#or else he will be left with nothing at all like always

[uppersidedreaminnn]

─── DAISUKI

╰┈➤ in which you surprise your boyfriend by speaking Japanese.

⟡ ┆pairing: nishimura riki x fem! reader

⟡ ┆genre: fluff, established relationship, humour

⟡ ┆word count: 1.0k

⟡ ┆note:  just wanted to say that i don’t know japanese, so if the translations aren’t accurate, pls lmk :)

“kuso.” riki mutters under his breath, causing you to turn your head toward him.

the two of you are sprawled comfortably on the couch, riki focused on his game, clicking rapidly at the buttons of his controller, completely immersed. while you scroll mindlessly on your phone, both of you exist in your own little bubble.

“what does that mean?” you ask, curiosity piqued at the word you've heard riki mutter multiple times. though you already have a vague guess.

riki glances at you briefly before slowing down his movements on the controller. “nothing,” he brushes off, returning his gaze to the screen. you hum not don’t pushing it further.

the night drags on, and soon, the two of you decide to watch an anime together—a movie you’ve both been waiting to release for some time now. nestled comfortably in each other’s arms, you watch as the story unfolds. before you know it, the credits roll. the two of you done for the night, you both get ready for bed.

waiting for riki to finish up in the bathroom, you lie alone in bed and remember the moment earlier. ever so curious, you grab your phone and search for the word riki often mutters under his breath. no doubt it was in his mother tongue, japanese.

the search results make you chuckle, confirming your suspicion—the words he often whispers are curse words. falling into a rabbit hole of japanese vocabulary, you practice the words that show up silently.

“daisuki?” your eyes scan the screen as you scroll down a beginner’s guide. “'daisuki' is a japanese word and expression that means to like or love something a great amount.” your gaze lingers on the next line.

“it's often used to say you love someone.”

hmm. these words might come in handy. 

the following days with riki are chaotic, to say the least. your boyfriend always keeps you on your toes, constantly teasing you, play-fighting with you (seriously, are we ten?), and worst of all, stealing your food. after a long day of dealing with his hyper energy, you sigh, in desperate need of a time-out.

your eyes trail to the couch and the controller left unattended on the coffee table, practically calling your name. you plop down, turning on the game, controller in hand. before long, you’re fully immersed, fingers gripping the buttons tightly as gunfire and other game sound effects echo in the room. the victory chime rings, and a smug grin spreads across your face. clicking start, you prepare for another round—

until a hand swiftly snatches the controller away.

“riki,” you whine, standing from your spot to reclaim it. agile and a lot taller than you, he swiftly dodges your movements.

“nu-uh,” he tuts, shaking his head in amusement as he moves further away. rounding back to the couch, he plops down. “it’s my turn now.”

you roll your eyes, huffing in annoyance at having been cut off short of your game.

“uzai.” you mutter the japanese word foreign on your tongue, sending a death glare in riki’s way, sitting comfortably in your spot.

you knew the word would elicit some sort of reaction, and you were right.

“what?” riki looks at you immediately, his expression unreadable, though amusement flickers in his eyes.

you take a few steps forward, arms crossed. “i said,” you repeat slowly, “uzai.” you try to sound confident in your pronunciation, though you barely remember the proper way to say it from the japanese guide you read.

riki chuckles, his confusion morphing into pure amusement. “hontou ni?” he replies, clicking start on his game. his response making you annoyed at yet another phrase you had no idea the meaning to.

“where’d you learn that word?” he asks as he begins his round, eyes still locked onto the screen.

“google. where else?” you shrug, plopping down beside him, watching intently as the game unfolds.

riki doesn’t respond to your sarcasm, too focused on his game. you smirk, seizing the opportunity and snatching the controller from his grasp.

“hey!” he exclaims, frowning at you, lips tugging into a pout as he watches you start playing.

you only chuckle. “you started it.”

things wind down as the night progresses, the two of you tangled on the couch, exhaustion finally settling in. an anime plays softly on the screen, but neither of you pay much attention. you snuggle closer to riki, sighing in contentment at the much more peaceful atmosphere.

just as you feel yourself slipping into sleep, riki speaks.

“since when did you start speaking japanese?” his voice is low, curious.

you hesitate, suddenly feeling shy. “uhm…” you start, trying to find the words. “you say things i don’t understand all the time.” you explain. “so, naturally, i got curious and looked them up.” you shift slightly. “i guess i just picked some up. don’t blame me.” you finish off your explanation.

riki lets out a soft laugh, his chest vibrating beneath your cheek. “that really caught me off guard, baby.” he tilts his head down to look at you. another thought crosses his mind. “what other words did you learn?” he asks, interest piqued. secretly, just wanting to hear you speak japanese again. even, if it’s just to tell him off.

you hum, feigning sleepiness. “there is this one word,” you murmur, a smirk ghosting your lips as you remember its meaning.

riki watches you, anticipation clear in his eyes.

you pause for a second, recalling the pronunciation as best as you can.

“daisuki?” your voice is soft, hesitant.

riki freezes. did he hear that right?

“again?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. the atmosphere shifts, the teasing laced with something more intimate.

this time, you say it firmly. “daisuki.” you lift yourself from his chest to meet his gaze, a soft smile playing on your lips.

riki groans, heat rising to his cheeks. “such a menace.” he mutters, looking down at you fondly.

finding the effect of the word on him amusing, you tease him further. “daisuki, riki.” you enunciate clearer. 

his breath hitches. he drags a hand through his hair before shaking his head, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips.

“daisuki.” he murmurs, this time it was his time to make you flustered as he pulled you even closer.

“guess i should learn more words now,” you muse, laughing softly against his chest.

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust

chapter seven: hyacinths & hacksaws

previous chapter | next chapter

summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter.But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop.For free.Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. There is some angst in this chapter. Also, thank you all for the support and love. It means so much.

Update: There were only going to be 11 chapters, but now there will be 12. I like even numbers and decided to add a chapter while also rewriting the next one, so the update may take longer. Trust me, the angst won't last long, and smut will be happening.

Monday. Joel hadn’t been looking forward to the day since he’d left the flower shop on Saturday evening.

Or at least—that’s what he’d been telling himself.

Now, nearing lunchtime, he was almost done with the floor. The final boards were in place, everything sanded smooth, looking damn good if he said so himself.

Which meant today was probably his last day here.

The thought should’ve brought him relief.

He wouldn’t have to keep showing up. Wouldn’t have to keep feeling that ridiculous pull toward you. He wouldn’t have to keep catching himself watching—the way you laughed with customers, the way your fingers skimmed delicately over petals, the way you always ensured Ellie had everything she needed before thinking of yourself.

Wouldn’t have to keep feeling like some part of him wanted to be here.

And yet.

His mind spiraled, reaching for any excuse to keep showing up.

So, as usual, when you insisted he take a break for lunch, Joel sat on the stool by the counter, eating the sandwich you’d made him, and quietly started scoping out the shop.

There had to be something else that needed fixing.

He was a handyman. He could fix anything, and then—there. His gaze landed on the back door, the way it didn’t quite sit right in its frame, slightly uneven.

Bingo.

"Y’know, this door’s got a bit of a lean to it," Joel mused, chewing thoughtfully before nodding toward it. "Probably swells in the summer, right? Sticks a little when you try to open it?"

You paused from where you were cleaning up, glancing over your shoulder at the door before narrowing your eyes at him.

"Maybe a little," you admitted hesitantly.

Joel nodded like he had already made up his mind. "I’ll fix it for you. Ain’t a big deal."

You sighed, shaking your head as you leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. "Joel, you’ve already done enough. I can’t let you keep fixing everything for free."

"Ain’t about money."

"Then what’s it about?" you challenged, tilting your head.

Joel didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one he was willing to say out loud.

Instead, he just shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. "I like keepin’ busy."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, I bet you do." Then, after a beat, your smile faltered slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes."Don’t you have, like, a real job? Pretty sure Tommy’s tired of covering for you."

Joel paused mid-bite, chewing a little slower before swallowing. He wiped his hands on a napkin, taking his time as if thinking about how to answer. Then, he stood, stretching his arms above his head, muscles flexing slightly beneath his flannel.

"I do." His voice was casual, gruff. "But Tommy won’t mind. He owes me, anyway."

You raised a brow. "For what?"

Joel smirked, shaking his head. "Long list, sweetheart."

Your lips parted slightly, the nickname catching you off guard, but you pushed it away, rolling your eyes. "You just won’t take no for an answer, will you?"

Joel smirked. "Nope."

You exhaled through your nose, muttering something under your breath before finally throwing your hands up in surrender.

"Fine. Do whatever you want, Miller."

Joel bit back a victorious grin. That should buy him at least another day.

But you weren’t stupid. Joel could see how you watched him like you were trying to figure him out. 

After Joel finished up the last of the flooring, he should’ve been done. Should’ve packed up his tools, dusted off his hands, and left.

Instead, he found himself noticing other things.

The back door didn’t sit right in its frame, the cabinet hinge behind the counter was loose, and the flickering light in the storage room needed replacing.

He made a mental list, adding more and more to it—grasping at any excuse to keep coming back.

So, when he finally stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, he told you about them.

"That back door swells in the summer—oughta get it shaved down. The cabinet hinge in the back is about to come loose. And that light in storage? It could be a wiring issue."

You just stared at him, expression unreadable, before exhaling through your nose. "Joel," you said softly. There was something in your tone—something careful that made his stomach tighten. "It’s really sweet of you to list off all sorts of things wrong with my shop—"

"No, I ain’t mean it like that, honey."

Your lips parted slightly, and Joel could see it—when your breath hitched, and the endearment made your heart stutter, even if you didn’t want it to.

Instead of softening, you tilted your head, eyes searching his face.

"I meant I could fix it for you," Joel clarified, shifting his weight, suddenly feeling too exposed. And that’s when you really stared at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle.

"Why?"

Joel frowned. "What?"

"Why are you suddenly being nice to me?" Your voice was even, but there was something beneath it. Something close to hurt. "For two years, all you did was glare at me and grunt whenever I spoke. Now you’re fixing my shop for free? Eating lunch with me and Ellie? Acting like—" 

You hesitated. "Like you actually care."

Joel stiffened. He should’ve had an answer. Should’ve been able to shrug it off, crack a joke, something. Instead, his mouth opened—and the wrong damn thing came out.

"I didn’t like how you were always so goddamn kind."

The second the words left his lips, he regretted them.

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

"You didn’t like that I was kind?" You said the words slowly like they didn’t make sense—like you were trying to process and fit them into some reality where they could make sense.

But they didn’t. They never would.

"I—" Joel started, voice rough, but you were already shaking your head, arms crossing tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together.

"You didn’t like that I was kind?" you repeated, quieter this time, but there was nothing soft about it. "That’s what bothered you?"

Joel’s jaw tensed. "That ain’t—"

"No, I get it now."

The way you said it—it wasn’t some quiet revelation, it wasn’t soft understanding. It was sharp, edged with something that dug under his skin.

Your voice wavered slightly, but you masked it with another shake of your head. "You couldn’t stand me because I was kind? Because I was trying to be good to you?"

Joel flinched.

"Because it made you feel something, didn’t it?"

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t because you were right.

Maybe that was what made something in you snap.

"You—" You let out a short, breathless laugh with no humor. "Do you even remember the shit you’ve said to me, Joel?"

His stomach twisted. Because yes, he remembered.

Every glare. Every cold shoulder. Every muttered, irritated, "You never quit, do you?" when you tried to be nice to him. Every time, he made you feel like you were too much for existing the way you did.

"Do you remember telling Tommy I was ‘too damn cheerful’ and you didn’t know how he put up with me?"

Joel swallowed hard, his throat tight.

"Or how about the time I offered you coffee, and you looked me dead in the eyes and said, ‘I don’t want anything from you’?"

Fuck.

"You spent years making it clear you didn’t want me around. You hated how nice I was, right? But now—" You gestured wildly between the two of you. "Now, all of a sudden, you care?"

Your voice cracked on the last word, and Joel felt it.

Because you weren’t just confused; you weren’t just angry. You were hurt.

And that did something to him—something worse than guilt or regret.

"I ain’t—" His voice was hoarse, useless. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to find the words and fix them.

But there was no fixing this.

"You should go, Joel."

It wasn’t a request.

It was final.

You turned away from him, shoulders stiff, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see the way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.

Joel stood there for a long moment, his body locked in place, his heart pounding with something too big, too loud, too late.

Then, finally, with a heavy exhale, he walked out.

taglist: @hermionelove, @niceforcum, @ashhlsstuff, @doeeyestoji, @12thatsanumber, @cherrygirl19, @thottiewinemom, @ladynightingale, @doodlebob-mp3, @alitaar, @starwarskawaii, hduuc56, @naniiiii12, @possiblyafangirl, @alienjoel, @leesromanova, @kungfucapslock

[wigglesdtuff]

I think I saw you say that Robin’s post-TS hairstyle was part of her character development reflected in her design (if that wasn’t you, my bad!) and I’d love to hear your expanded thoughts on it, and how that ties in with her Elbaf haircut now! After my friend said that her post-ts was just Croc’s ‘do but longer I haven’t been able to unsee it lol

That almost definitely was me because I feel very strongly about Robin's design journey and how Oda landed on the design he did and the way misinterpretations of her character because people want her to be nothing more than a hottie baddie femme fatale and *takes a deep breath* I know it's not that serious, but it means a lot to me!

Disclaimer: This is my personal interpretation, and I'm very passionate about it so take it all with a grain of salt!

So! Without further ado!

We can infer a lot about her haircut when she's introduced. Her face is covered/often in shadow from the hat which is intended to lend to the mystery of just who this woman is. We then see her first bounty poster. She's been wanted since she was 8. That's really fucking strange! Not only that but her haircut is nearly identical.

When she joins, she explains that she's more or less been on her own since she was 8, so you can infer that she's been cutting her hair like this herself. She's holding onto that moment where she had one friend she could rely on. She's literally stuck in the past. It looks almost choppy too, which to me tells me it's a quick utilitarian thing. It does not go past her shoulders.

Until she's been with the crew!

You can tell as early as Skypiea and through Thriller Bark, but it's super noticable in Sabaody just how long it grows to me. It's gotten super long!! She's letting them in by this point, she's found her home!

So when she comes back after being separated...

That change has fully taken hold! She's no longer covering her face either with a hat or her hair! She's more relaxed, she's almost always smiling unless something requires her full attention and even then she's Most Likely to Giggle and Verbally Heart Emoji. Her face is more open, it's softer. She's. Happy. She's changed in every meaning of the word! And she did it for her friends and for herself.

It's the most apparent to me in Zou. Like look at that face. That's the embodiment of joy. She's comfortable, she's relaxed. She's not hiding anything!

Then we hit Wano!

Miss Demonio dons the same old bangs and embodies the moniker her pursuers gave her. It is. Quite literally. The best of her and the worst of her. It is what she will do for the people she loves and who she has accepted love her. That is. Incredibly complex and beautiful to me.

Then we get some huge news...

Saul is not dead. The person who saved her and gave her hope and gave her the chance to get to where she is now, safe and happy and chasing the dream she picked up from the people of Ohara, so close she can almost taste it. He didn't die. He didn't die saving her.

She has

Come full circle. She has accepted her past and she is healing! Her bangs are the same, but her hair is still different! It's still longer, but it has a connection to that little girl who was lost and lonely. She also let someone else cut it, and not just anyone, but BROOK. The man who has kept his afro safe for 52 years so HIS friend could recognize him. To me, her hair in Elbaf is incredible. I take issues with the notion that "she's back" as if she ever left. This is new, this is different, and this is beautiful.

Thank you for reading my mini essay about her hair, but I really do think that character design means something. I don't think she's supposed to be a cold, badass. That was always an act. She just wants to love and be loved and she always has, and I think that her journey is portrayed beautifully by her hairstyles throughout the years.

[shaiyasstuff]

red | zayne | prologue to through the fire

synopsis : Fate chose another, but his heart never stopped choosing you.

content : soulmate!au, zayne x reader x sylus, zayne x non-mc!reader, unrequited love, angst (light or not, you decide)

writer’s note : read through the fire heree. Guys I stayed up all night writing this because I’m flying to europe today and I don’t know if I’ll have time to write😭 so have fun reading this guyss

Shaiya

Zayne stared at the name etched into his skin, barely brushing his fingers over the letters as if touching it would somehow make it less real.

Silence crashed around him like a wave. The world dimmed.

No, he thought, chest tightening. It should’ve been her name.

Yours.

He wanted to claw at it, to tear it off and rewrite the universe.

But all he did was stare—still, quiet, unreadable. His face gave nothing away, though his heart was screaming.

You didn’t cry when he told you.

He had expected the silence. Maybe even anger.

But not the way you reached for him, pulling him into a soft embrace as if you were the one offering comfort.

As if you were the one letting go.

You smiled.

And that broke him in ways he couldn’t explain.

He held you too tightly for a moment too long, afraid that if he let go, everything between you would unravel.

Then he forced a smile—calm, polite, practiced. Like he was happy. Like this wasn’t the end of something sacred.

But he wasn’t.

He didn’t love Shaiya—not then. There was no spark, no fireworks when he first saw her in the park.

There was just you.

You, with your quiet steadiness, your silent understanding. You, who noticed every flicker of emotion on his face, even when no one else did. You, who knew how to wait through his silences.

But something kept pulling him back to Shaiya. A whisper in his gut. A gravitational force he couldn’t explain.

So he went.

And when she laughed, something in him stirred. When she smiled, he felt breathless. Her presence, soft and bright, wrapped around him like a tether he hadn’t asked for—but couldn’t ignore.

It wasn’t like with you.

With you, it was slow, quiet, real.

With her, it was sudden—like being caught in a current he couldn’t swim against.

And yet, even as he sat beside Shaiya, laughing at something she said, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting.

Back to you.

Back to the way you smiled without expectation. Back to the warmth of your hug.

Back to everything he was afraid he’d just lost.

—•

“Zayne? You there?”

He jolted upright at the sound of Shaiya’s voice through the phone, pulled sharply from the spiral of thoughts he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into.

He cleared his throat, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Yeah. Sorry—I was signing some reports.”

A lie, smooth and effortless.

Shaiya laughed lightly, the sound soft through the speaker.

“It’s okay.”

Then, after a beat, her tone shifted, quieter. Concerned. “I’m a little worried about Y/N. She’s been… distant lately.”

That made him still. Completely.

“What do you mean?” he asked, voice low. His fingers curled against the edge of the desk.

Shaiya hesitated. “She spaces out sometimes. When I talk to her, she smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I caught her clutching her wrist the other day—I think she might be hurt, but she brushed it off.”

Zayne didn’t hear the rest. Her voice faded under the weight of his thoughts.

How hadn’t he noticed?

You, the one person he thought he always saw clearly. The one whose silences he understood. He’d been so caught in the chaos of his own confusion that he hadn’t seen you unraveling in the quiet.

He swallowed, guilt settling in like a stone. “I’ll talk to her,” he murmured.

“Okay,” Shaiya replied, her voice soft again. “I’m heading to bed now—early shift tomorrow. Don’t forget to eat after yours.”

The line disconnected, and silence bloomed in the space it left behind.

He sat for a moment, staring at nothing. Then he stood.

Before he could talk himself out of it, his feet carried him across the corridor.

He stopped in front of your door. Raised his hand. Hesitated.

