begin to massage his scalp. he gasps, the affectionate nature in your fingertips setting off a blaze in him. a groan of pleasure tears from him him, his body leaning into your touch. it came to you reflexively, like an instinct. you knew exactly how to push his buttons; where to touch, where to bite, where to kiss — there was much more, but it’d take a good few hours to complete that list.

either way, you loved drawing those pleased noises from him, loved hearing his rich and normally flat voice change into something full of affection and weakness for you, and only you.

“goddamn…” he breathes, “shoulders too. please.”

you oblige, hands beginning to work out the tension in his broad shoulders and chiseled shoulderblades.

“fuck. your hands are so damn soft,” he comments, euphoria shooting throughout him at each touch. his eyes then find yours, gazes locking in a shared time of adoration. “you’re… so soft.”

feeling a slight pull in the air, it’s as if the atmosphere itself leads both of your mouths to connect in a short time between two lovers.

however, the kiss deepens, things happen, and before you know it, your hands are desperately pawing at each other. his tongue pushes into your mouth, over and over, and he pulls away every time with spit bridging the tips of your tongues.

he grunts as he shifts, “wait.”

as he kneels, he swiftly strips himself of his shirt. your gaze quickly zeroes in on his muscular physique, scarred and toned body. his half-lidded eyes darken. without your consciousness, your hand reaches out and your fingertips trace a few of his scars. you could count each and every single one, with a blindfold and without.

his breath still falters when you touch him like that. so gently, so reverently — as if he’s some fragile thing that needs to be treated delicately. he didn’t think of himself as so, but it seemed like you did. not that he’d ever disliked it, it was just… unusual. until you came into his life, that is.

inevitably, your irises drift to that patch of curly, dark hair trailing from his stomach, down his v-line and to his crotch. you swallow, trying not to dwell on that topic in fear of turning this intimate moment into something more physical.

it was the easiest thing in the world for keisuke to notice your behaviour, though, and that the way your thighs just clenched.

“c’mere,” he gruffly mumbles, snatching you by your thighs and placing you on his lap before you could react. a smirk pulls at his dry lips. “attagirl. quiet ‘n let me rest on you, yeah?”

flustered at the praise, you nod. his face comes close to your neck, and your breath hitches as he inhales your scent like you’re a drug. he plants a few kisses across the sensitive skin, before his canines sink in and his teeth leave a mark. at the little squeak you let out, his tongue soothes over the bite, and he starts getting bolder.

large hands sneak underneath your shirt, palming one of your breasts without shame. the smirk on his mouth widens just a smidge, an almost sinister gleam in his sharp caramel eyes.

“hmph. bet you’re gettin’ wet too,” he murmurs, wanton voice dropping to a whisper. his other palm drifts to your ass, giving it a ‘smack’, before he proposes something that sends your stomach pooling with butterflies. “why don’t we check?”

in the blink of an eye, his hand is in your panties, already finding your dampness. a bark of laughter erupts from him, he’s almost tempted to coo at your adorable noises of embarrassment.

“keisuke!” you cry out, and he grins, baring those sharp teeth he’d never get tired of marking you up with.

“mm? screaming my name already, huh? we haven’t even begun yet,” he drawls, tone carrying a promise and a threat. “i’ll do a favor for ya and take these off,” he whispers, ripping your panties apart with one hand and shoving you onto your back. he immediately stares at your pussy, muttering, “there’s my girl.”

he brings your legs over the expanse of his wide shoulders, face inching closer between your aching thighs. holding you has always felt so right; the sensation of your softness in his greedy palms.

looking up at you with a blazing hunger, his breath fans over your clit. “keep your hands in my hair. i’m still damn frustrated, so i’m gonna eat this pussy ‘til i’m satisfied. you got that, angel?”

you suck in a breath. “mhm.”

“good girl.”

this was going to be a long night.

[guapitas]

The Unwinding (Draco Malfoy x Reader)

Chapter One: Neapolitan Sweetbread

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 4.1k

Summary: Running late to your very first day of a Divination class is an entire feat in itself, but so is coming to terms with the fact that the infamous Draco Malfoy is your new desk partner. (See the overarching summary for the future of this fic, here.)

Warnings: Language

A stampede of students is, more or less, the exact opposite of what you need right now. 

Your shoulders face collisions head-on, with backpacks and bodies coming at you from nearly every angle. The ocean-esque ebb and flow of the hallway is not particularly unfamiliar; however, when in such a hurry as you are, it picks at your sense of control like a ticking time bomb. And, if you had none, your nerves alone would clear this path in an instant. The wand tucked into the inner pocket of your robe is practically begging to do fuck-all damage. 

“I hope she’ll still have me,” you say, rather than inflicting mass destruction, as you let the irritation contort into plain stress. The volume of your voice is watered down by the abundance of conversations, until only your immediate target can hear you. 

“She told you just yesterday that she would. It couldn’t have changed in a single night.” A warm hand squeezes yours and holds you close behind. Marla Rinds, or a modern day Moses, parts students like the Red Sea, and her head of curls act as your personal guide. “Just relax.” 

Okay, easier said than done, especially when you haven’t been able to breathe for the past week. You aren’t normally so tense, and even if you are, the stakes on the line only double it down. Accelerated Divination is in high demand among the upperclassmen, and it wasn’t until you realized that Quantum Astrological Theory wasn’t for you that you decided to reassess your schedule. It was a miracle that the professor even allowed you to enroll at this point in the term and, until you step foot in the classroom, you cannot will yourself to just relax. If this doesn’t work out, you can say goodbye to graduating on time- which, you’ve decided, is just not an option. 

So, a staggering deadbolt to class it is. That very class, which is.. Merlin knows where. It’s a Monday, so the Eastern staircase should be the quickest route.. or is the Northern staircase? Shit, what time do they shift directions again? And, come to think of it, what time is it right now? 

Never eat… soggy waffles… 

In the stretch that it takes for you to wrap your head around which wing of the building you and Marla are even located, she is already one step ahead of the game. There’s a sort of peace that comes with having her in and within your grasp, with the knowledge that she’ll undoubtedly get you where you need to go.

Her head tilts around and peeks over the other bodies as she navigates the terrain and visibly sighs. She spots the predicament before you even get the chance. Against all odds, more students manage to file out of their classrooms and into the hallway, and you two are not the only ones eager to get to their destinations. 

“Shoot.” A dejected huff leaves her for a second, then she raises her voice, “Does anyone have the time?”

Eyes of other students swirl around to land on you and Marla, but the glances are fleeting, and they inevitably return to their own ways. You can’t quite blame them when Marla’s plea drowns out and blends into the accumulation of noise entirely. It’s easy for even you to lose the meaning of her words. 

Your pace is hindered even more so as Marla holds out hope for an answer. She squeezes your palm to ease the shared concern, though if it isn’t effective for you, you’re certain that it isn’t effective for her either. Every passerby student seems to move on from the question as quickly as it was asked, and when Marla starts to push forward and pick up stride again, a deep voice calls out from a few heads away.

“Eleven twenty-two,” a man says, speech disembodied until you lay eyes on him. He’s a portrait hung up along the wall, with scruffy red hair on his head and spotted down onto his chin. A traditional pocket watch is cradled in the base of his hand. 

“Thank you!”

And you’re back in the race, now with a ferocity only sparked by a sudden anxiety. Marla hauls you further, littering apologies as she actually, physically pushes through and past students. This complete lack of punctuality is an entirely new world for her. Her own courses and extracurricular schedule has never faced such mistreatment, in all of the years you’ve known her, and probably in all of her life. 

“Next time, I’m waking you up early,” she says.

Your feet find ground on the staircase before you even realize it– the Eastern staircase. Weaving through limbs and torsos, you and Marla dash upwards, disregarding athleticism until you reach the very top. And now, through heaves, you recognize the surroundings. The Divination classroom is only one or two more turns away, but the odds of arriving on time are utterly against your favor. 

Still holding onto you, Marla takes the lead. You’re finally able to breathe again, now that these hallways are far less suffocating, but the lack of stimulation allows for pests such as thoughts to creep up on you. 

“What if she’s in a foul mood and being late changes her mind?”

“Oh, please, she won’t change her mind.” Marla’s quick to, once again, reassure you, then pauses. She shrugs mid-pace. “And if she does, we’ll just hex her.”

“Amazing! Why didn’t I think of that first?”

“You need to trust the process sometimes, babe. Everything’s gonna be fine.” 

Trust the process. Despite the tight knot that sits hard in your chest, you nearly laugh at her wits. The destination and target of your desires is a Divination course, yet you aren’t very sure as to whether Marla actually believes in fate or the all-knowing universe at all. As far as you know, she’s a self-proclaimed woman of science. 

And fucking finally, you meet the classroom door like they’re pearly white gates. The air takes too long to replenish in your lungs, faltering you on the outside, whilst Marla doesn’t hesitate to breeze right through. Her breaths are effortlessly stable as her hand releases yours. With a devout apology for her tardiness, she heads straight for her seat at a small round table, shared with Cedric Diggory. Her pristine motions have you scrambling into the room after her, with flushed cheeks and a meek smile. 

Professor Thyme stands at the front of the class, eyes and mind elsewhere until they fall on you. You brace yourself for impact, but she only smiles at your apologies. “No worries at all, dear.”

You’re too short of breath and warm-faced to care about how she introduces you to the rest of the class. And even when she instructs you to find your place in the one empty seat, the cogs don’t move. The mental registration is delayed about five seconds, but once you catch up, you sigh in relief– in victory! “Thank you so much.” 

The high of success almost knocks you over as you turn to face the rest of the room. You’ve only been in here twice before, when in the process of begging for and obtaining a spot on the roster, but now you can see it in action. There’s no incense or mist that overwhelms the air nor your senses, but aromatic candles line up along the two side walls. They exude lavender. 

A deep burgundy wall at the back has tall, glass-stained and kaleidoscopic windows, with sunlight that illuminates a vast way across the room. Long, colorful rays guide you toward the rest of the students that sit at their respective tables, two per piece. Visually honing in on the single vacant seat isn’t a difficult task. You hardly notice the carpet giving into the weight of your shoes as you hurriedly reach the empty spot and land your eyes on him– the notoriously familiar face of Draco Malfoy. 

Your brain is doing the five second delay again. His mere presence stills you, leaning into the back of his seat with straight shoulders and a stone stare forward. It isn’t until he meets your eyes for only a moment, then looks away again with that fixed expression, that you shock the life back into your body and take a seat. You always knew he’d been attending the University, particularly from the way his name has remained on various students’ tongues, but you’ve never actually come across him throughout your time here. Not at quidditch games or house parties– not even in the Slytherin common room, or the dining hall. You’d never paid any attention to it before.

But now, here he is; a face you haven’t really seen since secondary school, sitting at a table with, naturally, the only available seat. To your relief, the little platform you share with Draco is right next to where Marla and Cedric are. Cedric leans over and flashes you a grin. His thumbs stick up as he mouths the words, “You made it!” 

You return the gesture and give one last, soft breath. The triumph radiates through you despite the shock of the man at your side, and even the dampness of your forehead. Fuck, it’s amazing– to catch your breath, finally, and to shake this past week’s worry off. And when Thyme slips right into today’s lesson, you spring into action. This class has been ongoing for a few weeks already, so the focus now is imminent. 

She stands just a yard or so in front of you. The bottom of her ankle-length skirt twirls as she waltzes around to the backside of her desk and claps her hands. “Oh, it’s splendid, isn’t it? An even number!” 

Her finger traces a line through the air, from a stack of small boxes on her desk and to the mass of students. They rise up into a float and find their respective ways to a table. One lands right between you and Draco. 

“For our next assignment, you will be working with your table partner.” Thyme’s feathery voice projects across the room, providing the class’ mysticity all on its own. “Together, you will delve deep into the intricate world and interpretations of Tarot!” 

It’s simple enough, the way she explains it. And the concept of Tarot isn’t exactly new to you either, so you’re confident, even if it means that you may have to do most of the work. You don’t really know– you don’t know how into all of this stuff Draco might be, or how much he’s willing to engage at all. Maybe his desire for a good grade will override all of that anyway. 

Any benefit of the doubts that you might’ve given him are overshadowed by his motionless stance when Thyme encourages you to look through the cards. You resist the urge to glare, unable to discern if he’s just too immersed in the lecture, or if he simply doesn’t give a shit– but you’d put your bets on the latter. In any case, you take the initiative and retrieve a card. The Lovers. 

Above the label, there’s an image of two figures. Their backs are turned toward you whilst they stare up at a deity in the cloudy sky, who returns a gaze of bliss. Every so often, the lovers’ fingertips brush, though their hands are scarcely out of reach from one another. The deity eventually catches your eye and winks. 

Forever unnerved by the consciousness of typically inanimate objects, you put the card back. It would never become the norm, despite how immersed you’ve been in the wizarding world throughout your upbringing. It might not be the most disturbing thing about wizardry, but... it’s pretty up there. 

The hour flies as Thyme is absorbed by the lesson plan, going over every basic of Tarot. If you ask a question, the Divine will answer, and whatnot. “By the end of this week, you will have met with your table partner and conducted a reading for yourselves, something small. Your assignment is to inquire about what’s in store for you this term." She reminds every pair to grab a guidebook from her desk before they leave.

Marla’s the first to stand when class is dismissed. The straps of her backpack weigh into her shoulders as she wishes both you and Cedric goodbye, then takes off for her next class– Advanced Astronomy, you think. Cedric gets a book for the two of them. 

Meanwhile, Draco takes his sweet time putting away his books and notes. The way he moves almost frightens you, with how statue-like he had been for an entire hour, and you had nearly forgotten he was there at all. Though, that’s not really true– you may have been very aware of his presence throughout the class period. But now, since the beginning of it, you give him a proper look, one that isn’t entirely from the corner of your eye. The features of his face are much more grown into than before, and the stoicism he had left Hogwarts with has yet to be shaken back off. 

“I’ll get the guidebook,” you offer, finally catching his attention for a sliver of time. He nods once, then looks away again, unfazed. But you persist. “Should we meet soon, for the assignment? Are you available tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow works.”

And despite having asked the question, you waver at his reply anyway. His voice is low– far lower than you remember, though the memories of his loud mouthed remarks from the back of a classroom or a common room are too distant to go off of. Regardless, he certainly was never so… reserved, or agreeable to any extent– not prior to the last couple of years at Hogwarts, anyway. 

“Perfect.” You pause for a beat of silence, then continue pushing. “And I think I know where we can go. Have you ever been to The Grove, just off campus?”

He still isn’t looking back at you. “No.” 

You glance around, like Ashton Kutcher might come out from the woodworks with a camera crew. Is this a glimpse of the next fourteen weeks? You can respect when someone isn’t a big talker, but if he keeps this up, you might really be miserable in a class that you prayed to be in. “I’ll show you the way, then. Are you free at noon…ish, when the dining hall opens for dinner? I can meet you there.”

“Perfect.” Draco nods once more, firm and curt, then, without any more persuasion required, he goes back to his original task. 

Somewhat satisfied with your results, you meet Cedric at the front of the classroom and get a guidebook on the way. You take a look back over your shoulder to see the tables and chairs, where a particular bleach blonde head is already missing. Before you can think about it, or get a word in, Cedric nudges you out the door and walks alongside you down the hall. 

His eyes cast downwards as he flips through the pages of the book. “With quidditch and Marla’s insane schedule… this is gonna be a pain.”

“Why not tonight, after her practice? Or Wednesday?”

“Nights won’t work. No doubt she’ll be up late prepping for the game this weekend, and I’ll be busy getting my beauty sleep.”

“Naturally,” you say with a shrug, “I wish you both luck, then.”

