#my main blog now feels empty

[resetting37]

today is simon's birthday and also the first day of oc_tober, in which the first prompt is favorite oc. So I get to draw both simon and morgan todayyyyy

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=w=bb

[thankskenpenders]

The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings review

The day has finally come. Many, understandably, thought we'd never get here. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten here. We've been through so much. Lawsuits, reboots, redesigns, unreleased NFTs, empty legal threats over the fact that movie Knuckles has a dad, an attempt to license out Scourge the Hedgehog to fans that immediately got canceled (in both meanings of the term), and many, MANY idiotic Twitter controversies. But now, here we are.

Thirteen years after first announcing it in the middle of his legal battles with Archie and Sega that changed the American Sonic comics forever, former writer Ken Penders has released the first part of his new series: The Lara-Su Chronicles.

Yes. I had to buy the book. I had to take one for the team. Look at the fucking URL of this blog, a blog I've been using to talk about the American Sonic comics for nearly a decade while the specter of this book loomed in the distance. The one time I've actually been paid to write an article about anything in any professional capacity, it was an article about the Penders lawsuits. I'm cited on his Wikipedia page. There was no way I was going to skip reviewing this, and there was no guarantee that scans would ever turn up online given the incredibly small audience for this trash. (Only 166 people preordered this, and even that number feels way higher than it should be.) No, I had to preorder it to ensure I could get a copy and cover it for the blog... even if that meant my name would be forever immortalized in the list of "supporters" in the back of the book. These are the sacrifices I must make as a woman who stumbled ass backwards into being an amateur Archie Sonic historian.

So, what exactly is in this book? How much of it is new? How bad is it? How did we even get here in the first place? How can this exist without Sega pursuing legal action? What happens next? And, most importantly... why are there multiple depictions of an Archie Sonic character breastfeeding in this book?

I'm here to answer those questions as best I can, and in agonizing detail.

First, for those just tuning in to this decades-long saga or those who maybe don't know the full story, here's a refresher on the background info.

"What the hell is this?"

The Lara-Su Chronicles is Ken Penders' long-dreaded long-awaited continuation of his 1994-2006 run on Archie Sonic, ignoring everything written after he left by other writers like Ian Flynn. In particular, it picks up from the cliffhanger ending of the 2003-2004 arc "Mobius: 25 Years Later," which was set in what Ken considers the definitive canonical future of the series. It stars Knuckles' daughter from that future era, Lara-Su, among other new and returning characters. The project was first announced near the start of Ken's legal battle with Archie in 2011, and he's been posting WIP previews online for about a decade. Now, after all this time, a Lara-Su Chronicles book finally exists.

We'll get to the actual contents of that book in a bit.

"He can do that without getting in trouble with Sega?"

Believe it or not, yes, he can.

Thanks to the outcome of Archie Comics' woefully mismanaged lawsuits against Ken (yes, they sued him after he started filing for copyrights, not the other way around), he now has full legal ownership of every story he wrote for Archie Sonic and every character he created for the series. This was explicitly granted to him in the terms of the settlement between him and Archie (acting on behalf of Sega). He can even reprint his old Sonic material as-is to his heart's content. The main catch is just that he can't write new stories featuring Sega characters or trademarks, and his new stories also have to be distinct from Sonic at a glance to avoid confusing readers. As such, reprints can't use Sonic iconography on the cover, a few Sega characters (mainly Knuckles) have been renamed and slightly redesigned in the new stories, and the art style has been changed to less closely resemble Sonic. But otherwise, he can do whatever he wants with his own characters.

All of this is because Archie lost the original copy of Ken's work-for-hire contract that signed over the rights to his work. Without that (or any alternative that was considered permissible in court), his comics and characters are the property of their creator by default. Yes, those old comics are full of Sega stuff, but Sega doesn't automatically own the copyright for every drawing of Sonic in existence. And Sega put their stamp of approval all over those comics and let them get sold at retail for decades, even though (in the eyes of the court) there was no legal paperwork granting them ownership of any of it. It's almost like they were unwittingly distributing a fan comic for years and declaring it a fair use of their property, and now there's no takesies backsies. It's a strange and unique copyright situation. Again, they worked all this out in the settlement. And, yes, fans have long speculated that Ken stole and destroyed his own contract to regain the rights to his work, but frankly Archie was so incompetent throughout the lawsuit (it went so bad that they had to fire and replace their lawyers midway through) that I completely buy the idea of them just losing important legal documents.

Also, in case it needs to be spelled out: while Ken's a weirdo, it's ultimately a good thing for creatives everywhere that Archie lost their lawsuit against Ken. We do not want to live in a world where corporations can claim ownership of peoples' work without the contracts to back it up. That would be an incredibly dangerous legal precedent to set. And more comic creators, and artists in general, should own their own work! Corporations are not your friend! They'll delete your work for a tax write-off in a heartbeat! It's just bewildering that this guy, of all people, was the creator who ended up successfully getting his shit back, and that this is what he's doing with it.

"What about his old collaborators? Are they involved? Is he paying them?"

Ken is mostly doing The Lara-Su Chronicles solo, though he has, in fact, talked about compensating the artists involved in any material he's reprinting. The ones who give enough of a shit to get paid for a small scale reprint of something they did 20 years ago, anyway.

On the subject of his collaborators, it's also worth pointing out that Ken's wasn't the only contract that was lost. Most of the early Archie Sonic writers from before Ian Flynn's time seem to be in the same boat as Ken, with the ownership of their stories and characters defaulting back to them. Again, Archie fucked up big time. But like I said, most of them don't really seem to give a shit. For most of them, Sonic was just a random temporary gig they took to pay the bills while Marvel was busy going bankrupt in the '90s, not the thing that defined their entire careers.

The only other Archie Sonic contributor who's tried to do anything on the level of what Ken is doing was writer and editor Scott Fulop. In 2016 he attempted to sue Archie for the unauthorized use of what are now retroactively considered his copyrighted characters and stories, and he even announced a standalone comic about his most famous Sonic character, the recurring villain Mammoth Mogul (sort of a pastiche of DC's Vandal Savage and Marvel's Kingpin, with wizard powers added for spice). However, Fulop lost his lawsuit because he didn't put together a particularly compelling case. Since then he seems to have wiped all traces of his ill-advised Mammoth Mogul comic and his company, Narrative Ark Entertainment, from the internet. For now, this leaves The Lara-Su Chronicles the only project of its kind.

"What about those other Archie Sonic reprints he just announced?"

At the time of writing, Ken is once again claiming that he's trying to get the band back together to reprint all of Archie Sonic, now under the bad new banner "Floating Island Productions: MOBIAN LINE" that I can't imagine he consulted literally anyone else on.

So, like, look. As we've established, Ken can reprint his own stories. And if he can work something out with the other contributors whose contracts were lost, he can print their work, too. But there is no fucking way he's getting his hands on Ian Flynn's run, which Sega undoubtedly holds the copyright for. Even if they don't, Ian needs to maintain a good working relationship with both Sega and IDW if he's to keep his job, so he'd never go for this. Not to mention that Ian and Ken just... don't get along! Ken's whole plan here seems to be predicated on IDW going out of business (a thing he REALLY wants to happen) and freeing up the Sonic comic license, after which he knocks on Sega's door and goes "hey I've still got dirt on you guys," blackmailing them into giving him the Sonic license back so that he can reprint the later comics. Every step of this plan is ludicrous. It's never gonna happen.

He's been saying he wants to reprint the whole series for a few years now, though. This isn't really anything new. And despite his lofty plans that set Sonic Twitter ablaze, he quickly backpedaled. The only specific things in the works right now are a "two-volume omnibus" of all of his Knuckles stories and a collection of artist Scott Shaw's work on the very early Archie Sonic issues, since they're on good terms with each other. I have no idea how Ken plans on packaging these when he can't put any Sega characters or the Freedom Fighters on the covers, but these projects are small enough in scale that there's a decent chance they'll see the light of day. Scott Shaw only did like five issues. But anything beyond that? I'll believe it when I see it.

Or, y'know, this could've all just been a publicity stunt for his new book. I wouldn't put it past him. Let's just focus on the book that actually exists.

"So he finally did it? He made a whole Lara-Su book? It's out? He finished it??"

Yes and no.

The book that's out now is The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings, a prologue for the series of seven graphic novels Ken somehow plans on making, even though it's taken him 13 years to put out literally anything new. I don't know whether or not this counts as book one of seven, because it only features 30 pages of new comics. 30.5 if I'm being generous.

Most of the book is actually just a reprint of his infamous Archie Sonic storyline "Mobius: 25 Years Later", which ran from issue #131 to #144 in 2003-2004. (Again, yes, he can reprint this, he just can't put Sonic on the cover.) Why's it infamous? Well, Ken had been building anticipation for this future era of the series for basically his entire run. We kept seeing King Sonic and Queen Sally from the future. Knuckles' entire backstory hinges on his dad having a vision of this future. Several years before Silver the Hedgehog was created, it was Lara-Su who was Sonic's equivalent to Future Trunks, the cool-looking child of one of the main characters who traveled back in time to try and prevent a dark future. Believe it or not, yes, there was hype for Lara-Su. And then we finally got M25YL, and none of that cool stuff happened. Instead it really ended up being about how unbearably boring the middle aged Sonic, Knuckles, Sally, and co. are in this peaceful future where Robotnik is dead and they're all married with kids, forced into traditional nuclear family gender roles. Lara-Su is present, but she mostly just does generic teen girl stuff and complains about how Knuckles won't let her do anything even though she REALLY wants to be the new Guardian of Angel Island, like, super bad! Come on, dad!!!

In its original printing, this meandering arc ended on an abrupt time travel cliffhanger that Ken was never able to follow up on before he left Archie in 2006. This new printing slightly changes that ending, using the unresolved timey-wimey shenanigans as a convenient excuse to alter the entire timeline. This creates the slightly different world of The Lara-Su Chronicles, where the few relevant Sega-owned characters have been replaced and everyone is ten times uglier.

After this, we finally get two short new stories picking up where M25YL left off: "The Storm," starring Acorn Kingdom super-spy and known creep Geoffrey St. John, and an early release of the first chapter of The Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows, the first full TLSC graphic novel.

And now that we're all on the same page about what we're looking at, let's actually talk about the book!

The cover

Let's start by beating a dead horse. The cover art: it's still bad! But why is it bad?

The cover is, of course, based on Patrick Spaziante's cover from Archie Sonic #131, the start of the "Mobius: 25 Years Later" arc. (Ken did the layout for that cover, though, so in the eyes of the law he's the original creator who owns that cover.) That cover was, itself, a tribute to the iconic cover of Giant-Size X-Men #1 by Gil Kane and Dave Cockrum, the issue that introduced the version of the team with Wolverine, Storm, Nightcrawler, etc.

Ken seems to have forgotten that the point of both these covers was to hype up the arrival of a new cast of characters. The new guys are supposed to make a dramatic entrance front and center. That's the focal point. Meanwhile, the cover for Beginnings has the old timeline versions of the cast from Archie Sonic dramatically bursting out of a shattered crystal ball, while their new counterparts look on in mild bemusement - if they're even bothering to look at all, since most of the characters here are just copied and pasted from their profile pages. That's just not how you do this particular homage! The point is supposed to be "out with the old, in with the new." And why are they using a crystal ball to view the past? Hell, why are they even using a crystal ball at all? The original arc was presented as a magical vision of the future courtesy of Tails' uncle Merlin (don't ask), but the new story leans all the way into being futuristic sci-fi.

Of course, there is no real artistic intent at play here. The old versions of the characters are placed front and center in the crystal ball simply because Ken traced over Spaziante's original art of Lara-Su and Julie-Su (the only two characters on the Sonic cover he owns) and threw out the rest, ruining the composition in the process. Look at the awkward empty space where Sonic, Sally, and Rotor once were, and the new drawing of The Character Formerly Known As Knuckles who's no longer properly centered between his wife and daughter. Even if Ken can claim ownership of the cover because he did the original layout, this all just feels scummy and lame.

And, yeah, if it needs to be said, the new characters and Ken's new rendering style look like absolute fucking dogshit. Putting new Lara-Su directly next to old Lara-Su does her no favors. The shattered glass effect looks absolutely atrocious. I could go on, but we'll have plenty of time to talk about the art style when we see how bad the stories inside look.

Changes to "Mobius: 25 Years Later"

Overall, 99% of M25YL is presented identically to its original printing. Sonic, Sally, Knuckles, et al. are still present with no changes to their names and no tweaks to the art. Even the original cover for issue #131 is included only a few pages into this book with its Archie, Sonic, and Sega logos still intact and everything. Again, because of the weird copyright situation described above, these preexisting comics can be released without any changes.

There is exactly one bizarre change to the art, though, where a hand drawn shot of Angel Island is replaced with an unfitting photo background and the ugly Floating Island photobash that Ken has been using as his personal logo for decades. I think he only did this as part of a test for his motion comic app that nobody asked for. I don't know why this had to make it into the print version. It's like the book is firing a warning shot for what's to come if you keep reading.

The new content begins on the final page of M25YL. In the original wet fart of a cliffhanger ending, Sonic and co. accidentally alter the timeline with an old time machine of Robotnik's and Lara-Su begins to fade away. Then, after everything goes white, we just cut to the present day heroes going "gee, you ever think about the future?" In this new printing, that last bit has been cut, and the rest of the page has been awkwardly shrunk down so that Ken can fit in a new panel. We now see the hands of an off-screen villain, seemingly named "Override," proclaiming that "the Praetorian" (Knuckles) has messed up the timeline again and that they'll finally get their revenge.

Who is this Override? I have no fucking clue. The new stories in this book make no mention of them. You have to buy the next book to find out.

My confusion over the identity of this villain overlaps with another big problem: name changes. So many names and nouns have been arbitrarily changed in The Lara-Su Chronicles, even ones Ken didn't have to change for copyright reasons, and I only know what half of them are replacing because Ken's been tweeting about this shit for years.

The echidnas are now a totally original alien race called "the Echyd'nya." Even in flashbacks to events from M25YL attempting to mimic the old art style, if it's on a new comic page, they're gonna call themselves "Echyd'nya." Evil echidna faction the Dark Legion is now the "Cyberdark Dominion," hailing from the "Cyberdark Colony." The Brotherhood of Guardians is still the Brotherhood of Guardians, but now the main guardian is called "The Praetorian." Angel Island is still called "The Floating Island," like it was in the older Archie comics, but it's ALSO sometimes called "Avion"? When I read this I wasn't sure if he had randomly renamed Albion, the other echidna city from the Archie comics. But no. Now we have an Albion AND an Avion. Sally is mentioned simply as "Princess Acorn," while Sonic is referenced once as an unnamed "blue-spined Erinaceinae," using the scientific name for hedgehog to make it sound more sci-fi. In an incredibly ballsy move, Ken even mentions Robotnik as "the Insurrectionist Kintobor," retaining his original surname from the Archie comics that's just "Robotnik" backwards. Guess Sega never trademarked that one.

Aside from every name change being a downgrade, this leads to confusion when you're not sure if something is supposed to be new, or if it's just an Archie thing you're supposed to recognize despite having a new name and design. Is "Override" someone I'm supposed to know already? Am I just supposed to have read a fucking tweet from Ken where he said he changed the name of some existing villain to "Override"? The answer is no, but I had to term search his Twitter just to verify this.

Moving on!

New story #1: "The Storm"

If you've been following the WIPs, this is that story about Geoffrey St. John that Ken's been posting previews of for almost a decade. The title page copyright dates it to 2015, and that absurdly long gestation is probably why the art is so inconsistent here. Even the style of speech bubbles and the font change between pages two and three.

This is a problem when there's supposed to be a deliberate and noticeable change in art style here signaling the moment where the time travel stuff alters the timeline, replacing the Archie Sonic world with the Lara-Su Chronicles world. If you don't already know that's what's going on, the idea isn't conveyed clearly at all. It just goes from one hideous art style to a slightly different one with no explanation.

The main problem here is that Ken has hitched his wagon to a franchise about anthropomorphic animals when he can't draw furries to save his life. (Though a bit later in the book we'll also begin to wonder if he can even still draw humans.) He's shifted away from the cartooniness of the original designs and given them more human proportions and facial features, but this just ends up making them look incredibly uncanny and lumpy and gross. With some designs he's trying to lean into more of a Star Trek alien vibe, but then he still insists upon retaining the giant Sonic eyes on most characters even though he has no idea how to make them emote.

The rendering of these godawful designs doesn't do them any favors, either. Ken's going for more of a painterly look now, but it almost seems as though he's shading everything with Photoshop's burn and dodge tools that are designed to darken and lighten select areas of a photo. The result is a muddy, smudgy look that makes it feel like the color layer has been smeared in vaseline. And it only looks worse after coming off of 14 chapters of M25YL that have way more palatable art.

The backgrounds, too, are a complete mess, a jumble of low res jpeg photo elements (sometimes with extremely noticeable pixelation), stock textures, and smooth digital gradients. There's no real sense of place here, and it gives everything a surreal, dreamlike quality when you can't really tell where anything is supposed to take place. This first story is seemingly set in a high-tech stronghold below Castle Acorn called "the Bunker," but it could just as easily be confused for the bridge of a spaceship. This whole story features characters speaking to each other over floating video displays and hologram projectors from three different locations, but without a hologram effect and without a clear sense of where the characters are it often feels like they're just in the same room as each other. Characters will be in one location on one photo background, and then the camera angle changes and they're in a completely different place, because Ken just uses mismatched photos off of the internet. It's been like 25 years since he first tried using photo backgrounds in the Archie comics and he hasn't gotten any better at it.

When I had my boyfriend read the book to see if it made literally any sense to him (it didn't), Anthony said this: "This is the kind of shit I'd see linked on a Second Life world that hasn't been touched since 2004." I think he really hit the nail on the head. Now, there's actually a contrarian part of me that thinks that might theoretically almost be kind of cool, in sort of a messy counterculture way. I love weird indie shit. I was a Homestuck reader! But this isn't a scrappy mixed media zine, or experimental outsider art from someone just messing around with Photoshop, or a loving throwback to weird old internet art, or even something intentionally bizarre and offputting like Xavier: Renegade Angel or a PilotRedSun video or whatever where the fact that it's weird and ugly is part of the humor. This is supposed to be a sincere sci-fi epic drawing on Star Trek and Jack Kirby comics, made by a guy who's been drawing comics professionally since the '80s. This is supposed to look good. This is supposed to compete with mainstream comics that are on sale right now. He thinks any day now IDW's gonna go out of business and Sega will come crawling back to him so that he can stamp the Sonic logo on shit like this. It just doesn't work.

But, okay. It's ugly. We knew it would be ugly. But that ugliness would be much easier to accept if it was in service of an otherwise genuinely good story. So what about the writing? After all this time, how does Ken choose to kick off this new saga? Well, credit where credit's due. "The Storm" feels like a proper continuation of Ken's writing style from M25YL.

Because it's eleven pages of characters standing around and talking while nothing fucking happens.

Here's the synopsis: A dog woman named Brownie, an ensign in the Royal Secret Service fresh out of training and the only character who's almost cute, walks up to Geoffrey to deliver a report. He's immediately suspicious of her, asking who let her in and if she's a spy for Elias (Sally's brother, if you're new here) or Alicia (Sally's mom). The art style suddenly shifts when the timeline is altered, but the scene continues uninterrupted. Geoffrey points a gun at Brownie when she won't say whose spy she is. Geoffrey is distracted by a call and proceeds to have a conversation via a mix of holograms and video screens with Remington (head of Echidnaopolis security), Spectre (Knuckles' great great great great great grandpa, the one with the helmet who always looks evil), and a new scientist character named Dr. Zephyr/Zephur. (The spelling of this character's name changes multiple times throughout the 11-page story, because I guess nine years wasn't enough time to spellcheck this shit.) They say a bunch of made up technobabble nonsense about how it looks like the timeline was just altered and Knuckles and co. seem to be involved. It's complete drivel that I'm not even going to try to make sense of. Everyone decides to investigate further, and the conversation ends. Brownie tells Geoffrey she's his spy, then walks out and implies she's actually Alicia's spy in her inner monologue.

To be continued!!!

Yes, that's it. It's really just a bunch of technobabble where some characters talk about how it seems like the timeline has been fucked with. That's it. The whole time Geoffrey doesn't even get up out of his damn chair, which he's of course sitting in backwards to show how cool he is. It's just 11 pages of Geoffrey sitting in a chair and talking to people and looking uglier than he's ever looked. Nothing happens. Nine years for this.

I'm also struck by how meaningless all of this is to anyone who hasn't read Archie Sonic. The added context from M25YL may help a little, but "The Storm" focuses on characters who weren't in that arc, and the story does very little to introduce who any of them are. Brownie could've been super useful as an inexperienced point of view character who's only meeting the others for the first time here, but instead she's really just a passive observer who's here as part of some kind of 4D chess game between Geoffrey and Alicia, an off-screen character whose motivations in this era of the story are completely unknown to even returning readers. Who are the good guys and bad guys here? What are the conflicts and the stakes of the story moving forward? What do these characters want? Basic questions like this aren't really answered. I can't imagine a new reader being able to make heads or tails of this. Hell, I can't really imagine a returning reader who hasn't been following the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets about this story making heads or tails of it, either.

...Maybe more will happen in the next story?

New story #2: Shattered Tomorrows preview chapter

After another message from Ken, the story of The Lara-Su Chronicles proper begins with the redesigned Lara-Su walking along a jpeg photograph beach at sunset and crying while thinking about how Knuckles - sorry, his name is K'Nox now - is dead.

Yep! Straight into the dad stuff!

Look, I'm the last person to complain about writers getting super personal and drawing from their own baggage in their writing, but Ken's just no fucking good at it. There's no nuance, nothing interesting to say. He just keeps writing mediocre-to-horrible dads whose misdeeds are always justified by their "good intentions," and then sometimes they die and their kids are like "we may have fought but actually you were the bestest dad ever and I'll miss you forever, I'll never be able to fill your shoes!"

This is the only part of the new material here that feels like it has any heart behind it, because I know how much his complex relationship with his late deadbeat father means to Ken (there's an author's note in this outright saying as much). But the guy died 42 years ago, and it doesn't feel like Ken has had any new thoughts about this part of his life in those four decades. He's just not an introspective or self-aware enough artist to actually mine his personal baggage for anything beyond "father knows best."

Anyway, so then it jumps forward in time(?) and now we're following this human guy who looks like this.

Previously, Ken got a lot of shit for literally just using the likeness of Anthony Mackie for this guy, based on his IMDB profile photo. Ken has thus redesigned the character... and by that I mean I think he looks more like Ernie Hudson now? Ken's clearly just working off of photo references (if not straight up tracing), given his face is the most detailed and realistic-looking thing on any page where he's present.

But you may be wondering: who is this, and why is he here? Well, for one, he's here to run around in front of some low res space photos while making trite references to things like Planet of the Apes and Star Trek. Haha, he makes a joke about red shirts! Original!! But beyond that, Commander Mykhal Taelor (yes, that's really how he chose to spell it) is a human... from Earth! Archie Sonic readers are probably confused, because in those comics Mobius is Earth in the distant post-apocalyptic future. Well, despite being a Planet of the Apes fan, Ken always hated that particular worldbuilding decision from Karl Bollers, always preferring to think of Mobius as a separate alien planet. And now he gets to make that canon in his own stories and throw out Karl's ideas. So Mobius is basically just, like, a Star Trek planet now, with its own alien creatures that sometimes just so happen to look like anthropomorphic Earth animals.

Also, at one point Taelor wonders if the inhabitants of the dead Mobius might have been human, and the alien ally he's talking to over the radio says it's unlikely. "I don't understand why your kind has a problem understanding you're a minority within a minority." Perhaps poor wording for a line said to the only Black character in the story.

Anyway, Commander Taelor here seems to have discovered the uninhabited husk of Mobius after the vague time-space cataclysm everyone was worried about in M25YL has come to pass, and he finds an audio log from Lara-Su that I presume will explain what happened. I guess those are the titular Lara-Su Chronicles. In theory this flash forward establishes some sense of pressing danger, but when the threat to the planet is so unclear and technobabble-y it just kind of lands with a thud.

It doesn't take long before we get back to Lara-Su being sad about her dad. A good little chunk of the chapter is spent with this new timeline's Lara-Su recalling moments in her life, including echoes of the original Lara-Su's memories from M25YL, which feels redundant coming hot off the heels of a straight reprint of that entire arc. And boy, for anyone who read the later Archie Sonic comics, the protagonist having vague memories of the old version of the series from before a lawsuit-related timeline reboot sure does sound familiar, huh?

The art inconsistency somehow becomes even worse in this story, with Ken flip-flopping on whether or not he wants to use outlines, with the no-outline art managing to look even worse by relying entirely on Ken's awful rendering. By this point in the book, readers are also likely to start noticing how often Ken reuses art from previous panels. This is a shortcut that tons of comic artists use, of course. Invincible famously did a joke about this. It's often understandable. But, again... it sure does stand out in a book that took 13 years to make with only 30 pages of new art. Amusingly, Ken even manages to combine his inconsistency and recycling problems by reusing the same art with and without outlines. And, of course, any time Ken tries to draw the Archie era designs it's just... the worst.

And, yes, it's in this dreamlike montage sequence of Lara-Su's life that we get...

The uncomfortable family nudity scene, followed by the dual timeline Julie-Su breastfeeding scene.

Yeah, you might have heard about this one already. If this incredibly eerie presentation of Lara-Su's hazy memories of the two different timelines make it hard to tell what's going on, don't worry. There's another, clearer version later in the book as part of Julie-Su's character profile, because I guess Ken was just so proud of it.

(I censored these myself because I'm not playing Russian roulette with Tumblr's inconsistent nudity rules and risking getting banned lmao)

Like, okay. Is a mother breastfeeding her child really that shocking of a thing to see in a story? No, not at all. But, like... when it's two characters who you previously created for an officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comic for 7-year-olds... and some of those officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comics for 7-year-olds are reprinted in the same book... and when it's drawn like this... yeah, it's kind of a shocker.

It just looks so unnatural. Julie-Su is posed very deliberately so that you'll see both of her breasts, and in the new timeline version she's barely even holding Lara-Su so you can really get a good look at her supermodel body, showing zero physical signs that she just gave birth. Most people will immediately jump to this being Ken putting his fetishes in his work (a type of criticism that I'm incredibly tired of - it's 2024, all the cool artists are blatantly putting their fetishes in their work now). And my immediate response is that, no, this is probably just Ken trying to come off as really mature on a surface level, a thing he's been obsessed with since the Archie days. Free from the shackles of writing a licensed children's comic, of course he's going to jump immediately into depicting some nonsexual, artistic nudity to try and prove he's A Real Mature Artist For Grown-Ups who just thinks the human body is beautiful and breastfeeding shouldn't be a taboo etc. etc.

But then, like. You look at some of the other character designs. Like Espio's daughter Salma, who's now this horrifying alien lizard person who's always nude, and her scale pattern puts scales exactly where her nipples should be. Or you look at his comments about the Echyd'nya age of consent. Or you look at how he keeps drawing Lara-Su in this. Like, does the shuttle really need this, like... reverse chaise lounge thing in the cockpit? So that we can keep getting these shots of the 16-year-old Lara-Su lying on her stomach and posing with one of her legs kicked up, her naked ass in plain view?

The vibe isn't great, is what I'm saying!

I'm not going to try to ascribe authorial intent here. I don't know. I'm not a psychic. Given his very blatant reliance on photo references elsewhere in the book, it's entirely possible he just referenced some figure drawing photos that were maybe just a little too sexy. And also, he's an American comic book artist, and a boomer one at that. Those guys tend to draw women a certain way, even when it's not supposed to be sexual. I don't fucking know. It just sucks. I'm not gonna make some hyperbolic statement about how this makes him a literal pedophile who should be in jail, but it is deeply offputting and objectifying.

But if you already knew about the nursing scenes and were hoping there was some other really shocking stuff in there for me to talk about in this review, sorry to disappoint, but nope. That's the only shockingly weird new thing in here. Once again, not a lot happens in this story, and what does happen is pretty boring.

Once we get past the recap stuff and the human guy, the plot developments boil down to this: The timeline was altered at the end of M25YL... but not as much as you might think. In the new timeline, Knuckles ("K'Nox"), Cobar (now looking significantly younger), and Rotor (now a rhino just called "The Emissary") still traveled via shuttle to go find a time machine in the Badlands and fix the time-space continuum, like in the climax of the original arc. This time, though, Sonic wasn't there, and Lara-Su came along without having to stow away. Lara-Su watches the ship while the grown ups go deal with the time machine, and then after a couple panels Not Rotor comes back with Cobar and is like "Hey, Cobar got hurt, we gotta leave. Dunno what happened to your dad." And then they just, like. Presume that Knuckles must have died. Even though we have no idea what happened to him. And then they just fly away. And then Lara-Su is sad that her dad died.

And that's pretty much it!

This is supposed to be a really emotional sequence - it's literally the scene where Lara-Su learns that Knuckles is dead - but instead it comes off as unintentionally funny because of how poorly it's portrayed. Not showing Knuckles' actual disappearance is a huge misstep, for one, making his uncertain fate more confusing and anticlimactic than dramatic. But also, Ken keeps just using the same two drawings of Rotor for two pages, so he doesn't really seem to be emoting at all, and he's in this spacey hazmat suit that honestly just makes him look like fucking Moltar from Space Ghost. So the whole time I'm just reading his dialogue in Moltar's deadpan voice as he's like "I dunno. We did what we could. Anyway, let's leave."

After this, we get a two-page spread previewing the rest of the story from Shattered Tomorrows. It's basically like a trailer in comic form. It has one of the most mystifying layouts I've ever seen in a comic book. I have no idea what order I'm supposed to read this in.

Yeah, I kinda have a feeling this is the full extent of what Ken has drawn for the rest of that book. I'd love to be wrong, but I fear that I'm right.

Bonus material: Data files

These are mostly very dull, recapping a lot of events shared between Ken's Archie run and the new Lara-Su Chronicles timeline. It seems like almost his entire run is still considered canon to the backstory of the new timeline, just with some names changed, and things only really diverge at the climax of M25YL. But I'll share the interesting stuff here.

Lara-Su

The main thing you'll notice in Lara-Su's profile is the massive, unreadable wall of text where Ken felt the need to list the entire Knuckles family tree, split across both pages.

This is literally so long that Lara-Su's personal history has to awkwardly cut off mid-sentence and be continued on the final page of the book, after the rest of the data files.

Also, please note that this list gives Julie-Su's mom's full name as Mari-Su of the House of Atrades. Incredible on all levels.

There's also a reference to the dark timeline Lara-Su was originally supposed to come from. You know, the one where Julie-Su is the leader of a rebel movement fighting against a Knuckles who had gone mad with power? The timeline that would have been way more interesting than the one in M25YL? Here it seems to have been written off as the result of another "timeline disruption." Lara-Su allegedly has vague memories of this timeline, in the same way that she has vague memories of the M25YL timeline.

Geoffrey

Geoffrey's bio mostly recaps events from the Archie comics, which means the Sonic/Sally/Geoffrey love triangle has to be alluded to. His rivalry with Sonic is described like this:

"He would later resurface when Kintobor was transporting his latest hi-tech weapon, the Dynamac-3000. It was during that mission he discovered a rival for the Princess' affections. Whereas the Princess would be one of a line of conquests where St. John was concerned, the blue-spined Erinaceinae who protested doth a bit too much regarding his affections for the Princess for St. John's taste would prove to be a source of great sport and amusement."

Yes. It's gross. Saying that Geoffrey saw Sally as "one of a line of conquests" is gross. Ken writing this and then still treating Geoffrey as the coolest badass ever is gross. The "Princess Acorn" is also first on the list of Geoffrey's "female relationships" elsewhere in his bio, though I suppose how much of a "relationship" they had is left vague. Honestly, at this point the fact that Ken didn't explicitly confirm that Geoffrey took the underage Sally's virginity in the book comes off as a display of restraint. The bar couldn't be any lower, I know.

Remington

His bio is, frankly, shockingly long for such a minor character, though I guess he does get a large portion of the word salad dialogue in "The Storm." There's a lot of stuff here about how the identities of his biological parents are shrouded in mystery, a plot point that fans have long speculated Ken just straight up forgot about in his time at Archie. (Ian confirmed that Kragok from the Dark Legion was Remington's dad, though, so this isn't really much of a mystery.)

Lien-Da

She gets a bio even though she's not present in the two new stories, just so we get to look at her awful new design and compare it to how Steven Butler drew her earlier in the book:

Commander Taelor

We get to see two drawings of him with the same exact Ernie Hudson face side by side! That's fun.

Julie-Su

She gets a list of "known friends," but the only character listed is Knuckles' mom. Poor Julie-Su.

Also, Ken feels the need to reiterate that Knuckles and Julie-Su are still distant cousins. He made a whole new timeline where he can change whatever details he wants, but THAT had to remain canon. Thanks, Ken.

And then after the data files we get the special thanks page, listing everyone who preordered the book and/or bought TLSC merch from Ken.

With my name on the list. Because I had to buy a copy to cover it for the blog.

My name is on the very next page right after the breastfeeding panel in Julie-Su's data file.

Yep. He got me.

Is it at least a well put together book? Like, in terms of manufacturing quality?

Its physical quality is... fine. It's a nice, sturdy hardcover. The print quality seems fine, though mine does have a bit of smudging from some sort of printing error on one page. The pages don't seem like they'll fall out on me. The image quality is crisp. The colors are vibrant. This is a low bar, but this is one of the few places where I'm able to give this book anything resembling praise.

The formatting and graphic design work, on the other hand...

(I didn't crumple those page corners, it came like that.)

For one, the placement and sizes of the M25YL pages is inconsistent, largely due to the fact that the book doesn't actually match the proportions of a comic. A lot of pages aren't properly centered vertically. Some pages go all the way up to the top edge of the paper, while others leave a visible gap of about half a centimeter. Every page has a 1cm gap to its left and right, which is sometimes filled in with a solid color or gradient that doesn't quite match the page it's surrounding. I have to assume Ken didn't have any sort of source files or original artwork to work off of, as those ideally would've had more generous bleed to account for slight shifts in printing. It kind of seems like he just got the highest resolution versions he could find of the digital releases online and printed those. The colors are a dead ringer for the digital versions, which have always looked slightly more saturated and pastel than they did in print.

I can't say this bodes well for his further plans for Archie Sonic reprints - sorry, Mobian Line reprints. If they ever come out, please, for the love of god, do not buy those. I don't care how much you love Archie Sonic, they aren't going to be good reprints. For comparison, IDW's similarly priced hardcover Sonic collections have none of these formatting problems, because they're made by people who know what they're doing with access to the actual source files.

The book also has its fair share of text-focused pages, split between the data files and messages directly from Ken about the history of his career and this project, and these are formatted in the most amateurish way possible. Just massive walls of Arial text over either plain white backgrounds, simple gradients, or faded photos. I've seen school yearbooks with better graphic design. Even ignoring my subjective feelings about the art and stories within, this book does not feel like it's worth $36 USD.

It's frankly shocking how shabby he let this thing look considering it's supposed to be his baby. And doesn't that really sum it all up?

Closing thoughts

Obviously, I did not expect this to be any good. But I'm still left kind of dumbfounded by it.

I think what really strikes me about it is that Ken had a blank check to do whatever he wanted here. He got an opportunity many writers would kill for when he gained complete ownership of his most famous work. He's free from the limitations of a monthly licensed comic book for children, free to make whatever creative decisions he wants without editors or other writers or Sega to worry about, free to completely reinvent the series to his heart's content and finally tell the story of his dreams. And with that opportunity and 13 years of his time, he made... this. A direct continuation of "Mobius: 25 Years Later" that barely changes anything about the characters or world beyond their awful new designs, even though much of the word count is spent rambling about how the timeline has changed. A story that makes zero concessions for new readers, or even returning readers who don't already have the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets explaining his creative decisions burned into their memory. 30 pages where nothing really happens and the story barely moves forward an inch despite the decades-long wait - but maybe something will happen if you buy the next book!

Who is this for? Maybe this really is a project for no one but Ken. Maybe he just really, really wants to finish the story he started, a story that's personal to him due to the family history it evokes, and the number of people who enjoy it or buy it beyond that is irrelevant. I think that many of the best artists are incredibly self-indulgent ones working with that exact mindset, artists whose enthusiasm for their own work jumps off the page or screen. So, if that's the case, then why the fuck isn't he telling the damn story? What's stopping him? Why is he still spinning his wheels? Where is that passion for his own work? Because it sure as hell isn't there on the page. There's a huge part of me that really wishes I could say "Man, what a weirdo, but you do you, Ken. You tell your weird little story." But there's barely any story here. It's like he loves styling himself as a storyteller, but he's terrified of finally having to actually tell a story after all this time. He's still stuck in the exact same mode of writing he was in almost 30 years ago when he was doing 6-page backup stories about Knuckles, just killing time and stringing readers along until he's eventually able to truly realize his vision. If not now, then when, Ken?

Even the back cover blurb is mostly just a dry recap of the history of this thing. It was a Sonic comic, the original arc was published in these issues, it went unfinished, Ken left Archie, the lawsuits happened, now he's continuing the story. There's nothing about why anyone should give a shit about this as its own story, even though Ken has spent years trying in vain to convince people TLSC is its own beast that shouldn't be judged as a Sonic story. I think deep down he knows that there's no pitch for this beyond the novelty of it originating from Sonic. And that's why, despite declaring that he'd leave the site, he's still on Twitter riling up Sonic fans. It's the only attention he gets at this point.

Maybe this is too harsh when those 30 pages of new comics are just intended as a preview for the "real" book. But the elephant in the room is that we have no idea if that "real" book will ever actually come out, let alone the entire series of seven graphic novels that will supposedly complete this saga.

