#no easily resolutions here

[musical-chick-13]

"Truly GOOD works don't have thriving fandoms because people aren't interested in fixing them, so what do they have to write fics/make art about."

Idk about you, but I don't write fic for properties I don't genuinely enjoy and think are, on some level, actually good.

[ourceliumnetwork]

hey. hey universe. hey fucker universe.

no one said you could bring back the Wednesday Curse, bitch. fuck off with this shit i didn't need any of this first thing today.

[oflgtfol]

also yknow what im kinda iffy about the bathing in living waters thing as a means of redemption (for reasons that belong to their own post, if i ever figure out how to word it), but the fact that there even is redemption offered despite how strict the helmet rule is, is like. well proof actually that it's not very strict

and the fact is that prior to The Purge, the mines would not have been so hard to access. literally if the city is inhabited, if the surface is not glassed, if there is no debris and shit in the way, then it should by all means just be a walk and a skip down some stairs and there you've arrived to the living waters. it all around seems like a very easy method of redemption which just blows the whole "unforgiving cult!!!" thing out of the water because, like, well it seems very forgiving actually

[neverendingford]

.

[girlivealwaysbean]

.

[fading-event-608]

Recently the syndicate of chemists in Lebanon has issued a statement warning people to not go near the blast sites due to alleged use of depleted uranium by Israel. (link - you need to scroll till the statement in Arabic). The screenshot of their statement on twitter was shared here on Tumblr and I’ve seen multiple people expressing scepticism regarding the source. Some people linked an article (link) from anti-Hezbollah 'democratic' newspaper 'L’Orient Today' to ‘fact-check’ - because of course they can’t read Arabic and are discontent with a twitter link.

This is my short summary of the article: they confirm that Israel has used Depleted Uranium (DU) weapons, not only in Lebanon but also in Gaza in June of this year and between October and December of last year. They establish a history of the use of Depleted Uranium, and include examples of its use in Iran in 2003. Israel doesn't directly talk about their use of DU, but neither are they hiding it - because there is no law that forbids the use of these bombs by Israel, there is no treaty regulating the use of DU weapons. There were several resolutions calling for a moratorium on the use of DU weapons in the UN and EU Parliament, the latest of which was in 2022, but these have failed to stop their use (those who have used them also includes both Russia and Ukraine). The article ends with an ominous addition that the Israeli army has been found guilty multiple times of using white phosphorus, which IS prohibited against civilians or civilian property under international law. (You probably can already tell that their defense is that they do not use it against civilians)

There is another article that was published in early September this year - LINK - I highly encourage you to read this one yourself, as it is quite short, especially when considering the amount of information it contains. As this one is more easily accessible, I won’t summarize it - please take it in yourself. I will say, however, that this article’s author, one Dr. Busby, worked with colleagues to conduct several investigations into the use of uranium-based weapons in both Lebanon and Gaza. In 2006, Dr. Busby asked his colleague to collect multiple samples from a crater left by what was suspected to be Depleted Uranium weapons. Samples from an ambulance air filter were also taken. Dr. Busby and company found not only the  presence of depleted uranium but also of Enriched Uranium. Here’s the paper: link.

Enriched Uranium. In 2006.

By 2024, all of the laboratories that Dr. Busby had used to Conduct the investigation have closed their doors either to him or in general. Busby’s letters to the UN, as well as papers detailing evidence of the use of enriched and depleted uranium are either dismissed or ignored, rendering it unlikely that there will ever be the “official” source for these claims that certain people now see fit to demand. And even if the UN did accept those letters and did push for ban of those weapons - would Israel comply? Genocide is ‘illegal’ under international law, and Israel still faces the case in ICJ, but what will that ICJ do if they rule that Israel is guilty? What would UN do if they accept evidence of Israel using uranium-based weapons? Scold them and write a fine?

The aspect of the deployment of nuclear weapons considered the most horrific is - and has always been - the fallout. The idea that all nuclear weapons would leave evidence - again, fallout - behind was born into the cultural consciousness through various cold war era PSAs, as well as other media inspired by these horrors, potential and otherwise. The weapons Israel is using here do not create fallout, however. But do not mistake them as harmless - they are still highly carcinogenic. They cause birth defects, as well as various other illnesses - mysterious illnesses, or at least mysterious until doctors attempting to treat them register that their patients have been exposed to enriched uranium, after which point the mystery goes away. 

In a sense, the horrors advertised by cold war PSAs and films like Doctor Strangelove, the promise of some explosive end brought about by some fool in the US pushing the wrong button - these serve to draw a veil over the continued use of nuclear weapons that have been ongoing since this technology was first harnessed for violence. This is a severe danger to the people of Gaza, and we can’t ignore it simply because we have developed in our minds too much faith in the loosest understandings of nuclear warfare.

I think many of you are familiar with a boiling frog story. The story goes that if you put a frog in a pot of boiling water, it will try to climb out. But if you put it in warm water and very slowly heat it, it will be so accustomed to the temperature it will eventually be boiled alive. It’s not very authentic, of course - in reality the frog will try to jump out as soon as it deems the water temperature uncomfortable. Just like you would try to get out of the bathtub as soon as it gets too hot for you or try to warm yourself up when you spend too much time outside in winter. 

But some of it still rings true. At what point will the UN, or ICJ, or some other white savior wannabe decide that Israel has done too much? What is that ��too-much’ point that makes them try to protest, and what would that protest be?

As in case with Tumblr, it seems that the boiling point, in fact, has already passed and people grew accustomed to deaths of Palestinians. There are thousands of posts about the situation in Gaza, and the whole Palestine, Lebanon, Yemen, Syria… They get a lot of attention by both zionists and Palestine supporters. There are also hundreds of Gazans that came to Tumblr in hopes to escape the genocide by asking people to cover evacuation and survival costs. Do they get the same attention? Barely. Arguably zionists are more invested in interacting with those posts - they mass report them and harass Palestinians. And even if the fundraiser post gets a lot of attention, it does not necessarily translate into a lot of donations - people just assume that someone else will donate instead of them.

You can’t stop Israel all by yourself. You can’t convince the UN or try to progress the ICJ case by yourself. You can, however, do small acts that will contribute to Palestinian resistance. Go protest, go boycott, and please, please, please, go donate to Palestinian fundraisers.

Falastin’s family are under constant threat in Gaza. She’s been fundraising to save them since late June, and yet they’ve only recently gotten to just over 5% of their total goal - a little short of $10,000 USD. They’re still in Gaza, and still in need of funds for survival. The longer they are trapped there, the more they need - not just for food and water, but also for medicine, shelter, and clothes. Each time they’re displaced, due to inadequate time to pack, they lose more supplies, and their needs increase. Give what you can so that they can survive this, and please share their fundraiser as much as you’re able regardless of whether you can donate, just in case someone you know might be able to help. Not just here on Tumblr, on other social media, talk to your friends, coworkers, family, in group chats and in discord servers.

Please keep in mind conversion rates before donating:

10$ = 103 SEK

25$ = 260 SEK

50$ = 519 SEK

100$ = 1,038 SEK

[skzdarlings]

everything ; skz ; werewolf!felix x reader

requested by @yongbbokkie: if possible, can I have Sunshine!Felix with the prompt/s: ❛ i'm waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you. ❜ and ❛ do whatever you want with me, i'm yours. ❜

((maybe it's a pining from afar situation and something puts them in close quarters and Felix just can't help himself anymore))

read on ao3

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: werewolf!au. friends2lovers. miscommunication and misunderstandings followed by resolution and smut. mentions of reader being in a past abusive relationship though the circumstances are not detailed. not omegaverse just werewolves but mentions of rut cycles and slightly different physiology.

this is, um, the wettest thing i've ever written. there is no other word for it. so much come, masturbating (reader walks in on felix), pervy masturbating using reader's stuff lol, massive breeding kink, multiple rounds, scenting, possessiveness, throat-grabbing, biting, pussy eating, squirting, dirty talk. did i mention come.

word count: 15800 words. (hope it makes up for the delay hehe)

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy <3

-

For a few moments, Felix is yours.  There is no awkwardness, no reluctance, just dancing, just friendship. 

The club is packed so tightly, the lights and music as roaring as lightning and thunder.  The extra stimulation overwhelms the senses, even werewolf senses.  He doesn’t think and neither do you.  You just dance, finding each other in the bouncing circle of your half-drunk friend group.  He smiles and you take his hand, letting him pull you across the dance floor and into his arms. 

You’ve missed this smile.  You’ve missed these arms.   

Sure, Felix is still your best friend and he is never truly far.  The distance is not literal, just emotional, and that is so much worse. 

Ever since his werewolf genes kicked in, ever since a pack took him in, things have just been… different. 

Right now, you can pretend nothing has changed.  You are far away from ivory moons waning over woodlands, of werewolf packs and supernatural powers.  His senses are diluted here, overpowered by so many moving bodies and so much wild noise. 

Felix smiles, that wonderful big smile that crinkles his eyes so sweetly.  Lights flash over him, his blonde hair nearly glowing, his freckles like stars.  He’s your best friend again.  All yours for a few precious moments. 

He’s bigger than he was, you think, with a bit of a flush, as you dance closer to him, his arms circling your body.  Or maybe I just never noticed before. 

Felix is not very tall, but he is not small either, lean and athletic and confident in every inch of his body.  It feels like he is everywhere.  Every time a strobe light flashes over him, he seems a little closer.  You breathe in his cologne, subtler than it used to be because his sense of smell is so powerful now, but still recognizable. 

You are definitely not a werewolf, but you are captivated by that smell.  Something oak, woodsy, masculine but pretty.   So very Felix.  You want to bathe in that smell, luxuriate in him.  You spent so many nights curled into his side, sharing his bed, wearing one of his hoodies, that you associate that scent with everything good, safe, and home. 

His hands dance up your sides very softly, his breath puffing across your cheek as you dance and dance.  One song pours into the next.  You lose track of time.  In forgetting the world, you forget yourself.   You slide your arms around his shoulders and press close to him. 

You used to hug him like this so easily, but you have hardly touched him at all the last few months.  Felix could never be cruel to anyone so he has not outright rejected your usual closeness, but it is obvious that your touch now makes him uncomfortable.  The last thing you ever, ever want to do is hurt Felix.   So you have followed his lead.  Every time he accidentally pulls a face –  a displeased twitch of his nose, an upset furrow of his brow – you have backed away.   

It’s just the werewolf senses, you keep telling yourself.  He’s more sensitive now, that’s all. 

He still hugs the others.  The werewolf boys love rough-housing, in fact, tumbling all over each other constantly.

That’s different.  Yes, very different than this, right here, right now, his hands sliding down your sides – slowly, like he is memorizing the shape of your waist.  He squeezes your hips and it fills you with heat.  His hot face touches yours, cheek to cheek.  The music is pounding, a frantic sound, but you are slow dancing, keeping to the rhythm of your heartbeats where they beat against each other. 

You slide a hand up the back of his neck, into his long blonde hair.  You feel the shudder move through his whole body.   It makes your legs feel weak, realizing the effect you have on him.  It seems impossible, especially with how much he has pushed you away, but there is no way he is shivering for any other reason.  He cannot possibly be cold.  The club is packed and, besides, he is not human.  He runs hot. 

So hot.  He radiates it, burning where your bodies press together.  Felix has always been the sunshine that keeps you warm, but this is a different heat.  You know better than to succumb to it, knowing this moment will pass, but right now it is so easy to cling to him, to breathe him in, to feel like the world is just you and him. 

The real world soon returns.  It’s getting late so your friends call it a night. 

“We’ll drop you off, yeah?” Chan says to you.  Felix lives with him and the other wolves now.  They all have their own apartments but they live in the same high-rise.  You live a few blocks down, close, but not quite belonging. 

“I don’t mind walking,” you say. 

You do not want to intrude and you do not want to make Felix uncomfortable.  He doesn’t even know Chan is offering you a ride because he standing so far away. 

Felix is looking at his phone, slouched against the car while everyone organizes themselves.  He is wearing a leather jacket, a white shirt, blue jeans, his long hair falling into his face.  You want to brush it back, feel it between your fingers.  You want to lift his face and see his smile.    

But he doesn’t look at you.  Now that you are outside, now that the heat has dissipated and the cold breeze carries your bland, dull, human scent, now that he can remember you are not special and not like him – now, he is someone else, and you are too, and it is cold and dreary and miserable. 

“What?”  Chan says.  He is such a good pack leader and a good friend, but it makes him utterly oblivious to little dramas like this.  “You’re not walking by yourself this late at night, don’t be crazy.  Come on.” 

The pack leader does not take no for an answer.  Even though you are not in the pack, being human, there is no refusing Bang Chan.  He grabs you by the wrist and drags you to his car. 

Jeongin is in the front seat.  Seungmin takes a back corner before Felix can lift his head, before he even knows you will be in the car too. 

Felix looks tense when realizes he is trapped with you.   Whether he takes the middle seat or the other corner, you will be beside him.  If standing together outside is so intolerable, then being in a car is going to be torturous.  

“I can walk,” you say to him. 

“What?”  He shakes his head.  When he smiles, it is not his usual smile, not something real.  You know the difference.  His proper smile brightens you but this smile makes your heart sink.  “Of course not,” he says.  “C’mon.  It’s late.  Let’s get home, yeah?”   

“Yeah,” you say, but he is already gone, taking all sense of home with him.   

You take the middle seat.  Felix rolls his window down and leans towards it.  His eyes are closed the entire journey, the wind blowing across his tired face. 

Seungmin is also a werewolf but he does not seem bothered by your human scent.  Jeongin and Chan, the other packmates, likewise seem indifferent, chatting about everything and nothing, totally unperturbed.   And you must cross paths with many werewolves during the day, but no one ever seems bothered by you. 

Felix is the only werewolf who seems to have a problem with your scent.  You do not know what it is that affects him so deeply.  You have tried changing soaps and shampoos but nothing seems to help.  It must be something natural to your human body.  Humans do not smell like werewolves in general.  Werewolves release pheromones that humans cannot smell, and it is important in forging interpersonal dynamics.  That includes romance.  Werewolves mate for life.  You know they find their true mates through smell as much as the other senses.  They are biologically wired to pursue their perfect match based on all those senses. 

You are not a werewolf.  You can never be his true mate.  In the few months since he fully and rapidly developed his werewolf senses, Felix has withdrawn from you even though he promised it would never separate you. 

You used to talk about what would happen if his werewolf genes activated.  He comes from a family of werewolves but the gene lays dormant in certain carriers.  Most werewolves develop in puberty if they develop at all.  Some people never develop their wolven senses or powers.  A minority, like Felix, are triggered by something in adulthood and succumb all at once. 

It was always a possibility, however minute, but he promised things would stay the same.  He said you were his person, that best friend did not even suffice as a word to describe your love.

You’re my world, you know, he said one night, speaking with the sort of earnest sincerity that only Felix could, his deep voice rumbling in your ear as you cuddled into him.     

You wanted to say it back but you were hurting at the time.  You ended a bad relationship a year earlier.  It took your tender heart far too long to realize how badly your ex-boyfriend was treating you.  When Felix found out the details, he was furious, though he kept it down around you.  You had never seen your best friend so emotional.  He became even more protective in the aftermath. 

He showed you, time and time again, what real love is supposed to be.  It doesn’t rush or demand, it doesn’t manipulate or coerce, and it doesn’t ask you to be small.  He would hold you all night if that’s what you needed.  He would make you laugh and let you cry. 

You slowly realized true love had been in front of you, all this time, begging to be seen. 

At least, you thought so.   After such a bad relationship, you were taking it slow, and Felix never rushed you.  You thought, maybe, one day…

But just when you were ready, everything changed.  The werewolf gene unexpectedly activated.  Felix was admitted to a wolven hospital and underwent his first transformation under a full moon.  When he came home, he was different.   Sure, he was still Felix, with his long dyed hair and his many freckles and his sun-kissed skin, but his brown eyes were so very different when he looked at you. 

If he looked at you, which he avoids these days.     

“Home sweet home,” Chan says, parking the car outside your apartment building. 

Felix wastes no time getting out of the vehicle, practically spilling onto the sidewalk in his haste.   He holds the door for you but averts his gaze. 

You thank Chan, say good night to the other boys, then you shuffle across the seat and step out of the car.   Felix still does not look at you, pretending he is distracted with something across the street. 

You are a little tipsy, your emotions easily riled.  You want to say good night so it will finally prompt him to look at you, but you are suddenly very choked up.  Thoughtlessly, you touch his arm instead.

He flinches.  It feels worse than a slap.

You do not look at him again, hurrying to the building before he can see the tears in your eyes. 

Miraculously, you hold them in until you reach your apartment.  You are one foot in the doorway when the tears spill, all the emotions you’ve suppressed over the last few months finally flooding free.  The door falls closed with a slam and the whole world collapses under you.

You drop right there, knees pulled up to your chest and face buried in your hands. 

You spent so many nights like this, crying all alone until you worked up the courage to tell Felix about your bad relationship.  He was immediately understanding.  It was so foolish to fear he would ever judge you.  He put an arm around you and held you all night.

He is the person you want to call when you are hurting.  It is agonizing to be without him.  He is the one person you need and the one person you cannot call right now. 

You let yourself feel sorry and miserable.  When the tears have subsided and you are slouched against your door, empty and tired, you make a decision to end this.  You have spent too much of your life collapsed on the floor and crying on your lonesome.  You refuse to do it again. 

As horrible as it is, you need to distance yourself from Felix.  This slow deterioration of your relationship is excruciating.   If he decides to reach out, you will be there, but you simply cannot continue to compromise yourself. 

You somehow manage to wash up and get in bed.   You sleep through the morning and rise late, delaying the inevitable a little longer by scrolling on your phone.  Felix used to be the first text of the day but there is nothing from him.  You would usually message anyway but today you put your phone aside and get out of bed. 

So much of Felix is in your apartment.  Borrowed hoodies, games, books, and so much more.  Items are littered everywhere from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen and back.   It takes an hour and you are not sure you find everything because he is so inextricably woven into your living space.  You do not even see it anymore because it – because he – is always there. 

You fill a cardboard box.  Your plan is to walk the couple blocks to the high-rise and return it with a vague explanation.  You are not sure what to say.  Perhaps it is best to opt for brevity.  After all, this is not a break-up because you are not a couple. 

No, you think, staring at the full box with watery eyes, this is worse. 

You make it a few steps out your door before you drop the box.  It is way, way too heavy for you to carry two feet, never mind two city blocks.  Already panting with exertion, you stare at the box taking up a huge slab of the narrow corridor. 

You really don’t want to ask him to come get it, nor do you want to make multiple trips.  You are scared that if you give him the opportunity, he will try and reassure you that nothing is wrong and you don’t need to do this.  You’ll believe him in the moment, but then it will start all over again.  

Like ripping off a bandage, it has to go all at once.  It’s time to heal. 

You push the box, budging it down the corridor inch by slow inch.  You reach the elevator and press the call button.   You calculate the logistics of pushing and shoving the box for two blocks, mostly concerned the cardboard will rip if it snags on something outside. 

Lost in thought, you don’t see a person in the elevator and accidentally shove the box at him.  He yelps, a loud cry of surprise as he jumps aside.  It makes you leap out of your skin, shooting upright to look at him. 

Some of your despondency leaves at the friendly face of your neighbour.

“Changbin!” you say.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t even see you there.”

“Hey now,” he says, winking, his handsome face plastered with a grin, “I’m not that short.” 

“No, of course not,” you say, laughing along with him. 

Changbin is a werewolf as well.  There are a lot of packs on this side of town because the large national park is nearby.   The wolves like to use the expansive forest when the full moon cycle swings around. 

“Moving out?” he asks with an eyebrow quirk.

“Ah,” you say.  “Not quite.”

You explain your predicament, that the box belongs to a friend and you need to somehow reach his apartment building two blocks away.  Changbin, ever the charmer and ever the helper, immediately offers his aid. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” you start, but he has already swung the big box into his arms.

Werewolves do have supernatural strength.  Changbin looks strong, with big biceps and a stocky frame, never mind the supernatural enhancement.   He doesn’t even break a sweat.  The box might as well be empty for all the difference it makes to him.

He is kind enough to walk two blocks to the high-rise.  You chat on the way and find the conversation flows easily.   You also can’t help but notice he has no problem with your scent.  It really is just Felix who seems so repulsed. 

You ring the buzzer for Felix’s apartment but there is no answer.  You try a couple more times, embarrassed because Changbin is waiting.  Fortunately, he is very non-plussed, humming to himself while you ring the buzzer. 

After a few tries, you ring Chan instead.  He answers promptly and you explain the bare bones of the situation, that you have a box for Felix and you would appreciate if he could pass it along.   Chan agrees, of course. 

Maybe it is for the best. You can leave the box with Chan and not even have to confront Felix at all.   

Chan buzzes you into the building.  Changbin walks you to the elevator where he puts the box down.  You thank him profusely but he waves it off and states he was happy to help. 

It looks like he wants to say something more, looking at you while he rubs the back of his neck.   In the end, he says he will see you around and departs.

You exhale.  The worst of your nerves have dissipated since Felix is not even home.  You have been the one instigating your interactions the last few months so you figure if you just quietly step back, he won’t even notice. 

It pains you to admit it, that you could disappear from his life and he would just… not care.  You stuff those feelings down, down, down for now.  You prepare a friendly smile for Chan so he doesn’t ask too many questions. 

When you reach the pack floor, you give the box a good shove into the corridor.   Chan lives directly across from the elevator so you don’t have far to go.

