#or rather the fear of coming too close and being rejected is too high for the very high barriers that we have put on interhuman contact

[webism]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎HOT ROD !

After getting hooked on your taste, pornstar!satoru invites you and your pornstar boyfriend to shoot a threesome in the countryside.

pornstar!suguru x pornstar!satoru x fem!reader | part one, two

cw; ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎she/her pronouns used for reader, unprotected sex, creampies, oral (m and f receiving), anal (m receiving), mmf threesome, voyeurism.

The sun has barely risen, the typical tangelo orange of a morning sky is yet to develop—instead, you watch a dull pink canvas the sky, turned more of a rose colour through the car's windshield. Suguru Geto, your lover and costar alike, keeps his hand on your thigh as he drives. Occasionally, he'll tap his fingers against your exposed flesh along to the beat of the old niche rock song blaring through the radio. You have the volume up too high—which isn't good for your ears, but is great for the soul—and the windows rolled all the way down. The wind is in your hair, which aids the setting heat of Summer in Japan. It's quite pleasant out here. You're filming at a location you can only reach through an open road that goes right past some very scenic hills, and you're having a lovely time just enjoying your lover's company. Nothing but the two of you. 

That being said—something sits at the forefront of Suguru's mind. You can tell his thoughts are preoccupied, having been with him so long gets you a sweet look into that pretty mind of his. So, when the strings of an electric guitar die out, you turn the radio down and shift in your seat to face him better. 

“Cold feet?” You ask. 

His hair is up and out of his face, save for a stand that falls over his eyes, though it’s pushed back by the wind regardless. He glances at you, smiles, and looks away.

“I don’t get cold feet," he says flatly, looking at you for half a second before his focus returns to the road. “I'm just interested to see if he'll fuck as good with me there, of if the poor guy will get performance anxiety."

Ah, jealousy it is. The flat kind, because your sweet-boned lover never gets openly jealous. You have to settle for half-bitten quips. You smile, "he didn't seem like the type to get performance anxiety."

Suguru hums in a noncommittal way, his lips pulling inwards. He squeezes the fat of your thigh and taps a finger against your skin.  Your skin heats under his touch, it always does. You might earn your living through the most sensual of touches, but none of them quite set you alight like Sugurus does.

Well, except for Satoru. You try to avoid closing your eyes, in fear of being met with the memory of his cock sinking into you rather than the darkness of your closed eyelids. You feel half-guilty, despite Suguru's obvious itch to see you laid out for Satoru Gojo of all people. You know him, you wouldn't be driving forty minutes through the countryside if Suguru wasn't at least a little bit obsessed with the fantasy.

Satoru Gojo, a known name in the porn industry, got to fuck you stupid only a week ago. He had asked you out for drinks after, and though you rejected him verbally, you’re starting to fear that your mind didn’t reject him in the same regard. You had come home that night to your sweet Suguru, and told him all about being hit on by your co-star, to which he laughed.

And oh the irony, that your Suguru was balls-deep inside of you that night when the two of you got an email from Satoru’s agent– an offer, an expensive one. One shoot, a week from then, a threesome between his new favourite love birds and, of course, him.

Suguru remembers Satoru like he was the season prior, like the winter that bled into you, the spring. They did a few films together, Satoru got a little too stuck in Sugurus mind and then, once their contracts were up, they never spoke again. 

The rising sun makes him squint against the road— he almost misses the turn off to the countryside estate you had been told to meet at. The place is nice, big, and you’re starting to wonder just how widely distributed this porno will be if the producer is shelling out so much money just for an estate to rent out for half a day. 

“With how much they’re paying us, I half expected the budget for location to allow for a crack den at most,” Suguru snorts as he pulls in through the large paved driveway. 

“No kidding,” you hum. With this paycheck, you’d just be greedy looking for work in the next few months. 

Suguru parks and undoes his seatbelt with a sideways glance in your direction. “We’re a bit early,” he notes. “But it never hurts to get a feel for the place, talk to our co-star for a minute or two.”

You smile. “Mhm, talk.”

“Ready to get fucked for cash?” Suguru snorts, and opens his door to get out of the car. You follow suit, rolling your eyes at his crude words when your feet hit the ground and you’re closing your door behind you. 

You walk around the car to meet your boyfriend, and he greets you with a pinch to your ass and a kiss to your temple. You’d recognise something poetic in the contrast of his actions if your mind wasn’t so preoccupied with thoughts of performing for him in only a few moments. 

Despite both being pornstars, you rarely take scenes together. Threesomes aren’t a frequent venture— this is something relatively untapped for the both of you. And though you’re sure it would never jeopardise your relationship at all, you can’t help but entertain the worries that creep in. Will Suguru really not mind sharing? 

You aren’t sure what’s worse— the thought of him getting overly jealous of Satoru and cutting the scene short, or the thought of Suguru not minding in the slightest as you get fucked stupid by another man. A little possession never goes unappreciated on your end. 

“Hey,” Suguru’s silken voice brings you back to the now. “You okay? We can turn around and speed off into the sunrise if you want to leave.”

You grin. “I’m good. Excited, even.”

Your boyfriend nods and leads the way to the estate's front door. It’s closed, which is a little odd considering the production crew will be coming in and out with equipment and the such. You furrow your eyebrows and realise your car is the only one here—maybe you’re earlier than you realised. 

“You checked the shoot time, right?” you ask. 

“Yes, love,” Suguru makes it to the front door and tries the handle only to find it locked. “Fuck, maybe I should have triple checked.”

He presses a thick finger to the doorbell button and glances to you as the sound of an overly upbeat chime echoes through the estate. Maybe it’s the wrong place, too lavish to be true. Maybe it’s the wrong date, even. Maybe—

The door swings open, and standing to greet you with a knowing grin is Satoru Gojo. 

His eyes meet yours first, and then drop to take in the rest of you. Something soft flashes over his face. Lust, perhaps, or appreciation, maybe both.  His arms cross over his chest, leaning his body weight on the doorframe as he flits his gaze to your boyfriend, and his eyes return.

“Long time no see, lovebirds. Just on time," he chirps, stepping aside to let you in. "Excuse the mess, I just moved in."

It takes a moment for your brain to register his words, and Suguru is right behind you in thought. "This is your place?" he asks, appraising the foyer as he walks in. 

“Mhm,” Gojo replies, and though you expect his lilt to be more cocky, he speaks smooth like silk. “The city is too… busy for me. Plus.. saves a dollar on renting out a house to film in, right?”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips: from the looks of his home you doubt he’d blink an eye at paying rent for a night of filming. Still, you don’t know if he’s just trying to show off, or if he really wants his home to play backdrop for the shoot. But whatever the case, he definitely thinks it’s clever on his behalf to lead the both of you here. It worked, you give it to him, but damn.

You look around, taking in everything that catches your eye – the sleek furnishings, a wide kitchen to the left, and an elegant living room straight ahead. All of it feels clean and welcoming. You wonder, idly, what it's like for Gojo to live in a space like this all alone – if he is alone, that is. The question remains unanswered as Gojo leads the two of you down the hall until you reach another door and slip inside.

The bedroom you end up in is stunning; a double bed dominates the centre of the room with fluffy duvets thrown haphazardly over top, whilst the walls are painted a warm, calming shade of grey. The carpet is plush and dark brown in colour, the curtains hanging at either side of the grand windows allow for plenty of natural light to flood the room. There's a tripod set up with a very expensive looking camera pointed directly at the bed: Satoru points to it and grins at you and Suguru, "our camera crew."

You furrow your eyebrows, but Suguru speaks up before you can. "It's just us?" 

Satoru nods, crossing his corded arms and he flits his gaze between the two of you. "Yes. I did specify it was a private shoot, lovebirds."

Your boyfriend settles in closer beside you than before, you can feel the heat from his body as he crosses his own arms, a mirror of the white haired man in front of you. "I figured it was a private production shoot," he speaks cautiously. "The email I got was from an agent, not you directly."

Satoru looks unperturbed. "'Course," he says languidly. "She handles all my correspondence."

Gojo turns to the dresser and, from the top drawer, pulls out two white envelopes. Your eyes linger a little too long on his slender fingers as he hands them over to you, one each. As you peek into the envelope handed to you, you find an obscene amount of cash neatly sat inside. 

"As agreed, plus... a little extra for the commute," Gojo shrugs. "You can take it and go, if this isn't what you want. If it is, well..." He gestures to the bed. "I'm kinda dying here."

You glance down at his insinuation and find that he's beyond hard. His pants are tight and tented, making his arousal painfully evident. You have to force your gaze elsewhere – to Suguru, who is staring almost shamelessly at Gojo, his brows creased in the middle as he thinks.

The silence is deafening, you can feel the tension rising between the three of you, vibrating off the surface of your skin and permeating the air itself. Suguru seems to have made his mind up, because he turns to you with an awfully familiar look on his face: desire.

"Thoughts, darling?" he asks, and your stomach flips. 

There's no point in pretending that there aren't things wrong with how your mind still reels after Satoru's touch. This entire thing has been confusing and disorientating; you're confused about everything – your feelings, your career, your sexual desires – and now, in your current situation, you’re downright torn. And yet, despite that, despite all the questions swirling around in your mind, as soon as your eyes land on Satoru's again – you know you'd die without another taste of his pink glossed lips. That feeling, the desire, the forethought of how he'd pant and whine after you've fucked him senseless – you'll do anything to achieve it. 

This doesn’t feel like work anymore, not with the way these two men are looking at you. The camera isn’t even rolling yet, and yet you find yourself ready to fuck them both to the brink of oblivion.

So, without so much as a second of hesitation you pull away from your train of thought and turn to press your lips to Suguru's in a searing kiss. The action, so swift, causes Gojo's breath to hitch in his throat at the sight. Suguru kisses you back, of course, the hand that isn't holding his envelope quickly makes its way to your waistline and pulls you flush against him, leaving nothing but your clothes between the both of you. You wrap your arms loosely around his neck as Gojo watches the two of you intently, gaze burning into the meeting of your lips. You can feel him watching you, his spectatorship dizzying, and you bite Suguru's bottom lip in an attempt to stifle the moan bubbling up your throat.

“Jeez, didn’t know this was a cuckolding shoot,” Satoru sounds whiney, threadbare with lust. “Though I wouldn’t mind that… another time maybe.”

You place a hand on the planes of Suguru’s chest as you disconnect your lips and turn your head to the white-haired pervert with heart-shaped pupils. Your grin is sweet, sultry - "another time, huh?"

You pull apart from Suguru and move past Gojo, making a point not to glance in his direction, until you're crawling onto the bed and turning to rest with your elbows propping you up. Both Suguru and Satoru standing, your observers - admirers, is a sight for sore eyes. The camera sits between them, propped up and set on you. In spite of it, you feel oddly at home. The same sweet excitement builds within you that you normally feel when it’s just you and Suguru at home. You didn't know the air could weigh so intimately in front of a camera.

It takes a moment of staring at you, jaw slack, for Satoru to finally spring into thought. He steps towards the camera, makes sure everything is looking good, and then clears his throat as he presses record. He almost looks nervous, and if he weren't so cocky in his usual demeanour you'd think he's getting cold feet. But you remember the way his eyes glossed when he pushed into you, how that confidence of his melted into carnal need in just one thrust. You know what you do to him, and god does it seem amplified tenfold with Suguru here.

And your black-haired lover must know it too, because the second Satoru makes a move to speak, Suguru cuts him off with a step towards him and a burning kiss pressed to his lips. Satoru's sound of alarm at Suguru's lips on his is almost enough to send you dizzy, but the true aphrodisiac is the sight of your lover taking charge with him; lips locked onto one another, the lewd noises they make as Suguru cups Satoru's face with one hand and scratches into the back of his hair with the other. Satoru's moans become louder and more desperate, as Suguru's tongue explores the recesses of his mouth, sucking hungrily upon the flesh of his lower lip. When the two break apart they're both breathing heavily, panting as they catch their breath. An undoubted look of longing is etched into every last one of their handsome features.

You feel your stomach roil with anticipation as you watch them, realising the camera is only pointed at you, capturing your wanton expression. But then, it snaps, and suddenly your lovers are pulling apart to instead lay their gaze on you, resting back on Satoru's wildly comfortable bed sheets with a lust-driven smile pulling at your lips.

“You’re a fucking lucky man, Suguru,” Satoru coos, blue eyes raking over you in appreciation. You’re hardly undressed, and yet you feel naked under his gaze. “Don’t know how you can do porn when you’ve got such a pretty thing waiting for you at home. It’d ruin my performance.”

“I know,” Suguru says plainly, truly. "You've never been good at multitasking, have you Satoru?"

"Harsh words," Satoru pouts, giving his best imitation of an overly dramatic frown. "I can multitask just fine, do you need me to prove it?"

Without a word further, he plucks the camera from its tripod and points it at Suguru. "For example," he sing-songs, "I can fuck and film at the same time."

“Can’t do it dressed,” you point out, to which both men turn to find you already stripping yourself of your clothes. Satoru turns the camera onto you, finding it a sin to not capture you revealing yourself with such delicate fingers. You look into the lens, eyes sultry as you’re known for doing, and wonder just how many people are going to slip their hands under their waistbands at the sight of you. 

Once you’ve laid yourself bare, your naked skin feels static with the tension in the air, you reach your hands out and make grabby-hands at Satoru. “Pass the camera,” you hum. “It’s your turn.”

A glance between themselves, and then Satoru is leaning over the bed to slot the camera in your hands. It’s heavier than you’d thought it would be, but feels nice and cooling against your otherwise sweaty palm. Satoru’s fingers brush over yours as he hands it over, something electric stills the room for a moment, and then he pulls away with a cough.

He hadn’t realised that Suguru had fallen into place behind him, because when he steps backwards and his back hits your boyfriend's chest, Satoru gasps. You capture the pink blush that speckles at his cheeks, and the beautiful way in which Sugurus hands snake around his body to caress down his chest.

Suguru has always been gifted in the way of sparking intimacy. It’s why the porn he shoots is usually so artistic, he’s sensual. And Satoru, not for the first time, is falling victim to his seductive ways. The gentle traces of his fingers down Satoru’s chest is testament enough to just how narcotic Suguru’s touch is. When he reaches the hem of his shirt and starts lifting upwards, unwrapping his next meal, Satoru can’t help but lift his arms and help move the process along — he’s feeling beyond restless. 

Now exposed, Satoru’s chest and torso are now at the mercy of Suguru’s searing touch. Each trail of his fingers down the white-haired man’s chest, each tweak over his surprisingly sensitive nipples, each rough kiss against the column of his neck, they all elicit the most pornographic moans from Satoru Gojo’s throat. You study them both through the camera’s screen, and watch as Suguru presses his lips against Satoru’s ear.

He speaks in hushed tones, enough so that you know the camera isn’t going to pick up on his words. You can hear them though, only just, they're low and sensual and entirely full of sin. "You're lucky I'm letting you fuck my girlfriend for a second time," he purrs. "You know, she hasn’t stopped thinking about your last shoot. We watched it together the other night, I matched your rhythm, let her pretend it was you. She’s obsessed."

You're almost embarrassed by the confession, a burn sheens your skin, but the way Satoru's eyes darken impossibly further calms you. Suguru grins, catching your gaze from over Satoru's shoulder, and presses a kiss to his earlobe. "It brought me back, too," he says. "To when I got you to myself. You remember our films, hm? You're just like she is." 

Satoru nods, the tips of his ears turning redder. His breathing is shallow, ragged, needy; and in a split second he's turning around and returning his lips to Suguru's. Desperate hands lift at your boyfriend's own shirt, exposing his tattoo-laden skin underneath. His jeans soon follow, and then so do Satoru's pants.

For a moment it's just the two of them, all clothes bar their boxers discarded to the floor and hands exploring bare skin. The warmth of Satoru's fingers digging into his chest, his ribs, his hips, the hard planes of his body, their bodies pressed together as if to become one. Their lips connect again, hungrily, their teeth knocking together with every brush of tongues. Satoru takes Suguru's lower lip between his teeth and bites hard enough to elicit a choked groan from the back of Suguru's throat.

And when they part, it's obvious just how much heavier the air has gotten. Suguru turns your white-haired tryst and pushes him towards where you sit on the bed. "Move your ass before I fuck that too," he deadpans.

Satoru doesn't blush like you expected he would. Instead, he grins. "That would be a big change from last time, don't you think?" he sing-songs, eyebrows raised as he steps further towards the bed. "Or maybe you don't remember crying from how well I stretched you out, I sure do, all pretty and—"

This time Suguru does flush crimson, and you laugh out loud at this revelation. "I didn't know you bottomed for him," you shake the camera a little with your laughter, capturing the way Suguru glares at Satoru from beneath long eyelashes, "that's something I've got to see."

"Hah," Suguru climbs onto the bed and snatches the camera from you, settling on his knees as he points it down at your form. There, his fingers graze lightly against your bare skin, making you arch your back in anticipation. "Tough luck, pretty."

His black boxers are beyond tented, and he slips them off easily enough, allowing his cock to spring free, perfectly poised and ready for your hand. The sound of Suguru's moan as your fingers wrap around his length is paired with the shuffle of Satoru climbing onto the bed too. He hovers above you for a moment, watching you stroke Suguru through the camera, before taking it from him with a grin. 

Satoru returns the camera to its stand and checks its positioning before climbing back onto the bed and settling himself just behind you. You turn to smile at him, and then gasp as his hands tentatively find your shoulders. He peers over you, to the sight of Suguru’s drooling cock in your hand, and presses a kiss to the skin just under your ear.

“You know I’m fucking obsessed with you, right?” He purrs, glancing down to your boyfriend's cock before pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “Haven’t stopped thinking about you. I dreamt of breaking you and your boyfriend up until I found out it was Sugu, here. Wanted you all to myself, pretty thing, but I think I’m happy enough to share now, because god do I want to see your lips wrapped around his cock.”

“Mm,” you hum, turning your head to meet his gaze. “You haven’t even kissed me yet, and you’re making demands?”

Satoru smiles, his lips glossy and so perfect you could cry. “I want to taste him on you.”

His words light a fire in your core that licks through your body, ravenous. You can't help but oblige at his words, returning your gaze to sweet Suguru before dipping your head down and pressing a chaste kiss to the weeping tip of his cock. Suguru and Satoru both inhale sharply when you do so. You wet your lips with your tongue and then meet his cock again, drawing lazy circles across his tip before closing your lips slowly, reverently around the shaft of Suguru's cock.

Satoru's hand pushes down a little on your shoulder, and you're forced forward onto your lover's length. Your moan betrays you and sends narcotic vibrations down his shaft, making Suguru grunt and buck his hips forward a little. Satoru, who remains behind you, gently takes hold of your hips and manoeuvres you into more of a doggy-style position — your fingers splayed over Suguru's thighs to try and find purchase as Satoru leans over you. 

Gojo's chest presses against your back, skin-to-skin intimacy broken by the feverish kisses he presses to the back of your neck, down to your shoulder blades, your spine, His kisses become hotter, wetter, open-mouthed as he moves down to your waist, large hands playing with the flesh of your ass as he kisses a path down. You moan and shift against his grip, moving your hips in an effort to push yourself back against his boxer-clad erection, but Satoru only snaps you forward, and you choke a little as you're forced to take Suguru's cock even deeper down your throat.

"Fuck," Suguru hisses, pretty purple eyes meeting yours as you look up. Drool glosses his length, slick and hot and heavy against your tongue when he finally gives you a moment to breathe. 

Your mouth immediately goes back to work again once your breathing steadies, hollowing out your cheeks and dragging him down, deeper, faster, more desperately. The receipt of pleasure etched into Suguru's tight-wound face is enough to spur on your own needs, but you nearly choke when Satoru Gojo bites into the fat of your ass. Your body arches up and you squirm and whine, but Satoru is relentless, licking over the indentations left behind as Suguru snaps his hips into your open mouth over and over again.

You barely have room to move before Satoru is pushing your knees apart with a strong hand, the heel of his palm firm against your ass as he spreads you open. He takes a moment, heavy breaths fan against your exposed slick, and you’re suddenly all too aware of yourself. You’d protest, tell him not to stare if your mouth wasn’t full with your heavy-lidded lover's cock. You don’t even know why you’re embarrassed — you’re a pornstar, your job is to lie subject to the most intimate of ogling.

Your thoughts melt into the bedsheets, however, when Satoru groans and connects his lips to your pussy. Stupid off the taste of you alone, he whines against your slick heat, enamoured. His tongue flicks over you, circling your clit repeatedly and making your insides burn. You moan, and it comes out muffled and breathless around Suguru's dick.

"You taste so fucking good," Satoru speaks against your cunt. One hand slips between your legs, running two fingers through your folds in collection of your arousal, whilst his other hand tugs down at his own boxers, pulling his cock free and growling against your pussy as he starts to stroke at himself. "Fuuuuuckkk..." He pushes two fingers into you, easy with just how wet you are, and curls them in tandem with each pump of his cock.

Each thrust of his fingers pushes you just that little bit further onto Suguru's length. And you're thanking god that he's there, because without his muscled thighs to hold onto, you fear you’d be fucked too dizzy to keep yourself upright. You figure you must look a mess now, hair mussed and eyes bleary and drool rolling down your chin and all over Suguru's pulsing cock. 

You feel pathetic with how quickly your orgasm crests. Satoru must feel it too, how you clench around your fingers, the subtle tremor in your thighs, because his tongue only speeds up in its assault.  He's still stroking himself, keeping you open and willing as he sucks your clit harshly. Once you're right at the brink, teetering off the edge of ecstasy, Suguru pulls out of your mouth and leans down to crash his lips against yours. 

"Come," he orders into your mouth, tasting himself on your tongue. "Come for us, darling, come on now."

You're overwhelmed by Suguru's rakish lips over yours, and Satoru's relentless tongue over your sex. Before you can even try to present yourself for the cameras, you're cumming, hard. You writhe against Suguru, and your nails scrape across his thighs until you can hardly draw breath. The world slows down around you, leaving nothing but pleasure to consume.

"Holy shit," Satoru’s breath comes out in a hitched sort of laughter as he pulls back, not bothering to wipe away the sheen of your lust that coats his mouth and chin. “My head’s spinning, I think I’m in heaven. Do I still have a pulse?”

He makes a show of checking his pulse, despite the way you roll your eyes. You’re still coming down from your climax as Suguru peppers feather-light kisses over your face. Satoru, feeling more hungry than doting, brings his two fingers to his own mouth, licking them clean. Suguru catches sight of the action and gently pulls back from you, something knowing in his eyes.

You assume he’s going to redirect your head back to his cock, let you finish your job, but instead he tuts and nods his head to your shared tryst, who is still diligently working at tasting you some more on his fingers. 

“Think someone’s a little pussydrunk,” Suguru grins, and you do too at the sight of Satoru Gojo so blatantly desperate for more. Your eyes drift down to his cock, long and hard and weeping with precum. 

Though, you don’t want to neglect Suguru, so you turn back to him — “you didn’t finish,” you make a move to reach for his cock, still rock hard and achy-looking, but your lover shakes his head gently. 

“Got other plans,” he nods subtly to Gojo. “How about we show our stalker here just how much better the real thing is?”

You grin, catching onto his drift, and watch over your shoulder as Satoru rolls his pretty blue eyes. “You know, I’ve had the real thing, from both of you.”

“You haven’t had both of us,” Suguru shrugs. “And I know you’ve fucked your fist to the thought of it. Don’t lie, or you won’t enjoy this as much as you could.”

Satoru’s loaded remark gets stuck in his throat as Suguru pulls away from you entirely, though not without a gentle kiss to your forehead first. He stands by the bed, rolls his shoulders and nods to Satoru — “go on,” he gestures to you, still on your hands and knees. “Taste me on her lips.”

Satoru would probably blush if he weren’t so dedicated to the promise of a taste, because he’s got a hand under your stomach and is flipping you onto your back with ease in only half a second. You sigh at the reprieve of the strain on your hands and knees, and revel in how soft Satoru’s mattress is, when he’s collapsing on top of you with a strangled growl and his lips are meeting yours.