Ken is undeniably a complete jackass and all around unpleasant, vindictive person who's rightly become an industry pariah. He's a self-proclaimed paragon of progressive values who'll send Comicsgaters after his successors for the crime of not worshiping the ground he walks on, and then turn around and announce he's going to reprint their work without even consulting them. He's a sore winner who already won his copyright battle on a level most comic writers would never dare to dream of, and yet still won't truly be satisfied until he sees an entire major comic publisher go out of business, putting god knows how many people out of work, because he thinks this would get him back the license to a video game franchise he doesn't even like.

But I still have to pity him.

As an artist, the trajectory of his life is my nightmare. I think all of us fear dying before we can tell all the stories we want to tell. There's simply never enough time to do everything. And here's Ken in his 60s, talking about how he's still planning on making his magnum opus all by himself out of stubbornness and pride, despite demonstrably proving he can't handle the workload, and also talking about how if he dies before the project can be finished he'll have to pass the torch on to his kids and get them to finish it for him. It's so grim. Even just typing that sends a shiver down my spine. It took nine years of his limited time on Earth to finish and release an 11-page comic about Geoffrey St. John sitting backwards in a chair.

This is a purgatory of his own creation. And yet... I'm not sure he's ever been prouder. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I guess if I want people to take anything away from this review, it's this:

Lesson one: If you're an artist or writer of some kind, or an aspiring creator, don't wait around. No one else is going to tell your story for you. Start writing that novel. Start drawing that webcomic. Start making that game. If Penders can put out this damn book that no one asked for after 13 years of work, then proudly proclaim that he's still going to make six or seven more books and also reprint hundreds of comics he doesn't have all of the rights to, then show up to cons with that foul Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows banner and sit in front of it beaming with pride, fully aware of his critics but saying "fuck 'em, I know I'm hot shit," then you can do fucking anything. Tell the weird, sincere, cringe story of your dreams. If Ken Penders doesn't have imposter syndrome, then nobody should.

And lesson two: Don't buy Ken's books.

[megalony]

I'm Not Blind

This is my first imagine for Bob Floyd from Top Gun Maverick, I hope you will all like it. Please let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyje @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra848484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17

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Main Masterlist

Summary: While hanging out with the squad at the bar, Bob's glasses get broken, meaning he can't drive home. So he calls a special someone and asks for a favour.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bob angled his head down, staring at the rim of the glass he was cradling between his hands. The condensation was starting to tickle his skin and trickle between his fingers. His eyes watched the coke swirl around in the glass, clinking with the ice cubes that were starting to melt now.

He knew that most people in the bar presumed he was drinking vodka and coke or even rum and coke, because what kind of Aviator came to a bar and didn't drink alcohol? Him. He did that.

Drinking wasn't something Bob particularly enjoyed. He didn't like the loss of control over his senses, the inhibition it created and the drowsy state it put him in. He didn't like the hangovers in the morning or how sick drinking made him feel after a few strong drinks.

Bob couldn't understand why people liked to drink so much. He didn't see how it could be fun to lose one's senses and become sick and fatigued and not be able to act properly or be coherent. And he didn't see why people drank so often that they made themselves sick and bore the side effects and consequences of alcohol.

On occasion, sure, he had one drink, two at a stretch every blue moon. But it wasn't something that Bob could see the big deal about.

Plus, if he had an alcoholic drink or two like the rest of the team, then how was he supposed to get home? He was driving, and he presumed that Phoenix would want a ride too when she was done.

Bob couldn't understand the rest of the Dagger Squad being so happy to leave their cars at work or here at the Hard Deck and get taxis home together. Then another taxi back in the morning to wherever their cars were parked. Staying sober was much easier, less time consuming and less costly, and those were just some of the benefits.

He continued to glide his fingers across the condensation on the glass, letting the water soak into his palm and send shivers running through his blood.

He took a few sips of coke, letting the ice cubes clash against his teeth and send shivers through his jaw. When the glass was half empty in his hand, Bob turned on the stool he had perched himself on and faced the pool table to his right.

It was Phoenix's turn to play against Jake, who wasn't so happy considering Bob had beaten him in two games. Pool never used to be Bob's kind of game, but he was all for playing against the Dagger squad because he seemed rather good at beating them, so much so that he was putting on wagers.

But it wasn't his turn to play yet, and he was growing tired. After watching this game Bob would head back, and if Phoenix wanted a lift he would drop her home on his way.

He took another swig of coke as he leant back on the stool, quickly reminding himself not to lean too far because there was no back and he didn't want to topple over and make a fool of himself.

Tipping his head down, he nudged the glasses further up on his nose and stared down at the clinking eye cubes in his glass. But his head snapped up and his glassy eyes danced around until they found the source of the voice calling out to him.

"You know you're the only one not drinking. Alcohol, I mean."

A faint blush began to paint Bob's features and he once again found himself staring into his glass. Of course Hangman would either recognise or guess with pure speculation that Bob wasn't properly drinking. Or maybe he knew the signs, knew that Bob wasn't anywhere near intoxicated with an ounce of alcohol.

Did it matter if Bob was the only one who wasn't having a drink? Was that really a problem for anyone? Maybe Jake wasn't talking as if it was a problem, perhaps he was just making a statement. Either way, it didn't really matter. Bob was always explaining to people why he preferred not to drink or why he didn't want a drink or why he didn't get drunk on social occasions.

"Yeah, I know. I'm driving home." Bob gave a little shrug of his shoulders and set his drink down on the little table next to him.

His way of getting home was to drive, and Bob wasn't stupid enough to do that while under the influence. Even one drink could impair his judgement, and if he got caught that was his licence on the line and his job in tatters. He wouldn't risk any of that.

"So, why don't you drink?"

This time, Bob's attention shifted to Bradley, who was stood near the open doors that led out onto the beach. He rose the bottle of beer in his hand to make his point before he took a swig.

None of them were being rude or pedantic, they weren't trying to goad Bob or upset him or single him out, they were just curious. Most of them had been drinking since their teens, they were used to having drinks after work or sneaking a bottle away with them when they were sent out overseas on their calls and training.

With Bob being the only one who didn't drink, it made them feel like they were leaving him out or singling him out. The least they could do was ask him why he didn't drink and try to understand so they never did or said anything that offended him.

A soft look crossed Bob's face and a small smile twitched across his lips as he ran his hand across his jaw and angled his head back so he was looking up at his fellow aviators.

"Isn't it more appropriate question is why do you drink, rather than why I don't."

"What?"

Of course they weren't going to follow his logic or his line of thought, but it made sense to Bob. It seemed more understandable to ask someone why they did drink rather than why they didn't. Drinking caused inhibition, loss of memory, function, ability to stay in control and comprehend surroundings. The same as smoking caused illnesses and lung conditions in the long-term.

They were called bad habits for a reason, so it seemed reasonable to ask why someone would continue a bad habit than why another would refrain from them.

"All the side effects, all the long-term problems, isn't it easier to ask why you bother to drink yourself into a stuper than why I don't?" The quirk of Bob's lips caused the squad to roll their eyes and a few nodded their heads with little murmurs of agreement.

He had then there. If this had been a debate, Bob surely would win this one if he continued with that train of thought.

"Suppose." Jake gave a little nod as he seemed to ponder on Bob's words, but ultimately finished his beer and agreed when Bradley said he was getting them all another round. So he didn't take Bob's words to heart, even if he saw the logic in them.

Not that it mattered at all, Bob didn't want to give the team a lecture, he didn't care if they or anyone else drank or how much they consumed. He just didn't want to drink, personally.

When his drink was finished, Bob hopped off his stool but he found himself smiling when Bradley held another glass out towards him.

"Just coke, right?"

Bob felt sure there had to be a punchline in there somewhere, that Bradley was messing with him and when he took a sip of that drink he would find a shot of vodka or bourbon or rum laced in with it. But the look on Bradley's face made him take the glass.

He wasn't smiling or grinning and flashing his teeth, and he wasn't biting his tongue or eagerly waiting for Bob to take a sip. He was being kind, he wasn't trying to wind him up, he was trying to include him. And if any of them was to try and play a little prank on him, it would be Jake, not Bradley.

Bob nodded his head and took the drink, after all he didn't want to be rude. He would have this last drink and then set off home. He couldn't turn the drink down, not when the team was quickly becoming like a second family to him.

Setting his new drink down, Bob weaved around the pool table so he was near the doors. He liked listening to the sea and smelling the salt water rolling in on the sand.

But he took a few steps back when Phoenix stepped back as Javy stumbled, spilling whatever vodka concoction was in his glass.

Bob couldn't help but curl his lips in distaste when droplets of Javy's drink rained through the air and splattered on his glasses. God, he hated when he got his glasses mucky. And he could see Phoenix wasn't too happy to have vodka in her hair and dotted on her shirt.

"God, are you drunk?"

"Sorry, Rooster's got big feet."

Tripping over Bradley's feet was a good excuse, although Bob wasn't sure he actually believed it.

With squinting eyes and a twitching nose, Bob slid off his glasses and proceeded to grab a napkin from the table next to him. He huffed, muttering a sarcastic "Thanks Javy," although his tone showed he wasn't truly irritated or annoyed.

God knows Bob could be clumsy at times, his wife told him often enough. He couldn't be angry at someone else for tripping over.

He didn't like the look of the smudge marks on his glasses which he set down on the edge of the pool table. He had a headache. His hands pinched at the bridge of his nose and he sighed, wishing away the headache that had been blossoming over the last hour or so. Sometimes Bob wondered if his headaches were little yearnings, his body's way of telling him he was desperate to be back home.

Often enough he had gone home and the headaches had disappeared. Although that could be because home wasn't as loud as the deafening, drunken voices in this bar and the people and attitudes here were boysterous and sometimes overwhelming.

"Alright, I think this round is mine."

Bob lifted his head at the sound of Jake's voice and his lips quirked into a sideways grin. He liked how confident Jake sounded because that was exactly how he sounded twenty minutes ago just before Bob beat him at his own game.

His hand continued to rub at his temple and he tried not to squint too much, considering his sight was adjusting without his glasses. He wasn't used to spending too much time without his glasses on unless he was getting a shower or just waking up in the morning.

But shudders coursed through Bob's system and he cringed when a God awful crunch suddenly eclipsed through the air. Louder than any of the laughs or raised voices and background music coming from the jukebox in the other corner of the bar.

"Oh come on." The frustration in Bob's voice took everyone off guard and they all seemed to freeze or turn to look over at him with bewilderment in their eyes.

"What?"

He sucked in a deep breath which he held in his lungs to try and calm himself down and his headache increased tenfold when he stepped forward and had to look through blurred, unfocused vision rather than through his lenses.

That didn't stop him from being able to clearly make out the view of Jake who swiftly jumped up from the edge of the pool table where he had just sat down. His jaw hung open and his blue eyes went wide with panic and an edge of fright when he looked down and realised what he'd done. His pool cue was held in a tight grip but Jake's other hand began to tap against the table.

"You sat on my glasses?" Bob tried hard not to sound angry but his tone was disgruntled and clearly gave away that he was now irritated.

Jake had plonked down on the edge of the table, right where Bob had set his glasses. He had sat on them. He had broken them, the unmistakeable sound of a crunch was clearly the lenses popping out or the arms or frames breaking.

And when Bob reached out and picked them up, he grunted. The bridge of the frame had snapped. He now had two glasses as opposed to one single pair. And one of the arms was bent right out of shape, that would never sit round his ear. He couldn't try and wear them until he got home and scouted out his spare pair. There was no saving these now.

"Hey I didn't mean to, you've got spares, right?" Panic was laced into Jake's voice and he patted one hand down on Bob's shoulder, which he quickly removed once Bob lifted his head and have him a very dark look through his unfocused eyes.

Why didn't Jake look before he sat down? Why did he have to sit on that exact spot where Bob had put his glasses? He had taken them off for a minute, if that and now they were broken. He needed those.

"You broke his glasses?"

It was clear by the tone of Phoenix's voice that she was trying her hardest to keep a straight face. She didn't want to begin laughing and upset Bob, after all he was her co-pilot and upsetting him wasn't the right move to make. But it was funny. Poor Bob, stood there with a broken arm of his glasses held within each hand and squinting, unfocused eyes that showed how he was starting to seethe.

The Squad were almost expecting to see steam coming out of his ears at any given moment.

Jake twisted his head to look over his shoulder and hissed "By accident," under his breath with a stern look and a tense jaw.

He hadn't done it on purpose. Okay, so maybe he was crude at times and he liked winning by whatever means necessary when he was up in the air, but he wasn't a jerk all of the time. He wouldn't intentionally do something like that to Bob, he had nothing against him.

Another sigh spat past Bob's lips as he tossed his broken glasses onto the pool table, uncaring whether he knocked into the balls and adjusted the play of the game or not. His hands moved to clamp down on his pointed hips and he tossed his head back as his lips curled.

"I can't drive home without my glasses."

How was he going to get home? He needed his glasses to drive, he could barely see the road signs without them, let alone focus on what they said or the layout of the road or the bends. And it would be just his luck to pull out on someone and have a minor accident and get his licence suspended because he didn't have his glasses which he was obligated to wear when driving.

"Seriously?" It was Bradley who laughed this time, although he stopped the moment Bob scowled in his direction.

"If I can't fly without them then it's kind of probable that I can't drive without them too."

Had the team not noticed that Bob never took his glasses off? Did they not see what he had to wear a helmet, glasses and his oxygen mask when they were in high altitude? Did they not realise that they could barely see his face with all the equipment that he wore?

None of them had ever seen Bob take his glasses off to fly, he was always wearing them. He needed them to see without blurred edges or fuzzy images in front of him. He couldn't work out the coordinates or altitude or algorithms if he didn't have his glasses on.

"Guess we'll all be getting taxis home." Phoenix nudged her elbow into Bob's to try and make him smile and lighten his mood, but it didn't work very well.

With a sigh, Bob took a few steps away from the pool table and the Squad until he was stood in the corner of the bar, and he grabbed his drink too. He may as well down this drink and see if it would dull his headache that was only going to get worse the longer he went without his glasses. It was a good job he had a spare pair at home somewhere. He would have to dig them out once he got back.

Fishing around in his pocket, he found his phone and took a deep breath, dithering on whether or not he really should be doing this or not. He didn't want to be an inconvenience, but he also didn't want to wait around and get a taxi home with the Squad when he knew they were going to be here for a few hours hours yet.

*Hi babe, kind of had an accident with my glasses. Any chance you could give me a ride home? Or find my spare pair? xx

It took him a few minutes to actually send the message when he could barely see the keyboard on his phone. And he was sure he misspelt a few words here and there. But Bob was rather shocked by the instant reply he got, and he felt jolts of adrenaline surging through his stomach and up to his chest when he dared to open the new message.

*Sure baby, just tell me where you are. xx

The irritation on Bob's features melted away into a relaxed, soppy grin once he squinted hard enough and brought the phone right up to his nose so he could read the reply without so much of a headache.

(Y/n) was coming to his rescue.

The music from the Hard Deck bar was the first thing that (Y/n) paid attention to. She barely noticed the few people stood outside smoking or the ones hurrying into the bar as if it was last orders at this time in the afternoon.

She could hear the music from all the way out here in the car park. She had parked up next to Bob's car, the midnight blue colour struck her the moment she pulled in.

With her bag hooked on her shoulder, (Y/n) closed the car door and rounded to the back. A soft look melted across her face and she leaned in towards the toddler who hadn't long woken up from his nap. Although she knew he would wake up now that he had heard the music and knew that they were going somewhere new.

(Y/n) unclipped the buckles and reached in to scoop Robbie up. Once he was settled on her hip, he laid his cheek on her shoulder and scrunched his hand up in the neckline of her shirt, clinging to her like he thought someone might try and rip them apart.

"Alright, let's go find daddy."

Once the car was locked, (Y/n) proceeded towards the bar she had only been in on very few occasions. The Hard Deck bar wasn't somewhere (Y/n) frequented often, and it was a place she knew Bob only went when the team begged him to join them for a celebration or a drink or to cheer themselves up if their training had gone wrong. Her free hand moved to cradle the back of Robbie's head and she pressed her lips to his temple before heading through the main doors.

She knew it wasn't exactly ideal to be bringing a toddler into a bar, but it wasn't as if (Y/n) was going to sit him in a corner while she had a drink or a catch up with friends. She was only coming inside to find Bob and check that he was ready to go. And children were allowed in the bar if supervised.

Her lips curved into a smile when she felt Robbie jolt in her arms once they were inside, as if a flip had been switched within him. He felt the music vibrating through him, how it had gone from distant drumming to loud and overwhelming.

He grinned against her skin, eyes wide as he lifted his head from her shoulder so he could take a look around.

A few looks were cast in her direction, after all it wasn't often that a woman walked into the bar with a child in her arms. But it was mostly smiles and quirked brows, no malice or dark looks or scoffs, much to (Y/n)'s relief.

She scanned her eyes around, unsure whereabouts her husband would be and it was hard to pinpoint his Squad when she had only seem them on photographs.

Bob had been waiting for the right time to introduce them to his family, and he secretly liked having something to himself. He liked having his family as his little secret, his and only his. But he knew he couldn't keep both worlds separate forever.

"Excuse me," (Y/n) turned to the side, weaving between a group of women and a man trying to play darts.

She kept Robbie bouncing high on her left hip which caused her to slouch slightly to the right. Her eyes scoured the unfamiliar faces and she felt rather like how she imagined Bob felt at the moment without his glasses as she tried to locate him.

It felt as if a flare had been shot through her chest when her eyes finally located a familiar flock of golden sandy hair that formed a wave to the left of his temple. And those bright pale eyes that were so often seen behind circular frames looked somehow smaller, more petite without the glasses in the way to magnify them.

(Y/n) took a moment to look Bob up and down, watching how he was perched on a stool sitting a good two feet away from everyone else who was surrounding the pool table. It was almost as if he had cast himself out. He had one foot pressing down into the floor and the other pressed against the leg of the stool, balancing himself on the edge while his hands messed with what looked to be an empty glass full of ice.

Now that she had him in her sights, (Y/n) wasn't sure whether to truly approach him or not. She wasn't sure if Bob would want her to be introduced to his friends like this, right now, in this bar. She thought maybe she should have messaged him and told him she was outside. Or perhaps she should try and catch his eye and then wait outside until he was ready to head home.

But she didn't have chance to try and catch Bob's eye before Robbie realised where he was.

"There's daddy." His voice wasn't loud enough to catch very much attention, but either Bob had super hearing or he had been looking in their general vicinity and clocked them at that precise moment.

A light seemed to sparkle in those unfocused eyes and his lips quirked up into an open mouthed grin when he realised (Y/n) was finally here. And she had brought Robbie along too.

The little wave of Bob's hand caused (Y/n) to take a deep breath as she realised he wanted her to come over. He didn't mind if the team saw her and met her right here and now.

(Y/n) moved her free hand to begin to gliding up and down Robbie's arm while she treaded closer towards the back of the bar where her husband and his Squad were all situated.

It felt like jolts of electricity were shooting through Bob's veins and the added energy had him jumping up to his feet and patting his hands against his thighs out of anxious habit. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from (Y/n). The light beaming through the open doors seemed to cast straight upon her like it was her very own spotlight, and it drew Bob's attention to her gorgeous smile.

When she reached him, (Y/n) settled her free hand on his shoulder and pushed up on her toes so she could give him a kiss. Her own lips curved into a grin when she kissed him and she darted her tongue across Bob's lips, tasting the remnants of sugar clinging to his lips which she guessed was from a glass of coke. His drink of choice wherever they went.

It was soothing to feel Bob's hand settling on her waist and when she slid her hand from his shoulder to rest over his chest, (Y/n) could feel the frenzy his heart was going into. It was endearing.

Bob's right hand reached out to cradle the back of Robbie's head and he ducked down to kiss his son's temple, who began to giggle. He could see the slight change in Robbie's eyes when the two year old noticed that his dad wasn't wearing his usual spectacles, but he didn't comment on it. There were often times he saw his dad without them, when he was in the shower or mulling around the bathroom or when he was just waking up in the morning. They weren't permanently glued to his face, even if it did feel that way sometimes.

"You ordered a ride?"

Bob hummed quietly, and when Robbie started to wriggle and whine, he bent at the knees to reach out for his boy.

"C'mere." He lifted Robbie up into his own arms, holding him high enough to kiss his cheek before he let him wriggle and get comfy against Bob's chest.

The three of them seemed to be in their own little bubble, right until a small cough from behind caught their attention and Bob quickly turned on his heel to look around. He'd almost forgotten the reason why he asked for (Y/n) to come and pick him up. The team were here with him, or rather, he was here with them.

(Y/n) rolled her lips together as she took a step closer into Bob's side. Her arm looped around his middle and she rested her cheek against his shoulder as she looked around the people now gawping and staring at them like they had come from another planet entirely.

"And uh, who's this?" The smirk on Phoenix's face was enough to show that she had an inkling of who (Y/n) was in regards to Bob, but none of them had been properly introduced yet.

Phoenix was quietly tapping the pool cue in her hand against the floor while her other hand was now on her hip, with one leg crossed over the other. She arched a brow as she looked between her co-pilot and his partner, and when she looked down at Bob's hand that was cradling his boy, she realised there was a plain gold band strapped around his finger.

She hadn't noticed that ring before. How could she have been so blind? How could she not have noticed that little giveaway and not questioned him about this little secret family?

"Guys, this is (Y/n)… my wife. And this is Robbie."

Robbie gave a little wave, smiling when he watched Bradley's lopsided grin spread beneath the moustache that looked ticklish and made the two year old giggle.

"Robbie, as in junior?"

A faint blush crept along Bob's neck and dusted his cheeks as he nodded. That was the nickname he usually gave when he was calling out to his boy at home. He was always calling him junior, and it was something Robbie loved.

Both (Y/n) and Bob agreed that they wanted to call him Robbie, as calling them both Bob would be a bit too confusing and weird, but they thought Robbie was a lovely nickname. And it was different to Bob so there would be no confusion. Although ninety percent of the time he was called Junior.

Looking down, Bob bounced his boy a little higher in his arms which caused Robbie to loop his arms around his dad's neck and kiss the end of his nose. An action which caused Bob to grin madly and made (Y/n) chuckle.

Although both of them looked in Jake's direction when he tutted. He had a look of disbelief painting his face and his lips parted silently for a moment or two before he tried to find the right words that were on his mind.

"Oh, no way. No way that's your wife." He shook his head again and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth while he leant over the pool table to take his shot.

"Why not?"

(Y/n) was rather surprised by the snappy tone to Bob's voice and the frown that pulled at his features, despite the way that their boy was clinging and humming against his neck which usually made Bob grin madly.

Why was it so unbelievable that (Y/n) was his wife? Why did Jake think that Bob was lying or that this was somehow too unreal to be true?

A smirk pulled at Jake's lips when he realised he'd touched a nerve. He wouldn't want to irritate or offend Bob, but toying with him a little was a way of fun.

He cracked his jaw at the same time as he took his shot before his eyes cast over to (Y/n). "She's a catch."

It was Bob's turn to smile and he rolled his eyes which adverted down to look at his boy instead. If Jake was going to try and bait him then Bob was going to try and best him. He wasn't stupid, he knew (Y/n) was a catch, but he also knew that he himself wasn't such a bad person or a bad looker. Bob was modest, but he wasn't totally ignorant to think that he was so unlovable or frightful to look at.

"My sight isn't twenty-twenty but I'm not blind." He couldn't disagree, his wife was beautiful and Bob took every opportunity to tell people so. He didn't need his glasses to know that.

Robbie tilted his head back and reached out to drag the tip of his finger along the bridge of Bob's nose and around his eyes.

"No glasses?"

"Not today, somebody sat on them." Bob ticked his head in Jake's direction but he glanced back at his wife when her head lifted from his shoulder and she narrowed her eyes across at Jake.

"You think my husband isn't a catch?"

There was something about (Y/n)'s tone of voice and the steel expression on her face that made it hard to tell whether she was joking or not. Even Phoenix couldn't be sure if (Y/n) was trying to wind Jake up or if she was genuinely upset and offended by what Jake had said.

Either way, it caused Jake's smile to fade and his skin to turn a shade lighter at the thought that he had offended her upon first meeting her. He didn't want to offend a fellow aviator's wife, that wouldn't be a good move to make, especially when he had to work with Bob almost every day.

"No, no… just surprised our quiet Bob managed to land such a beauty. He doesn't seem the type." Jake took a deep breath, hoping to have redeemed himself there and he was sure he had when (Y/n)'s lips curved into a soft, if contemplating, smile.

"Hm, well you're exactly the type I guessed you'd be."

"Oh, and what's that, handsome and charming?" It seemed rather clear by the smirk on Jake's features and the way he took a step closer that he had a high esteem and a big image of himself in his mind. But that smirk faded when (Y/n) spoke.

"All mouth and no trousers."

The way (Y/n) swept her eyes up and down his frame with pursed lips and almost a look of disappointment in her eyes made Jake's brows raise and had his jaw hanging towards the floor.

Bob couldn't help how widely he smiled. He loved the gobsmacked look on Jake's face and the fact that his wife was the first person to render Jake speechless.

He turned his head to bury his nose- and his triumphant grin- in (Y/n)'s hairline and he pecked her temple a few times before he felt her murmuring into his skin.

"We'd better go, we need to pick up the girls soon." (Y/n) kept her right arm looped low around Bob's waist and she moved with him when he reached to grab his broken glasses from the table. Which he stuffed into his back pocket so he could get them replaced soon while he took the time to find his spare pair once they got home.

They were about to turn and say their goodbyes to the team when Phoenix spoke up before they could get a word in.

"Girls? You have more kids?"

Bob found himself nodding with a grin that spread from ear to ear, which he hid when Robbie began to nuzzle his temple into Bob's chin.

"Three girls and a boy."

Bob wasn't the shy quiet guy they all took him for, and he wasn't plain and simple like they suggested when he simply wrote his name on his helmet rather than a callsign. He just let them assume those things because it was easier and it was fun to go along with it and see how long he could make it last before he had to let his two worlds merge.

He was a dark horse when he wanted to be.

[buckets-and-trees]

First Morning [The Brooklyn Boys]

Characters/Pairings: Stucky x curvy Millennial female!Reader Word Count: 6.7k Summary: You wake up. You're in their bed. What now?

Content/Warnings: beginning of relationship insecurities; explicit smut: vaginal fingering/clit play, oral (male receiving), unprotected vaginal intercourse, spitroasting, cumplay/marking; Steve Stays AU

Notes: Takes place directly after First Night in The Brooklyn Boys series. This series was the first thing I started posting on this blog - July 4, 2022! We were due for a return to their AU!

Additional Note: This is my week WEEK FIVE submission for @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "play with it" and cum play.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Sunlight is the first thing you feel, a bright and almost buttery warmth on your cheek, and at first your mind tries to convince you that it’s a dream, because this is the kind of light that makes you think of movie mornings—those impossibly still, impossibly golden moments that never quite happen in real life. You let your eyes crack open and blink, and the world is soft at its edges.

The room is unfamiliar, which your brain acknowledged first with mild panic, then instant recognition, then the soft boil of uncertainty that comes only from waking up in someone’s house, unsure of their rules and rhythms. The air is thick with the scent of sleep and laundry detergent and a ghost trace of last night’s dinner—Bucky’s boeuf bourguignon.

Bucky’s arm is flung across your waist, heavy, inert, the metal arm cold as a forgotten tea kettle against your skin. He sleeps with the relentless commitment of an exhausted cat, mouth open just enough to make the smallest, boyish snore, and his hair, mussed beyond repair, falls over his closed eyes. You don’t want to move, and if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want to move because the moment you do, you’ll have to face the reality that the other side of the bed is empty.

Maybe Steve always rises before the sun, or maybe the bed’s surface just records absence more sharply than presence, but there’s a cool, slightly hollow place where you expected him to be, and it draws your gaze to it in the way a bruise insists on being pressed.

You stare at the indentation in the pillow, the faint outline of his head, and you wonder what it means that he’s not here. You want it to be a fluke, or a facet of his personality (noble, disciplined, can’t sit still, etc.), but the truth is, you have no idea what morning etiquette is when the morning is shared between three.

And all you did was sleep.

Your brain begins to blaze through possible explanations, cataloguing tiny failures, like maybe you took up too much of the covers, or snored, or rolled unconsciously away from Steve in the night and he’d read it as a sign. He’s stoic, yes, but also more sensitive than most people realize; you’ve seen it in the way he lights up when experiencing something new, pauses to truly listen when you–or anyone else–ask his opinion, and considers his words when he responds as to only give an opinion and not come off brash or commanding. You want to be worthy of that kind of consideration, and the feeling of responsibility for someone’s happiness—two someones’ happiness, really—makes your heart ricochet against your ribs.

Almost as if he can sense your brain’s ticking ramping up inside your skull, Bucky stirs, and his eyelids flicker, then open. Blue eyes, a little unfocused and puffy with sleep. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you for a long moment, then his face breaks into a lopsided, almost dazed morning smile. He tugs you in a little closer, metal hand splayed across your hip.

“You’re still here,” he says, voice unfiltered and barely above a whisper, and the way he says it, like it could have plausibly gone another way, makes you realize how much of this—this—is as new and improbable to him as it is to you.

You let yourself be pulled in. “Where would I have gone?”

He shrugs, then lets out a contented rumble of something like a laugh. “Dunno. Could’ve been a dream having you crawl in bed with us.” His lips find your shoulder in a small, fervent kiss. “You’re warm,” he adds, and nestles in, a cat reclaiming his patch of sunlight.

There’s a soft mraow and then a nearly silent landing on the soft mattress, Alpine hopping up to join you.

Alpine, unconcerned by human boundaries, circles twice—real cat, unlike Bucky—then flops down behind your back, pressing her spine against yours, and begins to purr. Bucky stretches with the lazy grace of someone who’s fought hard for the right to do as little as possible on a Saturday, then he props himself up on one elbow, and reaches behind you to give Alpine some pets and scratches, then his hand finds yours, linking your fingers together.

“This,” he says, gesturing with a proud, tired sweep of his arm over the tableau of you, himself, and the cat. “This is perfect. Both my girls, right here. Couldn’t ask for more on a soft Saturday morning.” He seems to mean it, too; his smile has the round, satisfied shape of someone who’s not used to waking up next to people.

You laugh. “I can’t tell if I outrank the cat or not.”

Bucky considers this, giving Alpine a long, loving look, then you. “You both have your strengths,” he says. “But I can’t get Alpine to make coffee in the morning, so if you want to step in there, you might earn a few extra gold stars.”

“Just coffee?” you laugh. “That’s my only shot?”

Bucky’s cheeks tinge slightly, but he laughs with you, giving your hand a squeeze. “No, not the only shot.”

You squeeze his hand back, and then he closes in to kiss you. You sigh happily into it, and your lips move together, soft and slow, languishing in the morning.

You savor the weight of Bucky’s arm, the gentle pressure of his lips, the little hums he makes. When the kiss breaks, he presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. For a moment, you both just breathe. Alpine’s purr is the soft soundtrack to this moment.

Bucky’s voice is thick with sleep and something like disbelief. "You know, this is… a thousand times better than waking up alone. I keep expecting it’ll vanish if I open my eyes too long." He doesn’t laugh at himself for saying it, doesn’t undercut the vulnerability, just lets it hang there, honest. "Used to think I didn’t mind it. But this—" his arm flexes around you, and he tilts his head, hair falling in your eyes until you brush it away— "I could get used to this."

You bite your lip briefly. “What about Steve?” you ask.

“Ohhh,” Bucky’s voice lights with recognition, “that’s the tension I can feel simmering below the surface.” He presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “Steve’s not much of a sleeper. Guy’s got a nervous system like a border collie. Has to get out and run or he’ll chew the furniture.”

You laugh, feeling the nerves genuinely leave your body. “So, he’s…?”

“Probably running the perimeter of Prospect Park like it personally insulted him. He’ll be back,” Bucky assures, then reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising tenderness. “He wants to be here more than anywhere else, with us. Don’t doubt that for a moment.”

You want to believe him. You do believe him, because these men have both been so open honest with you, especially since the trajectory for all three of your collided and evolved.

You shift to your back, which leaves you under the simultaneous, unblinking gaze of both Bucky and Alpine. “If we’re being honest,” you say, “I’ve never done this. The whole… waking up in someone else’s bed thing.”

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, a look you know isn’t feigned. “Really?”

“I mean, I’ve slept over before,” you say, heat prickling at your ears. “Usually it was half-nights and then leaving. When it was overnight, it was always, I don’t know, transactional? A single night, then a weird morning after, a rush to get dressed and get out and never talk about it again. This is—different.” You hazard a glance up at him, let your gaze linger in the haze of morning, his hair lit like a careless halo in the sun. “I’m not saying it’s scary”—and that’s not quite true, it is a little scary—“it’s just… really new. For me. All of this.”

He scoots in closer, stubbled cheek against your hair. “You can have every morning here you want,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to know how to do this. Believe me, the world’s not exactly full of advice columns for happy triads. We’re all figuring it out at the same time.”

He kisses your temple, then pulls back to look at you again, face naked in the sunlight’s clarity and somehow more beautiful for it. “Yesterday it was easy to talk about being all in, but it’s funny—waking up and… actually being all in is even better.”

Your throat catches. Damn it. You meant to be so level-headed, so slow about this new thing, but it’s already somewhere in the territory of deep feeling and you’re not even sure you made it through the night without drooling on the pillow. “Would you tell me if I was being weird?” you ask, not quite a joke.

“Would you want me to?” He grins, then leans in to kiss your nose, awkward but sweet, so much so you have to laugh. “You’re not weird. You’re just you.”

He pets Alpine again, who’s already begun to snore. “And you’re not alone. I’ve never been this open with anyone before, either. Not since the war. Not since… well. Since never, really.” The honesty in his voice is pure and steel edged. “Everything else was a performance. This is the first time I don’t feel like I have to rehearse. So, I want this.”

You let yourself believe he means it, bask in the luxury of being wanted exactly as you are. For a moment, staring at each other under the slow, sugar-rich cadence of morning, you feel the weight of the world slipping off your shoulders. It leaves something freer, more buoyant, in its place.

The sound of footsteps alerts both of you. You twist, and Bucky leans upward as Steve rounds the corner into the room.

He’s got a paper bag in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other, looking all the more endearing for being slightly out of breath. “Good morning. Glad you two weren’t planning on sleeping the whole day away,” he says with mock severity, but you notice he’s looking directly at you when he says it, and his eyes are impossibly gentle.

“Hey,” Bucky says, his voice thick with sleep and something else, a note of affection so naked it’s unmistakable.

He regards the three of you—two humans and one feline—and shakes his head with a smile that’s half exasperation, half adoration. “You know, I think it’s actually a feat,” he says, “the way you two can sleep through half a Brooklyn morning. Alpine, I expected it from you. The two of you…”

You grin, chest warming at the sight of the flowers. “You already went out and came back?”

Steve shrugs, the movement nearly bashful, and sets the paper bag and flowers on the dresser. He’s not in running clothes, you realize—no evidence of sweat or endorphins, just jeans and a faded tee, his hair towel-damp but already starting to curl at the edges.

“You two were out cold,” he says. “Didn’t want to wake you.” He grins at this, the teasing in his voice cut with fondness. “Plus, someone had to provide this morning.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Come back to bed, punk, we’ve got a girl to provide some cuddling to.”

Steve’s cheeks color a little, but he kicks off his shoes, peels off his tee, and slides beneath the covers, moving Alpine with a gentle but no-nonsense scoop to the pillow at the head of the bed. The cat doesn’t even object, just makes her way to the sunniest corner with a single, smug flick of her tail.

Steve slots in behind you, a wall of gentle, impossible warmth. His hand immediately finds the curve of your hip, and you’re startled by how natural it all feels, the way they both know exactly where to touch you without hesitation.

Bucky slides one hand, the flesh one, up to clasp at your shoulder just as Steve bends in, dipping his face to nuzzle your cheek, then kiss the corner of your mouth—soft, almost a secret. “Sleep okay?” Steve’s ask is gentle, but under it is the kind of sincerity that’s become familiar: he wants the truth, not just politeness.

“Best I’ve had in a long time,” you tell him, and it’s true. He beams, and it registers how much that simple answer means to him. His hand moves up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with such affection your heart nearly cracks open.

You brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss him, lingering, letting yourself get lost in the soft, open surprise of his mouth on yours.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder tugs you in at the same time, and you’re momentarily crushed in a sandwich of affection—one arm banded around your ribs from behind, another slipping beneath the sheets to slide over your thigh, careful and without presumption. For a flash, you want to say something like, I could stay here forever, and then realize with a shudder that you mean it.

Steve’s hand settles on your hip, warm and steady, and Bucky’s lips find the soft spot behind your ear, and the world seems to pause—just the three of you in this cocoon of sunlight, sheets, and uncertain, exquisite hope. The kisses travel a gentle path, small and exploratory, and when Steve slides his fingers under the hem of your borrowed T-shirt, you feel a thrill, not just of skin on skin, but of the tenderness that threads through this tangled arrangement of bodies and hearts.

You turn to catch Steve’s mouth again, letting him kiss you slow, and Bucky’s hands roam your back, tracing lazy shapes, the curve of your spine, the back of your neck, finding new ways to make you shiver. Steve’s hand glides slowly up and down your waist, and then one of Bucky’s hands drifts around to the front of you, palm splaying across your belly. You have to remind yourself to breathe, because the attention, the touch, the sense of being wanted—by both of them—is overwhelming in a way that, for once, doesn’t feel like too much. It feels like exactly enough.

Bucky glances past your shoulder, catching Steve’s eye over your head, and there’s something in the exchange—something trusting and playful and proprietary—that makes the air in the room change, like the axis of the morning just shifted a few degrees. Steve meets Bucky’s gaze, then brings his lips to your temple, a soft press, the tip of his nose nuzzling your hairline.