Except there are voices in the corridor.  You turn towards the sound. 

An awful chill freezes in your blood, your whole body going rigid at what you see. 

Felix is home.  He is standing in his open doorway, half-dressed in a pair of jeans and nothing more.  His long hair looks more dishevelled than usual, like someone has been running their fingers through it. 

Someone.  He is talking to a young woman.  You don’t know her too well, simply that she is the only female werewolf in Chan’s small pack.  She is wearing more clothes than Felix but still very casual in shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot like this is her home.   You suppose it is, much more her home than yours.   

She belongs.  You do not. 

Her and Felix are standing close while they converse.  So close.  They speak to each other in hushed tones, her expression tender and sympathetic while Felix winces in seeming pain.  The details of their conversation are inarticulate at a distance but their voices are nonetheless audible. 

Your scent reaches Felix first.  He straightens so fast it would be comical under any other circumstances. 

Nothing is funny right now.  You feel like a complete and utter fool, standing in his corridor with a box of his things like he cares about them at all.  He has already moved on.  You were in denial, a stupid little human girl still clinging desperately to old memories.   

“I better go,” the woman says.  She leans up and kisses Felix on the cheek, gives him a little wink and mumbles something only he can hear.   She turns and walks into the apartment next door, giving you a genuinely friendly wave.  She has always been polite to you and you have no reason to dislike her.  You can only wave back pathetically. 

Your hand slaps your side when she disappears into her apartment.  You and Felix look at each other. 

He looks guilty.  Sweat dots his hairline, streaks his bare chest, and his face is flushed.  It is very obvious what he has been doing all morning.  

The thought of such a fantasy was once tantalizing.  The sight of him, like this, would make you dizzy. You remember the last time he casually took off his shirt, the swoop of desire that moved inside you, a sensation you did not even know you could still feel after your bad relationship.

Now that swoop is just nausea.  There is no pleasure in it at all.   

You are completely mortified. 

“Hey,” Felix says.   His deep voice breaks on a high-pitched twinge.  He clears his throat.   “Um,” he says.  He runs his fingers through his hair, mussing it even more.   He can’t seem to bring himself to meet your gaze, eyes darting all over the corridor but never you.

You curl your fingers, nails pressing hard into your palm. 

“Look,” he says, clearing his throat again.  “We need to talk about—”

You don’t want to hear it.  You can’t hear it.  You are hurt and embarrassed and devastated.  Why couldn’t he just tell you he wanted to pursue a werewolf?  It makes sense, biologically, and you can hardly fault him for the desire.   Honesty would have hurt but not like this.  Now you have to suffer the rejection of the only man you ever truly loved and suffer the fact you were not even worth a conversation. 

It is too late to talk.    

“It’s fine, Felix,” you say.  All your messy, menial scripts crumble in your mind.  Emotion takes over, bitterness and pain and irritation.   “I brought you your things,” you say, pointing to the box.  His eyes dart there for the first time, brow furrowing.  “If I find anymore, I’ll give them to Chan.  He’ll pass them along.”

“Um, what?”  He looks from the box to you. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say, blinking back tears.  Your feelings come out in fragments, word after word with little coherency.  “After everything I went through last year – I just – this is too much.  The werewolf thing – I just – I can’t.  I’m sorry.  I can’t have you in my life like this.  Thank you for your friendship.  The memories will always be important to me.  But it’s for the best we don’t see each other again.”

You had not planned on so much finality, but that was before.  Now you need to leave.  If you stay here another second, you are going to fall apart. 

“Good luck with everything,” you say. 

You turn to leave but he says your name.  You suck in a breath, wait a beat, and slowly turn back around. 

Felix walks partway down the hallway, his whole face screwed up with pain and confusion.  His mouth is moving but no words are coming out.  Finally he closes his eyes and shakes his head, slamming a hand into his hair. 

“Hold on,” he says.  “Hold on, I – what are you talking about?  You – you don’t want to be friends?  How can – You can’t—”  That deep voice breaks again, fracturing with emotion. 

A part of you knows that you are being too harsh, letting your own emotions dominate your words.  Another part of you is too heartbroken to care. 

“It’s for the best,” you say weakly, your voice barely more than a breath of a sound.  “Really.” 

“For the best?” he asks, voice pitching up again.   He has not looked at you so intensely for so long.  “How can you say that to me?”

Much to your horror, he starts crying first.  His tears seem to catch him by surprise too, his expression puckering as he tries to stop it.  A hand flies up, covering his eyes.  He shakes his head rapidly. 

“Felix,” you whisper. 

“For the best?” he repeats.  He drops his hand and takes a shuddering breath. 

You avert your gaze.  You can’t stand to look at his eyes so full of tears, his face so strained with hurt. 

“Did something happen?” he asks, taking a few more steps towards you.  “Was it – was it me?  You said – the werewolf thing –  Did I do something?  Please, please tell me.”

He doesn’t even realize how much he has withdrawn from you.  He is bad at controlling his face, as evidenced now, so he probably has no idea how blatant his repulsion has been.   Maybe he thought he was being subtle.  Maybe he thought you wouldn’t care, that you were just his friend and you would be content to relegate yourself to the sidelines of his life.  Maybe that is all your fault after all. 

If you were a better friend, you would have coped with his new feelings.  You would have been happy for him.  If you were a better friend, maybe he would have told you sooner. 

“You deserve a better friend than me,” you say. 

He looks at you like you are completely crazy, his head tilted, his eyes narrowing. 

“What?” he asks.  “Where is this coming from?  Please, I don’t understand.  You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying.” 

“I already told you,” you say, as calmly as you can.  “I just can’t do this anymore.  Our lives are heading in different directions and I – I – I just need to go.  I want to go.  Please.” 

You have known Felix all your life.  You were children together, hapless youths on a playground that immediately loved each other with the easy, thoughtless affection of childhood. 

He reminds you of that child now, innocently standing in the corridor with his arms hanging limp at his sides and so much bewilderment on his freckled face. 

“You want to go?” he repeats, voice low, soft.  

You nod.  After a second, he nods back, bottom lip still quivering.  A fresh stream of tears spill over his eyes.  He hiccups on a sob, turning away and covering his face.

“Fine,” he says, speaking between shaky breaths.  “Go.  I can’t – I can’t keep you here if you want to go.” 

“Thank you,” you say softly.  The elevator is still waiting when you press the call button.  You step onto it and say, “Good bye, Felix.” 

As the doors close, you hear another choking sob.  You name is lost in the sound.    

The door closes. 

-

The regret is instantaneous.  You stare at your phone for hours and even debate returning to his apartment, but in the end you do nothing. 

You replay every moment, from seeing him with the other werewolf to his confusion and your departure.  It was a long, long walk home, tears streaming down your face as your mind went back even further, remembering every moment of your friendship. 

How could this have happened?  You and Felix have always been open with each other.  He was the first person you confided in about your bad relationship and he immediately did everything to save you from it.  But when it was the other way around, when the werewolf gene activated, he turned away from your friendship.  You poured your heart out to him, trusting he would catch it and keep it safe, but he did not feel the same way. 

Secrets, confusion, heartbreak.  It plays on a loop in your mind. 

It is the middle of the night when you get a text.  He has not messaged in a while, not in a substantial way.  If you scroll back on your phone, you can see the disintegration of communication, the days when he would send message after message with any and every thought slowly petering down to brief replies and a vague acknowledgement at the very best. 

This message is more.  You can hear his voice when you read it, can picture those dark eyes. 

Tell me this isn’t real.  Please. 

You feel sick.  You are angry at him for being the one to withdraw only to suddenly turn on his heel.  You are angry at yourself for reacting so drastically and immaturely.   Mostly, you are just sad. 

If I did something, I’m sorry, he writes.  I’ll never stop being sorry.  I’ll fix it.  I’ll keep my distance.  Just don’t say I can never see you again. 

You type a reply, then delete it, then repeat.  

You say nothing. Every time you try, you see him and her in that corridor, you see him flinching from your touch, you see him recoiling at your scent.  It twists and tangles with memories of warm nights and tender smiles.  You wipe your tears and remember when he did it for you, his thumb so gently sweeping your cheek.  He used to touch you like you were precious to him.  Now he flinches from your touch.    

He does not text the next day, or the day after, or the day after that.   You are not sure if it is better or worse. 

After about a week, he messages again, stating, I miss you.   

You are at your work desk but he immediately seizes your full attention, as he always has. 

You stare at your phone.  You take a breath.   You have had a few days to decompress, to let the wound bleed.  It is still sore to the touch. 

You write, I miss you too. 

You do not check your phone for a while, listening to the relentless buzz as he sends eager message after eager message.  It feels like the old days for a minute, but slows to a stop when you do not reply.  You read them back later, his pleading, his sweetness.  It makes you spiral, on the one hand wanting to take it all back, but on the other hand picturing his flinch, his disgust, knowing it is only a matter of time before your heart breaks again. 

You do not reply.  He takes the hint and gives you a few more days, then he messages, I still have your stuff in my place too, you know? 

I know, is all you say.  I have more of your stuff too.

As predicted, you have been finding his things all over the apartment.   Even things which are technically yours are still stamped with his memory.  He helped you move into this place after the break-up.  He took you shopping and paid for so many things to get you back on your feet.  Everything from blankets to cushions to plates make you think of him.   This was just a room before he made it a home.  Without him, it is just a room again. 

There are a couple days of silence, then some of his packmates start messaging you.  You don’t think he is sending them after you, as Felix would never manipulate or coerce you like that.  They reach out of their own volition, curious because they have not seen you in a while.  But it is all so overwhelming, so you throw your phone under a pillow and go for a walk.

That is when you run into Changbin again.   His smile is charming as ever when he strikes up a friendly conversation.   

“I was wondering,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, not-so-inadvertently flexing his big bicep when he does, “I was going to ask a couple weeks ago, when I helped you with that box – ah, I was kicking myself after because I didn’t see you for a while.  But – I thought we had a nice conversation.  Maybe you and me could do something.”

“Do something,” you repeat.  It sounds like he is asking you out which is a little perplexing, because he is a werewolf and you are a human.  Surely nothing serious can come of it.  You used to think it was possible, as there are plenty of movies and romance novels to prove it, but your personal experience has led you to other conclusions.    

“A date,” he clarifies, grinning that handsome smile.  “You and me.  My treat.  No pressure.  I just think you’re clever and, ah, very beautiful, and I want to know you better.” 

A polite rejection is on the tip of your tongue.  You are not in any emotional state to try dating someone right now.   But you think of Felix and that woman in the corridor, and you think of your phone buzzing, and you think of another long, lonely night stewing in it all.   

Changbin must be looking for something casual anyway.  A werewolf would not truly settle down with a human.  Maybe this is a good opportunity to put yourself out there. 

“Sure,” you say.  “I’d like that.” 

Changbin takes you out a few days later.  You actually do enjoy yourself.  He is very charming and it is easy to talk to him, plus the date itself is very fun.  He takes you out for food then to an arcade, flopping at every game in a hilarious spectacle.  

“I’m a werewolf,” he complains later.  “I’m strong!  Those games were rigged.” 

You giggle, wrapping yourself up in the jacket he leant you.  You are walking back to the apartment building, the warm evening giving way to a cool night as you make the trek.   It is enjoyable until you reach the building, at which point you start to panic.  Does he expect to be invited into your apartment?  Does he expect… more?  The thought leaves you dizzy and not in a good way.  Changbin is so very handsome and so very likable.  Going out with him showed you that you can enjoy yourself without the crutch of a lifelong friendship. 

You don’t need Felix. 

But you still want him. 

You try to go back and find the moment it all went wrong, try to picture a different ending, but it feels impossible.  A foolish fantasy from a girl still clinging to the dying dredges of hope and affection.  There is a wonderful, handsome man at your side, a werewolf at that, and your mind is somewhere else. 

Changbin remarks on it, politely but nonetheless curiously.  He gives you a penetrating look, like he knows something is wrong and there is no use lying. 

You sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I just… I recently broke-up with a friend.”

“With a friend?” he asks, eyebrows jumping with surprise.  “What kind of friend?”

“A close one, very close,” you say.  “We’ve known each other forever, you see.  He’s the most wonderful person I have ever known.  He’s good to everyone, open-hearted, kind, warm.  I have truly never known a better man.  He just makes every room a little brighter when he’s in it.  You would like him, I think.  Everyone does.  He’s a werewolf but the transformation only happened for the first time this year.  Since then…”  You sniffle.  “Things have been different.  Werewolves are biologically wired to be with other werewolves and form packs… I think my human status just started affecting him negatively.”

“Biology,” Changbin says like it is a foreign word.  He looks at you with a cocked eyebrow.  “It exists, yeah, but werewolves still have hearts, you know?  It’s nice finding other werewolves so you aren’t alone, but it isn’t necessary.  Love is complicated.” 

That does give you pause for a moment.  A logical part of you knows it is true, that plenty of werewolves make relationships work with humans, but that is almost harder to accept.  If it’s just biological, then it cannot be helped.  But if it’s a choice—

“So he isn’t biologically wired to hate me now that he’s a werewolf,” you say miserably.  “It’s just something he chose to do.”

“Now, I didn’t say that,” Changbin says.  “But, if that is what happened, he’s an idiot.  If you were that obviously in love with me, ah, I wouldn’t let you go that easy.” 

“I’m not in love with him…”  The lie tumbles without an ounce of confidence.   Changbin just gives you an amused look.  Embarrassed, you drop your gaze.  “It doesn’t matter,” you say.  “He doesn’t feel the same way.  Believe me, I know how he’s been looking at me, or how he won’t. That’s why I walked away.  I was holding onto a friendship that once was and a fantasy that will never be.  It’s time to be reasonable.”

“Ah, I don’t think love is very reasonable,” he says.  “But you should stay true to yourself and do what’s right.  And, in the mean time, if you need a friend…”

You exchange smiles.  A weight lifts off your shoulder as Changbin changes the subject to friendship between you.

“I would like a friend,” you say.  “Thank you, Changbin.” 

“Ah, it’s been fun.  But give me back my jacket,” he teases.  “Since we’re friends I don’t need to impress you.  I’m cold.” 

 “I thought werewolves run hot,” you say, laughing.  You shrug off the coat and hand it to him. 

“Eh, a little bit, maybe more than humans.  But the blood really only gets hot during a rut cycle,” he says.

It is a casual statement.  He is too preoccupied with zipping up his jacket to notice you get a little flustered. 

You know a bit about ruts, namely that werewolves have a cycle which span a few days every month.  It’s a fertility and reproduction thing, pushing developed werewolves to find mates and, well, mate them.   It is a common part of the werewolf lifestyle so it is fair for Changbin to so casually mention it. 

It is not because of Changbin that you feel flustered.  You are thinking about Felix that night at the club, how burning hot he was compared to everyone else.  Now that you think of it, not even Chan felt so hot when he grabbed your wrist, nor Seungmin beside you in the car.  Felix, though, was radiating heat.  Was he starting a rut cycle?  Perhaps that explains why he was so hot and sweaty the next day during your confrontation. 

You remember the other werewolf in the corridor.  Your heart sinks again.  Was she helping him through his rut?  Then again, she left the second you arrived.  Why were they even in the hallway?  If she was spending his rut with him, surely they would have been inside together, not yapping in the hallway... 

“You look worried,” Changbin says. 

You are gnawing your bottom lip, eyes darting around as you contemplate that day.  At his words, you blink to attention, doing your best to shake the anxiety. 

“It’s nothing,” you say.  “I’m just confused about so many things right now.” 

“You know, if this guy really is so great and wonderful – and I think he is, if someone like you loves him so much – then he will probably be happy to answer your questions so you don’t feel so confused.” 

“Ugh.”  You slap a hand over your eyes and shake your head.  “Why do you have to be so decent and mentally competent and right?” 

“Jutdae,” he says, then flexes an arm and squeezes a bicep through the jacket.  “And lots of protein.”

You laugh again.  With a few more words of thanks and a promise to catch up again soon, you give him one final good night hug.  He says he might meet up with some friends so you part ways, Changbin strolling while you head inside. 

You look at your phone, considering his words as you ride the elevator to your floor.  Changbin is right.  Giving Felix the silent treatment is not helping you or him.  Even though the conversation will probably be uncomfortable in so many ways, you should talk to him.  It might not repair anything, but at least you will have closure.  That wound cannot heal so long as it is still bleeding and festering. 

You are drafting a text message in your head when you step off the elevator. 

Then you lift your eyes and stumble to a stop. 

Felix is sitting outside your apartment door.  He is wearing jeans and a blue flannel, a denim jacket on top of that.  A habitual joke is on the tip of your tongue, seeing him so decked out in his favourite colour.  It disappears at the morose look on his face.   

His long blonde hair is down around his shoulders, neglected black roots peeking at the crown of his head.  He looks a little wan and very tired, his head lolled to the side. 

He scents you before he sees you, eyes fluttering closed for a second, then he looks at you. 

He really looks at you. 

Felix always has such a softness in his gaze, but this look is searing.  It moves through you, a forceful heat twining its way around your insides.  It holds you in captivated thrall as he stands, one black boot thumping against the ground with the force of his push as he straightens himself out. 

That piercing looks crinkles as more of your scent registers to him.  His face twists with revulsion, except it is even more severe than usual.  It is so disturbed that it makes you think his past expressions were not disgust at all, because this face is so terrorized by whatever he smells. 

“Where were you?” he asks. 

You have been staring at each other in silence for so long that his voice reverberates loudly in the corridor.   It makes you jump as the smoothness of his deep voice pours into you.  It’s only been a few weeks since you last heard him speak, but somehow you forgot how profoundly that voice could affect you, especially when he drops it so deliberately. 

“Out,” you say.  You are so flustered that your body goes into defense mode, your tone sharp when you say, “I don’t need your permission for that.”   

That softens the slash of his gaze.  He shakes his head. 

“No,” he says softly.  “Of course not.  I’m sorry.”   

His apology is so sincere, eyes searching yours for something beyond the surface.  You feel like he is speaking to you without words, somehow conveying a lifetime of love in the way he looks at you, saying, it’s me.

You soften too, in every way, your voice and your posture, your heart and everything inside you.  So soft and malleable, all that heat expanding in every direction until you can imagine yourself radiating it like he did.  It feels so inappropriate to be aroused when there is so much drama between you, when a serious conversation needs to be had.  But he is looking at you so intensely, colours of emotions playing across his face.  A shaking breath draws your gaze to his lips. 

He says your name.  It feels like a touch.  You feel dizzy again, this time in a very good way, despite yourself.   

You hear his sharp intake of breath as you step a little closer.  Your scent is affecting him.  It makes him do a double-take, looking at you up and down without any subtlety.  It is blatant, searching.  For lack of a better word, predatory, a wolf on the prowl, scenting something it wants, maybe needs.   Your skirt is long, sweeping past your knees, but you feel like he can see past it somehow. 

His eyes, low on your body, flick up to your face.  Your knees knock.  That hungry look twists into something repulsed again, his brow furrowing.  It darkens his whole face.    

Of course.  He is disgusted with you and your boring human scent and he always has been.  You cannot give into hopeful delusions. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask in your most casual tone, striding up to him like you are unaffected by his presence. 

He steps to the side, staring while you fumble around in your purse for your keys. 

“I wanted to talk,” he says. 

You stare into your bag, rifling through mint wrappers and lipsticks and bus tickets.  You can feel his eyes, practically burning a hole in the side of your head.   You want to be chill, want to laugh and tell him he’s acting weird, to knock it off.  You want to be indifferent, remind him there is a distance between you now and his staring is not appropriate. 

Then he puts a hand on the door, near your head.  He moves around you, undeniably scenting you as he goes.  His other hand comes around the other side, caging you between him and the door.  Your back is to him but you can still feel his gaze, shivering when he breathes you in.  

You swallow, cringing at the wave of arousal that moves through you when his nose brushes the back of your neck. 

Werewolf instincts, you remind yourself, trying to find the resolve to snap him out of it, except that’s not what you want.  You want him to press right against you and put his mouth on your neck, to taste everything he is scenting. 

Until you remember he hates the scent.  So much so, he makes a guttural noise that sounds like a growl, rumbling at the base of his throat. 

You expect him to flinch and move away.  You imagine him shaking his head as he abandons his efforts to reconcile because you’re just not worth it. 

You are not expecting him to say, “Why do you smell like another werewolf?” 

“What?” you say.  “I – I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he says, taking another deep breath.  “It’s all over you.  Who is he?” 

Oh, you have been wearing Changbin’s jacket for the last half-hour.  You did not notice any smell but you are not a werewolf.   To Felix, you must be utterly smothered in it.   You wonder if it smells like a sex pheromone, given Changbin was taking you on a date, maybe permeating a desire your human senses did not notice. 

Whatever it is, it has Felix riled in a way you have never seen before.  He has been very careful to hold himself in check around you.  The worst of his werewolf symptoms have been hidden from the start.   It is part of why you are so hurt, that he would not trust you with it. 

Now it overrides his good sense.  His nose swipes the back of your neck again, his fingers curling against the door where his hands sit. 

“He’s just a friend,” you say. 

“A friend,” he repeats.  “He doesn’t smell like a friend.” 

“Well, he is,” you say.  All your desire, heartbreak, and desperation swell inside you, bursting like a firework, hot and crackling.  With a pounding heart, you turn around to face him, intent on confrontation when you snap, “Why would that even matter to you?” 