It’s a strange thing, to taste both Satoru, yourself, and Suguru at the same time. You taste Satoru in the way he kisses, hungry and listless, with knocking teeth and exploratory tongues. You taste Suguru in the remnants of his cock in your mouth, the precum that has coated your tongue, mixed with your saliva that now mixes with Gojo’s. And you taste yourself glossed on Satoru’s lips; your climax, the buildup of pleasure he had gifted you with both his mouth and fingers. 

A strange mix, maybe, but a perfect one nonetheless. You have to close your eyes to stop yourself from growing too dizzy, and also partly to stop yourself from worrying too hard — how were you meant to enjoy anything to its full potential now that you know how this tastes?

Satoru’s cock presses against the inside of your thigh; you can feel the gentle thrum of its pulse — a testament to his aching need. His arms box you in on either side, settled comfortably between your still-shaky legs. When he pulls back, a string of saliva connects your lips to his, and his eyes are darker than you remember. 

“I need to be inside of you, need. You’re fuckin’... god I can’t think.”

As if by instinct, your legs part further, allowing him the access he so craves. It’s a fluid movement, the way he moves one hand down to direct his cock to your slick folds. He rubs himself against you, his tip kissing your clit teasingly. You suck in a shaky breath between parted lips, and when he doesn’t hurry up despite his desperation, you feel like you could cry.

Though, before a complaint can leave your lips, you're watching as Suguru joins you two on the bed, kneeling behind Satoru and running his long fingers gently down the white-haired man's bare back. Satoru's head falls forward at the touch, and as your boyfriends hand runs lower and lower on his back, you realise exactly where this is going. 

"You're gonna fuck her good," Suguru purrs, graceful in his touch. "Because I'm going to help you -- that okay?" He reaches back up, brushing his knuckles from between his shoulder blades, down the curve of his spine until he reaches his tailbone. 

Satoru's eyes are locked on yours as he answers your lover. "Yes," his exhale is beyond needy. "Please, god. Yes."

And from there, things move with practised ease. It feels normal to submit yourself, your body, to Satoru. As Suguru takes hold of either side of his waist and guides him into you, the stretch is searing. You remember just how hard it was to adjust to his size the first time, having to try and keep your face melted neutral for the cameras. You don't feel that same pressure now, despite Satoru still filming, and your nose scrunches up at the feeling of Satoru inside of you.

"You're..." you try, words stuck in your throat as Suguru pushes Satoru's hips into yours a little more. "Please."

Satoru takes control of the pace, his breath hot and heavy on your cheek, his body moving in sync. You moan as he starts thrusting slowly in and out, stretching every muscle in your body as you get used to the feeling. With every thrust, you feel him getting harder and deeper within you, and his mouth dips down to trail along the sensitive skin on your neck.

It's a narcotic, the way he fills you. He's longer than Suguru, though not quite as thick, but he reaches depths that aren't typical for you. As he sheathes himself deeper and deeper inside of you, with the help of Suguru's hands on his waist, You slowly become spineless; relaxing into the pleasure of his sweet push and pull.

Sweat beads at your skin as Satoru quickens the pace, pulling out and plunging back in again with unbridled whimpers as Suguru works on taking his fill. Your boyfriend, domineering though still gentle, starts working your tryst open with one of his fingers.

"Ah- fuck," Satoru's words are heady with need, the initial discomfort of Suguru's fingers pushing into his ass are quickly forgotten, replaced with a deep yearning for more sensation. It sends his hips snapping into yours, bottoming out inside of you at such depths you can't help but cry out. It's a symphony of wetness and gasps of air, each syllable punctuated by Satoru's frantic movements. Your body grows tighter and tighter around Satoru with every pass as he gets worked open so beautifully by Suguru.

Your mind is clouded by everything Satoru has done to you and by the sheer force of him filling you with his cock and all that comes with it. You're completely and utterly lost in the moment, consumed by Satoru, who is consumed by Suguru, who is consumed in the pleasure of serving you both in turn. 

"More," Satoru is barely able to get the word out as he slams deeper and deeper inside of you. "Fuck, more."

And Suguru isn't one to deny a pretty thing like Satoru such pleasures; he's pulling his fingers out of him in seconds and replacing them with the head of his cock at his ass. Suguru is gentle, but unrelenting as he thrusts himself into Satoru in one fluid motion. The pressure is enough to prick tears at Satoru's pretty blue eyes, which you reach up and wipe away from underneath him. 

A moment is shared, a chance for Satoru to breathe the best he can, before he's testing the waters and pushing back a little, onto Suguru's cock, before thrusting his hips forward, into you. 

This is ecstasy incarnate. The two men seem to merge together, their bodies melting as they meet. Suguru fucks you through Satoru, each thrust into him is a thrust into you, into the both of you. It almost hurts, you'd wager, the way your whole body throbs in synchronization with theirs, the way Satoru moans as Suguru drives you both to insanity. It's a weird way to connect with your lover, but one that works nonetheless, the both of you seem to share an awful yearning for the man sandwiched between you, fucked mindless. 

And then he's driving your entire being towards the edge, and you feel the orgasm coming on, the rush of blood to your head, your muscles tightening around Satoru. It's a strange feeling of being connected to something bigger than yourself, a system working in tandem with each other to chase climax, but it's a feeling you're quickly growing addicted to. It's warm, it's comforting, and most importantly, it's yours. This man right here, his body pressed tight between yours and Sugurus, is yours. Even if only for the early morning.

"Gonna cum," you whine, lips ghosting against Satoru's. He nods, eyes locked onto yours. 

"M—fuck—me too, baby. God, you have to let me come inside of you, doll, can't deny me, please. You—"

"You better," Suguru cuts in, his voice biting from behind Satoru. He thrusts sharply into Satoru, sending him keening forward into you, pressing right into your sensitive g-spot as Suguru hits his prostate in a mirrored pleasure. "Wanna watch you claim her," he bears down, "gonna fill you up, you fill her — watch her face, Satoru. Watch what you do to her."

You gasp as Satoru's fingers dip down to rub frantic circles over your clit, pushing you closer and closer to orgasm with each knock of his hips into your, of Suguru's into his. the room is filled with a chorus of moans and whines and desperate pleas for more and more and more. You know you'll never recover from this level of arousal if you don't come soon, but before you can find purchase in your body and begin your descent into bliss, Suguru is first to come undone.

His hips snap forward into Satoru, head craning into his neck, biting down on the muscle of his shoulders for some sort of physical gag — ever the one to stifle those beautiful noises of his. And the feeling of being filled in such ravaging volumes must be enough to send Satoru over the edge, too, because he's knitting his eyebrows together and cumming ropes into you in only moments.

"Fuck," he whines, once again tears prick at his eyes, overwhelmed by the duality of his pleasure, of you and Suguru, so close to you but also never close enough. He wants to be one with you, a complete unit, bound by sex and soul and the sweet sounds of the most powerful orgasm he's ever had in his life. 

You come in tandem with him, it's completely blinding. Your legs fall apart as you cry out, nails scraping across Satoru's bicep as the world melts away and the sensations start swirling about in your mind's eye and the last thing you register is Satoru collapsing forward, breathing raggedly into your ear. 

You catch the salty flavour of him as you suck in a lungful of air and smile in response, fucked stupid and blissful and never ready to give this feeling up. Never ready to give anyone else this feeling- god, you already despise whoever gets to taste Satoru Gojo next. 

Suguru has to pull out of Satoru slowly, and you wipe at his face with the pad of your thumb when it scrunches up in protest of the loss of Suguru’s stretch. Before he can truly call the scene over, though, Satoru leans down and presses the most gentle of kisses to your lips. A myriad of ‘thankyouthankyouthankyou’s spill from his tongue as he does so, each word cut by a kiss to the expanse of your face.

And when he pulls out of you a sickening gush of his cum follows. It spills from your aching pussy and onto the bed sheets beneath you, though Satoru doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. He swipes his finger through the mess he’s made of your sex, smiling when you hiss at just how sensitive you are, and brings his cum-coated finger back to his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. 

Your stomach flips at the sight. Great, he’s gone and fucked you lovestruck.

“Satoru,” a clean voice cuts in. Your head constricts in your fucked out daze when you turn to see Suguru standing by the tripod, his eyebrows raised and pretty purple eyes beyond amused. “It’s not even fucking recording.”

Instead of being confused, Satoru looks sheepish. He flops down onto the bed next to you, eyes glossy and cheeks blushed pink. “I…. can explain? I think I’d rather die than share the two of you with the world. But I’d really die if I didn’t get my hands on you both.”

You meet your boyfriend's gaze. Something passes between you, something knowing. In a weird, probably unhealthy way, you both feel the exact same. This was never a scene for the cameras, anyway— not when such strong… feelings are involved.

“I’m not proposing marriage here,” Satoru huffs when he catches onto your shared gaze. “I just, you enjoyed it, right?”

You giggle from beside him, your sweat-soaked skin cool against the air. Suguru chimes in with his laughter, melodic and beautiful. He folds his arms and watches the two of you laid across the bed. 

“Let’s get you both cleaned up, then,” Suguru hums. “I’m not fucking either of you again until we’ve shared a shower.

TAGLIST: @sugurubabe @fullbelieverheart @starrysho @meowforluv @ch3rryistheg @miizuzu @okayiamkassandra @inconcise @sexcults @hotgirlgoob @mistalli @ourfinalisation @graceloveslanadelrey @blessed-princesa @plinkuro @pe4rl-diver @sugojosgf @beachaddict48 @chimmysoftpaws @blendingcaramal @dongh9e @caramelised-onions @kyluskaye @sammywo @4evrglow @hiraethwa @stinkinstuffie @tomiokasecretlover @ser0t0nln @yuzu-ku @lagataprrr @dear-fifi @hel-lhound @kensqueent @sserafin @dabisdolly @zoroisminty @angelkazusstuff @reinam00n @kaeyakaikai @bunny416 @littletittygothgirl @glitterbitch1 @saccharine-nectarine

cont in comments !

[zelzelez]

HEADACHES. HEADACHES FROM HELL.

[zara-renata]

Hello and good morning~ I was listening to RED by taylor swift while working and suddenly ALL I could think of was the Sylus series (and how MC thinks she was rejected). 💙❤️ Think this song fits them so well

I have been meaning to answer this ask since you sent it, but it gave me a little Scenario that I had to carry around in my head until I could figure out how to work it into a story. Your ask, in combination with a post by @leaderincrows about wanting to see Sylus collared and gasping pathetically, led to this story. I hope the result is enjoyable. Thanks so much for sending this ask, and I'm sorry it took 8 million years to answer!

Goodcat code, or how you learned to care for your catboy | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: Your crimelord boyfriend disappears for a week, you make yourself sad listening to breakup songs, you learn that he got turned into a catboy, you get assigned a mission on the worst cruise ship ever, undercover shenanigans ensue. Loosely based on the Sylus memory Goodcat Code.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, sylus x mc, second person POV, some Sylus POV MC is referred to by they/them pronouns, intended as a placeholder for your preferred pronouns. Established relationship, can be read as a standalone. This story contains: profanity, activities of a sexual nature, violence, probably too much internal monologue and not enough action, too many feelings and not enough sexual activity, inappropriate use of a tail, an argument with your boyfriend, a happy ending.

You wonder if it’s because you trounced him in kitty cards the last time you played.

The silence. 

For the past week, your phone has been pinging with constant notifications but none with My Sy listed as the sender. Just work, spam, Xavier asking if you want to go to the bookstore the next time you’re both free, Tara spamming you with pleas to go to some shitty club where her latest favorite indie EDM DJ is playing—why she thinks that her insistence that “He looks just like Skye, I promise!” is enough incentive for you to wade through loud, sweaty, touch-feely dancers as you can’t help constantly checking the exits, while simultaneously making sure a molly-rolling Tara doesn’t abscond to the bathroom with a mistake waiting to happen, while being subjected to mediocre beats from her artist-of-the week, is beyond you. “Skye” is gorgeous, yes, but you’d rather admire the real thing up close than squint through a fog-machine haze to look at a cheap knock-off.

Maybe Sylus’s snobbery is rubbing off on you.

Then again, Tara doesn’t know how up close you get to examine Skye on a regular basis, so perhaps you’re being unfair, because you’re in a terrible mood, because you haven’t heard from him for a week now.

Because maybe you won’t have the chance to see “Skye” up close ever again. Because all you have is a deafening silence from him, and it started the day after you wiped the floor with him at the kitty cafe playing kitty cards.

Could something so petty cause him to finally lose interest in you, the way you've feared ever since you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that Sylus may be romantically interested in you?

It’s not your fault that the longer you spend time with him, the more you have unraveled his mysteries. If he doesn’t want to be so easy to beat, he needs to try harder to be less predictable. You never would have thought, when you first met him, that you’d ever think the words “predictable” and “Sylus” in the same sentence, but the mercurial man is like clockwork when it comes to kitty cards.

He always, always offers you the chance to go first. Why on earth would you say no, and then lose the chance to play your inevitably shitty, low-value cards in the matching colored cups, just to prevent him from playing one of his inevitably high valued cards in the matching cup?

He grumbles, tries to give “helpful” advice about being patient and gambling on drawing a higher value card instead, all the while doing the exact same thing when it’s his turn and he has a shit hand. The condescending hypocrite. You stew a bit thinking about it.

And then, you’ve long since learned that the arrogant bastard is cheating while you play. He somehow marks the cards—you don’t know how. Something to do with his evol? He refuses to admit it outright, so you doubt you’ll ever know. But what you first thought was a generous habit of offering to give you two  of his cards for one of yours, actually turns out to be an opportunity for him to offload his low value cards and give himself a chance to poach your higher value cards. You refuse his offers now.

And lastly, you’ve figured out that for all of Sylus’s skill, brilliant brain, and talent at strategy, the man has a few weaknesses that you are ruthlessly willing to exploit to gain the upper hand to beat him despite all of his dirty tricks.

Namely, he’s easily distracted by a few very specific things.

Your mouth being one of them.

So last week, you went first, played your shit cards in the colored cups, refused his offers to trade, and ordered a strawberry shortcake with extra whipped cream to enjoy while you played.

He leaned back in his seat at the kitty cafe where he was sitting across from you, manspreading as usual, arms casually draped over the back of the booth, the picture of casual, smug confidence. The dictionary definition of winner. 

“Do you really have the luxury of splitting your focus between the game and your dessert, kitten? It looks like you need all of your concentration just to keep up, let alone win this round,” he drawled, secure in his five point lead over you. It was his turn, and yet he had time to taunt you.

You just shrugged, holding your cards fanned in one hand, dipping your finger in the whipped cream with your other. You brought it to your lips, pretending to think very hard about which card you’d play next when all of them were crap, and rubbed the cream over your bottom lip.

You heard a sharp inhale from the other side of the table, but ignored it. You “absentmindedly” flicked your tongue out, gathering the cream there before swallowing and biting your lip pensively.

“It’s good,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off your cards. “Not too sweet.”

Silence. It took all of your willpower not to look up to see what his face was doing.  But you heard him place a kitty in a cup, its cute little meow signaling the start of your turn.

You let your gaze flick back and forth between the board and your cards. Good. It was working. He played a low value card in a white cup instead of drawing a new card like he should have.

You put your crap sage card in the last sage-colored cup. Sylus tsked and drew a new card.

This time, you picked up one of the glazed strawberries adorning the shortcake and placed it between your lips, sucking on it gently as you “thought.”

The groan coming from across the table was so low that you almost didn’t hear it over the sounds of the cafe—other players chatting, the meows of the kitties, the clink of cutlery and tableware. But you heard it, even through your tinnitus.

You played another low value card in a matching cup—the last one. Unless he had a six, this round is yours.

You finally dared to look up and find Sylus glaring at you, all while petting a beautiful, tawny colored cafe cat that had apparently settled in his lap while you were busy trying to distract him and beat his ass at this ridiculous game.

“Sy, you know the rules of the cafe—no petting the cats unless we pay extra!” You looked around furtively, forgetting the game, worried that the staff were going to get mad and kick you both out for this breach of etiquette. You pay first, then pet!

“I can’t help it if, unlike some, this particular kitty is straightforward enough to ask for pets from me,” he said pointedly. “Who am I to deny its desires?” 

In response, you popped the strawberry fully into your mouth, closed your eyes, and bit down, letting out a genuine little sound of appreciation for the sweet fruit.

Suddenly there was a disgruntled mewl from across the table. You opened your eyes and saw Sylus with a death grip on the cat where he was previously petting it gently. The cat squirmed, trying to get off of his lap. He blinked and let go of the cat, which then bolted off of his lap like he had just yanked its tail—which he hadn’t, but Sylus’s grip was no joke. You would know.

He watched the cat, a rare apologetic look on his face, before turning to glare at you again. “If we get kicked out, it will be your fault,” he accused.

You just looked back at him innocently. “What on earth did I do?”

“Maybe I’ve been too soft with you, and you’ve gotten too comfortable with me—you grow more cunning by the day,” he said softly, almost like a threat, but he looked… pleased.

“Still have no idea what you’re talking about,” you hummed, taking a big forkful of the shortcake and shoving it in your mouth. 

Sylus just groaned again. He lost every game the two of you played the rest of the evening.

When you parted ways with him, heading back home to sleep while he was heading to a meeting, he pulled you into his arms as you stood by your motorcycle. He breathed in your hair and sighed, and then pulled away, turning on his heel, and walking away without a backwards glance.

And that’s the last you heard from him since that night.

You sit at your kitchen table, staring glumly out into the chill fall night. Your phone lights up, but it’s just Rafayel sending a photo of a little crab brandishing a plastic spork captioned Lol littering humans suck but at least this trash is useful for this lil guy he’s got a sword now

You often wonder why both Rafayel and Sylus sometimes refer to humans as if they themselves are not also human. You text back.

You: he just needs a shield. give him a bottle cap and he can fight wanderers with me 

Fried Shrimp: nope he’s my new bodyguard because you suck too and have been too busy lately to guard my body like you promised

You: you’re perfectly capable of guarding yourself you pyromaniac

Rafayel just responds with a poop emoji.

You consider his text. Rafayel may have a point for once—you have been spending every free moment that you're not working with Sylus lately.

Which is bad. You don’t want him to take over your life. You want to maintain a balanced, a healthy relationship with him, if possible. It would be so easy to let yourself be consumed by his charismatic, overwhelming presence in your life. But what happens when he disappears as quickly as he appeared?

You don’t want to think about it. But that point may have already arrived. You stare at your dark phone again.

You could… call him first. Or send a text. But you’re not to the point where you can bring yourself to contact him first. If he wants to talk to you, he isn’t shy about reaching out for your attention. He calls almost every day. To tell you that you need to expect a package. To complain about his bad luck at a poker game with business rivals. To pester you about when you’ll come visit him again. Mephisto hasn’t seen your face for two days, he’s starting to pout. The twins brought home ten different flavors of syrup for the espresso machine, look at what you’re doing to them, they’re going to get diabetes at this rate.

You don’t think you’re to the point of being able to handle being left on read by this man if you send a text first and he doesn’t answer.

It’s time to wallow. You reach for your phone, pull up your music app, and put Taylor Swift’s RED on repeat.

You’ll give it a few more days, and then you’ll put on Olivia Rodrigo. After another week, it will be Sabrina Carpenter, because you’ll probably have entered the anger stage of grief by then. After that, it will be Hozier, when you finally accept that Sylus will never be calling again and try to find the beauty in everything you’ve lost.

***

“Status report?” Sylus growls into the phone. 

“Boss, I really think that you should reconsider this course of action,” Kieran’s voice is just loud enough for Sylus to be able to hear over the absolute cacophony of the closed cat cafe, which is considerable, even with his double, hypersensitive hearing due to his current… condition.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked for a status update,” Sylus hisses, and then clears his throat. He totally meant to hiss just then. His hissing has nothing to do with his current affliction.

“But I really must insist—” Kieran tries to argue, but he’s drowned out by the cat cafe’s OTTO.

“Caracal Butler! May I remind you that not only is your customer satisfaction rating in the negatives, but you are also not allowed to make personal phone calls on the kitties’ time!” The OTTO hovers menacingly in front of him.

“Oh, I’m so scared,” he responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. Even the robot should be able to discern his disdain.

“You should be,” it says, threateningly.

“Oh? And what are the kitties going to do that’s worse than what they’ve already done.” He flicks some cat hair off of his bespoke tuxedo. The fact that he’s going to have to get it de-haired and dry cleaned if he ever wants to wear it again just adds insult to injury, as he had been hoping to wear it with you to a Linkon City Symphony Orchestra’s performance soon. He had a matching outfit tailored for you at the same time he ordered this tux, so he has resigned himself to getting the damn thing cleaned when this... ordeal is over.

The OTTO jerks him out of his irritation with its nagging voice module. “It is protocol for this kitty cafe to act as a responsible caretaker for the kitties under our care. We require spaying and neutering of all kitties under this roof. You have not yet received such care.”

The threat in response to his sarcasm could not be clearer.

He narrows his eyes at the OTTO and feels his tail swish menacingly as his ears press flat to his hair.

“Come anywhere near my balls and I’ll fill this cat cafe with so many cat toys of the loud, exploding variety that there will be nothing left of either it, the cats, or you except a smoking crater.”

The OTTO flits backwards out of Sylus’s reach.

“Perhaps Caracal Butler may be allowed a limited number of private phone calls on the kitties’ time without repercussions,” it says, tone placating as it drifts quickly to the other side of the room.

“That’s what I thought,” Sylus growls again, and not because he’s been stripped of his evol and cursed with two fucking cat ears and a tail that betrays his emotions no matter how much self control he tries to exert, but because he meant to growl.

He returns his attention back to the phone as his patience wears ever thinner. “Status. Report.”

“Boss, I really must insist—” Kieran tries again, tone incredibly concerned, before being interrupted by Luke.

“Your hunter is listening to breakup songs and mopily staring at their phone every spare moment they get.”

Sylus’s ears swivel around to full attention and his tail thwacks a kitty climbing tower so hard it’s almost knocked off its base.

“Breakup songs? Why—”

“They obviously think you’ve ghosted them,” Luke continues. “Keep this up and you’re gonna lose them.”

Sylus tilts his head. Could you really believe that he’s capable of ever leaving your side before you tell him to leave and mean it? What an absolutely ridiculous notion. His tail swishes thoughtfully. He did not want you to see him like this—stripped of his power, kneeling to these demanding cats like a… well. Like a fucking catboy butler. He has his pride, after all. He was hoping that the curse would fade quickly and you’d be too busy with work and your social life to notice that he has been absent for a little while. And you hadn’t reached out to him either, during this time. He runs his gloved hand along his bottom lip before realizing that he’s been touching cats all day, makes a disgusted face, and taps his temple instead. Why hadn’t you reached out to him? His mind drifts over memories of all of your interactions with him when you are apart and he's been forced to make do with communicating to you via phone and text.

This is not the first time that it occurs to him that you have never, not once, reached out to him first. He is always the one calling you, texting you, sending you packages.

He stops, tail and ears still. He has noticed it, but he hasn't thought about it deeply. He's willing to chase you to the end of time, after all. But now, he wonders what he's missing. He is almost entirely sure that you miss him as much as he misses you when you’re apart. You always pick up the phone. You always respond to texts. As for sending packages, you've grumbled about not knowing what to gift a man who has everything, but he always reassures you that he already has everything he wants, as long as you’re there.

So why is it that you have never reached out to him first? He flicks his ears. It would be nice, if you reached out first, every once in a while. He doesn't require it. But it would be nice. He tucks that thought away for further analysis after the current problem is fixed.

Time to assess the damage, and then engage in damage control.

“What kind of breakup songs?” he asks.

“Currently listening to RED by Taylor Swift.”

Sylus considers. Taylor Swift isn’t as bad as Sabrina Carpenter, or Hozier. Once you start with Hozier, Sylus will really be worried.