Did you have a mark yet?

The thought hit him like a wave.

And somewhere—deep and cruel and honest—a voice inside him whispered that he hoped you didn’t. That maybe, if fate had overlooked you too, you’d still stay.

That you’d still look at him the way you always had.

That he wouldn’t lose you completely.

But even he knew that was selfish.

So he knocked, softly.

No reply.

The door creaked open.

He stepped inside, meaning to call your name, to ask if you were alright—but the words never made it past his lips.

You were asleep, curled up at your desk, your breathing steady. Peaceful.

And then he saw it.

A flash of red ink on your wrist.

His name.

His breath caught.

Everything in him stilled.

This—this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

His name was on your skin. In red. And he hadn’t even known.

He stumbled back like the air had turned to fire, his legs moving before he could think.

The door slammed behind him as he pressed his back against it, chest rising and falling in erratic waves.

That’s why.

That’s why you’d been pulling away. Why you smiled like it hurt. Why you never said a word.

Because it did hurt.

And all this time, he’d been too blind to see it.

Tears stung his eyes, blurring the fluorescent lights of his office as he clenched his fists at his sides.

You had been burning alone. Crying alone.

And now that he knew—

There was still nothing he could do.

—•

He saw you.

It was late—close to midnight—when he stepped out of his car, bone-tired from another shift.

The streets were quiet, bathed in the soft yellow haze of flickering streetlamps.

And there you were.

Leaving your apartment, coat hastily thrown on, arms folded tightly around yourself like you were holding yourself together.

Zayne froze, half in the shadow of the trees lining the sidewalk.

He meant to call out. Your name was already on the tip of his tongue.

But then he saw your face.

Not just the weariness, but something sharper—something broken.

Sadness. Anger. Resignation.

And suddenly, he couldn’t speak.

Because he knew—

He knew it was because of him.

So he stayed silent.

Just watched.

He followed your steps with his eyes as you crossed the street, your pace slow, unsteady.

The city was quiet around you, but inside, you were a storm. He could see it. He felt it in the way your shoulders sank.

You disappeared into the dim glow of a small pub tucked between closed storefronts.

He didn’t go in.

He stood across the street, leaning against the hood of his car like a coward, watching through the window as you made your way to the bar.

Sluggish. Heavy.

He saw your hand signal the bartender. Saw the first drink vanish. Then the second. Then the third.

His chest tightened with every empty glass.

Because it was his fault.

He was the reason you were unraveling one drink at a time. The reason your mark burned red with his name while he bore someone else’s in black.

Then—

He saw him.

A stranger. Tall. Pale hair that glinted under the bar’s low lighting.

Zayne’s breath caught as he watched the man slide onto the stool beside you, say something with a smile, and slide across a piece of paper.

He saw your smile falter. Saw the pain flicker across your features like lightning.

Saw the way your body flinched, just barely, like a wound had been pressed too hard.

And Zayne saw it all.

Every agonizing detail.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t cross the street. Didn’t pull open the door.

He couldn’t.

Because what would he say?

What right did he have?

He stood there, paralyzed in the dark, watching you turn away from the man politely, watching you order another drink with trembling fingers.

And he hated himself more with every breath.

—•

Two days later, he stepped into your office.

The door clicked softly behind him, and for a moment, he simply stood there—watching you work, your shoulders tense, eyes tired in that way only he seemed to notice.

He cleared his throat gently. “Long day?”

His voice was calm, casual, as he placed a cup of coffee on your desk like it was just another routine between colleagues.

You looked up and offered him a smile—soft, warm, as if nothing had changed. As if nothing had shattered between you.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, fingers curling around the warmth of the cup.

It hurt.

Because he saw it now—what he’d missed before.

The subtle flinch when your skin brushed the sleeve of your sweater.

The split-second delay in your smile. The way you didn’t quite meet his eyes.

He swallowed. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

“I saw you out. Two nights ago.”

The air shifted.

You stilled for a fraction of a second, but didn’t look away.

He wished he hadn’t said it, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t just worried. He was jealous.

His jaw tightened as he brought his coffee to his lips. “Were you drinking again?”

His voice cracked—just barely—but enough to betray him.

You blinked. Then turned your gaze to the window, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Just needed some air. That’s all.”

And then, as if your body hadn’t yet caught up with your lie, your fingers drifted down, brushing against your wrist—so faintly it would’ve gone unnoticed.

But he saw it.

He always saw you.

He opened his mouth, something sharp and aching rising in his throat.

But he bit it back.

The truth. The apology. The longing.

None of it would fix what fate had done.

So he stepped back.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he said, turning on his heel before the tremble in his voice could betray him again.

And he walked away.

Because what else could he say?

When it was his name on your wrist.

And someone else’s on his.

—•

A week later, he stood motionless in his office, staring blankly at the floor.

Shaiya’s voice still echoed in his ears.

“She found her soulmate.”

His heart didn’t sink—it clenched. Like something inside him had braced for a blow and still wasn’t ready for the impact.

He didn’t believe it.

Not for a second.

Because he knew you.

Knew the kind of lies people told when they were trying to protect themselves from pain.

Before reason could stop him, his body had already moved. He found himself standing in front of your office again, just like he had so many times before—only now there was something different clinging to the air.

A desperation he couldn’t admit.

He wanted to shake you. To ask why.

Why you were doing this to yourself. To him.

Why you were pretending this didn’t hurt when everything in your eyes told him otherwise.

But he said none of that.

Instead, he knocked gently and stepped in.

You looked up at him, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe.

Because you smiled. Small. Warm.

As if nothing had changed.

As if it didn’t ache.

And that only made it worse.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice low, too even. “You found him?”

You nodded, the gesture soft, almost apologetic. “Yeah.”

His mouth parted slightly, like there was something he needed to say—but the words caught halfway.

“That’s… good,” he said finally. But the pause before the word good was a wound all on its own.

It hung in the air. Heavy.

And it wasn’t joy that colored his tone. Not even relief.

There was something else.

You blinked, startled by the hollowness of it. “Is everything okay?”

Zayne looked at you, long and quiet, his gaze searching your face like it held an answer to something he couldn’t name.

Then, slowly, the mask returned.

A neutral expression. The kind he wore in operating rooms. In grief.

“Yes,” he replied, forcing the edges of his mouth to lift. “I’m just… glad for you.”

But even you could hear it.

The tremor beneath the stillness. The way glad didn’t quite land.

Silence stretched.

Zayne looked away for a moment, then back—eyes flickering with something raw, something not yet buried deep enough.

And still—he said nothing.

Because what could he say, when it was his name on your skin—

And someone else’s story you were trying to live?

When Zayne stepped out of your office, his chest tight and throat dry, he nearly walked past him—

The man from the bar.

Tall, silver-haired, with that same calm presence that had unsettled him days ago.

This time, he stood waiting. Expecting him.

“I’m Sylus,” the man said coolly, offering nothing more than his name—because he knew it was enough.

Zayne stopped mid-stride.

His eyes widened for a brief second before narrowing into something colder. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white.

He remembered that night.

The flash of your pain. The way Sylus had leaned in, close but careful, like he knew exactly how much space to take.

Zayne’s jaw tightened.

“Take care of her,” he said, voice sharp but restrained. Controlled. Like a blade held at the throat but never pressed in.

Then he turned without waiting for a reply, shoulders stiff, the weight of what he couldn’t say trailing behind him like a shadow.

But if he had stayed just a second longer—

He would’ve seen it.

The slow, knowing smirk tugging at Sylus’s lips.

Not arrogant, not mocking—just assured.

A look that said he would.

And maybe even more than that—

That he already was.

—•

The hospital hallway was quiet at this hour—just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of distant footsteps.

Zayne stood alone in the on-call room, the door shut behind him, the walls far too close.

He leaned against the locker, head tipped back, eyes closed.

But the silence wasn’t peace.

It was suffocating.

She found someone.

She said she found her soulmate.

The words circled in his mind like vultures, tearing into the edges of his restraint.

He clenched his fists, breathing slow—too slow, like he was trying to stay afloat in his own chest.

Sylus.

The name had weight now. It wasn’t just a stranger from the bar anymore—it was someone you had chosen. Someone who made you smile, even through the ache.

Someone who could stand beside you without carrying the guilt Zayne did.

His hand lifted without thinking, pressing to his chest like he could calm the sharp, twisting ache there.

He didn’t understand it.

Why did the mark choose Shaiya?

Why not her?

Why not you?

Because if the universe had any sense of justice, it would’ve branded your name into his skin.

Not someone else’s.

Not someone he had to learn to care about.

Not someone who wasn’t you.

Zayne sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair.

His shoulders hunched in on himself, like the weight of everything was finally catching up.

All the moments he’d brushed aside.

The quiet hurt in your eyes.

The way you smiled like you were trying to protect him.

He remembered the night he saw you drinking, the way you flinched when Sylus got too close, the pain you thought no one saw.

And he had done nothing.

He had stood there, watching.

Helpless.

His name was on your wrist. In red.

And it didn’t matter.

Because fate had already played its cruel joke—and he had laughed along with it, pretending he could live with it. Pretending he was fine.

But he wasn’t.

He had spent so long mastering silence, mastering stillness—he didn’t know how to fight for something that wasn’t supposed to be his.

His breath trembled, a rare crack in the mask he wore even when no one was watching.

He wanted to scream.

To demand answers from whatever force had decided this was how the story would end.

But all he could do was sit there.

In a quiet room.

With your name echoing like a phantom in his chest.

And nothing he could do to make you stay.

[nekoashiii]

⠀ ⠀ Tides of Treachery

pairings: Pirate!caleb x Mermaid!reader.

notes/warnings: violence, brief mentions of blood. Nearly drowning. Reader is intended to be afab!bodied and gender neutral. no smut in this part, I don’t want it to get too long! Hopefully in part two.

The sea has always been Caleb’s first love. The way the waves rolled and crashed against the hull of his ship, the scent of salt thick in the air, and the endless horizon stretching beyond his reach—it was all he had ever known.

Years ago, he used to happily laugh around and run in the water, throw sand at his friends and enjoy the rays of warmth radiating from the sun. But all good things come to an end, Caleb had learned the hard way that nothing in life was permanent—not love, not safety, not even the land beneath his feet.

His father had gone out to sea one morning to fish for their humble family business, promising to return before nightfall, but the tides swallowed him whole, leaving behind only whispers of his name in the crashing waves.

His mother, left to raise him alone, had done everything she could to keep him safe. But safety was a fragile illusion. The night the world flipped upside down for him, the thugs came, she had fought for him, desperate to keep her boy safe as she hid him in a corner, tears streaming down her face as she hugged him for the final time. Caleb still remembered the way her blood pooled on the wooden floor, how the coppery scent mixed with the salt on his skin as he was dragged outside, kicking and screaming.

He was meant to die that night. The leader of the gang had loomed over him, blade in hand, expression cold and indifferent. But something in Caleb’s eyes must have reminded him of himself—some old, bitter ghost of the past—because he hesitated

“Take him,” the man had ordered. “Teach the boy how to survive.”

And so he did.

Caleb was thrown into a world of cutthroats and thieves, learning how to wield a dagger before he could grow his first beard. The boy who once ran across the shore, carefree and full of laughter, had long since vanished. In his place stood a pirate feared across the seas, his name whispered in drunken taverns and city guards.

He should have felt satisfied. He had carved his own place in the world, commanded a crew that would die for him, listening to his every whim and commands and sailed waters that no man dared to cross.

But sometimes when his crew went to their beds and bunkers, he would step out of his own, in the quiet of the night, when the ocean was calm and the stars burned like embers overhead, he thought of the past. He thought of a life that had once been his before fate stole it away.

A creature he recalled, a siren. an abomination mix of fish and human. he never entertained the talk of catching a siren to keep it for him to sing. if one was unfortunate enough to fall in the nets of his ship would immediately have its scales taken away and itself shipped off and sold to some lord with fortune, that easily explains the amount of coats he has with shimmering scales.

It was on one such night, when the sea lay still and the wind barely stirred the sails, that Caleb saw them.

A shape, moving just beyond the reach of the lanterns’ glow, barely a ripple in the water. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to the edge of The Wayward Star, gripping the wooden railing with steady fingers.

Then, the moonlight caught them.

A figure, half-submerged, skin glistening like pearls beneath the pale light. Their hair floated around them in thick, damp strands, creating an illusion of ink swirling around them, and their eyes—dark and knowing—locked onto his.

Caleb inhaled sharply.

A mermaid.

Not the kind sung about in sailor’s tales, with golden curls and gentle voices. No, this was something else entirely. Their gaze held no innocence, no wide-eyed wonder. Instead, they studied him, unblinking, as if deciding whether he was prey or something more. It made a humming gurgling noise, the odd scent of seasons and spices had attracted it towards the ship.

His fingers itched toward the cutlass at his hip, but he hesitated.

“You watching me?” he called out, voice low, roughened by years of salt and rum.

The mermaid didn’t answer, not in words. Instead, they tilted their head slightly, eyes glinting like two beads covered in obsidian in the dark.

Something about them made the air feel too thick, too heavy in his lungs. He had spent his life commanding men, stealing from those unfortune to pass his ship, fighting battles and staring death in the face without flinching. But this? This was different. that thing unsettled him.

Then, as silently as they had appeared, they slipped beneath the waves.

Gone.

Caleb exhaled, only then realizing he had been holding his breath.

Caleb barely slept that night. He couldn’t. After returning to his bedchambers, his eyes wouldn’t stay closed, he felt like a nail was being jammed into his head, and when he felt comfortable enough for sleep to lull him away, a thunder would wake him up.

Caleb gave up trying to get a brink of sleep. He sat at the bow of The Wayward Star, staring out at the sea as if drilling his gaze into the water infront of him would will the mermaid to return. The waves lapped lazily against the ship’s hull, rocking it. and the stars shimmered like scattered silver, but the water remained empty.

By dawn, the mermaid still hadn’t resurfaced.

He told himself to let it go. He was a pirate, not some fool enchanted by sea myths. There was plunder to seek, ships to raid, and yet—he found his thoughts drifting back to them. The way the moonlight caught the wet sheen of their skin, the quiet intelligence and stupidity in their dark eyes, the way they had simply watched him, like they were trying to understand him.

He had spent his life being feared, respected, hated by most. Never had someone looked at him like that before.

He shook the thought from his mind. Damn that fish, he had better things to do.

But fate, it seemed, had no intention of letting him forget.

The second time he saw them, it was in the middle of a storm.

The sea raged, tossing The Wayward Star like a toy, and rain pelted the deck in thick sheets. Caleb barked orders over the howling wind, his clothes soaked through, his hands raw from gripping the ropes. The storm was bad—worse than most—but he had survived worse.

Then, amidst the chaos, he saw them.

A shadow beneath the waves, moving too fast for the current to carry. At first, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him, lack of sleep always did funny tricks on people, but then the ship lurched violently to the side, nearly throwing him off balance.

He barely had time to react before a massive wave surged forward, hitting the ship with unnatural force. The wood groaned under the weight, and his crew yelled in alarm, struggling to hold the vessel steady.

Caleb barely had time to brace himself before the wave struck.

The impact sent him staggering backward, boots slipping on the rain-slicked deck. His fingers scrabbled for purchase on the rigging, but another violent lurch of the ship sent him sprawling. The world tilted—dark sky and raging sea spinning together in a blur—before the deck vanished beneath him.

Cold, crushing water swallowed him whole.

The ocean was deafening. It roared in his ears, filled his nose, dragged him down with merciless hands. Caleb kicked, fighting against the force pulling him deeper, but the storm churned above him, tossing him around like he was nothing more than a scrap of driftwood.

For the first time in years, true panic clawed at his chest.

His lungs burned, muscles screaming as he thrashed against the weight of the sea. He had survived battles, betrayals, and the cruel hand of fate itself—but drowning? Dying alone beneath the waves? The thought sent a sharp bolt of fear through him.

Then, just as the darkness at the edges of his vision threatened to consume him, something moved.

Not the waves. Not the current.

Something else.

A shadow slipped through the water, too fast, too smooth, circling him like a predator. a creature made for water.

He didn’t have the time to register the shape before arms wrapped around him—strong, steady, and colder than the sea itself. A rush of movement followed, the water parting as he was dragged downwards with unnatural speed.

Then—air.

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, his throat raw from seawater and the force of the storm. His hands pressed into the damp sand beneath him, fingers curling around the fine grains as his body shook with exhaustion.

The cave was dimly lit, the glow of bioluminescent corals and strange, shifting lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of salt and something else—something unfamiliar, earthy, and deep. The sound of dripping water echoed in the cavern, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves outside.

His mind reeled.

How was there air here? How was he even alive?

A flicker of movement made him tense.

Slowly, he raised his head.

The mermaid was there.

They lingered at the water’s edge, half-submerged, their dark eyes watching him with the same unreadable intensity as before. The glow of the cave cast shifting patterns across their skin, highlighting the smooth muscles of their shoulders, the glint of scales that shimmered with every small movement.

Caleb swallowed, still breathless.

“You saved me,” he rasped, voice hoarse from nearly drowning and coughing out salt water. He didn’t know why he was stating the obvious, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

The mermaid tilted their head slightly, considering him. Then, slow and deliberate, they moved closer.

Caleb’s instincts screamed at him to be cautious. He had spent his life surrounded by liars and thieves, men who would slit your throat for a handful of gold. Trust was something he had long since abandoned.

And yet—

He didn’t move as the mermaid reached out.

Their fingers brushed against his cheek, cool and slightly rough, like they weren’t quite used to touching something as fragile as human skin. Caleb held still, his breath catching as they traced the outline of his jaw, their expression unreadable.

Their touch lingered for a moment longer before they withdrew, retreating slightly into the water, as if waiting.

Waiting for what?

Caleb exhaled sharply, running a hand through his soaked hair. He needed to think, to figure out where he was, what they wanted. But the storm had drained him, and the warmth of the cave—unnatural as it was—lulled his body into something dangerously close to comfort.

He should have been afraid.

But for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t.

Instead, he found himself staring back at the creature before him, heart pounding, pulse thrumming with something dangerously close to curiosity.

“…What are you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

The mermaid didn’t answer in words.

But they smiled—slow and knowing—before slipping back into the water’s embrace.

After a few hours, you returned. Different types of fishes for your lovely guest you had dragged to your home, could you be blamed? the deep ocean was starting to get boring and dull, hunting fishes would not excite you. Days weren’t looking brighter and you felt like day by day you were evolving into a sea cucumber laying uselessly on the sand waiting for your eventual demise.

You swam through the water effortlessly, the cold depths parting for you as you carried your prize—an assortment of fish clutched in your hands, still fresh, their scales gleaming under the soft glow of the cave’s bioluminescent corals.

It had been years since anything had truly interested you. The ocean, vast and endless as it was, had lost its thrill. Hunting was easy. The other creatures of the sea were predictable. You had seen everything there was to see, done everything there was to do.

But him—the human—you had never encountered something quite like him before.

He was fragile. Small, in comparison to the beasts of the sea. His limbs were awkward and unfit for swimming, his body weighed down by the very waters that carried you with ease. And yet, despite his weakness, he fought.

You had seen the fire in his eyes, the defiance that burned even as the sea threatened to swallow him whole. A lesser creature would have gone limp, accepted their fate, but he had thrashed, struggled, survived.

That made him interesting.

And interesting things did not come often in your world.