You look into his eyes.  He is so close, arms around you, that woodsy scent enveloping you.  It feels like coming home, falling into his gaze, letting the heat wash over you as he stares back.  There is something animalistic about his intensity, a predator with its hackles raised, sights set and hunger striking.    

“Felix,” you whisper, voice heavy with a thousand questions that never manifest. 

One hand leaves the door.  He grabs the back of your neck, not roughly, not cruelly, but with an undoubted and irrevocable command.  It makes another firework burst inside you.  You gasp. 

That gasp is interrupted when he dives in without any hesitation, his mouth thoroughly claiming yours in a hot, desperate kiss. 

Whenever you dared to fantasize a kiss with Felix, it was always soft, a little brief, giving it time to grow.  You never imagined so much heat overwhelming you all at once, that his mouth would be so ravishing.  You didn’t even know a kiss could move through your whole body, that when he puts his tongue in your mouth it would feel like he is already fucking you, your body throbbing with want. 

It is not just werewolf instinct because you react too.  You drop your purse on the floor and put your hands on him, one on his chest and the other his neck, clinging to him like he clings to you.  He takes it as invitation, his other hand leaving the door to hold your waist.  His grip is powerful, but despite the supernatural strength it does not hurt.  No, Felix would never hurt you.  Oh, it was so stupid to think he ever would. 

He makes a sound that has you whimpering in turn, the low grunt pressing at your most vulnerable places.  The kiss is open-mouthed, hot and wet and messy. 

He walks you back that final step, pressing you to the door.  He cups the back of your head so you don’t hit it.

You grab the collar of his denim jacket and yank on it, pulling him even closer.  You are completely delirious with him. Everything that has happened and everything that will happen is wholly unimportant as he slots his whole body along yours. 

His leg pushes between your thighs, his hips pinning you to the door.  The thought would have you terrified a year ago, but now it just feels right.  Of course it feels right, because this is Felix, who has seen you at your most vulnerable and healed you, who has caught you every time you fall.  He will always fix what hurts.  He will always take care of you. 

Your body knows it, begging for him, hips rearing towards him.  It presses his thigh against the juncture between your legs, makes it so your flimsy skirt doesn’t matter at all.  You are not thinking when you start to rock against him. 

You forgot your body could feel so much pleasure. 

“Oh, fuck—” he says, his already deep voice somehow even lower as he curses.  

You squeak as he holds you against the door, deliberately rocking his thigh between yours with more pressure and speed than you could manage.  It makes a torrent of mortifying sounds spill past your lips, but he gathers them all up lovingly, tastes them on his tongue as he chases down your gasping breath.  Every little mewl, every breath, every squeaking hiccup is swallowed up by him. 

“Come for me, please,” he whispers, roughly.  It sounds like begging despite how much physical power he has over you.  It would scare if it was someone else, but that supernatural strength doesn’t matter because it bends to you, waiting for your permission.

You just barely remember you are in the corridor.  You hope no one chooses now to step out of their apartment.  You wonder if the other werewolves on the floor can scent whatever pheromones Felix must be giving off. 

It doesn’t matter.  You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you can’t stop it.  You’re going to come on him, just like this, fully clothed but so wet that you can feel it gushing as he grinds his thigh against you. 

You grab onto his belt, feeling the curve of his bulge just below your palm.  It makes his breath stutter and it makes you surrender.  Your body seizes and your pussy throbs as you come, a strangled cry in your throat while rocking desperately against him.   

It settles slowly, the world coming back in increments.  You are breathing hard, clinging to each other, bodies still pressed so tightly together.  You can feel his heart beating hard and fast.  It keeps rhythm with the lingering thrum below. 

So much for conversation.  Grinding all over Felix in a semi-public space was not in the plan at all. 

“Oh my god,” you say, voice breaking as you are hit with realization.  You push at him and he goes obediently. 

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head.  He runs his hands through his hair, shakes out the length of it while breathing erratically. 

Your heart is still pounding.  You put your hand over your chest like that will calm it down. 

Felix looks at you.

You recognize this look. 

This look – this is the face you have been mistaking for disgust.  Now that you have seen him truly reviled, snarling at Changbin’s scent on your body, you realize it is not disgust, not at all.  It’s pain, a wincing, cringing desperation as he fights to keep everything inside him. 

It is barely contained right now, his chest still heaving, his fly still bulging, hands shaking at his sides as he stares at you with open need. 

“Oh my god,” you say again.  You lean against the door for support, closing your eyes to try and make sense of the world.  You see the events of the last month play out, the months before that, going back further and further until you shake your head to clear your mind.  “I just—”  You open your eyes, meet his anxious gaze.  “Just give me some time,” you say.  “I – I need to think – I’m so—”

“It’s okay,” he says, hands out to placate you, but careful not to touch you.  He forces himself to smile despite his own emotional tumult.  Sweat breaks out on his hairline.  “Take your time, I – I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to—I just wanted to talk—I—”

“I know,” you say.  “I know.” 

He nods sharply, clearing his throat as he turns awkwardly to the side.  He points vaguely behind him, stutters something like, “I’ll go, um, I’ll just—”

He turns on his heel and walks away, taking the corner to the stairwell so fast that you blink and he is gone. 

You can hear him bounding down the stairs.  You stand there, listening until he is too far to hear. 

With every limb shaking, you pick up your purse and finally fish out your keys.  You manage to turn the key in the lock and step inside before you crumple to your knees. 

This time your thoughts are a very different whirlwind, just as confused and just as emotional, but so conquered by sensation that you find yourself just sitting there, touching your lips, thinking of him.

There is a lot to think about.

-

You realize you have been wrong about so many things.  You and Felix should have spoken a long time ago.  You have both been skirting each other, tentatively regarding the other, worried you might hurt them.  It resulted in you both getting hurt anyway.   

You are so, so scared of making that hurt worse.  It makes you hesitate. 

A day goes by.  Felix respects your space.  On the second day, when you contemplate reaching out for a conversation – a real conversation – your phone buzzes. 

You are surprised to see that it is Bang Chan. 

Hey, he writes.  I need to talk to you right now.  It’s about Felix. 

Your heart-rate shoots through the roof, terror obliterating every other emotion.

Is he okay? you write.  What happened??

Look, I’m just gonna say it, Chan writes.  Felix is in rut.  You know what that is? 

Yes, you say. 

At first, you are relieved he is not hurt and it is something so mundane.  Then you are flustered as you recall the other night.  You remember the heat between you, the way you came on his body and the way he begged for it.   Even now, you are more aroused than embarrassed, shivering as you remember the way he looked at you. 

Right, Chan says.  Look I promise I’m not asking you to sleep with him or something.  I wouldn’t do that.  You have no responsibility for anything.   But you also gotta know that dumb kid is in love with you, right?  Like… insane in love.  Like… won’t let anyone else see him or help him even though he’s a new werewolf, hasn’t had that many ruts, and it hasn’t even been a whole month since the last one. 

You watch as each text appears, your adrenaline building with every word.  The phone shakes in your tight grip.

Didn’t someone help him with his last rut? You ask.  I saw her at his apartment.   

What??? Chan answers quickly.  No.  I sent her over to see if he needed anything, because he kept telling me to fuck off because I was telling him to call you.  I’m telling him again but he still won’t listen.  You know he thinks he’s a monster right? 

You are still reeling from the revelation that he and the girl were not an item at all, that they were truly just having a conversation.  He was flushed and sweaty because he was in rut, not because he spent all morning with her.  You were the one racing to conclusions, not even giving him a chance to explain.  You remember him stepping towards you, asking to speak, but you cut him off before he could.  You assumed he just wanted to reject you. 

Chan says Felix is in love you.  Is it possible that after a conversation with another wolf, he was gathering the courage to tell you, only for you to say you never wanted to see him again? 

Now you read the last message and your heart sinks, a painfully heavy weight in your gut.     

A monster? you write.  What do you mean? 

That doesn’t even make sense.  Felix is the kindest, most loving man you know.  Assuming werewolves are monstrous is such a medieval thought that it never occurred to you for a second that he would feel that way. 

Yeah, Chan says.  Look, he never told me the details because he said it wasn’t his story to tell, but he told me that you went through something really hard and that was why he didn’t want to stress you out with the werewolf thing. It can be pretty intense, especially at the start, and especially when you’re already an adult.  He spent his whole life thinking he was one thing only for everything to change really quickly.  He was really scared of coming on too strong and losing you because of it.   

You made his worst fears come true, you realize, numb as you stare at the screen. 

You know Felix, Chan writes, He’d rather just suffer alone than have someone else feel it too.  I told him to trust you more, that you would want to help, but there’s no getting through to him when he’s like that.  I love the guy but he can be kinda stubborn.

You both have a stubborn streak.  The last month of drama attests to that. 

What do you want me to do?  you ask.  You have more answers but you feel just as lost as before, maybe even more. 

Can you just talk to him please?  Chan says.  He holed himself up in his apartment and he won’t let anyone in.  He stopped answering my messages too.  Ruts are a Molotov cocktail of hormones.  They’re intense even if you’re experienced and he isn’t.  I just don’t want him to get hurt and not do anything about it because he doesn’t want to bother anyone. 

You remember Felix in that corridor, arms hanging limp at his sides, looking at you with so much hurt and sorrow.  Despite that, he didn’t pressure you to stay.  He listened.  He let you go because he thought you wanted that.  He stood by himself in that corridor, crying over a box of his things that he thought had a home with you. 

Tears blur your vision.  You have to rub your eyes before answering Chan. 

I’ll go to him, you write.  I don’t want him hurt either.

I know you don’t, Chan says.  You have a spare key to his place?

Yes.

Good, Chan says.  He’s not answering his door so you’re gonna need it.  Give the guy a smack for me, hey? 

His joke makes you laugh, though it is strained. You give yourself a second to compose yourself then you are on your feet.  You are in a loose house dress and tights, face bare and hair undone, but you do not waste another second.  You know you can be yourself around Felix no matter what.  You wish he understood the feeling was reciprocated.

This time, instead of running away, you run to him.  This time, you will make him understand. 

-

The two city blocks pass in a blur.  You have never moved so fast in all your life, bumping into slow stragglers as you barrel down the street. 

By the time you step off the elevator on his floor, you are warm and out of breath.  You wipe a little perspiration off your forehead as you approach. 

You were so frantic in your determination to arrive, there was no time for nerves to materialize.  They strike all at once, twisting anxiously as you knock.   You wait a minute but he doesn’t answer, just like Chan predicted.

You take a steadying breath and put the key in the lock.  Hand over your heart, you push open the door and step into the apartment.   

It does not look any different from the last time you were here.  Even your slippers are still by the door.  You disregard them now, stepping out of your shoes and venturing forward with a nervous little patter. 

If you were a werewolf, maybe you would have scented a change in the air, but it smells and feels familiar.  The apartment is very still, maybe a little warmer than usual, sunlight streaming through the windows. 

You finally hear a sound.  You leave the small foyer and make a very clumsy entrance into the room. 

You can hardly blame yourself for stumbling.  Felix is sitting on the couch in nothing but a pair of jeans.  It looks like the same blue jeans from the other night.  Yes, in fact, you are sure they are because you can see the faintest streak on his thigh.  You were embarrassed to find you were so wet that it came through your panties and skirt.  You wondered if it got on him. 

You certainly have an answer now.  

Felix is touching himself.  He is slouched back on the couch, his bare chest damp with sweat, his knees spread apart.  His jeans are pulled open and it looks roughly torn, the zipper snapped off the fly.  His hand is wrapped around his cock.  One of your t-shirts is clutched tightly in the other hand.  He is holding it against his face, covering his eyes, mouth, and nose.  He is clearly chasing the scent, knuckles whitening with how tightly he grips it.     

His abdomen clenches as he approaches a climax.  You watch as he quickly wraps the t-shirt around his cock, fucking the material.  His eyes are closed, head thrown back. 

You snap to the realization that he has no idea you’re here, so overwhelmed with your scent from the shirt.

You quickly cover your eyes with both hands and yelp his name. 

His reply is a startled yelp as well.  You peek at him through your fingers, watching as he frantically stuffs the t-shirt between the couch cushions.  He tries to stand at the same time, fighting to close his pants over an uncooperative erection that does not seem to be going down. 

“Fuck, sorry, I – hold on, fuck – I can explain—” he stammers. 

“Um, me too,” you say.    

He can’t get his pants closed but he gets himself tucked back inside.  He keeps a grip on the fly with one hand, the other running through his long hair. 

Then he is standing there, flushed and out of breath.  You slowly lower your fingers from your face. 

There is a moment of silence, both of you startled.  After a bit of staring, he cracks a nervous smile.  You tentatively return it. 

His brow smooths out, his dimple poking into his cheek.  He chuckles first, then you laugh, then you are laughing together.  It feels good, letting out all the ridiculous tension. 

“Why, uhh, why are you here?” he finally asks. 

“Um, Chan texted,” you say. 

“Oh, for the love of—”  He cuts off his own tirade, shaking his head and exhaling heavily. 

You twist your hands together, fingers budging in a nervous fidget. 

“Um, he told me… he told me…”  You forget your precise words because Felix meets your eyes, holding your gaze in his.  You lose yourself in the depth of his dark eyes.  You think your heart is beating loud enough to hear.  

You look away, overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare.  Your eyes stray to the couch, to your t-shirt poking out between the cushions.  You are startled by a jolt between your legs, like a lightning bolt of arousal, the previous scene suddenly resonating with clarity. 

“I—”  You almost choke on your words, so much nervousness, so much fear, so much need in your voice.  You meet his searching eyes, stepping forward as if compelled by them.  “I thought my scent disgusted you.” 

He blinks back at you, your words taking a moment to settle.  Then he furrows his brow and tilts his head.  A bit of hair falls forward and he tucks it back. 

“Uhhhh, what?” he asks.  “Dis—disgusted me?  You thought—”  He looks back at the couch too.  He is very flushed, his rut no doubt keeping him suspended on a perpetual edge, and his ears darken with a richer tinge of red.  “Um.  No.”  He laughs at the ridiculousness, looking at you with wide, blinking eyes.  “I, uh, I definitely don’t – I think you – I mean—”

“Um, yes,” you say, clasping your hands together again.  You rock a little on the balls of your feet.  “Yes.  I can see that, um, I think you’re not disgusted.”

“No,” it comes out on a breath.  His eyes drop from your face down your body.  You look so simple, but he looks at you like no one has ever been more beautiful.   “No, I’m not disgusted.  Why did you think that?”

“You, um, you make faces sometimes,” you say.  It sounds so petty and silly to say out loud, but it’s time to get it all out there.  “And you’ve been so distant, Felix.  I thought that maybe, now that you’re a werewolf, you didn’t want anything more to do with me.” 

His face scrunches up with bewilderment. 

“Nothing – nothing to do with you?” he asks, voice breaking where it pitches up.  It would usually make you laugh, but now is not the time as you stare back, all your insecurities and vulnerabilities on display.  He does not laugh at them either, taking a small step towards you with a tender look on his face.  “I could never feel that way,” he says.  “You’re my whole world. I – I’ve told you that.  You’re my – you’re my person.”

“Chan said you felt like a monster,” you say softly.  “I wish you would have told me how you felt.  I could have told you that you aren’t a monster, not at all.   You’re my person too, you know.” 

He exhales, shoulders deflating.  He rubs the bridge of his nose, thinking of something to say.  Eventually he shakes his head and drops his hand. 

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” he says.  “You’ve been through so much.  I couldn’t – I couldn’t ask you to take care of me too.”

“Felix,” you say, throat cloying with emotion.  You take a step closer as well.  “Felix, you’re not a burden.  I wanted so badly to take care of you.  I – I love you.”

The word love resonates like thunder.  It pierces the air, leaves a ringing aftermath. 

“You – you love me,” Felix says, like the words are incomprehensible.  “As a – as a friend – or?”  He tries to look disinterested but completely fails, staring at you with all that intensity again. 

You combat the instinct to make yourself small, to hide your vulnerabilities, to retreat into denial and just smile prettily.  You hold his gaze.  When you smile, it is honest and affectionate. 

“I love you, Felix,” you say.  “As more than a friend.  As everything.” 

“Oh,” he says.  His hand goes back into his hair, untucking it from behind his ear just to tuck it back again.  His eyes dart everywhere like he is replaying the scene and scanning it for answers.  He blinks at you.  “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” you say, with a small laugh. 

“But you – you never wanted to see me again,” he says, then lifts his brows, expression all at once understanding.  “Because you thought I didn’t want you.  Oh my god.  I’m such an idiot.”

“I’m not the brightest either,” you tease.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, closing the distance yet again with another step.  He forgets the state of his clothes and lets go of his pants, too wrapped up in his words to notice the startled drop of your eyes.  Not much is exposed, just the shape of his hips and a stubborn bulge, but it still leaves you sweating. 

“Look,” he says.  “I – I can’t just say I love you.”  Before your heart can sink, he continues frantically, “Because it’s not enough.  I do, I do love you.  The werewolf gene activated for you.  The doctors asked if I had been in any dangerous situations that might have triggered it and I said no.  They – they said it sometimes activates in peril, when you feel the need to protect yourself.  That’s what happened to me.  Except it wasn’t because I wanted to protect myself.  I wanted to protect you.”

“Me?” you say in a small voice, like you can hardly believe it.

“Yes,” he says, smiling, both hands moving as he talks.  “I felt so helpless, watching the way you were hurting.  I wanted to protect you.  I never wanted to see you suffering again.  I tried to be calm around you but pushing it down just made the feeling more desperate.  My wolf, it’s like my heart.  It’s just an animal, you know?  And it only understands loyalty and love.  And the first time I changed, I didn’t think like a person, no, but I thought of you all the same.  They could barely keep me contained in that hospital.  I just wanted to run to you. I wanted to protect you.  I wanted to keep you safe. Staying away from you… it’s been killing me.”

“Me too,” you say, so filled to brim with emotion you think you might burst.  “Oh, Felix, me too.” 

A laugh spills out of him, more of a release than humour.  You take another step towards each other, this time close enough to clasp hands between you. 

“I wish you would have told me,” you say.  “But it’s my fault too.  I know I’m still recovering in some ways.  I’m quick to think little of myself.  But I shouldn’t put you in the role of the mean voices in my head.  I’m sorry too.  So, so sorry.” 

“How could you think I’d ever be disgusted with you?” he asks in a low voice. 

When he cups your cheek, a shiver moves down your spine.  You straighten, leaning into his touch, looking at him with wanting eyes.  He swallows hard, staring back. 

“It was silly,” you say.  “I even thought you were seeing someone else.  That werewolf lady in your pack.  I thought maybe you wanted a werewolf mate and I wouldn’t be enough.” 

“That’s crazy,” he says.  “You’re my everything.” 

“And you’re mine,” you say.  

You touch his arm, just the lightest caress of your fingertips.  His skin is so hot it makes you gasp.  Your cool fingers must be a balm because his eyes close and a little sigh parts his lips. 

“Uh,” he breathes, eyes still closed.  “Sorry for what you, uh, saw, coming in—  I promise I don’t usually – ruts are just—”

You step a little closer.  You can feel his breath on your cheek when he breathes in and out. 

His hands drop to his sides as you lean in and kiss his neck.  It is just a chaste touch but it makes his eyes fly open.  He looks at you and you swear his eyes have never been so dark.   

“You want me,” he says.  When you nod, he releases another deep breath, a massive exhale of relief.  “Ruts are… intense,” he says. 

“Mm,” is your gentle reply.  Your eyes run down his bare skin, fingers itching to touch.  You meet his gaze.  “But it’s you, right?” 

Some romances depict ruts as an out of control haze.  Though Felix is certainly more intense, it is your best friend’s familiar eyes locked on yours.  You realize it actually makes him the vulnerable one, all his desires so blatant, his needs on the surface, unable to hide them for a second.  You understand why he held back, especially while you were in recovery.   There is so much of him. 

But that is what you love.  You can never have enough. 

“Yes,” he says.

His deep voice is so rough that it makes you whimper.  His hand jumps at the sound, settles on the back of your neck like it did yesterday.  Anticipation tingles from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes, every inch of your body aware of him, desperate for him. 

“Yes,” he says again, staring at your mouth.  “Yes, it’s me.” 

Your breath catches when he squeezes your nape.  In the back of your mind, you recall all those little courtship rituals of werewolves, the instincts that manifest between them and their mate.  A gentle squeeze of the nape is a request for your submission, for you to put your trust in his strength and his affection.  

You do, utterly.  You rest your hands on his waist, your cool palms against his hot skin, making his eyes flash with hunger. 

“What are you waiting for?” you ask, his mouth so close, kissing a tantalizing promise.  

He smiles that real smile, eyes crinkling sweetly, sunshine radiating with all that heat. 

“I told you, ruts can be intense,” he says.  “I’m waiting for your permission to let me have my way with you.”

“You have it,” you say.  Your eyes drop to his chest and you run your hand from his collarbone all the way down to his abdomen, watching the muscles tense under the caress of your fingers. 

You smile at him, swiping at his hot skin with your fingertips as you step back.  He lets you go, hands dropping to his sides.  He moves when you do, like his whole body is tethered to yours, magnetized to your core.  Each step you take, he follows with a fixated prowl. 

“Do whatever you want with me,” you say, peeling down a strap of your dress.  “I’m yours.” 

His steps gain speed, his smile brightening.  In a matter of seconds, he is chasing you into his bedroom, laughing behind your trail of giggles as you scamper ahead of him. 

