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seitmai · 3 days ago

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Attached to this one was a sheet detailing the flight schedules for the day, and sure enough, a smile curled along his lips below his mustache when he saw that a Comanche was slated to arrive at 1500 hours with the note US Airmail Transport.

He was right all along!

"Work now, reward later," he told himself, taking a deep breath and picturing your smile. That was enough to get him through the meetings. It was enough to get him back to his small office where he wrote up his notes for the day.

He's such a wife guy 🥰

He could bail out of line, eat dinner, and come back later, hoping there was still someone there to disperse the mail before they closed up shop for the night. But it wasn't worth the risk. He'd be happy to skip dinner in favor of mail from you. It wasn't even a question in his mind.

Letters from home >>>> dinner

I can picture it so vividly in my head!

Wren drew you a tooth fairy, but it looks like a demon. So then I started to try to draw the tooth fairy, and it looks really cool. It's on the back of the page. Please write back and tell us when you're coming home.

Hahah siblings 😂

You know how much Wren cries when the countdown goes on for too long. Honestly, it makes me want to cry, too.

Fair

"Holy shit," he whispered under his breath, reaching in and pulling out a photo of you wearing nothing but a tiny lace thong in his favorite shade of blue. He loved that thing. He loved taking it off of you. Your arm was covering your breasts in the photo, but that was okay. He had a vivid imagination.

🤭🤭🤭

When he reached blindly into the box again, his hand connected with something softer next to the Polaroids. To his absolute delight, his fingers wrapped around that bit of fabric that he recognized right away. The blue thong. His cock jumped in excitement as he raised your panties slowly from the box and brought them all the way to his face. He knew. He knew you hadn't washed it. He just fucking knew this little thing was put in the box directly after you came all over it and dragged it down your soft legs.

Oh he is getting all the goodies in the package 🤭

"Oh, fuck," he whispered, voice harsh as he drained every drop onto the lace. He held the sticky mess in his hand and huffed out a surprised laugh. From thousands of miles away, you did this to him.

As I said, wife guy 😌

Maybe he'd have time to grab some dinner before returning to his bunk to write back to you, Hawk, and Wren. He had so much to say. Especially to you. He'd set himself up in bed with one of his clipboards and tell you all about what you made him do.

Oh his wife will get the most raunchy thank you letter ever 🤭

And I have to mention it: the kids having bird names? No notes 👏🏻

The further he got from your wrecked underwear, the more he realized he could still smell you. He was going to be able to smell you all night. This was going to be a painfully long meeting. And the letter he wrote to you later was going to be as dirty as your underwear.

What a reunion this will be, I see potential for another little baby bird aus the result of it 😅🤭

Mail Call | Rooster x Reader

Summary: After a long and illustrious Naval career, Bradley was used to months spent on an aircraft carrier. Nothing ever felt quite as good as a letter from home. He thought he knew what to expect this time, but you always made things more exciting.

Warnings: adult language, masturbation, horny love letter

Length: 2500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Check out my masterlist for more!

Bradley had been in the Navy long enough to know when to expect a mail call. Maybe it was intuition or a sixth sense, but after so many years of deployments, he was certain. When he woke up on Tuesday, something told him to start getting excited. There would be a box with his name written in a familiar scrawl in his hands soon. "Commander Bradshaw." He turned to see a petty officer jogging along the interior corridor of the aircraft carrier with a clipboard in hand. "Sir, here's your schedule for the day." Bradley grunted and skimmed the sheet as he made his way up to the tower. The lightness he felt mere moments ago was replaced by annoyance. Back-to-back meetings filled every inch of the sheet, including a meeting that was scheduled for after dinner.

"Damn it," he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time. His plan to collect his parcel, enjoy a meal, and then head to his private bunk to read the letter was dashed. But he was still convinced that a Comanche helicopter would touch down on deck at some point this afternoon if the weather permitted. He'd get his mail when he could. He needed to wait a little longer to hear from you, which would make him grouchy in the interim.When he pushed open the heavy door to the tower, he greeted the collection of older officers by uttering just one word. "Admirals."

They all greeted him in response with a chorus of overworked voices, and then another clipboard was thrust into his hand. Attached to this one was a sheet detailing the flight schedules for the day, and sure enough, a smile curled along his lips below his mustache when he saw that a Comanche was slated to arrive at 1500 hours with the note US Airmail Transport.

God, a letter from you was sounding better by the minute. Your tone would be soft. You'd tell him how much you missed him. There would be something in there from-

"Commander Bradshaw. Let's get started with your pilots."

His musings were cut short, and he sighed before slipping the offered headset into place and testing out the comms. He was in charge of the training exercises for this deployment, and he needed to keep his mind clear so he could keep his aviators safe. It would do him no good to be focused on what might be happening back at home. He could read about it later.

But as the day wore on, the sky darkened, and storm clouds painted the horizon. When he called his team back to the carrier and watched them land one at a time, he asked the admirals, "Should we check in with the mail transport? It seems to have gone off schedule."

Lightning cut across the sky just as the comms crackled to life with a new voice. "This is Comanche. We're coming in low from the east, trying to avoid the rain. Are we clear to make a quick landing in seventeen minutes?"

Bradley listened to the air traffic team guide the helicopter in, and sure enough, the landing was low and loud, followed by another crack of lightning. He watched from his high vantage point as a team ran out in boots and rain slickers to collect bin after bin of mail, and now his hands were itching again. He could already feel the familiar weight of the box packed with his favorite snacks and some handmade artwork.

"Commander, you'll be late to meet with the pilots."

Bradley was once again yanked from his daydream of being at home where it was warm and dry and cozy, and he was faced with the prospect of having to duck outside into the storm to get to the meeting rooms on time.

The first gust of wind had him shivering and wishing he could grab his mail directly from the helicopter and head back to his bunk. The second gust left him cursing under his breath. He had to go lecture all of these young pilots about where they needed to improve before they could fly their mission, and he just didn't have the energy for it.

But now there was a massive fucking line of officers in uniform waiting for the same thing he was. And to top it off, his stomach was growling. He could bail out of line, eat dinner, and come back later, hoping there was still someone there to disperse the mail before they closed up shop for the night. But it wasn't worth the risk. He'd be happy to skip dinner in favor of mail from you. It wasn't even a question in his mind.

When he finally reached the window and the rows of alphabetized bins, he told the officer in charge, "Bradshaw, Bradley," and then waited quite impatiently to have an ordinary looking cardboard box thrust into his hands. But his heart leapt with joy as soon as he held it and saw your handwriting. "Thank you."

The box felt a little lighter than usual. Maybe you didn't have time to load it up with as many snacks as you usually did. He hated leaving you for weeks and months at a time to deal with everything at home on your own. He loved being at home for the day to day grind. Loved it. But there was something unique about seeing how much things changed while he was gone.

He shook the box a little bit, curiosity getting the best of him. He passed the cafeteria and ran like a child to get back to his bunk as quickly as he could where he set the box down and tore into it. When he saw the three envelopes on top, he had to fight back his tears and take a deep breath.

He carefully picked up the envelope that said Daddy in purple crayon and opened it up to find several coloring sheets and a note written in light pink crayon that was a little hard to read.

Daddy,

I lost my first toooth. The toooth fairee took it. I got a glittery doller. I drew you the toooth and the fairee.

Love, Wren

Bradley found the corresponding page with a drawing of the tooth along with the tooth fairy. His daughter also wrote her name all over the back of the paper in every color crayon imaginable which made him smile. He read her note again before carefully placing it on his nightstand, and then he picked up the envelope that said Dad in black pen.

Dad,

When are you coming home? Fourth grade is so boring. We are learning how to write in cursive, but I already know how. Mom doesn't make the homework as fun as you do. Don't tell her I said that.

Actually everything is better when you're at home. I had a good report card, so mom let me get a skateboard. I covered it in bird stickers. I can almost stand on it for three seconds. Soccer tryouts are next week, and mom promised to take a video so you can watch it later. When are you coming home again? I'll make sure she doesn't delete the video.

Love, Hawk

His son's version of the tooth fairy did look pretty cool, and now Bradley was cracking up as he took a second look at the one his daughter drew. Yeah, it was a bit frightening. He set both notes aside, finally ready to read what you had written to him. The third envelope said Bradley in your familiar handwriting, but his heart lurched into his belly. Instead of the thick envelope filled with page after page that he usually received from you, this one was light. His brow creased in concern as he opened it up to reveal just one sheet.

Bradley,

We miss you. The kids are mostly holding it together, but we're waiting until we know your return date to start a countdown. You know how much Wren cries when the countdown goes on for too long. Honestly, it makes me want to cry, too.

I could write you a novel about work and school and how much I miss you, but I thought it might just be more fun to show you. I got a little carried away with the camera a few nights ago when I couldn't sleep. I was too hot, and your pillow still smells like you. It smelled so good. I started thinking about what you and I will do when you get home. Then I couldn't stop. I literally could not stop touching myself, Bradley.

It never feels as good without you, but I do think some of the photos portray just how vivid my imagination was that night. Like I said, I got carried away.

Let us know when you'll be home.

Love, Your horny wife

Bradley immediately started digging through the box, and he soon realized you'd only included a thin layer of his favorite snacks. He scooped them out onto his bed and was left with some Polaroids. A lot of Polaroids.

Oh, but you didn't leave him hanging at all. The next one he grabbed was you sprawled out in bed, tits on full display, thong present and accounted for. You were biting down on your lip, and he could almost hear you moan. Your nipples were hard and looked just like they did after he had them in his mouth.

"God damn it, Baby. You're killing me." He missed his family. He missed being at home. But right now, all he could think about was fucking the absolute shit out of his wife.

Now he was looking at a beautiful shot of just your face, eyes closed, lips parted in pleasure. That was followed up by you bending over in the thong. And then one where you had your nose buried in his pillow.

There were so many photos, he was getting dizzy. And he was hard. He took a few seconds to unzip his khaki uniform pants while his eyes searched through the photos still inside the box. "Damn," he groaned, wrapping his right hand around his cock while he picked up one of the photos with his left.

You were straddling his pillow in your underwear. Literally grinding your pussy against it. Back arched, tits front and center, riding his pillow like it was his face. He really wished it was.

"Okay, Baby," he murmured, picking up another one while he stroked himself. Your hand was inside your thong. Another one where your blue thong was pulled to the side, showing off your pussy. Another one where you had two fingers knuckle-deep inside yourself. Another one where you were licking your wet fingers.

His mouth watered as he pressed it to his nose. Eyes squeezed shut, he inhaled the scent of your arousal. He moaned your name. He could practically taste you as he rutted into his own hand. Bradley inhaled and exhaled your smell, running the lace along his nose, mustache and lips. The fabric was soft on his face, and he could picture you teasing him with it.

He would do anything to have you right now. He wanted you bent over the end of the bed, sobbing and begging him to go harder. He wanted your sweet voice in his ear. He wanted you on your knees. He wanted to bury his face in your pussy until you screamed.

"Jesus Christ," he whined, panting as he jerked himself off. All he could smell was you. It smelled like home and being in love. He couldn't get enough as he rubbed your thong all over his face before lowering it down to his cock. The lace felt exquisite as he ached with need. The fabric glided along in his hand, creating a friction that left him groaning.

He jerked himself off slowly, trying to make it last as long as he could, but the Polaroids were all he could see, and your pussy was all he could smell. He came all over your thong, ribbons of white decorating it while he held onto the wall for support.

"Oh, fuck," he whispered, voice harsh as he drained every drop onto the lace. He held the sticky mess in his hand and huffed out a surprised laugh. From thousands of miles away, you did this to him. This was different from the mail he usually received from you, but he wasn't complaining. He got a nice update on what was happening at home plus a lot more than he bargained for.

Bradley walked into his tiny bathroom and draped your thong over the sink faucet before washing his hands. Maybe he'd have time to grab some dinner before returning to his bunk to write back to you, Hawk, and Wren. He had so much to say. Especially to you. He'd set himself up in bed with one of his clipboards and tell you all about what you made him do.

"Oh, shit," he told his reflection in the mirror as he thought about his clipboard again. "Fuck!"

He had one more meeting left. Starting in just minutes. He eased his cock back into his pants, still zipping up as he left his bunk. Then he walked while discreetly trying to tuck his shirt in and straighten out his uniform.

----------------------

Thanks for reading! It's been a while since I posted a Bradley one-shot, and this one was hanging out in my drafts for a bit. Much love for a DILF. Hope you enjoy your Valentine's Day as much as Bradley enjoyed his mail!

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trippinsorrows · 3 days ago

Text

looking through your eyes + thirty five

authors note: hopefully, after this one, a lot of things will make sense. long-term storytelling, friends.....i know what i'm doing.

cw/tw: angst, graphic violence, attempted and real violence against women and children, scenes regarding sexual assault, and discussion of csa.

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

cast+ masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 13k

The second Solana didn’t answer the phone when he called, Roman knew something was very, very wrong.

Solana always answers his calls and texts, and every single one of those outreach attempts by the Tribal Chief goes unanswered.

So, it’s not him being notified that there was an “incident” at the library where she works and he knew she was, that triggered him. It wasn’t even Bautista not answering his phone. It was being hit with the sound of Solana’s sweet voice via her voicemail that he just knew something bad had happened.

And, it had him sick to his stomach.

The minute Roman arrives at the taped off library, police and first responders surrounding the area, a crowd of individuals gathered, trying to see what’s happened.

Matteo and Dwayne in tow, Roman is barely on the steps when the all too familiar stench hits him.

Death.

It’s the smell of death, and it permeates the environment, bypassing the roped off establishment, slapping him in the face the minute he walks in and is met with the grisly sight.

A sight that makes Dwayne mutter, “Jesus Christ….”

Bodies almost lined up, stacked against and with each other. Some overlapping. Some right beside each other. The coroner has clearly yet to arrive, as they’re all still uncovered, revealing the gristly details of their demise. Riddled with bullets, gaping holes telling the onslaught was something similar to a firing squad.

But, it’s two bodies in particular that draw the attention of the three men. Separate from the rest, faces grotesquely disfigured, their shirts ripped open and revealing their chests that are also riddled with bullets. It’s not that horrific site that has Roman crouching down for a better examination.

It’s what’s been carved into what remains of their chests that has his blood boiling. A symbol.

A symbol that he knows all too well.

The Nightmare Factory.

Matteo is saying something, either to him or Dwayne, but Roman is too consumed with a level of rage he’s never felt before.

“Rhodes.” It’s a simple word filled and consumed with an almost ungodly amount of hatred. “Rhodes is behind this.”

Cody Rhodes is responsible for this attack, this violent, grisly attack that claimed the lives of so many, two of his best men included, and even more, the kidnapping of his wife.

Because Roman has lived long enough to recognize the optics of this situation. The place where his wife works was attacked, countless people killed, and yet his wife is nowhere to be accounted for. Not to mention that a calling card, a message was clearly left, letting him know exactly who was behind this.

It all points to one thing, and one thing only.

Cody fucking Rhodes has taken Solana.

He’s taken his pregnant wife.

“I don’t know.” It’s Matteo’s voice. That much Roman can make out. Nothing else, because the amount of rage burning within his big body is on the verge of an explosion. “Something feels off about—“

“Let me through!”

The voice of the one man Roman both hates and loves to hear in this moment. The Tribal Chief stands up and turns around to see the man of the hour who’s just zoomed past the barricade of cops zoning off the area.

Or, supposed to be.

And, in yet another twist that no one could have seen coming, an almost deranged Cody makes his way directly towards Roman, screaming almost wildly, “you evil son of a bitch!”

Wrong….fucking…..words.

Naturally, both Matteo and Dwayne move to prevent Cody from swinging on Roman, but it makes no difference, because the Head of the Table easily bulldozes his way in between them and makes a beeline for his target.

Roman’s powerful punch sends Cody flying flat on his ass. Roman wastes no time jumping on top of him, big hands wrapped around his neck. “WHERE IS SHE!”

A roar of a question that travels through nearly every floor of the library. It’s met with Cody’s hands grasping at Roman’s forearms, trying to pry himself free from the other man’s iron grip. When that fails to work, he takes advantage of Roman’s focus on choking the life out of him to lift his leg, knocking Roman off.

And in a matter of seconds, the roles are switched, Cody landing a rather nasty blow to Roman’s right cheek. “Where’s Brandi and Emma!”

As Dwayne and Matteo move to separate the powerhouses, the latter of the two starts to put the confusing out of place pieces together.

Yanking Cody off his brother, restraining the other man as Dwayne does the same with Roman, Matteo's younger brother barks, “WHERE THE HELL IS SHE!”

Naturally, Cody growls back, seemingly unbothered in the face of a borderline mad man. "Where's my wife!”

And, it’s in both men asking the same thing yet again that it clicks for Matteo, prompting him to shout, “would you both just wait a damn minute!”

Of course, neither man is trying to listen, both continuing to fight like hell to break free before they can rip each other apart and fall right into the trap that’s clearly been laid out for them.

Even if they’re both too blinded by rage and grief to see it.

“Listen to me!” Matteo hisses, his voice borderline venomous. He forces Cody’s gaze on him, putting two and two together. “Your wife and daughter have been taken.” And then, redirection to Roman. “And your wife has been taken.” Able to grasp his younger brother‘s attention, Matteo doesn’t waste the opportunity. “If Cody is truly the one responsible for this kidnapping, what sense does it make for him to show up and be here right now?”

Then back to Cody who is no longer thrashing as hard against him, “and if Roman was responsible for the kidnapping of your family, why would he be out here in the open right now, showing his hand?” He looks between the two men whose faces reveal they’re both at least trying to consider Matteo’s assessment. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Dwayne also seems to be biting but gestures with his head to the desecrated bodies. “But what about the Nightmare insignia?”

At that, Cody barks a confused, “what?”

It’s only them that Matteo releases him and motions over to the fallen Bloodline men. Cody walks over, the other three never taking their eyes off him.

Matteo especially watches as his face fills with confusion before he looks over, speaking directly to the Tribal Chief. “I didn’t order any hit.” He takes it to another level, clarifying with an almost clenched jaw. “And, I damn sure didn’t kidnap your wife.”

“And, he didn’t kidnap yours,” Matteo informs, recognizing his brother is far too irate still to offer any sort of response. “But, someone did.”

“And they just wanted you to think each other did,” Dwayne supplies, fully following and believing Matteo’s train of thought. The same way, with excellent peripheral vision, he’s followed the subtle change in body language of the guards who have watched quietly, without any overt reaction to the scene before them.

The same way Roman and Cody, even in the midst of their unbridled fury, noticed the brief shared look between two of their guards.

Bloodline and Nightmare Factory.

Matteo also noticed, commenting in that same unsuspecting tone. “They wanted to draw you both out at the same time….”

“At the same place,” Dwayne finishes for him, again giving away nothing.

And then, chaos.

It’s almost like a scene out of a movie, something that defies logic and science with how fast the four men whip out the guns they all have on them.

How one minute, the four are involved in a tense exchange amongst one another, and the next, they’re shooting down the same men who should be there protecting and watching them.

Bodies crumble and fall to the floor as the four men are relentless and merciless, nothing but headshots as they skillfully maneuver and evade the returned fire. Hiding and dodging the rain of gunfire, each man ends up partially hiding behind some sort of object as they smartly aim for the guards that attempt to enter the premises, dropping them before they can step foot in.

The unlikely group manage to shoot their way out of the front of the library, the previously nosy crowd scrambling and running for their lives amongst the gunfire.

“Come on!” Dwayne guides and ushers them toward the SUV after the last cop is dropped, nothing but bleeding, deceased corpses surrounding them. “We need to get the fuck out of here before they send more.”

“He’s not coming with us,” Roman growls, ripping the front door open.

“Yes, he is,” Dwayne protests, earning a look that would absolutely kill, if possible, from his younger cousin. “Look, we need to find out just what—”

Cody, however, is not here for it just as much as the Tribal Chief isn’t. “I’m not going anywhere with you pieces of—” An abrupt interruption followed by his body starting to crumple, only to reveal a bored and irritated looking Matteo, clearly having done them all a favor with a single, effective knock to the back of the head.

The Italian man curses. “He talks too damn much.” Matteo doesn’t waste any time in shoving Cody’s unconscious body into the back of the car, directing to Dwayne. “We need to go to my house.”

“Why?” Roman asks, partially present, mostly elsewhere. So much has happened in under the span of an hour, even more in just the past twenty minutes. And the thought that keeps booming in his head, keeps oscillating, poking and torturing him is the most unbelievable and terrifying of them all.

Solana has been taken.

His wife, who he swore to protect with everything in him, has been taken.

And though nothing would bring him greater joy than to beat Rhodes to a bloody pulp until he fesses up where she is, Matteo and Dwayne are right.

It doesn’t make sense.

Rhodes is an evil son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid. He would never make such a risky move and follow up with a public appearance. He’d make sure to throw that stone and hide the hell out of his hands. Even more, there’s something to be said about the fact that Rhodes wife and child have also been taken.

Something tells Roman the blonde bitch isn’t lying about that. The feral, almost devastated look in his eyes revealed as much.

It’s the same look Roman’s had since realizing what’s happened.

“We’re being hunted down and targeted,” Matteo answers as the four men are in the vehicle, Dwayne driving them to what Roman would guess is Matteo’s house. “They’re more than likely to have gone after my wife as well.”

Dwayne chuckles darkly. “Their death wish.”

Roman is once again tuned out, eyes closed, forehead against the window of the SUV.

Solana.

His sweet, innocent wife who he just saw hours earlier, who was excited about sharing so many things with him this evening, is gone.

Taken.

Kidnapped.

Missing.

How did this happen?

“What the fuck is going on?” Ava’s confused, irritated, angry voice rips Roman from his thoughts, as he realizes it’s coming through the speakers of the SUV. Dwayne, who’s driving them now to Matteo’s house, has called her.

“You were attacked.” A statement, not a question from Dwayne. He then jumps to an absolute question, “you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine.” A bit of a frazzled response, the anger coming down and settling into more of reality setting in. “My place is a disaster, but I guess that’s a given with all the dead bodies.”

A bit of a grim visual for the Tribal Chief, though he finds himself both pleased and unsurprised. Though Ava keeps a bit of a distance from the dark side of the business, much like everyone else in his family, she can defend herself.

She can defend herself very well.

“Someone needs to answer my question though,” she interrupts, the anger building back up again. “Why the hell did our men attack me?”

“It’s a coup,” Roman speaks for the first time, gaze focused outside the window, watching the passing cars. “Someone’s trying to overthrow me.” No emotion attached. Just laying of the facts. Until the next thing that comes out of his mouth. “They’ve—they’ve taken Solana.”

Silence on the other end. “What?” A heavy, shaky sigh. “Oh my God….”

Roman closes his eyes. The sentiment is shared.

More than anyone could ever realize.

“Ava, where are you?” She shares an approximate location, as she’s also driving around, trying to put as much distance between herself and her home. “I need you to listen to me carefully.” Dwayne grabs his phone, expertly navigating the device in his hand and the steering wheel in the other. “I just sent you an address. I need you to go straight there. Don’t text, call or talk to a single fucking soul. Only answer your phone if it’s me, Matteo, or Roman. You understand me?”

“Got it.” The most affirmative her voice has sounded in the entire call. “But, what—”

“Wait.” Another interruption from Roman. Dwayne has just set his phone back down as he glances between the road and his cousin. Roman directs his next statement to Ava. “I need you to stop somewhere first.”

—-----

Pain.

That’s the first thing Solana feels as she slowly blinks her eyes, coming to. It’s a sensation that’s focalized in her wrists, face, and the back of her head. Throbbing and stinging in three separate areas. Sensations that dominate her wherewithal as she slowly ascends to consciousness. Eyes now completely open, she blinks a couple times, an almost old, stale odor invading her senses. Frowning and scowling, Solana looks around, recognizing the almost abrasiveness against her cheek. The floor. It’s from the aged, concrete flooring. And, the difficulty she has in sitting up is mostly due to the fact that her hands are bound in front of her with zip ties that are digging into her skin, small specks of scraped and bloodied skin visible as she assesses the tight hold.

Slight panic builds up in her from being restrained and unable to feel her belly. Touch her baby bump. A self-soothing gesture that will help alleviate her nerves regarding the safety of her babies. But, she can’t. Bound and restricted, she’s delegated to a sort of common sense train. The only solace in her stemming from the fact that she feels no pain or discomfort anywhere near her abdominal area.

That’s one issue somewhat tackled.

But, there’s so many more left.

And, they all come rushing into her with the devastating weight and depth of a category 5 hurricane.

The library. Brandi and Emma. The invasion of both Nightmare and Bloodline men alike. Solo. Bron.

Tears fill her eyes.

Sami

Bautista

Dead.

The children whose fate she can only hope was different from the two men who so bravely risked and lost their lives trying to save others.

Roman.

That’s when the tears threaten to spill over, and Solana has to work harder than she ever has in her life to keep it together.

He’s fine.

She has to tell herself this. Can believe nothing else. Because, anything else is surely enough to drag her to the inescapable depths of emotional hell.

She’s certain she’ll concede to the nervous breakdown she’s on the verge of from what’s happened alone if she allows herself to think about something happening to her soulmate.

Sitting up and looking around, Solana does her best to pull from and implement some of her therapy skills. She’s a mess right now, and while anyone in her situation would be and feel just the same, Solana doesn’t have that luxury. She doesn’t have that luxury because of the two lives growing inside her.

She has to keep it together.

For her girls.

Like her life depends on it.

Because their lives depend on it.

The room she’s in is old, dark, shabby, and dreary. A cot is in the corner with a raggedy blanket, but outside of that and a rusty looking desk and chair on the other side, there’s nothing else. Nothing but the dark, heavy looking door that’s shut and the window above her that informs her it’s daytime, given the natural sunlight that shines through.

It doesn’t make a difference.

There’s no sun or anything sunny about what’s occurred.

Only darkness.

Solana is searching and looking around the room, eager and almost desperate for anything that could distract her from how broken she feels when a sound startles her.

It’s coming from across her.

The door.

Fear partially paralyzes her as she watches the knob turn, her breath withheld, gaze focused as a figure appears in the doorway, almost entirely eclipsing anything beyond said door with their robust figure.

And just like that, fear gradually chips away and is built up with a new set of emotions.

Confusion and anger.

Solana can’t look away, her voice barely above a breath, as she speaks from the heart. From visceral emotion. “You son of a bitch….”

Rikishi's expression is smug. “You’re up.” A generic, calm, almost friendly acknowledgement. Solana catches a glimpse of the guards behind him departing, shutting the door for him, leaving the two of them alone. She can’t, won’t look away as he moves to sit at the rinky-dink chair in the corner of the room. “Can I get you anything?” The cruel, taunt in the wake of his smirk only spikes her anger to another level.

She sneers, appalled, shocked, disgusted, horrified. “You’re behind this.”

Rikishi’s smile deepens. “Surprise.”

Solana feels sick. “Where is my husband?” It’s just one of many questions she has, but the location—and status—of her husband is the most important.

Rikishi chuckles. “You mean is he still alive?” The delay in his answer is the longest 30 seconds of Solana’s life. “Yes, Roman still lives.” As much as she hates showing her relief at his answer, she can’t help it. Should she believe him? Probably not. He could be lying. He’s obviously a lying snake, but in this moment, she needs to believe him. She needs to believe that her husband is still alive.

She needs the hope.

“For now, at least.” And just like that, the hope is dashed, dread filling her. “It’s only a matter of time before he shows up, guns blazing because we took his precious little wife.” Rikishi's sick, demented smile returns. “And, then we’ll have him right where we want him.”

There’s something about the ‘we’ that triggers something for her, makes her curious as to just how deep this betrayal goes, but the priority is rather on something else implied in his statement. A cruel, terrifying realization.

“A trap,” she whispers, the color almost draining from her face. “It’s…it’s a trap.”

They’ve taken her to draw out Roman.

To trap him.

Solana shakes her head, refusing, unable to believe him. To listen to him. “He won’t—he won’t fall for it.” No. Roman is too smart for that.

“You really are a stupid girl, aren’t you?” Rikishi laughs, humor nowhere to be found in the sound that leaves his rotund body. “Of course, he will. Roman can’t see or think straight when it comes to you. He’ll show up here, alone, outnumbered, thinking he’s going to save you—”

Solana’s eyes water. “No.”

“And, he’ll be alone, because we’ve swept the rug from under him. He knows he can’t trust his own Bloodline anymore, and that’s gotta be killing him right about now. That and the fact that his weak little wife has been taken. He’s not thinking straight.”

She whimpers, eyes closing, tears streaming. “Stop it.”

“And who does he have left? Fucking Dwayne and a brother he refuses to acknowledge?” Rikishi snorts. “He has nothing.” He tilts his head to the side, pride filling him seeing the toll his words are taking on the young girl. “And really, as much as it’s your fault, in that same breath, we also have you to thank for this.” Rikishi leans forward in the chair, shrugging one shoulder. “Sure, you fucked up with the original plan—”

Solana’s eyes shoot open. "What?” When he says nothing, she has to ask again, all the while hating how destroyed she sounds. “What—what are you talking about?”

Delight fills his face. “Where do you think your father got the plan from in the first place for you to kill Roman?” Solana might as well have been shoved and slammed into the wall behind her. It would have the same impact as his words. “It was all supposed to be so much more simpler than this, really. You wouldn’t even have had to get close enough to gain his trust. Didn’t need it. Just slip the poison in his food.” The bile building up in Solana’s throat is on the verge of morphing into vomit. “But, of course, my little cousin had to throw us for a loop. He cut off your contact with your family, so we had no idea what was going on….until we did.”

She wants to say something, anything, but words seem a thing no longer accessible for her, prompting him to continue.

“I could see it. The way he started to feel something for you. To care for you.” Disgust is his countenance. “Love.” But, just as quickly as he was disgusted, he’s gleeful. “And then a new opportunity was presented. A first. Because for the first time, the great Roman Reigns had a weakness.” She closes her eyes. “So, a new plan was formed. One that would finally uproot that arrogant son of a bitch from his throne and allow a new era. A better one.”

Solo.

She’s a terrible mess of emotions, but that one indication is baffling to her. Does he really think Solo is fit to lead the Bloodline? But, it’s a short-lived thing, because what gnaws at her is his accusation. A truthful statement, if she’s being honest with herself.

She has become Roman’s weakness. The one way to get to him, and it’s worked.

It’s worked to a depressing T.

Solana is still filled with so many questions, but a single word sits at the tip of her tongue, spilling over. “Why?” That’s the part she can’t seem to grasp. This plan has clearly been in the makes for months, so it can’t be because of what happened after Fetu’s funeral. So, just what has driven this man to such a diabolical, evil course of action. “Why are you doing this to him? He’s done everything for the Bloodl—”

“He should have never been the one to lead!” Rikishi snaps, banging his fist on the table. “Not Roman. Not Nakoa. None of them!” He continues, Solana remembering that Nakoa was Roman’s father. “It should have been me and my sons. And, it would have, if he had just died like the rest of them that night.”

It’s then. In that moment, with that one telling, revealing statement, Solana puts the devastating, heartbreaking pieces together. “Oh my God….” Her eyes are traveling everywhere before setting on evil personified. “It was you, wasn’t it?” Rikishi lifts his chin, an almost unspoken acknowledgment. “You….you were behind the hit?”

Calling it a 'hit’ seems too minimizing. Massacre. It was a massacre.