So, really, could you be blamed for dragging him here? For watching him as he gasped for breath, the air in the cave filling his fragile lungs? For wanting to see how long he would last before his fear turned his survival instincts to recklessness?

You breached the water’s surface, the fish still held tightly in your grasp, and your dark eyes immediately sought him out.

There he was.

The pirate.

He had not moved far from where you left him. His body was curled slightly, one arm slung over his bent knee, head resting against the damp rock. His breathing was steady now, slower, but his exhaustion was evident.

You took a moment to observe. Poking his feet to test the waters before crawling out of the water and on top of him.

His skin was warm, unlike the cold-blooded creatures you were used to. His hair, still damp from the ocean, clung to his face in uneven strands. His chest rose and fell in slow, rhythmic motions, his lips slightly parted as if caught between sleep and wakefulness.

The fish in your hands flopped weakly, their gills opening and closing in vain. You had chosen well—fat, fresh, the best you could find. Surely he would be pleased.

But as you placed the offering beside him, he did not react.

You frowned.

You reached out, fingers ghosting over his skin, pressing against his shoulder. The warmth of him startled you, even now, and for a brief moment, you simply felt—the rise and fall of muscle beneath your touch, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly in response.

You raised your webbed hand and slapped it down on his firm chest.

Plap!

His eyes snapped open with a gasp. For a long moment, you two simply stared at each other.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, his gaze flickered downward—to the fish beside him, and to the naked scaled-covered chest of the mermaid hovering over his face, blocking his view of the cave. he averted his eyes to the fish, it was still twitching, their silver scales glinting in the dim light.

A pause.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and disbelief flickering across his face.

“…Did you just bring me food?”

You blinked.

Of course you did. What else would he eat? Rocks?

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he sat up. His fingers brushed over the fish idly, as if testing to see if they were even real.

“Well. Can’t say I’ve ever had a meal delivered to me by a sea creature before.” He glanced back at you, his lips quirking at the corners. “Guess I should be flattered.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him.

Strange.

You had given him a gift—an offering of peace, even—and instead of taking it seriously, he was… laughing, what was laughing supposed to mean here? humans were so so strange.

You narrowed your eyes, leaning closer, your face mere inches from his. His breath caught slightly, his gaze flickered to your lips that were inching just centimeters away from his, but he held his ground, his eyes returning up to watch you in return.

Interesting.

Your lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a threat, either.

This was going to be fun.

[bakuhve]

i just. i just think katsuki would be the absolute best boyfriend in the world.

but at the same time… like.. it’s gonna take a fat minute to get to that point. my katsuki and reader are always gonna have the dynamic of she fell first and hard but he fell absolutely harder. like face smashed into the ground, concrete cracked beneath his body, harder.

your story was never mutual love at first sight, no. you fell first. the kind of fall that leaves you breathless and stumbling, but still willing to get up and run straight toward him again.

you admired katsuki in every way imaginable. his strength, his drive, the way he never wavered even when the whole world seemed to be against him. your admiration turned into something deeper, something that made your heart squeeze and stomach flip. and you didn’t bother hiding your crush.

why should you? why would you ever keep your adoration for the man you loved a secret?

so you let it show. you gravitated towards him during class breaks, in the little favors you did for him without him asking, in the shameless way you told him over and over again that you liked him.

but back then, katsuki was an idiot.

a dumbass so hyper-focused on hero training and his own ambitions that he barely spared a thought for anything else. he knew you had a crush on him- how could he not? but at the time, he equated it to nothing more than annoying persistence. some stalkerish, over eager need to be by his side.

and oh, how he wants to throttle his past self for thinking this way.

because somewhere along the line, after countless battles, after seeing you at your highest highs and lowest lows, after realizing that no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t shake you off- he started to not mind your presence.

then he started looking for it.

started craving it.

and like that, he fell.

only by the time he realized it, you weren’t the one constantly chasing anymore.

now it was him hovering near you at all times, subtly making excuses to be closer. he stole glances, catching himself staring at your hands and wondering what it would be like to just hold them.

and when you finally got together, when it turned into something real, katsuki was left fumbling into unfamiliar territory.

because he had no experience being this stupidly and sickeningly in love.

was he doing this right? was he too much? was he not enough? what the hell did a girl like you see in him?

and most of all, were his hands too damn clammy to be holding yours right now?

but then you squeeze his hand. and he squeezes yours back.

and just like that, all his doubts settle. because you’re his person. and he’s yours.

but yeah anyways lovesick reader and even more lovesick katsuki on top

[f1fantasys]

He Just Wants My Body, I Want His All - Part 1

Warnings - explicit smut. masturbating, oral m! and f! receiving, nipple stimulation, penetrative sex, choking, blowjobs, swearing, use of the word Slut. Minors DNI.

Winter break.

Snow, skiing, hot chocolate, wine, and

sex, or lack there of.

With the f1 season over and done with for another year, it only meant one thing. A getaway deep in the mountains surrounded by snow, with your closest friends, and him.

You and Lando had been tip-toeing each other for too long now, getting to a point where it was a matter of time until one of you breaks. The constant flirting, darkening eyes, lingering touches, you both had it bad. And to make matters worse, it had been months since you last had a good fuck, so to say you were getting antsy was an understatement. Pleasuring yourself was no where close to giving you what your body craved. You knew Lando hadn't had that problem. The boy was a player, balls deep in a new girl every weekend, and you hated yourself for wanting him this badly. But whenever you were around each other, everything faded away, and he made you feel like the only girl he wanted.

Max had told you a couple of times now that those girls mean nothing to Lando. They're just a form of helping him get a decent fuck in before his races, not because he wants them. No. He wants you. And each time Max told you this, you laughed in his face.

You definitely weren't sure about a future with Lando. You were both still young, reckless. All you craved from him at the minute was his body. Often, you'd think about how his lips would feel on yours, would he leave you plumped and bruised, hickey's on your sweet spot? How would his tongue feel circling your hard nipples, or better yet, on your cunt? Lapping through your folds as he finger fucked you, stretching you out for his girth, which you imagined to be mighty big. Then you'd think about how he fucked. Is he slow and soft? Or does he prefer quick, hard and rough? You imagined the latter.

''Y/N!'' Lando's voice rang in your ears as you came back to earth, his fingers clicking in front of your face.

''Huh, sorry, I zoned out'' you said, looking at him like a deer caught in headlights, tying to play it cool because you could feel your panties, wet, from the dirty thoughts you were having.

''You don't say'' he said, smirk on his face as if he knew what was going on in your mind.

''Hot tub?'' he asked. ''Max and P are gone for a walk, so it's just you and me.''

''Yeah sure'' you said, the words leaving your mouth before you could over think it. You got up to go get changed, not giving Lando the chance to say anything else, though you heard him mumbling something to yourself because the last 5 minutes were weird as fuck, you'll admit.

He was already sat inside when you came out, with the hot water bubbling away, already giving his face a glow with sweat. You winced as you took off your gown, revealing a skimpy bikini that left nothing to imagination, as you stepped into the tub, the heat a stark contrast to the cold of the air.

You sat across him, involuntarily letting out a moan as the water soothed your aching muscles, Lando's eyes on you the whole time.

For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, the tension getting thicket with each passing second until you couldn't take it anymore.

''Sooo-'' you started, but Lando cut you off.

''So- how long?'' he asked, voice raspy with intent.

''What?'' you asked, taken aback.

His next words pushed you off the cliff.

''How longs' it been since you fucked?''

You couldn't bring yourself to answer him, brain short circuiting.

''I-why?'' you asked back.

''Before, could always tell when you'd had a good night. You haven't been the same and I'm guessing it's coz your fingers aren't doing justice.''

You quickly felt a heat creep up your neck, no surprises your cheeks must be flushed already as it was obvious what the picture in both your minds was - you, naked, fingering yourself.

''I-I'm not going to answer that'' you huffed, leaning further back and looking up at the night sky.

Lando chuckled opposite you, making you look at him again.

His eyes were shades darker than they were a few moments ago.

''Let me help you, yeah?''

''How?''

''I'll guide you through it'' he said, very matter of factly.

''Since when did you become an expert on pleasuring ones self?'' you asked.

''Since it's you who needs help'' he said, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

You should have said no. Should have laughed him off and changed the topic. But you didn't. Your body was already responding to his words.

''Humor me'' he said when you stayed silent.

''Fine, but you owe me...a Rolex if you don't live up to my expectations'' you pressed, smug look on your face.

''Hell, I'll buy you 10'' he said, sitting up straighter, clasping his hands together like an excited little boy as you stuck your tongue out to him.

''First things first'' he said, treading closer to you and taking a hold of your legs.

You jumped at the contact, not expecting him to touch you at all.

''Relax, just taking care of the first step'' he said softly as his hands found your waist and shamelessly pulled your bikini bottoms down and off you, before resuming to his position opposite you, smirking.

Your body was still tingling his his touch, you really had it out bad, and little did you know, he had it worse. If anyone asked him right now, he'd wouldn't have an answer as to what the hell he was doing, but now that he's made a step forward, he wasn't gonna turn back.

''Do you trust me?'' he asked, teasing voice gone and replaced with sincerity.

''Yes'' you replied quickly, because it was the truth.

Within seconds he was treading in front of you again, his hand finding yours underwater, giving it a squeeze before he held just your index and middle finger, every so slowly bringing the two up, slipping them to his mouth before letting out a moan.

You watched on in shock, mouth agape at the feeling of his hot tongue swirling around them, sucking harshly, and repeating the process over and over.

''Lando..'' you breathed his name out, already feeling your pussy desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand found your bikini strings under the water, untying them easily as he freed your boobs, though still unable to see them.

Just as you wished for more from him, he released your fingers with a pop before sitting back again, losing contact with your body.

You groaned at that, needling more but he sat there was a smug smile.

His voice was stern as he spoke. ''Hands on your breasts, love'' he said, the nickname waking up the butterflies in your tummy.

You did as you were told, hands finding your perky breasts, eyes shutting momentarily as he continued. ''Tease yourself - your nipples. Are they hard?''

''-Yes'' you were quick to answer.

''Perfect, pinch yourself hard. I wanna hear you moan''

You obeyed, but held back the groan you so desperately wanted to let out

''Not gonna let you cum til you do as i say love'' he said, the nickname returning.

This time you didn't hold back. You rolled your nipples through your fingers, squishing them between and let out a series of erratic moans.

It could have been a minute, or 30, who knows, but when Lando didn't speak after that, you opened your eyes to find him staring at you, bottom lip between his teeth. It was only then that you noticed how you'd lifted your body up, your boobs now on full display that had him speechless.

''Lan-''

''You're fucking perfect, fuck. Can't imagine how good your cunt looks if this is just the top half of you'' he whimpered, eyes finding yours.

He looked like he was itching to get a hold of you, but he held himself back, licking his lips and clasping his hands on his knees, leaning slightly forward but not as much as you wished he would.

''Let your hands go south now, cup your throbbing pussy. Must be dripping, yeah? For me maybe?''

Your breath hitched as your fingers found your cunt, which yes, was wet all thanks to the man in front of you. You ran through your folds quickly, eliciting more moans as Lando watched on mouth agape.

''Are you? Wet for me?'' he asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

''I-fuck me. I am'' you said, not caring how wussy you sounded, how breathless you sounded.

''Find your clit, I want to hear you loud, desperate, give yourself the friction you so badly crave.''

''Oh god,'' you whispered, head falling back, pushing your boobs out the water again.

''That's it, go on. Tread by your hole, push one in'' he said in a low voice, trying to keep himself together.

''Imagine it's my finger, big and rough, thrusting into you hard and rough'' he demanded as your voice rose with each moan, sharp gasps escaping your mouth with each push. He hadn't told you to, yet, but you added a second finger, your walls clenching perfectly around them as you sped up your pace as Lando threw more words at you, half of them sounded muffled as your brain was not thinking clearly right now. All you could focus on was what you imagined his fingers to feel like.

''Fuck Y/N, you look so hot right now, I'm so fucking hard watching you like this. Gonna sit up and let me see the mess you're making? he asked.

You didn't answer though. You halted your movements for a split second as you lifted your body out of the water, setting you ass outside as your legs stayed submerged, watching Lando as his eyes darkened, whole demeanor changing. You spread your legs for him to see your glistening cunt, throbbing and all it took was a whisper of his name for him to pounce.

His hands were on you, spreading your legs further and flexing his arms muscles as he dove straight in, tongue sliding through your folds as you took a hold of his hair, tugging at it while he lapped at your pussy, using his fingers to pry your hole open further, and thrusting his tongue through it relentlessly.

God you had waited for this moment for so long, and now to be going through without felt nothing short of bloody amazing.

''Please, don't stop, fuck Lando'' you mumbled between moans. The cold air making your body shiver but you couldn't give a damn because of Lando's hot mouth on you.

He really knew what he was doing, devouring you most sensitive parts as his thumb rolled over your clit, an orgasm ripping through you with no warning as you shook and trembled, oozing your sticky cum straight into his mouth, sending him into an array of groans at the taste of you.

Your chest was heaving, Lando not slowing his movements one bit as you tried to regain your breath, and soon he replaced his tongue with three fingers, plunging into you with no warning while he leaned up to latch his mouth to your left nipple, biting and tugging on it harshly.

''Lando, I'm-fuck. I'm gonna cum again'' you said, sure you could cum just from looking down at his face, dripping with your juices. ''Please'' you begged, not sure what for.

His fingers brushed against your G-spot over and over again, giving you that stimulation that you just couldn't give yourself these past months, and it was a matter of seconds until you came crashing down again, body trembling in his arms as he finally slowed his movements, quickly pulling you back into the hot water to warm you up as he whispered dirty nothings into your ear.

He wrapped his arms around you, and you allowed yourself to collapse forward onto his body, shallowed breaths leaving your mouth.

It took you both a second to realize the position you were in - You, naked, on his lap, whilst his dark hardened.

Should it have been awkward? Yes. Was it? No.

Because Lando cupped your face and clasped your lips together in a dominant frenzy. It was messy, desperate, both your tongues fighting each other as your hands roamed each others' bodies. He moved his mouth down your neck, sucking and nibbling on your sweet spots as if he knew your body inside out already, as if you'd done this a thousand times.

You started girding your ass down on his hard on, mentally screaming at just how large he felt under your tiny cunt.

Eventually, you found air to speak, though your words were shaky. ''Lando, please, I need more'' you begged as he pulled his head back to look at you.

By now your body was shivering, not knowing if it was from the snow that had started falling or from the way Lando's gaze was dark, full of lust.

''I-fuck. Can we fuck?'' he asked, already lifting you up in his arms as you frantically nodded your head, as he stepped out the hot tub before placing you down to wrap your gown around you.

The walk up to your room was rushed, Lando hoisting you over his shoulder, practically running up the stairs.

He threw you on your bed, sliding your gown off your body as he stepped back to rid himself of his shorts, revealing him in all his glory as you leaned up on your elbows.

He was thick, to no surprise.

But still, your eyes widened and your pussy throbbed at the sight in front of you.

His cock stood tall against his stomach, twitching, with pre cum oozing down the thick vein at the side.

''Like what you see? Or just desperate for any cock?'' he asked, smirking down at you.

As much as you wanted to tease back, you couldn't help but let a smile creep up your face, causing him to laugh out loud, literally.

''Fuck you'' you mumbled, laying back down, staring at the ceiling.

''I'd rather you fuck me, love'' he said, voice turning raspy again, making your breath hitch.

He hovered above you, knees on either side of your body as he bought a hand to your face, gently lingering his finger on your cheeks as his eyes bore into yours.

You shuffled underneath him when you felt his hard on pressing against your thigh, but his hands were quick to land on your waist, holding you still.

'''Night's gonna end early if you do that'' he said, hint of mischief in his eyes, then he groaned, letting his head fall on your chest making you instinctively wrap your arms around him.

''Fucking condom'' he mumbled as you giggled, running your hands through his hair.

''On the dresser'' you said lightly causing his head to shoot up in disbelief.

''Y/N, holidaying with condoms?'' he asked, already untangling himself from you to grab what he needed.

''Always come prepared'' you said firmly, backing yourself.

''Who were you planning on using it with?'' he asked.

''A hot European man.. tall, tanned, oh i could go on'' you teased as Lando returned to his place above you.

He sat back om his heels as he tore the little packet open with his teeth, all the while you let your finger trace against the vein on the side of his girth. He hissed at the contact, dick twitching involuntarily as he slid the condom on before leaning down to lock lips with you. It was a slow, sensual kiss this time, lazy with your tongues tangling together short gasps leaving your mouths.

Finally though, Lando positioned himself at your entrance.

''You sure?'' he asked.

''I am. Please'' you said, cupping the side of his face as it hovered over yours, your hot breaths mingling together as he slid into your pussy in a single stroke.

Your back arched off the bed, breath hitching as his head fell to your neck, the both of you moaning in unison.

''Give me a sec'' you said softly, needling some time to adjust to his size.

''Fuck you're tight.'' he groaned in your ear.

And soon the pleasure started taking over the pain. You shifted your body, letting Lando know he could move. And did he.

He pulled out of you completely before pounding in again at such a rough pace, all you could do was shut your eyes and dig you hands into his biceps as he repeated the motion over and over again.

''Lando'' you gasped his name as he brushed over your G-spot. ''Please, harder, fuck me harder'' you begged, needling him to give you his all. You were sure you'd never had it this rough before, and he was certainly one of the biggest, but knowing all that only turned you on even more.

''I am fucking you, love. You feel so fuckin' amazing. Can't believe I waited this long to get into your pussy'' he spurred, hands grabbing your hips, imprinting them for sure.

''I'm gonna cum'' you warmed as his fingers found your clit, rubbing over it to quickly send you over the edge, body trembled beneath him as you gushed your hot sticky cum all over his condom-clad dick, pornographic moans leaving your lips along with praises of his name.

And when Lando looked down to see the coating on the condom, he was quick to let out his own guttural moan, movements becoming erratic at just that sight though he was determined to make you cum again before he reached his own high.

He pulled out of you before man handling your body to flip you over onto all fours. You body was like jelly by now so he had no choice but to hold you up himself, your back against his chest, lining himself up at your entrance again.

Your bodies were sticky with sweat, goosebumps raising as he pushed into your again, this time slow and gentle, just for a split second before picking up the pace again.

The sounds leaving your mouth were obscene, no coherent thought in your mind - just Lando and his dick giving your body was it's so desperately needed.

His one hand found your boobs, pinching your nipples between his fingers as his other found your throat, giving it a few squeezes which had you whimpering endlessly. Something about him claiming you had you dizzy and excited.

''Gonna be a good slut and cum for me baby?'' he asked, his voice hoarse as the nicknames had you spiraling, another orgasm puttering through your body viciously, his name leaving your lips like a mantra as he chuckled to himself.

Before you knew what was happening, you were on your back again, at the edge of the bed as Lando placed one foot on the bed, keeping one on the ground, sliding through your puffy cunt again but this time with sloppy, erratic movements. You could feel his dick start to twitch uncontrollably as you pulled his head down for a dirty kiss.

''Fuck, I'm gonna-shit'' he groaned as he released his splutter into the condom while still sliding through you as your walls clenched tightly around him, sending you in an array of your own moans at how sensitive you were already. His body bucked and jerked as he rode himself through it, this time praising your name along with lots of cuss words.