He catches you around the waist inside the bedroom, pulling your backside into his front.   The straps of your dress are both lowered and you hold it to your chest with your hand, heart pounding from excitement and the little chase. 

You make a sweet sound when his nose swipes your neck.  You tip your head, offering more skin.  It is a good thing his grip is so strong, because you tremble when he exhales, breath caressing your skin.  He gathers your dress in his hands, plucking the fabric out of your grip.  He pushes it down your body and it puddles on the floor. 

“Felix,” you say on a sigh when he kisses the back of your neck while working his fingers under your bra.  You help remove it, dropping it onto the floor.  You rock back against him when he touches you.  He uses both hands to cup your breasts and squeeze. 

“Can’t believe you thought I was disgusted,” he says.  “Like I didn’t spend my whole last rut in here thinking about you.” 

“Y-you did?” you ask, with a little whimper, because his open jeans are not doing much to shield him and you can feel how hard he is against you.  

“Yes,” he says, a hand coming up to circle your throat, gripping it possessively as he puts his teeth in your neck.  It makes you jump in his arms, body shaking. 

He holds you tight against him, the denim of his pants rough through the thin fabric of your tights. 

“I’m sorry for all that,” you rasp.  “I must have made it so hard for you.”

“Mm,” he says, grinning against your neck.  “You made it very hard.”

“Pfft.”  You slap a hand over your mouth when laughing.  “That was a terrible joke.”

“Mm. True though.” 

You squeak when he nudges you forward, so close to the bed that you stumble right onto it.   He climbs up behind you, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back. 

“At first, I was just sad,” he says. 

He leans back to grab something off his bedside table.  You admire the length of his body as he does, the low-slung jeans, the sheen of sweat across his chest, and his subtle, slender musculature.  

You meet his gaze when he comes back.  He is kneeling over you, a cocky grin on his face.  He gathers his hair and ties it with the band he just grabbed. 

“Then I really thought about it,” he says.  “Mm, yeah, thought about hunting you down.”  He straddles your thigh, his hands planting on either side of your head.  “I’d find you and I’d remind where you belong.”  He leans down, kissing along your jaw.  “With me.  Under me.  Moaning my name.  Forgetting about everything else.” 

“Did you—”  You start but gasp, his mouth on your throat, biting, sucking, licking.  You arch your back, leaning into his mouth as he works his way down your body.  “Did you… like with my shirt… when I saw you before…”

“What?  Did I get off to your scent?” he asks.  “Yes.”  His hand follows his mouth, fingers curling into the band of your tights.  “I told myself I shouldn’t.  The last few ruts I managed.  It wasn’t fun, mostly too hot, but I got by.  But – you weren’t coming back, were you?  You left so many pretty things here that made me think of you…”

He abruptly kneels upright.  He uses both hands to grab the waistband of your tights. 

“Found one of your cardigans,” he says.  “Soft, like you.  Put it on my pillow and fucked my hand like I wanted to fuck you.” 

He rips your tights open with little effort, tearing right down to the thigh. 

“Put it on my face,” he says.  “Tasted it.  Like I wanted to taste you.” 

You moan for him, threading your fingers through his hair as he gets between your legs and opens his mouth on your pussy.  He licks right through the material of your panties, like he doesn’t care at all, tormenting you with the obstruction until it is soaked through.   You say his name over and over, your thighs already shaking just from warming up. 

“Mmm.”  He pushes himself up again, his mouth wet, tongue sweeping over his lips.  He grabs your panties by the waistband and tugs them down. 

By now, his jeans have slid down his hips.  He is so hard, beading at the tip, as wet for you as you are for him.  You watch as he uses your panties to quickly jerk his cock, gathering the wetness at the tip, then tossing them over his shoulder. 

He falls back on top of you, face between your legs, licking you with nothing in his way. 

“Wanted to find you,” he says between teasing kitten licks, looking up at you, smirking with the flick of his tongue.  “Wanted to make you come so hard – mm, fuck you so good…”  He slips two fingers inside you.  Even though it has been some time, they move with no hindrance, your pussy so wet that he sinks right in. 

“Yeah,” he says, momentarily going cross-eyed with his face so close to your pussy, watching his fingers move in and out of you.  He grins when you clench around him.  “Show you we were meant to be,” he says.  “Just like this.”  He licks you again, fingers moving so quickly that it sounds as obscenely wet as it feels.  “Wolf or not.  Knew you were mine.  Was gonna make sure you know too.” 

“Ohh,” you say, tugging at the blankets beneath you.  “Who are you and what have you done with my sunshine Felix?” 

He laughs, a low chuckle, the vibrations moving in your pussy.

“Mm, I’m right here, sweetheart,” he says.  “Right… here…” 

Then his mouth is occupied, little licks replaced with broad strokes of his tongue, then a repeating pattern that has you swelling and gushing on his tongue.  You come so hard that it makes you dizzy, head thrown back as you squirt all over his thrusting fingers. 

“That’s it,” he says, kissing your wet thighs. 

While you are recovering, he grabs you and moves you.  He arranges you neatly in the middle of the bed, making sure you are comfortable.  Then he lets down his hair and removes his jeans.

“Felix,” you say, though it is generous to describe your voice as anything but a needy whimper.   

He runs his hands up and down your trembling thighs, coaxing you open with murmurs of sweet nothings.   You let him in, stringing your arms around his neck as he fits his hips between your legs and leans over you.   You feel the head of his cock against your pussy, still throbbing with aftershocks.  You are clenching around nothing, needing him, so ready you could scream. 

You don’t scream, but sigh, like you are relieved when he gets inside you, like this is what you have been missing all along.

He takes his time despite the fever of his rut.  Maybe because of it.  His senses are so heightened, the pleasure felt so strongly.  He groans, eyes closed, putting his face in your neck and breathing deeply as he slowly rocks into you. 

“What were you thinking,” he murmurs, lips moving on your throat, “Trying to run away from me?” 

“I’m ��� I’m sorry,” you say, interrupted with a hiccupping little uh-uh when he rolls his hips and you feel him deeper, harder, faster. 

“You thought I wanted someone else?” he asks.  “Impossible.” 

Your eyes are closed, head thrown back.  He grabs your chin and pulls your face to him, says, “Look at me.  Right now.” 

You do, blinking your eyes open.  His thumb rubs your bottom lip and you open your mouth.  You don’t even need to think, instantly accepting the intrusion of the digit, sucking on it while holding his gaze. 

It would have terrified you a year ago, with anyone else, losing yourself to instinct like that, opening yourself up so willingly.  With Felix, it feels right, it feels good. 

“It’s you and me,” he says.  “You understand that?”

You nod, humming affirmatively around his thumb.  It rubs over your tongue, opens your mouth a little more.   You want to close your eyes with every rolling thrust into you, but he tugs your face back to him when you try. 

“You’re my mate,” he says.  “Just you.  It’s always – always been you.”  He groans on the second always, picking up some speed, making you whine against his fingers.  

He is so hot, clearly in the grips of his rut fever, but you cling to him, accepting everything he has to offer. 

 “Gonna be mine,” he says.  “That’s right, yeah?”  You nod frantically.  “Yeah.  Gonna put a ring on your finger.  You’re gonna be so good to me, aren’t you?  Gonna let me take care of you.  Gonna be my mate.  Gonna have my children.  You and me.  Home.  Oh, yes, sweetheart, that’s it—”

You clench so tightly at the mention of children.  It catches you off guard, your body’s visceral and immediate response, faster than your brain compute can why.  You have told Felix you want children one day, in the future, back when you were just friends and it was an abstract thought.  Thinking of a home with him, having his children, making a whole life together, being bound so completely …

“Fuck,” you say, his thumb sliding out of your mouth.  He cups your face to keep it locked on him, your lips brushing each other. 

“Look at me,” he whispers. 

You do, though you are so close that you barely see him.  It feels like he is everywhere, everything, around you and inside you.  You melt when he kisses you, stealing your breath as he claims you so completely.  You kiss back, messy and haphazard, all heat and wetness, but it feels good.    

“C-can’t get pregnant,” you say with a pout, a bit delirious from getting fucked, letting the words roll thoughtlessly off your tongue.  “B-birth control.”

“I know,” he says.  He moves a little, gets up so he can hold your hips and pull you onto his cock with every thrust.  “I’m stronger,” he says, just as deliriously, watching where his cock moves inside you.  “Yeah.  Gonna fill you up so much, it’ll happen anyway.  It can’t stop me.” 

He holds your hips, keeps you in place.  He thrusts into you deeply and says, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and thrusts again, “You’re mine,” and comes inside you. 

It is not quite like all the werewolf pornography, with exaggerated knots on preposterously sized cocks, but werewolf physiology is still a little different than human.  That difference is exacerbated on a rut.  You feel it as he comes, the way he swells and gets harder, just enough that you feel your fullest as he releases.  Pushing at you walls, stretching you around him, making you his without question. 

He doesn’t really soften after, the rut sustaining him, but the swelling goes down.  Even then, not entirely, as you feel a sharper burn when he pulls out of you.  The flicker of pain is oddly tantalizing, a biting sensation on top of so many others.  It ripples through you, makes you moan. 

Your whole body is twitching, eyes closed as you come back to yourself. 

You look up at Felix.  His eyes are between your legs, his hand running up your thigh.  You feel his thumb spread your pussy open, feel his release spilling out of you.  That is the other different element; with a werewolf, there is a lot more of everything.  

Though you know your birth control will function regardless, when you feel all that inside you… for a moment, you believe he might be strong enough to overpower it. 

It makes you giddy, pleasure moving through your body.  He smiles at you, all sunshine and sweetness.   Then he takes control of your hips and puts himself back inside you.  The refractory period on a rut is virtually nonexistent on the peak day, which is usually the second day, which is today. 

“You okay?” he asks, rocking into you slowly even though he fits so easily now, your body made to take him. 

You nod, sliding your hands over his shoulders.  You scratch across his back then up in his hair, making him grunt and close his eyes.  He leans down and kisses you, continuing to fuck you until you are making all those sweet sounds again. 

“Good?” he asks, kissing your jaw, your neck. 

“Good,” you say. 

“Not too much?” he checks. 

“Mm, no,” you say.  You give him a teasing smile.  “Not enough actually.”

“Oh, really?”  He laughs, eyes big with playful incredulity.  “Should I growl and bite more?”  He makes a playful snarl like the werewolves in all the erotica. 

It makes you laugh.  You can’t remember the last time you laughed while having sex, but it feels so good, just as good as all the hot, desperate stuff.    

“Hmm, maybe not,” he says, laughing too.  “Maybe all the making-a-bitch stuff is a bit much, hm?” 

It seems you will learn more about yourself than him over this rut, because that also makes you clench involuntarily.  He blinks with surprise, mouth in a soft ‘o’ as he looks down at you.  He laughs just a little at the look on your face, a low chuckle as his grin widens. 

You cover your mouth, blinking innocently up at him. 

“Oh shit,” he says.  “I see.” 

You pout when he pulls out of you, but there is little time to feel bereft because he flips you over onto your front.  Your face lands in the pillows, then he yanks you down the bed.  

Oh, it feels filthy suddenly, because the new angle opens you up and you can feel come dripping out of you.  It catches his eye too, because he puts his fingers there and stuffs it back inside you.  

With little effort, he gets you back under him, pushes down your shoulders and lifts up your hips.  You feel him at your entrance again, pushing the tip past the rim. 

“Is that it?” he asks, dropping his voice so low yet sounding so sweet.  “You want me to make you my bitch, baby?” 

He slams home, holding your hips up while pounding into you with relentless measure.   You grab a pillow to hold, yelping and whining into it as he fucks you with wild abandon.  

For a few seconds, you succumb to that single-minded animalistic pursuit, and you really do believe he can put a baby in you.  You start babbling the desire – begging for it, asking him to fill you up. 

“Please, please, please,” you say, gasping. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says, draping himself over your back, not stopping his hips for a second.  “I got you.  I’ll give you a baby.  So good for me.  Made to take it from me, yeah, baby?” 

 You know you are going to come again, his angle and precision too much to withstand.  Sure enough, you are coming all over his cock in a matter of seconds, squeezing him into another orgasm too. 

He kneels behind you, throws his head back while coming.  Then he grinds inside you like he is trying to get it as deep as possible. 

“Oh, Felix,” you say, whimpering when he pulls out, still hard, the burn less this time because you are so filthy wet that he slides so easily.   You can feel his release gush out of you, his fingers chasing it, pushing back into you. 

He rubs at you until you are rocking your hips and coming on his fingers.  It is so much stimulation that your eyes water and your nose starts to sniffle. 

He rolls you over and cups your face.  You open your mouth instinctively, tilting your head to expose your neck.    He looks at you like he can’t really believe you are exist and that you are here. 

“Wow,” he says.  The hand on your face slides so he can put his thumb back in your mouth, letting you suck on it like it is giving you life.  He clenches his jaw, makes a rough sound, presses down on your needy tongue.  “Next time,” he says, while starting to put his cock back into you, “Your mouth.  And my mouth.  You’re gonna sit on my face for hours.  I’m gonna take care of you.  Oh—”

He is halfway inside you when you reach up, putting your hands on his chest.  He stops immediately, pulling out, taking back his hands, looking at you with a concerned tilt to his head. 

“Will you lay on your back?” you ask, voice hoarse. 

He blinks, like for a second he doesn’t understand words, but then he obeys.  His hair is in absolute disarray, a veritable lion’s mane.  He rakes it back, smooths it down as best he can.  He never takes his eyes off you, watching as you sit up, as you climb on top of him, as you put him back inside you and set a slower pace. 

“My turn,” you say, smiling.  “I want to take care of you too.” 

He smiles, putting his hands on your hips but not guiding them.   He lets you take the lead, moving on top of him, finding all the ways to make him moan and close his eyes and twitch inside you.   

You make him come twice that way.  After the second time, he finally starts to soften enough that you can take a break. 

You lay down beside him, squeaking with surprise when you press down on your belly and a little more come gushes out of you.  You look at each other, his face the picture of total innocence despite his hand in it.  You swat his chest, rolling onto your side and putting your head on his chest. 

He laughs, putting his arm around you, stroking your back. 

“You know I do mean it,” he says, looking down at you.  “I want everything with you.” 

“Me too,” you say.  You kiss his chest, then his neck, under his jaw, making him sigh contently.  “I love you, Felix.  Everything about you, wolf and all.” 

“I love you too,” he says, pressing you close, kissing your forehead. 

There is a long moment of content silence.  He strokes your back, up and down, lulling you to a dozy state.  It is too early to sleep and, besides, the sheets need changing before that – even though you suspect they will just be dirtied again. 

You are contemplating these sweet mundane nothings when he says, “You’re in the pack, you know.  As my mate.  That makes you one of us.” 

“Does it?” you ask. 

“Yes,” he says.  “I’m telling you this, because you’re a packmate and Chan is leader, but you’re my mate, so you have to take my side and tell him to fuck off when he tries to say I told you so.” 

You laugh, shaking your head and playfully rolling your eyes. 

“Sounds good,” you say.  “Hmm, I might go have a shower before… the next… round…” 

You do not have to look down to know that he is hard already, his blinking gaze revealing all.  You giggle together and kiss again. 

“All right, fair enough,” you say, eyes closed, exposing your neck obediently when he cups your nape.  You press against him, moaning softly when he scents your neck then sucks a bruising kiss there.  “It can wait,” you say, smiling.  “We’ve been waiting for this long enough.” 

“Mm,” he says, already slipping back into his feverish need.  He grabs you and pulls you back on top of him. 

There is not much talking for a while, but there is some laughter and plenty of smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you are looking forward to everything that follows after.   

[deception-united]

Let's talk about foreshadowing.

Foreshadowing can add a lot of depth to your writing and make it more exciting for the readers. They create a sense of coherence and satisfaction when future events unfold as hinted—or shock if they don't.

Here are some tips for effectively using foreshadowing in your novels and books:

Plan Ahead: Foreshadowing works best when it's woven into the fabric of your story from the beginning. As you outline your plot, think about key events and revelations you want to foreshadow, and strategically place hints and clues accordingly.

Use Subtlety: Foreshadowing doesn't have to be obvious or heavy-handed. The best foreshadowing is often subtle and understated, leaving readers with a sense of intrigue and curiosity rather than outright prediction.

Establish Patterns and Motifs: Look for opportunities to establish recurring patterns, motifs, or symbols that can subtly hint at future events. These can be visual, thematic, or even linguistic cues that tie into the larger narrative arc of your story.

Create Tension: Foreshadowing is most effective when it creates tension and anticipation for the reader. Use foreshadowing to hint at potential conflicts, obstacles, or twists.

Reveal Gradually: Foreshadowing doesn't have to be limited to one-off hints or clues. Instead, consider how you can layer foreshadowing throughout your story, gradually revealing more information as the plot unfolds.

Pay Attention to Timing: The timing of your foreshadowing is crucial. Introduce hints and clues at strategic points in your story, building anticipation and suspense without giving too much away too soon.

Revisit Foreshadowing: Ensure that foreshadowed events are eventually fulfilled or addressed in the story. Revisiting earlier hints or clues can provide a satisfying payoff for readers and reinforce the narrative coherence.

Balance Subtlety and Clarity: Foreshadowing should be subtle enough to intrigue readers without giving away major plot twists too early. Aim for a balance where foreshadowing is noticeable upon reflection but doesn't detract from the immediacy of the story.

Let's look at some ways to incorporate foreshadowing:

Symbolism: Symbolic imagery or motifs can serve as subtle foreshadowing devices. Think about objects, settings, or descriptive details that can serve as symbolic foreshadowing. A recurring image or object, for example, might subtly hint at future events or themes in the story.

Dialogue Clues: Characters can drop hints or make cryptic remarks that foreshadow upcoming events. Dialogue is a natural way to introduce foreshadowing without being too obvious.

Character Reactions: Pay attention to how characters react to certain situations or events. Their emotions or responses can foreshadow future conflicts or revelations.

Subtle Descriptions: Incorporate subtle descriptions or details that hint at future events. These can be easily overlooked on a first read but become significant upon reflection or when the foreshadowed event occurs.

Dreams and Visions: Dreams, visions, and other forms of altered consciousness can be effective vehicles for foreshadowing—they can hint at an upcoming event, or explore characters' subconscious desires and fears. This method can sometimes be either blatant or subtle depending on how it is incorporated.

Foreshadowing Through Setting: Use the setting to foreshadow events or developments in the story. For example, a stormy night might foreshadow conflict or turmoil ahead, while a serene setting might signal upcoming peace or resolution. (On the flip side, this can be used to catch readers off guard, like a "calm before the storm" type of situation.)

Parallel Storylines: Foreshadowing can occur through parallel storylines or subplots. Events in one storyline can subtly hint at future developments in another, creating anticipation and intrigue.

Recurring Themes: Identify recurring themes or motifs in your story and use them to foreshadow future events. These thematic elements can serve as subtle hints or clues for attentive readers.

Misdirection: Foreshadowing can be used to misdirect readers and create suspense by hinting at one outcome while actually leading to another. (See my post on misdirection for more!)

Happy writing! ❤

Previous | Next

[just-aake]

Detecting Love Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Sequel to Detecting Love. Can a spy who's been trained to lie her entire life show the person with the power to detect lies the truth what it means to be loved?

Warnings: fluff, light angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 5171

Natasha Romanoff lies.

Now, that’s to be expected, considering she is one of the greatest spies in the world. Ever since she was a child, she has been trained to be able to deceive everyone she meets.

Lying comes as easily to her as breathing, and deception is woven into every fiber of her being.

A charming smile here. A flirty wink there. 

Sweet words flow from her lips like honey.

Making everyone fall in love with all of the different false personas that she created for herself.

With a life and a past as shadowed as hers, it makes sense why she never even dared to imagine finding a person who can tolerate, let alone embrace, someone like her.

Then, she met you.

With your unique power to literally see through lies, you can detect the truth from her even when she’s at her most convincing. And despite learning about who she was and how she is, you accepted her unconditionally, not just as a friend, but as a partner.

For Natasha, being with someone who can truly see her is scary, and yet, that feeling is also better than breathing itself.

The two of you have been dating for several months now, and Natasha has never been happier.

Even if she sometimes occasionally struggles to express her affection openly in public.

As the two of you stroll through the compound, her eyes drift down once again in contemplation to your hand swinging casually at your side.

As if sensing her silent deliberation, you suddenly ask her curiously.

“Do you want to hold my hand?”

Natasha straightens at your question and faces forward, responding promptly in an even tone, “No.” 

Now that is sure to sound honest to anyone else who heard it, but you’re different.

Natasha makes sure to trail back slightly behind your line of sight in an attempt to hide the glow she knows you’d probably see around her.

You don’t comment on her evading action, but a faint smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you maintain your pace toward the Avenger’s personal elevator.

The two of you stand side by side, waiting for the elevator to arrive when Natasha suddenly feels the back of your hand lightly graze her fingers before quickly pulling away.

She narrows her eyes in suspicion at you, but you maintain an innocent expression, your gaze fixed on the decreasing numbers above the elevator doors.

Facing forward once more, Natasha is about to dismiss the action as an accidental touch when she feels it again – the fleeting brush of your hand against hers. 

This time, she doesn't hesitate to shoot you an accusing stare. Yet, you continue to feign ignorance, your expression a perfect mask of innocence. 

A couple of seconds pass before your hand makes contact with hers for the third time. 

Before you can retract your hand, Natasha swiftly catches it and intertwines your fingers with hers before letting out a defeated huff.