Marla’s pursuits this week would follow according to Cedric’s predictions, and funnily enough, so would his own. Your relationship with Cedric is only a year short of Marla’s, and in the time you’ve known him– him and his chestnut curls and multi-hued eyes– the beauty sleep has never been necessary, not by anyone’s standards. Looks are always fixed upon him, no matter where you go, or regardless of if they even know his name– though, they usually do. 

The least amount of attention is garnered at the coffee shop you began to frequent throughout the past year, and now after the Divination period. His face has become familiarized there– the two of your faces, actually, typically sans Marla. 

A little bell jingles and the wooden, weather worn sign on the outside of the door swings as you and Cedric walk in. The wood reads El Dulce Mago in faded salmon colored cursive, engraved. Sweet cinnamon and coffee wafts straight to your nose, and chatter right to your ears. It falls to the background, mixing into the hum of Spanish music that comes from the back of the bar. 

“Oh, welcome back! How nice to see you!” A short, plump woman scurries from across the little café, threading her way through customers. Flour residue is splashed onto her pink apron. “I saved a table for you both, right over there.” 

“Thank you, Panne!”  Cedric says above the buzz of noise, and you take seats at the table in the corner. 

With a flick of Panne’s wrist, drinks are already being prepared from behind the counter. “Butterbeer?” She hardly waits for your response– though you nod anyway– and is instead swept up by the conversation of her other guests. They want to order another round of hot chocolate and bread, to-go. 

Sunbeams filter through the clouds on this side of the campus, the last of Summer’s air holding on for dear life as the term rolls in. They flourish in through the window and splay themselves across your table, absorbed by the various surfaces of hard maple wood. As Cedric’s bookbag hits the floor, a set of butterbeers find you, with the assistance of Panne’s husband and business partner, Canelo. 

Canelo offers nothing more than a nod, the line of his lips firm and straightened beneath his mustache before he’s gone again, likely to help Panne with the service. You give him your cheerful thanks as he walks away. 

Little stars and crescent moons are carved into the foam of your drinks, letting the steam out. And you and Cedric waste no time. With mouths thick of hot butterscotch and cream, you busy yourselves with mindless conversation and, in pauses, the café’s ambiance. It takes a few minutes and lulls before your mind drains and circles back around to the man who’s lingered in the back of it. You need another moment before you can build up the courage to spit the words out. 

“You guys didn’t mention that he was in the class.” When Cedric doesn’t respond– too consumed by his drink– you begrudgingly clarify, “Draco.” 

“Oh,” he says with a frown and looks down into the swirl of his butterbeer, “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

And it isn’t, really- it’s no deal at all, even despite the fact that you’ll be seeing him more than any of your other average Divination classmates. You clear your throat a little. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

With no desire to push Cedric any further on the subject of Draco Malfoy, you drop the matters completely. And he’s happy to move right along, suddenly excited again. 

“Oh! You won’t believe it! I already have a final assignment to work on.” He shuts his eyes in despair, fake weeping into his giant mug, which is nearly empty now. 

“No way! What’s it on? When’s it due?”

Cedric shrugs, nonchalant again. “No idea. It’s for my Cryptics and Curses history class. We have to find something from our massive textbooks to write about and turn in a draft thesis by Monday. And I’m serious, these textbooks truly are massive…”

“Cryptics and curses? Can’t they just pick one?” 

He pouts and whines low as he shoves his chin into his palm. The silence lingers, and you watch him, taunting– waiting for him to say it first. His shoulders slump and, in an instant, he gives in. “Please, will you help me research tomorrow? I’ll buy you food after! Somewhere delicious!”

You laugh, giggling into your cup as you finish off the drink. “Sure, we can go to the library after my Herbology class. But I’m meeting Draco tomorrow evening, so postpone the food for maybe this weekend.” 

“Oh thank you, thank you..” Cedric says with joy, eyes shut again and fingers interlocked as he revels in his success. You still would’ve said yes even if he weren’t so charming, you suppose. 

In some time, when the rush finally clears out, Panne makes her way back to your table and sighs. She plants a hand on her hip. “So, no Marla again? Does she hate us?”

“She’s much too cool for us now, I’m afraid.” Cedric shakes his head with theatrics, like it’s the most devastating thing in the world. “We must beg and plead for her to join us next time!” 

This has Panne tossing her head back, the chime of her laughter flooding throughout the room. She reaches out to nudge Cedric’s cheek as she clears out the empty butterbeer glasses, and they’re quickly replaced by three fresh sweetbreads, one of each Neapolitan flavor, wrapped up in a bag.

“Why, you better! We miss her very much when she’s gone for so long. Give her the pan for us. No charge.” She pulls you both into warm, plush hugs when you thank her and get up to gather your things. Her hot hand holds yours for a second, before she hurries back behind the encounter, meeting Canelo again. 

You leave a surplus of money on the table for the drinks and bread, and make sure to give Canelo a wave as you leave. A twinge of a smile ghosts his face as he returns the gesture, and you wonder if you might’ve imagined it. 

On the journey back to the main castle, a brisk wind picks up, with the sun overtaken by the clouds now and beginning to fall from the sky’s landscape. Students have scattered in the time you spent in the café- either settling into their own evening classes, or throwing in the towel for the day entirely. You and Cedric eat your bread as you walk, with the birds chirping above and all around you, making up for your lack of noise. He takes the vanilla flavor. 

Occasionally, he voices a stray thought with a piece of bread lodged in the crevice of his cheek. It’s usually something about quidditch techniques, or how Marla won’t stop bragging about the new Slytherin equipment and teammates. 

But the stroll is short before you’re back at the castle of classrooms again, and you must part ways with Cedric. He has another class to get ready for before dinnertime, where you’ll meet him again– surely to discuss the matters of his essay once more. And for the later half of your night, you spend the rest of your free time in your dorm room, dabbling with some assignments. It’s a few hours and attempts before you acknowledge that your focus may be elsewhere. 

To indulge yourself, you pick up the Tarot guidebook and flip through it, half-assedly skimming through the descriptions. They’re vague, but they provide the gist of an understanding- leaving room for interpretation, you assume. The back of the book has a variety of examples of card spreads and potential intentions to set, or questions to ask the deck. You can determine that much tomorrow, when you’re with your deskmate. Alongside their summarized descriptions, each page has its card’s image printed on the edges. The Lovers’ deity winks at you again. Is that all she does in her spare time?

The guidebook gets tossed off onto the deep green sheets of your bed, and you let yourself sink further. The image of Draco Malfoy manifests behind your eyes. His sudden presence today has skewed your mind entirely, and you hope that meeting him at The Grove will satiate it. 

Late into the night, when you’re tucked beneath your blankets and only the bedside table lamp is on, Marla slides herself through the heavy wooden door. She drops her backpack at the entrance with a thud and gets herself ready for her nightly routine of having a shower, then reading or working until her eyelids physically cannot go on. 

You want to stay up and ask about her day– or about your new Divination partner, your half-asleep state can silently admit– but your consciousness calls it quits by the time she’s laid out her fresh, matching set of pajamas. The bag with a strawberry sweetbread is left on her desk, accessorized with a couple of thick black heart doodles of your doing in the corner. By the time you wake, the bag is empty.

-> next chapter

[keehomania]

spoiled (스포일드) — kim seokjin (김석진)

part two can be found here

✧.* 18+

money was the silent orchestrator of the world, an unseen force that dictated the rhythm of life, the rise and fall of empires, the ebb and flow of fortunes. it was a creator and a destroyer, a source of power and a symbol of ambition. the inheritance of wealth could mold a person in myriad ways, breeding either foolish heirs who squandered their legacy or brilliant minds who elevated it. you were among the fortunate ones, born into affluence, but you were no fool.

your mother, a luminary in the fashion industry, had built an empire with her own hands. her name was synonymous with elegance and innovation, and her company was a testament to her relentless drive. you inherited not only her stunning beauty but also her formidable intellect. gorgeous, stunning—you were the epitome of grace and allure, turning heads wherever you went. yet, beneath that captivating exterior lay a mind sharper than any blade. you were the top of your class, the one whose name was always at the pinnacle of academic achievements. fluent in four languages, you navigated conversations with a fluidity that left others in awe. a scholarship awaited you, a testament to your hard work and brilliance, promising a future as bright as your past.

but intelligence and beauty weren't your only traits. there was a darker side to you, a part that thrived on power and control. you were mean, perhaps even rotten to your core, wielding your sharp wit and cutting remarks with a precision that left others reeling. it wasn't enough to be the best; you had to ensure everyone knew it, had to see the fear and admiration in their eyes. you relished in the power, in the way others bowed to your will, and it fed a part of you that nothing else could satisfy.

the grand estate was bathed in the golden hues of the late afternoon sun, its light filtering through the crystal chandeliers and casting intricate patterns on the polished marble floors. the opulence of the room was undeniable, from the sumptuous velvet drapes framing the expansive windows to the luxurious silk cushions adorning the elegant settee. the air was suffused with the delicate scent of blooming orchids and the heady fragrance of high-end perfume.

you glided through the hallways with the poise of someone accustomed to navigating both luxury and expectation, your steps silent on the plush carpet. you approached your mother’s sitting room, a space as meticulously curated as her latest fashion line. there, amidst a clutter of fabric swatches and sketchbooks, sat your mother—an embodiment of grace and precision. she was engrossed in her work, her slender fingers expertly tracing designs on a sketchpad.

“mother, what do you mean you’re getting married?” your voice was a blend of disbelief and irritation, piercing through the serene atmosphere of the room. she looked up momentarily, her gaze cool and dismissive. “you’re the only person making a big deal out of this, (y/n). have some respect. focus on your own engagement instead of mine.”

the mention of your engagement to kim taehyung—a union orchestrated purely for the benefit of your families’ business interests—sent a wave of frustration through you. it was a marriage neither of you had desired, yet it loomed over both your lives like a specter. “you have no shame, do you?” you couldn’t help but ask, the words escaping through gritted teeth. her eyes, sharp and unfeeling, met yours with a chilling calm. “while you’re at it, find a dress to wear for tonight. you’ll finally meet your step-brother in person.”

the term “step-brother” felt like a sharp jab. kim seokjin—whom you had long despised—was a man as ruthless as you were, a counterpart in cruelty. his reputation for being merciless and calculating was matched only by your own, and the thought of him entering your already complicated life was a bitter pill to swallow. you stared at your mother, her attention already drifting back to her sketches, and felt a mix of rage and resignation. that was your life—an intricate tapestry of beauty, wealth, and intelligence, all entwined with the demands and manipulations of those who wielded power without a thought for your personal happiness.

in the opulent confines of your dressing room, you moved with practiced ease among the racks of high-end garments. the room was a haven of luxury, with walls lined in elegant silk and shelves overflowing with an array of couture dresses. you sifted through the exquisite fabrics, your fingers grazing the soft silk and intricate lace as you searched for something suitable.

your mother’s voice, though distant, was still audible, her sharp instructions hanging in the air like an unwelcome perfume. “and don’t forget to accessorize properly. it’s important that you look presentable.” you rolled your eyes, dismissing her instructions with a wave of your hand as if to shoo away an irritating fly. your gaze landed on a stunning, midnight blue dress—a floor-length creation of silk and satin that flowed like liquid night. it was the perfect blend of sophistication and understated elegance, its deep hue accentuating your striking features. you slipped it on, the fabric hugging your figure with a sensual grace.

just as you were adjusting the dress, the shrill ring of your phone pierced through the ambiance of the room. glancing at the screen, you saw taehyung’s photo staring back at you, his image frozen in a charming, if somewhat distant, smile. you answered with a scoff, the irritation in your voice palpable. “hello?”

his voice came through, cold and casual. “what are you doing?” you rolled your eyes again, your tone dripping with venom. “getting ready to meet my step-brother.” the words were laced with a disdainful emphasis, meant to irritate your mother, who was still buried in her work.

there was a pause on the other end, followed by taehyung’s cautious inquiry. “is it official, then? will kim seokjin really become your step-brother?” you snorted derisively. “don’t ever call him that again,” you snapped, unable to hide the venom in your voice. “he’s nothing more than a nuisance.” with that, you ended the call abruptly, the screen darkening as you tossed your phone aside. you returned to your reflection in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your dress with a mixture of resignation and defiance. the evening ahead promised to be another stage in the endless drama of your life—a life where every interaction was tinged with power plays and unspoken rivalries.

you accompanied your mother through the opulent corridor leading to the restaurant linked to kim hyunsoo’s grand hotel, the weight of your irritation palpable with each step. the opulence of the hotel’s interior did little to soothe your mood. the lavish decor—gold leaf accents, polished marble floors, and crystal chandeliers—felt like an elaborate facade, masking the discomfort you felt.

“this is absolutely ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself, the words escaping through gritted teeth. “i can’t believe i have to endure another evening of this charade.” your mother, walking beside you with her usual air of practiced elegance, offered no comment. she was focused on her phone, perhaps finalizing details for the evening or merely avoiding the exchange of pleasantries.

as you reached the entrance to the restaurant, your eyes fell on kim hyunsoo standing at the threshold, his imposing figure framed by the grand entrance. his presence was magnetic, a blend of authority and charisma. the moment he saw your mother, his face broke into a warm smile. he stepped forward and greeted her with a tender kiss on the cheek, a display of affection that seemed almost theatrical.

you couldn't suppress the scoff that escaped your lips. the gesture seemed to be as much a performance as it was genuine affection, a mere piece of the elaborate play that was your life. hyunsoo turned to you, his smile unwavering. “ah, (y/n),” he said warmly, his eyes surveying you with an appraising gaze. “you’ve certainly inherited your mother’s looks.”

the comment made you cringe inwardly, though you maintained a polite smile. “thank you,” you replied, forcing a touch of gratitude into your voice. your gaze shifted to the table where kim seokjin sat, his presence commanding attention even from a distance. he was seated with a relaxed posture, a faint smirk playing on his lips—a smirk you knew all too well. the dynamic between him and his father was palpable; hyunsoo’s authoritative demeanor was mirrored by the cold distance he maintained with his son.

“seokjin, please stand up, don't be rude” his father instructed, his voice tinged with an almost imperceptible note of command. seokjin rose with a practiced grace, his smirk never faltering. as he approached your mother, he greeted her with a display of chivalry, his smile polished and disarmingly charming. “good evening, ma'am. it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

he turned his attention to you, extending a hand with a smirk that seemed to say he knew all your secrets. “haven’t seen you in a while, sister.” you couldn’t help but scoff at the nickname, the term dripping with insincerity. “how’s my friend, the fiancé?” he asked, his voice laced with a teasing edge.

you rolled your eyes, though you tried to keep your tone even. “taehyung has been well, thank you for asking.”

your mother, sensing the undercurrent of tension, quickly intervened. “let’s not stand on ceremony. please, everyone, let’s sit down and enjoy our meal.” with that, the group moved to their seats, the evening set to unfold in the lavish surroundings of the restaurant. the table, elegantly set with fine china and crystal glasses, seemed to promise a night of carefully orchestrated politeness and hidden animosities. as you settled into your chair, you braced yourself for the intricate dance of social niceties and familial politics that lay ahead.

the dining room, bathed in the soft glow of hanging chandeliers, was a tableau of refined elegance. the table was adorned with pristine white linens, crystal glassware, and polished silver cutlery, each element meticulously arranged to complement the luxurious surroundings. as you and the others settled into your seats, the clinking of silverware and the murmur of polite conversation filled the space.

hyunsoo, with his air of effortless charm, took the lead in the conversation. “so, (y/n),” he began, addressing you with a casual interest, “how do you and my son know each other?” you placed your fork down, your gaze steady. “we attend the same high school,” you explained, your tone even. “he used to be friends with taehyung, my fiancé.”

hyunsoo turned his attention to his son, his eyes narrowing slightly as he posed a question. “seokjin, why did you two stop hanging out?” his son, sitting with an air of casual defiance, responded with a scoff.