“Are you gonna stop being a big scaredy-cat and contact your hunter now?” Luke demands, sounding absolutely done with his ridiculous boss and his equally ridiculous partner.

Sylus values the intel they just provided, so he lets the insubordination slide. This time.

“I will remedy the situation. You’re dismissed from hunter observation detail.”

All he hears are twinned sighs of relief and then the phone disconnecting. He stares at it. What impudent henchmen.

He turns and wades through the meandering cats to the OTTO.

“I’m leaving, but I will be back to fulfill my contract once a personal emergency has been resolved.”

The OTTO, with his previous threats clearly still fresh in its memory, meekly allows him to pass without any fuss.

He steps out into the cold winter evening, the street lights and bright advertisements of Linkon City temporarily blinding him. Normally he would just teleport along rooftops to get to you as quickly as possible in such an emergency, but with this fucking curse, he has to make his way to your home like a regular human. His lip curls in disgust, but then he schools his face into its customary blank, intimidating expression as he notices people passing by gawking at his swishing tail and his cat ears. He’s drawing enough attention to himself without looking threatening while doing it. He quickly strides to where he parked his motorcycle, jams his helmet on his head, and breaks six different traffic laws trying to get to your place as quickly as possible.

***

You’re trying to wallow, snuggled into your bedding with a tray of some sad soup heated up from a can and a chunk of stale bread, when your hunter watch pings. You flick through the new assignment. Some asshole smuggler in biologically modified wanderers code-named “Snowy Owl” apparently needs to be brought down. You slurp some soup while you try to formulate a plan of action for snaring this new target, who has in turn snared many innocent wanderers to then sell them to shady collectors with who knows what kind of intentions for them. 

This is just the sort of thing that you’ve all too easily grown accustomed to discussing with Sylus, due to his spiderweb of connections through the underworld. But isn’t that part of the problem? Where before you would rely on yourself and Association resources to arrange a mission of this kind, now you’re all too comfortable relying on Sylus for help. That sort of sloppiness is unacceptable, and the gaping absence he’s left behind in the last week only serves to drive that point home. You cannot let the blade of your skills dull because of reliance on your all-too-willing-to-help boyfriend. Maybe ex-boyfriend, you think miserably.

You sigh, leaning back, turning up the music that you had previously turned down to focus on the mission details. You’re trying to drown out all thoughts of the man who you need to get out of your head, only to find yourself yelping in surprise and flinging the tray with the soup at the tall intruder who has just silently appeared at the side of your bed—who you hadn’t heard at all, as if they had entered on padded cat paws.

Only to realize halfway through the soup’s trajectory that the intruder is Sylus and he’s wearing a very fancy suit.

All the previous times you have flung tableware containing hot liquid at him, Sylus has been able to dodge the container, if not its contents, because of his evol. But this time he’s struck square in the chest by both the soup and the soup bowl. It hits one big pec with a dull thud and then crashes to your floor. He stands there, dripping soup, looking down at his dress shoes.

“The fuck, Sylus,” you breathe, not because he appeared out of nowhere in your home, again, but because you can clearly see two twitching, incredibly real-looking cat ears—tawny, fuzzy on the insides, coming to a beautiful, regal black point at the top—swiveling through his gorgeous silver hair. As your eyes travel down his long, lovely body, they catch on a flicking cat-tail with the same coloring as his ears. Something about the fur strikes you as familiar, but you can’t quite figure out why.

“Darling. Dearest to my heart. My heart, in fact, beating within the safety of my ribcage. Could you, perhaps, in the future, try to refrain from assaulting me with molten liquid when I surprise you in your home.” His tail swishes, swishes, swishes behind him, and you’re utterly mesmerized. It takes a moment for it to sink in that Sylus is actually here. You want to scramble off the bed, climb him like a tree, the dripping soup be damned, and just hug him. Now that you’re seeing him in person for the first time in a whole week, you are able to actually feel how much you’ve missed him, instead of suppressing, repressing, pretending that the unending ache didn’t hurt so terribly much.

You’re about to launch yourself at him when you remember why you had been feeling this way all week. Where the hell has he been? And why does he have cat attributes now? Well, more than he already had to begin with, you snicker internally, until you remember that you’re still feeling heartbroken and wary of why he has shown up now after ghosting you all week. Are you being melodramatic? Are you being immature? Are you being unfair? Could you have called him to check in, when he didn’t? You eye his ears. His tail. Yes to all of the above, but it doesn’t change how you simply can’t bring yourself to go to him, and instead draw further back, away from him, on the bed.

He apparently doesn’t miss your movement, as his ears swivel forward as you move, and then flatten onto the top of his head as he assumes an aggressively bored expression on his face.

“Not going to answer me?” he growls. Actually growls, like a cat warning a naughty kitten.

You can’t help yourself. “Who’s actually the kitten now, Sylus?”

His tail flicks violently behind him.

“Careful, kitten. Perhaps you’ve forgotten in the past week that this cat has claws,” he says, low and menacing.

You just laugh at him.

“Mmmm, yes, your oh-so-so sharp claws, which are now covered in soup. What are you doing here?”

He narrows his eyes at your unimpressed reaction to his empty threat. “Do I need a reason to visit my heart?”

The more he acts like nothing has changed, as if he didn’t just disappear on you without a word for a week, the more wound up and jittery you feel. “What heart?” you ask, a little petulantly.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You know the answer to that question.”

“Do I? Not a very important organ, if you can survive a week without it,” you grumble.

His ears swivel forward, and his tail starts to… wag, but his facial expression doesn’t change.

You immediately regret revealing so much.

“Ah,” is all he says, but he sounds pleased. 

You look away, out the window. But all you see is Sylus in the reflection, and the dark night beyond. You’ve said too much already. 

“I’m going to change. And then we’re going to talk,” he announces, and it sounds like a purr.

You feel silly as you realize that Taylor Swift is still warbling loudly in your bedroom about loving him but losing him so suddenly, trying to stop when you’re already in free fall, loving him being like the colors in autumn, so bright, just before they lose it all. You flick off the music.

He’s here again. He’s here again, but for how long?

You hear water running in the bathroom as you go to the kitchen to grab some towels and return to your bedroom to mop up the soup, tidying your embarrassingly messy flat along the way. You return to bed and wait for him.

After a few minutes, Sylus emerges from your bathroom clad in one of the soft sweaters and silk sleep pants he keeps in your closet. You can’t help yourself again—you stare at where his tail emerges from under the sweater. The flexible waistband of the pants must have been pushed down a little over his ass to accommodate where his tail emerges. 

He strides to the bed and pauses next to it. “May I?” he asks, tail flicking, ears twitching.

You nod, and he prowls onto your duvet on his hands and knees. Before settling next to you, however, he turns in a circle, once, twice, three times, before sinking down and pulling you into his arms, your back to his chest, curling around you. You let him, feeling the flood of safety and sense of wholeness that you always get when Sylus is touching you. You sigh. All of your worries seem so trite now. Why didn’t you just text him first? Why did you wait for him to reach out first? Why are you like this?

As if reading your mind, Sylus says, “Were you worried this week?”

His arms are wrapped tightly around you, he has one leg shoved between yours, and you feel his tail curl around your bare ankle. Its fur is so, so soft.

You nod.

“Why didn’t you call me, then?”

You don’t want to tell him how afraid you are of him finally not answering. Of him finally losing interest. It sounds so pathetic to even think it, let alone say it out loud.

“I’m sorry about your fancy suit,” is all you can say.

He hums, and his tail wraps tighter around your ankle. “It’s a tuxedo. And it can be cleaned.”

“Fancy suit, tuxedo—pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric,” you tease him.

“My heart is a heathen,” he sighs into your hair. “It’s a tux that matches pretentious, overpriced pieces of fabric that happen to fit your body perfectly.”

“What use do I have for such fabric?” you ask, turning in his arms, lulled by his familiar humor, his still-unexplained tail wrapped around your ankle. You lie on your side, facing him. His ears twitch in your direction.

“There's a ticket to the Linkon City Symphony Orchestra with your name on it. You should note the date in your agenda.”

“What if my agenda is already full? I haven’t heard from you for a week.”

His ears flatten in his hair. “You’d replace me in just a week?”

You hum a little, reaching up to run a finger along one cat ear. He makes a purring sound, deep in his throat, closing his lovely eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to replace you, even if I wanted to,” you murmur, lost in his presence again, feeling safe now that he’s here again. But the week was long, and you really were afraid he’d left for good, no matter how silly it seems now. “But maybe I thought you had replaced me,”  you admit, marveling at how soft the ear is, how good it feels to caress it between your forefinger and thumb. You want to kiss it, rub your face all over it. You lift your other hand and fondle his other ear.

His tail loosens on your ankle and begins drifting up your bare leg, the fur caressing your skin so gently, until it curls around one thigh and squeezes between your legs, right below where your thighs meet. You shiver at the sensation and forget to pet him for a moment.

“You should have more faith in your pet. Sometimes cats have business in the neighborhood that keeps them away for a few days, but they always come back home.”

“Did your ‘business’ have anything to do with your new accessories?”

He leans, shoving his head against your hands to remind you to keep petting him, and his tail drifts up, up, until it’s nudging between your legs. You gasp softly at the delicious pressure, but have enough presence of mind to keep massaging his ears.

“Yes,” he murmurs, a little breathless. “Like that.” You continue, and he continues teasing you with his tail. It’s not enough. You want more of him.

“How did you get the cat ears and tail, Sy?” you ask, trying to remain focused. 

The tail nudges you a little harder—you can’t help the jerk of your hips which sends you rocking into him, where you’re met with his hard dick under the fabric of his pants. The sensation of his hardness against your front and his tail at your back is almost overwhelming.

“Your fault, kitten. You and that fucking strawberry last week,” he growls again, flexes his hips into yours. “That cat I was petting was unhappy with how roughly I handled it while you cockteased me with your cake,” he gasps as you grind back into him, as you widen your legs to let his tail do whatever it wants, restricted only by your sleep shorts. “The evol kitties cursed me for petting without paying, and for roughing up the cat.”

You can’t help it. Even through the pleasure, you burst out laughing.

“They cursed you with a tail and ears, and that’s why you avoided me all week?” It’s absurd. All that worry, thinking that he’d finally grown bored with you, because he was too, what? Embarrassed? to reveal that he’d been given such adorable attributes. “You mean we could have been doing this all week?” you ask, incredulous, as his tail rubs against your sensitive spots through your shorts, as it nudges you again and again, as Sylus loudly purrs from the pleasure you rubbing his ears and the friction against his big dick is bringing him.

He opens his eyes, half-lidded, lips parted, panting. One of his hands drifts down your back and takes a handful of your ass, pulling, bringing your hips against his cock again. He grinds you on himself, leans forward, licks a swipe up the side of your face.

“The biological markers that were affected by the ears and tail are tied to my own evol—I don’t have my ability to manipulate energy so long as this curse lasts,” he says, breath hitching with the movement of your bodies.

You lean forward, press your forehead against his, share his panting breath. “What does that have to do with not calling me?” you manage, even though all you want to do is rip his pants down, shove down your own shorts, and impale yourself on him.

“Didn’t want you to see me as weak,” he admits. He opens his eyes, looks into yours. He then kisses you with his full lips, soft, slow, in contrast to his tail still nudging you through your shorts at a steady rhythm, teasing, teasing, teasing.

You pull back from his kiss, catch his gaze again. “Even without your evol, you’re still one of the strongest people I’ve ever met,” you whisper.

He pauses, his ears flattening again. “Just ‘one of’ the strongest people you've met?”

You laugh. “I know a lot of strong people Sy. And your new bits are cute, just like you.” His tail firmly nudges you again, once, as if to warn you. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you tease him.

He just groans and kisses you again, his tongue slipping between your lips, his big hands moving to shove down your shorts. “I don’t make threats,” he says, low, smug. “I make promises.”

You roll your eyes, but neither of you talk any more after that.

***

Much, much later, after you’re thoroughly fucked out, muscles pleasantly sore, as Sylus purrs beside you in sleep, one arm flung over you, you lie awake thinking about his admission of worrying about being 'weak' in front of you. Of the vulnerability in his questions—why didn’t you call him if you were worried? Would you really replace him within a week? 

You’ve been so wrapped up in your own insecurities, so busy trying to protect yourself from what you think is the inevitable pain of being abandoned, that you’ve never stopped to consider what Sylus may worry about. What his insecurities may be. He has always seemed so larger than life to you, from the very beginning. Invincible. Solitary and strong. But as you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve also had glimpses of his own tender heart, the same tender heart he warns you about having—a liability in his vicious world. The care he shows the twins, who he insists are just his henchmen but clearly love him like family. His meticulous maintenance of Mephisto, whenever the bird needs parts switched out, cleaning, or upgrades. His habit of masking his true feelings by maintaining a look of boredom, as if revealing such feelings is a vulnerability that even those closest to him could exploit. Even his tendency to cheat at kitty cards—his luck is so bad, and he works so hard to compensate for it in the best way that his brutal life has taught him. In the end, Sylus is just a person, like anyone else. Complicated. Layered. Strong and vulnerable, cruel and kind. You’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about him as something you crave, something you adore, as well as something you fear, a threat to your heart. Not always as just a person, with feelings of his own.

Feelings that include feelings for you, specifically. He has never hidden his care for you, not since those first days of knowing him. Even if he looks indifferent, the words coming out of his mouth are always achingly straightforward, and sweet in a way that sounds sarcastic but you have learned is actually simply the unvarnished truth. His actions—his gifts, his texting, calling, physical clinginess when you’re with him—in the quiet dark, with Sylus’s soft snores next to you, his cat ears twitching even in sleep, you realize how utterly unfair you’ve been to him. How one-sided this relationship has been up until now in a lot of ways.

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to show him how much you care about him too. How safe he is with you, just as he makes you feel safe whenever you’re together. You recognize that you need to do some work on yourself. That it’s not normal to go through life terrified of being abandoned. That the past does not predict the future. You can’t spend the rest of your relationship with Sylus, no matter how long or short it lasts, punishing him for the pain others have caused you.

You roll over in the dark and pepper his face with soft kisses, each one a silent apology for not calling him this week, when he probably needed to be reassured that you still care for the version of him with ears and a tail and stripped of his god-like abilities. How worried must he still be, moving through the world without such abilities, without his customary armor against a hostile world that wants him caged or dead?

As you lean over him, trailing your lips along his skin, his arms snake around you and pull you closer.

“Tell me what I did to deserve this, so I can do it again,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. His tail wraps around your waist.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” you whisper between kisses.

“A hunter’s trade secret?” You can hear his smile in the dark.

“A lover’s inability to properly articulate that all you have to do is continue being you.”

His tail tightens around you, and its end wildly thwacks your back. “That sounded pretty articulate to me. Your words are honeyed—is there a catch?”

You kiss him on his soft lips. His hands run along your hair, down your back.

“Only one way to find out,” you tease.

“I see you’re done pouting. Do I get any other rewards for just being me?” he asks, sly.

“Only one way to find out,” you repeat, nudging his nose with yours.

“Oh, I like surprises.”

“I know,” you say, because you do know that. You know so much about this man already.

He pauses, catches your gaze. “Keep it a secret, okay?”

Yet again, he’s showing you his weakness. Reminding you that he’s taking a risk by being here with you at all, just like you are risking your heart, and everything else, by being here with him. “Your secrets are safe with me, Sy.”

He holds you tighter in response, and you fall asleep in his arms. You don’t dream about anything at all.

***

In the morning, after you’ve made him coffee, after you’ve eaten breakfast and you’ve lounged on the couch with him, watching something stupid on tv while he browses online auctions, you tell him about your Snowy Owl mission. He’s heard of this person, but they’re not colleagues or rivals, moving in different circles. But he knows where to locate them, and you form a plan, inspired by Snowy Owl’s interest in modified wanderers and humans, and Sylus’s twitching ears.

“You want me to act as your catboy butler.” He says it flatly. “Boring.”

You nod. “And I’ll be your owner, willing to sell you to the highest bidder.”

His ears flatten against his hair, despite his bored expression, and his tail whips back and forth, back and forth, slowly. He really hates the idea.

“Do you have a better plan?” you ask.

“Better than you selling me off to someone else? I can think of a few. A carefully placed bomb on the cruise ship, for one.” At your look of discomfort, he continues. “You don’t even have to come. Just check off the mission as accomplished on your little Association to-do list.”

You scowl at him. “I’m supposed to bring Snowy Owl in, not assassinate them.”

“Boring,” he repeats.

“I’m not actually selling you to anyone, Sy. I just need a small distraction, much smaller than a bomb,” you cut him off as he opens his mouth. “While I plant a tracking device with them, once we pinpoint who they are.”

He leans over, rubs his cheek against yours. “What’s my reward for considering this utterly boring plan?” He drags your hand to the base of his tail.

You take the hint, grasping his tail firmly, and he groans. You pull a little, and he lets you, rolling onto his stomach on the couch. You straddle the back of his big, meaty thighs and begin palming his tail, starting at the base where it meets the skin of his lower back, circling your thumb and forefinger around it even though it’s thick enough that your fingers don’t meet. You pull, and pet, over and over again, and his purrs are so loud they start to vibrate the couch.

“Say yes,” you demand. “Put that tux and your new parts to good use before the concert.”

“Fine,” he gasps, as his hips jerk a little, pressing himself into the couch.

“Excellent!” You spring to your feet, heading to the shower. There’s not a moment to waste if you’re going to get this mission over with before his tail and ears disappear.

“Stingy!” he yowls. Literally yowls, like a big tomcat thwarted in his attempt at mating by a mean owner yanking him into the house from the alley where his would-be mate was waiting.

“Consider that the down payment. Upon delivery of your promise, you’ll get the rest,” you say in a sing-song voice, just to further annoy him.

“I want double!” he yowls again, but anything else he might be whining about is cut off when you let the bathroom door close behind you.

***

Sylus has been impeccable for the duration of your agreed-upon mission. Poised, elegant, obedient. He has tolerated you treating him like an object to be admired and dismissed on a whim, even when people approached you not just to express interest in your catboy butler up for bidding, but also when they showed interest in getting to know the mysterious owner of said catboy butler more intimately.

The only indication that he was perhaps not entirely pleased with his code name was a flick of his cat ears and one hard thwack of his tail against the rail of the cruise ship when you first said, “Please fetch me more of the strata, Mister Whiskers,” in front of the other guests on the dining deck.

Furthermore, he only tried to attack and eat one person’s pet parrot, and he dropped the seagulls he kept catching at each ordered “Drop it, Mister Whiskers!” from you every time.

All in all, you think that you’re having a harder time than he is. High tea is over, seagulls have been caught and released, and you’ve already collected a number of business cards and varying degrees of subtle invitations to further discuss your catboy butler. You’ve navigated each diplomatically, and are rather proud of yourself, but your own patience is wearing thin as you stand at a luxurious bar in a small lounge on one of the upper decks of the cruise ship. The floor to ceiling windows give a lovely view of the blood-red sunset over the water—it reminds you of Sylus’s eyes. The evening, and therefore the black market trading, is about to begin in earnest. You’re waiting for a mocktail—you’re on the job, and you are a professional after all—when yet another person sidles up to you. Sylus, who has been standing at a respectable distance from you at relaxed attention, hands crossed behind his back, looking coolly over the people scattered at elegant standing tables, ears swiveling at constant alert, looks toward the newcomer, but he makes no move to come closer to you. It occurs to you that one of the reasons you are feeling increasingly off-kilter is that you are so used to Sylus touching you, draping himself over you, maintaining at least a sliver of contact at all times, that this respectful distance makes you feel like he’s standing on the other side of a great canyon.

You turn to the person who is trying to join you at the bar. He’s handsome. Tall, muscular. Dressed nicely, with subtle style. Nothing like your boyfriend’s flashy jeweled necklaces and bold colors. His blue eyes are startling in contrast to his black hair.

“Hi,” he says, smiling a little ruefully, like he wanted to open with something better, but this is all he could think of. He knows that he’s handsome and can skate by on the bare minimum.

You smile faintly back at him, despite wishing Sylus would come closer. “Hi,” you say. You’re not going to do all the work, dammit. This guy wants something from you, not the other way around.

“You’ve caused quite a stir tonight with your… companion,” he says, dark eyebrows lifting, gaze darting to Sylus and back to you again. “It’s made for more entertainment than usual on nights like these.”

You lift an eyebrow in response. “Oh? How so?”

“Watching the sharks circling and getting into tussles about who will ultimately have your pet.”

Your stomach twists at hearing someone other than Sylus calling him a pet. He’s not your pet. He’s your partner. He’s a whole person—a complicated, vicious, funny, cruel, gentle man. You suddenly hate the appraising look this asshole is giving him. But you’re a professional, damn it. You smile wider, going for seductive, amused, haughty.

“No need to tussle,” you tilt your head. “It’s simple. Offer the highest bid, and congratulations, you’re the owner of a new, obedient, exotic pet.”

The fuckhead eyeing Sylus chuckles heartily, as if what you said isn’t disgusting but the height of rich-asshole humor.

“I like the idea of owning the obedience of such a big, powerful creature. Is he willing to do anything you ask?”

The way his gaze keeps flicking to Sylus, as if he can’t help himself, makes you want to remove his eyes with one of your knives and wear them as a warning to anyone else who dares look at Sylus with such depraved, cruel desire.

“Place the winning bid and maybe you’ll find out,” you say coyly, somehow controlling your homicidal urges. Barely.

“Something to consider.” He shakes his head, as if trying to break the spell Sylus seems to have over him. “In any case, after a while, all these events start blurring together. May I buy you a drink, to thank you for dumping new blood in the water?”

This guy is the pinnacle of rich guy ennui. He probably would enjoy dog fights or hunting other people for sport, anything to break through his privileged, seen-it-all, can-buy-it-all numbness. Despite sharing the same status of filthy rich elite, this piece of shit is everything that Sylus isn’t. You want to hunt him for sport. Your nerves are fraying, and it’s getting harder and harder to maintain your composure.

“Shame, I just ordered a drink.”

He leans closer, invades your space.

“Why not indulge? You can have two drinks. And after, perhaps you’d like to show me just what your cat can do… a sort of preview, if you will.” He leans even closer, tilts his head as if a new thought has just occurred to him. “Is there perhaps a possibility of bidding for the pair, instead of just the butler?”

You realize that he’s propositioning you as well as your catboy butler, but the fury you feel at the idea of using Sylus for this fuckhead’s viewing pleasure overrides even your indignation at the insinuation that you, too, are for sale.

Suddenly Sylus’s warmth is at your back and the effect is immediate. Your murderous rage settles inside of you. You turn to him, lift an eyebrow like the imperious owner you’re supposed to be, slightly irritated at your servant’s interruption of… whatever this asshole at the bar thinks he’s getting away with. “Speak,” you command, imitating the most imperious man you know. Sylus, as he has done the entire duration of your appearance in public on this ship, does not react at all to your obvious inside joke.

“My owner,” he purrs deferentially, dipping his head. “You asked that I escort you back to your cabin at 21:00 in order to properly prepare for the bidding.”

The asshole’s gaze drifts from Sylus to you and back again. “A possessive cat, I see. What will he do, when his owner abandons him to another?”

You shrug, as if you don’t want to pull this guy’s tongue out of his mouth and garrotte him with it.

“As I said, buy him and find out,” you breathe through the nausea, trying desperately to stay in character—you are the same ilk as this guy, here to pawn your broken, loyal manservant onto anyone who can afford him. “But he’s right. Thank you for the interesting … offer, but the auction is about to begin. Tick tock, tick tock.”

“You’re a very good salesperson,” he smirks, as if pleased with the idea of depriving Sylus of his beloved owner and seeing if he can bend him to his will. You can’t see why you ever thought him handsome at all. “A raincheck, then, on the drink, and perhaps your own company.”

You just lower your head slightly, barely suppressing the urge to put this man on the ground and punch his smug smile until he is permanently unrecognizable, and the intensity of your renewed desire to hurt him for daring to even look at Sylus has you reaching for Sylus’s arm for support. He tucks your hand into his elbow and leads you out of the lounge.

