#thank you again odd for this!!! :D

[kate-bot]

commission for @oddpizza !!!!!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO DO!!!!

[telesodalite]

I need to be weirder about the scavengers and cannibalism...

[chuluoyi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄

- zayne x reader

everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?

genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter

note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone

You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.

There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.

And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.

"Miss, do you need help?"

But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.

"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."

The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"

"Hmm, no, actually I am—"

You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.

"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."

"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."

"Thank you."

"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."

"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"

"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"

Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.

"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"

Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"

He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"

You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.

His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter—who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.

Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him—utterly, hopelessly whipped.

"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.

"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."

Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.

Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?

...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.

Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.

There you were. But not alone.

With a guy.

Whose hand is touching your lips.

"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"

The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."

"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.

You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."

"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"

You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.

You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."

His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.

The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.

"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"

Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.

He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.

. . .

"Zayne!"

Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.

"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"

Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—

No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?

"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"

Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.

It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.

It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.

That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"

"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"

He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"

"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"

That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."

You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."

"I don't fuss," he retorted.

"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."

Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?

Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"

Damn.

"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"

How had you figured him out so easily?

You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"

Enough. This time, his patience snapped.

He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.

"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.

The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.

Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.

"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...

...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.

With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.

"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."

Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.

When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.

In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"

Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.

You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—

Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.

His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.

Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.

The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.

"For bad wives, yeah."

"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."

Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.

"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."

"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.

"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.

Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:

"Well, if your voice won't wake our daughter, that is."

Epilogue

Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.

Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.

"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"

Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.

Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.

"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.

"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.

"Huh?"

"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."

"O-oh, and her husband is—"

"Me. I am her husband."

Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the poor resident before slamming the door shut in his face.

Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.

Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"

He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.

You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.

"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"

[mammonscheeks]

obey me brothers reacting to a malnourished mc

⤑ a/n: I feel like this is the most canon writing I’ve ever done yet... enjoy! 

⤑ warnings: none 

obey me masterlist | requesting rules 

DEMON BROTHERS REACTING TO A MALNOURISHED MC 

“Hey, MC! You’re lucky because you get to go out with The Great Mammon tonight! We’ll hit the casino n’ leave with our pockets stuffed, and then we can go clubbing! What d’ya say?” 

“...”

“MC?” 

Mammon put his warm hands on your shoulders and shook gently, not used to your lack of response. He furrowed his eyebrows as he caught sight of the dark bags under your dull eyes. 

“Yeesh, MC! Did ya get into a fight or something?” Mammon joked, trying his best to hide the fact that he was worried about his human. 

“Huh?” you blinked as you realized you had just been zoning out. “I, uh.... Shit! I forgot my potions textbook in my room, I’ll see you all later!” 

“Language,” Lucifer sternly reminded you as you haphazardly scurried out of the classroom, your mind "lagging” as Leviathan would put it. The demon brothers watched you leave, shooting odd looks at each other. 

“I don’t think MC’s been getting enough sleep,” Belphie yawned.

“As much as I hate to agree with Belphegor, he’s right. They seem quite fatigued.” Lucifer said, staring intently at his brothers. “Leviathan, did you force MC to play video games with you all night again?”

“Don’t accuse me first,” Leviathan grumbled. “But no, I was catching up on some anime alone last night.”

“Maybe MC needs to eat some more,” Beelzebub said, snacking on some chips despite the ‘no food’ sign in the front of the classroom. “Oh, I have an idea! Let’s get Luke and Simeon to cook a celestial feast.” 

“You obviously only want that for your own self interest,” Satan rolled his eyes. “I’ve read a book on this. Maybe MC’s malnourished? Humans are fragile, of course. Additionally, the Devildom provides little natural light from the sun like in the human world.” 

“I know just the cure!” Asmodeus gasped, pulling up Akuzon on his D.D.D. “Aaand it’s ordered!” 

“You better not have used my Akuzon account for whatever beauty product you bought,” Leviathan raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh hush, Levi. Trust me, this will fix MC up right away!” 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The package arrived by the end of the school day, thanks to Levi’s Akuzon Prime subscription. 

Mammon held up a colorful piece of gelatin in his hand, inspecting it thoroughly. 

“So this... Vitamin gummy... Is gonna help MC? This tiny little colorful thing? Seriously?” He grunted. 

“Wow... Humans are weaker than I imagined,” Satan frowned, squishing one in his hand. “They have to eat these to stay alive?”

“Beel, don’t you dare think about eating MC’s gummies,” Belphegor scolded his twin. 

“And don’t forget, I also got MC a sunlight lamp!” Asmodeus’ eyes glittered. “Apparently, these provide light therapy by tricking the human body into thinking they’re receiving natural light!” 

“It seems that humans have weak minds then,” Lucifer sighed. “Either that, or we’ve been fooled.” 

You walked into the HOL, stifling a yawn. Your entire body felt heavy from fatigue. It seemed like you had taken the human world’s abundance of sunlight and Vitamin D for granted. Solomon had helped you by casting a energy spell for the first few months you had lived here, but even that was starting to wear off.

“MC!” Mammon basically tripped over his brothers to rush to you. “Take one before you die!” 

Startled, you looked up just in time to see Mammon basically shoving a gummy in your mouth, before you were immediately blinded by Asmodeus holding a warm light in your face. 

You covered your face and squinted your eyes, seeing the eager and expecting eyes of the demon brothers. 

“Guys, what are you doing?” You questioned. This was pretty unexpected, but you were used to the brothers pranks and shenanigans. 

“We just wanted to help! We heard you were malnutritioned because it’s always dark in the Devildom!” Mammon said. 

“So we bought a sun lamp and some vitamin gummies for you,” Belphegor yawned. 

“Aw, guys... Thank you!” You smiled happily. Even though you hadn’t told the brothers explicitly what was wrong, thinking you could take care of it yourself, they had of course, noticed. Your heart swelled with appreciation, until you noticed that the brothers were still staring at you expectantly, like you were about to turn into some mutant creature. 

“Uhh.. You guys do know that it’ll take a few days for my body to recover, right?” You shrugged. 

“Oh..” Satan sighed, as the brothers looked disappointed. “I thought the effects would have been immediate.” 

“Laaame,” Leviathan said. “A power-up type feature would have been way cooler! Like, imagine if MC ate that thing and grew 10 feet in size to defeat the final boss!” 

“That’s fine, MC. Just focus on resting. I’ve excused you from classes for the rest of the week,” Lucifer said. “This is an quality of humans we should have researched more during the planning stage of the exchange program. Diavolo also sends his apologies.” 

"Thank you Lucifer, but it’s no big deal,” you smiled. “Well, I’m going to go take a nap now.” 

"I’ll come with,” Belphegor yawned. 

“Oh no you don’t!” Mammon yelled, running after the two. “I’m the only one allowed in MC’s bed!” 

“Hey, don’t forget about me! I’m bringing the lamp!” Asmo cried, waving it in the air. 

“You know, I also read that cuddling with a partner can help fatigue,” Satan blushed, following behind. 

“I’ll bring some snacks for us,” Beelzebub called after. 

“I’ll bring my TSL movies so we can have some background sound!” Leviathan ran after. “Don’t you dare start without me!” 

Lucifer sighed, looking after his brothers scrambling to get to MC. From having spells backfire on you, battling unique health concerns, and getting preyed on by lower-ranking demons, your acclimation to the Devildom had faced many obstacles. However, Lucifer knew that he and his brothers would do anything to ensure you had a support system. 

As you fell asleep with the weight and warmth of your favorite people around you, you couldn’t help but feel loved and cared for. 

[tidaltow]

“Yes.” Because that’s the mature response here. The tried-and-true method of getting someone to be cooperative: clapping back in the most dismissive way possible when they tried to call you out on your behavior. Itsuki dubs him a “butt” just then, though, so Percy decides pretty fast that neither of them are winning any awards in the “handling this like adults” category. (But, like . . . they weren’t adults, so—? Need he say more? No, but he probably would anyway.)

Nevertheless, his stride stalls just slightly when her complaints chase him, and he sighs like she’s the one being problematic here. “Look, I understand being confused about all this, but it’s just that I really don’t have the time to explain in essay-length detail,” Percy says (and most of his teachers would vouch for how horrible his essays were, so . . . Really, he’s sparing her). “I am trying to help, though— Could you just try trusting me for now? Promise it’ll all make sense later.”

ANY FURTHER UTTERANCES FROM HER WOULD CEASE, as all she would do then was gape back at him. Her lips clamping shut with a quiet swallow, the moment he had waved his hand in her very direction.

But soon after, her wide eyes would narrow themselves into a flustered scowl. The moment she realised that she had been DUPED! SMECKLEDORFED, even! Simply watching in disbelief next, as he waddled himself around her like she had caught something! Ooohhh, it would take EVERYTHING in her not to at least swat at his shoulder in absolute indignation and frustration.

"Do ya GOTTA be such a BUTT, bro???" She would finally gasp out, before huffing ad puffying like a little puffer fish, "If ya didn't want me ta say anything... t-then ya didn' hafta say it like dat!"

[cherry-leclerc]

needy ☆ cl16

genre: humor, fluff, jealous/possessive!charles, smut, established relationship

word count: 2.3k

A certain dislike bubbles deep inside of the Monegasque when you attend your first race and continue praising his teammate.

nsfw warning under the cut!

18+...penetrative sex, doggy position, m!receiving, blowjob, elevator sexxxx, choking

req!...aghhh i wish men existedddd

You’re smiling wide, face flustered with genuine happiness as you beam up at the podium from afar. The lights, fireworks, music, and environment fill you with pure adrenaline, and suddenly, you get it. Why a lot of people enjoy the sport, you mean. It was an exciting thing to witness.

But from the garage, where your boyfriend is getting weighed after a tiring race, Charles glares at you and then at Carlos who he can’t quite see but can hear the applause for as they announce his name. He can see the way you clap, the way your eyes crinkle up at his teammate. 

It should’ve been him. 

“You were amazing, baby!” you cheer as you skip towards him, arms flying over his broad shoulders. He grimaces. I’m sweaty, he protests as he lightly nudges you away. “Oh.” You take a wary step back at his odd behavior that had never taken place before. “I- um…Carlos and Rebecca invited us out for dinner to celebrate. Do you want to go?”

He could tell you wanted to and he hates how much it bothered him. The way it tugged at his heart like a painful needle. “I’m sweaty,” he simply states again. 

“You can shower first, I’m sure they won’t mind if we’re a bit late-”

“Or you can go without me.”

You frown, shoulders drooping. “But I don’t want to go without you…”

He blinks. Just as he’s able to speak again, Carlos proudly makes his way over with a shiteating grin. “Charles! Great race, man, I’ve missed driving like that.” They share a fierce hug before the Monegasque sheepishly smiles.

“Yeah, I did too.” A beat. “We’ll probably be a bit late to your dinner.”

The Spaniard waves him off. “That’s alright, as long as you make it. I want to celebrate something like this with my team. Especially since this is our last season together.”

Charles can feel a wave of annoyance towards himself for envying the 29 year old. He did enjoy the race, he was extremely happy for his friend, but it didn’t quite click why it nicked him how you wore a bright smile. He nods, a lazy arm pulling you in towards him. Your brows pinch with confusion. “We’ll be there.”

-

“I’m glad I was able to make it,” you ponder as you reapply with a fresh coat of lipstick. Charles dries his brown locks with a white towel as he stands close by. Me too. You hum, eyes trained on your reflection. “It didn’t seem like it.” 

His stomach churns at your sad tone. “I swear I am. Why would you say that?”

A tint of red colors your cheeks as you purse your lips. “For starters, you wouldn’t even let me get close to you. You pushed me away, remember?” He winces at the reminder. 

“I d-didn’t want to cover you with my gross sweat,” he tries as you shake your head.

“Like that’s ever been an issue. You’ve played soccer and kissed me. You’ve had a round of basketball and hugged me after an hour of attempting to make a hoop. Or when you played golf under the blazing sun and kept me close no matter what.” You grab your purse as you make your way towards the door. “Don’t make up some stupid excuse, Charles.”

Guilt slithers all around the green eyed boy as he watches you converse with the Scottish model. He feels like an old grump around the most colorful flower, and he’s ruining it. He was determined to make it up to you. “I’m glad you were here to witness my first podium of the season considering it’s your first time attending a race. That way you remember me as your boyfriend's best teammate,” Carlos gloats as you laugh.

“Oh, for sure.”

Jealousy pangs Charles once again as you continue. “I don’t know how you did it…it was a close one. But definitely a great race, you live up to your last name,” you salute as he winks as a thank you. Rebecca agrees besides her boyfriend. “You got me though because - no offense - I thought Charles had it in the bag.”

You’re getting back at him now. He can hear it in your voice as his eye slightly twitches. The Spaniard chuckles. I thought so too. Placing a warm hand over the Monegasque, you swiftly kiss his stubble. “But you were great nonetheless, Cha. My favorite driver without a doubt. My number one…Ooops. Four.”

“Ah, shit,” Lando hisses from down the table as he nibbles on a piece of cake. 

Charles fumes. “Aren’t you the sweetest thing, amour? Thank you, thank you very much.” 

You giggle. “No problem.”

Coughing awkwardly, Carlos diverts the conversation from the sudden tension as a new topic comes up. You simply jump in with ease as the Monegasque keeps to himself.

He could’ve gotten a podium if it weren’t for his front brake locking. He could’ve been the one celebrating right now with all his friends. He was simply better.

“I’m really going to miss this,” a deep voice rips him away from his thoughts. Carlos sighs. “It’s a struggle, but I will miss it when I’m gone. Especially you,” he says as he points to his teammate. “A sore loser, but you gotta love him.”

Charles scoffs. “I am not a sore loser.”

“He’s right,” you muse. “But trust me, it's incurable. For God's sake, he pouted when I beat his time on the stimulator.”

Pierre gapes. “She beat you? As in her?” Kika laughs, pulling him back by his linen shirt. “That’s actually pretty impressive.”

The Monegasque blushes. “It happened one time. It was probably broken that day.”

“Ahh,” Daniel says as he clicks his tongue. “I totally see it.”

“Would you stop it?” Charles deadpans as the table laughs at his defensive behavior. “I’m honestly happy for Carlos. I am.” 

The Spaniard wiggles his dark brows in a teasing manner. “You hate me a little bit though, no?”

He squints his eyes before aiming a napkin at the brown haired driver. “In the very moment, yeah. Maybe a little.” Carlos raises his hands up before smiling. As the night grows older, the more you lean into your boyfriend's touch, eyes fluttering tiredly. “Wanna leave?”

“Not yet,” you murmur against his chest. “One more round of drinks.”

He snickers. “I think you’ve had enough. Here.” He hands you a glass of water. “Drink it all.” Rolling your eyes, you oblige before it actually sobers you up enough to call it a night. 

“Congrats again, Carlos!” you chirp as your boyfriend drags you away, swinging Charles’ hand like a glass of champagne. “Here’s to more podiums!”

“More podiums, my ass,” he growls as tugs you out. “You’re such a flirt.”

“Only with you,” you hum as you sloppily kiss his lips. “You look so pretty, Cha, you know? Your eyes, your lips, your hair.” You lean in closer to his ear, whispering. “Your cock.”

“Pretty?” he retorts, trying his best to hide his hard on. You giggle. You’re also so fucking hot when you get territorial. It’s sickening, but I love it. His breath hitches.

“Oh, that was fast,” you cutely muse when his car rolls in by the valet. “Ready?”

“Y-yeah.”

As soon as you step foot inside the wide room, you jump onto him, lips clinging onto his neck, hands rushing through his hair frantically. I’m sorry for all I said. I love you, you’re my favorite driver, my number one. You’re-

“Oh,” you sigh as he kneels down in front of you, kissing your legs all the way from bottom to top, worshiping you until his head is beneath your dress, nose brushing against your panties. You shudder. He nips as you leap up in surprise. His teeth wrap around the thin material before sliding down and looking up at you like a dog. 

“Go to the bed. On all fours. Your favorite number, isn’t that right?” 

It’s a lame joke, but it still strikes you with shock as you carefully make your way over, following his clear instruction. And you think he’s going to fuck you, the way you were waiting for, but instead unzips his jeans and takes his boxers off, and stands in front of you. Open. “I thought we were-”

“Well you thought wrong, now open,” he grunts, hands grabbing your chin as he forces your mouth wide. Following along, you stick your tongue out eagerly. Like a dog. You should be ashamed, but can’t find the strength when he slips down your throat. You gag as he groans. “That's it, baby. Work your jaw f’me.”

Deepthroating him, you hum around his length as you take him all. He growls when your teeth graze his skin for a second, harshly pushing you back. “And you’re still being mean to me?” He tsks. “What did I do to you today for you to ignore me?”

Your brows arch. “I wasn’t ignoring you. You were ignoring me.” Fixing your dress, you climb off the bed, but not before he grabs your hand, dark eyes staring back at you. Where are you going? “Far away from you.” He fixes himself before marching after you. Just as the elevator is about to close, he manages to slip in. “I’m not talking to you,” you promise, arms crossed.

“Great.” The elevator comes to a halt. “Because this doesn’t require talking.”

Pushing you against the glass, he kisses you hungrily, greedy hands squeezing your ass as you squeal, attempting to push him off. This only makes him take a step back, rubbing his jaw. Seriously? You debate with yourself for a while before biting down on your lip and pulling him back towards you. 