“i’d rather not talk about it,” he said dismissively. he then directed his gaze back to you, his smirk reappearing with an almost predatory gleam. “do give him my best regards,” he said with an insincere sweetness that made your skin crawl.

the conversation was beginning to wear on your patience. the façade of civility, the undercurrents of tension—it was all too much. with a sigh, you decided it was best to excuse yourself. “i’ve lost my appetite,” you announced, standing up with a decisive motion. “i’ll be leaving now.” without waiting for a response, you made your way out of the restaurant, the cool evening air a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. as you stepped onto the sidewalk, the allure of retail therapy beckoned. you needed to blow off steam and escape the artificial pleasantries of the evening.

just as you were contemplating how to leave without drawing unwanted attention, you heard the sound of footsteps echoing behind you. turning around, you saw seokjin approaching, his smirk as unwavering as ever. “planning to see lover boy?” he asked, his voice carrying a taunting edge. you arched an eyebrow, the irritation in your tone barely concealed. “i’m going shopping. i can’t stand this anymore.”

his expression shifted slightly, a smirk still playing on his lips as he leaned in closer. “i hate it as much as you do,” he admitted in a low voice. “but there’s nothing you can do about it. you’ll just have to make peace with being my sister.” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at his audacity. “and why should i take advice from you?”

he gestured toward a sleek motorcycle parked at the curb, its dark surface gleaming under the streetlights. “the mall’s too far away, princess,” he said with a casual shrug. “good luck walking there.” he turned and began to walk toward the motorcycle, his smirk growing wider.

you hesitated for a moment, the prospect of walking a long distance against the backdrop of your frustration compelling you to reconsider. with a resigned sigh, you caved and followed him. he glanced over his shoulder, a satisfied gleam in his eye as he handed you a helmet. “climb on,” he instructed. “and hold on tight.”

you mounted the motorcycle with a scoff, feeling his smirk radiate through the air. as he settled into place in front of you, the rumble of the engine beneath you provided a thrilling contrast to the evening’s earlier tension. you gripped the edges of his jacket, readying yourself for the ride. his presence, though infuriating, was about to take you away from the constraints of the evening’s charade and into the night’s liberating possibilities.

the rumble of the motorcycle beneath you was a steady, rhythmic pulse as seokjin maneuvered through the city streets, heading towards the mall. the cool night air whipped past you, mingling with the hum of the engine and the occasional flash of neon lights from the passing storefronts. the journey was a blend of discomfort and unexpected exhilaration, with his occasional glances over his shoulder adding a touch of irritation to the otherwise liberating ride.

when the motorcycle finally came to a stop in front of the gleaming mall entrance, you dismounted, the solid ground beneath your feet a welcome change from the bike’s vibrations. you turned to him, eyebrow raised in surprise. “where do you think you’re going?” you asked, catching sight of him sliding off the motorcycle with a casual grace. his smirk was as unwavering as ever. “accompanying you,” he replied, arching an eyebrow with a nonchalant air. “it’s the brotherly thing to do, after all.”

you rolled your eyes but chose not to argue. with a huff, you headed towards the entrance of the mall, the anticipation of shopping lifting your spirits slightly. the vast interior of the mall was a labyrinth of luxury boutiques, department stores, and specialty shops, all bathed in the soft, ambient glow of recessed lighting.

you wandered through a myriad of stores, each one a treasure trove of fashion and accessories. from high-end clothing to chic accessories and luxurious makeup, you filled multiple shopping bags to the brim. each time your arms began to tire, you’d hand the bags over to seokjin, who wore an expression of resigned defeat.

his initial smirk had faded into a look of palpable exhaustion as he struggled to juggle the growing collection of shopping bags. “is this really necessary?” he muttered, his voice tinged with irritation. you smirked at him, reveling in his discomfort. “it’s the brotherly thing to do,” you replied with a teasing inflection, mimicking his earlier words. he merely scoffed, but he complied, following you through store after store. the evening wore on, the mall’s atmosphere a dizzying blur of bright lights and vibrant displays.

as you perused a selection of skirts, you heard a familiar voice calling out your name. you turned, surprised to see taehyung striding towards you with an expression of concern. seokjin’s scoff was barely audible beside you. “you’ve gotta be joking,” he muttered under his breath.

taehyung approached, his gaze shifting between you and seokjin with evident disapproval. “what are you doing with him?” he asked, his tone edged with tension. before you could respond, seokjin wrapped an arm around you, his smirk a mocking contrast to taehyung’s serious demeanor. “shopping with her brother,” he said smoothly. “we’re just bonding. why the long face?”

taehyung’s eyes narrowed in response. “call me when you get the chance,” he said, his voice softening as he turned to you. he leaned in and planted a brief, affectionate kiss on your cheek before stepping back. seokjin scoffed, the sound dripping with disdain. “how touching,” he remarked sarcastically.

the display of affection felt hollow, a forced gesture that did little to alleviate the artificiality of the evening. you turned to seokjin with a glare, unable to contain your frustration any longer. “you haven’t told him, have you?”

he looked at you with a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “what? that you slept with me?” he asked, his tone nonchalant. “can’t say that I have.”

the memory of that night—the one you had hoped to keep buried—flashed through your mind, bringing a wave of discomfort. you grimaced, your voice sharp with a sudden edge. “keep it that way,” you snapped. “for both our sakes.” his eyes narrowed slightly, though his smirk remained. “consider it done,” he said with a shrug. “but don’t expect me to be quiet forever.” as he turned to follow you once more, the tension between you felt almost palpable, the facade of familial civility wearing thin. the revelation, unexpected and intense, hung in the air like a dark cloud over the evening's strained politeness, promising that the complex web of relationships and hidden truths was far from over.

the ride back to your place was a strained silence punctuated only by the low rumble of the engine and the occasional rush of wind. seokjin’s grip on the handlebars was steady, but the tension between you was almost tangible. the city lights flickered by in a blur, the streets now quiet and calm after the evening's earlier hustle. as he maneuvered the bike into the parking lot of your residential complex, you could see the familiar outline of your building emerging from the shadows. the cool night air greeted you as you dismounted, the weight of the evening's events heavy on your shoulders.

your mother was waiting outside, a cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the smoke curling lazily into the night. her face lit up with a practiced smile when she spotted the two of you. “oh, what a lovely surprise,” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with insincerity. “i’m so happy to see you both bonding.” seokjin gave a polite nod, his expression a mask of courteousness. “good night, ma'am” he said, preparing to leave.

but before he could pull away, your mother called out, her tone shifting from casual to inviting. “oh, seokjin, why don’t you stay the night? you might as well make yourself comfortable, since you and your father will be moving in soon anyway.” you let out an audible scoff, your annoyance clear. “mother, that—”

his initial inclination to decline was evident, but when he caught sight of your reaction, a calculating smirk slowly crept onto his face. “i’d be honoured,” he said smoothly, addressing your mother. the shift in his demeanor was immediate, and you felt your face fall in horror. the realization of what this meant settled over you like a cold, heavy blanket. your mother, oblivious to your distress, beamed with delight. “wonderful!” she exclaimed. “come inside, both of you.”

you turned to him with a glare, your frustration palpable. “what do you think you’re doing?” you demanded. his smirk widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “just keeping my sister company,” he replied, his voice dripping with insincerity.

with a resigned sigh, you turned on your heel and headed towards the entrance of the building. “fine,” you said curtly. “you can start by carrying the bags in.” the satisfaction of seeing his grimace as he picked up the bags was a small consolation as you walked inside, the weight of the evening’s revelations settling heavily over you. the prospect of having seokjin as a constant presence in your life, particularly as your step-brother, was an unsettling twist that promised to complicate things further.

as you prepared for bed, the hum of conversation from the living room seeped into your room. the voices of your mother and seokjin intertwined in a nauseating symphony of pleasantries and false intimacy. the sound of his laughter, insincere and mocking, only served to heighten your irritation. you could imagine the sickeningly sweet exchange taking place just beyond the door: your mother’s fluttering giggles and his carefully measured compliments.

you stood in front of your mirror, the soft, silken strands of your hair cascading over your shoulders as you brushed them out. each stroke was a deliberate motion, a small attempt to maintain a semblance of control amid the chaos that had abruptly entered your life. the pale light of the bedside lamp illuminated your reflection, casting delicate shadows on your features.

suddenly, your mother’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. “(y/n), come to the living room for a moment.”

your heart sank as you walked down the hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last. the living room’s soft, warm light contrasted starkly with the cool, calculating presence of seokjin, who was lounging comfortably on the sofa. his eyes met yours with a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine.

“oh, there you are,” your mother said with a bright, if forced, cheerfulness. “seokjin proposed such a wonderful idea. we should invite taehyung for breakfast with the whole family tomorrow.” the words felt like a punch to the gut. your stomach churned, and you felt your face pale as you glared at him. the smirk on his face was almost predatory, a silent taunt that he knew exactly what he was doing. “it’s been a while since i've seen him,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, feigning nostalgia.

your mouth went dry, and you struggled to maintain your composure. “taehyung’s been busy with the company,” you said, forcing a casual tone into your voice. your mother’s eyes narrowed with impatience. “nonsense,” she said dismissively. “he always makes time for his fiancée. don’t be ridiculous, (y/n).”

seokjin chimed in, his voice laced with an undercurrent of venom. “i’d think so too. it would be nice to catch up.” biting back the retort on the tip of your tongue, you managed to force a strained smile. “i’ll give him a call and see if he can make it.”

your mother’s face lit up with unrestrained delight. “perfect! we’ll all have a lovely time.”

with a final nod, your mother headed towards her bedroom, leaving you and seokjin alone. you retreated to your room, your mind a tumult of frustration and unease. as you resumed brushing your hair, you caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. he was standing just outside your door, watching you with an unsettling, predatory gaze.

“are you out of your mind?” you snapped, not turning around. his smirk widened as he stepped into the room, his presence exuding a palpable tension. he moved with deliberate slowness, his footsteps almost silent against the polished floor. as he approached, your breath quickened, the space between you narrowing until his breath was warm against the back of your neck. he gently pushed your hair aside, his touch lingering just a little too long.

“what’s the issue?” he murmured, his voice low and taunting. “are you so afraid of your fiancé finding out about our little rendezvous? or perhaps you’re concerned your mother might discover that her perfect daughter has a rather troubling fondness for her new stepbrother?”

you stiffened in front of the mirror, your heart racing. desperately trying to maintain a facade of calm, you replied, “i have no idea what you’re talking about.” he chuckled softly, the sound resonating with dark amusement. “oh, i’m sure you don’t,” he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. “well, good night then. i look forward to seeing my brother-in-law tomorrow.”

as he walked away, the soft click of the door closing behind him left you in a charged silence. the intensity of the moment lingered, leaving you with a tangled mix of dread and apprehension. as you stared at your reflection, the night’s revelations swirled around you, setting the stage for the complex and treacherous path that lay ahead.

as the clock ticked away into the early hours of the morning, you found yourself hunched over your phone, fingers trembling slightly as you typed out a message to taehyung. the screen’s dim glow illuminated your face, casting shadows that only seemed to deepen the anxiety pooling in your stomach.

“hey, taehyung. i’ve arranged for breakfast with my family tomorrow. it would mean a lot if you could join us. i hope you’re free.” you stared at the message for a moment, the words feeling like a leaden weight. the last thing you wanted was for him to be in the same room as seokjin, but you couldn’t think of a plausible excuse to cancel the invitation. with a resigned sigh, you hit send, hoping for an excuse to emerge from somewhere, anywhere. throwing your phone onto the bedside table, you buried your face in the cool sheets and forced yourself to sleep, even as the anxiety kept your mind racing.

when morning light filtered through the curtains, you reluctantly dragged yourself from the bed. the day stretched before you, fraught with the tension of what awaited. you moved through your morning routine with mechanical precision, each movement a choreographed dance of necessity rather than joy. dressed in a sleek, sophisticated outfit—elegant yet understated—you made your way to the dining hall. the murmur of conversation and the clink of cutlery reached your ears before you even stepped inside. you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

the scene that greeted you was like a punch to the gut. the dining table was a tableau of familial warmth and cheer, a stark contrast to the tumult brewing within you. your mother sat at the head of the table, a vision of radiant composure, while seokjin and his father occupied the seats on either side. the sight that nearly made your heart stop was taehyung, seated directly beside seokjin, his expression a mix of discomfort and forced politeness.

the moment you entered, seokjin’s eyes lit up with a devious glint. his smirk widened as he called out in a tone laced with mock cheerfulness, “there’s my sister! finally decided to join us?” your stomach dropped as your mother’s face brightened. “oh, you’re just in time!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with enthusiasm. “we’ve been waiting for you.”

seokjin’s father turned to you, his gaze appreciative as he remarked, “you look stunning this morning.” you offered a strained smile in return, your insides twisting with a mixture of frustration and dread. with deliberate steps, you crossed the room and took a seat directly across from seokjin. the breakfast spread was a feast of opulent proportions, but your appetite was long gone, replaced by a gnawing sense of unease.

turning to taehyung, you forced a pleasant smile. “good morning, taehyung.” his response was a carefully controlled, if equally false, smile. “good morning, sweetheart.”

the term of endearment seemed to have a magnetic effect on seokjin, who looked at taehyung with an expression that flickered between amusement and something darker—resentment, perhaps. the corners of his mouth twitched as if he were about to say something, but he restrained himself, the hint of a smirk still playing at his lips. your mother’s cooing only served to heighten the discomfort. “oh, you two make such a lovely couple. it’s wonderful to see you both getting along so well.”

seokjin’s eyes were a dark pool of satisfaction as he observed the interaction, clearly reveling in the discomfort he had orchestrated. the breakfast proceeded with strained conversation and polite laughter, each bite of food tasting like cardboard, each exchange of pleasantries feeling like a forced performance. the morning air was thick with the pretenses and tensions that lay just beneath the surface. each passing moment felt like a countdown to the inevitable fallout, and you could only hope that somehow, someway, this precarious balance would hold until you could escape the confines of the gilded cage.

the clinking of cutlery against fine china created a rhythmic backdrop to the strained conversation. your mother, ever the adept conversationalist, turned her attention to you and taehyung with a gleaming smile. “so,” she began, her tone warm and honeyed, “have you two given any more thought to the wedding plans? i’m sure there’s so much to organize, but it’s all part of the fun, isn’t it?”

taehyung, his expression a mask of polite detachment, nodded. “yes, we’ve been working through the details. there’s a lot to consider, but we’re managing.” you offered a non-committal shrug. “it’s just a formality, really. the details don’t matter much to me.”

your mother’s smile faltered slightly but she pressed on. “oh, but it’s such an important day. you’ll want everything to be perfect.” seokjin, who had been watching with a calculating gaze, leaned in with a fabricated sincerity. “you two are such a precious couple. it’s heartwarming to see you both so committed.”

you shot him a glare, your eyes narrowing in warning, but the intensity of his smirk only grew. unbeknownst to the others at the table, his hand began a slow, deliberate journey up your hamstring, his fingers grazing the exposed skin of your ankle before tracing along your heel. a shiver ran up your spine, not from pleasure but from the shock of his audacity. his touch was both tender and invasive, a contradictory blend that left you feeling unnervingly exposed. his eyes flickered toward taehyung, who was deeply engaged in conversation with your mother, oblivious to the silent exchange happening under the table.