“We don’t want to rush you,” Steve murmurs, voice low and certain, “but I want you to know—we want you to know—you’re not here because we’re expecting this. You’re here because we both want you, all of you. The physical can come when it you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his lips against the edge of your ear, the words hot enough to make your toes curl. “If you want out, you say so. But if you want this, we’re ready for that too.” He gives a little squeeze at your hip, a silent punctuation, and then pulls his mouth back so you can see the sincerity written all over his face.

You swallow, flooded by the strange, rare certainty that you’re—safe isn’t even the word, safe’s too small for what this is. Maybe cherished. Maybe chosen. “I want it,” you say, and you’re surprised to find your voice comes out steady, free of the apology or hesitation you’d expected. “I want both of you.”

The effect is immediate. Steve’s arms cinch tighter; Bucky’s smirk is both wicked and reverent, if that’s possible. There’s a brightness that catches in Steve’s eyes, like he just set down a heavy load he didn’t know he was carrying.

Steve kisses you again, eager now, and Bucky’s arms wrap around your waist from the front, caging you in a way that feels less like a trap and more like a promise. Their hands meet at the small of your back, and you feel the casual negotiation between them: who leads, who follows, who yields and who takes.

There’s nothing hurried about this, even though there’s heat and hunger. You’re not sure if it’s them or the dynamic between the three of you, but the sense of consideration is total—you’re passed like a secret, every motion tested and confirmed before it happens. Steve’s lips trace over your jaw, and then Bucky slides his mouth to the hollow of your throat, the sharp edge of his teeth offset by the soft, reverent way he sucks at your skin, leaving behind nothing but warmth and the faintest bloom of sensation.

When you arch back against Steve, his body braces yours, a bulwark of muscle and intent and want. His breath is steady and close, fanning over the nape of your neck, and the sensation adds shivers in all the right places. Bucky, meanwhile, acts as a front-line assault—his mouth and hands wanton and methodical, the way he explores your ribs with the broad, unhurried sweep of his hand, the way he plants kisses along your pulse points, the way he just barely trails a finger beneath the hem of the borrowed tee and waits for your breath to catch, for your consent to hang electric in the space between you.

It’s new to be the center of such attention, to have desire poured over you in two registers at once. For a fleeting second, you think you might combust from it, but instead it builds and builds, a sweet and unbearable pressure. Steve’s hands are warm, and he is a paragon of patience, but you can sense that’s wearing thin as his fingers trace over your skin, your curves, push your shirt further and further up your chest.

Bucky, not to be outdone and clearly delighted to compete, eggs on the escalation expressly through you, his hands urging you to arch, his mouth skipping higher until you’re forced to let out a soft, startled laugh.

Then Steve flips you—gently, as if you were made of the same sunlight that’s pooling in the bedsheets—so you’re flat on your back, and the two of them loom above you, side by side, a study in contrast that is, frankly, unfair to all other possible mornings. Bucky’s hair is a dark snarl, blue eyes heavy-lidded and hungry; Steve is sun-bright, eyes luminous, strands of hair damp and curling at his brow, mouth parted just a little.

You, honest to god, whimper at the sight.

There’s one more moment like this, on the precipice, and then they attack.

Their hands coordinate in a choreography that feels rehearsed from decades of knowing each other's next move. They move so quickly, you don’t have time to feel self-conscious, only a tidal wave of anticipation and joy. Steve’s fingers are careful with the hem of the tee shirt you’re wearing, but his mouth is urgent against yours. Bucky’s lips find your hip with an unabashed hunger as he peels the shorts down your legs, his hair falling forward and tickling your thighs, his metal hand shock-cold against the fire of your skin.

The way they touch you is both reverent and greedy, as if you are something rare they can’t believe has landed in their arms. When you move to reciprocate, to touch them back, you’re met with a playful growl from Bucky and a sweet, chiding admonition from Steve—“Let us take care of you this time”—and though your first instinct is to protest, it’s clear that with two against one it’s going to be far too easy for them to pursue as they want.

Bucky kisses down the inside of your thigh with a deliberateness that ought to be illegal, and Steve, eyes hooded but bright, holds your gaze through every quiver. When Bucky’s mouth finds the place it seeks, you’re grateful for Steve’s hand gripping yours—otherwise, it’s possible you might levitate off the bed entirely.

It’s more intense than anything you’ve ever experienced, a new kind of pleasure that bends the sensation of time. The world tunnels down to the exact places they touch you: Bucky’s tongue soft and devastating, his beard rough and sweet between your legs; Steve’s mouth at your ear, whispering encouragement, his hands everywhere at once, as if he’s memorizing the exact geometry of your body with his palms.

They’re not in a hurry, which in some ways makes it worse. You feel yourself losing the ability to coordinate word and breath, losing track of things like shame and propriety. Instead, you utter gasps, whimpers, airy not-quite-please and oh my god and don’t stop.

Steve kisses your wrist, your forearm, laving heat across your skin with a devotion that devastates even as Bucky’s mouth is relentless, then Steve’s mouth, which has been everywhere but where you want it most, descends to your breasts. He kisses the valley between, then the sweet sharp point of the left, then the right, taking his time, letting his tongue and lips circle and gently draw, until you’re arching helplessly into his hand, into his mouth, into the air itself.

Bucky’s tongue is steady and precise, as if the only goal he has for the day is to make you lose your mind. The contrast between the cool metal of his hand pinning your hip and the hot, human insistence of his mouth makes your whole body tremble. Steve’s teeth tease your nipple, and Bucky’s tongue delves with a sudden, clever pressure—and just like that, the world whites out.

You’re only dimly aware that you’re making noises—somewhere between a whimper and a sob, the kind of need you’ve never allowed yourself in front of another human being, let alone two, and the thrill of it, the shattering newness, rocks through your chest and out your limbs.

You come hard, toes curling in the sheets, nails digging half-moons into Steve’s arm where you cling, every part of your body taut as a bowstring. Bucky rides it out, tongue lavishing you through and past every convulsion, until you’re left shuddering, breathless, boneless on the mattress.

Steve is there at the crest and the fall, his mouth gentle now, peppering kisses across your chest, your collarbone, your jaw. He smooths your hair, cradles your head in his big palm, and the look in his eyes is so open and gentle it undoes you all over again. Bucky, emerging from between your thighs, looks up with a roguish, utterly delighted smile and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Still with us, sweetheart?”

You try to answer, but your chest is still heaving, your limbs trembling from aftershocks. “Yeah,” you manage, voice a frayed whisper. Steve kisses your temple, Bucky lays his cheek briefly on your thigh in a gesture that feels like both a benediction and a claim.

“Good,” Bucky says, and the satisfaction in his tone makes you dizzy. He sits up, hands bracketing you, eyes glinting with something wild and greedy and impossibly tender. “You just let us know if it’s too much. Promise?” You nod, and he leans in to claim your mouth with his, hot and insistent; his tongue tastes of you, and the impossible intimacy of it makes your toes curl all over again.

Steve’s hand is smoothing up your side, tracing the sensitive skin of your ribs, and when his fingers drift to your jaw, he turns your face toward him and kisses you, deep and open, savoring you until you’re truly breathless, and then the two of them are kissing each other.

The sight of it—Steve and Bucky pressed together over you, mouths locked in a messy, hungry collision—should floor you, and it does, but in a different way than you expect; it doesn’t feel intimidating or foreign or even performative. It feels natural, inevitable, like seeing the moon and the tide caught in each other’s pull.

You reach up, threading your hand into Steve’s hair, and he groans into Bucky’s mouth. The sound goes straight through you. Bucky grins against Steve’s lips, then breaks away and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, giving you a look like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He moves to loom over you, pinning your wrists above your head with that preternatural strength, blue eyes so close and so full of want you forget to breathe.

“You want us to keep going?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You nod, an eager, “Yes,” falling from your lips.

The answer has them moving like lightning, man-handling you but with inevitable care given their superhuman strength, positioning you until you’re upright, kneeling between them, blanketed only in sunlight. Steve is already shoving his jeans down, and Bucky’s hands catch your chin to kiss you again, teeth catching on your lower lip, even as his cock presses against your thigh, hard and insistent.

You don’t need direction; you want this, and you want them, and it’s easy to reach for Bucky first, to take him in hand and stroke. He exhales a jagged breath, and his eyes darken. He grips you by the nape, gentle but demanding, and guides your mouth down to his cock. He’s not cruel about it—he’s careful, in fact, holding himself back even as you take him in, slowly, tongue tracing the ridge of his leaking tip.

He feeds his cock into your mouth, slow at first, the taste of him intoxicating and raw. You hollow your cheeks, letting him set a rhythm, feeling the tremor that races through his thighs every time you suck a little harder or flick your tongue just so, and you’re rewarded with his voice—ragged, unstaged groans that make you want to see how far you can take him in your worship.

There’s a brief moment, as the head of his cock brushes the back of your throat and you feel him twitch, that you think you might gag or lose your nerve. But Bucky’s voice is right there, low and ragged and full of praise—“Good girl, god, so fucking good, just like that, sweetheart.”

Steve is behind you, kneeling on the bed, his hands stroking over your hips, your back, a kind of reverent survey that makes your whole body feel like a live wire. He presses kisses along your shoulder, your neck, his lips pressing open-mouthed against your pulse point as his fingers trace the curve of your spine. He’s so solid, so attentive, and when his hand skims between your legs to stroke you where you’re dripping, you actually moan around Bucky’s cock. The vibration must feel incredible for him, because he shudders, hips jerking forward so you take him deeper.

Steve’s fingers are slow at first, spreading you open and circling, then dipping inside, and you feel the sweet stretch of him as he adds a second finger, scissoring gently before drawing them out to rub lazy circles over your already-sensitive clit. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, and the way he says it makes your head swim.

You want to turn, to see him, but Bucky is still in your mouth, and when you glance up he’s watching you with this open hunger that shoots another rush or want and desire through you, stoking the fire already steadily burning in your core.

At some point you’re aware of the rustle of a wrapper, the soft snap as Steve rolls on a condom. You’re so wet already it takes almost no effort for him to press the head of his cock to your entrance. Steve buries himself inside you, slow and controlled, making you feel every inch, and when he’s fully seated, the fullness is so exquisite it’s almost a new flavor of ache. You’re pinned between them, Bucky’s cock in your mouth, Steve’s cock in your cunt, and the sensation overloads every system you have.

You try your best to keep pace, to savor and reciprocate, but the dual sensations overwhelm in the best way. Steve moves inside you with incredible care, rocking his hips just enough that every push and pull glides you forward on Bucky’s cock; Bucky’s hand tightens on the back of your skull, loosening the second you even think of needing room, as if he’s determined to never take more than you can give. The coordination is seamless and strange, like they’ve been practicing—not this, but the give and take, the knowledge of how to support, to anticipate, to share.

Bucky moans and mutters your name, obscenities rolling off his tongue in a tumble of Brooklyn vowels, and at some point—maybe after the third or fourth time Steve’s cock bottomed out and made you hum against him—Bucky pulls out with a pop, catching your face in his hands. His thumb traces your lips, which are wet and swollen. “Where do you want my cum?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked, let alone answered, but it thrills some wild, bright part of your brain to be asked it at all—and even more to answer. “On me,” you say, not even sure where the answer comes from, only that you want it. “On my back. Want to feel it.”

The effect is immediate, electric. Bucky’s eyes go wide, pupils swallowing the blue right out of them; Steve, who’s fucking you slow and deep, lets out a sound between a laugh and a groan—a kind of delighted, awed agreement.

“God, you’re—” Bucky doesn’t finish the sentence, just slots his cock into your mouth again for a few more strokes, these more rough, and then he’s pulling out, and leaning around to spill his hot, wild release across your back, thick and sudden and so much more than you expected that you freeze in place, shuddering as the warmth beads and drips down your spine. The noise Bucky makes as he comes is wonderfully debauched, and the sight of him—sweaty, eyes rolling up, muscle cording his arm as he fists the base of his cock to paint your skin—brands itself onto your brain.

And you are clearly not the only one affected.

Steve’s grip tightens on your hips, and he begins to thrust deeper, harder, as if the sight of you marked with Bucky’s cum sends him a little feral. He’s vocal too, not in words but with deep groans from his chest, coming more frequently with the intensified thrusts.

He’s so impossibly thick and hot inside you, erasing your thought process down to only the raw feeling of being utterly filled by him. He draws you in—pulling your hips back, then teasing you with a half-thrust, a deep grind that makes your head spin. Bucky’s voice in your ear eggs him on, alternating praise and goading, “She loves it, Steve, more, she can take it, yeah, just like that—” and you realize he’s kneeling at your side now, metal hand firm on your shoulder, steadying you, holding you for Steve.

There’s a moment where he slows, and the interruption of the rhythm draws you to a moment of alertness. Steve’s palm travels up the line of your back, catching a rivulet of Bucky’s cum and spreading it—slick and deliberate—across your skin. The movement shouldn’t be as erotic as it is, but it makes you melt and arch your back more for him—for them, really, because Bucky groans, and then his hand joins Steve’s in the mess.

Behind you, you hear the damp, half-wild sound of their mouths meeting and twist your head back to see Steve turning his head, Bucky darting in. They’re kissing, open and desperate, the heat of their tongues and teeth and need coming off them in waves. For a moment, their hands both grip you, anchoring you in the moment with them, and you realize how right it is, the three of you in this knot of want and belonging.

Steve’s thrusts slow just enough for him to murmur, “Bucky. Touch her.”

“Already am,” Bucky answers, voice low and rough.

“Play with her clit, jerk,” Steve says, and though it’s almost comical in its directness, the effect it has on you is immediate and total. Then his voice drops another octave as he adds, “Make her come again, Buck.”

His metal hand, sticky with his cum, slides between your legs, and he strokes you with a confidence that feels both new and impossibly well-practiced. He circles your clit with a slow, torturous precision, and the added sensation makes your knees buckle, your inner muscles clenching down on Steve’s cock.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters, the word wrecked and reverent, and his hands dig into your sides as he starts thrusting with more focus, more intent. “Bucky’s got you, sweetheart, just let go.”

You do, because there is no use in holding anything back now. There’s a wild, animal ache in you, a need to be seen and touched and filled by these men, newly discovered at how deep that need goes when it’s only your first time together, and even if you turn to ash from the intensity, you’ll be grateful just to have burned here with them.

The room goes high and bright and full of static as Bucky’s fingers skate over your clit, rapid but never too rough. Steve doesn’t let up—it’s so steady, so deep, every drive of his hips sending a fresh bolt of pleasure through you, until you break again, shuddering and keening, collapsing forward to your elbows, anchored only by the greedy and adoring hands of your two men. You come even harder this time, the orgasm ripping through you in sharp, hot contractions you can feel everywhere at once, and for a moment you don’t even remember your own name. You cry out, and you feel like you’re shattering down to the last nerve, shoving your hips back onto Steve’s cock as he rides you through it.

Steve follows you over the edge, and you know it by the sudden, hard shudder in his whole body, the ferocity in the way he pins your hips to his, the choked-off sound he lets loose as he buries his face in the crook of your neck and loses himself. The heat of him throbs inside you, and even through the condom you feel the press and pulse of his release.

You come down in increments: the taste of air, the rawness in your throat, Steve’s arms reaching around you to draw you upright and into his chest, pressing kisses to your jaw and the side of your face, murmuring praise and comfort in equal measure. Bucky, is right there in an instant, his chest pressed to yours, his hands gliding up your sides in a soothing, steadying motion.

The rest of it you can’t track in detail: you just know that you’re being held, soothed, peppered with lazy post-coital affection. Everything is loose and soft and blurred, a blend of bodies against bodies, lips at temples, hands at hips, descending to the mattress, someone reaching for the discarded bedsheet and wrapping all three of you in its cocoon.

Eventually it’s Bucky who breaks the silence, lowering his voice as he nuzzles your hairline, “Would apologize for the mess, but…” He doesn’t finish. He just kisses the crown of your head with a proud, ridiculous flourish.

Steve laughs, muffled against the base of your neck, then straightens up and presses his lips there, slow and lingering. “I’ll help you clean up,” he whispers, the promise more than practical. He’s still inside you, but softening, and you reach down to squeeze his hand, which is already splayed across your belly.

He pulls out of you gently, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness and the sweet ache he leaves behind. Bucky’s hand traces lazy, sticky circles at the lowest point of your spine, and when Steve finally disentangles himself, he presses a kiss to your shoulder before rolling off the bed. “This is a good look for you,” Steve notes, voice raw and still reverent, and a little sinful.

Bucky laughs, low and winded, and stretches on the bed until his shoulders crack. “Nothing better,” he says, and props himself up to watch Steve lick a careful, almost curious stripe along the top of your spine.

“Steve—” you half-laugh, half-chide, not sure if being cleaned off with a tongue is a bridge too far or the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced. “You don’t have to—”

He glances up, mouth glistening with Bucky’s spend. His tongue darts out, licking his lips, and your breath catches.

He grins, and if you thought you’d seen Steve Rogers at his most charming, you were wrong, because this is the weaponized version of that smile—dimple out, eyes molten, tongue still wet with the taste of you and Bucky. “Couldn’t waste it, sweetheart,” he says, voice so gentle it almost breaks the skin. “Besides, it’s…”

He hesitates, as if unsure you want to hear the rest, but then Bucky answers for him, hand braced at the back of your neck, “It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest and cheeks, but the embarrassment doesn’t burn—it’s just another flavor of this intense, complex delight. You swallow, and Steve, as if guided by some quiet radar, bends to the hollow of your shoulder and licks again, slower, catching every drop, then kisses the place clean.

He’s savoring you, but he’s savoring Bucky, too—his gaze splits the difference, every lick and slow, deliberate sweep of tongue a show for both of you. Bucky, who has propped himself up on one elbow, watches with naked appreciation, his own cock already hardening again where it rests against your hip.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky’s voice is a scrape over gravel, astonished. “You’re not even giving her a chance to catch her breath. How are you expecting us to get out of bed at all today?”

Steve grins, and it’s edged with something wild, something that makes your stomach bottom out and then fly. “Can’t help it. And who said I wanted you out of bed? Just didn’t want you to sleep the day away.” He holds your gaze as he licks another stripe along your back; he’s not in a hurry, he’s never in a hurry, and it settles you even as it both unnerves and excites.

Bucky, not to be outdone or outstripped of a moment’s attention, leans in close and presses a kiss to your cheek, then your ear, then trails a line of gentle bites down your neck. “Sounds like a challenge.”

He’s not wrong. “What if I like the idea of being absolutely ruined on a Saturday?” you manage, your voice shaky and new to your ears in this register, the register of braver, hungrier you.

And the next hour is a glorious, sticky, lazy collection slow kisses and playful wrestling and exploration over the tangle of pillows and sheets. The three of you move from heat to laughter and back again, never quite drifting out of each other’s orbits. When the high tide of arousal ebbs, there’s still the press of bodies, the comfort—even the small, childlike delight—of being allowed to touch and be touched.

You do leave the bed—needing to relieve yourself and stretch your limbs properly, also indulging in a shower, and eating—but you don’t leave the apartment.

Not that day, and not that weekend.

Too much to say, to do, to be, and to build in this new beginning now that you belong to them, they belong to you, and the three of you belong to each other.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

These men are still one of my most consistently read and reblogged stories! I always intended to keep their main story fluff and g-rated, but I knew they would have some great sex. I wrote a smutty little something for winter holidays a couple of years ago, and when I started to write First Night, I had every intention that it would turn smutty, but as I wrote it, it just didn't feel like that night was the moment...

But when I hit publish on First Night, I KNEW this is what happened the next morning. I knew you'd wake up with only Bucky in bed, have just a moment of questioning hesitation, but then learn his absence is only due to that need to get out and run, and he returns and they properly snuggle and then smut you up. I hope you all enjoyed!

[eddieslunchbox]

desire

summary: you've never been kissed and eddie has been crushing on you since the day you met

18+ [bestfriend!eddie x female!reader]

contains: hurt/comfort, mutual pining, fluff, friends to lovers, kissing, brief mention of alcohol, swearing

word count: 4k

a/n: this is my first time writing for eddie and I'm excited to share him with you! this is very self-indulgent but I hope you like it. please consider reblogging/commenting if you do, my blog is brand new! enjoy ❤

There’s a romantic comedy playing on the television, something you picked up from Family Video for your bi-weekly movie night with Eddie. It was your turn to pick, and after sitting through a terrible slasher film he claimed to love, you wanted to get him back with a movie you didn’t necessarily have interest in, but knew would make him squirm in his seat. 

He grabbed the snacks while you got the movie, and you met up at his trailer after Wayne left for work, the sun setting beyond the horizon and leaving a cold autumn breeze in its place. A routine that had been kept for almost six-months straight.

A bowl of popcorn sat between the two of you, an open bag of sour patch kids resting against your thigh and a half-empty bottle of beer was clasped in Eddie’s hand, resting lazily on his knee where he sat on the opposite side of the sofa. 

You always looked forward to these nights, but today you felt particularly resentful about your choice of film, the two main characters falling in love mere days after meeting. It’s cheesy and cliche, and not all that realistic. You know that. But it makes your chest ache with longing for something you’ve never had. 

And now, unbeknownst to you, you’ve been watching the movie play out with a pout sitting on your face while Eddie has to bite back his smile each time the male protagonist kisses the girl that looks a little like you if he squints hard enough. 

The two of you had been best friends since high school and now you were spending most of your time in college while Eddie worked at an auto shop, which left your get-togethers pushed to the weekends unless one of you showed up at the other's place without warning after a long day. You’d also been crushing on him practically since the day you met, but had kept your feelings to yourself, ignorant to the fact that Eddie also had eyes for you for longer than he was willing to admit to himself. 

You’ve watched him go through a handful of relationships in the time you’ve known him. 

From hearing the disbelief in his voice when he scored a date with Chrissy Cunningham and seeing her hanging off of his arm around school for four months, before you all graduated and she broke it off with a voicemail left on Wayne’s home phone and headed off to university in Indianapolis; to random hookups from his evenings spent at The Hideout that you encountered in awkward meetings when you showed up at his trailer to spend the day with him, finding girls in his clothes sipping coffee that they helped themselves to while Eddie snoozed for another hour. 

Eddie has been your best friend for five years. Six in only a couple of months. And he has been with a total of nine different women. 

Not that you’re counting or anything. 

His relationships never bother you. Not really. But the nagging thought in the back of your mind every time you think about him, was that you haven’t been with anyone. 

You’ve had nothing more than a brief conversation with boys in required discussion groups in college. And other than the frequent hugs you receive from Eddie, the furthest you’ve ever gone with someone was a kiss on the cheek from one of your girlfriends that was slightly too close to the corner of your mouth, and left your body erupting in tingles. 

But Eddie had game. He knew how to make a girl swoon. How to wrap them around his finger and kiss them until they were weak in the knees and red in the face.

You had seen him kiss a handful of times and were ashamed to admit to yourself that you had crawled into your bed with your hand between your thighs more than once, wishing it was you he was kissing and touching and making crumble with one particularly smitten look on his face.

He glances at you when you haven't said a word in over an hour, seeing the frown on your face and the crease between your brows that he desperately wants to smooth over with his thumb. You never had a great poker face, unintentionally putting most of your emotions on display, and he knows you have no idea you’re pouting. 

“Did you run out of candy?” He asks suddenly, making you turn to him, the wrinkle in your forehead deepening in confusion. “You’re grumpy.” 

“I’m not grumpy,” you huff, plucking your aforementioned candy off the sofa and popping one into your mouth. 

Your knees are pulled up to your chest, body leaning away from Eddie with your legs resting against the arm of the sofa. He knows something is up when your eyes don’t return to the movie, lips pursing as you suck on the candy in your mouth and stare at the bag in your hands, pretending to read the ingredients. 

He quietly sets his beer down on the coffee table, moving the barely touched popcorn off of the sofa and clicking pause on the remote, filling the room with silence. You look up at him and he rests his arm on the back of the sofa, the palm of his hand pressing into his cheek. 

“Are you going to keep pouting for the rest of the night, or tell me what’s wrong?” He asks, brow arching in question and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. 

“I’m fine,” you mutter, dropping your candy onto the table and bundling your hands together in your lap. 

“You’re a liar, is what you are,” he accuses. 

You sigh, slumping further down into the sofa with your cheek resting on the cushion as you turn to meet his gaze. 

His brown eyes sparkle in the dim light of the room, his usually untamed hair pulled back with a bun at the base of his skull, stray pieces falling softly to frame the sides of his face. He looks pretty. He always does, but your current state of mind has you looking away as your heart skips a beat, gaze falling to his chest which is covered with a well-worn Dio shirt. 

“I want that,” you admit quietly, voice barely audible to yourself. 

“You want what?” He questions, brows furrowing. 

You flicker your eyes over to the television and he turns his head to look at the screen, the film paused on a scene of a girl lounging beside a pool with a fluffy dog in her lap, sipping on a bright purple cocktail. 

“A dog? A pool- or do you want a drink? I can try and make you something but I don’t know what we have…” He trails off in confusion and you sigh, rubbing your hands over your face. 

“Just forget it,” you mumble into your palms before crossing your arms over your stomach and tilting your eyes up to the ceiling. 

Eddie feels clueless as he tries to work out your unspoken desire in his head, gaze shifting around the room until he spots the fictional couple on the cover of the rented VHS tape. 

A lightbulb flicks on in his head. 

“You want someone?” 

Your eyes dart to him quickly enough that he knows he’s right before you give him a subtle nod of your head, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands as you feel your face grow hot. 

“You will one day,” he assures you but you just shake your head, that being the last thing you want to hear. 

Eddie knows about your relationship history, or rather, lack thereof, but you never talk about it. So he’s surprised with your next statement, his heart leaping into his throat and the energy in the room shifting. 

“No one has ever found me attractive… or at least not enough to do something about it. It’s hopeless.” 

He keeps a straight face but curls his fingers into a fist at his side, silently cursing himself for never telling you how pretty you really are. He thinks you’re the prettiest and most attractive person he’s ever known, but has never said a word out of fear that you’ll stop being his best friend. 

“It’s not hopeless,” he says quietly. “The guys who haven’t made a move on you are pussies.” 

His partially self-degrading comment was meant to make you laugh, but you don’t. Not even giving him a pitying laugh or a half-forced smile. 

“No one has ever even glanced in my direction,” you say and he frowns. 

“That you’ve seen.” 

“Eddie…” you sigh, unsure of why you start to feel emotion welling up in your chest. 

"Sorry."

“I just… I grew up surrounded by friends who had boyfriends, or flings, or were flirted with- kissed stupid outside of bars or on the bench behind school. And no one-” your words get caught in your chest and you swallow down the lump forming in your throat. “No one has ever even looked at me. Do you know how that feels?”

You look up at him but he doesn’t reply, his eyebrows threading together as he watches you bare your heart to him like this for the first time. 

“To have guys look at everyone around you, but never you? To never have anyone like you enough to say something about it? To… to have maybe had three guy friends who never saw you as anything more, that you haven’t even spoken to in years?” 

You know he doesn’t get it. Not at all. But it doesn’t matter. 

“God, Eddie.” You scrub at your eyes when tears gloss over your vision. “I’ve never even kissed someone,” your voice cracks and falls into a whisper. 

He immediately reaches forward to wrap his hands around your ankles and pull you towards him, swiftly maneuvering you to sit with your legs thrown over his lap and your head buried in his neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, running his hand over your waist. You sniffle sadly. “Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry.” 

He knows that all of the potentially comforting words forming in his brain won’t make you feel better. Because he doesn’t understand what it’s like to be your age and never kissed. 

You don’t want to hear that it’ll happen one day. You don’t know what you want. 

Maybe comfort isn’t something that words would necessarily give you right now. 

“I know that it’ll probably happen one day but… what if it doesn’t?” You whimper, curling into him as your vulnerability takes over. He holds you tighter to him, shaking his head. “I don’t even know what it feels like to be wanted. I can’t even imagine anyone wanting me. No one ever has.” 

His heart feels like it’s going to crumble into pieces in his chest as he lets you talk out your feelings, his hand gripping your thigh tightly. You’re almost completely perched in his lap, but he can’t focus on how you feel against him when your tears are wetting the collar of his shirt. 

“God I feel fucking pathetic,” you mumble, wiping your hand over your eyes and sitting up. “Sorry.” 

“You’re not pathetic,” he says, making you scoff quietly as you dab at your cheeks with your sleeves, staring down at your lap. “You’re human. It’s pretty human to want to feel desired.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper, sniffling back the remainder of your tears and lifting your eyes to find his pretty brown ones staring back at you. 

There’s something different in his gaze now. Something you’ve only seen a few times. Something loving and soft, and so sweet that it makes your breath hitch in your throat. 

Eddie figures that now is as good a time as any to potentially make a complete fool out of himself in an attempt to make you feel better. To make you feel like you’re worthy of being desired. Because god knows he’s been desiring you since the day you accidentally fell into his lap in the cafeteria after being shoved out of the way with a harsh shoulder by some prissy cheerleader on the second day of school.

“You’re beautiful,” he says so quietly that you almost don’t hear him. 

“Eddie…” you mumble, shutting your eyes and moving to climb off of his lap. 

His hand on your thigh tightens and you pause, his eyes tracing delicately over your features. 

“You want someone to look at you,” he says, the corners of his lips quivering in a small smile. “So I’m looking, sweetheart.” 

His eyes flicker down to your lips and you want to say something. To pull away and turn the movie back on, get off of his lap and pretend like you were never there in the first place. But the way he’s looking at you is something you’ve only ever seen him do with his past girlfriends or someone he’s crushing on. Never to you. 

Your cheeks feel warm as he looks at you and you can almost feel his eyes as they trace over your hairline and down the bridge of your nose, past your lips and dropping down to your chest before meeting yours again. Your stomach twists with nerves as his hand leaves your thigh to rest on the side of your neck, his thumb smoothing across the skin of your cheek. 

“Eddie,” your voice is a whisper, heart pounding in your chest. “Stop.” 

He can feel the nerves radiating off of you but he doesn’t move, one of his brows quirking up in question. “What’s wrong?” 

“I-I don’t… I-” you stumble for a reason why you want him to stop looking at you like that. 

You wrack your brain while he sits patiently for an answer, but you quickly understand that you don’t want him to stop. You’re just terrified. 

You don’t have to speak to understand what could happen, with how he’s gazing at you and touching you so softly as if you’ll break under his palms at any second. Holding you in a way he never has before. 

“Please don’t be making one of your stupid jokes right now,” you say, a plea that has his face softening and his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. 

“I’m not joking, baby,” he murmurs, the pet name making your heart stammer in your chest. “You’re gorgeous. And I was too afraid to say anything in case you didn’t feel the same and left because you were uncomfortable around me.” 

You suddenly feel like crying again, a wave of disbelief washing over you as you realize that your best friend and the person you’ve been silently wanting for almost six years wants to give you everything you were just begging for. 

“I could never be uncomfortable around you,” you say and he smiles, hooking his arm around your waist and twisting you so that you’re facing him, your knees pressing into the sofa on either side of his hips. 

“I mean it,” he said and all you can do is nod. 

The position you’ve found yourself in is foreign in more ways than one, but especially with it being Eddie who has put you there. You feel slightly overwhelmed with your shorts riding up on your thighs and your skin cold where the metal of the chain on his belt presses against you. Rough denim scratching softly at your legs and a subtle heat radiating through the fabric that makes you slightly dizzy as you get a whiff of his cologne. 

Your hands are clenched into fists around the fabric of his t-shirt and he can feel your heart racing where his palm is still pressing against the side of your neck. 

“It’s just me, yeah?” He says and you swallow the sudden dryness in your throat. “There’s nothing to be scared of.” 

He knows you need him to make all of the moves right now and he’s okay with it, even despite the way his heartbeat is quickening to catch up with yours. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

His question makes your head spin and your stomach tightens. “I… I’ve never-” 

“I know.” The gentle reassurance that falls from his lips soothes you and you give him another quick nod. 

There’s still a hint of a smile on his face when he leans forward to brush his lips against yours.

He doesn’t kiss you right away, the tip of his nose nudging yours as he pulls back just enough to gauge your reaction. Your eyes are closed and your lips part slightly with a shaky sigh, hands unknowingly pulling the neckline of his shirt down to grasp for any semblance of reality as you sit in his lap. 

He slides his hand to the back of your neck, guiding you forward an inch to meet his mouth, lips slotting against yours. His lips are soft and slightly chapped, and when a strand of his hair brushes against your cheek, you don’t bother to pull away even when it tickles your skin. 

The hand on your neck is a grounding touch and you think you’ve never felt so safe and comfortable in Eddie’s arms before.

He can feel the way you relax into his kiss, your body slumping just enough to rest your chest against his and fingers untangling from his shirt to drop into his lap. You’re not breathing so he pulls away after just a few seconds, lips parting from yours with a quiet click and you immediately take a deep breath through your nose, your eyes fluttering open. 

You think if your brain was working properly, you’d be worried that this was all a ploy for him to get your first kiss out of the way so you’d stop crying, but the only thing floating through your mind is how nice it felt to have his lips on yours. 

His face is close to yours, lashes brushing his cheekbones as he sits with his eyes closed, the hand on your waist sliding down to rest on the top of your thigh. The tip of his tongue pokes out as he wets his lips before exhaling a long breath through his nose, a tiny smirk tugging at his mouth. 

“Shit,” he breathes, squeezing your thigh before tipping his head back to rest on the sofa cushion. “I really can’t believe it took me this long to kiss you.” 

“You mean that?” You fight the urge to bring your hand up to feel your lips, wondering how long you might have to wait to feel his again. 

He peels his eyes open and looks down at you. “You have no idea.”

You feel a smile begin to form on your face and you duck your chin to hide against his chest, fingers still trembling from clutching his shirt so tightly as you lift your arms to slink around his neck. He chuckles and curls his arms around you, tilting his head down and burying his nose in your hair. 

“Don’t get all shy on me now, sweetheart,” he says, a shiver running down his spine as you slide your fingers into his hair, loosening the elastic holding it back. 

He doesn’t care about his hair as your nose presses into his neck and your breath warms the skin beneath his shirt. “Did I do alright for your first time?” 

Your face goes flush at his choice of words and he fights back a moan when you press a quick kiss to his neck before lifting your head, unable to hold back the coy grin that sits on your lips. 

You nod and he smiles, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your lower back. 

“Yeah? Think it’d be okay if I did it again?” 

“Please,” you say and he wastes no time in kissing you again. 

Your hands blindly tug the elastic band out of his hair, sliding it onto your wrist and tangling your fingers into the mess of curls at his neck. His lips drag over yours in lingering kisses that make your stomach twist with heat, tasting a hint of the candy he was munching on earlier in the evening. 

You’re consumed by the new sensation of his lips moving against yours and the frizzy curls hooked around your fingers, the thick of your thighs resting on his own with a silent invitation to scooch your hips a little closer to his if you wanted to. 

Eddie is kissing you. Keeping his advances small but addicting, pushing back a smile each time he feels you chase his lips when he pulls back. You can’t get enough. 

So you don’t really notice when he relaxes back against the sofa, resting his hands on your soft thighs with his fingers dipping just below the edge of your shorts. You let out a quiet noise against his lips as your chest comes to rest on his, your arm getting trapped beneath his shoulder and the cushion. His nails press softly into your skin at how pleased you sound, his arms erupting in goosebumps when you unintentionally tug at his hair. 

You’ve been letting out quiet gasps between every kiss he plants on your mouth, your lungs stinging in your chest, yet reluctant to pull away. It’s only when you feel the tip of his tongue nudge against your bottom lip that you pull back, resting your forehead on his and panting to catch your breath. 

“Too much?” He mumbles, sliding his hands over your skin. 

“Not at all,” you breathe, swallowing hard and letting out a soft laugh. “I just couldn’t breathe.” 

Eddie smiles, tilting his chin forward to press his lips to the corner of your mouth. You lift your head and your eyes instantly fall to his lips, now slightly swollen and a darker shade of pink. 

It’s hard for you to think straight, to wrap your head around the fact that you just had your first kiss, and second, and third, and fourth… all with Eddie who is looking at you now like you hung the moon just for him. 

As much as your insecurity is wanting to take you away from this moment, you know that he isn’t that good of a liar, and if he really didn’t want you like this in at least some capacity, you’d be able to see it in his eyes. But all you can see is the sweet, loving gaze of your best friend as he lets you settle, no matter that all he can think about now is kissing you stupid for the rest of the night. 

You’ve gotten further than you ever thought you’d get and you mindlessly pull the tangles in his hair apart, wetting your lips and taking a deep breath. “I like you, Eds. A lot.” 

You figured he might make a teasing comment at your admission, but he just smirks and lets his eyes fall closed as you play with his hair. “I like you too, sweetheart. Have for way too long.” 

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and slide your hands from his hair to drag down his chest, his stomach twitching beneath your innocent touch. 

“Do you want to keep watching your movie?” He asks, glancing at you and you shake your head. “You sure?” 

You think this is the happiest you’ve ever been, and Eddie feels the same- just happy that he could be the one to make you feel truly wanted for the first time. He wishes you would’ve confided in him about your lack of romance earlier in your friendship so you wouldn’t have missed out on so many years silently pining for one another. But he thinks this will do just fine.

“I want to keep doing this,” you quietly admit and he lets out a soft groan as he brings his hands up to his face. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me…” He drops his hands to his sides. “Wanna get comfy in my room then?”

He chuckles at your eager nod, patting your thighs and moving to sit up. “Hop up then, baby. We can clean up later.” 

You get up and he follows suit, grabbing your hand and interlacing your fingers to drag you down the hallway with an urgency that makes you laugh the entire way into his bedroom.

[oikawaisincrisis]

Where it’s quiet ~ U.W.