Rikishi simply huffs. “I simply made Dusty aware that Nakoa planned to turn on him. The idiot was too stupid and fearful of losing his growing empire to realize it was all lies. Such a weak ass man. It was far too easy to plant the seeds. I just had to watch them grow.”

“Oh my God…” Solana repeats, as a new wave of tears builds up. Rikishi. He was the one behind it all. The reason Roman lost his family, and almost his life. It was because of his own flesh and blood.

The same flesh and blood behind the most current attempt to take out her husband once more. To put him down.

For good this time.

“I won’t—I won’t let you hurt him,” she vows, shaking her head. She looks up, matching his dark, evil gaze. “I won’t.” Because he’s already caused her husband so much hurt, so much pain, it feels almost criminal for her to not do what she can to stop that. To save him.

A small smile followed by a laugh. Loud and hearty. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl.” Rikishi stands up, walking over to her, Solana refusing to look away or cower, even as he bends over. “What are you gonna do? Huh?” Solana gasps loudly from the sudden, unexpected impact of his hand against her face. Her eyes clench shut from the stinging and throbbing. “You are nothing without Roman or the Bloodline.” His eyes burn with intense hatred and disgust, watching and enjoying how Solana struggles to lift her head. “You’re going to die just like him—”

She cries. “no.”

Solana winces when he grabs her by her jaw, squeezing, forcing her to look at him. “—but while Roman will leave a sort of legacy behind him, what will you have? Huh? Nothing!” He screams in her face, Solana closing her eyes, trying her best to block out his hurtful words. “You’ll have nothing, because you are nothing. We found you as a stupid, uneducated, naive, weak, broken bitch, and that’s exactly how you’ll die.”

—------------

It’s strategic. All of it. Necessary.

Parking a little up the road from where Matteo’s house sits, almost nestled back into a corner, surrounded by trees in the back. A forest of sorts. A forest that serves as the shielding used by the men who realize what idiocy comes with trying to pull up to the front of the house, especially given the SUV’s already parked out front.

Bloodline vehicles.

Once a good thing, now an omen.

Naturally, Matteo leads the charge, knowing the layout of his property better than the other two men, especially Roman who’d never been here prior to today.

A still unconscious Cody is left locked in the SUV. Not that Roman cares. Behind the kidnapping or not, that son of a bitch could drop dead for all the Tribal Chief cares.

Nonverbal communication and hand gestures as the three men smartly make their way into the home from the back. As they move inside, ready and prepared for whatever, it’s almost anti-climatic. Because, for Roman, at least, there’s a slight expectation for some Bloodline security to try to attack them.

Except, entering the spacious foyer of Matteo’s home, what they’re met with is a scene similar to the library. Bodies laid around. 12. Roman counts twelve. Each with a minimum of one gunshot wound. Execution style. Throats slashed. A few with obvious stab wounds in the chest.

In the heart.

“And, I’d just mopped these damn floors, too.” The sound of a voice, bored and feminine, draws the attention of the three men. Sitting down on the middle of the steps is none other than a dangerously calm looking Afia. Gun in one hand, bloody butcher knife in the other, the only indication she has of being involved in any sort of altercation is the splotches of blood splashed on her shirt and the weapons on her person. “I’m also offended they only sent twelve. I deserve at least twenty.”

Dwayne and Roman lower their guns, surveying the deceased once more to make sure they are, in fact, no longer among the living. Matteo is the first to respond, chuckling as he lowers his gun. “I suppose that’s the reason for the overkill, no?”

Afia makes a sound, rising from off the stairs where she stands, still with the gun and knife in hand. Her eyes are narrowed. Listening Watching. Waiting.

Once pleased and satisfied that the threats have all been eliminated, she responds.

“The overkill is because they chose the wrong damn house.” A vicious statement accompanied by a murderous gleam in her eyes. “One of you want to tell me why?”

Matteo has other pressing concerns. “The children—”

“In the panic room,” she answers, seeing the relief cross his handsome face. “They’re safe.”

Roman looks away. He’d give anything for that to be the case with Solana right now.

“It’s a coup,” Dwayne answers, looking around, as if suspecting another onslaught of attacks. “Someone’s trying to overthrow Roman.”

“I think it’s more than just an overthrow,” Afia corrects, walking over and kicking one of the men so he’s on his back. She points down. “Is that not the insignia of the Bloodline?” A rhetorical question. She doesn’t need anyone to tell her what she already knows. “This is an inside job.” She directs her statement to Roman. “You’ve been betrayed.”

Words that he doesn’t need to hear. A realization Roman came to the minute he realized his men were about to turn their guns on him back at the library.

A weighty, heavy thing, but nothing that anchors him down as much as the next thing that comes out his mouth. “Solana’s been kidnapped.”

And, at that, Afia gives the first indication of any type of emotion. “What?” Roman looks away. “Well, we have to get her back—”

“We will,” Matteo assures. “We just need to sit down and figure out the how.”

“And, we need to get the hell out of here,” Dwayne’s expression is a little more pressing, as he continues to look around. Watchful. Cautious. “I have a place we can go. It’ll be safe. They won’t be able to find us.”

Afia nods, Matteo and her disappearing to go retrieve the children from the panic room. It’s when he’s alone with his cousin for the first time, Dwayne voices what he knows his younger cousin is thinking.

“Roman….” The other man is turned away, looking down, taking in the state and amount of deceased that surrounds them. “This isn’t your fault—”

“Yes, it is.” A pained, quiet, angry interruption. Dwayne watches the way Roman’s jaw clenches, how his eyes shut and his fist forms at his side. “I should have—I should have seen this coming.”

And, for the life of him, Roman doesn’t know how he didn’t. He’s always prided himself on being three, five, hell, even ten steps ahead. It’s how he’s stayed on top for so long, never giving his enemies the opportunity to advance on him. And now, everything he’s built, everything he’s worked for is crumbling down right in front of him.

And, he doesn’t mean the Bloodline.

“We always prepare for threats from the outside, uce. Not the inside—”

“But, I should have.” Another interruption as Roman turns to his cousin, the turmoil that eats him up loud and evident. “I’m supposed to be better than that. I should have been, but I wasn’t and now—”

“Hey.” Dwayne places a hand on his shoulder, forcing his distressed gaze on him.

“She’s pregnant, Dwayne….”

“I know.” His voice is contrite and sympathetic, recognizing that it’s not just Solana Roman fears for. It’s for their children she’s carrying that, he prays with everything in him, is something she knows to keep hidden from her kidnappers. By whatever means necessary. “But, let me tell you something about that wife of yours, uce. She’s got some fire in her. If anyone can handle this, can manage until we can get to her, it’s Solana.”

As objectively reassuring as Dwayne’s words are, they don’t do much to abate the fear and nerves of the Tribal Chief.

Because Roman has a nagging, almost gut-like feeling that someone isn’t making it out of this alive, and he doesn’t care if it’s him.

He’ll just be damned if it’s her.

And, if he is the one to fall, he’s dragging every son of a bitch involved with this coup with him to the gates of hell.

—------

Solana knows exactly the last time she felt this way.

Heavy.

Hurting.

Hopeless.

It was the night of her second suicide attempt.

In this moment, she doesn’t feel suicidal. Has no desire to take her own life. She just feels a tremendous, overwhelming amount of grief. Grief at what occurred then, what’s about to occur, and what still remains to occur.

It’s all so devastating.

Solana knows evil. Was raised by it for a good chunk of her life. But, there’s just something she can’t fathom about Rikishi being able to parade himself as this trusted advisor to Roman, an ally, a friend, a cousin, all the while knowing he was responsible for the vicious murder of Roman’s family.

That he also tried to kill Roman once but failed.

And, now he’s trying again.

That makes her cry a little harder. Maybe a lot harder. It goes back to that helplessness, the suffocating feeling of having all of this information and no way to get it to him. To provide him with the truth, to give him a warning, something, but none of it is an option. It’s not an option, because she has no idea where she is and no way to contact him or anyone. Hands still bound, she doesn’t need them to feel in her back pocket to see her phone is no longer there.

Most likely taken or fell out at some point during her kidnapping.

Again, hopeless.

Solana jumps once more when the door is swung open with so much force that it slams against the wall behind it. She’s ready and prepared for Rikishi to enter, only for it to not be him and someone else. Two people. One she recognizes, and the other she does not. It's a tall white man with an intimidating, muscular build, ropes of muscles for arm. But, it's not his physique that makes Solana nervous. It's the way his bright blue eyes settle on her. Predatory. It sends chills down her spine, an uneasy feeling overcoming Solana, forcing her to focus on the person she knows.

Brandi.

But, whatever discomfort she’d felt from the man’s unsettling stare is quickly replaced with an overwhelming amount of dread and horror taking in the appearance of Emma's mother. Brandi’s face is bruised, her lip busted, and her clothes are disheveled, but it’s the empty, almost dazed look in her eyes that Solana knows all too well.

And the realization is crushing.

Solana gasps when the man just tosses Brandi down onto the floor, offering a look of disgust to the woman he just discarded as if she was trash and a look of nothing good to Solana. However, it’s not until he slams the door shut behind him that Solana does her best to get up, an almost impossible task with her baby bump as well as her wrists still being bound.

“Brandi….”

Solana watches how Brandi offers no sign of acknowledgment, just crawls over to the nearest wall and pulls her legs up to her chest, a sign of pain flashing across her battered face as she settles into a fetal position.

Solana’s chest tightens. She knows exactly what Brandi is feeling right now. Numb. It’s a numbness that feels like everything and nothing at the same time, a deep, guttural scream lying within the confines of shock from trauma.

A trauma Solana knows all too well.

“Brandi, please—”

“Just leave me alone.” A whispered, pained thing. Empty and hollow.

Solana swallows. “I–”

“This is all your fault.”

Five words. A simple sentence. One hell of an impact.

The tightening in Solana’s chest only intensifies, just as the tears brewing threaten to spill down her face for the umpteenth time today. “Wh–what?”

It’s only then that Brandi looks up, that hollowness replaced with indescribable anger. And pain. “I’m here because of you.” Her bottom lip trembles as she lifts one hand, pointing to the door. “My baby is somewhere out there because of you.” Her volume increases as she gestures to herself with a trembling hand. “I was just rap—” Her eyes close, her entire body shaking as she breaks out in sobs, hands covering her face.

And, in that moment, while Solana’s heart swells with a tremendous amount of empathy, of heartbreaking understanding.

She can do nothing else, she can say nothing else.

Because, Brandi isn’t entirely wrong.

She’s not entirely wrong at all.

—----------

It’s about 45 minutes into the drive that Roman realizes where Dwayne is taking them all, and initially, he’s irritated, not necessarily because of where they’re going and more because of the fact that they have to go there.

In hiding.

Because, they are.

Because, they no longer know who to trust.

Roman no longer knows who to trust.

After driving for a total of almost two hours, they arrrive at their destination.

Roman steps out of the parked SUV at the same time as Dwayne. Out the corner of his eye, he sees Matteo and Afia helping the children out the Escalade that they drove.

“Well, ya’ll look like shit.”

Beer in hand, bid body leaning against the pillar on his porch, Steve Austin’s gaze is assessing and judgmental. Typical for the man whose attitude could only be matched by his ferocity in the field.

A legendary mercenary who worked closely with Dwayne many years ago on countless assignments and missions but is now semi-retired working as a private firearm dealer.

Dwayne chuckles, taking the first step onto said porch. “We’ve seen better days.” His small smile morphs into something almost regretful. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Steve makes a sound, brushing off the unnecessary indirect apology. “All the times you saved my ass when we were out there young, dumb, hotheads? Don’t mention it.” He directs his attention then to Roman, also looking something close to repentant. “Real sorry to hear about what’s happening.”

Roman says nothing. What does someone being and feeling sorry for him do?

Not a damn thing.

The door to the house busts open, revealing a flustered Ava who has a slight cut on her eyebrow. Her focus immediately lands on Roman, who she makes a beeline over, pulling him into a hug.

“We’re gonna get her back,” she whispers in his ear, holding him close and tight.

Again, nothing is said.

He’d give anything to feel that way, because right about now, Roman can’t deny the helpless feeling building and budding inside of them.

He does have to ask, trailing off, “did you….”

Ava nods. “She’s upstairs sleeping.”

Roman nods.

One.

That’s one thing he can feel slightly relieved about.

Dulce.

Dulce is safe, Roman asking Ava to pick her up from the groomers, because Solana being kidnapped is one thing, but he’ll be damned if he lets anything happen to her dog who she loves more than anything.

The same dog he can admit, only to himself, he also loves.

Just then, the backdoor opens as a just-now-coming-to Rhodes exits, looking just as lost as he probably feels. Hand to the back of his head, he asks no one in particular. “Where the hell am I?”

Ava looks over at Cody with an undeniable amount of anger. Her gaze and question is then set to Roman. “What the hell is he—”

“It’s a long story,” he dismisses, asking Steve. “Can we come in?”

Finishing off his beer—probably the third of the day—he tosses it with zero regard. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t gon’ make ya’ll stand out here looking like a bunch of dumbasses.”

The group make their way into the house, Steve granting them privacy and Ava offering to take the kids upstairs with snacks and drinks so they also don’t have to overhear what’s bound to be a heavy conversation.

“So, what do we know?” Afia asks as the lot of them surround Steve’s large dining room table, Dwayne sitting at said table with his laptop open, attempting to access the Bloodline database.

A fruitless effort, given the quiet curse that leaves his mouth and the flashing red from the screen. Roman has never been tech savvy, but he knows enough to know that’s never a good sign.

“Solana, Brandi Rhodes, and Emma Rhodes, Brandi and Cody’s daughter were all kidnapped earlier this afternoon at the local library where Solana works and mother and daughter were visiting for some reason.” Matteo supplies, looking over at Cody. “Is it normal for her to go there—”

“No,” Cody answers immediately, pacing back and forth. “And, I don’t know why the hell she was there in the first place. I know….I know she went a couple months ago, and somehow Emma got separated from her, but from what Brandi told me, Solana found Emma and helped her find—”

“Wait, what?” Roman would like nothing more to kill Cody. For one reason. For no reason. For all the reasons. There’s a river of red and blood that’s too deep, too thick for them to ever see eye to eye, so it’s safe to say the Tribal Chief wasn’t listening to a damn thing the man was saying until he got to that part. “What do you mean Solana found her? They know each other?”

Cody looks over, shaking his head. “I don’t know specifics. Just that Brandi told me Solana helped Emma get back to her, and that Emma…she really liked her.” his voice trails off, his gaze focusing on the wall adjacent to him, emotion bubbling. He clears his throat, clearly remembering where he is and who he’s talking to. “I told her never to go back there after that, so for the life of me, I can’t figure out why she went back.”

Roman is quiet, not giving two shits about why the fuck Rhodes’ wife went against his orders and is more concerned with why and how Solana never told him about this. How no one in her security detail never thought to tell him.

How Solo, who was probably still her personal guard at the time, never said a thing.

And as if listening, a beep sounds from the computer.

"What is it?" Matteo inquires.

"It's a video conference request," Dwayne answers. He looks over at Roman. "From Solo."

Something unknown but heavy laps at Roman, an almost eerie knowing, as he mutters a quiet but firm. "Answer it."

Dwayne does just that, jabbing the button on the laptop, the group all waiting for the video to load.

And, then it does.

“Son of a bitch….” Is Dwayne’s hissed response at the sight of several men standing behind one man who sits in the middle, dressed in an all black suit with a red ula fala around his neck.

Solo.

It’s Solo.

But, he’s not alone, because Roman recognizes four of the men behind him.

Tama, Tonga, Jacob, and Rikishi.

All his family.

All currently behind the violent siege underway.

“I’m going to fucking rip you to pieces,” Roman vows, hand fisting at his side as, in a matter of mere seconds, he went from feeling an array of emotions to just one.

Anger.

Nothing but anger.

All of them.

He’s going to kill every single fucking one of them. Slowly. Painfully. Methodically. In every brutal, grisly way that he can think of.

Solo smirks, lifting his chin. “Roman Reigns.” A formal acknowledgement tinged with a hint of humor. “I think you’ve seen better days.”

Roman takes no one by surprise when the anger courses through his body manifests in him screaming out, “where is she!”

Rikishi makes a tsk tsk tsk sound. “You never were good with patience, huh?”

“Cut the shit, you two,” Dwayne practically growls, both him and Matteo doing their best to study the background to try to get some sense of where he might be located. The fucker is smart though, as it seems there’s some sort of black draping, intended to shield from that sort of detection. “Where’s Solana?”

Cody also cuts in with similar sentiments as Roman. “Where’s Brandi and Emma!”

Solo rolls his eyes. “That’s a question for your lil’ cousin, Rhodes.”

At that, Roman sees the way Cody’s face pales. “Bron?” And then, the anger. “Bron is behind this?”

“They both are,” Roman states, teeth gritted, putting the pieces together in real time. “They’ve been working together.”

Solo’s smirk confirms as such. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Why both the Bloodline and Nightmare Factory men turned on both him and Cody back at the library. An alliance of some sort has been formed between the former enforcers.

“Roman isn’t fit to lead the Bloodline anymore,” Solo growls, fist on the table before him. “We need new leadership. It just so happened Bron felt the same about the Nightmare Factory."

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Roman snarls. “You can’t trust a fucking Rhodes!”

Solo’s smile is nothing shut of evil, his voice sickeningly sweet. “Just like you couldn’t trust us, huh?”

A blow.

It’s a fucking blow to the gut. To the chest. To the soul. Because Solo is right in that.

Roman couldn’t trust him, but he did, and it’s potentially cost him everything.

“But, aye, I’m a generous Tribal Chief, so imma do you a favor.” He stands up, gesturing for whoever is filming to follow him. “Come on.”

A maniacal laugh sounds from behind the camera, and in that single second, the situation progresses from bad to worse.

Roman would know that sound anywhere, but it’s an equally pissed Rhodes who identifies the person. “Seth...”

Roman’s eyes shut. Of course. Of course, they would recruit him for this. That psychotic son of a bitch has no love for Roman nor Cody, believing himself a “victim” and “abandoned” by both of them. Roman’s caution is upped a notch with this new piece of information.

Seth is the definition of a wild card. Whatever role he plays in this whole thing can’t be minimized nor downplayed.

They’re moving down a dimly lit hall, and Roman can see out of the corner of his eye Afia taking notes, clearly trying to document as much of the space as possible. Trying to narrow down a potential location.

Helpful but maybe not necessary.

Solo finally arrives in a dingy looking room that’s filled with more of Roman's men, his former Bloodline, armed and ready.

But then, Roman’s world shatters.

“Solana…”

He sees her. Solana. She’s alive, but her face is red and bruised, a cut on her cheek, dried blood caked on her pretty skin. He searches her body for any other sign of injury, but it’s impossible to do so given the oversized hoodie, jeans, and sneakers she wears.

He has no idea how to know about….about the girls.

It kills him.

But, that’s nothing compared to when he realizes just what’s happening. She’s being dragged by her hair into the room where fucking Tama throws her to the ground, Solana landing on her palms.

“You asked for her, right?” Solo mocks, a cruel grin on his face. “Here she is.” He barks at Tama to pick her back up. “Aye, Solana, you remember that?”

The camera switches from the scene of Solana being yanked up once again by her hair to a medium large stainless steel bucket that Roman can see is filled with water. Instantly, he knows what’s about to happen.

“I swear to God, Solo, if you—” He’s stopped by the camera panning to Solana who was clearly looking in the direction of the camera, probably hearing his voice, but now it’s directed toward her.

Catches the moment she sees the bin and also knows what's about to occur.

“No.” Her eyes are wide and filled with fright that practically cripples him. “No!” Solana cries, instantly moving to try to break free as Tama leads her over to the bucket. “No, please!”

“Solo, please—” Roman finds himself begging almost. He doesn’t give a fuck. He’ll do whatever it takes. Because Solana being subjected to that, to the torture she worked so hard to escape, it kills him. His pride doesn’t exist in that moment.

“What kind of weak man goes after an innocent woman, huh?” Matteo barks, the anger felt amongst the group of them nothing compared to the pain that fills Roman.

He was supposed to protect her.

He promised to protect her.

And now, look.

He’s failed her.

He’s failed her just like he failed his family.

Soalna’s screams and cries haunt him, Roman preparing to plead, whatever it takes, when a new voice is heard.

“Aye! What you doing, man!”

Chills.

No.

The day’s events must be taking their toll on Roman, because there’s no way—

And then, he sees it.

Sees how the camera pans to a furious looking Jey who grabs Tama, punching him out and putting himself between Solana and their cousin. Solana scrambles away to the nearest wall, eyes closed, hand over her chest, obviously trying to settle her nerves.

“What the hell is this, Solo!” Jey shouts as Tonga restrains Tama from striking back. “You ain’t say it was gonna be all of this! I ain’t sign up for this shit!”

There’s a rush of emotions running through Roman in this moment for a variety of reasons. He can hear the shocked, angry responses of those around him, see how Solo chides his older brother for being so “weak,” but all of that pales in comparison to how Roman’s chest tightens seeing Solana scream out in fear when Jey moves toward her.

“Don’t touch me!” She shouts, shaking her head. “How—how could you do this to us?” She sounds every bit as hurt and betrayed as he feels. “How could you do this to Roman?”

The same question probably shared amongst the group helplessly watching the horrors unfold.

“God, you're so goddamn annoying."

A new voice added to the conversation.

Also, not unfamiliar.

Samantha appears in frame, but she’s not alone. She’s roughly holding the arm of a young, crying child. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together to figure out who said child is.

Cody’s shoulders drop. “Emma!”

Emma is crying, face red and ruddy. “Where’s my mommy!” She cries harder when Samantha tosses her to the ground. “I want my daddy!”

It’s a gut-wrenching scene to watch, for sure, but while a devastated Cody tries to gather the attention of his terrified daughter, Roman can only focus and watch as Solana gets up and rushes over to Emma, holding and cradling her.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” she comforts. Roman sees the way Emma holds onto her, clearly feeling safe with his wife. A strange, almost solemn scene. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

A sneering Sam advances over to Solana and Emma, but Solana is quick, easily maneuvering Emma behind her.

“Don’t you dare touch her,” Solana hisses, shoulders squared, voice firm. It’s a bit of a shift for Roman, something close to surprise and pride filling him. It’s such a switch. The fear that had Solana cowered in the corner is nowhere to be seen as she puts herself between this child who she doesn’t even know, not well anyway, and a woman clearly intent on no good.

Samantha scoffs, stepping forward. “Move.” A sick smirk appears on her face as she lifts up a folding knife, effectively stilling the Tribal Chief. Fuck. “Or maybe I’ll just do us all a favor and kill you now.”

Roman isn’t sure what he expects his wife to do. He just knows that it kills him to have to watch all of this unfold and not do anything about it.

Not be able to protect her.

And then, it happens. Almost too quick. Solana’s speed seems to defy logic. Her forearm against Samantha’s neck, throwing her off balance, forcing her to drop the knife that Solana doesn’t hesitate to grab. And with continued swiftness, Solana suddenly has the upper hand. She’s holding Samantha’s arms behind her back, the knife in Solana’s hand pressed dangerously into her back, possibly drawing blood given the wince on Sam’s face.

Mouth near her ear, Solana hisses, loud enough for all to hear. “I’d like to see you try, bitch.”

She shoves and kicks her away, expertly retracting the knife that disappears in the sleeve of her hoodie.

Impressed isn’t exactly the right word to use to describe what Roman feels. There’s nothing impressive about what’s happening, but a small sense of relief does build in him in seeing that even in this midst of what’s happened, Solana hasn’t lost it.

Hasn’t lost that fight and fire she’s worked so hard over the past months to build.

“You got this, Sol…” Afia whispers, loud enough for him to hear. “Don’t give up.”

A shared sentiment.

But, as Samantha gets up and prepares to lunge for Solana, Jey once again stands in front of Solana who continues to protect Emma.

“You ain’t putting your fucking hands on her.”

Words that Roman would like to find reassuring, but he can’t. He can’t, because Jey is a part of this whole thing.

He’s clearly picked his side, and it’s not Roman’s.

Solo makes a sound, big face back in the screen. “As you can see, there’s a lot going on.” He blows out a breath, as if overwhelmed by it all. As if this isn’t all his doing. “But look, Imma’ cut right to the point.” There’s movement from Solo walking out the room, camera focused only on him. “You got 48hrs to bring your ass here, so we can settle this once and for all. And to help you out, I’m gon send you the exact coordinates of where we are.” He then adds, as if remembering. “Same goes for your new buddy, Cody.”

It’s a difficult, almost painful thing for Roman to focus on what’s being said when all he can visualize is Solo’s bloody, gruesome corpse after Roman gets his hands on him. But then, he says it, he says what Roman’s emotions have blocked him from considering.

“And, I know you got a lot going on right now, but even you and that big ass ego you got can’t deny you already know how this gon’ turn out.” He rolls his shoulders, voice equally menacing as it is threatening. “Not only have you been outsmarted, but you’re outmanned, outnumbered, outgunned.” He smiles, once again, no trace of humor to be detected. “Who you got there? Dwayne? Matteo? Rhodes?” He laughs, humorlessly. “You have nothing.”

Matteo and Dwayne say something in response, but Roman does not. He says nothing, because there’s nothing to say.

Solo is right.

Roman has been betrayed and turned on by the people closest to him, his Bloodline, maybe even the Cosa Nostra at this point. He doesn’t even fucking know anymore. He just knows, for the first time in his life, he’s been backed into a corner and the way out seems to be a far off, distant, nearly impossible thing.

“....And that’s not just a prediction—” Solo’s statement, familiar and close, snatches Roman away from his depressing realization. He looks off camera, only for another figure to fill the frame, Roman’s devastation deepening.

Paul’s smirking frame takes up the entire shot. “It’s a spoiler.”

The screen goes black.

“Son of a bitc—”

Dwayne’s curse is silence by Roman tipping over a chair as he angrily marches outside the house through the backdoor and into the yard. He throws a nearby chair across the spacious yard, uncaring of any damage or destruction caused in the process.

His chest hurts, and his head throbs, consumed with swimming, overwhelming thoughts.

They’ve betrayed him. Every fucking person he thought he could trust has all turned on him.

They’ve all fucking betrayed him.

Eyes shut, breathing heavy, Roman has to place his hand over his chest to settle himself. It’s too much.

Too fucking much.

Heavy footsteps behind him give away the person present, but Roman isn’t in the mood.

“Roman….”

“Not right now,” he grits out, on the verge of a panic attack. Or maybe a nervous breakdown. Or, hell, maybe a fucking heart attack. At this point, who fucking knows.

Dwayne sighs. “Roman, you—”

“WHAT!” Roman turns around and snaps. All of the emotions, the happenings, the loss, the betrayal finally bubbling over and erupting. Roman motions to nothing in particular, just the dark abyss of the wooded forest beyond Steve’s backyard. “He has the Bloodline! He has the Nightmare Factory! He has my wife!” It’s with that last acknowledgment Roman’s shoulders slump, the despair taking front row. His voice lowered, he clarifies. “My pregnant wife.” Premature defeat as well as an unfamiliar helplessness fills the devastated man’s voice, as he admits, “I have nothing to lose.”

Dwayne allows it. Allows him the moment to have this. To let it all hit him, heavy and crushing, but necessary, nonetheless.

Because there’s no way in hell they can survive this with him suppressing all of his feelings.

“That’s bullshit, Roman, and you know it.” Dwayne finally speaks after a few minutes of silence. “You have everything to lose.” Dwayne points back to the house. “He has your wife, yes. He has the backing of the Bloodline. Maybe. But, you know what he doesn’t have? He doesn’t have your mind. He doesn’t have your ruthlessness. Doesn’t have your intellect. Solo’s a little bitch cosplaying as a grown man cause his fat ass daddy has bucked him up to think he’s fit for the job.” Dwayne continues, seeing and knowing his younger cousin well enough to know he’s taking in everything that’s being said. “He thinks he’s won, because he knows what Solana means to you, knows how much you love her, and he thinks it’s made you weak.”

“He’s right.” Matteo’s voice suddenly sounds from the steps leading into the house. “He’s playing a mind game with you.” Stepping down into the yard, he crosses his arms, adding, “he’s clearly been watching you. Studying you.”

When Dwayne gives him the nod of approval, a sign to continue, Matteo doesn’t waste it. “You must have a million and one emotions running through you right now. That’s okay. Hone it and use it. Use it to fuel your anger and your fury, because you’re going to need it to make it through this.”

Eyes shut, words marinating, there’s a settling of the previously spiking panic that’s minimizing and settling into something else inside of Roman. Something powerful and stirring.

“You’ve been betrayed. Clearly. From several angles, and that shit’s gotta hurt like hell coming from family.” Roman looks away. “But, you know as well as I do, that’s not the priority right now. The priority is getting Solana back and reminding those bastards why the biggest and last mistake they’ll ever make in life was crossing Roman fucking Reigns.”

To say this has been the worst day of his life would be an understatement. The worst day of his life would be more than welcomed over whatever this is. Regardless of how awful and hurt and lost Roman feels at all that’s occurred, the wise, sage words of his relatives are effective.

They tap into that part of him that hasn’t been needed in a while. The part of him that he’s always wanted to keep hidden away from Solana. The reason he’s as feared as he is.

Because, it’s needed.

Roman isn’t needed in this moment. Roman needs to rest and recover.

The Tribal Chief is who’s needed.

And, that’s exactly who Solo is going to get.

“We have to play this smart,” is Roman’s only acknowledgment of everything that was stated. He appreciates it, but to go beyond that would require a deeper amount of reflecting. He doesn’t have time for this shit. Doesn’t have time to be Roman Reigns right now.

They made him into the ruthless, aggressive, merciless killer that he is, and that’s exactly who they’re about to receive.

“They have the numbers advantage,” Roman finishes. Because as lethal as the combination of himself, Dwayne, Matteo, and maybe Afia and Ava could be, it still pales in comparison to not only the Bloodline, but the Nightmare Factory.

A big advantage.

Dwayne shakes his head. “Maybe not.” Both Matteo and Roman cast skeptical expressions as he vaguely answers. “I may have made a call.”

And just like that, Roman’s defenses are up again. “To who?”

A voice clearing from by the back door sounds, drawing the attention of all three men. It’s Ava. “So, Santos Escobar is here?

Roman easily shifts from cautious to irritated. “What the fuck, Dwayne?”

The older man lifts his hands in an almost defensive manner. “Look, I know you’ve got no love for Escobar, and the feeling is mutual, but you yourself told me he said Solana is also under the protection of the Legado Del Fantasma, so that means they’d be willing to help us.”

But, it mostly goes in one ear and out the other. Stubbornly, almost defiantly, Roman reiterates, “I don’t need his help.”

“Yes, you do, Roman,” Matteo cuts in, his voice almost gentle like. “Like you said, they have the number advantage. We have to try to even that up as much as we can.”

At that, his own words being used against him, Roman has no retort.

He has no retort because that nagging voice inside of him acknowledges that Matteo and Dwayne are right.

If there’s help to be offered, he would be a fool to decline it.

But, it’s almost impossible for him to not be chained down by both his pride and his trauma at once again being betrayed. At being in a place where the same man who he once thought he’d lay down his life for if the situation called for it, is working with the people hellbent on seeing Roman’s demise.

Solo and Rikishi’s betrayal is crushing.

Jey’s is shattering.

And Roman isn’t stupid. He knows how tense things with Jey have been, maybe always been to some extent, but this coup has clearly been a well plotted, planned thing for some time. Long before his issues with Jey stirred up again for round two.

When Roman thought they were fine, they weren’t.

