#thank you again for this its so sweet!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[crazyvik97rpg]

William did his best to reassure Sebastian. He was disheartened, truly, just wanted everything back to normal in an instant. Passing out like that just proved he wasn’t completely healthy yet, even though it probably was because of low blood sugar, still, this never happened to him before! He was just upset about the whole situation to be honest.

The food, however, did its fair share to lift his mood – both their moods. And William did too. Away from unpleasant topics, he started explaining what kind of things they would do on Monday. That Sebastian could finally cuddle all the kitties again, that William would cook him everything he wanted. It made Sebastian look forward to Monday indeed – a little bit of normalcy.

„This will be great, love, I know“, he smiled softly and reached over to grab William’s hand, lace their fingers for a moment, „Thank you“, and he looked at him with those loving, soft eyes. They had snacked on the sweets already, delicious blueberry muffins and their other food was gone as well. Sebastian only sipped last bits of orange juice. It was nice spending time out of his hospital room for a change, even though he couldn’t really walk much on his own. This day was still already so much better.

„Before we go back to my room…do you want to explore the hospital a little? I was never here before, I‘m curious. What do you say?“, Sebastian asked then, a smirk kn his lips – it was a fairly big hospital and maybe just driving around here would be fun. Maybe they‘d find a vending machine and get some coffee, something like that. „I just don’t want to go back to bed just yet…“, he sighed a little, although he was smirking.

For I have sinned...

The principal cleared his throat, eyes scanning the notes that he had wrote down before this meeting. It already lasted an hour, and the teachers gathered in the faculty room were becoming restless and bored. But indeed there were some things to discuss, with the concert that the senior class was supposed to perform at the end of the semester, and with recent staff changes. 

William glanced down at his watch, sighing softly. His class was starting in 15 minutes, so at least, whether the meeting will be done soon or not, he will get to excuse himself. He looked out of the window, his mind wandering. Principal’s voice turned into white noise in the background. It was a pleasant day, late summer. But William was looking forward to a slightly cooler weather. Wearing all black could really be bothersome at times. 

“And lastly, I am pleased to announce that we have finally found replacement for the violin teacher. Dear Mr Tanaka, may he rest in peace, was with us for so many years that I’ve been concerned we won’t be able to find someone as good as to fill this position.” the principal spoke. “But Mr… Michaelis, was highly recommended to me, and he indeed has impressive references. He will be starting this week, so please welcome him warmly once he will arrive. Ah yes… about that. He will arrive today at noon, I need someone to pick him up from the train station and bring over for the tour around the school. Any volunteers?” 

William was barely listening, and definitely not paying much attention. He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was time to leave, as his class was about to start. He raised his hand to excuse himself, and little did he know, he just volunteered.

“Father William! Excellent!” the principal exclaimed. “Just don’t be late, the train arrives at noon.”

“Train…?” William questioned, raising his brow. He had a feeling he was missing something…

***

Right after the meeting, William had to run for the class, so he had little time to clarify what exactly he had volunteered for. He was a piano teacher in this Music Academy, but also he served as a priest in local church. Well respected, and rather liked. So when he later found out it was about the new violin teacher, he didn’t refuse. Who, other than himself, would be a better choice to introduce a newcome to their community?

So even though he raised his hand by accident, he accepted this fate.

After classes, at noon, William took a taxi and drove to the train station, to pick up their new teacher. Wearing black trousers, and a black shirt with a thin tie, was absolutely dreadful in this weather, so William quickly found shelter under the roof of the station platform, that provided some shade.

The train had just arrived. William had no idea how Mr Michaelis looked like, but he figured he will just look for someone carrying a violin case with them. 

He was in for a bit surprise.

@crazyvik97

[luveline]

hi again!! i saw you mention wanting to write for prince!steve, and i also saw that you write with dialogue prompts so i present to you:

A: “I’ll take care of you.”

B: “It’s rotten work.”

A: “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

maybe the reader gets injured doing something for training, but it’s all up to you!! i’m sure we’ll love it regardless. kisses!!

thank you for requesting! —prince steve au. fem, 1.5k

Pain was familiar before you came to the palace. Small pains and big, all kinds of hurting, poverty-driven neglect leading to toothaches and back pain, twisted ankles walked on without choice, sore skin otherwise ignored. It didn’t matter if you got hurt as long as you lived. 

Not in a dramatic sense. It didn’t feel dramatic at the time, only miserable. You go to work with a migraine because you can’t afford not to. You walk home in the dark because the mag-trams are getting too expensive. You break your holo, so you make do without one. You pick your head up to keep looking both ways and you get everywhere you need to go because you need to work, to get paid, to eat, to work. 

That’s how it always was. So getting sick didn’t matter. An injury was temporary pain that your body would fix eventually, and if it didn’t, well, it’s cheaper to pull a tooth than pay to have it filled. 

You were used to your sorry life, and then you met Steve. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Steve. Looking at him sometimes is enough to make your whole body a void for things you used to complain about; you wake up across from him in the big bed and forget you can feel pain at all, if only because he’s already awake, waiting for you to open your eyes before he rests his hand on your cheek. You met him and your soul-mark glowed with a lacy, almost feathered light, your wrist braceleted with white colour that soon faded to mellow blue. 

When you first meet your soulmate, the colours you make tend to shift. It takes time for your heart to decide if love is pink or orange or blue. It seems to have settled now —when Steve kisses you, your mark turns a Gaussian amber. When you kiss back, his mark turns light pink, like the lotus flowers he keeps in his private gardens. 

Right now, your mark hums an angry red. It’s typical in its colour, and it’s common. Most people’s marks turn red when they’re hurting. Yours is a crimson so dark it looks black in the dim lighting, and it throbs in time with your pain like a vexing metronome. You’ll never be able to put it from your mind if the mark continues to remind you. 

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet at your side. His own mark is lit in sympathy, mostly pink with his affection, but threaded in red like spider lily flowers blooming against his forearm. 

He shifts beside you. It’s been more than a month since your wedding, and yet he’s careful with you. Almost shy, though he can be brash and cocky. You know intimately how sweet Steve can be when he’s in love. 

It doesn’t make any sense. 

“How’s the pain now?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled together at their starts. 

“Not so bad.” 

“Could you rate it on a scale? If zero was no pain at all, and ten were enough to warrant another dose of white willow bark?” 

“What if I were at a five?” you ask. 

“A half dose and a good kiss?” 

You turn his way but flinch when it puts undue pressure on your leg, a stab of hot pain jumping from your fractured tibia to deep inside of your hips. Steve sees your wincing and presses your shoulder into the bed, leaning over you, a scolding he doesn’t give in the pinch of his eyebrows as he leans down to kiss you. It’s more caress than kiss, his hand cupping your cheek, his lips barely touching yours before he rests his nose at your brow. “Can you stay still?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“Just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.” 

He lifts his head. Holds your cheek for longer than you can work out why, dotting another soft kiss to your nose before slinking out of bed to find you some white willow bark tincture. It’s a potent pain reliever. You shouldn’t have too much of it. If you were still living your past life, you’d be chewing on ginger skins trying to limp your way back into work. There’d be no time to stop. 

“Steve,” you say, watching him a small ways away at the table of your quarters. He turns to you. “I don’t really need anything else.” 

“You said it’s hurting?” Steve pipettes the tincture into a cup of water. “You said a five, and you lie. Knowing you, it’s closer to an eight, you just don’t want to tell me.” 

It might not be as extreme as an eight now, laying down and bandaged, but it hurts badly and a tincture would solve this. Still, you say, “It’s fine, I don’t need it.” 

He brings the glass regardless and puts it on the nightstand. Your bed is yards too big for one person, even two, but when Steve sits next to you he leaves no room between you. He looks down at you fondly. Brown hair like down feather falls against his forehead. 

“You’re going to be in pain for a long time.” He brings a hand to your cheek again. “It might sound tame, a plateau fracture, but that’s still a fracture. You know doctors say fracture when they mean broken, right? You broke your leg. It’s okay to want pain relief.” 

“I knew that. I didn’t know you knew it.” 

“Impolite.” He ducks down to look you in the eyes. You’re a little skewiff, straight to his sideways, but it gets a point across. He wants to kiss you while you’ve said something maddening. “I don’t see why you’re so insistent on pretending it hasn’t happened and that you’re fine. You got hurt, and you’ll stay hurt for a while. It might be weeks of bed and– and you need to be looked after. I don’t know why you’re so guilty about it.” 

“I’m not guilty,” you deny guilty, turning your face to lean into his hand, rather than continue to face his imploring gaze. “I just… I’m not used to this. Before, if something went wrong, I couldn’t just lay down and wait to get better, and I surely wouldn’t be laying here with doctors and servants and the ladies in waiting all trying to make sure– It’s like it’s not my fault, and that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to be a burden on everyone. More than I already am,” you add, a bitter mumble nearly lost to his palm. 

He makes a promise, then, turning your face to the light. “I’ll take care of you,” he says. 

“It’s rotten work.” 

Steve shakes his head gently. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.” 

You press your tongue to your teeth, worried you’ll say something you’ll regret. You don’t want him to go. You want him to mean exactly what he says, to stay here and take care of you, and to enjoy doing it. Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved for love's sake? 

Steve shuffles inward and encourages your head into his lap, thrusting pillows aside to take up station against your headboard. He frames your face, upside down, before both hands begin to run down your arms. A hug, in a way, as he twists his face to kiss the skin beside your eye. You squint at the proximity. 

“You’re not a burden,” he says, hands climbing upwards now, warm and steady where they travel, “you’re my wife. My cherished wife, remember?” 

His tone is silk. 

“You… haven’t proved to be a wretched husband,” you confess. 

“I did try. But loving you has been easy. It makes husbandry a gift.” He laughs at his grandiose and gives you a kiss that’s more familiar by your ear, his pleading, searching kisses, the kind he likes to press to all your softest junctures. “I wish you could understand that we’re marked for a reason. We were always meant to be together, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to stand with me. I’m happy you’re here. I want to take care of you.” 

Not if it’s you, he’d said. 

You wonder if it might be okay to cry. He’s massaging your arms, still bent in half over you trying to kiss some belief in him into your forehead. 

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs between chaste, silent kisses, “really. You don’t have to pretend things don’t hurt you anymore.” 

You feel strange, then, shivery and weak as you turn your face into his thigh. His hand slips behind your back to hold you.

“Can I convince you to drink this tincture now?” he asks, just above your ear. 

“I love you,” you mumble. 

He pauses his trailing hands. You squeeze your eyes closed, but he doesn’t pause for long enough to scare you. “I love you,” he says. “Since the day we met, I’ve loved you. I’ll take care of you.” 

He is easy to believe. 

[tswkento]

a.n.: hello!! i hope you enjoy reading this, this is pure fluff. ive been working on this for a few days so please be a darling and give it a chance!! thank you <33

c.w.: 3787 wc, fluff fluff fluff, lil bit of angst, hurt/comfort, whipped nanami ffs.

sum.: after years of excruciating yearning and pining, nanami can recall distant memories of the moments he thought he loved you and the exact moment he voiced his feelings, or—

4 times nanami thinks that he loves you and 1 time he says it out loud.

i.

nanami takes another sip from his drink as his eyes roam around the room, barely stopping on the faces of the people. they only ever paused when you came into the view; with your very cute, slightly tipsy smile and shining gaze, that got brighter whenever you caught him looking at you.

or maybe he was imagining things. after all, he’s been drinking too.

as he patiently waited for you to receive your present from under the big tree in gojo’s living room, nanami couldn’t help the anticipation bubbling in his chest while the other’s opened their gifts.

the game of secret santa was a nice idea and it was always a pleasant feeling — seeing someone’s joy over a simple present, no matter how well-thought or effortless it was. and it so happened that on the day yuuji and nobara came up with the suggestion, offering nanami a handful of small papers, he picked out the card with your name scribbled on it.

and although very much enjoyable — the satisfaction he felt at the moment was fairly easy to hide from the kids. he had an opportunity to give you something meaningful and no one would be weird about it since it was secret santa.

“oh? it’s from nanami!” you beam at him after you check the little card that was carefully attached to the ribbon. nanami nods down at you as he leans against the armrest of the couch where the kids are settled.

you eye the wrapped box in your hands with a curious glint and shake it a little, bringing it to your ears as you try to take a guess at what it is. nanami bites down a splitting smile, covering his mouth with the glass in his hand as he watches you tear off the wrapping paper, managing to slap away satoru’s impatient hands that volunteered to do it for you.

you open the medium, velvety box and gasp audibly, covering your mouth with your hand as you look up at nanami from your spot on the fluffy carpet. standing up abruptly, you look into the box again and stare at him with a petulant pout, the frown between your eyebrows calling for him to smooth out the crease of the skin with his finger.

“kento, i,” you take another look at the item inside the box and then back at him, “i can’t accept it, no way.”

nanami is acutely aware of the fact that everyone in the room is watching you two. he prays that the hot sensation he feels crawling up his neck isn’t showing itself as redness of any kind. but at the same time, he likes to imagine that there’s only two of you in the whole world right now and it turns his mind into a fucking mush.

he clears his throat and moves the glass away from his mouth to speak clearly,

“nonsense, it’s your rightful gift,” he puts down his drink with a prominent click and holds out his hand, “let me put it on you.”

your pout slowly dissolves into a timid smile as you put the box in his hand and step closer, hitting nanami with the barely noticeable wave of your sweet perfume. when he looks at you again and sees the way your eyes giddily follow the movements of his fingers, kento can’t stop the corners of his lips from slightly curling upwards.

at the contact with the supple skin of your wrist, his fingertips twitch — electricity running through them, up his arm and straight to his heart, the impulses quickening its pace. nanami breathes in through his nose slowly as he closes the clasp of the watch on the inside of your wrist.