You don’t utter a word about her actions, but a subtle smile curves your lips, exposing your amusement at her reaction. 

With a soft squeeze of her hand, you pull her into the elevator, the door closing shut behind the two of you.

It's moments like these that remind Natasha why she fell for you — your ability to see past her lies, even the most trivial ones.

Once the elevator door slides open to the private floor, the two of you are met with sounds of a heated argument between the Asgardian Avenger and his visiting brother.

“I know you did it, Loki! This is not the first time you’ve taken and hidden a treasure of mine!”

“Oh, would you stop being so dramatic? We're talking about a mug, not some enchanted artifact.”

You raise a questioning brow at her, silently asking her whether you two should come back at another time, but Natasha shakes her head resolutely in response, not willing to let anything prevent her from missing her morning coffee.

As the two of you walk past the brothers, Thor finally notices the new presence in the room.

“Y/n!” he calls excitedly. 

His hand lands on your shoulder, catching you in place between the two of them which in turn pulls your hand from her grasp.

Thor’s other hand points accusingly at his brother.

“Is Loki lying about taking my mug?”

Realizing that you’re being dragged into the middle of the argument, your eyes dart to Natasha for help, only for her to give you a thumbs up in encouragement as she takes a sip of the coffee that she just poured from the freshly made pot.

The other Asgardian crosses his arms and snickers derisively at his brother.

“Do you really think that this simple mortal can expose the literal god of mischief? I didn’t take your stupid mug, and she can’t prove any—”

“He’s lying,” you answer plainly, seeing the red aura surrounding the Asgardian.

Loki shuts his mouth in surprise, blinking at you for a moment in disbelief, before pointing at you with a disdainful look.

“I don’t like her,” he states bluntly.

“Ah ha!” Thor exclaims victoriously. “You did take it!”

The two continue with their arguing as you discreetly sneak away to Natasha’s side.

She hands you a cup of coffee which you accept with a soft thanks before an alarm on your phone rings, showing your reminder for the day. 

You groan lightly in disappointment, causing Natasha to raise a questioning brow at you as she raises her cup for another sip.

“I have some interviews to get to this morning, so I’ll have to see you later,” you tell her before pressing a quick kiss goodbye to her cheek.

“I love you,” you whisper against her skin.

Swallowing her sip quickly, Natasha turns her head towards your direction, the reciprocating words also on her tongue.

“I—”

But you’ve already rushed away around the corner, disappearing from view. 

“…love you too,” Natasha finishes in a soft disappointed tone, her lips twisting at your action. 

Public displays of affection aside, Natasha has no problem wanting to tell you how much you mean to her.

But for some reason, you always seem to conveniently find ways to escape whenever she’s about to say those words to you.

“Now I’m no expert on relationships, but that right there was some cunning evasion tactic,” Loki comments, smirking at Natasha. “It appears that she’s not really interested in receiving such words from you.”

A slap on Loki's shoulder propels him forward a couple of steps as Thor reprimands, “Stop trying to cause problems for them, Loki.” 

He then turns to Natasha with a firm nod. 

“Don’t listen to him, Nat. Y/n loves you.”

Of course, she knows that. 

You whisper those words against her skin every morning when you think she’s still asleep and then again against her lips when you wake her up. 

The problem is that it seems that she never gets the chance to return the gesture before you find some way to rush away from the room or keep her mouth otherwise occupied and distracted.

A thud on the counter pulls her from her thoughts as Loki leans against the table with a mischievous grin.

“That girl can detect lies, right? Then why don’t you just tell her that you don’t love her, and then she’ll see the truth. That should be easy enough for you. After all, lying is your specialty,” Loki remarks before a smug expression forms on his face. 

“Unless that is, the truth is that you don’t actually love her,” he taunts.

Natasha glares at him silently, refusing to fall for his baiting provocation. Not wanting to give the trickster god any more amusement, she quickly downs the rest of her coffee and leaves for the meeting room, deciding to try again with you later.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

With the briefing finishing early, Natasha decides to visit your office during this break in between her meetings. Conversations flow around her as she walks past the front desk toward the administrative part of the building.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I can’t let you enter without an appointment.”

“Well, is there any way you can just send a message to Y/n to let her know I’m here?”

Natasha’s head snaps up from her tablet at the sound of your name and curiously turns to the person who said it, only for her eyes to widen slightly in surprise at their identity.

Your ex-fiancée 

Stopping in her tracks, Natasha redirects her attention to the two of them.

“What did you need to see Y/n for?” she asks.

Your ex turns to her at her question, and an expression of amazement crosses her face.

“Oh, wow, you’re Black Widow.”

Brushing off her awed exclamation, Natasha crosses her arm expectantly as she repeats, a slight tone of protectiveness entering her voice.

“Why are you looking for Y/n?” 

Noticing her serious gaze and intimidating demeanor, your ex fidgets with her hands nervously as she responds.

“It’s kind of a private matter with an old case that I need her help with,” she explains.

Despite being the one who broke your heart, your mutual break up with her meant that the two of you are still somewhat friends, and as much as Natasha wants to, she can’t prevent your ex from seeking you out, especially since it seems she needs your help.

With an internal displeased sigh, Natasha gestures with her head towards the direction of the elevators.

“I’m heading over to her office right now if you want to come with me,” Natasha offers, nodding at the receptionist reassuringly to indicate that it’s okay, before walking away without another word. 

Natasha hears your ex scramble to follow quickly after her once she processes her words.

As the elevator doors close with the two of them inside, Natasha pulls out her phone to send you a warning text.

I’m on the way to your office with your ex.

A read message quickly appears under her text, indicating that you have seen it, and then a text bubble promptly pops up as you respond.

?!?!?

“So, do you and Y/n work together often?” your ex asks, trying to fill the silence with casual conversation.

Natasha looks up at her question, tucking her phone away. She crosses her arms and leans back against the elevator walls, adopting an intimidating posture, as she gives her a hard stare.

With a calm yet assertive tone, she tilts her head curtly and replies with the truth. 

“She’s my girlfriend.”

An awkward silence fills the small space after her answer, and your ex’s eyes dart around the enclosed space, seemingly realizing she’s essentially alone with the Black Widow who just revealed that she is in a relationship with you. 

Sensing her nervous energy, Natasha relaxes her posture, offering a more friendly demeanor.

“Relax, if I was going to do something, I would have done it already,” Natasha reassures. 

Your ex nods hesitantly, acknowledging Natasha’s attempt to diffuse the tension. After a moment of contemplation, she gathers the courage to speak up again. 

“So, you know about Y/n and her ability?” your ex asks, her voice tinged with curiosity.

“Yes,” Natasha confirms, adding, “And about what happened between the two of you.”

The revelation hangs heavy in the air, plunging the elevator into an uncomfortable silence once again. 

Honestly, Natasha knows she shouldn’t keep putting your ex in these awkward positions with her responses. 

However, just because you are on friendly terms with her doesn’t mean Natasha has to be, especially considering she never held any goodwill toward the woman before.

Natasha redirects her focus to the digital display above the door, silently cursing and blaming Tony for the sluggish pace of the elevator. 

“I-I honestly did love her,” your ex confesses, breaking the silence once again.

At her statement, Natasha regards her with a raised eyebrow, silently prompting her to elaborate on her sudden declaration.

"I mean, Y/n’s great. It’s just…it got hard to imagine being with someone who always knows if you’re telling the truth or not,” your ex explains with a small sigh, offering a tiny sympathetic shrug before asking. “I’m sure you understand that feeling too, right?"

Irritation flares in Natasha’s chest at your ex’s words, her protective instincts surfacing in defense of you.

"Maybe the fact that she can see someone for who they truly are is what makes being with her so special," Natasha counters, her voice firm with conviction.

The remainder of the elevator ride passes in tense silence until the doors finally open with a ding, signaling their arrival at your floor. 

Throughout that time, one part of the conversation continues to bother Natasha, and she finds herself asking, wanting to know the answer.

“Did you tell her often?”

“What?” your ex asks, blinking in surprise and caught off guard by her sudden question. 

Natasha presses her lips together momentarily in displeasure at the topic before clarifying, “Did you tell Y/n that you loved her often, you know, before your feelings changed?”

“Oh, um, kind of,” she admits, a faint chuckle escaping her lips. “It’s actually kind of funny. Y/n would always have this cute little shy smile whenever I said it, so I ended up saying those words to her a lot.”

The irritation in Natasha’s chest intensifies at her answer, and her feelings must be evident on her face because your ex starts waving her hands frantically in a slight panic.

“But I’m positive Y/n won’t react the same way if I said it now,” she adds quickly.

Instead of responding, Natasha leaves the elevator without another word. 

Your ex’s reassurance does little to ease the irritation that she feels at not yet having been able to say those words to you herself.

The two of them arrive at the door of your office, only to find it locked with the lights turned off.

Just as Natasha is about to text you to ask you about your whereabouts, you emerge from around the corner, skidding to a stop in front of her.

Confused at your flustered state, Natasha gives you a questioning look as she asks, “Why are you rushing?”

You take a couple of deep breaths to catch your breath before answering.

“Because…I didn’t want to…to leave you waiting.”

Natasha feels her heart flutter at your words, her posture relaxing for a moment.

“…wow…you look good, Y/n,” your ex comments.

Natasha’s body immediately tenses again at the reminder of your ex’s presence, and she becomes further annoyed when she takes in the state of your appearance that prompted the remark from your ex.

You are in your usual workout outfit, a standard black tank top, showcasing your body with a gleam of sweat still on your skin, evidence of your workout session.

As if sensing Natasha’s increasing irritation, your ex gestures awkwardly in fear toward the waiting area some distance away.

“I’ll just wait over there.”

Natasha watches your ex walk away with a slight glare in her eyes. 

When she turns back to you, her expression instinctively softens with affection and curiosity.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“My last couple of interviews had to cancel, so I decided to go train for a bit,” you answer with a slight shrug. “You know, since you suggested that I try training whenever I’m bored and have some free time.”

Natasha's lips twist slightly in conflict at your response. She's happy you took her suggestion to heart, but now she's also upset that it led to you appearing in front of your ex in such a state.

Gesturing toward your ex, you ask, “Did she say why she’s here?”

Natasha sighs and shakes her head.

“She only mentioned that it was an old case that you can help her with.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding in understanding, probably already knowing what she’s referring to. 

Then you look at Natasha with a cute tilt of your head. 

“After I finish up with her, do you want to go out for some lunch?”

A small smile forms on Natasha’s face, her earlier irritation melting away at your suggestion. 

However, she knows she might not have enough time to wait and go out before her next meeting.

“How about I go ahead and pick up some takeout first, and then we can have lunch in your office when I return?” Natasha offers as a compromise.

You smile at her in response and press a soft kiss against her cheek.

“It’s a date.”

As you’re about to move past her, Natasha presses her hand firmly on your shoulder, stopping you and pushing you back to your original position.

You give her a questioning look in confusion.

“Did you take my hoodie again?” Natasha asks accusingly. 

Your eyes dart guiltily to your office before you mutter under your breath with a soft pout, “Maybe.”

Natasha nods slightly in contemplation, her eyes glancing at where your ex was waiting and then back to you.

“Put it on,” she says plainly.

You raise a brow at her in confusion and gesture to your body.

“Nat, I’m covered in sweat. I didn’t get a chance to hit the showers before you texted,” you explain.

“That text didn’t mean that you should come here all hot and sweaty in front of your ex like this,” Natasha remarks pointedly, crossing her arms.

A teasing grin pulls at your lips as a look of understanding crosses your face.

“You think I look hot right now?” you ask happily.

“Seriously?” Natasha deadpans. 

Unbothered by her signature intimidating gaze, you pull her closer by the loops on her belt and lean in with a slight tilt of your head.

“Are you jealous?” you tease lightly, your bottom lip caught in between your teeth as you try to hide your pleased grin.

Natasha rolls her eyes, though her lips quirk up briefly in amusement. She knows whether she responds truthfully or not, you probably already know the answer without the help of your ability, so she responds instead.

“Keep it up, and I’ll just come back with one takeout box for myself,” she warns.

You laugh lightly at her response, nodding your head in concession.

“Alright, I’ll put it on,” you promise, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. 

As you pull away, you whisper, “I love you,” the words brushing softly against her lips.

Natasha’s eyes had fluttered closed at the touch of your kiss, but they snapped open when she remembered she wanted to say those words back to you too.

However, to her disappointment, before she realized it, you had disappeared from her side. 

Turning around, she finds you already in your office, putting on her hoodie.

A mocking chuckle sounds beside her, and she turns to see Loki leaning casually against the wall.

“Oh, you didn’t even try that time,” he taunts.

Without hesitation, Natasha raises her wrist and shoots a widow bite at him. It flies through his body, dispersing the apparition that he had left there.

Groaning in annoyance at his presence, Natasha quickly leaves to go get your lunches before he can reappear and provoke her further.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“So this is the one lie detector that you can’t beat,” Fury comments with intrigue, as he examines your file.

Natasha closes the folder promptly and takes it from the table in front of him, stating firmly, “Her name’s Y/n, and no, you can’t have her. She’s just going to help review the list of potential recruits for you. Nothing else.”

She gives him a pointed look, stressing, “Especially not any SHIELD interrogations.”

Leaning back in his chair, Fury chuckles amusedly and raises a brow at her.

“Protective, are we?”

Before she can affirm the lengths she would go to minimize the risks you have to take, the door slams open, and you stroll in, giving her a wave and a charming smile. 

You stop in front of her, taking her hand suddenly in yours and giving it a light swing. 

“Ready to get started?” you ask. 

Natasha’s eyes narrow in suspicion. Something about your behavior was off and unlike you. 

She examines your expression critically, and then in one swift, fluid motion, she grabs your wrist and upper arm, pivots on her heel, and shifts her weight, seamlessly flipping you over her shoulder. 

With a resounding thud, Natasha slams you down onto the meeting table, the impact rattling the room.

Fury whistles lowly with a slight wince, a mixture of sympathy and admiration in his tone.

“Tough love, huh?” he remarks to her.

Natasha rolls her eyes at his comment and shakes her head, reaching to her side to grab something. She takes one of “your” wrists and snaps a golden cuff onto it. 

Immediately, the figure on the table shifts from your face and form to Loki’s. 

His eyes glare at her as he gathers his bearings, giving a slight grunt of pain when he moves.

“As if this woman knows anything about love,” he scoffs, standing up from the table with a groan.

Fury hums curiously at the sight of the trickster god, turning to Natasha.

“Who let him in here?”

Natasha sighs as she crosses her arms, replying, “Unfortunately, Thor and he are on friendly terms at the moment.”

Loki raises his hand and waves his finger at her in reprimand.

“Exactly. Now, is this any way to treat a guest of yours?” he taunts with a smirk before his eyes drift to the cuff on his wrist. His expression falls in recognition. “Where did you get this?”

A smirk forms on Natasha’s face as she answers, “Thor lent it to me when I asked. Since I know better than to just take his things.”

The cuff in question is an enchanted artifact that temporarily blocks the magical abilities of the wearer as explained by the god of thunder.

Loki scoffs in disbelief, placing one hand on his hips while waving his other wrist at her. 

“Hilarious, now take these off,” he demands.

Natasha’s smirk remains fixed as she shakes her head.

“I don’t have the key,” she admits, tapping her chin thoughtfully before revealing, “It must still be with Thor. But I’m sure you’ve already apologized to him for earlier, so you’d have no problem asking him to release you.”

Loki scowls, his expression darkening with disdain, and then he swiftly turns toward the exit.

“It’s no wonder that girl doesn’t want to accept any love from the likes of you,” he spits out angrily.

Natasha’s lips twist downward at his words, but before she can respond, a knock on the door interrupts the tense moment. 

Taking a calming breath, she calls out, “Come in,” already knowing who it is.

You open the door at Natasha’s invitation, only to dodge out of the way as Loki storms past you out of the room, muttering angry curses under his breath.

Turning back to Natasha, you notice the telltale red aura fading from around her and wonder what was the lie that you assume she had just told him.

As you approach her, Natasha’s contemplative, sullen expression quickly shifts to a neutral one when she catches your concerned gaze.

Before you can question her about it, Fury claps his hands firmly, looking between the two of you.

“Alright, let's finish this quickly then.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Seated on your sofa, Natasha hugs a cushion pillow closer to her chest, seeking comfort as Loki’s harsh words echo in her mind.

Is it just a coincidence that you manage to avoid her every time she’s about to say those words to you? Or is it possible that the truth is you don’t actually want to hear those words from her?

You place a bowl of popcorn on the table in front of her, snapping her out of her spiraling thoughts as you finish explaining what your ex needed from you.

“So, I just need to submit my notes on the case so that the court can close it out,” you explain.

Natasha hums absently in acknowledgment, but her mind drifts back to her insecurities.

Was Loki just messing with her or were all of your previous evading actions really on purpose?

Unable to bear the uncertainty any longer, Natasha decides to settle this once and for all.

As you take your seat next to her and start the movie, Natasha initiates her plan. She quickly maneuvers herself over your lap, straddling you as her hands rest on your shoulders, pressing you firmly against the sofa with her body.

Your hand automatically rests on her waist and begins tracing light patterns against her side, but your lips twist into a small pout of confusion as you remark, “As exciting as this is, I thought this movie was your favorite.”

Natasha closes her eyes briefly, internally groaning at your adorable words and how incredibly in love she is with you. 

If only you could hear it from her for once.

Determined to not fail this time, she tries again.

“I lo—”

Her words are cut off, swallowed by you, as you pull her down into a deep kiss. 

Instinctively, she melts against your body, sliding her hands to caress the back of your neck, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss as she gets lost in the feeling of your lips moving against hers. 

Then, realization hits her, and she snaps her eyes open and pulls away. 

“Hold on, I’m trying to tell you that I—”

“I know,” you interrupt, your hand covering her mouth to stop her mid-sentence. 

That’s when Natasha sees it.

The fear in your eyes.

“I know,” you repeat, giving her a look of understanding before swallowing nervously. 

You close your eyes as your head drops to your chest, a sad chuckle escaping from you. 

“You know, in all my life, I have never been afraid to discover if someone was lying to me,” you admit, shrugging lightly. “I’ve always known that people can lie, so it’s never really surprising or hurtful when it happens.” 

You let out a weary sigh and look up to meet her gaze with a sad smile. 

“Except for that one time.”

Natasha knows what moment you are referring to — the night your powers revealed that your ex no longer loved you.

The memory flashes in your mind, vivid and raw, as if it happened only yesterday. The betrayal, the heartache, the crushing realization when the red aura appeared around her after she uttered those fateful three words to you.

Your attention returns to the woman in front of you, the one who helped heal your heart. The one who now holds it. 

The one who also has the power to hurt you in the exact same way, even though you know she won’t.

“I love you so much, Natasha,” you say with breathless adoration and honesty, but your expression pinches in fear as you continue, your voice trembling slightly. “But I don’t think I'm ready to hear it from you yet. Just…not those exact words.”

You sigh sadly, understanding how unfair your words are to her, and your chest tightens guiltily as you apologize, “I’m sorry. Look, I’d understand if you want to leave.”

You look away from Natasha, your mouth pressing together tightly, fighting the urge to cry. 

The silence stretches out in the room before Natasha gently cradles your face, bringing your gaze back to her.

“You make me happy,” Natasha declares firmly.

You give her a confused look at her words.

“Wh-what?”

Ignoring your question, Natasha continues, asking meaningfully, “Am I lying?”

Your eyes observe her for a moment, but you don’t see any indication of a red aura appearing.

“No,” you answer in confusion.

Natasha nods before continuing, “I don’t mind that your powers reveal truths about me, like the moments when I want to hold your hand or when I’m jealous.”

She tilts her head at you in question.

“Am I lying?” she asks again.

Still not seeing any red aura appear around her, you shake your head at her in response.

Natasha rests her forehead against yours, letting out a deep breath, before continuing, “I’m afraid that one day…” she pauses, taking in a shaky breath to prepare herself for what she’s about to admit out loud. 

“…one day you’ll wake up and decide that because of who I was, who I am now is not enough for you to stay with me anymore.” 

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you go to reassure her, “I wouldn’t—”

“Am I lying?” Natasha interrupts, not wanting you to worry about comforting her at this time.

Your eyes soften sadly when you see the vulnerability and fear in her eyes at her words. 

You reach up to cup her cheek, your thumb caressing her face gently in comfort as you whisper, “No.”

Leaning against your touch, Natasha lets out a steadying breath to compose herself for the final part of her point.

“So when I say I can wait…” she pauses, looking into your eyes with a serious and determined expression, making sure you can see the sincerity of her next words. 

“…I’ll wait for as long as you need so that one day I can say those words to you…am I lying?”

You watch her carefully for a moment, but nothing appears to counter her claim. Realizing her intentions to reveal her feelings in another way, your heart fills with love and adoration for her as you answer with a soft smile. 

“No, you’re not lying, Natasha.”

She gives you a gentle grin and cups your face, pressing a soft kiss against your lips before admitting, “That’s because when I’m with you, Y/n, it never feels like I’m living a lie.”

A breathless, awed gasp escapes from you at her words, and you can’t help but pull her in closer, her red hair falling around you like a curtain.

“I love you,” you whisper against her lips, the words filled with genuine adoration for the woman.

Natasha smiles softly at your words and closes the distance between the two of you once again, her kisses tender and filled with all of her unspoken feelings. Her lips move against yours with gentle urgency, conveying everything she can’t yet say aloud.