They very clearly weren’t.

Roman turns away, hands on his head as he blows out a deep breath. The battle between logic and trauma in the final round, tussling deep within his chest and soul.

And then a memory hits him, a scene from one of his many dreams rolling him into the battle for a paramount, necessary perspective switch.

Leya sniffles to the left of him. “You have to save her, daddy.” His head snaps to her, confused by her words, confused by the fact that he’s not freaking out more, by the fact that he just somehow knows that Solana has been taken. “She won’t have much time.”

“Mommy can only fight with us for so long.” His attention switches to Lina, her comment leaving him just as perplexed as her twin. “You’re gonna have to trust them, daddy.”

“What?” He breathes. The weight on his chest is intensifying by the fucking second. “I don’t—”

“It’s the only way to save her.” Leyah reaches for his arm, her little mouth formed into a frown. “They’re gonna kill her if you don’t.”

His chest nearly explodes at that one word.

Kill

But, it’s when the next statement that leaves their mouths, at the same time, that does him over.

“And they’re gonna kill us too.”

The entire flashback to his ominous dream almost nightmare is overall unsettling in many ways, but there’s a certain part he can’t negate, that he can’t ignore.

“You’re gonna have to trust them, daddy.”

Trust.

Such a difficult, impossible thing for Roman, especially when it’s that same thing that has him in the situation he’s in now.

He trusted the wrong people, and now Solana—and his unborn daughters—are paying for it.

Roman closes his eyes.

Utilizing the words from his dream children from an actual dream as a guiding force might not be the best. It might even be crazy to some people, but he’s starting to believe that Solana was right when she said the dreams meant something.

Premonitions, almost.

Needed for a time like this.

Because, it’s all he has.

“Okay.”

A simple word.

A powerful agreement.

Matteo and Dwayne exchange a look, neither willing or wanting to say anything to risk Roman backtracking. They simply guide him back into the house where, sure enough, Escobar waits with two men and one women trailing him. Roman recognizes the two men from being at the restaurant that day.

He also recognizes the woman.

Bayley.

And, she looks just as gutted as Roman feels.

“That son of a bitch.” She shakes her head, fist at her side. “What kind of piece of shit goes after an innocent woman?”

Her question is presented to no one in particular. Just a necessary thing she clearly needs to get out, along with an array of other emotions. She angrily wipes at her teary eyes, looking away.

Santos gaze is leveled as he directs his question toward Roman. “Do you have her location?”

Dwayne answers. “Yes. An abandoned plant about two hours out from here.”

The shorter man nods, taking in the information. “Are you sure?”

“Solo sent us the coordinates.” Matteo supplies, already knowing he doesn’t need to say anything else after that. Santos look in response is telling enough.

Looking directly at Roman, he states aloud, “he wants you to come.”

Bayley whispers what everyone was thinking when Solo first announced he was sharing the address so willingly. “A trap.”

Roman says nothing. Trap or not, nothing could keep him from going to save his wife. Even if he had to go at it alone.

“Someone wants to speak to you.” Santos appearance was unexpected as hell, but such a statement leaving his mouth is at the top of the unexpected hill. “And, it’s not a request.”

Just like that, the anger is building up again in the Head of the Table. “Excuse me? Who the fuck—”

“Roman.” Matteo’s single word is layered with all the unspoken things. The reminder he needs. Priorities.

Biting his tongue and setting aside his pride, Roman grits out a reluctant, “fine.”

Santos and his men move quickly to set up an open laptop where Dwayne’s once was, motioning for Roman to take the seat previously occupied by his older cousin.

And, in a matter of minutes, the setup is completed. It’s the same crowd gathered around to watch and observe, sans Cody, who’d apparently gone out front.

For similar reasons as Roman, he’d guess.

It’s a similar setup to Solo and crew, but in this one, the background is obvious and visible. They’re in a conference room. A man sitting at the front of the table with another to the right of him, older and a bit heavier. There’s something familiar about him that Roman can’t put his hand on.

Santos speaks in Spanish to the men, and it’s then how Roman notices the improved posture of the latest guests. A sign of respect and reverence for whoever these men are, clearly.

“Roman Reigns,” the one at the head of the table speaks, his deep voice thickly accented. “Not exactly the circumstances under which I’d thought we’d meet, but an honor, nonetheless.”

If only Roman felt the same.

“Who the hell are you?”

But, while the majority of the room hit Roman with disapproving glances at his brusque response, the man on screen simply smiles. “Your reputation precedes you. I’m impressed.”

And, I don’t care.

Roman is just about to snap at Escobar for wasting his time when finally, a proper introduction is given. “My name is Domingo Lopez.” Right away, any trace of irritability felt within Roman is washed away and replaced with a sense of surprise and confusion.

Roman knows that name very well. Anyone in the business does.

Domingo Lopez.

The head of the Gulf Cartel, the oldest and biggest Mexican criminal syndicate.

The same syndicate Roman has been trying and planning to meet with to discuss a possible alliance with for some weeks now. Months, maybe. But, something had always come up, either on Roman’s end or Lopez's end.

What a meeting, indeed.

Domingo chuckles. “I take it you know who I am now.”

No shit. The shift in Roman’s tone is audible, even his body language. “I do.”

Domingo sits forward. “And you’re wondering what the hell it is I want with you.” He then gestures to the man beside him. “This is Tomas Escobar. Old man has served the Cartel for decades. A loyal aid to my father before he retired and a trusted guide for me since I took over so many years ago at the age of 18. Similar to yourself.” Roman is focused less on the connections and more the name.

He knows that name.

It was in the letter Solana let him read. The one from her mother.

Tomas Escobar.

Her uncle.

Tomas is Solana’s great uncle.

And judging now by the slight similarities in appearance, Santos' father.

Still, making all of these connections is something Roman keeps to himself, instead asking a more relevant question that comes out as more of a statement. “You’re aware of what’s happened.”

Domingo nods. “I am.” He leans back into his seat. Roman would guess Santos informed his father, and his father made his boss aware. But, why?

“Normally, I would allow a select number of men to aid in this rescue effort you plan to undergo. Whatever men and resources within the Legado Del Fantasma would be your limit, but….but this is different.” He clasps his hands together, acknowledging. “Tomas has served me well, and Santos has also proven to be an effective leader. But, the truth of the matter is that what I am prepared to do is solely because of your wife, Mr. Reigns.”

Brows furrowed, Roman doesn’t hesitate to ask. “What do you mean?”

“A few months ago, during your trip to Isla Mujeres, you and your wife met my daughter, Aurora.” Roman stills, instantly recalling the quiet little girl who’d taken a liking to him but especially Solana.

Shit.

That same girl is Mexico’s biggest cartel leader’s daughter?

“Solana was kind to her, offering a simple gesture of kindness that has not only helped my little girl in more ways than you can imagine but my family as a whole.” He explains, voice shifting into something almost sentimental. A rare thing for such a man. “And for that, I owe your wife a great debt that I intend to make good on right now.”

“Solana may be an Escobar by blood and thus has the protection of the Legado Del Fantasma, but from here on out, she also will have the protection of the full Gulf Cartel as well.”

Roman is stunned into silence. What does he say to that?

“Right now, as we speak, I have several fleets of my best men and weapons headed your way. They should arrive in a few hours.” A wave of silence overcomes the entire room, a disbelief of sorts for almost everyone. Especially Roman. “Whatever else you need, ask, and it is yours.”

To say this day has been one of the most stressful of his life would absolutely be putting it lightly. Just this morning, everything was fine. By the afternoon, he felt like he was in hell. And now, he sits here before another of one of the most feared men on the continent, hearing that not only is the Cartel supplying the Tribal Chief with an army and unlimited resources, but there’s a standing invitation for support later down the road.

He’s fucking floored.

Domingo, however, isn’t done. “Mr. Reigns, you will bring your wife home safely, strike down anyone who was a part of this coup, and when the dust settles, we shall meet to discuss business.” He smirks, eyes alight with greed and anticipation. “An alliance with the Bloodline and Cosa Nostra will only strengthen our empires.” The same sentiment Roman had when his initial interest piqued in the Cartel. “But, I am only interested in securing that deal if it is you who sits at the head of the table, because as I said earlier, your reputation precedes you.” A beat. “And, as far as I am concerned, you are the only Tribal Chief.”

—-----------

The minute Solana is thrown back into the same room she was in before, where Brandi still lies there, silent and unmoving, she feels it.

Small, subtle, but present.

There’s a switch that’s occurred. A death and a rebirth.

She doesn’t feel the same sense of dread that had her feeling helpless and hopeless. Doesn't feel as empty and deterred.

She feels the exact opposite.

Determined.

Hopeful.

Angry,

And, it’s all because of a single little girl.

Emma.

Because when Samantha moved to hurt Emma, something snapped in Solana. It was like she was broken from the shackles of her despair and thrust into an overwhelming sense of urgency and protection.

Because, it wasn’t Emma’s crying, helpless face she saw.

It was herself.

Solana saw a younger version of herself.

She was that helpless, defenseless child.

But, she’ll be damned if she lets Emma suffer the same fate.

It’s why she stood so boldly and with confidence against Samantha, because that’s what she needs to make it out of this alive. And, she will. Because she made a promise.

To herself.

To her girls.

To her family

Her husband and unborn children that she’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.

Because it’s when she was being dragged back to her cell by Nia, another accomplice in this nightmare, a memory hit her. A recollection of what, at the time, felt like a dream, but now, she most definitely knows and understands was not a dream.

It was a warning.

“Mommy.”

Solana is startled by the sudden presence of her girls. She never even heard them walk over. “Yes, baby?”

“You’re gonna protect us, right?”

Eyes crinkling with confusion, Solana adjusts her baby boy, lightly patting his back. “What–what do you mean, honey?”

Her oldest eyes watering only sets Solana off even more, as she looks to Roman for some assistance only to see he’s no longer there.

He’s gone.

Solana’s stomach drops as she turns her head, looking to see where he’s gone when her daughter moves a hand to the baby’s back. “You’re gonna have to fight for us.”

Solana is beyond confused right now. About it all. “I don’t—”

“Daddy’s not gonna be there. You have to do it, mama.” The quieter of the two taking a turn to speak, voice almost desperate and emotional only exacerbates the situation. Solana feels her own tears forming when her daughter reaches out her little hand, placing it on her shoulder. “And you can’t trust them.”

That’s when Solana really stills. Looking between the two who wear such troubled expressions, she asks, “trust who?”

Solana’s eyes shut.

Rikishi.

Solo.

Nia.

Jey.

That’s who the girls were talking about. They were who she couldn’t trust.

But, it’s less the warning from her daughters that Solana keeps at the forefront of her mind, and more the question, “you’re gonna protect us, right?” and the reminder, “you’re gonna have to fight for us.”

Hands now free from the ties, she places her hand over her belly, a silent promise made.

Fight.

Something Solana at one point didn’t think she was capable of, but the truth of the matter is that she’s been fighting her whole life.

She fought to live, beat her coma, when the men who took her mother’s life also tried to take hers.

She fought and dragged her way out that house after being gang raped and beaten as a child, overcoming her injuries to live.

She survived not one but two attempts at taking her own life.

Solana has spent her entire life surviving adversity after adversity, and she’s damn sure not about to stop now.

Deep down, she knows Roman is coming for her, knows that there’s no way in hell he won’t, and while it terrifies her what he could be walking into, she has to trust he knows what he’s doing. Trust that he’s got this.

She just has to stay alive long enough for him to get to her.

Gaze falling over to Brandi, Solana is careful in her movements, keeping a comfortable distance as she settles on her knees in front of the woman.

“I saw Emma.”

Just like that, Brandi jumps up, eyes wide, filled with abject fear. “What? Is sh—”

“She’s okay,” Solana assures. Jey had told her he’d make sure no one hurt the little girl after also promising to try to secure it to where Emma could be with them. Not that it makes much of a difference.

He’s a liar and can go to hell just like the rest of them.

“Brandi, I need you to listen to me.” Solana doesn’t know how much time she has until the woman before her, who’s now crying again, overwhelmed with everything that’s happened, shuts her out again. “You’re hurt and confused and angry and so many other things, and I know this not just because….because we’re both in this situation together, but….” She drops her head, pushing back some of her hair, voice lowering into an almost whisper. “Because I felt the same way after I was raped.”

Had she been looking up, Solana would have seen the horrified gleam in the other woman’s eyes. “And that….that’s going to take time to heal from, but you will heal from it. I promise you that.” Solana believes that with everything in her. She has to. “But right now….right now is not about healing, it’s about surviving.” Solana looks back at her, swallowing and returning to her previously strong, firm voice. “We are not going to die in here. Your daughter is not going to die in here.”

My daughters are not going to die in here, Solana thinks to herself. A vow. A promise. An oath.

“We are going to fight like hell, and we are going to survive this.” Brandi’s bottom lip trembles, as she remains quiet but listening. “But, we have to do it together. And, I know….I know our husband’s history with each other, but it’s not about that right now. That’s them. This is us. And right now, our priority is to get out of here alive, which I know we can do….but, I need you to trust me.”

Such an impossible thing for the other woman, Solana is certain. She’s certain because it’s that trust that landed them in the situation they’re in.

Roman

Cody

Solana

Brandi

They all trusted the people who swore to love and protect them, but now, those same people seek to destroy them.

And she can’t let that happen.

Solana doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to pressure Brandi, just wants to leave her with important things to consider.

And, she does, because just as Solana is preparing to move back to where she was previously sitting, a still, small voice fills the room.

“What do you need me to do?”

An indescribable joy and relief fills Solana that's only matched by her determination that make every bastard that's apart of this plot pay for what they've done.

She’s about to show them all just how “stupid” this bitch is.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns #roman reigns fic #arisnotebook

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raining-anonymously · 24 hours ago

Text

something about mouthwashing that has always bothered me is the cake-baking scene. where the game’s dialogue is usually very realistic, this scene feels… weird. the dialogue is unnatural and too video-gamey. anya, swansea, and jimmy are telling curly things he should already know for the player’s benefit, such as the backstory for the communal birthday parties and how to bake the cake. it’s strange. but i think i’ve finally figured it out!

We start with Daisuke. “Look at your face!” suggests that Curly’s reaction to being surprise-birthday’d was an expression of shock. This is supported by Jimmy later apologizing to Curly for jumping him like that.

Back to the present. Curly, who tends to use fewer filler words comparatively, uses the word “uh” twice in two lines. “Uh. Wow,” followed by:

I wanna talk about this question for a minute. Let’s look at the scene. Curly can see the birthday party decorations from his position. Curly knows the approximate date off the top of his head, according to the dead pixel scene, so he should know it’s around his birthday. Curly has also undoubtedly experienced many Pony Express birthday parties before. All this to say, why the hell is he asking what the occasion is? It should be pretty obvious, no?

The answer is dissociation.

We know from Curly’s POV introduction that he spaces out in conversation, and that Anya is aware of this. This lasts to the point where he’s staring off at nothing until Anya asks if he’s listening.

He also appears to dissociate during his conversation with Jimmy before the crash: he stops talking completely until prompted by Jimmy to respond and doesn’t seem to understand what’s happening (Jimmy tells him everyone on the ship should die and Curly seemingly agrees, only to very clearly be upset and in shock when Jimmy goes and makes this happen).

Now, Jimmy, Anya, and Swansea have known Curly for years. Seems pretty reasonable that they would be able to recognize signs of his dissociation, yeah? And they do.

Again, these are things that Curly should absolutely know. I believe Anya and Jimmy saw the facial expression that Daisuke referred to and noticed Curly’s inexplicable confusion and realized he was dissociating. They then informed him of the details of the situation while posing it as a question, likely in an attempt to ground him. Anya ends her information with “right?” while Jimmy ends his with “remember?” This allows them to give Curly the information he isn’t grasping in a gentle way that doesn’t call attention to the fact that this is something he should already know.

Anya then gives him more direct instruction by telling him where the cake recipe is (again, a thing he should absolutely know considering he eats in that kitchen every day) and lightly tells him to go make it. She’s guiding him to a task that he would ordinarily be able to complete on his own because she can tell that he’s unsure and out of it.

Swansea—who, while not as close to Curly as Jimmy and not as attentive to the crew’s mental wellbeing as Anya, has known the captain for years— does the same thing, more directly. He asks Curly about the cake recipe and tells him where to find the ingredients and recipe. Again, Curly should absolutely know this already, but for some reason he isn’t doing it on his own.

From the crew’s perspective, if you as Curly choose to engage in this optional dialogue, Anya and Jimmy told Curly to go make the cake, and instead of doing that Curly wandered quietly around the lounge. Brought on, probably, by this dissociative episode. So Swansea reminds Curly what he’s supposed to be doing and where to go to do it.

(While Jimmy and Anya are consistently shown to be in tune to Curly’s emotions (Jimmy moreso pre-crash), Swansea typically is not; however, he’s standing near Anya during this segment, meaning she had the opportunity to tell him what she’d noticed.)

Now, an interesting thing about Curly’s optional conversations with the rest of the crew here: He doesn’t say anything during them. This is a little odd, considering Curly is a fairly social character. He does have other optional interactions where he doesn’t respond, but those are typically after he’s just had a back-and-forth with the other person or where you’re able to respond nonverbally (such as closing/opening the door to Utility when Jimmy jokes about it). But for the most part, Curly does respond to what others say.

Not here, though. He can drift between Daisuke, Anya and Swansea, and Jimmy, but he doesn’t say a word apart from when Jimmy notices his silence and prompts him to speak.

Even then, he just agrees with Jimmy without any indication that he processed what Jimmy said. If you go for Jimmy’s second optional dialogue, Curly once again has no response.

All this to say—

This post was not made to demonstrate any overarching story element. Honestly, I kinda thought I was stringing conclusions together. But now that it’s all down? It… kinda makes sense. This is consistent with Curly’s character, with Anya’s and Jimmy’s dynamics with Curly, and with the typically excellent, human, non-meta dialogue Mouthwashing utilizes in all other scenes.

It works down to the little details, such as Daisuke being the only one who doesn’t have weird dialogue here; he’s only known Curly a few months and is probably less in tune to the captain’s mannerisms. (Plus the crew tends not to tell him about anything serious.) Furthermore, dissociation can be caused by stress, and Curly is VERY stressed in this scene, preoccupied as he is with needing to tell the crew about the termination. His flavor text during this scene demonstrates that pretty well; his flavor text is much more cynical than his norm and often leads to him thinking about the termination rather than what he’s supposed to be doing.

Is there a possibility that I’m completely wrong? Of course. But I finally have a plausible explanation for something that has been bugging me for months, so I’m satisfied.

hope you enjoyed today’s episode of MOUTHWASHING THEORY TO FILL A PLOT HOLE THAT NO ONE EXCEPT MY PEDANTIC ASS THINKS ABOUT <3

If I said anything wrong re: dissociation or if you have another Watsonian explanation for why this scene is written so oddly, please do feel free to share!

#analyzing anonymously #curly mw #anya mw #jimmy mw #swansea mw #daisuke mw #mouthwashing #captain curly #curly mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #mouthwashing theory #mouthwashing analysis

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notdotspot · 13 hours ago

Text

Dp x DC Constantine

Masterpost

Tim, shockingly, began to settle into his new routine—Wayne Enterprise meetings in the morning, online classes after lunch, working on the ghost portal and filter with Danny after dinner, a quick patrol, and then a decent night's sleep.

Danny makes it hard for him to protest going to sleep, and his sleep recently has been so relaxed and dreamless too. Tim is not sure if it is the effect of the routine or Danny. With the purifier finished, he has been allowed to help with the Ghost Portal. Despite the secrets around the ectoplasm and mechanisms, he does good work on the wiring. He is currently inside the tunnel that makes up the portal connection pieces of machinery to the main framework. He keeps catching Danny’s nervous glances at him as he works.

“If you do not want me to work on the portal, I can leave you to it.” Danny seems taken off guard. “You keep looking at me like I might fuck up any second or like I am taking notes on how to build my own.”

“It is not that,” Danny admits. “I am just worried anytime someone nears the portal. In my experience, it is more dangerous now than when it is fully operational.”

“How do you mean?” Tim finishes the wiring and snaps the piece into the structure.

“When it is on, it is almost predictable. I know that if an unfriendly ghost were to come through, I could handle it. Like this,” Danny waves his arm at the unfinished portal, “there is no telling how it functions if there is an accident.”

“I am done with the work anyway so you can relax. Is there anything else I can help with?” Tim places his hand on Danny’s shoulder attempting to comfort him. Danny’s eyes flick back and forth between Tim’s and the hand resting on him. He realizes he might have crossed the line with physical contact and jerks his hand back, missing the longing look on the other’s face.

“Actually, I might just turn in for the night. I have a long patrol tomorrow night.”

“If you want to stay an hour longer, we are doing the first test runs tonight. Bruce said the magic user would be arriving.” Danny spits out the words like he could barely hold them in but still had to force himself to say them. They hold eye contact for a moment too long and Tim is lost for words to respond. He simply nods as their eyes stay glued. Danny breaks the stare as his eyes turn to the other cave entrance. Red Hood and Robin are riding in on Jason’s motorcycle. The Batmobile is not far behind with Bruce, Dick, Steph, and Cass.

“Bruce said we are turning it on tonight. Too bad Duke is a daytime hero and sleeps through all the fun.” Jason says walking up to the portal to inspect it curiously.

“Phantom,” Damian greets cordially.

“Hey, Danny,” Dick and Steph chorus. Cass pulls off her mask, waving to Danny.

Bruce checks the Batcomputer, quickly typing something in.

The voice of the Batcomputer which Danny rarely hears, “Zeta tube access granted. A-fifty-eight, John Constantine.”

A yellow glow emits from the Zeta tube and Constantine saunters out, smoking a cigarette. Bruce steps forward.

“Constantine, this is Danny.” Constantine’s eyes glide over the group stopping just next to Tim, on Danny. His head tilts slightly as he takes a few steps closer to examine Danny. His eyes squint like he is trying to figure out what he is seeing.

“Here,” Danny states. A white ring forms around the center of his body, splitting into two and traveling in opposite directions toward his head and feet. The rings reveal his familiar form of Phantom. Tim, along with the rest of the Bats, stare in subtle awe. They had never gotten to see his transformation. Tim did not have time to linger on his new thoughts before Constantine throws his cigarette to the ground. He smashes it under his boot, to the dismay of Bruce, and bows his head frantically.

“I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty. I did not recognize you.” He glances up at Danny in concern. Tim finally has the sense to observe Danny’s face. His eyes are scrunched up as he cringes, mouthing curse words. He can see the microreaction on Bruce’s face from the corner of his vision.

“John, this is not royal business. No need for titles. If I would have known this was your dimension I would have called you myself.” Constantine seemed to sign in relief and relax. It was such a shock to see someone so nonchalant be shocked into manners. Tim could not hold his curiosity.

“Your Majesty? Royal business?”

“Can a man not have one secret?” Danny questions, though his words seemed more directed at the air around them than anyone in the room.

“Yes. Secrets out.” A new set of rings transforms him again. This time he has a cape lined with flickering green flames and a floating crown atop his head. His skin seems slightly more transparent and the whites of his eyes fill entirely with a glowing green. The space around them drops in temperature. This. This is the Danny he saw in his dream. A memory that seems so distant and skewed after spending time with the other teen.

“Hello, Danny Fenton better known as Phantom, The Ghost King, Protector of the Infi-Map, Champion of the Ancients, and Ruler of the Infinite Realms.” Every word he pushes out is punctuated with his annoyance over the identity reveal. The room freezes with tension. Danny signs and transforms back into his normal Phantom look. “Can we turn this on or what?”

With that, the whole room resets to the task. Tim, for once, had the sense to hold his tongue about Danny’s newly divulged information.

Danny ushered everyone behind a tapped-off line.

“John, protection, if you would not mind.” He nods at the directions and speaks a forcefield into existence around himself and the Bats. Danny approaches the control panel inside the tunnel first pressing a button, then exiting and flipping a final switch. A bright light nearly blinds the group, but as Tim blinks opens his eyes to see a green swirling portal.

“That went surprisingly well.” Danny turns to them as Constantine lets down the spell. His shoulders seemed to lower has tension bleeds from his shoulders. It was Danny’s only sign of relief. Tim can only guess it is from the lack of mishap.

“No one steps in. I will know if you do.” They nod and Tim walks over to Danny.

“So what now?” Danny speaks to him as he watches Constantine start to chant different spells over the portal.

“We complete the mission.”

“That is not what I am talking about and you know it.” Tim staring at the side of his face. Even with all of Bruce’s training, he still can not read the expressions on Danny’s face.

“I go back to my civilian life. Finish my degree. Go back to the realms for another couple hundred years. Rule like I am supposed to.” Danny’s voice seemed resigned as he spoke. Tim wanted to say something. Anything. Anything that would help Danny or comfort him. Constantine waves Danny over to the portal for help so Tim does not have the chance to get in another word. He is grasping just how out of reach he is here. This is an immortal, all-powerful being and Tim is just Tim. What can he do to help someone who has faced more than he even knew existed?

“Hey, Tim. Coming upstairs? We are turning in for the night.” Tim considers Danny and Constantine, who are speaking in hushed voices about the portal and spells. Even Bruce is heading up.

“Nah, I am going to wait a little longer. Just to see if they need any more technical help.” They say their goodnights as they pile into the elevator. Tim makes himself comfortable in the Batcomputer chair and watches the two mystics work.

He did not even notice he had fallen asleep until Danny was rocking him awake.

“You are going to be sore later if you sleep like that the whole night,” Danny’s soft voice is something new to Tim and threatens to put him right back to sleep. It stirs up warm that seeps into is very being.

“No, no, no. Bed.” Danny pulls at his arms, and hoists him easily from the chair. Tim flops into his arms half asleep but Danny has no issue keeping him from falling. The physical contact shocks Tim awake and has him stepping away, dipping his face to hide his blush. He leans to the side to look past Danny at the portal. It is off but there are symbols and sigils sketched around it.

“I will take you to your room. Come on.” Danny guides him with a gentle hand on the small of his back. They board the elevator together. Danny has not realized Tim’s alertness so he takes the opportunity to lazily lay his head on Danny’s shoulder as they ascend. He leans into his tiredness because he can not get enough of Danny’s physical contact. He should be embarrassed at the faking, but maybe he is tired enough to lose his inhibitions. Letting Danny lead him to his room and help him into the bed is simple, but Tim has to withhold from reaching back out when Danny pulls away. Danny, looking into his eyes for the first time since they finished the portal, seems to see something. They are stuck staring again until Danny smiles nervously and leaves the room.

Before shutting the door he whispers, “Goodnight, Tim,” into the darkness.

---------

Please excuse my lateness. I got caught up studying for an exam

Thanks for reading!

#dpxdc #danny phantom #dp crossover #fanfic #tim drake #dcu #jason todd #bruce wayne #ao3 fanfic #john constantine

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heliosunny · 2 days ago

Note

can you do a yandere black swan plant please?

MYSTERY PLANT

Yandere!Black Swan x Reader

The plant appeared overnight. It hadn’t been there yesterday, you were sure of it. Your windowsill, once home to nothing but dust and forgotten trinkets, now cradled a strange, blackened vine curling elegantly around an obsidian-colored flowerpot. Its leaves shimmered with an eerie iridescence, deep purples and blues shifting under the light. The petals unfurled like delicate, violet feathers, their edges lined with gold.

Despite its unnatural beauty, the plant exuded something… hungry.

You should’ve tossed it out. But when you reached for it, the stem quivered, leaning toward your touch.

"How warm."

You yanked your hand back. The voice had been real. Intimate.

That night, your dreams were heavy, a figure called themself Black Swan. When you woke, she was there, draped in flowing violet and black, her skin kissed by moonlight, long silver-lavender hair cascading around her like silk. A deep hood framed her face, golden ornaments glinting against the twilight strands. Her golden eyes gleamed with an unsettling fondness as she reached for you, her gloved fingers brushing your cheek with a lover’s reverence.

The plant, once rooted in the pot, had vanished.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Black Swan looked ethereal in the dim light, her presence weightless yet all-consuming, like a wraith that had slipped through the cracks of your reality.

"You were expecting me, weren’t you?"

You weren’t. And yet… hadn’t you dreamed of her? Or something like her? The thought was hazy, slipping through your grasp like silk in water. You frowned, grasping at the fleeting memory, only for it to dissolve into nothing.

"It’s alright," she soothed, stepping closer. "You don’t have to think too hard. I am here now, and that is all that matters."

Her fingers reached for yours, and before you could flinch away, she grasped your hand gently. But even that touch sent a wave of exhaustion crashing over her. A delicate tremor ran through her frame, her golden eyes flickering like candlelight.

“Are you… alright?” The question came out unbidden. You barely knew her, and yet concern pooled in your chest at how fragile she suddenly seemed.

She swayed, barely standing. You caught her on instinct, her body pressing lightly against yours. She was soft. Lighter than you expected.

"It’s nothing… just… a little tired."

Without thinking, you guided her to sit, your hands instinctively steadying her. Black Swan blinked up at you, eyes widening slightly before lowering into a half-lidded, dreamy expression. As if she were pleased. Like a pet who had finally nestled into its rightful place beside its owner.

"You’re so kind"

Black Swan stayed close to you after that day.

You weren’t sure when it became normal—how she moved so seamlessly into your life.

You never questioned it.

Maybe you should have.

The town square bustled with life that afternoon, laughter spilling from the cafes. You and Black Swan sat at an outdoor table, the breeze toying with her hair. She had barely touched the tea in front of her, but her eyes remained half-lidded, watching the crowd with the patience of a weaver preparing a delicate thread.

A stranger approached, someone you vaguely recognized—a merchant who had a reputation for being pushy, prying too much into other people’s business. He had always given you an uneasy feeling, though you’d never had a reason to avoid him outright.

Until now.

"Ah, Y/N!" His voice was lighthearted but too eager, his beady eyes flickering toward Black Swan with open curiosity. "You’ve been hard to find lately. And who’s this? A friend?"

Black Swan smiled.

"I don’t believe we’ve met" she said smoothly, tilting her head slightly.

The merchant chuckled, rubbing his hands together. "Ah, well, I like to know all the interesting people around here." His gaze flickered to you. "And I have to admit, Y/N, it’s strange. You disappeared for a while, and now you’re back with…" He gestured vaguely. "Her. Just seems unusual, is all."

You frowned. Was it? You couldn’t remember being gone. Sure, things had been strange lately, but—

Your thoughts blurred.

You blinked, suddenly feeling… off.

Black Swan’s fingers brushed against the back of your hand.

And then, she stood.

"Excuse me for a moment" she murmured, stepping past the merchant and disappearing into the crowd.

The man watched her go, a deep crease settling between his brows. "Strange woman, that one. You sure she’s not—"

Whatever he was going to say never came. His face slackened, his eyes going hazy as though something unseen had wound its way into his mind. He blinked once, twice, then shook his head.

“…What were we talking about?”

"You… just asked about Black Swan?"

He frowned, rubbing his temples. "Black Swan? Who—?"

When she returned, she looked the same as always—calm. But as soon as she sat down, her shoulders slumped slightly, a quiet fatigue settling into her frame. She barely managed to lift her teacup before setting it back down with a soft sigh.

You reached out instinctively, pressing a hand to hers. "You shouldn’t push yourself."

"You always worry so much."

And yet, she didn’t refuse when you helped her up, leading her back to the quiet comfort of your home.

—

That night, exhaustion clung to you heavier than usual. It wasn’t anything noticeable at first—just a slight weariness, the kind that settled after a long day.