“must’ve cost you a fortune.” you mumble with a dreamy sigh, glancing up at him only to find him already staring at you.

he pats your wrist with finality and lets you admire the accessory on your own, engraving the sight of your enticed expression into his mind. it takes him a second to realise that he has to say something and the alcohol that has worked its way up his brain makes him let out an unfiltered thought,

“worth it.”

your head snaps up at him and you beam at him before your arms wrap around his neck, holding him tightly with a string of thank you’s falling from your pretty lips. kento hugs you close with one hand, willing to ignore the knowing looks the both of you are receiving from everyone in the room, and thinks that he loves you.

ii.

nanami partially expects to see you when he enters the archive room.

you’re already settled by one of the few desks, fingers tapping against the smooth surface of the table as you read the paper whilst periodically checking on the screen of your laptop. the movements in the background seem to disturb your peace as much as kento tries to be silent, and you lock eyes with him, giving him a cute little wave and a bright beam that causes his brain to become empty.

when you notice the stack of papers in his hands, your smile turns sympathetic and you determinedly step from behind your desk, telling him that you’ll make him some coffee too. kento nods in gratitude and forces himself not to follow your temporarily exiting figure so he can stop thinking about how pretty your uniform looks on you and how much he’d like to spend time with you alone aside from the countless of times he’s caught you in this fucking archive room.

it’s a comfortable, quiet spot for anyone to deal with never-ending paperwork so it’s quite common for him to meet you here. probably one of the few reasons why he prefers this room — kento can always just get lost in random conversations with you and ignore the fact that he’d rather stay with you here than go to his empty apartment.

the tea you bring him is always something new. “i like to try new things” you beamed at him when he inquired about your little hobby, and then your face scrunched with disgust at the taste of your newly bought tea. at his eloquently raised brow you only rolled your pretty eyes and stood up to go make something different, at which point he couldn’t help his fond smile.

this time, situation seems to be a lot more dire because you bring two cups of freshly brewed black coffee with two cubes of sugar on the cups’ saucers. he’s already noticed that the reports you are observing are not yours and at his question you explain that gojo’s reports on his students’ missions are always an unorganised mess left for you to clean up.

kento doesn’t hide the disdain spreading over his features and focuses on his own papers. and at first, he doesn’t even notice how quiet you’ve gotten — by the time he finishes his work there is no sound of your pen clicking on the surface of your desk, none of the soft tapping of your fingers over the keyboard and the silence isn’t filled with your occasional hums or sighs.

oh, he lets out when he notices your form slumped on your table, head settled on your forearm with your posture situated awkwardly. that must be very uncomfortable, nanami thinks to himself before he stands up, pointedly ignoring the popping sounds of his own spine and knees, and strides over to you. one part of him really doesn’t want to disturb you, not when you look fucking angelic: cheek smushed against your forearm, lips jutted out in a pouty way and a tiny trail of drool escaping your mouth.

he wonders if you look like this when you’re sleeping on your bed too. maybe even more peaceful than this, with your head untied and your clothes more fitting for a good night’s sleep. kento wonders if he will ever be able to witness that dreamy sight.

he can’t resist the urge to touch your face; his fingertips hover above your cheekbones before sliding over the silky smooth skin, revelling in the suppleness of it before moving a lone strand of hair away from it. you’re so beautiful, nanami thinks, the prettiest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on.

and when you stir awake he doesn’t even process it at first, just stares down at you dumbly for a second before stepping away and clearing his throat because fucking hell, he’s in love. and you don’t even understand what’s going on. you crack your neck and groan in discomfort all while he stares down at you, all of his attempts at saying something failing miserably. you catch his figure being close and ask him if you were out for long, the slight hoarseness of your voice enchanting him completely.

and then his plans of sleeping early tonight get thrown out of the window because his mouth opens before his brain comprehends his thoughts,

“do you need help with these?” he can’t stand the thought of you working on this stuff for longer than necessary and going home so late at night.

you give him a reluctant glance and do the same with the papers in front of you before nodding meekly and moving your chair to the side so he can fit another one for himself. nanami thinks it’s a win/win situation: you get to go home early and he gets to spend a little more time with you. and it doesn’t matter that he’s going to wake up groggy and with his back hurting like a bitch, it really doesn’t. not as long as you are fine.

iii.

annual gathering of all the existing clans and sorcerers was something nanami liked to avoid as many times as he could since he found them to be just another pompous event filled with meaningless chatter and old traditions. for him, at least. most of the time he had missions so he was dismissed, but this year he was free and basically forced by director yaga to attend.

he exits the main building, fishing a cigarette out of the inner pocket of his yukata as his eyes search for a secluded spot in the garden.

his steps come to a halt when his eye catches onto your blurry figure, entering through the gates. his hand with the cigarette stick between his thumb and index finger hover over his mouth as nanami watches you stepping closer and closer to him.

the distance between you two allows him to observe you for longer; the way your hair moves with every step you take, your own yukata that makes you look ethereal with the way its colours fit so well, the slightly vacant expression on your face before you notice him too and beam at him. kento’s lips curl into a small smile as he decides to meet you in the middle.

“thought you couldn’t make it tonight.” he mutters softly, noting how your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

something happened, nanami can tell that, however he has no idea what. you fall into an easy pace along with him, locking your arms behind yourself as you timidly glance at him. nanami can’t really decipher that look so he chooses to continue leading you both somewhere private. the cigarette stays in his hand, saved for later.

“yeah, i had a thing.”

“a thing?”

“well…”

kento points at the small gazebo hidden behind the main building to which you nod silently, and when you both settle on the bench inside of it, he notices on your face how you’re pondering something very seriously. so he tries to be as gentle as possible when he says,

“is everything okay?”

you stay silent for a few seconds and just as you open your mouth to speak, nanami realises that he might just be unintentionally forcing you to speak.

“you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to.” he suggests, leaning down a bit to see more of your face.

your profile is beautiful. in the twilight of the night, despite the fact that his vision gets worse when it’s getting dark, nanami can always clearly distinguish your luminous eyes, your beautifully shaped nose and your pretty, rosy lips. all of your features have been engraved into his mind ever since he’s found himself staring at you with adoration bubbling in his chest and warmth spreading all over it.

you turn your head slowly, the weight of your thoughts etched into your expression. you open your mouth to speak, but no words come out and you close it, choosing to remain quiet. nanami’s concern must show on his face because you only bury your face in his shoulder, inhaling sharply before leaning your temple against the smooth surface of his yukata.

feeling your body relying on him feels a lot better than he thought it would. the weight of your head against his shoulder was soothing, a silent gesture of trust and comfort you felt from him.

kento gazes down at you and in a moment of tenderness rests his open palm on his thigh, a discreet motion that offers support, the one that you clearly desire right now. it shows in the way your hand hovers over his, hesitant but eager, and nanami makes an effort of gently catching it and placing it on his thigh. his thumb doesn’t stop rubbing circles over your skin until he feels you completely relax against him, not quite sleeping, yet not aware of your surroundings either. in your head, in your own world.

and while nanami basks in the warmth that radiates from your body, enveloping him from the side, he can only think about how much he loves you and how nice it feels to be trusted by you.

iv.

nanami wonders if he’ll be brave enough to tell you how he feels.

to understand that there is so much love inside of him is to also realise that there is no outlet for that love, and it’s depressing to say the least.

his days are filled with meaningless missions that could only be described as temporary solutions to a permanent problem that is etched into this world, but he can’t just not do it. he can’t do nothing, he’ll never forgive himself if he stoops to something like that again. nanami must remind himself that this is his duty and what he’s been born to do, and by the time he’s done with his affirmations the curse is already dissipating into the chilly air of the night and he’s going home.

would you reciprocate his feelings? would you give him a chance to put his everything into making you the happiest person alive instead of constantly thinking about preserving something that is already damaged — the system that everyone’s living in?

would you let him be selfish and share with him everything that makes you ‘you’? your mind, your soul, your body, your presence, your emotions, your everything. nanami knows he’d give you anything you’d ask him. even if it’s his heart, even if it’s already completely devoted to you — if you ask to have it in flesh he’d rip it out of his chest and present it to you like the finest things in the world because you deserve it.

he doesn’t remember the day his heart started reacting differently to your smiles and your laughter. the transition of his feelings from ‘friendly’ to ‘completely enamoured’ was so rapid yet so fluid, something he didn’t realise until he felt the full extent of it. when his brain melted at the sight of your radiant smile, and when the slightest bit of physical contact with you sent small electric tingles through his body, and also when the desire to be in close proximity with you clouded his mind whenever you were in the room.

kento yearns to be close to you; he wants it so much his fingers twitch with longing to hold and need to feel. he wants, wants and wants, but he does it quietly and you know nothing. it’s crazy how he feels so fucking much even though he is nearly thirty and it’s no time for this kind of thing in the hectic lifestyle he chose to have, yet he can’t stop himself from craving it — your love.

it’s also crazy that these thoughts occupy his head as soon as he sees you. hears you. feels you.

“kento?” you’d call out to him sweetly, waving your hand in front of his face, disturbing him from remembering the minuscule details of your face and your microexpressions. “are you even listening to me?”

“always.” he’d say without thinking because it’s true.

you’d eye him sceptically for a second or two before giving him a pleased smile and leaning in to continue your storytelling, compelled by his lovesick gaze and completely ignorant to his hands itching to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. fuck, if this is hell.

he loves you, he loves you, he fucking loves you—

v.

“have you ever been in love?” you ask him casually as you pace around his kitchen idly while he washes the remnants of the dirty dishes.

it’s a peaceful night after a great evening spent with itadori and you, but itadori’s gone now and you stayed to help him clean up. though, naturally, nanami shooed you away with your every attempt at touching anything, telling you that your company is enough. you pouted at his nonchalant stubbornness, but didn’t try to resist.

nanami wipes the drops of water from around the sink and washes his hands carefully before he turns to face you, “have you?”

it’s a feeble attempt at moving the attention away from himself and onto you, yet it works and nanami can let himself exhale shakily when your gaze leaves him while you contemplate your answer.

“i feel like i am in love.”

nanami’s fingers close on the edge of the counter he’s been leaning against, eyes studying your dreamy expression whilst you idly gazed at the view from the window.

“he makes me feel very special.”

you glance at him for a second before stepping around the counter to stand by his side. nanami follows your movements carefully, mahogany eyes never leaving you as he tries to ignore the way his mouth dries at the mention of ‘he’. he does his best not to jump into conclusions and chooses to listen more.

���he does?” he croaks out pitifully, eager to hear more. his brain is frying.

you tilt your head up, fluttering lashes partially obscuring the sight of your piercing eyes. nanami feels his chest tighten painfully before he releases a semi-steady puff of air, waiting for you to continue.

“he is so gentle with me. treats me like i’m made of porcelain, treats me like i’m the only one.”

you are, nanami wants to say, but he can’t seem to form a logical sentence — not when your pinkie is grazing his hand on the counter and your lips soften into something serene, something content.

his brain seems to be catching up to his actions a little later than usual because before he knows it, nanami is allowing himself to occupy your space as he rounds you into the counter, letting his hand cage you. he knows his face gives it away; the longing he feels, the overwhelming need he feels to be yours and for you to be his, to give away the thing you rightfully own — his heart. but he has to wait.

“do you think that means something?” kento whispers tentatively, scared to push you away.

the corners of your lips twitch as your hand settles on his forearm softly, stroking up and down over the length of it whilst you watch him carefully. you don’t even know how much power you have over him right now and it drives him wild because he is hungry for everything you can give him. even the slightest touch makes him lose his mind and this— this is almost too much for one night.

“i don’t know.” you shrug, “does it mean something?”

“yes, it–” his trembling hand leaves the counter in favour of settling on the side of your face, fingers nimbly pushing back messy strands of hair away from your beautiful face. nanami exhales shakily before continuing, “it means a lot.”

“nana–”

“i love you.”

and then he kisses you.

he wants to fucking punch himself into face because there is no consideration of whether you’d be comfortable with him kissing you or anything else, it’s pure insanity that operates his brain and it leaves him 3 seconds later when he freezes and pulls away only to be pulled back by your soft hands on the sides of his face.

his arms wrap around your figure, embracing you in a manner that is more touch starved rather than romantic: with your body flush against his and his hands spread over the eloquent expanse of your back, his feet caging yours inside and his fingers twitching like crazy. nanami breathes in through his nose and focuses on your touch to stop himself from completely shutting off, finding the sensation of your fingers carding through his undercut and gently cradling his jaw to be very soothing.

soothing, warm, gentle, loving — just like he imagined it would be.

the softness of your lips is heavenly against his, the sweet taste of your mouth is even stronger as it fogs his brain and clouds his gaze, filling it with desire for more. nanami feels the restraints he put around himself coming loose with the hesitant swipe of your tongue over his bottom lip that prompts him to gently push into your mouth with his own eliciting a strangled moan from you. fucking hell— he has to control himself.

kento pulls away and his eyes are frantic in the way they scan you; noting the heat emitting from your skin, the shallowness of your breaths, how your chest heaves up and down and how your lips part ever so invitingly, luring him in. the thought of never experiencing this with you makes his skin crawl so he focuses completely on this moment, this second.

“why’d you– why’d you stop, kento?” you whisper into the space between you too, gliding your thumb over his cheekbone.

and you look so pretty. absolutely stunning, donning a sweet, worried expression that only spurs him on, adding fuel into his endless desire to tell you about how much he loves you. so he does, sealing every one of his confessions with a passionate kiss.

“i love you.”

[sanguineterrain]

hii this is my first time requesting sth so i hope its okay. what about spencer dating a reader who is asexual or takes a long time to be comfortable with intimacy but people are always asking if he’s getting any and reader feels like she isn’t enough

if not that’s totally fine thank u anyways

(this isn’t self indulgent wdym)

Thanks for requesting lovely. you are definitely not alone in feeling this way 🩷

fem!reader. you feel insecure after derek makes a harmless joke about how often you and spencer meet for lunch

****

Spencer forgets to eat lunch.

It's just a fact. He doesn't always forget, but he forgets enough for you to meet him for lunch when you can or shoot him a reminder text.

Today, you have a day off, so you decide to visit. Spencer tells you he'll meet you at the entrance so you don't have to go through security and get a visitor's badge. You think it's a little ridiculous that you have to do that every time, but according to Spencer, it doesn't take much time at all for people to become a danger to others and themselves.

Not that I think you would do that! he's always quick to add. You adore him.

He gets off the elevator with Agent Morgan. You watch as they approach and Morgan sees you, then claps Spencer's shoulder.