Eventually Lando let his body fall a top of yours, putting all his weight on you as you wrapped your arms around him, but not before running them through his damp hair.

You could feel his breath on your neck, hot and sticky as you both lay there, chests heaving, bodies shivering, all the while he softened inside of you.

After a few minutes of silence Lando gave you one last deep kiss before pulling out, wincing at the loss of contact His plan was to get a towel to clean up, but his body betrayed him and he ended up on his back next to you, his eyes shamelessly roaming your body.

Not knowing where you got a burst of energy from, you straddled his legs, taking a hold of his dick and pulling the condom off, making Lando hiss.

His cock was sticky with his milky cum, and you messed your hand when you gave him a few pumps, indulging in hearing the moans leave his lips as he was already beginning to harden again.

You looked up at him in surprise. ''Already?'' you asked.

He smiled at you, bottom lip between his teeth. ''Formula 1 driver. Stamina'' he teased, though his face contorted with pleasure when he felt your lips wrap around his tip with no warning, bucking his hips up.

''Fuck, Y/N, that mouth of yours'' you said breathlessly, hands pulling your hair out of your face.

You moaned when you tasted him, your tongue circling around his tip as his grip on your hair tightened.

Fondling with his balls, you took him deeper into your mouth, gagging when he hit the back of your throat as you started a steady pace of bobbing you head up and down his shaft.

All that was heard in the room were the sloppy sounds of your mouth sliding over him, and Lando's gasps and moans, your name falling from his lips every now and then.

''I'm not gonna last long with that rate you're going, Y/N'' he warned, though you didn't slow your pace even a little.

''Fuck me, where do you want'' he asked, leaning up on his elbows, and once again, you didn't respond to him. If anything, you tried to take him deeper, sucking harder at his tip, and in seconds Lando was a shuddering mess, his hips bucking up erratically as his cum shot out of him, down your throat.

You gagged again, mouth full of his cum as it started dripping out of the corners when you pulled back, swallowing most of it but keeping some in as you climbed higher up Lando's body, that was still shuddering, only to pry his mouth open with your fingers, let his cum drip down from your mouth into kiss before you kissed him hard, but sloppy, dirty.

When you pulled back, you were both breathless once again, faces messed with sweat and cum, spit running down your chins.

''Fuck me, who knew you were a wild one'' he said, running his hands through your hair as you giggled into his neck, giving him a few pecks.

Eventually, after you both actually cleaned up, albeit a few mishaps of teasing, you settled into bed, your body curled up besides Lando's as he wrapped am arm around you.

The reality of what happened lingering through the both of you, though it didn't feel as awkward as it should have.

''I know we've been tethering on the edge for too long now, and fuck me if it wasn't as good as i always imagined it to be..'' he said, leaving a kiss on your head as your body stiffened, not sure if you wanted to heat his next words.

Before, you could have argued that you only wanted him for sex, but at the back of your mind you always knew that was a lie. It wasn't normal to feel the kind of goosebumps you did when he did so much as look at you, and you knew you were falling for him, inch by inch. And sharing such an intimate moment like this tonight only heightening those feelings. You should wasn't sure if it was one sided.

''I'm not ready for a relationship Y/N, not with work and all..'' he said softly as your heart clenched. A part of you also knew that he knew that's what you wanted.

''But, I don't wanna miss out on us having fun. We're a terrible duo that do it so good together. So I guess what I'm asking is if you'd be up to being my exclusive fuck buddy'' he said, eyes finding yours when you looked up at him.

''Exclusive?'' you asked.

''Ýeah. No more random girls at different race. Or guys for you!'' he teased, pinching your sides.

''Yes'' you were quick to reply, though you definitely should not have. This was only gonna end with you getting your heart broken. But if it meant getting this much from him at the moment, you were ready to take that.

''Yeah?'' he asked, somewhat surprised.

''Yeah, but you owe me 10 Rolex’s!'' you teased back.

''Of fuck off, don't even try to tell me I didn't help get you off, multiple times, if I may add'' he said, leaning down to give you one last dirty kiss of the night.

A/N - hope you enjoyed this! I'm planning on making it a mini series with some angst (I know!!). Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist.

[wordsofwhimsy]

Power Play ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Pairing: Omni-Mark x f!CEO!Reader

Warnings: None

Genres: Fem!Dom budding romantic adventure (what a description lmao)

Word Count: 1330

Synopsis: Omni-Mark thought he was the superior being in any room he entered, that is until he met you.

Inspiration: “I’m Sprung” – T-Pain

a/n: when i tell y’all i am strugglinggg with the next part for Shattered Affections i feel like my brain is going to melt out of my ears. so i had to take a break from it and write something quick & fun instead

Omni-Mark always prided himself on being the epitome of control. Super strength, near invulnerability, the kind of cool and collected confidence that made people look twice. Yet, despite all of that, there was one thing that had him completely off-balance: you.

He’d seen you before, of course. Your sleek, perfectly tailored suits, the way you commanded attention with nothing more than a look, a sharp word, or the sheer force of your presence. As CEO of the most powerful tech conglomerate in the world, you were a woman who didn’t need to ask for respect – it was given, the moment you entered a room.

But Omni-Mark wasn’t just mesmerized by the way you carried yourself. No. What had him sprung was how effortlessly you seemed to break through all the walls he'd so carefully built around himself. It wasn’t just your power or authority. It was the way you saw him – like he was more than just a suit of armor and raw power. You didn’t need saving, but you saw him, and that made him feel something he couldn’t even begin to describe.

He still remembered the first time you’d asked him to meet. The corporate event at the annual tech summit. He’d been there, of course, his presence always required when heroes and villains needed to play nice for the sake of business. But that night, when you’d extended your hand to him with a smile that was both knowing and curious, something inside him had snapped.

“Invincible, right?” Your voice had been smooth, rich with a slight but powerful edge. It made his name sound like a compliment, like you knew the weight of it.

"Yes," he’d said, his throat suddenly dry. "Nice to meet you, uh... Miss Y/L/N." He stumbled over the words, heart hammering in his chest.

But you hadn’t let that fluster you. Instead, you leaned in a little closer, as if you were truly interested, and he swore he could feel the heat of your gaze sink into him. “I like what I see,” you had said, barely above a whisper. “I think we could make a lot of things happen together.”

Make a lot of things happen. A simple phrase, but one that had played over and over in his mind ever since. He’d seen countless powerful people come and go, but none had ever made him feel like you did.

It was stupid, really. He was a viltrumite. Strong. Unstoppable. And yet, every time he saw you, he felt a little weaker in the knees, his control slipping away like sand through his fingers.

—

Tonight was no different. He’d just left a fight—one that had left his body aching, his mind scattered. But when you texted him to meet at your office for a "quick chat," it was as though all that mattered was getting to you. You had a way of making everything else irrelevant.

His flight through the sky was sharp, clean, his usual speed, but his mind raced at a different pace. What was he even doing? He was superhuman. Yet, all he could think of was the way you looked in that black pencil skirt earlier today. The way your heels clicked with authority as you walked through your skyscraper. And the way you spoke to him when no one else was around—soft, but no less commanding.

When he arrived, he touched down in front of the glass building. His stomach flipped at the sight of the towering structure, where everything seemed to be in its place, and yet somehow, the only thing that truly made him feel grounded was you.

The elevator ride up was quick, his mind swirling. He wasn’t sure what to expect from tonight. Maybe another conversation that would leave him tangled in his own thoughts, or maybe, just maybe, something more.

The doors slid open, and there you were, waiting for him in your office. The blinds were pulled back, and the night’s skyline sprawled out beneath you. You looked every bit the CEO—cool, collected, in control. But there was something in your eyes as they met his that made his breath catch.

“Mark,” you said, standing from your desk with a slow, deliberate movement. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

He couldn’t help but smirk, the tension between them thickening. “You call, I come. That’s the deal, remember?”

A small, amused smile danced across your lips, but it was the glint in your eyes that got him. You were testing him. Pushing his boundaries, like you always did. And for all his strength and invulnerability, he found himself falling deeper into the trap.

You stepped closer, a move so confident it left him breathless. “You’re always so serious, Mark. Don’t you ever just let go?”

Your words hung in the air, daring him to admit what he already knew: that the stoic mask he wore was slipping, and it was because of you. He was trying to keep his composure, but you were already too close, your perfume an intoxicating blend of power and elegance. It clouded his senses, and he swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

“I… I don’t know if I can let go,” he finally admitted, voice low, strained. “But you make it hard not to try.”

Your smile widened, satisfaction lighting your face. “That’s the idea, Mark.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the air between you thick. Your gaze softened, and he found himself mesmerized by the way you looked at him, like you truly saw him—beyond the hero, beyond the mask. It made his heart beat a little faster.

He knew the risks. He knew how easily things could go wrong. But right now, with you standing in front of him, there was only one thing on his mind.

You stepped closer to him, eyeing him evenly for a moment before gesturing to the chair across from you.

“Sit,” you commanded, your voice cool and unwavering.

Mark’s eyes flickered to the chair, his stoic expression momentarily shifting as if weighing the command. But he didn’t resist. He simply lowered himself into the seat, every muscle in his body tense yet still, as if awaiting the next move.

You paced around him, slow and deliberate, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each step. The sound echoed around the room, and you couldn’t help but enjoy the way he was already reacting to your presence. His gaze tracked you as you moved, his breathing shallow, betraying just how much control you had over him without even touching him.

You circled him a few times, each lap making him more and more aware of the power you wielded. The tension in his shoulders, the slight clenching of his jaw—it was all confirmation that you had him right where you wanted him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you stopped in front of him. You stood there for a moment, your eyes locking with his. And without breaking your gaze, you lifted your foot and placed it in his lap, delicately at first to gauge his reaction before pressing harder into his crotch.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, but there was no fight in him. No resistance. Only the mild hint of a groan being suppressed in his throat.

“Good boy,” you whispered, your lips curling into a satisfied smile. The words were simple, but they were enough to make his heart race. You could see it in his eyes now—the realization that he was completely under your control.

“You’re mine now,” you added softly, the power of those words settling between you both, unspoken yet undeniable. And with that, you knew for sure that Invincible, the powerful and stoic hero, had become your willing captive, and he wouldn’t fight it. Not now, not ever. And your fun with your new toy was only just getting started.

[mistercrowbar]

What advice would you give to someone who wants to start draw comics?

Read comics. Try to absorb the layouts and lettering - there’s so many ways to tackle it! Also even in published comics you’ll see that the art is messy and scrungly and you can take that as permission to be messy and scrungly too.

Comics are about efficiency and Good Enough. If you try to make each panel a masterpiece you’ll be there forever. Reasons why I mostly do simple pencil comics.

Start small. Do a scene or gag comic at a time. Get a feel for the medium and all the steps you have. If there’s a step you hate, find a way to emphasize the steps you love. EG I hate laying down flat colours but love shading, so I make my page form comics painterly greyscale with a gradient map to spruce them up.

Thumbnail!!!!! Figure out your page or panel layout before you start pencils. It can just be chicken scratch and sticken figures but it will help make sure there’s a clean line of action carrying the viewer from panel to panel and that your lettering fits.

don’t skimp on lettering. you can have beautiful artwork but if your dialogue is time new roman on half transparent ellipses or somehow unreadable it’s gonna drag everything else down. Blambot is a great source for free and affordable comic fonts and even has guides from an industry pro.

There are a huge bajillion elements to making comics but once you’ve made like, literally 100 pages you’ll start just intrinsically knowing things like the 180 rule, how to place a speech bubble when the first speaker is on the right, and that you can draw one nice background and then have gradient colour blocks carry you through most of the page/scene. And then you’ll still keep learning. Always learning!

LOTS of example stuff under the cut, mostly for lettering and layouts:

thumbnails vs finished page. The detail is just enough to remind me who goes where. You can see I mostly played with the last part of the scene, going from three panels in one row to making each panel an entire row across three rows. Panels on the same row have less “time” between them as the eyes skips from one to the other faster, whereas there’s a little more gap skipping back to a new row (think resetting a line on a typewriter). Here, the first thumbnail may have fit the artwork more neatly, but I wanted to give Astarion more time to deliberate his decision.

You can also see that I changed the top panel from a close up on Aldiirn to a wider shot showing both. This sets the scene, and the rest of it uses simple/abstract backgrounds until the final panel, which makes a nice bookend while making the overall load easier. One good environment panel will carry you for a while, but don't leave your characters in the void for too long.

Make a script before you start layouts but don’t be shocked if you need to cut things out to have them fit a page. Less is more, generally. This also goes for visual elements - what's most important to the scene? What's just extraneous detail you find fun but is creating clutter?

For the 4-panel comics I don’t put time into thumbnails unless it’s a difficult panel, but I always put the lettering and speech bubbles down first so they have enough room and nothing important gets covered. If you do this much you’re a step ahead imo.

This one I’m working on now and there’s a lot going on with four characters speaking to each other! It’s important to keep a clear line going for the dialogue. Astarion’s first line has the top left corner and clearly starts the conversation. The tail of the bubble carries over to where he whispers to Aldiirn, and we pick up Aldiirn’s lines. The rock wall on the right then draws the eye down to Shadowheart and Gale’s bubble at the bottom. I don’t think the tails on the bottom bubbles are 100% ideal, but it’s Good Enough.

There’s also slightly different points in time going on in this panel, because the art is static but it’s a long convo going on. Gale’s signature finger isn’t in response to Astarion whispering, but to his answer to Aldiirn that comes after. Think of how time works in your panels, especially when you got a big one because size = time.

You can use all sorts of things to direct the eye across a comic page, but I find the strongest things are the bubbles & tails and where characters are looking. Here, Gale’s “stop by” line breaks the panel line to help draw the viewer to him in the last panel, since otherwise the eye was likely to end up at Aldiirn.

I generally like bubbles to be tucked into their panels, either fully inside or up at the edges like “my condolences.” It looks neater than when bubbles are willy nilly over the edges which I see as a sign of poor planning. And! it means when you do break panel lines it can be more meaningful.

the 180 rule is a film/stage thing for composition to avoid confusing the audience, but the simplest way to put it is: if a character is on the left side of the scene, they should stay there until the action or whatever moves them. You can see here that Aldiirn is always on the right facing left, even when the camera is a bit behind him or a bit behind Gale. the 180 line is the front of Aldiirn’s tent, and the camera never crosses it in a way that would put Gale on the right.

I find it distracting when a conversation is happening in comic and a character breaks the 180 for no particular reason, though are times I’ve done it because a panel worked much better that way. The book Framed Ink has some great guides on composition and how to change the 180 line.

You can also see in the above comic that it’s arranged so that Gale’s always the first speaker in the panels he appears so there’s no criss cross bubble tails. Buuuut what if the first speaker is unavoidably on the right?

Stack the speech bubbles. You want the first speech bubble CLEARLY and undeniably the closest to the top left corner and then other speakers can go below.

the middle example above also has some examples of playing with the speech bubbles. Wyll’s “square-y round-y” bubble is the standard, the boxy ellipse. The tail has a slight, lanquid curve. He;s comfortable teasing the poor vampire. Aldiirn’s bubble is pointy! the tail straight! with urgency! And Astarion’s bubble and tail are burbling and grumbling through gritted teeth and pain. Varsh Ko’kuu, even though he’s speaking with a standard shaped bubble, has a sharp point in the tail that speaks to his assertiveness in protecting the egg. And Shadowheart has some hesitation with that wiggly tail.

Either hand drawing or using vector shapes for bubbles is fine, but I recommend staying away from true ellipses because they look static. Square-y round-y is where it’s at. Just make sure there’s enough space between text and edge of the bubble, usually enough to fit a capital H or W, but you can play with that spacing too.

The second panel here breaks the “first bubble goes top-left corner” rule, so it’s ambiguous if Gale or Aldiirn speaks first. However! In this case everyone is giving their responses in a jumble to Rath, so order matters less. I’m pretty sure every rule I’ve mentioned has a time and place to break it, but it’s still important to learn the basics first.

Key thing about comics typefaces: the capital I will have bars and the lower case will not. The barred I is used for I, as in, “I am not inclined to share” where the unbarred is used everywhere else.

When choosing a font, I recommend grabbing one that has Regular, Italic, and Bold/Bold Italic typefaces. I use Milk Moustache for my 4-panel comics because it’s very casual and similar weight to my own handwriting, but it doesn’t have an italic typeface and that drives me nuts sometimes. For the most flexibility, choose a font that has lower case AND uppercase type faces. I stick to upper case 90% of the time but lower case adds more options, like Aldiirn’s “really?” being so small due to his stressed state.

There are some official guides on what should be bold or italic in dialogues but they don’t matter as much unless you’re working for a big publisher with a style standard. Italics for thinking and whispering are common. I go with my gut, like Astarion’s speech is so dramatic I use italics and bold liberally, whereas for most others I may or may not just choose a key word to bold.

I think some programs will let you make text to fit a bubble instead of a square box, but tbh I just spend a lot of time manually making the text fit nicely in that bubble shape.

[nathanbatemanfucker]

Could I request Joaquin having a crush on this girl at his work, and he seems to think she likes him back, but she tells him that she only likes him as a friend. And so Joaquin becomes sad and a little depressed, but then on a random day, he meets one girl who will turn his world upside down

In the Diner

about this; wc: 754, joaquin torres x f!teader, contents: insecure!joaquin, meet cute, fluff, food mention, an: i tweaked the parameters a little bit so that the story would flow better and hope you like it!!

danny ramirez characters masterlist

It wasn’t often that Joaquin couldn’t find the light or positivity in a situation, but this was one of those times. He’d been feeling pretty lonely lately, and he’d had his eye on one of his neighbors. She was always kind, a little bubbly, and gorgeous.

There was always the chance that someone would either be too invested in his job or resentful of it when he tried to get involved with someone. But when he’d expressed his interest in her, she’d turned him down completely—without much of an explanation.

Since then, every time they ran into each other, she immediately looked the other way. It left Joaquin wondering if he’d done something wrong. Had he gone too far with a joke? Come on too strong? Smiled too much?

Was he too much?

The interaction lived in his mind often, only pushed aside when he had the privilege of being high in the sky.

Tonight was not one of those nights. He sat in the local diner he frequented much later than he should have. But between wondering if he should change and the high-stakes intel he and Sam needed to gather this weekend, his nerves were all over the place.

There were only a few other patrons in the diner when the bell rang, signaling another late-night visitor.

Out of habit, Joaquin glanced up to assess his surroundings—and met your gaze.

You froze for a moment, eyes widening slightly before you offered him a kind smile and made your way to a booth a couple of tables down from his.

He could tell by the easy way you and Janet—his favorite waitress—chatted that you were a regular here. Curiosity piqued, he wondered why he’d never seen you before.

Janet made her way over after putting in your order, asking if he needed anything else.

He grinned sheepishly. “More fries wouldn’t hurt. Don’t tell anyone I’ve got cheat days.”

“More fries it is. Joaquin, honey, do you think you could do me a favor?”

“Lo que sea,” he answered easily.

Janet smiled eagerly. “That sweet girl down there takes care of her brother all on her own. And, well, that boy loves you. Would you maybe sign something for him or record a message?”

Joaquin’s insecurities from before melted away at the thought of a little boy—a beautiful woman’s little brother—looking up to him. Maybe he was too much for some, but not for all.

“Sure. Did she ask you to do this for her?”

“She actually asked me to do the opposite. Insisted she didn’t want to bother you, given all you do.”