Pairing: Ushijima Wakatoshi x fem!Reader

Summary: Ushijima finds himself lost when an injury keeps him away from the volleyball court so in a desperate attempt to keep his sanity he goes back home. Surrounded by memories and people from the past, will he find himself once again or something else entirely?

CW (content warning): post-time skip!Ushijima, mentions of sport injuries, slight angst, smut, MDNI (+18), p in v, oral (m recieving), despite the smut this is mainly fluff.

AN (author’s note): Hi guys! I’ve been writing for Haikyuu for a while now but I never really thought about posting it until I started posting my jjk works on my other blog (@yuujispunches if you want to check it out 🫶🏻), I’m kinda nervous because it’s really different but I hope you guys enjoy this! English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry if there are any mistakes :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The crack of impact was sharp, clean, almost too clean. At first, no one understood what had happened. The rally kept going. Ushijima had leapt high, even for his standards, dominating the air like it belonged to him. But when he came down.

He didn’t get up.

The arena didn’t fall silent immediately. Ushijima’s absence in movement wasn’t noticeable until the ball hit the floor with a hollow thud. Then there was that chilling beat of delay before every head turned.

He clutched his leg, his face twisted in a rare grimace. Not from pain, Ushijima Wakatoshi had played through pain before. This was something deeper. Something breaking apart, not just torn muscle or strained tendon, but something fundamental inside of him.

——————————————————————————

The prognosis came in harsh and sterile, in a room that smelled like antiseptic and dread.

"A full tear of the Achilles tendon."

Surgery. Recovery. Three to six months minimum before rehab. Closer to a year before he could even think of spiking a ball again.

The doctors gave him comforting smiles. The team’s manager offered words of reassurance. Fans flooded social media with hashtags, edits, tributes, well-wishes.

None of it touched him.

Wakatoshi found himself sitting alone in his apartment in Sendai, his leg immobilized in a boot, staring at the wall as if willing it to become something else, something useful. Something moving and not broken.

He hated stillness.

——————————————————————————

Two weeks passed in the haze of forced rest and ice packs. Then four. The more his body stagnated, the more his thoughts grew wild, unrecognizable. He had built his world around control, around the sharp edge of purpose that volleyball gave him. Now, everything felt dulled.

That’s when he made the decision. One morning, with no plan except the aching emptiness he couldn't shake, he packed a bag, informed his manager he needed some time away, and booked a train to Yamagata.

——————————————————————————

The old roads were unchanged. The farmland rolled out under a soft spring sky, gentle and wide. Wakatoshi hadn’t visited in years, not since his parents sold the family home and moved closer to the coast. But the town hadn’t forgotten him.

Even walking down the main street with a hoodie pulled low, heads turned. People still recognized him, somehow. Tall as ever. Stoic. Broken now, though they couldn’t see it.

He stayed in a quiet inn on the outskirts, a simple place with tatami mats and a view of the rice fields. He didn’t do much. Didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want to talk. Mostly he limped through memories, haunted by the sound of his own breath.

Until he ran into you.

——————————————————————————

You were standing outside the local café, arguing with the barista about the new seasonal drink. Something about how coffee shouldn't taste like strawberry.

“Just because you can make it doesn’t mean you should.” You huffed, spinning on your heel and nearly walked straight into a wall of muscle and fleece.

You stepped back instinctively. Then your eyes narrowed.

“Wakatoshi?”

His shoulders went stiff. He turned.

Your face lit up like summer. “Oh my god. It is you!”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

You filled the silence. “You probably don’t remember me [Y/N], from Shiratorizawa? I was in Class 3, used to talk your ear off during lunch. You always stared like I was speaking a different language.”

His brow creased a little, like he was digging through dusty memory files. And then, you saw it the flicker of recognition.

“You liked strawberry milk.” He said.

You blinked.

“I… did, yeah.” A laugh escaped you. “That’s what you remember?”

He nodded slowly. “You said it was the superior drink. I disagreed.”

You looked up at him. The Ushijima Wakatosh you knew, now a famous, national-level athlete but he still stood like a fortress. Still had that calm, unreadable expression. But now there was something else underneath it. Something frayed.

“I’m glad you remember.” You said softly. “Hey… are you okay?”

——————————————————————————

You didn’t ask him to join you for coffee.

You just started talking again, like years hadn’t passed. Like he hadn’t disappeared into the world of professional sports, and you hadn’t grown into your own life, working remotely now from your childhood home, helping your aging aunt run her flower shop.

Somehow, you both ended up walking down the street together. You talked about the town, how things had changed, who had moved, who hadn’t. You told him about the café’s new obsession with flavored drinks. About your dog. About how the sakura festival was coming soon.

He barely said a word. But he didn’t leave either.

——————————————————————————

The next day, you saw him again. This time sitting alone on a park bench, leg propped up, staring into the lake like it might give him answers. You sat beside him with a box of taiyaki.

“You look hungry.” You said simply offering the box to him.

He took it. Ate in silence. You swung your legs off the edge of the bench and let the sun warm your skin.

“Still hate strawberry?”

He chewed slowly, nodded.

You grinned. “Some things never change.”

The words didn’t really mean anything but for some reason they sounded almost like comfort to him.

——————————————————————————

The days after followed a rhythm.

You bumped into each other “by accident” again. Then not by accident.

You invited him to your aunt’s shop to see the garden you’d been working on. He stood among the lilies and said nothing, but his eyes didn’t wander. He watched you kneel in the dirt, brush pollen off your fingers, talk about soil PH like it was sacred.

You brought him books you thought he might like. He read them. You could tell by the way he handed them back without creases but with little post it annotations places on the margins with calculated care.

When you were with him, you didn’t expect words. You filled the quiet with stories, with small kindnesses. And slowly, he started to talk, not much, just enough. But when he did, it always mattered.

——————————————————————————

One evening, as the sky turned lavender, he admitted:

“I can’t play.”

You looked up from where you were adjusting the garden’s irrigation pipe. “Right now?”

He hesitated. “Maybe not again. Not at the same level.”

You stood, wiped your hands on your pants, and looked at him. Really looked.

“Does that scare you?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. Then, “Yes.” Another pause filled with a deep breath. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

Your voice was soft. “I do.”

His eyes flickered to you.

“You’re still Wakatoshi.” You said. “You’re still kind of intimidating, loyal and a little weird about vegetables.”

A beat passed.

“I’m not weird about vegetables, broccoli just tastes like grass objectively.”

You laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, he smiled.

——————————————————————————

You weren’t supposed to become his routine. Or at least that’s what he told himself at first.

But one day turned into two. Then into a week. Then more.

You started seeing Wakatoshi every day without even planning it. At the park, the shop, the café. Sometimes he limped along beside you while you rambled about your latest dream something along the lines of “There were three ferrets in a trench coat pretending to be my landlord. Don’t ask”, or told him the entire plot of a romance drama in excruciating detail while he nodded once, maybe twice, with solemn confusion.

And he… didn’t mind. In fact, he started waiting for you.

Not obviously. No, never that. But he’d be in the places you might show up, sitting on the same bench, outside the same shop, buying the exact coffee you liked so you wouldn’t have to wait in line. It wasn’t that he needed you there.

But when you were, the silence in his chest didn’t ache as badly.

——————————————————————————

You were light. Loud and quick and always moving. You talked with your hands, with your whole face. You had this thing where you’d lean in close when you were excited, as if your joy couldn’t be contained in just your voice.

Wakatoshi had never met anyone like you. Not really.

On the court, everything was angles. Force. Timing. Discipline. He was good at that. Better than anyone. But off the court?

He didn’t know what to do with the messiness of people.

Yet somehow, your messiness didn’t feel like chaos. It felt like sun through the leaves.

——————————————————————————

One afternoon, it rained.

You showed up at the inn he was staying at, dripping and barefoot, holding two bags of convenience store snacks and a half-wilted daisy you’d stuffed behind your ear.

“Surprise!” You beamed. “Rain check on the flower beds, literally. Thought we could hang out here. Unless you don’t want company, in which case I will melt dramatically into the road.”

He stared at you for a long moment, almost as if he was trying to convince himself of the sight before him. Then stepped aside.

You took that as a yes.

——————————————————————————

That night, you both sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, watching a movie on your tablet. You kept shoving snacks into his hand without asking. He never refused. You talked through most of the film.

“Okay, but if the ghost is her dead twin, how did she not know the entire time?!”

“I’m just saying, if I die tragically, you *better* make it a dramatic haunt.”

“Do you think ghosts get bored?”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Wakatoshi didn’t speak much. But he watched you like you were more compelling than the screen.

After the credits rolled, the thunder outside softened to a distant rumble. You glanced at him.

“Hey” You said, quieter now. “How are you holding up?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I really don’t know. Badly I think.”

The word fell heavy between you. Honest. Plain. But weighted. You nodded gently, inching closer so your knees brushed.

“I figured.”

He looked down at his hands. “Everything I’ve worked for… all the time, the years. I don’t know if I’ll get it back. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now.”

You reached over and touched his wrist, light as rain.

“You don’t have to know yet.” You whispered. “It’s okay to not be okay, Toshi.”

He didn’t move. But he didn’t pull away either. The nickname falling from your lips made a weird feeling spread through his chest and he found himself wanting to believe you.

——————————————————————————

The next day, you made him a makeshift rehabilitation chart. It was full of sparkles, doodles, and completely inaccurate medical advice.

“Goal: stop walking like Frankenstein.” You grinned, pointing to the top.

Wakatoshi blinked. “This isn’t a real program.”

“Correct.” You said proudly. “But it made you stop brooding for five seconds, didn’t it?”

He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh. But close enough. A smile tugging at his lips.

You considered it a win.

——————————————————————————

The more time you spent together, the more you learned his rhythms.

He was blunt but not unkind. He hated loud music. He preferred savory to sweet. He didn’t like when people asked him how he was unless they actually wanted to know.

He also had a strange fondness for animals. You caught him once, crouching awkwardly to pet a neighborhood cat that had hissed at you five minutes earlier.

“You’re a traitor.” Uou accused playfully.

He blinked. “I didn’t say I disliked cats.”

“She tried to bite me!”

“She likes me.” He said simply.

You gawked as the cat curled into his palm.

“Okay, Snow White.”

——————————————————————————

Sometimes, though, he shut down.

There were days he didn’t come out of the inn. Didn’t answer your texts. Days when you knew he wasn’t hurt, just hollow. You didn’t push him on those days.

You dropped off fresh onigiri with a note taped to the lid:

It’s okay. I’m here when you’re ready.

He never replied. But the containers were always returned, empty. The notes were kept on his nightstand, to reread when he felt like loneliness was about to swallow him.

——————————————————————————

One evening, he joined you on the roof of your house.

You’d invited him there once before, told him the view was better than therapy.

Now you both sat with your feet hanging off the edge, the stars bright above, the air filled with the chirp of summer bugs. You handed him a cold beer and didn’t say anything for a while.

Then, quietly. “I used to think you were scary, you know.”

His brow twitched. “Why?”

“You never smiled. You had that whole murdery volleyball thing going on.”

He stared straight ahead. “I wasn’t trying to be scary.”

“I know that now. You’re just… intense.” A pause. Then you spoke again. “You’re still kind of intense but you’re kind, too. And steady. I like that about you.”

He didn’t speak. But you saw his knuckles tighten around the bottle.

Your voice softened. “You know, you don’t have to go back to who you were before. You’re allowed to change. To figure out what you want.”

He turned to you then. There was something raw in his expression, something that cracked just enough to show what was underneath.

“I don’t know what I want.” He said.

You smiled at him, tired but warm.

“Well… until you do, you’ve got me.” You said as you nudged your shoulder against his softly. Bright eyes shining as you looked at him.

For the first time he found himself that maybe tomorrow didn’t sound so terrifying anymore.

——————————————————————————

You didn’t realize it yet, but something was shifting inside him. Slowly. Like spring thawing frozen ground. Every time you said his name, it softened him. Every time you smiled at him like he wasn’t broken, it pieced him back together.

But cracks let the light in.

And the light hurt.

——————————————————————————

One night, he snapped.

It was the first time he raised his voice at you.

You’d brought him a flyer for a local festival. They were holding a charity volleyball event. You thought it might cheer him up.

“It’s just a small thing.” You said. “You wouldn’t have to play. Just be around people. Might feel good.”

He stared at the paper. Then his jaw clenched.

“I said I can’t play.” He barked harshly.

You blinked. “I didn’t mean- ”

“I’m not a mascot.” He cut in, voice low but sharp. “I’m not interested in pretending I still belong there.”

You stood, holding the flyer like it had burned you.

“I wasn’t pitying you, Wakatoshi. I thought maybe it’d help to be near the thing you love.”

“I don’t need help.”

Your chest tightened.

“Yeah, well…” You said, voice cracking. “You’re doing a hell of a job proving it.”

You turned and walked away.

He didn’t stop you.

——————————————————————————

He didn’t sleep that night.

The room felt like it was closing in. The air too heavy. The silence too loud.

He hadn’t meant to yell. He hadn’t even known the anger was there until it boiled over. But it wasn’t you he was mad at.

It was himself.

His body. His failure. His fear.

He didn’t know how to say any of that. So instead, he said nothing.

Which meant he had to live with the echo of your hurt expression. The way you walked away like you couldn’t fix him anymore.

And maybe that’s what scared him most.

That he was pushing away the only person who saw him as more than an athlete. The only one who didn’t flinch when he broke down.

——————————————————————————

Two days passed.

You didn’t show up at the café. Or the park. Or the bench.

He stared at your last text:

Take care of yourself Wakatoshi.

Neutral. Kind. But distant. Full last name instead of the nickname he had quietly grown fond of.

He hated it. God, how he hated it.

——————————————————————————

The morning of the festival came.

He didn’t plan on going. Of course not. But his feet took him there anyway.

You were working a booth when you saw him.

The crowd parted like it knew. Like the story was unfolding just for you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. Standing still in the middle of the street, in a sea of movement. No crutches. Just a limp. In a plain black shirt that clung to the curve of his shoulders, eyes scanning every stall until they landed on you.

You froze.

He walked toward you, slow, deliberate.

“I was wrong.” He said, stopping in front of your table. “The other day.”

You raised an eyebrow. He looked down. Swallowed hard.

“I was scared.” He said. “I still am. Everything I am. Everything I’ve worked for was built around being the best. And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get that back.”

Your expression softened. “I wasn’t trying to take that from you.” You whispered.

“I know.” He said. “But I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You stepped around the booth, closer now. Close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“Toshi” You said quietly, “I’ve only ever seen you like this. And I’ve never once thought less of you.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something in a language he couldn’t translate. Like the words didn’t make sense, because no one had ever spoken them before.

You lifted your hand slowly, touched his chest just over his heart.

“You don’t have to be strong with me.”

His breath hitched and in that moment, he leaned his forehead against yours.

Not a kiss but something closer. Something deeper.

——————————————————————————

After the festival, he stayed by your side the entire day.

You didn’t ask for it but he handed you water when your voice got hoarse. Kept kids from knocking over the display. Sat on a crate in the back of your booth like a silent bodyguard, expression unreadable but his eyes never strayed from you.

When the crowd thinned and your feet ached, he offered his arm. You took it without question. He felt… steady again. Not because he was healed. But because you were there.

Later that night, you brought him to the lake.

Same bench. Same spot. This time, you leaned into his side. He didn’t move away.

“I’m sorry for being a brat.” You said quietly.

“You weren’t.”

You turned your head against his shoulder.

“You sure?”

He glanced down at you. “You were right to be upset.”

You smiled. “Wow. Did Ushijima Wakatoshi just admit I was right?”

A long pause.

“Yes.” A reluctant smile on his lips

You grinned, poking his ribs gently. “Growth.”

It was silent for a while. But it wasn’t empty.

Then you said, “Do you ever think about what you’d do if you didn’t play?”

His hand twitched beside yours.

“I don’t know.” He said finally. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”

You looked up at him. “Well. Maybe you don’t have to figure it out alone.”

He met your gaze. And something softened. “Okay.”

Just one word. But when he took your hand in his it it felt like a beginning.

——————————————————————————

The lake was quiet when you brought him there again.

A week had passed since the festival. Since he let his forehead touch yours like it meant something. Since he started showing up without needing a reason.

Now, he came because he wanted to.

He still didn’t talk much. Still didn’t smile often. But the way he looked at you had changed.

He watched you like he was trying to memorize something fragile. Like he was afraid of blinking and losing it.

Tonight, you sat side-by-side on the grass, the stars reflecting in the still water.

And you told him, soft and sure. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

Wakatoshi swallowed thickly. “Sometimes I feel like… if I’m not playing, I’m nothing.”

You turned, eyes warm and fierce. “You’re so much more than that.”

He met your gaze, slow and aching.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

Your heart broke a little at that.

But it bloomed too. Because it meant you could be the first and maybe the only.

This time you were the one that reaches for his hand. He took it without hesitation.

——————————————————————————

The walk home was quiet.

The kind of quiet that buzzed under the skin. Every brush of his arm sent a pulse down your spine. Every glance felt like a tether pulling tighter between you.

When you got to your door, you turned to him.

“Do you want to come in?”

He hesitated, just for a breath then nodded.

Inside, the lights were low. You kicked off your shoes and walked into the kitchen, nerves fluttering. He stood near the entry like he didn’t know where he was allowed to go.

“Make yourself comfortable.” You said gently, setting your keys down. “You’re safe here.”

Something in his face shifted. He stepped closer.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You turned to him. He was closer than before. His eyes dark in the soft light, jaw tense.

“I don’t know how to do this.” He said quietly. “But I want to.”

Your chest swelled. “You don’t have to know how.” You whispered. “Just stay with me.”

He reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then he kissed you.

——————————————————————————

It was slow. Careful.

Like he was afraid of shattering something he didn’t know how to hold.

But when you kissed him back. When you leaned in and let your lips open under his, he deepened it with a groan that vibrated through your chest.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His hands cupped your waist like he didn’t know where to touch, only that he needed to.

You pulled back, breathing heavy, and looked into his eyes.

“You can touch me.” You said. “However you want.”

He blinked. Like the permission stunned him.

You took his hand and guided it to your cheek. Then lower, to your chest, over your heart. His breath caught.

“I want you.” You whispered. “But only if you want this too.”

His voice cracked. “I do.”

——————————————————————————

You led him to your room.

He sat on the edge of your bed while you stepped between his knees, hands at his jaw.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong. Or too much.”

He nodded once. Silent. A storm behind his eyes.

You kissed him again, longer this time. Slower.

And then you knelt between his legs. Wakatoshi tensed.

“Wait- ” He started, but your fingers worked open the button of his jeans with calm precision.

“Let me.” You said. “I want to.”

He swallowed. Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t usually… let people do this.”

“I know.”

You kissed the inside of his knee. Then the scar.

It was thick, pale, a little raised. You ran your thumb over it, then pressed your lips to the center. Slow, reverent.

His breath hitched. His hands fisted in the sheets.

“I hate it.” He murmured. “It’s horrible”

You immediately know what he was referring to. The scar that reminded him of what he might lose. You looked up at him.

“It’s part of you.” You said in between kisses as your lips trailed up along his inner thigh.

He stared down at you like you weren’t real. Like he was dreaming.

Then you leaned in and took him into your mouth.

He was big. Of course he was. But that wasn’t what made him lose control. It was the way you looked at him.

The way you held him in your mouth. Slow, unhurried, every pass of your tongue deliberate. Your hands resting on his thighs, fingers stroking gently, grounding him.

You didn’t rush.

You let him feel everything. Every inch. Every second.

He groaned your name once. Rough and low like it punched the air out of him. His hips twitched, but he held himself back, muscles trembling with restraint.

You pulled off with a soft pop, lips swollen, eyes full of heat.

“Lie back.” You said, standing to undress.

He obeyed without question. Watching you undress. His gaze didn’t devour you. It honored you. Like he was witnessing something sacred.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him, and ran your fingers through his hair.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

But his voice was hoarse. “I don’t deserve this.”

Your heart ached. “You deserve everything.”

You guided him to your entrance, bodies flushed and warm, and sank down onto him slowly.

His hands clutched your waist like a lifeline. His mouth fell open. Low grunts and moans filling the room as he looked at you as if he was scared you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t.

You rocked against him, slow and tender. Your bodies fit like you’d been made for this. Every movement dragged another broken breath from his throat.

You kissed his jaw. His neck. His shoulder. You caressed the scar again, when you shifted his legs spreading wider under yours.

And when he came. He was shuddering, breathless, his arms wrapped around you like he’d fall apart otherwise. You held his face in your hands.

“You’re not broken.”

He came down slowly, blinking up at you like he didn’t know what world he was in.

You brushed a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“You’re safe.”

——————————————————————————

You lay together after, tangled in the sheets, your head resting on his chest.

His arm was around you. Tight. Protective. His fingers trailing up and down your spine. But not out of fear. Out of need. Out of something new and fragile blooming between you.

He whispered, after a long while. “Thank you.”

You smiled against his skin.

“You don’t have to thank me. I want you.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… wanted. Not like this.”

You kissed his shoulder.“Get used to it.”

He didn’t answer. But you felt the way his body relaxed. The way his fingers curled into yours and he held you closer to him before kissing your lips once more.

——————————————————————————

The morning after was silent. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything was finally right.

You woke first. The sun filtered in soft and golden through the curtains. Ushijima lay beside you, broad chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of sleep, one arm still draped around your waist like his body refused to let you go, even unconscious.

You reached up and brushed his hair back from his face.

He looked… peaceful. Like the war inside him had quieted for the first time in a long, long time.

He woke slowly. Brows furrowing at first like the sunlight confused him. Then his eyes opened, and he looked at you. Like he knew exactly where he was. Like he’d been hoping this wasn’t a dream.

You smiled, soft and sleepy. “Hey.”

He didn’t smile.

But he reached up and touched your cheek, callused fingers grazing your skin like you might disappear if he wasn’t careful.

“I’m still here.” You whispered.

He exhaled. A shaky breath. Like he’d been holding it all night. “I don’t know if I want to go back.”

You curled into his side. “You don’t have to. Not yet.”

“But I will, eventually.”

You looked up. “Are you scared?”

He was quiet for a long time. “Yes.” He exhaled as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t offer empty encouragement. No false hope. Just your arms, and your warmth, and the solid truth of your presence beside him.

“You’re not alone this time.” You said simply. “I’ll be there for you.”

He nodded and, finally he smiled.

——————————————————————————

The weeks passed slowly, and for once, neither of you minded. He stayed longer than he planned.

Sometimes he helped your elderly neighbor carry groceries. Sometimes he sat in the sun with you and read, barely turning the pages, just listening to the sound of your voice as you rambled.

He limped less. The stiffness faded.

But what changed most wasn’t his body, it was the way he carried himself. Like he wasn’t rushing to prove anything anymore. Like he knew that, even if he never played again, someone still saw worth in him.

You did.

And that changed everything.

——————————————————————————

One morning, you found him at the bench by the lake. Same one you always went to. This time, he was alone.

You approached quietly, but he didn’t look up. Just held out a hand as you came near, like he felt you before he saw you.

You took it without hesitation and sat beside him.

“I’ve been talking to my trainer.” He said softly. “They think I can start light drills next month.”

You felt your heart leap but didn’t let it show too much.

Instead, you squeezed his hand. “That’s great, Toshi.”

He looked at you then, eyes quiet but steady.

“I want to go back.”

You nodded. “Then you should.”

“But not because I need to prove I’m still strong.” He said. “Not to anyone. I just… I want to feel the court again.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “That’s the best reason.”

He exhaled through his nose. “And I want to take you with me.”

You blinked, startled.

He turned slightly toward you. “You don’t have to answer now. But… if I go back to playing, to traveling. I want you to be part of that world. However you can be.”

“Toshi.” You whispered.

He squeezed your hand. “You make it quiet. In my head. Like I can breathe.”

Tears pricked the corners of your eyes. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and full, pressing your heart into every touch.

“I’m already yours.” You said.

——————————————————————————

That night, he laid you down again.

Not rushed. Not broken. Just full of love he didn’t know how to put into words.

He kissed your body like he was learning you all over again. Touched you with reverence.

When you made love, it was less about need and more about being known.

He whispered your name into your neck as you moved together.

And for the first time, he let go completely.

——————————————————————————

You saw him off a few weeks later.

His rehab was scheduled to continue back in the city. There were evaluations, contracts, trials. But this time, when he stepped on the train, he didn’t look hollow.

He kissed you softly and promised he’d call every night.

And he did. Every time.

——————————————————————————

Months passed.

You visited when you could. He sent you photos of his practices. His scar faded, but not entirely and he never hid it.

You never stopped telling him how proud you were.

And when the first game came, and he stood on the court again stronger, slower, more deliberate. You watched from the stands.

He spotted you right after the final point. They’d won. But the look on his face wasn’t victory. It was peace.

——————————————————————————

Later that night, in the quiet of the locker room, a teammate asked him. “Hey Ushiwaka what changed? You play different now.”

He paused. “I found something that matters even when the game ends.”

——————————————————————————

As time passed the lake was quiet again. You sat on the bench, older now. Still just as in love.

He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. You tilted your head to look up at him, grinning.

“You’re early.”

“I missed you.”

You beamed.

And he did something he only did for you. He smiled.

You lived together now, in a small home near the city but close enough to visit his hometown. He still played, but more balanced. Not like it was life or death because now, he had a life outside of it.

A life that included you. Warm meals. Early morning cuddles. Your voice reading out loud while he rested. He talked more now, always honest. Always tender. And always yours.

Sometimes, you’d trace the scar on his knee before bed. Kiss it. And every time, he’d close his eyes and breathe a little deeper. Because you never saw it as a wound. You saw it as a part of him like his silence, his strength, his love.

And slowly, he started to see it that way too.

“I love you.” He’d whisper every night as he held you close to him.

“This would be quite awkward if you didn’t.” You laughed, caressing his face softly, the metal of the ring on your hand that matched his felt warm against his skin. “I love you too.”

He kissed you slowly and tenderly because now he had the rest of his life to do so.

Taglists are open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[godricgryffinsnore]

So......tadaaaa, just when you thought you have striked off another request from the list, you have another.

(because I need some good Harry Potte/reader stuff, even if it takes weeks)

He was in a pretty bad mood, he had been stood up on a first date. He slumped on his way back when a girl came and sat beside him on the train, crying.

[slow burn please. Like the slowest slow burn. I am looking for a long slow burn...And Sirius is alive.]

All the Quiet Things ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : When a chance meeting on a train changes the course of two very different lives, what begins as quiet companionship turns into something deeper—something far more difficult to ignore. Amid shared silences, buried feelings, and a few missteps along the way, two souls learn what it means to heal, to choose, and to love without fear.

warnings : Emotional distress, crying, and healing, Jealousy, arguments, and dramatic love confession, Strong language and romantic angst, Explicit sexual content (18+): oral (both), unprotected sex, praise/dirty talk, slow to rough progression, Embarrassing moment (others overhear them), Canon divergence (Sirius, Remus & Cedric alive), Comfort, fluff, and aftercare. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. THIS IS AN 18+ FAN FICTION. PLEASE DO NOT ENTER IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE OR IF YOU ARE A MINOR!!!

della's note : Ya, so it happened... I don't know how, where or when I got the urge to write a smut scene, but I did. But don't worry, if you want this fic in a free-smut type of way, you can read it without the smut too. Smut is at the very end of the fan fic... and I will let you know when it starts. I REALLY HOPE YOU LIKE IT <333

word count : 4.8k

main master list <3

banners : @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune

He had never liked dates.

He didn't know why he’d even said yes. Lavender had cornered him with her glittering eyes and her sugar-slick voice, and something about the way Ron had elbowed him had made Harry nod before his brain could catch up.

Now, it was raining. Of course it was raining.

The coffee shop had smelled too sweet, and the date never showed. Harry had sat at the window, watching the clouds gather like an omen. He didn’t even like coffee. He’d stared at his reflection in the glass—scar, glasses, eyes too tired for eighteen—and had wondered what he looked like to the rest of the world.

The train back to Grimmauld Place was nearly empty. The wet streets had scared the tourists off, and he was grateful for the silence.

He slumped into the seat by the window, coat damp, hair clinging to his forehead. His jaw was tight. The overhead lights buzzed.

Then—

A soft sound. A sniffle.

He turned, and there she was.

A girl. His age. Book pressed tight to her chest, sleeves too long, eyes swollen and red.

She sat across from him, not noticing him at all, crumpling into the corner like she was trying to disappear.

Harry should have looked away.

But she was crying. Not loud, not the kind of crying that begged attention—no. This was the silent kind. The lonely kind.

The kind he knew well.

“Are you alright?” he asked before he could stop himself.

She startled, blinking up at him like she'd only just realized he was there. Her lashes were soaked, and there was a smudge of ink on her cheek.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. It was the automatic kind of lie.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t press.

The train groaned into motion, and the city lights outside blurred into gold.

She turned her face to the window, but not before he saw it—that broken sort of look, the kind people wore when they’d held on too tightly to something that slipped right through their fingers.

He wanted to ask. Who hurt you? Why are you crying? What book is that?

But instead, he sat in silence. Watching the rain. Listening to her breathe.

They didn’t speak again that night.

When the train stopped, she stood and disappeared into the dark, and he didn’t even know her name.

── .✦

They saw each other again.

Weeks later, in the library at Grimmauld Place.

It was Sirius who called her in. “Harry! This is the one I told you about—she’s working with the new historical records team from the Ministry. She’s got the brains of a Ravenclaw and the patience of a saint.”

Harry turned, and there she was.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. But she did smile—a small, knowing thing that twisted something deep in his chest.

“You’re the girl from the train,” he said, before he could stop himself.

Her eyes flickered. “And you’re the boy who stared at me like I was made of glass.”

Sirius looked between them, brows raised.

Neither of them explained.

── .✦

Weeks became months.

She started showing up more.

She was clever. Quiet. Laughed softly at Sirius’s ridiculous stories, asked sharp questions during Order meetings, and always smelled faintly like old parchment and stormy nights.

Harry liked talking to her. He liked the way her mind worked—how she made him feel like he wasn’t just the Boy Who Lived but a person with questions and dreams and wounds that didn’t need to be hidden.

But it wasn’t easy. Nothing ever was.

There were arguments. Disagreements. He didn’t like how she looked at Malfoy when he visited to give intel, didn’t like how she smiled when she spoke to Cedric Diggory at the Ministry.

She didn’t like how he shut down when he was hurting. How he’d go quiet and cold and pretend like nothing ever touched him.

“Harry,” she said one night, voice sharp with something unnameable, “You don't get to decide who I talk to.”

“I’m not deciding,” he snapped. “I’m just saying—Diggory? Really?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

And that’s when it began.

The bitterness. The bite. The awkward silences at meetings. The thunder in his chest when she smiled at someone else. The way she flinched when he ignored her in front of Ron and Hermione.

They became enemies in the way only people who used to care could be.

But oh—he still watched her.

He knew how she took her tea. Knew she cried when she read tragic poetry. Knew she kept a picture of her little sister in her notebook and touched it when she thought no one was looking.

She knew him too.

She knew how he clenched his fist when he lied. Knew when his nightmares came back, even when he didn’t say a word.

But they were silent. Too prideful. Too afraid.

Until the night everything broke.

── .✦

It was a storm.

It always had to be a storm.

Grimmauld Place, the attic, papers flying, windows rattling. The Order had had a terrible night, and Sirius had been nearly killed, and Harry found her pacing, wild-eyed, her hands shaking.

“You could’ve died!” she shouted at him. “You just ran in! No plan—no—nothing! What if—what if I never saw you again, you bloody stupid boy?!”

“I didn’t need a plan!” he yelled back. “I needed to save him!”

“You’re reckless! Arrogant! Self-sacrificing and completely idiotic—!”

“And you’re impossible!” he roared. “You smile at Cedric like I don’t exist, then act like you care—!”

“Because I do care, you great big idiot! I always did!”

Silence.

Breathing.

The storm howled outside, but inside—utter stillness.

“I always did,” she whispered again. “From the moment you asked if I was okay on that train.”

Harry stared.

She looked like everything he’d ever wanted and been too scared to ask for.

“I love you,” he said, voice hoarse, cracking. “I love you and it’s miserable. You make me feel like I’m worth something and I hate it because I’m terrified of losing you.”

And then—

They kissed.

Like a war ending. Like peace being signed on trembling lips. Like two storms learning how to hold hands without turning to thunder.

── .✦

They didn’t speak about the kiss.

Not the next day. Not the day after that.

She went back to the library. Harry helped Molly with dinner. They exchanged glances like secret letters—quiet, cautious, trembling with things unsaid.

Sirius noticed, of course.

“Why are you walking like you’re being haunted by your own hormones?” he muttered to Harry in the hallway, raising a brow. “Did something happen or not?”

Harry flushed so deeply he might’ve been hexed.

But no answer came.

Because the truth was this: kissing her had felt like magic, real magic—the kind Hogwarts never taught. And now, he was afraid that if he said it aloud, it would vanish into smoke.

── .✦

A week later, she packed her bag.

The Ministry needed her in Bulgaria for a temporary assignment. Three months. Maybe four. She didn’t tell Harry until the morning she was leaving.

“I didn’t think you’d care,” she said quietly, her fingers knotting in the strap of her satchel.

Harry stared at her.

“I care too much,” he replied. “That’s the whole problem.”

She smiled sadly. “You’re not the problem, Harry. You never were.”

And before he could say something—anything—she was gone.

── .✦

He wrote to her.

Every week.

He never sent them.

They were scrawled on napkins, the corners of maps, the back of old Order memos. He’d fold them, unfold them. Sometimes burn them in the fireplace, watching the words curl into ash.

I miss the way you whisper when you read aloud. I miss your damn tea order. I miss your stupid bookmark collection and the way you smell like lavender and rain. I miss you like a wound. Like air.

She wrote too.

But never to him.

She wrote poetry. Scribbled it between research notes. Tiny verses that felt like bleeding.

He looks at me like I’m holy and runs from me like I’m fire.

── .✦

When she came back, it was snowing.

December wrapped London in white lace, and the streets were muffled with softness. She arrived at Grimmauld Place with wind-blushed cheeks and frozen fingers.

Harry didn’t know she was coming.

He opened the door and nearly dropped his wand.

She looked... different. Softer, maybe. A little older. But the second their eyes met, something in his chest cracked wide open.

“You’re back,” he said dumbly.

“Apparently,” she whispered.

And then—

He stepped aside, and she walked back into the house. Into his world. Into the place that always felt like it had been waiting for her.

── .✦

It wasn’t easy.

They were awkward. Stilted. She would laugh too loud around others, and he would grow quiet again, like a tide retreating. He was still jealous. She still didn’t explain the way she’d touched Cedric’s arm at the last Order meeting. The tension curled between them like smoke—every conversation a slow unravelling.

Then one night—it broke.

A Christmas party. Too much firewhisky. A hallway. A sideways glance.

He snapped.

“You still love him, don’t you?” he said, sharp as glass. “You talk to me like I matter, and then you run to him every time he walks into a room.”

She turned slowly. Her eyes were on fire.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “You don’t get to dictate who I speak to, Potter. You don’t even speak to me unless it’s convenient for your bruised ego!”

His breath hitched.

“You kissed me,” he said.

“You kissed me,” she snapped. “And then you disappeared.”

“I was scared!”

“So was I!”

A pause.

A breath.

Her eyes glistened. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? You think you’re the only one who’s terrified of being loved just to be left?”

Harry’s hands shook. “I’m not good at this.”

“Neither am I,” she whispered. “But I’m still here. I’m trying.”

And then—softly.

“I love you,” she breathed, voice raw. “I’ve loved you since the train. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.”

His chest cracked. Splintered.

“I love you,” he said back. “I love you so much it hurts.”

And this time, when they kissed—it wasn’t fireworks.

It was home.

── .✦

“You’re an idiot.”

Harry turned, startled. Sirius was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, an infuriating grin on his face.

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve got that guilty ‘I kissed her again and now I don’t know if it meant everything or nothing’ look.”

Harry groaned and dropped his head to the table.

Sirius chuckled. “Relax, Prongslet. I’m proud of you. Took you what—two years and a raging argument to finally confess?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate how much you care. You hate that she makes you nervous. You hate that you want forever and don’t know if she does.”

Harry looked up. “Do you think she does?”

Sirius tilted his head, suddenly serious. “She looks at you like you hung the stars, Harry. That kind of love doesn’t fade.”

── .✦

Meanwhile, upstairs, she stood in front of the mirror, still trembling from that kiss.

She touched her lips, blinking at herself like she wasn’t sure she was real. There was something quiet blooming in her chest—hope, maybe. Or peace. Or the terrifying beginnings of both.

And then—

“Mistletoe,” Sirius announced, bursting into the room.

She screamed and spun, nearly throwing her hairbrush.

“What the hell—?!”

He grinned. “I need your help with some holiday decorations.”

“Sirius Black, if you ever want to live to see another Christmas—”

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted with a wink. “The mistletoe’s not for me.”

He disappeared before she could hex him.

── .✦

The next few weeks were... soft.

Not perfect. But gentle.

She and Harry spoke more. Laughed more. There were long walks in the snow. Quiet tea in the library. Glances that lingered like poetry.

And the touches—

A hand brushing hers when passing her a quill. A shoulder leaning too close while reading by the fireplace. A pinky that hooked hers under the dinner table.

They didn’t talk about labels. Or plans. Or the future.

They just were.

And it was enough—for now.

── .✦

New Year’s Eve.

The entire house was glowing—candles floating in the air, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of cinnamon and firewhisky thick in the air.

At 11:59, Sirius shouted, “Make a wish!”

Harry didn’t need to.

He was already standing beside her.

And when the clock struck twelve—

He kissed her. Quietly. Reverently. Like a prayer.

Not because he had to.

But because he could.

Because she was real. And here. And his.

And when she smiled against his lips, he felt like maybe, just maybe, all the quiet things were the most beautiful.

── .✦

It was late January when they went back to Hogwarts.