"Oh, so this is where you disappear to for lunch," he says, wrinkling Spencer's shirt. You can tell Spencer notices right away and is mildly annoyed. He shrugs his friend off.

"What're you talking about?" Spencer asks, pursing his lips.

Agent Morgan grins. "How many lunches out do you need, Reid? Seems like you're always forgetting food. 'S not like you."

Spencer looks at him, brows furrowed. "I need one a day, according to the general medical opinion. And my lunch breaks aren't that long."

You suddenly feel queasy.

"Uh-huh." Agent Morgan just grins that sly grin. "Don't be too long. Have fun, you kids."

You walk out. Agent Morgan goes the opposite direction of where you parked your car. Spencer's warm hand squeezes your arm affectionately.

"Hi," he says. "I actually brought lunch today, I just wanted to eat with you, so I lied and told everyone that I don't have lunch so we can be alone."

"Sweet of you." You voice is thin.

"Are you okay?"

You try to keep walking, but hello! Behavior analyst boyfriend alert. Spencer gently tugs you to stop and face him.

"What's wrong?" he asks, forehead crinkled in concern. "Your voice has a tremor."

"Did you tell Agent Morgan that we have sex during your lunch breaks?" you ask, folding your arms.

"What? No, I don't—no!"

"Because I know I've been making you wait, Spencer, and I know I keep saying I'll be ready at some point, but it's really shitty if you're telling people that I stop by just to give you head in your car or something."

Spencer's mouth opens and closes a couple of times in genuine, horrified shock, like when he'd found you hunched over the toilet in pain months ago during a bad stomach flu, and you realize then that you're way off the mark.

How could you think that? Of course Spencer wouldn't do that to you.

"Spencer, I'm—"

"I would never say or imply that. I don't even—I'm not mad or resentful of the fact that we haven't had sex, okay? I wouldn't care if you never wanted to have sex. I don't date you because I'm hoping to 'hit it and quit it.'"

You both cringe at his choice of words. Spencer sighs. "Okay, never using that phrase again. But it's true. I'm not waiting you out, and I'm definitely not talking about us having or not having sex to anyone at work." He shudders. "My living nightmare."

"I'm sorry. You're right, you wouldn't say that. I know you wouldn't. You wouldn't tell people even if we were having sex."

Spencer shakes his head emphatically. "Of course not."

Of course not.

"Then why did Agent Morgan imply that we were leaving to do it on your lunch break?" you ask unhappily.

"He was implying that we were sneaking off to have sex?" Spencer asks. "Are you sure?"

You frown. "Yeah, Spencer. He was teasing you about taking long lunches and always going out with me because..."

He nods in understanding. "Oh. That's... weird. Okay. I'll tell him not to say that stuff. I'll say that it bothers me."

You rub your arms self-consciously and turn your body away from Spencer. "It's not that weird for him to think, though. I do stop by a lot. And you're a young guy. Other guys your age probably visit their girlfriends during lunch and do that."

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "That seems excessive. And risky. And highly unsanitary. And uncomfortable. And—"

"Okay." You laugh a little. "I get it, Spencer. You're not like other guys."

"Story of my life."

"I guess I'm not really like other girls either," you say. "Having sex on your lunch break is probably more normal than dating for six months and never having sex."

Spencer frowns. "There's no such thing as normal. There's socially accepted behavior and opinion and laws and a bunch of made up crap that a lot of people are too afraid to challenge. I'm about the furthest from normal that you can get."

Your mouth flattens. "You're not bad, though."

"Exactly!" Spencer kisses your cheek, startling you. He doesn't often initiate kisses, preferring to show affection in his own way. You don't mind when he does kiss you though.

"Exactly," he says. "And neither are you. I doubt that how you feel about sex is so unusual. But even if it was, it wouldn't make a difference to me. It's how you feel, and I respect it. If I had a problem with it, we wouldn't be dating."

You glance down the block, at the building entrance. "But people might talk."

"Derek wouldn't," Spencer says firmly. "He jokes, but he would respect this if I told him to."

"It's not him, Spence, it's just..." You shake your head. "I've hit a stumbling block with every guy I've dated because they thought I was a prude, a tease, frigid. One guy said I needed shock therapy."

"I don't think that," he says softly. "I don't think any terrible things about you for feeling this way."

"No? You haven't tried to profile me based on my aversion to intimacy?"

Spencer's face scrunches with sadness. "No. You're my girlfriend, not a suspect. This isn't something I have to diagnose. I love you. I like spending time with you. Please don't think that I don't have the capacity to know what I want in a relationship. You don't have to be suspicious of me. I have nothing to hide about how I feel."

"People might think something's wrong with you for dating me," you say.

Spencer shrugs. "So what? People already think something's wrong with me. Doesn't mean they're right. I currently hold the record for the longest relationship in the BAU, besides Hotch. I'm the winner."

You sigh. Everything you throw at Spencer about how he should run while he can, he has a response for.

You might just give up and keep on letting him love you without any strings attached.

"Have I convinced you?" he asks. "I'm really good at debating."

"No kidding," you say. "I'm surprised you didn't become a lawyer."

"Hotch says there's still time." Spencer smiles. "Wanna go to that Thai place three blocks from here?"

Spencer loves the Thai place. It's one of his safe restaurants. You like it too, mostly because of how much Spencer likes it. And you trust his recommendations. He always checks the health inspection grade before eating somewhere.

"Don't you have lunch?"

"I have a peanut butter sandwich in my desk and I'll probably stay late. It'll keep."

"Okay." You lean in and kiss Spencer. He responds immediately, stroking your cheek with his thumb. The tenderness overwhelms you.

"You're really nice," you whisper.

"You deserve a nice boyfriend," he says. "And Chicken Satay. I'll get you both."

You link your arm with his as you begin to walk.

"Is six months really the record?"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it."

[hermesserpent-stuff]

Potential script idea for billy batson s radio show segment

The whizz radio intro tones-

Billy Batson then starts speaking through a slightly crackly radio as Fawcett is a city someone lost to time, given its connection to the Rock of Eternity.

---

Welcome to WHIZZ Radio: where we give the latest news, truths, and view in Fawcett City. Brought to you by your host, me, billy Batson.

Starting off with community news, make sure to visit the shrine of Atlas sometime this week with an offering. Cap mentioned that there might be a need for endurance next week, and we should all probably listen. Additional reminder, the festival of Zeus will be happening this Saturday. Stay away from odd looking geese, metal poles and don't fulfill any selfcrearting proficies in a fit of hubris.

Onto traffic!

Main Street and Fifth Avenue are both still under construction from Dr. Sivannas attack and the demon portal last Thursday and Friday. Ms. Marvel and Cap. both played a role in clearing the debris, but there are still major cracks and fissures to Hades. Expect delays.

Now the weather.

Today's forecast includes thick over cast clouds; a good time for summoning souls. Be sure to greet both the living in the dead while going about your day and don't for get that umbrella! There is a slight chance of curses with intermittent showers.

Alright! Time to quickly cover the Capes and Crooks news bulletin. Dr. Sivanna is still missing after his recent bout with Cap. Since he interrupted one of Mercury's races down at the track, no one is quite sure when the Roman god took him. If you happen to see him, please be sure to give Cap a ring to come pick him up.

Keep your eyes peeled for Mr. Mind. The worm escaped prison… again. Holy moly. You'd think they'd make better prisons for him. What is this, the fourth time in two weeks?

*Noise indistinct*

I know, I just figured that out listeners would likely have the same comment. I don't see why I shouldn't point it out of its true

*Indistinct noise again*

Alright! Fine. Moving on from that.

Today's radio broadcast is brought to you by Saturn's candy. Nothing so sweet as a stick of magic you can eat! Try their Caramel cookie candy bars, now with cooked in bloodline curse protect. If your looking for a spot of luck, try their cinnamon apply candy sticks. Saturn's candy. A proud sponsor of WHIZZ Radio!

*Little jingle*

Welcome back to the program. Time for our sister citys segment.

This reporter has just been told by his producers to issue an apology to Black Adam for statements said during this segment of yesterday's broadcast.

*An aside*

Do I have too?

*Indistinct noise*

Fine.

I am. Sorry. For calling you a craized up old fart with too much free time.

There.

Moving on!

Kahndaq currently is continuing negotiations with both the Justice League and the UN to gain a seat at the UN table. Or be allowed in the UN room. While Fawcett recognizes Kahndaq as sovereign, the rest of the world stills sees the country as illegitimate.

Aside from tense meetings, and Black Adam being a kook who keeps coming to mess with Cap due to having a grudge unbecoming of a literal king and ancient man child, Kahndaq is doing fine. The economy is flourishing, despite limited imports and exports due to sanctions. The letters sent by Fawcetts finest and kindest citizens were well received and we should hear back soon if Mercury has anything to do with it.

It's time once again for Billy's opinion of the day.

This week!

Cans and their many used.

Not only do cans offer one of the best ways to have long term storable food, but they also make awesome weapons! We got to see this on Friday when Marvel Jr. and Captain Marvel went toe to toe with demons using a barrage of cans. And the food was still good to eat after the fight!! I love it when things are multi purposed. Now if only they could close the rifts down to Hades…

*Chimes*

Oh! Mercury just dropped a fresh bit of mail! Thank you Mercury! Watch out for old men wandering around. It seems like the Greek and Roman gods are looking to bless and curse some folks today.

Do good, and good will follow.

And keep an eye on the sky for lightning!

This has been Billy Batson, signing off!

[be-my-sunrise]

1:40am || oh sion

pairings: idol bf!sion x fem!reader

genre: smut, fluff if you squint. minors pls dni

word count: 1,023

warnings: suggestive content, they're just kissing and groping each other lmao

a/n: ik i said i only write for dreamies, but i just physically CANNOT get this gorgeous man out of my head so i had to write something for him lmao. anyways i hope you enjoy!! thank you queen @jenoslutie for beta reading<3

tags: @wispyxjae i hope you like it teehee :3

It has been quite some time since you last saw Sion. He has been very busy with his schedule and album preparations, and he finally gets a day off today, so he invited you over to his dorm to hang out. 

After lunch, you and Sion decided to watch a movie that he had been wanting to watch. At least that's what you were doing.

Both of you start making out passionately before you even know it. You should have known though, because Sion couldn't keep his hands to himself since you arrived. The two of you pull away after a while to catch your breath.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper. 

“Me too, baby.”

Sion presses his lips against your jaw, leaving a trail of kisses down to your neck. You tilt your head to one side as he continues to pepper kisses. 

“I miss having your body on mine and the way you feel around me.” He mumbles against your neck. “Fuck. I miss the way you taste.”

Sion slips one hand under your shirt, gently caressing your waist. A moan escapes your lips as he sucks on your sweet spot.

“I need you, baby. Right now.”

“No, we can't do this now. What if your friends come back early?” You let out a heavy sigh and pull yourself away from him. 

“Come onnn~” Sion pouts, looking at you with pleading eyes. “We’re finally alone, and they won't be back any time soon.” 

“I don't–” Sion cuts you off with a peck on your lips. “But, I–” He pecks you again.

“Please, baby.” Sion places his hand on your jaw and swipes his thumb on your bottom lip. 

You lean into his touch and you can’t help but stare at his plump lips. Truth be told, you want the same thing as him. You were hesitant because you don't want his friends to walk in on you and Sion. Not again. 

But, your body craves him. His touch. You need him. You lean forward and lock lips with him.

“Wait,” he mumbles against your lips and pulls away. 

“This means yes, right?” He asks, making you giggle at the way his face lights up.

“Yes, baby,” you pause to climb onto his lap and put your arms around his neck. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”

You let out a satisfied hum as your lips meet his once again. As the kiss gets more heated, you start grinding on his hardening cock, making him moan. Sion places his hands on your hips to guide your movements. You drag your hands down his chest and abs, feeling his toned muscles. 

You tug on Sion’s shirt, signaling him to take it off. He understands the message and he quickly takes his shirt off in one swift motion, not wanting to part lips with yours too long. You squeal as Sion suddenly lifts you up to lay you down on the couch. He hovers over your body, resting one arm next to your head to support his own weight.

Your fingers find their way to his dark locks, pulling on the strands as he trails kisses down your jaw to your neck. A gasp escapes your lips as he bites the skin, leaving red marks all over your neck and shoulder. 

Sion slips one hand under your shirt and makes its way towards your chest. He grips the soft flesh before pulling down the fabric covering your tits. You let out a loud moan as he continues sucking on your sweet spot while also playing with your nipple, rolling the sensitive bud using his thumb and index finger.

Just when you’re about to get to the good part, you hear feet shuffling at the front door. Sion’s head shot up upon hearing the familiar voices. The panic settles in when the two of you lock eyes, realizing who’s at the other side of the door right now. 

Both of you scramble to sit up and fix your appearances. Sion puts his shirt back on and helps you cover the hickeys he left on your neck with your hair. You put a small pillow over his lap to cover his prominent boner just as the front door swings open.

“We’re home!” 

You and Sion pretend to be watching the still-playing movie as Riku and Yushi walk into the living room. 

“H-hey, guys! Back so soon?” Sion asks.

Riku sighs, “yeah, we’re a bit tired, so we decided to just get home.”

There’s a moment of silence and you silently hope that they won’t notice anything. Yushi clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence.

“Well, uhh, we’ll be in our rooms if you need anything.” He says as he walks towards his room with Riku following him closely behind.

You let out a relieved sigh when Riku and Yushi are out of sight. You share a look with Sion and burst into giggles.

“By the way,” your laughter stops when you hear Riku's voice. You turn to him, who's looking at you and Sion with a knowing look, waiting for him to finish his sentence. 

“You know your shirt is inside out, right?”

Riku then walks away with a smirk on his face. Your eyes shoot to Sion's shirt and face-palm yourself out of embarrassment. Sion laughs out loud, throwing his head back against the back-rest. 

Sion leans closer, speaking in a hushed tone. “Should we continue this in my room?” 

“Hmm… Maybe. Only if you can keep quiet.” 

“I think that's gonna be hard for you, baby.”

Sion looks at you with a smug expression. You raise your eyebrows, taking his words as a challenge.

“Okay, we're doing this now. Let's go.” 