with a determined calmness, you shifted your foot, removing the heel from your shoe. you pressed your bare sole gently against his clothed crotch, the contact eliciting a subdued grunt from him. the sound was enough to draw the attention of everyone at the table.

your mother's head snapped toward him, a frown of concern etched on her face. “is everything alright?” seokjin cleared his throat, a mask of discomfort now in place. “just a bit of a cramp,” he said, his voice strained but controlled. “i’ll be fine.”

your mother’s eyes softened with concern. “do you need an ice pack, dear?” he shook his head, though his eyes remained locked with yours, a smirk barely contained. “no, thank you. i’ll manage.”

as you slipped your foot back into your heel, the smug satisfaction on your face was palpable. the brief encounter had been a dangerous game, but you had managed to assert some measure of control. the exchange was subtle, yet charged with an intensity that left your pulse racing. taehyung, still watching seokjin with a mixture of worry and suspicion, glanced at you with a raised eyebrow. he seemed to sense that something had occurred, but the details eluded him. you met his gaze with an innocent, if somewhat strained, smile.

seokjin’s gaze lingered on you, his smirk now a twisted symbol of triumph. the underlying tension was almost tangible, a dark thread weaving through the seemingly mundane breakfast conversation. despite the outward civility, the air crackled with an unspoken challenge, a game of dominance played out in the guise of a simple family meal.

as taehyung prepared to leave, you approached him with a practiced grace, leaning in to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. the gesture, though routine, was met with enthusiastic coos from your mother and her new husband, their faces lighting up with approval. seokjin, however, observed with a dark intensity, his gaze locked with taehyung’s in a silent, menacing exchange. the atmosphere crackled with unspoken hostility as he departed, leaving you standing at the threshold of your room.

once alone, you retreated to your room, eager to change out of your breakfast attire. your wardrobe offered a range of options, but you were immediately drawn to a sleek, pink dress. as you pulled it from the hanger, a voice, cold and commanding, cut through the quiet. “don’t wear that one. too short.”

startled, you turned to see seokjin standing in the doorway, his smirk taunting. you rolled your eyes and tossed the dress aside with a dismissive flick of your wrist. “it’s none of your concern.” his amusement only grew. he sauntered closer, the confidence in his step both unsettling and provocative. his next question was blunt, his eyes narrowing with a predatory glint. “have you and taehyung fucked yet?”

you recoiled, a flush rising to your cheeks as you scoffed at his vulgarity. “you’re disgusting,” you decided to do what you did best—you lied. “but if you must know, yes, we have.”

his smirk never wavered as he drew near, his breath warm against your ear. “oh, really? was he good?” your heart raced, but you forced yourself to respond with practiced nonchalance. “the best i’ve ever had.”

before you could register the full impact of your lie, his hands were on your hips, his touch sending an involuntary shiver through you. his fingers grazed the fabric of your dress, moving with deliberate slowness. he leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck, igniting a frisson of unwanted pleasure. the sensation was overwhelming as his finger slipped beneath the hem of your dress, brushing your clit through your underwear. a sharp yelp escaped your lips, and you instinctively grabbed onto his arm, your grip tight as if to anchor yourself in the face of his audacity.

“stop,” you whispered urgently, your voice trembling. “anyone could come in.”

seokjin’s eyes glinted with cruel satisfaction as he withdrew his touch, his fingers lingering in the air for a moment. he turned toward the door, but not before performing a slow, deliberate motion that made your stomach churn. he brought his finger to his mouth, licking it clean with a sensuous, unhurried stroke. “just wanted a taste,” he said softly, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “breakfast wasn’t enough.”

with that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him. you stood frozen, your mind racing as you processed the invasion of privacy and the degradation you had just endured. the room felt oppressively quiet, the tension of the encounter leaving an acrid taste in the air. you hurried to your mirror, your reflection revealing a flush of lust and humiliation. your hands trembled as you grasped the discarded dress, the weight of his touch lingering in your senses. desperately, you tried to compose yourself, to regain some semblance of control as you prepared to face the rest of the day.

the day had dawned with a biting chill, but you were too preoccupied with the turmoil from the night before to pay it any heed. as you slipped into your uniform, the short, beige skirt clung uncomfortably to your hips. you meticulously dusted off the fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles as best as you could. the skirt, although practical, felt like an unwelcome reminder of the escalating tension between you and seokjin.

stepping out of your room, you were met with your mother’s beaming smile. she was already preparing to offer you a ride, her cheerfulness a stark contrast to your inner turmoil. but before she could extend the offer, seokjin appeared beside her, his gaze lingering on you with a mixture of approval and something darker.

“i’ll take her,” he announced smoothly, his voice carrying a confident, almost commanding tone. your mother’s face lit up with delight. “oh, that’s a wonderful idea, jin! i’m sure you two will have a pleasant drive.”

you tried to voice your protest, but the words seemed to die on your lips as you followed him to the entrance. as you walked, you felt his hand graze your thigh—a touch both intimate and unnervingly casual. a shiver ran up your spine as he let out a soft tsk, his gaze sliding down to your skirt. “this skirt's much too short,” he commented with a feigned air of disapproval. you fought the urge to flinch at his touch, though it left a disconcerting sensation in your stomach. rolling your eyes, you replied, “it’s not short enough.”

his sharp look silenced you instantly, his eyes narrowing with an intensity that made you want to shrink away. without a word, he reached into the compartment of his motorcycle and pulled out a helmet. the sleek, black visor seemed to glint with a dangerous promise. he handed it to you with a barely perceptible smirk. “here,” he said, “you’ll need this.”

you took the helmet with a resigned sigh, slipping it over your head. as you adjusted it, seokjin mounted his motorcycle with practiced ease. he gestured for you to climb on behind him. with a deep breath, you wrapped your arms around his waist, the feel of his body against yours both unsettling and strangely thrilling. his touch was almost absent as he guided the motorcycle out of the driveway, his movements smooth and fluid. the engine roared to life beneath you, and you felt the vibration travel up through the seat, connecting you in a way that was both intimate and intrusive. as the bike picked up speed, the wind whipped around you, a harsh reminder of the precarious balance between control and chaos in your relationship with him.

the motorcycle finally rolled to a stop outside the grand gates of your school, a prestigious, modern private institution that towered above you with its gleaming glass façade and intricate architectural details. the building seemed to pulse with a life of its own, reflecting the morning sun in a dazzling display of light. you dismounted quickly, feeling seokjin’s presence just behind you as you surveyed the sea of students who turned their heads to watch.

with a practiced air of indifference, you strode towards the entrance, the clack of your heels against the pavement sharp and commanding. seokjin matched your pace, his stride relaxed yet unmistakably assured. his presence only amplified the scrutiny from your peers, their eyes flitting between you and him as they whispered amongst themselves.

the hallways of the school were just as opulent as the exterior, decorated with sleek marble floors and walls adorned with modern art. you approached your locker with the familiar weight of the day’s burden pressing on your shoulders. as you spun the combination, the soft murmur of voices from two girls near the lockers caught your attention. “did you see that?” one whispered, her tone tinged with awe and curiosity. “she’s with kim seokjin.”

“yeah,” the other replied, “i heard he’s going to be her stepbrother. and what about taehyung? is he still her fiancé?” you froze momentarily, your mind racing. you snapped your head in their direction, the edge of your gaze sharp enough to cut through the uncertainty that hung in the air. the girls fell silent, their eyes widening as they avoided your stare.

“speak up,” you demanded, your voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “i can’t hear you properly.” the two girls exchanged terrified glances before they hastily gathered their things and hurried away, their retreating footsteps echoing down the corridor. you slammed your locker shut with a decisive bang, the sound reverberating through the hallway. the echo of their whispers was replaced by the gentle, almost mocking chuckle of seokjin beside you.

“you know,” he said with a smirk, his voice low and teasing, “you might want to consider being a bit nicer. you’d have less to deal with if you did.”

you shot him a look that could have frozen fire, your expression a mix of annoyance and disdain. “dealing with you is a death sentence itself,” you retorted sharply. his amusement only grew as he followed you down the hallway, his laughter a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate in time with your quickening pace. the halls were filled with a soft hum of activity as students bustled about, their chatter and laughter creating a backdrop to your tense exchange.

the bell chimed with its usual, resonant clang, signaling the beginning of your literature class. the room, with its rows of wooden desks and high-backed chairs, settled into a hush as students rustled through their notebooks and textbooks. the light from the large windows spilled across the floor in golden patches, warming the space and casting a serene glow over the scene.

the professor, a middle-aged woman with a penchant for dramatic flair, stepped to the front of the class. she adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat, her eyes twinkling with the promise of intellectual challenge.

“today,” she began, “we will be delving into the complexities of shakespeare’s works. i want to start by discussing hamlet. can anyone tell me about the significance of the ghost in the play?” the room was filled with a heavy silence as students exchanged glances, their faces betraying a mix of uncertainty and reluctance. you could almost feel the collective hesitation hanging in the air. with a soft, derisive scoff, you raised your hand.

“yes, (y/n)?” the professor prompted. “the ghost of king hamlet represents the unresolved issues and the sins of the past,” you began smoothly, your tone both confident and nonchalant. “he acts as a catalyst for hamlet’s quest for revenge and moral reflection, underscoring the play’s themes of corruption and madness.”

the professor nodded appreciatively, and you continued to field the subsequent questions with equal ease. your responses flowed effortlessly, the knowledge gained from countless hours of studying shakespeare’s intricacies and nuances evident in your answers. each question seemed to melt away beneath your adept grasp of the material, leaving the professor and the class in a state of quiet admiration—or, perhaps, envy.

throughout your impromptu display of literary prowess, seokjin sat at the back of the room, his gaze locked on you with an expression of bemused amusement. his smirk widened with each correct answer, his eyes sparkling with an inscrutable mixture of pride and mischief. the way he watched you, leaning back in his chair with an air of casual elegance, made it clear that he enjoyed every moment of your intellectual dominance.

then, breaking the relative silence of the lecture, his voice cut through the air with a deliberate casualness. “professor,” he began, his tone smooth and deliberately casual, “will the class be covering cymbeline at any point?” your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the play. you froze, your fingers gripping the edge of your desk as your eyes shot towards him. his gaze met yours, and the smirk on his lips was infuriatingly smug.

the professor, momentarily taken aback, adjusted her glasses and thought for a moment. “ah, cymbeline,” she mused. “it is indeed a romance about the struggles and complexities of unrequited love between the characters of cloten and imogen, who, as it turns out, are stepsiblings. we will be covering this play in our syllabus, and you’ll have the opportunity to discuss its themes and characters in the near future.”

as she spoke, you felt a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. the connection he had made—whether intentional or not—was impossible to ignore. the irony of discussing a romance between stepsiblings while seated next to him, the future stepbrother in your life, was nearly unbearable. you buried your face in your hands, the heat of mortification blending with frustration. seokjin’s amusement was palpable. he leaned back, his smirk widening as he relished in the discomfort he had stirred. his eyes glinted with satisfaction as he observed your reaction, finding some twisted pleasure in the way you squirmed beneath his gaze.

the bell rang, its sharp peal reverberating through the hallways of the private school. students began to shuffle out of the classroom, their voices mingling into a hum of chatter as they made their way to their next destination. you, with a determined stride, pushed through the crowd, eager to escape the claustrophobic confines of the literature class.

just as you were about to leave the classroom, a familiar voice called out from behind you.

“impressive as always, sister” seokjin said with a mocking inflection in his tone. “your knowledge of literature, your prowess in speaking four languages, and let’s not forget your mathematical skills. quite the renaissance woman.” you rolled your eyes, ignoring him and quickening your pace. “not now, seokjin,” you muttered, focusing on the path ahead.

with his characteristic blend of confidence and insolence, he wasn’t easily deterred. he kept pace beside you, his footsteps echoing your own. “oh, but wait,” he continued, a sly smile curling his lips, “such brilliance, and yet—”

he paused dramatically, letting his words hang in the air. you shot him a wary glance, your irritation mounting. “and yet?” you prompted, trying to keep your voice steady. “so smart,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “until she’s on her knees for her stepbrother.”

you froze mid-step, the echo of his words reverberating in your mind. the hallway seemed to close in around you, the chatter of students fading into a distant murmur. you whirled around to face him, your eyes blazing with a mix of anger and embarrassment. “keep it down, asshole” you hissed, glancing around to ensure no one else could hear. “anyone could hear you.”

his smirk widened, clearly enjoying the effect his words had on you. without warning, he reached out and grasped your wrist, pulling you back towards him. you stumbled slightly, your back pressing against his chest as he held you close.

“don’t you want to have lunch with your stepbrother?” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. the proximity made your pulse quicken, a mixture of fear and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. you shivered, both from his touch and the implications of his words. “let go, asshole,” you said, struggling to free yourself from his grip. “this isn’t funny.”

he didn’t release you, though. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “come on,” he said, his tone softening just enough to sound almost genuine. “you can’t avoid me forever.” reluctantly, you sighed and resigned yourself to the situation. “fine,” you muttered, “let’s go.”

his grip on your wrist loosened, and he finally released you, though he maintained a close proximity as you both made your way to the cafeteria. the hallway was bustling with students, their faces a blur of excitement and chatter. he walked beside you, his presence a constant reminder of the tension between you. as you entered the cafeteria, the noise level surged. The scent of various foods—freshly baked bread, savory meats, and sweet desserts—filled the air. the large room was filled with long tables, some already occupied by groups of students engaged in animated conversations. you and seokjin made your way to an empty table in the corner, away from the more crowded areas.

he pulled out a chair for you with an exaggerated flourish, his smirk never fading. “after you, dear step-sister,” he said, his voice dripping with mock politeness.

you sat down, your eyes narrowing at him as you took in the way he effortlessly commanded the space around him. his presence was both intimidating and infuriating. as you began to look over the food options, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered on you, you could feel the weight of his words and actions pressing down on you. “why are you doing this?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you reached for a plate. his eyes sparkled with mischief. “doing what?” he asked innocently, though the gleam in his eye betrayed his true intentions.

“playing games,” you clarified, your frustration palpable. “why make things so difficult?” he leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving you. “it’s not about making things difficult,” he said casually. “it’s about making things interesting. besides, it’s not every day i get to spend time with my step-sister.”

as you both waited for your food, the cafeteria buzzed with the chatter of other students, the atmosphere filled with a vibrant energy that contrasted sharply with the tension between you and him. the clash of his casual demeanor against your stiff, frustrated silence created a palpable tension in the air, one that neither of you seemed willing to break.

as he leaned back in his chair, his casual demeanor never faltering, you turned to him with an edge of exasperation in your voice. “seokjin,” you began, your tone sharp, “stop calling me your step-sister. it’s not funny.” his smirk widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. “oh, but it is funny,” he said, a mischievous tone threading through his words. “besides, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

before you could retort, the cafeteria doors swung open with a familiar creak. taehyung walked in, his expression taut with displeasure. his eyes locked onto yours and then to seokjin. he approached the table, his gaze stern. “what’s going on here?” he asked, his voice low and controlled but clearly irritated.

seokjin, seemingly unfazed, looked up at him with a smirk. “isn’t it obvious?” he replied with a nonchalant shrug. “i’m simply enjoying lunch with my sister.” you shot him a withering glare, feeling the flush of humiliation creeping up your neck. taehyung’s patience seemed to wear thin as he turned to you.

“get up,” he said firmly, extending his hand. you stared at him in astonishment. “what? why?”