The warmth of her touch, the sincerity of her kiss, and the way she holds you protectively — all of it reassures you. 

It doesn’t matter that those three words haven’t been spoken explicitly — her actions, her presence, the look in her eyes says it all already.

Natasha may be considered one of the greatest spies in the world thanks in part to her exceptional ability to lie, but even she can’t hide the truth from you.

Without needing to hear her utter those fateful three words aloud, you already know the truth in your heart.

That Natasha Romanoff truly loves you too.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: Thank you for reading and for all the love that you all gave to the first part! I hope you enjoyed this one too!

[itneverendshere]

the fireworks are through, here we are, me and you - r.c

pairing: rafe x bartender!pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

decided to get back into writing with something smaller and just in time for the NYE! i'm a bit late (obviously) but wanted to write a little piece for my first universe, since it's so dear to my heart! hope all of you add a good, fresh, amazing start to 2025 and if you didn't, it will get better 💘

Rafe Cameron had never cared about New Year’s Eve—never cared about anything that came with it, really.

No resolutions, no countdowns, no stupid superstitions. For years, the only thing NYE had ever been to him was an excuse to get high, shit-faced, or both. Another party, another distraction, another night to drown out the noise in his head. 

This year was different, he had you.

“Tell me if it gets too much, okay?”

“Baby, I’m fine,” you reassured him, placing a hand on his chest to calm him down.

Rafe nodded, but you could see the gears turning in his head. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye every second, quietly assessing if you were comfortable, if you were happy.

You leaned against the marble kitchen island, sipping something fizzy from a crystal flute, half-listening as he introduced you to another one of his college buddies. He had his arm slung low around you, the tips of his fingers brushing the hem of your dress like he couldn’t help himself.

“You still good?” he murmured, leaning close so that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your ear. 

You tilted your head to look at him, catching that pretty face that never failed to make your knees weak. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed, though the truth was you felt a little out of place. You still weren’t used to this crowd, their polished laughs and overpriced cologne. Maybe you’d never be.

But Rafe made it bearable, he always did.

His eyes traced the curve of your cheek, the way the fairy lights strung across the patio reflected in your eyes. You didn’t notice, busy scanning the room, but to him, you were the only thing worth looking at.

“You’re lying."

Your brow furrowed as you looked back at him.

“What?”

“You’re not fine.” He moved impossibly closer, his free hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, “You always do that little thing with your mouth when you’re uncomfortable.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your lips twitched. “I’m fine, really. It’s just...not my scene.”

His hand dropped from your face to your hip again, pulling you a fraction closer, like he needed to feel you against him to believe you were really there. 

“Okay, let’s eave,” he said, his tone so earnest it made your chest ache.

“Baby,” you sighed, placing a hand on his chest to keep him from spiraling into full protective mode. “You’ve been looking forward to this. I’ll survive a few hours of rich-kid bullshit. Promise.”

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your temple, “Don’t care about the stupid party,” he murmured against your skin. “Just wanted to spend the night with you.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time it was more for show.

“You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you.” The words slipped out so easily, like they’d been sitting on the tip of his tongue all night. He meant every damn syllable.

The night wore on and he stuck to your side like glue. It was endearing, in a way, as he introduced you to his university friends, always with some kind of proud little flourish—like saying your name was his favorite thing to do. 

“This is her,” he’d said more than once, his chest puffed up slightly, like just having you on his arm made him the luckiest guy in the room.

The way he looked at you made it hard to stay annoyed. Everyone was polite enough, but Rafe didn’t let any awkwardness linger, always guiding the conversation, nudging you in with a soft “Tell them about that time…” or offering a quick compliment like, “She’s way better at that than I ever was.”

And when one of his friends said something vaguely pretentious, you felt his hand tighten ever so slightly on your waist before he cut in with a sharp, “Yeah, okay, Benji, but tell them about the time you puked on your mom’s Birkin.” His grin was all teeth, but his tone was light—he was still playing nice, but only because of you.

By the time the countdown was close, the party had spilled outside.

The chilly night air nipped at your skin, but you didn’t mind—especially when Rafe shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders without a word.

“Thanks,” you murmured, pulling it tighter around you. It smelled like him—clean, with just a hint of that cologne you loved.

He didn’t respond, just tugged you closer, his hands settling on your hips as he leaned down to look at you. “What are you gonna wish for?”

“What?” you asked, caught off guard by the question.

“At midnight. What are you gonna wish for?” His blue eyes so intense they made your stomach scream.

You laughed, trying to brush off the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Don’t know. A winning lottery ticket, maybe? Health?”

But he didn’t laugh, just kept looking at you like you were the answer to every question he’d ever had.

“What about you? Do you know what you’re gonna wish for?”

His lips twitched into the faintest smile, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“Already got everything I need.”

“Be serious."

He shrugged, the gesture almost sheepish, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on your heart.

“I, uh...might’ve wished for you last year,” he admitted, “Didn’t know it was you at the time, but...yeah. Turns out the universe actually listens sometimes.”

You stared at him, completely floored.

“You’re such a fuckin' dork.” You shook your head, trying to tamp down the stupid grin spreading across your face. “You really did the whole thing last year?”

“The whole thing,” he nodded, completely unashamed. “The grapes, the red underwear, the running around the block with a suitcase—”

“No,” you said, giggling now. “You did not.”

“Swear to God,” he shook his head. “Felt so fucking stupid at the time, but...worked, didn’t it?”

You arched a brow, fighting back a chucke. “It didn’t work. It’s all just superstitious bullshit.”

He shrugged, pulling you even closer. “You’re here in my arms, I’m pretty sure it did.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, the countdown began. 

Ten seconds, then nine, then eight…By the time it hit one, his lips were on yours, the sound of fireworks and cheers fading into the background. All you could feel was him—his hands on you, his breath mingling with yours, the quiet hum of contentment settling in your chest.

Maybe he was right. Maybe the universe had been listening.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured against your lips, his voice hardly audible over the cheers and music around you. His forehead rested lightly against yours, his eyes still closed, he couldn’t pull away just yet.

“Happy New Year,” you echoed, your voice teasing. “Though I guess you’re feeling pretty smug right now, huh? Thinking you manifested all this.”

He hummed, his hands trailing up your sides. “Damn right I am. How else do you explain it?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, “Maybe it’s just dumb luck. Or—crazy idea—you charmed me all on your own.”

“Nah,” he said, beaming now. “Luck’s never been my thing. But you? You’re somethin’ else, baby. Don’t think I stood a chance once you walked into my life. If this is what I get every year, I’ll eat a whole fuckin’ vineyard’s worth of grapes next time.”

You snorted, “Don’t push your luck, Cameron. The universe might get tired of your whining.”

“Not whining,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “Just thinkin’ about how lucky I got. Don’t know what I did to deserve this, but...shit, I’m glad I did it.”

“You’re just lucky no one got that on video. Kook Prince Cameron running around like a maniac? The scandal.”

“Don’t care,” he said simply, his tone so sure it made you pause. “Would’ve done it ten times over if it meant finding you.”

He didn’t how someone could be so completely themselves and still feel like his, you were made just for him.

“Rafe…”

“I mean it. You’re everything I ever wanted, baby. I didn’t even know it until you came along. Can’t imagine my life without you.”

Your breath hitched, the vulnerability in his voice wrapping around your heart and squeezing. When he kissed you again, the fireworks in the sky had nothing on the ones between you.

For once, he didn’t need the haze of a party or the numbness of a bottle to feel like he belonged, with you, he already did.

“You’re such a fucking romantic,” you whispered against his lips, your tone soft enough to take the edge off the words.

His cheshire grin returned.

“Guess you bring it out of me.”

You weren’t just someone he loved—you were it for him. His north star, the one thing that made the chaos in his head quiet. When he pulled back from another kiss, his eyes searched yours, a flicker of insecurity showing up.

“Was it dumb?” he asked suddenly, his voice hesitant.

You blinked, still dazed from the kiss. “What?”

“All that shit I said. The universe, the grapes…all of it. Was it too much?” He tried to laugh it off.

You shook your head, smiling in that way that always knocked the wind out of him. 

“Not dumb. Kind of crazy, maybe, but sweet. Really sweet.”

His lips turned into a lopsided grin, relief flooding his features. 

“Good,” he said, his voice firmer now. “’Cause I meant every word. Don’t tell anyone, though. Gotta keep up my rep.”

You laughed, and the sound was like a balm to his soul. He’d fight the whole fucking world to keep that laugh in his life. Your hands slid up to rest on his chest, your touch soft, familiar.

Safe.

“Tell me about this rep of yours.”

Rafe smiled to ear to ear, the devilish glow in his eye making your heart race.

“Y’know, bad boy, troublemaker, heartbreaker…” He trailed off, his smirk turning cocky. “And, uh, not to brag, but pretty great in bed.”

You froze for half a beat, pushing at his chest.

“Oh my God. Why would you even—ugh, you’re impossible.”

“What?” he asked innocently, though his expression betrayed him. “Just stating facts, baby.” 

The teasing in his tone enough to make you groan.

“You’re disgusting,” you shot back, biting your lip to keep from squealing like an love sick fool.

“Disgustingly good-looking,” he corrected, leaning closer. “And disgustingly in love with you.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck.

“Nope. I take it back. I take all my kisses back.”

“You can’t do that!” He straightened, looking mock-offended.

“I can, and I just did.” You crossed your arms, stepping back just far enough to make him frown.

He followed instantly, tugging you back by the waist. “That’s not how it works, baby,” he said, dipping his head so his lips hovered just above yours. “You give ‘em to me, they’re mine. No refunds.”

You tried to glare, but the way his voice dipped on the last two words made your entire body shudder.

“See,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then another. And another. He trailed them down to your jaw, his grin widening with each one, “All mine.”

You raised a brow, trying to act unimpressed even as his voice sent shivers down your spine. “If this is your way of trying to get laid, it’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic?” he repeated, mock horror lighting up his features. “Baby, you were literally begging for it last night—”

Your jaw dropped, your cheeks flaming. “Rafe!” you hissed, shoving at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“What?” he said, all fake innocence, even as his face turned downright wolfish. “’m just being honest. You said you liked it when I—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” you warned, but he could hear the laugh bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Uh-huh,” he hummed, his nose brushing against yours as his lips finally, finally captured yours. 

The kiss started slow, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you gave in, parting them for him.

The second you did, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a possessiveness that made your toes curl. He tasted like whiskey and mint, your favorites. His hand tangled in your hair, pulling just right as he claimed your mouth like it was his job.

You moaned softly into the kiss, your fingers curling into the lapels of his shirt to keep yourself standing. He took that as encouragement, biting down gently on your bottom lip before soothing the sting with a slow, wet drag of his tongue.

“Thought you were taking all your kisses back,” he muttered against your lips, his voice taunting as he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

“Still considering it,” you panted, though the way you tugged him closer said otherwise.

His lips were on yours again, it made your head spin. His teeth grazed your lip again, and when you gasped, he licked into your mouth, groaning softly as he tasted you. When he pulled back just a smidge, a thin string of spit connected your mouths, and the sight of it made your cheeks burn all over again.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice husky as he used his thumb to wipe the corner of your swollen lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, we might have to skip the rest of this party.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him, “You think I’m that easy to distract?”

“Don’t need to think,” he mused as his hands slid lower, resting on the curve of your ass. “Pretty sure I just proved it.”

You sighed, but it wasn’t with exasperation—it was amusement, adoration.

Your your fingers brushed the collar of his shirt as you traced his cheek, “Skipping the party, huh?” you murmured, your lips brushing against his just enough to drive him crazy. “What would we even do instead?”

His hold tightened on your skin, his voice dipping into a near growl as he answered, “Baby, I can think of a few things.”

The heat in his eyes made your cheeks flush, and this time around you didn’t attempt to hide the shit-eating smile taking over your face.

“You’re not even a little subtle, are you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” he admitted, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip as he leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours again.

Happy Fucking New Year to him.

[novaursa]

The Wolf's Flame

- Summary: When you take your son flying, Cregan keeps fires warm for your return.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after Fires That Never Freeze. To read all parts in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @21-princess

Your fingers gently trace the downy softness of Alysane's silver hair, a mirror of your own. Her tiny eyelids flutter as she breathes steadily against your chest, her warmth a comfort in the quiet of the nursery. The light filtering through the windows casts a soft glow, making the strands of her hair shimmer like moonlight on water. She stirs slightly, letting out a small, contented sigh, and you can't help but smile, though it is tinged with sorrow.

You can still vividly recall the first time Jace held your son, Killian. He had been so careful, so reverent, as if the boy was made of the finest glass. 

"He's got your spirit," Jacaerys had said, cradling Killian in his arms with a grin that could have brightened the darkest day. "And a bit of Cregan's stubbornness too, I reckon. He's going to be a strong one."

You remember how his brown eyes had softened, his usual warrior's stoicism giving way to a tenderness that was rare to see in him. You had laughed then, a light, joyful sound that echoed in the stone halls, lifting the spirits of those around you. 

But now, that memory is a dagger to your heart. Jace is gone, another brother taken by the cruel hands of war and treachery. The Battle of the Gullet claimed him, like it claimed so many others, leaving behind only a hollow ache where once there had been warmth and love.

Your grip on Alysane tightens ever so slightly, as if you can protect her from the world that has already taken so much from you. She shifts in her sleep, her tiny fists clenching, and you wonder what kind of life she will have in this world that seems so determined to tear your family apart.

The door creaks open softly, and you glance up to see Cregan standing in the doorway, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts. His presence is a comfort, a solid anchor in the storm of your emotions. He steps into the room, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor.

"She's beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion as he comes to stand beside you. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, a warm, steadying presence. "Just like her mother."

You smile faintly at his words, but it's a fragile thing, easily broken. "She reminds me of Jace," you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "The way he looked at Killian… it was as if he could see all the good in the world reflected in him."

Cregan's jaw tightens, and he nods, his eyes darkening with shared grief. "Jacaerys was a good man," he says after a moment, his voice low and filled with respect. "He would have been proud to see how you're raising our children, Y/N. Proud of the mother you've become."

His words are a balm, easing the sting of your loss, even if only slightly. You lean into him, resting your head against his chest, drawing strength from his steady heartbeat. "I just wish he were here to see them grow," you admit, your voice thick with unshed tears. "To see the family we’re building…"

Cregan wraps his arms around you, careful not to disturb Alysane, who remains peacefully asleep in your arms. "We'll make sure they know who he was," he promises, his voice strong and resolute. "We'll tell them stories of their uncle Jace, of his courage, his kindness. He won't be forgotten."

You nod, a tear finally slipping free, tracing a path down your cheek. "I just miss him so much," you confess, the words breaking like waves against the shore.

"I know," Cregan whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

For a long moment, the two of you stand there in the quiet of the nursery, holding each other close, sharing the weight of your grief. Alysane stirs again, and you look down at her, at the peaceful innocence on her tiny face. She is a beacon of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest times, life continues, new stories begin.

As you gaze at your daughter, you feel a small spark of determination flicker within you. You will protect her, protect Killian, and ensure they grow up knowing the love and legacy of those who came before them.

"I'll make sure they know," you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else. "I'll make sure they remember him."

Cregan nods, his grip on you tightening just slightly, a silent promise that he will stand by you, no matter what. Together, you will keep Jace's memory alive, woven into the very fabric of your children's lives, a legacy of love and courage that even death cannot erase.

The chill of the northern wind bites at your cheeks as you stand in the courtyard of Winterfell, the ancient stones of the castle walls towering around you. The sky above is a pale, wintry blue, the kind that stretches on endlessly, promising the first snows of the season. Thraxata, your beloved dragon, is a dark silhouette against the sky, her massive form casting a shadow over the courtyard as she awaits you with the patient stillness of a creature who knows her place in the world.

Cregan stands nearby, holding Killian in his arms. Your son's violet eyes are wide with excitement, his small hands clutching at the fur-lined collar of his father's cloak. His breath comes in quick, excited puffs, visible in the cold air, as he watches you secure the last of the straps on Thraxata's saddle. 

"Is Mama ready?" Killian asks, his voice high with anticipation, his gaze flicking between you and the towering dragon. 

"Almost, little wolf," Cregan replies, his deep voice softened with affection. He adjusts his hold on Killian, allowing the boy to lean forward slightly, getting a better view of the magnificent creature before him.

You finish tightening the final strap and turn to face them, your heart swelling with love at the sight of your son’s eager face. "She's ready," you confirm, walking over to them with a smile that feels more natural now, more present. The cold air feels invigorating, as does the promise of the flight ahead.

Killian wiggles in Cregan’s arms, his excitement barely contained. "Can we fly now, Mama? Please?"

You chuckle at his enthusiasm and reach out to take him from Cregan, who hands him over with a tender smile. "Of course, we can, little one," you say, holding Killian close for a moment before lifting him up to press a quick kiss to his forehead. "But you must hold on tight, alright? Just like we practiced."

Killian nods eagerly, his little hands gripping your cloak as you turn to face Cregan. Your husband’s grey eyes are filled with warmth, the kind that always makes you feel grounded, no matter how high you fly. He steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist as he bends down to press a kiss to your lips, a slow, lingering gesture that speaks of love and longing. 

"Fly safe," he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm in the cold air. "And bring him back to me in one piece."

You smile against his mouth, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "Always," you promise, your voice soft but filled with the certainty that comes from years of shared battles and shared love. "We'll be back before the sun sets."

With a final kiss, you turn back to Thraxata, your heart thudding with a mix of excitement and the familiar rush of anticipation that always accompanies a flight. You cradle Killian with one arm as you approach the great beast, who lowers her massive head in greeting, her violet eyes shimmering with intelligence and recognition. 

“Hello girl,” you whisper, your free hand brushing against her polished obsidian scales, which glimmer faintly with hues of violet and blue in the sunlight. Thraxata rumbles in response, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, as if she’s sharing in the excitement of the day.

With practiced ease, you swing yourself up onto the saddle, positioning Killian in front of you. His small hands reach out instinctively to grasp the pommel, and you secure him with a careful, reassuring grip. He giggles with delight as he feels the warmth of Thraxata’s body beneath him, the thrill of the impending flight already bubbling over.

“Ready?” you ask, your voice a blend of both motherly concern and the thrill of the adventure ahead.

“Ready!” Killian exclaims, his voice filled with a joy so pure it sends a spark of warmth through you, despite the cold.

With one last glance at Cregan, who watches you with that same steady look, you give Thraxata the command to take flight. The dragon responds immediately, her powerful wings unfurling with a sound like thunder. She launches into the air, her great body rising smoothly from the ground as the wind rushes past you, carrying the scent of pine and snow.

The world below falls away quickly as Thraxata soars upward, the chill of the wind tugging at your hair and cloak, but the cold is nothing compared to the exhilaration of the sky opening up before you. Killian’s laughter rings out, a bright, joyous sound that echoes across the open sky. He turns his head back to you, eyes wide with pure wonder. “Mama, we’re flying! Look, we’re really flying!”

You tighten your grip on him, feeling the steady thrum of Thraxata’s heart beneath you, the power of her wings carrying you higher, above the walls of Winterfell and the endless expanse of the North. “Yes, we are,” you say, your voice filled with the same awe you see reflected in your son’s eyes. “Just like I did with my mother when I was your age.”

The dragon’s flight is smooth, a testament to the bond you’ve shared since her hatching in your cradle. She’s been with you through every trial, every loss, and every victory. Now, she carries your son just as faithfully, as if she understands that he is a part of you, a continuation of your legacy.

As Winterfell grows smaller beneath you, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. Up here, with the sky stretching out infinitely above and the world below far removed, it’s easy to forget the weight of your grief, the loss of Jace, the uncertainty of the future. Up here, there is only the sound of the wind, the warmth of your son in your arms, and the steady, powerful beat of Thraxata’s wings.

You glance down at Killian, whose eyes are now glued to the horizon, a look of pure wonder on his face. “What do you see, little one?” you ask, curious to hear his thoughts.

“Everything, Mama,” he breathes, his voice filled with awe. “I can see everything.”

You smile, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Then let’s see where the wind takes us, my brave little dragon rider.”

As Thraxata glides effortlessly through the sky, you let yourself enjoy the moment, the rare freedom it offers, the bond between mother and child, between rider and dragon. And for a time, as the cold wind whips past and the world falls away beneath you, you are simply Y/N Velaryon, a daughter of House Targaryen, a mother, a wife, and a rider of dragons. The rest of the world can wait until your feet are back on solid ground.

Cregan Stark watches as Thraxata’s obsidian-black form rises higher into the sky, the great dragon’s wings beating with a rhythm that reverberates in his chest. He stands in the courtyard of Winterfell, eyes locked on the shrinking figures of his wife and son as they ascend into the endless blue, until they become little more than a speck against the pale sky. The wind whips through the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of pine and the distant promise of snow, but Cregan remains still, his gaze unwavering as long as they are visible.

There’s a sense of awe and pride that fills him every time he watches Y/N with her dragon. Even after years of seeing her soar above the battlements, it never fails to stir something deep within him. She is a true daughter of the Targaryen line, a force of nature bound to the skies, and it amazes him that she is his—his wife, the mother of his children.

As Thraxata and his family disappear from sight, he finally lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, a mix of contentment and longing. He knows she’ll be back before long, but there’s always that small pang of separation, as if part of him takes flight with her every time she ascends into the heavens.