You get off the couch, pulling Sion along with you to go to his room. Yushi got out of his own room just in time to see you slamming the door to Sion's room close and lock it. He turns to Riku, who's standing in the kitchen. Riku sighs and walks towards him, patting him on the shoulder.

“Come on, let's just go to the dorm upstairs and play games with Jaehee.”

[weeping-statue]

Oml I love your work sm, I’ve been reading you’re blog for a while and I’m obsessed 😭

If you end up having the time, may I request Naib, Ithaqua, Joseph and Richard—or just the first two if that’s too many! 🤍—with a s/o who was almost fatally injured in their matches and sort of comatose but eventually woke up? Feel free to ignore this if this is too much, thank you for your time~

Aww thank you so much my love<3 you’re so sweet!!! I didn’t really think that many people liked my stuff so it’s amazing to hear that they do! I try my best on these things and I hate when it takes me years to post something out.

I’m working on another fic that’s similar to this for naib so he won’t be included but I hope you’ll take Norton instead

Ithaqua, Joseph, Richard, and Norton with a fatally injured reader who finally wakes up!

———————————————————————

Basic background first before the good stuff<3

You were supposed be decoding, out of the way, and out of danger.

You weren’t supposed to take the hit. You weren’t supposed to be here.

It wasn’t fair when your body fell to the ground, blood splattering out underneath you into a pool of crimson liquid.

It wasn’t fair when he called out to you, and you didn’t answer, only to feel your pulse fading.

It wasn’t fair that he had to carry your limp body to Emily’s office in a panic, begging her to help.

And it wasn’t fair when she had said you might not wake up.

Ithaqua

He couldn’t sit by you the entire time you were in bed. It just reminded him of his mother.

He didn’t want to put himself through more with those terrible memories.

He’d visit you in the morning and at night.

Kissing you goodnight and kissing you good morning

Like some strange routine.

When he got the news you were awake he had dropped everything, but he didn’t run, he just had to make himself believe you were okay first.

He had to make sure this wasn’t some sick joke, and that he’d wake up in his bed only to be told you didn’t make it.

Stopping in the doorway, looking at you who seemed to be looking back at him with those surprised eyes, that beautiful smile he loved etched onto your face.

He knew after a blow like that there would be some damage, a large scar going from the side of your cheek and up to your forehead would forever be a reminder of his fuck up.

He feels terrible and sometimes it’s hard to look at you without guilt seeping in.

He doesn’t want to be like this but it’s his way of working through it.

He loves you a lot, he has dreams of marrying you and building a home far away. But now those dreams are plagued with the possibility that he’ll accidentally become the monster he tried to tell himself he wasn’t.

Joseph

Alcohol.

A lot of it.

Bottles and bottles of it by your bed side.

He refused to leave you. He couldn’t live with the fact he might of killed the only person he loved more than anything.

The only person that made this bearable. And they might be gone.

He would drink himself to sleep and he would drink the moment he opened his eyes.

Not a lot of people ever saw him cry, but now? Everyone did.

When he had a moment of soberness he’d look over and break down.

Joseph would barely shower, having to be dragged away from you and told to clean himself up, only to repeat that process.

During one of the times he was forced to bathe, he had stumbled back in, bottle in hand, only to be met with your disappointed gaze.

He knows how much you hated when drinks, and because of that barely touched liquor anymore.

“You said you’d cut back on drinking.” Your voice broke the silence.

Joseph rushed over to your side, falling onto his knees and sobbing. “Stop it. Now’s no time for lecturing. I thought I had killed you. I thought you weren’t going to make it. I thought you’d be like Claud, and leave me all alone again.”

Your hand makes its way to his cheek, “I’m okay. I’d never leave you alone, I promise. These things were bound to happen. But I’ll be more careful.”

He nodded leaning into your touch.

Richard

He’s fuming mad. And of course concerned.

He was made to do one thing, protect, and he couldn’t even save the one he loves?

“What bullshit.” He’d say through gritted teeth. Watching over your body, breathing raggedly. His hands smoothing out your hair to look nice with a not so gentle hand. He’s holding himself back.

He believes this is partially your fault. You should have been out of the way. Doing your job and letting him rescue.

But no, you had to disobey, you just couldn’t listen.

He’ll look like he doesn’t want to be there when his facade slips around the others, but he really does. He hates the fact that you have a terrible possibility over your head.

And he can’t control it.

He’d make sure you look stunning even in your condition. He’d brush your hair, and make sure you’re somewhat clean. Because when you wake up he’s going to want to kiss you, remind you of the way it should be.

When he’s informed by Emily that you’ve made a recovery, hes immediately speed walking towards your room.

He wanted to be the first thing you saw, but oh well. He’ll have you back in tip top shape soon.

“Richard!” You exclaimed, reaching your hand out to him.

He takes it, kissing the back, “___, my dear. You gave me quite the scare.”

“I know.. I shouldn’t have been so foolish but-”

His lips are against yours before you can finish. It’s passionate and deep with his feelings. You can tell how much he missed you, how worried he was.

“Foolish or not, you’re still here, with me. And that’s all that matters.” He says softly, loving yet serious eyes looking into yours.

Norton

Out of everyone, him and Joseph are the two absolute messes.

Joseph might be a bit worse with his drinking but Norton becomes violent and agitated.

He’s freaking out, shoving people out of the way with more strength than necessary just to get to you.

He wasn’t there to help, maybe, if he was you’d be okay.

The possibility’s are running through his head and causing him to become anxious and angry.

Fools gold is right there behind him. Sitting in a corner silently waiting for you to awake.

Fools golds matches are either quick surrenders or he’s chairing everyone immediately.

Norton doesn’t know how to comfort himself and doesn’t particularly want his hunter version to even touch him let alone tell him nice things so he’s just suffering until you wake up.

This man actually wouldn’t leave you, even if he was dirty because he’s been like this before. It doesn’t bother him.

He had watched you wake up, your eyes being blinded by the bright light of day.

He was silent until you noticed him,

“Norton-?” You began, but the minute you spoke he jumped on you. Holding you tightly.

“Don’t you pull this shit again. You.. don’t know how worried I was.” He mumbled into your neck.

A lot of apologies were given that day and fools gold was right behind you when Norton had to go.

He may not have liked his other self but he shared the same love for you like he did. And if playing guard dog for a bit would ensure everyone to be happy and safe, then sure.

———————————————————————

I fear I only like Richard’s..

[dostoyevsky-official]

I’m about to tell you the craziest love story in literary history. And before you ransack the canon for a glamorous rebuttal, I must warn you: Its preeminence is conclusive. Dante and Beatrice, Scott and Zelda, Véra and Vladimir. All famous cases of literary love and inspiration, sure. But these romances lack the 47-year novelistic drama of the craziest story. They lack the stolen gun, the border crossings, the violation of federal law. They lack the forged birth certificate and clandestine love letters. But above all, they lack the leading lady: the secret muse.

[...] I don’t pretend to understand women,” McCarthy told Oprah Winfrey in 2007, commenting on the lack of them in his novels—despite the fact that he was married three times. And for decades, readers took him at his word.

Upon McCarthy’s death, however, the mystery of his personal life has drawn close enough for us to unravel assumptions into their opposites: Cormac McCarthy did not shirk womenkind in his novels. On the contrary, it turns out that many of his famous leading men were inspired by a single woman, a single secret muse revealed here for the first time: a five-foot-four badass Finnish American cowgirl named Augusta Britt. A cowgirl whose reality, McCarthy confessed in his early love letters to her, he had “trouble coming to grips with.”

[...] It’s monsoon season, and lightning bobs and weaves in the corner of your eyes all day like floaters. There are three separate storms to the south, delicately wind-tilted on the horizon. Lightning races them in a stitchless thread, and to the north rain shimmers through the sheerest rainbow, stamped perfectly horizontal against the mountains like the execution line on a document.

[...] Britt says she lived a normal life until the age of 11. That year, and for reasons she never quite understood, her family moved from the snowy plains of North Dakota to the border town desert of Tucson. This is where the muse’s novelistic question mark emerges. An origin story beginning on an ellipse. Something hideous happened to her in the desert. Something traumatically violent. Something that destroyed her family.

Every time she was hit, whether by her father or a foster parent, she would disappear inside herself. It could take weeks, months to reemerge. It got to the point where if it happened again, she didn’t know if she’d ever come out. And she could no longer live like that.

“So I’ve decided I’m not going to be hit anymore,” she told McCarthy at that motel pool. Here she pauses, and you must imagine the sweetest voice you’ve ever heard—a sweetness that isn’t afraid to pull triggers first and ask questions later. “I’m just going to shoot anyone who tries.”

“ ‘Well,’ ” McCarthy said, “ ‘That would explain the gun.’ ”

“And that was so Cormac,” Britt laughs. “And I thought, Thank God this man gets it.”

Just imagine for a moment: You’re an unappreciated literary genius who has not even hit your stride before going out of print. Your novels so far have circled around dark Southern characters who do dark Southern things. You’re stalled on the draft of a fourth novel, called Suttree, which features an indeterminately young side character named Harrogate, not yet written as a runaway. You’re sitting by a pool at a cheap motel when a beautiful 16-year-old runaway sidles up to you with a stolen gun in one hand and your debut novel in the other. She reads in her closet to stay out of violence’s earshot. To survive her lonely anguish, the wound she’s been carrying since age 11, this girl has only literature to turn to: Hemingway, Faulkner, you. She flickers with comic innocence yet tragic experience beyond her years and an atavistic insistence on survival on her own terms. She has suffered more childhood violence than you can imagine, and she holds your own prose up to you for autograph, dedication, proof of provenance.

[...] After learning Britt wanted to be a nurse, McCarthy also introduced a character named Wanda to Suttree, an underage love interest Suttree meets in the month of August. Wanda reads stories about nurses and steals away to Suttree’s tent in the small hours of the night. She is also Britt’s debut death, crushed under a rockslide.

[...] Posting an essay on my favorite writer to Substack on April Fool’s Day, receiving a cryptic comment from his secret muse, and now driving with her to see her horses feels more miraculous than fate. And yet there is something so natural about spending time with Britt. There is a shimmer of recognition with her, an intimate equidistance. After all, I’ve been reading about her for half my life. And now here she is, in the flesh.

[...] The first thing you notice about her, leading Scout and Jake up a dormant streambed to their stalls, is how novelistic she is. She is a woman of compelling themes, tragic patterns, hooks, plot, question marks. She says things like “Cormac warned me I couldn’t hide forever” and “That was back when we had one eye out for the law.”

[...] That’s the muse for you, full of equine wisdom, horse sense. And while she certainly has a way with words, words also have a way with her, as McCarthy found out in 1976. As do landscapes.

[...] He was 43, she was 17. The image is startling, possibly illegal. At the very least, it raises questions about inappropriate power dynamics and the specter of premeditated grooming. But not to Britt—who had suffered unspeakable violence at the hands of many men in her young life—then or now.

[...]One measure of fame is how suddenly cognizant one becomes of the looming biographer, archivist, or graduate student peering over posterity’s shoulder at your personal correspondence. But McCarthy began writing his love letters to Britt when he was out of print, and they brim with an unusual voice—that of Cormac McCarthy in true love’s perfect candor. They’re less like sketches for a painting and more like confessionals. They are written by a man infatuate.

For the first few days of my stay in Tucson, the letters sit in the same Converse shoebox they’ve been stored in since the ’70s. I’ve been giving them a wide berth. To a McCarthy fan, they’re like the Holy Grail. It somehow doesn’t feel right reading the blue ink meant for her blue eyes. What will they be like? Joyce’s encrusted epistles to Nora? Nabokov’s letters to Véra? Or more like letters to a Lolita?

[...] We can expect a writer to be different in person than on the page, but Cormac was very different on the page to Augusta. He was clearly in love, clearly “gone on the subject” of her, from the start. He ends each letter with an “I love you” or something synonymous. (He ends the ones after their romance cooled the same way.) But what we appear to have with lines about pressing “my face between your thighs” is a writer with his nose pressed into the pure perfume between the open thighs of a book.

Then, sometime in the ’80s, McCarthy sends her the manuscript for All the Pretty Horses. “The first thing I see, obviously, is the title. And I thought, Oh my gosh. I started reading it, and it’s just so full of me, and yet isn’t me. It was so confusing. Reading about Blevins getting killed was so sad. I cried for days. And I remember thinking to myself that being such a lover of books, I was surprised it didn’t feel romantic to be written about. I felt kind of violated. All these painful experiences regurgitated and rearranged into fiction. I didn’t know how to talk to Cormac about it because Cormac was the most important person in my life. I wondered, Is that all I was to him, a trainwreck to write about?

“I was trying so hard to grow up and to fix what was broken about me. I still thought I could be fixed. And this felt the opposite of fixing me."

[dandelions-143]

Obsession 4

Part 1 , Part 2, & Part 3

Minho Masterlist

All Member Masterlist

Word count: 6908

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Sexual content and explicit scenes, Violence and physical aggression, References to criminal organizations, Toxic family dynamics, Emotional manipulation, Possessive behavior, Mentions of abuse of power.

Authors Note: I hope you enjoyed this ending to Minho and Y/n's story. They will likely make an appearance in the next member's story. Thank you all so much for your support! Happy reading!

Summary: Is this the end of Minho and Y/N's story, or just the beginning? Continue reading to discover how Y/N navigates Minho's possessive nature and whether Minho truly captures Y/N's heart.

Minho crumpled the note in his hand, his fingers trembling with barely contained fury. He threw it across the room, watching as it bounced off the far wall and fell to the floor. A sudden burst of rage consumed him, his vision blurring red at the edges. With a guttural roar, he lashed out, his foot connecting with the coffee table. The sturdy wood splintered under the force of his kick, sending books and papers scattering across the hardwood floor.

Not satisfied, Minho turned to the nearest wall. His fist flew forward, knuckles cracking as they met the plaster. Pain shot through his hand, but he barely noticed it, too focused on the hole he had just created. Bits of drywall crumbled to the ground, a physical manifestation of his shattered composure.

Panting heavily, Minho ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He knew he had important matters to attend to for his father - meetings to schedule, deals to close. But in this moment, none of that mattered. His mind was consumed by a single thought, a burning desire that overshadowed everything else. He was going to get you back, no matter what it took. Your willingness was irrelevant; he had made up his mind. With newfound determination, Minho strode towards the door, his eyes glinting with a dangerous resolve. The hunt was on.