There’s no sound other than moans and groans as he fucks your against the elevator. The angle causes his tip to hit your g-spot at a mindblowing pace as your head rolls back with pleasure. He’s the first to break the silence as he places a hand next to your head and the other secure around your waist as he pounds into you, loopy eyes admiring the way your breasts bounce. 

“I want you to know that despite my attitude, I’m happy for him, I am.” You don’t need to ask to know who he’s referring to as you hastily nod. I know, Charles. Leaning down to kiss him, you pout when he turns his head, leaving you to peck his jawline. “But you’re mine, all mine.” He sucks on your breasts that spill out in front of him as you whimper. “Repeat it back to me.”

“I’m all y-yours, you doofus,” you grin, tangled hair flying into your mouth as you squirm. “I didn’t even think I’d have to say it.” Squealing in shock, you hurry to grab the metal bar as he places you down and spins you around, leaving you mushed up against the tinted glass. “Oh shit.”

“Pretty view, no?” he quietly questions behind you, lustful eyes laser focused on the way you take him like no other. He grunts, head rolling back, messy hair following along. There’s no room to worry about the possibility that there could be a camera in the tiny space, or that help may be on the way despite the red button being pushed on purpose. And then he wraps his large hand around your throat and your breath hitches, tiny hole enveloping around him even harder. “S-so good, chérie.” He kisses you shoulder sloppily, mouth hanging a tad bit open as he tries to push back his fierce sense to come inside of you. 

I think it’s stuck, a familiar voice clarifies from outside. 

It is, you dimwit, another retorts as a group of mumbles follow with agreement. 

“Oh shit,” Charles whispers as he rapidly pulls out of you, fixing you dress and hair to the best of his ability before focusing on his equally fucked out appearance. A soft wail escapes your lips at the sensitivity that remains in between your legs as Charles apologetically pecks your temple and the door finally slides open.

“Charles?” Pierre squeaks as soon as he spots his friend. “Holy shit, are you guys okay?”

“Completely fine!”

“It was so scary,” you add, shivering with theatrical fear to emphasize your words. “Thank God they were able to help us,” you say as you signal to the hotel staff members who stand by with a skeptical smile. “I don’t know what we would have done.”

“I have a theory,” Lando whispers to Carlos as they snicker, taking in your sweaty state. The way your zipper isn’t all the way up, showing off a bit of humid skin. The way the Mongasque keeps his hands adamantly in front of his hard on. It’d be stupid not to know what had been taking place prior seconds.

“Well thank God you guys are okay,” Pierre breathes, already making his way to hug you and the 26 year old. Kika grimaces while you two cringe at the fact that the Frenchman was getting a good look and feel of the forbidden afterglow. Patting his shoulder away awkwardly, Charles hums enthusiastically.

“It’s been quite an eventful day... Charles?”

Dark brows fly up before nodding hastily. “Yeah! We should go to sleep…Take care guys! Au revoir!” 

Pierre smiles happily as he watches you two scurry away, Charles almost tripping as you grab onto his shoulder to level him up. “That’s actually really scary, I think I would cry if I were in their situation,” he admits, wide eyes blinking towards his friend group.

“Oh, honey,” Kika sighs, leaning up to pat her boyfriend's chest with empathy for his naiveness. What? Wouldn’t you? 

Lando can’t help but let out a loud laugh, clapping his hands with amusement. 

“Open up your eyes, Pierre. Those two totally fucked.”

taglist: @urfavnoirette @lpab @d3kstar @namgification @myownwritings

*feel free to let me know if you would like to be included in the general taglist!!

[velarisdusk]

Velvet Whispers, Midnight Truths

Eris x Reader, Azriel x Reader

<- part 1 word count: 9.6k content: [ explicit sexual content, unprotected PIV, eris does pull out!, casual sex, hurt/comfort, jealousy, unintentional ghosting after sex, avoidable misunderstandings ] summary: After Azriel vanishes on a mission the morning after your first night together, the silence between you grows unbearable. A reckless encounter with Eris in Autumn cuts deeper than intended. author's note: finally finally got around to this!! quite excited >:) thank u to these two lovely anons <3 <3 and thank u @halo-hanging for the beta read :D ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The memory stung more than you wanted to admit. It had been early morning when Azriel had slipped from the bed, his movements practiced and careful not to disturb you. His whispered explanation of a scouting mission had barely registered in your half-asleep haze, and by the time you’d stirred fully awake, he was already gone. No goodbye kiss, no lingering touch—just the faintest trace of him left in the sheets. You’d told yourself it was fine. That he’d come back, and everything would… shift. Settle. Finally align. 

Except it hadn’t.

When he returned a week later, you spotted him almost immediately. The heavy oak doors of the River House had swung open, and there he was, stepping through with his usual lethal grace, his shadows clinging to him like a second skin. Relief had surged through you, but instead of rushing to him, you’d chosen to wait. You’d stayed where you were, lingering near the wide windows in the sitting room, pretending to read while stealing glances toward the main hall. You wanted him to find you. Wanted him to seek you out. 

But he didn’t.

Instead, he disappeared into Rhysand’s office for what felt like an eternity. When he emerged, his steps didn’t carry him to you. No, they carried him to Cassian and Feyre, who were chatting in the dining room. You could only listen as the tension from whatever mission he’d been on melted away with easy laughter. It wasn’t a hurried reunion—it was leisurely, calm. He didn’t look like a male in a rush to be anywhere. Least of all with you.

You’d waited until the knot in your chest grew unbearable before retreating to your room. Maybe he’d needed more time. Maybe he’d come to you later. But “later” had turned into another departure, another week, and still, no words had been exchanged between you. 

By the time he returned again—two weeks this time—you weren’t even there to see it. Your emissary duties had taken you to the Autumn Court. Beron’s pompous attitude grated on your nerves, but the work was important, and you were good at it. At least it kept your mind off him. For the most part. 

Your task with Beron had been routine: negotiations, discussions, nothing out of the ordinary. But as you left the meeting room, your feet carried you to the kennels. You weren’t sure why, only that the thought of seeing the hounds felt… grounding, in a strange way. The hounds, you told yourself. Definitely the hounds. 

That was when you saw him. 

Eris stood among the dogs, his polished appearance at odds with the unruly creatures surrounding him. The hounds bounded toward you the moment you stepped inside, tails wagging furiously, their excitement a stark contrast to your hesitant mood. Eris turned at the commotion, his golden-red hair catching the light, his expression shifting from mild annoyance to something softer when he realized it was you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his usual cockiness evident, though there was a flicker of genuine warmth beneath it. “To what do I owe the pleasure, emissary?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the hounds’ boisterous antics interrupted, doing nothing to ease the anxiety knotting in your chest. Eris’s sharp whistle cut through the air like a blade, silencing them in an instant. 

“Out,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. They trotted out with military precision, their obedience almost unsettling. The space fell silent, save for the distant rustle of straw and the faint, earthy scent of hay carried on the cool air. Something about the way he held himself—the confidence, the control—made your spine tense. You tried to ignore it, but sharp eyes caught the way you stiffened. He didn’t miss the subtle change in your scent, either. 

“Careful, (y/n),” he murmured, a wicked smile curling at his lips. “You’re giving yourself away.”

Your denial was quick, but flimsy at best. “I came to see the hounds, Eris. That’s all.”

He tilted his head, studying you with a knowing look. “The hounds,” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. He stepped closer, the hay crunching beneath his boots, and gestured toward the empty space where the dogs had just been. “Well, you’ve seen them. What now?”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “I… wanted to talk.”

“Talk?” His brow lifted, but his smile didn’t falter. “How rare.”

His teasing made your resolve waver, but you pressed on. “I need to… step away from this, Eris. From us.”

The smile vanished. For a moment, he said nothing, his sharp features unreadable. Then, as if savoring the words, he let out a low hum, laced with something between amusement and disbelief. “Step away, is it?”

Eris’s words hung in the air, heavy with challenge. His eyes—sharp, assessing—didn’t waver as he stepped closer, leaving only a sliver of space between you. 

You should leave. The sensible part of you screamed it, begged you to turn on your heel and go. But his scent—woodsmoke and something faintly spiced—clouded your judgement. Or maybe it wasn’t his scent at all. Maybe it was the knowing glint in his eyes, the cocky tilt of his mouth, daring you to deny what you wanted. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” you muttered, though the conviction in your voice wavered. 

“Maybe not,” Eris said, his tone maddeningly smooth, “but you are.” His hand rose, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the lightest of touches that made your skin hum. He studied you in the silence that followed, his gaze dragging over every subtle shift in your expression. “If you’re going to leave, do it,” he said. But his voice softened on the next breath, low and knowing. “But don’t pretend you don’t want this one last time.”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs as you stared up at him. His gaze was sharp as ever, the faintest flicker of amusement still lingering beneath the undeniable hunger. 

“You’re insufferable,” you said finally, the insult more breath than bite. 

“Mm.” He smiled, sharp and wicked. “And yet, you can’t seem to stay away.”

The silence stretched between you, taut and expectant, before his gaze flicked toward the back of the kennel. Without another word, he turned, heading toward a pile of hay nestled in the farthest corner. You stayed rooted in place for a moment, watching as he crouched and ran a hand through the golden strands as if to inspect them. When he glanced over his shoulder at you, his expression was almost bored.

“Well?” he drawled, arching a brow. “Unless you’d rather the floor?”

You scowled but followed, your steps hesitant. The pile of hay looked clean enough, but still, your nose wrinkled as you neared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Eris turned, settling onto one knee as his lip curled into that smirk again. “You think I’d lay you in used hay?” His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, as though the mere suggestion was absurd. “I might be insufferable, but I’m not a brute.”

Your lips parted, a retort on the tip of your tongue, but the way his eyes locked onto yours made the words falter. His hand extended, beckoning you forward with a confidence that left no room for doubt.

“You can’t winnow us somewhere less… rustic?” you muttered, even as your hand slipped into his. 

“And miss the chance to make this our grand finale?” Eris drawled, his lips curling into a sly, teasing smile. “No, this will make a far better story.”

When he guided you down beside him, the hay was softer than you expected, its faint scent of sun-dried grass mingling with smoky spice and a crackling fire. Eris leaned closer, his breath a soft caress against your ear as he murmured, “Clean enough for you?” he asked, his tone low, laced with that infuriating edge of mockery.

His voice rippled through you, and any complaint you might have made dissolved the moment his lips captured yours—firm and deliberate, each brush of his tongue commanding your focus entirely.

You breathed him in, fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss with a confidence that left you reeling. His teeth grazed your lower lip, a teasing nip that sent a jolt of heat through you, and the low hum of satisfaction in his throat told you he’d felt it too.

“Still thinking about leaving?” he murmured against your mouth, his hands settling on your waist with an unyielding possessiveness that felt both infuriating and impossible to resist.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your chest heaving. “You think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He smirked, that infuriatingly arrogant smirk. “Only because you prove me right every time.”

Before you could deliver the retort burning on your tongue, he shifted, guiding you to lie back against the hay with maddening ease. The golden strands cradled you, the faint crackle beneath you a reminder of how absurdly reckless this was—and yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

His fingers traced your jaw, trailing down the column of your throat with deliberate slowness. “You know,” he said, his voice like silk, “there’s a certain poetry to this, don’t you think?”

You raised a brow, feigning disinterest despite the way your pulse quickened under this touch. “Poetry?” Your fingers tugged at his collar, your knuckles brushing the smooth, pale skin of his neck.

He tilted his head, his smirk small but sharp. “Or maybe just irony.”

“Irony,” you repeated flatly. 

His thumb brushed the hollow of your throat, and his eyes flicked to yours, gleaming. “You, wrapped up in me. Here.”

A beat passed before you rolled your eyes, heat rising to your cheeks. “Only you could ruin this with your talking.”

That laugh that rumbled from him was low, molten. “Then stop me.”

Grabbing the lapels of his jacket, you tugged him down, crashing into a kiss that was nothing short of fierce. He met you with equal intensity, his hands steadying at your waist as if to ground you. The hay crinkled beneath you as you shifted, your grip tightening on his jacket before you pushed, rolling him onto his back. The surprised sound he made was swallowed by a chuckle as you followed, your thighs straddling his hips, pinning him down. 

The smug glint in his eyes as you settled atop him only spurred you on, your fingers threading into the fiery copper strands of his hair. You tugged, just enough to make his breath hitch, and his hands slide from your waist to your thighs, gripping with a firmness that set your skin aflame. Pressing further into the makeshift bed of hay, your breaths mingled between kisses that were nothing short of bruising.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you murmured against his lips, voice low and teasing though your own pulse raced. 

“And you aren’t?” he shot back, his voice roughened by desire, though his smirk faltered as you ground your hips down against his. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging in as if to keep himself tethered to some semblance of control. 

“Careful,” he warned, though there was no real menace in his tone—only the sharp edge of barely-held restraint. 

You leaned down, your mouth grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Make me.”

For a moment, his restraint seemed to snap, tension giving way to something raw and unapologetic. In one fluid motion, he reversed your positions, his strength evident in the ease with which he pinned you beneath him. Hay scattered around you, and the rough texture of it prickled against your back, but you barely noticed. His weight settled over you, his hands bracing on either side of your head, and his darkened gaze fixed on yours with an intensity that stole your breath. 

The world narrowed to the press of his body, the heat radiating from him, and the way his gaze seemed to strip you bare. 

“You look good like this,” he said, the gravel in his voice nothing short of smug. His weight pressed you into the hay, and though your wrists weren’t pinned, the way he leaned over you made escape seem impossible—not that you wanted one. 

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curled in a smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

His brow arched as if you’d just laid down another gauntlet. His grip on your hip tightened, the curve of his fingers possessive despite the casual tone. “I think I could.” His voice dipped lower, thoughtful. “And we both know you’ll be back—whatever this sudden need to end things is about.”

You shifted beneath him, deliberately dragging your knee up the inside of his thigh just to watch his composure slip. The sharp intake of breath was reward enough.

“That’s cute,” you said breezily. “But you’ve got hay in your hair.”

He laughed then, low and rough, as he looked at you with awe in his eyes. There was no hesitation, just a shift of his hands toward the edge of your dress. The fabric bunched beneath his fingers, and he didn’t bother with care as he tugged it upward, exposing your legs inch by inch.

You arched slightly, just enough to help him along, and his eyes tracked your every movement. There was no reverence in the way his hands skimmed your thighs, no tenderness in the way he worked the dress higher—only efficiency, only intent. 

Your hands weren’t idle either. You dragged them down his chest, nails catching briefly before reaching his belt. The buckle gave easily under your fingers, and you pulled at the leather with an impatience that matched his own. 

The dress tangled around your hips as he settled over you again, his weight pressing you into the hay. The rough texture was easy to ignore, however. Your focus narrowed to the feel of his hands and the sharp, heated pull of his mouth against yours. 

There was nothing gentle in the way you worked against each other, no lingering touches or soft gasps. Just the rustle of fabric and the scrape of hay as layers were peeled away with single-minded determination. 

His jacket hit the ground with a careless thud, and he made quick work of his sleeves, rolling them to his elbows before his hands were on you again. One skimmed up your thigh, firm and intent, while the other hooked into the neckline of your dress.

The fabric protested as he tugged it down, exposing bare skin to the cool autumn air. You exhaled sharply but didn’t stop your own hands, busy undoing the buttons of his shirt. The thin material parted beneath your fingers, the edges hanging loose as you shoved it aside just enough to splay your palms against his chest.

His mouth dropped to your neck, sharp and insistent, while your nails scraped down his torso. Every movement was quick, impatient—clothes pushed aside or pulled down just enough to clear the way,

There was nothing tender in the way his teeth grazed at your collarbone, nothing considerate about the way your fingers twisted in his hair to pull him closer. 

This was just how it always went between you. Nothing more, nothing less. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. And it didn’t. Not really. That was what you told yourself—though it became harder to believe each time his touch lingered a moment too long.

Eris’s mouth only moved lower, lips dragging over the swell of your breasts, teeth catching just enough to make you gasp. He finally slipped a hand beneath the bunched fabric of your dress, fingers finding the thin fabric of your underwear and pulling it aside. You refused to look at him as he worked you over with maddening precision, fingers finding the spot he knew all too well. 

You bit down on a sharp sound as his thumb brushed over you in tight circles that had your hips bucking despite yourself. His laugh was soft, almost smug, as his mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw. 

“Thought so,” he muttered, and you had half a mind to shove him off you just for the audacity. But then his fingers curled, dragging another sharp gasp from your lips, and that thought disappeared as quickly as it had come. 

Your hands found his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks, but if it bothered him, he didn’t let on—never had. He was focused, relentless, his pace unyielding until you were arching against him, his name slipping from your lips before you could stop it. 

It was only then that he pulled back, just enough for you to see his red, kiss-swollen lips in an infuriatingly satisfied smirk.

“Still think I’m cute?” he asked, his tone light, but the tension in his body betrayed the casual air he tried to keep. 

Your answer was a growled, “Shut up,” as you hooked your leg around him and dragged him back down. Your mouths clashed once more, the kiss all teeth and heat. His hand was braced against your hip now, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. His other hand worked between your bodies, undoing the rest of his belt and shoving at the fabric just enough to free himself. 

You felt him, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, and your lips curled against his when you reached between you. Wrapping your hand around him, you gave a tight tug, earning you a sharp intake of breath and a stifled groan that sent a jolt of satisfaction straight through you. 

“Don’t stop there,” he muttered against your lips, his voice edged with need. 