With a final glance at the now empty sky, Cregan turns and heads back toward the Great Keep. The stone walls of Winterfell rise imposingly around him, offering a stark contrast to the boundless sky from which he has just watched his wife and son disappear. The weight of his responsibilities returns to him with each step, grounding him in the reality of the world below.

As he enters the Great Hall, the warmth of the hearth fires greets him, a welcome change from the crisp air outside. The hall is quiet this time of day, the usual bustle of Winterfell subdued, with most of the household attending to their duties. He makes his way down the familiar corridors, his boots echoing softly on the stone floors, until he reaches the chamber where his daughter, Alysane, is being tended to.

The door is slightly ajar, and as he steps inside, he is greeted by the sight of a nursemaid cradling the infant in her arms. Alysane is awake, her bright violet eyes—so much like her mother’s—tracking the nursemaid’s movements with the curious intensity only a baby can muster. The soft, cooing lullaby being sung to her halts as the nursemaid notices Cregan’s entrance.

“Lord Stark,” she says with a respectful dip of her head, adjusting her hold on the child. “The little lady has been a delight today, though I daresay she misses her mother already.”

Cregan crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze softening as he looks down at his daughter. “She’ll have her back soon enough,” he replies, his voice a low rumble of reassurance. “Let me hold her.”

The nursemaid carefully transfers Alysane into his arms, and Cregan feels the familiar, grounding weight of his daughter settle against his chest. She’s so small, so delicate, and yet she has a strength in her grip that makes him smile every time she reaches out to grasp his fingers. Alysane’s eyes, so much like Y/N’s, meet his, and he can’t help the rush of love that fills him.

“Have you been good for the nursemaid, little one?” he asks, his tone lighter, more playful as he gently rocks her. Alysane coos in response, her tiny fists waving in the air as if to say, Yes, Papa, I’ve been very good.

“She’s taken to her feeding well, my lord,” the nursemaid informs him, a smile tugging at her lips as she watches the interaction. “And she seems to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Perhaps she takes after her mother in that regard.”

Cregan chuckles softly, nodding. “She has the blood of the dragon in her, no doubt. But she’s a Stark, too. She’ll grow to love these cold winds, just as we do.”

He spends a few more moments with his daughter, savoring the simple joy of holding her, of feeling her small heartbeat against his chest. It’s a different kind of peace than what he feels when he’s with Y/N, but no less profound. Alysane is a part of them both, a perfect blend of fire and ice, and he treasures these quiet moments with her.

After a while, he gently hands Alysane back to the nursemaid, who resumes her gentle rocking and humming. “Thank you,” he says, his voice warm with gratitude. “Keep her close to the fire. The day will grow colder before it ends.”

The nursemaid nods. “As you wish, my lord.”

Cregan leaves the chamber, his thoughts now turning to the evening ahead. The wind outside has picked up, and he knows Y/N and Killian will appreciate a warm welcome when they return. He heads toward the Great Hall once more, this time with purpose in his stride. The fires need to be tended, more wood brought in, and the hearths stoked to a roaring blaze. Winterfell might be a cold, unforgiving place at times, but it was also a home—a sanctuary for his family—and he would see to it that they returned to warmth and comfort.

As he reaches the Great Hall, he calls out to a nearby servant, a young man quick on his feet. “We’ll need more wood for the hearths,” Cregan instructs, his tone commanding but not unkind. “Bring in what you can carry and see to it that the fires are stoked high.”

The servant nods eagerly, hurrying off to fulfill the request. Cregan moves to the main hearth himself, where the fire is already burning but not nearly to the level he desires. He takes up a heavy iron poker and stirs the embers, watching as the flames leap higher, their glow reflecting off the stone walls. 

As the fire roars to life, filling the hall with a warm, golden light, he steps back, satisfied with his work. The crackling of the flames, the scent of burning wood, and the comforting heat are all reminders of why he fights, why he endures. It’s for these moments—for the quiet, peaceful evenings after the storms have passed, when his family is safe and together under one roof.

He can almost hear Killian’s excited laughter already, the way his little boy’s voice fills the hall with joy whenever they return from a flight. He imagines Y/N’s smile, the way it lights up her entire face, and how her silver hair catches the firelight as she steps inside, Killian in tow, both of them flushed from the cold and the exhilaration of the sky.

The servant returns with an armful of wood, and Cregan helps him stack it near the hearth. The warmth is already spreading through the hall, driving away the chill that had begun to settle as the day waned. He can feel the sense of home building around him, the very thing he’s fought to protect, to preserve for those he loves most.

With the fires now blazing, he takes a moment to himself, standing in the center of the hall and letting the warmth seep into his bones. It’s a simple pleasure, but one he doesn’t take for granted. The flickering light of the flames plays across his face, casting shadows that dance along the stone walls. 

He glances toward the door, knowing it will soon swing open, admitting his wife and son back into the safety and warmth of Winterfell. He’s ready to greet them, to hear about their flight, to listen to Killian’s breathless recounting of the view from above and to feel the reassurance of Y/N’s presence beside him.

As he waits, the fire crackling at his back, Cregan Stark feels a deep sense of contentment. There’s a storm coming, as there always is in the North, but for now, his world is warm, his heart full, and his family is safe. And that is all he could ever ask for.

The warmth of the fire mingles with the lingering heat of your bodies, still flush from the passion that had just consumed you both. You lie nestled in the soft, thick furs of your bed, the heavy pelts providing a cocoon of warmth against the biting cold that lurks just beyond the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan's strong arm is draped around you, his hand tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your bare back. Your head rests on his broad chest, rising and falling with each steady breath he takes. The intimacy of the moment is profound, the kind of peace that only comes after such intensity, when every barrier has been stripped away, leaving only raw, unfiltered affection in its wake.

His fingers slide through your silver hair, untangling the strands that had become tousled during your lovemaking, and you feel a contented sigh escape your lips. The connection between you is tangible, a bond forged not only in love but in shared trials, in the promises whispered in the dark and the strength you find in one another.

"Sometimes," you begin softly, your voice barely more than a murmur in the quiet of the room, "sometimes I wish I could be down there, in the thick of it, fighting alongside my mother. Facing the Greens with fire and blood, like we were meant to."

Cregan’s hand stills on your back for a moment before he resumes his gentle caresses. He knows how deeply the conflict weighs on you, how much you struggle with the separation from your mother and the battles you were born to fight. "You’re a warrior at heart, Y/N," he says, his voice low and full of understanding. "It’s in your blood, in your very soul. But you’re here now, and there’s strength in that too—in being the heart of this family, in raising our children with the knowledge of who they are and where they come from."

You nod against his chest, taking comfort in his words. It’s not easy to be away from the fight, to know that your family is out there, risking their lives while you remain here, safe in the North. But Cregan is right—there is strength in what you’re doing here, in the life you’ve built together, in the legacy you’re creating.

"I know," you whisper, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his chest, right above his heart. "I know. But I’m grateful, Cregan. For this, for you, for everything we’ve found here in Winterfell. It’s more than I ever imagined for myself."

He shifts slightly, turning so that he can look down at you, his grey eyes dark and intense as they meet yours. There’s a tenderness there, a love so deep it nearly takes your breath away. "You’ve brought light to this place, Y/N," he says, his voice filled with conviction. "You’ve made it a home, not just for me, but for everyone within these walls. You are the heart of Winterfell now, just as much as you were born both of Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I will always be grateful for that, for you."

You smile up at him, a warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the fire. "And I, for you, my love," you reply softly, lifting your hand to trace the strong line of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your fingers. "I never thought I could find such peace, such happiness, in a place so far from the warmth of the South. But here with you, it feels like I’ve found something even better. Something that feels like home."

He leans down to capture your lips in a slow, lingering kiss, one that speaks of love and promises, of the future you’ll face together. When he pulls back, his gaze is serious, his expression thoughtful. "Winter will come soon," he says, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "The snow will fall heavier, and the North will sleep beneath its blanket of white. But when the spring sun melts the snow, when the rivers flow again and the ice recedes, the North will rise. And we will march south, to deliver the justice that has long been owed. Just as I promised you, Y/N. The time will come."

You see the resolve in his eyes, the fire of his conviction, and it stirs something within you—a spark of hope, of purpose. You’ve always known that the North was a place of endurance, of long winters and even longer memories. But with Cregan by your side, you also know it is a place of honor, of loyalty, and of promises kept.

"And I will be ready," you say, your voice firm with determination. "We will be ready. For whatever comes."

He nods, the tension in his expression easing as he presses another kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if to seal the promise between you. "But for now," he murmurs against your skin, "we have this. These moments, this peace. And we will hold on to it for as long as we can."

You close your eyes, letting his warmth and the steady beat of his heart lull you into a state of calm. The world outside can wait for now—the battles, the struggles, the uncertainties of the future. Here, wrapped in Cregan’s arms, you find solace, a reprieve from the weight of the world, and the strength to face whatever comes next.

As you drift off to sleep, cocooned in the warmth of the furs and the security of Cregan’s embrace, you feel a deep sense of contentment settle over you. The future may hold its challenges, but in this moment, all is well. You are together, and that is all that matters.

[aventurineswife]

Hello :D! Can I request how Aventurine, Sunday, and Ratio would handle accidentally taking a joke too far/saying something that hurt the reader?

A Joke Too Far

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Miscommunication, Emotional Hurt/Healing, Fluff and Angst, Apologies and Redemption, Vulnerable Moments.

Warnings: Emotional Hurt, Minor Self-Deprecation, Angst and Tension, Characters may exhibit self-blame, Fluff resolution (Happy Ending), Sensitive themes of guilt and emotional wounds.

The usually unflappable Aventurine had made a misstep. What had started as light teasing about your supposed inability to bluff during a game of cards had spiraled into a sharp comment about your naivety in real life. Though it had been meant as a jest, your sudden silence spoke volumes. The flicker of pain in your eyes wasn’t something Aventurine could easily brush off.

He leaned back in his chair, feigning his usual relaxed demeanor as the cards slipped through his fingers, but his mind raced. His charm and wit had saved him countless times, yet here, it felt inadequate.

Standing, he made his way to your side, dropping to a crouch so he could meet your eyes. The air of playfulness softened, replaced by genuine contrition. “Well,” he said, voice quieter than usual, “it seems even I can misread the stakes. I didn’t mean to draw blood.”

You glanced at him, unsure how to respond.

“Let me make it up to you,” he continued, his lips twitching into a softer smile. “How about I put my pride on the table? A gamble just for you—I’ll let you choose the terms.” He tilted his head, his eyes catching the light. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’ll pay my dues.”

His sincerity shone through the offer, and you couldn’t help but let the tension in your shoulders ease. Aventurine had a way of making you feel seen, even when he stumbled.

Sunday was known for his eloquence and composed nature, but even he could falter. His comment, a teasing remark about how you seemed too attached to fleeting, mundane pleasures, was meant to be harmless. Instead, it struck a nerve, and you turned away sharply.

The halo behind him dimmed slightly, as though reflecting his own self-reproach. Sunday didn’t immediately speak; he knew words hastily given were often meaningless. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence warm yet unintrusive, like sunlight filtering through clouds.

“I have erred,” he began gently, his eyes searching for yours. “I did not intend to undermine what brings you joy. If I have caused you pain, it is my failure, not yours.”

His voice, calm and steady, carried the weight of sincerity. Sunday placed a hand over his heart, bowing his head slightly—a gesture of respect, almost reverent. “Your happiness, fleeting or eternal, is yours to cherish. I would never wish to diminish it.”

You glanced at him, finding it hard to hold onto your frustration in the face of his humility. Sunday smiled softly, the light behind him glowing a little brighter. “Perhaps I could learn from you, rather than judge. Show me the beauty you see—I would be honored.”

Ratio had been in the middle of one of his characteristically blunt tirades, critiquing a decision you had made during a project. His comment—that it was “hardly a surprise given your level of experience”—was not meant to wound, but the sharp edge of his tone had cut deeper than he realized.

When he noticed your silence, the shift in your posture, he paused. It wasn’t often that Ratio miscalculated, but when he did, he took it seriously. For a moment, he considered doubling down, justifying his words with logic, but the pang of guilt in his chest stopped him.

He took a breath, stepping closer. “I was careless,” he admitted, his voice softer than usual. His eyes, so often piercing, held a rare vulnerability. “My intent was to challenge, not to insult. But it seems I failed to consider how my words might be received.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the uncharacteristic apology.

Ratio removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a rare display of frustration. “The truth is, I respect your contributions more than I expressed. I let my standards obscure my appreciation.” He hesitated, then added, “I may not always convey it well, but your perspective is valuable to me.”

His straightforward approach made it clear he wasn’t just placating you, and slowly, the sting of his words began to fade. Ratio replaced his glasses and straightened, a small but genuine smile touching his lips. “Shall we try again? Together, this time.”

[monster-disaster]

[monsters] New Year's resolution

monsters x human!Reader Good to know: no warnings

Summary: Your New Year's resolution leads to a very intense week in the gym.

“She is the one.”

Kiron frowns. His dark eyes scan through the crowd, searching. “Which one?”

“That pretty girl in the black sweatshirt,” Diran replies, nodding subtly in your direction. “She just left the reception desk.”

“Oh,” Decar hums. The deep baritone of his voice barely rises above the monotone drone of the treadmills. “And she has a membership card. She’s serious.”

Kiron snorts, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “Yeah, so is half the city. It’s January, after all.”

Decar’s lips curl into a slow, predatory smirk, just enough to show a hint of his canines. “Well, then, let’s make sure she doesn’t quit after a week, shall we?” His vivid green eyes gleam under the bright fluorescent lights as he watches you take a tentative step closer to a row of sleek, whirring machines. Your gaze darts around, clearly lost and unsure and so blissfully unaware of their scrutiny.

“Boys,” Nara speaks up finally. Her voice cuts through the clang of weights like a pleasant melody. “You will scare her away.”

“Well, do you have a plan?” the orc asks, arching an eyebrow in challenge, though, he already knows the answer, of course. Nara always has a plan.

The succubus flashes a sharp, knowing smile that lights up her face with an air of effortless confidence. “Just watch and see.” The promise in her tone is undeniable.

It is the first Monday of the year, and the gym is full of new beginnings. The air hangs heavy with the potent mix of sweat, disinfectant from the freshly cleaned machines, and the weight of resolutions.

The guys watch as Nara strides toward you. Her steps are confident and fluid as she easily waves through the crowd. The blue yoga outfit she likes so much clings to her in all the right places. The light shade looks like the summer sky on her pastel purple skin. Her black hair is piled into a messy bun, with a matching scrunchie holding it all together.

“What do you think she’s saying to her?” Diran asks, tilting his head in curiosity.

The tiger shrugs. The black stripes on his arms flex as he adjusts his stance. “Who knows.”

“I’m surprised they still have their clothes on,” Kiron remarks teasingly. The orc watches you with amusement glinting in his dark gaze. Your wide, timid eyes remain fixed on Nara. You seem caught somewhere between awe and nervousness as your fingers fidget with the sleeve of your oversized sweatshirt.

The minotaur rolls his eyes, though his lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. “We are in public,” he points out, glancing sideways at the orc, whose knowing grin only deepens.

“Exactly,” the male replies. “You know Nara.”

“Look,” Decar interrupts, nodding toward you and Nara when the succubus turns her head ever so slightly to glance back at their group with a sly curl at the corner of her lips. Your gaze follows hers, landing on them for a brief, uncertain moment. “It’s our time, guys.”

Every part of the gym buzzes with life. Seasoned members move around the equipment with familiarity while the newcomers wander around, watching and trying to get through their “newbie” embarrassment.

“Y/N,” Nara says smoothly before any of the guys can get a word in. She gestures toward the trio with a casual wave of her hand. “These are Diran, Kiron, and Decar,” she introduces them in turn. “Guys, this is Y/N. It’s her first time here.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Diran says first in a friendly and inviting tone, and the others only nod in acknowledgment. Their imposing figures are softened by their smiles, though, Decar's is more of a smirk, and Kiron's grin has a sharpness to it, but the gesture is there.

“Y/N just told me she isn’t sure where to start with her workout.”

The orc has to bite his lip to stifle a comment, his gaze flicking from Nara to you with a glimmer of mischief. “Is that true?”

You nod a bit meekly, feeling self-conscious under the weight of their attention. “It all looks a bit overwhelming,” you admit, gesturing vaguely toward the expansive gym filled with unfamiliar equipment and bustling energy.

“It’s understandable,” Diran says with a reassuring nod. He is calm and grounded, a stark contrast to the others. “We all started somewhere.”

“That’s what I told her,” Nara interjects, flashing a grin as she effortlessly reclaims control of the conversation. “So, I offered to help her out.”

Kiron raises a brow, a sly look creeping onto his face as he exchanges a glance with the succubus. “Oh?”

“I thought we could show her some workout routines,” the woman says, her grin widening. “I don’t start my beginner class until next Monday, but if you’d like, Y/N, you can come early tomorrow, and I will give you a private yoga session.”

Decar snickers at the offer, but the low rumble of his chest gets drowned by all the noises around them. Of course Nara would claim the first opportunity to guide the sweet, wide-eyed newcomer. It’s only fair, after all. “That’s a great idea, Nara." The humor in his tone is evident.

The woman smirks at the tiger. “I know, right?”

The male crosses his arms, his tail swishing idly behind him. “I could show you some boxing moves on Wednesday,” he offers. “It’s a great way to build confidence.”

“And I can show you around the machines on Thursday,” the minotaur adds. “They can be tricky if you are new to them.”

The orc’s lips curl into a slow, dark grin. His tusks catch the bright lights from above. “And when you are all stretched and ready, we can end the week with some weightlifting on Friday.”

[odoraful]

𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

brushing up on physical intimacy might be hard for an adeptus like xiao. however, he's willing to put in the effort for a romantic like you.

⟡ content: xiao x gn!reader; sfw; fluff; xiao is ALWAYS serious about wanting to learn more about you :') ; 1.5k words

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You froze in shock hearing what Xiao had just asked.

“Do you want to kiss?”

The words reverberated in your head. Did you need to schedule a visit with Baizhu to have your ears checked? Or did your serious-minded adeptus actually initiate wanting to kiss you? If it was any consolation, Xiao seemed an equal measure flustered by his own request.

You had just begun to unwind for the night at Wangshu Inn—Xiao pouring out tea, and you folding laundry to be put away—when he spouted the question.

Seeing your wide eyes barely blink, Xiao blurted out, “You kept talking about the opera we watched”—he cleared his throat—“and about how romantic the kiss was.”

You flushed.

The romanticist in you couldn’t help it though. At Liyue Harbour, the Yun-Han Opera Troupe had just performed a story of forbidden romance. It was a tale of two lovers who had been banished to opposite sides of the night sky. For only a single day out of a year, birds would form a bridge to help them reunite. And when they met, they shared a passionate kiss beneath the heavenly skies dotted by milky stars and galaxies. You had almost been moved to tears. Believing that Xiao was unaffected by such things, you freely chattered about it the way back to Wangshu Inn after the performance. Gushing endlessly about the magic of it all.

“It was! But, that doesn’t mean that I want to”—

You sucked in a breath, cutting yourself off.

Well, you didn’t not want to kiss Xiao. You just weren’t prepared at all for this.

“It’s just that you said it so suddenly!” you said, shaking out a blouse that matched the shade of pink that spread across your cheeks.

Affection came in many forms between the two of you—heartfelt conversations on moonlit nights, swims in Yaoguang Shoal when the weather warmed up, exchanging trinkets from one’s adventures—but neither of you had engaged in anything physical. It seemed like an invisible line not to be crossed. Shoulders side-by-side, but never touching. Hands brushing, but never holding.

You stored your small pile of clothes away, staring aimlessly into the open drawer trying to figure out a reply. He sounded so genuine in his offer, how could you turn it down? Resolute, you shut the drawer and swung around.

Betrayed by his tendency to blush easily, Xiao fought to keep a calm expression on his face. He rested his elbow on the arm rest of the wooden sofa, hand covering his mouth. His words came out muffled.

“Forget I said anything.”

No, no, don’t backtrack! you thought.

You needed to salvage this situation. Though, your mind drew a blank. Quickly, your dug around your memories and all the romantic stories you’ve read, featuring love interests timid, bold and everything in between. What was the perfect move to woo someone the fastest? A move that would be impossible to refuse?

You crossed the floor of the room with an unfaltering gait. Xiao’s eyes followed your movement, curious as to your intent.

With little hesitation, you sat on his lap.

Every hair on Xiao’s body raised. His heartrate thundered in his ears, faster than in any fight he had been in. The curve of your body against his thighs was a foreign, yet oddly comforting, sensation.

“W-what are you doing?!” he spluttered, flabbergasted.

Your boyfriend was in the most embarrassed state you had ever seen, his face as red as a jueyun chili.

“You asked if I wanted to kiss, right?” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “Well, here’s my answer to that.”

A fuse short circuited in Xiao’s brain.

He didn’t even know where to look. At your eyes? No, they held too much bated anticipation. At your lips? Certainly not. Even staring down into his lap meant acknowledging the vulnerable position you two were in.

He couldn’t do this. He definitely couldn’t do this. Why had he even asked you in the first place? Because he could somehow act like a prince charming? Hold the back of your neck and sweep you off your feet with an expert kiss? However, beneath his panic, the temptation he felt was undeniable. Yet, time and time again, his desires were drowned out by the alarms blaring in his mind.

You laid your hands on his shoulders. The air around him sweetened, the perfume on your wrists enhanced by your closeness.