Black Swan sat beside you, her fingers threading through your hair in slow, deliberate motions. "You should rest"

You didn’t protest.

You barely noticed the way your dreams blurred—how the memories of the day slipped, tangled, and twisted under the weight of her hands.

And in the darkness, Black Swan smiled.

The second time it happened, you couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was… wrong.

It started with a person—a childhood friend, someone you hadn’t seen in a while but had once been close with. They had always been warm, always quick to smile and laugh. And yet, when they spotted you in the marketplace, their expression had wavered between familiarity and something more hesitant.

"Y/N?" They stepped closer, curiosity and nostalgia laced in their tone. "It’s been ages… You look well."

Black Swan was beside you, as always, her presence as delicate as a wisp of mist. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you could feel her attention sharpening.

Your friend smiled, "Do you have time to catch up? There’s a café just around the corner. It’ll be just like old times."

For a moment, you considered it. Something in your chest warmed at the thought. But before you could answer, a gloved hand curled around your wrist.

Black Swan spoke before you could. "How precious" she murmured, voice smooth like silk. "Old bonds are such fragile things… Tell me, do you think they last forever?"

Your friend blinked, startled. "I—"

She stepped forward, her golden eyes locking onto theirs, and suddenly… everything changed.

Your friend’s body tensed, the color drained from their face. Their hands twitched once before falling limp at their sides, their gaze distant—empty.

"Hey, are you—?"

Then, Black Swan swayed. Her entire frame wavered, her grip on your wrist loosening as her knees buckled beneath her. You barely caught her in time, her weight pressing against you as her breaths came in short, uneven gasps.

"Black Swan!" Panic surged through you as you steadied her. She was cold—colder than usual. "You alright?"

She exhaled shakily, her head lolling slightly against your shoulder. "It’s… fine" she whispered.

You barely noticed your friend stumbling away, their steps unsteady, confusion shadowing their face. They murmured something under their breath—something about forgetting why they had come in the first place before vanishing into the crowd.

The leaves of the nearby plants rustled—no wind, no breeze, and yet they moved. Slowly, with eerie precision, the color bled from them, vibrant greens dulling into lifeless gray. Stems shriveled, petals curled inward and blackened, roots cracked beneath unseen force. Within moments, the once-thriving plants were nothing but withered husks.

"That’s… strange," you murmured. "Why—"

Black Swan, now steadier, rested her head against your shoulder, her golden eyes lidded in serene satisfaction. She looked content. Like everything had gone exactly as she wanted.

"It’s nothing to worry about. Come… Let’s go home."

And for some reason, despite the eerie scene before you, despite the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right, you didn’t question it.

Your home was quiet, as always, bathed in the soft glow of the lamps. Black Swan moved through the space with effortless grace, her steps featherlight, her presence an unshakable constant. She had always been here, hadn’t she?

The thought drifted through your mind, slow and uncertain, but it slipped away just as easily. Of course, she had. Who else had been by your side all this time? Who else had taken care of you, watched over you, understood you?

You sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at your temples, an odd fatigue pulling at your mind. "I feel… off" you muttered.

Black Swan hummed softly, standing behind you. Her fingers traced the curve of your shoulder, her touch barely there. "It’s just exhaustion," she whispered. "You’ve been feeling so tired lately… You should rest."

Her words settled over you like a warm haze. She moved closer, wrapping her arms around you in a loose embrace, her hair cascading over your shoulder. "I’m here," she murmured against your ear. "I’ve always been here. The one closest to you. The only one who understands you."

A flicker of doubt surfaced. There had been… someone else, hadn’t there? A childhood friend? Faint memories pressed against your mind, blurred and distorted. But the more you tried to grasp them, the more they unraveled, dissolving into whispers.

"No one else matters"

She had been with you forever, hadn’t she? Always watching over you. Always protecting you. Always loving you.

A soft sigh left your lips as exhaustion weighed you down. Your body grew lax in her arms, your mind slipping into quiet, dreamlike compliance. You barely felt her shift, barely noticed the way her fingers ghosted along your temples, weaving unseen threads of memory, plucking away the ones that didn’t belong.

She kissed the crown of your head.

"Sleep well, my dear"

And as the last remnants of your past unraveled beneath her touch, Black Swan smiled.

Tomorrow, when you woke, she would be the only one who remained in your world.

Just as it should be.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #black swan #black swan hsr #black swan x reader #heliosmysplant

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gamesetattach · 3 days ago

Text

You Always Know

Jannik Sinner x Reader An old friend comes to Jannik's rescue, so he doesn't drive himself crazy during his three month ban. Friend is a loose term... they've always been something deeper than that. A little angst, a lot of comfort. Can't wait to see our man play again..

The world wouldn’t let him ignore it. The news of his ban had sent shockwaves through the tennis world, the headlines relentless, the debate louder than he could ever tune out. He ignored the worried looks from his team, the sympathetic texts, the way even strangers seemed to have something to say—ignored how it all pressed down on him, demanding a response he refused to give.

So instead of facing it, he did what he knew best—he buried himself in routine. Trained like nothing had changed, like he wasn’t forced onto the sidelines of the sport that made up his entire life. He ran drills, pushed himself harder in the gym, kept his schedule the same as if all those tournaments were still on the horizon.

If he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn’t feel as real.

His team noticed. They always did. Darren Cahill, who had seen athletes crumble under the weight of lesser storms, wasn’t about to let him slip through the cracks. He had coached enough players to know when one was trying to outrun the things they didn’t want to face. And he knew Jannik well enough to recognize the warning signs—the clipped answers, the longer hours on court, the empty look in his eyes when he thought no one was paying attention.

And so, Darren made a call.

Not to any journalist, not to his lawyer, not to a PR team—but to you.

---

You had been in Jannik��s life for years now, an old and trusted friend. You were the person who knew him beyond his forehands and trophies, the one who could pull laughter out of him on even the hardest of days, the one who he let see him as more than just Jannik Sinner, World No. 1.

You and Jannik had a low maintenance friendship—you'd known each other long enough to stay close even through stretches of time with no contact. Even without consistently staying in touch, you always picked up where you left off. Silence had never been uncomfortable between you, so close that your relationship had settled into something easy, something unshakable.

You weren’t part of his team, weren’t tied to his career in any professional sense, but you had always been a constant. The person he called when he wanted to talk about something that wasn’t tennis, or about everything to do with tennis. The person who never expected anything from him beyond who he was off the courts, and outside of the cameras. You didn’t need to be around all the time to know him better than anyone, to read between the lines even when he wasn’t saying anything at all.

And right now, he really wasn’t saying a thing.

---

You'd hopped on the soonest flight, barely packing a bag before heading to the airport, knowing Jannik wouldn’t have asked for help himself. He never did.

You already held your suspicions about his state of denial, and so when Darren reached out, you dropped everything. You never did need much convincing when it came to Jannik.

Which was why you now found yourself standing outside his front door, your fist hovering just before knocking.

You could hear movement inside—soft footsteps, the muffled sound of a chair scraping against the floor. He was up and around. You knocked.

A few seconds passed before the door opened. Jannik stood in front of you, hair slightly damp from a shower, already sticking up in a way that told you he had run his hands through it too many times. His expression barely changed, though his brows pulled together just slightly.

"Hey, stranger," you said, offering a small smile.

"Did Darren send you?"

"Something like that," you admitted, stepping past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. "You weren't answering my calls."

He shut the door behind you, sighing. "Didn't mean to. Just—"

"I know," you said in gently, he didn't have to finish. And he knew that.

He met your gaze, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. Then he shrugged, a feigned nonchalance that didn’t fool you for a second. "Nothing to talk about. It’s done."

You dropped your bag onto the chair by the window, glancing around the space. It was neat, and Jannik was always one to leave things laying around—he had always needed extra motivation to pick up after himself, but there was an emptiness to his home now. A kind of sterile order that made it feel like he was just barely existing, moving through the motions without really being there.

His silence stretched between you as he let you survey his state of living, the air thick and weighted. This was how it could get with him—he let things simmer under the surface, kept them locked away until they built up into something too heavy to carry alone. And he’d been carrying this for too long already.

You turned back to him, and watched him for a moment before speaking, arms crossing over your chest. "Jannik. The world is throwing opinions around like confetti, your name is in headlines every day, and you’re pretending it’s not happening?"

He sat down on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. "What is there to say?"

You raised a brow. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something about the fact that you’ve been banned from playing for three months? The fact that the entire sports world has an opinion on you right now? That half of them don’t even care about the truth?"

Jannik’s jaw tightened, his fingers pressing together. "Talking about it won’t change anything."

"Maybe not," you said. "But ignoring it won’t either."

"What do you want me to do?" His voice raised ever so slightly now, and you could hear he was trying to temper himself. "Go online and argue with everyone calling me a fraud? Defend myself to people who’ve already made up their minds? It won’t change anything."

You studied him—his tight shoulders, the tired look in his eyes, the way he was holding himself together like he was afraid of what would happen if he let go even for a second.

"No," you said finally. "I want you to let someone in before you shut down completely."

He let out a breath, but the tension in his shoulders refused to let up. "I don’t know how to do this. How to just... stop."

"Jan," you spoke softer now, sitting down beside him. "You don’t have to hold this by yourself."

Because this wasn’t just about the ban. It was about what it meant. The helplessness of being forced to wait, of watching his sport move on without him, of knowing that no matter how hard he trained, he wouldn’t be able to prove anything until time had run its course.

"You don’t have to figure it out alone," you said. Your hand found his, fingers brushing lightly before curling around his palm.

Jannik glanced at you then, the exhaustion clear in his gaze. You didn’t push, didn’t ask for more. You just sat there, letting the silence settle, a quiet reminder that he didn’t have to say anything for you to understand.

Jannik let out a dry laugh after some quiet, shaking his head. His fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in the one thing that still felt real. "You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Show up."

You gave him a half-smile. "I know."

And you knew what he really meant. And, for now, that was enough.

---

Jannik never asked you to stay. But he never asked you to leave, either.

The first night, you figured you’d take the guest room. You had barely set your bag down before Jannik wordlessly picked it up and carried it into his room. He didn’t say anything as he placed it down near his dresser, just looked at you once, as if daring you to argue, before climbing into bed. You had paused for only a moment before following and slipping under the covers beside him, the little space between you known and warm.

By morning, it was like you had always been there.

Jannik’s house had been eerily quiet before you arrived—so quiet it felt like a void. You filled it effortlessly. You worked remotely from his dining table, half-ignoring his commentary whenever he passed by, and usually replied with some sarcastic remark about how you technically were on the clock. When he came home from practice, his hair damp with sweat and exhaustion evident in his posture, you tried to have food ready, or would at least shove a snack into his hands before he could think to protest.

You weren’t trying to fix anything. You were just there. And that, more than anything, seemed to keep him steady.

---

The first time you went with him to practice, he acted like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t slipped into his life so comfortably, like his team had no reason to be surprised by your addition. And they weren't, really, they welcomed your presence and the version of Jannik it brought.

"So, are you her assistant now?" Darren asked as Jannik entered the court, shooting a look at where you had settled on the bench with your laptop.

"Shut up," Jannik muttered, stretching his arms.

You smirked. "You did carry my bag in."

"Because you left it in the car."

"Because I knew had an assistant for that."

The team laughed, and Jannik shot you a glare, and there was something lighter in his mannerisms than before—his humor was coming back. And when he started hitting, there was something looser about his body, too.

The days blended together like that. You'd wake up tangled together, your leg thrown over his, his hand resting heavily on your waist. Neither of you would move for a while. And when you did, it wasn’t to pull away, but rather to burrow deeper into the warmth of each other. It was silent, comfortable. The kind of closeness that required no explanation.

You worked while he trained, watched his practice matches, ate meals together like it was second nature. It wasn’t something you talked about; it just was. The easy familiarity of it all. The fact that neither of you ever brought up the way your feet always ended up in between his under the dinner table, or how he absentmindedly pulled your chair closer when you sat too far.

---

One night, you decided to cook dinner together. It started out with the best intentions—simple pasta, nothing too complicated—but somewhere along the way, chaos took over. You were in charge of chopping, Jannik was on sauce duty, and neither of you were taking it particularly seriously.

"That’s not how you dice an onion," Jannick observed as he glanced at your poorly cut pieces.

"You play tennis, not Head Chef," you shot back, pushing the board toward him. "Do it yourself if you’re so good."

He rolled his eyes, reaching to grab the knife, but you were faster—sliding it just out of his reach.

"Weren't you ever taught not to play with knives." He yelped, but laughter was bubbling underneath his words.

What followed was an impromptu game of keep-away, him chasing you around the kitchen, laughter bouncing off the walls as flour somehow ended up in your hair and tomato sauce splattered onto his sweater.

By the time the food was actually done, the kitchen was a disaster, but neither of you cared. You sat on the counter, Jannik leaning against the sink, both of you catching your breath between bites of pasta straight from the pot.

"We’re horrible at this," you mused, twirling spaghetti around your fork.

Jannik huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Speak for yourself. I think I was doing just fine until you got involved."

You nudged his knee with your foot. "You love the chaos."

He didn’t respond right away, just gave you a look, something warm and knowing in his expression before he took another bite.

---

Another afternoon, it started to rain just as Jannik finished practice. You had been waiting by the parking lot, sitting on the steps of the training center, scrolling on your phone. When the first drops hit, you got up to rush to the car, but Jannik, fresh from his session, grabbed your wrist and pulled you back.

"Come on," he said, a rare, mischievous glint in his eye.

"What?" You barely had time to react before he took off into the open courtyard, tugging you with him. The rain picked up, soaking both of you within minutes. You groaned dramatically but gave in, letting the rain drench you both as you danced around in the open space, laughter spilling between you.

"You are ridiculous," you laughed, wiping water from your eyes as he lifted your arm to twirl you lazily.

"And yet you’re still here." He smirked, pushing his dripping hair out of his face and turning you to face him again, still holding your hand.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away, letting him spin you around once more before tugging you closer, your clothes sticking together from the rain.

You stayed like that for a moment, breathing in the scent of wet pavement and him. His thumb brushed against your wrist absentmindedly, tracing small, barely-there circles. Neither of you moved, neither of you broke the moment. It wasn’t hesitation that kept you still, nor was it uncertainty. It was something deeper, something heavier that had settled between you long ago. The rain kept falling, but neither of you seemed to care.

When he finally let go, he didn’t step away. "We should probably get back."

"Yeah," you agreed, but neither of you moved.

After another beat, he shook his head and exhaled a soft laugh, and reached for your hand again, this time simply lacing his fingers through yours as he pulled you back toward the car. It wasn’t even anything to be addressed. Just another moment in a series of many others neither of you had ever tried to name.

You went home and showered, and then you both found yourselves on the couch watching a movie neither of you were paying attention to. Jannik’s head, which had started off resting against your shoulder, made its way onto you lap. Your fingers absentmindedly played with his curls. Throughout the film, you made comments about the ridiculous plot and the over the top acting, and he chuckled each time, the low sound vibrating against you.

"Are you even watching?" You teased, poking his ribs lightly.

He hummed. "How can I? When your narration is drowning out the actual movie."

"Okay and? Just tune it out like background noise, because I'm not going to stop."

His lips quirked. "Bah, no. Why would I do that when you're best part?"

---

The tension from the ban was still there, but it had dulled at the edges. His frustration still flared up in moments—when he checked his phone and saw another headline, when a notification popped up that should’ve been about his next match but wasn’t. But instead of shutting down completely, he turned to you.

One night, after another long day, you found him sitting outside on the balcony, staring up at nothing. You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before stepping forward.

"You good?"

"Yeah." His voice was low, distant. "Just thinking."

You slid onto the lounge chair beside him, pulling your legs up. "Anything specific?"

He exhaled through his nose, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Nothing I want to say out loud."

"So dramatic."

"You chose to be here."

You nudged his knee with your foot. "I did."

He didn’t respond right away, just looked at you, the weight of all that lied between you in his gaze. You held it, waiting, letting him take whatever time he needed. And then, finally, he spoke.

"I don’t like not having control," he admitted, voice quieter now. "Not over my training, not over what people think. And especially not over what happens next."

You nodded, understanding. "But you do have control over one thing."

"Yeah?"

You smiled, shifting so your shoulder bumped against his. "Whether you let this consume you or not."

He looked at you again, something softer in his expression. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Say exactly what I need to hear."

You shrugged. "It’s a gift."

His lips twitched, and he shook his head. He meant to reply with something teasing, but what came out was true and firm. "Stay."

The word was simple, but it held all that he felt for you. You had been planning to, of course. But hearing him say it—hearing him ask—settled something deep in your chest.

You leaned your head back against the chair, gazing up at the night sky. "I'm not going anywhere."

And for the first time in weeks, Jannik finally felt himself believe that everything might just be okay.

---

Some time before May 5th, 2025

The countdown had dwindled down to days.

Jannik had never been the type to fixate on time, but now, every minute stretched, every hour filled with the anticipation of something just barely out of reach. The ban was ending, the silence lifting, and soon, he would be back where he belonged—on the court, in the rhythm of competition, stepping into the world he had been locked out of for what felt like an eternity.

But the excitement came with worries, too.

He had spent so long keeping himself moving, telling himself the brief pause in his career was just another phase, another setback to push through. Now that it was nearly over, he wasn’t sure what to do with the nervous energy thrumming beneath his skin. His body was ready. His mind, however, wavered.

So, again, he turned to you. Like he had these past three months. Like he always did.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, idly typing away at something he was sure he'd hear about soon. You had made yourself at home in his space long ago, moving through it with the kind of ease that made it feel less like a house and more like something alive—something warm.

He wasn’t sure when exactly that happened, though he knew the seeds were always there, and he wasn’t in any rush to stop it.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, not looking up from your screen.

Jannik huffed, sinking deeper into the cushions beside you. “I’m thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

He nudged your knee with his own, rolling his eyes when you simply smirked at your screen. A few more seconds of quiet stretched between you before he finally exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I don’t know what it’s going to feel like,” he admitted, voice quieter than usual. “Going back.”

You finally looked up at that, closing your laptop without hesitation and shifting to face him fully. “It’s going to feel exactly the way it always has.”

Jannik let out a slow breath, staring at his hands before looking back at you. “What if it doesn’t?”

“That's okay, too.”

He didn’t reply right away, but the way he studied you—quiet, searching, as if trying to absorb the certainty in your voice—spoke louder than words. You reached out, slipping your fingers through his, grounding him in the moment.

“You’ve done this a thousand times,” you reminded him. “Nothing about who you are has changed in these three months.”

He nodded slowly, squeezing your hand once before letting go, but the weight in his chest felt a little lighter. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t need to. You just knew.

You always did.

And soon, the world would remember too.

---

Until then xx

#jannik sinner #jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner blurb #jannik sinner one-shot #jannik sinner fanart #jannik sinner smut #atp tour x reader #tennis #tennis fic #jannik sinner fluff #forza jannik #GameSetAttach #jannik sinner one shot

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itstheval · 2 days ago

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Under The Stars

A Sidestory Of @amuseintime 's Scriptfrin/The Play Is Over, But The Script Remains AU.

Siffrin had a plan.

It wasn't common for Sif to have plans, especially now that the King was dealt with. Most of his plans had been hiding things from the rest of his family, and he was certainly trying better to not do that. But you recognized the specific set to his jaw, the focus in his eyes, as he walked over. Sif had a plan. You moved over on the log you were on, staring into a fire during your night's watch, to make room for them.

You'll admit, it had been quiet enough to not warrant a watch since you left Dormont. Sadnesses were few, and even freshly woken from their sleep, any of you could handle the few that were remaining. Sif had even taught you some of the skills you learned during those accursed loops, making it even more trivial. But, you liked your time under the moonlight, where you didn't have to wear any masks and could just be yourself, so you still took watch.

Change seemed to be rewarding you for your choice, as Sif sat next to you (on purpose! With no one else around!) and stared intently into your eyes, with the same focus you usually see in a fight. He was planning something, and it took all you had to keep yourself from flushing completely dark with that attention turned on you.

"Clocktower, Sleepover."

That was the codeword you'd agreed on. Sif was Scripting again. Oh.

That immediately took you from the cloud-9 feeling of being with Siffrin to the focus of something unusual. They were scripting…They had a plan. You didn't know what was about to happen, but you had a feeling deep in your gut that it was going to be significant.

"Well! Good evening! I, uh, I'm not in the way, am I?" You stumbled over your words, for all you tried to keep them focused. But it was Sif! With THAT look in his eye! Who wouldn't?!

"No, no, you're fine, hahaha!"

That was.

An answer.

"SIF?!?! Are you…Did you…I mean, it's fine if you didn't, but…Are you, can you stop scripting now?! When you want to?!"

The words spilled out of you, fully of hope, as you stared at him with a wide eyed expression. He'd! Answered you! Even though he was!!! Your heart soared, and then sank at the slight shake of their head. Then how-?

"…No, you didn't step in it." Were you that obvious? Or…no, no. Use your smart boy brain, Isabeau. And pay attention, they're talking again.

"I'm ready now." Ready? To talk? You stared, then realized you were staring and looked away, your face burning. Okay. You can do this. You can totally do this. Sif needs you. You can't be a blushing maiden about this. You took a deep breath in, and out, and let the pieces fall into place.

"You're…You've remembered more lines. You want to…try to use them? To…have a full conversation?" You guessed.

"You can be a smart jock." WHEN?! DID THEY SAY THAT?!?! DURING THE LOOPS?!?!?! You stared, trying to find the words, your jaw working uselessly for a moment as Siffrin once again changes the whole mood with just a few words. They said it with such finality, too, like it was just a fact. You tried to focus, but when?!

"Isabeau." The word brought you back to reality, as Siffrin drew your attention back. Right. Scripting. Even if they can answer a few things, you still have to lead, since he can only follow.

"Aheheh…Sorry about that, Sif! You just…caught me off guard, there. So you're exploring what you can say, huh? Pretty brave of you, Sif. But I'd expect nothing less from my Sifarooni!"

"Oh my!" The words sounded fake, but from the blush staining his pale cheeks, the sentiment wasn't. A hand went to his chest, and he managed a laugh.

"I mean it! If I'd wound up in something like that, I'd be lucky if all I got was a couple scars and a speech thing. Every day, even like this, you remind me you're still the same Sif I knew, deep down."

"I didn't say anything." It was a declaration, but they went into turtle mode again. Trying to hide their face, ducking down to peek up with the most adorable eyes. You could get lost in that look, if you weren't focusing for their sake.

"I mean…before, I guess you didn't? Or you didn't talk too much. But, well, that's alright! Sometimes it's nice to have somebody you can talk to, you get it? Someone you know won't judge you. So you can just…Be yourself, without worrying." You knew what was coming next. You weren't going to lose it. You WEREN'T.

"I've never been ashamed of knowing you, Isa."

You lost it. You blushed, you hid your face, and you found your mouth leaking nonsense sounds. No matter how many times they said that, you knew it was true, and you lost it every time. They'd even said it then! You didn't know when, but…during the loops, during the time-shaped pressure cooker, they'd said it, and they'd meant it!

"Let's have a look, then." You heard, barely over the sound of your own nonsense, and you felt his hand on yours. It was pulling! He was seeing your face! Like this! You felt the old you spurring you to run, and that alone told you to stand your ground. You managed a soft smile at him, even as you took a deep breath.

"He looks nice?"

You're gone again. Sif - Sif! Master of Hiding Emotions! - wasn't letting you hide your face, and the verbal garbage you were spilling refused to form itself into coherent words even as you closed your eyes and tried to find it in you to think. Big boy brain, you tried telling yourself, but the rest of your head was way too full of those three words to say anything.

"I have time now!" Okay, okay. You think that meant he was giving you as much time as you needed. Which! Was good! You needed time to! Recover! It was several quiet moments before you managed to get your thoughts back in order from the unexpected Siffrin Charm Assault. Well, that proves he can communicate, if he tries!

"Sorry 'bout that, Sif. You know I have a delicate heart."

"The heart of a delicate maiden." Sif is doing the deeper voice, for a line you'd said before in the past. Oh no, that was in his arsenal and he was getting clever. You were doomed.

"Absolutely!" You agree, for lack of a better option. "So…Want to just, uh, sit together for a while?" You offer, smiling down at him. "I think you've proved your point."

"I do!" they say, and lean into your side, just a little bit. You decide tonight? It's going to be a good night to just relax. You grab for your book again, to have something to enjoy as you rest together, only to feel Siffrin over at it, the slight body shifting against yours.

"…The book, is it related to your research?" Okay, that one you can guess. That was definitely something they asked Odile. But, well…When you let yourself be, you felt almost as smart as Odile, so that wasn't a surprise.

"Oh, I guess…I'm not really a researcher, you know?" You laugh, and feel the way it jostles them, and the way they cling tighter to feel more. Adorable. "I just sorta…read stuff, when the Houses let me borrow them. Which they do! As long as I drop it off at the next House, they're usually fine. Changing who has what information, you know?"

"So this is why…" They look up at you, not finishing the sentence, not seeming to have it in them to finish the sentence. You allow yourself to nod in return. "Why I've been the Smart Jock even more? Well, if I want to keep helping you, I've got to learn even more, right?"

You didn't like the expression Siffrin got at that. Like he was a rotting carcass. Like he was a weight making you sink, instead of a joy bringing you smiles. "So what do you need me to do?" They asked, and you could tell they wished they could make it sound more bitter. Oh, Sif…

"I mean! You just have to keep being you! I'm doing this because I want to! And, you…I mean, Sif, if I didn't want to spend time with you, I wouldn't bother doing this. But you make it worth it, every time! You know?"

"I do." Simple, cold, to the point. Not looking at you. Oh, you really stepped in it now. You reach down and turn his head to face you (and such a novelty, your fingers on his chin, without worrying!), staring down into his eyes with what you hope is an expression that matches your own intensity.

"Hey. Sif. Sifarooni. You've said it a lot, but it goes both ways. I've never been ashamed of knowing you, either."

For once, you get a bit of revenge on Siffrin, seeing the way his face flushes almost lightless and he buries himself against your arm. "What was it you said before?" You ask, pulling them away so you can see their face, even as they try to hide. "He looks nice?" You do your best imitation of their voice, and the two of you laugh together as they punch you lightly in the arm.

You could get used to this, you think. You wouldn't mind that at all.

#isat fanfic #isat au #isat siffrin #isat isabeau #the play is over but the script remains #scriptfrin #isafrin

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theinfinitedivides · 1 year ago

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runs in the family

#film: jawan #jawan #shah rukh khan #srk #vijay sethupathi #nayanthara #sanya malhotra #priyamani #deepika padukone #bollywood #local gay watches Bollywood.txt #local gay watches Jawan (and spends the entire time filing the various SRK avatars into new DILF categories).txt #something something 'and they will recognize all the lines of your face / in the face of the daughter (son) of the daughter (son)#of my daughter (son)' something something someone needs to hold me while i curl up on the floor and cry

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snekdood · 1 year ago

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me, on the one hand: its weird to gatekeep people identifying with characters just bc they don't share their same race

also me, upon watching a video of someone wanting the saiyans to be in ssj form 24/7: you just want them to be blonde with blue eyes all the time bc you're mad that otherwise you can't project on to them since they're likely asian 🙄

#ig these aren't mutually exclusive stances but still #in fact if anything it bolsters my former stance bc why tf cant you just identify with them as they are #anyways ive been holding this back bc of whiney people on here but yes i kin with bruno from encanto and theres nothing you can do #to stop me.#if i relate to him in every other way ASIDE from being fuckin colombian then thats a very stupid and arbitrary line to draw im sorry and #i also dont care about your weird gatekeeping #its almost like familial abuse isnt restricted to ones race and also race is fake but anyways #fuck your weird ''white' people cant imprint on these characters' shit like. you're literally trying to stop ppl from seeing themselves #in other races. how tf do you think thats beneficial to stopping racism like AT ALL?#me when i hate when 'white' ppl put themselves in my shoes and try to empathize with me #me when i reinforce the racial binary and act like its real and not made up by white supremacists and pretend im not contributing #to white supremacists' delusion that race is real #theres literally a woman who would conventionally be recognized as white in the movie but ig gingers cant imprint on her at all or w/e #bc they dont speak spanish or something idk. is it about skin tones? bc babe give me a couple of days on the beach and ill look like bruno #dsjhfsvdhjvgfhdsvhgdf #and no i dont believe you if you try to say that the abuse he faced was somehow unique to colombian culture or something.#if anything that kinda abuse was prolly passed down from europeans who colonized the lands so i have even MORE of a reason #to feel like i can identify w it since im mostly of 'european' decent ._.#at least as far as ik.#('european' is in quotation marks bc its a place w a lot of different types of people some of which aren't recognized as white by #some white supremacists even and idk what im mixed with so)

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freakycore · 27 days ago

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🎧 now playing: queen never cry

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader

sukuna’s queen should never cry. so when he finds her in tears, he’s ready to unleash his wrath— only to be met with a situation he never expected.

sukuna never believed there was a force in this world that could bring him to his knees— until he saw you crying.

the faint sound of muffled sniffles greeted him as he stepped into your shared chambers. his crimson eyes narrowed, searching for the source. then he saw you, perched on the edge of the bed, your face buried in your hands, shoulders trembling with each shaky breath.

his chest tightened, a feeling he didn’t recognize—or perhaps refused to admit—clawing at his heart. who dared to hurt her? his jaw clenched, and his cursed energy began to crackle in the air.

“who did this to you?” sukuna’s voice thundered through the room, sharp and biting, his rage barely contained. “tell me, and I’ll flay them alive. I’ll make them beg for—”

“it’s not a person!” you interrupted, looking up at him with teary eyes.

his fury faltered for a moment as confusion replaced it. he stalked closer, crouching before you so he could see your face. his large hands cupped your cheeks, rough thumbs brushing away stray tears. “then what is it?” he growled.

your lip quivered as you tried to form the words. “i… i dropped my favorite dessert.”

sukuna blinked. once. twice. his expression was blank, but his crimson eyes burned with disbelief.

“you’re crying… over that?”

“yes!” you wailed, fresh tears spilling over. “it was the last one, and i was saving it for today! and now it’s gone!”

the room was silent for a beat. sukuna’s hands dropped from your face as he straightened, his cursed energy dissipating into the air. he crossed his arms, his lips pressing into a tight line as his eyes bore into you. “you mean to tell me i nearly destroyed this entire palace… over a shit of sugar?”

you sniffed, your watery gaze meeting his. “it was a really good shit of sugar..”

for a moment, sukuna said nothing, his temple visibly throbbing as he tried to process the situation. then he let out a harsh, frustrated groan, dragging a hand down his face. “you’re insufferable,” he muttered.

despite his irritation, he reached out and pulled you into his lap, cradling you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. “stop crying,” he ordered, voice gruff but quieter now. “queens never shed tears over something pathetic.”

you let out a soft laugh, burying your face in his chest. “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

sukuna froze, his scowl deepening. “excuse me?”

“ you heard me,” you teased, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. your fingers lightly traced the sharp lines of his jaw, and despite himself, sukuna leaned into your touch.