“Oh, I won’t.” Your tone was sweet as you stroked him again, slow and teasing just to watch the Prince of Autumn unravel beneath your touch. Eris’s hips twitched, his jaw tightening as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. 

One hand threaded through his silk-soft hair, tugging just enough to hear him groan. The other slid lower, guiding him into place. His hand moved to squeeze your thigh, holding you steady as he pressed forward, the stretch stealing the air from your lungs. 

It wasn’t slow—neither of you had ever been good at taking your time. A low, rumbling groan escaped him as he buried himself fully, his fingers digging into your leg as he drew back slightly and thrust again, setting a quick pace. 

There was nothing gentle in the way he moved, nothing careful in the way your lips attacked his neck. It was messy, frantic, and everything it had always been. He thrust again, the movement harsh and fast, and you couldn’t help the breathless gasp that tore from you. Your nails dug into his shoulders at the sounds of your bodies meeting, the frantic rhythm between you. 

Eris’s muscles flexed as he brushed his forehead against yours, and his words came in a low growl that sent your pulse racing. 

“You sure you don’t want this anymore?” His voice was thick with need, the edge in his tone unmistakable. He shifted his hips, pressing deeper as his lips trailed from your temple to your ear, from your jaw to your collarbone. “You don’t think about how good it is, how good we make each other feel?”

You bit back a moan, the heat building in your core as he fucked into you with relentless precision. You could feel the tension in his body, his restraint, but you could also feel the hunger—raw and desperate. The pull of his hips, the weight of his body above you, it was all consuming. 

You held his gaze as best as you could, the fire in your eyes matching the one you saw flickering in his. “Don’t make me laugh,” you managed to rasp out, hands sliding down his back to grip his ass, urging him closer. “This isn’t about feelings, Eris. You know that.”

He grinned, but it was feral, teeth flashing in the low light. “Is that so?” His pace didn’t slow—if anything, it picked up, and the change made your body jerk beneath him. “You keep saying that, but you keep coming back. You keep begging for it, same as me.”

You met him thrust for thrust, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the space between your heavy breaths. His name escaped your lips in a breathless moan, and the corners of his mouth curled into a dark, satisfied smile.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you want this.” 

“I want this,” you hissed, voice thick with need, and the satisfaction in his eyes deepened. 

His lips found your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. “Good girl,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. And in the next moment, he increased the pace, thrusting harder, drawing shamelessly loud gasps from your lips. 

Your back arched as you fought to catch your breath, his words unraveling you further. “I want you,” you choked out, your body responding to every sharp thrust with mounting urgency. “Fuck, I want you so bad.”

His lips found your neck again, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin there as he quickened his pace, forcing you to meet him with every sharp, punishing thrust. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the spot that made you shudder and gasp his name like a prayer. 

“Come on,” he urged, voice rough against your ear. “Let me feel you.” The coil in your core tightened, heat flooding through you as his fingers worked in tandem with his hips. 

“Eris,” you gasped, barely able to form the word as his name caught in your throat.

“Right here,” he growled, his lips brushing your jaw, his voice raw with need. “Let go for me, sweetheart. Now.”

His command tipped you over the edge. Your body tightened around him, pleasure crashing through you in waves that left you gasping and trembling beneath him, pulsing around him. The sound that tore from your throat was unrestrained, raw, as every nerve in your body seemed to ignite at once. 

He didn’t stop moving, riding out your climax as if to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. The smirk tugging at his lips was victorious, but there was something deeper in his eyes—a flicker of something that made your chest tighten before you could shove it aside. 

“Good girl,” he murmured again, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you fall apart beneath him. 

You barely had time to recover before his movements grew frenzied again, his control slipping as your body clenched around him. His head dropped to your shoulder as he thrust one final time, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. He pulled out in a rush, his release warm against the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat, the only sound the harsh rhythm of your breathing. 

And then, like it always did, reality began to creep back in. 

When you returned, the River House was silent, the darkened corridors empty, and you prayed to the Mother that it stayed that way. Each step was careful, your senses heightened as if the mere sound of your heartbeat would give you away. You moved through the halls like a shadow, avoiding the main staircase in favor of the back ones, the lingering scent of Eris on your skin and clothes enough to have you holding your breath. 

Once in your room, you locked the door behind you, your pulse finally beginning to slow. The shower was hot, almost scalding, as you scrubbed at your skin with a focus that bordered on obsessive. Soap, then lotion—anything to erase any lingering trace of him from your body. 

By the time you slipped into clean clothes, the thick scent of perfume clinging to your skin, you deemed yourself prepared. You straightened your shoulders, smoothed your hands over your sleeves, forced the tension from your face. And, noticing your soiled dress and underwear on the floor, buried them deep in your hamper.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

The walk back toward the grand staircase was steady, your destination set in your mind—Feyre, you thought. Surely she’d be in her studio or curled up somewhere with Nyx. That felt safe. Comfortable. Normal. 

But as you strode past the library, the low hum of voices stopped you in your tracks. You froze, the faint echo of a familiar cadence prickling along your senses. Azriel. 

Your pulse stuttered as you stepped closer, pressing yourself against the wall beside the door. His voice was muffled through the thick wood, but you could tell he wasn’t alone. 

“...and why shouldn’t I? You think she tells me everything?” That was Nesta, her voice sharp and unyielding. 

Azriel’s reply was quieter, a low rumble that barely carried through the wood, but it was tight—restrained. Whatever they were talking about had his temper on edge. 

You told yourself to keep walking. That whatever they were discussing wasn’t your concern. But… his shadows weren’t spilling into the hallway, weren’t warning him of your presence like you’d half-expected. 

“No right?” Nesta scoffed, and you could picture her now, sitting in one of those armchairs, spine straight, arms crossed. “I wasn’t aware she was yours to command.”

“She’s not–” His voice faltered, rough and uneven. Then, more forcefully, “That’s not the point.”

A heavy silence stretched, and you edged closer to the crack in the door, your breath caught in your throat. 

Nesta’s laugh was dry, almost mocking. “No, Azriel. That is exactly the point. You don’t want her to be with anyone else, but you’re too much of a coward to tell her to stay.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. 

“Well I didn’t tell her to go fuck other people, did I?” he ground out, his voice quieter now but no less tense. 

“No,” Nesta said, and her words were a whip crack in the stillness. “You didn’t tell her anything. Not after that night. What the hell do you expect her to do? Wait forever?”

The library went still, save for the faint crackle of the fire. 

Nesta didn’t wait for an answer. “You can’t blame her for trying to find someone who actually wants her.”

“They don’t want her, they want her body! And I never said I didn’t–” Azriel cut himself off, a sharp exhale filling the space between them. “I never said that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nesta said evenly. “Actions speak louder than words. Or in your case, inaction.”

There was no mistaking the fury that radiated from the library now. You could practically feel it bleeding through the door, but you couldn’t make yourself move. 

“Eris doesn’t deserve her,” Azriel finally said, his voice cold as stone. 

“I agree. But he’s there, and he’s made it clear what he wants. Unlike you.”

His footsteps echoed softly, pacing, before they stopped. “I don’t need to explain myself to you, Nesta.”

“Nor did I ever ask you to,” she said, tone light but edged with steel. “But maybe you should explain yourself to her before it’s too late. If it isn’t already. I heard she was in Autumn today.”

Another silence followed, heavier this time, pressing against your ribs like a weight. 

You didn’t wait to hear his reply. Turning on your heel, you slipped down the hallway as quietly as you could, your pulse hammering in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was guilt or anger—or both—twisting in your chest as you hurried toward the stairs, desperate to put distance between yourself and that conversation. 

The week dragged by, a slow crawl of silence that you tried your best to ignore. After overhearing that conversation in the library, you told yourself you didn’t care. If Azriel wanted to avoid you, fine. Two could play that game.

You’d spent most of your days deliberately busy. Tasks that usually took an hour stretched into two or three as you found yourself obsessively focused on minute details. The work helped, even if it left you drained by the end of the day. It was easier than sitting still, easier than letting your mind wander back to the familiar hum of his voice murmuring through the door, or the way his shadows hadn’t so much as twitched when you’d linered just outside. 

At first, you thought he’d come to you. Surely, he’d realize how cold he’d been when he’d returned and not spoken to you—how his silence was as cutting as any sharp-edged blade. But as days turned to nights and the distance between you remained, your hope turned into something thornier. Resentment, perhaps. Bitterness. 

If he noticed your avoidance, he gave no indication. You made sure of it, slipping out of rooms the moment he entered, steering clear of shared spaces, timing your comings and goings perfectly. It felt childish, you knew that, but you weren’t going to be the one to break the stalemate.

Still, there were moments—fleeting and fragile—where you thought you caught him watching you. When you’d laugh at something Cassian said, or linger too long in conversation with Rhys. You’d feel the faintest prickle of awareness, like his gaze was brushing against your skin, only to find him turned away when you looked. 

And at night, when the house was quiet and there was no one left to distract you, your thoughts inevitably circled back to Azriel. To the way he’d ignored you when he’d finally come back that afternoon. To the ghost of his scent lingering in Rhys’s office when you’d gone to discuss the standstill you remained at with Beron. To the unshakable feeling that you’d done something during your night together that turned him away entirely. 

It wasn’t just hurt that gnawed at you now, though. It was just the nagging curiosity of why. Why had he avoided you so thoroughly, not just after his mission, but even after you’d heard him in the library? What was keeping him from seeking you out, from addressing the sharp, growing rift between you?

The question twisted in your chest, unresolved and unspoken, as the week wore on. By the seventh day, your bitterness had hardened into quiet determination. If Azriel wasn’t going to come to you on his own, then you’d make him want it, and work for it. Let him stew in the silence he’d created. Let him wonder what you were thinking, what you were feeling. 

Because even though your heart ached to make the first move, your pride demanded otherwise. 

On the eighth day, the balance shifted. 

You’d been in the kitchen, slicing bread for your breakfast, when frustration finally bubbled over. The jar of preserve in your hands was stubborn, its lid refusing to budge no matter how hard you twisted.

You huffed, gripping the jar tighter as you braced it against the counter for better leverage. Still, the lid didn’t give. 

“Here.”

The deep voice, so close and unexpected, made you flinch. You hadn’t even heard him enter the room. Before you could protest, Azriel reached past you, plucking the jar from your hands. His fingers, long and sure, twisted the lid once. The seal popped with a soft, infuriating click. He held the open jar out to you with a straight face. But you knew better—knew him better. Beneath that practiced calm, he was undoubtedly biting back a smirk, emanating a smug and quiet assurance that he’d impressed you without even trying.

You met his gaze briefly, your expression cool, before taking the jar from him without a word. Setting it on the counter, you began spreading the preserve over your bread with a feigned intense focus. You didn’t hear him leave, but the weight of his presence shifted, his shadows curling away. All except one, which lurked in the doorway. With a sigh, you waved a quick hand through it and watched it dissipate like smoke in the air. 

It wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Later that day, he tried again. 

You were at the flowerbeds, pulling stubborn weeds that had crept into the soil after the last storm. You heard him approach before you saw him, the soft crunch of boots on the path just loud enough to catch your attention—unexpected, coming from someone who usually moved without a sound.

Azriel crouched beside you, his wings folding neatly behind him as his shadows pooled at his feet.

“Need a hand?” he asked, his voice careful—too careful.

“I’ve got it,” you replied, keeping your focus on the weed in your grasp.

His eyes lingered on you, heavy with an unspoken question, but you didn’t offer him anything more. You didn’t even look at him. When he eventually stood and walked away, a pang of guilt twisted in your chest, but you buried it beneath the same resolve that had kept you away all week. 

Three days after that, the tension was palpable. 

Rhys winnowed you to the House of Wind at your request once you’d finished in the flowerbeds that day. Now, you were on your way to the training ring, your steps purposeful, when he appeared at the end of the hallway. He was leaning casually against the wall, but the tight set of his shoulders betrayed him. 

“Heading to train?” he asked as you drew closer. 

“Mhm.” You didn’t slow. 

“I could join you,” he offered, falling into step beside you.

“I don’t need a partner today,” you said, keeping your gaze ahead. “Thanks, though.”

The words were polite but dismissive, and you didn’t miss the flicker of frustration in his eyes as he slowed, letting you walk away without another word. Nor did you miss the shadow peeking through the door when Cassian joined you some minutes later. The faint shadow retreated, followed shortly by the sharp crash of what sounded like ceramic shattering inside. 

It became a rhythm—a dangerous, unspoken dance. 

Each attempt he made to close the distance between you, you met with calm indifference. Every small effort to bridge the silence, you countered with a measured response that kept him just far enough away. 

And as much as it pained you to keep him at arm’s length, you couldn’t deny the satisfaction in watching him falter, his control slipping as he struggled to understand the rules of the game you refused to explain. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The reports were endless. 

Azriel’s desk was a battlefield of parchment, the weight of correspondence from his network of spies pressing against his temples like a vice. Every time he completed one, three more seemed to take its place. Hours had passed unnoticed, the only signs of time’s passage the ache in his shoulders and the faint hum of the city below. 

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he pushed the papers aside and stood. Coffee. He needed coffee if he was going to finish this tonight. 

The halls of the House of Wind were silent as he made his way to the kitchen, newly purchased mug in hand. The cool stone beneath his bare feet was grounding, a relief against the tension coiling in his chest. But as he passed her door, his shadows stirred, rising like smoke around his shoulders, tugging insistently toward her room. 

He paused mid-step, jaw tightening. 

They’d been doing this for weeks now—restless, insistent, always leading him toward her. He didn’t need them to remind him where she was. He knew. He always knew. 

Still, the pull lingered, stronger tonight, their whispers curling in his ears. He stood there for a moment, staring at her door, his grip tightening around the mug in his hand. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. Sure, there were her curt responses to his failed attempts at conversation, but that didn’t count. Not really. 

Azriel closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. The memory was as bitter as the now cold coffee awaiting him downstairs. He could still see her face that day, the cool indifference she’d leveled at him. And now? He could feel her icy distance in every glance, every word she refused to give him. 

It’s what you deserve.

The thought came unbidden, a sharp pang in his chest. He deserved worse, probably. For the things he thought, the conclusions he’d jumped to. For the way he’d avoided her instead of facing the storm head-on. 

The shadows tugged again, more insistent this time. His wings shifted in irritation as he shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Not tonight.”

They twisted at his ankles, reluctant to let him go, but he forced himself to move, stepping past her door without another glance. 

The kitchen was dimly lit, the faint hum of faelights casting a soft glow over the counters. Azriel barely had time to set his mug down before he noticed the figure rifling through the cabinets. Cassian, shirtless, with a grin so smug Azriel wanted to throw something at him. His hair was a mess, his chest littered with fresh hickeys. 

Cassian turned, two pastries in hand, and smirked. “Don’t start.”

Azriel sighed, moving to the coffee pot. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but at least I’m fed.” Cassian leaned against the counter, clearly in no hurry to leave. “What’s your excuse for still being awake? Don’t tell me you’re still working.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response, pouring his coffee in silence.

Cassian shrugged, still grinning. “Suit yourself. But if you’re going to spend all night brooding over reports again, maybe spare a thought for (y/n) before she leaves.”

That made Azriel take pause, his grip tightening on the mug. He turned slowly, shadows curling tighter around him. He had to force his hand to relax—this was the second mug he’d nearly crushed in as many days. “What do you mean, before she leaves? Where is she going?”

Cassian raised a brow, stuffing a bite of the pastry into his mouth. “Told me she was heading to Autumn tonight.”

Azriel’s shadows surged violently, a cold fury igniting in his chest. His voice was sharp, cutting through the kitchen’s quiet. “Why?”

Cassian swallowed before responding. “You didn’t know? Some spymaster you are.”

He didn’t stay to hear the rest, his coffee forgotten as he stormed toward her room. Azriel’s steps echoed through the hall, his shadows whipping violently around him. The calm he usually wore like armor had shattered, fury burning hot beneath his skin.

What the hell was she doing? She hadn’t told him she was leaving, hadn’t said a word. Not a glance, not a hint. Who the hell did she think she was? His shadows surged ahead of him, eager, insistent. He should have stopped, should have thought this through. But the image of her in the Autumn Court, of her with him… He could practically see it—she’d show up to the Forest House in the dead of night, meet him at some poorly illuminated side door, and he’d guide her inside with a hand far too low on her back. They’d speak in hushed voices all the way up…

It twisted in his chest like a knife. Eris. The name alone was enough to send a fresh wave of anger coursing through him—even without considering the history between Night and Autumn.

He didn’t knock.

The door slammed open, and there you were.

You froze, standing by the bed, your hands mid-motion as you smoothed down a deep red gown. You wore nothing but a black bra and matching underwear, the soft glow of the room’s faelight casting golden light over your skin. 

Your lips parted in shock, but you recovered quickly, your expression hardening into cool indifference. You straightened, your gaze cutting as you regarded him. “Do you mind?”

Azriel jerked his head to the side, his jaw clenching as he forced his focus on the wall. His wings flared behind him, agitation rippling through every inch of him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting dressed,” you replied smoothly, your tone infuriatingly calm as you turned to your wardrobe to find some shoes.

“You didn’t think to tell me you were leaving?” His voice was a growl, his shadows whipping around him in an erratic storm. “Not a word?”

Your hand stilled for just a moment, but you didn’t look at him as you resumed your task. “Why would I? It’s none of your concern.”