Not as students, no—not anymore.

McGonagall had invited them to speak to the sixth-years about magical ethics and wartime resilience. (Sirius joked that his own speech would be titled “Don’t Trust the Government, or Your Mother.”)

But really, it was just an excuse. An excuse to go back. To remember. To stand in those halls again and feel, for a moment, seventeen.

They walked through the front doors together, their fingers brushing but not quite intertwining, boots crunching on the snow-slicked stone.

The castle was quiet, blanketed in soft winter. Icicles like crystal daggers hung from the towers. Somewhere, faintly, a choir of enchanted birds sang from the rafters.

She looked up at the ceiling of the Great Hall and whispered, “It still feels like home.”

Harry looked at her.

So do you.

But he didn’t say it.

── .✦

Later that night, she found a small box on her pillow in the guest quarters.

Wrapped in dark green ribbon.

No note.

She opened it carefully—and gasped.

A charm bracelet.

Delicate. Golden. With three tiny charms already affixed.

A lightning bolt.

A teacup.

A moon.

When she touched them, they shimmered with warmth—enchanted.

The lightning bolt whispered, I’ll protect you.

The teacup murmured, I remember.

And the moon breathed, Even when we’re apart, you’re never alone.

She covered her mouth with her hand, eyes burning.

He hadn’t said a word.

But it was the most beautiful confession she’d ever heard.

── .✦

They went into Hogsmeade the next day.

It was bright with winter sunlight, the sky a sheet of silver-blue. They laughed together in the snow, tried butterbeer with cinnamon, got caught in a tangle of enchanted scarves at Gladrags.

And then—

He saw it.

A man. Laughing with her near Honeydukes. Brushing snowflakes from her cheek.

Cedric.

Harry froze.

He knew they were friends. He knew.

But still.

His blood went hot.

Jealousy curled through him like smoke. He stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the soft, lingering way she looked at Cedric as he handed her a sugar quill.

Later, she found Harry sitting alone by the Shrieking Shack.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at her.

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

A pause.

He exhaled sharply. “You smiled at him like I wasn’t even there.”

She blinked. “Harry—”

“You still like him, don’t you?”

Now she was angry.

“Are you serious? Cedric is my friend. He’s been there since before you even looked my way!”

“I’ve always looked at you,” he snapped. “You just never saw me.”

“Oh, I saw you. I saw you when you ignored me. When you let me walk away. When you kissed me and vanished.”

“I was scared!”

“I wasn’t,” she hissed, eyes glistening. “And I still showed up. I still loved you. Even when you gave me nothing.”

His breath caught.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She turned away. “Maybe sorry isn’t enough anymore.”

── .✦

She didn’t speak to him for three days.

Not in the corridors, not in the common areas, not even during the goodbye dinner in the Great Hall.

Harry felt like the walls were closing in.

Everywhere he went, he looked for her. Every empty chair she used to occupy, every ghost of her laugh echoing down the halls—it all clawed at him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Until Sirius—who’d had quite enough—shoved him up the Astronomy Tower steps one evening, locked the door behind him with a muttered, “For Merlin’s sake, fix it,” and vanished.

She was there.

Of course she was.

The stars tangled in her hair, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring out at the frost-glittered grounds below. She didn’t look up when he entered.

“I thought you’d given up,” she said softly.

He stepped closer. “Never. Not on you.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “Then why did you keep leaving?”

Harry’s voice cracked. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Her breath caught.

“Because I was terrified that the second I touched something good, it would disappear. Like everything else.”

She turned then. Slowly. Her eyes—shining, tired, beautiful.

“And what changed?”

He stepped forward, close enough to brush her cheek with his breath.

“You didn’t disappear,” he whispered. “You stayed. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was a coward.”

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—quietly, trembling—he dropped to his knees before her.

“I love you.”

She stared.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another charm for the bracelet.

A star.

“Every time I lost my way, I followed you,” he murmured. “You were the light.”

Her lips parted. Her heart pounded.

He took her hand. “Let me try. Let me show you that I can be soft. That I can be better. That I can love you the way you deserve—without fear, without running.”

The silence cracked wide open.

And she kissed him.

Not in a storm of fire—but in a hush of stars. Slow. Gentle. Forgiving.

Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

“I love you,” she breathed back. “I think I always did.”

── .✦

Years later, Harry would still remember that night.

The soft rustle of her laughter, the way her fingers laced through his. The first time he felt like the world had stopped spinning just so they could finally begin.

They’d return to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

She’d read to him by the fireplace.

He’d cook (badly) and she’d pretend to love it.

Sirius would roll his eyes and tell Remus that finally, the idiots had figured it out.

And Harry—

Harry would never forget what she said to him one night, curled against his chest beneath a sea of blankets.

“You don’t have to fight for me anymore,” she whispered.

And he’d kiss the top of her head and murmur,

“No. But I’ll love you like I still have to.”

Grimmauld Place, the night they moved in.

The house was quiet. For once. Sirius and Remus had left for an Order errand, something vague and dangerous-sounding that neither Harry nor she had pressed too hard about. The silence that followed their departure was warm—not heavy. Not haunted. Just theirs.

And then Harry walked out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea—shirtless.

Shirtless.

With the waistband of his grey sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, hair still damp from a rushed shower.

She was curled up on the sofa, blanket around her legs and a book balanced lazily in her lap, but when she looked up and saw him standing there, her Harry, in their house—something shifted.

She grinned. “You’re not even trying to be subtle, are you?”

Harry raised a brow and handed her the mug. “Subtle?”

She gestured lazily to his very bare chest. “You’re practically begging to be devoured.”

His smirk curled up devilishly. “You offering?”

She blinked. “Oh, I’m more than offering.”

And just like that—air crackled.

Harry set his mug down slowly. Purposefully. Then crawled onto the couch, straddling her legs with a wicked look in his eye. “You think I planned this? That I came out here thinking, ‘Let’s seduce her tonight’?”

She leaned back, smirking. “Did you?”

“No,” he murmured, mouth brushing her jaw, “but now that we’re here... I’m thinking about a lot of things.”

His lips were hot as they kissed down her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He chuckled against her skin.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

So he did.

── .✦

They kissed like the air between them had finally caught fire. Slow at first, teasing, his tongue coaxing hers into a rhythm that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hands found her thighs, pushing the fabric aside, letting his fingers trail up and up until they ghosted over the soft cotton between her legs.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered against her lips, voice low and wrecked. “Is this all for me?”

“All of it,” she breathed. “Always for you.”

He groaned, deep and desperate, and kissed her again before sliding down the couch and settling between her legs.

“Let me taste you.”

She nodded, eyes wide, heart racing.

He tugged her panties off slowly, dragging the damp fabric down her legs like it was a gift he’d been aching to unwrap. And then he licked a stripe up her slit—slow, reverent—before moaning like he’d been starving for her.

“Fuck, sweetheart… you taste so good.”

His tongue was sinful. Deliberate. He licked, sucked, and circled her clit with slow precision, using his fingers to tease her open. She arched, hips rocking toward his mouth, gasping his name.

“Harry—oh, God—”

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick, lips wet. “Let me hear you. Let me make you come.”

He slipped a finger inside her. Then another. Curling them just right while his tongue stayed locked on her clit, flicking harder, faster.

She cried out—sharp, broken—and came with a full-body tremble, hand tangled in his hair.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way up her body, letting her feel every inch of his weight as he pressed her into the couch. Her fingers found the waistband of his pants and shoved them down, gasping when his cock sprang free, hot and heavy against her thigh.

She flipped them suddenly, pushing him back onto the cushions.

“My turn.”

He stared up at her, dazed. “Are you—”

But she was already sinking down between his legs, tongue darting out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, head tipping back, one hand gripping the couch while the other threaded into her hair.

“Shit—fuck, baby…”

She took him deep, slow at first, letting her tongue swirl as she hollowed her cheeks, moaning around him. He bucked instinctively, hips twitching, then stilled.

“Merlin, you’re gonna ruin me.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, mouth full of him, and smiled.

That did it.

He pulled her up, breathless. “I need to be inside you.”

“Then take me.”

And he did.

── .✦

He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her eyes flutter shut, her mouth fall open in a silent moan.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, burying himself to the hilt. “You feel perfect. So fucking tight, sweetheart…”

She gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Move, Harry, please—”

He pulled out almost completely, then thrust back in hard. She cried out.

And he talked her through every second.

“Just like that.” “Taking me so well.” “You were made for me, weren’t you?” “Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart.”

Their rhythm built—slow and deep, then faster, harder. Their bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, Harry’s name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He kissed her through her next orgasm—held her as she shook around him, tightening impossibly—and then buried his face in her neck as he followed, moaning into her skin.

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs and breath and love.

── .✦

Later, when the sweat cooled and the stars were peeking through the curtains, he pulled the blanket over them and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

She smiled sleepily. “I’m perfect.”

He looked down at her, wonder in his eyes.

“We live here now,” he whispered.

“We love here now,” she corrected.

And Harry Potter—her best friend, her storm, her home—held her tighter and said,

“Only you. Always you.”

── .✦

The first morning in their home.

The sunlight spilled in warm and golden. It bathed their skin in honey, lit her collarbones, kissed the curve of her thigh where Harry’s hand had curled all night long.

He was awake before her.

Still naked, hair a disaster, the sheet barely covering his lower half, and his eyes were locked on her. Soft. Mesmerized.

She stirred, blinking against the morning light.

“Harry?” her voice was hoarse, sleep-heavy.

He smiled. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Mmm… I’m sore.” She winced as she stretched, then gasped when she felt it—the dull ache of being loved properly.

Harry leaned over, kissing her bare shoulder. “Good sore?”

She glanced at him and raised a brow. “Smug much?”

He kissed her again. “You were perfect. You always are.”

Her fingers found his curls and tugged him in. “Then do something perfect again, Potter.”

He smirked—slow, sinful—and slid the sheet down, exposing her breasts to the cool morning air.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

── .✦

It wasn’t fast this time.

It was slow.

He worshipped her.

Kissed his way down her body like every inch of her was sacred. Bit at her hips. Licked at her inner thighs. Suckled her clit with aching tenderness that turned quickly filthy, his tongue moving in perfect circles while his fingers dipped into her soaked heat.

She gasped, cried out, her hand over her mouth to keep quiet—but he pulled it away.

“Don’t,” he whispered, voice dark. “Let them hear. Let the whole bloody house know who you belong to.”

She came with a strangled moan.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over and took her from behind, her chest pressed to their pillows while his hands gripped her hips, fucking her slow and deep.

“You feel that?” he panted, voice rough. “That’s mine. All of this—yours and mine.”

She clawed at the sheets. “Yes, Harry, oh fuck—”

He reached around to rub her clit in fast circles, hips slamming into her harder now, all rhythm lost in raw need.

“Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Come for me again. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And she did. Shaking. Crying his name.

He followed a second later with a broken, “Fuck—yes—”, spilling inside her as he buried himself one last time.

── .✦

Later, when they finally dragged themselves to the bathroom, still shaky-legged and flushed, she tried to brush her teeth.

Tried.

Harry stood behind her in nothing but boxers, arms wrapped around her waist, his face in her neck.

“Stop,” she giggled through a mouth full of toothpaste. “Let me brush.”

“I like watching you,” he said, voice gravelly. “You’re too pretty to ignore.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She spat, wiped her mouth, and turned around to face him—only to find herself lifted onto the sink, Harry between her legs again.

“Again?” she laughed, arms around his neck.

He kissed her, slow and deep. “Always.”

── .✦

Bonus :

Grimmauld Place, still warm from last night’s sins.

The kitchen smelled like toast. And sin. Mostly sin.

She was perched on the counter in one of Harry’s oversized T-shirts, her legs swinging lazily while Harry hovered at the stove, flipping eggs with the focus of a man who was absolutely trying to avoid a conversation.

Not with her.

No, she was grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary. It was the other two occupants of the house they were both actively ignoring.

Because Sirius and Remus were seated at the kitchen table. And they were smirking.

“Well,” Sirius said, dramatically stirring his tea, “someone had a very active morning.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed. “Do we need to do this?”

Remus tried to keep a straight face. Failed. “You moaned her name like it was your Patronus.”

“Loudly,” Sirius added. “Repeatedly.”

“Honestly, I thought it was a murder.”

“A very sexy murder.”

Harry turned around slowly, face beet red, spatula still in hand. “You two have no boundaries.”

Remus lifted his mug. “We raised you. There’s nothing left to protect.”

Sirius leaned forward, chin in hand. “Though I have to say, I’m deeply offended you didn’t use a Silencing Charm. I live here, Harry. I live here.”

Harry turned to her, horrified. “Why didn’t we use a—”

She just beamed. “Because I like making you moan.”

Sirius choked on his tea. Remus actually blushed.

Harry groaned and buried his face in the kitchen towel. “I’m moving out.”

“You just moved in,” Sirius grinned. “And now you’ve christened the whole damn house.”

Remus chuckled. “Honestly, we’re just happy for you both.”

Sirius grinned, eyes sparkling. “Disgusted. Traumatized. But happy.”

Harry handed her a plate, still scarlet. “You’re evil.”

She kissed his cheek sweetly. “You moaned my name first, Potter.”

Sirius and Remus both groaned.

Harry hid his face in her neck.

The kitchen was filled with laughter, toast, and a love that was far too loud to be ashamed of.

[revelboo]

You works are awesome, but i also wanna remind you not to overwork yourself! :) Have a nice day/night! ;3

Honestly, considering this blog is only 24 days old, it’s you guys I’m a bit worried about. Y’all good? Cause holy crow…

The Weakends Pt 5

TFP Ratchet x Reader- argument

• Putting a tool away, Ratchet glances over at the empty counter, the medbay quiet around him. Who’d have thought he’d miss your questions and companionable chatter? Need it to work. That silence drives home the fact that you’re avoiding him. Have been for days now and it’s worming under his plating, a disquiet that sparks through him, because you belong here. Your loss making him snap at everyone, because it’d be one thing if you were just skulking about the base, but no. Since you got upset with him, you’ve kept far away. Sulking like a sparkling.

• Setting the little trowel aside, you drag one of the mums you’d bought closer and wiggle it free of its little plastic pot. It’s warmer today, sweat slicking your skin as you work. Really, you’re just keeping busy. Trying to distract yourself, because you’re so frustrated you want to scream. Mostly at a certain white and red moron. And yourself. You know you’re both too proud to bend now. Neither one of you willing to back down no matter how silly the argument actually was. Even if staying away feels like you’re punishing yourself more than him.

• The sound of gravel popping under tires lifts your head and you squint in the sun. Bumblebee and the kids back again to pester you into coming in? Lips pressing into a thin line when you spot the ambulance, you yank off your gloves. Surely, he isn’t going to actually apologize? Blowing out a breath, you stand and stretch the kinks out of your back. Your little house is far enough from town and the main road that Ratchet can transform without worrying about being spotted and he does, walking the rest of the way over with a scowl like he tastes something foul. Cocking a hip, you cross your arms and wait for the apology. “Well, you’re not dead or dying,” he growls, optics narrowing at you.

• “Yeah, doing great,” you say, tone tight with anger as your fingers dig into your upper arms. “So, I don’t need a medic.” The ‘I don’t need you’ coming across loud and clear. That open hostility in your stare ramping up his own irritation that you’re so petty you’d made him drive all the way out to retrieve you. And you turn your back to him, bending to roughly seize a potted plant. Ignoring him. After he came to get you? His servos close around your middle, hearing your startled gasp as he lifts you. And then you whip around, chucking that plant at his head. It bounces off, scattering dirt all over him as you glare at each other. “Put me down. Right now.”

• Your heart’s racing, the adrenaline souring inside you as you realize you just hit him with a mum. And he’s not just going to let that slide. His optics shutter, jaw clenching as he vents angrily and you tense for the yelling. The fury. Instead, one of his servos slides over your torso as he adjusts his grip. That servo settling against your breast where your frantic heart is pounding away. Grabbing that servo, you mean to shove at it, but just hold on. Slowly his venting evens out.

• He can feel your heart thumping against his servo, frantic with fear. Of him. He can’t move, snared by that rhythm, knowing he’s causing it. As he remains still, that too quick beat slows. Calming. Your little hands shift on his servo. “There’s work to do. I need my assistant,” he says. Can’t make himself apologize, but isn’t leaving without you either, even if he has to just take you. You’re coming home. And you whisper okay so low he almost misses it, that tension winding through him just unraveling.

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[sfznyxio]

-ˋˏ COLOUR VISION ˎˊ

SYNOPSIS. in which one is given a brand new outlook of the world: the empowerment of oneself and realization of controlling their destiny.

CHARACTERS. albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaedehara kazuha, kaeya, lisa, mona, tartaglia, venti, xiao, zhongli

CONTENT. gn!reader. mix of canon-compliant (albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaeya, lisa, tartaglia, zhongli) and modern au (kaedehara kazuha, mona, venti, xiao). angst, fluff, hurt/comfort. established relationship (albedo, diluc, ganyu, jean, kaeya). broken up (kaedehara kazuha, mona, tartaglia). 3.5k wc. rewrite of my milestone event colour vision at my old blog @/verxsyon. inspired by the album colour vision by max. other warnings vary for each section and will be listed there instead because uh, it’s a lot.

VERA. happy pride month! i was gonna release another tot rewrite, but thought this was more fitting because it had to do with colors - a lot of them. 2021 me peaked, i fear. colour vision was my milestone project, condensed into a single fic. hmmm… should i do another album-inspired fic?

ALBEDO • yellow • SOS

albedo makes empty promises. reader suffers from a terminal illness.

i ain't gonna run away / always gonna find a way / i got me, myself and i / but i got a little more, got a little more / when i got you

everyone in mondstadt hails albedo as a genius. although not because of his expertise, but because of his empty promises. he lies to others and to avoid disappointment. he remembers promising to the impossible, such as curing your terminal illness. for sure that creating one is unlikely due to the stage you’re in right now.

he tells himself that he’s invincible, hoping that one day a miracle would solve all of his problems. yet whenever he sees you in a bedridden state, the sight haunts him with the reminder that he’s not the genius scientist that everyone reveres. his guilt of lying to you is eating him alive, but he doesn’t want to crush your dreams of being able to move again.

if only you know what’s going on behind the scenes. as your profession of love replays in his mind, he breaks and shatters like the test tubes all over his workspace except one – the yellow liquid that mocks him of his cowardice. the geo vision clipped on his chest does the same thing – the doubt from geo archon as a wielder of his element.

you see him as a hero just like his little sister. he prefers your false hope to stay that way. he’s the chief alchemist, the genius scientist who never strays away from difficult situations and who always finds ways to solve them. yours, however, is one he can’t simply work with.

his knowledge can’t spare him from being helpless against the clock.

[ YELLOW (-): cowardice, deception, egotism, caution ]

DILUC • white • checklist

diluc is deeply in love with reader that he needs help proposing to them. kaeya helps out, for better or for worse.

checklist, 1, 2, 3 / you can tell me what you need / baby check this A, B, C / you make it look so easy

diluc doesn’t want to admit that he’s whipped for his significant other, because he doesn’t want to admit that a certain blue-haired menace has been right all along.

no one in mondstadt has foreseen the nobleman dedicating his life to a special someone. upholding his reputation as the wealthiest man in the city is his main priority. with you in the picture, he doesn’t seem to care too much about it anymore. dear archons, he’s never been deeply in love before.

he believes you’re the one, yet doesn’t know how to convey the message. of course he won’t know, so he has a third party to explain why he feels so fuzzy inside whenever you’re present physically or in his imagination. he didn’t think said third party named kaeya will be helpful due to their animosity between them, but he’s his best chance of navigating through the romantic department. diluc prays to lord barbatos that you will love his gifts, especially a white velvet box inside his pocket.

and you do. he watches your spectrum of reactions burst into life as you begin to unwrap his welcome back gifts. you’re fully invested in what he has to notice him kneeling on one knee and presenting a particular box containing what determines the future of your relationship. the nerves are becoming so overwhelming that he forgot everything on the script kaeya wrote just in case.

will you do the honors by checking off that box for me?

[ WHITE (+): goodness, hope, clarity, openness ]

GANYU • gray • where am i at

character death. smoking using pipes.

where am i at these days / now that you're gone?

nothing good comes out in the rain. unable to fall asleep, ganyu trudges away from the campsite to grab some fresh air, despite her hatred of the present weather. although her vision is blurry from the drowsiness, she can detect traces of smoke expelled from her partner. to pass the time, she decides to keep them company.

smoking is one of the bad habits that the qilin helped you successfully break, but the archon war caused your reversion to it as a stress reliever. it’s the least of her worries. no ounce of anger is on her face, but dread that concerns the divine.

centuries later, ganyu walks down the streets of liyue with an umbrella over her head to shield herself from the downpour. unlike the rest of the adepti who chose to isolate themselves to protect the heart of their lord, she chooses to guide humanity as a secretary. living among the common folk makes her feel lonely, but the gray atmosphere makes her feel even lonelier.

she stops at a grave in mount tianehng, paying her respects by exhaling gray smoke drawn from her pipe. with a gentle touch on the stone, she discards her pipe to the side before returning to work. 

nothing good comes out of the rain, for it’s a remembrance of a broken promise.

[ GRAY (-): pessimistic, sad, indecisive, unemotional ]

JEAN • teal • there is a god

somewhat suggestive (reader slips their fingers under jean’s top).

the way that you love me, way that you are / makes me believe that there's a god

you don’t believe in the archons. sure, they exist and are rumored to live alongside mortals. libraries contain a wealth of information about their efforts of establishing teyvat, which one can’t simply ignore. quite the magnificent read, but not worth to be taken seriously.

you don’t judge people who are devoted followers of the seven, however the amount of faith that everyone in mondatadt has in barbatos is very questionable. given that he is the god of freedom, he has little control over his nation yet they still worship him – one of which is jean, your significant other.

speaking of jean, she’s in her office meditating – sword upright and a teal aura emitting from her vision. she feels a warm sensation envelop her from behind, wrapping their arms around her waist and nuzzling against the column of her neck. their fingers mindlessly skim over her stomach, causing her to hum sweetly.

you confess how much you think about her, your inspiration. she laughs at how you casually visit her office only to compliment her, then kisses you sweetly. the teal light in her vision glows brighter than ever, which indicates her promise to continue protecting mondstadt and those she loves in the name of her archon.

you don’t believe in the archons, but you believe in the person who does.

 [ TEAL (+): concentrate, growth, peace, empathy ]

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA • brown • circles

alcohol consumption. risky behaviors.

we keep running in circles / i hate that i hurt you / we still have a heartbeat / don’t give up on me

you’re at his doorstep, barefoot and wearing loose pajamas. a brown bottle is firmly grasped in your hand, its content rendering you lost within the toxins flowing through your veins.

this is stupid. someone like yourself shouldn’t be drowning out sorrows with fancy glass bottles you stole from the fridge due to selfish reasons, nor should you sneak out of you window very late at night. you should be aware that you aren’t in the right state of mind to confront them. you shouldn’t be here, as your presence itself breaks every rule in existence.

this stupid, the same phrase plays inside your head like a broken record. why the hell are you out here anyway barely conscious, waiting for the person who basically shunned you without an explanation? leave while you have the chance, without having second thoughts and regrets.

the day kazuha told you he doesn’t want to see you anymore, you didn’t go after him. you didn’t wait at his doorstep. you didn’t see him broken as you were. you never touched his warmth or listened to the steadiness of his heartbeat. you never told him to stay. you never heard promises of coming back to you. 

you regret not choosing to walk on this path instead.

[ BROWN (-): boring, dull, timid, predictable ]

KAEYA • purple • colour vision

kaeya and reader are married. implied sex. nudity.

wake up in a dream, seeing things that i’ve never seen / every color so heavenly and i could not look away

every morning, kaeya wakes up to black and white. there are more better things he wishes he would’ve done, such as accompanying the traveler and paimon on their journey. besides carrying out his responsibilities as the cavalry captain and drinking at angel’s share to bother diluc, there is nothing worth the excitement to look forward to. black and white. same old everything.

until one night, he wakes up to purple. he wonders how an interaction with a suspect from an investigation escalated into what might be the best moment of his life. he isn’t the type to settle down. his flirtatious nature nature gives him leverage to merely obtain information, not to spark interest. yet here he is, half-asleep and half-naked with his arm around the body next to him.

news about the smooth talker of mondstadt tying the knot spread like wildfire – the hottest topic of the year. admiring your hand splayed on his chest that is adorned with a purple ring. relaxed and free, he feels like at the top of the world. he’s so glad to marry you, and you reciprocate.

there is someone worth the excitement to look forward to.

[ PURPLE (+): compassion, fantasy, wisdom, creativity ]

LISA • green • acid dreams

inspired by midsummer island adventure: act iii.

you’re beautiful / something like these acid dreams, acid dreams / it’s something i ain't used to girl / i’m gon' give you everything, everything

it’s unusual for both the acting grandmaster and the calvary captain to be absent from the guild. and it’s very unusual for lisa to be in charge for the meantime. funnily enough, your partner yawns in agreement as she flips to the next page of the book she’s currently engrossed in.

not only are those two gone, klee and albedo are nowhere to be found. you assume that they chose to take their leave for some sibling bonding time. that gives you a brilliant idea – you and lisa deserve to relax during this sweet summer season as well.

lisa sighs, knowing that you made a very good point. being romantically involved with a member of the knights is quite the challenge, finding it difficult to schedule dates. she envies how much free time you have, but it can’t be helped. 

now here comes a more brilliant idea – watching a live performance of a fontainian band at the good hunter during its happy hour with huffman taking over as the acting-times-four-grandmaster. she still has the green dress you bought her a while back, and you grab her hand to drag out of the building without hesitation.

poor huffman will be paid in leftovers as compensation for his initiative.

[ GREEN (+): generosity, hope, prosperity, luck ]

MONA • black • missed calls

mona and reader fell out of love since graduating from college. terrible communication.

i used to have so many missed calls / now i just sit around and miss your calls / i had the chance when i was with ya / now i’m hoping that you'll pick up, yeah

compatibility. timing. current circumstances. goals. uncontrollable occurrences. wanting different things. these factors are obstacles on your path that challenge your perception of an ideal relationship.

sometimes they can be overcome, and sometimes there’s the chance for it to crash and burn because of a single factor that could be the breaking point. realistically, life isn’t a utopia. the world can barely align the fates of two people to be together forever.

following graduation from university, mona has changed for the worst. communication becomes less of a commitment, eventually calling quits. It’s mentally and physically exhausting to maintain a relationship, as if you’re the only one who is making the effort to keep it alive.

you finally gather the courage to contact her for the first time in years, although the probability of her picking up is zero to none. she doesn’t, and the first thing you hear from the other side is an automated voice message system. your head hurts. your heart hurts. everything hurts. no calls can fix this mess. 

you cry for the future that is now black, hours away and never coming back.

[ BLACK (-): depression, sadness, pessimism, dominance ]

TARTAGLIA • red • love me less

betrayal from childe. blood. character death.

would you love me less? / if you knew the places that i’ve been? / if you knew the damage that i did? / would you love me less?

the fatui are ruthless with negotiations. one oversight and you’re gone, wiped out from the face of the earth. not even your family who is in debt was spared from their wrath. from that moment on, revenge against the organization and your god are the only things inside your mind. that is, until a red-haired snezhnayan entered the scene.

you should’ve known better. the man in front of you is never your lover to begin with, but your biggest enemy who murdered your own blood. regardless of what they mean, you believe the possibility of him being a member of the fatui is too good to be true. the rules of romance states that you must love the person inside, not the person you see. but those rules are meant to be broken, and they should have been long ago.

tartaglia, or childe which is the name he introduces himself with, is a person of many secrets. he conceals his position from his little brother for the sake of his future, and from you to prevent a heartbreak. the fact that you discovered it yourself speaks volumes. maybe you would have hated him less, but it doesn’t matter anymore.

but could you hate him less when you find out childe loves the color red, a representation of his bloodthirsty nature? could you be fine when red drips stains the floor and your stomach, where his weapon temporarily resides? somehow, there’s a sliver of hope that he doesn’t see you as his enemy. or perhaps he still loves you; not that you would ever know.

he usually doesn’t feel remorse, but he makes the exception when the red light in your vision fades.

[ RED (-): anger, danger, revenge, aggression ]

VENTI • pink • working for the weekend

reader works two jobs, resulting in insomnia and passing out at the dorms.

i’ve been working for the weekend / but that weekend never came / will you pat my back tomorrow / if i break my back today?

at the sight of signature braided tails, you think your day can’t get any worse. you glare at him, wiping the counter for venti to get the message that you want him to leave. however, he plops into a seat, shifting his attention to the drink a patron is downing on his right – the strongest alcoholic drink your bar has.

as soon as you disappear to the other side to fetch ingredients, the patron beside venti beckons the boy to come closer. he doesn’t think twice, not minding social interactions with strangers. after all, interesting people tell interesting stories. when the man asks him if he’s friends with you, the bartender, he isn’t too sure how to answer the question. he isn’t exactly friends with you, and you aren’t exactly friends with him; just two people who happen to know each other through unfortunate circumstances – your words, not his.

there’s a story about a workaholic at his college circulating in the dorms – working two jobs at the same time on top of being a full-time student to prove to their parents that they can support themselves. every so often they can be found passed out before reaching the reception desk, and venti should know because he happens to be there one of those times.

you’re beyond exhausted, and that is one weakness you refuse to display while catering to customers. now knowing that you’ve been in that state for quite some time, the boy feels the need to help you out. seeing that you’re almost approaching his spot, the boy quickly scribbles his message on a sticky note and jerks numerous dollar bills out of his wallet. it reads out that he stole your glass and invites you to his dorm to get it back. under the note is his number and wishing you a good weekend – if you call it a weekend, that is. 

the man urges you to go after him, so you do and appreciate his advice.

[ PINK (+): kindness, warmth, romance, intuition ]

XIAO • blue • blueberry eyes

xiao is implied living in unstable living conditions. self-deprecation from xiao.

kiss you each morning / with strawberry skies / ‘cause i get so lost in / your blueberry eyes

soulmate. a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner. a person with whom one has feelings of deep or natural affinity. a person who xiao believes he doesn’t deserve. in a universe where soulmates exist, how they are connected with each other is through dreams. first encounters usually occur at around sixteen years of age, which becomes subsequent until two merge into one. not all of them are successful, and that is what he fears the most.

so he stops dreaming. he was sixteen when he first encountered his soulmate. back then he was constantly on the run from the demons in his own home, hopping from place to place until he sought refuge within a kind old woman. due to the conditions he was suffering under, he can’t bear to face his destiny. no matter how many times he’s advised to do so, no words of wisdom can repair anything that’s beyond broken.

years later, he winds up in a domain full of clear blue skies where his first encounter with you took place. usually when a soulmate connection fails to follow through the sequence of dreams, the people involved can’t do much about it other than remove each other from their respective histories and be on their merry way. considering the amount of time passed since his last visit to this realm, you should have forgotten about him by now. yet somehow, this dream still managed to exist.

hearing the sound of relief in your voice, he would never imagine being basked in your presence after abandoning you for so long. stopping dead in your tracks, your eyes widen at his state of conflict before you. one side of him wants you to stay out of his life for your sake, yet the other wants you to come closer and comfort him. your hunch tells you that he went through so much for the past few years, which causes him to inherit this type of mindset. instead of following his command, you listen to the latter side of him by giving him the tightest hug you could ever give to someone.

he’s no longer afraid of his destiny, finally accepting you as his reality.

[ BLUE (+): confidence, peace, honesty, reliability ]

ZHONGLI • orange • new life

self-deprecation from reader.

i ain't lookin' back, this a celebration / lookin’  forward to my new situation / standin’ in the mirror, had a conversation / i’m takin' my own advice

the receptionist comments that you’re out of place. truth be told, no one invited you aboard the prestigious pearl gallery. in fact, you stole a boat to travel all the way there without a second thought. it’s your first time hearing about the place, so you’re not aware of the rules. one thing you heard from some shady locals is something that could be beneficial for you at least in the short-run, and you’re about to find that for yourself.

your body becomes stiff by the richness and sophistication of a male voice coming from behind you. a refined man shows up beside you, acknowledging your presence with his intense amber gaze. from the looks of it, he seems to be highly revered in this society. the lady named luoxia refers to him as zhongli, who just covered your back by treating you as his honored guest. she bows to the both of you before taking her leave.

you thank the empty space where the receptionist formerly occupied, obviously confused. she retreats to the cabin merely seconds ago, but your mind has been busy processing the fact that a man like him saved your butt from getting kicked out. he considers you a friend which is quite the surprise, given that he just met you seconds ago. you shrug it off, noticing how genuine he seems in meeting your acquaintance.

the sun casts an orange glow upon the world, prompting him to turn his head to admire it. streaks of the particular color with hints of red and blue decorate the sunset sky. gazing at this beautiful view in front of you makes the weight in your chest light as a feather. what motivated you to travel is everything teyvat has in store such as this sight, but your inner turmoil fails to make you appreciate it more.

luckily, he already has an answer in mind – one that is enough to convince you to build your new life here.

[ ORANGE (+): spontaneity, creativity, warmth, positivity ]

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

✧Night Moths

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Arthur has a simple task to do, searching for any lead possible at the Mayor's party. Only problem? You also have a job of your own. Based on “The Gilded Cage” ✦ Warnings/tags: guns, strangers to…sinners?, SMUT 18+, reader is part of a St Denis gang, cover names used at first, smoking, Arthur is extremely horny and a little rough with you (you pushed his limits), cursing, outdoor sex, fingering, tits play, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v ✦ Words: 9,8k ✦ a/n: YES. I KNOW. This is super long. I have absolutely zero excuse. I feel like this is my best piece yet, but I'm so nervous about posting it! Once again, a big thank you to the incredible @zae-heeyyy, my jedi master, my confidence-booster and patience Queen, who beta-read this big baby and helped me so much with so many things, as always. (Go check her blog I'm begging you)

Glasses are twinkling and clinking all around you. Words are spoken, laughs are let out, champagne drank.

You're leaning against one of the stoned garden walls, fancy decor of the Mayor's house, the perfectly cut bushes looking just as fresh and neat as every guest at this party. You can hear the distinguished music coming from a quartet playing under a gazebo a few meters away from you, and smell the fresh air of the night blending with aromas of flowers, expensive alcohol, hint of vanilla and sweet scents hiding a stronger note of sweat and cologne. Around you, all the richest, wealthiest, and noteworthiest of people in St Denis. You can hear them talk; their conversation as dull and superficial as an empty chrysalid, an abandoned cocoon emptied from all substance, from all interest and life.

You hated those kinds of discussions. Hated those kinds of people, the ones that have the easiest and simplest life one could ever have; being fed, being cared for, even being told what to think and do. You almost envied them in a way, they didn't have to worry about a single thing apart from losing their power. It seemed comfortable somehow, worry-free. The exact opposite of what you had always known.

And yet, you had to bear with them. A very specific task had been assigned to you by your gang. A simple job, one you were often sent off to as you had grown by the years into a great thief and a terribly efficient shapeshifter; blending into any type of party, or gathering, always making a good impression, putting people at ease. You were now an expert at this little game, especially with rich men. They were all the same, always wanting more, demanding the same thing from you. You had learned how to play with their greediness and lust to turn it into your advantage, saloons becoming your jungle as you sneaked easily between your prey to rob them, a deadly and redoubtable leopard in a world of apes.

You needed to steal some important documents from the mayor's office. The main informer of your gang had specified it was a pretty strong lead, and that you could gain a lot from it; something to do with Leviticus Cornwall's dirty deeds with the mayor, a blackmail opportunity. 

Your boss had decided to send you, knowing you would easily integrate the party, and even more easily steal the documents. So here you were, feline eyes looking all around you, scanning, observing, evaluating. You couldn't just come, steal the papers, and go; it would have been too suspicious. All the contrary, you needed to be seen and leave a good impression like you always did, maybe stay for a couple of hours, and then smoothly retrieve your goal before disappearing in the secrecy of the dark night. A flamboyant, harmless butterfly… on the surface.

You sighed, trying to pay attention to what was being said to you. Right in front of you, a middle-aged man was talking, explaining something about how he had acquired his incredible wealth. His speech was sadly boring, his eyes glum, his clothes basic, his face awfully bland.

The empty chrysalis in all its gloomy glory.

You forced yourself to nod and give the man a charming smile. This was your job. You had to at least do it properly. Why was tonight a lot harder than the others? Were you frightened to be right under the Mayor's nose, fooling him into his own home? Were you tired, or sick? 

In a way, you were. Sick of this life, of this constant pretending, of being here listening to the literal hollow vessel bragging about himself, sick of needing to appear actually interested, charmed even. 

Suddenly, the music coming from the quartet is too loud, sharp violin blending with his words, making you even less focused. You were here for too long already, you needed a break and to finish your mission.

You politely interrupted the stranger, placing a gentle hand on his forearm, a gesture that you had noticed was prompt to soften most men. Along with your most charming smile, you excused yourself from him and quickly walked to a less crowded area, praying that no one would interrupt you.

You made your way up to the exterior stairs of the luxurious mansion just before the patio door and windows, and stopped on top of them, placing your hands on the central low wall, between two Greek columns. Another fancy facade, the house itself was just an imitation from another culture. Did any of these fools have any personal identity at all?

From here, you had a good view of the whole party. Countless fake smiles, masks, a literal scene of a play that could have its place at the Théâtre Râleur. A play of pale phantom shells.

You reached for your purse, taking a cigarette out, mindlessly putting it between your lips. Maybe smoking would help. You searched for a match, silently cursing realizing you hadn't any left.

"Ya need some fire, Ma’am?"

A deep voice said behind you, making you turn, surprised. It was unusual for people to startle you, your ears had been trained to notice the faintest of footsteps in order to survive.