“you’re lucky i adore you,” he muttered under his breath, his arms tightening around you protectively. “otherwise, i’d throw you out for being this ridiculous.”

but as much as he grumbled, you knew he wasn’t truly angry. later that evening, when he thought you weren’t paying attention, sukuna disappeared for a short while. he returned with a boxes containing even larger, more decadent version of your lost dessert.

he didn’t say a word as he set them all down before you, his expression carefully neutral. but the slight twitch of his lips betrayed him when you squealed with delight and launched yourself into his arms.

no one makes his queen cry— not even herself.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna ryoumen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fluff

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nezuscribe · 4 months ago

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(slightly suggestive)

another little drabble for arranged marriage!gojo but imagine a moment before he confessed but something was looming over the two of you. it was crossing the line of friends, not necessarily husband and wife, but two people desperately in love and didn't know how to say it.

you were in one of your late-night frenzies, your brain so muddled with every thought that you decided to do what you knew best: bake.

you often find yourself in this situation as of late, but it truly seems to be the only thing that helps. you wanted to tell gojo how you were feeling, but it was too far in, so you decided something simple and sugary would help you in the moment.

at this point, the walk to the kitchens was something you could do blind, and considering how many times you did this, you already knew where all the ingredients were.

you set out your sugar and flower, and go rummaging in the cold cellar for some butter and eggs. you try not to think about how at dinner gojo slid closer to you, your arms touching as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. or how a couple days ago he had found you in the library, reading next to a windowsill, cozying up next to you as he read the book over your shoulder.

you're so lost in your head with sifting the ingredients that you fail to realize that the very man himself had come up secretly behind you, curiously watching you in your element.

(he'd never admit that he'd first gone to your room, and only came down here after he realized you were gone).

but, unlike the last couple of times, you'd gotten used to his stealthy ways. he was quiet, sure, but you could recognize him by his slight breath alone, or the way he smelled faintly of cloves.

you try not to let your breathing hitch, or let a smile grow on your face as you decide to break the silence.

"if you try to scare me while i'm baking you better rethink your choices," you warn him and hear gojo snicker quietly behind you.

gojo moves from where he was standing, and he leans his back against the counter next to you, craning his neck to look over at your bowl.

your eyes dart to the side, to the way his arms are resting behind him as he balances himself back on them (or the way his arms bulge and veins pop).

"what's on your mind tonight?" gojo asks, knowing you only do this now whenever you're stressed out.

"not much," you mutter, despite wanting to say you, you're on my mind.

he tsks, not buying your lie as he leans in a little close, his head blocking your view of your mixing bowl as he tries to get a little taste with his fingers.

"hey!" you cry, smacking him lightly on the back of his neck, "your hands are all grimy!"

you watch as he peers at you from the corner of his eyes, glaring at your offensive remark as he retracts away, a small pout on his face as you grin in slight victory.

"my hands are clean," you hear him mumble petulantly and you chuckle, rolling your eyes at his antics. the closer the two of you got, the more you found out that his closed-off and aloof demeanor was just a facade for a dramatic, grouchy man-child.

there's a comfortable silence for a moment, one where you're mixing and one where he watches you mix. you don't really notice the quiet anymore, just another added sound when you and gojo grow more comfortable together.

"how was your day?" he finally asks, a simple question, but you know he's using it as a mask to find out what was wrong with you.

"good," you say with a shrug, starting to gently fold in your wet mixture with your dry one, "you weren't at dinner so i was actually able to eat in peace," you add, trying to sound indifferent when really it's what spurred this entire thing on. how, when you realized that you missed seeing him, talking to him, being near him, you were really, really, missing him. and that's not how friends are supposed to act. or, at least, from what you've heard.

gojo smiles, a soft look on his face. you're trying to be sarcastic, he knows that, but there's something...deeper behind your words, something that he too feels.

"the eastern tribe took up more time than i thought they would," he explains, his blue eyes glowing when he notices the way you slightly relax, "i tried telling them that my wife was waiting for me, but apparently peace negotiations can't be postponed."

you bite your lips, trying to hold back your giddy smile at his words. you know he's probably teasing you, using the phrase my wife as a way to get out of a boring meeting, but you love it nonetheless.

he knows you do.

"those bastards," you murmur teasingly, hearing his loud laugh as he lightly shoves you with the point of his boot.

"yeah, well, they don't have wives back home," he crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his lips into a thin line, "so they don't know the feeling."

you swallow thickly, not looking over at him when he says that.

there's another silence as you continue to fold the batter, sensing that same feeling wash over the two of you.

"let me grab a..." you turn around, head craning to look for a spoon to dip in the batter, needing to make sure the sweetness wasn't too overbearing (and because you liked tasting the batter before it was sent off to be baked thoroughly), but stop when gojo pulls the bowl in closer to him.

you watch as he glides his finger across the sides, not letting it touch the actual bulk of the mixture, and brings it forth towards your lips.

his brows cock upwards, as if he was waiting for you to try it.

you give him a look, nose slightly wrinkled.

"i swear my hands are clean," he promises, crossing one hand over his chest as a sort of pledge, but that's not what holding you back, shouldn't he know that?

your mind is working to beat the thrill of your heart, the one that's pulling you towards him like a magnet, the one that desperately wants to have his finger in your mouth.

you bite your cheek for a second, eyes flickering up from his to his finger, and some sort of heat in you takes control as one hand gently grabs his wrist, pulling his hand closer to your parted lips.

your tongue darts out, your mouth closing over the digit as you taste the sugary batter coating your tongue. you feel dizzy, your stomach twisting, a heat taking over your body as your tongue swipes over it, licking it clean.

it's nothing overexaggerated, nothing too crazy. you lick his finger the way you'd like your own, but fuck, this isn't your own finger and gojo's looking at you with his pupils blown wide, the blacks overtaking the blue in his eyes.

your hand is still holding his wrist, your lips gliding over it as you pull away, breathing slightly less when you glance up at him.

gojo swallows thickly, hoping you don't see the bulge that's growing in his pants.

"good?" he chokes out, his voice thick in his throat.

"yeah," you mutter, the batter still lingering on your tastebuds, "it's perfect."

fuck, you're both screwed.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo drabble #jjk x reader #jjk drabble #satoru x reader #gojo x reader smut #arranged!gojo

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fairy-angel222 · 1 year ago

Text

Pornstar Dream ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

—in which your friends help you make something other than solo porn for your onlyfans (with a week full of dick appointments of course).

—nanami, choso, sukuna, toji, gojo n geto

—cw: smut, daddy kink, overstimulation, mommy kink, passing out, bondage, gagging, threesome, choking, pussy eating, degradation, praise, breeding, pussy/clit slapping, double penetration, cervix fucking, belly bulge, mask kink, a lot more.

—repost from @/fairyhub

Nanami. Monday 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.

Hearing the ring of your doorbell, you smiled. Jogging down the stairs in just a sexy black robe to swing open the door. Nanami’s cheeks tinted red as he greeted you.

“Hi Kento!” you grinned, embracing him into a hug, “thank you so much for agreeing to this.”

Clearing his throat, Nanami half hugged you back with a short nod. Trying his hardest to keep his eyes off of you. “Yeah, no problem.”

Pulling away, you grabbed the man’s hand and pulled him into your home. Leading him upstairs into the massive guest bedroom where you filmed.

“Okay,” you started, picking up a pitch black ski mask and handing it to him. “The camera won’t be picking up your face, but you can put this one if you’d like.”

Nanami shook his head, “No it’s fine.”

“Great! Well let’s get started kay?”

Nanami found himself sat on your bed as you climbed onto his lap. His head straight forward to avoid falling into the camera’s line of sight. Despite you being able to crop him out.

He groaned when you brought yourself down on his cock. Letting out a soft mewl as your pussy took him all the way it. “Hmm,” you moaned, beginning to bounce up and down slowly while grinding your hips. “Fuck.. daddy,”

Nanami’s eyes widened, his cock throbbing against your walls as his grip on your hips tightened. Helping you speed up your pace to begin fucking yourself on his cock. The man let out a string of deep grunts, the sight of you whimpering while rutting yourself on his cock was almost enough for him.

“Nngh— so good daddy,” you breathed, “sooo fucking good, ahh.” Your lip between your teeth as you gripped his shoulders. Rocking your hips back and forth at a fast pace, your clit rubbing against his base region with each movement.

Your head fell back with your lips parted, your eyes closing as you clenched down on him. “O-oh—” Nanami noticing the way your movements got sloppy before gripping your ass. Fucking up into you at an almost inhuman pace. “F-fuckk—“ you cried out. A silent scream falling past your lips as your eyes rolled back. Allowing Nanami to do the work while you simply moaned and cried, his veiny hand curling around your neck.

“Shit- that’s it doll.“ the man cursed, his breathing getting heavy as your wetness coated his cock. Blunt tip bumping into your g spot each time it grazed your walls.

“D-daddy.. feels so good,” you let out a high pitched mewl, “‘m so close.”

Nanami’s cock fucking up into you making your stomach fill with heat, a coil building up as you were engulfed in pleasure. You could feel your head becoming dizzy as you neared your orgasm, your body trembling as your noises increased in volume.

Your toes curled with a chant of daddy’s. Your nails piercing past the muscular man’s skin. Nanami trying to keep his words limited incase someone recognized him, letting out a low husky string of curses while watching his cock disappear within your sopping cunt.

“F-fuck,” you let out your final cry, a shiver raking through your body before you were cumming on his cock. Drenching him in your clear liquid with a choked whimper.

Nanami groaned, his fingers squeezing into your ass and around your neck as he buried himself deep. Pumping ropes of thick cum onto your slippery walls.

You hummed in content, turning your body in his lap when he pulled out. Using your fingers to spread your folds for his cum to spurt out lewdly.

When you were done you ran to turn off all cameras. Grinning at Nanami before pressing a kiss to his lips, “Thank you again Kento.”

Choso. Tuesday 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.

Choso was nervous when you had asked him to be in your video, but agreed nonetheless. Walking up shyly to your door before ringing the bell.

Running his hand through his hair to fluff it right before the door swung open. The man swallowing hard as he saw your robe clad frame. “Choso! you made it.” you smiled. And he only nodded while handing you a mini bouquet of flowers. “Y-yeah. And i uh.. i got you these.”

You cooed, pulling him in for a hug making his face burn red. He’d seen your solo content, so it was very hard for him to look at you without thinking back to all the loads he’d blown to the sight.

You led Choso upstairs after getting a vase for the flowers. Pulling him into your recording room while breaking down what would be happening.

“So you can put this on to hide your face.” you offered, holding out a black ski mask which Choso took with no protest. Putting it on after peeling his clothes off of him.

You sat him down of a chair instead of your bed. Tying his hands behind him and kneeling in between his legs. The cameras already rolling, “Ready?”

Choso nodded, “Mhm.”

Choso whimpered as you began stroking his cock slowly. Your touch soft on his skin as you teasingly circled your wrist on his tip. Spreading his precum and using it to fist his cock. Your lip in between your teeth as you smiled to the camera. Choso’s mewls loud and whiny as his body jerked.

“Aww, you like that baby?” you teased, “Like when mommy fist fucks your pretty cock?”

He nodded with a moan, his back arching as you sped up your movements, his cock throbbing when you raked a nail up his distinct vein. “Nngh— l-love ittt, o-oh fuck, love it mommy.”

You hummed, your face seductive as you switched between teasing his aching red tip and stroking down his length. The man tugging at the ropes in an attempt to rut his hips upward into your fist.

“Nngh— more- ahh, please m-more.”

You squeezed down on his base, his head falling back with a needy whimper as his breathing sped.

“You take what i give you okay baby?”

He let out a cry, his chest rising and falling heavily as you continued to tease him. “Nngh- m-mommy..” Choso’s back arched when you placed a kiss to his tip. Swirling your tongue around the glistening mushroom head.

Choso let out a string of moans, his hips thrusting up when you took his cock past your lips. Letting out a long shaky breath as you bobbed your head. Taking him all the way into your throat with a tiny gag.

His abs glistened with sweat as you sucked him off. Adorable noises filling the room as you brought him to his release. “F-fuck mommy- ‘m cumming. Nngh ‘m cumming mommy.” his voice cracked as it got high pitched.

Choso let out a broken whine when you stepped all movements. “N-no.. why?” you could hear the tears forming in his eyes.

“Shh baby, mommy’s gonna give you something even better.” climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. “There we go.. good boy.” His cries of pleasure even louder than before as you fucked him with your tightness.

His mewls and whimpers making you even more wet as you lifted yourself off and back onto his cock. Your ass flush on his lap every time you bottomed down.

Your moans mixed with his. Hands secure on his shoulders as you rocked yourself back and forth, his cock prodding your g spot each time. “Fuck, does that feel good baby?”

“Uh huh,” Choso choked out, “s-so good, haah.”

You could feel his cock twitching against your walls. Your head falling back and your lips parting in soft mewls. “Gonna cum baby? Gonna let it out f’ me.”

Choso nodded, “yeah,” he breathed, “‘m there mommy.”

“Cum in me okay? Fill my pussy with your cum.” your demanded, grinding your hips quickly as you approached your own orgasm. Drenching Choso’s cock with a cry before he was doing the same. Pumping you full of his cum with a whimper.

When you were both finished you panted heavily. Momentarily turning to the camera and thrusting two fingers into you for Choso’s cum to run out.

Eventually untying him and pulling off his mask with a giggle. His face fucked out and flushed as he looked up at you.

“Thanks Cho,�� pressing a kiss to his lips.

Sukuna. Wednesday 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Sukuna didn’t even knock when he got to your house. Waltzing in like he owned the place and making his way straight up to your recording room.

You let out a yelp when you saw the man by the door, a smirk on his face as he took in all the technology. “So you’re a full time slut huh?” He scoffed jokingly. Opening his arms for you to jump into. Wrapping your arms around his neck with a grin. “Hi Kuna.”

“Hi princess, i see you’re pretty much all set up.” You nodded with your lips between your teeth, clad in nothing but your black robe as Sukuna hummed. Allowing you to lead him to the bed while explaining everything.

“Handcuffs, ropes, gag..” Sukuna listed with a grin, “I like it.” Peeling off his shirt to reveal a litter of tattoos on his pale skin and a half sleeve full. His muscles prominent as he stretched. “Gonna do this pussy real good.”

You found yourself on your bed. Your hands handcuffed to the headboard and your feet tied in their spread out position. You whimpered as Sukuna placed a blindfold on your eyes. Getting ready to gag you next. “K-Kuna? You sure you wanna let your face show?”

“They’ve gotta know who’s making you scream somehow, and if you blur out my face i’m spanking that ass red.”

You nodded shakily, Sukuna strapping the ball between your lips before biting your neck softly. Trailing hot kisses down your chest with a groan. “Fuck.. wish you had called me for this earlier. Could’ve made a fortune outta this.” he mumbled lowly.

Your breath hitched when you no longer felt Sukuna against you. You shivered when his touch was replaced by a sharp nail raking up your chest. Circling each one of your breasts before tracing the sides of your waists. He was silent, keeping you breathing heavily in anticipation as a smirk graced his features.

Your back arched with a muffled mewl when Sukuna’s hand came down hard on one of your tits. The stinging sensation sending wetness straight to your pussy. Your chest rose and fell as Sukuna continued trailing your chest. Pressing his lips to your stomach before his hand came down on your other one.

Pulling another muffled cry from you with a hum. He twisted your nipples between his fingers as he kissed down to your cunt. Teasingly kissing everywhere else but where you craved to feel him. When he finally reached your pussy he groaned. “So fucking wet f’me.” Kissing your clit while his finger ran between your folds.

You could only moan behind the gag when he licked a stripe up your slit. Making out with your clit before dragging his tongue back down into your wetness. Your body jerked with a broken whimper when Sukuna’s hand laded directly on your clit. The sensitive bud throbbing at the contact.

You mewled, tugging at your restraints when Sukuna began lapping at your wetness. His tongue darting out to collect your sweetness with his mouth latched onto your pussy.

Another jerk passing through your body with a cry when his hand came down even harder. His tongue still working wonders as it dipped into you, his fingers pinching at your clit before coming down in two more consecutive hits.

Your eyes grew teary under the fabric. The blinking camera picking up the way your breaths became heavier by the time Sukuna had swapped his tongue and fingers. Curling the long digits into your walls while he tongued the rest of you.

Your body was filled with heat when Sukuna gripped your hip. Not being able to see the way he looked darkly at your trembling body. Basking in your incoherent noises as he feasted, feeling his cock grow hard underneath him.

The coil in your stomach grew stronger and. stronger. Unable to voice your release as you clenched down on his fingers with a silent scream, pussy gushing onto his hand and chin making him grunt into you. “Fuck, that’s it.” Replacing his fingers with his mouth to swallow down your juices.

Sukuna’s cock was collecting your wetness before you knew it. Roughly thrusting into you with a deep breath. His thick cock stretching you almost painfully as he bottomed out.

You mewled when he began fucking into you. His pace immediately hard and fast as his massive girth rammed into your tightness. You let out a string of loud cries, Sukuna’s hand wrapping around your neck as he glanced to the camera right in front of him. Giving it a grin before focusing his attention back onto you.

“Shit, taking me so well. Pretty little slut, fuckk.” he groaned, his tip hammering into your g spot making your back arch. Both your hands and legs pulling at their ties at the immense pleasure.

Drool ran past your lips as your body was rocked back and forth with Sukuna’s harsh thrusts. Tears staining your cheeks as he pierced deep into you. His hips holding no mercy as he moved.

Sukuna reached up to wipe your chin with his thumb. His deep voice sending shivers down your spine when he teased, “So messy,” using his hand to spread to spit all over your face before landing his palm on your cheek.

A loud cry leaving you at the burning sensation in your face. Only to have your head turned to the side when he landed another one. “So fucking pretty like this.” Tightening his grip on your neck to allow him to drill into your cunt.

Short screams matching his brutal thrusts as his cock fucked past your cervix entrance. Grazing your gummy walls perfectly on its way in and out.

You clenched down on him hard, letting out a series of muffled noises as you came. Soaking the sheets while you creamed Sukuna’s cock. The man letting out a deep groan with sped up breaths, “Fuck, can i cum in you?” Cursing out when you nodded, his head falling back as he stilled. Spilling ropes if his warm sticky cum deep into you.

“Shit..” he breathed, panting as he pulled out. The camera behind him picking up the way the liquid seeped out of you.

Sukuna untied you before removing the gag and blindfold. Watching as you sleepily blinked up at him through wet lashes. He helped you up, chucking at your messy face before kissing your nose. “Lemme help you get cleaned up yeah? You’ll worry about the cameras afterwards.” Knowing that you had tons of editing to do anyways, meaning that you could just cut the last part out.

Toji. Thursday 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you opened the door for Toji, he smirked widely. His hands on your waist forcing you to the tips of your toes to kiss you. “You look so fucking hot in that robe. Just wanna rip it off you already.”

You giggled, doing a little spin for him and listening to the way he groaned. Pulling you into him for a hug. His nose buried in your neck while he groped your ass in hiss large hand. “Fuck.. we haven’t even started and i’m hard.”

When you bring him up to your room, you explain how things would be going. Toji barely paying attention as he scanned the room. “Can i wear my own mask?” he cut you off, finally turning his attention to you as pulled a ghost face mask out of his pocket.

“It’s a bit late for halloween Toji.”

“But it’s never too late to make a pretty little slut like you squirm.” His deep voice spoke lowly, stalking towards you with the mask on his face. His head tilted as you were backed into your bed. Falling into a sitting position with Toji standing over you, his fingers gripping your chin to make you look up at him. “Hmm, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” running his thumb over your bottom lip after seeing the way your thighs clenched.

“F-fine.. you can wear the mask,” you grumbled.

“Was gonna wear it either way but thanks sweetheart.” he chuckled shortly, his demeanor going serious when he sighed, “Now, when do i get to ruin that tight cunt of yours?” His eyes darkening with lust as he watched your breathing speed up.

“Y-yeah.. uh l-let me just set up the c-cameras and we’re good to go.” you stuttered, wetness pooling between your legs as you went to set up.

Toji began fucking into you like a mad man. First fingering you to stretch you out before he was full on hammering into your pussy. The blinking camera capturing the way his muscular body flexed with each slam of his hips.

Your eyes were teary as you moaned and cried out. Your body rocking back and forth with every bruising thrust. Toji grunted on top of you, his hand holding tightly onto your neck as he bullied his fat cock even deeper.

Your noises increasing in volume as you turned to look at the camera to let them see how good you were getting fucked. Your tits bouncing wildly as Toji’s force shook the entire bed.

“Fucking look at me.” he growled out, and you whimpered as he tightened his grip on you. “These fucks get to see your dumbed out face all the time, it’s my turn.” Letting out a groan before his hips took an inhuman pace.

You could not see his face, only the image of ghostface looking down at you making you moan loudly. Your back arching as you clenched down on Toji. “Nngh— o-oh f-uckk.. so good- ahh— so g-good.” you cried. Feeling yourself grow closer to orgasm.

“A-ahh, fuck— To- nngh,” you caught your almost slip up, eyes rolling back in a string of shaky mewls when Toji’s other hand pinned your wrists above your head. Masked face coming down to your ear in a deep husk, “Ya like that you little slut? Being fucked in front of a camera for hundreds to see. Such a dirty fucking girl.”

Toji’s smirk widened under his mask, “Let’s give these idiots a show.”

After you came once, he roughly twisted and turned your body into his desired position. Your face in the sheets and your ass in the air. His hand on the back of your neck forcing you to stay down while he bounced himself off your ass.

A dragged out cry leaving your mouth each time his cock rammed deep into you. Threatening to push past your cervix when he sped up his movements.

Your toes curled, drool soaking the sheets as Toji fucked you dumb. Your puffy clit throbbing from the harsh hits of Toji’s heavy balls. “Nnh— ‘s so deep.” you mewled, getting nothing in return but a hard slap to your ass. “Yeah? Better fucking take it.” Toji grunted, his tip kissing your g spot meanly before poking against the skin of your stomach. Creating a visible bulge for everyone to see.

Toji’s head fell back with a groan, his other hand on your hip pulling you onto his cock to match his thrusting pace.

Your brain was foggy. Dizzy even. Your vision clouding as you approached yet another orgasm. Toji’s hand on your neck forcing your head up to face the main camera. “That’s it, show them how good this dick is fucking you. Wanna hear you say it.”

You let out a scream like moan, your stomach burning with heat as your back arched. “F-fuckk— feels so good. Your cock is fucking me soooo good.” you mewled.

“Good girl. Now make a fucking mess.”

You came with a cry, squirting messily onto Toji’s cock and the bed below. Your body trembling and your eyes closing as you were fucked through your high.

In the next few hours Toji had fucked you in all kinds of positions. Your bottom half on the bed while your hands support med your frame on the floor. Toji at the end of the bed lowering his hips onto your sopping cunt. Your cries whiny at the overstimulation.

“Look at you, taking my cock like a fucking champ, bet those men must be wishing to get a feel of that pussy while jerking off.”

“Nngh— you’re not supposed to say that.” you let out a broken whine. Toji’s cock fucking down hard into you as gravity forced your wetness to run down your torso.

“Shit- it’s true. Pussy feels like fucking heaven, i’d want a feel if i was in their place.” He rasped, his breathing getting heavy as his cock twitched. Bringing you to another orgasm before manhandling you some more.

Fucking you in full nelson as you sobbed from all the pleasure. “I can’t— nngh, i can’t.. ‘s too much.” Sweat covering his body as he breathed into your ear. “You can take it. Fuck- just give me two more yeah?”

Holding you directly in the camera’s sight when your pussy gushed. Streams of the clear liquid spraying messily into the air. Toji whistling lowly at the distance it reached.

Then he was bouncing you on his cock, your body falling limp into his chest as he moved your hips. Incoherent babbles falling past your lips as you drenched his thighs. An accidental daddy slipping past your lips as you began to rock back and forth weakly.

“Shit, call me that again.”

“Nngh— d-daddy,” you mewled loudly, your noises high pitched as your clit bumped against his pelvic region.

Toji groaned, “Fuck- you’re driving me crazy. Who’s your daddy baby? Who’s fucking this slutty pussy so good?”

Your legs quivered, clenching down hard as your head fell onto his shoulders. “Y-you. Haah.. you are.” Letting out a short choked scream as your orgasm washed over you painfully. Creaming his cock with a shaky string of whimpers.

Toji letting out a deep chant of curses as he finally allowed himself to release. “Shit- can i cum in ya sweetheart?” Only to look down to find you gone. Passed out against him as your chest rose and fell softly. “Fucking hell.” His voice cracking ever so slightly as he pumped endless amounts of cum into you. Stuffing your cunt to the brim in the thick white substance.

Lifting you off his cock for the camera to see your pussy flutter, his cum running lewdly out of your in spurts.

“Shit.. really fucked ya hard didn’t i,” Toji bit his lip from under his mask. Pulling it off his face to wink at the camera with a short wave and a smirk. “Hey there.” Laying you down onto the bed and placing a kiss to your lips with a sigh. “Let’s see if i can find anything in this big ass place.”

Walking away to find a warm rag or something to clean you up. Leaving the camera running not only because he didn’t know how to use it. But to at least show these people what even the slightest aftercare looked like.

If you decided to keep that part in, that was.

Gojo n Geto. Friday 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you asked Gojo and Geto, the two insisted that they tag teamed you. And you were more than willing to try.

You greeted the two at the door with a smile, being embraced on both sides by the towering men. Gojo smirked, “hi baby,” while Geto placed a kiss to your neck, “hello princess.”

“Hey guys.”

Gojo whistled, “You look so fucking hot in that robe baby, can’t wait to take it off ya.” You giggled, grabbing their hands and pulling them up to the room. “So this is what fucking yourself for some horny men gets you..” Geto laughed.

“So you guys have two options, i can crop and blur out your faces or you can wear these.” Holding up two masks for which both men shook their heads. Geto grinned, “Fuck.. i’m hard just thinking about what we’re going to do to you.”

You found yourself on your hands and knees, Geto fucking roughly into while Gojo fucked your face. Your moans and cries muffled as you were rocked back and forth.

“Shit,” Geto grunted, kneading at the soft flesh of your ass before landing a hard smack, “pussy’s so fucking tight.” You mewled onto Gojo’s cock, gagging and sputtering slightly at his length as he mercilessly slammed into your throat. Heavy balls slapping your chin with each movement.

Your eyes became teary, the feeling of Geto’s cock hammering your g spot making your head feel fuzzy as you whimpered. Your back arching with a string of cries and your breathing speeding up.

The two men watched as your body trembled, your tits shaking lewdly as squelching noises filled the air. Gojo groaned, his hand on your head forcing you to bob up and down his cock even faster as tears stained your cheeks.

The angled camera picking up the way you were destroyed on both ends. Your pussy clenching on Geto’s cock as a thick creamy ring formed at his base. You let out a short moan each time Geto’s cock bullied its way deeper.

Your words incoherent as you shakily announced that you were close. Your hand reaching down to rub at your clit with a high pitched cry.

“That’s it pretty girl. Fucking cum for us.” Gojo groaned, his head falling back as he approached his own release. Your eyes rolled back as you came messily, squirting uncontrollably onto the bed and Geto’s thighs. The black haired man only grunting deeply at the force. “Good fucking girl.. making a mess just like a little slut.”

“Think you can take both of us at once?” Gojo questioned, and you swallowed hard when he pulled out of your mouth. His cock dripping sloppily with your spit. His fingers reached under your chin, lifting your head to look up at him. “What do you say baby?”

You whimpered, “O-okay.” Making both males grin.

Gojo grabbed the black mask, hurriedly putting it over his head before throwing one to Geto, the other man putting his on as well before getting themselves in place.

Geto sat at the edge of the bed with you on his lap, his lips on your ear as he whispered, “If it hurts too much at any point i will stop okay?” You nodded in agreement, shivering as Geto used your wetness as lube.

His cock prodding at your ass before lowering you down slowly. You’d used toys for anal before, so it wasn’t bad apart from the small sting from his girth.

You moaned softly, your back on Geto’s chest with your front facing the main camera. The side camera picking up the way Gojo came up in front of you, Geto holding your legs up for his best friend to line up with your tightness.

You mewled loudly when Gojo thrusted into you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly at the fullness. You could feel both their cocks pushing against each other as they went deeper. Feeling them all the way in your stomach as you allowed yourself to get used to it.

You gave a nod signaling you were ready, your head resting on Geto’s shoulder while your nails dug into his biceps. Moaning loudly when they wasted no time in simultaneously fucking into you.

Matching each other’s rhythm until you were crying out shakily, small tears staining your cheek as you clenched down in both ends. The two men grunting as they relentlessly drilled both your holes. Geto pulling out when Gojo thrusted in and Gojo pulling out when Geto thrusted in.

The two worked to find a pace that drove you over the edge, your mouth hung open in non stop cries as a coil built in your stomach. “Nngh— ‘m close.. feels so good.” You moaned, your vision blurring as your toes curled.

Gojo’s thumb swiped across your bottom lip, “Yeah? Is our little baby gonna cum for us again?” He cooed, pushing his thumb past your lips for you to swirl your tongue around. A hum sounding in his throat before his palm connected with your cheek. A small yelp leaving you before your mouth was stuffed by his fingers again.

“Look at you taking both of us so well. Little fucking slut.” Geto gritted before groaning deeply, “If ya keep squeezing me like that sweetheart, i’m gonna cum.”

You barely processed his words, your own high washing over you as you came. Your body shaking as you slobbered all over Gojo’s hand. Moaning out loudly while creaming his cock.

“Shit— there we go.” Geto breathed. Both he and Gojo husking out a curse as they both stilled. Pumping you full of cum from both ends. You swore you could feel your stomach swell when they finished.

You whimpered when Gojo slipped out of you first, his cum seeping out your pussy in spurts before Geto followed suit. Pulling out of your ass and allowing his cum to run out of the small gape.

Lifting you up and bending your folded body back. Revealing your leaking cunt and ass to the camera while you batted your lashes.

When you were done, both men fixed their hair from the mask. Gojo smirking widely as he panted, “Fuck baby, should’ve let us fuck you like this way sooner.”

Geto nodding in agreement, “Yeah, if i knew you could take cock so well i’d be dicking you down more often.”

Your cheeks heated, the two chuckling as you led them into your master bathroom for a group shower.. and more.

14K notes · View notes

ghost-proofbaby · 15 days ago

Text

the hat rule. (e.m. x fem!reader)

the hat rule (n.): you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.

summary: when eddie dresses up as a cowboy to a night out with friends, you decide to steal his hat.

pairings: eddie munson x fem!reader

warnings: reader is described to be wearing a dress. reader is also dressed up as a black cat. premise is everyone is wearing 'slutty' costumes. overuse of pet names. public teasing, unprotected sex, choking kink, oral (f receiving), ass slapping. 18+.

wc: 13.3k+

happy early valentine's day, babes. shout out to @hellfire--cult for beta reading, as well as @andvys for giving me this idea to begin with.

If someone had told you last week that you’d be attending a slutty costume themed night at a club tonight, you would have laughed in their face.

And yet here you were, at Steve Harrington’s apartment, donned in a black cat costume that shows more skin than you have in years.

The elaborate plan had sparked on a random day after Steve encountered a flyer for the event. It was a nightclub your group had attended before, and one look at the line free drinks for participants had Steve running down your entire group to insist that you all needed to dress up, to participate in this, for the luxury of free Tito’s.

He’d never considered that the ad might not be targeted towards the male population. And now, you were all gathering at his apartment to pregame, ‘slutted out’ as Robin had so kindly put it – men included.