When you finally reach your first class cabin on this pretentious floating black market, however, you see the strain that his flawless behavior has placed on your miscreant boyfriend.

As soon as the door closes behind you, he growls, deep in his throat, and spins, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you more roughly than usual through the elegant sitting room—the place looks like the interior designer was trying to recreate the staterooms of the Titanic—to the bedroom. Without letting go of your wrist, he yanks the scarlet velvet duvet and crisp white sheets from the bed and dumps them on the floor. The ocean glitters under the bright moonlight outside the bedroom’s window, the salt scent strong. The bed successfully stripped, Sylus now tries to jerk you onto the mattress, but you dig your heels into the plush carpet, feet dragging because despite your own strength, you can’t match his. You jerk your wrist from his grasp and whirl on him. You are willing to die for him, but you aren’t going to let him manhandle you like this.

“What is wrong with you?” you demand, rubbing your wrist.

“If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed.” His voice is still calm, but his tail flicks angrily.

“If you still had your evol, I hope you wouldn’t use it on me when you’re this upset,” you glare at him.

He doesn’t respond, just begins to pace. Around the bed. Back into the sitting room. He veers into the bathroom and then returns to the bedroom. The anxious energy he’s giving off is palpable—you’ve never seen him this agitated in the entire time you’ve known him.

The longer he’s quiet, the more concerned you become. 

“Sylus?” you ask, softly. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m Sylus again? Not Mister fucking Whiskers?”

You stare at him. Your boyfriend, who is always up for teasing pet names and playful banter, is looking at you like he’s genuinely angry about the silly code name.

“Sylus—?”

His tail is thrashing back and forth as he continues to pace, ears flat against his hair. “Are you sure you’re interested in hearing how Mister Whiskers is doing now? You didn’t seem to be too interested when you were being fawned over by your suitors.”

You stare at him. At the tension he’s holding in his body, the wild movements of his tail.

“Sylus—”

“This was a boring plan to begin with, and now it’s even less interesting. You already have a mountain of gifts from my bidders—leave. Go through them to see if Snowy Owl has taken the bait so we can get this charade over with,” he snaps, effectively dismissing you. He sits on the side of the bed and puts his head in his hands.

With each harsh word, you feel your insides folding in on themselves. He hasn’t spoken to you like this since he held you captive when you first met. He promised he’d never treat you like that again, but you realize he never promised to never speak to you like that again.

Normally, how he’s talking to you—if it were any other person, you’d be out the door. Gone, ghosted. You speak to yourself cruelly enough every day in your own head, you don’t need that shit from other people. You’re even more shocked that it’s coming from Sylus, of all people. The Sylus who has cared for you so patiently, through all the time you’ve been together since that first auction. Who kills with his bare hands, but touches you with those same hands as if you’re made of glass. Until tonight.

You are tempted to run as the betrayal, confusion, and fear of the inevitable end course through you. To just stuff the gifts waiting for you on the sitting room’s coffee table into one of the big duffels you brought, move to another room, and wing the rest of the operation without Sylus. You can pose as a fucking waiter once you figure out Snowy Owl’s identity. You don’t need him for this mission. And you don’t need him in your fucking life, if this is his true self.

As you’re almost to the door leading to the hallway, reaching for the handle, you suddenly remember your promise to yourself, just a few nights ago—the night Sylus came to your place and you learned why he had gone silent for a whole week.

Your resolution that you wouldn’t give in to your fear at his expense anymore, that you would show him you care for him, just as he has done so for you through all of your time together. Even when he witnessed your worst moments, he did not walk away from you. He stayed, even as you pushed him away.

You think about how he was afraid for you to see him stripped of his power, as if you’d ever think him weak, and think less of him for something outside of his control. If I still had my evol, you’d be on the bed. How unnerving must it be for him to be in this shark’s tank without his ability to protect himself beyond his own body? It suddenly occurs to you that if he gets injured while his power is suppressed, he won’t heal like he normally does. The idea that he could get seriously hurt while here, helping you on a mission that has nothing to do with him, hurts a hundred times worse than the words he just snapped at you.

Weren’t you just furious with that fuck from the cocktail lounge for talking about Sylus like he was an object, instead of a person? Sylus is a human being. He’s not a god. He’s not perfect. He’s just a complicated man, a complicated man who hurt you with his harsh words tonight, but who has steadfastly shown how much he cares for you in the best way he knows how. Who could be expected to act normally, to be their best self, if one were to find oneself fundamentally changed, stripped of a lifetime of skill and ability, experiencing strange new urges, and to top it all off, thrown into a dangerous situation? 

You turn and walk back through the sitting room, to the bedroom where he’s sitting, head still in his hands. You stand in front of him.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach out, gently grip his chin, and lift his face.

He lets you, docile. His cat ears are drooping.

“Tell me,” you order.

He refuses to look at you. His tail swishes petulantly behind him. 

“Tell. Me.” You tighten your hold on his jaw.

His eyes flick to yours, but he keeps his face turned away. “Caracal’s hate water.”

You gaze into his beautiful eyes, fire-lit gems. “And a caracal is the type of cat that you’ve partly mutated into?”

He nods, just a little movement of his head.

“And I brought you onto a boat, surrounded by water.”

He finally turns his head to face  you, gazing at you but not responding.

“What else?” You relax your hold on his jaw, moving your palm to cup his cheek and bring up your other hand into his hair, running your fingers through the soft strands.

“Each person who shook your hand, who handed you their business card, who leaned too close to you… their stench is all over you.”

You run your fingers through his hair until you reach one of his cat ears and gently begin to rub it. He closes his eyes and he leans into your touch.

“What else?”

“If this plan goes sideways, I won’t be able to protect you.”

With each admission, his shoulders relax. His face softens. But there’s still something bothering him. You search his beautiful face. His tail flicks, flicks, flicks.

“What else, Sy?” You lean down, rest your cheek against his soft hair. His ears are velvet against your skin.

He reaches out and clasps the backs of your thighs to pull you closer to him and rests his forehead against your chest. “Even if it’s just for the mission, are you really okay with letting someone else have me?”

It takes you a moment, but when you realize what he’s saying, you’re floored. 

Sylus has spent the whole evening watching you laugh off multiple peoples’ offers to take over ownership of your catboy butler. He watched you tell that little bitch at the bar, more than once, to buy Sylus to find out how obedient he is, how he’ll react to being parted from his beloved owner. Each time, you responded in character, like the idea didn’t bother you at all. Because that’s what the mission required. 

You realize that this entire ordeal has made him insecure. He wants you to be jealous. He wants you to be possessive of him. The thought never once crossed your mind that he would be bothered by the cover you planned for this mission. He is always so self-assured, only hinting at flashes of jealousy in playful, dismissive terms. And yet he doesn’t want you to be okay with the idea of him being possessed by another, no matter how briefly, no matter how falsely.

You continue to pet him as you let everything he just admitted sink in. The water, other peoples’ scents on your body, his lack of power at the moment, your lack of jealousy at the mere idea that another would have him.

After all the times Sylus has comforted you, cared for you, solved problems for you, it’s now your turn to do the same for him.

You drop your hands and he looks back up at you with such raw longing that you almost can’t step away. But you must.

“Would you like to abort the mission?”

He looks at you in confusion. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is your job.”

You smile down at him helplessly. “Don’t you realize by now that you’re more important to me than my job?”

He sucks in a breath.

“How else could I be with the most wanted man on the planet?”

“The only reason I have been able to repress my instincts through this whole shitshow is reminding myself how important this mission is to you,” he breathes, closing his eyes.

“Your instincts?”

“You have no idea,” he says through clenched teeth. His tail is violently flicking again. You can’t bear to see him so distressed.

“Yes or no. Forget what you think I want. If it’s too much, we leave right now.”

Eyes still closed, ears still flattened to his head, he shakes his head no.

“Okay.” You turn, but he reaches out and grabs your wrist to stop you leaving. You put your hand over his. “Since I can’t remove the ship from the water, I’m just closing the window and the curtains so you don’t have to see it.”

He reluctantly releases your wrist. You do as you promised, and when you’re done you return to stand between his legs.

“What do you need to do about how I smell?”

You don’t have to repeat yourself. He grasps your wrist again, pulling your closer. He grabs the hem of your outfit and pulls, tugging it over your head, lifting your legs one by one to tear off your shoes, tossing everything into the farthest corner of the room, until you’re standing in front of him in your underwear. He then pulls you down onto the bed with him, rolling you under him. He presses his face into your neck and rubs, rubs, his tail wagging behind him, his ears brushing against your skin again, their softness making you want to grab them and pull, pull, the cuteness aggression difficult to contain. You satisfy yourself by running your hands through his hair, gripping slightly, tugging, releasing.

As he rubs his cheeks all over you, he pauses to lick your skin, runs his hands along your shoulders, your arms, your waist.

After a long time, his manic movements slow and he inhales deeply. “You have no idea how hard it was to resist the urge to piss on your shoes while you were talking to that bastard in the cocktail lounge.”

You freeze. “Piss… on my shoes?”

“Didn’t you know? Cats urinate to mark their territory,” he licks your skin again, purrs. “And you’re my territory, sweetheart.”

You don’t even know how to feel about his admission. “Well… I might be willing to die for you, but I draw the line at letting you pee on me. So thank you, for not giving in to your caracal urges.”

He pauses, lifts his head. “Don’t fucking say you’ll die, ever again,” he growls. “I forbid it.”

You laugh, a little breathlessly. You decide it’s not a good time to point out that you will, in fact, someday die. Probably sooner than the average human, with your job. So you just say “Okay.”

He looks mollified and his tail begins to swish playfully again. “So that’s a no on watersports, in the future?”

You scowl at him. “Just try to piss on me and see what happens.”

“That sounds like a challenge. And you know that’s like catnip to this big cat. Are you sure you aren’t actually interested in golden showers?”

All you can do is laugh, and pull him down to you, and kiss him so he’ll shut the fuck up about peeing on you.

After a few minutes of mauling him, you groan and pull away.

“If we don’t want this entire thing to be a waste, we need to check the contacts we made today and finish the mission before the auction is over.”

He rests his head against your shoulder. “I know, but I don’t want to get off you. No one can hurt you as long as you’re under me,” he grumbles.

You stare at the ceiling and run your hands through his hair again, fondling his cat ears. “I survived before I met you, because I’m a fucking badass. I’m strong enough for the both of us, especially for a covert mission like this. We go through the business cards and gifts, pinpoint Snowy Owl’s room, you distract them for ten minutes while I plant surveillance, we get the fuck out before the auction’s over.”

“You and I both know how quickly plans get fucked,” he murmurs into your skin.

“And you and I both know that I am skilled enough to unfuck it. And with you here, even without your evol, it’s going to be okay.”

His tail lifts, curls up your leg.

“Fine.” He rolls off of you reluctantly, and you immediately miss his weight. “But the reward for going along with your plan is now tripled.”

“You can have anything you want, when this is over,” you promise, sliding off the bed and gathering your clothes from the floor.

“Even a golden shower?”

You throw your shoe at him. He just catches it and laughs, relaxed again.

After you’re dressed, the two of you tear into the gifts people sent hoping to gain your favor and therefore an advantage in the auction for your catboy butler. Sylus, the spoiled creature that he is, tosses multiple priceless trinkets aside like they’re trash, complaining about being bored out of his mind. However, he bats at a feathered butt plug before realizing what he’s doing and then tosses it as well. The only other thing he expresses even a passing interest in is a little spray can with DOCTOR SLEEPYTIME printed on the side, with the caption reading, “A stalker’s new best friend! Never worry about your target waking up too early again! Ten fewer side effects than chloroform!” You squint at it. The legal disclaimers are a solid block of text underneath the caption. Apparently, one of the side effects that it still shares with chloroform is death. You don’t comment when you see Sylus slip it into the breast pocket of his tux, not even wanting to know what he has planned for it. Finally, you open a small box and realize that the weird little thing inside matches the description the Association provided you of Snowy Owl’s calling card.

“Got you,” you whisper triumphantly, pawing through the packaging to figure out which room it came from.

Sylus stands, prepared to play his part in this little ruse, but you stop him before he opens the door. “Wait a second,” you say, running to the bedroom, throwing open your luggage in the cabin’s closet, and pulling out what you had hastily prepared in anticipation of this mission.

You return to Sylus with the item hidden behind your back.

“You asked if I’m really okay with the idea of sending you to someone else.”

He just watches you in silence, ears twitching in curiosity, tail swishing behind him.

“Of course I’m not. You don’t know how badly I wanted to slit that fucker’s throat who talked about you like you’re not even a person. I feel sick at the idea of anyone else looking at you with anything less than respect and admiration, let alone as some kind of object to be owned. I can’t even stand the thought that I own you. You are wholly your own person, and I’m just happy that you want me by your side, and allow me to adore you.”

His tail swishes faster the longer you speak, but stills at your last sentence. “But you do own me. Body and soul.”

You swallow through the thickness in your throat. You’re not going to cry at his absurd, devoted answer.

“Then perhaps you will do me the honor of wearing this while we’re apart.” You show him the soft black leather collar. “It can only be placed on you, and taken off you, by a person whose pheromones match those of your owner. Your true owner.”

“So this was your trump card,” he murmurs, tail thwacking against the door so hard that the door vibrates.

You shrug. “You don’t have to wear it.”

He flattens his ears against his head. “Nonsense. Put it on me,” he commands imperiously.

You try to hide your smile, but probably fail. “In that case, I hope it will remind you that I am definitely not okay with sending you to someone else. But none of this is real, and when we’re off this boat, I’m never going to ask you to do something like this again.”

He reaches out and wraps his hand around your wrist. “How many times must we go over this? You can ask anything of me.”

“Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.”

Without waiting for his answer, you unclasp the collar and lift onto your tiptoes to thread it around his neck. He growls softly, in annoyance or exasperation, and sinks to his knees in front of you.

As always when Sylus kneels before you, you’re overcome with a sense of wrongness. But he seems to want to give this to you, to drive home the point that anything he has is yours for the taking. You can’t find it in yourself to refuse him by insisting that you could have reached his neck just fine without him having to kneel.

You lay the collar against his neck, thread the end through the buckle, and tighten it. His eyes are half-lidded, the glow of his irises spilling from between his eyelashes. He seems to be enjoying this so much that you tighten it just a little bit beyond what is necessary, just to see his reaction. He lets out a pathetic little gasp, and you loosen it, worried you’ve hurt him. But his chest expands and his ears droop, almost as if he’s disappointed. So you tighten it again. “Yes,” he breathes. 

You stand there, with this gorgeous, half-feral man at your feet, fingering the pendant of the collar. You couldn’t afford the platinum that you think Sylus deserves, so silver had to do. But you did splurge a little to have your initials engraved on the inner side of the pendant, so that it’s pressed against his skin where no one else can see it. Your little secret against his pulse.

“We need to get moving, Sy,” you whisper, regretfully.

He rises gracefully to his feet.

“If you want it taken off, just ask.”

He gives you a disdainful look, his only response a tsking sound on his tongue. He leans down, kisses you, once, hard, and then straightens. He turns, throws open the door, and disappears down the hallway.

The rest of the mission goes off without a hitch. When you arrive at Snowy Owl’s door, you pick the lock easily, slip into the empty room, leave a variety of tracking devices in their possessions, and slip out again unseen.

You return to your room, prepared to wait for Sylus, trying to suppress the worry that he’ll have to put up with yet another handsy asshole all because he doesn't want to jeopardize your mission.

However, when you open the door, you find your big, beautiful cat already lounging on one of the sitting room’s ornate love seats, examining his nails and humming leisurely.

At his feet is the asshole from the cocktail lounge,  bound, gagged, and clearly roughed up, his bloody nose dripping into the fabric of his mouth gag.

“The fuck, Sylus?” you ask.

Sylus rolls his head to look at you, lovely eyes glowing in the light of the tiffany lamps on the tables on either side of the love seat.

“I brought a gift for my owner,” he says, ears twitching between you and the asshole who started to struggle at your entrance, making little pleading whimpering noises. “I could tell how much you hated this waste of oxygen the whole time you had to endure his attention at the bar.”

“A… gift?” you repeat.

“You have no idea the self control it took to suppress the instinct to bring him to you as a corpse, as nature intended, when I was done playing with him. But I assumed that would make my owner mad,” he says languidly, but his tail is flicking in agitation.

“Okay,” you draw out the word, trying to process this… gift. “And Snowy Owl?”

“Passed out in a janitor’s closet in the ship’s casino,” he shrugs. “Doctor Sleepytime is true to its claims. A great improvement over chloroform,” he drawls. “I’ll have to leave a good review on their website.”

Relief floods through you. You’re done. The mission is almost complete. All that’s left is to get the fuck off this floating cesspool.

“Thank you,” you murmur. But you’re still left with the problem of what to do with Sylus’s ‘gift.’ “But Sy, what the fuck am I supposed to with… this.” You can’t help but sneer a little at the asshole still struggling on the ground.

“Whatever you want, my heart,” Sylus responds. “He’s wanted in Linkon City by at least three different agencies. But we could just dump him over the railing and be done with it. In fact, I’d prefer that,” he says, perking up.

You march over to him and slip a finger under his collar.

“No! Bad kitty,” you scold, pulling a little on the leather, intending to simply tease him for his outrageous suggestion.

Sylus just gasps, eyes going half lidded again. You stop in surprise at the clear pleasure your rough treatment is causing him, but he wraps his hand around your wrist and moves your hand again, tightening the collar against his neck once more.

“If I’m a bad kitty, you better keep a tight hold on me to make sure I don’t drag home any other unwelcome surprises,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Oh?” You marvel at how lovely he looks, cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, breathing hard. “Maybe my bad kitty needs to be punished, so he stops suggesting I murder wanted criminals instead of bringing them to justice like a professional.”

The man on the floor who is forced to witness this flirtation struggles harder, his whimpers ranging from disgusted to terrified. You ignore him.

“Oh nooo,” Sylus says, voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he narrows his eyes. “You better make good on your promise. Or are you just full of empty threats?”

You lean down and press the heel of your hand onto his hard cock straining against his zipper, hard. He moans, eyelashes fluttering.

“Get us to the getaway boat without causing a scene and you’ll find out what I’m full of. Or what I’m about to be full of, if you’re a good kitty for me,” you breathe into his ear.

The man on the floor gags a little.

Sylus stands, lifting you in one arm, grabbing a full duffel bag you hadn’t noticed with the other.

“What’s that?”

“Your bad kitty helped himself to a cat treat,” he purrs.

“What kind of souvenir?”

“The loud, prone-to-exploding-if-you-shake-it-too-hard-kind.” He grins at you, canines flashing.

You can’t help yourself. You burst out laughing.

It may have started with trouncing your crimelord boyfriend at kitty cards, but it ended with you learning how to better care for your catboy boyfriend. It also ended with the arrest of both Snowy Owl and the poor bastard who had to listen to you 'punish' said boyfriend from inside the duffel bag that he was stuffed in after Sylus cut the engine of the getaway boat halfway to your destination, too impatient to wait till you both got home to claim part of his reward for being such a good, good kitty.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Mortal Kombat 1 Intro Dialogues

a/n: some slightly flirty dialogues for suggested characters from Mortal Kombat 1 (and 11), reader is a blood mage, adjacent to "Unpunishable"

Warnings: Suggestive Language, Obscure References, Poor Attempts at Comedy

Shang Tsung

Shang Tsung: Liu Kang is squandering your potential.

Reader: I trust his judgement completely.

Shang Tsung: You were made for so much more.

...

Reader: You want me to make a deal with the Devil.

Shang Tsung: All I ask in return, is your soul.

Reader: It's too high a price!

...

Shang Tsung: I lay before you my eternal heart...

Reader: There is no love with you, only ownership.

Shang Tsung: I dearly love all of my possessions.

...

Reader: I must believe there's good even in the darkest corners of the world

Shang Tsung: Finding it in me might turn out to be a futile fight

Reader: I don't give up easily, Shang Tsung

...

Shang Tsung: Have you ever thought to say "stop"? "If you love me, you would stop?"

Reader: Not in a thousand years.

Shang Tsung: I see now, why we're destined for each other

...

Reader: The things you've been doing in your laboratories are vile

Shang Tsung: I've used the same magic, as the one coursing through your veins

Reader: Liar!

Liu Kang

Liu Kang: Empress Sindel has approved your application to study Outworld's medicine.

Reader: I'm honored by her trust.

Liu Kang: You'll do a splendid job as Earthrealm's ambassador.

...

Reader: I fear the pull of darkness overpowering me.

Liu Kang: I will guide you, until your mind is at peace.

Reader: What if it never ends?

...

Liu Kang: In the previous timeline, you were my close friend and adversary.

Reader: And in this timeline?

Liu Kang: I'm inclined to say the same.

...

Reader: Doesn't it get lonely, being a God?

Liu Kang: I'm devoted to protecting Earthrealm and its people.

Reader: You didn't answer my question.

...

Liu Kang: Beware Shang Tsung's honeyed words.

Reader: You've said we were destined for each other in all timelines.

Liu Kang: And your union always leads to your suffering.

...

Reader: You knew I'd reject Shang Tsung's offer? Fight him every step of the way?

Liu Kang: I had faith, you would make the right choice

Reader: Honestly, do you have music playing in your head when you say garbage like that

Johnny Cage

Johnny: Let me just say, there's no other place I would rather be, than right here with you right now.

Reader: I can change that very easily.

Johnny: Why so serious, sweet cheeks?

...

Reader: No, Johnny, I won't be playing in any of your movies, ever.

Johnny: Can I ask why?

Reader: Why I don't want the job that makes your brain explode?

...

Johnny: You might wanna reconsider your rendezvous with the Sorcerer.

Reader: Which one?

Johnny: Oh, you are a bad woman.

...

Reader: Don't be such a baby, it's just a scrap.

Johnny: And I need a hot nurse to patch it up.

Reader: Why do I even… You're impossible.

...

Johnny: You have experience with emotionally fragile men, right?

Reader: You're self-aware today.

Johnny: I was talking about Kung Lao...

...

Reader: Okay, Ninja Priest was actually kinda good.

Johnny: YES! I knew you had a thing for the clergy.

Reader: That's not what I... You're such an ass!

Kung Lao

Reader: Do you think Liu Kang has destined us to become friends?

Kung Lao: Obviously, I'd never choose this for myself.

Reader: He could've made you less of twat...

...

Kung Lao: It's way too dangerous for you to travel Outworld alone.

Reader: I don't need a babysitter, Kung Lao.

Kung Lao: Prove it, then.

...

Reader: If you buy me dinner at Madame Bo's, I'll heal your arm.

Kung Lao: I see your time with Shang Tsung is rubbing off on you.

Reader: See, now I gotta hurt ya.

...

Kung Lao: How does it feel, being in the center of the Snake's attention.

Reader: Fuck you man, I didn't ask for this.

Kung Lao: Not good then.

...

Reader: Come on, I paid for dinner last time.

Kung Lao: I'll be happy to pay... Once you beat me.

Reader: You can be an ass sometimes, you know that?

...

Kung Lao: You know I only meant it as a joke, right?

Reader: Let me show you just how funny I think you are

Kung Lao: Bring it on, Nurse.

Bi-Han

Reader: You betrayed everything your clan stood for.

Bi-Han: You have no moral high-ground here, Healer.

Reader: I don't need it.

...

Bi-Han: Join the Lin Kuei, and unleash your true power.

Reader: Not while they're under your command, traitor.

Bi-Han: Your pride will be your downfall.

...

Reader: I can feel your blood run cold through your body...

Bi-Han: It will boil while I destroy you.

Reader: You'll freeze to death, then.

...

Bi-Han: Your aversion to power is your greatest flaw.

Reader: Should I follow your lead, then, and betray all I love for a promise of greatness?

Bi-Han: Is it wrong to want more?

...