“just get up,” he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. reluctantly, you stood, but before you could move, seokjin’s hand shot out, gripping your arm with surprising force. “sit back down,” he commanded, his voice icy.

taehyung’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “if you don’t let her go,” he said through gritted teeth, “i’ll knock your ass out clean.”

seokjin’s smirk remained, his eyes twinkling with dark amusement. “please,” he said, gesturing towards the other students who had begun to watch the scene unfold. “let’s not make a scene.”

mortification washed over you as the stares of the students pierced through you like daggers. “cut it out, both of you,” you said, your voice rising in desperation. “this is ridiculous.”

taehyung’s frustration was palpable as he reached for your wrist, pulling gently. “let’s go,” he said firmly. but just as he began to lead you away, seokjin yanked you back by your other arm, his grip unyielding. the two men locked eyes, the tension between them nearly tangible.

taehyung’s jaw clenched. “watch what you’re doing,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. seokjin’s smirk only deepened. “oh, i’m just having a little fun,” he said, his tone taunting. “if you think you can do something about it, feel free to try.”

before taehyung could make a move, you interjected, your voice trembling but resolute. “seokjin,” you said firmly, “i’ll be right back.” his eyes flashed with reluctant understanding, though his smirk remained. he released his grip on your arm but maintained a watchful gaze as you began to follow taehyung. as you moved away, the atmosphere crackled with an unspoken challenge between the two of them. you glanced back once, catching seokjin’s smirk as he watched you go. taehyung, leading you away, was clearly trying to keep his anger in check, his grip on your wrist tight but not painful.

he led you outside the front doors of the school, the crisp afternoon air hitting you with a sharpness that matched the tension between you. he didn’t release his grip on your wrist until you were standing under the shadow of a large oak tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. “what’s your problem?” you demanded, trying to keep your voice steady despite the surge of anger and hurt. “why are you being such an asshole? neither of us wanted this engagement, so why does it matter what i do?”

his glare was as cold as steel. “it matters because my reputation is on the line,” he snapped, his voice edged with frustration. “i didn’t agree to this engagement, but i have to uphold a certain image. seeing you so close to seokjin makes me look weak and unreliable. that’s something i can’t afford.”

the hurt in your chest felt like a physical blow, but you held your tongue as he continued. “i don’t care what you do behind closed doors,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “just keep it out of the public eye. my reputation is at stake, and i expect you to be more mindful of that when others are around.” his words cut deep, leaving you standing there, stunned and wounded. the weight of his disapproval pressed heavily upon you, making it hard to breathe. as he turned on his heel and walked away, his stride confident and unyielding, you were left grappling with his harsh words.

as you stood there, processing the sting of his words, you felt a familiar touch on your shoulder. you turned to see seokjin standing behind you, his gaze sympathetic yet carrying an undercurrent of coldness as he watched taehyung retreating in the distance. “come on,” he said gently, his tone soft but firm. “i’ll take you home.”

you nodded, unable to muster more than a weary sigh. seokjin’s presence was a mixed blessing—his offer of support came with its own complexities, but right now, it was a comfort. as he guided you back towards his motorcycle, the silence between you was thick, filled with unspoken words and shared tension. you both walked in silence, the rustling leaves and distant hum of traffic filling the void. the drive back to your place was equally quiet, with his driving marked by an attentive, almost contemplative air. you glanced occasionally at him, but his eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable.

when you finally arrived at your place, the familiar surroundings did little to ease the turmoil inside you. seokjin parked the motorcycle and turned to you, his gaze softening slightly. “are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and sincere. you nodded, though the ache in your chest told a different story. “i’ll be fine,” you said, forcing a small smile. “thanks for the ride.”

his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he gave a short nod. “if you need anything,” he said softly, “just let me know.” with that, you both stepped out. as you made your way to the door, his presence was a steady, albeit complex, support. you unlocked the door and stepped inside, the comfort of your home offering a momentary reprieve from the emotional storm.

the evening settled over the house, casting long shadows across the rooms as you moved through the kitchen, tidying up for dinner. the comforting hum of the dishwasher filled the space, a soothing background to the tumultuous thoughts racing through your mind. you wiped down the counters with mechanical precision, trying to keep your mind occupied and away from the earlier confrontation with taehyung and the underlying tension with seokjin.

as you finished cleaning, you joined your mother and seokjin at the dining table. the air, which had once held a certain playful charm, now felt dense and suffocating. the weight of your mother’s earlier conversation with taehyung and the ensuing emotional turmoil clung to you like a shroud.

she seized the opportunity to delve into a discussion about your engagement. “you know,” she began, her tone casual yet probing, “i was thinking about the wedding preparations. we need to finalize the guest list and decide on the venue soon. It’s such an important event, and i want everything to be perfect for you and taehyung.” you nodded, though the words felt like daggers. “i’m sure everything will work out,” you replied, your voice tight with suppressed emotion.

seokjin, sitting across the table, cast a sympathetic glance your way but said nothing. he seemed to sense the delicate balance of the conversation and watched as your mother continued.

“and i know it’s a big adjustment,” your mother continued, her voice gentle but insistent. “but you’ll find that once you get used to the idea, it'll all fall into place. taehyung is a wonderful man, and i’m sure you’ll both make a great life together.” each word felt like a pinprick against your already raw nerves. you could barely maintain your composure as she spoke, her words a relentless reminder of the life you were being forced into. the suffocating weight of her expectations and the impossible situation you were trapped in pushed you closer to the edge.

finally, the strain became too much. “i don’t wanna hear about taehyung anymore,” you blurted out, your voice trembling with emotion. “it’s more than enough that i’m being forced into a life i don’t want. i don’t need to be reminded of it every minute.” your mother’s eyes widened in shock, her fork halting mid-air. seokjin’s gaze shifted from your mother to you, his expression softening as he took in your distress. the silence that followed your outburst was thick and uncomfortable, the air charged with the weight of your raw emotion.

tears welled in your eyes, and you tried to blink them away, but they came anyway, spilling down your cheeks. “i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “i just can’t do this anymore.” without waiting for a response, you stood up from the table, your chair scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. you hurried out of the room, not daring to look back. the cold comfort of your room was a small relief, a place where you could be alone with your thoughts.

you shut the door behind you and sank onto your bed, burying your face in your hands. the tears came freely now, each sob a release of the pent-up frustration and despair that had been building inside you. the crushing weight of your situation, the unrelenting pressure from your mother, and the complexities of your relationship with seokjin all converged into a single, overwhelming storm of emotion. outside, the house was eerily quiet. his sympathetic gaze had not gone unnoticed, and you could only hope that his understanding extended beyond the surface. as you cried into the softness of your pillow, you felt a small pang of gratitude for his presence, even as you wished desperately for the strength to face the days ahead.

you lay on your bed, your face buried in the pillow as the tears continued to flow. the muffled sound of your sobs was the only noise in the room, and the heavy silence was a stark contrast to the chaos in your heart. the warmth of the tears against your cheeks and the soft, wet fabric of the pillowcase were the only things grounding you in that moment.

you didn't hear the soft creak of the door opening, nor the quiet footsteps that followed. seokjin entered the room with a silent grace, closing the door behind him with a careful click. the dim light from the hallway cast long shadows on the floor, barely illuminating his figure as he approached. sitting beside you on the bed, he placed a comforting hand on your leg. his touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the earlier tensions. “you’re gonna ruin your makeup,” he said softly, attempting to lighten the mood. his voice was warm, but there was an undertone of genuine concern.

you managed a watery laugh, the sound escaping through your tears. you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, struggling to regain some semblance of composure. when you looked at him, his gaze was unwaveringly sympathetic. he gently brushed away the tears that had escaped your attempts to dry them, his touch tender and reassuring. his eyes softened as he studied your face. the image of the woman before him, so vulnerable and distressed, was a far cry from the spoiled, spoiled girl he had initially perceived. there was a depth to you now, a raw honesty in your pain that challenged his previous assumptions.

“you’ll find a way out of this,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “any guy would be lucky to have you.” you shook your head, a defeated gesture. “i don’t want to be taehyung’s fiancée anymore,” you confessed, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “i can’t stand this life.”

his expression hardened with resolve. “i know,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “i’ll find a way out of it for you. i promise.”

before you could respond, he leaned closer. his lips brushed against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. the initial touch was gentle, a mere whisper of contact, but it quickly grew more intense. as his lips pressed more firmly against yours, the kiss became heated, filled with a passion that had been bubbling beneath the surface.

his body hovered over yours, the warmth of his form radiating against your own. his hands cupped your face, tilting it slightly to deepen the kiss. each movement was deliberate, his touch both commanding and tender. the kiss conveyed a mix of comfort and desire, an unspoken promise in every press of his lips against yours. the world outside faded away, leaving only the sensation of his lips and the comforting strength of his presence. the kiss was a blend of urgency and tenderness, a moment of escape from the oppressive reality that had been suffocating you. seokjin’s hands roamed gently, his touch setting your skin aflame even as it soothed the storm within.

as the kiss continued, you found yourself responding, your hands reaching up to clutch at his shoulders. the heat of the moment enveloped you, the kiss becoming an intense exchange of feelings that neither of you could fully articulate. his grip on your face tightened slightly, his kisses growing more fervent as he lost himself in the shared passion. “any man would be lucky to have my stepsister, right?”

you gasped against his mouth, nodding, your eyes fluttering shut as his tongue delved deeper, tasting you thoroughly. seokjin’s hands began to wander, tracing the contours of your body with a hungry touch. his palms slid over your breasts, kneading gently before he reached for the hem of your shirt. you didn’t resist, allowing him to lift it over your head, baring your chest to the cool air. his eyes raked over your exposed skin, a look of pure lust in his gaze.

his mouth left yours to blaze a trail down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. your body arched, a soft moan escaping as his teeth grazed your collarbone. your skin was on fire, every nerve ending alight with a need that only he could satisfy. as his kisses grew more insistent, his hands worked at the button and zipper of your skirt, pulling it down over your hips. his warm breath against your skin was intoxicating, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

his eyes locked with yours as he slid your underwear aside, revealing your wet, swollen pussy. without hesitation, he leaned down to bury his face between your legs, his tongue lapping at your folds with a hunger that surprised even him. you bucked against his mouth, the sensation overwhelming, your hands gripping the bedcovers tightly. his tongue flicked and probed, his expert touch driving you wild. “told you i needed a taste,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

his mouth closed around your clit, sucking gently as his fingers slid into your tight heat. your breath hitched, a whimper escaping as he began to fuck you with his digits, setting a rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue. the room was filled with the sounds of your passion, your cries muffled by the pillow you’d buried your face in. he ate you out like a starving man, savoring every drop of your arousal, his own need growing with every passing second.

his words were dirty, a stream of vulgar praise that had you squirming with pleasure. “you’re so fucking perfect, baby. so sweet and tight for me. gotta fill you up, make you scream my name. tell me you want it, tell me you’re mine.” his voice was gruff, a stark contrast to the gentle laps of his tongue.

you could feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your body taut with anticipation. you whispered a shaky “yes, seokjin, yes—promise i'm all yours,” urging him on, begging for release. his pace increased, his tongue circling your clit faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you with an unyielding rhythm. your thighs trembled, your entire body tightening as the orgasm built within you.

finally, with a muffled scream into the pillow, you came, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. seokjin didn’t stop, his mouth working tirelessly to extend your climax, his fingers still moving within you. when the last tremor had passed, he kissed your inner thighs before standing up, his eyes dark with desire.

his own clothing was quickly discarded, revealing his hard, throbbing cock. he positioned himself between your legs, the tip of his length nudging at your entrance. “are you ready for me? need your step-brother that bad?” he growled, his voice low and animalistic.

you nodded, your eyes wide with need. “yes, please, yes.” he didn’t wait for further invitation, thrusting into you in one swift motion. your walls clenched around him, trying to accommodate his size. a gasp of pain mixed with pleasure slipped from your lips, but you didn’t protest. this was what you needed, what you’d been craving.

his strokes were deep and hard, claiming you as his own. his hands held your hips in a firm grip, keeping you in place as he drove into you without mercy. the room echoed with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your moans of pleasure and his grunts of exertion. he didn’t hold back, fucking you with an intensity that left you breathless.

his eyes never left yours, the connection between you two palpable as he fucked you with an unbridled passion. your pussy was soaking wet, welcoming his every thrust, and with each push into you, seokjin felt a sense of power and ownership that he hadn’t experienced before. you were his, and he was going to make sure you knew it.

his hips pistoned against yours, his cock plunging deep inside you. your nails dug into his back, leaving marks that would later remind him of this illicit encounter. the sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that had you writhing beneath him. “you’re so tight, baby. just need you to be quiet for me, don't let your mom hear us.” he whispered, his voice thick with lust.

his words only served to drive you higher, your breath coming in ragged gasps. your walls tightened around him, the friction building as he hit all the right spots. your body was his playground, and he was playing you like a maestro conducting an orchestra of desire. “you like that, don’t you? wonder what your mom would think, if she saw you like this—fucked out just for her step-brother's cock.” he taunted, his voice a mix of praise and degradation.

you couldn’t find the words to respond, your mind a whirlwind of sensation. all you could do was moan, your body a slave to the pleasure he was giving you. you felt yourself building up to another orgasm, the tension coiling in your belly like a tight spring. “yes, yes, yes,” you encouraged, your voice raw and desperate.

his rhythm grew erratic as he felt his own climax approaching. his grip on your hips tightened, his strokes becoming more frenzied. “i’m gonna cum inside you, baby. i’m gonna fill you up with my cum, mark you as mine.” his words were a declaration of ownership, a claiming that sent a thrill through your core.

you felt yourself tumbling over the edge once more, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. as it crested, you felt him tense above you, his cock pulsing as he released his seed deep within you. the warmth of his cum filled you, mixing with your own juices, creating a deliciously obscene mess. his breathing was harsh, his body still shuddering with the aftershocks of his release. he leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue invading your mouth as he continued to pump his hips, milking every last drop of pleasure from you. when he finally pulled out, he collapsed beside you, both of you panting and slick with sweat.

the room was filled with the scent of your shared passion, the air thick with the intimacy of your connection. he turned towards you, his hand gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment as if sealing a promise. “you'll find a way out of it,” he murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves. “and you'll always have me by your side.”

you looked up at him, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. his words were a lifeline in the storm of your emotions, a promise of unwavering support and love. the weight of the world seemed a little lighter with him there, and for the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope. his eyes were filled with an earnest sincerity that made your heart ache. he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. the warmth of his body against yours was a comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone in this. as you nestled into his chest, you let out a sigh of relief, the tension slowly ebbing away.

“i can't be taehyung's fiancée anymore,” you whispered, the words barely audible. he tightened his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple. “i know,” he replied gently. “i promise you won't be.”

his reassurance was a soothing balm to your battered spirit. you closed your eyes, letting yourself relax in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you into a sense of peace. the future was still uncertain, but with seokjin by your side, you felt ready to face whatever came your way. the bond between you, forged in the fires of your shared struggles, was unbreakable. and as you lay there, wrapped in his embrace, you knew that no matter what happened, you would always have each other.

✧.*

a/n: should i end it here or make a part 2 lmk

[cr4yolaas]

mezzo forte — ebb and flow

track 9: homesick v.2 | masterlist | track 11: tbd

she feels sick to her stomach when she opens her door. the mid afternoon sun beats down on his back — it’s clear in the sweat collecting on his face and the dark splotch around the collar of his t-shirt. she can’t decide if she wants to see him.