Joaquin’s eyes trailed across the diner to you before he looked back at Janet. “Bring my fries to her table, por favor? And put whatever she’s got on my tab.”

Janet told Joaquin your name before stepping away, leaving him to make his way over to you.

“Mind if I join you?”

You glanced up, then quickly did a double take before your eyes searched behind him—no doubt looking for Janet.

“It’s alright, querida, I don’t mind. Don’t grill Janet.”

You sighed, a little exasperated. “No quiero molestarte.”

“You aren’t. If anything, I’m bothering you, hmm?” he teased, sliding into the seat across from you.

That pulled a laugh from you, and Joaquin made note of how it made your eyes shine. The two of you slipped into an easy back-and-forth over fries, pie, and root beer floats. He asked about you and your brother, and despite being a little nervous about talking to the Falcon, nothing had ever felt more effortless.

Joaquin decided to go out on a limb, despite his last attempt not going so well.

“Look, I don’t mean to be too forward, but—”

“Yes.”

His grin widened. “You didn’t let me finish, querida.”

“I know, but—”

As if on cue, your alarm went off.

“That’s my reminder to get everything ready for the day for my brother before I can sneak in a couple hours of sleep,” you explained.

Joaquin watched you with gentle eyes, reminded of the life he used to live with his abuela.

Grabbing a pen from your bag, you scribbled your number on a napkin and slid it across the table to him.

“My next day off is Tuesday. Meet me here for breakfast at nine?”

“I’ll be there.”

You stood quickly, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “See you soon?”

Joaquin’s grateful that you aren’t looking at him head on, disguising some of the flush in his cheeks. “See you soon.”

let me know if you’d lime to be on the sfw or nsfw (18+ only) joaquin taglist!!

sfw joaquin taglist: @magikdarkholme, @plan3t-plut0, @mewmew222, @linnygirl09, @ezhz444, @karmaswitch, @badbishsblog, @glader13, @how2besalty, @happypopcornprincess, @hiireadstuffsometimes, @lisiliely, @spider-steve, @nolita-fairytale, @hrlzy, @faretheeoscar, @giuliahowlett, @abriefnirvana, @fanboyswhore9 , @sidkneeeee, @sophreakingfunny, @heartbreakgirlism, @peachyxlynch, @lomlbuckybarnes, @a-randomscrub, @ajcs150, @glimodejun, @isuckatmath, @arsonhotchner, @sidkneeeee, @galaxywannabe, @retrosabers, @marchingicenotes7, @marroonwitch, @jaebugzz, @that-girl-named-alex, @bxtchboy69, @moonymeloncholymoney

[surveillancy]

Can you write a Yandere ! Burning Spice x reader? If that's okay, of course! Love your work </3

"delicious fury" - yandere!burning spice cookie x reader

‪‪✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧︎‬

the first time you caught his eye, it was by accident.

burning spice cookie had been bored. restless. the flames licking at his skin itched for destruction, his jam ached to tear through something, anything, to alleviate the endless monotony of existence. but then... you. a fleeting moment of motion on the battlefield, a flash of defiance against his inferno. you stood against him, unwavering, not with foolish arrogance, but something else. something stronger.

fascinating.

the notion of possession was not new to him. he had conquered, razed, and devoured without hesitation. yet this... this was different. it was not the same mindless hunger that drove him to crush civilizations beneath his heel. no, this craving was deeper, more insidious. he wanted to carve his mark into you, to have you look at him with recognition. not fear, not reverence, but something only he could pull from you.

so, he followed. watched. studied. with every battle, every whispered breath against the flames, his intrigue grew into obsession. others tried to speak to you, tried to steal your attention, and it enraged him. they did not deserve to exist in your world. only he did. only he would.

you were strong. resilient. you refused to break before him, and oh, how it delighted him. a struggle made the end so much sweeter. he could already imagine it: your defiance crumbling beneath his touch, the fire in your eyes flickering but never going out. he did not want you extinguished. no, he wanted you to burn for him alone.

the night he finally took you, the air was thick with the scent of smoldering ruins. your home, your safe haven, reduced to embers at his command. there was nowhere left to run, no one left to call for. he had made sure of it.

you stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving, sweat mixing with soot upon your skin. and when you met his eyes, there was no fear. only fury. beautiful, delicious fury.

"what do you want?" you spat, fists clenched at your sides, prepared for battle even with nothing left to defend.

he grinned, all sharp teeth and wicked intent, stepping closer, looming. "you."

the word crackled between you like fire catching dry wood. your breath hitched, just barely, but he noticed. he always noticed.

"give up," he murmured, voice a low rumble, the heat of him suffocating. "there’s nothing left for you to fight for."

you glared, refusing to step back even as his presence swallowed you whole. "i will never be yours."

his laughter was a deep, rolling thing, filled with amusement and something dangerously close to delight. "ah, but you already are." one clawed finger trailed up your arm, slow, savoring the way you tensed beneath his touch. "you just don’t know it yet."

and as the flames roared around you, sealing your fate, you realized with chilling certainty: he would never let you go.

‪‪✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧︎‬

requests: open!

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Honey & Venom: III

Where a quiet life is shattered by a single look, and Y/N learns there’s no such thing as innocence when you choose to stay.

Part 1 & 2

Word Count: 10.9K

Content Warning: Murder, Blood, Cursing, Smut.

The apartment was small and suffocating. Dingy carpet, water-stained ceilings, a radiator that  groaned all night like it was in pain. The walls were a tired yellow, and everything smelled faintly  of bleach and something older beneath it. 

But they had privacy and for now, that was enough. 

Y/N stood by the stove, stirring a pot of soup that was mostly broth. The flame was uneven  and low, but it worked. She’d found it at a pawn shop two blocks over. She’d bartered with a  guy who couldn’t stop staring at her chest. Harry hadn’t come in with her—he never did anymore. 

Behind her, he sat at the table. One leg bouncing. Fingers tapping rhythm on the warped wood. She didn’t need to turn around to know he was watching her. 

She could feel it. 

He was always watching. 

“What?” she asked, not looking up from the pot. 

A beat of silence. Then— 

“You left the door unlocked earlier.” 

She paused, her hand tightening slightly around the spoon. 

“Did I?” 

He didn’t answer. 

She turned to glance at him. He sat back, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. The  same look he always wore when he was trying not to look like he cared. 

“I must’ve been distracted,” she said, setting the spoon down. 

Still nothing. 

She brought the pot over anyway, set it on the table between them, and sat. They didn’t bother  with bowls. One spoon each. Take turns. 

She took the first bite. Salty. Barely food. 

“It’s not terrible,” she said. 

He took the spoon from her hand and dug in. Chewed slowly. Swallowed. “It’s fine.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out beneath the table until they bumped into  his. He didn’t move away. 

It was quiet again. 

But the kind that pressed against your ribs. The kind that said something’s coming. 

She stayed leaned back, legs stretched beneath the table, her bare toes brushing against his  ankle. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just took another spoonful, slow and silent, gaze fixed  somewhere over her shoulder. 

The tension wasn’t sharp. Not yet. 

But it was there—settling in like dust, subtle and familiar. 

“How long you think we’ll stay here?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. Harry shrugged. “Long as we can.” 

That meant until someone noticed something. Until he did something. Until she did. 

Y/N glanced around the room. One window faced a brick wall. The other, a narrow alley where  garbage piled up and cats screamed all night. The bed behind them was just a mattress on the  floor with a stack of folded blankets. There was no TV. No décor. Nothing to make it feel like  home. 

Still, they’d made a routine. 

She cooked. He came home. She didn’t ask where he’d been. He didn’t ask what she thought  about during the hours he was gone. 

But sometimes—like now—he watched her like he knew. 

Like he could see it all written on her face. 

Y/N tapped her nails against the edge of the table. “We should get a lamp,” she said. “The  overhead makes it feel like an interrogation room.” 

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. Barely there. But real. 

“You miss cozy lighting?” 

“I miss lamps that don’t flicker when you blink too hard.” 

He passed the spoon back to her, their fingers brushing. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he. “You miss anything else?” he asked. 

The question was quiet. Almost too quiet. 

Y/N blinked. She looked at him—really looked. 

And for a second, he wasn’t just Harry, the man she’d followed into hell.

He was just a man. Sitting in front of her. Asking what was left. 

She could’ve said a dozen things. Her apartment. Her mother. Mornings that didn’t feel like  walking on glass. 

But instead she said, “No.” 

Harry looked at her a beat longer, like he was trying to decide if she meant it. Then he leaned back in his chair and said nothing more. 

The silence that followed didn’t press quite as hard. 

Not yet. 

The soup between them had gone cold, but neither of them cared. 

Y/N’s hand lingered against the back of his. She didn’t pull away, and Harry didn’t move. He  just sat there, letting her touch him—letting the silence sit without crowding it. 

His gaze was steady, calm in a way that made her stomach twist. Not because he was cold,  but because he wasn’t. 

Not with her. 

And for all the chaos, the running, the blood—this was what made her stay. She slid her hand up slowly, her fingers curling around his. 

“Say it again,” she said softly. 

Harry tilted his head. “Say what?” 

“What you said. About your mum, ya know. That one night.” 

He exhaled slowly, like the admission cost him. But he didn’t hesitate. 

“She would’ve loved you.” 

Y/N stood. Walked the two slow steps around the table. Stopped in front of him. He didn’t look away. Didn’t ask what she was doing. 

She slid onto his lap, careful, steady, straddling his legs with hers. One hand on his shoulder.  The other curling into his shirt. 

His hands settled at her waist, like instinct. 

She leaned in, so close her breath touched his mouth. 

“You don’t say shit like that,” she whispered, “and expect me not to kiss you.”

Harry smirked, just barely. “So kiss me.” 

She did. 

Slow at first—just a press of mouths, a quiet exchange. Then deeper. Warmer. Her fingers  curling tighter in the fabric at his chest. His grip firming at her hips. 

He kissed like he had nothing to prove. Like he already knew he owned her. But there was softness there, too. A kind of hunger that wasn’t just about power. When she pulled back, her lips swollen, breath caught in her throat, he didn’t let go. He just rested his forehead against hers, eyes still closed, voice low. 

“I don’t love many things,” he murmured. “But I love you.” 

Y/N’s heart stuttered. 

He kept going. 

“She would’ve loved you too.” 

Her throat tightened. She let her hands slide up into his hair, curling there, holding him close.  She loved hearing those words as if they were her own power over him.  

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. 

He didn’t answer. 

Just held her tighter. 

Because he didn’t have to say it. 

He wasn’t going anywhere. 

Not now. Not ever. 

They didn’t move for a while. 

Her knees on either side of his hips, his hands resting on her back, her head tucked into the  crook of his neck. The world outside the apartment didn’t exist—not the cracked sidewalks,  not the alley full of garbage, not the ghosts they both carried. 

Just this. 

Just the weight of her on him, his heartbeat steady against her chest, the hum of the radiator  filling the silence. 

Eventually, Y/N slid off his lap. He didn’t stop her. Just watched as she pulled the blanket from  the bed and draped it over his shoulders like she was tucking in something fragile. 

“Still hungry?” she asked.

Harry shook his head. “I’m good.” 

She kissed his temple, then wandered back to the stove, flicking it off and rinsing the pot  without a word. He stayed at the table, eyes following her the whole time. 

This was the rhythm. 

Soft touches in between storms. Little silences that didn’t feel like distance. But it never lasted. 

And part of her knew that. 

The next day started like any other. 

Gray skies, the buzz of traffic outside, cold floors under bare feet. 

She threw on an old sweater and jeans. Told Harry she was walking to the corner store. He  grunted something from the bed, half-asleep, arm thrown over his eyes. 

It was normal. 

It was nothing. 

She didn’t know he’d follow her. 

The corner store was a six-minute walk from their apartment. 

Seven, if she cut through the alley. 

It was the kind of place where the floor tiles curled at the corners and the overhead lights  flickered just enough to make your head throb. The bell above the door let out a weak jingle  when she stepped in, her hands shoved in the front pocket of her hoodie. 

There was only one person behind the counter. 

Young. Late twenties, maybe. 

Dark hair. A decent smile. Clean, with forearms inked in a way that felt like a choice, not a  warning. 

Y/N gave him a small nod as she passed by. He gave one back. 

She wasn’t there for long. Just bread, bottled water, and a pack of aspirin. The cashier  watched her move through the aisles—not in a threatening way. Just curious. 

She was used to being stared at. 

But this one felt different. 

Softer. 

He leaned slightly over the counter when she came up to pay. “I don’t think I’ve seen you  around before.”

She forced a small smile. “We just moved in. Down the block.” 

“We?” 

She froze for half a second, then recovered. “Me and my boyfriend.” 

He nodded like he’d expected it. “Lucky guy.” 

She didn’t answer. Just pulled a few wrinkled bills from her pocket and handed them over. “You from around here?” he asked, punching the numbers into the old register. “No.” 

He handed her the bag. Their fingers brushed, and she didn’t like the way he looked at her  then. Not because it was inappropriate. 

Because it was kind. 

The kind of look she used to want. 

The kind of look Harry never gave her—not like that. 

She muttered a thank you and turned to leave, heart tapping a little too fast. The bell jingled weakly behind her. 

She didn’t see Harry until she was halfway down the block. 

He was across the street, leaned against the bus stop shelter like he’d been there for hours. Watching. 

She stopped. 

Their eyes met. 

His face was blank, unreadable, but she knew that look. Knew it in her spine. He didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just waited. 

She crossed the street slowly, her throat suddenly dry. 

“How long were you standing there?” she asked when she reached him. He shrugged. “Long enough.” 

Y/N tightened her grip on the plastic bag. “You followed me?”

“You said it yourself. You left the door unlocked the other day. Thought maybe you’d forget  something else.” 

“Like what?” 

Harry’s gaze darkened. “Like you have a boyfriend.” 

She stared at him. 

“That guy wasn’t a threat,” she said carefully. 

“I know.” 

“Then what is this?” 

He leaned in, just enough so only she could hear. His voice was low. Measured. “He looked at you like you were his. And you let him.” 

Her stomach turned. “I didn’t—” 

“I saw the way you smiled.” 

“It was polite.” 

“It was too polite.” 

Y/N took a step back. Not out of fear—just space. Just air. 

“You’re being ridiculous,” she said quietly. 

Harry tilted his head, studying her. “Am I?” 

She didn’t respond. 

Didn’t trust herself to. 

He nodded once, like he’d made up his mind about something. 

And then he turned and started walking. 

She didn’t follow. 

Not right away. 

Because something in the way he moved—calm, quiet, deliberate—told her this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 

The walk back to the apartment was quiet. 

Not the kind of silence that came easy—the kind they were used to, the kind that filled the  spaces between them without causing damage.

This was different. 

This was a silence that pushed against her. Pressed in on all sides. 

Harry didn’t speak the entire way. Just walked a few paces ahead of her, shoulders tight, hands  in his pockets, jaw set hard. 

When they reached the building, he didn’t wait for her. Didn’t hold the door like he usually did.  He let it slam behind him, the sound echoing up the stairwell. 

Y/N followed slowly, heart heavy in her chest. 

By the time she stepped inside the apartment, Harry had already dropped onto the mattress,  elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor like he was trying to burn a hole through it. 

She closed the door gently. Set the bag on the counter. 

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” she asked softly. 

Nothing. 

“Harry.” 

Still nothing. 

She crossed the room, slowly, cautiously, and crouched in front of him. 

“Look at me.” 

He didn’t. 

“Please.” 

He finally lifted his gaze, and what she saw there made her breath catch. Not anger. Not exactly. 

Something tighter. Meaner. 

Hurt. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, voice low. 

She blinked. “What am I supposed to get?” 

He leaned forward, eyes locked on hers. “You smiled at him.” 

“It was nothing—” 

“It wasn’t nothing to him.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you let it happen. You let him think he had a chance. You gave him a piece of something  that’s mine.” 

Her chest squeezed. “I didn’t—” 

“You did.” 

She sat back on her heels. “So what, you’re punishing me now?” 

Harry stood suddenly, pacing across the room. 

“I’ve done everything to keep us safe,” he muttered. “Everything. I’ve stayed low. I’ve kept my  head down. I’ve let you breathe. I’ve let you feel normal.” 

“I never asked for normal.” 

He turned on her then. “No. But you liked it. And maybe you liked it too much.” Y/N stood, jaw tight. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” 

He scoffed. “For now.” 

That hit somewhere deep. 

She crossed her arms, standing firm even as her stomach twisted. 

“You really think I’d leave you for some guy behind a counter?” 

“I think you miss who you used to be. I think sometimes you forget who I am.” She stared at him. “I never forget.” 

Harry stepped close, too close, his voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Then act like it.” 

Y/N’s breath shook. 

“I’m yours,” she said. “You know that.” 

His jaw twitched. 

“I just hate the idea of someone else thinking you’re not.” 

She nodded slowly. “Okay. Then tell me what you want from me.” 

He didn’t answer. 

Not right away. 

The day passed in pieces. 

They didn’t talk after the fight.

Y/N moved quietly around the apartment—folded clothes, reheated soup, filled the silence with  anything she could touch. Harry stayed still. Sat in the same chair for hours, barely moved,  eyes following her like he didn’t trust her anymore. 

Like he didn’t know if she was still his. 

When the sun went down, she climbed into bed without a word. 

He followed, eventually. 

The mattress sagged under his weight. He lay on his back, arms crossed behind his head, face  turned toward the ceiling. 

Y/N curled onto her side, back to him. 

They didn’t touch. 

Didn’t speak. 

The radiator hissed in the corner. A dog barked down the block. Pipes groaned in the wall. And Harry didn’t sleep. 

She could feel it. 

His breathing was too even. Too controlled. 

Still. 

Wide awake. 

His foot shifted under the blanket. Then stilled again. 

She almost turned to him. Almost whispered something—an apology, a reassurance, anything  that might pull him out of whatever place he’d disappeared into. 

But she didn’t. 

Because she knew. 

He was replaying it. 

That smile. That look. That moment in the store he couldn’t forget. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force herself to sleep, but the silence between them had  weight. It pinned her in place. 

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. 

Then—he moved. 

Slow. Controlled.

The way he always did when his mind was made up. 

He slid the blanket off. Sat up. 

Y/N’s eyes opened, but she didn’t turn. She held her breath. 

Listened. 

Waited. 

Harry stood, bare feet soft against the floorboards. 

He moved across the room, grabbed the hoodie off the back of the chair. Then his boots. His  coat. 

Keys. 

No sound except the rustle of fabric and the creak of the door as he cracked it open. Y/N still didn’t move. 

But her stomach twisted. 

Because she knew where he was going. 

Or maybe not the exact place. Not the street. Not the time. Not the weapon. But the intent. 

And that was enough. 

He didn’t say a word. 

Didn’t even glance back. 

Just stepped into the hallway and shut the door behind him. 

Y/N lay in bed, eyes open, staring into the dark. 

Her fingers curled around the blanket. 

And she waited. 

For the sound of sirens. 

For blood. 

For him. 

To come back different. Or not at all. 

The room felt colder after he left.

Y/N stayed exactly where she was—on her side, facing the wall, the blanket pulled up to her  chest like it could do anything to protect her from the quiet. 

She didn’t cry. 

She didn’t sleep. 

She just laid there, blinking into the dark, heart beating slow and heavy under her ribs. Because this wasn’t the first time. 