Reader: Maybe I can beat some sense into you…

Bi-Han: I will crush you, little girl.

Reader: Great, a quip about my height, so original.

...

Bi-Han: We meet again, Blood Mage.

Reader: I knew you couldn't stay away, Bi-Han.

Bi-Han: Let's see if your training has progressed.

Erron Black

(am i the only one devastated he wasn't included in mk1?)

Erron: What's a pretty lookin' thing like you doin' in a place like this?

Reader: Holy shit, you even talk like a cowboy!

Erron: …Nevermind.

...

Reader: If I win, I get to wear the hat.

Erron: You'd look mighty fine in it, I'd wager.

Reader: Don't you pull your punches on me now, Black.

...

Erron: There's quite the price on your head, sweetheart.

Reader: And you'll do everything to collect it, right?

Erron: I could be persuaded against it, with the right motivation...

...

Reader: Do you flirt with all your targets?

Erron: Only pretty little ones, like you, girlie.

Reader: Well then, let's dance, Cowboy.

...

Erron: I wouldn't mind giving you a ride around town, little lady.

Reader: I'd rather beat you where you stand.

Erron: Be still, my beating heart.

...

Reader: I know who sent you.

Erron: Someone who's eager to get their hands back on you.

Reader: You can both keep them to yourself.

[decagondice]

༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓ 

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone. 

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

[midnight-mourning]

DCA Promptober Day 20: Trapped

Finally, the last part of the mini-series. Hope you enjoy, she's a doozy

Content warning: depictions of blood, injury, and death, reader discresion is advised

Word Count: 2001

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"Come on Tommy, don't be stupid, don't be stupid," You're pacing through the Plex, checking every odd and end location you can think of for where this kid might be. 

Fourteen minutes.

He's moving back toward the security office, yes, but where he started from you have no idea. Furthermore, you can't risk going back there as you've no doubt Moon's prowling around trying to get him. You also don't think it's wise to let the bot know directly that you were flat out rejecting his offer. 

You duck behind another tall plant, eyes scanning across the atrium for any sign of life, "Okay, if I were a teenager, where would I hide?"

Fazerblast? No, too obvious. West arcade? Too open, you'll give him credit where it's due and argue that he's smarter than that. Mazercise was a possibility, it was just a matter of getting there. You had no idea if the other animatronics were also feeling murderous tonight and you'd really rather not find out. Shit, if you had Garcia with you maybe this wouldn't be so hard-

A scream pierces through the Plex, sending fear shooting straight to your core. 

Your feet move before you can stop them, rushing toward the sound without any hesitation. 

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," You start to chant until you come upon the scene of the crime and-

It's not Tom.

One of the janitors is being held up by their neck, blood covered hands desperately grabbing at the clawed hand holding them high above the night-themed attendant. You can only snap out of it when Moon's other hand suddenly plunges forward and-You close your eyes, flinching at the squelch you here before a thud resounds on the ground. 

You keep your eyes close, backing further behind the statue you were hiding behind, until you finally hear bells fade off into the distance. 

Ten minutes.

You peel them open, one after the other, and dare to observe the carnage just briefly. 

Doing so proves useful, as attached to the-most definitely dead-janitor's hip is a walkie talkie. You scan the atrium quickly, see nothing, and move swiftly. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," You whisper as you quickly snatch up the radio from the bloodied corpse. 

Once you have it you bolt back into a darkened corner, turning the channel to the guard frequency.

You speak low, cautious, "Tom, you there?"

"H-here," He whispers back, sounding on edge but, excited, "I, I made it back into the office! Where are you? The bots are going frickin' crazy tonight! We gotta find the others and get out of here, or, or something," You hear him jamming buttons on the control panel, "Why can't I get the front doors to open, or or call the cops, or just anything?"

Relief washes over you, but only briefly. Moon might have been distracted but it hadn't been for long. Your friend's not in the clear yet, "Listen. Lock down the office. If you hear anything in the vents, shut them immediately. But not too long, the stupid power's finicky so you'll need to conserve it. Turn out the lights and the cameras if you need to. Someone's probably flipped the circuit for the door access. I'm gonna try and get them open for you. Once I do, you time it right and get the hell out of dodge, got it?"

"You, you're talking like you aren't coming with," Tom's laugh is nervous, "Why are you talking like you aren't leaving?"

You sigh, looking up at the ceiling and biting your lip. You still had eight minutes. You could save yourself instead. The thought passes by as quickly as it arrived. To your credit, nobody really wants to die, it just happens. And if it's between you and someone else, you'll let it be you.

You'll make sure it's you.

You press on the talk button to the radio, "'Cause I'm not, Tom. Not right this second anyway. I'll worry about me, you worry about you, alright? And don't argue with me about it, we don't have the time for that."

"I-"

"Tom." You hate to be stern, but you will be.

He sighs, it's shaky, "Okay."

"I'll let you know when I'm at the circuit box. Stay safe. Good luck."

"Good luck."

Seven minutes.

It doesn't take long to get to your destination, you know the path well. Just being direct and taking the elevator down also helps. Does fuck all to steel your nerves though. You're scared, you're downright terrified. Dying wasn't on your to-do list for tonight. No, you were planning to spend the night teasing Rhoades and Connor about the Grizzlies game while halfheartedly helping Jenson beat them at ping-pong.

You just don't understand. Was there something that you're missing? Some piece to the puzzle that made all of this make sense. You've gone over it again and again in your head, but you can't find an answer. You can't find-

Three minutes.

A noise down the hallway becomes noticeable to your ears. It sounds like, you strain a bit, Garcia?

You approach slowly, his words becoming clearer as you slink down the hall, keeping a look out for any movement that could result in a deadly outcome. 

His voice is coming from the closet you know the circuit breaker is in. You can make out what he's saying when you're at the crossroads of the two hallways, about ten feet away. 

"Help... Please," He wheezes, then coughs, "Anybody? Somebody..."

You take a step forward and peek down both ends of the hall intersecting where you've come from. It's dark. No signs of life. Or anything else for that matter. 

Still, armed with your flashlight-you'd lost the taser, though you doubt it'd have been much use anyhow-you tip toe over to the door, and pull it open.

"Garcia you're lucky I'm scared of my mind, or I'd be giving you hell right about now-"

He's dead.

One minute.

His body is slouched against the wall, arms splayed out beside him not unlike the bloodstains behind him. There's red running down his head and additionally soaking through his shirt. Laying neatly on his chest and still squeaky clean is his walkie, which repeats that same line over and over again.

A trick.

Time's up.

"That was supposed to lure in someone else, not you, Little Star."

You turn around slowly, thinking that it buys you time you don't have. 

Even slouched over Moon towers over you. Clawed, stained hands scrape against the ground. In this level of darkness you can only see the deep red glow of his eyes. He tilts his head. 

You swallow, "Guess it didn't work then, huh?"

"I gave you another chance," He shifts just a little closer, you take a step back, "You wasted it. Why?"

"I'm a good person?" You try.

Moon chuckles, it turns dark quickly, "You think you're funny, is that it?"

"Maybe?" You squeak.

He sudden looms closer, now eye to eye with you and mere inches away, snarling, "You don't have any right."

You put your hands up, shying away. 

The bot shifts back, tone still unhappy but not as angry, "You don't have any right at all. Not after what you did."

"I'm sorry but I don't-"

You feel a sharp talon on the front of your chest. Not poking through your shirt. Not yet.

"You made a promise. And you didn't keep it."

You're taken back to several months ago. Out on a typical patrol, nothing exciting. You're about to check the Daycare off your mental list when a pair of red eyes greets you on the wall. 

Ah, him again. You didn't necessarily have a problem with the Daycare Attendant. But much like anyone else you felt either one of them were a bit, unnerving. The naptime attendant seemed to always take particular interest in you while you were on patrol. You'd caught him staring from afar several times, never really approaching say for once in a blue moon. And only to very briefly say hello before hiding away again. 

He must be feeling a bit bolder today. 

You raise your hand in greeting, easy smile on your face, "Evening, Moon."

"Hello," For a such a tall bot, he sometimes spoke so small.

"What're you up to this evening?" Your hands slink into your pockets, "Besides the usual, that is."

He shifts his crouch slightly, bells jingling, "Just, the usual, I suppose."

"Sounds like you need something to spice up your time then. You ever play any games in there?" You nod your head to the Daycare.

He shakes his head slowly, "Not me. Only naps."

You click your tongue, trying your best to not let the pity show, "Bummer. Say, maybe we could do something together sometime."

"Really?"

"Sure," You shrug, "Doesn't have to be a game, we could do whatever you'd like. I promise it'll be fun." 

Knowing how shy he is you doubt he'll actually take you up on that offer. He'll probably forget about it by tomorrow, that's how these machines work, right?

"Do you mean it?" His voice is raspy, but the tone is soft, shy. Cute, even.

You smile, "You bet. Sometime soon, how's that?"

"O-okay."

You give a salute, walking off, "I'll see you later then, Moon-man."

"Goodbye."

Back to now, eyes wide as you stare up at the Attendant with realization.

You didn't just agree to play a game. 

You'd promised a date.

And you'd completely forgotten about it, like a complete and utter jerk.

"Oh, Moon. I didn't," You stop, frowning, "I wasn't trying to-"

"Exactly, you didn't try. You lied. And I despise liars."

He's moving, you need to move. You need to think. Come on. Don't let it all be in vein. 

Your hand acts on its own, swinging upwards with your flashlight in hand and flipping it on. Moon yelps. And while he's blinded you take a slight step back and send a roundhouse kick straight into his faceplate. 

It hurts like hell, but it causes him to stumble backwards. You quickly turn, open the breaker box, and flip the switch. 

Spinning back around, you see Moon's still recovering, you dodge past his blind swinging claws and blot down the hallway. 

"Doors are open. Don't know how long that'll last. See you on the other side, Tom."

Back at the closet, you hear Moon growl out his irritation before taking off after you. And by the sounds of it, is gaining fast. 

Turn the corner, you're not trying to outrun him, just keep him distracted long enough for your coworker to escape. 

Soon enough, you find yourself in a similar predicament to earlier.

You're grabbed and in trying to right yourself slam into the wall, this one doing you in. You hiss at the pain that shoots up your shoulder, which is on fire, you think you might've dislocated it in your rush. 

Moon's hand is still on you, and while his grip is firm, it's not tight. Slowly, he uses both hands and guides you down the wall as you lay back against it. 

Your breathing is heavy as you stare up at the ceiling, out of breath and out of time. 

"Just do it already," You gasp out, "We both know you want to. And I can't say I don't totally deserve it."

You hear a few clicks and wait for your end. 

But when it doesn't come, you look back down, face to face with the bot again. 

His head is tilted to the side. Observing you. 

Once more, you find Moon's hand gripping your chin, he chuckles, "Silly Star, what's the fun in that?"

You pause, not quite understanding what he's saying. 

"You said we could do whatever I'd like, right?" His faceplate spins, "So we're going to do what I'd. Like."

The reality of the situation starts to set in for you.

You're trapped. 

And you think that may be worse than death. 

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If you are physically incapable of roundhouse kicking (as am I) guess what? doesn't matter, you gained the ability for a split second for the purpose of this story. Anywho, virus moon! Or at least, a specific version of virus moon (wink wink nudge nudge). This concludes our little mini-series in the prompts. Twas a good bit of fun, but there are others to write and so, I'll be off. Link to the masterlist is here if you've missed any, thanks for reading!!

[taylor-swift-imagines]

Dedication

Pairing: Taylor Swift x (female) reader

Warnings: None

Requested: @penguinkirby

Request:

Hi ,newcomer here . I have this idea where Taylor realizes she's Inlove with the reader but she's unsure if the reader likes her back so she just makes a song about it and the reader picks up on it ,you can decide what happens next but please make it fluff my heart can't handle angst . Take as much time as you need 😊

***

Taylor Swift.

You would be the only one who would sit with her during lunch period back in high school when the mean girls wouldn’t, it was basically everyone that refused to sit with her or even try to be her friend.

But you.. you were different.

You befriended Taylor without question and now, Taylor was head over heals for you. It took a while for Taylor to realize she had fallen in love with you, it wasn’t anything new but the fact this was the first relationship she would have with a woman is a new thing for her. In a relationship with a gorgeous woman such as yourself, she would give the world to have that with you. However, Taylor quickly comes to terms of the fact to accepting these feelings would be hard, but she went ahead and did so, she wanted to be by your side.

It was the fear of rejection that had her stuck on cold feet. Taylor was scared of coming forward with the absolute truth of her feelings on you, she’s been through too many heartbreaks and doesn’t want to go through another one so soon. Taylor was scared shitless as she was unsure of how to accept them nor to approach them properly without anyone getting hurt. Right now, you both remain in the friend zone and things were better than ever, the friendship meant a lot to the two of you. Taylor wanted more than friendship, but if she had said something about or try to confess, the friendship very well could be over on that note and Taylor couldn’t stand the thought of losing you so she kept quiet. It was possible you liked her, too.

She was right about that.

Taylor was always kind to you and to everyone around. But you most of all, she treated you slightly differently than others by giving you access to better privileges and it drew others to envy you for it.

Unlike most people, you never took pride in it selflessly, rather, you put your gratitude into it and that’s what earned you Taylor’s respect and trust. While Taylor ponders this, an idea had come to light and that idea was to write a song about it as if she was talking to you directly of how she feels. The song would be dedicated to you of course! Taylor honestly didn’t know how she should begin on coming up with the lyrics, but when she saw you linking arms with Selena at a party the three of you attended, she couldn’t help but feel hurt and thought she was close to falling apart in front of everyone, but she didn’t. Taylor continued on with a plan to write something while feeling hurt at the same time of the fact of you and Selena being a couple. What Taylor doesn’t know is that Selena had nothing to do with your love life, for you, it was all about Taylor.

Although you both aren’t together quite yet, but it will come soon.

You had feelings for Taylor you couldn’t describe, not even “I love you to the moon and back” was enough to describe how you feel about her. The feelings were for Taylor only, but on another note, you picked up in some of the little hints she would drop from time to time of the fact that she liked you. However, you didn’t acknowledge them at first because you didn’t want to be wrong if that wasn’t the case. It would save you both the humiliation, so you kept your mouth shut and remained silent as time goes by. At the next party, you make arrangements for Selena to pick you up and you would meet Taylor there. As you walk in, you spot Taylor in a corner with a notepad in hand, most likely writing new lyrics and so you made your way to her with your usual cheery greeting and smile.

You glanced down to see some scribbled words where Taylor made mistakes before looking back up at her to ask if you could have a look at them. Taylor held the notepad to her chest, declining your request and goes into explain that they’re lyrics for her newest album being recorded. The next thing Taylor says is she was wanting it to be a surprise for everyone and that included you.

“Come on, just a peek? Please?”

“But that would ruin the surprise, (Y/n).”

“Well, you could still show me and I’ll act surprised.”

Taylor chuckles before continuing.

“You’re such a schemer, (Y/n). I’m sorry, honey but you’re gonna have to wait like everyone else.”

——

Taylor has recently released Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) and you watch among the audience as she was about to sing some of the songs from that album.

The crowd was cheering loudly, chanting Taylor’s name, and continues to applaud for her appearance on stage. She took a massive boost out of that as the adrenaline pumped in her veins grew stronger as she was now ready to start the show. Taylor makes an impressive speech about knowing you liked someone but couldn’t gather the courage quite yet as you cold feet in fear of misleading a friendship into something much more.

“Years ago, I wrote this song you may have heard of it, this next song is called Enchanted (my version).”

The audience erupts again as the song begins to fill everyone’s ears.

It was a beautiful song.

“There I was again tonight

Forcing laughter, faking smiles

Same old tired, lonely place

Walls of insincerity, shifting eyes and vacancy

Vanished when I saw your face

All I can say is, it was enchanting to meet you

Your eyes whispered, "Have we met?"

'Cross the room your silhouette

Starts to make its way to me

The playful conversation starts

Counter all your quick remarks

Like passing notes in secrecy

And it was enchanting to meet you

All I can say is, I was enchanted to meet you

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

The lingering question kept me up

2 AM, who do you love?

I wonder 'til I'm wide awake

And now I'm pacing back and forth

Wishing you were at my door

I'd open up and you would say, "Hey"

It was enchanting to meet you

All I know is, I was enchanted to meet you

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

That this night is flawless, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, dancing around all alone

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

This is me praying that

This was the very first page

Not where the story line ends

My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again

These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon

I was enchanted to meet you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you

This night is sparkling, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

This night is flawless, don't you let it go

I'm wonderstruck, dancing around all alone

I'll spend forever wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

Please don't be in love with someone else

Please don't have somebody waiting on you.”

You swayed back and forth, picking up on some of the lyrics that seemed to be directed towards you.

If that was it, you were truly flattered as you felt the same for her. But you were too shy to approach her with it. After the show, Taylor invited you out for a drink and you accepted. You were both having a great time, and her asking what you had thought of “Enchanted” caught you a bit off guard. Enchanted was about you, and you knew it but you didn’t want to be the one to see it.

“Taylor, you know I truly loved every minute of it. I absolutely loved it and I’m very proud of you of your accomplishments.”

“What did you think of Enchanted?”

“I think it’s a beautiful song, and that you nailed the song on stage tonight.”

Taylor smiles.

“Well, there’s more to it…” she begins.

“Yeah? What’s that?” you quirked an eyebrow out of curiosity.

“That song, Enchanted, it’s about you. (Y/n), I can’t hold back much longer and need to tell you this now before I push it behind me.”

“You can tell me.”

“I know that you’re already in a relationship with Selena, but I wanted you to know that I have those same kind of feelings towards you. I love you, (Y/n).”

“Taylor…”

“You don’t have to say it back, I just wanted you to know.”

You give a chuckle in return.

“What is it?”

“Taylor, I’m not going out with Selena. We’re just friends, I promise you that. I truly do. Now I have to be honest about something as well.”

Taylor nods for you to go on.

“I like- love you, too. I have for quite sometime now.”

“You’re not just saying this?”

“No, I truly mean it.”

After confessing, your lips were just inches apart from each other and Taylor was the one to have closed the lingering gap.

You kissed back and hummed in approval, wanting more of her. Taylor pulls away so you both can catch a breath. Taylor had just become your first kiss and you couldn’t ask for anyone better. Taylor was the one, she was it, she was your soulmate.

“Does this mean-“ you begin, only to be silenced by Taylor’s lips once again.

“Hell yeah it does.”

You loved that answer nearly more than love itself.

Because it was Taylor’s voice. You were both together now and that was all that mattered now and the future ahead.

Neither of you couldn’t wait.

***

Requests: open

@taylor-swift-imagines

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter four

live to rise series

four: where the light won't find you

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 4.3k

summary: After the Mandalorian is removed from your barrack and you are given a new assignment, you see him fight for the first time.

chapter warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, rape/non-con (NOT involving reader or Din but they are witness to it), implied physical abuse, near-death encounter, mando fic tropes galore

Please heed the series and chapter warnings.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Reassigned. Not terminated. Reassigned. Your hand rests on your heaving chest as you try to settle from the surprise of it all. 

The Mandalorian’s been sponsored. 

You hadn’t thought it possible; his price was supposedly astronomical. This person must be obscenely rich. 

And then your heart drops further. This is why you shouldn’t have gotten so close. Yes, you’d rather have him leave your barracks alive than dead, but you can’t help the wave of sorrow that crests. You had enjoyed his company immensely, even dismissing the feelings you weren’t acknowledging. 

It’s not like you didn’t treat each parting as potentially permanent anyway, but sometimes, with your long-term residents, you got a little too comfortable. 

You pack up the bedding hastily and head toward Cresh. You know he won’t still be there, you tell yourself, you’re just going to get the cell turned over as soon as possible. 

It hurts a little to find it empty, anyway. 

Cresh goes through three more C-5s before you hear about the Mandalorian again.

“How did you deal with him?” Hali asks you one night after the attendants have shared the day’s news. 

“With who?” you ask, even though there’s no one else she could mean.

“That Mandalorian. He was so gruff and rude. I’m the fifth attendant he’s rejected, and it’s making everyone on edge. Like there’s something wrong with us .”

You shrug it off. “He’s just guarded. He probably doesn’t want someone in his space.” 

“Yeah, well,” she grumbles. “It’s not like we want to be in his space.”

“Has anyone explained that to him?”

“I tried to,” she says. “But it’s like he wouldn’t even listen to me.”

Cold clarity finds you with your lips parted and eyes wide. You can’t tell her. But your stomach sinks. The design of those cells puts him at the back of the chamber. If they’re being quiet, from fear or otherwise, he can’t hear them. 

They come for you the next day. Two guards. The fear when they beckon you is almost enough to bring you to your knees. 

The only reason you don’t panic completely is because they don’t bind you. They just march you between them to the upper levels. 

When you reach the lounge, they shove you through the door, and you stumble a little. 

“This is the girl, as requested, Madame, but we really can’t spare her from her duties,” says one of the commanders. You don’t know his name; the officers never come downstairs. 

“If she’s the only attendant he’ll accept, you don’t have a choice. Or am I paying these frankly extortionary caretaking fees for nothing?”

You stiffen, all nerves sparking on high alert. 

The commander stammers a little, losing his composure when he realizes credits are on the line.  

“I can handle both, Commander, I swear," you say, immediately wishing you hadn't.

The Mandalorian's sponsor turns slowly, a thin eyebrow arched. You figure you’re already in for it for speaking out of turn, so you clench your jaw and meet her eyes.

She’s petite, but there’s an undeniable aura of danger pouring from her. Her dark eyes are cold, and her plum lips narrowed. Her clothing is intricate and expensive in the way of the truly wealthy—it’s not dripping with jewels or gold; it’s quality fabric tailored immaculately, with delicate embroidery creating striking and flattering designs. She does wear jewelry, but it’s subtle and almost assuredly custom. 

“Why you?” she says.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I was his barrack caretaker.” 

She hums and blatantly looks you up and down, circling you like a nexu. You keep your head up and force yourself not to follow her with your eyes. To let her prowl and remain uncowed. 

It’s unbecoming of a servant, you know. But you want her to know you can handle him, that you won’t be intimated and manipulated by the infamous Mandalorian.

When she comes back around, she has a pleased, sharp grin. Turning to the commander, she crosses her arms. 

“Make it happen, or I’ll withdraw my sponsorship.” 

“Yes, Madame,” he says. 

You don’t want to leave the barracks. Not Cresh and not the servant’s quarters. It doesn’t really hit you until you hug Eli and realize you’ll barely see him anymore. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles when you say as much. “You’re going to come by and report, right?”

You nod, sniffling into his tunic. “I will.”

He puts his hands on your shoulders. “This is a good thing. You’ll have better… everything. And you said you trust him, right?”

“I think so,” you say. 

“C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says. 

You shove his shoulder. “You just want to see what it’s like inside.”

“Well, duh,” he shoves you back. 

He only gets to peek in, of course. But he still plays it up to get a smile from you. “This is kriffing wizard,” he teases. “You get your own fresher? Practically Canto Bight.”

But you’re not really seeing it through the same lens. Because your new quarters are in the Mandalorian’s cell. There’s a barred gate between you, but your cot is still behind the solid durasteel door, same as his. 

Eli sees the fear on your face. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “It’s not locked for you. Your badge will always open it.”

He sets your bag down on the small cot and hugs you again. “You know where to find me.”

“I will,” you say. You don’t catch the look he gives Mando over your shoulder. 

You sit down on the cot when Eli leaves, more unmoored here than you’ve been in years. You let it sit, ugly and misshapen in your chest, before steeling your focus. 

“Do you have everything you need?” you say. 

“I think so,” he says. 

“Okay,” you say, and silence resettles. It’s strange to feel so uncertain around him again. “I’ll go retrieve your dinner.” 

“Do you eat here as well?” he asks. 

“If you wish,” you say. Your hands are folded together and wrapped up in the top apron layer of your skirts. 

“I don’t want to disrupt your routine,” he says. 