“haji, why are you here?”

the call of his name — not his nickname, never his nickname, not when it fell from her lips — renders him immobile. whatever confidence he mustered up on the trip to her place dissipates, and the lines he’d carefully conjured up while taking the steps up to the door slip away. “i wanted to see you,” he whispers, seemingly unsure in his answer.

she’s scared to respond. her irritation is still riddled within every crack and crevice. she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“why?”

he pauses. it’s silly, watching someone as sure and stable as athletic trainer hajime iwaizumi crumble to dust at the receiving end of such a simple question. the thought makes him want to curl in on himself, until he’s no longer recognizable. instinctively, his hand drops to the hem of his shirt, the calluses on his fingertips catching onto the loose threads while he fiddles. she notices (she always does), but whatever acknowledgement she wants to wrangle out of her throat fails to escape, leaving them both in silence.

“i want it to be me,” he finally whispers. he looks at her earnestly, with the same determination he bore when he first asked her to play with him the week he moved in, and the same pride he carried when he ran to her first after every victorious game; all of it is reminiscent of the boy she grew up with, and not the man who stands before her with clammy palms and an unsteady head.

“what do you mean?” she asks, though she knows the answer already.

“i want the songs to be about me. all of it.”

“but you said they couldn’t be.”

he shakes his head instantly. he can’t hold it back anymore, the sweet and ripe and tender feeling that’s been growing in his chest since youth. “i didn’t mean that. i was just- i didn’t believe it. i didn’t want to. but now,” he breathes for a second. “i don’t want them to be about anyone else.”

whatever anger she’d been holding onto dissolves entirely, replacing itself with desperate, piercing yearning. the thoughts of her manager fall apart, and the thoughts of the (supposed) impending doom of her career escape her. instead, all she can think about is the way her hands fly to his collar and tug him towards her.

it’s messy, and rocky, and impulsive, but she can’t fight it. her lips meet his, and it feels natural. like she’s been waiting for it for an eternity.

♪ we are nearing the end

♪ i know the end by phoebe bridgers starts playing

♪ in all seriousness im just glad to end this soon LOL

♪ hajime iwaizumi the man that you are. if i were upset and he came to my door professing his love i think i’d also forget about all my issues

♪ shoyo considers himself a “good best man” bc he helped yachi and kiyo finally get together. he does not know wingman and best man are different things

♪ msby 4 has been putting up with iwa and his problems for too long they were jumping for joy when they found out it was over

♪ anyways. i’m glad this is ending soon i have other things i want to work on 😊

taglist: @zumicho @causenessus @guitarstringed-scars @yuminako @chemiru @sunnyskiezzzz @httpsivy @itsdragonius @theycallmenanamisgirl @wyrcan @19calicos @hunnies4bunnies @mawenskiblue @diorzs @loverlunaire @mfcherry @solaqes @myromanempiree @brithedemonspawn @corvid007 @lilchubbyyy @hyenagoated

italicized names are unable to be tagged. please check your privacy settings :)

[ladsspace]

thoughts about Rafayel mostly main story and MC

he was irritated, because she said to him: "your memory cannot be that bad." when she is the one who forgot about him.. he actually wanted to give her that log, but because of this he started playing with her, setting score. he had grudge already. he approached her with Hat island booklet where they met years ago. and her reaction was: "a tourist?" remember, that bond grants some sort of telepathy over MC or high perception. she doesn't remember him, not falling for his looks, not ever interested in him, she even gave him that fish back (which represents Lemuria or him - bright like a flame). and he left almost saying: "its good i met you here, i don't need to waste any more time".

later, when wanderer appeared in the studio, MC almost commanded to him:" do you have any valuables here? answer me." he was forced to answer. he said: "not really" (when she also was here..hello?), he also turned his look away, because he might felt guilty about his feelings or his words. but he switches immediately, when she is ready to protect him.

the boat date on Hat island is his attempt to bring her memory back. she told him, that she remember visiting that place when being a kid. she just doesn't remember him. what happened actually in the water not that clear to me. Rafayel's love is all or nothing, he would rather be in danger, dead than lied or abandoned by someone who he belongs too. there is a reason why he is using "master" on his own, you know. i prefer to think, that he wanted to leave her on her own, she was shown literally slowly drowning to the bottom of the ocean. Lemuria comes first, wouldn't it be better to just end this vow already, while she is unconscious?

even Rafayel is the one who was hunting her (her love, attention) he is the one who end up walking in her trap, falling for her. you can ever bring it to him in ebb and flow bond. i think its even a little bit relieving for him to hear that, than other option: "if you wanted to kill me..", what if he actually wanted it. even back then she was raised from the very beginning to become a sacrifice for the Sea God, do you really believe it was a mere coincidence. even he knows that "the mermaid set up a trap in order to take the sailor's life". he lured her, threatened her life, playing as a 'savior' from a storm he created.. but he end up gave his heart. aaand yeah, he is very sensitive, shy, but at the same time manipulative, he also can put a lot of acting, because (he is a cat. he behaves like cats, that's why he dislikes them, he dislikes himself) because he yearns for attention, being loved, needed, being one and only for his Master

[dewdrop-writes]

Blood of Ambition: Chapter 6 - Lurking In The Dark

Dio x reader

Um....Dio isn't a great person in this! Kinda possessive and. Yea

<<First || <<Previous || Next>>

Something uncomfortable nipped at the back of Dio’s mind. It wasn’t painful, yet the ever present sensation refused to ebb away no matter what course of action he took. He felt hollow. Like a magnet trying to find its way back to the other half, only to be stopped by a surface between them. It trickled down from his pain, onto his tongue, lacing his words with far more venom than he’d used in a while. It trickled down even further, eroding away the insides of his chest, of his stomach. It burned, the sensation similar to a rabid cat trying to claw its way out, ripping mindlessly at flesh in desperation.

Dio hated it.

It made him feel too weak. 

It clouded his judgement.

He sighed, running his hand through a tangle of golden locks. They’d grown much longer during his studies, as he’d found no need to trim them. It suited him, he’d heard from others. Made him look somewhat regal. He figured it only right he’d embrace that.

The blank page before him stared at him, mocking him for his scattered thoughts. How foolish of it, Dio thought bitterly as he cast a glance at the discarded pile of it’s crumpled brethren. 

He could feel his jaw tightening, teeth clashing against each other almost painfully, grinding away at one another in a destructive battle. His fingers gripped around the quill, ignoring the painful sensation flowing through his arm as the material dug into flesh. His mind refused to cooperate, unwilling to do the job set out for it. Assignments held little importance in the forefront of his thoughts, when something much more impactful had stolen away his attention. 

Months had passed, autumn bleeding into winter, winter withdrawing into spring. The incessant singing of cheerful birds outside his window irritated him to no end each morning. The sun began stealing moments for itself, pushing past dark and heavy clouds and beaming down brightly for all to enjoy. 

Yet Dio couldn’t help feeling as though he alone had been captured in a singular moment. No matter the changes in his appearance, no matter the weather outside, he was imprisoned in limbo. No letters had come since his last encounter with you. Dio didn’t often lower himself to reaching out more than once after his initial attempts were rebutted. Yet he still found himself writing follow up, perhaps secretly hoping you had good reason not to respond in a timely manner. After weeks bled into months, that could clearly no longer be the case. 

It angered him, your sudden callous distance. 

What right did someone like you have to ignore someone like him?

Those thoughts were strong, burning hot in his mind, in his chest, tightening the drawstrings around his heart. Moments after cursing your very being, however, he could feel something pitiful wash over him. Melancholy. Distaste for his own thoughts. Your mere existence was weakening him. The lack of it was actively causing him distress. 

Many times, he considered marching over to London and giving you a piece of his mind. Tear into you with feral rage, rip open your skin and flesh til you were nothing but a pile of gore. That desire was often followed by a feeling of wrongness. Something sharp and painful. The thought of watching the light leave your eyes frightened him. He’d been no stranger to taking a life. He took pride in it, regarding the lives of others as far below himself, after all. Thinking of snuffing out the Joestar line brought him no such tightness in the chest.

You had done something to him. Perhaps when you had first met all those years ago. Despite your miserable state, your human weakness, he could not discard you as he wished he could. How could you possibly discard him? Perhaps his words had been unkind. Perhaps he had undermined you. But his goal was to make you rise. Rise from the ashes of your pathetic life of poverty and blossom into something as magnificent as he. Stand beside him as you had for all those years. Look into his eyes with sincere affection as you whisper his name. As you told him he could achieve all he wanted to.

He knew his temper was getting out of hand. He’d been cooler than usual to Jonathan, allowing his mask to drift. He’d been more curt with Lord Joestar, too. It goes without saying that the servants and his schoolmates bore the brunt of his frustrations. 

What was he to do?

His nineteenth had come and gone. You hadn’t sent him your congratulations. The lavish gifts he had received stood in his room untouched. All he could do was stew in an ever growing pit of resentment that soured his every action. His only cold comfort was the fact he must only wait a couple more years to enact his plans. At the very least, soon he’d be a wealthy lawyer with a hefty inheritance. 

Jonathan, despite it all, was a pest. The kindness he so generously distributed made bile rise in his throat. It was pathetic. It was weak. Still, he supposed, it helped his cause. 

At times like these, however, Dio was forced to consider that perhaps Jonathan wasn’t as much of an oaf as he’d thought him to be.

“Would you like to join me in London? I’m attending a seminar there and thought that…a change of scenery might do you good.” The offer was genuine. There was no malice, no sneer, behind those words. Still, Dio bristled at the idea. It felt like an insult. Like some sort of pity. His teeth dug into his cheek to hold back his tongue from spraying venom.

“A change of scenery?” he mused, his voice strained. If Jonathan took note, he did not speak on it. 

“Very well. When will we be setting out?”

With that, he’d been confined to a carriage ride shared with the Joestar brat not long after. He managed to bite his tongue, reign his temper. Managed to come across as relatively pleasant. He could see the faint outlines of a mask clinging to his companion’s features as well, his eyes flashing with something more suspenseful now and then. Something simmered behind those serene blue eyes. Perhaps Dio wasn’t alone in his games. 

He discarded the brief sense of unease that thought brought him. No matter what, Dio would win in the end. All he had to do was keep it together for a couple more years. Soon, he would be allowed to rip the mask from his face and allow it to shatter. 

Their lodgings were lavish as usual, no expenses spared on food or drink. After an exhausting journey, Jonathan was quick to retire into his quarters to freshen up. Dio supposed he should allow himself the same freedoms, if he were to accomplish his goal. He had to look presentable. Healthy. Radiant. No crack of insecurity or restless nights could be allowed to slip past his mask. For the first time in so long, he found his hands shaking as he tamed his hair, staring at his visage in the mirror. A hot flash of anger burst in his veins, bubbling under the skin and tinging the corners of his vision in white. Something animalistic deep within him screamed obscenities into his ears, urging him to lunge forward and shatter the reflective surface.

He restrained himself, leaning onto his dresser as unsteady heaves rippled through his frame. 

Something was deeply wrong with him.

Control and restraint were slipping through his fingers by the minute, threatening to tear off his skin and reveal all the ugliness hidden under porcelain smiles and gilded words. He hated it. He had yet to experience such spiraling emotions since the death of his father. Yet now, despite being older and wiser, he still felt like a little boy cowering before his father’s raised fist.

It simply would not do.

It was well past noon by the time he’d managed to soothe his frayed nerves and smooth out his appearance. The bleak spring sun was high in the sky, vigilantly casting an unified glow across the streets of London. Dio found himself sneering at the grime and filth it highlighted. Still, swallowing his distaste, his feet led him to a location that had become so very familiar to him.

The bakery.

Sweet aromas of baked goods wafted across the streets, greeting him before he even saw the establishment. It was both right and wrong at the same time. Your very existence sent him spiraling on many sleepless nights, questioning his very being. He both loathed and admired you at the same time. 

He came to a halt not far from the building, peering through the window from across the road. As expected, he could make out your silhouette bustling through the store, unchanged from when he’d last seen you. If nerves and doubts plagued your minds as they did his, you showed no signs of it.

Of course you were not alone. Clients filtered in and out as he watched, feet rooted firmly in place on the cobbled streets. Were his mind more at ease, he would have felt the stiffness setting into his back and legs, yet the discomfort was overshadowed by the unwelcome gloom breeding within him.

What finally snapped him from his trance, was the sight of another vaguely familiar figure entering the bakery, a wide smile spread across his gaudy features. Dio could feel sudden heat bursting past a dam, flooding his frame with fury and frustration.

That pesky regular of yours.

Through the window, he could see the way he leered at you, leaning closer across the counter, breaking past the norms of decent politeness. His fingers grazed your arm, lingering longer than they should have. He reminded Dio of a dog. Desperate and mindless. Lead only by impulse and instinct. He could hardly believe you would allow this, yet you made no show of discomfort or unease. A serene smile settled across your face as you chatted away, motioning towards the display with a graceful flick of your hand. Briefly, you laughed, eyes crinkling as your hand rose to cover your mouth.

The fire within Dio could only continue to rise, flames of anger flickering from the tips of his fingers to the back of his skull.

The young man was rooted in his spot for longer than he would have liked to admit, gaze glued on the silent show played out before him. Finally, after a stretch of time that seemed both unendingly long and incredibly short at the same time, that vermin left the premises. Dio’s cold gaze followed his movements, narrowing in suspicion. Before he could even pose the question for himself, his feet moved without his input, trailing behind the offending man. His steps were soft and innocuous, veiled by the busy streets of afternoon London. He couldn’t quite decide what it was that urged him to follow. There was nothing remarkable about the man. Perhaps that was why. It was difficult to swallow the bitter reality that you would rather speak with someone so insignificant than him. Him, who despite his greatness made space for you in his life. Him, who took time to write to you. Him, who remembered you all these years, despite his desire to bury and burn any fragments of his past.

It felt like a personal slight. It was you, who should have been pining and yearning for even a sliver of his attention. 

So why was he the one navigating the labyrinthian streets of the dirty capital, trailing behind a man he would have not spared even a second glance? 

He could not find an answer that would satisfy him. 

So, he followed. Like a predator stalking prey. His victim moved at a leisurely pace, clutching a small bundle wrapped in paper. Pastries from the bakery, no doubt. He led the way from the bustling streets towards the more familiar, narrow and dirty alleyways. Living quarters were just as cramped as the streets, large groups packed into small houses. The familiar scent of sick and misery invaded Dio's nostrils, burning, overwhelming. Despite his best efforts to contain himself, a shudder creeped down his spine. He felt dirty himself for entering this scene that he had sworn to leave behind. 

The man finally came to a halt, entering a pathetic hovel. It was, admittedly, not the worst Dio had seen, but certainly unimpressive and foul. Even from his measured distance, he could make out the sight of the young man being tackled into a hug by his younger siblings, before turning to an aging frail woman. The sudden lurch in his stomach made his feet sway underneath him. His teeth clashed together angrily as he reeled the unpleasant sensations back, sucking a deep breath past his lips, feeling the rancid air whistle through them.

He had work to do.

By the time Dio returned to his lodgings, his spirits had lifted significantly. A cold smile stretched across his lips as he caught sight of himself in the faint reflection of a window. He paused briefly, tousling his hair and ripping open the first button of his coat. He had to make his display believable. As much as he hated to appear weak, this would help tackle some of his problems for now. He was never above playing a little dirty if it got the desired results, after all. With a deep inhale, he smoothed the features of his delicate mask before entering the townhouse. 

He was greeted by a servant, who he waved over with an agitated flick of his wrist. The young man looked confused, surprised to even be addressed by the young lord. Dio caught a flicker of panic washing over his features before he managed to catch himself.

“How may I help you, sir?” he asked, voice timid and small. It was laughable, yet Dio kept his cool.

“I need you to fetch Scotland Yard for me. Make it quick. I was stolen from.” Dio’s voice took on a sharp edge, his features darkening as he put on a masterful display of embarrassment and anger. The young servant could only nod before rushing off and out of the door. As soon as he was out of sight, the blonde sank into a plush seat nearby, rubbing his temples. The warmth of the room washed over him, sinking into him gently and soothing the tension in his back. Now, all he needed to do was wait. He would emerge victorious from this simple game of chess, soon enough. Perhaps, then, he could plan out his next move.