“None of my–” Azriel’s voice rose, the incredulity in his tone making you glance at him from the corner of your eye. He shook his head, the anger simmering in him threatening to boil over. “Do you have any idea how this looks? After everything?” His voice dropped, hard and cutting. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

You let out a soft scoff, picking up a pair of heels and setting them aside. “I’m not doing this,” you said coldly. 

“Fucking listen to me!” Azriel roared, the sound echoing through the room like a thunderclap. His chest heaved as he finally forced his eyes to you—lingering on bare skin for only a breath too long before snapping to your face. His fists clenched at his sides as he took a step forward, his wings twitching with barely contained frustration. “You’re not going, not tonight, not ever. And you sure as hell aren’t–” He cut himself off, his teeth gritting. “You’re not doing this.”

“Doing what, Azriel?” you challenged, your voice like ice.

“You know exactly what I mean.” His voice dropped, rough with anger, and you realized he couldn’t hold your gaze for long before his eyes flicked to the wall behind you. “You think you can just–”

“Oh, please,” you interrupted, your tone mocking as you strode to your bed and picked up the gown. “You’ve already seen far more of me than this. Face me like a real male, Azriel.”

His gaze snapped to yours, golden eyes narrowing in fury. “You really don’t get it, do you? You think you can just waltz in there and–” 

His words faltered when you lifted the dress, stepping into it. His chest tightened, but not from anger. The fabric slid over your hips and settled around your figure like it was made for you, clinging in all the places he didn’t want to notice.

“–and come and go from here as you please?” he forced himself to finish, though his tone lost some of its earlier edge.

You turned your back to him and gathered your hair. “If you’re going to stand there and yell at me, at least make yourself useful. Fasten this.”

Azriel hesitated, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze drawn to the smooth line of your back. His fingers twitched at his sides as the memory hit him—weeks ago, pressing his mouth to that very spot, dragging his tongue along your spine as he thrust into you. 

“Go on,” you prompted, your voice sharp enough to cut through his reverie. 

His jaw tightened, his shadows curling around his wrists. “No.” The word came out low, quiet, but final.

You turned your head, frowning over your shoulder. “No?”

He stepped closer, his wings shifting, his voice a low rasp of barely restrained anger as he gripped your shoulder and turned you to face him. “You can’t seriously expect me to tie you with a bow so you can look pretty when he tears into you.”

You blinked, your frown deepening as you searched his face. “I’m sorry, what?”

Azriel’s composure cracked, frustration and something sharper spilling into his words. “You’re not leaving this room, let alone this Court. You’re not going to Autumn. And you’re definitely not going to fuck Eris.”

The sheer audacity of it stole the breath from your lungs for a moment—but only a moment. The tension of the past weeks, every unspoken word, carried over through the poison in your tone.

“You’re right about one. I am leaving this room, I am leaving this Court, I am going to Autumn.” Your voice held steady. “But I’m not going for him. You think this is about him? That I’d go through all this to, what? To punish you? You don’t even know why I’m going, Azriel. You didn’t even ask.”

His jaw clenched, shadows writhing like smoke around his wrists. “Why would I? So you can tell me all the things he’s going to do to you?”

Your chest heaved as you sucked in a sharp breath. “No!”

“Then tell me.” His words were a growl, his gaze burning into yours, daring you to deny him. 

“Beron called for a fucking meeting in an hour,” you shot at him. “He’s got us by the balls with this godsdamned trade agreement, so I don’t really have a choice but to go.” You crossed your arms, shifting your weight. “Not that it even matters! You don’t get to stand there and act like you have any say in my choices just because we fucked one time.”

Azriel flinched, the words striking deeper than you’d intended—or maybe exactly as you had. His shadows recoiled, curling tightly around him, but his wings flared slightly, tension rippling through every line of his body. 

“You think that’s all this is to me?” His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous. “That you’re just another–” He broke off, shaking his head as though to banish the thought. 

“You’ve made it very clear that’s all it is,” you spat back, your voice kraken under the weight of the weeks of silence and thoughts unspoken. “So don’t you dare stand here and–”

“It’s not.” The words ripped from him like a confession, his golden eyes blazing as he stepped closer, the distance between you vanishing. “You think I could stand here and watch you leave—watch you walk into his arms—without wanting to burn that entire court to the ground?”

His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, the weight of his admission hanging heavy between you, the room charged with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. But the anger bubbling beneath your skin boiled over at that, and you let it loose, the dam breaking. 

“Oh, don’t you dare try to play the victim here!” you snapped, your voice shaking with rage. “Do you even hear yourself? You think I want this? You think I wanted to be standing here, screaming at you, because you couldn’t be bothered to talk to me for over a fucking month?”

His eyes widened slightly, but you were too far gone to stop now. “I waited for you, Azriel. After you left, after everything that happened—I waited. Days. Weeks. I thought, surely, when you came back, you’d at least have the decency to fucking acknowledge me.” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to keep going, every word a sharp blade aimed at him. 

“I was home. You had to have known. I wasn’t hiding, if that’s what you think! I was waiting. For you! And what did you do? Nothing. Not a word. Didn’t even call out for me. But you had all the time in the world to talk to Feyre and Cassian, didn’t you? So don’t you dare stand here now and act like you care where I go or what I do, because clearly, you didn’t care enough to do anything when it actually mattered! Gods, we talked about this that very night!” you exclaimed, dragging a hand over your face in frustration. 

His jaw worked, the muscle ticking as though he was struggling to find words, but you didn’t let him. “And now, now, you want to burn courts to the ground? Where was this a month ago, Azriel? Where was it when I was waiting for you, wondering if it had all been some horrible mistake? If I’d done something wrong?”

Quietly, timidly, “No, you could never–”

“You don’t get to pick and choose when you care—you don’t get to swoop in now and act like I’m yours, when for weeks, you made damn sure I knew I wasn’t!”

Azriel’s lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment, he looked like he’d been struck, your words hitting him harder than any blade raised against him. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands fisting at his sides before he dragged them through his hair. 

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice rough, like the words had to claw their way out. “I should have come to you. I should have said something the moment I got back.”

“Then why didn’t you?” you demanded, your anger unrelenting. “Why couldn’t you have just–”

“Because I was terrified,” he snapped, his voice rising enough to make your pulse stutter. His eyes locked onto yours, raw and unguarded. “I’ve never had this, whatever this is, with anyone. And I didn’t know how to… I didn’t want to ruin it.” He exhaled sharply, his wings shifting. “So I convinced myself I’d wait until I’d figured out the right thing to say, the right way to… to explain how I feel.”

Your brows furrowed, your anger giving way to confusion. “And that somehow took over a month?”

His jaw worked. “No. The day you got back from Autumn, I was going to talk to you. I’d made up my mind.” He hesitated, his expression hardening, though there was something broken in his voice when he said, “But then I walked toward your room and the closer I got, the more I fucking smelled him.”

For a moment, you could only stare at him. “You scented him and what? Assumed I brought him to Rhys and Feyre’s house to screw him?”

Azriel flinched, but he didn’t back down, his voice sharpening once again. “It was so strong; I couldn’t think. All I could imagine was him touching you, having you, and I–” He cut himself off, pacing a few steps before rounding back on you. “Did you?”

“Did I what?” you snapped, your voice dripping with exasperation.

“Did you fuck him that night?” His eyes bored into yours. 

The air between you crackled, thick with the weight of his questions. You inhaled sharply, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin defiantly. “I did.”

His breath hitched, a flicker of something indescribable passing over his face—hurt, anger, confusion—before his features hardened back into that mask of his. “You’re serious.”

“Yes, I’m serious,” you bit out. “You want to know why? Because you weren’t there, Azriel! You left. For nearly a month, I heard nothing from you. Not a single word, not a single sign.”

“I was on a mission,” he shot back, his tone defensive, but his eyes betraying the storm within.

“And I don’t blame you for that,” you said. “But when you came back, you didn’t come to find me. You didn’t say anything. You left me waiting, wondering if any of it even mattered to you.”

“It mattered,” he said, his voice cracking, but you were too far gone to stop now. 

“So yeah,” your voice trembled with anger and pain. “I slept with him. Because at least he didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t worth the effort. At least he didn’t make me feel like I was nothing.”

Azriel reeled, the shadows around him seeming to droop. His wings shifted restlessly. “I did come to you,” he muttered, so quiet you almost missed it. 

“What?” you demanded, brows furrowing. 

His gaze flicked to yours, a flash of guilt shadowing his features. “When I scented him… I went into your room.”

Your jaw dropped, a combination of fury and disbelief coursing through you. “You went into my room? What the fuck, Azriel?”

“I thought he was there,” he said defensively, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought—I thought he was there, with you.”

“Well, he wasn’t!”

“I know that now! I barged in, ready to…” He trailed off with a sigh. “But he wasn’t. And you were in the bath. So I left.”

“You didn’t think to, what? Knock? Speak to me?”

“I couldn’t. Not when I was ready to tear him apart for even thinking about touching you,” he admitted, his voice tight, his shadows twisting violently. Some darted forward, flickering toward you, before he sharply reined them back. “I stormed past the library and Nesta…” He paused, rolling his neck. “She called out to me, asked what had me so worked up.”

You realized this must have been the conversation you’d partially overheard, but you gave no indication. “And?” You asked him, eyes narrowed. 

“And I asked her if she knew you were still seeing Eris,” he said, his voice self-loathing now. “Because clearly, that’s what it seemed like you were doing.”

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t tell her everything, Azriel, for the love of the Mother–”

“I know,” he interjected. “I already heard it from her, I don’t need it again. I know how it sounds now, but at the time, it felt… justified.” His gaze met yours, blazing with intensity. “The idea of him anywhere near you, let alone touching you…” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

You stared at him, caught between wanting to scream and laugh. “So let me get this straight. You thought Eris was with me, and instead of asking me, you stormed into my room? Then asked Nesta?”

His mouth opened as if to argue, but then he closed it again, exhaling heavily. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, his wings drooping slightly in defeat. “Yes, I did. I barged into your room that night. I had to know if he’d been with you. If I’d…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “If I’d lost you.”

Your eyes widened again, but the understanding of his actions sent a pang through your chest. Not anger, but a deep, aching sadness. “And?” you prompted once again, softer this time. 

Azriel’s gaze lifted, his eyes locking with yours. “And I realized it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d still want you. Even if it killed me.”

You reached a hand out, your fingers tightening around his arm as the weight of his words crashed over you. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the tension and longing neither of you could suppress any longer. 

“What am I supposed to do with that, Azriel?” you asked, your voice trembling, tears threatening to spill. “What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

He stepped closer, his hand lifting hesitantly before it cupped your cheek, his touch featherlight. “Let me prove it,” he murmured, his voice a quiet rasp before he cleared his throat. “Let me prove I’m not going to lose you again.”

For a moment, you stood frozen, caught between the anger that still simmered somewhere deep inside you and the pull of the male standing before you, raw and open in a way you’d never seen before. And then, slowly, you leaned into his touch, letting yourself believe that maybe he was telling the truth. 

Azriel’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. The tenderness in the gesture only made your chest ache more fiercely, a tangled knot of emotions you couldn’t begin to unravel. 

“You think you can just say that and fix everything?” you whispered, your voice breaking recalling your conversation at the family dinner. “We already–”

His hand trembled slightly, the only betrayal of the storm of emotions raging behind his steady gaze. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t expect that. I know it’ll take more than words. More than this.” His thumb stilled, his hand falling away, leaving your skin cold in its absence. “But I’ll spend every day proving it to you if you let me. I’ll fight for you, even if you never let me close again.”

You took a breath, a sob threatening to escape before you swallowed it down. The sincerity in his words tore at you, but the weight of your pain and anger still held you firmly in place. 

“What if I don’t know how to let you back in?” you asked, barely audible. “What if I’m too scared to even try?”

His expression softened, the hard lines of his jaw at last easing. “Then I’ll wait,” he said, his voice steady, unwavering. “As long as it takes. I’ll wait for you to be ready, even if it’s years. Even if it’s never.”

You couldn’t stop the tears this time, couldn’t stop the way his words cracked something open inside of you. It wasn’t fair—this male who had shattered you offering to piece you back together again. But there was something in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen in so long: hope.

And it scared you as much as it comforted you. 

“I don’t know where to start,” you finally said, your voice barely audible. 

Azriel’s lips curved into the faintest, softest smile. “Then let me.”

And, with infinite gentleness, he reached for your hand, his scarred fingers brushing against yours, tentative and warm. You didn’t pull away. Instead, you let him thread his fingers through yours, his touch grounding you even as your heart threatened to break free of your chest. 

His fingers brushed yours, tentative, and for a moment, all the noise in you stilled. Not in resolution, not in some grand, sweeping relief—just quiet. Heavy and unyielding, like the space between breaths. You didn’t reach for him, and he didn’t push. You stayed there, caught in a fragile uneasy balance, and for now, it was all either of you could offer. 

[ozzgin]

Hi!! Your writing it truly lovely 😭<33 If i could request anything with Zzy? Thank youuu

Yandere! Demon x Gloomy! Reader (II)

Featuring the goat-legged boy Zzy and a gloomy, newly employed detective Reader! By the way, his name is a little tribute to a series I like. Can you guess who inspired it? Hint: it's Jhonen Vasquez's first comic :D

Content: female reader, perverted goat demon yandere, dark/crass humor!, monster romance, mildly NSFW

[Part 1] [Monster masterlist]

The detective man, at the very least, kept his word. The pay is good, and you barely have any work to do. The jobs themselves are similarly not too challenging: so far you haven’t had to deal with any murder mystery out of an Agatha Christie novel. Rather, most of the time, it’s someone asking you to investigate their cheating partner, or sending you to do a background check for an employee. Every now and then you’ll get the odd client, but that’s something for another day.

Your boss isn’t all that bad either. You were initially quite hesitant to be alone in the room with him. He always seems to be surrounded by an eerie, dark aura, and you’ve only seen him smile in a menacing, villainous way. Now you’ve gotten used to his strangeness. In fact, it’s almost comforting. There’s something refreshing about another human being honest about their misery. He seems to be just as uninterested in this job as you are, spending most of his time reading at his desk. Despite his unkempt, scary appearance, he's pleasant enough and looks after you. Which, now that you think about it, is a little suspicious. You've seen him act around other people: curt and to the point, disinterested, even potentially rude. With demons, he's ruthless.

"Have you had lunch yet?" the man asks, standing up and dusting his knees. "I can get us something."

You nod and flash him a flaccid smile, although you can't help but ask:

"Listen, aren't you being a little too nice? I mean, I'm not complaining...but I've seen how you behave in general, and I have a hard time coming up with a reason for my special treatment."

He ponders your question for a moment, before his sunken eyes look ahead, somewhere behind you.

"Well…If I’m being honest, you’re kind of pathetic, aren't you? I’m just a little worried that if I’m too harsh, I’ll find out you hanged yourself in your apartment or something. Not that I’d care, but if you’re gone, I’m the one stuck with…that thing.”

Ah. That’s what it was. Almost immediately, a shiver runs across your spine.

“(Y/N)! Are you done yet? I’m booooooored”, a prolonged whine erupts from the neighboring chamber.

“I’m about to have lunch, actually. Do you want any-”

“You know I do! Spread those legs and I can start”, the goat demon declares with a grin, clacking his hooves in your direction.

You sigh.

Of course. Months ago, you were tricked into signing a lifelong contract with Zzy. It was the detective’s way of washing his hands off the matter and warmly welcoming you into the agency. It makes sense that he'd treat you with utmost care, otherwise he'd have to deal with this pest from Hell once again.

How's your life with Zzy going?

You've since found a way to seal your bedroom, in order to avoid waking up with his groping hands under your sheets. Sadly, the stubborn creature keeps finding ways to bypass your safety measurements. Who would’ve thought that lust is such a powerful driving force?

On top of the nightly shenanigans, you obviously have to deal with him during the day, at the agency. “Listen, it’s like…one of those fidget toys. It helps with stress”, he explains fervently while pointing at your chest. “You want me to do my work properly, don’t you?” He concludes theatrically. “You’re not holding my boobs. This is the end of the conversation.”

If you’re having a bad day, it won’t go unnoticed. “Boy, what a smell, what a delicacy. You’re even more miserable than usual”, Zzy will exclaim, throwing his hands together in a graceful prayer. “You know what the best medicine is? A quick fuck. Let me pound that sadness out of you, eh?”

Despite his constant clowning, the demon does have moments of clarity. He becomes particularly serious when jealous. “What have you done?” You shout in despair, gawking at the client - now morphed into a pig - foaming at the mouth and running around the room. “He was staring at your ass. Only I can do that.” The horned man stands proud, arms crossed, nodding at his own courageous act. His most treasured belonging has been defended once more.

As expected, the jealous curse has gotten both of you into time-out. Zzy because he cursed the client in the first place, and you - despite your protests - because you didn't stop him in time. "Can't you wear something easier to take off? It takes two business days to unbutton this crap", the demon complains as he fiddles with your shirt. You're laying on the sofa, hands behind your head, gazing at the clock on the wall and counting the minutes passing. Unbothered, compliant. The peacefulness of someone who's given up. "Zipper is to the left", you add, aiding the process.

Another irritating detail is that the damned beast can detect the slightest arousal coming from you, and will make sure to announce it loudly, regardless of who is around. "Someone's horny! Whew, getting me all worked up, too." You slap a hand over his mouth, a deep red blush rapidly spreading across your cheeks. You turn to the detective and apologize profusely, but he remains unconcerned, flipping another page. "Let me take care of her first, Mr. Detective", Zzy manages to mumble through your pressed fingers. "As long as you get the task done", your boss responds plainly, never bothering to look up from his book.