“I’m here to attend to you,” you remind him, feeling a little frustrated by all the things unsaid. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s—it’s nothing,” you say and sigh. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He’s almost relieved when you only bring one tray. Everything about this has been chaotic and messy. But it’s a sacrifice that has to be made. 

You retrieve his tray when you return from dining with the others, but this time, you come back to him after. The lights are out, and you think he might be asleep already, so you duck into the fresher from your side of the bars and wash up for the night. 

You settle onto your cot, almost grateful that it’s not any more comfortable than your old one. It’s strange, without the shuffling and snoring of your peers. 

And then it starts. A horribly unmistakable sound from the cell next door. You hope you’re wrong. You pray you’re wrong. 

You’re not. 

You sit up, fingers digging into your knees, and eyes on the ground. 

You can’t see into the cells around you, but you can certainly hear your neighboring attendant’s screams and cries. 

They’re begging and pleading, but no one will help them. It’s the champion’s right. The attendants must serve every request unless it goes against arena rules. 

Very few things do. 

It’s not that you’re afraid of the Mandalorian. It’s more like you’re just afraid. But he’s done nothing to lose your trust, so you try not to flinch when he comes near the bars between his cell and your chamber. 

While you manage not to, you do flinch each time the noises intensify or change. The sound of skin against skin is constant, but some are more obviously violent, emphasized by the nauseating responses. 

“Hey,” he says. “Come here.”

You’re trembling a little, but you tense and try to hold steady as you stand and approach him. The gate is not locked. It only locks when you access the main door, so that you may come and go without releasing him. 

If you’re inside? All he has to do is push. 

But he doesn’t. “Don’t listen,” he says. “Cover your ears if you have to.”

“I’m fine,” you say. 

He doesn’t quite catch it, but he can wager a solid guess from your expression. He sighs. “You can look at me, you know,” he says. “You’ll see me eventually.”

“I might be able to avoid it,” you say. 

“I appreciate it,” he says. “But this is all going to be easier if you don’t have to be trying so hard.” 

“It’s okay. I don’t want to take anything from you.”

“I’m asking you to. I don’t want the first time you see my face to be in the arena.” 

You bite your lip. It makes sense. “You’re sure?”

“I am.” 

And you can’t really argue. Not because you’re supposed to do what he says but because you get it. He’s right; you will see him in the arena. But he can control how it happens this way. It doesn’t have to be another thing they just take. 

So you look. 

Your eyes scan his face like they always do when you see one of your fighters for the first time. Searing it in so you can find it later in the pigments. 

You won’t paint him, though. Not like this.

He holds steady eye contact. You feel like he’s waiting for a reaction, but nothing comes. He’s beautiful, but that’s not yours to say. 

“I’m sorry,” you say instead.

“Thank you.” He pauses. “Worked, though, didn’t it?”

You blink at him for a moment. 

The smallest shadow of a crooked smile flickers but doesn’t ignite. “Distracted you.” 

The hall is quiet. You hadn’t realized, but the horrors next door had wound down. Stars, you hope they’re okay. Sleeping or tending their wounds. Not… well. Not forcibly silenced. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, drawing your eyes back to him. His fingers wrap around a bar near yours. Not touching, but inviting. 

“Okay.” You’re not really sure what else to say. You’ve heard it before. Some mean it, some don’t. You think he’s genuine, that he’s safe, but that caution is like a little burn that never heals, leaving you to flinch away. 

Your fingers twitch, and he thinks you’re about to touch his. 

But you wince when the main door of the neighboring cell opens. His eyes bear a plea he won’t voice, but you only hesitate for a moment before pressing your badge to the scanner. His gate clicks and the door whooshes open. 

They’re already ducking into the medbay when you catch up, so you stick your hand in front of the sensor to force the doors back open. 

It’s the girl whose name you couldn’t remember on the Mandalorian’s first night. Sessa. She startles and whirls around when she hears you, hand pressed to her chest. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you," you say quietly.

She looks at you for a moment, something hauntingly empty in her eyes before she seems to recognize you. She covers her face with her hands. 

“Please,” you whisper. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I—” her voice breaks, and you step closer, offering an embrace she folds into. 

You don’t say anything. What could you? That you’re sorry? She knows. That it’ll be okay? It won’t. It’s horrible, she doesn’t deserve it, it’s inhumane, but none of those things will help her. She knows. 

She doesn’t even really cry. It aches, but the tears don’t come, just the soft prickle of numbness. She’ll survive this, you think. She shouldn’t have to, but she will. 

When the time for softness has faded, you let her pull back, and she lets you assess her. She sits on the counter with an ice pack to her cheek and drinks the tea you press into her hand. Her nose wrinkles at the bitter taste, but the tincture within is worth it. A reassurance. Nothing will come of this that she can’t bear. 

When she leaves, she hugs you again, and you stay behind in the dark room, leaning against the counter with your arms folded over your chest. 

It wasn’t a secret, what happened here. It didn’t always; a lot of the fighters are honorable people. But sometimes… sometimes this life warps the psyche beyond repair. Sometimes, desperate people do desperate things. Become something terrible to survive. 

You just hadn’t been witness to the cruelty before. 

When you go back, Mando is still awake. Waiting, you think. 

“Is she—” he hesitates. He doesn’t want to ask if she’s okay, because the answer is no. It’s not really what he’s asking, anyway.

You nod, lips pursed tight. She’ll live, your silence says. And it’ll have to be enough.

It’s strange. Waking in his cell but rising to follow your old habits anyway. He gets served first, and then you take breakfast down to Cresh as if nothing has changed. Except you can’t linger, you can’t chat and learn of them as you used to. You have to return to the Mandalorian.

It’s strange for the both of you. Your time is usually spent busy or with the other servants. His time is usually spent alone. He doesn’t have a fight that first day and so you are forced to learn to navigate one another.

The gate between you remains closed. 

He does push-ups while you fold laundry, executes a series of jumps that cycle between laying on the floor and springing to his feet that exhaust you just to see from the corner of your eye while you clean, and balances on his hands—one and both—while you flip through the agenda on your datapad and try not to be caught impressed.

It’s quiet, this life, with neither of you inclined to interrupt the other. You let him know when you phase in and out to attend to your duties and his needs. Otherwise, you don’t really speak until nightfall.

“I’m sorry,” he says in the safety of the dark. “I didn’t know it would create more of a burden for you. I just… couldn’t trust anyone else.”

“It’s not a burden, just a change. I understand,” you say softly. 

He sighs, an edge of frustration biting. “I disrupted your routine.”

You snort. “So?”

“I separated you from your friends.”

You sigh. “Will it make you feel better if I pretend to be mad?”

“Why aren’t you?”

You sit up on your cot. “Nothing about this life is fair, and it’s all temporary. Everyone leaves, one way or another. Everything shifts. This is just another phase of my time here, and there’s no point in being upset about it.”

He lets it sit for a minute. “How long have you been here?”

“Three years. I have just under two left.”

The weight of the time is not lost on him, and you can see the hint of a grim smile. “You haven’t let it break you.”

You return the smile. “Not yet.”

He reclines against the wall, legs sprawled and dangling over the side of his bed. “For what it’s worth, I truly am sorry. It was a selfish thing for me to ask of you.”

“I’m glad you’re not alone.” You mean it. It may have disrupted what you knew before, but getting moved here did the same for him. And it took away his opportunity to talk to others. “I’m glad you trust me with this.”

He sighs, bittersweet. “Me too.” 

Something shifts, then, that you’re grateful for. The guilt and awkwardness dissipate and leave behind that budding comradery you had started to forge together. A sense of peace. 

It’s one of the better nights of sleep you’ve had in a long time.

You’ve never been in the stands before, let alone in the box. Though it’s exposed to the open sun, the vents wash it in cool air, unlike the curved benches where the crowds jeer and hiss. 

No, up here in the sponsor box, surrounded by the important and the rich, you’re considered fortunate. The Mandalorian’s sponsor is late, but you’re in place. While he waits for battle, your services shift to her.

“You’re still here,” the Madame says as she approaches her seat. 

You stand to the side, stiff and silent, until she draws near. “Yes, Madame.” 

She gives you an appraising once-over. “Good.” Her voice is as sharp as her eyes, and she settles to watch. 

You don’t really know the protocol here. Your days serving in the lounge were passed silently, circling the room with a loaded tray. Here, you’re meant to cater to her alone. 

She doesn’t speak to you, though. Doesn’t acknowledge you. She lounges, coiled and elegant, like a tree viper. 

You don’t want to watch the fights. You don’t. But you know, now, that you must. You owe it to the barrack caretakers; you can’t leave this responsibility to the other attendants alone. You all bear the burden together.

When the first fight ends in a double loss, both fighters fatally wounded, you know you’re not strong enough for this. The nausea rises until all you smell is blood, a phantom sense as the sand turns red beneath each pair’s feet. You’re shaking and all you can think is how glad you are not to have to hold a tray of glasses. 

And then it’s time.

The Madame sits up, focused, and you know. Teeth dig into the soft flesh of your cheek to hold your breath steady and shallow. Quiet as possible, as if you need to strain to hear what’s playing out in front of you.

And you think, he should not be caged, for he is power and beauty and ferociousness. You can see why his people followed him to death. He is death. 

His opponent lands exactly one strike, and you almost think the Mandalorian allowed it. Like he was gauging the strength and will. He prowls, teeth bloodied and bared, a snarl natural in the set of his lips. You think it’s laid in beskar steel, a scar you can’t smooth out into the soft curve of a smile. 

No, that’s been stolen from him, too. 

He asks his opponent’s name, and you think he’s carving it into his ribcage, so each time he breathes, it impresses upon his lungs. 

When he moves, it’s calculated. Like the arena is a map he’s plotting, each strike or dodge choreographed and steadfast. There are no weapons today, just fists, and though his opponent has the advantage of razor-sharp teeth, they never even come close to slicing him open. 

And then it’s over. The Mandalorian’s broad hands dwarf the other fighter’s jaw as he secures his grip and snaps. The body falls limp and the Mandalorian sneers at the crowd before he looks up.

There’s no way he can see you, but it feels like it. It feels like he sees you there, and doesn’t find what he was afraid of. 

He’s not in the room when you get back down, and you pre-set his towels and clean clothes, so you won’t need to go hunting them down if he wants to shower. It’s still mid-afternoon, and you’re buzzing with the leftover cocktail of adrenaline and cortisol when he comes back. 

Neither of you speaks at first as he goes into his half of the cell and cracks his knuckles, sighing deeply once the main doors are shut.

“Are you okay?” he says.

You’re surprised until you realize you shouldn’t be. He knows how weak you are. “Yeah,” you say. 

“Are you afraid of me now?” he says quietly, not looking at you. 

Oh. You get up and come closer to the gate. “No. I’m not.” 

He meets your eyes and must find the truth in them, nodding grimly. “So what did you think?”

“Why do they have you fight with a shirt on?”

His eyes widen. “What?”

“Well, it’s just, they usually—um.”

“What?”

“They usually make the more attractive fighters wear as little as possible. You know. To appeal to the crowds.”

Huh. He thought it was a choice made by the few he’d seen showing skin. And then he can’t help it. You won’t look him in the eye, and he can’t resist. “You think I’m one of the more attractive fighters?” he teases. 

Your cheeks burn, and you look very seriously at the ground. “I—I mean like, um, objectively—“

He spares you. “It’s because of my tattoos. They don’t want me out there covered in Mandalorian symbology.”

“Oh,” you say, imagination kicking off. “Can I—I’m sorry, that’s so inappropriate of me. I just… like… art.” It sounds so stupid and crude, but you mean it. 

“I’ll show you when I’m clean,” he says with a shrug. 

He always seems to understand. It’s a comfort you’ve never known before.

When he gets out of the fresher, though, you realize you have severely overestimated yourself. Because your first thought when he steps into his room is fuck. He’s big. You know he’s big. And broad. But without a shirt on? Stars. And he’s still a little wet, his crumpled curls dripping down his shoulders. 

You have got to get yourself under control. You’re pretty sure you’ve already been busted, though, because he’s suddenly looking at you, something a little dark in the lines of his face, and you feel flayed under his disapproval.

Your brain reboots in time to recover, though, as you really do take in the way his skin is bathed in black ink. A lot of it is abstract, sharp angles and curving arcs intertwining with constellations and letters in a language you don’t recognize. Some of it almost looks like smears of paint, the ink laid across his body in a manner so akin to brushstrokes that the craftsmanship is breathtaking. 

But there are a few pieces that differ, ones that stand out against the intricate patterns. You realize you’ve stepped up to the gate once he does the same. 

“These are incredible,” you say. “How long did this take?” You nod at the swirl of ink on his bicep that wouldn’t look out of place in your own work. 

“A very long time,” he says. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it. What was your first one?” 

He turns around, and you’re struck by the mythosaur skull that takes up most of his back. It’s almost shimmering. 

“The ink…” you start. 

He turns back around. “It’s imbued with beskar.” 

Your jaw drops. “It’s what?”

“It’s—I’m going to be honest, I don’t fully understand the process. But we use a small amount of molten beskar in the ink for certain tattoos. These have it, too.” He indicates the two on his front that had stood out from the rest.

“Do you mind if I ask what they are? Why they’re the ones that use beskar?”

“No,” he says casually. “They’re things that I should never be without, parts of my armor that can never be fully taken. This,” he taps the diamond-esque design on his chest, “is a beskar’ta. Every Mandalorian has one. It’s the heart.” 

You’re staring, unashamed, as he indicates the other glimmering mark on his shoulder. 

“This is a mudhorn, the symbol of my clan. Someday, my son will have the same one. He’s too young. Or, well. He’s…” he pauses like he can’t decide if he wants to get into this. “He’s not ready yet.” 

“So… so you always have it with you. Your armor. The beskar.” 

“Yes. Not everyone gets them, but many do.”

“That’s beautiful.” You’re a little speechless. Not just from the beauty of the art but the sheer idea. “That’s…” 

“You can see why Gideon doesn’t want them to be seen.”

“Yeah,” you say, a small scoff slipping out. “No kidding.” 

You step back, and he tugs on his shirt, ruffling his still-damp hair like nothing world-shattering has happened. And yet, the room seems to have tilted and knocked you to the side, the shift undeniable. 

You don’t realize why until you remember the look on his face when he caught you staring the first time. It wasn’t discomfort. It was hunger. 

It’s not a tension, exactly, that settles between you. It’s more like an acknowledgment. Something is going to change. It’s just a matter of when. And it lingers in the air for weeks. 

It happens, like almost all things here, in the wake of fear. 

You return to the cell before him, having fled the box as soon as his narrowest victory was called. Not that it gave you much of a head start, but you had time to grab a medpack and fresh clothes before they brought him in.

He never uses the arena freshers anymore, not even just to wash away the sticky, fresh blood. No, he’s still quite coated in it when the door snicks shut behind him, his face gaunt and haunted.

You think, at first, that he was afraid to die. 

Who moves first is irrelevant. Your only focal point in the galaxy is the way he feels pressed right against you, fingers digging into your soft flesh like he’s trying to pull you into his ribcage as you embrace.

You’re not being much gentler, clinging on as you shake with unshed tears. 

He lets go of your waist to clutch your face in his bloody hands. “Promise me you won’t watch.”

“What?” you say, rearing your head back to look at his furrowed brows and pouted lips. 

“Don’t watch. When it happens. I don’t want you to have to see.”

Oh. “Stop,” you whisper, but he’s shaking his head. 

“It’s all I could think about. Look away, and don’t find out what they do with my body. Promise me, kar’talyc.”

All that comes out is a sob when you try to argue. 

His hand cups the back of your head, and he pulls you against his still-soaked chest. 

Once you’ve settled a little, he pulls back but leaves his hands on your shoulders. “Promise.” 

“Mando—“

“Din.”

You blink at him for a moment. “What?”

“My name is Din.”

next chapter

*Din calls her kar'talyc, which basically means "bleeding heart" (from kar'ta, meaning "heart," and talyc, meaning "bloody.") He's been calling her that in his head since the last chapter.

*tattooed Din and his mythosaur were inspired by this art by @xxlumos

*title from "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears, but I listened to the Lorde version while writing this and highly recommend it for the vibes. The original is quite a different mood lol.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Hi,

I have a request for you. Deacon and reader have to pretend to be into a relationship for a undercover mission. But both of them love each other secretly and actually don't want to pretend.

💕

This is such a good idea!! Writing this was a ton of fun. I hope you enjoy and please let me know what you think!🤍

Warnings: angst, fluff, canon typical danger/action/violence, OC Andres Cabrera, references to drug trafficking, Deacon gets protective and a lil angry. I think that's all!

Word Count: 2.7k+ words

A/N: Does Metro go under cover? I don't know. But I do know that SWAT doesn't, so I brought Metro in. Also, I proofread and fixed a few errors after posting, but let me know if I missed anything!

Picture from Pinterest

The Real Us

You fell for Deacon quickly and continue to fall deeper every day. You refuse to tell him because you are too scared to risk your personal and professional relationships. If only you knew he feels the exact same way; maybe everything would be different. Working with Deacon, seeing the good, bad, and ugly at work and in each other’s personal lives showed both of you that the other was worthy and deserving and impossible not to love. As Deacon got used to you during your probationary period, Hondo thought he was like a Doberman puppy, a vicious, lovesick combination as he follows you around while threatening everyone that comes too close. Now, you both resign yourselves to be friends and teammates, hoping it’s enough.

When Hondo yells your name attached to Deacon’s, your heart beats faster. “Hicks’ office,” Hondo finishes before he turns on his heel.

You fall into step beside Deacon, glancing at him.

“What did you do?” he teases, bumping his arm against your shoulder.

You struggle to remember to keep work first. Even if your safety wasn’t on the line, your fear of rejection keeps you from opening up completely. Likewise, Deacon is concerned you won’t want to date a superior or that you’re secretly in a relationship.

“Nothing, that I know of. Maybe Hicks found out you told Luca he could use the food in the fridge. After removing Hicks’ name,” you respond, smiling at him.

“Keep your voice down,” Deacon hisses.

“Here goes nothing,” you whisper as he opens the door for you.

Stepping into the office, you stop in front of Hicks’ desk and place your hands behind your back as Deacon joins you. Several officers from Metro are talking to Hicks and Hondo, who glances over and gestures for you to wait a minute.

“They’re going to steal one of us,” Deacon muses. “20-David won’t be the same without you.”

“Why would they take me? You’re way more experienced.”

“You’re prettier,” he says with a shrug. “Metro has a type.”

Your eyes widen as you turn to him, but you don’t get to ask what he means by that. Knowing that Deacon thinks you’re pretty, assuming he wasn’t still joking, sends a shiver down your spine.

Hondo nods at you before explaining, “Metro needs your help with a case.”

“Your Sergeant Hondo has already told us that we’re incompetent,” one of the officers adds.

“You’re the one that came to me for help,” Hondo shoots back. “They need a UC couple. Known drug trafficker Andres Cabrera is throwing a gala on his yacht, and there’s sure to be product, use, and purchasing.”

“Why not send actual UCs?” Deacon inquires.

“We’re stretched pretty thin, for one. But this also has a very high risk of getting dangerous. We’d rather have officers more prepared to deal with an ambush,” the Metro sergeant answers.

“What exactly is the purpose of the operation? I assume being under cover means we have to get firsthand proof of something,” you say.

“We need to find the leader of the trafficking operation, but we’d like to get proof of a purchase and find the hidden product if possible. The more we can get on this guy, the better. Most importantly, though, is to locate our guy. When you do, the rest of your team and my guys will be able to move in.”

You nod as Deacon agrees to join the team.

“So, for the most important question,” Hondo begins, winking at you, “what are they wearing?”

“I’m sorry,” Hicks says to you.

Sighing, you drop your shoulders. You knew when you heard gala it would be over-the-top, but you hope it’s not too bad.

✯✯✯✯✯

Your hopes are crushed. It’s terrible. The silky fabric is tighter than you’d prefer through the waist, then flares out. On the bright side, your gun is concealed. That’s the only plus, however. Stepping out of the locker room, you nearly run into Deacon.

“Sorry. Oh,” you say, gripping Deacon's biceps to stay upright. “You look great.”

Deacon’s three-piece suit matches the color of your outfit and makes him look even more handsome and dreamy than usual.

“Are you serious? You, you look perfect. I mean, you always look beautiful, but this is- I can’t catch my breath.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, stepping back as Deacon smiles. Tugging the outfit into a slightly more comfortable position, you feel Deacon’s eyes on you.

“You look amazing,” he says genuinely. “You’ll do great.”

“Whoa!” Luca and Hondo yell when you walk out, your arm looped through Deacon’s. 

“You two clean up nice,” Hondo adds.

“Thanks,” Deacon says, shaking his head. 

“Go get your sneak on, Deac,” Luca yells as Deacon pulls you away.

Tan is driving the limo to the docks and whistles obnoxiously before opening the door for you. The attention is funny from your friends, but from strangers and drug traffickers, it won’t be as enjoyable.

✯✯✯✯✯

“Are you two prepared to play a couple?” Tan asks as you near the coast.

“I think we can handle it. We know each other pretty well,” Deacon answers.

“And PDA?”

You shake your head at Tan, who is watching you in the rearview. It would be a last resort because one touch from Deacon might ruin you. There is no going back once you start something, especially something you so desperately need. 

“I’m going to keep you close,” Deacon whispers into your ear as you exit the limo. “Is that okay?”

You nod, smiling at him as his arm circles your shoulders, leading you to the oversized yacht.

“What do rich people do on yachts paid for by drugs?” you ask through your smile.

“Right. Because I’m the expert on that,” Deacon jokes. “Just act like we belong. Blend in.” You don’t hear him say, “As much as you can looking like that, anyway.”

✯✯✯✯✯

Deacon’s hands are all over you. When you’re close enough to touch, Deacon tucks you under his arm against his side. Otherwise, you find yourself in his arms as you dance or linking your fingers with his as you socialize with people you will never understand. You’re like a magnet, and he can’t resist you.

“Dance with me,” Deacon says, leading you to the dance floor with a hand on your waist and his other hand in yours. “I think there’s something happening portside. Check it out and tell me what you think.”

You look over his shoulder, turning your chin toward Deacon. “You’re right. I can’t tell what they’re talking about though.”

You jerk your head down toward Deacon’s chest suddenly, and he instinctively pulls you closer.

“What?”

“I think one of them was looking at me.”

Deacon spins quickly, confirming what you thought. “He’s coming over here. Your call.”

“Let me dance with him if he asks. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“I’ll be close.”

“Excuse me,” the man interrupts, looking at you as he talks to Deacon. “Mind if I cut in?”

“Not at all,” Deacon answers, though the look in his eyes says the opposite. 

The man takes one of your hands as his other finds your waist. He pulls you close, too close. Deacon held you against his chest, and it felt right and safe, but being against this man’s chest is completely different.

“My name is Andres,” he introduces himself. Your target. “And I must say, you are the prettiest woman on my yacht tonight.”

“Well, I like to dress to impress,” you reply, moving your hand on his shoulder toward his collar.

“I don’t think it’s just the dressing.”

His hand on your waist moves slowly, but it’s easy to deduce he’s reaching down and around.

“One of my friends was on your yacht last week and told me how beautiful it was, so when he got an invite I begged him to bring me.”

“That’s your friend?” Andres asks, looking at Deacon.

You turn your head, seeing Deacon with a too-tight grip on a champagne glass and a forced smile. Tipping your head to the right, you signal that you’re okay just before Andres turns so you can’t see Deacon anymore.

“Yes. His wife is one of my best friends and she offered to watch the kids so he could bring me. She gets seasick when she steps foot on a boat, so I guess he decided I was a better date option.”

“You, dear, did not need to prove it, I am sure.”

“He also told me that you might be willing to show me your operation. Like I said, I dress to impress.” You pull yourself closer, looking up at him as you flirt. It makes you sick to your stomach, but it’s necessary.

“Has your friend seen my operation?”

“No. He’s more of a buy it and move on kind of guy, but I find your product, and you, fascinating.”