---

Minho's heart raced as he sped through the city streets, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The familiar sight of your apartment building loomed ahead, its brick facade a stark contrast against the darkening sky. He screeched to a halt in the parking lot, tires squealing on the asphalt. Without hesitation, he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

Reaching your door, Minho paused for a moment, his breath coming in short gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fished out the key he had secretly made weeks ago, a smirk playing on his lips. The metal felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his anger. The lock clicked open with a satisfying sound, and he pushed the door wide, stepping into your studio apartment.

"I'm home, darling," he called out, his voice dripping with false sweetness. The words hung in the air, unanswered. As his eyes scanned the small space, his triumphant grin faded. The apartment was empty, silent save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock on the wall. You were nowhere to be seen. The air still held traces of your perfume, taunting him with your recent presence.

Minho's jaw clenched, his earlier rage threatening to resurface. He stalked through the apartment, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor. He checked every corner, throwing open the closet doors with such force that they rattled on their hinges. Clothes swayed from the impact, but there was no sign of you. He even peered under the bed. But it was futile. You had slipped through his fingers once again, leaving behind only the ghost of your presence.

Standing in the center of your living space, Minho's eyes narrowed dangerously. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles still raw from his earlier outburst. This was just a minor setback, he told himself. His gaze swept over the room once more, taking in every detail, searching for any clue to your whereabouts. He would find you, no matter where you tried to hide. The thought of you escaping him only fueled his obsession. And when he did find you, he vowed silently, he would make sure you never left his side again. The hunt had just begun, and Minho was nothing if not persistent.

Frustration and determination etched deep lines on Minho's face as he stormed out of your apartment, slamming the door with as much force as possible. He raced down the stairs, his expensive leather shoes barely touching each step. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, but one thought stood out crystal clear - the club where you worked. It was his only lead, his last hope.

As he sped through the city streets, the world outside his car became a blur of turned off neon lights and shadowy old buildings. His grip on the steering wheel tightened with each passing second, knuckles turning white with the force of his resolve. The leather creaked under his grasp, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil.

Screeching to a halt outside the gentlemen’s club, tires leaving dark marks on the asphalt, Minho barely remembered to turn off the engine before leaping out of the car. The cool night air hit his flushed face, but he barely noticed. The pulsing beat of music that usually spilled out onto the street, was replaced with silence. As he approached the entrance, his eyes locked onto the burly bodyguard standing just outside the entrance. The man's imposing figure doing nothing to deter Minho's determination.

Without breaking stride, Minho shoved past the startled bouncer, his shoulder connecting forcefully with the larger man's chest. The bouncer stumbled back, caught off guard by the unexpected assault. "Hey, you can't just-" the bouncer began, but he stopped short once he realized who had just shoved his way into the building.

Inside, the club was a stark contrast to its usual vibrant atmosphere. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered intermittently, casting an eerie glow that accentuated every imperfection. The worn edges of the plush velvet chairs were frayed, their once-rich color now faded and patchy. Scuff marks marred the once-gleaming dance floor, telling tales of countless nights of revelry.

A handful of staff members were scattered around, their movements deliberate as they prepared for the night ahead. Two bartenders meticulously polished glasses behind the bar, the soft clink of crystal barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. Near the stage, a pair of dancers stretched languidly, their lithe bodies casting long shadows across the floor. In the corner, a janitor mopped halfheartedly, his mop leaving streaks on the already grimy tiles.

Minho's eyes darted frantically around the room, searching for any sign of you. His desperation mounting with each passing second, he called out your name, his voice cracking with emotion as it echoed off the empty walls. "Where are you?" he shouted, his tone a discordant mix of anger, pleading, and barely concealed panic.

He stormed through the club, his expensive shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped floor. With reckless abandon, he threw open doors, the hinges groaning in protest. He yanked aside heavy velvet curtains, sending clouds of dust billowing into the air. The staff members froze in their tracks, watching him with a potent mixture of fear and confusion etched on their faces. Some cowered behind the bar, while others pressed themselves against the walls, trying to become invisible. Minho paid them no mind, his laser focus solely on his desperate search.

As he neared the dressing rooms, the scent of stale perfume and hairspray assaulting his nostrils, a petite waitress stepped forward hesitantly. Her uniform was slightly askew, and she nervously fiddled with the hem of her skirt. "Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with trepidation. Minho whirled around, his intense gaze locking onto her like a predator spotting its prey. She flinched visibly, taking a half-step back, but steeled herself and continued, "If you're looking for her, I think I saw her go into the back office earlier. She seemed... upset."

Without a word of thanks, not even a nod of acknowledgment, Minho spun on his heel and headed towards the office. His footsteps echoed ominously in the quiet club, each step deliberate and menacing. The sound reverberated off the walls, growing louder with each passing moment, as if the very building was amplifying his determination. The hunt was narrowing, the net closing in, and his prey was close. He could feel it in every fiber of his being, a primal instinct guiding him forward. The anticipation of confrontation, of finally having you within his grasp, sent a shiver of dark excitement down his spine.

Minho stalked down the narrow back hallway, his expensive shoes making soft indentations in the worn burgundy carpet beneath. The dressing rooms flanked him on either side, their doors adorned with peeling gold stars and faded names. The musty scent of old perfume and makeup powder hung heavy in the air, but his focus remained solely on the office door at the end of the corridor. It stood slightly ajar, a thin sliver of fluorescent light spilling out onto the dingy floor, casting long shadows that danced along the walls.

As he approached, your voice drifted out, stopping him in his tracks. The familiar sound made his heart race. "Why do I have to be the only one to dance for Mr. Lee now?" The words were tinged with frustration and a hint of fear, your voice trembling slightly on the last word.

For a moment, Minho's heart leapt, thinking you might be referring to him. His pulse quickened with anticipation, only to have that hope crushed moments later. The manager's gruff voice shattered that illusion, his words like sandpaper against Minho's ears. "The man owns this place. You have to do as he says. He told me you no longer dance for anyone else. Only on the main stage and only for him. Not even his son. Just him." Each word felt like a personal insult, stoking the fire of Minho's rage.

That rage boiled up inside him like molten lava, his vision blurring red at the edges as blood rushed to his head. His hands trembled with barely contained fury, and without hesitation, he burst through the door. The wood splintered under the force of his entry, sending splinters flying through the air. The door hinges screamed in protest as it slammed against the wall. In two long, purposeful strides, he reached you, his arms wrapping around your waist like steel bands. With one fluid motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder, the scent of your perfume filling his nostrils.

You immediately began to protest, your legs kicking wildly in the air and your small fists pounding against his broad back. Each impact was like a butterfly's wings against stone - noticed but ineffective. Your silky dress rode up slightly, and Minho's grip tightened possessively around your thighs. But he paid no heed to your struggles, your protests only fueling his determination.

He turned to face your stunned manager, who had stumbled back against his desk, papers scattering to the floor. Minho's eyes blazed with fury and possessiveness, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched visibly. "She quits," he snarled, the words dripping with venom, each syllable sharp enough to cut glass.

Without waiting for a response, Minho spun on his heel and strode out of the office, his movements fluid despite carrying you. Your continued protests echoed down the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a desperate symphony. But he remained unmoved, his grip on you tightening with each step, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs. The rapid beating of your heart against his shoulder only confirmed what he already knew - he had found you, and he had no intention of ever letting you go again. The thought sent a dark thrill of satisfaction through his body, a predator finally claiming its prey.

---

The ride from the gentlemen's club to Minho's penthouse was suffocating in its silence. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, gaze fixed straight ahead through the windshield. The city lights blurred past, casting intermittent shadows across your face. Your jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line, every muscle in your body radiating tension and defiance. The leather seat creaked softly whenever you shifted, the sound almost deafening in the oppressive quiet.

Minho's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and your reflection in the side window. Only once did he break the silence, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant as he asked, "Are you okay?" The question hung in the air, unanswered. Your only response was to turn your head slightly toward the window, shoulders stiffening further. The rage that had been simmering inside you was palpable - fury at his controlling behavior, at his presumption, at the way he'd ripped away your autonomy without a second thought.

As they drove through the glittering nighttime cityscape, something shifted in Minho's expression. His grip on the wheel loosened slightly, his shoulders dropping from their tense position. A realization was dawning, seeping into his consciousness like a slow-rising tide. Force, possession, control - none of it would give him what he truly wanted. He could keep you physically present, could surround you with golden chains, but your heart would remain forever out of reach unless freely given. By the time the elevator doors opened to his penthouse, his mind was made up. He would have to try a different approach - gentler, more patient, more vulnerable. He wouldn't let you leave, not yet, but perhaps he could show you a side of himself that might make you want to stay.

---

Once inside his vast penthouse, you went straight to the room he had reserved for you and locked the door. You lay on the bed, stewing in your anger with every intention of staying there indefinitely. Sleep claimed you for a while until your growling stomach woke you. Cautiously, you unlocked your door and crept into the hallway, hoping Minho was nowhere in sight.

The delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen had your mouth watering instantly. As you cautiously approached, you could see Minho moving with practiced ease around the space, stirring something in a large pot while checking what appeared to be rice in another. The domestic scene before you was so at odds with his earlier violent behavior that it momentarily stunned you into stillness.

He must have sensed your presence because he turned, dark eyes finding yours immediately. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the gentle bubbling of whatever was cooking and the soft whir of the overhead ventilation. His expression was unreadable, but somehow softer than before, the sharp edges of his earlier rage smoothed away.

"You must be hungry," he finally said, his voice quiet and controlled. "I'm making kimchi jjigae. It'll be ready in a few minutes." He gestured to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. "Sit."

Despite every instinct screaming at you to turn and run back to your room, your growling stomach won out. Slowly, cautiously, you perched on the edge of the barstool, watching as he returned his attention to the stove. The domesticity of the scene felt surreal, like you had stepped into some alternate reality where Minho wasn't the man who had just forcibly kidnapped you from your workplace.

The steam rose from the bowls as Minho set them down, the rich aroma of the stew filling the space between you. He settled onto the stool beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. For several minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of spoons against ceramic as you both ate.

"Why?" The word escaped your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper. "Why me? Why... all of this?" You gestured vaguely at the penthouse around you. "What makes you think you can just take me from my life?"

Minho set his spoon down slowly, deliberately. His dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a long moment, he just stared, as if searching for the right words to explain something inexplicable.

"The first time I saw you dance," he began, his voice low and measured, "it wasn't just your beauty that captivated me. It was the way you moved - like you were telling a story only you knew. Like you were somewhere else entirely." His fingers traced the rim of his bowl absently. "I've spent my whole life surrounded by people who want something from me - my money, my influence, my family name. But you... you didn't even look at me. You were completely lost in your own world, and I..." He paused, jaw tightening. "I wanted to be part of that world. I needed to be."

His hand clenched into a fist on the counter. "The more I watched you, the more I realized I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having that piece of you. The thought of other men watching you, desiring you..." He shook his head, as if trying to dispel the image. "It consumed me. You consumed me. And yes, I know this isn't right. I know I'm being selfish and controlling. But I can't..." His voice cracked slightly. "I can't let you go. Not now. Not ever."

You stared at him, a mix of emotions warring in your chest - fear, anger, but also a strange flutter of something else at the raw vulnerability in his voice. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words and complicated feelings. Finally, you pushed your half-eaten bowl away, stood up from the barstool, and retreated back to your room, leaving Minho alone with his confession hanging in the air.

---

As the days went on a strange routine developed. True to his word, Minho never forced himself on you or demanded your attention. Instead, he gave you space, allowing you to retreat to your room whenever you needed. The penthouse became your gilded cage, but one with surprisingly comfortable boundaries. Every morning, you'd wake to find fresh clothes laid out - designer pieces in your size, each one carefully selected. The kitchen was always stocked with your favorite snacks and drinks.

What struck you most was the consistency of the evening meals. No matter how busy his day had been, Minho would return home and cook. Sometimes elaborate Korean dishes that filled the penthouse with mouth-watering aromas, other times simple but comforting meals. He never demanded that you join him, but you found yourself drawn to the kitchen more often than not, settling into what had become your usual spot at the island.

The dinners were mostly quiet affairs, punctuated by the occasional question about your comfort or needs. He never pushed for more, never demanded conversation or gratitude. But you could feel his eyes on you when he thought you weren't looking, filled with that same intensity from the first night - a mixture of possessiveness and something deeper, something almost like reverence.

You had opportunities to leave - the door wasn't locked, and you knew he wouldn't physically stop you. But something kept you there. Perhaps it was the strange peace you'd found in this luxurious prison, or maybe it was the way Minho's carefully maintained control seemed to crack a little more each time you voluntarily joined him for dinner. Whatever the reason, you stayed, watching as the lines between captivity and choice began to blur.

---

One evening, as Minho was gathering his things to leave the office at his father's business, his movements were unhurried and casual. Despite his recent distractions, he had managed to complete all his assigned tasks, maintaining the delicate balance between his obsession with you and his familial obligations. The fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the empty office floor as he shrugged on his expensive suit jacket.

His footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway as he headed toward the elevator, but the sound of multiple approaching footsteps made him pause. Four men, all wearing black suits that barely contained their muscular frames, blocked his path. He recognized them immediately - his father's personal security detail.

"What the fuck are you guys doing here?" Minho's voice was sharp with irritation. "I'm leaving. The work day is over." He attempted to push past them, but one of the men, a particularly burly individual with a scar across his left eyebrow, grabbed him by his lapels and slammed him against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.

The man leaned in close, his breath hot against Minho's face. "Your father wanted us to send a message to you for taking his best dancer from him." The words were delivered with a cruel smile that promised violence.

Before Minho could react, a fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Another blow landed in his stomach, forcing him to double over. The men surrounded him, raining down punches and kicks with practiced precision. Pain exploded across his body as they methodically worked him over, their knuckles leaving bloody marks on his face and torso.

But something inside Minho snapped. Years of suppressed rage, of living under his father's thumb, of being controlled - it all came boiling to the surface. With a primal roar, he launched himself at the nearest attacker. His fist connected with the man's nose, producing a satisfying crunch. The sudden ferocity of his counterattack caught them off guard.