"You should visit me down there sometimes", the horned creature suddenly mentions, his head resting in your lap as you idly browse your phone. You stop to glance down at him. "In Hell, you mean?" He snickers at the thought. "No one believes me when I tell them I have a human girlfriend. I need concrete proof, ya feel me?" You raise an eyebrow. "Girlfriend?" He disregards your inquiry and continues: "At least give me a pair of your panties to take back home." Absolutely not.

"Were you this much of a menace before I showed up?"

"What's that supposed to mean?! You can't blame a demon for being in love."

You sigh once more and roll over.

"Does that mean we can go for round two~?" Zzy is grinning at his own suggestion.

"Just go to sleep. Or something."

[moneypowerglorymiddleofmiami]

— trickentine જ⁀➴♡ pt.2

pairing: luke castellan x aphrodite!reader

summary: after lord eros' silly little trick, you're now forced to deal with the consequences— more specifically, in the form of a lovestruck luke castellan.

warnings: tons of corny pick-up lines

genre: still very much a romcom

part 1

note: thank you, thank you! all your support for pt.1 means the world to me! really, i couldn't be more grateful 𖹭 i hope you think this brings justice to the first half 𖹭

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” You suppressed the urge to shriek, settling for gritted emphasis instead. You crossed your arms across your chest, your foot tapping impatiently against the wooden floorboards of the Big House.

“Exactly what it means.” Chiron responded, looking at Luke with more amusement rather than concern.

“But he's under a spell,” You reasoned in disbelief. You might have spilled over your words while you explained the rundown to Chiron, but they were coherent enough to at least get that point across.

“It’ll wear off eventually, kid.” Mr. D downed an entire can of diet soda in one go before procuring another one in his outstretched hand. He snickered at the intent puppy eyes Luke was giving you. “That type of love magic won’t last long. Best to let it run its course than tamper with it.”

“But–” You wanted to argue before Mr. D stopped you. He pushed his feet up on his desk.

“Look, at least this proves that your boyfriend actually loves you.” He gave you a pointed look. What does that even mean? “Now, leave.”

You huffed indignantly, but decided against speaking further. You begrudgingly turned around and pulled Luke up by his arm, guiding him towards the narrow hallway that led to the foyer.

“When did I become your boyfriend?” Luke huddled closer to you, whispering as you made your way to the front door.

“You didn’t.” You told him plainly. You shook your head. “You aren’t.”

“Yet.” He responded, his tone a bit mischievous but his gaze sure and determined.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

You leaned your elbows against the table of the crowded Arts and Crafts Center, your chin resting against the pad of your thumbs. You studied Luke with a contemplating gaze.

“I hit you with one of Eros’ arrows.” You told him. This was hardly the proper place to have this conversation, but the rest of the Aphrodite cabin practically hauled you to the building to begin Valentinkering? Valenmaking? (whatever in Tartarus they decided to call it this year).

“Well, I guess you could say I’ve been lovestruck by you.” He said, giving you a stupid little wink as he mirrored your posture.

“Gods, Luke. That was corny as hell.” You flushed almost as crimson as the container of beads in front of you. “Also, I’m serious.”

“And who said I wasn’t?” He challenged. He smirked against his fist, wiggling his eyebrows.

You snorted. “The fact that you’re under some valentine voodoo makes all your intentions questionable.”

“You wound me.” He feigned offense, pouting as he clutched at the fabric of his shirt above his chest. “To be fair, my train of thought has always been questionable when it comes to you.”

“Again: unimpressed.” You buried your face into your hands, the second hand embarrassment of his poor attempt at flirting was overwhelmingly potent. Besides, it was difficult not to react when he looked at you so intently, like he was trying to memorize every minute detail of you.

“On a more serious note, I do remember the whole arrow thing.” He told you, his lips pursed. “I don’t blame you; it was a complete accident. It just feels… odd.”

Your ears perked up, worried. “You feel odd?”

“No,” He shook his head. His expression was perplexed, maybe a bit incredulous too. “That’s the thing. I feel completely normal.”

“That is weird.” You agree. You wrap the string in between your fingers around his wrist, measuring it to his size. "Maybe it was just a prank?"

“No. If anything, it’s more like I can’t hold my tongue.” He shrugs. “I can’t help but say what I think.”

“Would that explain the flirting?” You tease. All cheeky, but with a hint of curiosity hidden beneath the humor.

He leaned in, smirking. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You stare at him, tilting your head. He returns your gaze just as intensely, brown eyes fixed onto yours. He raises an eyebrow as if to question your silence. There was something magnetic between the two of you, pulsing and pulling you closer— maybe not physically, but definitely in other ways unbeknownst to you.

“Woah!” Percy exclaimed with an accusatory edge to his tone, his eyebrows furrowed in disbelief and his palms raised as if to distance himself from you. “Respect for the children, maybe? Consider shielding my young impressionable eyes from this trauma?”

“Percy!” You squeaked rather uncharacteristically. Annabeth trailed behind closely, pushing a leg over the bench to sit beside you. You smiled at her, tugging her closer by placing your arm around her shoulders.

“Annabeth,” Luke called. “Trade places with me.”

Annabeth furrowed her eyebrows in confusion before narrowing her eyes in suspicion. “No.”

“Come on.” He persisted. He leaned in, almost conspiratorial. “You know, the Stoll brothers have an extensive archive, and I think I may have heard word of them having that Rem Kolhaas book you've been raving about."

Annabeth stopped to consider the offer before ultimately conceding. She stood up from her seat. “That’s a big bribe for a small favor.”

“Know what prices to pay to win your battles.” Luke muttered as he sidled up next to you, grinning triumphantly. His fingers played with the hem of your weathered camp shirt. “Sacrifices aren’t much in the face of victory.”

“Did you just use a bad battle strategy as a flirting tactic?” Annabeth scrunched her nose in distaste. “Gross.”

"Done." You finish tying up the ends, letting the red bracelet dangle in Luke's line of vision.

"It looks so pretty, baby." He compliments you, holding out his wrist. You proudly put it on for him. "Not as pretty as you though."

You scoff. Both Annabeth and Percy imitate gagging noises.

─── ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . ───

The only time you ever truly left each other’s side were the few moments of reprieve before dinner where you’d returned to your cabins. The older campers insisted on making the meal a whole affair, complete with a romantic candlelit set-up and a string quartet to serenade everyone. Chiron decided to indulge the request and sent everyone back to freshen up.

“Have fun with your boyfriend?”

“Christ!” You jumped in your spot, turning around to see Eros laying on one of the bunks. His arms were tucked underneath his head, his smile suggestive and knowing.

“Lord Eros,” You bowed.

“That is not your shade.” He tutted, pointing to the tinted gloss in your hand. “Too summery for your complexion this time of year. Go for the pink one. He’ll go berserk.”

“Thanks.” You muttered, facing your vanity once more. You dabbed the product against your lips. You sighed as you inspected your make-up. Once more, he was right.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He shifted to his side, looking at you expectantly.

“Yeah, I guess.” You grumbled. You looked down, pretending to look for something in your drawer so he wouldn’t notice the blush creeping up your cheeks. Luke refused to leave your side the entire day— his fingers hooked around the belt hoops of your skirt in one way or another. He made a whole spectacle of it too: his big brown eyes tender, his wistful sighs, his shy grins, his playful winks.

“Good.” He clapped his hands. “Gods, the boy has had a crush on you for forever, you know. It was torture watching him pine over you. I can only take so much longing.”

You froze, staring at him through the mirror. He stared back at you.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know,” He sounded shocked; he was shocked. “You’re a daughter of Aphrodite, how could you not know?! That's like our thing!”

“Well, he hasn’t been obvious, has he?” You rebutted, flicking your wrist.

“Sis, I don’t know what reality you’re living in,” He sat up on the bed, “But that boy wouldn’t know subtle even if it hit him in the face.”

“But surely it’s just because of the arrows.” You rationalized.

“Nuh uh.” He wiggles a finger in the air to deny the accusation. “The arrows you used just accentuate pre-existing feelings. Not make new ones.”

A knock interrupts your conversation. You hurry to fix your hair, brushing it out of the way. Your hands begin to shake with giddy excitement. You feel your heart thrum strongly against your chest, almost wanting to burst out from the confines of your body and find its other half in Luke. Your smile eventually becomes hard to contain.

Eros beams at you, his pupils dilating into hearts again like it did this morning. He opens the door for you and pushes you out. “Have fun with lover boy. Mother sends her regards.”

Luke spins around at the sound of the squeaky hinges. He can't help but pull a hand out of his pocket, his palm lightly grazing his chest. He whistles. “Call me favored by the gods because I think I’ve just entered Elysium.”

“You’ve been with me the whole day.” You responded pointedly, breathless and in love.

“And yet you still manage to take my breath away.” He gasps when you rush into him, wrapping your arms around his nape.

“This is new.” He looks down at you, your noses touching. His hands fall naturally to your hips, his thumbs rubbing against the fabric of your dress. “But definitely welcome.”

You gaze into his eyes before pressing your lips against his. They felt pleasant and pliant against your own. You tugged Luke closer, your fingers twirling through his curls. His hands squeezed your skin. The kiss burned sweetly, almost as if it’s been waiting in anticipation to happen.

When you both separate for air, Luke gently grabs your hands from behind him. He wraps his fists around yours, placing soft kisses on your knuckles. “I’ve been waiting so long for that.”

“So I’ve been told.” You hum. “I figured I might take the first step.”

“Don’t worry.” He presses another kiss against your lips, short and sweet. “I promise to match your pace the rest of the way.”

˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺

taglist: @ace-spades-1 @patitotodd @fandomthings-blog @bugcuti3 @liv1104 @mindflay3r

[shepscapades]

37. GUY.EXE — Superfruit

Okay so this song started as a joke, because I wasn’t originally going to have Skizz be an android; I thought it would be really funny if this Normal Guy was just always surrounded by his robot besties and the Perpetual Odd Guy Out. But, the more I listened to this song, the more I realized how much funnier it would be if the narrative/this song was basically “Doc, Impulse, Tango, Etho, and Mumbo all set out to create the ~perfect android~ together but are ridiculously silly and gay about it, and also the perfect android ends up being Skizz, and also also the design elements suggested by our fellow hermits here are uh. Not indicative of anything at all. Nope!” And the concept was just way too fun not to run with :]

Again with this one, you really won’t get the vibes here unless you know or listen to the song— the second shot is actually a redraw from the music video, so kudos if you got that reference LMAO I was SO hoping someone would request this number, so thank you joi >:D Incredible opportunity for me to draw these guys with ridiculous poses and expressions alongside finally getting to share Skizz’s spectacular origin story <3

[taegularities]

you're okay | myg (m)

Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.

➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3 ➳ word count: 11.5k ➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕 ➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

The weather changes at warp speed these days.

When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.

You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.

The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.

But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.

God, all actions seem so passive these days.

Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.

And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.

So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.

You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.

Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.

Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.

The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”

It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.

A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.

His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”

You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.

Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”

“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”

He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”

Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”

He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.

And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.

“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.

You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.

The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.

Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.

Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.

But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”

You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.

Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.

You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.

Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.

But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.

“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.

“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”

“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”

“Always attentive, aren’t you?”

“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”

Hm…

You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”

“Was Nayeon at work today?”

“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”

“Sana again then?”

“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”

You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”

“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”

“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.

“You know me.”

That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”

Another low…

You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.

“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”

“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”

“Yeah.”

You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.

But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.

“There’s nothing really to talk about…”

“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”

You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.

You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.

He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.

Less for him, more for you.

If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.

As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.

When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.

And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.

By demanding that comfort.

You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”

Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.

“I don’t mind.”

“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”

He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”

Yes. No.

No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.

But no…

Fucking calling the therapist for you.

You break.

It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.

But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”

So you don’t.

There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.

You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.

He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”

It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”

This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…

Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.

Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.

As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.

And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.

He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.

These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance. 

Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.

At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.

It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.

And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.

Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.

Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.

But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.

You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.

A kind face. A calm demeanour.

He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?

You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.

This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.

Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.

But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.

Yet, you asked, “Yes?”

And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”

“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”

“You do?”

“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”

“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”

He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.

“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.

“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”

Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.

Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.

When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.

The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”

What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.

But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.

“I’m…”

You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—

“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”

You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.

“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”

“Not much…”

“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”

You shrugged.

You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.

Then, you’d breathe. Survive.

You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.

He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”

What? That was…

“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”

“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”

How could you’ve resisted such a plea?

He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.

It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.

You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.

Goddamn it.

You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”

You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the  lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.

He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.

As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.

You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.

He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.

Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”

“I do… yeah.”

You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.

You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”

“Why?”

“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”

“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”

Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”

No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.

You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.

“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.

“I don’t know.”

Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.

Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.

After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”

Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—

But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…

If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.

“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”

“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”

After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.

Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.

But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.

He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.

Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.

He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.

So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.

“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.

“Oh…”

He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.

But scary, somehow.

Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”

“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”

“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”

“Yeah.”

You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair. 

Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”

“Right…”

At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.

You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.

He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”

“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Mhm.”

You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.

“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”

Ah…

He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.

Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”

So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”

Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.

He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”

“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”

“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”

If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.

So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”

“Why not?”

“I mean, you probably know so many people.”

Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”

You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”

You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.

“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”

Well, you hated it, too. But… 

Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”

You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.

“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”

You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,

“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”

You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”

“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”

Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.

You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.

You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.

Kissed you.

And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.

You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?

Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.

It was different from the things you’d heard before.

Nobody will love you like this.

Stop acting like you’re traumatised.

I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.

You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?

Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?

Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…

Because you were scared. So scared.

If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?

Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.

He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.

You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.

And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.

Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.

Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.

He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”

“Who takes you for granted?”

“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”

He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”

“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.

So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”

“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”

“Parents?”

“Part of the problem.”

Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.

“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.

“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”

Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.

The symptoms were typical.

“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.

“I’ve bothered them all enough…”

“How so?”

Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.

You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”

God…

It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.

He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.

He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.

Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.

He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?

Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.

He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.

You deserved none of it.

Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.

He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.

No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.

He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.

But not right now.

In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.

“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”

But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.

“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”

And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.

Tears slowly reappeared.

“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”

Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.

But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.

”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”

Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.

His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.

“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.

“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”

“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”

You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.

You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.

Pain.

You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…

The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.

Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.

You know it because he’s said it before. You know.

But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.

“What?”

“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”

Break in conversation.

Then him again, “…That?”

“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”

Another pause. 

He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”

“…What are you thinking?”

“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—

Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.

You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—

“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”

Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”

“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”

Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.

“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.

“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”

“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”

He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.

“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”

You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.

You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.

But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.

You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.

You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.

And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.

Fuck…

You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.

You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—

“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”

“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”

“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”

“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”

You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”

And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.

This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.

But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.

You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.

The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.

Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.

Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.

Despite, despite, despite.

He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.

He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.

You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.

Until…

Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.

You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.

The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.

Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.

You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.

“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.

Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.

But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex. 

They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.

That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.

It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.

“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.

He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.

“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”

“About you?”

If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.

You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”

“I already do.”

His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.

But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.

“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”

When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”

“What?”

“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”

Oh… oh.

You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.

Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.

“…Yoongi.”

His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”

You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.

“You’re?” you encouraged.

“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”

“I—”

“I love you. You know I do.”

Fuck… fuck, you knew.

Of course you knew.

Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.

Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?

But to hear him say it…

I love you.

You know I do.

“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”

This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.

So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.

“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”

“I’ll keep reminding you.”

“I’m a handful.”

“My hands are big enough, baby.”

The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.

“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”

“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”

“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”

Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.

But he kept answering.

“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”

“I do right now… I just…”

“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”

That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.

“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”

Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.

The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.

That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.

Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.

Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.

Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”

So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.

He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.

But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too. 

You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.

But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.

You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.

And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.

You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.

But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.

And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.

Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—

That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.

But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.

All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.

You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.

You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.

Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.

Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.

The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.

Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.

Like the soul.

They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.

Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.

But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.

And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.

Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.

Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.

That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.

And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.

You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.

But…

It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.

Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.

You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”

Right. 

You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.

That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.

And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?

And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”

You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.

Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?

Why are you so afraid…

Because.

Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.

But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.

We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.

I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.

It has to be…

You’ll be okay. You’re okay.

The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.

i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍

what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕

[alexiroflife]

"mesmorized"

choso is a simp, fluff

choso kamo x reader

Synopsis: choso has a staring problem

to sum it up: he's whipped with a captiable W

WC: 2842

Warning(s): itty bitty tiny bit of suggestive themes

Choso has a problem. A problem he has harbored for quite some time and yet is not inclined to fix. 

And that problem would be his astonishing habit of staring at you. 

He doesn’t know himself if he’s so obvious about it because he feels shamelessly guilt-free when doing so or if he physically can not bring himself to tear his eyes away from you. Perhaps it’s a combination of both, he decides, his eyes catching you from the other side of the room with ease as he drowns in his thoughts. 

He recalls that this problem of his first started the moment he met you, his eyes doing a double take when he catches you walking by, an air of gentle confidence about you. His violet eyes, dull and tired moments before, seem to catch the rays of sunlight as his irises glimmer in the wake of your beauty, his heart skipping a beat or two in panic when Yuji calls out your name from beside him. Choso glances at his brother in swift alarm, curious as to how he knows you and suddenly rattled by the idea that you are heading his way.

When his eyes travel back over to relocate you, you’re stopping in your tracks, turning over your shoulder to find the owner of the voice that had called out to you, revealing a curious expression on your gorgeous face. 