“Impress you did,” he says quietly, his hands moving to their original positions. “Meet be on the top deck in ten minutes, and we can work something out. Bring your friend’s wallet and we’ll show him exactly what you’re worth.”

You nod, batting your eyelashes as he steps back. Walking toward Deacon, you shake your arms and try to lose the feeling of Andres’s hands on you. Deacon’s jaw is clenched as you walk past him. He follows you behind a pillar, his eyes boring into yours as you reach up and cup his jaw.

“He told me to meet him on the top deck in ten and bring your wallet,” you tell him.

“My wallet?”

“He wants to show you what I’m worth.”

“Trust me, I know exactly what you’re worth,” Deacon says under his breath.

You look to your left, and before Deacon can see what you’re looking at, you rise to your tiptoes and hide your face in Deacon’s neck.

“Drop your head,” you whisper.

His breath fans against your collarbone as his head dips beside yours. You circle your arms around his neck, guarding your faces from passersby. The man you saw approaching walks behind you as Deacon’s arms tighten around your waist. His touch removes the discomfort you felt after dancing with Andres. Trying not to lose yourself in the moment, you reluctantly pull away from Deacon.

“I’ll come to the deck with you,” Deacon says, his hands dropping from your sides.

“You can’t come all the way. He’ll know,” you argue. “Stay close enough to hear me?”

“I’m not letting you face down a drug lord by yourself.”

“I’ll be okay. I know I’m not alone with you nearby.”

✯✯✯✯✯

You wander around the top deck, close to the staircase where Deacon is hiding.

“There she is,” Andres announces, spreading his arms as he approaches you. “Did you bring it?”

You flash a fake credit card and an overly flirty smile. “Yes, I did.”

“Perfect. We’ll go to my,” he brushes a finger over your cheekbone before finishing, “private area, below deck.”

His hand moves down, over your arm, and to your hip. He’s nearing your gun, and you rush to grab his wrist.

“Is that where you keep everything? Below deck?” you ask.

He looks over at an armed security guard before speaking. “Everything, yes.”

Your arm twists as he jerks his hand, pulling you close harshly.

“There you are!” Deacon exclaims as he walks onto the deck.

Andres shoves you sideways as his guard aims his gun at you.

“What’s going on?” Deacon asks.

“Something private. So maybe you should go,” Andres spits angrily.

“Maybe we should both go, yeah?” Deacon asks, raising a hand toward you. “We haven’t seen anything, we’ll stay quiet.”

“You won’t see anything. Get him out of here.”

Another guard barges onto the deck behind Deacon, and you pull your gun out of its holster, firing a shot before Deacon has time to turn around. The man groans as he hits the deck, cradling his arm against his chest. You move your gun to Andres as Deacon covers the other guard.

“You’re out of time,” Andres threatens. “More men are coming.”

“Yeah,” Deacon replies with a smile. “I know.”

A helicopter approaches, and Luca and Tan prepare to drop onto the yacht as it passes overhead.

“We got ‘em,” Luca tells Deacon. “Get back in there.”

Deacon grabs your arm gently, pulling you into the stairwell as he leads you below deck. You run into a locked door and turn toward Deacon.

“This has to be it,” you say.

He pushes against the door and freezes as footsteps descend, nearing you quickly. You look at Deacon and apologize before shoving him against the wall opposite the locked door. You pull yourself up and kiss him, deaf to the footsteps as boots scrape to a stop.

“Uh,” someone says, clearing their throat, “this is a private area, no guests are allowed on this level.”

Deacon gently pushes your hips back as you separate from him. He wraps an arm around your waist, giving an easy smile to the guard blocking the stairs.

“Sorry, man, but you know how it is,” he says.

The guard looks you up and down, ignorant of Deacon’s grip tightening on you as he rumbles, “I sure do.”

“So, we’ll just get out of your way and go back up.”

The guard raises a hand, stopping Deacon as his eyes remain on you.

“You head up, I need to ask her a few questions.”

“Not happening.”

You look at the guard and press a hand between Deacon’s shoulders. “Unless you answer a question for me first. Right, handsome?”

Deacon looks at you from the corner of his eyes, warning you not to do this.

“Any question,” you add. “And you have to tell the truth.”

“Deal,” the guard agrees quickly.

“Are there drugs in that room?”

He hesitates, then nods once.

“Move in,” Deacon says, his smile growing as you both step back.

“Don’t move,” you tell the guard. “LAPD S.W.A.T. You’re under arrest.”

The guard hesitates, then sighs and lowers his weapon before kicking it to Deacon.

“They’re always too good to be true,” he mumbles.

You hear yelling and footsteps as your team and the Metro squad enter the boat, breaking up the party. Hondo appears behind the guard with the Metro sergeant from earlier.

“This is why we chose you instead of a UC,” the sergeant says, winking at you.

“That was quite the kiss,” Hondo teases, pulling you into his side.

Deacon pulls you back into his arms as you ask, “Cameras?”

“Everywhere,” Hondo says. “There isn’t an inch of this place that isn’t covered.”

“Wish I’d known that before I went for my gun,” you mumble.

“Ready to get out of here?” Hondo asks as the guard is hauled away in handcuffs.

“Yes,” you and Deacon sigh together.

✯✯✯✯✯

Back at S.W.A.T. HQ, you change quickly and sit in the locker room, your head in your hands as you wonder if you and Deacon should talk about the kiss. It was just for work, but it felt like more. Maybe that’s just your heart talking, though.

“Hey,” Deacon says as he enters.

You look up, smiling when you see him. “Hi.”

“So…”

“I’m sorry.”

“I- why’d you do it?” Deacon asks, leaning against the lockers beside you.

You keep your eyes away from his face, knowing that if you see him you’ll tell him everything. “It seemed like the right move. We are- were pretending to be a couple, and you know, that’s what couples do. We needed an innocent reason to be there and that’s all I could think of.”

“Were we?” Deacon asks.

You pause, glancing up at him. “Were we what?”

“Pretending,” Deacon answers, turning to sit beside you. “Because that felt really real. All of it, the dancing, the kiss, the touches.”

You fall silent, looking at Deacon’s hand resting beside yours.

“Sorry,” he begins.

“I wanted it to be real,” you admit quietly.

Deacon smiles, and turns your chin toward him. Kissing him the second time is just as magical as the first. He pulls you close, uninhibited in how or why he touches you. Breathless, you pull away but keep your forehead pressed to his.

“What took us so long?” you ask.

“I was wondering the same thing. We should go on a date. One where we don’t have to run for cover or kiss just to stay alive.”

“Your kisses are pretty deadly,” you joke, “they make me breathless and make my heartbeat too fast.”

“Not funny,” Deacon says, chuckling.

“But they also make everything better,” you whisper.

Deacon smiles before kissing you again, a promise to never pretend again. After pretending not to love each other and pretending to be in a different relationship than you were, you both decide that keeping secrets and being someone you aren’t only delays what you really want. Being someone else with Deacon helped you to admit that you’re in love with the real Deacon, just as he loves the real you.

[spiderscribe]

For te character ask: gimme Starscream (TFP), Dead End (cyberverse) and Drift (mtmte)

:3💖

Ajfldksjlf you somehow managed to pick three of the five characters that I’ve been really rotating through my brain this past week so thank youuuu I had a ton of fun with these :3 enjoy the headcanons!!! 

Starscream (TFP)

Headcanon A:  realistic

When Starscream gets over himself and stops fussing over how to make himself look as good as possible, he’s actually a pretty good leader who’s skilled at managing all the small details to accomplish his bigger goals. Starscream himself doesn’t know this though, because even when other people genuinely think he’s doing a great job, they keep it to themselves for fear of inflating Starscream’s ego. (It’s Soundwave. He’s people.)

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

Starscream’s opinion on humans goes up from “occasionally amusing but overall useless life forms” to “extremely grudging fear respect” after that time Miko stole the apex armor from him and beat him up. Obviously Starscream doesn’t reveal this shift to anyone, but after some observing Raf figures him out. He chooses not to tell Starscream that Miko is an outlier and most other humans wouldn’t be able to kick his ass, because a) it’s an advantage he can maybe use in the future and b) he starts laughing to himself whenever he thinks about it.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Starscream is desperately touch-starved, and craves physical intimacy and gentle touches. Alas, after everyone he’s lost and everyone who’s hurt him throughout the war, he never allows himself to be that vulnerable with anyone ever again. He does his best to keep everyone, no matter which side he’s currently playing, a careful arm’s length distance away.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Since it’s canon that Starscream likes to browse the internet, my possible-but-still-probably-unrealistic headcanon is that Starscream is pretty fluent in internet memes and slang. He expects Soundwave to know a lot too, since Soundwave monitors everything, but Soundwave tends to filter out anything he deems pointless and that includes anything to do with human internet culture. The first time Starscream brings up a meme in reaction to one of Soundwave’s audio clips, he gets a very confused blank stare in response.

Dead End (Cyberverse)

Headcanon A:  realistic

Dead End is bad at forming close friendships, mostly because his unending pessimism tends to eventually put people off, but he’s actually pretty good at initiating small talk and making superficial acquaintances. That’s why he’s on speaking terms with most of Decepticon high command and makes a feeble effort to save them from the Loop. (Feeble because, well, being on speaking terms with them doesn’t mean he actually likes all of them. Case in point: Soundwave.)

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

As they slowly get to know each better by virtue of forced proximity, Dead End and Hot Rod both come to realize they actually have a lot in common: they’re both the “shoot first, ask questions later” type of bot, they’ve both got quick tempers, they both like to keep their finish as pristine as possible, and (although Hot Rod tries to pretend this one isn’t true) they’re both prone to negative introspection when things aren’t going their way. Rather than bringing them closer together, this realization horrifies them both and they silently and mutually avoid bringing it up, ever.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

I touched on this in my deadceptor fic, but reiterating it here with more heart-crushing-ness: Dead End doesn’t regret choosing to abandon everyone and leave the universe with Megatron. It’s not that he doesn’t care about everyone else, and if they were all hurt or killed by the Quintessons he would’ve been sorry that they died, but that’s not enough for him to feel bad about his choices. He’s not sorry about prioritizing himself and his own goals first.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

Shortly after joining the Decepticons, Dead End developed a crush on Megatron. It eventually faded into strong admiration and loyalty, but Dead End still thinks the whole situation was extremely embarrassing and would vehemently deny it to anyone who asks.

Drift (Mtmte)

Headcanon A:  realistic

Drift’s ongoing “see who gets more kills in fights” contest with Rodimus was actually his initial idea, not Rodimus���. He came up with it so he has something to focus on while fighting (keeping track of his increasing number of kills) and he doesn’t lose himself in a mindless rage the way he used to do as Deadlock. He only meant it as a one-time thing, but competing with Rodimus turned out to be so fun, and Rodimus’ sulking face when he lost was so funny, that Drift brought it up again the next time.

Headcanon B: while it may not be realistic it is hilarious

If a normal bot was fully aware that Ultra Magnus hated them, they’d do their best to stay out of Magnus’ way and avoid doing anything to piss him off. Drift, who is far from a normal bot and more mischievous than most people think, conspires with Rodimus to play really stupid pranks on Magnus like adjusting the lighting to be a few degrees brighter than regulation and using incorrect punctuation in his submitted reports. Drift thinks of it as “if Magnus thinks I’m the same kind of idiot as Rodimus, then he’ll stop seeing me as a dangerous Decepticon.” Rodimus just thinks the whole thing is hilarious and is glad that he isn’t the only one getting yelled at.

Headcanon C: heart-crushing and awful, but fun to inflict on friends

Drift treasures every close connection he’s formed in the past and present—all the people who saw something good and worth saving in him. But after he defects from the Decepticons, he starts chasing that kind of close connection with a secondary reason: yes, he still desires that intimacy, but he’s also looking for people to devote his life to. Drift sees offering his unquestioning loyalty as a way to atone, and if he ends up dying for someone, then, well, it’s what he deserves after everything he did as Deadlock.

Headcanon D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it because I reject canon reality and substitute my own.

A leftover habit from his days as Deadlock means Drift naturally has a very exaggerated fighting style. Think dramatic twirls and poses, sword thrusts that are a little flashier than strictly necessary, brutal punches that hit where he knows will cause the most energon to spray out, terrifying smiles, etc. As Deadlock, it strengthened his reputation as a fearsome berserker and he revelled in it. As Drift, it’s mortifying as all slag. It takes him conscious effort to not fight like that, and he still sometimes slips into the habit by accident. Rodimus tells him not to worry about it because he thinks it’s cool. Many, many years later, Ratchet admits it’s kind of hot.

[hedonisticeiram]

Barty comes back from the party, he enters the dorm in a rush. His face is flushed and he’s heading for his bed before Regulus can call out to him.

Regulus POV: He can tell there’s something off. Normally Barty would stumble in with laughter Evan close behind. Regulus never understood why Barty chose him to fool around with. Evan’s beautiful all long limbs, high cheekbones and piercing eyes. He’s thought of it himself. He’s only mentioned it once to Barty. That led to Barty grabbing Regulus and pinning him to the bed telling him to never say that again. Never touch him. Never.

Barty POV: What the fuck!?? What is he playing at why would he kiss me!!? What a prick! What an arrogant asshole! He huffs and rolls around closing his curtains and throwing up a silencing charm. He can’t sleep like this. But he won’t. He can’t touch himself. Even though he’s so hard it’s painful for him to have pants on. Rolling on his back he sighs and breathes deep in and out. Till he can manage his thoughts. He hears Regulus sigh. Well there’s a thought..

Regulus POV: There’s a deep sense of rejection that he feels he knows it’s his parent’s fault. He knows it’s not him. He knows deep down he’s never good enough, never enough. Maybe Bartys got tired of playing around with him. He knew it would never be anything. But it was nice to feel wanted, needed, desired. How pathetic, black. He knows it’s not his voice he hears in his head. But it rings true in his heart nonetheless. He sighs and rolls over waiting for sleep that won’t come.

Barty POV: Evan. Fuck. Barty left without Evan. He quickly gets up swinging his legs over the side of the bed. As if his panic summons Evan he’s opening the door. Gives Barty a scathing look. Eyes narrowed, nostrils flared. Oh fuck he’s mad. Wonderful, this night is turning into one to remember. As quickly as the look is pointed at him it’s gone. Evan strolls over and pushes Barty back on the bed. Climbing over Bartys lap he brushes his problem lightly. It’s involuntary his hips buck trying to find pressure for some relief to the pressure he feels in his pants. He hisses and grabs Evan hips on reflex.

Evan POV: He fucking left me. He fought with Potter and I go to help and the fucker is kissing him!!? Kissing James Fucking Potter. The one person he hates! The one Regulus has had a deep seated crush on since he’s met the boy who stole his brother from him! The one that he kissed. Wait. What. Why does that matter? Regulus of course, he doesn’t love Barty fooling around with Regulus but if it’s anyone he rather it be him. He’s not going to unpack why that’s comforting vs James Fucking Potter. Ughhh. Fuck this. He walks back to his dorm. I’ll fucking end him. He’s going to explain this, now. He enters the room all fury and an ugly feeling he can’t place. But it’s making knots in his stomach and his chest aches. He opens the door looks at Barty. And he doesn’t register what he sees. He was mad but he can’t remember why he was so mad. Bartys sitting with his hands on either side of his legs like he’s about to get up. He looks at Evan relief passing over his face, fear flickering by, anxiety, sadness, guilt. All within seconds before everything is replaced with a wicked grin. Barty looks at Evan like he’s his favorite stuffie that he wants to smother or adore. Seek comfort or take his anger out on.Like he needs him, as if him being near him can make things easier, bearable. Before he can process what he’s doing. He’s walking over and pushing Barty back to climb over him to lay with him. They do that. When it’s too much and they can’t function they talk. It’s not like Regulus and Barty they are all tongue, teeth, twisted words and flesh. Want. This. Barty and Evan has always been need. Evan needs him to be ok, needs to be near, needs to exist next to Barty. It’s the only way he can breathe easier. His hand on Bartys chest pushing his down so he can climb over. He gets one leg over before he hears Barty hiss and buck against him. He stills, cheeks flushed and adrenaline coursing through him so hard his legs are about to shake any minute now. Bartys hands are so warm gripping his hips. It feels like he’s burning him. He breathes out slowly, scared to look down, too coward to move. He feels it now the heat radiating between his legs. He feels the twitch of his own body respond. Fuck. He’s gone and done it now. He doesn’t know if it’s been minutes or seconds. While his brain short circuits. He gathers himself ready to play it off and make a joke. He looks down and what he sees is so far from what expects he’s speechless.

Barty POV: He knew in his mind, he always knew. He never wanted to admit it. He knew he was killing time with Regulus, it was nothing serious. They would tell each other all the time it meant nothing. Just friends, exploring each other someone they trust without judgement. But NEVER Evan. Not him. Anyone but him. Evan knew him, better then he knew himself. Matched his crazy with soothing words or gave him enough room to let it run rampant pulling him back every time. On the rare occasion he let loose his own inhibition would leave him enamored. Always wanting, never touching, never tainting, never taking, not Evan. He struggles now hands on Evan’s hips caught between a literal rock and a hard place. His want caused by another clearly pushed against his every desire. He hears Evan breathe it sounds far away he looks up. He has to know. Even if it ruins everything he has to know. Evan’s beautiful. That’s all he can think. Fuck he’s goddamn gorgeous. Hair so blonde it’s almost white, a long lean body that he can easily wrap around Barty. He has on more then one occasion wrestling. Lips full and parted. But his eyes that’s what sends him. They are an impossible shade of blue that he’s never been able to describe to do it any justice. He could spend hours trying to and die happy. They are almost black now pupils blown wide, Evan looks down at him breathing shallow and fast like he’s just run a marathon. He leans down close enough that their body’s are flush. Bartys hands slide up Evan’s back locking him in place almost like a hug he’s not sure if he’s alone in this. Not ready to lose everything he’s guarded for so long he doesn’t move. It has to be Evan, it has to be his choice. He leans in Bartys breath stutters till he’s not breathing. He just waits holding his breath. Evan’s voice feels like warm silk he’s next to Bartys ear. His voice is low, deep, and inviting.

Evan POV: He doesn’t know how he got here but he’s here now. He wants to kiss Barty. Thoroughly snog him, make a mess of him, mark him in every way. His heart sings to claim him. Make him yours. Mine. Now, please.. instead he realizes the problem he’s just kissed James. He actively fools around with Reggie. He knows it means nothing but he could never hurt Regulus. Not even if it means taking Barty. He could never take anything from Regulus. Everything he’s ever wanted has been taken from him he would never be that person to him. He’s so angry, aroused, upset, but completely at home in this infuriating man’s arms. He has to salvage this and pull back. He can’t do this.

Barty POV: He feels Evan’s laugh before he hears it bubbling up and his breath hits his ear, warm. It feels like the side of his face is on fire. He feels the blush that’s surely there to see. Hot creeping in his face running down his neck and chest. He prays it’s dark enough to not see. He feels like he’s been flayed open, bare, vulnerable. Evan’s next move makes him regret everything he’s done up until now. He thought he wanted his father’s approval. He thought that’s what mattered most. He thought his disappointment was the only thing that could hurt him. Rosier proves him wrong with a few sentences that burn into his mind at lightning speed.

Evan POV: You think you can have anything you want? You just take what’s not yours and don’t worry about the consequences. What about Regulus? I saw you kiss him. He fully lays and presses himself into Bartys body covering him. Dropping his full weight into it. It’s so comforting nothing has ever felt more right. Barty sighs and wraps his arms locked around Evan’s waist. Trying to pull him closer, leaning closer to Evan’s mouth. Tell Regulus tomorrow or I will. He feels Barty stiffen. He goes to turn his head away from him. Evan grabs his face with one hand. Turns his head to look him in the eyes. His gaze flickers to his lips briefly. Barty looks like he’s in pain but he’s always been a bit of masochist. Their eyes meet. Both blown wide, is this what an eclipse is? Two planets that burn so bright when they stand in front of each other nothing else exist. Don’t ever try to get off with me when you’re thinking of someone else. That’s cruel even for you Barty. He smiles his biggest smile of satisfaction. Lifts himself up and removes himself all together. He leaves Barty there breathless and a mess. Just not the one he wanted to make. It’s for the best..

[vimara00]

Hi everyone, it's Vi! ✨ Today I decided to write something with the trope "she fell first but he fell harder" because I can. Also, I wanna wish u a Merry Christmas!!! 🎅 🎄

Hope you enjoy! ❤️ (Again, sorry if there are any grammatical mistakes, english is not my first language 🙈)

Pd: It's gonna be a part 2

All characters reservations to Horikoshi

Warnings: jealousy

Too blind to see (Kirishima x F!reader)

(Image created with AI)

Kirishima and y/n have known each other since birth as both of their mothers were friends. They dreamed of the two of them getting along and, in an ideal future, getting married and giving them grandchildren, but it was too early for the last part. They became inseparable and did everything together; They went to the same kindergarten, same high school, and even managed to enter the UA. However, because of y/n "sanation" quirk, she was at another class. But that wasn't an impediment for seeing each other every day. And when she wasn't with Kirishima and his friends, she would be helping on the nursery as part of her training. Her mentor, Recovery girl, always said that she'll take her place when she retired, so y/n needed to work extra hard if she wanted to be able to save heroes' lives during battle.

Kirishima was y/n's number one fan; she was his muse, his rock, and his 'best friend' while for her...he was way more than that. She was in love with her best friend and came with the realisation, at a very young age, that he didn't see her as a potential partner so she kept her mouth shut for all this years, scared of rejection.

However, lately, Kirishima's been more protective than normal; At first, she thought it probably had something to do with the LOV's recent attack, but certain actions made her think otherwise...

The other day, Deku came in with new injuries, and because he was a regular patient, he talked a lot with y/n while she treated his wounds. They became very good friends as she was one of the few who knew of OFA. Kirishima hadn't noticed how close they were till he came in later that day to check on Midoriya and found them siting next to eachother (shoulders touching and being VERY VERY close for his liking) reading and talking about his notes. He was standing at the door annoyed by the scene happening in front of him, and suddenly, a new sensation came with it, one he couldn't put into words, but it felt similar to fear. Of what? He was yet to find out...

He decided enough was enough and entered the room, making his presence known. Izuku might have noticed the intense look Kirishima was giving him cause he tensed and moved a little so his body wasn't touching hers at all; He knew that, even though the redhead was such a great guy, when it came to her, he sure as hell would beat someone up just because that person looked the wrong way (Midoriya has seen it many times). Y/n didn't think much of it as she greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and kept doing some reports that Recovery girl has left for her. After she was done, they left so Izuku could rest, but not before she gave him a quick hug and said their goodbyes. Kirishima was rather quiet all the way to her doorm, and once they arrived, he said 'You are really close with Midoriya, ah?' 'Yes, he's a really nice guy! He comes almost every day so he's my favorite patient by now' His face turned into a frown to that and respond 'Is that so?' He hadn't stopped looking intensibly at her, and it was making the e/c girl nervous. <Why does he sound like he's jealous?> The girl was wondering when suddenly, he grabbed her forearm gently so her body was now facing him. His eyes were no longer on her but the floor, and he whispered 'I don't like you being that friendly with him. I'm supposed to be the one who receives your hugs and the one you tend their wounds of!' He paused for a few seconds and finally looked at her as he continued 'I don't like sharing your attention or you affection. I know it's selfish but lately, when I see you with others, it hurts and it annoys me...I feel kind of left out and I don't like it one bit' Someone would of assumed this 'sensations' Kirishima was having were of pure jealousy or envy because of the threaten of her finding someone else and that this might have been his confession but no. He's convinced himself, and her, that it was his mission as a 'big bro' that he needed to be sure the guy she settled for was a nice one. That night, both of them went to sleep with a huge weight of their hearts. Y/n because she realized that nothing has changed and that she'd always be his friend no matter how cute she dressed or how mature she acted, she'd never be his first option. As for him... He felt his chest tighten at the thought of her being with some other dude.