You got even more surprised considering who had talked. A man was standing before you. He was taller, and largely wider than you, his black suit struggling to contain what looked like a well-built body; which made you wonder how could he have been so quiet. His shoulders especially looked way broader than the men you had the habit of running into at those sorts of gatherings. A very classical white bow looked like it was strangling him. His black tailcoat and white jacket looked larger too, making you wonder how much did he had to pay for the tailor to sew them custom-made.

His hair had a soft indescribable color, somewhere between a light brown and a sandy blond. His face, the work of a brutal draftsman, rough edges and strong squared jaw gratified with some scars. One on his chin, another on his nose, nose that seemed broken now that you were thinking about it. It looked like the artist that had drawn this man had sharpened his pencils too much and traced lines in a hurry, piercing through the canvas, his features ending up rugged and scared, some trace of graphite shrapnel that would have damaged the portrait.

What disturbed you the most were his eyes. They looked out of place considering how robust his features were. One could have expected them to be dark, black even. But they were the exact opposite, their bright and soft indigo color leaving you disarmed, two sapphires locked on your own pupils.

He was handing you a match, and you slowly took it, your fingers slightly discovering how his palm felt under them. Firm, calloused.  Another stone-like feature of him.

He looked like those Greek statues carved by artists. His beauty so singular and yet enticing. So different.

"Why, thank you, kind sir." You showed your gratitude to him with a grin, lighting the match by simply rubbing it against the cold stone of the fence, a little flame appearing instantly. You brought it to your mouth, the cigarette finally catching fire, and you breathed in.

"Ya don't smoke much?" He questioned, voice deep. You hadn't noticed how deep it was the first time, nor how pronounced his accent was, dragging and drawling every word, a slow melody of his own.

"Not too often, indeed." You informed him. It was the truth, you were basically just smoking during jobs to blend in more easily, most people doing it. It was an easy way to start a conversation with anyone. Just like he had done with you, you noted.

"Needed a break from high society?" He inquired, a sarcastic tone in his voice.

"I guess you could say that." You answered, exhaling a long drag of smoke. 

You were now completely turned to face him, your cigarette making back and forth from your mouth to the air where you tossed the burned ashes with a little movement from your thumb to the cigarette’s end. Your motions were elegant, distinguished but looked natural. It caught his interest.

"What's your name, sir?" You spoke again, curious about this uncommon newcomer.

"Tacitus Kilgore. What is yours, Ma'am?" He asked you back before placing himself on your left, both of you leaning on the low fence of the patio. 

You contained a chuckle. There was no way in the World this man was named like this. You knew something was odd about him. The scars, his knuckles redden and subtly wounded as if had fought recently.  His strong stature, miles away from a lazy bourgeois being served, his wild hair longer than the actual trendy haircut, his stubble fitting more a countryman than an actual St Denis gentleman. 

Years of playing with people and observing them had made your eyes alert and expert, and you could see when someone was pretending.

When someone was playing a role just like you were, not belonging into this World.

"Rose Schultz." Of course, it wasn't your real name either. You had to be a really poor thief to give him your actual one. He didn't react to it though, his face impassible just like the start of your whole conversation.

Apart from this vague feeling you had about him not being a rich gentleman, you found trouble in reading his emotions. His facial features were closed, impenetrable, mysterious. This also disturbed you as you had the habits of figuring men out right away; he on the other hand was a whole challenge by himself, his intentions hidden behind an emotionless face. This man probably was a champion at poker.

"Nice t' meet ya, Missus Schultz. Are you, erm, hidin' from someone here? Or jus' judgin' everyone from your perch?" He went on with a more amused voice.

"Just know that I'm not the type to hide from someone, Mister." You replied, a little grin curling up your lips.

"Yeah, you sure don't look like it..."

"You wanna know what I think you look like, Mister?"

"Go ahead."

"A wild horse who's trapped, and can't wait to be freed again."

Silence. His eyes stared deeply into yours, stabbing you in sharp blue flashes of Apatite, as keen as the blade of a knife. After just a few seconds, you finally see his mouth moving, his cold expression changing as a slight grin made his way between the stillness of his features.

"You sort of a witch or somethin' ?" He asked you, amused once again. His little smile is even more evident in his eyes, his lower eyelids crinkling slightly in amusement.

"Maybe." You answered cockily, feeling more at ease with him now that he was slightly more open. 

Still, there was something that was making you feel weak in the knees; maybe it was his tall stature, his strong build, or the palpable tension you could feel beaming out from him, as if he was ready to jump on someone who would have crossed him at any second.

In a way, you liked it. It was almost exciting.

"I better not mess wi’chu then. Don't wanna end up cursed or somethin'." He joked, features relaxing, body leaning slightly more against the low wall in a more comfortable position.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare. You also look like the type of man you don't wanna mess with..."

"I'm surprised how well you already know me, darlin'." He admitted, internally enjoying your conversation more and more.

Your heart swelled at the surname. It felt so good in your ears, it sounded better than from any person who ever said it to you. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to hear him say it just to you.

"I'm kinda talented at figuring people out." You simply replied, before taking another drag at your cigarette.

"I too. And I also think you're not here to jus' play nice with everyone and enjoy yourself." He suddenly confessed to you with a knowing gaze, eyebrows raising as if he was trying to make you understand something.

He knew too. You both knew you weren't from this world, like two predators from the same species, recognizing themselves, circling, judging, from one individual to another. Your breath stopped for a very short time, nobody could have noticed it, but somehow you were sure he did.

"Don't ya worry little "rose", I won't tell no one..." 

You didn't miss how he was playing with your false name. On top of being astonishingly handsome, he had some spirit…

He's still looking intensely into your eyes. "In return, I expect you to do the same...", he added in a low voice, his tone firmer and even more resonant than earlier.

A threat. His presence only intimidates you, and it's working so well that you're almost sure he must be an expert in terrorizing too. He must be one hell of a weapon all by himself.

You slowly nodded your head, trying to swallow as naturally as possible to look unphased. 

"Guess we have a deal here, "Tacitus"." You emphasized his name, making it clear you're more than doubtful about it being real too.

It made him laugh, and you almost lost it at the sound of it. It was as deep, raw, and genuine as his entire being seemed to be. You loved it. You loved it too much.

Exhaling some smoke, you noticed he had pulled out a cigarette too and had joined your smoking, holding it between his thumb and index finger. You had mixed feelings for this man. He was just as intimidating as he was enticing, and you let your curiosity win the best of you as you carried on your conversation with him.

"I hate it here." You suddenly confessed.

 There was no point in playing anymore, and even if you didn’t really know why you had told him that, a part of you felt like maybe, just maybe, he could have understood you.

"Yeah, I get what ya mean. Sometimes I think that those people are jus'… reptiles in fancy clothin'."

You had seen right. Your chest felt light, as if he had lifted a weight in you with just those simple words.

"I just want to be anywhere else but here. Somewhere nicer, more authentic. Like in Big Valley..." You went on with your regrets.

"You too know about this place uh? Yeah, I can picture ya picking flowers in Lil’ Creek..."

This time it was your turn to chuckle, your laugh creating a little puff of smoke in the air. Was he being serious or just teasing you? You didn’t really care. Now, you felt like something special was linking you both as you knew exactly where this spot was, a happy memory brought back in your mind thanks to his words. The wild and fresh river, the meadows covered in thousands of violet flowers, the snowy mountains in the background.

Your cristal-clear laugh made him smile back at you.

"So... What does a woman like you is actually doing here, then?" He asked you, his eyes roaming all along your body while he did. 

You were glad you had put on the prettiest dress you had, its dark burgundy color matching perfectly the tone of your skin, and its generous cleavage showing a delicious amount of your chest, underlined by a black translucent shawl covering your shoulders and twirling around your arms. You were offering a tempting sight for every man. You knew he had looked at it, his eyes lingering there had almost burned your skin, sent a warm feeling between your tights, and made your hand hold your cigarette tighter.

"You really thought it would be that easy, Mister?" You answered with another cheeky grin, looking at him with a sensual gaze, your words let out in a languorous whisper, knowing damn well he was trying to gain information, probably to probe if he could get something out of it for himself. "You really thought I would just confess everything to you about myself and what I'm doing here, just because you've got a firm tone and pretty face?"

He let out a dry single chuckle, his cigarette hanging in the air, smirking some more. This damn smirk, it was making you have more and more inappropriate thoughts about this man. The wildness, the dangerousness he was emitting should have made every girl flee, but you, all the contrary, were attracted by it like a moth to a flame.

Or maybe he was the Moth. Maybe he was the beautiful, singular, and ephemeral Moth in the world of chrysalides you were searching for all along.

"Oh trust me, I could make you spit out everythin' I want, Miss." He replied to your taunting words with the serious threatening tone he had used before. "Could make this pretty mouth behave..." He added, looking right into your soul, bending slightly towards you.

You felt like the tension was about to make your whole body burst. There was something between you two, you were sure he could feel it too. A sinuous, dark creature swimming and circling incessantly under the surface of a frozen lake; waiting, craving to be unleashed, to break the thin layer of ice that was keeping it caged.

He was inviting you to measure yourself to him. Bent towards you, wanting you to close the other half of the space between you both. A challenge, or a mark of respect, the case you didn’t want to venture into this territory.

But truth was, you wanted to. You wanted to break the ice yourself, you wanted to just kiss him, right here, right now.

Of course, it was a bad idea. And you were a professional, on a mission.

Instead, you put your hand on his bicep and brought your head inches away from his, not closing the space between your mouths. You’re accepting this silent fight, excited to show him what you’re capable of. You’re enveloped by his strong scent; your lips so close to his. You can see by his widening smirk how delighted he is you didn’t change your mind nor lost your guts. Responding to your bold move, he slowly snaked an arm around your waist. His hand landed on your lower back, just on the verge of being offensive.

Both of you stayed like this for a moment, your breath mixing, merging in a dangerous and exciting cocktail, but neither of you actually crossing the limit.

He could sense just how close he was to though, his muscles were tensed under your fingers, his forehead almost resting on yours with a light frown on it. You could see in his impassive handsome face a whole new emotion. 

Pure, raw lust.

"You're such a temptatious, thorny rose..." He mumbled in a hot whisper against your lips, the warmth between your legs now burning like a wildfire. Your pussy was aching for him, and you couldn't hold it anymore.

You felt his body twitching as he was going to finally do it, finally break the ice of the frozen lake, finally let his impulses and needs break free, his unholy, deep, atrociously torturous desires-

"Ah, Arthur !" A relieved voice interrupted both of you and he immediately let go of you, his head snapping to look at the man who had talked, eyes widening.

A tall gentleman with a perfectly cut mustache as black as his long curly hair and hat was looking at your companion with a contained,  amused smile.

"Will you excuse us, Miss?" He said unctuously to you, his voice polite and charming.

It was more of a statement than a question. He quickly took one of your hands and put a polite kiss on it before bending slightly towards you, as a gentleman would, and looked at your opponent with an insistent gaze.

Arthur was fulminating. He wasn't actually showing it, his face had come back to its usual cold, emotionless expression. But you could feel from where you were the unbearable tension and frustration that was dripping from his body language, almost as a halo of warmth you could physically touch with your hands. He took a last look at you, eyes expressing a mix of regret and bitterness.

"Goodnight, Miss." He coldly greeted you, walking next to you to follow his friend and go down the stairs, his shoulder brushing against yours while doing it.

"Goodnight, Arthur..." You answered him emphasizing his name once again, making it really clear that you remembered it was not the one he had given you and that you were pretty proud you had seen right. A playful, teasing grin on your face, you look one last time at him before he vanished in the ocean of guests.

Your Butterfly had disappeared just as quickly as he had materialized; leaving you alone with the empty cocoons once more. It was more than time for you to do your job and get out of here. Your cigarette finished, now feeling cold between your fingers, you tossed it away and headed into the mansion, feeling just as frustrated as so-called Arthur.

Arthur was pissed. He had never felt so frustrated in ages, and it was making his thoughts even less easy to discipline. His cigarette was on the verge of being smoked all at once from how intense he was getting and how heavy his breath had turned, the end of it constantly burning in a red shining little point as he was walking. 

This whole year he had felt like he didn't have any control over anything anymore and he hated it.

He was already feeling embittered in his everyday life, Dutch listening less and less to his opinion, Micah sneaking around him more and more, Mary coming back to him just to ask him to help her goddamn father who had always treated him like shit. 

On top of that, Dutch had made him look like an idiot using his actual name in front of you, making him wonder what was even the whole point of having a cover if he wasn't capable of sticking to it; which he had bitterly pointed out to him, but his superior had shrugged it off, seemingly happy to be here amongst the important people, looking as careless as ever.

Yes, Arthur was feeling frustrated, frustrated and tired of this. Tonight, instead of giving of himself, he wanted to take, for once. He needed to, even. He was about to before being interrupted, and this thought was gnawing at him from the inside. 

He was barely paying attention to what Dutch was saying to him and the others once Hosea and Bill had joined them. All he could see was your insanely beautiful face, your inviting lips, the perfect outline of your breasts from your cleavage, like engraved into his pupils.

The way you were talking, charming and teasing, the way you were smoking, all of this dreadfully turning him on during all your conversation. He had made an enormous amount of effort in order not to just kiss you.

He had joked about you being a witch, but it was the only explanation: you had bewitched him, threw your darkest, most sinful curse on him. Never in his life he had felt so attracted to someone after having talked with them for only such a short amount of time. What an insane fool he was.

On top of it, he was raging about the fact he probably wouldn't have the occasion to see you ever again. He had understood you clearly weren't just another rich man's wife, and he was certain you had given him a false name. His cock was throbbing terribly hurtfully in his pants, making his jaw clench, his brows frowning even more than usual. It was begging to be buried in you, between your legs, in your mouth, or your hands, even your breasts or your ass, anything but the cold feeling of nothingness he was feeling right now around it.

The sudden explosive sound and colorful lighting of fireworks had pulled him out of his blasphemous thoughts. 

He understood Dutch was ordering him something about following one of the Mayor's domestic, and gladly obliged, relieved to have another thing to focus on. Something about Cornwall sending an important letter to Lemieux, which he had to steal. Nothing difficult, he had done those sorts of things countless times. 

Nothing new. 

Nothing puzzling, like you had been.

As he followed the man, eyes locked on his white suit from afar, he quickly took a glance at the patio to see if you were still there. You weren't. His dick ached as he let out a deep exhale. Damn it.

Arthur rapidly found himself inside the Mayor's house. His servant had entered what looked like an office. He waited a few seconds after the room had felt silent, behind the corner of the walls, just to be sure, and entered it.

The room was indeed an office, a little desk with an armchair on his left, bookcases covering every wall, simply illuminated by a flickering orange lamp. Everything looked normal, except for the dark figure of a person in the middle of the place.

You.

He recognized your sensual dress immediately and witnessed you shoving some papers in what looked like a leathered little pocket held around your right thigh by leathered straps, just like a holster would be. His mind raced, a million reflections flying under his eyes. 

You were some sort of professional thief. And he didn’t have to be a genius to understand you had just taken the precise thing he was there for.

"That's why you were here, lil' rose?!" He asked you almost in disbelief, closing the door behind him.

You looked at him with a bold grin, looking almost amused by the situation. He, on the other hand, felt nothing but amusement. Anger, to have been fooled so easily, and that you had got ahead of him, losing the quiet game that had been played out between you. Envy, as you were now possessing two things he wanted to take away from you. Arousal, as his eyes were glued to the thigh that was now visible to his greedy eyes as you had pulled up your dress to put the sheets in your hidden pocket. Need, as his member felt hard again just by the sight of you doing it.

"Yeah, and you can only dream for me to give them to you if those papers were your target too, Arthur."

Damn, that teasing, cheeky mouth of yours. His fantasies came back in full force, and his gaze darkened. As temptatious as you were, he needed those documents. And he would do anything he had to to have them back.

"Give ‘em to me." He lowly ordered you, voice so severe you could have melted right into the carpeted floor of this damn office. But you didn't.

"Hell no."

"Give ‘em t’me, woman. I won't ask nicely a third time."

"If you want them, you'll have to catch me, pretty boy."

Lord, why was everyone so prompt to call him this way lately? He almost grunted at the way you had said it, and he would have lied if this time he didn't like it when it fell from your lips. He wanted to reply with something witty and even more threatening, but in a flash, you had opened the window, and easily jumped outside.

This Goddamn woman. What was she exactly? Some sort of feline? Yeah, probably a panther, agile, impressive, dangerous like one.

He instantly ran after you, jumping through the window too, landing in a loud thud. He quickly spotted your dress running away, escaping by the entry’s portal, then in the nearest street, disappearing behind St Denis's myriad of flashing lights. 

How could he had missed it? His mind was filled with images of it.

He had the common decency of grabbing back his gun from the butler at the party's entry, making him almost fall on the ground as he hadn't slowed but had grabbed them while running, the poor man wondering what the Hell made both of these people in such a hurry.

He was now flying at full speed around the luxurious streets, following the faint glimpse of your dress's color at the corner of every turn. He felt like he could follow your scent like a hunting dog, your sweet and peachy perfume confirming him you had passed there before.

He had enough, feeling his restrain and manners crackling more and more into little pieces. You were making him feel like a damn animal, reducing his whole being to primal needs and functions. He should have been disgusted with himself for that. But all he could do right now was thinking about the damn documents hidden against your damn alluring thigh.

"Stop now, you Goddamn... Evil woman!" He tried to call you out, but you just wouldn't stop. He started firing at you, getting angrier and more fed up by the second, a bullet exploding a piece of the bricked wall right next to your head, some splinters cutting slightly the top of your ear.

You bent over to dodge his bullets one more time and you heard him cursing again loudly behind you. On top of being big, strong and clever, he was fast. In a quick movement of your feet, shaking them, you removed your shoes, unable to run at your fastest speed with heels. You continued your frenzied course, way more at ease.

Arthur rushed in where you were just mere seconds after you, noticing the shoes abandoned on the floor. What the Hell was even this woman, he asked himself for the second time this evening. Some sort of temptatious, dark retelling of Cinderella?

He almost made himself laugh at the thought, understanding your move because his own polished shoes were frankly a pain to run with, making him slip with every shift as if he was walking on soap and regret his good old boots, before acknowledging he had lost your trace.

Shit!

He looked all around him, his eyes scanning every inch, his breath rapid and sharp, his forehead and neck a pool of sweat. No signs of you, unless... 

Something fell right on his face, but gently, as a caress from a fresh breeze. Your perfume filled up his nostrils and lungs and it made his heart race. He took it in his hands, the sensations pleasant under his fingerprints. 

It was your black shawl.

Tilting his head up, he found you.

You were making your way up to the roof of the town by climbing on a thin ladder.

Arthur exhaled deeply through his nose like a buffalo. He was used to this kind of high-speed chase, but this was a whole new thing, which made him regret his lasso too, his hand searching for it on his belt out of habit but closing on nothing. 

Damned party, damned suit, damned you. 

He climbed after you, refusing to give up, enraged like a wild beast. 

He would catch you, dead or alive.

In a way, this was making him even more aroused than any work-girl show he had ever seen.

"I'm going to kill ya, that's a promise!"

You could hear just how furious his voice was now, and you were starting to pray you would flee successfully from him, cause you knew he would eat you alive if he could get his hands on you.

Arriving on top of the building, you caught your breath for a microsecond, before searching for a way out, gaze frantic, heart beating out of your chest. You were considering climbing to another roof, but the deep, breathless sounds of your pursuer prevented you from doing more thinking.

Arthur had reached the top of the roof too, and was already aiming his gun at you. This time he didn't even bother to say anything, shooting at you again while getting up. He was so seething you wouldn’t have been surprised to see saliva bubbling from his mouth.

By divine intervention, you dodged again, and without any thinking, you ran all the way to the edge of the roof, and jumped.

You stayed in the air for a few seconds.

You felt like time had stopped, the air brushing against your skin, your heart hanging somewhere between the sky and the total void.

You landed on a fancy and illuminated balcony a few meters away. You hurt your feet and legs with the shock, but smiled proudly to yourself. You were out of reach, he was way bigger and way heavier than you, there was no way he coul-

A gigantic mass fell on you, as Arthur had proved you wrong and jumped from the roof you had just left and was crashing directly into you. 

Both of you fell on the ground and struggled for a few seconds; you tried to resist him but it was a fight already lost, this literal force of nature easily handling you like he wanted. 

You ended up lying on your back, Arthur sitting on you, towering over you with all his might, quickly grabbing your wrists to prevent you from fighting, his legs parted around your hips stopping you from escaping. You were trapped.

"You're a pain in the ass girl, you know that?!" He shouted at you, breathless, raging mad. You were both panting, sweating heavily. His face was entirely red, and your cheeks even more crimson.

You both looked at each other, eyes locked, and you stayed silent. The dark creature prowling under the thin floe had returned and it was getting bigger, stronger, out of control with each passing second. There was something extremely erotic in the way he was almost lying on top of you, both of you out of breath, sweaty, and burning red, both your hearts beating at full speed in the same erratic rhythm.

Just like before at the reception, you knew he could feel it too. You knew it from the dark gaze he was looking at you with, the shady swirls of the murky leviathan reflecting in the depths of his pupils, from the deepest well of his urges, forbidden territory to which no man ever had access.

A simple touch of his hand, that's all it took.

He put both of your hands into a single one of his, using his other one to pull up your dress, fingers roaming on your thigh.

You couldn't hold it anymore, you bent toward him and slammed your lips against his in the most powerful and decadent kiss you had ever shared with someone, almost biting him.

The moment you did, Arthur's mind exploded, and every poor drop of restrain he had evaporated as quickly as if it was on the Sun's surface. The beast had won, finally shattering the weak layer of ice into a million pieces; your two souls blending in what could have felt like a fevered dream.

The grunt he let out onto your kiss was animalistic, and the tension in his body just as powerful as a waterfall with a brutal, unstoppable current. The hand that was holding your wrist let go of it and slipped under your head, fingers in your hair, as his tongue licked against your lips, searching for a way in. You let him in, eagerly, wondering if he would have forced the way if you didn’t. 

He tasted strong, as if to match his whole being, a powerful flavor of tobacco, merged with a faint trace of sweetness and bitterness from the champagne he had drank. Like if you were smoking the finest and strongest of cigars. It made you love it even more.

Abandoning all your restraints too, your hands wrapped around his neck and your hips started pushing up against his, even if you couldn't move much, his two muscular thighs keeping you grounded to the balcony's paved floor. It felt so cold against your back, contrasting with the heat Arthur was burning with, consuming, devastating, raging.

He growled again when he felt your movement under him. He needed more of you, right now. This whole seduction game, the adrenaline rose by the chase, your bold charming attitude, your insanely insolent beauty, it was making him insane. He roughly ripped off his bowtie with one hand, needing some air; it felt like you two were under the desert’s scorching sun, stifling, dazing. 

The right hand he had on your thigh traveled even higher under your dress, devouring every inch of flesh it could, and his appetite was only getting worse the more he discovered you. He smoothly moved his legs from around yours to put himself between them, and you instantly, almost from instinct, hooked them around his hips.

The sudden contact of your blazing core against his equally hot bulge made you sigh in pleasure, and he loved it. Breaking your kiss for the first time since you had initiated it, he pulled back to look at you, his deep gaze devouring you, undressing you just by its stare. 

“What’s your real name?” He asked you, voice hoarser than ever, demanding it from you.

You told him your name, limbs feeling like mush under his intense eyes. He repeated it quietly, like a prayer he would recite on his own. You felt less and less like the panther you thought you were, and more and more like he was the predator alone. In a shaking tone, you questioned back to know his full, real name, needing to know what words you’d have to whisper in gratitude when he would finally take what he wanted from you. To whisper, or shout to the Heavens.

“Arthur Morgan.” He let out, his lips quickly returning to their current addiction, your skin. The way they were attacking your neck didn’t have an ounce of control now, his mouth opening widely to almost take a whole bite of your flesh there, letting kisses everywhere it could.

“Tell me if you don’t want this.” He added against your skin, between two greedy open-mouth kisses.

A way to escape. The predator stilling, letting a way out. But you didn't wanted it. Not at all. Not now that he had surrendered to you, trusting you with the intimacy of his real name, that would be stuck in your mind for God knows how long.

“I want it.” You asserted, voice almost cracking with the weight of your need.

He moaned a relieved sound in answer, his nose exhaling some air that tickled your neck.

You weren’t even sure he could stop himself if you had said no. He was consuming you, and he felt completely drunk, as if you were coated with a powerful whiskey. Strong alcohol that his tongue was now licking all the way from your shoulder, up to your ear.

You moaned, the feeling of his hungriness so good and perfect on you.

"Gonna take care of ya now." He growled in a rumbling whisper, making your legs feel weak. Another one of his promises, but this one was going to give you salvation, and you were thanking him for keeping it. 

The bold hand he had under your dress took another step towards insanity by landing on your undergarments, his thick fingers searching for a way in. You were trembling with anticipation. You couldn't even register the fact that you were really doing this, right now, with a complete stranger you had met only a few hours ago, and who wanted to kill you minutes before, on the balcony of what looked like a habited place.

The obscenity, the depravation, the boldness of it was only matched by his relentless thirst for you.

His fingers had finally pulled your underwear to the side, and you sighed seeing him on top of you, eyes drawn to your bare pussy, carnal features empathized by the obscurity of the night. The tip of his fingers traveled amongst your folds, wolves into the forest, a territory they were now claiming as theirs.

You almost begged for him, for the wolves to eat you up all and let nothing behind them, please Arthur, and he offered you this damnation, the desperate call of his name igniting another fire in his already infernal mind. A single, calloused finger pushed into your folds, making you spread your legs even more to grant it better access. It was stretching you pleasantly, his skin rough and firm inside. You started letting out sweet, quiet moans, showing him just how much you were enjoying this.

Your two hands now gripping his back, holding on for something, anything, his dark jacket suddenly feeling way too smooth to grab onto; you were wondering how touching his naked back could feel.

Arthur was doing everything in his power not to burst once more, grunting in response to your loving sound. Slowly, he pushed another one, thriving in how wet and hot your cunt felt around his fingers, craving for the moment he would finally be able to feel this downright perfection around his cock. He felt like he was ruining you, throwing you to these wolves, and you were thanking him for it.

For now, he focused on you, blue eyes glued on your face when he started curling his digits inside of you, searching for this so special, so delightful spot within your walls. He was observant, noticing every sound you were making, every muscle tensing, to know if it was the place you liked that he was brushing right now. Wanting it to be the place you liked most.

By adding his thumb on your clit and pushing a little deeper his index and middle finger in your desperate pussy, he realized he finally had found the Graill as your back arched against the ground, your own hands gripping harder on him, eyes shutting in pure pleasure.

"Oh, God! Yes, right there..." You rewarded him, voice high-pitched and filled with delight, a tingling sensation spreading on your legs and shoulders.

He exhaled deeply, your words making his own member gorging, pressing against the fabric of his suit that felt too small to contain him. He started pushing in and out, pulling a whine out of your throat with every movement, as the thick tip of his fingers rubbed against your sweet spot every time, wolves once again in a world of sweetness and honey, lapping your delight, feasting on your pleasure.

“Told ya I would make this pretty mouth behave…” He said cockily after one of your moans. He was enjoying this all too much, finally feeling in control again, being the one and only responsible for your ecstasy. 

The distance between his mouth and you seemed to be unacceptable for him as he had succumbed once more to his needs, his lips finding your skin again, tongue tasting, teasing your chest this time, everywhere he could on the cleavage he had desired since the first time he had laid eyes on you tonight. Bent over to you, looking like a curved beast feasting on its prey.

You were feeling your pleasure building, Arthur’s face hungrily searching for one of your nipples under the neckline of your dress, and sucking it once he had finally found it. His teeth and nose had pulled your dress, freeing your entire left breast, bare, defenseless in front of him. 

Maybe he was the wolf himself. He sure looked like it, his face a maw fed by your soft flesh.

Every nerve of your pussy screamed for deliverance, this familiar sensation taking form in your lower stomach. Your moans were becoming even more high-pitched, breathless, almost obscene, much to the outlaw's delight.

You had thought of him before being a terribly efficient and multi-functional weapon. You couldn’t have known just how right you had been, your hardening nipple still chewed by his mouth while his right hand was sending you to your edge, thumb skillfully circling on your clit faster and faster, the two other fingers tearing apart your sweet spot, in and out, in and out, again and again, until…

“A-Arthur, don’t stop, please!” Your voice slit the night open, tone pleading as if you were begging for your life.

“I won’t girl, it’s all okay… Give it t’me…” He encouraged you, even his breath feeling rough against the skin of your chest before he sucked hard on the skin of one of your breasts, accompanying you to your salvation.

It was enough to send you over your limit, your pussy clenching, throbbing, entirely consumed. You moaned so loudly it could have turned into a scream, hips jerking against his palm, his other hand quickly grabbing your hip to steady you and carry you through it as his fingers were dragging every last drop of your pleasure out of you. 

“Yeahhh, that’s it gorgeous, just like that…”

He was frowning, the sinful sensations of your wet cunt coating his fingers in a warm slick and tensing around them making his eyebrow and jaw just as tensed, his face just a hint of how fucking riled up he was because of it.

Your head was still spinning and your breath uneven when he finally pulled his digits out of your walls, the fresh air replacing them. Lost in your haze, you weren't capable of doing anything else but looking at him through lidded, heavy eyes.

He was absolutely beautiful, even more than at the start of the night. His true nature out at last, his white fancy shirt disheveled now that he had removed his bowtie and soaked from efforts. Cheeks and throat as red as a sanguine sunset. Pearls of sweat sparkling on his burning skin with the Ocean of street lights of St Denis, reminding you of a night sky, making his sandy hair stick to his forehead in the hottest way possible. 

You didn't knew how could all this had escalated so quickly, but at that moment, you felt like this man before you was your whole universe, his deep ultramarine eyes completing the stellar work of art he was, shining, shimmering, more than any star in the sky, as if the Gods had capture the entire Milky Way and imprisoned it in his being.

Arthur had ultimately pulled his cock out of his black suit pants, only piece of flesh out of his clothes, and your thoughts were immediately contradicted; there was no way any virtuous God could have made a man so depraved. He was the work of the Other Side, Lust and Temptation personified. King of the wolves, he could have had all the Hounds of Hell kneeling before him.

He pumped himself a few times, unable to resist the call his member had been screaming for hours, reinforced by the way his fingers had tasted your wet cavern. Some precum had already leaked from his big pinkish head when he was fingering you and was now glistening in the night, making you think about the stars again. Your breath got caught at this sight and you couldn't stop yourself from letting out a praise.

"Perfect..." You simply stated in a whisper, eyes glued to his throbbing, veiny member, relieved he had already pulled an orgasm out of you because there was no way he could have fit in you otherwise. Your eyes followed the dark path of his hair, from the glimpse you had on his chest between the open collar of his shirt, all the way down to his pelvis and at the base of his shaft. 

You could only imagine what it looked like without any clothes on, and you were dying to know.

"Trust me, you're the perfect one, darlin'." He asserted, firm tone leaving little to contradiction. 

He positioned himself in front of your entrance.

You weren't even completely back from the world your first relief had brought you to, and he was already at your door again. But this time, Arthur couldn’t stop himself.

He had given once again, just like always. Now he wanted to take. He needed to take. The starving, depraved wolf. Slowly pushing, teasing himself, making his cock’s head sink into your dripping territory, creating wet and soggy sounds, a hardened spear into honey. 

He couldn't hold back a baritone moan, the feeling was even better than what he remembered. He hadn't taken the time or allowed himself to lay with a woman in ages, and God, what a return to this primal bliss.

He slowly moved some more, his hands spreading your legs a bit wider from around his waist to allow him to penetrate you more easily. Once you had entirely enveloped him, his tip deep inside, he let out another deep throaty grunt, the feeling making it hard for him to keep his thoughts clear. 

"Ahh... Shit, darlin’... So tight…"

Considering how his length was stretching you, you bet he felt your pussy tight. The first word that came into your mind was “complete”. So complete with his huge cock inside of you; you felt like you could have died happily like this. One of your hands slipped from the top of his back to the lower part of it, just above his ass, pressing there, showing him just how much you wanted him to move, to let go. 

Arthur didn't need much more as he pulled back slowly only to snap his hips back against yours, his cock pushing again all the way through your cunt in one hard single time, giving you another wave of pleasure as you both moaned together, unable to resist the intense sensation he was creating for both of you.

Hearing you whine, finally feeling your perfectly tight and warm pussy around him, it was making him lose all sense of restraint, and as your other hand ran through his hair, your angelic voice whispering his name as if he was your Lord and savior, he lost it. 

He started to pull in and out of you faster, harder, your bodies colliding in a delicious way, obscene noises echoing through the silence of the darkness. His increase in pace made your body scream in pleasure and you buried your face into the crook of his neck under the collar of his shirt, biting his skin there.

It made him grunt loudly, and one of his hands roamed from your hips to your rear, grabbing a fistful of your ass in an instinctive response. His other hand was on the ground next to you, keeping him from crushing you against it. It made your head blank with pleasure.

"Shit, Arthur! M-more!" You begged, feeling like you could die if he stopped, your voice turning into high squeals.

"Anhh- God... More? Don’t worry girl, I'll g-give you more...-Mmh!" 

His voice was heavy with pleasure, words cut off by moans and grunts you were delighted to hear, the most unholy and arousing music you had ever had the honor to listen to.

True to his words, he obliged, hips thrusting endlessly, member empaling you with each move. You could feel the flesh of his pelvis against yours with how deep he dived into you, and around it the stiffness of his suit, rubbing again the breast he had pulled out of your dress before, nipple sensitive after his previous treatment. 

If what was between you was once a frozen lake, it had now turned into an Ocean of lava, magma exploding, engulfing both of you in the most burning and devastating passion you'd ever experienced, a volcanic explosion of desires.

The hand he had on your asscheek reluctantly let go of it, but you ended up thanking him for it, cause he was now using it to put your left leg above his shoulder, grabbing under your knee, allowing him to fuck you in an even better angle than before. He was ruining you once again, but this time felt like the pack of starving enraged wolves had taken him with you to consume him entirely.

You leaned against the floor, back of your head feeling the paved coldness, only hint that everything was actually real. Arthur's eyes locked with yours as he kept on fucking you hard and fast, this intimate contact making his member twitch.

You felt so goddamn good around him, and looked so goddamn gorgeous like this, your cheeky grin long gone, replaced by a delightful frown of pleasure, mouth open in a quiet scream. Arthur felt his peak coming dangerously close, but his pace hadn't slowed, his fat cock thrusting in and out of you. In and out, like a furious, sacred metronome. In an out, like a blessed psalm you'd both be reciting together.

“Come on girl, I know you have another, -Damn it!-, another one in ya. Give it to me, come on, jus’ for me…”

Words and voice drowned in a flood of pleasure and curses, of deep grunts and growls, his possessiveness sending you over the edge once again, your inside closing its trap around him, squeezing just how he needed to.

His eyes shut close, eyebrows furrowing in utter pleasure as he sank so hard and deeply you could have felt him splitting your guts in half, his dick throbbing and harder than ever. It reached a spot so deep and good inside of you, burning it, your pleasure bursting as you felt your orgasm coming for the second time.

"A-Arthur!" You cried out as you came around him, creaming him, walls clenching in a delicious sensation that made him reach the stars.

"God, damn it!" He shouted, voice deeper and rougher on the curse word before quickly removing himself from you in a flash of lucidity, finishing messily, cum spilling from his red sensitive member in white spurts that ended up right on your belly as a feral, powerful growl escaped his chest and his head tilted backward, letting you see his throat covered in sweat and veins.

For a moment, both of you had turned into beasts, shattered all the limits, broke all the shackles, diminishing you into your more primitive instincts. The Wolves of Lust had devoured your being into the very last delicious bone.

And that’s how you felt. Boneless.

Now, stillness. A cold breeze enveloped the pair of you, the only sounds now being the distant agitation of the city and your pantless breaths. He slowly brought his chin back down and opened his eyes, mesmerized by the sight of you returning from the realm of pure pleasure he had provided for you for the second time.

He felt powerful. He felt good. Better than he had for months, finally satisfied. Like a God, a King. King of all the Wolves, Cerberus, the only guardian of your unholy realm.

He wanted to do this again with you, as soon as possible.

He carefully put his softening dick back in its clothed cage, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his pants as he felt completely spent, his hands shaking slightly. He wanted to help you get cleaned up, but you had already brushed what you could of his release off your dress. 

It would probably leave stains on your clothing nevertheless. 

A twisted, dark part of him, the part that came from the same pit as the dark creature and the Wolves, felt almost aroused and proud at the thought you would keep an imprint of him on it. This part was relishing noticing the big ruby mark it had left on your breast as you were putting it back under your neckline; he grinned to himself knowing it would make your memories of him more difficult to forget. 

He didn't want you to forget.

He slowly got up, offering you his hand to help you stand. You quickly put back your dress in its usual state, and wiped the sweat off your forehead. A silence settled between you two, thousands of questions floating in the air, but none of you ready to ask them out loud yet.

Finally, as you started shivering, only realizing now how cold this night was without Arthur's burning hot body on top of you, he spoke, voice even hoarser from having pushed on it too much, accent making every world sound heavy when they fell from his mouth.

"When can I see you again?" More than a demand, a promise. An order even. Cerberus needs his territory.

You already knew he kept them; his promises. Except for the one he had made to kill you. But in a way, he did, because you felt like you wouldn’t be able to ever feel so alive again without him. 

Like a condemnation.

"You won't." 

Certainty in your voice. But he didn't mind it. He had already broken you before.

"Oh, but I think I will, darlin'." Was all he said before stepping over the fence of the balcony, ready to jump off it. Before doing it, he pulled something out of his jacket and waved it at you.

The fucking papers.

A lightning of understanding and panic struck you; what you had thought was a lustful touch on your thigh, the one that had set everything on fire between the both of you, that had unleashed the Wolves, was in reality his sneaky hand retrieving the document from your hidden pocket.