Choso’s eyes grow wide as you walk over, a smile creeping onto your face when you see Yuji. The brunette himself doesn’t know what’s coming over him. He can’t look away though he wants to hide behind his hands, hide away from your brightness. His eyes glue themselves to you in an instant, deciding upon themselves that you are the only thing of true interest that keeps their gaze unwavering, unapologetic, curious, and open. 

You stop before the siblings, keeping your eyes on Yuji first, and Choso is thankful, for he does not want you to catch wind of his presence so quickly for fear that your attention may spring him into cardiac arrest. “Hey, Itadori.” Your voice is light and airy, soaked in benevolence and springful youth. “How’s it going?” you ask him, and you sound like you’re truly interested unlike those who pose the question out of polite obligation, neither seeking out or caring for a positive or negative response. 

Choso watches timidly as Itadori delves into a conversation with you, chatting brightly about how well his training has been going lately and filling you in on some new skills that he has acquired. The half-curse stares, observing how your eyes train on the pink-haired teen with engagement, head nodding occasionally and smile curling when you catch something Yuji says that inspires a reaction. You’re so attentive when you listen, allowing Yuji to know that he has your full focus though you don’t have to verbalize much to display so. Choso wonders how it must feel to be the center of focus under your gaze, mind slipping into a trance.

He doesn’t have to ponder the notion long, however, before Yuji is excitedly changing the subject and bringing your attention to him. “Oh! (Y/n), have you met my brother Choso?”

Choso can feel the blood drain from his face and his heart pang in that odd fashion again. He shifts, tensing when you turn and look at him. He’s horrified to imagine you noticing the way he has been blatantly staring, but when your (e/c) eyes encounter his, the world goes quiet and time stops.

Specs of light surround you through Choso’s vision, kissing your hair and skin regally as you look his way, sparks flying. You remind him of a star, shimmering brightly and numbing all other senses that come in your wake. You’re beautiful, breathtaking, and Choso’s losing air before he can think to speak. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” you say with pleasant surprise in your voice, eyes bouncing between Choso and Itadori to find a resemblance that certainly is not there. Nevertheless, you don’t seem to let that sway you as you turn back to flash Choso a pretty smile. “Nice to meet you, Choso,” you extend a hand. “I’m (Y/n).”

The brush of your hand into his vicinity sends a breeze shifting through the loose strands of Choso’s hair, eyes stuck to your face as though he is in awe. You’re patient, awaiting his response as he breaks his eyes away from you for a split moment to glance at your hand. Your nails are painted with clear polish and your small fingers are decked in gold rings. Your palm, your skin, looks soft to the touch, like the whisper of a cloud.

Choso can suddenly hear his heartbeat in his ears, looking back up at you carefully. Your smile only brightens, hand still offered out.

He musters up the courage to raise his own and clasp yours, wrapping his fingers gently over yours, connecting your hands. He feels electricity jolt up his arms from where you are joined and over his chest, down his back, up his neck, and trickling over the expanse of his body. Your touch, softer, sweeter, and somehow kinder than your eyes consumes him, and he’s floored, taken, done. His eyes are on yours again, locked in a stupor and he can’t look away. 

Choso was doomed the moment he saw you, his life turning upside down and the trajectory of his world spinning on its heels. He did not know someone could be so mesmerizing, so captivating without the tricks of cursed energy or any other supernatural form of manipulation. Instead, you are simply you, breathtaking upon glance, rushing the blood in his body to his face and making his heart pump loudly before he can control it. You’re always so nice to him though he often does not know what to say to you when you come around. You ensure that he’s included in conversations, included in the focus of your eyes, and he is a goner, captured completely by the whim of your interaction.

He can’t help but stare at you when he thinks you’re not looking, at all of you. His full eyes study the way your hair sits atop your head, how it brushes against the nape of your smooth neck, tickling your skin sometimes to the point where goosebumps spread over it. Your hair is such a pretty color, a pretty texture, pretty length, and it compliments you so well, enhancing the already remarkable frame of your facial structure and features. 

He likes to look at the curve of your brow when you talk too. Occasionally, it twitches when you're vexed, curling downward or pointing up to dent the middle of your forehead, emphasizing your stress or frustration or confusion. The skin around your brows crinkles, then smooths out slowly once you have calmed. Your lashes have a tendency to brush against your brow when they’re drawn down too, fluttering against each other with blinks or touching a scrunched cheek like the graze of a feather when you smile, and your smile is one of his favorite things to capture.

Your lips spread wide and the corners of your mouth pinch your cheeks upward, teeth bearing with all their beauty when you beam or laugh at a joke you hear. Sometimes your smile does not reach your eyes, but when it does, they’re shining with the brilliance of a comet, creasing until they’re almost closed as your nose wrinkles and your radiant laughter graces the air. Choso likes to watch as you tilt your head back in amusement, too hysterical to keep it sitting upright. 

His eyes then travel to your throat, stretched under your chin, smooth, slender. He imagines his lips shyly touching the flushed skin there, the pulse of your heart beating against his mouth, and he’s flushing violently, turning his head away and resting his chin in his hand with his palm shielding his mouth, but he can’t keep his eyes off of you too long. You’re too addicting, like a drug he can’t quit, a craving he can’t satiate, so he’s staring at you once more, glancing lazily over your collarbones peeking out from your shirt, the teased sight far more sensual than it truly is in actuality.

He does not even know where to begin when it comes to looking at your body, his eyes unsure of where to focus because all of you is just too perfect. You could be sitting across from him, scrolling through your phone, and his eyes devour the way your shoulders slump and your arms tense, fingers dancing over the keys of your screen as you type a text and send it. Or when you’re walking beside him with Yuji, the outline of your breasts rubbing against the fabric of your shirt, bouncing almost unnoticeably with each step you take. Choso, his height serving to his advantage, can happen to see down your shirt every now and then, depending on your choice of clothing for the day. With sharp eyes and pink cheeks, he’s glancing over you and landing a peep of your cleavage. He tries to force himself to look away in shame when he catches wind of the sight, but now that he’s aware of it, his eyes continuously wander.

Then there’s your stomach, which he catches a glimpse of all by accident one day. You’re playing football with the teens, leaping around and sprinting with impressive agility, clad in a loose white tank and shorts. Choso, not much of a fan of sports, sits on a bench at the park and watches you all play. You’re on offense, squatting with an intense look of concentration on your face in front of Yuta, who’s quick to toss you the football and set the next round into action. You catch it to your chest, rounding Yuji who runs to cut you off, but before you can run into the opposite direction, Todo is slamming into you seemingly from out of nowhere and knocking you off your feet.

Choso stands, worry flooding him immediately when you hit the ground, and Itadori’s calling a timeout, turning to ask the burly man who tackled you what the hell he’s doing. You’re lying on the grass on your back with a pout, pride wounded by the fact that you were taken out by a teenager. Choso prepares to march over and help you up when he sees that your shirt has lifted up, revealing your sweaty glimmery abdomen rising and falling heavily. The pale skinned man’s eyes twitches, freezing in his path. His mouth runs dry, pupils blown wide at the sight of your dewey bare skin. 

Yuta reaches down to pull you up in the next few seconds before Choso can make it, and you march over to Todo to punch him in his hardened arm, demanding to know just how old he truly is because you find it hard to believe that a high school withholds such aggressive strength and mass. Choso has to excuse himself to the bathroom to douse water over his burning face, the image of you laying there with your stomach exposed burned into his brain. 

Along with your abdomen are your hips, hugged tightly in that damn pair of sporty shorts you chose to wear, the curves of your legs emphasized by the fabric, and, jesus, your legs. How can he forget those? He was practically drooling over the sight of them for hours as you played, the jiggle of your thighs when you run, the flex of your quads, and the glisten of your plump flesh under the baking sun hypnotizing him…

Choso splashes his face again, water dripping from his chin and into the sink as an uncomfortable tightness in his pants stretches. He looks down to discover his print poking aggressively against his sweats, and he’s groaning in agitation, in arousal, in humiliation. You’re going to end him one day, he’s sure, for every piece of you that his eyes greedily consume is more perfect than the last, more enticing, more captivating. 

He is utterly smitten with you, with the vision of you. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the morning and the last thing that stays with him before he goes to sleep. He’s helplessly taken by you and so he stares, every day, all day, refusing to allow you out of his sight when you are nearby.

And the day you run into him alone, accidentally stepping into his path and catching his eyes, he stammers, so damn nervous to be around you yet dreading the thought of you out of touch. You look up at him intensely, (e/c) eyes swimming in his own, and it’s the first time he can’t keep his eyes steady. He’s looking everywhere, at the sky, the ground, his feet, before they can stay on yours. 

His heart is hammering in his ears again, his face a tomato, and his brows knitted as though he is troubled. You continue to look at him closely, an unreadable emotion in your eye that draws you forward, that motivates you to grab his face abruptly, palms holding his cheeks as you pull him down to press your lips to his.

Choso’s eyes go wide, hands shaking as they hover over your hands in shock, thrown completely by your sudden contact. You pull away just as quickly as you kiss him, cloudy, blown pupils boring into his to search for some sort of reaction. He’s looking at you now, as he always does, but only this time, he’s up close. His lips are parted as he processes what has just happened, cold due to the re-established distance from you. He’s breathing heavily, your proximity to him and touch on his face threatening to burn him with how hot he’s getting.

He can’t think, flustered, but then his body is moving before his mind and his hands are grabbing your waist, the very same waist he has spent months gawking at from afar. He feels your hips within his palms, his dream manifesting into reality, and pulls your lips back to his. 

He’s moaning softly when you kiss again, allowing you to take the lead as your sweltering lips swim intoxicatingly against his, your arms winding around his neck as you tug him into you, mouths molded in sloppy connection. Choso’s a mess, hands massaging all over every part of you he can find, bunching your shirt up into his hands then soothing his palms beneath the fabric, rubbing gratefully over the curves in your bare spine. You curl into him, tilting your head, breaking away momentarily to breathe heatedly against each other’s mouths before crashing back in, pressing deeper, grasping harder.

Choso’s messy, grunts of desperation sinking into your mouth as he kisses you, chases and savors the taste of you that he never believed he’d get to experience. He doesn’t know what he’s doing himself, but his body seems to understand as he steps you backward blindly and presses you harshly against the brick of the nearby build, smothering you with his weight as your fingers tangle into his hair. 

You bite gently at his bottom lip and he groans, your tongue slipping eagerly into his wet cavern and tangling against his, rubbing tenderly and intertwining as if your souls are meant to touch. Choso’s body is aching with desire, skin balmy and face scrunched with intensity as he sinks into you, feeling you, holding you, relishing in you. You’re everywhere, in his hair, against his chest, your scent on his skin, and you kiss him like you need him to breathe, a nasty clash of teeth and tongue and saliva mixing into each other. He didn’t realize you could feel like this, so hot and assertive in your attack on his mouth when you’ve always been so tame. 

He loves it. He loves it, he needs it. He needs you. He loves you.

When you pull away, he’s chasing you, your head knocking back against the brick and his half lidded eyes opening to reveal heavy violet hues. You look over his face, stroking the back of his neck as the two of you breath heavily against each other, noses brushing and spit glossing your lips. You break into a breathless grin, cheeks flushed and eyes heavy with passion. Choso can’t even think, for the only thing on his mind is the vision of you in his arms, the feeling of you against him, and he’s mesmerized.

You bring your hand to swipe a thumb over his bottom, red, kiss swollen lip. He gazes at you fondly, hands sliding up and down your sides. You giggle softly, eyes lighting with the same light he saw in you upon first encounter.

“I was hoping you had been staring at me so much for a reason,” you whisper with an exhale, eyes creasing with a beam.

[froggyplanet4269]

thank you, from the bottom of my heart to weevildoing and the entire tptm fandom for this journey. As of writing this, tomorrow the last girl will come out.

Tptm has become one of my favorite albums by far, and every song and character is as fun as relatable and beautiful in so many ways.

It's a bit odd to think that we will no longer have any new album songs to expect; we have been doing so for long (or at least in my case) that it will be strange to just... have it complete.

Again, thank you so much. I love xiomara's design :D

[fraugwinska]

Since @chefskjssart's artwork that I commissioned was such a BANGER, I felt like I needed to do something to show my gratitude. So, I messaged her and gave her free choice over a little One-Shot I'd gift her. And that's how we ended up here :D Where are my little TV Sluts at? You can thank Chef - and I hope you all have fun ;>

NSFW - Explicit Sexual Content - Minors DNI - 5.7k words

"Gotta say, Val, the revenue of your movies really skyrocketed this quarter, fuck me."

Vox flipped through the quarterly reports, eyebrows raised and a grin on his face while Valentino, very pleased with himself, lounged on the chaise next to Vox's desk, smoking.

"I told you I've made a good investment." He grinned and blew out a puff of smoke. "All the horny bitches out there are eating my movies up."

"It's more than that, you're even making headway into other rings, holy shit! We've even got a foot in the Lust Ring market, which is almost impossible with that kind of competition..."

Valentino hummed approvingly.

"And the best part: I didn't have to do much." He added and let the tip of his cigarette rest against his lips, his grin widening. "My newest author is a kinky little genius."

Vox turned his attention to the papers again, his smile slowly turning into a frown as he scanned the declining sales in Voyeurscopes.

"What are you talking about? All of your authors write pretty much the same shit, what could be so special about-"

Valentino laughed and shook his head. "That one is - believe me, carino. Poor bitch has the mind of a succubus on crack but she can't get off."

Vox looked up, an eyebrow raised in skeptic questioning.

"Can't get off?"

"Can't feel anything. Can't cum for the life of her." He replied, leaning back and spreading his arms. "Numb like a fucking dead fish."

"Or maybe she just hasn't found a good dick." Vox mumbled, returning back to the reports, skimming over the numbers.

"Mh, you be the judge amorcito. Because I tried." Valentino growled, taking a drag from his cigarette. 

Now that got Vox's full attention. The TV demon stared at his partner for a few seconds of silence, then laughed maniacally, almost falling off his chair while Val rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Fucking weird little thing, she is. She can write the craziest shit, the hornier the better. Writes like a damn porn beast, but has no clue what good sex actually feels like."

Vox heaved, wiping his screen as if in tears.

"Ohoho, Christ on a Cracker Val, maybe you've been out of the business too long… are you maybe losing that golden touch?"

Valentino sneered. "Ay, and you think you would've been able to get that bitch to cum? Be my guest, I'll gladly watch you fail."

Vox grinned at the moth, his eyes dangerously teasing. The reports were long forgotten - this was too entertaining, and Vox loved to be challenged, because he loved the feeling of superiority he felt when he succeeded. And that feeling would be so much more satisfying when he'd beat his long time partner and porn prince of pride at his own expertise.

"Wanna up the ante? Make a little wager out of it?"

Valentino scoffed, then chuckled deviously. He took another drag from his long cigarette, his cerise teeth glistening with red saliva as he began to drool in anticipation.

"You know I like to play, Voxxy. Especially if the odds are so much in my favor."

Another script done.

Your best one yet, if anyone asked you. But you knew no one asked ever, so why bother?

You stood up from your desk in your private office - being Val's favorite pen pet had it's perks afterall.

You skipped the stage of employment where you'd be cramped in one of these horrible cubicles together with the other overworked, caffeinated and tired writers, typing another outdated secretary-fuck-fest-plot while the other employees complained about their last bad lay and the shitty pay.

At least you didn't have to deal with any of that. Your room was quiet and peaceful, the door able to be locked shut and the walls soundproof. No distractions, no chit chat, no loud coworkers or malfunctioning printer noises. Just the humming sound of your computer, and the whirring of the A/C Val had granted you - a luxury that most of your colleagues bitched about behind your back.

You stretched, your tired bones popping into place and you sighed. You were done for the day. Finally.

With the deadline looming over you, you had been a bit late with the last part, and the thought of being late with your work made you sick. But Val pressed for another banger (pun intended) like your last one, 'Dante's Infern-Hoe' and you didn't want to risk the benefits you were offered so temptingly by being sloppy.

But the script for 'The Devil wears Nada' sat now, freshly printed, next to your laptop, the file saved locally and in the cloud, with about an hour to spare still. You smiled, content and relieved. An hour of paid slacking off was nice, and you checked with a glance that the electric door still was set on LOCKED before you flopped down at the two-seater by the window, grabbing the remote from the small side table and turned on the TV.

A familiar voice spoke through the speakers, and you relaxed into the pillows with a small sigh, eyes closed.

As shitty as the program in Hell was, one thing it had going for it was Vox. That smooth, hypnotizing voice of the overlord that held pride's media empire in his claws was a delight to your ears, and even the mindless, overplayed commercial jingles were pleasant enough if he was the one narrating them.

For the millionth time, it seemed, your hand wandered under the hem of your pants, fingers rubbing lazily at your cunt, as you listened to him talk, advertising the latest angelic protection device that didn't do what he promised it to do.

It was insanity at this point, doing something over and over again expecting a different outcome. Every night your fingers were cold and wet with your slick and your clit bloody and raw while you felt nothing of even your most violent and feverish touches, trying for minutes to hours to experience a sensation you wrote daily about without the satisfaction of any remarkable buildup or release.

It was no use, you knew it was a fruitless attempt, just like all the others. The most you got out of your endless tries was a slight tingle one time where you were so desperate you fucked yourself with an electric rod on its highest setting, resulting in a power outage in your apartment and a big fat fine from your landlord a few days later.