Nancy pulled out some sort of angel costume she claims she had bought but certainly not worn a few years back, Robin had conglomerated an alluring pirate attire from items you hadn’t even been aware were in her closet. Jonathan arrived in his erotic yet pensive writer’s costume (you’d hardly understood it, but he seemed confident, so you all went with it), Argyle in tow donning some sort of seductive surfer costume, in which you certainly recognized the unbuttoned shirt and cargo shorts that had had a pocket knife taken to them to disregard a few inches. Steve even stuck to his own demands, going all out – a sensual bunny costume.

And then, there was Eddie.

Eddie fuckin’ Munson.

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, sweetheart,” he teases as he shuffles around you in the kitchen to grab a drink, “Gonna start catching flies otherwise.”

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about how sweet I am, right?” you blandly reply, keeping your eyes on your room temp cocktail that Steve had so graciously mixed for you upon your arrival, “Something where you call me honey or sugar, yeah?”

Eddie pauses, bottle of vodka in hand, looking at you with big eyes lined in coal, “Oh, baby, you know me so well.”

“Cut the pet names, Munson.”

You try to scowl. You really do. But you don’t mean a damn word you say.

Sweetheart. Baby. Hell, even honey would have done it for you when he was wearing that costume.

Tight leather pants, flared at the ankle. Worn leather boots that certainly had to have been thrifted, clicking with each of his steps. A cow print vest, and just a vest, over what looked to be an oiled chest.

And that fucking hat smashing down his curls, adding a shadow across his face that only built into the illusion.

You hate him. You hate this stupid party. You hate Steve for ever suggesting this.

“You don’t mean that,” he sing-songs as he pours his own drink into a red solo cup. The vodka mixes with cranberry juice, you think, before he’s dropping a few ice cubes out of the freezer. “Or maybe you do, and I should try saying them with a southern drawl,” Fuck, he does a good southern accent. Slow and syrupy sweet, molasses down the throat as he flutters his lashes at you, “That better, darlin’?”

You pluck the thin black straw that had been added to your cup for flare, probably stolen from a hotel at some point by Steve and positively meant for drinks of the coffee variety, and flick it in his direction without hesitation.

“Terrible,” you flatly lie, “Cowboys aren’t even from the south, idiot. They’re from the West.”

You have no desire to hear Eddie’s Western accent. No desire to hear Texan twang on those lips, putting on his best John Wayne impression. In fact, the faster you can get away from him, the quicker you can get yourself under control.

It had always been this way between you and Eddie. Push and pull. Will they, won’t they. A game of cosmic shores as the two of you toed at each other’s orbits and bantered effortlessly. Flirtatious threats, inappropriate compliments, lewd innuendos – you had done it all, specifically with Eddie.

That’s just how the friendship worked.

The friendship.

Friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

Eddie won’t leave you alone, though, choosing to lean up against the counter beside you, forcing his way into your peripherals, “Damn. You’re right. Wayne would kill me if he knew I mixed that up.”

“Oh, I think he has plenty of reasons to knock some sense into you.”

“Yeah?” he leans forward, tauntingly, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, “Why don’t you do it for him? I think I’d like a slap more coming from you, honestly.”

He’s acting like he always does. This is normal. The fact that his entire torso is on show and you can’t stop staring at the way his tattoo on his peck is shimmering doesn’t change that.

You play the role, knowing your part well as you lean in as well, forcing a smile right back at him, “Wanna kiss my knuckles before I do it, or am I gonna have to do all the hard work here?”

“Oh, trust me, you’d never have to do all the work with me, ba-”

“Can you two get a fucking room?” Robin interrupts as she enters the room, clearly coming in for a refill but getting more than she bargained for.

You’re aflame with the shame and embarrassment, feeling it lick from your ankles up to your throat, as Eddie only chuckles lowly.

“Sorry, Robs,” Eddie chirps, not sounding apologetic at all, “I promise I’ll behave myself the rest of the night.”

And yet, despite the words you’re hearing him say out loud, he does the exact opposite.

There’s no real need for him to do it. There’s plenty of space amongst the kitchen for him to maneuver his way out without laying a single hand on you – and yet he still fucking does.

His palm is shockingly warm when it curls around your hip, his other hand occupied with a drink, encouraging you to move a step forward so that he can brush behind you far too close for comfort. You nearly stumble over himself as he does it. The feeling of his barren chest barely bumping your bare shoulder blades sends your mind reeling, and his staple rings that have incorporated into his costume press right through the thin fabric of your dress.

Your breathing stops entirely as he pauses, the slightest bit of skin still brushing against yours, and leans in with a boyish grin, “We’ll both be on our best behavior tonight – right, kitty?”

Something clicks in your mind. The way the nickname rolls off his tongue as he’s looking at you with eyes flaming with mischief, hand lingering on your hip for far too long.

Your eyes flicker up to the hat on his head, and you smile slowly, meeting his toying gaze, “Right, cowboy.”

Best behavior, your ass. Tonight, you have decided, ends the will they, won’t they of it all.

It’s about to either be the best night of your life, or the worst.

—

Another shot with Nancy. Another smoke with Argyle. Another adjusting of Steve’s corset when he complains he can’t breathe (he certainly can, but you’re starting to think he just likes the attention). The pregaming continues on as more of Steve’s friends from work show up, the apartment slowly beginning to buzz with the chatter of more strangers than you can count on one hand.

You’re not even at the club yet and you’re already regretting your revealing attire.

Eddie stays mostly preoccupied with his own devices, and only gets scolded a handful of times by Nancy. You can hear every lewd joke he makes, of course. At some point, you make a private drinking game out of it; a sip for every time he makes the stereotypical joke of ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy’.

Well, it was a sip the first time. A slightly larger gulp the second time. A chugging of half your drink the third time.

“There’s no fucking way,” Steve laments at the table the boys as well as a few guests you don’t recognize have taken over for a game of strip poker, “Jonathan is cheating. Or counting cards.”

“I concur,” Eddie mutters around his cigarette, scowling at his losing hand.

“You’re also cheating, asshole. This is the first round you’ve lost the entire game.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at cards, Harrington.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m really good at-”

“He’s not cheating,” Nancy interrupts with a sigh from the couch, lounging as she’s served as a referee of sorts for the group. Her entire body weight is draped against Robin, and you’re certainly not going to comment on Robin’s hands toying with her permed locks, “Stop being a sore loser and just strip.”

You get why Steve was the most upset. He was down to his underwear and socks, corset tossed somewhere far behind him and bunny ears placed on Robin’s head in place of her pirate hat that she had claimed became too warm.

“I think Steve should trade both socks and put back on the bunny ears,” she quips as she reaches up for the headband, flicking at one of the floppy ears, “He’d look cuter that way.”

“Fuck off,” he snaps, throwing up a middle finger as Argyle finally loses his shirt.

When your attention has drifted, you know he did exactly that, though.

The game had been boring you half to death, honestly. Watching Steve strip without fail every round, hearing the loud cheers from Argyle when he managed to win a few rounds in a row and exclaimed it was a turkey (it had taken a ten minute intermission to explain to him that was bowling, not poker), watching a few of the girls that Steve had invited fawn over him as they carefully removed boots and gloves when they lost – none of it sparked your interest. The only saving grace had been every smug look Eddie offered as he’d win, time and time again. So far, he’d only lost his boots.

He was hot when he was cocky. There was no way around it.

And now, as he carefully pondered as to which part of his precious costume to part with, you were on the edge of your seat. He was lovely and enticing when he was excited, when he was jubilant with victory, but as a sore loser?

Dear God, Eddie Munson was a gorgeous specimen with a pout on his lips.

“Trying to decide what to take off, Munson?” Jonathan notices the way Eddie is hesitating, even through the offset of conversations that had sparked up in the brief pause amongst the growing group.

You lean forward on the couch, almost subconsciously.

You don’t care what Stacy from Steve’s job thinks of their manager or the latest drama ongoing there, and Steve would probably agree with you if it weren’t for Stacy’s all-red, latex Devil costume.

Eddie scoffs, waving a hand over his attire, “Obviously. You know, it’s not easy to choose when you have a costume as damn good as mine.”

“What? Don’t think you’ll be as pretty without your hat?” you decide to contribute to the teasing, shocking yourself in the process.

The last thing you should do when you’re staring him down in this way, is bring attention to yourself. And yet you were, like some fucking idiot with a death wish.

“You think I’m pretty?”

It’s the fluttering of his lashes as he says it that gives you the courage. They match all that fluttering in your stomach, all that buzzing across your nerves. Because – yeah, you thought he was real fucking pretty. You’d spent the last half hour imagining how pretty he’d look in all sorts of places, too, especially between your sheets and between your thighs.

You’re up off the couch, taking confident steps towards where he’s seated at the ground on the other side of the coffee table. It’s a little inconvenient now, but it had been a blessing in disguise for most of the game as you’d had a front row seat to the sight of him.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you tease, entirely ignoring that lightheaded feeling you get anytime Eddie looks up at you this way. Half-lidded eyes, crooked grin. He’s dangerous and he doesn’t even know it, “I only meant you were pretty with the hat.”

“You wound me,” he gasps, dropping back on his hands dramatically, his pout now for dramatics rather than genuine, “Gonna stand there and tell me I’m not pretty when I dressed up just for you?”

You have to take a deep breath to compose yourself, cross your arms to steady your guard, “Just for me?”

He was playing that same old, tired game of yours. The same dance the two of you had memorized the steps to – and something inside of you has grown restless of it. You don’t want to keep skirting around each other with double-meaning jokes, you don’t want to keep painting humor over your flirtatious remarks. You want a damn answer to the age old question of will they, won’t they?

And you want that answer to be will they – terribly, terribly so.

His eyes trail along the room slowly, not avoiding you but trying to draw out the anticipation in you as he sucks in a breath, “Okay, and maybe for Steve. And Nancy. And Argyle. And Jonathan. And- Well, I’d say Robin, but I don’t think she’s looked twice in my direction all night.”

“I haven’t,” the brunette chirps happily from the couch, still letting the weight of Nancy comfortably dig into her.

You have no idea how she’s tuned into the conversation, given the way most of everyone else around the room was entirely ignoring the two of you.

“So,” you all but purr, leaning down to be more level with Eddie. You already know where his focus wanders when his eyes don’t meet yours, “Not just for me, cowboy.”

He’s distracted, staring at your chest as you notice him slip up in his brave facade for a second. Almost as though you’ve gone too far, pushed the limits a bit too hard. Good. You want to break this. You want to shatter whatever cage the two of you have built.

In one smooth movement, your hand reaches out and snatches the hat right off his head.

He lets out a yelp and tries to grab it away from you, but you have the advantage as you stand up straight once more. Your free hand reaches up and tears off the cat ears you had donned, and in their place, the hat is deposited.

It fits you a little big, and you nearly make a joke about the size of Eddie’s head.

“Hey!” he argues, moving as though he might stand up and put up more of a fight, “I didn’t say the hat is what I wanted to take off.”

“Took too long,” you shrug innocently.

“Yeah, well, just carefully add it to the pile,” he jabs his thumb over his shoulder, towards his boots, as he relaxes back into his recline.

You should probably behave yourself.

“No.”

But this is more fun.

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in shot, disappearing behind the bangs that are flattened far more than usual. The entire crown of his head is absolutely crushed. No sign of his usual frizzy roots and unruly volume, “No?”

“No,” you confirm a second time.

And you’re done with this game of back and forth.

The hat’s staying on your head. It smells ever so faintly of his shampoo, the slightest whiff of his cologne even, and it’s staying on your head for the exact reason he believes is about to be a gotcha! moment.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he’s just tipsy enough that he’s not putting on any specific accent. Instead, his natural Appalachian accent inherited from his uncle begins to break the surface, “Surely you know about the hat rule.”

Damn right, you know about the hat rule.

You cross your arms, huff a little, tilt the hat for effect, “The hat rule? Please, enlighten me.”

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

Perfect.

You don’t even attempt any sort of surprised act. No exaggerated gasps, no fumbling to remove the hat. You knew all about this rule, and it had been one of the first things to come to mind when you’d seen him enter this damn party with the hat on.

“Yeah?” you question, mocking raising your eyebrows at best, “Hm. What a shame.”

And then you turn on your heel, not awaiting a single response from Eddie as you escape to the kitchen.

You almost wish you would have stayed an extra second to properly witness his reaction. There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s gone pretty and pink, a flustered mess for at least a second as low laughter sounds from the rest of your friends. A tell-tale snort from Robin, and a silent cackle from Nancy. You swear you even pick up on one of the extra guests muttering a confused what just happened? that goes entirely unanswered.

Strip poker doesn’t continue on for long after that.

You refill your drink, this time sans the alcohol, and return to find Steve has officially begun to call for cabs to the club. He busies away on his phone as everyone debates who’s riding with who, the entire party slowly coming to life as everyone stands to prepare to leave for the main attraction.

When you meet Eddie’s gaze from across the room, the shadow of the brim of his hat cutting into your vision a little, his cheeks match the cranberry juice in your cup.

Good.

—

The ride to the club is a blur, and all that really stands out to you is that Eddie makes sure he does not ride in the same cab as you.

Which is fine. Really. It doesn’t cause a single spark of panic in your chest. Not one.

You’re definitely not working yourself up over the thought that your plan is crumbling right before your eyes, that you’ve gone too far and entirely misinterpreted everything Eddie has ever done during your entire friendship. You’re not mulling over every dirty joke, not dissecting every single line that felt like he was flirting with you and attempting to look at it with fresh eyes. No, the entire ride to the club, you are definitely not beating a dead horse dead.

Maybe you should have set off to ride the dead horse and not the cowboy. Maybe, then, Eddie would have gotten into the fucking cab with you.

Your anxieties only worsen once you get inside the club. Pulsing beneath your skin, right in rhythm with the music. Your entire group had each been handed a drink ticket on your way in, and you had noted the fact that the girls of the group were slipped extra tickets.

Nancy had given all her tickets to Robin, and Steve had given his singular ticket to Stacy.

“So,” Robin runs up to your side, Nancy not far behind, “Do we waste our drink tickets on shots or real drinks?”

“Real drinks,” you immediately reply, eyes scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain head of curly hair, “Shots are… well, they can be cheap. We can just avoid the top-shelf shit.”

Was Eddie really going to ignore you the entire night?

He needed his hat. He couldn’t ignore you the entire night.

“You’re right,” Robin shuffles the drink tickets in her hands, turning to Nancy, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be me to ask you to flirt with men to get me-”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll have us a round.”

Nancy’s smile is sweet, courteous, as she gives Robin’s shoulder a squeeze on her way past her.

Where the fuck is Eddie?

“Did you see where the guys ran off to?” you blurt out. Most of the guys, aside from Steve, took the same cab.

Robin also joins you in a quick survey of the club, lifting onto her tippy toes to squint over the current light show, “Honestly? I have no idea.”

Fuck.

As she drops back down onto her heels, Robin looks at you knowingly, eyes flicking up between your twisted expression and the hat on your head.

“Trying to find a certain cowboy?”

“What?” you look at her, already defensive, even if it was stupid at this point. Who cares if everyone knows you have a crush on Eddie? Who cares if everyone finds out the very foundations of your friendship with him were built upon quite a bit of truth? “I mean- yeah, he kind of needs his hat to complete his outfit.”

“Should have just given him your ears for an even trade,” Robin shrugs, clinging to your elbow to avoid getting separated as a few bodies push past the two of you, “I’m sure he’ll pop up soon enough, though. Besides, I don’t think anyone’s too focused on what everyone’s costumes are as long as they’re… well…”

“Slutted out,” you finish for her flatly, trying to not get jealous as your eyes look across the sweaty crowd, stomach churning as you wonder how many other sexy black cats in the crowd would be approaching your cowboy.

You fucked up. You shouldn’t have taken his hat.

“Exactly!” she’s excited, unaware of your crisis, already moving along from the topic as she spots Nancy somewhere near the bar top, “Look, free shots!”

The free shots don’t do much to quell your unease, but free alcohol is always nice.

You take the liquid down, burn and all, more than willingly. And then again, not even five minutes later when Nancy has caught the attention of another random man at the end of the bar. You almost partake in a third, but you finally hear a familiar voice saying a far too familiar joke.

“You know what they say,” he’s flirting – he’s using a tone of voice that he has never used with you, and it’s clear he’s fucking flirting, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

Instead of continuing your drinking game from Steve’s apartment, you slam the shot back down and mutter some sorry excuse of being right back to Robin and Nancy before taking off in the direction of Eddie.

He’s stood a few stools down at the bar, hands leaning against the worn wood as his arms bracket a pretty blonde. It almost looks as if the line might be working on her.

“If you’re a cowboy,” she giggles, and you almost stop dead in your tracks, “Then where’s your hat?”

Well, that’s as good of a queue for your arrival if any.

“Good question,” you pipe up as you take a few brave steps towards him, “Where is your hat, cowboy?”

You’d expected him to be angry, or startled, or possibly even immediately take off running in the opposite direction of you. He doesn’t.

He slowly turns, and his flirtatious smile has turned into more of a salacious grin as he faces you, “Well, well, well. Nice of you to join us, Kitty.”

The blonde looks between you two a few times before shimmying down off her stool, “I think…. I’m gonna go. Nice to meet you, cowboy.”

You expect Eddie to react, but he hardly does. A quick glance in her direction, a pathetic wave.

You’ve just trampled over one of his chances of getting properly lucky tonight, and he isn’t even phased.

“Been lookin’ for you,” you mumble, looking over him. His hair seems to have been unstuck from his scalp a little, at least. As though he may have been running his hands through it repeatedly, “Thought you might have gone home without your hat.”

“Not a chance. I haven’t forgotten about the rule, you know.”

Something twists in you, deep in your gut, between your hips.

“No?” you hold your breath as he leans in a bit closer to you to be able to hear over the music, “Good thing I haven’t either.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering in the multi-colored lights, “You haven’t? Then that means you’ll be giving it back, right?”

Over my dead body.

You’re on a mission tonight. You’ll either be ending this night in sore disappointment, drinking away your sorrows of rejection, or you’ll be ending up in a bed with Eddie. It’s up to him.

You lift a hand to the worn rim, tugging it a bit more securely onto your head, “Not a chance, Munson. You know where to find me once you’re done playing around.”

As soon as your fingers leave the rim, holding tense eye contact with him, his own hand is coming up. You tense, worried he’s about to steal the hat back now, but he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers pinch the same spot yours just had, slow tracing over the rim as his tongue darts out to carefully wet his bottom lip.

From the front point, around to the side. When he reaches the bit above your ear, his touch drops to your cheek and tucks back some of the baby hairs sticking to your skin with sweat.

“I do, don’t I?” he hums, voice dropping a bit lower, focused entirely on you. “I don’t think I’m the one playing around right now, though, Kitty.”

Does he think you’re joking? Does he actually, genuinely think this is all a game to you?

You nearly make the decision to grab him right there, right at this moment, and shatter all the tension. Get his lips on yours and drag him into the darkest corner just to prove to him how serious you truly were.

Suddenly, his hand drops away from you entirely, and you almost want to whine. You miss that warmth, that feathery caress, until it aches. “It’s okay, though. Always knew cats were playful things.”

Is there a dark corner somewhere near you two? Is there a dark hallway to drag him into? Just enough shadow to cover all the sins you’re desperate to commit, just enough light to see that blush rise across his cheeks again.

“I’m not playing,” you whisper, eyes drifting down to his hand cradling a glass. Something deep and russet, just like his eyes. Likely whiskey. You wonder if you’d be able to taste it all over his tongue before you had him putting it to work where you need him most right now. “Whenever you get that through your big head, come find me.”

“Big head?” he throws his head back in a laugh, and the tension mists away in seconds. “Who says I have a big head?”

“I do, as the one wearing your hat,” you readjust it for emphasis.

You thought the tension had misted away until he’s smirking, tsking a little, “Oh, thought you meant the other one.”

It’s a replay of the scene in Steve’s apartment, but this time, the roles are reversed. You’re the one left in shock, mouth agape, as Eddie spins around and walks away, leaving you to sit with what he’s just said.

“Bastard,” you breathe out as you watch him disappear in the crowd, eyes locked on his broad shoulders until one too many bodies separate the two of you.

A bastard you want awfully, terribly, bad.

—

You wish you could say you threw back drink, after drink, after drink. You wish you could say you danced with a hundred different beautiful strangers, and each one strayed your mind farther from Eddie.

You wish you could say you did anything but what the reality of your night had been.

A few men had approached you, only to be turned down repeatedly. Most of your night was spent all but moping at the bar, eyes diligently scanning the bouncing crowd for a certain curly haired figure that seemed to escape you. One moment, you’d catch him pressed against a flirty stranger, hands holding onto whatever bare skin was available to him. And then, his eyes would find yours, and there would be a spark; a wink, a smile, a whisper across a bustling room daring you to come out and play with him.

You never did. You’d look away, take a sip of your plain coke, and wait a few seconds until it was safe to look back and find him seemingly vanished.

That in itself had started to become a game. Just like the hat, weighing heavy on your head.

You’re starting to accept that maybe you had just been a bit too brave. You’d jumped the gun, flown feet first into cold and ragged waters you weren’t prepared to navigate. You knew you wanted a change with Eddie, but were you ready? If you had been, you would have accepted one of his various invites. Would have strode across the room, shoved away whatever man or woman he was dancing with, and slotted yourself into their place. You would have been swaying your hips in rhythm with his rather than allowing him to cycle through strangers, and you’d be reminding him that you wore his hat.

You’d be the one bringing up the hat rule to him consistently, not him to you.

When the night begins to wane, you’ve already talked yourself out of it all.

“I’m heading out,” you announce to Robin when she finally returns back to where you’ve sat at the bar to babysit their drinks, hopping down from the stool before she could argue, “I’m getting way too tired.”

“What?” your friend gasps, face pink from the heat of being in the crowd, a shimmering sheen of sweat across her forehead, “No! Stay! We can take turns watching the drinks, or just-”

“Robs,” you smile as sweetly as possible, patting yourself down to make sure you have all your belongings. A whistle sounds from a group down the way at the bar, and you ignore them, “It’s seriously okay. You’re having fun! I’m just a senior citizen who needs some sleep. My bedtime was like…. An hour ago.”

You highly doubt you’ll be getting any rest when you return to your apartment. Maybe some confidence can be built out of fantasies, letting your hands wander and sheets catch fire with all that could have been if you hadn’t talked yourself out of your perfect plan.

Maybe, imagining Eddie’s hot hands on you rather than getting to properly feel them will light a damn fire under your ass for the next opportunity that arises.

“I…” she sighs, glancing over her shoulder in the general direction of Nancy, “Okay, fine. But do we want to do brunch or something tomorrow?”

Not a chance, you think rather quickly, eyes scanning once more for the metal-head-turned-cowboy. Not if Eddie’s going to be there.

“Sure,” you lie, already knowing he will be there, “Just text me.”

With that, you make your grand escape.

Borrowed hat on head, phone in hand, you push your way out of the club with a newfound determination. You want to get home and take off this uncomfortable dress, finally do away with the thigh highs that have been rolling down at the most inconvenient of times, driving you insane the entire night. Trade the sexy attire for something comfy – stay true to the cat essence as you curl up beneath your blankets for the night. Hang that damn cowboy hat on your door as a cursed reminder-

“Where do you think you’re going, Kitty?”

You stop a few feet short of the curb, a cab ordered as you turn to find that bastard leaning against the wall. Cigarette smoke is still clinging to the air around him as he looks at you curiously.

“Home,” you shrug, trying to ignore your pounding heart. You’d figured you wouldn’t see him again tonight, that your fate had been sealed. “What are you doing out here?”

“Smoke break,” he lifts his hand with the cigarette pinched between two fingers casually, pushing off the wall to come closer, “It’s hard work, keeping you entertained all night.”

You scoff, falling back into what’s almost a normal rhythm for you two, “You were not the one keeping me entertained all night.”

“I hardly saw you dance with anyone at all.”

“I did!” you try to defend yourself, deciding this could be fine. Some casual conversation as you wait for your ride, a way to pass the time. This is fine. “Robin dragged me out into the crowd at least twice.”

“I watched you swat a guy’s hands away not once, but three times.”

“Unsolicited touching isn’t a compliment. He should have taken the hint the first time.”

Eddie nods in eager agreement, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Damn right. If he had gone in for a fourth try, I was considering dragging him out here for an early smoke break.”

“Why do I highly doubt it would just be a smoke break?” you question, glancing at him with a smile. Scandalous plans aside for the night, embarrassment swallowed down whole, it’s nice to remember that Eddie is a friend. Albeit a bit flirty, and capable of driving you fucking insane, but he’s a friend.

And maybe that isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“Oh, no, yeah. You’d be posting my bail.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’ve got my hat, ” he reaches out and flicks the brim with his free hand, and you freeze up a little. You had hoped he wouldn’t mention it again, “Kind of makes me your problem until the end of the night. Speaking of….”

You already know what he’s about to request as he trails off. This is it. You either give up the bit, hand the hat back over, and go home for the night – or you make one final attempt to get what you had wanted.

Eddie. You wanted Eddie, as more than a friend.

“I’m gonna need that back, sweetheart.”

At least he’s asking politely, you consider, before it hits you why he’s asking rather than taking.

The looks across the room. The way he’d been unbothered by the girl he’d been flirting with running off at your appearance. The way he never just took back that fucking hat when he’d been provided ample opportunity.

He thinks it’s a game for you, and keeps bringing it up, because it isn’t for him. He’s giving you one last chance to back out, or to stand your ground. To say you really want this.

And fuck, you really want this.

“Nope,” you lean into his space, pressing closer, fully committed. Your phone dings with the notification of your ride approaching, and you fully ignore it. “My hat now, cowboy.”

He quirks an eyebrow, and you hear the crunch of gravel behind you. Your ride. “Is that so?”

“Yep.”

Another ding, another buzz of your phone.

Go ahead. Bring up the hat rule.

“That your ride?” he asks, tilting his chin in the direction of the car.

You glance over your shoulder, “Pretty sure it is, yeah.”

“And you remember the hat rule?”

Your stomach twists with excitement. Your previous pity party is long forgotten – you’re still hoping to get out of this dress, but you highly doubt you’ll be slipping anything on after it. “I do.”

“Great,” those hot hands you’d been fantasizing about the entire night suddenly reach out to you, gripping your hips tightly as he tugs you into his body. You collide with his chest as he leans down and whispers in your ear, “In that case, that’s my pussy now.”

His lips linger against the shell of your ear an extra second, warm breath sending chills up your spine before he’s keeping an arm around your shoulders as he guides you to the car. His cologne and the scent of tobacco is suffocating, and you crave to drown in it. You want him to consume you; you want him to take over every breath you breathe, every move you make, to finally get those hot hands and lips everywhere you’ve only dreamt of.

You barely hear him confirm with the driver that it is in fact your ride – you can only focus on that hand on your lower back, palm heavy on you as his thumb traces arcs that nearly spend you spiraling.

“After you, kitty,” he murmurs, motioning for you to slide into the backseat first.

In that case, that’s my pussy now.

You hope he ruins you.

In the backseat of the ride, it’s all polite distance and hands to yourself. You can’t even make eye contact with the driver, terrified he might be able to mindread and see all the filthy thoughts racing through your head.

Eddie between your thighs, mouthing at your hips.

Eddie hovering over you, pulling your knees to your chest as he stretches you out.

Eddie, proving that your pussy is in fact his for the night. That it was made for him, sculpted out to fit the curvature and every single vein of him.

Eddie simply fucking your brains out.

Some polite conversation is exchanged, mostly between Eddie and the driver. The classic questioning of how the night has gone, small talk that buzzes in your ears mindlessly.

The entire time, you can see Eddie’s hand in the space between you two, fingers tapping away at dark leather incessantly. His rings shimmer like a siren calling to you.

It’s a small movement, when your own hand drops near his. You keep your eyes trained forward once you begin your mission, inching your pinky closer and closer until it finally collides with his. You swear, you feel him fully jump out of his seat.

Slowly warming the water, you start off simple – playing with his fingers. Gentle caresses over his knuckles, little pricks to the pads of his fingers. He tries to capture your hand in his, but you have bigger plans at play here.

You’ve spent the entire fucking night waiting for this. You’re going to have fun with it.

He huffs after you deter his second attempt at properly holding hands, his knees falling apart a little further. You twist at the ring on his middle finger, a clunky skull you’ve always admired. It has minimal signs of wear, probably pure silver if you had to guess, and you can only imagine how cold it’s going to feel against your skin.

You can only imagine the imprints it’ll leave if he grabs your hips just right.

“You know,” the driver hums mindlessly over the low volume of the radio, “You guys are my first ride of the night, surprisingly. Thought it might be busier with all the parties and clubs, but I think it’s just barely picking up now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks politely, nodding as he looks out his window. Perfect, “I think you’re right. It is getting pretty late-”

He’s entirely distracted, your hand out of his line of sight as it moves in on its target.

His thigh.

Just a few inches above his knee, your hand grips at what is clearly sensitive flesh. You watch his entire body turn to stone when you do it, and he moves his head quickly to look in your direction.

You’re looking straight ahead.

There had been a time, a few weeks ago, where you’d learned Eddie had… sensitive knees. You’d been joking around about one thing or another, and when your palms had gripped at them through the torn fabric of ripped jeans, he’d nearly launched himself across the room. He just kept insisting they were ticklish, that that skin was just delicate.

You’d seen the tent in his jeans then. You’d just been a bit more polite, a bit better behaved that day.

“What are you doing?” he hisses in a whisper, reaching for your hand, but you’re quick to slide it even higher.

His hips jump a little, and the driver is none the wiser.

“Nothing,” you innocently say, still looking ahead, watching the passing streetlights with intense interest. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

The entire ride, at every red light, your hand inches higher.

And every time, you relish the way he squirms in your peripherals.

By the time you’re five minutes out from your place, you’ve riled him up to impossible heights. Every little noise has him on edge, constant twitching and shifting in his seat as he tries to get you to just look at him. You know he’s catching every sly smile that attempts to creep up on your lips – you’re pathetically failing at every turn to cover them up.

You think you have him like putty in your palms as you give yet another squeeze to his thigh, fingers starting to dance up even higher. When your eyes flicker to his crotch for just a second, you see him straining against that tight leather.

And then he flips the script.

You’re so focused on your own goals, you never see that ringed hand creep to your own thigh. It’s not until cool metal nips at you, briefly, before you feel the warmth of his hand overtake, that you realize the predicament you’ve gotten into.

Just as your hand was beginning to skim over his crotch, Eddie’s hand found solace between the meat of your thighs. Even as you try to clench them together, deny him the access he was seeking out, he finds his way in. Scandalous fingers dipping under the hem of your dress, fighting fire with fire when he lets his middle finger brush across the fabric of your underwear.

Your touch from him nearly retracts entirely.

“What?” he leans in closer to you, the driver still focused on the road, “Don’t like a taste of your own medicine?”

As he says it, his fingers dip lower. Hovering right over your protected clit, making your entire abdomen clench.

You swallow hard, a bit of your jagged pride somewhere amongst the spit as you turn your head to look at him, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Still playing games I see.”

In sync, the two of you lock eyes as you continue to test waters. You apply pressure with your palm and note the way his breathing hitches, and he draws a feather-light circle around the wet patch forming in your underwear. You can feel your bottom lip quiver as you try to refuse to give him any satisfaction, but when he’s this close, it’s a hopeless battle.

When had he gotten so near you? What happened to all that static distance from when you’d first crawled into the backseat?