Shit!

He gave you his cocky grin, blue gaze sparkling with mischief, greeting you with a two finger’s salute then jumped, disappearing in the night, away from you once again. You could have gone after him, as much as your weak and spent body would have allowed you to, but somehow, after all that he had done to you tonight, you felt like he had well deserved those damned letters.

tagging: @a-court-of-valkyries credits: Arthur's pic is not mine, belongs to fv8tt on Pinterest. Dividers and little moths doodle by me.

I reall hope you liked this one! I'm thinking about writing another part where the reader could confront Arthur again... Tell me if you'd like that! -Pine 🌱

[theliteraryarchitect]

How to Make Readers Care About Your Plot

It's a funny little trick, really. Because the truth is readers don’t care about your plot.

They care about how your plot affects your characters. (Ah ha!)

You can have as many betrayals, breakups, fights, CIA conspiracies, evil warlords, double-crossings, sudden bouts of amnesia, comas, and flaming meteors racing directly toward Manhattan as you want.

But if readers don’t understand how those events will impact:

A character they care about

That character’s goal

The consequences of the event, whether positive or devastating

…then you may as well be shooting off firecrackers in an empty gymnasium.

Why Plot Without Character Falls Flat

Here’s an example:

A school burns down. Oh my god, the flames! The carnage! The dead and injured children! There are police everywhere—total chaos!

And your main character? Standing on the sidewalk, watching and crying.

Dramatic? Sure. But does the reader care? Not really. There’s no emotional connection, so it's basically a meaningless plot point.

Plot + Character Impact = Reader Investment

Now, let’s take the same event but give it stakes.

Meet Mary Ann. Mary Ann has been a middle school teacher for 25 years. This year, she gets a new student—Indigo. An unusual girl with clear troubles at home and a habit of burning things.

Mary Ann defends Indigo when the school administration wants to expel her, citing safety concerns. Mary Ann sees something familiar in Indigo—something that reminds her of her own sister, who was institutionalized as a child.

One day, Indigo explodes in rage, screaming, “Burn it down! I’ll burn this whole place down!”

Mary Ann is shaken. This isn’t just defiance—this is a real threat. She nearly sides with the administration but, haunted by her sister’s fate, fights for Indigo’s second chance.

Indigo is placed in counseling. A compromise that will hopefully solve the problem.

That night, Mary Ann sleeps soundly. She did the right thing. Didn’t she? But the next morning, on her drive to school, the radio blares an emergency bulletin. There's a fire at the school.

Mary Ann speeds through red lights. Her stomach twists. When she arrives… it’s too late.

Oh my god, the flames! The carnage! The dead and injured children!

The exact same plot point—but now it matters.

How to Make Your Plot Matter to Readers

The secret? Before you set something on fire (literally or figuratively), give your character—and thus your reader—a stake in the outcome.

1. Tie Events to Character Desires and Fears.

Why does this event matter to this character?

How does it challenge their values, beliefs, or personal history?

2. Make the Conflict Personal.

The fire isn’t just a disaster—it’s a gut-punch because Mary Ann fought for Indigo.

The outcome isn’t just tragic—it’s haunted by Mary Ann’s past regrets.

3. Show Consequences.

Readers need to feel what’s at stake before, during, and after the event.

The weight of the aftermath makes the plot stick in the reader’s mind.

The result? Higher engagement, deeper emotional connection, and a plot that actually matters.

Summary: It’s Not About the Events—It’s About the Impact on Your Characters

I used a fire in this example, but this applies to any plot development.

Even something subtle—a whispered secret, an unread letter, a missed train—can have devastating emotional weight if it affects your character in a meaningful way.

Make your readers care about your plot by making your character care about it first.

Hope this helps!

/ / / / /

@theliteraryarchitect is a writing advice blog run by me, Bucket Siler, a writer and developmental editor. For more writing help, download my Free Resource Library for Fiction Writers, join my email list, or check out my book The Complete Guide to Self-Editing for Fiction Writers.

[cookies-after-dark]

BRO AND W/ THE BEAST SOUNDS

i think they have?? multiple grows?? stay with me now-

there's growls that are mildly threatening, smth small that are used as a warning (think of like,, animals getting nipped during play and they get annoyed; it's a sort of growl that says "hey i didn't like that")

AND THEN there's the growls that are actually threatening, like they're wildly pissed off, and in my head they sound eldritch, like something you would never hear on earthbread, something that awakens primal fear in cookies (altho all growls sound different, they cause the same effect)

i can imagine w/ all the beasts in yandere contexts (altho smilk is always on my mind), when their darling escapes that growl leaves them and the jam (?) of everyone around gets cold. or they catch their darling mid-escape attempt and growl like that, to scare the darling out of ever trying that again (picture smilk growling like that while his darling is almost out of the spire, the darling freezes, and he picks them up by the scruff and drags them back to his bedroom *ahem, nest*, no words needed; as a side note, i think the darling would never expect a sound like that to leave smilk, which is even more terrifying and they remember that truly, at the end of the day, they're dealing w/ an eldritch god)

eldritch beasts my beloveds

additional tags: yanderes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, kidnapping, isolation, predator/prey dynamics, possessiveness

ships: yan!burning spice cookie x reader, yan!mystic flour cookie x reader, yan!shadow milk cookie x reader

The very very few (two) mutuals from my mains/discord that I allow to see this blog will read this and look at me like 😒 because projecting animal linguistics and animal behaviors/socialization onto animal-like characters are like, the only things I ever talk about.

I cannot imagine in any universe that any Beast (that have so far been released) other than Shadow Milknwould ever he angry that you escaped, even the yabdwre versions. Burning Spice Cookie delights in having another chance to hunt you down like a prized buck, and Mystic Flour Cookie is so emotionally balanced and capable that any feelings or urgency or dissatisfaction can be tempered before she brings you back herself.

Burning Spice Cookie, upon seeing your nest empty and your scent stale, would growl in excitement. He'd climb atop the highest ledge and let out a loud bellow; not of rage but a rallying call, a mighty sound that carries for miles. Whereever you may be, it's most likely you hear it, and so does any other spice warrior in the vicnity. Burning Spice Cookie wants to let everyone in his territory know that the hunt is on.

Mystic Flour Cookie is mostly unpreturbed by your escape, she knows you won't be gone for long. Her vocalizations are mostly saved for you anyway; so the most you'll hear is a chuff or a deep sigh as soon as she curls your arms around you to take you home.

Even as yanderes, those two are pretty "well adjusted", for Beasts anyway, that they won't immediately fly off the rail in anger if they find you missing. Surprisingly, yandere Burning Spice Cookie is slower to anger than yandere Shadow Milk Cookie for several reasons (BS isn't nearly as insecure, for one very important reason).

Shadow Milk Cookie, though? It would be a straight up lie to say that Shadow Milk Cookie doesn't enjoy scaring the wits out of you when you step out of line. Either through his illusions or his straight up Eldritch Call that basically says "You little annoying gnat, stop right where you are." in unholy monster language. But make no mistake, it pisses him off when he has to go fetch you again.

He's possessive in a way that feels more personal and targeted than even Burning Spice Cookie, and he's unrelenting in a way that feels more restricting than Mystic Flour Cookie.

Even Black Sapphire Cookie and Candy Apple Cookie can't help but back off when they hear Shadow Milk Cookie snarl so dreadfully like that. They don't risk getting in his way to bring you back and discipline you; they know he's got a handle on that.

[xomakara]

After Midnight

SUMMARY |  You are on a blind date, and the guy turns out to be a total jerk. Increasingly uncomfortable, but too polite to get up and leave, you are grateful to be rescued by Yangyang, the cute college frat boy in your class and the object of your affections, who comes over and gives you an out. PAIRINGS | Yangyang x Reader RATING | Mature, NSFW, EXPLICIT, MDNI, 18+, Any Minors and Ageless Blogs will be blocked GENRE |  smut, college au, non-idol au, blind date gone wrong CONTENT/WARNINGS | profanity/strong language, unprotected sex (wrap it up ya’ll!), fingering, slight dirty talk, praising, vaginal penetration LENGTH | 8,887 words TAGLIST |  --- NETWORKS |  @k-vanity @ksmutsociety AUTHOR’S NOTE | Finally managed to get something written for Yangyang! Finally! Thank you @shadowkoo for the beautiful banner! I hope you all like it and enjoy it 💚

NCT Main Masterlist

The dimly lit bar feels like a scene out of someone else’s life. The hum of conversation buzzes around you, but it feels distant, muffled by the tightening knot in your stomach. You shift uncomfortably on the barstool, your fingers tracing the condensation on your glass. Across from you sits Wooseok—your blind date. A guy who seemed charming over texts but now drips with an arrogance so thick it could coat the walls.

“So,” he says, leaning back arrogantly, his smirk as cocky as his tone. “You into sports? Or are you one of those artsy types?”

You force a smile, trying to mask the irritation clawing at you. “A little of both, I guess.”

His laugh is sharp, dismissive. “Yeah, I heard that one before. Bet you love yoga or something, right? All that ‘namaste’ crap.”

Oh god. You glance at your half-empty drink, wishing it were stronger, faster. Anything to numb this awkwardness. Why did you agree to this? Why didn’t you just ghost him when his condescension became clear over text? But no, you’d been raised too well for that. Too polite. Too much of a people-pleaser. And now here you are, stuck.

He picks up the thread again, his voice rising above the ambient noise. “Anyway, I’m more of a gym guy. You know, real fitness. Not that flaky stuff. Gotta stay in shape, especially if you want to keep up with me.”

You nod absently, your eyes darting across the room. Relief floods through you as you spot Yangyang, the cute frat boy from your class. He’s sitting with a group of friends a few tables over, laughing and sipping beers. His smile lights up the room, and you feel a pang of longing. 

If only this were a date with him.

As if sensing your gaze, Yangyang glances over. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, everything else fades away. His lips curl into a reassuring half-smile, and you feel a flutter of hope. Maybe—just maybe—he’ll save you from this nightmare.

But then your date leans closer, his cologne overpowering even the faint smell of beer and smoke. “So, what do you say we get out of here? Maybe grab some dessert? My treat, of course.”

His tone is smooth, almost too smooth, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your skin crawl. You open your mouth to decline, but the words catch in your throat. Before you can muster a response, Yangyang stands up, his attention shifting fully to you.

“Y/N!” he calls out, his voice warm and playful. “How’s it going?”

Your date frowns, his annoyance obvious. “Who’s this guy?”

You feel a surge of gratitude as Yangyang approaches, his presence radiating confidence. 

“I’m Yangyang,” he says, extending his hand to your date. “A friend of hers. Classmate, actually.”

Your date shakes his hand reluctantly, his jaw tight. “Nice to meet you.”

Yangyang’s grin widens, and he turns to you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “You weren’t answering my texts earlier, so I figured I’d come find you. What’s the deal? Having fun?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. But then you realize—he’s giving you an out. A way to escape this unbearable situation. “Oh, uh… yeah, sure. It’s been… interesting.”

Yangyang chuckles, his gaze flicking between you and your date. “Well, I hate to interrupt, but we’ve got that group project meeting tomorrow, and I need to go over some notes with you. You free to head out now?”

There’s a pause, and you can practically see the gears turning in your date’s head. Finally, he straightens up, his pride clearly wounded. “Sounds like you’ve got plans. Guess I’ll let you go.”

You stand quickly, relief washing over you. “Thanks for… uh, dinner? Drinks? This.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, no problem. Have fun with your… homework.”

Yangyang steps closer, his arm brushing yours as he guides you toward the exit. “Don’t be rude, man. Have a good night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, once you’re out of earshot.

Yangyang grins, his dimples deepening. “No problem. Couldn’t let you suffer through that alone. You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You laugh softly, the tension easing slightly. “You have no idea. How did you even know it was me?”

“Oh, I saw you walk in earlier,” he admits, his voice lowering. “Figured I’d wait a bit, see how things went. When things got weird, I knew I had to intervene.”

You glance at him, your cheeks heating. “That’s… kind of amazing, actually.”

He shrugs, looking away briefly. “Happens to the best of us. Anyway, you okay? Want to grab some coffee or something? My treat.”

Your heart skips a beat. Coffee? With him? 

“I’d like that,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

You both step outside, the cool night air hitting your faces. Yangyang walks close enough that both of your arms brush occasionally, sending shivers down your spine. 

“So,” he says, his tone light but teasing. “What’s next?”

You turn to him, your pulse quickening. “Depends,” you reply, feeling bold suddenly. “What do you want to do?”

“Funny you should ask,” he whispers, his voice low and husky. He meets your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. “Because I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

Before you can respond, he steps closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice barely audible.

You swallow hard, your heart racing. “Yes.”

He smiles faintly, his hand reaching out to lightly touch your waist. “Good. Because I don’t wanna take this slow.”

And then, without waiting for an answer, he presses his lips to yours. His kiss lingers on your lips, a sweet, dizzying sensation that makes your knees weak. You glance up at him, his dark hair catching the faint glow of the streetlights, and he grins, a playful glint in his eyes.

“So,” he says, his voice light but teasing, “coffee? Or do you want to see if I can make this even more interesting?”

You laugh softly, feeling a strange mix of nerves and excitement. The date with Wooseok feels like a distant nightmare now, washed away by Yangyang’s effortless charm. 

“Coffee sounds good,” you reply, tilting your head slightly. “But if you’re trying to impress me, you might have to work harder than that.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, and nudges you playfully. “Challenge accepted.”

The two of you walk side by side down the dimly lit sidewalk, the quiet hum of the city surrounding you. Yangyang leads you to a small, cozy café tucked away from the main street, its windows glowing warmly. Inside, the air smells of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries, and the soft murmur of conversation fills the space. A young barista behind the counter glances up with a bright smile as you approach.

“Hey, Yangyang,” the barista says, their tone friendly but subtly flirtatious. “Long time no see. What can I get for you tonight?”

Yangyang smiles back, leaning casually on the counter. “Hey, Ruby. Two coffees, please—something strong. And maybe a slice of that chocolate cake.”

“Coming right up,” Ruby replies, their fingers already moving deftly over the espresso machine.

As Ruby works, Yangyang turns to you, his expression shifting to one of curiosity. 

“So,” he begins, his voice dropping just enough to feel intimate in the bustling café, “what made you agree to a blind date with him? He seemed… not your type.”

You sigh, shaking your head as you think back to Jake’s arrogance. “I don’t know. I guess I thought it was worth giving it a shot? But yeah, he was… not my type. At all.”

Yangyang nods, his gaze lingering on you as if he’s trying to read something deeper. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. Not when you’ve got me around.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you meet his gaze, feeling a sudden intensity in the air between you. Before you can respond, Ruby sets down two steaming mugs on the counter, each topped with a swirl of foam.

“Here you go,” Ruby says, sliding the plate with the chocolate cake toward you. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks,” Yangyang says, taking the mugs and handing one to you. “Let’s grab a table.”

You follow him to a small corner booth, the dim lighting casting shadows that make the space feel private. As you sit across from him, the warmth of the mug in your hands contrasts with the coolness of the night outside. Yangyang takes a slow sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of his cup.

“So,” he says again, setting his mug down carefully, “tell me something about yourself. Something real.”

You raise an eyebrow, feeling both amused and intrigued by his directness. “Something real? What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. “You seem like someone who doesn’t open up easily. So, I’m curious. What’s something most people wouldn’t know about you?”

Your heart skips a beat at the question, and you shift uncomfortably, unsure how much you want to reveal. But there’s something about the way Yangyang looks at you—calm, attentive, and genuine—that makes it hard to resist.

“Okay,” you say slowly, picking at the edge of the cake with your fork. “I… write poetry. Like, really bad stuff, mostly. But it helps me process things.”

Yangyang’s lips curl into a slow, appreciative smile. “That’s pretty cool. Do you ever show it to anyone?”

You shake your head, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks. “No. It’s just… for me. Private.”

He nods thoughtfully, his gaze never leaving yours. “Fair enough. Maybe one day, though, you’ll let me read some. If you want to.”

The suggestion hangs in the air, heavy with possibility, and you find yourself wondering what it would be like to share that part of yourself with him. Before you can dwell on it too much, Yangyang reaches across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against yours.

“You don’t have to answer that,” he says softly, his touch sending tingles up your arm. “But I hope you know I’d listen. To anything you wanted to say.”

You swallow hard, feeling the heat of his words settle deep in your chest. 

“Why are you being so nice to me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Yangyang’s expression shifts, a flicker of something raw crossing his face before it settles into a gentle smile. 

“Maybe because I like you,” he admits, his voice low and sincere. “And maybe because I saw the way he was treating you, and I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to fix it. For you.”

The honesty in his words leaves you breathless, and you realize, with a jolt, that you’ve been holding onto so much tension since the start of the night. With him, though, it’s different. Easier. Like you can finally exhale.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say quietly.

“Yeah, I did,” he replies, his voice firm but warm. “Because you deserve better than that. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to show you how much better.”

The sincerity in his tone catches you off guard, and you find yourself nodding slowly, a knot of emotion tightening in your throat. 

“Okay,” you manage to say, your voice shaky.

Yangyang’s smile returns, brighter this time, and he leans forward, his hand slipping beneath the table to rest on your thigh. The contact sends a spark through you, and you bite your lip, glancing up at him with uncertainty.

“I really like you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice filled with promise. "Tell me if I’m moving too fast.”

Your pulse quickens, and you feel the weight of his hand on your leg, warm and deliberate. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

He laughs softly, his breath feathering against your cheek as he closes the distance between you. “Like I said before, I don’t wanna take this slow.”

And then his lips are on yours again, soft and insistent, pulling a quiet gasp from deep within you. His hand tightens slightly on your thigh, drawing you even closer, and you melt into the kiss, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

The world seems to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the electric hum of connection. His tongue traces the curve of your bottom lip, and you part your mouth willingly, deepening the kiss until you’re both breathless. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, and he presses his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice ragged. You don’t have the chance to respond before he speaks again, his voice thick with urgency. “We should go somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can focus on each other.”

Yangyang’s hand slips into yours, his fingers interlacing with yours as he leads you out of the café. The cool night air nips at your skin, but his touch is warm and grounding, a steady anchor in the otherwise chaotic evening. His hoodie swishes against his jeans as he walks, and you can feel the faint hum of excitement radiating off him.

“Where are we going?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper, curious and a little nervous.

He glances at you, his smile soft and mischievous. “Trust me?”

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. “Yeah.”

He squeezes your hand tighter, like he’s trying to reassure you without saying it aloud. And then he breaks into a light jog, tugging you along with him. You don’t question it, following his lead with a laugh bubbling up in your chest. There’s something freeing about running through the streets with him, letting go of all the awkwardness and tension from earlier tonight.

The park comes into view after a few minutes, its gates already closed for the night. But Yangyang doesn’t seem fazed. He pulls you along the iron fence until he finds a small gap where a section of bars has rusted and bent outward. 

“Shortcut,” he says with a wink, crouching down to slip through first. You hesitate again, looking around nervously. The park is eerily quiet, the shadows of trees stretching across the ground like skeletal hands. But Yangyang sticks his head back through the gap, his eyes bright and encouraging. “Come on, I promise it’s worth it.”

Swallowing your doubts, you duck through the gap after him, brushing dirt off your jeans as you straighten up. Yangyang takes your hand again, guiding you deeper into the park, away from the well-lit paths and toward the darker, more secluded areas. The crunch of leaves underfoot grows louder, and the scent of damp earth fills the air.

Finally, he stops near a large oak tree, its branches twisted and gnarled, reaching out like they’re trying to embrace the sky. The moonlight filters through the gaps in the canopy above, casting dappled patterns on the ground. It’s quiet here—peaceful, almost magical.

"Here?" You asked.

"Yeah," Yangyang nods. "Look up."

You tilt your head back, feeling a rush of awe as you take in the view. The stars glitter against a dark blue background, like tiny pinpricks of light in an infinite canvas. The air feels clear and fresh here, free from the noise of the city, and the wind rustles softly through the trees, adding to the serenity.

"I wanted to bring you to my spot," Yangyang murmurs. "Where I go when everything gets too much. When the world feels overwhelming."

You looked at him. "I'm sure you bring other girls here."

"Nah," he replies, a flicker of regret crossing his eyes. "I came here before I even joined the frat. Back when it was just me, getting by on scholarships and part-time jobs."

You reach for his hand, running your thumb along his knuckles gently. "You had a tough time?"

He smiles sadly. "Yeah. And even now, when I've got help with tuition and the whole student life deal... the pressures are still there, you know?"

It's strange to hear him talking like this, opening himself up to you. It feels vulnerable and intimate. You take a tentative step towards him. "I think I can relate. Even though I have a scholarship and good parents, I still have to balance work, studying and finding time for social life, and it can be a lot."

Yangyang nods, and you can tell he understands. He tilts his head, searching your face as he searches his next words. "What would help you deal with all that?"

The question takes you by surprise. You think it over carefully. "Spending time with friends. Releasing emotions through writing. Watching tv." You look back up at the stars and try again. "But the thing that helps most, the most soothing thing for me, is just going somewhere alone, listening to nature or the city. Finding somewhere peaceful and calming."

"Somewhere like here?" He asks.

"Yeah," you sigh contentedly. "I haven't found somewhere quite like it, though."

His hands settle on your hips as he pulls you in for a sweet, lingering kiss, his teeth lightly grazing your lower lip. You smile against his lips, and the butterflies in your stomach turn into something wild. He backs you up against the trunk of the tree, his body flush with yours, and you can't help but run your hands up his neck and into his soft, dark curls. The moonlight illuminates his face, revealing the hunger in his gaze. You close your eyes as he trails kisses down your neck, sending a thrill up your spine. He lifts his head and searches your gaze again.

God, he tastes so good, you think, your mind hazy with desire. His flavor is sweet, like the coffee you shared earlier, but there’s an undercurrent of something wild and untamed, something that sets your pulse racing even faster.

When he pulls back, his breath comes out in uneven puffs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Fuck,” he mutters, leaning his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first day I saw you in class.”

Your lips curve into a smile, giddy and breathless. “Really?”

He nods, his curls bouncing slightly. “Every time you walked into the room, I couldn’t focus on anything else. You have no idea how many times I almost asked you out, but I kept chickening out.”

You laugh softly, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Well, I’m glad you finally did.”

“Me too,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. Then his lips are on yours again, softer this time, more deliberate. His hands roam down your sides, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to rest on the bare skin of your lower back. The coolness of the night air contrasts sharply with the warmth of his palms, sending a shiver up your spine.

You press closer to him, your own hands fumbling with the zipper of his hoodie. When you pull it down, he shrugs it off his shoulders, tossing it aside without a second thought. Underneath, he’s wearing a plain white T-shirt that clings to his torso, outlining the muscles you only catch glimpses of during class. Your fingers dip beneath the fabric, skimming across his skin, feeling the tautness of his stomach beneath your touch.

He groans into your mouth, his body tensing under your exploration. “Jesus,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “You’re killing me.”

You smirk against his lips, feeling a surge of confidence. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No,” he growls, pulling you even closer. “Not even close.”

His hands move higher, sliding up your ribcage until they’re cupping your breasts over your bra. You arch into his touch, a needy sound escaping your throat. His thumb brushes across your nipple, teasing it into a hard peak, and you gasp, your head tilting back as pleasure shoots through you.

“Yangyang…” you murmur, half-pleading, half-whining.

He presses a quick series of kisses along your jawline, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice thick with hunger.

You bite your lip, suddenly shy. “I…”

He grins, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “That’s okay. Let me guess.” 

And without waiting for your answer, his hands shift again, one sliding down to palm your ass while the other slips beneath your waistband, his fingertips trailing dangerously close to where you need him most.

Your breath hitches, your whole body trembling with anticipation. “Yangyang…” you say again, this time more urgently.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes gleaming with desire. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible.

His answering smile is slow and triumphant. “Anything for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Yangyang’s lips press against yours again, this time with a hunger that sends shivers down your spine. His hands move to your hips, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. You melt into him, your fingers threading through his dark curls as the world around you fades away. The cool night air is no match for the heat building between you, and you can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

Just as you’re about to deepen the kiss, a sharp voice cuts through the silence. “Hey! You two! What do you think you’re doing?”

You freeze, your body stiffening as you recognize the authoritative tone. Slowly, you pull away from Yangyang, your eyes widening as you turn toward the source of the noise. A tall, broad-shouldered park ranger stands a few feet away, his arms crossed and his jaw set in disapproval. His uniform fits him like a glove, emphasizing his muscular build, and his sharp, observant gaze locks onto you both.

Yangyang curses under his breath, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Crap,” he mutters, tugging at your hand. “Let’s go. Now.”

Before you can respond, he’s already pulling you deeper into the shadows beneath the tree. Your pulse races as you follow him, the thrill of being caught making your stomach twist in knots. You glance back over your shoulder, your heart pounding as the ranger takes a step closer, his flashlight sweeping across the ground.

“I said stop!” the ranger calls out, his voice echoing through the park.

You press yourself closer to Yangyang, your breaths coming in short bursts. “What do we do?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Yangyang glances around frantically, his mind working quickly. “We need to lose him,” he says, his eyes darting toward a small trail leading deeper into the park. “Come on, let’s go this way.”

Without waiting for your response, he drags you along the path, his grip firm but reassuring. The trees close in around you, their branches creating a natural barrier from the ranger’s view. You stumble slightly, the uneven ground making it difficult to keep up, but Yangyang’s hand stays locked around yours, guiding you forward.

The sound of heavy footsteps grows louder behind you, and you can hear the ranger muttering under his breath. “Kids these days… always causing trouble,” he grumbles, his frustration evident.

Yangyang smirks despite the situation, his playful nature peeking through. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, squeezing your hand. “We’ll give him the slip.”

You can’t help but laugh nervously, the tension between you and Yangyang growing stronger with every step. As you round a corner, Yangyang pulls you into a dense bush, muffling your laughter with his hand. You hold your breath as the ranger’s flashlight beam passes by, illuminating the leaves around you momentarily.

When the light disappears, Yangyang releases a shaky laugh. “That was close,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

You nod, your heart still racing from the adrenaline. “Too close,” you agree, your voice barely above a whisper.

Yangyang’s gaze softens as he looks at you, his playful demeanor melting into something more serious. “You okay?” he asks, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod again, feeling a warmth spread through you at his concern. “Yeah,” you say, smiling faintly. “Just… a little shaken.”

He chuckles, his confidence returning. “Well, I guess we showed him, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile on your face doesn’t fade. “I wouldn’t exactly call that showing him.”

Yangyang shrugs, his dimples deepening as he grins. “Close enough. Now…” He pauses, his expression turning mischievous once more. “How about we get out of here before he comes back?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by his suggestion. “And go where?”

His grin widens, and he steps closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “My place,” he murmurs, his voice low and inviting. “It’s not far. We can be there in ten minutes.”

Your pulse quickens at the thought, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in your chest. Part of you wants to playfully protest, to tease him about his boldness, but the other part—the part that’s been drawn to him since the moment he walked into your life—is already saying yes.

Yangyang must sense your hesitation, because he adds, “I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

You look into his eyes, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all you find is sincerity and a flicker of desire. And maybe, just maybe, a touch of vulnerability. It’s that last part that seals the deal, pushing aside any lingering doubts.

“Okay,” you say softly, your voice barely audible.

His answering smile lights up his entire face, and without another word, he takes your hand and leads you out of the bush, navigating the dimly lit paths of the park with ease. The cool night air brushes against your skin, sending goosebumps down your arms, but Yangyang’s touch keeps you grounded, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos.

As you leave the park behind, the streetlights guide your way, casting long shadows that stretch and shrink with each step. Yangyang’s pace quickens, his excitement palpable, and you can’t help but match it, your own anticipation building with every passing second.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few minutes, Yangyang stops in front of a modest apartment building. His free hand reaches into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys as he unlocks the door. He ushers you inside, his movements almost frantic with eagerness.

The apartment is cozy, with simple furnishings and a faint scent of laundry detergent and fresh air—just like him. Yangyang leads you to the living room, where he finally lets go of your hand, turning to face you. His chest rises and falls slightly, his breathing still a little uneven from the rush of the escape.

“So,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “what do you think?”

You take a moment to survey the room, your eyes lingering on the small details—the bookshelf filled with textbooks and novels, the worn couch draped with a blanket, the faint hum of a refrigerator in the background. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels lived-in, comfortable. And somehow, that makes it even more appealing.

“It’s nice,” you admit, your voice soft.

Yangyang’s smile returns, warmer now, less playful and more genuine. “Good,” he says simply, stepping closer. “Because I didn’t bring you here just to show you my apartment.”

Your breath hitches as he closes the distance between you, his hands reaching up to cradle your face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, and you can feel the sincerity in every brush of his fingertips. When his lips meet yours, it’s slow and deliberate, a marked contrast to the urgency of earlier.

This time, there’s no rush, no fear of being interrupted. Just the two of you, lost in the embrace that neither of you seems willing to break.

Yangyang breaks the kiss, his eyes locking with yours. His hands slide down to your shoulders, then lower, tracing the curve of your back until they settle on your hips. The heat between you is palpable, a tangible force that seems to push and pull at the edges of your restraint.

“Do you trust me?” he asks quietly, his voice low and steady.

You nod, though the question sends a shiver through you. Trust. It’s such a simple word, yet it feels so heavy in this moment. You realize, almost suddenly, that you do trust him—completely. There’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the only person in the world who matters, that makes it impossible not to.

“Good,” he says, his lips curving into a sly smile. “Because I want to show you something.”

Without waiting for a response, he takes your hand and leads you deeper into his apartment. The hallway is dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting long shadows across the floor. The air is quiet, save for the faint sound of your footsteps and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards beneath you.

Yangyang guides you to a door at the end of the hall, one you hadn’t noticed before. He pauses for a moment, glancing over his shoulder at you before reaching out to turn the handle. The door swings open with a soft click, revealing a cozy bedroom bathed in the warm light of a bedside lamp.

His bedroom. The thought flutters in your mind, sending a fresh wave of excitement coursing through you. Yangyang steps inside first, pulling you in after him. The door closes softly behind you, sealing the space as your own private world.

The room is simple but inviting, with a large bed taking up most of the space. A pile of pillows rests against the headboard, and a few books are scattered haphazardly on the nightstand. A faint scent of cedar lingers in the air, mingling with the familiar smell of laundry detergent that seems to follow Yangyang everywhere.

He turns to face you, his eyes dark with intent. “I wanted to bring you somewhere… quieter,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Somewhere we could be alone.”

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the rhythm accelerating as his words sink in. Alone. The word carries a weight that’s both thrilling and terrifying. You glance around the room, taking in the details—the softness of the carpet underfoot, the warmth of thelighting, the way the shadows seem to dance along the walls. It’s intimate, cocooning, and somehow perfectly fitting for what you know is about to happen.

Yangyang steps closer, his hands settling on your waist again. This time, there’s no hesitation in his touch—just confidence, laced with a tenderness that makes your knees weak. He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “Just let me take care of you.”

The request hangs in the air, a silent promise that sends a jolt of electricity through your veins. You nod again, unable to find the words to respond. Yangyang smiles, a slow, knowing grin that makes your stomach flutter.

With one hand still resting on your waist, he reaches up with the other, sliding his fingers through the loose strands of your hair. The gesture is gentle, almost reverent, as if he’s savoring the texture and weight of it. You close your eyes, tilting your head slightly to give him better access, and feel a soft hum of pleasure ripple through you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve wanted to tell you that since the first day I saw you.”

The confession catches you off guard, sending a rush of warmth flooding through your chest. You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and see nothing but honesty reflected there. It’s overwhelming, the depth of feeling in his expression, and it leaves you momentarily speechless.

Before you can respond, Yangyang shifts his grip, guiding you toward the bed. His movements are deliberate, each step calculated to draw you further into the moment. When you reach the edge of the mattress, he stops, his hands sliding from your waist to rest on your hips.

“Sit,” he commands softly, his voice a velvety rasp that sends shivers dancing down your spine.

You obey without hesitation, lowering yourself onto the plush comforter. The fabric is soft beneath you, and the faint scent of linen fills your nostrils, adding another layer of sensory overload to the mix. As you settle in, Yangyang kneels beside the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

For a moment, there’s silence—a charged, electric kind of stillness that seems to hold the weight of everything unsaid between you. Then, slowly, deliberately, Yangyang reaches out, his fingers brushing against the buttons of your shirt.

“May I?” he asks, his voice a teasing half-whisper.

You nod again, your throat too tight to speak. Yangyang grins, his eyes gleaming with mischief, and begins working on the buttons with expert precision. Each pop of the closure seems to echo in the quiet room, a symphony of anticipation that heightens the tension between you.

When the last button slides free, he tugs the fabric apart, revealing the thin layer of lace beneath. Your breath hitches as his eyes flick downward, briefly scanning the sight before returning to your face. “So pretty,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of awe and desire.

Without warning, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your throat. The sensation is fleeting but insistent, a tease that leaves you yearning for more. You instinctively tilt your head back, giving him better access, and feel a surge of satisfaction when he obliges by trailing kisses along your collarbone.

“Yangyang...” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with a combination of need and uncertainty.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips curved into a wicked smile. “Shh,” he says gently. “Just let me love you.”

And with that, he resumes his exploration, his hands and mouth working in tandem to unravel every thread of resistance within you.

Yangyang’s hands move with an almost reverent grace as he undresses you, his touch light but deliberate. Each piece of clothing he removes feels like a revelation, not just to him but to you as well. You feel suddenly exposed, yet entirely safe in his presence.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and gravelly with emotion. His fingers brush against the edge of your bra, hesitating for a moment before carefully unclasping it. The fabric slips away, revealing you to his gaze, and you catch a flicker of awe in his dark eyes.

“You don’t have to say that,” you whisper, your cheeks heating under his intense scrutiny.

Yangyang shakes his head, his smile soft and genuine. “I know what I see,” he says simply. His hands cup your shoulders, thumbs brushing lightly over your collarbones, and you shiver at the tenderness of his touch. “And what I feel… it’s overwhelming.”

He leans in then, his lips finding the sensitive skin just below your ear. A sound escapes you, half-laugh, half-groan, as his teeth graze the lobe gently. His hand trails down your arm, fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake before wrapping around your wrist. He guides your hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the rapid thudding of his heart.

“Feel that?” he asks, his voice thick with desire. “That’s all you.”

You nod, unable to speak, your own heart pounding in response. Yangyang’s free hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The solid warmth of his body against yours is intoxicating, and you cling to him instinctively.

His lips find yours again, this time with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation. The kiss is deep, consuming, every stroke of his tongue igniting a blaze within you. His hand slides lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, and you gasp into his mouth as his fingers tease the soft curve of your hipbone.

“Yangyang,” you breathe, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps, his breath hot against your cheek. His fingers dip lower, brushing against the wetness between your legs, and you clench your thighs together, both resisting and inviting his touch.

“I—” Your voice falters, uncertain, as his fingers ghost over your most sensitive spot. You arch into the sensation, your hips tilting involuntarily.

Yangyang chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your body. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, his tone reassuring. “Take your time. We have all night.”

His words send a shudder through you, a mix of relief and anticipation. You relax slightly, letting go of some of the tension that had been coiled tightly within you. Yangyang takes advantage of your momentary surrender, his fingers sliding back between your legs, this time with purpose.

The first tentative touch makes you jerk, a sharp intake of breath escaping your lips. Yangyang holds still, watching you intently, his expression a blend of concern and arousal. “Too much?” he asks, clearly trying to read your reaction.

You shake your head quickly, your cheeks burning. “No,” you manage to whisper. “Just… unexpected.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, and he resumes his exploration, his fingers tracing delicate patterns against your folds. You bite your lip to stifle a moan, your body responding eagerly to his ministrations.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration. “You’re incredible.”

His fingers press harder, delving deeper, and you gasp, your back arching off the bed. Yangyang shifts his position slightly, angling his fingers to hit that perfect spot inside you, and you feel yourself spiraling closer to the edge.

“Yangyang,” you choke out, your voice trembling with need. “Please…”

“Please what?” he teases, his voice low and husky. His free hand cups your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple in rhythm with his finger movements.

You whimper, torn between the dueling sensations of his touch. “I… I don’t know,” you admit, frustrated by your inability to articulate the raging storm within you.

Yangyang chuckles again, the sound dark and intimate. “That’s okay,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you deeply. His fingers quicken their pace, stroking in and out of you with increasing urgency. “Let yourself go. Let me take care of you.”

The combination of his words and actions is too much, and you feel the wave building inside you, cresting higher and higher with every thrust of his fingers. Your breath comes in shallow pants, your body tensing as you approach the precipice.

“Yangyang, I—”

He doesn’t let you finish. Instead, he presses a hard kiss to your lips, swallowing your cry of release as you come apart in his arms. Your body shudders, waves of pleasure rolling through you, leaving you boneless and gasping for air.

Yangyang pulls his fingers from you slowly, watching your face with rapt attention. His eyes are dark, filled with a mixture of awe and possessiveness. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice raw with emotion. “You’re amazing.”

You blink up at him, still dazed from the intensity of your orgasm. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage to joke weakly.

Yangyang laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, we’re just getting started,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing purr.

Yangyang’s hands trail down your body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch is deliberate, almost reverent, as if he’s memorizing every curve and dip of you. When his fingers brush against the side of your thigh, you shiver, the sensation sending a spark of electricity through your veins.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky. His eyes never leave yours, their intensity making your breath hitch. “I want to see you touch me.”

His words send a jolt of arousal through you, but there’s also a flicker of uncertainty. You’ve never been this intimate with anyone before, not like this. The thought of exploring his body feels thrilling and terrifying all at once. But when he guides your hand to his chest, the moment becomes too electric to resist.