Still, you craved it. Craved to one day feel at least something. After the disappointing One-Night-cannot-Stand-the-thought-of-it with your boss, the literal porn mogul you were ready to just give up. If the face of pride’s sexdrive couldn’t get you over the edge, was there any chance at all?

Valentino had been the last in a long line of desperate attempts, paartners ranging from incubi, paid whores, porn actors to even sexbots made by Asmodeus, costing you a pretty penny just for the hassle of trying to get through the return hotline to get your money back, explaining No, you don’t know how it was possible that the cock of the ‘Fuckboy 3.0 XXL’ broke into pieces after one time usage. 

You chuckled humorlessly at the memory - It was truly a pathetic time in your eternal existence, filled with you masturbating alone in bed like a sad porn star, yearning to experience sex like you wrote about in your scripts. Maybe this was hells way to punish you for your sins, your personal plan of torture - To never experience the very thing that possessed you on the daily.

The television droned on in the background, Vox advertising his latest technological developments; new features on your phone that you really could not care less about. Despite his unusual appearance, Vox was one of your absolute go-to Stand-in's for your plot protagonists. Charming, suave, depraved when called for and a dominating, thorough lover that took what he wanted, but with so much skill that his partner would cum threefold before he'd even begin to think about finishing. Cocky and yet sensual. Aftercare included. All the things your colleagues were too dumb to include, no wonder their scripts were a bust.

Yes, it was hell and therefore tastes were more... depraved than in the living world, but that didn't mean the populus secret wishes for some sort of common sexual decency was out the window, goddamn.

Your mind wandered away from your depressive ruminations, your hand never stopping its circular pattern around your swollen clit as your thoughts started to wander to its usual place, the only way that came close to what you longed for and what was the source for all of your best-selling porn scripts. Your boundless realm of fantasy.

'Come out, come out, wherever you are...'

Vox is standing in your doorway, his silhouette prominent against the bright white neon light coming from the corridor of the empty floor. His suit, neatly fitted to every curve of his slender body, is showing just how thin his waist really is, but that does not come even remotely close to describe his broad shoulders and firm, wide chest, contrasting it deliciously. His navy blue skin reflects the harsh lighting in the hallway, his screen sharp and clear, digital eyes never leaving you as he closes the door behind him, dipping the room you're in in darkness, the only source of light his brightly illuminated screen where his digital, mismatched eyes are solely fixated on you, hiding behind the long backrest of your couch.

'Found you, babydoll.' he says with that god forsaken sultry voice of his as he reaches for your throat, long fingers wrapping themselves around your neck as your breath hitches and he pulls you up from your crouched position, his long tongue running over your collarbones, the wet trails feeling as cold on your skin as his appendage feels hot. 'Now remember what I said? Ready or not...'

He presses you into a wall, his big, hard erection rubbing teasingly through the layers of fabric on your already wet core as you whimper with want. '... here I cum.'

You moan his name, the imagined feeling so painfully surreal, and you wished once more that your working fingers would elicit some sort of real, bodily response.

A cough makes you freeze in your movements. Your fantasy shatters like a mirror shot with a bullet and your eyes fly open, expecting to see maybe a dumb segment of a rerun of 'Vox2Nite'. Instead, you see the actual, real TV demon overlord, standing live and in color just a few strides away with an expression that was a mixture of confusion, curiosity and slight annoyance.

"I'd ask if I am interrupting, but it seems you already had me on your mind, huh, doll?"

Realizing that you weren't - in fact - hallucinating, you immediately whipped your hand out from under your panties, sitting up, flustered like a child caught with their hands in the cookie jar. How did he get in? Did you forget to lock the door? No. Did he unlock it?! You must have missed his opening and closing of the door over the voice in your fantasy. The same voice that is now echoing in reality. Oh what a shameful ending for a perfectly good fantasy orgasm.

"Um... shit, sorry, Mr. Vox, sir. I was just, you know..." you scrambled, getting nervous under the actual gaze of him as he folded his arms, waiting for you to end that sentence with a pitiful smirk. Jesus Christ, those arms are slender and muscular…

"Thinking! Just thinking, making script... scenarios..."

"Uh-Huh. And how is that coming along?" He asked, seemingly unfazed by the display before him as he took a few steps towards you.

"Oh, uh, haha, I didn't really... finish..."

He stopped directly in front of you, shutting you up with a low chuckle and his hand around your wrist, the one attached to the hand that had been in between your folds just literal seconds ago, lifting them up to look at the still shimmering wet residue on your fingers with a sneer.

"Mhm. Yeah, I've heard you have some problems with that."

Now that was embarrassing as it was alarming, and you ripped your hand out of his grip. Or better, you tried to do so anyway. It was a pointless exercise, his hand had an iron-tight grasp around your wrist as he pulled you up with one swift motion, so fast you stumbled into him, face to chest, breath caught in your throat as you were made suddenly aware how huge he really was compared to you.

"W-wow, my kinda pathetic reputation precedes me it seems. That's..." just great is what you wanted to say, but all words failed you when he lifted the hand in his grasp to his face, his thick, long tongue slithering out of his mouth just to wrap itself around your digits, lapping up the sticky residue of your arousal, watching you as your pupils widen and you squirm in his grip, mortified and turned on at the same time.

"Eh. Not as pathetic as my business partner's failure to provide something he's built his reputation on, sweetheart. Unusually smart of him to get you under contract before you shout it from the rooftops." He hummed as he tasted you, sucking in the pads of your finger hungrily and without hesitation, and all you could think of, frozen stiff like a deer in headlights, was: What the fuck is happening?

"But Val never had the kind of mindset I have... I don't do failure... or better said: I always finish what I start." His low rasp vibrated in the air around him, echoing in your head, and the heat his voice had brought to your skin left your mind racing. You asked yourself panicking if you had written too many dumb porn plots or if he was really implicating what you thought he was implicating.

"So, whaddaya say, doll..." His breath tickled your cheek as he leaned in closer, pulling you flush against him, a soft grunt of content as his hard dick pressed into your soft belly, his mouth right next to your ear, one of his hands running teasingly down your sides as he licked your ear shell. "...care to see if I can end your unlucky streak?"

'Fuck, yeah.' You thought, and almost moaned out loud as you let your head fall back to make room for his waiting mouth, when suddenly you stopped in your tracks. His hands were already groping over you greedily, squeezing your ass, your thighs, your breasts as he looked down on you, surprised to see your conflicted face.

"W...Wait. What's in it... for you?"

"Mh, you're clever. That's a new one." Vox laughed, his hand running up to the side of your face to cup your cheek, his thumb rubbing small circles on the corner of your lip. "Me and Val made a little bet, you see, and well... Let's just say: I want this to work out just as much as you do, since my success depends on yours."

"Oh.." So Val was talking about you, that bastard. He had you sign an NDA when he hired you, given that you had been unwilling to make a soul contract with him, but you guessed that that had been naively one-sided. Asshole.

Vox stroked your bottom lip, parting them before you opened them slightly on your own accord, his dark blue tongue languidly tracing the edges, waiting for your decision, coaxing you to decide in his favor. And even though you were kind of pissed at Valentino for running around telling people about your... situation - you couldn't deny it was tempting, turning fantasy into reality. And what was another overlord trying to do the impossible? Worst case - he'd try and fail, just as all the others did before, like the stupid moth pimp. At least you'd have some leverage for maybe another good deal for your silence on it. And in the highly unlikely best case…

With your decision made, you flicked your own tongue against his, humming at the unfamiliar taste and the sizzling static electricity on your tongue. Vox grinned, his sharp teeth pressing onto your lips, nipping at the sensitive flesh and growling with approval when your lips parted.

"Ohoho, baby, this is gonna be fun."

Vox ran his claws through your hair, loosening your already messy bun until your hair fell free with his playful pulls as he explored your mouth, deepening the kiss with every lick, until he could push his whole tongue into your mouth, moaning and grabbing the back of your head tightly as you let him fill you without the slightest hint of protest, fighting a desperate losing battle for air.

"Fuck, don't you need to... breathe?" you whispered after he finally pulled back, a wet trail connecting his tongue to yours, grinning down on you while your lungs burned for oxygen.

"Perks of being state of the art, sweetheart." he watched your swollen, drool covered lips - parted to catch your breath - for a few seconds longer before he inquisitively tilted his head. "Did you feel any of that?"

You contemplated lying, but figured honesty would probably be the best in this situation, shaking your head and giving him your most pitiful attempt at an apologetic smile, already bracing yourself for him to give up or get mad. "My lips tingle a little."

"Mh." He huffed as he pushed you back into the two-seater, your back hitting the cushions with a soft thump, and unceremoniously pulled on your very not-sexy-at-all sweatpants and slightly-more-sexy-but-not-quite panties until they slipped over your legs.

"How about this then?" He pressed his knee in between your legs to nudge them apart. "Can you feel any of this?" He spread your already wet slit open to run a cold claw over your hole, softly dipping first one, then two and lastly three of his fingers inside to stretch you further open and push it back in, repeating the movement slowly while keeping his eye contact trained on your face.

You hummed non-commitally, closing your eyes and pressing yourself into the cushions, trying to feel for any sensation that should come with every slow drag of his digits pumping inside of you, and not finding any of it was so fucking frustrating. You felt like you were not only disappointing yourself, but him, as stupid as that sounded. But with every added finger and still a lack of response, you saw the progression of frustrations in his face that you knew all too well - eyebrows furrowed, irritated twitches of the corners of his lips that turned into a snarl with the third added digit. You frowned, sighing and bit your lip - nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and fucking nothing again, just another wet hole, the clenching of your walls a habit and reflex only, no pleasure whatsoever.

"It's no fucking use..." you whined, pressing your hands to your face in frustration and fear of looking back into his eyes, "I can't feel anything at a-aaAAH...!"

Your back arched at this strange jolt running down your spine, forcing you to grind down on his hand as a strong electric current buzzed from his claw tips right through your cunt, curling in your stomach in a hot wave of wanton need and knocking the wind out of you. Your eyes flew open just in time to see the flash of victorious satisfaction on his screen before his face turned fuzzy as you began to tear up.

"There's some reaction. There we go, sweetheart." He cooed and curled his fingers in that deliciously sinful way again, making your breath catch in your throat. For the first time since you can remember, you FELT. You dropped your hands from your flushed, hot face onto the plush of the couch, fingers desperately digging into the fabric, and stared at Vox with wide eyes. He winked, nudging his head to his buried fingers, and with a shattering gasp you could see neon blue bolts of electric sparks traveling down his slender arm, crackling around the soft flesh inside of your pussy that had never felt so sensitive.

"How are y-aaaa.... aaa-AAah...." he silenced any questions you might have had or possible retort with another shock wave traveling through his hand as he dragged his fingers in and out in an agonizingly slow pace, it had your ears ringing with white noise and your eyes water with unknown, strange pleasure.

You were shaking, and though it should have frightened you a lot more than it did to be electrocuted while doing something that could be considered borderline treason to Valentino (And it still had your cunt dripping on a whim), but there was nothing left for you to think of other than the sharp shocks making every nerve inside of you buzz, your thighs already trembling in anticipation of the possibility of an unknown, but oh-so-wanted climax. Yet it was somehow still out of your reach, out of your range of senses.

"I feel like we are getting closer, babydoll." The TV demon chuckled darkly, his voice over amplified, the electrical buzz reverberating loudly in the soundless room. "How 'bout we kick it up a notch, huh?"

He pulled out his fingers in a quick, cruel movement, making your pussy clench around nothing as you already mourned the feeling. Before you had the time to voice your loss however, he had your thighs already in his hands, pushing them back to almost fold you in half and spread them apart as wide as he could get them without hurting you. With a smirk he stuck out his tongue, inhumanely long, thick on its base and pointed at the end - and let his electric energy visibly spark around it. Holy Shit.

The moment his head dipped down and his appendage swiped through your puffed, red folds, you could feel your insides buzz in sync to his delighted moan. He began eating you out feverously and obscenely, not holding anything back, just like you wrote your most popular protagonists to do - NO, this was so much better than anything you've ever written or fantasized about, his tongue twisting in patterns that felt like nothing you've ever even came close to imagine before. It was like he powered your whole nervous system, overriding every strand of nerve with his own electricity, amplifying any touch, any lick and any suction that would normally not even register a thousand-fold.

"O-Oh my g... F-fffuuuuhhh-ck.. meeee..." you moaned in confusion and amazement, your legs shaking helplessly on either side of Vox's rectangle head as he fucked his tongue into you, switching between the deep, long, thorough thrusts and fast, small, teasing flicks into the wet heat of your cunt, coating his screen in a shining mix of your natural juices and his blue neon saliva. He sucked at the protruding of your swollen bundle of nerves, your sensitive clit twitching under his attention - it was maddeningly unreal. You felt like a complete, utter sham - if this was sex, you've never written it anywhere correctly.

"I'm working on that, sweetheart."

Vox smirked against your pulsing core, humming with satisfaction at your wet, gaping slit begging for him to push back in and fill you up again, making you ache for his tongue deeper and deeper, forcing every shred of sense you had to leave your mind as you bucked into his grip in desperation, chasing another intense jolt he held just out of your reach as he laughed deviously at your hungry reaction to his teasing antics.

You didn't care how pathetic you looked, how undignified or desperate you sounded. This was nothing short of fucking fantastic, this all new, unknown sensation that you deemed impossible to ever experience and an real, tangible orgasm so close you could almost grab it. You felt a violent greed, you needed more of this, more more more, you needed to cum and you knew exactly that only Vox was able to do it - but you needed him inside of you, pushing you into oversensitivity, no matter what was required to get you over the edge. Fuck all dignity, that ship had sailed the moment your back hit the couch.

You shook your head vigorously, choking down sobs of grateful pleasure that racked your body with every curl of his tongue inside of you and a guttural moan, high pitched and broken.

"P-Please... ah, Pl..please..." you panted and Vox felt for your thighs to hold you steady. His claws sank in with such force into the soft meat of your legs he drew blood. "F... Fu..Fuck me.. please." you stammered and he smirked, a look of pure joy in his digital eyes as he stared you down.

"Oh, I will, baby." He smiled against your core, curling the tip of his tongue around your clit with just the right amount of pressure that your entire vision went blank with a broken cry and the strongest wave of static he'd managed to work you up to so far. "Don't worry about that, I'm not nearly done with you."

He fucked his long, slippery tongue back into your quivering pussy, his thumb taking the place on the sensitive bundle of nerves where his pointy tip had been and you cried out again as he found that one spot you've always read (and written) about. You had questioned it's actual existence, believing it to be one of those wishful myths girls dreamt and you by proxy wrote about - Until Vox and his fucking talented mouth and miraculous tongue brushed right up against it with expert accuracy. It made your eyes roll to the back of your skull, mouth open to cry out as your back arched like a bow string.

"Yeah, there? F-Fuuuck..." The overlord growled, watching your blissful face twist with a new kind of overwhelming pleasure. "You gonna cum for me baby? Come on, let go, good girl..."

You knew the reader-pleasing phrase by heart. You used it a hundred times and fantasized about it even more - It shouldn't have that effect on you, but yet it was that comment of his, spoken in a raspy low rumble directly into your cunt that finally pushed you over the edge, leaving you panting helplessly and cumming.

Hard. Harder than you've ever dreamed about. Every nerve ending on overdrive, every hair standing on edge - it felt like getting struck by lightning, the static electricity sizzling through your blood vessels like a thunderstorm as he was still thrusting that goddamn magic tongue into your spasming hole through the clamping of your muscles, taking you through it with small, measured licks to keep you on the edge a little longer, whines and hiccups mixed with breathless laughs leaving your raw throat as you slowly returned to reality.

This was it, what you've always longed for, you realized after your vision came back to you, staring down at the smug looking TV demon who was still settled between your legs, his glowing screen painted with the remains of your climax. You managed to give him an exhausted smile, blowing a stray strand of wild hair from your face with a quick puff before dropping your head back in the pillow, absolutely spent. Vox pressed a toothy kiss on your thigh and pushed himself back to his feet.

"You've got quite the gushy orgasm, doll, damn..." he wiped a thick blotch of your arousal from the corner of his screen, the neon blue stained fingertip disappearing in his mouth as he hummed appreciatively and licked it away. Then he looked over you, slumped lazily on the sofa, your face flushed, your hair all tangled and the exposed pieces of skin covered with a shiny layer of sweat.

"Shit, sweetheart, you look goddamn good when you're all messed up like that..." He eyed you intently and leaned down, his heavy frame caging you in underneath him, one hand trailing a line from your still heaving chest, between your breasts and up to your throat.

"T-That was.. wow. Just... wow." Clearly illiterate and 50 IQ-points dumber post-orgasm, you cleared your throat, trying to compose yourself. While you were a little disappointed that you still hadn't really fucked, he did what he promised to do. Got you off - and how. You were grateful.

Sad that it was over, maybe even sadder that the chances of a repetition were likely zero - Vox was a goddamn overlord, and who were you other than a nobody with a hard-to-please cunt?- but grateful nonetheless. And you felt the need to let him know that.

"I don't know how to than... w-what are you doing?"

You sat yourself up on the elbows with a dumbfounded expression as Vox began to undress himself, his jacket, bow tie and undershirt discarded within seconds onto the ground and he practically pounced you as he began to undo the belt of his slacks, trapping you in between his legs and under the very prominent hard-on he sported.