[gortashs-skidmark]

Enver Gortash HEADCANONS

NSFW at the bottom, below the ()()()

+18 MDNI SEXUAL CONTENT

CONTENT WARNING: relationship headcanons, arranged marriage in some, manipulation, established relationship.

*Orange means that particular sentence/piece is CANON but the rest is a headcanon.

ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅

Gortash definitely doesn’t mind being a shit bag. But I think if he took a partner, he would just be manipulative emotionally but not physical. Like he chose a partnership and you just have to put up with some dumb fucking consequences of being in love, that's just how it is. I don’t think he’d shower you in gifts if he loved you but when he gave you something to cherish, it’d be personal, solemn, beautiful. Like him.

If it was arranged, he wouldn’t bat an eye, status is status. He’d only see you as an arm piece. He’d take you to dinner occasionally to check up on you. He would shower you in gifts at the wedding ceremony. For show of course, so your family, friends, patrons, and acquaintances knew you were in cushy hands.

I think Enver’s hands would always been warm. They’re calloused, warm, thicker, comforting when they held your face or braced your thighs. You would put lotion on his hands every night before bed because, you know, you care about him.

He is the man to take the same soap bar he uses on his body for his face, but this is medieval so him washing his face is high maintenance, comparatively. You only suggest he use rose water after he shaves as not to leave irritating skin patches. It makes him smell very sweet.

You are as soft as butter and he is a large man with a delicate hobby like baking, figuratively. His brutish in personality, is shrouded in fancy clothes and ugly ass shoes. But he can talk as calmly as a lake, and comfort you with honeyed words. You are capable of finding solace in him sometimes, if he lets you unburden yourself.

If it’s an arranged marriage, he will listen to your sorrows and complaints when he has time. Other times he’ll say “my dearest, I have not the time for your tears today.” Which breaks your heart. He's yours potentially forever, and he won't carry your burdens like you attempt to with his.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

NSFW HEADCANONS

He gives me very much the same energy as Raphael. Complete bottom. Probably not that good at fucking but he’s got some girth. Girth matters more than length, pls be honest with yourselves.

Not usually on top unless he’s teasing you a lot beforehand. He fucks loud too, verbally and from your bodies crashing over and over against each other.

Like Raphael has Harleep bc he’s a narcissist and they’re sent there by Mephestopheles to distract him. Gortash has you because you’re capable and seen as an equal. Whether you’re the nicest person on earth or the crudest bitch. If you can swindle like him, he sees something beautiful in that.

I think he’s loud and unapologetic during sex. He knows what he wants too and can voice is. He’s the “oh great heavens!” Type too.

Sometimes is a quickie-person, when he yearns for better company at night he removes himself from his workshop and walks to his room to have honey-sweet love, not fuck.

If you’re arranged marriage melds into more, I think he could be fixed. Very. Very. Slowly. You like to walk to the deep cragged shore of Wyrm’s Rock and watch the ocean and pet the moss. He doesn’t get it even if you have a reason to love being by yourself. You ponder harder about the timelessness of nature and the ebb and flow.

He fucks you soft and slow next time, taking the time like you do. He wants to know his partner, he really does. He uses it to stare into your eyes as they flutter from pleasure, he wants what you have. A soul so malleable yet it always know what it is deep down. It’s always whole.

ⓖⓞⓡⓣⓐⓢⓗⓖⓞⓡⓣⓐⓢⓗⓖⓞⓡⓣⓐⓢⓗⓖⓞⓡⓣⓐⓢⓗⓖⓞⓡ

Thank you for reading!! I have more headcanons on my pinned masterlist <3

[whysosincere]

Much Ado - A Mortal Kombat Fanfiction

For the lady Mortal Kombat fans who would like to read about dangerous, competent men in conflict, and a woman caught in the tempest.

Chapter 2 - Twitterpated

Previous --- Next

It had been the cockalorum taunt of a mortal that transformed the ubiquitous thunder and lightning into tangible physicality, and the price of Shang Tsung’s hubris was reflected in the catastrophe which followed.

The god of thunder found the pleasure inherent in physical form through victory in Mortal Kombat uniquely intoxicating. For eons he had only observed the mortal ebb and flow of conflict, but now he had felt it’s thrill directly, through his self-induced limitations of flesh and bone.

Following Shang Tsung’s defeat, Lord Raiden declared his own tournament, eager to chase the euphoric rush of victory once more. However, a god wielding his powers through the shape of mortal man was calamity that the Earth had no defense against.

Soon, the very realm that Raiden was created to safe-guard, had nearly collapsed as its protector gifted the elements with their own mortal forms for the sole purpose of Kombat: They fought in bouts that lasted months, boiling seas and leveling mountains, shaking the planet to its core.

Continents drifted from their seismic moorings, and the energies released jostled very stars from the firmament, raining down comet fragments that wiped whole civilizations from the face of the planet. Raiden himself had become the turning of the age, and the Elder Gods debated their decision to grant agency to the thunder.

Lord Raiden felt the judgment of his actions weighing upon him, and vowed to never again embroil himself personally in the affairs of the mortals of Earthrealm.

These were the idle thoughts now dredged with infuriating clarity unto the meditations of Lord Raiden as he tried fruitlessly to ignore that which he had felt, and she whom he had seen on that mountain side.

“Is something troubling you, Lord Raiden?”

Liu Kang, the Champion of Earthrealm, stood before the thunder god with genuine concern. This should not have been possible, as the storm warrior knew that his finest martial student had no plans to visit the Sky Temple, and resided at the Wu Shi Academy of the Shaolin Order of Light where he was quite preoccupied with training the newest class of hopeful initiates.

It was then that Raiden realized he was not physically where he had assumed himself to be.

He took in a cursory observation of his surroundings and fought to hide his irritation, for what had started as a sitting meditation within Sky Temple’s inner sanctums had ended up a walk among the blossoming cherry trees outside the Wu Shi Academy; a fair few days travel for mere mortals.

Raiden did not even remember teleporting from one venue to the other, so thorough had been his distraction. His expression remained stoic as he addressed his pupil’s inquiry.

“Thank you, Liu Kang. My thoughts have been preoccupied as of late…”

Raiden was even-toned, and nothing gave away the frustration that bubbled below the surface as he continued, “Your concern is appreciated, but unnecessary. There is no need to trouble yourself.”

As the god of thunder walked away, he felt a strange sense of relief. It lifted his shoulders and brought his eyes up into the clear blue and white sky peppered with pink blossom clouds. Even for an immortal being of the Heavens, he felt… light.

“Oh he’s got it bad…”

Kung Lao’s sudden appearance beside Liu Kang caught the Champion by surprise, and invited incredulity with what had been inferred by his Shaolin brethren.

“What? Surely you jest, Kung Lao.”

The two then quieted and observed the enigmatic deity from a distance with equal parts concern and amusement shared between them. Kung Lao crossed his arms as he noted Raiden’s gaze lifting skyward, and doubled-down. “I’m just saying…”

~~~

The sorcerer Shang Tsung had often retreated to a place between the realms, borne of his extensive manipulations of human life and mastery of the small shares of eternity with which all mortals were gifted. He had created this pocket realm which contained an island of his own design, gouged out of reality and hewn from the souls he wielded. It was distinct from Raiden’s domain in ways that the thunder god could not reconcile, much to Raiden’s frustration, and afforded Shang Tsung a comfortable vantage from which to observe the passing of Earthrealm’s affairs without concern or care for the ever-present possibility of annihilation.

For Shang Tsung had learned of Raiden’s existence through extensive research of ancient tales and half-forgotten myth, and knowing the catastrophe’s that had befallen the planet in times past, did not trust this entity capable of defending his expansive charge. He preferred the directing of his own destiny over being subject to the whims of the Elder Gods’ prodigal son.

From this sanctuary, Shang Tsung had observed the victorious Lord Raiden’s utter destructive hedonism with amusement as the Earth was flooded, burned, and irreparably scarred: Horrific conflagrations resulting from the brutal clashes between earth, fire, water, and wind, all given physical form by Raiden’s own hand.

Even having lost his own tournament after challenging Raiden personally, Shang Tsung took particular pleasure in knowing that a small barb was all that had been required to unbalance the insufferably prideful lord of lightning and thunder. Even more delicious was the knowledge that his suspicions of the god’s true nature, and his measures taken to protect his own existence, had been justified.

While the thunder god had retreated into ignominious obscurity in the following millennia, the soul stealer’s island empire, along with his tournament and artificially sustained immortality, flourished.

~~~

“Your time in Hollywood has not done you any favors, Johnny.”

Liu Kang easily blocked and re-directed the action superstar’s strikes, returning to his ready position as Johnny did the same with an easy smile. The two had met serendipitously, having both answered the call to what had been described as the “Tournament of a Lifetime” by Johnny’s agent. And although each afforded the other respect only earned through shared hardship and the overcoming of truly dire circumstance, neither combatant could resist a jab at the others expense.

“Yeah, it has been a bit. So when did Thunder-Thighs go all “Sleepless in Sky Temple”?”

Kung Lao, who was standing to the side, awaiting his turn to spar with Johnny, let go a loud and curt “HA!” And using that brief moment of lapsed attention, Johnny laid out Liu Kang with his signature Shadow Kick, much to Kung Lao’s additional delight.

“What did I tell you!” Crowed Kung Lao as Liu groaned from his prone position in the ring.

“Come now-” Liu began, wiping the blood from his nose, “This is Lord Raiden we’re talking about!”

“Look… Gentlemen-” Johnny relaxed from his fighting stance and offered a hand to Liu Kang, sensing the time for kombat had been brought to a crashing halt by a far more amusing game. “I’ve been in a lot of ivory towers… And Thunderbird there-” he gestured to the previously unnoticed Lord Raiden, once again having appeared unannounced, and who was now enjoying a quiet walk amongst the swaying branches of the plum orchard that sprawled just beyond the Wu Shi training veranda grounds.

The three warriors all displayed very different reactions to this discovery. Liu Kang was shocked that Cage had noticed Raiden’s appearance prior to anyone else, in the midst of Kombat, no less. Kung Lao was agape in amused disbelief at having his half-joking assertion confirmed in spectacular fashion. And Johnny Cage flared his hands to mirror the assured nature of his declaration, “is DEFINITELY twitterpated.”

Johnny, Liu Kang, and Kung Lao observed from a distance as Lord Raiden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, reached up with feather-light touch and cradled a sprig of plum blossom to his face, inhaling the sweet aroma with an audible sigh.

[hollowghostsonfilm]

[Geto/Gojo Fic] Hollow: Where The Line Breaks [1/5]

Summary:

Satoru Gojo wakes up in the body of his sixteen-year-old self, 6 months before the Star Plasma Vessel mission. He's certain its a domain. Or a curse. Or a hallucination born at the moment of his death. It can't be real. Geto is alive. Shoko is there. The dorm floorboards creak at the exact right place. He has to focus, has to work out how to break out of this domain. But hope has teeth, and Gojo has been bitten.

Haunted by a future that only he remembers, Gojo has to walk the knife's edge between redemption and madness. Because if this is real, he can't let it go the same way again.

Master List for previous chapters.

Link to AO3 or read below:

Suguru watches as Satoru reheats his coffee again. Getting Tsumiki and Megumi up and ready this morning has felt like a herculean task, and even now, the two children are dragging their feet in getting their books together.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen window and catches motes of dust in the sunlight between them. Satoru looks ethereal, even as he tiredly reaches for his coffee and hisses as he burns his mouth on it.

The tension between them ebbs and flows since what Suguru is referring to as The Disaster. He wants to talk to Satoru about it, to explain himself. How wrecked from the first time killing a human not a curse, he’d lost himself trying to feel alive. How he had made the stupid, dumb, decision to try to find that through Satoru and realised at the last moment he didn’t want their first kiss tainted by the blood on his hands, the scent of it still in his nostrils.

He wants whatever it is that’s happening between them to be more than just a tainted memory of murder and disgust, thrill-chasing and battle high.

But Satoru has withdrawn into polite silence, which is worse than endless prattle. Sometimes he still forgets himself, especially when goofing around with the children, but when it’s the two of them alone together, Satoru becomes still, quiet, reserved. Not himself.

Suguru opens the fridge and peers inside to see if they need anything. He hums. “Can you pick up milk on the way back from class?”

Satoru seems startled to be addressed and pauses blowing on the top of his drink to nod stiffly. “I won’t be back until after six though.”

“Ah. Never mind then, I’ll ask Nanami instead.”

They’ve both started their degrees now, and while Suguru’s has been mostly easy, Satoru’s has been anything but. Suguru had the benefit of at least some mainstream education before entering Jujutsu High, but Satoru has never really had to sit still in a classroom before and take notes. All his classes up until now have been in things that come naturally to him, easy to him, something he can apply himself to easily.

But Suguru can see that with formal education he’s struggling. And he hears it from Shoko and Nanami, who have become his most reliable source for how Satoru is getting on these days even if they live in the same house.

Tsumiki and Megumi continue to chatter in the lounge, but the kitchen still somehow feels silent. The breath before a scream.

“We should talk,” Suguru tries, for the fiftieth time.

“About milk?” Satoru plays dumb for a moment, before those eyes flash with irritation. “Or do you mean something else?”

It’s a warning shot and Suguru knows it. “Let’s not fight with the kids around.”

“Sure, we’re really good at not doing things,” Satoru replies, putting his coffee down and leaving the kitchen entirely.

Suguru rubs his face tiredly and texts Nanami instead.

♾️

The Fukushima disaster sets the whole country reeling, and the curses that sprout up from the fear and despair are potent and high level. Suguru swallows them down like radiation, feeling them melting him from the inside out. Satoru and Suguru aren’t even paired up for their missions anymore, spread across the country in every spare minute they can. They have to skip class just to cover ground. And with Nanami and Shoko also on alert, that leaves Megumi and Tsumiki in the hands of whatever classmate Suguru can convince to take the kids for an evening or two.

They mostly manage to scrape by, mostly manage to keep the kids happy, healthy, and fed. Megumi is showing signs of seeing the increased populations of curses, and Suguru has tried to broach it with Satoru that they need to sit it down, explain it all to him, but Satoru is resolute.

Megumi will be allowed at least a few more years before being burdened with too much knowledge about those curses. Nanami had agreed, leaving Suguru having to try to dance around the topic while Megumi looked at him with large, scared, distrustful eyes.

He can see what he can see, and he’s perceptive enough to know when adults are lying to him.

It’s a mess.

And so it is that he gets the call. There’s a village, mysterious deaths and disappearances, probably a Grade 1 curse spirit. He has to go and kill it.

Simple enough.

“I’ll be back late,” Suguru calls through the door of Satoru’s room. “Can you do dinner?”

“How late’s late?” Satoru looks up from the book he’s reading. Those dark circles have appeared beneath his eyes again.

“Probably after midnight. It’s not far, but it’s remote so I’m taking a driver.”

Satoru sighs and inclines his head. “I’ll cancel my evening classes. Stay safe.”

It’s probably said as a throw away, that final sentence, but Suguru chooses to believe that it’s a show of warmth.

“Promise I’ll be back without a scratch.”

And so he goes. Out from the warmth of the kitchen, with its cereal crumbs, and into the dark lungs of Japan’s countryside and the feeling of cursed energy that feels like grief is pouring out of it like a long, exhaled breath.

The job itself is not complex. He tracks the curse to a limestone cave, devouring it quickly and efficiently, before returning to the town. Perhaps he will actually be home in time to at least scrape together some dinner before bed?