Your fingers curl around the soft fabric of his hoodie, hesitating for just a second before you tug it up and over his head. The movement exposes the warm skin beneath, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the thrum of his heartbeat underneath your palm. It’s intoxicating.

“Go on,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire. “Touch me.”

You do. Your fingertips trace the ridges of his collarbone, the muscles of his shoulders, the faint dusting of hair that trails down his sternum. Each touch sends a shiver through him, his breath hitching as your exploration grows bolder. When your hand skims lower, brushing against the waistband of his jeans, he groans, the sound raw and needy.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”

His reaction emboldens you, fueling the fire that’s already burning between you. You let your fingers dip beneath the hem of his shirt, sliding along the taut planes of his abdomen. His skin is warm and smooth, the muscles beneath tense with anticipation. You can feel the way his body responds to your touch, the way he shifts closer, his breath fanning across your cheek.

“So good,” he rasps, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “God, you feel so fucking good.”

His praise sends a thrill of pleasure through you, your confidence growing with each passing second. You slide your hand higher, brushing against the edge of his nipple, feeling it pebble beneath your touch. He gasps, arching into your hand as a low moan escapes his lips.

“Turn around,” he says suddenly, his voice commanding yet laced with urgency. “I want to touch you.”

You obey without hesitation, turning to face the bed and leaning forward slightly. The position puts you on display, your back arched and your ass lifted slightly. Yangyang’s breath hitches as he takes in the view, his gaze darkening with hunger.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his hands coming to rest on your hips. “You’re perfect.”

He strokes your sides, his fingers trailing up to your ribcage before dipping lower, pushing the material of your dress aside to expose the lace of your panties. The sight of them makes his grip tighten, his fingers pressing into your skin as he pulls them down slowly, revealing the curve of your ass and the delicate skin beneath.

“So fucking gorgeous,” he breathes, his voice rough with need. “I want to taste you.”

Before you can respond, he drops to his knees behind you, his hands cupping your ass as he presses a series of light kisses along the crease of your thigh. The sensation is electrifying, sending shivers of anticipation rippling through you. You can feel the heat of his breath against your skin, the promise of what’s to come making your core throb with need.

When his tongue finally makes contact, you cry out, your hands clutching the sheets as waves of pleasure crash over you. He licks a slow, deliberate path up your folds, his tongue darting inside you with relentless precision. The sensation is overwhelming, your body trembling as he works you with expert skill.

“Yangyang,” you gasp, your voice breaking as he grazes his teeth along your clit. “Please—”

He doesn’t let you finish. Instead, he bites down gently, the sharp sting followed by a rush of warmth that sends you spiraling. Your thighs tremble, your body tightening as he continues to stroke and tease, his tongue flicking faster and harder until you can’t take it anymore.

“I’m close,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his hands gripping your hips as he redoubles his efforts. The sudden surge of pressure builds rapidly, your body tensing as you teeter on the edge. And then, with one final thrust of his tongue, you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure bliss.

Your legs give out, but Yangyang catches you, guiding you gently to the bed. You collapse onto your back, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you with a predatory smile.

“That was incredible,” he murmurs, his voice filled with admiration. “But we’re not done yet.”

He leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as he positions himself between your legs. You can feel the thick ridge of his cock pressing against your entrance, the heat of him making you ache with need.

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice low and strained.

You nod, unable to form words as your desire consumes you. With one swift movement, he pushes inside you, filling you completely. The sensation is intense, your bodies perfectly aligned as he begins to move.

Yangyang’s breath hitches as he slides into you, the heat of his body pressing against yours. You feel every inch of him, thick and demanding, filling you completely. His hips move with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body. His lips find yours again, kissing you deeply as he sets a steady pace, drawing out the moment.

“You feel so good,” he whispers against your lips, his voice low and trembling. “So tight… so perfect.”

His hands grip your hips, holding you firmly as he continues to thrust into you. You can feel the way he’s holding back, wanting to savor this moment, but the strain in his voice tells you just how much he wants to let go. Your own desire is building, spiraling higher with every movement of his hips. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him on, desperate for more.

Just as the tension between you reaches its peak, a loud POP echoes through the apartment, followed by the sudden absence of light. The room plunges into darkness, the only sound now the heavy breathing of the two of you.

“What… what was that?” you ask, your voice shaky and breathless.

“Power outage,” Yangyang replies, his tone amused but still strained. “Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves for a while.”

The darkness seems to heighten everything. Without the distraction of sight, your other senses become sharper. You can feel the warmth of Yangyang’s body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you. His breath tickles your neck as he kisses your collarbone, his movements growing more insistent as the adrenaline of the unexpected outage pushes him closer to the edge.

“Let’s not waste it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with desire. He shifts slightly, adjusting his angle, and you gasp as a new wave of sensation hits you. His thrusts become deeper, harder, each one bringing you closer to the edge.

“Yangyang…” you moan, clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his voice rough with need. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

“I want you… I need you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”

He growls in response, his hips snapping forward with renewed urgency. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the silence, mingling with your ragged breaths. You feel yourself teetering on the brink, the pressure building inside you with every thrust. Yangyang’s hand moves between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit and stroking it with expert precision.

“Almost there,” he promises, his voice a harsh whisper. “Come for me. Let go.”

The darkness feels like a cocoon, wrapping around you both as you fall apart. Your body shudders, your muscles tightening around him as you reach your climax. Yangyang follows soon after, his movements becoming erratic as he buries himself deep inside you, letting out a deep groan as he spills inside you.

For a moment, all you can do is cling to each other, the weight of your bodies the only anchor you have in the dark. Yangyang rests his forehead against yours, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

“That was…” he starts, but trails off, his voice soft and vulnerable.

“Perfect,” you finish for him, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckles softly, kissing your forehead before pulling out of you and lying down beside you. You roll onto your side, facing him in the dark, your fingers tracing the contours of his face.

“What now?” you ask, your voice curious.

“Now…” he pauses, his hand reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now we wait. See how long this lasts.”

The thought sends a shiver of excitement down your spine. There’s something thrilling about the uncertainty, about being forced to slow down and enjoy the moment. You nestle closer to Yangyang, feeling his arm wrap around your waist as you rest your head on his chest.

“I could get used to this,” you murmur, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Yangyang’s chest rises and falls with a soft chuckle, his voice warm against your ear. “I could too,” he admits, his tone laced with contentment. “There’s something about the dark that makes everything feel… simpler. No distractions, just us.”

You smile into the darkness, feeling the weight of his words settle between you. His fingers trace lazy circles on your back, the gentle rhythm soothing yet electrifying all at once. The power outage has stripped away the usual comforts of light and sound, leaving only the raw connection between you two. It’s intimate in a way you hadn’t anticipated, but now that it’s here, you realize how much you crave it.

“Do you think we’ll be stuck like this for long?” you ask, your voice soft as you nuzzle closer to him.

“Who knows?” he replies, his lips brushing against your temple. “Maybe it’s a sign. A chance to slow down, to really feel each other without anything else getting in the way.”

His words send a flutter through your chest. You can hear the sincerity in his voice, the way he’s embracing the moment rather than letting it frustrate him. It’s one of the things you love most about him—his ability to find beauty in the unexpected.

“You’re right,” you murmur, tilting your head to press a kiss to his collarbone. “This is kind of nice. Just… being together like this.”

Yangyang hums in agreement, his arm tightening around you. “Yeah,” he says after a pause, his voice low and thoughtful. “It’s perfect.”

The silence stretches between you, broken only by the occasional rustle of sheets or the soft whisper of his breath. You trace the lines of his chest with your fingertips, marveling at how familiar yet endlessly fascinating his body feels. Each curve and plane feels like home, like something you never knew you needed until now.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks suddenly, his voice curious.

“I was thinking about how glad I am that you were there to bail me out of that bad date,” you admit, your voice soft but laced with gratitude. “If it wasn’t for you… I don’t even want to imagine how that night would’ve ended.”

Yangyang chuckles, the sound warm and comforting against your ear. “Well, I couldn’t let you suffer through that alone, could I?” he teases, his fingers brushing lightly over your shoulder. “Besides, I think we both know how much better this turned out.”

You smile, feeling a blush creep into your cheeks despite the darkness. “Yeah,” you agree, tilting your head to press a kiss to his chest. “This was definitely better. So much better.”

He hums in agreement, his hand moving to cup the back of your head gently. “I’m just glad I could be there for you,” he says, his tone sincere. “You deserve someone who makes you feel as amazing as you make me feel.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you tighten your hold on him, nuzzling closer. “You do,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “You really do.”

The silence between you is comfortable, filled with unspoken words and lingering touches. You trace the lines of his chest again, your fingers pausing over the faint scar near his ribs. It’s a mark you’ve grown familiar with, one that tells a story of its own.

“Do you ever think about how different things might’ve been?” you ask suddenly, your voice tinged with curiosity. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

Yangyang pauses, his hand stilling on your back. “Honestly?” he says after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “I try not to think about it. Because the way things are now… this… it’s exactly where I want to be. With you.”

You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Me too,” you murmur, pressing another kiss to his skin. “Me too.”

The power outage may have thrown you into darkness, but in that moment, you realize it’s brought you closer to something infinitely brighter. The moonlight and the stars seem to be flittering brighter above you and you decide, maybe, for tonight you won't wait for the lights to come back on.

Because this is perfect as it is.

[emiphemeral]

like sexy dynamite — a.donaldson

pairings; 2019 art donaldson x fem!reader

warnings; 18+ smut, mean!art, dom!art, sub!reader, semi-public sex, p in v

a/n; twas feeling festive... everyone thank @martiansodas-blog for convincing me to write this

you were, by some peoples standards, art donaldson's "controversially young" girlfriend. of course, you didn't find it controversial at all. clearly neither did he, since he was the one who approached you first anyway. the main perk of having a wealthy older boyfriend however, was access to his big beautiful house.

art had asked you to move in with him months prior, so it wasn't difficult to get him to throw a fourth of july party. it wasn't difficult to get anything with art, not when it's you. you simply had to bat your eyes and he would melt.

so there you were, sipping on some probably spiked punch and giggling with a few friends. trashy pop music played over a speaker, provided by some shitty college dj you had hired. it wasn't meant to be a good party, it was meant to be a fun party.

you and your friends names get called from across the room;

"guys, come on, they're setting off fireworks soon!"

your group starts to eagerly head to the backyard, until a grip on your arm stops you.

"hey baby. mind if i steal you for a minute?" art mutters in your ear.

he begins to pull you away before you can respond, barely having time to mouth 'ill be there soon' before you get dragged around the corner. he brings you to a stop in the luckily empty kitchen.

"are you oka-"

art interrupts you with a sloppy and desperate kiss, hands tightly gripping your waist.

"do you have any idea what you've been doing to me all night? running around in that whoreish dress?" he growls pressing you against the countertop.

"shit- art- someone could see-" you pant as he mouths at your neck.

"everyone's out watching the fireworks. like we would be, if you weren't such a fucking tease."

you gasp as art flips you around, pressing your torso into the cold marble countertop. he reaches under your dress, lightly rubbing your soaking wet cunt.

"this is what you wanted, isn't it? for me to bend you over where anyone could see? so wet over the thought of being seen as what you are, a slut."

you whimper as the blonde pushes your dress up, just enough for him to get a good look at your pussy. he curses under his breath at the sight, unzipping his pants and pulling out his already leaking cock as fast as possible.

he rubs his tip through your folds for just a moment before slamming into you. you let out a loud moan, muffled by his hand clamping over your mouth.

"c'mon baby, wouldn't want to ruin their party with your trampiness, would you?" art grunts, not letting up for a second.

the hand thats not covering your mouth is on your waist, holding you firmly against the countertop. your eyes roll back into your head as he hits the perfect spot inside of you, drooling like a mutt all over him. you can't help but let out pathetic whimpers and whines, so overwhelmed that you couldn't keep your mouth shut.

as if it was planned, the fireworks go off. its a loud show, just loud enough that art can take his hand off your face. he uses his now free hand to reach in between the two of you, rubbing fast circles onto your clit.

without support from art, your face slumps against the cool marble. you're putty in his arms, him fucking you so good you can't even think. with a particularly rough snap of his hips, you come undone, cunt spilling all over his cock.

"fuck- almost there baby- you can take it like the whore you are-"

art's rambles have practically turned mindless, now only chasing his own orgasm. he releases his hot load into you when you turn to face him, looking up at him through your eyelashes. like a hypocrite, he lets out his own vulgar groan as he finishes.

"fuck.." art mutters pulling out and smoothing your dress back down.

"go on. see your friends, knowing you're dripping with my cum", he grins cockily, giving your ass a playful slap. you push off the counter to walk outside, but your legs immediately give out.

"oops." art shrugs, with the most unapologetic smirk known to man.

[project-sekai-facts]

Prskfacts 2nd anniversary!

Today (March 13th) is the second anniversary of when I started posting trivia! Thank you so much for the support over the last two years, it means a lot and I'm glad people continue to enjoy the blog!

As of today there will be some changes to how this blog is run. Posts will continue to be daily, but most days will be reblogs of old facts instead of new ones (new ones will still be posted sometimes). It has been incredibly hard for me to keep posting daily over the last year and a half and I feel like the quality of trivia has been declining recently as I've been running out of things to post. I don't want that to continue, so I'll be focusing on quality over quantity from now on. Plus, it's been a long time and a lot of people weren't here for the older posts, so they'll be fun to revisit.

I will still be answering asks, but don't expect me to be as regular with this. It will probably continue at the rate it has for the past few months. This is just to give me time to focus on uni and personal life over this blog, which was getting to the point of being like a job for me. I will also be emptying my inbox today because it's got like 800 unanswered asks in it and I need it to be more manageable. Sorry to anyone whose questions I didn't answer, but feel free to send them again (submissions have been put on the queue).

Sorry this is a bit of a downer anniversary post. To reiterate, I'm not fully moving away from prsk or this blog, just reducing my activity. I hope you continue to enjoy prskfacts for the next year!

So in January 2024 I explained what 4kids was to an anon and said this:

and someone said this in the tags:

i decided explaining shadow the hedgehog lore in depth was the funniest way to semi-retire from this blog that wasn't posting "sayonara you weeaboo shits" or posting my shitpost drafts and going radio silent afterwards. so thank you to the person who said that you gave this blog a slightly less unceremonious death. also if ur a new sth fan who got in bc of the movie this might be useful idk i mainly just wanted an excuse to talk about shadow the hedgehog

So 50+ years before the events of peak fiction Sonic Adventure 2, we have Gerald and Maria Robotnik, Eggman's grandfather and cousin respectively. Gerald was a revolutionary scientist/roboticist (and archaeologist, this will be relevant later) and one of the greatest minds of his time, making huge scientific developments with the goal of bringing hope and happiness to humanity. One of his greatest inventions was a space station for scientific research, the Space Colony ARK, which served as his main lab from then on. The construction and operations of the ARK were partially funded by the United Federation (in-universe USA), but primarily funded by GUN (Guardian Units of Nations, the in-universe US military).

So SA2 is an extremely anti-military game. That's going to become apparent from here on out. So, GUN wants weapons in exchange for funding, and they're starting to get annoying about it. Obviously this is not what Gerald wants, so he asks the President of the UF if he can intervene, since the govt is the other source of funding. So the president says he'll do that, but he also sucks and decides to ask Gerald to invent immortality. Gerald hates the idea of this just as much, and shoots it down immediately, not to mention it being an impossible task.

However, back on Earth, Maria gets sick, and is diagnosed with NIDS (neuro-immuno deficiency syndrome (EN) or native immunodeficieny syndrome (JP), either way it's clearly based on AIDS), a terminal illness. Gerald manages to get Maria brought up to the ARK when treatments on Earth are failing so the team up there can do assessments and research treatments. The low gravity on the ARK also helps to keep the illness' effects at a low, for the most part. Maria's family back at Earth isn't exactly happy about all this though (the Robotnik family drama isn't actually too important here I just wanted to talk about it).

So the president keeps pushing for the immortality thing, and Gerald figures he can use this to find a cure for Maria, so decides to go forward with Project: Shadow, named as such because "the concept [of immortality] is as intangible as a shadow". GUN still wants weapons as well, which is where the archaeology thing starts coming into play. So to tie SA2 into its predecessor, there's these robots that look like the god Chaos from SA1. Gerald had researched Chaos in the past, and builds robots based on it to give to GUN.

Okay now we're finally getting closer to actual Shadow stuff. The scientists are using a Chaos Emerald in their research into immortality, and develop Chaos Drives using the Chaos Energy from the emerald. Gerald also supplies GUN with these drives so they can use them as a power source to try and appease them (they still use them 50 years later to power their mechs, GUN robots drop them when destroyed in SA2). The staff test out these drives on a salamander when they feel they're developed enough to be used on living tissue. Some time later, the salamander being used in testing has such rapid cellular growth that it can't survive on its own, and it becomes violent and uncontrollable, prompting Gerald to build it a life support pack and seal it away in the ARK's basement (functionally). This is the Biolizard, the prototype Ultimate Life Form and the final regular boss of SA2 (also one of two characters with a confirmed birthday, that being January 27th).

More Robotnik family drama stuff just bc I feel like mentioning it, you can skip this paragraph. So Maria's been up on the ARK for a while now, enough years that some scientists on the ARK think she was born there, and Gerald isn't making any progress with creating a cure. Some of the scientists are even starting to doubt that Maria is even ill, since her symptoms are invisible most of the time. Also, the rest of the Robotnik family is losing faith in Gerald and it's getting to a point where they want either a cure or for her to be sent home to be with her family. Gerald cannot yet provide a cure, but he also does not want to send Maria home because she will die. See now Gerald has a pretty big ego. He constantly talks about how much of a genius is and has boundless confidence in himself, which only now is being put to the test. He keeps biting off more than he can chew, and it's starting to cost his family.

Here we fucking go. Exactly 50 years prior to the game Shadow the Hegdehog, the Black Comet passes by Earth. This comet it the home of an alien race called the Black Arms, led by this demonic looking alien guy called Black Doom. Gerald makes contact with the comet, and strikes a deal with Doom, who was interested in Gerald's work with the Chaos Emeralds. Black Doom lends his DNA to be used with Project Shadow, and it reacts well with the Chaos energy. See now Doom has this plan to invade Earth next time his comet comes by, and he wants the thing Gerald is making to be able to do that for him essentially. An Ultimate Life Form is pretty appealing when you want to conquer the Earth.

Also fun thing that originates from a 4koma but was brought up for the first time in English in Shadow Generations: Maria is the one who named Shadow. He originally called the project "Project Shadow" out of mockery as mentioned earlier, and also thought the name sounded too dark for the project he was using to help develop a cure to Maria's illness. However Maria said that he should name the hedgehog he created "Shadow", because a shadow shows the way to the light. Maria also designed Shadow's shoes and inhibitor rings to try and reduce the strain his body will be under from the alien DNA and Chaos energy (Gerald's Journal specifically refers to them as mobility and focus aids). Fun fact 3 if you hack the camera during the lab cutscene in Shadow 05 there's multiple failed Shadow prototypes in the room.

So why is Shadow a hedgehog? It's not ever been confirmed, but it is heavily implied that Shadow was based on the Hidden Palace mural from Sonic 3 & Knuckles. This is an ancient prophetic mural that depicts a blue creature glowing gold fighting a robot that has the Master Emerald. It's depicting the true final boss of the game. We know Gerald visited Angel Island and, while it's never mentioned, it's likely that he saw this mural and made Shadow in the blue/gold figure's likeness (which is why Shadow looks like the Adventure-era Super Sonic design specifically).

We're gonna have to go back to the archaeology stuff for a bit. Years before Project Shadow one of Gerald's sons (presumably Maria's dad, since it's stated that the other son is a roboticist and it makes sense for him to be Eggman's dad) discovers this robot built by an ancient civilization while doing some archaeology shit. Gerald finds it in a warehouse some time later while on the ARK. After researching into it more he discovers that this robot is a weapon capable of mimicking the combat and abilities of other people and weapons as well as being reactive to the chaos emeralds. Presumably Gerald puts the robot back into storage because his Journal (the shadow gens one) doesn't mention him again for ages.

So fast forward to Shadow being in-progress. Gerald is researching the robot again and discovers that it is called a Gizoid (he is later given the name Emerl in Sonic Battle). Emerl can establish a "Link" to a person, becoming completely loyal to them, provided they have some sort of power (Gerald shows Emerl a gun). As mentioned, Emerl is a weapon programmed to be very destructive, but currently Gerald has him under his control.

Although, GUN gets demanding again due to still not having results for the immortal super soldiers they wanted. So Gerald hands over Emerl, knowing full well the risk of GUN just giving him something more powerful than the gun Gerald had and developing a Link with them instead. GUN doesn't really give a shit about Emerl though and asks for something else. Gerald uses this as an opportunity to give them a massive, planet-destroying, Death Star-esque laser cannon, called the Eclipse Cannon. Obviously, GUN can never use it, but it's a big powerful weapon and they're the US military so they're happy with it. Its true function is actually for Shadow to use it to blow up the Black Comet when it comes back past Earth in 50 years, because of that whole deal about Shadow being used by Black Doom to conquer Earth. (Gerald does apologise in his journal for kind of actively ruining Shadow's life before he's even been born, but y'know he's kinda on a streak of making bad decisions at this point).

Shadow is finally awakened and quickly becomes incredibly close with Maria, developing a sibling relationship. She tells him about her love for Earth and he takes care of her and looks out for her when she's struggling. Dialogue in Shadow 05 and Shadow Generations suggests that aside from testing and combat training, Shadow was treated like a fairly normal kid. Maria mentions running around the ARK and playing with him, as well as going to school with him (fun fact: Maria says in Shadow Gens that he never handed in any of his homework).

(To get Shadow age discourse out the way: he's physically 15. This is stated in his character bio in the leaked Sonic 06 script, which admittedly is not entirely accurate, but there's also other information to suggest this, such as him having the same height and weight as Sonic (15) and Silver (14) while Knuckles and Espio (both 16) are taller and heavier. And yeah there's some sources that put him as ageless and that script is the only thing to ever give him an actual age and all the character ages were removed from the official bios anyway due to a timeskip between Forces and Frontiers but you get the idea he's physically the same age as Sonic. Also no he did not age while frozen. Go win internet arguments or something)

Gerald also comes to think of Shadow like a son, which is funny because at this point in the Journal he stops referring to Maria's dad as his son. Likely because he and his wife had another child, which reads like they've lost hope in Maria being saved and are starting over. I mean yeah that's very clearly what's going on.

Unfortunately shit starts to go downhill from here. Emerl absorbs enough weapons to make him go out of control and he goes on a destructive rampage across the ARK. He's shut down and Gerald reprograms him with a 'soul' to prevent this from happening again, and a self-destruct function just in case it does. However, the rampage causes those Artifical Chaos robots I mentioned earlier to go out of control as well. Those are taken down as well but an SOS has been sent out to Earth by this point (there were also other general safety concerns bc of the evil demon aliens and. the military blaming other people for things they asked for)

So GUN and the government kinda go "fuck we need to pretend like this isn't out fault" so GUN goes up to space and shuts down the colony. By raiding it and killing almost everyone on board, covering it up by saying there was an accident. Only three ARK residents are known to have survived: Gerald, Shadow, and a kid called Abe (who is the GUN commander in present day). Considering that they spared the only other kid on the ARK, Maria was probably shot because she was with Shadow and was helping him into an escape pod.

Shadow is found and put in cryo and Gerald is arrested by GUN and made to finish his research under supervision. Gerald learns Maria died and goes insane with grief. He becomes immensely hateful towards humanity as a whole and secretly reprograms Shadow's memories to make him think that Maria's final wish was for him to avenge her (by literally destroying the Earth) instead of what it really was, which was to protect the people of Earth. Gerald is then executed by firing squad.

(Additional Robotnik family lore: Takashi Iizuka confirmed not too long ago that Eggman was born after Maria died. Eggman also mentions that he didn't know Maria in one of his unlockable memos in Frontiers, but reveals that her death was felt throughout his childhood. Apparently the attention was never really on him due to everyone always focusing on how great Maria was. Knowing Eggman this may be a slight exaggeration but yeah there's speculation that the Robotnik Family Drama will be relevant at some point since they keep bringing it up in recent materials)

Fast forward 50ish years to SA2. Eggman finds his grandfather's journal from his supervised work while he was being held by GUN and learns about his work on the "Ultimate Life Form" who can destroy things. Eggman wants to conquer the world and he's like yeah I want that so he breaks into the GUN base where Shadow is in cryo. Eggman is also the first person in 50 years to try the password "Maria" to free Shadow (Gerald got to set the password for whatever reason they've rewritten the lore a couple times don't worry about it).

Also Shadow being freed is so funny like you gotta remember he's 15 and an emo bordering on theatre kid and also the last thing he remembers is his sister getting shot and he sees Eggman, probably didn't even clock that it wasn't Gerald for 30 seconds, and is like "I'll grant your wishes bring me the chaos emeralds and meet me on the ARK lol bye" and what he means is "we're gonna blow up the Earth bc the military killed my sister like 3 hours ago as far as i'm concerned" but like he doesn't tell Eggman this so Eggman's just like "fuck yeah let's take over the world". Eggman goes to meet Shadow on the ARK and Shadow explains the Eclipse Cannon and Eggman's like "cool I can use this to threaten Earth until everyone has to submit to me".

Also Rouge is here because she works for GUN as an agent and they want her to investigate Eggman and Shadow. Also GUN is stupid and keeps trying to arrest Sonic because he looks like Shadow and Shadow robbed a museum bc it had an Emerald. They literally have newsreel footage of Shadow and everyone's like "no this is Sonic" (this makes way more sense if you consider that Shadow's original design as when he was being developed as "Terios" was way closer to Sonic's). GUN arrest Sonic twice in this game, and attempt a third time. Sonic escapes police custody twice and evades arrest on the third one. He also says he doesn't like cops this is important. Anyway he and Shadow keep trying to kill each other. Sonic wants to know what the deal is but that doesn't stop him from trying to fight Shadow constantly. Shadow wants to blow up Earth but this also doesn't stop him from fighting Sonic constantly.

Eggman, Rouge and Shadow go to GUN's Prison Island where they send everyone they arrest and then steal the Chaos Emeralds that GUN has and blow up the island. Using the six Emeralds they have, Eggman powers up the Eclipse Cannon and livestreams himself blowing up the moon with it. The Heroes go to the ARK as well and there's some whole drama there but this ain't about them. Eggman gets the seventh Chaos Emerald and puts it into the cannon, which activates Gerald's doomsday plan that Shadow did not tell Eggman about. The ARK sets off on a crash course for Earth so now the Heroes and Eggman and Rouge are trying to turn it off.

Also there was a whole thing where Rouge looks into Project Shadow and all she can find is stuff about the Biolizard so she thinks Shadow is lying or delusional. I mean we know he's telling the truth but back then this was like adding to the mystery. Not that relevant in retrospect. Moving on.

Back to Shadow. His goal is fulfilled and he's kinda just standing there looking out the window as the ARK falls. Amy got left behind when everyone went to go shut down the ARK and she happens to find Shadow and asks what his deal is. She talks about the good of humanity and manages to partially say the exact same thing as Maria said when she put Shadow in the escape pod when she was dying. Shadow remembers Maria's wish for him to give everyone a chance to live and be happy, cries very briefly, and then runs off because he has his real memories back now and needs to fix this shit.

Sonic and Shadow go Super and use Chaos Control to warp the ARK back into orbit and stop the doomsday program. However Shadow isn't accustomed to using a Super form and is weakened (there's this whole thing about Shadow realising that Sonic might be the true Ultimate Life Form if you take long enough on the final boss). Sonic warns him to return back to the ARK but he doesn't, and ends up losing his super form and falling to Earth, presumably dying (Twitter Takeovers are noncanon but #5 says that Sonic tried to save Shadow but Shadow let himself die because otherwise Sonic would've fallen with him and as far as he knew then, died with him. This isn't shown or mentioned in the games but is likely what happened given that Sonic comes back to the ARK afterwards with one of Shadow's inhibitor rings).

Shadow was actually meant to stay dead and SA2 itself was actually pretty vague about what really happened 50 years ago. Pretty much everything I mentioned prior to the SA2 summary was lore introduced in later media (this will be relevant later). But, Shadow ended up becoming the most popular character in the franchise so Sonic Team decided to bring him back for Heroes and write more solid lore for him.

In Heroes, Rouge is stealing some shit from Eggman and finds Shadow in A Tube so she lets him out. He's being guarded by a robot called E-123 Omega, who decides to fight them because he's angry and loves violence and killing things (not a joke). Rouge manages to stop the boys from fighting each other and is like "let's go find Eggman" so they do and also they're called Team Dark now. She wants his treasure, Shadow has amnesia and wants to know who he is and why he's here, and Omega wants to prove to Eggman he's the best robot ever and also kill and destroy things. I dunno why Rouge doesn't think to tell Shadow anything. I assume it's because this was the first third party mainline title and they wanted to keep things simple for new players who hadn't played SA2 which was only available on Dreamcast or Gamecube, neither of which sold well compared to the PS2 or Xbox.

During the story Team Dark finds a Shadow Android, and later, shitloads of them in Eggman's warehouse. Shadow and the others aren't really sure if he's the real Shadow from SA2 or if he's another android who's just gained sentience. At least now Rouge is somewhat justified in not telling him anything since she's not sure if he's real now. Cue Shadow having an identity crisis. This plot carries over to the next game.

Shadow 05 takes place exactly 50 years after Gerald's deal with Black Doom. The Black Comet comes back to Earth and Doom and the rest of the Black Arms start invading and fucking shit up. So Doom wants Shadow to work for him and conquer Earth so he finds his son and asks him to go get the Chaos Emeralds. He also does not tell Shadow that he's his dad he just tells him what to do and leaves him to work it out and Shadow just does this without question because BD clearly knows who he is so he might be able to tell him who he is.

Shadow 05 is infamous for its choose-your-own-adventure story so to quickly list off the noncanon endings he can:

Destroy Earth (Pure Dark/Dark)

Conquer the universe (Pure Dark/Hero)

Side with his dad (Semi Dark/Dark)

Kill Eggman (Semi Dark/Hero)

Decide he's an android and kill Eggman (Neutral/Dark)

Decide he's an android and kill Eggman BUT take over the Eggman Empire and lead and android uprising this time (Neutral/Hero)

Stay on the ARK and become its protector (Semi Hero/Dark)

Have implied suicidal depression (Semi Hero/Hero)

Go insane with power?? idk what's going on (Pure Hero/Dark)

Say he's gonna kill his dad and presumably does it offscreen (Pure Hero/Hero)

The true ending (that doesn't actually lead from any of the previous so who knows how we got here) has Shadow obtain all the Chaos Emeralds and then BD uses them to bring his Comet into Earth's atmosphere so he can start destroying things. BD then loredrops that Shadow was made to help him conquer Earth and he processes this for like a minute then decides to kill BD. BD then loredrops that he's Shadow's dad and Shadow gets really close to crashing out over this one but the Chaotix manage to find an old tape from Gerald just in time and play it for him that helps calm him down a bit and tells him how to kill BD. Also it reminds him of the promise he made to Maria again.

So he goes Super, kills his dad and blows up the Black Comet destroying the entire Black Arms race. Also if you take really really long on this boss fight then Eggman mentions that he found Shadow after he fell to Earth, confirming this is the real Shadow from SA2 and not one of the androids. After BD is killed Shadow seems to have mostly remembered everything and decides to move on from his past and become his own person.

I'm assuming Sonic Battle takes place after Shadow 05 because he knows he was made by Gerald in this game. So Sonic finds Emerl, that Gizoid robot from earlier, and everyone befriends him but is also trying to work out who/what Emerl is. Sonic says that although Emerl is a weapon of mass destruction, he has a heart and he trusts him to not destroy things, just like Shadow. Shadow has a mini crisis over this and is wondering why he has a soul and feelings if he was created as a weapon and Rouge sits him down and tells him that Gerald didn't want him to be a weapon. Shadow still has Feelings about this but that's kinda it here.

06 isn't canon and also barely makes sense but it had good Shadow characterisation. So we're gonna cover this as quickly as possible. So Shadow works for GUN now (for some reason?? it's only in this game whatever) and he and Rouge go to get The Time God of Italy. or half of it. this half of it is Mephiles, who takes the form of Shadow's shadow. Mephiles and Shadow keep fighting during the game and Mephiles taunts him that hundreds of years in the future, humans blame Shadow for the apocalypse (caused by Mephiles. who looks like Shadow. so) and put him in cryo again (oh yeah Shadow's immortal I don't think I ever clarified that but you probably worked it out). Anyway at the end of Shadow's story he says this raw ass line "if the world chooses to become my enemy i will fight like i always have" and then he takes off his inhibitors and blows up Mephiles. But Mephiles doesn't die and then kills Sonic and then fuses with the other half of the Italian Sun slash Time god and then there's the bit where a human girl kisses a dead Sonic and now he's alive again and triple S go super and blow up the Italian Time slash Sun god. Sonic then erases the god from existence and bam 06 isn't canon anymore praise be.

Is anyone still reading this. Why? I'm not even taking this seriously anymore I'm enjoying this way too much.

So allegedly Sonic Prime is canon and it probably takes place somewhere vaguely around here. Sonic Prime actually doesn't fit on the timeline due to ooc and also Cubot and Orbot but it's "after Sonic Advance 3" so it's either before or after 06. Anyway Sonic accidentally breaks spacetime and is now hopping around the multiverse. Shadow is here too so that he has someone to play off of. They're like. Really gay here like there had to be at least one sonadow fan on the writing team why did they do the SA2 falling thing again that's evil. Also there's one line at the end of season 2 iirc that got translated into. actual romantic language in some dubs kinda like the destiel confession adding in the line for Dean in the Spanish dub. does this mean sonadow is destiel 2. i need to start calling buddie destiel 3. Shadow breaks the sound barrier 3 times in the finale to save Sonic's life while bridal carrying him. love wins. Sonic Prime is pretty mid but bonus points for good yaoi 7/10

In terms of the next big Shadow lore game we have Shadow Generations. The Time Eater sends Shadow to the void but manages to send Maria and Gerald there too from a point in time not too long before shit went down on the ARK. Shadow kinda has the worst day of his life in this one. Also Black Doom managed to regrow himself but he's not at full power. He wants to use Shadow as a vessel due to him being the Ultimate Life Form and so activates all of Shadow's alien biology, making him "perfect" so BD can take over his body. In some ways this acts as closure for Shadow since yknow. He's had amnesia TWICE since he knew them and also the Gerald here gets to tell Shadow all the stuff that he'd only heard previously in recordings about the Black Arms. Gerald also finally Apologises to Shadow directly. Shadow gets like really angry at BD but Maria comforts him and tells him to not give into BD and his anger, since he exists to show the way to the light. Shadow kills his dad for a second time. Gerald and Maria are sent back to their time and Shadow tries to stop it and almost has a panic attack (for the second time this game he has one in the prequel) but Maria comforts him again. Shadow cries again and that's the end of the game.

So by the time we get to Sonic Forces he's kinda just doing his own antihero thing and sometimes works with Team Dark. He kills (? at least beats the shit out of) Jackal Squad, a mercenary team that was working for Eggman at the time. He spares the leader and calls him weak and pathetic and leaves. And this GROWN ASS MAN throws a fit over this and decides he has to prove he isn't weak. So he agrees to be a test subject in Eggman's latest experiement with this rock called the Phantom Ruby that has incredibly inconsistent properties but the big one is Virtual Reality (this in itself is presented inconsistently). So Infinite is infused with the power of the Ruby and wears a mask now because his previous weakling face was unsightly or something. He then decides to shut down Omega and torment Shadow (who doesn't remember him) for calling him weak. He then tells Shadow he's gonna go kill Sonic for some reason. And then does (or at least everyone thinks he does). This is all in the prequel DLC. Shadow shows up halfway through the main game to help the heroes and that's about it.

And that's kinda it. There's the IDW comics in terms of what I'd consider major appearances but I'm like 2 years behind on those so idk what Shadow's up to in those now. There was also the July 2021 Sonic Channel story with him that kinda altered my brain chemistry. Not entirely sure when it takes place. Pre-Forces maybe? You can read a TL of it here.

Oh yeah I should clarify on what was said in the 4kids post. So in that I talked about how the dub in avoiding an onscreen character death actually caused Shadow MCD. Sonic X is interesting because it was developed at around the same time as the "Shadow arc" of games in the early 2000s and ends up taking a different approach to the truth of 50 years ago. I haven't watched X fully yet but from what I know about it Maria never knew Shadow. All of that stuff was made up by Gerald and put in Shadow's brain. Like Maria did exist and there's a whole episode where they meet the soldier who shot her but she didn't know Shadow. Iirc it was something to do with the escape pods she sent down being empty thereby implying Shadow was created entirely on Earth post-GUN raid.

Following the game's SA2 adaptation and his later return, Shadow meets a girl called Molly in season 3. She's a fighter on her planet that's at war and mostly destroyed. Iirc she wants to keep fighting, but her friends are growing hopeless and think they're all just gonna die in battle and never get to live. Long story short, at the end of the episode, she sacrifices herself and charges her fighter ship straight at the enemy and is killed when it crashed into the enemy ship. In the series finale, Shadow helps Sonic fight Dark Oak, the main antagonist of the season, and isn't seen again afterwards, presumably having died. However, he shows up during the credits, visiting Molly's grave, confirming he's still alive.

4kids obviously didn't like the child death, so at the end of Molly's episode she ends up just flying away and says she'll come back someday. The scene of her grave is cut from the series finale for obvious reasons, but in turn makes it seems like Shadow died in the previous episode. Good shit.

If you made it here. Good lord. Uh. I love my son he has every disease. He's so cute here I want to throw him at a wall.

Watch Love Live it's really good please just watch it. And then watch LL Sunshine because it's even better.

AND READ PROJECT SEKAI STORIES.

(Also yes this is the longest post on my blog)