You’re trying to only focus on your own hand. Eyes darting to guarantee the driver is still oblivious as you roll the heel of your hand harder against the seam of his pants, and biting your lip to hold back a successful grin when he has to cover a gasp with a cough. It’s all fun and games until the action is rewarded with his payback; his knuckle curling up against your cunt through your panties, pressing in hard before slowly sliding his way up, up, up.

He deliberately stops when he catches on your clit, and you’re the one coughing now.

“Had enough?” he mutters under his breath, looking at you with half-lidded eyes. He looks good in this lighting, flashes of the streetlights bathing him in soft yellow, headlights of other cars fluttering in through the windshield as they hit his brown eyes just right to bronze them.

“Never.”

You almost think you’ve won when his knuckle pulls back.

But suddenly, his entire hand is cupping your cunt, two fingers pressing against your fluttering hole as another drags up your slit slowly once more. This time, when he reaches your clit, he continues moving in small circles.

You have to bite your lip to hold back any noises, eyes closing for just a second as you hear him huff out a laugh.

The final damnation is when he brings his lips to your bare shoulder, merely grazing your skin with them as he mumbles, “You sure about that, Kitty?”

You clench around nothing, and you know when he feels it from where his fingers remain pressed against you. His own hand twitches as the finger circling your clit stutters for a moment.

“I-”

“We’re here!” the driver says, not having looked into the backseat yet as he finds a safe place to pull the car into. In an instant, you and Eddie remove your hands from each other. You’re both visibly flustered – you can feel how warm your cheeks have gotten, and you can see clouds of pink splattering over Eddie’s chest and neck.

“Thanks,” Eddie is the one to speak up as the car comes to a halt, not even waiting for the driver to put the vehicle in park as he throws the door open.

A bit rushed, but still polite as ever before he’s grabbing you by your bicep to pull you out of the cramped space right along with him.

You can hardly muster a weak wave to the man as Eddie is dragging you towards your apartment building, knees still a bit weak and mind still blank after getting a taste of your own medicine, as Eddie had put it.

He doesn’t let go of you until you’re at your front door, those cursed shaking hands of yours fumbling with your key ring.

“Here, let me-” he starts to offer, reaching for the keys that continue to clank together, just as you find the one you’re looking for.

“I’ve got it-” you try to cut him off, just as you drop the fucking keys in your haste. “Shit.”

You quickly drop to the ground to grab them, pausing once you have the metal digging into your palms once more. There’s no real reason for you to do it, but you do – you take a second to look up at Eddie from this position, and nearly drool at the sight of it.

Him, standing over you, still a bit flushed and still visibly uncomfortable in his pants. Pretty curls a mess and lips darkening from how much he’s been biting them.

You want him to ruin you. You want him to absolutely, entirely and utterly destroy you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs, chest heaving a bit as he watches you carefully, pupils slowly growing in the dim light of your building’s hallway.

You can see his bare torso clenching, the twitch of his hands at his sides – the same fingers that had just been caressing you over your underwear in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

“Like what?” you’re dragging out the moment, taking time to appreciate the sight of him.

“Like you want me to just press you up against the wall and fuck you out here, for everyone to see.”

That’s a new one. That’s a vision that hadn’t come to you in all your dirtiest dreams of the night.

It sends your clit throbbing.

You rise slowly, pushing the hat back a bit to see him better, keeping your voice quiet so your neighbors won’t hear as you ask, “Would you? If I asked nicely?”

He doesn’t let out a laugh, but a breath of air, like you’ve just sucked all of the oxygen out of his lungs.

No need to say it – you know he would. You probably wouldn’t even have to ask nicely.

You’re staring at him when he finally moves, one hand snatching your keys out of your hand and the other gripping you around the waist. Back to pulling you, man-handling you to get you right where he wants you – where he needs you.

One second, you’re pressed against his body in the hallway. The next, he’s managed to unlock your front door and throw you both into the safety of your apartment.

Hidden from the world, and you’re still reeling as you wonder what it’d be like for the entire building to witness you calling out his name. Or him calling out your name.

Here within these four walls, Eddie has put some space between the two of you, staring with blown out eyes and a shaking chest as he breathes out, “Sweetheart.”

A few seconds pass, the two of you just standing there, the click of the front door’s lock being the only thing echoing in the silence. If you focused over the roar of the blood pounding in your ears, you might catch every single gasp of his as he stares in awe – but your focus is elsewhere. Far away and out of grasp for the time being. You can only think of one thing, and one thing only.

Your body isn’t your own as you move to get exactly what you want; you drop to your knees hard enough that you should cringe at the thought of the pain that will linger, possibly for days, but it doesn’t even cross your mind as your hands begin to fumble with Eddie’s pants. The oversized, gaudy belt buckle is in your way, glinting at you as if mocking the way your shaking hands can’t undo it fast enough. You’re about to give up and just start unzipping the leather pants, desperate to get your hands, and your mouth, and your eyes on him properly, when he stops you.

“Hey,” he sounds breathless - he is breathless - as his own hands quiver a bit and grab onto yours, “Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.”

Those hands let go of your wrists and reach for the hat, and you’re quick to try and swat them away only for him to grab at you, surprisingly gentle, as he drags you back up to your feet.

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy – right?” you insist, chin held high, your gaze refusing to waver from his.

His slow and buttery grin makes you lightheaded, his low chuckle sends shakes through every nerve and bone. “That’s right, but maybe the cowboy wants to take his time. Ever think of that, hm?”

Were you moving too fast? Were you going to scare him off?

Small, baby steps are taken by Eddie, the click of his heels shattering against your wooden floors until his hips are flush with yours.

And - oh.

Oh.

That surely didn’t feel like you were scaring him off.

You could feel the outline of his cock, hard against your hip, as he gives a little roll. He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, nostrils flaring with a hard breath, and the fear leaves as quickly as it had arrived.

He wants this. You want him.

“I’m not a very patient person,” you murmur, eyes glued to his lips now as his head leans in closer, and his hands begin to explore your body. Taking their time as they travel down your arms from where he’d held onto your biceps, slowing as they reach your wrists. Even the press of his thumb against the sensitive inner skin there sends jolts up your spine, little gasps attempting to escape your mouth.

His fingers tangle loosely with your own for a few moments before his palms find your hips, and he continues his journey.

“That’s okay,” he whispers back, close enough now that his lips have begun to brush against your own. His nose bumps yours as his hands skate up over your ribcage, thumb sweeping out over the hill of your breast and intentionally avoiding your nipple, “I can teach you, baby.”

Your mouth finally collides with him at the words, nearly going limp in his arms at the words.

You’ve thought about kissing Eddie for a while now. Every time a snarky remark fell from his lips, you’d wonder how his tongue might taste afterwards. Every time he’d pout his lips at one of your comebacks, or blow a kiss teasingly in your direction from across a room, you’d wonder how hard you might have to bite down to make him bleed. Every drag of a cigarette you’d witnessed, every hard gasp in faux offense, every breathless chuckle at a joke he didn’t want to find funny but did – you had spent a lot of time wondering what it might be like to steal all the air from his lungs, to kiss him until the two of you were both blue in the face.

“Can’t the lesson wait until tomorrow?” you mumble against him as his mouth, your own fists now gripping onto the lapels of his vest. His hands have reached your shoulders, memorizing the outlines of the curve of your neck where it meets your collarbones, the slope of your chest as you take hot and heavy breaths.

“Nope,” he insists, pulling back from the kiss, a little bit of spit on his pink lips, “But it’s nice to know you’re thinking about tomorrow.”

A hand finally finds your chin and pinches it carefully between his thumb and fingers, a careful grip on you to angle you just right so he can all but devour you. Lips, tongues, teeth – it’s a messy ordeal, and you almost make a smart-ass remark that this kiss doesn’t feel very patient.

But you can’t. Eddie’s taken away all your breaths, all your words, as he starts to guide you backwards.

Your knees hit the cushions of your sofa, making you jump back from him with a gasp, palms going flat against his chest.

He feels good. Tender skin soft to the touch beneath your hand, tattoos tempting to trace the outline of. Later.

“Figured you might want a more comfortable ride,” he laughs against you, breath smelling ever so faintly of mint and whiskey washing over you, before he dips to mouth away at your neck.

You drop back onto the sofa, bite your tongue on a comment about how this cheap piece of furniture most definitely wasn’t the most comfortable option, simply eager at the fact he was letting this move along.

You want him, you need him, and you have no time for patience.

His exploration of touches have lit you aflame, and you’re growing a bit desperate at this point. It might be pathetic, it should be embarrassing, but you really don’t care.

“By all means,” you break out of his hold entirely, catching the way his hand holding your chin lingers a few extra seconds, reluctant to let you go, “Take your seat, Cowboy.”

He joins you on the couch, eyes never leaving yours even as he throws himself down. Knees spread wide, inviting lap on show, cock still straining against his pants.

The best seat in the house, as far as you’re concerned.

“You just gonna keep starin’,” he mocks lightly, looking you over slowly. Taking his time, you suppose, “Or you gonna get over here?”

His words are all you need. You’re quick to climb onto his lap, swinging your legs so that each thigh brackets his hips, your cunt pressing down on crotch carelessly. You love the way it feels – the outline of him hard against you, the cooling effect of the leather, the sharp edges of the zipper catching just right.

“There,” he huffs out, grabbing onto you when you give the slightest roll of your hips, “Now we’re both in our seats.”

When you go to press down harder, guiding yourself over his lap, hands steadying you by gripping his shoulders, he surprises you by his hips jumping up to meet your slow rhythm.

“What happened to being patient?” you try to tease him right back as your forehead meets his, hat comically struggling to stay on between the two of you, “Thought you were gonna take your time with me-”

“Between you and me, I’m not gonna last,” he pants out, hands finding your hips. Those rings you’d been fantasizing of leaving an imprint on you are doing just that as he guides you, “Been dreaming of you too long, sweetheart. Wanted this for so long.”

Your heart nearly stops. Your hips stutter, pausing as his words rush over you.

“What?”

Your head lifts away from his completely, grip on his shoulders tightening.

He’s wanted this, too? This entire time?

Eddie takes your pause as a bad thing, a terrible omen as his face pales, “I mean- I just-”

“Munson,” you say lowly, narrowing your eyes at him, “You’re telling me, this entire time, you’ve been flirting with me?”

Had that tone he used with the girl at the bar been flirting as you’d thought, or simple for show? You’d so cluelessly assumed he’d never used that tone with you because he’d never genuinely flirted with you – and yet, it seems, he’d never used that tone because he’d been genuinely flirting with you.

“I-” his cheeks are brilliant red, and the wide eyes are from something different than lust now, “Maybe?”

“Maybe?” you almost laugh, throwing your head back. The hat falls off, but Eddie is quick to retrieve it, “My God, we’re fucking idiots.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who stole my hat-”

“I like you, dumb ass,” you state plainly, “I wanted this for a while, too.”

He pauses, one arm outstretched as his hand grips onto the hat, “What?”

“Been thinking about this, too,” your voice drops a little, almost a whisper, even though you two are the only ones in the room. For all you know, you two might be the only two people left in the world with the way he’s looking at you, “Thinking about you and your lips. Thinking ‘bout your hands and the places they’d go,” as you point out every detail, his body seemingly reacts. A lick of his lips, a squeeze of his hand still on your hip, “Thought about your fingers and tongue a lot, too. How good they’d feel inside me.”

His hips thrust up at that, and suddenly, he’s placing his hat back atop your head.

That, it seems, was all the encouragement Eddie needed.

He deals with that belt buckle that had given you hell, bouncing you a bit on his lap as he fumbles with yanking the entire belt off and tossing it to the side. One hand busies with undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, as the other starts to bunch your dress.

“Nice and slow,” he insists, looking up at you, absolutely vibrant. Somewhere between the tightness between your hips, all the throbbing between your thighs and in your chest, you feel a sort of bubbly delight creeping up along your spine. “Got it, kitty?”

You nod once. Twice. On the third nod, he cuts you off with a kiss.

Your dress is up to your waist, and you don’t know how, but he manages to shimmy off his pants without throwing you off his lap entirely. It’s impressive, really. Probably a symptom of him having thought about this, dreamt about this. He’d probably thought up every scenario possible, and was prepared.

“Oh, and these?” his fingers find the waistband of your panties, tsking a little as he pulls at the elastic and lets it slap back against your skin, “Those definitely have to come off.”

“Whatever you say, cowboy.”

You take your time sliding off his lap, making sure to grind against him before you properly lift away. He throws his head back in a groan, Adam’s apple bobbing as you stand up straight. You take that moment to just admire him, capturing the clench of his jaw to memory, the way his eyes screw shut in pleasure at your influence.

He’s fucking perfect. You’re sure there’s others who disagree, but you’d pay them no mind. He’s perfect, and he’s all yours.

You make a show of taking off your panties only once he’s properly looking at you once more, craving his eyes on you as you keep all your movements fluid and steady. No rush, exuding all that patience he’d prattled on about.

You want to see his face when you gently toss the black lacey piece in his direction, watch him fumble with his own desperation to catch them.

“Seems a bit unfair that I’m the only one undressing,” you hum as you go a step further and begin to shimmy out of the dress.

“Yeah, well,” he grins cheekily at you, fisting your panties, a hand trailing down to the waistband of his boxers as he eyes you, “One of us was showing a bit more skin than the other.”

“Take off the vest, Eddie.”

Your command is velvet, and he’s quick to obey. His hand stubbornly refuses to let go of your panties as he rushes to shrug out of the thin fabric over his shoulders, tossing the vest to join his pants and your dress on the floor.

“And the boxers.”

You stand there, in nothing but his cowboy hat, as you wait pretty and patient for him to listen. And listen he does.

The moment his boxers are discarded, his cock is standing at attention, leaking from the tip and deep shade of pink that matches his kiss-bitten lips. You think it might be the prettiest color you’ve ever laid eyes on as you watch a drop of precum slip down his shaft.

He’s pretty, even in the fucking pants.

Girthy, thick enough you almost arch your back before you’ve even sunk down on him. All veins and soft skin, a sensitive tip that you’d trace your tongue over for hours if he let you.

“Gonna just stand there, or are you going to ride your cowboy?”

He surely meant to sound more cocky, but the words come out as more of a whine as you watch him twitch under your stare.

He’s right though, and you’d rather get him inside you than spend another second gawking. There will be time to pay more attention to him and his pretty cock tomorrow. Right now, you need to finish this god-forsaken mission.

Your thighs find his hips just as his hands find yours, choosing to grip the couch rather than his shoulders as you steady yourself.

Nice and slow, his words echo in your mind.

You could have prepared yourself more, but you’d already made it clear to Eddie that you are not a patient person. The fact that you even take your time as you sink down on him, going as far as to grab him by his base and guide his tip to smear precum across your clit, is impressive.

The stretch is a bit painful. A bit much. A bit dizzying. But you refuse to stop as your jaw drops, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy.

“Fuck,” you breathe out softly as you feel him fill you, “Fuck, Eddie.”

“Feel good, baby?” he questions, reaching up to grab your chin just as he had before. Forcing you closer to him, forcing you to look him in the eyes just as he bottoms out.

You don’t answer him as you both moan out.

You stay there for a second, unmoving as you swim in the feeling. Feeling him press into the depths of you, the overwhelming warmth and the coil in your abdomen tightening ever so slightly.

It’s better than you had imagined it. No daydreams could compare to the feeling of Eddie’s cock finally, finally filling you. Stretching you out, making you his.

“Go ahead,” he grits out, entire body tense, clearly holding out on you, “Ride your cowboy, kitty. Don’t make me ask twice.”

Nice. And. Slow.

Three little words that ricochet through your mind as you start to slowly bounce on him. Lifting ever so slightly, dropping back down, aching to feel him even deeper inside of you. Feeling the quiver of his thighs to match yours as you repeat the action, gasps and whimpers falling from both your lips. You’re about to try and kiss him, try and swallow all those delicate noises from him, when he stops you.

“No, no, no,” he’s chuckling, giving your hips a few squeezes before his palms rub down your thighs, the friction sending you on edge, “C’mon, now. We both know that’s not how you ride.”

His hands rake over your skin, down to your knees, lighting scratching and squeezing along their entire pathway until they make their way back up to your waist and hips.

“Do it like this, sweetheart.”

He guides you, no longer allowing you to lift up. You sink all the way down on his cock, whining out at the fullness, before he starts the pattern.

Back and forth. Gentle circles amidst the rocking. Your clit grazes his pubes, and the coil in between your hips has never tightened more quickly.

The motion feels familiar - like riding a bull.

This feels right. You still press down, still clench down on him hard enough to make you both slip out obscenities, but it’s getting you there.

At some point, Eddie’s grip on your hips slips, but it’s fine – you’ve got the rhythm down perfectly. Slow, intermittent figure eights between the rolls of your hips, his occasionally slamming upward to reward you with that deepness you need. You can feel him in your stomach, in your chest, in your throat.

You get a bit daring, and take one hand to his shoulders, as the other reaches up for the top of the hat on your head.

Just like a cowboy.

“Like this?” you pant out between harsher rolls, eliciting curses that continue to grow louder from Eddie.

“Fuck, baby, yes,” he groans out, head thrown back, mouth open in gratification, “Just like that. Keep- keep going just,” he thrusts up, “Like,” another thrust, “That.”

You nearly lose balance, falling forward a bit, too stubborn to let go of the hat. There’s a grin glimmering at the corners of your mouth, and it fully blooms when Eddie throws up a hand to catch you .

A hand on your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t cut off blood flow or breathing. He keeps that warm palm there at the base of your neck, cradling you, holding you. A reminder that he could squeeze if he wanted, that he held you in the palm of his hands currently, but he won’t.

“You like that?” his eyes shine as he looks up at you, the sight of his rings decorating your neck.

You nod.

“Tell me with your words,” he commands.

“I like it,” you whimper, looking up further, stretching more of your neck to be vulnerable to Eddie. “I like it so much, baby.”

When the pet name falls from your lips, you can feel him twitch inside of you. The sudden jut of his hips, the sharp intake of breath.

“You like that,” you laugh breathlessly, your hand atop the hat the only thing keeping it from falling as you lean your head fully back, eyes beginning to roll back into your head. “Wanna be my baby, Munson?”

“Always have,” he grunts, the hand on your throat slipping up to cup your face to drag you towards him, “Since the fucking moment I met you, sweetheart.”

When he kisses you, it tastes like the closest to Heaven you might ever get. Soft, plump lips, and an eager tongue. All the wasted time hiding behind jokes and teasing, playing pretend like the flirting was never serious.

It was serious. And if you’d just come clean sooner, you would have had this long ago.

Your hips are still rolling as your hands begin to roam. You’ve found your balance again, lips pressed to Eddie, and it’s your turn to explore all he has to give you. Your nails graze his stomach when your clit catches once more on that rough thatch of hair against the base of his cock. Your fingers dig into flesh wherever they can find it – his chest, his arms, his hips. At some point, you throw a hand out behind you, grasping for his knee. Learning every curve and every point of his body as he had done for you.

You wanna memorize the roadmap of him. Take a snapshot in your mind so that next time, none of it is unfamiliar territory.

Your touch is driving him insane; it doesn’t take a genius to pick up on the way his hips falter to meet your movements, or how he keeps breaking the kiss to gasp, letting his jaw fall slack when he hits a particular deep spot within you.

It’s when your lips finally trail down the stubble sprouting across his jawline, mouth sucking on the soft skin below his ear, that he’s finally a goner.

“‘M close,” he gasps out, almost sounding drunk as he slurs through his pants, “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Cum for me, Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way you had been touching him, or the way your cunt had been fluttering around him, or the persistent rolling of your hips that had become so focused on his pleasure. Maybe it was the sight of you in his hat, looking at him like that. Maybe it was the way his name sounded on your tongue.

Either way, when Eddie Munson comes undone, he’s beautiful.

Your own movements slow involuntarily as you gaze starry eyed, watching the way his face scrunches and feeling his grip on you tighten impossibly. Leaving their mark, making you his in yet another way. Warmth fills your cunt and every curse word under the summer sun is falling from his lips.

Your name, curses, prayers, gratitude – a jumbled mess, and it sounds fucking fantastic when it’s said in Eddie’s desperate tone.

“Shit,” he gasps out, finally coming back down to Earth, “Shit.”

You sit still on his lap, skin sticky with sweat, lips spread thin in a cheeky grin, “Sounds like I get to keep your hat, cowboy.”

His eyes shoot open, and for a second, you’re terrified.

Those aren’t the eyes of someone satisfied.

“You didn’t cum.”

“What?”

“You,” he says, stressing the word as he shifts you off his lap. You don’t miss the way he winces, clearly a bit sensitive, “Did not cum.”

You hadn’t really noticed, too wrapped up in him to notice your high slipping away from you. You’d been too focused on Eddie: on feeling him cum inside you, on watching him break apart, on tracing the outline of the blood rushing to his cheeks with your eyes and that fresh burst of violet on his neck in the shape of your lips.

“It’s fine,” you start to argue, feeling the warmth of him leaking down your thighs. You should be a lot more worried about making a mess all over your sofa. You should be, but you aren’t. “I can-”

“You’re not keeping that fucking hat until you cum for me, sweetheart.”

And, oh, maybe your own orgasm wasn’t racing as far away from you as you’d believed, because those words nearly push you over the edge for him.

“Get on all fours for me, baby.”

Yeah. You definitely could still be close. For him.

When you don’t move to follow his command immediately, he’s using those gentle hands to guide you. Encouraging a twist of your hips from how you’re reclining back across the couch, letting you press your cheek down against the cushion.

You open your mouth to argue, to insist it was fine, to say anything, but you’re cut silent when a sudden slap lands on your ass.

A silent command this time, and you’re finally listening.

You lift your ass up for him on shaky knees, elbows digging into the cushion now instead of your face. The hat on your head is lopsided, and you almost reach up to fix it when-

“I’ll be taking that,” For the first time since you’d stolen his hat, Eddie takes it back. Right off your head, too fast for you to protest. When you dig your chin into your shoulder to look back at him, he’s smiling, hat back in its rightful place atop his curls, “You can have it back after you cum for me, at least once.”

“At least once?” you mean to laugh, to sound cocky, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

He shrugs, leaning forward, his bare chest pressing against the skin of your bare ass – right where an imprint of his hand still sings, “At least. By all means, if you feel the need, don’t hesitate to give me a few. God knows you’ve earned it.”

You don’t have time to banter back; he retracts before bring his mouth down to your cunt, and your elbows quickly give out at the first long stride of his tongue.

“Gotta get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, a bit muffled, against your cunt.

Another stride, and this time, his tongue spends an extra second at your clit, circling it salaciously.

“Oh, God,” you moan out into a mouthful of couch cushion, tempted to bite down to hide all the noises creeping up your throat when his tongue draws yet another circle, tip of his nose pressed to your sensitive hole.

He brings his tongue back to that space, that hole that feels gaping without him filling you now, and you try to bury your cheek only to earn another slap on the ass.

“Don’t be shy now, kitty. Let me hear you.”

And let him hear you, you do.

Each lick, short and timid or long and confident, is dredging up obscene mewls from you. When he enters you with it, curling it and pressing as deep as he can, truly cleaning you up as he had said, you’re chanting his name.

“Fuck, Eddie,” you cry softly, rocking your body back against his mouth, “Your fingers. P-Please, use your fingers.”

Your wish is his command as he brings his hand up between your legs, breaking from having his tongue buried inside of you and using a calloused pad of his finger to trace over your clit before he begs, “Say my name again.”

You do. Over, and over, and over as his mouth and his fingers begin to work against you. Careful focus is placed on your clit, and his mouth runs amok between your cunt and thighs. You feel what will no doubt be hickies along the curve of your ass, nips of teeth against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he presses two fingers into you. With every thrust of his hand, your hips are rocking back to match his rhythm, wanting more.

More, more, more.

There’s nothing nice and slow about this. You’re chasing after a high, and Eddie is listening to you every step of the way.

Your thighs begin to shake terribly right around the time your vision blurs, unable to contain the whines that have grown to echoing volumes. Surely, your neighbors can hear. Probably confused as to who Eddie is, probably considering how embarrassing it would be to knock down your door and complain about the noises.

You really, really don’t give a fuck when white speckles flood your vision, even with your eyes screwed shut, and that tension between your hips threatens to snap.

Right before your knees give out, your entire body trembling, Eddie pulls back and grabs your hips. You cry out, so close yet so far, until he’s flipping you back over.

You get one glimpse of him before he goes to work to bring you over that edge – lips and chin slick with you, hair frizzing beneath his hat, a determined glint in his eyes that have your thighs clenching around his ears.

You were right. Eddie Munson looks damn good between your thighs.

He quickly returns to his mitigations, and this time, it’s all a bit more strategic. Lips suctioned around your clit and three fingers curling deep within you, a beckoning motion as he urges you to let go for him.

The white returns behind your eyelids. Your back arches up off the sofa. Your ankles lock as they cross behind Eddie’s back, almost effectively trapping him in place.

You cum hard for him.

You’re entirely unaware if you scream his name in the process, but you hope you do. As that relief, that ecstasy, floods your system, you hope you make sure everyone within a five mile radius knows who’s responsible. Your entire body continues to shake for far longer than you believe it ever has before. Your hips had lifted, begging for Eddie to keep going even as it all grew painful.

He does. He keeps going, sucking you dry for every drop you have to give him, until you’re physically having to shove him away.

Your hands are weak as you sink down into the cushion, eyes still closed as you hear him chuckle before you feel him crawl his way back up your body.

“There,” you don’t even need to see his face to see that smug satisfaction – his voice is dripping in it. “Now you can keep the hat.”

One of your hands blindly throws itself through the air to smack him, missing entirely as you drift through the afterglow of it all.

“I’m not sure I’ve earned it,” you mumble as he catches your wrist, limp in the air, “Pretty sure I didn’t break you when I made you cum.”

“Oh, you did,” he notes, hand curling around your wrist. You watch as he slowly brings it to his lips, peppering a few chaste kisses on the soft skin, “Just in a different way.”

You raise your eyebrows, smiling at the tingling feeling left behind on your skin in the wake of his mouth, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He tugs you to sit up despite your groan of protest, somehow smoothly maneuvering the two of you so that he’s now the one beneath you, letting the full weight of you bear down on his chest as you lay on top of him. The hand wrapped around your wrist brings it back up for more kisses, more repetitive gentle pecks of affection, as his other arm is quick to wrap around you. Holding you in place, as though he’s scared you might disappear.

“Well,” you whisper against the bare skin of his chest, nearly shivering when his free hand starts to trail slowly up and down your spine, “Good.”

Your cheek feels the vibrations of his chuckle, “That’s all you have to say?”

“Give me a few minutes to recover,” you insist, all but nuzzling into him, “I’m sure I’ll have a smartass comeback for you once I’m…” you trail off, heavy eyes looking up at him, the words lost on your tongue and in the air.

The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow. The roundness at the end of his nose, still a fading hue of pink. The freckle beneath his right eye. The way the phantom of the dimple of his left cheek never quite leaves his face.

All the things you’ve dreamt of seeing so up close, never knowing it could have been a reality.

He lets go of your wrist, smiling softly with a shake of his head, “Can’t believe you’re gonna fall asleep on me.”

“Am not,” you nearly say under your breath, sighing in content.

“Am too,” he mocks, a certain docility to all his teasing before he sighs as well, “It’s okay. You can. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as you hear some rustling, “Promise, cowboy?”

“Absolutely, kitty. You said something about tomorrow, remember?”

You both laugh in sync as your couch suddenly becomes the most comfortable place in the world.

Just before losing consciousness, right as you feel Eddie’s breathing even out along with your own, you decide to open your eyes one last time to catch sight of the cowboy hat perched carefully on your coffee table.

Tomorrow. You hope for a thousand tomorrows as you decide that that hat is definitely yours now.

#ghost's stories #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #stranger things #emphasis on the smut. this is. just. a lot of smut.

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prythianpages · 3 months ago

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Beautiful Stranger | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | Azriel gets injured while on a mission and meets someone he never thought he would. aka you finding an injured Az and the mating bond snapping.

warnings: mentions injuries and blood; other than that, this is light & fluff

word count: 4,342

a/n: I love Halsey's Finally//Beautiful Stranger & when it came on my shuffle while driving, this fic played out in my mind.

Humming quietly to yourself to keep your thoughts occupied, you allow the glow of the moon and fireflies to guide you back to the village. Dawn Court was your home, but after the fall of Spring, you had volunteered to help its fae, creatures, and land heal from the devastation left by Hybern’s attacks.

Though the damage to Spring was immense, its beauty still endured. The air still held a lingering heaviness but the flowers had begun to bloom once more with promise and hope of a better future. Your task today had been to gather healing herbs, yet when you stumbled upon a field of dandelions in full bloom, you couldn’t resist the urge to stop and admire the scenery. It was why you were returning late at night, long past the sunset you had promised to return by.

As you made your way along the path, the gentle breeze grew colder and sharper. It rustled the leaves on the trees and made the branches creak, its eerie sound halting your steps and silencing your humming. A chill of unease prickled your skin and your muscles tensed in alarm.

Then you saw them.

Shadows, darker than the night itself, swirling around you.

These were not the shadows you were used to seeing at night. No, these shadows felt alive and with purpose.

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore.

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse.

Weak but present.

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped.

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow.

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away.

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before.

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring.

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend.

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him.

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was.

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly.

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover.

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast.

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine.

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add.

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright.

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm.

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath.

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door.

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.”

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes.

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath.

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter.

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there. “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing. “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease.

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x y/n

3K notes · View notes

hencheri · 12 days ago

Text

— dior girl

▸ 18+ mdni.

When Park Sunghoon wants something, he gets it no matter how hard it can be. He's not scared to get his hands dirty. If he had any morals, maybe he'd consider his obsession with you getting out of hands, but he has absolutely no morals.

| pairing. designer!sunghoon x fem!reader

| warnings. dark!sunghoon (he's not a good person lol), implied legal age gap, alcohol consumption & mention of drugs use, mention of gain weight, manipulation, corruption, violent sexual thoughts, unprotected sex, anal play, dacryphilia, aftercare because yes sunghoon's a sadist but he still has a heart.

| wc. 7.5k

| a.n.: repost from an old blog. pls forgive me for how lengthy the smut is (or thank me)!!

His studio is his sanctuary. It's the only place where he can spend hours without even noticing the moon setting or the sun rising. In his studio, it feels like time doesn't exist or that it's just a futile detail that doesn't have much importance.

When he's creating a piece, nothing around him matters. The only things he's willing to give attention to are the placements of the needles on the fabric, the little lines that form the pattern of the clothing, or the way his scissors cut through the satin material of the dress he's working on.

He's thought about this design for so long and he finally got the opportunity to make it. He's thought about the colours of the dress and of the seam, about the length of the hem and the sleeves, how deep the neckline should be and if lace would be suitable.

He doesn't even recall how many sketches he's made of that dress. At some point, it was consuming his entire mind, the only thing he could draw and think of.

Now that he's finally making it, he has the feeling that it's going to be the best piece he's ever created. He already sees everyone talking about it, saying how much of a genius Park Sunghoon is. It's going to be the design of the year—of the century.

He still misses something, though, and it might be the most important part of it all. He needs a model, the perfect body to wear his piece and present it to the fashion world.

It can't be anybody, it must be someone who's confident, who always has their head up and radiates elegance and sports a unique beauty.

Sunghoon still hasn't found this person. He constantly searches for them, but never finds them or when he thinks that he has, he discovers flaws he cannot unseen.

All the Dior models are great, but not enough. They don't spark anything in Sunghoon when he watches them strode down the catwalk. He's checked upon the apprentices and the newer models the company has hired, but he saw no one extraordinary.