Not really. 

A memory surfaced. Uninvited.  

A different town. A different name. A different motel. 

She had gone out for something small—coffee, maybe, or a box of matches. She couldn’t  remember. 

But she remembered the man who held the door open for her on the way out. Older. Maybe in his forties. Polite, smiling, nothing more. 

He’d said, “You look too pretty to be walking alone,” and she’d smiled back, because it was  easier than starting a fight. 

Harry had been across the street. Leaning against a wall like a shadow with no patience. She hadn’t even seen him until later—back at the motel. 

He hadn’t said anything right away. 

He just shut the door behind them. Locked it. Watched her from across the room like she’d  brought something back on her skin. 

“What?” she’d asked, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“You smiled at him.” 

She’d frowned. “It wasn’t like that.” 

His stare didn’t break. “You smiled like you wanted him to say more.” 

“Harry—” 

He crossed the room in two strides. Not violent, not cruel. Just close. Close enough that she’d  had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. 

“You want someone else to look at you like that?” he asked, voice low. 

She’d shaken her head. “No.”

He’d watched her another second, then kissed her hard. Pulled her into him like he needed to  remind her who she belonged to. 

And she’d let him. 

Because the truth was— 

Something in her had liked it.  

The jealousy. The possessiveness. The fact that he needed her to be his.

Back in the apartment now, the memory settled over her like a second skin. She pressed her forehead to the pillow, breathing slowly. 

The silence was heavier than before. 

Not peaceful. Not calm. 

It was the kind of silence you sit in before the truth shows up at your door. 

He was out there. 

Doing something she couldn’t take back. 

And somehow, deep down, she knew— 

This time, it was for her.  

Not for survival. 

Not for safety. 

Not even for the thrill. 

This time, it was about ownership. 

And she couldn’t decide if that made her feel sick— 

Or seen. 

She lay still, the blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, the room unbearably quiet except  for the faint drip of the bathroom sink and the tick of the old wall clock. 

Time passed slowly. Each minute dragged like it wanted her to feel every second of the space  between him leaving and whatever version of him would come back. 

She should’ve been panicking. 

Should’ve been planning how to run. 

Or how to fix it. 

Or how to stop him. 

But she wasn’t. 

She just kept staring at the wall.

And somewhere deep inside her chest, in the part she didn’t let herself speak from, she could  feel it—a low, pulsing heat. 

Something she didn’t want to name. 

Something worse than fear. 

Worse than guilt. 

She liked it. 

Not the death. Not the idea of blood in the street or bones breaking in an alley. But the reason behind it. 

The quiet, brutal truth that a man like him—someone violent, capable, unhinged— had seen her smile at someone else and snapped. 

Because he couldn’t stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else. Because she was his. 

And he was willing to ruin himself to make sure she stayed that way. 

Her stomach twisted, not with dread, but with a dull ache she couldn’t shake. Because wasn’t that what she’d always wanted? 

Not the killing. 

But the devotion. 

The totality of it. 

Someone willing to burn the world down just because someone else looked at her for too long. It was sick. 

It was wrong. 

And it made her feel wanted in a way that terrified her. 

Harry didn’t just love her. 

He’d kill for her. 

And some broken part of her— 

the part that stopped being innocent the second she followed him the first time— was okay with that.  

More than okay. 

She shifted onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling now, throat tight.

She wondered if he’d come back different. 

Worse. 

Better. 

She wondered if he’d expect her to ask what he did. 

Or if he’d just expect her to help. 

And she wondered— 

if he did ask her to help clean it up, 

to hide the body, 

to make it disappear like it never happened— 

Would she say yes?  

Her heart beat steady in her chest. 

And she already knew the answer. 

The lock turned just past five a.m.  

Y/N sat up before the door even opened. 

She hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even tried. She’d just laid there, eyes wide in the dark, rehearsing  every version of how this could go. 

And none of them came close to the reality of him walking through the door like this. Quiet. 

Calm. 

Blood on his sleeves.  

He didn’t speak at first. Just stepped inside, shutting the door behind him like he was trying  not to wake anyone—even though the only person who could hear was her. 

He peeled off his jacket. Laid it over the chair. 

Then looked at her. 

Not guilty. Not proud. 

Just steady. 

Waiting to see what she would do. 

She didn’t ask if it was done. 

She could see it on him.

There was blood on his hands. A smudge across his neck. Something darker at the cuff of his  shirt. 

Y/N swung her legs over the side of the bed. Stood slowly. 

They stared at each other in the dim motel light. 

No panic. 

No screaming. 

Just that electric, pulsing tension between them that never quite disappeared. She crossed the room. Stopped a foot in front of him. 

“Did he say anything?” she asked quietly. 

Harry’s mouth curved. The barest flicker of a smirk. 

“Not much.” 

She nodded once. 

“You want to tell me where he is?” 

A pause. 

Then: “Trunk of an old car off Lexington. Building’s empty. No cameras.” She held his gaze, throat dry, heart hammering behind her ribs. 

“Do we need to move him?” 

Harry stepped closer. Lifted his hand—bloody, rough—and tucked a strand of hair behind her  ear. 

“You tell me.” 

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. 

Her answer was steady. 

“Then let’s go.” 

And that was it. 

No questions. 

No moral line. 

Just two people, standing in a shitty apartment, with a secret between them and blood drying  on his skin.

Harry looked at her like she was the only real thing left in the world. 

And she looked back like she already knew— 

She’d follow him anywhere.  

Even now. 

Even deeper. 

Even if there was no way out. 

The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine and the rush of wind outside the  cracked window. 

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, one leg tucked under her, her hand resting on her thigh, eyes  fixed ahead. 

Harry drove like he always did—one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift,  tension rolling off him in quiet waves. His jaw was clenched, his neck rigid, like the violence  hadn’t left his body yet. 

It hung in the air between them. 

Heavy. Unspoken. 

And charged. 

She could feel it. In the way he gripped the wheel. In the way his foot pressed harder on the  gas with every block they passed. 

In the way he kept glancing at her. Like he was trying to read her reaction. But she didn’t look shaken. 

She didn’t look scared. 

She looked ready. 

And maybe that was what finally made him break. 

“You’re not gonna ask me why?” he said, voice low, rough. 

She turned to him. Calm. Still. 

“I already know why.” 

Harry glanced at her again, this time longer. “You should hate me for it.” She didn’t flinch. “I don’t.” 

A bitter laugh slipped out of him. “You’re fucking insane.” 

Y/N leaned forward slightly, her voice even. “So are you.”

And then—he pulled the car over. 

Tires hissed against the curb, the engine still running. 

Before she could speak, Harry leaned across the console, grabbed her by the back of the  neck, and kissed her hard. 

Not soft. 

Not careful. 

Desperate. 

His fingers curled into her hair, his breath hot and uneven against her mouth, and she didn’t  hesitate. 

She kissed him back with the same fury. 

The same guilt. 

The same dark, twisted need. 

His hand slipped under her sweatshirt, palm dragging up her side like he was reminding  himself that she was here, that she was real, that this was the one thing he still had control  over. 

She climbed halfway over the console, her hands gripping the front of his shirt, nails digging  into his chest like she needed to hurt something, and it might as well be him. 

“Tell me you liked it,” he growled against her mouth. “Tell me you liked knowing I did it for you.” She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her lips were swollen, her breath shaky. “I didn’t just like it,” she whispered. 

“I wanted it.” 

His eyes went dark. 

He kissed her again—slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the taste of her saying  something that fucked-up out loud. 

Like it turned him on more than it should have. 

The windows fogged. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt. 

But then he pulled away, breath ragged, hand still tangled in her hair. 

“Later,” he said, voice rough. 

Her chest heaved. She sat back in her seat, fixing her sweatshirt, heart pounding. “Promise?”

Harry looked at her like she was made of fire. 

“I’m not done with you.” 

Then he pulled the car back into drive, and they headed toward the body. The car rolled to a stop on a forgotten block off Lexington. 

Everything about it was dead. 

The streetlights were out. The windows of the surrounding buildings were boarded up, rotting.  Graffiti covered every wall, and trash was piled in lazy heaps along the sidewalk. 

Harry killed the headlights. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. 

They didn’t speak. 

Y/N opened her door slowly, the creak cutting through the silence like a warning. The night air  was sharp, damp, thick with the smell of oil and something heavier beneath it—metallic and wrong. 

Harry moved first. Walked around to the back of the car without a word, his boots crunching  over broken glass and gravel. Y/N followed, her heart pounding behind her ribs, her fingers  curled into fists at her sides. 

He popped the trunk. 

The body was inside. 

Shoved carelessly into the narrow space, arms bent awkwardly beneath him, head twisted to  the side. Blood had dried along his temple and jaw, already gone dark. His eyes were still open. 

Y/N froze. 

Not because she hadn’t seen a body before. 

But because it was different now. 

This wasn’t evidence. This wasn’t a case file. This wasn’t something she was writing about. This was Harry’s. 

The man he killed for her.  

She swallowed hard, stepping closer, the sour-sweet smell of decay already beginning to creep  in. 

“What the fuck happened?” she whispered. 

Harry, still looking down at the body, let out a quiet, almost amused breath. “Got a little carried away.”

She turned to him slowly. “Harry.” 

He looked up at her then—eyes sharp, blood drying along his jaw, like none of this touched  him at all. 

“Guy started talking. Said he remembered your face. Said you had a nice mouth.” He smirked.  “Told him to say it again.” 

Y/N stared. Her pulse hammered in her ears. “Jesus Christ.” 

Harry tilted his head. “Don’t ask me to be sorry. I’m not.” 

She didn’t. She wouldn’t. 

She took another step forward and looked at the man—what was left of him. The damage  wasn’t random. His face was swollen, split open. One hand was nearly crushed. There was  rage in it. Intent. 

Harry hadn’t just killed him. 

He’d punished him. 

“How are we getting rid of it?” she asked. 

That was all she said. 

That was all it took. 

Harry’s grin widened. “That’s my girl.” 

The cleanup was brutal.  

The body was heavier than she expected. Limp. Slippery. 

Harry wrapped the man’s head in a plastic tarp from the trunk and taped it twice, tight. Blood  smeared across his arms, up his forearm, under his nails. 

Y/N held the legs while Harry lifted the torso, and they shoved him into the rusted dumpster  behind the building. It wasn’t secure, wasn’t smart, but it was temporary. 

Just enough to buy them time. 

Her hands were soaked when they finished. Her jeans stained at the knees. 

She stood there in the alley, chest heaving, breath visible in the cold air, her skin damp and  tacky and reeking of someone else’s death. 

Harry leaned against the wall, wiped his hands on his shirt, then looked at her like she was  glowing.

“You did good.” 

Y/N stared at him. Her heart twisted in some sick, hot, unbearable way. 

He stepped closer, reached up, and wiped a smear of blood from her cheek with his thumb. Then pressed it to her lips. 

“Open,” he said softly. 

And she did. 

Because she wasn’t afraid anymore. 

Because this was who they were now. 

Because he’d done it for her. 

And she’d help him do it again. 

They didn’t speak on the drive back. 

The smell of blood still clung to them, even though Harry had made her scrub her hands with a  bottle of water and half a bar of motel soap in the alley before they got back in the car. 

Her skin stung. Her nails were lined in red. 

She watched the streetlights pass through the windshield, one after another, like a slow rhythm  meant to hypnotize her into forgetting what they’d just done. 

But she didn’t forget. 

She couldn’t. 

She could still feel the weight of the man’s legs in her hands. The sickening give of flesh  through cheap fabric. 

And worse— 

the steady, burning thrill low in her stomach that hadn’t gone away. 

Back at the apartment, Harry kicked the door shut behind them and started stripping his shirt  off. 

Blood smeared across his chest, a dark streak above his ribs. 

He peeled it off and tossed it into the sink. 

“Take those off,” he said, nodding to her jeans. 

Y/N hesitated only a second before stepping out of them. They were stiff with dried blood  around the knees.

She balled them up and threw them beside his shirt. 

The room was quiet again. 

Same radiator hum. Same flickering light. 

But something had shifted. 

There was no tension now. No question about what they were. 

Harry stood in the middle of the room, bare-chested, blood still drying along his forearms. He  looked at her like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck her or fall asleep on top of her. 

Y/N crossed the room. 

He didn’t move. 

She got close, close enough to feel his breath. Her fingers brushed his wrist, then slid up his  arm, slow and deliberate. 

“You didn’t have to do it like that,” she whispered. 

Harry smirked, lazy and dark. “He had a smart mouth.” 

Her fingers stopped at his jaw. She traced a smear of dried blood across his cheek. “You wanted me to see it.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“I wanted you to know what I’d do for you.” 

“I already knew,” she said softly. “You didn’t have to prove it.” 

Harry leaned in, his mouth brushing hers. “I think you liked watching me prove it.” She didn’t respond. 

Didn’t have to. 

He kissed her then. Slow. Rough. Bloody. 

It wasn’t about tenderness. 

It wasn’t about comfort. 

It was about what they’d done. About who they were now. 

She tasted metal on his tongue. 

She didn’t stop him.

They stripped down in silence, piece by piece, and crawled into bed like nothing had  happened. 

The mattress was cold, the sheets rough against her bare skin. 

Y/N lay on her back, breath shallow, heart hammering. She could still smell the blood on him,  on herself. The heat hadn’t left the room, or her. 

Harry moved beside her—slow, heavy, silent—like he wasn’t in a rush to touch her but needed  to know she was there. 

She turned to him. 

He looked down at her, eyes dark, unreadable, and for a long moment, neither of them said a  word. 

Then—his voice, low and steady: 

“Take your hands off the blanket.” 

She did. 

“Above your head.” 

She moved them slowly, wrists crossed against the pillow. 

His hand dragged down her stomach, not gentle, not cruel. Just firm. Possessive. “You think I didn’t notice?” he muttered. “The way you let him look at you?” Her breath hitched. 

“You smiled,” he said. “You knew I was watching.” 

She didn’t deny it. 

Didn’t offer an excuse. 

She just stared up at him, lips parted, letting him see it—the guilt, the want, the wreckage she knew he was about to make of her. 

Harry’s jaw tensed. “You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?” 

A pause. 

Then, quietly: “Yes.” 

That was enough. 

He grabbed her wrists, pinned them harder against the pillow. 

“Then you’re gonna take everything I give you,” he said, voice low and flat. “And you’re not  gonna make a sound unless I say you can.”

Y/N nodded, her breath caught in her throat, skin burning. 

Because this wasn’t just sex. 

It was punishment. 

And it was love. 

Twisted, brutal, blood-stained love. 

Harry didn’t give her time to adjust. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t ask. 

He shoved her onto the bed like he fucking owned her—because he did—and yanked her legs  apart without hesitation. His grip was bruising, hands rough as they dragged down her sides,  like he was stripping her bare just by touching her. 

“You think I didn’t see that?” he growled, leaning over her, his mouth barely brushing hers  before he moved lower. “The way you let him look at you—like you wanted him to imagine how  you sound when I’ve got you crying into the sheets?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just sank his teeth into her neck, hard, biting down until she  gasped and arched into him, needing more. Needing everything. 

“Fuck,” she whimpered. 

But he shoved her down flat, palm heavy against her chest. 

“You don’t get to make that sound,” he snapped. “Not yet. Not until I say. You wanted to play,  baby? Then fucking take it.” 

She moaned, biting her lip, eyes wild. Wrists pinned, legs spread, heart pounding like she knew  exactly what she signed up for—and still couldn’t get enough. 

“You’re fucking mine,” he growled against her skin, licking over the mark he just made. “Not  his. Not anyone’s. Mine to touch. Mine to ruin. Mine to fuck raw.” 

Her hips bucked, slick between her thighs, aching for him. 

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, grinding against her. “So wet for me already. You liked teasing me,  didn’t you? Wanted to see what I’d do?” 

“Yes,” she gasped. “Wanted to make you snap.” 

“You fucking succeeded.” 

He pulled back just enough to look down at her, eyes dark, mouth twisted into a smirk that  promised nothing gentle. “I kill for you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t smile at  men I wouldn’t slit open.” 

Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched. And he saw it.

“Oh, you fucking love that,” he said, laughing darkly. “You love knowing I’d wreck everything  just to remind you who you belong to.” 

“I do,” she whispered, voice wrecked. 

His hand slipped between her legs, fingers sliding through soaked heat. “Say it.” She gasped when he pressed in—two fingers, deep and fast. 

“I fucking said say it.” 

“I belong to you.” 

“Louder.” 

“I fucking belong to you.” 

“That’s right,” he snarled. 

Then he fucked her with his fingers until she was whining, hips jerking, begging for more—but  he didn’t give it. Not yet. Not until she was right on the edge, legs trembling, body shaking. 

Only then did he slam into her in one brutal thrust. 

“Jesus—fuck,” she cried out. 

He didn’t slow down. He pounded into her like he was trying to fuck the memory of anyone  else out of her. Like he needed her to feel it for days. 

“This pussy’s mine,” he grunted. “Say it again.” 

“It’s yours—fuck—it’s yours—” 

“Damn right it is.” 

He bent down, teeth scraping her jaw as he fucked her harder. “You don’t flirt. You don’t tease.  Unless you want this. Unless you want me to fuck you dumb.” 

And God, she did. She wanted it so bad her body was shaking, clenching around him, getting  tighter with every brutal thrust. 

When she came, it ripped through her—loud, messy, perfect. 

And he didn’t stop. 

He fucked her through it, chased his own release like a man possessed, groaning her name  into her mouth as he came, buried deep, body stiff, hips stuttering. 

They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, soaked in sweat and come and heat. 

He pulled her into him, fingers still tangled in her hair, palm cupping her ass like he wasn’t  done. Like he never would be.

The room was hot. 

Sweat clung to her skin, sticky and salty, mingled with the faint metallic tang of dried blood that  hadn’t washed away completely. 

The sheets were a mess. Twisted, damp, stained. 

Y/N lay on her stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow, her breath slowing in unsteady  waves. Every inch of her ached—her wrists, her throat, the tender parts of her he hadn’t  touched gently. 

And she didn’t regret a second of it. 

Behind her, Harry dragged the back of his knuckles down her spine. Lazy. Possessive. Like he  was petting something he’d just tamed. 

“You look better like this,” he muttered, voice thick, rough from the wreckage of what they’d  done. 

“Like what?” 

“Ruined.” 

Y/N smiled, lips swollen, eyes still half-closed. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Harry leaned down, his mouth brushing her shoulder, tongue dragging slow over a bruise he’d  left. 

“And you’re a filthy little thing who likes being treated like one.” 

She didn’t deny it. 

Couldn’t. 

She had begged for it. Taken it. Wanted every second of it. 

He grabbed her jaw and turned her head to face him. His fingers were rough, thumb smearing  spit across her cheek like a mark. 

“You think that guy would’ve given you this?” he asked. “Think he could’ve taken you apart like  that?” 

Her voice came out hoarse, ruined: “No.” 

Harry stared down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but his grip didn’t  soften. 

“You were made for this,” he murmured. “For me.” 

She didn’t flinch. 

Didn’t blink.

Because deep down, under all the shame and ache and sick little truths—she knew he was right. 

The next morning crept in slow and gray. 

No sunlight. Just a dull wash of light through the dirty blinds, stretching across the floor like it  didn’t want to be there. 