Minho fought like a man possessed. He used every dirty trick he knew, every ounce of strength in his body. One by one, the men fell. An elbow to a throat here, a knee to a groin there. Blood - both his and theirs - spattered across the pristine hallway floor. When the last man dropped, Minho stood among them, chest heaving, his expensive suit torn and stained red.

He knelt beside the scarred man who had started it all, grabbing him by the collar. Blood dripped from Minho's split lip as he spoke, his voice a deadly whisper. "You tell my father that if he touches y/n, I will kill him." The words carried the weight of an oath, cold and absolute. Then he released the man, straightened his ruined jacket, and walked away, leaving the groaning bodies behind him. His face was battered and bleeding, but his steps were steady, fueled by a determination that made him look more dangerous than ever.

---

The kitchen was filled with the comforting aroma of simmering soup when you heard the front door open. Your hands were busy flipping a grilled cheese sandwich, the butter sizzling in the pan. You'd gotten more comfortable in his kitchen over the past weeks, learning where everything was kept, settling into an odd sort of domesticity that you tried not to think too hard about.

"I'm in here," you called out, not turning around as you carefully lifted the golden-brown sandwich onto a waiting plate. "I hope you're hungry. I made tomato soup and-" The words died in your throat as you finally turned to face him.

Minho stood in the kitchen doorway, his usually immaculate appearance in shambles. His expensive suit was torn and bloodied, his face a canvas of bruises and split skin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You watched as the tension in his shoulders visibly eased at the sight of you, his dark eyes softening despite the violence written across his features.

"You're cooking," he said softly, as if that was the most remarkable thing about this moment, not the fact that he looked like he'd been through a war. His gaze took in your messy bun and the silk pajamas that whispered against your skin as you moved, a possessive warmth creeping into his expression despite his battered state.

"Minho..." You stepped toward him, hand reaching out instinctively before you caught yourself. "What happened to you?"

He let you guide him to the master bathroom, his usual iron control giving way to an unexpected docility. Your hands trembled slightly as you helped him out of his ruined jacket, revealing more bruises blooming across his arms. The white dress shirt beneath was spattered with blood, and you carefully unbuttoned it, trying to ignore the way his muscles tensed under your fingertips.

Your breath caught as the shirt fell away. Despite the fresh bruises marring his skin, you couldn't help but notice the lean muscle underneath, the way old scars traced paths across his torso telling stories of previous violence. Minho watched you through hooded eyes as you wet a washcloth with warm water, his hands finding their way to your waist when you stepped between his legs to clean the cuts on his face.

The bathroom felt smaller somehow, the space between you charged with an electricity that made your skin prickle. You could feel the heat of his body, smell his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood. His grip on your waist tightened almost imperceptibly as you dabbed at a particularly nasty cut above his eyebrow.

"My father," he finally said, his voice low and rough. "He sent his men to teach me a lesson." His thumb traced small circles against your hip, the gesture almost unconscious. "He's angry that I took you from the club."

You found yourself leaning into him despite yourself, your free hand resting on his shoulder for balance. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on you - the way his breath ghosted across your collarbone, how his dark eyes never left your face as you worked. It was dangerous, this closing distance between captor and captive, but in that moment, with his vulnerability on display, the lines seemed to blur even further.

He lifted his hand to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek. "So what will you do?" you asked softly, setting the cloth down and pushing his dark hair away from his brooding eyes. "You work for him, right? Doesn't he have all the power?"

Minho's eyes darkened, a flash of something dangerous passing through them. "I'll protect you," he murmured, pulling you closer until you were pressed against his chest. His lips ghosted along your jaw as he spoke, each word a warm caress against your skin. "We can run away together. The possibilities are unending for us."

Your hands trembled where they rested against his bare chest, caught between wanting to push him away and pull him closer. His grip tightened slightly, possessive yet gentle. "Whatever we decide," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, "I'll take care of you. Be someone you deserve."

Your lips met his in a heated rush, all the tension of the past weeks flowing into that single moment of connection. His response was measured, controlled - so different from his usual domineering nature. His hands remained gentle on your waist, letting you set the pace, letting you take what you wanted from him.

The kiss deepened, and you could taste the metallic hint of blood from his split lip, feel the slight wince when you pressed too hard against his bruises. But he didn't pull away. Instead, he let you explore, let you take control for the first time since this strange dance between you began.

When you finally broke apart, his eyes were dark with desire, but there was something else there too - a vulnerability you'd never seen before. His thumb traced your lower lip, his touch feather-light. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I need you to be sure."

You met his gaze steadily, a slight nod answering his question. Without hesitation, you reached for him, fingers trailing along his jaw. "I'm sure," you whispered, the words carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you.

In one fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as if you were something precious. Your breath caught at the tenderness in his touch - so different from the violence you'd witnessed in him before. He carried you to his bed, the silk sheets cool against your skin as he laid you down with utmost care.

Minho's eyes never left yours as he slowly began to undress you, each movement deliberate and reverent. The silk pajamas whispered against your skin as he slid them away, leaving you exposed to his hungry gaze. But instead of the rushed passion you expected, he took his time, starting at your ankles with feather-light kisses that made you shiver.

He worked his way up your legs with agonizing slowness, mapping every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue. His hands followed the path of his mouth, leaving trails of fire in their wake. When he reached the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, your breath hitched, fingers clutching at the sheets beneath you.

"Beautiful," he murmured against your skin, his warm breath making you tremble. His touch was worship, each kiss a prayer, each caress an offering. He took his time exploring every curve, every hollow, treating your body like a temple he'd been waiting his whole life to pray at.

Your thighs quivered beneath his touch as his strong, calloused hands slowly spread them apart, his fingertips leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. His heated gaze darkened with raw desire as he took in the sight of your arousal, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in anticipation. A deep, possessive growl rumbled in his chest, the primal sound sending shivers down your spine. He leaned forward with deliberate slowness, his warm breath ghosting across your sensitive skin before pressing reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, each one moving closer to where you needed him most.

His mouth found your center, tongue tracing delicate patterns that made your back arch off the bed. Each stroke was deliberate, worshipful, drawing desperate sounds from your throat that seemed to fuel his passion. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair as waves of pleasure coursed through you.

Minho groaned against you, the vibrations adding to the overwhelming sensations. "Your sounds," he murmured between kisses, "are the sweetest music I've ever heard." His grip on your thighs tightened as your body writhed beneath his devoted attention.

His talented tongue circled your sensitive bud with increasing pressure, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that made your thighs tremble. When his lips wrapped around your clit and began to suck gently, stars exploded behind your eyes. Your back arched off the bed as waves of pleasure coursed through your body, his name falling from your lips in desperate gasps.

He worked you through your orgasm with gentle laps of his tongue, only pulling away when your tremors subsided. Rising to his feet, Minho's hands moved to his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness. Your eyes followed his movements hungrily as he stripped off his remaining clothes, his impressive length springing free.

In the dim light, you could see the map of scars across his muscled form - some old and faded, others still pink and new. Each mark told a story of survival, of strength. They were as much a part of him as his intense dark eyes and gentle hands. The juxtaposition of his dangerous past and his tender touch only made him more magnetic, more irresistible.

You rose to your knees on the bed, reaching for him with gentle hands. "Let me," you whispered, and something flickered in his dark eyes - surprise, vulnerability, desire all mixed into one. When you guided him to lie back against the pillows, he complied without resistance, his muscled body relaxing under your touch.

Moving between his powerful thighs, you took your time exploring him, trailing soft kisses down his chest and abdomen. Your lips traced the edges of his scars with reverent tenderness, showing love to every mark that life had left on him. His breathing grew heavier with each touch, his hands fisting in the sheets beside him.

When you finally reached his impressive length, you began with feather-light kisses along the shaft, delighting in the way it twitched beneath your lips. Your tongue darted out to taste him, tracing delicate patterns from base to tip. A low groan escaped his throat, his hips lifting slightly off the bed, seeking more of your touch.

"Y/n," he breathed, one hand coming to tangle gently in your hair. The tension in his body told you he was fighting to maintain control, to let you set the pace. You rewarded his patience by taking him into your mouth, inch by inch, your tongue swirling around his sensitive head.

His sharp intake of breath spurred you on. You worked him slowly, reverently, alternating between gentle suction and long, languid licks. His fingers tightened in your hair, not controlling, just connecting, grounding himself in your touch as pleasure coursed through him.

With practiced skill, you took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you increased the suction. His length pulsed against your tongue as you worked him with passionate dedication. Each bob of your head drew increasingly desperate sounds from his throat, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

When you felt him begin to tremble beneath you, you released him with a final, lingering lick. His eyes were dark with need as you crawled up his body, your skin sliding against his. Positioning yourself above him, you slowly sank down onto his length, gasping at the delicious stretch as he filled you completely.

His hands found your hips, steadying you as you adjusted to his size. The look of pure adoration in his eyes made your heart flutter, even as the pleasure of being so intimately connected threatened to overwhelm you.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sensual rhythm that had both of you gasping. His hands tightened on your waist, guiding your movements as you found a perfect tempo together. The moonlight streaming through the windows painted silver patterns across your joined bodies, turning this moment of passion into something almost ethereal.

Minho sat up suddenly, pulling you tight against his chest as he continued thrusting up into you. His lips found your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses as one hand slid up your back to tangle in your hair. The new angle sent sparks of pleasure through your body, drawing a desperate moan from your throat as he hit that perfect spot deep inside you.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak, your bodies moving together in perfect synchronization. His lips captured yours in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans as his thrusts became more urgent, more desperate. The coil of tension in your core wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

You could feel him getting close - his controlled rhythm faltering as passion overtook technique. His movements grew increasingly desperate, hips snapping up with primal urgency as his kisses became messier, more demanding. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks, anchoring you against him as you rolled your hips to meet each powerful thrust. When your name fell from his lips, it was reverent yet raw - "Y/n... oh god..." - the words muffled against your throat between ragged breaths.

This transcended mere physical pleasure. Each touch, each kiss felt like an act of worship, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony. Your heart swelled with an emotion far deeper than desire, threatening to burst from your chest. In that moment of perfect connection, you surrendered completely to the feeling, knowing with absolute certainty that you were irrevocably his.

His thrusts grew erratic, hitting deeper and harder as you both chased your release. When it finally crashed over you, it was overwhelming - waves of pleasure coursing through every nerve ending as your walls clenched around him rhythmically. Your breathless cries of ecstasy mingled with his deep, guttural groans. His hips stuttered as he followed you over the edge, his release hot and pulsing deep inside you as your bodies trembled together.

Completely spent, you collapsed onto his heaving chest, both of you slick with sweat and struggling to catch your breath. His heart thundered against your ear as his hands traced lazy patterns along your spine. Despite your shared state of dishevelment, he held you close, refusing to let go.

Minho's lips found your skin again, pressing tender kisses along your jaw and down the column of your neck. Each touch was filled with affection, marking you as his in the gentlest way possible. Wrapped in his strong arms, surrounded by his warmth, you drifted off to sleep listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the gradual slowing of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

---

The next morning you were woken up by early morning light drifting in from the large windows. Your body was a bit sore as you rolled over onto your back, stretching your muscles slowly. As you moved the blankets rustled next to you revealing a very cute and puffy looking Minho. He was still a sleep and you couldn’t help but stare. His hair a mess, his lips pouty and pink.

You couldn't suppress a soft giggle at the sight before you - this dangerous, powerful man now looking utterly defenseless in his sleep. His usual sharp features had softened, making him appear almost boyish. The contrast between his daytime intensity and this vulnerable state made your heart flutter. With gentle fingers, you traced the strong line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. Your touch wandered up to follow the elegant slope of his nose, admiring how his long eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks in the morning light. He was devastatingly handsome - the kind of beauty that made your breath catch every time you looked at him. When your fingertips ghosted across his full bottom lip, you felt him beginning to stir beneath your touch.

"Having fun?" Minho's voice was thick with sleep, a deep rumble that sent shivers down your spine. Though his eyes remained closed, a knowing smirk played at the corners of his mouth. His morning voice was deliciously husky, each word dripping like honey. Your pulse quickened as those dark eyes slowly fluttered open, still heavy-lidded but instantly focused on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Before you could stammer out a response, his strong arms snaked around your waist. In one fluid motion, he pulled your naked body flush against his, eliminating any space between you. The heat radiating from his skin was intoxicating - he was like your own personal furnace, radiating warmth and comfort. His firm chest pressed against yours as you eagerly molded yourself to him, your legs tangling with his beneath the sheets. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine.

You both lay there in silence for a while, basking in the peaceful morning stillness. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours and the soft caress of his fingers along your spine created a bubble of serenity that you wished could last forever. But the weight of reality couldn't be held at bay indefinitely.

Minho's voice, when he finally broke the silence, carried a gravity that made your heart clench. "You know, my father won't stop," he said, his jaw tightening visibly. "He sees you as something I’ve taken from him - a possession, a bargaining chip. He'll never understand that you're not his to claim." His words hung heavy between you, laden with unspoken fears and promises.

You sat up slowly to look at him properly, the silk sheets sliding away from your body. Though the morning air was cool against your exposed skin, you barely noticed it. Minho's eyes remained fixed on your face, his dark gaze intense with a mixture of concern and fierce protectiveness. The vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache.

"Minho," you whispered, reaching out to trace the worried crease between his brows. "I'm with you. Whatever we need to do... whatever battles we have to fight, whatever sacrifices we have to make - I'll do it all as long as I'm with you. Your father, the organization, none of it matters compared to this - to us."

The impact of your words hit him like a physical force. You watched as his carefully maintained walls crumbled, leaving him completely bare before you - no longer the feared enforcer or the dutiful son, but simply a man in love. His hands trembled slightly as they came up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing softly across your cheekbones. The tenderness in his touch contrasted sharply with the intensity burning in his eyes.

He pulled you close, capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke volumes. It was desperate and gentle all at once, filled with gratitude, fear, hope, and above all, love. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes bore into your soul with newfound determination. "Then we leave," he breathed against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. "We'll disappear, start fresh somewhere they can't reach us. Make a life for ourselves far away from all of this - just you and me."