As you drew nearer to him, he was forced to look up at you. The panic stilled. All he could focus on was you. The steadiness of your breathing, and the tensing of your legs. Every little texture on your face, and each blink of your eyes.

Xiao wanted to try. Try to fulfil those romantic fantasies you spoke so fondly about. Maybe, just maybe, he could make you just as giddy and lovestruck.

The unexpected passion in his gaze was too overwhelming for you. Unable to hold eye contact with him anymore, you turned you head to the side,

Xiao knew to strike when enemies left an opening in their defences. Whilst you were the farthest from an opponent to him, it was those same instincts that pushed him to move after the perfect opportunity you gave.

Your mouth parted with surprise at his lips pressed against your cheek. Though it only lasted seconds, the softness of his kiss lingered behind, your skin tingling with elation. Outside, past the balcony of your room, the stars seemed to twinkle a magnitude brighter before he pulled away. You turned back to him, an incredulous smile plastered on your face, practically beaming.

“I-I know it wasn’t like how it was in the opera…” Xiao’s voice trailed off, hands fiddling at the fabric of the cushion beneath him.

You shook your head in strong disagreement. “I thought it was even better than the opera.”

Interlocking your fingers behind his neck, your voice filled with mirth, “I should tell Yun Jin about it so she can incorporate it into her next performance.”

“Do not tell her.”

“I’m joking! Well, only about the telling Yun Jin part that is.”

Up close, he could see exactly the way your eyes creased and your lips curved when you laughed. Had he done that? Been the one to provoke such cheeriness for you? The previous fears he had subsided, and it boldened him to ask you a question.

“Why is it—” his voice grew small—“you never ask me to do things like this with you?”

His sincerity both gladdened you, and twinged you with guilt.

“To be honest, I always assumed that you didn’t like to do these sorts of things,” you admitted, downcast.

“It is hard for me due to my… inexperience,” his face scrunched up slightly as he paused. An endearing habit of his when he let his thoughts collect itself before replying, “but if it’s for you, I’m willing to try.”

Hesitatingly, he brought a hand up to cradle of your face. His touch was feather-like, leaving a gap of mere millimetres against your skin.

“Just… don’t move so fast.”

Xiao examined your reaction, hoping that his words made sense.

“I understand,” you reassured, “I want us both to feel comfortable too, so we can take things slowly.”

Comfortable… Once again, he was conscious of your position.

He coughed, a slight awkwardness to his tone as he spoke.

“Then, does ‘taking things slowly’ involve sitting in my lap?”

“Ah!”

You almost jumped out of your skin realising the position you had put him in.

“I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking. It was just something I’ve seen happen so many times in the light novels I read, and I thought I’d try to do one on you.” You were rambling at this point, spouting anything out of your system.

Hurriedly, you got up, brushing the sweat from your palms on the fabric of your pants. You sat beside him on the sofa, willing the heat away from your cheeks.

“I-I didn’t dislike it,” he said, gently. “I would prefer if you asked next time so I’m prepared.”

You nodded. The corners of Xiao’s lips twitched at your sulk. He knew well enough he should change the subject to dispel the embarrassment radiating off you.

“You spoke of light novels? What are they?”

“They’re a type of literature from Inazuma.” As you continued, your composure renewed itself. “Wanwen Bookhouse has been supplying lots of new genres recently, specifically romance,” you added, somewhat sheepishly.

He hummed with interest. “Could you… share them with me?”

“You want to read some?” You brightened at his curiosity. “But, why?”

Xiao’s expression fell into seriousness, as if calculating a decisive move in a battle.

“I want to understand your likes more.”

His words landed a direct hit to your heart, causing it to flutter. It was a different feeling to when you read your novels. It was far more intense, and infinitely more meaningful.

He smiled softly.

“These stories will be good study for me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[milkloafy]

TWISTED TEA PARTY — WRIOTHESLEY

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which you get drunk during a tea party with neuvillette and wriothesley comes to pick you up.  ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, established relationship, fem!reader, drunk reader, bff neuvi is my fav, reader gets called princess bc wrio is such a doting bf who would treat u like princess <3  ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 0.9k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: mmm i love me some twisted tea but the one neuvi and reader are drinking is 10x stronger than that juice for sure c:< is it just me or would neuvi be the best bff ever?? anyway pls enjoy some wrio fluff! 

Neuvillette didn’t take you for a lightweight. 

That’s why, during a late night tea party when you suggested ditching the tea for some alcoholic beverages instead, he agreed. 

Unfortunately for Wriothesley, Neuvillette was sorely mistaken. 

Just three cups of “tea” later and Neuvillette was forced to summon Wriothesley from the Fortress of Meropide where he was sleeping to come and collect his intoxicated girlfriend. 

“Can I touch your horns Neuvillette?” you cooed, reaching your hand out as Neuvillette backed away. 

He glanced at the door, wondering how long it would take Wriothesley to appear. You were a dear friend of his, but Neuvillette would rather sleep than be a babysitter. That was your significant other’s job, after all. 

“I would prefer if you did not,” he said politely, gently pushing your grabby hands out of the way. 

You frowned, eye growing watery at the rejection. In order to soothe your sadness, you poured yourself another cup of alcoholic tea and began to chug it.

“That is quite enough!” Neuvillette exclaimed, attempting to take the cup from your hands. He internally groaned when you sprang up from your seat and dodged his hands, clutching onto your drink as if it was your lifeline. You slurped the beverage in an exaggerated fashion, giggling at the look of exasperation on his face. 

He would never listen to one of your suggestions again. Ever. 

Thankfully for him, it didn’t take too long for Wriothesley to come waltzing in through the door, eyes surveying the room until they landed on you. 

You cheered at the sight of your boyfriend, running over to him in an instant. Neuvillette let out a sigh of relief when he realized he would be free for the rest of the night. 

“You’re here,” said Neuvillette, perhaps almost too cheerily. “I shall clean up. You, just take her and go. Please.” 

Wriothesley chuckled, smoothing your hair down as you burrowed your face into the crook of his nice. “I take it she got a little drunk?” 

“Just a little,” Neuvillette echoed dryly. “By her own suggestion, might I add.” 

“That little troublemaker,” Wriothesley said, his words scolding but his tone affectionate as he kissed the top of your head. “Thanks for calling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Neuvillette nodded, all but ushering the pair out of his office. “Now, goodnight and good luck.” 

Once Neuvillette closed the door on them, he wiped his brow and exhaled.

Finally, he was alone. 

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Just outside the office, you and Wriothesley began walking through the streets of Fontaine to your home in the Fortress of Meropide. 

Though, Wriothesley thought, calling it walking was a bit generous. It was more of you stumbling along and trying not to trip with Wriothesley guiding you gently. 

“Wow,” you mumbled, your cheek smooshed against his muscular arm as you peered up at him. “You smell s’good. And your arm is big and strong. Reminds me of my boyfriend.”

Wriothesley barked out a laugh. “Is that so?” 

“Mhm.”

“And who is your boyfriend, exactly?” 

“Wriothesley,” you said proudly, grinning at him as you shot him a thumbs up. “Also known as my baby, sweetheart, honey bunny, schnookums wookums bubblykins.”

He blinked. “You do not call me that.”

“In my head!” you argued. 

Wriothesley laughed at your ridiculous pet names but relented. “I like it. It’s endearing.” 

You nodded resolutely before easily getting distracted once more. “Can I touch your hair? It looks like you have wolf ears.” You gasped, releasing him in and instant and stumbling back. Alarmed, Wriothesley reached out to steady you. “Are you a…werewolf?” 

“No, that’s just my hair.” 

He leaned forward and let you place your hand on his head, feeling the soft strands between your fingers. Your mouth opened into a small ‘o’.

“See, it’s hair,” stated Wriothesley. “Not wolf ears.”

“Your hair is so soft,”you cooed, twirling it around your pointer finger. “Can I take one?” 

Wriothesley let out of a laugh of surprise. “As in a strand of hair?”

You nodded excitedly.

He rubbing his forehead in confusion but agreed nonetheless. “I’ll give you one when we get home.” 

With wide eyes, you looked at him as if he were a stranger at a tavern trying to make a pass at you. You backed away from him cautiously. 

“We’re going to your place?” you questioned.

“Our place.” 

“Wow.” When the shock wore off you began to giggle to yourself. “Good job, me!” 

Wriothesley laughed, a deep sound coming straight from his chest. You found yourself gravitating back towards him and planting your face between his two pectoral muscles.

“What am I going to do with you?” chided Wriothesley, voice filled with amusement as he looked down at you face-planted on his chest. 

“Nothing,” you murmured, your voice heavily muffled as you wrapped your arms around him to get even closer. “We can just stay like this.” 

He smile and leaned his cheek on the top of your head, allowing you to savor the moments of closeness. Drunk on his scent and the drinks you had with Neuvillette, you felt the buzz in your head growing heavy.

You yawned, pulling away slowly as you rubbed your eyes. “I’m sleepy, schnookums wookums bubblykins.”

“Let’s get you home then, princess,” said Wriothesley, taking you by the hand and gently tugging you along in the right direction. 

You looked at him gratefully, giving his hand a squeeze. “Can you tell my boyfriend he’s the best in the world?”

Wriothesley grinned as he planted a kiss on your forehead. “I’ll make sure to let him know.”

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Yakuza x Reader (V)

In a rather unlucky turn of events, you find yourself kidnapped for being in the wrong place during a gang war. Worry not, your yakuza boyfriend is at your service. Yet another bloody reason not to mess with him.

Content: female reader, organized crime, violence, gore, obsessive behavior

[Part 4] | [Yakuza Masterlist]

"Damn it!"

The scarred man throws another tile into the pile, clicking his tongue.

"I gotta say, you're pretty good for a foreigner." A second man with an eyepatch remarks, carefully inspecting his set before retrieving a tile of his own. "Pung."

You take another greedy sip of the cheap sake and slam the little cup back on the table.

"Kind of inevitable to learn mahjong when your only friends in this country are yakuza." You look up towards your captor with a frown. "You guys ever heard of board games or something?"

"Try to explain new rules to this dumbass!" A third man angrily pours himself another glass, pointing towards the first. "Fuck, I could iron clothes on that smooth brain of yours!"

"Fuck off, you're not any better." The scarred man continues his turn with furrowed brows. 

"If I were you I'd keep quiet about being pals with the yakuza. They'll question you, too, after the office guy. Don't make it worse." The man wearing an eyepatch mentions in a lowered voice. The table suddenly goes quiet.

"When is he coming out?" You ask hesitantly, bile pooling in your mouth. You already suspect the answer.

"He's not. Bodies are discarded through the back entrance." He pats the ash off and takes another drag off his cigarette. 

You swallow. 

Being involved with the Triad was not part of your new year resolutions, yet here you are about to be interrogated by the local Chinese syndicate. At least the lackeys have taken pity on you, a poor civilian caught in the middle of their rivalry. Hence the fake sense of normalcy as you chitchat at the mahjong table with a cup of sake to ease your wrecked nerves. 

"I'm guessing they won't be as friendly back there." You nod towards the door, where they took your work superior several hours ago. 

"No." 

That's all you get and you can only smile bitterly. Huh. You wonder if this is how Daitou's victims feel, helplessly waiting for whatever is brought upon them. Having to watch him unwrap his tool belt, stuffed with rusty old tools littered in blotches of dried up blood. Pondering his questions while he eyes the row delectably, hovering his hand over the potential ways to loosen up the tongue.

Would they torture you, too? Hopefully not. It should be rather obvious you're just a mere civilian. Then again, if your work superior mentioned anything about you being Daitou's girlfriend...He's never told you anything downright incriminating, but it'll be hard to convince these fellows that you truly are clueless.

Maybe they'll let you go if you offer your finger as a token of peace. Your forehead wrinkles at the thought. Isn't it more of a Japanese custom anyways? And if they say yes, then what? Do they provide you with the required utensils or are you expected to improvise on the spot?

You remember one of Daitou's seniors describing the process in great detail during the Christmas party. You had asked him about it, purely out of curiosity, and he certainly delivered almost more than your stomach was able to handle (Daitou scolded him later for telling you too much). You take the tatami mat and preferably wrap it in cloth, to soak up the blood. Any sharp blade will do, but traditionally you'd be offered a proper tantō that can easily slice through the bone. Obviously you want to cut as little as possible, so you still have some functionality remaining. Right above the joint. You must put all of your body weight into the thrust, otherwise the cut won't be clean and it turns into a mess. 

Hell. You wipe the cold beads of sweat that have formed on your face. You can barely chop an onion. Maybe one of the gangsters has enough experience and goodwill to offer to do it for you. Then you only have to clench your teeth and prepare for the blow. It can't be that bad. Surely the shock will be too great, and your brain won't even register it. Before you know it, they'll dip your hand in ice and rush you to someone fit to perform the aftercare. Yeah. That should to the trick. 

"Hey, foreigner. It's your turn."

"Leave her be, can't you see she's pale?"

You glance up and notice the men looking at you expectantly. They've already showed you plenty of kindness from the moment they shoved you in that black van with the rest of the office workers. Perhaps you can rely on them one final time. You suddenly bow, head pressing against the table. They're somewhat startled by your gesture. 

"I'm deeply sorry to ask, but might any of you be knowledgeable in blades?"

"H-huh? What for?"

You ceremoniously slam your hand onto the table, rattling the mahjong tiles. You struggle to let the words out, but try to maintain a straight face, picturing Shozo Hirono's cool attitude when he performed the deed himself in Battles without Honor and Humanity. 

"Would your Boss be satisfied with a yubitsume? I cannot offer anything else of use."

You feel a harsh hand smack against the back of your neck and you cough, taken out of your focus.

"Dumbass! What the hell are you talking about? Why would our Boss need the finger of a civilian, and a woman on top of that? 笨人!" The man with an eyepatch is red and flustered as he scolds you. The other two are holding back their snickers, amused by the scene.

"Let her! I have a knife on me right now." The scarred man comments with a grin. "Whaddaya say, kid? Or have you changed your mind already?"

"A man never goes back on his word." You bark and straighten your back, crossing your arms imposingly. 

The eyepatch man smacks you again and the other two begin clapping, terribly entertained by your tomfoolery. 

The spectacle doesn't last long. Within seconds, you jump out of your seat at the sound of rapid gunshots and scattered, erratic shouts.

Daitou bows before his Seniors and mumbles a polite, monotonous greeting. It's highly unusual to have the Lieutenants gathered at the office like this. Kazuya is fidgeting in his seat, Boss is away on a trip. What else could require everyone's immediate attendance? He makes his way to the blonde man and drops himself on the sofa, awaiting the details. 

"Wakasugi has been taken."

A chaotic murmur ensues. 

"He's been making offers for a building in a neutral area. That's where the Chinese sell their drugs and they claim it to be their turf. I hear some of our newbies got caught dealing that shit as well. Boss has been on their throats for some time now and this is their way to say fuck you."

Ah. More gang rivalry drama. Daitou presses his lips together, trying his best to hold back a yawn threatening to escape his mouth. Hopefully they'll leave him out of it, he has a date planned with you and he'd rather not show up reeking of rotten flesh. 

If you get kidnapped, think of yourself as already dead. The Yakuza doesn't negotiate. They just get their revenge tenfold. Unless it's someone important, like the Boss himself, the honorable way is to die without betraying your Family. 

"Just put a few bullets in them. Should teach them a lesson." He says while stretching. 

"Yeah, we're sending Oota and his men to deal with it. Just be on the lookout." One of the Seniors responds. 

"Still, the fucking guts on them. To show up at the office, right before our eyes-" Another man cries out, frustration in his voice.

"What did you say?" 

Kazuya flinches. He knows where this is going and he glares at the outraged yakuza, trying to silence him. Sadly he doesn't take the hint.

"Right? They just waltzed in, shot some of our guys and took Wakasugi and whoever was nearby. Heh, what are they gonna do with a bunch of office assistants? Extra weight to carry to the dump."

"Enough!" Kazuya's exasperated yell causes everyone to quiet down.

There are several confused looks being exchanged before everyone's eyes eventually rest on Daitou, now staring ahead motionless. Didn't his girlfriend work at that office? The Senior giving out the initial order has realized the mistake. He quickly clears his throat and is about to speak, but Daitou abruptly stands up and heads for the door.

"Oi! I said we're leaving it to Oota. This isn't your job." 

He tries to repeat his words with confidence, but his voice falters towards the end when faced with Daitou's massive frame. Particularly the barrel that's now pressing into his forehead.

"Mind your fucking business or I'll kill you right here." Daitou threatens.

"D-don't think Boss will help you out of this one, brat. If you go, you're disobeying your Senior."

The tall yakuza smirks mockingly. 

"See if you can run for Boss with your skull split open, bitch."

Kazuya slaps the gun aside and steps between the men.

"Just let him go. I'll take responsibility." He pleads, his friend already slamming the door behind him. 

Once the aggressor has left, everyone exhales discreetly in relief.

"He'll get us in trouble with the cops." The Senior retorts to the blonde in a berating tone.

"What else do you suggest? You know there's no way around it if he's pissed."

No one replies to what seems to be an universally agreed upon truth.

He blows out the smoke and crushes the cigarette under his foot. Fuck. He needs to calm down. They most likely haven't killed you, but if they laid a single hand on you...He's blacking out again. Whatever blinding rage possessed him back in his youth, when his Boss got wounded, would now pale in comparison. His ears are ringing and his vision is foggy. He can't even recall how he made it to their building. Or how he got past the guards. Although that one's easy to figure out, judging from their twisted throats. 

He checks his rounds one final time and kicks the heavy metal door open. Only about a dozen of them, but no sign of you yet. Should take a minute. It is time for him to pay his respects. 

"What the fuck was that?" the scarred man swiftly takes out his weapon and knocks the stool over with his foot.

If it is who you think it is...Your face twists in fear.

"Listen, you've been nice to me so I don't want to see you dead. Could you...could you leave, please? It might be someone I know and I promise you there's no point in fighting back."

The noticeable quiver in your speech might lead one to believe you're awaiting your executioner, not your savior and boyfriend. But you've seen Daitou angry and the ordeal flooded the very marrow of your bones with terror. Naturally he could never be upset at his darling for any reason, ever. Whoever poses a threat to you, however, can't say the same thing. You remember trying to pull him back from a random drunk that had groped you during an outing, and he tightly gripped your jaw with a bloodied hand and nearly ordered you in a ragged growl: "Hey. I said I'll be done in a moment. Be a good girl and close your eyes." 

Thus, from experience, you know he'd never listen to your pleas. Maybe if he was lucid enough, but not in this manic state. The man wearing an eyepatch scans your expression attentively. Your worry is genuine and the other room is gradually becoming quieter, but not in a way that'd inspire him confidence. He certainly doesn't feel like dying today and there's nothing honorable about throwing yourself into a senseless battle. He nods at the other two men and he asks you one last time if you'll be fine by yourself, to which you shake your head vehemently. Please go away already. 

The final obstacle crumbles under Daitou's weight and you fiddle with your glass, alone, at the mahjong table. He seems to be taken aback, and once he confirms you're not in any pain or discomfort, his demeanor switches within an instant. 

"Where's everyone?"

"They ran away."

"Just like that? And left you here?" He stares at you, baffled.

"Maybe there's some still in the back. These ones left because I asked them to."

He approaches you, still bewildered and confused. He looks like a lost dog.

"What? They were nice to me and I didn't want you to kill them. You never listen when I tell you to stop." You huff, pouting and folding your arms.

"Sorry. I got a little bit anxious." He kneels before you and extends a hand apologetically. "Friends again?"

"Wash your hands at least, I don't want to know what organ remains you have stuck through your fingers."

He chuckles and wipes the palm against his shirt. You follow his movements and notice the bullet wounds near the ribcage. This madman. You speedily bend to his level and remove his jacket to inspect the injuries.

"Christ. Take off your shirt and let's at least stop the bleeding before we leave. How the hell can you still stand with all these holes in you?"

Daitou unbuttons his shirt obediently and you try to wrap it around his abdomen. You notice the thick, wide scar crossing his stomach, presently smeared with blood. Either his or someone else's. 

"Now that I think about it, how did you get this scar? From a gang fight as well?"

"Oh no, I got this in prison. I was supposed to serve many more years, but one of the Seniors rang and said Boss needs me for something. They were in talks with the police chief to maybe bribe my way out. 

But I felt terrible knowing that Boss would be wasting money on my mistakes. At the time the place was overcrowded, so I figured they'd let me out for medical emergencies. So I cut my stomach open and they counted it as a suicide attempt." He responds with a proud grin. 

You grimace a little at the mental image. 

The cloth has been tightly, albeit clumsily secured around his gashes and you both get up. It occurs to you that throughout this mess you haven't feared for your life once. It feels like Daitou is always there to get you out of trouble. Despite his unorthodox methods.

You gaze up at him and notice the prosthetic eye has rolled inwards, so you adjust it slightly with your finger. He follows your romantic gesture with a quick peck on the lips. 

"You'll get yourself killed one day." You whine, tired.

"And leave you alone? Never. You're stuck with me for life."

He flashes you a wide smile and pats your head.

"Can we still go on that date?" The yakuza suddenly remembers, guiding you as you zigzag your way among fresh corpses.

So he hasn't forgotten. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Sure, but I'd like to have a bath first."

"Then let's have one together." He suggests cheerfully, completely unbothered by whatever just happened.  

Tags: @yandere-city2 @lokiofasgard12 @zeniiis @lucienbarkbark @channelinglament @your-next-daydream @bath1lda @murder-hobo @zanzie