Y/N stirred first. Her body ached everywhere, but it was the good kind—the kind that came  from being claimed. She blinked slowly, head foggy, throat dry. Her wrists were sore where  he’d held her down. 

Harry was still asleep beside her, or pretending to be. His back was turned, one arm draped  over the edge of the bed. 

The room smelled like sweat, sex, and old blood. 

She slipped out from under the sheet quietly, not because she was sneaking—there was no  such thing between them anymore—but because she didn’t want to break whatever stillness  had settled over them in the hours since. 

She stepped into the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and drank it all without stopping. Her  reflection in the microwave door caught her eye—messy hair, bruised lips, marks on her throat  like proof. 

It wasn’t regret. 

It was ownership. 

A low creak came from the hallway outside. 

Y/N’s head turned. 

The sound stopped. 

Just pipes, maybe. Or someone in the apartment above. 

She stepped toward the front door, barefoot, cautious. The apartment was always quiet. Their  neighbors didn’t talk. Didn’t knock. Didn’t ask questions. 

But something felt off. 

She looked through the peephole. 

Nothing. 

Then—a small sound. 

Paper. 

Sliding.

She opened the door just enough to see the edge of a folded note on the floor. No envelope. 

Just a half sheet of paper, folded once. 

She picked it up. 

No name. 

No greeting. 

Just one line, scrawled in rushed, uneven handwriting: 

“I saw what he did.”  

Y/N stood frozen, the note soft in her hand, the air in the hallway suddenly colder than it  should’ve been. 

She turned back toward the bedroom. 

Harry still hadn’t moved. 

But he would. 

And when he did— Someone was going to bleed.  

The note felt heavier than paper should. 

Y/N stared at it in her hand for a few seconds longer, like maybe the words would change if she  gave them time. Like maybe she’d imagined them. 

She hadn’t. 

Her feet moved on instinct, quiet over the worn floorboards, her breath tight and shallow in her  throat as she stepped back into the bedroom. 

Harry was still on his side, one arm bent under the pillow, the other draped over his waist. He  looked peaceful in a way that didn’t match the man she knew. Like his body was resting but his  mind was still hunting something. 

“Harry,” she said, voice low but sharp. 

His eyes opened. Immediately. No delay. 

He didn’t ask what was wrong. 

He just looked at her. 

She held the note out.

He sat up, took it with one hand, unfolded it. 

Read it once. 

Twice. 

Then looked back up at her. 

His face didn’t change, but she could see it—the way the air shifted around him. Not panic. 

Not confusion. 

Focus. 

“Where was this?” he asked. 

“Shoved under the door.” 

Harry nodded slowly. His thumb pressed hard against the crease in the paper. “You see  anyone?” 

“No.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

He stood. Naked, unbothered, already moving. He tossed the note onto the mattress, grabbed  the pair of jeans from the floor, pulled them on. 

Y/N watched him, tension crawling up her spine. 

He was too calm. 

“Someone saw,” she said quietly. “You left him in a dumpster, Harry.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered, moving to the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to look out.  “And someone’s too stupid to go to the cops. That means we’ve got time.” 

“Time for what?” 

He turned around. His expression was flat. Cold. Focused in a way that told her he was already  planning something. 

“To fix it.” 

Her stomach turned. “You don’t even know who it is.” 

“I’ll find out.”

“You don’t know that.” 

He crossed the room in two strides and stopped in front of her. “Yes. I do.” His voice was calm. Controlled. 

And that scared her more than if he’d shouted. 

Because it meant he was already gone. 

Already in the place where blood meant control. 

Where killing was just maintenance. 

Y/N looked at the note again. Still sitting on the bed. Still threatening to crack everything wide  open. 

“What if it’s a neighbor?” she asked. “What if it’s someone in the building?” Harry’s eyes never left hers. 

“Then we burn it down.” 

Harry didn’t wait. 

He threw on a hoodie, grabbed his knife from the drawer by the bed, and checked the clip on  the back of his waistband. His movements were methodical, efficient. 

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, her skin still bare and damp  from sweat and sleep, but none of it mattered now. Not with the sharp shift in the air. 

She watched him check the front door, glance through the peephole. 

“You’re just going out there? Like this?” she asked. 

Harry looked at her, jaw clenched. “I’m not going to knock on doors. I’m going to look.” “For what?” 

“Signs.” 

Y/N stepped in front of the door before he could open it. “Harry.” 

He stopped, one hand on the knob. His eyes were flat now. Somewhere else. “You don’t even know who it was. You’re going to make it worse.” 

“It’s already worse,” he said. “Someone watched us. Watched me. That means they’ve been  watching for a while.” 

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

He was right.

Whoever left that note hadn’t just stumbled on a scene in an alley. They’d followed. Or waited.  Or listened through the walls. 

Harry reached up and touched her face, gently, almost absently. “I’ll be back soon.” She didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside and let him go. 

He shut the door quietly behind him. 

And then she was alone. 

The silence in the apartment pressed in immediately. 

Y/N paced once, then twice, then stopped by the window and peeled the curtain back with two  fingers. 

Nothing. 

No one on the sidewalk. 

No cars out of place. 

But it didn’t help. 

The note sat on the bed like a threat. Like evidence. Like a countdown. 

She picked it up again. Read it. Over and over. 

I saw what he did.  

Just one line. But it said everything. 

Her mind spiraled. 

Who saw it? 

The neighbor across the hall—the one who never made eye contact? 

Someone in the unit upstairs? 

The kid who always smoked behind the building? 

How long had they been watching? 

What else had they seen? 

Had they heard her voice that night? Her moans? Her begging? 

Y/N dropped the note back on the bed, her hands shaking. 

She went to the bathroom. Splashed cold water on her face. 

When she looked up, her reflection startled her.

Bruised mouth. Faint red marks around her throat. 

She looked like someone who had been claimed. 

Someone who didn’t want to be saved. 

And if someone had seen that too— 

if someone had watched and still decided to get involved

They weren’t just a witness. 

They were a problem. 

The lock turned just after sunset. 

Y/N was already standing near the door, arms wrapped around herself, barefoot and tense.  She hadn’t left the apartment since he’d gone. Hadn’t eaten. Barely moved. 

When the door opened, her breath caught. 

Harry stepped inside slowly, eyes scanning the room like he expected something to be wrong.  His hoodie was pushed back, his hair damp from sweat, and there was a fresh scrape along his  knuckle. 

No blood. Not this time. 

He shut the door and leaned back against it, silent for a moment. 

She stared at him. “Did you find anything?” 

Harry nodded, slow. “Maybe.” 

She stepped closer. “Who?” 

“There’s a guy who lives two floors up. Window faces the alley where I dumped the body.  Curtains were open last night.” 

Y/N’s pulse kicked up. 

“You think it was him?” 

“I don’t know.” Harry’s voice was low, even. “But I knocked. He didn’t answer. Lights were on. I  waited.” 

She watched him carefully. “Did you break in?” 

He gave her a look. “Not yet.” 

Y/N ran her hands through her hair. “So what now? You wait for him to leave and follow him?  Watch him like he watched us?” 

Harry stepped forward, eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t wait.” 

Her stomach twisted.

He touched her wrist gently, like he was reeling her in after being gone too long. 

“I wanted to take care of it tonight,” he said. “But I came back to see what you wanted me to  do.” 

That caught her off guard. 

She blinked. “Me?” 

Harry nodded. “You read the note first. You found it. This is yours too.” 

The weight of that hit fast and hard. 

Not just because he was looping her in—he always did, in his own way—but because he was  giving her the choice. 

A chance to stop it. 

A chance to draw a line. 

Or cross it. 

Y/N stared at him. “You think he saw everything?” 

Harry’s jaw flexed. “I think he saw enough.” 

They were close now. A breath apart. 

“I don’t want to run again,” she said quietly. 

“Then we don’t.” 

Her throat tightened. 

He was waiting. 

Waiting for her to decide if this was another night they’d bury something together. Or not. 

She glanced at the chair by the door. His knife sat there. 

She looked back at him. 

And nodded once. 

Harry’s mouth curved. Just a little. 

“Alright,” he said. “Then we handle it.” 

The apartment shifted the moment she gave him that nod.

It wasn’t dramatic. No chaos. No racing heartbeat or gasping breath. Just a quiet  understanding settling over the room like smoke. 

They’d made a decision. 

Now it was time to act like it. 

Harry moved first. He grabbed his knife from the chair by the door, checked the edge with the  pad of his thumb, then slid it into the waistband of his jeans. 

Y/N went to the closet. The duffel bag was already half-packed with their essentials—cash,  burner phones, a change of clothes. She zipped it closed. Just in case. 

They weren’t planning to run. But she knew better than to pretend they were untouchable. 

She slipped on jeans and her black hoodie, the one that hid blood well. The one she wore the  night they dumped the body. 

Harry stood near the window, watching the street below like a predator casing his own trap. “Window’s still open,” he said. 

She joined him. From this angle, she couldn’t see much—just the faint flicker of movement  through the curtain. Someone pacing. Alone. 

“He’s nervous,” Harry muttered. “He knows he fucked up.” 

Y/N nodded. 

He looked at her. “You ready?” 

She wasn’t. 

Not really. 

But she said, “Yes.” 

And he believed her. 

Harry moved to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a second knife. Smaller. Sharper. He handed  it to her. 

“You don’t need to use it,” he said. “But if something goes wrong, I want you to have it.” Her fingers curled around the hilt. It felt too cold. Too real. 

She tucked it into her waistband and met his eyes. 

“What if he talks?” she asked. 

Harry didn’t blink. “He won’t.” 

Y/N’s throat tightened. But she didn’t argue.

They moved together through the apartment, checking the hallway through the peephole  before stepping into the corridor. 

Their footsteps were quiet on the stairs. 

Each floor they climbed, the silence grew heavier. 

Like the building could feel what they were about to do. 

Like it had seen it before. 

And knew it would see it again. 

The hallway on the third floor smelled like mildew and cheap air freshener. Y/N’s pulse thrummed under her skin, but her face stayed still, calm. Just like Harry’s. He stopped in front of the door—unit 3B. The number was crooked, hanging by one bent nail. Inside, she could hear the faint sound of footsteps. Uneven pacing. Back and forth. Harry looked at her once. A silent question. 

She gave a small nod. 

He knocked. 

Not loud. Not polite. Just enough. 

Silence. 

Then, the footsteps stopped. 

Nothing for a few seconds. 

Then a voice. “Who is it?” 

Harry didn’t answer. 

Instead, he stepped back, just enough to hide his frame from the peephole. 

Y/N moved to the side of the door. Her hand hovered near the small knife tucked under her  hoodie. 

They waited. 

A soft creak. 

The lock turned. 

Then the chain. 

The door cracked open.

A pair of eyes appeared. Nervous. Sweaty. Red around the edges. 

“Can I help—” 

Harry shoved the door. 

It flew open with a loud thud, catching the man off balance. He stumbled backward, crashing  into a side table, knocking over a lamp. 

Before he could find his footing, Harry was inside. 

Y/N followed, shutting the door behind them. 

The man scrambled up, hands raised, panic all over his face. 

“Hey—hey, what the hell is this?” 

Harry didn’t answer. He just stared. 

Y/N looked around. The apartment was small. Cluttered. Dirty dishes in the sink. No signs of  anyone else living there. 

Just him. 

Harry stepped closer. The guy backed up until he hit the wall. 

“You left a note,” Harry said calmly. “Under our door.” 

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You saw something.” 

“I didn’t—” 

“You wrote it. I recognize the handwriting.” 

The guy shook his head, too fast. “I didn’t mean anything by it, okay? I just—I saw something  weird and I panicked.” 

“Did you see me?” Harry asked, voice low. 

The man’s mouth opened, then closed. 

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said. “I’m not going to the cops. I swear. I just—I saw you drag  someone—someone who wasn’t moving—and I…” 

Y/N stepped closer. “So you thought slipping a note under our door was the smart move?” 

“I didn’t know what else to do!” he barked. “I thought maybe you’d leave. That you’d know  someone was watching and disappear.” 

Harry smiled then. Just a little.

“That was your plan? To follow me and then slide a note under my door?” “I wasn’t trying to blackmail you, I swear. I just—” 

“You didn’t think,” Harry said, cutting him off. “You watched something you shouldn’t have,  and instead of shutting up and staying out of it, you wanted to feel important.” 

The guy looked at Y/N now, eyes pleading. 

“Please,” he said. “I’m not a threat. I won’t say anything. I don’t want to die.” And there it was. 

Said out loud. 

The thing hanging in the air between all three of them. 

Harry looked at her. Quiet. Calm. 

Like this decision was hers now. 

And he waited. 

Like he wasn’t going to touch the man until she said so. 

Y/N’s eyes locked on the guy in front of her. Not old. Maybe late twenties. He looked like the  type who lived mostly in shadows—quiet, twitchy, always watching things he wasn’t part of. 

Maybe he hadn’t meant harm. 

Maybe he really had panicked. 

Maybe he had no one to tell, nowhere to run, nothing to gain. 

But he had seen something. 

Something that belonged to her.  

The kill. The blood. Her face under Harry’s hand. Her mouth wrapped around a command. Her  submission. Her devotion. 

He’d watched. 

He’d inserted himself into something he couldn’t possibly understand. 

And now—he knew too much. 

Y/N’s jaw tightened. 

She stepped forward. 

The guy’s eyes widened. “Please—”

She cut him off. “Turn around.” 

He froze. 

She stared hard. “Turn. Around.” 

He hesitated—just for a second—then did as she said. 

Slow. Shaking. 

Harry didn’t move. 

Didn’t need to. 

Because this was her moment now. 

She reached into the waistband of her hoodie. Fingers curled around the knife. The one Harry had given her. 

Not for defense. 

For this. 

Her hand didn’t shake as she pulled it free. 

And the second the metal caught the light—Harry’s smile returned. 

Not wide. 

Not cruel. 

But proud. 

Because she had made her choice. 

And there was no going back. 

Y/N stepped closer. 

The knife in her hand felt heavier now, like it wasn’t just a blade but a weight tied to everything  she’d become. 

The man had his back to her, shoulders rising and falling too fast, fingers trembling where they  hovered near his sides. He knew. 

Even before she touched him—he knew. 

“Please,” he said again, voice cracking wide open. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was scared.  That’s it. Just scared.” 

Y/N stared at the back of his head. At the slope of his neck. At the small, involuntary shudders  that kept rolling through his spine.

She could still feel the bruise on her inner thigh from Harry’s hand. The echo of his voice in her  ear, “You’re mine.” 

And she remembered the note. 

Folded. Slipped under their door. 

Like a threat. Like a dare. Like someone thought they could watch and walk away untouched. Her grip tightened. 

Behind her, Harry didn’t say a word. 

He didn’t have to. 

This wasn’t his kill. 

It was hers. 

She stepped in close enough to smell the fear on him—that sour, electric stink of a man who knew his final seconds were being counted by someone who had stopped being human long before this moment. 

Y/N leaned forward, lips close to his ear. 

“You should’ve stayed out of it.” 

And then she did it. 

Quick. Precise. 

Not wild. Not messy. 

Controlled.  

The knife slid clean between his ribs. His body arched once, a strangled gasp caught in his  throat—then nothing. 

Just a slump. A thud. And silence. Her heart thundered. Not from panic. From clarity. 

She stood over him, breathing hard, the knife still in her hand, his blood warm and slick against  her skin.

Behind her, Harry stepped closer. 

He didn’t touch her. Not yet. 

He just looked down at what she’d done and said, quiet and certain: 

“There she is.” 

Y/N blinked, the air buzzing in her ears. 

She didn’t feel sick. 

Didn’t feel hollow. 

She felt awake. 

More than she had in months. And she knew—this was it. She wasn’t following Harry anymore. She was walking beside him. 

Blood soaked into the cheap carpet in a slow, blooming circle. The apartment was silent again,  but it was the wrong kind of silence now—too full. Too final. 

Y/N stood over the body, the knife still in her hand. Her chest rose and fell, breath steady but  sharp, like her body was catching up to what her mind had already decided. 

Harry crouched beside the man, fingers pressed to the pulse point in his neck. Not that he  needed to check. 

He looked up at her. 

“How’d it feel?” 

She didn’t answer right away. Just handed him the knife. His fingers closed around it, warm  where hers were cold. 

“I don’t need you to be proud of me,” she said. 

Harry smirked faintly. “That wasn’t the question.” 

Y/N wiped her palms on her jeans, streaking them red. 

She stared at the wall for a moment before answering. 

“I didn’t like how he watched us,” she said quietly. “Like he thought he was outside of it. Like  he thought he understood it.” 

Harry stood, knife still in hand, watching her.

“He didn’t,” she added. “He didn’t know what he was seeing. He thought he was catching a  crime.” 

She looked at the body. Her voice went lower. 

“But he was interrupting something that was mine.” 

That pulled a slow grin from Harry. 

Y/N turned her gaze to him, eyes steady. 

“I don’t like when people threaten what’s mine.” 

Harry tilted his head, studying her like she was some new thing he didn’t quite know how to  hold yet. 

But he liked it. 

He liked it a lot. 

They didn’t speak for a minute. 

Then he nodded toward the duffel bag they’d brought. “You want to help with the plastic?” She didn’t hesitate. 

The cleanup was ugly. 

They moved fast, but not frantic. 

They’d done this before—Harry had. But Y/N learned fast. She held the tarp while he rolled the  body, helped tie the knots, helped drag the weight down the back stairwell where no cameras  watched. 

They didn’t talk much. 

But when their hands brushed through the blood—when they both reached for the same roll of  duct tape, when she steadied him as he lifted the dead weight into the back of their stolen car —there was something between them. 

A new language. 

No longer just survival. No longer just obsession. Now it was control. Ownership. Symmetry.  

Y/N shut the trunk. 

Harry lit a match just to burn the gloves.

And she stood beside him, the flames flickering in both their eyes. 

The trunk clicked shut, and with it, the last trace of the man disappeared from sight. 

Y/N stood back, wiping her hands down the front of her jeans, blood still beneath her nails.  She didn’t flinch at the sight of it anymore. 

Harry lit the last match, flicked it onto the gloves wrapped in plastic, and watched the flame eat  through them until nothing was left but char and smoke curling into the night air. 

Then he turned to her. 

“Think we’ve overstayed our welcome?” 

His tone was light, teasing—but underneath, the meaning sat heavy. 

They’d crossed a line tonight. 

No witnesses this time. No threats left. But the air in the city had shifted.  Y/N didn’t smile. Didn’t hesitate. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go.” 

Harry’s brows lifted slightly, like he expected more resistance. But she was already moving to  the passenger door, already pulling it open, already climbing inside like they’d rehearsed this a  hundred times. 

Like leaving behind bodies was second nature now. 

And maybe it was. 

He slid into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine growled to life. 

The roads were empty at this hour—just long stretches of dark, dotted with occasional lights  and shadowy buildings that blurred past the windows. 

They didn’t speak much. 

Just drove. 

Y/N glanced at him once, one hand resting near the gearshift, her other elbow against the door. “You know where you’re taking him?” 

Harry nodded. “There’s a mill about thirty minutes out. Shut down years ago. Pit in the back.  Old metal tanks. No one’ll check.” 

Y/N nodded. “Good.” 

No fear. No questions. Just another step. Another act of devotion. 

When they reached the site, the air was colder—damp and heavy, the ground soft beneath  their boots. The mill loomed in the dark, rusted and half-sunken into the earth like it had been  trying to disappear for years. 