Tags:

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[a-court-of-lust-and-stardust]

Love on Ice Chapter 16: The Bracelets

Thanks again for keeping this story alive!!! Chapter 15 was posted a few moments ago, so make sure you read that first! Please leave comments on the story and art ❤️

26 Days until competition

“What do you mean you don't want to spend time with me?” Azriel questioned playfully. Socked feet propped up on the coffee table, Azriel stretched his body as he held his phone, content to watch Elain who had been frantically running around her kitchen for thirty minutes. 

On the other end of the video call, Elain snickered as she put the finishing touches on the cooled down cake. It was a simple red velvet cake covered in thick cream cheese frosting. 

“That is not what I said at all,” She chuckled, smoothing out the icing with a butter knife. “Nesta is having a girls’ night. I figured it would be good if I went for a little while.”

Azriel's heart squeezed in his chest. The meeting with Miryam and Drakon had been one of his best ideas. It’d only been a few days since then, but there was no trace of the doubts that had previously plagued her brain. She’d needed a reminder of what skating was all about. A reminder that she was strong and capable, and could give herself permission to be entertained. To open her heart and let love, any kind of love, burrow its way in. 

They’d spent a good two and a half hours at the Snowspell rink, jumping between showing the married couple their ice dance routine, and carefully learning intricate lifts only allowed in the pairs skating program. Miryam talked Elain’s ear off, sharing early stories of her and Drakon’s relationship while Drakon relentlessly teased Azriel any chance he got about the way he wore his heart on his sleeve. After they’d left the rink, Elain’s joy could be felt across Prythian. Azriel had dreamed of Elain’s lips on his cheek that same night. 

“I didn't realize you were so hellbent on seeing me anyway,” Elain taunted, licking the frosting from the knife when she’d finished. There was something so erotic about this sweet, soft woman licking what could double as a deadly weapon. 

“Spending time with you is the best part of my week,” Azriel answered truthfully, adjusting so that one arm was underneath his head. “There's nothing better.” 

“Not even hockey?” She asked quietly, doe eyes wide in surprise as she gingerly sprinkled pink hearts onto the cake. He’d gotten lost in those eyes on more than one occasion. He’d also caught those pretty brown eyes looking at him in a way she never had before. Almost as if he’d finally become something more to her than just a skating partner. More than just a friend. His cheeks warmed at the possibility. 

Azriel spoke softly, “No, not even that.” And it wasn’t a lie. Everything else dulled in comparison to spending whatever little time he could with her. 

“And what will you do while I am occupied tonight?” Either a genuine question, or a way to squash the palpable tension that could be felt even across a video call.

“Maybe I'll throw my own guys’ night,” He suggested, though a night alone was tempting. 

“Whatever you do, do not corrupt my nephew,” She said, pointing the knife at the camera. 

“I wouldn’t dream of stealing Cassian’s job.” A moment passed before he said more solemnly, “Promise me you’ll call if you need me for anything.” 

Elain’s face flushed. She wondered if her cheeks would always heat or her heart would always glow when he showed just how much he cared about her. “I promise.” 

Elain stood outside Nesta's door with the cake cradled between her hands. Her cheeks were tinted pink from the wind, matching the sprinkles on the sweet treat. Laughter erupted from behind the door, and Elain decided she couldn’t flee now even if she wanted to. A very tipsy Nesta had spotted her through the window and ran to fling open the door, enveloping Elain in a warm embrace. With a laugh, Elain gently scolded her older sister for almost crushing the cake. 

The inside of Nesta’s home smelled like cinnamon, embers from the fireplace, and three different types of alcohol. On the couch, Feyre lounged with a glass of red wine as dark as the accent pillows. Two girls sat on the floor, a brunette and a redhead, with a giant unopened box between them. 

“Am I late?” Elain asked sheepishly, nodding her hellos. She turned to Nesta. “You said to come over at eight. How are you already tipsy?” 

“No comment,” Nesta slurred, patting Elain’s cheeks. She must have had a few drinks before anyone arrived. “And you’re right on time. Elain, meet Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie teaches mixed martial arts here in the Night Region, and Gwyn owns a vocal studio in Summer.” 

All three girls flashed bright grins between each other. Elain placed the cake down on the kitchen table and said softly, “I baked a cake. I hope everyone likes red velvet.” 

Everyone did, in fact, enjoy red velvet cake. The treat was gone within the hour, along with most of Feyre’s delicately crafted charcuterie board. Gwyn’s exotic fruit tray had also been a hit, and the drinks were flowing and constantly being refilled. Bottles of wine, liquor, and even sparkling ciders were quickly becoming empty. 

Elain, to her sisters’ shock, had indulged in perhaps one too many drinks as well. She’d burst open from her shell, nodding along to Gwyn’s stories and laughing loudly at Emerie’s drunk antics. Feyre’s eyes glittered as she and Elain drunkenly swayed to music, and Nesta’s cackle could be heard all the way in Day region at Elain’s attempts at filthy jokes. 

“What’s in the box?” Elain motioned toward Gwyn, who eagerly unsnapped the locks and turned it around for everyone to get a better look. Elain’s hazy eyes took a moment to focus. 

“One of my vocal kiddos brought me this bracelet kit for Solstice last year,” She beamed, fiddling with the bracelet strings before passing them around. “I haven’t found time to make any yet, so I figured tonight would be perfect. Silly, harmless fun. There’s enough for me to make bracelets for all my students and for you all too, if you’d like.” 

Elain accepted her string, rubbing it between her fingers. In all her twenty six years, she’d never experienced something as simple as making a beaded bracelet with friends. Lighthearted, easy fun had never been a choice. 

And now it was.

So she grabbed another string, scooped a pile of beads and charms from the box, and permitted herself to create a memory that in years time, she’d hold dear to her heart. 

The last bottle of wine had just been cracked open as the doorbell shrieked. Emerie, closest to the door, opened it and blinked. 

“We heard there was a party.” 

Elain watched Nesta’s head whip toward the front door, mouth falling open as Cassian stomped into the house, followed closely by Rhys and…

“Azriel,” Elain breathed, not as quiet as she thought. His gaze found hers immediately, shooting a wink in her direction. 

She didn’t know where to look first. 

The short sleeve black shirt that seemed to suffocate his arms.

The gray sweatpants that hung loosely off his hips. 

The backward black cap. 

The molten hazel eyes. 

The smirk that always sent her heart into overdrive. 

She didn’t know where to look first, so she just…looked. 

And if he gave her shit about it, or tried to joke about her ogling him, she’d blame it on the three and a half glasses of wine she’d consumed. 

Elain stood, blocking out Rhys and Feyre’s conversation about Nyx’s bedtime routine with their sitter named Madja, and completely ignoring Cassian’s lame attempts at flirting with Nesta (who only seemed to be enjoying said attempts due to the large amount of vodka in her system). 

She walked right over to Azriel, whose grin was blinding. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What have you been up to, beautiful? You look like you’ve been having a good time.” 

Elain offered a lazy smile of her own, extending her hand and wiggling her fingers as the other was clenched behind her back. “Follow me.” She led him to the back porch, sticking out her tongue at Cassian’s wolf whistle (which earned him a smack on the chest from Nesta), before shutting the door for privacy. 

“I got you something,” Elain said, shaking her head at the mistake. Giggles erupted from her throat. “Well, technically, I made you something.” In a movement so swift she almost lost her balance, she presented her clenched fist toward him, revealing a pair of bracelets. She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I know you have my necklace, but now we have matching good luck charms, too.” 

Azriel blinked. 

Elain bit her lip, stained cherry red from the wine. “Is it stupid? We don’t have to wear them. They’re probably not good anyway since I’m a bit tipsy and couldn’t really see the colors of the beads but–.”

“Put it on me.” 

The rambling paused. “What?” 

He presented his wrist, saying thickly, “Put it on me.” 

A relieved breath escaped her lips as she secured the pink bracelet around his wrist. It took her five tries to finally knot the string, playfully pouting when Azriel teased her about watching her alcohol intake. The middle beads made up her name, and the blue bracelet she had him tie around her own wrist featured his name, too. A claiming of the sort. 

“Miryam told me that she and Drakon used to wear a matching set of rings on the day of their competition to bring them luck,” Elain hiccupped, covering her mouth when another set of drunken giggles left her mouth. Azriel leaned against the back of a chair on the porch, arms crossed and eyes mesmerized by the current state of his partner. “Cresseida and Varian have matching warm-up jackets, and I know Kallias and Viviane have each other’s initials tattooed on the inside of their wrists. They kiss the tattoos before they skate. I wanted us to have something, too. Even if it’s just a silly beaded bracelet made after one too many glasses of merlot.” 

Elain felt herself being pulled into Azriel’s chest. She sank into him, nuzzling her face into the fabric of his shirt. He held her to him, fingers running through her honey-gold strands. 

“I hope you know I’m never taking this off,” Azriel said, lips brushing against her hair. She smelled faintly of jasmine, honey, and the wine she’d consumed. Familiar and intoxicating. 

Elain, arms still wrapped tightly around Azriel’s torso, tilted her head back to say, “That’s the point.” 

They were content to embrace each other in the dark of the night. At least, Azriel truly was. But it was Elain who pulled away first, just enough so there was a sliver of space between their bodies. Azriel folded his arms over his chest, face easy as he watched Elain look him over unabashedly. 

“Checking me out?” He teased, lips quirking. 

He expected her to flush like she always did. And of course she did. But the rose color that blossomed high on her cheeks was accompanied by a sultry voice. “And if I am?” 

She stepped forward again, and Azriel audibly swallowed as her fingernail traced the dark ink along his bicep. Her movements were slow, exploratory, and hell he could do nothing but stand there and let her touch him. 

Her fingers grazed the tattoos on his neck next. Azriel bit his lip to stifle a groan before murmuring, “Then that makes two of us.” 

Indeed, because he was growing less subtle whenever his eyes lingered on her body over the last few days. The urge to touch her, taste her, had been far more consuming now than in the beginning of their partnership. 

But he wouldn’t touch her, nor would he taste her. 

Not yet. 

Not in this state. 

“Az?” She whispered into the night, index finger tracing the sharpness of his jaw, the outline of his lips. His pants visibly tightened, and he prayed to whatever entity existed that she didn’t look down, lest she be uncomfortable. 

“Mm?” 

“What’s it like?” She asked softly, thumbing the plushness of his bottom lip. Her eyes focused on his mouth, savoring the warmth of his breath, before saying, “To be kissed?” 

Every piece of Azriel froze. 

His thoughts and his bones and his blood and his breathing and his heart. Time was suspended as he let the question sink in.

“I’ve never been kissed before,” Elain went on, eyes a shade of deep brown. Azriel couldn’t, wouldn’t, tear his own gaze away from her. Not while she was looking at him as if she might ravish him wholly. “And I’ve never kissed anyone myself but I…” She swallowed then, the only outward show of nerves. “I think I’d like to kiss you one day.” 

Azriel’s heart leaped. He didn’t care that her words were a bit slurred and thick from the wine. Didn’t care that she was revealing a piece of herself while she wasn’t sober. Despite the alcohol in her veins, he knew her words were truthful. “I think I’d like to kiss you, too.” 

One moment, Elain’s eyes were roving over his face, his body, and her hands were tracing and gently gripping any sliver of exposed skin. The next second, her lips quivered and eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “But I can’t.” 

Azriel’s face fell, and he gripped her wrist in his hand, their bracelets glinting in the moonlight as he cradled her hand against his cheek. “Why not?” He asked in a broken rasp. 

Elain pulled away, although every instinct in her body told her not to. He looked visibly in pain, as if her words had sliced through his chest. “There’s too many reasons why we can’t do this. As much as I want to, we just…can’t.” 

He would get no more information out of her, he knew. So he accepted her answer with a curt nod of his head and released her wrist. He already missed the feeling of her skin. 

“I have a pretty good idea what some of those reasons are,” Azriel said. “But let me just say one thing.” And because he was a greedy bastard, he stepped forward and placed either of his hands on the sides of her neck, thumbs stroking her skin. Beneath her neck, he could feel the rapid thrum of her pulse. “If any of your reservations are because of…me…I need you to know I would never force you, never pressure you, to do anything. If anything ever happens between us, it will be on your terms, when you are ready.” 

Elain’s eyes flashed, Azriel’s face the depiction of wary. Full of conviction, she said, “None of those reasons are because of you, Azriel. Please never think that. I trust you with my body as much as I trust you with my life.” 

Azriel groaned, forehead bumping against hers. “Fuck, Elain. Tell me you understand I’d take care of you. Tell me you know that.” 

She nodded sheepishly. 

“No,” Instinctually, he gripped her chin between his fingers, never hard enough to cause pain. Only to keep her there with him just a bit longer. “Tell me.” 

She stood straighter, chest brushing against his own. Elain gauged the raw emotion in his eyes and said, “I know you would take care of me. In every way possible if I allowed you to.”

Azriel dipped his chin once, kissing her nose before breathing, “Good.” And because his mouth was just a hair's breadth away from her lips, and because the temptation to claim her was so strong, he pulled away and offered, “How about I take you home, yeah? You look like you’re going to pass out any minute.” 

Elain chuckled after stifling a well timed yawn. In her tipsy haze, she whispered, “Only if you promise to carry me to my bed if I fall asleep in the car.” 

And yes, Elain had fallen asleep within minutes of strapping her seatbelt. It took Azriel a moment to fish out her apartment key from her purse, but once he found it, he carefully maneuvered Elain out of his car, cradling her to his chest as he expertly unlocked the door. 

Even without the promise, he still would have carried her to bed anyway. The thought of changing her into something more comfortable infiltrated his mind, but he decided against it. He wasn't sure how she would feel in the morning if she knew he had seen her, if only for a brief moment, in a vulnerable state. 

So he laid her on the bed, peeling off her shoes before securing her under the puffy, white comforter blanket. After some rummaging in her bathroom cabinets, he found a pack of makeup remover wipes, and gingerly scrubbed her face. Even with all of the jostling, she remained fast asleep and as peaceful as a dove. 