The next few days, he did everything in his power to not let Midoriya or any other of his friends near y/n, but he couldn't control everyone for too long, could he? It wasn't long enough until UA most handsome guy, had to pay a visit to the nursery and even took the chance to invite her to endeavors agency to work with them. She was very excited to tell him about what happened and that she accepted their offer, but Kirishima had to pretend that he was happy when he actually was feeling sad)?

Since then, mister cute face has spent too much time with her and did everything together; from eating lunch to going on missions alone and then having dinner at his house (Midoriya and Bakugou were there too but still) The redhead was going crazy to say the least. However, he began to wonder if these emotions were similar to the ones a brother would have for his little sister or more like a boyfriend would have for his girl. The word 'jealousy' came along with those thoughts and so he understood why he got so annoyed and anxious whenever she was with someone else or how worried he got by just the idea of her having a boyfriend or even marrying someone; marrying someone who wasn't him. He was in love with her! All this time, he actually thought he was doing the right thing by being protecting her from praying eyes but he was just keeping her to himself instead. He realized how mistaken he had been and needed to make his intentions clear for her even if she rejected him. He just needed to find the right time

....

Part 2 in a few days 😉

[senjuushi]

Memory Au — Character Info Post

Time for a New Au! >:D This one uses a scenario where, through an unknown summoning glitch, the gunboys are temporarily returned to the physical and mental state they were in when they were first summoned... and before all of the abuse and trauma had fully started happening. Or had only just started.

Overall, that means innocent, trusting, openly needy guns who don't have the experience or awareness to hide their more vulnerable traits. Some are outwardly much better off than how they'd later end up, some just have a different set of issues.

For asks/requests, you can take the chance to treat these un-broken versions of the gunboys with kindness... or you can be their first truly terrible experiences. The aftermath of the switch is also a fun part to think about; when they go back to their normal selves, yet retain all of the memories of what happened to them while they'd been changed.

Requests are open for this now, so have fun! General questions (about the Au itself, character personalities, etc) are welcome!

. . .

F

Sweet, somewhat shy, and deeply eager to be a good Musketeer just like his useful, reliable brother. He’s soft-hearted and emotionally sensitive— both praise and disapproval affect him massively. Cries easily and is awful at hiding his emotions. Physical affection makes him melt, but he’s easily flustered by too much attention or intimate touch.

Belga

Still hyperactive and more than a little stupid, but behaves more like an overexcited kid than a battle-happy maniac. He’s constantly pestering his Master and seeking out attention, eager to learn about everything they like and join in on their happiness. Shows his soft-hearted crybaby side far more often, and runs to his Master whenever he wants comfort.

Mikhael

Soft-spoken, gentle, and almost angelically elegant. Delicate in both body and demeanor. Rather than being disconnected and distant from the world to protect himself, he adores the beauty of the world around him and is far more willing to open up and connect with others. He can be slightly spacey and frequently ends up lost in his thoughts.

Ninety

Just like an eager puppy, he’s clingy, happy, and excited by nearly everything. He’s able to talk in this state, and not afraid at all to do so. While he still does have a rather anxious personality, to some degree, he’s more willing to show how helpful and clever he can be, and nowhere near as panicky. He’s full of energy and usually fidgeting because of it.

Ghost

Still aware that he’s a failed prototype, and anxiety-ridden because of it. Terribly insecure and afraid of abandonment, yet still hopeful that he can prove himself useful to earn his Master’s attention. Follows his Master like a persistent shadow, though he’s too nervous to ask for attention outright. Highly emotional and not jaded enough to try to hide it.

89.

While he’s still introverted and prone to depressive spirals, he’s much more hopeful and optimistic. Shy and highly responsive to any kindness from others, he quickly grows attached to those who show interest in him. Quickly gets clingy and needy with a kind master. He’s still awkward around other people, but without the beaten-in fear of rejection.

Eins

Emotionally stunted and struggles with empathy, yet puts in effort to connect with the other guns. Caring, protective, and often fills a “big brother”-like role. Does his best to fulfill whatever orders he receives; takes commands very seriously, especially when they come from his Master. Far more gentle than his size and stoic face would suggest.

Fal

Though he still has high expectations of himself, he’s far more willing to take his own needs into account. Eager to be of use and make the most of his capabilities, and often pushes himself too far to please others. Much more relaxed and open, though he’s still polite and deeply respectful. Has a close relationship with F and tries to help him succeed.

Kirsch

Needy, attention-seeking, and as much of a brat as ever, but in a very different way. He’s only experienced the first steps of the abuse that would follow, so he doesn’t yet see sex as love. Mischievous without being sadistic, and without his usual vicious envy. Wants his Master’s love desperately, but in the form of cuddles and praise instead of being used.

Hokusai

As hyperactive, upbeat, and energetic as ever, but without the scattered thinking and impulsive decision-making. Incessantly cheerful and excited to be of as much use as possible. Still has his blood/red phobia, but to a far lesser and more manageable extent. Eagerly hopeful for his Master’s attention and wants to earn it in whatever way he can.

Love1

Since his gun is a faulty mess, he’s been afraid and in pain from the beginning. Far more panicky and plain because he lives in fear of his flaws being noticed. Lacks his usual faked persona and persistent sense of humor, but also doesn’t yet have the reflex to hide his needs with a Master who’s kind to him. Clings to Like2 as a “protector”.

Like2

Open about how badly he wants to be spoiled and loved. Seeks comfort and nice things in whatever way he can, and melts into any affection. Desperately wants to make himself pretty and sweet and worth being loved, but without his usual method of doing that. Cries more easily and often and admits when he’s uncomfortable or in pain.

Mauser

Sweet and eager to be of service however he can. Instead of being stoic and aggressive, he’s openly adoring of his Master and almost prefers being a lap dog over being a bodyguard. Always trying to cling to his Master’s arm or hold their hand. Responsive to praise and any kind of attention, with a precious smile whenever he’s treated kindly.

Parume

Instead of keeping up a cutesy, well-behaved front, he’s openly and happily an eager little menace who enjoys causing mischief at every chance he gets. Smug and somewhat cocky, but turns into an eager, adoring mess when with his Master. Far more trusting, without the same fear of people knowing his true self. Loves attention and feeling spoiled.

Muku

He’s still kind of not okay— in the sense that he has serious issues with emotional processing and disturbing responses to violence—, but he hasn’t reached the point of believing he deserves nothing but suffering and pain. Desperately wants kindness and affection, with no idea how to get it. Immature, mentally distant, and highly naive.

Marks

Though his personality is mostly unchanged, he’s somehow even more annoying. With no experience telling him that he can’t be near his Master constantly, he’s unbearably clingy and embarrassingly eager to please. A little less viciously protective, since he’s not yet fully aware of how many threats there are in the world. Pathetically naive.

Like Two

Lacks his usual abrasive, hot-tempered persona. Though he’s still pretty tsun, it’s more of the flustered, vaguely in denial type than the angry type. More willing to admit to his feelings, especially when he’s upset or in pain. Presents himself more femininely and isn’t as desperate to hide the things he likes. Openly needy, especially when he’s stressed.

Herme

Deeply afraid of making mistakes because of his status as a near-perfect gun. He hasn’t convinced himself he’s a lump of iron yet, so he has no mental barrier to make him think he’s flawless. He’s still calm, polite, and highly functional, but he lacks his usual ego and has very little ability to completely conceal his emotional responses. Desperate to be “good enough”.

Arisaka

Quiet and spacey, but not fully dissociating. His awful memories of his past as a weapon aren’t quite so all-consuming. Enjoys people-watching and trying to connect with others despite being terribly awkward and stiff. Clings to people who offer comfort even though he feels guilty for it. Not completely accustomed to violence and pain yet.

Springfield

His body is still weak and sickly, but the damage is nowhere near as far along. With some lingering hope of being useful to his Master, his self-esteem is slightly better. More outgoing and not as self-conscious, and eager to find ways to make even his fragile self worthwhile. Still tries to hide what’s “wrong” with him, but opens up more easily.

Siegblut

Eager to prove himself as useful and capable, without the tough-guy act to hide that. Proud of himself and his work, yet still highly responsive to praise. He willingly shows his “housewife” behavior in the hopes his skills will be recognized and admired. Nervous about if he’ll be stuck in his brother’s shadow, but lacks the assertiveness to stand up for himself.

Gras

Desperate for affection and recognition, but with no ability to control his distress when he’s rejected or disliked. Lacks his usual coping methods of violence and sex, so he’s prone to awful meltdowns instead. Highly needy and emotional, and still prone to vicious jealousy, but without the unpleasant walls to keep his surprisingly sensitive heart guarded.

Murata

Proud and proper, but far less distrustful. Affectionate and highly protective toward his Master, similar to how he behaves around Arisaka. Much more comfortable with receiving affection and care, though it still flusters him quite a bit. Happy to be relied on. Not quite as quick to resort to violence (or attempted murder) despite his temper.

Hachikyu

Much less depressed and withdrawn, though he is still prone to self-consciousness and anxious moods. Tentatively willing to reach out to people and socialize, without so much of a fear of rejection. Easily attached to those who treat him kindly. While he’s still quiet and awkward, he’s not assuming everything in his life will stay awful and unhappy.

Benetta

While he’s still serious and fairly calm, his “little gun” side shows a lot more. He’s more openly clingy with his Master, willing to seek out attention and try to stay close to their side, but he’s also a little too eager to fulfill their orders. Quiet, somewhat dense, and still naive about a lot of the world; can easily be confused by new concepts and expectations.

Carcanore

Openly blunt, aggressive, and far less cheerful. He feels out of place and worries that his Master will view him poorly, and is self-conscious because of it. Highly uncomfortable with affection and kind treatment— both because he’s not used to it, and because he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. A little too willing to put his body in harm’s way if it’s of any use.

[moonlight-prose]

THE LAST OF US MASTERLIST

a/n: below you can find all the works that i have created for the show/game the last of us! they're all on this post, but in the future some of the characters might get their own masterlist post.

Under no circumstances may you steal my work, say it’s yours, or post it somewhere else. The writings I put on here are mine unless stated otherwise.

smut =🔥| angst =💫 | fluff =🌙

JOEL MILLER

Hurt (series) | 18+🔥| ONGOING

Summary: Alone and trying to survive, you find your path crossing with a man who’s headed to Boston of all places. He claims he’s looking for a new start, not realizing you might be it.

Pale Rider |💫

Summary: Grief was a noose and he did what he could to loosen it before he lost you too.

From Eden, Love Grows | 18+🔥| dedicated to: @/saradika

Summary: Days spent in flower fields and cooking in a sunbathed kitchen with him.

Marks Of The Damned | 18+🔥

Summary: His scars were his secrets, his pain he never shared.

The Wasteland Of A Bleeding Heart |💫

Summary: Joel’s fears began to interfere.

View From The Bridge |💫

Summary: The past was off limits, but at what cost?

Warm Glow | 18+🔥| dedicated to: @/sunflowersteves

Summary: His love felt as warm as the afternoon sun.

More and More | 18+🔥

Summary: “He wanted to know every part of you, everything you kept hidden for fear of it being rejected. And you let him.”

Be Still My Foolish Heart |🌙

Summary: “Yet somehow—despite you never realizing it—Joel always ended up with you.”

A Poison That Never Stung | 18+🔥| UPCOMING

Way Down We Go | 18+🔥| UPCOMING

Blackthorn Tree | 💫

Summary: You needed to protect him as much as he needed to protect you. The only problem was…Joel believed he didn’t need caring for. He didn’t need protecting.

Thrills | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “He sought you out in the darkness of your shared home and found what he knew would keep him from dipping beneath the surface again. And you let him.”

Safe Haven | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “Being with Joel felt like breathing. As if you’d stepped outside for the first time in eons, soaking in the fresh air that emanated from the trees. It was clear. A constant fixated piece of nature that you knew would never fade.”

Sweet Words of Sin | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “There was a certain high that came from this. Having a man like joel miller relenting to your every word, all to hear those sweet words fall from your lips. As delicious as a glass of wine and just as sinful.”

Sweetened Breath and Tongue So Mean | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “Joel couldn’t fathom what you saw in him. a man bloodied with the ravages of life. He’d taken life, killed to survive, and there were times he even fucking enjoyed it. But you were soft. You were the good that remained. The light he shouldn’t be allowed to tarnish.”

TOMMY MILLER

It Will Come Back | 18+🔥

Summary: Mornings in the kitchen with him made life worthwhile.

Last Night On Earth | 18+🔥| UPCOMING

Dreadful Need | 18+🔥

Summary: “You wanted to see his smile fade as the realization struck him that he would have to work for it tonight.”

Falling |🌙

Summary: “A fleeting moment of you being tugged forward and wrapped into the safety of his arms. It ignited something in you. caused your heart to quicken its pace whenever he was around—reminding you of what he felt like so close.”

Lover Be Good To Me | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “How you managed to be the lucky winner in this draw called life, you’d never know. Tommy was kind, good to you in a way no other person ever had been before.”

Wretched and Joyful | 18+🔥| Kinktober 2023

Summary: “He would be your end and all that came next. He’d be your consequence in a world that sought out punishment rather than forgiveness. Your small slice of joy in the wretched ways of reality.”

How Stars Shine in Darkness | 💫

Summary: In darkness stars shine. In pain…your love glows. And when all hope feels lost, Tommy Miller thinks of you.

The Breaking of Glass | 💫

Summary: You could remember his smile most of all. How it shone brighter than the sun on most days. How his curls nearly always fell into his eyes. But most of all…you remembered how he loved you.

First Light (series) | 18+🔥| COMING SOON

Summary: Tommy Miller never thought he would end up alone. Not when he had family behind him - a life that wasn't perfect, but good enough. Yet there he was, kneeling on the cold forest floor - bloodied and bruised - asking to die. Until light streams through the trees, and he sees you.

©moonlight-prose do not feed my work into ai, do not steal my work, if you are a minor, spam like my fics, or are a blank blog you will be blocked.

[dark9896]

Dance Partners [Klaus x Reader]

Requested by Anonymous 🩰

It had been a stroke of pure luck that you were able to convince Klaus that this was a crucial mission and not just a lame excuse to ask him on a semi-romantic date. The crush you'd harbored on him was downright embarrassing and not something you were too thrilled to admit to. Growing up, you'd always guarded your emotions tightly. Fearful of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and messing everything up. Fearful of being rejected and left alone, or worse laughed at for no real reason.

Klaus was the last person you thought would even think about doing so, and yet you couldn't break down those walls. No matter how badly you wanted to let him into your life. Though you certainly did get rather close to slipping up quite a few times, thankfully during times the two of you were otherwise alone. You'd probably die of embarrassment if anyone had been around.

Let alone if Zapp began teasing you as he was prone to doing.

And yet, here you were, awkwardly standing next to Klaus. Both of you dressed to impress, though Klaus thought it was simply to blend in. While you couldn't help but mentally fawn over how ridiculously handsome Klaus looked.

His usual style was replaced with a deep black tailcoat and matching pants, a pair of snow-white gloves, and sleek black dress shoes. His hair slicked back just a tad, and that same blood-red tie that really popped even more brilliantly against the dark fabrics. It was as if he'd stepped out of a black-and-white movie where the redness of his tie and hair held significance.

You couldn't help but feel slightly inferior in your own evening wear. But Klaus was struggling to not make any strange comments to you. He thought you looked amazing. He thought he was the lucky one to be seen with you at such a gathering. He thought it would be a great shame, bordering a crime to not ask you to dance when you looked so lovely.

Though actually asking had Klaus flustered to high heaven. His large finger tapped the stem of a champagne glass timidly as he attempted to gather the courage needed to do such a task. Which felt just slightly off to him.

As long as the two of you had been working together, Klaus never once felt nervous within your presence, not to this degree at least. He deeply enjoyed that you preferred to spend time one-on-one with others in order to truly open up to them. As he was also prone to being more open with others in such a setting. Much less to keep up with if he's only interacting with one person. Less room to say the wrong thing or spoil a surprise intended for someone.

You couldn't handle the awkwardness any longer, "Klaus? Would you care to dance with me?"

"I would love to [Name]."

It was shocking how quickly that came out of Klaus's mouth, but you weren't going to complain about it. Not when there was a slow and steady waltz to be had.

Klaus didn't hesitate to pull you close in a proper waltzing style. One hand respectfully at your waistline, the other gently holding your hand. You let yourself relax, Klaus taking the lead as you casually leaned against his chest. He hoped you wouldn't be bothered by how fiercely his heart was pounding right now. Being this casual in a public setting would always fluster him to no end.

And yet, you lost track of the seconds ticking by. You only focused on not stepping on Klaus's toes, gathering your nerves against what seemed a fairytale dream. It was all too tempting to kiss him. But you still hesitated, you didn't want to cause problems, or make this situation any more embarrassing than it already was.

You just wanted to be able to tell Klaus how you felt. Was that really too much to ask?

Klaus couldn't help himself, it was just how the waltz tended to end. Especially one as tender and romantic as that. While he was certain this would freak you out a little, and he by no means expected anything to come of the gesture, Klaus dipped you slowly. One hand supporting your lower back, the other just behind your head.

It was just too perfect. You pulled up a little, kissing Klaus for all you were worth. Shocking him completely as he didn't know what to do. It was a one-sided kiss, though more so out of confusion than disinterest.

"[N-n-name]? What did you do that for?"

Klaus was a tad pale in the face. Bewilderment overtaking his fluster.

"I... I..." You had to look away, at least you were upright and not being held at the moment, "I've been in love with you for quite some time. But I struggled in telling you out of fear."

Klaus's face fell a little, "Fear? Fear of what?"

"Of being rejected." You could only be honest, "Of being laughed at. Of saying the wrong thing and never being able to even look at you without feeling incredibly guilty and embarrassed."

"[Name]," Klaus's hands tenderly and timidly settled at your waist, "I would never be able to laugh at anyone for saying how they felt. I would never dream to be so cruel, especially not towards such a trusted friend and comrade. I care far too much about you to do such a thing."

You barely managed to rest your hands on his arms, making it seem like a far more tender moment between two lovers instead of the awkward confession it really was.

"In truth, I feel the same way about you. Not as strongly, but in hindsight, I can honestly say that I love you as well." Klaus leaned forward just slightly, "Please, would you honor me with another dance?"

[minibossvegas]

The First Game

{TW: mentions of needles}

☬Game: Needle in a Haystack☬

☬Difficulty: 7 of ♤☬

☬Location: Cemetery☬

☬Rules: dig through the open graves of needles to find a key to unlock the stone building before time runs out☬

☬Time Limit: 1 hour☬

☬Game Start☬

The Tower; Upright. Disaster, Destruction, Upheaval, Trauma, Sudden Change, Chaos.

The Tower; Reversed. Resisting Change, Avoiding The Inevitable, Surviving.

Yumiko followed the screens and signs directing her to the game. As she walked she called out for her mother and brother, hoping to find either one of them rather than being alone. Though things were normal and fine a minute ago the streets were now deserted, over grown. It didn't take a genius to realize Yumiko had ended up in some sort of alternate plane of existence, an apocalyptic one. Growing up on America's apocalyptic media she almost found herself comparing her situation to that of her favorite TV show. 100 people sent to earth to determine if it was survivable after centuries or decades of a nuclear disaster. The air seemed fine, her body wasn't rejecting the oxygen in her lungs, ruling out nuclear disaster, then there was the matter of this "game". She found no answers dawdling around. As she made her way a cemetery came into view, just inside the gates was a screen mounted on top of a sepulchre. She chewed her lip in distaste. Apocalypse or not she still found it rude to disgrace the dead and their resting place. She stepped through the gates hesitantly, finally finding other living people. She wanted to go up to the first person she saw and grill them with questions, by the fear and exhaustion on their faces she knew they had no answers. They were lost, like her. Just before the sepulchre was a raised grave, much like the ones she saw in New Orleans on a birthday trip some odd years ago. On top of the graves sat a single phone, she glanced around seeing that the others here had one before taking the phone for herself. She turned it on, the object catching her off guard as it began to scan for facial recognition. It wasn't too long before the mounted screen spoke,"registration closed. Game: Needle In A Haystack. " it was robotic and cold. Goosebumps began to make its way across her skin as she half expected a doll to suddenly appear from behind the graves, she made a mental note to cool it on the horror movies when she returned home. If she returned home, she wasn't even sure if it was possible. Her mental rambling came to a halt as the rules of the game were explained. When the voice mentioned graves filled with needles yumiko's heart nearly stopped right there. If there was one completely overwhelming fear she had it was needles, especially dirty ones. Having done a few weeks as a nurse aid in a hospital as part of her extra curriculars in high school she saw first hand what getting pricked by a used needle can do to a person. It didn't help with the amount of drugs being circled around Vegas, making needles on the street plentiful. She took deep breaths trying to reign in the panic that began to course through her veins, find the key in the needles, how hard can it really be? The other people, other players, ran jumping into the graves filled with needles, the screen had already switched to a timer that was counting down. Yumiko would have stayed there frozen if not for the highschool girl that pulled her towards a grave,"come on! The rules didn't say we can work together! You're new here right? I'm Aiko, we can work together to find the key!"

She let herself be pulled along to an unoccupied grave, hesitating until Aiko pushed her in. She heard a sharp cry as pain bloomed from where needles broke under her weight or embedded themselves in her skin. She made a mental note to raid a pharmacy afterwards for a tetanus shot, among other things once she was finished here. After the girl pushed Yumi in, she jumped in herself, she spoke to Yumiko but she could barely hear over the sound of her own blood pumping in her ears. It wasn't until Aiko began to use her hands to shovel through the needles that Yumi understood and began doing the same. The timer sounded, 20 minutes left. The panic in Yumiko burned brighter at the fear of what would happen if she didn't make it to the sepulchre in time. The timer sounded again as Yumiko felt a flat piece of metal brush her hand, the key. She grabbed it, pulling herself from the grave, and reaching for Aiko. She took this moment to look around, a few players already dead though she wasn't sure what from. She pulled her new friend from the needles and held onto her as they ran to the sepulchre. They were almost there when a desperate man tried to grab Aiko, time was wasted as Yumiko kicked at him pulling Aiko away from his grip. The two girls barely made it inside the stone building, pulling the heavy metal door closed behind them as the phone she had displayed a game cleared screen. Aiko looked worse for wear but Yumi assumes she didn't look any better herself. The sepulchre a few cots, and a timer of when the door would unlock to let them out. Enough food and water to replenish themselves while they were trapped. Outside she could hear the sounds of a roaring fire, and screams from the players who didn't make it in time. Aiko began to go over the rules of this new world to Yumi, the number on the card being the difficulty and the suit depicting what sort of game. She told Yumi to rest since it'll be a while since they could leave. She didn't sleep easy on the cot, the adrenaline making it difficult. When she finally awake she went to wake Aiko. Fear begining to over take her as Aiko refused to wake up no matter how much she shook the girl. She checked for a pulse to find none. She began to look over the body trying to decipher what killed her new friend after they 'won the game '. In the end it was all too obvious, an allergic reaction. Aiko was sentenced to death the moment she jumped in the needles, and she continued to help Yumi regardless. Yumiko let herself grieve for a moment, for her new friend, the loss of her family, the death of those outside. When she no longer had tears to shed she opened the sepulchre door, black ash and charred graved greeted her, she ignored the burnt distorted bodies as she walked towards the grave stone where she first picked up the phone, a simple seven of spades card sat on top. She took her measly prize and went on her way, she needed food and shelter. She was making a mental list of what she needed to survive but stopped seeing a strange man with a long blade a few yards ahead of her. She understood quickly that people will do whatever it took to survive, it was human nature after all. Her tired body stiffened, preparing for what was to happen. She flinched as the man got closer and closer and stilled when she was pulled into a gentle embrace. A soft voice speaking her name. She looked up at the man first with confusion, then relief,"Takatora...I found you..." Family, that's all she needed to survive this place, as long as she had her brother, she would be alright, even if she had to burn the world to keep it that way.