They worked quietly. No words. No rush. 

The tarp dragged behind them, catching on roots and gravel, the weight inside dead and dumb  and unremarkable now. 

It took time, but they got him deep enough. Covered. Buried. Erased. 

Y/N stood there a moment, looking down at the dirt under her boots. 

Harry came up beside her. 

“You alright?” he asked. 

She looked over at him. “You?” 

He smiled faintly. “This used to be harder.” 

She didn’t say it out loud, but she knew why. 

Because now, he wasn’t alone.  

They walked back to the car side by side, not touching, not speaking, but with that same silent  electricity between them—thick, intimate, earned. 

As they got in, Harry looked over at her, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping against his  thigh. 

“So,” he said. “Where to next?” 

Y/N leaned her head back, eyes on the dark sky through the windshield. “Wherever they don’t know our names.” 

Harry grinned. 

“Atta girl.” 

And they drove. 

Into whatever was next. Together. 

Fast-forwarding now—quiet domesticity hiding old blood, a sharp shift when the past claws its  way back in. Here’s how it starts:

Three Years Later  

New names. New place. 

The apartment was small but clean. Real furniture this time. Real heat. Quiet neighbors who  kept to themselves. 

Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, a blanket over her lap, a half-empty glass of wine on the  coffee table. She wore glasses now when she read. Harry always said they made her look  innocent. She knew better. 

Harry was beside her, stretched out, one arm slung across the back of the couch, his hand  playing absently with the ends of her hair. 

The television glowed in front of them, some late-night news segment murmuring into the  room. Neither of them was really watching. 

They rarely did. 

Until the anchor’s voice changed—tone sharper, more serious. 

Harry’s fingers paused. 

Y/N’s head turned toward the screen. 

“—a series of unsolved homicides from over three years ago are now being re-examined after a  new witness came forward. Law enforcement sources say the killings, once thought to be  unrelated, share disturbing similarities in both method and victim profile. Investigators believe  this may point to a serial offender—possibly a pair.” 

Harry sat up slowly. Y/N didn’t breathe. 

The screen showed a grainy photo of a crime scene—an alley, a dumpster, yellow tape  fluttering in the wind. 

Not the alley. But close. Too close. Her stomach twisted. 

The reporter kept talking: 

“Authorities are asking for anyone with information to come forward, including residents who  may have lived in the area during that time but have since moved. A tip line has been  reopened, and sources suggest new evidence may soon lead to a breakthrough.” 

Harry picked up the remote and clicked the volume off.

The room went quiet except for the soft hum of the fridge and the tick of the wall clock. Y/N turned to him, pulse beating hard at her throat. 

“Think it’s real?” 

Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on the screen. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s real.” 

She didn’t ask how he knew. 

He always knew. 

After a long pause, he looked at her. 

“They’re looking for us.”

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

the thing about Lucanis and Spite is like. neither of them actually wanted to be there. and that is both how they were able to survive the melding and why they resent each other so much. Lucanis' banter about the Ossuary where he says to survive it he "Shut down completely. Think nothing. Feel nothing. Except what you need to escape." And when asked what's left he says "If you're lucky? Revenge. And bad dreams." like. he always had this core of his own personal spite down in him (not doing crow jobs the easy way, ignoring Caterina's summons, not embracing his future as a potential first talon, to "live truly is to live fully" but he HASN'T been allowed to and resents it, etc etc etc) but in the Ossuary he really hollows himself out into the perfect vessel, empties himself of everything but wanting to survive anyway. and "no one was in the Ossuary by choice, not even the demons" so of course he and Spite can agree on this One Thing. they make their deal that they're gonna make it through just because everyone else there is waiting for them to die, and of course they're not gonna just give them what they want. even if they're fighting each other the whole time (hence Lucanis being used to Spite 'hitting' him etc when he doesn't get what he wants), they still have this united purpose Every Day about getting through it. like it's utterly crucial that for both to survive at all the demon had to be something that wanted to defy what the venatori wanted from it.

and this is also why their relationship falls apart once they do escape, because without something else present to rail against every day, they have to turn on each other. and of course it is actually an absolutely miserable situation for both of them to be in--Lucanis is living the nightmare of his body being puppetted around without his consent, just like the blood magic he already had to endure under Zara, and can't ever be alone again even in his own mind. Spite is trapped in a world that no longer responds to his shaping, lacks the autonomy of a truly possessed host body, and can barely comprehend the new laws that govern the place he's in.

for both of them it's such an intense violation of being, and one I wish got more emphasis/recognition. it's really easy to make jokes about how Lucanis could be better at sharing/compromise with Spite more (like I make them too myself, it's easy) but really just... man. this isn't like with Anders & Justice, who agreed to their situation, or Wynne where Faith is content to be mostly a silent passenger and did it to save her life. Lucanis and Spite are suffering the most complete form of intimacy under the worst circumstances, and neither actually wanted it. which makes it honestly impressive at all that (unhardened) Lucanis & Spite are able to reach an accord at all by the end. like i'm glad that they did--and have SO many thoughts (& fanfic WIPs lol) exploring just how they managed to get there--but boy was it hard won, if you actually look deeper into it than the game has room to explore.

[ferigrievous]

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI HCS ⋆˚࿔

says good morning at any time of day and sees nothing wrong with it

the kind of guy who pees with the bathroom lights off and door wide open.

completely unfazed by horror movies, but jumps a little when the toaster is finished

autistic. got diagnosed when he was like four and he thinks it doesnt affect his life but everyone else knows otherwise.

a quarter south east asian on his moms side, but he doesnt know where because they barely talk.

doesnt know how to pose for photos, even post timeskip, and stopped smiling in them for a while because a fan called it scary

doesnt understand sarcasm, and finds it odd that people think he’s being sarcastic often. he speaks the way he wants to be understood, and hates it when people find ulterior meanings

has a little bit of an ego, but its lowkey justified. people talk about him like he's the reincarnation of jesus, so its only natural he thinks that he's better than the average person. doesnt act like it on purpose though.

driest texter in the world like actually. dont even bother texting him at all.

never asks for help when he should, and is stubborn enough to go at it until it works

became self aware in his thirties but didnt end up changing because he doesnt feel the need to explain himself. the people he cares about understand him, and thats enough for him

has had the same breakfast every day for years. only thing he changes is the drink.

probably very particular about the way he does certain things, but not in a way that makes sense to other people, and will not explain it to anyone.

biggest pet peeve is wasting time

has absolutely no awareness of pop culture. he literally reads the ads on magazines this man does not know who beyonce is.

doesnt own anything he doesnt need to own, so his place post timeskip literally looks like he just moved in yesterday

but he also keeps everything anyone has ever given him, and is basically the only decoration

doesnt think of it as sentimentality, more of ‘if i throw this away im disrespecting the person who gave it to me

he doesnt even have a TV, and didnt have a dishwasher until he turned thirty 

very practical dresser. doesnt own anything just for ‘fashion’. very function over form

actually reads instruction manuals back to front

genuinely honest to god could not care about social norms. not even in a rebellious way, but in a ‘why would i put in that much effort to be misunderstood anyway’ way

never rewatches shows or movies. doesnt get the concept of it.

a very good listener, but only offers logical solutions

doesnt believe in luck.

never loses his temper, just gets really quiet and cold because he doesnt want to say something he doesnt mean.

always drives the exact speed limit. no more, no less, and if someone brings it up while riding with him, he’ll give them the nastiest side eye unintentionally

once won a raffle and tried to give the prize back because ‘someone else might need it more’

doesn’t correct people when they misunderstand him. they’ll figure it out or they won’t

has never once left a voicemail. if they don’t pick up, he just hangs up

when he’s done talking to someone, he just stops responding

actually a really good cook but eats like three meals because he just doesnt have time

has never once in his life misplaced a sock,

always remembers exactly where he parked, no matter which exit he comes out from

people assume he’s no fun, but he just has very specific definitions of fun

[ req ; @deardoelle ]

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

unexpected kiss - Javier Peña

900 Followers Milestone Celebration - kissing prompts

bio : This story is part of the 900 Followers Milestone Celebration - kissing prompts.

person ordering: @picketniffler

warnings : angst, argument, swearing, ex-lovers, sexual innuendos, fluff at the end

[my masterlist]

He grabbed your arm tightly and pulled you into an empty office at the end of the hall that was used as storage. The door slammed shut, the blinds drawn. Peña glared at you.

"What do you think you're doing, huh?" he hissed, placing his hands on his hips, "That informant was mine."

"Oh, yours?" you snorted, folding your arms over your chest, "I didn't know informants belonged to anyone."

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about. I wanted to talk to her, and you..."

Your eyes narrowed. Javier could activate all your defenses in a second. "So you didn't know she didn't want to talk to any guy." you said, and seeing him open his mouth you added "No way, Peña. After what those guys did to her sister. Your charm or your-" you cleared your throat "nothing would help here. She only wanted to talk to a woman. And she said everything we needed so, you're welcome."

Dark eyes bore into you with fury. Javier was at the end of his rope, you knew that. Two years of working together and you read him like the morning paper.

Finally he nodded. He didn't want to take up this fight, he had no arguments. But then something else came to his mind. "How was your evening with Agent Anderson? I hope you had a good time."

You tilted your head, looking at him carefully. "Are you following me?"

"I don't have to. You always go to the same places as me." Javier shrugged "So?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" you hissed. "Since I left you..."

"You left me?!" Peña chuckled, a wide smile lighting up his face "Please, hermosa. I didn't know you had a sense of humor!"

You took a step towards him, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. This guy was making you boil. "Yes, I left you after you stood me up again, Peña."

"I didn't show up because I was working!" he replied "You never understood that, nor..."

"Right, because I only water the flowers on your desk here. Dick."

You looked at each other like two boxers before a fight, just waiting for the bell to ring so you could attack again. You shouldn't have gotten involved with Javier, and you really shouldn't have gone to bed with him. But you both drank too much, it was fun, and it stayed that way for a few months. Until you said, "Enough!" and ended something that never made sense.

"So what about Anderson?" Peña muttered. "Did he do well?"

The crease between your brows only deepened. “Not all guys think only with their dicks like you do. I hope your girls were happy to have you back.”

"Listen..." Javier raised a warning finger, but you were already a ticking bomb.

"Take that finger away, Peña, or I'll break it." you growled, stepping even closer to him. "You shouldn't be interested in my life. It's none of your fucking business! Just say you're jealous!"

That was a slap in the face for Peña. His brown eyes widened in shock. "Jealous? Jealous!" he parroted. "About what? About you?"

A victorious smile spread across your lips, he hated you so much right then. “You’re jealous that another guy was in bed with me. That it was his name I was screaming, that it was him who made me cum, and that I let him do everything you did… Hey!”

In a second, Javier had grabbed you by the shoulders and pressed his solid body against the wall. You tried to pull away, but he slid his thigh between your legs, pinning you in place.

“I know perfectly well that your panties are wet right now, hermosa.” His voice was somewhere between a whisper and a soft purr, and you could feel just how angry he was. The emotions radiated off of him and hit you straight. “I smelled you in the hallway. You knew I would come to you. You did all of this on purpose.”

"Don't flatter yourself, Peña."

He was dangerously close. Too close. His eyes darted between your face and the heave of your breasts from his deep breaths. “You’d give anything to have me fuck you right now, wouldn’t you?” He thrust his hips and you felt the hard bulge in his pants. Your pussy clenched around nothing. You hated him even more. The smell of him, the heat he gave off… 

Fucking Javier Peña.

Even though his words surprised you, you quickly regained your speech. “You’re wrong.” Dark eyes quickly found yours. “You’re the one who came here like a horny teenager. You’d give anything for me to fuck you here, where no one can find us. You think I don’t know you? My panties may be wet, but it’s your cock that’s leaking with the desire to be inside me.” Adam's apple on his neck twitched as Javier swallowed hard. Your words hit home. The power you had over him was limitless. And he fucking knew it.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that, hermosa?" he growled.

“He says something different.” You replied with a smile, glancing down at his pants where his beautiful tent was exposed.

In an instant his hand gripped the side of your neck, a shadow of fear flitted across your eyes, but a second later Javier's lips collided with yours. It was strong, animalistic, full of tongue and teeth. Each of you fought, but it was Javier who pushed his tongue down your throat, and you were the first to moan.

This was his victory. With his other hand he squeezed your hip, pressing himself even harder. The friction gave him some relief, but then he was painfully hard again. Eventually your lips parted.

“You drive me crazy,” he hissed, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent that he missed so much. “Every day I see you, I wonder what I would do to you.”

You giggled. “Maybe you could show up on time for once, huh? Maybe you shouldn’t stand me up when you make promises? Maybe…”

Warm lips closed on your delicate skin on your neck, sucking lightly. Your eyes rolled so hard that you could almost see the inside of your skull. This man was acting like a drug on you and he knew it perfectly well.

“I’ll do anything you want…” Javier groaned, resting his head on your shoulder and sighing in relief when your hand touched his cheek. “Hermosa, I’ll do anything… This time I’ll worship you the way you deserve.”

"And I'll try not to be such a pain in the ass."

You both giggled again.

"I didn't sleep with Anderson." You finally said.

"I know, hermosa. I know."

Javier pulled away and looked at you. There was something different in his eyes - softness, longing. You took his face in your hands and lightly kissed his soft lips. This guy was driving you crazy, but you weren't without blame either. But maybe if you both tried, it would work.

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink." He murmured, and you smiled.

"I'd love to."

[alwayssassydreamer]

When You're Gone

A/N: thank you Ann(on) for the idea with that song, (god it's been so long since I listened to that song.) request: "shanksxgnreader, sfw and maybe the song when I'm gone by Avril Lavigne" hope you like it

We were made for each other, out here forever I know we were, yeah, yeah And all I ever wanted was for you to know Everything I do, I give my heart and soul I can hardly breathe, I need to feel you here with me, yeah

Summary: you are in a relationship with Shanks but being apart is always hard (sorry that summary sucks)

Warnings: sfw, no warnings really,

Characters: Shanks x GnReader

The sea was never silent. The waves roared, the wind whispered, and yet, without him, it all felt deafeningly empty.

You stood at the docks, gripping the wooden railing so tightly your knuckles turned white. The salty breeze tangled in your hair, but you barely felt it. All you could feel was the aching absence in your chest, the weight of loneliness pressing down on you.

Shanks was gone. Again.

It wasn’t a surprise. You had always known what loving him meant, he was a pirate, a man of freedom, the kind of person who came and went like the tides. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

At first, you had told yourself it wouldn’t be so bad. You were strong, independent, used to being on your own. Shanks had never belonged to anyone but the sea, and you had never been the type to wait around for a man.

But damn it, you missed him.

You missed the way he’d tease you with that lazy smirk, the way his voice softened when it was just the two of you. You missed the warmth of his presence, how effortlessly he made you feel like you belonged at his side, even when the rest of the world made you doubt.

When you’re gone, the pieces of my heart are missing you…

At night, it was the worst.

The empty space in your bed felt hollow, cold. You had gotten used to waking up to his arm slung lazily over your waist, to his slow, steady breathing beside you. Some nights, when sleep refused to come, you’d roll over and press your face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of him that still lingered there. But it was fading, just like the warmth he had left behind, the memories flooded in, and you were left with nothing but the echo of his voice and the emptiness beside you.

You had spent years convincing yourself you were fine on your own, that you didn’t need anyone. But now… now you caught yourself scanning the faces in the port regularly, hoping for a flash of red hair, a familiar silhouette in the distance. Every time, disappointment followed.

You had tried to keep yourself busy, burying yourself in your work, training until your muscles ached, anything to keep your mind from replaying his laughter, his teasing remarks, the way his arm felt around your waist when he pulled you close.

You hated it. Hated that he had managed to carve his way into your heart so deeply that even others could see the hollow space he had left behind. You sighed, closing your eyes against the sting of unshed tears.

When you’re gone, the face I came to know is missing too…

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

The last time he left, he had kissed you like he meant to stay. He had cupped your cheek in his hand, eyes holding something unspoken, something too big to fit into words. He had kissed you slow, deep, as if trying to make the moment last.

"I’ll see you soon," he had promised, his forehead resting against yours.

But "soon" was a vague concept when it came to Shanks.

You sighed, raking a hand through your hair. It was foolish to let yourself drown in thoughts of him. You had things to do, responsibilities to uphold. You had survived worse things than this, so why did his absence feel like a wound that refused to close?

You turned away from the railing, ready to retreat to your small home you for another sleepless night.

A gust of wind swept past, carrying the scent of the sea and something else, something familiar. Your eyes snapped open, your pulse quickening as you turned, half-daring to hope.

And there he was.

Standing at the end of the dock, grinning like he had never been gone at all. His red hair was tousled by the wind, his coat slightly worn from travel. His eyes locked onto yours, unreadable for a moment before softening into something warm, something that made your chest tighten.

"Miss me?" Shanks drawled, stepping forward, voice laced with amusement.

You exhaled sharply, taking a step forward before stopping yourself. The months apart, the loneliness, the unanswered questions all of it crashed into you at once.

He must have seen it in your expression because his smirk faded. "I know," he murmured, stepping closer. "I took too long. But i told you that I'll be back."

The anger, the sadness, the loneliness they all melted away in that instant. You crossed the distance in a few quick strides, punching him lightly in the chest, torn between anger and relief. "You bastard," you muttered, voice shaking. "You—"

But before you could finish, he closed the distance, pulling you into his arms.

Shanks chuckled softly, his chest rumbling against yours as he pulled you even closer. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. "You know," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with that irresistible charm, "I sailed halfway across the world just to see that glare of yours. Missed it almost as much as I missed your smile."

You huffed, trying to hide the way your heart raced. "Idiot."

He just grinned wider, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Maybe. But I'm your idiot. And if I have to fight the sea itself to keep coming back to you, I will because there’s no place I’d rather be than right here, holding you."

His lips found yours, in a tender loving kiss and you realized that loving him was worth every second of the pain of missing him.

Shanks pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hand still cradling your cheek. His voice softened, and a rare, serious glint appeared in his eyes.

"You know," he whispered, his thumb gently stroking your skin, "I never realized how much I needed you until I was too far away to turn back. When you're gone... everything just feels wrong."

He looked into your eyes, his smile softer now, his usual playful demeanor giving way to something raw and real. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"I kept thinking about you. About us. And it hit me, I don’t just want the sea, the adventure, or the freedom. I want you by my side."

He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your skin as he continued. "I realized that no matter where I go or what I do, it’s all pointless if you’re not with me. You’re part of me now. I never knew how much I needed you until I couldn’t reach out and pull you into my arm(s.)"

His voice wavered, and he looked almost unsure for once. "I know I’m a charming idiot most of the time, and I don’t deserve to ask anything of you... but being away made me realize that I’m better when I’m with you. Everything I do feels right when I know you’re part of it. I don’t want to be without you anymore. So do you want to join me and my crew?"

You couldn’t hold back anymore and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss that spoke of all the longing, all the sleepless nights, and all the whispered promises to the wind. Shanks wrapped his arm around you, holding you like you were his anchor, the only thing keeping him grounded in this chaotic world.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and with your heart racing, he grinned, that familiar spark back in his eyes. "Is that a yes?" he teased.

You just rolled your eyes. "Sure, captain charming".

When you're gone... the words I need to hear to always get me through the day and make it okay. I miss you.