Until today.

He hears steps against the wooden floor of his studio, entering the place without knocking.

"Ah, there he is!" A manly voice exclaims and Sunghoon immediately recognizes it as his friend's, Soobin. "I have someone to introduce you."

Sunghoon raises his gaze up from his working table and looks at Soobin who's accompanied by a beautiful, young woman. He's then suddenly interested, contrary to usual where he never really cares about the many girls Soobin brings, claiming each one as the new phenomenon of the fashion industry.

When Sunghoon turns around, he eyes you up and down, barely glimpsing in Soobin's way. It's all it takes, one simple glance and he knows you're the one he needs—the one he wants and has to ruin.

Soobin introduces you both and when your name is pronounced by the man, sounding so charming and delicate, he's certain you're the model he had been waiting for since a long time.

You seem shy, arms locked behind your back, but you stand up straight and have a polite smile drawn on your face.

"I thought maybe you'd like to get to know each other, right?" Soobin raises his eyebrows in Sunghoon's direction. "Everyone's fond of her," he smiles and pats your back, encouraging you to speak up.

"Thanks," you smile back at Soobin before glancing at Sunghoon who still hasn't looked away from you. "I'm a big fan of your work, Mr. Park. You've inspired me to become a model."

The way you say his name has his cock twitching in his pants, filthy thoughts of him spanking your butt as you cry his name invading his mind.

He can sense your vulnerability, your willingness to submit. Who would he be to deny you that? Him, who is so eager to dominate the ones he's attracted to, so eager to break but also repair them.

He knows it when someone's fragile, hiding their weaknesses under fake confidence. He doesn't know you, but he recognizes the pattern almost instantly. What can be broken can also be repaired and you're asking him to break you.

"I'm glad to hear that," Sunghoon says politely, a slight smile tugging on his lips. He's not the type to smile—stretch the corner of his mouth upward to imitate the person in front of him, he finds it shallow. But for you, he'll do it, just so you trust him, so desperate to give yourself to the opposite sex.

"Park, you were wondering who'd be part of the fall show this year," Soobin begins, looking at you like you're the most irradiant ruby in the world. "Well, you have her in front of you."

You chuckle softly at the man's words, nodding your head at him and then looking at Sunghoon as if waiting for some praises.

Sunghoon faintly smiles, seeing your eyes glimmering and he curses himself for not finding you sooner. You'd have been his by now, his to praise, his to kiss and fuck. His to destroy. But he swears, if he happens to break you, he'll gratefully keep you safe close to him.

๑♡՞

"Careful," Sunghoon softly says as he catches you up before you can fall to the floor. You let out a high pitched laugh, as if all of this is a big joke, and push him back with a hand on his chest.

"I'm fine," you answer, shrugging him off with a flip of your hand. You stagger from left to right, leaning against the wall when you almost stumble. You laugh it off again, halting your steps.

Sunghoon looks at you with a cringe expression, eyeing the people behind, sporting worried looks on their faces.

You all went out after the show; models, designers, directors, stylists... everyone. It wasn't your plan to get drunk, Sunghoon knows that because you're not supposed to drink alcohol during your diet. A glass from time to time isn't so bad, but your consumption clearly surpassed just a glass tonight.

It's not really your fault, though. Technically yes, since you're the one who swallowed all of the wine, but you had a little help.

A little help from Sunghoon himself.

When you weren't looking, he poured more alcohol in your glass and to his satisfaction you noticed nothing and gulped everything down. Sure, you got a bit suspicious, wondering how you had only drank so little when you remembered swallowing more than that.

But Sunghoon assured you it was only your first glass, so you drank, and drank, and drank...

Until you were more than tipsy.

You've received nasty looks from your colleagues, especially the other models who weren't drinking a single drop of wine, and yet, still weren't awarded with the status of the 'face of Dior'. How ironic that the drunkest girl in the room was the face of Dior and the little protégée of Mr. Park.

"I'll... I'll bring her to our room, you can go out without us," Sunghoon announces, watching you sit down on the floor in the middle of the corridor.

"Will she be okay?"

"Of course. I'll take care of her."

He waits for everyone to be gone before he gets you up from the floor and leads you both to your hotel room. When you're in the room, he sits you down on the bed.

You don't say anything as he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. He crouches down in front of you to remove your heels and he does the same with his shoes, leaving them by the entry.

When he comes back, he sees you quietly crying, the features of your face contorting into a sad expression. You've slightly sobered up, harshly coming back to reality, realizing how much you've embarrassed yourself tonight.

"What did I do?" You ask, looking up at him with teary eyes. "I fucked up, didn't I?"

Sunghoon sits down beside you, lifting your head up with his index under your chin and his thumb over it. "There's nothing that can't be repaired," he states in a soft voice, so low it sounds like a sweet whisper—a secret, a confession only you know. "Right?"

You sniff, wiping your tears away. You nod your head in agreement, slightly reassured, hoping Sunghoon will fix your mistakes.

"Shh, baby, shh," he softly murmurs, cradling your head in his hands and gently laying your face against his chest. You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tighter.

He strokes your hair delicately, placing a sweet and warm kiss on the top of your head.

Someone as vulnerable as you contains a lot of emotions. He has to deal with them, which doesn't bother him at all. He wants you the way you are; sad and pitiful.

"Everything's going to be fine," he promises, but it's not entirely the truth. Not everything will be fine, though it'll be in the end, he thinks—he hopes.

You eventually pull away from his embrace, just enough to look at him. It seems like you're searching for something or maybe waiting for something, your eyes desperately staring at Sunghoon as if his simple presence will make all of your problems go away.

You throw yourself at him and kiss him on the lips, fingers pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck. He reciprocates it, knowing you like your kisses sloppy and messy, wanting Sunghoon everywhere on you to remind you that he's always there.

You bring him closer, wrinkling the material of his white shirt between your fists, moaning and whining as your teeth clash together at how roughly you kiss each other.

Sunghoon breaks your exchange first, both catching your breaths. His eyes observe you quietly as you look at him like you're still waiting for something.

"Did you do what I told you to?" He questions you, referring to your conversation of a few days earlier when you came to his studio to try on his dress.

You were a bit stressed out, putting on the clothing like you were scared you'd rip it. He still remembers the way the satin was sliding up your body, hugging your waist and ass perfectly.

He was baffled at how incredibly well it suited you as if he had made it exactly for you.

And maybe it was made for you, after all.

Because when he saw his creation on you, he knew you had to wear it for the runway. It has to be you, he'll accept no one else.

Sunghoon will make you walk the runway wearing his dress—the last time you'll ever step on the catwalk. After that, he'll keep you away from the rest of the world. He'll refuse anyone to see you because you're going to be his.

His forever.

"Yes," you nod your head, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Tell me what you did," Sunghoon softly demands, holding your chin in his hand, mouths inches away from each other.

You're too shy to say it out loud and that's why he wants you to tell him. Also to be sure you did everything correctly, but mainly because he wants to see you embarrassed.

"I prepared myself for you..." you begin, holding eye contact even though you feel your face heating up just thinking about all the things you've done per his request. "I... I used lube both on me and... the toy," you continue in a shy tone, so low Sunghoon wouldn't hear you if he wasn't so close.

"Where on you, sweetheart?" He interrupts, wanting each detail, each little thing you normally wouldn't have done if it wasn't for him.

You swallow, "On my ass, Sunghoon," you answer in a whisper. "I stretched it out for you, using the toy like you told me," you finally admit.

"Good girl," Sunghoon purrs. "Let me see it then."

You proceed to strip off of your dress, now used to be nude in front of him, and slide your panties down your thighs, discarding them away on the floor.

You get back up on the mattress and position yourself on all fours close to the edge of the bed. Sunghoon stands up and goes behind you to have a closer look at your ass.

His veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, revealing your rim to his insatiable, sadistic eyes. You glance over your shoulder, curious of what he has in mind and what he has prepared for you.

You softly gasp when he spits and lets the globe of spit drip down between your asscheeks, rolling over your puckered hole. You clench around nothing, relieved to have his attention, to finally feel his hands on you instead of the usual touch of yours.

He sees that your ass is a bit more loose than the last time he saw it, but it still clearly needs more preparation to welcome his girthy cock—though it's not like he cares that much if you're prepped enough or not.

He passes his thumb over your tight muscle, circling it and smearing his saliva over it. He wants to fuck it so bad, destroy it and do unbelievably violent things to you. Should he tonight? Should he show you his dark and evil side?

He's choked you before—smacked your ass hard till you felt your skin stings, overstimulated you to the point your orgasms were just spasms passing through your body, fucked your throat while you were drooling all over yourself, and tied your legs and wrists together to restrict your movements.

So fucking your ass can't be that bad, but the thing is Sunghoon wants it to be bad. He then wonders what would happen if the line is ever crossed. Would you endure it, would you defend yourself? Would you shut the fuck up and take it like you're asked to?

But you trust him so much—with all of your pathetic being—and he thinks you'd let him cross any lines he desires to. He probably already has crossed multiples, and being the poor girl that you are, you said nothing.

You truly are extraordinary.

He gives a slight slap to one of your asscheeks, groping both of them after, feeling how soft and tender your flesh is. "You did good, sweetheart," he comments in a honeyed voice, "how about we play with it a little?"

He lifts up a brow at you and you nod sheepishly, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. "Yes..."

"Great," he says in a low tone, running his hands one last time over your ass before going to take something from his suitcase.

"What is it?" You question, your curious eyes landing on the small object he's holding.

Sunghoon brings the object to you, something made of metal, the end having the shape of a cone and a pink gem placed on the top. "A gift for my princess," he replies, opening the bottle of lube he brought as well.

He applies some lube around your tight hole and on the butt plug, and carefully pushes the head of the toy in your ass. You gasp softly, feeling it slowly stretch you, sinking in gradually as Sunghoon holds your cheeks apart.

"Feels good, Sir," you moan, arching your back and pushing your butt closer to Sunghoon.

When the plug is all the way in, the pink gem peeking out between your two globes of flesh, he smacks your other cheek, leaving his stinging handprint on you.

"Is that so, dirty girl?" He wonders, gripping your hips and colliding his hips with your butt, sensing his bulge pulsing under his pants. "You like it when your little ass gets stretched out?"

"I like everything you do to me," you say with a content sigh, pussy clenching around nothing as your ass gets used to the small butt plug.

Sunghoon genuinely thinks he can't find better than you. You were so shy in the beginning, looking like a lost puppy wherever you went. You just needed someone bigger and older to show you the way—though you were too dumb, and still are, to realize he was leading you to the wrong path.

It's not like you seem to mind, anyway.

After all, you both got what you wanted; you, male attention, someone to rely on and be protected by, and him, a woman to break and keep with him forever.

He lets go of your hips to unbuckle his belt, pulling the leather material out of the gold loop with the luxury Dior logo on it. He lets the two ends of the belt hang off, not bothering to remove it completely, and tucks the fly of his pants down.

He finally frees his cock from the confines of his boxers, springing up and slapping his stomach, the bit of pre-cum escaping from his tip dampening his shirt.

"You're so good to me, princess," he praises as he wraps a hand around the base of his engorged cock, aching and begging to be nestled in your cute little pussy.

His head pushes at your entrance, never fully entering, only teasing your hole and stimulating all of your sensitive nerves. He watches how his cock stretches your cunt, your walls expending to receive his bulbous tip and then closing down when he pulls out.

"Sir, please, want more," you beg him, pushing your ass on him to have his dick back in you. You let out a little whimper when Sunghoon holds your hips in place, stopping you from wiggling your butt side to side against his thick cock.

He hums and slaps your ass harshly, your skin burning after. "Want my cock in your needy little pussy, baby? Is that what you're crying for?" He asks, teasing even more by swiping the head between your pussy lips, a string of your arousal sticking to his angry tip.

"Yes," you say back quickly and desperately, arching your back, literally presenting yourself to Sunghoon. "Been so good, don't I deserve it, Sir?" You softly murmur, still looking over your shoulder to see his gaze fixated on your quivering pussy, cock head sliding up and down over your sex.

"You do..." He responds distractedly, licking his lips, his fingers touching the pink gem peeking out from your ass. You're always so good and obedient for him, he even wonders if you ever did something that genuinely pissed him off before.

When he really sinks in, his head passing the barrier of your sweet pussy, he groans deeply, feeling your walls envelop him tightly.

He bends his back over yours, running his hand up your spine, feeling all the little bumps of it until he reaches your neck and shoves your head against the mattress.

You whine when he starts pounding into you, his girth stretching you out so well, leaving you panting and moaning loudly. His other hand holds your hip against his dick, fingers digging into your skin, leaving permanent marks on your body.

He already sets a hard and rapid pace—fucking is never soft or loving with Sunghoon, it's violent, long, and agonizing. It's a way to be himself, the real and dark version of himself he hides in public, and releases when he gets intimate with you.

You surprisingly got accustomed to it, embracing it as if it was your destiny, the reason for your existence; to be his personal slut, the little toy he likes to play rough with. You've accepted it, like you had no other choice but to be fucked into oblivion by Sunghoon whenever he feels like it.

"You like that, baby? Huh?" He growls, as if you're the disgusting one for liking the way he treats you, to be ravished and delighted to have his cock sliding against your walls. "You like it when I fuck you hard like this?" He repeats and grips your hair, pushing your head into the bed covers with more strength.

You babble out something, voice caught in your throat, too out of breath to formulate a simple sentence. You then only nod, your cheek squished against the mattress, Sunghoon's hand still pushing down on your head.

His mouth hangs open to let out heavy breaths and his eyes are focused on your face, watching the little translucent pearls fall on your face and onto the bed. Your pussy swallows all of him, clenching so tightly it has him groaning and saying profanities under his breath.

It's sick how it makes his cock so fucking hard, leaking so much pre-cum in you and twitching avidly by seeing you struggle to breathe. You hold the bed sheets between your fists, doing everything in your power to keep your ass up for Sunghoon and not slump down on the bed from the hard thrusts he's inflicting on you.

He snaps his hips against your ass and the entirety of his length is covered in your wetness, a white ring made of your cream circling the base of his cock.

His hand holding your head descends to your neck, enclosing it with his fingers. He squeezes a little, just a bit so you know who's in control, so you never forget Sunghoon controls you—controls your life and thoughts.

With a grip on your hair, he brings your torso up, arched back against his chest. The material of his shirt sticks to your skin, covered in a thin layer of sweat. He continues to pound into you and as he holds you by the throat, he lewdly licks the side of your face in a long stripe.

You shudder in desire, hair standing up on your arms. "You're my little whore, aren't you, baby?" His mouth is right beside your ear as he whispers the words to you, his lips touching your hair, damp at the nape of your neck. "So fucking compliant... You want to please me so badly like the slut that you are.”

His free hand that doesn't have a hold around your throat slides down your body, passing over your belly and reaching your puffy clit. The sharp zipper of his pants graces the flesh just under your ass, irritating your skin and making it itchy. You clench around him when his digits find your sensitive bud.

"Yes, want to please you, Sunghoon," you gasp, bucking your hips at the feeling of his rough fingertips on you. He grunts when you address him by his name, loving how it sounds on your tongue, so sweet and timid.

He remembers the first time you moaned his name; you were sprawled across his expensive leather couch, blindfolded and hands attached together with his black tie. Intense for your first time with him, but it was also the last time he's ever been that gentle with you.

It was when his cold fingertips graced the skin of your stomach that you let out a squeak followed by his name, said in the quietest moan. He had then stopped his movements and looked at your face, an expression of distress painted over your features.

He had realized how frail and weak you actually were, needing your most important sense to be at ease. That's why he had blindfolded you, to show you how dependent you were on him, how impossible it was for you to live without someone to guide you.

He pushes your jaw to the side so your lips can meet in a feverish kiss, wet tongues mingling together, drool dripping down from the corners of your mouth. He continues to ram his cock in your pussy, the sound of skin against skin resonating in the hotel room.

He traps your bottom lip between his teeth, making you whimper and close your walls around him once again. Your hands grip the material of his trousers, keeping him close and holding on to something because the hard cadence of his hip thrusts push you forward, breasts bouncing up on your chest.

"Fuck," he curses and he suddenly stops, steadying his hips against your butt. You let out a whiny moan as Sunghoon lets go of your face and hips.

You're sad to have your pleasure ripped away from you so hastily, but you don't have the time to complain, Sunghoon slipping out of your cunt and pushing you down violently on the mattress.

You turn around on your back to see him unbuttoning his dress shirt and throwing it on the floor, revealing to you his beautiful chest and milky skin. He gets rid of his pants and socks after, finally removing his boxers, the only thing remaining on him being the watch crowning his right wrist.

His cock glistens in your juices, more pre-cum leaking from his swollen tip and twitching avidly against his stomach. Even though him fucking you while being all dressed and you completely bare is a way to humiliate and degrade you, he also likes to be naked sometimes.

He loves skin to skin contact, how your bodies stick together because of all the sweat coating you. It's addicting, it's rougher and it creates more friction—more pain.

He doesn't mind being naked because he knows how to dominate you either way. He doesn't find it embarrassing, on the contrary, it makes him scarier and hungrier. While you shiver without your clothes on, curled up on yourself, Sunghoon is imposing, his cock thick enough to split you in half.

He crawls back to you, hovering over you like a predator that has caught his prey, boring his eyes into yours. You look at him in awe, always waiting patiently. You feel his cock against your thigh, your hole pathetically quivering—missing his size terribly.

He sneaks a hand between your legs and reaches the little pink gem, ready to get it out. "Take a deep breath, sweetheart," Sunghoon instructs and you inhale deeply.

He doesn't waste a second, pulling out the butt plug out of your ass. You scrunch your eyes shut at the pain, exhaling when it's done. There's still a bit of lube left on it and around your ass. He carefully sets it on the nightstand, coming back to you after.

He bends your legs over your stomach and looks at your ass, just begging him to fuck it, shining with lube and arousal that leaked from your pussy. His cock is so close to it and Sunghoon could slide right in with one movement of his hips.

He lets go of one of your legs to grip his erection, a little gasp escaping your lips when he presses the head of his cock at your tight hole, threatening to sink in.

"Sir," you sigh, not sure if you're ready for that. It always burns no matter how good you prepped before and he knows that. That's why he's so tempted, staring so obsessively at your rim.

Will it hurt you? Will you grip his biceps in an attempt to dissuade him? He wants to see those tears falling from your eyes again, he wants to lick them and tastes your pain. He feels more blood rush down to his cock at the mere thought of hurting you.

Give him all of your pain, he'll fucking take it whole and cherish it. He wants it—he needs it. Accuse him of having a sick and twisted mind, accuse him of everything you've ever been hurt by because he'll gladly take the blame.

"I know you can take it," he says in a low tone, glancing up at your face as he applies just a bit more force. "Can you, baby?" Sunghoon asks, waiting for you to admit how much you want it, how badly you want him to destroy you.

"Yes..." You whisper back, a long shiver running up your spine as his eyes pierce through you.

"Yes what? Tell me, sweetheart," he demands, and it's as if he doesn't care about your response whatsoever because the next thing he does makes you yelp in pain.

His tip has entered you, the burning sensation forcing you to scrunch your eyes shut.

"Yes, I- I can..." you stutter and as expected, you dig your nails into the flesh of his biceps, only fair to hurt him in return. "I can take your cock in my ass."

You take a sharp breath, eyes slowly opening, all watery and painful. Sunghoon groans at that, stuffing more of himself into you. "Good girl," he praises.

He stretches you out completely, his dick in no comparison to the toys you've used on you. You open your mouth as he pushes himself in gradually, tears streaming down your face when you blink.

The tears roll down the side of your face and Sunghoon can't help but love the sight, leaning in to kiss your face and collect one of your tears, tasting the saltiness of it on his tongue.

"Sunghoon!" You look at him with the saddest and most hurtful eyes. "It burns," you add in a quiet voice, now scratching his back, leaving long red trails on his skin.

"I know, baby, I know," he softly murmurs in your ear, a husky moan leaving his mouth when he's completely nestled in you, balls touching your ass. "You're so tight, fuck," he sucks a breath through his teeth, not moving until he estimates he's waited long enough.

He gives warm and wet kisses to your neck, going down to your collarbones and pawing at your breasts, slowly starting to move his hips. You lock your legs behind his back, wanting him as close to you as possible despite the pain he's inflicting on you.

He loves knowing it hurts you because it makes it more pleasurable to him somehow. The pain will go away soon anyway, that's why he doesn't bother to stop or slow down. You have to get used to the feeling first.

The choking, the hair pulling, the smacks... He keeps it for the bedroom, but he won't lie that there's a part of him that wants to ruin your life, ruin everything you've accomplished so far just so he can see those sad eyes of yours and hear you ask him for help out of desperation.

It's not even sexual, he just wants to break you, that's all he desires. Though your life is something he wants to destroy, it's more of a way to have you dependent on him after. If your career is no longer successful, your solution is Sunghoon because he's the only person in your life capable of taking care of you both emotionally and physically.

His teeth chew on the tender skin of your neck while his hand travels all over your body, many veins popping out along his strong arm. His finger gently circles your clit to make the pain more bearable.

His hand that was roaming over your body comes to close around your throat and he turns his head to your side, lips brushing over your temple. "Yeah, just like that, baby," he mutters under his breath, his nose pressing down on your hair as he murmurs the words to you. "Just like that..."

A choked moan is all that escapes your mouth. His hot breath hits the side of your face, his chest heaving rapidly while you claw at his back, white scratches appearing on his shoulder blades.

He sweetly kisses your temple as he pounds into you, not tightening his hand around your throat, just holding you in place—making sure you know that he’s always in control.

Your tits slightly bounce up and down on your chest, little whines coming out of you each time Sunghoon bottoms out. It starts to feel good for you—really good—and you think that this pleasure is totally worth a bit of pain at the beginning.

You grip the hair at the nape of his neck and bring him in for a kiss. He accepts it, kissing you back as if he wants to possess your whole mouth, biting and licking your lips. You moan into his mouth, twisting his hair between your fingers.

He pulls away from you, his full lips glistening in both of your saliva, and places his two palms on your boobs. He feels your perky nipples under his hands, just loving how plushy your breasts are, fitting perfectly in his palms.

He keeps thrusting in you as he gropes your tits and you bring your hands over his, looking into each other's eyes. He lets out a low groan, holding eye-contact with you.

You feel his veins under your palms, your pussy clenching around nothing but air while you run your hands all over his arms. You love to feel his pulsing veins under your fingertips.

"Sunghoon..." You moan his name, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his hard cock entering and exiting your tight hole. Sunghoon takes the opportunity to smooch over your neck again as you expose it to him, his lips pressing down on your throat. "I love it," you sigh pleasantly.

He hums, the sound coming deep from his throat. He wants to hurt you, yes, but he likes it even more when you love the pain. He just knew you were exactly like him when he first saw you. He had the feeling that you needed someone like him, someone that'd push you to your limits and make you discover a new type of pleasure.

And he was right because there's not one time where you told him to stop.

"My dirty girl," he purrs in response, bringing his lips up to your jaw. He slowly rolls your nipples between his fingertips, pinching and pulling on them. "You're stupid, but so, so good for me, baby.”

He slowly halts his hip thrusts and he eventually pulls out of you. You gasp when he does so, already missing his cock stretching out your ass.

Sunghoon raises himself up from you and gets out of the bed. His erection stands tall against his stomach, bouncing up as he walks to the front of the bed.

You watch him getting away until he orders you to follow him. "Come here," he says softly and you don't make him wait. "On your knees," Sunghoon commands when you're facing him, sinking down to your knees.

He places a hand behind your head and the other around the base of his dick, guiding the head of his cock toward your lips as he pushes down on your head.

"Here, baby," he instructs in a low voice. "Take it in your mouth." You part your lips to welcome Sunghoon's length, his bulbous tip shining in pre-cum and your juices under the light of the room.

He immediately moans when he enters the warmth of your mouth, his heavy cock sliding on your wet tongue. He doesn't let you have much control, pushing his dick in your mouth until your nose touches his pubic hair.

You relax your jaw for Sunghoon, allowing him to stuff more of himself into your mouth. He looks down at you, watching at the way your lips wrap around him tightly, your eyes starting to water.

He begins to fuck your mouth, forcing you to take him whole each time he bottoms out. He moves his hips back and forth, obsessed with the way his girth appears and reappears between your lips as he uses your mouth as he pleases.

"Shit," he hisses when you hollow your cheeks, "you're a fucking cockslut, aren't you, baby?" He says breathily, his eyes not once leaving his cock penetrating your mouth over and over again.

You whine around him, surely agreeing with what he said, sending vibrations throughout his entire body. He lets out a deep moan, your cheeks and eyelashes all wet because of your tears, eyes burning as Sunghoon fucks your throat roughly.

"Stroke your clit," he manages to say between two heavy breaths. "You can get off by yourself, right? I know you're soaking wet just by letting me use that pretty mouth of yours," he mocks you, but he knows he's right. Whatever he does, your cunt is always dripping wet.

You whimper again, doing what he told you to and sneaking a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy. You part your legs wider as you circle your clit with your finger, Sunghoon's hooded eyes lazily watching you playing with yourself.

Your right hand is laying on his thigh while the other is operating between your legs, pleasuring yourself to the sounds of Sunghoon's moans and the feeling of his cock weighing down on your tongue.

You do your best to breathe through your nose, swallowing around his length and flattening your tongue underneath him. Your juices drip down your inner thighs, your finger smoothly flickering over your sensitive bud.

The whole room is smelling like sex, an odour that Sunghoon can't ignore, loving it so much. Your lips glide so easily over his hard cock, completely covered in your spit and still some of your wetness, tasting yourself on him.

"Ah, fuck," he curses, his head rolling back on his shoulders, eyes still strained down on you. He feels the familiar burning sensation at the pit of his stomach, indicating he's really close to his orgasm. "Go on the bed, baby."

You're taken aback, but you follow his order, pulling him out of your mouth and laying your back down on the mattress close to the edge. You beautifully moan when Sunghoon penetrates your pussy, bending your legs over your stomach.

"Oh, god," you cry softly, being pounded onto the bed right away, tits moving up and down on your chest.

His hands are positioned on each side of your shoulders, snapping his hips against yours so harshly it hurts. You keep doing circle motions on your clit, now faster and impatient to reach your high.

You let out a high-pitched moan when Sunghoon suddenly steadies his hips over yours, dropping down to his elbows as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. "Holy fuck," he grunts, gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists beside your head as his cock twitches in your cunt.

"Yes, yes," you quietly exclaim, your orgasm passing through you, making you arch your back and buck your hips.

Your pussy clenches repeatedly around him and he finally comes undone into you, shooting long, thick ropes of cum deep in you. When he slips out of you, more spurts out of his tip, landing on your pussy, covering you in his cum.

He stays above you for some time, catching his breath and looking at the mess he made of you.

Later, Sunghoon is in the shower, washing his hair and his body, passing a soft cloth soaked in soap over his chest. He lets the water fall over his head, wetting his black locks. He stays maybe a bit longer than normally, staring at the tiled wall.

He thinks about you, about all the things he's planned. He revised everything in his head, imagining you walk on the podium wearing his dress, people looking at his piece with admiration in their eyes.

He thinks about everything that will go down for you after the show, getting fired, losing your career and your fans. Many articles talking about your excessive use of alcohol and drugs, saying how tired and sad you look beside Sunghoon.

You won't last long, you're too weak anyway. A downfall like this is unconquerable, nobody recovers from that, and surely not a model who will be thrown out of the industry as soon as you turn twenty-five.

Sunghoon knows the industry, he's been in it for years now. He's aware of how cruel it is, how difficult and harsh it can be on fragile little girls like you.

But that's why he's here, he'll take care of you once nobody will want you anymore. That's the goal, after all; you to be finally his—solely and completely.

"Sunghoon?"

Your voice reaches him, turning his head in your direction, seeing you hesitantly entering the shower with him. He opens his arms, inviting you to come closer and you do, hugging him and laying your head down on his wet chest.

"I love you, sweetheart," he softly murmurs against your hair. "I'll never leave you, you know that, right?"

You nod your head, looking up at him and meeting his gaze. "I love you, too."

๑♡՞

The runway went incredibly well. Celebrities and journalists were all gathered for the fall show, totally amazed by every design and the models that were wearing them.

But there was one specific piece that everyone was willing to say was the best.

Sunghoon was satisfied to see that his name stood out amongst everyone else's, being mentioned more times than Dior itself. He predicted it; it was the creation that every guest remembered, the dress that the fans were only talking about.

He'd take all the credit, he was the one who imagined it and then sewed it after all, but he has to admit that you contributed to the fame a lot.

Being the beloved face of Dior only made people talk more about it and that was what Sunghoon needed.

But every good story has an end, doesn't it?

When Sunghoon comes back to his apartment, the place is silent except for the TV playing, as he thought it would be. You're looking through the window, the city draped in the dark, splotches of bright yellow light flashing in front of your eyes. You're sitting on the sofa, not even acknowledging his presence as he enters, getting rid of his shoes.

You're not much of a talker since you've been fired from Dior a few days ago just after the fall show. He understands your wish of remaining silent, needing a bit of space to process everything that happened the past weeks in your head.

It was going to happen soon or later anyway. You've been to your photoshoots completely drunk, sometimes just going in with a hangover, but of course it didn't help your case at all.

Sunghoon was guilty for letting you drink alcohol so soon in the morning. No need to deny it, he was even the one dropping you off at work like that. Well, he had to do it if he wanted people to notice how far you've fallen.

He doesn't feel bad, though. Your career wasn't going to last with or without Sunghoon's sabotage. He did you a favour.

You can't handle being a model. If you could, none of that would have happened. You wouldn't have gained weight, you would have been suspicious of the amount of calories Sunghoon was feeding you. The bottles of wine wouldn't have been so tempting and smoking weed wouldn't have ever occurred to you as a good idea.

You shouldn't be ashamed of it, sometimes things just don't work out like we would have wanted them to.

"Did you see the article they wrote about me?" You ask, still looking outside. "You surely did, I bet that's all they're talking about..."

He sits down beside you and you eventually turn around, facing him. You care so much about what others think of you. It must be so tiring having such a low self-esteem. He can only imagine it; seeing you look through the window like a sad puppy, your life finally making sense when Sunghoon comes home.

"I did, but nothing of that matters to me," he answers, the most honest he's ever been. And even if he had to lie, it's not like you wouldn't have believed him. You always trust whatever he says.

You don't reply, your head still filled with many thoughts.

"Hey, come here," he softly tells you, patting his thigh. You straddle his lap, setting your hands on his shoulders. He cups your chin, forcing you to look at him as you keep avoiding his gaze. "Whatever they say, whatever their name is, nothing will ever be more important than you."

Because who is he if he lets some article affect the way he sees you? He's known you since the beginning of your career and he stayed till the end of it.

He knows you better than everyone else. He was with you during your highs and lows and he'll still be there for the next ones. There's nothing in the world that could make him leave you. After everything he's done to have you, there's no way he'll go away.

How cowardly of him if he does. He can't leave when he's promised he'd heal you—close all of your past wounds and create other ones. He may be selfish, but there's one thing that he isn't and it's a fucking liar. He sticks to his words, and when he says he'll never leave you, that means he'll never, never abandon you—he'll never leave your side, not even once. He can't risk it.

#— ☆ starring enhypen #w/ sunghoon !#enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen hard hours #enhypen imagines #enha x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #sunghoon imagines

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