"What, you really thought that was it? Make you cum once, win my bet and ding-dong-ditch like a fucking amateur?" Vox laughed as he pulled his massive length out of his pants - Words were your bread and butter but they would ever fail you to describe the gloriousness that was his cock.

Almost as thick as your underarm, smooth and almost shiny, glowing with built-in LED lights along the underside of his shaft and practically weeping with precum. He knelt down on the sofa, taking your hand to run it over its full length, smearing the sticky residue along your fingers, his almost bioluminescent cum dripping thick and slowly from the angry swollen tip. "Fuck no, sweetheart. In case you forgot, let me remind you..."

He leaned down to your ear, a violent electric bold jolting from his cock through your hand right into your overwhelmed, disbelieving brain as he guided you to line him up with your still throbbing entrance.

"I always finish what I start."

Vox had never been in a better mood.

His phone - finally surviving for more than just a few days, since his win against Valentino prevented the moth pimp from smashing it, even in one of his many temper tantrums - buzzed again. A notification of another upload into the cloud. He smirked when he saw the name of the user.

The whole conversation after he fucked Val's writing savant into Limbo and back had been a fucking blast for Vox - he reveled in the morbid joy of cashing in his stake while teasing Val that he'd have to wait another eternity for the chance to make Vox star in a double length porn with him - a fantasy of the moth Vox has been always against. Not to mention that Vox had accomplished what Valentino with all his 'mighty dicks and porn mastery'-aura couldn't. Which (rightfully) sent him into his biggest hissy fit yet, so enraged that, in lieu of Vox's phone to throw against the wall, he threw his newest Robo-Assistant Kitty out the window.

Although Vox had been certain he wouldn't lose the little bet against his partner, he still felt a little relief that his ass wasn't on the next new load of crappy porn DVDs. Granted, that would've surely caused sales to skyrocket - but with his revived and improved little star author that was more than just unnecessary.

Val's fears that a good dicking with a Happy End would sort of break the little writers 'Sex-Spell' and her scripts turn into shite like the rest of Val's useless crew produced proved to be the exact opposite. Ever since Vox made her cum - on his fingers, mouth and cock for multiple times that fateful night - her scripts improved even more, resulting in stellar sales reports, a major spike in cashflow and a personal inquiry letter for a meeting from Asmodeus himself (which Vox contemplated to frame and hang over his fucking bed like a medal of honor).

And since Valentino, in his hurt pride and childish, stubborn pettiness refused to speak or fuck with him, Vox had no qualms of paying his little writer a few more visits. Every time he found impish joy in finding new ways to make her cum, and after one shag-date where he actually stayed long enough for an after-sex-cigarette and some smalltalk, he discovered that she wasn't just a kinky, but also an interesting bitch with great taste in whiskey and a crude sense of humor that was just up his alley.

"I'm curious doll." Vox said as he took another drag from the cigarette before he handed her the bud, throwing his arm around her shoulders and pulling her onto his bare chest as he lounged on the new, bigger sofa he got for her office (more space and much more versatility) "What the fuck did you do to end up in hell? You don't seem like the ax-murder type."

She chuckled mischievously. "I was a pretty popular crime author back upstairs. I hit a pretty bad writer's block, and decided to get in some field work to inspire me for more creative ways of murder. No axes, but I did have a fable for knives." She grinned, inhaling the thick smoke as he laughed and the way her tits pressed into his skin had him almost hard again. "You know what's the most ironic part?" She asked, putting the bud out in the ashtray on her side table and glanced back over her naked shoulder to him, a devious glint in her eyes. "I got the electric chair for that." That woke his cock fully up again, and he couldn't help but take her for another round.

His assistant babbled something about his schedule, but Vox didn't listen. Instead, he planned on visiting her office again, maybe he'd even stay after and order sushi for two, who knew? The media Overlord smiled smugly as he opened the database and looked over the newest script you had uploaded to the cloud. It was when he read the title that he burst into ringing laughter.

'Electrocutie - One Big Cock Shock'

[twizzie-lairs]

My Darling, My Honey

Alastor X Fem!Reader (Part 3)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Quick Notes:

This is when both reader/you and Alastor are both alive. (... we'll probably end up in hell later on btw so stay tuned...)

Reader is an artist/painter.

Part 3:

Shutting the door to your house, you slide down to the floor, back against the door. Your hands come up to your chest, clutching the fabric of your shirt, heart racing.

Looking around the room, you felt suffocated. Every inch of the wall had some reminder of your husband, paintings, photographs, newspaper clippings of every accomplishment and accolade of his. It made you want to tear your hair out.

A silent scream leaves your throat as tears run down your face. Silent crying was something you've mastered after all these years..

But never have you cried and broken down like this, with something giving you a glimmer of hope. That something was Alastor, he made you feel appreciated, you felt free when you were with him, like all your worries were washed away and you were helplessly in love.

With the realization that you were in love, your hands fell to the ground with a quiet thud. For too long had you suffered the control, the physical and mental abuse at the hands of your husband and your family that only saw you as a pawn- a means to an end for them.

The tears dried up as you sat there silently for hours till the sun rose, feeling like an empty husk of a human. It took you a long time before you could collect yourself.

Though you felt so weak, you had to go out and do some errands. Having to keep up the image of perfect housewife, after all.

With a vacant and empty look in your eyes, you left the house, barely presentable.

You didn't even know what you were going out for, but you'd find something, anything.

During your walk around town, looking for something to buy so you wouldn't go home empty-handed, an odd feeling and urge came over you to take a route home that you've never taken before.

The way you took this time was full of twists and turns, leading to many shady backstreets and alleyways.

One sign reading "Arabella's Apothecary" caught your eye, prompting you to enter.

The door opens with a chime, the shopkeeper giving you a smug smile, "Welcome in dear, how can I help ya this fine morn'?" You nervously tell her that you were just looking around.

The shopkeeper, who you found out was indeed Arabella, like the sign outside indicated, "You know, people don't just come in here for nothin'... Hun, I think we both know you're looking for a key to freedom."

Arabella's words shook you to your core, "A... key? T-to freedom?" You laugh nervously, wondering if this woman was a witch. But then it came to you, maybe you did need... something.

She laughed at your face, "Bwahaha, I can read you like an open book! I'm no witch, I just deal in... specialty medicines, you might say."

After a short conversation with Arabella, you find yourself in possession of some arsenic. This little powder was your freedom, and you thank your lucky stars that fate guided to this back alley hidden apothecary shop.

During the week of your husband's absence, you didn't visit Mimzy's bar at all, actually. You were planning your husband's demise. You had to be methodical, careful, every single minute detail needed to have a plan and a backup plan- including your escape and how you would remove yourself from suspicion of being involved in your husband's death.

When your husband opened the door, announcing his return, you felt a pit form in your stomach. The bile rose in the back of your throat at the thought of freedom being so close and yet so far.

According to your plan, your husband would be dead in the next couple of weeks. It would be hell to not visit Mimzy's bar in hopes of seeing Alastor again, but if everything went according to plan, you'd be free of your shackles. So two weeks, give or take a few days, was nothing compared to the near decade of pain you've had to endure.

There were a few close calls during this time, but your husband was just diagnosed with food poisoning each time until he was found dead at his desk at the office he worked at.

You had slowly poisoned him slowly and consistently enough to evade suspicion. You knew this much when the police came knocking on your door informing you that your husband was found dead. The gates holding back the flood were unlocked, and you crumpled to the floor crying. The police tried to console you, but little did they know that you secretly crying from being overjoyed at the news.

At the funeral, your family and in-laws looked at you with distaste and all they did was tell you to get out of their faces, telling you what a disappointment you were for failing as a wife to keep your husband happy and healthy.

That was all you needed to hear. You turned away from them and left town, not bothering to stop by your home. You left only with the clothes on your body, making your way to Mimzy's bar. If anyone was able to help you, it would be Mimzy, your only true friend in the world.

You get to Mimzy's bar a bit too early, sometime in the evening, as usually the bar only opens late at night. So Mimzy was prepared to ward off any suspicious people that could get the bar/speakeasy in trouble, but she rushed up to you immediately, fawning over you, seeing you in all-black funeral attire with puffy eyes, " (Y/N)! Darlin'!! What happened to you??"

Mimzy ushers you into her office, gives you a warm cup of tea and a blanket as she barrages you with more questions. You smile weakly at her and make her promise not to tell a soul, and she pinky promised that she would take your secrets to the grave. And she kindly offered for you to stay with her as long as you needed.

You took Mimzy up on her offer, but you offered to help out at the bar for as long as you did. It was the only way you would accept her generosity.

-> Part 4

[bangaveragewhitewine]

⋆⁺₊❅ the snow ball

teacher!Steve Harrington x teacher!Reader 

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: My second fic for @littlexdeaths The Twelve Days of Promptmas takes us back to 1996. At the annual Snow Ball Dance, Girl Power is supreme and the English teacher is standing very close to Mr H… 

Content: The tension is high. 90’s nostalgia, teacher puns and passing notes. Redefinition of the word nemesis, now to be read as ‘that one colleague you have a lethal crush on’ (the girls who get it, get it)

✨bang average festive fics✨ Steve Harrington masterlist ✨

December 1996

The opening bars of Wannabe are cut by the sound of thirty-odd teenage girls squealing with excitement as they crowd onto the dancefloor in threes and fours. The too-cool-to-dance girls bop and bounce their heads, the popular girls perform like they are at home in their bedroom mirrors or the Superbowl Half-Time Show. Geeky and quiet girls sparkle joyfully under the disco ball, any lack of confidence forgotten by utter glee. Girl Power reigns supreme over Meadow Hill Middle School as the world-ending pettiness and hormonal squabbles of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds are soothed and solved by the bouncy vocals and practiced choreography. 

You watch the boys stand and stare from the sidelines, buoying each other up as they whisper about who they might ask to dance with later and playing down their nerves. You have seen first love and first heartbreak tonight, watching Andi Cooper sway with Brian W to Always Be My Baby as Danny D looked on with tears in his eyes. Poor kid. 

“D’you think they’ll riot if Just A Girl comes on next?”

Your head tilts back against the streamer-covered wall behind you and you can’t help a little smirk at the thought of Female Revolution fuelled by Gwen Stefani and the Spice Girls. 

“Mm, imagine the headlines. Ballroom Blitz - Meadow Hill reduced to ruins by festive female rage.”

He laughs and places a cup of punch into your hand, keeping an appropriate distance between your bodies as you survey the Snow Ball in full swing. 

“And that’s why you’re the English teacher. Such a way with words.” 

“Mm, nice use of sarcasm, Mr Harrington. Gold star.” 

The punch is not spiked, but your words sound a little barbed to the unfamiliar ear. All part of the fun. 

Speaking of the punch, there’s a hipflask in his jacket, full of some strong spirit that he will share with you once the kids have been picked up, while the DJ is packing away his kit. 

“Thanks, you’ve taught me well...” 

You look up, meeting his cocoa-coloured eyes, caught staring. His tone is less barbed, more sincere, and when he says your name - your teacher name - you feel fizzy and warm all over. 

Steve feels it too, a swirling spiralling drag low in his gut. 

It’s fleeting, too quick and far too much for where you are. Too heavy for a gym that smells like sweat masked by Tommy Girl & Victoria's Secret body spray, and looks like an explosion of blue and silver and glitter, festooned with polystyrene snowflakes.

You’re the first to look away, breaking his stare to make sure that revolution is not in fact being stirred up by girls in sparkly dresses and frosted lipgloss. 

Across the dancefloor, you watch Coach Farrell mouthing along the words as he keeps an eye on the aforementioned untainted punch. A perfect distraction from that moment of too much.

“Look at Farrell. Be subtle.”

Steve can just about hear your voice over the scream-singing and chances a glance at the veteran of Physical Education.

“Maybe he’s mellowing.” There’s the sarcasm again. He sips his punch and murmurs, “Asshole.” 

Your shoulders shake with laughter as Wannabe reaches its peak. You are more tickled by Steve’s candour than the spectacle of it all. So here’s the story from A to Z… Neither of you is immune to its catchiness as you watch your students create core memories.

If you wanna be my lover…

You catch each other’s eye again as the proclamation of Girl Power bleeds out. Your face feels hot, the fluttering feeling returns. 

Steve is the one to break it this time, sipping his punch to cool down what is threatening to boil over. 

It’s not just tonight, not simply because he looks hot in his navy blazer and slacks with his stupidly perfect hair. Not only because he helped you re-stick the streamers that had started to sag and fall before the night even began. Not because you caught him looking at the way navy velvet hugged your body, or because he told you looked ‘a million bucks’. 

This has been simmering for two years since he walked into the teacher’s lounge full of confidence and charm, sent searching for you by the administrator who promised the new History teacher that you would show him around. Two years of teaching next door to each other, pretending to be competitive about how your homeroom performed in the Readathon, using the playful rivalry to feature ‘nemesis’ as your word of the week with a picture of Mr H pinned to the board. 

Two years of sharing gossip and frustrations about the district and asshole parents over teacher’s lounge coffee and ungraded papers. Coming in early and staying late to help each other decorate your classrooms for the holidays, just because. Two years of pretending you were not stoking the fire of a crush bigger than the sun, and brushing off teasing questions from students and teachers alike. 

You were just friends, but it stung when you overheard he had a date planned for the weekend. You were just friends, but when you saw his arm around a pretty blonde at a bar one Friday night, you headed home early and hoped he had not seen you. You were just friends but you understood again why teens and poets were so dramatic about matters of the heart. 

You tried to close yourself off, became spiky and quiet to protect yourself from inevitable heartbreak. But Steve was persistent. When you stood him up for coffee for the third time, he delivered it to your desk with a homemade maple pecan muffin with ‘Drink Me’ and ‘Eat Me’ tags as a nod to your seventh graders' reading assignment for the term. 

You let your friends set you up on dates with colleagues and cousins and made yourself unavailable. You found it harder and harder to pretend not to want to spend your shared-free periods shooting the shit with him. To see him looking a little bit lost without his work bestie for company, even when he fit in just fine with the other teachers.

So you gave in. 

You had seen first-hand how crushes ruin friendships; you saw it every day in your classroom and the hallways. You were too old for that and felt like a fraud standing at the top of your classroom teaching kids how to identify themes and literary devices and formulate an objective summary of a text while you were stuck on how Steve's hair looked today and the way he smiled at you in the parking lot.

You could get over yourself, choke down your feelings and mask the bitterness with his baked treats and teacher’s lounge coffee.

The olive branch came in the form of a mug festooned with the face of Abraham Lincoln and the words ‘That’s so four score and seven years ago’. There was also a whole box of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies to sweeten the deal. 

His smile was brighter than the sun and his laugh echoed around the empty classroom. Friends again.

Things went back to normal but your crush could not be overcome. It only got worse as Steve became more charming, opened more doors for you and opened up a little more when you graded papers together. You found it easy to open up to him too. The simmering of something more than friends was threatening to bubble up and boil over.

This afternoon, you found a gift on your desk. Beneath blue and white snowflake patterned paper was a mug. 

‘Though she be but little she is fierce.’ 

Inside the mug was a note in Steve’s handwriting. 

Will you dance with me at the Snow Ball tonight? Yes / No. 

The note feels like it is burning your skin, tucked beneath your bra strap. He has been playing it supremely cool all night - you would expect nothing less from Mr Harrington - but you have caught him staring all evening, fleeting glances that the kids are too excited and distracted to see.

Wannabe is followed by the Macarena. You both watch on as the boys standing around the edges of the gym are herded onto the floor by Mrs Willis, who has hogged the mic and insists that ‘everyone knows this one!’

Shared laughter is smothered and hidden by cups of untainted punch, and it’s only a matter of time before both of you are pulled onto the dancefloor to join in. 

Over the music and Mrs Willis’s encouragement, you hear him mutter “Not what I had in mind,” as you fall in step with the student body who are totally mortified that their teachers are dancing.

You both endure almost four minutes of in-sync choreography before the DJ pulls the plug and transitions into All I Want For Christmas and you are free to shuffle to the sidelines again, side by side against the streamers.

The myrrh and amber notes of Steve’s cologne tickle your nose as you stand close. 

You have to do it now. 

Before you can chicken out, you quickly slide the note from its hiding place and into the pocket of his blazer and pray that no one saw. 

“I love the mug. Thank you.”

His eyes light up with more than the reflections of the silver streamers and his fingers wrap around the body-warm slip of paper. 

“Yeah? You’re welcome, I thought it suited you. And, y’know. Shakespeare.”

Steve’s back to playing cool, but beneath the surface the bubbles fizz and rise and the butterflies flap their wings. You can see it, feel it too. 

“And,” he continues, “I’ve seen you in action at those district meetings so ‘fierce’ felt appropriate. And I’m taller than you so…” 

His lips curve into a smile as you roll your eyes. 

“Yeah yeah, big guy. I can still change my answer on that note…” 

Mirth and mischief are replaced by relief, pure joy and a little hint of a scowl. 

“I’ll play nice. Promise.”

There’s an unspoken, “Will you?”

“I’ll play nice too. Just don’t step on my tiny girl-feet.”

Another look that is both too much and just right is held between you for just a few moments. 

“Find me later, Mr. Harrington.” 

Steve watches you swish away, swathed in deep blue velvet and your dancing shoes. 

Later on, when the hall is clear of students and chaperones, when the hipflask has been opened and shared, he will spin you under his arm and watch you glitter beneath the disco ball.

If you made it to the end, thank you for reading - I hope you enjoyed!! Comments, reblogs and likes are loved, adored and stored in my heart!