Azriel knew he should’ve left right then, but he perched himself on the side of her bed and gently stroked her now makeup free cheek. He knew what this feeling meant inside his chest. The feeling he wanted to let erupt, but one he had to keep contained until she felt the same way. 

“You have my heart, Elain Archeron,” He whispered into the silent night, kissing her cheek before he stood from the bed. “I hope one day you let me into yours.” 

ARTWORK FOR THE CHAPTER BY @chachachai17: Here

DIVIDER BY: @saradika-graphics

[kazuhahalol]

— winners love winning! | maki zenin x f! reader

short and sweet story of how you met the hotheaded, green haired girl you’ve grown to love so dearly. not only is she a winner, but she’s a winner that loves winning.

warnings: none

word count: 394

Your first day at Jujutsu Tech was nothing short of overwhelming. The school wasn’t exactly bustling with students—Jujutsu sorcerers were a rare breed—but the weight of its history and reputation pressed on your shoulders. You felt small walking through the courtyard, your gaze flitting between the imposing buildings and the few figures you spotted in the distance.

“Hey, you lost or something?”

The sharp voice startled you. You turned to see a woman standing a few feet away, her arms crossed and her expression cool and assessing. She wore glasses, though the intensity in her eyes made it clear she didn’t need them to see through you. You’d be lying if you said she didn’t give you a gay panic.

“I, uh… yeah,” you admitted sheepishly, pulling your sleeves down your wrists out of nervousness. “First day. I was looking for the training grounds.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “If you can’t find your way there, you’re going to have a hard time keeping up here.”

The bluntness of her words stung, but there was no malice behind them. If anything, there was a challenge—a test to see how you’d react.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied, standing a little straighter. “Thanks for the… encouragement?”

A flicker of amusement passed over her face, so brief you almost missed it. “Maki Zenin,” she said, extending a hand. “Second-year. If you’re going to stick around, you’ll probably see me a lot.”

You took her hand, surprised by how firm her grip was. “Y/N,” you replied. “I guess I’ll be seeing you, then.”

She studied you for a moment longer, her gaze piercing but not unkind. “Hmph. Don’t get in my way, and we’ll get along just fine.”

Before you could respond, she turned on her heel and started walking away, her green hair catching the light as she moved. You wondered how it would feel to run a hand through her silky hair.

Something about her intrigued you—her confidence, her strength, the unshakable aura she carried. But it wasn’t until you spotted her later on the training grounds, dismantling a wooden dummy with surgical precision, that you realized just how determined she was. She was totally your type.

As she wiped the sweat from her brow and glanced over at you, you gave her a small nod of acknowledgment. Her lips quirked upward in the faintest smirk before she turned back to her training. Maki Zenin wasn’t going to make things easy for you. But then again, that was exactly why you couldn’t wait to get to know her better.

[sugahbunni]

jake as your bfs best friend except jake reallly likes you.

jake knows its just so wrong of him as heeseungs best friend, to have a crush on his gf. but how could he not? your blushing red cheeks, pouty lips and shiny eyes and perfect hair. its been months and he cant seem to get over you. he wonders how your hair feels, how your skin feels and how your lips would feel against his. when heeseung introduced you to jake, jake swears his heart flips. your puffy cheeks painted in a faint red from the cold weather. your innocent eyes flickering everywhere, and your delicate hand shaking his hand. and your voice seemed to be laced with honey. "i'm yn, nice to meet you!". jake nervously smiles, your hair distracting him. its so shiny and soft, he wonders how it must feel to tou- "right jake, ill see you around" heeseung pats jake on the shoulder, walking off with you holding his hand. "r-right" jake stutters, watching you stride away. "shes perfect".

you and jake had one class together, to his surprise you came up to him and asked if you could sit with him. "you're heeseungs friend, right?! oh my gosh im so glad i know someone here, can i sit here?". to which jake gladly says yes to. a few days in and jake realizes how this is a very distracting situation. your knee often scratches against jakes, a soft "sorry" coming from you. he can't help but feel butterflies when your elbow brushes against his. he seriosly cannot focus on anything but how close you are to him. god, this isnt helping his small crush on you.

you and jake have gotten closer over the last few weeks, cracking jokes and hanging around campus. heeseung doesnt mind, in his words "yn is completely tied to me" which jake hated to hear but what could he do?. jake often brings your favorite snacks, he loves how your face brightens up when he gives them to you. "thanks jakey" you smile at him softly. jake feels his cheeks heat up a bit, holding back a huge smile. "y-you're welcome".

jake cant seem to get over you, he managed to get a picture of you (dont ask how hes already creeped out by himself). in the picture, you're wearing a white babydoll sweater and a matching skirt. with your glittery makeup again. "fuck" jake mutters, staring at your picture and running his hand through his hair. "be mine" he groans out of frustration, placing his hands in his hands. he then goes on insta and goes to your profile, tapping through your highlight named "me!!:3". he scans your selfies throughly, a grin plastered across his face. "yns so pretty, shit" he curses. hes examining your outfits, he really likes how you wear skirts even in this cold weather. he sets his phone down and picks up the picture of you. "can't get over you".

during the end of the class, jake is distracted once again by your overall appearance. he notices you're wearing glitter in the corner of your eyes. "nice shimmer" jake comments, and you immediately reply with a thank you. "oh thank you! haha not even heeseung noticed when i wore it yesterday..". jake scrunches his nose up, he knows his best friend is not exactly the best guy to commit yourself to. he wonders if you know heeseungs long history of dating girls. how could a sweet girl like you become one of them? "i'll see you tonight? dont forget you invited me to pizza!" you pout jokingly, patting jakes shoulder. "right! tonight" he replies, watching you walk off. "tonight ..".

jake knows heeseung is not exactly the best bf. so now that you're both close, you're often calling up jake. asking where heeseung is, why heeseung isnt answering your calls and why heeseung seems distant. taking advantage of this everytime, jake invites you to his place where you ramble with snot coming out of your nose. "i swear he has something to do with this girl named karina, he said they're just friends but.." you sniffle, jake placing a napkin under your runny nose. "its ok yn, maybe you should find someone who could you treat better". he knows hes throwing heeseung under the bus for saying this but honestly? he doesnt care. he hates how heeseung treats you as an afterthought. you spend the night at jakes. and once you knocked out, jake couldn't help but stare at you in your sleeping state. your small breaths, your twitching lips and your messy hair. you looked perfect. jake carefully brushes the hair out of your face. "please be mine, yn".

you, heeseung, and jake decided to go to a cafe. you and heeseung got there before jake. so when jake came into the cafe and saw you giggling uncontrollably at whatever heeseung said, he sighed in defeat. you were leaning against heeseung, your hand intertwined with his. jake sighs again, watching you both from afar.

"i just cant come between them" jake thinks to himself. "yn is completely in love with him".

he quite literally feels nervous, he decides to just go home. he often gets stomachaches from thinking about how you're his best friends gf. and how he cant have you. it gets so had that he gets anxious from thinking about it too much. is it that serious ? yes, yes it is. like sometimes when jake passes by the libeary, he sees you and heeseung. jakes heart flushes down to his stomach when he sees you smiling brightly at heeseung. he quite literally feels sick to his stomach knowing you'll never be his.

jake lays out in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. he has your picture in his hand, rubbing his finger against your face. he gives it a soft kiss, cringing at himself for doing so but thats what you do when you like someone. jake thinks he likes you a little bit too much now, your personality is absolutely electric in his eyes. its been five months since he met you, and five months since you and heeseung have been dating.

will jake ever get over you? as long as you and heeseung are dating, he dont think he ever will.

like ever.

[sebsxphia]

Applying sunscreen on Jake. He sits on the beach towel you put out while you are kneeling behind him. Your hands go around his sides and up to his pecs, and you kiss his neck while squeezing your hands a little - just to make sure he gets goosebumps. You also had to lean in to make sure you covered his whole chest, your front pressing against his back. He can feel your tiny baby bump that just made its appearance a few days ago. He hums at the feeling, having to consciously make an effort at keeping his eyes open, so he doesn't lose track of your little daughter currently playing catch with the shallow waves that lick the sand, her adorable shrieks of delight when the water touches her toes before she runs away from it warming both of your hearts more than the blazing Sun could ever warm your skin. Jake takes your hand once you are finished with lathering him with the sunscreen and kisses your fingers over where your wedding band and engagement ring rest. You press one more kiss to his cheek before patting the side of his butt and watch him get up and race over to your daughter, picking her up, throwing her in the air a bit before catching her again, pulling her into his chest and peppering her face with kisses, her continuous giggles making your smile with happy tears in your eyes and lead your hand to cover your bump, caress it, letting the coolness of your rings ground you in the moment.

-💚

oh my goodness, please! my beloved anon! 🥺😭 you always know how to write the most picturesque and perfect scenarios. anything you write, ever, is all i dream about with jake 🥺 this was so sweet to read and comforted me a great deal! thank you for this sweet thought, my beloved anon! 🥰💌

[ashortdropandasuddenstop]

James watched as Killian moved with an almost effortless swagger, pulling out a bottle of brandy and corking it with his hook like it was the most natural thing in the world. His usual instinct might have been to scoff, to roll his eyes at the flamboyance, but the memory of Killian remembering his favorite drink softened him. It was such a simple detail, yet it spoke volumes.

Taking the offered glass, he swirled the dark liquid briefly before lifting it to his nose, inhaling the rich, fruity aroma. He glanced up at Killian, who was already lounging in his makeshift throne like he owned not just the ship, but the entire sea itself. James couldn’t help but shake his head, a reluctant chuckle escaping him.

"You remembered that?" he asked softly, his voice losing its usual edge. He blinked down at the glass, the rich amber liquid catching the dim light. A faint blush crept over his cheeks as he raised the glass again, taking a deliberate sip to occupy himself and mask his reaction.

Why it touched him so, he couldn’t fully understand. Perhaps it was the way Killian had said it so easily, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to remember such a detail about someone he’d parted ways with years ago. Or maybe it was that Killian’s acknowledgment of something so personal felt… kind, in a way James wasn’t used to.

James found himself watching Killian again, his sharp eyes softening as he took in the pirate’s effortless charm. The way he moved about the cabin, his confidence, his grin that was somehow both infuriating and disarming at the same time.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to break the lingering silence . “You’ve certainly come a long way from the boy who couldn’t tie a proper knot without getting it tangled.” He raised the glass in a small toast before taking a sip. The brandy was smooth, with a subtle sweetness that lingered on his tongue. He hated to admit it, but it was rather good.

Then nearly choked on it when he was offered the position. “ You’d trust me with your precious Jolly Roger?” His tone was dry but teasing, the edges of his words softened by the warmth of the brandy. “ I.. suppose that would be preferable. Than deckhand.. I mean. Thank you.“ He pauses a beat and… removes his hat and wig. Being comfortable meant shedding those constrictive hot layers. Letting longish but still well groomed hair loose. He wasn’t a Commodore right now-- or.. anymore. "But I don't believe I well ever grow accustomed to piracy. Or condone it"

James’s lips quirked into a dry smile as he swirled the brandy in his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. “Fate does have a peculiar sense of humor,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of irony and resignation. “I suppose I’ve no one to blame but myself for ending up in this... position.”

He glanced at Killian, the corner of his mouth twitching upward as he added, “Though I imagine you’re finding this turn of events endlessly amusing.”

James leaned back slightly, letting the weight of the situation settle in the room. He raised his glass in a small, half-hearted toast. “To fate, then. And to the pirate who’s found himself, inexplicably, in charge of a commodore.”

"Back to judging are we?" Killian asked with a roll of his eyes. Even though they were alone once again old habits died hard, they had their moment of understanding but that wasn't going to change the mindset of a man who had hated pirates all his life. The young man understood it would take some time and some things James might never come to terms with.

He stepped away from James and kicked some of his treasure out of the way as he crossed the room to his liquor cabinet to look through it. "Brandy still your favorite? Lets see... Ooh~ I think you'll like this black cherry brandy." Killian grabbed a bottle and tucked it under his arm to hold and snagged two crystal glasses to bring over to the desk. He set them down then grabbed the bottle he used his hook to tug out the cork.

"I'm sure this'll all be a shock for you and needing some time to adjust..." Killian began as he filled the glasses for them. "You don't have to participate in any of our raiding. Just be a deckhand, or maybe my navigator! I usually do that myself but it would be nice to have some help with that." He said with some cheer as he moved around his desk to sit down in his throne. The bottle set down the pirate captain reached out to take his glass and bring it to his lips.

"I never would've thought I'd ever be in charge of you. Kinda funny how the fate works sometimes." Killian said with a chuckle. He was purposefully trying to keep the mood light because in reality he knew his former mentor's world had just been crushed. The life he had in the royal navy effectively over and all he knew was turned upside down. "Enjoy your drink, get comfortable. You can stay in here tonight and tomorrow get you a spot set up in the crews quarters."

[goldencuffs]

Hi Rubyyyy 💖✨ the new chapter of All My Words is amazing!!!! Oh my gosh I LOVED it. There is something just so delicious about the entire dynamic. Just Isander and Laurent are ~not compatible but Laurent and Damen are literally perfect for each other and they both want to take care/be taken care sooo much it's insane. I literally squeal every time Laurent follows Damen's commands so easily. Anyway, it remains one of my favorite fics ever and I can't wait to read what is next. Thank you SO much for sharing.

AHH THANK YOU!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

yes!!! i always thought for this kind of fic/concept to work, laurent would need to be very obviously incompatible with isander—to the point where damen feels the need to step in and take care of him

and laurent obviously needs some guidance and company too hehe 😁😁

[findafight]

Robin chose Steve. Robin made the conscious and deliberate decision that she could and would trust Steve. She already liked him! She had fun working and bantering with him! They were already on their way to being weird little bffs and the torture just expedited the process. Steve chose Robin just the same! He thinks she's fun and cool and likes her so much! He chose to be honest and open with her too, putting himself out there.

Even though their interests on the surface level don't match why wouldn't they share them? Steve clearly caves when Robin wants to watch a movie he doesn't think he'll like, Robin can watch a March madness game or five.

Stop trying to take away their bond oh my god people can be close to more than one person!!! Their best friend doesn't have to be dismissive or mean or whatever in order for a romance to be special to them!