He picks his way through the overgrown land back down to the village to report that the curse is gone, taken care of once and for all, when he catches it. The scent of blood on the wind.

Dropping into a crouch, he pauses, throwing his senses wide to see what he can catch in them. There’s no curses about, that he can be sure of. But there is a flicker of something. Two somethings. Then he hears it, the quiet sound of a choked off sob.

He pulls aside the brush and sees them. Two girls, twins, barefoot, bleeding, hiding in the bushes. Their cursed energy clings to them like a stain. Suguru hesitates, just for a moment, making sure what he’s seeing is real, before he quickly shrugs off his jacket, draping it over them both.

One weeps silently, her cheek pressed to her twin’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. The other watches him with the sharp distrust of a cornered wolf. She looks no older than eight. The sun had long since vanished, but there’s dust in the air around them, soft, grey and indifferent to the way the two girls are bleeding onto the ground.

He doesn’t think, he just reaches for them both. Like a fireman through the smoke, holding out a hand encouragingly.

“Are you going to hurt us too?” The blond girl asks, her jaw set. He can feel her cursed energy, unrefined, poised to try to strike at him.

“No,” his voice cracks as he answers her. “No, I’m here to help.”

The quieter one with her dark hair reaches out and takes his hand. Her own is grubby. Suguru sees her fingernails are broken off, bloody, like she’s crawled her way out of somewhere using only her fingertips.

“Who did this to you? The curse?” Suguru asks gently. He has to win their trust, he has to get them to come with him back to the village.

He doesn’t expect the blond girl to laugh so hard that she starts coughing. The other girl drops his hand to wrap her arms around her sister.

“No. It was them. They said we were bad luck but we didn’t mean to be.”

Suguru follows where she points. It’s towards the village.

Rage fills him in an instant. For a moment, it burns so hot that it consumes him. His expression doesn’t change, it can’t. There is no expression that could even contain everything he feels in this instance.

“They blamed us for the curses. Every time it happened. They kept us in a cage but when you came, they brought us up here. Said that you’d kill us too,” the blond one says, her voice shaking in fear.

Suguru takes each of their small hands in one of his own. “I promise, I won’t hurt you. My name is Suguru Geto. What’s yours?” His voice is calm, even. It shouldn’t be. It should be shaking with all the anger he feels in this moment.

“Nanako.”

“Mimiko.”

Suguru nods to them both. “It’s nice to meet you both. I want you to come with me. I promise, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“If you’re lying, I’ll bite you,” Nanako says, and Suguru figures that’s fair enough.

♾️

Satoru knows he should cook, but he’s exhausted and Megumi is crabby. It’s easier just to give in. He has a child in each hand as they wind their way to the local Takoyaki shop. Megumi keeps squirming to get away, but Satoru’s grip is strong enough that he can’t succeed.

They reach the shop just before Megumi turns from hangry to full-blown rebellion. Satoru wonders what the Megumi he had known before would have thought, looking back at his younger self like this. Would he have been embarrassed? Ah, probably.

Satoru orders them whatever they want off the menu, and they end up with a mountain of Takoyaki between the two of them. Three octopus balls down, and the soft edges begin to creep back into Megumi again.

Satoru uses the toothpick to pick up his own, popping it in his mouth to chew on as he makes sure that neither kid makes a mess all over the shop’s table. He and Suguru have built something strange and quiet. Something that looks like a life from the outside, but it hasn’t felt like one since the gala. Satoru feels like he’s pretending for Megumi and Tsumiki’s sake. Or perhaps he had never really been ready to take them on in the first place. He’s growing used to Suguru always being there, and now that he’s pushed him away, he doesn’t know what to do with the absence.

It feels too much like before, even if Satoru is doing it to protect himself and them from anything further. He won’t be able to take it if Suguru tries to kiss him and backs out again. He won’t be responsible for what he does at that moment.

Tsumiki reaches for another ball. “If I eat two more, I’ll become Buddha and reach enlightenment! That’s how it works right? You get a big belly and then – BOOM!”

Satoru chokes on his food, startled from his thoughts and starting to laugh. “Yep. That’s exactly what it is. Monks are out there, meditating on mountaintops, but you can totally reach nirvana through Takoyaki. I think it’s the best way to.”

“Different paths, same destination,” Tsumiki says, closing her eyes in mock solemnity.

“Satoru will have to carry you home if you reach enlightenment and pass out,” Megumi says with his flat little voice.

“You’re just jealous that I’m spiritually advanced!”

Satoru doesn’t know where this has come from, but he suspects that they’ve overheard him and Suguru talking sometimes about work, and probably tried to link these concepts to what they do know, what they’ve seen around them.

He never really thought much about teaching them about Buddhism beyond what was obvious, but should he? Is it his job to offer spiritual guidance? He definitely feels unqualified for that.

“I’m done,” Megumi pushes away his Takoyaki boat.

“You only had four,” Satoru raises a brow.

“I’m responsible,” Megumi replies, but he’s still eyeing up the pile of Satoru’s Takoyaki like a hawk.

“Who told you that you had to be?” Satoru asks, pushing the boat back to Megumi. “Eat up.”

Megumi shakes his head. “No. I’m going to be responsible because you’re irresponsible.”

Satoru puts a hand to his chest. “Who has been feeding you these lies, Megumin?” He pretends to be hurt.

“You did use a piece of toast as a plate yesterday when you couldn’t be bothered to wash the plates,” Tsumiki pipes up. Traitor.

“That was efficiency and critical thinking!” Satoru protests, but it gains a laugh. Even Megumi lets out a little huff that could be interpreted as one, and tucks back into his food.

Satoru smiles and leans back against his chair. He picks up his water as he opens his phone and scrolls down to Suguru’s name. He’s on a mission but…

Suguru snaps a quick picture of Megumi and Tsumiki, their fingers smeared with mayonnaise and sauce, tucking into their food.

Children fed. Megumi’s being the responsible one again. I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge.

He puts his phone back down on the table. He doesn’t expect an immediate response.

“You want the last one?” Tsumiki asks, holding the Takoyaki ball up to Satoru, who shakes his head. He’s got enough on his plate. Figuratively and literally.

Megumi is eyeing it up though, and Tsumiki seems to notice. She holds it out to him, and after a moment, Megumi takes it. “’nks.”

“What a good girl, sharing your food!” Satoru praises her, putting his hand on Tsumiki’s head. “Makes your fake-papa so proud!”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Megumi’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.

Satoru doesn’t let his expression drop, keeping his smile in place. No matter how Megumi attacks, Satoru knows he can’t show that it gets to him. He has to keep approaching him with kindness.

“Don’t worry, Satoru. Megumi’s just working on having no earthly attachments,” Tsumiki says, nodding sagely.

Satoru snorts and the moment passes.

His text message still goes unanswered.

♾️

It isn’t so much a room as a storage unit, but Suguru doesn’t know where else to take them. He’d had to shake off his handler at the village, hide the girls from him, and get a taxi instead back to the metropolitan area. The safe house is one he’s used once, for a mission, but this isn’t a permanent solution. He doesn’t even know if there is one. There’s a layer of dust on everything, the place hasn’t been used in over a year or more.

Perfect.

He pushes them towards the bathroom and draws them both a bath. They watch him like he’s going to drown them, so he steps out with directions that they need to be clean so he can look at where they’ve been hurt.

He makes up a bed of old futons, the sheets are musty but clean. Once it’s ready, he gets three glasses of fresh water, and pulls the bento boxes he’d grabbed at a local conbini out to put on the table.

The girls reappear shortly after, dressed in their ragged clothes. He doesn’t have anything else for them to wear. He is covered in their blood too, from where it oozed from unseen wounds as he carried them up the stairs.

He dresses their wounds while they are distracted by their food. They wolf it down like they haven’t eaten in days, before they crawl into the same futon together and fall asleep.

He calls Shoko immediately, giving her the address.

“Suguru, it’s 3am. What are you doing at a safe house at 3am?” Shoko had grumbled, but she still arrived an hour later, bags under her eyes and a cigarette hanging from her hand.

She checks over the girls while they sleep, her hands deft, but something in her expression brittle.

“You should have taken them to the school,” Shoko says.

“We didn’t take Megumi to the school,” Suguru points out. “I don’t want them to suffer further.”

The Fushiguros got their second chance, why shouldn’t these two?

“This isn’t protection. This is hiding,” Shoko sounds tired. “You know that right?”

“If I don’t protect them, then I’m no better than the people who hurt them. If Megumi is given the grace of having a childhood, why can’t they?”

“I can’t fault that logic but… Megumi has issues, sure. He was abandoned. This is… This is a different level, Suguru. This is too much for you and Satoru to handle,” she points out. “Twenty years old and four kids to look after? Plus, studies and a full-time job? These kids are going to need therapy, medical visits, not to mention support for their abilities…”

Suguru clenches his fists. “I know, all right. I know it’ll be hard. But it was either take them in or destroy that whole village, and I think in the circumstances, I made the right call.”

Shoko regards him carefully, lips pursed. “I should call Satoru.”

“Don’t,” Suguru stops her, putting up a hand. “No, not until… Just…”

“Even if you’re not talking right now, this isn’t something you can keep from him Suguru. What are you going to do, have a secret second family?” Shoko gives him a look.

“Don’t talk about us like we’re some married couple and I’m cheating,” Suguru folds his arms. “You know it’s more complicated than that.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Shoko stands up. “You should trust Satoru like he trusted you.”

♾️

Suguru leaves the girls with Shoko, for lack of anything else to do. Shoko estimates they are about seven or eight, though malnutrition has made it harder for her to tell. They might be older. She promises him that she’ll make sure they’re looked after but that he has to leave, he has to go to sleep, and he has to tackle this with a clear head.

So he returns home just before sunrise, stumbling as he pulls his boots off. He accidentally smears blood against the door as he catches himself and closes his eyes for a moment, knowing he’s going to have to wipe that away before Megumi and Tsumiki wake up in a few hours for school.

He hears Satoru’s footsteps approaching and he turns, not hiding the bone deep exhaustion he feels through every part of him.

Satoru is backlit with the light from the television, sending a blue glow through his hair that matches his eyes. He’s dressed in loungewear, sweatpants slung low enough on his hips that hip bones poke out between his sweater and his top. His expression is guarded.

“What happened?” Satoru asks, voice quiet so as not to wake anyone else.

Suguru’s throat closes over. “It took longer than expected.”

He’s becoming as evasive as Satoru.

But Satoru doesn’t press the issue. He walks forward, feet light on the floor, and up close Suguru can see that he looks exhausted as well. But he still stayed up and waited to make sure Suguru came home okay.

Satoru reaches forward, and his fingers brush against Suguru’s collar before dropping to his side as though burned. “You’ve got blood on your collar.”

The space between them feels loud, but Suguru can’t breach it. Satoru is keeping things from him, he knows that. He’s known that for years, when he catches Satoru watching him avidly, like he’s to be studied. Perhaps this is just one thing that he doesn’t have to tell Satoru? One thing that he keeps to himself.

At least until he’s figured out what, precisely, he is going to do with the girls.

“Leave your clothes outside your door. I’ll make sure they go in the wash and clean down the genkan,” Satoru says after the silence has stretched.

As Suguru nods, brushing past him, their knuckles catch, a quiet stutter of skin on skin. Neither of them flinch, but neither of them hold on either.

No, he can’t bring the girls here. Not into this situation, where the tension and uncertainty hangs between the adults in their lives like a threat. Megumi and Tsumiki are already here, that’s already done, but he won’t subject Nanako and Mimiko to any more instability. He won’t subject either sets of children to the uncertainty of each other either.

He’ll work something out for them. He’ll have to.

[ikeromantic]

For the ikePri events, could I get Chev in the Rose Garden with the Honey cake?? (I just started IkePri and im excited I to read everything!)

Mmmm some sweet Chevalier coming right up ^_^ Approx. 700 words of our second prince showing his true colors in the rose garden! IkePri New Years Event story!

Chevalier loosened the collar of his suit with a sigh. He felt exhausted. People were exhausting. He turned his head to glare coldly at the bright-lit ballroom windows. Even out here he could hear the inane chatter. It would never cease to annoy that people - nobles - needed this sort of event to convince them to do what was needed.

“King Chevalier?” 

He turned his head. “You.” He didn’t ask why she’d followed him. Chevalier already knew why, even if he still had trouble understanding it. 

Emma smiled, a crooked little half smile that Chev knew all too well. “I thought if the King could slip away, I could too.” She shrugged, “Nokto and Sariel have things under control.”

“I already know that.” He looked away from her at the rose garden around them. In the dim light, the crimson blossoms were black, and all the other colors muted. The garden could only be brought to life by light, he thought, his lips twisting in a wry smile. 

Emma slipped in beside him, and his arm settled naturally around her shoulders. Neither said anything as they walked slowly together along the winding white stone path. 

Chevalier felt his annoyance ebb in the gentle presence of his lover. His heart warmed under her gentle gaze and a new energy came to life in him from her touch.

“Do you have a New Year resolution,” she asked as they came to a stop beside one of the garden’s enormous fountains. 

“No,” he snorted. “Such things are -” 

She finished the sentence with him, “foolish.” Emma laughed. “I knew you’d say that. But I have a resolution. Do you want to hear it?”

Chevalier let out a breath, pretending to be irritated. “I suspect you will tell me regardless.”

“True.” Her eyes were merry. “My resolution is to love you even more than I already do.”

Chevalier stroked the nape of her neck, trying for a softer touch. “Impossible.” His voice was low, barely a breath. Her smile was so beautiful, he thought. What madness for a creature like her to love a beast, and more, that the beast had found he could love her back. His heart ached with the fullness of that love.

Emma’s smile widened. “I thought so too, because I love you more than I knew it was possible to love anyone. But then I thought, why not try for even more? Something is only impossible until you find a way to do it.”

“Ridiculous.” He felt his own lips stretch and curve up in a smile he couldn’t have imagined having before Emma came into his life. Chevalier lifted her up, gathering her into his arms just to hold her. To feel her pressed close. 

“If I were to make such a silly resolution,” he began, “I would aim for the plausible.”

She snuggled against his chest, arms wrapping around his neck. “Oh? What would you recommend, then?”

Chevalier combed his fingers through her hair, mussing the careful updo she’d worn for the party. “A measurable goal. Like waking up beside you every morning.”

Emma sighed. “That would be amazing. But how is that plausible?” She kissed the sensitive spot just under his jawline. “You have duties that take you all over Rhodolite.” She nipped his earlobe, tugging it gently. “I think that resolution is just like mine.”

Her teasing affected him more than he was willing to let on. Though his expression remained cool, he felt heat build in his chest. A fire only Emma could stoke. “Think,” he told her. 

“Well . . . you can’t just not go places.” She nibbled at her lower lip, rolling it over in her mind. Then her lips drew into a wide, joyful smile. “Wait! Are you promising to take me with you?” 

Chevalier kissed her. Her lips were warm and firm and lively, kissing him back with a fierce passion. Her mouth tasted of the champagne from the party, sweet, with a heat that flowed through him. He kissed her until he felt light headed, and the stars above them seemed to spin.

“That’s a - a yes then?” Her voice trembled, breathless.

“Don’t ask questions you know the answer to.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, and the spot just beneath her ear. Chevalier felt an irrational urge to just keep kissing her, every inch of her. These quiet moments they spent together were everything. 

She was the light that gave color to his heart. Like a blossom brought out of the night and into dawn, showing its scarlet petals. Her love revealed the passion in him. 

Emma laughed, her breath tickling his neck. “I love you, you know that?”

“There you go, silly fool. Asking a question you know the answer to.” Chevalier kissed her again.